#cortex (mentioned)

[the-sol-eater]

just a reminder that up until this very moment till thought mizi was fucking dead lmao

[banduckoot]

Headcanon: Dr. Cortex and N. Brio attended the same evil college together. During that period, they briefly experimented with cannabis and became addicted. Unfortunately, their college had a strict anti-drug policy... not because it was illegal, but because getting high often makes villains reconsider villainy! So, Cortex and N. Brio were forced to quit.

Cortex is much more relaxed and lazy when he's high. He also gets severe cases of the munchies, eating tons of food that shouldn't be able to fit in his tiny body. Apart from shoving food in his face almost constantly, Cortex is much more pleasant to be around when he's high. Too bad he doesn't touch the stuff anymore. He could use it.

N. Brio is much calmer and more affectionate when he's high, especially physically. He hugged Cortex a lot during that stint in college... and if he got high again, he'd probably do it again and risk getting smacked away. He also gets the munchies, but not nearly to the same degree as Cortex.

N. Gin sadly can't partake in cannabis, as it would react poorly to the rocket fuel in his bloodstream.

... Come to think of it, maybe N. Gin can't drink, either.

N. Tropy gets stoned in his free time, at the end of a long day, when he desperately needs to unwind and doesn't feel like doing anything physical, or getting drunk. He's incredibly serene when he's high, able to articulate his ideas better while under the influence of cannabis. He is a little slower to react to things than usual, which annoys him, but he mostly manages to keep a clear head.

Tropy has an incredibly strict rule about not doing cannabis during work hours or in public. He only ever uses it alone or with someone he actually trusts, which is exceedingly rare. The last thing Tropy wants is to use irresponsibly, which could ruin his perfectly scheduled life. He would absolutely HATE to be tardy, late, or irresponsible for any reason. Being on TIME in his thing!

[kenzies-scream-blog]

Why are so many of his quotes so freaky???

"Ooh, long, firm crystals to power my engine" "...and a woman with nice, big... bags of ice for my head" "I'm hiding this crystal in my special place" "Where on EARTH am I going to keep all this booty?!"

HUH

[c0smiccom3t]

just remembered i drew this, so here!

Ryonna (Off-screen, tail only shown) being absolutely undyingly loyal and caring towards Cortex lives rent free in my head a lot and it's completely canon and so is the fact that even though these two are partners in crime (Villain and sidekick) they're actual best friends. That's it, that's the post. (also forgive me for the anatomy if its bad)

[luckylunatix]

N. Igmatic's relationships with the rest of the N Team, summarized

(Note: this is only gonna include the three main scientists because they're the characters she interacts with the most.)

Cortex: Due to a combination of his ego and an odd level of skepticism for someone who exists alongside magical talking tiki masks, Cortex tends to underestimate N. Igmatic and see her as something of a nutcase. Igmatic, unsurprisingly, does not take kindly to this; she butts heads with Cortex a lot and often feels a pressure on herself to prove him wrong. That said, she does still feel a sense of loyalty towards him and the team in general, and doesn't mind his companionship in the moments when they aren't concocting evil plans, which is when their rivalry gets most heated.

N. Brio: They're mostly neutral towards each other, but with N. Brio being a lot older than her, he does occasionally have a sort of "what's wrong with the youths nowadays?" attitude towards her and her eccentricities. (For clarification, in my headcanon, N. Igmatic and N. Gin are in their early 30s, Cortex is around 40-50, and Brio is 60+.) In their friendlier moments, they sometimes give each other tips on making potions.

N. Gin: N. Igmatic has never been more enamored with another person in her life. He's friendly towards her, they have some interests in common (music and spooky/macabre stuff especially), and she finds him genuinely beautiful even in all his oddity. In turn he appreciates that she shows him nothing but kindness and affection and doesn't just brush him off as a freak. With Igmatic around, N. Gin is more of a henchman to her than to Cortex directly.

[writercmm]

honestly so glad that i didnt have access to money growing up on tumblr cause MAN the amount of useless galaxy-themed junk i would've bought and then never used would make an environmentalist cry

[meowdei]

the psychology of men (a guide to understanding how they work) — ft. phainon

if nice guys didn’t always screw you over, you’d have an easier time trusting that phainon isn’t the good guy full of bullshit. but he’s still nice enough to patiently wait for you to give him one chance, though

word count. ❤︎ 10.3k words — in literally one day. ONE

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; college au ; reader has a shitty ex boyfriend and trust issues — she is not perfect but she is human. be nice to her ; strangers to friends with benefits to lovers ; reader has a crush on mydei at first LOL ; mentions of alcohol and drunk sex ; phainon is a YEARNER ; resolved angst, miscommunication, and arguments ; phainon is down bad and reader is simply in denial that she is too ; cunnilingus ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; not proof read

commentary. ❤︎ i didn’t care about this dude until today. he possessed me so hard i wrote 10k words in less than 24 hours. white hair and blue eyed freaks will do that to you

LESSON ONE: MEN ARE ALWAYS PLANNING SOMETHING. THE NICER THEY SEEM, THE MORE SINISTER THE SCHEME!

You meet Phainon for the first time while you’re freshly out of a relationship, nursing a broken heart. Your ex-boyfriend pursued you with that heartfelt, fairytale sort of devotion, and you thought you’d be telling people at your wedding one day that you knew he was “the one” early on in your relationship. 

And then he dumped you as quickly as he “fell in love” with you. It wouldn’t be right, he’d said, it just isn’t fair to keep you around when I don’t feel the way I used to. He leaves you with not so much as a tear of sorrow, and you’re left with the aftermath of a devastating heartbreak. 

Not the sad, lingering kind—this one is the sort of heartbreak that makes you hate all men. Especially the nice ones—the ones that manipulate you into thinking they’re the good guys who won’t turn on you, but they do. They always do. The nice guys are the ones with the most potential to turn out dangerous. They aren’t upfront about their assholery. That shitty ex of yours is a prime example, and you refuse to fall victim twice. 

Your first impression of Phainon happens in some boring college class you take just for the elective credit and an easy gpa boost. He’s the sort of guy your attention doesn’t instantly latch onto—he’s sweet, sure, and funny but a little too gentle to be real. Too good to be true. Too much of a green flag to be interesting. Exactly the kind of guy you’re avoiding—exactly the sort of person who can worm his way into your heart slowly and lethally and then bite. Hard. (That sort of mindset is too pessimistic to be any good, of course, but you’re only just barely in your twenties as you navigate your dramatic breakup, and your prefrontal cortex is still developing.)

You find his friend a little more intriguing for the longest time, if you’re honest. The brooding blonde next to him always made your eyes linger for a second too long. 

“Hey,” he whispers, poking your shoulder from behind. You turn, slightly irritated by the fact that some guy is interrupting your dissociation in the middle of class—doesn’t he know you have false scenarios to run through your mind while you pass the time? Professor Anaxagoras has a strict no-phones-in-sight policy if you want to keep your participation points up, so the only thing to entertain you is your own head. Sheepishly, as if sensing your irritation, he murmurs, “Sorry. Can I please use your laptop charger?”

“I’m using it,” you blink. 

“Yeah, but it’s almost fully charged,” he practically pleads. The puppy eyes on him are unreal—you feel almost compelled to cave just at the sight of them alone until you realize it’s your charger, and he’s bargaining with you about why you don’t need it. Absurd. “I can see the green battery sign.”

“Are you serious,” you stare at him blandly, “it’s barely twelve pm. Why is your laptop already dying anyway?”

“I charged it,” he pouts, “but she’s old and on her last legs. It doesn’t last if I take the charger out for too long—I forgot to bring it with me. Please. If it dies in the middle of this assignment, it’ll make me start over! It took me an hour to google all these answers.”

Well. He’s convincing in that pathetic sort of way. Just the perfect mix between nice and genuine but still a tad bit needy that just tickles your gut in the right place to loosen you up. Without a word, you unplug your charger with a roll of your eyes and hand it to him as he smiles gratefully. 

“You’re the best!”

“You’re pathetic,” his friend grunts to him from beside him.

“Don’t be rude, Mydei!” he whispers through a wounded voice. 

They continue to bicker back and forth, but you tune it out—there’s only one thought on your mind for the remainder of your time in that room. 

You spend the rest of class thinking about the deep sound of his friend’s voice to care about anything else. Fuck, you think—you’re almost debating that strict no more men rule you’d set for yourself after your break up, ready to throw it all away for the grumpy looking blonde with red tips behind you. He’s hot. And honestly, he seems a bit rude and crabby, so really, he can’t be that bad—and yeah, everyone would think he’s the red flag, but you know how men go. You’ve figured out their psychology. The ones who are prickly on the exterior are actually very soft inside, and they’re not half as bad as the soft, cuddly type of men who turn around and bite you as soon as you’re close enough. 

This guy could be different. He could be worked into devotion instead of smothering you with it early on, only to have ulterior motives and get bored. What was his name again? Mydei? Sounds decently moanable in bed, you reason. He certainly seems like a keeper. 

It’s not long before the lecture ends, and you walk off with all your thoughts consumed by the grumpy blonde guy who said maybe only three words that you properly heard before he possessed your mind like a fucking demon. So much so that you forget to ask for your charger back, and that clever asshole never gave it back on his own accord like a proper human being. 

So, the next time Phainon walks into class, you’re glaring at him right at the entrance of the room with an outstretched hand and an unimpressed curl of your lips. 

“My charger,” you say blandly, “you took off with it last class. I need it back.”

“Oh!” he flushes, quickly digging into his bag and pulling it out—at least he kept it in very good condition. Men are not to be trusted with things you need because they are irresponsible. Case example: not returning what they borrow. “Sorry,” he says earnestly, “I meant to return it, but I forgot. Which, I was thinking…maybe we should exchange numbers—you know…to contact outside of class if we ever need it.”

You blink, seeing right through him. Why else would you ever need it again? “You walked off with my charger just so you could use it as an opening to ask for my number?”

He flushes a deeper shade of red, creeping up to his ears and down his neck like he didn’t expect you to call him out on his so very blatant scheme. “W-well…did it work?”

You contemplate for a moment before you respond, “No.”

“How about if I throw in some assignment answers?”

“…Okay, fine.” You never pay attention in this class—the tests are open notes, and the weekly assignments are easy enough when you have the internet at your disposal. But still, having someone present the answers to you is a much faster route, and you have other non-elective classes to worry about, so all in all, if a semi-annoying guy messages you here and there, it’s not so bad.

And the better part is that his friend is hot, so you can snag the details on him, too. Men don’t really worry about the concept of loyalty—they don’t stay far away from the people their friends show an interest in for something like friendship. You know how they work. Phainon’s number can lead you to Mydei’s, and Mydei can break you free from your awful, terrible descent to madness from heartbreak, and when you inevitably have a happy, healthy, and loving relationship that lasts, you’ll never think about your bastard ex again.

Foolproof.

“Great!” Phainon beams. He hands you his phone, and you type your number in.

And that starts it all. 

────────────────────────

LESSON TWO: SEX DOES NOT EQUAL INTIMACY. WHEN THEY SAY IT’S JUST PHYSICAL, THAT’S TOTALLY FINE. BUT IF YOU SAY IT, YOU’RE OUT OF LINE!

Exchanging phone numbers with Phainon was supposed to be a simple way to have at least one contact for a class—a very important measure you should take for every class you’re in—and perhaps, if you’re lucky, you could also somehow get closer to that hot blonde friend he has named Mydei. 

It was never supposed to become a real friendship.

But, well…shit happens, and things don’t go according to plan. It also doesn’t help that Phainon is a consistent texter—almost to a fault. What sort of man doesn’t text sporadically and with a tone as dry as concrete? Phainon, apparently—which is not like any sort of man you’ve ever known. 

You even start sitting with him in class instead of in front of him—that’s a terribly unplanned development. The bright side of it, however, is that you quickly get over his friend. Mydei is nice, but he’s a little too bored. Or maybe he just isn’t interested in you; you’re not so sure. No amount of flirty comments gets a flush out of him, not a smirk, not even a smart retort back. He is just…bored. (Or maybe he’s secretly just one of those good friends who doesn’t flirt with the girl that his friend is actively trying to pursue, but that option does not align with your very complex understanding of men, so you shove it aside. He’s probably just bored, and that’s just truly unfortunate. He was hot.)

But you grow fond of Phainon. As a friend. Sure, he’s clearly been interested in you since day one, but he’s not pushy, and a hint here and there that you’re still bitter about your previous relationship makes him keep a respectful distance. But he’s definitely smitten—and you? Well, you’re lonely. And he’s a good guy. A good guy who keeps you good company as a good friend and nothing more. He knows that, and you don’t think you’re stringing him along if he’s aware that you’re nothing more than friendly. 

And sometimes, friends go to parties together. And sometimes, they also drink together. And sometimes, they also end up staying at the other’s apartment afterward because it’s closer and safer than trying to get back home alone. And…sometimes, although not a lot of times—but sometimes, they wake up in bed together, nude with no recollection of the previous night and love bites scattered on their necks as proof that something very, very physical happened between them.

It’s not always a common occurrence, but it’s certainly not a rare one. Does it complicate things? For certain—but you think that you and Phainon are good enough friends and mature enough people to know that sex does not equate to intimacy. Most men are super clear about that, anyway—it’s almost ingrained in their nature to say “no strings attached” before they fuck your brains out in every position they can think to try. This should not be a foreign concept to him. 

But it doesn’t make the morning any less awkward. 

“Oh my god,” you say in disbelief, pulling the sheets over your bare chest as you stare at Phainon like he’s grown two heads. He stares back at you like you’re some figment of his imagination—unsure if you’re real but painfully hopeful that you are. And then you take a quick glimpse around his room and realize he’s a space nerd—there’s a poster about Saturn on his wall. “I didn’t think you were into space. You seem a little too air-headed for that.”

“Hey!” he pouts, “you don’t know me! I can be very smart!”

You snort, eyeing him in amusement. Except staring at him for too long means that you are forced to look at the hickey you left on his neck, almost like you were a raging, horny teenager last night and not an adult. You would be more embarrassed if one glimpse down at your chest didn’t tell you that he was even worse. 

“So…” you start awkwardly. 

“So…” he echoes. 

You don’t know where to take it from there. There’s a beat of silence before you say, “We’re good, right Phai?”

He softens, looking at you with those large, round eyes that house every shade of the sky and her beauty before he nods and murmurs, “Yeah. We’re always good.”

“Good,” you breathe, “I’m glad. I want us to be good.”

“Well,” he rubs his neck, “we are, in fact, good. So…yeah.”

In the end, you sheepishly turn around so he can get out of bed, find his scattered clothes and put them on, and leave, and you—once you’re certain he’s far enough in the kitchen and the faucet is running—scream into his pillow before slipping out of bed and putting on your own. You’re pleasantly surprised he doesn’t have only one pillow. But his sheets are navy blue, so you dock a few points for that. Not a good look.

He makes you breakfast before you leave. Something about sitting and sharing pancakes while he has tousled hair feels so natural you almost feel sick at the thought of leaving. But you tell yourself that he’s an easy friend to have and feel comfortable with, and force yourself up and to the door when the time inevitably comes. 

He sees you out with a soft, “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you hum, “later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

—————

You wish so badly that you could be an ideal individual, but you are as flawed as the rest of the humans you share planet Earth with.

You and Phainon fuck again. Sober, this time. Still as friends. Not by accident, or through the influence of alcohol, or by forced proximity, or by anything that you can use to excuse it. You can’t excuse it. It’s entirely an act of free will that you consented to—because he does take consent very seriously, you learn—and it starts to become abundantly clear that sex is beginning to get a little too frequent in your time together.

The first time it happened after the initial accidental night, he was over at your apartment helping you build your new desk. The old one was too small, and you needed an upgraded space badly. He spends the evening hammering and drilling pieces away and fitting them together, and like some cliche joke from the universe, when you slip on the instruction manual on the floor, he catches you as your face hovers dangerously close to his. A kiss later, and suddenly he’s fitting into you and drilling you instead of the wood. 

And then it starts to happen everywhere. 

Sometimes in the back of his car before he drops you off at home after class. Sometimes on your kitchen counter when you’re supposed to be washing dishes after he’s over for dinner to study. Sometimes after he’s got a bad exam grade to blow off some steam. Sometimes when you’re particularly stressed over a busy week with too many assignments due on the same day and too many hours of your part-time job to work. 

Every time it happens, you go back to acting like you always do afterward. Like it never even happened. Never mentioned, or questioned, or brought up. He never questions if something is shifting in your relationship, and you never bring it up. Sometimes, two people can have a physical relationship and still be friends and nothing more. It’s not impossible, and it’s not bad.

If anything, it makes you closer friends. You start to understand each other better. You talk more—really talk. No silly banter, or heated debate, or stressed-out vents. Just you, Phainon, the sheets that cover your bodies and a quiet room that lingers with the scent of sex.

He tells you about how much he misses his hometown. How small it is, and how everyone knows everyone. How leaving home and his young triplet sisters was the hardest thing he did, but a good degree and stable job is even harder to come by where he’s from. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

And you tell him about your ex. About how sweet and nice he was. How badly he wanted you. How good he was at doing things right and reading you for what you craved. How to love you like you always wished. How to spend time with you without burning you out and depleting your social battery. How to know your ticks and know when he’s pushing your buttons too far and when a joke doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. How to make you feel seen. 

No man has ever loved you like that. None have cared to, either. Learning you is a lot of work—you have years and years of life and stories and feelings and fears and everything’s to share. Teaching them is a lot. Learning them is even more. 

You liked to think that boy from your past was a ticket to something good. Some better life for yourself where it’s not just you and yourself, and that’s it—a life where you were you and someone else cared to see it. Have it. Cherish it. Keep it. 

You don’t know how someone could pour in so much time, do everything first, want things all on their own, and still walk away and tell you that they just don’t feel the same anymore.

You think it’s just a man thing. Men bore easily. 

Phainon snorts at that. 

“They do have short attention spans,” he tells you. 

You smile tightly, humming as you blink back tears. “Or maybe I’m just boring.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he gasps dramatically, reaching over to swipe the tears like it’s always been his job to—it feels so natural when he does it. “You’re not boring! You’re at least a step up from boring because boring is Professor Anaxa, and god knows what he drones on about.” 

“Gee,” you huff, but the tears are easier to subside when it’s him. They’re gone quickly like a fleeting reminder that sorrow exists but shooed away like they’re unwelcome when he’s around. He’s around more and more these days. “Thanks. I’m glad to be just a step up from boring. Maybe in a year or so, I’ll be two steps up from boring.”

“Nothing is ever impossible,” he winks. “Some day, with enough hard work and determination, you might even be three steps up.”

“You suck,” you giggle. 

He laughs, and the sound of his voice is enough to lull you to sleep. You sleep good next to him—always do.

—————

One thing you count on is that it’s always easy when it’s you and Phainon. Phainon and you. 

Just two people who exist with each other, and nothing else really needs to be thought out. You don’t worry about what you wear around him or how you look. He doesn’t care too much about what you’re doing or where you’re going. As long as it’s you and him, him and you, and nothing else—it’s okay. He’s good. He treats you good and makes you feel good, too. Inside and out. Physically and mentally. 

He might even be your best friend. You don’t know if you should tell him that—men get weird about definite titles like that. But then again, maybe not Phainon. He’s like an anomaly of sorts, sometimes. 

But you forget sometimes that Phainon was never hoping to just be friends. And you suppose letting him feel you come undone for him more than once is like dangling his desires right in front of his face because it all blows up on you very fast. 

Perfect one second, like the calm before the storm, and a disaster zone the next, leaving you no time to evacuate before the tornado has hit and done its damage. 

“Mydei wants to come with us to try that new cafe you mentioned,” Phainon hums, watching in sheepish amusement as you sigh and mutter under your breath while picking up his dirty socks from the couch and tossing them across the room. (Men are all the same, aren’t they?) “He said something about there being a pomegranate beverage he wants to try.”

“Fine by me,” you shrug, slumping onto his couch, “if he doesn’t find it awkward, then I don’t either.”

“Why would he find it awkward?” he looks at you in bewilderment.

“I think he’d have to be oblivious to miss the way I was flirting with him,” you huff out a snort, “I don’t think most men jump at the opportunity to hang out with a girl they ignored advances of, but maybe he’s just too passionate about pomegranate to care.”

Everything feels like it pauses as soon as the words come out. You thought he’d known this whole time—you could have sworn he’d known. How would Mydei have never mentioned it to him? Aren’t they best friends? Don’t men at least tell their friends when a girl is hitting on them regularly in passing? Is Mydei really that bad at giving life updates, or is he more clueless than you gave him credit for when it comes to romantic interaction? 

Nothing makes sense, and you’re not entirely sure about anything. The only thing you are sure about is that Phainon is staring at you like you’ve been disloyal to the worst degree. 

“You liked Mydei?” he asks in hurt, staring at you with those god-awful puppy eyes. You feel like you kicked one, too, with the way he stares at you. 

“W-well, no,” you stutter, “I mean, yes—but like…not really, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “you’re not making any sense.”

“I liked him for a very short time,” you say quickly, “like…like a small crush, you know? He was attractive, and I am not immune to an attractive man, so it just…b-but it never lasted for long!”

“Did you still like him when we got together?” he asks quietly. Got together—you physically have to stop yourself from flinching at those words. Some part of you feels a little bit bad that he sounds so wounded, but the other part of you feels like this is all so absurd. That he’s starting to get worked up over nothing. He has to know you were never together—you never did anything that implies two people that are…together. It’s always been a good fuck here and there, and that’s what you kept it as strictly. 

(Distantly, your mind gnaws at you and screams that two people who just fuck and nothing else do not do the things that you and Phainon do. Sure, you were friends first, but two people who draw the line at sex don’t seek each other to FaceTime until three am, and they don’t bring each other soup when they’re sick, and they don’t hold each other when they cry, and they don’t, under any circumstances, tell each other about their deepest insecurities that they’ve never voiced before about shoddy exes who ruined their ability to trust and feel loved. You can’t be the closest people in your lives and just have sex—but your mind has never been your number one supporter, so you shove the voice down.)

“No,” you admit, and for a second, his shoulders sag in relief. Like he doesn’t care or feel threatened that you liked his friend as long as it didn’t bleed into your time together—and that’s when you start to wonder if Phainon is too good for you. Too kind and genuine in a way that is not dangerous. Too sweet in a way that doesn’t slowly kill you like poison but just gives you something to look forward to. Maybe he’s a good one—a good guy who is just good and nothing else. Still, you kill his heart anyway with a harsh blow to his chest as you add, “I didn’t like anyone when we started getting physical. And I still don’t, Phainon.”

Getting physical. Whatever that means. You say it like it puts some distance between the sex you have and intimacy. You say it like it rationalizes everything you do with him—you get physical, which is only human nature, and in the mix, if you develop a good, long-standing friendship, then there is nothing wrong with that. 

But are you really okay with just friends? Yes. You are. Are you sure about that? Absolutely. You don’t seem so convinced. This is a positive, for sure, one hundred percent true reality. Phainon is just a friend. You’re shooting yourself in the foot. 

You force yourself to stop arguing with yourself when you notice the way his eyes flash at the words: still don’t. He processes the words that you still don’t like anyone, and the look in his eyes is devastating. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. Something else that you don’t quite understand, but it makes you filled dreadfully to the brim with unease. 

“Every time we’ve been together has just been physical to you?” he asks quietly, croaking out the words as if they’re acrid on his tongue and taste awful. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I made it very clear we were just friends, and I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” you furrow your brows, “you can’t act like I’ve been stringing you along—”

“Before we started, fucking, sure! But I thought it was pretty mutually clear we were slowly turning romantic when you willingly took my dick down your throat every now and then.”

“We’ve never had a ‘hey, what are we?’ discussion,” you cry exasperatedly, throwing your hands up as though this is all…so, so, so absurd—and for a second, you feel like it is. You made it clear that you weren’t trying to date. Not him, not anybody. Sure, that silly blonde friend of his clouded your judgment for a bit, but that was never more than a phase. “Don’t you think it was a red flag to never discuss what we are or what we’re doing if we were getting romantic?”

He falters. Something in his face makes him look so unrecognizable. So fragile and knocked down a peg that you’ve never seen from him. And something about the way he looks at you makes you almost feel like he doesn't recognize you. 

“I thought you were avoiding the conversation on purpose,” he whispers, voice cracking just as he says: you. “I thought…I thought you were just nervous about labels after everything from your last…” he clears his throat, like even mentioning the word relationship kills him, “and…and that I was just waiting for you to be more comfortable…”

You don’t know what to say. And frankly, nothing seems like it’ll make him feel better. He’s fighting the trembling of his lips and blinking back the moisture in his eyes like all he has left in his control is to not shed tears in front of you. 

You extend him that much grace. (Men don’t like being vulnerable, you reason. They hate showing emotions.)

“Phainon, I think I should go,” you murmur softly.

“You want to leave?” he asks, gutted. It’s got two meanings—you know that. You know exactly what he’s asking.

Everything feels wrong when you say, “Yes,” through a soft whisper, “I do.” But you still don’t take it back.

And nothing feels right when he lets out a watery chuckle and lets the first few tears slip. “Well, you know where the door is,” he spits.

He doesn’t walk you out. You’re not sure why that feels so heavy—it’s not because you’re guilty. You know that. It’s something else, and you can’t quite understand it. 

────────────────────────

LESSON THREE: NOT ALL MEN. SURE, MOST HAVE A VERY BAD STREAK, BUT NEVER THE WHITE-HAIRED AND BLUE-EYED FREAK!

You barely last two weeks before you call Phainon. 

At first, you thought being without who is maybe your closest friend at the moment was just eating away at you, and that’s why you missed him. You threw yourself into your social circles, making plans left and right to fill that gaping hole of his presence. It didn’t work. 

And then it slowly starts to click in place. 

Your friends send you a picture of your ex’s new fling, calling him an asshole and how she’s too pretty to be his next victim. You don’t feel even the slightest bit jealous or hollow. In fact, you’re bored by the news—you have more pressing matters. 

Then, you start to see what feels like fucking propaganda for romance everywhere. Every social media timeline is filled with some stupid, cheesy, cringe trend that rubs in your face how painfully in love two people are. You get ads for fucking wedding rings. Your friends are all magically starting to get out of the talking phases and actually have something exclusive and official. Your old high school friends are getting engaged, and invitations are coming in. You’ve RSVP’d one in spring and two in fall already. 

Everywhere you look, it’s something that feels like the universe is promoting a relationship in your face as if it’s a poorly disguised paid sponsorship by some celebrity online, and all you want to do is throw a rock at the sky and hope it lands on whatever divine being is playing tricks on you straight in the face. 

But it slowly becomes clearer and clearer why it unsettles you so much. Why it all makes you bitter and annoyed and tired and…and sad. You’re sad. And it’s because you miss Phainon, and every couple reminds you of the hurt you caused him and why it’s your fault he’s still not in your life. Because you wanted your cake and to eat it, too. Even if it meant taking advantage of his feelings and the heart he didn’t even bother wearing on his sleeve. He just pinned it to yours and let you wear it. 

So you call him. When that doesn’t work, and you get sent to voicemail, you go straight to his apartment. You knock on his door incessantly for two minutes straight (you know he’s home—his car is there) before he opens the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite it being three in the afternoon. 

“Mydei, can you at least come bother me to eat a little later in the da—oh.”

He notices you and quickly straightens up, smoothing out his wrinkled t-shirt as best as he can and fixing his ruffled hair (that doesn’t do much but ruffle more) as he looks at you with what is his best attempt at a nonchalant look and clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Hi,” you say nervously, “how are you?” (What else do you say? You’re at a loss.)

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs casually, “nursing a broken heart and trying to integrate back into society as a functioning member. The usual. How about you?”

You flinch at his tone, at the way it’s so clipped yet so emotional at the same time. 

“I called earlier—”

“I know. I ignored that, by the way, if that wasn’t clear,” he says as if being petty and angry is the only thing he has left. (It might just be, and you certainly won’t blame him for it.)

“I know,” you whisper, “but I still wanted to talk. And see you. Which I know I don’t deserve, but I guess I’m clearly not perfect, huh?” you shrug softly, giving him a sad smile. 

“Well,” he says flatly, “you came all this way, and I’ve already opened the door. Might as well say the groundbreaking thing you came to say.”

When Phainon is hurt is the only time he does not know how to be kind. He spends so much time not hurting others, not letting them feel the pain of their feelings being overlooked, that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. How to stomach that, yes, there are hurt people in this world, and, yes, they do the hurting, too. And he might fall victim to it. And he might even be the cause of someone else’s hurt, too, intentional or not. 

He’s not good at processing pain. He’s too good of a guy to ever have to dwell on how badly his actions have impacted someone. Not because he’s perfect but because he’s gentle enough by nature to avoid the necessity of it while he can. 

“I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. Because you are. You are. “I knew you were interested early on, and having sex as often as we did was leading you on whether I meant to or not, and you got hurt because of it, so I’m sor—”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. 

You blanch. “What?” you ask, mildly frustrated. He doesn’t have to forgive you, but it’s certainly an honest apology. “You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to. But I just felt it was right to tell you that I—”

“I’m not upset because you don’t like me or you that led me on,” he interrupts, making you blink in confusion. He looks at you for a moment—really looks at you, and before you can say anything, he lets out another disbelieving chuckle. “You still don’t get it, do you? Do you even understand it yourself—why you’re even here?”

“To apologize, of course—”

“No.” 

He says it so seriously. 

Phainon is hardly ever so serious. It’s what you always liked about him, even if you hated to admit it. He’s good at taking serious matters and making them feel like they’re not so serious. Not in a bad way—he’s just good at making them feel less soul-crushing with that carefree smile and those light-hearted words. He comforts you without ever letting you feel the shame of needing comfort. It’s nice.

You forget that even he is capable of being solemn. 

“No one apologizes for breaking someone’s heart unless it breaks theirs too—do you see that? Do you see that you care? I’m not upset that you don’t care about me or that you don’t feel the same. That would be easy to move on from. It kills me because you do—you care, and you feel exactly the way I do, and you just won’t admit it—do you know how much that sucks?”

You swallow thickly. It’s getting to that dangerous territory. That fragile, vulnerable place in your mind that you don’t like because then you have to admit that, yes, maybe you fucking fell hard and crashed onto the ground for Phainon. Asphalt and rocks still digging into your arms with raw and bleeding skin. Yes, maybe he’s that nice, kind, genuine guy who you fell for and who has no other motives than to spend his time being nice and genuine to you. And maybe, if you’d met him sooner and not later, you could have loved him and not some other asshole in disguise, pretending to parade around like a good man, like some wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Maybe that would have saved you the constant fear of it inevitably going all wrong—of giving and giving and giving, and one day, even that’s not enough, and someone doesn’t even want to take from you anymore. That one day, someone doesn’t even find you worth taking advantage of. 

That stings.

It’s this twisted sort of rejection you can’t handle. This sickening sort of feeling makes you think it’s better to be needed for selfish reasons than to be discarded like a useless, meaningless waste of time. And Phainon wouldn’t take advantage of you, right? He’s too nice of a guy—he’d reel you in, make you think he wants you so, so badly, and then when he doesn’t, he’ll play that nice guy trick again and make you think he’s doing you a favor by letting you go. Letting you go so you’re not being used by making it known you’re unwanted and not enough. 

As if he didn’t spend so much time making you want him. Condition you into thinking being loved by him was such a treasure. Convince you into needing the devotion he hands so easily for free. 

But you’re wrong, aren’t you? Maybe he’s not like that at all—maybe he’s just a nice guy because he really is good. Maybe he’s not nice because he needs to be to get what he wants. Maybe he’s nice because he wants to be, and it earns him what he wants the honorable way. Maybe you’ve fallen for Phainon, and maybe you were wrong about that being a bad thing. And maybe you just really fucking hate to admit when you’re wrong. (Your prefrontal cortex is still developing, after all. The men of your past are not very helpful to that slow development.)

“I don’t know how I feel anymore,” you whisper, tears littering your eyes. And god, you feel like a witch—using those sad, doe eyes with the wet, teary gaze that you know will soften him up like butter. Because he does. Even if you don’t do it on purpose, it makes sure he softens right up in front of your face because he hates the sight of your sadness being so tangible that he can feel it on the pad of his thumb in the form of a wet, warm rivulet. 

Like clockwork, he wipes the tears and sighs, and you let out a shaky breath. 

“I don’t know how I feel about anything because every time I think my feelings are right, they’re fucking wrong,” you sob, “I am always wrong, and I don’t know how to stop being wrong.”

His arms wrap around you and pull you close, pressing your body flush against that sturdy chest that feels like a brick wall—strong enough to keep you away from all the harm and cruelty of the world around you as long as he stands in front of you. Sometimes, you think that’s all it takes. Just Phainon standing there, and that’s it. That’s it to be okay. 

“You can only stop being wrong once you’re right,” he hums, giving you a sad, innocent little smile, “isn’t that the whole point of it all? To find the person who’s right? There’s gotta be a few wrong answers here and there, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to keep crying over the wrong answers,” you sniffle, “it’s dehydrating me.”

He laughs. It sounds good. It feels good, too, with the way his chest rumbles against you. He always does. Everything about him is just good. The way he smells, and feels, and sounds, and just is. Phainon is just good. You like just good—no catches, no curveballs, no fine print. Just good. 

“Hey,” he tilts your face up and presses his forehead to yours, wiping your tears valiantly still, even as they keep coming. And he’s hurt. You did that—you hurt him. But he seems more focused on the fact that your heart is crumbling than his own. “I can’t promise you won’t ever cry because of me—I’m not always the brightest, okay? But I can promise that I’m going to stay and wipe every last tear if I mess up. And then I’m going to keep staying. I will always stay so I can wipe the next round of tears and hydrate you again for your troubles. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”

“You don’t want it to be?” you snivel, “you seem like the type to hopelessly daydream about perfect romances with not much luck.”

“I’m going to let that dig slide because you are emotional right now, and we all say things we don’t mean when we’re emotional,” he rubs your back, rocking you slowly from side to side. 

And…well, you think you’re wrong. About him. About Phainon and now he’s nice in a way that’s too nice and too good to be true. You’re wrong because he’s just nice, and it’s just nice enough that it’s good, not devious—and for once, just this once, you don’t mind being wrong.

Not if it’s for him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for being confused and scared and unable to realize I care about you. I will get some help or something to be a functioning member of society.”

“Well, when you find help, hook me up,” he snorts, “because I need it, too. You’ve done a number on me.”

You’re both laughing. And then, at some point, you’re both kissing. His lips are on yours, and yours are on his, and it’s just a mix of each other that feels less like it’s right and more like nothing about it was ever wrong in the first place. Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be right as long as it’s just not wrong. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep things going. Sometimes, they become right along the way, all on their own. 

You cup his cheeks, making him pause his assault on your lips against his will as he lets out a soft noise of protest deep in his throat. You’ll fall hopelessly harder for him because of that later—first, you have more pressing matters. 

“I’m serious,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I do care about you—so much that it scares me. I care about you and I promise this time I’m going to stay and keep caring. So be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he smiles, all wobbly lips and a shaky voice and trembling fingertips. They dig into your hips as his head buries into your neck, and you hold him—latch onto him and clutch his shirt because feeling him is all that ever felt good, and you don’t think you can stomach letting it go a second time. “I am so ready to be the only thing you care about.”

“Maybe not the only thing—”

“Did you hear that? That weird crack sound? That’s the sound of my heart breaking a second time. Any more, and I’ll be collecting shards off the floor.”

“C’mere loser,” you laugh, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him into a hard, deliberate kiss that knocks the wind out of both of you. It makes your stomach twist and form knots and there’s this weird tickle in your chest that feels like you’re about to implode. Phainon is so good at that—at making you feel so, so unwell but well at the same time. You’re sick and nauseous from how badly you want him, but nothing else feels right until you have him. 

So you wrap your arms around him, pressing nearer, closer, harder up against him and kissing him until both of you are gasping for breath in between every press of your mouths together. Your hands find his hair, carding through it wildly and pulling on the strands when he nips at your lips, and when he groans into your mouth at a particularly harsh tug, you know it’s starting to become a scene that should not be happening at his front door where anyone can pass by.  

“Inside?” he pants, pulling away for just long enough to say the word.

You kiss him hard once more, making him groan again before you decide that, yes, it probably needs to move indoors. “Inside,” you breathe, labored and unsteady, “now—now, please.”

“Whatever you want,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to beg. You always get what you want—don’t I always give it to you?”

“Then quit talking and give it to me.”

That shuts him up really fast. With a dark glint in his eyes, he pulls you in, closing the door swiftly and pressing you against it. You’re caged—nothing but him, you, and the throbbing ache between your legs that seems to be a common denominator between the two of you. 

“I want you so bad,” he groans, kissing your neck, inhaling your scent along your sweet, delicate skin, “want you so bad I never want you gone. Don’t ever leave.”

“I won’t,” you gasp as he bites—and it’s a little hard. A little mean almost, but he kisses it better with a soft peck afterward that you forgive him on the spot and melt. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he hums, nose trailing along the column of your neck before he drags it along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth before he murmurs, “but I’ll make it hard to walk away this time just for safe measures.”

It feels like a literal and metaphorical promise. Before you can even respond to his cheekiness, he has your mouth hostage again—kissing and groaning into it enough that you have no choice but to soften and become pliant under him. You swallow up his sounds as the bulge in his pants presses against your own heat, the slow, desperate pressure of him grinding against you, making you shiver against the door. 

Good—he always feels so good. Everything about Phainon is always so damn good. 

“Feel that?” he croons, gasping as you roll your hips in tandem with his own movements, “feel how hard I am for you? You’re telling me anyone else will want you this bad? No one. I’m it for you. I’m not giving you up. Ever.”

His voice is a low, almost dangerous promise—and if you weren’t dripping at your core from the sound of him alone, you’d be less than inclined to admit that you like the sound of that. But you do, don’t you? You want him to want you so badly, so desperately, that the thought of letting you go makes him his own worst enemy. And he does, doesn’t he? He wants you so badly that you’re almost scared. 

But you like it. Love it, even. You fucking love that he needs you, and you want him to need you so badly he might just die without you. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to his shoulders. He lets go just long enough to pull his arms up and let you take it off of him, tossing it to the ground before your fingers run your nails along the hard plane of his abs. He shivers, letting out a soft, barely-there sound at the feeling. “Don’t let me go. Ever.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” he grins. Phainon leans in again, kissing you impatiently like being away from you for that short period of time was enough to have him on edge. Maybe it does because he only melts and relaxes when his lips are against yours again. His fingers trail to the edge of your pants, toying with the waistband as you quiver at the feeling of his rough fingertips rubbing against the skin of your belly. 

“Need you,” you whine.

“You got me,” he reassures, “just wanna take my time, yeah? You can handle that, can’t you? Let me have a little fun with you so I cheer up before I fuck you right against this door?”

You whimper. He’s mean sometimes, too. He’s so, so nice, but sometimes, it’s like a switch flips, and he’s mean. Not cruel—just teasingly mean to keep you on your toes and have you falling apart for him. It’s so mean, but it’s so careful and thoughtful and meant just for you—like he thinks only about you. 

“Just hold onto me, okay, baby?” he asks gently, pecking your lips, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Before you can even ask what that means, he drops down to his knees, spreading yours and pulling your pants and underwear down in one go, helping them off your legs as they get thrown somewhere in the back along with his shirt. You realize exactly why you need to hold on as soon as a finger prods your entrance, splitting your folds open as he peers into them and hums at the way you’re wet and slick. You gasp, grabbing onto the nearest thing—which happens to be his hair as he chuckles. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “I hardly did anything yet. But don’t worry, you can pull if you need—I don’t mind.”

Just like that, his mouth is between the apex of your thighs, tongue tracing your sweet, precious little clit before he licks a stripe along your folds, humming against your cunt and sending vibrations as you mewl at the feeling. 

“Ph-Painon…fuck—”

He hooks a leg over his shoulder, letting you half sit on him as he props you up and devours you. Devours you like you were the only thing on his mind. Like he was starved and dying in this apartment, and the only thing to sustain him is you. His tongue dips past your folds and fucks into you before pulling away just as quickly and flicking over your clit. Two fingers gently prod at your entrance this time—only they don’t tease you. No, instead, they fill you up and slip into you as far as they go, curling into a sweet, sweet spot in your walls that has your knees wobbling. 

You think you will fall for a moment. You think holding onto his hair and tugging him so harshly is not going to keep you steady, and the weight he takes as he props you up on a shoulder, is not going to hold you.

But he makes good on his promise. He doesn’t let you fall or slip for even a fraction, even as your legs get weaker and your orgasm draws nearer. 

“‘M close, Phai—s-so close,” you whimper. 

He pulls away. With a smug, stupid little grin, he looks up at you as you stare down in disbelief. “Say you care about me.”

“What is wrong with you—”

“Ah ah, that’s not what the magic words are!”

“Phainon—”

“That’s not a bad guess, but still not the right answer!”

“Fucking hell,” you hiss, “I care about you, asshole.”

“A little more aggressive than necessary, but I will accept it,” he hums, rewarding you with a soft kiss to your clit. “Now tell me you know I care about you. That I want you, and I want to stay.” 

“Phainon,” you plead, “please, can’t we do this later?”

“No,” he says firmly, “because then it’s just getting physical, and I am not getting physical. I am getting intimate. Tell me what I want to hear so there’s no mistaking things.”

He’s throwing your words right back at your face. And the only way you’re going to get what you want is if you own up to them, even if it’s against your will. So you do. With an exasperated sigh, you tell him what he wants to hear.

“I know you care about me,” you say impatiently, “I know you care, and you want me, and you want to stay, and god knows you’re not good at leaving me alone, so I guess I will just have to get used to you.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, giving your clit one more kiss before he’s back to lapping at your cunt like he’s parched. Your slick coats his chin and makes his skin glisten as he traces your clit with his tongue, curling his fingers just right into your heat. They brush against that spot again—he has it perfectly memorized, and just like that, you fall apart, gushing around his fingers and coating his lips with even more of your essence. 

“Fuck,” you sob, grinding against his face as you ride out the shockwaves of pleasure, feeling him groan against you right where you need him. 

He lets you stay like that for just a moment, resting half your weight on his shoulder and half your weight on one leg before he abruptly stands and grabs your waist, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around his hips. You’ve done this before—at that point, you’d considered it just any other step to getting physical with someone. 

Now, you realize you were beyond oblivious to how much you needed it to only be him you were doing all these motions with. It almost feels silly. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grins.

“What?”

“I don’t want you against the door anymore. I want you on the bed—my bed. And you’re staying there, and you’re going to like it.”

You laugh, breaking into a fit of giggles as he jogs over to his room with you in his arms. And when he drops you unceremoniously only to the bed, flopping on top of you and attacking your neck with kisses, you can’t help but break into another fit of giggles, feeling his playful nibbles and licks against your skin. It feels so easy. So natural. Only with Phainon, you realize. Only ever with Phainon. 

“Hi,” you breathe when his forehead presses to yours. 

He gives you a bright, toothy grin, murmuring, “Hi, yourself, pretty.”

And then he's kissing you again. His lips are soft and slow this time around. Pressing against your mouth, slotting into the space like it’s his to fit into—and it is. It’s always been his, whether you were willing to admit it or not. His tongue glides against yours languidly, no rush or impatience or desperation like usual. This time, he kisses you like you’re his and always have been—like he knows what you taste and feel like, and he knows it’s always been his and always will be. He kisses you like he’s reminding you of it, one painstakingly slow second at a time. 

“You broke my fucking heart,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice raw and vulnerable but never not soft, “you know that? You broke my fucking heart.”

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the erratic beating of it under your palm as you whisper, “Seems like it’s working perfectly well to me.”

He chuckles at that. Lets out another toothy grin before he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s cute and precious and so fucking sweet—he sounds just like what he is. Tooth rotting sweet.

“You’re always so smart with your words,” he drawls, pressing wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

One hand slowly pulls your shirt up, inch by inch, before you slowly help him take it off of you. The bra comes off next, and you’re bare—under him as nothing else but his. Nothing else that covers or keeps what’s his away from him. 

And when you eye his pants with a petulant, pouty look, he chuckles before throwing you an amused look as he takes them off slowly, not taking his eyes off of you.

You and Phainon have fucked. But you’ve never been intimate—not by the real standards, at least. The proper kind where you take the time to really take in each other’s bodies, commit each dip and curve to memory, know it inside out and like the back of your hand. Where that scar starts and ends from his childhood shenanigans, where your little moles scatter along your body in hidden crevices. And when he slowly frees his cock, and you can really stare without having to tell yourself you shouldn't, you take a good look. 

You take a good look at the flush of his pretty cock—pretty, just like the rest of him. A nice, soft, muted pink at the tip that oozes with the beginnings of pre cum, and it’s sensitive as it twitches under your delicate thumb when you smear the dribbling essence along the head of his cock. 

“Mmh,” he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, fluttering his eyes closed and panting as you touch him. Feel him. Want him. 

You finally want him, and it’s almost enough to make him spill into your hand alone. But he forces himself to composure, grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head—and then goes the other. He holds them in place with one large hand, watching as you squirm under him impatiently. 

“No touching,” he whispers, “first, I’m gonna teach you not to take me for granted. Then you’ll never want to take your hands off of me.”

“If you just ask me nicely, I’ll never take my hands off of you,” you offer. 

He laughs, boyish and charming and so fucking smooth, you feel something flutter at the base of your stomach. Something stirring in your guts and twisting them inside out in anticipation. “Persuasive,” he hums, “but I still have to teach you not to take me for granted.”

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, your wrists struggle against his hands to break free. You need to feel him—to know he’s there against you and real. To feel his hair and tug and hear him groan in response. To scratch along his back and feel his warm, damp skin, the way he shivers under the pain and likes it. To pull him closer and feel him practically melt against you at the gesture. 

You want to feel him. Because you need to know he’s yours. And you never, ever want to take for granted Phainon again. Your Phainon. The nice, sweet, gentle boy who stole your charger for a day to get your number. Who knew before you knew, long before you were ever willing to know, that he would love you. Even when you didn’t want to, he did it from a distance. And when he thought you finally would, that you’d finally let it happen, he still did it quietly, stripped of labels and titles even though he wanted to announce it to the world. 

For you. Everything was always for you. 

“Please, Phai,” you plead, “please, please, please—let me touch you.”

“Yeah? You want that, huh?” he grins, pretending to think for a moment before he hums, “tell me why.”

“So I can feel you and know you’re mine,” you lean up and breathe against his ear, “don’t you want to be mine?”

It’s a silly question. It’s all he’s ever wanted, so he gives it to you easily. Lets your hands go and lets them wander over his sculpted body as he sinks deeper into you—no more taking his sweet time to draw out the teasing. He’s impatient now—just as impatient as you. Maybe even more. He’s been waiting longer than you have to make this happen. To take you and make you his and have you admit that he’s yours, too. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he sinks the final few inches of this thick, girthy length, “fuck you’re so fucking tight. You feel that? Feel me? How deep I am?”

“Yes,” you mewl, “yes—so deep. F-feel so full. You feel so good.”

He groans at that, pulling out almost completely before slamming his hips into yours, cock burying deep into you and burying to the hilt. The tip of his sensitive length kisses against that sweet, delicate spot against your walls—your spot that he knows and memorizes so easily. 

He knows you. Knows your body. He’s felt it so many times under him and made it react for him the way he wants, but finally—fucking finally, it reacts to him and only him. He knows it’s him and only him. Only ever will be if he has anything to say about it. 

“God, you drive me insane. So insane, you know that?” he grunts, rolling his hips hard and fast and drilling into you like he has something to prove. Every slam of his hips and every brush of his cock along your sensitive folds makes you pull him closer, kissing him hungrily—desperately. So needy. 

You need him. You’ve always needed this—someone to want you and need you and find you worth it to stay. How could you think Phainon didn’t want to stay when he was so clearly happy with just pieces of you because you didn’t want to give the full of you? When he stayed and stayed and stayed and happily took the little shards you dropped, even if they were sharp, and cut his fingers because they were pieces of you. When he was just happy to have you whichever way you let him because it was you. 

All he wanted was you. You get that now. You’re not going to forget. 

“‘M close,” you pant, breathing against his mouth, “g-gonna cum. With me…with me, please.”

“Yeah? Whatever you want, princess,” he groans. 

His hand moves to find your clit, rubbing quick circles as his own pace quickens, and you can feel the telltale signs that both of you are not going to last much longer. He lets out a particularly deep, sharp thrust—and you’re gone. 

Plummeting off the edge in a hazy fall. You mewl his name, chanting it over and over and over as your walls constrict around him tightly. Spasm around him uncontrollably. And your fall coaxes him into his own. He falls into his release with a soft, drawn-out moan of your name, hot, thick seed filling you up through quick ropes of cum. His cock twitches with each rope, painting your insides white with him. 

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “so fucking good—you were made for me. Only me. Knew…knew you were perfect for me since the first day.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him as close as he can get without physically merging into your bones. His head tucks into your neck, and you both ride out the aftershocks of your highs. You feel him breathe, and he listens to your soft breaths, and it’s just you and Phainon. Phainon and you.

It always has been.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles tiredly after a while, sleepy words said through a petulant warning. 

You chuckle, kissing his sweaty forehead as you promise, “I won’t.”

“Good. Won’t let you.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Your own eyes start to grow heavy with exhaustion, slowly fluttering closed until—

“Who’s that?” you look at him in confusion as you hear an incessant knocking on the door. 

He chuckles sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Ah,” he sighs, “right. That’s…that’s just Mydei. He’s coming to make sure I eat instead of starving to death from sadness.”

You blink, and then you throw your head back, laughing loudly. He watches you for a moment, smiling softly at the sound of you flooding his space. “You’re hopeless, Phainon.”

“Am not!”

“Go tell Mydei to leave and that you’re alive.”

“...Okay.”

Idk what this is. It’s 10k words of pure babbling and hardly a single coherent thought. I’m sorry dfksksjr this isn’t my best work but . I needed to get him out of my system

I also think writing a reader that is younger than me and navigates life and its challenges through a less mature and experienced lens was a fun project. She is not perfect but she is certainly a human who is trying her best and wants to be loved and I think that’s endearing

[captorcorp]

ough i dont want to work. i want to read research studies about dreams and daydream about video games...

[marshmallowloves]

aren't you an adult? why are you shipping yourself with a teenager lol

None of the main cast in Scarlet and Violet have canonical ages, and Pokémon games tend to be pretty ambiguous about that in the first place. It's especially vague this time around, given that Naranja/Uva Academy have students ranging from tiny little kids to old men, meaning the characters we're shown could be anywhere in between (although it is pretty clear the four protags aren't like, in their 30s or anything).

Similar to what I told that other anon, if Nintendo/Game Freak come out and explicitly reveal his age and it turns out he's not an adult, then I'll drop my ship with him full stop, no questions asked. Until then, all we can really do is make headcanons, and mine is that Arven is in his early 20s. He really doesn't look or act like he's any younger than that, imo. If you headcanon him to be younger than that's your prerogative, but it doesn't mean it's factual just because it conflicts with mine.

Besides, if this is really that much of an issue for you, you may as well go track down and condemn every other adult on the internet who ships with him, ships him with other characters, draws nsfw of him, etc. You'd be pretty busy for a while, though.

[yoiisa]

LOOKS LIKE THE REAL THING ⋆˙⟡ SAE ITOSHI

"And if I could be who you wanted, if I could be who you wanted, All the time, all the time" - "Fake Plastic Trees" by Radiohead Tags: TW for suicide, familial arguments where children get involved, mentions of injuries, and mentions of violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms (repression). MAJOR ANGST, lotta hurt and not a lotta comfort, Rin haunts the narrative and Sae cannot deal with it part 2 here!!

a/n: I do not know what cortex in my brain is responsible for the amount of angst I’ve been craving but she’s been active and I cannot stop. Radiohead brings out the worst and best in people after all so whoopsie! Have fun!

Bear in mind that I’m pretty sure those are all the TWs this fic contains, but just in case I missed any please proceed w this utmost caution! Always put yourself and your mental health first!

It wasn’t a problem at first for Sae. When you’d had your first kid, a daughter, she’d been a carbon copy of you. Her sat at your bedside, her swaddled in his arms as he whispered about how pretty she would be since you were her mom.

You two had named her Yuki, since she was born on the winter solstice. Snow. When that pang had shot through Sae, he thought nothing of it.

That changed the minute he saw his second born- his son. Haru still looked more like you than Sae, but his eyes, that teal color that seemed to rewind time itself. It stopped his heart. Those big round eyes, taking in his father for the first time. Sae almost collapsed.

Haru and Yuki got along well enough, and he was glad. Really, he was. Yuki seemed born to be a big sister. When Haru was still a baby, she’d litter kisses along his head while they played and insisted that she’d help feed him. She helped Haru take his first steps, and was the reason Haru laughed for the first time.

All of the adults that knew the pair would say the same exact thing: “Those two will be friends forever.��

Sae would always swallow the lump in his throat, which somehow would work to soothe his rapidly beating heart.

Everyone used to say the same thing about him and Rin after all when they were his kids’ age. Rin wasn’t around anymore though. He’d been in a car accident. He’d been crossing the street when a semi ran him over, killing him almost instantly. Sae could see his brother’s body still, lying pale and still as stone in his coffin. Those teal eyes would never open again, never stare at him as if he’d single handedly hung the stars in the sky. People would mutter than it was on purpose for years to come, but that couldn’t be true. Sae knew, it was an accident.

And he’d never gotten the chance to apologize for the fight he didn’t even know was happening.

When Haru first started acting like Rin, you had recognized the signs but Sae instantly got put on edge. It started from as young as Haru being six months old. He had been focusing so hard on rolling over onto his stomach. You, Yuki, and Sae had been sitting in the living room, you and your daughter cheering on as Haru struggled. Sae was smiling down at his son, his heart softening, before it gave a tight squeeze. Sae's eyes widened as he saw Haru's tongue peeking out from his lips. The tiny pink thing was pushed off to the side when Haru finally managed to successfully flip onto his stomach. It hung out a little bit as Haru smiled and you laughed at how cute your son was. You used your finger to poke it back in, and Sae felt like he was going to throw up.

Two years later, Yuki had been watching a TV show while Haru played with blocks next to her. She’d gotten up to use the bathroom, but as she did, her show ended and another program started to play. It was a nature documentary about dinosaurs, and it had a particularly gruesome display of a T-Rex taking a chunk out of another animal. Haru was mesmerized, before Sae and you rushed to turn the TV off. Yuki got an earful from you, but Haru instantly began bawling. Sae did his best to comfort his son, but Haru was adamantly crying for the next ten minutes, pointing at the TV that never got turned back on.

A few days later, Sae noticed Haru miming his stuffie dinosaur eating Yuki’s Barbie. Sae just told him to stop playing so violently, and ignored the way his mind was reeling.

When Haru was four, there was one day he and Yuki were eating ice creams in the kitchen during a particularly hot summer day.

“Did you win?” Yuki asked. Her face brightened into a smile as she cheered, “Yes! Got it!”

Haru narrows his eyes as he checks. He pouts and mumbles, “I lost.”

You giggled and petted your son’s head as he complained that I always lose! It’s not fair! Sae made a mental note to never buy that brand of ice cream again.

As you stood at the sink and washed the dishes, Sae walked up beside you and said sourly, “I thought they didn’t do that with the popsicle sticks anymore.”

You just shrugged, unbeknownst to the turmoil he had raging in his chest.

Everything eventually reached a head when Haru was old enough to know what soccer was. He'd been fascinated by his father's games since birth, and one day at the park, he'd raced up to a few older boys and asked if he could play. Initially, he'd just been brushed off, but his nagging got insistent enough that the older kids let him join.

Sae had been pushing Yuki on the swings when he heard the commotion from their group. He'd looked up and saw it then. Haru was shoving one of the boys away from the ball, the older kid shouting about how rough Haru was being. The young boy was ignorant though and played with the same brutality Rin had grown to cultivate though.

He was ruthless to himself. By the time Sae collected Haru to head home, he was covered in dirt stains and was bleeding from scratches all over his arm from the mulch. He had a nasty bruise forming on his shin, and when Yuki panicked, Haru brushed it off.

"Oh, this? One of the older kids accidentally kicked me too hard. But daddy! Did you see that amazing cap trick I scored?! It was just like in your last game!" he squealed.

Those teal eyes. His eyes. Rin's eyes. Haru watched Sae's face with enthusiasm, as if his life and death would be determined by whatever Sae was about to say. They were bright and glowed with the sun making them burn like fire.

Sae could only clear his throat and take Haru's hand in his. "It's called a hat trick. Don't play so rough. Let's go."

But Haru didn't listen. He never would. He pushed himself harder and harder, seeking out anyone who would play soccer with him every time they went to the park. Sae warded Haru off of the sport as best he could, but his son's hunger was insatiable. Haru would join games of middle schoolers some times, despite being barely five years old. Yuki wasn't even ten!

One day, the doorbell to his house had rang. When you and Sae went to the door to check who it was, your heart broke as you saw Haru on one of the boys' backs. Another stood in front and said, "I think he twisted his ankle. He started crying really badly while trying to steal the ball from Ken, and he couldn't walk."

Sae felt a bolt of white hot rage towards his son echo through his body. This is why he kept warning Haru. The game was dangerous especially when playing with people who had you out numbered and outmatched! Why couldn't his son have just gotten that.

Sae was silent on the drive to the doctor's. Yuki sat in the backseat comforting her brother while you kept giving his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel an odd look. On the drive home, Sae couldn't contain himself anymore.

"I told you this would happen, didn't I?" he growled. Yuki goes silent beside her brother and you freeze. Sae presses on. "Haru! Answer me!"

Haru's bottom lip trembles as he croaks, "Yes-"

"Then why wouldn't you listen to me, huh?! How could you be so . . . so . . . stupid!" Sae roars.

When the four of you get home, you scoop Haru into your arms and Sae all but yanks Yuki from the car. You guys walk inside, and Sae fixes a stern glare at his son. He practically hisses, "If I ever see you go near a soccer ball again, you'll pay hell, do you understand?"

Haru could only nod, terrified of his father's iciness. His teal eyes wet with tears that are now freely running down his face. Whereas his eyes used to be wide with awe before, they're now wide with horror and fear. Haru trembles and clutches his dinosaur plushie close to his chest.

When Sae looks up, he almost flinches at how horrifying angry your expression is.

"Yuki, take Haru upstairs. Your father and I need to talk."

Sae doesn't bother to check if his kids actually leave. He hears their footsteps on the stairs and that's enough for the two of you to start going at it like lions. Father of your kids or not, no one speaks to your son or daughter that way.

"What the fuck was that Sae?" you ask incredulously. "How fucking dare you call him stupid!"

"He was," Sae's voice is low and menacing. "He was being stupid and callous with his health and look at where it got him! You saw how swollen that ankle of his was!"

"And you saw how heartbroken you made your son, didn't you?" you shout brushing past Sae and into the kitchen. "He looks up to you you idiot. You're his dream. You should know that by now!"

"If he really did, he would've listened the first time I told him to give up! His dream isn't worth getting hurt over, not like I did-"

"Sae shut up!" you scream. "He's not Rin!"

Sae freezes. "The fuck did you just say?!"

"You heard me loud and clear! He's. Not. Rin."

"How fucking dare you-"

"You think I haven't noticed it too?! I knew Rin too!"

"NOT LIKE ME!" Sae roars, his voice cracking. "NOT LIKE HOW I DID!"

He crowds your space, and you stumble back against the counter. "You knew this whole time," Sae growls, "and you've just been letting me suffer in my loathing all alone?!"

"You have never been alone with me, and you know that," you retort, just as venomously. "If you never came to me with your sorrow, then how the hell was I supposed to help?"

"Shut up!" he shouts. You've never seen Sae this unhinged before. He's unraveling at the seams. "Shut up!"

His baby brother. The truck. It's all he can think of whenever he sees Haru. He's had so many nightmares of Haru's body lying in that coffin or on that street, his limbs bent every which way, his teal eyes-

His eyes. The eyes that would flutter closed as Sae would read him a bedtime story, or would light up whenever Sae made an assist for a goal in a game, or would collect tears when Yuki said no to playing together.

Those same eyes stare back at Sae in the mirror with loathing etched into every crease of his iris. Sae feels his self-hatred in every fraction of his body. His heart is full of it and his brain echoes it across his entire nervous system. He's alight with pain all the time, and he's tired.

He can't stand to stare into his eyes a second longer. Rin's eyes. Haru's eyes.

Haru's eyes are staring up at him now.

"Haru get back here!" Yuki shouts yanking on her little brother's arm.

But Haru doesn't move, he doesn't even flinch, twisted ankle and all. He stands in front of you protectively, his little 3 feet a solid wall from his father's rage.

"Don't yell at her!" he sobs, his cheeks covered in tears.

"Go upstairs Haru," Sae says lowly.

Haru shakes his head, even as you repeat Sae's sentiment. "No! Not if you're going to yell!

"Haru-!"

"Why do you hate me so much?!" Haru asks hysterically, his voice high pitched and squeaky. "What did I do?! I don't know what I did!"

Sae steps back as if he got punched. Haru's entire body is shaking with tremors as he continues to cry. He shakes his head and sobs, "You look at me different than you do Yuki or Mama! You look like you want me to run away and never ever come back! You look at me like you want me to do nothing forever, and be nothing! Sometimes I wish I was never born!"

"Haru!" you shout in horror. You kneel down and try to take your son into your arms, to provide him with some comfort, but Haru shoves away from you and takes a step towards Sae, who's recoiling from his son in horror.

"What did I do, daddy?!" he asks desperately. "Why do you hate me?!"

A deafening silence fills the kitchen. You and Yuki watch helplessly as Haru cries himself stupid. His tears stain the tiles on the floor and wet his shirt. Snot runs from his nose as he watches Sae with those same haunting eyes.

Eventually, Yuki whispers, "Haru, let's go upstairs, please. Daddy doesn't hate you, let's please just go upstairs."

Haru turns just a little, ready to follow his sister, but suddenly Sae falls to his knees. You and your kids flinch at his anguished expression, the one that has seen a lifetime of pain despite just barely being halfway through his life. Sae is sobbing uncontrollably, a sight you've never seen. Not when you got married, not when you had Yuki or Haru, not even when Rin died. Although now, it seems that pain is finally rearing its ugly head.

"I . . . I don't- fuck. Haru, no," Sae moans, grieved. He crawls across the floor and immediately takes his son into his arms, crushing him against his chest. "I'd never hate you. I'll never hate you. I'll love you forever and ever and ever. I'm so sorry. Daddy's so sorry. Forgive me please. You can play soccer. You can watch TV and fight with your dinosaurs and do everything you ever want, but please Haru never think that Daddy hates you because he doesn't. He doesn't. I don't. My boy. My sweet baby boy."

Sae's breath is coming in short intervals now, on the verge of hyperventilating. He squeezes his son tighter against his shirt and sobs into Haru's hair. "Never. Never ever. I'll never hate you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Forgive me. Please forgive me. Daddy loves you. I love you. I love you, forever and ever. I love you. I love you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry-"

His breath hitches as you tilt Sae's head up to look at you. You're not smiling down at him, but your eyes hold a softness they were void of just moments before. Sae's own eyes are wild and messy, muddy with his tears. Haru is curled up in his father's arms, crying into his dad's chest.

You put your hand on Haru's shoulder and begin prying your son from his dad, but Sae holds fast, desperate to not let go of his boy. His only boy. His sweet baby boy.

God, what has he done?

Eventually, Sae lets go of Haru, and you give your son to your daughter. "Both of you, upstairs. I'll come tuck you in soon, okay?"

They nod, and Yuki hurries upstairs, carrying Haru in her arms. You turn back to your husband and cup his cheek in your hand.

"Relax for a moment. Then come upstairs. I'll be in our bedroom. We need to talk."

"I'm sorry," he blurts, grabbing your wrist. "I'm-"

You kiss his forehead and he falls silent. "Shh, we'll talk later. Just . . . we both need to cool down first, okay?" When Sae nods, you smile the tiniest of smiles, and head upstairs as well.

He sits in the silence for an hour, a day, a week, who knows really? Eventually, Sae heads upstairs. He walks down the hallway to your bedroom, but pauses when he sees the light on in Haru's bedroom. Haru's scared of the dark after all, and falls asleep with the lights on, for you or Sae to come later and turn them off.

When Sae cracks open the door, Haru is asleep in his race car bed, his dinosaur tucked under his chin. Sae's heart almost gives out as he walks into his son's room. You left the light on on purpose, for Sae to do this now. He flicks the switch to the lamp off and kisses Haru's head, petting his hair with his hand.

His son. His only son. He's fucked things up so badly hasn't he? Just like with Rin.

Sae sobs again and shakes his head. He stays there, kneeling next to Haru for another horrible minute, before standing and making his way to your bedroom. You're sitting with your back to the headboard, your knees drawn up to your chest, staring down at your hands. You look up as he walks in, and Sae closes the door behind him, shutting the rest of the world out to the two of you.

a/n: ill prob write a part two at some point which delves more into Sae and Rins relationship . . .

[loganficsonly]

an independent woman

˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ch 1: moving in ✮ ˖⁺‧₊˚

worst!logan x fem!reader, 3.4k SUMMARY: As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with you—Wade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his. <vs> You're proud of being self-sufficient: moving alone to New York, supporting yourself with a stable job, balancing a social life with your friends... until Wade brings Logan into your life. Someone who, unbeknownst to you, will crack the very foundations of your identity, for better or for worse. WARNINGS/TAGS: english is not my native language, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult (mid-late 20s) with a slightly written out personality, friends to lovers, slow burn, secret crushes, SLIGHT ANGST, cursing/swearing, breaking the fourth wall, eye contact lmfao, this author cannot stop using italics, domestic situations?, there will be no shoes indoors AUTHOR'S NOTE: thank you for all the love for this series so far! i appreciate every single reblog/reply/what have you <3 hoping my motivation will be enough to see this through lmao

The first time you saw Logan smile, your heartbeat stuttered a little. 

It must’ve been one of Wade’s movie nights, the first few you attended. You hadn’t known Logan long at this point in time, much less Laura. While trying to get a glass of water, you found them standing by the kitchen counter, drinks in their hands, Laura talking about something that was undoubtedly pleasing to him. 

Because then you saw it.

Not the terse pull of his lip that he does when confronted with a funny moment in the movie that’s playing—was it Shaun of the Dead or The World’s End? A genuine smile, quietly offered to the younger woman standing to his side. An expression you’d never seen before on him, so much rarer than a comet in the sky that you found your inhale seizing midway.

You felt like you interrupted something private. You turned around quietly and decided you weren’t that thirsty.

Just like that, he was no longer “Wade’s friend”. He became the metaphorical pea that you can’t help but feel, no matter how many layers of thought-mattresses you try to sleep on. 

And as if he wasn’t captivating enough from the get-go, he had to be sweet, too. The fact that he doesn’t just show that face to anyone ignited a tiny spark of something in you.

Something akin to greed.

What exactly does it take to see more of that smile?

Now you are, for most cases, pretty self-aware. Nobody lives past their mid-twenties without physically sensing their prefrontal cortex finally settle down, instead of squirming around so much.

You knew that that moment you saw him smile, there was a neurological reaction. Maybe it was your hormones—god knows it’s always the hormones—or your soft spot for older men who are trying their best.

Regardless, there was a reaction. You’ve experienced this before, but despite its familiarity, it never fails to make you nervous every time it makes itself known.

A goddamn crush is what it is.

Since you saw that smile, you’re certain you started seriously crushing on Logan. Funny how that happened right after witnessing a man like him show a sliver of emotional honesty.

At surface level, the symptoms surely match. A mix of excitement and nerves when Wade mentions his name among the dinner attendees. Hoping you don’t smell when the object of your infatuation decides to sit next to you on the couch. The sense of curiosity, even for the most trivial things: the kind that wonders if he liked that brand of popcorn you brought the last movie night. 

So when Wade offers Logan as tribute to become your new roommate, you figure the jig is up.

Because someone always notices a crush, no matter how hard you try to cover it up.

Now Wade, he’s a manchild, but he’s an observant one. That means he’s probably already picked up on it, and he’s definitely not above using that knowledge against you.

You hum as you look over at Logan for his reaction. Stay calm, you tell yourself. Nobody needs to know your internal organs are screaming on a roller coaster ride right now.

At least the older man didn’t respond with an outright ‘ew, no’ and you count that as a small win. He appears to actually be giving Wade’s suggestion a serious thought, silently chewing on his donut. The sight pulls Wade’s mottled lips into a cheeky grin.

You don’t miss that look. It’s the same look as the one he had after he told you, months ago, that he swapped Al’s coke with baking soda.

It means he’s up to something. The son of a bitch isn’t even trying to hide it.

Logan’s eyes suddenly snap to yours, and you nearly jump in your skin. His eyebrows are raised slightly as if saying ‘are you seriously okay with this?’

A split second decision.

Do you or do you not agree to potentially sharing a living space with this man? He’d be a good roommate if he weren’t already squatting in your head—you just couldn’t charge him rent for occupying so much of your mind. 

Perhaps the more important question to ask at this juncture is: can you? You’ve let your crushes wither and die because it’s always been so easy to keep your distance. Their classes were on the other side of campus. They took a different train home. They often occupied an entirely different world than you do, one that you always decided you’d never belong in, anyway.

Which is why maybe it’s ego that tells you you can.

It’s just living with your crush, how hard could it be? There’s going to be plenty of distance. He has a job. Well, so do you. With his irregular work schedule and your regularly overtimed one, you probably won’t see much of each other anyway. Hell, maybe the two of you would fight over something so menial that it would stomp this fluttery feeling dead, and you can continue halving the rent with a friend. Problem solved.

But you can’t deny the fragment of something warm in your chest, quieter than the empty echoes within your raised walls. It tugs at you, almost imperceptibly.

Hope.

Not the kind that’s gentle and wispy and wears a soft smile—the crazy stupid kind that’s lost all its teeth but gets up to fight again. The kind that still dares you to dream despite being bruised and battered. 

It tells you to admit you’re curious enough to see where this takes you.

So you reply to Logan's look with a nonchalant one of your own, paired with a slight head tilt.

‘Only if you are.’

Your gaze shifts to Wade, seeing that he’s registered that bit of eye contact between you and Logan. There’s a glimmer in the merc’s eyes that says ‘I know your fucking secreeet’ in his sing-songy voice that you can just hear, but that could also just be you projecting your internal fears, now that you’ve sealed the deal.

You shoot a withering glare back at Wade.

Then it’s total quiet.

The prolonged silence almost makes you want to diffuse it with a defeated sigh and tell them you’ll ask around instead, maybe even put up an ad online, but Logan’s voice cuts it before you can even uncross your arms. 

“Can Laura come over?”

Your heart jumps. He’s already thinking that far ahead? 

“Of course,” you reply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You love her. 

That was the only thing he asks you before he purses his lips, and—

“So we gonna split the rent in half, or?”

—and then that. You expect a more disgruntled confirmation, but he’s being… almost professional about it. Cutting to the chase, getting things aligned, talking numbers. You’re thankful for the way he’s approaching the proposition, as it activates your own work switch. Easy to hide your feelings behind a conversation about bills and co-living arrangements.

“Man, this fic better be good,” Wade mutters under his breath as you and Logan discuss hygiene standards. 

“Huh?”

What Wade suggested is both a blessing and curse. To Logan, living like you sounds like the best of Heaven and the worst of Hell.

Heaven because then he’ll finally know what lotion you use to smell so damn good all the time. Hell because he’d rather cut his own head off than perceive that you’ve brought a man back home to spend the night with.

But despite the situation, the logical part of his brain is still intact… somehow. Whether or not it’s a good idea, it’s still an opportunity worth considering. Thoughts of moving out have percolated in his mind before: he’s slightly worried he’s ruining Wade’s chances with Vanessa, and it’s not fun having to vacate the premises whenever they have a date night planned. Those two are loud in bed.

Much like Wade’s self-proclaimed brilliant idea, his heightened senses also always toed the line between blessing and curse.

Being able to see, hear, and smell things much better than average humans has saved his ass many a time in life-threatening situations, but sometimes it gets overwhelming.

Which is why he’s trained himself to tune in and out. Keeps him calm. Informed.

This makes him feel like a pervert, because it doesn’t matter if he’s supposed to watch a movie or listen to Dopinder’s story about whatever fuck. When you’re around, he can’t stop tuning in to you. It takes everything in him to not just glance at you every five seconds, like a fucking puppy. Always honing into you in a crowded room: your laugh, a little bit of what you’re talking about before he scolds himself for eavesdropping, your heartbeat…

Your heartbeat is usually a steady thing. Average bpm for someone your age.

Now, though, it’s a little faster. Became faster when Wade offered him up as your new roommate out of the blue.  

It’s not like he’s knowingly monitoring your heart rate, he just… heard it.

The same way he always hears your voice clearly over the din chatter of the party while you’re on the other side of the room. The same way he knew you’re seconds from knocking on Wade’s door when you came over, because he can smell your perfume and the box of sweet treats you have with you.

Like a hypnotized cartoon character levitating towards a fragrant pie on a windowsill. That’s how he fucking feels when you’re around.

So now he can’t help but wonder what’s got your heart beating faster. Can’t help but think, speculate, wish, that it’s because there’s a chance you’ll have him as your roommate.

You’ve always been slightly guarded around him, though not at all unfriendly—so perhaps that signals a deeper, more complicated sentiment? Something similar to the twist in his chest he so often experiences? The feeling an old fucking relic like himself shouldn’t have?

The conversation has moved on to habits, making sure there are no red flags. Smoking? He hasn’t done it in a while but he’ll use the fire escape. Dishes? You agree that there shouldn’t be any dirty ones in the sink before bed. No shoes in the house? He’ll take ‘em off, no big deal.

He doesn’t even realize how easily he’s agreeing to these things. If it means moving in with you? Sure.

Guests?

“Please tell me you’re going to host,” Wade coaxes.

“Only if you bring Mary Puppins along,” you reply. “And you need to make sure Althea doesn’t bring her drugs here.” Logan scoffs softly in amusement.

And just like that, as if you weren’t talking about a possibly life-altering decision, the conversation shifts into something playful. Wade is running his mouth off about being such a great co-living Cupid. Logan doesn’t register half the words.

He hears you laugh dryly before chewing on your donut. Vanilla glaze, your preferred, as far as his observations go. Logan observes a thoughtful silence on your end, before you finally speak.

“I’ve never had a guy roommate before,” you say, looking out the window wistfully like you just realized this but a second ago.

That was it, then. The reason why your heart rate spiked. Had to be it. 

Wade chuckles. “Well, honeybee, get ready to argue over the toilet seat being up all the time—”

Logan tunes Wade out completely and finishes his donut, one with chocolate frosting, trying to override the hint of a bitter taste in his mouth. 

Of course. You’re only nervous about sharing a living space with a guy.

He is a guy, a sample out of a bigger group. You could be moving in with fucking Peter and you’d probably be just as nervous. 

He didn’t know what came over him, how he let himself think for one second that it could’ve been attraction.

You, a grown woman who’s got herself together, who keeps getting treats for your friends because you think of them while passing by random shops on the street, who smells so good, who coos at Mary Puppins despite a scratchy lick to the face… you, attracted to him?

He feels ashamed of himself.

Before the voices get louder—she’s probably scared of living with a drunk brute like you; too polite to say no to Wade, much less you, disgusting son of a—he abruptly declares that he needs the bathroom. 

He ignores the way your eyes stare at his back as he disappears down the hallway.

After that day, Logan discovers that his self-loathing still doesn’t stand a chance against the sheer longing for excuses to be near you. 

Logan looks around your now bare apartment, your belongings in cardboard boxes scattered around the living room. One glance at a box next to him shows that they’re labelled and sealed. Kitchenware. Shoes. The one marked Books even has a little paper pasted on it, listing down its contents. 

He looks around the space. He’s never been here before. Sure, he’s returned your Tupperwares on behalf of Wade (an excuse) and helped carry your groceries that one time he bumped into you in the elevator (another excuse), but he hasn’t been inside. Back then, you seemingly insisted on toeing the line between treating him as Wade’s friend or as yours, and he didn’t want to scare you off by pushing boundaries.

Now it’s barely an apartment. With all your belongings in boxes, he can’t exactly figure out the type of place you like to live in. Things you use as decoration. How many Tupperwares you own. How you live.

Only a couch that faces an empty wall. The dining table and kitchen counters, bereft of books or fruit bowls that he thinks you might have. No clues as to how you pass your days and nights. Just a place that is ready to be abandoned.

He swallows. Amidst the little grief of not knowing much about your life here, there’s a warm sensation in his chest at the fact that he’ll have the chance to discover it through living with you. 

You emerge from what he thinks is the bedroom, carrying a box and placing it with the others.

“Logan! You’re early. U-haul won’t be here till two.” 

He nods politely at you. You’re pretty in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

“Packed up in half an hour, thought you might need a hand.”

“I’m just about done here,” you announce, tapping your phone. With that last box accounted for, the checklist on your Notes app is all crossed out.

His eyebrows scrunch, and his lip pulls in a teasing smirk. “That a list?”

“Yeah,” you reply, though there’s an unspoken ‘what’s wrong with that?’

“Did you assign a deadline for each box, too?” he adds. Shit, that’s the most amount of playfulness he’s ever injected in a sentence since he arrived in this timeline.

You put a hand on your hip, staring back at him with a jokingly flat look. “It’s a packing list, Logan. Everyone has it when moving out.”

He smiles then, deciding that’s enough teasing. He quietly approaches you, remnants of mirth in his eyes before grabbing one of the boxes next to you.

“The movers can handle that,” you tell him.

“’s fine,” he replies, easily hauling a big box and gently placing it near the front door for easy access.

You can’t help but stare at the simple show of strength. You know he’s a mutant—you’ve just never seen him do anything that betrays his powers before.

Eyes dart to the bulge of his biceps. An almost instinctive reaction. They’re huge under his white tee, the fabric hugging his figure for dear life. His usual flannels look great on him, but this is something else. How can a person’s arms be that big?

You snap out of it when he returns to grab a second box.

“Logan, you don’t have to,” you chide. He simply pretends not to hear you. You huff, unable to stop him, and shove your phone into your pocket before starting to move the boxes yourself, though not nearly as effortlessly as he does. 

He shoots you a scolding look, but lets you be stubborn. It’s cute, that slight pout of yours.

The two of you end up in a silent competition of ‘who can bring the most boxes near the front door’, completely disregarding the fact that the movers are going to load them onto their truck anyway.

Obviously Logan wins. Without breaking a sweat, too, a direct contrast to your slightly pink cheeks, a thin layer of sweat forming on your neck. That’s his prize. He watches as you wipe a bead of sweat with the back of your hand. And the “thank you” you murmur also doesn’t hurt.

Twenty minutes later, U-Haul arrives, surprised at how neatly the boxes are stacked at the front door. 

The rest of the afternoon passes by in a blur of cardboard boxes and furniture being moved into your new unit. 

Logan’s eyes sweep over the bare place for the first time. He trusted in your assessment that much.

It’s a two-bedder, just right for two adults. The door opens to a short entryway, before the space broadens to reveal an open area that is the living room, a couch already placed in the center of it with a flat-screen television on the wall it’s facing. On the furthest end, near the windows, sits a small round dining table and two chairs. Looking to the right is a kitchen and a hallway with three doors—one on each side and one at the end. The two bedrooms and a bathroom, he assumes.

Picking a bedroom takes up a total of two minutes.

“Which one do you want?” he asks.

You look at him like you were expecting him to pick first.

“Um. I was thinking you should get the one near the fire escape,” you reply. “So you can smoke?”  

Of course, how considerate of you. “You okay with the other one?” he says. 

“Mm-hmm. It’s perfect, actually.”

After that’s settled, he carries your work desk into your chosen bedroom before you could even think of doing it yourself, proud to elicit the surprised look on your face when you find that it’s already been moved. 

The two of you decide that some clean-up is needed in order for you to unpack some essentials. Dividing and conquering, you volunteer yourself to give the kitchen and bedrooms a good wipedown, leaving Logan with the rest of the communal area and the bathroom.

From there, it’s go time. You and Logan work in silence. The bedrooms are easily taken care of, what with the lack of personal items cluttering the space. Clearing both yours and his in about half an hour, you emerge from the hallway to hear the whirring of a vacuum cleaner. From the sounds you heard while cleaning up, it didn’t take long for Logan to finish spraying down the bathroom, either, because now he’s in the living room.

One hand on the vacuum, the other on his hip, walking across the room with his gaze locked on the floor. 

You feel a tug in your chest as the sight stops you in your tracks. It’s your first time seeing him do something so… homely. 

The realization dawns, slow and steady into your bloodstream: you and Logan are going to be living together.

The sun sets, bathing the living room in pink hues. He instantly understands why you like this place so much. It’s only a few blocks away from Wade’s, but the sunlight changes so much of the scenery, it feels like he’s peering out the window at a different city. 

A little surreal, how changing just the last digit of a zip code can feel like a different world. He should know—he moved from a whole other timeline.

He spies a little cafe across the street. Trees lining up the roads on this block, more than Wade’s. Someone’s walking their dog. Maybe there’s a park further down. 

He’s so deep in thought that he hears footsteps outside only moments before the doorbell rings, breaking his reverie. 

You rush to the door before he can even turn off the vacuum. Sneaky—looks like you ordered pizza behind his back.

“Finish up soon?” you ask, setting the boxes on the nearby dining table. It takes him three minutes to pace the room one more time and put the vacuum aside.

He joins you after washing his hands. You’ve helped yourself to a slice, chewing quietly as he sits across you. 

When he looks at the array of boxes, he sees his favorite toppings. And yours. 

“My treat.” You smile sweetly at him. “Thanks for helping me move, roomie.”

A stutter in his heartbeat.

Yep. He’s in trouble.

taglist: @squishyfruitloop @britttzy267 @tezooks @ddwnghead @dear-detested

next chapter

[jedisupernova]

compress, repress (part i) — kwon jiyong & choi seunghyun

summary california is many different things to many different people. to seunghyun, it was simply another place to call the shots. to jiyong, it was an extension of the echo-chamber he's been stuck in since sentience. to you, it was a chance to fulfill your self-prescribed fate—until you unintentionally upended the lives of two strangers, and in turn, your own.

notes minors dni contains challengers au, fem reader, unabashedly plus sized reader as i am myself but anyone can read, establishing lore and dynamics, takes place in the mid 2000s (hence mentions of certain music, technology, media etc.), everyone is a college senior, tennisplayer!jiyong and tennisplayer!seunghyun; reader is head of the debate team, mentions of drinking and smoking, angst (all three are at times depicted as not the greatest of people, love triangle, inferiority complex, yearning, rivalry brewing on and off court, cockiness, selfishness, greed, deception), smut (for my girls who know: the hotel room scene, wet dream, foreplay m receiving; sub!jiyong, suffocating sexual tension), i don't know anything about professional sports so pls dont laugh at me, if you went to stanford and are reading this not youre not, inevitable typos.

author's note welcome to part i of my challengers au!! this has been a long time in the making. a brief disclaimer: these are only characters; in no way do i claim either would act this way in real life. happy (belated) anniversary to the film that changed me forever. if you haven't seen it, you should. get tucked in a comfortable, because this is long. i did my big one with this. see you next friday for pt ii 🎾

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv

jiyong’s earliest memory is being mistaken for seunghyun’s younger brother. he was six years old—his only worry in the world whether he would be handed a cherry or grape popsicle at the neighborhood block party. to his luck, he was handed the former. his mother ripped the plastic off for him, leaving him to his business whilst swinging his feet in a lawn chair. “no!” he giggled sweetly when a classmate asked him the silly question. “hyun is my friend.” his childhood lisp caused him to drop the first half of his best friend’s name until a speech pathologist whipped him into shape before middle school. but even then, at such an early age, jiyong remembers feeling resentment. was he being dramatic for a kindergartener? yes. he gets it from his father.

he remembers leaning his short stature to the left, spotting seunghyun across the cul-de-sac, carrying a plate of food with his mother walking beside him. he stared so long his popsicle started melting down his palm, quickly wiping the light red syrup on his shirt before his mother could scold him. their families did everything together. it was a reflection of many shared experiences: immigrating to a new country, establishing their footing, and making a name for themselves. the last task was naturally passed down to jiyong and seunghyun—both the only child of their respective families—brothers by proxy, competition by force.

he loves his best friend dearly. they truly did feel like brothers . . . so many firsts shared together . . . secrets kept . . . music bickered over . . . clothes and shoes stolen . . . unspoken assigned seats in the car . . . constantly being compared to one another as they grew older . . . sharing sweaty headbands much to their mothers disgust and fathers disapproval when their credit cards are swiped for either of their acne treatments . . . but still. sometimes just sometimes, bitterness pricked at jiyong’s skin like a pesky mosquito. crept up his spine. burrowed into his psyche. cemented in his frontal cortex. i’m the one who’s older by three months, anyway . . . he thought to himself at his high school prom, stubbornly downing his cup of spiked punch after his date—who didn’t even try hiding her lingering, longing stares at seunghyun sat across the table—asked him the same question that’s haunted him for years, happy the dj’s speakers made blu cantrell deafening enough to distract him. i mean—do we even fucking look alike?

don’t get it twisted: both jiyong and seunghyun are well-off, and not to mention, handsome. high enough above the poverty line to pursue a sport seriously and be well-educated, and attractive enough to not be completely clueless when it came to dating. although . . . vices will be vices: “your coach says you’re playing like a late-bloomer.” jiyong’s father said to him over the phone, making his then-twelve-year-old self look anxiously over his shoulder at the growing line of boys behind him, waiting for their turn to call home—a defining vignette of his many years at his local tennis academy. he held the receiver tightly, “is this something i should be worried about?” “n-no—i—” “what did he say about seunghyun? hm?” “he said he’s good—” “—that’s what i need to hear about you. this is your ticket out—to live a better life than i did. do you understand me?”

if his guidance counselor asked, jiyong would claim he took up tennis because his mother played before meeting his father. if he looked into the bathroom mirror longer than ten seconds, however,—and didn’t rush to the court for his final doubles match at the academy before leaving for college on a full athletic scholarship—he would have to come to terms with the fact a larger part is definitely due to his bunkmate, playing partner, and future classmate at stanford: seunghyun. it started off innocent: two seven-year-olds dropped off at the rec center for summer camp whilst their parents are at work, picking up rackets and hitting a ball back and forth to pass time. jiyong remembers initially liking it, but not as much as soccer. in contrast, seunghyun liked the feeling of his converse skidding and squeaking on the court—catching his parents' attention asking for tennis shoes the following summer. getting playfully competitive with his best friend (“that wasn’t out of bounds! it was right on the line!” “that was the definition of out of bounds, ji.” “fuck off, seunghyun.”) wasn’t half bad either, though practice sometimes become so heated it led to showcases of subpar emotional intelligence in their dorm at the academy growing up: “jiyong? are you still mad at me?” “why does your back hand swing have to be so . . . mean?” “mean? what? thats just how . . . it is? i think its because i’m taller than you, or something. i think i have more power? jiyong? ji—are you still awake?”

seunghyun didn't exactly like playing against jiyong whereas jiyong actively sought it out as they grew up, feeling the need to prove himself. when he thinks back on his early-to-mid adolescence, it feels as if he just woke up in a tennis academy one day without second thought, or any pushback, really. to his luck, and fortunately for his family's savings, he was pretty good. surely a mix of his parents hoping this was his "ticket out" or whatever. but also an excuse to tie me to him forever, his inner monologue pestered frustratingly, throwing his racket hastily into his duffel, marching out of the locker room after losing his singles match to seunghyun. at least in college jiyong felt like his own person. him and seunghyun majored in differing subjects, had their own friend groups, lived on opposite ends of campus; down the block in different apartment buildings once they were upperclassmen—feeling their brotherhood mature fruitfully in the process.

their dynamic is “concrete and sophisticated both when competing together or on opposite ends of the court,” a student reporter wrote in the stanford daily, much to either of their amusement over lunch in the dining hall: “‘concrete and sophisticated’ … sounding like a bbc anchor at nine-fucking-teen.” seunghyun prodded his salad with the prongs of his fork, stuffing his mouth with freshly-cut lettuce doused in a generous serving of honey mustard. “i don’t know,” jiyong shrugged his shoulders, chewing on his bite of roast chicken, reaching up to fix his stanford baseball cap to rest backwards on his head; either of their backpacks and equipment for practice later that afternoon placed on the empty chairs beside them. “i mean—i kinda take it as a compliment, seunghyun.” “nah, don’t get me wrong,” seunghyun moved on to his bowl of pasta. “i do, too. s'just that shit like this reminds me that we’re at school with some really smart people. like, they sound like that just casually.” jiyong’s eyebrows furrowed, answering before taking a sip of water. “we’re smart, too.” “the guy leading my physics discussion group would say otherwise.”

jiyong landed a couple girlfriends, too. the first he met at his freshman seminar, getting on well until summertime came around—the long distance ending things abruptly. he also didn’t know how to navigate that, so part of him was relieved when she was the one who dumped him. the second he met at the beginning of his junior year, only to break up a few months later when classes and his demanding tennis schedule caused a drift. seunghyun, with his characteristic bluntness, tried to help his best friend feel better in a way that admittedly wasn’t ideal: “damn, man,” seunghyun huffed, sitting next to jiyong on the bench overlooking the tennis court. he tossed his racket to the ground, trading it for his water bottle, downing half of it. “no wonder you’re on fire today—got me running around this court like crazy.” seunghyun chuckled, downing the other half before tossing it with his racket, too.

jiyong swallowed his energy gel in contemplative silence. seunghyun wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, “you sure you know what you’re doing with them?” he turned to jiyong, “'cause it looks like all you know how to do is scare them away.” jiyong was on edge and offended, looking at seunghyun sharply. “what? how do i scare them away?” seunghyun jutted his bottom lip, shrugging his shoulders much to jiyong’s mounting frustration. “i mean, i don’t know—” “—how does it work for you?” jiyong cut him off, referring to seunghyun’s girlfriend that he’s had for nearly two years now. “we have the same fucking schedule.” there was a brief pause before seunghyun shrugged his shoulders again. does he not know how to do anything fucking else? jiyong’s inner monologue voiced aggravatingly. “i don’t know.” seunghyun shook his head. “it kind of just happens, i guess?”

in defeat, jiyong sunk his face into his palms, sharply sucking in a breath at the sting of sweat sprinkling into his eyes. it was seunghyun’s inadvertent nonchalantness that drove him crazy sometimes. how’re things always so fucking easy for him? and he just—he just doesn’t fucking know it? seunghyun sensed something shifted, but his attempt to patch it up just made it worse. “look, i’m sorry if i—” “—its fine. its whatever.” jiyong got up, reaching into his duffel bag for a new case of tennis balls. he didn’t look at seunghyun between opening the lid, grabbing a ball, tossing the plastic cylindrical case back into his duffel, and picking up his racket propped against the bench. “lets just finish this game. the dining hall’s closing soon, anyway.” jiyong walked to his previous position without a glance seunghyun’s way. “alright.” seunghyun watched the back of his head, tongue poking the inside of his cheek before grabbing his racket, heading to the opposite end of the court. as jiyong prepared to serve, seunghyun couldn’t help himself: “look—i-i’m not perfect, jiyong. okay? if that’s what you’re thinking.” “it certainly fucking feels like it.” jiyong hit the ball with force he didn’t know he had. looks like those energy gels do work, after all.

for a while, it felt like stanford was happening to you and you weren’t happening to stanford. maybe you weren’t journalling correctly, or perhaps have been listening to too much radiohead recently (your laptop’s fan never forgave you for your download of ok computer from a dubiously trustworthy website onto your ipod) or maybe your ego was too big—scratch that last one, you needed your big ass ego in a place like this. to walk into a room with your chest pumped and head held high, defiant and undeterred. it was the key to succeeding the most stuck-up motherfucker you’ve ever had the inconvenience of knowing as the president of the stanford debate society your junior year. whilst he was bringing his tassel to the left to go make peoples lives miserable in law school, you conducted a complete overhaul of team operations that were, in your eyes, in shambles. you booked nice-and-shiny weekend high school coaching gigs for your members to detail onto their resumes, renewed prep for intercollegiate circuits and tournaments, and was more cut-throat during tryouts.

most people wondered how you slept at night. not that you were a bitch per se (although the sophomore whose rebuttal you cut off in the middle of her tryout for being too fluffily worded would beg to differ) but more-so your workload. a political science major whose the president of an intense extracurricular and coming up on graduation next year; balancing heaps of coursework, assigned readings, debate prep, petty complaints, and still somehow eating three meals a day with time to piss and shit in between. oh, and shower, too. “there’s no secret. only structure.” you told your teammates over a celebratory dinner at applebee’s following a successful scrimmage, kicking off your senior year. “if i don’t have coffee by eighty thirty am—and i know that’s specific—i find that everything else falls apart. but i tell myself it doesn’t.”

it’s true: there you were the next morning, in line at the campus coffee shop nearest to your residential hall. albeit, it was twenty past nine (as much as your teammates joke that you’re a robot, you are human and capable of pressing snooze more times than you should) but not late enough to obstruct the rest of your day. the café was of normal pace—faculty and fellow students waiting for their orders, scurrying out the door to catch the campus shuttle to make their ten am lectures; study groups cramming for their noon midterm over bacon egg and cheese bagels; fiona apple on the sound system. after placing your order, you took your receipt and walked to the counter on the café’s left side, waiting with five others for your number to be called.

glancing at the bulletin board decked out in flyers for campus events, club meetings, and phone numbers for tutoring services, you caught sight of someone for lack of better, less adolescent phrasing . . . easy on the eyes. tall, messy black hair tucked underneath a backwards baseball hat doused in stanford cardinal red because, well, he was wearing nothing but stanford merchandise. an easy outfit, sure, as you’ve cycled through three stanford university shirts during the last six day period of preparing for finals, or whenever you woke up just not wanting to give a fuck. what made an amused, upside-down grin tug at the corners of your mouth to yourself was the trademark stanford logo on his t-shirt peek out of the undone zipper of his stanford quarter zip. if i was playing a drinking game where i had to take a shot every time i said the name of the school, and i was telling this anecdote, i’d have to be jetted to the hospital. you thought to yourself.

you couldn’t help taking another glance when he went up to the counter, more-or-less standing in front of you. his backpack was filled to the brim, equipped with a gatorade squeeze bottle on one side and another bag slung securely over his left shoulder. is that a tennis racket? he took a couple steps to the right, grabbing his coffee, permitting a better view. it is, you mentally confirmed, now noticing just how tan he is. makes sense—"did i bump into you?“ he took you right out of your head. “what?” you shook your head, processing. “oh—no, you’re fine.” he offered a polite grin, “can’t keep track of this sometimes.” he joked, gesturing to his left shoulder holding the enclosed racket. “see you around.” he headed for the door, walking the opposite direction. your number was called some minutes later, but he lingered in the back of your head. its like he knew i was looking at it, you thought to yourself, stirring your iced coffee, walking out the door, and that has to be the deepest voice i’ve ever heard—jesus christ. you didn’t see him again the next day, but did the following week. he wore the same outfit (admittedly unsurprising for a man) sans the hat, sat with someone who looked as if they played the same sport and dressed similarly—only this time, either of their hair looked evidently damp with what could only be sweat. doing that first thing in the morning would make me the most evil person in the world, you took a bite of your bagel, sat at other end of the café, highlighter in your other hand, marking up your xeroxed copy of an assigned textbook reading for your law of democracy lecture later that afternoon.

october 2005 was a turning point. a handful of student groups were in anaheim for expos, tournaments, and various invitationals. the stanford debate society was up there during that three day weekend as well, competing against other california-based universities to set the stage for competitions later in the academic year. you saw athletes running around, too: whether it was the swimming & diving team filing into hotel breakfast smelling of chlorine and gobbling down layered omelettes after being up since four in the morning; golfers and rowers taking up the sidewalk on your way to pick up donuts and coffee for your teammates; or gymnasts that always moved in a group no matter what. on sunday evening, the night before everyone was set to travel back to campus, the university rented out a courtyard at one of the hotels students were staying at—hosting a mixer to encourage mingling, and of course, networking. free drinks were provided for those of age. you gladly flashed your id to the bartender after a successful debate against berkeley, closing out your weekend and finally freeing your schedule on an accomplished high.

a couple hours in, you excused yourself to your teammates, leaving the table and heading to the bar for a second margarita. it felt so good to not have to think about anything—no strategies, research references—nothing. well, at least for now. but that was good enough for you, so cheers to that! meanwhile, on the other side of the courtyard, jiyong was fucking over it. the weekend invitational ended with a doubles match alongside seunghyun against a mouthy pair from uc davis, leaving jiyong with both a bitter taste in his mouth and an irritated right pinky toe. his new tennis shoes were fly and felt aerodynamic, but were stubborn—the pain brewing from his singles game against ucla friday evening, more-or-less subsiding on saturday, only to present itself again earlier that afternoon immediately following the umpire giving him and seunghyun an uncalled-for warning. they still obliterated uc davis and turned them into sore fucking losers, anyway. their triumphant court celebration that followed let them know they lost to us open boys’ junior double title winners (and some of the youngest to ever do it, too.)

the food at the mixer was fine—needed after a laborious day. an hour later, jiyong made it known: "m'kinda over this.” he said to seunghyun, whom was finishing his beer. “wanna head back?” “no problem. shuttle back to the hotel should be coming soon, anyway.” seunghyun got up. “i’m gonna head to the bathroom real quick.” jiyong got up from his seat too, throwing out his emptied bowl of pasta. he looked around at fellow students and various faculty scattered throughout the bustling courtyard, stretching his arms across his chest before cracking his knuckles. his eyes grazed over the granite fountain, hearing the dj switch to nelly as the time read half past ten on his watch. he walked up to the fountain, biting his inner cheek whilst looking at the array of nickels, quarters, and pennies glimmering in the recycled waves. by chance, he looked up, and saw you standing at the bar on the other side. the bartender was busy fulfilling other orders. there were no seats, so after a while, you stood with your elbows propped atop the counter, waiting patiently. you pulled up the sleeve of your blazer you’ve had on since eight o'clock this morning, reading the time on your watch. its been ten minutes, you thought to yourself, my feet are starting to kill me. unbeknownst to you, jiyong took an additional step to his right, getting a better view. she’s really cute, his lips curled into a small grin, looking over his shoulder. no sign of seunghyun. he better take his sweet ass time. jiyong made his way over, slipping to your left after the person next to you walked away—moments before you were handed your margarita.

“come here often?” you heard a voice say. you turned your head, seeing a man your age. you didn’t give time to the fluffy bullshit: “well, i go to this school. so yes.” you answered, stirring your drink with the small black straw it came with. “and by the look of it, you do too.” he saw you glance at his red t-shirt and white shorts, both branded with stanford’s logo on one side and the nike symbol on the other. you offered a playful grin, bringing your drink to your lips for a curt sip, hearing him chuckle. “you got me there.” he smiled greatly, feeling his cheeks warm. “i’m not—i’m not exactly the smoothest when it comes to things like this.” “you’re doing admittedly fine.” you told him, “i don’t have a migraine yet.” jiyong couldn’t help his laugh, “good to know, good to know.” he nodded. he took in your matching dark grey blazer and trouser set. “you look like you started your day opening the new york stock exchange.” he said. you raised your eyebrows, feeling the tequila go down. “well that’s certainly a first.” “let me guess: finance club? i heard they had some sort of forum.” he guessed. “well, one: i’m appalled to learn i look uninteresting enough for you to think i’m some sort of finance heathen.” you quipped, smiling beautifully when you cut him off from protesting. “and two: i’m actually part of the debate team. we had a good weekend." you nodded, hearing him hum in acknowledgement. "let me guess . . . do you play tennis?”

jiyong’s expression of muted defeat changed to surprised awe, a cheeky grin forming from the corner of his mouth. “how’d you know?” you shrugged your shoulders, “lucky guess on the shoes.” your eyes stayed on him as his head dipped to look at his feet, only to turn away once brewing warmth crept up the back of your neck. damn it. he’s cute. you downed another sip of your drink, turning your head back around when he said his name with a tone so shy it was almost sweet, even for your hardened heart. “i’m jiyong, by the way. i’m a—i’m a senior.” he nodded. you introduced yourself, “looks like we’re both getting out of here next year, hm?” you grinned knowingly, liking the feeling swirling around in your chest when he failed to hide his sheepish giggle from you. he was sweet. really sweet. his smile was astonishingly pretty and held an affectionate boyish charm, complemented fruitfully by his witty humor. he got a few genuine laughs out of you, making your cheeks shine in the lingering humidity. the sparkle in his eyes, or the subtle daze in his gaze as you spoke, couldn’t help but boost your ego since he so clearly doesn’t talk to pretty women like you very often . . . or maybe you were starting to feel your tequila a little bit. can anyone fucking blame me? holy shit—he thought to himself as you told him an anecdote from this weekend. she’s talking circles around me, funny to the point where i have to catch up with her, and she’s the hottest woman i’ve ever seen. is she not everyone’s type? where the fuck have i been?

seunghyun asked him the same question, abruptly entering the conversation like a needle scratching into a vinyl. he grabbed jiyong's shoulder, and inadvertently away from you: “holy shit—where’ve you been, ji?” he huffed, eyebrows furrowed. “i’ve been looking everywhere for you. the shuttle’s coming in, like, two minutes. let’s go.” he turned around, taking a couple steps forward, hearing jiyong’s “wait, hold on—” “—i thought you said you wanted to leave?” asked seunghyun. “i did. . .” jiyong’s voice descended into an embarrassed mutter. you turned around, unsure of what to do, but were mildly amused. “but not anymore, seunghyun.” jiyong shook his head, staring daggers at his best friend, foolishly hoping some unknown telepathic powers would kick in right now. seunghyun’s eyebrows furrowed deeper. “what?” he was straight up confused. “we’re gonna miss the fuckin’ shuttle, man. the next one doesn’t come for a half hour.” in your periphery, you saw jiyong desperately flick his head towards you. you turned around, offering a small wave, “hi.” you said simply, finishing your drink.

seunghyun’s expression visibly relaxed. he liked what he saw. it was evident in how much smoother his voice sounded when he opened his mouth next, an ever-so subtle smirk tugging at his lips, “hey.” he responded, eyes resting on you comfortably. he retreated his steps, walking closer to you and jiyong. “well, shit. all of a sudden i don’t wanna leave either.” he smiled, making you tsk—why does it suddenly feel hotter out here than before?—and jiyong chuckle nervously. “i’m seunghyun.” he sought your attention back. “i play tennis—with jiyong. we’ve played together since we were kids.” “you look the part.” you held out your pointer finger, briefly gesturing between them. “dressed like you went to mommy-and-me classes together.” you can’t lie: there was an infectious sense of power felt in their collective laughter—like they were twelve again and were stoked to find out what a girl is.

“do i know you? you look familiar.” seunghyun asked. oh, god. is this some new pick up line guys are using these days? corny as fuck, you rambled internally. you turned your head—instantly humbled. you got a real good look. it clicked. with the way your heart began to beat, and you suddenly didn’t know what to say, you felt not a day past sixteen. he’s the fucking hottie from—"the café." you somehow found your voice. "coho, i think?” i think? i fucking know! i go there every day! why am i trying to act unbothered? this is so out of character . . . “yeah, yeah. coho.” seunghyun nodded, smiling with an apparent sense of satisfaction. jesus fucking christ—did his voice get lower? “their iced lattes are fuckin’ bomb—” “—you guys have met before?” jiyong was starting to sweat. “yeah. i mean . . . not really.” seunghyun glanced at you, happy to see you were already looking at him. you turned to jiyong, “he almost hit me with his tennis racket.”

seunghyun heard the joke hidden in your blunt tone, not giving you the satisfaction of playing along: “i didn’t. i swear.” you gave in. oh, i like her, he thought to himself, and that beautiful smile. “he’s right. he didn’t.” you assured jiyong. you didn’t notice, because your eyes returned to seunghyun soon after, but jiyong was panicking. the one fucking time i talk to a girl—"would’ve been a memorable first meeting, though.“ seunghyun cut jiyong's inner monologue off. "i could probably think of something more ideal.” you countered. that look in your eyes made jiyong’s heart sink, scrambling to think of something to get you back to him. “yeah?” seunghyun’s voice was beginning to torment his psyche. “like what? hm?” stop doing that shit, man! jiyong briefly held his chin, eyes scattering the pavement below him to think of something. anything. his prayers were answered, all three of you turning heads upon hearing your name called aloud.

it was your team. you spotted disposable and digital cameras in multiple hands, figuring out you were being summoned for group photos. “i should go before they collect me with undiluted fervor. its happened before. it can get scary.” you told them. “i’ll see you both around campus.” “wait—” jiyong’s words caught in his throat, feeling increasingly pathetically helpless with every step you took away from the bar. “are you on facebook?” “what?” you chuckled, turning back around. “he’s asking for your number.” seunghyun clarified. “and so am i.” a beat went by before you processed what was happening. a smile graced your supple cheeks, posture straightening. “you both want my number.” you stated the fact aloud. “i do.” jiyong nodded. “yeah.” seunghyun concurred. your fingers toyed with your watch, contemplating. “it should be clear that i’m not interested in homewrecking.” “we don’t live together. we haven’t since we were eighteen.” jiyong shook his head, nerves making your joke fly right over him. seunghyun caught your drift, choosing to play along this time. “we’re in an open relationship.”

“p-plus—” jiyong stuttered, quickly glancing at his best friend. “plus seunghyun’s, like, fresh out of a relationship.” seunghyun eyed him sharply, wondering where the fuck this came from, and why the fuck would jiyong bring that up now? “fresh out of a—what? no i’m not.” he said defiantly, shaking his head. “what’re you talking about? its been, like, almost eight months at this point. cool it.” he muttered that last part, swiftly looking back to you and changing the subject: “why don’t you come hang out with us later? they’ve got you lodged at the marriott too, right? we’re in room 408.” “you had dinner. you want a show now, too?” you quipped, expression undeterred. seunghyun liked it a little too much. “no. we can just keep talking.” he responded simply. “about us. about life.” you turned about without looking back, definitively walking away. "goodnight." jiyong buried his face in his palms, groaning after hearing seunghyun call out “we have beer!” you snickered to yourself, shaking your head before reuniting with your teammates.

“i can't fucking believe you.” jiyong muttered, walking away from his best friend, aggravated. “what?” seunghyun said aloud in disbelief, following after him. “i just got the hottest girl to come to our—” “—what makes you think she’s going to come?” jiyong countered, stopping in front of one of many potted plants lining the perimeter of the courtyard. “the way you brought it up so—so suddenly, its like—you made it seem like we’re both trying to, like, fuck her in there.” “aren’t we?” “i mean . . . yeah, maybe, but—” jiyong shook his head. “what exactly is your plan? let’s say she did come, right—which she won't—then what? shoot our shot, and hope she, like, makes out with one of us? while the other does what? twiddles his thumbs like a some fucking cuck?” “if it came to that, then sure.” seunghyun didn’t see what the problem was. he rested his hands on his hips, “what? you think that’s beneath you?” “no—its beneath her.” jiyong corrected.

seunghyun scoffed dismissively, “i don’t know what your problem is, ji. you need to lighten the fuck up.” he reached into the left pocket of his shorts, pulling out his lighter and pack of cigarettes. he fished one out, nesting it between his lips, igniting the small flame. he inhaled, blowing the smoke out the corner of his mouth. “what if she chose you, jiyong? hm?” it was jiyong’s turn to scoff. “she’s not coming to our hotel room, seunghyun.” the two looked at each other, silent. it was a different language, communicated in the subtle rustle of the palm trees and tinkering liquor bottles; expressions familiar since childhood, only decoded by their brotherly bond; stronger than any telepathic power inscribed in science fiction novels and films they watched so often growing up their vhs copies are now rendered unusable—this was atomic.

though the quiet served as a testament to their bond, to jiyong’s detriment, it was the type of moment he loathed: he felt smaller with each passing second. there it was, his inner monologue quivered, that fucking look in his eyes when he knows he’s getting what he wants. he’s known it all his life: seunghyun’s impenetrable charm—the force shielding him with what could only be effortless and enviable ease in jiyong’s intermittently insecure eyes—working its frustratingly unbreakable magic in real fucking time. god, he hated this fucking feeling. what’s worse is his tone was never where he needed it to be when he spoke up for himself, feeling stupid for even trying. “i saw her first, man.” his voice was subdued, courage so fleeting he couldn’t stomach looking into seunghyun’s eyes. he kissed his teeth, shaking his head disapprovingly. we’ve never gone after the same girl before. why does tonight have to be that fucking night? “don’t say that shit.” seunghyun muttered, holding up his smushed carton of cigarettes. “you need to fuckin’ relax.” jiyong took one silently, stepping back after seunghyun lit it. “there you go—atta boy.” he patted his shoulder, ignoring his grumbles.

the elevator doors opened to the fourth floor at 12:02 am. you returned to your hotel room at half past eleven, washing the stress of the day off your body and getting ready for bed, until you remembered seunghyun’s offer. you looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror, having just brushed your teeth: do i really wanna do this? you contemplated. it didn’t take long to give in to yourself, shrugging your shoulders and turning off the light, pocketing your room key: i can pack in the morning. jiyong was picking lint out of his big toe with their room key when he heard a knock at the door—momentarily moving his head, but ultimately keeping his position, laying comfortably on the singular queen-sized bed with his leg propped up. “seunghyun?” he called to him in the bathroom. “did you hear something?” “what?” seunghyun stepped out, corners of his mouth dotted with toothpaste foam, in the middle of brushing his teeth. as if on cue, there was another knock. both of their heads turned at the noise, either of their respective movements coming to a halt—it was irrefutable. “oh shit.” seunghyun muttered.

their unspoken language came in handy once again: jiyong shot up from bed, scrambling picking up his stanford nike polo and shorts off the carpeted floor, tossing it aimlessly into his open duffel bag in the corner of the room along with any stray sock he could get his hands on. seunghyun nearly choked from rinsing his mouth so quickly, shutting jiyong the fuck up when he started panicking at the realization he hadn’t brushed his teeth yet (“i think there was garlic in my pasta!” “bad fucking luck!”), swiftly jumping onto the bed to make the thin, quilted hotel duvet look somewhat presentable in the handful of seconds they had—working against an invisible timer. “wait!” he exclaimed quietly, mindful of you being right outside, catching jiyong making his way to the door prematurely. “does it smell in here?” “no?” jiyong didn’t believe himself. they stared at each other with intensifying worry. “open—open the window!” jiyong suggested frantically, seeing seunghyun spring up from the bed, nearly tripping over his bare feet. you heard everything, hovering your ear by the door, an amused grin tugging your lips. you jumped a little when it swung open: jiyong clad in a stanford tennis hoodie and briefs; seunghyun in the middle of putting a shirt on, the hem of his shorts off-center—both actively trying to look casual. “hi!” jiyong’s voice was an octave higher, quickly clearing his throat as his knuckles went white around the door handle, trying so desperately to keep his mounting embarrassment muted. seunghyun was no better, low voice cracking through his abrupt “hey.” they both looked at you, and you at them.

you three sat in a triangle on the floor, sharing a tall budweiser. rihanna’s voice was grainy, coming out of the complementary hotel digital clock equipped with am/fm radio reading 12:37. seunghyun sat comfortably with his legs stretched out before him, one hand propping himself up whilst the other brought the can to his mouth. “we’ve known each other since birth. literally. same hospital and everything.” he said, swallowing his sip before handing the can to jiyong, whom was sat criss-cross, his back against the foot of the bed. “there was a time in our childhood where my mom joked about being nervous that we were switched at birth.” “so you’re not brothers?” you asked, genuinely curious. you saw the look on jiyong’s face, though it was fleeting. “oh,” a smile crept onto your lips, a chuckle ringing from your chest. “you didn’t like that question at all.” “its fine.” he shook his head, his own giggle escaping him. “its a common misconception. i’m older by only three months, which is barely anything.” he clarified, clearing his throat afterward. he heard you hum in acknowledgement, stirring the beer with a subtle swivel of his wrist, bringing the can to his lips briefly. “i can’t blame people,” he continued, swallowing. “our families do everything together.”

your smile returned. “that’s really sweet.” you said earnestly, accepting the beer, nodding in thanks. “how’d you get into tennis? or is it just another aspect of the co-dependency you have going on?” seunghyun snickered, clearly amused. “its not a heroic story.” jiyong jumped in. “not like our . . . third eye opened suddenly one day. or something.” he laughed. “its kind of uneventful now that i think about it.” “we tried it at summer camp.” seunghyun said cooly, looking at you with his head tilted charmingly to the left. “i liked it. he did too. here we are today.” “no-no,” you tutted, shaking your head, taking another sip. “you’re leaving some pieces out. you don’t just play for a top school because you happened to like a sport.” “we went to our local tennis academy for almost ten years,” seunghyun clarified. “and we turned out to be pretty good. what can we say?” it didn’t take him long to start bragging in his own right: “the youngest to win the boys’ junior doubles title at the us open in fifteen years. until some randos from connecticut took that shit from us our sophomore year.” “i don’t know what that means.” you shrugged your shoulders, looking to jiyong.

“its a—its a tennis tournament. headed by the united states tennis association.” he eyed seunghyun discreetly, taking the can when you offered. “its part of the grand slam, which is something that includes other tournaments in different countries around the world. there’s one in australia, france, and britain called wimbledon. you might’ve heard of that one.” “i have, yeah.” you nodded, it sounding familiar. “so you both’ve done pretty well for yourselves, then.” “we have.” said seunghyun, taking the can from jiyong. “how about you? why debate?” he asked, eyes resting on you. “well,” you let out a breath. “i grew up with my family telling me i talk too much. so i put it to good use.” laughter erupted from either of them. “thats kind of brutal.” jiyong looked at you, fingers toying with the drawstrings of his hoodie. “maybe not as brutal as being in boarding school your entire life.” you said. “i don’t know if i’d call it a boarding school, since we went home pretty frequently—” “—it was a boarding school, ji.” seunghyun cut him off, handing you the can. “we were bunkmates from eleven to eighteen. we’ve seen some shit.”

“i believe it.” you exhaled through your nose, grinning. “your parents must be really proud of you two.” “yours, too.” said jiyong. “i mean—they raised someone humble. you haven’t even told seunghyun that you’re president of the debate team.” “president?” seunghyun sat up a little straighter than before. “they have positions like that? damn. well, shit. excuse my dumb ass.” you couldn’t hold in your bright laughter, genuinely finding him hilarious. he liked the sound of that. “is that your endgame, then? you want to be president—a world leader?" "oh, fuck no.” you shook your head with fervor, hearing both of them laugh heartily. you downed a gulp. “that’s like asking every athlete ever if they want to be an olympian.” “i do, funnily enough.” jiyong fixed his sleeve, looking at you. “i actually wrote about that in one of my application essays.” “oh my god,” your heart dropped a little. “i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to—” “—its okay. you didn’t know.” jiyong held out his hand, waving it side to side in reassurance.

“i can see it, though. the adidas campaign—” you told jiyong, seeing him stretch his bashful smile. easy to please, your inner monologue blurted at the back of your head without warning. “rising star with an education turned olympian. pretty inspiring.” “more like pretty cookie-cutter.” seunghyun interjected with a laugh, very much glancing in your direction with the expectation you’d find it funny, too. but there was nothing to laugh at. you saw jiyong’s face fall, turning his head away, looking towards the window. he rested his elbow atop his bare knee, nuzzling his mouth behind his palm. both of them are bad at hiding it. maybe it all comes out on the court. your eyebrows furrowed, turning to look at seunghyun. “what’s so funny?” some part of you was ready to be on the defensive. seunghyun jutted his bottom lip,“i don’t know.” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. he definitely does. “a second ago you didn’t know what a grand slam was and now you’re writing adidas campaigns.” “the world doesn’t revolve around us, seunghyun.” jiyong’s voice was muffled but intelligible. “i’m not saying it does, ji.” seunghyun didn’t move his head, but his eyes did the talking, glancing sideways at jiyong before returning to you. his shit-eating grin didn’t help his case: “it’s just funny.”

i see where this guy gets off at, a mind-map swirled through your brain, your logic sorting things akin to an equation. he wants to percolate at the back of my mind at all times. get under my skin, pinch my nerves, make me tick, poison my senses. let’s see if he’s game. following a few moments sat in brisk silence, you changed the subject: “so is that where you met your girlfriend?” you asked seunghyun. “at your academy?” “ex-girlfriend.” he corrected smoothly, without any hidden malice. “we met at freshman orientation.” “why’d it end?” you asked. “because he forgot her birthday.” jiyong answered for his best friend, getting his flame back, giving you a knowing look after seunghyun went quiet. “and their anniversary.” your face dropped, relishing in seunghyun’s frustrated expression, chin momentarily turning downward. there it is, you thought to yourself. “now that’s brutal.” you made sure he heard the amusement in your tone, laughing with jiyong, feeling some of the lingering tension in the air dissipate. “she always switched up the dates on me, anyway.” seunghyun muttered under his breath.

"how about you?” it was jiyong’s turn. “anyone dump you for forgetting something important?” you asked, softly crinkling the now empty can in your fingers. “i—” “—jiyong does fine for himself.” seunghyun spoke up, nodding. “he’s had multiple girlfriends. i mean, look at him.” seunghyun reached over, nudging his best friend’s temple. jiyong’s reflexes swatted seunghyun’s wrist away, hearing your small chuckle, ultimately turning the corners of his mouth upward—though his eyebrows furrowed at seunghyun, unsure of where he was going with that. “that makes me sound like some sort of—” “—player?” you filled in the blank for him. “yeah, that. but i’m not.” he shook his head, looking into your eyes. “yeah, he’s right.” seunghyun tried to sound unbothered, but you were well enough aware to sense your remarks were still prickling at his mind. he looked up, meeting your gaze. “players don’t scare them off.” he smirked. he felt accomplished hearing jiyong’s offended scoff: thats what you get for airing my shit out, his inner monologue voiced pettily, licking his lips in satisfaction.

“you aren’t scaring me off.” you told jiyong, bringing his attention back to you. “for what its worth.” you grinned sweetly, making his lovesick heart stutter at the sight. “th—thanks.” his voice cracked, quickly clearing his throat afterward, smiling again when hearing your sweet laugh, he’s endearing. seunghyun’s chin dropped again, inhaling sharply through his nostrils, momentarily looking the other way. “so,” both of their heads turned to you. time to get to the crux of it, “how often does this happen?” you pointed back-and-forth between them, clarifying: “going after the same girl.” seunghyun pursed his lips in thought, shaking his head. “not as often as you’d think, actually.” “really?” “we—we usually have different types.” said jiyong, scratching his chin, his warming cheeks making him avoid your gaze. you nodded, “so you’re saying i should be flattered.” “not really.” seunghyun shook his head, jutting his bottom lip out. “i mean,” jiyong cleared his throat, gaining the courage to look into your eyes. “aren’t you everybody’s type?”

you’ll hand it to him: you didn’t know what to say to that, feeling your face warm tenfold. you looked back and forth between them, observing how seunghyun’s upside-down grin deepened with every one of your subtle movements. you weren’t a fool, nor was this your first day on planet earth. you clocked it the moment both stuck to you at the mixer bar; accentuated through catching in your periphery seunghyun’s flittering glances at your bare thighs since sitting across from him on the hotel room floor; solidified by how jiyong straight up could not keep eye contact with you sometimes, and when he did, it wasn’t entirely innocent. i think i like jiyong a little bit more, you thought to yourself, putting the can down. for now, at least. “we’re out of beer.” there was a beat. both seunghyun and jiyong looked down at the can, then back up at you. you three all looked around at each other for a prolonged, pregnant moment, until you abruptly rose to your feet. letting out a small huff, an idea began brewing at the back of your head, traveling down your chest: have to do everything myself . . . you fixed your shirt, pulling it down by its hem before reaching to the front of your left thigh, tugging at the ridden-up fabric of your shorts. neither jiyong’s nor seunghyun’s eyes leave you, watching you walk over to the bed, thinking for a moment, then sitting down. “come here.” you beckoned gently, hands resting in your lap. neither moved. jiyong is the one who dares to speak, “which one of us—” seunghyun doesn’t need a fucking answer. he bolts to the bed, sitting on your left, jiyong scrambling to your right. you grinned at either of them, satisfied. here goes nothing . . .

jiyong and seunghyun have no idea what's about to happen. you turned to seunghyun, leaning in. he’s more than ready, until you decided against it. that felt good to do, your inner monologue schemed. you glanced between either of them until, finally, you stopped on jiyong. he was so fucking nervous, but his excitement was a bit stronger, scooting closer. you leaned in, kissing him sweetly. he returned it firmly, fingers smoothly sliding atop your thigh, gingerly feeling the natural divots of your cellulite underneath his palm. it was romantic. seunghyun watched, licking his lips in anticipation. he noticed how your hands remained politely in your lap, even when jiyong’s traveled to hold the right side of your face. you left his best friend wanting more—seunghyun swallowing his laughter seeing jiyong’s open mouth hovering above your lips, stopping the kiss.

you broke from jiyong. a beat went by before you looked to seunghyun, leaning in and kissing him sweetly. it was slower and more intentional. perhaps because there was more of a height difference than with jiyong, or maybe because his lips nurtured yours with a delectable air of experience. your subconscious spoke for you, hands reaching up to hold his face in your palms, only to smack his hand away when he touched your thigh. “right—sorry.” he muttered quickly, keeping his hands to himself without second thought. hold on—what the fuck was that? his thoughts swirled messily with his brewing libido, making his eyebrows furrow in deeper concentration, kissing you with increased fervor. she let jiyong touch her, why not me? also … did i—did i like that? why did i like that? jiyong watched you two with his mouth hung open stupidly—its like all of his dreams have come true. his posture straightened, hand on the duvet, ready to lean back in whenever you picked him again. he leaned to his right to get a better view, seeing both of your hands holding seunghyun’s face. a tinge of intended jealousy sprouted in his chest: she didn’t hold me like that, he licked his lips, fingers finding your thigh again. i want her to hold me like that . . .

you broke from seunghyun. his mouth didn't hover above yours, letting you go. you felt the tip of his nose rub against yours, letting out a breath, head facing the wall before you. you fixed your hair, making your neck visible, biting your bottom lip wordlessly. neither needed them, anyway—jiyong taking your right, seunghyun coming in hot on your left. your eyes fluttered closed, a smile gracing your face at realizing though jiyong’s kisses on your supple skin were more open-mouthed whereas seunghyun’s felt warm and sensual—both were equally as desperate. jiyong was the first to travel up his side of your neck, nipping at your earlobe before kissing the corner of your jaw. it didn’t take long for seunghyun to catch up, trailing his lips against your cheek, inching closer to your lips. you were admittedly overwhelmed, not having thought this far into your little idea. jiyong and seunghyun inadvertently bought you some time, however, reflexively recoiling after feeling all three of your tongues touched unexpectedly. awkward laughter brewed between them, but you’re not embarrassed whatsoever; smiling, this is the most fun i’ve had in ages. you reached your hands up, bringing either of them closer to you. jiyong just about fell in love. seunghyun was eager—the only thought in his mind: you. they leaned in very slowly, until all three of you are kissing passionately, tongues all touching. movements become quick, brisk, and greedy—making you have to plant your feet onto the ground to maintain your balance after jiyong swiftly moved back down to your neck, seunghyun taking your lips for himself the first chance he got. through it all, seunghyun’s hands remained to himself, whereas jiyong’s subconsciously-stowed desires came out in full force: going back and forth between pawing at your waist and securely kneading your plush thigh.

jiyong re-adjusted the way he was sat on the bed, breaking your lips from seunghyun’s, kissing your neck deeper than before. seunghyun moved quickly, the back of his head caught by your palm, effectively bringing him back to your lips. your other hand aimlessly reached into jiyong’s hair, unintentionally scratching his scalp, only to feel the vibrations of a whimper against your warming skin. he made his gradual way back to your lips, battling it out with seunghyun. at some point, you didn’t feel either of their lips on yours anymore—removing your face from the equation entirely. “okay.” you said simply. seunghyun and jiyong both open their eyes, instantly breaking apart. “i’m going to bed.” you get up as if nothing happened, thankful your back was turned to them whilst your grin deepened in their stunned silence, slipping your shoes on without issue. they looked at each other, their heads whipping around at the sound of the door slamming.

“her—her number!” jiyong exclaimed. he turned to his best friend, who was stuck in a lustful, longing gaze, mouth hung slightly open. “wh—wha—” “her number, seunghyun!” jiyong got up, boner visible through his underwear. “i—i can’t go out like this!” he started to panic. seunghyun kissed his teeth, swatting jiyong’s boner hard, making him fall back onto the bed. “have to do everything my fucking self.” he muttered under his breath, opening the door. “f-fuck you . . .” jiyong called out meekly, clutching his groin, stuffing his face into the duvet. seunghyun jogged down the hallway, seeing you waiting for the elevator. “hey!” he was relieved, catching his breath. “i—” he quickly corrected himself. a freudian slip, if you remembered correctly from the psychology gen-ed you took freshman year. “we, uh—we never got your number.” he cleared his throat. you heard the flub, the corners of your lips turning upward. “right.” you nodded. “i left my phone in my room. do you have yours on you?” “yeah,” seunghyun patted his thighs. “oh, thank god.” he whispered under his breath, fishing his blackberry out of his pocket.

“just got it recently. its a newer—uh, sleek design.” what the fuck am i talking about right now? he shook his head in your understandable silence, glancing at the floor—just now realizing he didn’t have shoes on. you rolled the trackball, rifling through his screen to find the button reading ‘new contact.’ you paused: “are you going to give it to jiyong too?” “y-yeah.” seunghyun answered a little too quickly. the prolonged eye contact waiting for you to believe him didn’t help, either. for seunghyun, tonight was full of surprises, but you were the most perplexing of all, because in a matter of seconds—in three blinks, nonetheless—you got out of him what took his ex-girlfriend weeks of fragmented phone calls and battling an avoidant attachment style to get: the truth. “no.” he corrected himself, eyes softening. he shook his head, “i wasn’t planning on it.” after a beat, you finished typing your name and number in, handing him his phone. he looked at the small screen in awe adjacent to disbelief, attention diverting to your “goodnight,” when the elevator doors opened. “n-night!”

“so?” jiyong asked. his boner was slowly—agonizingly slowly—going down, safely tucked underneath a pillow. “did you get her number?” seunghyun closed the door behind him,“nah, man.” he lied effortlessly through his teeth. he shook his head, “i looked everywhere for her. she must’ve gotten into the elevator as soon as she left.” jiyong huffed, planting his head against the headboard in defeat. “damn.” “what did i say though, huh?” seunghyun smirked, sitting on the edge of the bed. “she picked you first.” “don’t remind me.” jiyong felt his temples start to perspire. “this shit just started going down.” he chuckled sheepishly behind his palms, a low laugh ringing out of seunghyun’s chest. “she’s unbelievable, seunghyun.” “i know.” he concurred, nodding. flashes of what went down spoiled his mind filthy, wetting his lips with his tongue. “how lucky are we?” “lucky indeed.” jiyong wiped the sweat off his forehead, settling in comfortably against the headboard. seunghyun’s eyebrows furrowed, “hold on. is that my fucking pillow?” “i don’t know. maybe? they all look identical.” “give me that shit, man.” he snatched it away from jiyong, ignoring his sharp inhale from the sudden change of temperature. “better not see any—” seunghyun cut himself off with a shudder. “fuck you,” jiyong threw the other pillow at his head. “you’ve done worse.”

not one call or text. nothing. “i should’ve fucking known.” you murmured to yourself at the end of the fourth day, irrationally checking your t-mobile sidekick for the second time in three minutes. your fingers ran over the tactile buttons, attention diverting to a teammate calling your name. you looked at the clock hanging above the open classroom door—it was two past seven. “is everyone here?” a wave of nods and mhms concurred, “great.” you tossed your phone into your backpack, getting up from your chair, gesturing to the agenda of this week’s general body meeting inscribed on the chalkboard. “let’s get started, then.” two weeks later, it was out of your head; exited your periphery; behind you. you had other priorities: a senior thesis to finish outlining and begin writing before thanksgiving break, preparation the national debate tournament in the spring semester, and dense fucking assigned readings. whoever said senior year was more lax than others was a boldface fucking liar. you can’t remember the last time you felt this stressed. was it normal for a university as demanding as yours? yes. that doesn’t mean it should be, though.

jiyong was on high alert. he could not stop thinking about you—mind running the night at the hotel on a loop; spoiling himself thinking about cute date ideas and what’d you think of his music taste; his daydreams lulling him to sleep at night and greeting him first thing in the morning; sharply turning his head on his walk to tennis practice thinking he saw you, only to scurry away when it was just someone with a similar hairstyle; and going as far as to contemplate visiting every coffee shop on campus on the off-chance he would run into you. it was as if he was experiencing having a crush for the first time in his life with how giddy and nervous he felt—the rush felt good. maybe he’s being dramatic, but some part of him felt alive again, even if the thought of looking into your eyes made his underarms tingle with unease. there was a new pep in his step. one seunghyun took notice of in how jiyong’s swings were recently more crisp and packed a harder punch, earning more compliments than usual from their coach, but didn’t offer his own two cents in. not that jiyong noticed—he was too busy finishing his drills to the thought of you cheering for him in the stands.

until it all culminated in an unexpected way. it started off great: jiyong lost in some fantasy whilst somewhere deep in his rem cycle—blurry frames of his shoes skidding against the court with his racket tightly in hand, his teaching assistant from his populism lecture spring semester of sophomore year randomly congratulating him in an empty dining hall in the middle of the night, and you. you. the dream unfolded quickly, yet took its time in showing you sat at his desk in his room, working on an assignment in a different t-shirt and shorts than what you wore to the hotel room. it suddenly switched to you and jiyong together in his bed—his eyes functioning as the makeshift camera—him fucking you deliciously from behind. he could see the globes of your round ass recoil every time you met his pelvis; squish your lush waist in his palms, pawing at his sheets in his sleep; could’ve sworn he felt your slick coating his hardening cock in his briefs, grinding into nothing before turning onto his side, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth and onto his pillow.

he could hear himself and you: “sh—shit, b-baby!” “o—oh my god—” before he could hear his name, a pair of hands that weren’t his own cascaded down your bare ass, kneading your cheeks unapologetically—almost territorially. dubious dream logic certainly worked its magic, because jiyong didn’t know where his hands went, making his eyebrows furrow and fingers sink into the linen. his eyes trailed up your bare back, hearing your moans and whimpers intensify, suddenly becoming muffled—replaced by loud, obnoxious, wet, almost hungry sounds of lips colliding. he recognized that head of black, shaggy hair—seunghyun. completely naked and underneath you, having you for himself. “wh—whaa—wait . . . no . . .” jiyong murmured in his sleep. he looked down in the dream, seeing seunghyun fucking you from below. the pace was unrelenting and felt intentionally brash, almost as if to say—“s-seunghyun!” your moan was perfect and clear, making a nauseating weight press deep into jiyong’s chest, infecting his lungs with unrelenting haste. you were so much louder than you were with him. so much more . . . alive. the sound of yours and seunghyun’s skin manically slapping together induced panic, suddenly aware he was in a dream, but stuck with irrational fear he would never get out.

jiyong suddenly woke up, inhaling deeply through his nostrils. that was fucking weird, his inner monologue grumbled. i hated that. he squinted at the sunlight seeping through his curtains, slipping his arms from underneath his duvet, stretching them generously over his head—elbows slightly sore from practice earlier this morning. a long yawn drew from his lungs, going to stretch his back next, sucking in a breath so sharp he nearly descended into a coughing fit. he lifted the duvet, his crotch heavy and wet, seeing the medium-sized spot on his briefs. from her, he bitterly clarified to himself. not from that fucked up ending. he gradually sat up, quietly hissing at the discomfort below his waist. he looked over at his bedside table, eyes widening in panic. “shit!” he exclaimed, realizing there was less than an hour before his lecture. he hastily got to his feet, heading out of his bedroom, booking it to the bathroom to freshen up.

you lugged the heavy door open, entering the building with a huff. it was the largest lecture hall on campus, housing ten rooms with capacities for over 450 students each. usually used for arts and humanities, it was also home for pre-requisite courses for popular majors such as economics, biology, or any other stem-related fields. for you, it hosted one of the last credits necessary to graduate—an essential course for your major. you made your way to room 403, noticing the crowd of students lounging outside the door. some leaned against the tall windows, others sat whilst conversing on the carpeted floors about the past weekend. previous lecture must be running late, you pondered internally. you couldn’t help but feel relieved, jetting to the nearest bathroom, your iced coffee from earlier this morning making itself known in your bladder.

jiyong filed into the building five minutes later. he thought he was hallucinating, seeing you hold the door for someone heading into the bathroom as you walked out—remnants of his wet dream still percolating in his senses, even after his ice cold shower. “no fucking way.” he muttered to himself, peeking over the shoulders of those taller than him to keep his innocently excited eyes on you. you lifted your head, hearing your name, stood in your own momentary disbelief. “oh my god?” you blurted without thinking, why did he feel like a figment of my imagination? these past two weeks were akin to months from how your brain rewired its priorities. in the presence of someone so sweet, however, it suddenly felt as if you never left that mixer bar. “you take law of democracy?” you were shocked. “wait, what’s your major?” “political science.” answered jiyong, fixing the way his stanford baseball cap rested on his head. the conversation felt juvenile, like this should’ve been the first thing you two ever talked about, not after your tongues became acquaintances. “me too.” you gestured to yourself. “did we not bring that up before?” “i think—i think there was something else on our minds the last time we saw each other.” he scratched the back of his neck, exhaling through his nostrils. an upside-down grin tugged at the corners of your mouth, warmth creeping up the back of your neck. “how come i’ve never seen you around before, jiyong?” you asked, tone more relaxed. “what’s your track? i’m international relations.” you nodded, “that’ll explain it. i’m law and justice.” jiyong smirked, unable to stop his blossoming smile. “are you sure you don’t want to be president one day?”

you tsked, nudging his shoulder with your palm. he felt his heart leap, masking it behind a soft chuckle. “i’m sure.” you told him. students from the previous lecture filed out, inadvertently beckoning you inside. “maybe i’d be an advisor, but someone else can be in the hot seat.” “fair enough, fair enough.” jiyong giggled sweetly, over the moon. he was a few paces behind you in the large lecture hall, swiftly catching up when the few people between you two took their seats. “hey.” “hi.” the effortless smoothness in your voice made him smile nervously. “do you mind if i—” “—no, not at all.” you said earnestly, gesturing for him to sit next to you. jiyong settled in on your right, snug against your elbow. not that he was complaining. or you, for that matter. he used his proximity to you wisely: eyes fluttering into a subtle sideways glance your way, only to be humbled when his mind randomly flashed him a frame from his earlier psychological excursion; pocketing the sound of your small giggle at the note he scribbled in the margin of his lined notebook paper: the person next to me is ripping ass, to which you wrote back im sorry ˙◠˙.

he trailed politely behind you on the walk up the stairs following your professor’s dismissal, panicking slightly upon hearing “i guess i’ll see you on thursday, jiyong,” referring to the next time lecture was to reconvene later in the week. “s-see you.” his mind scrambled to keep you tethered to him. you waved, intent on heading to the library, until the lightbulb went off in his head: “would you—would you wanna come to a party on saturday?” god bless his roommate who mentioned it to him earlier. “with you?” you asked, pointing to him. “i mean—i mean—” jiyong’s mouth suddenly felt dry. it was a pleasurable sight, seeing him look everywhere and at everyone but you. “y-yeah.” he nodded. “with me.”

you turned around, facing him completely. a smile stretched your lips. you lifted your hand above your eyebrows, working as a makeshift visor from the bright california sun above you. “i’ll go if you’re taking me, jiyong.” you said. “you don’t have anything for debate?” his words spilled out of his mouth, but wasn’t necessarily incoherent, i really need to work on how easily anxious i get. you shook your head, “i’m my busiest on thursdays, which is when we meet.” you explained. “we don’t have any competitions until the spring. we haven’t started prep yet, either. so you’ve lucked out.” the smile on jiyong’s face could have thawed any pessimist’s heart. it surely did the trick for you. “cool.” he nodded, letting out a sweet-sounding laugh. “that’s really cool—” he cleared his throat, “—is it okay if i get your number? i can call you tonight. we can coordinate a pick-up time, and all—all that.” seeing you nod, he handed you his slide-up nokia.

unlike seunghyun, jiyong kept his word. he called right at the time you told him you’d be free to talk, unpacking your backpack with him on the other side of the line at half past five. it was times like these you were lucky to have a single dorm room, free to do whatever you want with the scholarship money to back you up. “you’re headed to practice again?” you questioned, fishing your laundry basket out of your closet, shoulder keeping your phone to your ear, intent on doing a load before dinner. “i thought you said you went this morning?” “i did, yeah.” jiyong stepped off the campus shuttle, walking towards the university’s athletic center. “sometimes i just want extra cardio. other days my coach isn’t in the best mood and we have to compensate for it.” he looked both ways before crossing the street, hustling behind a crowd of gym-goers before the doors closed. “luckily, today’s the former.” “i would be in the worst mood ever. all the time.” “i get that,” jiyong let out a laugh, scanning his student id, entering the locker room. “s'not so bad when you’ve done it your entire life.” “you’re built different, jiyong.” “i couldn’t do what you do, either.” “all i do is argue.” “and all i do is hit a ball with a racket. consider us both inept.”

come the end of practice friday morning, seunghyun couldn’t take the look on jiyong’s face anymore. “what's got you all giddy?” he hastily wiped his sweat with a microfiber towel, throwing it into his duffel bag on the bench between them. they were the only two of their team left in the locker room, the time nearing eight. jiyong entered his combination, twisting the knob and pulling his locker open. seunghyun did the same, eyes flickering to the side at the mention of your name. “turns out, we’ve had a class together this entire time. what’re the chances, yknow?” jiyong thought aloud. seunghyun didn’t say anything, suddenly preoccupied with the lid of his gatorade squeeze bottle. “anyway, i invited her out on saturday.” seunghyun looked over, “'out?' “since when were you so casual about dates? you used to almost piss yourself at the thought.” “i mean, i guess?” jiyong looked over his shoulder at seunghyun. he shrugged his shoulders, “she’s easy to talk to.” says the one who couldn’t look into her eyes for longer than five fucking seconds at the hotel, seunghyun’s psyche gave into his brewing frustration. “why didn’t you tell me you had a class together?”

“because you’re not my fucking dad?” answered jiyong, tone easy, wondering what the fuck seunghyun’s problem was. “is that okay with you, or?” he joked, shaking his head with a light scoff, hoping the tension wouldn’t escalate further. seunghyun turned his back on him, rifling through his locker. “you’re being selfish, ji.” he muttered. that was the last straw: “no, i’m not.” jiyong turned around fully, approaching the bench, nonverbally daring seunghyun to face him. “i mean, look who’s talking.” he added, kissing his teeth. he knew what the crux of this tension was, the bitter wound still fresh: “its not my fault coach is making you do drills tomorrow night.”

seunghyun let out a long sigh. one hand rested on his hip whilst the other pinched the bridge of his nose. how fucking simple-minded can he be? sure, it was partially true: a foul-mouthed comment, bursting at the seams over what his coach thought was going to be a passive disagreement over strategy. but seunghyun’s endured this bullshit a million times over the years, so it wasn’t a big deal . . . or it shouldn’t be a big deal. because all of a sudden, he felt he could light the entire place on fire from how irritably his stomach churned at the thought of being somewhere so mundane on a saturday night whilst jiyong was—was with you. he doesn’t fucking deserve it, his thoughts vitriolic. but maybe i don’t either. he loved having power in his hands—a girl wondering if he’ll call her until her eye bags deepen and self-esteem depletes, enriching his senses like a high. seunghyun knew he was hot shit and had no problem acting like it. in these last couple of weeks, however, he’s suffered the realization of it only works when she comes crawling to you, and you had no business trailing after a man—period. he’s learned his lesson the hard way—stifling his bruised ego behind tightened lips at coho a week after the mixer, spotting you at the café though you didn’t see him. if he went down, he was taking jiyong with him.

“you don’t know what you’re talking about, ji.” “just shut up, man. you don’t know what you’re talking about.” jiyong dismissed, turning back around with a curt tsk. “i’m taking her to that party and you can stay mad about it.” “you really think i’m mad about some party—” seunghyun attempted to deflect, to remain steady with the upper hand, but jiyong wasn’t having it. “you just called me selfish two seconds ago. don’t suddenly start speaking a different language.” jiyong looked over his shoulder a few moments later, seeing seunghyun’s eyes already on him. “i saw her first, seunghyun.” jiyong told him, tone unwavering. he wasn’t going to be apologetic this time, accept a cigarette to shut him up, or succumb to the definitive pat on the shoulder disguised as part of their brotherly bond, “you know that.” he punctuated. seunghyun slammed his locker shut, abruptly zipping his duffel bag and hoisting it over his shoulder, heading to the exit. jiyong didn’t flinch. “you don’t even know what to do with all that.” seunghyun mumbled to himself, boarding the campus shuttle, heading to his apartment.

the party was great to the point that if seunghyun were there, seeing you and jiyong giggling so closely on the couch that your respective red solo cups tinkered together, it would not have ended well for anyone. your shared evening was spent at a student-rented sublet on the outskirts of campus, hosted by friends jiyong’s had since freshman year. he was the perfect gentleman the entire night: opening the car door both when picking you up and arriving at the party, taking diligent mental note of the snacks you wanted; sorting an array of chips, pretzels, and a handful of m&ms to share on a paper plate, introducing you to his friends whenever they were around, not making a face when you brought your drink to the bathroom instead of asking him to hold it for you; but held your purse as seriously as a club bouncer, and making you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world with how his eyes never lost that awestruck glimmer.

you took yourselves outside to the patio later in the night, sat comfortably on the cushioned bench overlooking the crowded curb. jiyong leaned back, stretching his legs out and crossing his arms over his chest, nodding as your conversation trailed to post-grad plans. “i need to turn my brain off for at least a month.” you told him. “just a month?” “maybe a little bit more,” you finished your drink, setting the now empty cup aside on the floor. “but those job applications aren’t going to finish themselves.” “true, true.” he nodded, running his hands through his hair. “i take it you want to go pro.” he smiled, “you’re a quick learner.” you gave him a look of faux-offense. “i would be remised not to be.” you countered. “imagine after all this time, i didn’t know a thing about you—let alone the most, like, defining quality.” “there’s more to me.” he shrugged his shoulders, failing miserably at keeping up his newly acquainted toughened-front, succumbing to his deepening upside-down grin. “yes, that’s true.” you concurred. “but still.” “i know, i know. m'just playing.” he chuckled.

“but you’re right, i want to go pro. training for that will begin as soon as humanely possible.” jiyong thought aloud, hearing you hum in acknowledgement. “i may or may not do the us open. depends on what the regiment is and where my focus is at, but i might end up cornered into it anyway.” “hearing you talk about that so casually is extraordinary.” you chuckled, hearing him snicker. “but if you do decide to do the open, should i expect a cute little invitation in the mail?” you knew the question sounded ridiculous, hence the out-of-character word choice to compensate for your sudden sheepishness. “oh, of course. without a doubt.” he nodded. to you, he was playing along, but he was being entirely serious. “you’ll have your own spot in beijing come 2008, too.” he referred to the future host nation of the olympic games, making you grin. “i’ll clear my schedule then.” you spoke softly, thumb running over your purse sat in your lap. your eyes cast downward. jiyong felt the air change, too, suddenly finding his jeans interesting.

“do you think—” him clearing his throat led you to look at him. “in that—that month where your brain’s turned off, you might turn it back on to answer a call from me?” “i do, yeah.” your heart softened, tone so tender he felt like the only man in the world. “i do, jiyong.” his cheeks were ablaze, nodding and licking his lips to thwart his heart flatlining. “cool, cool.” he muttered, running his perspiring palms along his thighs. his world stopped turning, feeling something rest atop his fingers. he dared to glance down, seeing your soft skin bless his calloused hands in real time. jiyong went on auto-pilot, blinking and suddenly having your hand in his; fingers gently intertwined, your joined hands resting atop his thigh serenely. his eyes fluttered closed, sucking in a quiet breath feeling your temple land gingerly on his shoulder. his subconscious spoke for him: your eyes closing in content, jiyong’s head nestled against yours.

you two walked to his car an hour later. though your hands are to your selves—his stuffed in his pockets, yours behind your back; purse strap slung off your curled fingers. the house is at a moderate distance behind you, music muffled yet lively, filling the comfortable silence. when you approached the car, you glanced in his direction, seeing he already had the same idea. you let out a laugh. so did jiyong, turning his head the other way upon feeling his cheeks warm. after a moment, your breathing leveled, walking a few paces to your right, fleetingly focused on the sight of a bunny dashing across someone’s yard. jiyong, on the other hand, is perpetually attempting to just work up the courage, turning and leaning his back against his car, eyes returning to you. you turned around, seeing his unabashed gaze, the way he rubbed his face with his hand leading you to wonder aloud: “what?” his hands returned to his pockets, failing to bite back his sheepish grin. “i really wanna kiss you right now.” he descended into nervous giggles, kicking at nothing on the asphalt below him.

you walked over, those nine paces making his heartbeat pound louder between his temples with every step you took. “you’ve done it before.” you looked into his eyes. “what’s stopping you now?” you offered a gentle, kind grin. meanwhile, every nerve in jiyong’s body was working overtime to keep him conscious. you waited patiently, a soft breath exiting your nostrils, eyes fluttering to the aged wu-tang clan logo on his shirt. jiyong’s palms made residence on either side of your face, bringing you to his lips. the way he kissed you was reminiscent of the infamous night that’s since riddled his senses with longing and insatiable hunger: firm and sweet—saying things if he merely attempted to verbalize, would only clog his throat with inexplicable anxiety. you dropped your bag, palms riding up his biceps, resting atop his shoulders—kissing him back in a way that, for once in life, didn’t give his brain a chance to doubt himself.

but some part of him still needed to see it to believe it, breaking the kiss. you looked at each other for a beat, his breath tickling your mouth. now you were the one with your lips open, hovering above his. an exhale escaped his nose, seeing a mirror reflection of desire seeping from your pores. holy shit—you cut his inner monologue off: “come back here.” you murmured pleadingly, hands on either side of his neck, pulling him in. the tension builds quickly; your back landed against the car, jiyong’s hand slipped underneath your thigh when you lifted your leg, bringing him closer. you feel each other over your clothes—your hands traveling hastily through his hair and down his back; his arms wrapping around your waist, palms barely able to get a good grasp on either globe of your ass. jiyong tried to compensate with the tilt of his head, deepening the kiss. you obliged: holding on the back of his neck whilst your nails gently raked against his scalp.

oh god, oh god—he cut himself off this time: “f-fuck—” he whimpered into your mouth. that was all you needed to hear. one of your hands reached aimlessly behind you, tugging at the door handle. a yelp from you abruptly ended the kiss, his car alarm blaring for the entire fucking world to hear. “shit!” you exclaimed, clutching your chest. jiyong patted his thighs down frantically, fishing his keys out of his left pocket. he pressed his fob, the alarm ceasing. before he could finish his breath of relief, your fingers wrapped around the handle: “unlock it,” you told him. “wanna get in the backseat.” “o—okay.” jiyong pressed his fob again, unlocking the door. you got inside, scooting to the opposite seat, leaving the other for him. “shit—your bag.” he picked it up, sliding it over the shoulder of the driver’s seat, hearing it land without issue.

with the door closed and car locked, you and jiyong were effectively in your own world. never mind the partygoers who had a clear view of the brewing, unadulterated sin once they walked passed his windshield—all that mattered was you two. you kissed him slowly and with intent, hands holding his cheeks tenderly whilst his was reached over your lap, tracing the side of your thick thigh sensually. it was an ego boost to hear him begin to softly whimper with every other kiss, leaning in more once your hand found the back of his head—other palm warming the back of his neck after his found your lower back, fingers nestled underneath the hem of your shirt. he whimpered again feeling you smile into the kiss, pleasantly surprised when he added his tongue into the mix.

you beckoned silently for him to lean back into his seat. your hand cascaded down his chest, palm rubbing his toned stomach through his shirt—hinting at something with your lowering touch. his tongue toyed with yours for a little longer before letting you know he got the idea: “you can touch me.” he whispered, irrationally afraid he’d break the illustrious tension if he spoke at a certain volume, “its okay.” “undo your belt for me.” you spoke quietly, too. jiyong gently broke the kiss, lips wet and slightly swollen, lowering his chin to look at his buckle—only for you to lift it with your fingers, bringing his lips back to yours. his fingers scrambled to undo his belt, gap between his knees widening to make room for whatever’s been cooking underneath his jeans. his briefs felt tight. he was afraid to look down. he tilted his head to the side, the slight squeak of your lips parting making his brain feel fuzzy. “you should grow this out,” you spoke softly against his mouth, thumb running over his three-day stubble. “it suits you.”

the only response he could muster was another frail whimper against the wrinkles of your gorgeous lips, taking his pouty ministrations to your cheek and soft jawline after you broke the kiss to catch your breath. you looked down, an amused smile brightening your features. “there’s no way you got that hard in five minutes.” “its been longer than that. . .” he muttered into your neck, hiding his warming face. “okay, then what? five and a half?” “stop. . .” jiyong drew the last syllable out, growing more embarrassed by the second. “okay, okay.” you gave in. “its just that i’ve never seen a mountain so up close before.” “oh my god—stop!” he exclaimed, though fragmented through his timid chuckles. you let out a laugh, too, jiyong biting his bottom lip when you gingerly rubbed his stomach through his shirt. he sucked in a breath, feeling his dick exposed to the air of the car, your fingers curled and tugged at the band of his briefs—setting it free after he lifted his hips.

“you should’ve seen me when you left our room,” he licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “was so worked up—didn’t go down for another t-two hours.” “aw,” you jutted your bottom lip out. your hand snuck underneath his shirt, palm tracing his bare stomach side to side. “should’ve called me. i would’ve helped you fix your little problem. well, its not exactly little.” you corrected yourself, feeling the vibrations of his chuckle against your skin. it wasn’t exactly a third leg, but it was enough to make your mind wander off, your lingering stares fruitful with mounting lust. “didn’t have your number.” “i gave it to seunghyun.” “you did? wh—when?” “at the elevator.” you said. your hand trailed up his chest, nails poking out the collar of his shirt. jiyong straightened his posture, lifting his head from your neck. “why’re you—” he nearly lost his words, licking his lips to ground himself. “why’re you telling me this now?” he asked, looking into your eyes.

to be completely candid with yourself, you didn’t know entirely why. was it a slip of the tongue, or does he deserve to know? or is some part of me still frustrated that seunghyun never called? “because you’re a good friend, jiyong.” you told him sincerely. “to him.” you clarified, hand trailing back down to his stomach. “are we—” he cleared his throat. “are we . . . just friends?” you looked into his eyes, “not if you don’t want to be.” he shook his head, body speaking before he did: “i don’t wanna be.” “okay,” you said softly, nodding. his eyes fluttered down to your lips as you gradually leaned in, kissing him gently. “okay.” you repeated in affirmation, stirring something in jiyong. his hands held your face, co-existing in this world of impenetrable intimacy by your side. he’s never felt this divinely close with someone before—so many unspoken words, yet it all felt so loud and perhaps the feeling that attracted him the most: unapologetic. you wanted him, and he wanted you. that’s all he needs.

his tongue tousled with yours again, egged on by your satisfied huff. your fingers reached lower, wrapping around his hardened cock, stroking slowly. “fuck,” he let out sharply, kissing you deeper. you slowly—agonizingly so—broke the kiss, feeling his breath brush against your skin, mouth greedily hovering above yours. you turned, head so close to jiyong’s his lips brushed against your cheek, settling his forehead on your temple without another word. though it was dark, you could make out your hand enveloping his dick. if sight was an issue, the sound of his pre cum would suffice enough. you gingerly swiped some off the slit atop his tip with your thumb, hearing his breath hitch in your ear, him biting his bottom lip as you continued your ministrations. “with how hard you say you got, and how hard you are now,” you said, “i can’t help but wonder if you’ve ever seen a pretty girl before.” you smiled to yourself, finding your joke amusing.

“not as pretty as—” his voice cracked, quickly swallowing. “not as p-pretty as you.” “oh, yeah?” his cock was slick enough to warrant a firmer hold in your palm, making jiyong’s eyebrows furrow deeply, using every nerve in his body to thwart his brain’s desire to just shut off completely. you turned your head, enamored with how heavy his eyelids looked. “are you saying that just to get your dick wet?” you asked, purposefully playing up your faux-innocent tone. he started shaking his head, a small gasp leaving his lips when you momentarily ceased jerking him off, palm returning to his bare stomach. “you can tell me the truth, jiyong.” you nodded, the feeling of your nails gently raking against his skin making his toes curl in his sneakers. “i like guys who’re honest, anyway.” “i’m being so fucking for real—” his voice quivered. “you’re the prettiest girl—prettiest w-woman i’ve ever m-met.” you were satisfied. “good.” you murmured. jiyong moaned more vulnerably than intended, feeling the ghost of your touch pass the top of his ballsack, your fingers stroking his cock from the base to the head. “good boy.” you said definitively, seeing his jaw fall open in your periphery, eyebrows contorting sinfully. “o—oh my f-fucking g-god—”

their coach left hours ago, but seunghyun remained in the indoor tennis court at stanford’s athletic center. he tossed his racket aside, tugging his sweat-soaked shirt off from the neck. he continued his drills, grabbing a fresh tennis ball from his duffel bag before yanking his racket up, tossing the ball above his head—thwackkkkk!—the dash of lime green flew in the air, bouncing off the wall fifteen feet away, his arm muscles contracting—hitting it back-and-forth with characteristic groans his sport would be arguably unrecognizable without. he can’t remember the last thing he ate—a protein bar, maybe? at like 8:30 pm?—but his mind was elsewhere. “shit.” he muttered, jogging to his left when the ball traveled out of his reach, hiking it back in the air without issue. the vein on his temple popped fiercely every time he remembered where jiyong was, knuckles whitening around his racket’s grip, grunts starting to make his chest burn.

he hit the ball with less power, catching it swiftly in his hand, making his way over to the bench. he sat down, taking a generous gulp of ice water from his squeeze bottle, breathing heavily. he ignored how uncomfortably his shorts stuck to his thighs, or how ticklish the beads of sweat trickling down his spine felt, intent on doing another set before heading home. seunghyun held the second round of water in his mouth before swallowing, closing his eyes, leveling his breathing. it was of no use: his brain didn’t hesitate to torture him, stream of consciousness poisoned by the nauseating prospect of jiyong with his tongue down your throat, or worse, yours down his. he kissed his teeth, standing up with the shake of his head. throughout the evening, seunghyun’s felt himself come closer to a metaphorical boiling point. through his own stubbornness, however, he’s refused to acknowledge it. until the ball landed a little too far to his right, sending his poor racket crashing to the ground.

“fuck!” he exclaimed, low voice echoing throughout the empty court. “fuck this shit, man!” he stood in silence for a few fleeting moments, internally wrestling with his suffocated frustration. the outburst was needed, he knew that much, though vivid shame followed afterward. in this moment of clarity, seunghyun got himself together. by the grace of the universe, his racket didn’t suffer any injuries, safely tucked back into its case without further protest. he sat on the bench, bending down to rifle through his duffel bag, finding a spare shirt lodged at the bottom. after retying a loose shoelace, a sudden wave of panic enveloped him: unzipping the side pocket of his duffel, fishing out his blackberry. its only 11:15, he let out a long exhale. last campus shuttle’s at midnight.

the shuttle came every twenty or so minutes, so seunghyun was more than keen on heading out, about to lug his bags over either shoulder—until his bitterness re-appeared in an alternate form: an idea. his blackberry returned to his line of sight, rolling the trackball to your contact. he pressed the green call button, bringing the phone to his ear. voicemail. no surprise there. he dialed again. voicemail. what the fuck am i even—and again. and again—“f-fuck!” jiyong panted, toes curling so hard he was on the verge of giving himself a charley’s horse. he caught his breath when you slowed your pace, allotting your wrist a brief pause. you reached down, stretching your palm over his heavy ballsack, hearing his heavy breaths. “feel good?” you asked. “you have no fucking idea.” he inhaled sharply through his nostrils. you hummed in content, nudging the bridge of your nose against his, molding your lips together. you soothed his racing heartbeat, breathing life into him—oh god. i’m in deep, he thought to himself, tilting his head comfortably to his right, kissing you back passionately.

your phone rang silently in your purse in the driver’s seat. after the sixth attempt, seunghyun turned off his phone in pointless protest, looking at other partygoers on the shuttle with tight-lipped malice. jiyong parted his lips from yours, hot breath sending goosebumps down your spine, kisses trailing your cheek to below your ear. he settled on your neck, gently sucking and nipping at the lush spot of your supple skin. “mmph,” your eyes fluttered closed, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. “thats right.” you murmured quietly. jiyong earned a breathy moan from you, the warmth of his tongue running over your neck caught you blissfully off guard, sucking harder than intended when you started stroking his cock again. “harder—suck harder, just like that—” you gasped, thighs rubbing together subconsciously. you adjusted your grip on his dick after it slipped out of your hand, biting your bottom lip, trying to focus with your increasingly fuzzying mind. “f-fuck, jiyong.” “wanna t-taste you.” “i don’t think—” you caught your breath. “i don’t think there’s enough room for that here without pulling a muscle.” you joked lightly, the vibrations of his whimper humbling you real quick.

he sucked firmly, begging nonverbally—“f-fuck!” you gasped. “like that—oh my god, like that.” jiyong continued his ministrations diligently, hand coming up to your cheek to keep you in place. his mind clouded his senses with a fantasy—your words and how euphoric your hand felt pumping his cock not helping his desperate state whatsoever. “h-harder.” you whispered, eyes snapping open when his hips suddenly bucked upward. it was his muffled, perishable moan that helped you put the pieces together—getting a fair picture of what he was thinking about. you didn’t spare him: “are you thinking about fucking me?” he whimpered again, peppering kisses onto your fresh hickey, trying to thwart his shame in thinking such lewd thoughts unabashedly. “what did i say?” you tutted, hand traveling higher, closing in on his tip. “i like guys who’re honest with me, jiyong.” “y-yes!” he mewled. “i was—i was thinking about fucking you!”

he was barely able to open his eyes, “you’re just … you’re just so—mmph!” his voice squeaked several octaves higher. your grip was now solely focused on his tip and a few centimeters below, stroking mercilessly. “y-you’re just s-so—you have this e-effect—oh my, f-fuck—o-on me—” “you don’t need to explain yourself,” you told him, sincere. you leaned closer to his ear, pressing a soft kiss. “keep thinking about it.” jiyong let out the most vulnerable moan you’ve heard yet. “go on. you can do it.” your tone was gentle, contrasting wildly with how your hand made his tip red and angrier by the second. “how do i feel, hm? you can tell me. i wanna know.” “you f-feel so fucking good,” he gasped, the knot threatening to unravel in his abdomen. his eyes were glossy, “best i’ve e-ever had.” “are you giving it to me good?” “s-so good, baby,” he panted. “you—you have no f-fucking idea.”

the feeling of your smile against his cheek made him cave his stomach inward harshly, swearing off his orgasm until the perfect moment. “i like the sound of that.” you chuckled, licking your lips in satisfaction. “are you close, jiyongie?” oh my fucking god. “my wrist is getting tired again—” “—yes! y-yes!” he cut you off frantically, trying to find his words in his current blinding, lust-filled haze. “c-call me—call me that again!” “what? jiyongie?” “yes! oh my fucking god, baby, i’m gonna—” “c'mon, jiyongie. i know you can give—” “—f-fuck!” for a few seconds, he couldn’t breathe. his breaths came out in stutters, back arching so sharply his elbows cracked. he effectively ruined the bottom half of his shirt—his desire criss-crossing messily onto the fabric, some drizzling down your wrist. his moans were raw and human: initially high pitched at the height of his orgasm, descending into guttural grunts upon coming back down to earth. jiyong weakly turned his head towards you after a few quiet minutes, your fingers wiping the tear that had escaped the corner of his right eye, gradually nursing him back to life with your soft, merciful lips blessing his.

it was amusing—plugging in your sidekick the next morning after forgetting to charge it overnight, seeing six missed calls and two unread texts from the same person: seunghyun. you yawned, stretching your arms above your head. you rubbed the remnants of slumber from your eyes, picking your phone up afterwards, dialing jiyong. you grinned sleepily at the sound of his low voice. he must’ve just woken up, too, “morning,” another yawn escaped you. “no practice today?” “i slept in.” he murmured, turning onto his side, eyes fluttering closed at the cool feeling of his pillowcase against his cheek. “have to make it up tonight.” “sorry for inconveniencing your routine.” “don’t say that,” he tutted. “you’ll never be an inconvenience.” you licked your bottom lip in thought. “wanna meet up for breakfast?” “of course.” jiyong said without hesitation. “what time?” “in an hour?” you contemplated aloud. “i have to become a person again.” “no problem.” you heard the smile in his voice. “i’ll take the shuttle to you.” jiyong vaguely remembered the general location of your residential hall, having sent you off with a sweet goodnight kiss in his car less than eight hours ago, endearingly succumbed to the embarrassment of not wanting to walk out in a shirt hotly tainted by your effect on him.

you saw each other outside of your shared class that following week—lunch here, kisses before he headed to practice there, cheeks warming over a cute text another morning. jiyong and seunghyun filed in for tennis practice early on monday as per usual routine, but avoided each other like the plague—lingering wounds from their previous argument going unacknowledged, coupled with seunghyun’s pride stifling his budding curiosity over what went down saturday night. their teammates took notice, initially caught off guard by their cutthroat tension. come tuesday morning, the itch to know became unbearable. seunghyun knew he couldn’t come in hot, so he eased into it, casually asking jiyong “do you have spare kt tape?”, a small win when handed the roll wordlessly before heading to the outdoor court; pulling humorous yet familiarly disarming faces when paired together for drills—a strategic tool in his arsenal dating back to mending petty arguments throughout their childhood; and the classic “y'know i can’t live without you, ji.” which more or less earned him his best friend back, though the honest statement held contrasting intent. “i was out of line last week.” he admitted, albeit skirting around the crux of it—an explicit apology foreign to his vernacular. “i don’t know what got over me.” “s'fine, seunghyun.” jiyong looked him in the eyes, “just let me know next time you’ve got a stick up your ass.”

seunghyun didn’t bring you up until wednesday morning: “she tell you to grow this out?” his tone was playful, nudging jiyong’s chin with his finger. jiyong smiled, his own fingers tracing hair lining his upper lip and peppering his chin. “yeah.” he confirmed, the two of them walking past various weight rooms at the athletic center. seunghyun nodded, “looks good. suits you.” they approached the doors leading to the outdoor court, seunghyun holding it open for jiyong. he zeroed in: “what do you mean you won’t say?” “i don’t kiss and tell.” seunghyun’s eyebrows furrowed, but kept his tone light, his effortless chuckle helping his case. “since when?” “since she looked at me like she’d stop seeing me if i told anyone.” jiyong answered. its true: he did see an unreadable look in his periphery after mentioning it whilst studying in your dorm the other day . . . or perhaps “maybe i’m just overthinking it,” he muttered, seunghyun overheard, “you probably are, man.”

they arrived at a spare court, hearing the grunts and thwackkkks! from their teammates in neighboring courts, all carefully observed by their coach. they set their duffel bags and rackets down, starting to stretch together. holding each other’s wrists firmly, both gradually squatted, hovering a few inches above the ground. “she had to know you’d talk to me, though. right?” seunghyun asked, letting out a long exhale afterward. jiyong laughed, repositioning his feet. “she didn’t really indicate there were any exceptions.” they slowly stood, letting go of one another. though parted, their movements remained mirrored: now stretching their forearms—interlocking their fingers, bringing their hands in front of their chest, and slowly pushing with their palms facing outward. “just give me a signal, then.” said seunghyun. jiyong was confused, “a signal?” “yeah, a signal.” seunghyun repeated, gradually bringing his hands above his head.

“isn’t this, like, hard for you to hear?” jiyong brought his hands above his head, too. “like, wouldn’t you rather not?” “no. i’m happy for you.” seunghyun switched to stretching his triceps, holding for fifteen seconds each on either side. jiyong followed suit after feeling the tension in his lower back unravel. “i just don’t wanna feel left out.” seunghyun added. jiyong didn’t say anything, their warm-up proceeding in silence. an idea permeated seunghyun’s logic, grabbing his racket, heading to his side of the court. “if you two fucked, do a normal serve.” jiyong looked at him with widened eyes, descending into a nervous, yet entertained laugh. he grabbed his racket, walking to the service line across the net, picking a ball out of a tall metal basket filled to the brim with spares, one of many lodged between all of the courts. jiyong bounced the ball a few times, stalling his serve.

seunghyun saw the cogs turning in jiyong’s brain. “i’m not asking you to tell me, ji.” “but you are, though.” jiyong countered smartly, continuing to bounce the ball, not looking at him. seunghyun shook his head, kissing his teeth in disapproval. “you know i’m not.” his eyes followed the ball, the back of his throat starting to itch with percolating frustration. you’re nearly there, his inner monologue reminded. “i’m just saying that if you fucked,” he smirked at the sight of jiyong swiftly looking over his shoulder, worried their coach overheard. “then serve like me.” “like you?” jiyong knew what he was doing: buying unnecessary time, not giving seunghyun what he wanted. he ceased bouncing the tennis ball, trading it for a condescending gesture at seunghyun with his racket, seeing him nod. “you know you have this thing you do sometimes, right? before you throw the ball up, you place it in the center of the neck of the racket.” seunghyun took out a ball from his shorts, miming his service motion to a t. jiyong was unequivocally correct, making himself laugh with an added air of cockiness. he had the upper hand—a rarity between them—both metaphorically and literally.

seunghyun licked his lips, actively attempting to deter any crude remarks. “so do that if you fucked.” “i’m not telling you anything, seunghyun.” “you won’t be telling me. c'mon, ji.” jiyong looked at his best friend, admittedly wary. he carefully took in seunghyun’s encouraging grin. he went into his normal serve, until a grievance returned to his periphery, summoning his arm to lower: “why didn’t you give me her number, seunghyun?” jiyong saw his best friend’s expression fall, albeit slightly. seunghyun’s posture straightened, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly to the point where if jiyong blinked, he’d miss it. “you know how it is, ji.” jiyong’s jaw stiffened, looking down at the ball and racket in either of his hands. he contemplated, i know it’d be lying but . . . he lied to me, too. “yeah,” jiyong nodded, swiftly performing seunghyun’s service motion. “i do.” seunghyun was too distracted to get into position—thwackkkkk!—the ball landed in. he didn’t even go for it. he looked up, seeing jiyong shrug his shoulders with a shit-eating smile, fixing his stanford tennis baseball cap. seunghyun smiled back, but when jiyong looked away to reset, his face fell to one of hatred. not only did jiyong sleep with you—or so he thought—he was perfectly capable of serving the “normal” way, but chose not to. it was like looking into a mirror—seunghyun loathed it. jiyong returned to his normal serve, seunghyun cementing into position, ready to fucking demolish the return—thwwaacckkkk!

seunghyun entered coho's late thursday morning with damp hair and flushed cheeks, fresh off the court after a more demanding practice than usual. definitely due to the upcoming match, he figured, but his fingers grabbed the collar of his t-shirt, wiping that sweat off his upper lip with an annoyed scowl nonetheless. he ordered his iced latte without issue, waiting patiently by the counter for his number to be called, folding his receipt and using it as a makeshift fan to cool down. “my bad—you’re good.” he muttered to the person behind him, stepping a couple paces to the right, offering a polite nod after they picked up their drink. he lifted his head, fleetingly recognizing natasha bedingfield on the sound system, but recognizing you entirely—sat on the other side of the café, nose-deep in whatever you were reading sprawled out on the table before you, your coffee halfway empty. speak of the fucking devil, he smirked to himself, picking up his order swiftly; an added air of determination . . .

honey's taglist ☕️: @gongyoosgf @infinetlyforgotten; @riddlerloveb0t; @mesopotamism; @pepsicolapussi; @breakmeoff; @thanosspills

[sourbites]

I noticed you write for dc comics! And was wondering if you could write a smut for Jason Todd. Like with bat! Reader x Jason where they absolutely hate each other. Jason constantly picking fights and then maybe they just had enough. Reader is definitely a brat 🫣

(You love the) Violence, Baby

Pairing: Jason Todd (The Red Hood) / Female Reader Word count: 2,034 Contents: Name-calling/insults, slight degradation on both ends, spanking, mentions of violence, hair pulling, dirty talk, strong language, creampie, mention of breasts, both characters bad at feelings, Batcave sex. Summary: You might sport the same Bat symbol, but Jason wants to bite your throat out, and you want to sock him in the face. Notes: Hell yea anon, you're a genius. Hopefully I picked up what you were laying down. Love this dynamic. Written in one night and not proofread because I'm tired. Enjoy!

He is a blood-craving, foul-mouthed cancer. From the moment you met, the Red fucking Hood had made your vigilante life that much harder. Because nearly getting blown up or stabbed just wasn't harrowing enough, apparently.

"How do you want it, baby?" Jason scrapes his gloved hands up your sides, squeezing. You chew your lower lip. He makes you feel sick with a desire that sends cloudy, foggy smoke to your prefrontal cortex. You shudder at the nickname. Baby. What a joke; you're not his baby.

Snap. It echoes off the walls— his hand connecting with your ass. "Answer me, bitch."

It's like that, is it? Little fucker.

"God, you're a fucking weirdo. Just - just do whatever. Before I come to my senses and change my mind." You hiss, turning your head to send him a mean glare with narrowed eyes.

Jason seems to like that answer. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, which is bare, having already peeled off the triple-weave Kevlar of your Batgirl suit. Your stomach is a lightning storm striking the ground and you ignite yourself on fire when you press your back flush to his chest. It's all kinds of nasty and wrong, but you're an altar and he throws himself onto you like a sacrifice. You know Bruce would be tutting and shaking his head, uttering something about manners and professionalism; as if Selina doesn't warm his bed at night.

It's not like Jason was a dalliance for you. It's just this one time where you need him to fuck your head into silence. After the mind-bending games with the Riddler tonight, you need everything to go quiet.

Those same gloved fingers curl into the fabric that's pooling at your waist. He tugs it down your legs in a mean yank. "Change your mind?" He echoes— a shiver of amusement in his tone. Conceited. "Who are you fooling, Batgirl? You want this," He bumps his hips into your ass, pelvis first and cock heavy, "You want me."

Your back arches, hands flat and palms bracing yourself against the cold, hard tile wall. Your body is still littered with bruises. Jason's forearms wear bracelets of blood splatters, dried onto that pale skin. His mouth is fever-warm when he tucks your earlobe between his teeth. Your legs part further, letting him get his hands between your thighs.

You twist a hand around to fist Jason's hair. The edge of your nails digs into his skull. He hisses and you smile— proud. "You're just a pity-fuck, don't get ahead of yourself."

All he manages is a laugh - rich and deep - coming straight from his burning-hot gut. Your panties hang off your hips in colourful bandages, shredded by his fingers. Show off. You roll your eyes and thank your lucky stars he's facing your back. His lips caress the side of your neck— your wailing pulse. "Awfully wet for a pity-fuck, don't you think?"

"I'm imagining you're Superman."

Jason sighs mournfully, tracing your slick cunt with his fingers. It's just smooth leather up and down raw nerves. Sparks bouncing up your spine like skipped rocks ripple on the water's surface. "Gonna fuck that rotten attitude right outta you."

His other hand reaches up to grab your face - fingers smushing your cheeks a bit - turning your head to face him. You splay your tongue out, flat, and lick from his bottom lip to his top lip. He nips at your jaw, burning his mouth into yours. But he's still an asshole about it. He's got a tobacco tint to his tongue. The only difference between his kiss and his bites is how deeply his teeth go. He carries ghosts with him— you feel them sinking down your own lungs.

He stirs his bulge up between your legs, hand dropping from your face to undo his belt. His tactical pants scratch the backs of your legs. The metallic clinking of the belt buckle rolls off the walls. The whole locker room in the Batcave is sterile, scrubbed cleaner than a surgeon's theatre. Your head lolls back; lips parted around a moan. You feel him grin against your neck, dimpling, the tip of his nose pressing into the underside of your jaw.

"There we go," Jason croons into your delicate skin. He forces your legs apart, cramming his hips into your ass. He's more keen on getting inside your pussy than breathing at this point. He fists his cock - a few shallow pumps - shaft glittery with precum. He sinks into you in one vehement, long stroke.

"So much better - prettier - when you're not running that cocksucker."

Mortified (and too busy purring like a new sports car to verbally berate him), you beat the side of a closed fist against his forearm as a warning. Jason's hand circles your throat, the other locked around a hip like he wants to break bones. His cock hits the deepest part of your cunt. He uses both hands to spread your ass, transfixed as he watches his cock disappear inside you. You're stretching around his girth - it burns something beautiful - stoking the embers within your fluttering belly until it's a roar of blistering heat.

You rock your body back against his hips, and Jason responds in kind every time, snapping his pelvis until he's sure it's bruised. He fucks you like he wants to kill you. His cock is splitting you in two. You think maybe the tiled walls are going to shatter, or maybe your knees are going to buckle until you're giving way and collapsing onto the floor. You come at each other like you can't be broken, and lust is the hangover of mean, red-hot rage.

It was always going to end up like this. There's (admittedly) volatile chemistry that makes you want to explode. Everything between you is unsaid, drunk by the ghosts along the way from your minds to your mouths. There's the sickly sweet feeling of adrenaline pouring into your bodies still— because you're never really out of uniform. Not in this field. Nearly dying is a delicious aphrodisiac that you gulp by the gallon. He winds you up like a toy, insides coiled and threatening to burst. You're battered into the wall like he's got something to prove.

"Fuck," He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, jaw stiff. His cock is like a cymbal crash, like a bass kick, scraping against the channel of your sex. Punching your cervix with the head of his dick. Your cunt squeezes, tight as a fist.

"Ain't this better? No more a' that little green bitch's wordplay?" He means the Riddler, you gather, "Just me using you as a nice hole to fuck. Should do this more often. You have your place, right here on my dick."

Jason fists his hand into your hair, dragging you into a penetrating kiss that's got your blood ignited like you're made of fucking gunpowder. You're burning from the inside out, smelted down into a thousand empty bullet shells. Your nails bite into the heels of your palms, bursting with a mewl from the agony of his full balls pummelling over the arousal-slicked, overworked nerves jammed into your swollen clit. His chin comes to rest on your shoulder as his quickening breaths come out across your neck.

He blurs into you. Both strong fists come to curl around your hips, locking you to him. The globes of your ass is burning hot with the impact of his brutal pace. He shoves his cock as far as he can— taking you in frantic, rough strokes. It echoes and ripples around the walls, the noise of his skin cracking against yours as if you're getting whipped. You don't think you've hated anything as much as wanting him. He's just wailing on you, and the lust burns higher than the shame. But it'll burn faster, leaving you with a campfire of shame when you're alone in bed later tonight.

There's a determination to his thrusts. He'll fuck you - make you lose your goddamn mind - so unfathomably well that you'll never want anyone else. No one else should hit the spongy parts of you like this. No one else should get you honest to god howling like this. Try it. Try sleeping with someone else, and within hours, you'll be crawling back to Jason, whining about how it's not the same.

Each punch of his dick forces you into the stiff wall. The tile is ice cold, and it bites into the bare skin of your body. He's delivering another devastating buck of his hips before one hand rasps up from your hip to cup one of your tits. He pinches and tugs on a nipple, getting you boneless and gasping fucked-out curses. He truly wishes someone would overhear this.

"God," Jason rumbles in a bassy timbre, "you're so easy."

His hands have this coarseness from handling weapons and weights that feel delicious on the tender skin of your body. It's all just way too sexy to be real. His pupils - inky black - swallow the colour of his irises. He looks like a fucking shark. Black-eyed and grinning with startlingly bright teeth. Your back is arched, taut as a drawn bowstring.

"Just shut your fucking mouth, Jay," You sigh, your brows furrowing. Your breath rattles around in your lungs, jaw slack. Fuck, does he fill you well.

Jason's mouth sucks on the side of your neck. When he releases, the Arctic air cools his spit on your skin. "'M I making you blush?" He purrs, his arm crowding around your side. His hand splays on your belly, fingers spanning the mound of your pussy to your navel. He's shamelessly feeling the way your skin bulges to accommodate his behemoth-sized dick.

"Bored." You lie.

His hips piston, ramming you up the wall. You're bolstered from starry-eyed mindlessness to turned on and shocked. He laughs breathlessly; his voice smoky. "That better, baby?" He's still beaming with lusty delight— you can hear it in his tone.

You move one hand from the tile to latch onto his thick wrist. You want to keep him close. Molten pleasure rolls around within you, filtering out any sensations or half-baked thoughts that aren't relevant to Jason's admittedly magical cock. He twitches within you and holy shit this is it—

—Jason shoves his face into your shoulder and loses it. Drags his dick all the way out, throbbing cockhead catching on your entrance, and driving back inside at the speed of— of fucking light. You're lurched flush to the wall, sobbing a mix of incoherent praise and curses. He's really letting you have it, his savage pace the cherry on top of his agonisingly wanton dick. A full-bodied sob is ripped out of your stinging lungs. The palm on your belly pushes down - he's fucking evil - and all you can think is so, soooo full. It's the kind of pace - the kind of sex - that's born from years of pushed-down frustration and base lust.

Blissed-out tears drag down your hot cheeks. The whirlwind of a life-altering orgasm cracks down on you. His thumb is pressing into your aching clit, and you don't even remember when it got there. The throb of your cunt milks Jason well enough that he's bottoming out, spilling out his load and stuffing you impossibly full with it. Fuck, he cums a lot. Slick and cum is rolling down your legs in thick rivulets. His rich groans are reverberating off the walls. Sandwiched and flattened between Jason and the world's most corrupted wall, you try to stay conscious for every gorgeous millisecond.

Your skin is beaded with sweat, and contrastingly shuddering with chills.

For a few moments, you and Jason exist, hanging with mindless suspense in a sort of limbo. Too overstimulated and sated to keep going, yet too into whatever this car wreck of a liaison is to part ways just yet.

Once your brain cells are booted up again, you realise just how quickly he got you into that. Under his spell or something. Trying to save face, you quip, "Yeah... Superman could do better."

[c0smiccom3t]

Soooo... Tomorrow's the waste deep event, how are we feeling guys?

Also, whats with the last message in the first paragraph of the screen?? It looks SO suspicious. And "new addition to our roster"??? im sorry, what does that mean? Wait, since this is a Cortex themed road map... does that mean... Oh my god, CORTEX YOU SCAMP- /f

[luckylunatix]

A design update of a Crash Bandicoot OC I've had for a while but haven't posted here yet.

Dr. Nemo Igmatic, or simply N. Igmatic (pronouns: she/they/he), is a genius of ambiguous humanity and an affinity for the occult; strutting on the line of science and superstition, it would be just as accurate to describe them as a witch as they are a scientist. She's willing to assist in Cortex's evil plans in exchange for the means to continue her paranormal research, though his egotism and her disdain for his incompetence often lead to them butting heads.

He has an entourage of ghoulish underlings, much like Cortex and his mutants, and relies heavily on witchcraft and haunted artifacts in his evil schemes. She is also quite smitten with Dr. N. Gin, taking him on as a henchman in the hopes she may get to know him better and win over his heart. The two seem to have mutual interests in music and the macabre.

[kiwi-on-ice]

Favourite pictures of you headcannons with Ashe, Moira, Ramattra, and Lifeweaver with fem!reader

Word count: 700

Warnings: mixture of nsfw and fluff, mentions of sextapes

Notes: Surprise! A small little treat before kinktober arrives and you all get sick of me posting.

Ashe:

Lets get the horny thoughts out the way, she definitely has a few pictures of you that she keeps in the private folder of her phone.

Her favourite being a photo of you on your back against the silk sheets, hair messy and slightly sticking to your forehead. Your lingerie is half torn, bra pulled hastily down so your tits are spilling out, inner thighs parted and glistening with your arousal. But what Ashe loves the most; the red lipstick marks scattered all over your skin, painting you in beautiful salacious brushstrokes.

But she has more sfw ones too. Taped to her new motorcycle was a picture of you both, a candid shot from a bar when deadlock were celebrating a heist. Her arm was around your waist, keeping you pressed against her side. She was giving a smile to the camera, red lips illuminated, but you. Your eyes were firmly on her, gazing at her with such adoration, it gives her a fuzzy feeling in her chest whenever she sees it.

Moira:

she doesn't have a lot of photos period, she finds it unnecessary, society’s need to document everything. So the photos she does have are deemed important for her to keep.

Moira has exactly one photo of you in her lab, framed and away from any chemicals or corrosive materials. It's of the two of you at a scientific gala, her wearing a crisp suit and you wearing a form fitting dress that matched her. You’re holding on to her arm, nails gently pressing into the material of her sleeve, and she loves how relaxed your body looks against her.

You're the one who has more pictures, candids of her while she works. But when you introduced her to your polaroid camera, she's curious.

That's how she ends up with her other favourite picture, tucked away in her wallet. A polaroid of you on your back, her hand wrapped around your throat. Your neck and collarbones are littered with marks and bites, but its your eyes she loves. Despite her choking you, holding your life in her hand, your eyes are bright and excited as you gaze up past the polaroid at her.

Ramattra:

Omnics have photographic memories, incapable of forgetting something they've processed. Because of this, initially he makes fun of you humans and your petty memory cortexes, needing a physical copy to remember in detail.

It's only when you attempt to explain it, that it's not about forgetting but about remembering, of reminiscing, of the feeling the photo gives you, that he starts to understand just a little.

He demands to see your phone, to look at the many pictures you have of eachother, but one photo caught his eye. It's of you on his lap, or more specifically his thigh. The angle of the selfie only serves to exemplify the size difference, making you look so small and puny.

Printing it off, he keeps a small version of it on him at all times, gazing at it when he's alone.

Lifeweaver:

Oh this man is always taking pictures of you. Always.

His phone is always pointed at you, taking snaps of you, posed or candid. Now don't get me wrong, he's always taking pictures when you're dolled up for a date, capturing you in the best lighting to accentuate your dress and makeup. But he especially loves taking pictures of you in your pyjamas, sweatpants and a loose shirt, his hoodie underneath your messy hair. Anytime you look casual, he thinks you're the most beautiful woman on the planet.

His personal favourite of these is you watering a lily he'd bought you, wearing his hoodie that reached the middle of your thighs.

And when he actually bought a proper camera? The reels were just completely you (and the occasional flowers he likes to grow).

But god if you'd let him, he'd 100% be into recording a sextape. He just thinks you're so gorgeous, why would he not want to replay how you look in ecstasy over and over again.

Although his favourite is a teasing selfie you took while he was fucking you from behind. His hands are grasping at your tits, while you're giving a cheeky smile to the camera. He loves it so much he'd have it as is lock-screen if society didn't deem it so inappropriate.