#transmasc nonbinary reader

[monstersandmaw]

Male centipede-alien x transmasc nonbinary reader (nsfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Final commission from my batch of five! For @mongoose-king!

Content: sassy, confident, transmac reader, non-penetrative sex, oral sex, 't-cock' used for human's genitals, no other areas specified/mentioned. Brief threat to life (not from monster), some mention of isolation on a planet. And a giant pet slug. Wordcount: 6749

“Well. That’s… unexpected,” you croaked, staring incredulously at the small screen on the sleeve of your white space suit as it blinked a red and improbable warning at you.

The planet wasn’t exactly hostile to humans, but the harsh sun and arid air made being outside for long periods of time pretty uncomfortable for humans, and the oxygen levels were low enough that it made you dizzy if you didn’t take a gulp from your suit’s mask from time to time at the very least.

You were quite possibly the only other sapient being within about nine thousand miles, but while you were cataloguing obscure and previously unknown kinds of invertebrate, the research team on the literal other side of the world were geologists from Meliikos Prime, and they didn’t speak Galactic Common very well. They���d been polite enough when you’d hailed them out of courtesy when you’d flown in though, and when they’d discovered you were human, they’d beamed over their extensive survey data of the terrain and marked off water supplies too, which you’d thought was pretty nice of them.

Other than rocks and a few cool bugs though, there really wasn’t anything to write home about on this planet; certainly nothing that was going to win you any research accolades. It wasn’t on any of the major hyperspace links, there were no relay stations in this quadrant, and so far, other than a supremely flamboyant species of flatworm living in a toxic geothermal pool near your research ship, and a type of slug as big as a golden retriever that, rather relatably, hadn’t moved in over a week, there wasn’t anything of note here at all.

And yet, the general alert on your space suit had just calmly announced that a heavy cruiser bearing the insignia and codes of the Porphaerian Empire was inbound to your location and all civilians of the Republic were advised to evacuate the planet as soon as possible and make their way to the nearest Bastion. You weren’t even sure where the nearest military outpost was, given that the ever-belligerent Porphaerian Empire had never shown any interest in invertebrates on remote planets before, and this planet in particular sat on the outer reaches of the known universe and was so bloody insignificant that it hadn’t even acquired a proper name. It was still just: OR-2559-B.

“The fuck?” It came out as a little strangled yelp as you looked up into the purple-ish blue of your dear OR-2559-B’s atmosphere to find the silhouette of a huge ship appearing out of the veil of wispy clouds that whisked and drifted around on the upper currents. These things were only supposed to exist in immersive VR cinemas, and only then to get blown up by plucky pilots operating under astronomically small odds. Plucky you might have been, but you were neither a pilot nor currently in possession of anything more powerful than a handheld scanner for identifying the chemical composition of various types of bug goop. Your ship didn’t even have cannons, though there was a small pistol under the console, just in case.

You snatched up the tray of samples you’d spent the last three hours taking from the placid wildlife around the stream and legged it back towards the small and laughably fragile buggy that you used to cover greater distances into the field from your research ship. By the time you’d jounced over the rough terrain of the plateau and yelled at your little buggy to please find a little more juice in her batteries to get you up the hill at a pace faster than a mildly-inconvenienced slug, you saw other shapes flitting like bats around the underside of the huge cruiser. Fighters.

“Oh come on,” you groaned. Your ship lowered the ramp as it detected your approach and you steered the wheezing buggy up the incline and into the cargo hold, tripping over the side of the roll cage as you floundered to exit the darned thing, and raced to the hatch that would lead you up into the cockpit.

Sweeping a week’s worth of papers and vac-packed ration wrappers off the console, you punched in your code and yelled at the ship to come out of its sleepy hibernation state, which it did with enviable efficiency.

“Hostile signatures detected,” she said in that irritatingly calm voice she had under all circumstances.

“Well the fuck aware, thank you. Now, can we get out of here please?”

The brief thought flickered across your mind that it probably wouldn’t help matters if the ship’s AI screamed at you in panic instead of speaking in a monotone if she blew something down in the engine room, but you had little time to dwell on that as a larger fighter roared right past the windshield and a huge energy blast swept over the ship.

Instinctively, you covered your face and closed your eyes, and when the accompanying cloud of dust and debris had finished raining down and clinking off the glass and metal structure of the ship, you realised she had gone eerily quiet. “Girlie?” you exhaled into the relative silence.

Nothing. Hell, you’d take that dull monotone over this any day.

Opening your eyes and lowering your arms, your body flooded with adrenaline when you saw that all her screens were dark, and the lights had gone off. “Oh, you fucking assholes!” you yelled in the vague direction of the enemy cruiser. “You want my bug slime? Fine! Take it! But you leave my fucking ship alone!”

It was strange what came out of your mouth in times of stress, but you weren’t given the luxury of being able to the psychology of a lone human put suddenly under the immense pressure of an unforeseen and life-threatening situation, because a small fighter landed outside and you scrabbled under the console to retrieve the pistol that you’d placed there on the off-chance you ran into something that thought a scrawny research scientist in a space suit looked more appealing than its usual diet.

A blaster bolt battered its way through the hull of your ship and several more created an enormous smoking hole where the hatch had been, and you stood there, wide eyed, as three Porphaerian soldiers appeared like cartoon villains out of the twisting black smoke. They were all wearing black, form-fitting space suits made of some fancy, matte, composite material, and a shiny, black helmet with a blacked-out visor that revealed nothing of their slightly reptilian features underneath. Their three-fingered hands were also gloved, and they all bore a weapon of some kind: the one at the front of the trio had a blaster, while the one to their left — your right — had some kind of bludgeon that zapped with a purple energy at one end, and the other had a net that crackled with the same energy and a trident with barbed points.

“What do you want?” you chirped, hoping you sounded more composed than you felt. You tightened your hold on the grip of your pistol at your side, and glared at them. “And why are you blowing holes in my baby girl’s hull? She’s a scientist. What’s she ever done to you?”

Your words and tone seemed to confuse the leader of the three Porphaerians for a moment, and they froze, tilting their helmeted head to one side. Seven foot tall, bipedal, with four arms and a long, slashing tail that whipped back and forth behind it like a lizard in a tizzy, they should have been intimidating, but you were so damned outraged at the whole situation, it was hard to be fully afraid. The one to their left let out a growl and chittered something in their incomprehensible language. That was just one of the many things that made the bloody Porphaerians think they were better than everyone else: they had the most convoluted and complicated method of communication out of almost all known species.

“Well, what the fuck do you want?” you barked. As if you had somewhere else you needed to be.

With a put-upon sigh, the leader began to talk in Galactic Common, though their mouth full of pointed teeth wasn’t really equipped for its syllables. “You are in… possession of… a substance that is of… interest to our Great and Glorious Empire.”

You blinked. “You guys… really do want my bug slime?”

“Your… what?”

“I’m a scientist. I’m studying invertebrates. Bugs. The slug outside — its name is Goldie, by the way, and it had better not have come to any harm because of you losers — has become a bit of a mascot in the week and a half it’s been resting on that rock.”

“We are not here for… ‘bugs’.”

“Then I’ve got nothing for you, buddy,” you said with a slightly wild grin that was about 99% panic. If you had nothing to offer them, they’d probably just kill you for the inconvenience of a wasted trip. “But if you tell me more about what you’re after, then perhaps I can help?” You had no intention of actually helping them, but stalling them was going to buy you a few more precious minutes to think of a way out of this, so you took it.

“You are… researching… the refractive properties of… a newly-discovered mineral,” the leader said in stilted Common. “Surrender your research and all samples, and we will leave you unharmed.”

Minerals. Shit, that was the nice team from Meliikos Prime.

“I see that you are cognisant of our request.”

“I… what? No.” You stuck your thumb comically towards your chest and grinned, “Bug guy. Not rocks. And that was not a request either. You guys need to work on your Common. Your vocab is seriously lacking.”

One of them twitched their head as if something had come in over the comms, and all three of them tightened their grip on their weapons.

“Seems like you were telling the truth,” the leader scoffed and raised their blaster.

You barely got to duck out of the way before a shot went off, but when you rolled and came up, you saw that the hole where they’d been standing was now empty. A second later, you heard scuttling on the roof of your ship and panic set in for the first time.

The tapping of many legs skittered across the roof and towards the gap in the side, and then at the top of the hole caused by the Porphaerian’s blaster damage, a creature appeared, peering down over the torn and burned edge of the hole. At first, all you saw was a pair of long, caramel brown antennae investigating the space, but a head soon followed, adorned with colossal, mean looking mandibles that could probably punch a second hole through your poor ship’s hull with even less effort than the blaster bolt.

“What the fuck?” you coughed, reeling backwards. You’d never seen any sign of a centipede that size on this planet. When you spotted one of the Porphaerians moving in the limited view outside though, raising their weapon, you yelped and flailed your arms to get it to move, “Watch out!”

In a sinuous motion, the creature looked up, hissed, and slithered on its series of many, jointed legs down to where the Porphaerian was now standing. It reared up, lashing out with forelegs that looked at once deadly and fragile, like alabaster in the strange light of the planet’s atmosphere, and then in a flash, it lunged for the neck of its would-be attacker and closed its steel-jaw mandibles around it. A green fluid burst like an overripe fruit, and you wondered if that was Porphaerian blood or the creature’s venom. The second Porphaerian was caught by the whiplash of its tail and flung into the side of their fighter ship, and the third was nowhere to be seen.

When the centipede-like creature was done decapitating, it turned around and regarded you. It wasn’t just a giant centipede, you realised, as it had more of an upper torso section, with armoured ‘shoulders’ and a couple of limbs at the top that were more like arms with hands than the sickle-like claws that adorned the rest of the legs on its long, segmented, chocolate brown body, and it was regarding you from black, beady eyes with obvious intellect.

Only when it paused, staring at you while your charred ship smoked like something forgotten on a barbecue, did you notice that it had a kind of bandoleer around those shoulders, though it didn’t have cartridges or ammunition that you could see. Instead, there were pockets and some kind of comms device, and… you frowned. “You’re… with the Republic?” you faltered when you saw the insignia.

The alien nodded.

“You have any idea why the fuck the fucking Porphaerian Empire was after my little research ship? Actually, scratch that. They said they were after some funky mineral and — oh God, the geology guys! They —”

The creature chittered something at you, and while you didn’t understand it, you realised it had a distinct air of impatience, with a touch of exasperation thrown in too.

“What?”

Its chitinous shoulders drooped and it scuttled a little closer to the blackened hole in your ship before rearing up and peering in like a dog looking out of a window. You almost laughed, and then realised you were probably a little hysterical from all the adrenaline.

In a rasping, scraping voice, the creature said in Galactic Common, “The team from Meliikos are safe. They told me about you. I came to get you. We need to leave.” Then, after casting a quick, backwards glance, they added, “Now.”

And before you could do so much as grab your favourite pencil from your workstation, the creature had slithered into the ship, scooped you up in its uppermost arms, and was retreating at what felt like a hundred miles an hour out of the shell of your destroyed ship, and out towards the rocky plateau at the bottom of the slope.

As you passed the seemingly-dormant giant slug, you chuckled as it raised its head, eye-stems appearing, and you waved. “So long, Goldie! Take care! I’ll miss our chats!”

“Are you… alright?” the centipede-alien asked, sounding genuinely concerned for your sanity.

Perhaps you’d been alone on OR-2559-B for a few months too long after all. With a shrug, you let yourself be jostled lightly along in their arms and tried not to watch the mesmeric pattern of their honey-gold legs as they rippled beneath their segmented body over the uneven terrain. “Goldie’s been by my side since I got here. I’ve shared most of my research with her. I’m 95% sure she has some pretty nuanced opinions on that comedy military drama thing that came out on earth about a hundred years ago…”

“I will have you checked out by our ship’s medic,” the centipede-alien said as they thundered over the terrain, and you laughed and settled into their arms. Your research had been funded by the Republic, so if one of their soldiers had been sent to rescue you, they could file the reports and figure out what happened next. Honestly, as much as you’d formed an attachment to the community of flamboyant flatworms and the super-gigantic slug, you were suddenly looking forward to an excuse to go off-world and, you know, interact with people again. You just had to make it past the heavy cruiser and its fleet of fighters first.

It turned out that your centipede friend was part of some kind of elite team that made extraction from a hostile environment look like a visit to the archives, and you were tucked away in the corner of their nippy little shuttle while an alien of a species you didn’t recognise, with a crown of antlers and skin like a red nebula, piloted you away from the Porphaerians and out into deeper space. It was one of the roughest take-offs you’d ever endured, but it worked, and it was oddly heart-warming when the Meliikos team all looked around and waved at you in obvious relief when the centipede-alien brought you on board the Republic ship.

The ship’s medic turned out to be really nice, and when you explained that your supplies had all been left on the research ship along with literally the rest of your life in space, they set you up again with your regular prescriptions, and checked you over. After you’d recovered from the aftereffects of the shock, they were happy to discharge you, and you headed out to explore the ship.

Just as you waved your hand in front of the release mechanism for the medbay door though, it was opened by someone from outside, and you took a step back to avoid a collision. The person on the other side halted abruptly in the doorway — literally filling the doorway — and you tipped your head up to take in the full sight of them. It was your saviour, and you grinned at them at the same time as they made a kind of chittering with their thick, black mandibles and waggled their long antennae.

“Hey,” you smiled. “Listen, thanks for getting me out of there like that. I was kind of out of it on the ride over. I never got your name.”

A series of distinctive clicks and chatters left the creature, and you grimaced.

“You got a Galactic Common alternative? My mouth doesn’t, uh… move like that.” The more you thought about their mouth though, the more interested you were in them. They really were beautiful, with a mahogany brown, segmented body and paler legs, and a head with a woodgrain pattern that you hadn’t noticed before.

The centipede alien nodded and laughed, and then said in that harsh voice like bending steel, “I’ve been called ‘Kerritt’ before by humans because of the sound of my name in my own language. You may call me Kerritt, and I use the human equivalent of male pronouns. What should I call you?”

You told him, and he nodded seriously.

“Are you feeling well? I could show you around the ship, but the First Officer would like to speak with you before we do anything else. She sent me down to see if you are well enough to have an audience with her.”

He spoke in short, stilted phrases and his upper body swayed a little. The majority of his body was like that of a giant centipede, but he had a definite waist section that was different from the rest of the segments of chitin and it rose vertically while the rest of him stayed parallel to the ground. And yes, those uppermost limbs were definitely more like arms, with hands that ended in chitinous points and sections of chitin that were more like bracers and gauntlets. His eyes were glossy black, almond shaped, and huge. The way they were placed far apart on his insectoid head was really rather sweet as he regarded you attentively, his long antennae constantly waving up and down in a slow, mesmeric pattern.

“I’m good,” you nodded. “Bit shaken up, and confused as heck, but I’m good. Let’s go talk to your First Officer. Maybe she can explain why the fuck the Porphaerians mistook the bugs guy for the rocks guys.”

He chuckled. “The Meliikosian team will take offence if you call them the ‘rocks guys’,” he said as he turned around in a sinuous curve and began to lead you up the ship’s gleaming corridor towards the bridge. “They are a proud and reserved people.”

“Nah, we’re cool. They like me. They waved at me when you brought me on board. In their culture, that’s practically a marriage proposal, right?”

Again, Kerritt laughed. “Perhaps. Though if you’re so easy to get along with, why did your university send you to one of the most remote places in the entire universe?”

“Ouch! Actually, the Head of the Department was so jealous of my research that she got me funding for a project that would take me as far from the capital as it’s possible to go…” you said in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Really?”

“No,” you snorted. “I have an insatiable hunger for the unknown, and some trader mentioned that a cargo pilot said that a friend of hers said there were weird bugs on OR-2559-B. So, I got funding and headed out.”

“That’s… convoluted,” Kerritt said diplomatically. “You went all that way to study invertebrates? Are there none on your planet?”

You eyed him up and down and watched his antennae pull back a little. Was that trepidation? “Sure there are, but what can I say? I’m a dedicated researcher.”

“Right.”

The conversation with the First Officer didn’t last long. She was a colossal Grummgarian with orange-yellow skin and horns on her chin, and absolutely zero patience. When she realised that the only reason you’d drawn Porphaerian attention was by accident, she informed you that you’d be dropped off at the Bastion and would be provided with transport passes back to your university, before she dismissed you with a wave of her three-fingered hand and Kerritt escorted you from the bridge.

“A bit of warning would have been nice,” you shot sidelong at him as the doors closed behind you with a soft thunk.

“There is no warning adequate for that woman,” he said dryly. “You were better off going in cold. Shall I give you a tour of the ship?”

You nodded and followed him as he helped you get your bearings. “Tell me about yourself?” you asked. “I mean, I’ve met a few different species, but I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

“Oh,” he said, and clicked his mandibles. “Do you wish to study me too then? Since I am technically an invertebrate myself, after all.”

“Maybe, if you’ll let me,” you said with a wink and watched his antennae pull back again.

“I think I could be persuaded,” he replied. “I’ve not had much contact with your kind either. I didn’t expect you to be so…” he leaned down and tilted his head “… soft. How did you survive the atmosphere of OR-2559-B? I was led to believe that you require higher oxygen levels for respiration?”

“Space suit,” you said. “It did make me a bit dizzy sometimes, but you know, that can be fun too, under the right circumstances.”

“My sources were right about one thing,” Kerritt said dryly as he drew himself back up to his usual posture.

“What’s that?”

“Humans have strange preferences.”

“Baby, you have no idea,” you laughed, shaking your head. “Come on, let’s finish this tour before I keel over. I’m exhausted.”

The two of you traded light conversation back and forth as he led you up corridors and companionways until that banter devolved steadily into cautious but very much overt flirting, and when he left you at the door to what would be your quarters for the short hop to the Republic Bastion, you said, “If I weren’t so tired that I might pass out before the fun even gets started, I’d invite you in.”

“Another time,” he said with a sympathetic bow of his head. “My quarters are up the corridor, should you need me. I’m off duty for a while now.”

“Nice. And thanks for showing me round.”

Kerritt gave another nod, and then he left.

You watched him go down the corridor to another door, his legs rippling in a sinuous sequence to take him forward, and you remembered how it felt to be carried along in his arms and shivered. Your body was running on fumes, but your brain still liked the memory of that strange, chitinous creature holding you in his arms.

You barely had the energy to shower in the cramped en suite, but once you’d changed into something more comfortable and less singed and gritty than your current outfit, you fell onto the bed and slept for sixteen hours straight.

When you woke and dressed, and staggered out into the corridor, your first port of call was the refectory to silence your growling stomach, but everything was closed since it wasn’t the ship’s mealtime. A diminutive creature with four arms and scaled, purple skin looked up from one of the tables in the empty dining area though and chirped something that sounded like an exclamation.

“Wait, human! Kerritt told me about you!” They had a head like a snake and thick spines all down their back, and although they wore clothing over their top half, their lower half was a thick, sinuous tail that uncoiled as they pushed back from the table and made their way over to you. “You want some food? I’ve never cooked for a human before. There aren’t any on this ship, and I joined the Mantis straight from the academy. I had to look up recipes for you in the species guide! I’m not sure what you’d like, but I made six earth dishes for you to choose from. They’re keeping warm now. I didn’t know when you’d be by.”

Their enthusiasm was almost overwhelming after a sleep that was essentially a fully-blown hibernation, but you nodded and let them lead you into the kitchen where you chose something that vaguely resembled beef chilli, though the beans weren’t the usual ones. They were turquoise blue, but they tasted ok.

You were about halfway through an enormous bowl of it when Kerritt entered the dining hall looking tense. That was, he looked tense until he saw you, at which point he sighed and scuttled over in that smooth way you found so attractive, his body moving like a ribbon between the tables.

“You’re awake,” he said when he reached you. “Are you alright? I had to ask the ship’s computer if there was still life detected in your quarters.”

You laughed long and loud. “Yeah, I do that sometimes. Sorry. Yeah, I’m good. Turns out my faithful little research ship, rest in pieces, wasn’t actually built for long-term habitation, because my god the mattress in my bunk here is like sleeping on a cloud, I swear.” You took another spoonful of ‘chilli’ and asked, “How’s things?”

“The ship is on course to dock at the Bastion in seventeen hours,” he said, apparently not sure quite what you’d meant. “Everyone is interested in meeting a human. They have been asking me many questions about you.”

“Oh? What did you tell them?”

“That I have only known you a few hours and cannot speak on your behalf.”

You smiled at him and shook your head. “Ah, you’re a good soul, you know that, Kerritt? I like you. Tell you what, when I’ve finished this… uh… ‘chilli’, you can introduce me to your friends.”

He nodded. “May I keep you company until then?”

“I’d love that,” you replied. “You can tell me how the Republic knew about the attack in the first place.”

While he was talking, a few people drifted in and approached when they saw that you were there, talking with Kerritt. It seemed like he was something of a hero among the crew himself, and the array of non-humans aboard varied from the reptilian cook with their purple skin to another invertebrate built more like a spider than a centipede, and several humanoid species, though the differences between you and them were marked. Long after you’d finished your chilli, you were all still gathered around your table, chatting and laughing together, and as people left to tend to their duties or head to their bunks for their downtime, you remarked to Kerritt what a tight-knit crew they had.

He nodded. “We’ve seen a lot of action together in the Vith Sector. It has a way of bonding a crew.”

“For sure,” you said, turning more serious. That sector was where the Porphaerians had been making their most aggressive moves in the last decade of their expansion. You sighed and stretched your neck a little.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Mm. Might walk around a bit for a while. Stretch my legs. Wanna join me?”

He bowed his head and scuttled back from where he’d been coiled up on himself while you’d been talking. His legs moved like clockwork parts, clicking on the shiny floor of the refectory, and you bit your lip and ached to touch.

His mandibles drifted a little further apart for a moment, and you got the impression he was scenting the air, but he took it no further and you tried hard to ignore how attractive you found him and his strange body while you walked the ship’s halls together.

Down in engineering, you visited one of the people you’d just met, and they showed you a few details of how the ship’s engine worked, until you started yawning again, and Kerritt took you back up to the corridor with the living quarters.

“You know, I’m tired, but I'm not actually all that sleepy,” you said. “I think it’s just the stress of what happened.”

“Perhaps… you would like to relax in my room? The permanent crew’s quarters are much bigger than the guest room you were assigned.”

“Sure,” you said with a smile. “Thank you.”

He continued down the corridor to his own room and you followed at his side.

“You know,” you said as he tapped a wristband to the reader in front of his door and it opened almost silently, “I never thanked you for saving my life. Those were some pretty badass moves back there. I’ve never had anyone defend me like that.”

His antennae flicked back in what you were now certain was a bashful expression, and he shrugged one chitinous shoulder. “My unit is trained to handle unusual situations.”

“I count as an unusual situation, do I?”

“I… what?”

“You handled me pretty well.”

If his entirely-black eyes could have rolled, you were certain they would have done, but he waved his hand in front of the door panel and it shut before anyone else on the ship could overhear you. 

“You are very… forward, human,” he said, coming closer; close enough to touch.

You reached slowly for his ‘chest’ — or at least, for the section of his body that rose vertically, and which had much smaller segmented parts than the rest of him — and you held your hand out, palm facing him, just a few centimetres from his body. “May I?” you breathed.

He nodded. His own body had gone utterly still. All those mechanical legs holding him rigid as he tilted his head down to regard you, antennae pricked forwards.

Your hand connected with his cool body and a shudder ran through him from head to tail. A second later, lines of neon, bioluminescent green flashed along the length of his body and you gasped, taking your hand away in surprise before pressing it back down and watching the light pulse out a second time. “God, you’re beautiful. Can you feel that then?”

“Yes. Touch is our primary sense.”

You’d suspected as much, but you’d wanted to be sure. You brought your right hand up to meet your left and stood slowly, running your hands up his chest. All the while, his natural bioluminescence pulsed along his body, beginning at the point where you touched him and zipping down the segments of his body like lightning in a regular pattern. The chitin beneath your fingertips felt like glass: smooth and cool and oddly fragile. Your fingers traced the line of one of the segments that sat like armour on his shoulders and he gave another soft gasp and a shiver.

“May I touch you?” he asked.

“God yes,” you laughed, and he brought his clawed hands to your waist then up your torso and neck to rake the points of his fingertips across your scalp. For a second, your soul felt like it left your body and you tipped your head back and moaned.

“You enjoy touch too.”

“Unnfff.”

“Yes?”

You nodded.

“May I pick you up?”

A second and more enthusiastic “unnfff,” left your lips and he chuckled, lowering his mouth towards you for just an instant before he twitched backwards. “Mm?” you asked, only dimly aware that he was actually carrying you across the room towards his wide, comfortable bed now.

“I have to be careful. I have a lot of venom. It’s deadly to humans. Deadly to most species, actually.”

“Oh. I guess that means I can’t kiss you there then.”

“I have to inject my venom for it to be dangerous,” he said, “But I still have to be careful. It’s something of a reflex when I am… aroused.”

“I turn you on, huh?” you slurred cheekily.

“Yes.”

You loved how direct he was, and as he laid you down on the bed and moved his fingers to pause at the fastening of your clothes, you nodded before he could ask permission. He still did, of course, but it was more of a formality at that point. He raked his claws experimentally over your skin, so light it almost tickled, and you arched off the bed.

“I can smell you,” he said when he’d let your clothes fall to the floor. “May I taste you?”

You nodded, desperate to feel his mandibles against your skin. You were swollen and hard and sensitive already, and when he parted his huge mandibles wide to reveal his mouth and a black tongue, you bucked and whimpered and parted your legs for him.

The feel of his tongue exploring up the inside of your thighs was a torture of the best kind, and by the time he closed his mouth around your t-cock, you felt like you might come just from the touch alone. You had no idea what words came tumbling out of your mouth, but he let out a rumbling growl that made his whole body shake and pulse with light again, and you nearly yelled as he dug his claw-like hands into the muscle of your thighs.

You couldn’t think terribly clearly as he got back to work in earnest, practically worshipping your body with his mouth, his onyx mandibles raised just safely enough not to puncture your body but not far enough away that the wicked sharp tips didn’t prick your skin from time to time. His antennae glanced against your waist and shoulders from time to time and you had to restrain yourself from grabbing onto them. They were not horns, and you might even hurt him if you did. It was tantalising and you thrust your head back into the pillow behind you and let out a long, yowling cry of pleasure as you got closer and closer to coming.

Kerritt picked you up again, lifting you right off the bed with ease, and he brought the smooth segments of his lower body to touch yours as he lay down facing you on the bed beside you, encasing you in the cage of his many legs. The feeling of being held and almost immobilised was intoxicating, and you reached a hand up for his head and gripped around the smooth, curved contour of one mandible. He groaned again and you grabbed for the other with your free hand.

“How careful do I have to be with these?” you asked in a rough voice.

They parted and flexed just a little under your hold, but you could feel the immense strength behind them. You’d been right when you’d thought idly that they could punch through steel. One bite from those and you’d be dead.

“Not that careful,” he said, clearly amused behind his growing arousal.

He rubbed his glowing body slowly against you, catching your cock just perfectly with a smooth segment and you wrapped both legs around between two pairs of his legs to adjust the angle and the pressure. He was getting wet from the opening in his carapace, and the combined mess you were making was enough to set your head spinning.

“I’m gonna come,” you breathed as he picked up his pace, fucking against you more wildly with each of your pounding heartbeats. “Oh god, you’re going to make me come.”

“I’m close too,” he said, and you felt his mandibles start to shake and tremble in your grip. “I want to bite you,” he groaned. “I’m going to bite —”

The thick ring of his black mandibles slipped from your hold and in the blink of an eye they’d closed around your neck like a collar. You came with a blinding intensity, bucking against him while his hot tongue pressed against your throat.

A second later, his whole body locked up and he spilled over you in a rush of hot come that went up your stomach and down between your thighs while his whole body spasmed helplessly. His tail curled around you, locking you even more securely in place while his orgasm wracked his entire body, his legs tightening like the jaws of a bear trap against your naked body.

Eventually he stopped and went slack on the bed, and his mandibles opened slowly. All the chinks in his chitinous armour glowed a steady, quiescent green, and his antennae felt and tested at your neck. You nearly laughed at the tickling contrast between the powerful jaws and tender antennae.

“Did I hurt you? Tell me I didn’t hurt you,” he croaked.

“M’good,” you smiled and kissed one black, glossy mandible before he raised it completely out of reach.

He sighed with relief. “I’m sorry. My kind tend to lock in place during… you know. I thought perhaps with you it would be different, but… I’m sorry. It was a risk I shouldn’t have taken with you.”

“S’all good,” you said, your mind blissfully foggy in the wake of the best orgasm you’d had in months. “Come back here,” you said, petting the side of your neck to try and get him to hold you there again with his mandibles.

He did return his grip to your neck, and he slowly coiled his entire body around yours again while the two of you came down together.

“I think you’ve ruined sex with any other species for me after that,” you mumbled a while later.

Carefully, he withdrew his mandibles from you again and nuzzled the smooth top of his head against you, making a soft, crooning noise akin to purr.

“As I think you have for me,” he rumbled.

Without warning, the door to his quarters opened with its near silent sigh of metal on metal, and someone strode in, looking down at a screen in their hand. “Hey, Kerritt, I need you to sign this report for —”

Kerritt drew you even closer to him, masking you completely from whoever had intruded, and he hissed loudly at them over your head like a cobra.

“Shit! Sorry!” they barked, clearly as taken by surprise at the hissing as he had been by their arrival. “You never have company. I just… I’m so sorry! I’ll… uh… it can wait.”

You started laughing even before he set you back down on the bed, and by the time he had relaxed enough to draw back from his protective hold on you, your laugh had turned into a proper cackle.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” he snapped.

“I’ve never had a partner hiss at someone to defend my dignity,” you said, wiping tears from your eyes and pushing up onto one elbow.

He regarded you flatly, and you reached carefully for the nearest antenna, running your fingertip along it before encircling it suggestively with thumb and fingers until he gave another huge, full-body shiver and let out a little moan, light pulsing again.  

“It’s sweet, that’s all,” you smiled and then asked, “You think you’ve got another one in you, big guy?”

“Keep touching me like that and find out,” Kerritt muttered, rolling onto his back, at once docile and provocative, and letting all the tightly-coiled segments of his body unfurl for you like a fern. That light still darted along him whenever you touched him, flaring to life to telegraph just how turned on he was by you.

This time, you rode him to orgasm, rocking your hips back and forth over his slit until you both came a second time.

Watching a creature as powerful as he was come so completely undone beneath you was probably one of the best sights you’d ever seen.

__

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[meiyokbf]

headcannon | manon x transmasc!reader

author's note: so so sorry for the delay, been busy working on under your spell and kinda forgot about the transmasc series, but already working on lara’s next so stay tuned! <3

warnings: pre transition!reader at the beginning, transmasc!reader, obvi. it kinda goes for both non-binary readers and transmen, too. hrt therapy & top surgery mentioned. nsfw at the end, MDNI.

🏷️: katseye, manon x reader, manon bannerman x reader, katseye x reader, katseye smut, manon smut, transmasc reader.

just like dani, girlie KNEW.

she had a slight gut feeling about it ever since she met you.

but when you came out to her.

ugh.

she would literally look at you like you hung the stars the moment you came out to her. no hesitation, no questions that made your stomach twist; just this slow, blooming smile that made you feel safe.

“that makes so much sense, baby… thank you for telling me.”

when you told her your name, she said it out loud like she was tasting it: soft and reverent.

“god, it suits you so much. i want to say it every day.”

immediately updated your name in her phone and added three hearts and the little 💥 emoji for flair.

also changed your contact photo to a random blurry selfie of you looking masc and confused.

“you look like a hot raccoon caught in the act. it’s perfect.”

you told her you were nervous about telling the rest of katseye and she went into camp counselor mode

“okay so we’re gonna plan this. i’m talking full powerpoint, snacks, safe space rules. or we just facetime them and see what happens. your choice.”

you ended up telling them over group facetime tho.

“my baby has something to say and i will literally mute everyone if i have to”

they were all so confused at first like “what do you mean boyfriend?? who???”

and manon just held up a little paper sign she made that said “🏳️‍⚧️ IT’S A BOY 💙” with glitter glue.

one of them (probably sophia) started crying. megan asked if they could still call you “bestie king.” while lara asked what your new skincare routine was because you looked “so glowy and masc now???”

manon sat there with her hand on your back the whole time, just rubbing slow circles and kissing your shoulder.

“you’re doing amazing. i’m so, so proud of you.”

her voice always lit up when she gendered you right.

“he said he’d pick me up later,” she’d casually tell dani, then grin like she’d won the lottery.

your pronouns rolled off her tongue like they’d always belonged to you.

her love language became learning how to love you right.

she would listen, ask gently.

and always, always wait for you to lead the way.

she would sit on the floor with you and help fold laundry, separating the clothes that didn’t feel like “you” anymore

“we’ll make space for the new you,” she would say. “you’re allowed to change. i’ll love every version.”

pookie would call you schätz* because you were indeed her treasure.

when you started binding, she helped you do it safely, but also nearly broke your ribs trying to “adjust it better” the first time.

“okay inhale. exhale. now STAND STILL I’M STRAPPING THE GENDER ON.”

and honeyyy.

and you started HRT, she filmed your first shot on her phone with little sparkly edits and the caption “my bf is growing facial hair and i’m so emotional wtf 🥹

also made memes out of your voice cracks and sent them to you.

“child this u?? 😭😭😭”

also made a playlist for your hormone journey called “balls incoming 🏆”

she made you listen to it every shot day. and yes, it had both eye of the tiger by survivor and macho man by village people.

during your top surgery consult, she brought a binder (pun intended) full of notes and a gel pen.

“i made a list of questions. also a backup list of questions. also a list of surgeons ranked by tiktok reviews.”

and after surgery? she was a full-time nurse graduated from 20 seasons of grey’s anatomy.

“you’re not allowed to lift anything heavier than 100 grams. so sit the fuck down. i’ll get your snack.”

cries while spoon-feeding you pudding and calling you the love of her life.

she would still brag to everyone tho.

“my boyfriend is not a waiter but he always serves, bitch.”

and anytime you felt unsure, quiet, dysphoric, or distant, she’d gently crawl next to you, holding you like you were her most precious possession in the world.

“you don’t have to be brave right now, härzli**… just be here with me. i’ve got you.”

*schätz: treasure.

**härzli: litte heart.

hehe.

manon is def a power bottom or a sub bottom, no in between.

and girlie is a sucker for dirty talking. or just talking in general.

she’s whimpery, praise-drunk, kinda dramatic with it.

“fuck, baby, how are you this good?”

“i need you inside me so bad it’s criminal…”

she’s obsessed with your voice when you’re turned on, especially after HRT.

it got raspier, deeper, growlier; she literally moans the second you say her name like that.

when you started using a packer or strap, she did a whole slideshow presentation titled “dick options for my hot boyfriend,” complete with cursed memes, diagrams, and one slide that just said “👀 give me the dick pls.”

pookie is devoted to foreplay.

she’ll spend hours kissing your scars, whispering how proud she is of you, sliding her hands under your binder like she’s touching something sacred.

“you’re everything i ever wanted. don’t even try to argue.”

if you are using a packer, she loves being on top, facing you, whining into your mouth as she sinks down onto it.

“oh my god. oh my god. you’re inside me, holy shit… you’re so fucking deep, baby…”

* if you’re not using a packer? oh she’s feral for it. she loves riding you while grinding against your thigh or stomach, whining in your ear,

“feels so good, baby, just like that—fuck, keep going—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

she loves being held down & manhandled by you, but also loves pretending she’s not into it.

has a high pain tolerance and a praise addiction. she wants you to spank the shit out of her until her thighs shake

when you say shit like “good girl. so fucking good. look at you… made for this.” she’ll whimper. eyes wet. hips grinding. no thoughts left.

when you call her “pretty girl” or “good girl,” she melts. like blushes instantly, hides her face in your neck, full-body trembles.

but the second you say, “my good girl takes it so well,” she’s gone. babbling, brain off, wet mess.

she makes jokes in the middle of sex sometimes, but you’ve learned it’s actually when she’s overwhelmed.

“is this how bella felt when edward broke the headboard?”

she calls you “sir” when she’s close. unprompted. breathless. like it slips out of her when her mind starts to go fuzzy.

“please, sir… please let me cum- i need it, i’ll be so good…”

to her aftercare is just as important and sexy as the sex itself.

she needs it soft and slow. bath drawn, body washed, forehead kisses. she’ll be quiet and floaty, arms wrapped around you while you whisper how proud you are.

also takes selfies the next morning with your hickeys on her neck and posts on her insta’s close friends.

“my bf rearranged my guts last night and now i crave soup 😩💘”

[defectivevillain]

wicked irony

pairing: Joe Goldberg/Reader

The reader is not a woman. Otherwise, no pronouns are used and race is ambiguous.

The end of class doesn’t seem to come fast enough. But finally, finally, everyone files out of the classroom. A few of the students send Joe lovelorn gazes, but he only has eyes for you. And you only have eyes for… the bookshelves around the room, apparently. It’s horribly ironic, Joe thinks, that you’re so blatantly restless and disinterested. You’re barely even looking at him. He thinks he loves it.

Joe is underwhelmed and unimpressed with the wide majority of his students, and this semester is no exception. At least, until he reads your first paper…

word count: 7.9k | ao3 version | joe playlist

Warnings: stalking, kidnapping, threats/blackmail. gory imagery.

Sigh. I have a weakness for charismatic and popular characters being frustrated and intrigued by the one person who isn’t affected by them. (cough cough, Felix fic, cough couch, Finnick fic, cough cough, this one…)

This fic is Joe/Reader centric. Again, the reader is either masculine/male or nonbinary. They’re written to not be a woman, basically. I especially love the idea of Joe breaking his pattern and falling for a super queer-presenting person and falling HARD. Come on, we knew this was coming.

I have almost zero canon knowledge. I’ve never actually watched this series—I’ve only seen Trixie and Katya watch it. Canon does not exist to me.

Joe has finally escaped his past. He’s creating something of a life for himself in London. Here, he isn’t Joe Goldberg, obsessive stalker and murderer; instead, he’s Jonathan Moore, literature professor at Darcy College. It’s a humble life, compared to what he had before. Surprisingly, he’s starting to enjoy it.

Except… his students aren’t the brightest. Joe isn’t sure what it is—if he’s distracting them, or if he just isn’t that great of a professor. (The mere thought amuses him. He knows he isn’t the problem.) Ultimately, though, no one seems very engaged in his class. And, even worse, hardly anyone has a grade above a C. 

Joe sighs as he reads through another mediocre essay, red ink littered across the margins. He shakes his head in annoyance and writes “D” in the top right corner, before adding it to the pile of graded papers. It’s abundantly clear to him that this semester’s batch of students are just like the last group: unmotivated and incompetent. 

Joe grabs the next paper, taking a deep breath and preparing himself for more mediocrity. He’s so accustomed to skipping over the introduction that he nearly neglects the thesis. Joe thinks he’s seeing things at first, but there it is: a well-constructed thesis. He reads through it once, twice. It’s not bad.

But Joe’s not going to get his hopes up, so he continues reading skeptically. It only takes him another paragraph to acknowledge that this student is a good writer. Perhaps even a great one. He only feels more satisfied with each additional page he reads. By the time he gets to the end of the paper, his heart is nearly racing. He’d been waiting for something to ruin it, but nothing happened. That essay was… quite good. 

Joe goes back to the first page and stares at the heading, scrutinizing your name at the top of the paper. It bounces around his mind even after he grades the paper and attempts to put it back in the pile; even as he takes it back in a few minutes to read it again. 

He soon finds himself looking forward to his next class. You haven’t left his mind, despite the fact that he has no idea what you look or sound like. Regardless, your name lingers in the back of his mind as he carries on with his day, crafting lesson plans and responding to the occasional email. And he finds himself distracted with contemplating just what you could look like. 

During his next class, he finds himself actually paying attention during attendance, if only to put a face to the name. You’re near the end of the list, and it takes every ounce of restraint he has not to speed through the list and just call out your name. 

Finally, he gets to you and says your name. You raise your hand. His chest lurches as he looks at you, everything clarifying and blurring around you. It’s such a nonchalant gesture. Hell, you didn’t even care to speak. “Welcome,” Joe says before he can stop himself. Your lips are pulled into an awkward, completely ingenuine smile and you nod. You seem confused at the thought of him welcoming you when he didn’t do the same for the other students; and annoyed at the brief attention the remark garners you. Joe updates the attendance, fighting off the urge to smile for some reason. 

He can’t fight off his curiosity for long. Twenty, then thirty minutes pass. And he reaches the brink of his patience. His lectures are meant to be interactive, but the majority of the class doesn’t care to participate. You aren’t necessarily vocal, but you’re clearly listening, at the very least. And Joe finds himself eager to hear what you have to say. He asks a question. No one answers. And he lets the room descend into a tense and uncomfortable silence. 

Joe looks at you, sharing something of an apologetic grimace. You stare for a moment, before slowly raising your hand. It’s hard for Joe not to acknowledge you within the millisecond, but he waits a few moments before calling on you to make things seem more authentic. 

Your answer is nearly perfect. You cite direct evidence from the text in your assertion, referencing multiple implicit themes present from the beginning of the book. Joe nods and thanks you for your answer, internally satiated with the knowledge that his preconceptions about you were correct. You’re brilliant. This class is probably too easy for you. 

He manages to exercise inordinate patience and stop himself from keeping you after class. Instead, he resigns himself to a night spent searching for anything and everything he can find on you. Joe’s actually looking forward to it. He wants to learn more about you. You’re clever; you’re undeniably attractive; and you’re entirely unaffected by his machinations. (Joe wants to eat you alive.)

He’s never felt this way about someone before. And his previous infatuations had all been women. That doesn’t seem to matter, though, does it? The feeling he gets in his chest when he looks at you is undeniable. And within the next few classes, he’s surrendering to the urge to get you in a room alone with him. 

“Stay behind for a moment?” Joe asks you near the end of one class. He allows his eyes to wander across the room as he asks, making sure his voice is just loud enough for the other students to hear.  

“...Sure,” you agree hesitantly. Joe knows he’s left you virtually no choice—asking you in front of the entire group. He did that on purpose, of course. You almost seem to recognize that, as your eyes flit about in recognition of the spotlight he placed you under. 

The end of class doesn’t seem to come fast enough. But finally, finally, everyone files out of the classroom. A few of the students send Joe lovelorn gazes, but he only has eyes for you. And you only have eyes for… the bookshelves around the room, apparently. 

It’s horribly ironic, Joe thinks, that you’re so blatantly restless and disinterested. You’re barely even looking at him. 

He thinks he loves it. 

Joe takes the proffered opportunity to study you, amused to find that you’re wearing sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. A lot of his students dress up—probably to impress him, he thinks to himself wryly—but here you are, wearing what he can only imagine to be comfortable clothing that you practically threw on. Your hands fidget ever so slightly in your pockets as you explore the room around you, showing no indication of even noticing his presence. Joe studies you for a while longer before finally saying your name to catch your attention. 

It’s gratifying to see the way you almost force yourself to drag your gaze towards him. Your eyes meet his and, for a moment, Joe just stands there. Every word he means to say falls to dust on his tongue as he looks at you. You look so fucking bored, as if you’d quite literally rather be anywhere else. 

Finally, Joe thinks to himself. A challenge. 

He taps his fingers against his desk a few times in faux restlessness, seeing your eyes track the movement. “How’d you like the book?” Joe asks after a few moments. He doesn’t even really need to ask—he knows exactly what you thought of it, because you had written about it rather transparently. Somehow, he still wants to hear your answer anyways. 

“It was a book,” you respond vaguely. And Joe feels a genuine laugh crawl out of his throat. He’s just as startled by it as you are. 

“That’s a diplomatic way of putting it, yes,” he agrees. You were the only one to genuinely analyze the rhetorical style and consider how it impacted the story. You were the only one to find fault with the author’s pretentious language and shitty metaphors. “I must admit, I was impressed with your essay,” Joe continues. He reread it several times. He closed his eyes and imagined you sitting in the library—or perhaps even in your apartment—writing the paper, a concentrated expression on your face. He stood outside of your building and stared up at your drawn curtains, envisioning you typing away on your laptop. But you don’t need to know that.

Truthfully, when Joe began looking into you, he was annoyed to find that you have little to no social media presence. The few accounts you have are private. Joe had to do a bit of work—and, even then, he doesn’t have nearly as much information as he should. He’s forced to actually pay attention to your answers now. 

“Thanks," you say, seeming surprised as you blink at his compliment. He’s broken out of his thoughts.  

Joe doesn’t bother responding to your gratitude. “You’re doing well in this class,” he states instead. You’re the only person with an A. Joe has earned himself something of a reputation on campus for being the strict and exacting American professor with rigorous standards. Yet here you are, passing his class with ease. He would be annoyed, if he didn’t find you so intriguing. 

You don’t seem to know what to say to him. Joe continues speaking. “What program are you in?” he asks, despite already knowing the answer. Communication. Transfer student. Perfect GPA. Peer tutor at the writing center on campus.  

“Communication,” you respond, unknowing of his internal dialogue. Joe hums, pretending that information is new. 

“And how do you like the program?” he continues, secretly a bit entertained by your short answers. 

“It’s good," you respond. And wow, you’re giving him absolutely nothing to work with. It’s almost amusing. Joe feels his lips quirking at the edges. You’re not even trying to hide your disinterest. It’s fascinating. 

“Just good?” Joe prompts you. 

“I’m enjoying it,” you answer. There’s an awkward, tense silence for several long moments. Joe doesn’t make a move to break it, and neither do you. Then, just as he begins to think he’ll have to keep it going, you continue speaking. “Did you need me for something, Professor?” you eventually ask. 

Joe’s almost impressed that you had the courage to say that to his face. He was convinced he would have you trapped in conversation for a few minutes longer. It appears he’s underestimated you. 

“I was just curious about you,” Joe admits. You have no idea how dangerous his curiosity is. He is going to pick you apart. (And, if he’s feeling particularly merciful, he’ll even put you back together.) “Your writing is quite well-developed. I wanted to inquire about your career goals, see if there was anything I could do to assist you.” 

“Oh,” you say. You’re shifting your balance ever so slightly as if uneasy. Your backpack’s on your shoulders still, as if you’re going to just bolt out of the room at a moment’s notice. You really don’t want to be here, do you? “Well, thank you. I appreciate that. I don’t think I’m going to be pursuing literature, necessarily, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

Damn it, you are good. You buried your disinterest in faux gratitude. Joe was almost fooled for a moment. He’s suddenly scrambling to find something to say, something to force you to stay in this room, if only so he can pick you apart more—

But you’re already walking away, taking the opportunity you’ve created for yourself to escape. Joe stares after you for a moment, almost in disbelief. He hardly got anything out of you. You pretty much brushed him off and continued on about your day. You threw him off for a fraction of a second, long enough for you to get away. 

Did that really just happen?

Joe must be getting rusty.  

Joe is quickly learning that you’re a bit of an interesting case. You’re a lot different from the people he would usually go after. He’d almost venture to call you reclusive, because you’re not one to go to parties on campus or hang out with friends very often. You’re independent, which he would ordinarily appreciate—if it didn’t make tracking you down so damn difficult. You’re an unobtrusive presence on campus, clearly content with fading into the background. And your efforts work rather well for you, it seems. Of course, you can’t fool Joe. He would never be bored by you. Anything and everything you do just fascinates him. You’ve been fixed in his sights since that first paper you submitted to him weeks ago. 

This fascination is how he finds himself walking into one of the humble coffee shops on campus, pretending to look at the menu when he’s really tracking you down. He knows you tend to come here after your Intercultural Communication class on Wednesdays—and, after a few moments, he finally spots you. You’re nestled in one of the booths in the corner of the room, typing away on your laptop as usual. That’s one of the least surprising things he’s learned about you: you’re rather studious. He didn’t even need to glimpse into your apartment window to learn that, although he did anyway. 

Joe feels himself moving before he can stop himself. A few steps and he’s standing at the edge of your table, waiting for you to tear your attention away from your busywork. It takes a few seconds longer than he’d like, and he eventually abandons his patience. “Fancy seeing you here,” he remarks. 

You finally look up from your laptop screen, your eyes briefly finding him. “Professor Moore,” you say, momentarily startled by his presence. “What brings you here?”

“Just stopping by for some coffee before my office hours,” he answers with a slight smile. 

“…Well, I should leave you to it, then," you say smoothly. You predictably don’t take the bait—the reminder of his office hours—and instead practically dismiss him. His hand twitches at his side. “It was good to see you.” Liar. You look so uncomfortable. It only makes Joe more persistent. 

“Nonsense, I can spare some time for my best student.” Joe waves off your concern, before promptly leaning down and taking a seat in the booth across from you. You’re stoic for the most part, but a flicker of surprise and bewilderment passes across your face. Joe resists the urge to smile at the sight, instead focusing on you. 

“How’s your paper coming along?” he asks. You look suspicious and wary. Damn it, that’s right. Joe’s not supposed to know that you started that, is he? Finding the password to your school account had been far too easy, though. From there, he was free to browse your many assignments. And Joe devoured them all—especially the ones for his class. (God, that sounds pathetic, even for him.) “Don’t tell me you haven’t started it yet,” he adds jokingly, jabbing at your quick work pace. You’re at least a few weeks ahead of the course schedule. He can’t bring himself to be irritated by it. 

“I have some ideas, but nothing concrete yet," you answer.

“Good, good,” Joe says. “And what are you working on now, may I ask?”  

“Something for my Digital Activism class,” you respond. Joe looks at you expectantly and you continue. “We have to pick a digital activism movement and use content analysis to determine its efficacy.”

He sits for a bit, watching you continue to ignore him. He’ll occasionally take a sip of his drink but, otherwise, he’s unabashedly staring. Either you’re particularly good at ignoring him, or you just haven’t noticed. Joe gets the feeling it’s the former. 

“I have to get to class,” you announce at some point, closing your laptop and slipping it into your backpack. Joe almost laughs. You’re not getting out of this that easily. Absolutely not. Not again.

“Are you going to Winslow Hall?” Joe asks. He knows you are. Even if he hadn’t checked your schedule—which he did—he would be able to come to that conclusion. The college isn’t huge, so a lot of the liberal arts classes are in the same collection of buildings. “I can walk you there,” he offers politely.

“...Okay.” You’re clearly displeased with this turn of events, and confused by the gesture. Joe doesn’t give you any time to retract the remark, instead putting his jacket on and waiting for you to do the same. You’re sneaking suspicious glances at him every few moments. Usually his charismatic attitude isn’t met with such disregard and wariness. It’s a strange departure from the past. Then again, he’s sort of reinventing himself here in London. (Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself.) 

Joe heads out of the coffee shop with you, walking at your side and taking note of how you almost seem to shrink on yourself as passersby stare at the both of you. No doubt they’re wondering just who you are—Joe hasn’t earned a reputation for being particularly social. And he has quite a few admirers across campus. You’re almost wilting under everyone’s gazes, your hands fidgeting with the straps of your backpack restlessly. You probably haven’t realized, but your somewhat alternative appearance is only making you stand out more when next to him. It’s kind of funny. 

“Here we are,” Joe announces after your rather uneventful walk. “See you in class tomorrow,” he says, letting a charming smile slip onto his face. 

“Bye,” you say with an awkward, strained smile. He’s caught your genuine smile from afar—this tense pull to your lips is the furthest thing from it. It’s like you’re determined not to let your guard down in front of him. And within moments, you’ve already entered the classroom—as if you’re fleeing from him. 

In the coming weeks, as the semester starts to wind down, Joe decides to adjust his curriculum slightly to make the final assignment a partner project. It’ll boost some of the slackers’ grades—assuming they actually put in the work. But he knows that’s not the real reason why he’s giving the class this work. The real reason is sitting in the back of the class: you. Inexplicably, Joe wants to observe you speaking to someone else. He wants to see how you act when you’re forced to speak to someone else, to a peer. How will it differ from how you speak to him? Are you naturally wary, or is he special? He’s smirking at the thought. 

This partner project is how Joe currently finds himself in between the bookshelves of the campus library, subtly peeking through the gaps in the books to look at you and your partner. He’s hanging on to your every word, regardless of how mundane or unassuming it may be. There’s something positively captivating about you. (And this feels like it should be a blow to his pride, somehow. Joe has watched people before, many times. He’s never sunk to such depths: watching you do virtually nothing as you complete your schoolwork.) 

Then again, you’re not a particularly scandalous or public person. This is the best he can do. You like to keep to yourself, after all—spending hours in your apartment with your eyes glued to your laptop, or your phone, or a book. Joe shakes his head in annoyance, forgetting himself for a moment.

“What do you think of Professor Moore?” your classmate asks curiously. Joe suddenly snaps back to attention, feeling himself lean forward and peek through the gaps in the bookshelves to study the look on your face. That was rather fortuitous. 

You’re frowning at the question. “I’m not sure,” you say after a moment. The fluorescent lights of the library hum in impatience. Joe breathes slowly. “He kind of gives off serial killer vibes.” 

Joe is sure there’s a huge chunk of context he’s missing, but he still has to duck below the shelves to hide himself as he laughs. Oh, you have no idea. His shoulders are shaking with mirth. It takes concerted effort for him to reel himself back in. 

“How?” your classmate asks, clearly thrown by your honesty. 

“I don’t know,” you say hesitantly. You’re acting a bit uncertain, but Joe gets the feeling you’re just pretending for your classmate’s benefit. After all, you’ve made little effort to hide your skepticism whenever he speaks to you individually. “He fits the demographic. White man, conventionally attractive. Kind of emotionless.” Conventionally attractive. That’s not even a compliment—it’s just the truth. But it somehow satisfies Joe anyways. 

“I guess," the woman responds, clearly unconvinced. 

“Why do you ask?” you question her. 

“Just wondering,” she shrugs. “He seems to talk to you a lot.” 

Joe can see your eyebrows furrow from his position behind the bookshelves. You don’t exactly look pleased at the thought. “I don’t think so,” you say to your classmate. You don’t have anything else to say on the matter, supposedly, because you turn your attention back to the project.

This is fun, Joe thinks. Surprisingly so. 

Unfortunately, you soon part ways with your classmate to return to your apartment. Joe follows you on the way back, annoyed at the knowledge that he’ll never get another chance like that again: one to hear your honest, unfiltered opinion on him. At least, not without asking you directly. Your words ring in his ears, even after he returns home that night and gets ready for bed. 

The next few weeks are par for the course. Despite his best efforts, he can’t quite seem to get you alone—save for your regular visits to the coffee shop. But that’s not enough for Joe, and he knows it. He needs so much more. He needs to sink his claws into you, rip your rib cage apart until he can finally see that damn heart of yours. And then maybe, just maybe, he’ll finally understand you. 

He’s… not doing well with this whole “reinvention” thing. Ah well. 

It isn’t until one early afternoon that his resolve finally starts to weaken. Joe’s sitting in his office, scrolling through his inbox when he finds an email from you—buried between the bureaucratic nonsense sent from the university and automated notifications from the grading system. His heart jumps unpleasantly, until he sees the headline of the email: “Class Tomorrow.” That doesn’t bode well. You’re probably not going. 

Indeed, as he opens the message and skims through it, his eyes find the important parts: “sick” and “absence”; and then, “apologies for the inconvenience.” Despite it all, you’re formal and polite. He appreciates the fact that you notified him of your absence: so many of his students will ditch class without warning. It’s nothing more than a common courtesy, but somehow, it’s still rather rare. He has an attendance policy on his syllabus, but it is often ignored. Joe shakes his head and returns his attention to your email. Then he reads it again. And a third time. 

He scoffs at himself. What the hell is he doing, reading a simple email over and over again? Is that really the best he can do? Joe sighs and refocuses his thoughts on the remaining emails sitting in his inbox, fighting off thoughts of you. 

As it turns out, rereading your email is far from the best thing Joe can do. He can do much better, like stand outside of your apartment and look through your windows. His eyes explore the scene: the tissue box and unusually cluttered table near your couch, the somewhat exhausted look on your face, the uncharacteristic lethargy to your movements. You look kind of miserable. 

You must have a fever, because you’re only wearing a tank top and shorts. Joe doesn’t think he’s seen this much of your skin before—this fall hasn’t been a particularly warm one, so he’s used to seeing you in sweatpants, jeans, sweatshirts, sweaters… He is absolutely not used to this—was not prepared to feel this uncomfortable stirring in his gut, this horrible restlessness and urge to get moving, to do something to distract himself from whatever this is—

Joe rubs a hand over his face and takes a slow breath. Get a hold of yourself, he admonishes himself. He continues studying your apartment from his vantage point, finding that, even in the throes of your sickness, you’ve still kept it relatively clean. That’s admirable, if a bit foolish. You head to your couch and throw a blanket over yourself. Joe watches as you drift off, checking his watch. It’s not very late yet—you usually go to bed later. You must be rather fatigued. 

Joe eventually leaves, if only because the night air is getting uncomfortably chilly. He spends the rest of the night grading and preparing for his next lesson. He wonders when you’ll get better, when you’ll return to his classroom. You’re not the type to miss lectures, Joe can already tell. So the fact that you’re absent is… a bit worrying. Or, it would be worrying, if he were the type to get stressed about things like that.  

Days pass, and Joe is forced to settle for your occasional emails—and the glimpses of you he catches from outside your apartment building. You’ve missed three classes at this point, interspersed across a week and a half. He isn’t sure whether to expect you today. You didn’t send an email like normal, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. 

The universe almost seems to be poking fun at him, because as he settles at his desk and muses, you walk through the door. “Back in the land of the living, hm?” Joe asks in lieu of a greeting. You sigh and place your backpack down, getting to your seat. He takes in your appearance, finding that you look worn out but still marginally better than before. He hopes you took those antibiotics your doctor prescribed. 

“For now,” you respond with a tired smile. You look exhausted. Joe doesn’t realize he utters that thought aloud until he hears you respond. “I know,” you say. Another student would be embarrassed at the thought, but you don’t seem to care. 

“Well, don’t go falling asleep on me,” Joe says teasingly, if only because social etiquette demands it of him. Secretly, he wouldn’t mind if you fell asleep. The thought of your wariness and skepticism slipping away, leaving you entirely vulnerable… 

“No promises,” you huff as you get your laptop out, entirely unaware of the dark turn his thoughts have taken. 

“Let me know if you need any assistance with catching up,” he offers. You both know you won’t need it. 

“I will, thanks,” you respond amicably. Your attention is focused on your screen for a moment, your eyes shifting ever so slightly as you read something. Then you blink and look back up at him. “I watched the lectures, so hopefully I’ll be okay.” 

“Ah, very good,” he smiles. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine, then.” 

Soon enough, the other students begin to file into the room. He allows them a few moments to get settled, before diving into today’s shorter lecture. Joe had allocated some time at the end of class for the partner projects, if only to make things easier on himself. Now, he won’t have to sneak around in the library to hear your conversation with your classmate. (Although, last time was certainly interesting in its own right.) 

Joe fights with the urge to stare at you the entire time, instead letting his eyes wander across the room as he subtly eavesdrops on your conversation. 

“Are you feeling better?” your classmate asks.

“Yeah, sort of," you answer her. “Just tired. I got the analysis done before I got sick, though.” Of course you did, Joe thinks. Of course you did. 

“Well, let me know if you need anything," she says, in a voice dripping with concern and something more… intimate. Joe feels an ugly feeling settle at the pit of his stomach. 

“Okay, thanks,” you say blankly. Jesus, you’re a brick fucking wall. She’s clearly flirting with you. Either you’re oblivious—which Joe somewhat doubts, given the perceptiveness you’ve exhibited in the past—or you’re just uninterested. It’s intriguing. Almost impressive, actually.  

As the two of you continue to work on your project, Joe catches bits and pieces of your conversation—interspersed between his unfortunate lapses in attention as he’s forced to answer a few students’ questions. But then the class is ending and you’re leaving. He can’t quite stop himself from staring after you as you go, nor can he convince himself to stop going to that coffee shop every time you go. 

He finds you there the next day, in the same booth you’re always in. Joe is almost ready to think you’re doing this on purpose. You’re not even making it difficult. The same time, the same place, the same day of the week… Come on. He thought you were a bit of a challenge. Joe slides into the booth across from you, settling into the seat that is starting to become his. 

“Hey, Professor,” you say, not even looking up from your screen.

“You can call me Jonathan, you know,” Joe says with a bit of friendly inflection. He very nearly slips and introduces himself as Joe. Something about you makes him want to be honest with you, if only to provoke you into some sort of reaction. 

“I’d rather not,” you respond seamlessly, a pinched expression on your face. Usually, that would be more than enough for a student to fall at his feet. He almost frowns, but manages to resist the urge. Perhaps he needs to try a different tactic. 

“Is your schedule settled for next semester?” he asks instead. 

“Yeah,” you confirm casually. 

“What classes are you taking?” he asks. It’s like pulling teeth. Are you doing this on purpose?

“Just communication classes,” you answer. “And a history class, I think. Some gen-ed, I don’t remember the name of it.”

“Exciting.” He raises his brows, willing you to look at him. You spare him a momentary glance, before returning your attention to your schoolwork. Is whatever you’re doing really more intriguing than he is? He almost wants to be offended. Almost.  

“Not really,” you dismiss the remark. 

He sits with you silently for a while, just watching you write. Joe has to admit, he’s stewing a little bit. You’re not even giving him the time of day. But his patience starts to pay off, as he catches you sending him confused glances. 

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, finally addressing him. You close your laptop screen and give him your full attention; and Joe gets a sudden rush of adrenaline. 

“Pardon?” he manages to ask, his tongue feeling slightly thick in his mouth.

“Why are you doing this?” you repeat yourself, gesturing to the two of you and the coffee shop around you. “Sitting here, asking me these questions.” 

“I want to get to know you," he answers immediately. That is the complete truth, for once. Unfortunately for you, that desire is far from harmless. 

“Why?”

“Is it really so hard to believe?” Joe counters instead, tactfully avoiding the question. He lets a charming smile rise on his lips. The gesture only seems to disconcert you. 

“Yes, it is,” you answer flatly. “What’s your endgame?”

Bold of you to assume he has an endgame. You’re absolutely right, of course. He absolutely has an endgame. He always does. “I’m just making conversation,” Joe says innocently. 

“Okay.” You’re clearly unconvinced. 

“It’s getting late,” Joe observes, casting a pointed glance through the dark windows at the front of the shop. “I’ll walk you home,” he offers. 

“No, it’s okay,” you deny him. You’re too smart for your own good. “I’ll be fine,” you say. And oh, you really, really would be. You would be so much better off walking home alone. But that’s just not in the cards for you tonight. 

“I insist,” Joe says firmly. You’re silent, clearly annoyed but sensing he isn’t going to relent. You know he’s got you trapped now. He shrugs his jacket on and watches you do the same, waiting for you to gather up your things before heading out of the coffee shop. 

The two of you are quiet for a few minutes. Joe has his hands shoved in his pockets and he’s walking ahead of you, anticipating what’s to come. He can’t say he’s been this excited before. But you’re different from the others. 

“You seem like you know where you’re going,” you say suspiciously.

Shit. That’s a harsh reality check. “I assume you live in one of the residence halls on campus." Joe thinks quickly. “Am I incorrect?”

“The dorms are back there,” you point out, glancing behind you momentarily before returning your attention to him. “And you’ve been walking ahead of me.”

“I take long strides; I’m tall," Joe justifies. 

“You’re not that tall.” You roll your eyes. “And I can walk quickly, so it’s not that.” You seem completely convinced, confident. You’re difficult to throw off, almost unshakeable even as you unknowingly approach a line you can’t come back from.  

“You don’t seem to trust me,” Joe eventually remarks, after sensing that your doubt is still very much present. 

“I don’t,” you agree. 

“Why not?”

“You don’t make sense to me," you admit. “You’re… I don’t know.” Joe waits patiently. He’s curious to hear how far you’ll go. “You’re elusive. You’re constantly acting, pretending. I’ve never seen you look authentic.”  

“A professor has to act a certain way, you understand,” Joe says somewhat dryly, secretly a bit annoyed by your stubbornness. You’re treading on thin ice and you don’t even realize it. His hand is twitching at his side. 

“Sure,” you acquiesce. “But you’re always acting. Even when you think you aren’t.” That’s… more accurate than you could ever know. 

“I see,” Joe says. 

“You act like… you want something from me,” you continue, studying him for a moment. “And I have no idea what it is.” 

“Maybe I just want your company,” Joe replies. 

“That’s not enough,” you respond far too quickly.

“Why not?” He asks. 

“Don’t pretend to be offended now,” you scoff, shoving your hands in your pockets. You look very restless and apprehensive, your eyes flitting around him as if waiting for him to make a move of some sort. 

You both walk in silence for a few more minutes. 

“I don’t know anything about you, you realize,” you continue. Joe’s so surprised to hear that remark that he just stares in disbelief. “You’re hard to track down. Practically nonexistent on university websites. It’s like you just… appeared.” 

The irony of that statement isn’t lost on Joe, but it will certainly be lost on you. Because you’re just as difficult to track down. Getting to this point—spending time with you, alone and unguarded—took him practically the entire semester.

“What do you want to know?” Joe asks, because he’s nothing if not charitable. His heart is roaring in his ears. Things don’t typically go like this. He’s not supposed to be the one being interrogated. 

You shrug helplessly. “I don’t know. Something, I guess. Something to prove you’re an actual human being, not just an empty husk.”

Damn. Damn. 

“Did I hit a nerve?” you ask. Joe blinks and there’s an entertained quirk to your lips. Another blink and it vanishes. “Whoops,” you say carelessly, clearly not very bothered by it. 

“You don’t seem very apologetic,” Joe notes calmly. 

“I get the feeling you’re not that great of a person,” you say. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Joe genuinely freezes for a moment, forgetting to walk alongside you. This entire interaction is giving him whiplash. Joe is so used to dominating the conversation—steering it at his will, until he gets exactly what he wants. But here you are, casually demolishing his plans and laying him out to dry in the same breath. Is he really so predictable, for you to take a simple glance at him and break through all of his defenses? Surely not. 

Joe shakes his head and catches up to you. “That’s not a very nice thing to say to someone,” he eventually says. That’s about what a normal person would say in this situation, right? Sure. 

“Yeah, you’re probably not used to hearing that, are you?” you huff. You’re smiling now—honest to God, smiling. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile so genuinely before. What the fuck?

“You realize I have control over your grades,” Joe says, the statement leaving his lips before he can think it through. It’s… not the best response he’s crafted, but he supposes it’ll do. 

You don’t seem the least bit affected by the implicit threat. “Are you really threatening me?” you ask, clearly amused. “Everyone else in your class is failing. Tanking my grades would only reflect poorly on you.”

You’re perceptive. Super perceptive. And yet you have no idea just how much danger you’re in right now. And yet you’ve never even noticed the persistent shadow following you across campus, lurking outside your apartment. “You’ve thought this through,” Joe remembers to say. 

“Not really,” you dismiss the thought. “Just saying. Besides, it’s near the end of the semester.”

“It is,” he agrees. Somehow that remark is what ushers in the finality for him. You’re right: finals are next week. His class doesn’t have a final. With the end of the semester, Joe won’t have an excuse to see you regularly anymore. He’ll track you down at that one coffee shop, lurk near your apartment, sure. But that’s not enough for him. 

“You almost sound disappointed,” you notice. Because of course you do.

“Competence is increasingly rare these days,” Joe says. The night air almost seems to warn him after that comment, rustling through his hair and sending a persistent chill through his bones. 

“You do have something of a reputation for being a stickler, don’t you?” you murmur. 

“No one here knows how to write,” he huffs. 

At that, the air between you falls silent once more—complete with a tangible, stifling tension. Your eyes flit about restlessly, never seeming to settle on any one thing for long. You’re steadily avoiding his gaze, as if meeting his eyes will confirm your suspicions. (It certainly will.) Joe allows it, if only because the sight amuses him. 

“This is me,” you then say, as the two of you stop in front of a nondescript building. It’s not you—you don’t live here. Your building is down a block or two. Joe just arches a brow. 

“You don’t want me to know where you live?” he asks casually, before he can stop himself. Joe’s getting closer and closer to crossing that same line he knows he can’t come back from. But damn it, what else is there to do? Moving to London, adopting this new identity… none of it quelled that visceral, manipulative desire in his chest. 

“What do you mean?” you ask slowly, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Joe has a choice to make. He can play dumb, let the conversation fall to silence and allow you to walk into that building you certainly don’t live in. He can turn his back, pretending not to see you sneak out of the building minutes later and head to where you actually live. He can give you that small mercy. 

…or… 

“You don’t live here,” Joe asserts. You’re frozen in front of him. He finds himself satisfied to know he provoked a reaction in you, no matter how small. He can’t quite give up the game now—he’s just getting started. “Come on, then,” he says, putting a hand on your shoulder and steering you away from the building. 

“Where are we going?” you question. 

“To your apartment,” Joe answers. 

You look unsettled, genuinely nervous. Joe feels a smirk rising on his lips before he can hide it. He grabs your forearm and leads you out of this building, heading down the sidewalk and towards your apartment building. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” you say at some point. 

You’re going to wish you did. “Not exactly,” Joe settles for saying, when he senses you’re still waiting for an answer. 

You stare at him for a moment, before stiffening. You almost seem to find something in his eyes. “I can walk without your assistance,” you snap, trying to break out of his grip. Joe just tightens his hold on your arm. He’s never been this close to you before: close enough to see the streetlights reflecting in your eyes, the unnerved pull to your lips, the tension stretching across your shoulders. 

“Don’t be difficult,” Joe says patronizingly, if only to irritate you a bit more. You look furious at the remark and he smiles, continuing to lead you towards your building.  

“Should’ve trusted my gut,” you mutter quietly, talking to yourself. 

“You should’ve,” Joe agrees, ushering you into the lobby and guiding you to the elevators. With the elevator’s arrival, he leads you into the elevator before finally, regretfully, removing his grip. Upon pressing the button for your floor, he’s satisfied to find fear flickering across your face—as you evidently realize he knows exactly where your apartment is. Joe wants to burn that memory into his mind forever, watching your reaction over and over again to pick it apart. 

The elevator ride is quick and painless. At least, it is for him. Joe notices that you’re getting fidgety, though. And when the doors slide open to reveal your floor, you hover in the doorway. Joe just sighs, putting a hand on your back and leading you to your apartment. You only seem to be more disturbed as he does so. 

“Well?” he demands somewhat impatiently, after a few moments pass and you don’t say anything. You haven’t made a move to unlock your door yet. 

“I don’t have my keys,” you answer. He huffs at the attempted lie.

“Left pocket of your jacket,” Joe hums, looking at you expectantly. He watches as your hand explores your left pocket, emerging with your keys in your palm. “There you go,” he says with a nod. And if you looked afraid before, you look completely terrified now. 

“Go on, then,” he urges you. After a few seconds pass and you don’t move, he takes the keys from your hand and swiftly unlocks the door. “After you,” Joe says, gently pushing you into the room and following after you. 

He takes in the space greedily, connecting the objects to how they looked from outside. “Nice place,” Joe eventually says. You’re silent. 

Truthfully, things don’t usually go this quickly. Usually he gets into a relationship first, then manipulates the other person until he’s satisfied. But Joe can’t discredit you—he knows you’re not foolish enough to fall for that. You were suspicious from the outset, so he had to abandon his typical methods. It’s a nice change of pace, though: you know exactly how dangerous he is. 

And he doesn’t realize he’s uttered that first sentence aloud until he sees the look on your face. “You do this frequently, then?” you ask. “What, did you do this in America before you got here?” 

Joe keeps silent, knowing you’ll decipher the truth. Indeed, your face falls and you bury your head in your hands for a moment—clearly sensing the gravity of the situation. He gives you a moment to yourself, instead directing his attention to the space around him. It does remind him of you, somehow. And isn’t that a frightening thought? 

“What happens now, then?” you ask quietly. You don’t appear nearly as confident, now that you’re pinned under his gaze. “Will you kill me?”

“No,” Joe responds far too easily. He doesn’t ever want this game to end. No one has challenged him quite like you do. And he’s certain that, even when he seems to have you under his thumb now, you’ll find a way to make things interesting. 

“Why not?” you whisper. 

You’re too interesting. Joe keeps the thought to himself, his hand exploring the adjacent wall and running over the various posters and photographs you have hung up. He’s seen your apartment from the outside, but this is the first time he’s actually been inside it. 

“This apartment isn’t big enough for two people,” you state, as if that’s your most pressing concern. Joe chuckles. 

“Mine is,” he remarks, watching in delight as you process the implications of that statement. Several emotions pass across your face: dread, fear, anger. Then something like resolve gleams in your eyes and you move to get up. But Joe’s standing in front of you before you can even begin to head for the door. “Don’t bother. You won’t escape me.”

And you wouldn’t know, but you lost your chance at escape from the very moment you turned in that first essay. You surrendered yourself to his surveillance as soon as you walked into the classroom the next day. And your efforts at subverting his attention have only drawn him closer. 

Joe stands in front of you for a while, before guiding you to sit on your couch. He bustles about the room, grabbing an empty backpack and beginning to explore the room. He goes to your closet first, taking a few outfits and folding them up before placing them in your bag. 

“What are you doing?” you eventually ask, clearly unnerved by his silence. 

“Gathering your things,” he answers easily, grabbing a few things from your bathroom and stuffing them into the bag. “You won’t be back here for a while.” 

Joe knows he’s only unnerving you more, with the way he’s mechanically making his way through your apartment as if he knows it like the back of his hand. He hears a startled inhale of breath as he grabs your medications and fights off a smile. Yes, you have no idea just how much he knows about you. You’re only beginning to grasp it, because he wants to unsettle you. 

“Shall we?” Joe hums a few minutes later, slinging the bag he prepared for you over his shoulder. He doesn’t bother to wait for your response before latching his hand on your wrist and tugging you along after him. 

The elevator ride is silent. Joe realizes you’re finally looking at him. To think… all this time, all it took was a few drastic measures to thoroughly ensnare you. It doesn’t quite matter that you look disturbed—the fact of the matter is that you’re staring at him, trying to pick him apart the same way he’s been dissecting you. 

When the elevator reaches the first floor and the doors slide open, Joe’s hand finds your wrist again and he leads you after him. The cool night air meets you once more. There are only a few people out this late at night, but he’s brutally aware of how uncomfortable you must look. Coming to an idea, Joe’s hand slips down to your hand and he interlaces your fingers. He can nearly feel your hand trembling in his. Your discomfort can now be interpreted as uneasiness being spotted on the street, holding hands with him. No one will understand just how much danger you’re in as you walk alongside him, pliant in his grip as he leads you towards your new cage. 

Joe looks up to the polluted night sky, entirely void of stars, and smiles. 

Reader, chuckling: I'm in danger.

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[ghostocrab]

Why the hell is so hard to find things for trans black people. I'm speaking in terms of fanfiction, games and books. Like I want to be able to be called the pronouns that I'm comfortable with but no. An when I do find fanfiction that is about a gender neutral reader or Trans some how straight women always end up being put as the default. Especially when it gn reader. It's in the name gender neutral! This is why this space is so unwelcoming and fun. Some may say make your own but when trans and gay writes do straight women come in and ask "why can't you do a female reader" or even white people coming into black fanfic writes space and telling them to write a white reader when almost all fics are default white and cis. That an the fact that every fem fanfiction write has to state that the reader is a woman every second. Which I don't get how anyone can stand that. I keep blocking tags and no matter what this shit keep showing up. Just please for the love of God tag your fics with fem if you are going to call the reader a women please. Then again this is also a bigger issue with these communities and fan spaces of racism, homophobia, and transphobia. An I can't stand it . Every one deserves to be treated equally in media and in life. An people need realize that we can all share a space.

[satansdarlin]

Ace in the hole

Apparently I can't write anything small (lol), this is technically a continuation of royal flush and pa's little Spade. I hope you enjoy this nonny! I based a bit of this on my own experience coming out as non-binary (technically I'm genderfluid but I use non-binary and fem terms more than masc)

Rating: T

Word count: 8.4k

Warnings: anxiety about coming out, transphobia (immediately shut down), overly excited boy dad remy

If you liked this check of my masterlist or put in a request if they are open

Spade, your eldest, had moved out and was living in an apartment with her fiancée Alex, but that didn't mean the house was empty. Chip, the youngest, was only turning ten this autumn, while Alice was now sixteen. On this particular afternoon, Chip was out with friends when your second oldest asked to speak with you and Remy.

"What's goin' on, poupée?" Remy asked, his accent thickening with concern. "Remy doesn't like seeing you so nervous.”

"I want to talk to you both about something serious... about me," they finally spoke. You placed your hand over Remy's. While it couldn't be as dramatic as finding seventeen-year-old Spade with a suppression collar or discovering she'd hidden a boyfriend for three months, something in your second oldest's tone made you worry.

"You can tell us anything, sweetheart."

"Could be about a boy or somethin'?" Remy chuckled teasingly, but when you squeezed his hand, he tried to compose himself. "Remy will be serious now, promise."

"You could say that," they murmured before clearing their throat. "I'm just going to say it, and you can ask questions after I'm done. I... I don't think I'm a girl. I feel like a boy. And I don't want to be a girl. I don't... want to be Alice anymore." Their voice grew quiet, nervous about their parents' reaction.

"Oh," you said softly before clearing your throat. "Well, what would you like us to call you before we proceed?"

"I... I like the name Ace."

"Sticking with the theme, huh?" Ace nodded slightly.

Remy was clearly taken aback but not angry or upset—just surprised. This wasn't a scenario he'd ever imagined. "Ace... that's a good name." You could tell your husband was searching for words. "You really feel like a boy?"

"I do, Pa. I don't think I've ever felt like a girl." He scuffed his foot against the ground, unable to meet his parents' eyes, expecting disappointment that wasn't there. You could feel your husband practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of having a son old enough to share traditionally masculine activities with.

"Remy," you spoke in a warning tone. "Give him a moment before you start trying to teach him football." Remy deflated slightly, catching himself before his smile grew too bright. He took a deep breath, nodding as he refocused on the conversation.

"So, what does this mean for you, son? Should we start calling you Ace full time? You wanna see about a new wardrobe? And are you... are you planning on doing anything like surgery or somethin'?"

Ace was about to answer, but you caught his nervous look first.

"It's up to you, darling. Your father and I aren't upset at all. I can promise your father is thrilled about having another boy under his roof. We just want you to be comfortable."

Ace looked stunned by how well you were both taking it. While he hadn't expected a negative reaction, he'd worried about disappointing you somehow.

"You're both so cool with it..." he said, voice uncertain as he looked between you. "I just feel like a boy, honestly... I thought maybe a shorter haircut would be a good place to start."

"Remy could cut it!" your husband offered eagerly.

"You are not cutting his hair," you spoke firmly. "We will take you to get it done professionally."

"Aww, come on! Remy knows what he's doing!" he tried to protest, but your stern tone left no room for argument. He sighed before nodding. "Yeah, yeah, okay... Remy will let the professionals handle it."

Ace's shoulders visibly relaxed, tension melting away as he realized this conversation was going better than any scenario he'd imagined. "I've been looking at some clothes online too," he admitted, finally settling into the armchair across from you both. "Nothing expensive, just... different styles."

"We can go shopping this weekend if you'd like," you offered, already mentally cataloging stores that might have what he needed. "Maybe get that haircut too?"

"Oh! And Remy could—" your husband started excitedly.

"After the haircut and clothes shopping," you interrupted, knowing he was about to suggest a dozen different father-son activities. "Let's take this one step at a time, okay?"

"Actually..." Ace fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. "Could we maybe tell Spade first? Before we go shopping? I don't want her to find out from someone else, and..." He trailed off, but you understood. Spade had always been protective of her younger siblings.

"Of course, mon fils," Remy said, testing out the words. His accent wrapped warmly around the French. "Remy thinks we should invite her over for dinner tomorrow. Your choice of takeout."

"Pizza?" Ace asked hopefully, a hint of his usual mischievous smile returning.

"With extra cheese," you agreed, then added, "And what about Chip? Do you want to tell him right away?"

Ace considered this for a moment. "Maybe... maybe after Spade? He's only ten, but he's pretty smart for his age. I just don't want him accidentally telling everyone at school before I'm ready."

"That's very thoughtful of you," you said. "We can help you figure out the timing for telling others too. There's no rush."

"Speaking of school..." Remy scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Does Remy need to talk to your teachers? Or the administration?"

"Not yet," Ace said quickly, then more slowly added, "I think I want to try the other stuff first. You know, hair and clothes and... seeing how it feels at home. Is that okay?"

"More than okay," you assured him. "This is your journey, sweetheart. We're just here to support you."

"Though," Remy added with a growing grin, "Remy may have some old baseball cards in the attic that need sorting..."

You rolled your eyes fondly as Ace laughed, the sound more relaxed than you'd heard in months. "Pa, you've been trying to get someone to help you with those cards for years!"

"And now Remy has two sons to pass them down to!" he declared triumphantly, before catching himself. "That is, if you're interested in that sort of thing. No pressure."

"Maybe," Ace said, smiling. "But first... could I have a hug?"

You both moved at the same time, enveloping your son in a warm embrace. As you held him, you could feel the slight trembling in his shoulders, the release of fears he'd been carrying for who knew how long.

"We love you so much," you whispered into his hair – hair that would soon be shorter, marking the first step in his new journey. "Nothing could ever change that."

"Remy loves you too, mon fils," your husband added softly, his voice thick with emotion.

When you finally pulled apart, Ace wiped at his eyes quickly. "I love you guys too." He paused, then added with a hint of humor, "Even if Pa's going to try to teach me every sport known to man now."

"Hey! Remy is an excellent teacher!" he protested, but his eyes were twinkling.

"You taught Spade basketball and she broke a window," you reminded him dryly.

"That was one time! Remy cannot be held responsible for that!"

Ace laughed again, and you treasured the sound. There would be challenges ahead, you knew – telling family and friends, navigating school, dealing with the wider world. But right now, in this moment, your son was happy and loved, and that was what mattered most.

"So," Ace said, looking more confident than he had all afternoon. "Pizza tomorrow with Spade?"

"Pizza tomorrow," you confirmed. "And maybe this weekend we can look into that haircut."

"And the baseball cards!" Remy added hopefully.

"And maybe the baseball cards," you conceded, watching your husband and son share identical grins.

Some changes happened slowly, and others happened all at once. But as you watched Ace settle more comfortably into the conversation, already planning what style of haircut he wanted, you knew that this change – this truth – had been there all along, just waiting for the right moment to be shared.

.

.

.

The next evening came faster than expected. You'd barely finished setting out the pizza when Spade arrived, her keys jingling as she let herself in.

"Remy's oldest is here!" your husband called out excitedly, already heading for the door. "Come give your papa a hug!"

Spade rolled her eyes fondly as she was enveloped in a bear hug. "I was here last week, Pa." But she squeezed him back just as tight before making her way to you for another hug. "Where's the troublemaker squad?"

"Chip's at a sleepover," you explained, watching Ace hover nervously in the doorway to the living room. "And... Ace wanted to talk to you about something."

Spade raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar name, but her expression softened when she saw her sibling's anxious stance. "Everything okay?"

"Maybe we should sit down," Ace suggested quietly.

You and Remy shared a look as you all settled into the living room, pizza momentarily forgotten. Ace took a deep breath, fingers twisting in his lap.

"So... you know how you always said I could tell you anything?"

"Course," Spade replied immediately. "That's what big sisters are for."

Ace winced slightly at the word 'sisters,' and Spade caught it, her brow furrowing in concentration.

"I'm... I'm your brother, actually," Ace managed, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm a boy. And my name is Ace now, not... not the old one."

Spade was quiet for exactly three seconds before "Oh! Oh shit, that makes so much sense!"

"Language," you corrected automatically, but you were smiling.

"No, but seriously," Spade continued, leaning forward. "Remember when we were kids and you kept stealing my baseball cap? And how you always wanted to be the male lead when we played pretend? And—"

"Remy feels very called out right now," your husband interrupted with a chuckle. "Because Remy didn't notice any of that."

"That's because you're oblivious, Pa," Spade said affectionately before turning back to Ace. "So, little brother, huh? Does this mean I can finally give you all those hand-me-downs Pa bought me that I never wore?"

The tension in Ace's shoulders melted away. "You're... you're okay with it?"

"Are you kidding? This is great! Now I'm not outnumbered by sisters anymore!" She paused. "Wait, have you told Chip yet?"

"Not yet," you answered. "We're taking it one step at a time. Haircut and clothes shopping this weekend."

"Remy has many plans!" your husband added excitedly. "Baseball cards, football, Remy can teach you to shave even though you don't need it yet—"

"Remy," you warned, but Spade was already laughing.

"Oh god, Pa's going to try to cram eighteen years of 'father-son bonding' into like, a week."

"Remy will pace himself!" he protested. "But also, son, if you want to learn how to throw a perfect spiral—"

"After the haircut," you and Spade said in unison.

The next week proved Spade's prediction eerily accurate. While you took Ace shopping for new clothes and to get his hair cut into a stylish short style that made his whole face light up, Remy was making lists.

"Remy found his old comic books!" he announced one morning, dragging a box from the attic. "Every boy should read these classics!"

The next day: "Does Remy's son want to learn how to change a tire? Very important skill!"

And the day after: "Remy thinks it's time for some man-to-man talks about—"

"If you try to give him The Talk right now, you're sleeping on the couch," you threatened, watching Ace turn bright red.

"Remy was just going to discuss sports statistics!"

But for all his enthusiasm, you noticed how careful Remy was too. How he always checked if Ace was interested before launching into something new. How he'd caught himself almost saying "Alice" once and had spent the rest of the day practically showering Ace with "mon fils" to make up for it.

The baseball cards turned out to be a hit, though. You found them one afternoon sprawled across the living room floor, cards arranged in careful piles as Remy explained the different statistics and players.

"And this one," Remy was saying, holding up a well-worn card, "This one was Remy's favorite when he was your age."

"Because he was a good player?"

"Non, because Remy thought his mustache was magnificent! Look at it!"

Ace's laughter echoed through the house, and you paused in the doorway just to watch them. Your husband caught your eye and smiled, and you knew he was thinking the same thing: your son had always been your son, even before you knew it. You were just finally seeing him clearly.

"Hey Pa?" Ace asked, carefully setting down a card. "Think we could try that spiral throw now?"

Remy's entire face lit up. "Remy thought you'd never ask! Let Remy get his old football—"

"In the backyard!" you called after them as they scrambled up. "If you break anything, you're both grounded!"

"Remy makes no promises!" came the cheerful reply, followed by Ace's giggling.

You shook your head fondly as you watched them through the window, Remy positioning Ace's arms just so, demonstrating the proper grip on the ball. There would be broken windows in your future, you were certain, but watching your son and husband together, you couldn't bring yourself to mind.

Some things were worth a few repair bills.

.

.

.

A few weeks later, after Ace had settled into his new haircut and wardrobe, and after Remy had only broken one flower pot with their football practices, it was time to tell Chip. The ten-year-old was sprawled on the living room floor doing homework when Ace decided it was time.

"Hey squirt," Ace said, settling cross-legged on the floor near his little brother. "Can we talk for a minute?"

"Is this about the cookies missing from the jar? Because that wasn't me, it was Pa. Remy did it," Chip said without looking up from his math worksheet.

"Remy would never!" came the indignant call from the kitchen, followed by your knowing snort.

"Actually," Ace continued, fighting back a smile, "it's about something else. Something important."

That got Chip's attention. He set down his pencil and sat up, looking between you, Remy, and Ace with growing curiosity. "Are we getting a dog?"

"Non, but Remy likes where your head's at," your husband grinned, earning an elbow from you.

"Focus, please," you reminded them gently. "Ace has something he wants to tell you."

Chip's brow furrowed. "Who's Ace?"

"I am," Ace said softly. "That's... that's what I wanted to talk to you about. You know how you've always called me your big sister?"

"Yeah?" Chip drew the word out uncertainly.

"Well, I'm actually your big brother. I'm a boy, like you. And my name is Ace now, not the old name."

Chip stared at him for a long moment, his face scrunched up in that way it did when he was processing new information. "But you were a girl yesterday."

"Non, mon petit," Remy interjected gently. "Ace has always been a boy, we just didn't know it yet. Like when you got your glasses and suddenly realized the trees had individual leaves instead of being big green blobs."

"Oh." Chip considered this. "Is that why you got your hair cut? And why Pa keeps trying to teach you football even though he's really bad at it?"

"Remy resents that accusation!"

"You hit Mrs. Peterson's cat with the ball last week, Pa."

"The cat ran into the ball's path! Remy maintains his innocence!"

You cleared your throat loudly, bringing the focus back to the matter at hand. Ace was watching his little brother anxiously, waiting for more questions or maybe rejection.

"So..." Chip said slowly, "you're my brother now?"

"Yeah," Ace nodded. "If... if that's okay?"

Chip shrugged. "Okay. Can you still help me with my math homework? You're way better at it than Spade."

"Don't let your sister hear you say that," you warned, but your heart warmed at how easily Chip was taking this.

"Wait," Chip's head snapped up suddenly. "Does this mean I have to share my video games with you now? Because Pa always says brothers have to share, and when I visit Tommy's house his big brother never shares the good controller, and—"

"Remy thinks we can figure out a fair system," your husband chuckled. "But maybe we should let Ace answer your other questions first?"

"Oh, right." Chip turned back to Ace. "Does it hurt?"

"Does what hurt?"

"Turning into a boy."

Ace smiled gently. "I didn't turn into a boy, buddy. I always was one, inside. I just... didn't have the words to tell you before."

"Like when I knew the answer in class but couldn't remember how to say it?"

"Something like that, yeah."

Chip nodded sagely. "Cool. Can we have pizza for dinner?"

You laughed. "We had pizza last night."

"Yeah, but Ace is my brother now! We should celebrate!" Chip paused thoughtfully. "Unless you were already my brother yesterday when we had pizza. Were you?"

"I was," Ace confirmed, looking more relaxed now.

"Oh. Well, we should still have pizza. Just to make sure it counts."

"Remy seconds this motion!" your husband called out.

"Remy is not helping," you said dryly, but you were already reaching for your phone to order. Some battles weren't worth fighting, especially when your youngest was being so wonderfully accepting.

"Hey Ace?" Chip asked while you were ordering. "If you're my brother now, does that mean you'll teach me how to climb the big tree in the backyard? Pa says I'm not allowed to learn from Spade anymore after she fell through Mrs. Peterson's fence."

"Absolutely not," you called out, covering the phone.

"Remy will teach you both!" your husband declared proudly.

"Absolutely NOT," you repeated more firmly.

"Remy was just kidding, poupée!" But he winked at the boys when you turned back to your call.

You watched as Chip scooted closer to Ace, shoving his math homework between them. "This problem's really hard," he said. "But maybe my big brother can help?"

The smile that spread across Ace's face at those words could have lit up the whole house. "Yeah," he said, voice slightly thick with emotion. "Your big brother can definitely help."

"Remy is not crying," your husband announced, wiping his eyes. "Remy just has allergies."

"To math?" Chip asked innocently.

"Oui, exactly! Remy is very allergic to math!"

As you finished ordering the pizza, you couldn't help but smile at your family. Sometimes the biggest changes were met with the simplest acceptance, especially when seen through the eyes of a child who just wanted pizza and help with his homework.

And maybe, you thought as you watched Ace patiently explain fractions to his little brother, that's exactly how it should be.

"Hey Ace?" Chip asked suddenly. "Do I have to give you my dessert now? Because Tommy says his big brother always takes his dessert and—"

"Remy thinks that's enough questions about Tommy's brother!"

The sound of your children's laughter filled the room, and you knew that everything was going to be just fine.

.

.

.

A year had passed, and the changes in Ace were remarkable. Not just the physical ones – though the hormone therapy he'd started six months ago had begun to deepen his voice and reshape his face – but the confidence. Gone was the nervous teenager who'd paced in front of you and Remy that first day. Your son now walked with his head high, laughed freely, and had even started a GSA at his school.

The mall was crowded that Saturday afternoon. Chip had outgrown his shoes again ("Remy swears he grows overnight!"), and Ace needed new binders since he'd been working out with Remy in the garage gym.

"Remy thinks we should look at sports equipment while we're here," your husband suggested hopefully, making both boys perk up.

"After shoes and binders," you reminded them, steering the group toward the athletic store. "One thing at a—"

"Did you see that?" A loud whisper cut through the mall chatter. "That girl's trying to be a boy. It's disgusting what parents let their kids do these days."

You felt Ace stiffen beside you, his shoulders hunching slightly. Remy's face darkened, and you could see him starting to turn, his protective papa bear instincts flaring.

But you were faster.

"Excuse me?" Your voice carried across the walkway, sharp as steel. The middle-aged couple who'd been whispering jumped, not expecting confrontation. "Would you care to repeat what you just said about my son?"

"Your son?" The woman sneered, doubling down. "That's clearly a confused young lady who—"

"The only confused person here," you cut in, stepping forward, "is you, if you think I'm going to stand here and let you talk about my child like that. My son is braver than you'll ever be, living his truth despite people like you who think they have any right to comment on his life."

"Now see here—" the woman's husband started to interject.

"Non, you see here," Remy growled, moving to stand beside you, but you held up a hand.

"I'm not finished," you said, your voice deadly calm. "My son has more courage in his little finger than you have in your entire body. He gets up every day and faces a world full of small, narrow-minded people like you, and he does it with grace and strength that you couldn't begin to understand."

"Parents like you are what's wrong with—" the woman tried again.

"Parents like me?" Now you laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Parents like me who love their children unconditionally? Who support them and protect them and celebrate who they are? You're right, that must be terrible compared to parents who teach their children to be judgmental, hateful, and to make cruel comments about strangers in public places."

You felt Chip slip his hand into yours, squeezing tight. Ace stood frozen, watching with wide eyes.

"If you're so concerned about parenting," you continued, your voice rising slightly, "maybe worry about the example you're setting right now, teaching that it's okay to bully teenagers in shopping malls. Is that the legacy you want to leave? Is that the kind of person you want to be?"

The couple seemed to shrink under your words, finally seeming to notice the small crowd that had gathered.

"My son is kind, intelligent, and brave. He has a family who loves him and friends who support him. What he doesn't have is time for your ignorance or any obligation to justify his existence to you. So I suggest you take your outdated prejudices and remove yourself from our presence before I decide to speak with mall security about harassment."

"Remy suggests you listen to his wife," your husband added, his accent thick with barely contained anger. "Remy is not as diplomatic as she is."

The couple retreated, red-faced and muttering, but you weren't done. You turned to address the onlookers directly.

"And that goes for anyone else who thinks they have the right to comment on my son's life. You don't. End of discussion."

A smattering of applause broke out from the crowd, making the couple hurry away faster. You turned back to your family, your hands shaking slightly with leftover adrenaline.

"Mom," Ace whispered, his eyes suspiciously bright. "That was... you didn't have to..."

"Yes, I did," you said firmly, pulling him into a hug. "I absolutely did."

"Remy is so proud right now," your husband declared, wrapping his arms around both of you. "Though Remy thinks he should point out that he was about to say something too."

"You were too slow, Pa," Chip piped up, squeezing into the group hug. "Mom was like a superhero! Like Wonder Woman, but scarier!"

A laugh bubbled up from Ace's throat, slightly watery but genuine. "Yeah, she kind of was."

"Nobody," you said firmly, pulling back to look your son in the eyes, "and I mean nobody, gets to make you feel less than who you are. You're my son, and I will fight anyone who tries to hurt you."

"Even though you tell us fighting isn't the answer?" Chip asked innocently.

"Remy thinks your maman just proved that words can be the strongest weapons," your husband said wisely, then ruined it by adding, "But also, Remy knows how to throw a mean right hook if needed."

"Nobody is throwing any hooks," you said firmly, but you squeezed Remy's hand in gratitude. "Now, let's go get what we came for. And maybe ice cream after."

"Before sports equipment?" Chip gasped dramatically.

"Remy thinks this calls for both ice cream AND sports equipment."

As you walked through the mall, you noticed Ace's posture had straightened again, his head held high. A few people who'd witnessed the confrontation smiled at him supportively, and one elderly woman actually stopped to tell him she had a transgender grandson and was so happy to see supportive parents.

"Hey Mom?" Ace said quietly as you waited in line for ice cream. "Thank you. For... for everything."

"Always," you promised, pulling him close again. "Always and forever, no matter what."

"And if anyone else wants to start something," Chip announced, trying to make his voice deep and intimidating, "they'll have to deal with all of us!"

"Remy's money is still on your maman," your husband stage-whispered. "Did you see how fast those people ran? Now you two know why remy fell in love with your maman."

You rolled your eyes fondly at your family's antics, but your heart was full. Let anyone try to hurt your children – they'd learn quickly that a mama bear's love was fiercer than any prejudice.

"So," you said, changing the subject as you reached the counter. "Who wants extra sprinkles?"

"Remy does!" three voices chorused in unison, and just like that, the afternoon was back on track. Because that's what family did – they stood up for each other, protected each other, and then got ice cream with extra sprinkles.

And sometimes, that was all the victory you needed.

.

.

.

The house was unusually quiet with Remy taking Chip to his soccer tournament for the weekend. You were just finishing up the breakfast dishes when Ace wandered into the kitchen, still in his pajamas despite it being nearly noon.

"Did Pa text yet about Chip's game?" he asked, sliding onto one of the barstools at the counter.

"Mhm. Apparently 'Remy's youngest is a star in the making!'" you mimicked your husband's enthusiastic tone. "Though he also admitted Chip spent the first half waving at a dog on the sidelines."

Ace snorted, reaching for the coffee pot. You slid it away from his grasp.

"Ah-ah. If you're going to have coffee, you have to have breakfast first. I know for a fact you haven't eaten yet."

"I'm seventeen, Maman," he protested, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. "Nearly eighteen."

"And I'm your mother who knows you skip breakfast when you're anxious about things," you countered, already pulling eggs from the fridge. "Want to tell me what's on your mind while I make you an omelet?"

Ace fidgeted with the sleeve of his sleep shirt. "It's stupid."

"I doubt that very much." You cracked the eggs into a bowl, adding a splash of milk. "Is it about the college applications?"

"Kind of?" He sighed, slumping forward onto the counter. "It's just... all the applications ask for gender, and some of them want to know about name changes, and I know it's illegal for them to discriminate but..."

"But it's still scary," you finished softly, understanding flooding through you. "Oh, mon cœur."

"Told you it was stupid."

"It's not stupid at all," you assured him, pouring the egg mixture into the pan. "It's a big step, and it's okay to be nervous about it. Have you looked at the LGBTQ+ resources for any of the schools you're interested in?"

"A little," he admitted. "The one in Boston seems really good. They have gender-neutral housing options and everything."

You hummed thoughtfully as you added cheese to the omelet. "That's the one with the strong engineering program, right?"

"Yeah." He perked up slightly. "They have this really cool robotics lab, and their website showed some of the projects students have worked on—" He cut himself off, blushing. "Sorry, I know I've talked about it before."

"Hey." You slid the finished omelet onto a plate and placed it in front of him. "I love hearing you talk about things you're passionate about. Never apologize for that."

He poked at the omelet with his fork. "Even if it means moving across the country?"

Ah. There it was.

"Even then," you said firmly, starting another omelet for yourself. "Though I won't pretend I won't miss you terribly. But that's what parents do – we raise you to chase your dreams, even when those dreams take you far away."

"Pa's going to cry so much at graduation."

"Oh, absolutely. Remy's already gone through three packages of tissues just thinking about it." You settled across from him with your own plate. "But you know what?"

"What?"

"We're all going to be so proud watching you walk across that stage. Every tear will be worth it."

Ace ducked his head, but you caught his smile. "Thanks, Maman."

"Now eat your breakfast so we can start our day properly."

He looked up, curious. "Start our day?"

"Well," you said casually, "I thought since the boys are away, we could have a mother-son day. Unless you're too grown up for that now?"

"Never," he said quickly, making you laugh. "What did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking we could start with that new bookstore downtown – the one with the engineering section you've been wanting to check out. Then maybe lunch at that café you like, the one with the good hot chocolate? And after..." you paused dramatically, "I may have gotten us appointments at that salon you mentioned. The one that specializes in masculine haircuts?"

Ace's whole face lit up. "Really? But I thought you said my last haircut would last a while..."

"That was before you showed me the picture of that undercut style you like," you smiled. "Besides, every boy needs to treat himself sometimes."

"Even with college coming up? I know it's expensive..."

"Ace," you reached across the counter to squeeze his hand. "Let me spoil my son a little, okay? You've worked so hard this year – with school, with transitioning, with everything. You deserve nice things."

He squeezed your hand back. "Okay. But can we maybe... can we also stop by that tea shop you like? The one with all the fancy blends? Since we're spoiling people today?"

Your heart melted a little. "That sounds perfect."

An hour later, you were strolling down the main street, window shopping and talking about everything and nothing. Ace had inherited your love of people-watching, and you spent a good twenty minutes making up stories about passersby while sharing a bag of roasted nuts from a street vendor.

In the bookstore, you watched proudly as he confidently asked the clerk about their engineering section, no trace of the shy uncertainty that used to color his interactions with strangers. He ended up with two new books on robotics and, at your insistence, a novel he'd been eyeing.

"For fun reading," you insisted when he protested. "Life can't be all textbooks and college applications."

The café was busy, but you managed to snag your favorite corner table. Ace wrapped his hands around his hot chocolate, looking thoughtful.

"Remember when we used to do this when I was little?" he asked suddenly. "Before... before I knew? You'd take me here when I was sad, and we'd make up stories about the other customers."

"I remember," you said softly. "You always ordered the same thing – hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and chocolate shavings."

"Still do," he grinned, taking a sip that left a whipped cream mustache on his upper lip.

"Some things never change," you laughed, passing him a napkin. "Though some things do. All good changes."

He wiped his mouth, expression turning serious. "Do you ever... do you ever miss how things were? Before?"

"No," you said without hesitation. "Because we didn't have you then – not really. We had a child who was hurting and hiding. Now we have our son, who smiles more, laughs more, and orders the same ridiculously sweet hot chocolate he always has." You reached across the table to touch his cheek. "The only thing I miss is that I didn't know sooner, so you didn't have to hurt for so long."

"Maman," he whispered, eyes suspiciously bright.

"Now drink your chocolate before it gets cold," you said briskly, pretending not to wipe at your own eyes. "We have a haircut appointment to get to."

The salon was everything Ace had hoped for. The stylist, a young man with bright blue hair, took one look at the reference photo and launched into an excited discussion about face shapes and styling options. You sat back and watched as your son animated discussing what he wanted, how he styled his hair, what products he used.

"Your son has great bone structure," the stylist told you as he worked. "This cut's going to look amazing on him."

You didn't miss how Ace's face lit up at the casual use of 'son,' or how he sat a little straighter in the chair.

When it was done, the undercut was perfect – professional enough for college interviews but with enough edge to make Ace grin at his reflection.

"What do you think?" he asked, running his hands through the longer top section.

"I think you look very handsome," you said honestly. "Very you."

The tea shop was your last stop, where Ace insisted on buying you three new blends ("One for each acceptance letter I'm going to get," he declared confidently).

As you walked back to the car, shopping bags swinging between you, Ace bumped his shoulder against yours.

"Thanks, Maman. For today. For everything."

"Thank you for being you," you replied simply. "For trusting us with who you are. For letting us walk this journey with you."

"Even when I'm in Boston?"

"Especially then." You linked your arm through his. "Though you better believe I'm making your father set up video chat on every device we own."

"Oh god," he groaned. "Pa's going to try to teach me football through the computer, isn't he?"

"Probably," you laughed. "But that's what family is for – loving you and embarrassing you, no matter how far away you go."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he said softly.

Neither would you, you thought as you drove home, your son singing along to the radio beside you. Neither would you.

.

.

.

"Pa?" Ace lingered in the garage doorway, watching as Remy adjusted the weights on the bench press. "Can I... can I talk to you about something?"

Remy sat up, wiping his brow with a towel. "Of course, mon fils. Remy is always here to listen."

Ace shifted from foot to foot, a gesture that reminded Remy so much of when his son had first come out. "There's this person at school... in my GSA group..."

"Ah," Remy's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Remy understands. Come, sit." He patted the weight bench beside him.

"Their name is Sky," Ace said, settling next to his father. "They're non-binary, and they're just... they're amazing, Pa. They do these incredible pencil sketches, and they're so passionate about environmental justice, and..." He trailed off, blushing.

"And they make your heart do that funny little flip, non?" Remy gently nudged his son's shoulder.

"Yeah," Ace admitted, ducking his head. "But I don't know how to... I mean, I've never... and what if they don't..."

"Would you like to hear how Remy won your maman's heart?" Remy asked, his eyes twinkling.

"Mom says you knocked over an entire display of books trying to ask her out," Ace laughed.

"Ah, but did she tell you why?" Remy leaned back, grinning at the memory. "Remy was so nervous, you see. Your maman was – is – the most incredible person Remy had ever met. Remy thought surely someone so amazing would never look twice at him."

"But Mom loves you more than anything," Ace protested.

"Oui, and you know why? Because Remy finally stopped trying to be perfect and just showed her his heart." Remy's voice softened. "Love isn't about being smooth or having all the right words. It's about being brave enough to be yourself."

Ace absorbed this, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "Sky asked if I wanted to get coffee after GSA meeting tomorrow."

"And?"

"I panicked and said I had to help Mom organize the pantry." Ace groaned, covering his face. "Our pantry is already organized!"

Remy chuckled warmly. "Then perhaps you should text Sky, tell them you've had a miraculous breakthrough in time management, and ask if the offer still stands?"

"But what if..." Ace took a deep breath. "What if they don't like me once they really know me? What if being trans is too complicated for them?"

"Mon fils," Remy turned serious, placing a gentle hand on Ace's shoulder. "The right person will love you for exactly who you are. Being trans is part of your story, but it's not all of who you are. You are also kind, funny, smart, and have your maman's fierce heart."

"Sky makes these little paper cranes during meetings," Ace confided, a soft smile playing at his lips. "They leave them all over school with positive messages inside. Last week, I found one that said 'You are exactly who you're meant to be.'"

"They sound très special," Remy observed. "And very wise."

"Yeah," Ace pulled out his phone, staring at it thoughtfully. "They really are."

"You know," Remy said casually, standing up. "Remy thinks the pantry could survive without reorganization for one afternoon."

Ace's fingers flew over his phone keyboard before he could lose his nerve. The response came almost immediately, making his face light up.

"They said yes! Coffee tomorrow!" His excitement quickly shifted to panic. "Oh god, coffee tomorrow. What do I wear? What do I say? Pa, help!"

"First," Remy laughed, pulling his son into a hug, "you breathe. Then, perhaps we ask your maman to help with the outfit? She always says Remy would still be wearing cargo shorts if she hadn't intervened."

"Hey Pa?" Ace mumbled into Remy's shoulder. "Thanks. For... you know."

"Remy knows," he pressed a kiss to the top of his son's head. "And Remy is always here. Now, let's go raid your closet before your maman gets home and vetoes everything."

As they headed inside, Remy watched his son practically bouncing with nervous excitement. He remembered that feeling – still felt it sometimes when your smile caught him off guard – and sent up a quiet prayer that Sky would see the treasure that Ace was.

"Pa?" Ace called from halfway up the stairs. "Do you think it's too much if I learn to make paper cranes before tomorrow?"

Remy's heart swelled with love for this wonderful boy who had taught him so much about courage and being true to oneself. "Remy thinks that sounds parfait."

And if Remy spent the next hour watching origami tutorials with his son, well, that's what fathers were for.

.

.

.

The coffee shop buzzed with afternoon energy as Ace fidgeted with the small paper crane hidden in his jacket pocket. After hours of practice (and a small mountain of crumpled attempts), he'd managed to fold one that didn't look completely terrible. Inside, in his neatest handwriting, he'd written: "Thank you for making the world a little brighter."

He'd arrived fifteen minutes early, partly because Mom had insisted it was polite, and partly because his nerves wouldn't let him wait at home any longer. Chip had tried to tag along ("I'll be your wingman!"), but thankfully Pa had intervened, distracting him with the promise of teaching him to make gumbo.

The bell above the door chimed, and Ace's heart did a somersault. Sky walked in, their azure hair catching the sunlight, wearing a oversized sweater decorated with tiny embroidered stars. They'd added a new pin to their collection – a sparkly rainbow telescope that read "See the Universe Differently."

"Hi," Sky said, sliding into the seat across from him. Their smile was soft and slightly nervous, making Ace feel better about his own butterflies. "You look nice."

Ace silently thanked Mom for helping him pick out the dark blue button-down that brought out his eyes. "So do you. I like your new pin."

"Thanks!" Sky touched it reflexively. "I got it at the science museum last weekend. They had this amazing exhibit about perspective and how different cultures see the same constellations..."

They launched into an enthusiastic explanation about Indigenous star stories versus Greek mythology, their hands dancing as they spoke. Ace found himself leaning forward, captivated not just by the subject but by Sky's infectious passion.

"Oh gosh," Sky caught themselves, blushing. "I'm rambling. We should probably order?"

"No, it's fascinating!" Ace insisted. "I had no idea the Big Dipper had so many different stories. Though, uh, coffee would be good too."

They approached the counter together, shoulders brushing. Sky ordered a lavender latte with oat milk, while Ace got his usual iced mocha. When he reached for his wallet, Sky gently touched his arm.

"Let me? You can get the next one... if you want there to be a next one?"

Ace's cheeks warmed. "I'd like that."

Back at their table, they fell into easy conversation. Sky asked about the GSA's upcoming projects, and Ace shared his ideas for an art showcase featuring LGBTQ+ student work.

"That's brilliant!" Sky's eyes lit up. "Art can say things that words sometimes can't. Like those paper cranes you keep finding."

Ace's hand instinctively touched his pocket. "About those..." He took a deep breath, channeling his Pa's advice about being brave enough to be himself. "I actually... here."

He pulled out the crane, slightly squished but still recognizable, and placed it in Sky's palm.

Sky's expression softened as they carefully unfolded it, reading the message inside. For a moment, they were quiet, and Ace's heart thundered in his chest.

"You know," Sky said finally, their voice gentle, "I've been leaving those cranes hoping you'd find them. Most of them were meant for you."

"Really?"

Sky nodded, pulling their backpack onto their lap. From a side pocket, they retrieved a small tin. Inside were dozens of tiny, perfectly folded cranes in various patterns – stars, rainbows, galaxies. "I've been practicing for months, but I never had the courage to give you one directly."

Ace laughed, relief and joy bubbling up. "I spent all night learning to make just one!"

"It's perfect," Sky declared, carefully refolding Ace's crane and tucking it into their tin. "My first crane looked like it had been stepped on by an elephant."

"You should have seen my first attempts. My little brother made one into a paper airplane and launched it at my Pa."

They shared stories about their families – Sky's two moms who ran an art gallery, Ace's amazing parents and hurricane of a little brother. The afternoon slipped away, punctuated by laughter and shared smiles.

As the sun began to set, painting the coffee shop in warm gold, Sky reached across the table and tentatively took Ace's hand.

"Thank you," they said softly. "For being brave enough to make me a crane."

Ace interlaced their fingers, marveling at how natural it felt. "Thank you for making me want to be brave."

Later, when Mom picked him up (because of course she had parked around the corner "just in case"), her knowing smile said everything.

"Good date?" she asked, though his glowing face surely gave it away.

"The best," Ace sighed happily, pulling out his phone where Sky had already texted:

*Next time, let me teach you how to make galaxy-patterned ones? 🌌🦋*

He quickly replied: *Only if you let me buy the coffee 🌟*

"You know," Mom said as they drove home, "when your Pa first asked me out, he knocked over an entire bookshelf trying to impress me with his knowledge of French literature."

"Pa told me," Ace grinned. "But did he tell you I almost knocked over the creamer display trying to help Sky with their coffee?"

Mom laughed, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "Like father, like son."

And somehow, that felt exactly right.

.

.

.

Three months into dating Sky, and Ace still couldn't believe how perfect everything felt. They'd fallen into a comfortable rhythm – study dates at the library, GSA meetings, afternoons in the park where Sky would sketch while Ace read to them from whatever book he was currently devouring. Each day brought new paper cranes, now exchanged between them like secret messages, carrying words of affection and support.

But there was one secret Ace hadn't shared yet, one that made him increasingly anxious as their relationship deepened. It wasn't just about being trans anymore – Sky had proven wonderfully supportive of that part of him. No, this secret was about the way electronics seemed to malfunction around him when his emotions ran high, about the strange calm that radiated from him when he was centered, about the way he could sometimes feel the energy flowing through everything and everyone around him.

The revelation came unexpectedly, as such things often do.

They were all in the backyard – Mom tending her garden, Pa grilling (and occasionally making the flames dance for his own amusement), and Chip practicing his newly discovered ability to create small force fields by bouncing energy off Ace's passive energy field. Sky was supposed to come over for dinner in an hour, giving Ace plenty of time to help Mom finish setting up the patio for their meal.

"Ace!" Chip called out, his face scrunched in concentration. "Watch this! I figured out how to make them bigger!"

Before anyone could stop him, Chip channeled a massive burst of energy toward Ace's natural field. Normally, Ace could absorb and redirect such energy – it was why he and Chip made such good training partners. But this time, the sheer magnitude caught him off guard.

The resulting explosion of energy sent a wave of pure calm radiating outward, strong enough to make every electronic device in a two-block radius temporarily shut down. The garden lights flickered, Pa's phone died, and the neighbor's wind chimes suddenly went still.

And there, standing at the garden gate with wide eyes and a handful of paper cranes, was Sky.

"I can explain," Ace said quickly, his heart racing as the energy around him pulsed with his anxiety. The garden lights began to strobe in response to his distress.

"Mon fils, breathe," Pa called from the grill, his own powers keeping the flames steady despite the energy fluctuations. "Remember what we practiced."

Sky hadn't moved, their eyes taking in everything – the dying lights, Chip's guilty face, the strange stillness in the air around Ace.

"I'm sorry," Ace whispered, trying to rein in his powers. "I should have told you sooner. I just... I was scared. Being trans was one thing, but being a mutant too... I didn't want it to be too much."

"Too much?" Sky's voice was soft as they stepped through the gate. The paper cranes in their hand rustled gently in the energy field still radiating from Ace. "Ace, you make the world calmer just by existing in it. How could that ever be too much?"

Mom and Pa exchanged knowing looks as Sky moved closer to Ace, reaching out to take his trembling hand. The moment they touched, the energy field stabilized, the lights stopped flickering, and a profound sense of peace settled over the yard.

"Oh," Sky breathed, feeling the gentle wave of tranquility that always emanated from Ace when he was content. "Is this what you feel all the time?"

"Kind of," Ace admitted. "I can sense and manipulate passive energy. Usually, I can control it better, but when Chip gets excited..."

"Sorry!" Chip called out, not sounding sorry at all. "But hey, at least now Sky knows why their phone always has full battery when they're around you!"

Sky's eyes widened. "Is that why? I thought I just had really good battery life lately!"

"Yeah," Ace ducked his head, embarrassed. "I kind of... subconsciously share calm energy with people I care about. It can affect electronics too."

"That's amazing," Sky squeezed his hand. "Though it does explain why my laptop never gets the spinning wheel of death when we study together."

"You're... really okay with this?" Ace asked hesitantly.

Sky pulled out one of their paper cranes – this one made from galaxy-patterned paper – and handed it to him. "Open it."

With slightly shaky fingers, Ace unfolded the crane. Inside, in Sky's flowing handwriting, were the words: "You make my world more magical just by being in it."

"I wrote that before I knew about your powers," Sky said softly. "And it's still true. Maybe even more true now."

The garden lights suddenly blazed brilliantly before settling into a warm, steady glow – a physical manifestation of the joy surging through Ace.

"Remy thinks this calls for a celebration!" Pa declared, flipping a burger with a unnecessarily dramatic flame flourish. "Sky, you like your burger medium-rare, non?"

"And now you know why we never have to worry about Pa's grilling getting out of control," Mom laughed, coming over to hug both Ace and Sky. "Welcome to our peculiar little family."

"Does this mean you can teach me how to make glowing paper cranes?" Sky asked Ace excitedly. "Because I have so many ideas..."

"After dinner," Mom insisted. "And after we explain the house rules about powers. Rule one being no using Ace as an energy battery for art projects without supervision."

"That was one time," Chip protested. "And the scorch marks mostly came out of the ceiling!"

As his family began sharing increasingly embarrassing stories about power-related mishaps, Ace felt the last of his anxiety melt away. Sky hadn't run. They were still here, still holding his hand, still looking at him like he was something wonderful.

"Hey," Sky whispered, bumping their shoulder against his. "Think you could teach me how to make those galaxy-pattern cranes actually sparkle?"

Ace smiled, letting a tiny pulse of energy make the paper crane in Sky's hand glow softly. "I think we can figure something out."

And as his family gathered around the patio table, powers on casual display – Pa making the candles dance, Mom using her enhanced strength to effortlessly move furniture, Chip creating tiny force field bubbles to catch falling napkins – Ace realized that sometimes the best secrets were the ones you got to share with the people you loved.

Even if those secrets occasionally caused neighborhood-wide power fluctuations.

[enbyscript]

18+ MDNI nsfw. pope cody x nonbinary/trans reader. this is what i was thinking of that needed some sort of background enjoy 👌 not beta’d we are dying our little deaths here

your relationship with pope cody remained relatively slow since you first kissed him on the old couch in your apartment. now, it was most nights he would end up with you, whether in the living room or your bedroom, simply sharing space. what really changed was the connection that was now mutually understood, and welcomed.

your displays of affection remained private, for now. as much as you wanted to move as quickly as your infatuated little heart wanted, you knew that to do right by pope was to keep things steady. this was all new to him, the relationship, the idea of being wanted, and a partner like you.

so it became routine to alternate laying your heads in each others’ laps while running your hands through both your hair. soft touches, lingering kisses that didn’t go too far, but the want was there. god, was it there.

pope admitted one night as he lay in your arms, head tucked under your chin with his whole body nearly on top of you, that he found it easier sleeping in your apartment than at his mother’s house. a part of you must have known that, the dark circles under his eyes having lessened since he began staying longer and longer and eventually passing out. you felt contradicting feelings at this knowledge, your heart both broken and fluttering with life at the same time.

your heart felt a similar flutter as you laid on your side parallel to pope, lips languidly moving against his own on your bed. one of your hands stayed fisted in his black tshirt while the other alternated from his bicep, cupping his neck, or running through the auburn curls at the back of his head.

kissing pope was indescribable. you don’t think you’ve ever felt anything like it before, so how was one to compare? you could do it forever and never tire. the feeling of him relaxing under your touch was addicting, and the small noises he made heated something akin to syrup in your veins.

pope pulled away from your lips, one hand holding your cheek with the other resting on your last row of ribs; respectful, but heavy handed. you let yourself get lost in the picture he painted before you: lips swollen and wet, hair mussed and wild from your wandering hand. his attempts at gaining your eye contact pulled you from memorizing his image, your eyes now reflecting his.

“i wanna do something,” he sounded breathless, rightly so after what felt like an eternity but all to short of a kissing session. “wanna get my mouth on you. can i?” pope rarely admitted to wanting anything. almost as if he wasn’t used to being heard, and especially unused to actually getting what he wanted.

if your face wasn’t already heated it surely would be at this point. and that heat quickly went southward. pope had yet to push farther than the over the clothes touching and lip locking until now. you refused to be the one to take that step, explicitly letting him know it wasn’t for lack of wanting him— god, it was the complete opposite. you could get lost in pope so easily, but he had to be ready and wanting, not just willing to appease.

“yeah, anything you want.” his eyes fluttered shut at your words, lips ghosting a smile against yours as he slowly maneuvered you onto your back. your hands splayed by your sides as he inched his way down the bed to settle on his knees. calloused fingers traced up the outside of your legs, over the hem of your boxers and landing on the waistband.

pope’s forefingers teased at the waistband for a moment, eyeing the sliver of skin above it thanks to your sleep shirt riding up just so. the wispy smattering of body hair catching his attention before getting back to his task. the entire time you followed his touch, consistently flitting between his actions and his face. you were braced for any sign of his discomfort, at worst possible disgust.

all you could see was wonder.

finally he hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled your boxers down. pope didn’t even look to where he tossed them, too focused on you before him.

your heart began racing with anxiety and anticipation. you were already wet from his kiss and modest groping, but looking at him looking at you made you keenly aware of the feeling. pope’s hands settled onto your knees, gently pulling them apart to get a good look at your center.

he couldn’t believe he had you here, like this, right in front of him. and it was real. your center glistening and wet because of him— for him. the thought alone had him aching, pants suddenly much tighter than before. pope’s fingertips caressed your lips before making their way higher.

“it’s big, your,” his voice trailed off as he studied your swollen clit with his eyes, your breath hitching as he prodded with his touch.

“t-the hormones. makes it grow at first, but it’s still the same,” he’s asked questions before about what changes someone would experience, like you. his genuine curiosity made it feel less like teaching, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, into more like sharing parts of yourself.

he continued like that for a bit, taking his time studying your flesh beneath his touch. mapping out your anatomy as well as figuring out where he could touch and with how much pressure to make you react. your eyes closed when he applied more pressure around your clit.

“ha-ah,” steady exhales let him know he was doing it right. well, he already knew what he was doing in general, but this with you was new.

you felt it before you saw, eyes snapping open when pope finally put his mouth on you. he licked from hole to top without rush, savoring the burgeoning taste on his tongue.

“oh, you feel good,” you moaned, tightening your hold on the bedding. your praise ignited something in pope, then. his eyes darting up to your face, zeroing in on your clit before he wrapped his lips around it and sucked.

the air was knocked out of you, one hand shooting to ensnare itself in his curled hair. you whimpered as he continued his assault, alternating between bobbing his lips and licking along your bundle of nerves. each change in movement amplified the pressure building in your core.

pope lost himself in the moment, allowing himself enjoy having you splayed out under his tongue, hands holding your thighs apart to provide space to get as close as he possibly could just short of crawling into your skin. the twitch of your muscles under his touch, his mouth, and the positively debauched sounds had his cock aching so terribly that he sought relief in the form of grinding against your mattress. each roll of his hips downward had him breathing heavier into you.

the cycle of repetitive licking and sucking continued as your core tightened impossibly, moans and praises increasing concurrently.

“m’close, oh, keep going, andrew,” his name fell from your lips as you reached your peak, white hot pleasure shooting up and through you.

andrew couldn’t stop—wouldn’t. his vigor renewed at the feeling of your orgasm, but his name registering in his ears slammed him like a fucking freight train. he pressed his face further against your sex to smother the wanton moan that slipped from his lips, hips stuttering against the bed as his cock painted the inside of his underwear with his unexpected peak.

once the aftershocks subsided, andrew eased himself up to collapse by your side. you took a couple of minutes to catch your breath before deciding how to follow such an earth shattering experience.

“i’m gonna go to the bathroom, then i’ll grab you some clean underwear,” you both locked eyes as you detailed what you were about to do. any sudden movement or absence without due warning was unlikely to comfort pope. he nodded understanding, easing your worry before following true to your words.

you found your underwear on the floor on the way out and slipped them on, and upon your return acquiring a clean pair from your drawer. he slipped off his jeans and let you help him out of his soiled boxers and into the fresh pair.

you kissed him before you resumed your prior positioning on the bed. hands cupping his stubbled cheeks while you poured all the overflowing affection from your heart into your lips. you felt his own raise to a smile, eyes closed as you pulled away and remaining when his eyes reopened. you maneuvered yourself flat on your back while andrew wrapped himself around your frame and rested his head against your chest, relaxing his body to the sound of your heartbeat.

“i can’t believe i fuckin’ came in my pants like a teenager,” andrew’s soft laughter was buried against your shirt, nosing against the soft cotton of your shirt. you smiled and let out a laugh of your own with him, fingernails lightly scratching against his scalp.

“i loved it, might make you do it again sometime,” he snorted at your teasing. the room grew quiet save for each other’s steady breaths.

peace settled in your bones as your brain began to shut down for sleep. andrew gingerly pulled the covers over you both, returning his arm to its rightful place hugging your waist. you could feel the last shred of tension ease from his muscles as he slipped into slumber.

[gamerbot-22]

Too embarrassed to ask this in person cus im Diseased but i need more Nai x nb/transmasc Reader like- Dont LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT

👀👀👀 I am LOOKING SO HARD AT YOU /a

But also Mush I love you, of course you can have more Nai! Writing for my besties is awesome all the time always <3

Millions Knives/Nai x Nbry/Transmasc Reader

TW/CWs: Nai's a bit of an ass but that's the appeal, written with romance in mind (or however close you can get to that with Nai), mentions of needles (little detail aside from the statement they are just being used with no description), mentions of shots (for testosterone and with no detail), mentions of using the blades on his back for barely unintended purposes, barely proofread and I appreciate spellchecks.

AN: This is a bit of a long one for me but once I started going it was hard to stop! Honestly writing for Nai is funner than I thought it would be, his headspace is an interesting one to explore. Also JFC it is SO HARD to find decent Nai GIFs in tumblr's search I might have to start making my own--

Likes and Reblogs appreciated, Requests are Open, and it's all under the cut!

The dividers in this post were made by @/adornedwithlight ☆

Plants themselves are like... genderless. From what I can gather as someone who is still pretty early in TriMax (I've been busy, okay?) the Plants are referred to as female because of their appearance, but since they have a different biology it's a bit of a misnomer. It's like how some real life plants have the ability to just. Make More Of Themselves because they have all the parts required to do that.

All that to say, I think the coming out process isn't as Big as you might've been expecting. Like you tell him "I was born one way, but present/am transitioning into another way," and he's honestly more surprised that that's something humans can do medically. Like-- Okay, if you're just changing your presentation via a new wardrobe and/or haircut, That Is Not A Surprise, he obviously knows humans can do that, but if you're doing stuff like taking testosterone and/or getting surgeries done, that's the part that surprises him.

And he knows that it's a thing that has happened and will continue to happen in other parts of nature. As a kid he probably read all sorts of things about how animals will change sexes to fill an ecological need, but he figured humans were delegated to the like. Lion and Chicken school of presentation change (where all that changes is appearance) and not the bearded dragon and clownfish school of literally changing the way your body functions.

He probably hates to admit it to himself and would. refuse to tell you, especially to your face, but he finds it more than a little fascinating. Every now and then he just randomly hits you with a question about how this all happens. There's just something about the way you're able to just... change yourself like that without really changing at all. In a way I think it gives him a strange kind of relief to know you're still the same person as you get further along in your transition (whether you're taking T, getting surgeries done, or even just wearing your hair different.)

If this is like. A fresh coming out and you're looking for help with a new name you can bet your ass the names you try to get out of him are all biblical and, as a side effect, kinda boring until he gets into the deep cuts. Like he just kind of throws the names that come to mind at you (John, James, Peter, etc) but eventually he branches out into more interesting ones and even a couple concepts/events. (Exodus, Trinity, Cana, etc.)

Akjnsef ok bear with me here but, on a lighter note, I'm imagining that at least once you saw him slice through someone something with his blades and said something along the lines "new top surgery just dropped" and Nai just fuckin' whipped around SO FAST like "DO NOT--"

If you do take testosterone he's not much help if you're doing injections and are scared of the needle. Like you have literally seen him do so much worse and this is what gets you? Also why do you want his help when he literally has a doctor on staff you could go pester instead? But deep down he knows you either won't take it or will take forever to do it if he's not there, so while he probably doesn't do it for you at first, he will, very reluctantly, stand next to you and supervise while you do the injection. Maybe he will hold your hand or shoulder if you ask.

Also yeah in my brain I think the closest brand of love you as a human can get out of Nai is something akin to like. The way people love their pet even though the pet isn't well behaved. Like he wishes to God you would just behave in a different way most of the time but he'll still help you take your medicine and will stand there for you to hold onto if dysphoria comes to kick your ass/you just have a bad day anyways.

[devourable]

nsfw, mdni | yan!butcher x gn reader; tags/cws : choking, biting, lightly implied pred/prey dynamic

"squirm all you want, little lamb. y'know it won't do you any good."

your whimpers hitched as rhodes' grip on your wrists tightened. one hand held your own firm above your head while the other pinned your waist down to their bed. quiet, shaky whines fell from your lips as they pressed against you, your attempts to strain against their grasp proving fruitless.

"why even try?" they asked as they trailed down to your neck. "look at you... all helpless for me. can't do a thing to stop me. you don't even want to, do you?"

the feeling of their teeth sinking into the sensitive skin of your throat made you cry out. it was only amplified by the feeling of the hard outline of their strap under their jeans rutting into the crotch of your pants, forcing a louder moan from you as their growls transformed into rugged pants. as much as they loved to tease you, both you and rhodes knew that they wouldn't be able to hold back much longer. they moved to kiss you as their free hand rose to gently squeeze your neck.

"you're gonna be a good little cub for me," they muttered against your lips, squeezing your neck harder and releasing your wrists so they could unbuckle and pull down your pants. "isn't that right?"

a strained gasp falling from you, you quickly nodded. your gaze met theirs, your eyes slowly watering as they met the intense red irises of your lover. and to your surprise, their gaze softened and a small smile grew on their face as they pulled away.

"that's my baby," they cooed, peppering your neck with kisses as you gasped for air. "just lay there and look pretty for me, aight?

"i'm gonna make you feel real good."

[st0ne-arr0w]

Go ahead, do your makeup. Make it stunning, be the pretty little thing you are. Just know I’m going to fucking ruin it when I fuck you so hard your crying like the good little slut you are.

[sameschmidtdiffname]

And if I wrote a Transmasc!Reader x Mike Schmidt where Mike just hobbles, gobbles and slobbles on that 8.5 schlonk until there's big ole fat tears rolling down his red as sin cheeks while he gives the most adorable, big, brown doe eyes. What would yall say?

[sorikkung]

what goes on in neverland. ⇝ ch. 7: fighting, flighting, and so many feelings

word count: 16k

pairings: transmasc!reader x Everyone, everyone x everyone (skz, tbz and atz, check masterlist for more details)

genre: e2l, f2l, smut, fluff and lots of assorted shenanigans. hijinks, if you will

au: battle of the bands!au but make it gay and horny

warnings: extremely dubiously consensual voyeurism, humiliation kink, very brief hyung/oppa kink, feminisation kink, breeding kink but probably not in the way that you think.

a/n: just a reminder that these characters aren't meant to be super great people. they're a little fucked on purpose. also, not proofread at all, not even once, just needed it done. full a/n at the end. glad to be back! c:

tags: @honeybyunnies @syunderful @absentcaryatid @mingirn (lmk if you want to be added/removed!)

prev | masterlist | next

“Do it again.”

This is starting to feel a little like déjà vu.

“I did it perfectly that time, what are you talking about—”

“Just do it again!” Eric snaps, pressing play on the music and not giving you much of a choice. As you go through the complex part of the routine he had given you, he barks orders to your other bandmates getting distracted behind you. “You guys should be practicing too! You have all of night time and every other day to make out, can you not focus on practice now that it matters more than ever?”

The air inside feels stuffy with all the sweat and exertion, but god forbid this man gives anyone a break. How his own body managed to keep up with the strain he’s putting it and all of yours through is far beyond your comprehension. You contemplate if he’d be able to keep going after you throw a large rock at him.

“Eric,” Kevin whines, leaning on his knees to catch his breath and wiping the sweat from his brow as Eric tries to pull the two boyfriends off each other. “Can’t you take it a little easy on us? Not all of us are used to dancing for hours and hours on end, or even dancing at all. At least let us have breaks when you’re focusing on someone else. Which you’re not even doing! Look, he just did it again!”

You ponder the type of rock you should throw at him. Maybe pelting him with tiny pebbles would be even more of an annoyance. Maybe you should stick to a big one and go straight for the bruises on his legs that still linger from how hard he went and continues to go on the pole.

Eric whips around to look at you in your ending pose, and twirls his finger at you in a motion to repeat. “Do it again, I didn’t see it.”

Or, maybe you’ll just find the heaviest rock you can find and drop it on his head. Hopefully the worst it’ll do is a mild concussion.

“Yeah, cause you’re too busy being a dick to everyone!” you quip at him, eyes flaring. “Eric, we gave you this position because we wanted to show you we’re still taking the competition seriously and that we still value your opinion and trust in your leadership, not for you to walk all over us and push us too hard because you’re still salty that we fucked the guys making you insecure! Get over yourself! If you want to take this stage sooo seriously, maybe take into consideration the physical state of your team! We’re all about to collapse!”

“For someone who trusts in my leadership, you sure aren’t following it all that well,” he grumbles in response, rewinding the track. “One more time, just you. Or do they not train you hard enough at the Prism?”

You roll your eyes at the fucking audacity, because that is not even remotely the same and he knows it. “No, because they’re more concerned about our sex appeal than our pole technique, Wooyoung and I train ourselves to have fun — you should try it sometime!”

He doesn’t grace that with a response, turning the song on again, and you decide to cooperate only to throw all your remaining energy into the routine, making it as extra as you can muster — facial expressions, powerful moves, dramatically thrusting your whole body into it like it was the actual stage, so there’d be absolutely no way Eric could nitpick on you any more.

Or so you thought.

“You overdid it.”

“Get fucked, Eric!”

You straight up scream in his face, pushed far past your limit and sick of his shit. You have been trying so hard for him. All for him. You made sure he was okay with it before even signing up for the competition, you trained him in pole and choreographed him a role routine and night at your job just so he could impress them, you fucked his ex with him just so he could prove a point, you got thrown over a table for it and continued defending his honour and all you get in repayment is him being a total asswipe because he can’t handle what you do with your spare time.

“Are you fucking serious right now—“

“Alright, enough!” Sunwoo bellows, loud enough to make poor San flinch, stepping between you and grabbing each of you by the collar. “Either make out and make up, or fuck off till you calm down. I’ve just about had it with all the arguing and bossing around. We’re all taking a break and I am not taking no for an answer!”

Sunwoo is the type to get fired up just as easily as Eric is, if not more, so you all know how to handle him when he gets set off; but there’s something different this time. His tone cements the decision as final, and Eric must feel it too because he finally stops arguing and storms off.

The rest of you watch him leave, and as soon as he’s out the door, you all slump in relief to the floor. It’s done. Day one of Eric’s Nightmare Bootcamp is finally done.

“Fucking finally,” Sunwoo mutters, lying still for a moment before being the first to get up and start collecting his things. “My entire body aches. Apparently this place has hot springs? I think I’ll go check them out.”

“I’m way too hot and sweaty for that,” you sigh as the others start getting up to join him, “Lowkey tempted to take an ice bath instead. Or go chill in the lake, or something.”

“I’ll join you,” San pipes up, hanging the sweaty towel he was using to wipe his face around the back of his neck. “The lake sounds great right now.”

Sunwoo shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

It was Eric’ idea to put the camp in boot camp, bringing up his extended family's holiday house in the woods that only ever gets used twice a year. It’s a ridiculous waste of money and housing as far as any of you are concerned, but  at least Eric was smart enough to mould himself a spare key before he went no-contact with them. Granted, he then immediately lost said key while moving apartments, but as soon as you brought up the idea of a boot camp he turned the whole damn apartment upside down searching for it, only to realise it had been hot-glued to his battle jacket this whole time as a decoration along with other spare keys you had gathered for diy purposes.

The place is nice, awfully scenic – not quite mountainous, but hilly enough for the cliff the lodge is on to make for a gorgeous view overlooking the lake, estuary and ocean — secluded, and cosy. Now that Eric actually has a key to the place, next time you come here you hope it’s on calmer terms, with more time to check out all the hike trails and rock pools by the beach, but for today, aimlessly floating in a lake to sooth your sore muscles sounds perfectly ideal.

San’s bare ass is a pretty welcome sight, too.

“A cheeky skinny dip, huh?” you muse aloud, “Have fun getting whatever bacteria this lake has to offer, I’m keeping my jocks on.”

“Oh please, like that’d help that much.”

“It literally would though, that’s a whole additional barrier!”

“It’s still gonna soak through though, so if it’s in the water, you’re fucked.”

“Is that why you want me naked so bad? So I can be fucked?” you tease, wading into the water with him – still slightly warm from the daylight, but no doubt quickly cooling with the setting of the sun in the horizon.

San shrugs cheekily, submerged up to his shoulders in the murky depths, ducking under the water to drench himself entirely then dramatically flip his hair back upon breaching the surface. “Maybe.”

“Horny bastard,” you huff, splashing him in the face and making him cough and splutter, only for him to splash you back twice as hard. “Pffuah— stop, stop! I’ll stop, I’m too tired for a splash fight.”

“Okay, okay,” San hums, relenting his assault to come up behind you and wrap his arms around you instead. You sigh and lean into his gentle embrace. “I was joking, anyway. I’m way too tired and sore to be doing any fucking right now.”

So are you. The more you think about it, the less the thought of getting it on seemed appealing, the ache in your muscles dragging you down like lead. The cold water was nice, though, and the reprieve of San’s warm body amongst it even nicer, so you just stay there for a whole, tucked under his chin and listening to the steady beating of his heart.

It’s exactly what you needed after such a long day. Probably what San needed too, if the way he sighs in relief into your hair is any indicator, then presses a kiss atop your head. “This is kinda romantic, isn’t it?”

“Romantic?” His tone is playful, but the conversation you had with Sunwoo still lingers on your mind. You find yourself at a loss for words. “What about it?”

San leans down to rest his chin on your shoulder and press a kiss there, invoking a shiver. It has little to do with the temperature. “The scenery, for one. This lake is beautiful. The sunset. Holding you like this. Is it not nice?”

You blink twice, trying to process what this man is saying to you. Does he mean romantic as in nice? An interesting choice of wording, that’s for sure – but maybe you’re overthinking it. You’re probably overthinking it. You’re definitely overthinking it. Had Sunwoo not said anything, you probably wouldn’t have thought twice about him saying that. Saying it so seriously, even. Though the initial question did sound like a bit of a joke, so he’s probably joking. Or something.

“No?”

You snap out of your thoughts to reply to him. “No, it is nice— it’s really nice. Just what I needed after all of... y’know.”

“After all of Eric’s bullshit?” he suggests helpfully, and you don’t need to see his little cat-like grin to know it’s there.

“You said it, not me.”

He laughs, placing his hands on your shoulders and twisting you around to face him. You don’t know how he manages to smile so blindingly after the hell he has been through today, especially as one of the few band members who had no background dancing, but he gave it his all. You admire that about him, how he’s so hard-working and so soft-hearted but in a way that he needs to be tough to be; the fact that he always remains soft under the pressure of the world trying to harden him, is toughness in its own right. A fuzzy feeling sprouts in your chest, such deep fondness, and it’s enough to ease a bit of the lingering tension. He leans in for a kiss, not quite a quick peck but nothing deeper; just a kiss for the sake of a kiss, one that lingers, then he pulls you back into his arms and pushes your face into his neck.

San’s always been like this, so it really shouldn’t be as flustering as it is. After all, he’s the reason your band started being as touchy with each other as they are now – from kissing the homies goodnight. He’s just overly affectionate like that. Has his heart always beat this fast when you did, though?

Has yours?

You wonder if he can hear it.

You think about how easy it would be to tell him you love him right now. The words could just roll off your tongue; I love you. Things wouldn’t have to change. San would probably just be happy to hear it, say it back, and kiss you breathless. Yet, something about that thought makes your words get caught in your throat. It would be so simple. Too simple, even, because what would he mean, when he says it back? What would you mean?

“Do you want us to be more than friends?”

San’s skin feels even hotter to touch, or maybe that’s just you. He quirks a brow at you when you pull away from him, lips drawn into a slight pout, and it makes you feel like eating sandpaper, so you pull him back in and bury your face in his broad chest once more. You have always been weak for San’s pout, even if you’re the one making him do it on purpose because it’s just so cute. You know Wooyoung does it for the same reason, he’s said so, and you never miss the way his eyes crinkle with glee when it works. For Wooyoung, bothering his loved ones is his life’s greatest joy, and there’s nothing quite like the glow of a man in his element. You can picture him smiling at San like that right now, calling him a baby and calling you whipped.

“Do you want to date us? Be romantic with us, tell us those three words you’ve been too scared to say for too long, take us on dates that are explicitly dates, call us yours? Is that what you want?”

You kiss him, and nothing more, over and over again, until you finally stop thinking. He picks you up for your legs to wrap around his waist, weight supported by the water around you. He doesn’t ask questions nor complain, only pulling you in closer, and when you feel him harden against you, there’s no pressure to address it.

When that only makes each kiss feel even more intimate somehow, it starts to dawn on the edges of your mind that you may be well and truly fucked.

After three days of more torture, you have just about reached your limit. You thought Eric would have calmed down after the initial fight, but it seemed to instead just put him on edge the whole time – you and the others quickly realise he is not about to pull that stick out of his ass until you get that win against Stray Kids, and if the next round is still in another three days, then to hell with all of you in the meantime.

Usually, you would just fuck it out. Shockingly, having an outlet for all the pent-up frustration does wonders for trying to sort out problems, but you can tell it’s different this time; even if Eric did let you sleep with him, you aren’t entirely sure he would calm down completely. Still, selfishly enough, you could do with it for the release on your end, as your other physical outlet being dance is no longer cathartic when it’s the cause of half your frustration.

At this point you would have just grabbed one of the other members after practice, but morale is at an all-time low and everyone just seems tired. Eric has always been the energizer of the group, and you realise just how much you all relied on him now that he’s no longer filling that role. Even Wooyoung and Sunwoo’s attempts at joking around and lightening the mood have been falling a little flat, and you can see the toll it’s taking on them too. Tension lingers in the air even when you are not fighting, and as nice as the view of the Sohn’s lakeview lodge is, all you’ve wanted to do since you’ve arrived is get out.

The reception isn’t the best out in the woods, so you find yourself climbing one of the tall, sturdy trees by the lodge to see who you can call. Not necessarily for a booty call, maybe sort of a booty call, but more importantly just someone to talk to who isn’t your band; though you quickly realise how few people you actually talk to outside of your band. Most are friends or acquaintances from within the industry, and the last thing you need right now is to spread gossip about your own band to the event organisers, or worse, your competitors – but as you scroll through your messages, something about the latter sticks out to you.

You call Lino.

The idea is not your best one, you have to admit, but you’re definitely intrigued to find out what kind of metaphorical ditch you will wind up waking up in by doing this. Your last interactions with Lino made it very clear the way he operates – it’s a trade-off. He is not beyond gossiping about his own team, so if you pry well enough, you can get something juicy – the caveat being, he remembers everything you say as well, and will use it against you. Which only makes this idea even worse the more you think about it, since it would not take much for him to smell blood in the water and something like a fight among your band would be far too easy to prey on, but you already pressed call.

You are not exactly known for your good life decisions.

“Hello?”

The voice that picks up is already a lot warmer and richer than Lino’s light and airy voice, which raises every alarm all at once, but it’s definitely not a recognisable enough voice to match a face to. One of the other lost kids, that much you can tell, but that’s it.

“He…llo? This isn’t Lino.”

A laugh filters through the receiver. “No, it’s not. I stole his phone and he still hasn’t noticed yet.”

Whoever this is, you like him already, you decide. That’s the kind of mischief you can get behind.

“Wow. And who might this be? Another stray kid?”

A tongue click. “That’s right. Makes me wonder why my beloved hyung is getting a call from the enemy.”

The reference to you as an enemy has you not knowing how to feel about it. The same term has left your lips about them on more than one occasion, but perhaps part of you has always been aware of how one-sided your feud with them really is, though, you suppose with your tendency to meddle and pick fights, that’s been quickly fixing itself. You can acknowledge you have been creating drama, but to hell with it, you think. You’ve meant every damn word you’ve said this whole time.

“Heh. Well that’s for me to know and you to wonder, hmm? What makes you think I’d tell you? I don’t even know who you are.”

You hear the ping of him turning his camera on, and pull your phone back from your ear to see a familiar enough face staring back at you. Now the fact that you didn’t recognise him from his voice alone is almost embarrassing – that rich baritone carries their songs, and you’ve done enough internet stalking all of them to know the rest by face now.

“Ah. You’re Seungmin, right?” You switch on your own camera and fix your hair in a way you hope seems nonchalant, but you know it’s a poor attempt to hide the absolute wreck you must look like right now, covered in sweat and hair sticking out in every which direction. “I don’t think we’ve ever actually talked.”

“No, you’ve been a bit too busy digging into my bandmates– are you in a fucking tree?”

You instinctively glance behind you, as if not expecting a tree to be there, when you are, in fact, quite literally, sitting in a tree. The movement is so fast you wobble a bit on the branch you perched on, but it holds steady, and you regain your balance quick enough.

“Oh, uh, yeah. I’m in a tree. Long story.”

“I got time.” Seungmin’s expression remains unreadable as he pulls the strings of his hoodie and flops backward onto presumably his bed, possibly Lino’s or god knows who else’s, and gets comfortable. “Why you in a tree?”

“Why do you care? I called Lino, not you.”

He rolls his eyes, then flicks the phone camera loud enough to make an audible thwack as if he just flicked your forehead. “No shit you called Lino, this is his phone. But I’m bored, a little nosy, and a shockingly good listener, so I’ve been told, so indulge me a little. If you’re not going to tell me why you called Lino, at least tell me why you’re in a tree, I’m curious now.”

“You’re more interested as to why I’m in a tree than to why I called Lino?”

“Mmm, maybe equally as interested. I just figure you wouldn’t tell me why you called Lino even if I did pry, but I’m gonna just assume it’s a booty call.”

You snort. He’s a little more right than you want him to be, but you don’t know if you want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that yet.

“Well, the short version is that the reception out here is dogshit, so I climbed a tree.” You flip the camera and show him how high up you are, and nearly drop the damn thing however many feet below to a tragic death among the pinecones.

“Woah, nice view!” You flip the camera back around to your face to grin a little smugly. “Surely you don’t live out there in the woods, do you?”

“Ah, no, just out here for, uh… boot camp. Decided we needed to start taking practice more seriously since we have some actual competition this year, so we took the week off work and fucked off to one of the guys’ holiday homes.” You deliberately leave out the part where it’s kind of sort of technically trespassing, despite how curious you are to hear his reaction to it. “Hence. Tree.”

Seungmin nods along, cutely playing with the hoodie drawstrings and pulling them up past his chin with the hand not holding his phone. You’d think he was on FaceTime with someone a lot closer than a near stranger, but you suppose his cute charms just come naturally to him. “Damn, respect. We’ve more or less been doing the same this whole time, but more of us are unemployed than not, so, at least we don’t need to worry too much about taking time off work. Well, in Innie and I’s cases it’s taking time off classes, but, he barely shows up to classes anymore anyway.”

“Y’all studying?” Now that you think about it, you don’t know much about the group’s personal lives beyond Felix and Chan – Felix, obviously from knowing him through Eric since he was still doing his tattoo apprenticeship, and Chan’s digital presence informed you he did music full-time, selling the beats he doesn’t use himself. You remember their friend Jisung being a DJ at parties, and saw him doing music online as well, Changbin too but with less of a presence – but none of them were big enough to explain the ridiculous budget Stray Kids stages have been having. Either the few employed members are raking in dough, or someone comes from money, and you bet your meagre savings on the latter.

“Yeah, I’m studying music, vocals mostly. Also composing, music industry, music history, photography and videography, and Japanese as an elective ‘cause it’s fun.”

“Jesus,” you exhale, “That’s… a lot.”

He chuckles, pulling his hoodie back down to hide his face less. Even in its entirety, you can’t read any of it. “Yeah, it’s good fun.”

You expect him to elaborate on that more, but he doesn’t, making you crinkle your nose. “What about the others? You all students or?”

Seungmin shakes his head. “Nah, just me and Innie, he’s also studying music performance. The rachas – our production line, that is, Chan, Changbin, and Hannie – they all do music pretty much full-time, except Changbin who is also a part-timer at a gym. Personal trainer. Lino’s a viral sensation on YouTube for making cat videos, it’s shockingly enough to pay rent. I’m sure you already know what Lix does, and Hyunjin, well, apparently you know about that too.”

You snicker. “Funnily enough, we found out that one completely on accident.”

“You’d have had to,” Seungmin says slowly with a knowing grin, “We make sure to keep those profiles completely separate.”

Whatever other sentences your mind tried to come up with quickly fizzle out as you process his choice of wording.

“We?”

He laughs, light and melodic, and his face shines with such cutesy innocence you are shocked to hear him allude to engaging in creating such content. “Yeah, we. How do you think he sets up the camera and everything while tied up like that?”

Your eyebrows shoot up at the realisation that Seungmin was the rigger from the one stream you caught, and remembering how intricate the ropework was, you find a sudden deep respect for him blooming as a craftsman.

“Wait, you’re his rigger?”

“I’m his boyfriend, but yeah, his rigger too. So, sorry if I piss you off at the competition and you can’t suck my dick about it, it’s a real tragedy.”

He practically just handed you a formal invitation to think about his dick, so you rip it out of his hands with a sly smirk. “Aw, why not? That’s never stopped Mingi or Wooyoung. You could tie me up all pretty, too.”

Not that it’s a particularly good idea to let a practical stranger tie you up in a full-body rope harness, but you don’t expect him to actually get to that point, more so just teasing the idea. While you definitely expected some sort of reaction, the quirk of his brow and beat of silence is certainly more than you bargained for.

“Y’know, I’m starting to wonder if at this point you just want the whole band as notches on your belt.”

Were you anyone else, that might have even stung, but you shrug it off in earnest.

“Maybe I do. But truthfully, it’s like, ninety-percent more to do with the fact that each and every one of you are smoking hot. Like, I may be cocky and hypersexual, but even I have standards, and you all more than exceed them, so sue me for shooting my shot.”

His eyes widen slightly at that, and you wonder if he doesn’t get told how good looking he is that often. Granted, his face is a lot softer and sweeter compared to the more visually striking faces of his bandmates, but he’s still incredibly handsome by every means of the word. The likelihood of your assumption quickly decreases when he follows it up.

“I can respect that. I am quite a catch, aren’t I?”

You snort, not prepared for his response. “Yeah, I’d say so. So, if you and your prettyboy boyfriend are ever looking to spice things up, feel free to call. On or off camera.”

“Damn, you’re bold.” He chuckles again in what seems to be mild disbelief, to which, he really should have known better, but you suppose you can let it slide on the account that he’s never interacted with you personally until now. “I’ve haven’t had that conversation with him yet, but don’t get your hopes up. He’s quite the possessive type.”

The dopey smile and fond tilt of his head when he says that tells you that he doesn’t really mind that one bit.

“Aw, shame. I was already thinking about all the fun we could get up to together!”

It’s not as sarcastic as you make it sound with your sing-song tone; having already wanted to give Hyunjin hell since that first stream, and almost but not quite regrettably, more after, the thought of teaming up with someone as seemingly sly as Seungmin, to do a number on him was beyond appealing, but you suppose you can’t always win them all. It’s only then what a relevant thought hits you.

“Wait, but what about him and San?”

“Ah.” He at least doesn’t seem surprised to hear about it, so you’re glad you at least didn’t just throw San under the bus with that one. “Hence the yet on the conversation. I don’t know. We were all arguing, tensions were high, he and San grabbed each other by the shirt, he looked at me before he kissed San and right after, too. It felt like he was asking for permission, so I just… I don’t know. It’s not something I’d really thought much about till then, but I was curious. I can’t say it felt right, but I kind of just wanted to watch and see what happened anyway? I probably should have said something to stop them, but I just shrugged and nodded at him, let him decide if he wants to do that. Think I was angrier about it than I thought I was, but with everything going on I couldn’t really isolate that feeling yet. So I just kept arguing.”

At the mention of all the arguing, you’re coldly reminded that the very man you are talking to, probably said some really nasty things about you and the people you care most about, but you shove that aside for now. As aggressive as you tend to be, the long week prior just has you tired of arguing with just about fucking everyone, and you don’t know if you like that that says about you.

As if the situation between the bands couldn’t get any messier, yet more relationships get tangled in the web of drama. You always wonder why people cling so hard to the concept of monogamy when another alternative presents itself, but you suppose it’s easier to avoid the work it takes to communicate with people that much when you can just expect someone to avoid making you feel bad by default. At least this time you aren’t the one at the centre of it, but either way you can’t take all the blame when it takes two to tango in the first place.

“Oh jeez, that’s messy. And you haven’t talked about it at all? It’s been days, dude, why not?”

“Why do you care?” he huffs with a laugh, dryly throwing your own words back at you.

“I’m bored, nosy, and a shockingly good listener,” you retort right back at him. “Indulge me a little, sticking my nose into other people’s drama is a great distraction from my own. Plus, an outsider’s perspective might even be useful, who knows?”

Seungmin’s lips flatten into a line, staring up at the ceiling past the camera and debating it internally before rolling onto his side with a sigh. He looks so cozy, wrapped up in his hoodie and now snuggled up to a big fluffy pillow he rests on, his other hand propping up his phone to give you the perspective of two close friends talking at a sleepover, and not rival strangers, just one of which sitting atop a random ass tree.

“I feel like I’ll regret this, but, well, suppose you’re the only one I can talk to who doesn’t know either of us well enough to be biased, so… sure. Though there’s not much to be biased about actually. I don’t think. Basically he just… I thought he was gonna talk about it afterward, but instead he just ended up getting noticeably more possessive… like, needs to be clinging to me at all times, glaring at everyone else who tries, referring to me as his boyfriend more than usual. I’m not sure what’s up with that, since he’s the one who slept with San, but we’ve been too busy and stressed with practice to really have a chance to talk about it yet.”

“Ah.” You nod along, figuring that they must be taking the competition just as serious as your band is to come up with such show-stopping stages, so you relate to the stress that would probably make it a bad time to have such a conversation. “That’s rough. How do you feel about it all, though?”

Seungmin has to stop and think about it for a moment, shoving his face deeper into his fluffy pillow and looking down at the sheets instead of his phone screen. “I… I think I’m more upset that he’s acting so strangely about it than the fact that he did it in the first place. Makes it look like he feels guilty about doing it and is tryna be extra possessive to make up for it, or something, which… means he must’ve felt like he was doing something wrong when he did it. I don’t think it’s technically cheating, because he did pause to check in with me and he wasn’t trying to hide anything, but… we probably should’ve actually talked about it first.”

“Yeah, you can say that part again,” you huff. “Shockingly, sitting down and talking about your issues tends to solve them. Most of the time.”

He seems to be able to read through your tight-lipped expression, looking back up at the camera again.

“Something tells me the drama you’re distracting yourself from with mine, wasn’t solved that easily.”

“Yeah, well.” You pause, trying to think of how much you would be willing to share with the other team, considering you have no idea if Seungmin is the type to run his mouth or not. “It… yeah. Not that easy this time, unfortunately. Our plan B – or, plan A, sometimes, honestly – is usually to just. Fuck out all our emotions then talk about it calmly. But this time the hurt person decided to revoke that, well, technically he said he wouldn’t bottom for us anymore so maybe that still is on the table, but it just feels different. I don’t think he wants to go about it like that this time, and our other attempt didn’t work either and just made us even more tired and wired and I’m reaching my limit with these guys. Probably would do me some good to take a drive back into town, but I’m not sure what I’d do there. Work a shift at the Prism, maybe try go home with a stranger? I dunno. I’m not as keen on hooking up with strangers anymore, they don’t always like the same things I like and usually aren’t as down to sit down and talk about it beforehand so its just mid. But my other physical outlet has always been dancing, which, is all I’ve been doing lately and half of why I’m so frustrated.”

He nods along much like you did, humming at certain points to indicate his attention. “Right. So you just want an outlet for all that frustration, huh?”

“Basically. Or maybe just a break. Who knows.”

“I like boxing as an outlet,” he suggests helpfully, “Helps to print out the face of whoever you’re pissed at on a punching bag.”

“Ooh, that sounds good,” you hum, already thinking of which photo of Eric you should print out. You aren’t sure if Seungmin is extending an invitation or not, but either way it’s a good suggestion. You decide to throw out a line, just in case, and see what he does. “Doesn’t punching something over and over get kinda boring, though? Suppose that’s what you get a sparring partner for though.”

“Does fucking someone over and over get boring?” He asks cheekily, and you certainly were not ready for that response, so you splutter.

“Does- no, of course it doesn’t get boring. Not when your partners are hot and good at what they’re doing and – lets just say, we spice things up enough to keep things exciting.”

“Like what, jacking off to Hyunjin’s streams?”

“I guess, yeah. Among more exciting things. You’re not the only rigger around, y’know.”

Seungmin smiles and runs a hand through his hair, exposing his forehead more, which frames his features a lot differently; you start to get a glimpse of what you think Hyunjin sees before his streams in the was he grins so deviously at you. “Are you trying to one-up me?”

“In what, being a kinky freak?” you snort, not really seeing how even this is meant to be a competition, even if it did, admittedly, kind of feel like it. Just talking to any of the Stray Kids at all seems to draw out your competitive streak. “I mean, I reckon I’d have a fair run at topping it, but I’m not gonna pretend I’m the kinkiest degenerate in town. That’s Wooyoung for sure.”

He laughs and it’s shockingly melodic, which is a little unfair to all the people who laugh like they’re dying. “Really? Now that’s be interesting, who has the more questionable Pornhub search history, Wooyoung or Hannie…”

“Wow, way to rat out your own,” you chuckle, and you find yourself really enjoying your interactions with this Seungmin guy. He seems pretty alright so far. “Found him stumbling out of my apartment last week when I got home after the last round. Sunwoo sure did a number on him.”

“Yup, and he hasn’t shut up about it since,” Seungmin drawls with what seems like a rather fond eyeroll. “I think he saw God that night. Changbin is pissed about it. Thinks he’s stooping too low, or something. I wonder what he’ll think about you and Chan?”

Static sounds play in your brain until you can catch up with him. “He doesn’t know about me and Chan? You know about me and Chan?”

“Uh, yeah, genius, you were both at each other’s throats last we saw you and then you were both gone. Not rocket science. Chan isn’t blabbing, if that’s what you’re worried about. Though I kind of wish he would. How was it? I hear he’s a real romantic, but I have my bets on him being quite the tease.”

“You spend this much time thinking about what your homies are like in bed?”

The no-hesitation response sends Seungmin’s eyebrows shooting upward for a split-second, and a slightly twisted sense of satisfaction fills you at being the one to have a gotcha moment with that one, rather than being on the other end. You don’t like the realisation that more than one person has tried to call you out for that. You try not to think about it.

“Just… curious, I guess. It just comes up in conversation sometimes! It’s not that weird. You can tell me. I’m sure I can nag it out of him later, anyway.”

“Last time I shared anything juicy with a stray kid, he used it against me,” you hum, sounding less hurt and more amused at whatever he’s playing at. “Surely I get something just as interesting in return, as a guarantee, of sorts?”

Seungmin thinks about it, stroking his chin through a comically big sweater paw. “Not sure what kind of dirt I could give you. My boyfriend’s cock and hole is on the internet for everyone to see, you can gage a pretty good guess of what we get up to behind the screen based on what he does on the screen. I don’t really have much to hide.”

“Dirt on the others, then? You mentioned Han’s search history…”

“Ah, our Jisungie,” Seungmin coos, a smile taking over his face again at the mention of his bandmate. “Suppose I could throw him under the bus a little more. I think he’d like it if I did, honestly. Humiliation kink n’all that. Not that he’d admit it. But he doesn’t have to, it’s written all over him and the guys he likes. Hell, the girls too. If you teased him about it, it’d probably make his dick hard.”

“Really now? Oh, now that is so enticing… how bad is he gonna kill you for that one?”

“Really bad,” Seungmin chortles, muffling his laugh behind his sweater paw. “He gets worked up pretty easily, but cools down just as quick, only to fire up again as soon as you prod him. We used to fight a lot, when the band first got together, but I think we’re past that now. Since meeting you guys, though, it’s like his diss track era all over again… it’s been fun how angry he’s gotten over it all, and now he’s just angry at how good Sunwoo was in bed. It’s so cute. Seeing him get all competitive is also cute. He gets flustered easily, but then he’s surprisingly witty. Cocky, too. Haven’t seen that side of him offstage since he was still beefing with Hyunjin.”

He clearly has no idea how much material he is giving you to work with, probably thinking the humiliation kink was the meat of the information, but you absolutely soak up the details on how this man reacts to things. You won’t be caught off guard, not by him or anyone else on that team, and you are increasingly confident that the next round will absolutely rip them a new one.

“Is that so… alright, I’ll bite. Chan… is a lot crueller than he seems. But I can see how he’d be the romantic type in any other situation… I think I bring out his mean side, though. It’s pretty fun,” you muse, to avoid saying it’s pretty hot instead. “He’s very… patient. Frustratingly so. Not as much of a pushover as I thought he’d be.”

“You’re being awfully vague on purpose,” Seungmin points out blankly, “so I’m going to assume it was hot as fuck and he fucked you so good you’re ashamed to admit it.”

You really don’t like how fucking perceptive he is, you decide.

“Well, I’d definitely go with him another round.” You try to sound nonchalant as you shrug and act unbothered, because if your assumptions are right, he will go running to Chan as soon as you hang up the phone. “Next time though, it’ll be at my place on my terms. We’ll see how long he lasts.”

You hear the filtered sound of the door opening, and Seungmin stiffens, but grins. “I’ve heard all I need to hear. Lino just got home though, so I gotta dip– DM me if you wanna spar sometime. I think it’ll be fun to punch you.”

“Hey!”

He hangs up, and you’re left sitting in a tree with more questions than you have answers for. Your body aches as you make your way down the tree to head back for dinner, then practice, then sleep, then even more practice, and you wonder if you’ll have time to drive back into the city to try boxing somewhere in between. Probably not.

You get the feeling this won’t be the last of your interactions with Seungmin regardless.

Arms wrap around your waist from behind, suddenly finding yourself pressed back against someone’s firm chest. You look down at his hands, listen for the scuffles of the others’ feet on the dance floor of the practice room and voices talking, then chuck out a guess without turning to look at the mirror.

“Sunwoo?”

“Gotcha.” He pulls you back, out of the room into the sunlight and the refreshingly cool breeze of the woods. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t been avoiding you. We literally live together!”

“Yeah, that makes it really fucking easy to tell when someone’s avoiding you.”

Have you been avoiding him? It definitely has not been a conscious attempt to do so, but you suppose the urge to avoid his intense gaze has probably resulted in you avoiding him somewhat altogether. You aren’t sure what to tell him.

“I haven’t been trying to avoid you,” you mumble, slumping back into his embrace so he has to practically hold your entire body weight, leaning back on the outside wall of the rec room. “But I guess I’ve been doing it unintentionally. I’m sorry. I’ll stop now.”

“It’s okay,” Sunwoo hums, resting his chin on your head. “You gonna tell me why, or nah?”

“I think you know why,” you mutter, glad for how he holds you from behind so you can stare out at the scenery around you rather than have to meet his eye.

“Humour me.”

“I don’t think I will, Sunwoo,” you sigh, exhausted from this game of cat and mouse you’ve been playing. “There’s just. A lot going on, right now. I’m tired. Stressed and tired.”

He accepts your subject change gracefully, hugging you tighter and humming in agreement. “I could tell. We all are, but you seem to be taking this all the worst after Eric.”

You snort. “Really? So why aren’t you comforting Eric about it, then?”

“You saw how he is. I don’t think he wants comfort from any of us except Kevin until we bring home another win.”

“I really thought this would help him,” you confess, voice small. It makes you ache a little. “It seemed like the perfect idea. Give him a sense of control and respect and trust in us again, focus on our art, kick some ass. I just didn’t expect him to kick ours.”

He chuckles, and you feel it rumble in his chest against your back. Grounding. “Yeah, me neither. That’s why I’m leaving that one to Kevin and coming to you instead.”

“Well, thanks.” You twist around in his arms to give him an appreciative peck to the lips, then immediately twist back around towards the scenery at how just seeing his face up that close again made your heartbeat faster. His presence feels so much more intense since that conversation, which is likely why you ended up being so avoidant.

“Turn around and look at me.”

“Huh?” You do, withholding the urge to visibly gulp at the way he smirks down at you and cups your cheek.

“You’re really cute when you’re too flustered to look me in the eye. Have you been having feeeelings about me?” he teases, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip and fizzling out the last coherent thought you had in your brain.

“It’s– It’s a feeling alright,” you stammer, trying so hard not to shy away from his gaze. “One of them, for sure.”

“Mm, I wonder which one,” he presses further, leaning in to dust kisses along your jawline, stopping at your neck just to breathe over it. “But you don’t even know that for yourself yet, do you?”

You shiver, clutching tightly at his hips. “I– I don’t know. Everything has been so insane lately and I don’t wanna add to all that at such a stressful time for everyone, y’know?”

He pulls back with a sympathetic smile and strokes your hair. “This is the most stressed I’ve seen you in a while. Been waiting for you to ask me or the others to help you do something about it, but you haven’t. Why?”

Perceptive as ever, Sunwoo sees right through you like fucking glass. To a point where it would be almost humiliating if it weren’t exactly what you needed a lot of the time. “Because everyone is tired and sore and needing to be in tip-top shape if we’re gonna endure any more of Eric’s boot camp hell. This is the kind of frustration I’d take out on Wooyoung that’d have him sitting on a bag of frozen peas and calling out of work for the night.”

“Ooh,” Sunwoo chuckles with a smirk, “that frustrated, huh? Well, I don’t enjoy pain that much, but I can fuck the frustration out of you if you want—”

“Tempting as that sounds,” you muse aloud with a click of your tongue, “I don’t wanna put your body through any more stress than Eric already is. You’re not a dancer, you must be sore all over.”

“I am,” Sunwoo confesses, “But I don’t need to exert myself. C’mon, you needa de-stess.”

“Sunwoo…” A smile is already tugging at your lips however, and you both know you don’t have it in you to deny him.

“C’mon.” He has a cheeky grin as he waddles you down the hill with him back towards the lodge, ushering you to his room. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

He’s confident. He always is, never failing to lure you in and get you where he wants. If that happens to be his bed, then in his bed you will be, trapped in his embrace on the edge of the bed, right in front of a full-length mirror. Sunwoo is a bit vain like that, or perhaps just voyeuristic. Probably just voyeuristic, if the way he left the bedroom door wide open is any indicator, but such isn’t uncommon when it’s only the band around. This time, at least, the lodge seems empty.

Sunwoo takes his time kissing along your neck and trailing his hands along your body, under your clothes, and you sigh and lean back against him, letting your eyes flutter shut and focus on the feeling of his plush lips and calloused guitarist’s fingers. There’s no rush. You know he could do this all day, and it has you relaxing into it so much you jolt and gasp when he bites down on your neck just as hard as you like it. The dark chuckle he lets out at your whine is telling; he has you right where he wants you, playing your body like a fiddle.

He turns your head towards him and pulls you into a heated kiss, slow yet eager, savouring every brush of lips and taste of tongue. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world and he wants to spend all of it just feeling you against him, your lips on his lips and your skin under his palms and his hardness against your back when he pulls you closer.

A hand slips down your pants but not past your underwear, simply cupping you there, idly teasing as he proceeds to kiss you, and you find yourself subtly shifting your hips up into his touch for more pressure. You know if you tried to egg him on any further he’d pull away immediately, so your keep your hands firmly planted on his thighs encasing yours, giving them an encouraging squeeze.

“Want more, baby?” he breathes into your ear, the air making you shiver.

“Please.” You don’t have the energy for his teasing, or any of the usual back and forth. You’ve had enough of that lately, and at least with Sunwoo, you don’t feel too embarrassed to beg. “Just touch me.”

“Your wish is my command, prince.”

His hand finally slips into your underwear and touches you where you need him most, gathering your wetness on his fingers and slowly circling your clit. Too slow. It does it’s intended purpose of riling you up, but you don’t need to be even more riled up right now, you need to let off steam—

“Relax,” he murmurs when your hips buck up more into him. “Just focus on feeling all of it, okay? You’re gonna tire yourself out quickly if you’re that eager.” He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, slipping a finger into you and replacing its spot on your clit with his thumb.

“Sunwoo, please,” you beg again, and you see him smirk down at himself in the mirror. That little shit. He’s enjoying your desperation a little too much for someone who claims he just wants you to relax. “I need more.”

“Well, shit,” Sunwoo hisses, slipping a second finger in and finally quickening the pace and pressure of his fingers, your body singing under his onslaught. “When you ask that prettily, how am I supposed to deny you, mm?”

Your head falls onto his shoulder, just in perfect range for him to start sucking on it again, no doubt on his way to leave a very visible mark behind. “Y-You don’t,” you manage to gasp out, and he smirks against your skin.

“Don’t get too used to it, prince. You might find me feeling a lot more cruel another day.”

You want to groan out, I know, but his fingers working their magic don’t let you, and you honestly welcome the way it makes your mind go blank, watching him through the mirror looking so focused and so into making you feel good, completely ignoring himself. Your eyes flutter shut just as you are interrupted by his phone ringing.

“Motherfucker—”

“Shhh.”

He doesn’t remove his hand from between your legs as he uses his other one to grab his phone from his pocket and answer it, lazily drawing circles on you with his thumb while grinning at you in the mirror. You know you’re trapped now, because you can’t quite recognise the muffled voice on the other line, and if it’s someone important, possibly even related to the band, you can’t risk ruining it for him by making a sound.

“Oh? No, I’m not busy,” he lies smugly, making direct eye contact with you while he says it and slipping in another finger. “Why, I didn’t expect you to call so soon. Missing me already?”

Your eyebrows raise at that comment, noticing the flirty lilt in his voice and trying to figure out who the fuck he would be talking to like that. It doesn’t sound like any of your bandmates, giving he wasn’t expecting the call, unless it was maybe Eric? You mouth him the question, but he pointedly ignores you and resumes curling his fingers in you so deliciously you have to bite your lip to stay quiet.

“That’s so pathetic it’s cute,” he giggles, and now you’re even more curious. There’s no way it would be Eric, not in the mood he’s been in, you think he would punch something if anyone tried to call him pathetic right now. “Oh, you poor little thing. I’m out of town right now, so you’re stuck there on your own.” He clicks his tongue at the other person’s reply. “I meant I wasn’t too busy to hear how you’re touching yourself for me and the things you’re thinking about me in explicit detail, so do go on.”

You widen your eyes again, pulse thrumming with the excitement of how dirty it all is, and with Sunwoo’s movements quickening you only hope that whoever’s on the other end of the line can’t hear your breathing quicken with it. Or maybe you hope they do.

He suddenly stops as the other person keeps talking, and next thing you know he’s propping his phone up between his face and shoulder and pulling at your pants. When you start to shimmy them off, he reaches for his own, pulling them down just enough to let his cock spring free, already dribbling precum.

“What am I doing? What do you think I’m doing, cutie? I’m taking my cock out. You sound so fucking delicious for me, baby.”

You don’t need to be told what to do, shifting back to meet him and hovering over his length, earning a hiss from him as he leans back and lets you rub the tip against your entrance. “Yeah? You gonna take me?” he pants into the phone, meeting your eye in the mirror as he says it. You sink down on him all at once and the moan he lets out is a guttural one. “Fuck, good boy.”

You hear a whine on the other end and it’s so tempting to just snatch the phone out of his hand and put it on speaker, let you in on the action too, but it doesn’t take long for him to practically read your mind and do it himself.

“Oh? You want to show me? Let me see your cute little cock then, princess.”

“Fuck,” the voice on the other end whimpers, broken and airy, and it becomes a video call request that he accepts with only audio on his end first. You aren’t sure who you were expecting to see, but when the screen comes up with the same man who you met stumbling out of your apartment last week, leaning back on the bed with cock in hand, ass plugged with a pretty pink gem, and a thin sheen of sweat sticking a few strands of his long, silky hair to his face.

“Mmm, so pretty for me, Jisung-ah,” he coos, voice shaky from how you slowly move up and down on him – or try to, but he stops you with his free hand and gives you a stern look you know is because he wanted you not to do any of the work. “You like showing off for me?”

He nods profusely, fucking his fist and scrambling down to reach for the plug to fuck it into his hole too. “Love it, love your eyes on me, fuck, wanna see you too, please, I bet you look so hot right now hyung…”

As far as you know, the two of them are the same age, and you suppose that’s why the honourific brings such a smug look to Sunwoo’s face. “’Hyung’? Not wanting to be my pretty little princess anymore, hmm?”

Jisung whines again even more needily, the lighting in his room is dim through the closed curtains but just enough evening sunlight peeks through to reflect off the wetness oozing from his tip as he lazily strokes it. “A-Ah, c’mon, please…”

“Please what?”

He shifts around on the bed a bit with his eyes squeezed shut, pulling an arm over his face to hide in his elbow while he mumbles, “Please, oppa.”

“That’s a good little girl,” Sunwoo rasps lowly, the praise making Jisung’s ministrations quicker, and you have to bite your hand to muffle a laugh at the sheer humiliation of it all, and just how easy it was. How perfectly pathetic. “Want me to put on a show for you?”

You know the real question he’s asking and to whom; do you want him to see us like this? You nod at him through the mirror and tap the camera icon for him, pointing the camera ahead so you he could see you both.

“Good thing you caught me at such a good time, then. You have such a good show to enjoy.”

Jisung freezes up, eye blowing wide at where his phone is propped up on something in front of him, and for a second you think he’s going to dive for it to hang up but instead he throws his head back so hard against the headboard you think it would have hurt, gasping and whimpering as he comes all over his fist, hips thrashing wildly and thick ropes of white painting his slutty little muscle tee, even from where it’s pulled up over his abs.

“What the– what the– what the fuck, Sunwoo!” he whines, still frantically jerking his cock and twitching violently at the overstim, burying his cute little face in his arm again, too embarrassed to face you himself but not too embarrassed to cum to it. Or maybe it was the embarrassment that made him cum in the first place. “You– you said you weren’t busy–“

“I never said I was alone, baby. Besides, we weren’t busy. Were we, prince? Just hangin’ out, right?”

“No, not busy. Just relaxing.” You flash a smarmy grin right back at him, grinding down on his cock with an over-exaggerated sigh, throwing your head back onto his shoulder again and spreading your legs to make sure Jisung was getting a nice view. After all, he deserves a treat for the humiliation the two of you just put him through.

“You– You’re a dick,” Jisung pants out, slowly pulling his arm away to pull his boxers back on. “Can’t believe you made me say that in front of him–“

“You love my dick,” Sunwoo sassed him back, passing you the phone so he could grab your hips and take over, pulling you up and thrusting up into you slowly. “Needa split you open on it again. Maybe they can watch. Don’t worry, they didn’t hear our whole conversation, only the video call – I’m sure he’d love to see it for himself instead, though.”

You moan, rubbing yourself as Sunwoo bounces you up and down and trying to keep the camera steady, “Oh, fuck I sure would. Would you be my good little girl, too?”

“You’re both so mean,” he complains again, and you find yourself quite liking the little pout on his face when he does it. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away, however, reaching forward to grab his phone from whatever it was propped up on his bed to get a better look. “Fuck… you look so hot like that though…”

Showing off a little more, you pull yourself off Sunwoo so Jisung could see his cock in all it’s glory, thick and veiny and oh-so-picturesque, and simply rub your pussy against it, both gasping when your clit and his head collide.

“Fuck, hold on,” Sunwoo mutters, reaching down to his luggage on the floor and rummaging for a bit before pulling out a sleek bullet vibe and turning it on, pressing it to your dick and slipping back inside. You both groan, as Sunwoo angles the vibe so he could feel its vibrations against his shaft too, and starts fucking into you with reckless abandon. “Shit, baby, so good–“

“Hah– thought you said you wouldn’t exert yourself– woah, slow down, I can’t keep the camera steady,” you huff, Sunwoo reluctantly obliging and taking the phone away to prop it up on the dresser and change it to the front facing camera towards the bed, pulling you back down with him and bending you over.

“Fuck that,” he growls, all his patience from before melted away with every rough snap of his hips, “I’m gonna fuck all that stress outta you, I’m gonna fuck you into this mattress even if it fucking kills me tomorrow.”

You are reduces to cries instead of words as he does exactly that – frankly you have no idea where all this energy comes from after a long day of dancing, but you figure he won’t have his usual stamina this time – craning your head over your should to peek at his phone on the dresser, where Jisung watches with his lip pulled between his teeth and an obvious shaking from below the screen.

“Let us see,” you gasp out, eyes rolling back into your head as Sunwoo angles his hips just right and makes you see stars, but you force yourself to focus on the screen just enough to see him lift his phone higher and reveal him stroking his cock again, still covered in cum, cutely small in his hand.

“Y-You guys are so fucking hot it’s unfair,” he sighs, body twitching hard enough to shake the camera with every other movement. “Can’t believe you fuck raw too. Do you cum inside? Can I see it? Please, wanna see him dripping, fuck, wish that was me.”

“Yeah? Wish this was you, huh?” Sunwoo pulls you up on your knees with a firm yank on your hair, pulling a moan from you, and you don’t have much of a choice but to let him use you as he wants as he fills you up so fucking good. “Want me to cum in your ass and knock you up, huh? Want me to breed your cute little hole? Ooh, he clenched around me at that, I didn’t know you liked that one, prince.”

You whine a little in embarrassment, but mostly hold it together. “Y-Yeah well, it’s a new one,” you mutter, grasping for anything to ground you as Sunwoo keeps you propped up, but as soon as he lets you back down to lean on the mattress again, the vibe is back between your legs and you whimper.

“Cuuute, see, you’re not the only one who has embarrassing kinks, Jisung, looks like both of you wanna be all knocked up, hm? Want me to put a baby in you, baby?”

“No,” you rasp, ignoring the way his words send a wave of heat down south anyway. “Wanna put a baby in him.” You point towards the camera, and Jisung whines so erotically you think he would do just as well on cam as Hyunjin or San would.

“That’s so fucking hot fuck– please, please, please, breed me, knock me up, both of you, fuck…” He’s fucking the a dildo in his ass now, so frantically it keeps slipping out, “Need you both inside me, fuck, get me pregnant…”

The two of you chuckle at how far gone he is, willing to say all these embarrassing things so openly to the same people he spent so long arguing with the other week, that bitter resentment warped into something else entirely and were you not getting your brains fucked out you would want to ask Sunwoo how the fuck he did it, but he seems intent on not giving you the chance to form a proper sentence.

“Fuck– yes– shit I think I’m gonna–“ your breathing quickens, your core tightens, and one strangled groan from Sunwoo behind you and another few perfectly angled snaps of his hips sends you falling over the edge, the high pulsing through you like electricity.

“That’s it baby, thaaat’s it, fuck you’re so pretty when you cum for me,” Sunwoo mutters, bending over you and tilting your head to steal a kiss as he follows you over, moaning against your lips as he paints your walls white.

Jisung is still panting and fucking himself with his toy while the two of you catch your breath, and the sheer agony on his face is so fucking delightful you find yourself wanting to be so much meaner to him if given the chance.

“No, no, please,” he begs, “don’t stop yet, ahh, I’m close, please.”

He sure seems to love the show, so it’s a good thing you and Sunwoo both love to perform.

“Babe, move with me, lemme get the camera–“

You and Sunwoo both awkwardly shuffle to the edge of the bed where Sunwoo can reach his phone again, taking it off the dresser and flipping the camera back to the front so he can give your little voyeur on the phone a close-up view of where your bodies meet.

“Oh, fuck–“

“Don’t look away for even a second, baby. You don’t wanna miss a second of this.”

Sunwoo slowly pulls himself out, shiny and wet and covered in you, and when you clench down around nothing, he has a perfect shot of his cum dripping from your hole. The sounds Jisung is making on the other end of the line are beyond gone, fucked out and on the brink, and when Sunwoo collects his dripping cum on his fingers and pushes them back inside you, you hear his voice crack.

“Fuck–! Cum- Cumming- fuck…!”

“That’s a good girl.” He puts the phone back in front of you so you both can enjoy the sight of Jisung spilling another load all over his chest, not even touching his cock as he simply milks his prostate with the toy inside him. Sunwoo is even mean enough to take screenshots, and you grin at him, “Send those to me.”

It takes him a long moment to recover from the intensity of his orgasm, chest heaving, covered in sweat and his own mess, but the most dazed smile takes over his features as he covers half his face in disbelief.

“Fuck,” he exhales, picking the camera back up to hover above his face, “You guys are the hottest fucking… most insufferably horrible people I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah?” You raise a brow at him playfully, “Sounds like you like it, though.”

“Yeah, well,” he rolls his eyes, “Unfortunately for me that’s kinda my type. Dick hard one moment, wanting to punch you through a wall the next.”

“Don’t worry, I think Changbin already did the latter part for you!” Sunwoo chips in helpfully, so you elbow him in the shoulder. “See you on the battlefield next time, cutie.”

Jisung snorts, and you see him slipping out of his dick-drunk trance. “Is it really a battle or is it a slaughter?” He catches his tongue between cheekily at that, and you feel heat flare up of a familiarly ambiguous kind.

“We’ll make it a slaughter by the time we’re done with you,” you vow, and Sunwoo has to put a hand on your shoulder to remind you to save it and not get too heated. “You aren’t ready for what we have in store for the next round.”

“More provoking lyrics and slutty outfits? I think I can take it. Yes, innuendo intended, I could and would take you both – now I gotta get cleaned up, so. See ya later.”

It takes a second for you to recover from the whiplash of him bouncing between cocky and confident, and needy and pathetic, back and forth between only a few sentences, but you are quickly starting to understand what Seungmin meant about him. You exchange glances with Sunwoo and shrug.

“Still stressed out?”

“His switch-up at the end wasn’t that good for my stress levels, but I think I’m mostly alright,” you laugh, and Sunwoo laughs with you, then raises a suggestive brow.

“Sit on my face about it?”

“God, you’re the best. I’m gonna suck your soul out your dick about it.”

Eric looks up and all he can see is Felix looking down at him.

He wants to punch a fucking hole in the wall, shatter glass, snap something in half. He does not delude himself into thinking he is not an angry kind of person; he is, and he knows it. Still, lately he finds his nerves have been grated even more than usual, and he’d be a fool to not know why – it’s Felix. Of course it’s Felix. He just didn’t think it’d get him like this.

They broke up on good terms. That’s what he keeps drilling into his own head, over and over like he would forget otherwise. It was a mutual agreement; they weren’t working out. Eric wanted to see Felix a lot more than Felix could see him, and Felix didn’t want Eric to feel like he was constantly being put on the backburner, so they broke up. Figured that it just was the right person, wrong time.

Right person, wrong time.

He keeps telling himself that, over and over, as he goes through the choreography again, and again, and again, long after the rest of the band got sick of his shit and left him in the makeshift studio. He wants to punch the mirror hard enough to shatter it.

Right person, wrong time.

He regrets how much he held onto the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he could wait for him. Maybe there could be a right time, if he was patient. Like a fucking fool, he hoped that it wouldn’t be the last time he held him, kissed him, or touched him again. And it wasn’t – so why does it feel like it only made it worse? Felix was exactly like he remembered, only with more tattoos and piercings, dark hair, a sharper jawline, broader shoulders, and a bit more attitude. But he was still Felix, he was still his Felix, still the Felix who crumbles for someone with lots of confidence, who can’t lie, still the Felix who pokes his tongue in his cheek when he’s riled up, his Felix who’s breath hitches when someone leans in close, who gulps when he’s nervous, who’s voice jumps up in pitch when he gets filled up-

“Missed me that much?”

He keeps playing that night over and over. The song plays again, he twists and turns and jumps and hits, but all he can see is Felix and you all over him. He missed him. He missed him so fucking badly, when he really did think he had moved on. He has you now, he has the band, and that was more than enough for him – he even stopped dating because whatever it is you guys have going on was always just so much better. Hell, even if Felix came crawling back to him on his hands and knees to apologise and asked to get back together again, Eric doesn’t even think he would say yes. Not if it meant giving up what you guys have.

He still fucking misses him.

The choreography is intense. He pops, locks, perfects his body line, practices his flip, lands on one knee just a bit too wobbly for comfort; but while the music still plays, the energetic and intense trap beat Kevin made just for him, he doesn’t get back up. He falls forward, hands on the polished wooden floors, and cringes as it comes back wet – it’s only then when he realises he’s crying. He’s crying onto the floor of his dance studio while his kick-ass battle song plays and he just feels so fucking pathetic, because why is he even crying over this? Why is he crying over someone who was never truly his? Why is he even crying over someone who didn’t even really wrong him?

Not until now, at least. Not in their relationship. Unless the reason he was so busy back then was because he was making another dance crew with his other friends and he decided he would rather give up Force and Eric along with it, like Eric suspects, when if he wanted to sing and rap that badly he knows Eric would have let him join the runaways. He’d even fit with their namesake too, having ditched his family home in the middle of the night as soon as he turned eighteen; he knew Eric would have loved to have him here.

But of course, he was too busy. Not too busy for Stray Kids, just too busy for Force, and too busy for him. As they always were. As everyone always fucking is. History has a habit of repeating itself until you learn your lesson but he just does not understand the lesson needing to be learnt – what does he need to do to make them stay? What does he need to do to be someone’s first priority, to not be constantly brushed aside? What does he need to do to be worthy of the kind of intense devotion he gives everyone he cares about? Eric supposes that was always his weakness; loving more than he was ever loved back. Everyone would love him, but not nearly as much as he loved them, when push came to shove. Everyone except you and the band.

What he just doesn’t get, is why you guys just can’t get that. You seemed to understand enough that coming to participate in a band contest as a glorified dance crew – a dance crew, like the one he left – with his cool new friends when he knew how important the competition was to you guys, was a cold fucking move at worst and a nonsensical one at best. They insulted you, punched you in the fucking face, insulted your work, and you just go and suck their dicks about it? Go and suck Felix’s dick about it? You know what he means to him. You know he isn’t over him. But it seems like just about fucking everybody is willing to bend over backwards for the golden boy and his pretty freckles and award-winning smile that Eric fell for so long ago.

“Fuck. Fucking fuck!”

Eric knows exactly why you like him so much. He knows because he still fucking likes him. He knows because when he smirks at you like that, and he still wants to kiss him too. He still remembers how soft his lips are, and that they taste like caramel because he’s always drinking those sickeningly sweet excuses for coffees that might as well be milkshakes. But he just can’t do it. He can’t just kiss him like they’re still in love when he is coming and taking over everything that was ever fucking important to him. Everything he still cares about. Dance, music, you, his friends. But it doesn’t include him anymore, it never was fucking about him. Not anymore, it’s never about him anymore. Even now, at his family’s holiday house, leading his supposed dance boot camp, the rest of you are in the lodge playing board games without him because you said you needed a break and he’s been pushing you too hard.

If he can keep going, why can’t you? Why is he the only one taking this seriously? What happened to trusting him? You said you let him lead this week so he can see that you trust and value his input, but you guys just aren’t listening.

More than anything, he just wants to go home. He’s tired, mentally and physically, and he just wants things to go back to the way things were before the battle. Home, not the apartment, but in a cuddle puddle with the six of you when none of you are mad at each other, staring at the ceiling while the starry sky projector you bought lights up the room with colour.

But he knows better than to think you will agree to back out now. Hell, as much as he wants to, he wouldn’t let you, either; the controversy has put both you and your rival band in the spotlight like never before, and if you all want to achieve your dreams of being able to do music as a career and tour the world, you need this. He needs this. He’ll be damned if his shady ex-boyfriend gets in the way of that.

No more distractions, he decides, getting up and wiping away his tears. One more time, from the top.

“Eric?”

When he looks toward the doorway and sees the solemn expression Kevin gives him, holding a plate of freshly cooked food in hand, he feels whatever wall he just built up come crumbling down instantly. “Kevin…”

Kevin must be able to tell that he was just crying, because he sets down tonight’s meal on the pool table pushed aside to make room, and sweeps Eric into a crushing hug, which, for Kevin, isn’t the most common of gestures. Eric hugs him back and buries his face in his neck, not wanting to look at him. Not wanting to say anything. Not even wanting to hear anything. Kevin speaks anyway.

“We’re all really worried about you, y’know?”

“Not really,” Eric sniffles, and he hates how pathetic it sounds. “No one’s listening to me.”

Kevin tuts and pulls back slightly to frown at him, but Eric doesn’t look up. He can’t bear to meet his eyes. “Eric, we’re not listening because you’re being unreasonable. The week’s deadline doesn’t suddenly give our bodies any more endurance than they already have. We’re not all built like you!”

“I’m sick of fighting, Kev,” Eric sighs, and Kevin runs a hand through his hair soothingly.

“Then don’t fight. How about we go eat and head to bed early? It’s been a long day.”

Eric wants to argue again, despite just saying he is sick of arguing. He does not want to be coddled like an angry toddler throwing a tantrum, but that’s exactly how he feels; unheard, begrudgingly comforted just so he can calm down and go back to normal. He thinks he wants things to go back to normal more than the rest of you combined. Normal, back when it didn’t feel like all his bandmates were looking so far down at him like everyone else.

He bites his tongue and redirects it.

“How about I eat you instead? To de-stress, of course.”

Please let me have this, Eric pleads silently, hidden poorly behind a weak smirk. He grabs Kevin’s hips and starts tugging him towards the couch pushed up to the side of the room. Let me have you, let me feel you.

Kevin sees his request for what it is; a plea for intimacy, more than sex. A plea for trust, connection.

He sees it for what it is, and with a small sigh, grabs his face and connects their lips.

By the time you and Sunwoo finish cleaning up and re-gaining the feeling in your legs, a bonfire is crackling outside, while Wooyoung and Mingi are manning a fragrant barbecue. Eric being there is a welcome sight – just the fact that he is no longer cooping himself up inside the practice room or his room is already promising, but him being around the rest of the band willingly is even better. You turn to smile at Sunwoo and he’s already smiling back at you – he’s probably thinking the same thing.

“Well look who finally–“ You are cut off by Sunwoo stepping past you and shoving you roughly in the side to sit down next to Eric on a log and clap a hand on his shoulder.

“Glad to see you back, bro.”

Eric smiles.

You can’t even complain at the shove as it was completely called for; Sunwoo is right, what Eric needs now is probably not your usual attitude and instead more gentle appreciation, so you follow his lead and sit on his other side, giving him a peck on the cheek.

“Sorry. Missed you.”

He doesn’t seem to need the clarification on what you meant, giving that you have been seeing each other most of every day the whole week, but he returns your peck with a quiet thanks and goes back to staring into the dancing flames.

You have half the mind to leave him alone, since he clearly does not feel like talking, but you figured that if he really wanted to be left alone, he would be in his room or the makeshift studio again, so his decision to be here around you all was deliberate. So you stay next to him, pressed shoulder to shoulder just to give him that grounding point of contact – you’re there. You’re with him, next to him. If he wants to speak, he can, but if he doesn’t, you’ll still be there anyway.

He leans his head on your shoulder, and you feel your heart soar. He’s leaning on you. Both figuratively and literally, he’s leaning on you, he’s allowing himself to be soft with you even if he might still be mad at you. You wrap an arm around his shoulders and press another kiss to the top of his head, to let him know you heard him, even if he didn’t say anything. You hear him.

Sunwoo gets up to grab his food when Wooyoung calls that dinner’s ready, but Eric doesn’t move, and you won’t either until he does, but you give his shoulder a little squeeze.

“You gonna eat anything?”

“Not hungry.”

“Eric…”

“I’ll eat later, I promise,” he insists, taking your free hand in his and playing with it gently, intertwining your fingers. “Just… not right now.”

“Okay,” you say slowly, not wanting to find any more reasons to disagree with him for now. “What do you want to do right now, then?”

He has to think about it, still playing with your hands as he does, and it’s cute how it seems to soothe him somewhat. “I want… to talk this out, or whatever. I’m tired of being angry. I just. Don’t really know how to start.”

You look over his shoulder to gesture to the others to come in, and you all find yourselves seated on the log by the bonfire or the dirt in front of it, not wanting to be any further from Eric than necessary. “Start wherever you feel like, baby. We’re listening.”

He sighs, then tries to gather the words to start, then sighs again even louder. He lets go of your hand to drop his head into his own.

“I don’t know. I’m just, I’m tired, I’m upset, I miss Felix, I don’t want to miss Felix, I’m angry at him for doing this to me, I’m angry that you’re taking such an interest in him, I’m scared of being replaced, and I feel so fucking inferior about everything I ever had any confidence in and I just want it all to stop.”

“Okay, that’s a good start,” you encourage him, stroking his back rhythmically while he let it all out. “I had a feeling it was something along those lines.”

“It’s alright to be scared and angry,” Mingi pipes up helpfully, leaning over to give Eric a reassuring head pat.

“Felix did do you pretty dirty,” Wooyoung adds, to which the others nod.

Eric sighs again, running his hands through his hair. “I’m scared,” he repeats. “I’m scared we’ll lose. And I don’t know how I’ll handle that if we do. Because that’d be… feels almost fucking symbolic, in a way, of him just. Ruining everything I worked towards. That’s why I keep drilling you guys and being even more of a perfectionist than usual and – god, they’re fucking perfect. They’re incredible performers. I still don’t think their act should be allowed as a band but they’re so fucking good at what they do I can’t help but think we can’t really compete.”

“But we can!” San chimes in, shifting closer to make sure Eric is looking at him. “Prior to this week I didn’t even know how to dance beyond a few TikTok challenges, now I’m doing choreography you made for a dance crew! Half of you guys are practically professionals, and this might be one of the best songs Kevin’s produced yet, and the lyrics–“

“Have some more faith in us,” you interrupt, a little too enthusiastic, “we’re fucking good at what we do, too. We won last year for a reason, remember? This stage is absolutely gonna blow their socks off.”

“It’s not you guys I’m really worried about,” Eric admits quietly, still refusing to look any of you in the eye. He doesn’t need to. You already see his real feelings written all over him.

“You’re worried you might fuck up the whole thing.”

His silence is the only confirmation you need.

“Oh, Eric.” You pull him in for a tighter hug, which everyone else joins in until you are all awkwardly hunched over on the log and almost fall over, making you all giggle. “You’re not going to fuck up anything, okay? You’re going to be the star of the show.”

“I don’t know… I don’t think my choreography can match theirs. I’m mostly trained in hip-hop, but Hyunjin adds a contemporary twist to theirs, and Lino has such insane body control and–“

“And you have a swagger onstage that they could only dream of,” Kevin finishes, leaning over to put a finger to Eric’s lips, and he finally looks up from the ground to meet him. “Do you really think band judges are going to be looking for mixtures of dance genres and technical precision? They’re here for the music and they’re here for the spectacle. I’m pretty sure the reason why Stray Kids are getting as far as they are, is more to do with their production quality, live vocals, and stage presence. Are you really gonna doubt us on those fronts? This isn’t a dance tournament.”

Eric doesn’t have a response for that, playing with his own hands as he processes it all, so you take one into your own so he could go back to fidgeting with yours if he so desired.

“You’re right, I can’t doubt your guys’ songs and vocals like that. That wouldn’t be fair. Suppose it also wasn’t fair how hard I pushed your bodies, too.”

“Or your own,” Wooyoung reminds him, getting up to grab a now-cool plate of food to bring back to him and plop it in his lap. “You don’t need to be so hard on yourself, either. Whether or not we win the next round, which I have in good confidence that we will, we are still incredible fucking performers. Stray cats can’t take that from us. It’s not like we can really lose – everyone else in the competition has been an absolute non-event, dude. No one’s talking about them. We’re basically guaranteed second place at the very least, and that’s still a win.”

Eric pokes at the meat on his plate with his fork, trying to muster up the appetite. “I don’t want to be second place to anyone. Not anymore.”

You realise what he really means by that, and he doesn’t mean the competition at all. It was never about the battle, it was about the war – the ongoing war raging in his head of his own self-worth and the way his past threatens it. How he can never be certain that he won’t have to fight for his right to exist, his right to be loved – and you get it. You really do. So deeply, even, that you have bonded over it in the past, and that is exactly how you know that he will stick by you till the bitter end, and you just wish he could feel the same. You sigh and massage the back of his neck.

“Eric, sweetheart, you could never be replaced. Not by Felix, not by the homeless children, not by anyone. We wouldn’t be here right now if you could!”

He seems to only shrink in size as he curls up and munches on his food. “Why are you so obsessed with Felix, then?”

He turns to you.

“Obsessed? With Felix?” It strikes you as a little odd. “What do you mean obsessed with him? He hurt you, Eric. I can’t forgive him for that. You know how ride or die I am for the people I care about and the six of you are at the absolute top of that list. I’m fucking around with him because I want him to feel as small and pathetic as he’s made you feel, and I want it to fucking haunt him how he can’t help but think of it when it’s just him and his right hand. I want to drive him insane until he realises he fumbled the best thing to ever happen to him.”

“And Chan? You seem awfully interested in him too. And how interested he is in Felix.”

You are not sure whether to feel hurt or understanding at Eric’s accusations. You know he’s insecure and you know he needs your reassurance, but you don’t like the way he’s painting you in this whole situation. “Chan has a weak spot for Felix and it’s so easy to prey on. Why wouldn’t I? He’s the core of their group. He calls the shots and it seems like to some degree, everyone relies on him. You destabilise him, you destabilise all of them. Besides, we just have beef from leader to leader, creative to creative. I know we got invested in this whole rivalry for your sake at first, Eric, but it’s gotten pretty personal now. That doesn’t mean we’re moving past you now. It means we’re all taking them on together.”

“You make the battle of the bands sound like some huge psyop mission,” Kevin snorts, finishing off his plate. “We should just not worry about them and focus on making our performance the best we can be. I’m sure Chan and Felix and all of them will leave us alone if we just leave them be.”

“No way!”

You, Eric, Wooyoung, and Sunwoo, all pipe up at the same time, looking at Kevin incredulously.

“I don’t want to leave them alone, I want them to wish they could be us so bad,” Wooyoung huffs, crossing his arms. “C’mon, even you enjoyed putting Jupiter in their places last year. It’s fun to stick it to some bitches who deserve it!”

Kevin goes quiet, then waves his arm dismissively. “Yeah alright, whatever. Have your fun with it then, I guess.”

“Maybe I need to be having more fun with it,” Eric chuckles, poking at his dinner some more. “I mean, tag teaming him at the Prism was pretty fun. I guess I just got… really into my own head about it.”

“Attaboy,” you cheer, giving him an encouraging slap on the back, “that’s the spirit! Obviously you don’t have to fuck around with them if you don’t want to. But y’know. You can always annoy them more.”

“I think I’d rather fuck you in front of them and have them watch,” Eric throws out casually, making your eyebrows shoot up and your still aching core throb. “That’d be pretty hot. Wonder if they’d agree to it, though.”

You shrug. “I dunno Eric, we can be pretty damn convincing, I think. Maybe we should invite them to our dressing room next round. Or something. We’ll work it out. But before we get to any more plotting and scheming… how do you feel? Are you like… okay? Or at least better?”

“Better,” he nods, and you feel reassured in that he didn’t have to stop to think about it. “I don’t know. I know I was projecting my own insecurities onto you guys. And I know I was pushing you guys too far. I just needed to feel… like I held any weight here. Like I was still important to you guys.”

“Of course you’re still important to us,” Mingi breathes out, visibly saddened at the thought that Eric even had to doubt it. “I’m sorry you couldn’t feel it enough.”

“I do now, at least.” He cracks a small smile, and exchanges a knowing look with Kevin that makes you think Sunwoo was onto something when he said he’d let the keyboardist handle him. “I know that was the point of this entire trip. And I’m sorry all I used it for was to try and find ways to prove that you guys didn’t care as much as I did. I’ll stop projecting. At least, I’ll try.”

“That’s all we can ask for, Eric,” San reminds him, getting up to give him another hug. Sunwoo has to stabilise his plate so it doesn’t get shoved off his lap. “You can tell us if you’re feeling bad or insecure about things, y’know? Just please don’t get angry with us. You know we can talk things out calmly and you’re scary when you yell.”

Eric laughs at the audible pout in San’s voice without needing to see it over his shoulder. He pats him on the back affectionately. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll try not to. I’m sorry again. We can take tomorrow off, I think. Enjoy the holiday house while we’re here, spend the day by the lake, maybe. It’ll be fun.”

“Sounds like exactly what we all need!” Kevin agrees, clapping his hands together. “I unironically think that our practice will be even better if we don’t practice for a day. Let our bodies catch up with it all.”

“For sure,” Wooyoung agrees, “it’s always like that. In the meantime, I think we should all take turns schlobbing your knob for being such a great dance teacher.”

That makes everyone burst out laughing, but Wooyoung simply doubles down. “What? I mean it! I’ll give you the sloppiest toppy bro, the Gluck Gluck Triple Twist–“

“I get it, I get it,” Eric howls, trying to recover from the sudden humorous outburst. “God, that gave me whiplash. Yeah, sure, if you’re offering, I won’t say no.”

“It’s whatever you want, Eric,” you tell him, leaning on his shoulder this time, “after all, this is still meant to be your trip.”

The smallest but most genuine of smiles pulls at the corners of his lips, and he presses them to your crown appreciatively. “Thanks. All of you. You guys… mean a lot to me.”

Sunwoo notices the tears glistening on his cheeks before you do, and instantly leans in to kiss them off, and before you know it, everyone is swarming him to try and express their own forms of affection to a point that’s downright comical in it’s impracticality, knocking him off the log in your onslaught of touch and kisses.

“Ahaha, alright, alright! I get it, you guys too– ahahaha, fuckin hell, you guys are too much.”

Once again you hear what he really says, and it’s loud and clear;

I love you all so much.

a/n: i feel like the apologies for the wait get more and more ironic the longer i go between updates, but i really am sorry! 2023 was a year of all time for me and i was just speedrunning life events but it's okay i think im normal now. ish. im writing again at least! i slaved over this chapter for MONTHS because i kept changing it and hating parts of it no matter what i did so i just sat down and finished it and decided i would not proofread or reread at all and just go with whatever i come up with so i can finally get this chapter DONE or else it might have just sat in my wips rotting for another year. so apologies if you notice the dip in quality, but hopefully you wont LMFAOOoo

anyway the questionnaire is still open and even more relevant than ever so any responses are so so so appreciated and help me write future chapters! feel free to fill it out more than once if you have already a while back. LMFAO. anyway. enjoy! happy new year! jskdgfkskdh

[meiyokbf]

headcannon | megan x transmasc!reader

author’s note: so so so excited to finally be writing for the katz! lemme know what you guys think of this, and please excuse my poor grammar, lol.

warnings: pre transition!reader at the beginning, transmasc!reader, obvi. it kinda goes for both non-binary readers and transmen, too. hrt therapy & top surgery mentioned. nsfw at the end, MDNI.

🏷️: katseye x reader, megan x reader, katseye smut, katseye, megan skiendiel, transmasc reader.

megan had absolutely NO CLUE that you were having these kinds of thoughts about your gender identity.

which is why she got a little bit surprised when you came out to her as transmasc.

poor girl couldn’t get the clues. 😭

but needless to say she was the most supportive girlfriend ever since the very first day.

“look at me, my love…” she held your hands while you looked at her, a couple of tears streaming down your face as you let yourself feel vulnerable in front of her. “tell me your name, hm?”

“(y/n)…” she smiled like a child when she heard it for the first time, kissing your cheek right on top of one of the tears.

“your name is so beautiful, baby.”

you KNOW that she would act like the proudest girlfriend ever.

even though she knew little to nothing about transitioning.

but even though she struggled to understand a few things at first, she never deadnamed you; or used the incorrect pronouns with you.

and god helped the poor soul who did it in front of her.

megan driving you to your first hrt consult!!!!

and of course, getting a speed ticket because of how fast she wanted to get there.

megan writing the day down so she can remember the first day you got your very first t-shot.

and girlie would 100% make you do the “hi my name is (y/n) and i’m one day on testosterone” trend.

megan would absolutely be thrilled when you told her you wanted to tell the katz.

pookie would have to hold her tongue because she was so excited about it that she wanted to share with her sisters asap!!!

and obviously she held your hand tight when you told the girls, even though you knew it’d be alright.

“guys i have a BOYFRIEND NOW!!”

she LOVES LOVES LOVES calling you “my boy” by the way.

unironically changed your contract to “my favorite guy in the world.”

was THRILLED when the T changes started to show.

and pookie would be like “baby look at your BEARD.”

would definitely learn how to help you when you were feeling extra dysphoric.

and would put an alarm on her phone every time you wore a binder to remind both of you that you shouldn’t wear it for more than 6 hours.

obviously would take you to the courthouse to finally kill off your dead name.

and i just KNOW girlie would throw a death-themed party afterwards with a tombstone cake.

megan would take you (and all of the katz) to the trans pride parade in los angeles.

she wouldn’t care if fans noticed her and asked her for pictures, she just wanted to be with you.

and she wanted you to know that she loved you no matter what.

pookie would remind you every day that she was proud of you for doing this. 🥺

megan would leave post-its (exclusively with the colors of your flag) on your kitchen before going to practice.

“don’t forget to eat lunch today, sweet boy!”

“have a nice day, my prince!”

but every now and then she would write the most awful jokes.

“do you speak english or do i need to TRANS-late?”

getting so so so so excited when you finally got cleared for top surgery!!!

almost DEMANDING hybe to give her some weeks off so she could take care of you 24/7.

which, obviously, she did.

girlie wouldn’t let you do ANYTHING when you were post-op.

“megan you don’t have to come to the bathroom with me…”

“but what if you need help to take a shit”

once you got the bandages and the drains off, and you finally got to see your new chest, megan cried more than you did.

and she obviously took 300 pictures so she could look at your chest whenever she wanted.

once you got comfortable with it, she showed them to the katz too.

“it must suck that i have the hottest boyfriend ever and you guys don’t.”

overall she would be the sweetest person in the world ugh.

now here’s where it gets funny.

megan was SO scared to have sex with you at first.

not because she didn’t know what to do, because she surely did.

but she was terrified of crossing a boundary with you or doing something that triggered your dysphoria.

so you guys had a long, long conversation about this before she could actually relax and feel a little less anxious about fucking you.

babes, let’s face it. that girl is a bottom.

even when she tops, she subs.

she just wants to make you feel good all of the time.

megan would absolutely take advantage of the fact that you had significant bottom growth.

and girlie would put her legs on your lap while you were talking to the katz or doing something that required your attention, just so she could rub her legs on your dick as hard as she could.

would absolutely make you buy the biggest packer available too.

“you know how well i can take you, baby.”

is a sucker for missionary.

it’s when she can feel you the most.

and pookie LOVES dirty talking, too.

with a tiny bit of a daddy kink.

“fuck, daddy… your dick is filling me up so nice, ugh…”

and obviously *cough cough* breeding kink *cough*.

everything that was slightly gender-affirming to you turned the shit out of her.

she wanted you to know that right now, she needed her man to fuck the life out of her.

and also. blowjobs. all. the. time.

she would DIE whenever you came in her mouth.

the feeling of having your t-dick pulsing between her lips made her feel insane.

and every time you’d put her hair up in a ponytail she would melt.

obviously would top you the only way she knows how.

would have her way with you while looking the puppiest she’s ever looked.

“is this good enough, my boy?” “am i being good?”

she wants you to know you’re in charge here.

and she just wants to be good for you.

[defectivevillain]

these jagged scars

[ao3 version] | [spotify playlist]

Act One summary:

That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts. 

Your experience in criminal profiling means that you've met a wide variety of people from all different walks of life. You've stared down hardened criminals and fought for your life against people hell-bent on killing you. Even so, something about the FBI's new target, the Chesapeake Ripper, seems to elude you.

Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.

Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.

this broken design | 16/16 chapters | 64k words

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Act Two summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence.  You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts.  Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instincts rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell. 

this winding labyrinth | 16/16 chapters | 69k words

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

comment down below if you'd like to be added/removed from this work's taglist. the taglist allows you to get notifications whenever I post a new chapter of this work.

[newtthetranswriter]

A Trans Soulmate Au

Word count: 2070

Summary: being trans and not understanding it can make having a soulmate very difficult.

Paring: Takashi Mitsuya X Trans!Reader

Warnings: talk of Dysphoria, internalized transphobia, talk of transition, if i missed any please let me know.

A/n: Welcome this one has a bit of angst but it ends happily I promise. I just thought it would be cute if in a soulmate au where your soulmate's name was on your wrist what would happen if you were trans but your soulmate had your birth name on their wrist. So this came to be. This takes place when Mitsuya is twenty so that's the reader's age as well. I tried to write it so anyone can read it whether you’re ftm, mtf or nonbinary, or if you just want to see the inner workings of this trans person's brain. I also want to state this is a rough written interpretation of some of the things I felt before I knew what being Transgender was, it will not cover what everyone feels or what they would feel in this situation. I hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think. Anyway requests are open, and remember to Hydrate or Diedrate. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT

Key: D/n means different/dead name, it can be anything but what you like being called I guess.

    I’ve known who my soulmate is for the past three months but haven’t told him yet. You may be thinking, why wouldn’t you tell him if you know he’s your soulmate, is he not a great guy or something? But that couldn’t be farther from the truth, my soulmate is Takashi Mitsuya and he is the sweetest guy to ever live. The problem is me. I don’t feel comfortable with who I am and who people want me to be. I’ve always felt like I’ve been living a lie, masquerading as someone I'm not, and honestly I’m scared to tell people the truth. What’s the problem with admitting your soulmates then, is probably your next question. Well I don't want to see the constant reminder of someone that’s not me on my soulmate's wrist.

    In our lovely world we live in your soulmates first name is written on your wrist from the time you are born. On my wrist in clean lettering is Takashi and I cherish it, but ever since I started noticing my feelings about myself I’ve kept it hidden so my soulmate can’t figure it out, because they shouldn’t be burdened with someone who is broken like me. When I met Mitsuya I was conflicted at first. I knew he was my soulmate because I saw D/n written on his wrist in the same font as mine, and obviously his name matched my wrist. He was so kind that I considered just telling him we are soulmates and dealing with the discomfort of seeing my given name everyday for the rest of my life, but my disdain for who people told me to be won, and I’ve kept it secret since. Or so I thought.

    It was the weekend and there was nothing happening with Toman at the moment so I was hanging out with Mitsuya and Hakkai. We were just chatting, covering topics like what we want to do in the future and how no matter what Hakkai and I will be Mitsuya’s number one supporters when he starts his fashion line. It was just a chill hang out among friends.

    “Seriously Mitsuya, if you need a model for a photoshoot or runway I got your back promise. I mean what are friends for?” I said brushing a strand of hair out of my face, not realizing my bracelets had slid up my arm.

     “D/n’s right, we’ll help in whatever way you need us to Taka.” Hakkai chimed in. “Anyway, other than being a fashion designer, have you thought about looking for your soulmate yet?” He asked Mitsuya to keep attention on him. 

     When the topic of soulmates was brought up I subconsciously rested my hand on my wrist. Feeling my bracelets out of place I quickly shifted them back into position. Hoping that the one person didn’t see the mark and figure everything out. I quickly looked over to Mitsuya and from what I could tell he was still absorbed in his conversation with Hakkai. I sighed in relief before deciding it was probably time for me to go home.

     Standing up, I addressed my two friends. “Well it was nice talking with you guys but I should get going, I have some homework I still need to finish.” I quickly turned not catching the slight frown on Mitsuya’s face. Waving one final goodbye, I left Hakkai’s house and headed on my way.

     I had reached a park a few blocks between my house and the Shiba residence and decided to sit and clear my head. “That was way too close.” I said to myself as I sat on the swings.

     “What was ‘too close’ me almost finding out that you are my soulmate and having been hiding it for who knows how long?” Said the voice of the one person I didn’t want to face right now. “Come on D/n, when were you gonna tell me? Did you just not like that the universe chose me for you to be stuck with for the rest of your life? If that was the case why did you hang around me so much?” He started asking questions.

    Fighting back tears cause I knew where this conversation would go, I tried to argue. “You know that’s not true Takashi. Why would I hide it? I didn’t know, I didn’t want to assume anything.” I lied, trying to play it off as me not knowing for sure.

    He rolled his eyes at that. “Don’t lie about it. You constantly wear bracelets to cover it up, obviously you’re embraced to have my name on your skin. And don’t Takashi me, if you can’t admit we’re soulmates don’t call me that.” He said with a harsh tone he normally saves for assholes he has to beat up.

    “I swear I’m not embraced, it's just easier if you don’t have to deal with me as your soulmate.” I said finally taking the blame even if I knew he wouldn’t believe me.

    “Are you sure? Cause it seems like you’re just making excuses. What did I ever do to make you want to hide that we’re supposed to end up together? If it’s the fact I’m in toman then i’ll leave it, pass on the title of captain of the second division to Hakkai and retire.” He started to sound almost desperate. Like the fact I hid this was hurting him. “Just tell me what I need to do, for you to accept me.” At this point there were faint tears streaming down his face. 

    I froze, Mitsuya never cries, he didn’t even cry when Mana started school. It hurt to see him stand here and offer to leave his friends for me. He loved toman, maybe even more than he loved fashion design and sewing. I couldn’t just sit here and watch him beat himself up over something that was really all my fault, so I broke down completely. 

    “It’s not you Takashi. I love everything about you and I would never ask you to quit Toman, that’s like asking Takemichi to stop crying or asking Mikey to stop riding his bike. The problem was never with you, I hid the fact we are soulmates because I’m broken. I’ve always been broken. I don’t know how to explain it but I just feel like my body is wrong. Like I was born in the wrong one, like a mistake was made. Everytime I look in the mirror I hate what I see. I've tried everything from affirmations, to body positivity exercises but it’s all wrong. I hid the fact we are soulmates because I hate my name. It doesn’t fit, it’s wrong, I don’t know what is right but that there on your arm is not me.” I ranted out, expressing my feelings about myself for the first time out loud. “I could bear going through life hating a part of my soulmate that he can’t change, so I hid my mark and hoped that by some miracle you would find someone else that shared this name and had Takashi written across their wrist even though I know it’s impossible. I don’t want you to have to live with someone who hates themself.” Tears were streaming down my face and I didn't notice Mitsuya moving to hug me.

     “We’ll get through this together. I know your feelings are probably hard to understand and are confusing. I’m not going to pretend like I fully understand, but I will help you through it. We can look for a therapist to help you work through it and understand. We can try anything you want to make you feel more comfortable. If you truly hate the name on my wrist I’ll keep it covered so you don’t have to see it, and you can tell me what you want to be called. You get to pick what I call you so I know you’re comfortable with it.” He said resting his head on mine as silently cried into his chest. “And when you’re ready I will help you tell the gang and if anyone dares to make fun of you or disrespects you they’ll have to answer to me. We’re soulmates for a reason, and I’ll stick with you through everything.”

     I couldn’t help but smile as I pulled away from him only enough to look him in the eyes. “Thank you Takashi. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you in the first place.” He just returned my smile, placing a kiss on my forehead. “As for what to call me, I’m not sure yet but I think for now you could just call me soulmate when talking to me. You can call me whatever you want to when talking with others though.” I said, earning a slight chuckle from the lavender haired man holding me.

    “You got it Soulmate, now take off your bracelet and give it to me.” I did as instructed revealing his name written neatly across my wrist. I watched as he smiled at his name before slipping the bracelet on his own wrist covering his own mark. “Now that that’s out of the way, what do you say to going out for some ice cream and maybe a movie?” He asked as he laced his fingers with mine.

    “Sounds fantastic.” I replied excited to start this new journey together.

Timeskip to a few months

     It was a relatively quiet day, I had just spent the morning cleaning up my room and getting ready to go out with Takashi for the day. He was supposed to be here around one and I was so excited to tell him some great news. You see, over the past couple months I found a therapist who helped me figure out that there is a name for my feelings and that’s gender dysphoria, and most people who experience it are Transgender. With the help of my therapist and the support of Takashi, I’ve started my transition. I’ve made some great strides in making peace with my feelings and presenting the way I see myself in my mind. The only thing I had been stuck on was a name. That’s the news I was ready to share with Takashi. I had finally chosen a name.

     Checking the clock, it was about 12 so I decided I should finish getting ready even though there was an hour before Takashi was supposed to get here. As I was picking out my shoes for the day I was interrupted by loud knocking on my front door. Checking the clock again to see it was only 12:15 I was confused, Takashi isn’t supposed to be here for another 45 minutes. Trying to push my concern aside I went to open the door. “Takashi, you're super early.” I said as I swung the door open, being greeted by a very frantic Takashi.

     “Thank god you opened the door, I have to show you something.” Before I could even respond he was pushing into my apartment not even bothering to take off his shoes. “I don’t know how or when this happened but when I was showering I noticed something strange on my wrist and when I looked at it, my mark had changed to this.” He said frantically moving the bracelet that normally covered his soulmark to reveal it had in fact changed.

      I couldn’t help but laugh, my laugh caused a look of shock to cross Takashi’s face. Before he could continue with his mini panic I decided to explain. “It’s ok Takashi. Everything is fine, in fact it’s amazing that your mark changed, it just proves we’re soulmates even more.” He looked confused at my statement. “I finally picked my name, it's Y/n” I said, clarifying what I was getting at.

     The look of confusion melted away into one of the biggest smiles I have ever seen on his face. “Oh my god. That’s fantastic Y/n. We have to celebrate.” He said immediately falling into using my new name. Hearing it come from him made me smile more than I already was.

     Having his support through everything has been a blessing, I’m glad my bracelet accidentally fell that day. If it hadn’t I would still be hating myself everyday, but instead I’m learning to love myself and showing everyone that no matter what society says you have to be you don’t have to listen.

[slipnutsballs69]

reading transmasc fics just feel a smidge more validated within my identity🙏🏼🙏🏼

[akikenshin12]

Ash Matsumi x Transmasc!(Y/N)

Fanart for @no1missingjustas1eep