#who has been fucking up profoundly for weeks

[lungfuls]

Maybe I'm projecting and being hopeful but I mentioned to M that I don't even get to shit by myself in peace lmao and I feel like something clicked for him. Bc I was like hey, at least you get private bathroom breaks at work (noncombative). And since then he's been a lot more acquiescent when I ask if I can nap and stuff

[pepprs]

i will try very hard for this to be my last personal post tonight buti think my problem is that even the slightest conflict or issue or whatever throws me into i-am-about-to-be-abandoned-or-rejected mode even if it’s not my fault. and it sucks soooo bad. i wish i had emotional object permanence i wish i wasn’t deathly afraid of ppl i love and need turning on me over the smallest things especially when they tell me they wont. like it is really truly ruining my life. but i don’t want to jsut liek stop thinking it and pretend it isn’t happening anymore. that’s just ignoring a problem and i need it to go away. i have to ask for comfort. reassurance. a signal a symbol a tether something i can hold that will tell me you (speaking generally) still love me and you are not going to abandon me over this. and as long as i still have this object that means that is true and if you take back the object then that means it is no lo ng er true. like i need a baby blanket basically. to wrap around my shoulders at all times. i need kangaroo care. and i don’t know how to ask for that but iwhave to. because that is how i heal myself out of this. it will fucking kill me if i don’t.

[helenanell]

Contempt of Court || Challengers

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader 

CW: 18+ MDNI. Alcoholism / substance abuse. Suicidal ideation. Mentions of car crash/ injury, infidelity (technically - Art is still married to Tashi, but they’re separated) Angst. Smut. A little toxic.

Wordcount: 10.8K

Notes: No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film. Reader is a Tashi stan (There’s too much Tashi Duncan erasure happening and I won’t stand for it.) 

Summary: Still recovering from an injury that put your tennis career on pause, your publicist has landed you a deal to be an ambassador for Nike. What she doesn’t tell you, is that so is Art Donaldson: the player who bad-mouthed you in a live, post match interview two years ago. You only find out once it’s too late. 

 (This story was inspired by the dynamic between Billy and Daisy in Daisy Jones and The Six. But…make it tennis.)

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

For eight agonising weeks, your wrist has been encased in a cast, but now that it’s finally off, you feel far from relieved.

 As the doctor had sawn into the plaster, producing a cloud of white dust like he was breaking into a bone instead of revealing a healed one, you had actually felt panicked. 

After the car crash, you had spiralled into a pit dug with your own self-pity and pain. And once you’d reached the bottom, you’d staved off the encroaching darkness with alcohol and too many painkillers. 

You’d taken drugs before at parties and drunk until you wiped your own memory, the consequence being waking up with your skull practically splitting open from pain. But there was something profoundly different about becoming intoxicated in the hopes of rendering yourself numb:

 You hated yourself whilst you were doing it, and once the harmful buzz wore off, you hated yourself a little bit more. 

You had become fast friends with shame in the past few months. 

You have been desperate to play again, screaming, crying and practically tearing off your own skin with the need to get back to work- to not let yourself fall behind or your ranking suffer. 

But, amongst the amalgamation of negatives there had been a sort of relief, too. Relief, because the choice had been taken away from you. 

The accident hadn't been your fault and nor could you force your bone to heal faster, so for a brief period of time, you had convinced yourself nothing was your fault. For once, you couldn’t be blamed for your own fall from grace. 

But now your bone had healed and if you didn’t give recovery your all, it would be your fault. If there was no triumphant comeback, it would be on you. 

Another thing to fail at. 

Another thing to lose. 

All of which only added to your bafflement over your publicist’s insistence on coming over this morning, in order to discuss ‘a major opportunity’ that wasn’t related to a competition. 

You had originally tried to worm out of it, but your coach had found out and given you the third degree. 

You’re already tired at the thought of it and you don’t even know what it is yet. You don’t want to think about anything but tennis. You don’t have the energy for it. 

In all honesty…you’re hanging on by a thread.

‘Drinking too much’ is a far too casual phrase for how you’ve been living: it has connotations of casualness- a glaring lack of stakes. For you, the stakes are unbelievably high.

You know you can’t afford to become alcohol dependent because even being a functioning alcoholic isn’t an option for you. The only way to function as an athlete—to maintain your career trajectory and the attain the US Open title—is to be at one hundred percent. 

Mixing your painkillers with straight vodka isn’t one hundred percent: it’s a cry for fucking help. Except you can’t let anyone hear the cry, you need to stifle it. 

It’s bad enough that pictures of you being rolled away from your totalled car in a gurney had been plastered over the internet for weeks after the accident. The alcoholic, pill popping tennis pro was a story that would never go away. 

It would morph into an ugly sort of infamy: you’d been in the exclusive club of American sweethearts and heartthrobs who had been hounded so much by the ‘devoted’, that it had driven them to substance abuse to drown out the noise and fortify against the flashing lights. 

So, no one could know. No one.

Which is why, as your publicist pulls into your driveway, you’re rushing to hide a half full bottle of vodka inside a hideously expensive—and also just hideous—vase that had been given to you as an engagement gift.

Two years ago, when your fiancé–and fellow tennis player–had been caught in 4k, kissing a barely legal actress from a HBO teen drama, you’d almost smashed the vase. But, something about destroying a gift from Serena Williams felt like spitting out the ambrosia a god had fed you from their very own hand.

So, while your ring had been thrown into a ravine (best not to dwell on that.) the vase had remained. 

The doorbell rings much sooner than you’re prepared for. Who knew a five-foot-two woman in heels could move so quickly? 

You run over to the door, chewing down on two pieces of gum you’d hastily shoved into your mouth to cover up the scent of alcohol. When you pull it open, you’re met with the stern face of your Publicist, Rebecca. She’s tiny but terrifying, her sharp features framed by a pitch black bob.

Sometimes, it does feel a bit like you’re talking to Edna Mode, but you’d never dare say that.

“Rebecca, hi!” You’re aware the greeting is too happy, and try not to grimace.

When you step back to allow her to enter, Rebecca frowns at you as she passes.

“Why are you fake smiling?” she questions. “Your cast is off, you should be actually happy.”

 You drop the toothy grin, wincing with embarrassment as you follow her into the kitchen.

“I am happy about that, obviously.” You clear your throat, overly aware of how disingenuous you still seem. “What I’m not exactly overjoyed about, is whatever this ‘opportunity’ is.” 

You watch as Rebecca grabs bottle of water from the fridge and then pulls out a stool to sit at the kitchen island. You follow suit, dropping down beside her.

“Well, you should be. I practically had to sell my soul to get them to pick you.”

You level her with an unimpressed look. “Wow, Rebecca, way to raise me up from rock bottom.”

She waves you away. “Oh, please! You hate when I coddle you.”

You huff, dropping your chin into hand and propping your elbow on the counter. “Okay, out with it then. What is it?” 

Rebecca’s cheeks split with a blinding grin. “Nike.” She declares gleefully. 

“Nike.” 

Her smile dampens, disappointed you haven’t burst into happy tears. “Yes, Nike. You know…Just Do It.”

“Yes, I do. I’d just prefer not, you know…do it.”

Your publicist looks just about ready to slap you. “You’re kidding. It’s Nike.”

“Oh, is it? You haven’t mentioned that.”

Rebecca’s frown becomes a scowl and you think about ducking when she angrily snatches up her water bottle. But she doesn’t throw it, just waves it around as she begins to rant at you: 

“Do you know how hard it was to get this?! They wanted Naomi Osaka but I convinced them to go for you instead. And christ knows they were hesitant after the US Open meltdown-”

“We agreed not to refer to it as a meltdown.” You cut in. “My therapist says it has negative connotations that, ‘make me feel a harmful degree of shame.’”

Rebecca scoffs. “You went to one session with that therapist and then fired her because you didn’t like that she drew you a diagram.”

“It was condescending: I’m not five, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Okay, just shut up!” Rebecca barks, smoothing down her still immaculate hair and taking a deep breath. “This isn’t actually up for discussion. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Weeks Later… )

‘Just Do It.’ 

It’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Nike office for the photoshoot. 

The poster from a past campaign with Andy Murray has been blown up to ridiculous proportions and framed, hanging in on the first wall that greets anyone who enters.

“If they make mine that big I won’t be able to look at it. I’ll actually vomit. ” 

When Rebecca–who is the epitome of a chatterbox–remains silent, you turn you head to look down at her. She’s already peering up at you, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Your eyes narrow with suspicion. “What have you done?”

Rebecca lets out a laugh laced with unadulterated fear. “Okay…so, any minute now you’re going to be super fucking pissed at me and you have every right to be, but remember that as you’ve already signed the contract, you don’t have a right to walk out of here.”

You stare her down, knowing it doesn’t take much intimidation for her to crack. 

You don’t end up needing her to blabber, however, because not even five seconds later, the door you’d just come through swings open and a lone figure enters.

 As you turn, you feel your publicist actually take a step away from you.

“Rebecca, I’m going to kill you.” 

You’re not looking at her as you spit out the threat, your eyes are already boring into the man who’s noted your presence and is lingering just beyond the doorway. 

Your history with Art Donaldson is far from extensive. In fact, while the trajectory of your careers have practically run parallel, the two of you have spoken maybe twice. 

But then, almost two years ago, the U.S Open had happened. 

Still dealing with the fall out of your fiance’s cheating scandal, you’d been in potentially the worst mental space of your life. And yet, you had still made it to the final.

 But, during the match…well you’d sort of lost your shit. And then you’d just lost. It had been dramatic and mortifying. 

Then, with the dust not even close to settling, things had gotten even worse. 

Having just clinched the men’s singles trophy for himself, Art Donaldson had sat down for his live post-match interview and one of the first questions he’d been asked, was about your ‘comportment’ during the final. 

You would never forget his answer: 

'Well, obviously it’s a massive disappointment. In so many ways the match between those two women today was legendary. But it always stings when you see someone get in their own way. Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court: it’s infantile and disrespectful to staff and to the fans. It threatens to overshadow what was otherwise a phenomenal game of tennis for both of them.'

When he had then been pressed for his thoughts on what should be done in regards to sanctions, Art had simply said: ‘I think whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’

In a few minutes, Art had made you a subject of scorn as well as unwanted sympathy.  He’d made you sound simultaneously contemptible and pitiable. 

He was right, but he hadn’t needed to sound so sanctimonious when he’d said it. And telling the world your own mental anguish was probably torment enough, was just salt in the wound.

In your own defence, you had gone into the final right off the back of the announcement that your ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend was pregnant. And the dates had made it blindingly clear, that conception had happened whilst you were still with him.

 You’d never felt so worthless or dehumanised. And then, after you’d practically killed yourself playing the match of your life, only to lose, Art fucking Donaldson had felt the need to call out your behaviour. 

‘Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court.’ 

Anger ‘like that’ wasn’t something you’d brought to the competition in your overhead luggage, it was a parasite that had been poisoning your blood.

You’d thought that sort of self-cannibalising rage was in your past, bust as Art starts walking over to you, it rears its ugly head once more.

And he has the gall to smile at you. It’s an amicable, almost anticipatory smile. 

You barely even register when Rebecca ducks away, muttering something about finding the photographer. 

Art calls out your name as he stops before you, the corners of his eyes creasing as his smile intensifies. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” You intone harshly.

Art’s smile doesn’t drop, it just becomes tighter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah- so you are still upset about what I said at the Open.” 

You glare at him, forcing yourself to stop gritting your teeth lest they shatter. “What could possibly make you think that I wouldn't be?”

Art laughs softly, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “Well, because your coach and your publicist both assured me that you weren’t.”

Those fucking traitors. 

It looks like you’ll be going into tomorrow with only your nutritionist and your physio left on your team.

“They lied.” You reply sharply. 

Art tilts his head, his gaze becoming brazen in the way it assesses your face. “Clearly.”

“Well, obviously this isn’t happening.” You gesture between the two of you. “I’m not doing a photoshoot, let alone an entire campaign, with you.”

“I don’t see why it can’t go ahead.” Art declares casually, his lips tugging upward as he observes your indignation. 

You take a step back, not trusting yourself not to lunge for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have little regard for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

Art's brows draw together, some irritation beginning to pollute his easy going demeanour. “You do care.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do care about my opinion, because f you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be this pissed over something I said years ago. 

“Pissed?” You almost choke on the word. “You made me sound pathetic. Weak. You insulted my entire career!”

“I seem to recall saying that your match was ‘legendary.’ Phenomenal, is another word I used.”

If there wasn’t so much anger writhing in your gut, you might have rubbed it in his face that for something he’s outwardly dismissing, he seems to remember what he said about you very well.

You step up to him, closing the distance in two strides.

“‘Whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’ You said that about me in front of peers and fans in a live interview that was watched by thousands!”

“You’re telling me you don’t think you were out of line?” Art challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in. 

You know he’s not wrong: it hadn’t been your finest hour. In fact, the morning after, with your behaviour laid bare in the cold light and already being picked over by commentators and tabloids, you had been able to acknowledge it may very well have been one of the worst hours you would ever have. 

But you’d rather die than acknowledge that to Art.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” You hit back disparagingly.

Art’s fingers dig into his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hypocrite, Art. I watched your match against Patrick Zweig at the…what was it- Phil’s Tire Town Challenger? Someone recorded it from the stands. Tell me, what emotion were you bringing to the court when you yelled ‘fuck you’ at him across the net?” 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I’m not proposing a thesis, Art. This isn’t up for debate. I’m just telling you what I saw. And it seems to me, that you have some fucking anger issues of your own, so quit chewing me out over mine.”

“Chewing you out–” He splutters, his cheeks flushing with outrage. “Wow, you really do have a victim complex, huh?” 

“Fuck you!” You seethe.

Your exclamation doesn’t dissuade Art, instead he gathers momentum: 

“You’re acting like I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness over an entirely reasonable answer I gave to a question about your piss-poor behaviour. But I didn’t make you launch your racket across the court or cuss out the line judge. You’re not a tragic woman, or some wronged heroine, you’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t very nice about her in an interview, two goddamn years ago!” 

“Well, I’m a bitch and you’re a hypocrite, looks like neither of us should be tennis’ poster child.” You snap, pushing past him and heading for the door. 

There was absolutely no chance you were doing this photoshoot. Nike could give Naomi Osaka another call. 

Just as you’ve got past him, Art is following you, snagging your wrist with his hand. “Hey! I didn’t call you a bitch.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. Badmouthing people in public forums is your move.” 

You yank yourself out of his hold and with his eyes burning into the back of your head, you leave Art Donaldson alone in the lobby. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Weeks Later… )

In the intervening weeks since your confrontation with Art, you have discovered just how airtight employment contracts can be. 

Nike should really give their lawyers a raise, because you have been assured that there is more chance of you sprouting wings, than being able to get out of the ad campaign. 

You’d been forced back to the studio a week later with your tail between your legs, but while you’d felt genuinely apologetic over the inconvenience caused to Nike’s team, your fury at Art had only compounded. 

Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual and the two of you had passed the entire shoot in utter silence. Neither of you had offered up so much as a hello or goodbye to the other, and while it had clearly been painfully awkward for everyone around you, it had worked out quite well. 

Unfortunately, you and Art had been called back for a day of what they were calling ‘action shots.’

Which is why you’re currently at a country club, dressed in all of Nike’s new gear, being forced to actually play tennis against Art. 

If it was anyone else, you would already have drawn attention to the fact that your wrist is in excruciating pain, but you refuse to falter in front of him. 

Besides, as much as you’re loathe to admit it, playing against Art is exhilarating. 

The team have just called for a break and somehow, despite the innumerable people that have been buzzing around you for the entire day, you and Art suddenly find yourselves alone at the side of the court. 

You’ve done well at remaining civil with each other, but that’s only because you only said ‘hello’ and ‘ready’ before you’d started playing.

Unfortunately for you, Art seems to be in the mood to antagonise.

“I don’t get why this is making you so miserable.” Art says, dropping down onto the bench beside you with a shit-eating grin on his face. 

You hold up the can in your hand, fingers biting into the condensation slick metal. 

“I specifically asked for Tangerine La Croix and they’ve given me Pure.” You mock. You couldn't care less about what you’re drinking.

“Funny.” Art deadpans. 

“And here was me thinking you’d jump at the chance to call me a diva.” You answer, donning a smirk of your own.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Some genuine anger colours Art’s tone and it only feeds the fires of your own.

“What?” 

Art grabs the can from your hand and maintains eye contact as he steals as a sip.

“You refuse to let go of a few critical, but very valid sentences I said about you in that interview and you’ve used them to construct a narrative about my dislike for you. I don’t dislike you.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s good, because this amicable exchange is really making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” 

Art groans, slumping back on the bench. He manspreads so wide that his knee knocks into yours. 

“Can you not just enjoy yourself? It’s a beautiful day and we’re being paid to do what we’re great at.”

You wrinkle your nose and try to snatch back the can, but Art tightens his grip and the metal crumples as you both tighten your hold. 

“Yeah, well, not everyone gets off on having their face on a billboard.” You sneer, almost falling back when Art suddenly lets go of the can.

It’s practically empty and completely deformed, so you slam it down onto the empty space beside you.

“How do you know that I do?”

“What?”

“How do you know that I get off on it?” He repeats glibly.

“Because, you’ve clearly wanted to retire for years and now that you have, you can monopolise on the popularity that your wife built up for you and live off clothing lines and ads for the rest of your life.”

“Being great at tennis built up my popularity.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe that, Art? So many phenomenal players go widely unknown for their entire careers. You are only The Art Donaldson instead of just plain old Art, because Tashi Duncan made you a brand. She’s responsible for your legacy.”

“She didn’t make me.”

“Maybe not, but she did mould you into what you are. You would have been just another generic Stanford whiteboy if she hadn’t decided to give you fucking form.”

“You talk about her like she’s God.” 

“Are you telling me that’s not what it feels like when her attention is solely on you?” You challenge, but you don’t wait for an answer. “You know, I actually played her quite a lot when we were teenagers– we always ended up being us against each other in finals– and even then…it was like trying to play against an elemental force. Every time, without fail, there was a tiny part of me that just wanted to fall to my fucking knees in front of her. But I never did, instead it made my game better. She made my game better. Tashi put all she had into you after her injury, the least you could do is acknowledge what she’s done for you.

“You don’t have to tell me what I owe my wife.”

You scoff, rising to your feet. “I’m telling you what you owe your coach.” 

You don’t actually know where you’re going as you walk away, only that you need it to be far from him.

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Months Later… )

At the launch event for Nike’s new line, you’re standing in front of the massive poster that’s at the forefront of the campaign and swallowing down bile. 

It’s a great picture, you’ll give them that: Your feet are practically lifting off the ground as you throw up the ball for a serve, your expression is contorted with a ruinous passion that portends some sort of violence. And across the net, there’s Art: he’s dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce once you send the ball his way. In the face of your fury, his anticipation comes fitted out with his signature smirk. 

It’s not just a great photo, it’s phenomenal.

 You want to tear it off the wall. 

You’re on the verge of asking anyone if they have a pen so you can scribble over Art’s face, when the man himself appears beside you. In your peripheral vision you catch a glimpse of his sleek, all black suit, but you don’t turn to look at him. 

“I’m not sure you’d get away with defacing it in front of so many people.” 

Trying to suppress your eye roll would be a fruitless endeavour, so you turn to face Art, forcing him to bear witness to your indignation. 

“You should know by now that I have little regard for decorum. You certainly like commenting on my lack of it.”

“I thought you’d still be hung up on that.” 

“Yeah, well, some of us have follow through.” You give him a venomous smile. “How is retirement treating you?”

“Ah, I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“You see retirement is quitting. So, you’ll force yourself to continue well past the point you should, your game will get shittier and shittier, so by the time you’re forced to quit, people will be pitying you instead of remembering how phenomenal you were.”

There’s a compliment in there, but you’re not feeling generous of spirit enough to pluck it out of the insult. 

“I know when to stop, Art. It’s just not now.” You answer coldly.

“Okay, when? Like- give me your timeline. You must have thought about it.”

“Not yet.”

This answer seems to really frustrate him and he just stares at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he grips his champagne flute. 

“Do you think I didn’t notice how much your wrist was killing you when we played each other? Are you really going to wreck your body out of stubbornness?”

“You know, Art, what you did wasn’t bowing out at the perfect time, it was cowardice. You skipped right to the curtain call when you still had a last act left to perform. You never got that US Open trophy, did you?” 

Art sighs, his gaze moving back to the photo of the two of you. "Yeah well, something tells me you won't either. Have a good night."

Then he's backing away, his stare lingering on you even as he lets the crowd reabsorb him. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( One Month Later… )

Had Tashi Duncan not been one of the people in your life that you most respected and admired, you wouldn’t even have considered attending the fundraising gala for her and Art’s foundation.  

But you were, quite frankly, obsessed with her, so of course you had come.

 Sitting in an uncomfortably tight dress at a table of people you don’t know and with a fair amount of alcohol circulating through your system, is quite possibly the most painstaking thing you’ve ever gone through.

Apart from the car crash. That had been pretty bad. 

But you’re adamant you won’t think about the car crash tonight, or the fact that, somehow, your wrist seems to be getting worse; devolving to a state more dire than when the cast had first come off. 

The meal—which you hadn’t been able to stomach—had come and gone and now the auction is beginning. Tashi is up on the stage, dazzling in the way that only she can and Art is standing at the bottom of the set of stairs that lead up to the platform.

Unfortunately, your table is very close to the front and you’re positioned right in his eyeline. 

Art keeps stealing glances at you with an emotion you can’t place. You had tried to switch seats with the man across from you, but the asshole turned out to be a real stickler for assigned seating. 

If only to distract yourself, you whip out your phone, resting it in your lap beneath the table.

The moment you open up Instagram, your heart drops into your stomach. 

You thought you had expunged any remnants of your ex from your life, but it seems you’ve missed a mutual friend on Instagram, one who has just reposted his engagement announcement with his girlfriend and mother of his now one year old daughter. 

That bastard has broken your heart and wrecked your head, but while your life just keeps getting worse, the universe has seen fit to bless him with everything he’s ever wanted. 

The auction is already in full swing when you rise clumsily from your seat and weave through the tables, heading for the closest exit. 

It’s only as you push open the door and begin to sway, that you realise you’re actually quite tipsy. You might have drunk a little too much before you’d left the house. 

It’s freezing outside, but you can’t face going back for your coat, so, unsteady on your feet, you flee into the extensive gardens that surround the estate that’s acting as the gala’s venue. 

You walk well past the point where the lawn lighting disappears and clamber over a fence that has ‘restricted area’ prominently posted in front of it.

You don’t know where you’re going, but as you stagger down the hill, your sadness is alleviated very slightly by the sight of a massive pond that you’re sure is beckoning to you. 

You kick off your heels and drop down onto the bank, quick to put your feet into the water. Once you’re settled, you retrieve your hip flask from your clutch and begin to guzzle vodka in earnest.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

You turn and you find an incensed Art striding towards you. You’re more than a little delighted by the sight of mud splattered over the polished surface of his shoes. 

“I was having some time to myself.”

“You needed to walk all the way down here to get it?”

You laugh caustically, gesturing at him. “Well…no. Obviously I should have walked even further away.”

Art huffs, entirely unimpressed. He takes a few steps further down the bank and holds out a hand beckoning you over.

“Come on, you need to come back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you offered tennis lessons with yourself as an auction item and you’re up soon. You need to be on stage.”

Ah. You’d forgotten about that. 

“Why do I need to be seen? It’s not like they’re buying me.”

“You still can’t stay in there. Get out.”

“I’m not in it, Art. I’m just dangling my feet in the water.”

“Well, you can’t ‘dangle’ your feet in there, it’s a pond not a swimming pool.” 

“I can’t?” You feign a bafflement as you look at your feet, submerged in the murky water. “I sort of already am?”

Art moves even closer but falters, his bright eyes becoming an invading force: his gaze takes hold of your edges and peels them back.

He can see inside.

“What’s wrong?” He probes, the harsher edges of his previous words now nowhere to be found.

“At the moment, it’s you.” 

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not actually, but I’m getting there.” 

Art’s eyes flick to the metal object glinting in your hand. “Is that a hip flask?” 

“What a keen eye you have.” You mutter sardonically.

“Okay, I'm serious now, get out.”

“Oh, he’s being serious!” You mock, rising to your feet.

 But you don’t move away from the pond. Instead, you turn and start walking backwards into the water you wobble when your bare feet sink into the mud, icy liquid seeping into the thin fabric of your silk dress.

Art lunges forward, closing the distance until he’s standing at the edge of the water. His hand darts out and he grabs your forearm. 

“You’re too close to drunk to be near a body of water, let alone in one. You’ll drown yourself.” 

Art plucks the hip flask from your fingers with his free hand and tosses it into the grass behind him, all without taking his eyes off you. 

Then he seems to actually register where his hand is. He’s still gazing into your eyes as his thumb brushes over the scar above your wrist. 

“Compound fracture.” You say on a bitter breath. “The bone went right through. Fucking drunk driver. Funny that, isn’t it? He crashed into me, fucked my career probably permanently and then I became a drunk to cope.”

Some of the hardness in Art’s expression melts away, but it pools into the bags beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look almost distraught. Once you realise it’s sadness--no, pity--for you, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp and wade further back into the pond. 

You gasp, shocked as the frigid water wraps around your legs in an eager embrace. It’s like it’s clinging on, wanting to keep you forever. 

You find the thought of it quite peaceful.

You think on Art’s words from months ago: he’s right, about you being too stubborn to know when to stop. You won’t retire until you’re physically falling apart.

 But what if you just sink down into the water right now? You’d disappear and the memories would be of a great player gone too soon.

God, you didn’t realise you had such a large ego that you’d consider letting yourself drown just to save face.

Art is beyond unimpressed now. He’s furious. 

“Get out.” You just smile at him, stepping further back. The water reaches your navel and you let your fingertips skim over the water. “I’m not kidding, get the fuck out. Now.”

“Will you just back off!” You erupt. “We’ve done the campaign, we’re not friends, there’s no reason for us to be involved.” 

“None of that gives me a reason to leave you alone out here.”

“Why not?!” You protest desperately. “It’s not the ocean, I can’t be swept out to sea!”

“Get out of the water.”

“No.” 

“Get out.” 

“Get fucked.” You hit back, letting yourself sink back into the water. 

As you move to float on your back, another frantic laugh bubbles up as you're enveloped by its icy grip. Your dress becomes heavier, a five thousand dollar weight around your body, urging you to sink lower.

You turn your head to the side so that you can see the surface of the water:

This far out of the city, the stars are no longer choked by smog and so are able to tear through the darkness. The water perfectly mirrors the sky, so much so that it’s like you’re swimming in the cosmos. If you open your mouth, you could take some of it into yourself. 

You had struggled to get out of bed this morning, but now, in the quiet night, you have the chance to swallow a thousand stars–

Impudent splashing disrupts your peace. 

Your head shoots up, water running in eager rivulets off your hair as you watch wide eyed, as Art drops into the water. His jacket and shoes have been discarded on the edge of the bank. 

“What are you doing?”  

Art doesn’t answer, instead he drives through the water towards you, his strides producing ripples that disturb the reflected constellations. Shooting stars. 

You’re not very far out, so just as Art closes in on you, you plant your feet on the muddy bottom of the pond and stand up.

The fabric of your dress is dark and slick against your body like an oil spill. The breeze blows a tentative breath against you, causing your skin to pebble and your nipples to harden.

Art reaches for you but your hand flies out and you swat him away.

You push yourself further out, giggling at his expression as the water comes up to your chin. 

Then Art’s diving after you, the white material of his shirt submerged in the water. 

“Art, this is a pond, not a swimming pool.” You tease, amusement blooming.

In fact, you’re relishing the sight of his arms pushing through the water so much, that you forget to make another escape attempt. 

Before you know it, Art is right up in front of you, his breath coasting over your face as he wraps an arm around your middle beneath the water. 

You drive your feet into the mud, your smile growing as he looks exasperatedly up at sky. His fingers press into your side.

“This is so beyond funny.” He grouses, trying and failing to tug you closer.

Seeing as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not sure what comes over you, but you’re seized by a giddy, childlike urge. 

You decide to give into it.

Art’s eyes widen slightly as you rush forward, pressing your chest right up against his. Then, you place one hand on each of his shoulders and push.

There’s a brief moment, where your face rises above Art and he gazes up at you, droplets of water rolling off your face and onto him. He’s looking at you in the same way you had been gazing up at the stars. Perhaps you’ve become one of them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Art realises too late what you’re going to do. 

“Don’t you dare–”

You push all of your weight onto his shoulders and dunk him into the pond. His head goes under, short blonde locks floating up in the water.

You immediately let him go and when he comes up, spluttering for air, the hand not on your waist winds around the back of your neck, threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls you flush against him again.

When he speaks, it is a whisper you feel against your cheek. “You’re such an asshole.” 

Your hands fall onto his waist beneath the water. “I know.” 

You shriek as Art tips you back, his hand still cradling the back of your neck as he dunks your head into the water in retaliation. It feels like a baptism. 

When you come back up, he's chuckling as you gasp for air. 

“I had to do that.” Art defends.

 He notices you scrambling to push soaked strands of hair out of your eyes and proceeds to help you, his hand brushing over your cheeks and forehead before returning your sight to you. 

“I feel like you didn’t have to.” You splutter, fighting back a laugh of your own. 

You’re suddenly glad for his grip on you- you’re far too flustered to stand firmly on your own two feet. 

Art’s cheek’s dimple as he smiles, shaking his head at you. Your breath hitches. 

When he’s unencumbered by negative emotion…Art shines. 

He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear: 

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish, sweetheart.” Your breathing becomes even more laboured as he draws away, his nose briefly dragging against your cheek. “Now…get out of the goddamn pond.” 

And then he’s pulling away, leaving you gaping after him as he moves back towards the bank.

 His touch is an absence you really wish didn’t feel so profound 

“Spoilsport.” You grumble. But you’re already moving after him. 

The alcohol you did have in you has disappeared; shocked out of your system by the frigid water and the feel of Art’s hands.

 You wade back towards the bank, your hip flask is nestled in the grass and glinting seductively in the moonlight. 

With Art’s back to you, you let yourself stare as he drags himself out of the water. His shirt is stuck to his body and entirely see through, settling into the ridges of his muscled chest. The moon’s light shines through the fabric hanging from his sleeves, making it look like the membrane of wings.

As Art kneels on the grass, you blink rapidly as if he’s a vision you can dispel from your sight. 

You can acknowledge he’s attractive- you’re not blind– but you can’t abide the yearning arising within you. You don’t have room for that in your life, for anyone, but especially not for him. 

You finally reach the edge of the bank and then Art is kneeling at the edge, holding a hand out for you to take.

You consider him for a moment and process the newfound ease on his face. He seems almost serene. 

You fight off a shiver that you blame on the cold and ignore his outstretched hand, pulling yourself out of the water unaided. 

“Really?” Art bites out irritatedly, watching as you wander over to your hip flask and sit down right beside it. You take it into your hand and unscrew the cap. 

When you bring it to your lips you look right into his eyes. “Really.” 

You throw your head back, the path the vodka burns down your throat is a welcome discomfort. You had felt far too peace just now, floating in a sea of stars with Art. 

But those weren’t stars, just a reflection of them. It was a trick. Nothing that could ever be real. 

When you drop the now empty flask into your lap, there are tears in your eyes. 

When was the last time you’d felt even close to the happiness you’d found in that water? 

It wasn’t real.

A traitorous tear is already rolling down your cheek as you drop your eyes to your hands. 

“Hey.” Art says softly. He kneels down beside you, one hand on your soaked back as the other plucks the flask out your lap. “What’s wrong?”

You make a noise that’s half sob, half laugh. “I already answered that question.” 

“Yeah, except I know you’re full of shit.” When you look up at him, Art’s frown becomes something gentler. “I know I’m not your problem.” 

You scoff, shoving his chest. He sways backwards, but drops down onto his knees, planting himself on the ground beside you. His hand is still on your back.

“Yes, you are actually.” You answer nastily. “You really are.”

“Just tell me.” Art whispers, ducking his head into your field of vision so you’re forced to look at him. His free hand settles on your cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong because this…is sort of scary.”

You lift your hands and clasp his cheeks, digging your fingers in. You’re overcome by a violent impulse to tear into his skin. 

It would be far easier to draw blood than confront how you’re beginning to feel about him. 

“Aww.” You croon. “Did I scare the poor little baby?” 

“Stop it.” He scolds. His hands move to grasp your wrists but he doesn't pull you away, not even as you press your nails further in.

But you won’t stop- can’t stop. Your feelings have become spiteful and unruly, running away from you at a pace which you can’t hope to match.

You can’t take the strain. And because Art is the contributor to that is closest to you, it’s him you’re going to lash out at.

“No, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a pussy.” You forge on, spewing venom. “I scared you by getting in a pond? Grow the fuck up, Art.”

But Art doesn’t rise to it. His jaw doesn’t clench and his grip on you doesn’t tighten. 

“This isn’t okay.” He says, tentative but assured. “You’re not okay.” 

“No, I'm not!” You snap wrenching your wrists free. “But it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

You try to rise to your feet, but Art doesn’t let you. He moves so he’s kneeling either side of you, his legs pressing into your thighs as his hands fall onto your shoulders. You can feel in the way his fingers press into you that he’s fighting the urge to shake sense into you. 

You look up at him, slightly startled by his forcefulness. His back is facing the moon now and his drenched body is limned in silver. 

Before you can berate yourself for even thinking about it, you’re winding your hand around his tie and dragging him down, smashing your lips against his. 

You shouldn't be doing this, a large part of you doesn’t want to, but it feels like the only way to purge yourself of him. And what kills a bacteria faster than blazing heat?

Art lets out a warning groan, but your teeth nipping his bottom lip is all it takes to have him leaning in. Even your kiss feels like a fight, battling each other for control, pressing with bruising force.

Art crowds over you, guiding your back against the grass.

You let yourself fall. 

As your back presses into the earth, one of his hands settles on the side of your neck as he drags the other up your leg. When he peels up the sodden material of your dress, his hand exploring your thigh, the cold air bites tauntingly against your rapidly heating skin. 

Your hard nipples brush against his soaked t-shirt and the feeling is so tantalising, that you find your back arching, pressing yourself into him and chasing the sensation.

When you let out a moan into his mouth, Art draws back as if some unseen hand has pulled on him.

He’s still agonisingly close, his lips a hair's breadth away as he gazes down at you through heavy eyelids, water droplets running down his face from his hair. His breathing is ragged.

 Art’s eyes close and with his sight lost to him, his lips drift closer to you again and his teeth nip at your chin. After placing a ghost of kiss over where he’s bitten, he takes a deep breath.

Then his eyes open, and his expression is blank. It makes you feel sick.

You’re burning up with want, but you can already see the realisation of your transgression settling into the very bones of Art. He’s about to spurn you, disdain no doubt working its way to the surface. So you have to get there first. 

“Poor, sensitive Art, scared by a kiss.” You goad. The words are forced out and they feel malformed on your tongue. “Don’t worry your little head over it, it doesn’t mean anything.” 

Art drops his eyes from you, shaking his hand as he pushes himself off up. 

“Nice try, but I know what you’re doing.”  

He mumbles it and doesn't give you a chance to acknowledge it befores he’s on his feet and walking away. 

Tears prick insistently at the back of your eyes but you force them back, pressing the heels of your thumbs into them until it hurts. 

You sit up, feeling leaves and blades of grass sticking to your exposed skin.

You feel the air shift behind you, and are startled when you peer over your shoulder and find Art standing at your back. He has his shoes back on and is gripping his dry jacket far too tightly. 

You find your voice, but it’s weak: “What am I doing Art?” 

He doesn’t meet your eye, instead he opens up the jacket in his hands and settles it over your shoulders. You sit there, stunned as he tugs it around your body. Then he leans down and over your shoulders, his breath on the side of your face as he deftly buttons the jacket up. 

Art encloses you in the dry garment that carries the scent of him. 

“You’re doing the same thing as me.” He says quietly. It sounds almost painful for him to talk. “Running away. I guess we’re both cowards.”

And then he’s gone, marching back up the bank without another word.

You’re left sitting there, wrapped in his jacket and staring out at the pond. 

Not the night sky. 

Just a pond. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Months Later… )

After your cast had first come off, Wimbledon had felt like an intimidating but still far off thing; a dark shape on the horizon, but one you had to squint to see. But then it moved closer, barreling towards you like a bat out of hell. 

You’ve made great progress in your recovery, you really have…but all your extensive physiotherapy hasn’t been able to heal the nerve-damage you’d turned out to have- at least not in a timespan that’s workable for a professional athlete. 

You’re done. Tennis career over.

And your worst fear has come true: it hadn’t been your choice. Injury has forced you out and the public discourse is rife with commiseration and useless, positive platitudes. 

Art has been proved right. Everything would be so much better had you known when to quit. You had preferred ridicule to this. 

But until you’d come to Wimbledon, it hadn’t really sunk in yet: you hadn’t had the moment of finality. 

What closure has ended up feeling like, is the final nail in your coffin.

As you had watched the first matches of Wimbledon from the stands, Rebecca glancing at you constantly–presumably to check you weren’t about to burst into tears–you had felt as though you were being buried: each serve and volley another hand tossing dirt on top of the coffin, sealing you beneath the ground for good. 

At least one part of your day has been successful. You have completed the challenge you’d set for yourself that morning, which was to not drink any alcohol until the evening.

 It has been excruciating.

Evidence of your victory lays in your trembling hands as you fit your keycard into the door of your hotel room. You’re desperate for what you know sits waiting for you on the other side. 

But then, just as the lock mechanism chirps to let you know you’ve been granted entry, someone calls your name.

Your keycard is left in the door as your fingers fall away from the handle and you turn to face Art. He’s stopped himself a safe distance from you and is gazing at you with what looks like…relief? 

Of course you knew he was at Wimbledon–you’d narrowly avoided crossing paths with him a number of times already today–but to hear his voice and having his probing stare directed solely on you, is as debilitating as you remember. 

You haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since the night by–or rather in–the pond. 

The only place the two of you are still together in any capacity, is on the Nike billboards that are still occupying space throughout the world.

And as if Art’s thoughts align with your own, he says: 

“You pull an impressive disappearing act.” He steps closer.

“That suggests you went looking for me.” You counter, pleased with how detached you sound. “We both know you didn’t.” 

“No. I didn’t.” Art replies frankly. 

“So I didn’t disappear, did I? You just couldn’t see me.”

Art moves towards you some more, stopping an arms length away. 

“It felt the same.” He utters lowly. “You were gone.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “So were you.” 

Then you press your back into the door, fingers seeking out the handle, shaking now for a reason other than alcohol withdrawal. 

You really don’t know if you’re running away or urging him on, but when you push open the door and duck inside, you do know that you’re not angry when he follows. 

You put your back to the hallway door, expecting Art to move past you and head into the suite, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. Instead, he stops right in front of you, looking down at you as the door swings shut. 

You would barely have to lift your hand and you’d be touching him.

You hate that he looks so good. He’s in simple navy dress pants, a white shirt sitting snugly on his chest, the top few buttons undone. 

The two of you stand like that for a minute or so, and just as you realise that your breaths have practically synchronised, Art is moving away from you and wandering inside. 

It’s only then, as he ventures deeper, that you remember what you’ve been so eager to get back into the room for. You curse yourself, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

Even if he hadn’t already seen them, it would be too late for you to hide the line of alcohol minis that you’d gathered from the bar cart. 

You’d set them out earlier, the process almost meditative. It had been a promise to yourself: get through the day without drinking and you can have all of these once you’re alone.

But now they’re standing out in the open, displayed on the nearby desk like pieces knocked off a board in a game that you’ve been playing against yourself. 

You watch helplessly as Art walks right over to them, his hands in his pockets. Your face flushes with shame.

Art cranes his neck back to look at you. You’re still pressed against the wall, afraid that if you take one step closer, you won’t be able to stop yourself from taking ten more. And you don’t want to be close to him when his face shifts into pity or revilement. 

“You planning on drinking all of these?” Art asks, turning back to the bottles as if he knows his gaze is steadily undoing you and wants to grant a reprieve.

Eased slightly by the remarkable placidity of his tone, you’re able to answer calmly. But you still don’t move. 

“That was the plan.” 

Art lets out a non-committal hum. “Why?” 

You laugh awkwardly, wringing your hands together. “I don’t know, why does anyone drink?” 

“I don’t care about anyone, I'm asking about you.” His voice is firm, but the foundation of it is something less solid. His words shake on the way out. 

You’re overcome with the urge to be honest. It’s actually a lot easier when he’s not looking at you. 

“I drink because at some point in my life, every tiny thing became really difficult- like, embarrassingly difficult, to the point where I feel like a child again. And it turns out that ineptitude is easier to bear when you feel like you’ve imposed it on yourself. I drink because it makes me feel helpless…but, helpless by choice.”

The confession hangs suspended in the air, a horrifying, complicated marvel- like a beautiful butterfly now dead and pinned by its wings to a board. 

Art speaks into the silence, his back still turned to you. “Do you want to forget? Is that part of it?” 

“Forget what?” You’re struggling for breath now, his presence drawing all of the oxygen from the room.

He half-turns his head, blue eyes settling over you once more. “All of it.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.” You say morosely.

You have learnt that getting drunk doesn’t rid you of all the thoughts that torment you in sobriety, it just pushes them further to the back. Even if you drink so much you can barely walk, the thoughts remain, banging on the barrier and demanding to be let back in. 

Art doesn’t respond to that. He turns back to the little bottles and you watch as he reaches out a hand and knocks over the one closest to him. He pushes it forward, sending them all toppling one after the other like dominos. His eyes are set on them as they roll around on the table, a couple falling onto the plush carpet. And your eyes are set on him. 

Then, he finally turns to properly face you, knocking the fallen bottles with his feet as he leans back against the table and crosses his arms against his chest. 

He’s waiting, you realise. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move. Wanting you to come to him. 

You push off the wall and start walking towards him. “Why did you follow me in here, Art?”

He sighs, the corner of his lip pulling up with a melancholy smile. “Because you make me feel helpless.” 

That almost stops you in your tracks, but you recover quickly, barely a footstep faltering as you advance on him. Your heartbeat is a warning drum in your ears.

Once you reach him, Art widens his legs, allowing you to step between them.

As you settle your hands on his thighs, his duck beneath your dress and come to rest on the bare flesh of the back of your legs. He draws you closer, making you fingers dig into his trousers to steady yourself. 

You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, brushing his lips against your exposed sternum. 

You’re still flushed and sweating from the uncharacteristically blazing English sun and you shudder as Art’s tongue darts out lapping at the moisture there. 

You rock forward, placing your chin on the top of his head, inadvertently pressing his mouth further into your skin. His lapping tongue turns into kisses, kisses that travel down onto the swell of your breasts and into the valley between them.

Even when he reaches the fabric of your dress, he doesnt let it stop him: Art’s lips close around your clothed nipple, wetting the thin fabric with his saliva. You let out a breathy moan into his hair as he moves onto the next one. 

As Art works his mouth against you, you push your hands higher, letting your fingers brush the bulge in his pants before they’re settling on his belt buckle. 

He says your name, each movement of his lips searing into your flesh. 

“Do I make you feel helpless?” He asks, his hands moving up to curl in the sides of your underwear. 

“No, Art. You don’t.”

As you undo his fly, he begins to pull your underwear down.

“Why?” He closes his mouth around your breast and bites down just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 

You remove one of your hands from his crotch and use it to grab the back of his neck, you pull him away from your chest, forcing him to look up at you as your other hand disappears into his trousers, palming his hardness.

Even as you step out of your underwear and kick it away, you’re starting to stroke him. His mouth falls open, sucking in a breath as gazes up at you as if you hung the moon.

“How could I feel helpless?” You goad, leaning in and resting your mouth beside his ear to whisper. “When I have so much power over you?” 

Art’s initial answer is to buck up into your hand, chasing the friction you’re moving too slowly to give him, but when you laugh at his desperation, he’s surging up, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.

In a flash, you’ve taken up his position: ass resting on the edge of the desk. 

Before you can catch your breath, Art has his hands on your knees and is spreading your legs, exposing your bareness to him.

But apparently he still hasn’t got you where he wants, because his fingers then wrap around the back of your legs and he lifts you, placing you further back onto the wooden surface. More bottles roll off the edge and drop into the carpet. 

Then, finally, Art’s eyes meet yours. His smirk makes a return. 

“So…” He begins, his hands gathering up your dress and leaving it to bunch up at your waist. “I have absolutely no effect on you? None at all?”

“No-” You can’t even finish your thought let alone the word before his fingers are running through the wetness between your legs. Your instinct is to shut them, but his hips are in the way, so you only succeed in holding him firmly in place. 

You are left to stare as he lifts his hand up, evidence of your arousal glistening on his fingers. Then, slowly enough that he can watch the realisation of what he’s doing dawn on your face, Art takes his fingers into his own mouth.

His eyes meet yours and do not shift away for even a second as he licks your wetness from his skin. 

The tightness in your belly becomes almost too extreme to bear, and a throbbing begins between your legs. 

“I want you to ask.” Art says, his fingers–now wet with his own saliva–drawing circles on your inner thigh. “I want you to ask me to fuck you.” 

“I thought you were here because I make you feel helpless?” You try to sound taunting, but your voice is ragged with want. “Now you want to be in control?”

Art leans down and you expect an abrupt, bruising joining of your lips, but instead he kisses you slowly, tenderness in every gentle movement. His mouth is is still aligned with yours as he answers: 

“It’s not about control, sweetheart. I just want to hear that you want me as much as I want you.” 

You begin to kiss along his jaw, your sentence formed with words cushioned between the press of your lips:

“I want you to fuck me, Art.” 

Art's fingers curl around your jaw, bringing your lips back to his as he frees himself from his pants with his other hand. Your kiss is languid but rapidly growing with force, passion driving pleasure ever closer to point of pain.

“Condom?” Art questions into your open mouth. 

With his fingers digging into your chin, you can't shake your head so you’re forced to gather enough of your wits to speak again:

“Birth control.” 

“Okay.” Art pecks your lips before lifting a hand and spitting onto it. Then he’s fisting himself in his hand and pressing inside of you. 

Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, hooking together to pull him in even further. 

Art lets out a shuddered breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he settles himself inside of you.

He kisses and licks across your collarbone, only stopping when he comes across the thin strap of your dress. With a little growl, he takes it between his teeth, tugging it back and then letting it ping back into your skin. 

You laugh, still adjusting to the feel of him inside of you as you move to pull down the top of your dress. But Art has other ideas. He stops you with a slow thrust, rolling his hips just enough to have your hands wrapping around his neck instead. 

“Let me do it.” He’s giving a command and yet it sounds like a grovel. 

Then, in unison, his fingers find the straps of your dress and he’s pulling them away, tugging the bodice down and exposing your breasts to him completely. His hands fall onto them immediately, palming the supple flesh and lifting them up higher so that he can kiss them even as he begins to rock into you. 

Just as your heartbeat begins to find some sort of rhythm again, Art pulls out of you almost completely before driving back in. Your breath is knocked out of you and as he begins to thrust with controlled rapidity.

Your hands fall to his still covered ass and dissatisfied with the lack of contact, you push your fingers past the waistband and dig your nails into his naked flesh. 

Art moans into your neck, clamping down with his teeth as he picks up his pace yet again. 

“Art-” You call out, lost in the press of him inside you. 

The table begins to shake so much that it’s slamming against the wall, the noise perfectly aligning with the sound of your hips slapping together.

“Tell me this doesn’t make you feel out of control.” Art pleads, his movements growing frenzied. 

By this point you can hardly think straight, so you give in, his statement going unanswered as your head is thrown back in pleasure. Art chuckles, licking up the column of your neck. 

“I think I got my answer.” 

“Shut up.” 

When Art laughs at you again, you remove your hands from his ass and grip his face instead, drawing his lips back up to yours. He opens wide, panting into your mouth before your tongues start to move together.

You stay like that, mouths joined and breaths shared as his thrusts become messier,  his hands on your back beginning to tremble.

But you’re not close yet and he knows it. He reaches between you and presses his thumb into your sensitive bud, applying enough pressure that, combined with him driving into you, has you quickly coming undone.  

You break the kiss, crying out as your body is wracked with convulsions. 

Art smiles, his eyes drooping closed as he chases his own release. And it doesn’t take long. You’re still coming back to yourself when his hips stutter and his fingers dig into you. He lets go, spilling inside you. 

You both go still. You press your face into his chest–his shirt now dappled with spots of sweat–as he places a kiss on the top of your head. 

You’re both breathing heavily, reeling in the wake of your joining when your phone–tucked into your purse that you had dropped by the door–begins to ring

Still inside you, Art shifts, pressing closer as his lips begin to kiss a path down your cheek. “Don’t answer it.” 

You lean back just enough to meet his eye and smile. “I’m not going to answer it.” 

Art matches your grin as he leans down and gives your lips a peck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

[belokhvostikova]

𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | In the simplest terms, Dustin Henderson has essentially become Eddie Munson's biggest cock block.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Swearing, brief alcohol consumption, jealousy, mentions of a rough childhood, and explicit sexual content: humping, clit rubbing, pussy slapping, spitting, handjob, oral (male receiving), and ball play.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Couple uses of "Y/N," sorry. And for maximum enjoyment, please picture Eddie's whiny tantrums from the boat scene for this piece, lol. If there are any necessary warnings that were accidently left out, please feel free to let me know!

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

It started off minor, as most issue occur.

Eddie rather quickly took notice of the particular interest Dustin Henderson took in you.

It was lunch. Though they were essentially just a myriad of—let's be honest here—losers, the judgmental stares of high school boys as you approached and sat at their table was quite worry inducing. Getting through Eddie's hardening exterior was a journey in of itself, and now as his proclaimed girlfriend, you had to experience the journey yet again with his friends, who profoundly expressed their distaste for “your people.” Who knew such popularity within yourself would have caused them to initially despise you this much.

Not Dustin Henderson, though.

At an attempt to ease some of the awkward tension—made only worse when Eddie snapped at everyone to be nice—at the lunch table, you caught sight of Dustin's Weird Al t-shirt, one which he wore proudly, that in all honesty made you giggle. Ever since then, Dustin Henderson hasn’t been able to let go of the fact that he made a pretty girl laugh.

He clung onto you like a lifeline.

Eddie had a temper. He was always revved up. And seeing how often Dustin was conjuring a conversation with you, seeking your attention, truly made him ballistic. He didn't like sharing. Even if it was harmless. Ever since the officially introduction at lunch, it has been nothing but:

"Hey, check out my new comic book! It's limited edition!"

"Wanna help me with my science project? You're just so smart, it would really help. Maybe we can meet at the library?"

"Do you wanna see Alien with me? Lucas is going with Max, and you can join me." The fuck?! That was practically a double-date to Eddie.

The one that truly hurt him the most was two weeks ago, when you congratulated the stupid, little shit—Eddie's words, not yours—with one of your loving, sweet hugs for getting an A+ on said science project.

You used to always hug Eddie when he made good grades.

But, hey, maybe Eddie was just overreacting, right? But what the hell constitutes overreacting and not rightful-reacting, when some noisy freshman, who can't seem to grasp the simple concept of boundaries, once again oversteps, making him have blue balls, because all he wanted was to cum in his girlfriend's mouth, but apparently that's too much to ask!

Eddie huffed.

You stared incredulous.

"'Rightful-reacting.'" You tried to suppress the giggle, you really did, but you couldn't help but laugh at his dramatic wording, when he had dragged you away into his bedroom to vitalize this reoccurring issue.

Eddie moved close, right to your face, gripping tightly on your shoulders, looking like a crazed man. Hell, it was Dustin's fault. "Sweetheart, you're focusing on the wrong thing here." He heaved. "That little dingus has been ruining my life for the past week; only speaking to you, interrupting date nights, calling twenty-four seven, and now impeding our sexy time!"

"'Impeding our sexy time.'" Biting your lip did nothing to stop the emerging smile and laugh on your face. God, you loved the hell out of him.

"Would you quit that!" He whined with a theatric shake to your shoulders to get back to the point.

"Sorry, sorry," you placed on your best serious expression, "go ahead, explain."

"Explain?! Do you not remember what happened Saturday?"

Ah, Saturday. It was 11:42 p.m. Eddie—more so his insatiable appetite—had the bright idea of heading to Benny's Diner for the greasiest food to fill his stomach. It was late, and the diner had been empty with the exception of the older waitress smoking near the coffee pot, and he pulled you closely against his side, arm wrapped around waist, and toying with the soft cotton of your pajama shorts that rested against your thigh.

You moaned at the sweetness of the cold milkshake savoring your mouth. "Mm, you want some?" You offered to Eddie.

He was captivated, totally entranced by the pucker of your lips that held the creamy residue, "Mhm, yeah, I do." He whispered.

When you attempted to hand him the cold glass, he gently pushed your hand away, and consumed your mouth in a matter of seconds. The grease from his burger softened his lips, letting the pillowy feeling encapsulate you. Your hands naturally found solace on his jaw, prompting him to continue his movements, hands gripping your smooth thighs to keep you in place. As you parted your lips, Eddie's tongue snaked its way inside, officially getting a taste of that sweet vanilla that you had just swallowed.

"God, baby, you taste so good." He mewled against your lips.

His hand traveled up to your neck, securing your face in his palm, and you let your will fall in his control. His tongue prodded against yours, and the wet sounds of your spit exchanging grew entirely too inappropriate for Benny's establishment, though he didn't care. It was late, he wanted you, and no one was around.

Or so he thought.

"Gross, your gonna suffocate her!" Mike's grimacing voice broke your make out session.

While your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, Eddie scoffed, unbothered. He rolled his eyes, glaring back at Mike, who justly looked appalled, and then there was Dustin, who had that bright, big smile on his face that Eddie was starting to grow annoyed with.

"Well, hey guys!" Dustin greeted with joy. "Funny seeing you here!"

"Isn't it past your bedtimes?" Eddie jumped straight into it.

"Nice to see you, too, Eddie." Dustin smiled. Eddie watched as the kid turned to you, eyes lighting up and everything. "Hi, Y/N!"

"Hey, Dustin." You politely greeted. Unlike Eddie, you didn't have it in you to be so blunt with disdain. "Um, what are you guys doing here so late?"

Dustin jumped with delight, quickly taking your question as an invitation to sit on the dingy booth across from you and Eddie. "Well, since you asked, Mike and I just spent the last five hours completing all twenty-seven games of Combat on my Atari!"

"Wow, that's incredible," Eddie feigned amazement, his sarcasm oozing out obviously, "now that you've told us, go." He gritted.

"Yeah, man, we have to get our food before my mom finds out we left and kills me." Mike extended, still waiting at the end of the table.

But not for long, as Dustin held a tight grip on his agile wrist, pulling him to the seating. "Nonsense, we just got here."

Eddie laughed. Not a good laugh. One of those scary laughs he pulls when he's on the precipice of enragement. "Oh, absolutely not!" His fist slammed on the table. Everyone flinched.

Dustin sneeringly dismissed Eddie, turning to you. "You don't mind if we stay, right? You always said you would welcome us."

Eddie couldn't believe his eyes. Your kindness was actively being exploited, and he watched in disbelief as you opened and closed your mouth to speak, but only an awkward laugh escaped. You peered at Dustin, back at Eddie, then to Dustin again. "Um, s-sure, I guess..."

Dustin whooped with excitement.

"Great." Eddie mumbled to himself.

You shot him an apologetic look that just exuded the words "I'm really sorry, I promise I'll make it up to you." Eddie's anger wasn’t directed at you, and he made sure you understood with a shake to his head to acknowledge, "I'm not mad at you."

He may not have been mad at you, but he was fucking furious with Dustin Henderson.

"You remember?" Eddie's words snapped you from the memory of Saturday night’s diner incident, suddenly brining you back to the setting of Eddie’s room.

You quickly nodded your head.

"Yeah, see." He proved. "And what about Sunday morning?"

Following the events of Saturday, Eddie had slept over yours, letting the resided angry dissolve as he held you in his embrace. He'd been awoken by the succulent smell of your scent, urging his morning hard-on to spring to life against your plushy ass. He tiredly nosed the hair away from the junction of your neck and shoulders to place languid kisses against your skin. His hand snaked over your hip, toying with the cute bow that was situated on the front of your lacy underwear. With a hand on your pelvis, he pushed you back against his boner, letting his wet kisses and pressuring cock stir you awake.

A sleepy whine left your pouting lips, and Eddie nearly busted at the sound of it. "Fuck, baby, you gonna let me use you?" He kissed your neck. "So fucking hard for you, princess, got me dreaming about that pussy in my sleep."

You turned your head, letting both of your lips meet in the middle, as Eddie increased the speed of his hips to hump the globes of your ass. His fingertips soon gathered a firmhold of the front of your panties, pulling upward harshly. You choked on your breath as the fabric of your underwear wedge between your puffy pussy lips, igniting the friction against your pulsating clit. You quickly began to feel the icky sensation of his precum dampening your ass, while your slick soaked your underwear, making you a wet mess all around.

"Let me have your pussy, please, baby." He groaned.

You nodded your head with permission, "Fuck, yes, please."

Eddie was quick to pull your panties from your legs, discarding the piece haphazardly across your room. Your foot hooked behind his leg to keep you nice and open, and just as his fingers were about to pleasure you seeping pussy, the phone rang.

The phone fucking rang.

You flinched at the abrupt noise that was blaring on your bedside table, and Eddie's head dropped against your shoulder in disappointment, a groan muffled by your shirt. "Just fucking ignore it, sweetheart."

"Real quick, I promise, just to make sure everything's good." You swore, as you reached for the phone.

That wasn't going to stop Eddie Munson, though. Right as you picked up, the tips of his finger pressed against your clit, eliciting a shaky "Hello" to escape your mouth. He grinned with satisfaction as he watched your eyes screw shut and your teeth sunk into your plump bottom lip.

But then the next words you uttered truly set him off.

"Oh, h-hi, Dustin."

"What?!" Eddie screamed into your ear. "Hang up the phone right now."

He was stern with his words, and stern with his movements. The pace of fingers quickened, along with your breaths and his patience.

You held up a finger to signal Eddie to hold on, as you tried your absolute best to comprehend the conversation that Dustin was attempting to have with you. "So, yeah, would you like to go to the arcade this afternoon?"

"I- Dustin, now's, uh, now is not r-really a good time- fuck." You gasped softly.

"Yeah, so fucking hang up." Eddie whispered against your cheek, as his hand slide between your wet folds, gathering all of your arousal and coming back to rubbing your pretty clit.

"Why not? Everything alright?" If it wasn’t for the current situation, you would have appreciated the kid’s concern.

"Yeah, yeah- yes!" That response was definitely not to Dustin. "Um, yes, j-just busy with Eds." You breathed out in order to filter out your moans.

"That's right, so fucking hang up!" Eddie yelled loud enough for Dustin to hear, as it was intended towards him, and his hand pulled back, slapping your cunt, the stinging vibrations traveling through your sensitive clit.

"Fuck! Gotta go." The second you slammed the phone back to the receive, Eddie rushed to climb on top of you, swallowing your wails with his hungry lips.

Meanwhile, Dustin was just left dumbfounded, staring at the deadline of his phone.

"Do you see what I'm talking about, baby?" Eddie emphasized, hands cupping your face, pleading that you'd understand.

Snapping back to reality from the memory, you were quick to nod your head again. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that."

"No, it's not you." He stressed. "That little shit just knows how to work his way around you. That's why he fucking came here today."

Now, today was Eddie's last straw. At least Sunday morning, he was able to get rid of Dustin and have you all to himself, but today? Today, Dustin ruined one of Eddie's favorite moment with you. A blowjob.

It was late into the evening, as Eddie splayed himself on the worn couch of his living room. His legs lazily rested over the armrest, as he nursed down a beer that was keeping him sane from having to listen the Happy Days theme song that he grew profoundly annoyed with, but he was too lazy to move and grab the remote. It'd been quite a long day for him. During third period, Mrs. Lineker shoved a pop quiz in his face, which he knew he flunked. To top it off, you had missed lunch under the guise that Chrissy Cunningham stole you away to “work on cheer routines.” As if that's not what practice is for, Eddie rolled his eyes at your kidnapping, which he proclaimed it was.

And now you actually were at practice, gone and away from Eddie when he really needed you. That was until he heard the gentle knocking coming from his front door, which he had learned was you. You entered with a bright smile that washed all of Eddie's irritations away. He truly did have a soft spot for you, and only you.

"Hi!" You happily greeted, as you situated yourself on his lap, arms snaking around his neck.

"Hi, baby." He tiredly smiled, as he caressed your sides. "You're back early."

"Yeah, coach cut practice, so I was able to get home and shower to come see you." A shy grin flushed his face as you pecked his nose with a cute kiss.

Who knew this mean guy could crack under nose kisses?

"Good," he huffed, bringing you impossibly close, "been a shit day barely being able to see you. People always stealing you away." He grumbled.

In truth, behind his domineering demeanor that seemed untouchable to anyone, Eddie was quite sensitive when it came to his feelings for you. His biggest fears lied dormant under his tough exterior, only exposing itself in the presence of a safe environment, and it became evident as he hugged you tight, because he truly feared someone would steal you away. Whether it was as superficial as Dustin Henderson seeking your attention, or potentially serious as Chrissy Cunningham who still remained unsure of your relationship after the bullshit Jason Carver fed her. He was terrified that one day you'd listen to your friends and leave. How the hell was Eddie Munson, "Freak" of Hawkins High, suppose to provide you with all the things you deserved?

He did, though. Eddie Munson gave you everything.

"I know, I'm sorry." You whispered, as you kissed his pouty lips.

But he simply shook his head, rejecting your apology. "Don't apologize." He insisted. "It's not your fault you're so lovable."

A smile emerged on his face as he made you giggle. You cupped his cheeks, and gently brushed a couple strands of his bangs to fully capture his eyes that just captivated you.

"You're so lovable, too, Eddie." He deserved to know. "I love loving you."

You gave him a firm, long kiss to solidify your words as fact, because it was. No matter how much he denied it in his overthinking head.

"I love loving you, too, princess."

Your hand traveled down his chest, exposing the bareness, as he only laid in an unbuttoned plaid shirt. "Can I show you how much I love loving you?" He immediately recognized that look in your eyes that always paired so beautifully with your salacious smile.

He blushed under your insinuation, dick twitching and goosebumps rising as your fingertips brushed his happy trail. "I don't want you to think that you have to make it up to me."

"Oh, I know." You kissed his cheek. "But I just really want to. So can I, Eddie? Can I suck your cock?"

"Fuck." His groaned, as you grabbed his semi through his sweatpants. "If I ever answer "no" to that, sweetheart, I want you to take one of Wayne's hunting guns and shoot me with it."

You laughed as you settled between his legs, and he relaxed himself on the armrest of the couch. You opened his shirt further, and ran your hands against his chest and belly before grabbing his sweatpants and shimmying them down his hips. You rubbed his hardening length, planting a quick kiss, before pulling it out of his boxers.

"Fuck, yeah, baby." He cooed, watching your small, delicate hand wrap around his cock to languidly jerk it.

You peered up at him, and quickly crawled up close to his face. "Spit in my mouth, Eddie."

He cursed under his breath, as you felt his dick jump at the request. Unable to formulate words, he quickly nodded. Grabbing your chin, he pulled you into a messy, open-mouthed make out, where his tongue lavished against yours. Soon, his grip stiffened, preventing you from closing your tingling lips. You mewled at the sensation of Eddie's spit invading your mouth, a warm globe situated on your tongue.

You pulled back from his hold, aiming down to his cock, where you parted your lips to let his spit coat himself. “Oh, my fuck- just looking at you is gonna make me cum.”

His abs contracted as you held a firm grip to his cock, jerking the spit to his base and up and around his blistering red head. You suctioned on his frenulum, eliciting the sweet moans he desperately tried to hold back. "Shit, baby, oh my god." He muttered.

You kissed down his shaft, eventually nosing the fuzzy skin of his balls, that tensed at your arrival. Peering up with your large doe eyes, Eddie swore under his breath, meeting your contact, and raking his hand through your hair.

"Yes, princess, suck on my balls." He moaned, as your tongue ravished his taste. "Fuck, get 'em all messy for me, baby, please."

As your left hand jerked him, your right held a tight grip between his thigh and balls to secure all access from his opened legs. Soon enough, you popped one of his large balls into your mouth, his musky scent invading your senses.

"Shit, shit- fuck, make me feel good, sweetheart. God, I'm gonna give you everything I got, baby, just keep sucking." He whimpered.

His hand was yanking the roots of your hair, shoving your nose against the curls of his pubic hair, as your hand circled around his oozing tip. Dating Eddie had led you onto the beautiful journey of learning all his sweet spots, so you knew to massage the area beneath his balls, which quickly proved right, as his body twitched at the mere sensation.

"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna cum!"

With a wet pop, you switched to his other throbbing ball, enjoying the sight of his sticky bangs framing his face and eyes fluttering shut. It was pure fucking heaven for Eddie Munson.

Until it turned into straight hell.

*Knock, knock, knock,* "Hey, guys!"

Dustin. Fucking. Henderson.

Now, Eddie knew he was an asshole; every insult, shove, push, punch, and crime he's ever committed flooded his mind as to what might be the cause of his bad karma. He knew he made bad decisions in his life that very much came to an inconvenience to everyone else in Hawkins, but he never claimed to be virtuous man. But did he really deserve this? This punishment? This torment? This torture?

"Hello? You guys in there?" God, the kid's voice came out like nails on a chalk board to Eddie.

He watched the front door, praying to a god that he sure as hell didn't believe in, that Dustin would leave. But his attention quickly snapped to you, when you dropped one of his balls from his mouth.

You heaved, "We should sto-"

"No, no, no, no, no!" Eddie whined, quickly shoving your head down his cock, quietly moaning at the gag you urged from the forceful intrusion to your throat. "S-sorry, I really need this. Ignore him."

So, you did.

Your tongue swiveled around his shaft, lips dragging the wetness of spit, slobber, drool, and precum up and down his length, as you hollowed in your cheeks to speed along his impending orgasm.

But the knocking was insistent.

"Hey! I know you're in there! I see both your cars out here!" Dustin yelled.

God, this wasn't happening, Eddie thought. It can't be! By far, one of the messiest and best blowjobs he's ever received was being interrupted at this very moment. Not to mention, every time Dustin knocked or spoke, all he got was a mental image of the curly-haired kid that hurdled his orgasm back from release.

Just focus on your beautiful girlfriend sucking on your cock, your beautiful girlfriend sucking on your cock, your beautiful girlfriend sucking on your co-

"Come on, guys! Eddie?! Y/N?!"

You pulled off. Eddie wanted to cry. "Maybe we should stop?" You suggested sympathetically.

Letting go of your head, Eddie dropped his face into his hands in defeat. You felt bad, you honestly did. But there was no way you could continue sucking his dick as Dustin's presence loomed right outside. You sat back on your heels as you watched Eddie huff. There was no longer sadness. Just pure fucking rage.

He stood from the couch, pulling his sweats up, and grabbing a throw pillow to cover his throbbing cock that bulged through the material. He footsteps echoed loudly, each stomp shaking the weak foundation of the trailer. You feared for Dustin's fate.

Throwing the door open, Eddie didn't let Dustin mutter single word of salutations. "What?! What, in the absolute fuck do you want?! What the fuck?!"

Dustin flinched back at Eddie's screams, agitation consuming the kid's face, as every ounce of spit had doused his head from the yelling. Though clearly frightened from Eddie's killing looks, Dustin knew he wouldn't hurt him, especially not in front of you. He was smart. Brushing away the spurts of spit, Dustin merely sauntered past Eddie and into the trailer.

Completely disregarding Eddie, Dustin spoke, "God, who pissed in his cornflakes, am I right?" With a loud giggle, as he sat next to you.

You, who could only awkwardly laugh and rub an remaining drool from your chin that didn't reveal what you were just doing.

Eddie's mouth dropped at Dustin's actions, watching the young boy get comfortable right on the spot that he was just receiving head. If this was a cartoon, steam would be blowing from Eddie's ears. Honestly, if you squinted hard enough, you could probably see it.

"Are you fucking insane?!" Eddie shouted. "Did I say you could fucking come in?! Get out!”

Eddie truly was getting scary at this point, you'd never seen him so angry, it was jarring. Dustin curled into your side, knowing any potential harm wouldn't be done with you by his side. So, he crossed his arms, "No, I just got here."

"Why?!" Eddie threw the couch pillow he was holding—boner long gone—at Dustin's head.

"Because I wanna hang out!" Dustin yelled back. "We're friends, remember." Eddie didn't appreciate the rhetorical question that Dustin implied with stupidity.

"You have other fucking friends!"

God, it was times like these you wished you had the guts to be confrontation.

"No." Dustin pointed out matter of factly. "Mike is on the phone with El, and Lucas went to the comic book store with Max. They're all with their girlfriends."

Eddie pulled his hair as if he was going insane. You'd never seen his eyes so wide. "I'm with my girlfriend, you little shit!" He pointed to you.

Dustin turned to look at you. Oh, no. You knew what was coming.

"Well, Y/N, do you want me to stay?"

"U-um-"

"No!" Eddie quickly interjected. "You don't get to fucking talk to her! She's my girlfriend!"

"Well, she's my friend!"

Eddie breathed out a couple times to catch his breath. His adrenaline was pulsating like crazy, and he was doing everything in his will power to not choke the kid out. "Alright." He panted. "You wanna stay. Stay." Eddie reached for your hand and pulled you from the couch. "But we're not staying with you."

He began guiding you to his room, as Dustin scoffed. "Eddie." You attempted to plead.

"Nope." He was stern with his stance. "Not fucking staying with him."

Eddie had dragged you into his room with a loud slam to his door. And that's where you were right now, in the low light of his bedroom as he reiterated all the interrupted moments caused by Dustin.

"That little shit just knows how to work his way around you. That's why he fucking came here today." Eddie groaned, as he finished his stressing tirade.

"Well, I don't know what to do." You gently spoke to calm his aggravated nerves.

“You gotta give it to him straight, sweetheart." Eddie urged. "He won't fucking leave until you tell him to."

"But I can't do that to him." You pouted. "That's mean."

God, you were so fucking cute. But cute isn't what he needs right now. "Baby, you've been dating me long enough that some of me has had to rub off on you."

You groaned, entirely out of your comfort zone. "Fine, but you have to calm down." You pointed, the best austere look you could muster, discipling him like a kid.

Eddie giggled at you. "Sure, anything for you." He kissed your tense forehead. "Sorry for the yelling."

After a couple more kisses and breaths, you both made your way back to the living room, Dustin still sitting at the same spot, smug look to his face. "Well, that was pretty fast. Miss me already?" Was it wrong that Eddie wanted to punch him right then and there?

"Actually, she needs to tell you something." Eddie sneered back, placing you right on the spot. He sat you right on the coffee table in front of Dustin, standing behind and massaging your shoulders, keeping his hands busy from connecting with Dustin's face. "Go on, babe. Tell him."

"Um, well, Dustin, w-we were thinking that maybe it's best if we have a-a little... alone time." You were walking on eggshells trying to keep both heavily opinionated boys at bay. God, they were more alike than they realized.

"What?" Dustin looked shocked at your revelation.

"What she means is, get out." Eddie smiled with glee.

Dustin scoffed, "What did you do to her?! I know you just made her say that!"

"What?!" So much for being calm. "I didn't make her do anything! She's tired of you always butting in, just too nice to say it! But I'll say it, you're driving us crazy, get out!"

"Shut up! Both of you!" Dustin and Eddie instantaneously quieted down at your newfound voice that they never once heard above its usual soft-spoken octave. "You're both driving me crazy!"

"Well, he started it. Always trying to take your attention." Eddie grumbled.

"Attention?! Are you jealous? Of me? I’m fourteen, you’re like old as shit!"

That snapped Eddie.

He tried to lunge at Dustin, "Okay! Okay!" But you were quick to hug his waist and pull him back. Dustin, of course, dramatically shrieked and fell back onto the couch as if he got hit.

Too much yelling, and too much hair was flying around for your liking. You were going to explode with stress.

"Look, Dustin, we love spending time with you, really, but there are times when Eddie and I just want to be alone together!"

"Yeah!" Eddie laughed at the young boy's sullen face.

But you were quick to turn back to Eddie. "And you! You have got to stop being so mean!" You got close and whispered to him directly. "I know this is rooted deeper for you, but I'm not leaving you, Eddie. Ever. For anyone. Get that through your head. You have every right to be annoyed, but don't so callous towards him or anyone, in general."

Eddie sighed, nodding his head, and understanding your words. Finally, a moment of clarity. He rubbed the wrinkles of your furrowed brows, clearly stressed from having to be placed in the middle of their quarrel. "Yeah, yeah, sorry, baby, you're right."

He leaned down, placing a loving kiss to your lips that denoted all his admiration for you. You both understood his underlying insecurities, and how they transcribed from his shitty childhood. Eddie Munson so undeservingly got dealt a bad hand at life that his pure heart shouldn't have had to endure. But the beauty of Eddie Munson was that his pure heart still remained, even if it was picky with the people it opened up to. You were beyond please you were one of them. Because you loved loving Eddie Munson. And Eddie knew you were worth fixing said issues; anger, insecurity, jealousy. Even if it took a lot of time and a lot of risk. But your heart and face eased his worries. He'd do anything for you.

"Hey, uh," Shit, you almost forgot Dustin was still there, "I'm really sorry, too." Dustin appeared guilty as can be. "I didn't mean to be so annoying."

"No, you're not annoying-"

"Well..."

"Eddie." You swatted his chest.

"Kidding, kidding." He threw his hands up, a chuckle leaving his mouth. "I'm kidding, Dustin."

"Look, it's just nice to know someone like you actually wants to be my friend." Dustin smiled.

"Like me?" You questioned.

"Yeah, you know, funny, popular, and sweet." He nervously played with his hands.

"Aw, Dustin." You hugged him, Eddie playfully scoffed at the melting look blushing over Dustin's face, clearly loving your affection. "You're so cute, but you don't have to prioritize my friendship over the others."

"Yeah, what the hell does she got that I don't?" Eddie smiled, as you rolled your eyes and Dustin at least laughed. He marched over and ruffled Dustin's curls. "Seriously, you getting tired of us in Hellfire?" Eddie teased.

"No, never." Dustin smiled.

"Good, we need you at Hellfire. Who else are we gonna sacrifice during our DnD campaign next week?"

"What?!" Eddie barked out a laugh, as Dustin eventually caught on and eased his heart from the potential worry. "Don't scare me like that."

"But it's so fun." Eddie chuckled.

"Okay, so are we good here? No more yelling?" You assured, pointing at both with your chastising demeanor.

"Yeah, yeah, we're good." Eddie soothed your arm. "Sorry for the stress, baby."

"Yeah, sorry." Dustin added. "But do you really want me to leave?" he peered between both of you.

"Look, kid, how about this," Eddie began, "I'll take you to the comic store, where I'm sure Lucas and Max are still there. Can spend the day with them, while we have our time," he proffered, "and in return, you can stop by tomorrow when Y/N is staying over and work on one segment of our upcoming campaign."

You'd never seen Dustin's face light up so brightly before. "Really? I can help you with DnD?"

"Only one segment." Eddie clarified. "Don't need your mouth blabbin' to the others."

"Deal!"

You could physically feel the weight on your shoulders release as all tension was gone. While Eddie briefly left to change, you made sure to place in an order for pizza, as you both felt deserving of a nice meal after the ensemble that had just occurred. Eddie returned with his jacket in hand and his shoes untied, too unbothered to care.

"I'll be back soon, sweetheart, I'll be sure to be quick," He leaned in planting a wet smooch on your cheek and whispered in your ear, "because my dick still kinda hurts from not cumming."

[jamneuromain]

Stalker Lady pt. 2

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (You)

Word Count: ~1.5k

Warning: Mean!Simon Riley, Voice (PORN) actor!Simon Riley, patron!reader, neighbor!AU, description of audio porn and stalking behavior. Non-con kissing, bad language word people we're talking about audio porn here

Summary: You meet Simon unexpectedly. Unfortunately, he thinks you are a stalker.

A/N: This fic is my rehab-going-back-into-writing fic. And it's the first time I'm writing for "Ghost" I've honestly never played COD. But here's my idea of the scary (not really lol) simon ghost riley :3

Truthfully, he totally forgot about the thing - the barbeque-backyard-thing.

He’s also not proud of himself for spending approximately fifteen minutes in the bathroom getting his junk to calm down after a particular porn session with his microphone, with which he recorded the next audio clip - ready to be posted on the site of Team 141 as soon as the editor (“Cap’n”, they call him, also happens to be the leading voice actor of 141) finishes with the extra background noises, such as the sound of a door slamming shut or the sound of a man’s fist punching the wall.

It’s male-for-female porn, he cursed, as he watched the cold shower numbing his penis, he shouldn’t get off on that. Then he cursed himself more for sneezing right after the shower, worrying about catching a cold in these minutes.

He shouldn’t promise that woman. Sherry? Sharon? For coming over to the barbeque-backyard-thing.

He regretted it profoundly. A cold beer in hand. Listening mindlessly over that woman’s husband and some others chatting about “fuuutballlll”.

It’s soccer, ye’ yank. He grumbles angrily under his breath while no one is noticing.

Yet, here he is. In the backyard of some neighbors. With pent-up steam nowhere to blow off and sexual tension in the back of his spine.

Fuck, he needs to get laid.

Soccer scores and star athletes send his mind elsewhere. Into his condition. He hadn’t slept with any woman for the past four? Five months? God, has it really been that long since his last deployment in Lebanon? He hooked up with a random woman in the pub right after his return, and then … nothing. Not that he intentionally keeping it that way, but between his early hours' mail job and the audio recording that could last for, what looks like for him, eons in the afternoon, he didn’t take the time – or notice it, really – to make it a mission of getting himself laid. And to be frankly honest, this whole M4F porn thing has got him a bit tired to think of anything related to sex outside of his recording room.

Not to mention the fact that in this past few weeks, he has recorded almost every type of role-play from swimming instructors and professors to CEOs and mobsters. In addition, he begins to discover the fact that, not to make himself a Pavlovian dog, per se, but his subconscious mind associates “sex” with his recording booth, which in turn makes him harder (oops), more like, difficult to “get it up” while he’s out of the presence of a microphone and his headsets, and even more difficult to get it down after recording.

Fuck. His. Life.

“Hey, honey, would you mind taking over at the grill for a bit?” The short brunette, Sharon or something, pops up beside him, beaming at her husband Will, who is the loudest in the soccer debate. “Uncle Matthews kinda needs a break. He’s asking if you want to help since he doesn’t want the rest of us to have charcoal for dinner.”

Sharon, Simon decides to call her that for now, brought another girl along. That girl fidgets with her ice coke – Simon could tell it’s on ice because of the water beads clinging to the glass bottle like unrelenting fog and she constantly switches hands to wipe the water on her hand with a neatly folded napkin. That girl has a beautiful blue cotton dress on her, hugging her curves like a second skin.

Will welcomes his wife Sharon with a kiss on her cheek, “Yeah, sure. Where’s the grill, babe?”

Simon smiles and nods as Will hastily says his apologies to his neighbors and makes his exit from the small circle of men. Nevertheless, Simon’s attention and curiosity lie on the girl who just came, the girl who looks familiar …

“Oh hi, Simon!” Sharon chirps up when she notices the silent bulk of muscle right next to her. She grabs the girl by her wrist, nearly risking spilling her drink, “I don’t know whether you’ve met yet,” the brunette's head spins like a whipped gyro, “but this is your new neighbor, living … right next to you, I presume?”

Simon observes the newcomer as she raises her neck to look him in the eyes. Nothing but nervousness and awkwardness.

You. The stalker-neighbor-lady.

Fuck.

His.

Life.

Sharon has to attend to her children running around when they start to wave their paper plates like pirate swords, leaving you two, Simon and you in the tree shade.

The silence hovers like a plague.

Before Simon decides to break it: “Thought I was clear about stalking.”

“It’s hardly stalking when we were both invited to the same party.” You huff.

“You are standing too close.”

“Well, I’m not leaving.” You mumble, carefully stepping away from this bear of a man.

Though stepping away from him means stepping out of the shadows and into the light, and the sun is practically scorching your skin.

You curse this narcissistic egoistic maniac in the depth of your heart, when you hear him ask out of the blue.

“Did you enjoy the latest audio?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

“No!” You hiss, “It was horrible. Horrendous. Hideous. Disgusting. Nothing about it intrigued me.” Despite the fact that it starred one of your favorite tropes, a.k.a semi-public, and made you came two times in a row on your wand. A record, you might say. But you are not supporting this asshole’s career, not when he’s so in over his head and thinks of you as a stalker.

No. You need to draw the line. “And knowing it’s you behind the voices tunes down my … enthusiasm.”

Daring little thing. He might grow fond of you in time. Simon thinks, bemused.

“Ah.” He simply shrugs the faintest disappointment off his shoulders, “So you enjoy the audios bett’r when I have the balaclava on?”

“Yes – No!”

The audio doesn’t reveal his face, never reveals his body either. But Team 141 made sure the audience knew clearly which one was starred in each of the audios. Hence, every audio’s background picture features a special sketch of the voice actor (or actors). While the team leader, “Captain”, has his special sketch as a curly stache, and “Soap’s” is a funny-looking mohawk, Simon chooses a black and white balaclava with his eyes staring right out of the picture. He also makes the balaclava look like the face of the skeleton, under the stage name, “Ghost”.

Truth is, you like the mask. Love the mask. Or balaclava, whatever that is. The mask makes his eyes more prominent. More piercing, as if they slash through your soul and lay you bare.

He could tear you alive with those eyes.

“So you do like the balaclava.” He sighs in phony remorse, before chucking in his low baritone, “Cute.”

Shoot. Did he just say that out loud?

“Perv.” Now it is your turn to grumble and feel annoyed.

He shakes his head lightly, lifting the cold beer to his lips, smirking, “Not sure if it’s the right word f’r me, Peach, it sounds better on ye’.”

“For the last time,” You glare at him angrily, though the death stare you sent his way could do little more than have a stream try to bring down a bridge, squeezing every word between your clenched teeth, “I’m not a stalker, you jerk.”

“Apology accepted.” He gloats.

“Wha- I’m – Ugh!” Your outbreak gives into your frustration of not being able to form a proper sentence out of the existing vocabulary, if any, remaining in your head. Your body acts faster than your brain could perceive – it stomps on his feet heavily. You, stomp on his feet angrily.

You hope he breaks a toenail. Or five.

“You should change your username to Firecracker. Or Firestomper, perhaps?”

You could have just broken all of his bones back there, and this? This is his reaction?

“You-” You stop mid-sentence as his presence draws closer, making you stammer, “You-”

A hot, wet kiss. All teeth and tongue. All sucking and biting. Demanding. Intruding.

Forcing a thumb on your chin so you would open up for him at the right time, the proper angle, the faint whimper. Clawing your waist so you would avoid the pain, and chest flush to his, arching your spine. A knee between your legs that somehow finds its way there, that could almost grind on your weeping core-

A kiss that melts you down. That shows you every bit of him you wanted, and still want when you listen to the porn he recorded. The softness. The roughness. All of it. The kiss you have been craving for, dreaming for, and cumming for in all those sleepless nights. The kiss that turns you into a different person. The kiss that has you longing for more. Far more than what he offers right now.

He lets go of you after a small whimper escapes your lips.

“Sweet as a peach, lovie. But aww, so needy. Practically feeling you grinding on my cock just now.”

“I did not-” The blood rushes to your cheeks, “How dare you -”

Simon quirks his brow: “I, on the one hand, recall you, stalker lady, trying to paw at me when you attack me with your -”

A loud slap rings his ears.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Simon’s tongue finds his canines, and the spot where you slapped him on the face, and grins. Sickeningly.

As he watches your silhouette storm out of the barbeque party and into the confines of your house, he feels a rush of blood pouring down below, lighting up a fire that could burn everything down.

Fuck, he just got hard. Without a script or a microphone.

Taglist (also tagging the ones who may be interested): @vnknowcrow @splaterparty0-0 @prettygirleli @ksa01 @laciaheavenm

@dungeonpuppykai @mrs-marc-spector

[ssivinee]

✧Mindless✧

Part 1 | Part 2

<Part 2 of Wounded Heart, so i suggest you read that first>

BEBE! Bada Lee x F Reader x WOLF'LO Haechi Wang: Bada is a wreck after you leave, but you return after 5 months, thriving in life. But will history repeat itself, or do you finally get a happy ending?

Word Count: 13k

TW: Slight self-harm, a tad bit of dark humor, talks about bad coping habits, alcohol, and minor substances…this shit is lowkey toxic so pls keep that in mind

Note: NOW THIS IS THE LONGEST FIC IVE WROTE. I was struggling, ya'll like... this fic was literally beating my ass ngl. Also very much NOT proof read so🫡

Character Vision Board

During the five months you were gone, Bada's life took a turn. The emptiness you left behind seemed to grow with each passing day, and Bada's coping mechanisms gradually evolved into destructive habits that affected both herself and those in her vicinity.

She had turned to partying as a way to seek comfort in the late-night thrills of the bustling nightlife. The party's vibrant pulse, illuminated by the bewitching effects of flashing lights, offered a getaway from the burdens that had weighed heavily on her heart. The pounding music reverberated through the very core of her being, and the crowded venue seemed to come alive with a symphony of rhythm and laughter.

In the midst of the party, surrounded by a sea of euphoric faces, she found a temporary sanctuary from the guilt and loneliness that had taken up residence in her thoughts. The mesmerizing allure of the night, with its vibrant hues and ever-changing moods, offered a hypnotic diversion from the shadows of her mind.

Bada had always been known for her confident and charismatic demeanor, and it didn't take long for her magnetic presence to draw people toward her. Her laughter and animated conversations became a magnet, attracting friends and acquaintances who reveled in her engaging company. It was in these moments, under the neon glow of the dance floor, that she felt the warmth of human connection, a fleeting escape from her inner demons.

As the weeks passed, these gatherings became integral to her life. She eagerly embraced the nightlife almost every week, embracing its vibrant chaos as a temporary reprieve. The party had become a form of therapy, a way to momentarily set aside the harsh realities that lingered in the corners of her mind. Each night was a journey into the unknown, a whirlwind of emotions and experiences that helped her navigate the complexities of her own heart.

In her search for distraction, Bada played around with other girls more than before. Every day was someone new, and now, rather than having restraint, Bada’s actions became much more lewd. There were times students found the girl making out with someone in the cleaning closets, basically fucking someone in a bathroom stall, or even just daringly flirting with multiple people at once. She has always had a reputation as a player, and her charm seemed to work effortlessly despite her looming issues. 

Her transformation extended even to her role as a team leader. Bada's once compassionate and encouraging approach had given way to a more unyielding demeanor. She drove her team relentlessly, pushing them beyond their limits, her singular focus on anything but the troubling discomfort of longing that constantly haunted her thoughts.

Previously known for her unwavering dedication and passionate presence on the court, her leadership had evolved into a coping mechanism. During practice, her commands took on a sharper edge. "Come on, you guys! This isn't kindergarten; we need to get serious!" she'd bark, her words laced with an intensity that surprised her teammates.

Haechi, the team's co-captain and a close friend decided to address the issue after an especially grueling practice. She knew the actual reason behind Bada's changed behavior, but the team dynamics were profoundly impacted, and Haechi wasn't sure if it was her place to intervene. The situation was complicated because she was also personally involved and intimately understood the extent of everything.

Haechi approached Bada, her concern evident in her gaze. "Bada, you've been really hard on us lately. What's going on?" Bada's expression hardened as she grappled with her facade, struggling to keep her emotions at bay. "We need to win. I can't have any weak links on this team."

Haechi exchanged worried glances with the others. They sensed that Bada's intensity was driven by something far deeper than just the desire to win games, and it left them with a nagging sense of unease as they continued to practice under their unrelenting captain's leadership.

But each new fling, party, and quarrel only served as a fleeting distraction, never filling the void you had left behind.

There were late nights when she was alone in her room, and Bada would suffer about the facts. She missed you terribly. She missed your laughter, conversations, and the warmth you brought into her life. She yearned for the comfort and companionship of your friendship. As she lay in the darkness, the pain of her betrayal weighed heavily on her conscience. ‘I hurt the one person who truly cared about me. Am I just that stupid?’ she would silently admit.

These moments of reflection ate away at her, and she couldn't help but wonder how different things might have been if she hadn't let her fear and insecurities drive a wedge between you two.

Bada appeared on a desperate quest to bury the pain that still raced through her heart. With every beat, she felt the gaping void left by the absence of the most vital person in her life. No amount of parties, casual flings, or wild distractions could fill the vast emptiness that you had once occupied. 

In the quietest hours of the night, when the world was still, and her thoughts were loud, she found herself secretly yearning for your return. She harbored a genuine hope, wishing for a chance to mend the bridges she had inadvertently burned. 

Amid the crisis of losing you, Bada left no stone unturned in her quest for any trace of your existence. She scoured social media platforms, meticulously searching pages and timelines for the smallest updates or any signs of your life. Every ping of a notification filled her with a blend of hope and dread. 

She texted your number, pouring her heart into each word, desperately longing for a response. The silent void on the other end of the line only deepened her despair, leaving her grappling with your absence's stark reality.

Currently, Bada couldn't claim that she was doing any better. The pain persisted, but she was perhaps a touch more subdued than she had been in the turbulent months that had preceded this moment. She carried the weight of longing and loss, hoping for a glimmer of change in her circumstances.

The Past 5 Months

Bada was spiraling out of control. Despite her attempts to cope with your absence through partying and casual encounters, her world was slowly unraveling. The parties had become a regular getaway. Late nights turned into early mornings filled with pure adrenaline and blackouts. It was all a blur, a haze that she thought helped heal her pain but left her feeling emptier each time she woke up.

She especially enjoyed Noze’s parties, though, one of the few friends who enjoyed this new version of her. Noze ensured Bada enjoyed every night, letting her drink several liquor bottles, familiarizing Bada with weed, and introducing new girls to her. But, as one friend condoned the changes, the other three started worrying about their friend.

"Bada, maybe you should consider slowing down with the parties," Lee Jung gently suggested, concerned for her friend's well-being. The suggestion arose from the remnants of a bet they had made together, which had unintentionally caused a heated argument within their close-knit friend group. 

In the aftermath of the dispute, Bada had initially pointed fingers and placed blame on her friends, especially Lee Jung, for an entire month. However, deep down, she couldn't maintain her anger. She recognized that her resentment toward them was irrational, as she was equally at fault for the situation. 

Following the resolution of the argument, Bada's demeanor began to take a more concerning turn. Her attitude deteriorated, and she became increasingly prone to conflicts and confrontations. She seemed to lash out at anyone she deemed inferior or who challenged her in any way. The charming charisma she once exuded had now given way to an intimidating aura that, paradoxically, seemed to repel people while simultaneously drawing them in. It was as if the inner turmoil she had been grappling with was spilling over into her interactions with others, casting a shadow on her once-magnetic presence. The turmoil was like a cloud that had descended upon her, tainting the dynamics of her friendships and her personal life.

The fights were always something small that triggered the tall girl. An example of this was on a random afternoon in the university courtyard, where students gathered to relax, study, or socialize. Bada Lee, was sitting at an outdoor table, poring over her textbooks, trying to concentrate on her studies.

As she engrossed herself in her phone, a student from a nearby table accidentally bumped into her chair while walking past. The minor collision sent her drink rolling off the table and onto the ground. Irritated, Bada muttered under her breath, "Watch where you're going, you klutz."

The student, a young man with an apologetic expression, turned and said, "I'm really sorry about that. It was an accident."

Bada, however, was in no mood to accept an apology. Her hot-headedness had been consuming her patience, and she snapped back, "Accident or not, you should be more careful! My stuff is important, and now I have to pick up my pen because of your clumsiness."

The exchange had caught the attention of nearby students, who were now watching the situation unfold. The student, taken aback by Bada's harsh words, knelt to pick up the bottled drink and handed it to her, saying, "I said I was sorry. You didn't have to be so rude about it." Bada's temper flared. She aggressively snatched the drink from the boy’s hand and retorted, "Well, maybe if you were paying attention, you wouldn't keep causing problems for others!" She tells him as her pointer and middle finger jabbed continuously on his shoulder.

The pressure in the courtyard grew as other students exchanged uneasy glances. The situation escalated further as the young man, frustrated with Bada's attitude, replied, "I apologized, and I tried to help. You need to work on your manners." Bada's face reddened with anger. She pushed her books aside and stood up abruptly, causing her chair to screech loudly across the courtyard. "You have a lot of nerve, talking to me like that," she hissed.

The situation had escalated into an unnecessary confrontation, with both students locked in a heated exchange, their voices rising as they continued to argue. Bada's hot-headed attitude had once again ignited an incident, leaving the courtyard filled with an uncomfortable tension.

Even the bond between Bada and her parents had taken a sharp downturn, despite already not having the best relationship with them.That time of her life had become a persistent strain that weighed heavily on their family life.

Bada had moments where she believed she was making progress, her determination shining through, but these fleeting glimpses of improvement couldn't dispel the ongoing tension that seemed to permeate their household. The atmosphere was saturated with unresolved conflicts and unspoken words, casting a shadow over what was once a warm and harmonious home.

Bada's behavior had become increasingly reckless, mirroring her inner turmoil and frustrations. This recklessness was like a quiet storm, slowly but surely eroding the fragile remnants of understanding that had been left between her and her parents. They were beginning to contemplate a difficult decision, one that had seemed unimaginable before the possibility of sending her away in an attempt to restore peace and find a solution to the growing discord within their family.

As for her interactions with other girls, they had become a simple distraction, like they originally were. Bada had always been known as a player, but now it was as if she was desperately searching for someone to help her heal. She sought comfort in others' company but found none, just an easy quickie to get away, even for a moment.

In the days following your departure, Bada made genuine attempts to focus on her studies. She recognized the importance of maintaining her grades, but being separated from you posed a significant challenge. At times, she found herself gazing at her textbooks, her mind drifting back to the memories of your study sessions and shared laughter.

One day, unable to bear the weight of her emotions any longer, Bada decided to text you. She had thought long and hard about what to say, her fingers hesitating over the keyboard. Finally, she just goes for it.

Bada Hey, it's Bada. I know I messed up. I miss you.  Everything's been messing with my head.

But as the hours passed without a response from you, Bada felt her resolve waver. She thought, ‘Maybe I can't fix this,’ and gave in to her old school habits, falling back into familiar behavior patterns.

The days turned into weeks, and Bada's life continued to spiral. She had lost her way, and there was a growing sense of desperation in her actions. She longed for a chance to make amends, to rebuild the friendship she had thoughtlessly destroyed. But as time marched on, she couldn't help but wonder if it was too late to find her way back to the person she used to be.

After 5 Months

Bada's friends gathered around a cafeteria table, the lively buzz of their fellow students providing the background noise. Bada herself was engrossed in messaging a casual acquaintance, and her friends munched on snacks while discussing their upcoming schedules.

"Dude, next week's soccer game is about to kick our asses. The other team's record is still 13-0, like how do we even beat that?" Aiki groaned, capturing everyone's attention.

Emma responded with a nonchalant shrug, and Noze tapped her shoulder beside Lee Jung. "What about Bada’s basketball game next week?"

While all this unfolded, Bada remained busy in the bathroom with another girl, completely oblivious to what had transpired. Noze was about to turn to Lee Jung to discuss an impending assignment when her attention abruptly shifted to the entrance, where three unfamiliar girls entered with unwavering confidence.

Aiki's astonishment caught everyone's interest, and they looked up to see the three girls striding in with remarkable self-assurance.

As she left the restroom, her hair and clothes disheveled, she witnessed an unexpected sight. Her eyes widened in shock as she caught sight of the three of you. Overwhelmed, she whispered your name, staring at your transformed appearance. "Y/n?" Bada murmured to herself, her eyes locked on you. Noze hurried over to Bada, commenting, "Dude, they’re so fine, especially the one in the middle." Bada was too stunned to reply as she watched you three walk deeper into the cafeteria.

You returned to Korea with Aeri and Yunjin in tow. It was your decision because the American girls believed the school would be a great fit for them, and they were planning to move back to Korea. Little did you know this new trio would change things and create a strong force.

Together, you, Aeri, and Yunjin formed a unique bond even while still in the States. You were like a powerhouse trio, supporting and challenging each other in ways that brought out the best in everyone. Your friendship had strengthened during your time abroad, and now, you were ready to face new challenges at your old school. These girls became your rock while you had to work through your grueling internship, and they even helped you with this new version of yourself. The girls wanted to upgrade your wardrobe, enhance your confidence, and help with a new style of makeup. 

And god, did it make you look even more stunning than Bada remembered.

Stepping onto the bustling campus, you couldn't help but notice the sneaking glances and hushed whispers from Bada's circle of friends. They had undeniably heard about how the bet had concluded, though the full extent of the details remained a mystery to them. Their curiosity grew as they observed your confident demeanor, even though your identity remained a puzzle.

Yet, what struck Bada the most was the remarkable transformation in your appearance. Your once raven-black hair had morphed into a striking shade of blood-red, a bold statement that spoke of change. Your choice of clothing had evolved as well, embracing a more revealing style that mirrored a newfound confidence. This transformation left Bada in awe; she had anticipated changes, but the extent of it was astonishing.

At first, Bada harbored a glimmer of hope about mending the rift between you two, but her optimism waned as she observed your interaction with Haechi. A bright smile and a warm hug welcomed Haechi, revealing the depth of your connection. As you introduced Haechi to your friends, it became apparent that she held a significant place in your life during your time away. Deep down, a twinge of jealousy tugged at Bada's heart, though she tried to bury the feeling beneath a veneer of composure.

You walked into the English classroom alone, the absence of Aeri and Yunjin making you feel somewhat vulnerable amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces. The start of the new semester had brought about an unexpected twist of fate as it placed you, Bada, and Haechi in the same class. This class, in particular, was known for its emphasis on discussion and interaction, making it clear that interactions were about to become an inevitable part of your academic routine. The universe seemed to conspire to bring you all together once more, forcing you to confront the past and navigate the complexities of your shared history.

The atmosphere in the room was palpable, heavy with unspoken tensions. Bada's friends cast cautious glances in your direction, their expressions mixing curiosity and sympathy for their friend. As for you, the mere sight of Bada back in your life once more stirred a whirlwind of emotions within you. Her pleading gaze met yours, and in response, you turned your eyes away with a subtle scoff, a barrier between your feelings and the present moment.

Haechi, seated beside an empty chair, motioned for you to join her. She extended a warm smile and offered you a cup of coffee, a comforting gesture that eased some of the room's tension. "Thanks, Haechi," you said, taking the coffee and settling into the seat beside her. She responded with a gentle pat on your thigh, her concern evident in her gaze. "You okay?" Haechi asked, her voice laced with genuine care. You met her gaze, offering a reassuring but restrained smile. "I'm good, don't worry about it, okay?" Haechi fell into a thoughtful silence, her fingers brushing your arm gently. "Let me know if you ever need anything. You know I'm always here for you," she offered, her sincerity shining through. Encouraged by her words, you ran your fingers through her hair, your lips curving softly. "I know, Haechi."

Throughout the interaction, Bada observed in silence, fueled with mixed emotions. She knew she had no right to be angry, yet an undeniable sense of jealousy crept into her heart as she watched you stare at Haechi with eyes of care. While you were away, Bada and Haechi remained cordial, never bringing up you or the day you left, but that hindered the way they worked on the court and even as friends. Haechi got much more secretive, and Bada never knew why. 

Yes, they had a falling out, and Bada knew their friendship wouldn’t be the same as before, but this drastic change caught her off guard. Unbeknownst to Bada, Haechi was hiding the fact that she had been keeping up with you on social media, even chatting with you often, even in completely different time zones. Haechi had seen the new friends who had entered your life, especially Yunjin and Aeri, who seemed to be helping you navigate the tough times. She knew of your progress and the support system you had built, but she had chosen not to share this information with Bada, especially seeing how Bada had relapsed because of the situation.

The professor introduced you to the class since you joined a bit late. "Our next unit is about writing on feelings. It's a broad topic. I'll go around, and when I point at you, share what you'd write about based on your current feelings and why." He pointed at random students; most mentioned common emotions like happiness or stress.

The atmosphere in the classroom shifted when it was Haechi's turn to respond. The professor's question hung in the air, waiting to be answered. "What about you, Miss Wang? How are you feeling right now?" Haechi paused for a moment, a thoughtful look in her eyes. "I'd say it's as simple as being... in love?"

Her words caught both Bada and you by surprise. An unspoken curiosity lingered in the room, leaving everyone to wonder: Who was she in love with?

The professor noted her hesitation and probed further, "You don't seem entirely sure, Miss Wang." Haechi chuckled softly. "I said it's simple, but it's not quite there yet."

He continued, "So, a crush?" Haechi nodded, her gaze drifting toward you as you busily responded to messages on your phone. The professor moved on to the next student.

"Miss Lee, how about you?" Bada fidgeted nervously with her hands, the unease evident in her expression. Sharing her feelings in front of the class was an intimidating prospect. "Regret," she mumbled, glancing at you as she spoke. Her friends offered silent support, patting her back, understanding that Bada was navigating her own unique journey of coping with pain. 

"Why regret?" the professor inquired.

"I messed up," Bada admitted straightforwardly, giving a quick, almost reassuring nod as if she needed to affirm her words. A moment of silence followed before the professor decided to move on to the next student. "Miss Baek?"

Your head shot up, and you hesitated, keenly aware of the emotional weight of the responses that had come before yours. "Maybe 'endeavoring'?" you suggested, your voice quivering slightly. The professor encouraged you to elaborate, and you fidgeted uncomfortably in your seat as you opened up.

"I'm trying hard to become a newer and better version of myself. A version that's less naive," you confessed, revealing your vulnerability. Your response hung in the air, leaving you feeling exposed as you anticipated the inevitable questions and curiosity surrounding your pursuit of self-improvement.

In the following group discussions and class activities, you, Bada, and Haechi found yourselves being forced to engage with each other at certain times. The moments were filled with silent tension, unspoken words, and lingering gazes hinting at your unresolved feelings.

It was strange to you. You weren’t unaware of emotions and how they worked, but you should’ve been raging at the girl, even if she tried apologizing. Yet there was no denying the complicated web of emotions surrounding you and Bada. The past couldn't be erased, and the future remained uncertain, but one thing was clear: your reunion had brought new challenges into your lives. It left Bada wondering if there was still a chance for her to make amends and rebuild the friendship she had so thoughtlessly shattered, but she had to find a way to make it up to you. 

Even if it was just for the sake of her own mental.

In the weeks following your return, Bada couldn’t find any chance to be near you. At least you didn’t give her the chance to. If you were with your friends, you’d stray away from them. If you were with Haechi, you acted cuddly and somewhat flirtatious with her. If you were in class, you focused on every assignment. So Bada felt like she couldn’t butt in anywhere.

Bada did discover something she wasn’t too happy about. Haechi had been in contact with you while you were away, something Bada had not expected. She overheard her co-captain speaking to other girls on the team, as they seemed interested in your friendship. “So you're telling me, Baek Y/n, was the top student? The one who sat in the back of class and always wore a mask and hoodie?” Haechi nods at the question. “We just texted and called a lot while she was gone. I wanted to make sure she was okay, you know?” Jealousy gnawed at Bada as she wondered about the nature of your conversations and the connection that had persisted between you and Haechi.

You sat on a garden bench on a regular Thursday evening, chatting with Aeri and Yunjin. The conversation revolved around some gossip about friends back in the States. Aeri, still engrossed in her phone, asked, "Did Sarah spill the beans about her boyfriend?" Her eyes remained glued to her phone screen as she typed away.

Both you and Yunjin exchanged knowing glances, sensing some juicy details were about to be revealed. Without hesitation, you and Yunjin pulled out your own phones and began frantically scrolling through social media, eager to uncover the latest scoop. Yunjin chimed in, playfully groaning, "Well, can you tell us while we look? You're making us curious." Aeri observed the two of you with a smirk, "You two are like detectives when it comes to gossip."

Aeri revealed, "She said she found him hooking up with one of the girls from her group project." Her revelation earned a collective scoff from you and Yunjin. "Some people are just pigs," you grumbled, clearly not impressed by Sarah's boyfriend's behavior. The other girls nodded in agreement, sensing your irritation and not pressing further on your personal tone.

Just then, Haechi made her way to your group, catching you in the midst of your gossip and relaxation. "Hello, ladies," she greeted, waving at all three of you, though her eyes lingered on you a bit longer. You welcomed her with a warm hug, "What’s up?"

Haechi smiled and replied, "I was actually looking for you guys. I’m hosting a party tomorrow at my family’s townhouse and was hoping you three would come?" Her hopeful eyes rested on all of you, but the emphasis seemed to be on you.

You gladly accepted her invitation, "Of course, Haech. Just send me the details."

As you confirmed your attendance, she swiftly took out her phone to share the information. "I’ll see you later in class, alright?" You nodded as Haechi exited, and as she walked away, Aeri couldn't contain her excitement. She playfully shook your shoulders, causing you to laugh. "She’s so into you, girl."

Yunjin chuckled at the interaction and said, "Yeah, it's pretty obvious." You couldn't help but roll your eyes at their teasing, a subtle smile gracing your lips. "Oh, come on, you two. She's just being friendly." Aeri and Yunjin exchanged knowing glances before bursting into laughter, clearly not buying your innocent act.

The next day, the three of you prepared for the party in your cozy apartment. The morning sun streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the room. The sound of upbeat music reverberated through the space, filling the entire house with an infectious energy.

As you and your friends got ready, the atmosphere was charged with excitement. You stood in front of the open closet, selecting from several outfits that were carefully hung and arranged by color and style. After trying on a few options, you settled on a simple yet stunning black dress. It was made mostly of mesh, which added an alluring and stylish touch to your ensemble. The dress clung to your curves in just the right places, making you feel confident and radiant.

Aeri, the makeup enthusiast of the group, took charge of your makeup. She wouldn't stop pestering you until you reluctantly agreed to let her work her magic. As she skillfully applied makeup, you couldn't help but glance at your reflection in the mirror. You had to admit, she had transformed your look, enhancing your features and giving you a sultry, glamorous appeal. It was a look that could turn heads and make a lasting impression.

With your hair styled and makeup perfected, you felt ready to take on the night. Once you were all dressed and glamorously prepared, you left the apartment, the pounding music fading behind you.

Arriving at Haechi's large townhouse, you were met with an electric atmosphere. The lights and music created an ambiance of celebration, and the chatter of excited partygoers filled the air. You took out your phone and texted Haechi to let her know that you had arrived. In no time, she responded, instructing you to head to the pool area where she and her friends were hanging out. The anticipation in the air was notable, and you were more than ready to join the party.

Navigating through the sweaty, inebriated bodies in the crowded house, Bada's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of your fiery red hair. The instant she spotted you, her heart leaped, and an overwhelming desire to be by your side surged within her. However, the maze of partygoers and the deafening music made it nearly impossible for her to pinpoint the perfect moment to approach you.

As you, Aeri, and Yunjin finally made your way to the backyard, transitioning from the bustling house to the open air was a breath of fresh relief. The chaotic, pulsating energy of the indoor party gave way to a serene yet lively outdoor setting. The atmosphere was alive with laughter, chatter, and the glistening reflections of the pool.

Your eyes quickly sought out Haechi's figure, who was seated by the poolside, surrounded by familiar classmates and friends who were engaged in animated conversations. Her presence exuded a tempting charm, drawing you in like a bee to honey.

When she sensed your gaze, the tension between you and Haechi was palpable, thickening the air around you. Her teeth tugged seductively on her lips, and her captivating gaze remained unwaveringly fixed on your body. Haechi was clearly reveling in the sight before her, the intensity of her emotions mirrored in her smoldering eyes, creating an electric connection between the two of you.

“I’m glad you could make it,” she tells you, sipping on a red solo cup, likely filled with alcohol. “I wouldn’t miss your party, Haech,” you simply tell her, as your friends already mingled away to the table filled with drinks. “You want anything?”

“Some plain soju would be nice,” she nods at you, pulls you over to the table, and pours you a cup. “You look good, Y/n-nie,” her husky voice almost seemed to purr when complimenting you. A coy smile forms on your lips, your gaze becoming dangerously enticing, “I can say the same thing about you,” you tell her as you take a sip of the soju, feeling your body heating up due to just one taste of the drink.

“I’ve been wanting to ask about the English assignment, by the way?” Your brow raises, “You’re talking about an assignment? During a party?” You giggle at her antics, but her seductive eyes stay on yours, “I was hoping for a private lesson.” You feel the shiver down your back, her voice getting deeper as she continues.

“I’m sure I can help you in some way, too,” you feel your body heating up even more. “We can work something out,” you say as your hand caresses her arm, feeling up the sleeve of her letterman jacket. Haechi was now liking this new feeling you’ve brought upon her, deciding to make a move. The music starts booming on the speakers, and the taller girl smirks at the sound, “Wanna go dance?”

With a sly smile, you returned her reply, "Of course." Navigating your way through the pulsating crowd, the sensual rhythm of the music reverberated through the entire house.

As you and Haechi swayed your bodies in harmony to the seductive beat, an undeniable magnetic pull drew you closer. The atmosphere was charged with noticeable sexual tension as your bodies moved, grinding in a rhythm that left no space between you. The vibration from the speakers had the two of you feeling the dizziness from the heated moment. Haechi's long arms enveloped your hips in a firm, possessive embrace. Her fingers, gripping strong, found their place on your thighs, the touch being electrifying, signaling anticipation from you. 

The chemistry between you two was igniting a fire that had been fuming beneath the surface for months, leaving bystanders feeling the heat of your connection. 

Meanwhile, Bada watched in the corner of the room. She noticed you walking in as Haechi gripped your wrist, visibly feeling disgusted at the sight of you two getting up close and personal. She couldn't help but notice the spark between you and Haechi, and her jealousy was beginning to get the best of her again. In a misguided attempt to put an end to her emotions, she saw the same blonde girl you had found her with that one night after the basketball game. It was wrong, sure, but if anyone learned ANYTHING about Bada - she didn’t know how to control her emotions properly. Bada had pulled the blonde to the dance floor, making sure you could see them as the tall girl’s hands roamed all over her body. 

Your eyes met hers for the first time since you got here, and it felt as if your entire world was crumbling again. You wanted to deny the feelings, not try to feel weak, vulnerable, or stupid over the girl, yet you couldn’t help it. Bada may have felt like she was the only one changing, but she was also helping you.

So when you saw the same girl that day, you felt hurt and betrayed again. You almost didn’t even remember Haechi’s presence behind you, only being alerted again as you felt her chest beating. Feeling the weight of Bada’s actions, you tried to escape the dance floor, finding an excuse. “Let me go get a drink and use the bathroom!” You yell over the loud music, and Haechi nods. 

You stumbled into the kitchen, grabbing any bottle at hand, pouring a cup to the top, and gulping it down to numb the pain and confusion that had enveloped you. The fiery burn in your chest and the swirling dizziness offered a brief respite from the shit show happening in the other room. Even though you knew it was wrong to punish yourself this way seemingly, your mind whispered that perhaps it was time to let loose, to indulge in a bit of naughtiness, for reasons you weren't entirely sure of. All that mattered in that moment was making this night count, no matter the consequences.

When your mind was made up, you quickly went to the living room, finding Haechi again, leaning on the wall with a clear flush all over her body. ‘She was drunk,’ the thought made your next decision easier.

You pulled her arm to the corner of the room, where a couch could be seen, and pushed her down. Haechi was shocked but relaxed as you straddled her, getting comfortable on your lap. Her eyes travel down to the ends of your dress as it rode up your thighs due to them being spaced out by her legs. She placed her hands under your thighs, keeping you balanced as you leaned closer to her.

Your eyes traveled to her lips as your hand pressed on her waist, “Is it bad if I really wanted to kiss you right now?” You mumble in her ear, nibbling lightly, and Haechi’s mind is going feral at the feeling of your breath tickling her skin. She impulsively pulls your chin with her long fingers, lips crashing down on yours. The feeling of your soft, pouty lips hooked the taller girl as she pulled on your bottom lip, wanting to feel your tongue.

So when you oblige, the swirling of your tongue around hers encourages her to wrap her arms around your waist, bringing you closer as you find your hands banding themselves around the back of her neck. The room was already hot, but sweet began to form as your body heat radiated off each other.

Without breaking the kiss, you take your jacket off swiftly and lay it beside the girl who was now gripping your waist with much force. Bada had seen you leave and knew she was successful, but her face burned in anger when she found your red hair again. She only saw your backside, but she knew what was going on with the way you were positioned and how your head was motioning. “Dude, you're killing the cup,” she heard Aiki point out and looked down to see the discombobulated red solo cup, clear liquor dripping from her fingers. “My bad,” Bada groans, finding a napkin to clean up the mess. 

Looking back up, she finds you sitting on Haechi’s lap, now to the side and laughing lightly as the tall girl whispers in your ear.

‘Oh fuck this,’ Bada just walks out of the house, not caring about her friends pleading for her. She couldn’t stand it, yet were you just gonna let her waltz back in and kiss her - it was impossible for it to be that easy. You stayed at the party for a little longer, just chatting away with everyone as Haechi stole a few kisses from you every now and then as you enjoyed the rest of your night.

Amidst the chaos of your complicated relationships with Bada and Haechi, you found solace in shopping with Aeri and Yunjin the next day. The three of you bonded over retail therapy, spilling the tea about your respective love lives and the intricacies of your feelings. So, the topic naturally turned to Bada and Haechi during your shopping spree. 

You sat on the bench with Aeri and Yunjin, trying out new clothes as you watched, already buying the clothing you picked out. “So you’re saying you made out with Haechi cause you were jealous of Blondie and Bada?” Yunjin asks, making sure she understands the situation.

“Honestly, so real,” Aeris says, encouraging your choices as usual. “I mean, I’m sure Haechi should’ve expected something like that to happen at a party without so many feelings involved,” Yunjin rationalizes, but it gets you thinking.

Did you like Haechi? Do you still like Bada? Were you over everything Bada did to you? Did the kiss mean anything? Was it just the heat of the moment? You only guessed that time could tell. It hasn’t even been a month since your return, and you already struggled to comprehend things.

Once the two girls notice your silence, Aeri snaps her fingers in front of your face, “Hello? Y/n? Still with us?” You shake your head at the teasing tone, a giggle being pushed out. “I don’t know what to feel right now, honestly,” your voice comes out soft, and the girls realize it is actually serious. “Well, do you like Ms. Wang?” Yunjin, the certified friend psychiatrist of the group, asks you, and you shrug. “I won't deny liking her company. Haechi has been with me through the months of hurt and change,” you pause, and the girls anticipate what's coming next. “But?”

You sigh, “But I can’t get that asshole Bada out of my head.” You share your conflicting emotions and the tangled web of attraction, jealousy, and unresolved history that defined your interactions with the two basketball captains.

“Is it not just physical attraction to you?” Yunjin’s question made you think that you were sure it wasn’t just physical with Bada but you with Haechi, fully knowing that she had become a safe space for you. “I don’t really think either of them are solely physical.” You groan. The thoughts started giving you a brutal headache as you sat on the chair, hanging your head low with your eyes shut.

“I don’t think anyone can blame you, girl. The entire school population loves those two girls, and it's kinda concerning especially since Bada doesn’t have the best track record with women.” Aeri points out, and you scoff, “You’re not wrong, girl, but these girls have always been like that for Bada.” More than ever, it seemed like many were vying for Bada’s attention, and it left you contemplating the complex dynamics of your relationships, now with Haechi in the picture as well. The two captivating and complex girls who had entered your life once more and would most likely cause havoc in your life.

The next week, everything was surprisingly normal. You and Haechi weren’t awkward after the steamy night, but the friendship was sure flirtier than before. Whenever she saw you the entire week, she’d kiss you on the cheek or play with your soft locks. You began to realize that Haechi’s love language was physical touch, but you never knew why it took you so long to think of that. The girl used to hug you every time she said literally hello, so it made sense.

It was now Monday morning, and you were in the cafeteria with Aeri and Yunjin, eating the fresh lunch they got. As you guys ate in peace, Haechi came up to you guys and sat at the table. “Hey, pretty,” she says as you chew your food, and she uses your finger to tilt your head up.

Your doe eyes stared at her as you chewed with chipmunk-like cheeks, and she found you quite adorable. “Haech, the table is used for eating, not your ass,” you joke, and she laughs. “What are you doing here, though? Don’t you usually eat outside in the morning?” 

“I had to come early to talk to Miss Kim today, so I decided to stop by and ask you guys if you wanna come to our basketball game at Handong University on Friday?” “Sure, what time?” Haechi checks her phone, “At 5 pm.” 

“Do we need tickets though?” Yunjin speaks up, chewing on her food. “Yeah, but don’t worry about it. If you ride with me, you can get the tickets easily and just go in with me.” You nod, “Bet, just text me your plan.”

Haechi takes her leave, and the girls begin staring at you, causing you to look at them in confusion. “What?”

“At this point, you guys should start dating already,” Aeri blurts off, and you almost choke on your food. “I’m not ready for that.” “Not ready for that, or just not with Haechi?” You paused harshly at the statement. No amount of swallowing your saliva could shake that anxious feeling off whenever talking about this question. “I don’t know,” you just roll your eyes.

After breakfast, you had to go to the student council office, still having the role of secretary. Walking into the office, you see the president and vice president talking to Bada. Trying to avoid interaction with the girl, you just walk past her, giving no attention and checking the papers you’d need for this week.

As you skimmed over everything, you began hearing the president's voice to Bada. “I don't want to hear another complaint, Bada. I’ve been doing my best to cover for you so your parents don’t have to hear anything, but this is becoming too much.” Bada huffs at the statement, assuming that you can hear everything. “I’m just saying the paperwork complaints are becoming too much. You can't just leave the school or go home to mess with a girl?” 

Hearing those words had your eyes roll hard, quickly wanting to leave the room with your piles of paper. Bada notices the irritation in your face, quickly wanting to follow you, but is being stopped by the other two students.

“We're telling you, Bada, this should be the last one, or else we will report it.” Bada could care less right now, so as they finish talking to her, she runs out of the office, looking in every direction to see if she can catch up to you. She finds you at the end of the left hallway, and her quick, long legs catch up easily.

You, on the other hand, hear the loud footsteps, letting a strong sigh out. “Y/n?” Just hearing her voice - it had your mind in a frenzy. You missed the soothing sound, and it didn’t help turning around to look at her. Due to the height difference, you were now looking up at the girl, her tense face evident as she looked at you. Bada just stood there, not really thinking about her actions.

“Anything you wanna say?” You practically whispered out. Bada was in awe of you; all she could think about was how good you looked. Your pleated red school skirt was paired with plain knee-high socks, and your white collared button-up tucked in yet slightly see-through made Bada go crazy. You weren’t so innocent yourself as you stared at the girl's luscious full lips, feeling the intensity of her stare. “Again, did you wanna say something?”

For some reason, the sorry that was at the tip of her tongue never came out, “You going to our game this week?”

If you were disappointed in the question, Bada wanted to punch herself in the face. All that build-up and tension led to this? You look at her, questioning her in your head, “Yeah, Haechi invited me so…” the silence was deafening as Bada just stood there, her brain trying to configure what to tell you. “I’ll just get going now,” you take your leave, not letting Bada get herself together.

The entire day, you found the interaction so odd. You believed your first encounter with Bada would’ve been filled with anger and raging tears, yet the two of you stood in the middle of that hallway like a deer in headlights. You shake the feeling off and just go about your busy day.

As time flew by, it was already Friday, and you were currently in Haechi’s car, sitting in the passenger seat, while your two best friends sat in the back. As Haechi drove, her hands stayed clasped on your bare thigh, as your skirt didn’t cover much. Not minding the touch, you just kept talking to the girls in the back. “You think there’s gonna be any cuties there?” Aeri questions as she applies her gloss. “I wouldn’t doubt it. Handong is known for their fine-ass students, you know,” Yunjin said with a shrug, and you giggled. “I’ve heard a lot of students there get cast as models,” you share, and Haechi looks at you suspiciously. 

“You seem excited to see them?” Haechi states, trying to hide her jealousy, yet you read her like an open book. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m sure I’ll see some cuties there,” you tease, leaning back on the chair. Expecting a laugh from the tall girl, you were surprised to feel her grip tighten around your thigh as it slowly raised higher, laying right under the fabric of your skirt. Your body tenses at the feeling.

“Am I not enough?” Her voice sounded so innocent, yet had a daring tone lying underneath, and you could clearly tell. Now, what were you supposed to respond to that? You stare at her, shocked at the question, and when she takes a peek at you, she chuckles at your reaction. “I’m kidding, Y/n-nie, don’t stress out too much.”

The car ride became silent between the two of you while the two girls in the back kept chatting. Once you make it to the school, Aeri looks around, a bit disgusted at the sight of the school. “Is this school small, or is it just me?” “Our school’s just really big,” you tell her, laughing as she silently judges the place. “Let’s go in through the back?” Haechi announces as her duffel hangs on her shoulder. She led the three of you through the back, passing by the other girls of her team.

“We don’t have to buy any tickets?” You asked, but before you can get a response, you hear a yelp from Aeri. You turn around and see Yunjin helping the shorter girl up as they face a tall group of girls. Their uniforms were forest green and orange in color. As they were unfamiliar to you, you were a bit cautious about what was about to happen, especially knowing Aeri’s fiery attitude. 

“Can you look where you're walking?” The short girl’s voice was full of pure irritation. “My bad, shorty, it was just an accident. I didn’t see you,” you heard a deep tone, cockiness dripping from the words. “I- I’m sorry about my teammate. They just get a bit excited when playing on game day.” A taller girl from the back speaks up, and Aeri is about to go off. “Excited? What a fuck-”

Before she could continue, you stepped in, shutting her mouth with a simple shush from your lips, “Relax yourself, Aeri.” You face the unfamiliar team and bow, “Good luck on your game,” just keep it at that, taking the girl's wrist, trying to pull them away. “Wait, aren’t you a pretty little thing? I’ve never seen you here at Handong. Don’t tell me-“

“It obviously means she goes to Yunae University, idiot. So stop harassing the girl.” Another unknown voice speaks out; the rich tone makes your ears ring a little. You see a tall, attractive girl with raven hair walking forward, bowing to you. “I want to apologize for anything Aisha has said to you.” You smile at the leader-like gesture, “It’s alright. Your number 5 over here did her best to help.” The way you smiled had the tall girl's heart fluttering. There was just something about tall girls like you, huh? She gives a genuine grin, cat-like eyes softening at you, “Yel does her best in situations like this. I’m Doyeon, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Doyeon-nim. I’m Y/n from Yunae.”

Her eyes travel from your cute grin down to the stylish outfit. “You know I don’t usually condone Aisha and her words, but I must agree. You are a pretty little thing.”

You couldn’t deny feeling intimidated at the moment, feeling like a kitten being placed in a den full of preying lions. Despite having Yunjin and Aeri by your side, the tall girls towering over you had you feeling powerless. As the Handong basketball captain was about to continue, you felt a presence looming behind you, which felt suffocating. You peeked over your left shoulder, seeing Haechi’s familiar black bomber jacket.

To your right, however, was an unfamiliar outfit. Yet you sure did recognize the scent of her perfume. If it wasn't for the famous Bada Lee and her impeccable timing. “You two have to go change,” you tell them, patting their shoulders with the knuckles of your hands. You weren’t expecting them to move at your words, and you were completely correct. You don’t know why you ended up in a war of ‘who has the most rizz,’ but you weren’t super happy about it.

It was an ego booster, but you concluded that you weren’t built for the drama-filled life. Yet every time you tried to better yourself and stray away, it seemed to follow you around. “If it isn't the famous captains of Yunae,” Aisha’s cocky tone comes out again, and you feel the irritation of both captains bouncing off each other. Both Yunae captains were heated for different reasons. Haechi knew that you’d probably get hit on by someone, which was reasonable since you are a fine-ass woman, but Aisha’s approach ticked her off.

Bada, on the other hand, was familiar with Miss Kim Doyeon. Having gone to the same schools for many years, the two were basically competitors in school. Yes, Bada lacked in grades, but so did Doyeon. In every other aspect, they were quite even. The only main difference was Doyeon being more feminine, but that didn't change much. She and Bada were exactly the same, and she knew that not only meant trouble for you but for her as well.

Realistically, Bada didn’t know if her old pal changed, but safe to say she wasn’t about to take any chances, especially with you involved.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Lee. Life’s been treating ya’ well?” Doyeon’s subtle teasing doesn't go over Bada’s head. Doyeon could read Bada like an open book, knowing how to annoy the girls with even a simple glance. And with her AND Haechi standing behind you, the situation was clearly all over the place for you. “You can say that,” Bada gives a faux smile as she secretly takes your hand in hers, tugging you closer to her direction.

You were starting to get uncomfortable with the tension that you just let her, not wanting to deal with this shit anymore. Haechi notices the close proximity between you two, and her brows furrow, the waves of confusion, jealousy, and anger mixing together. “Let’s just go, guys. I’m sure your team is waiting for you.”

You tell the two tall girls, patting their backs in the visitor locker room direction. The two players wanted to talk to you, but your best friends pulled you to the bleachers, taking a seat so you could talk about what just happened. “Now, what the actual fuck was that?” You shrug at Aeri, “You are the reason I was a part of that in the first place.” “To me, it seems like you had five hot girls crowding all over you,” Yunjin states bluntly with a smirk. You scoff at them, leaving the conversation at that since you were over the entire thing already.

After 10 minutes, the Yunae team starts pulling out onto the court, Haechi and Bada being the last ones. With their uniforms on, the girls were decked out in black and white with little details of light blue due to them playing at another school instead of their primarily light blue uniform. The girls begin warm-ups with Bada wearing her number 22 and Haechi wearing her 29.

As you chatted away with Yunjin, Aeri sat there on her phone, as she wasn't really interested in sports. The game began, and within the time span of 15 minutes, so much had happened. The current score was 34 - 38, with Yunae leading. The opposing team's players couldn't resist the temptation to flirt and vie for your attention. The little winks sent your way, kissy faces, even Yel, being the shy player of Handong, sent seductive eyes your way every now and then. They made their intentions clear, attempting to catch your eye throughout the game.

Haechi and Bada quickly picked up on the advances made by the opposing team. Their competitive spirits were inflamed, and they decided to take matters into their own hands. 

As the game progressed, Haechi couldn't help but feel resentment, exchanging a knowing glance with Bada, who shared a similar expression to her. The co-captain leaned in closer to the tall girl, her voice filled with playful mischief. 

"Looks like they're not just playing for points, are they? Should we give them a taste of their own medicine?" Haechi whispered to the girl, and Bada, always up for some friendly competition, grinned mischievously and nodded in agreement. "Absolutely. Let's make this game even more interesting."

Yunjin, who had been chatting with you about the team dynamics, noticed the sudden shift in Haechi and Bada's strategy. The two felt more aggressive on the court, and you couldn’t help but notice Haechi’s improvement while playing. Her speed had become evidently quicker while swiftly moving through the other team, being quite in sync with Bada.

You remembered Bada being the best player on their team by far. Yet months later, here Haechi was, being on par with the passionate player. As the opposing team continued to flirt and vie for your attention, Haechi and Bada began taunting their opponents in a playful yet competitive manner. They showcased their skills, trying to outshine their rivals and draw your attention. The game took on a new level of intensity as the players on both teams, fueled by a desire to impress you, pushed themselves to the limit. The flirting had turned into a friendly rivalry, and you couldn't help but find the entire situation amusing as you watched the game unfold.

At halftime, the opposing players started playing rough against the Yunae girls. They were shoving and elbowing, and fouls were getting called left and right. You looked on, serious, as you saw this, thinking they were more interested in fighting at this point than playing the game.

Tensions escalated as one of the opposing players commented disrespectfully about you. “I’m sure your little girlfriend over would be a nice trophy to win. She’d suit Handong students better, you know? Maybe Doyeon can get her after this.” Both Haechi and Bada reacted instantly, shoving the offender and fiercely protecting you and your image. "Hey, watch your mouth! Show some respect!" Haechi yells, but Bada can’t keep her cool, especially after seeing the smirk on Doyeon’s face after the comment, "Keep that nasty shit off the court, and stop involving her!" 

The confrontation quickly spiraled into a small brawl during the game. After one final push from Haechi, Aisha seemed to reach her limit and threw a powerful punch at the opposing girls. You stood up, surprised by her action. Aisha was supposed to be the co-captain of Handong, but she was having a hard time controlling her emotions during the game.

"Protect Bada and Haechi-unnie!"

"No one disrespects Doyeon!"

The gym echoed with shouts and chaos as the brawl intensified, leaving you and your friends caught in the middle of a heated showdown. In the midst of the chaos, punches were thrown, and Bada and Haechi found themselves on the receiving end of blows. Despite the chaos around you, your immediate concern was Haechi. “Haech!” Your voice was loud and abrupt, running over to her side as you kneeled, touching her face in concern as you saw the bruise slowly forming. The tall girl whimpers in pain as she leans on her elbows, trying to sit up, yet has difficulty due to blows to the stomach.

Your worry and care were evident as you rushed to her side, tending to her injuries and offering comfort. Bada watched from the sidelines, growing even more furious than she had been before. She couldn't help but feel a pang of bitterness as she saw your concern and attention directed solely towards Haechi. It was a stark reminder of the divide that had grown between you and Bada, a divide she knew she deserved, given her past actions. You notice Bada’s dramatic exit out of the infirmary, heavy footsteps and sighs could be heard. 

As you sat next to a pained Haechi, you couldn’t help but feel bad for the girl who had no one taking care of her.

Well, there you go again, being too kind to the wrong people. Just couldn’t help yourself huh?

Amidst the demanding next three weeks of student council duties that had overwhelmed your time as secretary, Haechi graciously respected your need for space. While you tackled your responsibilities, she maintained a continuous presence by sending supportive text messages throughout the day.

In these rare moments when rest briefly graced your hectic schedule, Bada seized the opportunity to approach you in your newest hang-out spot, the school garden. She wanted to at least try to rebuild that trust, especially after the petty fight in the game last week. Bada felt that in your eyes, she was now the most immature person in the world, yet she was unaware that Haechi had explained to you, the teasing, the comments made about you, the little bond they made, literally everything. 

Everything except the past of Bada and Doyeon, which even Haechi had no idea about.

Bada envisioned a mature conversation with you, but as she drew closer, the emotions steamed beneath the surface began to surge forward.

Bada's voice quivered slightly as she spoke, a sense of plea in her voice. "Hey," she began, her eyes searching your face for any sign of acknowledgment. "Can we talk?"

You looked up from your work, meeting Bada's gaze. Your expression showed subtle uncertainty, though you were open to hearing her out. "Um, sure." You shifted to the left, creating space for her to sit. Bada took a seat, her head resting in her hands, dreading the conversation that lay ahead. Still, she knew she needed to ask for forgiveness at some point, so she might as well do it now.

Bada nodded earnestly, her voice trembling as she began, "I know I messed up." Her words were filled with remorse, but you scoffed softly.

"Saying you messed up is putting it lightly," you responded, your tone tinged with disappointment and irritation. "You made a bet on me, Bada. I'm not some object," you said, your voice wavering slightly. "I appreciate you trying to apologize, but I'm not sure I can forgive you." A trembling sigh escaped from Bada's lips. "I just wanted to talk to you about it."

You took a moment to think, aware that you often took the high road in situations like this. However, you were uncertain about the right decision at this particular moment. “I’m an insecure fuck who has no one,” Bada says, chuckling at herself. “I’m pathetic.”

You fix your gaze on her, annoyance and displeasure evident in every word. "You have no right to say that," you seethe, your voice quivering with anger, and Bada begins to feel cornered. Emotions swirl within you, and your voice trembles with the weight of your words. "You had me," you confess, tears welling up as frustration gnaws at your resolve. "I tried my best to be there for you, even though we hadn't known each other for that long. I cared."

The floodgates open, and you struggle to maintain your composure, a solitary tear slipping down your cheek. "You just couldn't let go of that player image, could you?" Your voice trembles with a mix of sadness and resentment. "You just had to string me along." The rawness of the moment hangs heavily in the air, a heartbreaking confrontation filled with disappointment and sorrow.

Bada couldn’t even look at you, it was as though you had become her kryptonite. Just capable of melting her defenses with a single glance. All she thought was, ‘You're a bad person. This is your karma.’

“I know,” Bada says silently, feeling a tear wetting her cheek, and she uses her sleeve to calm herself. “I’m the loser who let an amazing girl go,” Bada says, and she feels her disappointment again. Bada's breathing was becoming staggered, almost hyperventilating. With this happening before, you rest your hand on her back, rubbing in circles. “Breath, Bada. In through the nose, out through the mouth.” You stare at her face, which flushes red as she struggles to breathe. You knew that Bada felt bad, Haechi even telling you how upset she was when you left.

You just never knew the extent of it until now. So seeing this - a mentally broken Bada in front of you, had you in distress. You couldn’t help but hug the crying girl, and like months ago, you had her calming down just from your touch. “If you put in effort, I think I can try forgiving you,” you mumbled as her head nuzzled into your neck, trying to end the stress completely.

So, in the following days, Bada did try. The girl did everything she possibly could. Bada's acts of kindness showed her silent mission to seek your forgiveness. She understood the seriousness of her actions and was determined to make amends. Her gestures of kindness were sincere and subtle, reflecting her genuine remorse.

Every morning for the past week, you found a cup of freshly brewed coffee waiting for you at your desk in the student council office. The aroma was always comforting, and the warmth of the gesture touched your heart as you got used to the strong scent. Bada even noticed your heavy workload and would discreetly carry your bag whenever your hands were full of books or papers. She made it seem effortless, ensuring your burden felt lighter.

You even receive an unexpected lunch from Bada occasionally. The meal would be carefully packed and contain your favorite dishes - which she pestered you for, a thoughtful gesture that was impossible to ignore. On the lunches, you'd find apologetic notes tucked into your textbooks or slipped under your door. Bada expressed her regret and longing for your forgiveness in these handwritten messages. You were bombarded with all this and were surprised at her persistent and dedicated efforts.

As Bada demonstrated her genuine remorse through these acts of kindness, a gradual shift in your perception began to take shape. It wasn't an overnight transformation, but her consistent efforts and heartfelt gestures couldn't be denied. You reflected on the possibility of forgiveness, and your heart slowly began to open to the idea of at least being friends again.

Meanwhile, all this is happening, and Haechi has become more aware, remaining wary of the situation. She knew the extent of Bada's genuine feelings for you, which had only intensified during your time apart. Haechi had seen firsthand how you had affected Bada, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she might be losing you. Haechi can’t deny she’s taken a liking to you over the months, but she felt like she couldn’t compete with that at all. Her insecurities and fears bubbled beneath the surface as she observed your interactions with Bada. Yet she knew to accept defeat, knowing you weren’t necessarily over the tall captain either.

In Haechi’s mind, even just for a little while, she wanted to have you all to herself. You put her at ease, made her a better person, and overall made her feel loved. But that’s the same way Bada felt, maybe to the extreme even. Her worries got even worse when you and Bada had to work on an English assignment together, having to write up a script for a play in the next two weeks.

That’s when Haechi finally confided in you, her voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "I can't help but feel a bit uneasy, you know. I've seen how much you mean to Bada, and it's hard not to worry about what might happen between you two." You nodded, understanding her concerns. "I get it, Haechi. But we just have to get through this project then it’ll be back to normal."

She sighed, her worries still lingering and you couldn’t help but beat yourself up mentally. The both of you knew you were lying, to her and yourself. As the days passed, the situation became increasingly complicated, but your open conversation with Haechi was a small step toward easing her concerns and maintaining the balance in your relationship.

During the second week of the project, you and Bada unexpectedly hit a bump in the road. 

In the midst of your project work, emotions that had been simmering beneath the surface finally boiled over. The two of you sat in her bedroom that day, working on your laptops and as you stayed focused with your large adorable glasses on, she couldn’t help but think how irresistible you looked.

Bada had kept staring, and you felt the tension steadily increasing, fueled by unresolved feelings and a shared history that couldn't be ignored. As the two of you worked side by side, the atmosphere grew increasingly charged. 

You both leaned over a table, discussing project details, your eyes locked onto each other's.

“You’re gorgeous Y/n,” Bada could only whisper, being hypnotized by your puppy-like eyes as you stared at the girl. After the past two weeks, the never-ending interactions and genuine drive to be in your life were beginning to affect your heart in the same way it did before.

Bada couldn’t help herself, you just looked so tempting.

In that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the chemistry between you. The air crackled with tension as you both leaned in, drawn together. Your lips met in a heartfelt kiss, that felt like a culmination of all the emotions building between you. It was a kiss filled with longing, desire, and the weight of unspoken words. As your mouths moved in sync, the world around you ceased to exist, and you were consumed by the intoxicating sensation of being so close to someone you had missed for so long.

Each touch, each caress, conveyed a depth of emotion that words could never capture. It was a kiss born from a complex mixture of attraction, regret, and the undeniable connection that had always existed between you. At that moment, the lines between friendship and love seemed more blurred, and you were both swept away by the intensity of each other's lips.

The tension and unresolved emotions that had been building between you erupted in a passionate and heated kiss. The kiss quickly escalated into a fervent make-out, leaving both of you breathless and confused in the aftermath.

As you pulled away from each other, your minds were left in turmoil, struggling to make sense of the unexpected turn of events. The lines between friendship, attraction, and unresolved feelings had become blurred, and the path forward was uncertain. “I think I should go,” you say, slipping out of her grasp quickly, and leaving her home even with Bada’s voice telling you not to. You just walked and walked, your mind becoming scrambled more by the minute.

What the fuck were you suppose to do now?

When you found yourself in school the next day, you sat next to Yunjin and Aeri who spoke to each other, while your mind spaced off. The past few days were blurring together, and you were having a hard time keeping up with the two taller girls.

Haechi, ever perceptive, noticed the turmoil in your thoughts but she understood that it was not the right time to press you for an explanation or to make you feel any more overwhelmed. Instead, she decided that taking you out for fun would be a welcome distraction.

"Hey," Haechi said with a warm smile, gently taking your hand. "I can tell you've got a lot on your mind. How about we take a break from all this and have a bit of fun?" You nodded, grateful for the offer of an escape. "Yeah, that sounds nice."

Haechi whisked you away after school to a vibrant carnival, where the colorful lights and joyful atmosphere immediately began to work their magic. You both indulged in the various attractions and games, with Haechi displaying impressive skills in winning you prizes, all while sharing laughter and enjoying thrilling rides. The carnival food was a guilty pleasure, and you both indulged in cotton candy, popcorn, and all the delicious treats it had to offer.

As you prepared to part ways with Haechi, you couldn't help but express your gratitude. "Haechi, tonight was amazing. Thanks for taking my mind off everything. It means a lot." Haechi smiled warmly, her eyes reflecting genuine care. "I'm glad you had a good time. We all need a break sometimes, especially from the chaos of life."

Her unexpected affectionate peck on your cheek left you momentarily flustered. You stammered, "Oh, um... thanks." She chuckled, understanding the mixture of emotions you were going through. "Take your time to sort things out, okay? I'm here for you, whatever you need." With her reassuring words lingering in your mind, you continued your journey home, your thoughts in disarray. Questions swirled within you, and you couldn't help but wonder aloud, "What do I really feel? Is it Haechi or Bada who has my heart?"

The carnival had indeed offered a temporary escape from your complicated emotions, but it hadn't provided the answers you desired. Your feelings remained a complex web of affection and uncertainty, and you knew that the path ahead held many more twists and turns.

The confusion lingered as you continued working on the project with Bada. She extended an invitation to dinner after one of your study sessions, choosing a simple fast-food place where the atmosphere felt comfortable and familiar. The dimly lit diner, with its soft music playing in the background, provided a setting where conversations could be had.

As you both sat down with your meal, Bada took a deep breath, her eyes revealing a mixture of nervousness and determination. "There's something I need to say," she began, her voice earnest.

You nodded, urging her to continue. "Sure, go ahead."

Bada decided to lay everything on the table, her words filled with raw honesty. She opened up about her struggles, regrets, and the turmoil she had experienced during the time you were apart. "I want you to know that I haven’t been the best version of myself, especially after you left," she admitted, her gaze fixed on you. "I did some things that I'm not proud of, and I hurt you. I know that."

Her words hung in the air, and you could see the pain in her eyes. She continued, "I couldn't accept that you were gone, and I resorted to unhealthy ways to feel better. I was ashamed of myself, and I regret how I treated you." Her voice wavered, but she pushed forward. "I need you to know that I'm genuinely sorry for my actions. I wish I could take back what I did, but I can't. All I can do now is try to make things right."

The sincerity in Bada's words was strong, and it left you with a mix of emotions. You felt her honesty and wondered how to respond to her heartfelt confession. Yet she doesn’t rush you, and you appreciate it as you need to figure out this Haechi situation first.

So the next day in school, you built up the courage to talk to her during lunch. Pulling her up to the rooftop of the school, you breathed in the fresh air, trying to calm the nerves that began to course through your veins. Haechi, ever perceptive, noticed the changes in Bada's demeanor and your complex emotions.  She began with empathy, "I've seen the efforts Bada has been making to make amends, and I can tell that there are still feelings between you two."

You nodded, acknowledging the truth in her words. "Yeah." Her words were sweet but you felt more disgusted with yourself by the minute, it felt like you playing with her heart even if those weren’t your intentions. She gave you a reassuring smile, her eyes filled with understanding. "I want you to know that I respect your wishes and choices. I'm not here to pressure you or to make things more complicated. What matters most is your happiness."

That's when tears began to well in your eyes. You were certain you didn’t deserve her. "Haechi, I appreciate your understanding. It's just that everything feels so complicated right now." She gently squeezed your hand. "I don’t think it's THAT complicated Y/n. Just know that I'm here to support you, no matter what you decide."

The weight of the conversation hung in the air as you grappled with your feelings and the choices ahead. Haechi's understanding and support were a source of comfort, but the path you had to navigate remained uncertain and emotionally charged. You couldn't shake the guilt that had been creeping in, eating at you for using Haechi as a distraction from the stress and turmoil that Bada had brought into your life. You carried the weight of your actions with a heavy heart, and it was hard to look Haechi in the eye.

The silence between you was felt comforting but anxiety-inducing at the same time. It was Haechi who decided to break the tension. She reached out and gently touched your hand again, her voice delicate and understanding. "You may be the smartest girl in school, Y/n, but you're also human. You can't help who you fall for."

Her words carried a weight that resonated deeply within you. It was a bittersweet realization, one that tugged at your heartstrings. Haechi delivered it with a sad smile, acknowledging the complexity of your emotions. The guilt still lingered, but Haechi's understanding and support were a source of solace in the midst of your emotional turmoil.

That’s when Bada came into mind, and you smile a little at the thought of her pretty face. “You should go tell her.” You stare at Haechi like she grew three heads, and she laughs. “Why wait? The girl was beating herself up over you, I think it’s time to give her what she’s been wanting.” Her tone joked but you knew she was serious, so you impulsively got up and ran through the school, bumping into so many students in the process as you make your way to the cafeteria, knowing Bada and her friends would be there.

Once you see the oreo-haired girl sitting at their lunch table, you quickly drag her out to the school garden. Bada couldn’t even comprehend what was happening right now, just feeling the strong force drag her wrist.

When the two of you stop, she looks at you, a bit dizzy due to the dragging. “Y/n? Are you okay?” Bada asks, trying to snap herself out of the daze you put her in making you chuckle. “I’m sorry about dragging you all the way out here. But I just had to tell you now.”

“Tell me what?”

“That no matter what happened 6 months ago, I’ll still love your dumbass,” you say with a smile and Bada’s eyes go wide. A stupid grin forms on her face as she pulls you into a warm bearing hug. “I think I’ve finally been healed,” she jokes and you pull away, slapping her forehead as she laughs. Once she settles down, she softly touches your cheeks, giving you a loving kiss. You smile, and the thought of the two of you officially being together circulates in your brain. 

As she rests her forehead on yours, her gaze notices your goofy smile. “Why are you smiling like that?” She asks with a laugh, adoring the look on your face. “Would you wanna be mine?” The abrupt question had Bada pause, an amused chuckle left her lips, “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Oh, just answer the damn question,” you tell her as you roll her eyes. Your irritated reaction makes Bada smile again, pulling you into a strong embrace and she kisses the temple of your head, “Of course I’d love to be yours.” 

The two of you stare at the beautiful flowers, and Bada pulls away, cheesing again. “What now?”

“The top student’s officially mine.”

“Oh shut up,” you say with a soft giggle leaving your lips as you stare at your, finally, girlfriend.

Tag list (OPEN): @chipswsauce @nimixe @yooqui @eeeetaetterswife @efyyylee @froufrousnowman @amararosesblog @ssc7514 @kayascar @mrsdacherry @angel-hyuckie @letthemagicc @linda-botello @hyynee @only-minghaos @noraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa @sun-nyy @tikitsune @xiakiyama @v2br33zyy

[mxtantrights]

i wonder if u have any headcanons abt how boxer!jason would propose to his s/o… i feel like any version of jason would keep things intimate and romantic instead of public and flashy lol

He lies this once. ONCE. he has to get you to the bookstore where the two of you met. You're not really understanding why boxer!Jason wants to get you out of your very comfortable home when it's raining outside, and it's sticky hot.

But you decide to indulge him. He never does this. He never insists that two of you have to be somewhere. Usually he's the one canceling plans. He doesn't mind not being a no show when it comes to hanging out with you.

He tells you to wear anything. Which doesn't raise your suspicions at all. He does it on purpose. If he had told you to wear something nice he knows you would have caught on. And he's still glad that your nails are still fresh from that spa time you took about a week ago.

He takes his car, and his hand is on your thigh like usual though the whole ride. You play with his hand as you watch the cars go by. You might even doze off a little bit. He finds it terribly cute.

When you do finally arrive you turn to him, and ask him if he wanted you to go shopping for books. And he hums an answers but you're still not suspicious.

He holds an umbrella over your head, letting himself get a bit wet, and guides you into the bookstore. The lights are on but there is no one inside. You can't hear the usual customers or employees.

boxer!Jason takes your hand and leads you over to the specific section he ran into you in. Of course he knows this, he's memorized the exact spot the two of you first met.

It's there that you see the led candles and the string up paper cranes and flowers. You look around in wonder before you look over at boxer!Jason.

boxer!Jason who has never been on his knees in a fight. He's loosed before but he's never lost on his knees. The only time you've seen him on his knees is when he ties your shoes, or you know those other times when you haven't got any shoes on or clothes for that matter...

So you see him on his knees now and your eyes go wide. boxer!Jason smiles as he reaches into his pocket.

"You don't know how hard it was to get you out of the house for this without making you suspicious." he jokes.

You laugh and you can feel your eye beginning to water, "Jason,"

"You already make me unbelievably and profoundly happy. I didn't expect that-I didn't expect you. But you choose me every day and I wanted to show you that I want to do the same. For the rest of my life. If you'll have me." he declares.

"Shut the fuck up!" you gasp.

boxer!Jason laughs, knowing that your'e only cursing because of how nervous you're getting. It's your reflex, he's come to understand it now. Your curse when your team loses. You cursed when you got good news.

"Is that a yes?" he asks.

"It's a hell fuckin' yes baby, oh my god!" you shout.

You run to him and basically tackle him to the ground. He breaks your fall as you pepper kisses all over his face. He laughs between every single one.

"I didn't even get to show you the ring." he says.

"You can show me later. Is there anyone in here besides us?" you ask.

You press kisses on his jawline. boxer!Jason lets out a chuckle and runs his hands down your back.

Jason shakes his head, "I rented it out."

"What about the door?" you ask.

"Locked it as we came in." he answers.

You pull away from him. Just straddling him now, a full blown lovestruck look on your face. boxer!Jason is trying his best not to turn a new shade of red.

"You're my dream come true, you know that?" you ask.

"Thank you for allowing me to find mine too." he smiles.

a/n: ANON thank you so much much much for sending this in!! it reminded me of writing the proposal for the famous!dc au for Jason. This is a bit different but still as sweet to me <33 hope you like

[mediumgayitalian]

fic rec friday 13

hi!! welcome to fic rec friday. every week, i pick five fics i have bookmarked and rec them with a little review. check them out!

I Need A Hero by @theroyalsavage

The "Nico is a superhero, Will is a med student" AU nobody asked for or wanted.

OBSESSED WITH THIS AU OBSESSED WITH THIS AU OBSESSED WITH THIS AU. I AM LOSING MY MIND AND HAVE READ IT SO MANY DOZENS OF TIMES. genuinely one of my top faces like its so fucking GOOD!!! the romcom romance of it all!! makes me lose it!!! the angst of loving someone who is constantly putting himself on the front lines!! the fear of not knowing if he's coming home!! being his healer, holding his life in your hands because he doesn't trust it with anyone else!!!! what if i rioted!!! what if i chewed clean through my ceiling!!!!! what if i swallowed my phone!!!!!!!!!!!!!! what if i clawed my way out of the pit of despair!!!! i am!! gonna!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHH!!!

2. As If His Hands Were Enough (to Hold an Avalanche Off) by @theroyalsavage

Nico di Angelo has been through enough to know life doesn't always work out the way you plan. But fate is a funny thing, and, in Nico's junior year of college, it hands him salvation in the form of freckled cheeks and a smile like the sun.

OH dude this author is actually everything to me. prepare for an onslaught of their stuff bc i am OBSESSED, but this one especially....oh it's special man. this had me LOSING MY MIND. seph’s acceptance made its way into my devotion scrapbook. never be ashamed of loving anybody….what a fucking thesis. i also ADORED how a) story didn’t end with them getting together, went thru them learning each other too and b) nico didn’t get fixed by dating will. he got fixed by loving himself, something he learned to do by loving will. crying.

3. Of Gods and Men by @theroyalsavage

There is something profoundly strange about the forest behind Will Solace’s new house. The trees, it seems, breathe magic. The truth is this: there are things that the forest hides that humans cannot understand. Nico di Angelo is one of them.

I LOVE PARTICULAR AUS!!!!!! AND I LOVE YOU ROYAL SAVAGE!!!!! dude god nico and mortal will is always gonna knock me flat bc its so canon, you know? will is going to be a consort of a god one day. and to read it in fic has me HOWLING but this one in particular....OH the ending is gonna knock yall flat fr!!! if you like percy refusing immortality for annabeth youre gonna LOVE this!!

4. Kitchen Nightmares by @theroyalsavage

Nico is the owner and head chef of an upscale restaurant in Hell's Kitchen, New York City. There's nothing easy about running a business, especially when you have to juggle an overprotective father, a college-age sister, and a staff about as under control as a stampede. The last thing Nico needs is a rival in the form of the ugliest food truck on the face of the planet. And yet, that's exactly what he gets. Of food fights, fledgling friendships, and Nico di Angelo's stupid little soft spot for Will Solace.

i know ive literally said it like five times now but NO ONE does an au like theroyalsavage idc. dude romeo & juliet but food truck and fancy restaurant?? hello!!!! omg!! i literally sat my ass down and devoured this i could not stop myself. and then i hit the end and started it right back up again. the love without having the space to establish anything….inherent homoeroticism of rivalry…..my heart!!

5. don't wanna be lonely, just wanna be yours by @theroyalsavage

Will Solace, café manager extraordinaire, just wants to coast through their monthly open mic night in peace. He definitely is not banking on meeting a handsome stranger with the voice of the gods and the death glare of a high-ranking member of the KGB. And yet, that's exactly what he gets.

telling someone you’re not even dating you’re in love with them after like five months is insane behaviour will solace i get you 😭😭 he is so real in every scenario all the time like he is genuinely perfect for nico who is equally as insane and deserves someone who is fully obsessed with him. god.

thank you for joining me this friday!! happy reading!!

[thosewildcharms]

i'll be thinking about 1x04 for the rest of my life probably, but currently i'm thinking about how genius it was that instead of the episode being about convincing rick to fight the CRM, as I originally thought it would be, it ended up being a battle to bring rick himself back to life. it's both rick and michonne fighting to revive a dead man who is doing anything he can to stay dead.

the show had already established that rick metaphorically killed himself and made okafor's mission his own instead of committing suicide and that from the moment she arrived he went into panic mode and was doing everything he could do put himself between her and the many threats aimed at her. like, we knew all of that going in.

and then this episode blows that wide open in the first, what, ten minutes? the CRM thinks they're dead. they can leave. and still, rick clings to okafor's mission. and in the hands of lesser writers, in the hands of any other production team who did not understand these characters as profoundly as danai and andy understand them, that's where it would have ended. rick would have genuinely been fully brainwashed and have been coming from a place of misplaced egotism, and they'd be having a very different fight. it would be rick insisting he had to fight the crm alone and michonne arguing that they can fight them together with nothing deeper than that going on.

but of course that's not it, because that's not rick grimes, and this is danai gurira's pen. he's not brainwashed, he's broken. he's so deeply and profoundly traumatized that clinging to this mission as a way of maintaining his own metaphorical death has become the last and strongest wall of his self-defense mechanism. and he spends the whole episode desperately trying to keep that wall up, and failing.

when he sees michonne's scar, he immediately looks for the PRB. because the physical proof of how much danger she will always be in reminds him of how much he can no longer bear to witness it. when michonne tells him about RJ, he asks her to give him the PRB and when he learns that RJ calls himself Little Brave Man, he doubles down on okafor's plan. because he can never lose another child (the way he lost carl twice) if he never knows or meets him in the first place. when michonne blows up about how scared and guilty she feels about not being with their kids he goes completely cold and blank and tells her to go back home. because if they're all out of sight and together they'll always be alive in his mind. because he's already dead, but they don't have to be. he becomes truly recognizable to michonne, to remain unmoved in the face of her pain like that.

and yet. he lasts about ten seconds before sprinting after when she leaves the room. he fusses over her when she can't stop coughing and refuses to leave her side when she's in danger. several times michonne checks in, to see if her rick is still there ("do you still love me?" "I just needed to hear you say it") and confirms that yes, he is. he's emphatic that he has never stopped loving her and never will, that she never has to thank him ever, for saving her life or for anything else. over and over, his love for her wins out even though he's trying so hard to keep that wall up. to remain dead so she will leave and keep living. he's trying to convince both her and himself that he's already gone, but always breaks at the last minute because the immediacy of seeing her right in front of him is more powerful than his own fear. tries to shut himself down, can't resist her, rinse and repeat.

and god, michonne. i've been yammering about the intensity of rick's love for michonne for weeks now, but michonne has done nothing but prove that she's right there with him, if not more. to reveal that rick is the only person who has ever made her feel safe, only to have him continually reject her and be a stone wall against her anger and pain and fear and confusion was so fucking heartbreaking to watch, and still she spends the whole episode banging and scratching and tearing at that wall around him, begging to understand why he's lying to her, why he's being so antithetical to the man she loves. and once she figures out that there's something else going on, that the rick she loves is undoubtedly still in there, she knows exactly what to do to save him. she forces him to say how much he loves her, how much he can't bear to actually let her leave him, so both of them can hear it and then reminds him of how he loves her. this woman spent a decade alone, afraid, raising their kids and facing horrible trauma herself, almost dies trying to find her husband only to meet a stranger once she does, and still does not give up on him. fucking incredible.

i said in a previous post that the only thing that could keep rick grimes from doing anything to get back to his family is a threat to their lives. and it's still true - his grief and trauma is so profound that even the nebulous threat of losing them is so horrifically terrifying to him that he's refusing to go home to them, keeping himself dead to protect himself from their possible deaths. but ultimately, michonne's love for him is even stronger than that. it took almost a decade for the CRM to break him, and michonne brings him back in a day. because the love they have for each other is more powerful than anything. as she says, it can't be denied.

it's honestly the most romantic hour of television i've ever watched. there's so much more that i can say that i haven't even touched on here, and i'm sure i'll be thinking about it for a very long time.

[schrijverr]

Stiles as a Roommate

Classic outsiders POV of Stiles in college, where his roommate, Mike, and their other friends try to figure out who all these people are that keep calling Stiles.

On AO3.

Ships: Sterek

Warnings: they think Stiles is wrapped up in some bad shit (which valid tbh)

~~~~

Mike’s roommate is profoundly disturbing and highly hilarious to have around. On the first day he comes crashing into the room, tripping over himself like an old school physical comedy, before assuring Mike that he’s fine and it doesn’t even come close to being beaten to a pulp by a grandfather.

It’s quite the introduction and for a while Mike was worries that his roommate is going to suck. Stiles isn’t the typical college student, you see.

He has amassed an entire herb garden in the windowsill, skips out on most parties, keeps a metal baseball bat by his bed and calls home every single day. On top of that, he doesn’t know how to shut up and his rants devolve into the strangest bullshit about the most random topics that make Mike wonder why the hell criminology major had looked into them.

So, Mike thought he is stuck with a weird paranoid kid, who doesn’t know how to have fun. He worries about Stiles getting mad about him getting back in late or judgmental about not studying as much. However, his worries had soon been put to rest.

Because Stiles is fun and Stiles is easy. He can become anyone’s friend in minutes and is up later than healthy most of the time, doing weird bullshit on his laptop that he calls research, though Mike never knows what for.

He might not be a party-goer himself, but he absolutely doesn’t care about what Mike does, just jeering at him to use protection when he goes out and waking him up with a smug smirk and coffee when Mike wants to disappear into his mattress with a hangover, kicking his ass to classes.

Stiles is probably what is keeping him from failing right now and Mike will go to great lengths to keep him as his friend, because, yeah, they’re friends now.

It’s impossible not to befriend Stiles, he grows on you like a very persistent mold.

His friendship with Stiles starts six weeks into rooming together. Classes are in full swing alongside parties and Mike has just started to get worried about his roommate being a stick in the mud, when he comes home at 4:00 AM piss drunk.

Naturally he tries (and fails) to quietly enter the room, trying not the be the dickbag that wakes people up every night to find the lights still on. He blinks a few times at Stiles, who is sitting on his bed with a laptop and smartly says: “Huh.”

“God, you’re so fucking drunk it’s not even funny, dude. I can smell it from here and I don’t even have a freaky nose,” Stiles comments, before he gets up from the bed.

Mike sways slightly in the doorway, mentally trying to decide if he can do a stumble and drop to his bed or if he’ll sleep on the floor when Stiles is suddenly in front of him. He startles and nearly falls over, saved from faceplanting by Stiles, who is usually the one meeting the floor.

“Oh, hey, there, hey, buddy,” Stiles says, righting him. He slips an arm around Mike and masterfully stumble-drags him to the bed, depositing him on it. He points at Mike, who is still reeling from the movement and sternly says: “Don’t move,” as if Mike had any big plans.

Moments later he returns with a glass of water and gets Mike upright, telling him to sip and not allowing him to stop until the glass is empty.

Mike isn’t sure what happens next, but the next morning he wakes up with a groan to find two painkillers, a glass of water and a glass of orange juice on his bedside table along with a note reading: go to your classes! And you’re not a very eloquent drunk

In that moment, it feels like the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him, swiftly forgetting all his parents have done under the pounding headache. He takes his painkillers, drinks his drinks and actually manages to drag himself to his lecture, deciding that Stiles might not be so bad.

When he comes back from his class, Stiles is there, typing away on his laptop again. He greets Mike when he enters and Mike returns it: “Hey, dude. Thanks for the painkillers and stuff.”

“Yeah, man, no problem,” Stiles smiles back. “It’s just instinct at this point, I’ve had to drag worse people off to bed.”

It’s a bit of an odd reply, but something Mike can work with. “You friends with many party-goers?”

A strange look flits over Stiles’ face, but it goes as fast as it comes and Stiles says: “Something like that. I was the one with a car, who wasn’t a prick about it getting dirty on the inside when in crisis. I have passed up on many party experiences except the clean up. All my friends are idiots.”

Mike chuckles at that and plops down on his own bed, as he comments: “Do you have a big friend group back home?” See, he can have conversations, mom.

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles tells him with a grin. “We’re like a family. A very weird family.” A brief pause. “But how about you?”

“Nah,” Mike shrugs. “I’m making up for it now.”

“Yeah, I can see,” Stiles grins. “Alcohol is a poison, my man. Besides, I’m not sure you’re remembering the friends you made.”

The bluntness is something Mike has encountered before and turned him away, but it doesn’t sound mean. He remembers that he is going to try with Stiles, so instead of ending the conversation there, he shrugs: “Probably, but it’s fun while it lasts.”

“Come on, man, that’s not fun,” Stiles says. “I have some friends from introduction. We get fries on Thursdays and study on Sunday. You can come sometime, it’s fun.”

Okay, so the bluntness was genuine concern and Mike honestly could use some actual friends. He likes parties, they’re fun, but the loneliness is starting to get to him. So he replies: “Sure, sounds fun.”

“Hell yeah,” Stiles does a genuine fist pump and Mike snorts. Yeah, alright, maybe Stiles isn’t so bad at all.

“Why were you awake so late anyway?” Mike asks, suddenly remembering that Stiles was just sitting there when he stumbled in.

“Oh, Jackson called me,” Stiles says. “He’s in studying in at Cambridge, because his parents are pretentious fuckers. He needed to check in about… something and I was still awake. I had to look something up, I was just emailing him the details when you came in.”

“All the way in England?” Mike whistles, a bit impressed.

“Tsk, don’t let hear him that. Dick has a big enough ego as it is,” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“I thought you were his friend?” Mike says, a bit confused, because Stiles had literally picked up the phone at 4:00 AM for this guy, couldn’t be that much bad blood, could there?

“Surprisingly enough. He had a restraining order against me in high school for a while,” Stiles informs him casually, before realizing how that sounds and quickly amending: “Obviously, he revoked it, because it was completely unnecessary and a big misunderstanding. We’re cool now, promise.”

And that’s Mike’s cue to drop the conversation, giving Stiles a tight nod, before turning to his own work. He’s giving the other a chance, not inviting crazy. Though he does allow himself to be invited for fries on Thursday with Stiles’ friends.

There is Maya a shy, but enthusiastic biology major; Aalif, a kind but serious looking pre-law student; Nikki, a hilariously insane art major; and Kai a bit of a dorky English major. How Stiles had found this ragtag group Mike doesn’t know

“Mike,” he introduces himself. “I do history. I’m Stiles’ roommate,” before he’s pulled into a discussion about whether or not fries can be classified as a salad. (Potato salad exists, Mike, and it’s a side dish).

It’s honestly a lot more fun than expected and it’s nice to see that Stiles does know how to have fun, he just has fun arguing about nothing with someone studying to argue professionally instead of getting wasted.

While Mike doesn’t think he’ll keep away from parties entirely, he might cut back to make place for this. The genuine connection is way nicer than not remembering who you talked to, or if you even did.

They’re about to start opening the famous is cereal-soup debate when Stiles’ phone starts to ring. He nearly hits his head on the table as he dives to get it out of his bag, calling out a quick: “Sorry, guys, gotta take this real quick.”

But since he is stuck in a booth, all he can do is turn away from them as he greets: “Isaac, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

It’s not the most standard greeting and Mike raises his brow at the others, who all shrug. Apparently this has happened before. Mike watches as Stiles gets a reply, fascinated by how Stiles seems to melt, worries leaving him as he grins fondly, before practically cooing: “You missing me already? I am flattered, pup.”

He grins some more at what Isaac is saying, before raising a brow, voice turning into a tease: “I feel used here. Like a cheap replacement. You knew Scott was going to be busy with Allison, I even warned you. Not my fault no one in this p- family ever listens to me.”

Another reply to which Stiles says: “Yes, you heard correctly, I’m with friends, you can make those at college. I encourage you to try.”

An eyeroll at Isaac’s answer, then a sigh: “Yes, Isaac, having your own friends will get their attention again. But try also for yourself, meeting new people is fun. Maybe you even meet someone you like.”

“Bye, Isaac,” Stiles says pointedly, it sounds faintly like Isaac is protesting his departure, but he hangs up on him.

“Sorry about that, you know how they can get,” Stiles grins, trying to play it off, while Mike tries to ignore how much it sounds like the conversation he had with his mom last week, before deciding to join the others in not commenting.

And after that it their friendship takes off until they’re at the ‘waking him up with a smug smirk and coffee when Mike wants to disappear into his mattress with a hangover, kicking his ass to classes’- stage.

Turns out that if you’re closer to Stiles, he’s even weirder. He goes home pretty often, now that he has settled in alright, nearly every other weekend, at least once a month, though he complains about his dad forcing him to stay at college to get the full experience, air quotes obvious in his voice.

Mike doesn’t say anything, since he kind of agrees with Stiles’ dad. It’s a bit unhealthy how much Stiles’ calls home. Or at least, Mike thinks he does, though it always sounds like it’s someone else on the phone, because Stiles will tell the same story a bunch of times or tell the person that another person told him to tell them etc, like they couldn't call themselves.

The conversations are also just weird. Stiles cuts himself off sometimes, sending Mike looks, or he’ll fuss over whoever is on the other side of the line like he’s their therapist, or their fucking mother. Not to mention the fact that he always – always – picks up.

Mike has tried to call Stiles a few times, a lot of the time his roommate won’t pick up, or call back apologetically, yet he’ll leave a lecture if someone from home calls.

It’s just odd.

So, brave soldier as he is (as well as the head investigator of their little friend group, who are all more curious about Stiles than Mike expected when he first met them), he asks: “Hey, man, who are you always calling?”

Stiles look up from where has just hung up with a: “You be careful okay? I love you,” looking a bit confused, before smiling and shrugging: “That depends, honestly. It’s a bit much.”

That sounds like a deflection, but Mike is curious and got better at talking to people and standing up for himself. So, he goes: “I have time. I’m smart. I think I can take it.”

“Alright,” Stiles shoots him another uncertain look, before starting, “Well, my dad and Derek are holding down the fort, so I call them just to see how life is going. Boyd and Erica are there too, so I call them too, but Boyd doesn’t talk much, so I mostly call with Erica. She is my Catwoman, you know, we chat, she spills about Boyd. He has his own carpentry shop, it’s been going well. I’m glad for him, you know. And Erica is taking a gap year, but to be honest, I think she likes being a park ranger too much to ever go back to school.”

Mike nods along to Stiles’ rambles. His dad is explainable and the fact that he added Derek in there must mean they’re a unit in his mind, maybe a brother? Or even his father’s boyfriend. Erica is someone he’s close with and knows well, called her his Catwoman, so maybe girlfriend? But he connected her to Boyd, who sounds like a far friend of sorts, so maybe not.

“Of course there is Jackson in England,” Stiles continues on happily. “I told you about him. He is a bit of a dick, but we’ve forgiven him. Well, Lydia did and we all trusted her and it worked out okay.”

And yeah, Mike remembers Jackson with the apparent restraining order and wonders who Lydia is. Luckily he doesn’t have to wait long.

“Lydia,” Stiles sighs, making Mike think he loves her, which he naturally immediately disproves by going, “I used to be in love with her, but turns out, no. She’s being an absolute genius doing mathematics at CalTech. She terrifies me in the best ways.”

That’s not concerning at all.

“And then you have Scott, my best friend,” Stiles rambles on and Mike knows that the other probably won’t even notice if he leaves. He gets like that. “Now my man Scott is at Colorado State

to become a vet alongside Allison and Isaac.”

Those two names are also familiar and Mike feels awkward staying silent, so he says: “They’re all become vets?”

“No, just Scott, but they’re all at Colorado State, because Scott will probably perish without Allison and Isaac hates being lonely and didn’t get into Stanford with me,” Stiles says, like that’s the most obvious reason to pick a school.

Mike is distracted by Stiles hitting his arm enthusiastically: “Allison is also doing history, man, I hadn’t even thought of that! I don’t know how it would be relevant either, but you know, fun fact! I love fun facts, like did you know that human teeth are the only part of the body that can’t heal themselves, because enamel is dead tissue. That was fun to find out.”

He senses that there is a story there, but Stiles is already moving on: “And Isaac, my beautiful boy, is doing social studies, which I think will really help him. He’s come so far and he’s really happy with his courses.”

Isaac was the one that called during that first Thursday fries run Mike was a part of. He recalls the nicknames and the fact that Isaac was missing Stiles, not to mention how fond Stiles sounded and the fact that Isaac wanted to go to college with him. Maybe Isaac was the boyfriend?

“Anyways,” Stiles ends his rant. “I told you it’s a bit much, but I like knowing they’re okay and getting by and if I only call one, the others will get jealous. There’s only so much Stiles to go around and everyone wants a piece,” he grins.

Mike thinks Stiles has a weird relationship with his friends from back home, but also that he doesn’t want to create any friction with his roommate and best friend on campus, so he just nods and smiles a bit.

“But how about you?” Stiles returns the question. “You never call home, at least, not that I’ve witnessed.”

Since Stiles decided to share, something he rarely does, Mike knows he should return the favor, so he shrugs. “Not really much to call.”

“Is no one there?” Stiles asks, all concern.

“My mom and dad are, but you know,” Mike shrugs. “Dad just cares about my grades and mom is always prying, like she thinks I can’t manage by myself or something. It’s fucking annoying. I’m an adult now, she doesn’t need to hover.”

Stiles frowns at his reply, then bites his lip as if he isn’t sure he should say something, before he breaks and blurts: “But isn’t that nice? To have someone who worries?”

“What?” Mike hadn’t thought Stiles would pick his mom’s side, though maybe he should have seen it coming.

“I mean, I don’t know your situation of course, but I get it,” Stiles shrugs, backing off a bit. “You’ve always been her baby, who she saw every single day and knew when you had a bad day, when you got a good grade, etc, now she has nothing and you don’t tell her, so her mind makes up all the horrible things that could have happened to you between calls, resulting in what is practically an interrogation until she is satisfied that you’re truly as okay as you claim you are… Wow, that was one hell of s sentence,” Stiles ends his keen observation with a joke to lighten it up a bit, since he got way too into that.

Mike attempts to wade through the sea of words just slung to his head, before he realizes Stiles kind of has a point. He breathes: “How do you even know that?”

Stiles scratches his nose and shrugs: “I might be a bit of the mom-friend.” And Mike is reminded of the fact that Stiles is really weird with his friends and that he probably knows that because he does the exact same thing his mother does.

Next Sunday, he reports all this to the study group, which Stiles has had to skip out on, because someone called at midnight, which obviously meant Stiles immediately packed is bags and left, something that is more common than Mike would like.

“That’s a lot of friends,” Maya comments once he is done. “But it’s sweet he cares so much about them.”

“He cares mom-levels about them,” Mike points out. “I’m telling you, he got so intense while defending my mom, like it was personal.”

“So, he’s a bit intense about is friends,” Nikki shrugs. “One girl in my class is making a shrine to her boyfriend as a final project. We’re not at that level yet, so I think we’re good.”

“He took off in the middle of the night on a three hour drive, because someone called,” Mike replies.

“I don’t think it’s really any of our concern,” Aalif interrupts, before it can get out of hand.

“But what if they’re like a creepy cult or something?” Nikki asks.

Aalif levels her a look as he says: “I don’t think Stiles would get drawn into a cult.”

“You don’t know that,” she raises a brow. “It happens, even to smart people like Stiles.”

“He has a metal baseball bat by his bed,” Mike offers, not sure why he is backing Nikki in this debate.

“He does?” Maya asks, a bit concerned.

They all now look at Mike and he suddenly realizes that they’ve never been into their room, which is why he has become Stiles source number 1. He shrugs: “Yeah, he took it with him when he left for home tonight. It’s all damaged and shit, though I think some carvings are intentional. They look a bit like runes.”

Nikki raises a brow as she looks at Aalif and says: “But you don’t think Stiles could have joined a cult.”

“I don’t think a cult would have allowed him to leave for college, not to mention do criminology,” Maya offers. “I think he’s following a seminar about cults right now actually.”

“Okay, but even without a cult, still suspicious and weird,” Nikki huffs. “And it’s still a possibility, right, Mike?”

Mike startles a bit unsure how he got on the pro-cult side and not sure he isn’t agreeing. “I mean, he does have all these herbs and some weird books, but those could be from the library.”

And now they’re giving him more looks. Great. He puts his hands up defensively: “It’s not like I know, alright. Stiles never exactly cooks, maybe he just likes the smell of the herbs. And the books could be an aesthetic thing, though he keeps him under his bed in a box if they’re his.”

“What sort of books?” Kai asks after a beat.

“They’re leather bound. Old,” Mike shrugs. “I haven’t seen him with them much. He shoves them out of sight when I get in and the only times he hasn’t was when he thought I was asleep or very drunk.”

“Creepy,” Maya shivers.

“Come on, this is Stiles,” Aalif says. “He is not in some creepy cult. Do you all even hear yourselves? Seriously. Now, the midterms are coming up and I would like to get some passing grades.”

That gets a few boos and boring’s thrown at him, but Aalif doesn’t falter and they do all giggle a bit at the ridiculousness of Stiles in a cult. Before they can truly get anything done, Nikke snorts: “Maybe he tripped into it,” sending them all into giggles again.

It isn’t a joke anymore when Stiles reappears again on their Thursday fry run his face more bruise than skin and his hands both wrapped in bandages.

“Stiles!” Kai exclaims, already out of his seat. “What happened to you?”

“Hey there, guys,” Stiles attempts a grin, wincing at the action. “I’m good, I’m good.” He eases himself into their booth, wrapped fingers taking some fries and popping them into his mouth as the rest watches him with careful eyes. Of course he notices as he chews slowly, whispering to himself: “Knew Derek was right about the liquid diet. Fucker.”

“What happened?” Aalif asks when Stiles seems like he is going to ignore the whole situation that is his face and hands. “Stiles, if someone did this to do, you have to go to the police, file a report. You can sue.”

“Of course you’d say that, lawyer-man,” Stiles grins again, falling flat once more when his already split lip, re-splits and starts to bleed. “Ah, fuck,” he hisses, grabbing a napkin to press against it as he makes a disgruntled face.

“Stiles,” Nikki snaps.

“What?” he replies as if it’s not incredibly obvious.

Mike surprises himself by jumping in: “What the hell happened to you, man?”

It dawns on Stiles that they’re not letting it go and he sags a bit in his seat. Then says: “Nothing, I promise. It was just an accident, really.”

That’s just a thousand red flags there and Maya takes the lead for them, putting a hand on Stiles shoulder and saying in a soft voice: “We’re not going to judge you, promise. But right now, not knowing is so much worse.”

“Derek told me not to come,” Stiles sighs after a moment. “I knew it was stupid, but I wanted to come. I mean, he only had Boyd and Erica with him, because all the others were too far away. That wasn’t enough.”

“What were they doing?” Nikki asks, unable to keep her mouth shut and be patient.

Luckily, Stiles isn’t silenced by it. “Derek lives on the preserve, it’s in the middle of the forest and something was killing the animals. It was a mountain lion, we have a lot of animal attacks. They wanted to take it out before it moved into the town.”

Mike remembers Stiles telling him Erica was a park ranger, but Boyd was a carpenter and he knew nothing about Derek, which is weird on its own. Stiles loved bragging about his friends, or would casually comment about them or pick up the phone with their name on his lips, but Mike had before now heard the name Derek only once.

“Of course I tripped over a few branches in the dark,” Stiles laughs self-deprecatingly. “I should have known better. I’m a klutz, you know. Though I did get a hit in, before I went down in a not so glorious blaze of branches and a curse.”

“You hit a mountain lion?” Kai whisper yells.

“Yeah, with my bat,” Stiles shrugs, like it’s a normal thing.

“Dude, are you insane?” Mike asks.

“Oh, okay, I see what’s happening here,” Stiles backs up, like they didn’t make sense before now. “I didn’t want to admit I fell, because it’s embarrassing as fuck. And like, I know I’m clumsy, but after all the running away from shit trying to kill me, one would think I’d have gotten better at it, but noooo. I am surrounded by people who can do crazy shit, while I hit my head on a fucking branch, because why not.”

“Stiles!” Nikke cuts him off. “Running away from things trying to kill you? What the hell.”

“I was getting there,” Stiles says, though it’s obvious to all of them that he was getting further and further away from the point. “When I was in high school there were all these murders in town. My friend was targeted at one point, I got caught up in it. Nothing makes a friendship like getting locked into a school and running from a crazed murderer or holding someone up in a pool for two hours. It was a whole thing. Plus my father is the sheriff.”

“What the fuck,” Nikki voices the shared sentiment after a moment to process.

“Wait, here I have proof,” Stiles taps away on his phone, before showing a news article with the tagline reading: Five teens trapped in high school with murderer still on the loose

After letting them read it, he puts his phone in his pocket and proudly says: “We’re having a project about crimes in our hometown right now and I have an advantage over the rest.”

“That’s- That’s not-” Maya stutters. “…Stiles…”

“What?” he says confused, as if what he just bragged about isn’t heartbreaking. God, no wonder he’s a bit fucked from it all. Mike would want to know if all his friends are okay if he nearly saw them all killed alongside him.

“Are you, like, okay?” Mike asks.

“Probably not, like in general,” Stiles tells him honestly, “but I am really fine. As fine as I get anyway. Derek says I have to work on that, but he’s not the boss of me and I actually am doing better. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Maya smiles kindly. “We just want to know you’re okay. Thanks for trusting us with that. Did you get those wounds checked out?”

“I did,” he returns her smile. “Got a clean bill of health and everything. Dad wouldn’t let me drive back before that.”

“Good,” Aalif says.

They’re all quiet for a moment, before the thing that has been niggling on his mind comes out. He asks: “Who is this Derek person anyway?”

Stiles regards them all for a moment, before saying: “I don’t think we reached that level of friendship yet. Sorry. Like, you’re all my friends and stuff and I like bragging about my other friends to you, but I don’t know.”

“What?” Mike exclaims as Nikki points out: “You just told us you nearly got murdered, but telling us about a friend is a step too far?”

“You know, that is actually a good point,” Stiles says. “I must still be a bit lightheaded from everything, I normally don’t tell people that.”

“Should we take you to a hospital? Kai asks worriedly.

“No, no, I’m kidding, I think,” Stiles jokes, before quickly adding, “I am truly kidding, please don’t take me to a hospital. God, no one appreciates my humor.”

“Stiles,” Aalif sighs tiredly when Stiles deftly gets them on a different topic than Derek.

“Derek is my husband,” Stiles finally tells them, shutting them all up as they stare at them with their jaws on the floor. That explains Stiles trips home and lack of partying or otherwise getting laid, he had a whole fucking husband waiting for him at home.

None of them could know that Stiles’ reluctance to talk about Derek and his relation is that as a prominent alpha, broadcasting that they were ‘mated’ (and yes, Derek, that term is still weird to a human) isn’t really smart. Especially after everything that had already come to Beacon Hills.

“Y- Your husband?!?” Kai squeaks.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you all,” Stiles groans. “You can’t imagine the rumor mill at home when it happened, like seriously, people were acting like I was signing my life away to the devil or something.”

“Why?” Maya asks and Mike has to agree. Marriage so early isn’t exactly uncommon, it just took them by surprise this time. What would make this different.

“I-” Stiles looks genuinely sheepish, “I might have gotten him arrested for a murder he didn’t commit and stuff. But that was like, what? Two, three years ago.”

Immediately their table exploded, voices overlapping, because – again – what the fuck.

“He didn’t do it!” Stiles exclaims, shutting them all up. “He was framed. Set up. Look, I know he wasn’t the killer. Derek saved my life, like a bazillion times at this point. I love him.”

Despite the bruises, the look on his face is quite clear with love oozing off of it. Like full on, ‘Disney princess, soulmate, found the one’-love. It’s a bit disgusting in Mike’s terribly single opinion.

“Well, then I want to see him,” Nikki demands. “You can’t tell us you got swept off your feet by a mysterious would be murderer and not expect us to want to see him.”

Stiles shoots them all a suspicious look, which is pretty rude all things considering, but Mike lets it slide in favor of satiating his curiosity. Then Stiles pulls out his phone, showing them a sequence of pictures that said more than words could.

It’s obviously their wedding day. They’re both in full suits, standing in a forest with the sunset hitting them, putting them in a glow of light. Derek is apparently a handsome, muscled man, who screams not bad boy as much as serial killer.

The first picture is pretty standard. They’re looking at each other, Derek’s bad boy vibe killed by the fact that he is smiling softly at Stiles, who is smiling back. Derek’s smile is toothachingly fond in a way that Mike feels in his chest.

In the second picture, the murder vibes are back in full force, with Derek glaring at Stiles, who looks like he’s saying something, his face smug like it’s an inside joke, his hands up to gesture like he always does.

Then, in the last picture, Stiles has Derek’s cheeks between his hand, face contorted in something Mike would call a coo, if Derek didn’t look like the kind of guy who would allow anything resembling a coo being directed at him. Though, Mike might have to rethink that assumption, because while Derek is raising one murderous eyebrow, the smile has returned again.

“I am his favourite annoyance,” Stiles announces proudly. “It’s wonderful how much bugging someone can do.”

And all of them would have guessed Derek was the one, who had pursued Stiles, but here Stiles is, telling them all about how he is a master at befriending people and Derek honestly needed someone to tell him how horrible he was at decorating or socializing, before fixing it for him.

Beside him, Nikki mutters: “Dear god, he has an ‘I can fix him’-mentality. We’re doomed.”

“I heard that!” Stiles exclaims indignantly, though he doesn’t deny it per se. But when Nikki’s soda arrives, it explodes in her face and Mike would almost suspect Stiles had something to do with it if he had to go off the smug look.

They drop the topic of Stiles injuries and apparent husband, for the evening, which Stiles seems grateful for at least, before catching him up on campus gossip. Still, they keep their eye on him and it’s hard to forget with his face all fucked up.

When they leave, Maya leans in and whispers to Mike: “Keep an eye on him for us, okay?”

He nods quickly, before hurrying after Stiles, who is yelling at him to hurry or he’ll drive back without him.

Mike also keeps his word, so when Stiles’ phone starts to ring, he pretends to be engrossed in his book, while secretly keeping an ear on Stiles’ conversation. He usually doesn’t listen in, unless something is so weird it breaks through his mental barriers, but he feels like this can be an exception.

“Hey there, big guy,” Stiles greets, voice much gentler than Mike ever remembered it being.

“Yeah, worrywolf, I’m fine,” Stiles tells whoever is on the other side. “Dad wouldn’t have let me drive otherwise and neither would you for that matter. You checked me yourself before letting me go, quite thoroughly I might add.”

And that last part is definitely an innuendo, dear god, Mike did not want to know that. However, it is confirmation that it’s Derek on the line, so he listens even harder.

“I know I overdid it, but no one got hurt except a few bruises on me,” Stiles argues. “And I get hurt even when I’m not in danger, you know how doors and the air are my biggest enemies. Come on, Derek. If it was bad, I would have told you. We promised remember? You made it part of our vows, because you are a complete softie.”

Okay, Mike isn’t going to lie, that’s actually pretty cute and he slightly hates that he’s becoming team Derek when all he knows is that he was (falsely) arrested for murder and married to Stiles, who comes running home when called on.

“I promise not to run into danger again,” Stiles tells Derek. “Well, I promise not to run needlessly into danger again and honestly one could argue that this time wasn’t needlessly, because you are my damsel in distress as much as you want to cast me in that roll.” A beat. “Yes, I will never let you forget the pool, we discussed this.”

“Yes, Derek, I always take care of my wounds,” Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’ll even send you picture updates and call you every day. How does that sound?”

Oh god, Derek is actually a concerned boyfriend – excuse me, husband – who needs updates and called the day Stiles left because he was worried. Mike is never going to be able to tell the others that without it turning into a riot.

“Great, because I am going to bed,” Stiles says. “Midterms are coming up and while spending time with you is a hundred times better, I actually need to pass these if I ever want to get a degree. So, goodbye, I love you.”

A bit of silence, then a very love-filled chuckle: “Of course I’m going to think of you. I always sleep better with you, you know that. Now bye. Love you, again and always.”

Fucking hell, Mike is going to die of a toothache, caused by his happily married roommate, which is honestly where his life is at right now.

Though, Mike can honestly live with a weird roommate. It’s a source of entertainment and he now can rest knowing Stiles has someone watching out for him, preventing him from going off the deep end, which was an honest concern.

Stiles is weird, but with what Mike knows, he’s allowed to be a bit strange and he honestly doesn’t want to know more than he does.

~~

A/N:

Disclaimer: I am not shitting on parties, if you like them, go nuts. I just don’t drink and hate social interaction, so I wouldn't know how to write a good party scene even if I wanted to, lmao.

Idk how well it came through, but Stiles is magic and burned his hands while overdoing it in the fight he got injured in. He also totally exploded Nikki’s drink as petty revenge, his herbs are also related to magic.

[utilitycaster]

I really want to hear more, at the table or perhaps 4SD in March, about Ashton's agreement with Orym and indeed their even more cynical statement, that Imogen's going to inevitably be pulled towards Predathos whether she does her exploration willingly or resists, because I do think that Ashton's insight is really valuable here.

Ashton and Imogen have always made for a fascinating contrast. Both have complicated feelings about parents and abandonment which extend to their worldview and their relationship with the gods. Both have wondered about the source of their powers, which came at a profound physical and social cost.

I think where they diverge is that Ashton started the campaign believing that this was about the best it was ever going to get for them - staying in Krook House, with a weird nascent prickly friendship with FCG, drinking heavily and taking on odd jobs to pay off astronomical debt to Jiana Hexum. Ashton was not looking for a cure for his pain, nor meaning from it, early on. As they tell Laudna after a rough time fighting the Shade Mother, "Sometimes shit's just fucked up, and the only thing you can do because you didn't do anything fucking wrong, is get the fuck back up and do the exact same thing all over again knowing that there was nothing to learn." He sat on the Hishari/Ashari connection for weeks, never truly asking Orym but waiting until the information came to him in other ways. On the other hand, Imogen started the campaign profoundly curious; she is introduced trying to get into the Starpoint Academy to research the dreams and powers she's been dealing with for years, and her initial motivation for joining the team was to gain that access.

As time has gone on, this has slowly flipped, and I think Ashton is seeing Imogen settling into an indecisive rut. In addition, I think Imogen speculating that Liliana was a good person who simply got caught and overtaken by Predathos is raising alarms for them. After all, they just acted under the presumption that their parents had been well-intentioned people who made a mistake, and not only did it nearly kill them; the vision they had while unconscious indicated that their parents had simply done it out of a sense of self-importance. In a way, this feels like Ashton's form of protection: it is going to happen. The pain is going to be there. Are you going to make something with it, or will you simply let it catch you without your involvement?

For all their similarities, Ashton and Imogen didn't interact terribly often early in the campaign, so one of their earlier meaningful conversations is a recent one: the one where Imogen connected with the All-Minds-Burn. That is the Imogen Ashton believes can save them: the one who will decide to explore the world around her and rise to challenges, not the one who withdraws and shrinks from them. One who is not beholden to a romanticized idea of her mother who has never once lived up to those ideals in reality, but who rather makes her own choices. His line is delivered with its usual 6 Charisma; but the logic is sound.

[alphabetboyluvr]

throttle - jjk | four

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - smut, a lil dirty talk over text, titwank, lil spit, lil degradation, lots of praise <3, handjob, showers, vaginal sex, (1) reference to you up?, jungkook cums 3 times in this one, the oc.... does not. CURIOUS. jaykay is soooo smitten :( Busan is proposed!! oh how our throttle couple luv busan <3, the angst is about to go from a 2 to a 6, jk is the pied piper, jk and cc play the desperation olympics, and they both lose!! namjoon is the worst (calls the oc a sket (twice!))

word count - 10.8k

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

"Look what the cat dragged in," you smile, all big and bashful as soon as you see him.

It's been a little while; too long, you think. Different schedules and busy personal lives have kept you apart - but none of the distance ever matters. It always melts away with one flash of his pearly smile, which he often tries (and fails) to contain around you. 

"I wish," he groans, flopping onto your sofa. You're on the floor, typing away on your laptop, indifferent to the way he just lets himself into your apartment. It's been this way for a while now. "Haven't been near pussy in ages."

You gag, as if he's your brother or something. "Shut the fuck up, Yoongi."

He's dressed down in a pair of jeans and a shirt two sizes too big for him, but you can smell his laundry detergent from where you're sat. He's made an effort.

"You started it," he snorts, eyes not on you, but on your television. It's playing some muted drama that neither of you care for. He knows this, even when he asks you, "Whatcha watching?"

"Dunno," you hum, as predicted. "Just had it on for company."

Yoongi nods, understanding the desire.

He does it too; leaves the television running just so that he doesn't have to be alone with his thoughts.

Things are better these days. He's not as scared as he once was. It's been a couple of weeks, and after all, time heals. Eases. Pacifies.

Yoongi asks what you're doing, and pretends to be shocked when you tell him you're stalking. 

"Who is it this time?"

"Just a guy."

"It's never 'just a guy'."

It's morbid, the curiosity that Yoongi forces himself to endure. It's like your nails have a grasp around his heart, and with every beat of it, they sink further into the muscle. The more attached he becomes, the deeper the pain runs.

You don't realise quite how profoundly his blood turns green. He's good at feigning indifference; good at pretending like it is just a crush.

And so he asks questions because he wants to hurt himself a little bit more. Wants his heart to ache. Wants to feel the discomfort he so closely associates with love. It's reached a point where he thinks love has to hurt, otherwise, it's not real.

"Since when has a guy ever been more than just a guy," you toy back. None of your past lovers have ever lasted too long. You doubt Jungkook will, either. Just the way the cookie crumbles.

"Since you fall in love at the drop of a hat," Yoongi smiles. His eyes are slightly clouded, the sombre vapour of burnt-out desire smoking in them.

"I've never been in love," you retort a little too quickly.

It's not a lie, but it makes way for the admittance of something else instead:  you just love the attention that comes with men fawning after you.

And so you let Yoongi think that you have the capacity within you to love, because you fear that the love he has for you is conditional; transactional.

You just have to trust that the intentions behind acts of love are pure. You have to trust.

This issue with trust is that it's earned, not owed; and nobody has ever earned your trust. Never. Serpents lie beneath roses, and you'll be damned if you pick one either way, 'cause if it ain't a fang, it's a thorn that'll get you instead. 

"Anyways," you hum, not wanting to dwell on the topic. All of your searches of Jungkook's name have garnered minimal results, nothing of which you can be sure relates to him. Now, you need a distraction and Yoongi is as good as any. Your knees click as you stretch out, and Yoongi winces at the sound, before you plonk yourself down on the sofa next to him. "What shall we order for dinner?"

There's a howl of wind sneaking between the cracks in your window panes; a stark reminder that winter is still here, and it's still as bitter as ever. Like the river you walk across on a near-daily basis, your heart will take a while to thaw.

But as with all seasons, winter will mollify; and perhaps so will the ice chains that wrap themselves around your warmest muscle. Maybe. The way Jungkook hugs around your chest when he takes you from behind already has the ice weeping in the dark of night. You think it's just some kind of placebo effect. Best not to get carried away with sensation. 

Yoongi says something, but you're not listening. All you can hear is the soft splatter of water dripping from the ice; right down onto the chime that's oscillating in your stomach again. Fuck.

Across the street from your apartment complex sits a black SsangYong. It lurks in the shadows; silent, sinister, stalking.

A curt snap echoes through the car, as Namjoon breaks a Pepero stick in half, much to Jungkook's annoyance. 

That's literally not how you eat them, he seethes internally. His nostrils are a little flared, and his eyes are hard as they stare out the window and across to the stairs that lead up to your entryway. It has a plain end for a reason.

Namjoon knows this, obviously. Doesn't care. Can sense the way it's getting under Jungkook's skin, so he does it again.

"No point in us being here," Jungkook eventually huffs, channelling his disdain into something - anything - that isn't how fucking annoying Namjoon is. It's been nearly an hour.

"Whoever owns that heap of shit has to come out, soon," Namjoon says of the Mini parked outside of your apartment block. He mutters under his breath for what must be the millionth time, "Fuckin' Ajumma's car."

"It's a John Cooper Works," Jungkook says a little flippantly. He's not impressed, not by any means, but he knows it isn't something to turn his nose up at. Might look like the kind of thing his mother would have loved, but it packs a punch. Limited edition, factory-grade. One of only two thousand. A mean little beast that'd give his Pony a run for its money, even with the mods.

"Okay? Tell Mr John Cooper that it's still an Ajumma's car," Namjoon shrugs. He doesn't give a shit about imports. They're all weak in comparison to the homegrown beauties he likes to drive. Jungkook could argue for days that he's wrong, but Namjoon simply wouldn't bother to listen - so what was the point? "Anyways," he continues, snapping another chocolate coated stick. It's about now that Jungkook wishes Peperos would have sharp ends so that he could stick them in his ears. "Either the fucker who drives it comes out now, or he says inside and carries on railing the sket until the sun comes up. Doesn't matter which. We've got a car to keep tabs on."

"You don't know he's fucking her-"

"We've both seen her," Namjoon scoffs, mouth half full, a little biscuit dust puffing out from his plump lips. "He's screwing the absolute fuck out of her."

"What does that even mean?" Jungkook's nose really is upturned, now. "You're just being vulgar for the sake-"

"Oh, give over. What was the first thing you said about her?"

"I-"

"Prissy bitch," Namjoon imitates. "Stick up her ass - pretty good ass though."

It almost makes Jungkook laugh, because while his former self isn't wrong (he thinks your ass is a gift from the Gods), he knows that it's your tits he could worship all day long. 

If it were him in your apartment, he knows he'd be doing just that. Praising you; Worshipping, devoting, revering. He's never believed in God, not really. Never prays, never looks to the sky and mumbles words of desperation; but when he's beneath you, he finds himself beseeching. Imploring the man in the sky to let him feel the way that he feels when he's inside of you forever. Sometimes he wonders if you must be what heaven feels like. Knows he'd sacrafice himself for it. For you.

In theory, at least. Fears if he tells Namjoon this, he'll have to experience it in practise. He's not ready to, not yet. Just in case he's wrong, and he really does lose the closest thing to heaven that he's ever known.

"I just think we're going to an awful lot of effort for this," he deflects. "The more we know about this girl, the more variables we have to consider, and the less likely it is that we can actually get this shit done."

"We knew less last time," Namjoon says without skipping a beat. He knows this game better than most. Knows that it's imperative that they resolve the mess they made in the gas station as quickly as possible. "And look at where that got us - beating up some fuckin' dude who didn't have a clue what was going on."

"You didn't have to go so hard on him."

"I did. You know I did."

Silence resumes, and remains that way until Namjoon whacks Jungkook on his chest with the back of his hand a few hours later. His attention is diverted from his phone, which drops to his laps as his neck almost snaps to look in the direction of your apartment.

You're laughing as you walk down the stairs from your entryway. Jungkook thinks he can hear you. 

He can't. He just remembers. Know the way it almost sounds like you're hiccuping when you start struggling to draw more air into your lungs, too happy to focus on keeping yourself alive.

Your body leans into the guy you're with, and there's an ease to the way you are together, one that has Jungkook feeling all uneasy. He adjusts in his seat - earns himself a hiss from Namjoon for being 'distracting' - and tries to focus on anything but the way you pull the guy in for a hug. It's not necessarily anything more than platonic, but it's not the hug of a stranger, either.

"It's him," Namjoon's voice is low, barely a vibration between his lips. "Guy from the gas station. Sket is shitting where she eats." He laughs. "Un-fucking-believable."

Jungkook says nothing. It's a little hard to speak with the weight of the world crashing down on your lungs, though.

Instead he simply nods, and reaches for his phone.

꾹: i gotta see you.

꾹: think i'm going crazy without you.

You don't reply until you're inside, clearing up the remains of the food you'd shared with Yoongi.

You: i'm not a therapist :/

꾹: please.

You: my place or yours?

꾹: mine.

When Namjoon asks who Jungkook is texting, he lies. 

"Just Jin. Says if we have a visual on the driver, we're good to go."

"Good to go?" The question is asked an octave or so higher than Namjoon's usual deep drawl, surprised at such an instruction. "Thought we had to tail?"

Jungkook shrugs. "Change of plan. Says Kang ain't around to report to, so it doesn't matter what we do."

His lies will catch up with him eventually, but not today. 

Today, Jungkook gets to pretend like everything is okay for just a little while longer. He's lucky that Jin trusts him enough to get the job done. He won't ask questions, will just know that whatever reason Jungkook had to lie will be worth it in the long run. He's a good worker, part of the team. He'd never intentionally sabotage them.

Or at least, he was a good worker. Was part of the team. Was never one to sabotage. Was one to play by the rules, and always win.

But Jungkook is playing games with trick dice, now. Rolling doubles every single time. He's gonna be the first to reach the exit line, but he's gonna reach it alone.

"Alright," Namjoon sighs, starting the engine up. The lights from his headlamps flare in front of the vehicle, flooding the desolate road. It's always quiet around these parts after it hits midnight.

A little off the beaten track, your place is on the backstreets; somewhere inconspicuous. Somewhere easily hidden. Concealed. The daughter of a politician disguised in breadline poverty. 

Jungkook kind of hates that he knows where you live.

Not because he doesn't want to know, but because you haven't shown him. You've always gone back to his. He wouldn't suggest anything else, for fear of being caught without reason down around your side of town. There are only so many times he can lie about late-night boxing sessions without someone catching on.

"What a waste of an evening," Namjoon huffs a little more. He's a smart guy, smarter than Jungkook and probably every other fucker who congregates at Old Kang's place, but he's credulous to an absolute fault when it comes to the fuckers he runs the streets with. Would never betray a single one of them - not even Jungkook.

"It was past your bedtime, like, three hours ago. Consider yourself lucky that you got to stay out and play for this long," Jungkook ribs. 

See, Namjoon's partner doesn't like him staying out so late. They worry. Blow up his phone, not to control, but out of concern. They've seen the dark side of the business that the boys are caught up in, and don't want that darkness to stain the colours of the man they love. 

It's a mean jibe, and between close friends, it would have been funny -but the pair of them haven't laughed together in weeks.

Not since Jungkook fucked Namjoon's younger sister.

He hadn't meant for it to go as far as it had, but she was keen and he was horny. What's a boy to do?

They'd been in the same year group at school, so it's not like it was the most absurd pairing in the world. Never been friends, not really, but knew each other well enough that they always managed to strike up a conversation after a few drinks.

She was always hanging around the bars the boy went to, and Jungkook had been letting his hair down; one last night of freedom before he had to knuckle down and start the job Kang was assigning them.

He'll never admit it, but your assumptions about him on the first night you met were right. The KNJ on his phone was a FWB turned far too clingy: Kim Naejeon.

Needless to say, Namjoon hasn't exactly been Jungkook's biggest fan since he found out. Such is life.

Jungkook's phone buzzes in his lap, and he's relieved to see two little c's on the screen where the message ID is.

You: time?

꾹: just on my way home.

꾹: lemme send a taxi to yours.

Sat on your floor again, laptop open with your last search - jungkook, daegu, pony - on screen, you find yourself deafened by the chime in your stomach. It rings like the theme to a studio ghibli film, all pompous and ridiculous, and warm and lovely. 

You sound like a banshee, squeaking with badly handled excitement. The shrill noise that escapes your lips as you throw your phone onto the sofa is borderline psychotic.

You never get like this over a boy.

You don't actually think you've ever squealed over a boy before, but one small act of chivalry - the bare minimum - has you doing somersaults.

It's funny, because it's not like he's the first guy to ever suggest sending a taxi your way. Unlike all of Yoongi's offers, though, you accept. You play it all cool and coy by simply sending him through your address, not like he needs it.

꾹: on its way.

꾹: i can't wait to see you.

You're not really sure how to deal with such a declaration. It's needy and pathetic and if it were any other boy, it would have you throwing up in your mouth - but it's not just any boy. It's him. 

You:  someone's a little desperate.

You don't have it in you to play nice, even if your grin is wider than the river behind your apartment block. Jungkook doesn't expect any less. In fact, he smiles when the message comes through - and quickly stiffens his cheeks again, not wanting Namjoon to make a comment.

꾹: desperate? 

꾹: i'm not sure this is a game you want to play, CC.

Oh, how wrong he is.

You:  i love games.

The double-entendre isn't lost on him, but any ability to not let you affect him is. Blood pumps around his body faster. Harder. It rushes, almost, with a single destination in mind. Makes him adjust ever so slightly in his seat, his spare hand coming to rest between his legs. He used to think he had self-control, but you're constantly surprising him. 

He's learnt more about himself since he met you than he has in years. Realised that he isn't maybe who he thinks he is. Doesn't dwell on it, though, 'cause he enjoys the way it feels when the crotch of his trousers gets tighter.

꾹: i only like them when i win.

You:  i only ever win.

꾹:we'll see about that tonight.

You: oh?

꾹: see who really is the desperate one.

You:  its you :) x

The taxi arrives far faster than you expect, but Jungkook is pleased when he checks the app and sees the car en-route to his. He takes a note of the number plate and the registered driver. Doesn't trust the drivers around here. They're too fast without enough skill, he always thinks. Has lost count of the number of busses he's seen rear-end asshole taxi drivers. Luckily the roads are dead at this time of night, but he'll be damned if anything happens to you.

꾹: sure about that?

꾹: i know a few ways to get you a little desperate.

You:  you don't know shit.

꾹: i know you get a little desperate when my hand is round your throat.

You: bullshit.

꾹: i know you get incredibly desperate when my fingers are in your mouth.

You:  your fingers have never been in my mouth.

It's a lie. Of course it is. It's kinda become rare for the two of you to fuck without them being in your mouth at some point or another, whether it's to clean them off or just to give him a visual of just how devoted you look when he does it. He loves it and so do you.

꾹: no?

Jungkook almost ignores Namjoon as he asks, "what are you smiling at?", only to tell him that it's none of his business, lowering the brightness of his screen and clicking through into his camera roll.

He's a visual guy. Likes the things he can see. Tangible stuff. The photo that comes through to your phone has you flustered.

It's just the lower half of your face, and Jungkook's distinctive, tattooed hands in your mouth. There's a sheen to your lips. His fingers, too.

It's alarming how quickly you've become so comfortable with him. You barely know the guy. Shame that the alarm bells are always muted by the chime in your stomach.

You: must be some other girl ;)

꾹: told you already, CC.

꾹: i'm not interested in any other girls.

꾹: i only wanna see you.

When a picture of your legs, crossed and poised prettily in the back of the taxi, comes through to his phone, he's pleased. You're wearing tights. It's one of his favourite things a girl can wear - though he's not really sure why. He just loves how soft they are, how smooth they feel against his skin. Has him thinking about running his hands up and down them, and the way he knows you'll be looking all smug when he does so.

You:  i'll see u soon x

You:  desperate ;)

Jungkook thinks about locking his phone. Thinks about leaving you hanging. Thinks about the fact it will probably put you on edge a little if he doesn't reply - but he's weak. Knows that not replying will just put him on edge instead.

꾹: will it make you feel better if i admit it?

You:  yes.

꾹: fine.

꾹: been thinking about you since the moment you left my apartment last.

꾹: impossible not to when my fucking pillows smell like you.

꾹: think about you when i smell gasoline at kangs.

꾹: think about you when i stop at red lights.

꾹: also think about how fucking wet you were the last time we stopped at one.

꾹: i'm at a red light right now.

꾹: god, i gotta fuck you.

You:  told you you were desperate :) 

꾹: i am.

You:  how do you want me tonight?

꾹: naked.

You:  that goes without saying, no?

꾹: naked and begging.

You:  i don't beg.

You: not for any man.

꾹: c'mon, CC. a little reciprocation goes a long way.

꾹: you got me on my metaphorical knees.

꾹: be nice of you to get on yours.

You roll your eyes as the taxi rolls to a stop downtown, just by Jungkooks place. It parks on the wrong side of the street, but you pay it no notice. Chalk it up to a GPS error on the app.

You:  i'm pulling up to yours now. you home yet?

꾹: not yet. be about 5. let yourself in. code is 0901.

There's a casual intimacy to the way in which Jungkook trusts you with his door code. It's an act of convenience, not anything to read too much into, but you're a creature of habit. Assumptions are your bread and butter. If there are conclusions to be jumped to, you're getting your pole vault out. Setting a new PB. Going for the world record.

So no, it doesn't have to mean anything. You know it probably doesn't - but you indulge in the 'what if' just for the hell of it.

His apartment is cold, the ondol off, one of the windows cracked open ever so slightly to let the air out. Winters are dry round these parts, and Jungkook has an odd paranoia around developing black mould in his apartment. It's not unwarranted - he's pretty sure his last place made him sick because of it. Knows for certain that it made his mother weaker before she passed. Refuses to let history ever repeat itself.

You're unaware of this, though, and slide the window shut. It's the height of winter, and he knows damn well if he's gonna get lucky tonight that it's gotta be a little bit warmer in his apartment.

You take a moment to refamiliarise yourself with his place. There's not much. A little furniture, some prints you recognise from the market downtown up on his wall. There are no personal artifacts, though. No more clues as to who Jungkook really is. You'll have him naked tonight, granted, but you won't have him naked. He won't be vulnerable; laid bare.

But you're not exactly gonna complain when you have him bare in the other sense.

In fact, you think you much prefer it this way. It'll be easier to let him go when the time inevitably comes.

You toss your coat on his desk chair and your shoes are kicked beneath it, not caring much for neatness. The rest of your clothes follow suit, and then you're waiting, all desperate and pliant, just like he asked for. 

Though you're not one to beg, you're aware of how nicely he had requested - and how hot and bothered he had gotten you en-route to his place.

There's a thrum in your chest, and it beats to the same harmonious melody that the chime in your stomach produces.

Back straight, feathers smoothed, you're a songbird waiting for someone to hear your call. It only takes a few moments, the beep of Jungkook's keypad echoing through the door as he punches in the code adding a new layer to your song.

"Hey," he calls through, his voice muffled slightly through the sliding partition doors. The glass is frosted, but you can make out his silhouette as he kicks his shoes off by the door. "Just been on a job. Emergency at an office building downtown. Some bad wires. Tripped."

The lies roll off his tongue like butter in a hot pan. They sizzle. Spit. Burn you and scar you with the portrayal of a man who isn't who he pretends to be.

Thing is, Jungkook is exactly who he pretends to be.

He really does get too hot in the night, and genuinely does find videos of kids falling over far funnier than he knows he should. His hair sticks up on end when he wakes up, and he loves his car more than life itself. The way he winces after taking shots, and his dimples, which form in moments of contemplation beneath his cheeks, are entirely natural to him.

None of it - none of him - is a lie. At his core, Jungkook is the idea in your head; the yellow of midafternoon sun before it sets.

He's the amber light that flashes before fading into red. 

That's his issue, though. Inevitably, he will always, unavoidably, turn red.

Jungkook likes to tell himself he's not a bad person. He just does bad things, occasionally. But don't we all?

Yeah, the voice in his head would rationalise. But bad things are sneakily not paying for plastic carrier bags at supermarket self-checkouts, or failing to tell a friend they have food stuck in their teeth. Not petty violent crimes and conspiracy to-

"Took your time," you flirt.

It takes him longer than he'd like to get from his kitchen and to where you are, his laces proving to be a bit of a bitch when he's in a hurry. He's dressed down, a pair of light wash jeans clinging to his thighs for dear life, a baggy grey sweater hiding that itty bitty waist of his.

You find yourself smiling, his presence bringing more than just the promise of satisfied desire.

It's dangerous how you can't hear anything other than the chime in your stomach whenever you see him. Might deafen you one day. Or maybe you'll hear it so often that it will just fade into white noise. Not a favourable outcome, not by any stretch of the imagination.

"Holy fuckin' shit."

You tilt your head and feign confusion, as if you don't know why he's salivating like a dog being offered a bone. You're on your knees, as requested, palms flat on the tops of your thighs; not naked, but you may as well be. A lace red set leaves little to the imagination, one of his flannel shirts draped over your shoulders to keep you warm - but also 'cause he seems like the kind of guy to eat that shit up.

So while you're right where he wanted you, as he struggles to form a coherent sentence, he's exactly where you wanted him.

Finally, he finds a few words.

"Desperation looks good on you, CC."

Arrogant son of a bitch, you think, but there's a grin on your lips that you just can't hide. 

"Mmm," you flirt, not caring to drag things out. You want him so badly that hard to get seems like a dumb idea. "Maybe - but I think you'll find I look better on your dick."

His shoulders pull up towards his ears, head dropping as a small laugh vibrates in his throat at the boldness of such a statement.

"You're not wrong - but I like this," he says, closing the space between you. His voice is soft, as one of his hands cups your cheek and angles your jaw upwards so that you're looking directly at him. His thumb traces your bottom lip, and - almost like you've been conditioned - your lips part for it to rest on your tongue. "I like this a lot."

Your lips close around it, tongue massaging his thumb as you slowly suck on it.

It's gentle, and warm, and - fuck - he's spent so long thinking about the way your mouth feels but it never compares to actually experiencing it. Your lips vibrate as you hum, satisfied with the effect you seem to be having on him.

His lips are parted, eyes void of all thoughts, as if you've bewitched him. Maybe you have. He wouldn't put it past you. There's something dark behind your eyes, something he doesn't quite understand. Something he knows better than to let himself study for too long.

Jungkook's room is dark, the glow of his fairy lights dousing him in soft reservoirs of gold. The light from his kitchen pours in behind him, his back to the clouded screen door, a halo circling around his darling blonde waves. Your eyes must be betraying you, you think, 'cause there's no way a man this heavenly exists. It's impossible.

"Bet you're wet, aren't you?" he toys, voice low, a teasing grin on those pretty pink lips of his. He may look like an angel, but there's a pair of horns hidden beneath his curls.

There's no hesitation as you nod, vocalisations cut short thanks to his thumb remaining snug between your lips. Why lie? He wants you desperate, so he's getting exactly that. You think he deserves it. Think he always makes you feel good, so why not indulge him in this little fantasy? You can play desperate, if he really wants.

"Show me," he says so quietly it's almost a whisper; almost as if he doesn't believe he's asking you to do such a thing for him. It's not like it would be the most outlandish exchange the pair of you have had together, but the vulnerability is never easy. 

Never easy to ask for, never easy to give. Especially not when Jungkook is harbouring secrets that he knows would shatter the fortress walls he's built up around the pair of you. 

You're unaware of this as your hand creeps between your thighs, to where a mess is pooling in your panties. 

It annoys you just how eager you are for him. You wish you weren't; wish he had to work for it. The tips of your fingers push against your entrance, but it's all just for show - you've been wet since the moment he first messaged you that evening. 

You let your eyes fall to his crotch. It's strained, the pale denim doing an awful job at hiding how hard he is. He's been plump the entire journey home, but now that he's here - now that you're looking like that - he's solid.

He watches you, the way you move, the slight heave of your chest, and knows that you're down just as bad as he is. You wouldn't be on your knees if you weren't. In fact, you wouldn't be here, full stop.

You reach for his belt and set about getting to work immediately. His jeans are pushed to midway down his thighs, boxers following suit. The way his cock springs out of them, all fat and proud, has you salivating.

And so it's only fair that you take it in your mouth as soon as you can.

He reaches behind you and tweaks at the clasp of your bra. It loosens almost instantly, and you hum in approval of how easily he managed to do that. You let the straps slide down your arms, his cock still in your mouth as you toss it to the side.

"Between them," he instructs.

It's tempting to just do as he says. Irresistible, almost. You want him between your tits just as much as he wants to be there, but you want him more vocal. Want him begging. It's his own fault for getting you into such a submissive position. It's a flaw, the way you need to level the playing field, but one that he never fails to deliver on.

"C'mon, CC," he whispers, voice dulcet, trapped in his throat as he suppresses a moan. "Put my cock between your tits."

Your hands fall from the backs of his thighs to play with your breasts, your nipples hard and eager for him. Vibrating around his mouth as you moan, you're pleased with the grip he has on your hair. It tightens, and when he speaks, you're convinced his voice could make you cum alone, "I'm not gonna ask you again."

His cock takes a few more strokes of your hot mouth before you withdraw, stiff and flushed in front of you. He encourages you up so that you're sat on your knees, ass up instead of resting on your ankles as it had been. There's a string of your slick running from your heels to your pussy, the mess desperately seeping from you. Jungkook can't see it, isn't aware of it, so before you do anything, you dip two of your fingers between your folds to gather it up. He watches with laboured breaths.

You don't drop contact with his eyes, not even when they're trained on your fingers. He watches as you hold them up, glittering from the reflection of his fairy lights, before your tongue licks them clean. His cock jerks, the visual stimulation building his need to come undone by tenfold.

There's a little bit of your slickness still on your fingers when you pump his cock, once, twice, three times. 

"Sorry, baby," you toy with the term of endearment, the groan he exhales when you say it confirming that you need to call him sweet nothings more often. "Where did you want your cock, again?"

He's been avoiding touching your chest, not wanting to take control of the situation, but your shoulders roll back just a little, your soft mounds his for the taking. His grip drops from your hair, the tips of his fingers ghosting your chest. He runs them delicately across your stiff nipples, his touch so minimal that you feel yourself leak, pussy throbbing, desperate for more.

Resting perfectly between his index finger and thumb, your nipples are pulled ever so slightly, before he finally indulges himself and cups your tits like he so desperately wants to. He holds them together and wobbles them, obsessed with how soft they are. He edges closer, the tip of his cock nudging against your cleavage. There's a small trail of precum leaking from his tip, the sheen now coating your skin. "Right there."

Spit gathers and pools in your mouth, lips pouting as you let it drip onto your tits. Jungkook groans, his hips pushing his cock further onto your chest. You hold your tits apart, his leaking crown kissing your sternum before you angle him upwards. The soft, pillowy cushions press around his thick shaft, keeping him firmly in place.

"That's it, baby," he mewls as you spit again, this time onto the head of his cock. You drop your gaze and lower your head, tongue flat as it licks the tip, spreading your spit. His hips are jerking against you, his foreskin nestled in place, cock tugging against itself.

"Look at me," he says quietly, as dulcet as the atmosphere in his room. Your eyes meet his, as your hands firmly jiggle your cleavage. His mouth hangs ajar, brows knotted in such a way you think he looks like his mind is all tangled up. You're not wrong - he can't think straight like this. All he can think about is how much he wants to fuck you in every single capacity he can. "That's it."

You grin, but try to hide it. "You like my tits, huh?"

Jungkook wants to roll his eyes, and almost does - but then you spit again, the pace of your jiggling hands quickening, and he finds himself doubling over. 

"Fuck," he whines, completely undignified. Any strong, stable demeanour he has feigned is lost as his cock gets slippery, covered in your spit, being massaged by your tits. "Spit."

The momentum is retained, but it's getting sloppier. There's limited friction, your spit acting as the perfect lube for him to fuck your tits. He doesn't really know what to do with himself, how to withhold himself from spilling onto your chest, but he's all hot and bothered. He isn't gonna last long.

"Bed," he husks, pulling away from you, not even registering the fact he's helping you up. He just kind of does it, his mind entirely on where he wants to be. "On your back."

You do as you're told, your bare back hitting his freshly laundered duvet as your head nestles into his mountain of pillows. His legs straddle either side of your chest, movements frantic as he traps his cock between your tits once more. He's in control, the pace entirely set by him, his large hands gripping the flesh of your chest like he normally does your waist. 

"Shit," he hisses. "Fuckin' love your tits."

Your hands grip his ass, encouraging his movements, before one of them roams to toy with your clit. The change in your moans is noticed by Jungkook, who glances back to check you're doing what he thinks you are. Suspicions confirmed, he laughs. "Dirty bitch," he keens. "Love being owned by my cock, don't you?"

You pause, and Jungkook notices a look in your eyes. It's one he knows well; one he enjoys. Nonetheless, one that panics him when he's in such a compromising position, because it looks like you've just been challenged.

With a pathetic, pouty mewl, you push your fingers into yourself. It's quick, your fingers pumping frantically to build enough slickness on them to wipe the smirk off Jungkooks face.

The hand that's still on his ass squeezes, your nails indenting him ever so slightly. He hisses, a lopsided grin on his lips as he continues to fuck your chest - until the feeling of your soaked fingers stroking his taint has him stuttering.

You apply a little pressure, the pump of his cock slow between your tits. His breaths are laboured. It almost sounds like he gasping for air, unable to concentrate on anything but the sensation of you.

Brows furrowed, eyes wide, you pout. "Thought I was being owned by your cock, baby?" You tease him, and are met with him cursing you out, a saccharine smile on his lips.

"Fucking hate you," he laughs, abs shuddering as your fingers trails further up. They're stroking, caressing, toying - and they don't stop. Not until they reach the tight muscle of his that you're just dying to penetrate. He's silent now. Doesn't want to tell you that he wants it, but fuck it, he does. He pulls back, eyes on yours. There's a hint of a nod, but you're not gonna do anything too daring unless he explicitly asks for it.

Your soaked finger presses against him, cautious not to take it too far. You're still learning each other; what you both like, and you aren't sure where his limits lie.

"Yes? No?" you question, eyes earnest. His ass has never been explicitly discussed between the pair of you, but he also never ruled it out, either.

He's quiet, but smiles when he shakes his head. "Not yet, C. Another time, though."

"I'll hold you to that," you tease, curious about his desires. You wanna know all the ways you can get him off, and you think you'll be willing to do almost anything. In fact, you know you will. All he has to do is say the word, and your tongue will be wherever he wants it.

His eyes roll back, and so do his hips. "And I'll hold you to the offer."

It's a rarity, he's found, for girls to be so bold. He's always had to be the one to initiate his own pleasure, or to just finish quicker than he'd like because his partner was already done. He likes this about you. Likes that you like to fuck. Likes that you apparently, for whatever reason, seem to especially like fucking him.

It's thoughts like these - something about luck, fate - that plague his mind as he pushes his cock between your tits again. It's fast, and it's sloppy, and it's wet, and soon enough, he isn't thinking at all. All he can do is feel - your warmth, your softness - and then all he can feel is how fucking good it is to be with you.

When he comes, he comes hard. It hits your throat, coating you in everything he is. A moan catches in his throat, eyes closed, hands pushing your tits so tight together that it fucking hurts - but he's shaking, and you know that his orgasm has him unable to realise just how strong his grip is. 

It's not till he looks down at you, all breathless and blushed that he realises. There's a sheen on your chest, and he knows better than to dirty you all over again - but he's a creature of habit. His grip loosens, chest heaving as his hands begin to stroke at your tits. They fill his palms, overspill blooming between his spread fingers as he gently remedies them of his strength. It's unintentional, though not minded, how he spreads his cum as he does so. 

You try and keep a straight face, but it's impossible, and then you're both laughing. It echoes around his room like the missing instrument to the song in your stomach. You aren't really sure why you're laughing. Nor is he. You're just happy. The pair of you remain this way for a moment or so, casually enamoured with how easy things are; how easy they could be.

"C'mon, CC," he speaks fondly, but spanks your titty for the fun of it regardless. "Let's get you cleaned up."

There's a tender nature to the way Jungkook moves your body. So docile, he's a world away from the version of himself that you'd just had in his bed.

This Jungkook - the one gently pulling your hair back so it doesn't get too wet while you wait for the shower to fully heat up - is so well mannered that you couldn't imagine him cursing, let alone calling you a bitch during sex.

Something about it, about him, has you feeling far more infatuated than you should be at this stage.

You're not ready for all this. Not prepared for the way you're feeling. It scares you. Gets you wanting to grab the towel and make a swift exit - but then he kisses your neck, hands on your hips, chest pressed into your back, and you realise that there's no place you'd rather be.

He reaches out to check the temperature of the water that's steaming into his bathroom, and decides it's just right. It's not that the water is particularly hot, just that his bathroom is bloody freezing. 

Your reflection in his mirror is a vision of beauty; eyes trained on him, skin tainted by what would have been his legacy. Part of him doesn't want to wash it away. Just wants to marvel at you. Study the way your skin dimples and bumps when you're cold; then remembers that you can't cum when you're cold, so you probably aren't enjoying this as much as he is. He lifts the showerhead from its holder, and lets the water pour over you, and you alone.

The warmth has your shoulders easing almost instantly, and Jungkook feels a little guilty for having kept you cold so selfishly.

He's quiet as he rinses himself from you, contemplative dimples perching themselves beneath his cheeks. He barely utters a word for the entire shower; just peppers your shoulders in kisses.

It's not till you turn to face him, taking the showerhead from his hand and begin rinsing his body that he finally speaks up.

He takes a moment to study you first; watch the way your eyes glaze over his body, following the trajectory of the water, making sure you don't miss a single inch of his skin. Your lashes are dark, hiding your eyes from him, and he doesn't like it. Instinctively, his hands cup your jaw, bringing your eyes to his.

"Thank you."

His lips are on yours, soft, no pressure - and then they're not. They're trailing down your neck instead, as if he can't decide which part of you he wants to devour.

'All of you' is the correct answer, but he eats for pleasure, not for sustenance.

Easily, he could have you for everything that you are within a few seconds - but he wants to savour you. Wants to hear the way your breath hitches as his tongue flicks against your earlobe; feel your fingers dig into his scalp as he paws at your round ass. He wants the memory of your body in his hands, 'cause he fears you're like sand, and that his grasp won't be able to keep hold of you forever.

His bathroom is cramped, more like a wetroom, and the same grey tiles are on the walls that are on the floor. Shower attached to the sink, it's the standard for one-room apartments around these parts.

Yours is the same - but you do have the added luxury of boujie conditioners and loofas to soften the blow.

Jungkook has a 2-in-1 body wash and shampoo combo, and doesn't see the point in fancy scrubs when the labour of his job leaves his hands all rough anyway.

In your right mind, you'd moan about it. Tell him that he's such a boy, or that next time, he's coming to yours for a shower - but you're distracted by the hardness of his cock against your stomach and his hands cupping at your chest while he kisses you. The stream of water makes it borderline impossible to open your eyes, so you revel in the way it feels to be overwhelmed by everything he is.

"Again?" You mumble into his lips, to which you're met with a nod.

You slip your rings off and hear them clink against the porcelain of his sink, praying that your aim is correct and they won't end up down the drain. He hums a small purr of confusion, questioning your actions, and then groans an 'oh' into your mouth when your hand clasps around the base of his cock.

"Gentle," he reminds you, still sensitive but desperate for you once more.

His lips leave yours, head tilting back as he revels in your touch. Neither of you speak, but there's really not much to say. You'd just be making noise for the sake of it.

Regardless, there's a weight in your chest, clamping down on your lungs, that makes talking seem impossible. Might be trepidation. Might be nothing at all - but it sure does feel like something.

You marvel at the column of his thick neck as it stretches back, and think how pretty it would look covered in purple and pink, the bruise of your intimacy staining his skin just like it has done your heart.

Your movements pause when you realise you're thinking about your fucking heart. You're not sappy. You don't attribute sex to love, and the idea of even falling in love has you wanting to run for the hills.

It's been said before that the heart is just a muscle. It has no real bearing on your emotions, nor your amatory exploits.

But when the thoughts of your feelings cloud your mind with dainty pink vapours, all sparkly and strawberry scented, you can't help but feel like you're in danger.

In your chest, you can feel your heart ache.

So yeah, it is just a muscle, but muscles get worn out.

Jungkook notices your hesitation. He casts his eyes down to check you're okay. His crown rests against the wet tiles, water-saturated hair stuck to his face, lashes damp and lips all pouty. The man is a vision. Naked, bare, vulnerable. Yours for the taking, or so it seems. His eyes are heavy-lidded, deep brown; sweet as chocolate, sinful as straight whisky.

"You good?" He asks quietly, only for you to nod and pick the pace up again. His eyes stay on yours as a laboured grunt escapes his lips, brows pinching together. The way you feel around him is so good. Not too tight, just the way he likes it. Fingers all dainty, nails painted red, it's a sight he thinks about when he's alone more than he cares to admit. He's thick and hot in your grasp, working his foreskin up and down his shaft.

There are goosebumps on your skin, body positioned just out of the shower stream because you wanted to look at him; watch as you wound him up, just to make him unravel again. He pulls you closer, hands cupping your jaw as he kisses you, until you're beneath the water again.

His tongue is in your mouth as his hand drops to meet yours. So much larger than your own, his fingers clasp around yours and joins the effort, speeding up. He doesn't say anything else, but he's struggling to kiss you, now. His lips are ajar, resting against yours, little purrs of satisfaction finding a home on your tongue.

"Yeah?" You encourage a little breathlessly, as if you're the one moments away from ruin. "That's it, Kook."

He nods, as the hand that isn't on yours tangles in the back of your hair to keep you close. His hand works to increase the pace, making it a little rougher. There's a wetness between your legs that isn't from the shower, but you're too focused on him - on making him feel good, on being what he needs - to bother doing anything about it. He'll return the favour later, you're sure. He always does.

His grip on your hand loosens, leaving it up to you to finish the job. It only takes a second or two, and then you're milking him, thick white cum desecrating your hand and spurting into your stomach. There's not much, most of it spent on your chest earlier. He shudders, one of his legs a little more so than the other, his moans lost in the pitter-patter of the shower until they become nothing more than hot, heavy breaths.

And then, because quite frankly he doesn't know how to articulate how good, how fucking precious, how god damn infuriatingly beautiful you are, he kisses you again. Though his tongue is soft as it strokes against yours, his piercing is hard - much like his cock which is still firm against your stomach. He encourages your arms up and around his neck, hugging tightly. Your chest presses to his, nipples hard, tits pillowy and soft, and Jungkook swears he'll risk it all for you.

Thinks it would be worth it.

He'd do this wherever with you; in his crappy apartment, in a hotel he'll pay far too much for, in a derelict motel that hides you both when it inevitably becomes time to run.

Thing is, he knows you now. Knows you'll never run with him. Knows that when you find out, he'll never get to do this ever again. It makes him want to cry. Makes him wanna get on his knees and beg for forgiveness before you even know you're mad at him.

You don't forgive. You don't forget, either. You wouldn't be working in a shitty GS25 if you did. He knows this. Knows that as soon as the truth is out, so is he.

And so Jungkook lies. "Come to Busan with me."

Your noses are nestled together, and you can feel his words against your lips. The shower keeps on pouring, but it won't cleanse him of his sins. The water still runs red, even if you can't see it. 

"Busan?"

He nods, steals a kiss, and begins to build upon the weak foundations he's formed. "I gotta go visit home. Been putting it off. Think it'll be more bearable with you there."

You kiss him back. Partially because you want to, but mainly because you don't know what the fuck to say. Your heart rate has doubled. Trebled. In fact, you're not sure it's beating anymore.

Family isn't a subject either of you has divulged in, not really. You fear that him opening up requires reciprocation, and that's just not something you're willing to give. Not to him, nor anyone else for that matter.

"When?" You finally murmur, pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling away to slip your rings back onto your fingers.

He doesn't want you to meet his family. Doesn't want you anywhere near them - but when the time comes, he needs you to know why he ended up here. Needs you to know that everything he's done, rightfully or wrongfully, has been for them.

Doing right by them means doing wrong by you, but he didn't know you when all this started.

Didn't know that you're the type to point out every trash cat you see, or that you make up little songs to soundtrack almost everything you do (regardless of the fact you're tone-deaf). He didn't know that you drank peach tea like it's water, or that you'd somehow taste a little bit like it too. He didn't know that you'd become his favourite flavour, or that the scent of your perfume would have him hugging his fucking pillows for days after you slept over. 

He didn't know. 

Didn't fuckin' know.

And now he does. And it's tearing him apart.

He's a good liar, though, so you don't notice just how cut up he is when he shrugs and twists the shower tap off. He reaches around for the towel and begins to wrap you up when he says, "Next weekend?"

When he's like this - voice soft, skin bare, tucking the top of the towel over against your chest - it's like you've got the upper hand. There's no battle being fought between the pair of you, and yet you don't feel like equals. Feels like the balls in your court. You just don't realise you're playing different games.

There's pitter-patter beneath your feet and a chime in your stomach. You shuffle between his feet, his arms wrapped around you, lips pressing a kiss against your hair.

"I'll have to check the rota," you say, but you know you'll just ask Yoongi to swap shifts if you are scheduled on. "But I haven't been to Busan in a while. I'd like to come."

His eyes are hot as he presses them shut, chin resting on your head. You think the stutter in his chest is just a hiccup, so you smile. Without the sound of the shower, he can hear his phone buzzing, vibrating on his desk in the next room over.

"Gotta get that," he says, squeezing you before loosening his grip and reaching for a small towel that barely covers his ass. The air is cold against his skin as he opens the bathroom door. Steam gushes out of the room, and so does the hazy, cum-drunk atmosphere the pair of you had created. You miss it the second your skin begins to pebble, goosebumps chilling you, the hair on your arms stood up on end. Almost like someone's walking over your grave.

Maybe just leading you to an early one. Either, or.

You hear him as he mumbles on the phone - "Jin. Yeah? What's up? Cool, can do." - but ignore it. Steam has fogged up the mirror, creating a cloudy canvas for you to do your worst upon. It's childish, yes, but nothing stops you from drawing a little something on there to remind him of you next time he showers.

An uneasy weight sits on your chest when you look at what you've done. It's nothing bad, but part of you thinks you'll regret it - but that part of you is silent when he calls through for you. 

When you emerge a few moments later, you're casual as you ask him who was on the other end of the line. He says 'a friend,' and then clarifies that it's 'one of the boys' because he doesn't want you to think the worst. It's an answer you accept.

Dropping the towel, you're unbothered by his eyes as you spend a few moments naked. You're just reaching for his shirt, but the way you move, how your muscles flex above your bones, but the soft flesh of your curves moves without your control has him feeling all kinds of fucked up. He's never wanted anyone more; never known that it was possible to feel such a way. 

He tells himself it's just hormones. He's fucking empty, entirely spent on you. That's gotta be the reason. Some kind of primal desire type thing. 

Even he's shocked when he begins to talk.

"You can't ever leave."

It's barely a whisper, his voice small, though the weight of his words is so incredibly large. 

"Need you here forever."

It's the way that Jungkook talks in such certain terms that has the chime in your stomach ringing again. 

You're sure he must have broken a thousand hearts with words like that. You wonder if there are still girls across the city pining after him, thinking about the way his breath feels on their skin as he fucks himself into them. Wonder if the fondness in his eyes is because of you, or because he's just riding a post-climax endorphin high.

"You don't mean that," you tell him, because you don't believe he does.

He shakes his head. Senses the challenge in your voice, and smiles. "You think I'm lying?"

"Think you haven't reached post-nut clarity, yet."

"You'll have to fuck me again, then. Third time lucky."

The third time comes in the morning. 

It's still dark outside, Jungkook waking you with dainty kisses along your shoulders, his hands pawing at your tits.

"Morning," he husks into your neck when your hand goes to join his on your chest. "Dreamt about you."

"You are so full of shit," you laugh.

Truth be told, he didn't really sleep. Looked at you for far too long. It's borderline creepy, he thinks, how utterly obsessed he is. Part of him doesn't understand it, but the rest of him does. 

You're forbidden. 

He can't help but want you. 

Jungkook may be Adam, but you're no Eve. You're that damn snake. Or maybe you're the fruit. He doesn't know at this point; just knows that he's eaten it, and he's pretty sure it's poisonous.

"Am not," he grins, riding that poison high. "What did you dream about?"

He's repulsed he's even asking such a thing.

"Can't remember," you pout, turning to face him. Dreams always elude you. It's frustrating, but at least you're not having nightmares. "What about you? What were we doing? Where did we go?"

Just like him, the fact you're asking him questions like that has you wanting to die.

"Busan."

It's not a lie this time. He isn't looking at you, though, so you half think it is. 

He's just focused on the hand of his that's toying with your hair, pushing strands away from your face. The only reason he isn't looking at you is because he's embarrassed. 

"Busan?" You ask, reminded of his proposition from the night before.

"Mhmm," he nods, his hair no doubt tangling against the pillow. "You 'n' me."

Again, you don't know if it's a lie, but oh what a beautiful one it would be.

"We were on the beach," he continues. "Not really doing much. Just sort of existing."  

You laugh, eyes fond but away from his. You're looking at his hair now, too, playing with it. Mirroring his actions. Reciprocating. "Existing?"

"Existing," he says, refusing to clarify. You're distracted when you notice the way his smile brightens. No longer contemplative, he's got a dimple that only comes out when he's beaming all big and bashfully. "I like existing with you."

And so exist you do, in his bed for the next hour and a half. There's no talk of any substance and yet you're chattering for the entire time. He barely even kisses you. Just wants to hear you talk. Wants to hear your perspective on the world, and all the assumptions you make about it.

Jungkook's duvet is shitty quality. The heat it traps is minimal, but you'd take a morning beneath his sheets in the height of winter over being back at your place any day. 

It's thoughts like these that make your feet itchy. Makes you wanna run. Bolt. Head for the hills and never look back - but you're locked in place by his arm over your torso. Faint light pours in through the clouded glass of his window panes, curtains apparently too much of a luxury despite the holes in the wall where a rail once sat, and you study the dark ink marking his skin. 

There's a story to be told from reading his arms, but you haven't figured that out yet. No google search of his name could ever match the lore embedded in his skin. The tips of your glossy red nails trace the lines in awe, wondering how many people have had this luxury before you.

You wonder who sat by his side during the tattoo appointments, and who laughed with fondness as he winced in pain. Whose hand did he hold? Whose suggestions did he listen to for placements? It plagues your mind like a disease, turning the rubies in your veins to emeralds. 

Who are you, you think to yourself. And why am I feeling like this?

It's only a matter of a time - a few languid movements and a couple affirmations later - until he's fucking himself into you again. Predictable, really. Money would be wasted on a fortune teller, and yet you want to go and see one anyway just to confirm whether or not you get to keep him forever. 

Lazy and slow, the sex is just an accompaniment to the way he's kissing you. His cock is thick and deep as it fills you, but his hips are sluggish and tepid.

It's almost laughable that the sex is an afterthought. 

By its basic definition Jungkook is fucking you - but he's fucked you enough times for you to know how likes to conduct his lays. Quick, fast, to the point. Finish line in his sights.

This doesn't feel like that. 

It doesn't feel like that at all.

Even the way his kisses you as his cock stiffens and pulses, unloading itself into you isn't familiar. It's short, his stamina not back up to his usual performance, but it's so deep you think it might be fatal. Any chance you had of getting your heart out of this alive? Yeah. Good luck.

He groans into your mouth, tells you how good you feel, and presses his lips so tightly shut that it's almost as if he's scared he'll never kiss you again.

It's interesting, the way that Jungkook doesn't make you cum. Sure, the sex is good. You've enjoyed it all - but you're currently on 3-0. You chalk it up to a lack of realisation. Innocent inconsideration. 

See, his words may betray him, but he's trying to be better. Trying not to drag you further into the web of lies he's woven around the pair of you. Issue is, you've mistaken it for silk. You're comfortable. Enjoy where you are.

He thinks it doesn't count; thinks that if he's the only one who finishes, then you won't be falling for him in the way that he hears girls do. Jimin had ribbed him for it after he'd fucked Naejeon; told him that the reason she was so into him was to do with the oxytocin cocktail that had flooded her bloodstream. It's not like it was news to Jungkook. He'd always known it was a thing, he'd just never really seen the impact of it quite so severely.

The way he see's it, the less you cum, the less you care. It's flawed logic, and it leaves him feeling guilty, which is why he blurts out dumb shit about wanting you around forever. Might be true, might not be. Maybe he's the one confusing hormones for heartfelt honesty. 

But as you watch him tear himself away from the bed and head towards the shower, you realise that none of it matters. 

You've been hearing bells since the moment you met him.

They're so loud they drown out the bullshit.

"You coming, C?" He calls through, as the shower begins to splutter into action in the next room over. He appears in the doorway, a tattooed hand cupping his balls and covering his modesty. His eyes are soft, grin lopsided as the sun rises. 

It's beyond your choice as you move towards the sound of his voice, like he's some kind of pied piper.

You know he's taken over you. 

Yet still, you follow the sound of the pipe.

And whether you like it or not, you know you'll let him drag you to the river, just for him to watch you drown.

────────────

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

[chloe-caulfield94]

The theme of finding confidence in Life is Strange S1

An important theme of Season 1 is learning to find one’s strength and confidence. Before being reunited with Chloe, Max struggled with self-doubt, lack of confidence and propensity to constantly second-guess herself. She was so unsure of her worth that she couldn’t even submit a photograph for a silly school contest, choosing to rip it up instead of putting a part of herself up for others to see (and judge).

That dreadful feeling of inadequacy impacted all facets of Max’s life. The reactions Max’s classmates have when she chats them up in Episode 1 show that over a month into the school year, her self-doubt and lack of confidence prevented her from making any serious social headways.

Juliet: “You never talk. Just zone out with your camera”.

Dana: “Max, you’re smart to be a loner here”.

Stella: “Hey, I know you. You're the new quiet girl in Jefferson’s class”.

How is it even possible that the same girl, scared of taking part in school contests and with a reputation for being a quiet loner, barely four days later told a serial killer to “eat shit and die” while bound in his torture chamber, before driving a stolen car through a hurricane?

What happened to her in the meantime? Or rather WHO happened to her in the meantime?

Throughout the week, on multiple occasions Chloe gave Max exactly the sort of life advice she needed to hear.

Chloe: “It’s time to start moving forward in time”.

Chloe: “Stop being so goddamn humble. You're like the smartest, most talented person I've ever known”.

Chloe: “Once you get over yourself, you're going to make the world bow”.

Max: “I can’t even submit my photo to represent. I just don’t want to be rejected”.

Chloe: “Every great artist gets rejected before they get accepted. So you have to enter a photo”.

Max: “I’d rather be a good photographer”.

Chloe: “You are! You just have to stop being afraid”.

Chloe: “You're kind and caring. Nobody could have a better best friend. Nobody!”

Chloe: “You need to accept how awesome you are”.

Chloe: “Stop beating yourself up, okay?”

Chloe: “You're Maxine Caulfield ... and you're amazing!”

Chloe’s advice was simple and straightforward, but that doesn’t make it any less helpful, wise or heartfelt. And the constant affirmation and praise must’ve been like manna from the heavens for someone struggling with feelings of inadequacy and self-doubt.

And Max was perfectly aware it was Chloe who had this profoundly positive influence on her life, filling her with courage and confidence, giving her the strength to fight her self-doubt.

Max: “As long as we’re together, I don’t feel afraid”.

Max: “As long as you’re there with me”.

Max: “I always wanted my life to be special, an adventure. But not without you!”

Max: “Your life has changed mine”.

On the 11th of October 2013 Max’s newly-found confidence was hanging in the balance. When she collapsed from exhaustion at the beach, the part of her mind containing her self-doubt and self-loathing struggled to regain control. Max’s nightmare is just that – her guilt, fear, resentment, low self-esteem and self-doubt fighting to overpower her mind. Those negative emotions are personified by the character of “Other Max”. Max’s nightmare is designed to make her second-guess all her choices, efforts and sacrifices.

Did I do the right thing? Is she worth all that? Does she really care about me? Would anyone ever want to be my friend if I didn’t have my power?

Max: “I only wanted to do the right thing”.

Other Max: “No, you only wanted to be popular! And once you got these amazing powers, your big plan was to trick people into thinking you give a rat’s ass”.

Other Max: “You were just looking for a shortcut, because you can’t make friends on your own”.

Other Max: “You fucked up time and space for your precious punk Chloe. You think she’s worth all that?”

Max: “Of course! She’s my best friend!”

Max: “This has to be my destiny to save her!”

Other Max: “Chloe trapped you with her drama”.

Other Max: “She’s just using you, dude”.

Other Max: “Do you really think she has any feelings for us?”

Life is Strange Season 1 is the story of Max Caulfield. Her quest to find her strength, confidence and courage. She does find it all in her. The question is, will she hang onto it, or will she throw it away?

By tearing up the butterfly photograph, Max conquers her fears and doubts. She refuses to be ruled by guilt. She holds on to her newly-found confidence. She accepts the consequences of her actions. She asserts she chose the best she could at every turn. She destroys the means to go back to the past, choosing instead to move forward in time.

By using the photograph to go back to Monday and to erase the entire week, Max capitulates before her self-doubt. She proves the “Other Max” right. She lets the darkest part of her mind dominate her. She chooses fear and doubt over confidence. She lets herself be ruled by guilt. She doubts the sincerity of her own motives, so she wants to take back everything she’s done in the past five days, unable to live with the consequences.

Max’s nightmare proves that Max is aware that it was her friendship with Chloe and her desire to save Chloe’s life which filled her with the strength and courage to move forward. When Max crosses the nightmare version of the junkyard, the only safe haven is a portion of Chloe’s hideout. The code Max has to input to escape is Chloe’s birthday – March the 11th. Max’s nightmare stops when Chloe shows up in the warped version of the Two Whales. In contrast to the warped vision of the world in Max’s nightmare, her memories of Chloe, which she goes through before waking up at the lighthouse, are pure. Unedited. Just the way they happened. There’s no anger, resentment and guilt when she goes through the memories of all the moments she shared with Chloe.

Look at the way Max behaves in both endings. Look at the utmost confidence on her face, in her gestures and in her voice when she refuses to sacrifice Chloe and destroys the photograph.

Chloe: “It’s time!”

Bae Max: “Not anymore!”

Contrast that with Max’s stammered “I don't want to do this” followed by crying, cowering in the corner, unable to look at the consequences of her actions even for a second should she choose to sacrifice Chloe.

Bay Max: “Chloe … I’m so, so sorry! I don’t want to do this!”

“Not anymore” versus “I don’t want to do this”. Standing tall versus cowering in fear.

I think it’s abundantly clear in which of the two endings Max succeeds in her quest to overcome her fears and doubts and to find courage and confidence and in which she fails, going back to ground zero not only in the emotional, but even in the physical sense.

You could attempt to argue that Max sacrificing her best friend would also be proof of Max having found her strength. But that would be completely missing the point. Max wasn’t looking for some misconstrued “strength” to be able to do anything, including taking a life, for “the greater good”. At no point Max tried to become a “hero” especially one who would ever say that “the hardest choices require the strongest wills”.

Max sought the strength to stop second-guessing every choice she made. Throughout the game we see Max’s propensity to do so. After every major choice, she begins to second-guess it, wondering if she did the right thing. But second-guessing yourself is no way to walk through life. The only thing you can demand from yourself is to always make the best decisions based on the information available to you at the time. Agonizing over your past choices in hindsight, based on information you couldn’t have known at the time, can only accomplish one thing – causing you torment and grief.

Based on the information available to Max on Monday, saving Chloe’s life was undisputably the right, good thing to do. It doesn’t matter that Max deduced on Friday saving Chloe’s life somehow set the Storm in motion. Because that information was impossible for Max to know on Monday, when the choice was made. And you can’t judge your actions, or the actions of others, based on information that was impossible to know when the action was undertaken. Max did the right thing by saving Chloe’s life on Monday. It would be wrong to take back that good deed. Taking back something good is an act of evil.

By tearing up the butterfly photograph, Max proves she learnt to stop second-guessing herself. That she learnt she can’t keep tormenting herself over her past choices based on information that was unavailable to her at the time.

By sacrificing Chloe Max proves that she will never stop second-guessing her choices. Not even for someone who is her “number one priority, the only thing that matters to her”. She will keep agonizing over every choice she makes. She will remain the quiet, zoned out loner, afraid of taking part in a silly school competition. It will prevent her from ever achieving anything.

Keep in mind, in the sacrifice Chloe ending, Max has zero input in the apprehension of Jefferson and Nathan. Her investigation is rendered pointless. Nathan is arrested on the scene of Chloe’s murder and immediately squeals on Jefferson, to get a better deal. They are both arrested on Monday. Max only regains her memories of the erased week on Friday, standing over Chloe’s coffin. Four days after Jefferson’s and Nathan’s arrest and the discovery of the Dark Room by the police. Kate’s life is saved because after the discovery of the Dark Room she is identified as one of the victims and provided with help. In the sacrifice Chloe ending Max’s role is reduced to sitting idly by while her friend is murdered. And that’s it. She does nothing else. She helps no one and she solves nothing. She has no role to play. She goes back to square one – being so crippled with self-doubt that she has no ability to affect the world around her. She remains so afraid of the consequences of her actions that it prevents her from accomplishing anything. In the sacrifice Chloe ending, the only thing resulting from the entire ordeal Max went through are her memories of the five days she spent with Chloe. The memories that nobody else, not even Chloe lying in a pool of her own blood with a bullet in her heart, remembers. The fact that in the sacrifice Chloe ending the only thing Max gains are a few memories she cannot even share with anyone, because she would be institutionalized if she did, shows that in that ending Max remains inwardly focused, closed off from the world. She remains unable to break out of her shell and interact with the real world, choosing to remain in the world of memories and fantasies.

[arlathvhenan]

What Exactly Is Fen’Harel?

Something I think about a lot is a quote from Weekes about their writing process, particularly when it comes to twists and foreshadowing. It basically went like this:

“The best twist is one that was staring you in the face the whole time.”

Pretty much every thing we know about Solas so far—his dialogue, his abilities, his knowledge of The Fade and Spirits, that Fen’Harel’s ‘natural home’ is said to be The Fade, Cole’s comments about him, his relationship with Cole in general, that he values Wisdom above all else—points to the fact that he was most likely a Spirit once.

All of that has been staring us in the face. But that’s not the end of it. Because do you know what else has been staring us in the face.

A big ass mutant wolf monster with six eyes.

I’ve spoken on my old blog about this theory, but I think it’s pretty damn likely that Solas is a Demon. We got a lot of new information in Inquisition about what Demons really are and how they become demons.

There’s Cole, who was a Spirit of Compassion until a deeply traumatic experience warped him into a wrong version of himself.

Then of course there was the Spirit from Faded For Her. That was a Wisdom Spirit which, like Cole, became a demon when something so horrific and awful happened to it and left it broken. That’s when it became a demon.

Again, regardless of your feelings towards the character, you can’t deny that Solas isn’t supremely fucked up on the inside by literal centuries of trauma and pain. There’s no telling what the catalyst was, but at some point very long ago, something broke him so profoundly that it left him fundamentally changed, and that’s when he became what he is now, or at the very least it’s where the change began.

That brings me back to Faded For Her. You may or may not already know, but the full title of Solas’ personal quest is an anagram of ‘Dreadwolf Fen’Harel.’ Considering Weekes loves them some foreshadowing—and is damn good at it—I think it was more than just a cheeky Easter egg. Maybe this is reaching by I think Faded For Her doesn’t just points to his identity as Fen’Harel, I think it may be the story of how he became Fen’Harel.

If that’s the case than his story essentially goes like this:

In ancient times, there was an exceptionally powerful Spirit of Wisdom. One day that Spirit was summoned and bound by someone who commanded it to do things that so traumatized it, it was corrupted into a Demon. When corrupted, Spirits of Wisdom become Pride Demons, and so this event is when the Spirit took the name Solas—literally the Elvhen word for Pride.

All of this took place long before the Veil. We know that The Evanuris were not gods, but mages who rose to the status of godhood after victory in some monumental war. This was likely the war with The Forgotten Ones.

We don’t know much about The Forgotten Ones, but there’s been fragments of information that form the outline of an interesting picture:

1–They we’re opposed and eventually defeated by The Evanuris

2–Fan’Harel is included among the ranks of both The Evanuris and The Forgotten Ones.

3–There are exactly eight Evanuris if you exclude Fen’Harel, and exactly eight Forgotten Ones if you include him.

4–The tale ‘Fen’Harel And The Tree’ features The Forgotten One called Anaris, who wants revenge for some kind of betrayal.

So with all this in mind, let’s look at Fen’Harel’s story again:

He was one of The Forgotten Ones, a pantheon that predated The Evanuris. These Forgotten Ones were ancient and powerful Spirits who ruled over and protected The Fade. When The Evanuris waged war on them, one of them summoned the spirit who would later become Fen’Harel, enslaved him, and forced him to betray his own kind. His people. He was given a rank among their armies and told to destroy everyone and everything he’d once existed to protect. This was the great trauma that twisted him into the demonic figure known as Fen’Harel.

Solas doesn’t consider himself to have much in common with The Elves because he never truly was one. He doesn’t consider them his people because they aren’t. And he isn’t trying to restore their world, because that isn’t the one worth saving.

His people are Spirits, and it’s their world he means to restore. The world of his time wasn’t Arlathan or Elvhenan or anything the Elves built. Their world was Thedas—all of Thedas—before the Veil split it in two.

[onedaughterofman]

That classic "getting sold to" fic (Papa Emeritus IV x g/n reader)

Summary: You get kidnapped and sold to a band. No, not One Direction. Ghost.

A/N: LISTEN. You know when you're struggling with writers block and decide to write something really weird and dumb to try to fix it? This is that fic. It's humor, it's satire, it's not meant to be taken seriously. Please, don't laugh at me on Tiktok, Reddit or any other place.

However, you can laugh at me on Tumblr. That's it.

“Can I, uh, help you?”

The man standing right in front of you seems uncomfortable, maybe even more than you. He’s odd, that’s all you can conclude. The way he’s dressed in sport clothes doesn’t match the intricate, gothic design of the place that surrounds you.

Hell, you’re even certain there’s some sort of private cemetery to your right. “I…” You begin, shifting the weight from one foot to the other. “Where am I?”

“The Ministry?”

That reveals nothing. You huff softly, chewing on your lip as your eyes inspect the building. It’s ancient, the decoration is questionable and the air is cold, so frigid. Apparently, you’re in some sort of church, somewhere far away from home.

Great. Getting kidnapped and sold was bad, but being trapped in a place like this with a man like him is beginning to be worse. He’s clearly nervous, fidgeting with his gloves and looking anywhere but your eyes. This man looks like he’d rather be anyplace but here, and you agree.

Still, why is he so uneasy, if he’s the one who bought you?

“Bought you?” The man takes a step back, brows creating a deep furrow on his forehead. He’s confused, almost half tempted to slam the door in your face and just go hide back inside the Ministry. “I didn’t buy anything. I think so. Did I?”

“Listen, I don’t know. I barely heard my kidnappers talking about someone buying me in the auction and then I was left here at your door. That’s all.”

This time, the man sighs profoundly. The air exits his lungs slowly, causing a cloud of condensation to form. Fuck, it’s so cold outside you almost wish he would let you in. Rubbing your arms does little to warm you up, and it sucks the kidnappers didn't give you at least a few minutes to grab a coat.

Listening to your silent prayers, he steps aside. “Dai, entra.”

The hallways are long and empty, and the windows are made of stained glass. Overall, the building in beautiful, but you can’t allow yourself to enjoy it. These past weeks have been crazy, to say at least. Another legitimate impending reason to go to therapy, probably.

Following this strange man through the halls, you finally reach an open space. There are more people there, either sitting on the couch or standing by the bar counter.

Oh, well, they have their own private bar. This church is not as bad as you initially thought. Except maybe this isn’t a church. Everybody is wearing some kind of bizarre mask, completely concealing their faces. Is this a cult?

Great, you were sold to a cult.

“Who did this?” Your companion asks, stopping in the middle of the room. A couple of heads turn to stare at you, but no one speaks up. The man insists, voice in a commanding tone, until he obtains an answer.

“Did what?”

“This…” He hesitates, pointing in your general direction as if he’s only just now realizing he never asked for a name. “This person says they were sold to us. Does anybody know anything?”

For a long moment, no one mentions anything. Then, slowly, a few fingers rise to point at what you determine is a man. He remains silent, only shrugging his shoulders when the stares become extraordinarily intense.

“What? So that’s all it was? A regular human?”

The silence is deafening. If it possessed any weight, you’d be crushed into the ground. Yet, no one seems to be genuinely surprised, as if this wasn’t the first time something like this has happened.

Honestly, you don’t really want to know.

“I thought it was something more interesting. They really hyped it up during the auction.” The man stands up, long hair falling around the mask. He begins walking away, putting as much space between himself and the two of you as he can without leaving the room.

“You bought a person on the dark web?”

A few laughs reverb against the walls before getting lost in the long halls. Sadly, the man next to you is not as amused as the rest. “You little devil!” He yells, causing you to flinch. “What did I say about online shopping?!”

“You never let me do shit.”

The screaming match attracts even more people. At this point, you wish to shrink and disappear somewhere small and dark. An old woman walks in, followed close by an even older man who looks like he could have been buried outside a few minutes ago. He smiles upon seeing you, waving a hand as a salute, and you find yourself returning the wave.

Shit. These people are bizarre. Maybe this is all a drug induced dream, a hallucination.

No, no way. Your imagination is not this good.

Pupils locked on the ground, you allow the voices to become nothing but background noise. From the corner of your eyes, you see how some of the masked ones begin to get closer, in an attempt to get a good look at you, but you ignore them.

"Where's that website? Is there a return policy? Can we get the money back?" The woman yells, arms wildly gesticulating towards you.

"Seestor, we're talking about a person."

"And I'm talking business. That was hard earned money. We'll have to cut costs if we can't get it back. No more fancy robes, pizza nights or theme orgies. And say goodbye to the heating system."

Theme orgies?

What is this place?

"But we're freezing in here! We'll die from the cold before the worst part of winter arrives!"

"Great. You'll be warm when you're burning in Hell."

Step after step, you back away until your back hits something firm. The bar counter lays behind, now completely devoid of people. Without an invitation, you sit in one of the stools, wondering if it would be terribly challenging to simply sprint out of this place. You don’t think they will chase you but then, where will you go? You’re not even sure where you are.

A hand appears in your line of vision. The man who opened the door for you is behind the counter, leaning on the surface with a strained, polite smile on his lips. “So… What do you want to do?” He asks, waving an arm to gesture at the bottles.“Do you want a drink? Are you old enough to drink?”

“I’m an adult.” You reply, letting your head fall on the wood. This can’t get worse.

“Vabbè. Red wine?”

“It’s ten in the morning.”

“Oh, right. Let’s get white wine, then.”

The wine is cold and fragrant. Your fingers toy with the cup, twirling the liquid inside. This is good, probably one of the best drinks you have had in a while. It makes you want to strike a conversation. “What’s your name?”

The question takes the man by surprise. He takes a big sip of his wine before replying. “Cardinal,” he states, but then shakes his head. “No. Uh, Papa?”

Papa?

"I'm not calling you that."

“Not like that! I mean, you can call me Cardi C?”

This time, it’s impossible not to let out a chuckle. You try hiding it behind the palm of your hand, but he sees right through it. “Cardi C? Like the rapper?”

“No.” A gloved hand runs through his hair, fixing a few strands of hair. “Copia. My name is Copia.”

“Are you sure?”

“I hope so. Do you have a name, or do you want one?”

“I already have one, thank you.”

“Si, right. Sorry.”

Copia seems even more uncomfortable than before. Gulping the last of his wine, he sets the cup back on the counter before gathering a deep breath. A part of you feels sorry for him, because he’s obviously awkward and anxious, clearly not too used to interacting with people outside this place.

It’s endearing. He’s a bit cute, too, in a rat kind of way.

Or not. The alcohol must be starting to affect you, considering the fact you haven’t had anything substantial to eat in a while. Upon noticing your stare fixed on his face, Copia swallows hard before focusing his gaze on the wall.

Okay, yes. He’s attractive. You can’t continue with your train of thoughts, because suddenly a woman appears next to you. The severe look on her face is practically impossible to decipher.

“Sister, we can’t let them go alone. They already got kidnapped once,” Copia pleads. His eyes are big and round on his face, and it should be illegal for a grown man to look like that.

Sister is not immune to it, but she stands her ground, nevertheless. “Well, we can’t keep them. There are no even tax benefits from having them here.”

“I’m pretty sure we can find them something to do. At least for a bit? Please?”

There is that pleading look, again. Sister tries resisting it to the best of her abilities, but then she gathers a deep breath before nodding. “Primo said he required help with the garden. Do you know anything about gardening?“

Behind her back, you see how Copia nods his head, in an attempt to urge you to agree. “Yes?”

“Great. They can stay, at least until we discover how to send them back home.”

Without sparing any more words, Sister and the older man disappear through the door. Your fingers uncurl from the cup, ultimately placing it on the wooden counter. Copia pours a bit more of wine, that you accept eagerly.

Fuck. It’s been a long day, but it’s not even noon.

"Thank you,“ you whisper, barely audible over the mumbling from outside the room. ”For a moment I thought I was going to get used as a human sacrifice."

Swaying his head, Copia hurries to reply. "Oh, no. Do you have an idea how hard it is to clean liters and liters of blood off the white stone walls? And the smell, hell, it impregnates everything. Mixing aceto and bicarbonato di sodio helps a bit, but it certainly doesn't do miracles."

This time, the silence is louder than before. Your eyes are big, lids completely open. He detects the sudden change in your demeanor, but doesn’t show any indication of his words being a joke.

"Don't ask me how I know all that." It’s all he mutters, before gulping another sip of wine. “Anyway, the gardening. I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

“I can’t guarantee I’ll be of much help.”

“Don’t worry. Everything Primo touches dies, ” Copia comments. He looks in your direction, deep in thoughts. Then, his shoulders shrug. “Wear long sleeves and gloves, just in case.”

Aw, fuck.

Ps: take this as an apology for the angsty Antichrist Copia fic I updated yesterday. If you are struggling with writers block, give up your desire of perfection and write something dumb like this. It helps.

[asamis-jodhpurs]

Please tell me about your most chaotic D&D fic!

Okay this isn't a WIP it's fully complete and has been for three years but it is the most chaotic.

I'm going to have to read more this good god the amount of context I have to provide christ alive. I looked at this ask and I went I could like vaguely speedily sum this up or could make this a Whole Thing and it's a Friday night and I've had wine so I will be providing Full Context.

So. It was like a month after I'd graduated college, dem was like six sessions into running our Curse of Strahd campaign, and in Curse of Strahd there is an insane starving vampire spawn boy in the basement of the church in Barovia Village who you're typically intended to mercy-kill in the first act. His official character art looks like this:

However, because she is a genius and the most gifted woman on planet earth, dem went, "That priest's son who is going through it is my new comfort character. He's trans now and has a Cloud-Strife-esque desperate desire to prove himself on a grand scale that manifests as him trying to be cool and disaffected and also he has the worst ideas on god's green earth and is absolutely primed to become religiously obsessed with the first buff girl with a sword and traumatic mental illness who shows him kindness."

And well. I played Bath, a buff girl with a sword and traumatic mental illness who showed him kindness (also all art in this post that is not the official art above is dem's). The two of them were nice to one another for the span of a couple seconds and were doomed more or less instantly to mutual devoted weird obsession forever:

Dem and I would go on to spend an extremely funny year pretending that Bath and Doru (and that me and dem) were not wildly and embarrassingly in love. Bribe the Officials, Kill All the Judges was written very early in that year.

So in the sixth session of our campaign, we decided to break into Ravenloft with Doru (see above re: worst decisions on God's green earth) and steal a bunch of Strahd's stuff, unaware of the fact that dem was planning to gut-punch us with the canonical rule that vampires can control their spawn. Meaning Strahd could Ella Enchanted force Doru to walk away from the screaming, protesting, ugly-sobbing party and keep him prisoner before throwing the still screaming, protesting, and ugly-sobbing party out on his doorstep, leaving Doru to an uncertain fate that was definitely going to suck really profoundly:

So.

Rather than confront the agony of not knowing what was going to happen to mine and my paladin girl's favorite little graph paper guy for five months, I sat down with multiple tabs open with an encounter balancer and notes on the abilities all our party members would have at higher levels, and I said:

And I wrote 36 single-spaced pages in a week about how we could plausibly rescue our boy from the clutches of evil, featuring a full bossfight, fifth-level Wall of Force, and so, so much hugging and crying.

It is the only time in my life I have ever written fix-it fic, and it was for a narrative that was not finished and that me and my friends had total control over, and I felt like I had a fever the entire time I was writing it.

Anyway like a year after I shared it in the Discord I brought it up casually in a voicecall with dem and she laughed and said, "God, you're fucking insane, I love you."

It was the first time she said that. ☺️