#some way even if it’d just one color

[thebrainrotsreal]

ROLE SWAAAAAAAAAAAAP. Debbie can now be eligible for the worst parent award! No real thoughts for plot ideas yet, just messing around with a design.

[swytdoll]

𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆!𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 [art: @hunnismokah :)]

𝒮𝒴𝒩𝒪𝒫𝒮𝐼𝒮: toji’s bulking and you’re ovulating! how can you keep your hands to yourself when all you want to do is touch? 𝒞𝒪𝒩𝒯𝐸𝒩𝒯 𝒲𝒜𝑅𝒩𝐼𝒩𝒢: any color can read<3 size difference (toji has a monster cock ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა), blowjob, female oral, choking, pussy slapping, unprotected sex, cream-pie, explicit language, mirror sex, 69, toji fucks you in a headlock ݁𖥔 ݁˖

BULKING!TOJI who always seems to be wearing the sluttiest clothing. muscle tees that grip his meaty arms enticingly, showing off every curve and bulge of his well-defined biceps. his sweats always seem to hang too low on his hips, revealing a dark happy trail that leads down to his waistband. the fabric clinging to his thick thighs.

BULKING!TOJI who religiously carries a protein shaker with him, even on date nights, because he's serious about his bulking diet. he’s got a variety of protein powders, from chocolate to vanilla, and he loves mixing them with different fruits and oats to keep things interesting.

BULKING!TOJI who loves trying out new high-calorie recipes and often ropes you into cooking massive meals with him. you two have fun experimenting in the kitchen, making everything from giant stacks of protein pancakes to hearty chicken and rice dishes, always ensuring they meet his caloric needs. he’s genuinely grateful. often, hugging you from behind while you cook, placing the sloppiest kisses behind your ears, his tattooed arms coiled around your frame. his gratitude is evident in the way he nuzzles into your neck, whispering sweet nothings about how much he appreciates your efforts. “i love you, y’know that. . .right?”

BULKING!TOJI who’s noticeably chubbier, you like it. really like it, often burying yourself into his pudgy side with a satisfied sigh. “i could die like this.”

BULKING!TOJI who despite his intense workouts, always makes time to cuddle and watch movies, using you as his favorite "recovery" time. he loves resting his head on your lap while you binge-watch your favorite series, feeling your fingers run through his hair as he relaxes. “i hate this scene.”

BULKING!TOJI who gets annoyed and sleeps on the couch when you won’t stop playing with his tits. “you’re so damn annoying.”

BULKING!TOJI who you make sure has a secret stash of snacks in his gym bag for when he needs extra calories on the go. protein bars, nuts, and dried fruits are his go-to, and he always has a little something to munch on between sets or during quick breaks.

have a good workout<3 - signed your amazing beautiful girlfriend

BULKING!TOJI who becomes an expert at meal prepping, and his mini fridge is always stocked with containers of chicken, rice, and veggies. each container meticulously measured to ensure he gets the right amount of protein, carbs, and fats, and he takes pride in his perfectly organized fridge.

BULKING!TOJI who likes wearing your crop tops, flexing in front of the mirror. “take it off! you’re stretching my shit toji.” “no.”

BULKING!TOJI who can’t resist squeezing your face in his bicep, laughing as your chubby cheeks push together. “haha!”

BULKING!TOJI who just throws you over his shoulder during arguments. “i’ll put you down when you’re done being a brat.”

BULKINGTOJI! who thinks it’s dumb as you tie a pink ribbon around his wrist, demanding he stay still. he thinks it’s even dumber when you record it, the video boasting one-million likes on tiktok. “they loveeeeee you!”

BULKING!TOJI who’s entire hand covers your face. jeez, your poor cunt, he thinks.

BULKING!TOJI who can’t help but admire the way your swollen sticky lips suckle at his thick cock, pulling him back in greedily. usually, it’d take some time for him to ease into your tiny hole. but, you were ovulating today and after seeing your boyfriend walking around shirtless with nothing but boxers on, you practically jumped his bones.

BULKING!TOJI who presses all his weight onto you as he fucks your soppy pussy, the pressure in your back dull as he prods into that sweet spot from behind. pale veiny hands pull your cheeks apart, spreading you, revealing your puckering hole. a glob of warm spit followed by his thumb lubricating your asshole has you arching your back in anticipation. “papaaaa,” glossy eyes squeeze shut as he gently sinks his thumb into your asshole, pelvis relentlessly slapping into your sore ass. the sight has his dick twitching, “humph, look so pretty with both holes filled.”

BULKING!TOJI who doesn’t care that you’re overstimulated, rocking his dick into your tight velvety walls at a mean pace. you don’t know how many orgasms the man has yanked from you. “i know baby, doing so good. takin’ all of me like a big girl, fuckkkk.” glazed eyes watching the way you glisten on him as he folds you against the wooden headboard, your legs flush to your chest. “tojiiii,” you whine, he could get drunk off the way you whimper his name. “am i deep baby?” he groans, thick cream building on his base. “mhm!”

BULKING!TOJI who has you in the nastiest headlock, one hand wrapped around your throat, the other forcing you to look into the mirror. you’re a mess, disheveled hair, tear-stained cheeks, swollen lips. the man’s so fucking huge he covers your entire body. “unt, unt. eyes open beautiful.” he sends a particularly deep thrust that has you shivering. slick, slick, slick, a repetitive noise that has him grunting deeply into your ear.

BULKING!TOJI who eats your pussy while you suck his dick. it’s a struggle taking him, drool seeping down your chin as you slurp at the veiny masterpiece. it’s also a struggle to concentrate as he eats you out like a starved man, spitting, slapping, fingering. god, you’re gonna cum again. “cummin!”

BULKING!TOJI who watches as his cum trickles out of your pulsing hole, pushing it back inside with a frown. “stay.”

[silknspice]

BAD LIARS —

fake dating hockey! vi x reader | fluff, angst, fake dating trope, romcom-ish, smut (mdni 18+) wc 20.8k

synopsis: following the release of four outdated love letters, vi vanderson is more than willing to start fake dating the girl of her dreams as a way to get rid of your clingy ex (and her ex hookup): caitlyn kiramman. 

content: fake dating trope, some fake insta/snap stories/smau content!, language, betrayal, makeup smut (kissing, fingering, oral, mdni!), clingy ex!caitlyn, college au, lying, miscommunication

soundtrack: if you let me (alina baraz) | lowkey (niki) | lovers (anna of the north) | see through (amelia moore) | fetish (selena gomez) | kill bill (sza) | all of the girls you loved before (taylor swift) | two weeks (fka twigs) | everything happens for a reason (madison beer) | every summertime (niki)

Three-fourths of your favorite cereal is absolutely disgusting. 

The deep blue circles start off sweet, but leave a bitter aftertaste that stains your tongue. The auburn ones aren’t all that bad, but they get too soggy, disintegrating into grains that fade into the now colored milk. The chestnut brown discs are so scarce that their taste is completely forgettable; you swear there’s only three in each batch. 

Had these been the only flavors, you’d chuck the box in the trash and scold your best friend-roommate Mel for even bringing them into your shared apartment. But that one-fourth of strawberry pink circles make it worth it every time. They’re sweet on your tongue, sweet on your heart, swee—

“What’s with the look?” 

Mel’s concern-filled voice brings you back to the present, making you smile sheepishly like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. The girl slides her white puffer jacket on, keys jingling in her hand as she awaits an answer. 

“Nothin’, just ate a blue one.” Your mouth flattens, attempting to squeeze the bitter flavor from your tastebuds. 

The gold-eyed girl hums. She blinks as her arms cross and she takes two, then three cautious steps towards you. Her gaze flickers faster than light, attempting to read every inch of your body language. 

“You know,” she starts, sitting down to place a comforting hand on your shoulder. “If you need to talk about it, I’m here. Don’t feel like you have to suffer in silence.” 

That makes you snort, soft reassuring laughter following as you shake your head with confidence.

“Suffer? Mel, I broke up with Caitlyn, not the other way around.” 

“Yeah, but transitioning from a relationship to a peace-abundant single life is hard nonetheless.. unless you’re ready to jump to the rebound stage?” Her full brows raise in persuasion as she finishes her sentence. In her mind, getting laid would solve any problems that the complex inner-workings of your mind could craft. 

The question catches you off guard once more. Not that it should. It’d be a big fat lie to claim the idea never crossed your mind. In fact, it planted itself inside your brain like a bug and dug all the way down to memories you’d attempted to forget. Down to highschool of all places (God forbid). Down to those four names that perfectly defined the word ‘desire’ for you. Ellie Williams, Caitlyn Kiramman, Sky Young, and Violet Vanderson. 

Ellie, a fellow camp counselor at Wildflower Haven your junior year, took hold of your heart on day one. Sneaking out of your cabins at night, skinny dipping in the camp lake, even making matching bracelets that you claimed you’d ‘wear forever’. Your crush blossomed at superluminal speed. But before you knew it, camp was coming to an end and you were saying goodbye forever. 

Caitlyn Kiramman. A classic senior-year-of-high-school crush that didn’t develop until the first semester of college sophomore year. Your now ex, who is the last person you want to think about. High five to your high school self for predicting that one, though. 

Sky Young, a skating instructor at your local ice rink: Polar Peaks. After you’d fallen on your face for the fourth time and were ready to give up, you saw chestnut brown curls above you, decorating one of the friendliest smiles you’d seen to date. She helped you rise to your feet and held your hand for a lap around the rink. Unfortunately, you were a sophomore when she was a senior, and a week later you returned to the rink to find out she’d officially left for college. Not that there was anything between you two. Still, you could dream. 

And last, but certainly not least, Violet Vanderson. The star athlete of your school’s hockey team then and now. Sculpted muscles, a singular tattoo that multiplied quickly after graduation, and a killer smile that could put a halt to the gears turning in any girl’s head.

It was a simple interaction. You were the first one to read your final poem in front of your literature class with clammy palms, a shaky voice, and a dream. As you finished, looking at attentive students like a deer in headlights, Vi was the first to clap. It was enthusiastic, loud, and genuine. And like always, other students followed suit. 

Vi didn’t know you. She knew of you, the bits and pieces she could gather. You were somewhat of a social butterfly, you smelled of strawberry and vanilla every time you passed her seat, you were mind-consumingly beautiful, and you could write. Unfortunately for the both of you, your paths didn’t seem to cross any further than that.

And so, you wrote a letter.

Four love letters, to be exact. Each one in the high point of your crushes, attempting to soothe the longing feeling in your gut that ached for you to do something. You wrapped them all the same, in either a dark blue, chestnut brown, auburn, or pink envelope with a bow on the seal, even going as far as addressing and stamping them. Of course, they were never meant to be sent, which led them to their hiding place in a rose-red cylindrical fabric box that was stashed away into the depths of your closet. 

“C’mon, you’re hot and single again. I have some good contestants–”

“I don’t know Mels,” you cut her off with a look too mixed to decipher. “But really, I’m good,” you reassure, taking another spoonful of cereal into your mouth. 

Yuck–  another blue one. 

“Sevika, what the fuck!”

Gert’s complaint was drowned out by skates shuffling against the abused ice. Players clad in blue and white practice jerseys messily fill the space, fighting to keep up with Sevika. The woman speeds past, guiding the puck along the ice and slamming it into the goal.

The sounds of hurried feet and grunts subside, leaving breathless panting and shared looks of confusion across the teammates’ faces. But one pair of skates never slows, coming up behind the buff figure and skidding to a stop.

“The hell are you doing?” Vi scolds the woman with a scrunched up face of judgement. This is the sixth time Sevika’s pissed her off this week and it’s starting to get on her last nerve. “You’re hogging the puck. You’re not the only person on this team, in a game this would’ve–” 

“Get the hell out of my face,” the burly woman throws back, shoulder checking Violet hard enough to make her break her cool, squaring her shoulders and raising her voice with a “Sevika,”. 

“Vanderson! Grove!” Coach Talis’s voice echos throughout the rink, making the hockey players stop in their tracks. 

“Unless you two want to run extra drills: cut it out. Now.” 

“Is it just me, or is she being more of a fucking pain than usual?” Vi asks the woman across the locker room rhetorically, slipping on a clean compression shirt and plopping down on the bench to knot her laces. 

“I told you dude, she wants to be you, or at least take your spot.” the blonde sighs, pulling her braided hair from under the pullover she just slipped on. “As long as she’s taking her anger our on you and not me..” She continues, and the pinkette throws her a scoff before the blonde continues. 

“You know if you need stress relief, you could always go back to Kiramman. Heard the pretty girl called things off with her.”

And although her teammate only muttered the words, they set off blaring alarms within Vi’s mind. Because she can’t go back to hooking up with Caitlyn, she lied to her friends saying the two of them were ‘too busy’ when in reality Vi called things off because she couldn’t stop thinking about the one girl she knew nothing about. You. And suddenly, you and Cait were dating. Suddenly, she sure as hell couldn’t tell anybody the real reason she stopped seeing her. 

“Nah Abby, not happening,” she simply replies, attempting to sound as bored with the topic as possible.

“Fine, stay dry. I’m just throwing things out there,” the blonde puts her hands up in defense, shutting her locker as she walks towards the exit. “Later!” she waves before slipping out of the door. 

A beat passes. Then two. Then three. Finally, she takes a deep breath, leans down to unzip her practice bag, and reaches in. 

And out Vi pulls a pink envelope, decorated with a bow perfectly placed on the front and her name adorned with hearts on the back. 

The force of cool air coats your face as you walk throughout campus, ranting on the phone to Mel about your latest hell of a group project. “And it’s not even.. even.. sorry, I’m getting a call. Talk at home!” 

You smile at the friendly contact photo covering your screen, rounding some greenery as the parking lot comes into view. With a click of the ‘accept’ button, you're greeted with the gentlest of voices. “Hey!” 

A soft chuckle leaves your lips.

“Hey little man, look I’m about to drive home so I can’t talk for long,” you blinked a few times, realizing you went further from your car and spinning on your heels. 

“No worries,” he starts, “I just wanted to let you know that last week I was helping clean your old room and I found some letters, looks like you forgot to send them out? They were stamped and addressed and everything, so I just sent them for you.”

Ekko continues, giving some speech about God knows what.

But you can’t hear any of it, because the ringing in your ears is deafening.

No. 

It takes a few beats of your pure, shocked silence before your brain powers back on. And once it does, every inch of your mind is racing.

Okay, you thought to yourself. Ellie’s letter was addressed to camp, so there’s no chance of it getting to her anytime soon, if at all. Sky’s been gone for years, but you can’t remember the address you put down for her letter. Violet– shit. She definitely has hers. 

Oh. No. No, no, no. 

Your body feels oh so fragile and suddenly the idea of fleeing the country doesn’t sound entirely heinous, because only a few feet away stands Caitlyn.

Her blue hair is in a messy ponytail and her outfit is less perfected than usual, urgently thrown on. She’s searching, a determined expression plastered on her face as her gaze flickers through crowds of students.

For a moment, you pray it’s a misunderstanding. You pray she’s in a rush to find someone else, because there’s absolutely no way your ex was mailed a love letter you wrote in highschool. 

But your eyes trail down to her hand wrapped around that beautifully decorated navy envelope, and your knees are seconds away from buckling.  

“Yeah, yeah uh huh that’s great and all Ekko but I’ve really gotta go. Call me another time, okay?” you hit the ‘end call’ button with more force than needed and dash to your car. 

As you swing open the car door and drop inside with a slam shut, you can feel it. The way your heart pounds against your chest as if it’s trying to escape. That achy feeling that crawls its way up the back of your throat and transforms into tears that prickle at the corners of your worried eyes.

You shake your head, putting the key in the ignition and immediately shifting to reverse, not tending to your clouded vision. 

“Woah!” 

The somewhat-familiar yelp has your foot slamming on the breaks. Your face scrunches in confusion, the sleeve of your coat wiping your eyes just enough to make out the empty space behind your car as you look in your rearview camera. You’re confused, ready to switch the car back into ‘reverse’ before a tap tap at your window makes you gasp. 

Violet stands there, looking relaxed as an almost smug smile coats her lips. 

Your face distorts, torn between speeding off and giving in to her request, but before you make a decision, your manicured hands are rolling the window down. Cool air flows inside, but it loses to the subtle warmth that fills your body from the way the pinkette is eyeing you. 

“You know you’re supposed to check behind you before pulling out, right?” she teases.

The question itself is mocking, but the glint in her eye and how she leans down to relax a forearm on the car tells you to let it slide. 

“Right,” you agree. “Right, sorry about that. I just really need to leave so–” 

“Think y’ can explain this before you do?”

With no time to brace yourself, she holds up that stupid decorated pink envelope, and all you want to do is faint. 

“I don’t..” you whisper, accepting there’s nothing you can say to make this go away. But that blue hair is nearing, and you’re going to have a heart attack. 

“Can you get in?” you ask, voice a soft plea. 

Vi’s expression falters. That was the last thing she expected.

“Please?” you try again. “I can’t talk about this here.”

Your foot’s going to fall asleep if you sit like this any longer.

The two of you stay perfectly still, worried that any form of movement will penetrate the bubble of silence that formed as soon as Vi sat in the plush passenger seat.

Her mind is racing, because the beautiful girl she’s had her eyes on for months sent her the most heartfelt confession she’s ever gotten, and now she’s sitting in her car in a secluded area of a park. For a moment, she wonders if she’s dreaming. But the sound of your seat belt unbuckling and you shifting to face her, sweet and cautious eyes looking into her soul, has her heart skipping beats. She concludes she’s wide awake.

“Interesting spot for our first date,” she hums after clearing her throat. “You’re not gonna kill me, right?” 

That has your expression faltering. 

“You’re..” you stammer, “you think this is funny?” 

“Listen I’m just a little confused, sunshine,” she doesn’t miss the way your body stills at the nickname. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered. But you and her majesty just broke up, and I think you should know that her and I—” 

“Just– let me see that.” you cut her off and reach out for the rosy packaging, but Vi’s quicker, pulling it back with a squint in her eyes.

“I’d like to know how mortified I should be,” you confess quietly after a beat of silence. “It’s been a while since I read yours.” 

Naturally, the athlete oozes confidence and cockiness, but the pure confusion that colonizes her expression makes all of that fade for the moment. Her guard is down, allowing you to reach over her lap and seize the envelope. 

“Wait wait wait,” she starts as you focus your attention on pulling the folded paper from the envelope. 

“What do you mean ‘yours’? Are you saying I’m not the only person who got one ‘f these?” she asks, voice laced with confusion and another emotion you can’t quite pinpoint. You ignore her, hands stilling as sour nostalgia hits you in the gut and knocks the wind out of you.

My dearest Violet,

Do you remember Ximena Talis’s creative writing class in junior year? You acted so uninterested in each lesson when your teammates were around, but when they were busy skipping class, you were sticking your nose in the next Shakespeare play or Edgar Allen Poe poem. You shared your own writings with the class, a bored look painting your face and an awkward laugh spilling from your throat (although, they really weren’t that bad). But when I stood in front of our peers and performed my spin on “Annabel Lee”, you rose to your feet in applause. I’ll always be grateful that it was you who gave me my first standing ovation. Because in that moment I knew, from my happily raised eyebrows down to the nervous shuffling of my feet, that I love you Violet Vanderson. I really, truly love you. 

You physically can’t read the rest of this.

The tense sensation in your stomach only tightens as you hastily fold the paper and toss it back to the athlete, who’s still examining you with a curious glint in her eye.

“Okay–  here’s the thing,” you begin after a deep breath. “I wrote four letters, and they’re all outdated, like– from sophomore through senior year. A family friend sent them out by accident.” 

The explanation has Violet blinking, because in one sentence you’ve managed to crush her plans that she confidently pranced over with. In one sentence, you’ve made her question what the hell she was thinking. In one sentence, you’ve washed away her suave persona and turned her to a questioning pile of mush, because– you’re not just trying to get into her pants?

“..Well who else got letters?” She cringes at her whiny tone, running a hand through her hair for comfort. 

“Uh,” you sigh and shift your position as you look anywhere but the girl, dread consuming your almost-annoyed face. “A girl from summer camp, some girl from the ice rink, and… Caitlyn.” The last word comes out as an embarrassed murmur that leaves Vi’s mouth agape in shock and pity. 

A few beats of silence pass before Vi’s eyes light up. 

It might be a crazy idea, and you might despise her after the suggestion leaves her lips, but she can’t pass up this opportunity.

“Things with Kiramman must be tense now, right?” she offers.

Your lips press together in silent agreement, gaze trailing to your shining phone screen.  35 new messages and 6 missed calls from Caitlyn, just in the past two hours. You’d texted Caitlyn an explanation as soon as you’d parked: that Ekko sent her an old letter and that was just that. But still, stubborn as always, the bluenette refuses to believe you. 

“You could say that,” you mumble reluctantly. “I just,” you whisper, “I don’t know what to do.”

Her gaze flickers up and down your frame once in final thought. Your bright eyes drooping with worry and once confident voice lacing with insecurity makes up her mind. She wants nothing more than to console you, to wrap her strong arms around your frame and make you beam. Vi’s not sure if it’s her or the seventeen year old in that creative writing class speaking, but words fall from her lips. 

“I could be your girlfriend.”

A wave of disbelief washes over you, leaving widened eyes and a pounding heart in its path. The panicked expression on your face is enough to have her next words sputtering out in consolation. 

“Fake girlfriend, of course.” The way your eyes soften in thought fuels her to continue. “Just for a little while y’know? To give Kiramman the hint.” Her words are spoken with more power as she sees the gears turning in your pretty little head.

The idea’s heinous, and the thought of your scheme being revealed makes your stomach turn in embarrassment for the both of you. It’s ridiculous, idiotic, and risky, but your phone lights up once again with a text from your navy-haired ex, and that’s enough to make you answer.

“Okay, let’s do it.” 

caitlyn: I know you didn’t mean what you said. Just come and talk to me, love.  caitlyn: Jesus, don’t be stubborn. 

The messages continue on like a flood, piling onto your guilty conscience until the notification ringing becomes all too much, making you flick the silence button on your phone. The quiet doesn’t last long as you near the doors of the practice rink. Five players burst through the doors, a cluster of chaos and yells surrounding them before one girl, hair tied back into a dark brown bun, notices you. 

“That her?” she whispers to her teammates, their backs facing you as they walk away, but they whip their heads around (noticeably at that) to get glances at you. 

“Damnn.” another draws out, earning a slap on her neck. 

“How’d Vi do that so fast?” you hear another quip before they take a turn down the hallway. 

You only smiled gently, rolling your eyes at the comments as your hand pushed open the door to the rink. At least you make a believable couple. 

“You know, my words were ‘you could always go back to Kiramman, the pretty girl dumped her’, not ‘you should go bag your ex-fling’s ex-girlfriend’. They’ve been broken up for, what, two weeks? Does she even know about you and Cait?” Abby’s raspy voice fills the ice, making Vi shush her in annoyance.

“Yes, of course she knows.” 

There’s a beat of silence, neither of the players move when the words of a lie fill the air.

“Fuck fine. No, she doesn’t know yet. I’m just waiting for a good time..” Vi confesses, aimlessly kicking the ice.

“You know this makes you messy, right?” the strong blonde grinned. 

“Oh fuck off. Messy is pounding half the swim team.” The pinkette sends an accusatory glance and Abby’s raising her hands up in innocence with a shrug and a smug smile. She rounds the ice and stops in her tracks when you enter the room, glistening skin and a patient waiting look on your face. 

She snickers, letting out a quick whistle as she skates towards the exit off the ice. “Violet,” she coos in a sing-songy voice, “look who’s here for you.” 

The blonde waves goodbye to her friend once and sends you a wink before exiting the room.

Your hands are clasped behind your back as you take your time walking up to where the carpet and ice of the rink are separated. Realizing your limit, you lean your side against the entrance, looking at the athlete whose eyes are grazing over your attire painfully slow.

“You want some skates?” she finally speaks, eyes meeting yours with a glint.

You laugh gently. “Hell no.” She snickers along with you, removing her helmet to run a hand through her hair. 

“So you’ve,” you slightly raise your hand to point your thumb in the direction Abby and the other players exited, “you’ve told people already?” 

Worry flickers over her face, because for some reason she just can’t read you right like she can read other girls and it drives her insane. 

“Yeah, something wrong with that?” she asks cooly, placing her helmet back on the pink fluff as she glides around.

You bite the inside of your cheek in thought, finally shaking your head. “No, no I mean that’s the whole point, for people to know.” you hum. 

“But I have to ask, why are you doing this?”

Vi stops in her tracks, body turning to face yours from feet away. 

She contemplates it, telling you the truth. That she’s infatuated with and intrigued by you. That you’ve completely ruined hookups and “crushes” for her because she can’t get you out of her head. And maybe she doesn’t know you too well just yet, but she’s going to. And yes, she used to fuck your ex girlfriend way before you were even girlfriends, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the bond she wants to have with you, and she prays it doesn’t affect deem her unreliable. 

Yet none of that can come out of her mouth. So, she settles on her practiced lie and prays whoever’s up there doesn’t look down on her for it.

“Coach doesn’t like my reputation for ‘getting around’. Says it just doesn’t look good. Being with you gives me some cover.” She talks smoothly, making sure there’s not a hint of guilt behind her voice, because it's a lie. Coach Talis couldn’t care less about what she’s doing in her free time as long as she shows out on the ice. 

You only hum and nod.

You don’t notice how close she’s gotten until she’s there, staring down at you. Her musk and amber scent is intoxicating, seeping into your nostrils while powder blue eyes catch yours through her helmet and– is it possible she looks better than you remember?

“The letter,” you sputter out, mentally cringing as the pinkette raises a brow. “Can I see the letter again?” 

She’s cheesing, reaching into the pocket of her pants to whip out the neatly folded paper and.. is she just keeping that on her? 

As if she can read your mind and wide eyes, she speaks. “Just knew you’d want it,” she explains, placing it between your waiting fingers. She watches as you unfold the paper and look up at her. Thick silence fills the air before the athlete gets the hint, blinking twice with a nod. “Right, sorry,” Vi apologizes simply before skating off. 

You take a deep breath, heart swelling the same way it did when you first wrote this sweet confession. 

My dearest Violet,

Do you remember Ximena Talis’s creative writing class in junior year? You acted so uninterested in each lesson when your teammates were around, but while they were busy skipping class, you were sticking your nose in the next Shakespeare play or Edgar Allen Poe poem. You shared your own writings with a bored look painting your face and an awkward laugh spilling from your throat (although, they really weren’t that bad). But when I stood in front of our peers and performed my spin on “Annabel Lee”, you rose to your feet in applause. I’ll always be grateful that it was you who gave me my first standing ovation. Because in that moment I knew, from my happily raised eyebrows down to the shuffling of my nervous feet, that I love you Violet Vanderson. I really, really love you. 

When I sat back down in my seat, you slipped a pink sticky note back onto my desk. Gentle handwriting and a sweet smiley face in the corner decorated the words “that was amazing, how do you write so well?”. I’d never had my heart pound harder, never felt my palms sweatier or my spirits higher. As each day passes, I hope you’ll look at me with the same rose colored glasses as you did that class. I dream each night with my lovestruck brain of you taking me by the hand and asking me to be forever yours. I’ll be waiting, no matter how long it takes.

- forever yours, ____

It doesn’t take long before you get that warm and fuzzy feeling, the same one that caressed your body while you wrote this very letter. It takes even less time for it to be replaced with soul eating shame that has you wanting to curl into a ball. 

“You’ve always been a good writer,” she calls out, nearing you. “I meant it when I said it.” 

“..I know,” you agree, a smile forming against your will. 

Vi’s grinning at your sass, and damn is the only word that fills her brain. “How are things with Kiramman?” she asks gently.

“She just doesn’t believe me. She’s texted a thousand times since yesterday and is totally convinced I want her back.” you roll your eyes in exhaustion.

“Do you?” 

You pause at her question, because underneath that carefree and playful persona hides a hint of worry behind Vi’s voice, and it’s fueling the curiosity within you. “Why are you asking?”

A beat passes. “Just wanna know how humiliated I’ll be after all of this,” the pinkette admits.

Her confession makes you laugh and shake your head. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” you hum. “I broke up with Caitlyn and that’s that. If it takes a fake relationship and a little pda for her to see that then so be it.” 

Vi nods, making sure not to let the smile she’s feeling creep onto her face. 

“So you like writing, you’re smart as hell, you dress real cute,” she points a finger up and down your outfit and you tilt your head. “Anything else I should know about you or our little.. ordeal?” 

You tongue your cheek in silent thought before replying. 

“You can’t kiss me.” 

That has Vi’s brain short circuiting, because the image you’ve set in her mind from those words alone is sparking a crimson glow across her face and– fuck she shouldn’t be thinking about this. But she had to admit (to herself, not out loud of course), she’d have no problem with running her lips across yours if you asked for it. 

“Did Kiramman not kiss you, angel?” ‘She’d have to be a fucking idiot not to’ is the next thing that wants to come out of her mouth, but she settles for a soft tease. “That’s a couples thing, if you didn’t know.” 

“We kissed, obviously.” You cross your arms as you speak. “You can– y’know, hold me, kiss my.. anywhere else.” Both you and Vi feel a shift. Damn, are ice rinks always this warm? “Just, no real kissing. It’s too personal.” 

Vi gently nods, slipping out a soft ‘alright’ because you have a good point. 

She moves forward to step off the ice, placing a firm hand on your waist to gently guide you out of the way as she passes. Your body tenses at the touch, whipping your head towards the girl in surprise.

The pinkette notices, and she knows she shouldn’t chuckle at it, but she does. “If it’s gonna take ‘a little pda’, you might wanna get rid of that before this weekend,” she’s speaking cockily as she nears her bag, her helmet coming off for good.

You clear your throat. “What’s this weekend?”

“Party ‘m takin’ you to. Think of it as our couples debut.” And Vi loves the surprised little look on your face as you ask her if that’s ‘really necessary’.

“You really think anyones gonna believe we’re together if I’m at a party all by myself? Who’s gonna fight off all the girls craving my attention, sunshine?” 

You wonder if the notorious smirk on her face is permanent as she slings her practice bag on a sculpted shoulder as she moves to tower over you, the cool air of the rink becoming very present.

“So you’re coming, yeah?” 

Your eyes travel from hers to the empty space beside her in thought. 

“Of course.”

“You’re sure it’s not too boob-y?” 

You tug at your low cut top, half yelling over the chaos of other students to your roommate who’s eyeing you like your one head has turned into five. 

“Wait, you didn’t want it to be ‘boob-y’? Practically wearing a bra,” she yells back with a knowing smile, sipping from the red cup that quickly found her hands. At the sight of your worry, her smugness turns to playful comfort. “Come on, you’re at a frat not a damn funeral. You look sexy.”

“She’s right.”

The raspy voice behind you is unfamiliar, sending a soft chill down your spine that turns you on your heels. 

You’re met with a tall, muscular, brownskin woman. Half of her hair is pulled back, and loose strands fall to decorate her face that holds piercing eyes which are completely directed on you. You’ve seen her before for sure, but her name is the last thing on your mind as her eyes trail over every inch of your exposed skin. 

“Sevika,” she tells lowly, placing a red cup between your manicured fingers to which you scoff under your breath. 

You give her the benefit of the doubt. 

“___,” you offer your name, looking for any hint of recognition on her face, and you get it when she smirks and tilts her head. 

“I know who you are, beautiful,” she purrs.

“Then you also know I’m Vi’s girlfriend?” you throw back. The words feel completely foreign on your tongue, but come out so awfully right. 

The raven’s eyebrows raise right before she huffs out a laugh of disbelief, sipping from whatever mixture graced the cup in her hand. “Girlfriend?” she repeats. “Shit, with the way she was talking about you, I thought you were just a hookup.” 

The air’s suddenly much thicker, tenser, and you don’t have much time to process what Sevika just laid upon you before pink hair makes its way through the crowd.

“There’s my girl,” Vi calls out as she nears you, her sweet words cutting the tension like a knife. “Been looking all over for you,” she speaks as gently as she can in the atmosphere, completely ignoring the presence of her teammate.

“Hi,” you simply let out. Your knees feel weak and you think maybe you’re not cut out for this, because the pinkette slides a warm hand around your waist and places a chaste kiss down on your bare shoulder. 

She’s pulling back from your skin when her eyes land on the cup in your hand, a confused glint in her eye as she squints. “Thought you drove?” The calloused fingers tracing meaningless patterns on your skin and soft breathy words hitting your face from just inches away make you feel like Melting. What’d she ask again?

“No,” is all you manage to stammer out, shifting in the girl’s arms until the right words form in your head. “No this isn’t mine.” you’re mentally facepalming.

Vi’s eyes flicker from you, to the cup, to Sevika, finally piecing together her part in this. The athlete stands a bit taller, gently taking the drink from your hands and shoving it against Sevika’s chest. Some of the liquid splashes over the cup, leaving droplets of a stain on the angry woman’s shirt.

Sevika’s slowly taking the cup without breaking eye contact. Her gaze is sharper than daggers as Violet huffs out a scoff, her grip on your waist more present as she guides you away from the brute and through the crowd of partygoers. 

“I’m sorry about her. One asshole of a teammate.” Vi’s words kiss your ear to avoid yelling as she walks. “You okay?” she asks slightly softer, which earns her a nod and quick ‘yeah’. The pinkette’s hand snakes from around your waist down to grab one of yours, holding you tightly as you worm your ways through the horde. 

As you exit the crowd your left arm finds its way to wrap around her right, placing your free hand lazily on her bicep, because if you had to feel her fingertips on your skin anymore you’d faint. The pair of you walk through the spacious backyard, decorated with a pool, groups of your classmates, and a cluster of hockey players lounging on some couches that circle a fire pit. 

“You ready?” She whispers softly.

“Ready,” you reply with a smile that turns into an “o” shaped mouth, big worried eyes capturing VI’s. “They won’t ask me about hockey, right?” 

The girl lets out a sweet, genuine laugh, and so cute is what she’s mentally replying. 

“There you are!” Abby calls out as soon as the two of you are in her vision. The rest of the team follows, greeting both you and Vi, throwing her smirks or nods of approval when you have your focus elsewhere. Vi sits, sprawling out against the couch with her legs perfectly spread for you. As if it were natural, her hands find their way around your hips and she guides you down into her lap. 

And you hate it. 

Not the feeling of her firm chest against your back, not her warm legs encasing your bare and crossed ones, not even the way she wraps her muscular arms around your torso and places her head so close to yours. 

You hate how normal she’s making all of this feel, how your brain is being fried with each touch, but your faux girlfriend doesn’t seem to be bothered one bit. And you’re starting to wonder if it’s a problem. 

“How’d you two even meet? Didn’t you and the chick from the basketball team just break up?” one of her teammates questions you with a raised brow. 

Fuck is all your brain renders, and you hope the shock didn’t show on your face because—

“I’ve had the hots for her since high school, thought it was time to do something about it,” Vi replies. A proud feeling washes over her when your body relaxes in her arms.

You’re gently squeezing her arm twice, thankful that she’s such a great actor. She’s running her thumb against your skin, thankful that you can’t read minds. 

A few sweet nods and noises of approval are let out before Abby speaks up. “‘The hots’? What are you, fifty?” She jokes, earning a grinning ‘fuck off’ from Vi. 

The teammates’ conversation continues both with and without you, leaving moments for you to think of something ‘girlfriendish’ to say or a new place on Vi’s skin to touch. And then, it starts. Against Vi’s rolling eyes and Elora’s complaint that this is “so middle school”, a game of truth or dare ensues. Ever the fun one, the blonde convinces everyone that it’ll be fun, that it’s good to be childish every once in a while. 

So far, Gert’s been dared to send an ‘i miss you’ voice note to her ex and is utterly ashamed, Abby’s mouth tastes both bitter and spicy from the liquor concoction the teammates dared her to drink, another girl has been stripped down to her shorts and wife pleaser and shooed away from the fire to ‘endure the cold’ for ten more minutes. 

When it comes to the other teammates, you don’t know how many “___ and i banged” truths and “take this many shots” dares you hear before it’s finally your turn. 

“Truth or dare?” Vi coos in your ear.

“Truth–” 

“Dare?” she cuts you off with a mean grin. “Alright, I dare you to jump into the pool. Right here, right now.” 

Your head whips towards the girl fast enough to send chills down the pinkette’s spine. The hockey team is whooping and cheering you on as Violet comes to a stand with your mid area still locked by her arms. 

“No– no– I said truth Vi!” you sputter out. Your body and mind are moving at an astronomically slow speed because before you know it, Vi’s scooping you off the ground and throwing you over her shoulder effortlessly. As she begins to walk, the hollering of the team growing in intensity, one of her warm hands lays at the back of your thigh, holding down the bottom of your already short skirt. The other trails its way down your leg and to your feet, slipping off your shoes and letting them fall with a plop. 

“Violet Vanderson.” you warn firmly, squirming in anticipation as you neared the icy blue water. You’re feeling five emotions at once, and at the same time evaluating how much Caitlyn’s perception on things truly matters, because you’re this close to firing your ‘girlfriend’. 

When she suggested this entire ordeal you imagined it’d be standing together for an hour and dancing, going out for drinks once or twice, maybe even an instagram story or two. 

You didn’t expect pool shenanigans, shoulder kisses, and powerful arms wrapped around your sides every two seconds. You didn’t expect to be having fun, let alone like it. 

“Put me down!” you yelp through rising giggles.

“A dare’s a dare, angel.” she speaks lowly over her shoulder to you, who’s dangling helplessly in her grasp. “C’mon, it looks good for us as a couple,” she whispers.

“Wait wait wait!–” 

Your last threat is drowned out as Vi jumps into the glowing blue.

“Wonder how many people have had sex in here tonight,” you joke through chattering teeth. You’re holding your soaked hair together to the best of your ability as to not drench everything in your path, but truthfully, water is the cleanest thing to grace those frat floors. Vi trails right in behind you, snorting out a laugh as she leans against the closed door. 

The pinkett’s pool stunt only had you upset for so long, mostly out of shock of her actually going through with it. However, once you rose to the surface of the water, the only things that could spill from your mouth were hearty giggles. 

What made it ten times better was that people saw, Vi’s teammates whooped while others just snickered at the ‘new couple’s’ playfulness. 

What made it a hundred times better was Abby informing you of how pissed Caitlyn looked, staring at you and Vi before storming back the way she came from. 

“Enough to start a new std?” She flashes her pearly whites at her own joke.

“Violet!” you cringe, making her chuckle. 

As cold as your water-soaked clothing, skin, and drenched hair makes you, the athlete’s soft gaze is a lighter igniting a blaze in the pit of your stomach. For the first time in a long time, protected by the walls of someone’s room, you’re able to explore her face. 

Perfect, full brows are intercepted by a slit with one to match down on the the left of her rosy lips. Sweet freckles dance on and around her nose, and gosh she’s pretty. It’s the same face you’d admired years ago, but you still look at her as if you’ve discovered her beauty all over again. You stand there attempting to pinpoint what shade of blue her eyes are when she finally speaks up. 

“Here,” the athlete steps closer, taking off her thick black coat and handing it over sheepishly. “Can’t do anything about your skirt, but I thought these would help.” A hint of blue and white fabric peeks out from underneath, and you unravel it to reveal a jersey. One of her jerseys. 

There’s a glint of suspicion in your eye, and Violet’s in fear. 

“You just.. keep this in your car? All the time?” You question with a perfectly raised eyebrow. 

Vi clears her throat. Because no, no she doesn’t. She just had to do something to get you in her clothes. 

A beat passes with no response, and finally the pinkette’s eyes are flickering around the room before she turns. “I’ll let you get changed.” 

The door’s opening and closing before you can protest, and it’s finally safe for that suppressed smile to grace your lips without shame.  

It doesn’t take long for you to strip out of your sopping clothes and into the oversized comfiness of Vi’s. You examine yourself in the full length mirror, fixing your wet hair to the best of your ability and running your hands over the warmth of the new clothing. It sMells just like Violet, and you convince yourself that you don’t care, but underneath that protective mask is the lovestruck teenage girl you once were.

Turning on your heels, you gather the wet bundles of fabric and head for the door when someone on the other side beats you to it. 

Correction, the last person you want to see beats you to it. 

Caitlyn’s quick to step inside the room, closing the door with an indecipherable expression plastered on her face. Her brows furrow with more distaste than usual, and her once perfect navy blue locks now have strands messily shaken out of place. Your tongue is strangled by the bite of your teeth. It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes to the back of your head. 

“Violet Vanderson?” She wastes no time, chary eyes examining your face with crossed arms. “Really?”

You’re done holding back, so you scoff.

“Yes, really. What, are you jealous?” you quip. “Y’know what, don’t answer that. I already know.” 

She ignores the sassy remark. “I’m surprised you chose her, considering everything.” 

You raise an eyebrow in confusion. “Considering, what exactly?” 

Caitlyn’s poker face had been drilled into her since she was a kid, but the bluenette physically had to suppress the amusement from taking over her face when she realized: you had no clue. 

“I just didn’t think she was your type, and that was awfully fast,” she saves. 

“I didn’t cheat on you, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” You spit the words like they burn on your tongue as impatient hands come up to rest on your hips. 

“I’m insinuating that I don’t believe whatever this is.” 

That has you pausing. Your face, demeanor, and attitude all stay the same, but you both notice the shift in the air. 

“I think you realize you messed up when you broke things off, and now you’re playing hard to get.” She continues, stepping forward as her toned arms fall to her sides. 

“There’s no need to play games with me, you know.” 

Cait’s look is condescending, and it only pisses you off more when her hand reaches out to caress yours. The perfect persuasion, an easy fix to all of her problems when the utter of her surname isn’t quite enough. But you’re not easy, and you didn’t mess anything up. So you quickly swat it away, sneering as you step around the tower of a girl and towards the door. 

“Get over yourself, Caitlyn.” 

You exit the room with blood red vision, a fury which follows you on your journey to find Mel in the drunken crowd and pull her to the front while Vi offers to walk both of you to your car. 

And in your red haze, you miss the eye contact Caitlyn and Sevika make from across the crowded room. 

Sweat is dripping from the athletes’ foreheads down to the stretch of their neck as Talis blows his whistle, allowing the players to catch their breaths.  

Normally, Vi would be more than willing to stay longer than the scheduled practice time. Running fun drills with Abby, racing Gert, whatever the matter may be. Hockey is her thing. 

But, at the moment, you’re also ‘her thing’. And right now you were patiently waiting in your apartment for Vi to make an appearance. A friendly one, of course. Away from watching eyes and overwhelming questions, where you could discuss your next moves in peace–as peaceful as you could get with the muscular tease looking at you as if you were a star to wish on at night. 

So she keeps her mouth shut and her eyes trained on Coach Talis (who’s giving some end-of-practice spiel) as Sevika glides up next to her.

She keeps her mouth shut as the brute lets out a soft scoff at how hard Vi’s trying to ignore her. 

She has to bite hard on her tongue when the woman mutters something about the pink-haired athlete needing to ‘give up while she’s still ahead’. 

And her mouth opens immediately when your name falls from Sevika’s lips. “___, she really is somethin’ huh–?” 

“Don’t fuck with me, Sevika,” she threatens, a tad louder than expected. Their stubborn gazes stay locked on one another, and Sevika’s letting out a scoff while squaring her firm shoulders.

“Or what?” the raven throws back, intimidation oozing from her presence.

“Hey! What did I say?” The bubble of their rivalry is popped as Coach Talis raises his voice. 

“That’s it. Bag skates.” 

[REDACTED]: you sure this’ll work? 

When Vi finally shows up at your sun-glistening apartment, her hair is wet from the quick shower she took, she’s a total blubbering mess about how she’s crazy sorry and feels terrible for making you wait an extra hour, and she’s holding one cup of coffee that looks exactly like the one you always order.

“Vi, seriously it’s okay,” you chuckle, and the girl deflates in soft relief. A smile sweet as honey graces your face and Vi finally figures it out: you’re just an angel in disguise.

You reach over from your seat on the couch to take the cup of coffee from her hand. It’s your order to a T, and the sip you take sends a cold trail of liquid down your throat and into the warmth of your stomach. 

“Mmm,” you hum, making Vi malfunction when you lick the remnants from your lips. “Did you chug yours on the way?” you ask.

Perfect blue eyes blink twice while Violet calculates the odds that you’ll say yes if she were to suggest you drop the whole act and venture off on a real date right now. 

“Oh– hell no. I can’t stand coffee. I just went to get you one,” she hums without thought. Fifty-five percent chance, not good enough. 

“Again, I’m sorry. Sevika’s been more of an asshole than usual. Made us run back and forth on the ice until we practically collapsed. Don’t know what the hell she was thinking though, almost missed her shift at that rink..” Violet continues on with conflicted brows furrowing and a hardened gaze. But just like waves washing away at imperfections in grainy sand, the awestruck glimmer in your eyes wipes the fury from her blood. 

“You went just for me?” the question comes out almost as a whisper.

Violet swears she can feel her heart Melting from your actions, and the feeling bubbles its way up as words in her throat. “Of course.”

It’s left at that. Of course, a declaration that it was common sense she’d be of service to you even behind the scenes. Neither of you dare to ask or explain why. For a moment, there’s no words. Just the soft sensation of little breaths, beating hearts, and wandering gazes, but only for a moment.

“Cait doesn’t believe us,” you spill.

Vi can only huff gently, shifting in her seat as her spread legs move a bit wider. 

“She’s smart, I’ll give her that.” Vi hums in thought. The cogs in her brain get distracted and come to a halt when she sees the glistening worry in your orbs, and without thought, her hand is coming up to hold your chin, guiding it to connect your gazes.

“Hey, we’ll fix it, alright?” She reassures, and a thumb glides over your cheek. The moment is tender, something deep and sweet, but it doesn’t take long for the both of you to pull back as your eyes flicker anywhere else. 

“We just need to… to up our game.” At the sight of your confused eyes, she continues. “Give me your phone,” Vi instructs softly, holding her hand out.

You simply obey, placing the device in her hand with a slight squint in your eyes. 

All uncertainty is replaced with giggles and content when Vi holds up the camera. Her left hand holds the phone while her right arm lifts into frame next to her face and flexes, revealing the entirety of her sculpted muscles. 

Jesus, your mind betrays you.

After the snap of the camera, the pinkette hands the device back to you. 

“Make it your lock screen,” she speaks so casually, like the idea behind these actions have no effect on her whatsoever. A black cased phone is then slid into your hands, and big powder-blue eyes are staring at you expectantly. 

“Oh, you want..” you internally cringe at the stammer. 

“Of course, needa see your face too.” she states with a grin.

You’re nodding at that, as if a swarm of what you think are butterflies aren’t rummaging around in your gut. Raising the camera in your manicured fingers, you snap a photo mocking Vi’s. More kissy face, less muscles. The athlete has the biggest grin as she takes the device back, and with a ‘there’, your face is  blessing her lockscreen. 

“So, should I book our room at Mt. Sky, or do you want to?” Her eyes are trained on your face as she drapes both swole arms across the back of the couch. 

You do nothing to hide the surprise on your face. With crisp frosty air, a winter wonderland of snow, and more unplanned pregnancies and sexual noise complaints than any of the campus’s frat parties, Mt. Sky was the unofficial University of Piltover ski trip of the year. Athletes, hookups of athletes, curious freshmen, and anyone who concerned themselves with campus drama banded together for a few days of thrillingly-messy paradise. 

“You wanna share a room?” you ask with raised brows, because ‘wait, we’re going?’ seems out of the question.

The pinkette’s lips curl into a smile, one that flashes the white of her teeth as blue orbs flicker down and up your frame once.

“Yeah, I do.” 

The short silence that follows is smothering, and you swear the room just got a hundred degrees hotter—because there’s the same tease you remember fantasizing over as your pink glitter pen graced the paper of her letter. 

“It’d be weird if we didn’t,” she explains. “Wouldn’t just be Cait questioning us, it’d be everybody,” she tilts her head, and you’re snapped back to the reality of your situation. Fake. 

You’re not looking at the freckled girl as you hum with a nod. 

That has the athlete’s suave persona faltering. A rough hand snakes up to gingerly move a piece of hair from your face. She’s barely touching you, as though you’re more fragile than glass in her grasp. 

“We don’t have to, if you wanna room with Mel that badly–” 

“–No, no I think we should,” you reassure with a smile, because you do want to, more than you probably should, but your brain’s having a very hard time deciphering fantasy from reality. 

It’s her turn to hum, and that tender hand doesn’t leave your face, it only stills as you turn your head completely towards her. 

“You don’t have to do that when we’re in private,” you refer to her wandering hands with a gentle tone. Vi’s eyes soften into something raw and real as she lulls out a response.

“Doesn’t hurt to get comfortable with each other. Right, sunshine?”

Wrong. 

Because it could hurt. It could wound the both of you and cause an ache like never before. Because—admittedly—you don’t know what you’re feeling right now. But more importantly, you don’t know what Violet’s feeling. You had her all figured out at seventeen, but now, you’re unsure of how gentle or reckless she’d be with your heart.

And still, against all the skepticism your brain concocts, you agree. 

“Right.” 

[REDACTED]: Of course I’m sure. Just do what I ask and we’ll both get what we want.

“Late again?” Finn coos, a teasing expression on the raven’s face. 

“Another run in with pinkie,” Sevika smirks, almost seeming proud. 

The man shakes his head with a smile before placing a handful of mail on the counter in front of the pair. “You mind?”

A groan falls from Sevika’s lips as her gaze flickers between him and the letters. “But I have—”

“Please?” the man asks, already inching away from the space. “I just have to deal with something.”

Before she can argue further, Finn thanks her and rushes off towards the rink. The woman’s left muttering swears and rolling her eyes as she rummages through the envelopes filling her space. 

To: Polar Peaks, To: Polar Peaks, To: Sky Young, To: Pola—

She blinks once and her firm hands come to a pause before her fingers are backtracking to a chestnut brown envelope, covered in hearts and kiss marks. 

Sevika’s huffing out a laugh of disbelief. Her eyes trail over every inch of the sickeningly sweet decor. The recipient address is the ice rink, just like the rest of the pile, and the woman’s intrigue only grows as her eyes trail to the top left corner. To the sender. To you. 

“My favorite energy drink?” Vi throws out.

“Berrybulls, specifically the yellow and amber ones.” you quip with confidence, smiling when Vi nods in content. 

A lightbulb flickers across the pink haired girl’s face, and she stops in her tracks, unintentionally pulling you back. You’re standing still now, and as the frigid air threatens to consume your body, the reminder that your hands are intertwined with one another spreads warmth throughout your core. You let yourself forget that it’s for show, and enjoy it. 

“Vi?” you question, stepping a bit closer. 

“This one’s important,” her tone is more serious, and her eyes meet yours as she takes a deep breath.

“What’s… my coffee order?” 

“Oh my gosh–” a joking scoff falls from your lips, and you’re gently shoving the laughing girl as you pull her to continue walking. The warmth of hand holding can only do so much to combat standing still in the chill of winter air. 

“C’mon sunshine, we’ve learned all there is to know. Besides, you really think anyone’s gonna come up and start quizzing us?” 

“No,” you admit as Vi holds you closer with a hand around your waist while more pedestrians enter and exit the sidewalks. “But I think it’s good to know just in case. Besides, I like learning about you.” 

“Oh yeah?” she coos. You hear a phone buzz once. 

“Yeah,” you let out with a giggle. Another buzz, and you’re reaching into your back pocket and tapping on the screen to reveal… nothing. 

kiramman: You have until the end of the trip. kiramman: If you don’t tell her, I will.

Is it possible to feel complete peace and soul-shredding anxiety simultaneously? 

On one hand, you’re having the most fun you’ve had in a long time. The drive to the resort with Mel—and her newfound friend Elora— was filled with guttural laughter. The three of you screamed songs at such a volume you’re surprised the windows didn’t burst. 

When you arrive, you’re trapped by the strong arms of Abby who’s lifting you into the air with her hug. Vi has to be the one to mutter “That’s enough, Abs..”, earning a laugh from the surrounding teammates, who are quick to tug you and your friends into conversation. 

There’s arms around your waist and a bulky body encasing yours while you sit around a fireplace, quiet giggles to each other when you’re bored of the group conversation, and a sweet goodbye kiss to your forehead when Vi and her peers leave to ski. The day progresses perfectly. 

On the other hand, you can feel as Caitlyn’s eyes follow you. A predator stalking its prey. And even though you’re not afraid of the girl, you wonder what it’s going to take for her to throw in the towel. 

“Was the sex that good?” Mel’s golden eyes are both teasing and genuinely questioning you. 

“You’re unbelievable,” you throw back with a laugh. 

“I’m serious, why is she so persistent? Does your tongue have a built in vibrator?—”

“Mel!” 

She’s giggling with you now, face falling into the plush of the king sized bed you’re both sprawled out on. 

“By the way, watch out. Your girlfriend’s biggest fan decided to show up this year,” she flips over onto her back, head tilted to look at you with a pitying–but still undeniably smug–expression.

“Sevika?” you whine and she nods. “She never comes to Mt. Sky. She’s just... anti-fun.” 

Mel hums. “A refined Kiramman has turned into a borderline stalker, Sevika Grove is coming on ski trips, what’s next? Aliens?”

“Surprised the aliens weren't first.” 

Your giggles are cut short as Elora knocks at your already open door, and Mel’s swiftly coming to a stand. 

“Talk to you later?” she offers, and you smile with a nod. 

The tranquility of an empty room only lasts so long, because within seconds, Vi is bursting into the space and hastily shutting the door. You hear the click of the lock and jolt up with confusion written across your face. 

“Vi? What’s—” 

“Cait’s on her way up here,” she speaks with haste.

“I could talk to her, if you want. Just say the word,” Vi offers, and there’s no time to overanalyze the tightness in your chest at the idea of the pinkette protecting you. 

Thousands of possibilities fly throughout your racing brain. Talking went in her ear and out the other (or, rather, around her head entirely), and going radio silent only amplified her stubbornness. The way you see it, the only thing left to do is play Caitlyn’s petty game, to make it clear that the two of you were done. 

Your brain is completely heated and fuzzy at the idea, but you have no time to waste as you hop off of the bed and over to the butch. 

“We’re gonna have sex,” you state. 

Vi’s completely stopped working. That’s it—she’s died. She’s died and gone to heaven. That’s the only plausible explanation for—

“Fake! Fake sex, I mean.”

Well that makes more sense. 

“Fake–what? You’ve gotta explain a little better than that,” she’s trying to suppress the color from showing in her cheeks, and a hand comes up to run through her hair. 

“Just—” you stammer, moving the girl by the arm so that you’re both a few feet away from the door, leaned up against the wall with Vi hovering over you. Your hand stays on her arm, which is gently placed on the side of your waist. The room’s air grows thicker by the second, and tension oozes from every movement made. 

“This doesn't feel very fake, sweetheart.” Her voice is lower, more sultry, and it sends a shiver straight up your spine. 

“We’re gonna…” gonna faint. The sound of footsteps power walking down the hallway throws your brain back into action. “Just follow my lead,” you breathe.

The athlete’s in a state of utter confusion. She’s squinting harder than ever as you bite your lip, seemingly in thought, before you send a wave of pure shock throughout her core. 

You moan. 

Not a whine, not a whimper, not even a wince, a raw moan that compels something in her to twitch. 

“Violet,” you’re singing, eyes closed, and your head thrown to the side. Out of embarrassment or getting into character, she’s not sure. She’s not sure of anything, quite frankly, because how on earth is she expected to think when you’re squealing her name like she owns you?

“Oh yes—please please,” you coo. As if someone flipped a switch, you’re opening your eyes to look up at the athlete. 

“Say something,” you snap in a whisper. 

There’s no wasted time, because Violet’s thoughts spill at your approval. 

“So fuckin’ pretty. Who knew your moans sounded so good, baby?” 

You’re about to lose it. All sense of good judgment—or what’s left—is flying out of the window and being replaced by the dirty haze of your mind. You can’t help the way your hand is gently trailing up Vi’s arm and sliding down to rest against her abs. You don’t miss the way her grip around you tightens.  

You expect her to be done, but Vi’s kept these thoughts tucked away for way too long. If they’d be of any service to you, she might as well let them out. 

“Bet she couldn’t fuck you like this, huh? No angel, she couldn’t.”  

A symphony of grunts, whimpers, and moans of passion decorate not only the room, but the ears of Caitlyn. Your navy haired ex lingers outside the door, seeing nothing but blood red as she listens to the noises you used to make for her. The noises Vi never made for her. The newfound passion that the pinkette pulled out of you, one that Cait never could. 

With clenched, clammy fists and gritted teeth, Caitlyn reluctantly drags herself away from the door and down the hallway. 

Like coming down from a high, shallow breaths fill yours and Vi’s ears before all sounds subside. Neither of you dare to move as the clack of Caitlyn’s feet storm down the hall and out of earshot. Colorful orbs stare down at the floor or up at the white ceiling, because they’re suddenly oh so intriguing. 

And maybe, just maybe, this is the moment you realize not everything is as imaginary as you thought. 

Meanwhile, Vi’s imagining what the hell she’d say in this situation if her brain were computing. Because the sight of you throwing your head back in fake pleasure and spilling noises straight from your core was entirely soul-shifting. 

And it’s different, to be seeing you this close. Granted, she’s been closer. Graced the skin of your forehead or cheeks with her soft and scar-decorated lips more than once. But here, hovering over your softened body, her hand connecting to your waist with the gentlest of touches, and her eyes firmly memorizing every angle of your face, it’s different. Everything’s softer, and Violet’s able to relish in your raw loving aura, rather than put on a performance for the skeptical eyes of others. 

And then you laugh. 

You laugh, and laugh, and laugh. So hard that you don’t notice the way Vi smiles, one that doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

And definitely, oh definitely, this is the moment she realizes she’s undeniably smitten. 

“Think we’ll get the first noise complaint?” You joke while coming down from your fit of laughter. 

That pulls a laugh from Vi’s throat, one that has her leaning forward with a deep breath after it bubbles out. The soft of her forehead tenderly meets yours, and the room’s heart rate rises exponentially, but neither of you squirm out of your positions. Because this is exactly where you want to be.

You can’t see it as your eyelids flutter shut, but Vi’s left hand wraps around your waist to meet her right, cradling you in a way that’s so natural, so sweet, so real. A cradle that protects and shields you from forces you can’t handle alone. A shelter for disasters from tsunamis to the cold chill of winter. From pretending to be your girlfriend to replacing your wet party clothes, all the way back to being your first standing ovation. Vi is your refuge. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, worried you’ll crack the faultless atmosphere. “Can’t believe you’re putting up with this– with me.” 

Her grip lightly tightens. “I’d do it over and over again.” 

She would, and she will, if you let her. 

You feel the truth in her words, and your eyes flutter open to pull back, just enough to look into those perfect blue specks. 

The pair of you stay there for what feels like forever, examining the watercolor paintings that you call your eyes. And–although she could stare at you for the rest of her life–Vi physically can’t wait any longer. Like magnets, your lips are tugging her forward. Centimeter by centimeter. Inch by inch. Heads tilting, eyes half lidded, and breaths hitching. Vi can practically taste the plush of your feature when—

“Yo! You guys in there?”

Abby’s fist thumps on the door three times. And as fast as you connected, you’re drifting apart.

you don’t care whether she knows or not. you just want her crawling back to you. not happening.  kiramman: I’ll tell her.

“Would you rather go a month without sex, or a month without candy?” 

“What kind of stupid ass question is that?” Vi throws at Abby, who’s snobbishly leaning back in the heated water as if she’d given the ultimatum of the century. 

Her newest middle school party game is would you rather, and while Vi couldn’t care less about the event itself, she’s secretly over the moon at the effort her teammates and close friends are making to connect with you. 

“A month without candy,” you cooly state as you look down at the water. Making the relationship more believable. That’s all you were doing.

That enables a chain of raised eyebrows and looks to Vi, whereas others let out sly whistles and snickers, throwing out little quips like “you hear that, superstar?”. 

“Alright, alright,” she’s calming them with a tug at the corners of her lips and a roll of her eyes. You only snicker to yourself at the odds, as if you didn’t have sex— fake sex with the girl minutes prior.

Leaning closer against Vi’s skin, plush bodies warming each other in the bubbly heat of the hot tub, you’re almost completely relaxed. The outdoors is the perfect flaky winter wonderland you expected, cabins further out from the resort look like the coziest of all shelters, and the milky mountains in the distance tie the atmosphere together. 

And while you’re focused on the landscape, Violet’s eyes are completely trained on you. 

She examines the way you sit so properly in her lap, the way your legs squirmed as she slid her hands away from your thigh and around the small of your waist (so others could see your contact.. of course), how you get so comical and chattery once you’re finally comfortable in a group, and the angelic resting look on your face when you’re finally at ease. 

And neither of you know it, but when the conversation is one that allows you to listen instead of talk, you’re both daydreaming about the endless possibilities of this night. The potential of this moment, as well as that of the countless others you’ve had since this entire ordeal began. 

Neither of you know it, but you’re both considering the idea that life could be like this all the time. The two of you snuggled up, surrounded by those cherished, laughing until you just can’t breathe. 

A chin comes to rest gently on your right shoulder, and Vi’s breath sends a shiver throughout your body faster than the crisp winter air ever could. 

“Do you always sit with your legs crossed in pools?” she teases, voice low, like she’s sharing a secret with you. Only you. 

“No,” you simply hum. Your tongue is prodding the inside of your cheek in thought, and you go through with the lightbulb in your head. 

“It’s a great reminder of how dangerously close your hands are to my bikini though, isn’t it?” 

The pads of her fingers that were once tracing meaningless patterns on your waist come to a stop, and you can hear the smirk in Vi’s voice. 

“You want me to move them?” she breathes.

Your response is almost automatic.

“No.” 

The conversation of what would’ve happened if Abby hadn’t knocked on your door was yet to come, but the newfound tension and playfulness that spilled from both of your lips was undeniable. 

Vi grins at your confidence, but underneath the suave persona, she knows you’ll be the death of her. 

“Bold girl,” she hums.

You’re so trapped in your playful banter that you don’t notice the way the rest of your peers are leaving, running off towards a different attraction of the resort, only god knows what. 

“You were pretty convincing up there,” your sly lips are curivng up at the corners. “You have fake sex often?”

“Nothing fake about my sex.” 

You’re snickering at her confidence, relishing in the way her arm hardens around you as she chuckles. 

“Don’t get cocky. I’m sure someone’s had to fake-orgasm with you once.” Maybe the lying’s getting to you, because you know in your heart of hearts that’s the furthest thing from the truth. 

“You really believe that?” she speaks in a lower tone, head snaking around to make eye contact with you. 

Like a clock rewinding, you’re seventeen again. 

Not physically, nor mentally, but your full heart is pounding the same rhythm as when you first fell for the tough, pink haired beauty in your writing class. Your breaths are shallow, gazes locked, and the warmth between you is incomparable to any sensation you’ve ever experienced prior. 

“Thought so,” she brazenly states after your lack of words, and you’re smiling in thought before gently splashing water towards the smug girl, Melting her charming essence that has you by the throat. 

Vi gasps through a laugh. Soon, she’s threatening to splash you back while you laugh and squeal through your begs for mercy. 

And although your vision isn’t flawless through the squinted happiness of your eyes, you can recognize that swinging navy blue hair approaching you.

Fuck. 

“She doesn’t give up,” you think out loud, and Vi doesn’t need to waste energy on turning her head to register who you’re talking about. 

You don’t see it through your irritated gaze, but Vi feels a jolt of worry crawl up her spine. While you worried about Cait smothering you for the rest of eternity, Vi’s skin shivers at the idea of her place in your heart being twisted from one of love and trust to hatred.

She wants to tell you, wants you to make the conscious decision to love her despite any past affairs.

But she sure as hell wasn’t going to do it now, while you’re warming up on her water-covered body. And she sure as hell couldn’t let Caitlyn poison your mind with it.

So there she sits, staring into your soul with those loyal eyes that silently swear they’d do anything for you. And, understandably, Vi makes all sense of good judgement Melt from your brain until it’s a useless pile of mush. 

So when Cait nears, practically striding her way to your uneasy soul, you make a decision. 

You kiss Violet. 

It’s a quick shift in atmosphere. One moment, your heart is beating out of fear, and the next it’s being thrashed around your chest by the ascended butterflies from your stomach. You turn in her lap to have easier access to her mouth, and the connection of your plush mouths is anything but fragile. It’s messy, hungry, starved even. Your lips dance in unison, and Vi’s sculpted arm wraps around you and gently holds the back of your neck. The way she’s handling you coupled with the burning water is giving your body a fever. 

You don’t know when Caitlyn sees you, how long she glares at your wet mouths and pressed bodies in pure anger, or how long it takes for her to storm off in defeat, because every inch of your mind is focused on the pinkette holding you as if you’re all she has. 

And it’s this moment that you finally accept the truth that’s kept itself hidden in your gut, you want her. And those sparkly powder-blue eyes are telling you that she wants—needs you too. 

But when you slide your hand down to hers and shyly move her calloused fingers to what little fabric’s covering your chest, she’s pulling back. There’s resistance in the movement, but she forces herself to disconnect from your wanting lips nonetheless. 

“Can’t,” she whispers, breathless.

You freeze, big dazed eyes blinking in confusion and embarrassment. ”But..” is all you can muster before Vi opens her mouth.

“Angel–it’s not that I don’t want this, I’m just—” 

The athlete’s rubbing her temples. Her mind, body, and heart must be at war inside of her, because each is telling her a different path to take, and she looks so conflicted as she speaks. 

“You don’t want this,” she finally decides.

“What?” is all you manage to choke out. 

“You don’t want this.” she repeats, less convinced than the first time it left her lips. 

You can only scoff, attempting to hide the bullet to your heart and ego. 

“You don’t know what I want,” you counter, and the ache in your voice sends a crack through Vi’s heart. “Why are you denying this?” 

Because this is fake, a scheme to get your ex girlfriend off your back. Because I haven’t been completely honest with you, and for that I don’t deserve a sweet love like this. Not yet. 

But instead of that, or even coming clean to you altogether, Vi sighs. And for the first time, her eyes are disloyal, looking anywhere but yours. 

You’re huffing, shoving stiff arms off of you. You pull yourself from the hot tub into the freezing air of the night, a replica of your once blazing heart turning ice cold. 

“Whatever, Violet.” you spit out, and just like that, you’re gone. 

The debate over soul-shredding anxiety and complete peace has come to a halt, because the ache of a pummeled ego and a confused heart that’s afraid to beat outweighs both. 

You didn’t sleep in yours and Vi’s shared room that night. Instead, you grabbed a pillow and stormed over to Mel and Elora’s, who were happy to have you. Making up a lie about dying for a girls’ night, you gossiped and giggled, arguably with a stronger poker face than the Kirammans, before a yawn finally slipped from Mel’s mouth and exhaustion spread throughout the air. 

At last, in the silence of night, salt ridden tears noiselessly slide down the bridge of your nose and pile onto the cool fluff of your pillow. 

As if your lack of adequate sleep and racing mind didn’t have you at your wits end, the next day was twice as cruel on you. Ignoring one athlete was a walk in the park, but avoiding two, while trying not to raise suspicion, is just as hard as it sounds. 

Caitlyn’s in the hallway, so you rush to your room. Violet’s in the room, so you venture off to the spa with Mel and Elora. Caitlyn’s entering the spa right before you finish up, so you’re suggesting a lap of skiing to the girls, but Vi’s exiting the room in her snow gear when you near the door. 

You just couldn’t win. 

So when you hear the soft voice coming from the doorway, you don’t even bother to lift your body from the plush of your blanket. 

“Don’t go,” Vi pleads, gently shutting the wooden door and ridding herself of her puffy jacket. 

The pinkette’s still, waiting for you to move, to do or say something—anything, but you do nothing of the sort. When she concludes it’s safe she takes small, soft steps towards the edge of your bed and you feel the mattress dip under pure muscle. 

With still hands and a timid heart, Vi speaks the first words into the air. 

“Well, we broke our little rule set.”

Her playful smile is uneasy, one made when she examines your weary face too hard. And when she notices the lack of expression on your face, it flattens out into worried brows and soft lips. 

“I’m sorry,” slips from her lips, prompting you to turn your head towards the pinkette. 

“Stop. You don’t have to apologize for your feelings… or lack thereof,” you whisper the last part as if it’s shameful. 

With a sigh, you hoist yourself up to sit straight and lean against the decorative headboard. With fidgeting hands laid in your lap and eyes that travel anywhere but the anxious girl before you, you speak.

“I just thought that there was— something,” you start. “And.. and maybe it’s stupid, but I thought that maybe all of this means something. Maybe my letters getting out wasn’t the worst thing, because maybe things between us could be exactly how I wanted when I was writing them.” 

Vi feels terrible for giving you emotional whiplash, but she can’t stand to see you beating yourself up over something you want— something the both of you crave: eachother. 

Tender fingers snake their way up to your face and hook on your chin, tilting your head towards her alluring orbs. 

“You really believe that?” she asks, eyes squinted.

“Believe.. what?” 

“That I don’t feel things for you?” she asks like the answer is the most obvious thing in the world.

“I couldn’t tell you all the things you do to me. All the ways you make me feel,” she slides the hand that’s cupping your face to gently tap the side of your pretty little head. 

“Here, and.. here,” her finger grazes your skin as it skims down to tap once against your encaptured heart. “And….”

She cuts the sentence short, dropping her hand down to intertwine with one of yours, because you’re supposed to be having a serious conversation, so she needs to focus. 

“You do terribly good things to me, sweetheart.” 

“Then why did you push me away?” you whisper to combat the rapid speed of your heart as adrenaline rushes through your veins from Vi’s simple and sensual touches. 

She contemplates it, ripping the bandage off and telling you the truth, she really does. Would it be that big of a deal? Would you take it with ease and laugh at her anxiety, caressing her like she dreams and letting her finally place a guilt-free kiss upon your soft lips? Or would you crumble at the news, and let the trust you’ve built up shatter with it? 

“I didn’t know whether it was real or not,” she decides: a lie. “I know that the way my heart races for you is real, the realest thing there is. But I know it’s easy to get caught up in a fake high, and when you were kissing me I just—” she sighs at the ramble, but the gentle squeeze you give her hand guides her through it. 

“I just wanted to let you decide if this is really what you want. Not because of Cait or anyone else. Just you.”

She’ll tell you. Eventually. She silently swears it to herself. 

But right now, Vi’s looking at you the same way she did that day, and it’s suffocating. 

Big pretty eyes examine every inch of you with that awestruck gaze, a child watching a shooting star pass by. Except this time, she wouldn’t let you leave. 

This time, you, that creative girl with clammy palms and shy eyes, watching her bubblegum haired love give her a standing ovation— that shooting star would come crashing down and right into the warm arms in which she belongs. 

“The love I have for you.. it never went away, it just transformed,” you confess.

Violet’s once worried expression morphs. She’s still soft, still trapped in the beautiful moment, but there’s a newfound confidence behind her demeanor. 

“The love I have for you has stayed the same. Ever since that stupid writing class—” you giggle at her words, and she does the same, “I think I’ve loved you for years. It’s left such an ache in my heart, baby.” 

There’s a glitch somewhere in your brain, because the athlete’s words mixed with your newest nickname is causing a system overload. 

You’re suddenly very aware of the amber musk filling your nostrils, and Vi’s proximity has you squirming, soft hand gently squeezing at hers which carresses you so gingerly. You’re trapped between the headboard and her oh-so-close body, and it’d be a lie to say any part of you is complaining. 

“I can.. I can make that ache go away,” you whisper, shy head tilting as you wait for her approval. 

The suave, player-like girl is back in full force. With a notorious smirk in place, she’s leaning closer, tilting her head opposite of yours and lining up her plush lips with yours. 

“Yeah, you can.” 

That’s all it takes for your lips to come crashing together at full force. It’s messy, loving, and infuriatingly sexy all at once, and you don’t have any brain power left to think about it. All of your energy, every bit of your soul is being put into showing this girl how you really feel. 

The atmosphere feels heavier and lighter simultaneously in the best way possible. Vi’s kissing you like you’re the air she needs to breathe, and drinking you in like your mouth is water and the torturous years leading up to this have taken place in the desert. 

For the first time, the pair of you silently agree that this is real. Real touches, real passion, real tongues gliding against one another, and real desire for more. 

You hum into Vi’s mouth as she ravishes you, and your hands find their way to tangle in her fluffy scalp as she effortlessly switches places with you and lifts you into her lap while she relaxes back against the headboard. You can’t help but chuckle as her hands move to cup the fat of your ass, causing her to grin through kisses until you finally stop, because your lips are practically peppering her teeth. 

“What’s so funny?” you ask through a snicker. Vi shakes her head, sneaking kisses down your jaw and the stretch of your neck. 

“Nothin’, I just don’t want this to end,” she confesses, ending with a tender kiss to your collarbone. 

An uncontrollable smile fights its way onto your face. 

“Well I’m not going anywhere,” you assure.

She nods, wrapping strong arms around your torso to pull your body as close to hers as possible. 

“Neither am I, sunshine.” 

Violet’s learned three new things since you fell asleep in her arms. 

One, you’re a cuddler. Every inch of you has touched, skimmed, or wrapped around the butch since you laid upon the soft matter of the bed. Her favorite position is when you curl yourself up against her chest and slide a leg inbetween hers to let them intertwine.

Two, every inch of you still smells like that perfect mixture of cotton candy and strawberry she remembers from years ago. 

And three, she’s completely whipped for you. For your brain, your voice, the giggles you make between kisses, the way you give your all to her, and don’t get her started on your body. She’s got it bad. 

So, the struggle she faced when she had to snake out of your grasp was ultimately the hardest thing she’s done in her entire life. 

The love-hazed girl didn’t bother to do anything but slip on some shoes and run a hand through her hair, because within minutes she’d be right back next to you where she belongs. 

At least, that was the plan. 

She doesn’t know why the loud cacophony of cackles catches her attention, because she knows how obnoxious her teammates can be, but it does. She lazily turns her head once, letting it lull back before the alarm of confusion goes off in her brain, and she’s turning towards the sound once again. 

Sevika, a few members of the basketball team, and some others she doesn’t recognize, all sit against the couches and chairs in the lounging area. But there’s no relaxation in the way they rest against the furniture. Each is laced with anticipation, and their eyes all lay on the buff brownskin girl who’s smirks as if she’s discovered a pot of gold. 

“Your voice of honey soothes my soul, and the picture of delicate curls falling to frame your face as you lift me onto my feet will stay forever plastered in my mind,” the woman spits.

The words are so sensual, so raw, so genuine, filled with nothing but passion, but Sevika’s interpretation does it no justice. 

And Violet knows exactly who wrote those words of desire. 

Her feet move quicker than she’s ever felt the need to before. 

When she nears the group, a face of pure determination, she spots it. A brown envelope, decorated with a bow and pretty hearts accompanied by a single kiss mark. So similar to the one you made for Vi all those years ago. 

“There’s the woman of the hour,” Sevika taunts loudly, leaning back in her seat. Her fingers tap the letter in her hands against her own thigh, a reminder that your past words of hope and love still lie with her. “Or, would you be the second? No… no, that’d be this uh, Skye, huh?” 

Sevika’s smile is poisonous, infecting Violet with a rage she’s never experienced before. 

“What are you doing with that?” Vi’s practically seething, eyes trained on the brown paper between Sevika’s fingers.

“Found it on the ground, guess it slipped away from your girl before she could mail it off to her secret lover,” she lies, throwing her hands up in faux innocence. 

“I swear to God— fucking give it to me, and I’ll forget this happened.”

“And you’ll forget that she’s dreaming of someone else’s mouth?” The burly woman scoffs, coming to a stand directly infront of Violet. The space between them is thinning, disintegrated by rageful tension.

“Seriously, I don’t see why you’re going through all this trouble for a whore, pinkie.” 

Faster than anyone in the room can register, Vi’s fist comes up to smash into Sevika’s jaw. The slam is loud, echoing throughout the room until it creates a stunned silence.

Sevika’s hand comes up to hold her jaw, craning it as the metallic taste of blood sets itself on her tongue. 

Within seconds, she’s lunging right at Vi. Their fists look like skin colored blobs in the air from how fast they land punches to one another’s guts. They’re thrashing around in anger, threatening the space they reside in, before four onlookers break them apart.

Some whoop and holler, others laugh and speculate exactly who ‘won’, but neither of the girls care. Through their heavy panting and darkened gazes, they’re only focused on one thing: the brown envelope that now lies between Vi’s fingers. 

With a cocky, bruised grin and the satisfying drug of adrenaline, Violet turns on her heels and stumbles out of sight. 

[REDACTED]: listen, toots. i have a better plan.  … [REDACTED]: I’m listening. 

With the way neither of you dare to move, any third party would think the two of you are paralyzed; and you are, by love.

It’s been five minutes since you’ve woken up, and Vi’s sweet gaze keeps you in a warm, butterfly inducing trance. Neither of you move from your position in the bed, savouring deep synced breaths, snuggling under the blankets, and wrapping around one another. You’re sticking together like your feelings are superglue. 

Finally, one of the pinkette’s hands rubs at the small of your back, drawing sweet nothings on your dimples and the line that trails up your perfect torso. 

“I haven’t slept that long in ages,” you hum, making Violet pull you just a bit closer. 

“Maybe you should sleep with me every night,” she concludes, sending you a smile that has you giggling with a little ‘oh sure’. 

She sees your sweet bubble of happiness wobble when your eyes squint at the sight of her chin, now decorated with a blossomed bruise. A soft hand comes up to graze the purple mark as you ask, “When did that happen?” 

As fast as the pinkette opens her mouth to speak, it shuts. Because she definitely can’t tell you that Sevika’s tried to embarrass you by reading one of your old love letters to a group of your classmates. Why has she become more of a pain now than ever? Vi hasn’t figured that out yet. But she has come to one conclusion: worrying you wouldn’t do any good. What you didn’t have to know, you wouldn’t. 

She quickly takes your wandering hand in hers, intertwining fingers and giving them a little squeeze. 

“I’m fine, sunshine. Got up all hazy last night to turn the light off since we forgot. Completely ran into the wall, that’s all.” Although Vi isn’t a klutz, it seems like a perfectly plausible story, so you don’t push. 

You only chuckle, shaking your head. “Be more careful. I have to get you home in one piece.” 

A soft smile spreads across her face, and she’s kissing your knuckles while responding. “Of course, angel.” 

While you scolded Vi about her bruises, you were set up to get some of your own. 

“Vi I’m not sure if this is a great idea,” you worry, looking down at the girl who gets on her knees to lace up your skates. 

The freezing temperature kissed your nose a subtle hint of red, but the beautiful sunlight gently coating the flurry white wonderland that surrounded the city made up for it. All around you, classmates and city locals of all ages glide around the ice rink with glee. Sounds of love, joy, and the squeals or laughter of tripping inexperienced-skaters fill your ears. 

“Why not?” she asks, eyes flickering up to yours for just a second before moving on to the other foot. The picture of her is just all too much, and you have to look away to regather your thoughts. 

“I know that you’re a hockey player so this may come as a shock to you, but not everyone is good at ice skating,” she grins, rolling her eyes at your sarcasm. “I’m just gonna fall on my ass a bunch,” you whine.

“And I’ll be right there to pick you back up.” Vi’s confidence melts away your worries. Finally, as she finishes with your skates, you playfully roll your eyes and come to a stand (with the help of her strong hands). 

The thinning space between you two and your starry eyes which look up at Vi keep her in a trance as her arms mindlessly wrap around your waist, hands dangerously close to your ass. 

“Promise not to let me go?” you whisper through a grin.

“Shit. I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

And she doesn’t. Through your first steps and little slips on the ice, Vi stands right beside you, holding your hand with tender care. 

“This is pretty romantic, right?” she hums in your ear as you attempt to push your feet against the ice like she taught you. 

“As long as I don’t completely eat it.” you warn, eyes trained to the ice.

She snickers.

“Well, you look sexy when you’re focused, I’ll give you that.”

Butterflies erupt throughout your stomach, and a warmth is travelling up your body as you look at Violet with a faux sternness. 

“Quiet. You’re distracting me,” you tease.

Vi’s tongue pokes at the inside of her cheek in thought before she’s letting go of your hand and coming to stand right infront of you. Sculpted arms snake around your waist, and the lack of space between you two as Vi stares with a hungry gaze is making your body feel weak. 

“I’m distracting you, sweetheart?” 

You quietly suck in a breath of icy cold air, searching for a response in her pretty powder-blue eyes before she snickers once more, stepping back. At last, you feel like you can breathe.

She takes you around the ice, helping you reach a good foundation to feel comfortable skating on your own, and the ‘good job, baby’ she praises you with sends a sweet sensation throughout your body. As you’re gliding away from her, giggling in surprise as she pretends to chase you with her intimidating hockey stance, a group of her teammates call for her attention.

She pauses, breath kissing your ear as she lets go of your body. “I’ll just be a second, yeah?” 

You nod, sending her off to the group with a smile. 

And for a moment, everything’s perfect. Until it isn’t. 

The call of your name from her mouth freezes your body faster than the chill of the ice ever could. Effortlessly, Caitlyn’s gliding up to you with a calculated and calm expression. She knows you can’t get far in those skates. 

First, you’re praying that Vi will look over at you and race back just in time to save you. Then, anger’s bubbling in the pit of your stomach, and you whip around to make eye contact with the navy-haired girl. Finally—

“What, Caitlyn?” you snap without hesitation. 

The girl’s expression refuses to waver, and toned arms are crossing with the notorious sly smirk of a Kiramman. “Never thought I’d see you with blades on your feet.” 

“Never thought I’d see you begging for attention, but here we are,” you quip, placing your hands on your hips, completely distracted from the ice below you. 

Her arms uncross with an amused hum, and for a moment you think that maybe she’s getting off on the negative energy you throw her way. But then she begins to push her skates against the ice, slowly circling you. 

“I just thought I’d check in on you, sweetheart. You’ve forgotten to answer my calls and texts–”

“You know damn well I haven’t forgotten, Cait—”

“—And I wanted to applaud you in person for being so understanding about what happened with Violet and I.”

She comes to a stop, and so does your heart. The little red organ skips a beat before continuing, pace matching your weariness. 

“What are you talking about?” you question, brows furrowed so innocently that Caitlyn has to stop herself from laughing.

“She hasn’t told you?” The bluenette makes no attempt to act shocked. Your eyes lock, and her skates scrape against the ice until she’s hovering right over you. 

“Weren’t you wondering where she slept after you left her at the jacuzzi?” The visible air that blows from her mouth is just as harsh as her words, stabbing your heart with its icicles.  

“What are you..” you mutter, but the words die in your throat.

“Vi and I had a… rekindling.” Her head tilts with a cocky smile. “It was bound to happen I suppose. Once a hookup, always a—”

“I don’t believe you.” Your stern words contradict the uncertainty tainting your voice. 

Caitlyn doesn’t speak. She simply reaches into her back pocket, pulls out her phone, and scrolls to open her messages with Vi, gently placing the device into your quivering fingers.

Really? My ex girlfriend? You’re a class act. i’ll love her better than you ever could, caitlyn Is this to get back at me? You’re the one who ended our little affair. stop texting my number. Come to think of it, I never told her about us.  Does she even know?  fucking drop it cait You have until the end of the trip.  If you don’t tell her, I will. you don’t care whether she knows or not. you just want her crawling back to you. not happening.  I’ll tell her.

“You see it now? How easy it was for her to lie to you? She doesn’t love you, not like I do.” 

“Angel?” Vi’s voice calls out. The once sweet melody to your ears now erupts a symphony of confusion and anger inside of you. Did she plan out those nicknames?

Before you know it, Vi’s coming up behind you and placing an arm around your waist. Instead of feeling comfort, you’re suffocated. How can she fake it so easily?

“Can I help you?” the pink haired girl spits to the Kiramman with a voice of pure disgust. How could you have known?

“I was just leaving,” Caitlyn hums. With the fulfilling sight of your aghast eyes and Violet’s hidden panic, she skates off. 

The two of you are uncomfortably quiet for a moment. Your body’s still, save for the racing thoughts in your mind, but when Vi’s hand on you tightens you’re breaking from her grasp.

And then she sees it.

The broken gaze in your sorrowful eyes, the one look she desperately wanted to avoid. Her worst nightmare has become her reality. 

And you see it.

The way her gaze goes from calm and collected to a deer in headlights. It’s like a switch was flipped in her brain, and Violet’s mask comes off as she speaks. 

“I can explain—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your heartbroken voice drowns her out. 

“You don’t understand,” she pleas, but you’re pushing your weight into one foot in an attempt to turn yourself around on the ice.

“I understand perfectly fine you backstabbing–”

Your knees come slamming into the icy ground with a thud, and the newly proclaimed backstabber is at your side, attempting to lift you onto your feet. You shove her off with a huff, using one knee to come to a wobbly stand. 

“Just..” you start, ignoring the tears of frustration that bubble in the corners of your eyes, accompanied by the prickly curse in your throat. “Just stay away from me, Vi.” 

And you’re gone.

Vi obeys your wishes and leaves you alone like you asked.

But only for the next two hours, while she figures out what the hell she’s going to say to make up for the pain she’s caused you. Because she did hook up with Cait, but the last time was was months ago, before either of them had anything with you. Because she knows Cait did something to fuck with your head, and now her baby’s fretting and scared to trust anyone. Because she’s in love with you and only you, and she’s never going to forgive herself if she doesn’t get you back. 

So when she slips into your shared room and finds you packing your things, she braces herself for the yelling and cussing she expects to come.

But, it never happens. Instead, you look at her with a woeful expression, and turn back to your open luggage with a scoff. 

“I knew Caitlyn was fucked up, but I never imagined you’d have as many screws loose. You’ll be perfect for each other,” you spit, the words acid to Violet. Manicured hands move at a fast pace, roughly tossing in clothes and skin products like they mean nothing to you. “And I know we’re not actually dating, but to fuck the one person we’re trying to lie to? Then come to me the next day acting like you…” you trail off, discarding the sentence like trash, but she knows what you were trying to say: like you love me. 

Wait, what?

“Hold on, hold on. I haven’t fucked Kiramman.”

“..So you weren’t with her the night I slept in Mel’s room?” you squint.

“Fuck no. It’s been months since we’ve hooked up, angel. Like, before you and her were even a thing–”

“So you did fuck! Jesus, why didn’t you tell me?” you raise your voice in question, whipping around to face the girl with exhausted body language. When Vi’s mouth hangs open with no clue of a better response than ‘I was scared’, you shake your head, coming to conclusions yourself.

“That’s why you did this, right? I should’ve asked more about why you proposed this whole scheme,” you start, walking towards the nightstand. “Make me look like an idiot? Get back at Cait? Get with Cait? What was it?” 

“No– no. I was going to tell you angel, God I swear, I just didn’t know how to tell you without making it hurt. I don’t want anything with Caitlyn, cross my heart, her and I are history. Everything I said about you– everything I felt with you is real.” She’s speaking so tenderly, inching closer to your frame.

And you would’ve turned, would’ve calmed down enough to finish this conversation civilly, maybe believe her. 

But instead, you’re staring at the opened drawer of the bedside table, right at the chesnut brown envelope decorated with hearts. The same one you wrote for Skye all those years ago. 

You’re completely over this.

Violet’s close enough to see everything now. The envelope and letter, the way your face is morphing through thousands of different expressions, and the tears that finally begin to slide down your cheeks as you lift the paper into the air and choke out words.

“Why the hell do you have this? How much did you plan to humiliate me, huh?” you ask through sweet sobs.

Violet sighs, because everything she’s kept from you is hitting her. All of her mistakes are crashing down upon her at once. All she wants is to fix it for you. 

“That’s not– fuck this looks bad.” She’s cursing herself for everything she didn’t tell you, all the chances she had to come clean and never did out of fear. 

“Sevika had it and I took it from her. We fought over it and I hid it here because I didn’t want you to be embarrassed. That’s all. I swear.” 

She watches your glossy eyes flicker to her bruised jaw that you touched so lovingly that morning, to her eyes that beg you to forgive her, and to your bag as you walk towards it.

“Well you don’t have to worry about me anymore, Violet. This– us, whatever we are is done. ” You knuckle away your tears, sniffing and pulling at the handle of your suitcase.

The pinkette takes no action to hide the dread that fills her face, quickly following your motion around the room. 

“So we’re just breaking–” she stops. Her heart is racing at an ungodly speed, and the next words come out as a horrified mumble, “We’re just over? Like that?” 

There’s a pregnant pause, and for the last time, you look back at Vi, voice clear. 

“We were never together, Violet.” 

There’s nothing she can say to rebuttal, or stop you from walking out of that room, because despite both of your desires, it was true. 

For the next two days, your bed becomes your safe haven. You put your phone on ‘do not disturb’, wrap yourself in the thickest blanket your apartment has, and hide from the rest of the world. It’s only thanks to Mel, who’s worried to death, that you remember to eat every once in a while.

Safe to say, you’re a wreck. 

Three soft knocks on your bedroom door prompt you to roll over, and you’re pulling your head from the covers as the aforementioned beauty enters the room with a plated sandwich in hand. 

“I have something for that headache of yours,” she offers, setting the platter on your bedside table and sitting at the edge of the soft mattress. 

From your blanket-clad vision, you see her lips press together in thought before she finally decides on her carefully sculpted words. 

“I talked to Abby,” she starts. You groan, pulling yourself back under the blankets.

“Listen,” she scolds, and you bite your tongue. Hard. “I talked to Abby and she says Violet slept in her room that night. She was moping about you the entire time.” 

“She didn’t tell me about her and Caitlyn,” you seethe.  

“No, but she said she was going to, right?” She offers, tilting her head. “In the end, does it really change anything about how you two feel towards each other?” 

When you don’t respond, she sighs, patting your blanket and coming to a stand. 

“It’s your decision what you do, but I can tell Violet really cares about you. And I think you feel the same.”

With that, she’s stepping out of the room and gently closing your door with a click.  

Almost immediately, your head pokes out of the blanket, and your gaze travels to your now black lockscreen lighting up.

One message from Caitlyn.

caitlyn: Are you ready to apologize to me? I’ll still take you back. 

You block her number. Something you should’ve done a long time ago. 

Then, you check the three messages from Vi. 

superstar <3: i know you want me to leave you alone, and i’m trying my hardest to please let me talk to you angel whenever you’re ready to hear me out

You can only sigh. 

“I don’t know how else to get this through to both of you.”

Coach Talis’s sharp tongue scolds the winded athletes. Sweat is dripping down every inch of their skin under their heavy gear. While their teammates ended practice an hour ago, they were here running drills for the ‘stunt’ they pulled back at Mt. Sky. If it weren’t for the exhaustion capturing their bodies, they’d be pummeling each other this very second.

“I’m this close to benching both of you, and you know I don’t want to do that.” Both girls rapidly shake their heads.

“This better be the last time I hear of an incident regarding the both of you, do you understand?” The tanned man snaps, and both athletes are throwing out soft “yes coach”’s before he waves them off to the locker room. 

Throughout her entire shower, Violet’s brain is focused on two things. One, how much she loathes Sevika (fuck her), and two, how much she fucking misses you. 

Throughout her time spent drying herself off, getting redressed, and packing her backpack, she prays for a text, call, something from you. When she hears the buzz of a phone, she’s whipping her head around to face her lockscreen (with her favorite picture of you looking effortlessly beautiful and silly simultaneously). 

It’s not until the second buzz goes off that she realizes it’s not her phone that’s being blown up, but Sevika’s. 

Despite better judgement, she curiously walks over to the device, reaching down to pick it up with careless hands.

And it almost drops from her calloused fingers in shock. 

There’s three notifications from ‘C. Kiramman’.

c. kiramman: That worked better than I thought. You’re not as dumb as you look.  c. kiramman: I think our work together is done. C. Kiramman sent you $300!

You’re at war with yourself.

Your brain is clawing at you to block Violet, get yourself together, and move on with your life as if she was never a part of it.

Your heart and every inch of hope that fills you is begging for you to pick up your phone and give her a chance to prove that it was all a case of bad timing, misunderstandings, and that you truly mean something to her. Because you want her, you can finally admit it, but you’re deathly afraid of being made a fool of.

You’d skipped classes for the day, pulled yourself from your sheets, showered, and now sit on your black couch with a little sigh, sinking into the fluffy matter. The silence of the apartment is contrasting the swarm of loud thoughts inside your mind, and before it can drive you utterly insane, the doorbell rings. 

“Angel?” That sweet voice calls out.

You rise to your feet embarrassingly fast. Your brain waves a white flag and your heart dances in success. 

When you swing the door open, it takes everything in you to keep yourself from jumping into Violet’s arms. She’s worried out of her mind, but the surprise that you even opened the door is giving her a jolt of hope and encouragement. You take in her presence, musk amber scent, oversized jacket that once protected your arms, and all. 

“I’m so sorry,” spills from her lips, and you scan her expression before stepping to the side. 

“Come in.” 

You and Vi sit on opposite ends of your couch. You’re trying to show off your self control, but she’s just glad you’ll sit next to her at all. 

“I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you about my past with Caitlyn. I was scared that you’d hate me, and shit it all just caught up with me before I could grow some balls and rip the bandaid off.” 

You’ve never seen her look so worried, so vulnerable. 

You take one scoot closer. 

“But I promise, I ended things with her a long time ago and that was the last time we ever did anything.”

She’s pulling out her phone, opening the photos app, and setting her phone down face up on the cushions for you to take. You do, picking it up with weary fingers, ones that still when you see the material she’s revealing.

“Caitlyn hired Sevika to fuck with us. That time at the party, all those times she got me in shit at practice, taking your letter, even giving Caitlyn the idea of lying that I did something with her. They’ve been trying to get inbetween us for a long time.” 

Your mouth is slightly agape as you scroll through monetary payments and texts from your ex. Ones about her getting you back (fuck that), and others about Sevika getting the spotlight once Vi’s burnt out and screwing up at hockey (again, fuck that). 

“I get why you’re pissed at me, and I understand if you want me out of your life forever.” It shakes her to even utter those words. “But I…” 

She’s biting her lip, and you watch as she pulls a neatly folded piece of loose leaf paper from her pocket. With embarrassment flushing her face, she sets it on the couch for you to take.

“What’s this?” you ask softly, taking it in your hands and gently unfolding.

“Please don’t read it out loud.” 

Your heart quickens at the suspense, and your fingers come to a stop as Violet’s handwriting fills your vision. 

Dear _____, 

Oh my god.

The words fill your mind and apparently show through your eyes, because when you look at Violet once more, she’s looking more sheepish than ever.

With a deep breath, you read. 

I’ve been in love with you for so long, longer than I ever realized, and I never knew how much it warmed my heart and brightened my days until I lost you. The way your eyes light up when you laugh, the loud laugh that takes over your body when we’re alone, the quiet moments we shared, where we didn’t need words, just the way our hands fit together so perfectly. How being near you made everything feel like it was right, even when nothing else made sense. All of the little things that make you, you, have become the moments I crave most. 

I know I’ve messed up. Been too wrapped up inside my head and covered in fear to tell you the entire truth, but I miss us. I miss your laugh, your smile, the way we would talk about everything and nothing all at once. I wrapping my arm around your waist or kissing your neck cheek nose forehead and feeling like everything was right in the world when we were together. And I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you. I’m not asking for everything to go back to normal right away, because I know things take time. But I want to try again, if you’ll let me.

You’re worth every second, every inch of love that exists throughout my blood, and I will spend the rest of my days trying to show you just how much you mean to me.

-With all my love, yours truly, Violet

In the eleventh grade, you thought you loved Violet more than humanely possible.

Now, you wonder how shocked your younger self would be to hear that amount has grown exponentially. 

"I know it's bad. I'm not a genius like you bu-"

Lips smashing into hers silence any worries that the letter didn’t do its job. Your plush mouthes press against one another’s with a passion so deep, so genuine, that it speaks louder than any words you’ve spoken; louder than any love letter either of you have written. 

You faintly pull back, giggling breathily as Vi chases your lips with a look sweet enough to give you a heart attack. With touching foreheads and closed, relaxed eyes, you use the same words as when you first fell in love with her. Except this time– you say them out loud. 

“From my happily raised eyebrows to my.. gosh however I worded it. Y’know that was so corny now that I think about it,” you begin to whisper, and giggles erupt from both of your mouthes. You hum, placing another chaste kiss on her swollen lips. “I love you, Violet Vanderson. I really, really love you.” 

The warmth radiating from your soul and the heat of your intertwined bodies is all too much. It does anything but help when Violet places soft kisses on your cheek, ones that trail down to your jaw and the base of your neck as she gently pulls you into her lap. 

“Do you–” she places a kiss, “forgive me?” The suck and lick she gives to your neck sends a shudder down your spine. Wait, what’d she ask again? 

“I don’t know,” you hum teasingly, feeling her smirk against your wet skin. “I think you should work for it.” 

“Whatever you want. Tell me what you want, baby.” 

Fuck. How can words make your eyes roll into the back of your head? 

“Want you to—” 

You gasp as she slides her tongue down your neck, coming to kiss at your collarbones.

“Use your words, sweet girl,” she whispers sensually. 

“Fuck. I want you.” 

That’s all she needs, and Violet’s sliding a cold hand up your shirt, inching it up slowly over your bra and refusing to break eye contact. The action has you whimpering into submission, and you huff.

“You’re such a tease.” You complain.

“You’ll take it,” she hums, finally pulling the shirt over your head and going straight for the clasp of your bra. 

You take the time to trail a hand under her own shirt, letting your finger tips trail over her abs, and you gasp as your already hard nipples twitch from the newfound cold air when Vi tosses your bra to the side. 

“God you’re beautiful,” is the last thing she says before diving head first into your chest. The room is filled with soft kissing sounds, wet licks and pop’s from Vi’s mouth on your nubs, and your moans of pleasure when she twists at whatever nipple isn’t getting her mouth’s attention.

“Vi– babe please. Need you now.” 

She groans against your sensitive skin, releasing you from her mouth. 

“Need me now, baby?” The girl mocks your neediness with a smirk.

“Yeah, yes please,” you whimper out, and she snickers at how you’re already too dazed to focus. 

She decides she’s played with your tits enough (for now), and pulls you right back into a messy, tongue infested kiss as she flips your position. You lean against the couch as she reluctantly separates your lips, sliding kisses down the middle of your torso as her strong hands work at pulling down your pants terribly slowly. 

Once they’re off, and you think you’re free as she runs a finger along the middle of your panties, right over your clothed heat. She hums at the way you buck forward. Her just graze along the seam as you speak. 

“I’m not– mmm, feeling very forgiving right now…” you scold, eyes so gone that Violet has to stop herself from apologizing. 

“Do you want my mouth or fingers to change that?” she asks, and she can’t hold back the laugh any longer when your eyes unknowingly light up. 

“Mouth– both�� Vi anything, just give me it now.” 

She laughs, finally pulling your underwear down at a reasonable pace and scolding you gently.

“We’ll work on fixing your tone another time.” 

She leaves the tiny fabric hanging off one of your delicate ankles, mumbling something about how fuckable you look sprawled out for her like this. The girl’s quick to effortlessly spread your legs, and she gulps at how slick and glistening your cunt is all for her. 

“Fuck me, baby,” she mutters in awe.

“I’m trying to,” you whine, taking her back to the present where you and your body are completely at her mercy.

Finally, your prayers are answered, and she’s licking a clean line straight up your pussy, taking a river of juices with her pleasure-inducing tongue. 

As if the taste enchants her, Vi’s dropping her head down to your needy heat. Her tongue lulls out, swirling against your clit, your hole, anywhere she can make you feel good. It’s not long before two thick fingers plunge into you, and you’re throwing your head back. 

“Oh my god, please please– yes.”

“Please? Please what, sweetheart?” she mocks once more. Your moans motivate the muscle-flexing girl to go deeper, go faster, and she has to hold you still when you arch from how sweet her digits hit your g-spot. 

The way she’s drinking your cunt sucks away your thoughts as well, and it’s not until she hands a harsh slap to your ass that you’re blinking, babbling something about needing to cum. 

“You can do it baby, yeah good girl. Fuck.” 

Sweet praises decorated with the perfect mixture of her fingers, tongue, and the lust-laced eye contact send you over the edge, and your loud moans carry throughout the entire space as you finish. 

Vi’s tools don’t stop, not until you’ve completely come down from the best high of your life, not until your shaky hand is gently placing itself over hers in silent appreciation. 

When your heavy pants are all that’s left to be heard, she kisses your cunt goodbye and says hello to your lips. A strong hand on the back of your head keeps your mouth pressed against hers, and you love it. Because you’re sure you could twist lips with this girl until you pass out from forgetting to breathe. 

“Taste yourself?” she whispers once her tongue’s slid out of your mouth. You can only nod, relishing in the way her arms wrap around your body, a silent insinuation that you’re hers to protect.

With a hum, you’re kissing both of her cheeks, then her nose and forehead in thanks as her chin rests against your chest.

“I guess that was a good enough apology.” You fake dissatisfaction, completely ignoring the way your body presses even further into hers while you smooth a hand through her hair. 

She snickers in disbelief.

“Think you need another? Just to see how sorry I am, of course.” 

You hum, finally shrugging with an inconcealable smile.

“I guess that’d work.” 

Vi makes no complaint, because why on earth would she, and she’s kissing a line right back where she started.

“Is this too over the top? The number six was fine but the hand prints? Do I look like a high schooler? Be honest—” 

Mel cuts off your babbling with a laugh. “You didn’t want to look like a high schooler?” 

You’re whining from your position in the stands, and Mel’s apologizing for her joke as she confirms you look amazing. “Vi’s already seen you, and she seemed to love it,” she coos in your ear, bumping her hip against yours as you laugh. 

And the girl’s right. Throughout the game, Vi’s taken glances at you every second she gets. She’s grinning at the pink body paint handprints that travel up your legs, winking when you blow her kisses everytime your gazes lock, chuckling at how loud you get when you cheer ‘go Vi!’, and don’t get her started on how you’re body is clad in her big jersey. 

Yeah, she’s completely whipped. 

There’s only two minutes left in the game, and the Piltover Knights are winning 2-4. But you’re not entirely focused on the screaming atmosphere or Vi’s upcoming victory, because all you can think about is how hot and aggressive your girlfriend looks in her element.

There’s a jolt of joy that zips up your body, because: yeah, that’s your girlfriend. 

The horn chugs to signal the end of the match and the crowd’s roaring with glee, especially you and Mel, who jump up and down while screaming out for your respective players. 

Vi throws you a toothy smile from the ice, one that you see again after she exits the locker room and comes to find ‘her girl’ in the loitering crowd. 

She embraces and lifts you into the air, spinning you around as if you’re a feather in her grasp. Each giggle that spills from your lips is more joyous than the last, just like every moment you spend together. 

“You were so cool out there! Never seen you look so mad and focused,” you praise your pink-haired girl as she sets you down, placing a warm kiss to the top of your head.

“That’s because you bring out the good in me. I’m usually all rude and scary and—”

“With that hair?” you tease, ruffling your hand through her fluff. “You’re not fooling anybody, pinkie.” 

Vi’s jaw drops in shock. 

“Pinkie?” she repeats with a squinted gaze. 

A beat passes, and you’re turning to run away, but it’s too late. The athlete lunges forward, wrapping her arms around your core to trap you as you fake complain in protest, but giggles are soon falling from your mouth and breaking your character. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” her playful words kiss your ear.

“Oh whatever, you love me.” you grin through the claim, turning your head to have her beautiful face in your vision. 

Vi’s smile softens into something genuine as she scans over your pretty face. Your astonishing, stunning– fuck there are so many things she could say about your face, about your heart, about your brain, about you. 

“Yeah. I really, really do.” 

Sparkled blue eyes connect with yours, and they’re sending you into a trance as you’re lured into a tender kiss. 

With every kiss, the world around you is drowned out until it’s just you and Violet. Your minds, bodies, and hearts intertwine, and with each connection of your lips, you taste everything she feels.

It’s perfect, even better than you could’ve imagined from that creative writing class, and it gets better everyday that you live the reality.

From the grasp of your passionate kiss, as colors of blue, auburn, chestnut brown and more pass by you, you smile knowing that safe in your arms lies your perfect pink. 

©silknspice

[gladiatorcunt]

🎾 - #LOVE ON THE FLOOR !!

cw: unrealistic public sex on a tennis court 💀 (it’s nighttime and no one else is there), college era, afab reader, gross friends to lovers, strip tennis, soft dom!art x inexperienced!reader, vaginal fingering + titfucking + brief analingus (afab reader receiving), implied (soft) obsession & toxicity like art would marry you tomorrow, teasing (towards reader), nipple sucking (m receiving), art putting in overtime to hit on oblivious!reader, reader is so comically unaware pls just roll with it and suspend your disbelief, mandatory Patrick™️ mention, 3.5k of pure need, art’s so horny in this like 😔 (+subtle implications of him either being a manwhore or a porn addict, as a little treat), lowkey canon typical mind games, unedited

this was requested by a bot looking blog that i had to block but the idea still slapped! combined with an ask for inexperienced reader

Art Donaldson sees your instagram story that’s only a repost of a Ethel Cain song and tries not to click his heels together. It’s not like he’s happy you’re clearly going through something, but if the story is a result of what he thinks it’s a result of… then he’ll comfort you through it however he can. With his words, his tongue, babying you in the bath and washing your hair, etc. Just getting to be intimate with you at all is an opportunity he’d never turn down.

Suddenly you’re bursting into Art’s dorm like a bat out of hell, tears dotting your waterline and lower lip wobbling. His heart lurches and leaps in equal measures, his backwards cap feels like it constricts around his head as he resists the urge to fidget with it.

“He… he didn’t show up!”

Art shoots up and gets off his bed, rushing to you and rubbing his hands up and down your arms, “What are you talking about?”

He gives you a lingering hug and passes you some of your favorite fast food that he always keeps in the little fridge in his dorm. Somehow knowing that it’d be just what the doctor ordered, you’re so lucky to have such a caring friend. You two haven’t left each other’s side since you bumped him on the first day of class, bringing a clice to life by spilling your coffee all over his polo. Sometimes you still lie awake at night and cringe at yourself, trying to assure yourself that he’s stuck around your awkward ass for a reason.

You’re hiccuping through your story while munching on your chicken sandwich, “Mark acted so exicted yesterday, and now he’s stood me up. I waited in front of the café for an hour, people were staring…”

Art eyes you from his position on the bed, crowding against you due to the size and having half of his torso glued to your back. He doesn’t giggle at the adorable way you get frustrated when the pickle in your sandwich always slides out in between your teeth during a bite, but he thought about it! He reaches up and brushes his fingers against your hair, wanting to just touch it more than move it.

“I don’t know what to tell you, he’s an idiot and you’ll move on. It’s not like he’s the only person in the world.” He grumbles, not quite pouting as he hooks his chin on your shoulder.

“Okay now you’re just grumpy because I beat you at uno.” You tease, gesturing to the scattered pile of brightly colored cards on the bed.

He’s definitely made you feel better though, he always does. You both finish your food and Art stands up from the bed to grab his tennis bag. He pulls you up too and winks, saying that you can’t beat him at everything. You ask what he’s doing and he only grins, telling you to come with him. You nervously glance around as you’re pulled to race through the halls to the court. There’s a simmering feeling weaving in and out of your tightly intertwined fingers.

divider

Art lets go of your hand to drop his bag on the ground, leaving your palm feeling strangely cold without his warmth.

You’re still not sure you should even be out here, you know that you’re definitely not allowed but Art seems to sense your hesitation because he rushes towards you and cups your hands in his.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re not gonna get in trouble or anything, y’know that?” He chuckles, gently knocking the tip of his nose against yours. “Look up for me, the moon’s really pretty tonight.”

You follow his lead and tilt your head back to gaze up at the goregous crescent moon high in the oil colored sky. You don’t notice that he’s looking at you instead, that he doesn’t say that the moon reminds him of you but he feels like the one orbiting around you instead of the other way around. Luckily there’s not a cloud in sight, just a floating city of stars with a glowing center. Art lightly pulls on your wrists, clearly wanting your attention back on him, so you comply.

You’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but you don’t miss the odd glint in his eyes as he narrows them slightly.

His eyelids crinkle as he smiles charmingly, “Don’t you trust me?”

You answer with your heart, “Yes, of course I do.”

He beams at you and explains the rule of the game he dragged you all the way out here to play. It’s just like a regular game of tennis so you really shouldn’t sweat it, he says. His expression shifts when he makes a show out of being unable to look you in the eye when he tells you the special rules, knowing full well you can see him try to tamper down a self satisfied laugh. Whoever scores gets to pick whatever piece of clothing the other takes off, and the loser of the game has to get completely naked if they aren’t already.

Your cheeks warm and you gawk at him, “Isn’t it weird that you’ll see me… like that?”

“So you already know you’re gonna lose, huh? And it’s not like i haven’t seen most of it before.” Art laughs, not bothering to hide the blush on his face. “You’ve seen all of me, anyway.”

It’s true, you usually laze around in nothing but your underwear and that’s been the norm for you two. Art’s no different, he’ll change in front of you and will literally walk around butt naked around your dorm. More often than not, he’ll answer the door in only a towel around his waist and sitting on his hip bones, no matter if it’s one of your other friends or a project partner. You're constantly having to text the other because you forgot that you left your toothbrush behind. You’ve never had a chance to be embarrassed by it. It’s been like that for the longest time and anytime you’ll tell Art that your friends keep asking if he’s your boyfriend, he’ll just reassure you that you guys are just really close. And isn’t that a good thing?

“Besides, I think this’ll help get you out of your shell.”

You’re embarrassed at the reminder of how inexperienced you are. Sure, you shouldn’t have a whole thing about it or whatever, but it just is kind of alienating from other people your age to not be able to say you’ve done what they’ve done. And you would’ve been able to have some stories of your own if you could manage to hold down a date. But tonight isn’t supposed to be about you wallowing, you’re supposed to be having fun. Even if the sight of your best friend in tight fitting sporty clothes makes your pussy throb.

divider

You giggle nervously when he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you, swaying you from side to side before moving his grip up to your arms.

“Relax, i’m just checking your form. Being close to you is just a bonus.” He winks and presses his stomach up against your back.

It’s so cheesy, the situation and the pose. But you lean into his touch and pretend to care about how he’s showing you the right way to hold a racket and all that, he doesn’t even really care if he’s being honest. It’s romantic though, and he can’t resist the opportunity to get a taste of what it’d be like to pin your body down with his weight. He guides you through a few “practice” swings and then throws a two finger salute at you as he jogs around the net to his side of the court.

It’s your serve, and despite you being very much a beginner, you get the first point.

Art stands there expectantly, cocking his head to the side and bouncing on his heels in anticipation. You honestly didn’t consider that you’d actually be telling your best friend to take off his clothes for you, but you’re new thing is taking shit in stride, you guess.

“So, what’s it gonna be?” He shouts and hovers his fingers around the collar of his polo, ready for you to say the word.

You take the coward’s way out, “Your shoes.”

Art frowns but obeys the rules, swiftly unlacing his sneakers and tossing them to the side. The court’s not so rough that it’d be hell on his feet, but he’d do it for you even if it was all a bunch of jagged rocks cobbled together. The game goes on with Art scoring the next point, and then the one after that. He has you discard your necklace, one of those cheesy half heart ones that matches with one he has, and your shoes as well. He doesn’t wanna scare you off, but he knows what he wants to have you take off for him.

You score the next time, down goes his pants. Without them, few things are left to the imagination. Every time he’d walk around you naked you’d always keep your face firmly glued to your phone or something. But being faced with the very… detailed outline of his bulge through his underwear, that’s another thing entirely. It looks so long against his thigh it might as well be a third leg. There’s already a little wet spot where the tip must be.

You must’ve been taking too long to ogle him, because Art yells at you to “Focus on the game, yeah?”

You’re lucky it’s not a cold night when he gets the next point and has you take off your pants, which are really just glorified shorts. You unfasten them and shimmy them down your legs, letting them pool around your ankles and kicking them away from you. You haven’t shaved today, but you know that Art doesn’t care about that sort of thing. He’s made sure to tell you as much many times when you complain about how much your back hurts after you get done with it.

Art takes his sweet time dragging his gaze down your legs, already imagining bringing them around his waist or over his shoulders. Your panties are so cute too, cupping your pussy so closely that he can see the shapes of your puffy lips from all the way on the other side of the court, a “camel toe” or whatever you call it. He thinks it’s so hot, but you’re shy about it, asking him to see how you look in jeans that are a size too small. He always does a thorough inspection.

Whoever scores next wins the game, and you’re too busy trying not to fall on your ass to put any effort into it. It’s not a real game away, and besides, it’s not like anything has to happen when the loser completely undresses. Out of the corner of your eye you see Art’s dick twitch in his briefs and you get so distracted that you freeze and miss the neon yellow-green ball hurtling past you. Art whoops and cheers as you process the fact that you lost.

“You know what that means.” Art grins from ear to ear. “Make a show out of it for me.”

divider

You don’t even mind the staring, it’s such a common thing that you’d be more pissed off if he wasn’t looking at you at all. The way his eyes devour every inch of bare skin and drop of sweat that you earned during the game. You pull your tank top up and over your head, leaving you in just your bra and panties. Your bra isn’t a frilly thing, you wear it mainly for support, but Art can’t seem to tear himself away from the view of your pushed up tits rising and falling as you breathe.

You…. don’t know what to do now, the big appeal of the game is over, you awkwardly laugh it off and bend over to pick up your clothes. Art shakes his head to snap himself out of his horny fever dream and races over to you, latching onto your wrist and stopping you from getting dressed again.

“You’re supposed to take it all off, remember?”

You drop your clothes, noticing that he still doesn’t let you go.

Heats fills your cheeks as he steps closer, delicately sliding his fingertips up the inside of your arm and around your back. He plays with the hook of your bra, gazing down at you with a look full to brim with unknown intent and purpose. He doesn’t do something as bold as unlatching it right out the gate, no, he just stares into your soul.

“I remember.” Your eyes drop down to his lips, and that’s when you know it’s over. “Can’t exactly do it myself if you’ve already got one foot in the door.”

You’ve gotta know when to fold ‘em, and all that.

Art softly smiles and loops his fingers under your bra strap. You have to remind yourself to breathe, but you don’t really get much of a chance to. Before you can stop yourself and think with your head, you’re canting up to press your lips to his. Art immediately kisses you back, chuckling into the kiss when you gasp as he expertly unhooks your bra with one hand.

In the blink of an eye, you’re flat on your back on the court, Art having hastily thrown his shirt under you while you were tangling your tongues together. He presses an array of wet open mouthed kisses down your body, paying extra special attention to the trimmed patch of hair at the top of your mound.

“Smells so good, ‘s cute, too. It figures you’d have the prettiest pussy I've ever seen.” He coos, dragging a lone finger down your slit before gently pushing it inside.

You gasp, wrenching your eyes shut tight at the intrusion. He takes good care of you, slowly sinking his finger in to the knuckle and sliding it in and out of you. He gradually adds more fingers as the minutes pass. Your walls throb around him, and if Art were a weaker man (like the guy you almost went out with) he would’ve said fuck it and plunged his dick into your cunt in one smooth stroke. But you deserve the best first time possible, and all the distractions he’s used have helped him be patient enough to refrain from humping you like a dog.

“You’re okay, you can take it. It’s nothing compared to what this pussy’s going to be taking later anyway, baby.” He hums and nuzzles his nose into where your inner thigh meets your mound.

As he’s languidly thrusting his fingers into your puffy pussy, Art strains his neck to lap at your ass. He holds one of your fat cheeks in his free hand and spreads you open, diving in to suck on the puckered hole between them. He sharpens his tongue and jabs it into your ass, his cock throbs when you let out the sweetest little squeals at the squelching and throaty noises he’s making. He can feel your hole unfurling with every slurp and suck, something that only makes him increase the speed of his long fingers in your pussy, maintaining a breathtaking steady rhythm.

Eventually his poor leaking cock can’t take anymore grinding into the ground, so Art crooks his fingers and (albeit a bit cruelly) jams them into your sweet spot. The velvet grip of your pussy strangles his digits like a dream, you’d take dick so beautifully. Your eyes fly open and your throat spasms around a mangled moan. He pulls his fingers out of your soaking wet pussy, smirking up at you as he sucks them try like a professionally trained whore. Your clit receives a loving kitten lick as an apology for neglecting it, and with that Art hovers over you at an even eye to eye level again.

“Holy shit…” You pant and flick his pebbled nipples, absentmindedly rolling them around with your thumb. “Are we really doing this?”

“Yeah, we are.” Art sighs, his head falls back as you duck down to suck his nipples into your mouth, the saliva you lathered them with dripping down your chin. He grabs the back of your head and pushes your face into his chest, arching his back.

“Relax, I bribed security and told them to fuck off for the night.”

That doesn’t concern you as much as it should, you’re too transfixed on Art wrenching your mouth off of his pecs and moving to straddle your chest.

“Can you push them together for me?” He breathes hard and grinds his weeping cock against your tits, mesmerized by how his precum makes your skin glisten.

“Oh, fuck.” He groans when you do, making quick use out of the delicious new friction the little pocket provides. “Thanks, honey.”

You keep staring at the tip of his dick, loving the little peek you get of it as he fucks your tits and it pokes your chin. You don’t even realize you’re doing it but you let your mouth hang open, angling your head down so his cockhead pecks your tongue at the end of every thrust. You make sure to lick every drop of pre cum away as it oozes out of him, looking so nice against the flushed pink skin of his tip. Art groans when he finally summons the strength to watch you do it, the sight hurtling him over the edge before he has the time or vocal ability to warn you.

His thick load jets out to land all over your tits, half of it on the lower half of your face. You’re almost sad it didn’t get high enough to clump your lashes together, it would’ve made for the perfect contact picture. Oh well, maybe next time. It’s amazing, the switch you’ve made from the shy friend to the writhing slut underneath him. You blame it on the honest to God sweet taste of his milky white cum, surprisingly making you think of the pineapples he always snatches from your plate when you eat at school together.

(Another painstaking effort made just for you, love)

It’s a miracle you get back to his dorm, some of your clothes are swapped and put on incorrectly and you both didn’t clean up at all. As soon as you reach the door, Art practically shoves you inside and onto the bed. He gets so frustrated with having to get your clothes off again that he just rips them right off of you, promising to take you to the mall tomorrow (or whenever he lets you leave the bed) to buy replacements. You literally couldn't care less if he shackles you to the wall, you need him to rearrange your guts so badly, you’d kill for it. Should you be having deep conversations about your feelings and what the future will look like? Absolutely, but your clit is clouding your sense of rationality and you don’t mind that right now.

“Do you even know how much i’ve wanted this? To fuck you so hard that we end up attached at the hip?” He bites, breaking away from your lips to suck bruises down the column of your throat. “We can have a baby- please have my baby, fuck!”

There’s something so weirdly romantic about the leftover scent of the court combined with the twinkling stars outside. Art’s moans and hands scrambling to pin you down so all you have to do is take it, you’re doing things all out of order, but this was always going to happen sooner or later. Art is a clumsy manipulator but he’s so handsome… you find yourself agreeing to every frantic declaration flying out of his mouth as he spears his long cock into your sopping wet pussy. You claw red lines into his shoulders and back, and Art nearly creams on the spot. The sting and the fact that you’re so out of it, you’re marking him up, are crossing the wires in his brain. His taut thighs burn with the effort of fucking you so far into the mattress.

You’ll get to cum four more times than he does, and by the end of it you’ll wish you never came at all. Your soul’s goikg to be so far away from your ruined mess of limbs that you won’t notice the sacred promises being muttered into your sweaty hair or pay attention to your phone being out on Do Not Disturb. You’ll be right where you should be, inevitably molded around the shape of his dick and branded by all the love bites that litter your body. You’ll think you passed out during most of them, but you’ll give him a loopy smile, hook your pinky around his, and let yourself melt away.

It feels as if your walls are still clenching around a dick that’s no longer buried to the hilt in them.

“I love you”’s are for early mornings with coffee and pancakes. Gloating to Patrick will be for hours before then, Art blocking him when you’re deep asleep and unable to mend the growing rift between them.

[lazy-ahh]

Ello~! I was wondering if I can make a request with Mohawk Mark X Starfire Male Reader! Just thinking about them interacting makes me think it’d be cute and funny, especially if Mohawk Mark’s the first person Reader meets and Reader kisses him to learn his language ^_^

LOST STAR

pairing mohawk! mark grayson x (tamaranean/starfire) male reader

when a tamaranean crash-lands on earth with his powers locked behind strange cuffs, the last person he expects to meet is mark grayson—mohawk, piercings, and all the attitude of a pissed-off superhuman. but after a very unconventional first encounter (involving lips, language barriers, and zero personal space), the two find themselves tangled in something neither expected. now mark’s stuck babysitting an alien who follows him like a lovesick comet, touches him like he’s something sacred, and looks at him like he’s the entire damn universe. worst part? mark’s starting to like it.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

the sky was a lazy blend of orange and pink, the sun sinking low behind the rooftops and stretching the shadows of trees and telephone poles into long, crooked fingers across the quiet suburban streets. mark grayson—invincible, not that the name really mattered—was sprawled on the edge of a rooftop, one leg swinging idly over the drop while he chewed on the inside of his cheek. bored. so stupidly, mind-numbingly bored.

nothing ever happened in this dump at this hour surprisingly. no rampaging villains to put through a wall, no collapsing buildings to prop up last-minute, not even a damn bank robbery to spice things up. just the same old houses, the same old people, the same old nothing. he sighed, tilting his head back. maybe he should just bail—go home, flop onto his bed, and finally read the new issue of seance dog that had been sitting on his desk for two days.

he pushed himself up, rolling his shoulders, ready to take off—

"invincible."

cecil’s voice crackled through the earpiece in his right ear, sharp and no-nonsense. mark groaned, tapping the device. "what."

"we’ve got an unidentified object approaching earth at high speed. trajectory puts it landing in your area. intercept and assess—neutralize if it’s a threat. you know the deal."

mark’s lips curled into a grin. finally.

he barely had time to glance up before something streaked across the sky—a blur of green and purple, moving way too fast to be a meteor, way too alive to be space junk. it slammed into the park across the street with a boom that rattled windows and sent birds scattering in panic.

mark didn’t hesitate. he kicked off the roof, the air whipping past him as he dropped down, landing hard enough to crack the pavement near the smoldering crater you’d left behind. dust swirled in the air, thick and choking, but as it cleared—

there you were.

and oh, this just got interesting.

you were… colorful. like, stupidly colorful. not in some tacky, neon way—more like the kind of vibrant that made mark’s brain stutter for half a second. your skin was a warm, sun-kissed gold, like you’d been dipped in honey and left to glow under some star. your hair—wow, your hair—was a wild mess, strands floating slightly as if gravity had given up trying to tame it. and your eyes. bright, glowing green, like two emerald suns blinking up at him, dazed but sharp.

mark’s gaze dragged lower, slow and deliberate, drinking in the sight of you like he’d just stumbled across something precious. yeah, you were built like him—lean but layered with tight, coiled muscle, the kind of body that spoke of battles fought in zero gravity, of limbs trained to twist mid-air and strike like a comet. but where mark was all rough edges and impatient energy, you were polished. sleek in a way that made his throat feel weirdly dry.

your outfit didn’t help. deep, royal purple—the kind of color that shifted in the dying light, almost metallic, like liquid amethyst poured over your skin. it clung to you perfectly, hugging every dip and curve of your frame, leaving your arms bare and flexing, biceps tensing as you tested the cuffs. the fabric looked smooth but impossibly tough, like it could take a hit from a plasma cannon and barely singe.

then there were the details—the silver metal sleeves encasing your forearms, running from wrist to just beneath the swell of your bicep. sleek violet boots, fitted like they’d been forged onto you. and that collar—high, armored, framing your jawline and flaring over your shoulders like some kind of alien royalty. it gave you this… presence. like you hadn’t just crash-landed in a park. like you’d meant to make an entrance.

mark’s lips quirked. space prince. a really pissed-off one, judging by the way you were glaring at your restraints.

interesting.

mark's eyes dropped to your wrists, where thick, pulsating cuffs glowed with an eerie violet light. they weren't just restraints—they were alive with foreign tech, humming like a trapped wasp nest, their surfaces crawling with strange, liquid-metal runes that shifted under his gaze. you groaned through clenched teeth, the veins in your biceps standing out as you wrenched against the cuffs which were flashing brighter in response as if mocking your efforts. a frustrated snarl ripped from your throat, one that made the hair on mark's arms stand up—there was something distinctly predator about it.

"well, well," mark drawled, his arms crossing over his chest, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against his bicep. "looks like earth's got itself a new intergalactic tourist." his lips curled into that trademark smirk, the one that usually made people nervous. "let me guess—not the welcome party you were expecting, right?"

your head snapped up at that, those glowing green eyes narrowing. for a second, you just stared at him like he'd grown a second head, your nose wrinkling in a way that might've been cute if not for the dangerous glint in your eyes. when you spoke, it was like listening to a storm given voice—words that rolled and crashed in impossible rhythms, some syllables sharp as broken glass, others smooth as molten gold. the sounds curled through the air between you, carrying the scent of ozone and something distinctly not-of-this-world.

mark blinked, his smirk faltering for half a heartbeat. "uh. yeah," he said, shaking his head as if that might dislodge the foreign sounds from his ears. "no idea what the hell you just said."

your expression darkened, those glowing eyes flickering like a dying neon sign. he saw the exact moment you gave up on communication—your jaw tightening, the muscles in your shoulders coiling like springs. then, in a burst of motion so fast it left afterimages, you were gone. one second you were there, kneeling in the smoldering crater, the next you were nothing but a comet's tail of emerald and amethyst streaking upward, the shockwave of your takeoff sending dirt and debris spraying in all directions. the air where you'd been shimmered with displaced energy, the scent of burnt ozone hanging heavy in your wake.

"oh, hell no," mark growled, the words tearing from his throat as he kicked off the ground hard enough to crater the pavement beneath him. the air screamed past his ears as he shot after you, his mohawk flattening against his skull from the sheer velocity.

the chase was a goddamn lightning strike—you moved like starlight given form, all emerald and violet streaks against the twilight sky. you banked hard around a skyscraper, your restrained hands somehow not slowing the fluid way you carved through the air, dipping between buildings with impossible grace before rocketing toward the distant tree line. mark gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, pushing his limits to match your speed. you were quicker, yeah, but he was all stubborn rage and earth-born grit, refusing to let some cuffed-up alien outfly him in his own damn city.

the forest came up fast—too fast. the two of you crashed through the canopy in an explosion of splintered branches and shredded leaves, the scent of pine resin thick in the air as you skidded to a stop in a small clearing. dirt and debris sprayed outward from your landing, the impact sending small creatures scattering into the underbrush. you spun to face him, your cuffed hands held in a defensive position despite the restraints, those glowing green eyes burning like solar flares in the dim light. your chest heaved with each breath, but your stance never wavered—balanced, dangerous, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

mark barely had time to flash that infuriating smirk before you lunged.

your first strike shouldn't have been possible with bound hands—a vicious, glowing green haymaker that left afterimages in its wake as it rocketed toward his jaw. mark barely ducked in time, feeling the superheated energy of your fist singe the tips of his hair as it passed. he countered with a sharp jab to your ribs, but you twisted mid-air with impossible flexibility, your knee coming up in a brutal arc that connected with his diaphragm. the impact lifted him clean off his feet, all the air rushing from his lungs in a pained "oof" as he skidded backward through the dirt, his back slamming against an unfortunate sapling that snapped in half from the force.

"the hell—?!" he wheezed, his vision swimming as he struggled to draw breath. his ribs throbbed where you'd hit him—that shouldn't have hurt so damn much. why the hell do your hits feel like freight trains?

you didn’t let up. another punch—sharp, precise—aimed for his ribs. a spinning kick that nearly took his head off if he hadn’t ducked in time. every movement was fluid, calculated, like you’d spent years mastering how to fight even with your hands bound. mark blocked what he could, arms stinging from the impact, but damn, you were good. not just strong—trained. like someone had carved you into a weapon and set you loose.

"alright, enough," he growled, finally snatching your wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around the smooth metal cuff. you snarled, muscles straining as you tried to yank free, but he held firm, his grip unrelenting. "i’m not trying to fight you, dumbass!"

you froze. your chest heaved, sweat glistening along your temple, those glowing green eyes locked onto his with an intensity that made his pulse stutter. for a heartbeat, neither of you moved—just the sound of ragged breathing between you. then, slowly, your glare softened into something uncertain, almost curious. you huffed, nostrils flaring, before your gaze flicked down—to his lips.

then—

you lunged.

mark’s brain short-circuited. one second, he was glaring at you, ready to snap another insult—the next, your mouth was on his, warm and burning, like kissing sunlight given form. your lips were softer than he expected, but there was a roughness to it, a desperation that left him dizzy. your scent flooded his senses—something wild and electric, like ozone and crushed juniper berries.

he didn’t even realize he’d started kissing you back until you pulled away, and god, his body moved before his brain could catch up—chasing your lips in a hazy, instinctive daze, as if you’d stolen the air from his lungs and he needed it back.

you broke the contact with a quiet smack, licking your lips like you’d just tasted something fascinating. your tongue darted out, slow, deliberate, as if savoring the flavor of him.

"there," you murmured, your voice smooth now, laced with an accent that curled around the words like smoke. the glow in your eyes flickered, satisfied. "now i can understand you."

mark just stared, his lips still buzzing with the phantom warmth of yours, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. he could still taste you—something sweet and foreign, like starlight given flavor. "...what the fuck."

his hand rose slowly, the back of it dragging across his mouth in a rough gesture, like he could wipe away the lingering sensation. it didn't work. "what the hell was that?" his voice came out strangled, higher than usual.

you blinked, your glowing green eyes wide with sudden concern. the way your brows knitted together was almost... cute. damn it. "i am sorry," you said carefully, each word deliberate like you were testing how they felt in your new tongue. your head tilted slightly as you spoke. "my people... we learn speech like this." you raised your cuffed hands slightly, fingers brushing your own lips in demonstration. "lips must touch. to know words."

mark's face burned hotter. "so you just- what, kiss people to talk to them?"

"yes." you nodded earnestly, then hesitated. your nose scrunched as you searched for the right words. "but... not for... pleasure? only learning." you gestured between the two of you. "now i understand you. but your face..." your hand hovered near his cheek, not quite touching. "you look... burned? did i hurt you?"

"no, i'm not- that's not-" mark sputtered, running a hand through his mohawk in frustration. he could still feel the shape of your mouth against his. "it's just... humans don't usually do that, okay? we learn languages the boring way. with books and shit."

your glowing green eyes widened, the light in them pulsing faintly with genuine surprise. "that sounds... very slow." you said it with such sincere, heartbreaking pity—like mark had just confessed he still walked everywhere instead of flying—that his lips twitched despite himself, a choked laugh threatening to escape.

mark groaned, his calloused palm dragging down his face hard enough to briefly distort his features. "unbelievable," he muttered through his fingers. "welp, there goes my first kiss. first alien i meet, and they're a total weirdo."

your head tilted slightly to the side, those luminous eyes blinking once, twice. the movement was so distinctly not human—too smooth, too precise—that it sent an odd shiver down mark's spine. "weer-dee-oh?" you repeated carefully, the unfamiliar word rolling awkwardly off your tongue. your nose scrunched adorably as you tested the syllables. "this is... a bad thing?"

the innocent question, paired with your utterly serious expression, finally broke mark. a sharp bark of laughter escaped him before he could stop it. "oh my god," he wheezed, shoulders shaking. "you're killing me here." he waved a hand vaguely in your direction, struggling to compose himself. "no, it's just- yeah, okay, maybe a little bad. but mostly... you're just different. in a... in a way that makes my brain hurt."

you considered this for a moment, then nodded solemnly. "then i will be... careful with your brain." you said it with such grave sincerity that mark had to bite his lip to keep from laughing again.

the sudden crackle of cecil's voice in his earpiece nearly made mark jump. "invincible. report. was that explosion our new visitor?"

mark sighed, pressing a finger to his ear. "yeah, yeah. we're all good. turns out tall, glowing, and stab-happy here isn't actually—hey!" he interrupted himself as he caught you twisting your wrists violently against the cuffs, your teeth gritted in frustration. without breaking his conversation, he reached over and snapped the remaining restraint like it was a stale breadstick. "—isn't actually a threat. just... real enthusiastic about first impressions."

"you're telling me you've made peaceful contact with an unknown extraterrestrial in under five minutes?" cecil's dry tone could've withered flowers. "should i alert the press about your stunning diplomatic skills?"

"shut up," mark muttered, pointedly ignoring the way you were now staring at him with those big, glowing eyes—like he'd just saved your family and your cat instead of breaking some stupid cuffs. your fingers flexed experimentally, green energy already crackling around your freed hands. it was... distracting. "look, they're harmless. mostly. just... really into the whole kissing thing."

a beat of silence. "...i'm going to pretend i didn't hear that."

"good call," mark said, watching as you shook out your wrists, that ridiculously grateful expression still plastered on your face. he pointedly turned his back, feeling his ears heat up. "anyway, we're cool here. no invasion today. probably."

"your confidence is overwhelming," cecil deadpanned. "anyway, bring them to headquarters immediately—the guardians and i will want to assess this situation properly."

"what? no, he's fine—" mark started, but cecil cut him off.

"that wasn't a request, grayson. headquarters. now." the line went dead with finality.

mark groaned, turning back to see your stupidly earnest face. "stop looking at me like that," he grumbled, crossing his arms. "it was just some cuffs."

you blinked, then smiled—slow and bright like a sunrise. "to you, maybe." your newly freed hand reached up, almost hesitantly, to brush against his arm. "to me... it was everything."

mark's stomach lurched violently, like he'd just missed a step going downstairs. that uncomfortable warmth spread from his chest up to his ears, burning under his skin. oh, this was so not good. with a sharp turn, he pivoted on his heel, deliberately facing away from you so you wouldn't see how flushed he'd become. "anyway, we gotta move. looks like we're taking a field trip," he muttered, voice rough around the edges as he started walking a little too fast.

you blinked, your glowing eyes widening slightly as your head tilted at that perfect, infuriating angle that made your hair sway. without hesitation, you floated after him, keeping pace effortlessly. "field... trip?" the words sounded foreign in your mouth, your accent wrapping around them curiously.

"yeah," mark grumbled, dragging a hand through his mohawk. he could already imagine the interrogation—cecil's piercing stare, the guardians' skeptical looks, and god, if his dad got involved... his shoulders tensed at the thought. "to meet my coworkers. and my boss." he shot you a sideways glance, trying to sound casual as he added, "try not to kiss anyone this time, okay?"

you gently shook your head, the motion sending little emerald sparks dancing through your hair. "there is no need to worry." your voice was soft but certain, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. "i won't kiss anyone else other than you."

mark's steps faltered. he whirled around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. "what do you mean by that?" his voice came out embarrassingly high-pitched.

you looked at him with mild surprise, those luminous eyes studying his flustered expression with open curiosity. "i meant that i'll only ever kiss you if i needed to learn more of the language." a small, knowing smile played at your lips as you added, "though, i doubt i'd need to."

mark's brain short-circuited. the way you said it—so simple, so matter-of-fact—left no room for argument. that uncomfortable warmth in his chest bloomed hotter, spreading down to his fingertips. he swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how close you were standing.

oh. he was so completely fucked.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

mark absolutely hated this. hated how you floated after him everywhere like some glowing green shadow. hated how you’d tilt your head at every little thing—vending machines, pigeons, traffic lights—like they held the secrets of the universe. hated most of all how cecil had dumped babysitting duty on him with that infuriating smirk. "just keep him out of trouble, grayson. how hard can it be?"

it was impossible. you were a walking disaster wrapped in purple uniform. yesterday you’d tried to "help" him stop a bank robbery by smiling brightly at the thieves and asking why they needed the money, as if you were going to try out to talk-no-jutsu them into not doing the crime anymore. the day before, you’d somehow set a hot dog stand on fire because "the meat tubes smelled sad and wished to be free." and now? now you were hovering two inches behind him as he tried to buy coffee, your chin practically resting on his shoulder as you stared at the cashier with terrifying intensity.

"dude. personal space," mark grumbled, elbowing you back gently. you didn’t move—just blinked those stupidly big eyes at him and whispered "the small human is giving you paper with numbers. is this a threat?"

mark’s eye twitched. "it’s called money, space case." he shoved a twenty at the cashier before dragging you away by your wrist, ignoring how your fingers immediately curled around his like some overgrown, alien puppy. "we’ve been over this. no interrogating minimum wage workers. no ‘investigating’ trash cans. and for the love of god—" he yanked you back as you started drifting toward a police horse, "—no trying to communicate with earth animals!"

you pouted, all soft lips and wounded dignity, your glowing eyes shimmering with genuine concern. "but the furry one looked lonely."

mark's stomach did that stupid, traitorous flip again—the one that made his ribs feel too tight. he hated that most of all. hated how you'd somehow woven yourself into every fucking corner of his life these past four weeks. you were practically living at his house now, curled up on his couch like some exotic housecat whenever his mom made tamaranean-friendly snacks (which she learned for hours from your instructions). debbie adored you, always saving the snacks just for you, laughing at your terrible attempts at earth jokes. even his father—stone-cold nolan grayson—had started giving you those barely-there smiles when you correctly answered his space trivia questions.

the guardians treated you like some precious child they had adopted. darkwing let you fiddle with his tech. war woman sneaked you candy. even cecil, the human embodiment of a migraine, had gruffly admitted you were "tolerable and nice for your own good." everyone loved you. and mark? mark was so, so fucked.

what he hated most were the nights. those quiet, vulnerable nights when you'd slip into his bed after nightmares about your crashed ship, wearing nothing but his stolen seance dog hoodie (now permanently smelling like starlight and something sweet) and those stupid black boxers that rode too low on your hips. you'd curl against him like a contented star, your warm fingers tracing constellations across his cheekbones, his collarbones, the hard planes of his chest—always to the rhythm of that damn song he'd first introduced to you. he never told you to shut up whenever you would hum or even sing the tune, not because your voice sounded nice or anything, but because it just so happened to be his favourite song. your humming vibrated through his skin, your breath warm against his neck as you studied him with that reverent gaze, like he'd hung every fucking star in your sky.

mark would lie there, barely breathing, his heart pounding so loud he was sure you could hear it. he'd focus on keeping his muscles relaxed, on not shivering when your fingertips brushed his nipple accidentally, on pretending he didn't notice how your thigh kept sliding between his in order to tangle your limbs with his. and if his cock stirred in his sweats, thick and heavy with want? well. that was just biology. didn't mean anything. couldn't mean anything. because if you realized he was awake, if you saw the desperate hunger in his eyes, if you felt the way his hips twitched toward your touch—

it would ruin everything. and mark couldn't lose this. couldn't lose you. so he stayed still, stayed quiet, and let you have these stolen moments—even as they slowly drove him insane.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"i've always been curious about these tiny little metal things on your face." your voice was soft with wonder, fingertips hovering just above his skin like you were afraid he might vanish. slowly, so slowly, you traced the silver buds by his eyebrow, following the curve like it held some cosmic secret. your touch drifted down, feather-light, to brush the labret piercing at the bottom of the corner of his lip. when your thumb accidentally grazed the fullness of his bottom lip, mark's breath hitched—just for a second. "why did you get them?" you whispered, glowing eyes searching his.

mark had learned many things about you these past weeks. like how you were practically made of starlight and touch, always finding ways to connect—a hand on his arm when laughing, fingers threading through his when nervous, your entire body pressed along his back when curious about what he was doing. at first, it had been shy little brushes, like you weren't sure you were allowed. now? now you draped yourself over him without hesitation, leaning in close to whisper terrible jokes in his ear just to feel him shake with laughter.

("you know," red rush had said once, smirking as you clung to mark's arm like a vine, "most humans don't just... climb their friends like jungle gyms."

you'd just nuzzled into mark's shoulder, completely unbothered. "but mark isn't most humans." and damn if that hadn't made his chest feel too tight.)

mark had thought about setting boundaries. once. for about five seconds. then you fell asleep on his chest during movie night, and the idea evaporated like morning dew.

now, with your fingers still tracing his piercings, mark swallowed hard. "dunno," he muttered, trying (and failing) to sound casual. "thought they looked cool, i guess." a beat. then, softer: "my mom cried when i came home with the first one."

your glowing eyes crinkled at the corners. "i think they're beautiful," you murmured, thumb brushing his lip again—and okay, that was definitely on purpose this time. "like... constellations. but on your skin instead of the sky." your other hand came up to cradle his jaw, your touch warmer than any sun. "may i...?"

mark's heart was doing that stupid pounding thing again. "may you what?" he breathed, already leaning into your palm.

instead of answering, you closed the distance between you, pressing the softest kiss to each piercing—first his eyebrows, then the corners of his mouth. when you pulled back, your smile was brighter than any supernova. "now i'll always remember how they feel," you whispered, like it was some precious secret.

mark was pretty sure his lungs had forgotten how to work. "you," he croaked out, voice rough like gravel, "are such a weirdo." but his traitorous hands were already dragging you closer, fingers digging into the soft skin of your hips as his forehead fell against yours. the words came out thick with something he wasn't ready to name—something that burned in his chest whenever you looked at him like that. and god, that smile—the one that lit up your whole face, the one that was only ever for him—it sent a wave of heat crashing through him, turning his cheeks and neck an embarrassing shade of pink that matched the sunset bleeding through his bedroom window.

"is that still a bad thing?" you asked, already shifting like this was your rightful place. in one smooth motion, you straddled his thigh, your legs bracketing his like they were made to fit there. your arms looped around his neck with practiced ease, fingers playing with the hairs at his nape like you'd done this a thousand times before. mark's breath hitched as your weight settled fully against him—the firm press of your ass against his thigh, the way your biceps flexed under his fingertips, the heat of your bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. and fuck, if he didn't focus real hard on the ceiling, he was going to lose his mind over the unmistakable press of your cock against his stomach, barely concealed by those stupid thin boxers you always stole from him. he was just wishing you didn't notice the raging boner in his.

mark swallowed hard, his own traitorous body responding in kind. "no..." he managed, voice muffled as he buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the scent of starlight and his own shampoo on your skin. one hand came up to cradle the back of your head, holding you close like you might disappear. "not with you." his lips brushed against your pulse point, the words spilling out in a whisper he couldn't take back. "never with you."

exactly 4.6k words, i'm honestly a tiny bit impressed lolol. anyway, hope y'all enjoyed this one-shot! i'm not gonna lie, i didn't know where i was going with this but yeah :]

[pukefactory]

Dream BBQ Ena x reader who helps out with he job and stuff!! I think it’d be super interesting

Author’s Note

Keep the Ena requests coming, everyone! I’m having an absolute blast writing and exploring these characters. A new hyperfixation might be on the horizon!

-Rush

•☽────✧˖°˖ FALLEN DOWN ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcannons Featuring Salesperson Ena X Reader Who Helps Her Throughout Her Job In The Lonely Door

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcannons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @Joelg

☆ You’re not supposed to be here. The moment Ena lays eyes on you, her dual-colored gaze flickers with surprise and intrigue. She leans in too close, scrutinizing your existence like a puzzle with missing pieces. “Ah, a stray marble in the machine! An uninvited guest at the banquet of fate!” Her voice lilts between amusement and concern, but she doesn’t turn you away. Instead, she offers you her mitten-shaped hand. “Shall we make a mess of destiny together?”

☆ She narrates your presence like an unreliable tour guide. As you follow her through the casino and its labyrinth of surreal doors, she provides commentary. Not on the scenery, no—that would be too easy. Instead, she describes you, your expressions, your reactions to the bizarre world unfolding around you. “Look at them! A brave little duckling, waddling into the jaws of the absurd! Oh, how they hesitate at the sight of Dratula’s many, many claws… A performance of hesitation! Exquisite!”

☆ She’s weirdly protective in the most Ena way possible. If something dangerous lurks ahead, she doesn’t say, “Be careful.” No, she says, “Let’s see if your presence bends the laws of probability in our favor, shall we?” And if it doesn’t? If something lunges for you? She laughs, but it’s nervous, her red side flickering into something sharper. “Ooo, bad hand of cards, dear! Let’s reshuffle, quickly now!” And suddenly, she’s pulling you behind her, claws glinting.

☆ Ena insists you have a “role” in this world, even if you don’t understand it. She gestures wildly at you while speaking to Froggy. “What do you mean they don’t belong? Can’t you see? They’re the thread that keeps the whole tapestry from unraveling!” She winks at you. “Or maybe they are the unraveling! Delightful, no?”

☆ She tests the boundaries of your existence. At one point, she stops abruptly, twirling to face you with her usual grin. “Say, say—if I push you towards that door, will you clip through it? If I blink, will you cease to be?” She blinks dramatically. You don’t disappear. She pouts. “Ah, how disappointing. But reassuring!”

☆ Her moods shift like rolling dice, and you’re always there to catch the aftermath. There are moments where her pale yellow side takes over, and her voice dips into something quieter, more melancholic. “The boss… the boss… Do you think I’ll even reach them?” She shakes her head, forcing a grin. “Oh, but enough of that! We mustn’t let the blues—oh, or the reds—consume us!”

☆ You become her moral compass in the most absurd situations. “Should we accept a deal from the nice, floating hand offering us a reality-warping contract?” No, Ena. “Should we ride the mysterious conveyor belt labeled ‘certain doom’?” Absolutely not, Ena. She groans, exaggerated and theatrical. “Ugh, you’re such a buzzkill! …But a lovable one.”

☆ She starts incorporating you into her metaphors. “I’m the wandering performer, you’re my steadfast stagehand! I’m the rogue dice, and you’re the velvet-lined cup that keeps me from rolling off the table! I’m a fever dream, and you… you’re the cold rag against my forehead. How poetic!”

☆ The world recognizes you as an anomaly, and Ena revels in it. Characters you meet pause, staring at you with unreadable expressions. Some whisper, some laugh, some don’t acknowledge you at all, like you’re a half-rendered NPC. Ena waves her mitten hand dismissively. “Ignore them! They just love to fuss over continuity errors.”

☆ By the time you reach the Genie, she refuses to leave you behind. Even if you were never meant to follow her this far. Even if something in the world strains against your presence. “No, no, NO,” she argues, gripping your wrist. “We’ve come this far together! I REFUSE to be a solo act now! If the script demands separation, well—” She grins, sharp and unyielding. “Let’s improvise.”

[porcalinecunt]

(𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃)𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 ♡︎

🎀 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ having the body of a cyborg came with it’s perks, including turning boothill into your own personal porn bot a plug away! ~ ♡︎

·˚ ◌༘͙[featuring] ! ˊ 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐗 𝐆𝐍!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

cw — afab!reader. mean dom!boothill. improper use of usb ports. pornography. manhandling. overstimulation. edging. pussy drunk boothill. no pronouns for reader.

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ author’s note! : saw someone on tt mention inappropriate use of boothill’s usb ports, and i couldn’t help myself. <33 as usual, enjoy!

“..and i’m supposed to plug this in?”

Boothill spun the harddrive around his fingers, staring at it with both curiosity yet suspicion. it was a hot pink color with a heart sticker sloppily slapped onto the front. you handed it to him without saying a word, leaving him beyond dumbfounded.

you simply nodded, trying hard not to burst out laughing. despite the glaringly obvious USB ports that were carved into his waist, he swore to have never actually stuck anything in them. by anything, of course, were any harddrives that could’ve been packed with whatever info or footage that would’ve automatically made it’s way into his memory. he didn’t want anyone’s weird porno or stupid memes to burn into his motherboard and live with it.

yet he had a hard time saying no to you. hell, he’d never say no to you unless it’d kill you. then again, it was probably a random assortment of cat videos you came across on your feed. it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek. right?

holding up a reluctant thumbs up, you plugged the harddrive in and awaited his reaction with anticipation. boothill never looked away from your reaction, quickly noticing something was rather…off about your face. your lips curled into a seductive grin, biting down on your lower lip while hearts practically carved your pupils. your cheeks and nose were flushed a slight pink that faded to a hot red color.

yet, it was already too late for him.

his vision suddenly became a hot pink blur, the gears within his body had began to spun widely while the mini fans tried to cool down his heating body. the blood red target in his eye morphed into a pink heart while he spaced out at what was being shown in front of him.

nothing but pure pornography, some of the most explicit, flooding his memory and infecting his circuits with the love virus. boothill felt his head spin from the lewd imagery, bouncing from clip to clip of multiple sex acts all at once. from simple missionary to subs being bent in half by their ridiculously larger doms, there was even one where they were in full nelson. legs high up with thier sopping cunt in full view. it was all too much.

“so this..is what y’want me to do to ya…”

the cyborg chuckled, overwhelmed with his sudden libedo. he looks over at you with hungry eyes, flashing his shark toothed grin the moment you nodded.

“why didn’t ya say so, dollface..?”

“a-ah! m’sorry! m’sorry boothill..! i-i was only p-playing..ngh!”

your clothes were torn clean off without a damn given, leaving you bare and vulnerable as the cyborg pumped his cock in and out of your sopping pussy. just like how you wanted it, bent in half in full nelson with your legs held high as only boothill’s arms kept you from falling. his pace was unforgiving, hungrily stuffing you full like your his last meal on death row. despite your body already stiffening from the position, boothill showed no sign of stopping. his eyes, bright pink with hearts dialating for pupils, full of burning desire and a greedy lust that clouded his judgement till his mind went blank.

it was as if the cyborg was built for fucking, his only goal being to push you beyind your human limit.

“zip it, sugar. you're gonna take m’dick even when i’m done with ya, you hear?”

boothill hissed in your ear with a mean rasp, shark-like teeth nibbling away at your earlobe. the ticklish feeling only added to the intense overstimulation that turned your brain into mush. you felt the familiar knot in your stomach close to snapping for what seems like the tenth time tonight, until a sudden emptiness snapped you back into reality. looking down, you noticed how boothill pulled himself out, leaving you hanging. a whine came out of your throat almost instinctively at the neglect.

“boothilll..! i was so clo!—“

you’re words were rudely cut off as the ranger threw you onto the bed with you laying on your back. he wasted no time crawling on top of you and pressing his heavy body against yours. trapped, you couldn’t even move an inch as you squirmed under his touch. he practically caged you.

“keep whinin’ like that and I'll leave ya empty. got that?”

as difficult as it was, you pressed your lips together and screwed your eyes shut in a desperate attempt to keep quite. your cunny spasmed around his length as he kept going with his violent pace. even with the harddrive, you could never imagine boothill going this far. you truely underestimated the strength of the virus that infected his mechanical body with such libido, yet you don’t regret it. you continued to cry out as your limbs grew numb, your senses going blank in an orgasmic euphoria. you were teetering towards the fuckin’ edge.

you sobbed out babbles of “‘m gonna cum!~” over and over again like it was automatic. finally, the knot snapped in two as stars filled your vision. if he wasn’t made of metal, you would’ve left some nasty scratch marks.

on the other hand, the ranger watched in pure awe as his pretty baby fell apart on his dick. your fucked out expression, teary eyes and pouty lips covered in spit, only fuled him for more. you couldn’t even get a breath in as you were picked up and flipped onto your stomach, ass high up in the air.

“you think ‘m done yet sugar? hehe, that’s cute.”

you could only sigh in response, unable to do anything about your own mess. lesson learned, never fuck with a machine you know so little about.

© porcalinecunt 💌 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ do not steal, translate, or use my work and claim as your own.

[peachversace]

calvins or nothing?

[nsfw-ish] ; bakugou katsuki x reader — domestic fluff, slight horniness, bakugou katsuki being a cute little bean (but also a sexy phenomenon), slight humor <3

♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖📸.𖥔 ݁ ˖♡

notes: this is inspired by the bad bunny x calvin klein ad that came out a few weeks ago. i’m ovulating and had this in my drafts. enjoy 😃

Your grumpy Pro Hero boyfriend—the one who hates cameras, hates media circuits, hates anything remotely resembling a brand deal—somehow got talked into doing an ad. That, in itself, is already enough of a shocker. The man rolls his eyes at the mere mention of Instagram. His idea of PR is grunting his way through one-word answers at press conferences.

So, yeah. When Katsuki says he’s doing a shoot, you're caught off guard.

The announcement isn’t even some grand confession—it’s a casual mumble, like he’s commenting on the weather. He says it while washing the dishes, fingers soapy, sleeves of his tee pushed up to his elbows, the evening news humming in the background. You're sitting on the counter, half-listening to the TV, half-watching the muscles in his back flex through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Gonna do a shoot in a couple days,” he mutters like it’s nothing. Like the sky’s blue. Like he’s not about to detonate your entire sense of reality.

You pause mid-sip of your water. “A shoot?” you echo, blinking at him.

He doesn’t even look up. “Yeah.”

You slide off the counter and walk toward him, disbelief coloring your voice. “Wait, seriously? You? Doing a shoot? Like… willingly?”

He finally cuts you a glance, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck would I joke for?”

“I don’t know! Because you hate this stuff?” You raise a brow. “Last week you growled at a guy just for taking a picture of you at the market.”

He scoffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Agent wouldn’t shut up about it. Said it’s a good deal. Said it’d make my numbers spike.” He grinds his teeth. “S’bullshit.”

You grin, stepping even closer, your hands brushing against the hem of his shirt. “So what is it, huh? Sportswear? A cologne campaign? Let me guess, something with black-and-white aesthetics, all ‘I’m brooding and mysterious and I could kill you but also model for Givenchy.’”

His glare sharpens. “I ain't tellin’ you,” he mutters, and then smears a soapy hand across your face.

You yelp, eyes widening in shock before laughing, pushing him back with a dish towel, and just like that, the kitchen descends into a sudsy, chaotic mess—water splashing, laughter echoing, and your annoyed, grumbly boyfriend cracking the faintest smile as you attack him with bubbles.

You forget about it after that.

He goes to the shoot a few days later, grumbles about how stupid it was, comes home smelling faintly of sweat and photo studio, and promptly takes a nap on the couch with his face buried in your thigh.

End of story—or so you think.

Until the ad airs.

And the entire world explodes.

You’re not even the first person to see it. You wake up to six missed calls from Kaminari, seventeen texts in a group chat with Amanai and Hanari, and three DMs from stylists you’ve only ever worked with once, all saying something along the lines of:

IS THAT BAKUGOU???
Please tell me that’s YOUR man.
why didn’t you warn me???

You groggily pull up the video link with one eye open, barely processing the thumbnail—just muted greys and harsh lighting—and then hit play.

And then the world stops.

The screen fades in, and the first thing you see is concrete—cold and industrial, metal beams and stark shadows. The lighting is sharp and stylized, the kind of aesthetic that screams high-end minimalism, and then—

There he is.

Katsuki.

In nothing but tight black briefs, leaning against a concrete wall, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his thigh. His scars catch the light. His tan skin looks like it's been kissed by some god. His abs—hard and defined, with that perfect cut down his sides—flex slightly as he breathes. There’s sweat glistening faintly on his collarbone.

And his expression?

That look. The one he gives when he’s about to fight someone and knows he’s already won. That heavy-lidded, lazy gaze that screams dominance and confidence. His jaw is tight. His mouth is parted just slightly, teeth catching on the fabric of his own tank top as he lifts it with one hand, revealing the full line of his torso—slow and unbothered, like this means nothing to him.

You gasp. You physically clutch your phone like it might explode in your hands.

Is this a fucking fever dream?

The ad keeps going. Transitions shift—now he’s outside, in some open-air gym setup, hanging from a pull-up bar in white briefs, his body tense and glistening, thighs flexing as he hooks his legs around the metal, inverted and still steady. The camera pans slowly, sinfully, down the line of his waist, his back muscles moving with effortless control.

You are floored.

And then—then—he’s sprawled in a plush lounge chair, still in briefs, arms behind his head, legs spread in that arrogant, casual way that only he could pull off. He’s completely relaxed, like he doesn’t know the entire planet is watching this ad and forgetting how to breathe.

You drop your phone on the bed and bury your face in your hands.

“What the fuck,” you groan into your palms. Your heart is pounding. Your thighs press together on instinct.

Katsuki, your grumpy, camera-hating, blunt-as-hell boyfriend… just dropped the hottest underwear ad of the year. And you had no idea what he was shooting until now.

You scramble to your feet, pacing your bedroom, mouth still open, heart pounding in your chest like war drums.

Your phone still lies face down on the bed, but you’re pacing like the floor might cave in. Your heart is slamming against your ribs, your body thrumming with something between disbelief and desperate, carnal desire. There’s a burn low in your stomach. A buzzing heat behind your eyes.

Because the ad isn’t done. It gets worse—so much worse.

The music shifts, something darker now, heavier—bass rolling like thunder. And then the screen cuts to him again. Katsuki. In jeans this time.

Low-rise. Washed-out. Loose around the thighs but slung criminally low on his hips.

And those goddamn white briefs are peeking out above the waistband like it was staged in a dream. His hand glides lazily over his stomach, fingers tracing the defined V of his hips, brushing right past the thick trail of hair under his navel. He stops there—lingers there—just barely grazing the hem of the briefs before his thumb tucks in, teasing the edge. His gaze flicks to the camera.

And he smirks.

Not his usual cocky grin, no. This one’s lazy. Lopsided. Something slow and dangerous that makes your knees buckle. Like he knows what he’s doing. Like he planned this moment for you and you alone.

You gasp. You clutch your chest. "Oh my God."

And then—as if that wasn’t enough—the music picks up and the scenes start layering: cuts of him against the concrete, muscles flexing under the strain of his pose; transitions to the gym, his thighs clenching, his expression loose with exertion; cuts to that plush chair, where he’s lounging like sin incarnate, and finally, back to the jeans, with his hand still teasing that waistband.

It’s not an ad anymore. It’s a weapon. A visual threat. A public sex dream.

You stand there, completely dumbfounded, eyes wide and mouth parted, blinking like you’ve been smacked upside the head with a wet towel.

And the comments?

Oh. The comments.

@takxmi291_: raw. next question.
@abersiw.3: Good lord what a great day to be alive.
@BIGPAPA.EJI: FLASH US ‼️‼️‼️
@numbber1.lemilionnn: giggling at 3am
@angelzkiss: GOOD GOD IM GIDJDJFNNFHDNDNDJDNCN🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦
@hyurhio008: YEP IM GETTING HIM PREGNANT
@Cello_Zumazz: damn now my screen's all sticky :/
@bpxrndeku: I FEEL LIKE A MAN IN THE 1800S SEEING AN ANKLE FOR THE FIRST TIME.
@lennysqqie: don’t be scared. take em off.
@dynazaddy98: i wanna GAGGGG on that huge COCK—
@stareandfanfic: look at em TITS AWOOGAAAA

You can’t even think. You’re vibrating. Your brain is gone. You’re standing there, still in pajamas, while your very private, very grouchy, very hot boyfriend just broke the Internet in his underwear.

You can’t let this slide.

So you bide your time. You wait until he’s home from patrol—freshly showered, hair damp and messy, wearing his black hoodie and sweatpants that clings to him a little too well. He’s sitting at the kitchen table now, chopsticks in one hand, steam rising from the shabu shabu you made. His brow is furrowed as he eats, and he's grumbling about how some new sidekick forgot to file a report properly.

You sit across from him with your phone in hand, not saying anything.

And then, casually, you clear your throat and say in a bright voice:

“Explosively warm, and snug. Dynamight wears the new Iconic Cotton Stretch. Now in stores.”

Katsuki freezes mid-bite.

His chopsticks pause, a slice of beef and mushroom still dangling, and you see it happen—the moment it registers. His shoulders stiffen. His jaw tightens. And then slowly, as if the food can save him, he stuffs it into his mouth.

You try not to laugh. You fail.

“What the hell, Katsuki?” you grin, voice breathless with amusement. “Why didn’t you tell me?! That ad launched three hours ago and I’ve seen your dick print more times than I’ve seen my own reflection today.”

He grunts. Doesn’t look at you.

“Honey, you looked insanely good. Like… I’m not even sure it was legal.” You lean forward over the table, voice dropping slightly. “You were so hot. And that grin?” You tap your phone. “That was cute, baby.”

His ears go bright red. A slow, creeping crimson that crawls up his neck to his cheeks.

He finally glances at you, scowling faintly. “S’just a stupid ad. Ain’t that important.”

“Oh, it’s important to me,” you murmur with a knowing smirk.

He huffs and looks away again, stuffing another bite in his mouth. But his jaw’s twitching. He’s so clearly flustered, you can barely take it. A tiny, pleased smile tugs at his lips even though he’s fighting it with everything he has.

And you realize—this is why he didn’t tell you. Because deep down, Katsuki knew. He knew how hot he looked, how big the reaction would be, how much people would thirst over it.

But more than anything, he knew you would look at him like this—like he hung the goddamn moon. And he wouldn’t know what to do with that.

“Sh’ddup,” he mutters under his breath, cheeks now fully flushed.

You grin like a wolf, biting your lip as you lean over the table, eyes glinting.

“No. I’m not gonna shut up. In fact, I’m gonna print out a poster. Hang it in the hallway. Right across from the bathroom.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he growls—but it’s soft. There’s no heat behind it. Just embarrassment and affection and that little smirk he only wears when he’s happy in spite of himself.

And you?

You’re head over heels in love with this absolute menace of a man. Horny and obsessed and ready to make him flustered for the rest of the night.

Later, the apartment is warm, and quiet, the soft hum of the city alive behind the windows—but in here, it’s just you and him.

The scent of the shabu shabu still lingers faintly in the air, and the clinking of dishes is rhythmic, almost soothing. Katsuki stands at the sink, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, forearms slick and glistening. His hands are buried in a sink full of suds, scrubbing out the plates he insisted on washing since you cooked.

You’re perched on the counter next to him, legs swinging slightly, phone in hand, face lit up with mischief and fondness. The grin on your face is damn near criminal. You can’t help it—you’ve been giggling all night. Ever since the ad dropped, you’ve been glued to the internet, reading every unhinged, thirsty, downright feral comment about your boyfriend. And oh, they are so good.

Katsuki grumbles under his breath every time you so much as snort at your screen, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. Not really. Because he secretly loves the sound of your laugh—especially when it’s because of him, even if it makes him wanna throw himself into the damn sink.

You scroll through your phone, eyes twinkling, then grin wider. “Should I read you the comments next?”

He groans. “No.”

But you’re already doing it. “@yoqnoak24 says: i’m wet, ready, and stretched out to g—”

Before you can finish, a wet, soapy hand slaps gently but firmly against your face.

“Katsuki!” you squeal, laughing in full as the bubbles smear across your cheek and jaw, eyes crinkling with delight.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he growls through a grin of his own, already tugging you off the counter with one hand on your waist.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders instinctively as he leans in, pressing a messy, grinning kiss against your lips. It’s hot, breathless, teeth clicking together for a second before he pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

You’re smiling so wide you can barely kiss him back properly, giggling like a teenager. “Probably fuck me stupid, since you’ve already got half the world begging for it.”

“Jesus fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the way his ears are burning where they brush your jaw. But he’s smiling. You can feel that too. It’s hidden, buried in the press of his mouth against your collarbone, but it’s there. That secret softness only you get.

“You’re the worst,” he mumbles.

“No,” you say, tugging gently at his hair as you press a kiss behind his ear. “I’m the best. I’m your number one fan.”

“Damn right you are.”

You laugh again, and he chuckles too—quiet, low, warm in your chest.

This. This is your life with him. This ridiculous, heart-melting mix of domesticity and chaos. You and him in your kitchen, covered in soap and laughter, still buzzing with the aftershocks of an ad he didn’t even want to do. You and him trading kisses like secrets, teasing and tugging, wrapped around each other like you’ve always belonged this way.

God, you love this man. More than anything.

And the best part?

He loves you back just as hard.

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Okay but imagine sex pollen with Miguel fucking you on your back and then even when he cums he just keeps going and it’s spilling out and refractory period who and you’re overstimulated and he’s like no no you’re not allowed to tap out and he — and he —!!!!!

Sorry

MONA. You put me in a fucking MOOD LMFAO This is way longer than I intended. And its pure filth 🫣

Word Count: 2k+

NSFW below the cut.

Part 2

...

Earth 703- A post-apocalyptic world in which New York was nothing more than a ferocious jungle.

You stared off into the distance, the familiar city skyline overrun by wild flora and thick green vines sneaking in through broken windows and cracked concrete. 

“What the fuck.” You whispered to yourself, eyes now trained on the massive dragonfly that whizzed by you. Miguel grunted, punching a large finger over the screen of his watch.

The mission was supposed to be simple: Catch the anomaly—send them back to their own universe—go home. That’s it. No detours, no distractions. In and out.

“Are we close?” You questioned, pressing up against Miguel’s side at the sight of another massive insect, “I wanna get the hell outta here.”

“We just missed him.” He sucked his teeth. His mask disappeared in a flash of digital pixels to reveal his scowling face, narrowed red eyes and brows furrowed in frustration.

You’ve been wandering around the city for forty-five minutes, trekking through the godforsaken jungle with no luck. The anomaly, a Prowler from some random universe (you couldn’t remember, you weren’t paying attention at the meeting), was clever, quickwitted, and inconspicuous. You’d wished Miguel had chosen Jess for this one, but he’d refused. He’d used the excuse of her pregnancy but really, she’d already complained to you beforehand that the humidity would do her hair no favors. 

“What now?” You questioned, plopping down at the base of a bulky tree trunk a few feet away. The trees were so massive that the branches seemed to kiss the sky, monstrous green leaves blocking out most of the morning sunlight.

“Keep lookin’,” he huffed, running his fingers through his hair, “we’re getting close.”

“Miguel,” you whined, your head thumping back against the trunk, “you said that forty-five minutes ago.”

“Get up,” he demanded, shooting out a web of electric red to swiftly pull you toward him. You yelped, crossing the distance within seconds, crashing into Miguel's sturdy body.

“I hate when you do that.” Your words were muffled by his broad chest, peeling your sweaty cheek away from the synthetic material of his suit. The tiniest smile ghosted over his lips. 

“I know.” 

… 

You’d left Miguel on his own for a few minutes. 

You’d gotten distracted, swinging up into one of the treetops to observe one of the colorful parrots squawking in the distance. It’d looked just like the ones back home, except this one was enormous, probably bigger than a medium-sized dog. 

“Fuck!” You’d heard Miguel yell from down below, spitting out curses in Spanish, choking on the words as coughs racked his body. He’d been waving his hands in front of his face to clear his vision to no avail. You watched as his body reacted immediately to whatever it was that ailed him, his body hunching over as if in pain.

“Miguel!” You dropped to your feet in front of him and attempted to reach for him, but he recoiled, fearing your touch. 

“Stay back!” he wheezed, crouching down and holding his head in his hands.

“What’s wrong?”

“It hurts,” he groaned, his eyes screwed shut as his body trembled, his fingers weaving through his thick hair strands to violently tug from the root.

“Stop,” you scolded, getting on your knees in front of him to pry his hands away, “tell me what’s wrong so that I can help you.” You shoved him down by the shoulders so that he was sitting with his knees out, bringing a hand to his face and yanking it up by his chin. His eyes, normally a mahogany shade glowed a disturbing red, his pupils dilated. 

“Ran into a plant,” he forced the words from his throat, his skin gleaming with sweat, “s-some flower, I don’t know, some kind of pollen.” He groaned again, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Shit, ok, ok, ok, we can fix this,” you panicked, placing the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning, skin blistering hot. “Where does it hurt.”

Miguel remained silent, breathing harshly through his nostrils as beads of sweat began to trickle down his face. He looked down between his legs and you followed his line of vision. Oh. OH.

His bulge was tenting through his suit, fighting against the restraints of the digital fabric. The area glimmered brightly before his cock burst through the pixels, flopping out and twitching with need.

Miguel was big. 

His cock stood tall and proud, bobbing against his stomach, the tip leaking a thin bead of precum that ran down his length. 

You stared for a moment, transfixed on the angry red tip before you found your voice. “Miguel—”

“You need to go,” he spat viciously, his fangs protruding as if to scare you away, “if you don't I’ll—” He stopped himself, lips pressed into a tight line as his chest began to heave. You could hear his heart rate accelerate with every passing second.

“Let me help you,” you whispered, your hand hovering over his cock. He looked away from you, his skin flushed from his cheekbones to the tips of his ears. “Miguel, please, let me help you.”

“I don’t want to force—”

“You’re not forcing me,” you breathed, letting the pad of your finger tap against his tip, smearing his precum over the surface. Your cunt throbbed, squeezing tight with an overwhelming desire to be filled. “I want to.” You cooed, your tone causing his eyes to flutter. 

Miguel grunted, grabbing your hand and placing it over his throbbing cock.

“Then help me.” He hissed.

…

You needed a new suit. Immediately.

Miguel had torn into it, ripping the seams apart from the crotch, all the way up to your neck, revealing your chest and glistening pussy. You had no time to complain, mewling when he spread your thighs apart with his large hands, his eyes trained on the heat between your legs before diving in to eat from you.

You squealed, your hands flying to his head as he kissed and licked and spit over your cunt, his nose pressing against your clit. His tongue dipped into your hole a few times before licking one long stripe up to your bundle of nerves, swirling his tongue around it before sucking it into his mouth.

Okay—you’ve had your pussy eaten before, but goddamn never like this, never like it was a matter of life or death, as if your pussy alone was the answer to all things.

Miguel continued his ministrations, releasing a growl every few moments, licking to oblivion until you thought his jaw would lock. 

He made you see stars, groaning loudly as you gushed into his mouth. He savored your tangy taste as he lapped at your wet folds, making sure to lick up every drop he could find. 

His mouth and chin were soaked in your juices when he came back up, and it shot a fresh wave of arousal through your veins. His hand reached out to cup your face, his thumb smearing over the traces of his cum dotting across your cheek when you’d sucked him off earlier, catching some of it in your mouth before he'd pulled out, wanting to paint your face with it at the last moment. 

He dipped his thumb into your mouth, forcing you to clean it as he slid his cock over your messy pussy, smearing the underside in your juices. His body shook with need, his eyes glazed and lidded, teeth sinking into his lower lip as he whimpered something about you being so wet.

He pulled out his thumb from your mouth with a pop and watched how you panted underneath him, your exposed skin now covered in a sheen of sweat.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, positioning your legs over his shoulders before draping himself over you, folding you in half, “I’m sorry if I’m not gentle.”

Gentle? You were a big girl, you didn’t need him to be—

You cried out as soon as he pressed his fat head into your tiny hole, forcing your pussy to open up for him as he pushed in deeper without giving you much time to adjust.

“Fuck,” you sobbed, your hands scrambling to grip his arms as he began to thrust his hips, dragging his cock in and out of you at a bruising pace. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Miguel began to babble, grunting when your cunt squeezed the life from him, the slick noises of your drenched pussy egging him on. 

Maybe…gentle would have been nice knowing now how big he was, but you understood the circumstances of the situation. This was meant to be anything but gentle.

He had you coming again, your back arching and your bare chest pressing against his clothed one before he filled you with his own spend, pushing it as deep as he could into you. He pulled out harshly causing you to moan, watching his cum leak from your swollen pussy before slapping his length over your folds a few times and dipping back in.

He fucked you harder this time until your pussy throbbed and burned from the size of him, filling you up with so much of his cum, and delighting in the way it dripped out of you. 

“Again.” He grunted, pushing his cock into your convulsing walls, slamming in deep as he licked and sucked on your nipples, leaving red love marks over your skin. You sobbed from the pleasure, feeling his weight push you into the ground.

“I can’t!” You cried, pushing weakly against his shoulders.

“You can and you will.” Miguel commanded. He couldn’t stop, barely giving you a minute to catch your breath after making you both cum again before sinking into your searing heat, stretching you beyond your limits.

You were lightheaded and spent, losing count of the number of orgasms he’d given you. Miguel growled, pulling out his cock from your abused hole and shooting his load over your body. He pressed it into your skin, smearing it over your breasts and tender nipples, down your abdomen, and finally, over your burning pussy. 

He paused, his eyes tracing over your fucked out form before reaching down to pump himself with the leftover cum in his hand.

“I’m sorry, Hermosa,” he whispered, draping himself over you again, “I can’t stop, you feel too good. So fucking tight.” He slurped your nipple into his hot mouth, sucking the taste of him from your skin as he pushed his large cock into you. 

Your eyes fluttered and you cried out, your fingers digging into the earth, focusing on nothing but Miguel's rich voice:

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m—

…

It was nightfall by the time Miguel was satiated.

You felt weak, eyes heavy with sleep and body limp. Miguel sat against a tree and had you cradled in his arms, your body nestled comfortably between his legs. He rested his head over yours, inhaling the scent of sweat and dirt trapped in your hair. 

“See that flower?” He muttered, pointing straight ahead at a few giant white daisies clustering around a tree. They were massive, like everything else in that universe, the stems taller than Miguel when he was standing at his full height. You nodded sleepily, ignoring the ache in your still exposed cunt. “Don’t go near it.”

“Got it.” You absentmindedly played with the frayed pieces of your suit, letting Miguel shield your exposed skin from the elements.

You probably should’ve left already, should’ve gone back to HQ for a much-needed shower and rest, probably schedule another meeting, but Miguel wouldn’t budge, his grip on you tightening whenever you so much as shifted against him.

“Quèdate quieta.” He grunted.

“Miguel,” you protested, “we have to go home. The anomaly—”

“I know, hermosa,” he murmured softly, “I know.” You never seen him this soft before, nor speak in such a gentle way, not with anyone and least of all, not with you.

You both sat there in silence, processing what happened while listening to the sounds of the jungle, the birds chirping in the distance, the leaves rustling in the gentle wind. You sighed, playing with his interlocked fingers over your stomach. It was strangely intimate (despite everything else that happened), having him coddle you. 

“Miguel?”

“Mm?” 

“You better get me a suit like yours.” 

“What’s wrong with the fabric ones from HQ?”

“It’s a waste if you’re just gonna rip it off again.” You heard him snort out a breath, just the tiniest thing that implied he understood your meaning. You were hoping this wouldn’t be the first nor last time you’d be under him. “We got a deal?” 

Miguel chuckled, his hand leaving the safety of your abdomen to venture down into your sopping-wet folds. You bit your lip, spreading your tired thighs, whimpering as his thick fingers swirled inside.

“Deal, Hermosa.”

...

Quèdate quieta- Keep still

[rafeacs]

Best Friend Rafe x Reader Boat Day

Warnings: None (yet), fluff, soft rafe, yearning

“AH! What are you doing here?!” You screamed in utter fright as you stepped into your room, only to see Rafe lying on your bed. You were fresh from the shower and not at all expecting a presence to be waiting for you. 

“You haven’t seen me in a week, and that’s how you greet me?” Rafe questioned as he sat up, resisting a smirk to rise on his lips as you were only covered by a skimpy white towel. You roll your eyes and sigh, a smile coming to your lips, moving to your vanity to do your after-shower rituals, not at all conscious of your lack of clothing because you and your best friend Rafe were used to such scenes. 

“Seriously, what are you doing here?” You questioned, eyes locking with ocean one through the mirror where Rafe studied you as you lathered your face with differing products. “I haven’t seen you in a week. What? You didn’t miss me at all?” He raised his brow, and you laughed at the pretend hurt on his face. “How were the Bahamas?” You asked and stood, disregarding his question, and instead went to your closet to find something to wear. “Fine. It’d be better if you came,” He shrugged and peaked as you tried to decide what to wear. Catching the way you bent down to wear your underwear and shorts, your body still covered by a towel. Any sense of boundaries in your friendship seemed to disappear after years of knowing one another. Rafe smirked as you stepped out of your closet wearing one of his shirts that you stole from him. 

You sat next to him in bed, “It was a family vacation; I didn’t want to impose.” You shrugged. “So what’d you do while I was away? Sniff my shirts because you just miss me that much?” You scoffed a laugh and rolled your eyes at the smirk on his lips. “Sure, yeah, I just stared into your picture, counting down the days until you came back.” You went along with his bit. Rafe bit his lip and hoped you were telling the truth, but alas, he could only dream. 

“No, I uh— I mostly just stayed home, baked a bit. And played tennis; there’s a new instructor at the club; he’s cute— really great at tennis, too.” Rafe was quick to grow tense at your words, jealousy quickly spiking in him. “But he’s gay, so…” You added, and that eased the green-eyed monster in him. “Hm, what you wanna do today?” Rafe asked, wanting to change the subject. 

“Mm… I dunno, I kinda want to go to the beach.” You say, and Rafe nodded, “Then let’s go,” he quickly said. “But I also kinda just wanna hang out here,” You said, indecisive. “Then let’s hang out here,” Rafe responded, willing to do anything just as long you were in his company. You sighed and pursed your lips. “I don’t know, you pick!” You exclaimed, Rafe amused by your inability to make even the most measliest of decisions. 

“Wanna go on the boat? We could sail around, get some food, and catch the sunset,” He proposed and smiled as you eagerly nodded. Going to your closet to change your attire once more, Rafe shuffled in your room to get one of your bags and pack some things he knew you would need. “What book do you want?” He asked as he placed some towels in your bag, already anticipating you’d want to bring a book for the day, as you always did. “The one by my nightstand!” You yelled from the closet, trying to decide what color bathing suit to wear. Rafe took the book into his hand and smiled as he saw that you used a photo booth picture of the two of you as your bookmark.

Rafe squired you around town, getting the necessary things for your day in the boat—a lunch from your favorite restaurant and a pint of your favorite ice cream. When you arrived at the marina, Rafe could practically feel your excitement. He was quick to disembark his truck and open the door for you, swinging your bag on his shoulder as he escorted you to his family’s boat. As the sun rose higher and higher and the view of the island drew further, you and Rafe decided to have your lunch, but before the two of you could eat, you stepped and appeared with a giant thing of sunscreen in your hands. 

“I wanna eat,” Rafe grumbled as you sat next to him, placing sunscreen on his face. Your soft hands sent chills down his spine no matter how blaring the island sun was. He kept on complaining, saying he didn’t need sunscreen, but it did nothing to hinder you from traveling your hands along his chest and back as you applied for protection from the sun. “Men don’t need sunscreen,” Rafe grumbled as he watched you apply more of the lotion on his forearms. “You say that, but even men are not immune to melanoma,” You chirped, “Okay, all done!” You said you applied sunscreen to yourself as well; Rafe was waiting for you to finish before he started to eat. 

“Can you get my back?” You innocently asked, handing Rafe the tube. Rafe swallowed as you turned your back to him. Trying not to succumb to his urges because it would surely be obvious from the swimming trunks he wore. Rafe messaged the sunscreen on your back and marveled at how soft your skin was, resisting his urges to ‘accidentally’ pull the string of your bikini top and let his fingers trail further your frame. “Al— All done,” Rafe struggled to say after a moment, taking his time to spread the lotion all over your back, savoring each moment you let him touch your skin. 

You nodded and settled to his side as they both started to have lunch, but first, you took out a baby wipe and cleaned your hands. Rafe smiled fondly as you held his hands to clean them. He just loved how you fussed over him, how you were the only one who genuinely cared about his well-being. 

The afternoon was spent with you and Rafe lounging on the deck of the boat. Rafe pointed your view to the setting sun, and your back was settled against his chest as you read him your book. Rafe had no idea about the words you uttered. All he focused upon was the feel of your frame flushed against his, your voice that soothed his mind, and the fantasy that perhaps one day, you two could be more than just mere best friends. 

[hh0320]

𓄹 ⊹   ᳝🪐 ࣪⠀.  vanilla baby 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 ( i am only as good as you want me to be )

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫. chris x fem! reader x changbin 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞. mechanic! brothers au, love triangle, small town, age gap, first love! chris, love at first sight, angst, smut 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. smoking, profanity, use of pet names, explicit sexual content, dirty talk, brief violence, jealousy, possessiveness, flawed characters 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭. 4k | 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑻𝑾𝑶, 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑹𝑬𝑬, 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑭𝑶𝑼𝑹 ->

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬. “i know what you want. i know what you want and i can’t give it to you, baby girl.”

Then.

The first thing you’d noticed about him—his hands.

Strong, capable hands with long fingers and veins that protruded at the knuckles, up his forearms and disappearing underneath the sleeves of his shirt. Experienced hands, colored by the long hours in the sun with your father, full of calluses, rough, tougher than sandpaper. 

When they’d brushed against yours at the dinner table that one glorious time, he’d pulled them back immediately, almost embarrassed, refusing to touch something as soft as you, to graze, to taint in any way. You passed him the bread despite his withdrawal, stubborn for connection, any reason to build a memory for your brain to obsess over in the privacy of your bedroom later, under the covers, eyes closed and legs wide open, exploring, imagining.

Freshly nineteen then, what had started as a silly crush had transformed into a blossoming madness, a rush of red painting you entire everytime he was near, perhaps even love—your first love, your only love—nevertheless how futile, how empty your advances left you, how little he seemed to notice or care for the matter.

Chris. Christopher. You grew up under him, under his honey brown eyes and full mouth that spoke only of kindness and a protectiveness so endearing, primitive almost, like you called to him, something of his skin, his kin. Four years older than you no matter what you did, and your father’s right hand every summer.

That same summer you’d decided to confess. If, at the very least, he told you to wait, you would. Forever, if you had to. And if, by some miracle, he happened to feel the same, if he’d harbored the same unexplainable thing as you, you’d jump in his arms and never let go, not a chance. That had been the plan all senior year, the only real thought in your mind, your purpose for existing at that point in time, it seemed. You had to get it out, you had to share it, it’d become so heavy, eating away at your heart, taking over everything, missed appetite and sleepless nights.

You loved him. You loved him. There was no way to refuse it. No way to hide it anymore. It wasn’t a crime, not in your eyes.

So, you did. You told him. After dinner, your dad sat by the TV with his other male guests, your friends’ father’s (everyone knew everyone in this town, no way around it) and your mom was washing dishes. Chris had announced his departure early, and after the polite goodbye’s and the see-you-tomorrow’s, he’d let himself out, climbing the porch stairs down to his car. That was your chance, your only shot at releasing your heart before it swallowed you entire. 

Before college.

At the sound of his name, he’d turned, hand on the handle. Unassuming. Smiling softly down at you and the way you ran after him, like how you used to when you were kids. Not that much older, but old enough. It was always there, that looming cloud. Sometimes, you couldn’t see past it. Nevertheless.

“What did I forget?” He called out humorously. He was known for that. Too many inside jokes and instances to count.

“Nothing,” you pant, trying to catch your breath in your excitement, and the way you’d just taken all four steps seemingly at once, forgetting how to properly walk, how to not chase, how to not appear clingy or childish. “Nothing at all.”

Chris frowned momentarily, his back resting against the vintage convertible he’d inherited from his grandfather. In the heat of summer, with the loud crickets and flow of the nearby river, you were so absolutely certain the rush of your blood could be heard all the way from where he stood. It rang in your ears, made you dizzy. He had to see the sway of your movements, the hand on your chest. Other things, too, if he so wished, if he only asked . . .

“Then why are you out here, darling? It’s too hot for you. Better go inside.”

You had to do it. You had to do it now.

“Chris, I—” you took a deep breath. You tried to calm your racing heart. You looked into his eyes, deep and dark and drowning. Beautiful. “I don’t know how to say it,” you admit regretfully, ashamed. “I thought it’d be easier than this.”

He’s only being as he is, you remind yourself, as he nears your panicked figure, jeans fitting him perfectly, sleeves rolled deliciously over toned arm muscle, shirt revealing a strong, masculine chest, and a neck you’d like to feel under your tongue. These have been forbidden thoughts, thoughts you keep for your bed, at night, with your door locked. Having him in front of you, like this—tousled hair, earrings you’d gifted him for his birthday in full display—it messed with the strings of your very being. You were short-circuiting, words getting stuck in your throat, unable to escape.

He’s only being as he is, as he reaches out, fingers tangling in your hair, pushing them over your shoulder, studying you as if you’re sick, as if looking for signs of hurt, of injury. Thumb over your cheek, index grabbing ahold of your chin, touch gentle but fingers rough, always rough, and you lean into, against, you wait, you see what he’ll do next, you hope for it, anything, anything at all so you won’t have to say it, but—

“I know what you want,” softly, barely above a whisper. You close your eyes shut, bracing for impact, sensing the rejection. You try not to cry, you do. This will hurt you. It will break your heart. You brace, and you brace. His touch remains the same, his voice steady, albeit a bit sad. “I know what you want, and I can’t give it to you, baby girl.”

Your heart beats, raging against the cage of you. So, he knew. He knew and ignored it. He knew and pretended it wasn’t. Your heart, your heart, your poor heart… Mere kindness. All it was. All it will ever be.

You speak despite your cottonmouth. You refuse to cry. You refuse. “Why? I’m going away, it doesn’t matter. Why?”

His lips on your ear, a promised lover’s gesture. You shudder. You think, this is the only thing he’ll ever give me, this secret. You crave it, you’ve dreamt about it. You’re ready. If not for anything else, for this. His words. His hands in your hair. Him him him on you, on you, in any way.

“Because it matters,” he says. “Because if I get my hands on you, I will ruin you. You’re our golden girl, the one I’m not supposed to touch.”

He’s off you before you can blink, before you can reach out. Like it never happened. A midsummer’s daydream. You open your eyes to see him getting in his car, your mom now calling out your name. You answer to the one that said nothing. You go to him. You crawl, in your mind. Through a desert, through dirt and mud and a rainforest. There’s nothing like the heartbreak of a first love, nothing like it at all. Salt on the most painful wound and it never heals.

“Ruin me, then,” you say, a little too loudly and a little too stubbornly, and your voice is cracking. “I don’t care! I’m yours to do what you like. I’ve been yours since the moment I saw you.”

Chris smiles again, and his kindness poisons something deep inside you. To him, you’re a girl from the city that visits in the summers. A girl that always leaves. To you, he’s a dream. An unattainable fantasy. In his car, at the end of July, he almost looks like he’ll miss you. It’s everything even if it’s nothing.

“If you’re mine, you’ll go inside,” stealthy, severe, always doing the right thing. “You won’t cause any trouble, and you’ll forget about me. I’m not worth your time, darling.”

You don’t understand, you don’t want to. You cling onto his door, his words and his eyes. Your mom calls again. The engine roars, coming to life. You shake your head, you don’t want this to end, you don’t want him to leave.

He didn’t say no, he didn’t turn you away. 

But he didn’t say yes.

“You’ll never see me again,” you plead, you threaten. “I’ll never come back!” Perhaps you say this to punish him. You’re petty, and you’re aching all over and he’s driving away.

You loved him. You loved him and he took your face in his hands and told you how he won’t have you. You think you hate him now a little as well.

“Take care of yourself, sweetheart, yeah?” is the last thing he leaves you with. “Get some sleep.”

A lot. Your heart has frozen solid. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him—it beats all over, a new drum. You hate him because he didn’t give you a clear end. You hate him because you can’t love him.

You wondered if maybe he hates you too, because of the same reason. If it kept him up at night. If he touched himself with the thought of almost having you.

That summer, you went back to the city with the excuse of getting an early start with moving into your new dorm. Your mother complained, your father said nothing. Almost as if he knew.

It’d be four years before you saw Christopher again.

Now.

Two days.

Before you drove back to your family’s summer house, you’d given yourself forty-eight hours worth of a head start to not do something completely fucking stupid. The last thing had been that degrading blowjob you’d given your last boyfriend off the highway, before you two parted ways outside a Kmart, and you began your drive to the little town you’d grown up in.

You did this to yourself, you really did. Reducing into body parts for men, convincing yourself it was better this way, at least you still had the most important thing, the thing you kept for him, the only thing you wouldn’t let anyone else take. And did it even fucking matter? He was probably married and not in the least concerned with the memory of you. He’d probably already have a kid or two, a dog and a white picket fence. Life over there went by differently than in the city.

You had the diploma, at long last, but he was the one with the family. He was the one with the sense of belonging. Probably. Most likely. You kept telling yourself this as you passed by mountains and gas station after gas station, big stretches of nothing at all with the occasional property if you squint hard enough. He didn’t matter, not anymore, not when you could have anyone you wanted, not when you did, and you were certainly not coming back for him.

You’d been a teenager, then. You knew nothing except for what was shown to you. You know better now. You know more. And, anyway, your cousin was getting married. Your entire family was in celebration, already down there and preparing the estate for the extravagant event. You had no time to think about him and his words and his stupid mouth and how good it had felt pressed against you. The ghost of that particular memory haunted you a little too much, but you were working on it.

Many men had whispered over him. Many had touched your hair and your face, many had called you baby and darling and fucking incredible. You avoid how none had ever spoken of the golden girl he’d seen, or the sweet sound of darling, a pet name reserved, apparently, not to be used by anyone else in case it got tarnished. Frustrating as it was, a part of you had been glad. For what, you weren’t sure.

You cling onto the vapors of your hate and you drive into town, breath bated.

The house sits proud a few feet away from the river as it always did, time seeming to have missed it, though the wear appears in the cracks, tiny clues of use and years long gone. The windows are all open, and there are cars parked in the small driveway. Your gaze doesn’t linger to the spot you’d begged for love nor to the tree with the wooden swing. Certainly there’s bound to be a place with no memories, no triggers. 

This would be a lot easier if he never existed so loudly next to you. If your childhood hadn’t been intertwined with his. Alas.

Your mother greets you first, a kiss on your cheek and a warm hug. She smells of peaches and powdered sugar. You mention to her your luggage and she yells for your uncle. Your father is busy with the garden, she informs you.

“Hasn’t left the damn place alone,” she scorns, but she’s smiling and you know she doesn’t mind one bit, not really.

A blurry haze of arms and niceties later, you’re up in your old room, everything as it was. The sheets are clean and the closets empty, but besides that, you can almost pretend you never skipped a summer, like nothing had changed.

Of course, everything had changed. You felt dirty after every shower, mouthwash wasn’t enough to clean the evidence of semen off of you, and like a thorn on your side—him, pressing against the restrictions of your brain, threatening to spill in, to spill out.

He hadn’t kissed your mouth. He’d been so close, you’d felt his intention, you’d felt so much more than he’d said, and yet—no matter. He hadn’t kissed your mouth so you polluted it in hopes that he never dares try. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Your father had retired the fields, all sold and out of his hands. Out of your life. It was only natural that he was, too. For good. Like you wanted.

Yes.

Dinner was a chaotic affair, with extended family and children running around the table, refusing to eat and complaining about dessert. Your mother laughed and used her ways to scare them, the same ways she’d once used on you and the rest of the children in her household, the ones you were raised with, until they finally submitted and forked a couple bites of the casserole she’d served.

Admitted into adulthood already, the wine ran plenty in your glass, so much so, you were working your way towards well past tipsy by the time pie came out. Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing, and even after you silenced it, the screen lighting up with messages gave you a headache. Hook-ups. Insignificant men that tried to contact you after graduation and still didn’t seem to get the hint.

You’d dug yourself a hole. Completely fucking stupid.

Air. You needed air.

“Be right back,” you announce, as you hurry out of the house in a fashion reminiscent of your childhood days.

Outside is humid and chilly, but it’s not inside, and your phone is a safe distance away, where it can’t hurt you, and suddenly you feel like walking, so you do.

The fresh smell of grass hits you, and you indulge in the fact that you’ve missed this place. You’ve missed its familiarity, the way it curves and stretches around you. Nothing can truly harm you here. Even the things that did—they don’t seem so big in the middle of a night like this. Eternal summer.

You walk, and you walk.

Minutes or hours later, hard to tell when there’s nothing around to act as a landmark, you reach the crossroads, a place that could either lead to very unstable patches of land and water or the local market, if you went far enough. From where you stood, though, the neon sign of the only bar in town stared back at you, flashing purples and greens, surely a desperate attempt to be seen from miles away in hopes of attracting customers. Of any sort.

The familiar thrumming of your blood, the one that signaled nothing but trouble and misery—it was the only thing you could hear. As sure and as loud as anything. Your own body betraying what your heart knows not to engage. Your brain spoke once—do not go, there’s nothing good for you there, and the terrible ache in you answered—if I go, I get to drown.

If I go, I forget. Then, I can go back.

The interior was simple enough, speakers playing something aged and fast, the electric guitar blasting over everything else, every single one of your thoughts, whatever doubts you still held. You looked around only once—a pool table, bike riders drinking by it, tall tables and more men, men older than you, bigger than you, men that could take you to the back and show you exactly what you’re doing in a place like this, at a time like this, when you could be having pie with your cousins in the comfort of your home.

It wasn’t normal. You weren’t normal. And you could leave, easy as that.

But you didn’t. You ordered a gin and coke and you took a seat at the bar. Your gaze lingered once, and it’d been enough. The bartender was a woman—a woman that knew what you were doing, because she’d seen it all before. Perhaps she’d been you, a long time ago. Perhaps it didn’t matter, then, because she’s here, which means she didn’t learn, because this is only a place that you can end up in, and not something you could possibly want for yourself.

Except you did and you have, and look what it’s cost you.

You should probably call home, let them know you’ll be a while. You don’t have to, but it’s the right thing to do after you ran out like that. Facing the weakness of you, though, the claustrophobia of your own life—you couldn’t do it, not then, not there. You’d set out to do a different thing, a pretend thing.

You’d see it through.

The bait had caught. You felt the figure sit next to you, real leather jacket, roughed up and heavy, the boots worn in, black and haphazardly laced. From the corner of your eye, dark hair, curly, falling over even darker brows. Full lips.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he spoke. Voice raspy, chain smoker inspired.

You smile. Pie may be familiar, but this is what you know truly. In its essence.

“Probably,” you reply, and it’s bullshit. “Will you give me a ride later?”

The stranger chuckles, humming low. In approval. You still don’t turn your head to look at him. Any one of them will do. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter.

“Later, huh?” There’s mirth in how he says it. “You got plans now?”

You nod, humoring along. You take a sip out of the drink served to you, and it burns, but it burns good. It burns real. It warns you.

“Maybe. It depends, I think.”

“On what, pretty girl?” He was intrigued, bless him.

This is a worked recipe, a play on its fifth season. The lines have been rehearsed a thousand times over, the actors established in their parts. He’s nothing, he’s there and you’re here, it’ll be quick and it’ll be insignificant, unexceptional like all the times before it, and you’ll hate every moment of it because it’s not him, it will never be, because he doesn’t want you, he never has, never has, never will.

“On if you’ll take me for a little walk in the back,” this joke is only funny to you.

You do sneak a glance this time, just to seal the deal.

“I don’t take walks, sweetheart, never have. Not wise to go around offering that.”

Your face drops.

You know this man. And he knows you.

He used to work on your dad’s car. Still does. Has lived here his whole life.

You can fix this, you can fix this. “You don’t have to take me up on it.”

There’s that chuckle again, hoarse and mocking. A glitch in the perfectly curated system.

You should’ve known nothing would go your way in this godforsaken town.

“How can I refuse?” You hated the stupid smirk in his voice. “Not everyday a hot piece of ass is offering blowjobs for nothing.”

Okay, that was it. The illusion had shattered.

“Fuck you, Changbin.”

The man in the leather jacket adjusted in his seat, laughing soundlessly. “Was it too much? I thought the vulgarity would be a turn on.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Because I didn’t play your game.”

“No,” you got up, throwing a bill on the bar and sneaking a last taste of the hard liquor. “You didn’t.”

He follows you. Out the door, and into the summer night. Combat boots to your own sandals. Changbin exists so much louder than you, it can only seem like you’re the bark to his bite.

He’s figured you out already. How did he and how could he?

Is he still around. Is he married. Does he talk about you. Things you couldn’t ask.

“So, what now?” He asks, and the silence breaks in such an ugly way. “I say no and you run away?”

You try to ignore him. You walk. You try to walk back. Something tells you he’s not going to let you go that easy. Something inside you wants him not to. The honey brown eyes burn behind your eyelids.

Changbin has dark eyes, and a scar. It stretches down his neck, white and painful looking, like someone had tried carving into him. Changbin is gruff; he’s older than Chris and wider in the same way a bulldozer would be. He looks capable of tearing down buildings and lifting heavy rock with his bare hands.

You don’t trust him.

You especially don’t trust the way he cares.

“You say no and I go find someone else.”

“Not very smart, is that.”

“I don’t care.”

You’re abruptly stopped, grabbed by the arm and turned around. You look into the semi stranger's eyes for a long time, trying to see if he’d cave first and release you. Granted, he didn’t look the type. Granted, you weren’t the type, either.

He clicked his tongue. The lights over his head flickered.  “What’s wrong with you?” He demands, gaze searching.

A practiced answer. A practiced smirk, the curve of your lip. “It’s just a bit of fun.”

“This is not a bit of fun. You don’t belong here.”

You pull against his hold. He doesn’t budge. If anything he pulls closer, holds tighter. 

“How do you know where I belong?”

“You’re lost,” he continues, ignoring you. “You need to go home.”

Why does everyone keep telling me that? And then, another question, a deeper one. Where is home? How do I get there?

“Oh, no. Will you tell on me?” It was meant to be sarcastic.

“Should I?” He challenges, brow raising. “Is this a pattern of yours?”

“They wouldn’t know.”

His face opens, indescribable, and then just as suddenly, he nods once to himself, assessing. Then, “Go home, little girl.”

Screw him. Your blood boiled upon hearing the words strung together. It’s been this way your whole life, how it mattered; naive, innocent girl, unaware of the ways of the world, how it bends for everyone else but you, how no one seemed to care about what you want, because you’re young and female and those things together have meant nothing and everything for so long. All your life.

“ I am not a little girl,” you spit the degrading words out like poison. It disgusts you—how much that night still affects you. How you were made to feel.

The mechanic didn’t budge. If he saw, if he understood, he didn’t say, didn’t show. “You’re acting like one,” it came out matter-of-factly, deadpanned. “I’m calling your father.”

He did not seem eager to cater to your demands and fantasies. He had his own way of dealing with creatures like you. This isn’t what you needed tonight, nor what you came out here seeking. It was supposed to be one of the same—he was supposed to be one of the same.

Not like Chris. Anything other than Chris.

You panic. Of course you do.

“Let me go.”

He does. He also makes the call.

You hate Changbin too, you decide. You hate him almost as much as you hate his brother.

[boggsart]

I’ve decided to post all of the progress here as well, not just on instagram. Some people have asked to be tagged once I post some progress, but I can’t remember who they were. So if you wanna see future progress, let me know and I’ll tag you!

This one may not look too different from the previous one, but nothing really turned out the way I intended to.

The colors, the textures, the focus, the sounds, the camera, everything just seems so off, and oh boy the animation… this is the result of rushing and not knowing what I’m doing, just inserting keyframes, tweaking the graph editor and hoping for the best. So maybe signing up for this project wasn’t a great idea after all lol. Plus the datapad’s not even fully textured, you can literally see where I started adding details on the front, then for some reason I just left off lol

One thing I’ll definitely work on in the future is the menu itself, because if this project is for a graphic design thesis, then I might as well try to make the only thing that has something to do with it look more presentable. I’ll definitely be changing up the fonts, and I have some other ideas for the background as well.

But for now, I’ll move on to the remaining 5 character menu animations. Originally there were gonna be 5, not 7. At first I was randomly picking out the characters I wanted to make one for, then I realized, it’d probably be best, if each squad got one animation. The 501st gets Rex, the 212th gets Cody, the CG gets Fox, the 104th gets Wolffe, and the 241st gets Tukk. CF99 got Hunter but I really wanted to make one for Tech as well, since modeling and texturing him took the longest 💀

Once all of that’s done, I can finally move on to animating the trailer video. Which I’m terrified of, but oh well lol

[shaiyasstuff]

trace | sylus | finale

synopsis : You hadn’t just held a candle for him. You’d built entire constellations. content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus now playing : Slow dancing in a burning room - John Mayer(Live in L.A.), In the stars - Benson Boone and Those Eyes - New West toward the ending

part | one | two

“We’re coming to you live from the hometown of rising basketball star, Sylus—”

The TV buzzed faintly in the background, but you weren’t listening. Not really.

“Little Ziera~” you cooed, cradling the squishy eight-month-old in your lap. She giggled up at you, wide-eyed and drooling, her tiny hands reaching for your face like you were the funniest person alive.

You chuckled, gently pinching her fingers. “She’s way too cute to be your kid.”

Shaiya scowled, tossing a cushion at your side. “At least she’s mine. Where’s yours, huh?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m perfectly content as a single, thanks.” You turned your attention back to the baby, who was now trying to eat your finger.

But then—quietly, like she was just thinking aloud—Shaiya said, “It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

Your hands paused for just a beat. Then you smiled again, letting Ziera curl her fingers around yours.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shaiya scoffed. Again. Loudly.

Honestly, you were beginning to think it was her love language. “Sure. That good boy from college—Xavier, right? You dumped him outta nowhere, said you wanted to ‘focus on your career.’”

She gave you a look. “Y/N, I’ve known you since we were fifteen.”

You sighed, eyes flicking to her out the corner of your eye. She wasn’t wrong. “It’s not because of Sylus,” you said.

But your voice cracked on the lie.

Another scoff—Shaiya should bottle them by now.

“It’s been seven years, Y/N.” Her tone softened. “Aren’t you tired? Zayne and I… we worry about you.”

You clicked your tongue, a little sharper than you meant to. “Not everyone gets to meet the love of their life in high school, Shaiya.”

That came out harsher than intended.

But the truth was, you were tired. Tired of pretending the past didn’t claw at your chest every time you let yourself breathe.

Seven years.

That’s how long it’d been since you walked away. Since you packed your bags, left the town, the memories, him.

You had everything now—graduated with a degree in art history, landed a solid career at a museum, built a life.

You should’ve been proud. You were, most days.

But then the nights came.

Nights where you stayed late restoring paintings under soft lamplight, and something—always something—would trigger it.

A shade of gray, the exact tone of his hair when the gym lights hit it just right.

A cluster of rubies embedded in an old frame—the same red as his eyes.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just color. Just coincidence.

Until the night you couldn’t hold it anymore—drunk, curled up on Shaiya’s couch, sobbing into her shirt while she held you like she used in high school.

You didn’t even know why you were crying.

He was just a childhood friend.

Just a boy who made you laugh at the worst times.

Just someone who promised you the stars and gave you silence instead.

Just someone.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because when it came down to it, he had looked at you—eyes you swore once saw your soul—and called you just someone.

And no matter how far you ran, how many museums you worked in, or how many masterpieces you restored…

The little girl in you still ached.

Still waited.

Still wanted to be held and told she wasn’t just someone.

She wanted to hear she was enough.

You sighed, pulled back into the present as you shifted Ziera into your arms. She settled easily against your chest, warm and safe, her tiny breaths brushing your collarbone.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead. “It’s just—”

The words caught in your throat for a second. You hesitated. Thought about leaving it there.

But then, softly, “Maybe it’s because I’ve always held a candle for him, you know?”

You glanced at Shaiya.

She didn’t say anything—just nodded. The kind of quiet nod only best friends give, when they don’t need you to explain further.

“And it hurts,” you added, voice barely above a whisper, “because I really thought he felt the same.”

And for a moment, that truth just hung there—between the two of you.

Quiet, and heavy, and real.

That night, after Shaiya and Ziera had gone home, you sat by the window with a cup of tea, lukewarm and untouched.

The television was still on.

Static humming from a sports channel running a rerun of the same segment. His name blinked across the bottom of the screen.

Sylus. Local hero. Rising star.

You didn’t even have to look to know which footage they’d chosen—his college tryout game, the one where he scored at the buzzer, the crowd on their feet.

His smile had been blinding that day. And distant.

You reached up to close the window, but stopped.

The breeze carried something soft through the screen—a faint echo of summer air, gymnasium sweat, and old laughter.

It was almost cruel how memory worked.

How your body still knew the sound of his laugh even if your heart had tried to forget.

Your fingers curled tighter around the mug.

You weren’t supposed to be here, still thinking about him.

You weren’t supposed to flinch every time you heard his name in passing—not supposed to feel like this.

You told yourself you’d moved on. That what happened in high school was just a chapter.

But the truth was, he’d never really ended. Just... paused.

Like some song you couldn’t stop humming in quiet moments.

Your phone buzzed beside you, dragging you back. A message from your museum supervisor—something about the new restoration project starting tomorrow.

You stared at it blankly for a moment before locking the screen again. You weren’t ready to return to a world where red paint made your breath catch.

Outside, the street was quiet. Not even the moon felt like it wanted to watch you tonight.

You leaned your head against the cool glass.

Seven years. And still somehow—

You missed him like it had only been yesterday.

“So, what do you like to do?”

The question echoed like a crack in glass—sudden, sharp, uninvited.

You blinked, and suddenly you weren’t sitting by the window anymore.

You were ten again, barefoot on sun-warmed pavement, fingers sticky with popsicle syrup.

He had looked down at you, taller even then, shadows of mischief in his eyes.

“Uhm… drawing. I like to draw dragons.” You’d said it softly, barely above a whisper, clutching your sketchbook to your chest like it was something sacred.

He’d grinned—wide, toothy. “Cool. I think that’s the first time you said more than five words to me.”

You remember blushing, shoving him lightly, and the way he laughed like it was the best thing in the world.

Back then, it was simple.

Back then, he made you feel like your shy little world—quiet sketches and messy water colours—mattered.

You blinked again, the present folding over the memory like a sheet pulled over a bed.

Your tea had gone cold. Your heart, colder still.

It was stupid, how one memory could unravel you. How one boy could still live in all the soft places you thought you’d outgrown.

You curled in tighter by the window, knees pulled to your chest, eyes fluttering shut.

You hadn’t just held a candle for him.

You’d built entire constellations.

The morning was gray.

Muted light filtered through your window as you pulled your coat tighter around you, bag slung loosely over your shoulder.

The streets were still quiet, the city not yet fully awake. Just the soft murmur of passing cars and the gentle hush of your boots against pavement.

You didn’t mind the silence.

It gave you time to think.

To breathe.

To feel the ache you kept neatly folded beneath your clothes.

Halfway to the museum, your phone buzzed. You glanced down—Mom.

You answered with a small smile already tugging at your lips.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Y/N, good morning, sweetpea,” came the warm voice on the other end, the one that always sounded like a hug, no matter how far you were.

You shifted your phone between shoulder and cheek. “How’s Dad? Is he still trying to fix the garage door himself?”

Your mother huffed out a laugh. “He refuses to admit defeat. Says retirement hasn’t dulled him a bit.”

You smiled to yourself, rounding a quiet corner as you neared the main avenue. “Tell him to be careful. Last time he nearly threw his back out.”

There was a pause. Then her voice softened, like she was already switching gears.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I bumped into Mrs. Qin the other day at the grocer’s. She said Sylus just got featured in some sports article—local paper did a full spread.”

Your smile faltered.

You didn’t say anything.

Your mother, oblivious, continued, “He’s doing so well, that boy. She says he’s still in town. Isn’t that something?”

You gave a noncommittal hum. “Yeah… something.”

“She wanted to pass along her regards,” your mother added. “Said she misses the days you two ran around like stray cats. Honestly, I don’t think she knows how to cook dinner for less than five people.”

You laughed—quiet, breathy.

Your mother didn’t know what happened between you.

No one really did.

And that was how you preferred it.

Because the moment you’d try to explain—really explain—it would sound pathetic.

Like you hadn’t grown past it. Like your heart hadn’t aged with you.

And how could you tell your mother, of all people, that the boy she still calls sweet had once looked at you like you were nothing?

So you didn’t.

You never did.

You let her memories live in peace. Preserved in the way all mothers choose to remember things—softer, warmer, easier.

“Anyway,” she chirped after a moment, “your father and I are settling just fine. It’s nice being back. Quiet. Familiar.”

Your breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

Back.

You knew they had moved in recent months. Something about the coast getting too loud, too expensive. A small town would be better now that your father had retired.

Back to where it all started.

Of course.

You swallowed, the weight of those words pressing against your collarbones. “I’m glad,” you said quietly. “You deserve the quiet.”

“We do,” she agreed, and you could hear her smile through the phone. “Alright, darling, I’ll let you go. Be safe at work, hmm? And eat something. You sound too thin.”

“I love you,” you said softly.

“Love you more.”

The call ended, and for a moment, you stood still beneath the streetlight.

Sylus.

Of course you knew what he was doing.

You always knew.

You didn’t have to stalk his socials, didn’t have to ask around.

Your mother was more than happy to fill in the gaps. She thought she was doing you a kindness—keeping you connected, reminding you of simpler times.

But all it ever did was open old wounds in quiet, invisible ways.

He was doing great.

Of course he was.

Living his dream, chasing the future, smiling for cameras and shaking hands with people who only knew the part of him he allowed them to see.

Not the boy who once cried on your shoulder when his father got sick.

Not the boy who made you laugh so hard your sides hurt on rainy days.

Not the boy who said you were just someone.

You inhaled slowly.

Then you turned and continued walking, the museum finally coming into view through the morning mist.

It stood like it always did—still, ancient, beautiful in its faded elegance.

Your sanctuary.

Your second skin.

And even though your heart was still somewhere between yesterday and never again, your hands knew what to do.

They always did.

You slipped off your coat and tossed it over your bag, offering a tired smile as you greeted your coworkers.

A few nodded back, some mid-sip in their coffees, others too focused on their stations to look up. The usual.

Sliding into your spot, you pushed up your sleeves, snapped your gloves on, and leaned over the covered piece waiting on your desk.

“What are we working on today?”

Your colleague turned with a grin that said you’re not ready.

“The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun. The original.” His voice held a hint of reverence.

You blinked, processing. “Wait—the one? From the Brooklyn Museum?”

He nodded, practically bouncing. “Mmhmm.”

You stepped closer, the curiosity already pulling you in. “How’d it end up here?”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “No idea. Word is, the chief wants you on it specifically. Said he needed your touch.”

He nudged your shoulder, and you shook your head, amused.

When you peeled the cloth back, your breath caught a little.

There it was—delicate, dark, divine. The paper had aged, but the power in the strokes still pulsed like a heartbeat.

You leaned in, careful. “This piece is so light-sensitive. I don’t even want to know what they had to do to get it here safely.”

And yet, here it was.

Fragile. Faded. Still here.

Still waiting to be restored.

“UV lamp—now.” You flicked a hand toward the supply cabinet. Your colleague tossed you a mock salute and half‑jogged off to fetch it.

When the violet glow finally washed over the paper, you held your breath, moving the beam as delicately as a fingertip tracing silk.

Hairline fractures spider‑webbed beneath the surface and the varnish had yellowed into the color of old honey.

“It’s a miracle it’s still holding together,” you murmured, shoulders tense. “I’m afraid to even breathe on it, let alone touch.”

You set to work with that quiet, unwavering focus people always praised—steady hands, breath held soft.

Outside, daylight bled into twilight, then into ink.

One by one the overhead lamps clicked off as colleagues drifted home, until only your desk lamp burned, a lone circle of gold in the cavernous studio.

By the time the last door shut, you were alone with the Dragon—brush poised, silence thick, night pressing its palms against the windows.

You sighed, stepping back from the table, eyes sweeping over the painting with a tired kind of pride.

It was still far from whole, but something about it already breathed easier.

A quick glance at your watch made your stomach drop. “Shit,” you muttered. It was late—too late.

You peeled off your gloves, fingers stiff, and tied your hair into a loose bun as you moved around the room, quietly packing up your tools, storing everything with the care you always gave your work.

On your way out, you ducked into the bathroom, intent on washing the day from your face before heading home.

Back in the dim studio, the painting remained where you left it—battered and beautiful, raw in its incompletion.

Like it was asking the world to see it.

Look at me.

Even like this.

Especially like this.

You were halfway out the studio when you stopped cold in the hallway.

“My phone.”

Of course. You’d left it on the desk again.

With a sigh, you turned back, your steps echoing softly in the empty corridor.

The room was quiet when you re-entered, humming with the silence of things left unfinished.

You spotted your phone easily enough, tucked near your sketch pad.

But just as you reached for it, something tugged at you.

Your gaze shifted.

To the box.

To it.

Just one more look.

You told yourself it wouldn’t matter.

But it did.

Because the moment your eyes found the painting again, the breath left your chest.

The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun.

And suddenly, you were thirteen again—flat on the pavement after tripping over your own feet, and him, Sylus, standing above you with that crooked grin.

“You’re so clumsy,” he’d laughed, offering his hand. “But damn if you don’t fall like it’s poetry.”

It was bright that day too.

Sunlight catching in your hair.

His shadow falling over you.

And you, smiling like the world wasn’t heavy yet.

Your fingers hovered above the paper now, inches from the Dragon’s wings. They curled like tension incarnate, massive and wild.

The red used in his form was so vivid it almost bled—rage, desire, hunger. He loomed over the woman below, poised to consume.

And yet the woman—radiant, untouched—was bathed in golden light, her figure fragile but unyielding.

Like hope.

Like the kind of faith that doesn’t flinch even in the face of ruin.

Your lips twitched slightly.

Funny.

It almost looked like the two of you—how he was always the storm that never quite swallowed you, how you were always the light that refused to dim, even when it hurt.

You stepped closer, eyes drifting from the Dragon’s horns to the space where the woman stood, untouched but watched.

Desired, but distant.

Blake had painted divine conflict—man’s hunger for purity, the beast’s need to possess what it could not reach.

And maybe that’s what it was with Sylus, too.

He had looked at you like that once.

Like you were something too sacred to hold, too precious to keep.

And still, he let you go.

You pressed your hand lightly to your chest, heart aching in that slow, familiar way.

Maybe that was the tragedy.

You had always wanted to be chosen.

And he had always feared breaking what he loved.

—•

"Hey, you made it, man. And I don’t just mean the trophies or interviews.”

His friend grinned, throwing an arm over Sylus’ shoulder like no time had passed at all. Like they were still in high school, ditching practice to watch sunsets on cracked bleachers. “Look at you. Big shot.”

Sylus huffed a quiet laugh, head tilting just slightly. “Sorry. I’ve been... busy.”

His friend gasped, hand flying to his chest in mock betrayal. “Damn. You sound like an adult. Since when do you apologise, Sylus? What happened to that brooding teen who quoted Nietzsche during suicide drills?”

Sylus smirked, eyes glinting with something dry and familiar. “He still quotes Nietzsche.”

“Thank god,” his friend exhaled dramatically. “Thought for a second you grew out of your villain arc.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

Sylus bumped him lightly with his shoulder, the kind of nudge that said I missed this without having to say it at all. The rooftop party carried on behind them—music floating into the night, glasses clinking, the occasional cheer breaking through.

But up here, tucked just slightly out of reach, time felt slower. Softer.

“You’ve changed, though,” Sylus said after a moment, watching him from the side. “Less of an annoying gnat.”

His friend snorted. “Marriage does that to a man. That, and budgeting spreadsheets.”

Sylus laughed—just a breath of it, low and worn-in. He leaned against the railing, city lights flickering against his jaw, casting him half in gold, half in shadow.

Then came the silence.

The kind that wasn’t awkward. Just familiar.

The kind that curled in the spaces where memories lived.

“You ever think about those days?” his friend asked quietly. “Before everything?”

Sylus didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on the skyline, but it was clear he wasn’t really seeing it.

“Sometimes. When it’s quiet enough,” he said eventually. “Not often. It hurts.”

His friend nodded, something softer settling over him. “You always carried more than you let on.”

Another pause.

“You ever think about her?”

Sylus stilled—not noticeably. Just a flicker. But his friend noticed. Of course he did.

“Yeah,” he said, voice barely above the wind. “More than I should.”

His friend didn’t push. He just let the quiet stretch, like the space between heartbeats.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, gently.

Sylus was silent again. Long enough for the city below to change shape. Long enough to feel like the answer wasn’t easy—because it wasn’t.

“Yes,” he breathed. “But it’s the kind of regret you learn to carry. Like it belongs to you.”

His friend looked at him for a long second, then sighed.

“Damn. You really did grow up.”

Sylus smiled faintly, still watching something only he could see. “Don’t tell anyone,” he murmured. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

His friend leaned against the railing beside him, shoulders just brushing, the wind curling around them like the edge of a memory.

“You ever think about that day?” he asked, voice quiet. “Back of the school. When you pulled her aside.”

Sylus didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to ask which day.

Of course he remembered.

“It was quiet,” he said, after a moment. “She looked at me like she believed—just this once—I might choose her out loud.”

His fingers curled around the railing, knuckles whitening.

“And I almost did.”

His friend said nothing.

“I wanted to,” Sylus continued, voice low, fraying at the edges. “She was standing there, waiting. Not saying anything, but… you could see it in her eyes. She just wanted me to say something. To give her a reason to stay.”

He paused. Let the ache stretch.

“And then Colin showed up. Laughing like he always did. Loud enough for the whole world to hear.”

He exhaled, bitter. “And suddenly I felt it—all their eyes on me. Watching. Judging. Waiting to see if I'd cave.”

A humorless laugh slipped through his teeth.

“So I did what I thought would protect me.”

He stared up at the sky, like the stars might offer penance.

“I let her go. Stepped back. Said she was just someone.”

His friend winced but stayed silent.

“Colin was always watching,” Sylus said, quieter now. “Picking at me. ‘You’re too soft, man.’ Like caring made me something less. And I let him in. Let his voice sound louder than hers.”

His jaw clenched.

“I was seventeen. Thought being loved was a weakness. Thought wanting her made me small.”

The rooftop pulsed faintly with music behind them—voices, footsteps, laughter—but it all felt far away. A different world.

“I watched her walk away,” Sylus said. “Again and again. Every time I didn’t say the truth… I lost her a little more.”

His friend glanced at him, gentler now. “And what was the truth?”

Sylus turned, just slightly. His eyes were far-off, distant with the weight of what-ifs.

“That she was never just someone,” he said. “Not even close. She was… the only thing that ever felt real.”

His voice dropped to something hoarse, something wrecked.

“And I buried it. Smothered it. All so I could look untouchable to a boy who hasn’t mattered in years.”

His friend studied him for a long moment, then asked, softly, “Do you regret it?”

Sylus didn’t speak at first. The silence said enough.

Then, at last—

“Every version of me that failed her still lives inside me.”

He breathed out slowly, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of it.

“And when I dream of her…”

His voice broke, just faintly. “It’s always the same. She’s standing there, waiting. Same look on her face. And I still can’t say it. Still can’t move.”

His friend swallowed. “And if you could?”

Sylus looked out at the skyline, eyes softening like dusk.

“I’d tell her I’m sorry—for every moment I made her feel small. For every time I let silence answer when she needed something more.”

A pause.

“I’d tell her I loved her. That maybe I still do.”

Another breath.

“That she was the only thing I was ever sure of. And I let her think she was forgettable.”

The wind shifted.

The city lights blinked on like stars waking up too late.

But you were gone now, weren't you?

Gone in the way people leave when they’ve waited too long.

Gone in the way things break—not with a sound, but a silence too deep to fix.

And the boy who once stood behind the school, heart in his throat, was still here.

Only now, he finally knew what he should’ve said.

His words faded into the wind, swallowed by the quiet hum of the city.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then, after a long pause—

“I did try to warn you,” his friend said, nudging Sylus with his shoulder. “Told you back then you were a dumbass. Pretty sure I said it with love.”

Sylus huffed out a breath—almost a laugh. It caught in his throat.

“You said a lot of things,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Yeah, well, I was a genius ahead of my time.”

Sylus gave him a look, dry and unimpressed.

His friend grinned. “Come on, you remember. I told you, straight up—‘One day she’s gonna walk, and you’re gonna hate yourself for letting her.’ What did you say back? Something moody and dramatic, probably.”

Sylus stared out at the skyline, jaw tight, but the corners of his mouth pulled upward—just slightly.

“I think I told you to shut up,” he murmured.

“Classic.” His friend laughed. “And then you probably quoted some depressing philosopher about how love is a social construct and solitude is eternal.”

Sylus exhaled, almost smiling. “I was unbearable.”

“Oh, completely,” his friend agreed. “But she loved you anyway. That was the miracle.”

The words hit gently, but they landed all the same.

Sylus went quiet again, the ghost of that almost-smile fading.

“I didn’t deserve it,” he said.

His friend shrugged. “Maybe not. But she gave it to you anyway.”

There was a pause.

“And that’s the thing about love, man. It’s not about earning it. It’s about not running from it when it’s right in front of you.”

Sylus didn’t respond.

He just leaned forward on the railing, eyes following the moving lights below, the wind tugging softly at his sleeves.

“You think she’s happy?” he asked, so quietly it almost got lost in the noise.

His friend didn’t answer right away. He didn’t pretend to know.

“I think,” he said, “she found a way to live without you. Doesn’t mean she stopped carrying it.”

Sylus nodded, once. Like he already knew.

“Then I hope,” he whispered, “she’s carrying it gently.”

His friend looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, he saw not the man Sylus had become, but the boy who once stood behind the school, paralysed by fear, and too proud to say stay.

So he softened his voice.

“You’re not that kid anymore, you know.”

Sylus let out a slow breath.

“No,” he murmured. “But the damage he did still follows me.”

His friend clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Then stop walking in circles. Say what you needed to say. Even if she never hears it.”

Sylus closed his eyes.

And for the first time in years, he let the words rise to the surface—not for you, not for forgiveness—

But for himself.

“I loved her,” he whispered. “Not the way people write about in books. Not in fireworks or storms. Just… the kind that stays. The kind that never leaves.”

His friend didn’t speak again.

And they stood there together, in the silence that followed—

Two boys who had grown into men.

One of them still learning how to hold a love that had already slipped through his fingers.

The bus rumbled to a halt outside the stone-fronted building, its tall archways casting long shadows across the pavement. Sylus stepped off last, his duffle slung over one shoulder, hoodie up, the curve of his jaw set in quiet disinterest.

He barely looked up as his teammates filed out in front of him, laughing, stretching, nudging each other like boys who had never had to carry silence the way he did.

He didn’t want to be here.

Team trip, they said. Something educational. A museum visit arranged by one of the girlfriend’s contacts—some kind of PR move, a filler day in the middle of the travel schedule.

He had tuned most of it out, earbuds in and hood drawn. The only reason he’d come was because the coach had raised an eyebrow and said, “It’ll look good on your record.”

So he came.

And then he stepped inside.

The museum was quiet in the way sacred places always are. Light pooled in through high skylights, catching in the stillness of glass displays and the matte sheen of aged canvases.

Footsteps echoed softly across the floor. Voices were hushed.

He thought it’d be boring. Forgettable.

Instead, something in the air caught him off guard.

It wasn’t anything big. Just a shift—like walking into a dream already in motion. Like he’d been here before, in some other life, though he knew he hadn’t.

He stayed at the back of the group, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

The tour guide was saying something about Renaissance anatomy studies, but Sylus wasn’t listening. His eyes moved slowly across the walls, the halls, the corners.

And then—

He saw you.

By accident. Through a pane of glass.

He hadn’t even realised where he was standing until his gaze drifted beyond the sculpture in front of him, to the adjacent exhibit room across the way. The angle was odd, warped slightly by reflection.

But—

It was you.

Or someone who looked so much like you that his heart stopped, just for a second.

You were focused on something—framing a sketch beneath a mount, your gloves brushing delicately along the edge of paper. Your hair was tied back, slightly messy, like it always was when you worked.

You weren’t speaking. Just moving with that quiet kind of precision you’d always had.

The same posture. The same shape of your hands.

His chest pulled tight.

He blinked once. Hard.

But you were still there.

He hadn’t imagined it.

It was you.

You didn’t see him. Of course you didn’t.

You were half-turned, too busy with whatever task had your attention, the same way you’d always been—losing hours in careful work while the world spun unnoticed around you.

He hadn’t seen your face in seven years. Not in real life. Just fragments. Photos he couldn’t stop from surfacing online. Sketches. Dreams.

He stood frozen, barely breathing.

He wasn’t ready for this.

Wasn’t ready for how much it would undo him—just the sight of you.

You looked... the same. Not in the literal sense, maybe. But in the way that mattered. Like memory hadn’t gotten it wrong. Like time hadn’t eroded who you were.

His teammates had moved on without him, rounding the corner toward the next room, oblivious.

He remained rooted, eyes fixed on the sliver of you he could still see.

Something ached deep in his chest—sharp and quiet and familiar.

He had no idea you worked here. No one had told him. No one had mentioned the city, the museum, the chance.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t fate in some grand, poetic sense.

It was accident.

Cruel. Perfect. Unbearable.

Eventually, you stepped out of view. Just like that. Gone again.

And Sylus was left standing there, feeling like seventeen all over again—like he’d let something slip through his hands before he even had the courage to hold it.

He didn’t follow.

Not then.

He walked the rest of the tour like a ghost. Nodded when his name was called. Laughed, once or twice, when someone elbowed him in the ribs.

But his thoughts were somewhere else. Still trapped behind that glass, in the brief glimpse of someone he thought he'd never see again.

When they reached the front entrance, the team began to pile toward the waiting bus. Some were still talking about the exhibit. One had picked up a souvenir book. Someone else joked about stealing one of the miniature busts.

Sylus was the last to approach the doors.

He hesitated.

One foot on the step. One hand on the bar.

This was the part where he walked away again. Quietly. Predictably. Like he always had.

But his hand dropped.

And without another word, he turned around and ran.

Back through the glass doors. Back through the marble halls.

He didn’t know where you’d gone. Or if you’d even still be there.

But this time—he couldn’t walk away.

Not again.

Never again.

He pushed through the glass doors, barely registering the startled glance from the staff at the front desk.

The museum had begun to empty out, the soft lull between exhibits settling over the air like dust. The quiet made every footstep echo too loud. Every breath sounded like it didn’t belong.

He didn’t know where you’d gone.

Only that he’d seen you. That you were real.

That maybe—maybe—this was his one chance to say something before silence caught up again.

Sylus ran.

Through the corridor lined with oil portraits, past the faded sculpture garden, around corners he didn’t recognise, past velvet ropes and signs that blurred as he passed them.

He didn’t care where he was going.

Only that you were here.

Somewhere.

His hood had fallen off. His breath hitched in his chest, fast and ragged. The air was cool but it burned in his lungs.

You couldn’t have gone far.

He skidded around a corner, nearly colliding with a display of 17th-century ceramics. A few heads turned. He didn’t look back.

She was here. I saw her. It was her.

His thoughts were fragmented. Uneven.

Memories bled into the walls as he ran—your laughter echoing behind him like the sound of shoes on tile, your voice layered over faint museum ambience.

He half-expected to see you every time he turned a corner. Half-feared you’d already left.

What would he even say?

I’m sorry?

I never stopped thinking about you?

You were never just someone?

None of it felt like enough. But he ran anyway.

He turned another corner—too fast this time—and his shoulder clipped the edge of a glass panel. He winced, stumbled, righted himself.

Still nothing. Just walls. Art. Names that didn’t matter.

Until—

There.

Down a narrow hall, where the light fell in soft gold, you were standing in front of a newly installed piece, clipboard in hand. You were scribbling something. Focused. Calm. Unknowing.

And suddenly, he couldn’t move.

His steps slowed. Each one heavier than the last.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

But he saw you—fully this time. No glass. No tricks of light. No doubt.

Just you.

You were older now.

But there was still something achingly familiar in the way you tilted your head when you studied art. In the crease between your brows. In the gentleness of your hands.

His chest rose and fell, breath uneven.

He stood a few feet behind you, like he had all those years ago—too afraid to cross the distance. Too afraid to speak.

But this time…

He stepped forward.

The sound of his shoes made you stiffen slightly, sensing someone behind you.

You turned.

Your eyes met his.

And for the first time in seven years, Sylus looked at you without hiding.

He didn’t say a word.

Just stood there, chest heaving, heart loud in his ears, as everything he should’ve said a lifetime ago swelled in the silence between you.

And this time... he wouldn’t run.

masterlist

[nereidprinc3ss]

strange perfections

in which spencer reid and fem!reader meet by accident at a coffee shop. and then they keep meeting there. they've really got to stop meeting like this. (no, seriously. hotch is pissed.) / do you believe me now? bonus chapter!

series masterlist

fluff! warnings/tags: meet cute:) some dark humor, romantically inexperienced reader, spencer reid graduated from caltech, mit, and the derek morgan school of rizz a/n: this can absolutely be read as a standalone BUT it was written as a prologue for my series do you believe me now? to explain how spencer and r met! completely optional, if you're only here for the smut no worries! reading this bonus chapter might make the next chapter better though as it contains discussions of how they met:) anyway, I LOVE YOU!! let me know if you like this silly little random thing! kisses

The café door opens again. A blustery wind raises goosebumps on your arms and makes your bones ache again. You look up at the latest intruder—a hobbling elderly man in a newsboy cap and a knit red scarf. 

Stupid scarf, you think. 

Stupid door. 

Stupid wind. 

Your mug is empty, and the table you’re sitting at is sort of sticky and rickety, and there are so many papers in front of you that you wonder why the hell you thought it’d be a good idea to print the PDF out and annotate it that way instead of just doing it on your laptop like a normal person in the 21st century. Nothing is going right today. It’s the third café you’ve tried in the past few weeks as you attempt to find some place that feels homey, lucky, but this one just feels… inconvenient. 

You look at the stack of papers and sigh. 

Stupid Lord Byron. 

Stupid cafe. 

Usually, cafés are relatively quiet and peaceful—a refuge for the overworked to bask in the luxury of quiet jazz and the smell of dark roast as they continue to overwork themselves. This particular establishment, however, today hosts a group of teenagers—presumably playing hooky—who have commandeered a big booth in the back and keep walking right past your table because apparently they couldn’t have just ordered their drinks at once and they all have to do it separately and loudly. 

One of them has an incredibly irritating, gratingly pubescent laugh, and they think everything is hilarious. This whole situation is unbearable. 

Just as you’re gearing up to go, of course the fucking door opens again. This time, it’s accompanied by a particularly strong gust. 

Strong enough that Lord Byron doesn’t stand a chance. 

Your printed copy of his works blows off the table, at first page by painstakingly annotated page and then before you can even process it, all at once. 

Yeah. This is definitely not your lucky café. 

As you curse and go to stand up, you run into one of those dumb kids. His huge ceramic mug goes flying, careening against the edge of your table and completely splattering you and all your stuff in 16 liquid ounces of scalding espresso and milk. 

It’s silent for a second, save for a few drips from the puddle on your table to the floor, before the kid is apologizing profusely and turning red as a tomato. You can’t even respond—you look down at your ruined favorite sweater, and then around at the pages of Byron littered with color-coded sticky notes, overflowing with angry and purposeful red ink that you spent so much time on, scattered all over the floor. 

Eventually the boy catches on that you’re not going to forgive him and he skitters away, back to his friends, who whisper and giggle profusely. Only a few of them get up to start gathering the fallen pages with you. Several other patrons end up helping as well, so the sheets of paper are gathered and returned into your sticky hands fairly quickly. You thank each person without looking up as they hand you their respective stack. All you want is to get out of here. 

“Here—I’m really sorry about this,” someone says—a tenor-ish male voice, distinctly sympathetic as he holds out a rather larger stack of papers than anyone else had bothered to pick up. 

“I’ll live,” you sigh, straightening up. “But thank… you.”

The man standing in front of you is the kind of man who makes you want to untuck your hair from its usual spot behind your ears, and to stand up straighter, and to try and not stare even though you want his attention. He’s gloriously beautiful in a way that repels and attracts you. He’s the type of man who wouldn’t have given you the time of day in high school and probably wouldn’t now. Instantly you feel both insecure and reduced to a former version of you who would simper and fawn over boys who wanted nothing to do with her. You feel like going to the other side of the café and sitting in the best light and staring out the window poetically and hoping he’s looking at you. 

“On the one hand, I feel bad for being the person who opened the door and let the wind in. On the other… I feel compelled to say at least they’re not covered in coffee like the rest of your table is?”

You laugh vacantly, a second too late, positively coveting the awkward smile on his angular face. Then you make eye contact, and his eyes are so the opposite of angular—they’re huge and inviting and the warmest golden-brown you’ve ever seen, and they’re looking right back at you—and you have to look down. Fuck. You hate when you do that. 

Think of something normal to say!

“Yeah, true. Now I just have to reorder 264 pages. That… that don’t have page numbers.”

You shuffle through the papers. They are hopelessly scrambled. Your heart sinks just a bit.

“Um… I might actually be able to help with that, if you want?”

You frown, glancing up. What kind of sex trafficking ploy is this?

“That’s okay. Might be easier with just one person.”

He laughs—it’s similarly awkward, similarly endearing. 

“Do you mind letting me just… try? It’ll only take a minute.”

Only take a minute? Is this beautiful man deranged? Why are the hot ones always crazy?

But, perhaps because you’re a pushover who can’t stand up to people, much less beautiful people, much less beautiful men who are paying you undue attention, you find yourself giving in. You hold the stack out. 

“Sure. Give it your best shot. I’ll be impressed if you can even figure out what page one is.”

He’s already flipping through the papers with a drawn brow, walking away with them, and barely looking over his shoulder as he mutters, “I have Byron memorized. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

You follow him, because hello, he has all your annotations. He’s definitely insane, you think, as he sits down at a table and starts rapidly sorting the sheets into separate piles. 

All you can do is stand awkwardly behind him as he stacks papers seemingly at random, barely glancing at them before deciding where they go. 

Maybe a minute, maybe a few go by, each of which have you progressively more flabbergasted, before he’s tapping the edges of a stack of paper on the table and standing, handing them to you with his lips pressed into a thin pleasant line. There’s almost a glow about him—like he couldn’t be more in his comfort zone. 

“There you go. Should be in order now.” You sport a frown bordering on a grimace as you take the stack and flip through it a bit. Sure enough, it seems that everything is in order. You keep looking between the man in front of you and the papers, incredulous as you wait for something to be in the wrong spot. 

“How did you do that?” 

His cheeks turn slightly pink. 

“I know Byron really well. I know how each passage ends and begins so I put them together like puzzle pieces.”

“How did you read that fast?”

“Uh. I’m a speed-reader?”

You scoff, taking another look through the stack. 

“I think that may be underselling it.” A thought occurs to you as you’re grazing over one of your longer annotations—full of expletives and strong opinions. “Oh, god. You didn’t… you didn’t read my notes?”

The man’s eyebrows raise as if he was waiting for you to mention that and he smiles like he doesn’t quite know how to break it to you gently. 

“Maybe a few,” he eventually decides, laughing under his breath. “I appreciated the commentary on his relationship with Augusta. It was… colorful.”

Heat rises in your cheeks as you mumble. 

“Yeah, I had a hard time appreciating the romantic poems. They’re less cute when there’s like a fifty percent chance he’s writing about his sister.”

“Half sister,” he corrects. You give him a look. 

“Does that make it better?”

“… no,” he realizes. “Not even a little bit.”

You laugh, relieved that his face looks as warm as yours feels. 

“Well… thank you, for the help,” you say after a silent second. 

“Of course. Sorry, again. I, um—I hope your day gets better?”

“Yeah, well. I feel like statistically it has to, right? It’s kind of a low bar.”

He smiles, a perfect, perfect smile, and gives you a little wave as he leaves. Without coffee. Checking the clock on the wall, you realize it’s approaching one in the afternoon. If he’d been here on his lunch break, he sacrificed it to organize your stupid Byron texts. You smile to yourself. 

He was totally in love with me. 

And he can’t prove me wrong because I’ll probably never see him again. 

All things considered—this coffee shop does seem pretty lucky. Maybe you’ll stick with it for a while. 

The next time you see the mysterious sexy speed reader is four days later—though you’ve been here every day since. He catches your eye right as he walks in, and his brows jump in pleasant recognition. You smile. He smiles back, before going up to the counter and ordering a coffee with a ludicrous amount of sugar in it. 

I should take note for when I make him his coffee in the mornings, you think to yourself, and then you snort at your own delusions, shaking your head at your book. Obviously you’re not that divorced from reality, but you’ll entertain the fantasy forever until one of you stops showing up to this café. 

What you’re absolutely not expecting is for him to walk up to your table with his to-go cup. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi!”

Jesus. Tone it down, girl scout. 

He gestures to your stack of papers: now secured in a three ring binder. The cup says Spencer. 

Spencer. Spencer. 

It feels important. 

“I see you’ve upgraded.”

“Yes! Yes, I did,” you laugh self-consciously, still struggling to meet his eyes. “Thank you for the help the other day. I would still be sorting through all of this if it weren’t for that, so… yeah. Thanks.”

“Of course! I’m glad I could be of use.”

“Spence!” Someone calls from the cafe door. You both look up to see a stunning blonde beckoning him away. 

Ah. Naturally. The girlfriend who is one trillion times prettier than you. 

Spence. 

Reality sets in. 

“Coming!” He replies, with all the eager compliance of a child, before turning back to you. “Um… well… I’ll see you?”

It’s an awkward way to say goodbye to a stranger, but you suddenly don’t care enough to dwell. Instead you nod once, less enthusiastic now that you know he has a 10 waiting for him on the sidewalk. 

“I am a creature of habit.”

Another wave as he walks away. 

The two disappear from the doorway, but the perpetual breeze seems to carry a snatched bit of conversation your way. 

“Who was that?” 

“Uh… I don’t actually know.”

Yeah. Reality definitely sets in. 

Over the next few days, you break your café streak. Life is busy. There’s not always time to artfully ponder Romantic poetry and drink a six dollar coffee while waiting around for certain people to show up. 

Okay, so… maybe it has more to do with him than you’re letting on. But you’re not going to do that thing you do again, where you become limerently obsessed with a man you don’t know and who is way out of your league just because you can’t form an actual attachment to anyone to save your life. Besides, you remind yourself; we probably wouldn’t be compatible anyway. He’s probably a huge loser. Or secretly a douche. Or chews with his mouth open. Obviously nobody that attractive can also have a good personality. 

Not to mention he has a girlfriend. That should put you off, too.

But you hadn’t been lying when you’d proclaimed to be a creature of habit—you return to the café once you feel sufficiently detached from this Spencer character. 

He’s there. Of course he’s there. Why had you been expecting for him to not be there? It’s not like he was a figment of your imagination. 

This time he’s accompanied by a different blonde woman—a bespectacled blonde with a big floral headband and a patterned dress and a red cardigan and tights and heels that look self-injurious. She’s quite eye-catching; you want to keep looking at her, but you seem to draw her attention, too. Her big eyes widen minutely and briefly you wonder if you’re supposed to know her, but certainly you’d remember meeting a person like that. She doesn’t seem easily forgettable. Both of you look to Spencer at the same time, who’s looking between you with an almost panicked expression. 

“Oh! Th—” the woman whispers, cutting herself off when she realizes how loud she’s being in the otherwise silent establishment. “Ah! Okay, right. Never mind.”

 Spencer sighs. You want to laugh, but you’re baffled by the whole thing. So you go back to reading. 

Ten minutes later, they draw your attention once more. 

“Go, go ahead! It’s more problematic for you to be late than me. I’ll be like, thirty seconds tops.”

You don’t look up as Spencer leaves the café—but are you supposed to gather that these two eccentric individuals are coworkers? And what of the first blonde woman, who you’d presumed to be his girlfriend? Where is she?

While you’re wondering all of this, the new blonde teeters her way over to your table. 

“Hi!” She says pleasantly, waving a purple-tipped hand and wearing the biggest grin. 

“Uh… hi?”

“I’m Penelope. You’ve met my friend Spencer. He just left.”

“Oh—sort of,” you smile weakly, closing your book. “Not formally. I didn’t know his name.”

That’s a lie, but maybe feigning non-chalance will make it real. 

“Well, I just wanted to come over and say I love your bag. And your jewelry and your coat. I love your whole look. I bet you’re a really cool person.”

“Um—thank you!” You perk up, smiling genuinely now. The compliment warms you—you didn’t think your look was all that interesting today. “You too. I love your outfit.”

“Great! You’re—you’re great. This is good information. Um… just out of, like, sheer curiosity, could I get your name, age, and occupation? Oh—and your zodiac sign?”

What kind of convoluted sex trafficking ploy—

“Garcia!”

Spencer is at the doorway again, looking adorably miffed. 

Adorable? Get a grip. 

“Wh—I’m just making a new friend! Is friendship illegal, now?”

“This is the kind of friend-making that gets you a restraining order,” he urges. 

You look up at Penelope Garcia, enamored by their whole dynamic. They clearly care for each other, despite the squabbling. What kind of job do they have where they talk to each other like this?

“It’s fine,” you smile, introducing yourself to her.

“That is such a good name!” She says, and you’re getting the sense she’s kind of always this enthusiastic. “So now we know each other’s names—we should probably definitely be friends, right?”

“Yeah! Um, definitely!”

“Yes? Oh my god! I love this! Okay, um—we work at Quantico, so, we’re like, 10 minutes away—but this is better than the coffee shop that’s closest to the building, so we come here all the time. Usually it’s just us and five grouchy old men, which makes this is really exciting.”

“Quantico… that’s the FBI academy, right?”

“Other stuff, too,” she nods, still smiley. 

Oh! Cool. So they’re FBI agents. 

So that’s cool. 

You’re cool with that. 

Her phone starts ringing—she locks eyes with Spencer. 

“Hotch?”

“Ooh, we are in trouble,” Penelope sing-songs, leaning down to write her number on your notebook without asking. Not that you mind, of course. She adds a little heart and a smiley face next to her name before capping your pen and toddling away. “Bye, new friend!” She calls over her shoulder, waving goodbye with just her fingers. 

“Bye,” you manage, though it’s probably too quiet. 

Spencer flattens his mouth into an approximation of a smile and waves again. 

You accidentally find yourself mirroring his goodbye, facial expression and all. Fuck. You hope he doesn’t notice. You hope he doesn’t read into it. 

Nah. Boys are dumb. 

You text Penelope later that afternoon—a simple greeting so that she can save your number—and then you forget about it. 

It’s not until five days go by without sign of any of them—the two blondes, Spencer, this mysterious and foreboding Hotch figure—that you start to seriously question your sanity. Did they drop off the face of the planet, or what?

But of course, just as you’re sitting at your usual table, Spencer walks in. Alone. 

He sees you immediately, but instead of the wave you’d come to expect, he immediately flushes, looks down at his shoes and hurries into the small lunch-rush line. 

Weird.

You corner him at the coffee bar, where he’s adding more sugar to his coffee. How are his teeth so nice if he does this to himself every single day?

“Hey,” you say, affecting casual confidence as you bus your empty mug. “… Spencer, right?”

It’s comical how you’re pretending you haven’t turned that name over and looked at it from every angle hundreds of times since the first time you heard it. 

He nods, only glancing up at you as he stirs. To your surprise, he knows your name, too. When you give him an odd look, he smiles almost apologetically, finally looking at your face for longer than half a second. 

“I heard you introducing yourself to Penelope. Sorry if that’s…”

“No, no! Is she around, today? I texted her last week, but she never responded...”

“Today is operating system update day, so I don’t even really have a way of knowing if she’s alive in her office.” It’s funny to him, but you just smile, baffled. He notices your silence and catches on, scrambling to explain himself. “She’s our tech analyst. There are 243 computers in our building and she has to update them all remotely, which requires getting every agent to agree to not touch their computer at the same time for an hour or so.”

“Oh… does the FBI not have, like… an IT guy, or something?”

He laughs again—the way his eyes crinkle when he does it makes you a little breathless. 

“You should say that to her. I think you would become her favorite person.”

It’s hard not to smile when he’s smiling because of you—however indirectly that may be. Quickly you realize you’ve both been standing in front of the coffee bar for too long. 

“Alright, well… tell her good luck, for me?”

“I would, but I’ve been kicked out for an hour while she does the updates.”

Your brow furrows and you laugh. 

“From the whole building? You just can’t keep your hands off your computer for an hour?”

“Not if I want to do my job, no. And I am kind of obsessive about my job. I’ve been the reason she had to start the whole process over again before and I’d rather not be that person again.”

You say it before you can think too hard. 

“Well, if you have an hour to kill… there’s an open seat at my table? No pressure, obviously.”

And that was the first of thousands of hours you would come to spend with Spencer Reid. 

After that, it sort of becomes a regular thing. He comes almost every day—except for occasional week or so long stretches, which you have discovered are a part of his absolutely fucking insane job—and sits with you, sometimes with Penelope, once with the other blonde, JJ, who you’ve since deduced is not his girlfriend, most often alone. Usually he can’t spare more than ten minutes, but he begins pushing it, little by little, until thirty minutes go by and you think surely his boss (the great and all-powerful Hotchner) must be beginning to notice. 

One day, during your usual lunchtime rendezvous, his phone rings. He talks right on through it, like it’s not happening.

It ceases. And then it starts again. 

Your head drops to your shoulder, something like pity or regret softening your features. He catches your eye and melts slightly, mid-sentence—like he knows you’re about to tell him to be responsible. 

“Do you think you should…”

His hands drop from where they’d been enthusiastically positioned mid-air. 

“They’ll be fine if I’m late from lunch one time. I’m usually more punctual than any of them.”

You roll your lip between your teeth—it’s not that you want to tell him to go; in fact, those delusions you’ve been harboring about your future life together are only getting worse with each inexplicable minute he entertains your company. 

But his job is important. 

“What if you have a case?”

“Then I would have gotten more calls from more people by now.”

Your head tips back as you laugh lightly at his unwavering insistence.   

“I’m flattered that you so enjoy my company that much. But I can’t with good conscience keep taking up your work hours like this.”

As the laughter fades, he just… watches you, lips slightly parted, eyes intense but not entirely present. 

“You’re probably right,” he finally breathes. “Maybe… you should start taking up my other hours, instead?”

Spencer Reid, you unexpected charmer. 

You balk.

“Like… we would hang out? At a different time of day? Not here?”

“Those are the basic premises, yes,” he chuckles, nodding affably. “I’ve never actually seen you anywhere else. For all I know you could be a ghost eternally tethered to this building.”

“Where would this hanging out take place?”

Fuck, you’re totally being weird. His brow knits. 

“I don’t know. Where else do people hang out?”

He’s not genuinely asking you, he’s gently turning you in the right direction. You charge forward blindly. 

“Restaurants.”

There’s that pretty smile of his again, the one that makes all the thoughts drain from your head like cold bathwater. Though, there’s a sort of mischievous edge to it now that you haven't seen before.

“That’s certainly an option. If I asked you to hang out with me at a restaurant... would you say yes?”

You look down. God, your face feels warm. 

“Would you be asking me out on a date? In this hypothetical scenario that we’ve constructed, I mean.”

Spencer seems to think about it for a moment, which fills you with unexpected panic. When you look back up anxiously, he has the same smile on his face, but his eyes are a little softer now. 

“I would.” 

More panic sets in—just a bit. But you don’t let what is undoubtedly a tidal wave of anxiety break through the emotional guard-dam. Keep it together. This is a good thing. This is what you wanted. 

Unfortunately, you are perhaps more transparent than you’d realized. Spencer begins to look slightly worried, leaning forward in his chair. 

“You don’t have to say yes. I know we don’t know each other very well, I just—”

“No!” You find yourself assuring him, though you curse yourself because you kind of want to know what he was going to say. “I would say yes. I’ve just, um—god,” you laugh gustily, self-consciously. “Sorry I’m being so weird. I’m out of my depth. Nobody’s asked me on a date before. I don’t really know the etiquette.”

Spencer chuckles. 

“You’re doing great. Don’t worry about it.”

Not, what?

Not, you’ve never been on a date before?

Not, that’s crazy, or that’s weird, or how have you gone your whole life without being asked out?

With the implication being, you’re odd. Different. Maybe not in a good way. 

He says none of that. 

“But I should probably actually ask you, huh?” His cheeks turn pink as his laughter is redirected inwards. 

“Sounds like a good first step.”

Spencer is still smiling as he says your name and it sounds so good from his mouth. It makes you sound so real. 

“Will you go on a date with me?”

Butterflies in your stomach doesn't begin to brush what you're experiencing—your entire abdominal cavity is like a Monarch sanctuary.

“I’d love to.”

He seems genuinely relieved as he beams, slumping back in his chair. 

“Oh, thank god. I was so nervous you’d say no. I never do that. Thank you for not saying no. Not that you couldn’t have said no—it would have been completely fine and obviously within your rights to—”

His phone rings again. Both of you are relieved that he was interrupted—but admittedly you thought his rambling was super cute. 

“I should—”

“You definitely need to go.”

“Yeah,” he agrees with a still-breathless smile. “Um—what’s your number?”

You look around fruitlessly for pen and paper. 

“I don’t—”

“Just tell me. I’ll remember.”

He’s so weird. 

A breeze hits your skin as he opens the door. You’re already writing your wedding vows in the back of your mind as you watch him go. 

-

part four

[arcaneauthor]

Skz reacting to you kissing them in front of the other members

Warnings: um some kissing ig? Nothing else really

Tags: established relationships, kissing, so much fluff, seungmin being a little menace like always, I think that’s it

A/n: have this while you wait for my long hyunjin one shot! Also I just started writing skz and don’t fully know how to write their personalities yet so pls be kind🙏

────୨ৎ────

Chan:

I kinda feel like this would be a normal thing for y’all?

Like you would frequently come by the studio while skz is recording to visit him

And you’d always end up giving him a little hello and goodbye kiss

It was always just a peck but you’d think you two were full on groping each other by the way the members start gagging and groaning

They honestly should be used to it by now but they just can’t help but tease their dad leader

Mainly seungmin

“Ew you like kissing old men?”

But Chan’s used to it by now and just rolls his eyes and focuses back on his work

But he can’t hide the smile on his face

He kinda likes when the members tease him, it really makes them feel like family

Minho:

Would definitely turn it into a spectacle

Ik he doesn’t normally like skin ship from the other member that much so many people think he wouldn’t like pda from the reader but I think it’d be quite the opposite

Like I feel like he’d be the type that would grab you and pull you in closer when you try to just give him a peck in the dorm

Like we’re talking turning it into a full on make out session

And he’s fully aware the members are there, that’s partly why he does it

He thinks it’s kinda funny to get a reaction out of them

I feel like there’d be a mix array of both groaning an wolf whistling from the others

Either way he’d just throw a middle finger to the members over his shoulder as he smirks into the kiss

Changbin:

I actually kinda feel like changbin would be a little embarrassed

Like at first he’d kinda forget the other members are there and kinda get into it

And then when he’d hear the reaction from the members he’d pull away with a little blush on his cheeks

Would have that cute little embarrassed smile that he does as he lowers his head a little as he murmurs a “shut up” to the members

(If you’re a stay I feel like you definitely know which smile I’m talking about)

Would totally never admit to anybody that he was blushing

Like the other members maybe Chan would tease him like “aw binnies embarrassed”

And changbin being his loud self would be like “HUH? YOU THINK ID GET EMBARRASSED OVER SOMETHING LIKE THIS?”

Like my mind immediately went to that men in colorful pants vlive he did with Chan and Han when he was yelling at chan for calling him out on rapping his line too fast and he was like “YOU THINK I RAPPED FAST CAUSE I WAS NERVOUS?” Lol

Just imagine him saying it like that if you’ve seen that live

Jisung:

This man would be SHOOK

Like I’m talking about pulling away like he’s been BURNED

Quokka cheeks are flaming red

Why do I almost feel like this man would let out a surprised yelp as if you’ve just attacked him lmao

Looks between you and the members with wide eyes like “did that really just happen?”

unlike with the others I feel like the members wouldn’t make teasing comments towards you guys

They’d just be on the floor ROLLING at Han for getting so flustered

And even though you were the cause of it he’d still hide his face behind you to escape his embarrassment

Hyunjin:

Feel like he wouldn’t get too into the kiss knowing the others are there

But also would definitely lean into you a bit

For some reason I just feel like hyunjin would be an amazing kisser

I mean have you seen those luscious lips??

Anyways that’s a story for another fic lol I’m getting distracted

like Chan I’d feel like he’d get his sassy eye roll going on when the members made a comment

With how much it seems that hyunjin and seungmin play around with each other seungmin would definitely tease the shit out of him

And hyunjin would give him that signature bombastic side eye

I feel like seungmin would keep it going to the point of hyunjin just eventually standing up to literally pounce on him

Seungmin would just be laughing like a maniac the whole time

Felix:

I actually feel like Felix wouldn’t be as embarrassed as you’d think

Like Ik he’s a smol bean but down deep I feel like Felix is actually pretty confident

Not in a cocky way but like he’s sure of himself yk?

Like I feel like he’d just smile into it

Turns it into a bit of a longer but still soft and sweet kiss

Just completely ignoring the noises from the members in the background

Like I think he’d just be in his own little world with you

After y’all pull away he just pulls you to sit facing forward on his lap and hugs you from behind

Has THE brightest smile on his face as he does it

Seungmin:

I kinda feel like seungmin wouldn’t like you giving him pda

Not like to the point of getting angry or anything

But I kinda feel like he’d pull an “ew” face lol

(And I don’t mean this as being bad or anything, I myself don’t really love pda so I get it lol)

But you probably do it to just playfully annoy him

Which is why you’d probably be giggling with the members at him

“I hate you guys” but he’d say it with a smile on his face so you knew he wasn’t actually upset about it

He’d probably give you a long kiss later in his room to make up for it

Jeongin:

He wouldn’t go as far as to immediately yank away like jisung

But he’d definitely be a shy baby

Ik he looks all grown up and stuff these days but I feel like little baby bread is still under there somewhere lol

Like his eyes would widen mid kiss when he really processes that you’re kissing him in front of everyone

The members wouldn’t so much as tease him like with the others as they would moan and groan about seeing their little maknae doing “adult stuff” lol

Poor thing would definitely turn red, covering his face with his hands as he sunk down

Would honestly be wishing the couch would just swallow him up

Probably wouldn’t make eye contact with you for the rest of the night because he’d just start immediately blushing lol

Also would probably keep his distance cause anytime your hands so much as touched the members would tease him about y’all making sure you weren’t “moving too fast”

End notes: well I officially finished this at 5am lmao. Guess I better head to bed🫡

[matchpointfaist]

dilf! art donaldson x physiotherapist! reader for anon xx

after art’s shoulder injury, his team had thought it’d be best to have a therapist travel with him while he was still playing professionally. someone to make sure he didn’t push himself too much, to help with any soreness he’d inevitably acquire. he was embarrassed at first, the thought of someone babysitting him, watching to make sure he didn’t overdo it just didn’t sit right. he’d never expected you, though.

he’d seen physical therapist before, obviously. they were usually older, usually men, all precision and straight faces, focused on one thing only. but you? you were the opposite, sweet smiles and colorful scrubs and what seemed to be a genuine passion for your work.

and god, did you help him like no one else did. the way you worked his muscles was enough to have him reeling after the first time you treated him, the way you talked him through it. “there ya go, just relax, let me help you,” you’d hummed as you worked over the stiff muscles in his shoulder, “mm, that’s good, we’re makin progress,”

you were just so sweet, he couldn’t help but start to look forward to your weekly sessions. he’d done so well at containing his little crush, keeping a certain distance, never letting his eyes linger for too long, all until he tore a muscle in his thigh during a particularly aggressive practice match.

he’d been rushed into your makeshift office area, and you’d looked at him with such concern as you took in the way his face was scrunched in pain, or frustration, or some cruel mix of both. “oh, art,” you frowned, “you have got to be more careful,”

and then you were working your magic on his painfully sore thigh muscles, dangerously close to the hem of his shorts, and he knew you were just doing your job, but he just couldn’t help it. he was trying his hardest to relax, not to get hard just inches from your hand, but it really did just feel so good.

“so tense,” you mumbled, “just relax, art. not gonna get any better if you can’t relax,” and then your hands were higher, and he couldn’t even help the noise that left his throat, somewhere between a whine and a grunt. “sorry,” he muttered, running a hand over his face, desperately trying to get it together.

“you’re okay,” you smiled softly up at him from the end of the table, “d’you wanna talk about your match? maybe it’ll take your mind off the pain,”

so he rambled on about his latest match, all the high and low points, like you hadn’t been watching intently from the sidelines the entire time. and you listened like you didn’t see it all before, frowning when he expressed his disappointment in himself and smiling brightly when he recounted his win.

“need to work on this hip, too,” you told him, encouraging him to keep talking as you moved up, one hand on the inside of his thigh and one on his sore hip joint. your hand just lightly brushed across his lap as you readjusted yourself, and he subconsciously bucked his hips, almost imperceptibly but enough to have his face flushed. “i’m sorry,” he said quickly, “maybe we should just stop, i don’t know why i’m so-“

“you’re okay, art,” you waved a dismissive hand, but he couldn’t help but notice your own cheeks had grown pink, “you’re not doing anything wrong,” you kept your composure, working at the knot in his hip, and he tried to take your words to heart, to just relax. he was choking back whines and groans as you expertly released all his tension, his hands clutching the side of the table to keep them from going to your hips, holding you there.

he was embarrassingly hard by that point, straining against the fabric of his shorts, his entire body feeling flushed and sensitive. “there,” you patted his hip gently, “you’re good now,”

you took a step away, and he could’ve died right there, fighting against himself until he gave in and reached out for you, pulling you back gently by your arm. your brows were furrowed in concern as you turned to face him, “are you okay?”

“tell me if i’ve got it all wrong,” the words were flying out of his mouth faster than he could even process them, “but i want you so badly and maybe you want me, i don’t know, i just-“

you cut him off, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his burning lips, a surprised sound leaving his throat as you did. his hands came to your waist, pulling you closer, kissing you fervently. “oh, fuck,” he mumbled into your mouth, gripping you so tightly he was scared you might bruise, leaning back on the table to make enough room for you.

you pulled away as he shifted, panting softly, eyes bright and cheeks pink. “this is wrong- we shouldn’t,” you said quickly, but your eyes were lingering on his wet lips, flicking down to the tent in his shorts. “do you want to stop?” he asked, pausing his motions of pulling you back towards him, concern etched on his features. “no,” you shook your head without even giving it a second thought, letting him rest his hand on the back of your head and pull you back into a deep kiss.

one hand snaked around the back of your thigh, pulling you up and into his lap, your hair falling in a curtain around the two of you as you straddled him. he leaned back just enough to pull at the bottom of your scrub top, watching with dilated eyes as you pulled it off, leaving you in a cotton bralette that left so little to his imagination. his shirt was off next, falling to the floor beside you, and he bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as you kissed over his chest, down to his abs, leaving little flushed, shiny spots behind.

“oh, fuck me,” he exhaled as you ghosted your lips over the bulge in his shorts, his hips involuntarily rocking at the contact, however subtle it was. he pulled you back up to him, fumbling to push down your scrubs with shaky hands. a soft laugh left your lips as you slid off the table just long enough to take them off, and he was more in awe of your beauty in that moment than he ever had been before.

he pushed his shorts down eagerly, biting the inside of his cheek as you settled back into his lap in just your underwear, kissing him like you were starving for it. “wanna fuck you so bad,” he panted against your lips, reaching between you to slip a hand between your thighs, “fuck- oh, you’re so wet,”

he watched in awe as you moaned in his lap, back arching as you all but rode his fingers, grinding against him desperately. “want you to fuck me,” you practically whined, “art, please,”

“wanna get you off first,” he sat up enough to press his face to your chest, mouthing at the skin greedily, slipping his free hand into your bralette and rolling your nipple between two fingers as his other hand worked at your clit.

your head fell to his shoulder, muffling your moans into the sweaty skin, panting and writhing as you came undone with a tremble. “there you go,” he hummed appreciatively, smoothing down your hair as he pulled his hand from your bra, kissing the side of your head softly, “want me to fuck you now, hm?”

“god, yes,” you nodded eagerly, pushing him back down flat on the table, discarding his boxes and your underwear into a little pile. his hands were on your hips as you slid over his cock, a soft hiss leaving his lips at the feeling. “oh, baby,” he groaned, watching your facial expressions like he could sear them to his memory, “feel so good on me,”

your hand slipped between your thighs, lining him up and sliding just the tip in at first, just enough to have him bucking his hips and whimpering beneath you, “baby, oh, fuck, please,” he was a mess from the smallest bit, neck flushed, eyes wild as he looked up at you.

“art,” he was dizzy at the sound of his name on your lips as you slid down his cock, taking all of him, so warm and wet around him, “you’re so big, fillin me up so good,”

your hands came to his chest, balancing as you rode him, alternating between messy kisses and burying your face in his neck. “you feel so good,” he moaned, fucking up into you, his hands on your thighs to hold you there, “like you were made for me, baby, oh my god,”

he was a babbling mess, praises and curses pouring from his lips constantly, kissing anywhere he could reach. “so close,” he mumbled, pushing your bralette down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, biting just enough to have you clenching around him, “fuck- are you on birth control?”

“mhm,” you nodded, pulling at his hair gently as he buried his face in your chest again, pulling you impossibly closer as he fucked you closer and closer to the edge.

“oh my god,” he whimpered, “fuck, i’m gonna-“ he moaned your name as he came, hips bucking wildly as he fucked you full of his come, panting and whining beneath you.

you let your head fall to his chest as you both caught your breath, his fingers stroking your hair gently, almost absentmindedly. “we should clean up before anyone comes,” you mumbled, pressing a chaste kiss to his bicep as you rolled up and off on him into trembling legs.

he watched, dazed, as you went to the office bathroom to clean up, returning with your scrubs back on, not a hair out of place. the only indicator that he’d ever been there was the dark bruise he’d sucked into the base of your neck, flushed and purple. he eyed it with a smile, getting dressed lazily, not wanting to look away from you.

“so is this, i mean, like, a regular thing?” he finally managed to spit out, feeling awkward like a teenager all over again, “or do you just want to pretend it didn’t happen, or-?”

“art,” you laughed softly, coming over to press a kiss to his cheek, “i’d love for this to be a regular thing,”

“oh, thank god,” he let out a relieved laugh, “maybe we could get dinner, or something like that?” “a little backwards, but yeah. i’d like that,” you smiled up at him, “we might have to find you a different therapist, though,”