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jedisupernova · 2 days ago

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

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

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

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

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#kwon jiyong #gdragon #g dragon #kwon jiyong smut #kwon jiyong imagine #jiyong #jiyong smut #jiyong imagine #gdragon smut #gdragon imagine #choi seunghyun #choi seunghyun x reader #choi seunghyun imagine #choi seunghyun smut #t.o.p x reader #t.o.p #t.o.p imagine

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vaginalvr · 2 days ago

Note

ok i NEED an enemies to lovers with spencer reid

content warning: Enemies to lovers, heated arguments, hair-pulling, rough sex, desk sex, protected sex, mild biting, praise, post-sex vulnerability, hurt/comfort undertones, Reid being mean at first then needy

a/n: delicious

word count ~ 1.3k

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

The worst part about Spencer Reid wasn’t that he was a genius.

It was that he knew it.

You could handle the IQ. You could even handle the endless monologues and unsolicited corrections. But it was the way he wielded his intelligence like a scalpel—clean, cold, and calculated—that made your blood boil every single time.

Especially when it was directed at you.

Like now.

“There’s no behavioral basis for your profile,” he said coolly from the other side of the precinct’s tiny war room, tapping his pen against the table. “You’re speculating without any empirical data.”

You gritted your teeth. “I’m going off instinct.”

“Instincts are what get people killed,” he shot back without looking up.

“Funny,” you said through clenched teeth. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion, Doctor Reid.”

He finally looked at you—eyes sharp, challenging, and so annoyingly beautiful it made your pulse stutter. And he smirked. That little upward twitch of his lips that said you’ll never beat me.

“Just trying to keep the team grounded in facts,” he said, voice syrupy-sweet.

“More like trying to prove how big your brain is.”

“Better than thinking with something else.”

The silence that followed was thunderous. Even Morgan raised his eyebrows from across the room. You stared at Reid, jaw tense, throat dry. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Just stared back, daring you to rise to the bait.

God, you wanted to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both.

Hotch cleared his throat. “Let’s stay focused. We’ve got twelve hours until the next expected abduction. Pair off and review the victimology again.”

You glared at Reid. He glared back. Hotch, either oblivious or cruel, said, “Reid, Y/L/N, take the sheriff’s office.”

Perfect.

The ride over was silent. You sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, eyes on the window. Spencer drove like he argued—tight, precise, and just this side of reckless.

“You’re wrong about the profile,” he said suddenly, eyes on the road.

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious.”

You turned to him, heat rising in your chest. “You ever get tired of the sound of your own voice?”

He didn’t answer. Just smiled.

The sheriff’s office was even smaller than the precinct—two desks, a pot of sludge masquerading as coffee, and a single interrogation room that doubled as an evidence closet. You took one look at the setup and knew you were going to be in hell.

Especially when Hotch called to say you'd need to stay overnight—just in case.

Of course, there was only one office with a lock and one long, uncomfortable desk.

You were stuck. With him.

The worst part was how good he looked under cheap fluorescent lighting.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up, tie loosened. He leaned over the desk, fingers dancing across the case file, lips pressed together in that infuriating way that made your stomach flip. You hated the way your body betrayed you. Hated the way he always got under your skin.

“Do you always have to be such a fucking know-it-all?” you snapped finally.

He straightened, eyes narrowing. “Do you always have to be so defensive?”

“Only when I’m being talked down to by someone who thinks he's the smartest person in the room.”

“I am the smartest person in the room.”

And that was it. The last straw. You marched over, grabbed the file from his hands, and shoved it onto the desk with a slap.

“You’re not God, Spencer.”

He stepped closer. Too close. “No. But at least I don’t pull guesses out of my ass and call it profiling.”

Your breath caught. Not from fear. From fury. From something else, hotter, more dangerous. “You’re such a smug, insufferable—”

“Say it.”

“Asshole!”

“Louder.”

“Asshole!”

You shoved him. Hard. His hands caught your wrists, holding you in place. You should’ve pulled away. Instead, you yanked him closer.

And kissed him.

It was war—teeth, lips, breathless anger. His mouth was hot, demanding, tongue sliding against yours like a challenge. He pushed you against the desk, hips between your thighs, and you let him. You wanted to scratch him. Bite him. Fuck him.

“You’re such a prick,” you gasped.

His mouth was at your throat. “You love it.”

“You wish.”

“I know.”

You grabbed his tie, dragged him back to your lips, kissed him like you were starving for it. Like you needed to win.

He spun you around, bent you over the desk, hand flat against your back.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice ragged.

You didn’t.

He yanked your slacks down, panties with them. The sound of his belt unbuckling made you arch your hips instinctively.

“Condom,” you said, breathless.

He pulled one from his wallet—of course—and rolled it on with trembling fingers.

“Ready to be wrong again?” he growled.

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

He thrust into you hard enough to knock a gasp from your lungs.

“God—Spencer—”

His grip on your hips tightened. “Say that again.”

You bit your lip.

“Say it.”

“Fuck—Spencer—”

The desk creaked beneath you with every thrust. He was relentless, hips snapping, hands possessive, his mouth at your shoulder like he wanted to mark you.

“You hate me, huh?” he said into your skin.

“Yes—”

He thrust harder. “Lie again.”

You moaned, head falling forward. He filled you so perfectly it almost made you mad.

“You hate this?” he asked.

You couldn’t answer. Your body was already shaking, walls clenching around him.

“That’s what I thought.”

His hand slid down, fingers circling your clit with calculated precision.

“Come for me,” he growled. “Right now.”

You did. Hard.

He followed, cursing against your neck, coming with a strangled groan that made your knees buckle.

For a long, trembling moment, you both stayed there—panting, skin slick, ruined.

Then, he pulled out slowly, discarded the condom, and helped you up.

Neither of you spoke.

Not until ten minutes later, when you were half-dressed and pretending to look at files again.

“I still think your profile’s bullshit,” he muttered.

You turned to him, hair messy, cheeks flushed.

“And I still think you’re the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.”

His eyes dropped to your lips.

“But…” you added, stepping closer, “you can be surprisingly useful when you shut up.”

He smirked.

“Guess we finally found a way to work together.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x you #criminal minds smut #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem reader #criminal minds x reader

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traiaadd156 · 2 days ago

Text

Small blurb of somethin'

Yan!Reader trying to convince(gaslight)yan! Damian.

But his pov💅✨

Try to find which one is more manipulative!(⁠^⁠^⁠)

Nah but frl Im just doing this for my own want bc there is nothing to do😢 and reader has a power(that vamp thing from my other fic)

Warnings!; violence(typical), blood, yan!reader trying to act nonchalant😔, damian isnt aged up in this ver, fluff, gaslighting/coaxing, CRINGE DIALOG!, damian thinking its probly just girl stuff(and also damian forcing to knock out reader) very sweet couple moments, gross sad reader, sassy damian, insecure reader

"I am the only friend you need." You said to him one randomly while cuddling with him in his room(which you broke into but he stopped caring when it kept happening for a month, still grumbles about it but doesnt really lock his windows anymore because of it.)

"but I dont have any friends." He just threw at you casually which confused you, seeing as your head tilted her head to him like some confused dog. "Why? Isnt jon your friend??" Suddenly asking, he was but he knew well.

"do you see him as a threat to us?" Well that made you pause for a moment, not really... He doesnt like damian and from what you heard last time he already has a boyfriend. Letting out a soft sigh, damian has a point, it seems like he always does which somewhat annoyed you. "No... Not really. But why wouldnt people be your friend? Your so kind, rich, handsome, smart, talented and giving—"

But before you could rant further his finger pressed your lips. "To you I am, to you I'm kind and all the things you see that others don't." He said matter of factly, making you scoff. How dare he insinuate you arent stating the obvious! Thats when he added. "But your still right about the wealthy, handsome, smart and talented part." A haughty sarcastic smile twitching on his face making you glare.

There was that familiar sass you knew.

But it all wasnt cuddles and banter, sometimes you got to way ahead of yourself and him. But it is for him, there isnt any reason besides securing your place in his heart, it felt like you werent doing enough.

It repeated in your head as you chopped the limbs off and put it in a bag, sure you were done bleeding them out so it wouldnt smell so bad or weigh so much but that wasn't what you're worried about!

Biting the skin of your lips after wrapping the smaller parts in plastic before putting them in a paint can, you had been in your bathroom for so long— your parents were away so it was the perfect timing.

But why her!?

A week you werent keeping an eye on him and then BOOM! Some random blondie who was wayy too close for comfort. Having seen him in the library sitting together, you wanted to surprise him with a key chain you made of him and you.

It wasnt how different she was from you or how prettier she was, it was that pit in your stomach telling you that you werent enough for him. Damian wayne.

I mean who are you kidding?!

You were a nobody before meeting him, the way you finally got out of your way to be social and know and befriend people to keep tabs in different perspectives. he was everything. And you it was a little laughable how pathetic you were at times; killing the girl out of your own bitter jealousy was the lowest you have ever been.

Degrading thoughts spew as did your paranoia, but at least that girl was here on your tub where she wouldnt try to seduce him.

That fucking succubi deserved this!

Your teeth had gritted, not realizing he was inside your apartment whilst you were in the bathroom scrubbing away and pouring bleach and vinegar to mask the stench of death and blood.

He was getting a little antsy, you hadnt replied to any of his messages since yesterday, what the hell are you even doing? How dare you ignore him. Was he even something relevant? But no answer when he called.

He cursed after waiting for the clock to strike where he usually ends patrol, itching to go back to your house to confront you on why the heck you were ghosting him suddenly.

Well he was never the most patient man out there.

But he was loyal and caring.

In his sick way.

Thats what you loved so much about him.

He hadnt panicked when he saw you, stuffing her body in plastic like a meat store. You both had a hushed argument as he didnt even bother to look and kept going back and forth with you.

"you promised! You promised no more killings!" He was practically fuming, his eyes were probably blood shot with how angry at was right now, not just because you broke your promise on killing people but also now dont know where the hell to bury this person!

"I did it all for you! And why were you with this chick when I was gone for just ONE WEEK!" it was clear you were freaking out, how your voice rose and how you hit his chest when he grabbed into an embrace. Or what you thought—

"your such an ass hole–" muttering, something soft pricking the back of your neck. Instantly your body felt heavier and your breathing laboured. Was it poison?? Taking the small dart out from where he plucked.

"what are you–" he shushed you, dragging you away from the scene after taking off your gloves and carrying you back to bed.

"your an insolent brat," he scolded your unconscious body before adding. "Now I have to get rid of this, I cant risk you being caught with your own incompetency." His voice sneered with venom, a hidden care within his words if you were still ever awake.

So with that he left, in a car he had and how he had to get rid of the evidence somehow; he did know the ups and downs, the garbage incinerator will do just fine then.

He didnt flinch when having to see blood again, but he did feel guilty for letting some poor girl die because of your jealousy, but then again he also would never think to report.

It's just one girl.

He wouldnt let it happen again if he could, besides it was better than last year.

It feels like I made my own personal brain rott with how my head hurts making this but the saga must go on😭

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lightsoutmatthews · 16 hours ago

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I just found your page and I’m so glad I did! I’ve been checking out your writing and it’s great! Is there any way you can do a cutie piece where Auston is being so sweet and fun to his girl and they end up in a tickle fight?? I would love it so much!! Thank you!! ❤️

Thank you so much for enjoying my writing! I never thought that many people would like what I produce in the middle of the night 😂🥰

Off Day Fights – Auston Matthews

You woke of to the smell of something vaguely sweet and the sound of clicking dishes coming from the kitchen.

For a second, you weren’t sure where you were. The sun was filtering through the blinds, warm and soft on your skin. Then you heard his voice humming something off-key and smiled.

Auston.

You rolled over and squinted at your phone for the time. 9:43 am. Late for most people. Early for the two of you on a day off.

You swung your legs out from under the blanket and padded out into the living room. Sure enough, Auston was in the kitchen, shirtless, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap over his still damp looking hair.

He had a spatula in one hand, a bowl in the other and he was completely focused, tongue sticking out just a little in concentration.

“Hey Gordon Ramsay,” you caught his attention, voice still raspy from sleep.

He looked over and grinned. “Look who´s finally awake.”

“What are you making?” You peered over his shoulder spotting pieces of toast in the pan.

“French toast. Well, trying to. Don’t judge me yet.”

You smiled, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind and resting you cheeks between his shoulder blades. “It smells good.”

“You smell like sleep,” he teased, leaning his head back a little to nudge you.

You reached up and poked his side. “And you smell like carbs.”

“Hot,” he said dryly, flipping a slice of bread with a little too much flair. It landed lopsided in the pan. “Okay, okay. Breakfast might be mid, but I´m doing my best.”

You giggled, then grabbed two mugs and poured coffee while he finished up the toast.

A few minutes later, you were both sitting on the couch with your plates in your laps. The French toast was a little too eggy and a little too soggy, but he looked so proud you didn’t have the heart to tell him.

Instead, you leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Solid B-plus. Effort gets you an A.”

Auston smiled. “I´ll take it.”

After breakfast, you ended up horizontal on the couch again, curled up under his arm while the TV played a random movie neither of you were really watching.

“Feels like we haven’t had a day like this in forever,” you murmured.

“We haven’t,” he said, brushing your hair back gently. “I kinda like it. You, me and zero plans all day.”

“Well, you´re always gone,” you replied, trying to keep the whine out of your voice. You didn’t mean it as a guilt trip, just a fact.

He nodded, then laughed. “I know, but someone has to bring in money to pay for this condo,” you softly punched his arm. “I do hate being away this long though, I miss you like crazy.”

You gave him a small smile and leaned into his chest.

“I mean,” he added. “I also miss my own bed and my dog but mostly you.”

“Gee, thanks,” you deadpanned.

He grinned and kissed your forehead. “In that order.”

You spent the next hour mostly in comfortable silence. At one point he fell asleep, his chest rising and falling under your cheek. When he stirred again, you were scrolling through your phone, half-distracted.

He rubbed his eyes and looked at you. “What are you watching?”

“Nothing exciting, just TikTok. This one is a cat that freaks out when it sees cucumbers,” you held the device out to him so he could see.

He leaned over to watch, them smirked. “How is that the funniest thing to you?”

“It just is,” you shrugged.

“You´re so weird,” he laughed.

“You´re just figuring that out? Three years into a relationship and getting a place together later?”

He reached over suddenly and poked your side. You jumped, squirming.

“Hey,” you exclaimed, a shocked look on your face.

“That was a test,” he said very seriously. “And you failed.”

You narrowed your eyes, knowing exactly what his next move would be. “Don’t you dare.”

“What?” he questioned way too innocently.

“You know exactly what,” you replied, scooting farther down the couch. “I have not forgiven you for last time.”

Auston was already shifting to follow, one eyebrow raised. “You mean the time you called me dumb and then tried to outrun me? A professional athlete?”

“You were being dumb! You put syrup in my coffee,” you almost shouted in defense.

“I was being funny,” he defended himself.

“You were being dangerous.”

That’s when he lunged toward you and you squealed, jumping up and backing away quickly.

“Auston Taylour Matthews, I swear,” you shouted, a laugh bubbling out of you shortly after.

“You´re outnumbered,” he warned, taking a slow, exaggerated steps toward you like some cheesy cartoon villain.

“It´s just you,” you said flatly.

“Exactly, didn’t you learn last time that there is no escape?”

You turned and made a run for it, bolting around the back of the couch, but you weren’t fast enough. You knew you could never outrun him; he did condition and endurance training almost every day, you were lucky when you motivated yourself to the gym twice a week.

He grabbed your waist, spun you around and gently dropped you onto the cushions, straddling your legs.

“Say you´re sorry,” he demanded with a smug grin.

“Never,” you shot back, face already flushed from laughing too hard.

“Okay, you brought this on yourself, then.”

His fingers went straight into your sides, finding that one exact spot that made you shriek.

“AUS…! NO, no…” you breathed and laughed.

But he didn’t stop, laughing as you kicked and thrashed beneath him, totally powerless to stop his tickle attack.

“Truce!” you gasped, writhing. “TRUCE!”

“Say I´m not dumb,” he demanded.

“You´re SO dumb,” you replied instead.

He doubled down, wiggling his fingers into your stomach now making you squirm and laugh even harder.

“Okay…OKAY!” you screamed through laughter. “You´re smart. You´re – oh my god – genius level! Einstein is nothing compared to you.”

He finally paused, catching his breath too, clearly pleased with himself. “That’s more like it.”

You laid there, panting and disheveled, hair a mess and eyes watery from laughing so hard. “I hate you.”

He laughed, “You love me.”

You glared back at him, “You should consider yourself lucky that I do.”

Then, very quietly, you asked. “Can I sit up now or are you gonna launch another surprise attack?”

He leaned in closer, his voice low and teasing. “Are you planning on starting more drama?”

You shook your head quickly. “No more drama. Peace.”

He nodded and rolled off you, flopping back beside you on the couch with a dramatic sigh.

“I think I pulled a muscle,” he muttered, stretching his arms over his head.

“Serves you right,” you laughed, wrapping your arms around him again.

“You know, for someone who´s so ticklish, you sure talk a lot of smack.”

You smirked. “It´s part of my charm.”

He looked at you for a moment. His eyes were soft again now, they playful grin fading into something more warm and real. “You´re lucky you´re cute.”

“You´re lucky I´m still here after being physically attacked.”

He rolled his eyes and chuckled before reaching over, grabbing your hand and lacing your fingers together.

“You know,” he said after a beat of silence. “I really do love this.”

“What, harassing me?”

“No,” he smiled. “Days like this. Where we do nothing, and you laugh so hard you can´t breathe. You make everything fun, even sitting around the couch all day.”

You blushed a little and looked down at your hands, still linked.

“I like this too,” you said quietly. “You´re kind of annoying, but it worth it.”

Auston snorted. “That´s the nicest thing you ever said to me.”

You leaned your head back on his chest. “Don’t get used to it.”

#auston matthews #toronto maple leafs #auston matthews imagine #toronto maple leafs imagine #auston matthews x reader #nhl imagine

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donttrainwithhairo · 5 months ago

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Ran out of hair gel today!!! 😔💔

BUT I FIRMLY BELIEVE EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON!!!

Maybe there would be a fire around and with so many gel my hair would've burnt!!! But I'm safe now!!!!! 💪

#liveatyourlimits!!

#newlook??

#hairo-talks #motivation #hair gel #actually...#i wouldn't mind if someone gave me a little bit of gel #i spent alk my money on the Okinawa trip with Kuboyasu-kun...#i think ill work harder to gain some more!!!#i miss my hair...#BUT THIS NEW LOOK IS GOOD TOO!!!#AS LONG AS I AM COMFORTABLE WITH MY OWN SKIN!!#keepworking

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theancientfootsteps · 3 months ago

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for a while now I've been feeling such a strong need to simplify my life, to strip away unnecessary things: to eat simple meals with few ingredients, to get rid of a lot of my possessions that I don't really make use of or need, to wear plain, simple, comfortable clothes

I think it's partly caused by stress/overwhelm, but also partly by just... not caring anymore about things that used to be important to me, luxurious things and decorative things and things owned just for the sake of owning them

but at the same time I've been worried that if I get rid of things I own, I will regret that later

but the feeling has been consistently there now for a few months so I think I'm gonna start carefully doing something about it

#my posts #the clothing part is crazy to me because being Colorful And Extravagant used to be such a big part of my identity #but now that I actually feel comfortable in my own skin mostly #and am not pretending to be a woman anymore #I find I feel most comfortable and most like myself in e.g. simple dark grey pants and a loose black long sleeve shirt #oh and also brown. brown is very good. love brown

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butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway · 7 months ago

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Do you ever read a post where someone is explaining a pokitical thing and from the way they're saying you know with absolute certainty 1) they got their info from a tumblr post and have never actually followed up on how feasible that information actually is to act upon (they may not even have checked if it was CORRECT, but when they do they have clearly not looked into how easy or hard it may be to follow those instructions with a positive outcome), and 2) you know WHICH tumblr post they're quoting because it is basically a copy/paste of it, and 3) it was YOUR goddamn post and the thing they are saying is entirely counter to the point you were making when you said it to the point that you genuinely wonder if they just like. Memory-holed the entire context once they saw that one itty bitty point.

It's like the motherfuckiny dating apps all over again. I do not want people to love my words if they are not actually willing to do the work of understanding them! Didn't your kindergarten ever make you play Telephone to teach you how heresay falls out????

#sometimes i feel like a prized 12 point buck and everyone is desperate to give chase so they can skin me and wear my pelt in memorium #the luxury of being seen is rarely extended to those we perceive as confident/constant in their sense of self #the path of being a child who was constantly told i was making people uncomfortable and alienating my peers #only to immediately become an adult who everyone perceives as so together that they are just Like That With Everyonr #brennan said something like this in the disection of a recent misfits and magic episode about sam (character)#and how he (as evan) realized that the charm and specialness she gifts to everyone around her means that no one ever really gifts it back #and how that fundamentally felt transcendent and revelatory for evan as a turning point idea #he'd spent so long never trusting others feelings of care for him that he couldn't see how he was bulldozing right into and over sam's own #insecurities about whether or not she is worth loving or is special in the same way #and then they had some back and forth about like #sometimes when you develop the skill of relateability and pacification #you disappear so deeply into it that no one notices you're gone - even you yourself - until it's too late #it put to words a lot of the like #gap. that i've always felt between me and others. this insistance on elevating or pathologizing me depending on where they feel the need #to be in relation to me #while having absolutely zero awareness of my actual positioning in relation to them #i have found that they way i interact with others seems to give the impression that because i am being 'genuine' and 'open' about myself #that ALSO means that I am sharing the whole of me.#and when i talk about destigmatization and shame and people work really hard to be like. aware of the edges of me to carch me embarrassed #like if they can prove that i don't 'admit' something it's because i'm ashamed as opposed to considering that maybe they don't have the kind #of relationship with me that would warrant the sharing of it #because i'm willing to talk i am no longer allowed privacy or it's treated as incongruous #but like. i am different people for different people and they are all authentically me but they are also about faciliting the version #of the other person that matters to me to be able to spend time with. i'm not going to bring the parts of me that put you in a bad mood #or aren't comfortable/safe for you. also probably not going to put those things out into the open world as a mixed company conversation #i don't know where I'm going or where I came from here but i think the point is just that I think there's melancholy in seeing when #you also don't know a reliable way to be seen in turn

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shocked-collar · 1 year ago

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//Great time to remind everyone IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, YOU SHOULD BE NOWHERE NEAR HERE. You're only a kid for so long, you get to be an adult forever. MAKE IT LAST. FRIGGIN' WAIT TO ENGAGE IN CONTENT LIKE THIS.

//No one can protect you if you refuse to let them. These games and this fandom and content have 18+ tags on them for a REASON, and it's to PROTECT YOU. You're not cool, you're not edgy, you're not special, you're not grown up for ignoring warning signs that are set there to KEEP YOU FROM HARM, you're just an idiot for exposing yourself to that ON PURPOSE.

#//Someone liked one of my posts #//Who PROUDLY had “Minor!” in their bio #//Blocked them IMMEDIATELY but still.... Wth?#//Sorry if this is harsh but i just know in my heart that if teenage me came across BTD #//I would have loved it !!! it also would have messed me up #//I know this cause it happened already !! i was into MLP in the 2010's and lord knows how tragic THAT fandom was #//i have also ALWAYS been attracted to guro. especially after exposing myself to rotten dot com at a very young age online #//it took me Y E A R S to fix myself and get comfortable in my own skin again #//took me Y E A R S to believe im not a freak for enjoying the things i do #//i understand it and its NOT a black and white detail. its COMPLEX and CONFUSING and needs your understanding #//But teenage me didn't know that. She wasn't aware and couldn't figure it out for a LONG long time.#//and even without the gore and shock sites- the MLP fandom was BOOMING with adults who didnt know how to behave #//That was a whole separate journey for me!!!!#//P L E A S E just live your childhood. enjoy your youth. Strade isn't going anywhere. Come back later when you can really think about-#-W H Y you like these games.#//I am SUPER frustrated.#//Not to trauma dump or anything but this kind of media ISN'T NORMAL TO CONSUME AS A CHILD #//i only got lucky. it was just luck.

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gor3sigil · 11 months ago

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Before starting T, when I socially transitionned, I was surrounded by radical feminists who saw masculinity as gross and inherently evil, something to avoid, something to make fun of, something to destroy. The other transmascs in my friend group, sometimes, told me that they didn’t knew if they really were non-binary or if they just were scared shitless of saying “I am a man”. Because they saw this as a betrayal to their younger self who had been SAd and abused.

I saw many of my masc friends and trans men around me hate themselves, not outing themselves as men because it would imply so so much, it was like opening the Pandora Box. Even when we were just together, talking about our masculinity was always coated with bits like “I know we’re the privileged ones but…”, “I don’t want to sound like I have it bad but…”, “Women obviously have it worse, but last time…” and we were talking about terrible traumas we experienced while taking all the precautions in the world in the case the walls were a crowd of people in disguise waiting to get us if we didn’t downplay the violence we faced, or like crying and being upset and being traumatized and afraid and scared and to say it out loud would make us throw up the needles we were forced to swallow every second of every day living in our skin.

Most of us weren’t on T yet, some of us were catcalled every day and harassed in the streets or in abusive relationships nobody seemed to care to help them get out of because they were “strong enough” to do it by themselves.

I was using the gender swap face app and cried for ours when I saw my father looking back at me through the screen. The idea of transforming, of shedding into a body that would deprive me of love, tenderness, and safety, was absolutely terrifying. I knew I couldn’t stay in this body any longer because it wasn’t mine, but I also knew that if I was going to look like my dad, my brother, my abusers, it would be so much worse.

5 years later and I’m almost 2 years on T, and almost 2 months post top surgery.

I ditched my previous group of friends. I was bullied out of my local trans community. But let me tell you how free I am.

I was scared that T would break my singing voice: it made it sound more alive than ever.

I was scared that T would make me less attractive: it made me find myself hot for the first time in my life.

I was scared that T would make me gain weight: it did. But the weight I put on is not the weight I used to put on by binging and eating my body until I forgot that it even existed. It’s the weight of my body belonging to me, little by little. The wolf hunger for life.

I won’t tell you the same story I see everywhere, the one that goes “I started going to the gym 8 times a week, I put on some muscles, I started a diet and now I look like an action film actor”, in fact if you took pictures of me from 5 years ago vs now I’d just have more acne, I’d have longer hair and still look like I don’t know what to do with myself when I take selfies.

But the sparkle in my eyes, my smile, tell the whole story way better than this long ass stream of words could ever.

I want to say some things that I wish someone told me before starting medically transitionning.

It’s okay to take your time. It’s your body, it’s your journey, if you don’t feel comfortable taking full doses and want to go slow, the only voice you need to listen to is your own. Do what feels right.

If you feel overwhelmed, it’s okay to take a break, it’s okay to ask for support.

Trans people are holy. Everyone is. You didn’t lose your angel wings when you came out because you want to be masculine. You are not excluded from the joy of existence, from being proud of yourself, from being sad, from being scared, from being angry. The emotions and feelings you allowed yourself to feel while processing what you experienced when you grew up as a girl and was seen as a woman are still as valid as before. Nobody can take that from you. If someone tries to, don’t let them.

It’s perfectly normal to grieve some things you were and had before you started to transition, like your high soprano voice or even your chest. Hatching is painful. You can find comfort in things that don’t feel right, so making the decision to change can be incredibly scary and weird and you deserve to be heard and supported through this. Wanting top surgery doesn’t make the surgery less intense, less terrifying, less painful to recover from. When it becomes too much you have the right to take a break and take some deep breaths before going on.

You don’t have to have a radical, 180° change for your transition to be acceptable or valid or worthy of praise. Look at how far you’ve come already. It doesn’t have to show, you’re not made to be a spectacle, you’re human and it is your journey.

Oh, and last thing, you know when some people say “Oh this trans person has to grow out of the cringy phase where you think that you can write essays about being trans or transitionning or just their experience because it’s weird” ? If you ever hear this or see this online, remember all the people whose writing you read and, even if they were not professional writers, helped you more than any theorists did ? If you want to write, do it. It won’t be a waste. It can help people. Or it won’t, and even then, if it helped you, that’s enough.

Love every of my trans siblings, take care of yourselves. You deserve the world.

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meowdei · 2 months ago

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(temporary) birthday blues — ft. sylus

tara doesn’t mean any harm when she tries to set you up on a blind date—she doesn’t know it’s sylus’s birthday, or that he’s yours. but the thought of you sitting across from someone you’re actually allowed to be seen with hits him harder than he wants to admit

word count. ❤︎ 6.6k words — at least it’s an even number

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; takes place after sylus bday card but you don’t need it to understand ; reader is a hunter and is implied to have his myth’s lore ; jealous and slightly insecure sylus ; hurt/comfort ; praise (lots actually. almost corny amounts) ; reader wears lingerie ; he picks reader up ; cunnilingus ; hand jobs ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; painfully soft sex ; not proof read

commentary. ❤︎ happy birthday to my angel boy ever. but more importantly — I MADE IT IN TIME LETS GOOOOO

You and Sylus return home from his birthday date just a couple of hours after the sun sets.

By Sylus-standards, the day has hardly begun—he still has roughly a little under half the day left before it’s his (ridiculously late) bedtime. By your standards, since it’s your boyfriend’s birthday, you have to spend his entire day with him, even if his clock works a little differently than yours.

Will you be staying up until six in the morning? Yes. But you planned accordingly. You took an entire extra day off just to sleep in with him tomorrow and spend as much time together as possible. It’s your first birthday with Sylus. You’re the only one who knows it’s his birthday at all. Work is important, sure, but sometimes you have to reevaluate your priorities a little.

Boyfriends are a pretty important priority—well, only if they’re Sylus. He’s the only boyfriend that matters. The rest of the boyfriends in the world are not quite so impressive, so they don’t deserve the same privileges as your uniquely, one-of-a-kind special one.

“Did you have a good day today?” you ask softly, curling your arms around his neck as soon as you both enter his bedroom. (Your bedroom—you practically share it like it’s co-owned. The only thing that fully stops you from moving in with Sylus is that it would make your work commute a very tiresome one. Other than that, you’re here every chance you get.)

He hums, hands planting themselves on your hips and giving them a gentle squeeze, pulling you close and flush against his chest as he pecks the corner of your mouth. “I did,” he murmurs, “although I don’t think having a bad day is possible with you—unless you’re being moody. That’s another story.”

“I would get moody with you just for saying that, but I am a firm believer in being nice to birthday boys. Wait until I get my hands on you once today is over.”

“Oh?” he grins, chuckling as he kisses along your jaw, “I should prepare myself for the claws of a feisty little kitten, then?”

“You should prepare yourself for some groveling to get on my good side again,” you huff. “And maybe some expensive gifts.”

He laughs—not that low, deep, rumbling sound that sounds like light amusement. It’s that loud, booming laugh that sounds like joy and warmth and falling in love over and over again every day. Feeling it start to bubble and fizz as the sun rises, and watching it overflow from the top by the time the moon is out. You grin at the sound, pulling him into a kiss where you giggle in between the presses of your mouth to his, and he laughs because your joy is too infectious not to fall victim to.

“I have to shower,” you whisper between his hungry bites on your lips. He hums in protest.

“Is that really a necessity right now?”

“Yes, I rolled in the grass with you.”

“Fine, we can—”

“No, no,” you push his mouth away with a palm, feeling his lips practically pout against your skin as you do, “we are not going in there together. That will take way too long because you never behave, and I still have plans we have to get through.”

“What sort of plans,” he grumbles, “surely they can’t be that different from what the shower would bring.”

“You are shameless, Sylus,” you scold, slapping his shoulder with hardly any bite at all, “you don’t get to know until it’s time. Now be good while you wait—and charge my phone while you’re at it. It’s about to die.”

With that, you leave him sulking alone in his room, watching your figure as it retreats into the bathroom without him. Grumbling to himself, he grabs your phone to charge it like you asked—he knows better than to make you hiss at him when he wants things. (He wants a lot of things tonight. Quite a lot of things that require your good side, and he intends to milk this nice, spoiled treatment out of you with that innocent birthday boy charm, so staying in your good graces is his wisest option at the moment.)

He grabs your phone and plugs it in…and then he wishes he didn’t. As soon as he does, and the screen lights up, he thinks his birthday is ruined for the next decade with how bitter a taste the messages on your screen leave in his mouth.

Tara💗: don’t be mad. i set u up on a blind date

Tara💗: well not exactly a blind date. a double date with me and that guy i met when we were out the other day. he has a friend

Tara💗: u can’t say no he’s cute and he has a cat. you’ll like him i promise

It’s official. Sylus does not like this Tara girl anymore.

He’s met her briefly before, and vaguely, he’s introduced himself, too. She doesn’t know he’s your boyfriend because Sylus is at the top of your job’s wanted list. Telling a girl who is, arguably at this point, your closest friend that you have a boyfriend while having to keep that boyfriend hidden to a certain degree is not a plausible set of wishes. Tara will naturally want to know more. She’ll ask to see pictures of your dates, perhaps. She’ll invite him for drinks, and activities, and parties, and after-work events because she’s the kind of person who cares about the people her friends care about. And Sylus? Well…again, he’s at the top of your job’s wanted list. You can’t let Tara, who is your coworker first and foremost, get to know your boyfriend’s voice and face too closely unless you’re asking—practically pleading—for trouble.

So she doesn’t know you have a boyfriend.

It’s a lie that is for the betterment of everything all around. Instead, she meets him once fleetingly, and she thinks he’s your friend who sells fruit and makes a pretty penny off his business that’s taken off. That’s about all she knows.

At first glimpse, she seemed like a nice girl. A friend whom Sylus was grateful you had and could count on if things got heavy in your line of work. She seemed kind. Dependable. Trustworthy. Maybe not the strongest physically, but certainly a good friend to ease his mind that you have good people in your circle. (Although, he does hate your stupid partner—but at least that loathsome sleepy bastard who rots in bed for half the day is strong. If worst comes to worst, Sylus can at least bet that the boy would sooner let his own head get ripped off than let anything happen to yours. He’s at least grateful for that.)

But he hates this Tara girl deeply now, and hatred for someone he hardly knows is not a common feeling for Sylus. That’s irrational, and he’s hardly irrational. In fact, it’s because he is so rational that he’s so level-headed when he deals with threats. He hardly hates his “enemies.” Most of the people who make an enemy out of him amuse him—they don’t particularly pose a threat to him, and he has quite a bit of fun making an example out of them for the next bothersome bunch that wants to try something with him. Being enemies with Sylus is usually a one-sided thing—he may be someone else’s enemy, but they’ll always just be a fool to him. A regular sorry little idiot who got a bit too cocky and decided to try their luck against him.

He barely has enemies. The few people he does hate are people who deserve it. Terrible, evil, sinister people who go beyond an ethical code that even Sylus will not cross.

He barely has enemies. He’s a businessman. A leader. A good fighter. A good boyfriend, too, if he gives himself a little bit of extra (but honest) credit. All of which require a good head on his shoulders, a calm demeanor, and a very, very adequate sense of rationality. Sylus is rarely ever irrationally emotional—unless it has to do with you, of course. And this time, it does.

So he hates this Tara girl. He hates her deeply. She’s landed herself on his enemy list.

Just as he sets your phone down, you step out of the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel as your skin glistens from the fancy little lotions and body care items he has lying around in his bathroom that you help yourself to. Any other day, he’d tease you about it. About using him for his fancy, lavish lifestyle. About that skimpy little towel that you choose to step out in when half of his loungewear is in that bathroom for you to also help yourself to. About how cute you look when you walk out looking like a small, wet kitten.

But none of those things happen—red flag number one. Red flag number two is that when you go to poke at his side and give it a pinch, he doesn’t stop you right away before you can.

Something’s on his mind. You know that as soon as you see him.

“Hey,” you cup his cheeks, “miss me that bad for fifteen minutes? You look like you’ve aged ten years instead of one with that expression.”

“Very funny, sweetie,” he hums, clearly still distracted, “I thought you made it a point to be nice to the birthday boy.”

“I am being nice to the birthday boy,” you say to him, cheekily leaning up and kissing his jaw, “this is a very nice view to give to a birthday boy.”

He smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Something is wrong—something so, so painfully obvious happened while you were in that fifteen-minute shower. As far as showers go, it might not be the shortest amount of time, but it’s certainly not a long one. What could have possibly happened in fifteen whole minutes to make his eyes clouded with that look? A look that looks so stormy and upset and irritated.

Something’s on his mind. You know it by simply looking at him.

“Hey,” you pull him closer by the hands on his face, pressing his forehead to yours, “Sylus, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, sweetie,” he breathes, hands squeezing your hips as he pulls you close. “Just distracted by what a pretty little kitten I have.”

And then he kisses you. It’s…a kiss unlike any you’ve ever had with him. Not bad, of course, but different. Sylus is a confident guy. A terribly cocky, self-assured, and secure guy. He knows he’s handsome by most people’s standards (and definitely by yours), he knows he’s smart and intelligent, he knows he’s strong and capable, and he knows he’s stable in his lifestyle. He’s a confident guy, and you’ve always known him to be.

But he’s kissing you pretty desperately. Not the kind of desperation when he’s just plain needy, or when he’s been worried about you, and rescues you just in time, or when you’ve been away for too long.

No.

This kind of desperation feels like he has something to prove. Like he needs to kiss you so well, you never want to kiss anything else. It’s a sort of desperation that almost feels…scared.

“You’re not yourself,” you breathe in between presses of his mouth, gasping when he leans down to nip at your collarbone. “Hey—”

“You’re overthinking it,” he mumbles, “just let me have you to myself, sweetheart—”

“Sylus,” you say firmly. He pauses. “No.”

He lets go as soon as you say the word, letting his hands drop while you gently take them off your hips. He looks unhappy about it—maybe even a little rejected, but he doesn’t protest. He never does. Not if it’s something you say. Some boundary you set. Some line you draw.

“What happened?” you ask gently, hands returning to his cheeks and gently rubbing the skin tenderly with your thumb, “this is supposed to be your day. I…I didn’t mean to upset you if I did. I’m sorry. I just…I just wanted it to be special—”

“It is,” he interrupts, planting his hands on top of yours and keeping them in place, “it’s been great. It always is with you—I promise.”

“Then what changed?” you frown, “and don’t say it’s nothing. Don’t give me that unbothered, nonchalant attitude and pretend to shrug it off—I know you. I know you better than anyone else does, so don’t even think about lying to me like I won’t see right through it.”

He’s silent. For a second, you think he’s not going to say a word. That he’s not going to open up and share and trust you like you wish he would when things are clearly sitting heavily on his mind. Sometimes he gets a look—one that feels like he’s lived a life you don’t even know about. Like it haunts him and curses him and weighs down on his chest. He never shares. Not about his burdens—not with you. You don’t think it’s because he doesn’t trust you, but because he thinks he shouldn’t have to. That he shouldn’t trouble you with things about him because he lives for you.

You wish he didn’t do that. You wish he’d change that habit. You wish he’d live for himself and let you live for him, too.

But then, he quietly asks, “Do you ever wish you could tell your friends about…us?”

“Huh?” you frown.

“We go back and forth between the outskirts of Linkon and the N-109 zone, and we don’t ever get to do things that involve the people you care about—doesn’t that bother you?”

“...No?” you say in confusion, “does it…does it bother you?”

“Of course not,” he says instantly. He throws on that smug, carefree face again, even though you see right through it. Some people just don’t like putting their defenses down when they’re cornered, no matter how safe they are. Sylus is one of them. “Now, why would I want to share my little kitten? Not everyone can handle her sharp claws.”

“Sy,” you let out a breath, “you know I can see right through you. Just talk to me—telling me how you feel is something you’re usually good at. It’s what I like most about you…why’s it so different this time?”

Telling you how he feels about you is easy. It comes naturally like breathing. It’s as simple as using his evol to move something through the air, manipulating energy to surround you and show you the depths of his feelings. Telling you he loves you and cares for you is a vulnerability that he takes as a privilege. Telling you that the thought of you being with someone more practical, more fitting than him…it’s not as easy. It’s too vulnerable in a way that makes him pathetic, not devoted. You chose him, after all, didn’t you? Isn’t it questioning your own devotion and your own loyalty to him to tell you: I hate the idea of someone deserving you more than I?

That’s what he’d be doing, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t it be to question you, to doubt you and your love and your choice, all on the same day that you went out of your way to make him feel special?

Telling you this is not so simple. Not to him. Not when you love him, and he knows it, and yet, for some reason, he can’t help but feel like you’re making a mistake by loving him. Him. The top wanted criminal on your organization’s list. Most targeted person in the N-109 zone with the most “enemies” after his back. A guy that, against every principle that tells you: no, you choose to be with.

He should just be grateful that you say yes. And he is. But also, he can’t help but wonder if you’d be happier if you didn’t.

“Don’t you trust me?” you whisper.

He breathes—slow, shaky. “I do,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “I trust you the most. You know that.”

“Then tell me. Please? I just…I worry about you.”

You shouldn’t. But you also should. You were always meant to, right?—even if it wasn’t always supposed to be that way. You did. Once upon a time, you only worried about him. And you do. And you will. And he wants it. Needs it. Craves it. Craves you and your attention and your care and your concern. He should be the one you’re concerned about—but maybe concern is all he ever brings over.

It’s silent for a moment longer before you gently kiss the tip of his nose and say sweetly, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I love you, so if you ever want to share something, I will always—”

“Your friend Tara seems to be tired of your stagnant love life, sweetheart,” he interrupts. He doesn’t really mean to blurt it out like that—Sylus is usually rational about what he says and when he says it. But…well, the idea of you sitting across from some normal guy with a normal life alongside your normal friend on a normal date has him acting very abnormal. “She’s…well, you go ahead and see for yourself.”

Your phone is pressed to your hands. You look at him in confusion, but his eyes all but beg for you to just look at the screen and end his pure misery by not making him say the words out loud. So you look. The first things you see are her messages on your screen, sitting there as unopened notifications.

Oh, you think as you read them. Oh.

“Oh, Sy,” you say softly, setting your phone down. “You know I’d turn that date down in a heartbeat for you—”

“It’s not about that,” he grumbles, swallowing thickly. This is a type of vulnerability he hates. The type of vulnerability he doesn’t ever have to feel. The type of vulnerability where he feels less than—not deeply devoted and open, but just…not enough, despite his devotion. He isn’t used to ever being not enough. At least not when it’s with you.

“Then what’s it about?”

“Your friend is a meddler.”

“She doesn’t know about us,” you defend Tara gently, “you know she’d never if she did.”

“Well, sweetie,” he drawls with a tight, bitter smile, “I suppose she never will, so I might have to get used to worrying that you’ll need to save a few dresses for some other blind dates here and there, don’t I?”

“I’d never go on a date with someone else,” you reason, “you know that, right?”

“How long are you going to pretend to be single?” he points out blandly.

“Forever,” you say confidently. He wavers, eyeing you in weariness. You cup his cheeks and squeeze them together as you murmur, “I would pretend to be single for the rest of my life for you if that’s what it takes. As long as you’re mine, as long as you stay mine, I don’t care what I have to tell everyone else.”

“That’s not very practical,” he grunts.

“I don’t think we’re a very practical couple, but I don’t think that’s ever been bad,” you chuckle, “I think we’re good. Really good. As good as things ever get.”

“But not great?” he teases, cracking a small, taunting little smile. You know him well enough to soothe him with another kiss to his nose.

“Perfect,” you hum, fingers toying with the small hairs at the nape of his neck, touching him so casually, so absent-mindedly, it’s almost like it’s ingrained in your nature. In your DNA. In your biology to be his and to want him. “You’re perfect. To me. For me. With me. You’re perfect and I love you. I love us. We are perfect, and it doesn’t matter if other people see that or know about it. As long as you know, then I’m good.”

“I don’t like your friend Tara,” he breathes, burying his head into your neck, “she seems like trouble.”

“She’s harmless, you big baby,” you tease. Because that’s what he needs—to be teased into knowing he’s not so fragile. Too much of it makes him turn around and retreat, like an animal that’s shown its belly for too long and is at risk of its fragile, precious organs being torn apart from limb to limb.

You give him a teasing little nibble on his nose, and he cracks a small smile that pulls him out of that weird space in his head. Because that’s you and that’s him. That teasing banter that folds love and devotion in between every taunting remark and every smart little retort. Every second you spend getting under the other’s skin is spent making home there—nestling under that layer of each other, and crawling into the parts that no one else has ever seen. No one else has ever been in. No one else has ever been allowed in.

“Oh?” he murmurs, “you’d side with your friend over your boyfriend on his birthday? Your priorities are intriguing, sweetheart.”

You’d say something equally as playful back, but instead, you say: “I love you.” You remind him with an awed smile as you take him in. Him and his brute strength and his carefully built empire and untouchable self. Him and his gentleness and all that love he holds in his large hands that no one can take away before he slips it into yours. You remind him. You don’t want him to ever forget.

“I love you, too,” he chuckles, closing his eyes as you press soft, open-mouthed kisses to his jaw. Your hands grab his own from your waist, pulling them up to the top of your chest where the towel wraps around you.

“You have one more present for tonight, you know—if you’re up for opening it.”

“Is that right?” he grins, “I’d never turn something down from my sweet little kitten. I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

“You’ll like this one,” you beam, “I picked it out just for you.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” he eyes the small, peeking bit of red lace as his hands slowly unwrap the towel, pupils dilating as he slowly exposes you from its coverings. “You always do know me so well, don’t you?”

A red lace set that hugs your curves perfectly. The stockings are just tight enough around the middle of your thigh that the skin bulges just a bit at the top, spilling over it with pillowy flesh that he wants to spend hours digging his fingers into as he holds you close. Here. With him, right where you belong. Where, whether anyone knows it or not, you are happiest and safest and tailor-made to belong. You always belonged with him—alongside him, where you can be his and he can be yours, and the world would have to stop spinning on its axis before he was convinced that it was wrong.

“Well,” you pout playfully, “you’re not saying anything—do you like it? There’s still a return period, I think I could make an exchange if—”

“Don’t always be such a tease, sweetheart,” he breathes, leaning down to pull you into a slow, meticulous kiss. Unlike that last one, this one is desperate to know you exist. To be slow and take his sweet time and know that you’re here and you exist in the same timeline as him, and you’re not going anywhere. To rush it would be to waste the seconds he was given to savor.

Sylus is a man who savors things he likes. Good wine. Good music. Good company—he savors every little part of you like it’s a luxury he shouldn’t take for granted.

“Happy birthday, my birthday boy,” you whisper, “I’m all yours tonight. Every night. All yours, aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” he groans, nipping at your collarbone. “All mine—aren’t I just lucky?”

Suddenly, you’re picked up with one strong, muscled arm, the bicep curling around your thighs and hoisting you up faster than you can process as the world is suddenly lower than you remember it. Two seconds later, and your world shifts some more as you’re suddenly eye to eye with the ceiling, and there are soft, satin sheets under your back with a soft mattress to curve around your spine.

Sylus is hovering over you, hungry and excited, and his eyes lit up like a kid ready to blow out candles. You giggle, holding his face and bringing him close, pressing a kiss to his nose, to both of his cheeks, to the corners of his mouth before the center of his lips, to his forehead until he’s laughing that sweet, happy little laugh that makes your heart skip a beat.

“I love you,” you confess, so quietly, it’s like you don’t want anyone but him to know because it’s only for him. Only for him to hear those words because no one else should know what your love feels like, what it sounds like. “Love you so much, Sy. My perfect boy.”

“If I told you my birthday was actually tomorrow, would you be this sweet to me all over again?” he grins in amusement. You huff, and he chuckles, leaning down to kiss the purse of your lips before he mumbles against them, “I love you, too. No one will love you as pure as I do, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, “I know.”

That’s all it takes for him to finally snap into Sylus. Your Sylus. Cocky, self-assured, confident Sylus. Sylus, who takes what he wants because he knows nothing can stop him from having it. He wants you—and you’ll never tell him no.

He’s moved to bury himself between your legs in a split second, so that you hardly have time to process that he’s moved in the first place at all. By the time you attempt to argue that it’s his birthday, and it’s about him, he’s already huffed something about getting the final say as the birthday boy, and this is what he wants.

And…well, who are you to deny him?

“Fuck, sweetie,” he groans, pressing his nose against your clit through the fabric. He plants a gentle kiss on the delicate bundle of nerves, smiling when you twitch and whimper at the sensitivity. “All this for me? I’m a spoiled man, aren’t I?”

“S-Sylus—”

“You smell good,” he breathes, inhaling the sweet, rich scent of you, “bet you taste even better.”

With that, he gently peels the lace panties down your legs, little by little, inch by inch, discarding them from you before carefully tossing them to the ground as your bare cunt is exposed to him. He runs a large hand up and down your thigh, squeezing the plush skin just where it collects at the top of the stockings.

“Mine,” he breathes, “just for me, huh?”

“Only for you,” you pant, impatiently bucking up into the air and waiting for his touch.

He chuckles, but doesn’t have the heart to tease anymore. With a quick motion, he’s throwing your legs over his shoulders, hands cupping your thighs and holding them in place as he buries himself into your core. You’re dripping—the sweet slick pooling and coating your inner legs that he licks off before licking a stripe between your folds.

“Fuck, Sy,” you gasp, “o-oh—”

He’s good with his tongue. Expert at devouring you the way you need to be devoured and going between fucking his tongue into you and lapping away, and flicking it over your clit and teasing it with his wet, warm muscle. You squeeze your legs around his head, and he groans in approval at the pressure to his skull like it’s a gift to be crushed between your thighs. (It is. To him, anything you give him when you’re pleased is a gift. He likes gifts from you—he takes them readily.)

“You’re sweet, you know,” he sings against your heat, “taste good—we should skip the cake next year. I just want this, yeah? I’ll lick you clean.”

“Stop,” you whine, “you’re being filthy!”

He laughs, the low, deep rumble of his voice vibrating against you and making you shudder. “Yeah? If you don’t like that, then why are you pulling me closer?”

He’s right—you are. Your hands are tangled into his hair and you’re pulling him impossibly closer to your pussy, grinding against his face so his nose bumps against your clit as his tongue fucks into you and explores your folds and licks them from the dripping essence of your arousal.

“S-Sylus, ‘m…‘m s-so close—”

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he groans, “that’s exactly what I need. Can you do that for me? Let go? Let me taste you, yeah?”

Those words against your cunt, spoken through warm breath that lingers over your sensitive heat makes the steadily building pressure in the pit of your belly snap, a soft, delicious ache spreading through your walls as they quiver, through your lower belly as it flutters, through your spine and every nerve as your back arches off the mattress and you whine into your mouth and chant his name.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—’s so good, make me feel so good, Sy. Hah—”

“My beautiful, beautiful girl,” he moans, licking the last drops of your release and pressing a kiss to your fluttering cunt before the waves of your high finally retreat.

Your ears are ringing, and your eyes are blurry, but you can still hear the praise and make out his contented, dazed expression as he rests his cheek against your thigh and looks up at you. Your fingers card through his hair, smoothing through the soft locks as you ground yourself with the feeling of them while you catch your breath.

“Hi,” you breathe, staring at him in awe.

He grins, lazy, smug, and bright. “Hi. Back down to Earth with us?”

“Don’t be so arrogant,” you huff. And then, with a gentle tug to his locks, you signal him to crawl up, face to face and eye to eye with you as his body hovers over yours.

You reach over, rubbing over his clothed erection and feeling him shiver as his eyes flutter closed and he lets out a soft, breathy moan. He’s so pretty like that—when pleasure is easy to see on his face, and he feels good, and he lets you see it. You love it when you get to see him. All of him.

It’s a slow, intimate thing, removing his clothes. You bring his shirt up over his abs, gently pulling the fabric over his shoulders, before he helps you tug his arms through the sleeves and expose that chiseled, slightly tanned skin (despite never being in the sun) to you. He’s pretty. Gorgeous. You hum in appreciation as your hands run along the planes of his muscles, raking your nails along his abs and rubbing up and down his sides while he breathes heavily over you. It’s slow—there’s no rush despite the lingering, building ache between both of your legs. You want to admire him, and he wants to let you.

You want to feel him, and he wants to bask in the feeling of being wanted.

“You’re perfect,” you murmur, “happy birthday. I’m glad it’s me, you know? That gets to say that. And be here.”

“It was never going to be anyone else,” he pants, groaning as your hand finds the tent in his pants and gives a soft squeeze.

Unbuckling his belt and taking his pants and boxers off is less of a slower ordeal than his shirt—he’s a little more quick to get rid of them and let his hard, leaking cock finally be free of its confinements. He hisses when the cool air hits the warmth of his length, but you’re quick to bring the warmth right back as your hand wraps around him, smearing his pre cum along the tip and shaft, stroking slowly as he shudders over you and moans.

“Feel good?” you kiss his nose.

“Mmh,” he nods, swallowing thickly as you run your thumb through the slit and feel him twitch in your hand. “Y-yeah. Good.”

“Good,” you smile, “it’s about you tonight. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he grunts in time with a squeeze of your fist around him.

He lets you stroke him like that for a bit, just the feeling of you touching him. Just the feeling of you surrounding him and undoing him slowly, gradually, just the way you know he likes. You know him so well, and he likes being reminded. Know what makes it feel good for him and what doesn’t—know that he likes when you speed up and focus around the tip for a bit before switching to long, languid strokes along the entirety of his length before giving his base a small squeeze.

“Ngh,” he pants, shuddering over you as his face twists into a pretty little scrunch of pleasure, “I…I think that’s—that’s enough, sweetheart. I want you now—the real thing.”

He’s close when he says it. You can tell because there’s a small twitch in your hand of his heavy cock that lets you know the build-up is about to hit the crest of good and fall over the edge and into better. You stop, looking at him fondly as he shivers at the feeling of it all coming to a halt before you press a kiss between his furrowed brows to soothe him as he holds onto his composure.

“Then take me, my birthday boy,” you coo.

“You want it, sweetheart?” he asks softly, just to be sure. “Tell me now before I lose my mind.”

“I want you,” you plead, “want you so bad—give it to me. Please.”

He does. As soon as you say it, it’s like a switch is flipped and he can finally do as he pleases—so he grabs your hips and leans in to kiss you deeply, a hot, open-mouthed clash of lips and teeth and tongue as his fat tip presses against your entrance. He’s pressing into you and splitting your folds open—one inch, then two, then three, and slowly, he’s fully filling you to the brim. His tip presses delicately against that soft, spongy part of your walls that’s especially sensitive, and you mewl at the feeling while he groans at the tight fit.

“Fuck,” he pants, “fuck, you’re so tight—take me so well. Fit me like I was made for you. I was, wasn’t I? Tell me I was—that we were made for each other.”

“We were,” you whine, nodding as your fingers dig into his shoulders and leave small crescent indents into his skin, “we were—we were made for each other. You’re mine, Sy.”

“I am,” he inhales sharply, “all yours. Always.”

The first snap of his hips is slow. He pulls out almost fully, until just barely the tip is still buried into you, before he slides back in with a firm, swift thrust of his hips. It leaves you lightheaded, wind knocked from your lungs by how good it feels to be split open by him and feel every ridge of his cock drag along your walls. You feel like you’re floating—suspended somewhere between pleasure and bliss as nothing but his body cages you into the mattress, and nothing but him invades your senses.

Then the second snap of his hips comes in, hard and fast and rougher than the initial, and he starts to set a pace that’s not as gentle. You don’t want it to be—you want to feel him raw and hard and fast.

“Fuck, baby,” you whimper, “like that…just like that—hah.”

“Yeah?” he chuckles breathlessly, “already so fucked out? You feel that, don’t you? How good you take my cock? You’re taking it so well—that’s a good girl. My good girl.”

“S-so deep, Sy,” you sob, “more. Please, more—more!”

“More?” he raises a brow, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply as you clamp down on him at a particularly rough thrust. He groans, the sound tapering off into a shaky little exhale. “You want more, huh?”

“Yes,” you stare up at him with plump, pouty lips and wet, teary lashes. It’s enough to make him snap and lose the last bits of his composure.

Sylus has always needed you.

He was born into this world to find you, and he needs you before he can leave this world, too. He needs you if he wants to find something worth living for. He needs you if his heart wants to find some form of peace and rest. He’s just half of a soul tethered to this planet with longing and no purpose without you. He’s always needed you—body, mind, soul, heart, everything. When you’re gone, he hears the echoes of your laughter in his empty halls. When you’re here, he feels human only when you smile and press your skin to his. It feels like his flesh is not rotten or tainted, only when it has the privilege of touching the soft, precious silk of yours.

Sylus has always needed you. His purpose in this world is to love you. To be loved by you. To do it right because that’s what you both deserve. He’s nothing if not an empty body with a broken soul taking up the space of him without you.

Shakily, he whispers, “I love you. You’re all that I love—I…I love you.”

Distantly, he hears you repeat the words back to him. Soft hands are roaming his skin, gliding along the curves and dips and contours of his body, and mapping every detail to memory through your warm palms. Gentle pressure coaxes his head into your neck, letting him take sanctuary in that spot that lets him hide away and be free of whatever clings to his back like a second, haunting skin.

“I love you,” you both whisper in breathless, heated exchanges. Because there is nothing left in your brains—no other coherent thought besides the fact that there is love and that’s it. You love and he loves, and that’s all that holds you together.

It’s enough. This time, in this life, it’s enough.

You come undone first—when his thumb finds your clit and rubs a few quick circles, you fall apart while whining with your head pressing back into the pillow. Your legs wrap around his hips and pull him forward, further and deeper into you as his thick, blunt tip drills into your sweet spot and pulls yet another orgasm out of you. This one is more devastating—this one makes your body still, quivering under him with a force that almost makes it hard to breathe.

The pressure of your walls spasming around him pulls him into his own release, a low, deep groan that draws out as the first few twitches of his cock start to fill you with thick, hot ropes of his cum. He pants, rolling his hips in messy, rhythmless motions as he desperately tries to work you both through the highs of your pleasure.

“S-so perfect,” his voice comes out strained, “you…you feel so perfect—ngh.”

“S-Sylus—oh.”

He paints your walls white with more of his seed, spilled into you and fucked deep into the back of your cunt with every sharp slam of his hips until finally, with a shaky little breath, he finishes and rides out the last earth-shattering waves of his orgasm.

He slumps over you. You welcome his weight with open arms, rubbing over his back with shaky fingertips.

“I love you,” you remind him again—because really, you can never remind him enough. “Happy birthday, baby.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he mumbles, kissing your shoulder blade, nestled close and deep where only he fits.

Next year, he’ll fit just as well—maybe even better.

FOR ONCE I POST A BDAY FIC ACTUALLY ON THE BDAY HAHAHAHAHA I WIN

#meowdei.writing #meowdei.longfics #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #sylus x you #sylus x y/n #sylus smut #lads x reader #lads x you #lads smut #lads x y/n #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #l&ds x reader #love and deepspace x reader

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sluttysnowangel666 · 10 months ago

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His Second Wife - cregan stark x reader (request)

summary: two years following the death of cregan’s first wife, he accepts an undesired marriage proposal to rhaenyra targaryen’s daughter. rhaenyra’s daughter, who had loved cregan the moment she first met him as a young girl, immediately loves and accepts cregan’s first child as her own. yet it is still not enough for cregan to find his own love for his new wife.

cw: mean cregan😓, widow!cregan, targ!reader, loss of virginity(reader), rhaenyra’s daughter, angst to fluff, unrequited love, sex, happy ending

do yall notice i always post a long ass story usually around midnight or later ( i’m unwell)also this is long af soz it was a detailed request and I wanted it to be to a T. this is SOO long. i prolly should have done two parts… oh well @lillithsalvatore hope you enjoy it love ❤️

masterlist

“How do you feel, my love?” Your mother asked, placing a warm and comforting hand on yours.

You sighed. “Nervous.”

She gave you that warm and sweet smile of hers. “I know. I hope you know this choice was not easy for me to make, as I know this was a hard task for me to place upon you.”

“I know, mother.” You say with forgiveness, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Had it been any other lord I would have surely declined but… Starks are the most honorable among men. I know your union will be blessed by the gods.”

You give her a smile, blindly trusting her words. You had met him once, and you knew he was kind. In fact, he had left a paw shaped imprint on your heart. You thought to yourself no union could be more suitable. You knew he had married once before out of a prior marital alliance, but the marriage had been short lived, lasting only a year before his first wife died in her birthing chambers.

It took more than four moons before you arrived at Winterfell, as if every power in the world was set on preventing it. You were not a superstitious person, so you simply thought all the bad things that happened prior to your marriage was coincidence.

Each time you went to leave, something prevented you. Your mother miscarried your baby sister, Lucerys was killed by Aemond, Daemon went silent at Harrenhall, Rhaena ran away and was lost in the eyrie before revealing she claimed Sheep-stealer.

You arrived in the dead of winter, and the journey had not been kind to you. You got a chill on the way up, causing you to stop at an inn for a few nights, you had came across raiders who killed one of the many men escorting you, and your clothes were ill suited for the weather.

You did eventually arrive at Winterfell thankfully, all in one piece.

You stepped out of the carriage cautiously, eyeing the snowy landscape surrounding you. It went as far as the eye could see. You held your hand out, letting the thick snowflakes fall and melt in your hand.

“My princess.” You turn to see Cregan, walking towards you. He bows, forcing a politeness. “Winterfell is yours.”

You bow in return, “No need for such formalities, Lord Stark. This is your home, and I am honored to have you welcome me here.”

He nods, choosing to say nothing else to you.

“Please show the princess to her chambers.” He says to one of the servants, then immediately turning on his heels to leave. Your jaw falls slightly, surprised at his curt demeanor.

You compose yourself, trying to hide the slight hurt in your features before making your way to your private chambers.

You bathed immediately, welcoming the hot water against your skin. No water could be hot enough for your dragon blood, but what they had drawn up for you would do nicely.

Your wedding was a week after your arrival, the lord having given you time to settle in. You had not seen him much during that week so you chose not to bother him, assuming he was busy with duties.

When you walked down that snowy path to the red weirwood, Cregan stole a glance at you. You looked beautiful, and he felt horribly guilty for thinking it. He felt like what he was doing was betraying her.

You said your vows, swearing your love before the old gods. You smiled at Cregan and he gave you a forced one in return. Guilt wracked his whole body. He felt guilty for you, knowing he wouldn’t be able to give you a union where you were loved, he felt guilty for liking your smile, he felt guilty for forgetting hers.

There was a feast following the ceremony, nothing large due to the pains of winter, but it didn’t bother you. The small gathering felt intimate, compared to southern weddings where lords and ladies travelled from all over the realm to witness it.

It was here you met Cregan’s son, Rickon.

“Hi, little one.” You said. He was only two, a fat little babe who looked just like Cregan.

“Rickon, this is my new wife.” Cregan said. The way he worded it made you twitch, it had sounded so strained. He didn’t even use your name. You told the boy the name he could call you, but he said nothing as he hid behind his father’s leg.

“I apologize.” Cregan said, his voice showing no sign that he actually was sorry.

“It is alright, my lord. He is just a babe. He and I will have time to get to know each other.” You said. Cregan tensed up, suddenly remembering again this union was forever.

“Excuse me, princess.” He said, turning and walking away with Rickon. Your heart sunk a bit. You could start to sense it now, Cregan was not in the slightest invested in your union together. You felt lost, out of place suddenly.

You sat back down at the high table, overwhelmed with nervousness. You bit at your nails and the skin around them, biting until they bled. You missed your mother dearly. Being here, in this room among strangers who didn’t care much for southerners to begin with, made you feel small.

You had sat there for an hour or two, not moving or eating once, save for your cuticles.

Cregan came to you, not noticing your nervous state. If he had noticed, he chose to ignore it. “I’ve put Rickon down… Would you please accompany me to my chambers?”

You looked at him, the nail bed of your thumb resting between your teeth. You nodded, standing and staring at the hall one last time. You locked eyes with a man, who noticed you both about to take your leave.

“Is it time for the bedding ceremony, Lord Stark?” The man asked, erupting a few cheers from the men mostly.

“No!” Cregan nearly barked the order. “There will be no bedding ceremony.”

The men in the crowd shuffled awkwardly at his outburst but accepted.

“Princess.” Cregan said, walking away and not waiting to see if you were following.

You did anyway, struggling to keep up with his quick pace. You had the sense he wanted this to be over with quickly.

He held the door as you both entered his chambers. You took in your surroundings. It was a clean and large kept room with a lit hearth and a large bed. A thought passed your mind, even though you tried to push it down.

Did he share these chambers with her?

Cregan began to take off his armor and furs, again not watching to see if you did the same, only assuming you were. If you weren’t, he didn’t care.

“Um, could you help, my lord?” You asked, referring to the laces of your white wedding dress.

He sighed, walking over to you as you turned your back to him. Your eyes welled with tears, but you tried to hide it.

His hands were gentle with the laces, not tugging at them as you expected him to. He obviously had experience doing this before.

He grew emotional as he undid your dress, but he hid it well. It was a weird sense of deja vu. Your hair looked like hers from the back and he felt like he was back at his first wedding.

You pushed the dress off, revealing the sheer linen soft dress underneath. He hadn’t moved from behind you, trying to maintain his composure. You walked away from him, lying on the bed and biting your nails again.

He finished disrobing besides his briefs, and you stole a glance at his back. It was huge, muscular and scarred.

He walked over to the bed, getting between your legs and pushing up your shift.

“Is this alright with you, princess?” He asks. “We need not consummate this if you are not ready.”

For the first time it seemed like he kinda cared about how you felt. His hand still had a hold of your shift, which was resting on your pelvic bone.

You nodded, “Is it alright with you, Lord Stark?”

He nodded, pushing your shift up the rest of the way to reveal your chest. He wanted to fall on his sword for the way he kept stealing glances at your breasts.

He pushed his briefs down, and you choked on your breath at the reveal of his length.

“Oh, gods.” You mumbled under your breath.

He rubbed himself against your slit, and your heart stilled for a minute. The feeling was foreign and intense.

He gently grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away from your mouth. You hadn’t even realized you were still doing it, it was starting to become like breathing. A natural, unintentional habit.

Your hands fell to his biceps to steady yourself. You looked at him, but he did not meet your gaze. He instead bowed his head, watching himself enter inside you.

You dug your nails into his arm, gasping in shock. He gently shushed you, telling you it was okay.

“Please, please.” You said, not knowing what you were even pleading for.

“What?” He asked gently, his voice low and almost mimicking of your whining. It sent a shiver up your spine.

He was slow and gentle with you, not in it for any pleasure himself.

You touched his chest and his hair and his arms, and while he didn’t stop you he made no effort to touch you himself. His hands rested beside your head, holding up his weight.

Your hands found his arms again and you moaned softly, feeling your peak building in your stomach. You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead to his head, moaning as you spilled onto him. He closed his eyes as he felt it, and guilt wracked him again.

He gently pulled out of you and stood up, immediately dressing himself into his nightwear. You pushed your shift back down and pulled the linen covers over you, immediately going back to biting your nails at his reaction.

He laid beside you, not facing you and not saying anything.

You said nothing, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed how he intentionally avoided spilling himself into you.

———

It had been 3 months since your arrival to Winterfell, and you had adjusted as well as you could given the circumstances.

You did not often see your lord husband, but you were used to it. He spent a lot of his free time in the crypt where she was. It hurt, but you gave him his peace and he appreciated that you didn’t hover.

“Mummy!”

“Sh, sh, love.” You say as Rickon runs into your chambers.

Cregan did not like when Rickon called you his mother. He’d gotten upset with you a few times over it, and you assured him you would correct Rickon when it happened.

“Mummy.” He repeated. You giggled. pulling him into your lap. You shook your head and tapped his nose, saying, “Nooo. Not mummy.”

“Mummy.” He laughed, and you ran your fingers through his thick brown curls.

“What ever will we do with this mop on your head, my son?”

“He is not your son.” You turned to see Cregan standing in the door way. “And his hair is fine.”

“Apologies, my lord.” You said, curtly. He ignored your attitude.

“Come, Rickon.” He said, beckoning his son.

“No, mummy.” Rickon whined, holding you.

“Go see papa.” You told him, and with your blessing Rickon ran to Cregan.

Cregan gave you a cold stare as he left, and you returned the favor.

You were growing ever so agitated with your husband. He had welcomed you into Winterfell, but not his heart. The only time you both had shared a bed was the night of your wedding, to which Cregan had made sure not to give you an heir.

You had no one. Rickon had you, Cregan had you even if he did not want you, yet you were alone here in Winterfell.

You decided to write to your mother on Dragonstone, requesting for Jacaerys to pick you up on dragon back so you could visit your family and hopefully receive advice. You had left your dragon, Silverwing, at home. You did not want to disrespect the already hesitant northern people, and you did not want Silverwing to be cold or hungry.

That night when you were brushing your hair before bed, there was a knock on your door.

“Come in.” You looked in the mirror and saw Cregan’s half sister, Sara, enter.

“Hi, Sara.” You said. She came up behind you, taking the brush from your hand and slowly combing it through your hair. You two had formed a unique bond, given you were both considered outcasts in Winterfell. You were a southerner, she was a bastard. They were two sides of the same coin here in Winterfell.

“I heard what happened today.” She said, and you hummed mindlessly. “My brother can be a bastard.”

You smiled at her in the mirror. “Is that so?”

She nods. “I wish I knew what to do, Sara.”

“We northerners love hard, princess. We are unwaveringly loyal. The wound of losing Aly is still fresh in my brother’s heart. Give him time. He knows you love Rickon, and that scares him. I don’t know why.”

“Was Aly pretty?” You ask.

“You have a southern beauty we do not see often in the North. Aly was not a beautiful woman, but she was a fierce fighter. That is how history will remember her. She was born fighting, and she died fighting. I know you are a fierce fighter as well, princess. You are the blood of the dragon. Do not let the grief my brother holds make you feel small.” She kisses the back of your head. “Throw a fucking book at his head if he acts like that again.”

You laugh, her joke comforting you. She turns and leaves you alone, your head clouded with thoughts of Aly.

You heard back from Jacaerys within a few days that he would arrive shortly to bring you home. You had not yet told Cregan, as you knew he wouldn’t care anyway.

A few days following the letter from the raven, it was Sara’s name day. Cregan had decided to celebrate with a feast, one bigger than your wedding.

You all sat at the high table, your husband and sister in law drinking heavily. Although Cregan was a big man, the amount of ale he consumed that night seemed enough to kill a horse.

“My princess.” A servant rested her hand on your shoulder. You and Cregan both turned to look at her, and she grew nervous, not expecting Cregan to pay any attention or perhaps she would not have asked the princess the request. “Rickon has had a nightmare and wants no comfort of the maids. He is requesting you by name specifically, princess.”

You turn to look at Cregan for his approval. He gives a quick nod, which you hadn’t expected. Perhaps he only obliged since Rickon had requested you by your name, rather than requesting his “mother.”

You walked with the maid to his chambers, opening the door.

“Mummy.” He said through sniffles. You turned to face the maid.

“I thought he requested me by my name.” You said.

“That is your name, princess… to him.” The maid closed the door.

You turn to face Rickon with a gentle sigh. “You know papa doesn’t like that word.”

“Mummy.” He just says again. You walk to his bed, fitting yourself in to lay with him. He cuddles into your chest, and you play with his hair to help him sleep.

“Say it okay.” He says.

“Hm? What do you mean, child?” You ask.

“She say it okay to call you mummy.”

“Who?”

“Mummy did.”

“No, you have to call me my name, sweet boy.”

“Not you, mummy. My other mummy said it okay.”

“You confuse me, Rickon.”

“Mummy says ignore papa.” You chuckle softly.

“Sleep now, my love.” You say, and he slowly falls asleep while you hum him a soft song.

You rise, tucking him in and giving his head a kiss.

You open his door to return to the feast, and Cregan is there waiting.

You gasp, covering your mouth quickly to not wake Rickon.

“Gods, you scared me!” You whisper/yell at him. He says nothing, his eyes in a glossy and drunken haze.

You close the door, nearly standing chest to chest with him.

“I heard you sing to him.” He says softly. “Where did you learn that song?”

“He taught me it.” You say, as you go to step past him when he stops you.

“Cregan?” You say confused, turning to look up at him.

He takes your cheeks in your hands and slams his lips on yours. You freeze for a second in shock, before immediately returning the kiss. He presses you against the door, and you moan into him as you quickly grow wet with Cregan’s sudden change of behavior.

He moves to press gentle kisses on your neck, biting softly here and there. His fingers dig into your hips, grinding himself into you. You moan softly, trying not to cause too much noise against the door.

“Not here.” You moan. He avoids your eyes, taking your hand and pulling you further down the hall to his chambers. It was only your second time in his room. He lifted you into his strong arms, wrapping your legs around his waist and pressing you against the wall.

You both hadn’t even undressed, but you loved the thrill. Your husband finally wanted you after three long grueling months. He pushed your dress up to your waist as you unlaced his breeches.

He took you there against the wall of his chambers, fucking you so sweetly, fucking you in a way that would surely produce an heir.

Your moans filled the halls, and the servants began to spread word that the lord had finally moved on from his first wife.

He carried you to the bed, placing you along the edge as he stood, fucking you with sloppy and drunken thrusts.

You moaned his name, both of you drawing so close to your peak as your hands rested against his stomach. He leaned closed to you as hand moved beside your head to hold his weight, and the other moved under your lower back to lift you slightly off the bed and pull you more into him. The angle sent you over the edge, crying and moaning his name.

Your moans pushed him over, but his next words made you sick.

“Fuck, Alysanne.” He groaned, burying his head in your neck and spilling his seed into you.

You gasped, not even sure you heard him right.

He kissed your neck a few times and then rolled off you, not noticing the look on your face.

You laid there unmoving, still in your dress which was now damp with sweat, and your thighs now sticky with Cregan.

He fell asleep the second his head hit his pillow, still in his clothes.

You choked back a sob, moving your hand to your mouth so he wouldn’t waken. In reality, you could’ve started screaming and he wouldn’t have woke, or even shuffled.

You exited his chambers, trying not to be sick on the way to yours.

“My sister!” Sara drunkenly yelled as she seen you in the hallway. She took notice of your disheveled dress and hair. “Oh my gods, did you and Cregan just…?”

You ignored her, but she noticed the tears on your face. “Wait, sister what is wrong? What happened?”

You slammed the door in her face, throwing yourself into your pillow and screaming.

—

“Mother would be furious if she knew you were sleeping this well past sunrise.”

You groaned, lifting your head from the pillow to find the voice in the room.

“Jacaerys?” You said, when your eyes landed on him.

“I take it the feast for Sara Snow was a success.” He says, making fun of you. Your hair was sticking to your face, wet with a mixture of tears and drool.

“I guess you could say that.” You said, wiping your hair to the side.

“You’re disgusting.” He says.

“Gods, five minutes you’ve been here and you already frustrate me! Get out!” You say, both of you immediately teasing and arguing like you had never left home.

You push him out of your room.

“Don’t touch me, wench!” He whines, smacking your arms.

“Piss off! Go harass the bloody Lord of Winterfell.”

“I’d rather harass the Lady.” You push him out of your doors, turning and pressing your back to slide down the wall.

You hear him knock again and you rise to your feet, angry. “Jace, I said-“

You don’t finish your sentence, since as you open the door it’s Sara.

“I wanna talk about last night.”

“I don’t.” You say, going to close the door on her before she pushes it back open.

“What happened?” She asks, angry. She closes the door behind her and follows you to the bed. You sit on the edge and rest your elbows on your thighs, burying your face in your hands.

“Did my brother hurt you?” She asks, worried.

“No, no.”

She rests on her knees in front of you, placing her hands on your knees. “Tell me what happened.”

You sigh, trying to hold back your tears, but you cannot. “We had sex.”

“Isn’t that good? What went wrong?”

“He called me Alysanne.” You sob out.

“Oh, no.” She says, moving to sit beside you and wrap her arms around you.

“I cannot stay here no longer, Sara. I am being haunted by Alysanne. I find letters she wrote to Cregan, her clothes, her weapons. Rickon thinks I am her and Cregan wishes I was.”

“I am sorry, princess.” She says, sadly. “I thought I knew my brother better than that… Perhaps, if you talk to him about these past few months things can be different. Just give it a try, yes? You have your brother here now. You can leave if things do not work and the marriage can be annulled.”

You did not even wish to think of that possibility. It would be so shameful for both of your houses. You would do everything in your power to make it work.

You cleaned yourself up and went to Cregan’s chambers, knowing he would be hungover.

And you were right.

You entered his room without knocking, finding him in a bath with a warm rag over his eyes. Three times now you’ve been in his chambers.

“You can set it on the table.” He says, not moving the rag.

“What?”

“Oh.” He says, his voice changing in tone. “I thought you were the maid.”

You say nothing, unsure of where to even begin.

“Can whatever you’ve barged into my chambers for wait until I am done.” He asks, only the question is more of a statement.

“No.” You say, angry. You walk over to him and pull the rag off his eyes. He squints at the brightness, then gagging on the air as if he might be sick. “We’re going to talk, Cregan. We’ve been married for months and I don’t think we’ve ever truly had a conversation once. It is all I am asking. You could at least give me that. You’ve given me the cold shoulder for three months, and I’m tired of it. I’ve helped raise your son, I’ve loved you and I’ve cared for you even when you didn’t want it. You owe this to me.”

He sighs, defeated. “You are right in that, my princess. I apologize. We can talk later, alright?”

“No, Cregan. We will talk now.”

“You wouldn’t rather talk when I am of a clear headspace?”

“No. Now.” You say. He sighs again.

“Say your piece.”

The words left your mind the second he said that. You had this conversation in your head many times before, but now it was here and you could not handle the heat of the moment.

He raised his eyebrow at you, as if you were dumb.

“Oh, do not do that. I thought you Starks were supposed to be the most honorable among men. This whole marriage I have been treated with everything but. You are a disrespectful man, Stark. I am truly sorry about Alysanne-“

“Do not speak to me about my wife, ever!” He yells, pointing at you.

“I am your wife!” You cry out. “You chose me, whether you were ready for another marriage or not! I left my home, my family, my dragon to be with you! If I cannot have your love, is it too much to ask for your fucking respect?!”

He goes quiet for a few moments, “You have always had my respect, princess… and I know I have erred in the way I’ve treated you these past moons. But this marriage is just a duty. Nothing more, nothing less. This marriage is not out of love… so do not expect me to love you back.”

You laugh, dryly. “You called me Alysanne last night… Do you remember that? No… I suppose you were too drunk. You never would have touched or cared for me like that sober.”

He says nothing, but his hands grip the side of the tub and his face is contorted with anger. You rise, hiding any sort of emotion on your face.

“The dead don’t need lovers. Only the living.” You said. He threw his rag at the door as you walked out, not even granting him a second glance.

The memories of last night flooded back to him, and he rested his face in his hands, crying at his behavior. He had let down Aly, his son, and you.

He did care about you, he did love you in his own way. He just didn’t know how to show it. He didn’t want to show it. If he had shown it, he only would have betrayed Aly even more.

You went down to the crypt, somewhere you had never gone before. You had no reason originally, no people to mourn.

You stood in front of her plot, staring at the statue of her. She had been a skinny girl, with long dark hair and ‘plain’ features. You thought she was a beauty in her own way. You saw why Cregan loved her.

You cried. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help him.”

Your hand touched her statue, then you stood and left the crypt.

You said goodbye to Rickon, Sara, and then you left with your brother on dragon back, ready to be home with your true family.

———

“You’re a fucking fool, brother.”

“You think I don’t know that? Gods.” Cregan rested his head in his hands. He had sent every raven in Winterfell to Dragonstone, yet not one had responded in the weeks since you’d left.

“We’ll be lucky if the bloody queen doesn’t declare war on us for you scorning her daughter.”

“I am trying here, Sara! I’ve sent my ravens, I’ve sent men to retrieve her. There is nothing more I can do!”

Sara slammed her hands on the table. “Go and get her your bloody self, Cregan. The trip to Dragonstone will give you plenty of time for reflection.”

Sara turned to leave, and Cregan knew it was his only option of getting you back here. He would go and get you and make things right. He had to.

You had your own time for reflection, riding home with Jacaerys made you realize how much you missed being on dragon back.

Your mother of course welcomed you with open arms, but was wracked with guilt that you and Cregan’s union was not working. You paid it no mind however, spending your days patrolling Dragonstone on Silverwing.

Cregan had taken his horse and a few men to retrieve you from Dragonstone. The trip by horse was long, more than several weeks.

The entire time he rode in silence he thought of you. He thought of your last conversation and the final words you had said to him. The dead don’t need lovers. And you were right. Alysanne would not have wished to see him treat you how he had, she would not have wanted Cregan to spend his time sulking or being angry. He only wished he had realized it before he left.

He loved you. If only it hadn’t taken you leaving for him to realize. You were kind, gentle, beautiful. Traits Alysanne didn’t have but it was what seperated you from her. It had been how he was able to find his own kind of love for you, even when he didn’t consciously realize it yet. His own bitterness from losing Aly had made forget his honor.

Cregan arrived about two moons after you had left. He was aching, frustrated, and desperate by the time he reached Dragonstone.

It was dark, pouring rain, and you were playing with your brothers Viserys and Aegon when he arrived.

“Your Grace!” A knight came into the room shouting. Your mother looked up from her book. “Cregan Stark of Winterfell has arrived and requests an immediate audience with you and the princess.”

Your mother looked at you, and you looked like you’d seen a ghost. Your heart sank and your face went pale, but you nodded.

You met him inside the council chambers with your mother and his men. He was soaked, shivering. You could hear your heart beating in your ears, that was how nervous you were.

“Cregan.” You said, walking towards him and pushing him by his arms to the hearth to warm him up. It was another thing he loved about you, your protective nature, so he said it.

“I love you.”

“Cregan…”

“Love her?” You both looked at your mother, whose face was angry. “You love my daughter?”

“Your Grace.” Cregan said, removing his sword and bending his knee. “I’ve come to beg your forgiveness.”

She walked towards you both. “It is not mine you need to beg for… I sent my only daughter to you, and you spurn her for your dead wife?!”

“Mother!”

“You will not interrupt the Queen when she is speaking.” She commands you. “What do you have to say for yourself, Lord Stark?”

He stands. “I have nothing to say, Your Grace. You are right. My behavior was unacceptable. The princess deserved none of it.”

“Why are you here?” Your mother asks him.

“I’ve come to ask the princess to return home.” Your mother scoffs at him.

She looks at you, then back to him. “You are lucky it is not my decision to make.”

She turns and exits, leaving and commanding his men to wait outside the doors so you both could be alone.

You were even more nervous with just the two of you in there. It is silent for a few moments before you speak.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” You ask Cregan.

“It took you leaving for me to realize I love you.” He says, taking your hands in his. You roll your eyes, taking your hands back and stepping away.

“I can’t believe you.” You say, starting to sob.

“I know, I know.” He steps closer to you again, taking you in his arms as you cry into his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“I loved you, Cregan.” You say, crying. “Since I was a girl I loved you. I thought you were different from other men. But, you’re just like the rest.”

Cregan cries into your hair. “I’m so sorry, my princess. I’m so, so sorry.”

You both stand there, holding each other and crying.

“Please come home.” He says. “Let me take you home.”

“Rickon misses his mother, Sara misses her sister… I miss you, you my wife.”

You pull away to look at him, trying to read his normally stoic features. You can see he means it.

“Okay.”

———

You returned to Winterfell on Silverwing, no longer having the strength to remain apart from your dragon.

Cregan had to endure another long and grueling trip back to Winterfell, which you enjoyed knowing he was suffering while you road through the skies.

Rickon had cried tears of joy when you returned, and a week later when Cregan arrived Rickon cried again.

You and Cregan had remained in seperated chambers while you still navigated your marriage, but Cregan made a point to spend every moment of his free time with you.

But you had been keeping a secret from him.

After you returned home to Dragonstone originally, your blood never arrived. The maester determined you were with a babe, which would arrive several moons away in the dead of winter.

Your thick furs and dresses made it easier to hide from Cregan, as you were not ready to tell him.

The babe had complicated things. If you had not been pregnant, you might not have returned to Winterfell when Cregan came for you. But you knew you had a duty, and you believed if Cregan could love you then you could fix your union.

Cregan had indeed put the work in the second he arrived home. He attended to you, conversed with you, ate with you, laughed with you, but gave you the space you needed and gave you the option to be intimate with him when you were ready.

It was strangely like falling in love all over again. You blushed around each other, got nervous and flushed, made each other’s hearts race, shared a first kiss when you were both ready.

Cregan had undoubtedly fallen madly in love with you, and he regretted not taking the time to do it sooner. He couldn’t make up the time he lost being afraid. All he could do now was love you without guilt, love you without fear, love you without shame.

Normally Cregan always knocked on your chamber doors before entering, but for some reason this time he hadn’t. He didn’t know why he didn’t knock, he didn’t know if it happened unconsciously or if he was too busy wrapped up with his thoughts.

Either way, he entered without knocking and by that point the cat was out of the bag.

He said your name, greeting you with a smile, only for it to fall off his face as if it had never been there.

You were in the bath, relaxing in the burning water, but that wasn’t the problem. He’d seen you naked, although it hadn’t been for a few months by this point, but him accidentally invading your privacy wasn’t the problem either.

It was the bump in your belly that was a problem.

Your head turned sharply, covering your chest quickly. “Cregan!”

“Sorry.” He said quickly, turning around to avoid disrespecting you.

“It’s fine.” You said, dropping your arm from your chest. “You just gave me a fright.”

He said nothing for a moment, only continuing to face the wall.

“What is that?” He finally asked. You sighed, stepping out of the tub and into your robe.

You walked up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to face you now, and his eyes fell down to your other hand resting on the small bump in your stomach.

“Perhaps it’s time we talk.”

“You think?” He spits at you, immediately apologizing after. “I’m sorry, princess. I didn’t mean to be cross with you.”

You said nothing, walking over to the seats by the hearth hoping he would follow.

He did, and he sat next to you, his eyes never leaving your belly.

“Can I?” He asked, gesturing to your stomach. You nodded, untying your robe so that you were bare. You grabbed his hand, bringing it to the small bump.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I could have accommodated for you, made sure you were comfortable.”

“Truth be told it’s been hard for me to accept I’m truly with a child.” You say, “The reality had not set in until… well until you just now found out... I am sorry, Cregan. I should not have kept it from you.”

He chokes back a sob. “Feels like just yesterday Alysanne had Rickon.”

“He will be overjoyed to know he will have a little brother or sister.” You tell him. He looks at you, his face full of emotion.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks and before you can even finish nodding your head, you’re already leaning in to kiss him.

“I love you. I love you so much, my wife.” He says in between kisses.

His hand did not move once from your stomach the whole night.

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