#a folding table without issue for over a year

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

My cat is so mad every day I’m on my laptop because he can’t sit in my lap and can’t sit on the computer but my legs are right there and I have a footstool right next to my arm and a shelf for him above the couch but nooo, how dare I have anything else in my lap

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

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[duvetchico]

i love you.

summary y/n isn’t the affectionate type, but one night while cuddling, she finally says “i love you” for the first time. jimin melts on the spot, grinning like an idiot as they fall asleep tangled up in each other.

genre fluff / soft romance

pairing yu jimin x fem!reader

masterlist.

it’s not that you don’t love her. you’ve loved her since maybe the third date, when she smiled at you over spicy ramen and told you you had a little seaweed stuck in your teeth. you’ve loved her since she started showing up outside your apartment with hot drinks on cold days. you’ve loved her since she started folding your laundry without asking, memorized your coffee order, kissed the back of your hand while waiting for the subway.

you’ve loved her for so long. you just haven’t said it.

and jimin never asked you to. not directly.

but sometimes, when you fall asleep on her shoulder mid-movie and she stays perfectly still just so you don’t wake up— or when she buys the brand of snacks you like even though she says they taste like cardboard— or when she kisses your temple and says, “i like being yours”— you feel it. you feel her wondering if you love her back.

you do. god, you do.

-

the day starts slow.

you’re in your hoodie and fuzzy socks. she’s in your hoodie and your fuzzy socks. neither of you are winning.

you’d planned to be productive—laundry, maybe some grocery shopping, finally getting around to vacuuming—but then jimin came over, and suddenly all your plans evaporated the moment she flopped onto your couch and opened her arms like a spoiled cat.

"come cuddle me," she demanded.

"you have legs," you said, not even looking up from your phone.

"i also have abandonment issues, get over here."

and like. you folded. obviously.

cut to now: the two of you are curled up on your tiny couch, blanket burrito’d, a candle flickering on the coffee table for ✨aesthetic✨, and some dumb cartoon playing in the background purely for background noise.

you’re spooning her from behind, arms around her waist, your cheek squished against her back. she keeps giggling every time your cold nose brushes her spine and makes her shiver.

"your nose is literally a weapon," she grumbles, but her hand's stroking your knuckles like she’s trying to memorize every line.

"shut up, you like it," you mumble.

she makes a little hmm sound but doesn't argue.

at one point she shifts to face you, noses almost touching, and whispers, “can i kiss you?”

you roll your eyes, “when do you ever ask?”

“i’m trying to be respectful of your boundaries,” she says with an innocent smile.

you kiss her before she can say anything else.

then it’s quiet again. peaceful. soft breathing, soft hearts. she tugs you closer until your leg’s thrown over hers and your hand’s splayed against her side like it’s always belonged there.

and it’s in the middle of that silence, when her eyelashes flutter and her breath catches a little from how close you are, that it slips out—

“…i love you.”

she blinks. stills. then blinks again.

“…you what?” she says, voice already climbing three octaves in shock.

you freeze. you were so comfortable and now you're gonna spontaneously combust.

“i said i love you,” you mumble again, voice half-muffled into her collarbone. “don’t make it weird.”

she literally squeals and starts kicking her feet like a five-year-old.

“NOOOOOOOOO,” she screeches, hugging you so hard you genuinely choke. “YOU SAID IT FIRST OH MY GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDD.”

“you’re so annoying,” you cough. “let me breathe.”

“you love me,” she says again in this high-pitched little voice, kissing your cheeks repeatedly. “you love me. you love me. i’m gonna write this in my diary.”

“you have a diary?”

“NO BUT I’LL GET ONE.”

she’s so damn happy that it almost makes you cry.

like she's smiling so hard her eyes disappear and she keeps whispering "i can't believe it" like you just gave her the moon.

later, when your ramen’s ready, she feeds you bites even though your hands work just fine. she wipes a noodle stain off your chin like you’re a toddler. she holds your hand while watching youtube videos, thumb tracing lazy circles.

and right before you both knock out on the couch again, limbs tangled and teeth brushed and everything feeling safe, she says it one more time—

“i love you too, by the way. like. so much it’s embarrassing.”

you hum. kiss her temple.

“yeah,” you whisper.

“me too.”

[milliesfishes]

Corio with a reader that struggles with an ED? I’m going through recovery currently and would love a little comfort fic or even an angsty thing. If you are uncomfortable talking about this though please don’t feel pressured to write about it!! I totally understand boundaries and I would never want to push somebody into talking and or writing about something they are uncomfortable with 💙🪼

౨ৎ꣑ৎPerfection౨ৎ꣑ৎ

tw: eating disorder, body image/self worth issues PLEASE DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THIS IS TRIGGERING I MEAN IT 🩷🩷🩷 fem reader x coriolanus snow anon, you sent this a long, long time ago lovey but I hope you're doing better and sending you much love on your journey 🩷🩷 thank you my darling @phantomamour for proofing <3

It was easy for Coriolanus to notice things about you since you were his whole world.

Every habit was familiar, every like and dislike logged in his memory. He didn't think of it as obsessive, more a natural progression that came along with love. It was something he'd learned. All his life he'd had to keep an eye on his circumstances for survival, but this time it was somehow natural. His guard was down. And still he noticed.

He noticed the way you'd hold your wrist when you were uncomfortable, the way your smile became secret when somebody said something you couldn't laugh at but wanted to. Capitol manners came naturally to you, but your little quirks were still his to observe. It was a secret code only he was privy to.

Your plate was half full still. You'd excused yourself a few minutes ago, making your way upstairs to prepare for bed, and he'd promised to join you after he finished. But this little detail was irking him. He stared at it until a servant took it away, causing him to focus back on his own food. It was true that you usually left a bite or two on your plate, but never this much.

Perhaps you weren't feeling well. You'd grown up similarly to himself in that you didn't like to waste food, even when you could afford it. It was something you'd confessed to him after marriage. Your family could hardly afford to put food on the table even now, which was one of the reasons they'd pushed you into Capitol society. Using their only daughter as a means to make money was low, but unfortunately not uncommon.

You were in the closet when he made his way to the bedroom, and when you emerged, his eyebrow lifted without him thinking. Your pajamas were in the pretty silk you favored, but they covered down to your ankles and wrists, hanging loose on your body. It wasn't that you didn't look pretty- he'd never thought that before. The room you both slept in had a tendency to get hot during the night no matter what the season was. He slept shirtless as a consequence, and your cute little lace edged silk sets and nightdresses were the highlight of his day.

He didn't comment until he was in bed, pulling the lightweight covers over his legs and reaching over to stroke your covered elbow. You were lying flat on your back, arms folded over your chest as you stared at the ceiling.

Coriolanus watched you for a moment, trying to detect reasoning. You were quiet, which wasn't unusual. The strange thing was that you weren't rolling over to snuggle into him, a habit you'd slowly adapted over a little under a year of marriage. Finally, he slid his arm under you, tapping your side with his thumb. You remained still.

"Are you cold?" he asked, breaking the silence. You pulled your sleeves over your hands, shaking your head. He stared at you for a moment, noticed you'd only pulled covers over your waist, not up to your chest like usual. Frowning, he brushed his fingers under your sleep shirt, just above the waist of your bottoms. Your skin was warm, too warm to be sleeping comfortably in his opinion.

"Goodnight," you said softly, turning on your side and closing your eyes. He settled next to you, arm still around your waist, a mass of tangled questions still sitting heavy in his head.

The occurrences became a pattern. He noticed your dresses never hit above your knees, that you spent far longer getting ready both for the day and for bed than before. Your plates remained half empty and you always sweat through your pajamas. Coriolanus inquired one day about your habits during the day while he was at work and discovered the long walks you went on like clockwork, how the only 'full' meal you took was dinner. According to his source, you'd been doing this for more than a month.

That night, he did more watching than eating, studying your every move with careful eyes. You were taking bites slowly, methodically. He lowered his eyes when you lifted yours, but you put your fork down, tilting your head. "Is something wrong?"

Coriolanus folded his arms on the table, looking pointedly at you. "Is the food to your liking?"

Your brow furrowed in that adorable way. If he was closer, he would reach out and thumb it smooth. "It's good."

He nodded once, tapping his finger on the table. "You haven't been eating."

Your eyes widened just slightly, and you looked back at your plate, setting your fork down. "The food is just fine."

"Is it?" He reached for your hand, grasping your fingers. "Sweetheart, if something's wrong-"

"No. Nothing's wrong," you promised, shaking your head to emphasize. "I'm fine. It's fine."

"You're going to starve to death, sweetheart," he said, lifting his chin. "If you're trying to be dainty-"

"Coryo," you interrupted again, sounding sharper. "I'm fine. I just-" you swallowed, meeting his eyes again. "I just want to lose a little weight. That's all."

He took in your thinning face, the way your cheeks were more sunken than he'd seen them before. The full effect of the littler changes over time was hitting him hard, and he could feel the emotion rising in his throat. "Darling-"

"Don't. Please." You stood abruptly, and he watched you take in a breath, swaying slightly.

Coriolanus stood too, crossing around the table. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm...I'm fine..." you muttered, holding onto the table. Your lashes fluttered, and he moved quickly, gathering you into his arms before you began to slump, his chest catching your cheek as you fell forward. "Mm."

"I've got you," he whispered, reaching down to scoop you up. As Coriolanus moved upstairs, he made plans in his head to call the doctor, figure out what could be done.

He'd spent so much of his life starving in every way and he'd thought it would be worth it if the ones he loved didn't have to. The mere idea of you taking such drastic measures to lose weight had him questioning everything.

Getting you situated in your bed, he phoned the doctor, hand clasped in yours. Coriolanus' heart was racing, and he tried to take deep breaths. It wouldn't do either of you any good if he fell off the deep end.

Once the doctor was informed, he was frozen sitting by your bed, trying to grasp the concept of your insecurity. His girl, his beautiful girl. It put a lump in his throat, and he tried to swallow the tears that threatened to rise. He'd be lying if he said he understood it.

Coriolanus had known hunger of all kinds, but what stood out in his mind were the pangs in his stomach, the way his mouth had watered when he'd seen the elaborate meals his classmates brought to school that his family couldn't afford. When he had food, he finished it, savored it, made it stretch so he could try to live off the memory until he could get more. Everyone had known the feeling of hunger during the war, and you were no exception. Your situation afterward had not been as extreme as his, but still.

Why would you revert back to those tendencies when you didn't have to? Why would you starve yourself, and as a result, starve him of you?

He was unable to tear his eyes away from you as you slept, tracing every contour of you with his eyes. The shadow of your eyelashes on your cheeks, the bony fingers of one hand folded into their palm, positioned above your head. Your breathing was soft, and had it not been for the fresh memory of what had happened earlier splattered across his mind like blood, he'd have thought you were at peace. You were angelic, the very picture of perfection.

Had he inadvertently made you feel this way? Coriolanus searched his memory for a cross word over your appearance and came up empty. You'd never given him a single thing to complain about- flawless in every possible way. However, he didn't know what may have seemed fine to him and rubbed you the wrong way. The question tortured him as he prepared for bed, carefully hanging up his shirt and folding his pants.

Draping one of your light nightdresses over his arm, he staggered to the bed where you still lay, sitting down carefully. Coriolanus tried not to wake you, but as he slowly worked your nearly shapeless dress up your body, you mumbled something, resisting him weakly as he discarded the garment.

"Shh," he soothed, slipping your nightdress over your head and laying you back down. "I know, I know. I've got you, sweetheart." You sniffled, curling into his body when he flattened himself on the mattress next to you. He relished the feeling of you lying back on his chest, something he'd gone far too long without.

Right now, he didn't want to think of what he'd do when you woke again. For now, it was enough to hold you, to know you were safe.

He rang for a plate of fruit, a few slices of bread and crackers. Something light on your stomach, technically nutritious. The hope was that you would eat it without struggle, but he was prepared to help you see reason.

The doctor came and went, leaving a string of instructions and advising Coriolanus to keep a close eye on you. That was the easy part. There wasn’t any way he was letting you out of his sight for the next while.

When you woke, he had the plate ready, setting it promptly on your lap. You sat up, looking down. “I don’t-” “Eat.” It wasn’t a question. Your lower lip began to tremble, and he thumbed the tear that trickled down your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear. “You can do it. You don’t have to eat it all. Just eat something.”

Coriolanus watched, with bated breath, as you lifted a cracker to your mouth, looking as though you might cry again. But you took a little bite, then another, and he suppressed a sigh of relief. You ate a few crackers, then a strawberry, and he handed you the glass of water when you requested it once more.

“You scared me,” he whispered once you’d pushed the plate aside. Although you’d eaten much less than he’d hoped, it was still something.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, staring at your hands in your lap.

Coriolanus had a million questions he wanted to ask, but he held his tongue, trying to figure out how to phrase them. He must have waited too long, because you said, “I didn’t mean to make anyone worry.”

“Darling,” he whispered, lifting a hand to your cheek. “What happened?” He didn’t want to let on how much you had scared him, but it was nearly impossible. “I don’t know.” Your tone was frustrated, and you clenched one of your fists. “I just…I can’t stand how I look right now. I’ve gained so much weight in the past little bit and I don’t…I can’t…”

“Yes?”

Your eyes were filling with tears again. “I don’t feel pretty anymore.”

It was so unthinkable he could have laughed. Coriolanus only stared at you, hoping his expression didn’t make it seem like he thought it true. He shook his head, reaching for your hand.  “Sweetheart-”

You buried your face in your hands, chest shaking as you cried. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to do any of it.”

When he reached for you, you complied, leaning into his chest. He ignored how scarily thin you felt, holding you tight to him. Coriolanus’ nose hid in the top of your head, and he smoothed his hand down your hair. You stayed like that for a long while, the sun streaming through the curtains and promising the hope of a new day.

“If you knew how beautiful you are,” he whispered, starting to rock back and forth, still holding you, “How beautiful you’ve always been…”

“It feels awful,” you choked, trembling in his arms. “What I’ve been doing. I don’t want to do it anymore but I can’t stop.”

“I won’t let you suffer anymore,” he vowed, smoothing your hair. “We’re going to get you help.” You only nodded into his chest as you slowly grew tired again from your efforts. It was only once you were fast asleep on him that he let his own tears fall.

You were his light, his only true love. It broke what was left of his heart to know you felt this way about yourself. He was the thorn to your rose, and if the petals wilted, the whole flower began to die.

Coriolanus held you tighter at the thought. He wouldn’t lose you if it was the last thing he did. Hunger had nearly taken everything from him in the course of his life. It would not take you too.

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[loud-mouth-loser]

not him - 3

summary: you meet steven for tea...

pairing: marc spector? x reader, steven grant? x reader

tags: angst, feelings, confusion, miscommunication, tension, cliffhanger, all the good things we hate, an incredible use of italics and em dashes, no marc :(

wc: 2.4k

note: hey...it's been (checks the blog) a year and a few months...hi...

ch. 1 | ch. 2

[an extended author's note is at the end of the chapter to avoid spoilers!]

---

Your POV

Warmth seeps into the pads of your fingertips as you clutch the paper coffee cup in front of you. You initially ordered a medium iced coffee, but when your name was called you were presented with a hot cup of something else. 

You took it without complaint, eyes briefly glancing along the long line by the register before returning to the misspelled name scribbled onto the side of the cup. You’re sure the baristas are overworked, so as long as it’s caffeinated and palatable, you’ll be fine.

Some may call you spineless because of this, but you like to think you’re just…easygoing, flexible – able to adapt to unexpected changes without too much fuss. But now, with those soft brown eyes staring back at you from across the table, you realize that change is harder to face than you initially thought.

Steven has his usual Earl Grey steaming in a lidless cup next to a pile of tea-blotted napkins. He already found a way to spill his drink on the table before taking a single sip. He mumbled a censored curse, quickly using three folded napkins to soak up the herbal puddle before it could drip to the floor. 

You couldn’t help but watch silently as he cleaned up the mess, his dark brows furrowing as he evaluated the table that separated the two of you. His eyes flashed with a brief spark of harshness directed at the empty space before him, masking over his usual gentle look. You could see the flood of self-reproaching thoughts that rushed through his mind as he pushed the soggy mess to the side. The short bout of frustration painted on his face immediately reminded you of Marc –

And suddenly you're reintroduced to the issue at hand.

Other than the portion of tea on the napkins, Steven’s drink is full, sitting there untouched as he looks back at you like he’s waiting for you to start the conversation. As if he wasn’t the one who invited you out. You’re used to him babbling through the silence, even if the conversation holds no substance.

You fiddle with the cafe’s logo sticker on your cup, peeling it off halfway before pressing it back, an attempt to distract you from looking back up at him. You can feel his stare backing you into a corner. 

Thoughts rush through your mind as an unfamiliar tension surrounds the two of you. 

He doesn’t know, right? 

No, he can’t.

Marc was fronting last night and Steven went to bed early. It’s not like he’d tell him anyway. 

Why would he?

– 

Steven’s POV

“Good day at work?” Your voice comes out softer than he’s used to, hesitant…testing – as if you haven’t heard yourself speak since you left his flat. 

“Work?” Steven takes a sip of his drink — not because he’s thirsty, but to buy himself some time to come up with an excuse for why he missed work today.  He winces slightly from the heat of the tea. He can’t lie to you, but he can try to soften the truth. “Right, I-um…” And the truth was: Marc decided to use one of his rare vacation days to mope around because of what happened the previous night. “...slept through my alarm again today.” 

You finally look up from your cup and meet his stare, eyes rounded with concern. “Steven.” He scratches the back of his neck, feeling guilty for lying to you, but you interpret his sheepish expression as a response to your usual soft scolding about him missing work. “Donna is not going to be happy. You’ve already missed a handful of shifts this month!” Donna, his manager, has always been hard on him – no matter how many extra shifts he picks up or how late he stays, it’s never good enough for her. 

Steven hides his small relieved smile as he watches you fuss over him, murmuring about different ways he could get a better night's rest or the various alarm clocks that you’ve read about. It’s only now that he notices the warm feeling he gets when you worry about him. 

“It’s okay, I just called in sick last minute.” This time he isn’t lying, he did call in once he got the body back, but Donna wasn’t happy to hear about it. But really, when is she ever happy to hear from him?

“This is coming out of your paycheck, Stevie.”

Oh, how he hates that nickname…

But he doesn’t want to think about that now, he’ll deal with the consequences of Marc’s actions later. 

Right now, he wants to deal with…the consequences of Marc’s other actions.

You reach across the table and take his free hand, a comforting gesture you’ve often used in the past to capture his attention whenever you sense his mind is racing with hundreds of thoughts. 

“Alright, but if you want, I could call you in the morning to wake you up? I’m already up at that time anyway.” 

Steven almost flinches when you wrap your fingers around his. He can’t help but stare down at your touch. Your hand is so soft, and warm, his eyes flit to your face, just like your li– 

Wait, what is he thinking? That wasn’t even him! 

You’ve done this countless times before, so why does this feel different all of a sudden?

—

Your POV

You watch curiously as his gaze grows distant, “Steven?” You softly squeeze his hands to wake him up from his thoughts.

“Um, call – alarm?” Steven pulls his hand from yours and fiddles with the collar of his shirt which suddenly feels quite tight against his neck. “No, it’s fine, I just think Marc had a lot to drink last night, that’s all.”

Your eyes widen. Right.

You pull your hands back from where they'd settled on the table, abandoned by Steven’s touch, and rest them in your lap. Fidgeting nervously, you shift your focus to the neglected napkins at the edge of the table next to Steven, eager to avoid his gaze as his alter is suddenly brought up.

“Well…you should tell him to not drink so much when you have work in the morning…”

You can tell that Steven noticed how you retracted from the conversation as soon as you heard Marc’s name, but he doesn’t bring attention to it. He just chuckles nervously in response. 

“I’ll try…” 

The two of you remain silent for a moment. The comforting energy that was once fuelled by your friendship feels distant now, overshadowed by the tense anticipation of the inevitable confrontation. 

He takes a breath before breaking the silence, “Love…I have a question.”

“Okay.” You bite at your bottom lip nervously. 

Here it comes.

“Are we still up for movie night this week?” A weak smile cracks from the seam of his lips as his eyes find yours again. 

…Or not

You immediately cover up whatever anxious energy you are sure you were overflowing with – putting on your usual smile, the one made just for him. The one that always makes him feel at ease. 

“O-of course, Steven. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Oh, okay, good.” 

–

After confirming your plans, Steven went on to ramble about the movies and shows he wants to watch with you.

Of course, he’s already seen each one at least two or three times, but he enjoys watching them with you – seeing your reactions, answering your questions, telling you fun facts… 

You can’t keep up with the conversation.

Your mind is running in circles, anxious about returning to the crime scene and possibly seeing him again. You’re not ready for that confrontation yet. 

You left the cafe feeling worse than when you arrived. 

How are you supposed to keep going on like everything is okay? 

Like your world hasn’t been turned upside down?

—

The warmth of Steven’s flat is comforting. You swear it was designed to be homey – which is why you never understood why Marc always looked so tense in here. The low hum of the kettle on the stove, the faint smell of old books and tea—it’s familiar. Safe. 

But not tonight.

You’re curled up on his worn couch, clutching a fluffy blanket tighter than necessary, trying to focus on the show playing in front of you. You can barely register the actors on screen. Your pulse thrums loudly in your ears, drowning out every word of dialogue.

Steven ended up choosing Sherlock because “each episode is 90 minutes – basically the length of a movie – so we’ll have at least a month of movie nights figured out!” You can tell he has a big fat man-crush on Cumberbatch’s Sherlock…just look at the way his eyes sparkle brightly when Holmes starts deducing – but you don’t say anything. You’re too anxious to tease him tonight. 

Steven sits beside you, a careful amount of space between you. He’s been quiet, unusually so, eyes flickering between you and the TV. You can feel it every time his gaze lingers—soft, curious, hesitant.

Sure, you’re used to this back and forth habit he has when you come over, but usually he’d be chiming in throughout the movie or show with a “you see that?” or “did you know that [insert actor here] was actually [insert fun fact here] during filming?” 

Tonight he’s barely made a peep. 

It’s freaking you out. 

And then, halfway through the episode, you feel it.

The slight shift of the cushions – Steven trying to scoot closer. 

Not boldly, just inching forward like someone dipping a toe into cold water. Your breath catches in your throat. His knee barely grazes yours, and it feels like a shockwave ripples through you.

Again, you’re used to his cuddly side. You’re supposed to be used to it. 

Used to the way he’d lean against you, his head on your shoulder as you both read books in comforting silence. Used to the way he’d intertwine his fingers with yours during tense scenes in a movie, squeezing when the sound effects get too loud – though he’s seen the same scene a handful of times already and should know what to expect (he’s still a scaredy cat). Used to the way he’d let out those soft breaths when he’d fall asleep with his head in your lap, your fingers running through his perfectly messy hair. 

You were. 

But since his confession about Layla, it’s different. Since what happened between you and Marc, it’s different. 

You could hear an intake of breath, signaling that he wants to say something, but before he can get it out, the kettle whistles loudly. He gets up, a bit rattled by the sudden interruption, and tends to the tea. He doesn’t even pause the episode. He always pauses when he has to get up. 

Clearly, neither of you are focused on the show tonight

He comes back with two steaming cups – chamomile because “having caffeine after the sun goes down disrupts your circadian rhythm” – and he sets them on the coffee table in front of you. You’re surprised he can even find enough space for them because the table is usually – 

It’s clear… 

You didn’t even notice how uncluttered his flat is. 

You take a second to look around. There are still overflowing bookcases, excessive amounts of cuddly blankets and pillows, and a couple of mugs out, but otherwise, it’s neat. And that can only mean one thing: Marc is stressed out. 

The one time you’ve seen Marc during the day, by accident and before you really knew him, he’d been grumpily cleaning the flat. 

You could tell that something more was happening behind the scenes, something other than frustration towards his alter for attempting to read 5 books at once, then falling asleep at his desk before being able to put them away. He was antsy, muttering to himself as he meticulously organized the bookshelves by author and subject. 

You assumed it had something to do with his strained relationship with Khonshu, but you didn’t ask. Steven had warned you against mentioning anything Khonshu-related in front of his alter in the past and you heeded to it. Instead, you left the bag of takeout on the kitchen counter and quietly slipped out.

Unfortunately, you’re aware of what’s stressing him out this time. 

“Do you like the show so far?” 

You’re immediately pulled from your thoughts. Steven is back in his seat with his hands cradling his mug for warmth. He’s noticeably further away from you than before. 

“Yeah, I actually can’t believe I haven’t seen it yet.” Your voice is soft as you lean forward for your drink. You take a sip.

You must have been lost in your thoughts for a while as the tea had cooled enough for you to easily drink it. You look down at the tea bag sitting at the bottom of the cup, unsure what to say next. 

You hear Steven sigh before the TV is shut off. Whatever Sherlock was monologuing about is cut off, replaced with the quiet buzzing of the A/C. You look up to be met with an equally hesitant gaze. 

He situates himself on the couch so he’s facing you more directly.

“Steven…?”

“Are you okay?” He finally says, “Because you’ve been distracted all night – Haven’t even said anything about the show, or asked for snacks, or sit in the way you usually do when you use me like a footrest…”

“Um, no, I’m fine.” You dismiss his worries and place your mug back on the table, hoping he’d just drop the subject. “I’m just tired, you know? Had a long day at work is all.” 

“I know that’s not it.”

You turn away from him just to stare at the blank TV, “Yeah? And how would you know?” Your words sound harsh but your voice is soft and unstable. “Aren’t you too busy worrying about Layla?” You regret saying it as soon as it leaves your mouth. You don’t know what drove you to say it, but something about him trying to care is frustrating you. 

“W-what, this has nothing to do with her.” He places a hand on your shoulder to get you to look at him. It works. You hate how the warmth from his hand can instantly calm you and have you itching for his touch. “Look,” He looks at you with guilty eyes before letting it all out, “I know that you and Marc kissed.” 

The warmth between you instantly disappears.

You freeze. 

Your mind races with excuses, stupid ones, and straight lies, but they’re all stuck in your throat – you can’t say anything. 

Steven continues to speak, “I just can’t help but wonder…” He pauses briefly and you watch him roll the words through his mind before taking your hands in his. He squeezes them like he does when he’s watching a thriller movie and it gets too intense – “...were you thinking of me when it happened?”

If you were shocked before, now you’re floored. 

---

author's note:

like I said with the last chapter, i'll have a chapter half written out and left in my google drive until I finally, painstakingly, finish it. 😭

i really want to write a lot and have it out for you guys immediately, but i'm simply not a writer so i can't do that. i don't ever have a plan for these chapters or the story as a whole so if it's messy just know: it's all me, baby :)

i genuinely could NOT write out the confrontation -- but how did you like the twist? or should i say the AUDACITY of steven 😼 (if you hate it, i am sorry 🙏 truly). the reason why i wrote out all of this was so you could get an idea of the dynamics around steven and the reader. i wanted to make some hints at your past friendship and how this situation has ruined it. i know this story is slow asf (and not just bc of my inconsistent posting) but i swear i want to see where it goes just as much as you guys do. unfortunately, i'm in charge of figuring it out.

sorry again for the delayed chapter. 👋 see you in a year i guess...

[rafeskai]

Life as We Know It — Rafe Cameron

Epilogue

Two opposites must navigate love, loss, and unexpected parenthood to discover the meaning of family.

Summary: When tragedy strikes, two very different individuals find their lives unexpectedly intertwined as they become the guardians of an orphaned child. As they navigate the challenges of co-parenting, balancing careers, and confronting their pasts, they discover that family can form in the most surprising ways. Through heartfelt moments and unexpected humor, they explore what it means to build a life together—one step at a time.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Character deaths & angst.

Author's Notes: That marks the end of this series :( thank you guys so much for all the love and feedback! I’m so proud of this series and I hope u guys love it as much as I do.

Masterlist: Here

It had been a year since the custody battle, since Rafe and you had found yourselves standing side by side, figuring out this whole "family" thing. A year since both of you issued a restraining order against Ward, and the judge granted it. A year since you stopped pretending you didn’t feel something for him, and he stopped acting like he was too good for anyone, especially you. Now, the chaos of life had settled into a strange, beautiful rhythm. It wasn’t perfect—far from it—but it was yours.

And, somehow, against all odds, the three of you had made it work.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, where you stood trying to assemble breakfast. You had learned, over time, that cooking for Willa was an Olympic sport. Every time you managed to whip together a simple meal, she somehow managed to flip the situation on its head—literally.

"Willa, no!" you heard Rafe call out from the living room. You looked up just in time to see him frantically trying to stop her from scaling the couch like some sort of tiny, diaper-clad Spider-Man. “You can’t climb up there!”

But Willa was undeterred. She gave a small shriek of triumph, her baby legs scrabbling up the cushions like she was born to conquer furniture. You had to admit, you were impressed.

"I swear she’s part monkey," you muttered under your breath, flipping pancakes with a practiced hand.

Rafe stumbled into the kitchen, his hair sticking out at odd angles, the look of a man who had given up on ever having a decent morning.

“You say that like it’s a surprise,” he deadpanned, rubbing his face. “We’ve had this conversation a hundred times. No more couch climbing. She’s already an inch away from that giant coffee table, which, let me remind you, is made of solid oak. And do you know what happens when Willa decides gravity is optional?”

You snorted. “We end up on the floor with her holding a half-empty juice box like she’s just conquered the world, while you scramble to pick up the pieces of your dignity.”

He shot you a pointed look. “Exactly.”

You set the pancakes aside and wandered over to rescue Willa, who was now attempting to climb up the back of the couch like a small, determined mountain goat. Scooping her up with one hand, you held her up in front of you. “You know, kid, you’re lucky you’re so cute, because if I had to stop doing my work every time you decided to do a backflip off a chair, I’d be in therapy by now.”

Willa gurgled, her eyes wide and innocent, as though she didn’t have a single rebellious bone in her tiny body.

Rafe leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “I’m just saying, if she’d stop doing that, maybe I could get ten minutes of peace. But no. We live in a house of chaos.”

You smirked, watching as Willa grabbed his shirt and yanked. “If she’s chaos, you’re the tornado that hits right after,” you teased, making Rafe roll his eyes dramatically. “Just admit it—you love it.”

He groaned but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah, I love the chaos. But you have to admit it’s a lot of work. I mean, who’s going to put together her tiny little rocking horse without accidentally breaking something?”

“Not me,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure I broke that rocking horse three times already.”

At that, Rafe laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, I’ll take that as my cue to fix it. You keep trying to make breakfast, and I’ll figure out what’s going on with the toy horse that’s apparently haunted.”

Willa babbled in your arms, and you kissed the top of her head. “I’m not saying this to be dramatic, but I’m pretty sure she is a secret agent in training. I’ve seen her figure out how to break into places she’s not supposed to be like she’s in a spy movie.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow. “Spy movie? She’s more like a tiny burglar who knows how to manipulate you with her big eyes and unstoppable giggle.”

You chuckled, nodding. “Fair. But I still think she could make a killing in espionage. Maybe we should start saving for her college fund in case she ends up needing a fake passport.”

Rafe grinned, his mood visibly lightened by your banter. “I’m pretty sure we’re going to need therapy more than we need a college fund. But I’ll get started on that fake passport idea, just in case.”

You grinned back at him, feeling that familiar warmth settle in your chest. There was a time—just a year ago—when you had no idea what your future would look like. Now, here you were, a family, even if it didn’t look like any family you had ever imagined.

“Well,” you said, turning back to the pancakes, “we better get our act together before she eats all the syrup by herself.”

Rafe snorted and shot you a grin. “You think she’s not going to try that already?”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Later that day, after Willa’s nap (which, let’s be honest, was more of a battle than an actual nap), you and Rafe found yourselves in the backyard, taking a breather after the chaotic lunch you’d just survived. Willa was happily playing in her little sandbox, tossing sand like it was confetti at a New Year’s party, while you and Rafe collapsed onto the porch swing, exhausted but content.

"How the hell did we get here?" you asked, your voice quiet, more to yourself than to him.

Rafe leaned back with a sigh, staring up at the sky. "I’m pretty sure we got here because you’re too stubborn to admit you love me," he said with a grin.

You nudged him with your elbow. "Excuse me, but it’s not just me that’s stubborn. Have you seen the way you try to resist her puppy-dog eyes? You can’t even handle Willa when she does her sad little face, and you know it."

He groaned. “It’s my kryptonite. I’m weak. I’ll admit it.”

“Good. Because that means you’re finally accepting that she’s the boss around here. We’re just along for the ride.”

Rafe chuckled, nudging you back. “If that’s true, then I’m okay with it. Besides, she has the best team behind her, right?”

You smiled softly, watching Willa scoop up a handful of sand and drop it like a tiny little sandstorm. “Right. And we’re the best team for her.”

There was a pause, a quiet moment where both of you watched Willa. The future was still uncertain—life always was—but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t seem so scary.

“Well,” Rafe said, standing up and stretching, “I guess we better go make sure our future crime boss doesn’t eat the sand. You know, for her health.”

You snorted, laughing as you stood too. “You mean for the safety of our sanity?”

“That too,” Rafe said, laughing as he grabbed your hand and pulled you into a warm hug.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And for once, that was enough.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

And so, life continued. Chaotic. Messy. Full of love. Your newfound family was far from conventional, but it was undeniably theirs—and somehow, that made it all the more beautiful.

Plus, Willa? She’d definitely grow up to be a world-class agent of chaos, and Rafe and you would have to learn to live with that.

But at least you’d be together.

© 2024 rafeskai | All rights reserved. This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by characters from Outer Banks, and no part of it may be reproduced or distributed without permission.

[strawberrykisseslia]

What it means to be family

pairing: mom!Taylor Swift x teen!daughter!reader , PLATONIC

tw. hurt/comfort, Taylor is a sweet mom, the father has no name, reader probably has both parents issues, your father left, mention of fighting, pre - eras tour Taylor, Taylor is maybe a little older but not much - a year or two older, proofread

an: starting the new year with miss taylor swift? YEAHHH i might start to write more for her because it's fun!!! and this healed my inner child, happy new year's by the way!!!

Masterlist

wc. 1206

You were never prepared for what came with being a super star's kid. No one knew how hard it would be when you truly start growing up.

It had been just you and your mom for a couple of months now since her separation with your father. They never told you the reasons why. But you knew it was for the better. The house was filled with sadness and anger. Their fights echoed in your ears every night your mom gave you a goodnight kiss. How could you even forget?

"For her at least!" Your mom yelled in the living room and you just stood in the door frame out of their sight.

"No- Are you even listening to me? I can't keep on living like this," your father fought back.

"I don't want her to grow up without a father," Taylor lowered her voice a little and shook her head. They had been through this more than enough times but she couldn't let him go just like that.

"I will visit," he promised. He always promised things but never kept them.

Taylor already knew that he wouldn't and he was just saying it. She shook her head.

You just watched their fights without ever wanting to participate in them. You were only six when they started to become more often. Almost everyday. Your father found reasons to waste the time with them.

One night while you were sleeping Taylor watched him go. She didn't have the strength to stop him this time. She just let it happen.

The morning that came after that was silent and sad. All your mom said to you was that he needed to go away for some work thing. She never said more but you were big enough that he won't come back this time.

-

It's been ten years since and it's just been you and your mom, Taylor Swift. Her biggest tour, The Eras Tour was starting soon. You never told her but you were scared. You were scared that you won't be able to meet as often and that she would stop loving as much, even though that wasn't true.

"Baby, do you want to help pick songs out?" she opened the door to your room as you were sitting in front of your makeup table. You saw her in the reflection of the mirror.

"Sure," you shrugged your shoulders and offered a gentle smile.

You followed her into her office and sat down next to your mom. Hands folded and on your laps. You wanted to tell her about your fears but you didn't have the heart to upset her. She was the best mom you could've ever asked for even though she had her own mistakes you never loved her any less or started to distrust her.

Though, Taylor started to notice your silence whenever she brought up The Eras Tour. It didn't go unnoticed by how tense you got at the first mention of it, how long it will be.

"So, how do you want it to be?" you asked as you raised your gaze to look at her.

She put a small smile on her face, "I was thinking about starting it with Lover. Since the Loverfest got cancelled, I think that's a good idea."

You nodded. You remembered how excited she was to perform her first owned album and how sad she was when she had to cancel it thanks to the pandemic.

"The era would start with Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince," her voice faded into the void as you started to daydream.

The other day you were out with friends and you watched how one of your friends got dropped of by her dad. And how she got a cheek kiss and a big hug before she ran over to you. Then her dad and mom picked her up and they went on their way.

You never told anyone but you actually really carved your father's love and attention, even if he never played his part. There were good and unforgettable moments with him that you cherished and kept hidden from the whole world, even hidden from Taylor. They were just yours to keep.

"Look! She is taking her first step," your father yelled for Taylor to come into the living room. She came rushed in with a camera in hand to document your achievement.

"Oh, my baby," she melted behind the camera as you were starting to almost walk.

You fell but you just smiled and giggled happily. Then everything felt perfect even if you didn't remember too much only seeing on videos.

Your parents smiled and laughed with you. Nothing ever felt more happier than that moment before all the fighting and yelling.

"Y/N? Are you okay?" your mother worriedly asked as she pulled you out of the daydreaming.

You shook your head and stepped back into reality again, "Yes, of course- I'm fine," you assured her and soothed her worry a little bit.

Taylor let out a heavy sigh and fully turned to you in her seat.

"I know how hard it is for you, and how hard it has been ever since..." she couldn't really say it out but you knew what she meant. She was still not over it herself as well.

"But I am always here for you," she reached out for your hand and you let her take it, "though, I feel like something else is also bothering you."

You lowered your gaze, you couldn't keep looking into her eyes and see all love and understanding for you and when you didn't want to let her go on a world tour and just stay with you forever. You felt selfish. But you truly just didn't want to lose another parent. That was a nightmare that always came up late night when you were trying to sleep peacefully.

"Mom, I-" you fell into silence but soon after decided to fight yourself and say it out loud, "I don't want you to tour," you raised your head to meet her eyes.

Her eyes softened and let you continue.

"It's just- what if you won't have time for me anymore? What if you will start to love me less?" you looked down, "I don't want to lose you too," you softly admitted.

She cupped your cheeks and forced you to make eye contact with her.

"You are my baby, my child," she softly and slowly said so you would listen, "Nothing and no one will ever be as important as you are, my love," she smiled and started to giving you kisses all over your face.

You giggled at your mom's behaviour like you were still a little baby.

When she stopped giving kisses, she continued her speech, "I was actually thinking about taking you with me on tour. And if you want a few, only a few friends can come along," she said with a smile.

"And I will never ever love you any less and I will always have time for my little angel and you won't get rid of me for many years to come," she stopped and pulled you into a deep, loving hug. You haven't felt this happy in a while.

[witch-hazels-musings]

a gesture

Warning -> fluff | reader gets a blister on their foot, genshin men notice and provide respite from the discomfort | pre-relationship (it's silly, and dumb, but let me have this)

Includes: Diluc, Xiao

Character X GN Reader (adventure guild reader*) | Anthology

A-N: I was planning on writing for a few more characters, but I'm a bit slow in my genshin right now, plus I *should* be resting ... 人(_ _*)

Diluc

"Be right there!" you shouted over the calls echoing in the hall. Your hand dropped from your lips and back to the stack of rolled papers in your arms. The guild was busier than normal. Perhaps it was because of the snow fading from the streets, or the warmer wind blowing in from the south. Being surrounded by the lake meant damper and colder winters, but you didn't mind.

You loved the snow.

What you didn't love was returning to restrictive shoes now that the cobblestone streets were less barred by ice. You missed your warm fur-lined boots.

"Hey, got a few more requests for you to review," you told one of the auditors as you leaned onto the polished wood counter that separated you from the workers just inside. You tapped the toe of your shoe on the floor to force room between your heel and the leather rubbing against it. "Oh, and this came from Alfry." You reached into your pocket and handed a folded, sealed letter to the attendant.

After waiting for several minutes, and shifting from one foot to the other - relief waning and waxing - you made your way outside toward the Kiosk near the front of Mondstadt. It took a while, you were particularly slow on the stone steps of the city since each one put added pressure on your heels. You could feel a blister on the horizon.

Katheryne greeted you with a wave when she saw you.

She was, without a doubt, one of your favorite people. She didn't lock you in long, uninteresting conversations about her life outside of work. She just thanked you for the updated commissions and let you be on your way. You wished everyone was like Katheryne.

It wasn't that you hated talking to people. You just preferred to get your work done and found it distracting to get lost in small talk about the weather. But you learned to be pleasant and control your drifting eyes that willed your soul to be anywhere but there.

When you approached the Guild, someone called you over and explained you were being requested in one of the assessment rooms. A room used by evaluators and requestors to work out the details of a commission. You weren't an evaluator - so who could possibly be asking for you?

You imagined several scenarios except for this one. The one where Diluc Ragnvindr was standing on the other side of the door, waiting for - you. In fact, you were so unprepared, taken aback, that you rechecked the room number.

It was odd to see Diluc outside of his normal patterns. The man was routine. Days spent at Angels Share, days absent from the city while he tended to his estate at the Dawn Winery. You had several run-ins with him over the years since his reappearance, but they were always in public spaces. Fleeting, nervous moments when you'd gather the courage to ask him for a drink while he worked or make polite - short - conversation when he dropped it off. You didn't even know he knew you worked at the Adventurers Guild.

"Sir Ragnvindr, is something - how can I help you?" you asked as you stepped inside the room and let the heavy door close behind you.

"Have I pulled you away from your work?"

"Yes," you said but caught yourself, "No. I mean, yes, but it's alright. Are you alright?" The thought crossed your mind that perhaps something had happened. An issue at the Winery or the tavern, maybe he thought you were the best person to help him? Not sure why. But you did know a lot of adventurers.

"I am well. Please," he gestured to the table and chairs beside him. Crossing the room, you noticed a tall, decorative bag on the corner of the table. The top was knotted by someone with experience. Diluc placed his hand on the table, and you stopped a few feet from him. He looked -- odd. Out of sorts even.

"Did you need something from the Guild? I'm not sure if anyone told you, but I'm not an evaluator, but I can find someone who can assist you in building a commission report."

"I do not require one. I am ..." he clenched his jaw and fumbled. "Please, sit," he repeated, gesturing to the chair slightly pulled out beside you.

Confused, you took a seat.

You considered yourself a rational person, a relatively calm person. One that could keep their head in most situations, but when the man you could hardly look at long enough to breathe knelt in front of you, lifted your calf, and began to untie your shoe, you yelped so loud it startled him.

"Dilu- I mean, Sir Ragnvindr, what are you doing!?" You reached for his arm but pulled back at the last second. A war raged inside your mind - one billowing urge shouted to push him away so you could steady your fluttering heart, and the other shrieked, terrified of making contact out of fear he'd know the truths of your unsettled heart.

"These are uncomfortable, are they not?"

You glanced at your shoes. "I mean - yes, but you don't have to worry about it. Please," you begged, fingers hovering above his hand, body fighting the will to rip free from his grasp. "Sir Ragn-"

"Diluc," he interrupted and looked up at you, "I much prefer when you call me Diluc."

You didn't know how to respond, didn't know how to react, so you just sat frozen while he carefully removed your shoes and tended to the wounds they had caused.

His touch was warm. Violently warm. It was like heat seeped from every bit of him. Tendrils of flames licked across his brow, his cheeks, his jawline. You were so close you could smell the earth and trapped dust from the melting snow trapped in his clothes.

He placed the bandage across your foot and carefully wrapped it until it was secure.

"T-Thank you," you mumbled. You were stuck between being embarrassed by what was happening and being smitten by it. You were in a haze. Your eyes could barely focus on his hands as he worked, barely noticing the stick he placed beside your right foot. The medicine he applied had soothed the soft burn of the blister.

He stood and a wave of his scent washed over you. It took a moment for you to catch your breath, but when you did, you reached for your shoes that he had placed on the table.

"I'll repay you for the treatment."

"No need," he replied as he tugged at the decorative cloth bag. His back blocked you from what was inside. You worked on stretching the laces of your shoes so you could slip them over your foot. Just as you were about to place them on, Diluc returned and stalled your actions, taking the shoe from you and returning it to the table. He easily held your calf and slipped on another shoe. A flat, wide one that wouldn't rub against you the way your own had. "How does it fit?" he asked as he carefully slid it over your heel and adjusted it until it was on completely.

The shoe was elegant, beautiful. Something you would only dream of buying - most of your clothes were from sales and take-bins of neighbors doing their yearly cleaning. These were --

"Wait - did you buy these?"

"I did. But I was unaware of your size. If these are not satisfactory, I purchased several others which may be more suitable for you," he explained and that's when you noticed the stack of boxes now exposed from the cloth bag. Two boxes were placed to the side, another still in it, while the last was open, the lid placed at an angle as if forgotten.

"You bought," you paused, disbelief pulling in your brows, "multiple pairs?"

"It seemed better to purchase multiple than to guess. Though I could have inquired from you directly," he trailed off as if the thought had only just crossed his mind.

But only one crossed yours, "Why?"

He looked up at you, still kneeling and preparing your other foot to accept your new shoes' partner, "I notice you. You would be unable to work in this state."

"Noticed me?"

"Yes. Besides, I couldn't rightfully ... never mind."

"What," you blurted, hanging on his every word.

He glanced at you and then looked back at your feet. There was a pause, a heavy pause in the air. "To see you in discomfort. It - It did not sit well with me."

You sat in silence as he ensured the shoes fit, as he laced them, and made sure they wouldn't irritate the bandage. You held your tongue and swallowed the pounding pressure in your chest when he lifted you from the chair and made sure you could stand before he let go.

You breathed him in while he stood before you.

"I will be at Angel's Share tonight. I can set aside some time for you, should you find yourself-"

"Okay," you blurted again, followed it up with an embarrassed sorry. It made him laugh, and you snatch the lurching urge to jump on him.

"Until then," he hummed, a smile tugging at his lips. "Do not rush in the meantime. I have already given my recommendations to the guild to allow you rest, though I do not imagine you'll heed it."

Diluc packed up the bag and bid you farewell, lingering his voice on the sound of your name, his eyes on your warm face. He slipped out of the room and left you in disbelief in a pair of beautiful crimson shoes.

--

Xiao

Why did you decide to wear these shoes?

You thought at least twenty times as you trudged down the path. As you hiked over the mountain passes that had seen better days in their time. A giant bolder blocked you a few paces back and you were still brushing yourself off from the unprepared scramble; you found a tear in your clothes and groaned.

For an adventurer, you got off pretty lucky. Only taking the low-priced requests. Ones left for running between towns, helping clear out someone's back room, or helping with a shipment. You weren't interested in the daring adventures that some in the guild would take, snatch up before you even had a chance to read the whole thing. And you certainly weren't about to follow in the footsteps of that strange traveler who - for a while - was accused of killing the Liyue Archon. (You still had your suspicions).

Nope, you were complacent, content with the simple jobs that helped you keep the lights on and splurge on the things that caught your eye. One of which was currently on your feet and digging into the skin uncomfortably. You hopped on one foot and shoved your finger inside the edge of the shoe in the hopes of stretching out the tight leather.

The top of the path crept over the horizon and you picked up the pace to reach it. You adored cresting the hill and seeing the harbor stretch across the bay, how the tall mountainside loomed above her - a watchful guardian, a shield and protector. You sighed and adjusted the pack on your back. The road into the harbor wasn't long, but it was steep, and you prepared yourself for a rough descent with your aching feet.

Every step slowed you down. Each one more uncomfortable than the last. You thought about taking off your shoes but didn't want to catch the disapproving glares that came from Liyue's citizens. So, you pushed forward.

A plume of green and black smoke enveloped you. You would have shouted but you were used to the sensation and how it obscured your view. Months ago you stumbled upon the smoke's owner in a field. He seemed injured so you went to check on him only to learn he was fine, and rather unappreciative of your concern - actually, he was irritatingly annoyed that you had distracted him from his lay-about.

"Hello, little Xia--woah!" Instead of appearing near you like he had before, you were suddenly floating in the green smoke. It whipped through your hair, tugged at your loose clothes, and bit at your skin. You felt like you were falling, and then you were - into the arms of the Adeptus who normally kept his respectful distance from you.

When your eyes adjusted to the return of light, you twisted to look at him, one arm draped over his shoulders as if he had placed it there.

"What are you-?" The words caught in your throat. Confusion, surprise, and bashful bewilderment tickled your cheeks and stole your ability to speak. Your face was inches from him. Closer than it ever had been before.

"You're injured," he spoke softly, matter-of-factly, his eyes drifting to your feet. You could already see the broken skin around your heel.

"It's nothing. Just my shoes," you explained as you stared at your own feet as if that explanation meant anything to him.

"Hold on," he said as he held you to him and the two of you disappeared into a puff of ethereal phthalo.

--

Xiao placed you on the small stool you had left out on the balcony the night before. He was careful to not let you crash into it. His strength - despite his size - was easy to sense as he eased you onto it and waited for you to settle.

"Thanks," you hummed, stealing a peek at his eyes. Eyes the shade of ginkgo trees in fall, eyes that held eons of history and centuries of sadness. Xiao didn't speak much, but his searching and timid eyes quenched your thirst for his voice.

He lifted your leg and you covered your mouth to avoid making a noise. Before you could ask him a question, he withdrew into his haze and was gone. You sat motionless for only a few seconds, and contemplated entering your house as you, in a daze, took off your shoes but when you rose to leave, Xiao reappeared holding a small container.

"For your injury. It's important to - take care of yourself," he mumbled the last part of his sentence as he held the container out to you. Averting eyes, open fingers unmoving, waiting for you to take it.

Your fingertips brushed his skin. "Did you get this for me?" He crossed his arms and didn't answer but his actions still made your chest warm and lips pull into a giddy smile.

"Don't dally," he scolded and threw you a sharp stare, "Or you'll be left with a scar."

"Oh right." You nodded and uncapped the container. The salve held a potent medicinal scent. "You don't have to stay," you added, a little sad at the thought of him leaving but recognizing that he didn't enjoy the sights and sounds of the city. His avoidance one of the many secrets locked in the amber of his soul.

"I'll wait."

You opened your mouth to protest but he turned his back to you, crossed his arms. Watched, observed. Protective.

"Thank you, Xiao," you whispered and chuckled at the grunt that floated toward you from the Adeptus statue standing near the corner of your balcony.

--

[ttheggrimrreaper]

☆ Blue Lock x Reader (Fem!Manager)

Various x reader : Blue lock, the facility made to create the best striker in Japan through grueling tests. But even the best striker needs someone on the side lines to support them. 100 (allegedly) girls, half invited, others coming to sign up, all together to go through a similar process, to produce the best Manager.

☆Episode 1: Options

Your knee bounced up and down, looking over the letter once more. One hand resting on the arm rest of the sofa. The other holding the letter out in front of you. With a sigh, running your free hand over your head. The contents of the letter consisted of an invite to a facility by the name of Blue Lock. Although, as the letter stated, the purpose of the facility was for boys soccer, every team does need a manager.

'L/n Y/n, You have been invited into the Blue Lock Manager program along with 100 other girls.'

The message was followed by other information regarding the whereabouts and the time you were to arrive at the set location. However the issue wasn't the location, it was within jogging distance. The issue was... You couldn't quite remember submitting a request to join this manager program, let alone anything to do with Blue Lock whatsoever. Yes you had managing experience, just last year the boys team you managed had won its tournament! Although all you did was sit on the side lines keeping the team positive and hydrated. So why, why would you have ever applied? Why could you not remember this decision being made, let alone sending in a letter or email? Normally, you would have declined immediately, who knows who applied for you and why? But just yesterday your guardian had gotten in your ass about needing to prepare for your future as an adult. Should you accept you could tell them it was to become an official manager of a professional team some day, they do make quite a bit of money. As well as it would show that you were responsible enough to handle yourself without the constant supervision. Taking care of teenage boys was like having a pack of talkative, loud, and angry dogs. You did once, you're sure you could do it again.

Biting the inside of your cheek, the letter explained that you would receive a explanation should you choose to come to the location at the respective time. What the worst that could happen? You don't like what you hear and walk out without a problem, other than a possible lecture on being responsible. Or you like what you hear and agree to join? Either way nothing truly unbearable happens. Folding the letter up and setting it on the side table, you had two days to decide whether you wanted to give this place a chance.

(Time skip brought to you by Noel Noas SHARP eyeliner)

Taking a deep breath as you looked to the building. It was no different than any other building,but it's what it held inside that made you all tingly inside. This could be the chance of a lifetime! Or a complete waste of your time. Walking towards the entrance you noticed two boys, one with blue hair, the other with white as they talked. One seeming much more timid at the idea of this Blue lock program. At least your not alone in that, shaking your head slightly not wanting to eavesdrop you stepped passed them and towards the entrance. Upon entering you were immediately filtered to a separate hallway, watching as others went another way. This did not help settle your confusion and you held your bag closer to you. The man who had led you down the hallway held open a door for you. Hesitantly peeking your head in, you saw a group of women. All spread throughout the room, of all shapes and heights. Different races and different moods. Some wearing sports wear, the others wearing simple sun dresses. You yourself had gone for whatever made you the most comfortable that day. As you stepped in and the man closed the door a girl with blond hair and big yellow eyes jumped in front of you

"Hi!!! My name is Suki Yamori!! Nice to meet you! What's your name!?"

The first thing you noticed about the girl, was how bubbly she was... Well that and just being loud. As the girl waited for your response you looked around the room once more, just for a quick second. Scanning, it seemed as though you must have been the last one and everybody else had either become a loner to themselves or found a group.

"I.. um.. my name Y/n, Y/n L/n."

You spoke, trying to keep your voice down as to coax her into doing the same. You saw Suki open her mouth, but as she did a woman stepped onto stage. Reddish hair pulled back into a bun. She tapped the mic, causing the rest of the room to quiet down. Suki grabbed your arm and pulled you closer towards the stage. Although the contact wasn't exactly welcomed, you made no attempt to back away and just let yourself be shoved in between the other girls.

"Ladies, My name is Anri Teieri. Welcome to Blue lock! You have been hand picked for this program based on your ability to 1, keep your team well., working as a team! 2, for your organization skills and timely functionality, and 3, because of your ability to keep your team moral rates high even in a dire situation. Only about 50 of you actually submitted but in order to have an even playing field we needed 50 more. So for the half of you that are confused, you have now received an answer."

Anri smiled at the crowd, the growing murmurs starting once more. Well, that was part of what your confusion was, and now it was answered.

"I submitted! Did you?"

Suki asked, At least in a whisper yell. She put in some sort of effort in being quiet. You just shook your head as Anri cleared her throat to get the girl's attention back.

"As my coworker in the other room searches for his perfect striker, He will also be searching for the best manager. After all, if he can have his striker in the best hands possible then it will ensure Japan's victory. This experiment will require you ladies to stay in the Blue lock facility and undergo training just as any other athlete. However not as tough. We are looking for your ability to push past and break down whatever differences your team may have with eachother, and to mold them into a well oiled machine-"

She was cut off before she could continue by a talk girl next to you. Her hair must be what caused her attitude, pulled back into a high and tight ponytail.

"What about our periods? And families? As well all I saw when I walked in was boys standing around!? Are they the team we are to deal with!?"

Anri, although surely she must be annoyed, just smiled as she answered.

"Of course anything you need will be provided to you, as for your families... Well it's a price to pay for a chance at being Japans national soccer team manager."

So, it was a direct shot to the top. Whoever got the best scores on making their team work out best was going to the big leagues.

"However should you get 'Locked off' as Ego calls it, you give up any chance at being apart of Japans national sports team in any way. If you read the letter we sent to your respective addresses, it said that it would be a boys team. Boys tend to listen more when it comes to a female in charge, once they prove their worth at least. Regardless, if your team doesn't listen, then you're going to be locked off. So make it work ladies."

As Anri finished her speech the stage behind her seemed to open... 2 large panels sliding to the side. Nobody moved, not daring to even say a word. Either from the shock of the doors or still replaying what she said. You noticed that even the bubbly and seemingly trigger happy Suki next to you was lost for words. Just staring blindly ahead. Your own head whipped around as a short girl with narrow green eyes and pink hair spoke up.

"My team is supposed to go to Nationals!! If this is about being loyal to your team that you helped make then what am I supposed to do!?"

Anri, who was already walking off stage stopped and turned back to the crowd, her smile dropped and replaced with a frown.

"That's up to you. Should you stay loyal I congratulate you, even if you miss out on this amazing opportunity, but should you choose to stay, if your team is as well put together as you Imply, they should be fine without you. No more questions."

With that she walked off stage. The girls went silent, all debating. You as well, still holding your bag closer than ever lost in your head, the only thing that brought you out was the moment next to you. Zoning back in, you watched as Suki took a couple walking steps forward, slowly all the eyes in the room falling to her. Then she broke for it, sprinting to the doors.

She was right to sprint. The chance of a lifetime was only feet ahead of you, and you were even thinking about passing it up!? No way! You quickly followed behind, arms pumping. You heard as girls ran behind you a few passing you but it didn't matter, you would crush them all anyway. You didn't have to be kind or loyal to them, just to your team of 11. That is what mattered, making those 11 work hand in hand to crush anything that came their way.

Blue Lock Master List

Episode 2

[nanamineedstherapy]

The 3AM God Complex

Summary: Gangs of Wasseypur x Shark Tank but everyone has rabies. Previous Chapter - [Tumblr/Ao3] A/N: Some nights aren’t about healing. Some are just about remembering who you were before the job, before the headlines, before they called you ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am.’ This is one of those nights.

One drink in, you remember exactly who these people were before they started calling you boss.

No one remembers whose idea it was to go out for drinks. Probably Ino—he’s the only idiot who still believes in team bonding like it’s an HR-mandated ritual and not just a gathering of glorified traitors with matching lanyards.

Nobody expected you to say yes. Definitely not Nanami.

But there you both were.

At SuzyQ’s, a rooftop bar that plays lo-fi beats in the bathroom and sells ₹800 mocktails with basil foam. You sat with a glass of Old Monk, like a Delhi aunty who just sold her startup to Sequoia. Nanami ordered whiskey. Neat. No questions. Ino was already passed out.

It’s a strange crowd—too familiar, too forced, too close to old wounds.

You told yourself you came for the juniors—Megumi, Kokichi, Yuji, and Junpei—your only source of serotonin these days.

The rest? You tolerated. Barely.

Suguru was already tipsy. He leaned in, confident, like years of emotional absenteeism could be scrubbed off with cologne.

“You’re glowing tonight,” he murmured, like a villain with a PhD in boundary issues. His breath hot with gin.

You didn’t flinch. Just took another sip.

“I always glow when I’m drunk,” you deadpanned. “It’s liver damage.”

He laughed like he’d earned it.

Like you hadn’t spent all of college pretending not to notice how he looked through you in every seminar. Like he hadn’t said your name for the first time after you became his boss.

Across the table, Sukuna was watching like he was trapped in a fanfiction titled Enemies to Lovers, But She Keeps Threatening Me With Legal Action. Arms folded.

“Can’t believe you’re actually human,” he muttered into his glass.

“Can’t believe you think this is a redemption arc,” you snapped.

He smirked like that was foreplay.

You remember him from IIM—topper of Analytics back then, the kind of genius who didn’t need to talk to you. Didn’t want to.

You weren’t on his radar. Not until he joined your company and realized he reports to you.

Now he acts like you’re something to each other.

You know better.

The juniors were the only reason you weren’t chewing glass.

You sat on the floor with them—heels off, legs folded—playing blackjack, laughing like you didn’t spend every workday threatening to fire at least one of them. They were drinking Fanta because Megumi refused to let Junpei mix his rum again. Also because drinking felt weird with his father right fucking there.

“Megumi,” you said, squinting at his cards, “if you bluff one more time, I’m demoting you to IT helpdesk.”

Kokichi snorted. “Like you can survive without him.”

Yuji spilled Fanta laughing.

“Can I get a promotion if I win?” Junpei asked, hopeful.

“No,” you said. “But I’ll let you choose the playlist for Monday.”

“That’s better than a raise,” Kokichi muttered.

“This is illegal,” you said, throwing your cards. “I run a company. Someone fire me.”

“We’ve tried,” Kokichi said dryly. “You just yell louder.”

Toji leaned over, ruffling Megumi’s jet-black hair softly, drunk off exactly one Simba Stout, then poked him in the cheek.

“Play your cards, champ.”

Megumi didn’t look up. “Stop breathing near me.”

Toji laughed. “Still my boy.”

Megumi looked like he was about to report him to HR.

You smiled. Not because it was sweet.

But because, for once, you weren’t the angriest person in the room.

Nanami—who’d spent most of the evening watching everyone like an exhausted class monitor—finally leaned in as you reached for another drink.

“You scare me,” he said softly. “But in a way I think I might like.”

You blinked.

Then coughed into your glass. “Virgin.”

He looked away. Adjusted his collar. Sipped his drink.

Nobody noticed Gojo wasn’t there.

Because nobody missed him.

Except him.

He found out when Suguru—drunk and glitter-dusted—posted a blurry group photo with flash, noise, and glasses raised on his Instagram.

Caption: “workplace wellness ✨🖤”

You were in the background, mid-laugh, drink in hand, head thrown back like you weren’t the rage-fueled CEO who told people to die at 10 AM standups.

He showed up twenty minutes later.

Still in his office clothes. Tie loose. Hair messy. Smile uneven.

You saw him walk in.

Didn’t acknowledge it.

He hovered behind the bar, awkward, waiting for an invitation that would never come, watching as you laughed at something Toji said about protein shakes being the new Bitcoin.

His eyes didn’t leave you once.

Sukuna watched him too. Not kindly.

He raised an eyebrow when Gojo lingered behind Suguru, hand resting on the back of his chair like he belonged there.

"Should’ve stayed home, Satoru," he muttered.

Gojo didn’t reply. Just watched.

Watched you throw your head back when Yuji pretended to mix a Fanta Mojito and served it to Nanami. Watched Megumi gift you a paperclip ring as a joke, and you wore it anyway. Watched Junpei and Kokichi mock your bluffing skills like you weren’t their boss. Watched Toji call you “CEO-sahiba” and you let it slide.

And then he remembered.

None of them were your friends back then. Not Suguru. Not Nanami. Not Sukuna. Not even Toji.

So why were you laughing with them now?

You were just there. The girl who ran on too much caffeine and not enough eyeliner. The girl who didn’t get invited. The girl who brought her own food from the canteen and studied alone on the hostel roof. The girl who hung out with him quietly while he chased someone else with better hair and worse ambition.

When the night ended, you stepped out first.

He followed. Finally. Cutting across the floor.

Your heels clicked against the wet pavement, barely making it to the curb before he caught up.

"Wait."

You stopped.

Gojo grabbed you, gentle but firm.

"Why do you hate me?" he asked. Voice low. Jaw tight. "Since college. I know I did something. I just... don’t know what."

No excuses. No apologies.

Just his hand on your wrist, phone in your other, laughter still warm on your face.

You turned. Slowly. Eyes colder than the night air.

"I don’t hate you," you said.

He exhaled. Hope flickered.

You glanced down at his fingers. Still long. Still trembling.

"I just don’t think about you at all. People grow apart."

And like fate was waiting, Utahime pulled up in a white BMW.

She stepped out.

Saw you. Saw his hand on yours. Saw the way you looked at him like a childhood drawing you no longer recognised.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

The look in her eyes said enough—like watching a memory erase itself in real time.

You pulled your hand back.

A black Koenigsegg Jesko—the kind that doesn’t belong in any of their tax brackets—rolled up next.

Window down.

Your name spoken by the driver like a prayer and a password.

You turned, gave Gojo a smile that meant nothing and everything.

"See you Monday, bro."

Then, for the first time that night, you smiled—like he was ordinary.

And stepped into the car.

He watched it drive away.

Utahime didn’t say a word the whole way home.

---

TL;DR: You were laughing with your enemies like you didn’t want them dead. And Gojo finally realised what everyone else already knew: you’d never been friends with any of them. And he never even noticed.

A/N: Who do you think drove the Koenigsegg? 👀 And more importantly—did Gojo deserve that ending, or was it too kind? Drop your damage in the comments. I’ll be reading with popcorn & poor impulse control.

Next Chapter - Samosas, Sockets & Strategic Sarcasm - [Tumblr/Ao3]

All Works Masterlist

[salty-tang]

For the Record 1: Freshman Orientation (multi-chapter series)

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader (mostly canon compliant)

Summary: Bucky Barnes has a metal arm. You have a post-metahuman era housing bill and a reputation for not suffering fools in committee. And it was always about the work—until it wasn’t. Now he’s disappearing between votes with bruises he won’t explain, and you’re rewriting amendments with one eye on the chamber doors. Trust looks like passing notes under the table. Care looks like covering for his absence without asking questions. And whatever this is? It lives somewhere between silence and strategy - folded into briefing packets, stitched into a hoodie you never gave back, and hovering just under the words you never say out loud. There’s a vote coming. And he’s trying to make it back in time - for the record, and for you.

⁕⁕⁕

a canon compliant congressman bucky x congresswoman reader fic set somewhere between tfatws and thunderbolts, chronicling congressman barnes' first term as a representative.

Warnings/ tags: Slow Burn, Political Drama, Light Angst with a happy ending, Mutual Pining, Bucky Doesn't Think He Deserves Good Things, Hurt/Comfort But Make It Legislative, Secret Missions with Legislative Consequences, The Interns Have Theories, Canon-Typical Violence, Congressman Bucky Barnes, Congresswoman Reader, author is not american and barely gets american politics, no use of y/n, this is the plot heavy long form fic

Word count: 3.2k

A/N: giving the 10k horny fic the slow burn treatment, enjoy!

ps: AO3 is my main platform for this work, tumblr is just getting the reupload

For the Record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

The Capitol breathes today – columns rising like relics, ceilings etched with gilded flourishes meant to awe, not comfort. The floor beneath your shoes is marble, cool and echoing, humming faintly with the footsteps of generations past. Velvet ropes redirect foot traffic in elegant loops, and staffers in borrowed suits loiter beside towering doorways, murmuring names they’ve rehearsed for weeks. The scent of old paper, wood polish, and burnt espresso hangs in the air, as familiar as ambition. Orientation week unfurls all around you – ceremonial handshakes, taut smiles, alliances brokered in glances, and the faint clink of coffee cups over promises no one really intends to keep.

The morning light falls like benediction through the rotunda’s arched windows – gold-fringed, solemn, almost theatrical. It strikes the filigree and brass with a precision that feels deliberate, casting the whole chamber in a soft, reverent glow. Statues stand vigil in the corners, their shadows sharp against the polished stone, and every surface gleams with the silent expectation that history will be made here. And if you’re clever, cautious, and lucky enough, it might just allow you to make your mark.

This is your second term in the House. You’ve been re-elected with wider margins and now you come armed with sharper instincts. The chaos of the start of a new term does not overwhelm in the way it once did, and you move through it with the grace of someone who has already learned the steps of this dance.

Nostalgia washes over you as you reflect on your last term – on how you walked into these same marbled halls two years ago, all steel posture and borrowed confidence, gripping a speech you rewrote five times the night before. Back then, everything felt sharp and immediate, where every handshake could make or break a bill. Every glare meant war, while a smile was loyalty to the ends of the earth.

You know better now – some battles are worth losing, some silence speaks louder. And power, the real kind, doesn’t always announce itself. It waits, watches, and moves only when it’s ready. Still, you keep your heels sharp and your replies sharper, as you circulate with ease, collecting updates, issuing tight-lipped congratulations, assessing the new players the way a seasoned poker player scans a fresh table. Most are predictable – party loyalists, legacy sons, a smattering of first-gen firebrands with bright eyes and tired smiles.

A ripple of attention shifts the room – James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes has arrived, fashionably late in the way that suggests he really didn’t mean to be. He’s in the right uniform – navy suit, crisp lines, and polished shoes that probably pinched the moment he put them on – but his posture betrays him. His broad shoulders are too taut, and his eyes dart around like they’re tracking exits, like he’s bracing for a firefight instead of small talk.

And make no mistake, something is coming for him. It’s just not a bullet or a punch to the gut, it’s sharks in silk ties and toothy smiles who circle newcomers like him every term.

You watch as he’s shepherded along by a lanky, salt-and-pepper staffer who’s doing his best to translate DC niceties into whatever language it is Bucky speaks. There’s something almost painful about how out of place he looks, and for the briefest second, you feel the flicker of something dangerously close to sympathy. You snuff it out immediately.

It’s clear that the uniform of civility doesn’t fit him. It chafes. And deep down, you can’t help but think, what the hell is a war hero, an Avenger, a liability, doing here, of all places?

What’s he trying to fix?

Or worse – what does he think he’s owed?

⁕

“That’s Mike Castillo,” Derek Chang mutters from beside you, breaking you out of your ruminations, his voice pitched low enough not to carry.

Your Chief of Staff since the beginning – ridiculously competent, permanently unimpressed – Derek has been at your side since the moment you decided to upgrade idealism for elected office.

He falls into step with you effortlessly, having already signed you in at the welcome desk and handed you the orientation packet you’ve been expecting. You flip it open as he continues, eyes skimming over committee placements and seating charts while Derek offers that kind of quiet, precise intel that never makes it into official briefings.

“Castillo’s the Comms Director. Smart. Ex-Senate. Got out just before the guy he worked for was indicted. Been cleaning up after Barnes since the campaign trail.” A pause. “Poor man looks like he’s aged ten years.”

You hum, half-listening, half-watching, as Mike steers Bucky away from an eager gaggle of press with all the practiced calm of a man defusing a live grenade.

Buried between a line about ethics reform and a tentative travel docket, you clock a header you weren’t expecting:

Pending Delegation Travel: Southeast Asia (Jakarta, Kuala Lumpur, Singapore – Final Roster TBC)

You nudge the line with your thumb.

“That trip still happening?”

Derek shrugs. “Committee's trying to shove it through before midterms eat the calendar. They want a mix of senior oversight and fresh blood. Don’t look at me like that.”

You arch a brow.

“You count as both.”

You let the remark hang. Southeast Asia is interesting enough – the humid heat, the food, the way their press brings a different type of chaos – that you consider putting yourself forward as a delegate. But then your mind clicks forward, fast and practical. All the travel memos, staff rotations, diplomatic briefings, the calendar for markup week that Derek barely just managed to wrangle under control…

You sigh and file it for monitoring at the back of your mind, as you turn your attention to more immediate things.

The seating chart at the Subcommittee on Post-Blip Housing and Urban Recovery pairs you and Bucky together. You actually snort. You can see the party Whip’s fingerprints all over this arrangement – he’s one of those overzealous optimists who still believe that bipartisanship can be manufactured through “harmless” proximity.

Still, you can appreciate the optics. Bucky might not have any policy experience (in housing or otherwise), but post-Blip reconstruction practically begs for a face like his – reformed, recognisable, and deeply symbolic.

⁕

The air in the committee room is faintly stale – too many old reports, too little fresh sunlight – and it carries the smell of paper, varnish, and the distant ghost of bureaucracy. Walnut panels line the walls in solemn rows, their sheen dulled by decades of anxious fingertips and heavy-handed debate. Framed district maps hang between portraits of past committee chairs, faces captured mid-command, their legacies more present in precedent than memory.

You’re already settled when he slides into the chair beside you – again, just barely on time. You give him a minute to get his bearings. He pulls out a pen, a blank notepad, and very little else. He’s got no annotated packets, no staff-prepared folders, not even a working knowledge of committee procedure if his uncertain expression is anything to go by.

The committee leader calls the meeting to order and launches into what may be the driest opening monologue ever made. He's been drawing out the same overwrought metaphor about “rebuilding the foundations of civic life” for at least eight uninterrupted minutes.

You lean in, barely. Your eyes don’t move from the front of the room.

“I hope you’re not planning to grandstand every hearing with shield metaphors.”

Bucky turns, just slightly, surprised the remark is for him. Then he deadpans, “was thinking more about roof metaphors. Housing committee, am I right?”

Your lips twitch – barely. You’ve heard he has a dry sense of humour. It’s oddly satisfying to find the reports were not exaggerated.

That assessment takes a nosedive when the committee leader opens the floor for speeches, and names Bucky to kick it off. Several backs straighten – the other Representatives are eager to hear what he has to say.

He blinks once, twice, thrice, and you just know he’s not ready at all.

You watch him clamber onto the raised dais and begin speaking – sparingly, politely. There’s a tightness to his posture, like he’s bracing for impact. It’s years of managing your every micro-expression that the neutral smile plastered on your face does not slip into a grimace.

You’ve seen worse, freshmen reps freeze under the pressure all the time, but watching him fumble through vague platitudes about rebuilding and second chances, feels like watching someone bleed out slowly under a spotlight. The worst part is that you don’t even think he’s trying to be performative – he means every word.

And meaning, you know all too well, doesn’t pass legislation.

He catches himself before he meanders into the realm of war stories, which you are sure is something that he will never be able to recover from if he did, but he’s already lost the thread. He sounds nice, he does not stutter, but nothing in his speech lands. It does not offer a number, a draft, a measurable target, just directionless conviction.

You’re a student of the system; you’ve memorized its rules, its blind spots, its loopholes, like the zealot you are. Not because they’re fair, or that you blindly believe in it, but because they were at least supposed to be there. You clawed your way up through hearings, amendments, hostile rooms, convinced that if you played the game well enough, you could rewrite the rules from the inside.

And he’s not rewriting the rules. He doesn’t even seem to know them.

He’s not someone the system failed, he’s what the system built and then discarded. A soldier in a suit, now expected to navigate markup procedures with the same instincts that got him through ambushes. He speaks with weight, yes, but it’s the kind forged in blood, not policy. And weight without grounding is just gravity – dragging everything down with it.

If this is about his atonement – informed by some misplaced belief that redemption wears a suit and a tie and carries a voting record – you give it six months, tops.

Capitol Hill doesn’t run on conscience; it runs on optics, on compromise padded in committee notes, on favours owed and favours banked. If he’s looking for redemption, he’s picked the wrong altar. This isn’t a temple, it’s a place where the wheels are built to turn for eternity. And it functions best when it forgets the people it has failed.

If he doesn’t already realize that, he will be forced to. Much sooner than he thinks.

⁕

Bucky Barnes knows he’s no political wunderkind. He hears the words that come out of his mouth – halting, barely scripted, a shade too awkward – and wonders sardonically how everyone in the room is keeping a straight face. Maybe no one wants to be the first to laugh at a man who used to kill for a living.

He’s not new to being watched, but this, this is a different kind of scrutiny. No one’s bracing for a flash of metal and a body count, they’re waiting for him to trip over parliamentary procedure or misquote a housing statute. A reminder for them – however accidentally – that the Winter Soldier is now expected to politic.

He wants to prove that he can bleed something good out from a system that once used him as a weapon, praised him like a saviour, and then dropped him like a threat the second he stopped being convenient.

He remembers what Sam told him, once, “the only power I have is that I believe we can do better.”

Some days, Bucky tries to believe it too. Most days, he’s not sure he can.

But he still suits up and sits through roll call. Listens, votes, and waits for the other shoe to drop, for someone to say what they’re all thinking; that maybe this whole thing – the office, the oath, the second chance – was a mistake.

Because it wouldn’t be the first time they handed him a new identity just to wait for him to ruin it himself.

⁕⁕⁕

It’s half an hour into the fourth working session of the subcommittee when you notice that Bucky is a no-show. You glance at the empty seat with his nameplate, then at the door again. You tap your pen against your legal pad. Then you flip through your binder, wondering – not for the first time – why you even care.

It happens again the next day. He’s not on the call sheet for a hearing that he’s supposed to be co-chairing. You glance at the chair across from you, neatly set up, untouched. A niggling thought at the back of your head that suggests that maybe he’s not even in the city.

You push it aside and focus on the agenda. You’re not his handler.

But it’s at the seventh subcommittee meeting, just before the session on Section 17 amendments – that the low simmer of irritation finally boils over into full-fledged suspicion. You fire off an email to his office, short and sharp.

You barely have the chance to close your inbox when the auto-reply lands neatly at the top of the pile.

Congressman Barnes is currently on district travel and will return by the end of the week. Please contact Communications Director Mike Castillo for urgent matters.

You blink as you check the time. It’s 10:37 am EST.

One of your aides literally just ran into him at the specialty coffee shop four blocks away – black double shot Americano, no sugar, hood up. Not exactly district travel attire.

You lean back in your chair, brow furrowed. The whole thing stinks of a coverup. Even your interns know what a genuine travel memo looks like, and this is so far from it that it’s laughable. What this is, is a pre-cleared alibi for an absence someone doesn’t want logged. You’ve seen this kind of manoeuvre before – from career politicians who lie for a living, not from war heroes trying to rebrand as reformed public servants.

But maybe that’s the trick.

He says he’s changed. He says he’s here to do better. And yet, there he goes, vanishing behind fake calendar entries like it’s his second nature.

The work continues in his absence. You hold your tongue.

But you don’t forget.

⁕⁕⁕

A few days later, you’re leaving the Rayburn House cafeteria, takeaway salad in hand, when you pass your internal mailbox and pause. A single sheet of paper has been slipped in there. There’s no envelope, no cover letter, no outer markings. Just A4 folded neatly with all the edges aligned with an almost compulsive precision, and creased like it had lived in someone’s back pocket for hours.

You stand there in the mailroom, staring at it longer than you mean to.

On the margins, the sender has signed off with a small dash and a single letter.

- B

It’s a briefing schedule – your subcommittee calendar. A few time blocks are misaligned with the one that had been previously circulated by his staff, and you clock the change immediately. “Priority conflict” is highlighted in red ink beside a rescheduled oversight hearing with nary an explanation or justification.

You don’t ask. Not yet.

But the next time he walks into the committee meeting room – slightly winded, blazer slung haphazardly over one arm, hair damp at the temples, and (only) thirty minutes late – you don’t even pretend to soften your stare.

He takes his seat beside you, flipping his nameplate back into place like this is supposed to be just another Tuesday, like he hasn’t just insulted your intelligence.

You tilt your head and shift your folder towards him ever so slightly, so that he can see what is clipped to the top with a bright red paper clip – your copy of his alternate schedule.

He doesn’t look at you and certainly doesn’t acknowledge it. But you catch the right corner of his mouth lifting, just barely. Not a smile, not yet.

You catch it, note it, and say nothing.

Let him have his secrets.

You have time.

The session ends as scheduled. You gather your notes, deliberately slow. The room empties around you in the usual shuffle of chairs and half-finished conversations, but he lingers, an elbow intruding just slightly at the edge of your space, like he’s waiting for the right opening.

You glance up, arching a brow, poised for… something. An apology, maybe. An explanation, definitely. Something dry, something deflective, something that admits – if only by omission – that he knows he’s botching this and that you’re noticing.

Bucky just sits there for a breath too long, saying nothing. And then, someone from across the room calls his name and he rises without hesitation.

His fingers skim the edges of your stationery as he turns away.

It could’ve been an accident.

It wasn’t.

⁕⁕⁕

Two weeks later, Bucky makes it back to a Chambers vote with minutes to spare.

The House chamber is alive with tension beneath its polished quiet, the floor a low thrum of footsteps, murmured whip counts, and the rustle of starched fabric and unread memos. Overhead, the lights are too bright and too cold, flattening every face into civility, but he barely notices all of that.

His temple’s still tender from the mission – a drop interception gone sideways – and his tie’s digging into a fresh bruise beneath his collarbone. He didn’t have the energy or time to fix either.

He just focuses on the fact that his seat is beside yours. Of course it is.

You don’t look at him, not directly. Without missing a beat, you draw a slim folder from your pile of papers, and without a word, slide it across the polished table at him.

It’s a briefing packet – tabs, highlights, headings in your tidy, efficient hand. It’s not the packet his office prepared; it’s a twin of your own. And it’s for him.

He doesn’t look at you. But you see the way his shoulders drop a fraction. The way he lets his hand rest on the folder for a beat too long.

His ribs ache and his head is pounding. But for the first time all week, something in him unwinds.

Because you notice – and never ask for anything in return.

He marks the vote and slides the folder into his briefcase. He doesn’t thank you, and he knows you wouldn’t want him to.

But he will.

Somehow, he will.

⁕

Later, in your office, you toss a pen onto your desk with more force than you actually intended to. Regardless, the clack against the wood is sharp and satisfying.

“Remind me why we’re propping up someone who thinks ‘markup’ is a kind of wound?” you ask, not looking up from your amendments.

Derek doesn’t even spare a glance away from his tablet. “You’re the one who said we need allies.”

You grimace. You did say that. Maybe not out loud.

And Bucky Barnes, for all his earnest, inconveniently principled faults, might be the only one here who actually means the things he says.

Which makes him useful. And just that bit dangerous enough to worry you.

⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕

A/N: ive forgotten how tumblr formatting works, please bear with me!

-START- || AO3 || 2. Cover Stories >>

[liillyliilly]

Mind Games

iwaizumi hajime x reader words; 14055 synopsis; Whether by fate or luck, they had always been seated right next to each other. Every year, they were desk-mates. She liked to play Go, a game that used a lot of mental planning and strategy. He did not like the way his own brain played games with him, psyching him out every time he was near her. It's just too bad that she's dating one of her club members, leaving Iwaizumi to spend too much time in his own head.

She always thought he was mildly bothersome. The same guy that arm wrestled on her table, when she had the full intention of playing Go instead. Maybe if she had been a part of the chess team instead this all could’ve been prevented. That way she could’ve spent lunchtime with them instead of solely with her strange, but still sweet, best friend.

She focused back to the issue at hand.

“Iwaizumi Hajime, this is my table too.” She shook her box that had the black and white stones she spent so many hours playing with, capturing and expanding territory in the classical intellectual game of Go. Ito Yuuta was hovering around the door, waiting to be invited inside the classroom to join her in their game from yesterday. She had a picture of the board and needed to set it up again the way it had been left.

He just slammed down another kid with his arm, getting patted on the back by one of his fellow club members. “Ah, yeah, my bad, sorry. Truly.” Iwaizumi’s face was red, and she thinks that maybe arm wrestling was more intensive than it appeared.

He ushered the group of boys to clean their stuff off the table so she could set her board down on the desk in the classroom. Sometimes it irked her how much he would neglect to acknowledge that the set of desks right next to each other were not in fact, both of his to utilize in activities between classes. She had a claim to her desk and he had a claim to his desk. That’s all there was to it.

Every year, without fail, when she picked a charm before school started, she always got the Unlucky charm. That unluckiness manifested in the personage that was Iwaizumi, because every year, since elementary school, he had been her seatmate. Iwaizumi himself wasn’t mean or rude, he just lacked a sense of personal space. Especially regarding their desk situation.

She supposes that her family name may have played a role in the seating charts, but even midway through the year when desks were shuffled, she always sat next to Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi was really nice though, she did have to admit. And while they weren’t best friends, or extremely close, she did have to admit that she enjoyed his presence more often than not, so she enjoyed the friendship she had with Iwaizumi.

She sat down at her desk, laying out the board and starting to set up the stones. She noticed Ito still awkwardly standing on the threshold of the room, and she waved him over. He pulled around a chair so the two of them were sitting knee to knee around the Go board.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa were already out in the hallway, heading downstairs, aiming to go outside to the tables that were out there. Matsukawa was folding bills in his hands, collecting money from other boys who thought they could beat Iwaizumi. Hanamaki was chewing on a stick of licorice. When the duo noticed that Iwaizumi wasn’t behind them, they turned around.

Only to see Iwaizumi outside the room, but still keeping his head in the room. It looked silly to Hanamaki, to see Iwaizumi almost splayed out against the wall trying to balance while he was trying to watch what was happening in the classroom he had previously occupied.

“Oi! Hajime! I have three guys lined up for you still, hurry!” Matsukawa’s deep timbre broke Iwaizumi out of his trance, as he turned on his heel to catch up with his friends.

Hanamaki glanced at Matsukawa, then back to Iwaizumi who had his hands tucked into his pockets, slouching a little.

Matsukawa caught wind of what Hanamaki was trying to get him to notice, and Matsukawa tucked the bills into his back pocket. Hanamaki decided to instigate a titch, talking over Iwaizumi and making eye contact with Matsukawa.

“She’s really irritating. Thinking she can just kick us out of the classroom.” Hanamaki clocked how Iwaizumi’s shoulders stiffened.

Matsukawa gave a lazy grin, “Yeah, and her infant of a boyfriend is such a twerp, lurking around the room so he can play with her.”

“Not to mention, the school does way too much for her. I mean, what’s a couple of Go championships have on true athletics?”

Iwaizumi stopped dead in his tracks, the three of them right near the exit to go outside. Hanamaki and Matsukawa took a few more steps until Iwaizumi spoke, “You bastards are so rude, did you know that? Screw human decency and shove it all off I guess? You’re both on par with Shittykawa himself.” He waved his hand in irritation and had a scowl on his face.

He pushed past them and sat down at a table with a thud, putting his forehead on the table and clasping his hands over the back of his head. He was bouncing his knee anxiously, enjoying the way the cold outdoors air cooled down the flush on his face.

Today it was how she had said his full name, just hearing his given name on her tongue had his heart stuttering.

Hanamaki chuckled, “Caught him.”

Matsukawa snickered, “Hook, line and sinker Hiro.”

“Great game Issei, we should do it again sometime soon.” Hanamaki held his fist out, and Matsukawa gave it a solid bump.

“Sooner rather than later, he’s so boring when he’s lovestruck and down bad like this. How many years has it been now?”

“I’ve counted four, but I think he’s liked her since they first met.”

Oikawa strutted outside, putting a hand on each of their shoulders, “What are you two plotting this time?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.” Hanamaki throws up the middle finger in Oikawa’s direction as he and Matsukawa walk to go sit with Iwaizumi.

Oikawa throws his hands up into the air and rolls his eyes. “You guys can’t make jokes like that because my mom restricts my internet access.” He groans before jogging over to his friends.

Back inside the classroom, while Ito had picked up his black stone and was thinking about which notch to play it on, she glanced outside the window. She already knew what her next three plays would be regardless of where Ito had placed his stone. The cool wind from the open window next to her desk was always pleasant. The flowers were just beginning to blossom again after a particularly cold winter.

Even though she and Iwaizumi shared a desk partnership, he always asked the teacher if they could swap who was sitting by the window. She asked him about why he liked sitting on the outside of their desks, rather than the inner side by the wall and the windows.

He hadn’t even really given her an answer, he just stuttered and shoved his hands into his pockets. She had offered him an answer, asking him if he just preferred the elbow room from sitting near the aisle. He nodded furiously before running a hand through his spiky black hair and accidentally getting a strand of hair stuck on a ring he had been wearing.

“Just freeze.” She had told him. The bell had rung for a passing period for teachers to change classes and for students to stretch their legs. Iwaizumi’s hand was still stuck to his hair. She leaned over a little, not needing to do much to get closer due to their desk arrangement.

Her knees were brushing against his thigh, and she reached up into his hair to try and solve the puzzle of disconnecting his ring from his hair. The ring was a clunky metal one, on his ring finger. She finally saw where the hair had gotten snagged on one of the sharp curves of his ring.

She gently tugged his hand out of the ring, so both his hands were free but the ring was still in his hair. She spent another few seconds untangling his hair and got the ring free.

“There we go.” She tossed the ring into the air before catching it again. She smiled and held the ring out on her palm for Iwaizumi to grab. He was still frozen. His hands were toying with a different ring on his other hand. “Hello?”

He shook his head before grabbing the ring. Letting out a gruff, but surprisingly earnest, “Thank you so much.”

“It’s no problem.” She turned her head back around so she could look outside, the snow coating the ground and layering over the trees. She sighed a little, reaching out to draw shapes on the cold glass that was fogging up slightly in the corner.

Unbeknownst to her, Iwaizumi let out a deep sigh as well. He had laid his arm out on his desk, resting his head on it as he looked up at her slightly. He was observing the way her face seemed to focus on the snowflakes outside the room and the way her pointer finger gently glided over the glass of the window.

That’s why he liked to sit on the outside. He could pretend he was looking out the window as well, when he was really just looking at her.

The smell of flowers brought her to attention, as well as Ito’s stone making a click on the Go board and him saying, “Your move.”

She held the white ceramic playing piece in her hand, rolling the heavy toy along her palm with her fingers. She saw Iwaizumi on the bench, getting poked by his friends as he lifted an arm to try and defend himself from getting prodded. Then someone she didn’t know came around and sat opposite to Iwaizumi, rolling up his sleeve. She lost interest quickly after that.

She sat down the stone, capturing several of Ito’s and he made a short whimper sound at losing so much traction in the game. She picked up his pieces and put them in the side bowl reserved for his captured stones. Her next two moves went identically, and their short one hour game, from both yesterday and today, had ended the same way most her other games went, with her winning.

“Sorry Yuuta, maybe tomorrow you’ll have better luck.”

Yuuta scoffed, “Yeah right, I’m glad we don’t play in the same division for a reason.”

He started cleaning up the pieces and putting them back into her opened box, arranging the bowls of stones where they went and sealing lids over the bowls.

“Any luck on finding another member for next year? You can’t have a Go club with just one player.”

“My brother will come here next year, he’ll be in the club.”

She crosses her leg, chewing on her bottom lip, “Anyone else? Maybe you could aim for two new members next year?”

“Face it, Go isn’t popular at this school, despite your best efforts, and all the awards you rake in. If we went somewhere like Shiratorizawa or a different prep school then maybe the story would be different.” Ito slung his backpack over his shoulder, standing up right as the bell rang.

She grabbed his hand before he left, “Thank you, really. You’re the best vice captain a girl could ask for Yuuta.”

Ito rubbed his thumb over her knuckles in a friendly gesture.

“Well, anything for you.”

She smiled as Yuuta carefully slid past Iwaizumi who was making his way to his seat next to her.

“How tall is he?”

She was still getting her math textbook out of her desk. Iwaizumi assumed maybe she hadn’t heard him, so he repeated his words, “How tall is he?”

She looked at Iwaizumi and pointed at herself, he nodded.

“How tall is Yuuta?” She repeated, making sure her understanding was correct.

“Yeah, how tall is he?”

“Like 193 centimeters I think? He had this crazy growth spurt these past couple of months.” She laid her book out, opened to the page the teacher was writing on the board. “Why?”

“No reason.” Iwaizumi knew why he had asked. Iwaizumi was barely cutting it at 179.3 centimeters, but there went her boyfriend who was almost a full fourteen centimeters taller than him. He shoved his hand into his desk, looking for his pen case. “Damn it.”

“What is it?” She had her plastic gel pen in her mouth, lightly between her teeth while she waited for class to officially start. Iwaizumi gulped a little at the way her lips were pressed against the body of the pen.

“I left my pencil at home. I have my pens, I just can’t do math in a pen.”

She nodded, closing her mouth around the pen, she reached into her pencil case and handed Iwaizumi a simple wooden pencil from her bag. She gave the pencil a slight shake in front of Iwaizumi.

He accepted it after a moment, muttering thanks.

When she smiled as a response to his gratitude the pen in her mouth dropped to the ground. Iwaizumi, without much thinking, bent down to pick it up for her. She, also without much thought, also bent down to pick up her pen. When they hit their heads against each other, she let out a soft ouch and rubbed the top of her head.

“My gods I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think,” Iwaizumi cringed internally, how much longer could he keep going like this, stammering and not even being able to get out a full length sentence. He was supposed to be a third year student for heaven’s sake. His ears were already burning and he fully believed he was going to get a lasting permanent burn from how hot the blood was that rushed to his ears.

She told him not to worry, that there wasn’t anything to apologize for, but she kept rubbing her head, trying to use sensory overload so that the pain wouldn’t be as bad. “It’s fine. Class is starting, let’s just focus, okay?”

He could, decidedly so, not focus. Especially not when she kept putting that stupid pen in her mouth, the worst part was when she took it out of her mouth to write down a note or to finish solving a problem and his brain was filtering in a pop sound each time her lips opened. He had to rub his face in his hand every time he caught himself drifting over to her instead of the chalkboard up in the front of the room.

Her perfume was light, but he was so tuned into her that he practically absorbed the scent. It was just a silly vanilla smell, but he was almost tripping over himself each time she moved her head and he could smell the scent from her neck just a bit better.

Iwaizumi was always glad that he went to the first day of school at least an hour early. Maybe it was slightly manipulative, maybe he was trying to weigh the scale in his favor, but he didn’t care. The teachers were always so oddly receptive to his request too.

Each new year, starting in the first year of middle school, he went to his homeroom teacher early and asked to be placed next to her. He knew that in middle school the seating chart wouldn’t be solely based on a family name basis, so his chances of losing out on sitting next to her would reduce drastically.

The first time he had had the conversation with the teacher it went something vaguely akin to him pleading and then the teacher taking pity on Iwaizumi and agreeing to the seating arrangement.

After that first year, that same homeroom teacher contacted the second year homeroom teacher he was going to have. The teacher had simply said, “If you want to be thoroughly entertained, then you need to sit him next to her. I’ve never been more engaged during study hall than watching him try and befriend her.”

Iwaizumi wasn’t aware, but when the jump from middle school to high school was made, all three of his homeroom teachers had personally contacted his first year of high school teacher and had collectively bargained for him- just so that he could be sat next to her.

And now, while Iwaizumi was struggling to solve this equation during the ten minute practice period in the middle of class, the math teacher was watching him extremely closely.

So what if all the teachers at Aoba Johsai that had Iwaizumi had a group chat, and so what if they shared any sort of progress details he had made. So what if they got mad when a different boy tried to talk to her during passing periods when Iwaizumi was struggling to find a reason not to leave his desk so he could stay near her. Adults were allowed some form of entertainment as well.

The day came to a close at Aoba Johsai High School, and she was busy packing up her stuff, having to pull everything out so she could take her Go board home. Typically she would leave it in her locker, but she wanted to polish some of the stones, so she would take it home today.

Ito Yuuta and Hanamaki Takahiro both made their way to her classroom after the final bell had rung. Ito let Hanamaki enter the room before he followed suit.

Hanamaki slumped down in Iwaizumi’s seat, resting his feet on the desk. She just raised an eyebrow and finished Tetris-ing her bag. She looked to Ito who just shrugged but held up his phone, which communicated to her that Ito would text her later about whatever it was he wanted to say. Hanamaki watched as Ito left the room, then leaned back into the chair and rubbed his mouth with his hand.

“Yes? Is there something I can do for you Hanamaki?” She put her hand on her hip and lolled her head around to look him in the eyes.

“Listen.” Hanamaki starts, and she nods , zipping up her bag. “So, I don’t know if you know this, but us volleyball third years are absolutely trash at English. Iwaizumi more than the rest of us.”

She continued nodding, she thought that Iwaizumi was doing particularly well in English, having seen his test grades when papers and exams were handed back. But she supposes maybe not if Hanamaki is telling her this.

“I’d like to be the one to invite you to a study session at Iwaizumi’s house this weekend, it’s a sort of sleep-over situation, but his dad will be home the whole weekend so no need to worry sweetheart. Oikawa and Matsukawa will also be there. It should be fun.”

She pauses for a moment, slowly putting her backpack on. “Can I bring a friend?”

Hanamaki takes his feet off the desk, wiping away the dirt that fell from his shoes onto the desk. “Tall curly brunette that sits with you at lunch?” He posed.

“Ito, yes.” It was a wonder that Hanamaki could befriend anyone she thinks, he’s all bite and no bark.

“Yeah, no. There’s only so many extra futon mattresses.”

“I could bring an extra?” She begins to walk out of the classroom, needing to get home to start polishing her Go materials if she wanted them ready by the tournament. She never used her personal board, it was just a naturalistic routine to get her into the right mindset.

Hanamaki chuckles, “That’s not how this whole sleepover thing works.”

“Okay, well, why me? There’s plenty of other people I would assume you guys want to hang out with over me. I’ve never even loaned you a pencil before Hanamaki. I don’t even have your number.”

“Leave it all to me, just say you’ll come.”

What harm did it do to help these poor boys out before midterms?

“Sure, this Saturday then?”

“Yes. I’ll text you. See you there!”

Hanamaki hustled out of the classroom, getting outside quicker than she could stage an invasion on her opponent's side of the board when playing Go.

She settled into the reality that boys are weird and that she was the only sane person in the universe.

Iwaizumi was pulling his hair out as Hanamaki ate a bag of chips in his living room.

“You did not.” Iwaizumi began to pace back and forth, entirely dumbfounded that his supposed friend would go out of his way to craft a fake tutoring session that would last all night. A full twelve plus hours of her, plus it would be at his house, plus there would be pajamas involved. “I can’t believe you told her that all of our hang outs require pajamas as the attire.”

Iwaizumi dragged a hand across his face.

Hanamaki shrugged, shoving a handful of potato chips into his mouth, then speaking while the chewed up bits of food were still in his teeth, “Don’t lie to yourself, you’re glad that this is happening. You’re glad that I just crafted the perfect catalyst for you to make out with her under the stars. Also, you getting to see what kind of pajamas she wears ought to earn me some Hajime brownie points.”

Iwaizumi lifted his hands up, “I hate you so much. Genuinely, you’re the worst. She knows I’m decent at English too, Hiro, she knows that something is up.”

Hanamaki rolls his eyes and tosses the empty bag away, patting his stomach, “Do you have licorice?”

“Yeah, cupboard.”

Hanamaki throws up his thumb and goes into the kitchen to acquire his third snack since arriving at Iwaizumi’s house twenty minutes ago.

Since today was Thursday, he still had Friday to try and reverse any damage that Hanamaki had caused.

On Friday, during lunch, he decided to stay inside and eat in the classroom. She had brought a lunch from home and was reading a book, her elbow resting on her desk- holding her thick book, and her other hand had her chopsticks lifting bits of rice and chicken into her mouth intermittently.

Iwaizumi scanned for her boyfriend. Then he realized that her boyfriend would probably know all about her going over to his house on Saturday, so maybe she would gently let Iwaizumi down and tell him that her boyfriend said she couldn’t tutor his rowdy group of friends this weekend.

“Can I sit here?” He grabbed the back of his chair, balancing his tray in his other hand.

She chuckles, using one hand to put her bookmark where she had left off in the book, setting the book down in the corner of her desk. “That’s your desk, it would be weird if I said you couldn’t sit there.”

He chuckles just like she had, nodding in agreement.

He thinks about what to say to her, but can’t find the words, so he resigns to sipping on his carton of apple juice.

“You don’t normally eat in the classroom, what’s the reason for your change in behavior?”

He liked that she talked slightly strangely, sometimes she would say things in a long round-about way instead of simply using basic phrases to convey her thoughts. He liked it because he could hear her voice for just a bit longer.

Iwaizumi shrugs, taking a bite of the salmon on his plate.

“Well, it’s nice to see a fellow athlete appreciating the calm that is a classroom during lunch.” She smiles.

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow, and without much thought, inserts a statement that triggers her, “Go isn’t really a sport though.”

She dropped her chopsticks, clattering to the ground. He feels like the most inconsiderate imbecile ever to walk the earth. He prayed to the gods to just relieve him of the pain of having such a thick skull.

“Iwaizumi, I will make you eat your words because Go is the most intensive mind sport there is in the entire world and you will see how difficult it is once you play one match with me.” She realizes that it really isn’t that serious, but it felt like an insult to her passion. She knew that he likely didn’t have any sort of foul intention with his words, he just didn’t understand Go the way that she did.

“Bring your Go board then, on Saturday.” Iwaizumi almost visibly winces. His whole goal in eating lunch at his desk had been to diffuse the idea of a sleepover, but here he was, actively encouraging it. Subconscious thoughts and desires crept up on him like a sort of rain, pittering down slowly, and as you watch the small dark dots appearing on the ground, suddenly you’re soaked from head to toe. In this case, his deep yearning to spend time with her manifested in encouraging Hanamaki’s criminal approach to matchmaking.

“I will then, and you’ll see what a real athlete looks like, an athlete of the mind.” She taps her temple a few times, grabbing her chopsticks from the ground and saying she’s going to go wash them.

Iwaizumi shudders. He had a lot of cleaning to do to prepare for Saturday.

When he got home, he started with the living room and then worked his way out to all the other areas of his house.

His dad, Haruo, appreciated the cleanliness when he got home from work, but seeing his teenage son scrubbing the floor vigorously on his hands and knees might have been overkill for the older man.

“Hajime, what are you doing?”

“I’m having friends over on Saturday night, they’ll leave Sunday morning.” He wipes some sweat from his forehead before going back to his rag and scrubbing in a circular motion.

“It’s just your buddies, what’s all the cleaning for? They all practically live here anyway, they know what a sty it can be here.” Haruo dropped his bag on the coat hanger, kicked his shoes off in the walkway, and stepped up to enter the main living portion of his house.

Haruo looked at the family photos on the wall along the hallway to the main living room, seeing a toothless Hajime being held by his late wife, Hana. He put two fingers to his lips before pressing the fingers to her face through the glass of the frame. Haruo whispered a quick, ‘love you’ before focusing on Hajime again.

“It’s not just Hiro and Issei and Tooru.”

“Oh, do tell? That junior of yours who came around once? The one with the bleached hair? He kind of looks like a puppy?” Haruo sat on the couch, surprised that Hajime had also cleaned the fabric cases of the couch cushions.

Iwaizumi let out a deep sigh, “You know that girl from middle school?”

How could Haruo forget her?

“And you want her over here? With all your friends?”

“Believe me, I was not the coordinator for this.”

Haruo laughed, a deep humor from his chest. He needed to sleep, work had been hard, but he was glad that he had spent some time talking to his son. As he walked to his bedroom, he ruffled Iwaizumi’s hair.

Iwaizumi had finished cleaning around ten at night, stretching his back and scratching the back of his neck, he looked around the house. He applauded himself on having done a good job cleaning. It would be Saturday tomorrow, and he didn’t know if he was stressed from the anxiety of her being around or the excitement of her being around.

Iwaizumi went into the hallway to grab his house slippers, when he stopped at the picture frames. His dad always touched the one of his mom holding him when he was an infant, so there was slight discoloration on the glass right where his mom’s face was.

His dad knew who she was, because she was the only one to come to their house besides Oikawa Tooru during his entire second year of middle school.

She had come with a bouquet of flowers, of lilies.

Iwaizumi remembers that entire day much too vividly for comfort.

He had needed to go back to school after missing it for almost three whole weeks. His mom’s funeral had been the week prior. Staying in the hospital for one full week while she was slowly dying had crushed Iwaizumi’s soul. There isn’t much that you can do for someone once they get ovarian cancer.

He had cried so much when his mom told him that she wouldn’t be doing any more chemotherapy or treatments the month before she died. He had begged her to just try one more, but she had to find a way to gently tell her son that she wanted her quality of life in her last days to be something less painful than if she had undergone various chemical treatments.

“Mom, just one more. You can fight this.” Iwaizumi was tugging on her hand. His dad was sitting on the opposite side of the room, crouched into himself with his shoulders heaving and stuttering from the silent cries he was letting out. “Why won’t you just fight a little more. For me, you won’t even fight for me?”

Iwaizumi had looked to his dad for back up, but was said was done.

“Hajime, you don’t understand now, but you’ll understand later. Please just don’t be mad.” Hana, his beloved mother, was trying to soothe him by gently rubbing his hand with hers.

“I’m not mad, I just want you to try. You say that I don’t understand, and I really don’t, but I do know that you can fight a little more.” He looked into his mom’s olive colored eyes, “Please mom. Please.”

When she frowned sadly, Iwaizumi just cried, wrapping his arms around his mom and getting her hospital gown wet with tears.

The week after her funeral procession, Iwaizumi felt alone. Not even Oikawa could do anything to relieve the pain of losing a parent. No one could do anything.

And at the ripe age of fourteen, she understood that as well. Iwaizumi’s seatmate. Maybe she felt like she needed to do something, because she had missed the way Iwaizumi would steal her eraser without asking, or the way that he’d been gone for so long. Her desk felt empty without Iwaizumi there. So when he returned, but as the shell of himself, she knew she had to find some way to show that she cared.

She couldn’t take away pain, but she could mourn with him. That’s a lesson her own parents had taught her. A friend who mourns with you, is a friend for life. When you mourn with those who mourn, you are honoring those who passed and those that still live with that pain.

It was during lunch, and the teacher had said that everyone would need to leave the classroom for lunch, letting Iwaizumi stay inside the classroom by himself.

That was the only time she broke the rules. When she snuck away from the cafeteria, and went into that empty classroom.

He had his head on his desk, bento left unopened. His body would sometimes tighten and shake, trying to hold back audible cries.

Silent cries were always more painful than loud wails she thought. A silent cry carries a sense of belonging to the agony and a consistent resistance against peace. A loud cry is a relief, you can let go when you cry and people can hear you. But when a person cries silently, they hold in their pain and won’t let anyone share the burden of it.

She opened the door, stepping into the classroom. The overhead lights seemed too bold, too cruel, too unloving for this moment.

She sat down, and began to eat her lunch. She didn’t say anything, she just kept eating and chewing.

Iwaizumi had been upset that she came into the room.

“What the hell do you want?” He was facing away from her, head still on his desk. She was sitting face forward, at her desk. It annoyed her that he was being so curt. She had to let it go, realizing his reaction was more likely out of his sorrow than actual intent to be mean to her specifically.

“I want to mourn with you.”

“Oh, shut up. You don’t know anything.”

“I don’t. But I’m here. I’ll leave if you want me to.” She drank from her water bottle.

Iwaizumi cried in a small voice, she could hear it this time. “She didn’t want to fight anymore.”

The way his words cracked in his throat. The way he lifted his head to make eye contact with her. The way his face was morphed into a shadow of who he was supposed to be.

She started crying when his first tear fell straight from his eye to the space between their desks. She just hugged him. At first, he resisted, trying to break out of the hold. But then he could hear the way her heart pounded in her ribcage.

He hugged her back and had his face in her neck.

It was thirty minutes of crying, some minutes went by quieter than others.

But tears dry up eventually.

“What do you think my mom’s life looks like without me? Can she still hear my voice? Is she watching down on me?” Iwaizumi had rubbed his eyes raw, leaving red everywhere he had touched.

“I think that she’s all around you.” Iwaizumi clenched his jaw, but she kept going. “Even though you can’t hear her or see her, she’s there. She’ll always be there for you.”

“Why did you come?” Iwaizumi started eating his food, extremely small bites, but bites nonetheless.

“I told you earlier. I came to mourn.” She gives Iwaizumi her bowl of chicken broth, and he tries to push it away, but she insists, and he downs it before continuing to speak. She wanted to settle the issue, but he bothered her with more insistence.

“No really, you could’ve just ignored me, just let everything go. But you came.”

“You’re stubborn. I’ve known you for almost three years now, and you’re stubborn. But also, your heart is so sensitive. You take in everything and hold it close. I figured you might need someone who you can express everything too without having to put on a face of composure.”

After school, she had bought lilies from the farmer’s market.

She had asked Oikawa Tooru how to get to Iwaizumi’s house, and Oikawa drew a map for her.

When she had gotten to the door, she tucked the map into her pocket and knocked gently.

Iwaizumi Haruo, the man who had just lost his wife, the mother of his son, saw this sweet kid holding a neatly wrapped bouquet of lilies. She was bowing deeply, holding the flowers out for him to take. Haruo had hesitantly accepted the flowers, and she bowed again.

“I’m sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help.” She couldn’t have been any more mature for her age, Haruo had thought. Hajime had turned the corner in his house, finally seeing that she was at the door.

And for the first time in a really long time, Iwaizumi Hajime had smiled.

Saturday came soon enough, and Iwaizumi was dressed in his school uniform. Which in hindsight might not have been the most optimal outfit choice when Hanamaki, Matsukawa, and Oikawa came barreling in wearing their pajamas and dumping their stuff in the middle of the living space

Oikawa just rubbed the space in between his eyebrows, “Iwa-chan, why are you wearing school clothes? You know it’s a Saturday right? This is supposed to be a pajama thing.” Oikawa tugged on his Hello Kitty bottoms, demonstrating to Iwaizumi what attire was supposed to be worn.

Matsukawa had turned on the radio, playing GOT7’s “If You Do”. When Iwaizumi asked what Matsukawa was doing, he replied with, “Playing music to set the mood. It’s a song about being desperate for a girl. You know, your whole pining thing you got going on. I thought that my music choice would’ve made for sense, but you’re just oblivious.”

Iwaizumi slapped Matsukawa upside the head, clicking his tongue.

“How much money to enact your little scheme today?” Hanamaki inspected his fingernails, lounging on Iwaizumi’s couch in his living room.

“How much money? You’ve got to be kidding me here Hiro. Shittykawa make this man see reason.” Iwaizumi directed Oikawa’s attention to Hanamaki, but Oikawa just shrugged.

“I don’t know Iwa-chan, if you really liked her then you’d be willing to pay Hiro for his services.”

“Hiro’s going to simply befriend one of her friends under the guise of him having a crush, then find out everything about her for me. That falls under friend duties.”

Matsukawa rolled his eyes, “Iwaizumi you sound crazy, just ask her to hang out one on one, we have like what? Three months left of school? Muster up some of your Ace energy and confess. I’m tired of you acting like your own personal cock-block for these last four agonizing years.”

Oikawa looked at Matsukawa incredulously, “Four years? Nah, Iwa-chan’s been whipped for like at least six years at least. I really don’t understand why, she’s not-”

Iwaizumi threw a sock at Oikawa that he had hastily taken off his foot while balancing on one leg. “Finish that sentence and I’ll shove the other sock down your mouth.”

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Iwaizumi was too engrossed in continuing to insult Oikawa to notice. Hanamaki giggled, then he wiped the pleased expression off his face, “Sorry Iwa, me and Issei got to get back to my house for dinner, my mom is making curry tonight, be back later.”

Oikawa remembered the other plan, the one that Hanamaki had made a separate group chat for last night, rushing to say his part, “I have to take Takeru to that new kid’s movie, I’ll be back around ten.”

“What the hell, I thought we were hanging out.” Iwaizumi lifted up his shirt, planning to change into a tank top. Only once his shirt was entirely off, did Hanamaki open the front door.

She was standing right there, holding both a Go board and the English textbook. “Hanamaki? Matsukawa? Oikawa?” She took a step back, letting the boys exit Iwaizumi’s house as they all told her to have a good time while giving their various excuses why they had to leave. When she took a step forward, she saw Iwaizumi struggling to get his button-up back on. The sleeves were stuck and his head was covered in the body of the shirt.

She could see the solid outline of his abdomen, and the way his back muscles were constricting as he fought with the shirt to get it back on. She felt her body naturally produce some drool, which she just swallowed and pretended like it didn't occur.

It would be rude to just let him struggle, right? She set the Go board down on top of the textbook.

“Freeze for me.” She stated and Iwaizumi stopped wiggling, arms still up in the air.

“Kill me now please.” Iwaizumi said, but it was muffled due to his head being surrounded by fabric.

She snickered a little, “You have other shirts around yeah?”

“I live here, so yes.”

“There’s no need for the snark, I’m helping you.” In one fell swoop she yoinked the sleeves of his top and pulled it off him, she stumbled back from the force, but managed to get the top successfully off.

His face was entirely red, and he had folded his arms over his body. Ignoring the particularly good look she got at his biceps and forearms, she handed the top back to him.

“You should go finish changing, I’ll set my English book up.” She gave him a smile, neglecting the way her ears felt hot.

“Yeah, I’ll, I’ll go do that. Thanks for stripping me.” Iwaizumi mentally slapped his face, “Thanks for taking my shirt off.” He paused and rubbed his forehead, there really was no good way to say this that didn’t end up with him imagining pushing her up against a wall and kissing her.

She laughed at his rapid fire speech.

Iwaizumi had finished changing into a pair of grey plaid bottoms and a black hoodie when he came back out to the living room. She was wearing black sweatpants and a tight-fitting white shirt. He swallowed, before going to sit near her at the coffee table where she had the textbook open and some paper with notes.

“They’ll be back right?” She didn’t look up from her paper, finishing an outline for what she was planning on teaching Iwaizumi.

“Yeah, in a few hours.”

She looked up at him and he felt like the only person in the world. Her mouth was moving but he couldn’t hear anything. She snapped her fingers and stuck her pen into her mouth.

It was always that pen that brought him back to focusing.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I know you don’t need to be tutored.”

His breathing hitches.

“You just wanted to play Go, Hanamaki is the one that needs English tutoring.” She explained her thought process, and how Hanamaki had been the one to ask for her help. “So, let’s play Go for a bit.”

Iwaizumi went back to breathing normally again. Matsukawa’s playlist was still going, and Iwaizumi supposed that he must still have had control over the music because suddenly the song changed to “Sex Tape” by OZI and Sunset Rollercoaster.

She opened the board and began getting the truncated bowls out that held the white and black stones, while Iwaizumi messed with the radio to try and get rid of music playing.

She looked up at Iwaizumi, “Not a fan of Chinese RNB?”

“Uh, well,” He tried messing with the volume but it would not budge. Iwaizumi heard the chorus start to play and he wanted to vivisect Matsukawa down to a pulp.

She froze for a moment, letting the lyrics of, “Watch you love me like a Japanese porn star, ” ruminate in the air for a second.

“Yeah, maybe changing the music would be a good idea.” She just laughed it off though.

Iwaizumi appreciated that about her, she could let awkward moments slide off her shoulders. When he felt like embarrassment was overtaking him, she always approached oddities and uncomfortableness with an attitude of nonchalance. Which was good for him, because he often had moments like that around her specifically.

Iwaizumi was still struggling to change the music, which had now transitioned to another explicit song from Matsukawa’s favorite make out playlist. She had finished setting up the Go board, but noticing that Iwaizumi was still frustrated at the radio, she stood up and went over to him.

She put her hand over his and slightly pushed it away. She pressed the Bluetooth connective button, and suddenly Masukawa’s music was gone.

“There, now we can play.” She clapped her hands together and went back to the coffee table in the center of the room. She was sitting cross legged, bouncing her knees in excitement.

Iwaizumi copied how she was sitting and looked over the board. “I think now would be a good time to tell you I have no idea how to play this game.”

She leaned backwards and giggled. “Don’t worry, I’m an excellent teacher.”

After an hour of interchanging teaching moments and actual exchanges of pieces, Iwaizumi’s brain was fried. And he was losing, for the second time.

She cringed when he placed his black stone down on the board. “Sorry, I hate to do this.” She put her stone down, and let him look at the board again.

“Okay, you have to be cheating because I was thinking at least five moves ahead.” Iwaizumi ran a hand through his hair, leaning over the board to see where he had messed up.

“I think ten moves ahead, at minimum. That way I can plot out multiple escape routes for my pieces.” She kicked her feet a little, positively elated with her consecutive wins against Iwaizumi.

“You’re such a nerd, did you know that?” Iwaizumi rubbed the back of his neck, looking at her.

She didn’t expect to get flustered. It was just, he was looking at her in a way that made her feel all ooey-gooey inside, and the way he was sheepishly rubbing his neck had her weak in the knees.

“Yuuta is way nerdier than me, he’s almost the same rank as me, but he’s only been playing for two years.” She accepts the bowl of various candy that Iwaizumi hands her.

He moves to the couch after putting away his pieces. He chews the inside of his mouth, feeling the stinging reminder that she was not single. She still sits on the floor, cleaning up the board all the way, exactly as she liked it. The clock on the wall read twenty-five to ten.

“He seems really nice, your boyfriend.” Even saying the word made Iwaizumi feel ill.

She laughs, “Boyfriend? Yeah right, you’re funny.”

“So wait, he isn’t your boyfriend?” Iwaizumi tugged on his sweatshirt strings, making the back of the hood tighten into a ball instead of staying relaxed across his back.

She slaps a hand over her mouth with wide eyes, “Absolutely not. Yuuta's a first year, Iwaizumi.” She grimaced and slumped back into the base of the couch, her head near Iwaizumi’s leg, “Does everyone think… he and I?”

Iwaizumi contemplated, making a face that told her, ‘I hate to break it to you’.

“I’m cursed.” She threw her hands up into the air, “It’s because of those stupid fortunes my family takes me to get every year. It’s such a devastation.”

Iwaizumi reached behind himself to adjust the hood of his sweatshirt. Only to subconsciously tug on the strings again as he posed a question that he felt too much rode on.

“We could go to a shrine. Break the bad streak of luck. If you go with me then maybe your luck won’t be as bad. The one in the center of town is having a blossom festival to celebrate the end-”

“Hell yes. We’re going. Give me your phone so you can text me the details.”

“I-uh, yeah, sure, okay, yeah. We’ll go together.” Iwaizumi almost dropped his phone, pulling it out from the inside of his pocket.

She looked at the miniature Godzilla charm hanging from the case. “I really liked Godzilla Minus One, it was the best Godzilla movie that we’ve gotten in a while.” She enters in her number from memory, giving herself a special nickname in his contacts as well.

Iwaizumi blinks. Was it really that easy to get her number? And if so, why had he spent so long waiting to get it? Matsukawa was right, Iwaizumi had been preventing himself from actually getting closer to her.

Oikawa, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa rang the doorbell repeatedly, knocking loudly as well.

“Here, I gotta go get the door.”

While standing up, he trips on her leg. She lets out a short yelp. Moments like these have Iwaizumi’s brain slowing down and playing the scene that unfolds in a sort of vintage sheen.

Because he didn’t want to land on her, he had managed to grab her and bring her over the top of him. But that also meant that when Oikawa used his spare key, they walked in on her sitting right overtop of Iwaizumi’s hips, her hands on his chest. His hands had come to grip her sides, with his thumbs barely below her chest.

She was furrowing her eyebrows slightly, with a slight pout on her bottom lip as she raised her shoulders slightly, finally noticing the trio that had come into Iwaizumi’s house. She picked one of her hands off of his chest and waved sweetly, “Hi boys.”

Her only logical way to avoid a bigger problem was to duck her head down to avoid their eyes. Which caused Iwaizumi to choke and lose any sort of functioning, because her face was right above his. Not to mention she had also accidentally rolled her hips against his in just a way that made his vision blurry. He could feel the plush of her thighs on the sides of his hips and all he wanted her to do was roll her hips one more time.

So much for just an innocent crush. It had become a full blown lust and infatuation at this point.

Iwaizumi ran through his head, trying to clear out all the X-rated thoughts occurring. The fact that he now knew she was single made him feel like he could act just a little more possessively towards her.

He really needed to get a grip, because instead of just standing up and explaining what had happened, he reached his hands up to cup her face and he brought her a singular inch closer to his face, their noses fractions away from touching.

“Only say hi to me like that. You’re mine.”

She gulped, pushing her chest against his chest to lift herself off of him, her hands resting on his biceps as she pried herself away from him. Agonizingly too quick for him.

“I’m going to go get some water.” She carefully stepped around Iwaizumi and went down the other hall to the kitchen. When he heard the door shut to the kitchen he groaned and sat up.

Oikawa was red in the face, slightly fanning himself, “Even I felt something there. Geez. Did you see the way she swung her leg around and off your body, but she had to bring her chest to yours for that leveraging motion? That’s probably in the top ten dream scenarios right there.”

Oikawa sat the bag of snacks he had brought onto the coffee table, sitting on the end of the couch looking stunned.

“You need to shut up right now.” Iwaizumi patted the back of his head, his eyes shut tight. He had pulled his legs up, while sitting upright on the floor next to the couch.

Matsukawa chuckled, “Why, is recounting the experience giving you post boner stress syndrome.”

Hanamaki chimed in, “Or he’s trying to avoid getting one in the first place, consider that Issei.” Hanamaki ran his tongue over his teeth, “But I suppose he’s having a difficult time, because just thinking about that getup she had on, oh, those baggy sweatpants and that tight little shirt that hugged-”

“Close your traps right now.” Iwaizumi barked. He rubbed his eyes until he was seeing static. His brain had finally started clearing but his friends were being insistent annoyances.

He lets out a shaky breath. “Hiro, you better listen to her. She genuinely believes you’re bad at English.”

“But I am bad at English.”

“Good, you won’t have to act at all then.” Hanamaki kicks Iwaizumi in the back before sitting around the coffee table. Matsukawa hooks his music back up, playing Artic Monkeys with a reverb. Matsukawa moves his shoulders, jamming out to the music.

She returns with two glasses of water, mentioning that she’ll go back to get the other three.

The night proceeds with much less excitement. She does help Hanamaki with his English, and Hanamaki feels like he can actually understand basic sentences.

She and Oikawa play a round of Go, she beats him but Oikawa is entertained and says that playing Go was fun. She practically beams hearing his admission of enjoyment.

Matsukawa and her share playlists, she tells him that he needed to blend the energy levels of his songs otherwise it gets boring to listen to a bunch of high energy songs sequentially. Matsukawa accepts the criticism and starts editing his playlist for her to evaluate at a later date.

Iwaizumi talks, and jokes around with everyone but he can’t help but drift off when he hears her laugh at his jokes, or how she pays active, attentive attention to him when he talks about something that’s been on his mind.

So when it hits two am and she says she needs to leave, Iwaizumi feels a bit shafted. Oikawa and Hanamaki were cuddling, already asleep and snoring. Matsukawa was staring at the TV screen watching another episode of a never ending sitcom.

She’s holding her Go board and textbook in her arms as she slides her shoes back on in the entryway of his house.

They’re both whispering so as to not wake up the snorers.

“Why are you leaving?” Iwaizumi slides his own shoes on, getting the door open for her as she takes a step outside.

He closes the door once he follows her to the front porch. She shifts her things in her arms uncomfortably. Iwaizumi takes them from her wordlessly, holding them with ease and perfect balance.

“I need to go to sleep,” She yawns, using a hand to cover her mouth. Her eyes shined from the porch lighting.

“You can just stay here, and if you don’t want to sleep in the living room with us, you can sleep in my bed?” Iwaizumi shuffled his feet, trying to find the right words to get her to stay.

“I need to get home.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Iwaizumi swallows thickly.

She bites her bottom lip, but earnestly explains her thoughts, “Well, I’m in a slight tizzy. I mean, you did grab me by the face and tell me to only say hi to you like that and not to other people, in that specific tone of voice. And, uh, the whole you saying that I’m yours, remember that?”

He digs the tip of his shoe into the porch flooring. “Yeah, that’s my bad.”

“No, it’s all fine, I’m just, I just need space to think. I really did enjoy hanging out though.” She tries to take her stuff back from Iwaizumi. He pulled her stuff closer to his chest.

“Let me walk you home at least, it’s what a fifteen minute walk?”

She pursed her lips, reaching her hand out to touch Iwaizumi’s elbow. He had traded his hoodie for a simple t-shirt earlier when all the bodies in the living room brought the temperature up too much for his liking. He naturally ran hot as well. He also got warm whenever she was near. The feeling of her hand on his elbow had his heart beginning to pitter-patter.

“You’d have to walk back to your house alone then.” She pulled him closer, putting both her hands on his arms, she ignored the taut muscles. “And I wouldn’t want that.”

His heart was racing, because she was leaning in slightly, and he thought that he should’ve brushed his teeth again. In her intelligence though, his body relaxed a little, so she was finally able to grab her stuff from him. She felt a modest amount of guilt for toying with him like that, but his face was blushed from staying up too late, the heat in his ears and apples of his cheeks stemming from watching screens too long.

“So, go to bed Iwaizumi Hajime.” She smiles, “I’ll see you later okay. Don’t forget we need to get fortunes soon, I need to change my luck before Nationals.”

He nods his head, slightly stunned from being tricked a little into thinking she was leaning in for something other than to take her board and book back.

“Wait.”

She paused, already halfway down the path from his house to the sidewalk.

He must have been going crazy. But everyone has to do crazy things once in a while, he supposes.

Iwaizumi slightly rushed to where she was. Just like earlier, he put his hands on her face, but this time he pressed a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth. Not wanting to push his luck any further than it had gone so far this night, he pressed one longer, more intense kiss to her jaw as he moved his hands to her waist.

He smiled at her when he backed up, “Now we’ll have something to talk about on our date at the festival next week.”

It was all so mildly irritating. She wondered why he hadn’t just kissed her earlier, when she had been settled into his lap in his living room.

Shaking her head in amusement, she handed her things to Iwaizumi, and he felt a chill in his spine. When she gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him in for a real kiss, a lip to lip kiss, he felt his whole world burst into vibrant color.

What a tease, he thought, when she licked his bottom lip and took her things back, actually making her way down the street.

He stood outside staring at her retreating body for much too long.

When she set her stuff down on her desk, she flung herself onto her bed. Sighing deeply.

This was not good for her heart.

She remembered her second year of high school.

It was positively awful, and not to mention her repeated failures at romance were starting to make her feel absolutely uncrushable. She thought she was doing everything right, wearing the right makeup, hitching her skirt up just enough (but she returned back to the normal length after she realized she did not appreciate the staring in the hallway from that stunt).

She even tried changing the way she did her hair. Still no gentleman callers. Maybe she was determined to be unlovable.

The only person she could go to was her Go Captain, a third year exchange student from China who destroyed her in every game they played, but at least he was cute, despite the extreme gap in a language understanding. Well, her Go Captain or Iwaizumi Hajime.

She decided to go to the Go Captain first.

“Mingzhe, am I attractive?”

He raised an eyebrow, looking from side to side. He was reading a book in the corner of the library when she ambushed him, resting a hand on the table. Mingzhe looks up at her and tilts his head to the side a little, almost as if he was inspecting her.

“In what sense of the word? Because you have what I would call an attractive personality, you’re really smart and you love Go almost as much as I do.”

“I definitely love Go more than you, but thank you.” She smiles and Mingzhe thought he could go back to his book, but she kept talking. “But the other kind of attractive, like the way my body looks.”

Mingzhe’s eyes almost popped out of his head, “Uhh, I, um.” He made a fist and pounded on his heart for a moment, trying to stop his stuttering. Now, if Mingzhe was the romantic interest of this story, then more about his background would be shared at this point. Unfortunately, he’s just Mingzhe from China who loves to play Go and accidentally fell in love with his overly kind and sweet Go teammate.

Mingzhe kept stuttering, trying to think of the right words to say to her that would express what he wanted to tell her. Because how could he tell her that she was the only girl he’d ever really liked like this. The way that she always took the stones from his hand when he got too close to winning, just so she could make him pause and explain where she went wrong.

She took his silence negatively and she hunched into the chair right next to him, pouting. Mingzhe felt a pang of melancholy run through him. Maybe if he wasn’t so realistic, his story with her would’ve turned out differently.

“Sha gua,” She lifted her head at the nickname he called her frequently. “Do you know what that means?”

She rubbed her eyes, and shook her head.

“Literally translated, my nickname for you means idiot or fool.” Mingzhe puts a hand on her shoulder, rubbing his thumb back and forth a little. If he wasn’t Mingzhe, if he didn’t have to go back to China so soon, he’d want to be everything to her.

Her body shakes a little as she laughs in reaction to Mingzhe's statement. “Oh great, thanks for that Mingzhe.”

“In China though, sha gua is a term of affection, right up there with something like bao bei, which means both treasure and baby. Sha gua is a testament to the innocence you have, and my appreciation for that genuineness you carry.” It means I love you.

“Where are you going with this?” She put her hand over Mingzhe’s, and he felt his soul crack just a little.

“If I wasn’t leaving at the end of the year, I would definitely try to approach you romantically, sha gua.” He tacks on the nickname, in tandem with a genuine smile. She puts a hand to his long black hair, brushing away the strand that always fell into his deep brown eyes. She always thought his eyes looked like brown sugar tapioca pearls.

“Thanks Mingzhe.”

“Of course, xinjian.” She left Mingzhe alone in the library, so he could finish his book. She never did find out that xinjian meant ‘peak of my heart’. Mingzhe was the one who gave her her special Go board that she carried around everywhere. (Engraved deeply in the box, on the underside, in Chinese characters was his wish for her to always stay healthy and happy. Along with the address of his family home in China, if she ever did come by to visit him.)

Mingzhe’s answer wasn’t enough for her in second year, so she went to Iwaizumi for additional clarification on her attractiveness woes. Or maybe, Mingzhe’s answer gave her hope that Iwaizumi would have a similar answer.

She just hadn’t known it would be so awkward. In Iwaizumi’s defense, she had cornered him in the back of class after school had been dismissed for the day.

To say he was stunned and bothered would be an understatement in the highest regard. Because how could he think when she slightly loosened the tie around her neck and untucked her lavender button-up from her skirt. Iwaizumi kept tightening and adjusting his own tie, trying to keep his hands focused and on his body rather than letting them magnetize to her body.

“I just need to know, simply. Plainly.” She had put her hand on the side of his head, her fingertips grazing the wood of the cubbies in the back of the classroom.

Iwaizumi was sure he’d seen this scene before in a drama that Oikawa had shown him. Except, he’s in the girl’s position and not the guy’s.

When she puts her foot in between his feet, he can feel the way his thighs threaten to give out on him. He’d been reduced to jello and she didn’t even know it.

“Know what?” At least he could reign in his tone of voice, staying flat.

“Am I or am I not attractive?”

He had wanted to say she was absolutely adorable. But given the way he could feel her body heat from how close they were, his assessment of her attractiveness had gone from cute to downright gorgeous. How a fellow seventeen year old could act like this, he did not understand.

“Yeah, you’re, you’re good looking.” Way to go Iwaizumi, he knew that if Oikawa or Hanamaki or Matsukawa could see him now, they would have either used a slingshot to put him out of his misery or taken a photo and posted it with the caption of, “Top Three Most Epic Fails in Romance.”

“Okay, thank you, I appreciate it.” She brought her hand back, no longer on the side of his face.

Iwaizumi liked her near though, so he grabbed her hand. She looked at him in the eyes, and he looked at her in the eyes.

His boldness was about to be curbed if he didn’t say what he wanted to say right in that moment, “Be my first kiss? As, uh, my treat for answering your question?” He was ready to go and dig his own grave.

“Sure.”

Iwaizumi almost shuddered, almost.

It was a clash.

Neither of them really knew what they were supposed to be doing, or where their hands were supposed to go. They had both settled for holding onto each other's necks lightly.

It was a series of closed mouth brushes of their lips, that was how Iwaizumi’s first kiss went. She had kissed a boy before, in middle school at a party, but she suddenly was wishing that this was her first kiss instead.

When she pulled away, Iwaizumi cleared his throat. Slowly nodding he adjusted the straps on his backpack.

“Thanks,” He started, “I have to go play volleyball now.”

“Yeah, yeah. Totally get it.” She was twisting her foot, digging it into the floor as she kept her eyes hesitantly on Iwaizumi.

Walking to the gym, Iwaizumi pressed his hand against his heart and begged it to slow down.

She realized that maybe high school boys just didn’t go out of their way to confess to her because they were too busy with other things, as demonstrated by Iwaizumi’s focus on volleyball. At the end of the day, she didn’t need external attention to give her internal validation. But it would’ve been nice.

She thought about Mingzhe from time to time. But Iwaizumi always stuck to her thoughts much longer. Second year was when she realized that she liked Iwaizumi, but she just couldn’t tell him. For her, what she had with Iwaizumi was a longer game that expanded much further than high school. Like a good game of Go, it had exchanges and bold moves between players.

Her second year didn’t carry totally throw away memories she concluded, curling up in her bed to finally go to sleep.

By Monday, Iwaizumi was positively giddy with excitement at seeing her again. He had a whole plan for their outing after school on Friday, and he wanted to tell her everything. When she wasn’t in her seat by the first bell, he looked around the room to see if she was silently slinking her way to her seat. Then when the final morning bell rang, he slumped into his chair in irritation.

By lunchtime, she still wasn’t at school, so he decided to go and investigate, making his way to the first year hallway, looking into all the classrooms.

He saw Ito Yuuta, her not-boyfriend, sitting at his desk, playing on a Go board by himself.

He entered the classroom and put his hands on the desk, making a slamming noise that wasn’t too jolting, seeing as Ito was still fidgeting with the stone in his hand.

“Yes?” Ito pressed the stone to his mouth, then quickly set it down. He input where he placed the stone on his phone, waiting for the computer to make a move so he could set the corresponding piece down, trying to beat the Artificial Intelligence system known as AlphaGo for the second time today.

“Where is she?” Iwaizumi brought his head down to force Ito into making eye contact.

Ito made a sour face, unamused with Iwaizumi, “She’s at a tournament today, the posters for it have been up for like a whole month.” Ito rolled his eyes, “It’s at the central Miyagi Gym, she’s playing in the 5 dan ranking bracket.”

Iwaizumi tensed his leg, ready to get to the gym as soon as possible, “Are spectators allowed?” If Iwaizumi wanted to be something to her, he figured he needed to break out of his shell around her and commit, and show that he wanted to be with her.

“It’s almost like all the captains of our sports team were asked to attend. You play volleyball, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Do yourself a favor and find a girl who’s more into guys like you. She’s on a whole other level, whatever interest you have in her will be short-lived.” Ito places some more pieces down according to the computer input. Ito was only teasing, he wanted to make sure Iwaizumi was sure about her.

“Guys like me?”

Ito smiled, standing up to his full height. “Guys who don’t play Go. Guys who are brainless muscle heads. Guys who lack basic skills of strategy. Guys like Iwaizumi Hajime.” Ito wondered what the reaction would be, slightly dismissing his game.

Iwaizumi brought his head back in offense, shocked and appalled at what Ito was saying. A bitter look on Iwaizumi’s face was all Ito needed to feel self-satisfied in his jests. Iwaizumi felt like a fish, with how his mouth gaped open and closed.

“Listen here you little bastard- I don’t know who you think you are, but clearly your ego is too big to contain within the convoluted mind game you’re trying to play with me.” Iwaizumi stuck a finger in the center of Ito’s chest, and Ito lazily held his hands up. “I like her. Genuinely, I like her. I want to go support her, so clearly I’m doing more than you.”

In all honesty, Iwaizumi was just trying to make up for what he considered lost time. He had spent years waiting for the right time to get closer to her, but now wasn’t the time to deflect, to deter, to do anything that would slow the progress he had been making. Iwaizumi was going to make her his, regardless of what anyone would try to tell him.

“It’s not me you have to worry about, it’s the other Go players. There’s an entire array of guys who would literally kill to be with a player like her, a 5-dan player at her age. You’re not fighting with me, you’re fighting with the guys who play Go professionally and rake in the big bucks at 19, 20, years old.” Ito wondered if Iwaizumi knowing he had competition would make Iwaizumi scurry away. Ito was genuinely glad when Iwaizumi rolled his eyes and left the classroom, because that showed that Iwaizumi wasn’t scared to go all in for her.

Another day's work for Ito Yuuta in the books. Now if only he could beat that stupid AI Robot.

Iwaizumi knew that Ito was just trying to get in his head. So he just made his way to Miyagi Gym, taking one of the posters from the hallway to make sure he could get there in time to see her play.

He got there within fifteen minutes, thanks to Matsukawa’s moped that he borrowed.

He held the helmet under his arm as he entered the gym, looking around for directions or a chart. She would be in a higher bracket, he knew that, but he had no idea what the 5-dan ranking was about that Ito had gone on about.

Then he looked over to a screen that had her on display, making a focused face at a game board.

Iwaizumi saw her in person pretty soon after he asked around, she was sitting criss-cross on her chair, across from a boy who looked about their same age. The boy looked much more stressed than she looked. She looked like a picture of calm, almost bored if Iwaizumi was being honest.

She placed her stone down, and leaned back in her chair with a smug smile on her face. Iwaizumi couldn’t help the smile that drew across his face watching her seem satisfied.

“I pass.” Her opponent threw his hands up in the air and shook his head.

She placed one more stone and her opponent groaned and grabbed strands of his hair. She started collecting her opponents pieces and then shook his hand across the board.

An older woman, mid-forties maybe, announced the winner of the round. The announcer held her hand up in the air and she bowed to the audience, and then went and individually bowed to a group of people holding clipboards.

Iwaizumi cheered so loudly from where he was standing, and she caught sight of him immediately. She smiled, but then waved her hand in a ‘be quiet’ gesture. He nodded and started walking over to her.

She got handed a paper from the announcer and she held it so tightly, Iwaizumi thought she would rip it. She quickly made her way over to Iwaizumi, who was standing near the entrance of the subsect in the gym.

“You won? Right? Otherwise my cheering that ended up really bothering that guy who looks like a lemon was a waste.” Iwaizumi tried to sneak a glance at her paper, but she held it close to her chest.

“Yes, I won. I can’t believe you’re here. I didn’t know you wanted to come watch me play?”

Iwaizumi scratches the back of his head, “Well, I missed you. You weren’t in class.”

He missed her whenever she was gone. This was just the first time he had told her.

She laughs, “Usually tournaments are on the weekends, this is the only one I’ve ever had on a Monday.”

“Ah, makes sense. Is anyone else from Aoba here?”

Iwaizumi felt upset that people couldn’t appreciate her. He decided he would just have to appreciate her all the more.

She shook her head ‘no’ with a slight frown.

“I’m here. If that means anything at all.”

“It does mean something that you showed up, even though you’re also missing our math class so conveniently.” She poked his cheek with her finger, Iwaizumi shrugs with a grin on his face.

“One question before we celebrate,” She nods, urging him to continue, “Is your buddy Ito always such an asshole?”

She slaps her hand on her forehead, “What did he say.”

“Oh, he said quite a lot. Nothing I can’t deal with though. But he’s criminally mean, how do you deal with him?”

“He’s mad because he wasn’t invited to the tournament, he spent a lot of time practicing this year and to not get an invite to National Qualifiers kinda put him in a slump. Although, that doesn’t excuse anything he said.” She tucked her paper into the back pocket of her jeans, then gave Iwaizumi a hug.

He liked the hug a lot. He hoped there would be a lot more of them in store for them.

Iwaizumi, letting his curiosity get the better of him, lightly reached behind her to grab the paper. Letting his hand rest on the top of the curve of her backside, just high enough where he could play it off as his hand was on her waist. She let out a gasp at the touch, then he pulled her into his right side so he could read the paper, holding it out with his left hand.

He read through it quickly, scanning for keywords.

“So, you’re my Miss Miyagi Representative at Nationals then?”

“Don’t say it like that, just say Miyagi Representative.” She ducked her head a little, putting her face into his shoulder.

“Why are you getting all shy? This is an amazing accomplishment.” He held her shoulders with his hands and shook her a little, eliciting a laugh from her.

“The winner of the 5-dan bracket at Nationals can become a 6-dan player, just two dan levels below a professional ranking, isn’t that crazy!” She looks a little crazy, but the way her eyes shine with excitement and the way her mouth runs a mile a minute, and the way her hair looks sort of messy all settle into Iwaizumi’s heart comfortably, making themselves at home with his spirit.

“I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying but you’re really cute saying it.”

She rolls her eyes. Her expression changes for a second, shifting from playful annoyance to confusion.

“Iwaizumi, are we friends now? Is that what this is?”

He freezes, “I thought we were already friends? This is me trying to be more than friends.”

She lets out a knowing sound, understanding more than she did before.

“I mean, is kissing something you do with all your friends? Because if so, I’m going to need you to reconsider what you define as friendliness.”

“No, I don’t kiss my friends.” She hits him lightly on the shoulder.

“Good, because I don’t know if I’d be able to handle that. You know, my jealous streak and all that.”

She just loops their arms together and they walk out of the gym.

She ended up winning at Nationals, and Iwaizumi was there to cheer obnoxiously when she won there as well. She thanked him personally because when they went to the blossom festival at the central shrine, she ended up getting a lucky fortune.

What she didn’t know was that Iwaizumi had seen through the paper, and knowing that it was unlucky, got her to set it down to look at some of the stringed lights. And when she went to look at the lights, he swapped their fortunes.

Just so she could have his lucky charm.

He supposed he didn’t need a lucky charm, because she was all the luck he needed.

But even luck runs out sometimes.

He was sitting on the couch, listening to her talk about her college plans. They’d only been out of school and graduated for one week and she had sat him down in her living room to explain what the future holds for her. She was pacing back and forth in front of him, explaining the situation.

Iwaizumi recounted a synopsis of what she had just said.

“You got a full ride to University of California-Irvine, to play Go?”

“Apparently they wanted some cultural diversity, and they wanted me specifically at their school. It’s technically an exchange system, where I attend Tokyo University, but stay in California. But I’d get to teach Go classes, and I’d have a team of players that I would travel with to China and Korea, and home to play with at international tournaments.” She froze, and stood right in front of him.

“I guess you have to leave then.” Iwaizumi folded his arms, and she could tell something was wrong.

“Well, we knew that we weren’t going to be at the same university, so I don’t know why this is such a shock for you?” She lifted her eyebrows, giving him a look of concern.

Iwaizumi pursed his lips.

She sat down on her knees in front of him and tugged on his hand. “Hey, what’s going on behind those beautiful brown eyes of yours?”

“And I guess I’ll have to accept the offer from University of California-Irvine to do an exchange year then.”

She gently slapped his hand, “You’re such a prankster, I can’t believe you made me worry.”

“Oh, don’t stop worrying about me. I never said that.” Iwaizumi grabbed her hand and kissed her palm a few times, then moved his mouth so that he could rest his lips on her pulse point within her wrist. “You’re going to have to call me at least twice a day, and I’ll need you to send me all of your meals so that I can make sure you’re getting enough nutrients.”

“You’ll definitely need to stop worrying about me.” She groaned slightly, trying to get her hand away from Iwaizumi, but he pulled her up and into his lap. He put his face onto her back, his hair tickling the nape of her neck.

He liked being in California with her, but he’d only get to stay for one year, so he’d have to make the most of it.

Which is why he tried to spend most of it at the beach, trying to get her to play volleyball with him.

“Then after I receive it, you do that two handed toss I showed you, bringing the ball back to me so I can spike it over the net.” Iwaizumi was shirtless, wearing swim trunks, and had sunglasses on. If she was being honest, she was distracted by her fiance’s body movements and didn’t pay a lick of attention to the things he was trying to teach her.

She nodded though, taking off her swimsuit coverup, not wanting it to be in the way of the game. She was left in a black one-piece, with a large cut out in the back. Iwaizumi ran his hand down her exposed spine and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, before getting a volleyball tossed at his torso.

On the other side of the net was a guy that Iwaizumi had introduced as Ushijima, and one of her Go teammates who seemed very romantically interested in Ushijima.

Iwaizumi walked backwards for a moment, then he threw the ball up into the air and hit it with the center of his hand. The game was afoot.

Her friend received the ball with a practiced ease that convinced her that she was the only one who did not understand volleyball.

At the end of the game, Iwaizumi was hitting Ushijima’s back and telling him better luck next time. The four of them sat on a large beach towel and ate cut up pieces of watermelon that she had brought. Iwaizumi was sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him, one hand behind himself to prop him up. Ushijima was trying to hide his face from how her teammate was leaning closer and closer to him, talking about this and that.

Iwaizumi and her made eye contact, and Iwaizumi glanced over to where her friend was attempting to get Ushijima’s number. She sighed, ate another piece of watermelon and laid on her back, wiggling her hips a little to get comfortable on the expanse of the towel under the hot sun.

“Where do you want to live after we graduate?”

“I don’t know, I can play Go wherever I want. It’s a very portable game, you know.”

“You’ve told me that a few times before.” Iwaizumi stole the watermelon she had picked up with her pointer finger and thumb, just putting his mouth around her fingers and using his tongue to leverage the piece out of her control.

She let out a sound of disgust at his actions.

He wiggles an eyebrow teasingly, and leaned over her, putting one hand on her back and the other cupping her face softly. He looks to her lips then back to her eyes, she nods rapidly. He slots his lips into hers, working up to the right intensity.

She can hear the way her friend suggests that they and Ushijima should head to get popsicles, and to her surprise, Ushijima agrees.

Iwaizumi breaks out of the kiss for a second, still brushing his lips against hers as he speaks, “I thought they’d never leave.” He slides his tongue into her mouth, gently coaxing her to make the noises he loved to hear.

She pulls back for a second, “You know we’re still in public right?”

“I know, but now I can do this without getting watched by a high school friend of mine.” Iwaizumi slid his hand down to her thigh, and twisted himself around, so that she was straddling his hips. She was on top of him as he was sitting up. He let out a happy hum when she rested her hands in his hair, curling the strands around her fingers. “I think you should just always stay in my lap.”

She starts kissing his neck, then jokingly starts sucking on his jawline. He murmurs a little, asking her to keep going, and she giggles. She moves a hand down to rest on his abdomen, tracing along the lines of his muscles.

“Watch your hand.” He grumbles a little, her hand just a little too low for his own sanity. He kisses her cheek and then goes to nip at her earlobe.

“Watch your mouth.” She leans back but his head follows her, trying to capture her lips again. He lets out a complaining noise, muttering an apology.

“My bad.” Iwaizumi gives her a light kiss, pouting when she doesn't kiss back, “Please.” He kissed her again, and she still didn’t kiss back, “Kiss me.”

“You’re so whiney sometimes.” She pulls him by his neck into a deep kiss and he makes a noise she can only comprehend as a happy chirp.

So what if Iwaizumi Hajime was mildly bothersome to her, she had the rest of her life to be bothered by him. She had the ring to prove it.

[fruitcoops]

Best Beloved

Day Thirteen: our final day of Fic O'Ween 2024, brought to you by the most special girl in the world. She was spared a spooky movie, as she did not partake in the midight margaritas for obvious reasons. Characters (except our leading lady) belong to @lumosinlove, and MASSIVE massive thanks to @noots-fic-fests for organizing another wonderful year <3

Day 12 movie: Beetlejuice (1988)

Movie theme of the fest itself: Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), with a sprinkling of Freaky Friday (2003) for our dream-hopping, out-of-body experiences. I hope you enjoyed reading and following along as much as I enjoyed writing these!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

“How is it?”

“…working, but don’t tell him.”

Lily took a pointed sip of her hangover cure (courtesy of James) and rested her elbows on the kitchen island. Remus joined her a moment later, laying his whole head on his folded arms and abandoning his own concoction to the side. The ‘Whale of a Time!’ novelty mug from their Alaskan summer trip bore a cheerful orca waving its fin, directly at odds with his general aura of headache melancholy.

“I wonder what she dreams of,” he mused, muffled by the thick sleeves of his hoodie.

Below them, Hattie’s paws gave a twitch.

“Seems important,” Lily agreed. She braved another sip. It was disappointing how well the awful thing worked.

Remus hummed, and tilted his head slightly to the side. His eyes remained on Hattie’s side, rising and falling in an even pattern ever-so-rarely interrupted by a huff. Her nose wiggled; he smiled. “Nah. She’s got nothing to worry about.”

“Evil squirrels,” Lily pointed out.

“They steer clear.”

“Rival gangs?”

Remus’ next breath was a laugh. “She has never met an enemy.”

Lily frowned. “Delayed dinner?”

Remus paused, blinking slowly. “Maybe. Aw, look, she’s chasing something.”

Fuzzy black paws picked up the pace. Quick flicks, back-and-forth, scraping just her smallest nail along the floor in tiny, inch-long crescents. Hattie’s nose wiggled again, searching for whatever eluded her in the land of beautiful dreams inhabited by the best-loved creatures. Even her eyelids fluttered.

“Hattie,” Remus called softly. “What are you doing, Hat Trick?”

Hattie’s tail gave a thump. She settled with a last hard puff that flexed her nostrils. Her paws fell quiet, save for one last stretch.

--

Hattie was having the most fabulous dream.

Her people, all her people, wandering about—then home, after discovering several dropped crackers when people started leaving. A car ride and bedtime and scritches and treats snuck under the table to her and every last one of her people petting her all night long, even through the thick Dad Shirt she had been put in before they arrived.

(That part was confusing. They had so many Dad Shirts in the house boxes, in all sizes. They got thrown into the weird bags with interesting smells and went out with her dads every day, but they always came home smelling like unfamiliar laundry and not the sweaty strangeness of their playing-with-friends clothes. Also, Hattie wasn’t usually dressed in Dad Shirts. Everyone else found it very funny.)

And now! Now she had a butterfly, big and yellow and bouncing just ahead of her snout. She had jumped at it first, then pranced after it, and now she was allowed to run-run-run across soft, flat grass.

It was wonderful.

--

“She was so goddamn cute in Pads’ jersey last night—”

“Oh my god, I know, I died when he brought her down in it.”

Lily buried her laughter in the rim of her cup. “It’s uncanny.”

Remus grimaced briefly around the dregs of the Emergen-C-Gatorade-Tums-Pedialyte smoothie, but his fond smile returned without issue. “It’s so…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “From day one, I swear. The eyes?”

“The hair!”

“It’s dead-on.”

“Sorry for leaving lipstick on her forehead.”

Remus shrugged one shoulder. “It blends in. She’s fine.”

“Animal testing,” Lily joked.

“The glitter, maybe.”

“The margs took over. I’m not liable for my actions.”

Their mutual wince made Remus pinch the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Jesus, yeah, and they were so good.”

“It makes me so mad,” Lily mumbled into the cuff of her hoodie. “Like, come on, at least make it taste like danger.”

“That salt rim.”

“The fucking salt rim! French sea salt? Are you joking right now?”

“And the sugar sprinkled on the top.” Remus shook his head with a noise of faux disgust. They sat quietly for a few minutes. Outside, garage door hummed. Remus leaned over and knocked their shoulders together. “Thanks for coming over this morning.”

“Your husband actually begged mine to heal him.”

“And he did. You should keep him.”

Lily gave him a disbelieving look. “He’s not going anywhere.”

--

The butterfly led Hattie over bubbling streams and gentle slopes just meant to be sprinted down. The wind ruffled her fur and carried the bird songs right into her ears, no effort necessary. She was out of breath. It didn’t matter. The butterfly was right there—she almost had it.

--

“Hi, boys,” Lily rasped as the door to the kitchen opened.

James barely glanced up from kicking off his tennis shoes with a bag in one hand and coffee in the other. “Boo. Trick or treat?”

“Treat.”

“Everything bagel with scallion cream cheese.”

Lily buried her moan in the countertop and reached a blind, grasping hand out across cool marble. Wax paper crinkled; a soft greeting followed, then a kiss to the back of her head. She squinted in the low light of late morning as James paired it neatly with a second to her forehead. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“Dearly. Endlessly. Forever.”

His cheeks pinked. “Back at you.”

“Mhm.”

Remus was halfway through his own bagel when she looked over. Her stomach rumbled in pure jealousy.

“Oh,” Sirius said happily, pointing past them. “She’s dreaming.”

--

Triumph. Hattie rolled onto her back and stretched her legs out as far as they would go, each toe flexed and every joint extended. It would be better with belly rubs, but a wiggle of her shoulders in the moss was more than enough to satisfy.

The butterfly hopped between her back paws, then up to the front. It tickled the pads and the fur between them. She tipped her head to the side for a better look at the fluffy bits of its wings, but a flop of her paw startled it into the air.

The butterfly set off again, this time toward a rich green forest. Hattie leapt up with a bark and a bound, and didn’t look back.

[ghoulangerlee]

like a deadly affliction (that is twisting and bending my core) ; copiaether

i wont bore you with extreme details of how this came about but just know that i fucking hate pap smears and im sorry copia i didn't mean to give you a med fet because of that

tw: med fet if that's not your thing then don't read! copia is explicitly trans in this but he's also undergoing both a pap smear and a chest exam for breast cancer so yknow. precaution if either of those things trigger you? i use mostly masculine or neutral terms for copia's stuff but cunt and folds did make their way in there at one point. there is an instance of penis in vagina but it's just the tip because i am a sucker for that. it's mostly just fingering before that tho :)

this is the start of my aether ghoul malpractice series and it only gets worse from here unfortunately. i could be convinced to include more ghouls tho if anyone has any ideas for stuff.

ive been editing this for days, it was written last year so yknow. if i missed anything lemme know <3

now without further ado!

====

The exam table paper crinkles under him as he shifts—grimacing as his naked calves make contact with the cool metal of the side of the exam room’s bed.  

It's uncomfortable really, sitting naked in here, bitterly cold, covered only by a thin, white paper drape across his lower body. The matching gown sits folded behind him, leaving his chest exposed to the cool air.  

If he had any sensation left in his nipples, he’s sure they’d be pebbled over by now, stiff peaks drawing attention to anyone looking hard enough.  

There’s a churn of anxiety in his gut, the array of tools sitting out on a tray, the somewhat ugly off-white color of the walls hold no sort of comfort for him, even if they are attached to the infirmary of the church and not to some random doctor’s office he’d been going to years before.  

He stares blankly ahead at the wall, there’s a painting hanging on it but he can’t quite make out what it is anymore, letting his eyes unfocus as he waits, trying to calm his nerves, his rapid beating heart, he always did hate these yearly exams.  

“Frater?” 

Copia jumps, startles, his fingers digging into the soft cushion on the bed as he jerks his head and looks back towards the door.  

Aether stands there by the closed door, dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a button down shirt, his sleeves rolled up neatly to his elbows—and it’s just Aether, as he’d requested, when the nurse who had done his intake had asked him if he wanted someone else in there, he’d shaken his head no and told her that he was comfortable with Aether, only Aether.  

And he was, is comfortable, feels tension melt out of his shoulders as he loosens his grip on the bed, exhales loudly into the room in an attempt to calm himself more, “Aether,” he says, voice warm, trying not to betray the nervousness he feels. “Thank you for doing this for me.”  

Aether smiles at him and steps further into the small room, “Anything for you,” he says easily, his voice gentle as he stops for a moment beside the bed. “I’m going to make this whole thing as painless as possible, alright?”  

“Mm,” Copia hums, digs his fingers into the cushion of the bed one more time, “Of course, whenever you’re ready, I’m ready.”  

Aether reaches out and touches Copia’s shoulder, squeezes it gently for a moment, “If you’ll go ahead and lay back for me,” he murmurs, “I’m going to wash my hands and grab some gloves, and I’ll start the exam.”  

He steps away and Copia watches him for a moment, his shirt is stretched across his shoulders, shifting as he moves across the room to the sink, turning the water on and washing his hands—if he looks hard enough he can almost see the muscles flex under the material as the ghoul reaches out to scrub his hands with soap studiously.  

Copia feels himself flush for a moment, wonders if this will be an issue in the opposite direction as he shifts to lay back on the bed, the folded gown sitting under the small of his back as his legs hang off the edge, digging somewhat uncomfortably into the backs of his thighs—for now.  

The water turning off and the sound of the paper towel dispenser draws Copia’s attention back over to the sink, and that anxious coil takes over in his stomach again, even as he tells himself that it’s only Aether, the very same ghoul who’s been here from the beginning, who knows him.  

“We’ll do this at your speed,” Aether says as he tosses the crumpled paper towel in the trash and grabs a pair of blue exam gloves from one of the boxes on the wall. “If you need to stop and take a breather at any time you just tell me and we’ll stop. I can step out of the room and give you a second to collect yourself if you want. Whatever you need.”  

The urge to say I don’t want to do this, bubbles up in his throat, but he knows that keeping on top of his own health is important—especially now, especially with the added stress of the new position, how everything has fallen into his lap.  

“Alright,” he says, keeping his voice careful, neutral as he watches Aether pull the gloves on, one by one, the sound of latex snapping loudly around his wrists echoing in the room, “I’m ready then.”  

Aether smiles at him, steps over to the table and comes to a stop beside him, “I’m going to just feel over your chest with my hands for a moment,” he says, keeping his tone light, professional. “When was your last screening for breast cancer?” he asks, and only a moment later, do his hands come into contact with Copia’s skin—quintessence is cold to the touch, frigid in a way, sort of like a kiss of death and Copia shivers as Aether’s fingers press around the outer edge of his pec.  

“Sorry,” he comments lightly, pressing in and prodding around the edges of the muscle, “Cold fingers, bad circulation,” he makes a joke, smiles as he tries to make light of the situation, “I could always get Dew to warm my hands up for me.”  

“No,” Copia hisses, his skin crawling a bit as Aether’s gloved fingers come into contact with the fading scars on his chest, sensitive to touch in a way his brain can never quite figure out—especially when he’s so anxious. “I’d rather die.”  

Aether laughs softly, “No, no,” he says, his voice going soft, dropping from professional for just a moment, “I’m kidding, I’d never betray your trust like that, Copia.”  

Its murmured so sincerely that Copia has to reach out, just for a moment, his hand wrapping around Aether’s wrist, fingertips slipping under the edges of the glove and brushing against the inside of his wrist, skin against skin.  

Aether glances down, a small and secretive smile on his lips for a moment, “Whenever you’re ready for me to continue the exam,” he murmurs, his hand stays still, his pinkie, ring, middle and pointer fingers all curled around the curve of his pec, where long ago the surgeon had left tissue instead of making him completely flat—the longer the touch stays, the more he grows used to it, the gloves warming to the temperature of his skin.  

“You can keep going,” Copia finally manages, exhaling as he lets go of Aether’s wrist, letting out a shuttering breath as he does, hand falling back down onto the bed to curl around the cushion.  

A hum, low and agreeing, and Aether shifts his touch, pressing the flat of his four fingers into Copia’s skin, “Your last screening?” he asks again, prodding carefully at his skin, touch firm as he makes broad, sweeping motions around the entirety of each pec, feeling out for lumps or anything out of the ordinary.  

“Last year,” Copia says, hoping his voice is even enough, ignoring the waver when he feels Aether’s fingers brush over his scars again. “The attending physician said I was good for at least two years before I needed another one.”  

Aether doesn’t say anything, his gaze trained on Copia’s chest as he presses his fingers into his skin, seemingly touching every spot that makes his hair stand on end only pausing when he’s done thoroughly examining one side, hand cupping around Copia’s chest unconsciously, his thumb dragging it’s way up and down the center of his breastbone, “Mm, the doctor is right,” he agrees, “Though a self exam is good to do regularly anyway and part of your yearly,” he says, “I don’t believe there’s anything to suggest you’d need to screen more often, but top surgery only reduces the chance, not eliminates it.” He says, as if reciting something.  

Copia glances down at Aether’s hand, the blue medical glove a stark contrast to his own pale chest, the span of Aether’s hand over his pec, “Yes,” he says, somewhat nonsensically, “I knew when I got the surgery that I’d still need the exams, that’s no issue.” Talking about his own medical history, talking about things like this, he could do, anything to keep his mind off of what would come next. “I haven’t noticed anything odd about my chest, no discoloration or spots, lumps, weird pains, anything like that.”  

Aether hums, glances up at Copia’s face for a moment before he removes his hand, sliding over to the other side to perform the same exam, “Good,” he says, “People performing self-exams is what we like to hear.” He comments before going quiet again as he focuses on prodding the other side of Copia’s chest with his fingers, taking extra careful swipes across his nipple and pressing into the soft tissue along the lower curve of his pec, murmuring to himself as he does so.  

Copia holds his breath then, counts to ten before exhaling slowly, ignoring how his brain wants to turn each prod into something slower, something more sensual—his mind morphing the situation into something entirely different than what it is—his annual wellness exam.  

“I don’t see any swelling or discoloration around the nipple, no discharge, nothing to denote anything of concern,” Aether murmurs, finally pulling his hands away from Copia’s chest, “No lumps or bumps,” he glances up at Copia’s face and smiles, “So things look fine up here, are you doing alright?” He steps back from the bed and lets his hands fall by his side.  

He places his hands atop his chest then, letting skin against skin ground himself, “Yes,” he says on an exhale, “I’m doing alright,” he echoes the words, offering a small and somewhat hesitant smile up at Aether. “This exam has been more...pleasant than previous ones. However, I am still nervous about what’s coming up.”  

He tries to play it off with a laugh, something not quite all there with the way his fingers curl and uncurl against his chest, “The longer we wait though, the more I’m going to overthink it, so if we could just...move forward and get it over with, please.” He looks over at Aether, doesn’t want to come across as too pushy or mean or ungrateful, but he’s just tired, his mind conjuring everything that’s going to happen and spinning everything out of control the longer they meander around it all.  

He knows the process and has done it hundreds of times but now, but it never gets easier, and it never gets more pleasant despite all of that.  

“Of course, Copia,” Aether murmurs gently in understanding, tugging off his gloves and tossing them in the trash before unloosing the stirrups from the front of the bed, “If you would, just scoot down to the end of the bed for me and put your feet in these here, I need you as close to the end as you can get for me.” He smiles at Copia one last time before turning back to the sink to wash his hands, allowing him the dignity of privacy to get in place.  

Something that Copia is incredibly grateful for as he scoots down to the edge of the bed, the paper under him crinkling quietly under the sound of the water running—it's embarrassing, the way his hands shake as he fumbles with the blue medical pad at the end of the bed, straightening it out as he sits on it, fits his heels into the hard plastic stirrups, feeling entirely way too exposed despite the paper sheet draped over his lap— 

The water shuts off and there’s a rustle of more latex, the sound of wheels rolling across the floor as Aether drags the stool closer to the bed, “Alright, Copia,” he murmurs, closer now, lower, latex covered hands, cold again, briefly resting on his bare ankles before pushing at the sheet. “I’m going to lift this now, if you need to stop at any time, just let me know and we’ll stop.”  

He doesn’t give Copia much time after that to really think about it, the cold air rushes under the sheet as he folds it up to rest just over his belly and there’s a brief touch on his inner thighs, cold latex brushing over his skin as Aether does a quick exam, murmuring to himself before he pulls back.  

“This will be a little cold,” he says, reaching over to the little table beside him, there’s a crinkle as he picks up a packet of single use lube, carefully ripping it open, “Just keep breathing and this will be over soon,” he murmurs and then silence stretches between them as Aether leans forward and carefully presses a glob of cold, sticky lube against the slight gape of Copia’s folds, watching his muscles tense as he does.  

Copia breathes out slowly, closes his eyes and tries to ignore how exposed he feels—it's Aether, but it feels just like any other exam, the cold lube, the uncomfortable bed, the way his knees already feel stiff and achy just from where they’re bent; but he breathes, reaches out and grabs at the bed again clenches his fingers in it, in the crinkly paper on it and forces himself to relax as Aether spreads the lube around carefully, his touch a bit more gentle than doctors in the past.  

“You’re doing great,” Aether murmurs, glances upwards for a moment, catching sight of Copia, who has his face turned upwards, mouth opened as he breathes out, chest rising and falling in controlled breaths, “You’re doing so great, Copia, that’s it,” he encourages, twists his wrist just a little bit and carefully sinks just the tip of his index finger inside of him, pushing the lube into him, “Breathe for me.”  

Copia makes a noise, a noise as he does so, something choked, and half bitten off as he lifts off the table for a moment, pushing most of his weight onto his knees and onto the stirrups so they creak and shift on the table—he exhales shakily, feels the heft of Aether’s finger slip further inside him, slick and gooey with the amount of lube, the slide due to the glove, he can’t help but clench around it.  

“Copia,” Aether murmurs, presses his other hand to his inner thigh, guiding him back down to the bed, “Breathe, relax,” he murmurs as he spreads the lube around inside him and all too soon, he removes his finger, shushing the noise Copia makes.  

Aether carefully lifts the speculum from the table next and spreads lubricant on the end of it—and then with his thumb he gently spreads Copia’s folds, fitting the tip of it against his hole, “Going to feel it,” he warns gently, cranking it open—the sound of the plastic cogs working against each other as it stretches Copia open.  

He winces, bites back a cry of pain as it stretches him, he shifts on the bed and Aether shushes him, presses his palm firmer against his inner thigh, warns him to stay still, to breathe and Copia tries, he really does but it all just hurts.  

There’s shifting at the foot of the bed and the sound of a vial hitting against something else as Aether murmurs something to himself, “Almost done,” he promises, and then Copia makes another noise of pain as he feels the rough texture of something inside him (its the swab, it’s always the swab, the doctor always says you can’t feel it but you can and it doesn’t feel pleasant it hurts it’s—) 

It’s gone in an instant and then there’s a moment where all Copia knows is the pain of the speculum stretching him open before the jarring sound of plastic against plastic echo in the room and Aether’s easing it from him, his hands smoothing across his inner thighs as he shushes Copia—the room completely and totally still for a moment, for one long, terrifying moment and then— 

“Aether,” Copia mumbles, the word tumbling from his mouth, fragile and full of something that has the ghoul standing and forcing his way between Copia’s legs; there’s already more lube on his fingers as he brings one hand—still gloved to where Copia’s aching and sore, soothing away the pain with his touch, while the other hand, blue glove half ripped off, reaches out to cup the man’s face, drawing him up into a messy kiss as Aether leans over him.  

Aether swallows Copia’s sounds as he sinks a finger into him, slow and careful all the while pressing a slick thumb against the stiff peak of his dick, feeling him tighten and loosen rhythmically around his finger, “That’s it,” he murmurs against his mouth, “Let me in, baby,” he continues, “I’ve been so good this whole time, haven’t tried to feel you up when you’re laying here like a feast.”  

Copia pulls away from the kiss and moans, something loud and pathetic as he reaches up and wraps an arm around Aether’s shoulders, holding onto him tightly, trying to rock up into his touch but getting annoyed at the way the stirrups keep his legs open and give him no leverage, but when he tries to move one of his legs, wrap it around Aether’s waist, Aether just shushes him and moves it back to the stirrup, leaning in to kiss him again.  

“Let me have you like this, baby,'' Aether murmurs, his finger finally sinking into Copia up to the first knuckle, “Give you a proper exam, wanna make sure you’re all healthy,” he says, biting at Copia’s lower lip as he pulls away, staring down at the man’s flushed face, all pretty and pink. “Think if I’m gentle you can take three fingers?” he asks, an eager edge to his voice.  

Copia groans something, feels hot all over at the thought of three of Aether’s thick fingers inside of him and he nods, swallows a few times until he finds his voice, “You’re the only one I trust,” he says, “trust to make a thorough exam,” he adds on, watching as Aether’s eyes darken.  

Aether grins at him, curls the tip of his finger a bit to drag it against Copia’s inner walls as he slowly fucks him with it, “I know you do, baby, and you know I’ll take good care of you,” he murmurs, the words a teasing coo as he presses several kisses across his chin and jaw, “You just don’t like having things inside you baby, but you’ll let me put my fingers in you, won’t you?” he says, the words dripping off his tongue in a way that comes across as condescending more than anything.   

The fire in Copia’s belly burns to an inferno and he makes a noise, gasps out an ah when Aether’s finger curls, when it sinks in all the way and Aether’s thumb, slick and tacky with lube nudges just right against his dick and lights fire along every nerve in his body, his own fingers fist into the hair at the base of Aether’s neck, holding on tight as he tips his head back, moans out into the small exam room, the sound bouncing off the walls.  

“Beautiful,” Aether murmurs, ducking his head down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the base of Copia’s throat, “Sing for me, let me hear you,” he stays close, keeping their bodies pressed together, Copia’s legs still fitted in the stirrups and stretched obscenely around his waist as his finger probes deeper, pressing into spongy, hot tissue. “You’re so hot in here,” he murmurs, “Feels like you’re trying to suck me in.”  

He lifts up just enough so he can look down, watch where his finger disappears into Copia, gaze sharp and steely, “No other doctor has ever had you like this, have they?” he asks suddenly, the words bursting from his mouth as he sinks his finger all the way in and leaves it there, presses it upwards until Copia’s gasping and jerking under him—he’s wet, sloppy now, clenching tight around Aether’s finger.  

“What—no,” the words come out forced, half garbled with a moan, Copia’s nails digging into the back of Aether’s neck, making the ghoul snarl and jerk his hand upwards, a little harsh on his dick, on his cunt, and he whines, the sound tearing from his mouth.  

It takes him a moment, several moments of his thighs wanting to close around Aether for him to get his body under control before he’s able to be a little more coherent again, and he turns his head, drags his nose against Aether’s temple, something placating, “I don’t like doctors,” he says it, the words caught on a gasp as Aether starts trying to press a second finger into him, “Nothing about this gets me off,” he says, aiming for incredulous but sounds somewhere closer to delirious.  

“You’re getting off now,” Aether says, pulling his finger all the way out, the loss so stark that Copia makes a wounded sound before Aether’s crossing two of his fingers together and rubbing them through the mess of lube and slick between his legs, “You’re so wet and open I could probably fuck you like this,” he adds, fitting the tips of his gloved fingers against Copia’s hole and pressing them into him, slowly, “And you’re telling me you don’t get off on the idea of being felt up by your doctor?”  

Copia groans, shifts on the bed as much as he can with Aether pinning him in place, hides his face against the side of Aether’s, “I hate when doctors touch me like this,” he says, wrapping his other arm around Aether’s upper back to keep him closer, “But you’re the only one I trust to do this,” he mumbles, panting against the side of his face, “I get off on the idea of you feeling me up, this whole time, it’s been driving me crazy,” he admits, whining when the thicker part of the two of Aether’s fingers slips into him.  

“Knew I could smell something sweet,” Aether mumbles, sounding a little self-satisfied when he suddenly screws his fingers into Copia a little meanly, “When I was giving you the chest exam. You were getting a little turned on then, weren’t you?” 

Copia arches off of the bed and into Aether, swearing loudly into his skin, “Yes,” he breathes, “Kept wishing you’d just put your mouth on me instead. Can’t feel anything anymore but…” he trails off.  

“But the pressure is nice,” Aether finishes the thought for him, fucks his fingers into him a few times as he ducks his head down to do just that, mouth latching onto a patch of skin just to the right of his nipple—and Copia gasps, pushes his chest up further into Aether’s mouth.  

He cups the back of Aether’s neck, holds him there, keeps him in place as Aether’s arm starts moving faster—pleasure building up in his belly, the stretch in his thighs and the ache in his knees making everything so much more.  

It’s only when he least expects it does Aether sneak in the third finger, a tease of latex pressing where he’s already stretched wide around two, already aching and painful, he’s going to hurt later, and his mind is already rushing ahead to think about how he can get something to soothe the ache later, a warm mouth lapping at him where he’s been used, chasing away the ache with another orgasm, something gentler than the one he’s hurtling towards now.  

He gasps, in pain or in pleasure in something when Aether presses the third finger in, it stretches uncomfortably for a moment, almost raw—but it melts into pleasure when Aether’s thumb finds his dick again, circles around it slowly, soothing, petting it carefully as he eases him through the intrusion all the while mouthing across his chest and leaving behind matching bruises across each pec.  

Aether’s slow with it, careful for a while, and things get a little wetter between Copia’s legs, slicker—more lube, he thinks, half out of his mind in pleasure while Aether’s got three of his thick fingers buried all the way inside him, pressing and prodding and palpating against his walls while he sucks bruises across his skin, he’s so out of his mind with it, his grip on Aether’s head tight that he’s sure that the ghoul would have suffocated by now if he needed to properly breathe.  

Aether fights his way up, lifting his head away from Copia’s chest despite the grip, shushes him when he whines and presses a kiss against his slack mouth, “I think you’ve been good,” he whispers into it, “Everything feels perfect to me,” he emphasizes his words by curling his fingers, forcing them deeper, making Copia gasp, claw at Aether’s shirt. “Do you want to come?”  

Copia nods, half out of it as he bites at Aether’s mouth, “Please,” he begs softly, “I need it,” he continues, “Such a good doctor.”  

That makes Aether groan, pressing a harsh kiss to Copia’s mouth, deep and unforgiving, “The only doctor, right?” he asks, bringing his other hand up to grip Copia’s jaw, tilting his head back, “The only one that gets to have you like this?”  

“Yes,” he says, “The only doctor that gets to touch me, that gets to have me like this, Aether please,” he begs, “Please, I need it.”  

Another kiss, this time, softer, but Aether fucks Copia harder, curls his fingers with each thrust, the squelching sounds growing louder, eclipsed by the sounds of Copia’s moans as he arches up into Aether, pleasure building, building, building in his stomach until he reaches the precipice of it all— 

He blacks out a bit, hears himself scream, feels his body try to shake off the bed as Aether holds him in place, every muscle clenching and unclenching in unison as he comes, he’s only vaguely aware when Aether pulls back a bit, presses a few kisses against his face and then stills, waits for him to get his bearings back all the while his fingers remained buried inside him while Copia’s body keeps clenching around them as if they’re trying to milk them.  

He exhales shakily, peels his eyes open and stares upward at the ceiling, “Satan below,” he whispers, feels Aether shake against his chest in laughter.  

When Aether goes to pull back, he stands, straightens himself up and carefully removes his fingers slowly, knowing that Copia’s probably oversensitive—but he can’t help but stop and stare.  

Stare at the way the hair framing his cunt is all matted and wet from his slick and come and lube, the way his dick still seems to be just the tiniest bit hard, the way he gapes from where he’d had three fingers inside him for so long so soon after being opened up with the speculum.  

Aether swallows, glances up at Copia who’s watching him with a raised eyebrow, who glances down at the obvious bulge in his slacks, tilting his head to the side.  

This whole thing has been about Copia but— 

“I don’t think I could handle having anything else in me right now but,” Copia’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and he shifts on the bed, legs still in the stirrups, still spread open and gaping, “I’m already a mess, might as well,” he waves down towards where Aether’s hard. “I’d like a really warm bath after this.” He says, “And after that, I want you to do that thing with your tongue that always makes me see double.” He smiles at Aether, “By then, I think the ache will have set in, but I don’t think I’ll be able to really take anything, so you’ll have to kiss it better, hm?”  

Aether swears, fumbles open his slacks and shoves them and his underwear out of the way before he steps forward again, this time Copia is sitting half up, but only for a moment, long enough to squeeze whatever remaining lube there is into Aether’s gloved hand before he lays back down, widens his knees and waits.  

He hisses softly when his hand touches his cock, knows this will be over very quick, as he jerks himself off, remembering the tight squeeze of Copia around his fingers, wonders how long until he can convince Copia to take his cock—though with the way he’s being watched, he hopes it’s not a too far distant thing, especially not when Copia reaches down between his own legs and spreads himself, just a bit, hissing quietly.  

“Oh,” Aether gasps, stumbles forward, close enough that he’s almost touching Copia again, “I’m going to come,” he says after a few moments, “Copia—” 

Copia shushes him, beckons him forward and cants his hips up as best as he can, “Right here,” he says, voice shaking a bit as he drags a fingertip over his gaping hole, toes curling a bit at the sensation. “Only the tip when you come. I want you to taste yourself later.”  

Aether makes a wounded noise and nearly trips over his own feet, knees knocking loudly against the bed as he gets as close as he can, a choked, pained sound falling from his mouth, from Copia’s when he sinks in, just the tip of his cock, the gape of Copia’s hole easily accepting him but still so tight, so warm.  

His head bows forward as he grips the side of the bed with his free hand, moaning long and low in his throat as he comes, jerking himself off to stop from fucking forward into the heat around the tip of his cock.  

Copia’s hands cup Aether’s face, drawing him down into a kiss, one that’s mostly just the two of them panting into each other’s mouths—and for a while, they stay like that, as Aether tries not to shake apart from the intensity of it all, from how on the edge he feels.  

“My ghoul,” Copia finally murmurs into his mouth, carefully reaching between them to wrap his hand around where Aether is oh so slowly growing soft, “As much as it pains me to pull you away from this,” he murmurs, mourning the loss of the fullness as he eases Aether out of him, “I think we should move this to a proper room,” he says softly, pressing a couple of kisses to Aether’s slack mouth. “You owe me a bath and your tongue. And if you uphold your end of the bargain, I may let you come inside me again,” he smiles when Aether makes an interested noise.  

Aether pulls back and shakes his head, winking at Copia and easily finding his clothes—they’re quick to clean up the room, though Aether mostly just banishes everything they’d defiled to a different realm while Copia carefully gets dressed, his legs wobbly still.  

Afterwards, they sneak out of the room under the cloak of Aether’s magic, shadows curling around them as they make their way back to Copia’s room where a hot bath is waiting on them.  

[laikiirnodel]

I stumbled across a .gif today (I've seen it before but had new thoughts so you get to hear them) (For some reason it's not showing up in tumblr .gif search for proper embedding but here's a link if you want to watch it https://tenor.com/view/star-trek-tng-data-present-wrapping-gif-22331742)

It's a scene from Star Trek: TNG where Data is opening a gift. He and five other crew members stand around a table on which there are several other gifts, all still wrapped in shiny silver paper.

He is opening the gift in his hands gently and carefully, without ripping the paper. (This is the way I open presents.)

After an awkward moment of waiting, Wes informs Data that he is "supposed to rip the wrapping off". (This is the criticism I always receive when opening presents.)

Data explains that "with the application of a little care" it is possible to open it without tearing, allowing for reuse of the paper. At this point he has concluded the wrapping removal and places the gift under his arm to leave his hands free to fold the paper neatly. The others look either exasperated or amused.

Wes says he is missing the point. Data looks at him and tears the paper in two, down the middle.

Now. This is supposed to be a scene highlighting the inhuman-ness of Data and the arbitrary-ness of the human social rules and expectations. Obviously there is a clear parallel to neurodivergence here, as I'm sure we all are or know someone who does this.

And yet I still have trouble with the tearing at the end. I couldn't let that go. Yes, it's a waste of all that effort we just went to, and ruining a perfectly functional item, but there was something else bugging me and I couldn't (metaphorically) put my finger on it until just now. And I started thinking about solutions.

Data tears it because he has been informed that there is some arbitrary social rule he was unaware of, and that the others in the room desired the paper's destruction. Even though that seemed illogical, it must be a human thing and ripping it now should make everyone happy, I guess? But it's not satisfying. It doesn't hit the same notes as tearing paper off the gift itself. The process was already completed. The tearing was a second event, not part of the original unveiling.

And I realised that part of my personal issue with tearing the paper, aside from the aforementioned logical reasons, is that it's a sensory issue. I don't like the sound in my ears, I don't like feeling the sensation in my fingers, and as a kid who read thousands of library books, there is a near-moral aversion to the tearing of paper of any kind, because it feels like destroying a book, which is of course unforgivable.

I've done paper-distressing for art projects and such. Distressing [action - synonym "weathering"] is distressing [feeling - synonym "anxiety-causing"]. I can get over it in that context because it's earmarked (oh, yeah, also earmarking aaaaaaaaaaah) for destruction. Post-apocalyptic costuming is supposed to look weathered and torn. Repaired, at the very least. The scroll sitting in a damp cave for years is gonna have rotted edges and funny spots, if it's even still intact enough to call a scroll. They're supposed to be that way. If they were pretty and nice and perfect it wouldn't be right.

The distressing [action] principle doesn't apply to gifts. Gifts are supposed to be nice. When someone gives you a present, it's in nice paper, it's supposed to be pretty. People look down on gifts wrapped "poorly" or in the 'wrong' substance. (This should also be changed btw. Presents you got in a plastic bag are just as good as presents in gold foil. Crumply brown paper with awkward tape or string has revealed some of my very favorite gifts. Thoughtful homemade stuff is awesome. Things received without wrapping at all are still gifts. I'm ranting but you get the idea.) [Also some cultures like wrapping gifts in, say, a useful cloth, such that it's actually two gifts in one. So you get an awesome handkerchief or scarf or whatever too, and that's fantastic, I love that. This post is just talking about the paper ones]

So.

I have physical and mental aversions to tearing paper. When I get a gift, I want to open it gently and carefully and have the wrapping set aside in one piece. (or however many it started with). This takes time, but gives a pleasing result. That is satisfying to me.

Other people, when they get a gift, want to tear up the outside to get to the inside. I theorize that this is some sort of latent hunting instinct, but I digress. It's fast, it doesn't require careful thought, and there must be some level of catharsis in socially-acceptable destruction, maybe even in seeing the pile of shredded remains afterwards? (let me know if you're in this group, what you find pleasing about it! I'm really curious!) Destroying the covering is satisfying to them. The latter group tends to get annoyed at how long it takes for me to unwrap things, and feel unsatisfied with the result, whether or not the present inside was cool or not. Sometimes a person has even taken the present away from me, torn off the wrapping, and then handed it back. Which, Um. I did want to open my own present actually. That was really rude. It's not yours. Especially since they didn't ask first. I've even heard people complain about gift bags (the common response in these situations, as gift bags are not destroyed in the process of revealing their contents, are usually reusable so long as the tag is swapped out, etc.) for being "too easy" or "boring".

Is there a good compromise?

Today, I thought: What if it was a two-part opening? Like, a gift bag with something rip-able to play with, or a wrapped gift with a concealing sleeve or hiding it under the table from myself or something?

So I could unwrap the gift itself, in a way that's satisfying to me, perhaps a little ahead of time so people don't get bored. And then I would hand someone else the rip-able thing and plug my ears. Everyone who wants to, gets to experience the shredding event, and then we do the big reveal! I can open the concealing sleeve or pull it out from under the table or whatever, and everyone gets to have the fun surprise of the actual present all at once!

This way, I would get to have my ritual, and protect myself from the distressing bit. Others would get the catharsis of destruction. All of us would get the exciting surprise at the end.

Do you think this would be fun? Would it hit all the fun/satisfying points for you?

Have you or someone you know done a setup like this before? How did it go? Were there any unexpected problems that came up, or surprising benefits?

Did I say something here that you never realised before that now you have to think about or do something different?

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Capernaum's Sweetest | Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - The girl at the bakery

Chapter list

Under a glorious sunrise, Zebedee and his sons find their way back to the Capernaum docks with empty nets folded up inside their vessel. The orange of the sky feels like a softening of the blow, the sole good thing to come from their fruitless journey out onto the water, for the Sea of Galilee has been far from generous lately when it comes to letting go of her fish.

With a sigh, Zebedee drags the boat onto the shore with the help of James whilst John takes the nets and puts them to dry in the warmth of the same sun, a tired look on their faces as they retreat to their home where Salome is just preparing breakfast for the men of the house. The smell of freshly baked bread wafts their way the moment they set foot over the threshold.

“Shalom, shalom!” she greets with a chipper voice, a far cry from the mood of her exhausted husband and children, ushering them to their rooms to freshen up. Although none of them has even touched a fish all night, they still tend to smell after hours on the water. 

Wordlessly, the brothers head to their respective rooms to wash themselves and put on something clean, eager to settle in for an easy morning consisting of eating breakfast and taking a nap right after, likely until somewhere in the mid-afternoon, after which they will spend the rest of the day slightly groggy while doing not much. 

“Did you have any luck, my love?” Salome asks as she pours Zebedee a cup of water, although the man in question would much rather have something stronger instead, empty stomach or not, as if his wife cannot read from his face that it can’t be good news. The usual easy-going glittering in his dark eyes is far from present, instead something akin to defeat lingering in the action of averting his gaze. 

“Perhaps that a disease has struck the fish,” he suggests, “And because of it, the amount of young tilapia this year has drastically dropped…” Running a hand down his face, Zebedee sighs. “It is not like we going hungry, but if this keeps happening…” 

Salome puts a hand on his arm and gently squeezes. “We will find a way to make ends meet,” she reassures him, “I know you will not let us get hungry.” 

“I am the provider of this family,” Zebedee says with a hint of frustration to his voice, more directed towards himself than the fact that he hasn’t caught a single fish in over eight, nine days by now.

When John and James step back into the room, their parents quickly smoothen out the worry in their faces, but the young men are old enough to notice something amiss. “Out with it,” James demands in almost fatherly fashion, and Zebedee would have laughed if the pit in his gut hadn’t been weighing on him so heavily. John sits down at the table as well, stealing a sip of his fathers’ drink before turning to him, folding his arms over his chest. 

“What seems to be the issue?” 

“The lack of catch,” Zebedee answers without beating around the bush, knowing there is no need to do so. His sons give one another a look.

“We have had a bit of bad luck,” John says with a shrug, “It will figure itself out, won’t it?” 

Zebedee’s eyes find the tabletop with a kind of sadness that has both brothers swallow hard upon witnessing it. “Before John was born, and James was little,” Zebedee suddenly starts, “There were a few months of what you just called ‘bad luck’. I could not be the father and the husband I wanted to be, going out on the water over and over again at different moments of the day in the hopes of catching something — anything — but I just couldn’t get it done. Nothing swam into my nets these weeks, and I saw our savings depleting by the day.” 

“Pestilence, it was later established,” Salome adds, gently caressing her husband’s back at the memory both of them had wanted to remain completely banished from their minds, “A few poorer families were financially supported by the rest of the village, but a few older fishermen didn’t live to see the next spring due to the stress it put on their souls…” She heaves a shaky sigh.

James had been too young to remember, but he senses the impact the event has had on his parents. John also leans a little closer in an attempt to convey that all will be well. 

“I just don’t want—” Zebedee takes a moment to gather himself and get rid of the tremor in his voice before starting over again, “I just don’t want the same thing to happen to us again. Even though you two are adult men already, I am still your father. I am still the head of the family.” 

The brothers let their gazes meet in silent discussion of what to say next. “We are old enough to pull our weight around here,” James comments, “If you need us to do more…” 

John nods in agreement, “We could get a job!” James snaps his fingers and points at his younger brother.

“Yes!”

Zebedee and Salome give each other a look. “Nonsense,” Salome says, “You two are fishermen, taking after your own father.” 

“We have been going out on the water with the three of us since forever,” James notes, “That is the time and energy of three grown men doing a task that can be done by just one. At least, whenever the fishing industry isn’t doing too well…” 

“We could look for something on the side, just for the time being.” John adds, “I mean, as soon as abba continues to catch so many fish that he needs our muscle again, we can just quit.” 

James nods at his brother, both of them already sold on their own idea. Zebedee gives them a thoughtful expression whilst deliberating inside his mind what to do with their suggestion, for even though he wants to be the main supporter of the family himself as his duty commands, he cannot deny that it is a great idea.

“I cannot ask that of you,” Zebedee then states, “After all, it is not up to you guys to put money on the table. I will be the one to go out and look for work instead, so that you two can go out on the water and do what I have taught you to do. That way, I will be the one taking the responsibility of this family on my shoulders, and—” 

“—Wait a second,” John cuts off his father, “Something smells burnt in here.”

Salome’s face pales at the realisation and she jumps to her feet, rushing over to a steadily burning loaf to lift it out of the oven. The men turn to look at her as her cheeks turn red with embarrassment, a look of dejection appearing on her features as a thick smoke grows from the otherwise perfectly braided challah, blackened beyond the point of saving.

“That was supposed to be our breakfast,” she whispers, closing her eyes, “Made from the last bit of flour left in the pantry.” 

“Do we need to get some new flour for you?” James immediately wants to ease her feeling of humiliation. “John and I can quickly stop by the market and get a bag or two.” 

Swallowing thickly, their mother shakes her head, sighing as she rubs her forehead. “No… Oh, no, that won’t do. If I were to make a new loaf of bread right now, it would have to rise for hours before I could bake it… It wouldn’t be done before dusk, I’m afraid. Oh… I’ve been baking bread for decades! It has been ages since one of them burnt!” 

Before Salome can beat herself up about it any further, her sons rise to their feet to comfort her. “Then we will just head for the bakery to get ourselves some readily baked bread,” John states, “And before you say that it is more expensive, we are aware. But you and abba both need to sit down for a bit and take it easy for the rest of the day.” 

After a brief silence, Zebedee chuckles a bit before handing James a few shekels to purchase a challah from the local bakery. “It seems that our own sons are more reasonable than us, my dear.” Salome can’t help but smile a bit as her husband wraps an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “Now, you two know our usual. Give Hosea our best regards.” 

The boys put on their sandals again. Armed with a large bag, they head out on the busy streets of Capernaum. The sun has climbed the air and warms their faces pleasantly as they traverse the local market, where vendors are crying for attention over their wares. 

“You know, James,” John begins as he walks with his older brother, “I think you made a good point in us needing to find a job. I mean, eema and abba are becoming a little older every year and even though they wouldn’t admit it, they could use some occasional rest and recreation at their age. If abba took like one or two days off per week, I think the receding of his hairline would go way more slowly.” 

James snorts a laugh. “Don’t let him catch you say that.” John smirks a little before his older sibling continues. “But yes, we should indeed look out for something with decent pay. I could use my strength and try some transportation jobs for people needing someone to lift their heavy stuff. You… Well, what would you be good at?” 

With a roll of his eye, John punches James’ shoulder, who holds it in feigned hurt.

“Hey!’

“Shut up, I’m good at plenty of things… For example… I can write! I could help people write down letters to their loved ones for a fee.” 

“Would you really cheat a poor elderly lady out of her deceased husband’s hard earned money just because she wants to write a letter to her sister on the other side of Galilee?” 

“…Maybe not.” 

John thinks for another moment. “Perhaps… I could become a scribe at synagogue? Write down the sermons by hand while they are being given by the rabbis?” 

“You would never be able to pay attention for long enough.” 

“Oh, as if you always take in everything they are preaching.” John counters.

“You have fallen asleep against my shoulder more often than not!” 

“Why should I pay attention to these hundreds of laws, I can just look them up in Torah if I need them. It’s not like that someone listing them once gets them stuck inside my mind—” 

“—You’re just making excuses!” James huffs.

John raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Then what are all six-hundred laws from the top of your head?” 

James inhales sharply. “Well there is… There is the dietary laws… And uh… We can’t wear mixed fabrics.”

“Those are the basic ones, I know these as well!”

“Oh then enlighten me, you insufferable know-it-all!” 

The siblings cut short their bickering when they arrive at the door of the bakery, as if they hadn’t been arguing in the first place. The room is heavy with the scent of fresh bread and an oppressive heat hangs in the air, the ovens poorly ventilated. The sons of Zebedee wait for their turn in silence whilst the middle-aged baker known as Hosea helps out the other customers, a handful of people also in need of bread. 

“It’s been ages since we’ve been here,” John whispers at James, “And nothing has changed whatsoever. He still has these dusty shelves…” 

“Yes, and that one wonky chair is still broken.” James nods at one of the tables on the side, meant for customers to be able to consume their breakfast or lunch at. However, the facilities seem to be hardly used for a long while.

When they were younger, the brothers used to join their eema to the bakery in order to gawk at the pastries whilst she made smalltalk with the widowed baker. Now, the sweet goods that used to be on display on one of the counters are nowhere to be seen. 

Hosea peers at James and John from under a pair of thick, bushy brows. He scratches through his beard as he gives them a thoughtful look. “My eyes aren’t as good as they once were,” he begins, “But I believe that you are the boys of Salome, aren’t you?” 

“Yes!” John breathes, smiling as he steps up to the counter, his older brother right behind him, “We are here on her behalf to get a loaf of bread.” 

“Been a while,” Hosea mutters, “I bet she’s been making bread for you herself.” 

James nods and Hosea smiles a bit. “How is she doing? And your father?” 

“They have been doing quite well in spite of the fishing business being a little dry these days. No pun intended. They say shalom, by the way.” James rubs at his neck.

“Give them my best. And I see. Sometimes we have poor seasons, no? Same for me when the wheat harvest goes bad. I hope and pray that things may look up for you.” 

“Thank you.” John replies.

Hosea hums. “So, what kind of bread can I make you happy with today?” 

“A challah would be perfect,” John responds, causing the baker to turn to one of the shelves to get it, only to find it empty. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but just as he is about to call out to the back of the shop, a woman with her (h/c) hair neatly tucked into a veil which is bound onto the top of her head enters the room with a tray of warm bread in her arms. A little off-balance, she heads for the empty shelf, smiling a little uncertainly at the baker.

“It took me a while, but I finally managed to get all the challahs out of the oven.” 

Hosea hums and nods, stepping aside for you to load them onto the display. 

“Good job, girl. You will get the hang of it, don’t you worry now. You will get these muscles soon enough.” 

You laugh lightly albeit a bit nervously as you start putting the light bread onto the shelf. “While you are at it, girl, why don’t you help out these gentlemen? You’ve watched me do it, now you can do so, too.” 

“Oh, of course! What did they need?” 

“Ask them yourself.” Hosea spurs you on with a patient smile on his face. 

Wiping your hands on your tattered apron, you turn to the counter with glittering, curious eyes. John feels his throat run dry at the sight of your smile, so he hopes that James will take the lead instead. However, when his brother doesn’t open his mouth, John momentarily looks at him to find him staring at you, equally as tongue-tied.

You mistake their silence as a sign that you must be doing something wrong. “Oh, right, where are my manners? Welcome to Hosea’s Bakery, how may I help you today?” 

You give the owner of the shop a questioning look, who nods at you reassuringly. 

Suddenly finding their voice, James and John step closer at the same time, trying to reply to you in unison.

“We would like—”

“Could we please—” 

They pause, giving each other a nod, until John finally speaks. “One challah, please.” 

You hum in acknowledgement and smile again. “One challah, coming right up.” Turning back to the display, you clap her hands together in an attempt to calm your nerves. As if you have forgotten where you have put the bread you took out of the oven barely a minute ago, you search the wall for the requested kind.

“Let me… Sorry, it’s my first day.” You let out a nervous laugh and continue looking, before Hosea steps in your direction and taps the label that says the name of the bread. Instead of looking at the word, however, you seem to take in the appearance of the lightly shiny crust instead.

“Oh, of course! I’m so sorry for making you wait, gentlemen. That will be… Um… What is the price again?”

“A half-shekel.” 

“Right! A half-shekel.” 

After a moment of both the brothers being frozen in their spot, John bumps James who profusely starts searching for their father’s satchel of money. “Uh… Here!” The older son of Zebedee takes out a whole shekel and pays you, quickly dropping the coin into your palm.

Walking over to the bowl serving as a register, you search through the change for a while. Giving each other a look, James and John wonder silently who this new baker is and why they have never seen you around the village. With Hosea’s help, you manage to find the right amount of money to return back to the customers who are still patiently waiting for you to finish the exchange.

“Here you go, sir! Thank you for buying from Hosea’s Bakery! Have a wonderful day, and please come again. Shalom shalom!” 

“Shalom shalom,” the boys greet in muttered unison as they rush out of the bakery, loaf tucked inside their bag, not leaving it open for it to cool down in the slightest. 

Once outside, both of them let out a breath as if they have been holding it. With a long exhale, James turns to his younger brother. “Who was she?” 

“I was about to ask you the same.” 

They momentarily cast a glance over their shoulder, seeing a glimpse of you through the window. “If we had seen her around before, I’m sure we would have noticed, right?” 

“Right.” James agrees. “I would definitely have remembered a smile like that.” 

“And eyes like that.” John murmurs as they head back to their home, both of them feeling inexplicably light on their feet. 

Zebedee and Salome are patiently awaiting the return of their sons and look up from their position at the kitchen table when they enter the house, handing their eema the bag right away so that she can serve breakfast at last. 

Only now realising they haven’t eaten in quite some time, they quickly join their parents after washing their feet and hands. Zebedee leads his family in prayer before they start their meal. “How was good old Hosea?” Salome wonders as she cuts a few royal slices from the bread and hands them out.

“Hosea? Oh, yes, he was well…” James answers, voice a bit higher pitched than normal.

“Did you give him my regards?” 

“We did.” John immediately responds, “He said shalom back.” 

Salome hums and takes a sip from her drink.

“Anything else new with him?” 

“No, I don’t think so...”

James shakes his head as well, looking at his brother. “No, me neither. He is the same old grumpy man.” 

John mutters: “Still hasn’t fixed his eating area.” 

“That’s right.” James confirms.

The woman lets out a long hum, giving her husband a look. Both of them are definitely thinking that something may have happened on the way, for the boys seem oddly agitated about something. “Is everything alright?” Zebedee wants to know, leaning closer.

“Yes! Of course, what ever could be going on?” James defends his brother and himself. John hums and takes a large bite from his bread. 

“Hosea is fine.” 

“Yes, he is fine.”

Now even more suspicious, Salome narrows her eyes, but doesn’t pry any further.

“Alright then, whatever you say. Thank you for getting us this food, by the way. Otherwise, all of us would have gone through the day hungry until supper.” 

Exchanging a look, James and John consume the rest of their meal in silence, deciding to keep the mystery woman working at the bakery between them.

---

Chapter list