#you have something that belongs to me | references
Note
How do you analyze so good I'm really impressed and honestly wonder if I can learn from you
It's a skill, so the good news is, you can practice and get better at it!
Read A Lot/Gain Context
Analysis often means making comparisons or drawing from external context - one of the best things you can do if you want to be better at analysis is to try to cram your head with as much knowledge as possible. The time period, culture of origin, and where the author slots into those are usually major influences on a work (in Homestuck's case, much of it is a direct commentary on the internet culture it emerged from, and missing that part of it can drastically influence how the story reads).
Also important are the works the author themselves are inspired by. You've likely heard some variation of "nothing is original." We're actually really lucky with Homestuck in that regard, as the work is highly referential, and you can glean a lot by looking at what it references (for example, if you watch Serendipity, one of Karkat's favorite movies, which is titledropped during the troll romance explanation, you will understand Karkat so much better). This applies to things like mythological allusions - you'll hardly know why it matters that Karkat is a Christ figure if you don't know what the general outline of the Christ story is, nor will you pick up on the Rapture elements of Gamzee's religion or the fact that Doc Scratch is The Devil, etc. The key to picking up a lot of symbolism is being aware that the symbols exist.
And last, it helps to read a lot of media and media analysis so you can get a better understanding of how media "works" - how tropes are used, what effect language has, what other entries into the genre/works with similar themes/etc. have already done to explore the same things as the piece being analyzed is doing - and what other people have already gleaned and interpreted. I've mentioned before that many people seem to find Homestuck's storytelling bizarre and unique when it's actually quite standard for postmodernism, the genre it belongs to. But you're not going to know that if you've never read anything postmodern, y'know? I also often prepare for long character essays by reading other peoples' character essays - sometimes people pick up on things I miss, and sometimes people have interpretations I vehemently disagree with; both of these help me to refine my take on the matter.
Try to Discard Biases/Meet the Work Where It Is
Many will carry into reading media an expectation of what they want to get out of it. For example, one generally goes into a standard hetero romance book expecting a female lead, a male love interest, romance (of course), and a happy ending for the happy couple. If the book fails to deliver these things, a reader will often walk away thinking it was a bad book, even if the story told instead is objectively good and interesting. We actually see this a lot with Wuthering Heights, which receives very polarizing reviews because people go into it expecting a gothic romance, when it's really more like a gossip Youtube video spilling the tea on some shitty rich people (and it's really good at being that).
There's nothing necessarily wrong with this when reading for pleasure and personal enjoyment, but it presents a problem when attempting to analyze something. There's a concept called the "Procrustean bed," named after a mythological bandit who used to stretch people or cut off their limbs to fit them to a bed, that describes "an arbitrary standard to which exact conformity is forced." Going into a media reading with expectations and biases often results in a very Procrustean reading - I'm sure we've all seen posts complaining about how fanfic often forces canon characters to fit certain archetypes while discarding their actual character traits, etc.
Therefore, when reading for analysis, it's generally a good idea to try and discard as much bias and expectation as possible (obviously, we are never fully free of bias, but the effort counts) - or, perhaps even better, to compartmentalize those biases for comparison while reading. For example, Hussie talks at length about what they INTENDED Homestuck to be, and, while reading, I like to keep Hussie's words to the side while I try to experience the comic fresh, seeing what choices were made in accordance with Hussie's intentions, or where I think Hussie may have fumbled the messaging. At the same time, I try to let the work stand on its own, set in its proper context.
I'd say this is the number-one problem in fandom analysis. For example, people hear from the fandom that Eridan is an incel or a nice guy, so they interpret everything he says and does to fit that belief, or ignore any contradictory evidence. Or they fall for the character's façade that's meant to be dismantled by the viewer. Some works are fairly shallow and accessible, wearing all their meaning on their sleeve (or are Not That Deep, if you prefer meme-talk), and problems arise when a work is, in fact, That Deep, because someone biased towards the former will discard evidence that a work is the latter. This isn't exclusive to HS - it's happened in basically all of my fandoms - which is a statement to how easy it is to fall into this way of thinking.
Even without knowing that Hussie had coming-of-age themes in mind, for example, characters will talk about being kids and growing up. Knowing that Hussie has explicitly said that that's one of HS's themes serves as extra evidence for that interpretation, but the work itself tells you what it's about - if you're willing to listen to it.
Even If the Curtains are Just Blue, That Still Means Something
This is the next biggest fandom stumbling block - thr insinuation that when things in a work are put into the work without more explicit symbolism, that that means they're a discardable detail. This one is more about making a mindset shift - details aren't discardable, even if they don't appear to have been made with the explicit intention to mean something. Everything kind of means something.
First of all, whether or not the curtains are Just Blue is often highly dependent on the work. For example, in something made in large quantities with little time, staff, and budget - say, for example, one of the entries into the MCU's TV shows - there likely isn't too much meaning behind a choice of blue curtains in a shot (although you'd be surprised how often choices in these constrained environments are still very deliberately made). In a work like Homestuck, however, so terribly dense with symbolism and allegory, chances are, the blue curtains DO hold some special meaning, even if it's not readily apparent.
However, even in cases where a choice is made arbitrarily, it still usually ends up revealing something about the work's creative process. Going back to our MCU example, perhaps the blue curtains were chosen because the shot is cool-toned and they fit the color grading. Perhaps they were chosen because the director really likes blue. Perhaps the shot was filmed at an actual location and the blue curtains were already there. Or, even, perhaps the blue curtains were just what they had on hand, and the show was made too quickly and cheaply to bother sourcing something that would fit the tone or lend extra meaning. These all, to varying degrees, say something about the work - maybe not anything so significant that it would come up in an analysis, but they still contribute to a greater understanding of what the work is, what it's trying to say, and how successful it is at saying it.
And this applies to things with much higher stakes. For example, Hussie being a white US citizen likely had an effect on the B1 kids being mostly US citizens, and there was discourse surrounding how, even though they were ostensibly aracial, references were made to Dave's pale skin. Do I think these were deliberate choices made to push some sort of US superiority; no, obviously not. But they still end up revealing things about the creation of the work - that Hussie had certain biases as a result of being who they were.
Your Brain is Designed to Recognize Patterns, So Put That to Use
So with "establish context" and "discard expectations" out of the way, we can start getting into the nitty-gritty of what should be jumping out at you when attempting to understand a work. One of the most prominent things that you should be looking for is PATTERNS.
Writing is a highly conscious effort, which draws from highly unconscious places. Naturally, whether these patterns are intentional or unintentional is dependent on the author (see again why reading up on a work's context is so important), but you can generally bet that anything that IS a pattern is something that holds significance.
For example, Karkat consistently shows that he's very distraught when any of his friends get hurt, that he misses his friends, even the murderous assholes, that he's willing to sit them down and intervene on their behalf, despite all his grandstanding to the contrary. We are supposed to notice that Karkat actually loves his friends, and that he's lying when he says he doesn't care about them.
Homestuck is very carefully and deliberately crafted; if something comes up more than once, it's a safe bet to assume that you're supposed to notice, or at least feel, it. Don't take my word for it:
Basically, [reusing elements is] about building an extremely dense interior vocabulary to tell a story with, and continue to build and expand that vocabulary by revisiting its components often, combining them, extending them and so on. A vocabulary can be (and usually is) simple, consisting of single words, but in this case it extends to entire sentences and paragraph structures and visual forms and even entire scenes like the one linked above. Sometimes the purpose for reiteration is clear, and sometimes there really is no purpose other than to hit a familiar note, and for me that's all that needs to happen for it to be worthwhile. Triggering recognition is a powerful tool for a storyteller to use. Recognition is a powerful experience for a reader. It promotes alertness, at the very least. And in a lot of cases here, I think it promotes levity (humor! this is mostly a work of comedy, remember.) Controlling a reader's recognition faculty is one way to manipulate the reader's reactions as desired to advance the creative agenda.
But this applies to less deliberately-crafted work, too; for example, if an author consistently writes women as shallow, cruel, and manipulative, then we can glean that the author probably has some sort of issue with women. Villains often being queer-coded suggests that the culture they come from has problems with the gays. Etc. etc.
This is how I reached my conclusion that Pale EriKar is heavily foreshadowed - the two are CONSTANTLY kind to each other, sharing secrets, providing emotional support, etc. etc. It's why that part of my Eridan essay is structured the way that it is - by showing you first how consistently the two interact in suspiciously pale-coded ways, the fact that a crab is shown in both Eridan's first appearance AND his appearance on the moirallegiance "hatched for each other" page becomes the cincher of a PATTERN of the two being set up to shoosh-pap each other.
A work will tell you about itself if you listen. If it tells you something over and over, then it's basically begging you to pay attention.
Contrast is Important, Too
Patterns are also significant when they're broken. For example, say a villain is constantly beating up the protagonist. Here's our pattern: the hero is physically weaker than the villain. In a straight fight, the hero will always lose.
And then, at the mid-season two-parter, the hero WINS. Since we've set up this long pattern of the hero always losing to this villain, the fact that this pattern was disrupted means that this moment is extremely important for the work. Let's say the hero wins using guile - in this case, we walk away with the message that the work is saying that insurmountable obstacles may have workarounds, and adaptability and flexibility are good, heroic traits. Now let's say the hero won using physical strength, after a whole season of training and practicing - in this case, we say that the work says hard work and effort are heroic, and will pay off in the end.
In Homestuck, as an example, we set up a long pattern of Vriska being an awful, manipulative bitch, and a fairly remorseless killer. And then, after killing Tavros, she talks to John and admits that she's freaking out because she feels really bad about it. This vulnerability is hinted at by some of her earlier actions/dialogue, which is itself a pattern to notice, but it's not really explicit until it's set up to be in direct contrast to the ultimate spider8itch move of killing Tavros. This contrast is intended to draw our attention, to point out something significant - hey, Vriska feels bad! She's a product of her terrible society and awful lusus! While it's shitty that she killed Tavros, she's also meant to be tragic and sympathetic herself!
Hussie even talks about how patterns and surprises are used in tandem:
Prior to Eridan's entrance into the room, and even during, the deaths were completely unguessable. After Feferi's death, Kanaya's becomes considerably more so, but still quite uncertain. After her death, all bets are off. Not only do all deaths thereafter become guessable, but in some cases, "predictable". That's because it was the line between a series of shocking events, and the establishment of an actual story pattern. The new pattern serves a purpose, as a sort of announcement that the story is shifting gears, that we're drifting into these mock-survival horror, mock-crime drama segments, driven by suspense more than usual. The suspense has more authority because of all the collateral of unpredictability built up over time, as well as all the typical stuff that helps like long term characterization. But now that the pattern is out in the open, following through with more deaths no longer qualifies as unpredictability. Just the opposite, it would now be playing into expectations, which as I said, can be important too. This gear we've switched to is the new normal, and any unpredictability to arise thereafter will necessarily be a departure from whatever current patterns would indicate.
Patterns are important because they tell you what baselines the work is setting - what's normal, what's standard, what this or that generally "means." Contrast is important because it means something has changed, or some significant point is being made. They work in tandem to provide the reader with points of focus in the story, things to keep in mind as they read, consciously or unconsciously.
Theme
I'm talking about this stuff in pretty broad and open terms because stories are so malleable, and so myriad, and can say so many things. There are stories where horrible cruelties are painted as good things - propoganda is the big one, but consider all the discourse around romance books that paint abusive/toxic relationships as ideal. There are stories where the protagonist is actually the villain, and their actions are not aspirational, and works where everyone sucks and nobody is aspirational, and works where everybody is essentially a good person, if sometimes misguided.
This is, again, why outside context is so important, and biases need to be left at the door. For example, generally speaking, one can assume that the protagonist of a children's cartoon is going to be an aspirational hero, or at least a conflicted character who must learn to do the right thing. However, there are even exceptions to this! Invader Zim, for example, features an outright villain protagonist - a proud servant of a fascist empire - and for a lower-stakes example, the Eds of Ed, Edd, n' Eddy are the neighborhood scammers, constantly causing problems for the other characters with their schemes.
Thus, how do we determine what any particular narrative's stance on a given topic is? It's a difficult question to answer because every narrative is different. If I say something like, "the things that bring the protagonists success in their goals are what the narrative says are good," then we run into the issue of villain/gray morality protagonists. To use moral terms like "hero" and "villain" instead runs into the problem of defining morality within a narrative in the first place. But you have to draw the line somewhere.
So that brings us to themes.
Now, as with a lot of artistic terms, "theme" isn't necessarily well-defined (this isn't helped by the way the word is used colloquially to mean things like aesthetic, moral of the story, or symbolism). Wikipedia says: "In contemporary literary studies, a theme is a central topic, subject, or message within a narrative," but this is still very broad and hard to work with, so I'll give it a shot.
A theme is what a work says, beyond the literal series of events. Sometimes a theme is obvious - the theme of Boy Who Cried Wolf is that if you become famous for lying, you won't be believed when you tell the truth. Sometimes a theme is one of many - for example, Disney's Cinderalla says that kindness and virtue will eventually be recognized and rewarded, and that cruelty is interlinked with ugliness. Sometimes a theme is unintentional - for example, how Disney's body of work tends to villainize queer-coded characters. Sometimes context and the passage of time changes the theme - for example, Snow White originally held a message of hope for wartime families that domestic normalcy would one day return, but is now seen as anti-feminist as it appears to insinuate that a woman's place is in the kitchen, and her happiness is in marriage to a man. And sometimes a theme is not something you agree with.
In any case, a theme is a meaning to be gleaned from the text, more broad and universally applicable than the text itself. After all, we humans have traditionally always used story to impart meaning; our oldest epic, The Epic of Gilgamesh, contains within it several themes, most famously that of accepting one's mortality. It's startling, really, how applicable the story is to this day, even if specific details have become obtuse or unsavory to a modern reader.
This is, again, why it's so important to engage with a text on its own terms, in its own context, with as little bias as possible. A story's themes are not necessarily apparent, and commonly implied rather than stated outright, and approaching the story with expectations can easily lead to a Procrustean twisting of the facts to fit those expectations. A theme should emerge to the analyzer out of the reading, not the other way around.
Identifying theme gets easier with practice, and largely comes down to identifying patterns within the narrative (alongside looking at context and symbolism, of course). What does the narrative consistently touch base on? Are there any references; is there any symbolism? What does the story deem "normal," "good," or "bad"? How are ideas developed, and why? Why did these events happen, and are those motivations echoed anywhere else?
Homestuck is very complex and tackles many topics at once, and explaining why it's a coming-of-age would basically require a whole second essay, so I'll use a simpler and more popular example (like I've been trying to do) - let's say, Shrek.
The most obvious theme of Shrek is that beauty does not equate goodness, that one mustn't judge a book by its cover. The opening sequence is LITERALLY Shrek ripping out pages of a fairy tale book to use as toilet paper, and the movie ends with Fiona finding that her happiest, truest self IS as an ugly ogre. Shrek's main character conflict is that people immediately judge him as cruel and evil because he's ugly, and the characters' lowest points occur because Fiona is similarly insecure about her ogre half, considering it unlovable.
But there's other stuff in there, too. For example, if you know that Dreamworks and Shrek were founded after a falling out with Disney, then the beautiful, sanitized city of Dulac, with its switchback queue and singing animatronics add to this theme of a direct refutation of traditional Disney fairytale values, mocking them as manufactured, inhuman, and even cruel in the way that they marginalize those who don't fit an ideal of beauty. Again we see the opening sequence - defacing a fairytale - as support for this, but also the way that Dulac is displacing fairytale creatures. There's a moment where Gepetto literally sells Pinocchio, which can easily be read as a commentary on the crass commercialization and exploitation of fairy tales Disney likes to do.
And then, of course, there are lesser, supplementary themes. Love being a powerful positive force is one - Donkey is able to rally Shrek after he truly reciprocates Dragon's love for him (which echoes the theme of not equating goodness with beauty, as Dragon is still big and scary), and it's true love's kiss that grants Fiona her happy ending.
And then there's stuff that's unintentional. There's all this work done about how beauty =/= goodness, but then they made the villain incredibly short, which is a traditionally unattractive physical feature. So, does that mean that ugly things can be beautiful unless that ugliness is specifically height?
Sometimes, authorial intent does not match up with result - but in those instances, I think the most is revealed about the author. Modern Disney products tend to be very cowardly about going anti-corporation and pro-weirdness, despite their usual feel-good tones and uplifting themes - and that says a lot about Disney, doesn't it. That's why I think it's still important to keep authorial intent in mind, if possible, even if they fumble what they say they've set out to do.
Obviously, Lord Fuckwad being short doesn't REALLY detract from the overall message - but it's still a weird hitch in the themes, which I think is interesting to talk about, so you can see where personal judgement and biases DO have to be applied. There are two options here, more or less - either one believes that Shrek is making an exception for short people, who are of the Devil, or one believes that the filmmakers did a bit of an oopsie. Barring an outright statement from the filmmakers, there's no way to know for sure.
We can say a work has very complex themes when it intentionally explores multiple ideas very deeply. We can say a work has shallow themes when it doesn't have much intentional meaning, and/or that meaning is explored very lightly. The labyrinthine storytelling of Homestuck, with its forays into mortality, morality, and growing up, chock full of symbolism and pastiche and allusions, is a work with complex themes - especially as compared to the average newspaper comic strip, although they ostensibly share a genre.
We can say a work has very unified themes when these themes serve to compliment each other - the refutation of Disney-esque values, and love as a positive driving force, compliment the main theme in Shrek of not judging books by their covers, of beauty not equating to goodness. Ugly things are worthy of love, and those who push standards of beauty are evil and suck.
Similarly, we can say a work has unfocused or messy themes when the themes it includes - intentionally or not - contradict, distract, and/or detract from each other. Beauty has no correlation to goodness... unless you're short, in which case, you are closer to Hell and therefore of evil blood. To get a little controversial, this is actually why I didn't like Last Wish very much - there are approximately three separate storylines, with three separate thematic arcs, going on in the same movie, none of which particularly compliment each other - so the experience was very messy to me, story-wise, even though it was pretty and the wolf was hot. This is why we feel weird about Disney pushing anti-corporate messages, when they're a big corporate machine, or why it's easy to assume Homestuck was written poorly if you don't like Hussie - we want themes to be coherent, we want context to be unified with output.
Tone
Tone is somehow even harder to define than theme. It's like, the "vibe" of a work. For example, you generally don't expect something lighthearted to deal with the realistic, brutal tragedies of war. Maybe it'll touch on them in light, optimistic ways, but it isn't about to go All Quiet on the Western Front on the reader. By the same token, you don't expect fully happy endings out of the melodrama of opera, or frivolous slice of life from something grimdark.
Tone, too, is something people often wind up Procrusteanizing, which makes discussion difficult if two people disagree. If I read Homestuck as unwaveringly optimistic, with its downer ending the result of an author fumble, I'm pretty much going to irreconcileably disagree with somebody who reads Homestuck as though it's always been a kind of tragedy where things don't work out for the characters. Since it's even more difficult to define than theme, I'm not even really going to bother; I just felt like I had to bring it up because, despite its nebulosity, it's vital to how one reads and interprets a text. Sometimes I don't have a better answer for why I dislike a certain interpretation other than that it doesn't suit the work's tone. I generally try to avoid saying that, though, because it winds up smacking of subjective preference.
In summary... analysis is about keeping everything in mind all the time! But i swear, it gets easier the more you do it. Happy reading!
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the funniest part of (at least my) characterization of william is that if you met him before evan died, while he was still working w henry, back in like the late 70s/early 80s, it'd just be like 'oh yeah, that dude who has a weird thing about rabbits, we caught him teaching his kid about robots, and recording his voice talking to his kid about how he's not alone and he's his friend, he spends way too many hours alone in his co-owner's office but they both own the business so that's not weird at all. strange how he talks about his business partner more than his actual wife.'
then evan dies because of michael's lack of judgement (he literally shoved evans head into fre/dbear's mouth without thinking once, which granted i doubt there was a sp/ringlock failure before that, i actually position the springlock failure that causes william's scars at the same time as the bite, freddy's springlock fails and crushes evan's head and william gets sp/ringlocked the first time trying to get evan out, and michael has to see all that knowing he's at fault for half of it, which evidently bc of the security log, he still fucking makes jokes about like he lives off of dark humor despite his guilty conscious) and its like, he'll find digs to throw in against michael, he gives an eerie aura but still oddly feels safe enough that f/azbear's business takes off, despite the rumors, despite the disappearances, parents still somehow feel safe enough to leave their kids around him, 'he has his own kids, he's suffered the loss of a kid, he almost lost his older kid, he wouldn't want anything to happen to anyone elses kid', some people are aware somethings up but people don't believe the people who do speak up against william.
like this man was semi normal at one point (not like a good person, i wouldn't go there, he killed michaels mom when michael was little little, granted that's my canon actual canon like its not confirmed but it is implied all three kids in actual canon have the same mom, that just doesnt make sense to me bc who tf could put up w william that long lbr anyways) and it didn't even cross his mind that he would have been able to bring evan back until he saw charlie's spirit possess the puppet. then it was like 'i can become immortal and bring my son back' not fully realizing his son was already possessing the animatronic that essentially killed him, they retired f/redbear and locked him away in the back immediately after what happened, he never got to see anything until he put cassidy's body in that suit, and by then he just assumed cassidy was the only spirit there,
and it's just, it's just interesting to look at the kind of extreme jump in william from before evan's death to after, because obviously the death of his child triggered something in his head. and of course, like yeah TSE isn't canon to the games but you can play the different canons off of each other, so if he has scars from a prior s/pringtrap incident, the most logical placements for that is either when he's working on the suits with henry, or when evan's accident happens, and evans accident sort of makes more sense with the game implications of he only starts killing anyone after evans death, like his son died, he had a near death accident from the suit, he became extremely careful with the suit afterwards but wears it everytime he goes to kill someone, which tells me that his point of trauma means he was in the suit at the time.
and none of this excuses anything he does he's horrible terrible nobody is allowed to excuse him, but the reasoning behind is just something that needs to be figured out for characterization sake, his brain was never the same the moment evan died and it was not just the trauma he experienced seeing his son basically dying in his best friend/lover's animatronic, if he was essentially dying at the same time but he survived, and his son didn't, that does something to your brain. on top of the way the spring locks go into the skin, they probably got the suit off before it fully damaged his head, but at least one lock probably did get william's head, if not more, and the damage he would have gotten from that too would honestly explain a lot, because while my characterization is that he already had gotten to the limit and killed his first wife before he started any type of murdering, he loved his kids before michael caused evans death, he was a shitty person but still a man who loved his kids, in actual canon they change his motive so much it doesn't make sense anymore, and just. yeah. idk. i have a migraine again but like i gave reasons he would hit that mark early on, it was hinted at when he was younger and just devulged with evans death, but with how many versions, even going as far in f/azbear f/rights to imply williams not even to blame for being a child murderer and that a demon in the form of his fucking daughter in another universe was controlling his actions and making him a murderer then abandoning him, like there's not a set reason there's never a set reason, but the most logical reason i can come up with with context clues is just evans death and the first springlock incident coincided, and it caused a brain injury that turned him into what he became.
#you have something that belongs to me | references#i need to make an actual headcanon tag but not rn lol#out.
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Jawbreaker
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Bucky put a mouthy rookie in his place.
Word Count: Over 800
Warnings: Established relationship, mention of injury, misogyny, punching, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes defending you (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: I'm dedicating this to @whisperlullaby , who got to read this in advance, because she deserves this man (along with the rest of you). ❤️Written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
A small part of Bucky felt bad as he idly wiped his hand with a towel. A very small part.
He didn’t want people to fear him because of his past and he refused to let it define him. That meant that he tried his best to avoid violent tactics unless absolutely necessary.
But today, well, fuck that. The fucker had it coming.
Steve stood in front of him, his blue eyes narrowed as he waited for his best friend to acknowledge him.
Oh, Bucky expected some sort of reprimand, but he was sure Steve would change his tune in a minute or so.
“You gonna ask me what happened, punk, or glare at me until I talk?” He asked, tossing the towel away.
The blonde huffed out a laugh, but he didn’t look amused. “Why did you break that rookie’s jaw?”
Bucky tilted his head. “What’s the phrase? He fucked around and found out.”
You would’ve been proud of him for that reference.
Steve shook his head when Sam burst out laughing a few feet away. “Sam, please,” he begged, though his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “What did the guy do?”
A bitter taste flooded Bucky’s mouth as anger coursed through his veins again. He inhaled as he thought of your sweet smile and soft touch before he exhaled, the storm inside of him calming.
“Buck, you gotta tell us something,” Steve urged, needing some sort of information to try and do some damage control.
The brunette straightened up to look his friend in the eyes, wanting him to see the fury beneath the cold mask. “He told my girl to throw an apron on and get back in the kitchen when she went to spar.”
You, one of the most capable agents Bucky had ever known.
You, who had shown nothing but kindness to everyone, even when they didn’t deserve it.
The person Bucky was lucky enough to call his other half. His better half.
And some asshole rookie had the gall to treat you as if you didn’t belong there with the rest of them.
Sam was no longer laughing. Steve’s jaw clenched in understanding.
Bucky swallowed, that fury threatening to surface again as he remembered the hurt that filled your eyes at the comment. “You know I’d support anything she wants to do, whether that’s working or staying at home. It doesn’t give some prick the right to make her feel bad for her decision.”
“You know I don’t like bullies, but breaking his jaw?” Steve questioned. The guy deserved it, but did the punishment actually fit the crime?
“When she walked away, he said to come back when she was ready to see what a real man could do for her,” he said, the words coming out like a snarl.
The way you tensed up, fear and disgust flickering on your face, he didn’t think. A switch inside of him went off and he swung.
The fucker was lucky that all he got was a broken jaw. He could’ve done so much worse.
And it wasn’t that you couldn’t defend yourself because you could, but you shouldn’t have to put up with garbage like that.
A cracking sound echoed in the room before he realized he crushed the armrest of his seat. “Fuck. I’ll pay for that,” he mumbled, kicking a bit of the broken piece with his boot. “Can you just tell me how much trouble I’m in so I can get back to my girl?”
He didn’t care if he they suspended or even fired him as long as he got back to you.
The room stayed silent before Sam mused, “Technically, what the rookie did counts as harassment.”
Steve nodded. “And I’m sure Nat can persuade him not to sue for the injury he received,” he added, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll take care of it, Buck. Just. No more breaking jaws, okay?”
“When it comes to my girl, I make no promises,” Bucky smiled, his heart racing at the thought of you. “And maybe he’ll think twice before he opens his mouth again.”
“The damage you did, I don’t think he can open his mouth at all,” Sam mumbled.
Bucky’s phone went off before he could comment, his heart swelling as he read your text. He had to bite back a groan, too.
“Thank you again, Jawbreaker. I love you and I’ll be on my knees waiting for you.”
You wanted to thank him not just with words, but with your body and heart. It all belonged to him, like he belonged to you.
And he didn’t need to tell Steve and Sam what the message said since it was just for the two of you. “Love you, too, baby. Nothing to thank me for, but I’m on my way. Be ready.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Maybe we'll see how you "thank" Bucky down the road. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi
#navybrat writes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x f!reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes headcanon#bucky barnes fanfiction#james buchanan barnes#sebastian stan#bucky x reader#bucky x female reader#the winter soldier#bucky barnes fanfic#x reader#sebastian stan x reader#james barnes x reader#bucky fanfic
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"I - I'm sorry for showing up at your station in the middle of the night, I - I should have called, but I knew you had a shift, and I-"
"Didn't want to do this over the phone," Tommy guesses gently, watching as Evan nods, face flickering with recognition.
"...or in a text or something, yeah," he confirms - then he clears his throat, frowning at the ground for a moment. "Look, I - I know that - that maybe I should just... walk away, and - and take no for an answer, and I - I will," he says, and when their eyes meet again, Evan's are glossy with emotion - even from ten feet away. "I promise."
Tommy crosses his arms over his chest, exhaling gently as he waits for Evan to gather his thoughts.
"I know I fucked up by going all... bro-dude on you on our first date," he says, trailing off with a self-deprecating, sad chuckle. Tommy swallows, forcing his feet to stay glued to the concrete flooring. "And you don't wanna deal with that, I get it, I know that you probably didn't sign up for... all of this," he continues - and somehow Tommy has a sinking feeling that he's not only referring to his newly discovered bisexuality. "Didn't sign up for someone who is just... so new at this-"
"-that's not it," Tommy can't help but interrupt - the same way he can't help but take one step closer - and then one more. "Evan, I don't have a problem with being the first man you're with, it just seemed as if you weren't sure that you wanted a man at all, and that's the thing that I'm not sure that I-"
"I - I know that," Evan interrupts him right back, his voice growing thicker, tears seemingly dangerously close to passing his waterline as he takes half a step closer to Tommy, his hands in front of him, frustratingly grasping the air as if the words he wants to say will be somewhere in there. "That's what I came here to say - look, my entire life, I've just been... searching for something, you know? Something that felt right, someplace where I could... belong," he says, forehead decorated with a deep line of frustration. "And then I found it."
"Firefighting," Tommy guesses - and the crease evens out - just a little bit - as the corner of Evan's mouth twitches up.
"Yeah," he nods. "Yeah - and I thought that was it. And - and then I realized that I still felt... wrong? And I - I felt stupid, you know?" he says, tapping the pads of his index and middle finger to his own temple. "'Cause I have a job that I love, people that I love - and I spent so long trying to find the thing that was missing, and I just - I - I had no idea what it was..." he says - and then he straightens up a little bit, swallowing. "...and then you kissed me," he concludes.
Tommy feels himself melt.
This goddamn kid is going to be the death of him, isn't he?
"...and it was like..." Evan brings his hands up in front of himself again, mimicking something like an explosion - but the sound effect he chooses isn't an explosion. It's a sharp, unmistakable, loud exhale.
"That was it," Tommy hums, allowing himself a few steps closer. Evan's eyes remain on his own as he moves, trailing him every single step of the way.
"That was it," Evan confirms. "So if you think that I - that I'm somehow gonna - gonna change my mind, or - or run away, or freak out, or decide that I don't like men, that's never gonna happen," he shakes his head. "I'm - I'm a lot, I know that, I've always been a lot, I don't think I totally know how to be anything different, but Tommy, I am... I'm very, very bi. I like men. And I like y-"
Tommy finds a gentle grasp on his chin, guiding him into a kiss.
Shut up, is what the kiss says. You have me. I'm yours. I got you.
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Powehouse AU: aka Danny Fenton tries to be a normal college student in the midwest yet is forced to continue to be a hero in secret as ghosts won't leave him alone and soon, neither will the Justice League when he pops up as a new hero.
Additional info and art under readmore:
ANYWAYS, here is some powerhouse au information.
Danny as he grows up manages to keep the ghost situation under control to a point he isn't overly active as Phantom. He finishes highschool no problem and goes to uni over in Central City for Maths and Engineering (not an overtly big fan of the space motif and instead, I'm shoving my boy into something cooler: PLANES! He's studying specifically mechanical engineering and has plans to go to a trade school after his B.S. for A&P mechanics.)
Sam goes to Gotham State University for Ethnobotany and works in one of the unis library part time. Tucker is going to Star City College for Computer Science and a minor in archeology, he tutors part time.
Danny's main design is inspired by a combo of military and blue collar uniforms (you can also see exactly what I reference). I also couldn't decide a face mask so you get all three options.
So as Danny moves to Central City and attends uni, his rouges do sadly follow him and wreck havoc. Danny is stressed from school so he doesn't do quips as much, in fact, he's trying to get this under control as fast as possible so he can go back and study. Here's the thing, no one outside of Amityville has seen Phantom so all of the sudden what seems to be a meta? an alien? something not human? coming out and taking down rouges that, due to being ghosts, other heros struggle to contain and handle.
Speculation rises about Phantom and who he is. Danny is smart and thought this through, kinda. His costume is a modified look what he wore as a kid but he pulls in more military/uniform aspects to make it seem like he belongs to someone or some organization. That maybe somewhere in the US, an organization managed to make a hero of sorts that mimics Green Lanterns. It's just a big red herring, Danny wants them to look for someone older, probably more experienced, and a different background. Not some tired college student struggling with his studies.
Things do start to get dicey when heroes actively try to interact with him, mostly the Flash (because Central City), Superman, and the Green Lantern. Most interactions end up with Phantom not wanting to fight and fleeing or when cornered to fight, he's messy and inexperienced compared to the other heroes. He doesn't stay around and rarely even talks. It's concerning more so because the heroes aren't sure with who they're dealing with and after a few interactions, they aren't sure Phantom is on their side. Just too many questions around him.
This leads to heroes actively trying to capture and bring in Phantom. The more failed attempts that happen, the more flightly Phantom acts when they end up interrupting him capturing his rouges. They do eventually capture Phantom (thank you Superman) and that's kinda where I end on information on this AU. It's just me having fun with interactions and also designing costumes :)
ALSO DANNY IS ROMA/DIDICOY I NEED TO MENTION THAT!!! (Dick Grayson 🤝 Danny Fenton being didicoy)
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AO3 Ship Stats: Year In Bad Data
You may have seen this AO3 Year In Review.
It hasn’t crossed my tumblr dash but it sure is circulating on twitter with 3.5M views, 10K likes, 17K retweets and counting. Normally this would be great! I love data and charts and comparisons!
Except this data is GARBAGE and belongs in the TRASH.
I first noticed something fishy when I realized that Steve/Bucky – the 5th largest ship on AO3 by total fic count – wasn’t on this Top 100 list anywhere. I know Marvel’s popularity has fallen in recent years, but not that much. Especially considering some of the other ships that made it on the list. You mean to tell me a femslash HP ship (Mary MacDonald/Lily Potter) in which one half of the pairing was so minor I had to look up her name because she was only mentioned once in a single flashback scene beat fandom juggernaut Stucky? I call bullshit.
Now obviously jumping to conclusions based on gut instinct alone is horrible practice... but it is a good place to start. So let’s look at the actual numbers and discover why this entire dataset sits on a throne of lies.
Here are the results of filtering the Steve/Bucky tag for all works created between Jan 1, 2023 and Dec 31, 2023:
Not only would that place Steve/Bucky at #23 on this list, if the other counts are correct (hint: they're not), it’s also well above the 1520-new-work cutoff of the #100 spot. So how the fuck is it not on the list? Let’s check out the author’s FAQ to see if there’s some important factor we’re missing.
The first thing you’ll probably notice in the FAQ is that the data is being scraped from publicly available works. That means anything privated and only accessible to logged-in users isn’t counted. This is Sin #1. Already the data is inaccurate because we’re not actually counting all of the published fics, but the bots needed to do data collection on this scale can't easily scrape privated fics so I kinda get it. We’ll roll with this for now and see if it at least makes the numbers make more sense:
Nope. Logging out only reduced the total by a couple hundred. Even if one were to choose the most restrictive possible definition of "new works" and filter out all crossovers and incomplete fics, Steve/Bucky would still have a yearly total of 2,305. Yet the list claims their total is somewhere below 1,500? What the fuck is going on here?
Let’s look at another ship for comparison. This time one that’s very recent and popular enough to make it on the list so we have an actual reference value for comparison: Nick/Charlie (Heartstopper). According to the list, this ship sits at #34 this year with a total of 2630 new works. But what’s AO3 say?
Off by a hundred or so but the values are much closer at least!
If we dig further into the FAQ though we discover Sin #2 (and the most egregious): the counting method. The yearly fic counts are NOT determined by filtering for a certain time period, they’re determined by simply taking a snapshot of the total number of fics in a ship tag at the end of the year and subtracting the previous end-of-year total. For example, if you check a ship tag on Jan 1, 2023 and it has 10,000 fics and check it again on Jan 1, 2024 and it now has 12,000 fics, the difference (2,000) would be the number of "new works" on this chart.
At first glance this subtraction method might seem like a perfectly valid way to count fics, and it’s certainly the easiest way, but it can and did have major consequences to the point of making the entire dataset functionally meaningless. Why? If any older works are deleted or privated, every single one of those will be subtracted from the current year fic count. And to make the problem even worse, beginning at the end of last year there was a big scare about AI scraping fics from AO3, which caused hundreds, if not thousands, of users to lock down their fics or delete them.
The magnitude of this fuck up may not be immediately obvious so let’s look at an example to see how this works in practice.
Say we have two ships. Ship A is more than a decade old with a large fanbase. Ship B is only a couple years old but gaining traction. On Jan 1, 2023, Ship A had a catalog of 50,000 fics and ship B had 5,000. Both ships have 3,000 new works published in 2023. However, 4% of the older works in each fandom were either privated or deleted during that same time (this percentage is was just chosen to make the math easy but it’s close to reality).
Ship A: 50,000 x 4% = 2,000 removed works
Ship B: 5,000 x 4% = 200 removed works
Ship A: 3,000 - 2,000 = 1,000 "new" works
Ship B: 3,000 - 200 = 2,800 "new" works
This gives Ship A a net gain of 1,000 and Ship B a net gain of 2,800 despite both fandoms producing the exact same number of new works that year. And neither one of these reported counts are the actual new works count (3,000). THIS explains the drastic difference in ranking between a ship like Steve/Bucky and Nick/Charlie.
How is this a useful measure of anything? You can't draw any conclusions about the current size and popularity of a fandom based on this data.
With this system, not only is the reported "new works" count incorrect, the older, larger fandom will always be punished and it’s count disproportionately reduced simply for the sin of being an older, larger fandom. This example doesn’t even take into account that people are going to be way more likely to delete an old fic they're no longer proud of in a fandom they no longer care about than a fic that was just written, so the deletion percentage for the older fandom should theoretically be even larger in comparison.
And if that wasn't bad enough, the author of this "study" KNEW the data was tainted and chose to present it as meaningful anyway. You will only find this if you click through to the FAQ and read about the author’s methodology, something 99.99% of people will NOT do (and even those who do may not understand the true significance of this problem):
The author may try to argue their post states that the tags "which had the greatest gain in total public fanworks” are shown on the chart, which makes it not a lie, but a error on the viewer’s part in not interpreting their data correctly. This is bullshit. Their chart CLEARLY titles the fic count column “New Works” which it explicitly is NOT, by their own admission! It should be titled “Net Gain in Works” or something similar.
Even if it were correctly titled though, the general public would not understand the difference, would interpret the numbers as new works anyway (because net gain is functionally meaningless as we've just discovered), and would base conclusions on their incorrect assumptions. There’s no getting around that… other than doing the counts correctly in the first place. This would be a much larger task but I strongly believe you shouldn’t take on a project like this if you can’t do it right.
To sum up, just because someone put a lot of work into gathering data and making a nice color-coded chart, doesn’t mean the data is GOOD or VALUABLE.
#ao3#ao3 stats#psa#my words#fandom#I doubt anyone is even going to read this but I needed to get it out of my system and at least try to stop this from spreading#if you know me#you know I get Big Mad about misinformation#don't take anything at face value#do your own research
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regina’s puppy (1)
// regina has a soft spot for you, but when she refuses to accept why, someone else might swoop in and take your attention away from her. //
warnings: mean!regina (not to reader), protective!regina, oblivious/innocent!reader, pinning, mutual pining but reader thinks it’s one-sided, use of “y/n”.
regina george definitely has a soft spot for you. if you ask her, she’d refer to it as a weak spot; resembling more like an invisible bruise inside of her that only you could see. you’d push and push it, til it bruises some more. until she’d sickly do just about anything you ask. it wasn’t a secret either; regina could be in the middle of being the worst human being on campus, and you’d just walk up to her with those big eyes of yours.
“hey gina!”
“did you see the new shake flavor at sonic? wanna ditch and go?”
“i stayed up all night reading the bell jar!”
regina would shift her undivided attention onto you within a millisecond, and you didn’t even realize it. you were so obliviously innocent. you didn’t have an underlying reason for getting close to the queen bee, you just caught her reading a book one day and started talking her ear off about it. the blonde, who got pure joy out of making girls like you cry, for some reason didn’t have it in her to tell you to fuck off or call you a dork. there was something about you that regina couldn’t quite place; it was something that made her heart flutter in her chest.
maybe it didn’t fully hit regina just how bad she had it for you until junior year. it was the middle of fall, and you had rushed up to her with a pair of sad eyes. “hey gina.” you greet her, but it isn’t your usual eager greeting. regina looks away from the mirror in her locker, looking at you. her brows furrow and a wave of concern washed over her, as she realizes you appear upset. “what’s wrong?” she demands, not even bothering to say hi back. “stacy matthew’s said i can’t be in debate club. she says i’m really nice and that’s not what they’re looking for.” you admit, and regina can feel the rage course through her before she slams her locker shut.
“where the fuck does stacy matthew’s get off telling you that you can or can’t be in debate club? she’s a fucking dork. come on.” she grabs your wrist and your eyes widen, shaking your head in protest but the blonde is already set on giving the raven haired girl a piece of her mind. nobody was going to make you sad and get away with it. “gina it’s okay i—“ you try but regina is already turning down the hallway, making her way up to a random group of students. they all go quiet as soon as regina is near. “where’s matthew’s?” regina questions demandingly, causing one of the students to nearly begin to tremble.
“st-stacy? she’s in the library i think—“ regina doesn’t even let the poor girl finish before she’s dragging you in the direction of the library. you weren’t really sure what you were expecting when you told regina about why you got rejected from the debate club, but this certainly wasn’t it. you weren’t expecting her to storm into the library. “everyone out.” she commands, and just like that, every student in the library is scurrying out. “not you.” the blonde hisses as she glowers at stacy who was in the middle of gathering her belongings. you watch the girl tense up, freezing, and a part of you feels guilty because of how terrified she looks.
“so it’s come to my attention that you think your dorky little debate club is too good for y/n…” regina trails off, and stacy’s eyes widen as her gaze flutters over to you. “don’t look at her for help, look at me.” regina snaps her fingers in stacy’s face; her behavior should cause you to be horrified, yet you can’t deny the heat at the bottom of your belly that comes from watching regina defend you. “it’s not— i didn’t say we were too good, i said she was too nice, regina. you know it too, that’s why you’re here debating for her.” stacy’s comment causes you to look down at your shoes, knowing she isn’t wrong.
“y/n is smarter than you will ever be. her gpa is higher than yours, and she had better exam grades last year. she doesn’t need to be a cunt to debate, she just has to be right… and she always is. you didn’t deny her a spot in your club because she’s too nice. you’re afraid she’s better than you.” regina hits her right where it hurts, and the way stacy’s face morphs into an ugly angry expression causes your eyes to widen. you had actually believed stacy when she said you were too nice for debate club, but now as you watch her react to regina’s accusations, you realize she only said that because she didn’t want you in the club at all.
“i’ll give you the rest of tonight to reconsider giving her a spot on the debate team. if you don’t, i have no control over whether or not the club gets banned… i mean, considering my parents are the ones who fund it.” regina puts on her best falsified sorry expression, and it causes stacy’s eyes to widen at the threat. her eyes lock with yours before regina clasps a hand around your wrist. she drags you out of the library, muttering angrily as she does so. “ugh, the nerve of that fucking bitch.” regina sounds genuinely upset, and you frown.
“you didn’t have to do that…” you whisper, barley being able to find your voice. she comes to a stop, turning around to face you with a deadly serious expression etched onto her features. “i did because you would’ve just let it go. she can’t just act like the queen of debate club; even the cheerleaders started being inclusive!” regina rambles a bit, and you can’t stop yourself from giggling. “yeah but i’m pretty sure debate club is all stacy matthew’s has. it’s fine. i mean, it’s not fine, but it’s clearly more important to her.” you shrug easily and regina huffs in clear frustration.
“that’s exactly why people think you’re too nice! you can’t just let people do or say whatever they want to you, and just let it go! just twelve minutes ago you wanted to cry about it.” regina points out, and you press your lips together. “if i held on to it every time someone upset me, i’d be a really sad person.” you confess lightly, but this does nothing to ease regina’s anger. “well, i’ll hold on to it for you. she’s going in the burn book.” regina mutters the last part, making you a quirk a brow at her. “the burn book?” you question, and she purses her lips tightly, realizing she might have said to much.
“it’s just this thing the girls and i have been working on…” regina’s demeanor shifts, and your brows knit together. “you and the girls? as in gretchen and karen? can i see?” you ask hopefully, and regina shakes her head quickly “no way.” she answers, and as soon as she sees you deflate, a look of disappointment taking over your features, she relents. “it’s not finished yet, and it’s kind of a secret…” she trails off, “i promise i won’t tell anyone! at all! not even riley.” you promise, mentioning your best friend who’s being home schooled this year. regina chews on her bottom lip; she’s well aware the burn book is just a harsh joke her and her friends came up with. but she isn’t sure whether you’d think it’s funny or not.
though regina can’t seem to be able to tell you no. “okay, but most of it was gretchen.” she lies as she begins to lead you towards the exit of the school. karen and gretchen furrow their eyebrows in clear confusion as they watch their best friend leave with you. even though school ended almost half an hour ago, usually regina would opt to hang out with the plastics. sometimes she even just stayed after school to “ogle” the football team during practice. but here regina was, leaving school with you. sure, her friends knew about her weird tolerance of you… but now you were hanging out?
“wait are we going to your house?” you ask uncertainly as you both approach her expensive car. she flashes you a look that says “duh”, “that’s where the book is.” she states as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “shouldn’t you call your mom and ask her for permission for me to come over?” you inquire timidly, and although the butterflies in her stomach flutter due to how adorable you are, she rolls her eyes feigning annoyance. “she doesn’t care. get in, loser.” she commands, and you immediately obey; getting into the passenger side.
regina’s car smells like her perfume, and the backseat is messy. “your moms so cool for letting you drive by yourself with just your permit.” you say out loud and regina shrugs, “she’s alright.” she mutters as she hands you her phone. “pick a song.” she insists and your cheeks flush. “o-okay.” the way you stutter causes you to mentally facepalm, but regina finds it hard to stifle a smile at how cute she finds you. you put on a taylor swift song, and she snorts, “so cliche.” she says, her eyes unusually soft, as the sky and your heart does this pathetic little lurch at the sight of her smiling. regina looks so beautiful when she smiles; it almost makes you forget how she almost made stacy matthew’s piss herself a little while ago.
regina’s house is even bigger than you imagined. you knew her family was rich, but you didn’t think they were this wealthy. your eyes are as big as dinner plates as you look around the house. as soon as you walk in you can hear regina’s little sister in the living room; practicing dance routines in front of the tv. “ignore her that’s my sister kylie. everything she does, i did it first.” regina retorts simply, and you raise your brows as you follow her through her house. “hi honey! i made lunch— oh, who’s this?” a woman who you assume is regina’s mom comes out of the kitchen.
she’s wearing tight leggings and a top that barely covers anything. regina grimaces at the sight of her mom, “this is my friend, y/n. we’re gonna be upstairs for awhile. don’t bother us.” she warns harshly, and you offer the older woman a bashful smile. “it’s nice to meet you, mrs. george.” you let out before regina pulls you up the stairs, and towards her room. “your mom seems… nice.” you say as nicely as you can, and she scoffs. “she’s totally embarrassing. she lives vicariously through me.” she deadpans as you both walk into her bedroom.
her room is exactly how you imagined it. it’s pink and girly; there are various posters of celebrities on the walls. her bed was huge. “your room is so cool!” you exclaim, and she tries to fight the grin tugging at her lips. “it’s okay. i’ve been meaning to redecorate it, but i’m gonna make gretchen do it.” regina snickers and you giggle. “that’s mean.” you halfheartedly respond, and she tenses up. she wonders if you’ll laugh that way when you see the burn book. even though you aren’t in it, she isn’t sure if anyone you know is.
“so where’s the book?” you ask curiously as you take a seat on the corner of her bed. regina’s smile falls as she keeps her back to you, she reluctantly disappears into her closet, only to reappear with a big pink book in her hands. your eyes light up as she makes her way over to you, and sits by you. “you have to promise you won’t leave after reading this.” she states stringently, making you pause. you look at her in confusion, “it’s just… this book is like a fucked up version of the year book. we make fun of all the girls from school in it.” she admits hesitantly, and your face falls.
“am… am i in it?” you quietly ask, and regina shakes her head rapidly. “no! no, you’re not.” she promises and you nod. “okay, so why would i get mad?” you question, and regina sighs as she opens the book. you begin to read all of the cruel things her and her friends write about other girls. when you get to the part where regina makes fun of becky martin for getting a bob freshman year, you involuntarily giggle. suddenly there’s this lightbulb that lights up above her head.
“y/n, you should sit with me at lunch tomorrow.” she says, and you tense up, prying your eyes away from the burn book to look at regina. “you mean with you and the plastics?” you ask uncertainly, and regina rolls her eyes. “why does everyone call them that?” she mutters, and you shake your head. “because you’re all perfect like plastic barbie dolls.” you answer simply, and this causes the blonde to quirk her eyebrows to her hairline. “you think gretchen and karen are perfect?” she asks with a scoff, and you nod quickly. “duh! you’re all so… pretty. everyone knows girls like me don’t sit at the “it” table.” you half joke, and regina rolls her eyes.
“i decide who sits at that table, and i’m deciding you’re sitting there with us from now on.” regina stringently states, her tone indicates she’s up for no debates. “we’ll start by giving you a makeover.” she declares, as she gets up. “come on, we’re going to the mall.” she adds, and you throw her an “are you serious” sort of look. “gina… i really don’t think that’s a good idea.” you try, but she pulls you off the bed, and onto your feet. “i’m already picturing how cute you’d look in bellbottoms.” she says, as she drags you out of her bedroom, the burn book long forgotten.
“i can’t buy bellbottoms! they’re like forty bucks a pair!” you stress, as regina leads you down the stairs, never once letting go of your hand. “i have my dads card, relax.” she assures you easily, and you frown, but don’t protest. you know better than to try and argue with regina, especially when you’d let her get away with anything and you think she knows it.
regina ends up spending over four hundred dollars on you, much to your dismay. no matter how much you protest, or try to secretly put items back, she was hellbent on giving you a makeover. thankfully regina claimed you had flawless features that didn’t need makeup, so you avoided the makeup stores altogether. when regina drops you off at your house, you have a hand full of shopping bags and you have to rush to your room in secrecy. fortunately your brothers are too transfixed with some horror video game, and your older sister was nowhere to be seen.
as soon as you’re in the privacy of your bedroom, you let out a little breath. today was the strangest day ever. you were used to your strange friendship with regina, but it was usually only a few meaningful conversations here and there. regina george was never full on “queen bee” around you for some reason, but she had never defended you like she did today. a part of you felt bad about telling regina what stacy did, but the way the blonde threatened the debate teams captain for you made your heart flutter.
tomorrow you were having lunch with regina and “the plastics”; you had to pick an outfit before you went to sleep which was out of the ordinary for you. you’ve never been the type to get ready for school, but there’s this insistent need to impress regina that you suddenly have. the way she ogled you when you had tried on the out of character outfits made your stomach tingle. the nerves in your body only increase as you think about it. as you stare at the various shopping bags, you know there’s no going back now; you feel indebted to regina george.
#regina george#regina george x fem!reader#regina george x reader#regina george mean girls#renee rapp x reader#renee rapp#renee rapp x fem!reader#regina george x reader angst#mean girls#regina george x y/n#regina george x you
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If It All Fell (5)
Pairing: Azriel x Reader
Summary: If it all fell apart—if you forgot who you were—would you love him again? Would the bond guide you back? Azriel doesn't know if that uncertainty is one he can bear.
Word count: 3k
Warnings: Angst, PINING, references to nonconsensual situations (very brief, nothing graphic, and not Az)
a/n: Hope this clears some stuff up ;) More to come and especially more Az to come. Thank you forever for reading and sharing your thoughts! This is getting me through the semester <3
Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ☆ Part 3 ✶ Part 4☼ Part 6 ♡
Series Masterlist
~~
Azriel walked you to your room.
He knew exactly where to go, which corners to turn and which to pass, which was very convenient as you still found yourself struggling with the task. The House of Wind, as everyone so lovingly called it, was practically a maze for someone with no memory of its twists and turns. But Azriel had absolutely no trouble getting you to your room.
Once you got to your room, however, he appeared to have many troubles.
“You can come in,” you prompted, looking over your shoulder to find the shadowsinger with his shoes at the threshold. “I promise I just cleaned it. Or, at least I’m pretty sure I cleaned it. It’s hard to know where to put things when I only just started…”
Your voice trailed off. Upon further inspection of the man standing just outside your door, you found that he didn’t simply look hesitant to enter. He had his hands pressed to the doorframe, his head slightly leaned into the room, and his eyes were slowly trailing along your belongings. The expression on his face read as forlorn, but his body read as tense.
He had been here before, obviously. Of course this would be hard for him. You probably had everything in the wrong place and he had just told you about the difficult time he was having—how close the two of you had been before you lost everything.
“Um,” you began, pressing your lips together tightly when his gaze flickered to you. “Maybe you could… or would you mind maybe telling me where my bags are? If you know. Mor gave me a surface-level tour, but she didn’t seem to know everything.”
Azriel looked down to the ground beneath your feet. He blinked back up to meet your eyes. “Of course,” he replied, with so much practiced restraint in his tone you weren’t sure how he gritted out the words.
When he stepped in the room, it felt as if something shifted. He walked between tables and furniture and he fit like a puzzle, his wings never brushing anything, his eyes never casting down to analyze his body in the space. He looked like he belonged—he looked like he completed the space.
Something finally felt right.
Nothing felt right… but this did.
Azriel pushed open the closet doors, rifling through a cabinet you had only glanced at before. After a few silent moments, he walked out with bags in hand. His shadows hadn’t followed him. They drifted towards the bed instead, burrowing into the blankets and pillows until the plush surface became dark.
Azriel zeroed in on them as he placed the bags by your feet, staring off at his shadows as you brought your attention back to him. This close, you were able to catch his scent—the cedar and night-kissed air you’d recognized many times in recent days. But it had been so faint before, like he had been gone for weeks and the scent still lingered, or he had been in the room but only for a brief time. Nothing like now, with his chest only inches from your face.
“They seem to like my bed,” you laughed, just a small, breathy sound. An attempt to diffuse some of the untouched tension in the room.
The side of Azriel’s mouth curled up. You watched it rise, silently relishing in the heat of his body as it radiated into the space between you. “I can see that.”
He wasn’t a man of very many words—that’s something Mor had thankfully shared with you—but you wanted to fight against that. You wanted to hear the soft, low rumble of his voice. You wanted his laugh to spark in the air, to feel his words against your skin as you had just a few moments earlier. Azriel told you he didn’t hate you, that he was close to you, and suddenly the space between you felt impossible.
You just wanted to hear his voice.
“Have I changed things much?” you asked, heart thudding when he brought his gaze down to you. “I don’t know how much time you used to spend in here… or currently spend in here, I suppose—it’s only been a few days—but I’ve moved a few things. If you could tell.”
Azriel took in a long breath. “Actually, you—” he shook his head with an expression you could only decipher as baffled “—you put everything back. Cassian and Feyre, they moved a few things around when you were being brought home. Things that might have… well, we just didn’t want you to be overwhelmed.”
Overwhelmed.
“We should have known that was a ridiculous idea. You’re too brilliant, even without the context.”
Warmth flooded you; one compliment from Azriel and it was as if nothing mattered. You didn’t need your memories, you only needed this.
Azriel’s cheeks colored as if he felt the rush of emotions himself, his eyes bright.
No, that wasn’t right—you needed your memories. You needed to remember each and every time he had looked like this.
“Probably didn’t help that there were a bunch of empty spaces everywhere. If you leave nails on the wall it becomes quite obvious that something belongs there,” you quipped, a small smirk playing at your features.
Azriel laughed. Not a full laugh, but one that you had no idea you were missing before. “I will be sure to pass on the message.”
“Good. Cassian has many messages coming from me, it seems. Conflicting ones as well.”
“Right, of course. I will convey to him that you missed his presence earlier, but also that he is awful at hiding things from an amnesiac.”
“Perfect, thank you, Azriel.”
He gazed upon you, eyes flickering to every corner of your face.
They rested on your lips and then your eyes, trailing up until his hand followed to move the strand of hair that had wisped across your forehead. He brushed it away with delicate fingers, not a touch of hesitancy in them. Like it was natural for him, normal.
And maybe it was.
“I don’t know what to pack,” you whispered, trying to keep some of the lightness in the room. “Can you help? I haven’t a clue where most of my things are and you appear to be much more knowledgeable.”
Azriel drew his hand back, his eyes closing for a few long moments.
You wished you could delve into his mind the way Rhysand could—that you could understand some of the pain written in the tight clench of his eyelids.
“Of course I’ll help you.”
It began with him gathering things from the connected washroom. He entered the tiled room and opened drawers without fault or mistake, collecting perfumes you had been gravitating towards and zipping up products you hadn’t even found yet. He packed your brushes and jewelry as if he’d done this all before, as if your request for help wasn’t really a request, but an expectation.
“Have we traveled together before?” you found yourself asking as you followed behind the shadowsinger, a bag hanging from his arm.
Azriel smiled, turning to you with a glint in his eye. “A few times.”
You were very close friends, then.
Azriel led you back to the closet where he pulled a few articles of clothing from the hangers, holding each out for you to approve before he neatly folded them. You denied nothing, rather surprised by his taste and sense for whatever the weather was like in Day.
He moved further into the closet, half of which was sparsely filled. Maybe you filtered out your clothes with the seasons.
Or maybe something was missing.
Azriel paused.
You watched his scarred fingers brush over the purple dress you had worn on the first day you spoke to him after waking up. He rubbed the material against the pad of his thumb once, and then twice, before closing the closet doors and taking an abrupt step back. You stepped with him.
The shadowsinger said nothing.
“All done?” you asked. “Anything else I would need at Day?”
His shoulders rose and fell. Some of his shadows returned to make revolutions around his body.
“Azriel?”
“I—I’m sorry. Give me a moment.”
The shadowsinger stalked over to the bed, went to sit, but then seemed to think against it and began pacing instead. You tucked your fingers into your palm as you watched him, trying to hide the discomfort you felt as his clear unease.
Had you done something wrong?
Maybe you were being too familiar. This friendship between you was new and comfortable and exciting, but that was for you.
For Azriel, there was a gap, an immense amount of pain and missing connection.
He didn’t hate you, and that was… wonderful news, but this was also uncharted territory.
Maybe you shouldn’t have asked for his help—shouldn’t have invited him in.
“Azriel, I—”
“I need to explain this to you,” Azriel began, running a hand through disheveled locks. “I need you to understand why this is so hard. I don’t want you to assume this is your fault or that this is anything other than what it is.”
You nodded, but he didn’t look up to see your confirmation.
Azriel sighed and his wings flared slightly, returning back to his body in a quivering motion.
“I am terrified, y/n.”
This time, Azriel did look up to catch your gaze.
“I am terrified because this has happened before. It’s like I’m reliving it. Like you’re reliving it but you just don’t remember.”
Your fists unfurled as your brows met a point. “No one’s told me—“
“I know,” he breathed out, defeat the most prominent emotion on his beautiful face. “Last time this happened, the more we told you about the past—about certain aspects of your life—the more it hurt you, y/n. You’d… you’d scream until your lungs gave out every time we tried to share something new. It was like that for weeks.”
The Illyrian forfeited his internal battle with the bed, dropping down into a seat on the foot of it. Unsure of your place within your own room, you simply followed him, standing in front of his bent knees, eyes prompting him to continue.
He watched you as you moved.
“Has anyone told you what you do for this court? Your job?”
You shook your head.
Azriel continued. “You work as an emissary between courts and continents, but that’s more of a cover—a more comprehensible title for those outside of our circle. It’s hard to explain, but that power Rhys mentioned? It’s—it’s as if you have this intuition. For everything. You look at things, at people, and you just… know them. You look past lies and you pick up on things that are seemingly impossible to catch.”
Your head shook as Azriel fumbled over each of his words, confusion swirling in your gut. “That doesn't make any sense. Mor said that Rhys found me working at some boatyard by the Sidra. She said I used to help build vessels—there’s no way I have a power like that.”
“You do,” Azriel affirmed. “Rhys only went to find you because he heard of a girl building boats from memory. You took one look at him and knew what he wanted. Rhys said he barely had to offer you the job.”
It was a struggle not to grind your teeth together in frustration.
You used to know everything.
And now you knew nothing.
Your head began to hurt, or maybe you were just noticing that it had never stopped hurting.
“You said—” you started, tone heavy with vexation. Your eyes couldn’t find a solid place to land “—you said this has happened before. What does that have to do with these powers?”
Sensing the rise in your mood, Azriel seemed to even his own out. A balance between the two of you. You became agitated, he became calm. But you could tell he was struggling.
“Around 270 years ago, after you’d been working for the court for a few decades, Rhys sent you to Day. It was routine. You were going to gather information for a High Lord’s summit meant to take place there, but really, Rhys wanted you to scope out the area. To get insight on any plans, any secret dealings. You were meant to be gone for a few days at the most.”
Azriel’s fists clenched atop his knees. His face remained impassive.
“You were gone for six months. Gone. No one could reach you, Helion had assumed you went home already. It was right after you and I… became friends, so I was worried for you. More than the others, but no one was without worry. We found you eventually, but you—”
Something choked. Azriel choked. His head hung down and you replayed the last few of his words in your mind—the way they tightened and then tapered off.
This was too much.
Conveying comfort in the only way you knew how—in the way this family tended to love—you stepped between Azriel’s legs and brought a hand to his cheek, raising his face until his glassy eyes came into view.
“You don’t have to talk about this,” you whispered. “If it’s too hard, we can stop.”
Azriel’s jaw quivered. His next words seemed to tumble from his mouth without warning.
“Fuck, I miss you.”
It was simple instinct that led to your reply. “I’m right here.”
Something stirred within you, tugging lightly. Your heart, you deduced, beating so fast it was playing tricks on you. The shadowsinger in your hands twisted slightly, just barely so that the corner of his mouth touched your palm. Your heart tugged again.
“You didn’t remember anything, like now,” Azriel revealed, speaking just as you were about to pull away. You stopped yourself, feeling as if your touch was an encouragement to speak. “It was worse though, you were in so much pain. Any time you tried to remember anything, or even just tried to learn, it was like you were being pierced through the skull. You—you screamed so much.
“But it didn’t take us very long to figure it out. My spies in Day found the culprit and it was easy to capture him. He was weak. Strong powers, but weak in every other sense of the word. It was another Daemati—like Rhys. He became infatuated with you during your time in Day. He knocked you out, found a way to use your powers against you, to make them hurt.”
Azriel shuddered. His mouth got closer to your hand like he was leaning into it.
“It took a few weeks to get him to fix it. But those months, y/n—the time you were gone. You don’t remember them. I can only imagine what you went through. And when we brought you home you hurt so badly. So that's why… why us going back there is hard. Because this is all so similar and if it’s happening again I can’t…”
“Azriel,” you softly called, sure that this was the most amount of speaking the shadowsinger had done in a while. Sure that he needed a break. A respite. “It’s not the same, is it? You know that. My head hurts, but not like that. I don’t struggle to be reminded of the past. I learn new things. There is no evil villain waiting to take me away.”
“Y/n—”
“It’s not the same. I might not have access to these all-encompassing powers you speak of, but I can tell you that much. I’m sorry for what you went through before—that you had to watch a member of your family go through that then and then now… but it’s different. It’s different and I’ll be okay.”
His pond water eyes stared back at you as you attempted a reassuring smile. You felt his knees press against your thighs where you stood between them, and the pressure spurred you on. You ran your thumb along the high point of his cheek, relishing in the flutter of his lashes, gravitating towards him to relish in that closeness as well. This moment felt like yours, and something was telling you it was yours. That no one else could have this with him.
But you didn’t have your powers, your fae abilities, so maybe that feeling was nothing but hope.
Your thudding heart lulled you into a long breath.
“Maybe, if it would put you at ease, you could stay with me while we’re in Day? At my side, I mean. You could whisper everyone’s names into my ear so I don’t look like a fool and make sure I don’t get lost—”
“Yes,” Azriel replied, sure and resolute with no traces of the impending tears that had made his hazel eyes a pretty pool just moments before. “I won’t leave your side once. I promise.”
His devotion made you pause, surprise evident in the rapid blinking of your eyes. You wanted to protest, to tell him he didn’t need to promise something so taxing, but determination had set in his brow, and Azriel—your friend—wanted this. Needed this.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “Thank you, Azriel. For telling me all of this even though it was hard. For being here for me even though I know that’s hard, too. You’re a wonderful friend. I can’t wait to continue to find that out. I promise to be just as wonderful.”
“You are already the most wonderful thing in my life.”
Part 6 ♡
#azriel x reader#azriel x you#azriel fanfic#azriel shadowsinger#azriel acotar#azriel spymaster#azriel angst#acotar fanfiction#azriel#if it all fell
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RISK IT ALL | L.HC
SYNOPSIS. In theory, playing a card game called Risk It or Drink It during your holiday kickback sounded fun. In reality, it was your group’s wild plot scheme for you and your close friend, Donghyuck, to finally get yourselves together in more ways than one.
PAIRING. Lee Donghyuck x fem!Reader
WORD COUNT. 14.4k
GENRE. Friends-to-Lovers!AU, Holiday!AU, Christmas!AU, Party!AU, mutual pining, smut (minors dni!), comedy/humor, a tiny bit of fluff
WARNINGS. language (crude sexual jokes, talks about sex positions, and profanities), alcohol and food consumption, adult drinking games with dares, haechan is heavy on consent, body shots, brief vouyerism, explicit content (needy!haechan, possessive!haechan, fingering, oral–male and female receiving, nipple play, praise kink, penetrative, missionary, etc.), nicknames (hers: princess, baby | his: baby)
PLAYLIST. Up to You - PRETTYMUCH feat. NCT Dream | Look at Me - George | A Nonsesne Christmas - Sabrina Carpenter | santa doesn’t know you like i do - Sabrina Carpenter | Yours (Live feat. Winter and Mark) - Chanyeol and Raiden
DISCLAIMER. This is work of fiction. I do not own the people/characters or concepts I have written about. You cannot translate or copy my work. © sehunniepotwrites, 2023
As people say, Saturday nights are for the boys.
To you, the boys refer to your group of best friends formed early in your college years. The bond strengthened even after graduation. Two years after leaving your university adventures behind, your Saturday nights still belonged to your small close knit group. What started as dressing up in your best clothes and club hopping hours into the night turned into wearing comfy clothes and hosting weekly kickbacks in your respective apartments. You exchanged drunkenly shouting over loud music with drunkenly shouting over party games. Sometimes, you drink and others, you abstain from consuming alcohol to just bask in your hilarious company.
As you grew older, the clubbing and party scene seemed too exhausting with your nine-to-fives taking up most of your energy. Why would you want to socialize with stupid drunk strangers in a crowded room when you could just do that with your tight circle of friends?
Donghyuck and Mark hosted the kickback at their place this week–this one a little fancier than others due to it being the Saturday before Christmas. You loved it when they did. It gave you the excuse to drink to your heart’s content, knowing you could just crash in Donghyuck’s bed at the end of the night. You never did drink past your limit though–too afraid of your darkest secrets slipping through your loose lips–secrets only Jaemin and his girlfriend Ari knew.
Ari was a great secret keeper. She never revealed your secret crush on Donghyuck to her lover. You did that yourself one semester when you bursted into her room, complaining about how attractive your best friend looked in his leather jacket to the point of wanting to kiss his pretty confident smirk off his face. Jaemin heard it all while waiting for his girlfriend to get out of the shower. But as loyal as a friend could be, he kept the slip to your tiny little trio. That, however, did not stop the occasional teasing that happened here and there in full group settings.
It seemed like Jaemin and Ari always had something up their sleeves when you found yourselves hanging out with them and Donghyuck. They would find tiny little ways to get you and your crush in positions where you had no choice but to be near him. For example, setting up days where the hang outs seemed more like double dates and then pretending to get lost just to guarantee you some alone time with him. Their plans, though obvious to you, worked in many ways. Jaemin and Ari often returned to you with matching grins on their pretty faces when they saw your hands linked together or with Donghyuck’s arm comfortably draped around your shoulder, his free hand carrying your purse.
You honestly weren’t sure how Donghyuck never caught on to their schemes.
Maybe he did but refused to say anything on the topic.
Nevertheless, the devil worked hard but Ari and Jaemin worked even harder.
Although you asked the two to stop fueling the delusions floating in your mind, they insisted Donghyuck liked you too. “His feelings for you were undeniable,” they said, “just look at the way he treated you versus everyone else.”
Your best friend—with his gentle touches, sweet smiles, and teasing tones—dropped anything for you. He’d walk you to class even if his classes were on the other side of campus, protect you from creeps that gave you the ick, and have food delivered to your job when you had a rough day. When your dates with men went awry, Donghyuck arrived in seconds. According to the couple, the possibilities were endless for Donghyuck but only when it came to you. And tonight, apparently, was going to show you how endless the possibilities were.
You were a bit sad Mark was missing out on this round of drinking at his place but as Jaemin slammed the box of cards down on the dining table, maybe it was for the best that the eldest of the group missed it. He’d miss the chaos happening at his apartment but at least, he’d earn money while doing it.
Stealing a quick glance at Donghyuck, he looked so cute in his oversized knit sweater. The Santa hat resting on top of his long, wavy hair made him appear cozier than usual. Your outfits coincidentally matched–your sweaters in a similar shade and a Santa hat headband resting on top of your scalp.
“Alright, bitches,” Jaemin smirked while opening the box, “tonight’s game is called Risk It or Drink It. You better not be pussies now.” You missed the gamemaster giving Donghyuck a pointed look as you handed out Ari’s soju cocktails to all the people in attendance. Donghyuck stealthily flipped him off.
“He means you, babes,” Ari nudged you as she poured the two of you a shot. “We’re doing this for you.”
You grabbed it, the liquid spilling from the top, as you raised it for a toast. “No shit, Sherlock.”
Ari striked her glass with yours, “Well, Watson. Bottom’s up.”
“Merry fucking Christmas!” The two of you downed the shot, not wincing in the slightest. The dangerous thing about flavored soju was that it tasted sweet, didn’t burn, and snuck up on you when you least expected it.
Everyone gathered around the kitchen island, some choosing to stand or lean against the countertop, while others took a seat on the barstools. You all watched as Jaemin set the game up with ease, placing a thick stack of cards in the middle of the table.
“The rules are simple. We all take turns getting a card, reading it out loud, and doing what the card says, which is either doing a dare or answering a question. If you can do it, you earn the points at the bottom of the card and keep the card. If you can’t, take a shot or a swig of your drink. First to ten points wins. The player with the least point drinks out of”–the gamemaster pointed to a disgusting concoction next to the cards–“finishes the king’s cup. Got it?”
A chorus of agreement circled around the room and so the game began.
The first round was an easy one. You suspected the deck wasn’t shuffled well enough.
Jeno’s card asked him to show off how much money was in his account, causing Yeri to jokingly ask him if he needed a sugar baby. He retaliated by telling her to ask Mark when he came home, making her take a big swig of her cocktail to draw attention away from her reddening face. Giselle had to name the worst dressed in the room, which led to Renjun’s cute outburst. Jaemin faked a proposal to his girlfriend and had to chug his drink when she said “no.”
It was all fun and games until it came to you. That was when the party truly began.
You drew your card, skimmed through the words silently with a puzzled look, and then made a face. On your right, Donghyuck threw his arm over your shoulder to pull you closer to his side. He looked at the card as well, his face slightly dropping as he processed the task.
“What does it say?” Karina yelled from the other side of the circle.
Clearing your throat, you read aloud, “Lick the person on your left’s earlobe for five seconds or drink.”
Jaemin was to the left of you and as much as you thought your friend was attractive, no amount of drinks in the world would result in you doing that.
“Damn, if only it said person to your right,” Jaemin whistled, reaching over to pat Donghyuck’s knee. Then, a mischievous glint in his eye appeared. “Hey, Donghyuck! Wanna switch sides for this card?”
“Jaem, what the fuck?!”
Donghyuck immediately shot up and the rest of the group hollered at the suggestion, urging him to move. Shoving Jaemin aside, your best friend beamed at you. He made a show out of it, pretending to tuck strands of his hair behind his ear. “Ready when you are, Princess.”
You shoved his side at his flirty tactics, quickly looking away from the pair of eyes you couldn’t resist. “You would be the type to like this shit,” you attempted to play off, ignoring the increasing heartbeats the more he looked at you.
“I’m into anything as long as you’re the one doing it,” he threw back, quickly placing a kiss right next to your earlobe. You inhaled sharply at the touch. You could almost feel the smirk spreading across his lips as he pulled away.
The screams that followed that line reminded you that you were not alone–you were in a room filled with people that you loved and were now watching you grow even more flustered than you already were. Heaven knows you were not drunk enough for this. Shaking your head out of the thoughts that followed Donghyuck’s words, you reached for your glass and said, “I’m drinking.”
Vocalized disappointment circled around the room and you ignored it, taking three large gulps of your cocktail. You slammed the glass down and felt the alcohol run through your body. If the dares were anything like that one, it would take you a lot more to actually do something.
Donghyuck didn’t vocalize anything after your choice was made but you did catch his smirk drop the second your lips touched the rim of your glass. The large hand he had around your waist acted as a sign for you to put your drink down. Without words, he placed an opened water bottle in front of you and gestured to it with his chin–he wanted you to take a sip. You did as you were told as the second round of dares continued.
You all had trouble holding in your laughter when Karina called a friend, put them on speakerphone, and asked them to pick her up from the station after being detained for having car sex in a public area. The cackles were harder to contain when the friend pressed for details instead of immediately coming to her aid. When the insistence failed to cease, Karina spit out the first name that came to her head and ended up unmasking the flame she carried for Jeno. You grinned at the unfolding, taking note of how Jeno’s body perked up the minute Karina’s friend screamed, “Finally!”
Ari confidently revealed her body count, Yeri had to endure being tickled by everyone for thirty seconds, and Renjun took two shots instead of calling his ex-girlfriend.
“List three sex positions in ten seconds or drink,” Donghyuck read his card aloud. Before he could even process the task, the group started counting down, adding pressure onto the boy. “Oh shit! Umm, missionary, doggy–oh what the fuck, what else is there?!”
His time was up before he could think of a third and Giselle shoved a shot in his hand. “You better drink, Hyuck!”
Donghyuck accepted his fate, groaning after he took the shot. As he nuzzled his head into your neck, you could tell he was disappointed at his failure.
“Aww, baby, couldn’t think fast enough with your little pea brain?” you teased, running your fingers through his messy hair.
He looked up at you with a playful sneer and pursed his lips. “Like you could do any better in ten seconds.”
Looking Donghyuck dead in the eye, you listed three off the bat with a deadpan face, “Cowgirl, 69, doggy. It’s not that hard, Hyuckie.”
With no other context, your best friend dropped his head back into place and said, “You will be the death of me one day, you know that, right?” His plush lips, now wet with the remnants of alcohol, brushed against the junction of your neck and exposed shoulder. The sudden touch made you shiver.
“And why’s that?”
Donghyuk breathed out, the air making goosebumps appear on your skin, and deflected the question. “It’s your turn. Draw.”
The moment you pulled the card, Donghyuck shifted his head to read the card with you. His body began to shake with laughter as the rest of your crew rushed you to reveal the dare.
God, you were not drunk enough for this. He grabbed the paper out of your fingers and took the liberties of saying the dare, “Hold a piece of food in your mouth and have the person on your right,” he paused, grazing his soft fingers on your bare knee, “that’s me, princess—”
“Yes, I know my rights from lefts, Hyuck.”
“—and have them take it from you.”
“I’m picking the piece of food you use and don’t you dare complain!” Ari yelled before anyone else could claim the job.
Everyone watched as she stifled through a plate of French fries. Her playful grin expanded across her pretty face when she found the perfect fry—a thin, crispy piece that was around an inch long. The group exploded with excitement as she held it up.
“That,” you pointed to the fry in your friend’s hand, “cannot be legal. That has to be against the rules!”
Jaemin pretended to examine the fry his girlfriend was holding. “Hmm, looks fine to me.”
“You’re a menace, Jaem,” you hissed at him.
Jaemin came right back, “Just doing what has to be done to take us out of our misery.”
“What misery?!”
With everything already set, you resigned to your friend’s wishes and begrudgingly accepted the dare. Ari handed you the tiny piece of food. You sighed dramatically before placing it between your teeth. It barely extended past your top and bottom lip. Shooting Donghyuck a widened look, you told him to hurry. If you were to prolong this dare any longer, you were afraid of the fry breaking before he’d get to it.
You stood still as Donghyuck approached with a smug look. It disappeared as soon as his eyes dropped to the french fry you held, lingering at the sight of your parted mouth. When he looked back up at you, there was a sort of look in the brown irises you were so attracted to. Hunger. Anticipation.
“Lean in,” someone shouted but your body froze in its place.
Swallowing back your nervousness, his two warm hands touched your face, both molding to your cheeks. Shutting your eyes as he grew closer, the last thing you saw was his handsome face tilting to get a better angle. Donghyuck’s actions were lightning quick and sudden, making your heart beat skyrocket towards the moon.
His breath tickled your skin and then, his lips brushed ever so gently against yours. It didn’t last too long; after all, his goal was to retrieve the french fry. You did your best to focus on that, remembering not to bite down to break the crunchy strip of food–the task at hand was hard but not impossible.
Then, there was a slight pressure, the plushness of his lips pushing into you as Donghyuck bit, tugging the food out of your mouth.
Still frozen in your spot, you sensed Donghyuck pulling back. You exhaled through your nostrils and slowly opened your eyes. Your best friend was right in front of you, wearing a smirk as he chewed on the fry. He licked around his mouth, gathering the tiny dusts of salt before humming.
“Salty,” was all he said while everyone surrounding you laughed at his antics.
Ignoring the hammering of your heart as he continued to stare at your lips, you cleared your throat. As much as you tried to shove all feelings of attraction aside, Donghyuck kept his sultry gaze fixated on you. You watched as it dipped back down to your lips again, his fingers coming up to brush away the little specks of salt that stuck your mouth.
Everything was too much for you–the warmth of his touch, the intensity of his stare, the looks the others were giving you–it was time to direct everyone’s attention elsewhere.
“Next dare,” you called out, facing away from Donghyuck.
You did the honors of drawing the card for the next person, reading it out loud and keeping the game going. Despite everyone else’s attention following your distraction, you could still detect your crush’s unwavering stare from your side. You were hyper-aware of his arm circling your waist, tugging you closer to his body heat, and the way his palm curved so perfectly into your side. It sent tingles down your spine, goosebumps forming in your flesh, and heat rising up from the tips of your extremities to the middle of your body.
Looking at the depleting stack as the game continued, you thought it couldn’t get any worse than this. Turns out, you were dead wrong.
Donghyuck plucked the next card at the top of the deck, read it to himself, and let out a low chuckle. Squeezing your side, fingers tickling the sliver of exposed skin, he said, “Looks like it’s you and me again, Princess.”
The reaction kept the group of friends on the edge of their seats, curiosity getting the better of them. “Read it!” Giselle yelled from the other side of the island bar.
Hating the way Donghyuck dragged things out, it was time to take matters into your own hands. Snatching the card out of his hand, you relayed the message aloud, “Hold a staring contest for thirty seconds with the person on your left or drink. The two participants must be within two inches of each other.”
Oh shit.
If there was one thing that made you weak, it was the way Donghyuck stared at you. You barely survived him stealing the fry. There was a mission to complete despite his impenetrable gaze, which kept your center of interest. But for this particular dare, nothing would be in the way but the air you both breathed. Could you be able to maintain your cool or would you fold the minute your eyes locked with his?
“Oh, this is going to be good,” Jeno whispered to Karina, the two now seemingly closer after the phone call scandal. She giggled, turning her head towards him to hide her laugh. Traitors, you thought to yourself, the both of them.
Faking nonchalance, you shifted towards an eager looking Donghyuck. “Thirty seconds is nothing. Let’s get this over with.”
“Whatever you say, princess,” he replied, swiveling in his chair to face you.
The arm holding you close to him slid down your shoulder to rest on your waist, his hand making its way under your sweater and palm now resting on the small of your back. Your body arched at his touch before you fully processed what happened, your grip instantly shooting to his take hold of his upper arms to maintain balance. You ignored the way his muscles flexed under your palms.
Donghyuck chuckled again, “We didn’t even start and you’re already like this. How cute.”
Despite how his words and tone made you melt on the inside, how they made you sink a little more into his touch, the snark came bubbling out of your mouth. “Shut up.”
Donghyuck did the exact opposite of what you demanded. “Why don’t you make me?”
“Oh my god, Donghyuck,” you groaned.
“Is the timer ready?” he asked no one in particular while keeping you in his line of sight. It never wavered even as someone in the crowd announced they had pulled one up and were waiting for his cue.
“Start it,” your best friend commanded and then began the longest thirty seconds of your life.
With Donghyuck barely two inches away from your face, his brown eyes dug deep into your soul. Unable to look away, you took note of how his pupils dilated as Donghyuck continued to stare. The way he looked at you was breathtaking, so focused, like you were the only thing that mattered in the moment.
The boy’s stare, although flattering, was almost too intimidating for you to take. The intensity of it all made you want to withdraw, the upper half of your body drawing away from him. No matter how much you wanted to escape, he didn’t let you. Every time you pulled back, he pushed forward until the tip of your nose grazed against his. The hand underneath your sweater found its way up to support your upper back, his other arm extending out to grip the counter top. Donghyuck now had you pinned in between the island bar and his body and it was too damn hot in the room for this.
Just as Donghyuck broke the connection to steal a glance at your lips for the second (or third time) that night, the timer alarmed to signal the end of your dare. You lightly shoved your hands against your crush’s chest, ignoring how firm the muscles below you were, to make more room. Once you deemed him far enough, you reached for your cocktail and took a long swig to cool your overheating body down.
Everyone had their own reactions to the stunt: Giselle and Yeri giggling in the corner, Renjun scrolling through the pictures he snuck of the interaction, Jeno and Karina whispering to another about what just transpired. While downing your drink, you made eye contact with Jaemin, who wiggled his eyebrows annoyingly. You were so close to using his pretty face as your punching bag. Ari simply winked at you. You flipped her off in reply.
Even as everyone else moved on, Donghyuck was still stuck on the dare that occurred.
While taking one too many sips of your drink, you spilled a bit of it, liquid sticking to part of your skin. With no hesitation, Donghyuck used a part of his sleeve to wipe it away. The fingers still tucked into your knit sweater rose up to graze the back of your neck. You shuddered as he pulled his hand away, the warmth leaving with him. Just when you thought it was over, his nimble fingers reached out to fix the Santa headband that was slipping. Your breath hitched and your crush promptly picked up on it.
“Do I make you nervous?” he whispered, tacking your name to the end of his question. His voice was lower than usual, the cheerful and bright cadence long gone. The difference in his tone caused your heart to drop to the floor, as if it was free falling from an amusement park’s drop tower at the highest speed. There was no way to pick it back up.
“You wish.”
Donghyuck had the honors of having the last word this time. “I really do.”
No matter how hard you denied it, your best friend did make you nervous. It was apparent when he took the french fry from your mouth and when you had a staring contest. It was even more evident during your next turn, when you were tasked to spin a bottle and kiss whoever it landed on.
There was no point in even spinning the bottle; you knew your mischievous friends would make you re-spin until you landed on the person they (i.e. you) wanted. You twirled the bottle a total of three times. The first time, it landed in between Jaemin and Ari and the next, it pointed to Renjun who quickly shifted from its path. On the last try, it stopped in the middle of you and Donghyuck.
Ari’s manicured hand quickly flicked the bottle just enough so the opened end was aimed right at your best friend. “Well, would you look at that?” she giggled. “It landed on Hyuckie.”
That girl was a devil in disguise, just like her damned partner.
You rolled your eyes. Sarcasm dripped through your words,“Who would’ve thought?”
“Damn. Is the thought of kissing me that dreadful to you?” Donghyuck asked, lifting his Santa hat to run through his hair. His long fingers pushed back the curled bangs covering his eyes, holding them in place as he awaited your reply.
The thought was far from dreadful. Nerve wracking was a far better word to describe how you were feeling. Thrilling was another one you could throw into your word bank.
You ignored the question, too busy handling the butterflies hovering about in your stomach. One almost got caught in your throat when he swiveled your bar stool to face him. You gulped, shoving it back down.
“Is it?” Donghyuck insisted you answer him. You couldn’t lie so you abstained from replying. “Oh, you want me to kiss you so bad, don’t you, princess?”
Avoiding his eyes, you muttered, “Let’s get this over with.”
“Gladly.”
The next thing you knew, Donghyuck’s rough hands found their way back to your cheeks and tugged you closer. Seizing the opportunity, your best friend closed the distance with no hesitation. His plush lips crashed against yours and the years of tension between the two of you ultimately snapped.
As soon as he felt you kiss him back, your body melting right into his grasp, Donghyuck circled an arm around your waist to lock you in his hold. His other hand sneakily traced a path up your arm, creating gooseflesh on your skin, until finding purchase at the back of your head. He cupped your neck to keep you in place and went back for seconds. The first kiss ended and you parted for a mere moment to catch the tiniest breath before you went back at it.
Donghyuck didn’t care about the crowd and quite frankly, you forgot about the audience. He kissed you hard and you couldn’t stop reciprocating even if you tried. The taste of him was addicting, it was impossible to break away.
It was official; you were drunk on him within the first kiss. When Donghyuck tightened his grip, you let out a quiet yet pleasured sound. You latched onto his wavy, brown locks only to tug on them. If you went on for any longer, you were sure to have found your way onto his spread out thighs but you were stopped before you could carry on.
Renjun whistled, pulling your attention from Donghyuck’s kiss and back to the real world.
You slowly opened your eyes, dazed for a moment in time, until you realized what just occurred. Withdrawing the hands tangled in your crush’s hair, you took in your best friend’s appearance–lips red and swollen, hair messy, and eyes half-lidded and completely fixated on your mouth. His chest rose and fell with each breath he took and once his gaze met yours, you swore his pupils grew in size.
“God damn,” Jeno coughed, clearly flustered by the public display of affection. “Hyuck, you need a moment or?”
“Hmmm?” Donghyuck hummed, his stare unfaltering. He tracked every minuscule move you made, from the way you drew yourself back to create some much needed distance to how your mouth let out little pants to slow down your heart rate. He watched you press the back of your hands against your burning cheeks in a failed attempt to cool down. “No, no, I think I’m good.”
“I honestly think they both need a moment,” Yeri muttered under her breath.
“Under the mistletoe maybe,” Ari whispered back.
“The bedroom’s more like it. The card said kiss, not make out for the whole fucking world to see,” Renjun scolded, rubbing his eyes to erase the vision. You probably scarred the poor boy for life. He was most likely debating on whether or not he had to burn his eyes.
“I think that looked hot,” Jaemin commented, giving you a wink. The heat in your cheeks turned up a notch. “Enjoyed it a little too much, yeah?”
“Of course, you enjoyed it, Jaem. You’re a freak,” Giselle said.
“Hey, no kink shaming here! This is a safe space! I’m going to make you take a shot for that!”
Only then did Donghyuck snap out of whatever trance you had him under. He gave you this enchanting smile that looked even prettier with his puffy lips. You did that to him. A swell of pride coursed through you–you ruined him even if it was just for a moment.
One of his hands dropped to your mid thigh while the side arguments continued. It traced a path to your knee, his thumb stroking your skin back and forth. “Was that okay?”
It was more than okay. Fantastic. Exciting. Stimulating even, judging by the damp feeling in your underwear. Worthy enough for an encore performance. “Yes.”
“Good,” Donghyuck gulped, suddenly shy and less confident than he usually is. “Are we okay?”
The look of a siren took over your features, your eyes flickering to his lips for a short second. Chin pointed down, your eyes then widened when rising up to meet his stare. Your hand settled on top of his, grounding it on your bare thigh. He squeezed your flesh as you answered with a breathless, “yeah.”
“It wasn’t too much?” Donghyuck asked, leaning into you.
He always did this–made sure that you were comfortable when put in awkward or unusual situations. Even when he stole your breath away with a kiss or two, the first thing he thought of was you.
The only response you could give was a shake of your head, causing the headband to fall back yet again. With his light touch, Donghyuck fixed it right up and combed back the stray hairs stuck to your face.
“Good,” he repeated with a satisfied nod.
He pressed against your thigh once more and you squeezed his hand back. When your hand refused to move, Donghyuck took it as a sign to keep it there for as long as you accepted his touch. As the game went on and the dares entertained the rest of the crowd, you kept yourself amused by running your fingers against his knuckles. It tickled your crush to no end, his hand squirming underneath yours, trying to break free from your crutches but you didn’t let up.
To prevent it any further, Donghyuck swiftly turned his hand around and tangled his fingers with yours. He kept you in a tight but not squeezing grasp and it took your attention away from your friend group’s shenanigans.
You missed Giselle refusing to take another shot and reluctantly taking off Renjun’s sweater vest with her mouth, then Yeri answering a “fuck, marry, kill” question, all because of how Donghyuck’s hand molded so perfectly with yours. Your eyes were glued to your intertwined fingers under the countertop, hidden from everyone else’s sight, but so crystal clear for yours.
Your heart was going crazy, even crazier than when he kissed you in front of everyone. Those were all done for the public but this little moment was meant for you alone. Donghyuck didn’t have to hold your hand. He stood next to you now, his own seat long forgotten, just to be closer to you. You tested something, trying to pull away but his grip around your hand strengthened, as if he never wanted to let you go.
With a smile on your face, you allowed yourself to lean against him, your arm pressing against his. As you did this, Donghyuck released the hand he held, only to sling over your shoulder. He shifted to hug you from behind, his back bent slightly so he could reach back down to connect your hands again.
You looked up at him. “Comfortable?”
Donghyuck’s melodic voice hummed in reply and you leaned into his chest as he held you tighter. You held your breath as you felt a bit of his strengthened chest pressing into your upper back.
When you stood to refill your cup ten minutes later, Donghyuck still held you with his arms circling your waist as you bent and reached across the countertop. Something hard grazed against your butt as you wiggled in his embrace, stretching your fingers to grab onto the half-emptied soju bottle. He emitted the quietest groan and gripped your sides to keep you still. Heat rushed throughout your entire body when the realization hit and a wave of arousal crashed against you.
“Please stop moving,” he said, desperation oozed out of his gentle command.
The boy couldn’t move you himself, needing you to shield the erection that he was desperately trying to hide. He simply let you out of his hold, long enough to pour yourself another drink, before his arms encompassed you once more. His chin dropped to your shoulder as you sipped on your drink.
“Sorry, can’t help it,” Donghyuck mumbled into your ear, his lips grazing against your earlobe. The slightest brush sent shivers down your spine and you were sure he felt it. It reminded you of the dare card you received earlier and you wondered if your crush would have the same reaction if the roles were reversed.
“It’s ‘kay,” you hushed back.
“Is it though?” Donghyuck pushed. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“I would push you away if I was,” you reassured him before offering him a sip of your drink.
If you turned back, you would’ve caught his eyes widening at your reply. It was a little spark of hope for the boy but then, he couldn’t be too sure. He refused the cocktail, saying that he should stop drinking for the night. He stressed that he needed to be sober by the end of the get-together to make sure you were alright.
A call of your name brought you back to the game. The card you drew was a relatively easy one: post a picture with someone or something to your Instagram feed without editing with the caption, “you are the love of my life.” Patting Donghyuck’s sweater-covered arm, you requested his help, “Take a picture with me?”
“Am I the love of your life now?” He threw back, not denying the request.
You handed your phone to the group’s respective Instagram boyfriend, Jaemin, and giggled. Maybe you shouldn’t have taken that last sip. You were far from drunk but a little past buzzed. “Why? You like the sound of that?”
“I like being called yours,” he flirted back.
“Shut up,” you scrunched your nose at him before turning your attention to the camera aimed at you.
Jaemin, as expected, took a cute picture of the two of you.
Donghuck was still draped over you, hugging you waist from behind with his chin resting on your shoulder. While you grinned happily for the camera, your hands covering his larger ones resting on your belly, your friend kept his soft stare on you. He wore a tender smile, honey dripping from his lips and his eyes. It looked like the perfect print for a couple’s Christmas card instead of a drunken dare and you knew this was a picture you wanted to keep on your feed, dare or not. You could always edit the caption at a later time.
Donghyuck continued to hover over you, watching your fast fingers type out the text. You waited together in silence as you hit post, waiting for the picture to upload. When the photo appeared on your feed, you turned your phone around to show the onlookers. Like the hype crowd they were, all your friends pulled out their own phones to like and comment on the post–the girls writing unhinged comments on your beauty or how Donghyuck stole you away from them while the guys drew attention to how long it took you to get together. You were sure the people who weren’t a part of your usual crowd would believe the caption on your post–after all, many often commented on how cute you looked as a couple. Without context, you were sure Mark would be pissed about how you didn’t tell him shit.
“Alright, alright. It’s your turn, Hyuck,” you said.
“Let me run to the bathroom real quick and then I’ll draw.”
Donghyuck finally let you out of his warm embrace, heading down the hallway of his apartment, leaving you with the rest of your friends. As soon as they heard the door shut, the group turned their heads towards you. They looked like predators, ready to pounce on their prey.
“Y’all really went at it,” Ari said, “you didn’t even come up for a breath.”
“I felt like I needed to leave the room,” Yeri added on.
“And I felt like I needed to gouge my eyes out,” Renjun dramatically rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t drunk enough for that.”
“You want to drink more?” Giselle perked up, already reaching for his shot glass.
“Sit your ass down,” Renjun scolded while reaching for food,“I’m driving you home tonight so I’m tapping out.”
“Party pooper,” she argued.
“I mean I could drink more and we could crash here but do you want to stay with Y/N and Hyuck with all this sexually charged energy in the air?”
“Excuse me, what?” you spat out your drink, eyes enlarged as you processed Renjun’s words.
“You heard what I said,” Renjun snapped before turning back to Giselle, “if you’re fine with that, you’re on your own kid ‘cause I’m going home.”
Giselle gave you a once-over and then a sheepish smile. “Yeah, on second thought, maybe not.”
Not over what Renjun said, you whisper-shouted, “Sexually charged energy?”
“Oh please, if we didn’t stop you, you’d probably end up on Hyuck’s lap,” Karina said as she sat at the dinner table across from the island bar. You glared at her, taking in her current position. She shouldn’t even be the one talking; her bare legs rested on Jeno’s lap, her flesh covered by the fabric of his hoodie. You eyed the slight movement of Jeno’s large hand under the hoodie, how it caressed Karina’s thigh.
“Is he a good kisser?” Jaemin wiggled his eyebrows at you.
“You’re such a gossip,” you rolled your eyes.
“Well, is he?” Ari pushed, ganging up on you with her boyfriend.
Thinking back to the hot kiss you shared made you bite your lip. “No comment.”
“She didn’t deny it so that’s a yes!” Yeri stood up, pointing a finger at you.
You fought the urge to bite it as a small rebellious act. Jeno tugged the end of Yeri’s sweater dress and yanked her back down to her seat.
“He so wants you!”
“You say that like it’s new.”
What? Where they implying that your best friend actually had feelings for you? “What do you mea–”
It was then Donghyuck returned from the bathroom. Your group went quiet as he approached, making the lot of you appear suspicious. “Were you dumb asses talking about me?”
“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Donghyuck,” you said while taking your oversized sweater off.
Being in the hot seat while he was away got you all fired up–you had to find some way to cool you down. Finishing the game in your cropped bra top and skirt would be just fine.
“Ouch,” the boy clutched his knit sweater right above his heart, the slight tug lifting the material. You caught a sliver of his gorgeous tanned skin and realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath. You swiftly reverted your eyes to the thin deck of cards on the countertop.
When Donghyuck returned back to his position of hugging you from behind, you froze in your spot. His arms fell over your shoulders, fingertips grazing the flesh of your upper thigh and you did your best to keep it together.
“Can you draw my card for me?” he asked you, his low voice directly in your ear.
His warm breath and long hair tickled your neck and you shut your eyes closed. “Huh?”
“It’s too far and I don’t want to reach over you,” Donghyuck whined, his hands sliding up your arms to massage your shoulders.
You gave into his wishes and reached for a new card. Donghyuck’s grip skimmed your sides, fingers digging into your hips to keep you steady while you leaned forward. His thumbs rubbed little circles on your back as you read the card aloud. “Take a body shot with a person of your choice or finish your drink,” you projected to the awaiting crowd. Fuck.
Jaemin and Ari’s lips formed twin smirks, satisfied with their front row seats while you slowly piece together that particular dare. Donghyuck refused to let you out of his sight or grip. All partner tasks he had were done with you. Therefore, you would be his person of choice for this dare as well. Could your heart even take this?
Like clockwork, Donghyuck swiveled your chair to ask for your consent. His brown eyes dug deep into yours to check in on you. “You okay with this, princess?”
You gestured to the strong cocktail Ari made him. “Would you rather finish that strong concoction or take a shot? I know you said you wanted to stop drinking tonight.”
Donghyuck shook his head, his luscious hair flopping along with his movement. “Don’t do this because of what I said. That’s not what I asked. Are you okay with this–yes or no?”
“I–” You were shy but you weren’t unwilling. This game had gotten you physically closer than any other attempts that were made. It gave you a little confidence when it came to Donghyuck’s physical touch.
When Jaemin and Ari mentioned they had something up their sleeves, you didn’t think a little card game would get you this far. You couldn’t deny the rising tension between you and Donghyuck, especially how it skyrocketed during the many rounds of dares. Neither could you deny the gentler moments sprinkled in the middle of the more intense scenes of the wild night. If all of those moments were leading up to this, why run away from it?
“Yeah.”
That was not what Donghyuck was expecting to hear. “Yeah?”
“Let’s do it,” you nodded bashfully. You turned to face your friends, feigning confidence, “We don’t have tequila so hand me some sugar and the apple mango soju.”
Sweet drinks weren’t really Donghyuck’s thing. He was more of a plain soju and beer person but while you were both out at a barbeque place earlier in the year, he mentioned that he liked the taste of apple mango flavor in passing. Months later and you remembered that little fact. Donghyuck bit back a grin.
He reached out a hand towards you and you carefully placed your hand in his. Donghyuck helped you off your high stool, looking for a place to set you down. The island bar was filled with the food, drinks, and the card game so that wasn’t in the running. The dining table had all the white elephant gifts piled on top, so that wasn’t a choice either.
His eyes landed on the low coffee table in front of the couch and led you to it, your hand clasped tightly with his. Your free hand held the bottle of soju, the sugar, and the shot glass. When no one was looking, you took a quick swig before seating yourself on the cold, glass surface. Donghyuck kneeled in front of you, wedged between your thighs.
Your friends followed, jittery with excitement over what was going to unfold. They planted themselves behind the couch, keeping their distance.
Handing him the sugar shaker, you braced yourself as his tongue licked a spot on your neck. Fingers and toes curling at the sensation, you cocked your head to the side while he sprinkled a bit of sugar on your skin. You didn’t dare open your eyes until you felt him more than a breath away. Avoiding any sort of eye contact with your friends, you fixed your gaze on the person in front of you, pouring the alcohol into the glass. When Donghyuck finished, he looked up at you with parted lips and a glazed over stare.
“Ready?”
Unable to spit out words, you felt your head move up and down. With your approval, Donghyuck placed one hand on your upper back, the other on your thigh, as he guided you down. You winced when the freezing glass met your skin. A gasp followed when the bottom of the shot glass rested on your bare stomach.
The room was silent as Donghyuck placed his arms behind his back. You stared at the ceiling as he descended. Struggling to keep your inhales shallow to keep the shot glass upright, you dug your nails into the heel of your palm. Panic and arousal flooded your brain when you snuck a peek of his head in between your legs. First came the tickle of his long hair, then the puff of his breath. The sensations they caused ignited the fire within you and a wetness to leak into fabric, the one that was fueled by another person’s touch.
Donghyuck paused for a moment, peering up at you. Eyes locked onto his target, he kept a steady gaze as his mouth wrapped around the rim of the glass. The sight of him was too sensual, too debauched for your heart to take, you broke the connection and rested your head back on the glass table. A bit of the soju spilled on your stomach when he threw his head back to take the shot. You wanted to wipe the cold liquid with the hem of your skirt; however, Donghyuck beat you to it, his wet lips thoroughly slurping up the remainder.
To end the dare, your best friend trapped you under him, his arms planted on either side of you. You instantly turned your head to give him more access. One of Donghyuck’s strong hands cupped your jaw to keep you in place as his tongue thoroughly traced the stripe of sugar until it was all gone. He started from where your shoulder met your neck, ghosting all the way up until his nose nudged your earlobe. Donghyuck caught the sharp gasp that escaped you, felt how your hand left crescent moons on his wrist.
One, two, three beats passed until Donghyuck retreated, the scent of his strong cologne whiffing past you as he pulled back. You released a trapped breath and grabbed hold of the hand he offered. Using his strength to bring you back up, your widened eyes met his.
Unbeknownst to the two of you, your friends had already moved on from the dare and deemed their roles as matchmakers a job well done. They moved from their spots behind the couch and began clean up duty. Renjun placed all the used kitchenware and rinsed them in the sink. Giselle and Yeri threw away all the trash and clutter around the kitchen and dining room area. Jeno and Karina moved like two peas in a pod, working together to put away all the leftovers in the fridge. Jaemin and Ari gathered all the cards, disregarding the points earned, and placed them back in the box. No matter who earned the most points, it was clear who the winners were–you and Donghuck won the game and your prizes were each other.
Even with the hustle and bustle happening throughout Donghyuck’s apartment, neither of you noticed, too entranced by each other. Donghyuck was completely under a spellbinding haze–the glazed over expression on your face, paired with your heavy breaths and your parted lips–that he just couldn’t help himself. Hidden by the back of your couch, no one witnessed how your crush broke himself out of his trance just to kiss you one more time.
His lips, still damp with the alcohol that spilled from his messy drinking method, connected with yours. This kiss was slower than the one that took place earlier in the night. Slower but needier. You tasted the sweet soju as your tongues converged. Even with others in the room, who could catch you at any second, Donghyuck never increased the pace. He kept you there with him, warm hands holding your face, thumbs caressing your cheek and the back of your neck, as he lightly bit your bottom lip.
Unable to control yourself, a quiet sigh broke free when his touch ran up to grab a handful of your hair. You instantly felt Donghyuck react to it. With that boost in confidence, his mouth formed a smirk and let out a breathless chuckle that left you desiring more of him. His hips rocked forward just once, something hard swiftly brushing against your privates, and it was enough for you to release a high-pitched mewl at the contact. When Donghyuck pulled away, his deep gaze was still locked on your puffy lips, now swollen from all the damage he’d done to you. Drawing back again, he took in the whole sight of you from his current spot, kneeling in between your spread legs.
You were so breathless, chest heaving and body flushed with warmth. The stain on your lips was almost completely gone, what was left of it messily blotched around your mouth. Even if you reapplied it thirty minutes prior, Donghyuck was almost one hundred percent sure it disappeared because it was smudged on him.
So breathless. So taken. So ruined.
That was the word. You looked ruined and it was all thanks to him.
Lee Donghyuck did that to you and he was damned proud of it. Even if nothing else stemmed from whatever this moment–this night–was, Donghyuck would take the overwhelming pride he felt to his grave. No other kiss, no other makeout session, and whatever followed would ever top this exact moment for him.
You released a quiet giggle and swiped your thumb against his lips. He kissed it as you continued your ministrations, attempting to clean off the bright color that now painted his face.
Would it be so bad of him if he told you to stop? Would it be okay for him to keep those stains, those little specks of you, on his skin? Was it shameless of him to ask? If it was too brazen, he’d do it anyway–Donghyuck would do anything to be at your mercy.
“Hey, lovebirds, we’re heading out!” Jaemin called from behind the couch with Ari snuggled up at his side.
The two of you spun towards them and spotted all your friends gathered by the door. Yeri and Giselle were slipping on their shoes, using Renjun as balance as they stood on one foot. Jeno held Karina’s coat, fighting the blush that warmed his face while the girl of his dreams clung onto his arm. If you were in your right mindset, you would’ve commented on that but you were far from it. You were far from sober, too intoxicated not by the many drinks you consumed, but by all the kisses Donghyuck gave you. They were addicting in their own type of way–with his little suckles, licks, and nips.
“You’re sleeping over, right?” Ari asked, “No need for us to take you home?”
In normal circumstances, you would sleep over with no other questions asked. It was an unspoken rule that you had every time Donghyuck and Mark hosted but this was different than the other times. You just kissed your best friend–the one you usually share a bed with–on multiple occasions throughout the night and there was some sort of invisible string drawing you back to him every single time you pulled away. Ari, as a faithful girl’s girl, was giving you a way out, an option if you didn’t want to take it any further.
As you debated the choice that was given, Donghyuck continued to breathe you in. Although he had a certain look to him, with all the flirtatious methods he had under his belt, the boy was a one girl sort of guy and that girl would always be you. You didn’t know it but he was saving himself for you.
To him, you were not another girl he could have a one-night stand with. You were the person he wanted to wine and dine, to take care of at the end of a long day. He wanted to shower you with his love, undying devotion, and kisses so sweet that could rival the taste of your favorite dessert. And yes, this was a risk–possibly the biggest one in his short lifetime–but out of all the risks he took tonight, this was the one Donghyuck was most willing to take.
You faced Donghyuck, a silent inquiry in your features, as you thought it through. He cocked his head at you, “It’s up to you, princess. It’s okay if you don’t want to sleep over this time.” There was a sense of finality in his low tone, ready to accept whatever answer you were willing to give.
There was the Donghyuck you knew and loved–always putting your comfort before his own. Even when his hardened state was centimeters away from the place it craved the most, Donghyuck maintained his distance out of respect for you. That alone made you want to stay with him, to explore where else the night could take you.
You leaned forward and pressed your body against his. Resting your chin on his shoulder, you leaned your head on his and Donghyuck immediately coiled his arms around your exposed waist.
“I’m gonna stay,” you notified the crowd. Turning so that your lips brushed against his sensitive ear, you whispered just for him to hear, “that’s okay, yeah?”
Donghyuck slammed his eyes shut at your whisper, tightening his limbs that settled around your middle. With his body still in between your legs, you locked him in place by crossing your calves against his back. Your core was now in direct contact with the cold metal of his belt and you shuddered. You sensed the contrasting warmth right below it as you shifted. “Yeah, yeah, it’s okay.”
You could barely maintain eye contact as your friends made their way out the door, “Get home safe, you guys! Text the chat when you get home!”
“Why should we? You’ll be too preoccupied to check,” Yeri yelled back as the front door flung shut.
“You think they’ll finally do it?” Giselle laughed as they all bolted down the stairs.
Karina turned back to face her friend, “Do what–fuck? Yeah.”
“Thank fucking God,” Renjun sighed, “I’m tired of seeing them look at each other like lovesick puppies.”
“They better get together after this or all our hard work was for nothing,” Jaemin scoffed. Ari, still stitched to his side as they stepped outside the complex, nodded in agreement.
“I just feel sorry for Mark,” Yeri winced as they made their way to their respective cars. She pulled out her phone to text the group chat—Mark wouldn’t see it until after his shift at the bar but at least it would act as fair warning.
“Same,” Jeno agreed. He opened the door for Karina, allowing the girl to slide inside the passenger seat before shutting the door and making his way to the driver’s side.
“He’ll live,” Jaemin laughed with no remorse whatsoever,“see y’all later.”
With their friends gone, they were truly alone. No one was left to bother them and the only thing to fill the silence was the Christmas playlist in the background. Donghyuck released out a deep exhale and nuzzled his way into the crook of your neck. His hands were splayed against your thighs, caressing all the bare skin he had direct access to. The feeling of his warmth was contradicting–it heightened your mood but also made you feel so incredibly safe.
Deep in your heart, you knew that Donghyuck would accept whatever you had to offer. If that meant taking things one step further, then he would pursue the heartracing chase that has been going on all night, running you down with kisses and ministrations that would leave you weak in his clutches. But on the other hand, if it meant that you changed your pretty little mind and didn’t want anything to occur, he would take it like a champ and accept that too.
Donghyuck’s subtle touches were light and sensual but never broke the barrier. He just held you, his touch sliding up from your knees to the top of your thighs, fingers skirting around the seams of your bottoms to the curve of your ass. His caress didn’t break through any layers, they just lingered as he continued to keep you in his hold.
You were the one who crashed through the walls that were made. You were the one who called his name, making him turn his chin to face you. You were the one who looked at him so intensely before dipping down to steal another taste of his addicting mouth. And Donghyuck, with all his might, matched your level of desire perfectly.
When your limbs encased him in your embrace, arms around his broad shoulders and legs locking around his hips, Donghyuck let out a miniscule noise and you took the chance to lick around his split lips. Your tongue snaked its way in, stroking the tip of his for a second, before teasingly pulling away. He prevented you from completely ending the kiss, his hand firmly gripping the back of your head.
You sighed out his name, falling more and more into him, and that was it for Donghyuck. He stood up and carried you down the hall. When he stopped kissing you in the middle of the hallway, your brows furrowed and you pulled back in confusion. He wore a sneaky smile on his face as he gestured up with his eyes.
“Mistletoe,” he chuckled.
“You’re impossible,” you said, turning away to smile. He was so impossibly cute.
“What’s so wrong about wanting to kiss you under the mistletoe?” Donghyuck asked, cocking his head to meet your gaze again.
“Nothing.”
“Well then, if it’s nothing, then give me another kiss.”
The sweet and light touch quickly turned into something heavier, doused with all the longing you kept locked up deep in your heart. Donghyuck, with the same degree of desperation to love you, matched your intensity. Your back roughly hit the wall as he raised his knee to apply pressure on your center. The slight pain and the definite pleasure blended so well, you moaned loudly. He lifted his knee again to rip another noise out of you and your whimpers were almost too much for him to process.
“Hyuck?”
“Hmmm?” he hummed as he suckled at your neck.
You were practically sinking down the wall, immersing yourself in his kisses. “Room.”
“What?”
You pried him away from your bruising skin from all his nips and kisses to say, “Your room.” Dropping a kiss to his lips, you begged, “Please.”
Completely in sync, you reached for each other again for another round of urgent kisses. It was the blind leading the blind as Donghyuck stumbled through the narrow walkway to find his room. It would have been easier just to let up for a minute or two but the act of kissing him while desperately searching for his space was so incredibly hot. You were sure it was every girl’s dream to be so carnally wanted by someone to the point of never letting go. You were still processing that you were truly wanted this way by the guy who took up permanent residence in your brain.
You faintly heard the door open and close before you were dropped onto his mattress. You let out a surprise squeal at the unexpected action and he laughed as he slowly crawled over you.
Donghyuck always left his LED lights on even when he was out of the room. You scolded him each time he did it, lecturing him about saving energy, but this was the one time you didn’t. You were glad he left his purple lights on because now you were able to see how truly taken he was by you.
The lights created a halo around his body and yours. Each of you took a moment to soak up your appearances–Donghyuck with purple lights outlining his lean body, light shadows not enough to hide the affection written all over his face and you with your hair spread across his bedsheets, chest heaving in anticipation, and dilated eyes looking up at him.
Your hands snaked up to the hem of his sweater, tugging at it. It was an unspoken question and Donghyuck answered it instantly, stripping himself of the one layer he had on. Unable to resist, your fingers danced across his bare skin, tracing the lines of his lean muscles. You’d seen him shirtless many times before but never like this. You never had him hovering over you with the feeling of desire coursing through your bloodstream.
Sliding your hands up, you tugged at his long hair to bring him closer to you and his arms faltered for a second. Donghyuck collapsed, dropping so that he rested on his knees and arms. The strands that you played with dangled across your forehead and you reached up to close the distance.
“I’m going to ask you one more time before I can’t stop myself anymore,” Donghyuck whispered against your lips. “Do you want this?”
No hesitation. “Yes.”
He kissed your breath away, his hands resting against your ribs. Dogghyuck squeezed hushed sounds out of you as he stripped you of your crop top and bra all at once. His hands grasped your breasts, fondled them, while the open-mouthed kisses continued. They drifted from your mouth, his lips marking a path down your neck to your cleavage. Donghyuck teased your nipples with his hand and tongue, watching you writhe with each action he made. Your manicured nails scratched at his back as his licks and pinches quickened.
“God, you’re so–” Donghyuck lost his train of thought when your palm added pressure to the growing need in his pants.
You struggled to get his belt off in between all his distractions. As soon as you did, your nimble fingers unbuttoned his pants and began to shove his tight jeans down his meaty thighs.
Donghyuck reluctantly ripped himself away from you to do the rest of the work. He did a sloppy job of it all, hopping here and there to wiggle out of his jeans but you didn’t care. You kept your eyes on him, your gaze raking from his head all the way down to the apparent tent in his boxer briefs. Crawling your way to the edge of the bed, you looked up at him while you tugged on the waistband of his last remaining layer.
“Don’t look at me like that, princess,” he groaned while you pulled him back towards you. Donghyuck was beyond ready to risk it all for you, no matter the consequences. Logic and friendship be damned.
“Like what?” You blinked slowly.
His hands went to your hair, tugging you up until you were at eye level with each other. The other arm coiled around your waist and pressed your bare, heaving chests together.“God, do you want to be kissed until you can’t breathe?”
“By you? Please,” you pleaded again. Donghyuck gave in to you, protecting your head as the two of you fell back. He kissed you as your back hit the bed a second time, his tongue passing over every crevice in your mouth. He met his need to be closer to you by grinding his hips, an action you promptly followed. His hands and yours were in absolute synchronization as they tugged the remaining layers off.
It seemed like all Donghyuck wanted to do was shower your entire body with his undying devotion, to show you how much he loved you. His lips skipped over the apex between your legs, kissed down your extremities, until he was off the bed with your garments in hand and haphazardly tossed them to the side.
His hand wrapped around your ankle and dragged your body to the end of the bed. Your heavy breathing increased when you realized exactly what Donghyuck was up to. He shot you an animalistic grin as he dived in with a long lick to your velvet skin.
“Hyuck, oh my god,” you cried.
He sucked on one of your lips and then the other with the same amount of pressure. “Again.”
“What?”
“Say my name again.” This time, he swirled his tongue around your clit then added pressure with the tip.
It pushed another winded call of his name out of you and you felt him smirk against you. Donghyuck traced your folds with one finger with a featherlight touch before it ventured inside your aching need. His digit slid right in and out, showing just how much you craved him. His eyes tracked how they eased into you, the sight never boring him in the slightest.
Adding another finger made you even more vocal, as did his tongue playing with your clit. Donghyuck never let up. Even when your fingers tugged a little too tightly on his hair, or when you trapped his head in between your legs, he refused to surrender. Not when your sugary sweet voice kept calling for him.
You grew hot, sweat forming on your skin, as he continued to drive three fingers into you with a speed and depth you could never replicate. The noises you made became more incoherent with each second that passed, Donghyuck couldn’t even process that you were calling his name. He was too into you, eyes rolled to the back of his head, moans buried into your skin.
“Wait, wait–” you screamed, forcefully tugging his head away from you, even though you were teetering the edge.
Donghyuck was dazed, lips and chin drenched by your juices, as you commanded his attention. “D’you want to stop?”
Tears gathered around your waterline, threatening to fall, as you gathered yourself. “N-no but,” you gleaned at the clock on his wall, “Mark–”
Donghyuck possessively growled when his roommate’s name left your lips. He didn’t want to hear anyone else’s name when you looked so disheveled except his. “What about him?”
“He’s coming home soon. He can’t–” Hear us was what you wanted to say.
Donghyuck, however, did not give you time to finish that statement.
Shoving his three fingers back into you with determination, you heard the embarrassingly loud squelching noises over your whimpers. Donghyuck seemed into it, a madden and driven expression taking over his face, as he snarled back, “I’ve waited too fucking long to have you like this. I don’t care if he hears you–let him hear you. I don’t care as long as you’re mine.”
His fingers combined with his god-send of a tongue worked endlessly, never faltering, as they brought you higher and higher. Worries worlds away, all you could center on was the immense pleasure coursing through your entire being. Fingers curled around his hair and played with your breast while Donghyuck coerced more noises out of you. Your insistent jerking at his hair and squirming alerted him that you were almost there, you just needed a little more encouragement.
“Be a good girl and cum for me, baby,” he said before his tongue flicked tirelessly.
The soft order mixed with the new nicknames and his brazen desire to make you come undone was too overwhelming, you had no chance of warning before it all came crashing down. Stars in your eyes, cries bubbling out of your mouth, and hands gripping onto anything within your reach, your whole body reaction was good but not enough to satisfy the greed Donghyuck had in him.
“You sound so pretty, so so pretty,” he whispered as he kissed your pulsing bundle. He stroked himself with a painstakingly slow pace, feasting on the way you lost yourself.
When you came to, you rushed to stake your claim on him. If he had his way with you, then you needed your time and space to do the same. Leading him onto the bed, you positioned him to lean against the bedrest and seated yourself on his thighs. His fingers sank into your ass, kneading your flesh until you rocked in time with his movements. And just when he thought it couldn’t get any better than that, your fingers gripped his lengthening cock and began to move.
Paired with the hickeys you planted on his chest and neck, Donghyuck was at your complete and absolute mercy. When your tongue circled a nipple, he released a weak noise. Picking up on how much he liked it, you repeated the action on the neglected partner then kissed your way down to his hardened cock. When you held his gaze captive with your siren eyes, you descended, tongue running along the side of him. Your lips ghosted against the area, never engulfing him, to prolong the teasing.
“Want you to sound pretty, too,” you said as you licked the cum off his tip. “Can you do that for me? Sound pretty?”
Donghyuck let out a small noise that you struggled to hear.
Withdrawing your mouth, you allowed your hands to do the work. They bobbed up and down at a slow, menacing pace, twisting at the right times. When he grew louder, more desperate, you nosed and smirked against his length before giving him what he wanted. Hollowing your cheeks, you sucked lightly on the end before deep-throating him. Saliva dripped from your lips as you relax your jaw, his tip hitting the back of your throat.
The action shocked Donghyuck, overloading his nerves, heart, and brain that he almost lost all sense of self. The strong charisma he held while taking care of you disappeared, reduced to pathetic little moans and uncoordinated jerks of his hips.
You heard through the grapevine that he was a verbal lover but you didn’t think he was that noisy. You didn’t mind it though, you took his whimpers and babbles as incoherent praises. Desperate mumbles of your name fired out of his lips and his hands yanked you away before he finished.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said when his hands tugged harshly on your hair. His eyes were still closed as his lips covered yours. He lapped at your mouth, tasting himself, as he placed you on your back again. He nibbled at your earlobe, so near that he could hear your strained puffs. “Dreamed about this for years, waited too damn long. Can’t end like that.”’
“For years, baby?” You scratched his scalp.
His brown eyes rolled back. “Fuck, I love it when you call me that.”
“Baby?”
“Yeah,” Donghyuck exhaled. “Again?”
A begging and pliant Donghyuck was a rare sight, you wondered how hard you could push.
“No,” you said firmly, a hint of a smile breaking through when you caught onto his frustration.
When he bucked his hips, you clenched and resisted the urge to grind back. “Why not?”
“You’re cute when you beg.”
Donghyuck let out the loudest whine, grinding again. You coiled your legs around his hips, tightening them to lock him in place. Desperation leaking out of him, he continued his actions. The friction caused by his cock rubbing against your folds was so delicious, you almost gave in.
“You’re a tease,” he groaned deeply.
“No, that’s you.”
“Please,” Donghyuck’s voice sounded so strained. “I want to hear it again.”
Positioning your lips right by his ear, you gave into his request. “Baby.”
Donghyuck showed you just how much he loved that name by bringing your lips back together. His lower body pressed you against the mattress, hasty ruts making his cock slide against your folds. He blindly reached for his drawers, hand crashing against every surface to search for a condom. In his rush, things scattered about, making the task much harder than it should’ve been. He unwillingly separated from you to retrieve the wanted package and slid it on his fully hardened state.
Hushed, nervous giggles took over when Donghyuck inched towards you. He brushed your loose strands sticking to your cheeks away just so he could see your whole face, all flushed because of him. Placing a gentle peck on your lips, he positioned himself and pushed past the barrier of your folds. Donghyuck took his sweet, sweet time sinking deeper into you and your annoyance grew faster than his pacing.
“Hyuck,” you whined, your mind and body obsessing over the way he felt. His cock was girthy, definitely thicker than his three fingers, but just as long. Just one little thrust by him and he’d hit your spot and you were positive it would feel like heaven. You dug your heels into his back and he keeled.
“Yeah?” He stilled when he was fully sheathed, breathing heavily at how your body clung onto him.
“Move,” you harshly whispered, pressing your heels again. The stretch he caused wasn’t an overbearing one, it was one you were more than ready to handle. You needed Donghyuck in all definitions of the word but he wasn’t budging.
“I can’t,” Donghyuck choked when you clenched. You were so tight, affecting him too strongly with the tiniest movements, his mind was conflicted on what to do. A part of him wanted to linger and soak it all in, while the other wanted to lose all sense of control. “You feel so good.”
When you clenched around him again, Donghyuck folded. He never had a chance when it came to resisting you. In the past, he struggled whenever you batted your eyelashes at him or gave him the devilishly innocent puppy dog eyes. How was he supposed to resist your requests when he filled you up to the brim, skin pressed against skin, lips just breaths away from each other? He was at your beck-and-call to the greatest degree and this was the ideal situation to prove it to you.
His first thrust was sudden, interrupting another request spilling out of your mouth. You choked out an elongated groan and it died in your mouth as he moved again. His pacing may have been slow but it was purposeful. You truly felt every little thing–from the way he drew back to the way your body sucked him back in. A part of you wished to get rid of the condom, so you could make out how the ridges and veins swept your walls, but you knew this was the safer, more logical option. (Plus, there was always the next time.)
Your matched rhythm increased as time passed, sounds of skin slapping and pathetic whines echoing within his room’s four walls. His deep plunges hit the target every-time, his cock directly adding a divine pressure to your g-spot and in response, your nails created dents and scratches on his beautifully tanned skin. Your hands explored every crevice of his body, dragging trails down his chest, arms, and abs. His lips traversed the expanse of your neck and collarbone, before coming back to capture yours in messy kisses.
And when you broke away from his kisses to let out neverending whimpers, Donghyuck knew that you were close. His hand lifted one of your legs over his broad shoulder and that new angle alone made you grip and thrash around the sheets. Your motions were frantic at this point, his hips operating at a relentless pace that you could barely chase. His hands on your hips alleviated you of most of the work, your body too spent in the blaring white, starry-eyed high he was providing.
His fingers reaching down to pinch your pulsing clit was the final move before you came crashing down. Ecstasy rippled through you and once again, he milked out your cum until your body trembled with aftershocks. He pulled out then, his large hand rushing to finish himself off.
As you were slowly descending from your high, your one thought was to return the generous favor. Donghyuck jerking himself off to completion didn’t sit right with you. Hazingly, you crawled over to him and swatted his hands aside. The boy was lost in confusion at your actions but it all became crystal clear to him when your face plummeted to his now bare cock, the condom disregarded somewhere on his bed.
Donghyuck’s tip quickly hit the back of your throat as your hands fondled whatever could not fit. He didn’t last much longer, his groans reaching new heights in volume and his once flourished moves turning into an uncoordinated state of frenzy. Donghyuck, with his tight grip loosening through your hair, said your name once more. His mouth slackened and the long-awaited bliss ultimately reached its peak.
A familiar room welcomed you as you opened your eyes the following morning. You blinked away the sleepiness, adjusting to the light that peeked through the blinds. The clock on the wall read eight thirty in the morning, otherwise known as too early to be awake after drinking the night away. Slumber was calling your name but so was your stupid bladder. You unwillingly wiggled out of his embrace, watching and giggling as his body adjusted to the empty space beside him.
You muttered complaints about the cold in your head as you trudged to the bathroom, picking up Donghyuck’s knit sweater as another layer of heat on the way. While you were up, you took care of your usual morning routine–washing your face with Donghyuck’s skin care products, drying your skin with the towel set he always left for you, and brushing your teeth with the toothbrush that stood right next to his.
The domesticity of it hit differently the morning after you were intimate with your best friend. Something in the air had changed and you hoped it was for the better. A small part of your heart, the one that was so incredibly smitten with him, worried Donghyuck would view their night together as a one-time thing. Another part of you, however, believed the words he uttered last night. After all, he said he waited too damn long for this. That had to mean something, right?
You quickly nestled back into the sheets, shifting until the blankets were up to your shoulders. The shirt Donghyuck dressed you in was big and comfortable but the thin fabric wasn’t enough to keep warm throughout the night. Neither was the sweater you threw on. Your preferred source of heat was inches away, his body scorching despite being shirtless.
Donghyuck groaned as you attempted to make yourself comfortable. His arms snaked around your middle, spooning you just like he did the night before. His face dug into the back of your neck, his nose prodding the sliver of skin not covered by your bedridden hair. His low morning voice, the complete opposite of the higher pitch he used around the group, made your heart plummet.“Why did you leave me?”
“I was gone for five minutes.”
“Five minutes too long, princess,” he whined, his fingers skimming up and down your thighs.
“You’re so needy.”
This touch rose at a snail’s pace. He brushed your underwear then moved underneath your clothes to rest his palms on your stomach. “No, I just missed you.”
“Yeah, needy,” you retorted playfully, turning to face him.
The fond smile on your face matched the expression on his and you kissed him softly. He gave you a second kiss and then a third that allowed you to get lost in him. You noticed and enjoyed every little thing he did–his hands dragging your hips to meet him, the sound caught in his throat when your leg wraps around his middle, his tongue lovingly caressing yours.
Donghyuck reluctantly broke away from you, trying to create some distance. He grew a little self-conscious upon tasting the fresh mint on your lips. Covering his mouth, he said, “Wait, shit. Morning breath. Let me just—”
“Don’t care,” you muttered, straddling him so he couldn’t escape your clutches. You pulled him back in, smothering your best friend with all the kisses he deserved. You left one on each of his eyes, the pretty beauty marks sprinkled across his face, and over the hickeys you littered across his golden skin.
He chuckled in between kisses, “Who’s the needy one now?”
“Shut up, you loser,” you rolled your eyes with fake annoyance.
“I thought I was your baaaaaby,” he teased, palms running up and down your sides. You paused at that and Donghyuck noticed. “Hey, what is it? Did I say something wrong?”
“No, it’s just–”
You released a drawn out breath.
“You’re thinking a little loud,” Donghyuck’s voice let up, his concern slipping through his words. He cupped your cheek and your eyes met. “But not loud enough for me to hear your thoughts. Wanna let me into that pretty mind of yours?”
You basked in the way his thumb strokes your cheek so gently and the stars that were shining in his eyes. Lee Donghyuck was many things—a hard worker, a flirt, intelligent, caring, hilarious, a pain-in-the-ass, a brave soul. The list went on and on. He wore many crowns and carried many titles but the one title he did not claim was being yours.
Donghyuck was your best friend but he wasn’t officially yours. And you wanted him to be.
In your bright and rose-colored eyes, Donghyuck was a risk-taker. He took the risks he wanted to last night to get you in his bed. But was that all there was to it? The part of your heart that doubted his actions and feelings took over your thoughts, the questions picking at you with no avail.
If Donghyuck could take risks, then why couldn’t you? Channeling the confidence your best friend usually carried, you asked, “Do you need me the way I need you, Hyuck?”
You reached for the hand resting on your cheek and brought it back down to his bare chest. Fingers interlacing, the back of your hand picked up on his heart pulsating rapidly against his chest.
As if sensing the doubt in your head, he tasked himself to send the negative musings away. Donghyuck didn’t answer your question directly but the words spilling out of his mouth were more than enough for you. “You are the only dream that fills my head—nothing else but you.” He said your name so tenderly, your heart grew three times—no, a million times—too big. At this point, the muscle and the smile that you wore bursted at the seams.
Donghyuck laid out his cards in this game of love and it was time to reveal your hand. You squeezed his hand tightly as an act of courage and then took the leap of faith. “I like you,” you blurted out, “so much. Sometimes too much that it hurts.”
Amused and overjoyed by your confession, Donghyuck rushed up to kiss you. His lips pressing against you so suddenly caught you off guard, you lost your balance in the act. “You are so fucking cute, I don’t know what to do with you,” he muttered in between pecks that made you laugh aloud.
“Date me?” you suggested with a shy smile.
“Princess, I’m going to date the hell out of you, just you wait.”
His kisses eventually subdued and you found yourselves laying on your sides facing each other. No words were exchanged as your heads rested on their respective pillows. You were happy when his words never stopped flowing and when you stared in silence with matching grins.
You watched Donghyuck’s face contort into one of concentration, his fingers rising above his head to count something, before he turned back to you. “We’ve spent seven Christmases together—”
“Oh yeah?”
“—and this one is definitely my favorite.”
His confession was beyond sweet, it’s honey dripping out of his mouth. Over the years, Donghyuck wiggled his way into your holiday traditions. There was a lot you’d done over the years, from ice skating to gingerbread houses to movie marathons and impromptu snowball fights. Many of those moments were core memories you kept dear to your heart. Donghyuck admitting this meant a great deal to you and the space your heart had for him increased tenfold. Your heart was now completely his.
Although they drove you insane with their obvious scheme, you thanked the meddling kids you called friends and their stupid game in your head. After all, they were the ones who encouraged you to risk it all in an extremely unserious and unconventional way.
With that being said, the risks the game of life had to offer were terrifying. They were difficult. If you never took them, they would forever leave you pondering about the road not taken. But when you did take them, risks big or small, they were always worth it.
Kissing Donghyuck sweetly on the lips, you replied, “It’s my favorite too.”
(01:27) Yeri: i’m so sorry marky
(01:29) Jeno: ditto
(01:29) Jeno: f’s in the chat for mark
(01:30) Karina: f
(01:30) Renjun: f
(01:30) Yeri: f
(01:30) Ari: f
(01:31) Giselle: fffffff
(01:32) Jaemin: shut up, he’ll be fine
(01:45) Yeri: I’ll leave my extra key under my mat if you wanna crash somewhere else, just got home
(01:50) Giselle: home, gnite everyone
(01:51) Ari: we just got home too, night night <3
(01:55) Jeno: home, rina’s here too
(01:56) Yeri: oh???
(01:56) Karina: shut up
(02:35) Mark: wtf i just got home, why are you sorry
(02:35) Mark: what happened
(02:36) Mark: bro hold up i hear noises from hyuck’s room, who else did you invite??
(02:36) Mark: did y/n get sexiled??? where is she??
(02:36) Mark: she’s not in my room, i thought she was sleeping over??
(02:37) Mark: wait—OH MY GOD YOOOO WTF IS THAT Y/N IN HIS ROOM
(02:37) Mark: …oh my god that’s her let’s GOOOOOO
(02:38) Mark: omf they’re so loudddddd dude wtfffff
(02:38) Mark: fml yeri im coming over
AUTHOR'S NOTE. I know it's past Christmas now but I hope you enjoy this holiday fic. It ended up being longer than I thought it was going to be but it's done! My first full fic in quite a bit. The games and hilarity that ensue in this fic are based on one of my drunk game nights with friends. Every time I hang out with this group, something inspires me--we're like sitcom worthy at times lol. Fic worthy even. I hope you all enjoy it and let me know what you think.
Happy Holidays and Happy 2024! <3
TAGLIST. @nctsworld @johtenrecs @emmybyeakitty @sokkigarden @hyuckworld @baekhyuns-lipchain @yutaholic-main @moonctzeny @suhnnyskiess @smileysuh @everloving-avenue @justalildumpling @tywritesstuff @mikalovesicecream @carelessshootanonymous @emvrd @taelme @fairyiene @dreamy-carat @smwhrinthehaze
© sehunniepotwrites, 2023
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How can non-Jewish writers include Jewish characters in supernatural stories without erasing their religion in the process?
Anonymous asked:
I have a short story planned revolving around the supernatural with a Jewish character named Danielle (who uses they/them pronouns). Danielle will be one of a trio who will be solving the mystery of two brides' deaths on the day of their wedding. My concern with this is the possibility of accidentally invalidating Danielle's religion by focusing on a secular view of the afterlife. At the same time, I don't want to assume that Jewish people can't exist in paranormal stories, nor do I want to use cultural elements that don't belong to me. So, how do I make sure that Danielle is included in the plot without erasing their Jewishness?
Okay so to start with I think we need to ask a question about the premise: what is a secular afterlife? I’m not asking this to nitpick or be petty, but to offer you expanded ways of thinking through this issue and maybe others as well.
A Secular Afterlife
What is a secular afterlife? To begin with, I get what you mean. The idea of an afterlife we see in pop culture entities like ghost media owes more to a mixture of 19th-century spiritualist tropes drawn from titillating gothic novels than to anything preached from the pulpit of an organized house of worship. Yet those tropes--the ominous knocking noises from beyond, the spectral presences on daguerrotype prints, the sudden chill and the eerie glow, all of those rely on the idea of there being something beyond this life, some continuation of the spirit when the body has ceased to breathe. For that, you need to discount the ideas that the consciousness has moved on to another physical body and is currently living elsewhere, and that it was never separate from the body and has now ceased to exist. Can we say that this is secular?
More so: Gothic literature, as the name suggests, draws heavily on Catholic imagery, even when it avoids explicit references to Catholicism. Aside from the architectural imagery, Catholic religious symbols permeate the genre, as well as the larger horror and supernatural media genres that grew from it: Dracula flinches from a crucifix, priests expel demons from human bodies, Marley’s Ghost haunts Ebenezer Scrooge in chains. The concepts of heaven and hell, and nonhuman beings who dwell in those places, are critical to making the narratives work.
The basis also draws from a biblical story, that of the Witch of Endor. The main tropes of Victorian spiritualism are present: Saul never sees the ghost of Samuel, only the Witch of Endor is able to see “A divine being rising” from wherever he rises from, and her vague description, “I see an old man rising, wearing a robe,” evokes the cold readings of charlatan mediums into the present (Indeed, some rabbinic sources commenting on this assert that this is exactly what was going on).
While neither of these views of its origin define the genre as the sole property of Catholicism--or of Judaism for that matter--it would be hard exactly to categorize them as secular.
A Jewish Perspective on ghosts
However, it’s not the case that ghost media is incompatible with Jewishness, assuming that it doesn’t commit to a view of heaven and hell duality that specifically embraces a Christian spiritual framework.
Jewish theology is noncommittal on the subject of the afterlife. The idea of a division between body and soul in the first place is found in ancient Egypt, for instance, earlier than the earliest Jewish texts. In Jewish text it’s present in narratives like the creation story, in which God crafts a human body out of earth and then breathes life into it once it’s complete. It also appears in our liturgy: the blessings prescribed to be recited at the beginning of the day juxtapose Elohai Neshama, a blessing for the soul, with Asher Yatzar, expressing gratitude for the body, recited by many after successfully using the bathroom.
Yet it’s not clear that this life-force is something separate than the body that lives beyond it, until the apparition of the Witch of Endor. The words we use to describe it, whatever it is, evoke the process of breathing rather than that of eternal life: either ruach (spirit, or wind) or neshama (soul, or breath): neither is a commitment to the idea that it does--or that it doesn’t--go somewhere else when the body returns to the earth.
Jewish folklore, however, leans into the idea of ghosts and other spiritual beings inhabiting the earthly plane (and others). Perhaps most famous is the 1937 movie The Dybbuk, in which a young scholar engaging in kabbalistic practices calls upon dark forces to unite him and his fated love, only to find himself possessing her body as a dybbuk. It appears that he is about to be successfully exorcized, but ultimately when his soul leaves her body, hers does as well.
More relevantly to your story, a Jewish folktale inspired the movie The Corpse Bride. In the folktale version, a newly-engaged man jokingly recites the legal formula he will soon recite at his wedding, and places his ring on the finger of a nearby corpse--a reference to a time when antisemitic violence is said to have gotten worse not only at Jewish and Christian holidays as it does still to this day, but around Jewish weddings as well. The murdered bride stands up, a corpse reanimated complete with consciousness, and demands that the bridegroom honor his legal obligation.
In the movie, the bride gives up her demand willingly: her claim on him is emotional rather than legal, and she finally accepts that he has an emotional connection with another person, that he doesn’t love her. In the folk tale, the dead woman takes him to court to decide whether their marriage is legal, since he spoke the legal words to her in front of witnesses as is required, and the court rules that the dead do not have the right to make legal demands on the living. In this version, the moral of the story is that a legal formula is an obligation; that when he jokingly bound himself to the corpse, he not only disrespected the dead but also the legal framework that structures society, and by so doing risked being obligated to keep his side of a contract he never intended to enact.
This speaks to the ways that a Jewish outlook can differ from a Christian-influenced “secular” one. Christian-influenced cultural ideas can often focus around feeling the right thing, while Jewish stories will often center on doing the right thing. Does the Corpse Bride leave because she realizes she is not the one he loves? Because she--or he--learned a valuable lesson? Or because she loses her court case? It’s not that the boy’s emotions are irrelevant to the story--the tension, the suspense, the horror of the story takes place primarily within the boy’s emotional landscape--but emotions on their own are not a solution. The question “should he marry her” can be answered emotionally, but “has he married her” can only be answered by a legal expert, and once it has been the deceased bride may not have changed her emotional attachment to him, but she no longer has legal standing to pursue her claim.
Centering legal rectitude over emotional catharsis isn’t a requirement for having Jewish characters in your story, but it’s worth thinking about what is and isn’t universal, what is and isn’t actually all that secular.
Meanwhile, back at the topic:
Where does any of this place Danielle?
Well, unless you’re positing a universe in which Christian or other deities or cosmologies are confirmed to exist (See Jewish characters in a universe with author-created fictional pantheons for more on that topic), there’s no reason why they shouldn’t be perfectly fine interacting with whatever the setting you’re building throws at them.
My wishlist for this character and setting runs more to the general things to consider when writing fantasy settings with Jewish characters:
Don’t confirm or imply that Jesus is a divine being. That means no supernatural items like splinters of the cross, grails, nails, veils, etc. There’s nothing particularly powerful or empowering about this one guy who lived and died like so many others.
Don’t show God’s body and especially not God’s face, or confirm that any other gods or deities exist, whether that’s Jesus, Aphrodite, or Anubis, or someone you made up for the context.
Don’t put Danielle in a position where they’re going to play into an antisemitic trope like child murder, blood drinking, world domination, or financial greed. If you have to, name it and let Danielle express discomfort with or distaste for those actions both because Jewish values explicitly oppose all of those things but also because Danielle as a Jewish character would be painfully aware of these stereotypes as present and historical excuses for antisemitic violence.
Do consider what Danielle’s personal practice might look like. What does Danielle do on Shabbat? What do they eat or refrain from eating? What are their memories of Jewish holidays and how is their current holiday observance different than their childhood? I know I say “Jewishness is diverse” on every ask, but it is, and these questions--which also underscore how very much Judaism is rooted in one’s actions during this life--will help you develop how Judaism actually functions to inform Danielle’s character, even if you don’t spell out the answers to each of these questions in text.
Do let Danielle find joy, comfort, and identity in their Jewishness not just in contrast with Christianity but simply because it’s part of the wholeness of their character. I know the primary representation of Jewishness is a snappy one-liner in a Christmas episode followed by the Jewish character joining in the Christmas spirit, blue edition, but make room for Jewishness to inform how Danielle approaches the events of your story, or why they decide to get or stay involved.
-Meir
Hi it’s Shira with some Jewish ghost story recs written from inside–
When The Angels Left the Old Country by Sacha Lamb (deliriously good queer YA Jewish paranormal, mainstream enough that it’s got a good chance of being at your local library and won all kinds of awards)
The Dyke and the Dybbuk by Ellen Galford (sorry for the slur, warning for a paragraph of biphobia in the book but it’s an older book. I read this right before my divorce so my memories are super fuzzy but it’s about this modern day lesbian who gets possessed by the ghost of a different lesbian from hundreds of years earlier in Jewish history.)
Nine of Swords Reversed by Xan West z’L of blessed memory - another queer Jewish paranormal.
The general plot is that two partners are struggling with how to be honest with each other about the effect disability is having on them. It’s got a very warm and fuzzy cozy vibe but kink culture is central to the worldbuilding so if that isn’t your vibe I didn’t want you to go in unaware.
The Dybbuk in Love by Sonya Taaffe. I don’t remember the details but I remember loving it, it’s m/f and romance between possessor and possessed.
I wrote a really short one called A Man of Taste where a gentile vampire woman and a Jewish ghost/dybbuk get together.
~S
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green is not your colour (1) - coriolanus snow.
Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader.
Warning: Implied cheating.
Summary: You've been engaged to Coriolanus Snow for a few short weeks and have been living together for even shorter but, the betrothal is put through its first test when Coriolanus's affair makes itself known. Part (1/2).
Wordcount: 1.3k.
A/N: This takes place in the 'You Keep Him There' universe. A couple of months before Christmas Kiss. Please tell me you catch the Yellowstone reference.
11 months ago.
The stone bench cuts into the skin of your exposed thigh, one leg crossed over the other as your arm rests along the back of the garden seat. Goosebumps cover the length of your body; remnants of last night’s cold snap are still evident as the icy blanket that covers the Manor’s grounds slowly melt away with the slow rising sun.
Of course, the cold was of no concern. Not when you had your new found habit to keep you warm.
Taking a drag from the lit cigarette between your fingers, your gaze is unwavering as you stare down the anxious chauffeur who had pulled into the driveway of your new home at the same time that you did - belonging neither to you or Coriolanus.
It had taken you all of 30 seconds to piece together what was going on and who the car belonged to - after all, you weren’t supposed to be home until the afternoon. You aren’t surprised Coriolanus would do this but, it doesn’t make it hurt any less; doesn’t temper the green eyed monster threatening to rear its ugly head.
Sure, you didn’t like him but, the two of you had known each other your entire lives; would marry in less than a year, he belonged to you- you'd hoped those things would at least mean something to him too but, it doesn’t and again, that doesn’t surprise you but, you are disappointed. Disappointed that he would bring this into your home.
The chauffeur fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeves, unsure of where to look as his gaze shifts nervously between you and the front doors until finally, they open and he relaxes slightly, eager to escape the weight of your stare as he wrenches the car door open for his passenger.
You watch, hidden from their view as she emerges from your home, bidding farewell to your fiance. Crushing the cigarette, you wait until she’s about to enter the car to make your presence known.
“I always suspected there may be something more between the two of you but, to become his mistress?” You stand, making your way over to her.
Stopping a metre out, you drag your gaze lazily over her figure until you meet her own surprised one.
“My, my, Clemensia, I never expected that from you,” you tut. “Although, I won’t lie. After your… stint in the hospital back in our academy days, I didn’t think he’d ever look at you again.”
She flinches at your words but it doesn’t keep her down for long. The red-eyed, puffy-cheeked beauty straightening her back and puffing her chest with an air of arrogance that you did not appreciate.
“What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” you repeat, laughing at the nerve of her. “Clemensia, this is my house. I can come and go as I please but, you? Well, we are going to have a problem if I see you around here again.”
"You can't stop me. He was mine first."
You take an intimidating step closer.
“You want to sleep with Coriolanus? Fine. That’s your choice but, not in my house. Affairs are for hotels not homes, and if you ever step foot in mine again, I will make sure you never take another step again. Got it?”
She swallows thickly but nods her understanding.
"Good. Now get off of my property before, I have you removed from it."
You don’t wait for her to go, sights immediately set on the fool you were to take as your husband in less than a year.
“Coriolanus,” you yell, throwing the doors open, anger finally revealing itself. “Coriolanus!”
You find him sitting at the head of the dining table, looking equally as surprised as his whore to see you. Unlike her however, he’s quick to hide it.
“When did you-”
“You keep your whores out of my house, Coriolanus,” you warn him. “You keep your whores out of my house or I will teach you a lesson that I promise you will never forget.”
-
You spend the rest of the day sleeping, too tired from the morning's events and traveling to do anything else but rest, so it’s dark out by the time you leave your room.
Padding down the staircase, your tummy makes its hunger known, growling out for anyone awake to hear. Sleepily, you make your way to the kitchen, not noticing the dim light emitting from the space until you're already inside with an unwanted guest.
You look at him for a moment, thinking about whether to tuck tail and turn away or continue on your journey for food- your stomach makes your decision for you however, when it growls again.
Coriolanus is the first to speak. “There's a plate in the fridge for you.”
You don’t acknowledge him, opening the fridge in silence and indeed finding the plate of food inside. You pretend he’s not there as you move around the kitchen to warm your food up. When everything is ready, you take a seat at the kitchen bench- it’s then that Coriolanus decides to speak again.
“I think we should talk about this morning.”
“We have,” you answer him, tone clipped. “And I told you not to bring your whores into my house again.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
You breathe a laugh of disbelief. Was it not enough to discover what you did this morning now, he wanted to discuss it too? Picking up your plate, you make to leave- there were other rooms in this place that you could eat peacefully in.
“It’s over-” he follows after you, blocking your path. “Me and Clemmie. I ended things with her.”
“Clemmie,” you scoff the name. “How very considerate of you. Does she know that?”
“She does and I didn’t end it because of what happened this morning- I ended things weeks ago. She’s just having a hard time letting go but, I promise it is. I’m with you.”
You pause- pinching the bridge of your nose.
“You should’ve ended it months ago, well before we even got engaged.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
You nod but don't forgive him and he uses your silence to keep talking.
“I want to make this work, I want us to get along, I want-” he hesitates, taking your free hand. “I want you to like me.”
“What makes you think I don’t?”
“You made it very clear in the Academy that you don’t, I doubt your opinion of me has changed much since.”
You smile bitterly down at your joined hands. Your dislike for Coriolanus in school differed vastly from why you disliked him now.
You wonder if it would ever be possible to like Coriolanus Snow now.
It was hard to see the possibility when your entire being now depended on marrying him. Your grandparents had already loved him, he was Old Guard, cut from the same cloth and as he got older, they saw the future in Coriolanus Snow, future president of Panem. And that was before the proposal was even brought to them. Once it was… they would be damned if you married anyone else. When you attempted to go against it, they had made it known that they were more than willing to reduce you to nothing; taking steps to ensure you couldn’t refuse by hinging your inheritance of the Blizzard Telecommunications and Mass Media Empire and wealth on marrying him. Coriolanus Snow had snatched any freedom or hope for the future you envisioned for yourself away from you and he didn’t even know it.
Maybe one day you’d move past it or maybe one day he'd accept that you never would but, for now you settle for “maybe you can start with buying me a new house.”
Coriolanus chuckles but you're being serious and he agrees, "soon."
“And Coriolanus?”
“Yeah?”
“I don't ever want to see you with Clemensia Dovecote again. I don’t take kindly to those who you would threaten to take what is mine. Green is not my colour and, I promise you won’t like seeing me in it either.”
-
All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.
Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.
bookofbonbon 2024. All rights reserved.
#coriolanus snow#coriolanus snow fanfiction#coriolanus snow x reader#coriolanus snow x you#coriolanus x reader#coriolanus x you#coryo snow#coryo x reader#tom blyth
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Just thinking about having to help tutor Eren 💔
Eren who’s often referred to as a ‘fuck boy’ and has a reputation of fucking over every girl he’s been with, yet when he’s around you he feels infatuated with you. He becomes a softie, holding doors open for you and making sure your comfortable.
Eren who couldn’t help but get attached to you. when you opened your door in a crop top and joggers with adorable fluffy slippers with your glasses pushed up your nose, how could he not fall in love?
Eren who pretends to get the question wrong so he can listen to your voice for longer as your explain it again. He loves how you never loose patience with him like other people you just smile and teach him where he went wrong.
Eren who sits behind you in your computer science class and just plays games the whole lesson on the computer so he can ask you to help him later. It’s just a bonus that he can see you infront of him for the whole hour.
Eren who rushes after you after class ‘hey sweetheart, was it just me or was that class real confusing’ you just smile up at him knowing what he’s implying ‘of course Yeager be at mine at 6pm sharp'.
Eren who knocks just as the clock hits 6pm and his eyes go wide seeing what you’re wearing. You both had to admit noticing the change in clothing in the recent weeks, from jeans, hoodies to now shorts, a loose fitted crop top barely covering your breasts and a flowy cardigan handing around your elbows exposing your collarbones.
Eren who sits at the dining table as your rush around grabing everything. ‘you sure you don’t want a drink Eren?’ you ask knowing how long you’ll be here ‘nah ma’ i’m good, unless you have beer’ you can tell he’s teasing you about your lack of experience in the party and alcohol field yet what he doesn’t know yet is that there’s a rack of beer in the fridge. ‘I wouldn’t normally allow this but as you’ve been good I shall grab you a beer’
Eren who now sits sipping his beer manspreading in your chain while you explain the hardware and software of a computer. He knows most of the information, in fact he was at a good grade but when he saw you walk into class as a new student he knew somehow he had to get you.
Eren whose arm reaches over your shoulder when he sits up to ask you to explain further. You don’t move his arm away, it’s sits too perfectly over your shoulder like it belongs there, it follows a sense of comfort brought to you by him being close to you.
Eren who doesn’t know how but blurts out 'have you ever had sex'. By now he's drinking his third beer and when you got all shy and said you were a virgin the infatuation he has with you only grew stronger. You were so innocent, batting your eyelashes up at him only making him want to ruin you even more.
Eren who now has you straddling his lap while your lips attach in a soft kiss. The kiss wasn’t filled with sex and desire like his usual kisses instead it was innocent and pure it was so innocent. His tongue tastes of beer but you don’t complain when he practically whimpers your name when you move your hips.
Eren who talks you through everything. 'here baby? like this?' he's moaning in your ear while he plays with your clit as you squirm under him. He want to make sure your first time his special and you enjoy it so he's constantly asking if your okay, but when you moan out his name when he pushes into you he struggles to hold back.
Eren who cant hold back and lets out moans at your tightness, your walls squeezing and sucking him in. 'fuck mama you've been hiding this from me this whole time? God' you can only moan out the coil in your stomach threatening to snap at any point.
Eren who runs you hot bath as soon as you've both calmed down from your high. The water is soothing and the vanilla scent helps to relax you both. He sits behind you massaging your shoulders and leaving kisses down your neck.
Eren who continues to turn up at your house for the rest of the week not for help with homework but for something a lot better. and once he gains the courage he's asking you to be his girl of course you say yes!
masterlist
#eren#shingeki no kyoujin eren#eren x y/n#eren x reader#kentosbabes#eren smut#eren jeager x reader#eren x you#aot eren#aot#attack on titan#aot headcanons#eren yeager#eren jeager smut#eren headcanons#i love this man
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DECOLONISING D&D
In 2019, after seeing yet another round of alarmist discourse in Xwitter about how Dungeons & Dragons is FULL of COLONIALIST tropes and patterns, and needs to be revised, SCRUBBED of its PROBLEMATIC FILTH---I rage-tweeted this brainfart:
"Decolonising D&D"
I've seen this thread round the community, since. Humza K quotes it in Productive Scab-picking: On Oppressive Themes in Gaming. Prismatic Wasteland quotes it in Apolitical RPGs Don't Exist. Most recently, it was referenced in a 1999AD post about Western TTRPGs (an interesting discussion on its own merit; one that already has a counterpoint from Sandro / Fail Forward.)
If folks are still referring to it five years later, maybe I should give the thread a little more credit? Perhaps the fart miasma has crystalised into something concrete.
In the interest of record / saving this thought from the ephemerality of Xwitter, here is the text in full, properly paragraphed, and somewhat more cleanly expressed:
+++
"DECOLONISING D&D"
Firstly: saying "D&D is colonialist" is similar to saying: "the English language is colonialist".
If your method of decolonising RPGs is to abandon D&D---well, some folks abandon English; they don't want to work in the language of the coloniser. More power to them!
For those who want to continue using the "language" of D&D---
Going forth into the "wild hinterland" (as if this weren't somebody's homeland);
to "seek treasure" (as if this didn't belong to anybody);
and "slay monsters" (monsters to whom?)
Yeah. There's some problematic stuff here, and definitely these aspects should make more people uncomfortable.
But! I think it is an error to "decolonise D&D" by scrubbing such content from the game.
That feels like erasure; like an unwillingness to face history / context; like a way to appease one's own settler guilt.
Do you live in the West? Do you live in any Asian urban metropole? White or Person of Colour(tm)---you are already complicit in colonialist / capitalist (yes, of course they are inextricably linked) behaviour. (I can't speak for urban metropoles elsewhere, but I bet they are similar centres of extraction.)
Removing such patterns from the TTRPGs you play might let you feel better, at your game table. But won't change what you are.
I think it is more truthful and more useful NOT to avert one's eyes from D&D's colonialism.
The fact that going forth into the hinterland to seek treasure and slay monsters is a thing, and fucking fun, tells us valuable things about the shape and psychology of colonialism. Why conquistadors in the past did it; why liberal foreign policy, corporations, and post-colonial societies do it today.
Speaking personally:
I write stuff that evokes / deals with the context I'm in---Southeast Asia. An intrinsic part of that is looking at the ways colonial violence has happened to us---as well as the ways / reasons we now, supposedly free, perpetrate it on others.
A long chain of suffering. Heavy stuff.
I also write for people who want to have fun / kill monsters / pretend to be elves, of course. But for those people who want to consider serious stuff like colonialism: I offer no FIGHT THE POWER righteousness, no good feeling, no answers.
Only discomfort. Because the truth is uncomfortable.
Here's a screenshot of the Author's Note for Lorn Song of the Bachelor:
"Any text inspired by Southeast Asia has to reckon with colonialism ... This text presents a difficult situation; there are no easy solutions.
"... If I offered a mechanical incentive for you to fight colonial invaders, you wouldn’t be making a moral decision, but a mercenary one.
"The choice you face should echo ... the kind of calculus my grandparents faced."
I stand by that.
Also: might we be more precise and more careful about using the term "decolonising", please?
Here I quote Tuck and Yang's landmark and (sadly) still trenchant "Decolonization is not a metaphor":
"Decolonization brings about the repatriation of Indigenous land and life; it is not a metaphor for other things we want to do to improve our societies ..."
+++
Further Reading
So this post isn't just me reheating a hot take, here are some touchstone writings from around the TTRPG community about colonialism as a subject and mode of play in games:
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"Jim Corbett was called upon to hunt down another fifty maneaters over the course of the next 35 years. Together, those tigers had killed over 2000 people, for much the same reasons as the Champawat Tiger - injury, desperation, starvation, and habitat loss.
Would you look at that.
The root cause was British colonialism."
D&D Doesn't Understand What Monsters Are
from Throne of Salt
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"Another effect of having colonizers in my setting would be giving players the opportunity to drive them away from the islands, their home. This maybe just be for the catharsis. After all, isn’t catharsis a big part of why we play roleplaying games?"
I’m Adding Colonizers To My Setting
from Goobernut's Blog
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"When you have a slime boy and the other characters are a really fat lizard and one's playing Humpty Dumpty, it completely shatters the straight-faced serious authoritarian illusion of race, and replaces it with complete fucking nonsense. I love the idea of proliferating the number and types of "races" into absurdity, to the point where the entire logical structure of it collapses in on itself and race as a category ceases to become coherent or meaningful in any sense."
Interview with Ava Islam - Designer of the RPG Errant
from Ava Islam / The Lost Bay
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"Perhaps most critically, the fundamental basis of power is not land or even money but manpower. That’s what local rulers fight over, and what Chinese commercial networks export, in return for unique island products. It’s what the European colonists really need (even if it’s not what they most desire). There is rich loot to be grabbed in the form of spices, Spanish silver, Indian gold, sea cucumbers (the Chinese love ’em), perfumes, dyes, cloth etc. so there’s ample opportunity for piracy, trade and smuggling, but the key to long-term success – the key to independent survival – is nakedly and unquestionably uniting people."
Counter-colonial Heistcrawl: previous high scores
from Richard's Dystopian Pokeverse
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"They worked their own land—which they dispossessed from American Indians—or became small shop owners or opportunistic gold diggers or bounty hunters or itinerant ranchers. To me, substituting these situations for one ruled by industrial monopoly ignores that the Wild West is a perfect example of how capitalism operates outside of (or prior to) mass industry, instead being composed of self-employers and self-sustainers."
Fantastic Detours - Frontier Scum
from Traverse Fantasy / Bones of Contention
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"... using the Western framing and D&D's baked-in imperialist and capitalist structure to get people earnestly participating in the experience of forming imperial power structures and the early roots of regional capitalism ... The PCs aren't the drifters on the train or the townsfolk watching with apprehension - they're the railroad itself."
An Arrow for the General: Confronting D&D-as-Western in the Kalahari
from A Most Majestic Fly Whisk
+++
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i thought of you so often.
arthur morgan x reader.
✧ tags : fem!reader (gendered language, explicit use of she/her in reference to reader), children / planning on children, generally sappiness, fluff, au where nothing bad happens to arthur hdskjsdkfhsj.
✧ wc : 2.4k (???)
✧ a/n : arthur morgan.... save me arthur morgan....also not a super original thought but i can't Stop thinking about it.
✧ synopsis : a collection of love letters, all unfinished, tucked somewhere you aren't meant to find them. oh, arthur loves you more than you knew.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆
You try to keep out of Arthur's belongings.
He's owed some privacy, for one. More than that, you've never felt any reason to look into it. Arthur isn't a man of many words, though you catch moments of his introspection should you pry. He isn't stoic, neither. And above all things, he's kind. Really truly kind in a way that makes him different from other men.
You don't have any complaints about him is what you mean. Unlike the men you've loved before, there are no short-comings of Arthur that would drive you to wanting to investigate his own personal things. Especially something so personal like his journals, prior or present.
On top of that, you were there with him through everything. You were part of the gang and stayed by him when it all fell apart. It was towards the end of that that Arthur came to you near frenzied, told you his plans, his thoughts. Confided in you and no less than begged to go with him where he ran.
You loved Arthur enough to stay, and so things ended - and you ran. There isn't much his journal could tell that you couldn't surmise on your own.
It's been years now, and you've long since left that life. You live with Arthur quietly, peaceful in the moments with a garden and kitty sweet as sugar.
It's a good life. An honest, quiet one sometimes to the point of being boring. You rarely miss the action, though occasionally you'll take up a bounty just to feel alive and make some money.
Mostly though, you live as unassuming folk. No bloodshed, no wardens, no gunslinging.
Been talk between you both about having a baby, recently. Serious talk. You've made some money between here and there, and you've got a good life. You've traveled too. But it gets a little lonely, and you don't really get your fill with just Jack when John and Abi are ways away.
Before anything like that, though - you need to clear some space. Empty out some belongings and things collecting dust. Living in one place for too long creates all sorts of mess, you find. When Arthur is home to help, he does - but he's been busy lately figuring something out with Charles. Some business venture related to ranching that you know nothing about so far. They'll tell you when its ready.
Usually when you're tidying, you keep to just your things, or your shared things - but Arthur has lived more life than you. It shows in that big closet space filled with nick-knacks he has yet to toss.
You'd mentioned it to him not too long ago and he'd given you permission to go through them.
(A kiss to your forehead from chapped lips and hands holding your waist, Arthur hums in acknowledgement as you ask his permission.
"Ain't nothing I gotta hide from you. Do whatever you need.)
But like you said - you try to keep your nose out of his business if it's not necessary for you to be in it in anyway.
You weren't trying to look through his things, really. You started cleaning, worked your way to that last box. Up on a shelf in his closet, a little too high for you to reach easily. You made a misstep and dropped the damn thing. It barely missed your head as the whole thing fell open, and out came journals and papers and photographs.
You've always known Arthur to be sentimental, so none of it has been particularly surprising. A photo of wolves and him on a horse, the picture from John and Abigail's engagement. Some other scraps of sentimental value.
And then there was a journal. Not Arthur's journal that he's always using, but another you've never seen before. You know Arthur journals, seen the thing plenty though you never look unless he shows you first.
A journal with a dark brown stained leather binding, fallen open and your name scrawled out in pencil lead at the top of it.
The curiosity got the better of you, okay? Not your damn fault.
So you're thinking on it.
The fabric of your skirt is pooled out underneath you as you hold the thing in your hands, sitting down on the ground surrounded by things. You've stowed away everything else that fell out from the box after ensuring it was intact, including Arthur's journals. Everything with the exception of the one you're holding.
Some guilt eats at you. You don't wanna upset him potentially by having looked. Even if he gave you permission, looking in the damn thing is a little different. But your name was there so clearly, and well - you didn't think he wrote about you. Apart from here and there, maybe.
You hold the book out in front of you with a sigh, looking fondly at his name ingrained in the leather. You press your forehead against it with, resigning yourself completely.
"Lord forgive my pryin'," You mumble, hoping it's enough to absolve you.
Your heart feels funny as you let your fingers trace over the hard edge of the front cover, one eye shut as you start to open it slow.
The first few pages are nothing special.
A page outlining who the journal belongs to and when it was started, and some doodles of yarrow and oleander. The pages after that filled with mundane entries. About people he met or things he saw, all endearing to you. The corners of your lips tug up slightly.
You really love this man helplessly.
You flip through a few more pages, many of them blank before writing starts to appear again. Little by little, you find passages. You look to the dates up at the corner (though not all of them have one) and trace the timeline. This is from all the way back in Horseshoe Overlook.
It feels like ages ago now.
You look at a page with no date, and reading the writing in it. There's doodles of flowers and trees along the bottom of the page. The words are easy enough to make out - because Arthur has the most unusually beautiful handwriting.
There's some entries about you. At first, they all include your name in some context. Mentioned in the same way Arthur might mention Hosea or Abigail. The further you go, the less you see it. The more you become her and she.
It's a trend. The longer you read, the less there is about anyone else. Just you and all your silly idiosyncrasies tucked between pages. Something lovestruck and foolish lights its match in you.
Saw a body hanging at the tracks at Valentine. A gruesome sight. I told her about it and she laughed. Asked me to take her to see it. A strange woman, by all accounts.
You feel yourself smile a little as you continue to flip through the pages.
She joined me riding into town today. Said she had some business to attend but would not tell me any details. After, she came with me to purchase a new gun. I engraved a snake into it's handle, per her request.
Another few pages littered with drawings of delicate berries and waterfalls before you stumble across more writing. The more you flip, the longer the passages become you.
You can't tear your eyes away.
Rained today. Nothing too terrible or worth mentioning, except that she nearly caught a cold playing in it. I brought her coffee to keep her warm, but could not scold her further upon seeing her delight.
Another passage, this time written with messier hand writing. A coffee stain splatters on the white of the page.
Your heart tugs on itself. Swells about a thousand sizes. To think he wrote so much of your time together between these pages.
You read and read and read - and each passage is a little more mundane at the last. Some pages go on in vivid detail, but others are so short you aren't sure what to make of the fact he wrote them at all. As if such little details were important enough to keep in mind.
I picked a flower for her. I thought it would suit her taste. It was white with delicate petals. I did not know the name.
She wore it in her hair this evening. I find I can't stop grinning.
One passage on the next few pages, longer than the rest, catches your eye. From later in your time together, written when you were in Leymone. Near Scarlett Meadows and before the mess in Saint Denis.
After Arthur had been kidnapped.
I have gone on and on about the business with Colm O'Driscoll in many entries before this one. Yet, I find it difficult to forget. Many times I have come close to death, and still no experience lingers on my mind quite like this one.
Everyone has done their best to look after me. For that I am grateful, though I do not care for being looked after. What use am I like this, I wonder? Perhaps, I should simply be grateful to be alive and in one piece, if a little uglier than I was.
Alongside Miss Grimshaw and Miss Tilly, she has been by my side while I recovered. Such a carefree woman and yet I have seen her cry and weep over me countless times in the last few weeks alone. The decent man in me is apologetic for causing sorrow.
Perhaps, it is the outlaw in me that feels some strange relief or satisfaction. Her fussing does not give me any grief. If anything, I find myself all the more endeared. Such a decent woman does not belong in a place like this. I hope she is able to go somewhere far away and live peacefully. I am not so shameless to want anything more. The time together we have spent, I will make sure to cherish.
Something painful and pitiful tugs at your heart. Even when Arthur admitted his feelings for you, he had started it on a similar tangent. You tell him often that you're the one who feels out of bounds with him. That a man as decent and as honest as him often feels like too much for you to have so easily.
A tear slips from your eye and you laugh at your own sentimentality, wiping it away before it can splatter onto the pages.
The further you read, the more sporadic entries become. You find that there are pages filled with sketches of you, but many of them are scratched out or half erased - like he did not find them good enough. Of your side profile, of your hands, of you pointing at a target with a gun. You feel a strange feeling of love wash over you.
Instead of concrete thoughts, you're met with Arthur's abstract. Subtle complexities and studies. There's honest tenderness in the way he sketches you and the words he chooses to caption each with. Lighter, thinner lines. Smaller doodles like stray daydreams caught onto a page.
You've never doubted Arthur in his love for you, quiet man he is - but it proves to overwhelm when presented to you in such a way.
You get to back pages. There, you're finally met with more writing. Except, instead of journal entries, there's the start of letters. You find your name at the top of the page.
Over and over. Love letters, all unfinished or scrapped. Written over and over and over, but not completed. There's tens of them at least. You've never received a love letter from Arthur before, though it's nothing you fault him for.
Now you're almost glad. You like this much better.
My darling girl
My muse
The better half of me, I must find some way to tell you all of what I think of you. It seems no words do it justice, I'm afraid. Still, it is in my best interest to try.
Damn that man.
When you find yourself starting to weep, you don't fight the feeling. You merely shut the book closed and set it in your lap before crying into your hands.
Such overwhelmingly happy tears. You feel off balance. If the whole world turned on its head this very minute, you're unsure you'd notice. What a decent, honest man you've come to love. What a tender one.
In the middle of your crying, you don't hear the door open or close. Nor do you hear Arthur's heavy footfall until he's in the doorway, with a voice worried half to death.
"Sweetheart, what in the hell?"
You turn your head to look at him, watching his eyes widen at your tear stained face. You clamber to your feet hurriedly, book dropping onto the ground next to you as you throw yourself at him as soon as you can.
Arthur is a steady enough man not to stumble when you do, though you can feel his apprehension. Eventually, he circles his arms around your waist. His hugs are strong. Bout strong as him and then some. An arm wrapped around your waist, the other crossed over your back all around your shoulder. Full pressure as he squeezes you tight, patting the back of your head.
"I leave you alone for a few hours. What has gotten into you, little lady?"
You pull back and and look at him, wet lashes and all, before leaning up to kiss him. Arthur meets your lips chastely at first before making a noise of surprise as you kiss him further. You use both hands to grab his face as you do, scruff scratching against your skin. His lips are soft, welcoming. He melts into the touch, so easily - blue eyes lovestruck as you pull away.
"You know I love you, don't you Arthur? More than anyone in this crazy world we live in,"
His face softens visibly. He smiles at you, touching his head to yours.
"Somehow, I do. Though, I'm wonderin' what the hell brought this on."
You tuck your face against his chest, feeling his laughter reverb through you at the way you cling to him so fervently. You sniffle as you talk.
"Found your journal. The one about me,"
He goes stiff, then silent. When you look up again, he's blushing red. He pinches his brow.
"Lord, I'd forgotten all about it,"
You shake your head.
"Ain't nothing for you to be embarrassed about. You are so wonderful,"
He pouts at you. Your heart swells. "You ain't helping with the embarrassment."
You hold him further. Hug him so tight, worried he'll disappear if you don't.
"I love you, Arthur."
"You already told me once, didn'tcha?"
"And I'll tell you one thousand times over," You emphasize, pouting at him. "Really. I love you,"
"I love you too sweetheart," His hand cups your face, thumb brushing along your waterline. "Don't cry no more. Spoils that pretty face."
"I'll try but I don't know if it's all out of me,"
Arthur laughs, pressing a kiss against your hairline. "Guess I'll just have to wipe your tears."
.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆
#zero.writes#rogues love letters#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan fluff#rdr2 x reader#rdr2 fluff#red dead redemption x reader#this is so lovesick and silly i feel so miserable#I AM A JOHN GIRL. BUT. well that deadbeat father and bastard isnt gonna write you love letters like arthur im afraid
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the right wrong number
pairing: pre/no outbreak!joel miller x soccer coach!female reader
rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)
word count: 6k
summary:
When Joel receives a dirty text from an unknown number, he gives into his curiosity and messages back.
He doesn’t expect the number to belong to his daughter’s summer camp soccer coach.
dear reader:
this work is a request and a birthday gift for my sweet baby @mydailyhyperfixations , who’s been one of my biggest supporters since i started posting my work on tumblr. ily, and i hope you love the fic! special thanks to @cutesyscreenname for helping me with some lil details to finish this surprise. support and mdni banners by @saradika
content warnings:
explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), age difference (undefined, but references are made), pre/no outbreak!joel miller, identity porn, wrong number au, sexting, dom/sub dynamics, use of ‘sir’, pet names, praise, thigh riding, semi-public sexual activity, spanking, safe word discussion, dirty talk, p in v. let me know if i’ve missed any!
Unknown Number: I had a really good time at dinner tonight!
Joel stares at his phone in confusion. It’s past midnight and he’s been sitting on the couch nursing a beer and watching Indiana Jones. He’s been in the same spot since Sarah went to bed a couple hours ago. His phone beeps again.
Unknown Number: It’s too bad we didn’t have time to visit Noir.
Joel raises his eyebrows. Noir is a bar in downtown Austin known for its calendar of speciality kink events. He’s seen it come up in his Google searches of local bars and had considered going to an event or two but never worked up the courage. His kinks remain between him and his porn search history.
Unknown Number: Wanna see what you missed out on?
[Photo 01.jpg]
Curiosity gets the better of him and he clicks on the image attachment. He nearly drops his phone when a photo of a woman fills his screen, sweet curves hugged by black lace on white sheets. He should absolutely tell her that she has the wrong number. His fingers type across the screen.
Damn, seems a shame something that gorgeous is going to waste.
Unknown Number: Who says it has to go to waste?
Joel swallows nervously. He’s already hard in his jeans, cock pressing urgently against his pants. He palms himself, trying to collect his thoughts.
Unknown Number: I’m feeling a little needy over here.
[Photo 02.jpg]
Against his better judgment, Joel opens the second photo and has to bite back a groan at the image of the woman’s hand slipped beneath the waistband of the panties, fingers hidden from sight behind lace and silk.
You want me to tell you how to play with that pretty pussy?
Joel squeezes his eyes shut as he presses send. This is a colossally stupid idea. This is a stranger, and he’s not the intended recipient of these messages.
Unknown Number: I’d really like that, sir.
Fuck it, Joel thinks. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Start by circling those fingers over your clit. Nice and slow.
And when you feel like you could cum, I want you to go even slower.
Unknown Number: It’s too slow. I want more.
Be patient, baby. And aren’t you forgetting something?
Unknown Number: Sorry. I want more, SIR.
Joel presses a hand to the bulge in his jeans, the pressure offering little relief.
Now don’t start being a brat, sweetheart. You won’t like the result.
Unknown Number: Oh yeah? What would you even do?
I’d love nothing more than to bend you over the edge of the bed, ass ready to be spanked red.
Unknown Number: Fuck, that would feel so good. Bet your hands would feel amazing marking me up.
You still being a good girl and following my instructions?
Unknown Number: I think I forgot. Could you remind me, sir?
You’ll have to ask more nicely than that.
Unknown Number: Could you *please* remind me, sir?
Joel runs a hand over his beard before reaching for the forgotten beer on the coffee table and taking a swig.
You’re supposed to be teasing yourself for me. Nice and slow.
I want you to pinch your nipples until they’re nice and tight, too.
Unknown Number: Like this?
[Photo 03.jpg]
Joel bites his lip as he opens the third photo. You’ve got your bra pulled down to expose your nipples, hard and perfect and begging for his mouth. He unbuttons his jeans, tossing his phone on the couch only long enough to shimmy the denim down his thighs and free his leaking cock.
Just like that, baby. Such a good girl for me.
Unknown Number: Are you touching yourself, too, sir?
Of course I am, baby.
Unknown Number: Can I see, sir? Please?
Joel’s hand falters as alarm bells blare in his head. He should absolutely not open his camera. And he should definitely not find the perfect angle that doesn’t show his face. And he certainly should not grip his cock around the base, holding it steady as the shutter sounds and a new photo is saved to his camera roll.
No. He shouldn’t do any of that.
[Photo 04.jpg]
Unknown Number: God, your cock would feel so good in me right now.
Joel’s right hand moves at a steady pace up and down his length, left hand fumbling to type a reply.
Why don’t you fuck your little fingers and pretend it’s me, then?
Unknown Number: Won’t fill me up nearly as much, sir.
Be a good girl and follow my directions, baby.
Unknown Number: [Photo 05.jpg]
He opens the photo and his cock pulses in his fist. She has her underwear shoved to the side, two fingers plunged into her glistening pussy. His mind reels with an image of this faceless woman writhing on the bed reading his words, thinking about his cock stretching her open and he has to bite his lip to just keep the responding moan trapped in his throat.
Unknown Number: Can I cum, sir? Please?
Since you asked so nicely, yes. Make yourself cum for me, sweetheart.
Joel sets the phone aside on the couch, closing his eyes as he pumps himself with a tight fist while he imagines your desperate pussy clenching around your fingers. He cups his palm over the head of his cock as his release hits him like a freight train, hips flexing from the couch to chase the lingering sensations of ecstasy from his hand.
He stands, pulling his pants up without bothering to fasten them so that he can wash his hands in the kitchen sink. Guilt settles on his shoulders as he dries his hands with the dish towel while he stares at the couch where his phone is lit up with another message from a stranger he had no business seeing that much of.
He approaches the couch and sits with a sigh, running a hand over his face before picking his phone up to read her message:
Unknown Number: Easily my best orgasm. Hope it was for you, too. Don’t be a stranger xx
Feeling like an asshole, Joel deletes the thread and the wrong number for good, but it’s fine.
It’s not like he’ll ever meet her, anyways.
——————
You’re on the phone with your best friend, telling her about how the last guy you went out with about a week ago, a guy named Jeremy you met on a dating app, still hasn’t reached out to you again despite what you’d thought was a successful date.
“So he just never reached out to you after you sexted him all night?” She asks. “Men are so weird.”
You cradle the phone between your ear and shoulder as you zip up your duffel bag of equipment. It’s the beginning of June and the summer soccer intensive camp for junior league starts today. You’ve got a full registration for the girl’s 13-15 division and you’re excited to get back on the field and help these girls do their best in a sport you love.
“Nope. Maybe I came on too strong? I don’t know,” you reply.
“You did come strongly. At least, that’s what you told me,” she says with a laugh. “Well, that’s too bad. Maybe you’ll meet a hot dad coaching this year.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not fucking someone’s dad.”
“Never say never, babe.”
“I gotta go find my damn cleats. I’ll talk to you later,” you tell her.
“Fine, I expect a full run down of every DILF you meet today.”
You hang up as she laughs, tossing your phone into your personal bag that you keep separate from the gear before you go in search of your cleats from your room.
——————
Joel and an over-excited Sarah sit in the parking lot of the soccer field that her summer camp is being conducted at, ridiculously early at Sarah’s insistence because she didn’t want to be late on the first day. They’re the only car in the parking lot so far, having apparently beat even the coach, and Joel sips at his travel mug of coffee in the hopes that it grants him energy.
Another car pulls up and parks beside his truck, loud music blaring from the open window. Sarah waves excitedly.
“That’s the coach,” she explains.
Joel watches you get out of your car and pop the trunk. You start pulling out bags of soccer balls and stacks of orange cones, bags of agility equipment and strength training aids. He opens the door to his truck and jogs over.
“Hey, you need any help with that?” He asks. You look over at him in surprise, eyes wide.
“Oh, uh, sure. That would be great,” you reply.
“I’m Joel Miller, and this is my daughter, Sarah,” he says, gesturing to the young girl. She gives a little wave and he extends a hand out to you.
You give him your name, shaking his outstretched hand. “Y’all are a little early,” you reply, hefting a bag over your shoulder.
“My dad’s always late but I didn’t want to be late for camp,” Sarah says. Joel narrows his eyes at her.
“Not a problem. You can help me set up the cones,” you tell her. His daughter gives you a bright smile and he almost forgives her for throwing him under the bus. “I’ll grab these two bags, you grab the cones, and Mr. Miller, could you grab the balls, please?”
Joel fights back his childish laughter at your request, grabbing the bags as instructed. “Just Joel, please.”
You smile at him and he feels a bit blindsided by how it makes his heart beat faster, his palms a little sweatier. You’re very pretty, fresh faced and ready for a day of work, wearing one of those quick dry workout shirts that clings to your curves and a pair of shorts that show off your strong legs. Some traitorous part of his brain wonders what it would feel like to have those legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer.
“Alright then, Just Joel. Let’s go.”
——————
“Thank you for the help,” you tell Sarah’s dad. You’re trying very hard not to let your eyes linger on the bulge of his biceps or the broad expanse of his back as he sets down the two bags of soccer balls and places his hands on his hips.
He’s a handsome man, older than you by at least a few years, with tan skin and dark hair and kind brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles at something Sarah says. His daughter has the same brown eyes and olive skin, her dark curly hair pulled into a bun.
Of course the first parent you meet this summer is a hot dad. It’s like you’ve spoken it into the universe.
“Not a problem. Glad I can be useful if I’m goin’ to be here this early,” he replies with a narrowed glance at Sarah, who is suddenly very interested in the stack of cones she carried to the field. “Anythin’ else you need me for?”
“Let me get you the game schedule and contact sheet.” You open your bag and pull out your folder of materials you like to give to parents, assembling a stack of papers for him. “On top you’ve got the emergency contacts sheet. Fill that out with your contact information and an alternate’s information, too, just in case I can’t reach you or someone else needs to pick Sarah up. You’ll want to have Sarah bring that back tomorrow.”
You flip the page. “The second page is just a welcome letter. It’s got my phone number on it, feel free to text or call if you have any questions or if Sarah can’t make it one day.”
“And then last we’ve got the camp schedule. The girls will have two tournament days where they’ll play against some nearby summer camp leagues. You can sign up to bring a snack by filling out the piece at the bottom. Do you have any questions?”
“I don’t suppose I do. You’re very organized,” he says, taking the packet from you. You can feel your cheeks heating.
“Thanks,” you murmur. “Well, I gotta finish setting up.”
“I won’t get in your way.” He calls out to Sarah and the young girl runs up to give him a hug goodbye. “Be good. I’ll see you later.”
——————
Joel Miller is the first at the field in the mornings helping you set up for the day and last parent to leave at pick-up, after he’s loaded your trunk up with the equipment, wiping the sweat from his brow as he grins at you.
His daughter is a great player, quick on her feet and smart as a whip, picking up the footwork skills you teach like they’re second nature. You’re telling Joel as much Friday afternoon in the second week of camp when Sarah bounds up and asks if you want to get ice cream with them.
“That’s a great idea, baby girl,” Joel says before you can decline. You blink at him and he gives you that lopsided grin that’s been giving you butterflies since the first day on the field. “But if you order mint chocolate chip, you’re buyin’ it yourself.”
“Good news, I’m a plain ol’ chocolate kinda gal,” you tell him with a laugh.
“Me, too!” Sarah says.
“I’ll follow you guys,” you suggest. Joel gives you a quick nod, herding Sarah into his truck and taking off toward town.
You follow them to a little ice cream parlor, the kind that sells old fashioned sundaes and thick milkshakes with red and white striped straws. You park beside them, watching as Sarah hops from the truck with a wide grin on her face and her dad comes around, slinging a strong arm over her shoulder and pulling her close. Your heart feels warm looking at them.
Once inside, Joel and Sarah end up ordering a sundae to split while you get a small cone of chocolate ice cream. You try to tell Joel not to pay for you, but he hits you with a look that has your mouth going dry, any argument disappearing as all your blood rushes south and makes you ache between your legs.
“I’ll go get us a table outside,” you offer, licking at your treat. You don’t miss the way Joel’s eyes track the path of your tongue.
You watch the busy foot traffic while you wait for the Millers to join you, the warm Texas air wrapped around you while you enjoy the slight breeze and your cold dessert.
A deep voice calls your name and you look around, finding a familiar face on the crowded sidewalk.
“Jeremy, hey. How are you?” You ask as the man approaches. It feels like forever ago that you went to dinner together and looking at him now you think he’s handsome but he doesn’t hold a candle to Joel.
“I’m good. Been busy. I gotta say, I was a little bummed I didn’t hear from you after our date. Thought we had a good time,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
“Didn’t…hear from me?” You ask nervously.
He tilts his head. “Yeah. Thought you said you would text me when you got home.”
“Uh…yeah. Sorry. I guess I just forgot.”
The bell dings above the door to the ice cream parlor, Joel and Sarah emerging with a sundae piled with whipped cream. Jeremy looks toward them, then back at you.
“I’m guessing another date is off the table?” He asks, slipping his hands into his pants pockets.
Joel looks between the two of you, brow furrowed as he sets the sundae on the metal table and Sarah takes a seat, digging in immediately.
“Jeremy, this is Joel and his daughter, Sarah. She’s in my soccer camp this summer. Joel, this is my friend Jeremy,” you introduce. Jeremy holds a hand out to Joel, who shakes it briefly, brows still pinched.
“I better get going. Nice seeing you, let me know if you want to get together again,” Jeremy says before turning to leave. When you glance at Joel, his shoulders are drawn up and jaw clenched tight as he stabs his spoon into his ice cream.
“What do you guys have planned this weekend?” You ask to break the silence. Sarah perks up and begins to tell you about how her Uncle Tommy, Joel’s brother, is taking her to a local carnival. You listen and nod along despite the fact that your thoughts are stuck on Jeremy’s words.
If it wasn’t Jeremy on the other end of your conversation that night…who was it?
——————
As the three of you walk back to your vehicles, Joel’s still thinking about that man who’d been talking to you at the ice cream shop and how it made his blood burn hot to hear him mention going on a date with you. His pulse pounded in his ears as he shook the guy’s hand, any information about the guy going right over his head. He didn’t even taste the ice cream or hear the conversation you and Sarah had about the weekend, lost in his thoughts about how between early mornings helping you prep for camp and late afternoons at pick up have all somehow allowed you to burrow into his heart.
A hand wraps around his bicep, halting him in his steps. He glances at your concerned face and suddenly all that tension leaves him in a rush. Sarah says her goodbye, hugging you around your waist before hopping into the truck, leaving the two of you alone.
“You okay?” You ask, taking a step closer.
“I’m great, sweetheart. Get home safe,” he says, eyes dipping briefly to your mouth. Your tongue pokes out, tracing your lower lip. He takes a step back before he’s tempted to lean in and chase the taste of chocolate and you.
“I’ll see you Monday?”
“Bright and early.”
——————
Sarah spikes a fever Sunday night and spends the night curled around the toilet while Joel coaxes some water into her and keeps her hair out of harm's way. When it seems that the worst of her nausea has passed, Joel leaves her to rest in her bed while he goes downstairs and grabs the contact list you’d given him at the beginning of camp.
He starts a text, letting you know that Sarah’s sick and won’t make it to camp, at least for today. When it’s sent, he heads back upstairs, armed with a sleeve of crackers to deliver to his daughter.
Maybe he can squeeze in a little bit of sleep for himself.
——————
Hey, it’s Joel. Sarah’s sick and won’t make it to camp today.
You stare at the text, mind reeling. Not because a parent is texting you, that’s pretty common and you hope Sarah is doing okay, but because you already have a thread with Joel.
One where you’d called him sir and told him his cock would feel so good inside of you because you’d thought you’d been texting Jeremy. Your cheeks feel so hot you worry spontaneous human combustion could actually be a thing.
What are you even supposed to do in this situation? Do you tell him about it?
Hey, Joel. No worries. Thanks for letting me know, hope she feels better soon. Oh, also, you’ve sent me a picture of your dick.
You delete the last line immediately, hitting your phone against your forehead like doing so might make your thoughts make sense.
Hey, Joel. No worries. Thanks for letting me know, hope she feels better soon. Any chance you can make good on that promise and bend me over the bed?
You delete the last line again with a groan.
Hey, Joel. No worries. Thanks for letting me know, hope she feels better soon. There’s something I want to talk to you about. Would you be able to meet with me after practice this week? Or sometime this weekend?
You hit send before you can back out, tossing your phone in your bag as you get ready to head out the door.
——————
Joel wakes later in the morning and reads your text message. His mind races with what you could want to talk to him about. Maybe you noticed how he reacted to your friend and wanted to tell him you’re uncomfortable? Or maybe something to do with Sarah?
Fuck, he thinks, scrubbing a hand over his face. He reads the message a few more times but it doesn’t reveal any additional clues. He types out a message, pressing send before he can overthink the contents.
She seems to be doing better. Should be back to camp tomorrow. I can meet you somewhere for dinner on Friday after camp? My treat.
——————
Joel’s text plays on a loop in your brain for the rest of the week. Unlike the previous weeks of camp, he and Sarah don’t show up early. In fact, he’s been dropping her off almost at the last minute and picking her up promptly when camp ends, always managing to show up when you’re already pulled into conversation with another parent and driving off before you have a chance to talk with him.
On Friday, Joel is at the field early, leaning against his truck as he talks to Sarah. You park beside them, and he helps you unload your car and set up for the day, just as he had the weeks prior, making small talk like he hadn’t just spent the week dodging you after suggesting dinner. When everything is unpacked and Sarah is kicking a ball around, you follow Joel to his truck under the guise of needing one more thing from your car.
“Hey, are we still on for dinner?” You ask him. He runs a hand through his hair and you try not to let yourself zero in on the way his bicep flexes with the motion.
“‘Course. How ‘bout I meet you at that diner downtown? The one with the—“
“All day breakfast?” You finish. Joel grins.
“Yeah, that’s the one. Is six good?”
“Six is great.” You smile back at him, lost in the way his eyes crinkle in the corners and his mouth lifts slightly higher on the right.
“Coach!” Sarah yells, making you jump.
“Guess I better get out there,” you say, shifting nervously.
“Yeah, I’ll uh…I’ll see you later?” He asks.
“Looking forward to it.”
——————
To your surprise, it’s not Joel that picks up Sarah that afternoon, but another man with familiar brown eyes and dark curly hair. You grab your folder from your bag as Sarah greets the man, flipping through the pages until you’ve found her emergency contact form.
“Hey there,” the man says, a grin lighting up his face. “I’m Sarah’s Uncle Tommy.”
You shake the hand he’s held out towards you and introduce yourself. “Nice to meet you. Mind if I check your ID for alternate pick up?”
“Go right ahead,” he replies, pulling a worn brown leather wallet from his jeans and handing you his ID from its contents. “Don’t judge the photo, alright? It’s old.”
A younger version of the man in front of you is pictured on the card, his curly dark hair buzzed short and a grim expression on his face. You note the name THOMAS MILLER beside the picture and check it against Sarah’s emergency contact form.
“Thanks, Tommy,” you tell him, handing back the ID. There’s a brief silence where Tommy seems to be assessing you.
“So…,” he says, rocking on his heels, “you’re the girl that’s got Joel all tangled up, huh?”
You blink. “Uh—“
“Uncle Tommy! Let’s go!” Sarah shouts from the parking lot.
“Hold your horses!” Tommy yells. He gives you one last knowing smirk. “Have fun with Joel tonight!”
You watch him jog over to the truck and get behind the wheel, Sarah waving at you as he pulls out of the parking spot. You wave back, but your mind is stuck on Tommy’s words, the implication of them having your stomach doing backflips.
——————
Joel’s fingers fidget with the straw wrapper, ripping it into small pieces that build in a pile on the laminate table while he waits for you to arrive for dinner. He’s still not sure what this is all about and that uncertainty has had him stuck in his head to the point where Tommy was giving him a hard time at work about it.
“Let me know if you need me to stay with Sarah overnight,” Tommy had said as Joel checked himself in the hall mirror one last time before leaving the house.
“It ain’t like that,” he grumbled back, but there was no changing his brother’s mind.
“Sure, you keep tellin’ yourself that.”
The bell above the diner door rings with a new customer, pulling Joel from his thoughts. You’ve just walked in wearing a dress, a far cry from the soccer shorts and t-shirt he’s seen you in every day this summer. His gaze is pulled to the tantalizing glimpse of your chest he gets from the deep neckline and the way the fabric swishes against your thighs as you approach.
“Hi,” you say, sliding into the booth across from him. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Sure,” Joel says, giving you what he hopes is a confident smile but he’s almost certain it’s more of a grimace.
A silence settles over the table as you both look at the laminated menus like they hold the secret to the universe. The waitress swings by and takes your orders - chocolate chip waffles for you and a medium rare burger for Joel.
“How’s Sarah doing with the camp?” Joel asks.
“She’s doing great. Easily one of the best players I’ve got this year,” you reply.
“Good that’s…good. You used to play for UT, right?”
“Yep, starting forward until I tore my ACL,” you tell him. “Now I coach because you can take the girl out of soccer but you can’t take the soccer from the girl.”
“That’s impressive,” Joel comments. “Is coaching your full time job?”
“No, I work in marketing for an instrument production company.”
“Really? You play anything?”
“Some guitar, a little piano. Nothing crazy. Do you?”
Joel laughs. “Been a while, but I got a guitar stashed away in a closet somewhere.”
The waitress returns with your food, setting the plates in front of you and asking if either of you need anything else before leaving the two of you to your meals.
Joel is a few bites into his burger when you set your fork down and say, “Look, I’m just gonna come right out and say it. You’ve sent me a picture of your dick.”
Joel nearly chokes, sputtering for air around his burger and grabbing his Coke, desperate for relief. He chugs the beverage, tears in his eyes.
“Are you okay?” You ask, wide eyes full of concern.
“No, I’m not okay, what do you mean I’ve sent you a picture of my dick?” He hisses, looking around the mostly empty diner.
“About a month ago I went on a date with that guy I ran into at the ice cream place, Jeremy? We met on a dating app so we were messaging through there and he gave me his number at the end of the night,” you say quickly. “And I texted the number with some…racy photos. And messages.”
Joel feels the rising panic in his chest. No, there’s absolutely no way that random number could have been you. There’s no way he sexted his daughter’s soccer coach.
“I didn’t find out it was you until you texted me about Sarah being sick. I still had the chat with your number,” you finish, reaching into your bag and pulling out your phone. Joel watches with building dread as you tap on the screen and set the phone on the table, sliding it toward him.
You’ve opened the chat with him, the innocuous messages at the bottom about Sarah missing camp giving way to photo attachments he doesn’t dare click on but remembers vividly. He looks up at you.
“I…I’m so sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have replied, the messages weren’t meant for me.”
“I’m not mad,” you assure him. “A little embarrassed, maybe. But also…can I be completely honest?”
“Of course.”
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your messages.”
Joel’s mouth drops open in surprise. “You…really?”
“Yeah. And knowing it’s you…,” you say, voice trailing off. Your eyes are dark, a little smirk playing on your lips that has Joel’s cock twitching with interest. “Well, that makes it better.”
“It does?” Joel asks. You nod, picking up a bite of waffle with your fork, a moan of appreciation leaving your lips.
“It does,” you confirm.
Joel turns around in the booth and flags down the waitress.
“Check, please!”
——————
After paying for dinner, Joel walks you to the parking lot, his broad palm on your low back directing you to where his truck is parked.
He’s got you pressed against the passenger door, his chest grazing yours with each breath he takes. He lifts a hand to your cheek, his thumb rubbing across your bottom lip. His gaze grows dark as you dart your tongue out, flicking it against the digit.
“Such a fuckin’ tease,” he says. Gone is the man who was mortified to find out he’d been sexting you and in his place is the man behind the screen. “You wore this little dress because you knew exactly what you wanted, isn’t that right?”
“Maybe,” you murmur. “You don’t like it?”
“Mm,” he hums, “Ain’t a matter of not likin’ it, trust me.”
His hands grip your hips, the fabric bunching in his fists as he moves a thigh between your legs. The sudden friction of his jeans, even through the barrier of your underwear, has you gasping.
“Joel,” you whimper, grinding over the muscle of his thigh. He kisses along the length of your neck, lips right over your racing pulse. “Come on, take me home.”
“You can ask more nicely than that,” he says, hands guiding the movement of your hips, forward and back, across his thigh. You moan, louder than you intended, too loud for the parking lot of a busy diner at dinner rush.
“Please, sir,” you whisper. “Please, take me home.”
“Cum on my thigh and we can leave,” he replies. “Leave a nice little wet spot on my jeans and then I’ll take you home and make you scream my name as loud as you need to.”
Joel’s lips capture your own, swallowing the curse that was ready to spill from them at his demand. His kiss is rough, demanding, his stubble scratching your skin and his tongue tangling with yours as your hips continue to rock over his leg. You dig your fingers into his hair, holding tightly to him while the knot of need in your belly tightens.
“Come on, baby,” he says when he lifts his head, lips still pressed to your neck. “Make a mess, come on.”
You go still in his hands as your orgasm washes over you, your muscles stiff as your pussy pulses desperately over his thigh. Joel pulls you in for another kiss, this one slow and sweet to bring you back to reality.
When you’ve caught your breath, he steps back, adjusting the skirt of your dress back over your thighs. He looks down at his pants and then back at you, a smirk on his handsome face. You look down, face heating with embarrassment as you notice the dark patch of denim.
“Get in the truck, baby.”
——————
You give Joel directions to your apartment, his warm hand on your thigh the whole way there. Your nerves are buzzing beneath your skin again, the effect of your first orgasm wearing off and your desire building rapidly with each mile closer to your apartment.
He parks in the visitor parking and you move to open the door, but a tan arm reaches across and tugs it shut. Confused, you watch Joel jump from the truck and jog around to the passenger side to pull open your door and hold a hand out to you.
You’re laughing as he helps you from the truck and shuts the door behind you, your giggles persisting as you lead him upstairs and his arms circle your waist while you try to unlock your door. He hustles you across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him and flipping the deadbolt.
“Bedroom?” He asks.
“End of the hall,” you reply.
Joel pulls you along behind him, a man on a mission. Once inside your room, you flip on your bedside lamp and Joel steps in close, framing your face in his hands and giving you another kiss that has the butterflies in your tummy going wild.
His fingers are curling into the hem of your dress, dragging it up your body and breaking the kiss long enough to pull it over your head and toss it to the floor. His lips are back on yours while his hands map your curves, calloused fingers catching on soft skin and making goosebumps erupt in their wake.
“Get on the bed,” he commands. You turn, crawling onto the mattress slowly, a wiggle in your hips. You look over your shoulder at the older man and find his gaze fixed on your ass. He grins. “You remember what I said last time you teased me?”
“No. I think I need a reminder,” you tell him. He huffs, shaking his head.
“Teasin’ me and gettin’ mouthy? Think that might earn you a punishment.”
Joel palms the cheeks of your ass, pulling them apart in a rough grip that has you gasping his name. His fingers dig into the flesh, the ache of them already making your head spin.
“Five ain’t enough, but it’s all I’ve got the patience for right now,” he says. His tone changes as he asks, “You got a safe word? If I need to stop?”
“Apricots,” you say easily. He tilts his head. “It’s from a TV show. New Girl?”
“Never heard of it,” he says. “Alright, apricots it is.”
He pulls your panties down, leaving them around your thighs. His thumbs spread you apart and the vulnerability of this position, your ass in the air and everything spread for him, by him, has you feeling like you’re on fire.
“Pretty little pussy,” he murmurs. “But I already knew that. Because you’re a dirty fuckin’ girl who sent me pictures just because I told you how to cum. Ain’t that right?”
“Mhm.”
An open palm lands on your right ass cheek, hear blossoming on the spot as you gasp, lurching forward. His hands pull you towards him and he presses down between your shoulder blades, your back arching.
“Don’t move,” he commands. “That was one. You count the next one.”
Another smack across your other cheek, more sharp pain that shifts into dull ache as you mumble, “Two.”
He doles out two more in quick succession, each other making your pussy clench with need. You’re drooling into sheets, a whimpering mess as he runs his fingers through your soaked folds and lets out a deep groan.
“Baby, you’re soaked,” he says. “Fuck, one more, okay? One more and then I’ll have you wrapped around my cock.”
You nod your head, bracing for the final blow across your sensitive skin. The sting of his palm as it lands makes your eyes roll back, the line between pleasure and pain so blurry you don’t know which side you stand on.
His hands leave your hips and without the support, you slide flat to your belly. Distantly, you register the opening of your nightstand drawer and the sound of Joel rummaging through the contents, followed by the muted thump of clothes being discarded to the floor.
Joel maneuvers you to your back in the center of the bed, pulling your panties off. “You did so good, sweetheart,” he praises. You smile at him.
“Do I get a reward now, sir?” You ask.
“‘Course, baby. Good girls get what they deserve.”
His hips press between yours, his cock sliding through your wetness and catching on your clit. He positions the thick head at your slick entrance, pressing in the slightest bit. You take in the sight of him, his broad chest held over you by strong arms, the muscles of his neck tense.
Joel slides in slowly, your body accepting him gratefully. The stretch borders on painful but the fullness has you digging your nails into his back, a moan falling from your lips. It feels like ages before his hips as flush to yours and all you can feel is Joel Joel Joel.
“Fuck,” he groans, forehead dropping to yours. “Christ, you feel so fuckin’ good.”
He pulls back slightly, thrusting forward with a sharp snap of his hips. As he starts to set a rhythm, he sits up on his knees, lifting one of your legs up with a hand on the back of your thigh and pressing it to the side. The position opens you up further, letting him get impossibly deeper, and all you can do is allow him to use your body to his liking.
It’s not long before you’re screaming his name, as promised, the knot of pleasure in your core pulling tight and getting ready to snap.
“You gonna cum again for me?” Joel asks, breathing labored as his pace doesn’t falter. “Come on, baby, cum on my cock. You’re such a good fuckin’ girl, I know you can do it.”
“Joel!” You shout, that last thread snapping as your orgasm rushing through you, stars bursting behind your eyelids as they snap shut with the force of it all. Your pussy clenches around him, his hips stuttering and growing sloppy until he’s pressing in deep with a groan of your name.
He collapses on top of you, a heavy weight but not an unwelcome one as you both try to catch your breath, sweat cooling between you. After a moment, his softening cock slips from your body and he rolls to the side, gathering you to his chest.
“Holy shit,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” Joel whispers back. He sits up, leaning over the edge of the bed and grabbing his jeans, pulling his phone free.
He taps on the screen and brings it to his ear, a distant ringing audible through the speaker.
“Tommy? Yeah, everythin’s fine,” Joel says when his call connects. He takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Could you stay with Sarah tonight? Shut up,” he grumbles. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll be back in the mornin’. Thanks, brother.”
Joel hangs up and you raise your eyebrows at him.
“You’re staying?” You ask.
“Yeah, baby. I ain’t finished with you yet,” he replies, pressing a flurry of kisses to your face, neck, and shoulders, sending you into a fit of giggles.
——————
1 Year Later
“Alright, great job, girls! Let’s get your snacks,” you shout as your summer league girls jog towards you from the field following their third tournament game.
The girls crowd around the cooler that Joel’s prepared, grabbing small bottles of Gatorade or water and a bag of orange slices. They lounge around the sidelines and you step up beside Joel, bumping him with your hip.
“Thanks for the snacks,” you say. He grins at you.
“‘Course. Gotta take care of my girls,” he replies. He pulls one last bag of oranges from the cooler. “And one for coach.”
“How’d I get so lucky?” You ask, looping an arm around his waist.
“What can I say? You texted the right wrong number.”
Joel Miller Masterlist
#joel miller x reader#joel miller#joel miller fic#joel miller x female reader#joel miller smut#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x you#joel tlou#no use of y/n#joel x reader#pre outbreak!joel#no outbreak!joel miller
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Text
a wake-up call
Pairing: John Price x f!Reader
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 3.5k
Warnings: References to masturbation. References to sexual fantasy. More than likely far too many references to eye contact.
Author’s Notes: I'm slowly recovering. This story will continue. Please enjoy.
MASTERLIST
Now on Ao3!
Three knocks on your front door wake you up.
The sound feels at first like the thump of your own throbbing brain against the inside of your skull. Awareness comes back to you slowly, in gradiated shades of stiff joints and greasy skin. You shift, and find you’re still on your couch, still in your clothes from last night. Your eyes are filmy, sticky with dehydration—you blink several times to clear them, to little effect.
The knocking, a three-beat staccato, comes again.
“One second,” you croak irritably, cupping your forehead with your hand. Your skull might come apart, you think, if you move too much.
Your entire body feels like it is suspended from loose, tangled marionette strings as you struggle to sit up on the couch, and you wobble to that effect as you stand. Somehow, your flat has tilted at thirty degree angle, likely sometime in your sleep. You make it to the door at an oblique, having to lean on the jamb as you open it, and to add insult to injury John is standing on your doorstep like a clean, shining beacon of sobriety.
He’s in a dark shirt and jeans. His hair is casually neat, as if he’d styled it with his fingers. He looks fresh-faced, as if he’s been awake for hours already.
“That’s not fair,” you groan.
His brows draw together over cool blue eyes. “Jesus, love,” he says, looking you up and down.
You think you should say something back. But your head is too full of ache and interrupted sleep—and the bright shock of his presence—to produce anything intelligent.
“John,” is all you say, and you sound absolutely pathetic.
“Was gonna accuse you of standing me up,” he says ruefully, “but I see that’s not the case.”
“No,” you say dumbly. The fact that he’s come to seek you out gets tangled up in the strings. “Um.”
It is so far out of the ordinary as to be dreamlike. John’s knocking belongs on the other side of your wall, not your door. His boots belong on his own doorstep, making room for your house slippers at the time of your choosing, not his.
“Am I still drunk?” you wonder aloud.
John gives that little huff-laugh of his. “I doubt it.”
You rub your face. “Have I overslept?”
“Just a bit,” he replies. “I’ll admit, when I didn’t hear you move around this morning, I got worried.”
“I fell asleep on the couch,” you confess. You put a hand to your forehead as your brain throbs again. “Oh, I shouldn’t have drank that much.”
“Love,” says John, gentle and soft, “why don’t you let me in, and I’ll make you some breakfast?”
You blink, and you’re sure now that you’re still drunk.
John. In your flat. Cooking?
“I’m not fancy in the kitchen, but I manage alright,” he suggests further. His gaze is warm on yours, brows lifted encouragingly.
“…Sure,” you say, and shuffle to the side to let him in. If this morning is determined to be strange, you might as well not get in its way.
He gives you a small smile and crosses the threshold.
Your flat shifts again; as he enters your living room, it seems to shrink, or maybe it’s just that John fills your home in a way no one ever has. His body, his presence, casts new light on the interior that throws its existence into unfamiliar repose. Details—the softness of your furniture, the cozy clutter of books and knickknacks spread across every available flat surface—offer unmeasured insight into who you are, more than you might ever have intended to reveal to John.
It’s only when he’s halfway to your kitchen that you realize one detail—the bright fucking pink of your vibrator, still on your coffee table—is glowing like a neon sign.
And your previous night’s activities come flooding back.
Your body, draped over his. The scrape of his beard on your hand, your face.
The furious grind of your mons against that toy as you pictured him taking you, drenched in hot shower water and pressed bare to the tile wall.
You are fully, painfully awake now. You stare, frozen in shocked terror, waiting for him to catch sight of it, but his head does not turn in its direction. He passes by it with no indication that he even noticed.
You dart over and snatch it behind his back, shoving it deep into your dress pocket, and grab up the empty water glass for an excuse. Then you have to put a hand to your head as your vision swims from the sudden movement.
“Have eggs?” John asks over his shoulder. He enters your kitchen. “I can make ‘em any way you like. Fried, over easy, sunny side…”
“Um,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut, “scrambled.”
You follow after him, and lean against the wall to watch as he opens your fridge. His hand engulfs more of its handle than yours ever has; the musculature of his powerful body visibly shifts beneath his clothes as he has to bend down to root around the shelves.
He is broad in your kitchen. As broad as he’d been between your legs, in memory and in fantasy.
You don’t realize you’re staring until he straightens and puts the eggs, butter, and milk on the counter. Your breath hangs suspended in the shallows of your lungs when he catches your gaze.
His brows crease again. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”
“Um,” you say, again, because it’s the only sound your brain will reliably supply.
To your horror, he comes to you, and—oh, god—takes your face in both hands.
“You’re warm,” he says. “Do you feel sick, love?”
Your brain supplies nothing now. It is so unfair, how good he looks the morning after drinking nearly half a bottle of scotch. His features are velvet-soft, so easy and wonderful to look at that you stop feeling your headache entirely.
“I really think I might still be drunk,” you admit, sounding pathetic.
His thumbs rub into your temples as he smiles at you. “Hell of a hangover, then.”
The pressure of his fingers is an incredible relief, and you close your eyes as you give into it. You feel, if your knees suddenly gave out, that he would easily be able to hold you up like this, as if you weighed nothing. His hands are a little cool from rooting around in your fridge, and the rest of him is warm, standing close enough that his body heat reaches out to you with the freshness of a recent shower. You want to fall into that warmth, bury your face in his chest…
Your eyes fly open. You hear your own voice again—I wanted to touch you, and I wanted you to hold me. You feel, again, the echo of his body between your thighs. Your heart starts beating wildly in your chest as embarrassment, hot and acidic, pumps through you.
“I think I need to sit down,” you whisper.
He strokes your temples, and surveys your face with a gentle gaze. “Sure, love. Go ahead.”
And then he releases you, and you try to remember how to walk as you return to your living room. There is no relief to be found as you sit down on your couch, which is indented by the dissatisfied night.
“How’d you sleep?” John asks from the counter. You hear him crack a few eggs into a bowl. This is the first time cooking has happened in your kitchen with you outside of it, and the cognitive dissonance of it does not help to steady you.
“Like the dead,” you say, rubbing your sore neck. Then, you decide to lie to him. “I—I think I passed out before the door even closed last night.”
John looks over his shoulder at you, and he smiles. The vibrator sits cold in your pocket. Are you imagining that glimmer in his eyes? “Wouldn’t be surprised. You were pretty out of it.”
“I didn’t end up drinking the whole bottle, did I?”
A chuckle. “Not quite.”
“Didn’t you drink as much as me?” You try to recall, and think you can remember him matching you glass for glass. “Why aren’t you out of commission?”
“The army never cares if you’re hungover, I’ve found,” says John. “Guess I learned to stop caring too.”
You hear the sizzle of whisked eggs spreading over a hot pan, and for a while there’s only the sound of John moving a spatula around.
You watch him in your kitchen, his back to you as he stands at the stove. His long-sleeved shirt clings to the breadth of his shoulders, planes of shifting muscle underneath casting shadows through the soft cotton. The collar hangs a little low down his neck, leaving enough room for the dark hair at his nape to curl as it dries.
It makes something in your stomach twist, twinning your nervous hunger with unstable desire. It’s something that wants to walk back into the kitchen and wrap your arms around his trim waist, press your cheek between his shoulder blades.
“Want anything else?” John asks. “Could make some toast.”
“Eggs are fine!” you say too quickly.
The spatula scrapes softly against the pan again. As he turns to open your fridge, you swear you see him grinning.
Heat blooms across your face. SAS. Of course he could feel you looking at him.
It does not take him very long to finish cooking. Space bends once again as he leaves your kitchen, as he comes to you with a plate balanced on one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. You feel smaller than you ever have as he approaches, and sets the meal in front of you on the coffee table.
“Hope it tastes alright,” he says, sitting down beside you. He sinks into your couch cushions, far more dense than you are, and looks quite comfortable doing so. “I made ‘em how I like ‘em, but no guarantee you’ll feel the same.”
You look from him to the eggs, which are golden yellow and steaming pleasantly. “You didn’t make yourself anything?”
There is a softness in his eyes when you look back to him. You’ve seen it before—it’s there every time you hand him a new book. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. Just eat.”
You can’t protest when he’s looking at you like that, so you obey, suddenly ravenous once a forkful is between your teeth. The eggs are whipped to a wonderfully soft fluff, salted perfectly, and you think you can taste the barest hint of butter. You can’t help shutting your eyes to savor the taste.
“Good?” John asks. “I’ll admit, I’m not much of a cook, but I think I’m all right at eggs.”
Usually you like to add things when you make the same dish—potato chips, broken up into little crumbs, or a dollop of sour cream and salsa. For once though, right now you’d be disappointed by all that.
They wouldn’t be the eggs John made for you.
The thought makes your stomach twist again. “Delicious,” you say. “Thank you.”
He watches you eat, and you try not to feel self-conscious. He seems almost—satisfied by this, by feeding you, more than you would expect him to be. But then, this has always been the case with John. You have never understood why the smallest of things you do have such an impact on him, but they do nonetheless.
“John,” you say. “About last night…I wanted to apologize.”
Dark brows crease as you set the empty plate down. “What for?”
“I got so drunk,” you say. You won’t look at him, face heating, strangling your own fingers in your lap. “You—you had to carry me home, and I’m so embarrassed by the things I said, I was so inconsiderate.”
“That’s not—”
“You must have felt so uncomfortable,” you continue, “you were so nice to take me out, and there I was acting like a lush with no self-control—”
“Darling, it’s fine—”
“And then after, the way I—I pawed at you—”
He says your name—fully and clearly, firmly—and it catches you so off guard that your words halt in your throat. You finally meet his gaze.
John’s eyes have always been windows. Portals into the truth of him, freely offered, without hesitance or fear. You think John knows himself in ways few men do—knows every corner, every crack and crevice, and refuses to hide any of it from himself or anyone else. As if he is not afraid of being seen for what and who he is; as if he has seen it all already, and cannot be daunted by it.
What you see now is undisguised. Untempered. John Price wants you. And he has no fear that you can see it.
“Did you mean any of it?” he asks, voice low and deep in his chest.
The question catches you off guard, throwing you with its directness. The only thing keeping you upright is his gaze, the steady certainty of its own intention. Strong even under the weight of suspense.
You swallow, and take a shaky breath. “John,” you say, “I was so drunk...”
His eyes flash. John moves, leans forward, and you are speared, held in place much the same way you had been at dinner, by his presence alone. “I know. But did you mean it?”
The breath trapped in your lungs calcifies, solidifies into hard, pressing nodules of catalyzed fear and desire that trap the seeds of any response in your chest. You tear your gaze away from him, finally, stare at the empty plate on your table. He does not touch you, but you feel the phantom weight of his hand on your knee. The warmth of his body against yours.
“We hardly know each other,” you whisper shakily. It is a flimsy scrap of an excuse, even to you. “We—we barely know each other at all.”
“Love,” John says, low and soft. You turn to look at him again. His lips part—
Your phone rings.
You exhale hard, strings suddenly cut. John closes his eyes, breathes out, and then leans back again.
You retrieve your phone from where you’d flung your purse last night, off the couch and to the opposite wall where it lays on the floor. When you see the caller ID, you want to throw the phone back across the room, but you take a deep breath and answer anyway.
“Ben,” you sigh, and to your furious embarrassment it comes out as a croak.
“Hey, sweets, Liv is—wait. You sound awful,” comes your coworker—and ex-boyfriend’s—voice through the earpiece.
“Rough night,” you say, closing your eyes against sweets. You then look at John. His gaze is fixed on you.
“Oh, sorry,” Ben says. “Anything I can do?”
He could have not called. “Tell me about Liv,” you prompt him.
“Right! She’s out. Flu.”
“Oh.” You blink, and watch John retrieve your plate and glass. He takes them to the kitchen and runs the faucet low, so the sound won’t interfere with your call.
You’re not sure how you know that that’s his intention, but you do.
“That’s awful.”
“And inconvenient. We need another instructor for the trip.”
Can John hear what Ben is saying? He looks up from the sink, lifts one brow when you meet his eyes. There’s humor there, a kind of rueful empathy for dealing with the nonsense of coworkers.
You want to hang up. You want to answer his question right then and there.
“When?” you ask.
“Two hours. I know! I know it’s short notice,” he says, animatedly contrite. “Sorry. But we’d love to have you, it’ll be fun! I can even pick you up, if you like.”
“No, that’s alright,” you sigh. “But okay, I’ll start packing. Just send me the details, yeah?”
“Sure, sweets,” Ben replies, “can’t wait to see you! I’ve missed hanging out, you know? Even after…everything.”
The gravitational force of John’s presence—the shift and bend of your flat around him—snaps in half. Reality asserts itself like a recurring headache.
Suddenly you’re in your flat, phone to your ear, unshowered from last night and coated in a layer of grease. The vibrator is a useless weight in your pocket. You are a useless girl hungover in day-old clothes.
“I’ll see you soon,” you say noncommittally, and hang up.
John gazes at you expectantly from over the sink.
“Work trip,” you say, and you wonder if you sound as dazed as you feel. “Last minute, I…I need to get ready.”
John blinks, and then grins, amused. Crow’s feet gather in the corners of his eyes. “You know, I’m usually the one in that situation.”
Suddenly he is too much to look at. You tear your gaze away, look at your phone in your hands. You feel very exposed, ashamed somehow. “I’m sorry,” you say.
You hear the easy drum of John’s boots out of your kitchen, across the room, and then he’s in front of you. His hands are in his pockets, arms slung loose at his sides. “What for?”
“For…”
He steps closer to you. Your heart leaps in your chest, and you have to look up at him, unable to resist the pull he has on you.
The line of his mouth is gentle, and you stare too long at the divot of his Cupid’s bow. Beneath the soft lines of his brows, his gaze is soft, fond. More so than you deserve.
“I don’t really know.”
The long muscle in his neck shifts as he tilts his head. You swallow, unconsciously mirroring the gesture.
“John…I…”
His gaze drops—rests on your lips, and returns to yours.
“Love,” he murmurs, low and humming. “Did you mean it?”
His voice slides across you like physical touch, and every hair feels like it’s standing on end.
Yes. Yes, of course you meant it, every word. It feels so obvious to you, so blatant, and the shame of it holds you by the throat. You are not important enough to inflict upon John Price. You are trembling, meek, afraid of stepping outside your own door sometimes. What is that in comparison to him? Him, who comes home shaking off the dust of places you’ve only ever heard of. Him, who you’ve learned can swear in six different languages. Him, who has stuffed more life than you thought possible into only a handful more years of living than yours.
Of course you want him. Moths are always drawn toward flame. How could you not?
“John,” you say in your smallest voice. You hate the way it sounds—like an admission of guilt. “What if I did?”
He doesn’t move, but you see the shift in him anyway. A coiling, almost, energy banking as he studies you, searches your face. His hands remain in his pockets. He watches you for a long moment, and you can’t possibly imagine what he might like in what he sees.
“Ball’s in your court, then,” he finally says, soft and low in his chest. “Whatever you want from me, love, you can have.”
You want too much. You can’t give enough back.
“I don’t want to ruin this,” you say on a shallow breath. “Our—us. What we already have.”
He steps closer to you. Close enough that his shirt brushes the front of your dress. Close enough that his clean, soft warmth near-envelops you, the exact same way you’d been wishing for earlier. He does not reach out, like he did when he thought you were sick. You cannot decide if this disappoints you or not. You feel shaky without his hands on you, feverish and embarrassed, and you fear desperately that he can see that as he holds your gaze, that you are completely open to him in a way that leaves no space for the truth to hide.
“You won’t,” he says, steady and solid.
You take a trembling breath, swallow to clear your throat. “I…”
He withdraws one hand from his pocket, slowly, and brings it upward. Feather-light, he curls his index finger under your chin, caressing his thumb so terribly gently beneath your bottom lip. You cannot help flinching, anticipatory want recoiling from the very thing it was aching for in surprise, and for a split second you are newly scared that he’ll take his touch away.
But he doesn’t. The windows of John’s eyes stay open, and there is nothing but intent behind them. You realize he knows. He knows that you’re reluctant, that you’re unsure, that you are pulled to him like a falling star to earth and also terrified of burning up in the process.
He understands.
“I’m a patient man, love,” he purrs, and you realize too that he is excited by this, by you. “I can wait. As long as you need.”
PSA: For my own sanity this will be the last chapter I utilize the taglist. If you would like to know when this story is updated you may follow me, turn on my post notifications, or subscribe to the series on ao3. Thank you.
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