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lazy4honey · 25 days ago

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Insidious Waters

I felt encouraged so I wrote more and now it’s about 6k words.

Trigger Warning: thalassophobia, claustrophobia, a creeping change of the reader’s body, way of thinking, and perception (including food)

Contains: tentacles / koromodako x gender neutral reader; dub-con, insidious, i.e. gradual, subtle but harmful, assimilation; nipple play, penetration, lots of 💦, belly bulge, cumflation, a form of sex pollen, orgy, breeding, oviposition, NSFW & MDNI

✧ Good to know: a merrow is a mermaid or merman in Irish folklore

✧ : a koromodako is an octopus-like yokai that appears small and can grow to large sizes, big enough to engulf fish or big ships, and then shrink again

Don’t like, don’t read!

Five years ago, they caught a merrow near the northwestern Dalay Coast. They were brought into a research facility far inland, and then never heard of again.

There were protests against this treatment of the ocean folk in the beginning, but those soon died down. With the ocean constantly encroaching on the continent, there were many more personal things to worry about.

Then, you were invited to join an expedition. The vessel for this expedition would be the luxury cruiser sized submarine Athena, and the goal was to catch more sea merfolk and study them while on board. Even if you didn’t want to, you had no choice but to agree.

There were many people boarding the Athena this early morning when the pale dawn had just started to illuminate the foggy sea. The huge submarine resembled a behemoth lying in wait amidst the gentle waves, making your heart sink in trepidation as you gazed at it and clutched your sparse luggage. They’d told you that you wouldn’t need a lot down there, but as always, they weren’t to be fully trusted.

The queue moved forward. You swallowed nervously and couldn’t help thinking of that merrow they’d caught back then. Had they gleaned any insights from that capture, or were they just as clueless as in the beginning, which was why they sent you on this expedition? It was hard to say, and worrying to think about.

“Are you alright?”

You turned back. A towering orc lady was looking at you worriedly.

“You seem a little pale.”

You forced a smile, “Just nervous, thank you.”

She tilted her head. “I don’t understand why you’re thanking me, but you’re welcome.”

That got a chuckle out of you. Right, humans and their politeness were very strange to other beings residing on Pangea. Even elves with their mellifluous language had a more direct way of speaking than most humans. Or maybe it was more… sincere?

Anyway, such qualities were much appreciated.

There was a disturbance at the front of the queue; someone has forgotten their documents and was now getting into an argument.

The orc lady behind you sighed, “Just how long do we have to wait before we van set off?”

You thought about it, “Probably a few hours.”

She groaned.

Time passed slowly, and eventually, boredom made people get creative. Sitting down to read or paint, making some last calls before the connection was gone, downloading a slew of videos and podcasts, playing games or simply chatting with nearby people, all brought some liveliness into the long queue.

As such, you learned that the orc lady was named Flora, specialized in maritime shell creatures and their reproduction cycles, and was comically clumsy at fighting. She laughed when she said that her mother had kicked her out because of that last part.

Later, a few others joined your conversation, and by the time the sun had reached its zenith, you finally stepped on board of the Athena. It was just the compression chamber, but a little step is still a step.

Only after adjusting to the pressure were you allowed to truly enter the submarine. As the name hinted at, the Athena was built for gathering intel and preparing for a potential war with the ocean dwellers. Because of this, there were many researchers from various areas of expertise on board, all tasked with uncovering the secrets of the unfathomable depths.

From the inside, despite being tight and narrow to the point of triggering claustrophobia, the Athena didn’t look like an expedition vessel. It seemed more like a luxury cruiser, with an elegant lobby displaying a false sky through a digital dome and many potted plants cluttering the space between the intimately spaced seating areas. The sleeping arrangements were also very lavish — or rather, having a single person cabin with a bunk bed over a desk and its own bathroom was considered lavish for a submarine.

You stowed away your luggage, then followed the floor plan to the canteen. Following the overall style though, it was more of a restaurant. It made you feel like each meal could be your last before your inevitable death. As a result, the appetizing dishes all ended up being tasteless when they entered your mouth.

In the evening, after another tasteless dinner and a long steam bath, you lay in bed reading a book when there was an announcement. They said that everyone had boarded, so the teams currently on shift would do one last round of checks before the Athena would set off. If everything went well, by tomorrow morning, you would already be under the waves when you woke up again.

The following days, you barely noticed that you were inside a huge metal can diving deeper and deeper into the dark abyss that was the ocean. You followed your usual routine of eating, working, and entertaining yourself as you did on land, the only difference being the different colleagues and your occasional chat with Flora. Through the thick glass of the portholes, you saw the deep blue water, and sometimes when your thoughts drifted staring at that endless expanse, you meant to see something moving far away in the distance.

From then on, things got… strange. Your research still went as usual, but… for instance, when you were washing your hands and glanced up at the mirror, the reflected image you saw was blurred, a little like the mirror had fogged up. And in that reflection, your eyes carried an abysmal darkness unseen in any creature on land. Their gaze caught you, fascinated you, lured you with unspoken promises you couldn’t even put into thoughts, much less words.

Apart from this, the water in your bathroom smelled strange. You asked Flora and a few other people, but the water turned out to smell strange everywhere, so you unhappily decided to put this matter aside. Maybe the pressure was impacting your sense of smell? Or the water-filtration system couldn’t get rid of the deep sea’s unique stink, which was honestly more likely.

One evening, amidst the water’s weird scent, you unexpectedly fell asleep during your steam bath. Your mind was in a daze, resting on the fringes of consciousness. The water filling the bathtub splashed against you, and you vaguely felt something move next to you.

It was cold and smooth, almost slimy, feeling strange as it brushed against your bare skin. When it touched you, you recognized it as a pair of tentacles. They wandered over your body in an exploratory manner, poking and squeezing every now and then.

Then one of the tentacles poked your nipple. You moaned uncontrollably. The previous touches had already made heat pool in your abdomen like a lava lake, and touching you there only made it boil over.

Seemingly intrigued by your reaction, the tentacles focused their attention on your chest. They stroked up and down, feeling your areoles and tugging at your nipples, circling around the temperature sensitive nubs with their cold tips. Your nipples quickly became erect, and you unconsciously squirmed in your daze.

It was as if your world narrowed down to only the sensations on your chest. The cold tentacles sent sparks along your nerves into your brain and crotch, igniting a deep desire that set your body aflame. Your mouth hung open as you panted and bucked your hips, rubbing your thighs against each other for more stimulation, and then you came. Like the gently splashing waves in your bathtub, the orgasm washed over you. It was an almost cathartic feeling, as if something hidden deep within you had been quietly unlocked.

When you woke from this more than pleasant dream, the water was already cold. It reminded you of the two tentacles that had rubbed your chest and nipples into an orgasm, and your abdomen couldn’t help tightening with renewed desire. You subconsciously touched the erection between your thighs, and with just that slight bit of pressure, you came again. Your loud moan echoed in the narrow bathroom, back arching and toes curling.

Afterwards, you lay panting in the tub for a while before getting up to empty the bath and take a quick shower. Then you went to bed.

The next few days were very peaceful, only haunted by the occasional sudden nap that came with hazy wet dreams about a bundle of black tentacles roaming all over your body. Other than that, you felt fine. Maybe even better than before.

The same couldn’t be said about your colleagues. It wasn’t only you who felt that the water smelled strange, and strange dream-like experiences weren’t limited to you, either. Multiple people couldn’t deal with the change of smell, to the point where they went to check on the water filtration system only to find nothing. And those dreams were mostly unpleasant, with cold hands groping them, wet kelp entangling their limbs, or something unfathomable and unspeakable staring them down, making them feel unsafe as long as they were underwater.

But the Athena wouldn’t resurface for at least another month. Unless things went terribly haywire, but even then there was no guarantee that this huge submarine would make it back up…

A few days later, just when some people had started getting better — or maybe just used to it — the Athena suddenly shook.

It was like an earthquake. The hull creaked and groaned, the violent shaking making it impossible to stand still, and alarms blared throughout the decks as machines were damaged. People rushed back and forth to take care of their respective responsibilities, you among them, doing your best to reach your lab. Upon opening the door, shards of broken glass flew through the air and cut your protectively raised arms. For some reason, those few drops of blood smelled particularly pungent at this moment.

Disregarding the shards, you went forward to secure the remaining containers and utensils. It wasn’t really useful, but at least it was something to do.

You managed to busy yourself for quite a while, and only poked your head out again when the submarine had stopped shaking.

The Athena was a mess. A slew of items and fragments was scattered throughout the hallways and a few lights were malfunctioning, eerily shining their flickering light on a bunch of crying, wounded, and even some dead people. It was horrifying.

Later, after the Athena had been roughly repaired and the corpses were moved to the morgue, you heard from Flora that the submarine had been attacked by the ocean folk. The people in the cockpit had made eye contact with a hollow-eyed merrow the size of a blue whale, and then huge black tentacles had grabbed the submarine and squeezed it. Considering everything, it was a blessing so many people were still alive.

Of course, not everyone saw it that way.

Until the submarine reached the target location at the bottom of the sea a week later, the mood on board remained depressed. Everyone got their shit together, and the first exploration team got into the shuttle. They returned just an hour later, making the eagerly waiting people assume they’d run into trouble until they saw it—

The merrow.

She had deep green hair, and scales of the same color covering her skin and fishtail. Compared to a human, she was big, but from her features she appeared like a teenager. The reactions brought by her appearance were varied, from fondly remembering their own children to lust and the desire to take her apart, a whole array of emotions displayed before your eyes.

You felt pity. That was, until the laboratory ‘taking care’ of her was slaughtered. The merrow had somehow broken through the thick, bulletproof glass of the tank they kept her in and ensnared them with her song, inducing them to kill each other.

This time, you felt relief. It was good that the ocean folk weren’t helpless against you land dwellers.

Regarding matters of violence, your sympathy towards your kin was truly limited.

The exploration teams regularly took the shuttle out and brought back various ocean folk. After the experience with the merrow, those fishtailed creatures were only brought back dead. If the researchers wanted to observe them in action, they would have to join the exploration teams on the shuttle. Not many were willing to do so, so the daily ‘gifts’ were limited to corpses and unknown creatures found to be too lacking in intellect to be considered a threat.

Then, you got a ‘plant’. It was a cluster of black tentacles resembling a handful of thick seagrass, but you actually recognized them — those tentacles from your dreams. When they sensed you from within the container, they flocked to the glass, pressing themselves almost flat against it just to be closer to you. You felt their excitement and eagerness, and smiled fondly as you looked at them.

Your colleagues just thought you had finally found your fixation. They had no idea that when you remained alone in the lab for ‘overtime’ you actually opened the container. The black tentacles waved happily and crawled out and into your hands. It felt strange to hold them, a tangle of cold and slimy appendages consisting of pure muscle and nothing else.

They hugged your wrists, then started to expand, quickly swelling in size until they were just as big as you remembered. Their touch ignited the fire in your abdomen, and your breathing got rough just from watching them playfully fiddle with your fingers. They must’ve perceived your arousal as they stilled a moment, and then stretched themselves long and flat to make their way beneath your clothes.

You felt them move across your body, spreading all over you in a cold embrace. They curled around your nipples, rubbing and tugging in that familiar way that made your erection press against your underwear within seconds, and made their way further down to your crotch. A few tentacles slipped beneath your foreskin to caress your engorged glans, others wandered along to press against your leaking hole, and then one finally penetrated you.

It explored your insides in a fervent manner, cold slime mixing with your heat, and the moment it grazed a certain spot you came. Your cum squirted over the tentacles and stained your white lab uniform’s pants while you pressed a hand over your mouth, trying your best to muffle your blissful moans.

The tentacle inside you squirmed when you clenched around it. You felt it pulse and swell, and then it discharged its own cold, sticky cum. It was so much it made your belly bulge a little bit, like you’d just eaten something.

A moment later, a second tentacle squeezed itself through your tight entrance into your hole. Some slimy cum dribbled out with this action, and as the tentacles intertwined they expanded within you, stretching you with their girth. And then they started thrusting. Deep, slow thrusts hit your core as they bottomed out, wonderfully sliding in and out of you with the greatest of ease. Tears of ecstasy clouded your eyes as you came again, biting back your cries while a little puddle formed on your seat.

The tentacles were naturally sensitive to your emotions. They crawled up along your spine and swelled a little, wiping away your tears and forcing open your mouth so they could stuff themselves inside. Their tips entangled your tongue, and they trembled when you bit down on them, their trusts turning messy as they shot their cold cum down your throat and into your belly just a second later.

You greedily swallowed the fishy slime. The sound of squelching within you as they messily pounded your hole was intoxicating, and you could feel your stomach stretch from the amount of cum they pumped into you.

They must’ve noticed your stomach, because the next moment, a tentacle pressed down on your belly. Immediately, cum overflowed from your hole and spurted all over your crotch and chair. It thoroughly stained for ass and even some of your pants legs and shoes.

The tentacles froze for a moment, seeming a little stunned. Then you felt them throb. It made you feel like they’d grown even bigger, filling you thoroughly with their presence. They abruptly slammed into you. There was a feeling of desperate fervor as they rammed themselves up your hole, slithering all over your body and almost painfully pulling on your nipples. Slimy cum was pounded frothy and bubbled out, tentacles trembled as you bit down on them, and the fresh cum erupting from them as your hole fluttered with another orgasm nearly made you topple over and fall off your chair.

After two more rounds, you and the tentacles were finally done. All your pent up frustration was vented in the most thrilling way, leaving you in a state of rapture. Your chest heaved as you panted and leaned against the table before you, where the empty container was placed. Looking at that thing, you thought about putting the tentacles back in, but then decided against it. You had a much, much better idea.

Your legs almost gave out beneath you when you got up. Threads of slimy cum connected your ass and chair for a moment, shimmering in the sterile light of the lab.

By the time you reached the lab’s washing station — a shower, actually — you were crawling on your knees because of how badly your thighs kept trembling when you tried to stand. You turned on the water and let it drench your cum-stained clothes, outlining your bulging belly and the black tentacles sticking to your body.

Taking off your clothes took a while. On one hand, it was because of how relaxed you felt after your orgasms, and on the other, it was due to the tentacles. They’d move every now and then, revealing bruised skin or swollen nipples, and they also wriggled inside you. It made you quiver from overstimulation, and yet you still enjoyed it, like it was a proof of your intimate connection.

You calmly labeled yourself as crazy and a hopeless cause that would sooner or later bring doom to the Athena’s crew, and then started carefully peeling the slimy tentacles that had been warmed by your body temperature off of you. The tentacles squirmed, seemingly confused, but they quickly settled down again when you patted them.

With the tentacles out of your hole, just tensing your muscles made the clear cum gush out. It mixed with the water and disappeared down the drain, the flow of it leaving your body almost making you come again.

You took your sweet time washing yourself. Only when your fingers were wrinkly from the water did you turn off the shower and turn your attention back to the cluster of tentacles that was sitting next to you like a little puppy.

The black tentacles had shrank again, appearing exceptionally harmless and cute. You caressed them, picked them up, and then started inserting the small tentacles into your hole one after another. Every time one entered you, you groaned and hummed and rocked your hips, needing to take a break after each one.

The tentacles quickly understood what was happening. They waved happily and then started cooperating with you, eagerly cramming themselves into your warm hole. Their coldness quickly filled you up, accidentally triggering another orgasm and causing your belly to bulge even more than when they’d previously pumped you full of their cum, making you look like you were three or four months pregnant.

After calming down, you contentedly stroked your stomach, then dried yourself and put on a fresh uniform. It hid your distended shape well enough, so you didn’t worry about being found out. Anyway, the Athena crew didn’t have the luxury of caring about what exactly happened in the labs right now.

The stained uniform was dumped down a chute, presumably joining a pile of filthy uniforms that needed to be deep-cleaned before they could ever be worn again. Then you wiped up puddles and trails of slimy cum you’d left in the lab, washed your hands, and left like nothing had happened.

With every step, you felt the tentacles inside you. It made you fight the urge to go for another round right then and there in the hallway, despite already having been fucked raw. Then you caught a whiff of something — sweet and cloying like honey, making you unconsciously swallow as your genitals throbbed.

You quickly pressed a hand over your mouth and nose. You’d discarded your emergency gas mask with your uniform and forgotten to take a new one, only regretting your thoughtlessness at this moment when you really needed it. Cursing whatever was releasing its version of sex pollen, you started looking around and soon found the lab where the disturbing smell was coming from.

And when you found it, you wished you hadn’t even started looking. At this point, who even cared?? But like being witness to a car accident, you found it hard to look away, standing frozen at the entrance where a dented high-security door was just barely hanging onto its frame.

Because in the lab, a fox demon was currently doggy style fucking his swollen red knot into Flora. Both were completely naked, their uniforms lying on the floor, torn to shreds and stained with… water?

You frowned and scanned the room, doing your best not to breathe in more of that disgustingly sweet scent. Your gaze quickly settled on a tank in the lab containing a big mussel. It was open, with a suspiciously low water level, and next to it lay some test tubes and measurement cups still wet with a few drops of water and lip marks…

Ah. They’d drunk the mussel water. And gotten into heat from it. And considering what pollen were, the sweet-smelling stuff in the water that made them go into said heat was most likely the mussel’s sperm.

…okay, maybe it wouldn’t be just your fault that the Athena was doomed.

You unknowingly rubbed your thighs together when your genitals throbbed again, and only then did you realize that you’d somehow made your way over to the tank. The realization that you were just about to drink that stuff made you shiver with dread. Your brain crashed for a few seconds, and then you bolted out of the lab filled with obscene squelching and loud moans down the hallway through the lobby where two orcs were sandwiching a merrow with their fat cocks and back to your own little cabin.

You slammed the door shut, leaning against it as you panted.

Were the ocean folk… no, was the ocean trying to assimilate you? That might explain why after the water started to smell everyone got so horny… but it wasn’t a bad thing… If the continent got flooded anyway, being able to live on underwater was still quite a good deal, no? And you’d even be able to spend the rest of your life with that cluster of black tentacles currently obediently nestled in your hole…

As your thoughts returned to the tentacles, they squirmed as if on cue. The movement triggered a wave of heat, washing over you through your blood and making your swollen genitals twitch with renewed arousal.

Ah right, that heat-inducing mussel water…

You made your way to the bathroom. In the short amount of time it took you to walk over, you’d already started sweating, and your body was suffused with a fierce blush that steamed your brain soft. You barely had the patience to take off your fresh uniform, taking a quick second to thank yourself for not being stupid enough to wear your soaked underwear after being fucked so thoroughly, and then got into the bathtub.

Your genitals pressed against the cold material, and the sensation sent sparks up your spine and elicited a relieved groan from you. Now, in your own cabin, you could be as loud and messy as you wanted.

You reached down to your crotch and prodded your entrance. Your fingers easily slid into your already stretched and dripping with slime hole, touching the warmed tentacles inside. They writhed at your touch, coiling around your fingers and obediently cooperating with getting out of you.

Then they expanded dramatically, so big that it was a challenge for them to fit in the bathtub with you. Every time they moved, they unintentionally yet enticingly brushed against you, each touch stoking the flames of desire burning within you and making you delirious with the intense need to be fucked.

You grabbed a tentacle and desperately ground your hips against it, leaving your leaking fluids all over the slimy appendage. Your hole kept contracting around nothing, like it was gasping, inviting the tentacles back in to fill you, to relentlessly ravage you.

The tentacles wriggled. They coiled around you, hooking around your fingers, entangling your tongue, and pinching your nipples, wrapping you up like they were hiding you. Then a tentacle thicker than your forearm crammed itself into your hole. Your entrance was stretched painfully wide open, yet with the pain came waves of sublime pleasure that made you come the moment it bottomed out.

But it still wasn’t enough.

You bit the tentacle in your mouth and freed a hand to reach for your genitals that were so erect they hurt. You wanted to pull back the foreskin, rub your pulsing glans and torment the engorged tissue beneath—

The tentacles stopped you. They put two tentacles to your disregarded front, telling you with their actions that they would take care of this for you.

As such, everything you wanted was done. The foreskin was pulled back to lay bare your glans that was already peaking out, which was tugged and squeezed, slimy tentacle tips massaging you in an unskilled manner, all the while thrusting into you.

They were doing so much at the same time that your brain overheated and crashed. Engulfed in exhilarating ecstasy, you heard and felt nothing except the tentacles. Like a small boat tumbling between the valleys and peaks of the crashing waves of bliss, you were tossed and groped and pounded by them like a toy. It was a complete loss of control on both of your parts, as if your heat had infected the tentacles, making your hole feel like heaven on earth.

They fucked you for a long time, triggering one orgasm after another and squeezing all the liquid from your body while pumping you full of their cum.

In the end, you were fucked raw once more, overstimulation burning in your genitals. You felt satiated like never before, your stomach heavy with the tentacles' seed making you especially happy. It was just a pity that it kept leaking out…

The tentacles stroked your belly, incidentally causing some more cum to spill and earning themselves a glare from you. But they just affectionately nuzzled your cheek.

Afterwards, bedded on the tentacles, you fell asleep. They held still, not bothering you during your rest.

When you woke up again, the tentacles moved, causing the thick tentacle still plugging your stuffed hole to press against your bladder. You whined and had the tentacles lift you to the toilet, also using the opportunity to empty some of the cum into the bowl.

Then you slowly washed, had the tentacles shrink so they could hide inside you again, got dressed, and made your way to the canteen. It was just… compared to before you went to sleep, things had escalated.

For example, the hallway connecting the researcher’s cabins was filthy with cum. From white to clear, from liquid to sticky and thick, it was smeared onto the walls and doors, had splashed onto the ceiling, and formed large puddles on the floor, densely filling the stagnant air with the obscene smell of vented lust and desires. In one puddle, you even meant to see something wriggle… Fortunately, most of the doors were closed, or the cacophony of snores, moans and screams would’ve been unbearable.

The lobby wasn’t any better. Currently on display was the aftermath of an orgy, naked bodies and all kinds of fluids wherever the eye saw. Apart from your regular colleagues and the Athena’s crew, you also spotted a few limbs belonging to ocean creatures, like the fins or tails of merrows, webbed hands, and some red tentacles, all alive and well.

You smiled happily. It seemed like the land and sea folk were getting along very well!

In the canteen, you didn’t bother anymore to even glance at what everyone was doing. The slapping, squelching and sucking sounds amidst the noise of chewing and cutlery clinking against plated said it all. You turned these things out and queued up to get yourself something to eat.

When the Athena first submerged, the meals offered fully catered to the tastes of the land dwellers. Everything was neatly killed, cleaned, and cooked, seeming especially concerned about the aesthetics when serving them. Now, things were much simpler. One meal consisted of things like a plate of fresh seaweed, jellyfish tentacles and strips of hard white coral, a bowl of saltwater red with the diluted blood of crudely chopped off fish heads, and some roughly descaled fish.

You knew that before, this would have looked utterly disgusting to you, yet now, just looking at it you couldn’t help swallowing your saliva as your stomach growled. It tasted so delicious you ate it all and unexpectedly went back for seconds.

After you had your fill of food, you sauntered out of the canteen and over to the labs. There, the vigorous promotion of a harmonious life between land and ocean dwellers was in full swing. A pair of elven women were riding a fishtailed man’s two cocks, a vampire was spreading his ass cheeks to let a long string of slimy, ping-pong ball sized round eggs shoot out of his hole while cumming, a bunch of hulking orcs were being ravished by colorful tentacles with suckers, nubs, and ridges, a succubus was taking two cocks with their pussy while ramming their dick up a merrow’s cloaca... With things going like this, probably everyone abroad the Athena would come back ashore pregnant, if at all.

...Compared to your colleagues, you were still relatively sane.

You closed your lab’s door behind you and sat down at your desk to record your experiences. From the water smelling strange to the dreams, getting attacked and then encountering the tentacles and being fucked by them, everything was neatly written down. After a moment of thought, you also noted what happened to your colleagues, your guess of why that was, and your hypothesis that the strange-smelling water and water copulating with the ocean dwellers would assimilate one and allow a fully assimilated being to live underwater henceforth.

Rereading your log, you corrected a few spelling and grammar errors before finally nodding with satisfaction. The entry was saved, sent to some addresses you trusted, and then closed.

From now on, you’d focus on your life with the tentacles.

The tentacles wriggled on cue. A moan escaped your lips and echoed slightly in the empty lab, and the chair beneath you creaking as you rocked your hips.

There was a sound of tearing clothes when the tentacles got out of you and expanded. They teased your fragile neck and slithered into your mouth, entangled your limbs and spread your legs wide open to present yourself to them, unusually hot as they caressed your eagerly waiting hole and plunged in.

The heat was like a spark springing over to you, igniting an almost violent desire that had been engraved into your bones during your contact with them. A few thrusts in, not even bottomed out yet, your hole was already fluttering around the tentacles. Your thighs trembled, your toes curled, and your erect genitals twitched as you came, an enthralling fire burning through your veins and coming together at your core.

Then the tentacles bottomed out. They repeatedly thrust against a certain spot at your core, where the fire burned especially intensely, even holding back on cumming for long enough that you came two more times before finally shooting their cum against that spot. It was like a concentrated stream of water, powerful and thrilling, as if it could bore an extra hole into you.

And then you felt it. One of the tentacles poked at that spot they’d targeted, massaging it, and then it sank in.

You moaned at the sensation. It was so much tighter than your already well-used hole, burning with anticipation, making you aware of a new part within you. That one tentacle slowly thrust with the others, only it penetrating deep into your core. This time, you came with them together the moment their cum gushed into that space they had opened up within you. You bit down on the tentacles in your mouth and your eyes rolled with pleasure. It filled you so well, it made your belly bulge so nicely, it felt as if it would never get out...

The tentacles completely retreated from your hole, leaving you feeling uncomfortably empty. Your gaping hole dripped with slime, yet nothing left your core. Satisfaction spread between you and the tentacles, and they also conveyed a sense of eager anticipation and barely restrained fervor.

You reassured them; you wanted this just as much as them.

The tentacles throbbed and squirmed, squelching as they rubbed against each other, and then a shorter, more slender tentacle was extended from their core. It fit snugly in your hole, though it still left room for another one to squeeze in. But that wasn’t necessary now. That tentacle penetrated the hole they’d opened up within your core, making your ass rest firmly against their center, and bottomed out with that.

The tentacles brushed against your nipples as they thrust. They tugged and groped as they always did, more fervent than ever, and even somewhat desperate. You felt good, not enough to make you come, but you still clenched around their length.

It didn’t take long for them to come. That single tentacle's throbs shook the entire cluster, twitching and thrashing so much it swept your desk clean with a loud crash. Then the base of that tentacle bulged.

The next moment, something firm and round contained within prodded your hole. One was pushed past the entrance, then a second, then a third, and then you lost count as they made their way up your channel. They pressed against your core and were forced into that opened space, eliciting endless moans and groans and meaningless murmurs from you, and when the first one dropped into you, you came. You didn’t stop coming as string upon string of eggs was pumped into you, the weight so comforting and enrapturing, the way your belly bulged and was eventually distended not letting you come down from your climax for even a second.

After an unknown amount of time, the tentacle went limp and slipped out. Immediately after, just as you’d caught your breath, the eggs that hadn’t made it into your core and were clogging up your hole shot out. The sleek, round things felt wonderful against your walls and entrance, wracking your exhausted body with orgasm after orgasm.

Held by the tentacles stroking your heavy stomach, your brain felt like it had been pounded to mush by them. Not a single thought could form as all space was taken up by the sublime pleasure of being bred by the tentacles, and the endless amount of joyful anticipation you held for bearing their offspring.

Because once they were out, you could do it all over again.

And again.

Until you broke.

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jedisupernova · 17 days ago

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

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

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

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

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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burstinn · 2 years ago

Note

REQUEST!

as a male!Reader, I feel very represented in your works,

could you write a male!Reader that’s really tall? Like, humongous? In hight, and body? (In the military as well)

I always see male!Readers that are so small and tiny and baby.

like, no. You get me? Just saying. Thanks!

Male! Reader with the height and body of a goddamn Monster.

(Headcanons)

Note: some mentions on top reader but I like to keep it ambiguous. So you can read it as a switch! Reader. This is a quick drabble of some Hcs

People shown: Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Price, Keegan, Graves, Nikto, König, Horangi, Logan Walker,Roach, Makarov, Krueger

-Reader is 6'5.

-Basically built like the Russian terminator guy

GHOST

- Got shocked when he first saw you, wanted to seem more intimidating than you.

-So he puffed out his chest and glared at you.. Bro wants to challenge you nahh 😭😭🙏🙏

-You would fold him tho ngl (in the ring and in bed fr fr)

-when he got comfortable with you kinda jealous his title of the big, tall intimidating man got taken away.

-When you sparred with Ghost it was a tough fight but you managed to get Ghost in a chokehold wrapping one of your tough bulging sexy ass arms around Ghost's neck.

-Never knew he wanted to be man handled so bad it was Hot he had to excuse himself and run off because he got hard.

-Starts imaging if your cock is just as big.. Spoiler alert.. It is..

SOAP

-Looks at you then Ghost mind blown that there was someone more humongous than Ghost

-Teased Ghost for awhile

-Drools over your pecs..

-He totally dreams of being crushed by you..

Or being crushed between Ghost and you.. Or both..

-Asks if he could feel your guns (Your arms..)

(IT COULD ALSO BE YOUR HUGE THROBBING CO-)

-Keeps glancing at your cock. Even though it's clothed.. I mean look at you.. Your manhood is basically too tight for your pants he can literally see your outline.

-Soap asked if he could measure your Length.. So he could see how far it could go inside of him YK?! YOU UNDERSTAND.

GAZ

-More interested than having dirty thoughts.

-Keeps asking how you got that big

-Wants to be just as strong as you

-Cutie patootie (T_T)

-Basically hangs around you to see how you work

-Even follows you so he could watch you train and spar

-Asks about your diet and if how your body looks is genetic

-inspired by you. Like a child (😭😭WHALUAAHHAH GAZZ)

PRICE

-Beneficial for him I mean he gets to have another soldier that's just as intimidating as Ghost.. Maybe even more.

-Is like a proud father

-Talks to everyone about you and how bla bla bla

-Trains with you

-He'd show you tricks and tips on how he trains and you show him tips and tricks on how you train

-Probably has a picture of you at his desk.. Beside the other pictures of his other not biological family. Aka. The whole 141..basically has a pic of everyone they all family up in 'ere

KEEGAN

-Heh.. Yknow.. Pictures..

-In the showers in lockers makes sure he's there near so he can see you in all your glory

-Probably had wet dreams about you

-Also makes sure he's there when your training. It's not like he's obvious everyone there is fuckin watching you

-What's that? You wearing a compression shirt? 🤨🤨 nuh uh in the sex chamber you go 👉

-Touching, touching, touching EVERYTHING

NIKTO

-Quiet

-What the fuck

-Silent panicking

-Jealous very jealous

-Compares himself to you, would train harder just so he can look like you (bb nooo 😭😭)

-Would watch also how you train your body so he could copy it

-You caught him once training in the middle of the night.. And he's using your technique on how you use the punching bags.. He's just getting some stuff wrong..

-When he notices you he got.. Slightly embarrassed and angry.. Panicked inside when you came closer asking him if he was using your technique in training

-You trained him properly on how you do it.

-so like now.. You train him in the middle of the night..

GRAVES

-same as price shows you off but more in an annoying way

-Hes boasting

-Would face you off against his strongest shadows no diff you still win.. Yuuuhhh

-Subtle touching like hand on shoulder, arm, head whatever.

KÖNIG

-Relieved that he has someone that looks like him.. Albeit slightly shorter.. Still!

-Got nervous meeting you first.. Forced himself to act tough to impress you I mean he is a colonel

-Makes sure to be in missions with you. Wants to see you in your most serious and intimidating

-Got intimidated himself once he saw how you act on field

-Tries to be on your good side the whole time

-One day he was watching you and just started thinking about YOU KNOWWW!!

-Blasphemous! He got red and cried to Horangi about it

HORANGI

-You know about this guy

-He's silly

-He'd read fanfics thinking it's him and you

-he'd make fanfics too, about you and him maybe adds König

-Shows it to König all proud and shit as if König isn't looking at him with absolute horror in his face when he reads what Horangi wants to do with you or you with him.

-He's delusional

-Slapped your ass and blamed it on someone else that's near him. It was König.

-Is it as veiny as your arms? A man can only dream.

-gives you a soda can and tells you to crush it in your arms.. Better yet in between your legs.

-Would then tell you like "good now do my head"

-PlEASE let him be between your thighs

LOGAN WALKER

-Rolled his eyes when he saw you

-Avoids you like the plague

-Why doesn't he like you? No idea. He a big pussy bitch is what. He sad you get more dick n pussy than him.

-Complained about you to Hesh

-He may not like you. He can't lie tho. You are good at your job so like he can't do anything about that

MAKAROV

-Sex Chamber. Now.

ROACH

-Quiet around you..

-Looks up at you like a damn bug. It's cute. He likes it when he looks up at you

-He'd jump on you and crawls around like a cockroach

-haha funi jok

-Would use your shoulder as a seat.

-If you do pushups he'd be on top of your back

ALEX KELLER

-Oh..

-Audible gulp sound (haha he's drinking your seme-)

KRUEGER

-Curses in German

-Dreaming about HAHAHAHAAHAH

-If he's fingering his gun to clean it he just.. Thinks..

-If he sees YOU finger your gun to clean it.. That's it he's done.

-He's dragging you somewhere

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s0urw00lf · 7 months ago

Text

Bound

“Lion” and the wolf

Jon snow x reader

Summary: you meet Jon snow and immediately take a liking to him

A/N: may be a series may not be i don’t know yet. I hope it is because I’m hyperfixated on game of thrones right now and there’s only 10 episodes per season. Also is it just me who finds season 1 Jon just adorable?

Divider from @thecutestgrotto

When your father informed you that the king, the queen, and their close relatives including you were to accompany him to winterfell to name lord Stark as his new hand after Jon Arryns passing your first initial reaction was shock, they’d never really considered you a part of their family. Cersei was all about blood relation unless married into the family and you were neither. Therefore casting you to the furthest end of the Lannister/Baratheon family tree. The only ones that really accepted you was your father, Jamie and tommen. Joffrey was way too cruel for his own good, there was no doubt in your mind that it is going to be the reason he ends up dead.

”Must I go father, you and I both know me and Cersei around one another for any extended amount of time is not good for anyone within mere miles of us.” You asked, looking at him through the mirror in your room as your handmaiden braided your hair.

”Yes you must, the king has ordered it” he replied in his usual nonchalant tone. You rolled your eyes “when are we to set off?” You asked.

“By sunrise” he replied “I’ll leave you to sleep you’re going to need it”

your father exited your chambers and soon your handmaiden helped you get settled into your nightwear.

Sleep had not come easy to you. The thought of being in a compressed space with Cersei and Joffrey you’d go as far as to say it gave you nightmares. You are a well behaved lady, you know when and when not to speak and how to butter anyone up. But when it came to the queen and her eldest son you always managed to be sent off with the threat of your head on a spike.

Most of the ride to winterfell was spent bickering with Joeffry, somehow the young prince hadn’t learned how to respect anyone outside of himself, it got so bad that you’d ended up calling him an arrogant bastard which resulted in a slap from Cersei and you riding in the back with your uncle Jamie. Only when you were outside of the walls built around winterfell did you place yourself inside the carriage so you could present yourself as the “perfect family”.

You were introduced to the Stark family after your cousins, you’d heard stories of the bastard boy of Eddard Stark who looked more like a Stark than the eldest Stark boy. He was attractive, Robb. Any woman with eyes could see that, his striking blue eyes stood out against his dark curly hair and pale face. But as you searched more carefully you couldn’t find the other eldest boy. Next to Robb stood Lady Sansa who you knew was the eldest girl but there was one missing between them.

You tapped your uncles shoulder discreetly, he hummed without taking his eyes from in front of him. “There’s a boy missing, the second eldest. Why is he not in lineup with his family?” You questioned silently, watching the king and his old friend reunite, knowing their loud voices would drown out you and your fathers whispers. “Lady Catelyn is not fond of the bastard boy, he's seen as a burden to her. Look beyond the lineup” he answered just as quietly. You frowned at that, you knew what it was like not to be wanted by your family. Blood or not, but your father always made sure you were known as his daughter proudly. He wouldn’t ever dare to hide you no matter how high or low born your guests were. How can you hate a child before he even does anything to deserve your hate?

You took your uncles advice looking beyond the line up, and that’s when you saw him, what they say about him is right, he does look more of a Stark than Robb. He was handsome both brothers were but Jon carried himself differently. Like he was waiting to be seen, accepted. His dark eyes met yours and your heart skipped a beat, he looked to be observing you much like you were doing him. Your long held eye contact must’ve been caught by your uncle who light nudged you. “Careful little lioness” he warned. With that you broke your eye contact with him to look at your uncle. You weren’t sure what he meant but you knew it’d resurface later on.

Cersei greeted the lord and lady after the king, though it wasn’t as warm as his, Cersei had a way of making every moment more tense than it had to be. “Where’s the imp?” The youngest Stark girl said catching you and Cersei’s attention, she turned around and walked toward you and your uncle “where is our brother, go find the little monster” she said to your uncle. You suppressed an eye roll, though your father was your father he still felt to revel in his younger years, though you weren’t sure how he was able to slip passed everyone and escape to whatever it was he was doing.

Later that evening at the feast you were sat alone, much like always unless your father was near. You made effort to search for Jon, and was quickly dissatisfied when he was nowhere in your sights. A loud shriek broke you from your thoughts “Arya! It’s not funny she always does this” you looked over and almost snorted when you saw lady Sansa with food on her face. Your best guess was Arya decided to use her face as target practice.

You weren’t blind to the looks she and your cousin had been sending each other and you guessed the little Stark was feeling mischievous. You caught sight of the oldest Stark boy cutting his laugh short due to the look his mother gave him, he got up walking over to Arya picking her up from her seat and muttering “time for bed” he met eyes with you and sent you a friendly smile, you returned his smile with nod in acknowledgement.

Farther into the night you found yourself wandering around the castle after dinner and ended up on the training grounds. A low grunt caught your attention, you were sure everyone was readying themselves for dinner who would be at the training grounds this late. It was a boy. “So its you” you spoke, catching his attention, he paused his actions turning towards you with a confused expression before he straightened himself up, “My lady are you lost, i can esc-“ you shook your head “i am not lost lord snow-“ ”excuse me My lady, i am not a lord” he put his head down.

You tilted your head at him “you are more of a lord than i am a lady” you told him truthfully. He stared at you in silence, you looked around not noting anyone else “you are alone?” You questioned. He nodded “yes My lady.” He answered. “Would you mind accompanying me, My Lord?” You tilted your head at him giving him the slightest doe eyes. He hadn’t given you a reaction you expected but you did see the blush littering his cheeks. “Of course My lady, where are you off to?”

”I'm just out for a night stroll, it's good I found you, from what I’ve heard you're handy with a sword so I needn’t be on high guard anymore” you told him as you resumed walking. He followed right next to you “do you not have a guard” he questioned looking around to see if there were any men far behind “much to the dismay of my father, no. I can take care of myself but I don't always like to.” You said moving your cloak to the side to show the sword you have stashed.

He looked intrigued by it. “It was my grandfathers i think, my father gave it to me. He said it was the last he could find of my real family.” You frowned. “You're from a high born family, that sword is made of valyrian steel” he said pointing to your sword that was back safely hidden behind your coat. “I am not sure, father won't tell me where he found it, he says he’ll tell me when i'm ready. Anyway enough of me, what about you” you asked looking up at him. “What of me?” He asked. “Do you know your mother?”.

He shook his head “even if i did im not so sure it’d change anything” he said frowning, you hated the crease between his brows. His face showed years of neglect and hatred he endeared and you couldn’t help but to begin to hate it for him. Suddenly you felt no need to continue talking of family, you noticed he didn’t have his furs from earlier that day on anymore. “Are you cold My Lord?” You asked gently. It was as if he had just realized he didn’t have his furs as he looked down at his attire. “We can go to my chambers and warm you, its not very far from here.” You told him.

Jon blushed at the thought “no i shouldn’t it wouldn’t be appropriate, but if you would like me to escort you-” you giggled cutting his sentence short “very noble Lord snow, yes please escort me to my chambers” you smiled, Jon nodded placing a hand on your lower back leading you further into the castle. The short walk was filled with quiet and easy conversation.

You were almost disappointed when you reached your chambers and your conversation was cut short. “Would you like to come in?” You asked, Jon paused wanting to say yes but not wanting to upset lady Caitlyn if she ever found out. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night knowing i sent you off while your nearly freezing” you tried to persuade him. He shook his head “it would not be appropriate“ “Jon please” you begged “just a few minutes”.

Jon sighed praying to the gods hoping no one saw what he was about to do. He entered your chambers and let out a breath at the warmth. The atmosphere in the room was quiet and gentle. You removed your furs having no further need for them at the moment and placed yourself on your bed. “May i ask a question?” You asked him softly. He broke his stare from the fire and turned to you with a gentle ‘hmm’ “If you feel you do not belong here, then where do you belong?”

Jon felt weird, having never been asked that question before he felt taken aback. He lulled over his answer for a few seconds “at the wall, with my uncle and others like me” he looked down to his clasped hands, seemingly deep in thought. Your heart broke for the boy, he truly felt in some way he wasn’t welcome in his own home. “Are you ready to make that sacrifice? To never have a wife, a family. To pledge your life?” You asked.

He frowned further “No woman will wed to a bastard. My life will have more meaning there than here” He said. You tilted your head “i don't think that to be true, i think some time sooner or later your family will need you here, and if any woman is daft enough not to accept a marriage proposal from you then she didn't deserve you in the first place.”

After that Jon excused himself from your chambers, your words weighing heavy on his shoulders. But his mind was already set, he was joining the night's watch, however that didn’t stop him from repeating your words in his head.

The next morning was when you were finally able to find your father, extremely hungover. “I Missed you yesterday” you said as you came to a halt by his side. “You missed aunt Cersei's fake smiles, uncle Jamie sizing up with lord stark and even worse. Joffrey making eyes with the stark girl.” You rolled your eyes at the last bit. Your father cleared his throat “did i also miss your night stroll with the bastard boy?” He asked.

You froze momentarily, you knew your father wasn’t in a hurry to wed you off, he’d much rather you find love than be in a loveless situation with a man two times your age. But that never stopped him from teasing you about your interests even if its very rare that you have them. “He was just accompanying me to my chambers, father” you spoke looking in every direction but his. He was the only person in the world who could read you like a book. “Ah yes, was he also warming your bed for you?” He turned toward you with a small smile. “You know i would never, i just met the boy”

“love is a fast little creature daughter” he said before walking away.

#s0urw00lf #got jon snow #got #game of thrones jon #jon snow x reader #jon snow #jon snow x reader smut #game of thrones #robb stark #Tyrion Lannister x daughter!reader #lord snow

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ilium-ilia · 4 months ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty: ouroboros

tw: non-con mention, heavy emotions, hurt/comfort

Simon feels sick.

He feels sick in the way that medicine can’t cure and alcohol can’t numb. This condition is a life long affliction that’s been hiding dormant beneath his skin, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to sprout up and ruin him. Fire is the only thing that can purge the feeling that hangs over his head like a noose waiting to string him up in the gallows. Feet dangling, trachea crushing—would it be enough to cleanse him?

It’s been nearly half an hour since you last said anything, though the passage of time in his mind would convince him that it’s been days. Your voice has not rattled his ear drums in so long that he fears he might never hear anything from you ever again, and the arms that wrap around you to keep you held close to him urge to squeeze you. Maybe if he compresses you tightly enough, he can get you to coo and smile like you always do.

Instead, Simon’s eyes focus on where his hand still rests on your upper arm. His stomach churns at the sight, and he feels bile poke and prod at the thin lining of his stomach as his body recalls the way your hands pushed at his chest—how your voice cracked when you looked up at him—the terror in your eyes brands him a monster.

Did he go too fast? Did you see his playful teasing as something more predatory? The tightness in your throat, the desperation in your voice—was that fear instead of desire? Did you not want his hands on you?

Can you even stand the touch of him now?

Solicitude getting the better of him, Simon shifts beneath you, rocking your body to the side. His heart skips a beat when he hears your disgruntled whine as you nuzzle closer to him. Your arms snake around his torso. Face buried into his ribs, you attach yourself to him like a parasite—some lesser creature who would crumble without the aid of a host to keep you on your feet.

“Chip?” His susurrus is a soft rumble against your cheek, but you can only bring yourself to respond with a grunt. “Baby, what’s goin’ on?”

You swallow and it’s thick like molasses in the back of your throat. The pounding terror in your chest has dwindled over the last little while, but you still feel the way it lurks throughout your abdomen. It nudges its nose against the chambers of your heart and bites at the quivering muscle with venomous teeth. It injects the worst recollections into you. Mint breath. Blood flowers. Green eyes.

“I dunno,” you mutter.

Simon attempts to move again, but your constricting grip only grows more firm around him. Nose against his side, you don’t think you could stand looking at him—at him looking at you. If you pull away from him now, he might see the blood that’s been leaking out of you since you were sixteen.

His hand moves up from your arm to cup the back of your head. “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

“No.” Your answer is quick—decisive. “No, it’s not you.”

Your adamant denial offers Simon only minimal reprieve. “Talk to me, baby. What’s goin’ on?”

His begging is only met with more silence.

“Please, Chip. Let me help you.”

Ouroboros—that’s what this feeling is. You haven’t been able to place your thumb on it until this moment despite the fact it’s plagued you for most of your life. This cycle of pain. Of remembering. You’ve been forced to devour yourself whole, even the blackened rot and decay of your skin. Every time someone finds you with your mouth full, they always beg the same thing.

But you cannot clamp your maw down to cut yourself off any more than you can spit your body back out.

Still, your core engages—you’d at least like to try.

“It’s Marco,” you say, timid voice fracturing. Your words are incomplete. Broken. You try to spew them out anyway. “I… dunno how to say it.”

Simon’s muscles twitch beneath you. “Did he say something to you?”

“No. Well, yes, but-” You cut yourself off with a frustrated huff.

“Hey, one step at a time,” Simon says softly, grounding you. “Take it slow. Start from the beginning.”

Your lungs expand with breath so violently that your diaphragm shakes and stutters with the movement. Oxygen burrows into the alveoli where it stings with a pain that quiets the wicked humming in your brain.

You step into that kitchen again.

Blood on linoleum—you breathe it in—

“I… didn’t tell you everything about… the day Marco killed my mum.” It’s the first admittance of your sin. Of the wrongs that were forced upon you that day. Still curled against Simon’s side, you feel your muscles liquify as if you’re about to deliquesce into the couch. “It’s really hard to say.”

“I’ve got all day, sweetheart,” Simon soothes as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

Nodding, your eyes focus on the coffee table in front of you. Something tangible. Stagnant.

“It was the last day of school before the end of term. I had just got home when I found mum’s body in the kitchen. I still see her like that, sometimes. Or I dream about her. Hunched over below the kitchen sink. Marco had… had stabbed her. I remember just being so in shock at her body and just- like, none of it made sense. So I just sort of froze, and I didn’t hear Marco when he came up behind me. He pinned me against the wall and he had this knife that he kind of kept up to my throat and stuff so that I wouldn’t move or fight him.

“He… he was the worst. Grinning and chuckling about killing my mum, and talking about my dad dying too. He was just so fucking arrogant. Like he thought he was untouchable or something. But he explained sort of what was going on and was pressuring me into paying off my dad’s debt, and I just agreed because I was too afraid to die but… he said he would make a deal with me.”

Spittle clogs the back of your throat and you cough. Instinctively, Simon pats your back—your eyes squeeze tight at his touch.

“He said that if I… If I had sex with him, he would cut the debt a little. O-Or that if I was a virgin, he would cut it in half. And he just started—like—to put his hand up my skirt and I just- I-”

Your body screams. Despite the overall callosity that taints your skin, that terror still nettles in the back of your mind. If you think about it too hard, you can still feel the way his hands defiled you that day, and your stomach twists worse than it did the night Andrei pulled his knife out on Simon.

“I just remember thinking to myself that I was glad mum is dead,” you admit with asperity. “Like—I know it sounds crazy—but I don’t think I could have lived with myself if he had raped me in front of her, you know?”

Each word you speak has Simon’s body growing rigid. You feel the way his muscles harden into iron and stone as he holds you close—you hear how his heart thrums away in his chest like a drum calling soldiers to wage war. “Did he?”

“Rape me?” you confirm. “No. He stopped when I told him that I would pay it.”

Simon’s head rocks against yours as he nods. “You said this happened at the end of term… were you in uni?”

“No, I was in secondary school. I was… I was sixteen,” you reveal. “Marco knew I was in school, so he told me he was going to be nice and wait until I was old enough to get a job to start paying things back. And like, I couldn’t have ever gone to uni like that. Working enough to pay for housing, and the costs, and paying Marco? I just went straight to work as soon as I could. Never got a degree; never got a job that would actually pay me well enough to live…

“But I made do. You know, I made the payments as best as I could all while keeping on top of things for the most part. It helped that I was living with Aelin and John for a little while, so I didn’t have to worry about rent until I was like, nineteen. But Marco, sometimes he… uses it against me.”

The more you speak, the more enervated you feel. It nestles into the marrow of your bones until your body feels twice as heavy. Nothing feels real. Nothing feels tangible. Except for maybe Simon’s bare skin against your own.

“What does he use against you?” he prods, pushing you to further explain.

“He’s always kept that offer hanging over my head. About me having sex with him.” Chapped lips rub up against one another and you find your tongue darting out of your mouth to wet them before you continue. “Like… that time you and Andrei fought in the alley? He said that he was going to have to raise my monthly payments because of that, since it was kind of my fault that Andrei’s nose got broken… fifteen hundred a month. I got so frustrated that I started crying because there was no way I was going to afford that so he… kissed me. We were in the middle of the laundromat in broad daylight and he just held me on that bench a-and when he was done he said he would only make me pay twelve-fifty instead.”

“He did that to you?” Simon is apoplectic. His hatred bleeds into his tone as your voice trails off at the end of your spiel. It grows as unbridled rage beneath his skin until his muscles are twitching.

“He’s done worse,” you dismiss.

“Like what?”

The temptation to prevaricate gnaws at you like a dog with a bone as sour memories tickle the back of your mind. Your toes prod at the edge of a threshold. There is a line that you’re not sure if you want to cross or not, but the veil that tickles your fingertips promises relief. The temptation whispers that if you can muster the bravery to toss yourself to the other side, you could—even if only for a moment—find some sort of peace.

“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to,” Simon hums when your silence begins to stretch.

“No, I want to. I need to say it,” you assure. “It’s just… hard.”

“Take your time, baby. I’m right here.”

Your body requires a few more deep breaths before your brain feels quiet enough for you to sift through the monstrous amalgamation of memories Marco has forced upon you throughout the years. They weave through the grey matter in your brain. They root and feed on the most vulnerable parts of you until they shoot through your cranium and strangle you from the inside out.

You have to purge it, lest it consumes you.

“Before Marco moved our meeting place to the laundromat by my apartment, he had us meet at a pawn shop,” you say. The strength it takes to keep your voice from quivering is exhausting, but you push through the pain like you always do.

“Tsar Trading.” He says it like it’s a statement rather than a question—as if he already has the exact shape of the building memorized beneath the pads of his fingertips.

You nod. “Yeah. Tsar Trading. Usually I would just go up to the counter and drop off my payment to him, but this one time when I was maybe nineteen, soon after I started living on my own, I didn’t have enough. I had gotten really sick and wasn’t able to work, so my pay wasn’t as much as it usually is. I tried asking for an extension, or offered to pay the missing amount and more with my next payment, but he told me to follow him into the back of the shop.

“The building doesn’t look that big from the outside, but when he brought me back it looked sort of like a warehouse with these shelves and just—like—these people walking around and I just… he brought me to this chair. Just a simple plastic school chair, and he m-made me sit in it. And I just remember noticing all the blood stains around the cement and thinking that he was going to kill me. I had messed up, and he was going to kill me just like he killed mum.”

Always dripping, more tears begin to leak from your eyes where they wet Simon’s bare skin, cementing your cheek to his side. Sniffling, you do your best to wipe the moisture away, but it’s never-ending. Eventually, you give up. Simon does not make mention of the moisture on his skin, and keeps quiet as he lets you pull yourself back together.

“But as I’m sitting there, he reaches for my hand and… and he—like—makes me… he makes me t-touch him through his clothes, and he tells me that I’ve got two options. That I can—fuck… I hate this. He says I can either use my mouth, or use my hand, and so I just do it because I dunno what else to do and the whole time he’s just- he’s just talking so much. Saying how he wishes I’d let him fuck me and that I wouldn’t have to worry so much about the debt if I’d stop b-being a choosy minx about it and—oh my god, Simon—so many people were just- they just watched!

“They all watched him do that to me! And they’d whistle and tease, and Marco, he would keep stopping so that it would last longer. I couldn’t even cry. I just tried to push through it until he was finished and then he kisses me and tells me not to worry about the rest of the money for that month and sends me on my way like he didn’t just- just…

“I-I’ve been—fuck—I’ve been so afraid to ever have sex because he always holds me being a virgin over my head like he can help me, and I’ve never told anyone about any of this. Simon, I-I feel so bad. Like I’ve been hiding something terrible from you. I’m so sorry, but I just- Simon I’ve never felt about anyone like I feel about you! You make me feel so good—so loved—and I was worried that if you ever knew what Marco did to me t-that you wouldn’t like me anymore because you’d think I’m gross, and I’m just s-so scared all the time, and I just—fuck!—I don’t know what to do!”

Pulling apart at the seams, your old scars regress back into open wounds, and you spill out of yourself—both the destroyer and the victim. Simon’s body shifts beneath you as he pulls you closer. Arms like sutures, he stitches you back together as he holds you firmly against him, refusing to allow you to fall apart past the point of no return. His body heats against yours as vitriol warms his skin and sends his heart pounding into overdrive—his knuckles itch. His fingernails yearn for the color of ichor to soak their cuticles. Each phalange that twitches in his fingers craves the sharp crack of cartilage to pop beneath their grasp.

Simon’s tongue prods his teeth—he’s checking how sharp they are. He’s gauging how hard he needs to bite to end Marco’s life.

And still—even with all this rage nipping at his heels—he snuffs it out in favor of holding you. Vengeance can come later. It can come when you’re no longer crumbling in his grasp.

“I’ve got ya, baby,” Simon whispers, voice hardly cutting through the sharp squeal of your wailing. You feel impossibly small in his arms—like this is the first time he’s held you and realized just how fragile you are. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’d never leave you.” A culmination of fury and frustration constricts his trachea, and his voice grows tense with each word that he speaks. “None of that was your fault. You hear me? None of that.”

“It feels like it is,” you confess, anguish heavy on your tongue. “I feel like I’m just prolonging the inevitable.”

“It’s not your fault,” he reiterates. “Marco’s not gonna lay a fuckin’ hand on you ever again.”

Your silence is the only proof of your doubt that Simon needs to witness, but there are other hints. He feels it in the trembling of your body—how you quiver and pulse beneath him like a writhing animal lying in wait of unforgiving teeth and greedy claws. It’s painted all over your skin—how you refuse to look at him; like you can’t stand being seen.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Simon whispers. He’s cradling your head, lips pressing against your skull as if he wishes to hold you properly. Not even his arms are large enough to embrace you whole; sorrow and all. “It doesn’t. This doesn’t change how I feel ‘bout you. It doesn’t make me love you any less.”

His words get your head to perk slightly. Your eyes are raw—your cheeks stick to Simon’s ribs as if your bodies have begun to meld together. “You mean that?”

Simon nods. “I do. I swear it. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Neither of you say anything for a long while after that. Your words are spent. Your body is spent. Still curled into Simon’s side, you are stuck in a terrible state of the in between. Chained to purgatory. While you feel his body against yours—the way he kisses the top of your head, and how his heat bleeds into you—your mind is elsewhere. Severed from your physical form.

You are in that kitchen. You are in that warehouse. You are in that car.

The past haunts you with casual smirks and the huff of a breath across the apples of your cheeks. All it does is linger—all you can do is remember.

So you remember. It washes over you the way shame burns the layers of your epidermis, or the way a kiss sours in your throat. You remember until the firm pulse of Simon’s heart beats it out of you. A fist against your jaw, each throb immolates the pain until it is numbed—until it’s small enough to tuck away beneath your tongue where it can wait to grow and choke you once again down the road.

For now, it sits and waits. Patiently. Quiet enough for you to forget about it.

You are the lightest you have felt in years.

Ouroboros—you’ve finally managed to snap your jaw shut and swallow down the parts of you that you always thought you never could.

“I think… I think I wanna take a bath.” It feels like the first thing you’ve said in years; the first thing you’ve said with this new body of yours.

Simon nods. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll get one runnin’ for you, sweetheart.”

It takes Simon ten minutes to get the water to the right temperature. He’s not used to taking baths—he can’t even recall the last time he even had one that was by choice. By the time he’s satisfied with the steam that emanates from the spout, his heart squeezes so violently in his chest he’s certain he’ll pass out right there on the bathroom floor. But he doesn’t. As always, he persists.

Though he doesn’t have any soap fit for a bubble bath, he does his best with what he has, and decides to add some of your shower gel into the water. He froths the bubbles up by hand, swirling his arm through the water until there’s a decent layer and the scent hangs heavy enough in the air for it to make a difference. Simon stares at the way it swirls in front of him—he hopes he hasn’t tainted it by touch alone.

He tries to leave the room so that you can bathe by yourself, but he stays when you ask him to. Your voice is timid—impossibly small—when you ask him to turn around while you undress, but he follows your wishes without a second thought. You attempt to meet his gaze in the mirror before you sink into the water, but his eyes are shut tight.

The sight makes your heart flutter.

Once you’re settled into the bath, Simon sits on the floor with his back against the tub. Still shirtless, you catch the way his skin tightens from the cold enamel, but he doesn’t even hiss at the feeling. The water swaddles you with steam and a tingling burn that makes you hum as your head leans back against the wall. Somehow, your mind feels completely void of any thoughts. You are empty—a blank slate waiting to be reformed and filled.

“Do you work tonight?” You don’t know why you ask it, but the question slips past your lips anyway.

“I can call out,” Simon says, perking his ear toward you, yet refusing to look over his shoulder.

“No, that’s okay,” you hum. Limber fingers weave through the water as you play with the thin layer of bubbles along the surface. They sizzle and pop like a fryer as you move, and you close your eyes as you enjoy what little sounds you can hear. “I feel… surprisingly fine. I’ve never… talked about that before. To anyone. I always thought it would feel like the end of the world, and it sort of did, but now it… doesn’t.”

He nods. Knees bending, he rests his arms out on them as he stares at the cabinets in front of him. The pale paint is peeling on the corner a little, and he notes how they could use a good scrub due to the water stains. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy. I’m glad you shared it with me. You can tell me anythin’ you want to; I swear it won’t ever change anythin’ between us.”

Unsure of how to respond, you allow yourself to sink deeper into the water. Your knees poke further out of the surface as your neck is consumed in a mess of bubbles and soap. Before your brain can cook up a coherent response to Simon’s affirmations, he shatters the silence with his croaking voice.

“I’m sorry ‘bout movin’ too fast. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“What?” Your voice fractures in your confusion and you find yourself staring at the back of his head. “Simon, no, no I- you didn’t do anything wrong. I really wanted it. Like… I feel a little pathetic about how badly I wanted it—wanted you.” A chuckle bleeds past your lips, and as the sound reverberates off of the tiles around you, Simon feels it crash straight through his chest. “It was… the mint.”

Simon’s confusion visibly forms in the tension of his shoulders. “Mint?”

“Yeah, like… This is going to sound dumb, probably, but… Marco, he… always smells like mint. Like his breath? It’s like he’s always chewing on gum or something like that,” you explain. “And I just—I dunno—I smelled it on your breath and it just sorta… my brain just sort of freaked out, like I couldn’t make sense of anything.”

As you speak, Simon’s eyes begin to wander up. They focus away from the cupboard door in front of him and onto what little he can see of the countertop. He sees his toothbrush. His toothpaste. And then yours.

Kids fruity toothpaste.

No thanks. I… erm… don’t like mint.

“It’s not your fault,” you add in a panic. “You couldn’t have known about that, it was just sort of one of those things, and I’ve never really mentioned it before, so-”

“It’s okay, baby,” Simon interjects softly. “I know how nuanced this shit gets.”

A soft, dainty breath exhales from your lungs as you let go of the words that had built up in your throat. Simon’s mind is swirling. You can see it in the muscles that line his spine and the twitching in his jaw. He stares at his hands as he picks at his short-cut nails, body curled forward like a dog with his hackles raised.

Water sloshes around you as you curl forward. The edge of the tub is lukewarm against your cheek as you rest your head on it, and you sigh as more of Simon’s face comes into your view. Careful fingers rise out of the water as you trace a line along his shoulder, leaving a layer of glistening moisture to shine beneath the vanity lights.

“Si?”

He does not hesitate to look at you when you beckon. Neck craning, when he looks at you, his eyes dilate, forcing his pupils to swallow the sweet warmth of his irises. He focuses on the small curve of your lips—weary, but still there—and when your hands wander up to his face, he leans into your palm.

“Thank you. For everything. I… don’t know what I would do without you,” you whisper.

Body twisting, Simon brings a hand up to cup over yours, keeping you pressed against him for a short moment before pulling you away. Then, with a softness he can’t remember ever having mustered before, he kisses each of your knuckles before rubbing his thumb over them.

“I’d do anythin’ for you,” he says. “I mean it. Anything.” He swallows. “I love you.”

There is still that twitch in his fingers—that buzzing electricity that jolts through him, urging his muscles into action. His lungs expand as if pushing him to run, and his knuckles yearn to feel that familiar ache that always follows after they’ve kissed soft flesh or jutting bone. All that tension and virulent desire melts away the moment Simon sees the warm smile that graces your lips at his confession.

He realizes that he can put away those bad habits and macabre desires if it means he gets to see you like this—even if it’s only temporary.

“I love you, too.”

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