#and i just don't have the time to retake any | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

capslocked · 11 months

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KINKVEMBER DAY: 6

[prompt: blowjob]

male reader x hyeju

12k words

“I mean, don’t you think,” Hyeju says, wagging a finger at you, “that when you suffer through a bad date, the world ought to owe you something?”

"Like what?" you ask.

"Better taste in women - maybe more orgasms; I dunno, a blowjob?" She shrugs. "The general idea is just that someone gets to cum."

You nearly choke on the air in front of you. "Jesus, Hyeju, warn a guy."

“What? I’m trying to commiserate with you,” Hyeju laughs. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Being able to kiss someone who actually, you know, might love you back, and at the same time. Imagine not hooking-up just to forget a shitty day. Sounds wild, right?"

"Utterly deranged."

"So wild."

The first time you hook up with your roommate, it’s because of genetics - though not in the weird, uncontrollable way your body gets rigid and sensitive to any pretty girl who wears nothing but a towel moving between her bedroom and the bathroom, or how her eyes might flick fast from your chest up to yours - or given that the absolute shape of her is a blessing from one god or another (benevolent, clearly). That's not why Hyeju and you find yourselves only a few months later grinding on each other after the clock ticked past midnight, making out on New Year's Eve.

No, it has to do with the fact that Hyeju's nearly failing the nine AM section of molecular genetics because she's spent every lecture doodling stars and planets and planets shaped like asscheeks and planet-ass constellations while everyone else writes notes or doom scrolls twitter or whatever and she is somehow simultaneously the only student who never slept with her face on the lab desk or missed an assigned reading and the only one who absolutely needs a tutor.

It's just cosmic odds that you'd be that one: her roommate, who shouldn't be talking so loudly in the library about sex (in a sort of non-sexy, Mendelian kind of way) or be thinking the kind of things you've started thinking when Hyeju wears one of her more sleepshirt-esque long sleeves, her voice getting lower as you rattle off, "fruit flies and thale cress, definitely, it's just an error of fate or chromosome splitting..." before trailing off into a question.

"This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me," she finally tells you. You listen to her sigh into the binding of her textbook, facedown. "I'm really going to bomb this exam."

You tap her hand twice with your highlighter across the desk. "Then you're pretty damn lucky, if you think about it."

She turns to you, smiles a bit. "Okay, point. The worst thing will be having to retake this stupid fucking class."

"Why didn't you ask for help or go to office hours if you knew you were... failing?"

"Maybe because doing anything more than the bare minimum to get through a class I don't care about is my definition of, failing," she mumbles. "Why didn't anyone tell me a single lab is worth half my grade? Or that the TA is this fucking unreliable? How is this the one thing, really, beyond the basics, that can't be taught by wikipedia, a wikihow article and a youtube video?"

You scoot your seat closer to her. "You really need to relax."

"Fucking tell me about it."

You turn it over in your mind a few times, capping the top of your highlighter.

"Want me to get you off?"

And it’s not like you really mean it, when you say it, which is the strangest thing: you wouldn't actually suggest it, normally, wouldn't mention it in passing and then leave yourself open to the follow up and cross examination; yet there it is, after three, four hours of cramming notes on heterochronicity and the sloshing of gametes - you actually did propose it.

Hyeju jerks up, surprised.

"Are you serious?" She looks around, nearly snorting. "In the library?"

The face you’re giving her makes her scoff.

“You’re absolutely nuts.”

You have character flaws; the inability to admit wrongdoing chief among them. Hell, maybe it's from your mother - or maybe all your brains are just scrambled by the fact that Hyeju's sitting there with her pen against her pretty lips, hair glossier than usual as she scans your face and makes your entire body feel like a reactor core in meltdown.

Maybe you can blame what comes next on that.

"I'm always serious. I'm asking a serious question," you whisper, closing the textbook and resting your elbows on top. You look around quickly, like you're sneaking something in instead of this perfectly reasonable exchange, the perfectly platonic - except maybe not so much - way for friends to help each other.

"And I'm wondering what you're asking." Her cheeks are definitely pinker, you think, or the way it fills out her face, from the bottom up, is just that easy to imagine.

“I’m saying you haven’t gotten laid in months.” Here, you realize, these blocks of mental logic that definitely weren’t there when you blurted it out start to coalesce into something solid as you go on.

And you hadn't been wrong when you thought no one had given Hyeju a helping hand in a long, long time: you've heard through the walls or the floorboards at odd hours of the morning that she spends far too long fingering herself to a mind-numbing, tear-worthy frustration that leaves her knuckle-deep but never, ever sated or satisfied.

"No one's around, you'll feel better. You said it yourself."

Not a work of your imagination here - her ears are fucking burning.

"Wait a minute." She pushes her chair back, away from you and your gleaming offer. It clatters on its back legs, and a librarian waves her finger in warning. You wave back, sheepishly, until she stops and Hyeju stands and moves away from the table to talk, hands crossed over her front.

She turns and asks in a hushed-down-voice, "how did you know - did you hear something last night?"

"You couldn't keep it down even if you wanted to, honestly."

Hyeju turns further and throws a glare at the library doors, because obviously her noisiness and their collective noisemanship, or whatever the hell the word is, is clearly the root of the whole goddamn problem.

"Look - if not, no big deal - but I'm just saying you'll probably get over it and at least think less about sex. Or at least the wrong kind of sex."

You expect her to turn, sigh, and ask if you've lost your mind. Expect her to gather her jacket from the back of her chair, take her books and stomp out the room. Or even burst out laughing at the insanity, before slapping your arm lightly, in playful retaliation - anything other than the serious look she gives you in return, tilting her head, pressing her lips.

She turns up at the ceiling for a moment, contemplating something. And it's cute. It's so very, very cute, how her mouth pouts as she considers the possibility, right up until she says, "okay, fine."

The moderate twist of surprise taking hold in your brow must be visible.

"Oh, don't tell me that was all talk. Get me thinking about the right kind of sex or whatever."

You laugh, which has the librarian staring at both of you - until the librarian stops staring and probably sees Hyeju sliding back into her chair, the full, pent-up weight of her concentration pointed your way, knees inching apart - you, and Hyeju waiting, your knee bumping into her inner thigh, leaning closer as the textbook hits the floor.

"Don't laugh."

"Not laughing, seriously. Not laughing," you stammer. “I just think you’re just full of surprises.”

She spreads her knees further and sits taller, looking right at you.

"So then, surprise me," and then presses her cheek to the crook of your elbow.

You slide your chair right into the space next to hers, nuzzling up into the space under her ear. “Keep studying, Hyeju, you’ve got shit to do.” And then you slide your hand beneath the waist of her sweats, knead the swell of her thigh until you find the seam where her leg meets her body, press your palm down on the place just next to her center, your thumb in the middle. All this perfect pressure.

"Fuck," Hyeju says under a shudder. She's breathing heavier when your hot, open-mouthed kisses start landing at her neck, and she probably tries to read her textbook for about forty-five seconds longer. But there's the clench of her jaw right as your middle finger begins tracing circles beneath the fabric of her panties, and her gaze is blurring until she can't tell the difference between an allele or your fucking name.

"Shh-shh," you quiet her, finger tapping harder, playing with the slick wetness beneath all those layers of thick cotton and pressing two fingers there until her knees part like they’re not interested in resisting at all. Your lips press a kiss to the shell of her ear and she tenses all at once, hand shooting up to cover her mouth.

She simply leans back, closes her eyes, and lets you take care of her.

“Okay, you’re right,” she says, shaky and uneven, “that really did take some of the edge off. Did we ever review - poly- uh, pol-polymers here?"

The sweatshirt sleeve falling off your shoulder is a hindrance to any actual reading; her shifting against the chair isn't helping either, but you manage to push down the thoughts of stripping her down completely and giving her your tongue as yet another distraction.

"What did the syllabus say? I don't know if we need to read too far on 'polymers'," you say, having going through an entire afternoon without considering this once, but as you curl your fingers and take an honest crack at cramming the remaining chapters into her head, the knowledge that no one else is getting her this wet - except for whoever she's got in her mind's eye at three AM - is enough to get you feeling a little dizzy.

It’s probably supposed to be weird, given that you’ve never gotten any of your other friends off spontaneously in the library, or there's the fact that you can't really avoid each other afterwards, how she shows up in a silk negligee when you're pouring coffee before sunrise to prep for another day and you have the opportunity to notice - yes, she has amazing taste in underwear, yes, you might not have really appreciated her chest and figure enough before - yes, fuck it. She catches you noticing that first time, after coming downstairs with nothing but one of her cropped t-shirts and her board shorts, and she smirks when she realizes you're still thinking about it that afternoon, when her foot grazes yours while you're both washing dishes, and she dries the plate in her hand with a slow swipe.

And it is weird, actually, to describe what’s going on between you in words.

A few words, anyway, like a one-word label to describe what it was: friends or roommates-with-benefits, or - fuck buddies - god, it's even worse. Fuck buddies? Fuck friends? Something equally terrible and stupid that still makes sense, like something out of a shitty rom-com: it doesn't capture any of the rest of the myriad ways in which things can feel less or less friendly between two people.

So, friends was never, ever going to cut it. Roommates - although technically correct - is just this side of too clinical. And let's be clear: strangers don't wake up every morning together, walk to the same class, sit close together in the middle seats, secretly flick a strangers' skirt up in an empty lecture hall and get on their knees and work your mouth onto her pussy and watch the legs of the desks shake when her feet arch into the floor.

"The notes you've got are better than mine," is how Hyeju tries to put things, the next day and every time after that, standing in the doorframe, or at the foot of your bed and looking every bit the disheveled and hopeless mess you imagine she might spread out over the sheets of her own.

It gets complicated, which isn't really a surprise.

"You think your roommate is going to be home tonight?" is the question that comes up multiple times - from a revolving door of pretty names and faces. Hyeju has at least one opinion, if not more, on each of them.

"Tell Jinsoul I say hi," she says once, watching you get ready for a date, and you nearly bang your knee on the edge of the bathroom vanity.

It's one of the more harmless comments she's offered.

Another, backhanded: "if you’re just looking for a blowjob everyday between lunch and our physics lab, let Hyunjin or Heejin or whatever-her-name-is know she's easily my favorite," Hyeju says on your way out one morning, still under her covers.

Or,

Hyeju's texted a simple "uh, Chuu? really??" when you mention, once, how much fun you've been having - and what kind, as you make a round of self-conscious and rambling phone calls the next day that land you with only one prospect for the night - but your roommate's also no longer being your roommate by the end of it, bouncing against your thighs in the bathtub and moaning something about please more and fuck or fucking make me cum; the details escape you a bit.

That's what friends are for, probably.

Still, in the same, bare-bones explanation, friends also aren't for falling asleep on you - or letting you hold her - or fucking you awake in the middle of the night. Friends aren't for pushing down your jeans when the early-morning dew settles on the back patio, or jerking you off in the seat beside yours with a sweatshirt over your lap when a group project is due later and you all should probably work on that and instead get yourselves off and leave the mess of what you're doing half-finished. Friends aren't, probably, for offering to watch you rub your palm up and down your cock the night before next semester's exams when you can barely sit in a single chair and you can't think about molecular biology or neurochemical transcriptions when your whole body aches to do the transcribing. (If you can catch that drift.)

The lists of who are and are not good enough for you goes on and on - the latter longer than the former.

So, there's Choerry, who according to Hyeju is 'straight up, a total slut'. Yeojin, who gets mistaken for your little sister enough times that Hyeju refuses to - in good faith - let you keep sleeping with her. Both Heejin and Gowon are apparently too pretty for you. "Kim-lip?" she asks, in the middle of peeling garlic, "is that one name or two?" And laughs into a bottle of beer, loud, while you're telling her to quit being nosey and watch her fingers with the damn knife.

"You have a problem."

"Why, because I asked a few simple questions? I think anyone would be a little curious with the -" she pauses to wave her fingers - "I'd be remiss to not be interested in the very drama that unfolds literally across the hall."

She waggles her eyebrows.

You look up at the ceiling. God save you, you think. "Hyeju."

("Seriously," Hyeju chimes in one evening, arms around you, and a mouthful of the dinner you'd cooked.

"You need better taste in girls. Don't waste time on anyone too dumb, or who drinks the milk straight from the carton, or doesn't wash her socks with the same load of laundry. Oh, and - no one who chews loudly. No one who can't tell you're going to cum. The worst is someone who doesn't know what you like, trust me on that. And remember the last rule: don't do anything with someone who eats at a really slow pace, it's incredibly depressing."

You rest your chin on her shoulder from the spot behind her. "Duly noted, oh Master of all Knowledge."

She sighs into your arm, but in the next moment, her voice gets a lot softer, her hips fidgeting slightly against you. "I just mean you're the kind of person people would want to sleep with again," she says, before turning to say your name and kiss you again and again as your bodies curl inward.

"I wonder what that means, Hyeju," you say.

"Fuck," Hyeju groans as you slide further into her, pushing her back into the sofa - hands on her shoulders, legs bent on her either side, "don't tease me like this.")

The first snowfall of the year is mild, a tiny dusting, nothing that sticks on the pavement in the alley or on the sidewalks - or the lintels - or in Hyeju's hair, but by evening, when the snow picks up and everything goes quiet, Hyeju has changed into flannels and wool socks in anticipation, curled up like a cat at one edge of the window ledge as the world begins to go white. It's enough that you even pull on a thicker sweatshirt, open up a book, and join her.

She turns toward you, quiet.

You've reached a point in the semester where this, the silence, doesn't unsettle you anymore. It's the space you fill up with time in-between, where you can see the contours of her body against the orange lamplight of the space heater, or watch her kick off the top half of the duvet at night as you fight over space in her bed and wonder about the bare skin peeking out from her shorts.

"Feeling bored?" She slides her foot a little closer to yours, almost imperceptibly. "Am I keeping you entertained enough?"

Her lips pull up at the corner. You chuckle.

"Oh, no."

She scoffs and puts her hands on her knees, pushes herself closer to the window sill and bumps her elbow into your shoulder. The bare skin of her neck and shoulders and face is getting a little redder as she cranes it forward. "Okay, if not, do you need someone to entertain you, maybe."

Your mouth twists, fighting a smile.

Hyeju is so close to you, you could kiss her really, really easily and not care how she'd feel about that. It's not a habit, not as often as it used to be, but every once and a while - she starts this game. Every once in a while, Hyeju just starts smiling like that, and leans into you like she's daring you to play along, hard round of chicken until it's clear what the two of you are doing with each other; the minutes pass by, one, then two, and then - maybe she pushes first, her leg on yours, or a kiss to your jaw or a palm on your back as she walks behind you - and then you'd turn and kiss her full on the mouth and pull at her clothes like nothing's holding you back.

She cocks a smile, and says, "why don't you go and call what's her name."

"Because."

You glance out at the cold, gray light outside. If you had a better understanding of any of the workings inside you, you could reach forward and tell her everything that's stopped you.

You're supposed to meet the girl-of-the-month at a New Year's party. Hyeju looks disgusted within the first ten seconds of the whole story.

"Heejin dumped you once, like, two months ago? For no reason."

"It wasn't a break-up. We talked about what we did wrong and we're doing better," you say, lifting one finger.

She glares, then, tilts her lips into this unamused purse that you can't take seriously at all when she starts walking back and forth across your living room, hands moving emphatically to the sides as she speaks, like she's in the process of unveiling a brilliant argument and is using both palms to guide your eyes toward the unquestionable logic. "God, you're the worst. You're just her easy fuck and you'll still answer her late night calls, really."

She leaves the rest unsaid - that she's just not that into you.

"I don't tell you which boys or girls you can call up," you try, putting on a boot. "If you'd like, I can. Name off the list, and make sure that the right name leaves my mouth this time."

Hyeju doesn't blush when you glance up, which is the surprising thing. No - her cheeks have grown a little more sullen, and she stares down at her socks in contemplation. You're in the middle of fastening up the lace and getting to your feet, waiting, wondering if Hyeju's going to continue this conversation, when Hyeju takes one small step forward.

And her hand goes out to touch your chin, thumb at your lip, fingers holding it in place - like you'll turn if she lets it go - the sharp shock of the sensation like a short circuit, before her knee comes between yours, and your body tingles, at the root and stem. "Hey," she says, eyes meeting yours. The edge of her nail flicking gently as she drags the curve of her thumb downward.

"Hyeju, please - I need to get going."

When you start walking toward your car, she calls out from the window. Something about how you better have the time of your life, fun for the two of you - it’s only fair.

(You feel, somewhere, a certain strange loss.)

"What, are you going to stay up and wait until I come back? Or am I interrupting your session for the night."

You can barely make it out, the smallest look passing over her face. "Maybe," she says, and then: "god, it's fucking cold."

New year's parties have this sort of quality of being simultaneously the most thrilling, exciting prospect on earth and the absolute worst fucking event in the history of the planet - depending on the venue, how egregious the racket is for a gin and tonic, the guests - oh, and the company.

Jinsoul and Choerry are both in attendance; in separate corners and in equal states of undress and intoxication, which seems fine by every present party, who are for the most part busy ogling one or the other in the full spirit of the New Year - as you would too, if the stars are aligned and Heejin hasn't already gone upstairs with half the guestlist, her arm wound with someone else's, as per her recent habit; if you haven't been tossed aside for any of the usual, less forgettable prospects and for something bigger, better and certainly much more enjoyable.

Which, if there were any way to track these things down with math, you'd already be reaching for your pen and notebook, as Hyeju would describe this sensation in a phrase she picked up from some podcast. Inevitable means necessary, or something.

"Good party," says Heejin, throwing back another drink.

"Yep. You said that," and you finish yours in one long draw, hissing through your teeth.

Heejin is a goddamn delight, of course, in all the simplest of ways. When she looks up at you - mouth pink, hair framing her face - she is so clearly and completely aware of what she is, and exactly what the world has in store for her, what it has set aside.

"Do you want to know what happened at the other New Year’s party we went to last year?"

"I - yeah. Hit me. Tell me all about (another date you were on) Heejin, that’s exactly what I’d love, let’s hear it."

She throws her head back and laughs, before starting into an overlong recount of her latest, greatest conquest, you on the outside. This is the thing - this is how a pretty face, with just a hint of a flirt, will make you feel for a beautiful, attractive, vivacious - absolutely shameless, raving sex-crazed lunatic of sorts who, apparently, loves to run around town and make a bunch of your closest friends fall in love and heartbroke-er, with every passing notion of her beauty, her charm - just the tilt of her chin, and some poor fucker is lost, absolutely lost.

Even she knows it's a bad habit of hers.

But who doesn't have a weakness? You've got plenty of your own - plenty, Heejin can admit - everyone does, in a way, and so Heejin, the other sloppy drunks milling about the party, and Choerry and Jinsoul all agree - someone like her just happens to have the best kind of weakness - so, so many of them, in fact:

"Can you believe how easily a few words get Jinsoul riled up? Or how it only takes a couple drinks for Choerry to pull up the hem of her skirt, not knowing the effect that'll have?"

And as for the last, and arguably worst kind -

"Hyeju, huh? What a great start to the New Year," is her final word. Heejin reaches across and downs your drink. Her expression turns just shy of grave, a pensive look. "Not your smartest idea, the living-together situation. Who in their right mind would put themselves in such a mess?"

"Thanks for the great advice." You wave her off, irritated.

There's another laugh before Heejin leans her face onto the table.

"Though maybe she's onto something, now that I think of it. Who needs anyone for the New Year?" and it's almost convincing the way her mouth, lined up with the rim of the glass, smirks when she drinks. "Mm. All a matter of taste."

The snow is halfway up your calves when you realize you need to find a cab at 11:30 PM on New Year's Eve. (Which, categorically, is the worst time to need to find a cab on New Year’s Eve.)

Or just:

11:36 PM and the nearest bus stop is too far away.

11:41 and the temperature feels like its dropped by fifteen degrees, like you should start wondering what hypothermia symptoms look like and what signs to look out for in yourself, your future wife and your children. You try not to think about why, but you get your phone out and immediately call Hyeju, so you're not sure what you think you're denying.

"No party?" she asks. Her voice is distant and sleep-ridden, but Hyeju's quick to pick up, like always.

"It sucked, I'm trying to find a way home early. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year." There's a long pause, filled in by the squeak of snow beneath your boots. "Get a kiss?"

"Uh, not yet. In the market, I guess."

Hyeju's low hum isn't reassuring, either. "Well, you're kind of missing your window. Bad time to start looking."

"Says you, and here you are - still up for someone to spend the night with. Look at you," you respond, all this snark in your voice that she clearly hears. There's a long sigh.

"Actually," and Hyeju, much to the confusion of you and possibly the whole world, doesn't respond, and for a few seconds, the line goes completely silent, leaving you hanging.

She breathes once and comes out of her sleep with a yawn.

"I actually," she begins. There's a lot less preamble this time - this tone - and when she speaks again it comes through not nearly as sleepy, "was sorta wondering. Are you on your way home?"

"If I don't freeze to death, yeah."

"Yeah - no, yeah," and that's it. That's the sum total of what makes any difference between where you were a moment ago, and where you are right now, head spinning, fingers buzzing. Hyeju waits and there's the wind on the line, snow settling on your hat and in the corners of your face.

"I - sorry. I probably woke you up. Are you expecting someone else," you say, very small. Your foot drags behind the other. The cars whizz by you faster, passing.

"Hm. You're the only one, I guess," and after that - just static and the muffled sounds of her footsteps on creaky floorboards - or the tick of her ceiling fan? You can't make heads or tails of the rest of the background noise. All those words she said.

You bite your tongue to stop whatever curse words start pouring out from the jumble and cross streets, or the pedestrian underpass; snow gets stuck in your lashes and burns, but your chest is like a molten furnace. You consider telling her right there on the line, everything you're feeling - so hot, it feels like fire, Hyeju, I'm not used to getting heated and desperate and impatient - that even if you're not here now - just imagining your face - the sound of your breathing, it feels like I'm on the cusp.

"Yeah. Sure - good - okay, Hyeju."

"I guess, see you soon?"

"In a bit."

(It takes 33 minutes, trudging through cold and wet. It's all very dramatic, you think, and there's no one there to even watch you suffer for it, or - though you try not to think about that particular line - really, no one at all.)

You hear the way your key grinds in the lock - it's been like this, jammed since summer, when you pushed the front door in late at night a little too hard and something came undone and made a sound like a small stone tumbling down the world's deepest well. The hinge squeaks, and there's ice on the stoop, on the doormat, on every nook and corner you can see, all the way up your neck.

And your face, too. You shake off your hat, undo the buttons on your jacket, and pull off your boots before hanging them and all the layers to dry.

You can make out the outline of her profile at the edge of the door frame, right in the kitchen - barefoot, hip pressed against the island, pajamas - the dim lights illuminating the shadow of her head, hair over her face -

- but you don't pause. The next layer. There's nothing left to say. You're too cold for excuses, too smart to use the same ones you'd been taught, like: this is a normal, acceptable circumstance; everything, anything, will be perfectly normal if the two of us act as though that's the case; pretend we're both acting within the norms of reason, within our senses and logical thinking and I won't make myself go out in the cold a second more - won't stand for more than five minutes with your eyes looking like they're waiting.

So you move instead toward the kitchen, where the heating is better and she's already pouring coffee. There's a heat radiating out of the oven, and it smells sweet in there, like cinnamon and warm butter, and you wish you weren't still shaking, blood barely thawed, but there it is - her face, watching you - eyes gleaming as you wrap your hands around a mug, steam rising up - a shiver running up your arms; her knees skirting yours when she takes one step back and there's the cabinet door shut, then open again, and then a palm on your back.

Hyeju presses a cup of the fresh coffee, now warm enough to drink, to your chest, and says, softly. "What the fuck happened out there?"

She starts reaching out to wipe the frost and slush from your face. You let her hand hold you still, eyes wide.

"Oh you know," and her palm stays, even though it's obviously - suddenly - gotten warmer, and wetter too, and the longer she stands there and lets her fingers warm the pale bones of your cheeks, her wrist, the base of your forehead and ears, the more expectant the look on her face grows. "The usual."

Her eyes go as narrow as they ever can. For just a moment. "You're gonna die a slow, pathetic death someday, just for the record."

"Don't forget how this starts," you try, and feel your neck go warm, throat and breath tight. And not even when her shoulders shift, her mouth going smug - just looking at you.

“I mean, don’t you think,” Hyeju says, wagging a finger at you, “that when you suffer through a bad date, the world ought to owe you something?”

"Like what?" you ask.

"Better taste in women - maybe more orgasms; I dunno, a blowjob?" She shrugs. "The general idea is just that someone gets to cum."

You nearly choke on the air in front of you. "Jesus, Hyeju, warn a guy."

“What? I’m trying to commiserate with you,” Hyeju laughs. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Being able to kiss someone you actually, you know, might love you back, and at the same time. Imagine not hooking-up just to forget a shitty day. Sounds wild, right?"

"Utterly deranged."

"So wild."

When Hyeju sighs and gives a long, nonchalant hum, leaning her body closer, pressing up until her waist hits the cabinet top and you're pressed together chest-to-chest, she looks at you and her hips settle, the heel of her foot reaching around your calf.

There's that tingle. Again and again. You're not even trying to not think about what it might mean.

But then, you start, silently and unconsciously, trying to answer the question: why don't you, maybe. Why don't you, actually - Hyeju kisses you, pulls on the loop of your jeans and lets your lips brush the corners of hers and pulls away, suddenly, mumbling and head-turning. And just as abruptly, your nose buries in the space between her neck and her shoulder, where it's all warm. And when she puts her palms on your hips and squeezes and twists her knuckles into the fabric there, it seems she wants your hands up her shirt and under the small of her back.

And her hands - they're fidgety tonight, fingers curled up to keep their nails and the chill away, moving lower - one on your ass, while the other comes forward and begins rubbing circles, a handful of times - enough so you're letting a deep, low breath escape into the space just above her collar, your knee working its way between hers.

"That," Hyeju breathes, lips at your ear, hand reaching down to trace the hard curve of your cock pressing in the spot right between you, and there's that small rush again, familiar now, like you've caught a rhythm and she wants to feel it in its fullness: "is how you can make it up to me. For making me stay up. Worrying about you, god knows why. Waiting."

You're still half-frozen in a way, slowly thawing. "Hyeju, I've been trudging through the consequences of my actions this entire night. What am I about to suffer through now?"

"It's no consequence, honestly."

You squint.

"Just an idea, but," she breathes again; your bodies getting closer, and looking up at you, she grins and reaches down to touch the very root of you, her fingers drumming. You make a sound, and at that she says, her voice coming out thick, low:

"Want me to get you off?"

She squeezes again for good measure, just to be clear. Just a slight curl of fingers that's enough to send a flash of heat and the transient thought: why, why, why is she always wearing those fucking shorts, even in the winter?

Your blood thrums through the pulse at the end of your cock. You shake.

"Alright," is the response you let out.

And at that, Hyeju takes your wrist and leads you upstairs.

"There's that look. Don't worry. We'll find a way," is all she says as your feet walk forward, up step-by-step and higher and further up to her room. "After all, isn't that what we've always done?"

"It's usually whatever will make me stop talking."

Hyeju puts her chin on your shoulder. Her eyes follow the lines and shapes in the patterns of wallpaper as you turn onto her side of the apartment, and even through the wall and behind the doorway, her arm still around you, she pulls at your chin until your faces turn and you both can share each other's heat.

"Who, you and your awful habit of talking out-loud in your head while you work through equations?" and she brings her lips to yours, close and warm.

"Hey. Fuck you," and your voice breaks into an odd, low laughter when she kisses you harder.

"Yeah, I know," she whispers as her hand dives past the band of your boxers, palm sliding easily until she's gripping you fully and letting her fingers rub. She holds you there, in her room, her arm looped through yours, another arm resting at your belly.

And she stops there. She stays like that: holding your gaze.

"Look, Hyeju," you say, unable to not, though this can hardly count for anything; this, what you're about to admit, is nothing new. You swallow. "The thing is - you shouldn't."

"Don't want me to touch you?" she says, finger to your lips.

"Well, that's different. Maybe. Is there - maybe it's not the best thing to ask you right now."

Hyeju considers for a brief moment and tuts under her breath. "Can you at least do me the decency of waiting until I'm done wringing you dry before you say shit like that."

And she moves then, toward the bed.

So:

No. Yes. Maybe. Who knows, you tell yourself. Maybe, but only because you'll do anything if it makes you feel less sick, like a creature standing over its own skeleton - an abandoned shell; a relic, something to be feared and disgusted, as you let her go between your thighs, kneel beside the bed.

"I mean - since when - have you felt," is just as far as you're allowed to go before Hyeju presses her nose into you and pulls you out of the thin, cold fabric - palm, thumb, all those slender fingers swiping over your head - and now there's just the smell of her room and the shock, the buzz that runs down your spine and settles somewhere, somewhere inside the small and desperate movement of your hips and the tension building just below.

And god, fuck, Hyeju’s lips.

These soft, wet, pouty fucking things that could suck you straight off if you were feeling any less stupid or inexperienced or sentimental - if she wasn't solely intent on teasing it out of you first; a slow drag of the tongue up the underside; the tip of it poking, tracing the rim, like she's figured you out, just where to lead you. She's ready to smoke you out - always - until you're not taking in a breath every ten seconds but starting to close your eyes to the overwhelming, needling pleasure, too sharp, the way she knows you like best.

"Now you're finally - mm - starting to sound hot," and that smirk comes back to the corner of her mouth, teasing the sensitive belly of your cock and tracing her tongue everywhere. "With the voice and -"

You're losing track, her thumb and fingers circling the whole length of you - just, one after the other - mouth a hair-breadth away, her breath hovering like a promise.

"- that face."

"Don't, fucking tease me-"

The sound of your cock going in is like nothing else.

Wet and filthy in all the right ways.

Just the suction in her throat has your eyes nearly roll back into your head - Hyeju's gaze calmly watching the terrible sort of helplessness that washes over you like this: her lips wrapped around, bobbing - her hair falling into the wet mess of her mouth and sticking there. Hyeju likes being a little sloppy, likes feeling that spark run up the length of her tongue when she slides. It's the wet and the heat that gives everything away.

"I don't have much of a choice -" her jaw and chin is smudged when she pulls back off of your cock, mouth glossy and glistening, "and honestly, wouldn't it be a better use of our time, or my talents if I actually do that thing?"

“Which is?”

She looks up for a bit and sighs, the flush blooming pink to the tip of her ears and into the rounds of her cheeks and all across her neck. "Since, as far as I can see, what you really like - is, oh I'm just spit-balling here," and she stops just to bite her tongue and look into your eyes, "it's letting the girls take care of you? Isn't that right?"

You want to tell her, no, not always, that it's not as though you enjoy giving control completely - that that would be completely and unarguably, the opposite of true -

That most of the time you love it when the person you're with is a little bossy, a little crazy for you. You know some guys really get off on a strong woman and maybe, maybe if a girl's pretty and dressed up, and - sure - a little wet, but that's hardly -

“You know I’m right,” she says, a flicker of mischief skittering across her features. “These walls are paper thin.”

You want to tell her, perhaps remind her, that she likes someone in charge just as much as you do - to be taken care of, told what to do - to have a hand curled up around her throat and the other at her tits while a guy fucks her the right way and takes the reigns when she needs. So who are you, when it comes to knowing her better? And who, really, are you fooling?

But before you can get any words in: Hyeju dips, lips parting where the head of your cock throbs, and then disappears; and the hot wet warmth, enveloping all around your shaft and back; the curve of her throat contracting.

You moan - a lot, and louder this time - into the whole feeling. The way her fingers work the distance from the base, twisting and twisting and twisting into the pout of her lips; or how the sound is like nothing - a whimpering, messy sound - almost a whine and definitely not a slurp as your cock sinks further and further, until it's all one big, heavy throb.

And it's like Hyeju can read your thoughts, the visual you have of her lips screwed tight around your shaft - cum leaking from the corners, and her eyes scrunched up tight, as she looks up to watch your face unravel - this perfect image of her taking you, all of you, swallowing each drop as your hips start rutting up into her and - and - and.

Or else she gets impatient, because then Hyeju gives one long pull off the tip of your cock - saliva mixed in the precum there, and that shiny string of fluid hanging, caught in the middle between your bodies - a disgusting and irresistible sight. Her jaw slack, lips swollen and full, and her mouth gone wide open, wanting.

"Fuck - that's good. Don't stop," you start to whimper, desperate, at the sight, the smell. Her hot breath coming quick over the red wanting wetness left behind - then touched by the cold air - fuck -

She slaps your cock to the corner of her lips as she speaks.

"Can you believe what's going on down here?"

"God, can you -"

"And to think most guys wanna jump straight in. That or fuck a load out between my tits."

"Hyeju, shit, come on -"

She kisses the soft tip, right where it’s most sensitive, rolls it along her lip. Then, back down the length of your shaft where she's generous with her mouth inch after inch - lapping, licking, laving - and Hyeju begins working her way down and downward, nestling in at the edge of the bed and between your thighs.

Your eyes blow up the first time she dips low enough to put your balls in her mouth.

“Mmhm,” she hums.

It’s killing you and she knows it; it’s killing you and she can feel the pre-cum leaking from your slit - the thumb she has moored there, keeping everything right where she wants it, running circles up the length with such little intention - she could bring you to the end just like this.

"Am I supposed to believe it?” she asks out from beneath the shadow of your cock, looking up at you with her eyes all wide and brilliant - pupils dark as sin. “That not a single one of those girls ever did you proper?"

You curse under your breath. Hyeju seems amused, at least, like she can't help but love doing that to you, which is almost worse and honestly the sexiest thing a girl can be. You groan - wanton, raw and desperate and feeling exactly what she wants you to feel when her nails drag along the dip of your hip bones.

"Did they not leave you fucked-up the right way?"

Her wrist flicks out these twists and turns, making your spine bend to her control. Like even when you're sure to be bundling her hair in your fingers and fucking the whole length of your cock down her throat, all of this is the worst kind of power-trip for her - not the other way around.

Her tongue runs through the tangle of your balls, slowly, lasciviously, as though the plan is to memorize and map every detail.

And the worst part is, how much it's making you desperate for the warmth of her mouth - where she'll run her tongue up and down and over and around and inside - before sucking you off nice and slow.

"Or maybe," she laughs; another flick to the top and then suddenly her hand goes faster and the fist pumping the rest of you tightens. "They left you so needy you're resorting to having the bestie suck you off so that you won't be desperate the next time you date. Oh my god-"

Hyeju breaks into this fit of laughter, and you're nearly cross-eyed at the feeling of your entire existence - not just your cock - so wholly held within her mercy, and her pity, and you're breathing so shallow now you'd think this is the real reason people have died and will die - this exact moment where you're choking and stuttering at the edges, so very close to cumming and going absolutely bonkers with how good Hyeju is with her hands, her tongue, her mouth - everything - how much she's wrecking you, and your jaw drops, wide open, her name dripping like molasses off your lower lip.

"Are you going to cum?" she asks, curiously. All as if she can't see you nodding, collapsing under pressure, and then and there: "should we make it official?"

Her nose tickles the seam of your balls. And your toes begin to curl and uncurl - all this anticipatory, coiling pleasure burning from her throat, shooting from the pit of your stomach; the tightening spiral, twinging and stretching every nerve - as her lips enclose around the end of your cock, softly.

And oh, just excruciatingly slowly.

You watch the irresistible shape of her mouth travel down until her throat feels so incredibly, beautifully, and unbelievably tight, and then, just like that - Hyeju starts fucking herself onto you; pushing forward and down the full, rigid length of you, hard and fast - each time hitting deeper inside her - all that sticky, messy, wet squelching.

"Unh-unh, yeah. Unh. Mm-!" you say, or moan, or some animal version of that, maybe, it’s incoherent.

But regardless:

It's messy and your hands scramble for purchase in the sheets of her bed when you feel that snap, the tightening of a trigger; when your balls roll up and it builds, and builds, and it comes faster - harder and -

"Hyeju," you pant, and it sounds so, so filthy. "I'm gonna cum, if you - gonna cum-"

Hyeju pulls you free from her lips, quite possibly at the most final of final moments, to rub the base up and down, just right, between her fingers. Your cock is resting right on her cheek when it all happens. When she squeezes her fingers around your balls just enough to hear you wheeze and make a sound no sane man should have the right to. And fuck, you're cumming all over her face - or just one side of it - which is already just -

Okay, fuck.

She makes a startled sound and her fist closes tightly around your shaft when you pump another fresh load of white up onto her eyebrow.

"I'm, ah-shit," your mouth moves faster than the blood in your veins - and now the shame - oh god, the humiliation, it's pulsing right behind you. "Hyeju," you apologize.

Only, Hyeju has no interest in any of it. She doesn't seem offended or disappointed in proportion to how you're ruining her pretty face: "no, just do it, cum wherever you fucking like."

Which isn't what you're expecting at all, because Hyeju makes no effort to close her lips, let alone avoid any of it; nor is she making a fuss about the sticky mess in her hair, her mouth, nor as another stream of cum throbs from your cock, all tangled up in the long dark eyelashes that sweep down across her cheek.

It’s fucking filthy: you're cumming all over her and she's just kneeling there, telling you, "good boy."

See, she pushes through it, languidly - all those filthy sounds, and those watery little tears gathering at the edge of her eye and all of that, mixing up together until you're rolling your head back with your orgasm, shuddering, feeling weak - drained dry -

Except,

Hyeju's pushing a finger to your chest, kneeling up tall from the side of the bed. She turns her body toward the center of the bed and wipes a bit of the cum on her knuckles into the sheets. Here you feel like you've done something terrible or at least regrettable, like that last round at the bar when you have a test the next morning; a dick move, all of the sort that requires apology.

"You gotta give me a minute, if you're thinking about hopping on."

"Hmm. Sounds like a lot to ask."

"Wait," you grab her arm. Hyeju grins and there's nothing stopping the shake of your knees now, that weakness between your thighs: "let me get you a drink."

"Or."

"Or?"

Her tongue peeks out, running along her upper lip. Her eyes drop again, hands dipping below, beneath the hem of her shorts and oh. She slips a hand past her bra. The whole outline of it. And you -

"Mm, I could show you what that actually means." She lowers her chest, her breasts, and a lot of skin to the mattress while keeping your cock firmly in her hands. "That look tells me you wanna stick around a bit. Stay up past New Year’s, you know?"

You're almost unable to parse her words, there is so much to look at: the jutting curve of her chest, cleavage pressing into the mattress as her body settles between your knees. A soft chuckle; a sigh: "you are seriously the best lay, no-one else can get hard the minute after they just fucking exploded all over me-"

"Fuck, watch it," you hiss, because there's oversensitivity - and then there's Hyeju's mouth on the line of your cock, polishing you clean.

And it’s not that she isn’t trying to prove a point. Or that she's not trying to tease - that's an inherent quality of her character: a naturally dominant position with a high appetite for your lust. That much, Hyeju gets from you, whether you've got your head down between her thighs or the other way, too, so that her neck is arched around and her ass pushed up high in the air, legs open, and if she had any idea you would spend the next twenty minutes or more just going down on her, licking into her creaming cunt while two fingers work over her aching clit, then really, Hyeju would only encourage it - maybe get on top, force you to gag - and so you don't know where it comes from - how and why you want nothing more than to drive your fingers inside her and work her until she's a wet, squelching mess, not when this was always Hyeju's role of being the aggressor; and yes, sure, even the aggressed.

Surely not because you came so hard, still somewhat shivering with the remnants of a rather abrupt, painful, sudden and all-consuming orgasm.

"We're not doing anything else," she says, lips pulled up into a smirk right at the crown of your cockhead. But before you can respond she pushes a hot open kiss, and goes lower. She presses the flat of her tongue to the seam, just below the head. Licks a line right up to the tip and finishes with a tender flick that sends you fisting the bedspread in your fingers and leaning back as your mind begins to disintegrate -

"I'm not going to ride you yet, or going to get my hips in your hands so you can fuck my pussy real hard until I cry and pass out. Nothing of that sort is gonna happen." She licks one long drag of her tongue. Then, the other way. "I want to make this very clear: this isn't some huge favor - and if you want it - want it so bad, you can stay there and I'm going to do everything for you. We will get there - together," and with her voice shaking as she brings the wet, glistening skin of your cock just inside her mouth, she looks up. "We'll get each other off, just like this," and it's the deep, dark, throated moan that makes your thighs and all the nerves in between stiffen and buck when she swallows you again.

Hyeju's hands tug, pull her whole body closer still as it slowly bends, curves - her ass raised, her stomach lying on the bed. Her mouth takes you another few inches, until the tip of her nose is barely visible, but when she pauses to lick the cum still left over - the cum that's starting to leak out again - to breathe through it, then squeeze her palm and bob her mouth down, take another inch, until the sides are stuffed and emptying out again, that's when she finally has something to say: "got anything left? I'm a little starved."

"I. Christ, yes-" you whine, which doesn't help your case at all: the image, the image of you lying flat - back with Hyeju's head tucked between your knees, her hand pulling out your cock.

Sloppy, slimy-wet.

She presses an innocent, not-at-all-innocent kiss right to your tip, puckering -

"You know what I did learn in that genetics class?" she muses, tongue flicking over her lips. Hyeju's about ready for a second helping - you're losing it. "When I first saw that DNA diagram - the double helix and all those little base pairs, and everything - it made me think of your cock. Your cock and me. Specifically our DNA. Did you know-"

She presses her palm over the head and rolls it - teases and strokes her palm - her knuckles - her fist - the whole nine. "When I hold your big fucking cock, mm, and just get it right - up in here, rubbing all along my walls - so deep, it gets me in my fucking ribs, makes me choke like I never been choked before, ah-mm," and it's this thought sliding toward the front of your mind, this perfect picture: Hyeju, getting fucked hard and open and stuffed full and stuffed good and stupid; you’ve got more than a few inches on her, can make her feel small and delicate; you know how to do her right.

But here you have Hyeju stroking the shaft - holding her hand tightly up near the head, rolling and twisting and sliding down and pushing her whole body right into the side of your legs: the soft, solid length, warm flesh and curves everywhere pressing into you.

You sit back, and just watch Hyeju with her eyes cool and composed, like half of her fucking face isn't streaked with your cum, mouth wrapped and looking fucking satisfied to be a total, gorgeous mess. She makes a dramatic display of kissing the tip again, just before telling you words you probably dreamt up at some point - either sleep deprived, or, during three AM jackoff, fantasizing. "Sometimes, just from riding your cock, I can't sit up straight."

"Fuck," and you feel your whole body run rigid, because apparently that's something you’ve been aching to hear.

You're covering her mouth again. White streaking onto her lips - where she's catching it in the well beneath her tongue and letting it spill out of the corner of her mouth. Into the crook of your thumb, which catches a drip here and there and rubs it down the length - down the curve - and pushes it back between Hyeju's pert little pout.

"Doesn't count, mister, just more pre-cum," she says, all with the audacity of a wink and smile; her words are a little garbled around the head of your cock between her teeth. And when you nod and realize just how painfully your jaw hurts, your throat becomes tight and raw, a knot pulling the underside from the center. Hyeju slides her lips lower, lower down, to the hilt and stays there, just like that - one hand holding down the flat of your belly to keep your hips still, her chin hanging - bobbing-as she feels every pulse, every twitching shift. You curl one hand around the side of her face, over the sharp edge of her jaw; rub a thumb into the delicate skin of her throat.

She shifts. You start to tell her what you like: how hot the rush comes when a girl puts her tongue against the slit at the very tip, and licks at the precum in nice, quick circles, soft and fluttering. And how her fingers shouldn't hesitate either, Hyeju's not even struggling to give it to you - god - just giving and -

She jerks her head up, swallowing down her next breath like it's one of her last. "I'm serious, if you're going to fuck a hole, start with my mouth - we can move onto everything else after."

"You're ridiculous -"

She meets her lips to your head, kissing once. Again. Kissing every inch, letting her mouth wrap around and then just - staying, just - staying like that and humming, with you, enjoying the fullness, the smell of you, the taste, the shape, just the weight and size and you.

There is spit fucking everywhere.

And if it's not clear what you're supposed to be doing - her fingers weave through yours, squeezing hard at the wrist and you can imagine: pulling her forward by her hair and holding her down while she chokes on your cock. "Fuck, Hyeju," you say, and your voice comes out way shakier than you'd like, "when, how did it get like this, huh? You always - always did, shit, always want your mouth filled."

"Never figured you to be someone who'd get turned on watching their friend sucking their cock like this."

"Doesn't everybody love the sight of their cock in a pretty girl's mouth?

"You were really convinced they weren't lining up behind you? Or anyone in the queue who can't keep their eyes off of this thing. Tell me, and try not to lie, try not to bullshit this one out: how many girls have you come home and fucked and creamed their brains out - then asked for the sloppiest, most -"

"Honestly."

"- Filthiest, nasty, ball-busting, gut-wrenching blowjob ever to make them think - to make them really start wondering what the hell it was you did - like it's gotta be something that leaves them so ruined, they can't ever not compare - can't ever not compare this moment, right here. Ever. When you give them the hardest fucking of their life, compared to any other guy - can't not, because no-one, literally no-one's cock can fuck like you do-"

"Fuck-"

"Any harder. Come on, seriously, tell me it isn't true. Come on."

Her voice - her fucking words, the tone she uses and how her words roll: honey-warm and soaking with sweet, thick degradation - she talks like sex, and that's exactly what gets you harder, like it’s something else; like it’s nothing, like it’s less, so much worse - you feel this guilty-dirty heat pool at your tailbone and push down the hard press of you throbbing all the way to her nose. And Hyeju smiles as much as she's capable around the fat, round stretch, humming around the warm taste of you, before opening wide and sinking her throat on it.

There's nothing like it.

You've got two fists in her hair; she's so tight and wet around every god-damn inch. Her cheeks flush - hot to the touch; her tongue laving in slow, long drags, slicking your shaft nice and warm until you're balls-deep and pushing her further: a small shift to the hips, a push here, a harder, faster pull, and Hyeju's feet behind her go curling like an angry cat, wanting the tug.

A long, satisfied breath slips from the hollows of her throat.

There are tears threatening, thickening her lashes, and though she doesn't choke - you're just afraid. Every sound that she pulls out, her eyes blinking up to you as if it's only natural to love getting used by her friend's cock, like the very premise of it - swallowing down the very shape of you, dragged over her tongue and brushing cum into the back of her throat - is something she can’t go without.

But this is nothing compared to the noises from where her lips are pressed tight around you, where you're hearing and even feeling:

That gluck, gluck - where her chest spasms just the slightest when her nose gets nuzzled right into your belly and you remember how much she likes to hear you talk dirty, how fucking wet it gets her. The heavy, deep breaths, gasps; the strangled moans when your hips just buck - the heat and the thrill, and this is better than every other time because there's just something in this moment -

"I'm not gonna come again, not like this. Not in your mouth. You can’t-"

But Hyeju refuses to hear a word; just pumps your shaft faster, feeling it's familiar hardness grow and throb and ache and retch, all her effort paying off: you're slick with precum and spit, hard and straining, the whole shaft begging for release - all because of her. And Hyeju won't stop, she pushes her cheek onto your thigh and then taps a hand there to pull your hips. The motion drives your cock further still inside her. Until it’s bathed in her spit, your cum, all this mess.

Until it's reaching, choking her, and the muffled sounds she's making are filthy and wet and so incredulously hot.

But god. Hyeju has something of a temper and a habit, too: with those big beautiful eyes and the perfect plump of her pouting lips, her tits swelling up around, when your grip slips on her shoulder, and her mouth goes tighter - how the pleasure begins to make you unbearably cruel and you push her away from you, only for a second -

She doesn't wait or seem to care; Hyeju follows the cock with her whole head and whimpers so hotly in her throat when it plops right back on her tongue. "That's more - more like - fuck, oh, there we go," her nose and fingers prodding.

You groan through a high, strangled whimper, a helpless shiver that turns into an uncontrollable roll of the hips - you can't believe it: she's already so thoroughly debauched and defaced; just fucking painted with it. Your cum dripping off her chin and rolling down her neck.

"Fuck - gonna make me - ah, Jesus -"

When Hyeju seems to have reached her fill, the feeling, you're cumming - pumping the length of your shaft. And the moment she feels you twitch and throb and that first hot spill lands in the bend of her mouth, it's as if she understands and holds herself tight - her legs going stock-still while your eyes blow up behind her, your cock spewing another and then another thick, milky load into her mouth, over her tongue: all along the topography of her throat - sticky cum landing in every ridge and valley -

Hyeju catches as much as she can. What little she can. You cum and pump and gush so much that when you're finally finished - done - every last drop spent and given - your cock throbs soft between her fingers; her chin is a complete and utter mess and her chest heaves with the sound of her catching her own breath. Hyeju groans softly and just swishes the load around in her mouth for a bit as if wanting to remember its feel and weight before lifting her eyes to look into yours. You can just barely see the color.

"Jesus, Hyeju-"

The entire bit of it, slick and shining-wet. With a small moan, a sound from the back of her throat: one swallow and the cum is gone, disappeared, vanished. She smiles like she didn't just ruin your entire goddamn life and, with her body limp and exhausted beside you - her gentle hand rubbing a flat stroke over your thigh before yours slips up to meet her chin.

"You," you curse and roll your eyes, catching the mess at the edge of her jaw, the very little left in the corners of her lips. You feed the cum over her bottom lip - her chin, her throat - watching your friend: Hyeju's throat, bobbing. "Really didn't have to," you start, but you realize just how useless a point it is to make.

She's smiling and biting and showing you what's left between the tips of her canines. "Do you always do this to the people who suck you off?"

"That's an awful habit. A pretty girl's lips aren't meant to get that messy," you reply.

"Oh." She frowns. "Well, I do a lot of things I shouldn't."

"God, seriously," and you think there's no greater hell, no sweeter pain than whatever's lingering in these little aftershocks - this fizzling and dying sort of pain, where the body is buzzed with all you're aching for. It's impossible to stop this train of thoughts, is the fucking feeling of her-

But just then, Hyeju rises to her knees, a new spark in her eyes, as she grabs ahold of your wrist and tugs you off the sheets, a few inches closer.

"And you," she purrs as she drags the palm of your hand across her neck and collarbone, collecting what remains and making the perfect image, "well - you are going to help clean me up, like you said before." She sits tall; the arch of her spine is pronounced - her back, so, very, slightly tapering, to where your hand slips right off the last of it: the wide flare of her hips. "Now isn't that the gentleman's thing to do?" she asks.

"Of course." You sigh, resigned and in desperate need of water. "Of course," you add and smirk a little and slip your hand lower, toward where her skin is getting hot, and her body, "let's get you clean."

"Mm." She's already grinning. "You know what wasn't in those textbooks?"

"Oh, I can only guess." You bite your cheek and start to lower yourself back. "Give it a try."

Hyeju drags you by the wrist toward the hall, the bathroom, ostensibly the shower -

"There's no way in hell you don't want to put a baby in me, like, right fucking now."

"Is that what we're doing?"

Hyeju makes a face like you're stupid - she might've grabbed a towel on the way out. She wipes her chin a little while walking - the corner of her mouth where, well - where it looks like a little dribble has somehow remained. "No. But you’re going to fuck me like it is."

(There's got so much on her mind.

The door of the shower rattling in its frame as she struggles standing up against it. Getting fucked so fast and full, the feeling of both your hands cupped beneath the weight of her breasts. It's not the fact of where you are and your situation, per say - more about the immediate, the imperative nature. About fucking you. She was already feeling herself like, leaking the moment the door shut, so all that waiting, all that patience, really - and it's what drove her insane when you were, well: like that, after she put her mouth around your cock, made a right and proper mess of herself, and sucked you off.

Though there's less on her mind, clearly, when she cums all over your cock.

She's crying with her tits up onto the glass, your palm holding her ribs. Your cum-slick cock working itself hard again as it slips, back and forth, as you're fucking her open, spread apart. It's your finger in her asshole. That's what's on her mind then. How the press of your knuckle lights her entire fucking spine on fire - how the other hand finds her clit in all this, too, when you're no longer supporting the both of you but rather Hyeju is folding on her bent knee and trusting, on shaking and shivering, raw nerves, that you're not going to collapse.

"Fucking. God, please-"

There's the harsh slap of flesh - skin on wet skin, your palms against the sides of her ass and the curve of the breast. But otherwise - it's you, sighing - soft and gentle, like you can't get over the feel of her. "Hyeju, oh-fucking, god, fucking," is what you're saying, and it doesn't end up really mattering which one of you came last because she can feel you twitching, squelching in and out with how badly you're wanting to explode inside, but also you can feel her cunt absolutely begging, this fucking fluttering and clamping down on every thrust and the moment you manage to grind this angle she loses her ability to speak properly because you're not just, like - fucking her-

Just, absolutely, completely pounding her pussy, stretching her insides, dragging and sliding along the walls; each rough rub and thrust makes her knees quiver until her body is trembling and falling. But mostly her voice, the sharp gasp that shakes into her, how her nails are scraping the walls of the shower stall and she's saying - telling, crying and asking and wondering and pleading - just utterly astounded:

"Amazing," she huffs, breathes coming out cloudy and true onto the pane of glass, "you - it’s, fucking amazing.")

“And I am… Ironman.”

Your eyes flicker awake, hazy, as Tony Stark snaps his fingers, killing himself alongside Thanos’ army in the process.

The TV's long been running on background noise, though not as ambient. Its characters now bickering between the rubble and ruins and being picked up for the end credits. In the dark of the screen, you see Hyeju had nodded off and slumped over the side of your body. A new year means new beginning means resolutions and diets and gym routines -

Maybe no sooner than the sun can come up, apparently.

You lean over to grab your phone from the table: 4:14 A.M.

There's a lot of things you want to say, even more you want to hear, but your mind has begun to settle a bit - a lazy and dreamy thing that fills you with this sort of, tired kind of - not sad, or empty - no, of course not. That's hardly fitting; not after tonight. You want to wrap this in an idealistic sort of sentiment - maybe hold Hyeju close and let the hour carry you and the comfort be enough to forgive whatever there is to miss: like the fact, it's still really dark, so dark even outside. The moon reflecting off the sheet of snow on the street. And not even a distant dog barking, or car driving by or someone playing loud music in the early hours of the new year.

As the film drifts off into another set of commercials, you slip into an easy sleep that feels effortless. Your head drops, landing on the cushion by the arm of the couch, where Hyeju's hand begins to slip mindlessly across your belly, tickling your waist and causing you to slightly squirm - things are cooling down, but still a little agitated.

"Don't tell me you're waking me up, cause I just -"

She kisses the pulse at your throat and answers, mumbling half-words into the spot below your ear. "A kiss for a new year."

And maybe the world doesn't owe you anything at all.

Maybe it just gave you more than enough.

#hyeju smut #loona smut #loona hyeju smut #loossemble smut #loossemble hyeju smut #olivia hye smut #loona olivia hye smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

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pomefioredove · 5 months

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heyyy! i really love your writing🥹🥹 btw can i request a hc with riddle and jamil (separated) with gn!reader who’s very lazy and they have a test and only study the morning before the test? but somehow pass?? i wanna see their reaction

anyway sorry if i made any mistakes, this is my very first request and english is not my first language😔 it’s fine if you can’t do it!!

-🎲

no worries! this is a great request, their reactions would be very funny

summary: reader miraculously passes a test they last-minute studied for type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, jamil additional info: platonic or romantic, reader is not specified to be yuu, reader is gender neutral, not proofread

Jamil knew that it wasn't his place to judge

after all, being raised with the al-Asims, he'd been taught to keep his bitter thoughts to himself

but something about your carelessness reminded him all too much of Kalim

...okay... maybe you weren't exactly partying, or spacing out, but your complete lack of conviction is almost identical

and, so, Jamil decides to give you a word of advice the day before the big exam

"Worried about tomorrow's History of Magic test?"

he even gives you a big smile, trying to play it off as a casual question

you shrug. "Eh, not really,"

"If I were you, I'd be a little more concerned. The grading system is very strict at NRC,"

and with that, he's gone

his sly remark, spoken as if in friendly conversation, leaves him feeling a little more satisfied with himself

he doesn't even feel irked when Kalim nearly sleeps through the test, or when he forgets his notes, or when he absent-mindedly reads the questions aloud during...

in fact, Jamil is quite confident that in any case, you'll do much worse than Kalim, which saves the both of them

after the exam scores are posted in the hall, you find him

"What did you get?"

Jamil hates answering these kinds of questions, especially knowing that he could be in the top of the class if he was allowed to try. "Passing. And you?"

"Well..." you smile. "I really thought about what you said, so I studied this morning."

Jamil's sour mood at his own score seems to lighten

you studied the morning of the exam? oh, this was going to be rich

"...And I got full marks!"

...what.

you show him the paper and it takes all his strength to keep his usual poker face

otherwise, his jaw would drop

"How did... how?"

you shrug. "Good study plan, I guess,"

"Hmph," he crosses his arms. "Well, then... you'll have to come tutor Kalim sometime. What works for you must work for him,"

Riddle spends the entire week pestering you about studying

"I just don't feel like it," you groan

goodness. you sound just like that terrible Floyd...

"It's not a matter of want, it's a matter of need. This exam counts for a significant amount of your grade!"

"Eh... I'll just wing it,"

wing it?! oh, now you've really done it

"Consider yourself lucky for not being a part of Heartslabyul. I would have your head for that!"

and then he storms out. how graceful!

when he sees you the following afternoon, that calm, unbothered look of yours is still on your face. it drives him mad

"If I were you, I'd be praying," he says. he's almost smug about it

Riddle earns full points on every exam- it's just a given. he's sure that the two of you will be on polar opposites of the grade spectrum once the results are posted

you shrug. "Yeah, about that... I thought about what you said, and decided that I don't want to have to retake this class. So I studied this morning,"

he almost smirks. "One last-minute cram won't be enough to raise your grade above failing, I'm afraid. But perhaps this will serve as a lesson, next time you-"

Riddle stops dead in his tracks as Trein posts the exam results on the wall behind you

his eyes widen

"Full... full marks?! We're in the same percent!? How is that possible?!"

You chuckle as his face goes all red, both frustrated and flustered

"Hey, you should count this as a victory for yourself. You give great advice,"

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #jamil viper x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #queued #🎲

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celandeline · 5 months

Text

As Far As You Want

Carl Grimes X Reader [part one]

Which is how you end up looking down at Carl’s flushed face amidst the pillows of his bed, gently brushing his bangs from his face with one hand and tilting his head with the other. Slowly, carefully, with enough time to let him stop you if he wanted, you move the bandage covering his eye, sliding it off his head and placing it on the nightstand. He doesn’t protest, but you feel his hands twitch against where he’s holding onto your hips.

Underneath is exactly what you expected, and you smile, running your thumb over the bumpy scar tissue just below the socket. His face scrunches at the touch.

“Stop that.” You say.

“You don’t have to pretend- we can put the bandage back on-”

“It’s like you haven’t been listening to me this whole time.” You interrupt him.

“I’ve seen it - it’s gross-”

“And I’m telling you that I don’t care, and that I think you’re pretty anyway.” You say. “It’s just a physical representation of how badass you are.”

That gets him to smile a little. “Sure. But you’re badass too, and you don't have any scars.”

“None that you’ve seen.” You say. You hoist yourself up from where you’d planted yourself on his stomach, and start to shuck your pants off.

Carl props himself up on his elbows. “What are you doing?”

You kick your pants fully off, and turn, revealing the long scar that trails up the side of your thigh from when you’d gotten stabbed with a piece of steel rebar. It’s by no means pretty - the skin is bumpy and uneven, discolored from the scar tissue, and in some places, bubbled up and loose. You watch Carl’s eye sweep up and down your leg.

“How-?”

“Rebar.” You say, simply. “Hurt like a bitch to pull out.”

“You pulled it out yourself?”

“God no, I would have bled out.” You say, climbing back onto the bed with him, retaking your place perched on his stomach. “Aaron had found me by then - saved my ass.”

His hand wanders to your thigh again, and you let him gently trail his fingers up the length of the scar. You can’t feel it all the way - some spots are number than others - but it's nice. His eye flicks back up to yours. “It’s kinda cool looking.”

You shrug. “Not as cool as yours.”

Finally he acquiesces. “I guess.”

You smile, and lean down so that your noses are almost brushing together. “So you finally admit that you’re the prettiest boy in the whole world?”

“I didn’t say that.” He says.

“I did.” You say.

He purses his lips. “The whole world?”

“To me.” You say. “You’re the prettiest boy in the whole world to me.”

The redness returns to his face, and spreads down his neck too. “Shut up.”

“Never.” You grin. “Not when you get all-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence before his hands are sliding up from your thighs to fist into the sides of your shirt, pulling you down to him. You gasp, and then he’s kissing you, letting his grip in your shirt go lax in favor of holding you to his chest. You don’t hesitate to kiss him back around the smile growing on your lips - you’d have told him how pretty he was months ago if you’d known it would lead to this.

The blush is still there when you pull back. You smile, and he smiles back, a little sheepish. “Sorry.”

“For what?” You laugh.

“Just,” He gestures, grabbing you. “I should have asked.”

“‘S okay.” You say, leaning back in so that your lips just brush over his. “Can I kiss you again?”

“Please.” He whispers.

You crush your lips to his, bringing a hand up to caress the side of his face, gently sweeping your thumb over the scar tissue along his cheek again. You feel one of his hands slide back down to your scar, gently squeezing your thigh. It’s a little surreal, to have him under you like this, with his lips moving against yours as he deepens the kiss, licking into your mouth. It feels like a wet dream come true.

You pull back just far enough to speak. “Carl?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to fuck?”

He’s quiet for a minute, and you worry that you totally ruined the mood until he exhales heavily. “Fuck.” He says, a little breathy. “Really?”

You giggle against his lips. “Yeah, really.” You press another quick kiss to his mouth before pulling back to look at him. “You can say no if you don’t want to- I won’t be offended. Promise.”

“No, no I want to, but, I’ve just…” He trails off.

“You’ve just..?”

“Never. Before.”

“Really?” You’re a little surprised. “Not even with Enid when you guys were together?”

He shakes his head, a little sheepish. “She didn’t, um. The eye was too much for her.”

You caress that side of his face again, and lean down to press a kiss right on the edge of the socket. “I like it.” You say, trailing your lips from the bumpy scar tissue down the side of his face until you can nip at his earlobe.

A shiver runs up his spine, and his fingers dig into the skin of your hips. “Fuck. Okay. Yeah. Lets-”

You attach your lips to his neck with a smile, gently biting at the pale skin there. Even just that elicits a sharp breath from him, and his hands twitch against you. He turns his head, nosing into your hair as he shifts under you. It really feels like a wet dream come true when he knocks his hips into yours and you can feel the hard-on he’s been hiding.

“Oh.” You say, detaching yourself from his neck.

“What?” He already sounds debauched, just from this. If you just kissing his face and neck can get him sounding all breathy, you have no idea what he’s going to sound like when you actually get him inside of you.

“You should take your pants off.” You say, moving from your place sat on his stomach to let him out from under you.

“Right.” He says, gaze falling to your thighs as he undoes his belt, quickly shucking his jeans off and tossing them to the foot of the bed. You let your gaze sweep down his legs, and then back up to his hard-on. “These too, or..?” He thumbs at the waistband of his boxers, looking at you.

You still have your own underwear on, despite your lack of pants, and you quickly peel them off, tossing them in the same direction as Carl’s pants. “Yeah.” You say, feeling heat gather at the base of your stomach. You reach down to fumble through the pockets of your own pants you left on the floor, and pull out a single, slightly crumpled, condom.

When you sit back up, Carl’s boxers are gone and his blush is back in full force. You take a moment to soak in the sight of him before crawling back over to him and pressing the condom into his hand. “Here.”

“You just carry one around?” He asks, inspecting the foil package.

“You never know.” You grin.

Gingerly, he rips into the foil and takes the condom out, turning it over with his fingers. “I don’t…”

You take it from him, checking to make sure the right side is out, and scoot down the bed towards Carl’s dick. Gently, with your eyes on his face, you grip him by the base and roll the condom down. He sucks in a breath, and his hands twitch again.

“You’ve done this before?” He asks.

“Yeah.” You say, positioning yourself so you’re straddling his legs, and sliding one hand up his side to ruck his shirt up, revealing his stomach. “Enid wouldn’t have sex with Ron either.”

He laughs, but it turns into a moan when you lick a long stripe up his stomach as you crawl up his body. You brush your hips over his, eyes scanning his face as he looks up at you. For good measure, you press a kiss to his eye socket, and then kiss under his working eye as well.

He slips his hands underneath your shirt, holding your waist as you rise up onto your knees. You place one hand on his chest, and reach the other behind you to line him up. Just his tip brushing against the inside of your thigh is enough to have a little breath leave his lips. Enraptured, you watch his face as you sink down on him, grinning at the way his breath hitches and his grip turns bruising.

“Shit.” He breathes.

You lean down, planting your elbows on either side of his face, smiling. “Good?”

“Yeah.” He says, tiltling his head up to catch your lips in a kiss. “Really good.”

Sitting back up, you begin to roll your hips, watching his stomach flatten as he sucks in a breath. You move his hands from where they’re holding onto your waist, instead placing them on your hips, letting him guide your movements. His fingers dig into your skin, and his hips start to kick up into yours as he tips his head back into the pillows.

Slowly, you pick up the pace, planting your own hands on his chest for leverage as you start to bounce. Carl’s breath begins to come in pants as you work yourself up and down, and his eye flutters shut. “Fuck.” His voice is breathy, bordering on a whine. He sounds utterly wrecked, and you’ve only just started.

“God,” You say, your own breathing starting to pick up. “You are so pretty, it’s unfair.” He looks almost angelic, his hair feathered out amongst the pillows, face screwed up with pleasure as you ride him.

He groans, low in the back of this throat. “Shut up-”

“Why?” You tease, leaning down to get in his face again. “You like it or something?”

“Yes, fucking- I like it, okay? Too much.”

You can’t help the smile that breaks out across your face. Finally. Finally, after all the needling and poking and trading scars, he’s done protesting. Finally, he can accept that he’s the most beautiful boy on the planet (at least in your mind), and enjoy it. You press your lips to his, not bothering to wait before sweeping your tongue into his mouth. He moans around the kiss, and his hands twitch against your hips again.

Pulling back from the kiss, you bury your face in the crook of his neck, letting your lips trail over the shell of his ear as you keep bouncing your hips against his. Despite his asking you to shut up, you decidedly do not, instead whispering every dirty thought that crosses your mind right into his ear. You could talk about how gorgeous he is and how good he feels for hours - but you won’t have to, because you can tell he’s getting close. And, to be frank, you are too.

He’s stopped saying actual words, only a string of breathy whines leaving his mouth every time he opens his lips. You sit back up, feeling the heat pool in your own stomach, and plant your hands on his chest again, riding him with everything you have. You could slap him across the face and he’d probably bust at this point, so you focus on your own pleasure.

In the end, it doesn’t take long for you to tip yourself over the edge, between the way you’re working yourself up and down his dick, and how beautiful he looks under you. Carl barely holds out longer than you, his hips knocking into yours twice before he lets out a long groan, and stills.

For a moment, you just sit there, catching your breath, watching as Carl does the same. There’s a hazy sort of smile at the corners of his lips, and his hands gently caress your hips now, petting the skin.

“Thanks.” He says. You get the sense that he’s talking about more than the sex.

“Of course. Anytime.” You say. And you mean it.

#carl grimes #carl grimes smut #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes x you #twd #the walking dead #twd smut

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circusinthewalls · 5 months

Text

Semi-NSFW Poly 141 Ramblings - MDNI, AGELESS BLOGS DNI [Masterlist]

Admittedly, you're not really one for drinking. Too picky, maybe, or simply too busy to have much of an idea for what you actually like. You wouldn't dare miss a night out to celebrate a successful mission, though, so here you sit.

You have your drink cradled in your lap, idly tracing the edges of the sweating glass while you watch Gaz absolutely wipe the floor with Soap in a game of pool. Price is watching, too, from where he's sat on your left, and you can feel his chest rumble with a low chuckle against your side when Johnny loses yet again. A shame, honestly. Who knew Gaz was so good at the game?

You hum and take another sip of your drink, eyes flickering over to the side when Ghost slides back into the curved booth. He retakes his place on your right now that he's got his second whiskey in hand. You eye him for a moment as he hikes up his balaclava just enough to take a drink, but then your gaze is forward again.

Johnny is moping, unsurprisingly. He trots off, briefly exiting your private room to get himself another shot at the bar.

While Kyle is setting up the pool table for what feels like the hundredth time your captain turns his attention to you, pulling you a little closer against him, thumb hooking beneath your waistband to stroke over your hip. You're a tad buzzed, mellowed out by what you've had of your alcohol, but the touch isn't unwelcome. Leaning back further into him, you rest your head against his shoulder, casting a questioning glance up in his direction.

"What, bug?" he asks.

Your eyes crinkle at the affectionate nickname, but you just shrug.

"You're the one staring," you mutter, to which he laughs.

"'Spose so." He leans down, brushing his forehead with yours. "Just checkin' on ya."

When his lips meet yours, you can taste the bitterness of whatever hard cider he's been drinking and initially grimace. Tastes like shit, but then his tongue pushes into your mouth, and you don't seem to care anymore.

Price gives a satisfied groan at the way you practically melt. He sets down his drink, instead using the now free hand to grope at your thigh, tugging a bit in between squeezes like he's debating pulling you into his lap. You can only whine into the kiss, lost in it all.

That is until Simon's voice pierces the fog in your mind.

"Fuckin' hell, save some for the rest of us."

Kyle chuckles, cutting in from across the room.

"Can't even make it back to the hotel," he comments, "and leaving poor Johnny out, too."

Price reluctantly pulls away to speak, but his hands don't cease their movements.

"Never said we couldn't share."

Well fuck. Maybe tonight would be better than you'd expected.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Blehhh, sorry for any typos and whatnot. It's late and I didn't feel like proofreading.

Will probably write up a short part two for this in the morning, but that will be proper smut. Do be on the lookout if interested? Feel free to ask to be tagged, too. o7

Writing not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or to use with AI technologies.

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synchodai · 1 month

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Hello I am here to ask you about……….

The hour of the wolf.

🐺🐺

Okay, so! The Hour of the Wolf....hahahaha, you asked for this.

war has no meaning, but how we come to peace does

So war is meaningless, right? At least, that's what Fire and Blood depicts The Dance as — a cycle of violence that destroys everything and everyone that gets trapped in its vortex. We, as a society, have moved on (hopefully) from the concept of the dictator whose unchecked, absolute power is fine for them to have because they are just inherently more righteous and better than any human being. Narratives about powerful heros waging just and righteous wars are looked at with reasonable suspicion and are often decried as propaganda.

"We were king’s men, knights, and heroes . . . but some knights are dark and full of terror, my lady. War makes monsters of us all. " - Thoros of Myr, AFFC

We have all agreed that in war, everyone ultimately ends up the loser and the biggest losers are those who had no hand in starting this in this first place. At least, that's very clearly the narrative of the Dance, right?

Alright, so if war is meaningless, then where do we find meaning? Well, whenever I read any story or book about war, the most important and constructive part is always in how the author or historian chooses to resolve it. Because the natural inertia of a wheel demands that it keep spinning forever — it takes an active choice and will to power to break a cycle, come to a resolution, and stop it. Yes, the war is meaningless, but how it ends isn't.

With that premise in mind, this is why the Hour of the Wolf and Aegon III's Regency is my most read, analyzed, and beloved parts of Fire and Blood. Only the Hour of the Wolf takes place during the civil war of the Dance, so let's focus on that.

the hour of the wolf

A (not so) quick summary for those who haven't read or don't remember this part:

After the Battle of the Kingsroad, the Tully black-aligned forces overcome the Baratheon green-aligned forces when the Baratheon army underestimates their foe (for being made of women and young boys) and gets betrayed by the Crownlanders who were part of their van. When the Tully army arrives in King's Landing, they find that do not need to retake it because Aegon II is dead. Aegon III has been betrothed to Jaehaera and declared the presumptive monarch. This ushers in a period known as The False Dawn, where the city and the black-aligned armies celebrate, believing they have won and that the war is over.

That is until Cregan Stark arrives with his army of northmen and ushers in The Hour of the Wolf (the darkest hour of the night in Westerosi time-telling). He easily seizes control of the city because he has the biggest army and he's the most senior commander at 23. That should tell you something about the state of this war when literal children are leading armies. Without Cregan, this is the person who would be your highest ranking officer:

(In the books, Kermit Tully is 19 and Oscar Tully is 13. Kermit leads the Riverland armies in F&B.)

Cregan is like, "Children, this isn't over."

Who told you the war was done? The Clubfoot? The Snake? Why, because they wish it done? Because you won your little victory in the mud? Wars end when the defeated bend the knee and not before. Has Oldtown yielded? Has Casterly Rock returned the Crown’s gold? You say you mean to marry the prince to the king’s daughter, yet she remains at Storm’s End, beyond your reach. So long as she remains free and unwed, what is to stop Baratheon’s widow from crowning the girl queen, as Aegon’s heir? - Cregan Stark, F&B

He's aggressive and being a bully about it, but...it's a logical course of action given what kind of person he is and the world he exists in. Yes, Westeros was dangerously close to having more people die in a pointless war because of Cregan Stark, but that's a feature, not a bug of his character and what he represents (which I WILL go into great detail later). It is very important to the themes of this story that someone like Cregan Stark exists and that war isn't wrapped up with a victorious battle and a neat little bow.

For now, King's Landing starts to fall into despair and turmoil once again when people find out that war might not be over after all.

With the infallibility of hindsight, we now look back through the centuries and say the Dance was done, but this seemed less certain to those who lived through its dark and dangerous aftermath. - Maester Gyldayn, F&B

Luckily, the peace efforts made during The False Dawn are actually well-received not by the lords, their armies, or their commanders — but by their widowed wives. One by one, green-aligned Houses begin to come to King's Landing to negotiate and accept terms peace, and this was only possible because the lords fighting the war are dead and their widows are godsdamned tired and just want to put their own lands to rights. The final nail in Cregan Stark's plan to restart the war effort comes when Jeyne Arryn arrives with Rhaena Targaryen and her newly-hatched dragon, Morning.

The smallfolk of King’s Landing, who not a year before had slaughtered every dragon in the city, now became rapturous at the sight of one. Lady Rhaena and her twin sister, Baela, became the darlings of the city overnight. Lord Stark could not confine them to the castle, as he had Prince Aegon, and he soon learned that he could not control them either. - Maester Gyldayn, F&B

The Three Widows, the Maiden of the Vale, and the Dragon Twins absolutely wreck Cregan's control of the city. Big strong northman suddenly finds that being the biggest man with the biggest stick isn't enough to control the city — and it is delicious. For all Cregan's characterization that he is this harsh, unforgiving, and unyielding warrior, the women cow him not by playing his game of swords or aggression, but by their willingness to lay down arms. Rhaena doesn't arrive with a dragon to assert her power and threaten people with it, but instead uses it as a symbol of hope. After the darkest hour, the hour of the wolf, comes Morning.

This is when I fell in love with Fire and Blood.

judgement of the wolf: no truce with the fur(r)ies

Okay, fine, so our foes have decided to willingly lay down their arms. What are we supposed to do with all these weapons, the men we specifically brainwashed and traumatized to die in war, and the many many crimes left unanswered? SUCH A GOOD QUESTION. A quandary that we still struggle with in our 21st century. Reparations, whomst?

Here are the answers F&B gives. The weapons? Well, they're mostly decommissioned or in the process of being decommissioned. Dragons will no longer be a problem. The men? Marry them to widows that need a strong arm and have them rebuilding homes and fields. The crimes? Well...

We have to tackle the question of what justice looks like in a world where people are forced to commit violence on one another. Killing your fellow man during times of peace is treated very differently from killing your fellow man on the battlefield. When everyone's hands are stained with blood, who is left to mete righteous judgment and punishment to those who have sinned?

This fucking idiot, that's who.

Okay, that was a joke — I don't think Cregan Stark is a complete idiot or that it should be an idiot who does the judging, else GRRM would have made Mushroom do the sentencing.

But what he is, however, is somewhat of an outsider. He is a Westerosi lord paramount who has grown up with their feudal system and common laws, but he is also severely out of place in the King's Landing court because he is from the North. And the North has a very different way of dispensing justice than the south. It's no coincidence that it's the Warden of the North who takes on this task, not only presiding over the trials, but also being the executioner himself.

The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die. … A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is. - Eddard Stark, AGOT

All the lord paramounts agree with the need to enact justice. It's their primary job as feudal lords, but understandably, none of the lords who have been embroiled in the many, many years of civil war want more blood on their hands.

On one point Lord Cregan remained adamant, however; the king’s killers must not go unpunished. Unworthy as King Aegon II might have been, his murder was high treason, and those responsible must answer for it. So fierce was his demeanor, so unyielding, that the others gave way before him. “Let it be on your head, Stark,” Kermit Tully said. “I want no part of this, but I will not have it said that Riverrun stood in the way of justice.” - Maester Gyldayn, F&B

Everyone in Westeros has a feudal conception of justice — very Code of Hammurabi, eye for an eye, "the higher you are on the social totem pole the less harsh your penalties," "it is the order of things" kind of thing. But the North has a less romanticized and more utilitarian view of justice. Ned speaks of it as a duty to sentence a man to death. They remember and keep to oaths, even when circumstances have drastically changed. So things like compassion, leniency, and mercy? Why, those get in the way of duty, don't they?

The north is hard and cold, and has no mercy, Ned had told her when she first came to Winterfell a thousand years ago. - Catelyn Stark, AGOT

To get classical, biblical even, an ideal Northern Lord is depicted to be this impartial, cold, and relentless hand of justice, unable to be swayed by love, pity, or glory, like Zeus calling down lightning on sinners as punishment. Except Cregan Stark is not Zeus. He's more like the furies — a powerful, single-minded force of nature who cannot be stopped from exacting righteous vengeance to those who have done indiscriminate evil. And to this day, some do still idealize that form of justice where every thief must be given the same punishment regardless of circumstance of context.

Again, this is why I love Cregan Stark and why I think he is such an important character on a thematic level. Because he represents the "old way" and a male power fantasy of how to win a war where all the evil-doers are either slain indiscriminately or forced to submit by the unquestionably honorable strong man who stayed true to his word to the very end.

And he's shown to be EXTREMELY out of his depth. You cannot plead with a force of nature; there can be no truce with the furies — but the furies do answer to gods. And who are the gods that move and stay Cregan Stark's hand?

the trial of corlys is the trial of westeros

Before we answer that questions, let's set up the trial and examine what's at stake.

These three are the big players who are accused of the most grievous crime of high treason, and they all represent an aspect of Westeros. Orwyle is a stand-in for the smallfolk. He did what he had to, mostly on the orders of others. Larys represents the low/upstart nobility who have been kept under the boot of the royals and who have rebelled against their wishes to assert their autonomy. Corlys represents the high/established nobility, also pushing for his own advancement but through a reinforcement of the status quo.

Orwyle is banished, sent to the Wall, but ultimately treated with leniency (by Tyland Lannister, not Cregan Stark). Larys refuses the offer of being sent to the Wall and chooses to be executed instead, extinguishing House Strong (the true upstart usurper house imho, not the Hightowers). Corlys is pardoned.

(Judgement of the Wolf by Ertaç Altınöz)

Let's focus on Corlys's verdict, because that's the one that baffles the historians and characters in the book.

Corlys is a key character throughout the Dance because he is arguably the only character that serves as the running thread all the way to the Council of Harrenhal to 101 AC to Aegon III's regency. He is the only character who has served as witness to everything, and he is arguably the guy who planted the seed of the civil war.

As far as Westerosi nobility goes, Corlys is nouveau riche. He didn't inherit his wealth like most lords; he made it through his Nine Voyages, going so far to surpassed House "We Have Literal Gold Mines" Lannister in terms of sheer wealth. Corlys was this close to becoming a king. If common law were followed and Jaehaerys didn't pass over Rhaenys, Corlys would have achieved social mobility the likes Westeros has never seen without using bigger army diplomacy. It's the closest this extremely rigid hierarchy can get to a rags to riches story, honestly. In other words, Corlys represented a new order where any bloodline could theoretically sit on the throne.

And so, in order to prevent that, we come to the original sin of the Dance. Jaehaerys passes over Rhaenys for Baelon. That leads to the nobles passing Laenor over for Viserys. Which leads to Aegon II being passed over for Rhaenyra. And this all snowballs into the Dance. All of that arguably because Rhaenys married Corlys instead of one of her Targaryen cousins or brothers.

Whether green or black, Corlys represents the nobility asserting their growing influence over the ruling dynasty and the decisions they made to further undermine their monarch's power to advance the prestige of their own House. This is not to say Corlys is evil, but that he is simply what all highborn strive towards — power, wealth, and influence. Corlys is Westeros moving forward, past the need to rely on the Targaryens for power and security.

Viewed in the most charitable way, Corlys and nobility like him werw a check and balance to the power of the monarchy, a promise of social mobility — something indeed necessary for the good of the realm. Viewed in the least charitable way, Corlys is an opportunistic traitor who allowed their liege to fall to ruin.

Lord Velaryon did not attempt to deny his guilt. “What I did, I did for the good of the realm,” the old man said. “I would do the same again. The madness had to end.” - Maester Gyldayn, F&B

Cregan Stark, snow-addled and hailing from an ancient heritage who values pacts and order, does not view him charitably. Using cold laws of the world they themselves built and live in, Corlys admitted to treason and treason is to be punished with death.

But to execute Corlys is to punish a person who built himself from the ground up, who is a repository of knowledge and foreign experiences, was the reason Rhaenyra and her claim ever stood a chance, was the person who sued and arranged for this peace, and acted primarily for the good of his House and family. There's also the very real danger that executing such a powerful man would start a whole new war, causing Alyn Velaryon to rebel against the Starks and the crown.

And so, a lot of people argue against the decision. But the cold furies were once again stayed by the wisdom and restraint of women.

jace, baela, & black aly: pretty words that can topple mighty oaks

The justice and fury Cregan Stark rains down is ultimately because he has been summoned by a greater authority in this war — otherwise, my man would have stayed in the North. And who moves mountains, who summons this force of nature, who calls upon this winter storm?

Two years past, Cregan Stark had made a promise to Prince Jacaerys. Now he had come to make good his pledge [...] - Maester Gyldayn, F&B

IF YOU THOUGHT I WOULDN'T MAKE THIS ABOUT JACEGAN, YOU ARE SORELY MISTAKEN. STRAP IN, FOLKS, WE'RE GOING DEEP.

“What is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?” “Everything.” - Stannis & Davos, ASOS

Jace's bastardy is the driving force of this war — he is the fruit of Rhaenyra being named heir (necessitating her marriage to Laenor) and he is the reason why it begins (Aegon II only being convinced to challenge his sister because of her heir's bastardy).

Only when Ser Criston convinced him that the princess must surely execute him and his brothers should she don the crown did Aegon waver. “Whilst any trueborn Targaryen yet lives, no Strong can ever hope to sit the Iron Throne,” Cole said. “Rhaenyra has no choice but to take your heads if she wishes her bastards to rule after her.” It was this, and only this, that persuaded Aegon to accept the crown [...] - Septon Eustace, F&B

Jace is disruption of the established order writ small. He is both born a crime and a prince. So we know where most characters stand whether they have an agenda of supporting bastards and other slightly "outsider" nobles (see: women, second sons, etc.) to hold power or they have the opposite agenda of wanting it to be strictly traditional.

But for some reason, Jace being a bastard or disruption of the social order doesn't play a part in Cregan's decision to ally with him at all. The Lord of Winterfell is offered three things: friendship, a pact sealed in blood, and a betrothal to a daughter who does not exist. He does what he does based solely on a promise of a person long dead. This boy must be god for he commanded a force of nature solely by the strength of his word.

“Words are wind,” says The Testimony of Mushroom, “but a strong wind can topple mighty oaks, and the whispering of pretty girls can change the destiny of kingdoms.” - Maester Gyldayn, F&B

What exact words Cregan and Jace, we'll never know.

But we do know what other characters do say to Cregan to get him to stay his hand. There are only two people that manage to do this. The first is Baela Targaryen who was Jace's cousin, step-sister, childhood friend, and betrothed.

Lady Baela brandished a sword and declared that she would cut off the hand of any man who sought to harm the men who had saved her, the Wolf of Winterfell smiled for all to see, and allowed that if her ladyship was so fond of these dogs, he would permit her to keep them. - Mushroom, F&B

Baela along with her sister Rhaena plays a huge part in pushing Cregan to pardon Corlys, but the person who closed the deal, saving Westeros from its own destruction, is Black Aly by offering her hand in marriage in exchange for Corlys's life.

“A lean tall creature was this wench,” says the dwarf, “thin as a whip and flat-chested as a boy, but long of leg and strong of arm, with a mane of thick black curls that tumbled down past her waist when loosed.” [...] “She smells of woodsmoke, not of flowers,” Stark told Lord Cerwyn, said to be his closest friend. - Mushroom & Maester Gyldayn, F&B

(A promise of marriage stays Cregan's hand, so the theory is that it was also a promise of marriage that moved him in the first place. Whose marriage? Well, my stance on that is pretty obvious but you all are free to speculate otherwise. Also, Aly being flat-chested like a boy, being Jace's age, having dark curls, and smelling like woodsmoke 👀)

Regardless of my jacegan truther shipping, let's talk themes. Jace is what got Cregan moving, and it is two aspects of Jace that stay his hand. Baela reflects Jace's Valyrian side, his boldness and dragonfire. Black Aly is Jace's First Men side, his dutifulness towards his family and capacity for sacrifice.

love doomed us, love saved us

Reading Fire and Blood, you understand the cycle of violence continues because of grief and the need to avenge loved ones. It only fully spirals into an all-out war once Luke and Jaehaerys are killed. Characters are so motivated to protect and save their families first and foremost that they end up destroying them. Each loss demands more blood.

The grief and rage of losing a child could burn down the world. - Catelyn Stark, Game of Thrones - Histories & Lore: The Dance of Dragons

So...how did this war end? Not with force, not with another victorious battle, and not even with bent knees. The unstoppable force of retribution that we summoned from the white primordial plane that would have prolonged this war and left nothing but scorched earth... stopped because a girl who smelled like woodsmoke offered her hand in marriage? What?

Let's go back to what Thoros said: war makes monsters of us all. Even when motivated by very human emotions like love and grief, ceaseless pain, cruelty, and brutality turn people into animals.

There is a savage beast in every man, and when you hand that man a sword or spear and send him forth to war, the beast stirs. - Jorah Mormont, ASOS

To me, this is the whole point of the Starks and the North. Fans think Starks are "honorable," which sure, they can be...but not in the same way knights are. The North doesn't have a code of chivalry — that's an Andal thing. First Men are honorable in the same way a winter storm is honorable. Winter doesn't discrimimate and it comes for us all, but there's no humanity in its retribution. The world northerners live in is incredibly cold and harsh, so they must harden themselves in order to survive. Their magic literally involves them turning into animals, and every Stark has the capacity to be a savage beast.

But even beasts need warmth and companionship.

Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. - Eddard Stark, AGOT

There's something insanely compelling about having to be both tough and communal to survive the winter. Starks must be stoic and fierce but also carry this deep capacity for love and family.

Going back to The Dance, the cycle of violence ends because a girl offered herself to a wolf, and she allegedly reminded him of his lost friend who allegedly reminded him of his lost brother. And suddenly he wasn't a beast anymore, sent out to die while spilling the blood of his master's enemies. Maybe he was thinking with his cock, but at least he was thinking like a man.

Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty. What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms ... or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy. - Maester Aemon, AGOT

personal notes on cregan stark

I love Cregan Stark because he is me in my darkest hour with my self-destructive coping mechanisms, my desperation to prove myself, my anxiety that I will never be safe from those who wish to hurt me unless I hurt them first.

He is the hyper masculine reaction we have towards any kind of trauma, and he seems so strong and stoic and something we should aspire to be. But he's really not — it was a good thing that for all the talk about how "unyielding" he was, there were actually people he deferred to in the end. When you have been raised to be the best fighter in the world and know nothing but fighting, making peace is the challenge. If you have been taught glorify death in battle, choosing to life suddenly becomes radical.

Whenever I talk about this character, I feel like I'm Theon crying in the corner and clutching onto my portrait of Robb, saying, "You don't know him like I do!" Because fans valorize Robb as a king the same way they hype up Cregan as a badass. The man was so out of his depth that he left after 6 days on the job.

He's credited for dispensing justice during the Hour of the Wolf, but out of about 22 people that were arrested, do you know how many he actually executed?

Two. Larys Strong and Ser Gyles Belgrave of the Kingsguard. The rest took the black and Corlys was pardoned. So for all the talk that he's this big, tough guy who cleaned up everyone's mess, he actually did very little in terms of what people consider cleaning up.

That being said, I still very strongly believe that his role made this book worth it for me. Because if Cregan did not show up and the False Dawn continued onto peace without the Hour of the Wolf, it would not have changed the outcome of the Dance but it would have a drastic downgrade to its themes and message.

Instead of the women and widows willingly laying down their arms to dissuade a powerful man from going scorched earth, it would be a bunch of them following Corlys's lead and re-establishing Corlys's version of the status quo. Corlys would never have been tried as a criminal, which was very important because without that, he would have been the arguable "winner" of the Dance. Him being forgiven by Aegon III shows the child exercising power over his life and actively choosing to forgive his crimes instead of being a puppet who is ignorant of said crimes.

The northmen marrying Riverland widows instead of dying in battle is so near and dear to me, because it show that even in ruinous and the harshest of circumstances when you've left everything and death seems like the only choice, there is more value to your life than to whatever glorious death you might imagine for yourself. There is someone out there who will love you and build a home and family with you, no matter how old and how much of a burden you otherwise think you are.

You're mine. Mine, as I'm yours. And if we die, we die. All men must die, Jon Snow. But first we'll live. - Ygritte, ASOS

#house of the dragon #hotd #long post #hotd spoilers #hotd meta #cregan stark #jacegan #hour of the wolf #a song of ice and fire #house stark

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vettelsvee · 2 months

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HOLD ON TO HOPE SERIES | Sebastian Vettel (Spider-Man AU)

f1 masterlist | ask me anything or let's talk! great power, great responsibility (1k special)

spidey!sebastian vettel x female bff!reader | based on 2010

for more information to the reader: ❥ this series is an au (alternative universe) and it is based on the amazing spider-man movies. seb is considered peter parker and spider-man, while nico rosberg would be harry osborn (and you know who) and, y/n, gwen stacy. ❥ it contains friends to lovers trope. ❥ seb, y/n and nico are last year students of their respective degrees (seb estudies biomedical engineering, y/n studies biomedical engineering as well, and nico studies aerospacial engineering). ❥ some parts might include sensitive content. pay attention to trigger warnings at the beginning of each part.

started: AUGUST 06TH 2024 currently status: on going | last updated: august 6th masterlist under the cut !

taglist: [feel free to tell me so i can tag you and you don't miss anything!]

a/n: i'm so excited, so happy and this just came out of my head and had to post this. oh. my. god. i hope you love this short series as much as i do (it will have a second part series with retired!seb x ?!reader, any guesses?) pls tell me your thoughts, comments and fangirl as much as i do because i'm absolutely in love with spidey!seb and i fangirl about him on twitter 24/7

SEBASTIAN VETTEL KNEW THAT HAVING A DOUBLE LIFE WAS DIFFICULT, BUT HE DIDN'T KNOW IT WOULD BE THAT HARD. Since he was bitten by a radioactive spider during a school trip, his life changed completely. At first, balancing the last few months of senior year with the task of being a local hero in Heppenheim was quite difficult. However, the real problem began when he moved to Berlin to study Biomedical Engineering with his two best friends, Nico Rosberg and Y/N Y/L/N.

At first, everything was great: Seb went to his classes and, in the evenings, patrolled the city looking for loose criminals and elderly ladies in distress who had lost their kittens. The problem, much to his regret, began two months after his arrival to the German capital when what initially were minor issues of little importance turned into life-and-death situations, where the boy had to stay out on the streets until the early hours of the morning, using Hanna, a student he had met in one of his classes, and the desire of wanting to date with her, as an excuse. Except he really wanted to date Hanna.

Nico was completely fine with the idea of Sebastian living his life and even insisted that he should try something with that blonde girl who seemed to catch his attention, encouraging him to ask her out and become the most envied couple on campus. Y/N, on the other hand, was constantly worried about Seb, staying awake every night until he returned home and even trying to follow him on more than one occasion to see if her best friend was telling the truth or if he was just getting into trouble and she knew nothing about.

Knowing that all Sebastian Vettel did was lie, and seeing that those same lies were accompanied by academic results that were plummeting alongside with his increasing desperation, Y/N offered Seb help to pass his retake exams after Christmas in exchange of just one thing: whatever was going on in his life, he would tell her before he took his last exam.

With a knot in his throat, Sebastian promised her so even knowing that no one, and especially not her, could know that he was Spider-Man... at least not until Y/N started getting to know the superhero when her friend stood her up for the second time and realized that, perhaps, Spidey and Seb had more in common than they should.

HOLD ON TO HOPE MASTERLIST

part 1: y/n decides that she's had enough of seb being an idiot, and tries her best to help him (coming soon!)

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luveline · 2 years

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𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome, and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Too bad you just can’t seem to leave each other alone. [13k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining (and hatred), slight miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, eddie has mixed intentions, kissing / heavy petting, hickeys, sexual tension, eventual hate-fucking, some misogyny (not eddie), TW readers bandmate is a bully, TW drugs/alc/smoking, disclaimer: I can’t play an instrument

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Indianapolis International Airport, Indiana, Late 1988.

There's a really sweet-looking boy sitting in the chair across from you. The airport is blotted out by both your headphones —huge chunky cans, the best you could afford— and your sunglasses. He's a shade of sepia from the lenses, dark hair darker still where it's tucked into the hood of his hoodie.

There's no way he could possibly know you're staring at him while you're facing your lap, scribbling lyrics for a song that'll never get made with your body curled inwards, and yet he looks up from the novel in his. He smiles, his cheeks pulled up, and he looks younger. He isn't old by any means but something about his smile is transformative.

You don't mean to give yourself away. You smile back just a little.

He says something. You push your headphones around your neck and break the seal, soft 70's rock replaced by the sounds of the airport, footsteps and clicking and children laughing somewhere behind you.

"I'm sorry," you say, covering the cans of your headphones to cut their weak buzzing, "what did you say?"

"I said you have good taste."

He nods toward your guitar case patterned in overlapping band stickers.

You notice his own case on the seat next to him. It's more conspicuous than your own with only one sticker, a band you've never heard of.

"I wish I could say the same, but I don't know who that is, 'Corroded Coffin'?" you ask, purely curious.

He sits forward, a picture of casual confidence as he drops his face into his palm, elbow digging into the ripped jeans covering his knee. "I'm offended, sweetheart. They're only the best sound to come out of Indiana in the last ten years."

"The Stacey's?" you offer, scandalised by his suggestion. "Doorway to Cooperstown? The Cats?"

He blinks at you. "You know the scene."

"It's my scene," you say.

You don't mean to sound pretentious, and hopefully you don't, but music is your life.

"It's mine, too," he says. He leans forward and scrubs a hand through his hair, scratching absentmindedly. "Where are you going? Must be pretty important to tear you away."

"New York. I'm– I'm a techie for Godless. I will be, once I get there." You sound smug and nervous at the same time.

"Holy shit," he says. He smiles a gorgeous, awful kind of smile, like you've been friends for years, and your good news is his. "No fucking way. Go you."

Godless have been compared to loads of bands but the one you favour is a heavier, feminine The Clash. It's an emerging sound, punk rock stolen, repurposed, and remade. Reborn by girlhood rage. You love their sound (though you have some notes), you love their statement, and you're probably the happiest you've ever been knowing you'll be behind the scenes of a new era of music.

"And you're taking her?" he asks, gesturing to your guitar case.

Inside is a beat up old bass guitar you got for nothing. You're self-taught, you're good, but you don't have any disillusions on what you'll be doing on tour.

"She's worthless," you say, "mostly taking her for company." You reuse his pronouns, though you aren't the type to assign personality to your instruments. "What about you, uh–"

"Eddie," he says, taking his guitar case into two fine hands. Your eyes snag on his ragtag assortment of rings, and he leans over the neck of the case to retake your gaze. "This… is Sweetheart."

—

Hotel Edison, New York, Early 1990.

"We have to go. Why are you guys never ready when I tell you to be?"

You panic slightly. "I need a minute."

"Ananya, could you find, like, a modicum of patience? Fucking annoying."

Sharp, Morgan's unhappiness sounds over the droning drill of your shitty hair dryer. You shift where you're kneeling in front of the floor length mirror to check she isn't talking to you — unusual, but not impossible that her hostility would be aimed at someone who isn't Ananya.

Ananya stands in the middle of the hotel room, thick eyebrows pulled into a familiar scowl.

"Get it together," she says disdainfully, like Morgan's nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

You wish you had her confidence when it comes to Morgan's tantrums. You stand up, clad in nothing more than underwear and a pair of black stockings, your t-shirt in one hand and the hairdryer still humming in the other. You turn it off and let it drop to the floor, worried you're just another rockstar cliche as you take in the state of your room. Your suitcase is open and your clothes are all over the place, laid flat in an attempt to dry your rain-soaked clothes. Your underwear dangle from the lampshade, a mix of pretty lingerie you've yet to wear and full-shaped panties that had made Morgan laugh for a minute, no pauses.

"I can see why you're so desperate," she'd barbed.

You slip your shirt over your head in case you have to act as a human shield. It's honestly not the worst thing they've had you involved in this year.

"You're not wearing that, are you?" Morgan asks.

She's a fascinating creature in that she isn't always talking with thinly veiled passive aggression. You genuinely believe she's looking out for you sometimes, or believe that she believes it, at least. She doesn't say it with malice, simply asks.

She's multi-faceted.

"No," you say, though you'd been meaning to.

"Good, skirts really aren't your thing. You look blocky. I have a pair of flares in my bag, wear them."

And Morgan — Morgan's the lead singer of Godless. You don't really have a choice.

You find the pants she'd instructed you to wear and half tuck your shirt, scrabbling for your shoes as Ananya starts lamenting the time, sat on the small table by the TV.

"They have to wait for us, babe, that's the whole point," Morgan says, fussing over her eye make-up.

"No, they don't. And we really don't need the attention right now."

"That's dramatic."

Ananya leans forward and clicks on the TV with a perfect finger. The screen buzzes to life. She clicks through the channels until she gets to the local news station, and then she slumps over the frame on her elbow.

You giggle behind your hand. Onscreen, images of Morgan are blown up and slated, your bandmate sloppy drunk on the steps of Covey Gold. They've caught you red-handed in the background pretending you aren't with her, but luckily Morgan's too obsessed with herself to notice.

"I really don't see the issue," she says breezily, slipping into her tiny heels one foot at a time. "I look sick."

She looks stunning, easily, but that's not the problem.

"You have a fucking snow trail," Ananya says.

Unfortunately, Morgan's left nostril is crusted with coke.

"It's punk rock!" Morgan's moved onto earrings now, and she's jutting her tiny pointed chin toward the door. "Hello? We're late."

You don't roll your eyes, but you could. You slip your shoes onto your feet and tuck the laces inside without tying them while the news anchor on TV continues to relay current events.

"Fletcher isn't the only rockstar making a mess in New York City this week. Members of up and coming heavy metal band Corroded Coffin were sanctioned by Flume Venues Tuesday night for damaging twenty six thousand dollars worth of equipment when their lead guitarist kicked over an amp and caused a quote unquote 'domino effect.'" The anchor laughs. "Their PR has certainly felt some corrosion."

You look up at the joke and are just in time to catch a picture splayed across the screen of the band. You're so close that their faces are made up of red, blue, and green, more colour than photo. Your skin glows with the image. Your eyes widen, perplexed.

"Do we know those guys?" you ask.

Morgan grabs your hand and drags you up. "They know us," she says. "That's what matters."

Ananya turns off the TV.

You're thrilled at being included in the 'us'. You've been an unofficial official member of Godless for four months now. Each one feels more unreal than the first, and each one brings a solidity. In Ananya's words, you're on 'probation, given you can keep up', but you look at her now, her hopeless expression as she closes your room door behind you, and know she's not hoisting you off the stage anytime soon. She'd have to deal with the world's tallest toddler alone.

Your tour manager and assorted personnel meet you in the hotel's lobby, furious and panicky at your being late. Morgan spouts the same spiel as you get shepherded into cars idling outside of the hotel.

"We're the talent. What were you gonna do, throw the gig without us?"

You're both embarrassed by her and impressed. Morgan is pretty and talented and extremely loud — she's not afraid to stick up for herself, even when she's (nearly always) wrong. She sees each hurdle in her life as an unfair disadvantage. Insanity, in your opinion, considering nearly all of those hurdles have been jumped by means of a favour, rather than any expended effort on her part.

Her bad attitude aside, she's a good singer. She's gorgeous, exactly the kind of face that obliterates mainstream reluctance.

She sits between you and Ananya and kicks her feet out over the console, boots between your driver and your tour manager, Angel.

"You guys can't be late like this. You have half the time you need for sound check now, you realise?"

"I don't need practice," Morgan says.

"It's not practice, Morgan, it's–"

Morgan laughs and bursts into song. She does it whenever she doesn't want to listen to Angel, and she sings an apt tune: Angel by Aerosmith. You look out the window rather than watch, eyes snagging on the wet New York streets and taxis and people, so many people despite the weather, black umbrellas like inverse stars lining the sidewalks.

Morgan has a great voice, raw when she wants it to be and full of life when she doesn't. You can't hear Angel's venue instructions under it and are barely paying attention as a lanyard gets tossed into your lap. It sounds stupid, and a few months ago you wouldn't believe it, but you get used to the motions. Ferried from one place to another, all anybody cares about is technicalities, politics, public image, and how you look on stage. All you care about is the music. Your bass guitar in your hands, that familiar weight, the strings as your pick slides across them, and the sea of the crowd. Its waves and ripples, hands and eyes and mouths like poppies, red-pink tongues and black throats at the centre as they scream. When you throw your pick people want to catch it. They fight over it. You throw a few. There's always more in a box in some poor techies bag.

The cushy car you're in pulls up and parks outside of the venue's main entrance. You climb onto a wet curb and shield the top of your hand with your head, dirty rain splashing down in fat, sparse drops that chill your scalp. Morgan blitzes inside and Ananya tags behind her. You go slower, eyes following down the sidewalk where, in a couple of hours, fans will wait to see you, shivering in the cold.

—

Every breath Gareth takes sucks in Eddie's short sleeved t-shirt. Eddie scowls at the top of his bandmate's head and tries to shift away.

"Seriously, man? There's a whole fucking couch," Eddie grouches.

Gareth sits up with bleary eyes furrowed into a scowl of his own. He's pale and missing his glasses, giving him the appearance of a concerned zombie.

"Shithead."

Eddie has a lot of emotions he wants to express and none he feels he can properly articulate. The injustice of his current situation, for one, is a burning irritant. How the fuck can you get grounded by your manager? And why did his warden have to be the most boring member of the band? Sorry Gareth.

"Can't you sleep in your bed?" Eddie asks.

"You'll sneak out."

Eddie will sneak out. He's a fledgling rockstar in New York. Suddenly, there are a hundred colourful boozy doors wide open to him, and he intends on haunting the threshold of each one accordingly.

But you kick one amp and boom, you're the antichrist.

"You know this is stupid."

Gareth rubs his eyes. "I mean, do I know that?" He reaches behind the couch armrest for the two-litre bottle of soda stashed there, and he talks as he brings the lip to his mouth. "You've been a real pissant lately, Munson."

"You're a pissant, pissant," Eddie says, really scowling now.

Gareth kicks him across the sofa. Eddie kicks back, foot jamming into the side of Gareth's knees. Soda spills in a shoot over the carpet. Gareth is a know-it-all with a predisposition for being as unpleasant as he can possibly be at all times, in Eddie's opinion, and Eddie knows the second the soda lands what he's going to say.

"Nice going, hotshot. This is why you're fucking grounded."

Eddie's halfway across the sofa when the door opens, an unimpressed Jamison standing with the light behind him. He flicks on the main switch and glares, brown skin golden in the resulting yellow light.

"What are you losers doing?"

"I prefer the term 'freak'," Gareth says, glare softening. "I'm fending off Munson's advances, what does it look like? No means no, asshole."

"You're disgusting," Eddie says.

"You look disgusting," Jamison echoes. "I don't know who forgot to tell you, but they invented running water a century ago. Go shower. I'll watch baby boy."

Eddie thinks Jamison is hot in the freaky way — Jamison is conventionally attractive, and Eddie would let him get freaky if he asked. He has a perfect complexion, the most attractive of the band by far, medium brown skin and a broad-shouldered frame. He's the eye-candy, literally; they'd admitted him into the fold based one parts on his talent, two parts his image.

He can play piano, guitar, bass guitar, violin, all that shit. He's a musician, and he's better than Eddie at everything but the guitar.

Nobody's better than Eddie on guitar. At least, not anybody running in his circles.

"I can't shower, I'm watching him."

"I'll watch him," Jamison says, like this is extremely obvious and Gareth is an idiot.

Eddie pulls a couch cushion over his face and drags himself onto his back, whining into the fabric unhappily. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters

"This is due diligence," Gareth says. Eddie feels his weight lift off the couch and lets his legs slide into the empty space.

"This is fucking bullshit," he repeats.

There's a silence. He sulks. Gareth collects toiletries and the bathroom door clicks open and closed. The shower spray begins to sputter, and then the pillow is being tugged out of Eddie's hands and tossed aside.

"Jame," he protests.

"Shut up." Jamison stares down at Eddie. "Are you done being a child?"

"I already told you, it was an accident. Yeah, I kicked the amp, because my fucking string snapped and nobody would listen to me. I didn't know it was gonna actually move."

"If we go out, can you behave?" Jamison asks quietly.

Eddie sits up ramrod straight. "Absolutely… Why? What's so important?"

"Jeff's asleep, I'm bored, and-" He shrugs offhandedly. "If you got 'em, flaunt 'em?"

Jamison holds up a silver pair of car keys. They clink together, the sound music to Eddie's ears.

—

So you and Eddie meet for the second time like this.

“Does it have to be this loud?” you shout over the music, pleading gaze on Ananya, who shrugs.

She looks better after a show, even drunk. Her lipstick is a pink-red with a darker but incomprehensible outline, leaving her looking kissed sick. Her dark eyebrows are ruffled and thick, their minimal gel sweated off. She has the most heartbreaking expression about her, and you think it isn’t truly fair, how she can look so pretty and be so talented at the same time. A tragedy that other people have time for both. You feel as though you barely have the time for one.

Despite the volume, you love the sound. This is your sound. Small town hatred in a big room — begging to get out and the music proof enough that you did. It’s passionate and anxious, a two-chord progression that’s boggling simplistic but drawing you in anyhow. Wrinkled noses and bored eyes say it’s not to everyone’s taste, but you’d hazard a guess that whoever plugged it into the stereo isn’t the kind of person who worries about public opinion. If Godless worked more on your choices, this is how you’d sound.

“Whose house are we in?” you ask.

“Babe,” Ananya says, “seriously, there’s a whole room of people who want to answer you. Go bother someone.” Else. Go bother someone else.

She dismisses you with little more than that, slinking into the kitchen with a toss of her thick hair. The red of her corset top darkens to a bloodier shade in the mood lighting. She looks as though she’s bleeding out from the back.

You aren’t sure Ananya’s right. You aren’t, in the eyes of the people here, anything impressive. A techie who’s been filling in isn’t anything new, no, you’re only impressive if you get to stay, if you play better than anybody else. You’re never gonna prove that under Morgan’s thumb, and you’ll never prove it without her.

I need a bump, you think. Morgan’s coke nose flashes in your mind and you change your mind. I need something to drink. Something fucking cold, but if Ananya thinks you’ve followed her into the kitchen she’ll throw a pissy fit in front of everybody.

The room is a gaudy yellow, a tobacco stained fingerprint over the lampshade with whorls of dirt in lines, darker patches where shadier reconciliation plays; in one corner, a bag of coke, another something worse. This had been a surprise with age rather than location, the commonplace of cocaine and the bravado of its sufferers from high school and up. You’d die for some of that cocky confidence now, numb gums and a sullen credit card.

I need to get paid.

The heat of a cigarette tip kisses your shoulder. In your ear, the sound of someone taking a long, slow drag, crackling paper. You turn into it slowly, looking up slower, right into the skinny face of your missing-in-action bandmate.

“What’s up?” Morgan asks, blowing her smoke in your face. Your eyes burn.

She’s placing the cigarette between your lips before you can answer. Whether she believes she’s tormenting you or throwing you a life raft, you’re grateful for it, sucking in a blistering breath and wincing as it floods your nose.

You blow it away from her.

“Ashtray?” you ask, pinching the cig between two fingers.

“The floor’s fine.”

You raise your eyebrows, unsurprised at her cavalier suggestion and flick it still smouldering into your cupped palm. The door is perpetually open, guests flicking in and out like the froth of a cresting wave, a rushing entrance and a sluggish recession.

“Can you get me a bag?” you ask her.

“I’m not your daddy,” she murmurs.

“Bored already?”

“I have to be bored?”

To bother bothering you? Yes, Morgan would have to be bored. Bored or wasted, and she doesn’t seem inebriated. You place the cig between your teeth and lean your head back to look at the ceiling rather than give her the attentive watching she desires, the roof of your mouth an uncomfortable heat.

You remove it, blow all your smoke skyward, and drop your head. “How are you gonna fuck with me tonight?” you ask plainly.

You find you aren’t asking Morgan.

In her place stands a much taller, much more handsome face, big eyes set into pale skin. You don't recognise him at first. He wears the uniform well, in company with every other guy in the room, a crumpled shirt you imagine discarded and re-discarded on different floors. Ripped, dark jeans. He could be wearing nothing at all and the air of intimidation surrounding him would survive — there's something behind his eyes that alarms you, a knife's edge. Sweetness bordering cruelty.

"I don't know yet," he says. An insipid smile takes his lips from corner to corner as he eases the cig from your hand. "I'm sure we can think of something… together. Sweetheart."

Boys don't always give you the time of day, not the nice ones, and he doesn't look very nice. He looks like he's trying to calculate what he can get out of you. You're thinking you'll pay just about anything if he can get you a bump of something fun.

He sees your look too, his lips poised to mention it, but you've just realised where you know him from.

"I saw you on TV."

"Yeah? In Madison Square Garden?"

"In court." You give him your best doe eyes, a soft, sweet look, far from mastered and yet effective where it counts. "How much did you have to pay for all the stuff you broke?"

His smile shutters, realigns. A split-second and enough to let you know his cool gaze is nothing more than a parlour trick.

"You look familiar," he says.

You hum. "Rollerboy paid, huh?"

He glares, the idea that his record label might pay for the damages he'd caused laughable and undoubtedly correct. You aren't trying to make enemies, aren't attempting to play someone you're not — you're meek mannered, mollycoddled, too naive to be in the industry for very long. You can see it on his face, exactly what he's thinking, and it's easy to see because everybody else is thinking it too. Even you.

Before you can repair the offence you've caused, he's dropping your stolen cigarette on the ground and grinding out the flame.

"Nice to meet you," he says slowly.

You stare straight ahead and listen to him leave. Smoke tickles your nose. When you look down, the cigarette is smouldering. You squat down, pick up the flattened bud, and drive it into the floor until your fingers are black with soot.

You wrap those same ashy fingers around the neck of a bottle of coke and try not to be too pissy about it. Fucking rockstars and their fucking egos. He did something embarrassing, and you're the villain?

You feel bad halfway through your coke. Maybe he'd had nice intentions, but how could you know? You'd talked for all of two minutes. And even if he was bad news, he likely wouldn't have been any worse than half the jerks here.

He'd have had a handsome face to look up into while said intentions were being acted out, at least.

You frown more. Wishing you'd been nicer to him because you're bored enough to want to get laid isn't strictly kind. Human, maybe.

The feeling worsens when his appearance garners a small crowd. He sits in a nest of dirty couch cushions and a cloud of smoke, the smell of green strong enough to irritate you from here, telling a story with frenetic hands, and despite the cool look he'd given you earlier, he's making a show of it. Cussing, giggling, blunt between his lips as he ushers for a zippo. A pretty girl with surfer curls relights it, an act of flirting in the way she pulls her shoulders in.

He takes the blunt from between his lips and blows the smoke so it misses her completely.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, voice rough as hewn stone.

You kick one shoe behind the other and squeeze your tired thighs together. You get this feeling like a matchstick, red powdered head flicking against gritty scratchpad but failing to strike. Something is familiar about the way he speaks, his sticky inflection.

Or you're lying to yourself, and you just like the way he talks

The way he would've spoken, thick fingers braceleting your wrists as he forces your hands into the pillow behind your head, the weight of his body on top of yours, the snugness of a knee between your soft thighs. Your hotel light would've kissed his left side, dividing his curls into strands, the individuals glowing like silver thread as they danced over your cheek and temple, as his breath warmed your lips, as he closed the distance.

Joan, you could hit him.

"That's an unfortunate hand. Are you sober?"

Cheeks full of heat at being caught in a fantasy, you lift your eyes and meet light, almond brown eyes almost entirely shielded by darker eyebrows. A man stands in front of you, a comfortable gap between his nondescript skate shoes and your worn boots. He's tall and pretty and surprising: he's smiling at you like you're something worth smiling at.

"I'm–" You brandish the bottle as if that might explain it but harshly set it aside. "No, not sober. I mean, not willingly. Coke's were out here, so…"

"Oh, right," he says, nodding knowledgeably. "Right, I was sorry to hear about that."

You lick your lips. "'Bout what?"

"They banned beautiful women from the kitchen," he says. "Hadn't you heard?"

"No, that one passed me by."

"I'm Jamison," he says, holding out his free hand.

You take it. You tell him your name.

—

Morgan is crying. Big heaping sobs that she attempts to talk through, creating this ringing whining sound that fills you top to toe with anxiety. You lean back in your hotel bed, wondering what it is in the world that could've happened to her as a kid to make her this unsatisfied now. Ananya blows on her freshly painted nails though they've been dry for hours, knee to knee with you atop the squishy hotel sheets.

"I can't fucking do this," Morgan cries, tears dripping down her bare skinned cheeks.

The three of you have been sworn off of makeup, junk food, and unapproved wash products for the next four to five hours. You're happy for this to continue until the end of time. Morgan, less so.

You're trying to decipher exactly why she's crying, feeling a confusion you'd liken to the first modern day archaeologist that laid eyes on ancient hieroglyphics. All these symbols and colours and stories. No clear translation.

If Ananya were an archaeologist, she's the kind who got to see the Rosetta stone. Morgan's moods make sense to her, and while she often doesn't empathise with her, she at least knows what to say to appease the worst of it.

"It'll be alright, Morgs," she says, her faux sympathy unconvincing.

You feel a little sorry for Morgan and clear your throat. "And you're not by yourself. We're here."

"Fucking amazing help you've been," Morgan says. Her voice does a theatrical peak, pure hysterics.

It irks you how good she looks. You think that, maybe, if you could make your problems pretty the way that she does, you'd be a lot happier overall. You've often lamented that you suffer the kind of unhappiness that makes people uncomfortable and unwilling. You cry ugly, and always alone, hands over your mouth to smother the sounds, and that's when you do cry. Mostly, you bounce around inside yourself and feel very afraid that this feeling is forever.

But, you think presently, that isn't Morgan's fault. Not all of it.

Morgan throws her hands out at you and Ananya and spins on her heel, through the bathroom and into her own separate room.

"At least the backdrop of her breakdown is nice," you murmur, hugging the pillow against your stomach, heels digging into the mattress to keep your knees up.

Ananya snorts and flicks to the next page of her magazine. "Right?" She stretches her naked legs out over your sheets. You know she's decided to ruin your bed with her after-waxing oils rather than her own. "Better here than back home."

"Why's she so upset?" you ask.

Already, your thoughts are starting to drift. You take another peek at the phone across the room and will it into ringing.

"She draws them on everyday anyway," Ananya says agreeably.

You summarise that Morgan's eyebrows are the root of the problem. You don't blame her for wanting to look perfect tomorrow night. Your stomach is a weight every time you think about it, solid as petrified wood. This will be your first TV appearance that isn't a recorded concert, a mid-show performance for the Prover Music Awards, and it should further cement your place in the band. If you look good and people like you, public favour might be enough to keep you around. If they don't, there'll be a couple hundred different audience members with industry links. If you play well, and you're certain you will, you might finally prove to Morgan, Ananya, and the rest of the management team that you're worth choosing.

You want it badly. You want lots of things, and being a real part of Godless could hand them all to you on a studded platter. Recognition of your talent, further experience, the chance to perform and be supported, to be adored, and the money isn't something you'll pretend you don't think about. A rockstar's salary is hardly stable, but a lack of stability is almost always supplemented by the amount. Wouldn't that be nice? To buy your own bass, to buy whatever you liked. To go out and have spa treatments like the one you'd had just this morning whenever you please. To get to feel beautiful and limp as this all the time. More than anything, you want the validation, the poster that comes with it.

If Godless decides to keep you, it's a huge, blinking, neon-lit sign that says you're good enough.

They chose me, and you're stupid for letting me go.

They chose me. I'm something worth something. You didn't see it, but it's there in me.

The subtext isn't important.

You're scared shitless at the reality of performing tonight, knowing any fuck up could follow you, or worse ruin your hopefully budding career in rock for the rest of time. You have this body and this name, and if you want to keep your life you have to be good. It has your fingers itching for your piece-of-shit bass guitar where you know she's hiding under the bed. You should be practising, but this entire week has been practising. The dress rehearsal went well, and you'll give yourself a pass for having certain distractions.

Morgan warbles. You glance at the phone.

"Waiting for someone?" Ananya asks. She misses nothing.

You both wince as Morgan screams and throws something across her bedroom, the eventual clattering smash indicative of a fragile target.

"Think room service will send up a sedative?" she asks.

Room service won't send a sedative, nor will they send the single hashbrown Morgan is apparently craving. You're starting to panic when the solution practically jumps at you.

"Morgan," you say gently, standing in the doorway of her room with a tentative smile, "can't offer you something, can I?"

You hold up your little pouch. Morgan doesn't know you well, but she knows it's where you keep anything interesting. She should know, she pilfers it of anything truly exciting within the day.

"Don't be stupid," she scathes. "My eyes will be bloodshot. You know smoking doesn't agree with me."

You hold in a comment on how she'd literally been smoking out of the window last night.

"It's a brownie. It's a couple days old, but… perfectly edible." You offer her the pouch, dropping it at the end of the bed among her things.

She picks at the brownie, timid princess bites that make you want to roll your eyes. You often think the worst thing about Morgan is that you love her, or you could love her more, if only she felt the same way. She isn't all evil and she never will be, she's just a person. But she takes shit out on you and makes your life harder than it needs to be, so even her most endearing moments fall short.

"This tastes awful."

You laugh and kneel down at her dresser to start putting her thrown jewellery box back together. "It wasn't that nice when I got it," you lie.

You clean her room. Morgan never wants to do anything she knows can be done for her, and you know she won't bother here, not when room service will spend the hour it takes themselves. You think of some poor service worker squaring away the impossible amount of stockings and garters for a sad $3.45 an hour and the task suddenly becomes much more enjoyable.

Morgan doesn't say thank you. You don't insult her intelligence by thinking she isn't aware of what you're doing. She sniffles and blows her nose daintily with a balsam tissue.

"I saw you talking to that guy from Corroded Coffin."

You brush off your knees as you stand. "Which one?"

"Eddie. The rhythm guitarist."

"The loud one."

"He's kind of hot. If he calls, you should go out with him."

"That's not–" who I'm waiting for. You squint at her. "Morgan, that would be terrible."

"Can you get me something from the minibar?"

You kick open her minibar and grab a cold can of seltzer. She slides onto her back and accepts it, pressing it to her eyes with a relaxed smile. Eyebrows forgotten, it seems.

"That would be perfect. He can be the cat to your mouse."

"Your definition of perfect–" You cut yourself off again when she starts to laugh. You don't believe it to be genuine.

She lounges in bed for an hour until she's high, reappearing in you and Ananya's suite with a dizzying smile. You don't mind high Morgan. She's smoked enough in her time to bypass the dizzying, giggly kind of stoner. This Morgan is relaxed, almost easygoing. She sits at the end of your bed and watches you pluck out a bass line proposal for one of their current works in progress, head bobbing.

An hour again and the stylists appear to spray you down with smells and oils and make up, and soon you've been strapped into a short shining dress with a cowl neck, dark black stockings that shine like oil, and heels you can't really walk in. You complain about them politely enough that Mel, the man in charge of your 'costuming', swaps them out for shorter ones.

"This fucking corset is a nightmare," Morgan grumbles.

"Sorry, love, that's all we've got."

The commute is over in a blink. You arrive outside of the venue for the Awards, staring up at its imposing silhouette against the skyline, a dark building in the strange blue night. The sun is unseen but light illuminates the wet streets in blinding patches, so white they glow violet behind your eyes.

There's a modest red carpet where you thankfully don't have to pose for many photos. After all, besides being a temporary member of the stage, you aren't truly in Godless. Most casual fans (the majority of their fan base) only know the faces in the magazines and on TV, and you have yet to be in either until tonight.

After a bundle of shy and regretfully nerve-wracking photos, you're drawn inside the building and away from all the flashing hubbub. You sit in your seats, short rows divided by the occasional table for drinks, and you try not to sink into the carpeted floor. It smells insanely like nothing at all. No bleach, no air conditioning cleanliness. Every now and then another guest walks past your row and you get a whiff of perfume.

A familiar scent pricks your attention.

You look up, slightly over your shoulder, and your eyes meet familiar sticky brown.

He drops down in the seat next to you, and you think, No way.

He holds up the placard that had been under his thigh. His name is typed in clear blocked letters.

It's a strange humiliation to have been read for filth like that. You're you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me expression can be pretty telling, evidently.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Matchstick against the box. You tilt your head and try to place him for the tenth time.

"Have we met before?" you ask.

He actually grins like this is the best thing you could've said. "You met my friend," he says, pointing down the aisle.

Jamison stands talking to a woman who is admittedly gorgeous, and, to your sinking horror, much prettier than you. They kiss each other on the cheek and it's the kind of over friendly to make you sick.

Eddie pouts at you. "Better luck next time, sweet thing." He throws one leg over another. "You look different. New haircut?"

"You look exactly the same," you say.

It's surprising how untouched he is. Sure, he's had some makeup applied and his hairs been tousled into life, but his outfit is remarkable in its simplicity. Surely rockstars can wear suits too? He looks neat and dark and tidy, but he also looks effortless. It's irritating.

This phenomena is not self contained, you find, as his bandmates sit down the row with their managerial chaperones and one date. Jamison sits right at the very end. He doesn't look at you.

You avert your eyes and wonder if it's possible to die from embarrassment.

The venue gets increasingly busy as the bigger names and bands flood inside. Soon, you're sitting amongst legends, people who pretty much spearheaded late 80s glam rock, punk, grunge. People you've only ever seen on TV. And it isn't restricted to alternative sound, there are pop stars and their supermodel girlfriends shaking hands and kissing cheeks in the row behind, while producers with names big enough to make your mouth dry up clap each other on the shoulders in front.

"You'll catch flies."

You turn to Eddie. He doesn't sound entirely cruel. He doesn't sound like much of anything. You could almost believe him to be a friend.

There's a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek.

"You have–" You point at your own cheek, a mirror.

His lightness fades. "Nice."

"No, seriously, you have something. Make up, on your cheek. I have a wipe if you want it."

He scrubs at his cheek ineffectually.

You're reaching out to help before you can stop yourself, witnessing your own actions with a strange out-of-body horror as you wipe the small black line gently. It spreads, and you panic and dab at it until it's an unfortunate grey shadow.

"Let me get the wet wipe," you say. You'd been holding your breath, awkwardness stiff between you, and it sounds too much like a laugh.

Eddie flinches away from your touch and covers his cheek. "I got it," he says stonily.

He leaves, stepping over his bandmates feet like stepping stones, earning a cacophony of protests and disparagments.

Dick, you think. Again, that had been a little bit your fault. Not all of it, he seems to be in a perpetual bad mood that can't be your doing, but you can understand why he might think you were laughing at him, and the defensiveness that comes with it. When he comes back you'll apologise.

Or that's what you tell yourself. The lights go down, the curtains open, and the venue erupts with applause. By the time Eddie takes his seat again you're too afraid of disturbing the quiet.

After half an hour you're ushered backstage. You have to move in front of Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin as you go.

He looks up at you in silence. Head tipped back, face barely lit by the lights while you stand in between his legs. His lips part and he's all rockstar, his brown eyes and their edging of straight dark lashes, his pink, pretty lips. He has a distinct line to his nose, a cupid's bow perfectly shaped. His maker must have looked at him and known somebody, somewhere, would want to kiss him right there. His lips twitch.

"Can I help you?" he whispers.

You stammer a response that won't form and Morgan shoves you.

"Fucking move," she says.

His expression flickers.

"Sorry," you say, unsure of who you're talking to. "Sorry." You sound pathetic. A kicked puppy.

You keep your eyes on the floor until you're in the aisle, where a new set of nerves tries to swallow you whole.

—

Eddie knows exactly who you are, and he hates himself for it. He remembers you, the first you, shy and sweet and so excited, sitting pretty in Indianapolis International Airport with your guitar and your huge leaky headphones pounding death metal. While fame has broadened the amount of people who want to sleep with him, it hasn't changed his type, and you'd been a ringer, right there in the middle.

You'd been pretty and maybe you knew it, maybe you didn't, it didn't matter — what he liked most was the way your hands had moved as you spoke, hummingbird thrumming, an energy he'd seen in himself and every other musician desperate for a chance. He loved the passion and your eyelashes and the way you'd smiled as you'd waited for your plane, the two of you destined for New York, where you both seem to have looped back now. Only, he'd been cursed with remembering your every detail, and you either didn't remember him or don't care. Both sting, but he likes the second better. He'll take purposeful cruelty over the casual any day.

Like your thumb pressed to his cheek. The heat, and then your laugh.

"The fuck is this?" Gareth asks, leaning over the space between their two chairs.

Eddie looks up at you on stage and shrugs. While bands made up completely of women aren't new, they aren't as common as bands made up of men, obviously. He likes it, likes your sound, though it's not the kind of thing Corroded Coffin would ever play, and he won't join in on Gareth's doubt. Even if you are, like, a magnanimous shithead. You're good.

"She's hot," he furthers.

"Jesus, Gareth."

"What? She's fucking hot."

He has to squint to see you from this distance, and he can't truly make out many details. Gareth's not wrong. You're pretty, and out of the three members of the band you're the only one who actually looks like they're having a good time.

The lead singer trails around the stage pulling Blond Ambition poses. She can sing well, she has a strong voice that does whatever it is she bends it into, but her propensity to drop the guitar slung around her neck to grab at the microphone stand like it's escaping isn't helping anything.

The girl on drums is arguably given a pass, fighting to keep up with the pace, sweat sticking her thick hair to her neck in glossy spirals and her huge eyes set in concentration. Her messy lipstick sparkles under the stage lights, a party pink that pops against her brown skin.

He thinks you might be trying to cover up the lead singer's sloppy playing. You're good, sure, but it's not the easiest to tell when it's ragtag and rough like this. Only because he's watching does he notice your pick slipping between strings to the floor, and your willingness to strum with the sides of your fingertips. He likes that. The dedication is hot.

"I've never seen a girl on drums who didn't look like a guy," Gareth says. "She's killer. Think I can get her number?"

Eddie groans. "No, you fucking loser."

"I was just asking."

You bounce around and Eddie shifts in his seat, annoyed that he'd assumed you were the one Gareth was talking about.

He claps for you when the song is over and hates how you return to your seat during the break, back in your cute dress and beaming, practically dripping in deodorant and post-show adrenaline.

You apologise again as you step over him, and if there's one thing he doesn't want from you it's a sorry. Twice now you've spoken to him in the last week and twice you've made fun of him like some plaything under your thumb. Eddie isn't in the habit of being under anyone's anything. Apologies feel like salt in the wound, even though he knows you aren't saying sorry for the stuff that's pissing him off.

"What the fuck was that?" Lead girl asks you, sounding about as uptight as she looks as she climbs over your leg. "What were you doing?"

"Morgan, I don't know if you noticed, but you didn't play half of the song," you say defensively, the skirt of your gem-encrusted dress glancing off of his thigh. The gems are tiny, like pinprick stars in country night skies. They shine purple, green, orange.

Morgan holds her hand up for an attendant. When one approaches, she says, "Appletini," and nothing else, waving dismissively. She pulls at her stockings and doesn't notice the ladder she makes near the calf. "You're here to play what you're given."

"I did."

"And only that."

Your silence speaks volumes. What he'd thought to be an edge in Godless' sound may have been an improvisation, something Eddie personally applauds.

"Christ," Morgan says, "you're more trouble than you're worth. I hope you know that."

Eddie believes the sting of her barb to be in the presentation rather than the words themselves, though what she'd said is hardly kind. She looks away from you as she says it, like she's giving instruction far below her station. Factual, concise.

You barely wince. The lights dim, and he watches you contend with how you're feeling from the corner of his eye.

Eddie isn't evil. You may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and he's definitely holding his resentment at being forgotten tight to his chest, but nobody deserves to get shit on like that. You'd played well, you'd had a great time, and that should be commended. What's worse, your lack of a reaction tells him this is a common occurrence.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you say.

Morgan waves you away like she had the waitress. You stand, and you say, "Excuse me," to every person you pass. Eddie put his hand on the back of his chair to follow you up toward the back of the room where the sign for the bathrooms glows green.

He sets his eyes back on the stage and begs himself to stay sitting. Corroded Coffin's nomination for best up and comer has already passed, a loss, and there's no reason he can't nip to the bathroom himself. There's also no reason he should go after you.

Fuck it, he thinks.

What could go wrong? What could go wrong, outside of the women's bathroom, where he has so obviously followed you, where he waits for you like some creeper trying to paw one off on you. He can't hear anything but the running tap. For a moment he thinks you haven't come here to collect yourself after all, you'd needed to pee, which makes his situation that much awkwarder.

Stuck between indecision, he leans against the wall between the women's and men's and digs for a cigarette. His pockets are empty, a precaution for exactly this moment. You can't smoke in the Prover Theatre, pissant.

You appear and blitz past him.

"Hey," he says before you can go too far, "d'you have a card?"

You turn on your heel. Hands already in your purse, you dig out an unopened box of cigarettes and offer it to him. You don't look as though you've been crying or anything like it, but you don't look him head on, so he keeps his theory.

Eddie peels the plastic off of your box and slaps the end against his chest for good measure.

"I don't think you can smoke in here," you say finally. Your voice is tired.

He raises his eyebrows and peers down into the box, pulling a cigarette free and sliding it between his lips. He holds out his hand for a lighter and you give it to him, already waiting with it between two fingers.

He lights it, inhales sharply, and passes you back your carton and lighter with a clouded, "Thanks."

"Yeah."

He's surprised when you don't move. You stand there and watch him smoke, whorls of pearly smoke dissecting the air between you, spider-webs over your pert face. You're waiting for what he doesn't know, so he'll give you something. He's nice.

"She's a piece of work."

You shift uneasily.

"I'm not the feds," he says, pulling the cig from his lips to talk unfettered.

"Forgive me for wondering if you have my best interests at heart."

He beams at you, really smiles, startled and enamoured by your sharp tongue. "Now why wouldn't I?"

You don't say anything, only pull at the neckline of your dress in what's likely a nervous habit. He gets a flash of the top of your chest and looks away. He thinks you're beautiful in a rather understated way, and he doesn't not want to see what it is you're showing, but he knows you don't actually mean to be so forward. He might be an asshole, but he's not like that.

It's quiet here in the foyer, like standing outside the doors of the movie theatre. You can hear the announcement of a new category, the roaring applause. The hallway and the bathrooms feel cordoned off from it in a strange way, an uncanny energy that has him on internal tenterhooks.

"You always let her treat you like that?"

"Like what?"

He steps toward you because the distance feels unnecessary. "Like that. Like you're a dog."

"Fuck you, I do not."

He pouts, the taste of smoke thick on his tongue.

"What would you know?" you ask.

"Besides hearing it all fucking night, nothing. You must like that shit."

Your eyes go wide. He hadn't meant to say it. There's a light behind them now, some life, something to cover up that shitty wounded despondency you'd been wearing. Your hands bunch in the soft skirt of your dress, shaking. He's touched a nerve.

"I must like it," you quote, strained.

"Woof. Do you do any tricks, or is it just the one?"

He doesn't mean for it to happen this way, he wants it on the record. He's a dick, he's a loser, whatever, he hadn't meant to argue but he will. And, you know, there may be a slight possibility that he isn't as sure in himself as he appears, and that there are nerves he keeps too close to the surface, too.

"You can teach me one of yours, if you want," you offer, voice tight with annoyance, "I'm thinking smug asshole picks easy target, but I'm open to other options."

That's funny. He takes another step toward you, another, your cigarette between his lips smouldering at the tip as he inhales through his smirk.

"Yeah, like what?" he asks, smoke licking your cheeks as he breathes out.

"How you get your head through the door might be a good place to start."

He waits for you to explain, knowing the silence will force you to fill it.

"You know, considering you're in the exact same place as me, only one of us performed tonight and it isn't the one acting like God's gift."

"You think they invited you to play because you're good?" he asks, feigning an earnest tone.

"I know exactly why they didn't ask you." You hike the strap of your purse higher up your shoulder, chin lifted in a snooty superiority that makes his heart pound. "Wannabe rookie who had too much smoke blown up his ass and thinks he's somebody. But you're not," you say. "You're a child. They've seen a hundred guys just like you in the Indiana circuit."

"You're a jumped up fucking groupie that got lucky," he says.

The light behind your eyes dims. He takes that last step, the step that's gonna put you shoe to shoe.

He should stop now, he would, but suddenly his anger is real, this isn't strictly fun anymore. He says what he knows is gonna hurt you.

"You're a stand-in, a temp who's already overstayed her welcome." He flicks the tower of ash between your heels. You follow it down, watch as it settles into the fibres of the carpeting. "You're a burnout waiting to happen."

Your breathing is loud in his ears. Slightly too fast.

"You don't know anything," you murmur.

"If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog," he says, pausing, words coming out thick and slow, "it's a dog."

Your face flares with hurt. You're gone before he can say anything else.

He's glad for it. Honestly, he's not sure what else he would've said, and later, he'll regret this, regret blowing up at you, regret following you out here and making you feel worse when he'd wanted the opposite. But tonight he's lit up from the inside out, your words a reverberation. A hundred guys just like you.

"Yeah, right," he says to himself, scoffing with a surety he doesn't feel.

—

Donington Park, England, August 1990

"I'd be a little more excited if I knew they weren't desperate this year," Jamison's saying, "that's all."

"They're hardly desperate."

"Last time they had KISS, Iron Maiden, Megadeth." Jamison sighs and falls back into the couch, muttering about the stale smell before continuing, "and this year, what do they have? Poison? Thunder? Who cares."

Eddie thinks he might actually have an opponent for biggest ego right now.

"You know they put Godless bigger on the poster," Jeff says with a bright smile.

"Can we not talk about them for one fucking day?" Eddie pleads.

He's a little disappointed at the lineup too, but that doesn't make this entire festival a bust. Monster of Rock may not be the most prestigious event they've ever attended but it's still impressive to be asked to play here, and this is only Corroded Coffin's third festival. Eddie's a smug bastard and even he knows Jamison sounds like a bitch. Besides that, he's so, so tired of talking about Godless.

"They finally stopped stringing that poor girl along. What was her name?" Jeff asks, clicking his fingers. "Eddie, you know, the one who said she didn't know you in the magazines?"

"What?" Eddie asked. "They cut her?"

Jamison sits up, eyes lit with mirth. "What's it matter to you, heartthrob?"

"It doesn't."

He's not being truthful. His bandmates are all unkind, and none extend the generosity of pretending they believe him.

"Nah, she's not cut, she's official. Writing credits on the new album and everything, 'cordin to Rolling Stone."

"You have it?" Eddie asks.

Jeff laughs at him but digs it out of his suitcase, brandishing it all rolled up.

"Shit better not be sticky," Eddie mutters under his breath.

"... Skip the interview with Kim Gordon."

Eddie gags and flicks through the pages until he finds the article on you, or rather the column.

"All female rock band Godless finally welcomed a new bass player this month after the departure of Millyanna Richardson in '89. Y/N L/N, 24, had been with the band for almost a year under a 'touring only' basis, though she performed live with remaining members Morgan Fletcher and Ananya Roy at the Prover Music Awards in early June. Fans have praised her talent and finesse, and are looking forward to her contributions to the band's next album expected this December. Hopefully she has thicker skin than her predecessor, who branded the band's inner politics as 'gruesome' and 'unlivable'."

There's a grainy photograph of you and your bandmates at the Prover Theatre overtop. You look exactly as you had that night, pretty and glitzy. He scowls at your printed face.

He can't fucking stand you, let it be known, and he thinks your frontman is the most spoilt brat he's ever seen. He hadn't seen the article, but he'd heard via word of mouth that you'd both had something to say about him. His approximation goes as follows:

Interviewer: …and you guys will be performing at the Monster of Rock music festival in England this August, right? Any faces you're excited to see?

Morgan: I think I'm better than everyone despite being in a mildly popular band that didn't qualify as hard rock until, like, three months ago, and I totally shit on our bass player for trying to make the change by the way, so I'm not excited to see anyone besides myself in the mirror.

Interviewer: How sophisticated and mature of you. And you, Y/N, are you excited to see anyone? Photos from the Prover Music Awards show you were sitting beside Corroded Coffin's Eddie Munson, did you two hit it off?

Y/N: Who was that, the guitarist? I'm so sorry, I don't really remember getting a chance to talk to him, but I'm excited for the opportunity to meet more people in the scene right now and to get to play for a new audience. Also I suck and I want Eddie sooooo bad.

"I wish I were asleep." Gareth squints at the ceiling. "Asleep or back home."

"Miss mommy?" Jamison asks him.

"And Cindy."

"Oh, god," Eddie groans, "I don't want to hear it, seriously."

"She always had smooth legs, you know?" Gareth says. "Always shiny, soft. Fuck, I miss her legs. Girls on the road never shave their legs."

"Do you shave your legs?" Eddie asks.

"Fuck off, Teddy, you know you like it better when they shave."

"Do I know that?" Eddie asks.

He turns to Jamison, giving him a much-used 'make him stop' expression. Eyebrows raised, lips parted. When Jamison says nothing, and Gareth starts to talk about hair removal in other places, Eddie scrubs his eyes with both hands and stands up.

He's a guy. He has guy thoughts. Yeah, he thinks about girls, and their legs, and everything else, but he also thinks about them as actual people, something Gareth hasn't quite grasped yet.

"Remember why Cindy said she didn't wanna come with you?" Eddie asks.

"Because she was jealous of my success."

Eddie snorts and shrugs on his jacket where he'd left it thrown over the ratty couch. "Because she was going to beauty school," Eddie corrects. "I'm going out."

"We're miles away from anything interesting," Jeff says, magazine crinkling in his hands.

"I'm sure I'll find something," he says, and doesn't add that it should be easy.

What counts as interesting has taken a sharp turn since arriving in Donington. Which isn't to say it's boring, exactly, there's a rich culture Eddie isn't familiar with, and a fucking castle, but he's so used to loud dives and backroom parties that this has been a stark change. Wending had said to think of it like a vacation to get his head screwed on tight. Paula had said to think of it like a punishment, which had been funny at the time. Now he's wondering if she was serious.

He knows there'd been a convenience store somewhere down the road from the hotel. Or rather, the bed and breakfast, a strange cottage situation where the hosts keep an eye on you under the guise of making your dinner. Eddie's first world problems continue.

He could get weed, possibly. He doesn't know where from, but he knows someone who knows someone who must know someone, right?

Then he starts debating with himself about if he should smoke just to escape boredom. That sounds like a terrible idea, life isn't even bad right now, he's just hungry, and—

Eddie turns the corner, wet sidewalk dark as pitch under his feet, and spots the back of your head as you disappear inside of the convenience store. The corner shop, as Wending had informed. Eddie doesn't understand because it isn't on a corner, but he has bigger fish to fry. He considers waiting for you to leave. What are the chances you'll walk back this way? Pretty likely.

Don't be a bitch, he tells himself.

Light rain spots his neck as he hurries inside, the bell above the door ringing to announce his entrance. He's confused as soon as he looks up, because in front of him is an aisle, and to either side is an aisle, and he can't make out where the cashier is. He takes a tentative step in, eyes tracking muddy footprints down the way to the drinks fridge humming loudly at the back of the room.

Claustrophobic, he makes his way through the aisle and stops in front of the drinks. Because luck isn't ever his friend, you're standing toward the leftmost part, where a second fridge hums, filled to bursting with canned beer and litre bottles of cider. Eddie isn't sure it's really you until you turn to the left slightly and reach out for a colourful glass bottle. He should walk away. He doesn't like you, he has no business watching you, but there's something so sweet about it.

You in the humming chill, a coat pulled tightly around you, your chin hidden by the multicolour of a yarn scarf. You turn the bottle in your hand delicately and blink slow as you read the ingredients. Your hair is frizzy from the wind, flyaways surrounding your face in a little wave. His fingers twitch.

You keep the bottle and pick up a second, nails clinking against glass. Your movement pulls like you're moving through jello, and Eddie turns to the fridge in front of him hurriedly.

He can feel your gaze on the side of his face.

He picks up a couple of drinks without thinking, his face burning with heat. When he chances a glance your way, you've moved. He stares at the rainbow of drinks and the gaps where you've taken what you wanted.

He leaves some time between your departure and follows the way you must've gone down an aisle of more alcohol that's unrefrigerated and pet food, wondering how they organise here, and is confronted with you again at the end.

It's a snug building. You're blocking the way past where you're standing in front of the cashier's desk, a plexiglass shielded cube decked out in hanging sweets and cigarettes.

"Do you have Newports?" you ask mildly.

"Sorry."

"That's okay, uh, I'll just take a carton of whatever you think is best?"

The cashier retrieves a light blue box of cigarettes. "Lambert and Butler blues," he says. "Total, sixteen fifty six, and I'll need to see some ID."

You pull your passport from an already opened purse and offer it to him. While the cashier's checking it over, you peek at Eddie, and you don't smile but you don't not smile, a formal quirk of the lips.

"You're American?" the cashier asks.

"I'm visiting for the festival," you say.

Apparently having passed his test, the cashier hands your passport back and accepts your card.

"Are you paying together?" he asks, nodding at Eddie.

Eddie grins unconsciously, worse when you say quickly, "Oh, no, we're not together."

"Your brevity wounds me," Eddie says.

You snort with a similar geniality. "You don't need me to pay for you, do you? I heard you're rich now."

There has been an improvement in Eddie's finances lately. Your album breaking into the Billboard top 100 does that.

"I thought you didn't know who I was?"

"I thought that was kinder than what I really would've said."

He hates how your snark makes him smile. You're not looking at him, waiting for your change with your eyes forward as the cashier clicks a couple of buttons on the till.

"What were you really gonna say?"

The cashier hands over your change. You slip it into your purse, put your purse in the pocket of your coat, and slide your hand through the weak blue handles of your plastic bag.

"Thank you," you say sincerely. You take a step like you're going to leave, but you pause, and you look Eddie in the eye and say, "I would've said you were mean."

His jaw drops. You look hurt, and you leave with a discomforting frown.

He puts the drinks he's carrying down on the cashier's desk and says, "I'll be right back," before following you out.

You've pulled your hood up to defend against the thickening rain, walking with your face angled down. Eddie beats along the wet pathway.

"Hey! Hey, wait, wait a second, princess."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm so serious," he says.

He weaves in front of you and stops. You look cold as he feels with his red-tipped nose and stiff fingers, your arms drawn together over your chest. You look pretty and he's so sick of thinking it and not saying it.

"You're hot when you're mad."

You glare at him. "I wish I could say the same."

"Hey, hey, okay, we had a spat, but we got off on the wrong foot, you know?"

"I thought that too," you say.

He smiles. "See, we're– you're fucking with me. Nice."

You start laughing, edging around him. He moves in front and you shrug, stepping off of the sidewalk and into the leaf litter clogging the gutter.

"Don't be stupid," he says, hands held up in surrender "get back on the sidewalk." You keep walking. "Come on, don't get hit by a car. That would really put a damper on the festival."

You take a step further into the road, the kind that would make a collision unavoidable. He checks both ways for cars and sees none, knowing you're fucking with him and hating it anyway. The two of you are locked into a stand off, grey skies above you and wet ground underneath, your face partially occluded by your scarf and your hood and the dribbling rain. If he listens, he can hear the small sounds of the festival preparations a half a mile away, guitars hooked up up an insane array of speakers and the pounding of a beat through the floor.

You start walking again. He follows, treading backwards to keep your attention.

"Seriously, come on."

"No."

"No?" he asks.

"No. I don't have to listen to you."

"You're being stupid."

"Eddie, I truly, honestly, don't care."

"Sure." The sound of tires on the road draws his eye. A car appears behind you, approaching fast. "It's your funeral."

"What do you get out of this?"

He bites his top lip, shaking his head from one side to the other. "Out of what?"

"Tormenting me."

"Tormenting you? Sweetheart, we hardly know each other."

"Exactly!" You almost trip over your own shoes. "Exactly, you don't know me, but you thought you could say all those things–"

"You started it."

You laugh again and Eddie would be pissed but the car is still coming, headlights beaming through the light downpour. He huffs and grabs your wrist, tugging you up onto the sidewalk with his second hand on your waist. He doesn't mean to rag you about, feeling especially apologetic when your face knocks into his chin. The car spins close and validates his concern. You have enough sense to realise what's happened, watching over your shoulder as the car beeps and whizzes past. Still, you yank your arm out of his.

"Don't touch me," you say quietly.

He dips his head to force you to meet his eyes. "Next time I'll let you get hit by a car. Great idea."

"I wasn't going to get hit by the fucking car."

You're infuriating.

Infuriating, and yet he feels bad for pulling you around. He lowers his voice, softens his tone. "Sorry," he says. "I don't know why this happens, everytime I see you, I…"

You look intensely uncomfortable. "I have one of those faces, I guess." You shrug away from his reach. "Try to play well tomorrow? I don't want to go on to a dead crowd."

His mouth snaps closed. "If you need me to warm them up for you, just say that."

—

You go to watch Eddie's set because you're awful. You want it to suck. You want Corroded Coffin to bomb it and you want it to be his fault, anything to wipe that pretty smile off of his face, smother the electricity of his bouncing steps as he bounds from one side of the stage to the other. He's entranced by the crowd — it's hard not to be. Ananya had told you on the plane that UK festival audiences are a different kind of enthusiastic, eager and loud, and it's obvious now that she was right, and that Corroded Coffin had more than a few loyalists in the sea of people.

The barrier bends under the force of it, thousands of warm bodies throwing themselves against one another despite the terrible weather, mud to the shins and sliding. You've never seen so many people happy to be covered in dirt.

Neither Morgan nor Ananya had wanted to join you so you stick to the shadows with your lanyard pass. You refuse to think about why you've dressed the way you have, a black, stiff corset type top to cinch your chest, exposing the soft hills of your breasts, and the flare pants Morgan had insisted make your thighs acceptable. You're bedecked in pretty jewellery and your hair looks perfect, and it's all for your show, you swear, all for your set straight after his.

Eddie's dripping with sweat and rain at this point, darker curls wet and slick and sweet around his face. His brows are furrowed like he's in pain, and his thumb has split on the strings, blood like cherry juice running down the body of his guitar, a Warlock NJ Series electric with a red and black tortoise shell design. It shines like mother-of-pearl.

You're impressed by him, and worse, there's a heat stirring in your abdomen you despise. He's attractive, you've always thought him pretty, but on stage he's something else entirely. The passion transforms him, makes him a different person. No trace of agitating smugness about him.

And he's good. You're not a critic, an expert, and your opinion hardly matters, but if he's this good now you'd love to see him at Hammet's age, at Hanneman's. He could be one of the greats.

You're riddled with jealousy. Bass and rhythm guitar are not the same, and they're comparable in some ways, incomparable in others, but you know you're not like he is. You want to be the next Entwistle, the next Ian Hill, but practising You've Got Another Thing Comin' until your fingers bleed is never going to give you what Eddie plainly has.

You hide your bandaid covered fingers in your back pockets and shake your head. You can pinpoint the moment Eddie notices you on the side stage despite the small audience they've attained. His neck snaps to the side, and his eyes bore into yours for a split-second.

You could pretend you aren't here. If he ever calls you out on it, you could lie. You want me so bad you're seeing me places, Munson.

You don't do that.

You wave.

You've never been the prettiest girl. You know you aren't model material, people aren't shy about letting you know that, and so, you're practised in the art of quiet flirtation. Your wrist straight, you wiggle your fingers sweetly, a face of fresh make up and your sweetest smile, like he's a guy across the bar and you're trying to get a ride in his passenger seat.

For a split-second you adore him. It's the meanest thing you can do.

You aren't expecting him to fuck up. His hand slips down the neck and that's it, one missed second of sound. He throws himself back into it and doesn't look your way again, a storm of emotions clouding his handsome face.

Not what you'd meant to do, and yet. There's a cruel satisfaction in knowing you'd had any sort of power over him.

There's a ten minute gap between sets, twenty because of the shitty weather. Morgan and Ananya are nowhere to be seen as Corroded Coffin pour off of the stage and down the short stairwell where you're waiting, picking at your clear nail polish absentminded. You don't look up, and the resulting quiet makes you think they've all left.

A wooden board creaks.

You look up.

"Hey, you–"

Eddie takes your shoulder into his warm, big hand and pushes you back. You wobble and rush to correct your posture, hand clamping around the crook of his elbow. Even though he's soaked through, wet to the skin, his hand is a blistering heat.

Your shoulders collide with the wall under the stairwell. It's a snug fit, dark and out of view.

"What gives?" you seethe, pushing at his chest.

"You fucking–" Eddie tucks a lock of wet hair behind his ear, and his hand stays at that height, hovering between you. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"You want to mess with me, is that it?"

His hand takes to your face, index finger following the line of your cheek, his thumb along your jaw. He isn't kind. He isn't cruel. He's touching you, just touching you, and your mouth is bone dry at the sensation, the stuttering beat of your heart.

"I don't want to do anything to you, Munson."

"We both know that's not true." You've never heard his voice like this. It's scratchy– pleading. It's a desperation.

He's breathing hard. Your proximity means you feel each one as it comes, heat fanning over your lips. You look to his, find them parted, the barest hint of pearly teeth between pink dewy skin. They look soft.

You lift your chin.

I dare you.

His hand slides down. He presses his thumb into your bottom lip and inclines his head. You close your eyes, fine stands of his hair drawing lines of wetness against your face as he boxes you in.

"Are you going to–"

"Shut up," he says, crushing his lips to yours.

It his nose you feel more than anything, the force of it as he moves in, bridge sliding down your own. His hands, and how they tighten, fisted in the slope of your shoulder and clutching at the underside of your jaw like you might slip away. His touch brings you in, his hips force you back, wedging your spine tight to the panelled wall behind you.

You let him kiss you, let his lips work over yours, let him take what it is he wants. Your fingers slide softly up the chilled leather of his jacket, coveting the wet mess of his hair. You weave your fingers into it, their tips pressed to his roots, and pull him away.

You steal the gap between you and try to take control. You don't know how to kiss like he is, you don't know where all that meanness comes from. You force his hand from your face and nip at his bottom lip, imprecise, stammering pecks that reveal too much.

Eddie inhales hard, pulls the breath from your mouth.

"Don't play games," he says.

He presses a firm, hard kiss all lopsided into your lips and pulls away, yanking your hand from his hair and setting it against the line of his waist.

"You like games," you argue.

He tilts your head to one side a millimetre at a time, tilting his own to follow you. A teasing light burns behind his eyes, a playful flare of his lashes that worries and excites at once.

His thumb haunts the column of your throat, pressing, releasing, pressing again. Never enough to hurt.

"Stay still."

You stay still. You aren't expecting him to weave the other way, the hot and unapologetic scratch of his teeth against your pulse. You laugh at the feeling, find it gets all clogged up when he starts to bite. The hand that isn't anchoring your head roams down your shoulder, your back, falling into the small of it as though it were made to be there. His fingers spread and pull and your pelvis pushes hard into his own.

"Is that a–" You cough on your murmuring, chastened by his thumb outside your windpipe. "S'that a micronta quartz in your pocket, or are you just," —you hiss as his hickeying turns brutal, hand pawing ar his waist uselessly— "happy– Happy to see me?"

Your shuddering makes him smile. He lets your bruised skin slip from between his lips only to scandalise you further, kissing and nipping, licking a humiliating stretch until he's under your ear, speaking into it.

"I'm never happy to see you," he murmurs, hand turned, the back of his index knuckle stroking a tender back and forth. His forehead kisses your temple. "You should know that by now."

A picture of composure but you know what you feel. You roll your hips to revel in his subtle groan.

"You want me to mark up the other side?" he asks.

His question sounds so genuine, you almost say yes. He laughs at your silence and kisses wherever he can reach, crescent moons, spit-damp and branding.

He pauses to speak into the corner of your mouth. "Mess me up again during a set and I won't be this nice."

"You're not nice," you say, lashes skimming the skin under your brows as he stands at full height, widening the gap between you to a safe distance again.

"Exactly…" Eddie squeezes your cheek until it aches. His eyes are unreadable. "Have a good set, sweetheart."

Unreadable turns smug. He pats your panging cheek, gaze dancing over the sore stretch of your neck, and turns without a second glance.

You press the heel of your palm to the cold wall behind you and blink. Once. Twice. In that moment you hate him more than you've ever hated him, hate him like you've never hated anyone, because his retreating figure is unaffected, and you're dizzy with the lingering press of his lips.

You have to hand it to him. He's good at the game.

You'll have to be better.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

I wrote the bulk of this really quickly so please forgive any major errors I missed during editing, I’ll go back again in future and make more corrections! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and if you did please consider reblogging or telling me what you thought, I promise it makes a big difference <3 I was super nervous about this one and I still am lol

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theoreticaltranstherian · 7 months

Text

Jumping on the bandwagon woo-hoo

no spam reblog or spam comment ;P

For every 100 reblogs I'll drink another bottle of water

Update: Ive drank almost 2 whole water bottles in the last 3 days which isn't much proportionally but for one, I'd probably not even drink one if it wasn't for the internet critters in my phone telling me to and also, yk, thats alot of water compared to my last few weeks getting all my fluids from food

10 reblogs: Go to bed before midnight tonight

50 reblogs: I'll make my bed in the mornings for a week

Update: I found out that my bed being made kinda stresses me out for some reason, it's just so neat I get scared, and so instead I am putting away 3 pieces of clothing that have been clean for months and i just haven't touched every morning :D

75 reblogs: I'll work on getting accommodations for my autism at school

Update: I don't have the required "proof of diagnosis" and I'd have to wait 2 years or so to get it and I won't be in school anymore at that point, so I'm working with my counselors to see what they can do aside from official autism accommodations

125 reblogs: I'll work in upping my failing grade in math

Update: Math test retake on the 12tg, wish me luck!

150 reblogs: I'll work on my dopamine addiction and get help

Update: Hooooooly shit addictions are hard. I'm going to start a timer for time between uses of YouTube shorts or Instagram reels in an effort to reduce my need for instant gratification and try to replace every time I pick my phone up with drawing or reading or talking to people around me.

200 reblogs: I'll post my art that I've been self conscious about posting

Update: I am really happy for this, it's finally an excuse for me to make myself post my art :D it's probably gonna be 1-2 drawings per post with a little background with each :3

300k reblogs: I'll start cleaning up my room

400k reblogs: I'll clean out my bag (God pls don't get to 400 yall T T)

500: I'll get sharp objects out of my room

1k reblogs: I'll be really happy :0

Edit; Added more goals

2k reblogs: I'll start streaming on twitch again!!!

3k reblogs: I'll empty out my drafts

5k: I come out as trans to my parents (I don't know if they're transphobic so to speak, but they are of the mindset that "do whatever you want once you're out of our house but until then you are our kid" but I wanna be like um no actually-)

5.5k: I come out as trans to my non-transphobic grandma

6k: I come out as trans to my transphobic grandma

Edit 2; Yo same picture of the earth reblogged me?!? the picverse found this?!?! that's insane xd

Edit 4; I added some coming out goals because I'm not gonna do it if I don't have the pressure from hundreds of little things in my phone cheering me on xd

Pinging moots so there's at least a small chance of any of these happening xd

@calimewzz @annotated-catastrophe @glitched-out-dusk @life-is-okay-rn

#now I can blame my personal failures on a lack of internet fame #instead of my own inability to function properly #>:D

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httpshujii · 4 months

Text

❝ WANTED FOR A FATAL ATTRACTION . . . ❞

CHAPTER Ⅰ :- ATTENTION

C.W. f!reader is an attention seeking thief, mentions of killing & execution, implications of s*x (not detailed/sugar coated), reader labelled as freak. Please let me know if I missed anything!

TAGS :- @lu-naes @coconut36 @briarbabyxo @number1morihater @kaiser1ns (comment or dm if you'd like to be tagged!)

You don't know what you did to get such a large bounty on your head. You never killed, never found pleasure in the thought of it. Sure, you stole from the richest and you didn't bother hiding your acts.

It's amusing, how your delicate fingers can just snatch all sorts of things out of pockets. You'd find it humorous when they did catch you, when you made sure they knew that you stole something valuable.

The way their faces would contort into shock and morph into pure anger. It's an interesting reaction, you don't know why it satisfies you so much to be seen as a criminal, a known thief.

Is it the thrill it brings when doing something so fragile? Is it to prove something? You questioned your motives on more than one occasion. But it all goes down to one reason.

Boothill. An infamous outlaw, mostly works for brokers. You could never be like him, of course, you don't know how to handle arms nor do you know how he manages to eliminate people like some useless digits in an equation. But to be known by as many people as him is a need. A great wish that only the brightest star can grant, and that star sure does love to stay hidden.

You just want to be known. To be seen and to have your face stamped on the alley walls of Penacony, the word 'wanted' stated right above your head in heavy red ink. It's an indescribable urge.

You blame the lack of attention you got in your younger years. No matter how many times it's repeated, people are greedy and love to talk about themselves. You're no different. If anything, you're worse. This idea of belonging to yourself and loving yourself so much to the point where you want everyone to know every small thing about you, is a major derivative to becoming popular. Whether in a good or bad way.

You realized this power at a young age. Getting accused of cheating when you really didn't, but instead of having your belly bubble with rage at such an accusation, you felt seen. For the first time. Kids are straightforward, if you look, talk, or act weirdly, they'll label you as a "freak."

You didn't have friends, nor did you want any. Their a hindrance, nothing but pawns in a game you didn't know you were playing. You don't know why you used to think that, maybe it was cause you felt invisible. You didn't like it, but it was peaceful.

You remember smiling when the girl who accused you hissed you name towards the teacher, and then you grinned when all eyes turned to you. With that reaction, people agreed on your crime, and into punishment you went.

Cleaning the classroom for a week and retaking a harder version of the test. You took your time, enjoyed cleaning, enjoyed thinking. After all, you had no parents to go home to, no friend to visit. You lived relying on your pickpocketing skills. Stealing a sandwich from a distracted merchant, hiding an apple in your bag when looking through a store. Water bottles, sweets, juice, gum, anything you can get your sinister hands on.

You had the right to survive, just like everyone else. Even if your way bended the laws, you still had the right. At least that's what you told yourself.

As you grew up, you got smarter, more daring. Unclasping pearl necklaces from necks of rich women while complimenting them, flirting with drunk merchants that are too drunk to realize you snatch a few wads of credit, too naïve to notice, too blind by honeyed words to care.

You'd steal like it's a nine to five. You wake up every morning in your hidden shack that was an abandoned garage, brush your teeth, ruffle your hair, apply what little perfume you have left from the perfume store that you stole from a few years ago. Cool, peachy, and flowery. The scent would turn heads, only to be met with a sinister grin and a wallet out of their pockets and in your very trusty hands.

You'd buy yourself a meal, keep it packed till you get back to your humble abode.

"I'm home…"

You have no one to go back to. But these words always feel brand new when they roll out of your throat, saddened, somber. You know you'll never come home to see anyone, you'd probably be dead or on the run by the time. Every day, every night, it's the same routine.

You grew to like it, enjoy the loop of similar activities. Up until now.

As if a shock, he came in and rearranged the pattern. Forced himself into your idea of a perfect lifestyle. You're not mad, there's a reason you have his wanted poster plastered right next to your mattress on the wall of your home. You're excited to this sudden change. Giggling, you shove the drunkard you were trying to bribe away, causing him to stumble and knock himself out on the hard floor of the saloon.

You know he's here for you, it's clear with that killer smile on his lips. His hands hanging loosely on his gun holster, you pull your bottom lip into the light grip of your teeth, your smile so wide your lip slips from the caress of your wet tongue against the slightly chapped surface.

There he stands, in all his glory. The one and only Boothill. Mechanical body glinting under the yellow bulbs, complex machinery whispering a repetitive whir of pumps pumping and gears turning. Teeth akin to a shark's pointy and pearly. Pupils that rotate, gun's targets eyeing you up and down.

Under his calculated gaze, you feel seen, heard, and understood all within the span of a few seconds. Everyone around you seems non existent, they cower in the dark corners of the saloon as the predator approaches you in clicking heels on a wooden floor.

He thinks you look like a little girl. With your legs kicking the air softly, your hands resting beneath your thighs as you gaze up at him with nothing but wonder and curiosity. He doesn't know if he likes it, he's used to siren lulls of scandalous dances, spending a few hours to relish in the plush of steamy nights with what people would call models, but to him, nothing but discarded digits of pleasure. He doesn't even know why he participates in such acts. He's not a human anymore, can't feel a warm body against his, it itches him. Not being able to touch and feel and caress. It makes him go crazy, often shooting bullets at aging walls when he thinks about it too much.

He likes you. How different you are to him, how new you are to him. He feels like it's okay to slow down just this once. He takes a seat next to you. Resting his elbow on the wooden bar, his fist cushioning his cheek as his eyes stay locked on you. You imitate him. Staring at him just as intently. With just as much wonder.

"Can I buy you a drink, sugar?"

MASTERLIST ⋮ CHAPTER Ⅱ . . .

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finelinepie · 4 months

Text

"On The Field"

*This is not my photo, but I couldn't find the original poster to credit them.🥺(but thank you to whoever made this)*

THIS SERIES WILL HAVE LONGER PARTS, BUT THIS FIRST PART IS MOSTLY AN INTRODUCTION❤️

*I want this to be a short series, but I am not sure if this is even something people would like?? Please let me know how you like it, or don't like it.. I NEED THE FEED BACK*

Footballrry / reader

Plot: Dating the football star is not what you pictured happening your sophomore year of college, but its happening, and you have to keep calm... how does one keep calm when he looks like..that??

Word Count: 1K and some change

Warnings: none yet, just the smirk we all dream about and a little bit of fluff.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Being in a football stadium is not how I thought my winter break would go. I thought for sure it would be spent with my friends on some extravagant vacation somewhere warm or maybe even going home to my family. It is so weird how things worked out this year. My friends went home to their families, and my parents wanted to spend their first vacation alone now that both of their kids are off at college and they are empty nesters. I found myself staring at the field and studying how the players moved about. The one thing I am most grateful for is the fact that I am currently sitting in a box chair in the warmth. The stadium box was a luxurious escape from the frigid winter air outside, with plush seats, a stocked minibar, and a perfect view of the field below. I don't care how many heat lamps are facing the field right now, I won’t be caught dead down there. The biting cold was relentless, and I could see the players’ breath forming clouds as they huddled and ran their drills.

With my textbook in my lap, I continued to multitask studying and watching the boys on Lambeau Field. My..actually, I don’t know what to call him.. we have yet to label anything. He was running around like a chicken with his head cut off, while his coach chased him, teammates laughing at the scene. I smiled softly and giggled, in total awe of his childlike nature. Shaking my head, I looked back down and continued taking notes. This class is kicking my ass, and I do not want to have to retake it. College is a bitch, and I don't want to stay any longer than I have to.

My thought process was interrupted by the club door opening. Turning my head to see who it was, I smiled and closed my book. “Hey, babe.” My best friend, Isla, said cheerfully, sitting down next to me.

“Hey, what are you still doing here? I thought you were going home this year?” I recalled. She sighed and looked down at the boys still practicing on the field.

“I am, but I just wanted to look at your dreamboat before I left.” She taunted.

I rolled my eyes before throwing my head back in a cackle. “He is not my dreamboat.” I could feel my cheeks heat up. My blush only deepened when I heard a quiet ‘Yet’ escape her mouth.

She cleared her throat before she continued. “All joking aside, I just came to say bye, and because I know you guys are in the puppy phase, you would be here pretending to study but actually staring at him the whole time.” She winked. “I love you, stay safe, I will see you in two weeks. And remember!” She chirped while standing back up. “Don’t be silly, wrap his willy!” She screamed. I swatted her thigh while she howled in laughter.

I chuckled, shaking my head as Isla made her way out of the box. Turning my attention back to the field, I noticed my favorite boy glancing up at the stands. For a brief moment, our eyes met, his lips lifting to the side to smirk and my heart skipped a beat. I quickly looked away, feeling a mix of embarrassment and excitement.

As I tried to refocus on my textbook, my mind kept drifting back to him. The way he moved with such confidence and energy was captivating. Despite the cold outside, the warmth of the box and the sight of him made everything feel a little bit brighter.

As practice wrapped up, the players began to filter off the field. The star player jogged toward the sidelines, grabbing a towel and wiping the sweat from his face. He glanced up at the boxed seats, his eyes scanning the seats, pretending not to see where I am, until they landed on me. A smile spread across his face, and he gave a small wave. My heart skipped a beat, and I felt my cheeks flush again. I waved back, feeling a flutter of excitement.

A few minutes later, he appeared at the door of the club box, still dressed in his practice gear. Harry leaned against the doorframe, looking effortlessly handsome. "Hey, stranger," he said with a grin. "Mind if I join you?" His green eyes shining bright against his flushed face.

I gestured to the seat next to me, trying to play it cool. "Sure, come on in. How was practice?" I am going to throw up.

His large body plopped beside me and I instantly got hints of musky vanilla. His presence immediately made the room feel warmer. "It was good, just the usual drills and stuff. Coach is really pushing us hard, but it's worth it." He glanced at my textbook. Wrapping his arm around me he spoke once more, "What about you? Studying during break—you're dedicated."

I sighed, closing the book again. "Yeah, trying to keep up with this class. It's a killer."

He nodded, his expression serious. "If you need any help, just let me know. I was pretty good at that class last semester."

I smiled, grateful for the offer. "Thank you, I might take you up on that."

For the next hour, we talked about everything and nothing, the conversation flowing easily. Harry had a way of making me feel comfortable, even when I was a nervous wreck inside. As we chatted, I couldn't help but think about how unexpected this winter break had turned out to be. It wasn't the vacation I had planned, but sitting here with him, it felt like it might turn out to be even better.

Eventually, Harry stood up, stretching. "I should probably hit the showers. But seriously, if you need help with that class, just text me."

I nodded, standing up as well. "I will. Thanks for the offer, H."

He smiled, that same infectious grin that had captivated me from the start. "Anytime. See you tonight, alright?" He leaned down to kiss my forehead and then my lips softly before making his way out the door.

As he walked out of the club box, I felt a warmth in my chest. Maybe this winter break wouldn't be so bad after all.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

#harry edward styles #harry styles smut #harry styles #harry styles fanfic #footballrryxyou #harry x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles series #harry styles au #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles writing #harry styles boyfriend #football harry styles x you #harry styles x you #harry styles fanfiction

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wolfish-trickster · 2 months

Text

Pen pal

Geto x fem!reader

College AU

Word count: 12,6K

Summary: After your meme post about your STEM studies is noticed by a kind stranger the two of you start a conversation and become internet friends.

Warnings: cussing, typos, grammar mistakes, probably not accurate for all colleges since I'm using mine as a reference, fluff, angst, slowburn, eventual smut (i'm bad at writing it so sorry)

A/N: wanted to write angsty af, but turned to smut.... enjoy and don't get used to it 😂

You hit send and stretch on your chair, your spine cracks after sitting down and hunching over your laptop for so long. It wasn't the healthiest but once you started writing you couldn't stop. Words in your begged you to let them out into the world. Or rather your final essay.

It took a while but it was finally finished. A week in advance, might you add. With this thing off your hands you could finally relax and concider the first year of your college to be officially over. All finals done and graded, no fails or retakes. And you have three months of doing absolutely nothing before you.

You smiled looking at the mail to the professor, your essay attached and secured.

Wait a minute.

The file you saved and attached has a different name than your final version.

You panic, quickly attach the file titled "final draft" and write: I'm sosorry mr prof i acidentally sentd the wrong file, this is the corr.rect one.

Only after you hit send did you notice all the typos but frankly you didn't care. Even this little embarassment was way better than your little what you deem funny notes written everywhere in your essays. It's like a fun excercise for you, using humor to keep your brain from falling asleep and potentionally hitting a block.

"Calm down heart, everything is okay," you whisper to yourself, "look, the correct version is there. Now you can start a summer break. So please, stop beating so fast."

But your heart knew something you didn't yet and kept rapidly beating. You stared at the new mail. The correct file was right there so why-

You didn't copy the conclusion from the draft to the final file. You checked the final draft just in case and sure enough the three paragraphs you wrote ten minutes ago weren't there.

"How can I be this fucking stupid?!" you cussed at yourself while you were pressing ctrl, c and v keys fixing your mistake.

This time you took deep breaths, wrote gramatically correct apology, attached the correct file (which you opened before you attached it) and finally hit send.

You finally calmed down. Now that you think about it the poor professor of yours will be so confused but amused as well. You chuckled to yourself and already formed a meme in your head.

After couple of minutes it was shining proudly on your laptop screen:

Maybe it was the sleep deprived state you were in or the hilarity of your dumbness but right now you though this was the funniest meme you've ever created. You proudly logged on your tumblr account and posted it.

Your blog was relatively small, only reblogging interesting pictures and almost never making your own original posts. And even those you did make didn't get any recognision so you started treating it as your own personal diary. Venting about stuff that went wrong in your life, making memes either about things happening to you or after your brain once again made a weird connection between two subjects discussed in class. Almost no one but you found them funny, hence the lack of notes under your posts but you stopped caring a long time ago. You found them funny and it was all that mattered.

But now all that matter was you finally getting a good night's sleep with no stress, no alarm waking you up early to study, absolutely nothing.

Being dumb as always you forgot to turn off your usual 7am alarm. Groaning you rached for your phone and with one eye still closed you tried turning it off. Only to notice something unusual. You got a notification. From tumblr. Someone liked your post. And commented too!

All sleepiness left your body as you quickly went into the app on your phone and checked the notes.

⬛ black-swallow commented: damn and here i thought i was the only one making dumb mistakes in college 😂

For your first ever comment it was certainly...something. You didn't know whether to comment back playfully or leave it. But out of pure curiosity you commented back.

@ black-swallow yeah nah, there are more of us. Btw what was the dumbest thing you did?

The reply would probably take a while, if ever, so you started your morning routine: skin care, brush your teeth, hair, etc.

As you sat down with your breakfast you checked the notes and surprisingly your new buddy commented back.

⬛️ black-swallow: i basically did the same thing you did with your essay, but i did it with my application. Had to send it four times...

You almost spit out your water. Four times? Poor fella. Must've been so stressed.

@ black-swallow oh that sounds really stressful. But hey you got in in the end!

⬛️ black-swallow: yeah, and got kicked out too :')

Okay now's the time to stop talking, unless you want to embarass yourself even further. Cringing at yourself you closed the app and turned off your phone. First person you interacted with on that god darn app and you embarass yourself like that. Unbelievable.

After finishing breakfast you had no plans for the day. Other than enjoying your fellow freshmen stress about their finals which you since long passed. You just propped up your legs and relaxed. Until you heard another tumblr notification.

But this time it was a dm.

Sorry to bother you like this but can i ask what does bioarcheology mean? Sounds terrifying.

"Calm down," you said to yourself, "it's just a dm, nothing difficult. Besides this person sounds nice. They don't know you, they can't see you, they can't hurt you."

The years of your parents beating your head with 'don't talk to strangers online' went out the window the moment you replied to the very first person reaching out to you through internet.

Nothing interesting really, i picked that class for extra credit anyways 😅

The reply came in imediately. You and this person must be in the same timezones. How lucky!

Come on, don't be so humble. When i passed my first scary sounding class i was talking about it to everyone willing to listen

Well, what was your scary sounding class then?

Biophysics

Holy 💀 physics alone is hell but mixing it with biology as well?

Ikr? Honestly some lectures were really interesting but others were like a lullaby for me 😴

I understand, some bioarcheology lectures were boring for me too. By the way what college are you on?

*were. Medicine.

Sorry, i forgot 😣 and yeah, should've guessed... sorry

Hey it's okay. And don't apologize, maybe things were supposed to be like this

What do you mean?

I wasn't feeling very well on that school, i just didn't wanna quit in the first year. And before you ask i dropped out after second

So you were forcing yourself to stay on a school you didn't like anymore for two years?

Yup. Everyone else had gotten to the schools they wanted and loved it, i felt like i was wasting my time but if i left willingly only after a year i would be a year behind everyone else. So i left it up for fate

And fate decided to kick you out

True to that. But i still like science, just not the medicine part of it...

After studying biophysics i'm not even surprised...

It took your college drop out some time to write a reply so you made yourself a cup of your favourite tea, force of habit since you studied with it too. So far you're starting to like texting with some complete stranger. Getting to know their story. Is this why people casually slide into others' dms?

Your friend finally replied.

Sorry, my roommate needed help with packing. As for your last message there were lots of other classes that were equally if not harder than biophysics, but all of them either dealt with anatomy or physiology which is basically memorizing. When it comes to finding patterns and math and using logic i'm pretty slow

You chuckled and typed a reply.

You'd like it on my college then. Lots of memorizing, very little logic. Which sucks for me because i'm the exact opposite 😂

Well, now that i'm a free man and know an insider i just might apply 👀

So now that you know he's a man. Okay, you can live with that. Even though you felt a tad more nervous now that you know something a bit more specific.

What's your school called?

It's the natural science one. The same city as your previous school

You vividly remember your bus passing by the best medical school in your entire country. You just hope he really was attending that one and not a different, less prestigeus one.

Natural science? So STEM in other words

Basically

Yeah i know which one. Coincidentally after highschool that one was my second choice in case med doesn't work out.

See, maybe fate wanted you in STEM all along

Haha, maybe 😂 My name's Suguru Geto by the way

I'm Y/N, nice to meet you :)

Summer quickly passed and the only thing you remember was your talks with Geto. They were shy and reserved at the begining, mostly starting with 'how are you?' continued with 'good, and you?' followed by some awkward silent minutes before it evolved into a deep conversation about the immortality of a cockroach.

You found out lots of things about his life. How he met his best friend in highschool, how the two of them and one other girl used to wreak havoc across the town, how they all got into the same college albait with different intentions. The girl called Shoko genuenly wanted to become a doctor dreaming about it her whole life. Geto's best friend Gojo, being very competitive but also a son of a wealthy CEO didn't need to go to a college but wanted to to be with his friends (later he admited to Geto he got into that school just to show Shoko it's not as hard as she said it was). And Geto applied because he had no idea where else to go. He liked science, biology, chemistry, being in lab, creating something new which would help the world. Med school sounded like the clear answer for him, if it wasn't for the boredom he experienced the first semester.

He told you how he struggled in some classes finding them absolutely unnecessary and beneath him, his professor condescendingly talking to them as if they were less than worm beneath the ground if they didn't know an answer. He went above and beyond to at least pass the class hoping next semester would be better. Oh how wrong he was. No matter what he did, no matter how selflessly he helped his classmates they never showed gratitude. When he upped his grade from barely passing to top of the class no one even bat an eye, as if that was a sure thing.

By the time second year came he was so mentally drained he didn't even bother to show up to classes anymore. Why bother if the teachers are just reading the text off of their powerpoint presentation and he has to learn it by himself in the end anyways?

The more he ranted to you the more you pitied him. For you STEM was the first and only path in your life, dreaming about it since you were a kid. For him though? Thinking you finally found your path only to be this utterly disappointed must've been like a stab to the back.

Getting a letter about him being expelled must've been half relieving to him and half disappointing. On one hand you have your freedom of choice back on the other you have the stress of possibly not making it in.

The entire summer wasn't just about him talking to you, no no, he was also a great listener. You complained about mundane things to him and he always answered in matter of minutes. He was always there for you, but now you were the one to be there for him as well.

Y/N i'm so stressed i feel like puking

You'll be fine, don't worry about it. If anything there are lots of plant pots on hallways for you to puke in and fertilize them ^^

As if... i'll go to the deanship like a civilized person thank you very much

Very classy geto 🙄 By the way which place holds the entrance exams? Have you found it?

B1 404, standing infront of it. Why? Did you take it someplace else last year?

No, never had to take it, had grades good enough

Show off

I know 😘

You cringed as you realized what emoji you just sent him. Force of habit from sending it to your friends whenever you manage to prank them. To your surprise he sent you back a winking AND smirking emoji. You blushed. He has never sent you anything flirty or suggestive. Why would he? The two of you didn't even know eachother that well or what the other one looked like. He could be a slimy looking weirdo with a pedo-moustache for all you knew.

Okay Y/N, gotta go now, wish me luck

Always Geto, good luck!

Can I ask you something?

It was weird for him to start your everyday conversation with this sentence, you thought.

Sure. Is it something about the school mister accepted?

No, don't worry, i'll get to exploiting you later 😏 I wanted to ask, what do you look like?

If the first message didn't make you blush the second one sure did. You never asked eachother about your appearance. You already made an image of him in your head. The longer you knew him the more your imagination turned him from a questionable weirdo to an almost cute nerd.

You'll see once the semester starts

You really think i can wait that long? Do you even know me? If you're shy would it be better if i showed you how i looked like first?

Yeah, that would be better.

It took couple of minutes before your screen lit up with a new message.

You almost passed out. There's no way someone can look this good in just an oversized tshirt and sweatpants. And a man bun of all things! The jawline, you were pretty sure it could cut diamonds. His eyes, narrow and sharp, with irises dark enough to not even see his pupils. And yet they seemed oddly kind to you.

The longer you looked at the selfie he sent you the more heat rushed to your face. There's no way a guy this gorgeous has been texting with you this entire summer.

That's not you

It is

It isn't! You just googled a model or something

A model you say 😏

That damn emoji will kill you one day. Before you could get a hold of yourself you got another selfie from him. This time he had a post-it note with your name on it between his lips.

Believe me now?

It's been a couple of days since he sent you that picture and you still haven't replied. Every morning Geto woke up and checked his phone but still no replies from you. Well, aside from a picture of a naked cat and calling it your nude.

"Your girlfriend still not talking to you?" Gojo asked.

Geto sighed. "Stop calling her my girlfriend. And yes, still nothing. I told you that last selfie would be too much for her."

Gojo took a bite from his apple. "Was worth a try," he said mouth half full of his granny smith, "didn't she send you a pic back?"

Geto showed him his phone screen and Gojo coughed out his chewed peace of apple.

"Ew, you're cleaning it," Geto jumped back from the mix of apple and spit that landed next to him on the couch.

"Hey and whose fault it is to bag a girl with an excellent sense of humor?" Gojo reluctantly went to the kitchen to get a wipe to clean up his mess. "And even if she's ugly her being funny may make up for it."

Geto sighed. "She's just a friend who happens to be my future upperclassman, I don't care if she's ugly. I mean, I'm friends with you afterall," he smirked.

Gojo showed him his tongue while pulling one of his lower eyelids down and left the living room. (A/N: what Gojo just did is like giving someone a middle finger but in japanese way)

You were more stressed than ever. Which was partially understandable, you're about to enter the second year of university tomorrow. The assignments, the lab reports, the midterms, the finals.... Your head was already spinning from the amount of studying that's infront of you. And they say the first year is usually the hardest.

But other than the usual fears you had another one called Geto Suguru. A guy you've been talking to the entire summer. A guy who has sent you bunch of winky and smirky faces. And his actual face. Twice.

Since then you'd talked sporadically. Not that he was pestering you about your own face reveal, he was oddly conciderate about you not wanting to show yourself to him just yet. Both of you were just busy. You with buying new supplies for all your classes and him with probably the same.

It wasn't that you thought of yourself as ugly or anything. On your best days you even thought of yourself as quite cute. But compared to other girls around you... you just fell into the background. Forever the side character.

Either way, the closer it got to the first day of the semester the more messages from him blew up your phone every day. Stuff as "where is the xyz class" or "does this professor take attendance every lecture?" was on a daily basis now. Gone were the deep talks or good mornings that made your heart skip a beat even before you knew what the guy sending you these messages even looked like. But you couldn't blame him. New environment. New people. If you were in his place you'd probably act the same.

For the last time you checked your phone for new messages from him. Aside from the one thanking you for a map of the campus nothing new. He must've gone to sleep already, you thought.

Checking your backpack for the last time before bed has soothed your thoughts about possibly bumping into your internet friend tomorrow. You finally went to bed.

The bus is usually empty whenever you take it to school. Which you thank all gods for because it's a thirty minute drive and with the amount of walking you still have to do to get to the school you were greatful for always finding an empty seat. Sitting by the window as usual, looking at all those different people going about their morning routine. Kids of all ages going to schools, adults either nervously honking at the car infront of them or taking their dog for a walk with no care in the stressed out world around them. You were stuck inbetween these two worlds. Still burdened with school work but also with adult chores. Stuck in your own personal limbo.

The bus turned right. A huge light blue building appeared in the corner of your eye. Outside the window was the medical school you always passed by kn your way to school. The same medical school your new friend attended few months ago. You started to wonder about him for the first time that day and your usual angxiety returned. How will you meet? And when? Would it be today? Should you approach him if you see him? How will he react?

Your train of thoughts came to a stop just like the bus. Outside the window at the bus stop stood a familiar modelylike face. The same face you took a screenshot of and stared at every day since he sent it to you.

Suguru Geto boarded the same bus. Eyes still half asleep never even looked your direction. He took a seat right infront of you giving you a perfect view of his luscius hair tied in a half up bun. You stared at him as if he was a ghost. You weren't ready to meet him this soon. What should you do? Should you tap him on the shoulder? No. Rather not. You remember how he told you about his morning temper and how he can snap at people if he doesn't get enough sleep.

Out of fear of him snapping at you you pulled your hand back and stared out the window again. You'll bump into him later. Hopefully.

You were tense the rest of the drive to your school. When the bus finally came to your stop you practically sprinted to the bus door and out onto the busy street. Not even bother to look back if Geto gave you a weird look you quickly walked up the stairs and up the hill quickly getting surrounded by fellow students. Some were familiar from the previous year, some were complete strangers. You could easily spot a freshman, by their nervous faces and unsure steps. You looked just the same before.

Now your step was more confident, knowing where to go, but your hands were nervously rubbing eachother. Sometimes you checked behind your shoulder and sure enough Geto was right there towering above most of the students. You had guessed he was tall but that tall?

No matter. Pretty soon your paths would drift apart. He already told you he has a virology lecture which takes place in a completely separate building than your biochemistry labs. If you were lucky you could pass by him in a hall today. You hoped not to though. Sitting behind him has already made your heart nearly beat out of your chest, how would it react if he was walking right towards you?

Suddenly your phone vibrated in your pocket as you walked through the front entrance. It was Geto. You exchanged phone numbers in case he ever needed anything and you weren't online to see his message. Which was what you told him. In reality you really wanted to hear his voice at some point. In a safe distance.

You pulled out your phone and checked to see what he had sent you. It was a picture of the front entrance with a caption "i'm on a highway to hell". You chuckled. Of course he would be into that type of music. Before you turned the phone off something caught your eye. It was the back of your head. Right there in the middle of the picture about to enter the school. You blushed. If only he knew he already took a picture of you.

You only replied with a smiley face and informed him you're already on your way to your first class. He wished you good luck as you did him and both of you stepped into the new chapter of your lives.

You traitor

Only a week into the semester and he already scared you half to death. Did he already find out what you looked like?

Why didn't you tell me i have to take organic chemistry again 😫

You sighed in relief.

Sorry buddy. But hey, look at it from the bright side: you already studied all of it once before. And i doubt our organic chemistry is more difficult than yours was

The lectures are fine, already had one this week. But the labs. THE LABS

Come on it can't be that bad. Judging by the pictures of your cooking over the summer, you're quite skilled at measuring and mixing ingredients. It just won't be edible

It's not that. The labs are super boring. You don't acomplish anything during them and their only purpose is for you to learn how to behave in labs in general, how to work with the various tools and how to properly write lab reports. They just prepare you for AFTER you already graduate

Isn't that how all labs are though?

Well, yes. But we at least had little competitions during our morgue classes

YOU WENT TO THE ACTUAL MORGUE 💀

No, don't worry. Me and Satoru called it that. It was actually autopsy room

Satoru. Your friend right?

Yeah

Do you miss him?

Sometimes. i mean we are still roommates but since we have different scheudals we don't get to interact much outside of weekends... But on the bright side as you like to say i can finally focus on the lectures 100%. Before Satoru used to always taunt me into playing tic-tac-toe. I miss the winning tho...

You chuckled. He was so goofy, despite looking really serious every time you caught a sight of him. Maybe he just has a resting homicide face.

Anyways, have to go now. Tomorrow is my first organic chemistry lab

Okay, good night Suguru! Good luck!

What?

You called me Suguru

Only then you realized your mistake.

I'm so sorry 😣

It's fine. I like it. Good night. Sweet dreams <3

As unlucky as you were while texting Suguru you were lucky in other aspects. Your morning lecture got cancelled. Which meant you had around two hours of free time. Which you couldn't spend in bed unfortunatelly, because the little remnants of bad luck caused you to read the mail about cancelation only after you were already in school. It was fine tho. You could finally get a taste of true college life.

You got a coffee from school café, bought a sandwitch from the diner, found yourself a couch in a chill zone near the chemistry department, which were usually all full of stressed out or relaxing students, pulled out a laptop and worked on your lab report.

Working came easy to you even though you had rushing students all around you. Even through all the noise and distraction your fingertips still dance across the keys, your mind still produced intelligent sounding senteces. You were about to save the whole file when someone tapped you kn the shoulder.

"Yeah-?" you looked up and nearly died right then and there. It was Suguru. Towering above you with his hair fully pulled up except for a small strand framing his face. Has he found you already?

"Sorry but, do you know where the room CH1 409 is? We're kinda lost and only have like 7 minutes to get there," he said sheepishly as he stepped aside revealing what you assumed were his three lab mates. Two of them were girls. You hated how jealous you started to feel.

"S-sure," you managed to stutter out. "I can take you there actually. It's a little difficult to find and I'm not the best direction giver," you chuckled awkwardly while putting your laptop back to your bag.

"Wonderful! Thank you," said one of Suguru's friends.

You nodded and walked ahead of them. It was a shame you didn't get to hear his voice more. You decided to change it.

"So, you're freshmen," you started. As much as you hated smalltalk you really wanted to hear that smooth baritone of his.

Your unluckiness strikes again. "Yeah, how did you know?" said one of the girls.

"You dummy," told her the other girl, "she knows where the lab is, she's probably had to take the exact same classes as us!"

"Oh, yeah you're right."

"And how do you like it here so far?" you tried again.

"It's great here," answered the guy, "though some classes are pretty difficult. I have no idea how I'll be able to pass."

"Don't worry, if you have motivation you'll pass," you tried encouraging him. "What about you?" you directed your question at Suguru who was walking behind everyone.

He only shrugged. "Don't know, has only been a week. Too short to judge," he answere a bit coldly.

"Oh don't mind him," one of the girls patted your back, "he can be a giant ass sometimes."

Not to me though, you thought. What about all those times he was the sweetest guy with you? Maybe he just hasn't slept well. Yeah, that must be it.

Before you could try to conversate a bit more you arrived at the lab. There were other freshmen already waiting in their lab coats on and their notebooks in hands. Suguru and his friends pulled out their lab coats as well. Disappointed at your very first (albeit unofficial) meeting you turned around to leave when one of the girls stopped you.

"Thank you so much for showing us the way!" she said cheerfully. Behind her stood Suguru. Now that you think about it he was always walking behind her. If you inspected her more closely you noticed she had a miniskirt on with fishnets underneath.

Jealousy is a beast that you usually fight off quite quickly. But today you lost. "Can I give you an advice?"

"Sure," she smiled, her perfectly white teeth stood out against the deep red lipstick she had on.

"Don't wear too much make up to labs, the fumes from chemicals could react with it and burn you. Also tie your hair up," you gestured at her long silky waves while noticing how she tried to hide her big forhead by letting it down, "they could catch on fire."

Hopefully you desguised your pettiness as good enough of an advice. The girl you were talking to seemed convinced as she thanked you prefusely before asking around for a hairtie. The other girl already pulled out hers.

You waved goodbye to the freshmen, mostly Suguru. They waved back, except for Suguru who kept looking at you quizicaly.

Your previous spot on couches was occupied. You opted for a different resting place, near a room where your next lecture will be held in. It wasn't as cozy as the couch but it was free of any people and it had a desk too. No more balancing your laptop on your thighs.

As you sat down you pulled out your laptop, notebook from labs and a phone who was already telling you about one unread message from Suguru.

Met my first unpleasant person in this place

Your heart tightened. Unpleasant?

What do you mean?

However he didn't respond back. Of course he didn't. He had labs. He was probably busy with titration or other bullshit you did a year ago. You will just have to wait.

The waiting took half a day. Right as his labs were finishing your lecture was about to start. And since this professor wasn't one of the kind ones to send you his presentations you had to take notes manually. It took more than two hours for you to finally get on your phone.

We were lost on our way to organic chem labs and i had to ask someone on a way there. The girl was nice, she even lead us there. But then she made some passive agressive comments to my friend

Oh shit. Were you really that bad?

What did the girl say?

Just told her she can't wear that much make up and has to tie her hair back. My friend has acne she masks with the make up and pretty big forhead which she told me she's self conscious of. Whatever that girl was a bitch for saying that to her

You resisted the urge to cry, swallowed the huge lump in your throat and sat down on the nearest bench. You didn't mean to be that bad. Were you really acting like a bitch? Maybe he's just exaggarating. It was only pettiness. It won't happen again.

Those were good advices tho. The fumes from chemicals could mess up with the make up and burn her skin and if she leaned down above a burner her hair could catch on fire

Once you realized how much you sounded like "that bitch" Suguru was talking about you quickly typed another message.

It was the first thing our professor told us and he beat it into our heads every time a girl came in with lose hair

A reply from him came couple of minutes later.

Yeah, maybe you're right. It's just that That girl had a weird look on her face

You had no way of replying to that. Or mood to reply as well. You just wrote him a quick ttyl and went to the bus stop. On your way downhill from the school you felt your face heating up more and more from embarassement. You knew you should've fought with jealousy more. You knew you should've kept your mouth shut. Now that moment will haunt you forever. And not only that, if you ever get enough courage to reveal yourself to him he will instantly remember you as his first unpleasant person in there.

All in all, it was just the first week but you already want the whole semester to end.

Couple of weeks passed. Suguru and you texted nearly every day. Mostly after school. Sometimes he teased you by sending you picutres of stray cats near the campus with captions 'this you?' to which you always sent a rolling eye emoji.

Makes me wonder how many times we passed eachother 🤔

Lots, trust me

Whaaa? And you never bothered to talk to me?

We did actually

Your last message made him lean back too much on his chair and fall.

"You okay?" asked Shoko who still visited him and Gojo either out of boredom or nostalgia's sake.

Suguru ignored her concern and quickly shuffled in his memory. He has talked to so many people outside his class already. Mostly asking for directions to different places. But for the love of him he couldn't figure out if he talked to any girls or how many he talked to. Or how they looked like.

Aaaand can you tell me what we talked about?

You were asking for directions to a lab

Do you even know how little that narrows it down? And why are you so talkative today anyways? Did i tell you something rude or?

No. It's biochemistry. I can't figure it out 😭

Aaaw, my poor girl

As much as he liked the flustered reactions whenever he happened to mildly flirt with you he genuenly meant it this time. He remembers his own time figuratively and literally crying over biochemistry. He decided to take a leap of faith.

How about i study with you? I had biochemistry for two whole semesters and passed it by some miracle

You'd do that for me?

Sure. Besides after all the material you've already sent me and how much you already helped me it's about time i helped you back. Otherwise i just feel like a leech

There was no reply from you for couple of minutes and Suguru was affraid he maybe overstepped this invisible line you drew between them.

He heard hushed voices behind his back.

"What?" he snapped a little more annoyed than he intended.

"Is that girl ignoring you again?" Shoko puffed out some smoke from her cigarette.

"She isn't ignoring me," he waved his hand around in the cloud of smoke clearing the air a bit, "it just takes her a little longer."

"Riiight," Shoko put her cigarette between her lips again.

"I don't understand how the two of you haven't met already," Gojo complained. He should be studying along with Shoko but as usual he kept lounging around, dismissing Shoko's comments about him failing this class for sure with that attitude.

"Half of the semester is behind us already and you still have no idea how she looks like."

"She's shy, let her be."

"Aaaw, look how he's defending his girlfriend," Gojo cooed.

Geto glared.

"Soon to be girlfriend," Gojo corrected himself.

"With the way she's talking to me soon to be an ex friend. She's been so distant lately..." he rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Don't worry, maybe she's just busy," Shoko reassured him.

"She did mention something about biochemistry."

"See!"

"Even then, her messages have been rather weird. Sometimes she's her happy talkative self and other days she barely texts back a full sentence," he sighed.

Gojo patted his shoulder. "That's girls for you. Which reminds me," he pulled out his own phone out of his pocket, "there's a joined party for med students and scientists as well. How about we go? You'll finally get to relax," he adressed poor Shoko hovering above her notes, "and you can invite your soon to be slash maybe never be girlfriend and finally meet her! I plan on meeting this one lady myself so we can organize a double date if you're shy."

"No matter how much you try Utahime will still tell you to go fuck yourself," Shoko reminded him.

Gojo turned around at her. "Well first of all-!"

Geto payed no mind to their arguement anymore. His phone buzzed in his hand. You replied.

Okay. But can we study right now please? Through a phone call?

In a speed of light Geto sneaked out of the living room to his own bedroom and searched for his old biochemistry notes. Even though he offered to help he himself was pretty clueless and barely passed the finals. Still the urge to finally hear your voice was bigger than the embarassment possibly awaiting him.

As soon as he found the old dusty notebook he sat down at his desk and dialed you.

It took only two rings for you to answer.

"Hello?"

By god your voice sounded so cute. He wanted to squich your cheeks so bad. Unfortunatelly he couldn't remember a single person he talked to who would even come close to sounding like you. Granted, the phone makes everyone's voice sound a bit robotic but still. Should he start recording every conversation he has from now on?

"Well hello there," he greeted back with a smile. "So, what is it you need help with?"

You hummed. He distantly heard ruffling of couple of papers. Eventually you answered. "Gluconeogenesis."

"Okay, a bit more specificly?" he already started looking for a page about it but couldn't seem to find it. Did they even cover it?

"Well, the whole thing basically. I know it's glycolysis but backwards but in the presentation the professor showed us were couple of reactions that looked confusing and I don't know what else to do."

Even though he found your whine at the end of your sentence cute he was frantically turning page after page looking for any headtitle starting on G but nothing.

Someone opened his door.

"Who're you talking to?" both his best friend and Shoko peaked through the opened door.

Geto waved at them to leave. "Uhm give me a moment okay?" he said to the phone and then pushed it to his shoulder. "Shoko do you have a biochemistry notebook here?"

"Is that your girl?" she asked insted, excitement in her eyes. "Put her on loudspeaker!"

"Do you have it or not?!"

"If I say I do will you let me hear her?"

Geto contemplated. He wanted to keep you just to himself for a while longer. But without Shoko's help...

Gojo came in with his own half torn notebook dangling it infront of Geto. "It's all yours if you let us hear her."

Geto frowned into his best friends smirked face which matched Shoko's. He rolled his eyes and finally spoke to the phone again. "Listen Y/N, my friends want to hear you, can I put you on a loudspeaker?"

"Uhm, sure?"

As soon as he did Gojo started asking bunch of questions. "Heey how are you? Are you the Y/N Sugu won't shut up about? How do you look like? Why didn't you send my boy a selfie? He likes black so go on and buy some nice black lingerie for him yeah?"

By the time he finished his little rant Geto covered his phones's microphone and nearly kicked him in the gut. Hopefully you didn't hear most of his questions.

Shoko punched him as well chastising him for scaring you off. "Don't mind him Y/N, you'll get used to him. Now say something already!"

After a second of silence you peeped out a shy: "Hi."

"Oh my god Suguru she sounds so cute," Gojo gushed.

"Don't let her near him," Shoko pointed at Gojo. "It was nice to hear you Y/N, can't wait for Suguru to introduce you to us properly. Enjoy your study date!" she said as she dragged Gojo away before he could blabber out some more inapropriate things.

Suguru turned the loudspeaker off and it was just you two again.

"What the hell was that," you asked with panic in your voice.

"My friends trying to ruin my life. They mean well though, don't worry. It's just rare for them to see me interacting with a girl."

"But whenever I see you on the halls you're surrounded by couple of girls though."

Geto smirked. "Is that jealousy I hear?"

"Maybe."

Before he could press any further you asked about biochemistry and he quickly found the page he needed. Thankfully back then Gojo was at least trying to take notes in classes so the entire gluconeogenesis was neatly explained. After about twenty minutes you exclaimed you finally understood and thanked him.

"My pleasure Y/N. Was this why you weren't talking to me that much?" he leaned back on his chair.

"This and another thing, but it's okay now."

"Aaaw, what other thing? You know you can always talk to me right?"

"I know, but not this time. Sorry."

"It's fine," he said sadly. In the back of his mind he imagined bunch of different scenarios that could trouble you. Failed test, mean classmates, or worse a crush on a classmate.

"Hey, you have a nice voice," your words pulled him from his thoughts.

He chuckled. "Look who's talking. Even though are you sure it was me you talked to? I swear I never heard such a melodic voice from anyone in school."

"Well, you were kinda in a hurry. And was focusing elsewhere too..."

"Huh? What do you mean?" he genuenly didn't understand. Focusing elsewhere?

"Nevermind. By the way how do you like it so far? It's been almost half a semester now."

"It's going pretty good. Much more interesting than med school. Even though," he rocked on his chair back and forth, "it would've been nicer if we could've met face to face."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"I don't think that's a good idea though."

He quickly stopped rocking and sat up straight. "What? Y/N..." he couldn't even find words. Why wouldn't you want to meet up with him? "Y/N, have I been rude to you? Have I scared you off while we talked in real life?"

"No."

He sighed in relief.

"You barely even looked at me."

His heart tightened again.

"It's just that," you paused for a second trying to put together a whole sentence, "I've seen the girls you hang around Suguru and all of them are really beautiful. Standing besides them I look nothing special. You would be disappointed if we met and you knew it was me. Isn't it better this way? I bet you imagine me as this model or something," you chuckled but he could hear the sadness in your voice.

"Y/N, first of all my imagination is pretty bad so I only imagine you as a girl with your name written across your face," you chuckled at that which made his heart swell, "and second of all those girls hang around me, not the other way around. Most of the time we travel in groups and look for places together which is way more efficient than getting lost alone. Besides, none of them can even hold a candle to you intellectually. Once in a virology lab this one girl gathered a sample of bacteria on that wire thingy and put the whole thing into the burner. She was very surprised why she had nothing grown on her petri dish a week later"

"Oh my god," you laughed out loud. "How will she pass?"

"Maybe she won't. I heard some other upperclassmen say the first year is usually treated as a sorting out year."

"It's possible. But her effectively killing all her bacteria sample is something else."

"It is," he chuckled at the memory. "Now that I think about it do you remember that unpleasant girl i told you some weeks back?"

"Yeah," you said emotionlessly but he paid it no mind.

"The girl she gave advice to was the same girl who burned off all her bacteria. Maybe she was right about advicing her like that. Maybe she could smell the stupid on her."

"Maybe."

There it was again. The one word answers.

"What is it now?" he asked concerned.

"Nothing, I just," you paused. He could sense a hesitation from your side. Eventually you spoke up again. "I just think I know that girl."

"Oh? Is she your friend?"

"More or less."

"Then I'm sorry if I offended her."

"Nah, it's fine. Do you still think of her as a bitch?"

"No."

"Then all's fine," he could hear you smile and he smiled as well.

"Well Suguru, as much as I like hearing your voice I have to go to sleep now. Thank you for explaining it to me again. I don't know what I would've done without you."

His heart sped up at the praise. "It was fine Y/N, that's what friends are for right? Oh and one more thing!"

"Yeah?"

He hesitated but finally he gathered enough courage. "Satoru told me about an upcoming party for scientists. Are you coming?" he asked hopefully.

"Maybe. It should be after a midterm from embryology. Let me check."

He patiently waited while you checked your calendar. Even if you wouldn't be going he would still find a way to meet you. Now that he knows what you sound like he could just walk around and listen to people talking.

"No, unfortunately it's the night before the midterm. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," he tried masking his disappointment. Even though he admired how dedicated you were to your studies he really wished you could make an exception.

"Hey, maybe next time, okay?"

"Yeah, maybe fate will arrange my life again," he joked and you chuckled.

"Yeah. You never know. Good night Suguru. Sweet dreams."

Your midterm was around the corner. As was the party Suguru mentioned. You still see him in halls here and there, often surrounded by a group of people. There didn't seem to be a time where he was alone. Unsurprisingly so, since he looked like... well, like him. To sooth your jealousy there didn't seem to be any prominent lady hanging around him all the time. The faces in his close circle were always changing. Even the famous dummy from virology seemed to disappear. Maybe his words about merely traveling together were true.

Today however you payed no attention to him or his newfound friends. The only thing on your mind was your midterm. Other groups have already taken it and you heard them say how life draining it was. Their words were confirmed after you passed by a group of your friends who just finished it. Well, friends was a strong word. As freshmen you often relied on eachother but now that you know your way around and you were sorted jnto different groups you talked less and less.

"Hey," you greeted them. "How was it?"

"Run for your life girl," the one who had most prominent eyebags replied.

Some other people who you didn't know nodded, their faces equally as tired. Eveb the biggest know it all you've met in this darn buidling was mumbling something about retaking it.

From there your legs took you straight to library. It didn't look like those in movies you watched growing up. No fancy decoration or tables with green lamps. Just basic library with books stacked up to the ceiling, basic wooden uncomfortable looking chairs and tables with chipped edges. A pleasure to study there.

With a list of helpful books in your phone you walked around not looking for a particular one. Just procrastinating. If you managed to find one off your list you just flipped around and put it back in. All terms in there were already familiar to you. You doubted you could learn anything new by now.

Few rows bahind you something fell to the ground, the loud noise making you jump. A pretty loud 'fuck' along with a very familiar scolding from librarian soon followed. Amused you peeked into the corridor to check the poor guy's first experience with the dreaded librarian. It must be a freshman. Everyone else already knows to not even breath when in closed proximity of that witch.

It really was a freshman. But your freshman. Suguru stumbled from the alley into the corridor and quickly hid in the same row you were in, running by you, barely sparing you a glance.

The librarian calmed down and returned to her usual spot, a spawnpoint as you liked to call it. Once she did Suguru sighed and leaned back, a small smile tugging on his lips.

You admired him for a bit. It's been a long time since you've seen him, let alone been this close to him. Once he calmed down his head fell back to its usual level and he finally noticed you. His smile faded and your heart cracked. "Hi," he politely greeted. You only nodded back aknowledging him and opened the book you held on a random page. The whole book could be upside down and you would never even know, the only thing you were focusing on was his figure. Which was moving slowly towards you.

"Uhm, excuse me," his melodic voice made you look up at him. Your cheeks got heated as you waited for his next words. "Could you move?" he asked and pointed at the shelf you were leaning on.

"Oh, sorry," you whispered back and quickly moved. Your legs itched to walk away completely to not embarass yourself even further but something stopped you. A sudden urge rose inside you. 'Talk to him. Tell him.'

He flipped through his book, completely unbothered by his surroundings. Thank god for that. It gave you some time to psych yourself up. Twice you opened your mouth and closed it again. He took out his phone to snap couple of pictures of the pages in his hands. An idea.

You pulled your own phone out and messaged him.

Hey, you there?

After hitting send it only took couple of seconds for his phone to vibrate. He glanced at it again with annoyance but after a while a smile creeped up his face as his fingers danced across the screen.

Well hello, how was the study session?

Good. Listen, where are you right now?

Butterflies flew around your insides as you watched him type.

In library. Why? Wanna meet? ;)

This is it. It's now or never.

Look left.

With hope filled eyes you watched him and waited. The message finally got delivered. He read it. Then he turned his head. Your eyes finally met.

"Hi," you said carefully.

"Hi," he repeated, a dumbstruck expression on his face.

You expected a lot. Everything actually. But not what he did. It was just a small movement, some would write it off as just a spasm of muscles. In split second his eyes drifted from your face to someplace behind you and back down to you. As if checking if you're really the only one there.

Your throat tightened as tears slowly clouded your vision. "You're disappointed, right?"

That brought him back to reality as he shook his head. "No, no, of course not. Just surprised, that's all!"

How you wished you believed him. A tear has already escaped your eye and you cursed yourself. Not wanting to embarass yourself even further you turned around ready to leave.

"Hey, wait up," he stopped you by putting his large hand on your shoulder.

"SHUT YOUR MOUTHS," came an angry voice of the librarian. Both of your hearts stopped beating for a moment.

"Outside?" he mouthed to you.

You nodded and both of you practically sublimated out of there. Standing outside he finally took a good look at you. His eyes resting only on you, despite people walking around. Feeling selfconscious you tugged on your coat. It was supposed to snow today so you took the fluffiest you had, making you look three times your size.

"Ehm, so," you broke the silence, "it was nice meeting you and all but, I have midterm to study for sooo..."

"Oh, but we only just met," he pouted. It was cute, seeing a hunk of a man like him pouting like a kid who lost his favourite toy.

"Sorry," you apologized genuenly meaning it. Even though you'd love to stay time was pressing down on you.

Suddenly his eyes lit up. "Do you remember the party I mentioned to you?"

"The one in two days? Yeah, I remember. Why?"

He grinned. "My roommate is going there so my place will be free. And I need to study as well so we can study together. What do you say?"

His suggestion was tempting. But then again, being with him, all alone, possibly even staying the night? But you always studied much more efficient when you had someone beside you.

After few moments of pondering you nodded making his eyes even brighter.

"Great! I'll text you the address," he held up his phone and winked. "See you later kitten."

"This was probably a bad idea," you tell yourself as you check the address one last time. You were already standing under the building. A pretty fancy one. Didn't look like dorms at all. Maybe it wasn't. He did mention his roommate is unholy rich though so maybe this is one of the perks of being his friend?

First snowflakes dropped on your phone screen. You looked up. The clouds didn't even look dark enough to start snowing. The weather forecast didn't mentikn it either. You pulled your coat tighter around you a regretted not putting on another layer just in case like you use to.

The front entrance opened revealing Suguru in black sweatpants and black knitted sweater. "There you are! Come in before you freeze," he stepped aside and held the door open for you.

His place was on the eighth floor. The ride in the elevator wasn't long but for you, being so close to Suguru, it seemed like hours. Finally the elevator dinged and the doors opened. A white haired man wearing a pretty expensive looking shirt stood infront of it. You looked up and him and gulped. What kind of a man wears shades in the building?

"Sugu, is that her?" the man asked pointing a finger at you not even looking in your direction.

Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, this is her. Y/N, this is-"

"Satoru," he took your cold hand in his and leaned down, "pleasure to meet you."

Before he could kiss the back of your hand you pulled it from under his nose and held defensively against your chest. Suguru's shades slid down his nose slightly, revealing surprised blue eyes.

Giggling came from behind him. "I like her," said a brunnette in dark blue dress. "I'm Ieri."

"I'm Y/N," you smiled.

Suguru cleared his throat. "Okay now that we all know who the other one is," he placed his hand on your lower back making your blood quickly travel to your cheeks, "we better go study. Enjoy the party you two," he gently pushed you inside the open apartment door.

"Fine, fine," Satoru rolled his eyes. "If you need condoms I put some of mine in your bedside table."

"We are really going to study though," you said but he only chuckled.

"Yeah I know. Embryology," he winked under his shades and pulled Ieri along with him leaving you and blushing Suguru behind. Alone.

"Ignore him," he said and offered you Ieri's soft slippers. "Tea?"

"Yes please," you took of your coat and hanged it. Their place didn't look like it belonged to a pair of students at all. Everything looked expensive. The ridiculously giant aquarium in the living room wasn't helping at all. Upon further inspection you only saw two fish in there, one black the other white.

Suguru came back from the kitchen. "Those were Satoru's idea," he tapped the aquarium glass.

"It's cute. To represent you and him?"

"Yeah," he put his hands in his pockets and stood beside you. In the glass' reflection yout two almost looked like you were on a date in aquarium. You smiled at the thought. "He also wanted Ieri to have one as well but she refused. I have a feeling she's shipping us."

You chuckled. "Then my presence must be ruining her ship."

"Hmm, are you suggesting something?" he smirked and leaned in closer to you.

"Ehm," you averted your eyes and pulled your backpack off of your shoulders, "we got work to do."

"Right," he straightened back up, his expression unreadable. "Do you want to stay here or go to my bedroom?"

"We can go to yours," you say without actually thinking how it might make you look. Thankfully Suguru found no deeper meaning behind it and lead you to a decently big room. You could tell he was preparing for your visit. No man is this tidy. Even though it's Suguru.

"Make yourself at home, I'll go finish the tea."

"Thanks."

You walked around a bit. There were some pictures of his youth. Some were with people you didn't recognise, some with young Satoru. On all of them he looked extremely cute. Puberty must've hit him like a truck. You also took notice of the dumbells and other training equipment hidden in the corner. You always assumed people like him just went to a gym, or better yet had their own personal gym. Guess he's more of an introvert than you gave him credit for.

Without any further inspections you sat down on his bed, so soft and welcoming. You resisted the urge to lay back and drift off to sleep. It would be perfect. Big soft warm bed, picking up snowstorm outside, a handsome man laying by your side. You shook your head. You're just friends. You're just a friend.

"Tea is here," he walked in with two mugs in his hand handing one to you.

You just held it, wamring up your cold fingers. "Thanks."

With a small smile he nodded and sat right across you on his gamer chair. Did he play videogames as well?

"So, how does the whole studying in pair go?"

You sipped on your tea. Actually you had no idea. The only collective studying yoj ever did was with him through a phone that one time. It was more him explaining things to you rather than mutual teaching. In the end you shrugged. "We'll have to figure it out as we go."

"Guess we will," he leaned back.

He gazed at you so long it made you selfconscious. "What?" you giggled nervously.

He shook his head. "Nothing, just," he moved to lean forward on his legs, "never thought I'd have you here."

"Weren't you the one to beg for a meeting?" recalled all the times he asked on which floor of the school you were or asking for your schedual to surprise you after class.

"I didn't mean that," he said and pointed at his bed. "I meant here."

You looked down and blushed. "Oh."

He chuckled at your flustered expression. "Don't worry, I'm not like Satoru."

"Like Satoru?"

"Horny."

You choked.

"C-can we start studying now?"

He nodded.

The clock on his bedroom wall slowly ticked away. You revised everything yoh needed and now was just helping Suguru. In the past hour he restlessly moved from sitting on his chair, to sitting on the parapet to now sitting on the ground right between your legs while you were playing with his long silky hair.

"Come on Suguru! I know you know this!" you tapped his scalp.

"Even if you threatened to shoot me I wouldn't know," he groaned and flipped through his notes again. "Maybe it won't even be on the damn midterm."

"The last time I said this I had to retake it. Besides if you don't pass on the first time then you'll have to retake after Christmas along with your finals. Do you want that?"

He leaned into your hands and closed his eyes. "That won't happen," he tilted his head back and looked at you, "because I have you now."

You chuckled and somehow didn't get flustered. Maybe you were desentisized after spending multiple hours on end with him? "Like I will sit there with you while you take it."

"Why not? I could squeeze you up," he got up from his spot and hugged you real tight against him, "and put you in my pocket like a talisman."

You giggled at him hugging and squeezing you. Without even realizing it he fell down with you in his arms on his massive bed, laughing along with you. When you opened your eyes you were met with his bare neck and long hair framing it. You looked up and realized how close the tow of you are. And how dark it has gotten outside.

He noticed how awkwardly you held your hands infront of you and losened his grip. "I'm sorry. Do you want to go?"

You shook your head and shushed the butterflies in your stomach. "Nope, I just-" you looked away from him, "maybe you're used to it but I've never been this close to a man before..."

He smiled and brushed your hair out of your face to get a better look at you. "I'm not used to it. I told you it's not often I'm close with a member of the opposite sex, and that's why Satoru and Ieri acted so weird. Besides," his hand fell from the top of your head to your neck and rested there, "you're the first girl to lay in this bed."

Your eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Yeah, really."

You had no words. How do normal people even react to something like that? You just hummed and let your eyes roam around his face. He looked really cute right now. Like a cat. Even before he always reminded you of a cat. One of your hands rose up from your chest and with the lenght of your forefinger petted him under his jaw, like you would a cat.

"Meow," he said and you chuckled. But your finger didn't stop petting. Hiw own thumbed rubbed the back of your neck, his palm heavy on the side of it.

"I like bwing around you," you confessed."

"Me too. You're so calming."

You hummed and closed your eyes. "Would you mind if I stayed the night?"

"Not at all. I"ll even drive you to school tomorrow so you won't have to freeze in a bus."

Your eyes shot open. "You have a car?"

He shook his head. "Satoru does. He owes me for so much already. And he forgot his keys here too."

You swatted his shoulder lightly. "You're the worst!"

"Only for you."

There it was again. That damn smirk you imagined every time he sent it in an emoji form. Now it was right infront of your face. You readjusted your head. Now it was on the same level as his face as opposed to before when it was underneath it.

"Why did you message me that first time?"

He thought for a while. "Out of boredom mostly. But I'm glad I did," his hand moved from your neck up to your cheek.

"And why did you keep messaging me?"

"Why did you?"

You weren't sure yourself. "I don't know. You were nice I guess."

"And?" he moved closer to you, the tip of his nose brushing your own.

"I don't know!" You whined and moved your head to brush his nose. "What do you want to hear from me?"

"A confession or something," he mumbled. "I really want to hear you say you like me."

Your movement stopped. He wanted what? "Why?"

"Because," he brushed his thumb on your cheek, "I like you and I want to hear you say it back."

"You like me?" you asked not believing him.

"I do."

"Why?" some self-hating tears burned your eyes. There's no way you were this lucky. There's no way he's serious. Someone like him won't just start liking someone like you.

"Because I felt like it. Will you let me?" he asked and quickly glanced down at your lips. His question was about more than him liking you.

You closed your eyes and let the fate play out this scenario however it wanted. It was its fault he came into your life in the first place.

Suguru smiled and pulled your head towards him. His lips were soft. At first it was just a snall peck, filling your chest with warmth much sweeter than the tea he made you. When he pulled back you kissed him again. He locked your lips together, enjoying the way you moved against him. His other hand pulled your waist towards him and you sighed into his mouth. No one has ever touched you like this before. You could get used to this.

When sweet kisses weren't enough for him anymore he rolled you on your back while stradling you and deepened the kiss. You were surprised, sure, but certainly not dissapointed. You pulled on his lose hair, making him moan into you. This amount of power over a man wasn't so bad. Your hands snaked around his neck while his lowered to your thighs propping them up to lock around his waist. Something hard poked into your center.

Your eyes shot open and you gently pushed on his shoulders to give you some time to breathe.

"Do you want to stop?" he asked. From this short of a distance you could finally see his pupils agajnst his dark eyes. They were blown wide with desire.

You gulped and shook your head. "I'm scared."

He smiled gently and stroked your cheek. "Shh, it's okay. I'll be gentle."

His other hand played with the hem of your shirt, silently asked for permission. Which you gave.

He pulled your shirt of exposing your bare chest to him. You don't even know what you thought that morning not putting on a bra. But right now you were kinda glad you didn't. Less time wasting.

He immediatelly started kissing a path from your neck down to your chest. Sucking a hickey on your sternutm while both of his hands squeezed and massaged your breasts, thumbs flicking across your nipples. You whined at the foreign feeling. The hardness between your legs got even more prominent. Your legs locked around his torso and lifted your upper half to be close to him again. While your ass was off the bed he tried to pull down your warm trousers. Eventually they joined your shirt on the floor.

"Not fair," you whined and pulled on his sweater.

"Lemme fix it," he mumbled into your skin and sat up to pull his clothes away.

Of course he had a six pack. Of course he did. He leaned down and continued kissing your chest. You saw his back muscles. You swore he had muscle groups you thought were a myth.

Once his mouth got to your panties you came to a horrifying realization: you didn't shave.

"Sugu, stop," you tapped on his back making him look up at you.

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry, I-I didn't," you looked away in embarassment.

"You didn't what, sweet?" he caressed the inside of your thigh and you shivered.

"It's a mess down there," you finally admitted hiding your face in your hands.

He tsked and pulled your hands from your face giving you a soft kiss. "No good man is affraid of a little forrest," he winked at you and dove right back where he stopped.

"Oh my- Sugu~"

He made out with your lower lips just as passionately as he did with your upper ones. Not used to the new sensation your legs tried to close but he held them wide open, even folded them up against your chest giving him better access. You moaned and whined, everytime you did he tried something new. New speed, new preassure. He spelled his own name on your clit with his tongue before sucking it, making sure to make you feel as good as possible.

Suddenly something poked your entrance. You shot your eyes opened panicked but quickly shut them closed when his long finger stroke your insides. No one has ever touched you in there. Not even yourself. Once he made a 'come closer' motion you were done for.

With a final kiss he pulled out his glitening forefinger. "Well, that was fast," he commented.

"Shut up," you hid your face once again.

He chuckled and moved up again, your legs found their home around his waist. He kissed your hands hiding your face. "It's cute kitten, don't hide away from me," he tapped your wrist. You pulled your hand away revealing your flushed face. "There you are," he smiled and kissed you. He licked inside your mouth and you tasted something more than just his saliva.

While he made out he pulled down his sweatpants and the hardness you felt before sprang free now. Too embarassed you didn't even attempt to glance down. Feeling how big he was down there was way more than seeing it.

"No way that will fit inside," you sighed into his mouth.

"We'll make it," he kissed you before straigthening up and leaning to the side of the bed.

"What are you-?"

"You wouldn't want to study embryology in practice now, would you?" he winked and opened his bedside table.

Embarassed you looked away from him and studied the arm that was still resting beside your head. His bicep must be bigger than your face. And the veins on his fore arms! A wet dream of every nurse for sure.

You mentally slap yourself. Why must you always think like a scientist?!

While you were scolding yourself he quickly slipped on a condom and his tip was now poking at your entrance.

"This will probably hurt," he whispered into your ear.

You found his hand and held it tightly, his fingers interlocking yours. "I trust you."

Slowly, inch by inch he moved inside. If his finger was way too long you weren't even ready for his nether region. He stretched you out in all directions, but mostly forward as he disappeared inside you more and more. You whined here and there but he kissed your cheek and told you how well you're doing and how it will feel good afterwards. His thumb kept rubbing the back of your hand as he moved his hips thrusting up into you.

Then, you didn't even know how but he was all inside. Once he was he groaned. "Fuck," he breathed out and his head fell into the crook of your neck and kissed you there. "You're so soft."

He breathed against your neck and you felt shivers run down your spine. He pulsed inside you and by the way he was breathing you knew he was trying to control himself to not hurt you. Oh how you loved this man.

Your other hand, the one not holding onto his, got lost in his hair. "Y-you can move."

You felt him grin against your skin. He pulled out, making you feel awfully empty, but quickly filling you up again making you gasp. "Oh~"

His arm moved from beside your head to hold your ass in place as he thrusted inside. Slow and steady. His tip always caressed that one spot his finger previously discovered. Every time you moaned he kissed yet another hickie into your neck and you feared you won't be able to last long.

A new feeling grew inside you. Much more powerful than the one before. "S-Sugu~" you breathed out, not being able to finish your sentence.

"Yes kitten?" He lifted his head. God he looked amazing. With his black hair framing his face and little beads of sweat forming on his forhead, like a crown of dewdrops.

"I-I-" he hit that spot again and you moaned seeing stars.

"Oh, you like it here," he angled his hips and poked that spongy spot again.

"N-n-n-" in this new position his pelvis rubbed just perfectly against your clit and it was damn near impossible for yout to even think.

"You're close?"

You nodded.

"Right behind you," he moaned and kept hitting that one wonderful spot unditl both of you fell apart. You first, him following closely after, filling the condom to the point of it leaking around his base. His head fell back into the crook of your neck, leaving soft kisses and catching his breath. Your own chest went up and down, touching his toned one with every breath. He stayed inside, staying nice and warm. You came to love being stretched like this. Unfortunately, both of your bodies would soon grow cold and would have to separate. He pulled out making you hiss.

"Sorry," he chuckled.

"Nah," you caressed the side of his face, "I loved it."

He smiled and kissed your palm. "Sleepy?"

You nodded and as if on cue yawned. Damn he was only with you once and he already knew your body better than you.

He got rid of his condom and threw covers over both of you, pulling your bodies together in the process. This was great. Exactly as you imagined. You and him together after a good and thorough study session, nice and warm while winter went crazy outside.

How could one stay awake?

Suguru stroked your naked back. Up and down, then back to your head again, scratching you like a cat. He woke up in the middle of the night and had been caressing you ever since. Usually he would curse this sudden wave of insomnia but now he was greatful. Who knows when will the two of you be like this? With how seriously you take school and his own hectic schedual mixed in? Better to enjoy this while he can.

Sun began to rise when he heard noises outside his bedroom. Satoru must be back.

Sure enough the white haired man stumbled through the threshold, his shades aslant and shakimg from the outside cold.

He made his way into kitchen but stopped once he got a peek into his bestfriend's bedroom. Thankfully you were laying chest to chest on him and most of you was covered by his blanket anyways but still Suguru tried to cover you from unwanted eyes.

Satoru grinned. "Just study?"

Suguru threw a pillow at him.

#geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #geto fluff #geto smut #geto x y/n #geto x you #jjk geto #jjk au #geto suguru x reader fluff #geto suguru x reader smut

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