#unfinished work that will probably be never work on it again

[f1shz]

I'm just gonna put this here, given up on lightning

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Look what we've become.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[byanyan]

byan disappears for two days but instead of emerging strung out and skittish like usual, their hands and arms are covered in paint and ink stains and they're a little distant but hungry as hell

[elumish]

I think that there's a feeling that, if you start writing something and don't finish it, it's a failure.

As someone who has far more unfinished pieces than finished pieces (sorry to anyone who reads my stuff on AO3), here are a few good things about doing this:

First, all writing is practice. Just like there are reasons to sketch and do practice drawings, writing even unfinished pieces builds your skills in drafting sentences, characterization, voice, tone, and even working in a variety of styles. If you start a story in a new style, even if you never finish it, you have some experience in that style now.

It can also tell you what you love or hate about something. Sometimes you don't finish something because you realize you don't like it. That knowledge is also valuable.

Second, you can always go back to unfinished work. The main novel that I'm querying right now is one where I wrote the first couple thousand words and then didn't touch it again for probably at least a year and a half. It's now a finished novel.

Sometimes you need space away from a story to make it work. Sometimes you need to improve your writing skills to be able to accomplish whatever you were trying to accomplish then. Sometimes you need a mental or physical health break or you just need more time in the day before you can finish something.

Third, writing is fun and you shouldn't hold yourself or your sense of success at writing to how many stories you finish. Did you enjoy yourself even for the period of time that you wrote whatever you wrote? Did you end up with something cool, interesting, fun, exciting, weird, or different? Great, that's all a victory.

[pricegouge]

cellar door

cw: f!reader, implied skinny/fit, sorry. had to go through a window :( horror elements. you've got a live-in.

fucking tuesdays. nothing good ever happens on a tuesday.

hit snooze too many times, found the eggs had gone off only as you were making breakfast, burnt the coffee. you throw in the towel a whole twenty minutes after waking up and dump all your progress, deciding you'll risk being late for work just so you can stop by some place quick and get a breakfast that isn't actively trying to eat you back. you're checking your balance as you walk out the door, distracted by the forgotten subscription renewal that had gone through the night before. fuck, maybe you should skip breakfast after all -?

and then the car door doesn't give when you try the handle.

"oh, get bent," you hiss through gritted teeth as you try it again, futilely. head tilted back to stare up at the cold, dark sky, pulling at the handle in frustration. once for each of the pale white winter morning stars still glinting away.

it's too damn early for this.

you know yourself too well to even bother checking your coat pockets for your keys, but you do anyway out of desperation. as expected, you come out empty and for a moment you just stand there with your forehead thumped against the door frame while you picture yourself walking out the back door, nose stuck in your phone as you bypass the key holder without so much as a parting glance. you locked the door behind yourself - you know you did, but you try it anyway just to be sure. wouldn't do to pull your landlord out of bed just to have him show up and try the knob, call you an idiot before the sun's even out.

of all the stupid shit you've already pulled this morning, you wouldn't put it past yourself, honestly, but of course securing your house was the one thing you'd managed to complete successfully.

your boss is understanding when you text her. 'take your time. and stay warm!' a point you hadn't considered until she said it, the chill seeping in through the seams of your coat as you stand on your back porch, debating. if you could at least get into your car, you'd have options. potential tools you could maybe use to break in. but as it stands, you've nothing, and a call to your vaguely lecherous landlord is seeming more and more imminent. snow crunches under boot as you round the house, desperate. you'd be proud of how diligent you've been in locking windows, if not for the fact that you could really use an open one right about now. giving in, you pull your phone from your pocket again and grumble when you drop it, fingers gone numb with the chill. crouching low, you dig it out of the snow and check for pavement marks in the low light from the streetlamp across the road. except, your screen isn't the only glass the light catches - a dull glaze reflecting in the basement window before you, rickety casing looking quite promising.

your phone works well enough to use the flashlight, at least. you frown in distaste at the mess of cobwebs on the other side of the window, but between a creepy unfinished basement and an asshole landlord who spends just as much time leering at you as he does belittling your concerns, you'll try your luck with the slumbering spiders.

the panes hang crookedly. two panels, side by side. there's some concern about whether or not you'll even be able to fit through it if you can manage to get it open, but you give it a rough estimate and decide to try anyway - jimmying the first panel until it rocks forward in its soggy frame, enough so that you can squirm a stick between the two where they're latched together, loosely.

probably, you should be concerned how easy it is to knock the lock. you add it to the list of things your landlord will never fix for you.

while the soggy casing had made for an easy in, it's much harder to actually slide the window open. you grunt in effort, cold fingers cramping when you finally get enough space to slip them around the frame. the wood creaks. you worry for a moment that the pane will shatter before it gives an inch, and then nearly topple over when it opens all at once. the cobwebs beyond stretch and warp. snap, brittle with age. snow gives way before you, a small avalanche that collects on the dirt floor below. you're not overly familiar with the basement - have tried all your tenancy to avoid venturing into it - but you remember from the house tour that the north half, up near where the trap door in the front porch opens, at least boasts a cement slab. no such luck here, it seems. the frame digs into your belly when you shimmy through, feet first. there's a small moment of vertigo as you free fall and you can't help squirming in disgust when your hands trail down the slimy blocks that make up the walls. you wipe them off on your jeans as best you can before retrieving your phone from your pocket and throwing the hood of your coat up for an added layer of protection from the general grime.

your flashlight casts a tight circle, a problem seeing as you're slightly disoriented and unsure where the door to the stairway is. you aim it at the ceiling and cringe further into the protection of your coat when it reveals nothing more than a good few decade's worth of cobwebs built up between the beams.

concentrate. somewhere, there's a bare bulb with a pull chain. if you could just -

adrenaline piqued with the stress of your situation, you nearly jump out of your skin when your phone begins to vibrate with an incoming call. irrational anger mounting, you don't even spare a glance at the contact before snapping into the receiver, "Yeah?"

your frustration only builds when you're greeted by the gruff voice of your landlord, made all the more gravelly by the fact that he'd clearly just woken up. "you leave for work yet?"

"john…" the question catches you off guard, gives you pause as you stumble in your efforts to simultaneously use the flash light while also speaking with him. "pardon?"

"have you left for work yet?"

you'd take a deep, calming breath if the thought of inhaling this dank air didn't make you want to hurl, just a little. instead you take a moment to switch the call to speaker phone, move a little further into the room. "can't say i have. why do you ask?"

he grunts, sounding a little perturbed when he continues. "well. might recommend you do."

despite yourself, his presence on the line calms you down enough to brave the cobwebs and you slink forward, trying hard as you can to not process your surroundings even as you search for the door. "why's that?"

"neighbor called, love. said they just watched someone crawl through the basement window."

he gives it all the levity it deserves, but you can't help scoffing at him, nervous humor only building when you hear his jaw clenching on the other end of the line. "sorry. i don't mean to laugh." you pause to collect yourself, take a look around and find your route out. "but i wouldn't worry too much. i locked myself out and decided to try the window instead of bothering you first thing in the morning." a fairly diplomatic way of saying you'd rather navigate the saw bathroom that is your own cellar than deal with him. not too bad, all things considered.

"oh, darl', it's no trouble. climb on back outta that creepy basement and i'll be right over."

for a moment you picture him the way he must see himself: riding up in his battered yet dependable pick up just to save you from the cold. hard telling what makes your stomach turn more, him or the mud which gives under your boot, soft belly of your house. you step up onto the cement slab just as a series of thuds overhead draw your attention - heavy enough to rain dust from the rafters. panda, you imagine, her wide haunches bunching as she thunders through the house, far too heavy for a cat. you should probably put her on a diet. "your house is haunted," you accuse instead by way of reply, eager to steer the conversation away from him coming to save you and rendering your whole excursion null.

"might be," he muses. "but don't fret, love. ghost likes pretty things like you."

"right." you'd roll your eyes if you weren't so busy focusing on your footsteps, picking your way carefully lest you step on a mouse carcass or something equally heinous.

"anyway, what's your plan? the inner door on the porch will be locked too, won't it?"

the one into the dining room, he means. the one you're definitely guilty of never locking because panda likes to spend her evenings in the entry and you don't see the harm when there's a perfectly functional locked door on the enclosed porch. "it's not," you hedge, unsure if you want to be telling your landlord this considering it's his property you're putting in danger.

"darl'," john drawls, and you cut him off before he can add a good reprimand to the list of things you've had to endure this morning.

"yes, it will be locked after this, i promise. i just didn't realize how easy it would be to come in through the basement window."

"always the easiest ones to go through," he grumbles, and you think you hear his car door slam in the background of his call.

"i told you not to bother coming," you groan, kicking over a stack of old paint cans in your haste to make it to the door. like it's a race, like if you make it into the house before he can get there then he won't make you even more late for work, loitering around to check for damages to his basement window and jawing at you about home security.

the door's an old thing. thick wood gone warped and wilted with the damp. it's swollen in its frame, fights you when you try to pull it from the jamb. you grunt loud enough that you don't quite catch your landlord's response, and then zone him out altogether as the door finally yanks free and light spills in from above, the trapdoor at the top of the stairs wide open, overhead porch light glowing cheerily - unawares of the omen it brings. you shuffle back a step, another, try to hide among the shadows of the cellar even as your landlord's deep voice carries on. your fingers scrabble over the screen, smother the unit in your coat - anything to keep his commanding voice from carrying because you know. you know you didn't leave the light on, much less the trap door open.

nonsensically, your thoughts scatter, imagine panda investigating the porch, the staircase below. your head swivels behind as if to check for her even as you keep slinking sideways, skirting the ring of light until your back presses against the grit of the wall - instinctual, easily defensible.

"john," you hiss, risking the light of your phone enough to take it back out, turn off the flashlight, take him off speaker phone, call for help. keep at it even as he carries on, much too loud to hear you.

"- and who would i be if i didn't come to help, hm? can't have you -."

"john! fuck -! listen to me!" you're not even sure he hears you, quiet as you're being. he certainly doesn't stop droning on, though he stops when he hears you squeak, foot catching on something low and soft which pillows your fall when you collapse onto it, cold blankets enveloping you, damp and sweaty.

you gag as you roll, stop dead when another series of thuds echo over head. other direction now, back the way they'd come. your eyes track the path, land on the halo of light spilling through the door just as the intruder's shadow cuts across, impossibly big with the exaggerated angle. without the added light from your phone, you're plunged into relative darkness, the small circle of thin amber light ringing the door scattered by the severe contour of the man upstairs. there's nowhere to hide, really, and your only option is to keep slinking back into the recesses of the basement, too afraid to try scurrying back out the window lest he sees your legs kicking as you try to heave yourself out.

boots lumber into view first, heavy and mud-caked. instinctively, your eyes fall to the dirt you're treading over and seek out the treads. broad, huge. deep scores indicating how heavy he is, how many times he's worn a path into the ground. among them you spot tiny paw prints, almost as disturbing. panda follows after, bobbing into view as she weaves between his legs with a silent cry for attention until she detects you, golden eyes glinting ominously as she scans the basement before leading him in, making a beeline for you the moment she alights on the landing.

traitor.

he's not far behind, ducking through the door while you try to shoo your own car. you force your limbs to move and slide further along the wall, folding under the empty, built-in shelf your shoulder bumps into as you go. it's filthy, cobwebs clinging to the skin of your face as you settle, but you clamp a hand over your mouth and stifle the whimper that builds, ears strained for any movement in the darkness laid out before you.

john's still in your ear, quieter now. as if he knows something isn't right. "sweetheart?" he prompts, and you feel a tear slip down your face when you realize that despite taking him off speaker phone, you'd never turned the volume down. your thumb finds the side buttons now, clicks until john's breathing is no more than a comforting whisper, no louder than your own.

no louder than the response you risk, voice hollow, only really audible on the plosives. "john, there's someone here."

"what's that, darl'?"

your breath hitches before you can respond, the low click and hum of a bare bulb flickering to life leeching your words. it floods the room in fits and starts, turns the man's movements jagged and inhuman as he lowers his arm back to his side until finally it settles into a constant, thin and yellow. he stands directly below the bulb, the shadows of his face severe and gaunt, an odd contrast to his broad stature. for a long moment, he just lingers there, dark gaze shifting slowly around the room. you follow it, try to see what he sees, figure out if there's anything that could give you away.

you don't make it that far, eyes catching on all the accoutrement that lines the walls. bed, stool. small pile of familiar books.

a cat litter box.

disinterested in you when you're not giving her treats or pets, the moment shatters as panda returns to him, headbutting his boots cheerily and begging for pets. he crouches to pick her up and she climbs onto his shoulder with a familiarity that unsettles you further, speaks to how long he's been spending his days with her. she doesn't move when he does, enjoys her high vantage as he cuts across the room, boots squelching in the dirt. he passes by you on his way to the window and shuts it easily, warped wood barely giving him any trouble. in the muted light from the window, you see the odd shadows of his face which you'd noted before are simply the hollows of a skull motif on the balaclava he wears.

"darlin', you still there?"

but you're not, boots tearing up the mud as you scramble out from your hiding place. panda follows you, the familiar heavy thud of her paws when she jumps from her perch a comfort. she passes you on the stairs even as you take them two at a time, chest puffing with the steep incline. at the top you turn and slam the trapdoor down, the white of his mask all you can see peering up at you from the darkness before the door falls into place. there's nothing on the porch heavy enough to brace it, but you try anyway, pulling the cheap patio set closer and shepherding panda through the inner door in the same move, the little shit apparently more afraid of you and your erratic movements than she was the basement dweller with the skull mask.

you lock the inner door after you fall through it, watch in horror through the transom as the furniture heaves, a powerful quake that tosses them to the side before the door creeps open, hollow eyes checking for a trap before heavy, gloved fingers wrap around it properly, push it wide.

impossibly, he seems even bigger here, above ground, where you have a better gauge of normalcy. he eclipses the whole room, blots out the overhead light when he looms closer to the door, dark eye pressed against the pane so he can peer through a fractal in the glass, same as you'd just been. you back further into the dining room, bump against the table just as you feel his gaze on you. it distracts you from the sound of the key in the lock, the creak of the hinges what finally compels you to fucking run.

keys in hand this time, you book it out the back door and slam head first into a sturdy chest, legs flailing under you until john helps right you, fingers bruising hard on your arms as he tries to shush you into submission. he won't let you go no matter how much you shriek, just pulls you to his chest and smothers your cries there, orders you to tell him what's wrong even as he walks you back up the stairs.

somehow, between your shouting and your panting and your sobbing, he gets it: man down there; living there.

"oh, honey, that's just your ghost," he soothes, wrangling you through the screen door with a grip on your jaw which he uses to tilt your head the intruder's way, makes you watch as he lumbers closer, john's voice a low scratch of whiskers against your ear. "told you he liked you."

[bueckets]

The Hit List | 02.5

Pairing: fuckgirl!Paige x Mechi Student!reader

Masterlist (TBA) | Part One | Part Two (READ BEFORE 2.5)

Genre: romance, slow burn, enemies to lovers, kinda funny?, they fuck, n its hot n sweaty, cat n mouse

Description: What starts as a game of avoidance turns into something far more dangerous when old grudges and unfinished business crash headfirst into a truth neither of them are ready to face. Armed with a stubborn streak, a boyfriend you're trying too hard to believe in, and a simmering resentment that burns just as hot as desire, you swear you won’t let Paige win.

But when history keeps rewriting itself in glances, in touches, in words that cut too close—you start to wonder if you've had control of the game at all.

wc: 24k, yes, 24k

Authors Note: sorry this took forever, too many words so this is split into two parts (THIS IS part 2 chap 2)

Three Weeks Later

Midterms came and went, dragging you through hell and back. The sleepless nights, the cramming, the fucking Systems Engineering project that nearly made you throw your laptop out a window. It’s over. You survived.

And somewhere in between all of it—Paige Bueckers became just a name again.

Not a person. Not a presence. Not someone orbiting your every waking moment.

Just a name you see online.

A headline when UConn wins another game.

A clip someone reposts on Twitter, her pulling up from three like it’s muscle memory, making it look so goddamn easy.

Her life moves forward at full speed.

The season’s in full swing, meaning the team’s constantly gone—traveling for games, disappearing for days at a time, too busy to be anything but motion.

It’s weird.

Because after that night—after the fucking laundry room, after the way she felt against you, the way her breath tangled with yours—you thought she’d stick. Thought the weight of her would still be there, pressing into your ribs, twisting your stomach every time you caught a glimpse of her across campus. But she’s gone.

Not in the literal sense. You still hear her name, see her in passing, watch her run drills on the court like she owns it. But she’s not here. Not in the way that matters. She’s everywhere else—on screens, in headlines, living a life that no longer overlaps with yours.

And you hate that the only way you see her now is through a fucking phone. A video of her laughing on the sideline, hair damp with sweat, head thrown back like she doesn’t have a care in the world. A post-game interview where she’s loose, confident, rattling off the same media-trained answers like she’s never lost control of anything in her life. She’s fine. She’s thriving.

And the worst part? She probably doesn’t think about you at all.

So you adjust. You fall back into routine. Class. Studying. Work. You go to parties, sometimes. You drink. You dance. You make out with people whose names you don’t bother remembering. You kiss Eli again—once, just to see if it sparks something, if it fills the void she left behind. It doesn’t. It never does.

And then, just as fast as she disappeared—

She’s back.

It happens out of nowhere. One second, you’re dragging yourself through campus, brain fogged with sleep, the winter air biting at your skin, coffee scalding the tip of your tongue. And then—her. Right there. Like she never left. Like she hasn’t spent the last few weeks bouncing between cities, arenas, flashing cameras. Like she isn’t something bigger than all of this.

She’s standing outside the training facility, hoodie pulled over her head, joggers slung low on her hips, a duffel bag hanging off her shoulder. She’s talking to someone—one of her coaches, maybe—but she’s different. Not in the way she looks. No, she’s exactly the same, infuriatingly so. It’s something else, something in the way she carries herself, like she’s spent so much time away from this part of her life that she almost forgot it existed.

Like she almost forgot about you.

Your breath stutters. Your steps slow.

She’s close enough to touch. Close enough to reach out and prove she’s real.

And yet, she might as well be a ghost.

Because when she finally turns, finally glances up—she sees you. You know she does. But there’s nothing. No reaction. No flicker of recognition. No teasing smirk. No raised brow, no knowing glance, nothing. Just a passing look, empty and indifferent, before she turns away.

Like you’re nobody.

Like that night never happened.

Like you never fucking existed.

And it wrecks you. Because for the first time since this whole fucked-up, tangled thing started—

It feels like you lost.

Two Months Later

Dating Eli is easy. That’s the problem.

There’s no push and pull, no fire curling under your ribs, no moments where your pulse spikes so fast you think you might actually combust. There’s no game. No tension. Just quiet, steady comfort. He’s sweet—thoughtful, even. Picks you up for class sometimes, walks you to your dorm even when it’s out of his way, texts you good morning despite seeing you every day. A good boyfriend. The kind you’re supposed to want.

And you? You go through the motions. You hold his hand. Let him kiss you. Let him slip an arm around your shoulders as you walk across campus, even though it still feels foreign. Even though it still feels wrong. But you let it happen because it’s safe. Because he doesn’t make your stomach drop. Because he doesn’t wreck you.

Because he’s not her.

And that’s exactly what you need. Because Paige Bueckers doesn’t know you exist anymore.

She came back from the season like she shed you—like you were just something she outgrew. Whatever happened between you was nothing. A passing thought. A mistake so inconsequential she didn’t even have to acknowledge it. And if she doesn’t care? Then neither do you.

So you lean into Eli.

And when he invites you to a UConn game—something casual, something low-stakes, something he’s excited to take you to—you say yes. You say yes because it makes sense. Because this is your life now. Because Paige Bueckers is just another player on the court.

And that’s all she’s ever going to be.

The stadium is packed, the early spring air crisp, cutting through the warmth of the sun. You follow Eli up the steps, scanning for open seats, the scent of popcorn and hot dogs thick in the air. It’s different from the last time you were at a game. Not indoors, not under the blinding arena lights. The energy is looser, more relaxed, fans chatting easily, kids waving oversized foam fingers.

You take a breath, steadying yourself. It’s fine. It’s just a game. And you’re here with your boyfriend.

Eli finds seats near the middle, pulling you down beside him, arm draping lazily over your shoulders. You lean in, let yourself sink into the warmth of his body, let yourself pretend like this is all normal.

On the court, the team is warming up. Players jog across the pavement, stretching, shaking out their limbs. Your gaze drifts over them, detached, unfocused, not looking for anything in particular—

And then—her.

It shouldn’t feel like a fucking collision, but it does.

Your breath catches, body locking up as if it knew before your brain did. As if some deep, unshakable instinct recognized her presence before you could stop it. Paige jogs across the court, her shorts hanging loose around her thighs, her hoodie still on, dribbling lazily like she doesn’t have a single care in the world. Like she’s untouchable.

Your chest tightens. She still looks the same. Still is the same. And yet—something’s different. Maybe it’s the way she seems even more unreachable now, like she exists in a space just beyond your grasp.

You exhale sharply, force your gaze away.

You’re here with Eli.

You’re fine.

This means nothing.

Eli nudges you. “You good?”

You blink, nodding too quickly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He smiles, presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Get ready. She’s gonna put on a show.”

You force a laugh.

And when you chance another glance at the court—Paige is already looking at you.

But this time, she reacts.

Just slightly. Just enough.

A shift in her eyes. A flicker of something.

And then—she smiles.

Not big. Not obvious. Just the barest curve of her lips, like she knows. Like she sees you sitting there, tucked under Eli’s arm, playing house, pretending like you’ve moved on. And for the first time in months, you know—

She hasn’t forgotten you at all.

You don’t watch the game. Not really.

You hear it—the sharp squeak of sneakers against pavement, the shrill whistle of fouls, the deafening roar of the crowd when UConn scores. You see it—the blur of white and navy jerseys cutting across the court.

But your focus is off.

Because all you can feel is the weight of her presence.

And the fact that she knows you’re here.

It fucks with you.

Because it had been easy to believe she forgot. That she let it go, left you in the past, moved on like you were nothing. But now—now she’s looking at you between plays. Not constantly. Not obviously. Just enough.

A glance while she’s standing at the free-throw line, hands on her hips, chest rising and falling. A flicker of her eyes when she jogs back on defense, scanning the crowd, skimming right past Eli like he doesn’t even exist.

And that fucking smirk when she sinks a three-pointer, lets it hang in the air for just a second before she turns, wiping the sweat off her brow with the hem of her jersey.

It’s deliberate. Calculated.

And it’s working.

Heat curls up your spine, a suffocating mix of frustration and something you won’t name. Your arms lock tight across your stomach, fingers curled into your sleeves. Beside you, Eli cheers, completely oblivious.

You wish you could be.

You wish you could tune her out. Pretend she’s just another player on the court. Pretend she doesn’t get under your skin.

But she’s in your head again. She won’t leave.

And worse—she knows it.

The game stretches on, endless. Every second is another reminder that she’s still there. That she’s not just some passing thought, some unfinished mistake. She’s real. She’s here. And she’s still in this fucking thing with you, even if neither of you are saying it out loud.

By the time the final buzzer sounds, you feel like you’ve been through a war.

Eli’s arm tightens around your shoulders, shaking you lightly. “See? Told you she’d put on a show.”

You nod, force a tight smile, but your chest feels hollow, your stomach twisted into something you don’t know how to untangle.

Because the game might be over—

But this?

This is just getting started.

The crowd filters out in waves, a slow, steady stream of bodies stretching stiff limbs, shaking off the lingering chill, still thrumming with energy from the win. Eli stands, his hand warm around yours as he pulls you up with him, his voice easy, unbothered, spilling into the space between you with post-game analysis—stats, highlights, a play he wants to rewatch later.

You nod when you’re supposed to, hum responses that sound just engaged enough, but none of it sticks. Your mind is elsewhere.

Because she’s still here.

Not with the team. Not caught up in post-game celebrations or media duties. No cameras, no noise, no excuses. Just lingering.

Sweat still clings to the curve of her neck, damp strands of blonde hair curling against her skin. Her hoodie is pulled over her head, water bottle hanging loose from her fingers, body relaxed like she has nowhere to be. But she’s not just standing there.

She’s watching.

Not outright. Not obvious. Just enough.

And Eli? He doesn’t notice.

Because why would he? He’s here with his girlfriend, celebrating a win, caught up in the moment, assuming she’s just watching the team clear out, thinking nothing of it.

You, on the other hand—

You can’t fucking breathe.

Every nerve is stretched too tight, buzzing under your skin, prickling like static, like she’s marking you without even touching you. Like she’s still fucking with you, seeing how much space she can take up in your head before you break.

And the worst part?

She looks fine.

Completely untouched. Unshaken. Not like she’s been thinking about you. Not like this has cost her anything.

And that—that is what undoes you.

Because this was supposed to be over.

You were supposed to be fine.

But here you are. Crumbling.

Eli tugs on your sleeve, easy, unaware. “Come on, let’s head out before traffic gets bad.”

You blink, drag yourself back into the present, nodding too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

One step.

Then two.

And then—

You don’t mean to look.

But you do.

Just for a second.

And she’s still there.

And she smiles.

Not big. Not obvious. Just that same, slow, knowing curve of her lips.

Like she sees right through you.

Like she knows you’re unraveling.

Like she’s won.

It’s three days after the game when the email comes in.

You don’t think much of it at first, just another facilities request forwarded to you through the engineering department—something about a faulty vent system in the women’s basketball locker room. Nothing urgent, nothing particularly exciting, just another task to check off your list between classes and whatever project is currently draining your soul. You’re barely skimming the details as you type out a confirmation reply, promising to stop by that afternoon, when it hits you.

Women’s basketball locker room.

Your stomach tightens.

For a second, you debate forwarding it off to someone else. Someone more qualified, someone with less history hanging in that space. But that’s fucking ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s been three months. Three months since the laundry room, since she pretended you didn’t exist, since you started playing house with Eli like it was supposed to fix everything. Three months of routine, of pretending you don’t track her name through game highlights and Twitter clips, of pretending you don’t feel her presence like a ghost in the back of your head.

You should be fine.

This shouldn’t be a thing.

It’s a fucking vent. You’re going to walk in, tighten some screws, maybe clean out a filter, and walk right back out. No big deal.

And yet, as you step into the building later that afternoon, tool bag slung over your shoulder, the cold press of the metal door handle beneath your palm, you feel something coil tight in your chest, something uneasy and electric, something that tells you this won’t be as easy as you want it to be.

The locker room is quiet when you step inside, the kind of silence that feels thick, like it’s waiting to be broken. The scent of sweat and body wash lingers in the air, fresh from practice, steam still clinging faintly from the showers in the back. Rows of lockers stretch across the room, some still open, jerseys draped lazily over the benches, sneakers kicked off in pairs on the floor.

You exhale slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag as you move toward the vent panel along the far wall. The faster you do this, the faster you can leave. You crouch, fingers working quickly to loosen the first few screws, trying to focus on the movement, the mechanics, anything but the slight tremble in your hands, anything but—

“Didn’t think I’d see you in here.”

The voice is unmistakable.

That low, casual drawl, edged in something sharper, something teasing, something that shouldn’t still make your breath catch the way it does.

You don’t turn immediately.

You keep working, keep your gaze locked on the vent, pretend like your pulse hasn’t just doubled. “Just fixing a maintenance issue,” you say, voice as even as you can manage. “Won’t be here long.”

There’s a pause, a shift of movement, the unmistakable sound of sneakers against tile. She’s coming closer.

“Shame,” Paige murmurs, and fuck, you feel it.

The weight of her gaze. The presence of her body somewhere behind you, close enough to make the air feel different, charged, suffocating.

You grip the screwdriver tighter.

She shouldn’t be here. Not now, not after all this time, not when you’ve spent months convincing yourself she doesn’t matter.

But she is.

And she’s talking to you.

You swallow, working another screw loose, forcing yourself to focus. “Shouldn’t you be at practice?”

She hums, and you hear the smile in it before you see it. “Finished early.” A pause, and then, “Didn’t know you were doing this kind of work.”

Your jaw tightens.

Of course, she didn’t. Because you don’t exist in her world anymore, do you? Not unless she decides you do.

You finally turn, slowly, pushing up from your crouch, letting yourself look at her.

And fuck, that was a mistake.

Because she looks good, better than you remember, the months of training and travel and games only sharpening her in ways that make your stomach twist. She’s standing there in sweatpants and a UConn tee, hair damp from a post-practice shower, arms crossed over her chest, watching you like she’s curious, like she’s interested, like she hasn’t spent three months pretending you were just another passing face in the crowd.

And it pisses you off.

You force a shrug, tilting your head slightly. “Didn’t know you cared what I was doing.”

Her smirk twitches. Just barely. Just enough.

“Didn’t say I did,” she replies smoothly, but the way she’s watching you says otherwise.

There it is.

The push and pull. The old game slipping back into place like it never left, like three months of avoidance didn’t mean shit.

And you should walk away. You should finish the job and leave, act like you don’t feel this, act like she’s just another person in another room.

But you don’t.

Because something deep in you, something bitter and unresolved and desperate, needs to know if this still means something.

So you take a step closer, watching the flicker in her eyes as you do.

“Then why are you standing here?” you ask, voice low, steady, challenging.

Paige doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back, doesn’t flinch, just holds your gaze, her mouth curving slightly, like she’s enjoying this, like she knows she’s getting to you.

“Maybe I’m just curious,” she says, tilting her head. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Three months.

Three months of silence. Three months of pretending. Three months of you thinking you were the only one who remembered, the only one who cared, the only one still feeling it.

And now?

Now she’s standing here, looking at you like she never forgot at all.

You don’t answer.

Because what is there to say? That, yeah, it’s been a while, and yet somehow it still feels like she never left your fucking head? That you’ve spent the past three months trying to scrub the memory of her hands off your skin, only to have them crawl back the second you laid eyes on her again? That seeing her at the game did something to you—something ugly, something desperate, something you don’t want to name?

No.

You won’t give her that.

So instead, you just lift a brow, forcing something casual onto your face, like her presence isn’t making your chest feel too tight. “Yeah. Guess it has.”

Paige watches you for a second longer, and you can see it happening—her weighing the moment, deciding how she wants to play this. Because that’s what she does, isn’t it? She plays. Gives you something, just a taste, just enough to make your stomach flip, before she rips it away.

And you should know better by now.

You do know better.

But then she shifts, weight rolling back onto one foot, arms still folded, her mouth quirking into that slow, almost lazy smirk—the one that’s never meant nothing.

“So,” she says, tilting her head, “are you gonna keep ignoring me, or are we past that now?”

Your pulse stutters.

Your fingers tighten around the screwdriver in your hand.

You weren’t expecting that.

For her to just say it. To acknowledge it, to drag it into the light, the weight of your silence, the way you spent months dodging her like it might actually fix you.

You scoff, shaking your head, turning back to the vent, to anything that isn’t her mouth forming words that fuck you up. “I haven’t been ignoring you.”

It’s a lie.

Paige knows it’s a lie.

She steps closer—just enough that you can feel the shift of air between you, just enough that you catch the faint scent of her shampoo, something fresh, something clean, something too close.

“You sure?” she murmurs. “Because it kinda seemed like you were.”

Your teeth clench.

She’s doing it again.

The push and pull. The little tug, just enough to make you stumble, to throw you off balance, to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with.

You exhale slowly through your nose, focus on the screw you’re twisting into place, force your voice to stay neutral. “You seemed fine with it.”

There’s a pause. Just for a beat. Just long enough that you think maybe—maybe—you landed something.

Then—soft, amused—Paige says, “You think that?”

And it’s not fair.

The way she says it, the way it slides under your skin, the way it makes your chest squeeze, makes you feel fucking stupid for believing, even for a second, that maybe she really had forgotten you.

Your fingers tighten around the screwdriver.

She’s playing with you.

And the worst part?

You let her.

You don’t turn. Don’t face her. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

But your voice is quieter when you say, “Why do you even care?”

Another pause.

Then—

“Maybe I don’t.”

Your stomach drops.

It’s so fucking typical. Just when you think she’s giving you something, just when she pulls you an inch closer, she yanks it away.

You clench your jaw, inhale sharply, force yourself to stay still.

And then—because you refuse to let her win this—you huff a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Right. Of course.”

You finish tightening the last screw, closing the panel, standing up. You finally turn to her, tilting your head slightly, forcing something light onto your face, like you’re fine, like she isn’t doing what she always fucking does.

“Well,” you say, slipping the screwdriver back into your bag. “It’s been great catching up, but I have shit to do.”

You move to step past her.

But she shifts, blocking your path.

Not aggressively. Not obviously.

Just enough.

Just enough that you have to stop.

Just enough that you have to look at her.

Paige licks her lips, considering you, and her voice is quieter this time, almost thoughtful. “You don’t like when I do that, do you?”

Your stomach tightens.

You keep your face neutral. “Do what?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Give you something, then take it away.”

You swallow.

Because the fact that she’s saying it out loud—naming it, acknowledging it—makes your chest squeeze so hard it’s almost painful.

You force a shrug. “You do whatever you want, Paige.”

You step around her, adjusting the strap of your bag like the conversation hasn’t just sunk claws into your spine, like you aren’t already burning up from the inside out. You throw one last casual glance over your shoulder, just to make a point, just to show her this doesn’t fucking matter.

And then—

“Is he your boyfriend?”

It’s smooth, deliberate, cutting through the silence with the ease of a well-placed knife.

Your body goes rigid.

Not enough to be noticeable. Not enough to give her the satisfaction. But she notices.

You school your face into something neutral before turning back to her. “Yeah.”

The second the word leaves your mouth, Paige scoffs. Then—slow, quiet, like she’s really thinking about it—she laughs.

It’s not loud. It’s not obvious. But it hits.

It slides under your skin, needles into your chest, presses against something raw and unsettled.

You know exactly what she’s laughing at.

Not at Eli, not really.

She’s laughing at you.

At the fact that you’re standing here, pretending like that word doesn’t feel foreign in your mouth, like it doesn’t taste like something you don’t quite believe.

At the fact that you’ve spent months throwing yourself into a version of reality where he is the answer.

At the fact that she knows—she fucking knows—that if he really was, you wouldn’t be here.

Your throat tightens.

You square your shoulders. “Something funny?”

Paige shakes her head, smirk barely there, but sharp. “Nah.” A pause, her gaze flicking over you like she’s amused, like she’s bored. “Just wasn’t expecting that.”

Your fingers curl around the strap of your bag, tight enough to sting.

She tilts her head slightly. “Does he know you’re here?”

You force your jaw not to clench. “Why would it matter?”

Paige hums, the sound lazy, almost dismissive. “It wouldn’t.”

You don’t know why that lands deeper than it should, why it hits like something solid in your chest.

She doesn’t fucking care.

You exhale sharply, roll your shoulders, force yourself to act like you don’t feel like she just pressed a finger right against something bruised inside you.

“Well,” you say, tone light, detached, like this whole conversation hasn’t just put a fucking stone in your stomach, “great catching up.”

And this time, when you walk out—when you force your feet to move, when you push through the door into the cooler hallway air—you don’t look back.

You don’t have to.

Because you can still feel her there.

Still hear the low echo of her laugh.

Still fucking feel her.

And you hate that it still makes your chest tighten.

The locker room door swings shut behind you, but the conversation doesn’t leave with it.

It sticks.

It clings to your skin, coils in your stomach, presses into your ribs like something sharp and unshakable.

You walk down the hallway fast, like you can outrun the weight of her laugh in your ears, like you can erase the way she looked at you when she said that’s your boyfriend?—like the words weren’t just words, like they were something else, something heavier, something soaked in disbelief and mockery.

You should be over her by now.

But then why does your skin still burn? Why does your pulse still hammer against the inside of your wrist? Why does the way she said it—casual, unbothered, like it didn’t even fucking matter—make something in you want to break?

The night stretches out after that, long and restless. You try to study, but you can’t focus. You try to sleep, but every time you close your eyes, she’s there. Her smirk. Her scoff. The way she laughed like you were a joke. Like he was a joke.

You spend the next week avoiding places where you might run into her, avoiding anywhere that makes you feel like a live wire, avoiding thinking about her—

And it works.

Until it doesn’t.

Because the thing about Paige Bueckers is that she has a way of creeping back in, of making herself known, of pulling you back into her orbit whether you want to be there or not.

It happens at another party.

A packed house, music pulsing through the walls, the kind of night where people are drinking like they’re trying to forget something, where everything feels just a little too loud, a little too bright, a little too much.

You’re standing in the kitchen, fingers curled around a red cup, Eli close behind you, talking to someone you don’t know. His hand is warm where it rests on your hip, an absentminded touch, a casual claim.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

Until you’re not.

Until your eyes flicker past the crowd, past the shifting bodies and pulsing bass, past the open doorway—

And land right on her.

Paige is in the next room, leaning against the wall, head tilted, that lazy, practiced ease draped over her like armor. She’s watching something—someone. A girl. Pretty. Brunette. Standing too close, laughter spilling past glossy lips as she hangs on whatever Paige just said.

Paige isn’t even touching her. Doesn’t need to. Just standing there, looking, smirking, waiting. And the worst part? You know exactly what she’s doing.

Like she could have her if she wanted.

Like it’s not even a fucking question.

Your stomach knots, tight and hot. Not with jealousy—no, it’s worse than that. It’s recognition.

Because you know what it’s like to be on the other side of that look.

You know what it’s like to be wanted by her.

The ghost of it slams into you like a fist to the ribs—how it felt to have those eyes locked on you, sharp and knowing, pinning you down like a game she was already winning. How it felt when she had you right there and she knew it.

Your grip tightens around your cup, fingers digging in like it’s the only thing holding you together. Your breath stutters, the air too thick, the room suddenly too small.

She hasn’t seen you yet.

She’s too caught up in her game, too wrapped up in not caring.

So you do the same.

You force yourself to turn back to Eli, to play your part. You smile, lean into his touch, let him press his lips to your temple like it’s easy, like it’s nothing. Like it means something.

And maybe it works.

Maybe it doesn’t.

Because when you chance another glance—just for a second—

Paige is already looking at you.

And this time—

She smirks.

Slow. Deliberate. Like she’s been waiting for you to look. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Like she knows exactly how much space she still takes up in your fucking head.

And that’s when you snap.

You don’t think.

You move.

Your cup clatters onto the counter, liquid sloshing over the rim, but you don’t care. You slip out of Eli’s reach, push through the crowd—away, anywhere, somewhere with air that doesn’t taste like her.

Your pulse is a riot, hammering against your ribs, deafening in your ears as you shove past people pressed against walls, past laughter and voices swallowed by the music, past the tight, choking heat in your chest.

Your hands are shaking. Your breath is uneven. You need a second.

Just one fucking second to breathe—

And then—

A door swings open, and suddenly—

She’s right there.

Paige.

Still smirking.

Still looking like she has all the time in the world.

Still making your stomach feel like it’s caving in on itself.

Your chest rises and falls too fast, heat crawling up your neck, pooling low in your stomach, everywhere.

She leans against the doorway, casual as ever, the light behind her casting long shadows over the sharp angles of her face. She looks obnoxiously good, like she knows exactly how lethal she is.

She tilts her head. “What’s wrong?” she murmurs, voice low, teasing, like she already knows the answer.

And fuck her.

Fuck her for this.

For knowing you this well.

For still knowing you this well.

You shove past her, shoulder knocking against hers, but she moves at the last second, stepping just enough to block you—

And then—her hand.

Fingers curling around your wrist. Not hard. Not pulling. Just there.

You suck in a sharp breath.

She’s not holding you here. Not keeping you against your will.

But she doesn’t let go.

And neither do you.

The air between you crackles, thick, heavy, dangerous. The weight of something unsaid presses into your ribs, clinging to your skin, wrapping around you like a fucking chokehold.

Paige watches you.

And this time—

She doesn’t laugh.

She doesn’t smirk.

She waits.

And maybe—just maybe—

This time, you’re the one who moves first.

The space between you is electric, charged, something twisting tight in your chest like a live wire ready to snap. The hallway is dim, shadows stretching long against the walls, muffling the noise of the party outside, trapping you in this thing you’ve been running from for months.

Paige’s fingers are still around your wrist, not tight, not forcing—just there, anchoring you, keeping you from bolting like you probably should. Her eyes flicker over your face, searching, waiting, and fuck, you hate how easily she does this, how effortlessly she pulls you back into her gravity like you were never gone at all.

Your breath is uneven. Your pulse is pounding in your throat, but your voice is steady when you say, “What game are you playing at?”

She blinks, just once, slow and measured. Then the corner of her mouth curves, something smug, something dangerous. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

Your stomach drops, rage curling up into your throat so fast it makes your vision go sharp.

You shove her.

Harder than you should, more than just frustration, more than just anger. It’s months of this—of her pushing, pulling, giving you something and then acting like it never fucking happened. It’s her laugh in the locker room, her smirk at the game, the way she looked at you through the crowd like she was daring you to react, to feel. It’s all of it—the way she still owns you and acts like she doesn’t even care.

Paige stumbles back a step, but her hand never leaves you.

Instead, she grabs your other arm, fingers tight around your biceps, steadying herself, steadying you. Her grip is firm, strong, the heat of her palms burning through your sleeves.

Her smirk is gone.

And when she speaks again, her voice is different. Lower. Rougher.

“I’m not playing at a game.”

Your breath catches.

Because it’s not cocky. It’s not teasing. It’s real.

Her hands flex slightly on your arms, like she’s bracing herself, like she needs you to hear this.

And you do.

It sinks under your skin, gets lodged somewhere between your ribs, breaks something open inside of you that you’ve been trying to keep sealed shut.

Your heart is hammering. Your whole body is buzzing, tight, waiting.

Paige is still holding you.

And she’s so fucking close.

You can feel her breath against your lips, can see the flicker in her eyes, the way her chest is rising and falling just as fast as yours.

You don’t know who moves first.

Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s both of you at the same fucking time, colliding like you were never meant to be anything but this.

Your mouths crash together, hot and desperate, months of tension unraveling all at once, burning through every nerve in your body.

Paige exhales sharply against you, hands tightening around your arms before sliding up, up, framing your face, pulling you deeper into it, like she’s afraid you might disappear again.

You fist the fabric of her hoodie, dragging her into you, needing her closer, needing more.

Her body presses against yours, her lips insistent, rough, a little reckless, like she’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.

The hallway feels too small, the walls too close, your hands too desperate where they roam—her waist, her shoulders, the sharp edge of her jaw.

Paige groans softly against your mouth, and it wrecks you.

It fucking destroys you.

Because it’s real.

Because she wants this.

Because for the first time, she’s not taking it away.

You don’t stop.

Neither does she.

It’s all heat, all breath, all want. Paige’s mouth is rough, greedy, like she’s making up for every second you’ve spent apart, every time she pretended she didn’t see you, every time she smirked at you like this was just a game. Her hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt like she’d die if she let go.

You’re no better.

Your fingers fist in her hoodie, tugging her closer, dragging her against you, needing her body against yours, needing her to feel what she’s doing to you. The hallway barely exists anymore—the party, the noise, Eli—none of it fucking matters. Just her. Just her mouth, her hands, the way she kisses you like she’s starving for it.

Then, between kisses, between desperate little gasps, she murmurs it.

“I need you, baby.”

It wrecks you.

Fucking destroys you.

The word slips out easy, unthinking, raw. Not teasing, not smug, not calculated. Just real.

Your breath catches.

Paige must feel the way your body reacts, the way your nails dig into her arms, the way your hips press forward into hers, because she groans against your mouth and drags her teeth over your bottom lip.

You’re moving before you can think.

Paige is pushing you, guiding you back, back, until your shoulder blades hit a door, until she’s fumbling with the handle, barely breaking the kiss long enough to shove it open.

The room is dark, empty. Some random spare bedroom, barely furnished, barely even fucking registered because the second the door slams shut, Paige is on you again.

Her hands slide under your shirt, rough palms dragging up your ribs, fingertips pressing hard, desperate. Your breath is uneven, your body thrumming with something electric, something you can’t stop, something you don’t want to stop.

You don’t think.

You don’t need to think.

You just pull her hoodie up over her head, fingers tangling in the fabric for a second before it’s gone, discarded somewhere on the floor. Paige exhales sharply as you press into her, as your mouth moves against her jaw, down her throat, tasting, taking.

Her fingers slip into your hair, tugging just enough to make you feel it, enough to make you moan against her skin.

“Fuck,” she mutters, voice rough, breathless, like she’s unraveling, like you’re doing this to her.

You are.

And she fucking loves it.

Her hands move lower, sliding over your hips, gripping tight, like she’s anchoring herself, like she can’t stop touching you, like she’s making sure you’re real.

You kiss her again, harder, messier, pushing her back until her legs hit the edge of the bed, until you’re both toppling onto it, tangled together, all mouths and hands and heat.

Paige knows she’s winning.

You can see it in her eyes, the slow drag of them over your body, the way she takes her time, drinking in every reaction like she’s cataloging them, memorizing what makes you shiver, what makes you squirm, what makes your breath hitch in your throat.

She still likes the game.

She still likes to play.

But this time, she isn’t letting you pull away.

This time, she’s going to take everything.

Her fingers skim over your stomach, slow, teasing, just enough to make you feel it but not enough to satisfy anything. Her mouth follows, lips pressing soft, lingering kisses down, down, down, like she has all the time in the world.

Your head tilts back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut, but then she stops.

She stops completely.

The heat of her, the weight of her, everything—just gone.

Your eyes snap open, and she’s just looking at you, smug, comfortable, settled between your legs like she owns this moment, like she knows she has you right where she wants you.

Her fingers trail up your thigh, featherlight, barely there.

“You want this?”

Your stomach clenches.

She knows the answer.

She fucking knows.

You glare at her, shifting under her touch, frustrated, dizzy, so strung out you can barely think. “Paige—”

She smiles. Slow. Wicked.

And then, just as easily, “Say it.”

Your breath shudders out of you.

Because this?

This is her game.

She wants to hear you admit it. She wants to make you admit it.

She wants you to lose.

Your fingers dig into the sheets, your pulse a steady riot in your throat, in your wrists, between your legs where she still hasn’t fucking touched you.

But you can’t play this game forever.

Not when she already owns you.

Not when she already knows.

Your voice is thin when you say it.

“I want you.”

And the second the words leave your mouth—

She moves.

Paige grins, low and satisfied, and then she finally stops playing.

She knows she has you, like she’s been waiting for this moment, dragging it out, savoring every second of watching you come undone beneath her. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t give you everything all at once. No, she takes her time, letting her fingers trace the curve of your hip, pressing light, teasing kisses down your stomach, exhaling slow like she’s enjoying this, like this is just as much for her as it is for you.

You’re burning alive.

Your breath is uneven, your hands twisting in the sheets, thighs already trembling with the anticipation of her next move. But she doesn’t move—not in the way you need her to.

Instead, she just looks at you.

From between your legs, eyes dark, lips parted, expression unreadable, like she’s still deciding how she wants to do this.

Your stomach clenches.

“Paige—”

She presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, slow, deliberate, her nails digging in just slightly when she grips your hips, holding you in place.

“Shh, baby,” she murmurs, and fuck, there it is again.

That word.

Casual, unthinking, sliding out of her mouth like she doesn’t even realize she’s saying it. Like she means it.

You shudder.

Paige notices. Of course, she does.

Her smirk curves against your skin, and then—

She finally stops playing.

The first press of her mouth sends a raw, electric jolt through you, your hips jerking up on instinct, fingers clawing into her hair like you’ll die if you let go. But she’s already moving—already fucking dragging this out like she wants you begging, like she’s savoring every second of your desperation. Her tongue flickers, slow and teasing, pressing, stroking, curling, soaking you with her hunger, her need.

She moans against your cunt like she’s been fucking starving for it. Like she’s been waiting, aching, dreaming of this moment for weeks, and now that she’s got you open beneath her, there’s no way she’s letting you go easy.

She drags it out.

Like she wants to ruin you.

Like she wants to tear you apart and put you back together with her tongue.

Your nails scrape against her scalp, hard enough to hurt, but she only groans, only pushes deeper, her tongue slipping, flicking, thrusting into the dripping heat of you. You’re gasping now, thighs trembling, back arching, breath catching in desperate, broken moans you can’t even bite back. You can feel her smirk, the way she’s reveling in it, the way she’s enjoying every single fucking sound you make for her.

Her fingers press in, spreading you, holding you open, her tongue working, her lips sucking, teasing, devouring—like she’s trying to drink every last drop of you. The obscene, wet sounds of her mouth on you make you whimper, make you grind down against her, make you clutch her hair so tight she groans into your slick heat.

Your body is shaking.

Paige tightens her grip, keeps you there, keeps you spread for her, keeps you exactly where she wants you—helpless, ruined, fucking wrecked on her tongue.

And just when you think you can’t take it anymore—just when the pleasure coils so tight in your stomach it’s about to snap—she fucking speeds up.

And you’re gone.

You don’t know if you scream her name. You don’t know if you sob it. But the pleasure detonates inside you like a fucking bomb, ripping through your body, setting every nerve on fire, leaving you shaking, gasping, falling apart beneath her mouth.

When you finally come back down—breathless, wrecked, soaked and still trembling—Paige is looking up at you from between your legs, her lips swollen, her chin glistening, her eyes dark and wicked.

Paige’s brow quirks up and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours. You’re still gasping, still trembling, your body melted into the mattress, legs spread, thighs twitching from the aftershocks of what she just did to you. But she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t crawl up to lie beside you, doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

She licks her lips, smirks, and says, “I’m not done with you.”

And then she’s moving.

Crawling back up onto the bed, her body sliding over yours, her hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wider before she finally lets her weight press down. Her skin is hot, slick, her breath heavy and sweet, her thigh slotting between yours as she pins you there beneath her.

Then she grabs your tits.

No teasing, no hesitation—she palms them, squeezes, kneads, rolling the soft flesh in her hands like she owns you, like she’s claiming every inch of you all over again. Her thumbs flick over your nipples, once, twice, before she leans down and takes one into her mouth.

The heat of her tongue, the wet pull of her lips—it makes you cry out, makes you arch into her, makes your hands fly up to grip her head as she sucks, hard, her teeth scraping just enough to make your whole body jolt.

“Fuck,” you whimper, thighs clenching around her, but she just chuckles against your skin, her mouth latching onto your other nipple, her fingers tweaking and rolling the one she just left wet and swollen.

Then her hand moves up.

She grabs your chin, tilts your face up, and before you can even process it—

She shoves her fingers into your mouth.

Her fingers, still wet from you, slip past your lips, pressing against your tongue, forcing you to taste yourself as she pushes them deeper. Your lips part around them, your tongue curling against the salty-slick heat of her touch, a soft, helpless whimper slipping from your throat.

Paige groans at the sight, eyes dark, lips parted, her fingers flexing inside your mouth before she pulls them out—

And spits.

Right into your mouth.

A hot, wet drop onto your waiting tongue, mixing with your taste, with the slickness she just forced you to swallow.

“Swallow it,” she breathes, her voice thick, rough, her fingers trailing down your throat as you do exactly what she fucking tells you.

And then her hand is between your legs again, fingers slipping through your soaked, throbbing heat, pressing in, pushing deep—

Fucking you all over again.

Paige’s fingers drive deep, knuckles sinking into the wet heat of you, her palm grinding against your swollen clit as you gasp, as you choke on the pleasure, your body arching into her touch like you can’t help it. Like you’re made for this. Made for her.

"Fuck—yeah," she groans, watching you, watching the way your body reacts to her. "You feel that? Feel how fucking good I make you take it?"

Your breath stutters, your hips rolling down against her hand, your mouth falling open, nothing but desperate little whimpers spilling from your lips.

Paige smirks, dark and wicked, pressing in deeper, curling her fingers just right, just enough to have you fucking shaking. "Bet he never got you this wet, huh?" she taunts, her voice thick with heat, with possession. "Bet he never made you moan like this."

Your fingers clutch at her shoulders, nails digging in, your head tilting back against the pillows as she fucks into you, slow but deep, deliberate, like she’s making a point. Like she’s proving something.

"You wanna lie to me?" she murmurs, lips brushing your ear, her breath hot against your skin. "Wanna tell me he’s ever made you come like this? That he’s ever had you dripping down his fingers like a desperate little slut?"

You whimper, shaking your head, unable to speak, unable to do anything but take it.

"That’s what I thought," she breathes, grinning against your throat, her teeth scraping over your pulse before she drags her tongue along your skin. "That little boyfriend of yours wouldn’t know what to do with this pussy if it fucking begged him."

She pulls her fingers out, slow and teasing, leaving you empty, aching—only to shove them back in, hard, deep, her palm slapping against your soaked skin as you sob, as you fucking fall apart.

"He ever make you scream?" she growls, fucking you rougher, faster, her fingers pressing against that spot inside you that makes your whole body jolt. "He ever make you soak the sheets like this?"

Your back bows, pleasure slamming through you, your nails raking down her back.

"You’re fucking mine," Paige groans, her mouth on your jaw, your throat, her tongue tasting the sweat on your skin. "This pussy? It’s mine now. Say it."

You barely manage to breathe out the words—"It’s yours"—before she presses her palm against your clit, her fingers curling just right, and you break.

Pleasure rips through you, white-hot and shattering, your whole body shaking, your vision going hazy as you come, as Paige fucks you through it, as she watches you, revels in it, grins like she just fucking ruined you.

And she did.

She fucking did.

——-

You wake slowly, the kind of slow that doesn’t feel like rest. The kind that feels like being pulled from something deep and heavy, like your body’s been wrung out and put back together all wrong. The sheets are soft, warm, unfamiliar, and there’s a weight draped over your hip—solid, steady, too much. Your breath stutters before your brain even catches up.

Paige.

She’s there.

Heat ghosts against the back of your neck, steady and unhurried, the rhythm of her breathing lulling, like sleep still has a hold on her. Her arm is slung around your waist, fingers curled lazily against your stomach, like she belongs there. Like she’s never left before.

And that—that is what makes your chest tighten.

Because this isn’t just some drunken mistake. This isn’t heat or tension or something you can chalk up to unresolved bullshit. This is her in your space, in your bed, in the quiet after. And she’s never stayed before.

Your pulse kicks up, your fingers twitch against the sheets. Last night slams into you all at once—the scrape of her teeth, the press of her hands, the way she looked at you, like she was done playing. Like she wasn’t giving you a choice anymore.

Your stomach clenches.

You don’t know what to do with this.

With her.

So you move, slow, careful, trying not to wake her as you shift out from under her arm. But the second you pull away, Paige stirs, her breath hitching, her grip tightening for just a fraction of a second before her eyes flutter open.

She blinks at you, still groggy, still soft, and for one, dangerous moment, she doesn’t say anything.

She just looks at you.

And you can’t breathe.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the softness vanishes.

Paige stretches, rolls onto her back, runs a hand through her hair, like she does this all the time, like she’s just woken up from any other night, not this one.

“Morning,” she mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You swallow, force yourself to move, force yourself to sit up and swing your legs off the bed. You don’t look at her.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “Morning.”

You feel her watching you.

Feel her waiting.

For what, you don’t know.

But when you stand, reaching for your clothes, Paige finally speaks again.

“You leaving?”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt.

You could stay. You could let this morning linger, let whatever this is stretch out just a little longer.

But the longer you stay, the harder it’ll be to pretend like this isn’t something.

So you nod, still not looking at her. “Yeah.”

Paige exhales through her nose, shifts behind you, and you expect her to let it go, to brush it off like she always does.

Instead—

“You gonna tell him?”

Your stomach drops.

You don’t need to ask who she means.

Eli.

The name rings in your head like a warning, like something cold and sharp, and you hate that she’s the one who brought it up, that she’s the one forcing you to look at it when you were this close to just leaving without dealing with the weight of it.

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second before turning to face her.

Paige is propped up on one elbow now, watching you with something unreadable in her expression, like she’s testing you, like she’s seeing if you’ll break first.

You lick your lips, pulse hammering. “That’s none of your business.”

Paige’s lips twitch, and for a second, you think she’s going to let it go.

But then—

She scoffs. Shakes her head. Leans back against the headboard with a lazy, almost bored kind of smirk.

“Right. Forgot you’re still playing house with him.”

Your whole body goes rigid.

She’s doing it again.

Tugging at you, pushing you, seeing what you’ll do.

Your jaw clenches, fingers fisting into the hem of your shirt. “I’m not playing anything.”

Paige hums, unconvinced. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Something inside you snaps.

Because how dare she?

How dare she act like you’re the one playing games when she’s the one who ignored you for three months? When she’s the one who smirked at you across a fucking stadium like she knew she had you? When she’s the one who—

You exhale sharply, shaking your head, forcing yourself to breathe.

This is exactly what she wants.

So you don’t give it to her.

You pull your shirt over your head, reach for your shoes, straighten up.

Then, voice even, you say, “This didn’t mean anything, right?”

It’s a test.

You can see the flicker in her eyes, the quick way her throat bobs as she swallows.

But it’s gone in an instant.

Paige shrugs, casual, careless, like she’s already over it.

“Right,” she echoes. “Just a good time.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t know what answer you wanted, but that—

That wasn’t it.

You nod once, sharp, then turn for the door.

And this time, you don’t fucking stop.

The door slams behind you, the force of it rattling down your spine, but you don’t stop moving.

You storm down the hallway, your breath sharp, hands curled into fists, every nerve in your body buzzing like a live wire. You don’t let yourself think. Thinking would mean feeling, and you can’t—won’t—give her that.

Not after what she just said.

Not after this didn’t mean anything, right?

Not after she agreed with you.

Just a good time.

That’s all it was. That’s all she wants.

You push through the front door, stepping into the cold air outside, your breath coming fast, too shallow, like you just ran ten miles. You shove your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie, fingers curling against the fabric, trying to ground yourself, trying to—

Your phone rings.

Or at least, you think it’s your phone.

The vibration against your palm jolts you, and you pull it out, ready to decline the call, ready to shut the entire fucking world out.

But then—

You see the name.

Taylor.

Your breath catches.

Your chest tightens.

The cold bites at your skin, but suddenly, it’s like everything else stops.

Because this isn’t your phone.

This isn’t your hoodie.

You look down at yourself, the oversized sleeves, the familiar weight of the fabric, the scent clinging to it—her scent.

Paige’s hoodie.

Paige’s fucking phone.

And Taylor is calling.

Your stomach lurches.

Right back where you started.

The phone keeps ringing, vibrating steadily in your hand, demanding something from you that you can’t give.

You stare at the screen, at the name that shouldn’t be your problem, at the proof of what Paige just walked away from.

And something inside you snaps.

You spin on your heel, shoving back through the front door, retracing your steps, moving fast, fueled by something you don’t even have a name for.

You don’t knock.

You don’t hesitate.

You shove the door open, expecting her to be there, expecting her to still be sitting on that bed with her legs spread and that fucking look on her face, smug and satisfied and untouchable.

But she’s gone.

Just fucking gone.

Like she was never here at all.

The phone stops ringing.

Silence.

You stand there, chest heaving, hoodie too big on you, your fingers still curled around a phone that doesn’t belong to you.

The phone is still warm in your hand.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a piece of plastic, just a screen with a name that shouldn’t be your problem. But it is. The weight of it presses against your palm, solid and damning, the name Taylor burned into your retinas, a fucking mockery of everything that just happened.

Paige left.

Vanished like this was nothing, like she didn’t just dig her fingers into you and pull you under, like she didn’t just whisper your name against your skin, like she didn’t just look you in the eye and say just a good time before slipping away like a fucking ghost.

Like she didn’t just ruin you.

And if she thinks she gets to walk away from this untouched—

She’s wrong.

Your feet move before your brain even catches up, before you can think about how reckless this is, before you can stop yourself from doing exactly what she wants. Because you already know where she is.

Where she always is.

The athletic facility is quieter than usual this late at night, the halls dimly lit, silent except for the distant hum of vending machines and the soft squeak of your shoes against the polished floors. But the second you push through the doors to the locker room—

The silence shatters.

Laughter.

Voices overlapping, casual, easy, still thrumming from practice, still buzzing with energy. The kind of normalcy that makes your blood boil, because your world is fucking spinning and yet—

She’s here.

Paige is here.

Leaning against the lockers, towel draped around her neck, a lazy grin curling at her lips as she listens to something one of the girls is saying. Loose. Relaxed. Unbothered.

Like she didn’t just leave you standing in the wreckage she made.

Heat slams into your ribs, a pulse of something violent and ugly crackling under your skin. Your fingers tighten around the phone, nails digging in, breath sharp and unsteady. And before you even fully register what you’re doing—

You move.

The door swings shut behind you with a slam, the force of it cutting through the noise, making heads turn, making conversation die mid-sentence.

Paige doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

But her shoulders go rigid for half a second before she shifts—casual, calm, fucking unhurried.

Like she already knows it’s you.

Like she felt you coming before she even looked.

And when she finally does—

The smirk is already forming.

Already settling into place like armor. Like a mask. Like she thinks she still has control of this.

But she doesn’t.

You stop in front of her, too close, way too close, enough to make the other girls shift where they stand, enough to make the laughter fully die out, enough to make the air feel thick.

Paige stays leaned against the lockers, pretending, but her eyes flicker over you, sharp and calculating.

Assessing.

Waiting.

So you don’t make her wait long.

You lift the phone, hold it up between you. Let her see it. Let her know why you’re here.

And then—voice low, rough, barely steady under the weight of your fucking anger—

“You think you can just fuck me and play me while your girlfriend still calls?”

The reaction is instant.

The shift in the room is immediate.

Someone swears under their breath. One of the girls lets out a quiet oh, shit. Another shifts awkwardly, eyes darting between you and Paige like they just walked into a fucking war zone.

But you don’t look at any of them.

You only see her.

And Paige—

For the first time, she doesn’t have a comeback.

Her lips part slightly. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Her fingers twitch just slightly around the towel slung over her shoulder.

It’s subtle.

Barely there.

But you see it.

The hesitation.

The way she’s trying to catch up to you, trying to find the right move, trying to figure out how to pull back control.

But there isn’t one.

Because this time, you’re the one leading.

This time, she’s the one who doesn’t know what to say.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, pressing into your ribs, into your throat, into her.

Then—slowly—Paige exhales through her nose, shifts against the lockers, expression smoothing into something blank, something unreadable.

She tilts her head slightly, eyes flickering over your face, voice deceptively soft when she says—

“You done?”

Your stomach twists.

Not with pain. Not with embarrassment.

With rage.

Because she isn’t sorry.

She isn’t guilty.

She’s just pissed that you called her out in front of them.

Your grip tightens around the phone, your pulse hammering in your ears, and for a second, you think about throwing it at her.

Then, just as quickly, you step forward—lean in close, so only she can hear—

And whisper, voice like a knife—

“You’re a fucking coward.”

Paige’s jaw locks.

Her whole body tenses.

And that—

That’s how you know you landed a hit.

You hold her gaze a second longer, long enough to make sure she felt it, long enough to see the way her breath catches, the way her fingers twitch, the way she’s fighting to stay still.

Then—

Without waiting for a response—

You shove the phone against her chest.

She catches it automatically, fingers closing around it, but she doesn’t look down.

She just looks at you.

Expression unreadable.

Eyes sharp, dark, burning.

You should look away first.

You should be the one to turn and walk out.

But you don’t.

You hold her gaze.

Daring her.

Challenging her.

Waiting.

For what, you don’t fucking know.

But you can feel it.

Feel something shifting, feel something breaking, feel something coming.

And for the first time—

You think Paige might feel it, too.

But then—

She swallows.

Nods once.

Slips the phone into her pocket like it doesn’t matter.

Then—voice low, smooth, too fucking even—

She says, “See you around.”

Like this was nothing.

Like she didn’t just lose.

Like she’s already planning how to fucking win.

This is war.

[naughtyjjk]

just a massage (pt. 2)

characters: nanami x fem reader warnings: 18+, smut, massage, sexual tension, dirty talk, fingering, masturbation, a bit of exhibitionism/voyeurism notes: if you haven't already, make sure to read part 1 here first!

it’s been a week and nanami hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you. it’s terrible for him mentally, for his day-to-day living in general. every time he closes his eyes, you’re there in his mind. you with your naked body and perfect curves and smooth skin… the way you were so vocal and reactive to his touches…

he’s thought about you more than he’d ever admit, especially at night, after a long day of work, when he’s finally able to take off his clothes and lie down in bed and wrap a hand around his aching cock. yes, he’s jerked off to the thought of you—multiple times. he can’t seem to stop, addicted to the fantasy that he conjures. and it’s bad, it’s so bad of him, but he’s also never come so hard before and you make him irrationally horny.

today, nanami gets to the massage parlor and opens up his schedule. that’s when he sees your name there, a session booked for 1:30 pm. he blinks, wondering if it’s a dream. it’s not. he moves through the whole morning on autopilot, speaking politely to clients who are not you. they’re all irrelevant and he’s both looking forward to and dreading the time of your appointment.

he promised that he wouldn’t repeat what happened last time. it had been far to inappropriate, far too unprofessional, and he could easily get fired if anyone found out. but… his cock has other ideas. he doesn’t know if he would be able to hold back once he sees you again, in person, there to tempt him with your hot, sexy body. at the same time, a part of him wants to find out how far he can push you, test the limits to see how much you’re able to endure. it had been obvious that you were into it just as much as he was last time.

inhaling, nanami looks at the clock. it shouldn’t be long now before you get here. he has to tame his thoughts so that he doesn’t get himself all worked up over nothing.

but fuck, he wants you. he wants you so fucking bad.

.

“you booked a longer session this time,” nanami greets you as you walk into the room. he’s shirtless again, of course. at this point, you can probably guess that it’s a deliberate choice, as if he’s testing your resolve from the very start. like last time, the only piece of clothing he has on is a pair of shorts that barely does anything to hide what he’s packing down there.

you divert your eyes before you end up staring for too long. everything about the massage parlor looks exactly the same as it had when you visited last week, with its white walls and minimalistic decorations and the different bottles of oils all lined up on the counter which, as nanami has proved previously, can be used for more than their intended purposes. but there is something that changed, though, and you sense it as soon as you see nanami.

“well,” you reply eventually, “we left off with some unfinished business.”

there’s no beating around the bush anymore. neither of you bother to keep up pretenses this time because it’s inevitable where this will lead. and this is something you both clearly want. you know that you’re not the only one who had been looking forward to today, that nanami wants it just as much as you.

“right. but you know,” nanami drawls, “last time, while you were in the changeroom after our session, i think i heard some… noises. any idea what that could be?”

flushing, you feel your entire body heating up with embarrassment. you curse yourself for not being quieter at the time and you clear throat, glancing away. “i have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“hm.” nanami looks at you unconvinced. he takes a step closer. “it couldn’t have been that you were doing anything naughty in there, right?”

“o-of course not,” you say, hating how guilty you sound.

thankfully, nanami doesn’t press you any further. “good. i mean, no one else heard you… but it would’ve been bad if someone did.” he grabs a few of the items from the counter and walks over to the bed. “now, where would you like me to massage this time?”

sitting back, you make a vague gesture. “just—continue where we left off. same as before.”

nanami raises an eyebrow. “come on, now. let’s be a bit more honest,” he says, pausing to lick his lips. “we both know what you’re really here for.”

“everywhere,” you blurt out, arousal hitting you without warning. “my whole body… the front this time, too. make me feel good.”

eyes darkening with desire, nanami nods, pleased with your answer. “much better. we’ll start with you lying down on the bed again.”

you position yourself the same as last time, on your stomach with your face down and legs spreading apart instinctively. you hear nanami chuckle at your eagerness.

soon, oil is poured over your back, warm hands spreading it all over. your muscles relax at once and you’re reminded of how skilled nanami is. along your spine, he applies pressure to his palms, drawing out soft sounds from you. nanami runs his hands parallel, gliding them down all the way to your legs, then back up again, and repeating the process until heat starts to coil inside you.

after a moment, nanami asks, with just a hint of amusement in his voice, “what are you thinking about?”

“nothing,” you mumble. a lie, obviously. there’s only one thing that could be occupying your mind while nanami is touching you like this, rubbing your body sensually, and that’s—

“hm.” nanami says. “want to know what i’m thinking about?”

“wh-what?”

“how much i want to fuck you.” nanami’s voice is low and he uses both hands to squeeze your ass over the towel. in response, you moan, arousal hitting you hard. “how horny you make me. i've been thinking about it since our last session…”

breath hitching, you feel a rush of heat spreading throughout your body like wildfire, a wetness starting to soak your pussy. it’s no secret that you’ve been imagining the same scenario for the past few days, every second that you’ve been apart.

“how long has it been since you’ve had sex, darling?”

“ah—i don’t know. weeks, maybe,” you say, exhaling. you’re losing himself to the sensation of nanami’s hands as he moves them again, this time drawing circles on your inner thighs. “months.”

skirting along the edge of the towel, nanami’s fingers slip under just for a second to brush against your ass. “and how are you feeling? pent up from all those months without relief?”

“y-yeah.” you swallow hard. you’ve been more on edge than you’d like to admit, more irritable in general the longer you go without getting laid. sometimes, you’ll be flooded with dirty thoughts at the most inappropriate times, often waking up to wet dreams and an ache in your pussy to be filled.

“mm, and do you miss it? having sex?” nanami’s hot breath is right by your ear, a low whisper when he asks, “getting fucked?”

shuddering, you can’t help but moan softly. “yes.”

“it’s not enough to satisfy the craving by yourself, is it? it’s been so long…” nanami murmurs. “you want someone there with you, someone to touch you, someone to make you feel good.”

“kento… oh…”

last time, this was the point in the massage when he had stopped. but nanami shows no signs of slowing down, and even when his hands lift from your body, he makes sure that you know he’s not done yet.

“don’t worry, i’ll take good care of you today,” nanami tells you, and you’re hit with another wave of arousal. “now, turn around for me.”

you do as you’re told, flipping over on the bed to lie on your back, facing up at the ceiling. your heart hammers away in your chest as nanami eyes you up and down. you expect him to start working down from your shoulders, but he seems to have other plans when his hands move directly to untie the towel around your waist.

“w-wait, i—”

pausing, nanami glances at you, a smirk on his face. “what’s wrong? are you embarrassed that you’re wet already?” he slides the towel lower just a little. “have you forgotten how you were begging for it last time?”

nanami doesn’t wait for you to reply before unwrapping the towel all the way. like this, you can’t hide your desire anymore. and you’re more than aware of how wet you’ve gotten, pussy dripping and soaking the bed. you see nanami’s gaze flicker down, pausing in his actions to admire your body. you feel so exposed like this, naked on the bed while presenting yourself to him, and the tension between you grows thicker by the second. it’s all so arousing.

taking the bottle of oil, nanami holds it over you and pours out the liquid directly so that it leaves a trail from your chest all the way to your stomach. you can’t help but flinch slightly, feeling it tickle as it drips. a few drops fall directly onto your pussy, causing it to throb, and your breath hitches as you bite back a moan. nanami licks his lips and then his hands are on you again.

first, he runs a single finger down the center of your body, between your breasts, over your stomach, stopping just before touching your pussy, above your clit. the process is slow. slow and sensual. spreading the rest of the oil evenly across your skin, nanami takes his time in feeling you all over, making the anticipation build and build inside you.

next, your breasts are the main area of focus as he draws large circles on both sides, dipping near your armpits, along the underside, and trailing back up the center. slowly, the circles get smaller with each round, closing in on your nipples. but as soon as he’s about to come into contact with those hardened nubs, nanami retreats and starts all over again. he does it three more times—large circles spiraling closer, closer, closer. tracing just around it. caressing the sides. and you always think that this time, this time, he’s going to finally reach your nipples.

he never does. you groan, frustrated. it’s the first time you’ve experienced something like this; the first time you’ve ever wanted your nipples to be touched so badly. the worst part is that it’s really getting to you, turned on from barely anything. your pussy begs for attention, leaking more of your arousal as you mentally curse nanami for being such a fucking tease.

at that moment, nanami leans in so that his mouth is hovering just above one of your breasts and your heart pounds at the possibility of what’s to come. but all he does is blow against it gently and chuckle. 

“your nipples are so hard…” his tongue pokes out, swirling it in the air just above your skin, exactly like how he would if he were to suck and lick at the sensitive nub. he holds your gaze but never makes contact with his tongue. still, you can feel the phantom sensations there, and you want so badly for him to take you in his mouth. “want me to touch you?”

god, yes. you let out a whine. all of this teasing is going straight to your pussy, so wet with desire. but nanami’s mouth retreats and he goes back to using his hands, circling your breasts with his fingers.

when you don’t think that you could take it anymore, you feel it—a single finger brushing across both your nipples, just grazing them, the lightest of touches. you’re so turned on at this point, the anticipation having built up inside you, that you gasp, squirming on the spot as you try to adjust to the sudden, unexpected jolt of pleasure.

“ah—”

“look at you. so sensitive, so riled up from barely anything,” nanami says, waiting for you to regain your composure.

it’s not your fault. nanami made sure that your body would be extra responsive by taking it slow, making you crave it, and one barely-there touch is hardly enough to satisfy you. but that’s all you get for a while as nanami repeats his actions with the sole mission of making the experience as agonizing as possible for you.

eventually, when you least expect it, the pattern changes. nanami flattens his hands over your nipples and rubs them, going from palms to fingertips, the oil adding a delicious glide to every movement. he grabs both your breasts and fondles them, massages them. cupping them with his palms and squeezing with his large hands.

“ohh…” you moan, arching into the touch. soon, nanami switches to grasping your nipples between his fingers, pinching the delicate nubs with the perfect amount of pressure, and it sends a rush of sensation throughout your body. you whimper. “fuck, k-kento…”

“does it turn you on when i play with your nipples?” nanami asks, hyperattentive, watching every reaction that your body makes. “such a naughty girl.”

fuck, it’s only your second session here but nanami has already figured out your body’s weaknesses, all of your most sensitive areas, the erogenous zones, and how to take you apart. you shouldn’t be falling for every one of nanami’s tricks. you shouldn’t be this easy. but you gave up control the moment you laid down on this bed, and nanami just seems to have that effect on you.

having gotten the reaction he wanted, nanami moves on. he had spent so long playing with your nipples that you almost forgot the feeling of those tantalizing hands on the rest of his body. but you’re quickly reminded when he travels down to your stomach, your lower abdomen, purposely avoiding your pussy and going straight to your legs.

it’s the assault on your inner thighs that eventually ruins you. because nanami is running his hands up your thighs, stopping right at your pelvis, and doing it over and over and over—repeatedly, for what seems like forever. occasionally, his fingertips will brush against the outside of your folds, but the touch is fleeting and never goes any further than that, only serving to taunt you.

you groan, wishing nanami would just get on with it. when you express this, you only get an amused chuckle in response.

“so impatient. and you’re all wet for me already…” nanami says, those words making you even more aroused. “that’s it, let your body crave it. i would love to eat you out and taste you on my tongue.”

you certainly wouldn’t complain if he did just that. but nanami only spreads your legs and runs a finger past your pussy, spreading your wetness there. he circles your clit once, and you moan. then he goes further down until he finds your entrance but doesn’t push inside. he continues to do that—playing with you, teasing you, turning you into a writhing mess on the bed.

oh, you want him so bad. you’ve never wanted a man this fucking bad before. your body is burning, the need and desire growing exponentially by the second.

“there are so many things i want to do to you.” nanami swallows, looking like he wants to devour you but is doing everything he can to hold himself back. “but i’ll keep it simple for today. you look like you won’t be able to last much longer, anyway.”

without warning, nanami slides his hand back up to your clit, pinching it between two fingers, slick with oil. your entire body jolts as you feel pressure being applied there, a choked out moan escaping your lips. nanami rolls the pads of his fingers around the sensitive nub and you throb at his touch, breathing significantly harder now.

it had already been overwhelming before, but now your whole body burns with pleasure, with desire—wild and untamed. heat sears through you, fast, hot, making you somewhat delirious. you lose control of yourself as you buck up and circle your hips, trying to feel more of it.

“remember, this is still a massage,” nanami says, voice low, and you’re not sure who he’s trying to fool. he pinches you again, the perfect amount of pressure, and you arch off the bed with a whimper. “all i’m doing is giving you a massage…”

his hand flattens and he rubs your clit up and down, then in circles, slow at first and gradually increasing in speed. there’s no pattern to his movements; nanami is completely unpredictable, leaving you guessing, never allowing you to adjust to the sensation at any given moment. all you can do is lie there and take it, at his mercy, chasing after whatever he’s willing to give you. but you can’t exactly complain, though, not when it feels this fucking good.

“k-kento—” you cry out as all your nerves ignite at once, tingles of pleasure spreading all throughout your body.

“is this how you touched yourself in the changeroom last time?” the pace quickens, nanami drawing tight circles around your clit. “did you imagine that i was the one touching you? getting you closer and closer?”

moaning, you try to reply but your head is swimming with pleasure and it’s infinitely more arousing now that nanami is really here, playing with your pussy. it’s not just a fantasy anymore.

and then—it hits you fast, hard, entirely by surprise. one minute nanami is changing up his rhythm and the next, you find yourself bucking into the air uncontrollably, moaning loud and needy, and fuck, you’re—oh god, you’re going to come, you’re going to come—

“not yet, baby,” nanami says, voice low and stern. a command. his hand immediately withdraws from your body, keeping you right on the edge but never tipping over, and instead moves to hold your hips in place as you convulse on the bed, helpless to ride it out as your orgasm ebbs away. your pussy throbs and throbs, aching, dripping with your wetness. you’re left painfully unsatisfied. fuck, it’s not fair.

chest heaving, you whimper, having been denied your release. your whole body is on fire, and you’re so fucking turned on. you need to come. you need to come so fucking bad.

“kento,” you plead, willing to do anything to get his hands back on you. if this gets drawn out any longer, you’re not sure if you’ll survive. “kento, please—i’m—i can’t—please—”

almost idly, nanami trails a hand around the outside of your pussy, keeping his touch gentle like he has all the time in the world. it’s only a single finger grazing against you, but your hips flinch, moaning at the feeling of it. “do you really want it to end that quickly? i would love to see how desperate you can get. it won’t take much more for you to come, will it?”

you’re trembling and your pussy throbs every time nanami makes contact with it. you’re still unbelievably close to the edge despite calming down a bit now, and you’re sure that all it’ll take is a bit more stimulation from nanami before you reach your climax.

“can you—oh,” you start, words dissolving into a moan as nanami touches you again, fingers prodding at your entrance this time. it takes deliberate effort for you to gather your thoughts and finish the sentence, but you’ve become shameless, too aroused and horny to maintain any sense of dignity. “c-can you fuck me instead? i wanna—hah—wanna come on your cock.”

“mm, tempting. really tempting. but i don’t think so,” nanami tells you. his fingers latch onto your clit again, circling around it faster than before, and it’s so fucking good, so distracting that you’re barely able to hang on to his words. “i won’t fuck you today. i want to get you really desperate for it, let the tension build up until it makes you lose control. and when i finally give you what you want—tomorrow, or the next day, or even a week from now—i’ll break you apart slowly and leave you writhing under me. think of how good it’ll feel to finally have my cock in you after all this time, hard and aching inside you, filling up that tight little pussy.”

whimpering, you’re not even able to formulate a reply. that has to be the hottest proposal you’ve ever heard, like nanami has somehow figured out all of your dirtiest fantasies and is making them a reality. your mind is clouded with an arousal so strong that you’re struggling to process everything. but nanami isn’t even done yet.

“eventually, if i fuck you… when i fuck you, i’m going to take you apart slowly and push you to your limits until you show me just how badly you need it. you’ll be shaking under me, begging to have my cock in you. god, darling, i’ve wanted to ruin you since our first session together.”

you moan brokenly, hips thrusting wildly on the bed in response to his words. holy shit. nanami knows exactly how to get you all worked up. what’s worse is that every word he says is a cruel reminder that his cock isn’t inside you, isn’t fucking you, isn’t even out of those tight, tight pants yet.

“hah—fuck, your cock—n-need your cock—”

“i’ll give you something just as good.” nanami is watching you intensely, taking in the way your body responds. he bends your legs, hands sliding almost innocently across your entrance. “i can massage your insides. how does that sound?”

it sounds incredibly fucking hot, that’s what. and suddenly, you’ve never desired anything so badly before. “y-yeah—ngh, please—”

“spread your legs for me, baby,” nanami tell you. doing as you’re told, you follow his guidance to expose your pussy even more, aroused and horny beyond belief. “good girl. you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

a finger runs along the outside of your pussy, slick with oil, and you choke out a moan, lifting your hips to try and feel more of it. thankfully, it goes in soon enough, not wasting any time, and nanami sinks a finger into you, the slick oil helping to ease his length inside. you let out a startled gasp as he goes deeper and deeper, past the first and second knuckle, all the way until his whole finger has been swallowed up.

once he’s all the way in, nanami groans at the tightness that envelopes him, the way you clam down as if refusing to let him go. but he starts pulling back out, inch by inch, and you’re helpless to it; all you can do is moan at how good it feels. he pumps it in and out a few times almost experimentally, taking in how quickly you’re falling apart on the bed before him.

“you can imagine that it’s my cock fucking you if that helps,” nanami whispers in your ear and the suggestion has you whimpering. “but of course, my cock is bigger than this. think you can take another?”

“Y-yes—ah—yes, yes, more—”

“look at me,” nanami says, waiting until you turn your head before adding a second digit, stretching you open. you gasp, panting as soon as he starts to thrust into you properly. “see how hard i am because of you? my cock feels like it’s going to burst out of these pants.”

and it’s true; your gaze falls on nanami’s bulge, so hot and obscene within the confines of his pants. the fabric shifts every time it twitches, pulsing like it’s trying to break out, wet and damp where the tip is. nanami’s free hand moves to touch himself, hips rolling into his palms, giving himself some relief for the very first time.

god, you swallow. you would do anything to have him pull out his cock already.

but nanami’s only goal seems to be to get you as worked up as possible, bringing you right to the edge with his dirty words. “mm, yeah. think about how fucking good it’ll feel to have my cock throbbing inside you. thrusting into your tight little pussy, nice and deep.”

his fingers curl, sending an unexpected jolt through your entire body. you cry out, back arching off the bed, head thrown back as an intense wave of pleasure overtakes you. “a-ah—! shit, kento—o-oh my god—”

grinning, nanami makes sure to aim for the same place again. “is this the spot? does it feel good here?”

“hah—fuck—y-yeah, good—hng, so fucking good—”

nanami hums, but the next few thrusts he makes purposely avoids your g-spot. each one is shallower than the last and you can’t help but squirm as you get increasingly frustrated, until he pulls out altogether.

“that’s a good look on you. it seriously turns me on to see how desperate you are now,” nanami says, licking his lips. his eyes are dark and full of desire as he takes in the sight of you, running his hands along your thighs and watching your pussy throb. “it’s almost a shame we have to end things here today.”

you take a few seconds to process what he’s saying, and once you do, all you can think is, no, no. not again. you didn’t get to come yet. you need more, need your release, need those fingers back in you. need to—

“th-that’s it?” you ask in disbelief when it becomes clear that nanami isn’t going to continue. the towel is wrapped around you once again. your pussy aches in protest at how abruptly things ended, still dripping and dripping and dripping with unresolved arousal.

fuck. you refuse to let nanami leave him like this again; you’re determined to get a better outcome, unlike last time when you had to get yourself off in the changeroom. you’ll break down and beg if you have to. you want to come on nanami’s cock, on nanami’s fingers, and you know that nanami wants it, too. but whenever it seems that he’s about to go further, he always stops, right when you’re most anticipating it.

it’s especially frustrating because he’s gotten you all worked up, so fucking horny that you can hardly even think straight, but it never goes far enough for you to be fully satisfied. you’re kept on the brink of release, never allowed to come. it’s so cruel. it only works to turn you on more, to an unbearable degree.

but nanami doesn’t even acknowledge it. he only looks at you innocently. “our time is up for today,” he says, then leans in close, voice lowering to a whisper. “did you really think that i would let you come so easily? you’ve been a very naughty girl.”

fuck, that shouldn’t sound as hot and sexy as it does. it definitely shouldn’t be making you even more turned on.

“i—” shit, you think. you glance down at nanami’s very obvious erection, the desire he clearly has, too. i want your cock—want you to fuck me. but it’s clear that he doesn’t plan on going any further today, so you only manage to stammer out, “i don’t think i can go out like this.”

because you’re in arguably a worse state than nanami. despite the towel doing the bare minimum of hiding your arousal, your legs are still trembling slightly and the wetness between your legs isn’t going away.

“ah.” nanami’s eyes flicker down as he licks his lips. “you’re right, we can’t have you leaving like that. why don’t you take care of yourself now?”

you stare at him. when nanami only meets your gaze expectantly, you ask, “you mean… right here?”

“yes. we pride ourselves on customer satisfaction, you know. i can’t let you go when you clearly still have… unfinished business.” nanami smirks, evidently smug for getting you to such a state. “and don’t mind me. there’s still some time before the next appointment, so i’ll just be cleaning up the room.”

and you can’t believe it. what nanami is essentially asking you to do is masturbate, get yourself off, while you’re being watched.

the idea of it is crazy. but it’s undeniably hot, too. so fucking hot.

a few steps away, nanami is busying himself with setting up the equipment, but it’s obvious that he never strays too far. he’s still paying attention, making sure to keep you in his peripheral vision, intent on not missing out on anything.

hesitantly, you unwrap the towel around your waist until you’re fully naked once more. you sigh and glance down at yourself. it’s almost embarrassing because it’s far too noticeable just how fucking horny you are, with the way your pussy is swollen and so, so wet, making a mess on the bed.

across the room, nanami’s movements have stopped. he’s openly staring at you now, taking in the sight of you greedily. there’s hunger in his gaze as he grips the counter next to him, transfixed on the way your pussy is fully exposed, practically begging for attention.

you make eye contact, and a charge of tension passes between you before nanami nods once. “go on. show me how you make yourself feel good.”

so, you get comfortable again on the bed, hyperaware that your every action is being watched. it makes you more excited than you’d ever admit as the shame and embarrassment and humiliation all mix together with intense arousal, clouding your mind. you run your hands over your own body, starting with your breasts, cupping them and teasing your hardened nipples. just like nanami did earlier. soft moans escape you, pleasure surging throughout as you turn your head to look at nanami with half-lidded eyes.

nanami remains silent, but his expression gives him away. there’s no mistake that this is turning him on too, and you swear that you see him twitching in his pants, the fabric shifting over his bulge. but still, he’s far too composed, and you want to break down his self-control, get him so worked up that he can’t resist coming over and fucking you anymore.

traveling down your chest, across the planes of his stomach, your hands come to a stop at your hips. you spread your legs, bending your knees so that your feet are planted flat on the bed, giving you easier access to your aching pussy.

you’ve waited long enough. the slow tease of nanami’s massage and the beyond erotic proposal of masturbating in front of him have all caught up to you and you can’t delay this any longer. trailing a hand down to your entrance, you push a finger inside and immediately moan at the feeling of being filled again.

“fuck… yes,” you breathe out, eyes fluttering shut as you give yourself over to the sensation. you’ve only just touched himself, barely even started at all, but you’re already feeling it.

it’s hot and wet inside your pussy, the oil helping to loosen you up. you drag your finger, moving in and out of yourself, feeling how needy and pent-up you are as your hips roll slightly, growing impatient. you squeeze a second finger inside. moaning, you scissor them apart and pleasure floods through you.

and then you begin to thrust, going at a fairly slow pace. but still, it’s enough to have your thighs shaking, so fucking sensitive. you can feel yourself falling apart.

your fingers curl, angled just right, and your nerves come to life, firing jolts all the way up your spine. “o-oh—ngh, shit—kento—”

at the sound of nanami’s name slipping past your lips, mixed in with a moan, you hear the hitch of a breath to your side. opening your eyes again, you blink to clear your vision, and see that nanami has made his way over to the bed, standing right beside you. something about him being this close, watching over you with his cock hard and bulging in his pants, has your arousal spiking.

suddenly, you can’t stand the slow buildup anymore. your speed increases, thrusting into yourself faster before you even realize it, pushing as deep as you can go. the rush of pleasure is immediate, and your head falls back, breaths growing ragged. there’s a moan but this time it doesn’t come from you; nanami is the one who made the sound, low and strained. he looks like he’s at his limit just by being there as a bystander, watching you on display.

“fuck, that’s it,” nanami encourages you, fingers twitching like he wants to reach out and touch. replace your fingers with his own. “in and out, steady thrusts. just like that…”

receiving instructions from nanami only makes you more turned on. your hips lift off the bed involuntarily and you can’t help staring at the twitching erection in his pants. “ah, feels—feels so good—"

“i bet it does,” nanami says. “look at how much you’re getting off on this. you secretly like being watched, don’t you?”

“f-fuck,” you break off into a moan. the answer to his question is evident in the way you’re dripping from your pussy, walls clenching around your own fingers.

and nanami must notice it too because he tells you, “don’t forget about your clit, baby. i know you like it there.”

reaching down with your other hand, you circle around your sensitive clit, body jerking at the added stimulation. and this is going to be your undoing, you know, because you feel the familiar buildup of your orgasm reaching a peak inside you, the crescendo of something bigger. already, you feel like you could come at any moment.

on top of that, nanami is relentless. “good girl,” he murmurs. “faster now. get yourself real close for me.”

you obey because you have no choice, because nanami has always been the one in control here. it’s getting dangerous now as you finger yourself faster, drawing tight circles around your clit, whining at the pure pleasure that’s accumulating in your stomach, between your legs. and you’re squirming, unable to contain the sheer amount of arousal inside you.

“shit—hah—o-oh my god, fuck, fuck—” you moan brokenly. then you use all of your willpower to force yourself to stop, both hands pulling away. your hips buck up in the air desperately, but you don’t want to come yet. you look over at nanami, chest heaving, and plead, “i-i want you, kento…”

growling, nanami grips onto the side of the bed, fingers digging into it to physically restrain himself. you can see the way the muscles of his arms contract, so strong, so tense. holding himself back.

“trust me, i want to fuck you so damn bad,” nanami says, and his voice alone is enough to make you more aroused. “you have no idea how hard it’s been to keep my hands off you. if it weren’t for my next appointment, i would bend you over right here and have my way with you until you’re screaming.” he swallows, gaze dark and filled with desire. “but today, it’s enough for me to just watch your pleasure. so, be a good girl for me and use your fingers to fuck that pretty pussy of yours and get yourself off properly this time.”  

holy fuck. you’re throbbing hard just from those words alone, before you even touch yourself again. you can’t possibly resist; your hand moves automatically to do as you’re told, two fingers sinking into yourself again, pumping in and out with urgency. your other hand resumes its assault on your clit, gasping and moaning, overwhelmed.

there’s no buildup this time—you go fast and hard right away, too fucking turned on to make yourself wait any longer. beside you, nanami hums with approval, always watching.

“hah—hah—ah—yes, k-kento—kento—”

“god, you’re so fucking hot,” nanami says. “find your g-spot for me. come on, baby. i want to see you make yourself come.”

you cry out when you do exactly what nanami tells you, applying pressure to the most sensitive nerves inside you. your hips are thrusting wildly, out of control, and all of the stimulation combined is bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

“oh fuck, o-oh fuck—” you choke out a moan, sounding wrecked. “i-i can’t—ngh, can’t take it anymore—i’m—hah—i’m gonna—”

nanami groans. “yeah, let it out. make yourself come.” his voice is strained, eyes transfixed on your body. “that’s it, such a good girl… make a mess of yourself and come for me.”

god. god. the dirty talk has your pussy throbbing, throbbing, clenching tight around your fingers, preparing for your release. you’re trembling, so close to being pushed past the limit. so fucking close. there’s no way you’ll last much longer now.

“hng—fuck—” once again, your eyes land on nanami’s cock in his pants, bulging out, stretching the fabric thin, and it’s the thought of his cock—touching it, sucking on it, fuck, having it inside you, stretching you open and filling you up—that eventually tips you over. you moan loud. “ah, c-coming—i’m coming—”

your release hits you less than a second later. you pump your fingers, curling to your g-spot, other hand rubbing your clit urgently, and that does it for you, back arching beautifully off the bed as your orgasm crashes through your body. your mouth falls open in a silent cry. it’s mind-numbing, absolutely filthy, pussy pulsing and pulsing. you ride out the pleasure in waves, panting, feeling like you might lose consciousness from how good it is.

in you half-delirious state, slowly coming down from your orgasm, you look up at nanami. you’re both impressed and extremely frustrated at his level of self-control. throughout the entire session, he never touched himself even once, despite the fact that you know he must be aching for it, so hard that it has to be painful. and he’s gotten no relief at all, his cock still locked away in the confines of his pants this whole time, occasionally twitching and throbbing without any stimulation.

maybe it’s because the timing just didn’t work out for the two of you. maybe nanami really does have to prepare for his next client. but if your positions were reversed and you happened to be the one watching nanami masturbate, such an erotic and filthy sight at your place of work, you has no doubt that you would’ve succumbed long ago.

you wonder, what would it take for nanami to finally give in? this is the second time that you’ve had to get off using your own hands at the massage parlor. and you just came, which felt good, incredible, but you’re still left somewhat unsatisfied because what you really wants is for nanami to fuck you already.

getting up from the bed, you brush a hand against the bulge between nanami’s legs. nothing more than a graze of your fingers. but that alone is enough to make him gasp, swallowing back the moan rising in his throat.

you asks, “can you really go back to work like this?”

nanami swats your hand away, cursing. he shuts his eyes to even out his breathing before settling his gaze on you again. “fuck, are you still that horny?”

grinning, you lick your lips. “if i say that i am, will you finally fuck me?”

nanami sucks in a breath, glancing over at the clock. “you really should go now. i wasn’t lying when i said that the next client will be here any minute.”

it’s not exactly the answer you were looking for, but you know when to accept your loss and drop the subject. for now, at least.

“i’ll go for today, but you’ve teased me twice already,” you say. then you lean forward, whispering into his ear, “next time i come, i won’t be leaving until i get what i want.”

.

part 3 will be the last part! also tumblr has been buggy recently and won’t let me tag some people... i’m sorry if your name is here but you didn’t get a notification :(

tag list: @megumisdivinedogs @urlilwhore @l0rdgeosupport3rr @purple-obsidian @l0rdgeosupport3rr @minni-creations @fos-tis-zois @the-reas0n-is-y0u @cantfeelherface @rxmbzzz @lysaray @zelzablues @str4wbrrycandy @that-goth-bisexual @simping4u @iminlovewqr0w @sharks31 @pseudowho @jisoonunn @outkasti @anathemaspeaks @fushigur0slut4 @barryatsumu @d0nk3y-k0ng @shasaaa15 @wil10wthetree @maskedpacific @genshingeeksworld @itsnotmelo

(comment to be added!)

[demonicbaby666]

Dom Emily prentiss x intern fem reader is all i ask!! Smutty ofc, a lil bit of a humiliation kink if you’re comfortable!!! Thank yewww

Packing Heat

One shot | Criminal Minds Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x fem!Reader

Genre: Smut

Words: 4.8k+

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, strap-ons (r!receiving), semi-public sex (office sex, again…), praise, degradation, mommy kink, kind of dub-con at one point, top!Emily, bottom!reader

Summary: Interning at the BAU means you don’t interact with the person in charge a lot. Of course, this doesn’t mean you haven’t seen the section chief in passing or exchanged pleasantries; it's that they’re simple, short-lived and often anti-climatic. However one evening, you find yourself in the desolate office with no chance of going home, work to be done, but no one to sit with you through the process. With only one other soul residing on the sixth floor, it seems Emily may be your best bet for company.

A/n: Listen, could she be more dom? Yes. Is there any humiliation? Not really... But I got lost while writing, so please don't be mad at me... Hope you still enjoy!

When you'd first started at the BAU, it was safe to say you hadn't seen much of the woman calling the shots. There were always updates about when the team were taken out of state, what their cases would entail, the steady progress being made, and the brief comical encounters Garcia spewed around the office. When they were back, everyone made an effort to small talk. They welcomed you well and continued to appreciate the little things you did for them daily. Emily, however, was constantly on the go, meaning every encounter you'd had with her consisted of one-way glances and hopeful smiles in the event she decided to notice her surroundings and the human lifeform less than two metres away. 

She never did, though, until one uneventful evening. 

Almost everyone had vacated the building. The only remaining souls left on the sixth floor were you, Emily, and a one-person cleaning crew—whom you watched exit through glass doors before approaching the brunette's office with shaky knees. Peeking through the window, you saw her attention dart to and from the bright computer screen to the mountains of bureaucratic paperwork lying atop her desk. It was easy to get lost in the little creases between her eyebrows, brought out by the deep scowl she wore, the delicate way her fingers were woven together, and the pads of her thumbs skirting against one another as she pondered in deep thought. 

It was nearing eight, and you were struggling to understand how someone could appear so put together at this late hour, given that their day was most certainly jam-packed with non-stop slog. 

Emily's eyes suddenly flashed up. She squinted toward her door, trying to figure out who'd be here this late other than herself. When she appeared to have worked it out, she leaned back victoriously in her chair, a smug smile on her face, when she called out, "Are you going to stand out there all night?" 

You could have done two things: scurried off like a teenager caught peeping or held your chin up high and walked into the older woman's office with little to no shame. Somehow, you managed to do a mix of both, scurrying in with sagging shoulders, a guilty smile plastered on your face and trembling hands clasping your laptop over your chest.

"Well, it's eerily quiet out there, and I would go home to write this paper. It's just that my roommate and her boyfriend have an awful tendency to forget about volume control when they're—" You cut yourself off, realising it probably wasn't appropriate to talk to your boss about your roommate's over-the-top borderline pornographic soundscape. "I was wondering if I could, you know."

Emily, satirising as ever, waited with a raised eyebrow and a relaxed smile for you to continue your purposefully unfinished question. 

"Sorry, I should let you work." You surrendered to your weak resolve with flushed cheeks and began to turn around.

"Sit," she ordered before you had fully turned back around to the door, nodding to the available chair on the other side of her desk. Her eyes followed your journey to the seat, watching as you placed your laptop down and opened it with shaky fingers. Satisfied, she turned her attention back to her work. "I could do with some company." 

The following silence, starting as unsettling and stagnant, blossomed into something warm and comfortable. There were occasional glances thrown your way and vice versa. Their acknowledgement and appreciation were shown in the form of timid smiles on your end and double takes followed by teasing smirks on Emily's. 

When half an hour had passed, your shoulders had finally relaxed, your fingers had stopped their infernal twitching, and your paper neared its completion. There was a proud smile cresting, and you were trying to prevent it from forming, knowing how dorkish it made you look. But you knew there was no hope when your cheeks ached and your jaw locked. You granted yourself the freedom to display your gloating smile. 

Just as expected, Emily had a questioning look on her face when you dared to look up from the document. There was a playfulness to the upward quirk of her lips - the superiority of a predator knowing the power they have over their prey, ready to prove it at any given moment. 

"I've almost finished," you timidly admitted, feeling obligated to explain as heat infiltrated your jutted-out cheeks. 

Without a second thought, the ravenette stood up and made her way around the desk. She could have easily chosen to turn the laptop around. Instead, she took the far more intimate route. 

Soft curves grazed your shoulder blades, causing you to shiver. The weight finally settled, soft padding pressed flat against your back as Emily read your paper, and suddenly, your stomach had worked itself into looping knots, and your heart was racing. 

The struggle continued as you fought not to fidget, if only to alleviate the growing tension mounting between your thighs. This was only made worse when Emily's right hand left the back of your chair to drop down over your shoulder and land comfortably on your thigh. 

"Such a smart girl," she whispered sultrily into the shell of your ear, squeezing generous flesh between her fingers. 

With a scrambled brain, there was little fight to be put up against the meek whimper that crackled against the constricted lining of your throat. Subconsciously, your thighs tensed, and your pussy fluttered as you were reminded how close Emily's hand was to where you could only dream she'd touch. 

You'd thought you imagined it—the subtle shift in the room from breezy and light to torrid and all-consuming, but with Emily's fingers veering off course, inching higher and higher, reality came crashing down. 

"Thank you," you struggled to get the words out, and when they did come out, they were tremulous and feeble. 

Turning to look at her may have, in hindsight, been a mistake because where her gaze should have been fixed on the laptop screen, it was glued to your lips. Unexpectedly, your stomach flipped, and you felt dizzy. She was still superbly perfect up close, skin smooth like silk, cheekbones sharp as a razor, and lips cut from velvet. It was too close, dangerously so, you had to look away. Outside the window, you spotted a swarm of birds barely visible against the night sky. You ignored the clanking of your heart as you focussed on their synchronicity, watching them circle each other until they became one big blur of messy movements. 

The hand resting on the leather backing of your chair rose, skirting up and over your neck, until a firm grip was established around your dangling ponytail. She was gentle when she tugged, aware that though she wanted to educate you in the art of being owned, you were delicate.

"I think a pretty thing like you deserves a reward," she baited. "Don't you?" 

Her grip on you may have been physical. However, a stronger pull was coming from deep within you, an unimportant piece of scrap metal drawn in by a powerful magnet. It was useless to deny her. The mesmerising glow of her chocolate eyes and the promise of being made to feel special was too powerful. So, you nodded slowly but eagerly, desire painting your eyes dark shades of lust. 

"That's a good girl." 

Emily didn't miss how you preened at the praise and safely stored that information away for further use. She shifted to your side, hands migrating to the small of your waist, guiding you to your feet. The act of it was far gentler than you'd expected, like a gentleman asking a maiden to dance, sweeping her off her feet to whisk her away into a fairytale land filled with magic and romance. 

Certain the benign treatment would be short-lived, you granted yourself the leniency to enjoy it whilst it lasted, refusing to get too caught up in the dull ache between your legs that craved the form of savagery Emily displayed in the field. 

There was nothing short of passion in how she worked. It drove you crazy. As wrong as it felt, you couldn't help but envy the dirtbag the team was working to catch because you saw how badly the brunette wanted them. The look in her eyes, gratification and disgust all at once, when she'd achieved what she set out to do and was staring the devil right in the face - it made your heart race, your palms sweat and your cunt throb. 

The memory kickstarted what could only be described as a brutal attack upon the older woman's lips. To her credit, Emily indulged the outburst for a lot longer than you'd have thought. As if she'd expected it, she quickly responded, pulling you into her body and tilting her head to the side to deepen the kiss. The lead was stolen promptly from your grasp when Emily wedged a leg between your thighs, backed you up against her desk and tactically slid her tongue into your gaped mouth. You would have gasped if not for the fact you were immediately indulged in the minty taste of your boss's tongue skirting over the roof of your mouth. So much so that you scarcely noticed the pressure coming from your core was no longer just a phantom need manifested but taut clothed muscle pressing you further and further into the sharp wooden edge of the desk. 

"Emily," you breathily moaned, pulling back and separating your kiss-swollen lips from the brunette's. Ordinarily, you wouldn't have allowed what happened next to occur, but this was Emily, after all, the BAU section chief, and if you were to let anyone order you about, it would be her. 

She backed away from you with a final nip to your bottom lip, letting it go with a pop, and you fought the urge to reach out and pull her back to you. You knew you'd already tried to take things into your own hands once, and doing so again may undermine any chances you had of keeping the ball rolling on tonight's affairs. 

You could feel the tight pull of your ponytail and all the places where hair had been lead array from the confines of your hairband, and it truly dawned on you how out of sorts you must have appeared. Tracing your fingers over your lips, you could make out how swollen they were - puffy and hot, yet desperate and pouted, begging for more. Your breathing was laboured, filling the room's silence, and your shirt suddenly felt too tight as your chest expanded with each intake of oxygen. It almost came as a relief when Emily opened her mouth to finally speak until you heard what she'd said.

"Take your clothes off," she mindlessly ordered, walking around to her chair and sitting back in it. Her eager eyes trained over your body with the faintest shimmer of mirth. 

Initially, it was a shock. Of course, it was. You were in an official government building, personnel still sparsely spread throughout, and a goddess of a woman was asking you to bare yourself to her. 

For the longest time, revealing your body to someone always felt like giving up something. Perhaps some kind of purity. The moment you gave it up, it bred only guilt and shame that twisted and pulled at the pit of your stomach until you felt sick. You stood there, waiting for that feeling to come. It never did. 

Remaining still, your body pulsed not with nerves but with exhilaration and anticipation. It took a few seconds to realise this was precisely what you wanted. You wanted to give this false sense of purity away. There was not a sudden influx of courage soaring through every living cell of your body. However, there was enough for you to put on a front and do as you were told. 

"Slowly." Emily sat further back and placed her elbows neatly over the arms of her chair. She laced her fingers together, offered you an encouraging nod, and then was back to watching you raptly.

Feeling like a glutton, you followed a path of desire and heeded Emily's request, fingers increasingly fumbling over each button of your shirt. 

"So obedient." And in no way was it said negatively; the adulatory smile she gave you only sought to prove that further. 

The way she looked at you made you feel as though you were already naked. Maybe that was why it was so easy to get lost in the subtlety of undressing. It was art, and you were a performer. That's what you told yourself. And for the most part, it worked. 

With closed eyes, you trailed your fingers over your shoulders, letting your shirt drop to the floor. The AC raised goosebumps over your chest, pebbled your nipples under your plain bra, and you smiled. You smiled because this was the most alive you had felt in months. The thrill of moving on to your slacks and deftly unclasping your belt felt like being on a rollercoaster, like missing a step and laughing fear in the face afterwards. You felt utterly fearless. 

In the back of your mind, you could sense Emily's eyes still on you. You could hear her moving around but didn't think to check her reaction. You were in your element, and far be it for a look of appraisal, or lack of, to stop you. That was until your trousers hit the carpet with a soft thud, and a sharp breath was heard from across you. 

Your eyes snapped open, and you found Emily's smile was absent. The brunette now had her bottom lip trapped between her teeth as she looked you up and down, knuckles white from her deadly grip over the armrests. 

She lifted a hand, palm facing the ceiling as her index and middle finger crooked. "Come here so I can get a proper look at you," she said, slightly breathless. 

The desk had conveniently covered the lower half of Emily's body, which meant that when you circled around and came to stand next to her, you could see exactly what the earlier ruffling had been about. 

"Is that?" You froze, both shocked and utterly intrigued by the thick black dildo jutting out from the older woman's opened slacks. 

She didn't need you to finish the question, already nodding as she followed your line of sight. Leaning forward with an outstretched arm, Emily coiled her fingers around your wrist and pulled you forward, causing you to almost stumble over your own feet. At this closer distance, you could tell the faux cock would give you a run for your money. It was thicker than anything you had taken before, though that was not a hard trophy to earn, given that the most you had let anyone put inside you was three fingers. 

"Do you want to come sit on mommy's lap?" Emily asked with a tilt of her head. 

She didn't miss how your breath caught in your throat, how you seemed to stop blinking, stop moving, stop existing.

"Are you scared?" the lioness asked, sights set on her prized fawn. 

You shook your head and placed one foot in front of the other, eyes downcast as you took in the size of Emily's additional appendage. The shake of your jaw gave you away. 

"I don't like being lied to," she snapped, eyes dimming to an even darker shade of brown. 

She pulled you in by your waist and sat you on her lap, cock brushing over the thin material of your underwear. Instinctively, you wedged your bottom lip between your teeth to quiet yourself. But Emily wasn't having any of it. Her thumb came to your captive lip, where she helped release it with a soft flick. 

The smooth texture of Emily's cock through your sodden panties was a needed relief. Its head purposefully pressing against your sensitive bundle of nerves evoked a flurry of shivers to run down your spine. And with nothing holding you back, you moaned in gratitude. 

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Emily smirked, watching you rut against her. 

"Yes," you uttered, breath caught in your throat. 

Happy to watch, Emily relaxed her shoulders and leaned back, enjoying the show you were putting on for her. Only when she recognised the tell-tell signs of frustration wash over your features, from your creased brow to the bite of your lip between your teeth, did a sick smirk lick the edges of her lips. With a mischievous glint shining in her eyes, the older woman shifted her position, pointedly ignoring the sound it pulled from you. 

"Something wrong?" she asked with a hitch of one eyebrow, adamant to appear oblivious. 

You gave no reply, only held tight to her shoulders in defiance and continually ground down on her, trying so hard to pleasure yourself to no avail that your eyes began to sting with the emergence of tears. 

With sweat threatening to spill down the side of your face, the tension between your legs starting to ache, and your release nowhere near in sight, you threw your head back with a sigh and whispered a quiet 'please' to the ceiling.

"Please what?" Came the dull reply, tone bored, unamused, unimpressed.  

You tried to impale yourself, failing as strong hands held you down. It was driving you crazy—pleasure being so close yet so far. 

With one hand removed from your hip, Emily gripped your jaw and turned your attention solely to her stern gaze, "Are you going to stop being a brat and tell me what you want?" 

When no answer came, she let go, jerking your head back as if disgusted with the lack of compliance. 

"Get up." 

Ice, you were made of ice. Sat still, shocked, speechless and slightly mortified. 

"Do I need to repeat myself?" Emily's voice was no longer flat; it was not roaring either. Instead, it was layered, resembling the same barbed tone a teacher might use with a disobedient student. It was enough of a motivator to get you to rise to your feet. 

Following you closely, the older woman, too, rose to her full height, hands meticulously reaching behind your back to expertly relieve you of your bra. Never once did she look you in the eye. 

With the same callous approach, you were turned and pressed against the desk, papers sticking to your heated chest. Emily was quick to loop her fingers through the hem of your underwear and slip them down your thighs, allowing gravity to do the rest. 

The full-bodied presence behind you lessened, and you took it as the opportune moment to glance back. 

The brunette had let her trousers drop to the floor, allowing you to see how her porcelain skin was directly contrasted by the black leather of her strap-on. Unlike yourself, she did not appear nervous or afraid. As she kicked the tailored pants aside and met your gaze, you realised how in control she was. 

Her gaze moved down your body, hands running down your back, until finally, she pressed herself against you and lowered her body atop yours. 

"I can feel how wet you are," she teased, running two fingers through the mess between your legs. "Are you always this wet?" 

"Emily, please," you begged. 

"I asked before, please what?" She raked five fingers down your side, moving them back up till they wound tightly in your hair and gripped your neck to an uncomfortable arch. Two fingers pushed inside you but did no more than that, remaining still as stone. "If you're going to be a baby and refuse to tell me what you want, you'll get nothing." 

"Fuck me!" You no longer had the sound of mind to acknowledge shouting something vulgar could attract attention. Logic had evaded you, allowing you to play right into your boss's hands. "Please just fuck me."

Sliding her slick fingers out of you, she proudly stated, "That wasn't hard, was it?"

If the older woman wanted an answer, she did not allow for one. In one fluid motion, she rose from over you and snapped her hips forward, sheathing the entire length of her cock into your cunt. Your breath caught in your throat, resulting in a strained groan tumbling out of your open mouth. The pit of your stomach dropped, and try as you might have not to clench around the toy inside you, you did precisely that. 

It was new, the foreign feeling of being filled so fully that one slight move would summon pleasure that sent shivers through your whole body. It wasn't unwelcome, especially when Emily started to move, and heat engulfed your entire body. Her pace was languid, allowing you to feel each slide of her cock along your slick walls, how each push of her hips ended in the tip hitting the spot within you to cause the furling in your stomach to expand tenfold. It was all you could do not to scream when the push and pull and Emily's hips moved with more purpose, jerking your body into the edge of her desk. 

"I've barely started, and you're already dripping down your thighs." Her voice was laced with mirth, finger smearing your mess as if to prove an unnecessary point that had your cheeks burning up. "How long have you been thinking about this?" Emily finished her question with an arduous thrust. "How many times have you sunk your fingers into your pussy and thought of me?" 

The questions continued, each hitting the nail right on the head. Your cheeks were scorched with the embarrassment that comes with having your desires known and exposed, but it did not take hold of your conscience as the event of falling in front of a large crowd might have. It was comparable to how a blushing maiden may feel when caught by a suitor in only their undergarments. It excited that small part of you that gave in to demoralisation and encouraged you enough to meet Emily halfway as she thrust into you. 

As your pleasure mounted, the need for more grew. Your clit, swollen and needy, begged for relief, and you beckoned to its call, sliding one hand from above your head to the juncture between your legs. It was when the tips of your fingers brushed against your sensitive pearl and you gained the briefest taste of the euphoria that Emily removed her hand from your thigh and snatched your hand away, halting all movement. 

You could have cried, having everything, then nothing, so quickly. 

"Did I say you could do that?" 

Abruptly pulling out, Emily stood tall and proud, staring down at you with curiosity and disappointment lining the brown of her eyes. She heard you whimper and acknowledged your sniffle. 

"There's no need to cry," she tutted, flipping you onto your back and lifting you by your shoulders. "You're going to listen to me from now on." 

You nodded, and she once again lined her cock to your opening, only now she waited, taunting you with possibilities. 

"Beg," she instructed. 

And you heeded. 

"Please. I need you." 

"You can do better." She sounded bored, and this struck a nerve within you, one that begged you to impress her, show her you could be a good little girl, and beg as though your life depended on it. 

You took a heaving breath and looked into Emily's eyes, sporting your best puppy eyes. "I need you. I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me with your big cock, mommy. Make me scream out your name. I need it." 

"There's a good pet," she cooed, mesmerising you with the bating of her lashes as she looked down to where your bodies were so close to touching. 

It all happened in a blur. The next thing you knew, your nails were digging into muscled shoulders, legs wrapping around a slim waist as the brunette filled you, wasting no time in picking up a brutal tempo. You barely recognised the sound of your voice as high-pitched obscenities spilt past your lips. You felt your whole body light up, heard blood pulse in your ears, and saw in real-time just how easy it was to aid Emily in calling upon your impending orgasm. 

Your vulgar mouth, luckily, seemed to amuse Emily enough for her to let you continue rutting your hips against her. The corners of her lips curled, and her smirk lasted only so long for you to see before she inched forward and kissed you with passion and hunger. It was easy, so easy, to melt into the brief moment of intimacy. The butterflies felt tangible, and the sparks crackled in your ears; it felt so fucking good you'd almost forgotten just where you were. Of course, bubbles eventually popped, and this one was demolished by rustling outside Emily's office. 

What little movement Emily allowed, her hands holding you firmly against the desk by your waist, was not enough to wriggle free and glance behind to see what was happening. Instead, the possibility of being caught weighed heavier with each drawled-out second. 

"Emily," You tried but were cut off by a tongue sliding into your mouth. "Emily, stop."

With a bite to your lip, the older woman backed off, confusion marking her features, "What is it?" she punctuated her question with a hard thrust. 

"Someone's o-" another hard thrust. "Someone's outside."

Emily smiled, picking up her pace, forcing you to breathe so deep you felt your lungs expand. 

"You'd better be quiet then." 

Whatever protest you were about to give died in your throat when nails skirted up to your chest and dug painfully into your breast, and Emily pushed herself so deep within you that you felt her hitting your cervix. A strangled cry was briefly heard before you managed to clasp your hand over your lips and silence your own mewls. She was fucking you as if her life depended on getting a reaction out of you that would draw attention. Nevertheless, you held firm and stayed as quiet as your muffled sobs would allow you to be. 

"Emily, please," you were pleading for release and for the brutal fucking stop because you knew there would be no chance you could keep a lid on your volume; there would also be no chance you would survive not cumming. 

Taking note of this, the older woman took the route of giving you your release, dragging a thumb down over your clit and applying the right amount of pressure to have your tense legs turn into a shaky mess of tremors. She didn't stop there; with a brief slide, she ran your slick over your bundle of nerves and started to circle steadily. 

"Fuck!" You screamed out, missing the way the ruffling outside suddenly stopped. "I'm cumming. I'm cumming." 

"That's it," the brunette encouraged, her fingers coming up to crook and tangle through the mussed mess of your hair, nails slowly working against your scalp. "Let everyone hear what a slut you are, letting me fuck you over my desk." 

She didn't stop, though, not when your clit felt raw and your pussy tender, not when you begged and not even when you reached out and tried to grab her wrist. Emily only yanked you down by your hair, relishing the thud the brutal move made. She fucked you harder till stationary fell to the floor from your thrashing arms, and by then, her lips were already wrapped around a nipple, sucking firm whilst you cried through a second orgasm. 

When you finally felt empty, you didn't even try to open your eyes. You knew your vision would be blurred if not blacked out. Instead, you focussed on coming back down to earth, steading your breath and not thinking about how you strangely missed being filled by Emily despite being so fucking sore. 

"Are you still alive?" a smug voice asked from above, and you pried your bleary eyes open to weakly smile. 

"I think so," you whispered, peeling your sweat-slick back from the desk. That was when you remembered the unknown personnel outside and shot a look at the door. 

"They're gone," Emily said, cupping your chin and turning you back to her. Again, you were greeted by that conniving smirk. "After your commentary, I think they understood we didn't want to be disturbed." 

"But-" 

"Uh-uh." she silenced you with a finger to your lips, the smell of yourself still narrowly fragrant. You took the digit into your mouth, patting yourself on the back as you watched Emily's eyes turn dark. "You want to make Mommy feel good now, don't you?" She knew the answer, but oh, how she loved to watch you sink to your knees and eagerly nod anyway. You helped unclasp the straps of her harness, then set to pealing the last barrier keeping you from her heat down her legs. 

"My good little pet," she said, smiling down at you and happily watching you beam. Her hand cupped your jaw before moving to the back of your neck, where she pulled you to her core and began singing a melody of moans. 

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[totheseok]

☆ boynextdoor reaction to you biting them

requested: no

genre: fluff ig?

warnings: none that i can think of

word count: 1.1k

a/n: more self indulgent things because I have a biting problem.

sungho:

gobsmacked

yk that really shocked face he makes where his mouth is open and his eyes are wide?

that's his face when he realises you bit him

it's a light bite but it's unexpected

you two are in the lower homes living room just chilling. sungho is playing fifa while you just mindlessly scroll on your phone. eventually you get tired of your phone and now you need your boyfriends attention. but sungho is locked in on the game and you know simply asking for his attention wouldn't work. so naturally you do what must be done. and you bite his arm. you bit him lightly but you've never bitten him before so man was s h o c k e d. he looks towards you eyes wide, mouth open and then looks at his arm, then back at you.

"hi"

"hi? did you just bite me?"

"mhm"

"why?"

you bit him again and cuddled up in his side 😌

riwoo:

goes silent

riwoo.exe has stopped responding

like remember the funnextdoor episode where he went quiet and woonhak was like "riwoo is trying to think of something funny to say"

kinda like that

riwoo gives me yapper vibes so...

you two are sitting at the table in the kitchen just enjoying some snacks while talking about your day. he's probably telling you about a new dance he's learning or something stupid that happened at dance practice. you're just listening and watching your absolute cutie patootie of a boyfriend yap away. as he's doing this you cant help but notice how cute his cheeks look. and how biteable they look.... and so to preserve your own sanity you do just that. you bite his cheek 😌. following your bite all you hear is, well, nothing. sanghyeok is just sitting staring at you with wide eyes, bite unfinished. man is shocked, flustered, flabbergasted and so much more

"riwoo?"

"..."

"baby?"

"..."

"sanghyeok?"

"..."

jaehyun:

menace pt1

bros probably going to start singing bite me ngl

but we know hes a dramatic pookie

so that too

you and jaehyun are in his room. hes studying some english. youre having the time of your life, laying with your head in his lap, watching him struggle to pronounce "yacht". you offered to help him but noooo, he can do it. refuses to let you help because he wants to prove he can do it himself and with any other word you wouldnt doubt him. he's quite good at english and hes improving rapidly but the word "yacht"... its a pain in the ass to learn at first even if english is your first language. i mean look at it it should be pronounced "ya ch t" or something. he had first said "ya ch t" and was convinced that's how it was pronounced until he looked at your face and realised he was wrong. but was going to ask for help? no? but manz could NOT figure out what else it could be.

after about 5 minutes of watching him struggle you got fed up and decided to MAKE him listen to you. so you leaned your head down. and but his thigh. surprised at first, bamboozled even. but once he realised what had happened he started giggling soon followed by you. after recovering from the laughing fit, he did not miss a single beat and started singing in that voice he uses to annoy sungho.

"its you and me in this world 내게로 다시 와 tie me"

"seriously? thats you first response?!?!"

"날 구원할 거라면 just come kiss me and bite me"

"sure but say 'yacht' first"

"HEY"

taesan:

bites back.

thats it

thats the headcanon

jk but fr

i cant find it now but theres a video of taesan biting jaehyun and bro just nommed in jaehyuns arm

which is why im 100% sure he would bite back

honestly wouldnt even be phased

its probably your love language as a couple

you and taesan were at the studio, taesan was working on some new songs while you sat nearby doing some assignments. eventually the words you were typing started floating around the screen and you didnt even know what you were typing so you decided it was a good time to take a break. but if youre taking a break then taesan should also be taking a break because 1. he was probably tired too and 2. how dare he work while youre taking a break instead of giving you attention. so you decided to give him a few minutes so that he wouldnt lose his train of though. plus he looks so cute when hes focused so...

HOWEVER a few minutes turned into 10 minutes. 10 minutes turned into 20. and eventually half an hour passed. you realised taesan wasnt about to take a break any time soon, so you decided to take matters into your own hands. you slowly crept up behind him and attacked. bro did not move. just looked at you smiled and pulled you into his lap. you may not have gotten a reaction but hey, now you get attention from your boyfriend. with no consequences... right? err❌ wrong.

"whats up?"

"you should take a break youve been working for so long. nonstop"

"okay"

"youre just going to listen? that easily?"

"hmm?" *bites you*

leehan:

menace pt2

takes it as an opportunity to flirt

teases you to no end

i keep thinking about that boynextdoor 2night video where while spinning bottle the jaehyun told him he was doing it the wrong way

and he was like ill do it how i want

so like

think abt that

you and leehan were watching a kdrama while cuddling. initially both of you were very invested and you kept fangirling over the male lead (me every time i watch unlock my boss) and leehan would laugh and jokingly complain about it. after about two more episodes you noticed that leehan hadnt said anthing in a while so you looked towards him and saw that he had dozed off. but this was unacceptable how could he leave you to watch people try to kill each other on your own. no absolutely not. this was not allowed. how dare he. you first tried slightly shaking him awake, it woke him up but he just mumbled something unintelligible and closed his eyes again. time for plan b. biting him.

it worked. quite well. too well.

"why???"

"why what?"

"baby i know i taste good but if youre hungry the gummies might serve you better"

"you left me alone to watch mr.oh be mean to my husband 😔"

"hey its ok i didnt hear anything he said about me~"

"oh god you know what go back to sleep"

[evilminji]

*evil grin of The Ponderings™*

You know who DEFINITELY would have Unfinished Business?

Heroes. Professional "If I could just MOVE, just fight a BIT LONGER, save ONE MORE PERSON" Heroes. It's the ultimate and unending Unfinished Business. To protect people. Not just their friends, their co-workers, but the innocent people around them.

That kid, stuck crying in the rubble.

That business man, screaming in pain, caught in the cross fire.

The People NEED them. They SWORE. Their very SOULS burn with the NEED to help. But... the flesh gave out. Injuries. Age. Quirk overuse. They knew... they KNEW, this was not a safe line of work... but... but! Please! Just one more person! Why can't they just make their breaking, dying, bodies MOVE!

Of course they refuse to move on.

They are needed HERE.

Yet? Their hands pass through. Their voices do not reach. A hell of their own, unknown, making. They can't let go, but they can't HELP either. There isn't enough Ectoplasm here. The walls of their reality overly patched up, since that unfortunate leak a few centuries back.

After all, the Zone had dumped near lethal quantities of unfiltered Ecto into the atmosphere. They're STILL dealing with the mutations and fall out, aren't they? At least, they are according to the Zone. (Wtf is a "Quirk"?) And, yeah, someone should PROBABLY do an assessment on the ecological recovery of the Reality. But like?

Do you have any idea how few people have an Obsession for stuff like that? Wait your turn! The list is long and you're not fuckin special, okay? The agents are BUSY.

Now, you might wonder? Wait. If they aren't moving on. Are DEFINITELY Ghosts. Starving as they are. Refusing to die as they may be. Wouldn't... Wouldn't that leave the whole ass area around their Reality an ecological dead zone? If it got over patched and no Ghosts LEFT, thus noticed, and started to try and work on it from the outside? Assuming the COULD?

Yeah. Yeah it would be!

It's called the "New Wastes"!

There used to be some cool Lairs around there. But there was a turf dispute. Someone DID something. Punched a HOLE. And everyone re-died. It was fixed but never quite re-healed. Portals... don't show up there? For some reason? Meh. Wanna brawl?

No. Danny's curious. He wants ANSWERS.

It's his fatal flaw.

Well... that and his inability to keep his mouth shut. But he likes to think he's funny. So... off he goes! And MAN! Does it feel funky out there! Weird textures. Mmmm, Don't Like THAT ™. It's probably a King thing? The Zone here... FEELS wrong.

Not... the way it's SUPPOSED to be shaped, if that makes sense?

And? It feels... if you sorta squint? Like... a LOT of people AREN'T where they should be. But aren't gonna leave until they're READY. Ooof. Great. Someone messed up again. Why does he KEEP FINDING bits and pockets that need straightening out? Unruffling? It's like he has to keep smooth out this giant peice of fabric with all these stains on it. Clean the messes on it.

He feels more like a maid then a King.

Maybe he is?

Pretty sure he's more of a nanny, since the Zone is more of a whiny yet excitable toddler then anything else. Alright, let him in. And fix... whatever THAT is.

So he steps into the Reality and? Huh. Japan. Neat. He always meant to go, never got around to it. Why is that man an otter?

.......oooohohooo, this place was HELLA fucked up by Ectoplasm, wasn't it? This is multi generational exposure. It's in the air. The water, ground, buildings. But stale to the point of stagnation. That can't be healthy. At least a few people he sees have developed ecto-resistance, thank the Ancients.

Danny discovers there are? "Superheroes"? Or just... heroes, apparently. They sell shampoo lines and athletic gear. Villians are petty criminals and psychopaths. All lumped together. He gets fuckin CHASED by the COPS and half the cities spandex patrol, called a "villian" (you know, like the purse snatchers and the DUDE WHO TRIED TO OPEN FIRE ON A CROWD) for flying around trying to assess the situation. Not speaking Japanese fast enough.

Soooorry! He TRIED to answer your confusing barked demands! This isn't his native language! He's translating through Ghost Speech! He knows it sounds unsettling to the living! It's the best he's GOT, man! (Asshole)

He escapes, obviously, because he's not 14 anymore. And honestly? He could top 200mph or so AT 14. He's only gotten faster. Intangible flight means no wind drag, motherfuckers~! OR need to dodge buildings! HA. Try to follow him through THE GROUND!

A few Blob sucked (to remove the ectoplasm) bits of treasure later? And he leaves a pawn shop with local currency. Thank YOU shady pawn shop! Ask him no questions, he'll tell you not lies. Enjoy Pariah's gold.

He does tourist things. Buy foods he's never tried, wanders around. Sees what's needed. Noticed a lot of people struggle with some aspect of the ecto-mutations brought on by the extreme Limnality. Need accessibility aids.

.....well, he IS a Fenton. His parents would disown him on the SPOT if he left with out at least TRYING to help. So he tracks down one the local ghosts. He'll need a guide or two.

He? VASTLY underestimates how desperate a sea of Obsession Starved Hero and Vigilante Ghosts will act, the INSTANT, they realize not only someone can see them... but it's? Their "Boss"? They aren't sure HOW they know that. But they DO. It's THE Boss. Here to help them! Asking for HELP ™ from THEM!

Yes

YES THEY CAN DO THAT

He gets swarmed. Hundreds of ghosts fighting over each other. Shouting. Turning on each other like rabid animals. All worn down and ragged by their Obssesion starvation. He's forced to shout over them.

And? Holy shit, these are only the ones from THIS CITY, too.

Thank Zone, again, he's no longer 14. That he has friends who are Rulers ™ that taught him HOW to Rule. To delegate. Pretend he TOTALLY knows what he's doing. That every action is on purpose.

It takes less then two hours, with all the experienced Unground Heros help, to make himself a Real Boy and buy a building. Put himself into the correct databases. He officially has licenses for things he's never studied. Is a tax paying citizen. Even belongs to several local clubs.

Over the next few days? He sets up his new... oi! Quickdraw! What're they called again? Right. "Lifestyle Support Company" which? Is a dumb name. But, Fenton Works is Fenton Works. Somehow he always kinda knew he'd be inherenting. It's in a cruddy part of town and the prices are cheap as he can safely get um.

He already had two customers, even though half the building isn't even fully set up. Which? I mean... he gets it. Poor guy. Knives for hands. Sharp ones too. The other guy's Obsession made him emotionally react to colors and like three different ones were ruining his life. So, hand Prosthetics controllable by knives and color filtering wrap around glasses.

Took him a lunch break or two.

Changed THEIR lives.

Suddenly his shop is packed. Schedule screaming for relief. And the ghosts? Getting more tangible by the day. See, his work shop? Ecto proofed. Let's him relax. But it ALSO let's him radiate fresh, clean, Ecto out into the air. And as King? With a direct line to The Zone? He puts out a lot.

There start to become Sightings.

People who SWEAR they saw long dead Heros out of the corner of their eyes. Dead vigilantes. That was who through that bottle. Who tripped that thug at just the right moment. Who unlocked the door. The SWEAR. They aren't crazy!

And... at first? Brushed off. Stress does a lot of crazy thing to a person, ma'am. But? How do you brush off, making eye contact with your dead best friend? Your old mentor on the other roof? That vigilante, who you WATCHED bleed out? Can you brush them off... when a vigilante from the dawn of quirks, punches some two bit villian on live television? Calls the Heros on the scene gloryhounds? Goverment dogs?

Runs from the cops and vanishes into thin air?

When this shit KEEPS HAPPENING?

Is spreading?

Are... are you supposed to arrest them for illegal vigilantism? How? They're THE proto-Heros! You don't want your name tied to that! The HPSC is furious. The goverment is uneasy. There are like... 6 dudes and a lady, openly stalking some kid in UA. Trying to mentor him. He looks moments away from a nervous breakdown.

Us too, kid. Us too.

All? While Danny? Is just sitting in his lil shop. Tinkering. Not HIS problem. Gotta let the ghosts here get it out of their system. Get their Obsession's full. Then it's all aboard the Zone Train. He's just here to make sure no one does anything "Too Crazy".

What's HIS definition of "too crazy"?

Wouldn't YOU like to know, weather boy~☆

@hdgnj @lolottes @nerdpoe @babbling-babull @mutable-manifestation @spidori @the-witchhunter @legitimatesatanspawn

[wonwoonlight]

just one day / yoon jeonghan

⇢ Jeonghan x fem!Reader

⇢ word count: 4.5k

⇢ fluff // angst // nonidol!au // brother's best friend // fake dating!au // they're idiots lmao // not edited nor proofread so pls bear w me lol // cursing and. two? kissing scenes.

⇢ A/N: this has been sitting unfinished in my google drive since... either last year or the beginning of this year lmao. i have always wanted to write brother's best friend and i had this sudden urge to finish it earlier so i did. been some time since i posted a proper fic so, enjoy~

He must be dreaming.

He must be.

“What?” Jeonghan says just for the sake of saying it.

“I like you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You blink at his firm voice, wondering what kind of situation this is. Sure, you shouldn’t be confessing to your brother’s best friend, but you feel like you’ve been obvious enough and you don’t see why you shouldn’t confess when it’s been eating you inside out.

And, yeah, you didn’t expect him to do anything about your confession (or even say that he likes you back), but you didn’t expect this either.

“What do you mean I don’t?” you frown, looking at him accusingly. “I like you.”

“You don’t, kid.” He sighs, already feeling a headache coming. He’s not stupid, alright, he has enough sense to gather that his best friend’s little sister probably has something on him–a crush, perhaps, but he’s never thought it was real enough for you to feel the need to confess.

It doesn’t help that he is attracted to you, has always been since you’ve gone back from Sydney after finishing university a year ago. He admits he’s always thought you’re attractive, and if he’s being honest, he would’ve asked you out first if not for the fact that you’re literally Joshua Hong’s little sister.

As if it’s not enough that not dating his best friend’s little sister has always been a code he follows, Shua has always been a little too protective as a brother. He’s seen firsthand how the guy scared off some who had the guts to flirt with you, seen how for two decades only two guys had ever been declared good enough to date you (he couldn’t do anything about the flings you had when you were abroad, but at least you’ve always been appreciative of his protectiveness and you never missed to inform him of some guys who were actually trying to get it on with you).

Long story short, Jeonghan does not wish to be on the receiving end of Shua’s scrutinizing eyes regardless of how much he’s actually into you.

“Look, you know me,” he starts when he realizes you’re not backing down. He looks away, pretending to be frustrated, though it’s really just because he thinks he’ll relent if he looks into your eyes a second longer. “I’m not gonna make a good boyfriend and I’m literally your brother’s best friend.”

You don’t seem to care about the first part of his sentence, irked by the fact that him being best friend with Shua would be an obstacle in your way. Shouldn’t it be easier for him to get a seal of approval if he’s already close with your brother? But, then again, Shua probably knows Jeonghan inside out and knowing too much is never a good thing.

“So what?” you say anyway, because if there’s any word that would describe you perfectly, it’s ‘stubborn’. “Why does it matter that you’re his best friend?”

Jeonghan sends you a look, and you pout because you actually get what he means. You know Shua, after all, and as much as you want to condition yourself to believe that Jeonghan would be the person Shua approves of with all his heart, you also know that even if your brother actually approves, he would put him through hell just for the fun of it.

Anyway, this doesn’t tell you at all where Jeonghan actually stands about you.

“So, you don’t like me?” you shoot straight to it, as if Jeonghan wouldn’t be able to hear your heart beating like there’s no tomorrow if he takes even one step closer–as if your ears aren’t hot from saying it out loud. Jeonghan does not need to know how flustered you actually are.

And it works, because he seems to be taken aback by your boldness and you try your best to hide a victory grin at that. You should probably be more grateful that he can’t stand to look at you for more than three seconds; if he had, he would’ve seen the tip of your ears turning red and the speck of blush on your face, which means he could’ve easily taken control of the situation and turned it against you.

His silence encourages you, because if he really doesn’t like you then he would tell you so. As much as Jeonghan is a master of tricks and he’s great at acting, he’s never been good at hiding his feelings.

Jeonghan bites his lip, trying to get a way out of this. Why can’t he just say no and be done with it? Sure, he’s not in love with you or anything (yet?), but it’s a straight out lie to say he’s never seen you that way.

After all, there’s a reason why he’s been avoiding you the past few months. 

You just have to be more daring these days, and as much as he wills himself to behave, there are times when he’s already flirting with you before he knows it. He’s just lucky Shua has never caught you two.

Plus, you’ve taken a liking to wearing a crop top and it’s the absolute death of him.

“Tell you what,” you say before he does. “Date me.”

Jeonghan chokes on nothing, violently coughs that his shoulders are shaking and you actually need to pat his back so he’ll calm down.

“Are you okay?” You ask worriedly, and he’s terribly conscious of your hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm, of the way your brows furrow in concern, of the way your lips are a little ajar and if he moves forward just a little–

“Yeah.” He shakes his head despite the word, then clears his throat and squares his shoulders before he looks the other way around. He doesn’t step away though, and it’s so fucking stupid that he frowns when you do. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“Date me.” You repeat anyway, though you know this is Jeonghan’s way of  giving you an out in case you want to pretend like you didn’t just say that earlier. He opens his mouth, and you can hear what he’s going to say even if he hasn’t said anything so you cut him yet again. “Just for one day.”

“Kid–”

“Stop,” you say firmly, something akin to determination flashes through your eyes that he’s actually taken aback. “Stop calling me that.”

He sighs out your name, but you’re not hearing it because if you back down now you know you won’t have it in you to say this out loud again. You’re fueled by nothing but impulse and you’re not going to let Yoon Jeonghan himself slow you down.

“Han, I see the way you look at me–you’ve gone past seeing me as a kid since I came back from Sydney and it’s been a year since then. I’m not stupid.”

It’s hard to describe the way he looks at you, and he’s not blaming you because he is confused. The mixed feelings bursting in his chest is much too complicated for him to explain. Let alone through words, even his consciousness does not know how to register what he’s feeling.

Your face falls at his silence, and whatever courage that drives you up to this point is starting to ebb little by little. You’re so goddamn stupid–did you really think confessing to him would lift the weight off your shoulders? What made you think Jeonghan would be able to treat you as usual after you confessed?

Didn’t you confess only because it’s heaving you down? Because you thought you’d regret it if you stayed silent?

Then what is this weight on your chest? 

What is this disappointment looming all over your body?

Why the fuck are your eyes pricking with tears?

Still, you stand your ground and square yourself up in front of him. You’ve gone this far. If you’re going to be embarrassing, might as well do it for a reason. 

“Okay,” he breaks his silence, his tone defeated for whatever reason. It’s not discouraging though, more like unsure and maybe a little hopeful, and when you look up, he’s biting his lip in contemplation. “Just one day, right?”

“But you have to actually treat me like I’m your girlfriend.” You push, heart beating both in excitement and fear. Because what if he backs out of nowhere? He’s not that kind of person, but this situation is nothing sort of normal and his consciousness just might get to him if you don’t push him already.

Jeonghan bites his lip, looking at you like you’re a bad idea that he’s caving into. And he’s starting to think that it’s true. But if he’s being honest, he’s not against this at all. He also wants to know how it’d feel like to hold your hands and just listen to you talk without thinking about Shua and whatever that will follow if he ever finds out.

Frankly, one day wouldn’t be enough, but that’s better than nothing, right? And he would never have the guts to propose it himself, he admits, so this is a chance that he knows he wouldn’t get his hands on ever again.

He sighs, praying to every god up there that this won’t backfire on him.

“Okay,” he whispers, more to himself than to you, and then repeats it once again, this time firmer, looking at you straight in the eyes. “Shua’s going on a business trip next week, right?”

You nod.

“I’ll see you next Saturday?”

You bite down your lip so hard that you taste blood to stop yourself from smiling like an idiot.

Tuesday, 26 July

[14:32] Yoon Jeonghan😠: beach or amusement park

[14:50] ?????

[14:50] its not a surprise?

[14:54] Yoon Jeonghan😠: just pick one, kid

[14:55] 🙄 beach ig

Thursday, 28 July

[01:11] Yoon Jeonghan😠: festival or night market

[01:12] ?????? sir?? go to sleep??

[01:12] didnt you choose a place alrd???

[01:12] but night market

[01:13] Yoon Jeonghan😠: you go to sleep

Yoon Jeonghan😠 is typing…

…

Yoon Jeonghan😠 is typing…

[01:17] Yoon Jeonghan😠: good night, kid

[01:18] nightttttt

Friday, 29 July

[22:20] Yoon Jeonghan😠: wear something light tomorrow, but bring a jacket just in case it gets cold at night

Saturday, 30 July

[00:03] k, boyfriend 😌

[00:03] sorry, i was on the phone with chaeyoung earlier

[00:07] Yoon Jeonghan😠: i really cant with you

[00:07] Yoon Jeonghan😠: and chaeyoung as in vernon’s cousin? your friend from high school?

[00:07] Yoon Jeonghan😠: you still talk to her?

[00:08] yes!! surprised that u rmb her :0

[00:08] and i actually just met her by accident earlier today and we decided to catch up thru the phone bc i had to go somewhere

[00:09] apparently, she’s dating choi seungcheol or smth 👀

Incoming call from Yoon Jeonghan😠 - 00:11

Call ended - 02:27

[02:27] Yoon Jeonghan😠: you fell asleep. night, babe 🤪 see you

You bite your lip in giddiness as you keep on rereading Jeonghan’s text, like you’re not giddy enough already at the prospect of today.

You fell asleep last night while on the phone with Jeonghan, but whatever curse you were about to dump into yourself for falling asleep during what might be your only chance to be on the phone with Jeonghan during ungodly hours was immediately wiped out when you saw his text.

Yes, you’d flirt with each other from time to time–but never through texts, and the prospect of having a message from him that you can read over and over again some time in the future is both delightful and… sad.

The sudden tug on your heart and consciousness is a little heavy, a reminder that he’s doing that because you asked him to. That whatever’s happening in the span of today is an illusion, one that Jeonghan agrees on creating.

Why, you don’t want to dwell on it too much.

That should be your motto for the day: fuck it.

So what if it was an illusion? Jeonghan agreed and you’re going to make the best out of it. If you’re never going to be Jeonghan’s girlfriend, might as well be shameless and live your teenage (and adult, if you’re being honest) dream and be his girlfriend for the day now so you can stamp it in your memory. You only have today and you’re not going to spend any second thinking about the technicality of it.

As far as you know, Jeonghan is your boyfriend and he’s taking you out for the day.

You jump when your phone pings, the notification on your lockscreen rids you of whatever negativity that was in your mind literally seconds ago as you grin and make your way out of your apartment.

[09:17] Yoon Jeonghan😠: am in the lobby. get ur pretty self here, angel.

For all you know, the world is plenty unfair. But seeing Jeonghan looking like that with a simple white tee and a faded pair of jeans reminds you just how unfair the world actually is. Like it’s not unfair enough already because he’s not your actual boyfriend.

“Come on, let me take a picture of you,” he says as he softly takes your hand, pulling you up from the mat. “The wind isn’t too strong and you’re looking particularly pretty today.”

You scrunch your nose as you mock annoyance, a failed attempt to mask your blush. Hopefully, Jeonghan would think you’re simply flushed because of the sun and not because of him.

“I don’t like taking pictures.”

“How dare you lie to me.” Jeonghan says without missing a beat. “I know you make Shua take a ton shit pictures of you when you’re out somewhere.”

You pout at this, and as much as you know Jeonghan doesn’t mean anything by it, the mention of your brother isn’t exactly welcome today because his name just reminds you that this isn’t real and he’s a big part of the reason why.

“Can you not talk about my brother?” You say softly, which Jeonghan easily catches even if he’s not sure you mean for him to hear or not. The sadness in your voice is genuine though, and he makes a mental note to stop mentioning Joshua for the rest of the day. He’s starting to question once again if this is the right thing to do even for a day–after all, Joshua is his best friend, and this particular conversation is the exact reason why he’s not supposed to do this.

But he’s promised you he’ll treat you like his girlfriend–perhaps another personal agenda of his because he does want to experience being able to be your boyfriend even for a day. He should’ve thought more before okay-ing your proposal instead of thinking about it right now when you’re in front of him, in a simple white shirt and a black skirt that stops just below the middle of your thigh but somehow still the prettiest he’s ever seen. 

He wonders if this is how you usually dress up for your dates, and something bitter makes it to the tip of his tongue as he thinks about someone else taking you on a date. 

“Sorry. Come on, let’s take a picture together.” His fingers wrap around your wrist to pull you closer before eventually linking them with yours. “You’re very pretty today, have I told you?”

“You have.” You scrunch your nose and pretend to roll your eyes at the sudden sweetness he basks you in even though you’re liking every second of it. “Literally one minute ago.”

“Well, you really do look very beautiful and I want you to know.” He lowers his voice an octave and stares right into your eyes before he eventually bursts out laughing.

“Stop!” You giggle, knowing that he’s doing this on purpose to annoy you. “That’s too fucking cheesy and you know it.”

He laughs along with you, then tightens his fingers in yours like they’re not interlocked already.

“I mean it though.” He whispers one last time, not looking at you this time around because his heart might fucking burst to say it to your face without the faux of messing with you. “You do look beautiful.”

At least you share the sentiment, as you quietly duck your head to hide your smile, whispering a thanks that’s only meant for the two of you.

Jeonghan keeps his end of the bargain, you’re happy to know, as you don’t even think about your brother and the pretense that is your relationship for the rest of the day. You freely flirt with each other, cheeky smile and winks being thrown here and there. His hands never seem to leave you, and you gladly cling on to him even if you don’t need to.

You get ice cream, insist that you want the plain strawberry one only to eventually switch with Jeonghan’s cookies and creams because his looks better. He plays hard to get before giving in to you, but not before swiping ice cream from the side of your lips and licks his thumb like that shit isn’t going to give you a heart attack.

It’s around seven when you both get to the night market not too far from the beach, and you’re both even gigglier than earlier which you didn’t think was possible. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, but you’re the furthest thing from complaining as you continue at whatever dumb jokes Jeonghan throws your way.

The night market isn’t as crowded as you think it would be, but it still is crowded and Jeonghan makes a show of throwing his arm around your shoulder because he ‘doesn’t want to lose you’ and you seem a little cold (which you kinda are).

You elbow him at this, shake your head and pretend like you’re not internally dying from the closeness between the two of you.

“That’s so lame.” You snicker. “Just say you want me close and go.”

“I do want you close.” He whispers unexpectedly, catching you entirely off guard that you trip on your own foot you almost fall on your face. He doesn’t seem to realize you tripped because you’re flustered, which works good for you, and he flicks your forehead as he scolds you to be more careful and goes back to holding your hand.

“Seriously. How are you still so clumsy?”

You don’t like being reprimanded by Jeonghan, because it awfully reminds you that you’re younger than him–that you’re his best friend’s little sister. And as much as you know Jeonghan definitely does not see you as a sister, the implication that he has to see you as one because of the association is very disheartening. 

“Why are you frowning?” He copies the gesture, and you shake your head, telling him it’s nothing. The night is ending, and you don’t want to waste more time thinking about stuff that you can think of tomorrow when you’re not in a time limited relationship with Yoon Jeonghan. “No, tell me–”

“Jeonghan?”

The both of you turn at the call of his name, and your frown deepens as you see Jisoo in front of you, Jeonghan’s ex that he amicably broke up with. The one ex that has always made you feel like shit because she’s everything you’re not and they were such a picture perfect couple that you’re sure they’d go back together someday.

It does not feel good to see her today of all days.

“Oh, hi!” She kindly greets you, her smile way too genuine for you to think she’s just being polite and secretly hates you inside. Gosh. You need to stop watching too many TV dramas. “Joshua’s sister… right?”

There it is again. The reminder that you’re his sister–something you really don’t need to hear today.

“Hi.” You smile awkwardly, and only then remember your hand is still pretty much joined with Jeonghan’s. You don't know how to feel about the fact that his reflex is not to let go of your hand in front of his ex who obviously knows your brother. You try to let go of his hand, but Jeonghan holds on tighter, as if telling you it’s okay and there’s no need to worry about Jisoo.

They share a small chat for a bit before eventually parting, and Jisoo wishes you both a good night, which makes you hate yourself so much for being jealous of the girl when she doesn’t even have an ounce of bad energy towards you.

You try to enjoy the rest of the night, but Jisoo’s appearance just reminds you that this whole thing is pretty much fake. That someone out there is going to be in your place for real–able to hold his hand and just be with him all the time without having to wait for your brother to go on a business trip to even hang out with each other. Without some stupid request and guilt eating them inside out because they’re not supposed to do this.

Trying to be subtle, you put on an act of wanting to visit every stall in the festival and pretend to be tired after about thirty minutes or so. You’re surprised Jeonghan isn’t already tired to begin with, this guy has the battery of a five-years-old phone, you didn’t expect him to actually bring you around until night if you’re being completely honest.

Jeonghan complies when you tell him you’re ready to go home, and you don’t even realize he’s also being weirdly quiet because you’re too deep in your thoughts. And it’s once his car is parked on the parking lot of your apartment building that you finally open your mouth trying to say something–anything.

You want to thank him for today. To thank him for making a memory that you’ll dearly hold on to, for giving you a standard of what a boyfriend is supposed to be even for a day. For fulfilling your dumb request when he doesn’t even have to.

But what comes out of your mouth is something entirely different and you almost want to bash your head against the door of his car right after.

“Whoever’s going to be your girlfriend is very lucky.”

You can hear Jeonghan takes a sharp breath, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying because you’re just so fucking stupid like that.

You try to remind yourself that you asked for this. That Jeonghan is doing you a favour and owes you nothing. That you should be thankful you’ve even gotten the chance to play girlfriend with him when he could’ve just embarrassed you and walked away after your proposal.

The deafening silence inside the car is very loud, and you feel like you’re suffocated by things unseen that you just want to get out of the car and take a very deep breath. So you do just that: reach for the door of his car because you can’t take being so close to him anymore.

It’s your fault. You shouldn’t have asked for this. Shouldn’t have asked for a taste of heaven because surely you would want more and you’ll die of thirst right after. Now you’re just going to be awkward with him until god knows when and you’re regretting it already. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You should’ve been satisfied with your close friendship with him, with loving him from afar. Now you’ve ruined things between you and him and who knows when things will get back to normal? He’ll fucking think of you as pathetic and it’s just going to be pity in his eyes everytime he looks at you now.

“Hey!” Jeonghan jumps in alert the moment you step out of his car, quickly follows through and catches you before you take another step away from him. “What–why are you in such a hurry?”

You look down to your shoes, because you can’t stomach looking at him right now just in case you’ll see what you fear will be reflected in his eyes.

“Hey… Look at me?” He tries once again, tone getting a little helpless. But you shake your head, because you’re sure you’ll start crying if you do and you want to preserve the little dignity you still have in front of him. But Jeonghan doesn’t stop there, he whispers a ‘please?’ and lifts your chin gently so you’ll look at him, his heart breaking when he sees how close you are to tears and his throat closing at how he’s the reason behind all this.

“Thank you.” You brave yourself. It’s the least you can do, because as much as you’re going to grovel for the next few months, you know that this particular memory with Jeonghan will always be dear to your heart and you’ll treasure it forever. “I’m sorry for taking your time and–”

“Ah, fuck it.” You hear him say before he dives into your lips, not minding the way you’re frozen in place out of shock. He hums against your lips, and it’s then that you finally kiss him back, your hands settle over his shoulders and your whole body relaxed under his touch.

When the both of you pull away, you’re a little out of breath and your thoughts all over the place. But there’s a small smile in Jeonghan’s face that gets you mirroring the gesture. He closes his eyes as he places his forehead on yours, and you follow suit, feeling the warmth of his breath on your face.

“It’s… okay for me to do that, right?” He asks, albeit a little too late. You still don’t know what the whole things mean, but you find yourself chuckling, because you honestly would let him do anything to you. But he doesn’t need to know the kind of power he has over you, so you simply nod and let him have his peace.

“Han?” You say after a while. “What does this mean for us?”

Jeonghan stares into your eyes, deep in his own thoughts as if he’s trying to rearrange his words so they don’t stumble out of his mouth like a trainwreck.

“Let’s see where this takes us?”

“But Shua…?”

He presses his lips together and wraps his arms around you, pushing you into his neck as he breathes in your scent.

“Whatever happens, happens.” He decides, already resigning that he can’t possibly let you go now that he knows how it feels like to have you like this. He’ll make your brother understand somehow, but right now, he wants to be with you and savors the little time he has with you before your brother comes back, not even minding the way his phone has been vibrating in his pocket.

[Joshua sent a picture.]

Joshua: heard from Jisoo you’re on a date w my sister??????????????????

Joshua: did you finally get out of your ass and stop being in denial lmaoooooooooooooo

Joshua: just pls be safe

Joshua: she’s still my sister

Joshua: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

©wonwoonlight – all rights reserved. I don’t allow any reposting, translation, and any other kind of redistribution of this fic. Please tell me if you’re aware of anyone doing this without my permission.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Overblot Universe Part 7 (Final)

Rules | Kofi | TWST Masterlist (3)

Mmmh….”

You’re body was full of aching, the stress of running and encountering the worst sides of your friends weighing on you so heavily you debated if you wanted to sleep more

“I would’ve gotten my henchhuman back just fine if the others hadn’t held me back!”

“Grim…you still have nightmares of the overblots don’t you?”

“W-w-what? Who do you think I am? I’m going to be one of the greatest mages of all time those guys don’t scare me!”

“Which is why you came crying to us when they went in?”

“N-n-o!”

Hearing that familiar voice and feeling those familiar paws tapping on your stomach you couldn’t help letting your lip twitch into a smile

“Aw looks like someone’s awake. Care to grace us with your presence (Y/n)?”

The egging in Jade’s voice reminded you of Floyd 

Almost like he was warning you to wake or feel the wrath of relentless tickles

So you did

“(Y/n)!”

You held Grim tightly into your chest breathing in the smell of his ash smelling fur

It never felt so good to have your lungs full of his brimstone smelling fur and not ink

Finally looking up you got to see the familiar faces of your saviors plus a growing crowd

“Don’t tell me your terrified of us again herbivore?” 

Leona’s there sitting in the chair closest to the bed next to Ace and Deuce like he’s been guarding you this whole time

“If they are they have every right. Tell me Darling what horrors were in there?” 

It’s Vil on the otherside his makeup faded around the eyes like he’s been crying 

He’s holding your hands so tightly 

“Don’ get so worried. They’re strong like me.” 

Epel chimes in with a smile, one that earns an awkward look from the Heartslabyul duo

“Not strong enough to not nearly drop them coming back.”

“Shuddap !”

“Hey hey no need to fight you guys! All that matters is that (Y/n) is safe and sound!”

Jamil doesn’t care to comment before shoving himself past Vil to lay something warm in your lap

“I figured they probably didn’t have any real food, so I made you extra.”

The savory smell made you and Grim very excited, both of you looking at the container with anticipation

“Thank you Jamil!”

He looks proud, holding his head away as if that would hide his flustered face

“No problem it’s what any good…friend would do.”

“Yes just like any good friend would insist you have tea before indulging in something heavy.”

“I’m not sure if it’s tea you should be having but something light is preferred.”

“Riddle, Azul?”

Riddle lightly bows his head in a silent apology

“I apologize for not being here when you woke but I had to ensure that the matter of this mirror was taken care of.”

You tilt your head thinking to yourself

It felt like ages ago that you had gone in expecting to follow your friends to some resort a small group was going to 

It all feels foggy

But you barely recall thinking about home 

Not ramshackle home but your home

Maybe that was why you ended up…there

“I too was working awfully hard to bar that location would never be seen by anyone ever again.”

Azul uselessly added but he was puffing his chest like Grim did when he put out his flames on his own

“Uh thanks Azul and Riddle.”

“But of course, it didn’t matter that such a thing has never happened before you. With a student’s safety at risk we couldn’t possibly still have it be accessible by any means.”

“Yes, yes you can pay me back with a small favor. When you’re better of course.”

“Uh Azul I think you forget they never asked to pay you back.”

“Yeah Azul can’t you wait until they’re not bedridden to try and scam them? That’s like such trash behavior.”

The Octavinelle dorm leader sneers at the ipad you didn’t realize was propped on the end table next to your bed

Lifting it up to look in the camera, you wait for the video chat to properly activate

Ding Ding

Finally you can see the dark expanse of his room highlighted by his screens and a small unfinished strip of blue LED lights

“Don’t turn the camera, the normies wouldn’t understand.”

You giggle, “I won’t but why isn’t Ortho here. Usually he’d be here for you!”

Idia looks off to the side as if he’s contemplating what lie he’s going to tell

“He’s just…doing stuff with the mirror. To keep you safe an all that!

“Aww well thank you too Idia! I really appreciate everyone jumping into help especially you guys!”

Looking at Jade, Ace, Deuce, and Jack who’s been sitting near the doorway of the infirmary and Cater who’s been weirdly quiet at the foot of your bed

Looking past the other dorm leaders you scrunch your brow

“Where’s Sebek and Silver? Not that I demand everyone greet me when I wake up but I want to thank them as soon as possible.”

The others collectively swoon smile at your gratitude before awkwardly avoiding your gaze

“Let’s say they needed to occupy their attention towards someone else who’s going through…a crisis.”

As if on cue the crack of thunder has everyone jumping; the sudden storm making everyone tense

Faster than you can register the door swings open and there is none other than Malleus Draconia who silently demands everyone move

Reluctantly they listen

With an unusual gentleness, he kneels on the floor to somewhat meet you at your eye-level 

Cupping your cheeks with his tingly feeling hands where were his gloves

“Are you alright prefect? Breathing? None of your small fragile limbs broken?”

You laugh as you pat your hand against his 

Your silent plea to stop squishing your face

He doesn’t listen

“I fwine Tsuno!”

He sighs resting his head into your lap, shoving Grim out of his place out of the way with his horns

“I feel ashamed. To know I could have prevented such tragedy and yet by my actions you were in danger again!”

You laugh and lightly pat his head like you would Grim

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault. Besides I’m sure it could’ve happened to anyone.”

Malleus involuntarily moves his tail tripping Epel who wasn’t too far

Sebek and Silver run in out of breath

“M-Master M-Malleus WE ARE HERE!”

“Glad to see you’re awake, (Y/n). You had us all worried for a second.”

You smile, “Thank you, Sebek, Silver. You guys really saved me back there if you hadn’t come–”

You didn’t want to finish and it seems like no one needed to everyone settling in there original spots around Malleus to keep talking

As if you hadn’t faced their exact inky opposites hours ago

Jack helped you with the IV in your arm, repeating something Crewel had said about refilling it of course Ace teased him about it 

“Hey everybody heads up Mama Hounds coming.”

Cater’s warning had the first-years straightening up

The dorm leaders only adjusting themselves so that no one was touching you

Wouldn’t want to be sent to detention now+

“(Y/n)-Pup glad you’re up. I see the little fan club of your remains strong. Are they bothering you by any chance?”

You could see the suffocating grip he had on his crock and the scornful twist of his face

You figured it best to take the edge off before he lashed out someone

“Uh nope. Actually Jack was telling me about the IV and stuff.”

“Hm he did? Good then, pup. The rest of you, back up! After their medicine I won’t allow you all to play watch dog so you might as well start drawing lots now.”

A collective groans fills the room as they reluctantly prepare to draw lots

Blocked by Crewel who changes your IV, checks your temperature, before walking you vaguely through the cocktail of potions and pills he needs you to take

Unable to see the group all you can tell is that every time they pick a winner a new debate is held

While you didn’t condone violence like Ace being thrown near the door, it did feel nice to be wanted? missed

And the fights being anything but the inky use of their overblotted unique magic

“That medicine should be kicking in very soon,” Crewel lays you down lovingly wiping the back of his hand over your face and cheek

Following your gaze he sees you looking at the still bickering group

Hiding his gag he turns to you with a warm smile on his face

“I’ll break it up just sleep now, my sweet pup.” He kisses the top of your head 

lingering to watch you lazily blink, submitting to the induced drowsiness

Satisfied he turns and gives the boys a single look which has them take the fighting outside

Escaping the fray is Grim

Who scampers away to curl into your side already preparing to snore right alongside

“I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Thanks Grim I’m happy to be back.”

“Hm,” he’s already dozing off, “I also wanted to say Grim likes you're new choker it’s kinda…cute. But not cuter than mine!”

He’s already out and you’re going over his last words

Choker?

You recall the the outfit change within Blotted Riddle’s domain and the following pain that came from it 

Thinking back on it you didn’t remember feeling choked at the neck at all

Looking down you could barely make out the small dangling rose pendant 

Instead of being held up by some inky string it was a neat simple woven piece

That didn’t feel the slightest bit restricting 

Just snug

You hold the pendant in your hand, noting it’s warmth from hanging on your neck

You search for a clip to undo it, planning to inspect it 

But alas you don’t find one and for a choker expected to stretch off of you it was hard to pull off

Even though you were struggling for a bit with it, it dawns on you just how tired you are now

Those meds were really fast

And you suspect your lack of strength to pull it off is thanks to them

Planning to do it later, you settle into the infirmary bed holding Grim close while you sleep

Finally you could rest, having survived those Overblotted friends of yours once again

Happy that you were safe with your real friends, in the real Twisted Wonderland

The Heartslabyul’s Vice dorm leader’s stomach churned at the swirling shards at his feet. Glimpses of his blotted dorm-leader’s angry glowing eyes unsettling him the most. As instructed he had his clones solemnly collect the broken pieces putting them into the various magical satchels. Lining up, each of them handed their respective satchels to the robot boy. Dutifully waiting for him to apply an unmeasurable amount of heat; reducing the shards of the mirror into a silvered, inky slop conducive with it’s magical origin.

“Mr. Crowley?  Was this…necessary?”

The headmaster’s golden eyes shifted to his student. Filling him with a sense of dread, he narrowly scraped the surface of during Riddle’s overblot. Nonetheless Crowley smiled apathetically, a faux disguise of pride as he held his hand out to the shards still being collected.

“This was entirely necessary. Our dear prefect has been plagued with the dangerous idea of using the mirrors to return home. It is through my extreme generosity that we’ve deterred them safely.”

Ortho’s attention changed from Cater’s double still taking the pouch and performing his function. A technical noise rang out his yellow eyes darting from side to side as though reading a list of stats. 

“This venture, headmaster, gave the prefect four abrasions to their forehead, a mild concussion, sprained ankle, and an insurmountable amount of aches that will leave them bedridden for approximately 3 days. I would conclude this was far from safe.”

Cater almost smiled but the guilt of the events prior to this made him feel…wrong. He had covered for Riddle; calling it a dorm-leader and vice dorm leader meeting when they went through the mirror on a weekend. Meeting up with the Octavinelle heads it felt criminal to quietly stand behind as Crowley spoke about the spell to cast on the mirror–an identical to the one they had for their dorm. Riddle, ever the observer, nodded at him in assurance. 

“This is for them. If they believe going home now is best it is our duty as their…friends to intervene.”

The small smile he gave barely soothed his spirit. The smiling dorm and vice-dorm leader of Octavinelle didn’t help. 

“Don’t fret a few small illusions to make sure they stay. Do you want them to leave, Cater?”

The sound of his name on the octopus’ slimy tongue, made him shape up. There was only one person that would make him support the strongest students’ unique magic to summon the spirits of their defeated, blotted counterparts. Only for the same person would he actually humor sending his clones to the opposite ends of the island to hide the melted shards.

“Only for you (Y/n)...We did it all for you!”

The worst part about it was that he couldn’t confess. When he held your hand the next day rattling off the hashtags made in your honor, all he could do was lie when he looked at the choker on your neck. 

The only shard remaining of a barrier to your world. Your real world.

“Why do you keep looking so guilty, Cater?”

He sighed fighting the urge to curl into your lap and cry,”Nothing I just wish I could’ve been there for you…sooner I mean.”

The smile you gave him made him swoon and want to die at the same time.

“But Cater you were there for me,” could your hand in his get any warmer,”Even if you weren’t there in the beginning it’s like I could still feel you…all of you watching after me! Like heroes prepping to save the day!”

You had no idea how right you were.

[lovrre]

Agreement prt1

Art Donaldson x Fem black reader

Warnings: cursing, infidelity(kinda), slight smut (fingering) sub ish Art. Slight he loves her more trope, needy Art and probably some other stuff

Word count: 2k

Summary: Despite being engaged to one of the top and richest tennis players in the US, you feel unfulfilled. But everything changes when you transfer schools and meet Art Donaldson, who just can’t quit you.

Author note: GUYS GUYS, PLEASE DON’T KILL ME. MY WRITERS BLOCK HAS BEEN SO BAD YOU DONT UNDERSTANDDD, But I’m finishing all my requests and unfinished fics soon so stay tuned. 😚

Sitting on the bed in your brand new silk pajamas, you found yourself distracted, just like you had been the day before and the day before that. You played with The edge of the book you were attempting to read,mindlessly repeated the last sentence over and over in your head trying to retain anything. The loud television and the whirring of the ceiling fan only added to the chaos. Plus the freezing cold air conditioning of the hotel room made it impossible to concentrate.

In a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of focus, you clumsily reached for the remote, hoping to silence at least one of the distractions. your eyes falling on your fiancé who was sleeping peacefully, his dark hair all messy, in his crisp white t-shirt that matched perfectly to the expensive hotel sheets, he looked so sweet,so innocent. You thought if he slept more, maybe everything could work out

Mike slept while snuggled into your side. Like he often did when you two shared a bed, You had attempted to remove him several times but every time he ended right back at your side so you gave up, In any other scenario his action would seem romantic but they only made you feel worse than you were already feeling. In an effort to relieve some guilt you liked to reminded yourself your engagement was never out of love but business. But then again the line did blur in the beginning of your relationship. Before you left for Stanford, you and Mike got caught up in the act of pretending be in love.

After that you could never really tell real from fake with him, he didn’t like you talking to other men. He’d shower you with really expensives grift but then leave town and not answer your calls or text for days. But when no one was watching he’d try to hug and kiss you. The whole thing was confusing, You had known idea how he persived your relationship but you knew You Felt guilty, without all the technicallys, you knew that you still lied,

The people ate up the role you and Mike played. occasionally you’d have to leave campus and go out in public holding hands or sharing kisses in the rain. But it was all for show, at least on your end. Your Dad made sure to reminded you That, it was the love sick tennis player in love with his coaches daughter that sold tickets. kept the stands full of women hoping to catch the world win romances in action. Also Brought in a large number of his clientele. He promised It wouldn’t be forever unless you wanted to be. And Really how could you complain? 20 years old engaged to One of the wealthiest and most talented tennis players in the world and he wasn't bad looking either. Before all this, you weren't too keen on love anyway, so what were you really missing out on?

~~~

Ten months before

Patrick serves but Art's attention is elsewhere. The ball zooms past Art for the second time, prompting Patrick to turn around and finally see who's behind him. His gaze lands on you, playing tennis alone on a smaller court. The sun shining off your smooth, glistening skin, and your pink tennis dress gracefully flowing with each jump and run.

"Oh, I get it," Patrick chuckles, glancing back at Art. "She's hot. You should talk to her, maybe offer her a lesson. She could use it," Patrick suggests, looking back at you as you let another tennis ball from the machine fly past you . "I think I've seen her somewhere before," Patrick mutters, tapping his racket against his leg.

Still in a daze, Art jogged over to your court. "Oh, you're serious," Patrick murmured watching as he went over to you following closely behind him. "Hi," Art greets, slightly out of breath walking up to the net. "Hi?" you respond, slightly confused, giving him a small wave.

"Are you new here?"

"To the school or the court?" You ask

"Both."

"I'm new to both” you say a little breathless wiping sweat from your forehead.

“I just transferred," you explain.

"Where did you go before?"

"A small community college in Virginia."

"What about tennis?"

"You have a lot of questions," you laugh, tapping your tennis racket against your leg.

"Im just curious “Art jokes.

"I'm just doing this because my fiancé is a tennis player. I thought I'd try to learn," you reveal.

“Finance?” Art questions.

“Yep”

“ how old are you like 20?”

“ actually 19, I turn twenty in a couple months”

“And you're getting married?” Art asked clearly dumbfounded

“Yes” you laugh at his forwardness

", is he a pro or college?", Art asked, assuming the answer would be college.

“Pro," you replied, letting your curls fall freely from your hair tie. Art couldn't help but admire how beautiful you were,too young to be tied down

"Anyone we would know?" Art asks following you as you walk over to the bench with your tennis bag. "Hmm, maybe," you hum, sitting down to tie your shoe. "Mike Fitts."

"Your fiancé is Mike Fitts!" Patrick exclaims a little too loudly. "Mhmm," you confirm, starting to tie your other shoe. "If Mike Fitts is your fiancé, why are you here?"

"Are you referring to the court or the school?" you ask, looking up at both Art and Patrick.

"Both," Art and Patrick respond in unison.

You chuckled as you stuffed your tennis racket into your bag. "Well, whether I'm engaged or not, I always planned to graduate college. And Mike is too busy right now to teach me, so I'm trying to teach myself."

The two of them nod in understanding as you stand up. "It was really nice meeting both of you, but I have class," you announce, throwing your tennis bag over your shoulder. "By the way, it would be great if you guys could keep the whole fiancé thing on the down low. I'm trying to keep it as quiet as possible for now."

"Yeah, no problem," one of them replies.

"Of course," the other adds.

"Thanks, I really appreciate it," you say giving them a small smile before turning around to leave the court.

just as you're about to walk away, Art calls out after you, "Wait! You said you're trying to learn, right? we could coach you if you want” Patrick gives him a look and Art ignores it waiting for your response.

You pause, considering the offer.

”the both of you?” you asked gesturing between them. Art gives you a nod. at that moment The risk didn't seem too big so you said

. "Sure," with small shrug

"How about tomorrow at 12:30?" you suggest, checking the pink Bvlgari watch Mike got you.

"Perfect," Art responds with a shit eating smile

“Ok see you guys ” you laugh walking out the court

~~~~~~

“Yeah see” Patrick says reading a newspaper. “Olympic coach, Dylan yLn, Daughter engaged to Olympics gold medalist Mike fitts” Patrick reads next to a photo of you and Mike smiling as you showed off your huge

engagement ring. “She wasn’t bull shitting”

“Let me see” Art says grabbing the newspaper. “She didn't have on her engagement ring when we saw her...” Art trails off

“You can't be serious” Patrick laughs

“What?”

“She’s engaged Art, not to anyone either,” Patrick leaned in on the table so only he could hear. “she’s engaged Mike Fitts!”

“I didn't say anything,” Art defends

“ you don't have to” Patrick says stealing a fry off Arts plate plopping it in him mouth.

”I know you,”

~~~~~

After that day, everything seemed to blend together. Art and Patrick dedicated themselves to training you throughout the weekdays for three entire months until you got tired of it and decided on once a week. You told Mike you found a coach but never told him who. Since they were kinda the only people you knew in the entire school, the three of you grew close fast. You started going out to bars and parties together. you had your most memorable college moments with the two of them. And then, your birthday arrived. Patrick had left for some torment and it was just you and Art.

You two were just having so much fun that night. On thing led to another And before you realized it, the two of you were constantly having “fun together”. It didn't matter where - in the dorm, in the shower, or even on the floor. It was bad, but you two couldn't stop

Trying to clear your mind you Let out a sigh. you carefully remove Mike from your side sitting up to taking a sip of you're water on the nightstand. Trying to ignore the ache of your core. This is how you spent every night away from him, needy, uncomfortable. You heard a knock at the door which almost caused you to spill water on yourself. You Quickly put your drink down and run to answer it before the person could knock again careful to be quiet not to wake up Mike.

You swung the door open to find Art standing there, hair slightly damp, with huge smile on his face. "Are you out of your mind?" you whisper, stepping out of the room and shutting the door quietly behind you. You can't help but notice his thin athletic hoodie and gym shorts. Slightly wet clinging to his skin as if he just stepped out of the shower.

"It's past one ,"Art huffed out , his voice filled with urgency and desire as he leaned in for a kiss. his hand gently cradling the side of your face in the process.

When the realization of what was happening washed over you, you pulled away, but still stayed close enough to feel his breath against your skin. "Art," you breathed out, eyes darting down the hall to check if anyone saw. Your hand instinctively found its place on his strong chest, you savored the feeling and the look of your manicured nails there, not knowing when you be able to do it again.

"I like these," Art hummed, playing with the hem of your pajama shorts. He rolled the fabric between his fingers, his big hand gracing you thighs in the process. The little touch sent shivers down your spine. You somehow composed yourself pushing him away gently with your index finger, creating some distance between you two.

He looked at you with sad eyes like a rejected puppy. "Mike’s sleeping inside," you whisper, worried someone could hear. "What does that mean?"

There was a long pause as you carefully choose your next words. Art stared at you intently, trying to decipher your expression. "You slept with him?” Art asks, as if he already knew the answer.

"No, I didn't sleep with him!” You whisper yelled, “He just showered and fell asleep," you explained,

"What's bothering you then?"

"I feel guilty."

"You didn't feel guilty at Stanford."

"Mike wasn't at Stanford."

“You care about Mike's feelings now ?" Art's asks furrows his brow, his voice filled with a mix of confusion and hurt.

" I don’t know… he’s been nicer lately and were supposed to be married in three days”

“You’re actually thinking about going through with it?” Art asked the hurt now evident in his voice.

“There’s nothing I can do now, I signed contracts, this isn’t just about us anymore I’ve told you this”

“What about the private investors?”

"That's just a 'what if,' a perfect 'what if,' but we don't even know if he's seeing someone."

“ If I win tomorrow?”

“Art If you win are lose tomorrow it doesn’t change anything, my Dad expects me at the alter on Sunday regardless, nothings gonna change that”

“But you don’t love him ”

“ I could” your words come out more a question, maybe a hope. “I loved you?”

“You love me” Art corrects

"There's too much at stake now, Art. This is my father's career. We don't come from money, this is all he has."

“You honestly believe this will ruin his career?”

“It could” you reply with a small shrug your voice cracking slightly.

“It won’t” Art response

“You don’t know that”

“ Don’t do this ” Art whispered closing the small space between you. He sounded so tortured, like he was pleading with you.

you hadn't realize it but tears welled in your eyes Threatening to spill any moment. When You blinked an a tear fell down your cheek. Art tenderly brushed it away with his thumb. The stress of the last two weeks had finally caught up to you. “it wasn’t supposed to be this hard” you murmured, your voice barely audible, tears streaming down your face as Art wiped them away.

“Do you love me?” his questions sounded genuine but you knew, he already knew the answer. ”more than i’d like to” you joke, using the back of your hand to dry your eyes.

“Then let me make you feel better,” Art whispered leaning down so he was directly above your ear.

“You’re right about what you said earlier, Mike wasn’t there at Stanford”. He paused for a second moving a piece of your hair out the way, “I was,” he hummed brushing his face against yours “just me and you” he whispered leaving a trail of kisses on the outside of your earlobe down your neck. Causing Your breath catch in your throat .“We had fun right?” Art question, his voice deep and breathy causing you to instinctively press your legs together as you leaned back against the door. “Art” you mumble trying to shake the sexual haze that was swirling inside you.

“I missed you” he whispered his free hand slinking up the side of you short griping your thigh, hiking your leg up slightly. “So bad…All day”

“we can't” you manage to breathe out unconvisingly.

“I’ll beg,”

“Art” you warned

“I’ll do anything baby” he mumbles leaving slowly kisses on your neck. “Anything you want me to” he says kissing under your chin. “ I need you” he hums kissing down your neck, ”don’t you need me?” Art asked kissing below your ear. You don't respond giving small nodd biting the inside of your lip. “Can I hear it?” Art asked, the way his voice sounded so desperate, Damn near whiney had you looking for friction. ”I need you so fucking bad” you basically moan pushing your body against his.

“I love you so much you don't understand” Art said smiling against you cheek. sliding his free hand down the front of your shorts. He rubs his fingers through your folds collecting your wetness on his fingers. You throw your head back with a quiet moan, quickly biting your lip to silence yourself. “Fuck your so wet” Art groans before pulling his hand from your shorts, sucking his fingers clean like it was second nature. You clenched around nothing at the sight.

“I missed that taste” he groans returning his hand to your heat. “Can I make you cum right here” Art huffed out peeping down the hall.

"Yea,” you breathed out, nodding your head feverishly. He could have asked you to drive to the moon in that moment, and you would have said yes. Art slowly pushed two fingers inside of you creating a medium pace before bringing his thumb to rub your clit, you moan lifting your hips to meet his fingers. “Fuck I could eat you out right here” Art groaned watching you Practically fuck yourself on his fingers. “Promise me you won't ever let him see you like this” Art goans leaving kisses on your collar done. “this is mine”

”You can bearly hear a word he's saying the feeling of his thumb on your clit and finger damn near touching you cervix was too much to bear. “I’m gonna cum” you moaned out grabbing Arts shoulder hard in an effort to ground yourself. “I can feel it,” Art breathed pressing his forehead against yours. He presses down harder on your clit causing you to buck into his fingers, letting out a loud moan You cum. his movement don't falter, he continues to pump them in and out while still rubbing your clit until he feels like you've finally had enough.

he removes his fingers from your pussy returning them to his mouth. “I’ll never get tired of that” Art laughs leaning in for a kiss, you return it, taste yourself on his lips. He gently places you leg back on the floor and you stumbled slightly grading his shoulder for balance. He instantly goes to your waist holding you steady. “You ok?” Art ask slight consern on his face. You don't respond afraid of what your voice would sound like after an orgasm like that.

You nod with a smile and Art led you to the hotel room directly next to yours, pulling out a key card from his pocket with a grin.

“You didn't,” you exclaimed as he opened the door.

“I did,” he replied, motioning for you to enter.

“How did you even know our room number?” you ask, stepping inside.

“I have my ways,” he answered, closing the door behind you.

“How did you afford this?” you asked, looking around.

“Are you going to keep ask questioning or are you going to take of your clothes” Art laughs , watching as you sit on the bed.

“You first,” you countered, settling back .

“Yes ma’am,” Art chuckled, starting to undress.

~~~~

Morning arrives and you found yourself back in your original room. Mike was in the bathroom getting ready while you fix your dress in the mirror of the bedroom. As you adjust the straps, you notice a hickey you hadn't seen before, one you forgot to cover up after coming back last night. You laid your hair over it and walk towards the bathroom to retrieve your makeup bag, slightly tripping as your sore legs gave out on you. "You good?" Mike asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, I think I'm just sore from tennis practice," you say, reaching past him to get your makeup bag.

"You know no one expects you to play," Mike laughs while drying his hair with a towel. "I'm not doing it for anyone, I want to learn," your words come out more offended than you intended. "I just mean you could spend your time doing something else."

"Like what?" You respond plainly, walking out of the bathroom back to the mirror. "Like calling your dad and asking him what time he'll be here," Mike says from the now open bathroom. "Is your phone not working?" You asked rhetorically, pulling out your concealer . "I don't want to fight today, okay," Mike Replies sternly, looking at you through the reflection of the mirror. "This is a big match," he mumbles while running his toothbrush under the water.

"I thought you said it was going to be 'nothing,'" you chuckle dryly, applying the concealer as his face was turned. "It is, but from what your Dad's been saying, he's been getting good. So I'd like to be on my A-game and not have you trying to start shit."

"Whatever you want honey" you respond, quietly laughing in disbelief. He had resorted right back to his old ways,How could you ever agree to marry someone like him, someone so vastly different from the man you spent the night with.

~~~~

soon as you and Mike were finished getting ready, your father called you to come downstairs to join him for breakfast. You and Mike both stood in line, slightly overdressed, picking out your favorite breakfast items. Mike only getting French toast, disregarding his strict diet. Suddenly, you heard a familiar laughter and turned around to see Art chatting with your father near the entrance. Your heart sank as your father motioned for you both to come over. After dropping off your plates, you and Mike walked towards them, feeling Mike's hand slip around your waist.

"I'd like you to meet someone," your father announced with a smile, putting his arm around Art's shoulder. "This is Art Donaldson," he introduced, "the man I'm competing against today." Mike stated extending his hand for a handshake, and Art reciprocated. Your stomach churned at the sight. "This is Mike, you know him, he's also my daughter's fiancé." Your father says with a smile.

"Stressful, huh?" Art jokes. "Oh, you have no idea," your Dad replies, laughing. "You're both at the same college, right? Stanford?" your Dad asked, nodding towards you. “maybe you could try your luck at training her because I just can't get through," your dad jokes. Art's eyes rake over you, as if looking at you for the first time. "It be my pleasure" Art smiles, looking directly at you. You to discreetly warn him with your eyes but You notice Mike's grip on your waist tighten, clearly not pleased. "Actually, I've been training y/n already, she's improving every day," Mike says, planting a quick kiss on your head.

"Really?" Art inquires, trying to keep up the act to the best of his abilities. "Monday through Friday," Mike replies with a smug grin. “How do you manage with your Busy schedule?” Art asks tilting his head to the side slightly in the process.

“You find time for the people you love,” Mike says with a fake smile. You had to physically hold back your laugh. But you played it off as wiping your face. He had taken a line straight from media training. Silence filled the air as the two have a silent conversation with their eyes.

“Well I wanted to introduce all of you, as I will officially be coaching Art starting next fall,"

Your Dad says in an attempt to break the tension. But it only makes it worse, Somehow Mike's grip on you tightened even more, now you were concerned he’d leave a bruise . "When did you make this decision?" Mike asked, his face showing no emotion but you could tell he was angry. "two weeks ago, and I've been waiting for the right moment to properly introduce you two. I know the timing is awkward with the match, but it's better to do it now than later."

Mike doesn’t say anything giving an expressionless nod. There was another awkward pause before you decided to speak up. "It was nice meeting you…Art?" you trail off , purposely sounding unsure. He nodded with a knowing smile. "But our food is getting cold," you joked, trying to escape the suffocating tension. "I wouldn't want to keep the couple from their food," Art said, while a smiling again only looking directly at you. You wanted to scream, he was being so obvious and the way Mike was already acting, you knew you wouldn’t hear the end of it. "You two eat, I have to go handle some things, I won’t be long" your father said, gesturing for you and Mike to sit at the table before walking off with Art.

Once the two of you sit back at the table you feel caught. "I don't want you near that guy," Mike says, taking a sip of his coffee. You roll your eyes and stab at your scrambled eggs. “He was basically eye fucking you the whole time, and it doesn’t help that your dress is so tight”

“I think you forget sometimes this isn’t real,” you reply, taking a bite.

"Lower your voice," Mike warns, glancing around to see if anyone heard.

"You didn't care about it being real when you accepted the gifts," he scoffs, "or in Virginia."

"It was once, Mike. And every day, you make me regret it."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You don't get to control me just because you buy me shit. Anyone can buy me shit."

“I told you i’m not doing this with you today” Mike laughs dryly standing up from the table. "I'll see you later, okay babe?" he says a bit louder, forcing a fake smile as he plants a kiss on your head before walking away. You try your best not to flinch when he touches you. Once he's gone, your phone buzzes, and you glance down to see an unsaved number. It's a text from Art.

“meet me at the restaurant next door in 20, alone.”

Author note : GUYS FEEL FREE TO COMMENT I LOVE READING COMMENTS

[sincerelyyycece]

hey, are u still there?...good.

Y/N inevitably finds themselves settling into James's backburner.

note: modern au, inspired by niki's song, "backburner.", lily evans is briefly mentioned, here's what i promised you guys mwa mwa!

sincerelyyycece © ─ all rights reserved. please do not repost/translate/copy any of my work.

Y/N had always been the "backburner," the second choice, especially James’s second choice. She was the one he turned to when his first plans fell through—the one who was always there but never the priority. She was used to it and had grown comfortable in the role.

Right now, she's sent at least 15 messages to him.

Hey?

Can we meet up? I have some great news to tell you.

Hellooo.

You're probably busy. Text me when you can.

James?  Did something happen?

Nevermind, I'm probably overthinking it.

I'll just tell you here.

I got the internship :)

Delivered. Gazing at her screen, she sighed with a sense of familiarity. This repetitive pattern felt more like a routine or a game to her. The 'How long till he talks to me again?' Game, as she calls it. Setting her phone aside, she sought distraction from the mundane task of doing laundry.

A moment later, her phone chimed, drawing her attention. With a swift motion, she turned towards it. Hastily, she wiped her damp hands and cleared her throat before uttering, "Hello?" On the other end, she could hear faint shuffling before a familiar voice greeted her, "Hey, Angel." The affectionate nickname warmed her heart. "Just got your text. Congratulations!" he exclaimed. A soft "thank you" escaped her lips in response. His greeting sent a wave of warmth through her. "Apologies for not replying sooner. I was with..." He paused, clearing his throat. Her mood dimmed at the mention of another name. "With someone. I was with someone.”

Lily, always the first choice, James's top priority, the standard against which she measures herself. "Yeah, sure," she responded, lacking enthusiasm. "Mm-hmm," he trailed off. "So, do you want to celebrate? We could go out to eat or stay in and watch a movie," he suggested. "I'm not really feeling up to it right now. I'm pretty tired." There was a rustling sound on the phone once more. "Look, if this is about earlier, I apologize, alright?" he said. "Lily had some things going on and wanted to meet up, so we did." There it was again. Everything revolves around Lily.

"Um, yeah, I understand," she stuttered, trying to articulate her thoughts. "It's not that, James. I'm just exhausted from chores," she explained, glancing subtly at her unfinished laundry pile. "Y/N, come on. Let me make it up to you," he pleaded earnestly. "Pretty please," he persisted. She shook her head, amused, and relented, saying, "Okay, okay." Through the phone, she could hear his small yet enthusiastic 'yes.' "Order some takeout. We'll have a cosy night in with a movie," she suggested. "Yes, ma'am. I'm on my way," he joked lightly. "Take care." With that, she hung up and returned immediately to her laundry task.

Following that day, they continued hanging out. She pondered over the abrupt shift in their dynamic. It was uncharacteristic for her, yet she relished every moment spent with him. He delighted her by taking her to places she longed to visit and presenting her with gifts tailored to her preferences. He seemed to be doing everything right. However, as she prepared for a movie night tonight, a disheartening text message appeared on her phone. Hey, something came up. I have to reschedule. Sorry. She sighed, feeling a tinge of disappointment. Perhaps she should have anticipated this turn of events.

Sure, we can reschedule. she replied, her eyes brimming with tears. As they cascaded down her cheeks that night, she found herself immersed in a sea of sorrow. The following morning, she anticipated a message from him, but none arrived. Disheartened once more, she resolved not to reach out again. Days turned into weeks, with silence echoing his absence. It seemed as though he had vanished from her world. Or so she believed. Suddenly, her phone interrupted her reading, and without lifting her gaze from the book, she answered, "Hello?”

"Hey, are you still there?” echoed the familiar voice in her ears. Pausing, she glanced at the caller's ID. 'James :)' flashed on the screen. With a soft hum, she replied. His sigh reached her ears before he responded, "Good." Once more, she felt relegated to the sidelines in his priorities or had she truly ever moved from that place? Despite the familiar sting of disappointment, Y/N responded, "Yeah, I'm still here, James." His sigh of relief was almost audible across the line, and for a fleeting moment, she felt herself soften.

"I'm sorry, Angel," he murmured, his voice laced with a mixture of regret and something else she couldn't quite place. "I've been...busy." Busy, always busy. But she knew what that meant. Lily. Yet, she found herself replying, "It's okay, James. I understand." She knew she was settling for less, allowing herself to be on the backburner once again. But the truth was, she couldn't help it. She was drawn to him, like a moth to a flame, willingly choosing to dance on the edges of his life, even if it meant getting burned time and time again.

So, she swallowed back the hurt and disappointment, offering him a smile he couldn't see. "We can catch up soon, okay?" She suggested, her voice steady. There was a brief silence before he answered, "Yeah, that sounds good. I'll see you soon, Angel." With that, the call ended, leaving her with the familiar echoes of his promises. She sat alone in the silence of her room, her heart heavy yet hopeful. As she closed her eyes, she knew, deep down, that she was still James's second choice, his backburner. But for now, for better or worse, that was a role she was willing to play.

[stonesilhouette]

Feline Fiasco

Hetalia x Reader

This is written for a female reader but there isn't really anything specific that would suggest that besides a few references. If you want to read, I'm not going to stop you.

Also (Y/n) is completely uninterested in the countries for the majority of this, all she's interested in is the cats. This is way fluffier than anything else I've posted, which is two things, and this part is relatively America-centric because (Y/n) works for him. This is also way less quality work than those two posts but idk deal with it?

There is more to this but it's unfinished and I'll probably never post it. My friend also helped with the cat names so if you don't like them... uh assume that they chose them. One last note, I thought it would be funny to write the accents so you also have to deal with that.

As one of the many secretaries working in the White House, it was actually quite a surprise to you that you ended up as the main secretary to the human personification of the U.S.A.

Because of this, you had become quite close to Mr. F. Jones and more importantly: his cat.

You couldn't help but coo at the adorable and floofy feline. Sure, you should probably finish filing those papers, but national security can wait a few more minutes. Besides you couldn't resist the allure of the purr. It would be an understatement to say, when you learned that the other personifications also had furry friends of their own, you were excited.

America didn't want you interacting with the other countries, especially not Russia. But you honestly didn't care and you weren't the recording secretary for those meetings, so it's not like you were in attendance anyways. That somehow didn't stop you from having to tag along and meeting more nation cats; of which you weren't sure why they had brought them along in the first place. It's not like you were complaining.

Ball of fur after ball of fur. No cat went un-petted. Except for Germany's cat; he had evaded you time and time again. But no longer! For today was the last day and you were going to pet that cat if it was the last thing you did.

There it was. It's sleek black fur, the ribbon in Germany's signature colors around its neck, and that always alert look on its face. He would evade you no more. You crouched down in your very inflexible pencil skirt and prepared to pounce.

"Vhat are jou doing?" A voice thick with a German accent called out, startling you and the cat who decided to bound back towards him and into his arms.

"Uhhhh." You blanked.

"You're America's secretary right? Vat vere jou trying to do to my cat?" He questioned, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

You gulped and tried to explain your actions in a way that didn't sound absolutely ridiculous.

"I-uh. I wanted to pet your cat and… he kept evading me and I thought if I snuck up on him that I could pet him." You looked away and pitifully whispered, "Sorry."

"If jou vanted to pet him, all you had to do was ask."

"Really!?" Your eyes lit up and you looked up at the German with pure and unbridled excitement. He coughed and looked away with a slight blush resting on his cheeks.

"Of course." He held the cat out. You, with no hesitation whatsoever, immediately started to adore and love the cat, even shifting it from Germany's arms to your own.

As you continued to pet the cat, who despite his earlier refusal, seemed quite happy, you asked Germany a question. "My name's (Y/n). What's yours if you're willing to share? No pressure though."

His eyes widened a bit before he shook it off and gave you an answer. "Ludwig Beilschmidt." He responded, studying his cat. "Germouser seems to like jou."

You could barely stifle a laugh at the name he had given to the black cat. He sensed your amusement and gave an explanation.

"Feli- Italy named him. I vas going to name him Johann or something similar. Italy was zoroughly horrified by my suggestions and vould not rest until I vent vith his."

You smiled at the Italian's antics and shook your head with amusement. "Germouser is a fine name for an absolutely wonderful cat."

Germany seemed to get flustered again as he watched you coo at his cat, completely ignoring his presence. He would have just left him with you, but the meeting was starting soon and he didn't want to be late. Luckily for him, America decided to pop around the corner, demanding your attention. So you were forced to give up the precious kitty cat and return with Mr. Jones.

Alfred was annoyed. Not at you but at everyone else. Why did they have any right to be around you? You were an American citizen. His citizen. Sure, all you were really interested in was their cats. But what if you thought that they and their cats were so cool that you left him and went to live in a different country instead? He couldn't let that happen.

"So, (Y/n), dude, broette." He said on the way to the meeting room. "Here's the deal."

You gave him a look and raised an eyebrow.

"I need someone to watch Hero for me and my sitter flaked so you're gonna be watching him." He fingered-gunned at you and stars seemed to shine in the air around him. This, of course, was nothing new to you. It wasn’t like you would have rather been attending the meeting anyways.

So you stayed in a different unoccupied meeting room with a lovely, furry friend. It wasn't until he started hissing at a corner that you were in trouble.

"Hero, what's wrong?" You asked, concerned at the agitated cat. His tail bristled up and his ears flattened down as he took a defensive position. Out of nowhere another fluffy cat waltzed in from the very corner that Hero had been hissing at. It was Boris, a cat that belonged to Russia.

You hadn't actually gotten to pet him yet because to be honest, you were also scared of Russia. But… He wasn't around… and his cat was. And his cat was purring.

That was about all the reasoning that you needed to brush past Hero and scoop Boris up into your arms. The former started yowling for your attention and followed you as you went to sit down with the Russian cat.

You laid down on the plush carpeted floor and lifted the cat that you were holding up above you. Boris’ fluffy body was placed onto your chest and he immediately started purring louder once he got comfortable. He nuzzled his face into your neck, much to the annoyance of the American cat. Hero yowled at you and pawed at Boris, desperately trying to get him off.

Boris only gave him a smug look in return and kneaded into you, further solidifying his spot. Hero decided that it wasn’t worth the fight and that he was going to get his owner to remove the Russian cat and put him back into his mother’s lap: aka you.

The surprisingly smart and agile cat leapt around the room and pushed down the door handle, slipping out through the crack. You didn’t notice this as you were currently immersed in the bliss of a cat sitting on you and letting you pet it.

Eventually the purring lulled you into a peaceful and warm slumber, the two of you deciding to take a cat nap.

It would be Russia who found you first. Ivan realized that his cat had gone missing and he honestly didn’t care enough about the meeting to stay. It's not like anyone would try to stop him.

So as Hero bounded down the halls towards the meeting room, Mr. Ivan Braginsky came from the other direction; his sense of where his cat was at any one moment was completely uncanny.

The Russian gradually opened the wooden door and it quietly opened without any resistance. He turned his head towards where he heard purring and was met with a surprising sight. It was America’s secretary, with his cat, lying, with his cat.

You were breathing softly and the movements of your chest moving up and down also moved Boris. Ivan couldn’t help but faintly smile at the sight. Said cat opened a singular eye to acknowledge the new presence in the room. He flicked his tail and settled back into his spot. Not wanting to bother you or the cat, Ivan pulled out a chair and sat down. 

He pulled out some paperwork, seemingly from nowhere, and began to work on it. The sounds of your quiet breathing, combined with the light purr from Boris, made for a calming work environment. 

As the three of you remained in peaceful bliss, another kitty cat was running around the corner on the never ending search for food. Itabby trotted up and down the corridors looking for an open door that might lead to some food that didn’t come from England. Her golden fur glimmered as the sun shined through the many windows in the building. She looked over at a door that had opened slightly and was too blinded by the thought of food to notice the scarily familiar scent coming from the room.

Itabby scampered over to the door but screeched and meowed as she was sent flying by an American blonde and his equally irritated cat. She tentatively peered around the door at the scene forming.

“HEY!” Alfred yelled, startling both you and the cat. You shot up straight, Boris falling into your lap. “What are you doing with her?!” He yelled again, getting his face up into Ivan’s. The other man gave him an unamused look and stood up, towering over him. Alfred, despite this, did not back down and continued to stare angrily at him.

“Go away.” The white-haired male said, his accent heavy as he crossed his arms. “You have startled them with your unnecessary noise. You are just like the rest of your country.”

The air tensed and became heavier as the seconds went on. They began to size each other up as Hero, ironically, “heroically” walked proudly over to you and with his front paws, pushed Boris off of your lap. He quickly took his place and started purring. Boris’ fur began to puff up as he hunched down and prepared to pounce. His back legs flexed and he made the jump, sending both him and Hero flying towards their fighting owners, who were remarkably somehow not in a physical fight. Yet.

You very quickly realized that you did not want to be in the middle of  two superpowers fighting and quietly took your leave. (E/c) eyes met feline amber ones and you swept up the cat and made your escape, leaving behind the feuding men and cats.

Itabby snuggled into your arms as you finally slowed down to catch your breath. Her round tail whooshed back and forth as you tiredly walked through the long hallway. The two of you eventually ended up in the rose gardens of the meeting building. The area was well taken care of and beautiful if you did say so yourself. The meeting was taking place in England and Mr. Jones had told you about how the Brit enjoyed gardening, so it made sense as to why it was here.

Speaking of the British, you spotted a fluffy feline shape from the corner of your eye. It was deeper into the gardens and among the trees. Itabby finally decided that it was time to go and return to her owner. She gracefully leaped out of your arms and landed on all fours and trotted off to beg Italy for some pasta. You instead continued your approach to the cat, which at this point, you could tell was a Scottish Fold.

The left side of his face was brown and so was his tail. Alike to his owner, he seemed to have what you assumed were some kind of eyebrows and when he opened his eyes to look at you, his olive eyes stared into yours. He flicked his tail and layed back down onto the wall that he was laying on. His collar jingled as he moved and you quietly moved up to him. On the gold circle attached to the same olive color collar, was a name.

‘Scone’ You thought. ‘Oh my god. This is the most English cat name I have ever seen.’

You almost started laughing but the smoldering glare the cat gave you made you think otherwise. The stone wall was surprisingly cold for the summer sun and as you sat down, you took a look at Scone. He seemed to still be quite grumpy, but he knew you from earlier in the week, so he was not alarmed. You lifted up and moved your left arm forward to start petting him.

Scone was soft and clearly well-taken care of. His fur was clean and had no knots or dirt insight, despite laying around a garden for half a day. You continued your actions and the both of you started to fall back into slumber. Your hand hovered on the back of the feline and your head slumped alongside your body.

It was peaceful. With birds chirping and the wind lightly blowing. There was a river babbling somewhere in the background and it made for a serene scene. The only reason he had let you pet him was because you had fed him earlier in the week. He didn’t have his collar at that point so this was the first time you had gotten his name. Your eyes closed as you recalled the event from a couple of days prior.

The day after the plane landed you were on the hunt for felines. Armed with some cat food, a retractable mouse-on-a-stick and hope, you made your way around the building England had set aside for housing the rampant countries, and byproduct, their cats. France’s cat, Monsieur, was an absolute attention wh-. He really liked attention, and would rub himself against your leg anytime the two of you crossed paths. It’s not like France, or Francis, was much better.

It’s not like you minded petting him. He was adorable after all. The cat, not Francis. But you had wanted to meet as many other cats as you could and so you had to stop by Francis’ room multiple times to drop off Monsieur.

“Je suis désolé.” He said, taking Monsieur out of your arms. “He keeps getting out. But I guess he knows when there’s a lovely lady around.”

You ignored his attempts at flirting and instead scratched Monsieur’s chin one last time before leaving. He purred at you and while you felt bad about leaving him, you were on a mission! Besides, you had a certain Japanese cat to track down. Monsieur meowed at you as you walked down the hallway and if you didn’t know better you’d say so did Francis.

Either way, nothing was going to stop you from petting Tama, Japan’s cat. He was an adorable little black and white feline with the cutest little bob for a tail. You had actually spotted him earlier and was about to go up to him before Monsieur literally jumped into your arms, demanding attention. Of course you weren’t going to say no so Tama quickly left your sight as you went to return Monsieur. 

Wait, isn't Monsieur just sir in French? Oh well there was no time to think about questionable cat names, this building was full of them.

Monsieur wasn’t the only attention whore of a cat. Prussia’s cat, Purrussia, wasn’t much better. He would follow you down hallways and meow with his scratchy meow at you while Austria’s cat, Allegro, whined behind him. He literally tried to jump up at you a few times.

Of course both of them were interrupted when Hero ran straight at you and tackled you like a professional linebacker. You had thought that it was mostly fluff, but no, apparently Hero could pack a punch. He knocked the wind out of you as you fell backwards onto the tiled floor. The cat sat proudly on you and looked around like he was waiting for something or someone. Whoever he was waiting for, however, wouldn’t show up fast enough to see Purrussia return the favor and tackle Hero off of you, much to Allegro’s horror. 

The white cat had a German ribbon as well but it looked like it was fraying at the edges. The reason you were bringing this up was because Hero was currently using one of the edges to try to choke Purrussia and Allegro was using the other to try to pull Purrussia away from Hero. Neither was really working and all it was really doing was making Purrussia more and more agitated.

“PURRUSSIA!!!” A shrill voice yelled out from down the hallway.

The cats stopped their roughhousing to see two of the countries barrelling down towards them. Well Prussia was. Austria was slowly walking over, looking more inconvenienced than anything else.

“Purrussia! Purrussia!” Prussia reiterated, pulling his cat up by its arms. “Did jou vin?!”

Everyone but the two Prussians stared in disbelief at his statement. The albino feline furiously nodded his head and if he could have talked you would have imagined that he would have been saying, ‘I’m awesome!’

Hero angrily meowed down below, as if to oppose Purrussia’s non-verbal statement. Allegro just haughtily licked his paw and stuck his nose up as if to pretend that he was disgusted with their fighting as if he hadn’t just been a part of it. Austria picked up his in-denial cat and you picked up Hero who calmed down as soon as you did. 

“Sorry about him.” You said, brushing his unruly fur down with your hand. “He gets a little competitive.”

“Ja. It’s fine.” Austria said, petting his own cat. “Purrussia is not much better.”

“HEY!” Prussia yelled. “My awesome Purrussia is doing his best! And besides, at least he actually does something!”

“Jour cat picked a fight vith a vall (wall) Gilbert.” Austria sassed.

“Vell jour cat’s piano playing is trash!”

Austria gave a gasp of horror before inching closer to the Prussian.

“Jou take zat back, RIGHT NOW!”

Prussia just laughed, still letting Purrussia’s back paws dangle as he held him like one would a toddler. He got in close to the Austrian’s face, smiling deviously at him.

“Nein.”

He suddenly, while still holding Purrussia, took off, running away from Austria. He wasn’t far behind though and you could hear the man yelling in German all the way down the far corridor.

“Well Hero.” You said, looking down at the cat who had made himself very comfortable. “That was weird.”

He just snuggled closer to you and you sighed. You scratched him once more before heading down the opposite hallway. The destination was clear, before you could continue your cat quest, you’d have to get this one safely back to its owner.

You suddenly snapped back to reality, still sitting on the wall. The sun was now high in the sky and the spot underneath you was no longer cold. You were especially warm as you now had a Scottish Fold sitting comfortably upon your lap. Quietly cooing at the cat, you looked to see if there was any way to escape your furry prison. The most important rule of cats: once a cat sits on you, you’re not moving until they do.

You sighed, legs uncomfortably stiff. Scone was far more content and his bushy tail occasionally brushed against your leg. It was incredibly cute but it didn’t make your back stop hurting from being hunched over for the last half hour.

Voices came from farther within the garden. There were two people currently engaged in a soft conversation. You caught bits and pieces of it; there was a man with a British accent and a man with what you thought was American until you heard him say ‘aboot.’ You couldn’t help but snicker at your own observation, disturbing Scone in the process.

He scornfully meowed at you and you offered pets in an apology. Around the corner turned Scone’s owner and a man who looked incredibly similar to America. They both turned to look at you when the Scottish Fold you were fondling stretched out to impossible lengths and complained like a cat while he did it. England looked down at your lap to see his cat very happily cushioned on your thighs. The man next to him was also holding a cat who again looked very similar to America’s.

They were clearly different though. This man’s hair was more auburn and his eyes were a shade of impossible purple. There was also more of a wave to it whereas America’s hair was as straight as hair comes. Familiarity lit up in your eyes, not for the man however.

“Maple!” You exclaimed, wanting to go to the cat but also not willing to disturb the one on you. “How have you been?”

The men stared at you, wondering if you were talking to them or the cat. Of course Maple himself answered this as he jumped out of his owner’s arms and darted over to you. He gracefully climbed up the small wall and placed himself down by you. Scone was on your lap and he was nicer than Hero so as to not push him off. You moved one of your arms to pet Maple and kept the other on Scone. They were so cute you felt like you were going to explode.

“Oh.” A quiet voice spoke out. It came from the man behind England. “You’re Alfred’s secretary right?”

You smiled and nodded at the man. “And I assume that means you’re Canada, right?”

He looked a tad taken aback before nodding himself. “Yeah…” He trailed off and England instead picked up the conversation.

“I thought you were supposed to be watching his furrball cat, Hero.” He walked over and leaned against the wall.

“I was. But then he and Boris got into a catfight… and then America and Russia got into a catfight.”

Canada laughed in the background but quickly covered it up. England stared at Scone, looking to see if there was anyway to get him off of you without being scratched himself. He had enough injuries, that should have scarred had he not been a country, from the cat. He shivered a bit, though also began to pet the feline, scratching his under the chin.

“That sounds like those two.”

You hummed in agreement, continuing your affections. Canada also came over to pet his own cat who ironically did smell like maple syrup. 

“Can I make you the villain of this story?” You asked England, gesturing to Scone. “I do actually have somewhere I need to be.”

“Oh I suppose I can assume that role.” He mused, carefully picking up his cat. He was not happy to be moved but England just shushed him.

Canada also picked up his cat who was slightly nicer about the whole thing. He fidgeted with Maple’s ear as he held him.

“I’m Matthew.” He said, carefully shifting Maple so he could put one arm out to shake your hand.

You finished the formal greeting. “I’m (Y/n).”

The other blonde butted in from the background. “I’m Arthur, love.”

“It’s very nice to formally meet both of you. Seeing you from across a meeting room doesn’t really count.” You smiled and gave a small pat to each of the feline’s heads. “Well I wasn’t kidding about needing to get somewhere. I really didn’t mean to get stopped as long as I did.” 

You playfully glared at the Scottish Fold sitting comfortably in his owner's arms. He promptly ignored you, instead turning around cutely. England apologized but you told him it was fine. You were at least 50% sure that Mr. Jones was probably still fighting with Russia. Those two really were like angry cats. You waved the two men off and went on your way to find out the answer to that question.

Instead of coming across two feuding superpowers, you came across two of the Asian nations’ cats. You had already met them both but this was the first time you were seeing them together. Tama was sitting up high on a shelf while China’s cat, Meowzedong, was angrily meowing at him from down below. Everytime he tried to climb up, Tama would use a paw and swipe a book or other object down at him.

You flinched as a very breakable, very expensive-looking, vase crashed down. It was this movement that alerted the two cats to your presence and Meowzedong wasted no time at all to come over to you and complain. Now you couldn’t exactly speak cat but you got the jist.

Bending down, you carefully picked up the cat. Meowzedong always had a weird clump of fur that looked almost like a ponytail that, no matter how much China cut it, always grew back. He yowled at you and pointed a furry paw in Tama’s direction. The other cat had already loafed on top of the high shelf and you looked at him, back at Meowzedong, back at Tama, and then back at Meowzedong again.

“I don’t know how tall you think I am but I’m not that tall.”

Meowzedong just narrowed his eyes and meowed at you again. You sighed, looking back at Tama. If he had a long enough tail to flick it at you he would’ve. Sensing the futility of his quest, Meowzedong instead spread himself out in your arms and if you didn’t know better you would have said that he was mocking Tama. And if you really didn’t know better you’d say that it was working and that the bobtail was getting more irritated by the second. The personifications might have had to act cordial but their cats had no such qualms.

Finally, Tama de-loafed himself and gracefully hopped down a few other layers before reaching the bottom. He gracefully walked over to you and sat on your foot… Well shoot. What were you supposed to do now?

So here you were, from one cat prison to the next. Standing in the middle of some random, out-of-the-way hallway because the nations’ cats were all attention-hogging, though very adorable, brats.

You didn’t know how much time had actually passed. There was no clock in the hallway, you didn’t wear a watch, and both of your hands were occupied so you couldn’t check your phone. As cute as they were, your legs felt like they were about to collapse in on themselves. You couldn’t even shift how you were standing because Tama had taken it upon himself to lay across both of your shoes. Your arms also felt like they were going to fall off at any second. Meowzedong wasn’t a particularly heavy cat but try holding anything over five pounds for longer than five minutes.

You were desperately hoping that either they would finally get bored and leave or someone would come to save you. Wow you guessed you really did need a “Hero” right about now… Dammit you thought that referencing needing a hero in your head would magically summon America or his equally hotheaded cat.

“Tama. Meowzedong.” You murmured. “Can you please get off?” You hoped to whatever god or gods were out there that they didn’t hear the desperation in your voice. Never show weakness to a cat.

The two cats made eye contact with each other for a moment and seemed to come to an agreement. Meowzedong stretched his body out before jumping onto the ground. Tama did the same but instead greeted Meowzedong when he landed.

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration if you said that you collapsed onto the wooden floor below. You quickly got up however as you didn’t want them to see it as another chance to sit on you. At least not right now. You pulled out your phone to see all of the messages and calls you missed. You had put it on silent while watching Hero and forgot to turn it back to vibrate.

‘Oh my god Mr. Jones called me twenty-three times.’ You thought, frantic. ‘I’m gonna be in so much trouble!’

You raced down the hallway, startling a group of micronations as you went. There was no time to apologize! You had to keep your job! If not for you then for the cats!

Not even thinking to knock you burst open the door where America was staying, side note why wasn’t it locked? And were greeted with the sight of!... Mr. Jones… crying? His cat looked pretty dejected too and was currently hanging himself off the side of the bed like a rug.

“Sir?” His head shot up to look at you.

He quickly snapped his head back away, mushing at his face in an attempt to try to make it seem like he wasn’t crying.

“(Y-Y/n)” He stuttered for a second, before immediately going back to the hero persona. “Where’ve you been!?”

“Are you okay?” You ignore him, instead asking your own question.

You titiled your body to look at what he was looking at… Was that a framed picture of you?!

It didn’t matter because he was very quickly all in your face again. You could see what seemed to be a rapidly healing black eye and a tooth that hadn’t fully regrown in yet as he smiled at you. Just how long was he fighting with Russia for?

You sat him down on his bed, considering if you should even bother getting a medkit for him. Either way you ended up spending the rest of the day with him, watching movies and sitting what you considered a good ways away from each other on the plush couch. He apparently had a nicer room in all of England’s properties from when he used to live there during parts of the year.

Hero filled the gap in-between you of which America was mildly annoyed about. He kept trying to get you to use ‘Alfred’ but you insisted that it was unprofessional. He’d close the gap one day.

[starry-bi-sky]

Hello Starry! I just had a thought about your Danyal al Ghul AU, and didn't have anyone else to share it with, so here we go:

If in this universe Bruce is Jewish, and Danny knows this(probably from a google search), he may wear a Star of David necklace to have a piece of his father with him at all times, since he knows he will never get to meet him. Or maybe the necklace sits in a box under a floorboard, because he can't stand the constant reminder of the father he'll never get to have. Maybe he observes Sam and her family celebrate Jewish holidays, or he learns how to by himself, but uses the time to mourn, instead of celebrate.

Anyways, hope all is well, and thank you for sharing your writing!

AAHHHH??? YOUR BRAIN??? Thank you!! I love sharing my writing, it soothes my need for attention lol. lmao, even. (Also how did you know i was thinking of my danyal al ghul au today -- i have an unfinished draft that i was thinking of delving into after my work meeting) also aahh!!!!!!!! im so happy that you wanted to share your thoughts with me about it &lt;333

But dude BOTH of these ideas are soo?? GOOD and ANGSTY. I love angsty. Danny would for sure know if Bruce was Jewish, lil guy did an obsessive amount of research on his dad the moment he got his hands on a computer and figured out how they worked. Danny has like, a three inch thick folder almost on his father alone. Anything he could get his hands on, he's got it. That thickness is almost exclusively from his first like, six months in Amity Park. He keeps it in a box in his closet, along with his growing-folder on Damian and his achievements as Damian Wayne. He pages through it when he's feeling like mourning.

First off: him wearing a Star of David necklace to feel connected to Bruce. That is SO sad and I love it so much. He bought it with an allowance he'd been given when he first started living with the Fentons, he keeps it tucked under his shirt so nobody even knows he has it. Sam and Tucker don't until it slips out while he's hanging out with them and when they ask him about it, Danny very reluctantly tells them that his father is Jewish. When he's distracted, nervous, or sad, he fidgets with it. How this looks is that he looks like he's kinda rubbing his chest, like ungrasping and grasping something.

Second Off: him keeping it in a box under the floorboards. That is also so, so good. He's got it in the box along with a few other things that remind him of his father and Damian and his mother. He takes it out when he's feeling particularly lonely and homesick, it's a feeling that never really goes away even after five years of living in Amity Park. It's like a longing for something you'll never see again, but isn't that just how grief works? i can just imagine him sitting against the bed, late at night and back from patrol. He's still in his ghost form, his katana laid on the ground next to him, and his almost bird-like cape pooling down beside him as he cups the necklace in his hand like he's cradling an egg. Maybe he's bleeding from somewhere, and he's telling the necklace about patrol, murmured soft in Arabic.

When he finds out Sam is Jewish he probably, after much consideration, asks if he can observe their holidays -- after all, researching Jewish holidays only does so much. Sam agrees when he explains why, much to her parents chagrin, and he sometimes tags along. But once he gets an understanding of how they go, he starts doing it on his own. Somewhat. He celebrates with Sam for most of it, and then has some time to himself where he celebrates it on his own. So it's a little bit of both.

^^^ which brings me to thinking about my danyal snippet here where Sam is at a Wayne gala and tears into her parents over Danny in front of Bruce. And it's making me think of, with this idea in mind, Sam in a moment of emotional impulsivity, saying "I know that he wears a Star of David because his father is Jewish and he wants to be closer to him, because he loves him so very fucking much." And while saying that, briefly makes direct eye contact with Bruce as a way to tell him "I know you're his fucking dad. Look at the son you have left behind."

If only for the emotional gut punch that can leave Bruce with. 🥰

Thank you for the ask! I had a lot of fun responding to it, have a fantastic evening/day/night.