#cruel jam empire au

[liminalpebble]

Liminalpebble’s Masterlist Library

Sex and Death (Masterlist)

A Wallander fanfic (Magnus Martinsson x Original Female Character)

Synopsis: Detective Magnus Martinsson and Noura Harik (a forensic linguist) are racing to find an enigmatic serial killer before he sets his sights on one of their own, but when Harik reaches a breaking point with the temperamental Inspector Wallander, everything changes.  

A/N: Magnus Martinsson x OFC, slow burn to smut, murder and violence (from the killer, not our protagonists), Minors DNI

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Violet (Masterlist)

 Will Ransome (The Essex Serpent) x Original Female Character  

Summary: The solitary Reverend Ransome leaves the empty nest of his home in Essex, beginning his life as a professor in London. His expectation of a contemplative religious life as a pious widower is complicated by an odd and alluring foreign student, Violetta Vespero. How can the conflicted vicar keep his gaze and worship skyward with such delicious temptations before him on Earth?

CW: Sacrilege all over the place, slow Burn to smut, angst, multi-parter, probably pretty historically inaccurate. Minors DNI

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The Refugee (Masterlist)

AU Loki x Original Female Character (COMPLETE)

Summary: In a timeline where Loki, the prodigal prince of Asgard, struck out to establish his vast and powerful Laufeyson Empire, he stumbles upon Lenora, a refugee scarred by his bloodshed. One of the few surviving Morhari, she is captured and forced to use her considerable intelligence in service to the fearful warlord who destroyed her nation and her life. Will the peasant turned captive asset find her way to freedom and her own power, and will the cruel and scheming god of mischief discover that he can be more than a villain?

CW: Non/dubious consent. slow burn to eventual smut. violence and torture. Loki is very unambiguously bad, morally complex but bad, and does bad things.18+ readers only.  

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Eddie's Education (Masterlist)

Eddie Munson (Stranger Things) x Original Female Character

Summary: 15 years after the events in the upside-down and Eddie's unlikely survival, he's still left with scars and an uneventful life working at his uncle's garage and as a part-time bartender. Although he planned to get out of Hawkins like a bat out of hell, he's still there and feeling stuck. At Uncle Wayne's suggestion, Eddie goes to night school to finally get his GED. Little does Eddie know that his life is about to get a lot more interesting when he meets his tutor, Leia, and realizes staying in Hawkins might not be so bad after all.

A/N: Eddie Munson x OFC, slow burn to eventual smut, multi-parter. Cannon divergent. morbid subjects discussed. Eddie's a sweetheart, Eddie Lives! Minors DNI

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Stray (A Lokitty Tale)

(Complete!)

A/N: Hi all. This began as a prompt suggestion by @mischief2sarawr and has since grown three heads and answers to no one. It's now a multipart, very fluffy, story about Lokitty. I have no idea where I'm going with this except definitely to the comfort district of fluff town...maybe driving through a little traffic jam of angst on the way there.

Synopsis: It's 1971 and you're a single shop girl living in the tumultuous, often damp, city of Seattle, feeling lost and alone. Meanwhile, Loki (under the guise of D.B. Cooper) is on the run from Thor the moment he jumped out of that plane. After crash landing in a dumpster and disguising himself as a stray cat to lay low, he becomes your beloved feline room mate and an unusual friendship begins to grow.

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Between the Lines (An AU Loki Story)

Summary: The exchange of concubines amongst the noble houses of Asgard is nothing new to the royal family, however, it is to Asgard's solitary younger prince. Since Loki had always openly declared the tradition barbaric and loathsome, he shocks the court to its core when he changes his mind.

The trickster had yet another surprise in store when he selected you, a librarian from a noble house to occupy his bed.

You're stunned, intimidated, even afraid, of the sly second prince, but you know as well as anyone that to deny a royal decree is to court death.

And so you go, only to find that this mysterious man is not at all what you expected.

Pairing: Femme reader x Loki Pre-Thor 1 AU

CW: Allusions to sexual slavery dubcon/noncon within the society. Power imbalance. Eventual smut with questionable consent. Minors DNI.

AN: This will be a multi-parter but not a particularly long one, so if I leave you hanging between chapters, I promise it won't be particularly long before it all comes together.

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One Shots, Requests, and Drabbles (coming soon)

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Love Letters From... (coming soon)

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Memes What I Made (coming soon)

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And finally, a special appearance of SAS mascot Mew Mew the Mango. 💚

#loki fanfic #essex serpent fanfic #wallander fanfic #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson fanfic

[alphacrone]

in which jack does not, in fact, go into the NHL

AN: the sequel to this piece.  TW: Suicidal thoughts, career changes, hard conversations.

When the confetti rained down in the other team’s colors, Jack felt a cold wave of numbness wash over him.

I don’t want to be alive anymore, he thought, chest tightening with shame and fear. I want to die.

A pause. A breath.

Oh.

“Holy fuck,” Shitty said, staring out over the ice. “You know what? You’re gonna be back here in, like, a few months, huh?”

Jack shrugged, scrolling through his preliminary shots to test the lighting.  “I guess so...I haven’t actually signed yet.”

Shitty snorted, hand on his hip. “Jack, surprise me and don’t join the NHL. Surprise me and do, like, competitive fucking horticulture.”

Before Jack could respond, another voice from behind them called, “Hey, y’all!”

“Oh.” Jack turned, fighting the urge to smile. “Hey, Bittle.”

Bittle and Shitty chatted for a moment about the oddness of never playing with Samwell again. Jack took a few more shots of the ice, trying not to think of the cute way Bittle’s grown-out playoffs hair curled around his ears.

“-mega weird,” Shitty said, looking sad.

And it was weird. Mega weird. Jack had never played with a team quite like Samwell and he knew that he never would again. Shitty would move onto law school and pursuing his career, and Jack would stay here, chasing the high of his first goal, never quite finding that sense of purpose again. It made him too sad, so Jack cleared his throat and said, “It’s weird, but we can’t think of it as our last game. We’ve made it this far by playing in the moment. We’ll leave everything on the ice because that’s what we do. It’s one more game.” He felt his throat tightening, felt Bittle’s eyes on him. “Just one more.”

And it was. For whatever reason, Jack skated out onto the ice that evening with the overwhelming sense that this would be his last game ever.

As soon as he could slip away, Jack did. He shed his jersey and skates like a snake rutting against rocks to pull off its old skin and stumbled to a loading bay. It was cold and dark and Jack sat there, shaking, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole so he wouldn’t have to feel this way anymore.

It was just a game, he could hear his mother whisper.

<<You’ll get ‘em next time,>> his father said.

Jack could feel their hands on his back, in his hair, and the phantom touches crawled across his skin like invisible roaches. He squirmed and tensed and tried not to cry out in horror. His hands prickled and his lips went numb and a panic attack was approaching quickly-

He heard the footsteps a moment too late, and then two warm arms were around him, squeezing tight.

Jack knew without looking it was Bittle. Of course it was Bittle.

The pins and needles dancing across his body calmed as Jack leaned into Bittle’s embrace. He wanted to be wrapped up in that warmth, pressed under the solidness of Bittle’s body. Shitty would surely offer to cuddle him tonight, but Jack wanted Bittle, wanted Bittle’s kind hands and tentative smiles and honey-rich laughter.

Around them, muffled by the walls and the blood pounding in Jack’s ears, the sounds of celebration carried through the halls. Bittle tightened his embrace, burying his face in Jack’s shoulder, and Jack could feel him shaking. He was crying, too.

Was he crying for the loss or for Jack?

Did it really matter, either way?

Jack was so tired when he logged onto Samwell’s website that he could barely read the words on the screen.

Samwell University Graduate Programs jumped out at him in big, red letters. He’d known, technically, that Samwell had to have a few in order to be designated a university and not simply a college, but the programs were small and the grad students blended in with everyone else. Jack thought one of his TAs might’ve been in the Education program, but she could’ve just been a senior looking for extra work.

“What’s the harm in applying?” He murmured to himself. “You can always turn down an offer, if you even get one.”

At the bottom of the screen, after paragraphs upon paragraphs exalting the school’s reputation and course catalogue, sat a small due date: February 26

That was just a few weeks away. And Jack was in the middle of the season, he had a draft of his thesis due soon, he had meetings with GMs and his agent and-

There was a quiet knock at his door. “Jack, you awake?”

Jack was always astonished at how calm he felt around Bittle these days. Even just the sound of his voice made Jack feel like everything wasn’t too much to handle, if he just kept pushing forward. “Come in,” he called, setting his laptop to the side.

Bittle pushed the door open slowly, peeking in as if he’d misheard Jack. In his hand was a plate of food--frozen chicken tenders and freshly cooked home fries, Jack’s favorite. “You weren’t at team dinner, so I thought you might be hungry,” he said, smiling worriedly. “It’s okay if you’re not- oh, you probably had a meeting or a date or something, I can just put this in the fridge for later-”

“Bittle.” Jack stood and plucked the plate from his hand. “Thank you.”

Bittle shrugged, smile brightening. “Can’t let my captain starve.”

Jack laughed and shook his head, reaching out to ruffle Bittle’s hair in the way that always annoyed him. “Don’t know what I’d do without you,” he chirped, voice teasing but intent real. Jack really didn’t know what he’d do without Bittle’s cooking, or his chirping, or his sunny, wonderful smile. His life would certainly be less bright, that was for sure.

“Stop,” Bitty whined, slapping at Jack’s hand. “See if I ever cook for you again.”

“Thanks for dinner,” Jack said, frowning slightly as Bittle yawned. “Now go to bed. Captain’s orders.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bittle rolled his eyes but grinned. “One day you won’t get to boss me around anymore.”

“But that’s not today,” Jack retorted. “Night, Bits.”

Bittle smiled and waved. “Night, Jack.”

Jack waited until Bittle’s door closed with a small click, then he set down the food and grabbed his laptop again, looking at the Samwell website again with a renewed determination.

Just in case, he thought. Just in case.

“It’s a sign,” Jack murmured, voice croaking and harsh in the relative silence of the loading bay. “To move on.”

Bittle looked up at him, confused. “Move on?”

Jack nodded, swallowing back another round of tears. “From hockey.”

“You didn’t lose this game by yourself,” Bittle said quickly, and Jack wondered if he’d rehearsed that line in his head while they’d been sitting here. “We’re a team.”

“Bittle, you know the first thing I thought after that game?” Jack looked down at his hands, flopped uselessly on his lap and trembling even now. “I wanted to die. I wanted to kill myself- over what? Over- over a game?” He hung his head, too ashamed to see Bittle’s reaction. “I can’t...I think going pro would be suicide. I don’t think I’d survive it.”

“Oh.” There was a long, tense, horrible moment, and then two rough hands cupped Jack’s face, forcing him to look up. “Okay.”

There were tears in Bittle’s eyes now, tears for Jack, tears for it all. He leaned his forehead against Jack’s, their noses bumping gently.

“Okay,” he said again, clearly at a loss for words. Jack never thought he’d live to see that day.

“I don’t think I should be alone tonight,” Jack admitted, the warmth of Bittle’s hands soaking into the chilled skin of his face. “Will you-? Would you-?”

“Of course,” Bittle said, nodding. “Always, Jack.”

Always. That was a word Jack had heard before. We’ll always play together, Zimms, drifted through his mind. <<You’ll always be able to go back to the sport.>>

I’ll always want to be in the NHL.

But this time, coming from Bittle, Jack actually believed it.

He ignored just how much he wanted an always with Bittle. There would be time to think about that later.

Calling his father two days after Frozen Four was the scariest thing Jack had ever done.

He had called the morning after, of course, to assure his mother and father he was alright, wasn’t upset, wasn’t dead. But he’d thought about it, now, thought about leaving hockey with a clear head. His heart ached at the thought of never playing again, never playing professionally, but cold dread washed over him at the thought of signing anywhere and, well- his therapist had agreed. It was time he started listening to his emotions. It was time he did something for his health instead of his dream.

An investment for the future, he’d heard himself describe to her. Ensuring my future, really.

With one last breath for courage, Jack hit his father’s contact and waited as it dialed. The phone only rang twice before his father answered, sounding a bit out of breath, like he’d run to accept the call.

<<Hello? Jack, is everything okay?>>

Jack cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot. <<Yeah, Papa, everything’s fine. I, um...I wanted to let you know…>>

There was a sigh from the other side of the line. <<Have you decided where you’re signing? Jack, do not worry about my reaction, I will be proud of you no matter what team you choose. It’s your decision, not mine.>>

<<Right,>> Jack said, clenching and unclenching his free hand. <<About that. I don’t want to sign anywhere.>>

There was a silence from the other line that nearly sent Jack into a panic attack. Then, very quietly, his father asked, <<Is this because you lost Nationals?>>

It was better than the anger he’d imagined, the disgust at years and money and dreams wasted. <<Yes,>> Jack admitted, because there was no point in lying. <<But, Papa, it’s not- it’s not what you->>

<<Jack, you’ve faced losses before. In a week you’ll feel better and regret rejecting any of the offers. Let me get your mother, she’s always been better at talking about this sort of thing->>

<<I wanted to kill myself after Nationals,>> Jack said bluntly, sitting down on his bed. <<I can’t keep feeling this way. I can’t keep putting all of myself into this game. It’s going to be the death of me.>>

Jack could hear his father’s sharp intake of breath, then the muttered, “I’m getting your mother on the line.”

This wasn’t what Jack wanted, but it was what he’d expected. They were going to make an ordeal out of this, maybe come down to have a family therapy session, but at least they didn’t sound mad. Disappointment from them was something he’d been learning to live with from early childhood; he’d make it through this.

“Jack?”

Maman sounded frazzled, something that was always disconcerting coming from her. Jack swallowed back his fears and said, “Dad’s overreacting.”

“I am not,” he could hear Papa mutter in the background.

“Jack, sweetheart, you’ve wanted to play hockey since before you could walk,” his mother said placatingly. “You can understand why we’re...surprised.”

“I thought the therapy was working,” Papa said, a little harsher than Jack thought he’d intended. “Now he’s suicidal. We need to come down there-”

“And we will,” Maman said, cutting him off. “But, Jack, honey, is this...common? You never mentioned this sort of thing in…”

Rehab was the unspoken word in his family, the one they never quite could spit out. Jack wondered if they’d even told people that’s where he was, or if they’d skirted around that like they did everything else.

“Yes,” Jack said sharply. “Too common. I try to talk it out in therapy but...I think I want to live a normal life. I applied to one of Samwell’s grad programs, I should be hearing back soon. And if I don’t get in there, I’ve been talking to my advisor-”

“Grad school?” Papa sounded surprised. “You...what degree?”

“Business,” Jack said, feeling his face heat up. Maybe it was a stupid decision, a stupid degree, but surely his parents wouldn’t say that out loud-

“Why?” Maman asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“I…” Jack shrugged, forgetting his parents couldn’t see him. “I think I’d be good at management, of any sort. Bittle and I have...joked about me becoming his manager when he’s famous, but I...I like that idea. I’m organized, I like strategy and planning and overseeing a team. I...think it would be a good choice for me.”

“Oh, Jack.” There was a sniffle on the other line, and some muttering Jack couldn’t make out. “Oh, honey, that sounds great.”

There would be the talk about money, probably, the wasting of it up until now and the ongoing tuition. There would be a group therapy session in the next week or so, where Jack would be forced to admit his weaknesses to his father. There would be ugly news articles and upset uncles and prying questions. But right now, they were okay with it, and Jack let himself breathe.

“So...Bittle, eh?” Papa asked, and Jack wondered if they’d believe he had to get to class at 8 pm on a Sunday.

When they got back to campus that night, Jack let Bittle pull him away from the rest of the team. They took the long way home, meandering along the river like they’d done a hundred times before. Jack’s hand bumped against Bittle’s a few times, but neither reached out. It wasn’t the time for that, Jack knew.

When they reached the Haus, it was dark and silent. Jack could hear Lardo’s voice faintly coming from Shitty’s room, and the usual thundering shakes coming from the attic as two elephant-sized dudes wandered around, but other than that, it was unnervingly quiet. Bittle ushered Jack into his room, dropping his bag at the foot of Jack’s bed.

“So I can sleep in the armchair, if you want,” Bittle said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Or…”

Jack slumped down onto his bed and patted the space next to him. Bittle smiled wearily and crawled onto the bed. They’d changed into sweats after the game instead of their game-day suits -- the coaches looked the other day, too sad themselves to tell the boys any different -- so neither felt the need to change or brush their teeth or anything. Jack kicked his shoes off; Bittle slowly untied his and set them down on the floor.

“Night, Bittle,” Jack said softly, laying his head down on the pillow.

“Night, Jack,” Bittle whispered, giving Jack one last sad smile.

“And...thanks,” Jack added. “For this. For everything.”

“‘Course,” Bittle said, reaching out to squeeze Jack’s hand “Always.”

For the first time in a while, Jack was starting to like the sound of that.

“You’re not signing? Anywhere?”

Jack looked up at Shitty and didn’t see any trace of judgement or anger in his face. Just concern, just like Bittle.

“No,” Jack said, toying with the edge of his comforter. “I’m going into competitive horticulture.”

“Fucking hell, Jack,” Shitty laughed, smacking a hand to his bare stomach. “You really got me for a second.”

“I’m not signing, for real,” Jack said, looking down at his knees. “But, uh. I’m considering grad school.”

“What?” Shitty flopped down onto the bed next to Jack, half in his lap. “Where? Why? When?”

“Who? How?” Jack chirped, letting Shitty shove his head onto Jack’s shoulder.

“I’m serious, give me the deets,” Shitty said. “You’re just- not playing hockey? What programs have you applied to? Brah-” Shitty sat up, grabbing Jack’s shoulders. “Please tell me you’re not going back to Canada. Please.”

Jack chuckled and wrestled Shitty back down next to him. He pretended to be annoyed as Shitty wrapped his arms and legs around him, but Jack was secretly happy about it. “No, I, euh. I got accepted to Samwell’s business program-”

“Business?” Shitty asked, practically climbing onto Jack’s lap, half-straddling him. “Jack, as fine as your ass looks in dress pants, you don’t strike me as the CEO-type. You’re not evil enough.”

Jack smirked at him. “I could say the same about you and being a lawyer.”

“Touché, you beautiful fucker,” Shitty said, settling back down again. “Brah, you’re gonna be here? In Samwell? That’s fucking ‘swawesome. What’re you gonna do with a business degree? Gonna become an agent or something? Start a business?”

“I’m not sure,” Jack said quietly. “Bittle and I have talked about...I dunno. Opening his bakery, maybe, but I think he’s made for bigger things. Maybe I could become his manager, help him make his blog into a career or something.”

“You and Bits would be the ‘swawesomest team,” Shitty said with a grin. “He’d charm all your investors, and you’d keep him in line. Amazing.”

“Ha, yeah.” Jack fell into silence, unsure of what else to say. Shitty nuzzled his head up against Jack’s chin, just to elicit a laugh.

“You know we love you no matter what, right?” Shitty asked, more quiet than Jack had ever heard him. “Me, the team, your family...we just want you to be happy.”

“Yeah.” Jack swallowed back the tears that threatened to fall. “Yeah. Thanks, Shits.”

“Love you, brother,” Shitty whispered. “Love you to the moon and back.”

Jack smiled and ran a hand through Shitty’s hair. “Love you, too.”

They didn’t cuddle.

Jack hadn’t exactly expected that sort of comfort Bittle--he wasn’t Shitty--but he did have to push down the urge to reach over and pull Bittle to him.

There was something to be about sharing a bed with someone. There was comfort in the warmth Bittle radiated, in the sound of his breathing, the faint movements of the bed as he shifted and settled. Jack watched him through all of this, watched the brush of his eyelashes on his cheeks, watched the perpetual smile of his lips fade into a slight part.

One of Bittle’s hands rested on the mattress between them, in that no-homo no-man’s-land. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Jack slowly reached out to take it in his own.

Bittle’s eyes opened slowly, halfway, and he smiled, tightening his grip on Jack’s fingers. That smile melted the tension from Jack’s shoulders and the rough warmth of Bittle’s hand was all that filled his mind as he drifted off to sleep.

When they woke in the morning, they were still holding hands.

[READ PART 3]

[My writing tag]

[My online novel, The Discourt Knife]

#anna writes things #check please! #omgcp fic #au #cruel jam empire au

[sugarsugarmoon]

The Rivalry

Summary: Namjoon x reader. You have always been the best in school until Kim Namjoon showed up. e2l, university!au, non-idol!au

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Unprotected sex, lots of smug Namjoon.

a/n: This is my gift for @ddaenysus​ for the BTS Writing Cafe Coffeehouse. I hope that you like it, darling. I tried to incorporate as much of the things you like into it. I enjoyed talking with you and getting to know you and reading your fics! 🥰

Word Count: 3147

You had always been the best in all of your classes in school. Growing up, you’d gotten all the stars, check marks, As, and pats on the back that were possible to receive. You weren’t sure what motivated you so much,  but, if you weren’t the top of your class, you didn’t know who you were supposed to be. This continued into your experience at university. You pushed your way to the top of every single class, the apple of every professor’s eye. Now, you were reaping the benefits of having worked so hard through your first 3.5 years, and you had one semester left before graduating with the highest honors and moving on to graduate school.

That was, of course, until you met Kim Namjoon. For some reason, he was in two of your classes this semester even though you hadn’t been in classes with him before. When you scored 93% on a test, he’d score 96%. You were used to being the student who set the curve for all the tests, but now you found yourself coming in slightly below the top score. Kim Namjoon, however, was sitting at the very top.

You hated him. His smug, adorable face with his little dimples. Who did he think he was fooling looking that cute? You can see the danger in the way he stared, the way he held his shoulders back, the way he sat with his legs spread, leaning against the chairs casually. He always appeared like none of this was a big deal to him. Yeah, he took notes, worked on his computer, just like everyone else who did well in their classes, but he looked so effortless doing it.

You’d worked together with him and 5 other classmates on a group project, so you had his number saved in your phone. You never planned on using it, but if you ever did, it would only be to tell him what a twat you think he is. When your phone vibrates in the middle of class and you see the name on the screen, you nearly gasp out loud and do drop your phone clumsily on the floor. You pick it up to make sure you saw it correctly. You did. There on the screen, shown the name you’d least expected to see on your phone in  the middle of this class: Kim Namjoon.

Why the hell was Kim Namjoon texting you? He’s sitting 10 feet away from you. What could he possibly want?

When you swipe your phone open, the text simply reads, “Why are you looking at me like I personally insulted you and your entire family?”

You roll your eyes and type out a response. “First of all, I was not looking at you. I have better things to do with my time. Second of all, you have personally insulted me and my entire family.”

“What? How?”

The two of you are usually attentive in class, but, now, you’ve distracted one another. Before you can get your snarky shot off, the professor calls on Namjoon to answer the question. Namjoon panics a little, and you snicker to yourself. Though, it does become less satisfying when after a stunned moment, Namjoon answers the question correctly. You sulk in your seat for the rest of class, forgetting your half-typed venomous words waiting for Namjoon. Your phone slips out of your hand and clatters on the tile floor.

The professor turns to you and, with his face scrunched in anger, asks, “I’m sorry, y/n. Was I boring you so much that you needed to be on your phone while I was talking?”

You feel your cheeks instantly heating, and you almost want to cry because you rarely get into trouble, especially at school.

“No, sir, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

The professor looks at you through his narrowed eyes, “You better hope so. You can have another try next class, but, for now, since you violated my cell phone policy, you need to get out.”

Your jaw drops, and you feel the tears well behind your eyes. You hastily collect your notebook, pen, and backpack, and you skulk out of the classroom, trying hard to avoid eye contact with your classmates.

Once the brisk air outside hits your face, you feel the tears start to fall from your eyes, rolling dramatically down your cheeks. This was all fucking Kim Namjoon’s fault. That handsome asshole just kept causing you problems. You continue dwelling on everything that he’s done wrong to you or every annoying habit he has or how often he knocks over things sitting on his desk.

You are so caught up in your thoughts that you don’t notice the figure approaching behind you, and the tap on your shoulder causes you to jump and shout. When you turn, it’s the person you’d least like to see. Kim fucking Namjoon.

“What?” you spit, wiping at your tears with the back of your hand.

“I’m really sorry for getting you into trouble back there. I started it, and you just got caught when I didn’t.”

You look at him. It’s so typical of guys like him: apologize but then keep on doing what he was doing. You mutter “typical” under your breath.

“Okay, seriously,” Namjoon huffs, “What did I do to you? What is your problem with me? I truly apologize for anything that I’ve done, but I have no idea what it is.”

“Of course you wouldn’t know what you’ve done. All you care about is yourself, and you are so smug all the time about yourself and about how you think you’re better than everyone,” you force out, though your voice is a little shaky from the tears that are now drying on your cheeks. You feel your hands shaking, and you want to take your fists and beat them on his chest.

“So...you hate me over some perceived slight because, and tell me if I’m getting this wrong, you think that I think I’m better than other people even though you’ve never asked. And you also hate me because...I do well in my classes? Really?” His face starts to contort with anger, and his typical soft expression shifts in into a harsh, tight look, with his jaw set and his mouth a hard line.

You are fuming. He is so smug, and now he’s telling you that the clearly observable facts about him are a “perceived slight.” Instead of responding, you just turn on your heel and begin to walk away. This time, it seems that he doesn’t follow you, and you make your way to the university housing and flop down onto your bed.

About a week later, you are in the library, perusing the stacks for a particular book for your research for your Human Sexuality class. You turn down an aisle, and there you see Kim Namjoon, squatting and intently reading the titles of books on the shelf. You roll your eyes and turn to walk away. He stands up, a book in hand, and turns to walk your direction before you disappear. You hear a soft whisper of your name as you turn down another aisle and sneak out of the library.

Then, suddenly, he’s everywhere. You see him in the library and in class. You also see him at the cafe you go to to study. You have your books spread across a four person table, headphones in, blasting your study jams. You are working diligently on your computer when the light from the window becomes blocked. You look up to see Namjoon standing before you. You pop one of your earbuds out.

“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you,” he sounds shy and nervous, “but there are no more open tables. I was wondering if I could take up a tiny bit of your space since I actually know you?”

You want to say no, but you don’t want to be cruel. After all, you want to show him that you are a better person than him.

“Fine,” you say curtly, “but please don’t bother me, I’m working on my research for Human Sexuality.”

“Oh! Me too. What are you researching?”

“Not that it matters to you, but I’m researching the effectiveness of sex therapy.” You shrug your shoulders and go to slip your earbud into your ear.

“No way! Me too!” Namjoon exclaims excitedly, shifting slightly in his chair. “Did you read the Hawton article?”

You roll your eyes. “Of course I read the Hawton article. What am I, an amateur? I think he made some really compelling arguments for the long term effectiveness, which is empirically provable through anecdotal evidence, but what I want to talk about is the short-term effectiveness and quantitative data.”

A smile spreads wide across Namjoon’s face, and, again, he shifts slightly in his chair, a little awkwardly this time. He looks deep into your eyes with the softest expression you’ve ever seen him give you.

“What?” you ask, furrowing your brow.

“I’m sorry if this is too forward, but that was the sexiest sentence you’ve ever said.”

You are stunned, and you feel your jaw fall open. Is he fucking kidding? you ask yourself as you contemplate what he could possibly want from you. He giggles to himself, cheeks red, and runs a hand through his hair, resting his hand on the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that. I just...can’t stop thinking about how smart you are and how good you looked in that skirt last week…” he rambles off and starts to pack up his things.

“Wait!” you reach your hand out to grab his. You are completely unsure of what you’re even doing. After a moment’s pause, you ask, “do you have A Clinician’s Guide to Systemic Sex Therapy?”

You are still holding onto his hand as he nods slowly. He looks down at where your fingers are wrapped around his hand, fingertips resting on his palm.

“I have it at my apartment. I can bring it to you or…” he trails off again, so you jump in.

“How about I just come with you to get it? It’ll be quicker that way.”

You have no idea what you’re doing, but you can’t help the image of Namjoon over you, panting and sweaty, from entering your mind over and over. You’ve just been working on the sex therapy research for too long. It’s just been too long since you’ve been with him. It’s not the way that his dimples peak through when he smiles, the way that his hair is parted slightly off center and rests haphazardly against his not, the way that he’s the only person with whom you’ve carried on an intellectual conversation about the topics you’re interested in in months, the way that he sits with his legs spread and his thighs showing in his shorts. It’s definitely not any of that.

Namjoon nods again, shoving his notebook into his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. He watches you a little impatiently as you pack up your notes, books, and computer. When you have your satchel draped across your body, he grabs your wrist and pulls you behind him.

He lives a short walk from the cafe, so, before you know it, you’re stepping into the foyer of his apartment.

“My roommate is out, so we can...study...here if you want to,” he says, looking into your eyes intensely before stalking off through the living room into one of the doorways in the hall which you assume is his room.

You scurry down the hallway, following him. When you get to the doorway he entered, he’s standing in the middle of the room with the book in his hand. The expression on his face is so penetrating, like he’s already undressing you with his eyes.

You drop your satchel absentmindedly on the floor and walk toward him. You stand about 6 inches in front of him, suddenly very aware of your own breath. What am I doing? you ask yourself again. Is this really what I want? Before you’re able to doubt yourself, you look up into his eyes and your breath catches.

He slips his hand around the back of your neck, and his fingers tangle into your hair at the nape of your neck. He stays there, hovering over your face for a moment. You push yourself up onto your toes until your lips are touching his. Your mouths start to slowly move together, pushing past the awkwardness of the moment. He uses his hand on your neck to press harder into the kiss, angling your head to kiss you deeper.

Your hands wrap around his back up under his shirt. His skin is smooth under your fingertips, and you feel your body press against him. The heat growing between your legs causes you to let out a small moan into his mouth. He pulls away and looks at you, smiling for a moment until the intense countenance returns.

He pushes you back on to his bed and guides his fingers under the waistband of your sweatpants. He looks at you to make sure it’s okay, and, when you nod, he loops his fingers into both your sweats and your panties. He yanks them off and tosses them aside. He positions himself between your legs, which has you absolutely dripping.

He pushes your legs open and dips his head to your folds. He makes eye contact with you as his tongue begins to circle your clit slowly. You feel your back arching off the sheets of his bed as he runs his tongue through your arousal down to your entrance and back to your clit. He wraps his lips around it and sucks it between his lips. Little moans and whimpers escape past your lips, and he brings his fingers to your entrance.

After circling his fingers through your arousal, he slides one into you slowly. He pumps the one finger in and back out until you’ve adjusted, and he slides another in. With his mouth on you and his his fingers inside of you, the moans become louder, and you can’t control your hips.

You push yourself against his face, and he pulls away. He chuckles to himself. “For someone who hated me earlier today, you sure can’t get enough of me.” 

His smirk sends both rage and arousal straight to your core. “Okay, whatever, Mr. ‘that’s the sexiest sentence you’ve ever said.’ You’re one to talk.”

His smirk remains, and he laughs sarcastically. “Yeah, but I haven’t had some sort of rivalry with you in my head since we met. I’ve always thought you were hot. You just didn’t even give me a chance to talk to you.”

You roll your eyes and feel the heat sneaking into your cheeks. “Fine. Okay. I didn’t give you a chance. You know that arousal and aggression are very close processes in the brain, so it isn’t a surprise that I want to fuck you.”

You feel hot blush creeping into your face and neck at having said that out loud. He crawls up, so he’s hovering over your face.

“Oh, so you do want me to fuck you?” that intense gaze has returned to his face, and you don’t know where to look.

“Yes, okay! Would you just hurry up and fuck me, Namjoon?”

He hovers over you for a moment longer then presses his lips gingerly against yours. “You could ask nicely, you know.”

You roll your eyes so hard that you think that they might get stuck in the back of your head.

“Y/n, I won’t do it unless you use your nice words.”

You huff. “Fine. Namjoon, please fuck me.”

He giggles to himself, dismounts, and starts to take off his clothes. Before he pulls his underwear down, he pulls your shirt up over your head, taking in a sharp breath when he sees you aren’t wearing a bra. He pushes his underwear to his ankles and climbs back on top of you.

Wordlessly, he aligns himself with you and pushes inside. You gasp at the stretch of his dick in your pussy. You rock gently against him trying to get used to it while stimulating yourself. His pubic bone is causing friction on your clit as he’s buried inside you. You let out a moan, and he pulls back and guides himself slowly back into you. Keeping a slow, rhythmic pace.

Once you’ve adjusted, you whisper, “Joon, faster please.”

He shifts back to his knees, grabbing each of your legs in his hands to spread you open. He starts at an unrelenting pace. He drops one of your legs and moves his lithe fingers to your clit. He rubs a steady pace, perfectly matching the one his hips have established. You feel yourself careening towards an orgasm, and you hardly have time to warn Namjoon before you are pulsing around him, all of your muscles clenching.

He fucks you through it, his cock hitting all of your most sensitive places, pulling your orgasm out as it continues to wrack through your body. 

As you come down from your orgasm, still slightly disoriented, Namjoon asks in a shaky voice, “Y/n, where should I cum?”

“Fill me up, please. I want you all the way inside me. I’m on birth control.” You’re panting and feel your hair sticking to your forehead as his hips start to stutter.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart, I’m going to fill you so full of my cum.”

You look at him for a moment, his face strained, and then he groans long and low. You fill him painting your insides with his release, and you pull him down against you as he continues to vaguely move his hips.

As he stops moving, he slides his hands underneath, under your back.

“Fuck, I’ve been waiting for so long for that,” he sighs, nestling into your neck.

“Excuse me. You what?” you ask incredulously.

“That’s right. I’ve wanted to fuck you from the moment I saw you. And then when I heard you talk in class. And when I watched the way you look while you study. And when you get flustered or frazzled. And when you’re mean to me. Yeah, pretty much all the time.”

“Look, Namjoon, this doesn’t mean I’m your girlfriend or anything,” you start. Namjoon leans up and looks you in the eye, looking slightly disappointed. “But we can start here. I’ll stop being so cold to you at the least. I’m also not opposed to doing this again...a lot.”

He chuckles and buries his face back into your neck. “Deal.”

The two of you stay like that, entwined in one another for what feels like several hours before you decide you should actually do the studying you came here to do.

#btscafe20 #btswritingcafe #smutcentralnet #bangtanarmynet #namjoon x reader #namjoon smut #bts smut #bts fanfic #namjoon oneshot

[alphacrone]

The Origin of the Bittle-Zimmermann Cruel Jam Empire (Another Non-NHL!Jack fic)

[Sequel to this fic]

CW: FOOD, mentions of real people

“Alright, so I got so stressed out about the exam I had today that I made a couple things of jam,” Bittle said as he swept into Jack’s apartment. He’d had his own key since Jack had gotten the place, and he abused that privilege on an almost daily basis. If it had been anyone else, Jack would have regretted living so close to campus.

“What’s ‘a couple?’” Jack asked without looking up from his laptop.

Bittle huffed and set a box down on Jack’s table with a small thud. “I plead the fifth,” he said, hand on his hip.

“Mhmm.” Jack raised an eyebrow, standing to peer inside at the half dozen mason jars. “What’re today’s flavors?”

“Three things of strawberry rhubarb -- I experimented with adding vanilla and nutmeg -- and jalapeño jam, which everyone back home loves to use for holiday parties and whatnot. Goes great with cream cheese and crackers.”

“Because I throw so many parties,” Jack chirped.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Bittle asked, bustling around to grab himself a cup of water. “We’re hosting a holiday party before everyone goes home. Not a big thing,” he added quickly at Jack’s frown. “Me, you, the gang, the Frogs…”

“Matt?” Jack asked far too casually.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bittle said, frowning down at the sink. “Things have been kind of weird with him lately. I think he’s gonna break up with me.”

Jack gritted his teeth. Sure, he wasn’t Matt’s biggest fan, but he didn’t the guy was that stupid. “His loss,” he managed to say, switching over from his assignment to his Gmail account to try and distract himself. There were three new emails waiting for him: one from his parents, checking in; one from his bank with his daily checking account balance; and one, surprisingly, from Georgia Martin.

“You’re sweet,” Bittle said sadly, sitting down across from Jack. “But he’s, like, way out of my league. I never stood a chance.”

Jack frowned, mouse hovering over George’s name. “Bittle, he’s out of your league because he’s- he’s little league and you’re- you’re fucking Peyton Manning.”

Bittle chewed on his bottom lip, looking pleased. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Just stating facts,” he replied, opening George’s email and skimming the contents. “Huh…”

“What?” Bittle cast him a curious glance.

“I have an email from George Martin- you remember her, right? She was the AGM who knocked you over while you were Tweeting your way to class.” Bittle glared at him but nodded. “She’s just...I don’t know. Checking up on me. Making sure I’m doing okay, asking if there’s anything I need from her. That’s...nice.”

Bittle cooed. “What a sweet lady. I should send her some jam.”

“We’ve got plenty,” Jack mildly. Bittle scoffed.

“There’s a whole case left at the Haus. I’m giving some to Farmer for the volleyball team, and some to Atley for being the best advisor ever, but I think I can definitely spare one or five jars. And make some bread to go with it.”

“Here,” Jack said, pulling his wallet from his pocket. “Use my card for the shipping.” “Jack, I couldn’t-” Bittle started, but stopped at the look Jack cast him. “Alright, thank you. The Sin Bin’s been running a bit low since March and Ransom broke up and Holster declared a moratorium on Nursey using the word ‘hashtag’ in conversations with Dex.”

Jack chuckled and shook his head. “You know, you can always count on me to be your personal Sin Bin. You don’t have to pay for all of your baking from fines and Christmas money from Moomaw.”

Bitty sighed. “You know I can’t do that, Jack. Plus, I have two whole jobs now! They don’t pay much, but they definitely fun my butter obsession.”

Jack sighed fondly, holding back a smile. Bittle had managed to get a job over the summer filming video blogs for the administration office’s YouTube channel. It was a weak attempt on their end to attract students to Samwell, but Bittle loved it to death -- and he’d been so good at it, they’d offered him a position as a tour guide. Neither was more than a few hours a week and both were minimum wage, but they made Bittle happy and gave him some sense of financial independence, no matter how inconsequential.

“Okay,” Jack said placatingly. “Are you staying for dinner?”

“Only if you’re ordering Thai,” Bittle teased.

Jack rolled his eyes fondly and opened up his phone, thumb already on the GrubHub icon.

The holiday party was as low-key as Bittle had promised. Matt had broken up with him, but Bittle didn’t seem too upset. Ransom and Holster were so burned out from finals and the season that they didn’t even try to bring a keg, and Shitty brought a whole sack full of presents for everyone, poorly wrapped in “non-denominational, boss-ass snowman” wrapping paper. Nursey and Dex seemed to fighting less, and Chowder brought Farmer, who was always really nice to Jack. They sat around Jack’s tiny living room, eating jalapeño jelly on crackers with cream cheese and drinking wine that actually came from a bottle.

“I feel so adult,” Bittle whispered to Jack, cheeks flushed from the alcohol. “It’s like the New Year’s parties my parents always go to.”

Jack grinned down at him and helped himself to some of the artichoke dip that had just been pulled from the oven. “You’ll be 21 in a few months, Bittle,” he said. “Soon you’ll be old and boring like me.”

“Shh,” Bittle shushed. “Will not.”

“Oh, did I tell you?” Jack sat up a little straighter, trying not to feel excited when Bittle leaned into his space. “George wrote a thank you note for the jam and bread you sent over. Apparently,” he continued, leaning over to grab his own glass of water. “Alexei Mashkov had some -- they brunch, or something -- and was asking her for your contact info. I can pass that along, if you want.”

“Oh!” Bittle held a hand to his mouth. “An NHL star wants my jam?”

“What?” Holster looked over at them. “Bits, are you boning a pro athlete?”

“No!” Bittle gasped loudly. “Alexei Mashkov wants my actual jam, the kind I make in a kitchen.”

“Dude, what?!” Ransom jumped up, eyes wide with excitement. “You’ve talked to Mashkov?!”

“No,” Bittle repeated, looking frustrated. Jack casually leaned over to grab the wine from the coffee table and pour Bittle another glass. “Jack talked to Geo- the Falconers’ GM recently and she was so nice I sent her a care package and she shared it with Mashkov and now, apparently, he wants some for himself. Which I am happy to do,” he said, turning to Jack.

“Cool,” Jack said. “So that’s, what, $5 a jar, $6? How much for the bread?”

“What? Don’t be silly,” Bittle said, stunned. “I can’t charge him.”

“Why not?” Lardo asked, head tilted to the side.

“That’d be rude!”

Shitty snorted. “Bits, I think that’s small change for someone like him.”

“It was a gift for Ms. Martin,” Bittle said sternly. “So it would be a gift for Mr. Mashkov as well.”

“But you don’t know him,” Ransom argued, looking a little too disappointed at that fact. “And he hasn’t done anything for you, like favors or whatever. Obviously he should pay you, at least for the cost of supplies.”

Bittle huffed, looking worked up, so Jack squeezed his shoulder and said, “Bud, Mashkov wouldn’t see it as rude. George’s words were, and I quote, ‘Mashkov really wants to order some jam from Bittle.’”

This seemed to sway Bittle. “Well, if that’s what she said…But the bread is gonna be complimentary, got it?”

“Dude, you could sell this shit for a hundred bucks and people would buy it,” Ransom said around a mouthful of crackers and jam. “It’s that good.”

“Oh, stop,” Bittle said, frowning. “Let’s open presents. Ooh, wine.” He noticed his newly-filled glass and took it happily. “I made all’ve y’all food and stuff, in those baskets over there. Merry Christmas.”

Shitty collapsed on top of Bittle, nearly spilling his wine, and kissed his face all over with glee. Ransom and Holster immediately began stealing things from each other’s baskets, and Lardo stole from both of theirs while they were distracted. Jack leaned back and watched his friends, feeling calm and content and confident that he was right where he belonged.

A few days after Jack returned to Samwell from his winter break in Montreal, he received a text from an unknown number with a 401 area code. He opened it, curious, and grinned as he read the message.

From (401) 680-XXXX: Jack Zimmermann! George gave me ur number, hope that’s OK. A few friends would like to order jam. And bread! Will pay for bread this time )))

With a laugh, Jack pulled up Bittle’s number and slowly tapped out a text.

To Bittle: Alexei Mashkov says friends of his would like to order jam and bread. He emphasized that his friends would be paying for their bread.

The reply was almost instantaneous.

From Bittle: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!😱😱😱

From Bittle: ARE YOU SERIOUS

To Bittle: Yeah, bud. Your jam is good.

From Bittle: Oh, it’s really not. But I’m glad people like it.

To Bittle: I’ll text him back and see what the order is. Do you think you could get him an ETA after that?

From Bittle: YESSIR! 😉

Jack stared at the winky-face emoji for an embarrassingly long time, wondering why his cheeks felt so hot and his heart so light.  

It was a few weeks later that Jack received a large envelope. For a few minutes, he wondered why someone had sent him a huge wad of cash and several checks, then remembered the order he’d organized before classes started. Checking that he had time, Jack grabbed his bag and his laptop and headed out on the ten minute walk to the Haus, feeling happy as the chill of January nipped at his skin.

When he arrived, Bittle was sitting at the kitchen table studying, wrapped in a large sweatshirt he’d stolen from Jack before break. Underneath he wore what looked like two sweaters and a scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Mail call,” Jack said, throwing the envelope onto the table. Bittle looked at it, confused, then peeked inside.

“Oh, goodness,” he said, pulling out the wad of cash. “This is- this is too much-”

“It’s the amount we agreed on,” Jack said, sitting down across from Bittle. “Six dollars per jar, three for a loaf of bread. They ordered a lot of jam.”

“Oh,” Bittle said again, staring at the money like he’d never seen such a thing before. “Gosh.”

“People like homemade food, especially things that keep like jams and preserves,” Jack said, quoting the many market studies he’d...perused over break. “Because it’s homey but not something they would want to make themselves, the average, upper-middle-class consumer doesn’t mind spending a little extra money on this kind of quality good. Plus, your stuff is abnormally delicious, Bittle,” he added sternly. “If you’re willing to put in the work with this jam stuff, people will be willing to pay.”

By the end of his speech, Bittle’s mouth was agape. “Was that…?” He began, looking a little shellshocked. “Was that a business proposal?”

Jack shrugged. “Sort of.”

“Huh.” Bittle looked down at the money again. “Well.”

“I’ve gotta get to class,” Jack said, clapping Bittle on the back. “You think about it. And don’t spend all of that on butter, got it?”

Bittle rolled his eyes. “Bye, Jack. Oh! Wait! Try this before you go.”

Jack ended up five minutes late to class with an entire tupperware of shortbread cookies. No one, not even the professor, seemed to notice his tardiness after he offered to share with the whole class. It was a fair trade; there were always more cookies to be found when Bittle was around.

“But what would we call it?” Bittle asked on Valentine’s Day as he mixed a new batch of blueberry jam for Mashkov (“Call me Tater!”), Robinson, St. Martin, George, and several people whom Jack believed to be players on teams other than the Falcs. “Also, do you think they’d mind if I sent samples of my apple butter? I made too much and there’s no way the boys’ll eat it all…”

“I don’t know, ‘Bittle’s Kitchen’?” Jack said, sketching out a rough business model on the back of a Jiffy Lube receipt. “And I think Tater would ask you to marry him if you sent him free apple butter.”

“It would be a partnership, we’re not putting my name in there without yours next to it.” Bittle sighed, mouth pursed as he fell into thought. “Are there any good jam puns? ‘This is My Jam?’”

“Door jam, paper jam, traffic jam,” Jack listed off. “Jam It.”

“Funny,” Bittle said drily.

Jack laughed. “I don’t think you should limit yourself. What if everyone loves your apple butter more than your jam?”

“You bite your tongue,” Bittle said, waving his spoon at Jack. “My jam recipe has been perfected over several years, the ultimate hybrid between my mama’s recipe and my Aunt Judy’s, with my own flare, obviously. There ain’t any jam tastier than this north of the Mason-Dixon.”

“Sure,” Jack said easily, grinning up at Bittle. “I still like ‘Bittle’s Kitchen.’”

“Of course you do,” Bittle sighed. “Do your parents want any of this, by the way? I’ll probably have leftovers.”

“My parents want to adopt you,” Jack said, returning to his doodling. “So, yes. Anything and everything you’ve got.”

“Tim Gunn wants how many things of apple butter before his brunch next month?”

“Maman says a dozen.”

“And no jam?”

“Jam’s not in this season. Apparently he likes apples.”

“What is even happening right now?!”

“Also papa says hi.”

“...tell him I say hi back.”

<<So Mario told me that Sid asked him about jam,>> Papa said in lieu of a greeting during their monthly phone call. This call had been one of his parents’ stipulations before they agreed to pay for grad school. At first it had made Jack feel like a child who needed to be monitored, but halfway through his second semester he found he enjoyed talking to his parents.

<<I’ll put him on the waitlist. You have an order or just an inquiry?>> Jack said, grabbing a pen and notepad from his bedside table.

Papa just laughed and said, <<Can I give him your phone number?>>

<<Sure,>> Jack said. <<That’ll simplify things. Now tell me about that gala Maman’s been working on all month.>>

“What do you think of ‘Haus and Home?’”

Jack sat up straighter, eyes burning with fatigue. It was finals and he and Bittle had been working at the library together for hours. This was the first thing either of them had said in almost as long.

“For what?” Jack asked, rubbing at his temples. It was probably time to pack up and head home. The Haus was closer, and he wondered if Bittle would let him crash on the couch if he put a towel down first.

“The jam...thing,” Bittle said hesitantly. He looked as tired as Jack felt. “Y’know, because this all happens in the Haus kitchen and it’s been our home for years now and it just feels...right.”

“I like it,” Jack said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s good.”

“Good,” Bittle said, meeting Jack’s smile with his own. “Alright, let’s head off to bed. I think I’m about to pass out.”

“Okay,” Jack said, closing his laptop and shoveling books back into his bag. “Can I-?”

“Do you want herpes?” Bittle asked crossly. “Because that’ll be least of your worries if you sleep on that couch.”

“Bittle.”

“I will walk you home, you big baby,” Bittle said, standing and packing his things. “C’mon.”

Bittle did end up walking Jack home. He also ended up sleeping on Jack’s loveseat, covered in the throw blanket his mother had sent Jack for his birthday. Jack smiled down at the sight of Bittle passed out on his couch, dead to the world, and wandered into his bedroom to write one last email before crashing himself.

“What?”

Bittle stared at the computer, both hands over his mouth.

Though he’d lived with Jack over the summer, working full-time for the admissions office, Bittle had been kept completely in the dark about this particular project.

“Lardo and I have been working on this logo on and off since May,” Jack said, grinning at Bittle actually leaned over to stroke the laptop screen. “I paid her, of course, so it’s kind of...official.”

“Oh, my gosh…” Bittle whispered, then Jack found himself pulled into a tight hug. “Oh, this is too wonderful! Jack, this is amazing, this is-! Oh!” He buried his face in Jack’s chest. “We have a logo.”

“We do.”

“A real logo!”

“Yep.”

“You know what this means?” Bittle asked, looking straight up at Jack.

“What?” He asked, all too aware of how close their faces were.

“Lardo’s a professional designer!” He cried, grinning widely. “She designed a logo for money -- she’s a professional! This is so exciting.”

“Bittle.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said softly, pressing his cheek to Jack’s shoulder. “Are we really doing this?”

“I think we are.”

“Wow. I...wow.”

“Yeah. Seconded.”

Bittle’s senior year was busy, full of ups and downs. He was captain and led the team to victory at the Frozen Four, something that filled Jack with so much pride he thought he might burst. Bittle also came out to his parents, which had been a mixed bag of emotions, but things slowly seemed to be heading in a positive direction. There had been the long, drawn-out horror of Bittle trying to write a thesis, but after many sleepless nights he got through it. Professor Atley would be receiving a lifetime supply of free Haus & Home goods for all she did to aid Bittle, of that Jack was certain.

Jack’s last year of his MBA went pretty smoothly. He worked part-time in the sales department of a video streaming company in Boston proper, which was challenging in its own ways, but Jack found he really did enjoy managing accounts and developing sales strategies in tandem with the marketing team. He learned more in that job that he had in his actual MBA program, he felt, but both were preparing him to take this leap with Bittle. As scary as it was, Jack felt calm and confident in the risk he was about to take. Everything seemed easier when Bittle was by his side.

His birthday/graduation present to Bittle came in two parts: the first was a notebook filled with two-bedroom apartment listings all around the area, keeping close to their friends and within their budget; the second was a URL written down inside a sparkly card shaped like a mortarboard.

“Jack…” Bittle breathed, clutching at Jack’s arm as he pulled the website up on his laptop -- one of the few things he had yet to pack, though graduation was only a week away. “This is…”

“I’m sorry I didn’t include you in the creative process,” Jack said sheepishly. “I just wanted it to be a surprise. I gave Dex and Chowder a bunch of your pinterest boards in preparation.”

Bittle smiled up at him with wide, shining eyes. “Jack, it’s beautiful. Dex and Chowder made this?”

“They did. We’re almost there, bud.”

Bittle hugged him tight. “Okay, mister, I love these surprises, but no more decisions without me, okay? Ugh, I could stare at this website forever. Look at it. Jack, it’s ours. This whole...thing is ours.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Happy Birthday.”

“Happy Graduation,” Bittle said, raising the cup of beer someone had handed him in the midst of the party that was raging downstairs. “To the future.”

“The future,” Jack repeated. “And the present.”

“Was that a pun?” Bittle asked. “I’m disowning you if that was a pun.”

“Let’s get back downstairs,” Jack said, wrapping an arm around Bittle’s shoulders. “And enjoy being college students a little longer.”

“Sounds good,” Bittle said, leaning against Jack’s side. He stayed there for the rest of the party, and Jack’s face hurt from smiling so much by the end.

[My writing tag]

[The Non-NHL!Jack AU]

[My online novel, The Discourt Knife]

#cruel jam empire au #check please! #anna writes things #jesus this got long #also didn't include everything i wanted lo #*lol #pre-relationship

[alphacrone]

an au in which jack contemplates abandoning his dream for the sake of his mental health

(An idea that popped into my head after re-reading this scene and noticing Jack’s hesitation while discussing going into the NHL.)

CW: coming out, anxiety, fear of being outed and/or staying closeted, talks of toxic people and mentalities 

“Sometimes...sometimes I wonder if it’s even worth it.”

Bitty looked up at Jack. They’d been sitting out on the roof for near half an hour now, and Jack hadn’t said a word in all that time. Bitty had talked some, had tried to fill that silence with idle chatter, but after a while he’d given up and let his own thoughts drift elsewhere.

“If...what’s worth it?” Bitty asked, afraid of the answer.

“Hockey,” Jack said quietly, as if he were afraid of someone overhearing. “My therapist- after rehab, my therapist told me I needed to cut out toxic things from my life, toxic people.”

“Parson?” Bitty ventured cautiously. Jack nodded.

“Him. A few of the other guys from the Q. I couldn’t just stop talking to any of my uncles, but I did try to be around some of them a little less. I unsubscribed from getting ESPN email alerts and sold the TV in my bedroom and kept my phone on airplane mode for a really long time so I wouldn’t get online and read all those things people said about me.” He took a deep breath and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “What if...what if hockey is a toxic thing? What if I should be trying to live a normal life?”

“You love hockey,” Bitty said worriedly. “And you seem to be managing your anxiety really well these days-”

“I’m gay,” Jack said suddenly, and Bitty felt his heart skip a couple beats. “Or bi or- I don’t know. I don’t think about it. I- I won’t let myself think about it. It’s been on my list...my list of toxic things. Things I’ve tried to get rid of.”

“Oh, Jack,” Bitty said, reaching out to touch Jack’s arm. Jack shrugged, but didn’t pull his arm away.

“I can’t be out and play. I can’t.” Jack closed his eyes, and Bitty realized he was hiding tears. “And I thought if I just...ignored that part of me, it’d be okay. If I could play hockey, I wouldn’t need things like love or I could find a girl or something but...well, you know what it’s like to hide that part of you. You know how much it hurts.”

Bitty nodded, too afraid to speak for the lump in his throat. He scooted closer and leaned his head against Jack’s shoulder. Jack slumped at the touch, like he’d been trying to hold himself up to hide his pain from Bitty.

“What if the best thing to do is walk away?” Jack asked. “Finish up this season and then just...do something else? Like any other college athlete.”

“You could,” Bitty said, eyes stinging. “You could do whatever you wanted. You could be an average Joe like the rest of us.” He tried to smile as he teased, but everything fell a bit flat. A tear fell down his cheek and Bitty pressed his face into Jack’s arm. “Why should you have to give up something you love to be yourself? It’s not fair…”

“No, it’s not,” Jack said, voice cracking. “But maybe it’d be worth it.”

Bitty looked out over their neighborhood. It was a Wednesday evening and most the houses were dark. The streetlights in this area were far and few in between, and the stars above were mostly hidden by clouds. No moon shone down on them, and Bitty wondered if this was why Jack had found the courage to come out to Bitty; here, the two of them masked in darkness, it felt like they could say anything and things would be okay.

“I don’t feel anxiety towards school,” Jack continued, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes. “Or socializing, or the idea of working in an office somewhere. I mean, I know quitting wouldn’t cure me,” he said with a bitter laugh. “But all of the pressure of trying to be my father’s son...what if that’s the thing I should’ve cut out?”

“You’d be amazing at whatever you chose to do, Jack,” Bitty said. “You work so hard at things you love.”

“I could say the same about you,” Jack said, nudging Bitty with his elbow. “Maybe I’ll get a master’s in Business and when you graduate we could open up that bakery you’re always talking about. Or I could use my mom’s contacts to get you a publishing deal, and I could be your manager.”

Bitty bit his lip. “You really wanna keep bossing me around, huh, Cap?”

Jack laughed and Bitty closed his eyes, relishing the sound. When he opened them again, Jack was watching him, looking fond and a bit sad.

“Would you want to work with me, after I graduated?” Bitty asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I’d be a terrible business partner…”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Jack said. “I’ve watched you record your blog thing, and I’ve seen the way you mentor the Frogs. I think you’d put 100% of yourself into a project you loved. I think you could be a real role model for a lot of kids out there, given the right platform. And I’d want to be a part of that.”

“Oh.” Bitty felt his cheeks heating up and was grateful for the darkness that hid his blush. “Wow. I...I don’t know what to say to that, really.”

“It’s just a thought,” Jack murmured. “You’re young, you don’t have to worry about these things yet.”

“You’re not old, Jack,” Bitty scolded. “You don’t have to know these things yet either.”

Jack shrugged. “I feel old.”

With a hefty sigh, Bitty wriggled his way under Jack’s arm, until he was pressed up against his chest. He wrapped his arms around Jack tightly, squeezing him in the biggest Bittle bear hug he could manage. Jack wrapped an arm around his shoulder and let him hug the living daylights out of Jack. “You’re not old and you can do whatever the heck you want to do. And I’d be honored to be your business partner. No, I’m serious-” he added when Jack snorted. “I can’t think of anything I’d want to do more after Samwell than something with you.”

Jack pulled him closer and, though he couldn’t be certain, Bitty thought he felt Jack’s lips at the top of his head. He let out a breath and leaned his head against Jack’s chest.

“Whatever you choose to do,” Bitty said. “You’ve got a whole team here that’ll support you. And you don’t have to choose tonight.”

Jack was silent for a long moment, and Bitty was afraid maybe he’d overstepped somehow. But when Jack whispered, “Thanks, Bittle,” his voice was wet and croaky, and Bitty understood. “Can you- can we stay out here a little longer? And just...be?” He asked, sounding a decade younger and more vulnerable than Bitty had ever heard.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Bitty whispered, ignoring his own slip and the heat in his cheeks. “We can do that.”

Jack tightened his arm around Bitty’s shoulders and brought his free hand up to rest on Bitty’s knee. For a long while after they sat cloaked in the safety of night, two scared boys clinging to each other at the prospect of tomorrow.  

[READ PART 2]

[SEQUEL HERE]

[My writing tag]

#check please! #zimbits #anna writes things #zimbits fanfiction #omgcp fic #au #coming out #pre-relationship #cruel jam empire au