#in terms of graphics once again

[taonpest]

So what do we think about the remaster my fellow lok mutuals

[velcryons-a]

okay so! new blog is technically made except the pinpost i just have to update my carrd and bio list

[stllmnstr]

every fragile thing

pairing: park sunghoon x f reader

genre: enemies to lovers, figure skating au, college/university au

word count: 12.3k

warnings: alcohol consumption, jealousy, non graphic descriptions/depictions of injuries, use of the american (usa) university system, a kiss or five

soundtrack: get him back! / brutal / jealousy, jealousy / good 4 u / the grudge / bad idea right? / drivers license - olivia rodrigo

After an ankle injury lands you in mandated physical therapy sessions instead of on the ice where you should be training for nationals, you're absolutely certain you must be the most frustrated, emotionally volatile figure skater on the planet. Park Sunghoon proves you wrong.

or,

every fragile thing has one of two choices: become stronger or shatter into a million pieces.

note: hi hello yes this is me on a new blog with the same name. I deleted my old one and wasn't sure if I planned on remaking/reposting but here we are! if you've read this before, then I hope you enjoy just as much this time around. and if you haven't, I hope you love figure skater sunghoon just as much as I do! happy reading ♡

Silence. One word, two syllables. A fairly straightforward term with a meaning that can be easily deduced from a quick scan of its Merriam-Webster definition. 

But unlike many words, silence is one that’s typically learned through experience. Through stilted moments, pregnant pauses, dreamlike moments in the dead of night while the world around you is at a standstill. 

In the moments just before the music starts, when it feels as if the audience around you is holding their breath. And you stand at the center of it all, blades of your tightly laced skates against ice, chest rising and falling in time with your heartbeat, mind spinning with possibility. In those moments, your long trained muscles take over, following the memory of countless repetitions as your body prepares to do what it knows best. 

There’s a question in that silence. One that’s asked with baited breath. 

Will I land this skill? Will I go home with a medal around my neck, cold weight a familiar comfort against my skin? Will this be my best performance yet? Will they love it? Love me?

That, as you’ve come to learn, is your favorite kind of silence. The kind that’s filled with endless possibility, with the promise of something beautiful or disastrous or some odd mix of the two to come. 

The feeling of freedom, of flying as blade cuts through ice, as your body defies gravity with every jump, every spin. 

But that is very much not the kind of silence that greets you where Dr. Min eyes you warily over the top of his pristine clipboard, a crease forming between his dark eyebrows. Frowning, he glances at the paper once more before returning his gaze to you. 

“You’re sure you’ve been resting? No weight on the fracture at all?”

It takes a good chunk of your willpower not to roll your eyes. Mostly because you’re lying through your teeth, but who’s keeping track? 

“Yes, I’m sure.” Gesturing to the thick black boot the lower part of your left leg and foot have been imprisoned in for the better part of a month, you add, “This thing’s still coming off in two weeks, right?”

Two weeks is pushing it, but you’ve done more with less. Two weeks puts you exactly three months out from regionals, which gives you exactly ninety-one days to pull together the most jaw dropping program you or the judges have ever seen. One that’s certain to land you on the podium and secure a spot at nationals. 

Once again, you thank your lucky stars for Coach Lee. She’s been with you since you were still struggling to lace your own skates, and there’s no one else you’d trust to have you ready for regionals in such a short time frame. No one else you’d bet your fate on like this. 

“That was our original time frame, yes…” Dr. Min trails off, avoiding your gaze in a way that has your stomach dropping unpleasantly. 

“And we’ll be sticking to it, I’m sure.” You hate the way the end of your phrase turns up like a question. 

Dr. Min sighs. “Look, ___, our original time frame was ambitious to begin with, and I hate to tell you this, but your ankle is not healing as well as we’d hoped. Fractures don’t heal overnight, and the best thing for you right now is rest.” 

The argument is already forming on your tongue. “But—”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not trying to ruin your life, ___. Truly. I’m saying this to you as the parent of an athlete and a former athlete myself. Pushing yourself now will only lead to reinjury in the future and will also very likely shorten your career. Your ankle needs to heal before you skate on it again. It needs to heal before you so much as put weight on it. And you need to let it heal completely.” The sincerity in his voice is hard to stomach when he says, “Believe me when I tell you that you’ll regret it for the rest of life if you don’t.”

And logically, you know he’s right. Know that this will be nothing but a minor setback if you allow it to run its course. If you follow his advice to rest and heal. But skating has never been something you’ve done with the logical parts of yourself. And Dr. Min doesn’t get it. You tell him as much. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do. Regionals are in less than four months, and—”

“I hear you. Believe me, I do. But this is your third year of university, which means you have another shot at nationals next year. If you push it and try to skate before you’re ready, you may very well lose that chance too.”

“So I’m supposed to do what? Sit around and do nothing until my ankle decides to cooperate?” Even voicing the possibility has you suppressing a grimace. 

But Dr. Min has different thoughts. “Yes. That is exactly what you need to do.”

You don’t avert your gaze. Neither does he. Finally, after a moment, he sighs. “My recommendation at this point is still rest, but—”

“But?” Your excitement is impossible to contain fully. 

Dr. Min levels you with a cautionary look over his clipboard. “But, if you’re going to do anything, our athletics department does also run a physical therapy program, which I think could be beneficial. It would help to retain flexibility, mobility, and agility in the areas of your leg that support your ankle. It could help get you back on the ice faster and maintain the leg strength you’ve built. There’s a group session that runs on Tuesday afternoons—”

“Yes,” you nod, not bothering to hear the end of his statement. “Yes, I’ll do that.”

“I… okay.” As much as you want to hate him for it, Dr. Min has a point. And while you doubt physical therapy will be anywhere near as grueling as your usual workouts, it sounds a hell of a lot better than doing nothing. 

…

You’ve never liked hospitals. The odd juxtaposition of white, lifeless sterility and a culmination of some of life’s most painful moments has always left an unpleasant taste on your tongue. 

It’s one that has you double checking the address Dr. Min forwarded to you as you enter the oddly cheerful building that is apparently home to a renowned athletics physical therapy facility. Despite the medical purpose, there’s a distinct liveliness that envelops the space. 

The woman at reception informs you that this is indeed the right building and the session you’re attending has just begun in the room to your left. 

Pausing at the door, you’re struck with a sudden timidness. A physical therapy group for athletes will obviously be filled with, well, athletes. And although you can’t speak too harshly on that particular subsect of people, being one yourself, they can be intimidating. It must be the competitiveness, you think. The drive to push, succeed, win that gives off such a distinct aura.

Steeling yourself with one last breath, you remind yourself that’s why you’re here. To get back to that version of you that has everyone else feeling a little shier. That version of you that eats, breathes, and sleeps with ice skates laced on your feet and visions of the top of a podium driving your every decision. 

With determination straightening your brow, you push open the door. 

And immediately find yourself grateful for the mental preparation as three heads snap in your direction.  

Hitching your bag up an inch on your shoulder, you try not to melt under the sudden awkwardness. Thankfully, one of them is better at breaking ice than you.

“Hi,” the boy closest to you is the first to fill the silence. He’s all smiles where he gives you a friendly wave, moving a stray hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head as he tells you, “I’m Jungwon.”

You offer your name in return, trying on a smile to match his friendliness. You have a feeling it comes more naturally to him than it ever will to you, though. 

Regardless, he offers an equally cheerful, “Nice to meet you.” Glancing over to where the second boy is moving through a series of stretches, Jungwon makes eye contact, silently telling him he’s up next. 

Even mid-stretch, he acquiesces. “I’m Niki,” the second boy follows. 

“And I’m Jake.” The last boy doesn’t need any prompting from Jungwon. Nodding towards the walking boot that covers the bottom half of your left leg, he glances at a similar one that he wears on his own. “Looks like we’re twins. Tore up my achilles pretty bad in my last soccer match,” he explains. “What about you?”

“Fractured my ankle,” you return, a rueful smile dragging your lips up. “Figure skater.”

“Ah, man.” Jungwon winces. “That sucks.”

You shrug, forcing a nonchalance you don’t feel. “No worse than a busted achilles.” 

“That’s cool that you skate though,” Jake offers. “Kind of a funny coincidence, actually. There’s another—”

Whatever it is, he doesn’t get to finish the thought. At that moment, the door opens again, this time revealing a middle aged woman in a white physician’s coat. Her name tag reads Dr. Kim, and she introduces herself as such to you. 

“Looks like everyone’s here, including our new members.” She gives another cursory nod in your direction. “Welcome again.” Glancing around, the instructor pauses. “Oh, wait. Except for—”

“I’m here, I’m here.” For the second time in the span of a minute, the door behind you opens. You don’t miss the glance that passes between Niki and Jake. You turn to face the new arrival, but his back is to you as he sets his bag down and begins the process of switching his shoes. 

The way the new member enters with a dismissive wave of his hand and lack of proper greeting has you thinking tardiness is not an uncommon trait of his. Even from behind, you can feel the waves of arrogance he exudes. That seems to align more with your preconceived notions of athletes. 

Studying him for another second, a sinking feeling of dread begins to build in the pit of your stomach. Long, dark hair. Unnaturally graceful movements, even if all he’s doing is digging through his bag. Tall stature, broad shoulders, long legs. 

An athlete’s build through and through. Perfectly suited for the ice. 

“Great.” Despite the statement, Dr. Kim’s tone is flat. “Well, we were just getting started and introducing ourselves since we have someone new joining us today.”

“Hi,” he offers, still fixated on his bag, yet to offer as much as a glance in your direction. If anything, it only serves as a confirmation of his identity. “I’m—” You don’t even need to hear him say it. 

“Sunghoon?”

At that, he does finally look up. 

Gaze locking with yours, a moment of confusion is quickly replaced by a furrow in his brow, the slight downturn of his lips. He’s not thrilled to see you either. 

A beat passes. 

Two. 

Neither of you break eye contact. 

The silence extends to the point of discomfort for all four onlookers, each of them hesitant to break the tension that’s rising by the second. 

Finally, Dr. Kim takes a knife to the tension. “Do you two know each other?” 

Park Sunghoon. Renowned figure skater at your rival university. Someone with such a natural knack for carving lines through ice that whispers of prodigy have been shadowing his footsteps since the minute he put them on a rink. 

Someone with his head so far up his own ass you’re not sure how he can see half the time, much less keep his hair looking so perfect. 

Oh, you know him alright. 

“___?”

And it would seem he remembers you as well. 

It also answers Dr. Kim’s question well enough. 

“Ah, good.” It sounds like a question, like she’s hoping your acquaintance will be a positive thing instead of a disaster. You don’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. “The figure skating community is tight knit, I suppose.”

You suppress a scoff. That’s one word for it, you guess. 

You remember when it felt that way to you, too. Before tight knit became too small. Back before university, when it felt like it was you and Park Sunghoon against the world, instead of against each other. Back when the two of you didn’t skate for opposing teams but instead were members of the same club. A time when you took the ice together, skated as partners until he—

You force your thoughts to stop in their tracks. Your blood pressure has spiked enough in the last few days, and thinking back on long days spent with Park Sunghoon will only send it skyrocketing again. 

If anything, you’ll use this opportunity to practice perfecting your poker face for when you inevitably run into him at future competitions. 

And future competitions means you need a healed ankle, not a bruised ego. And certainly not an unpleasant trip down memory lane. 

Turning away from Sunghoon, you’re the first one to answer when Dr. Kim asks if you’re ready to get started. 

“Yes,” you tell her, determination written across your brow, in the set of your shoulders, and perhaps most noticeably, in the way you avoid Sunghoon’s wandering gaze for the next two hours. 

…

Without the rink, days are quick to meld into one another. It may be concerning, considering that you still have a set schedule of classes and homework to follow, but your life has revolved around training for so long that it’s hard to tell Mondays from Wednesdays without a set practice schedule. 

Thankfully, you do still make it back to the clinic at the right time on the right day, this time for another session with Dr. Kim and your fellow band of broken athletes. 

Including him. 

Aside from the glaringly obvious exception, you’re not as bothered at the thought of returning as you feared you might be. 

Jungwon, Niki, and Jake have proven themself pleasant enough company, and Dr. Kim seems to have built an understanding of how difficult it is to be forcibly removed from the sport you love. As such, she’s one of the least aggravating medical professionals you’ve spent time around. 

“Hey,” Niki greets when you arrive. “Did you have a good weekend?”

You shrug. “Good enough. Mostly just catching up on homework.” Setting your bag down and switching out your shoes, you join him on the mat, beginning the series of warm-up stretches Dr. Kim instructed you through last week. “What about you?”

“Not too bad. I got some good news from my doctor, actually.” He switches legs in his stretch, and you’re almost envious of his flexibility. He’s a dancer, and an exceedingly good one at that. One with an unfortunate knee injury at the moment. “My x-rays are looking a lot better. He thinks I might be able to start easing back into regular use by next month.” 

“That’s great,” you smile, even as a pang of jealousy stabs somewhere near your gut. “I’m really happy for you, Niki.” 

“A month still feels like forever, though, doesn’t it?” He sighs. “I can’t remember the last time I was out of the studio for this long.” 

Jungwon slides down onto the mat next to you, joining in on the stretch routine. “Consider yourself lucky, man. They told me at my last check-up that I probably won’t be able to do any jumping or kicks again for at least three months even though the fracture is already mostly healed.” He shakes his head. “No jumping or kicking,” he echoes, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know, things that are super easy to avoid in taekwondo.”

“If it’s any consolation, I just got told that I’m gonna have to sit out of regionals this year. Which means I’ll have no way of qualifying for nationals.” You wonder how many times you’ll have to admit that particular reality to yourself before the sting starts to fade. 

“That sucks.” Jake agrees, coming down to the mat and occupying the spot next to Niki. “I’ll probably have to sit for this entire season, too. I love my team, but it’s so frustrating watching them play when I know I could be an asset on the field.”

“That’s true.” You’re struck by a sudden wave of sympathy. “At least skating is an individual sport, so the only person I have to disappoint is myself.” 

“Speaking of skating,” Jungwon sounds hesitant as he approaches the subject. “Do you and Sunghoon, uh…” he pauses for a moment in search of a neutral way of framing the unmistakable tension that surfaced the last time he saw the two of you together. “Do you two know each other?”

Grimacing internally, you suppose an explanation was bound to be solicited after your icy reunion. “We skate for rival universities.” Your gaze fixes on a spot on the ground. “And before college we used to, uh, we used to skate for the same club.”

The three boys share a glance. It’s hardly an explanation for the venom you said his name with but before they can press you further, the subject in question enters the room. 

Again, he takes his time setting his bag down, getting his things ready. This time, he also pulls out an obnoxiously big pair of headphones, secures them over his ears before he bothers to turn around. Despite the fact that all three boys offer him friendly smiles and waves, he returns the gesture only with a tight smile, making his way to the mat on the opposite side of the room before he begins his stretch routine.

It’s a message that rings loud and clear. A frown passes between Jake, Jungwon, and Niki. It’s obvious to you, then, that you’re the reason he chose to set himself up as far away as physically possible. 

So be it, you think, letting the slight roll right off of you. It’s not the first time he’s given you the cold shoulder for something he plays an equal part in, and you doubt it will be the last. 

Besides, it will only make your sessions pass by quicker, if the burden of avoiding gazes and minimizing interactions falls on his shoulders instead of yours.

With nothing but a shrug, you adjust slightly, ensuring that the only view he has of you is of your back. 

…

It’s a pattern that continues as physical therapy sessions start to become a regular routine in your week. Sunghoon, with his apparent disdain for anyone’s time but his own, is always the last to arrive. He also continues his habit of picking the spot in the room furthest away from you. 

Despite the fact that you’d like to chalk it up to his social ineptitude alone, that explanation doesn’t track. Although there’s still a certain aura of aloofness that follows where he goes, it’s too often that you see him smiling at a joke cracked by Jake or sharing easy conversations with Jungwon and Niki.  

Hell, he even interacts with Dr. Kim with a level of warmth you didn’t know was possible coming from him. If there’s any disdain in their conversations, he directs it all towards his right wrist. It’s why he’s here, you assume. Encased in a brace similar to the one you wear on your left ankle, his right forearm seems to be the reason for his attendance. 

It’s hard to not be envious. While a wrist injury is nothing to scoff at, it doesn’t necessarily keep you off the ice. Not in the same way a fractured ankle does. 

Refocusing your thoughts, you push the boy across the room firmly out of mind as Dr. Kim helps adjust you into the next stretch.

“How about now?” Dr. Kim pushes your spine a fraction of an inch further, pressure light but demanding. Before, this much flexibility would have been an easy request of your body, but lack of use has your muscles feeling tight. “Any tightness or pain?”

“No.” The bead of sweat on your brow begs to differ, as does the way the negation slipped through gritted teeth. 

But you’re frustrated. Annoyed at the progress you’ve lost, at the new limits of your body, at the way you feel like a stranger in your own skin. 

Across the room, you miss the flicker of annoyance that flits over Sunghoon’s features. Headphones on as always, you imagine you’re nothing more than a blip on his radar, a pesky intruder that’s easily ignored as long as he has his back to you. 

“Hm,” Dr. Kim muses. “You’ve retained more flexibility than I expected.” She offers you a smile. “That’s a good thing, a sign of a quick recovery.”

You suppress a grimace. It should be a good thing. You should be recovering quickly. If only you could get your stupid body to cooperate. 

Stealing another glance at the boy across the room, you can’t help the way a small burst of rage bubbles in your stomach. Prodigy. Why does he always get to be the anomaly, the exception to the rule? His injury is already less severe than yours, and he’s probably recovering quickly, too. Without even having to fake it.

Easing you out of the stretch, Dr. Kim jots down a quick note. “I’ll have Dr. Min run another x-ray at your next visit.” Nodding towards your ankle, she adds, “I think there’s a good chance that things are looking a lot better, and updated x-rays will help guide our next sessions.” She pauses for a minute. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself or get your hopes up, but I think we might be able to start putting some weight back on it soon. Start getting it stronger again.” 

You’re hesitant to let your excitement grow too much. But it would be a lie if you weren’t already counting the days until your next visit with Dr. Min in your head. “Thank you,” you tell her. “I’ll hope those x-rays come back looking good, then.”

“Me too,” she smiles. “I’ll see you next week, then. Hopefully with good news.”

You nod, returning her smile before heading to the door to gather your things. Jungwon catches you on your way out. 

“Hey, ___, hold on a sec.” When you turn back towards him, he tells you, “The rest of us are gonna grab lunch at a place nearby, if you want to join.”

Your uncertainty must write itself across your features, because he’s quick to add, “Don’t worry. Sunghoon won’t be there. He’s got a class right after this.”

Slightly embarrassed by the way he read you so easily, you nod. “Sure. Lunch sounds good.” Despite their friendliness with Sunghoon, you’ve come to like the three of them. And it’s been far too long since you broke up the monotony of class, homework, and medical appointments with something as simple as lunch with friends. 

And as long as he’s not there, you imagine it will be nothing but pleasant. 

It doesn’t take long for them to prove you wrong. 

Niki barely lets you get one bite in before he asks, “So, what exactly happened between you two?” Even without the name, the question is obvious. 

Still, after choking on the sip of water you’d been taking, you answer, “Who?”

Jake just gives you a look. 

You sigh. “Like I said, we used to skate for the same club. We, uh, never really got along, I guess.” Avoiding eye contact, you add, “And now we skate for rival schools. I suppose it’s only natural to not like each other.”

Niki doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, that sounds made up.”

Jungwon swallows his bite, parts his lips like he has something to say. Internally, you heave a sigh of relief. If any of the three of them spare you, you have a feeling it would be him. “I mean, it does seem like something else must have happened.”

Or not. 

“You don’t have to tell us,” he adds. “But it’s just… I mean, the two of you can’t even look at each other.”

Sighing, you suppose the circumstances do look odd from the outside. “There was… an incident. Back when we used to skate together.”

“What?” Jake asks. “Did he steal your skates right before a show or something?” 

“No, no.” You shake your head. “It happened on the ice, actually. During a program.”

“Wait,” Niki interrupts. “You said you used to skate together. Do you mean like, as partners?”

The guilt on your face says it all. 

“No way.” Jake says. 

Jungwon’s eyes grow bigger. “What did he do?”

“Yeah,” Niki turns to face you fully. “Wouldn’t being his partner be a good thing? At least on the ice, I mean. I know he can be a little insufferable, but isn’t he some sort of prodigy—”

“Prodigy, my ass.” You’re so sick of that goddamn word. “Wasn’t a prodigy when he dropped me in the middle of our program at junior nationals, was he?”

The way all three or their jaws drop in unison is almost worth the admission. 

But the thing is, he was. No accusatory fingers pointed in his direction after it happened. No one blamed prodigy Park Sunghoon for the mishap. 

No, it was decided fair and square by the jury of public opinion that the mistake was entirely your fault, your burden to bear. And it’s not like you were immune to the criticism. Whispers followed where you went. And you always, always managed to hear them. 

Maybe if you’d trained a little harder, completed the second rotation a little sooner, the skill would have gone off without a hitch, they mused. Hell, maybe if you’d stuck to your diet a little better, those last two pounds would have spelled the difference between a perfect landing and your ass on frozen ground, program music still crescendoing as onlookers watched with horrified fascination.

“Oh,” Jungwon grimaces. 

“That’s rough,” Niki agrees. 

And they don’t even know the worst of it. Don’t know that back then, at fifteen, you’d had a giant, soul crushing, earth shattering, massive crush on your skating partner. That you searched for his approval just as eagerly as you’d sought out your coach’s. 

That you’d squeezed in as many extra practice sessions as physically possible for five months leading up to the routine just to make sure you were as close to flawless as possible, just to make sure you were chosen to be his partner on the ice. 

That you giggled, giggled, when you saw the matching costumes the two of you would wear for the first time. 

That you followed where he went with long sighs and lovesick eyes. That you looked forward to the grueling hours you spent on the ice with him, turning perfection into something even greater. 

That your heart skipped a beat every time you ran through your program, every time he caught you with sure hands and a strong grip. 

That Park Sunghoon never made a mistake, never let you fall, not once. 

Not until a spotlight was spinning dreams into reality and you were already anticipating the secret smiles you’d share with matching gold medals around your necks. 

Not until it all shattered in a single moment. 

It was cold, as you laid there on the ice, sprawled out and unable to move from the sudden shock of it all. Luckily, you’d avoided any critical injuries. You had staggered off the ice with nothing but some bad bruising, the worst of it staining your ego and your heart. 

And after it all, no matter how many times you passed him on your way to the locker room, shared the ice with him, or searched for the gaze he pointedly avoided across the room, Park Sunghoon never uttered the two words that just might have made you forgive it all. 

Instead of an apology or even the decency of an explanation, you got a cold shoulder and a lost friendship you were too confused by to mourn. 

In the end, you’d decided to turn it all into a blessing in a very thorough disguise. From that moment onwards, all of your time on the ice was dedicated to you and you alone. Never would you let anything but the sheer strength of your own will, your own goals, motivate you to become better, faster, stronger. 

And you found that victory tasted even sweeter, when the full weight of it could rest on your shoulders alone. When no one could whisper behind their palms that the only reason you stood on the podium was a prodigy of a partner. 

So fine. Park Sunghoon didn’t owe you shit. Not an apology, an explanation, or even a second glance. 

And if he was a prodigy, an ice prince or whatever stupid title he’d earned alongside his medals, well, you’d just have to be even better.

But now, sitting across from new friends with a fractured ankle and a ruined shot at medalling this year, a quiet part of you admits for the first time that maybe, just maybe, part of that resolve is nothing but spite in disguise. Part of the anger you’ve clung to for so long isn’t directed at him, but at yourself. 

That it was embarrassing to fall in front of a crowd, yes, but it was also humiliating to know that he was hearing all those little comments about your inferiority too. To realize that his silence meant he probably agreed. That you were a liability of a partner, unequal in both skill and importance. That he could move on from the incident, from you, completely unscathed. 

That your little crush was entirely one-sided, just like the respect and admiration you’d once felt for him. 

You stare at the half-eaten lunch in front of you, appetite suddenly completely gone. 

“What a coincidence that the two of you ended up injured at the same time,” Jake muses. 

“And in the same physical therapy group.” Jungwon nods. 

“Yeah,” you echo hollowly. “What a coincidence.”

…

When Park Sunghoon speaks to you for the first time in five years, it’s completely by accident.

As the weeks have continued on, you’ve fallen into a perfect routine during your shared physical therapy sessions. A routine of avoidance, ignorance, and as much space between the two of you as physically possible. It’s become so easy that the two of you navigate it with the kind of grace only two elite figure skaters could ever manage. 

If anything, it’s more awkward for the other members of your session than it is for the two of you. Jungwon, Jake, Niki, and Dr. Kim are the ones suffering as they try to stay friendly with both of you without icing out the other. 

It must be why he doesn’t even bother to check who it is that’s standing right next to him as he reaches for his bag on the shelf near the front door at the end of another session. Must be why he says it in a voice so casual you don’t think it’s him at first. “How pissed do you think Dr. Kim will be if I’m late again next week?”

Even though the voice doesn’t quite fit, you half expect to see Jake standing next to you when you turn to the side. 

Sunghoon realizes his mistake at the exact same second you do. You watch as shock flickers across his features, quickly replaced by something guarded, unreadable. Just as completely closed off to you as always. 

It pisses you off, the way he’s so utterly and completely unaffected by you. The way he can brush you off as easily as a piece of dust. Insignificant. Unimportant. Unwanted. It has you freeing the reins on comments you should bite back instead. 

“Hard to say.” Ice and resentment drip from every syllable. “Then again, I’m surprised you care about what she thinks. Doesn’t seem like something that would bother you.”

That at least earns you some of his emotion. Another bout of shock crosses his face before it shifts to confusion and falls finally to anger. You can see it in the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw. The flare of heat in his eyes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

If he falls to anger, you’ll rise above it. At least on the outside. There’s no accounting for the way your gut twists in rage. Still, you offer him a smile that’s almost as fake as it is sickeningly sweet. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out if you spend enough time thinking about it.” It’s patronizing, and intentionally so. You hope it annoys him enough to keep him up tonight. 

Reaching for the front door, you take your exit first. The hallways of this building have become familiar over the weeks. Even with anger clouding your vision and a bad ankle, you trace a steady path to the parking lot. You’re halfway to your car when the sound of your name stops you in your tracks. 

You freeze for a moment, turning the sound of it over in your brain, stuck on the way it almost sounds like a plea, a prayer coming from his lips. The sound of footsteps draws nearer. They fall quickly, as if he’s running. Your indecision still renders you immobile. 

“Hold on a second. Did I… Did I do something to upset you?”

If you thought you were angry before, you’re surely seeing red now. How dare he. 

Spinning around, you only hope you sound as outraged as you feel. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“What? No.” His brow furrows. “I mean, I know our schools are technically rivals and all, but we haven’t really seen each other in years.”

“Right, because you’ve been so sunny and welcoming since I joined the group.”

“I was giving you space. You practically bolted like a scared cat when you saw it was me.” He runs a hand through his hair. You hate the way it falls perfectly back into place. And you hate the way he looks so good doing it. “But clearly you’ve got something against me.”

The audacity, the sheer, utter audacity. There’s no trace of humor when you say, “You’re hilarious, really.” And there’s no room for debate when you turn away from him again, continuing to walk towards your car. 

“Wait,” he tries, but it falls on deaf ears. “God, ___, would you just hold on for a second, I—”

You turn. To do what, you’re not entirely sure. But before you can decide, the grip he has on his car keys loosens, the fingers of his right hand less dexterous than usual thanks to his arm brace. He still has his reflexes though. With his other hand, he manages to stop them from falling completely. 

“Better take care of that.” You jerk your chin to where he awkwardly fumbles with his keyring, trying to find a better grip. “Wouldn’t want to drop those too.”

His gaze snaps to you, eyes wide, mouth slightly slackened. The keys fall from his grasp, metal clinking delicately on the pavement. A million questions swim across his features, none of which you’ll give the grace of answering. 

Instead, you turn around once more. You make it all the way to your car, all the way out of the parking lot, all the way home. 

And he never says your name once. 

…

The following Tuesday, you are the last one of the group to arrive. And while you would usually never pass up the opportunity to best Sunghoon at anything, including being the latest arrival, competition is not the reason for your tardiness. 

It’s avoidance. That, and the fact that you had to spend eleven minutes giving yourself a pep talk in the car before you could work up the nerve to approach the front doors of the clinic. In the end, it’s a glance down at the boot on your left foot that does it. You’ve let Sunghoon ruin your chance at a gold medal once, and you’ll be damned if you let him do it again. 

Besides, your last visit with Dr. Min was a good one. Your ankle hasn’t healed quite as much as Dr. Kim suspected, but progress is progress, and you’re making plenty of it, according to your most recent x-rays. 

You enter the session with an apology for Dr. Kim and concentrated efforts to not let your gaze wander to the back corner of the room as you make your way over to where Jake and Jungwon sit. Starting your stretches, you assume Niki is over with Sunghoon, but you can’t work up the nerve to confirm that. 

Despite her initial annoyance at your tardiness, Dr. Kim is equally pleased at your latest x-ray results and gives you the green light to switch out the resistance bands you’ve been using for the next level up. Just as you’re reaching for the set of red bands on the shelf next to the treadmills, a set of obnoxiously smooth hands gets there first. 

Turning to Sunghoon with narrowed eyes, you grab the end of the band set he just snatched out from under you, eyes ablaze. 

The little fucker has the gall to roll his eyes. “What are you doing?”

You yank on the band. He doesn’t even flinch, grip steady. “I’m trying to follow Dr. Kim’s instructions,” you inform, tone flat. 

This time when you yank again, he yanks back. Much to your annoyance, he’s able to exert enough force to have you stumbling forward. “You’re trying to provoke me.”

“And it’s working,” Niki whispers to Jake and Jungwon in the back corner of the room. Dr. Kim just shakes her head. 

“Just take the green bands,” Sunghoon suggests. 

“They don’t have enough resistance. I need these ones,” you argue. “Why don’t you take the green ones?”

“Pretty sure if one of us takes the lighter bands, it should be you.” Sunghoon tightens his grip. “Or are you seriously trying to claim that you’re stronger than me right now?”

“I’m using them for my legs, you absolute jackass. Which are definitely stronger than your forearms.”

Sunghoon cocks a brow. “Should we put money on it?”

“You are such a dick. Dr. Kim literally—”

“Has another set of red bands,” the woman in question interrupts. She levels the two of you with an exasperated look as she holds them out in front of her. “There’s another set of every color on the equipment shelf next to the door.”

“Oh, right,” you nod, pulling back a little on your end of the band before you release it, just to hear the small cry Sunghoon lets out when it snaps against the skin of his good wrist. “Thanks.”

And the satisfaction that comes from completing your usual number of reps with a higher resistance is almost as gratifying as when you see Sunghoon rubbing at the still reddened skin on his left wrist as you pack up to leave for the day. 

“Those two are gonna kill each other,” Jungwon tells Jake and Niki as the three of them walk to their cars, brow creasing in concern. 

“Or something,” Jake agrees. 

Niki hoists his bag up on his shoulder. “My money’s on ___.”

A contemplative look passes between Jake and Jungwon before they nod in unison, “Yeah.”

…

You’re in the middle of passing a medicine ball back and forth with Jake the following week when he asks, “Are your school’s finals next week too?”

And although it’s hard to believe, first semester is already drawing to an end as the days get shorter and assignments get longer. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’m up to my ass in essays right now.”

“Same,” Jake agrees. “Sometimes it makes me wonder how I do it when I’m training, too.” Although you agree, a pang of jealousy is the only thing his words inspire. Of the skaters on your team that are preparing to compete as you speak. That have already choreographed their routines and selected their music and are spending every waking moment perfecting each and every detail of their program. 

It’s hard. It’s brutal. You’d be the first to admit that. But you miss it all the same, so much it hurts. 

A moment passes before he continues. “Well, anyway, Jungwon, Niki, and I were thinking that since none of us are training right now, we should celebrate the end of the semester like everyone else does.”

You arch a brow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“Right, sorry,” he apologizes. “Consider this your formal invitation to get absolutely shitfaced with us next Friday.”

The laugh that bubbles in your throat is so unexpected you can’t quite bite it back. While you have your fair share of good, old-fashioned fun, he’s right. Every other semester, you’ve celebrated the end of finals season with a cup of hot tea and an early night in bed. Traded one source of stress for another as you woke up bright and early the next day to hit the ice. 

You send him a smile, tossing the medicine ball back in his direction. “Count me in.”

…

The following Friday night finds you double-checking the address on your phone before tentatively knocking on the front door of what you hope is Jake’s apartment. In the middle of the university district across the city from your own, you can’t say you’re familiar with any of the buildings outside of the athletic complex, which you’ve only ever visited for a handful of competitions. It strikes you then that this is also the university Sunghoon attends. And, stomach dropping, that you never actually asked who all would be attending tonight.

Before you have the chance to spin on your heel and high-tail it down the stairs you just climbed, the door swings open. It’s not Jake. 

“Oh,” you mumble. The boy who opened the door is not Jake, but he is very much attractive. “Sorry. I’m looking for Jake Sim’s apartment.” Your voice turns up at the end like a question. 

“You’re in the right place,” he smiles, and it’s gorgeous. “I’m Heeseung, Jake’s roommate. You must be ___.” He opens the door wider, allowing you space. “Come on in.”

“That’s me.” You offer him a grateful smile as you enter, hanging your coat and sliding your shoes off. 

The interior is surprisingly sophisticated, for a college boy’s apartment. It’s clean, for starters, and as you follow Heeseung down the hallway towards the kitchen, you can’t help but be impressed by their choice in decor. 

“Help yourself to anything.” Heeseung gestures to the impressive spread of snacks on the table. “But first, can I get you something to drink?”

“Um…” Your lack of alcohol-related knowledge is apparent, and the uncertainty must be obvious, because Heeseung just smiles again. 

“I’ve got you.” There’s an undertone of something in his words. Something playful, something bordering on flirty. But it’s too subtle to tell for sure, and you’re not one to bet on losing odds. He reaches for a glass and a handful of ice cubes. “Do you like fruity flavors?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “That sounds good.” Besides, it’s been a minute since you’ve been well and truly flirted with at a college party by a boy that looks like he could spell trouble in his sleep. This could be fun, you think.  

Glancing towards the adjacent living room, you notice the usual familiar faces. Jake and Niki are sitting on the couch while Jungwon chats with a pair of boys you don’t recognize. Eyes tracing the perimeter, you feel your shoulders tense when they land on a familiar silhouette. Sunghoon has his back to you, but his identity is just as unmistakable as it was on your first day of physical therapy. Like Jungwon, he’s talking to another person you don’t know. 

Oh, well. It’s too late to back out now and too early to make an exit. If you and Sunghoon can coexist in a room once a week without starting too many fires, you’re sure you’ll manage to get through tonight just fine. 

Heeseung hands you a full glass. It’s cold where it meets your fingertips. 

“Should we join them?” He inclines his head toward the living room and you nod. 

Following in his footsteps, you wave a quick greeting to Jake before taking a seat next to Heeseung, enough space between you and Sunghoon for you to relax slightly.

“How do you and Jake know each other?” You ask, searching for something to fill the silence, to keep the conversation flowing. “Do you play soccer together?”

Heeseung shakes his head. “No, we’ve been friends since elementary school. But I am on the basketball team, which helps. I feel like student athletes just kind of get each other, you know?”

You do know, and you tell him as much. The crazy schedule, the unwavering commitment. It’s much easier to explain to someone that’s living through the exact same thing. 

“Speaking of which, you’re a figure skater, right? For the university across town.”

You arch a brow. “I’m surprised Jake told you so much about you.”

“Not nearly enough,” he flirts, and this time it’s blatant. 

You take another sip of your drink with upturned lips, weighing a response on your tongue. Before you can decide how many cards you’d like to show, you make eye contact across the room with the one person you were hoping to avoid. 

Sunghoon looks equally—scratch that—even more displeased to see you. Jawline so taught you could cut your finger on it and lips drawn in a straight line, he’s pissed where he locks eyes with you from his seat. Sunghoon is the one to avert his eyes first. Throwing back whatever’s in his cup, he slices through the moment of tension with a knife. 

If Heeseung notices the way your breath splutters, he doesn’t comment. Thankfully, Jungwon chooses the next moment to say his hellos and introduce you to the boys you hadn’t recognized earlier. 

“Sunoo,” he nods towards the boy he’d been sitting with earlier, who offers a friendly greeting. “And that’s Jay, over by Sunghoon. And you’ve already met Heeseung.”

“And you all go to school here?”

“Yeah,” Jungwon nods. “Jay and I live together, and Sunoo is Niki’s roommate.”

“You’re deep in enemy territory,” Heeseung elbows you lightly, teasing. “What are we gonna do with you?”

You lift your now empty glass towards him, grinning. “Get me another drink, hopefully.”

Sending you a wink, he takes the glass from your outstretched hand before standing from the couch. “On it.” You watch his back retreat into the kitchen, oblivious of the second one that follows it a handful of moments later. 

Jay, as it turns out, is not an athlete, but does play guitar for a local  band your friend has been raving to you about for ages. He’s already promising you two sets of complimentary tickets to every one of their upcoming shows by the time you realize Heeseung’s been gone for a while. Too long. 

Excusing yourself, you head toward the kitchen. And it’s just your luck that you find the person you’ve spent the evening avoiding, instead of the one you’re searching for. Even with the buzz of your first drink fading rapidly, your inhibitions are feeling low. 

Sunghoon barely has the chance to register your presence before you’re laying out accusations. 

“I know you don’t like me, but do you really have to spend the whole night glaring at me like that? In front of everyone?”

Sunghoon’s shoulders tense, a confirmation that he hears you, but he says nothing. Instead, he just swallows the remainder of his drink in one large gulp. His eyes are still flaring, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think you did something to piss him off. 

But it’s just like him, to avoid conversations he doesn’t want to have with the end of another drink. To treat you like someone not even worthy of a response. You don’t know why you expected anything different. Scoffing, you notice the full drink sitting on the counter. Heeseung must have had the chance to refill it before disappearing. 

You move to step around Sunghoon and reach for it when he finally says, “I’m not glaring at you.”

The gaze you level him with is incredulous. “Do you think I’m stupid? I have eyes—”

“For all I know you are stupid!” Sunghoon sighs, drags an open palm down the length of his face. “I mean, are you really gonna let some guy you just met pour your drinks all night?”

“Heeseung?” You’re confused why all of his rage seems to be directed towards something so insignificant. “He’s Jake’s roommate”

“And a complete stranger to you.”

It’s infuriating, the way he assumes his opinion should hold any weight in your life. The way he thinks he has any say in your decisions. “So should I avoid all the food now too?” You’re being petty now for the sake of it. “I mean, since you’ve been in here unsupervised for quite a while now.” You take another step towards your drink and he moves, blocking your path with his body. 

When you look up, you find his eyes already trained on you, and there’s no ice in them now. Just pure, unadulterated heat. Fire. Flames that lick the base of your spine. “You’re so fucking agitating, you know that?”

“I’m agitating?” You take another step forward, hoping the proximity will force him away. It doesn’t. If anything, he leans into it. Into you. 

You reach for the drink again. This time, he stops you himself. Fingers of his unrestricted hand wrapping around your wrist.

“Yeah.” His words are low, voice a caress even as it drips venom. You feel his breath ghost across your cheekbone. “Real fucking agitating.”

Your eyes are still locked on his, and you search them for a hint of something coherent, something that makes sense. Every bone in your body drawn taught, it’s as if muscle memory reverts you to the last moment you were like this, the last moment he held you this close, body entwined with his own in a familiar embrace. Your wrist slackens in his grasp. 

Last time, he dropped you. Sent you scattering across ice until the only thing you could taste was the bitterness of defeat and the sharp sting of humiliation. 

Last time, he let you fall. 

You have no idea what he’ll do now. 

In the end, it’s the sound of approaching footsteps that has the two of you springing apart, your wrist falling from his grip. In the scramble, you remember your original target. 

Despite the long melted ice, this drink feels even cooler in your grip, a stark contrast to the simmering heat just beneath your skin. 

When Heeseung enters, he’s tucking his phone into his pocket with an apologetic look. “Sorry, I had to take a call. My brother gets chatty at the worst times.” Nodding to your hand, he smiles, “You found your drink.” 

“Yeah, I did.” You take a step closer to the living room, closer to Heeseung. Further from Sunghoon. 

Glancing between the two of you, there’s a hint of uncertainty when Heeseung asks if you want to rejoin the others in the living room. 

You put his worries to ease and your questions to rest when you agree easily, not even bothering to give Sunghoon a second thought. 

You do seek his gaze one last time, though, before you follow Heeseung back to the party. Looking directly at him, you raise your glass in a mock toast. Without breaking eye contact, you bring the cup to your lips, swallowing half the drink in one long sip. When you do finally turn away, it’s to find the empty seat next to Heeseung. 

The rest of the evening passes in a pleasant blur, trading stories and laughs with the people around you while Heeseung keeps the seat at your side warm. Sunghoon does you the favor of disappearing from sight after your stand off in the kitchen.

It’s easy to relax into the company of everyone else, so much so that you don’t see Sunoo until you’re running right into him, the contents of his cup saturating the front of your shirt. 

It’s a problem Heeseung is quick to solve, and the gray hoodie he offers you is cozier than any of your own with a scent that’s almost addicting. 

He’s sweet, you think. Sweet and charming and forward in all of the right ways. It’s solidified when he offers to join you on the porch when you tell him you’re stepping outside for some fresh air. It’s cemented when he accepts your refusal with nothing but a smile and the request that you “come back quick.”

Stepping outside, it takes you a moment to realize that you’re not alone. It would appear that your earlier assumption that Sunghoon must have gone back to his place was wrong. There’s no drink in his hand, but the way he sways with the gentle midnight breeze makes you think he’s still working through everything he downed earlier. 

Silently, you glance up at the cloudless night sky, at the way the stars seem to wrap around you. Gaze returning to Sunghoon’s back, you suppose the simplest course of action would be to leave before he realizes you’re here. You turn to do just that, to make good on your promise to Heesung, when the sound of your name stops you in your tracks. 

Or at least, you think that’s what he says. It’s hard to tell, with the way his syllables and sounds slur together. Turning back towards him, you find him already looking at you. He repeats your name, and this time around, it’s a bit clearer. 

His eyes trace a downward line from your face to your change in clothes. Something in his face crumples, withers. 

“‘M sorry,” he slurs, words not lining up quite right through the inebriation. 

“What?”

“That day.” The sudden onset of sincerity in his tone makes him seem more sober than he is. “I should have caught you.”

The stars in the sky suddenly don’t seem so far away. You must have heard him wrong. A crease forms between your eyebrows, eyes scanning over his features. They’re laid open in their honesty, no trace of deception. 

“I wanted to catch you. I tried to.” He sighs. “Was my fault.”

“I…” You search for words, for the vindication you’d always imagined you’d feel at his admission. In its absence, you find only confusion and an odd pang of regret. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. 

“Sorry for what? Why are you bringing that up?”

He just shakes his head, eyes falling to his feet. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. Like a broken record. His pain is wrapped up in there too, trapped in a loop time has never quite let it escape. 

When you return to the party, it’s with a jumbled excuse of needing to check on a pet cat you don’t have. 

In the haste of it all, you forget to so much as exchange numbers with Heeseung. But you do find the time to pull Jake aside on your way out the door, to make sure that he helps Sunghoon get home safe. 

…

The next morning greets you with a pounding headache and an unfamiliar hoodie draped over the back of your desk chair. It takes a moment of searching through hazy memories before recollection of that particular string of events finds you. 

With a sigh, you head out in search of water and Advil, sending Jake a quick message that you’ll stop by his apartment later to return Heeseung’s hoodie. 

Even a handful of hours later, you can’t decide if you hope Heeseung is home or not. It’s a Saturday afternoon after a long night, so you figure the odds are high. But you still can’t pinpoint whether that feeling in your gut is excitement or dread. 

In an effort to delay the inevitable, you take a detour before visiting Jake’s apartment again. Your rival university’s sports complex is just as nice as you remember it, large, pristine buildings that hold everything an athletics department could dream of. Fondly, you remember the first time you skated in this stadium, back in middle school. It had felt so big, then, so special, to be skating for such a large crowd. 

It felt even more special to be sharing the ice with someone who put dreams in your head and butterflies in your stomach. Still fairly new to pair skating, the two of you had put on a program with a less than favorable amount of deduction. 

But still. It was yours. It was special. It was shared. 

You wonder if he knew then, that one day he would be the reigning king of this very same rink. 

Probably, you think. Park Sunghoon never had the habit of letting things feel impossible. 

Looking down at the boot on your foot, you miss it, all of it, all at once. The late nights. The early mornings. The bruises and cuts and aching muscles. The determination after defeat. The elation after glory. The feeling of flying every time blade touches ice. 

The sign posted next to the stadium is an advertisement, a reminder, of the upcoming regional championships. There’s a pang of loss, a moment of grief, for your program that will have to wait for next year. 

But your x-rays are coming back better every time, and Dr. Kim is sure you’ll be back on the ice by the time spring comes. 

For the first time in a long time, you think it’ll be okay. You know you’ll be okay.  

In front of you, the stadium door opens, and you realize you’re standing right in front of the exit. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, quickly moving to get out of the way, but then you take a closer look. “Coach Kang?” you ask, just as she says your name with the same air of disbelief. 

It’s an odd feeling of synchronicity, to stumble into your childhood skating coach just as you’re reminiscing on the past. 

“It’s been so long,” she beams, pulling you in for a warm hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting a friend. What about you?”

“Coaches’ meeting,” she explains. “Trying to see if I can get some of my junior skaters in to watch a few practices before regionals.” Nudging you with her shoulder, she adds, “speaking of which, how’s your program coming along? Are you getting excited?”

You shake your head. “I’m actually off the ice for this one.” Glancing down, you lift your booted foot in explanation. “Ankle fracture has me out for the rest of the season.”

“Oh, no.” Coach Kang places a consolatory hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry. That has to be so hard.”

“It’s okay, actually.” You don’t know who’s more surprised, her at your admission, or you at the fact that you actually mean it. “Everything is healing up nicely, so I’m looking forward to an even better program next year.” 

“Well look at you, all grown up.” She smiles. “I can say that thirteen-year-old you would not have had such a good attitude about it. Honestly, I’m surprised a fracture was enough to stop you. You were always so stubborn about things. You and Sunghoon.” She lets out a short laugh as your shoulders tense at the mention of him. “I was just thinking about you two the other day, actually. We had a skater fracture his tailbone and argue until he was blue in the face that he still wanted to compete.” Shaking her head, she adds, “It reminded me of that time Sunghoon insisted on skating even though he’d just sprained his wrist.” She shakes her head again, releases a small laugh. “Never could keep you two off the ice.”

It all checks out, the stubbornness, the determination even when it was stupid. But you’re hung up on one detail. You’re sure you could list every one of Sunghoon’s skating injuries just as thoroughly as he could. But before the current one, you can’t recall any wrist injuries. “What? When did he sprain his wrist?” 

Coach Kang waves her hand flippantly, like the sinking feeling in your gut isn’t intensifying with every passing moment, like she isn’t about to confirm a realization you’re already dreading. “Oh, you remember. It was just a few days before nationals that one year.”

That one year. She skirts around it, for your sake probably. But you know exactly what she means, when she’s referring to. 

And suddenly, you’re falling through air again, plummeting towards ice as a hand makes a desperate attempt to catch you. As sheer will alone is no match for injury weakened bones and ligaments and muscles. As you’re sliding across frozen ground and he’s gripping his wrist with pain on his face and terror in his eyes. 

As your head spins, spots clouding your vision from the force of the impact. Before the world goes black, your eyes search for him. 

And in those last few moments of consciousness, you watch as his mouth moves to form words you can’t hear. 

“I’m sorry.”

…

Raising your fist, you pound at the door again. One, two, three times. At this rate, your knuckles will be bloody before you get a response. 

But before you can start your assault on the wood in front of you again, the door swings open slowly, revealing a familiar frame. 

“You absolute idiot.”

“Well hello to you too.” Rubbing at his eyes, you appear to have just woken him from a nap. If his head is feeling anything like yours was this morning, you almost feel sorry. 

But there are more pressing matters at hand. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“That I’m an idiot? Probably not.”

“That you sprained your wrist three days before nationals? That you skated anyway? That you attempted to catch a person quite literally spinning through the air with a wrist injury?”

A beat of silence passes. 

And then another. 

Sunghoon suddenly looks wide awake. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. What the hell were you thinking?” There’s fire in your eyes, an anger that’s directed towards him but not in the ways he’s used to. 

He pauses for a moment, eyes searching your features for another beat. Finally, he sighs. “Would you have let me skate if I did?”

It’s not the answer you expect. And it’s just like him, to answer a question with one of his own. “I… what?”

“You heard me.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “Would you have let me get on the ice if you knew I was hurt?”

And what is it, him and his habit of asking ridiculous questions like they don’t have obvious answers. “What kind of question is that? Of course not. No one in their right mind would have let you do that program with a wrist sprain, much less your partner. And I love Coach Kang, but I’m about to file a negligence suit against her, because what the hell kind of—”

“Stop talking.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” he grimaces, and you’re still getting used to the way apologies sound on his lips. “That came out wrong. What I was trying to say was that you… Well, I… I mean…” He trails off for the third time, casts a tentative look at the way your eyebrows only raise higher and higher every time he stops a train of thought in its tracks. His gaze falls down, somewhere between your nose and chin. An exhale passes through parted lips. Something in his resolve slips. “Oh, fuck it.”

And then he’s kissing you. 

Lips against lips and hands in your hair. It’s messy and awkward, and you can’t quite get the timing right. 

Sunghoon pulls back a fraction of an inch, catching his breath and letting you do the same. 

“What are you doing?”

There’s heat in his eyes and fondness too, a soft sort of expression that only melts further every time he looks at you. But now there’s anxiety in the mix, a crippling fear that he’s misjudged everything entirely, done something horribly wrong. 

“I’m sorry.” Before today, you could count his apologies on one hand. Now, you’re running out of fingers. “Did you not want—”

This time, it’s you that pulls him down, hands lacing around the nape of his neck, exhaling a soft sigh against parted lips that sends his mind spinning. 

And it’s only the second time, but it’s already better. Already a natural rhythm that the two of you seem to fall into with a little more grace. 

The expanse of his door is cold against your back when Sunghoon pulls you into his apartment with his good hand, and he’s a quick study. Attempt number three is an even greater improvement as hands search for new skin to discover and things start to fall into place, one at a time. 

Reaching for Heeseung’s forgotten hoodie, Sunghoon breaks the kiss only to toss it somewhere outside your current plane of existence. In this moment, you exist only within the space the two of you occupy, everything else an afterthought. 

And you have the feeling attempt number four will be your best yet. 

…

epilogue

“Are you ever gonna join me or do I just have to stay out here looking stupid forever?”

You don’t even take a moment to consider. “The second one.”

“Come on,” Sunghoon pleads, skating back towards you where you remain planted firmly to the bench on the perimeter of the rink. He moves towards you with a grace that used to inspire a raging, stomping green monster of envy. Now, you just admire the way he cuts across the ice with the agility of a dancer. “It’s fun out here, I promise.”

Avoiding his gaze, you let your eyes fall to your feet instead. They’re already laced up in your favorite pair of skates, black boot all but forgotten since you had it removed at your last visit to Dr. Min’s office. Since he gave you the green light to return to the thing you love most. 

You had been ecstatic then. Brimming with so much extra energy Sunghoon had to physically intervene to prevent you from accidentally knocking over an elderly lady on your way out of the hospital. But now, with the opportunity you’ve been dreaming of for long, hard months at your fingertips, something in you hesitates. 

Sunghoon says your name, and suddenly he’s serious. “This is all you’ve been talking about for months.” Sliding down onto his knees in front of you, you’re suddenly at eye level. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He casts a doubtful glance. “Really, I just…” It’s hard, to speak your fears into existence, to let them take flight. Even if the boy in front of you makes it a little easier. “What if it’s not what I imagined?”

It’s a million little worries wrapped up in one. What if your ankle isn’t the same? What if it’s never the same? What if you’re not as good as you were? What if you’re not good enough? 

Sunghoon hears them all, and puts them to rest with a smile, a gentle touch as he rests his forehead against yours. “You and that big brain. Always worrying about the wrong things.”

“Hey! I—”

“It won’t be what you imagined.” He draws back a few inches, and your eyes have nowhere to land but on his own. “It will be different. It will feel weird, and your legs will feel wobbly, your muscles will feel weak, and your ankle might give out.”

Your lips flatten into a thin line. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a terrible job.”

Sunghoon just pinches your cheeks together, forcing your lips to purse. “So you’ll show up. Over and over again. Every day until your skates start to feel like a second pair of feet and the ice starts to feel like home again. Until your ankle and your muscles and your stamina are all built back up, in a way that’s different from before but will feel familiar before you know it.” He presses a single, delicate kiss to the tip of your nose. “Until I’m dragging you off the ice instead of onto it, because your boyfriend needs attention and is feeling a little jealous of all the time you’re spending here instead of with him.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so needy. It’s gross.”

Sunghoon only smiles. “Only for you.”

This time, when he gets back on his feet and extends a hand, you take it. You follow him onto the ice and headfirst towards your insecurities feeling a little bit like a newborn deer, a bike without its training wheels. 

He laughs when you stumble and brushes hair out of your face when you pout. 

After an hour, you’re already feeling more solid than before. After two, that feeling of flying is starting to return. 

It’s somewhere just before hour three when Sunghoon says, “Remember how I told you earlier that you’re worrying about the wrong things?”

“Yeah.” You drag the word out slowly, not liking the hint of deviousness in his sudden grin. 

“This is what I was talking about. Instead of worrying about getting back on the ice, you should be worrying about how long it will take you to be able to beat me on a lap around the rink.”

“You absolute asshole. I fractured my ankle!”

Already halfway around the rink, Sunghoon just laughs. 

…

outtake—five years ago. 

Sunghoon’s vision is blurry. It’s a terrible combination of things—the exhilaration of the spotlight, the pain in his wrist, the grief of an egregious error. The sudden onset of tears that sting in the corners of his eyes and fall without his permission. 

Despite all of it, he finds his way back to his dressing room. Choking back a sob, he reaches for the glass of water he’d left out earlier. It tastes acidic on his tongue, burns like regret on the way down. 

Stupid, he was so stupid. His hands tangle in his hair. He wants to pull it out. Wants to scream until his throat is raw and he can’t anymore. 

It was a terrible enough decision to gamble his own fate on an unhealed injury, but as the reality of the situation comes crashing down around him, he realizes he’s done something much worse. 

Eyes open, eyes closed. It doesn’t matter. All he can see is you, sprawled out on ice, limbs bent unnaturally, eyes dazed at the impact. 

The unexpected impact. Because you trusted him. You trusted him so much that of course you’d never considered what you would do if his hands failed, if his wrist gave out. If he decided to risk your program, your fate, you, all on a whim, on an inflated sense of self-importance and a lack of regard for the injury he was so certain he could power through. 

He couldn’t imagine it, three days ago. Telling you that he was injured, that he couldn’t skate the program. He couldn’t imagine watching as the features he bashfully considered so, painfully pretty twisted into disappointment. Into anger. 

So he turned his shame into resolve, into determination. One that allowed him to catch you with a fractured wrist in every practice run, every time, except for the time that mattered. Biting back grimaces and cries of pain all for the fool’s hope of seeing you smile in a few days’ time, a gold medal around your neck. 

Instead, he got to see you spinning through the air, slipping through his fingers, landing with a sickening thud. He wants to ask what hospital they took you to, wants to ignore the pain in his wrist a little longer and run there himself, just to make sure that you’re okay.

But then he imagines the way you’ll look at him when you see him. The way all that disappointment and anger he’d wanted to avoid so desperately will surely be all you have to offer him. 

He understands. He does. He wouldn’t want to see him either. 

Turning away from the mirror, he tucks away his shame for the future. But that only leaves his gaze landing on the bouquet of flowers sitting on the table. The one he’d spent nearly an hour agonizing over, the one his mother had assured him a dozen times you would love. The one he made sure had all of your favorite colors. 

He snuck his own favorite in there too, in hopes of what exactly he can’t be sure, but he knows he likes the way they look together—your favorite color and the deep blue irises that represent his own. 

It seems to stupid now. After everything, after this, he can’t imagine you want his flowers, and even less his favorite color. He can’t imagine that you want anything to do with him. 

So he doesn’t seek you out. Not in the hospital that day, not when you’re cleared to practice and back on the ice again, not when chance has the two of you colliding five years later. 

Not until he watches you walk away from him with all that anger and resentment and disappointment he’s been so avoiding for so long. Not until it strikes him in the face and he realizes that he can’t live with it, can’t let bygones be bygones and hope time and the absence of him in your life have healed you for the better when it still hurts to even look at you. 

On a dressing room table, five years in the past, a bouquet of flowers wilts. 

And Sunghoon learns that with love and patience and a little bit of sunlight, beautiful things, even the fragile ones, bloom when you water them.

.....

note: thank you for reading! as always, comments, reblogs, and asks are very much appreciated :D

[cressidagrey]

The Attic Room

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Felicity and Oscar broke the same school rules every night for three years. 

Notes and Warnings: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mention of Underage Sex.

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

They never once got caught. 

In retrospect it bordered on impossible. 

They broke the same school rule every night for three years and never got caught.

Technically, it was about ten different violations rolled into one: curfew, unauthorized presence in dormitories, misuse of the staff staircase, unsupervised cohabitation—plus whatever regulation covered “two students sleeping in the same narrow twin bed every night.”

Technically, boarding students weren’t supposed to sneak into each other’s rooms past curfew.

Definitely not the girls’ dorms.

And absolutely not up the narrow, creaking staircase that led to the attic room at the very top of the oldest building on campus—the one with the slanted ceilings, crooked windows, and that draft in the winter no amount of heating ever fixed.

It started in 2016. 

They were 15. 

Felicity had the worst room in the school.

Everyone said so.

Which was exactly why Felicity got it.

They hadn’t said that out loud, of course. They’d told her it was “for upperclassmen who value quiet” and “a bit removed, but private.” But everyone knew what it meant.

Too intense. Too strange. Too smart. Too hard to place.

So she got the attic.

And she never said it, but she was kind of glad.

It was the attic room—tiny, slanted, too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. The radiator clanked like it was haunted. 

Nobody wanted it.

But she took it. Gratefully. Quietly. Because it was far from the housemistress's office, and it had a door that locked, and because nobody ever checked it after curfew.

Which meant Oscar could get to her.

It had started their second term, when the nightmares were worse than ever—cold sweat, gasping, shaking so hard she once cracked the plastic of her retainer. 

Nobody understood. 

Oscar did.

He had the room three floors below hers and the kind of memory that remembered things no one else noticed—like when her hands started trembling during meals. Like how she never screamed when she woke up, just stared at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed her.

He didn’t climb ivy or scale the gutter pipes or do anything heroic. 

The staircase was ancient and half-blocked by an unused storage room. Nobody patrolled that wing. Nobody cared. Nobody ever noticed the quiet boy with the soft steps and the too-serious eyes slipping into the attic room every night at 11:03 and leaving again at 5:30 a.m., when the world still felt soft and half-dreamed.

And Oscar had always been good at finding the quietest paths.

One night, just past midnight., she heard the stairs creak.

Carefully. Slowly. One by one.

Then the soft knock—two short, one long. The knock they’d agreed on in whispered study halls and library corners.

When she opened the door, he looked  sleepy, hair a mess and hoodie half-zipped. He didn’t say anything. Just held out a hand, and when she took it, he crawled into the too-small twin bed like he belonged there.

And he did.

For three years, he came to her every single night he was at Haileybury…when he wasn’t busy racing. 

Never missed one. Not even during exam weeks or rainy nights or the time he twisted his ankle during a cricket match and still limped his way up four flights of stairs just so she wouldn’t have to fall asleep alone.

They broke every rule in the book. 

No visitors. No lights after hours. No boys in girls’ quarters. But nobody checked the attic. Nobody cared about the girl in the room with the water-stained ceiling. 

They should have. That room was where everything happened.

It was where she learned to sleep through the night, tucked into his chest.

They never really meant for anything to happen.

At first, he just held her. Let her shake. Let her breathe. Let her fall asleep in the curl of his body, warm and steady and safe, which had never really meant anything to her before he showed up and made it mean everything.

Oscar never asked what the dreams were about. Never tried to fix them. He just climbed in beside her like that tiny bed was big enough for both of them, and wrapped an arm around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And it worked.

The nightmares didn’t go away—but they didn’t swallow her whole either. Not when she had something to hold onto. Someone.

They slept chest to back, tangled knees, breath synced so closely that sometimes she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began. He’d press a kiss to the back of her neck before falling asleep. She never told him, but it was the one thing that could stop her shaking on the bad nights.

Then came their first kiss.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just…inevitable.

They were talking, forehead to forehead, knees knocking together, and she was laughing about something—soft and breathless and alive—and he looked at her like she hung the moon. And then he kissed her like he’d been waiting to his whole life.

And maybe he had. 

She never forgot the way he looked afterward either—rumpled and pink-cheeked and stunned with affection, like he couldn’t believe this was his life.

Sometimes she still couldn’t believe it either.

Their first time had been there too.

Months later, she held his hand and whispered “yes” when he asked if this—they—were ready. It was clumsy and sweet and quiet and a little too fast and a little too intense and everything they were at sixteen.

Afterward, he kissed her shoulder and whispered, “I love you.”

She whispered it back.

And the radiator clanked like a blessing.

***

Oscar hadn’t realized how badly he missed her until he saw her again.

He had counted the days.

Every single one of them.

47 days since he’d last seen Fliss—since they’d curled up together in the too-small twin bed beneath the sloped roof of her attic room, limbs tangled and breathing steady. 

47 days since Felicity had kissed his collarbone and murmured sleepily about constellations and university applications and how this time next year, they’d be free.

No phone. No texts. A few letters—clinical, cautious. Like someone else had read them first. Which he knew, deep down, was probably true

So he’d waited. And counted.

And now, finally, they were back at Haileybury.

It was the first day back in their last year—mid-September, hot and dragging—and the courtyard was full of luggage and overlapping greetings and housemasters calling names over the din. But he only saw her.

Felicity.

Standing by the edge of the courtyard, her usual navy cardigan pulled tight around her frame, hair half-tied like she’d done it in a moving car. Her shoulders were hunched, eyes down, like she was already trying to disappear.

And she was so thin.

Thinner than she’d been in June. Her cheeks hollowed out. Collarbones sharp against the fabric of her shirt. Her smile—when she finally met his eyes—was more ghost than real.

He didn’t say anything then. Just walked up to her, let his bag drop to the grass, and wrapped his arms around her without a word.

She flinched.

Just slightly. A twitch.

And then melted into him like she’d been holding her breath all summer and had only just remembered how to exhale.

That night, after lights out, he took the old staircase like always. Avoided the creaking steps. Knew just where to press his palm against the wood to close the attic door without a sound.

She was already curled on the bed when he slipped inside, the blanket pulled halfway up her chest. A glass of water sat untouched on her nightstand.

She smiled when she saw him.

Not a ghost this time.

Something real.

He crossed the room in two steps and kissed her forehead. “Hi.”

And she flinched.

Not just startled. Flinched—like she expected pain. Like she’d learned it.

Oscar’s heart sank so fast it felt like gravity had doubled.

He knelt in front of her.

“Fliss.”

Silence.

“Will you let me see?”

At first, he didn’t think she would. But then—wordless, trembling—she reached for the buttons of her cardigan and peeled it off. Then the shirt beneath it. She turned around slowly, like her body had betrayed her and she was apologizing for it.

Oscar’s world cracked.

He stopped breathing.

Her back was covered in it.

Belt marks. Raised and raw. Some healing, some new. Deep bruises blooming across her ribs and lower spine. Angry, broken skin that had clearly been left untreated. One cut near her shoulder blade looked infected—swollen, red, and weeping.

Oscar sat perfectly still.

Then: “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. Alright. We’re going to fix this.”

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t press. She was already trembling too hard, and he couldn’t stand the thought of adding more weight to her bones.

He found the first aid kit she always kept under the sink, the one they’d used before for sprained wrists and stress headaches. He opened it without asking. Laid out what he needed.

Antiseptic. Cream. Gauze. He cleaned each wound as gently as he could, whispering soft apologies every time she hissed in pain.

Her breathing stayed shallow. She didn’t cry. Just stared at the wall like it would crack open and swallow her whole.

When he was done, he wrapped his arms around her without asking.

He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to.

He knew what summer meant for her. He’d always known.

Oscar had always known Felicity’s parents were strict.

Not the "no phones at dinner" kind of strict. Not the "home by curfew" kind. 

It was the kind of strict that hollowed a person out from the inside and called it raising them right.

They expected brilliance—flawless, polished, relentless brilliance. 

First in every class, head of every club, effortless perfection. A girl who made top marks while staying quiet. Who looked put-together but never proud. Who never cried. Never stumbled. Never once failed.

Felicity had learned early on that there was no room for error. That being exceptional was survival. Anything less—anything merely good—was met with disappointment. Silence. Or worse.

Oscar had known this.

But this… this was different.

This was escalation.

This was not getting better.

“Was it your dad?” he asked quietly, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

She hesitated. Then said, “Yes.”

“Jesus, Fliss—”

“I failed chemistry,” she whispered.

Oscar stared at her.

“What?”

“I got an ninety-three. They told me to get over ninety-five. I didn’t. I made a mistake on the equations.” She said it like it was a confession. Like she'd crashed a car. Like she'd burned a house down.

“That’s—Fliss, that’s—” His voice broke. “You don’t get beaten for a test score.”

She wrapped her arms around herself like she was trying to stay upright. “In my house, you do. I missed one question,” she said, voice brittle. “And then they said I didn’t smile enough at the dinner party they hosted for the ambassador. That I embarrassed them.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“They said I disappoint them, and then they reminded me of the consequences. And I always think—next time I’ll get it right. But I never do.”

Oscar’s throat burned.

“I watched my mum count calories for me when I was ten,” she added. “I’ve had tutors since I was five. I’m not allowed to decorate my room at home. I’ve never been allowed to choose what I wear, or how to cut my hair. When I told them I didn’t want to apply to Oxford—when I said I wanted to take a gap year and learn how to fix cars—they locked me in my room for three days and said I’d thank them later.”

She wasn’t crying. But he was.

Because she said it all like it was normal. Like it was her fault.

And he’d always known her parents were strict. But this was control. This was abuse. This was someone taking every beautiful, brilliant part of her and trying to hammer it into something that performed on command.

“They told me if I wasn’t brilliant, I was nothing. That I was already a disappointment because I’m not beautiful. So I have to be perfect. Or there’s no point.”

Oscar closed his eyes. Just for a second. To keep from screaming.

He reached forward and very gently touched the edge of one of the cuts.

“You’re not a disappointment,” he said. “And you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t even have to be good. You just have to be.”

Her chin trembled.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said fiercely. “Don’t you dare apologize. This isn’t on you. This is on them. For treating you like something to control. Something to sharpen until you bleed.”

Oscar couldn’t breathe.

He wanted to shake the world. To drag her parents out into the open and make them see what they’d done. To tear down the foundation of every expectation they’d ever poisoned her with.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re here. I’ve got you.”

She buried her face in his shirt.

Oscar didn’t let go for a long time.

And when he finally pulled back, when he gently cupped her jaw and tilted her chin up so she would look at him, his voice was steady in a way it had never been before. 

“This is the last summer they’ll ever get,” he said. “I swear to you. Never again.”

Felicity blinked.

“We turn eighteen in April,” he said. “We graduate in May. You’re not going back there. I don’t care what we have to do. I’ll figure it out. I’ll talk to someone. I’ll go to hell and back if I have to, but I’m not letting you walk back into that house ever again.”

She shook her head, not in disagreement but disbelief. “Oscar, they’re my parents.”

“They don’t deserve to be.”

She was crying now. Silently. One tear slipping after another, like she couldn’t stop them anymore.

Oscar wiped them away with his thumb. Kissed her forehead.

Then her cheek.

Then the corner of her mouth.

And when she finally kissed him back, it wasn’t out of gratitude or desperation—it was out of the smallest flicker of belief that maybe, just maybe, he meant it.

That maybe she’d make it.

That maybe they’d make it.

Later, after she fell asleep curled against him in that terrible twin bed—bandaged, exhausted, but warm—Oscar lay awake staring at the ceiling, already planning. April 6th. Their eighteenth birthday. May 26th. Graduation.

They just had to make it until then.

And then she was his to protect.

No more hidden bruises. No more whispered excuses. No more being punished for being human.

Never again.

***

They never got caught.

 Not by the housemistress, not the prefects, not even by the one teacher who everyone swore was ex-MI6.

Felicity still didn’t know how they never got caught.

Maybe it was dumb luck. Maybe it was the universe offering them one small miracle. Maybe the housemistress knew all along and simply never said anything.

It was the worst room in the school.But it was where Felicity Leong found everything.

[imnotshua]

progress report: i am missing you to death - jww

٠࣪⭑ pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem reader ٠࣪⭑ summary: it's 2006 - you and wonwoo are better off as lovers ٠࣪⭑ genre: childhood friends to lovers, smut, fluff, angst, college au ٠࣪⭑ rating: explicit. minors do not interact with me, i'll block you. ٠࣪⭑ warnings: swearing, drinking, undefined relationships, mutual pining. idiots in love. my babies are flawed and that's okay because so are real people. reader and wonwoo are just stupid regular people who say and do stupid regular things, it is intentional, please love them anyway. they are both down bad. occasional use of pet names (baby & pretty), no use of y/n or other variations, plot and smut, mention of historical bullying, but nothing graphic or extreme. ٠࣪⭑ smut contents: gendered terms, kisses (lots), fingering (pussy + mouths), oral (f & m receiving), no condoms but reader is on BC, sloppy, soooo much hand holding, sex!!!!!, hickeys, neediness <333333, all in all they are quite soft and disgustingly into each other. if you think i've forgotten anything please let me know so i can fix my post! ٠࣪⭑ wc: 17.7k - complete ٠࣪⭑ a/n: this work is the main instalment from my series sorry every song's about you. it’s complete on its own and can be read without the others. there’s a prequel already posted, it’ll be linked at the end and can be found on the series masterlist linked above. you choose the order you want to read them in. future fics for this couple will be non-linear and feature different stages of their lives. the title comes from Fall Out Boy’s I slept with someone in Fall Out Boy and all I got was this stupid song written about me. I have a playlist linked on the series masterlist if you happen to be into that. ٠࣪⭑ thank yous: to my loves, @100vern and @starlightkyeom– thank you for reading this in fragments, over and over again until i got it right. jewel again, thank you for the banner. i appreciate and love you both beyond belief. to @c-oupsie thank you for catching my errors and shouting at me about these two idiots in my dms, i love yelling, i appreciate you. to @daechwitatamic thank you for encouraging me, i appreciate you and your shouting too! to everyone who reads, thank you for coming to my little corner, i hope you enjoy this one.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

January 2006

Wonwoo got the last choice for film night. He’d put on some period drama to make up for the torture he put you through earlier (another horror movie), one that’ll make you cry very soon probably, and sets the re-filled popcorn bowl between your legs. You pass him a bottle that he opens with his teeth, because for some reason you always forget to bring an opener from the kitchen, and once you’re tucked up in the blanket, with his thigh pressed against the side of yours, it feels too wrong to move. 

It’s routine. It’s good. It’s been this way since school. Every Tuesday is reserved for taking up each other's space. Tuesday– because who else makes plans on Tuesdays? Watching movie after movie in his apartment until it gets too late to go home, and you sleep here. Can’t get interrupted on a Tuesday. (The only time you press pause is when either of you are dating someone, the last was Siyeon several months ago. You liked her, but Wonwoo never really talked about why he ended it.) You have a half hearted fight over who takes the sofa, but you always win out in the end. Wonwoo brings you pillows and pyjamas that smell like his laundry powder. It’s fine. It’s nice. 

The problem is that lately your feelings have been running away with themselves again. You’re not sure how it started anew, or if they ever even fully went away, but the affection you have for him swirls, neglected and nameless, in your stomach. All Wonwoo has to do is smile in your direction and you melt. Made worse tenfold every time he holds your hand. It’s not often. Just when a particularly horrible scene comes on, and your spine goes rigid and you hold your breath, he’ll reach over, wrap his fingers around yours and use his thumb to work the tension out of your knuckles. He’s so good like this. You’ll take all the horror movies he wants for these soft moments, even though they make everything worse. He’s your best friend, and you’ve tried this two too many times. You never properly talked about the last time, the second time, four years ago.

(It’s like these feelings come in cycles.)

The end began with a sickness bug that stretched several days, and ended with a clipped voicemail, Wonwoo’s quiet contemplation obvious through the tinny sound of the recording, saying he wants to just be friends, saying he didn’t want to ruin what you have. That he cares about you so deeply that your friendship needs preserving over everything else. Yes, it hurt. God– it hurts. But you’d rather have him in your life in these half measures, than not at all. 

His hand is on his leg now. You could touch but you won’t. What’s happening on screen isn’t the right kind of scary for holding Wonwoo’s hand. Just Laurie telling Jo he loves her, and Jo telling him she doesn’t. Not in that way. You sink onto your side, hardly watching the screen through fuzzy eyes. Wonwoo chuckles softly as he looks over. 

“Are you crying?”

“No–” you say, voice thick.

“Oh you are,” he says, leaning over to stroke your hair. 

“Don’t touch me right now, Wonwoo,” you warn. “I’ll bite you.”

“Freak.” He laughs and pulls his hand back. “Shit–”

“What?”

It’s obvious what. Wonwoo has knocked over the mostly-full bottle that was tucked between you, and it’s soaking into the seat. 

You jump up to grab some paper towels from the kitchen, and when you come back Wonwoo is stripping the covers from the cushions. “Fuck, it’s soaked. I’m so sorry.” 

“What are you sorry for?” you ask, patting the excess liquid from the cushions. ‘It’s your sofa.”

“Yeah but it’s your bed.”

“Who says I was even gonna stay?” you joke.

“Ha ha,” he deadpans. 

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll call a taxi.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “It’s one AM, you’re not going home now.” 

You laugh. “And where, pray tell, am I going to sleep?”

“My room,” he says, without any idea how the thought of that has been floating through your mind for weeks. You haven’t slept in there since– since– “Hansol’s on the night shift, I’ll take his.”

You chew on the fat of your cheek. “Okay, sure. That works.”

There’s a knock at the half open door an hour later. “I’m so sorry,” Wonwoo whispers. “I can’t sleep.”

“Does it smell again?”

“It’s like something died in there. And there’s crumbs in the bed.”

Okay. Okay. It’s fine.

Wonwoo slips into the bed next to you, pulls the sheets right up to his shoulders even though he must be boiling in those pyjamas. Maybe he’s feeling strange about this, too. You turn on your side to find him watching your face already, cautious eyes and words unsaid on his lips. 

“Is this okay?” you ask. “Is this too weird?”

“Not weird,” he says. A pause. “A little weird. It’s been a while.” He reaches for your hand and you let him take it. Dummy.

“Do you think Jo and Laurie should’ve ended up together?” Wonwoo asks, after a minute. 

“She didn’t love him.”

“Wouldn’t it have been a better story if she had?”

“Maybe, but it wouldn’t have been them then, right? Jo and Laurie in love would’ve been different people entirely.”

Here he is, fingers entwined with yours and much too close. Here you are, four years older and not at all wiser. You are Laurie, pathetic and yearning, and Wonwoo doesn’t seem to get that he’s Jo, and that sometimes his tenderness makes you ache. 

“Goodnight, best friend,” he says.

Some things shouldn’t change even when they do. 

“Goodnight, best friend,” you say. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Hansol opens the bedroom door at just past six AM. He clocks the bed, the lump under the sheets, the just visible hair, face hidden by Wonwoo’s shoulder. He locks eyes with Wonwoo, who has been laid wide awake for the better part of an hour, trying not to move lest he wakes you too, and mouths Who’s that?

Wonwoo mouths back your name, and Hansol’s jaw hangs open. He makes a crude gesture with his hands, and raises curious eyebrows. Wonwoo gives him the finger. 

A little later, while you’re attempting to rush out the door for a seminar, Hansol is shovelling cereal in his mouth, and Wonwoo is sitting at the table with a coffee. Hansol asks around a mouthful of Frosties– “so, are you two fucking again?”

“What? No.”

Hansol swallows loudly, frowning confused. “What’s the wet patch on the couch?”

“Ew– it’s beer, you weirdo.” You’re staring at Hansol in disbelief. “Even if we were hooking up I don’t fuck on shared furniture.”

Wonwoo suppresses a choke on his coffee. You throw him a pointed look, lips twisting with the effort of trying not to laugh.

(You and he did, once, on the aforementioned sofa.)

“Why did you sleep in his–” Hansol gestures with an accusing spoon at Wonwoo. “–bed, then?”

“Because it smells like a skunk shat in your room, Hansol, maybe you should wash your arsehole once in a while.”

“I’m squeaky clean, buddy.”

“I doubt that, pal.”

Hansol laughs. He’s loving this. “You need to get laid so badly, shall I help find someone big and strong to pull that gigantic stick out your a–”

“Oh my God, please shut up,” Wonwoo interrupts. “It’s so weird you two are related, who talks with their cousins like this?”

“Second cousins,” you and Hansol correct in unison.

“Just to clarify– you’re not together again?”

You roll your eyes so hard all Wonwoo can see is white. “We weren’t ever together,” you say, exasperated. “We’ve been over this before.”

Wonwoo rubs his eyes under his glasses. “You’re going to be late,” he says to you.

You look at your watch. “Shit– bye best friend, call me tomorrow. Smell you later, Hansol.”

You’re already halfway out the door, and Hansol is calling after you, “Gonna find you a boyfriend! That’s a warning!” 

When the door clicks closed, Hansol turns on Wonwoo. “You’re donezo, I guess?”

Wonwoo sips his coffee. “Never started-zo.”

That sounded less stupid in his head.

Grinning wide, Hansol says, “You won’t mind if I introduce her to Minghao, then?”

Wonwoo presses his forehead against the table and tries to consider how much Hansol’s parents would miss him if he were to flush their son down the toilet. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

February 2006

Wonwoo hovers his cursor over the Submit button. He hesitates. Could remove one of the options, the long shot, and replace it with something more achievable. He’s not going to get it, and if he did he’s under no obligation to take it. It’s more for his ego than anything else, he tells himself. But Professor Lee had insisted he throw his hat in the ring, so he does, and tries not to panic over having made a horrible error of judgement once he clicks submit, because now it’s too late– it’s in the ether. 

You turn over in your sleep, uncomfy in the ball you’d tucked yourself into before drifting off, and your leg unfurls over him, seeking warmth and closeness. Wonwoo sets his laptop on the nightstand, and shifts down carefully next to you. It’s nights like these that Wonwoo is convinced that his life isn’t really real. Because isn’t it some funny joke that you’re here next to him like this, and you’re both still worlds apart. Touches are considered and well-mannered, despite how they used to be. But here you are in your ridiculous Pompompurin pyjamas and he wonders if you ever think about the last time you wore these with him. Probably not. It wouldn’t be considered memorable to anyone else, he thinks. Just a late breakfast in bed, that turned into non-stop talking, that turned silly, peppered kisses into lazy, deepened ones, forgoing lunch in favour of laying together, just close, in ways not completely unlike you are now. In some parallel universe, in some other life, this could still be happening in the way it was meant to. 

Wonwoo considers how well he really knows you now, if it’s less than before, if your favourite colour is still the same as it was when you were children together. There are some questions you don’t think to ask your best friend of twenty years, because it’s expected you’ll already know. Unfortunately, Wonwoo knows nothing of the things inside your head, and someday you’ll find out. Tomorrow he’s going to ask what your favourite colour is, and hopefully that someday won’t be anytime soon. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Wonwoo surprises you when he picks up the phone on a Friday evening. 

“Oh– hello. I was preparing to leave you a message. Aren’t you playing WoW?”

“Runescape,” he says. “Just getting snacks. What’s up?”

“Mum called, said I’ve got a letter there about our class reunion next month, the eighteenth.”

“Ah yeah, Jihoon mentioned that it was coming up.”

“You wanna go? I could rent a car.”

“Oh so you’re volunteering me as the driver?” You can hear Wonwoo’s smile through the phone. “When are you planning on getting your licence?”

You pout, even though he can’t see you. “Come onnn, won’t it be fun? I promise I’ll be good company.”

Wonwoo laughs. “How good?”

“I’ll bring the snacks.”

“Uh huh–”

“And I’ll burn three new CDs.”

“Four.”

“And I’ll burn four new CDs.”

“Okay, getting closer.”

“And, uh– honestly that's all I had.” You wrack your brain and come up with nothing of substance. “I’ll uh– I’ll hype you up in front of that girl you had a crush on. Whatsername? The cheerleader. God, it’s on the tip of my tongue–”

“Who are you talking about?”

“The girl– that girl you liked once. The one with the hair–”

“I genuinely have no idea who you mean.” He does sound confused, actually. 

“Damn,” you say. “That’s all my bargaining chips.”

“Damn,” he echoes, with a click of his tongue. “Guess you’ll have to take me to dinner if you can’t remember who my mystery girl is.”

“So you’ll drive us?”

“Rent the car.”

“Thanks dear, you’re a real friend,” you sing-song. “Love you, see y–”

“Wait,” he says. “Wanna come over and play Mario Kart?

“Right now?”

“Yeah, you can stay the weekend. If you want.”

There was a phrase Wonwoo’s dad always used to use for the pair of you. Birds of a feather flock together. You’re flocking so often you hardly have to think about it. Just comes naturally. Nothing else is going on, and a weekend playing games and eating out of Wonwoo’s fridge instead of your own is a decent offering. Maybe he’ll have rented that film he talked about last week. The Descent? You’ll tolerate it, if he’ll squeeze your hand through the awful parts. 

“Sure, okay. I’ll pack a bag.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

March 2006

The last weeks of winter feel too long, but today there is a breath of warmth in the air and it feels good good good. March is always the best time of year for dreaming, you think. Feels especially good when you’re watching 28 Days Later, and Wonwoo holds your hand through the whole thing. It’s not even as scary as the others he’s had you sit through, but holding his hand feels nice. Every Tuesday since Little Women has ended in his bed. Feels like old times, without any of the touching and all of the one sided angst. 

When it’s your turn, Wonwoo groans at the sight of the Sense and Sensibility box, but it’s gently done.

“You cannot complain when we’ve been watching horror every week lately,” you admonish, pointing at him with one of your fries. He bites at it and you throw the remaining half at his face. “You know I hate them.” 

Wonwoo grins. “You should complain more, then.”

You hum your agreement. “Well it’s because I’m so selfless that I don’t, you see.”

“Sure, sure,” Wonwoo laughs. His laugh is so lovely. “That’s why you’re taking up my entire bed every Tuesday night.” 

You scoff. “I sleep very mindfully, actually. I even curl into a little ball so your giraffe legs have enough space.” 

“Is that so?” Wonwoo tugs at the material of your (his) pyjama bottoms. “Then explain why I’ve woken up with your legs draped over me every time?”

You blink. Can feel the heat on your ears. Thank God it’s dark. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realise.”

A pause. 

“I don’t mind,” he says. Quiet. Suddenly too serious. You can’t look at him. “You’ve always slept like that.” 

“Movie’s starting,” you say. And that’s that. 

Later, Wonwoo squeezes in beside you in his tiny bathroom to brush his teeth. He bumps his hip into your side, smiles at you in the mirror, and it feels so horribly domestic you might actually throw up. It doesn’t make sense what you’re doing. 

When you finish brushing your teeth you look down the hallway to the sofa, think briefly about taking it, but Wonwoo steps out behind you, tugs on your sleeve and asks if you’re coming to bed. There’s toothpaste on the corner of his lip. This time four years ago you would’ve wiped it away. Now you just tap at the corner of your own, say got something there and let Wonwoo sort himself out. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It’s a rare Tuesday that Hansol is home. He takes Wonwoo’s usual spot next to you, showing you pictures of some guy on his laptop while Wonwoo is fetching drinks and snacks from the kitchen, and when he comes back in the room he blinks, surprised that he’s been relegated to the armchair. He leans over the arm of the sofa to peer at the Myspace profile loaded on Hansol’s screen. 

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Hansol here is trying to get me a date.”

“Am not,” Hansol rebuts. “Though if I were, is he the sort of guy you’d be interested in?”

“Uh–”

Wonwoo’s sharp laugh sounds like a bark. “No, Soonyoung is not her type.”

You swat at him. “What would you know about my type? None of my exes have been remotely similar. He’s hot.”

“Sure, but he’s not for you,” Wonwoo insists. “He’s not serious about anything–”

Hansol sighs, dejected. “We’re never gonna get him laid–“

You stare at the screen. “And apparently he’s a virgin–”

“Don’t shame him,” Hansol says flatly.

“I’m not! It’s just surprising, that’s all!”

“Okay, fine, what about this guy–” He’s already closing off his profile and loading another. It’s all grunge and dark compared to the neon green garishness of the previous. He’s tall, long dark hair, painted nails. That’s all you get to see before Wonwoo is snapping the laptop closed. 

“I’m putting on the movie now, guests choice first.”

“Who pissed in your cereal?” asks Hansol.

Wonwoo doesn’t answer. Just flops into the chair opposite, jaw tight, eyes burning holes into the title screen on the TV.

Pride and Prejudice begins, and no less than five minutes in, Hansol sags against the back of the sofa. “Borrrrring. Can we watch Shrek instead?”

Wonwoo glances at you, and you shrug. Hansol takes that as a yes, and disappears off to his room to dig out the DVD from underneath the mess. 

“We can watch it another time,” Wonwoo offers. But you don’t care about that. You’re wondering if Wonwoo is keeping his secrets again. If Hansol knew much about your past, more than the hooking up, more to do with the depth of the feelings you once had for each other, would he be trying to set you up with his and Wonwoo’s friends, right in front of him?

Later, you lay in Wonwoo’s bed and ask why he isn’t dating anyone. He’s on the verge of sleep, can hear it with how low his voice is, how soft. 

“Don’t wanna,” he hums, eyes closed. “M’happy as I am.”

Ah.

“Why aren’t you?”

“Aren’t I what?”

“Dating someone.”

“Well I’ve got terribly high standards, you see.”

Wonwoo laughs, grins lazy and sweet. “Not high enough. All your partners have been awful.”

“Not all of them,” you argue.

“Name one.” His big brown eyes open just enough for him to level you with them.

You could say anything. Anything. You could say what you really mean, and it could be okay. It could not, too. 

“Remember Park Sungkyu? He was pretty great.”

Wonwoo tickles your middle, and you yelp, swatting at him and suppressing a giggle. “Boys from when we were six don’t count.”

“He gave me a crown for my birthdayyy!” you sing-song. “He called me his Princess.” Wonwoo tickles you again and you jolt.

“Okay, okay, you’re right! I have terrible taste! Now stop torturing me, you freak.”

“Whatever Her Majesty desires.” 

You kick him in the shin in exaggerated outrage but all Wonwoo does is smile wide, grossly pleased with himself. He’s beautiful like this.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It’s the weekend and you’re watching Pride and Prejudice from Wonwoo’s bed. Hansol has taken over the living room with a group of friends, and their yelling is so loud it feels like they’re right outside the door. It’s the final game for something or other, you didn’t really listen. It’s unseasonably warm, and though the window is thrust open the air hangs still and heavy in this room. You’re laid shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, sheets pushed down to your feet. Occasionally, his thigh brushes yours and it’s nice. His hand twists, palm up, and his thumb strokes your wrist. You like how it feels deliberate. 

It gets to the part where Elizabeth turns down Mr Darcy’s proposal and Wonwoo sniffs. You near snap your neck to look at him. “Are you crying?”

“No.”

“You are. Your eyes are all watery.”

He gestures at the screen. “This is fucked up. They could just talk to each other.”

You shrug, turning back to the screen. Elizabeth finishes up her speech, Mr Darcy looks at her lips, they lean in and hold back. The desperation in his voice, his breathy please, has your chest knotted tight and uncomfortable. “Without a little miscommunication there wouldn’t be any story at all,” you say. 

“Love doesn’t need to be a story,” says Wonwoo, flat. “It could just be.”

“But then we wouldn’t have films, my dearest friend. And all this yearning makes me feel alive.”

Wonwoo knocks his foot against yours, and you nudge him back. More cheers from down the hall. 

“I hate yearning. Makes me feel sick.”

You laugh then, rolling onto your side and looking over at him. Your heart is thumping so loud he can surely hear it. Don’t say it. Don’t push. “What have you ever yearned for?” 

Fuck. What a stupid thing to say.

He doesn’t look at you. Rolls his bottom lip between his teeth and clams up. “Nothing. Nevermind.” And there it is. He’ll touch on his terms and won’t give the feeling a name. He pushes up from the bed. “Want ice cream?”

“No,” you grumble, slipping down flat on the bed and stretching out your arms, eyes fluttering shut to tuck up the feeling in them. “Wanna sleep. This weather makes me tired.”

“Let's sleep then,” he says. “We can finish the rest in the morning.” He shuts off his laptop and makes to take off his t-shirt, but stops, clearly thinking better of it. 

You poke his arm. “I don’t mind if you want to sleep without it. It’s boiling.” 

“You sure?” he asks.

“Yeah. Nothing I haven’t seen before anyway.” 

His shoulders go all stiff for a second. Stupid.

“Aren’t you warm too?”

Yes. The sweat is starting to make your shirt stick to your skin. “No, I’m okay.”

Wonwoo shrugs off his clothes, tosses them to the chair (keeps his underwear on even though he usually wouldn’t, as some attempt at consideration for the blockades between you ever since– since before) and lays down. Your eyes meet in the half-dark for a moment, and there is something unwritten in his expression. The backs of your hands brush, and it’s still not the right kind of scary to make this touch okay. You can feel the warmth beaming out of him, and you almost tell him how lovely he looks with his skin all flushed and shiny like this. But then he turns his back on you, whispers goodnight, best friend to the wall, and you hold your breath for a moment, while you sink into the depths of your wanting. 

You can’t be the one to bring up the possibility of you, together, again. It’s too humiliating. You should let this go. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Thanks to traffic the drive takes longer than expected. It doesn’t matter. Despite burning six CDs, and stealing four from Hansol’s collection, Wonwoo has you play From Under the Cork Tree twice in the first half of the drive. For the first two hours you talk non-stop, the next is taken up speculating on and placing bets on the lives of the classmates you haven’t already reconnected with on Facebook. You spend the fourth half-snoozing, while Wonwoo hums along to Snow Patrol. He’s gently singing the wrong lyrics to Set Fire to the Third Bar, when Jihoon calls your mobile. 

“Hi Jihoon,” you murmur, and then holding up the phone to Wonwoo’s ear– “Say hi.”

“Hi Jihoon,” says Wonwoo obediently. “We’re still two hours away– shitty traffic.” 

You take the phone back, and say, “Are we meeting you there tonight or do you guys wanna come pregame with us and Wonwoo’s parents?”

Jihoon laughs. “How much pregaming are we talking?”

“I need at least two drinks before I set foot in the same room as Choi Hwangyu.”

“Haven’t you let that whole mortal enemies thing go yet?”

“Never,” you assert, crossing your heart. Wonwoo laughs. “It’s a mutual hatred that will last for all eternity.”

“You know– ‘all eternity’ is a redundant phr–”

“Oh my Godddd.”

You settle on the plan for the evening quickly. You and Wonwoo will have dinner with his parents, change into something that smells less like rental car and chilli Doritos, and Jihoon and Iseul will meet you at the pub before heading to the venue near your old school. 

You flip the phone to end the call, and Wonwoo reaches over to squeeze your knee. 

“You gonna be okay? Seeing him?”

It started off as just a bunch of guys being dickheads, nothing too worthy of note. Hwangyu took it further. Snapping your bra strap in the middle of class, spilling drinks over your shirt in front of the entire lunch hall, spreading baseless rumours about boys you’d supposedly hooked up with. Once he started telling people you blew him in the chemistry lab during lunch break, Wonwoo and Jihoon stopped taking notice of your asking them to not intervene and “had words” after school. Wonwoo didn’t walk you home that day– had his friend from the year below, Mingyu, walk you instead. Jihoon told you not to ask so you never did, but just like that Hwangyu stopped giving you grief. Even back then you hated the fact that it took other guys to get him to leave you alone. Patriarchy rules even at the turn of the twenty-first century. How gross.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I looked him up a few days ago. Guess what?”

“He’s divorced?”

“Divorced thrice.”

Wonwoo laughs. “We’re twenty-six, how does someone find the time to get married to and divorced from three different people?”

“We could’ve been married already had we not spent eight years fucking around at university.” You’re laughing until you notice Wonwoo’s eyebrows pinch in the middle, a weird lopsided smile on his face, and you realise what you just said. You cough. “Not we. You know what I mean. My question was more how did he find three separate people who want to fuck him?”

“Urgh, I’d rather not have that visual, thanks.”

Snow Patrol wraps up, and you dig out the CD case from under your feet. “Okay, what next? Arctic Monkeys or My Chemical Romance?”

“Can we have Fall Out Boy again?”

“Oh my G–”

“I really liked that fifth one.” 

You fiddle taking Snow Patrol out the player and popping Fall Out Boy back in, trying not to scratch their bottoms. 

“Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner? Yeah, it’s my second favourite.”

“What’s your first?” asks Wonwoo.

“XO, the last one.” You tip your head back against the headrest, close your eyes, listen to Wonwoo sing, and wonder if it’s him or the music that makes your heart beat faster. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It’s fun, really. Catching up with all these people you haven’t seen in eight years, and Jihoon and Iseul, who you last saw seven months ago, and Wonwoo, who you see all the time. After your first rounds, the four of you huddle at the table on the furthest edge of the room, Iseul tells you about how her job is having her relocate to your city, and could you show her around (you will—of course you will. The idea of your old friend being there in your home makes you giddy, and Wonwoo laughs when you clap your hands in excitement.), Jihoon tells you all about his latest projects, and you and Wonwoo catch them both up on your studies. Eventually the group breaks off, Wonwoo to the bathroom, Jihoon to the bar, and Iseul spots another friend across the room, and darts off with a promise to be right back. 

You take the moment of quiet to check your texts. Mingyu and Seokmin have heard you’re in town, they want to hang out tomorrow. Your mother wants to know if you’re staying the night with her or your father (neither, you’re staying with Wonwoo’s parents, who were far more glad to see you than your own parents would be), and Wonwoo, who has messaged from the bathroom.

Wonwoo: You’re taking me for dinner after this btw.

You: Wash your hands before texting me, you pig!

There’s a clearing of a throat behind you, and you turn, half expecting Wonwoo there saying something smart in reply, but it’s not. 

“Oh. Hello.”

Your voice is anything but friendly. It seems Hwangyu still has the same unwarranted self-assuredness that pissed you off back then, because once addressed, he settles himself into the chair just vacated by Iseul and leans into your space.

You lean back. “Can I help you?”

“Did you come with Jihoon?’

You blink stupidly. He must not recognise you.

“No.”

He smirks, lazy, out the side of his mouth. 

“Good,” he says, slow. “Can’t stand that guy.” Your eyebrows raise in surprise. “You’ve grown into your looks, haven’t you? Nice dress.”

There goes that hopeful theory of him not recognising you, but what in the God awful fuck is happening? Is he trying to pick you up? No apology, not even a pleasantry to speak of, just headfirst into some backhanded compliment and a sleazy smile. These men should only exist as fictional villains, not out in the real world. 

You’re trying to gather your words. The planned retorts in your head don’t work in a situation where this is the angle he’s taking. Shit. 

“I looked you up,” he says, not looking at you. Eyes darting, nervous almost, across the room. You spot his usual friend group, they’re all looking over like hyenas. “A few weeks ago.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Wanted to see if you were single. I always liked you, you know.”

The sound of your laugh takes you by surprise. Comes out more like a bark. “You had a funny way of showing it.”

He doesn’t have the good grace to look contrite. Instead he drums his chewed up fingers on his knee, and says, “Got your attention, though.”

There is stale air around him, hair already peppered at the sides. He looks older than his years, and affected. The hate isn’t eternal, because you just feel something like pity for him. Not so much that you’d forgive the way he treated you, but enough to let it go. Enough to be able to sit here and think that at least you remained kind, and three separate women divorced him before he got within touching distance of thirty. What a sad little life.

“Are you still Jeon Wonwoo’s girl?”

You roll your eyes. About to say no, the truth, because not wanting him has absolutely nothing to do with Wonwoo, and he should know that– but a hand on your shoulder stills you. “Yeah, she is,” says Jihoon, from behind you. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah. I am,” you echo, because you’re not going to let Hwangyu call your friend a liar. 

Much too slowly, Hwangyu makes his exit. Exchanges stiff pleasantries with Jihoon, and tries with Iseul who doesn’t return them (she’s a wonderful friend), and slips away to his old friends across the hall. You watch– they clap him on the shoulder, jeer at him, make faces like a twelve year old would. Some friends.

Jihoon and Iseul sit back down in their respective seats. Exchange a look, and you heave a frustrated sigh, just before Wonwoo returns from the bathroom. His eyes flick between you, catching the smell of the tension, and sinks slowly into his seat next to yours.

“What did I miss?”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Mingyu and Seokmin are playing pool, badly. You can hear their yelling from all the way over here. Someone has started playing Boyz II Men on the jukebox. Jihoon is drunk, sings along to the words. His voice has always been pretty. Iseul joins in, and hers is less so, but it’s so fun to watch them together. 

‘I know the colour of love

And it lives inside of you

I know the colour of truth

It's in the image of you’

They’re another set of friends who could have been, but didn’t. It’s a shame they could never figure it out. You and Wonwoo clink your bottles together, take a sip, and Wonwoo lets you lean against him. His arm rests on the bench behind your back, his hand on your shoulder. He’s a little drunk, as are you, and it’s nice to be home and in all your old haunts.

You rest the back of your head in the crook of his neck, and ask him what he thinks the colour of love is. 

Wonwoo hums in thought, runs his thumb along the length of your shoulder blade. “I don’t know, I’ll need to think about it. What do you think it is?”

“It’s pink.”

“Why?”

Blush pink, soft, and subtle, and sweet. The colour of his cheeks when he’s shy. The colour of the soft sweater he wore one time, while you were walking along the river and he was happy and goofy and lovely, swinging your clasped hands high in the sky. The colour of the flowers he buys for your birthday, the same kind (your favourite) every year without fail. His corsage on prom night. The fuzzy feeling you get in your stomach when he laughs is pink. Painted clouds at sunset, lovehearts, strawberries, the Milky Way, cherry blossoms. Pink is the colour of hopeless romantics, and the colour of the Wonwoo shaped hole in your heart. 

He taps you, gentle. “Get distracted?” he asks. You nod. “Drunk?” 

“Getting there.”

“Why pink?”

It’s too much to say. “Valentines Day. Duh.”

Britney Spears comes on the jukebox. Iseul squeals loud and drags you up to dance. Wonwoo watches you, his smile beaming, and you can hardly look at him. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Later, when Wonwoo lays in bed (the air mattress on the floor of his childhood bedroom), he’s still mulling over your question. Your arm is hanging over the edge of his old bed, fingers close enough to touch. He doesn’t. You’d fallen fast asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. 

Wonwoo thinks about when you were children. Digging in the grass, plucking leaves from trees (Biggest one wins! Wins what? I dunno, a promise?), the first shoots of the tulips you and he planted in your grandfather's garden. He’s had so many shared firsts with you. There was no obligation, no forced time spent, just two kids who chose the comfort of one another over everyone else. It’s really something that you’ve still stuck like glue, all these years, as you’ve grown and reincarnated into several different people. Every time, you’ve chosen each other, even when it didn’t work. 

The colour of love is green. It’s in all those moments he felt most free. Like anything could happen. Like everything is fresh and new and an adventure to be had. It’s in the wig you wore for Halloween one year, and you made him laugh so hard he cried. It’s in the way you ground him when his heart is racing, when you drag him outside to stand in the park, make him kick off his shoes and socks and stand on the grass to feel the earth beneath his body. He always feels silly until it works. It’s in the bauble you painted for his parents when you were eight, tucked away for safekeeping in the attic, brought out every December to hang on the tree. It’s the colour of the blanket his mother knitted you years ago, that you still keep, spread out on top of your bed. His colour is in the dress you wore the very first time, and in another one, more sensible and grown, that you wore last night. His colour is all his moments with you. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

April 2006

“If I have to move to Busan you’ll come visit me, right?”

You purse your lips and hum loud for dramatic effect. Wonwoo throws a cushion at your face, and you laugh, swatting at him and missing by a mile. 

You’re laying down with your bare feet in his lap, while Wonwoo balances his laptop precariously on the arm of the sofa to check on his applications. The news trickles slowly, only a few people have heard back, so far. You’re almost done with your program, and Wonwoo is just about to start. People have called him a late bloomer before, but he just takes a little while to come around. Needs it to be a sure thing before he gets his head out of the sand. He’s starting to realise that in the grand scheme of things, it hardly matters. 

“Say yes.”

“I’ll have to get my drivers licence,” you say, thinking possibilities out loud. “But sure, I’ll get the train in the meantime.”

You push up and lean over him to peer at his screen, place your hand on his bicep for balance. Wonwoo tries not to think too much about it.

“Where else did you apply?” you ask, scanning the page.

Wonwoo lists off. “SNU, KNUH, PNU–” 

“Cambridge?” Your voice is small, and he hates it. “I didn’t know you still wanted to go.”

Wonwoo shrugs. He does. Cambridge had been a fantasy for a while, all his adult life and then some, and the research fellow for the Keros Project couldn’t be a better opportunity. Six months in Greece, five in England. But also he doesn’t. Both because you’re his constant, and this is new ground. What if he leaves? Even if it’s just Busan– if he leaves this city, would you still be birds?

He won’t get in.

“I won’t get in.”

“But you applied?”

“Professor Lee insisted,” Wonwoo laughs, embarrassed and already sick of hearing himself talk about it. “He said he’d kill me if I didn’t try. Seriously though, they only take a few applicants. It’s not going to be me. It’ll be Busan for me, most likely.”

You’re quiet for a moment, hand still on him like you’ve forgotten all about it. 

“Cambridge would be stupid if they didn’t take you,” you say, smiling tiny and false. “Not sure how often I could visit though.”

Wonwoo’s skin feels all hot. Would crawl out of it, if he could. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Hansol’s friend, Minghao (the one from Myspace) is in the arts. It suits him. He talks at length about his various projects– painting, interpretive dance, a four man performance he’s directed that will soon be playing at some hole in the wall venue (that he asks if you’d like to see. You would.) and it’s nice to be around someone that shows their interest in you so clearly. He asks about your studies and seems genuinely interested when you talk about the impact candlelight vigils have on policy making. How the government consistently underestimates its people. It’s a rare occurrence that a date takes interest in your work. Wonwoo talks with you about it all the time, of co– but that’s not– he’s not– 

It’s just different when it’s a date. 

He’s perfectly polite. Buys your coffee and holds the door. Walks on the road side of the footpath, even. Minghao would be easy for you to like. He’s funny, and thoughtful, and takes notice. He’s bold. He’s a welcome distraction. 

But Wonwoo is still there. 

He’s pressed into every crevice of your mind. He’s your past and present and only God knows if he’s in your future. Later, you call, but of course you get the answerphone– he did say yesterday that he’d be in the library all weekend. 

“Hey, Wonwoo, it’s me. Listen– will you come over when you hear this? Doesn’t matter what time. Use your key. Okay. Okay. Bye.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It’s late when Wonwoo lets himself in. Heard your message just after two and walked straight out the door, rode his bike all the way here. 

The apartment looks like it always does. He’s hardly spent much time here in recent years, save for the occasional lingering in the living room before heading out somewhere neutral. Doesn’t feel right being in your space anymore, not after how it all ended last time, with water brash in his mouth. He still thinks about that. It’s why movie night is only ever at his place. So when you called and asked him to be here, to use his key, he knew something was awry. 

Seoyoung, your new-ish roommate, is in the living room, sitting on the ledge and blowing smoke out the window. She moved in about four months ago and you’ve quickly become good friends. She looks up at Wonwoo and waves, mouths she’s asleep and Wonwoo acknowledges with whispered “ah– thanks.”

Wonwoo knocks on your half open door, but you don’t stir, in too deep a sleep. You don’t notice the door clunk closed louder than Wonwoo intends. The mattress dips under his weight and still you don’t move. It’s only when he squeezes your hand that you blink the sleep from your eyes, puffy cheeks and always lovely. You stretch out like a cat, willing the fatigue away with a sigh that turns to a yawn, and Wonwoo feels immense guilt for having kept you waiting. More still for waking you up, but you wouldn’t have asked him to come if you didn’t want to talk right away. 

You pat the space next to you in silent invitation and Wonwoo hesitates. 

“I’m in my outdoor clothes.” 

“One of your t-shirts is in the bottom drawer,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes and pushing yourself up to rest your back against the headboard. 

Wonwoo changes in the bathroom. Washes his face and thinks about the last time he used your sink. The feelings haven’t changed, just bottled. Matured. He has a similar unease in every fibre of his body. Feels like static energy on his fingertips and he needs to rub it away. 

The silence stretches when he sinks down into the empty space of the bed. You draw patterns onto the sheets with a fingertip and stare down at the dimples you make. He wants to still your hand, to turn it over in his and ask why you called him over. Doesn’t, because you’re working up to it, can tell you’ve got tightness in your chest just by the sound of your breathing. You lean into him, sagging against his side and head tipped to rest on his shoulder. He has to stop himself pressing his lips to your crown. 

“I’m sorry I kept this,” you murmur, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. “Wear it to sleep, sometimes.”

He remembers it wasn’t in the bag of things you’d handed him, a couple of weeks after he left you that message on your answerphone. He figured it’d just been mislaid, didn’t occur to him that you’d tucked it away for yourself.  

“I don’t mind.” Always looked better on you anyway. 

You loop your arm around his. 

“I went on a date today.”

Oh.

“Minghao?”

“Yeah.”

Wonwoo nods. He could see that working. You’ve always wanted something romantic. Someone who could have nineteenth century novels written about them. Minghao seems like that type.

“He’s asked me out again.”

“Okay.”

Wonwoo doesn’t know what to say, feels like he knows where this is headed because you’ve both dated people since last time. It’s never had to be a conversation though. Movie nights become strictly group activities, any day of the week is fine. It’s okay. It’s out of respect, or whatever. 

“Should I go?”

“It’s your room,” Wonwoo deadpans.

“On the date, idiot.”

He swallows. “I don’t know. Do you like him?”

You shrug. “I could.”

“Then why are you asking me?”

“Wonwoo–” 

“We don’t talk about stuff like this.”

“We need to,” you insist. “What are we doing?”

There it is. The question he’s been dreading. The question he hoped you wouldn’t ask because he doesn’t know how to explain it. Doesn’t know how to take the feelings in his chest and wrap them neatly into words. All he wanted to do was just let it happen, if it were to happen at all, on your terms. Except now you’re asking him to give it a name, and his throat goes dry. He’s doing it again. Despite how he’s tried letting you go, despite keeping a respectable distance, he’s still managing to slip his way back in like this. Lately, Wonwoo has been wondering if he’s a narcissist, since he doesn’t even realise he’s manipulating the situation until it’s too late, and you’re saying what he can’t. You’re so much braver than he is. It wasn’t until week five (six?) of holding your hand that he realised he was choosing horror movies deliberately so he’d have a reason to touch you. It got to the point when the background music would feature its first minor key of many, and your palm would turn outwards, just waiting for him to clasp it in his and hold you through the scene. He’s given you a Pavlovian response. Isn’t that completely fucked?

“Wonwoo,” you plead. His heart jolts. “I won’t wait for you forever.”

He tips his head back against the headboard, eyes closed because he can’t bear to look at you while he admits it.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asks. “What I’ve been doing?”

“Nothing you do makes sense to me.”

The silence feels all thick and pliable.

Quietly, he confesses. “I don’t want you to date him. Anyone, really.”

Feels as though he’s sinking into syrup. Hard to move, hard to breathe. Hears your jagged inhale and steels himself for the ripping of the plaster. 

“What do you want, Wonwoo?” 

Wonwoo is a poorly knitted scarf. All slipped stitches and fast forming holes. One tug on a loose thread and he comes apart. 

“I want to be yours.”

He doesn’t expect your touch, let alone your kiss, gentle and loving on his shoulder. When he looks at you, your eyes are big and sad. 

“I don’t want to be your secret,” you whisper, in a tiny voice, against his t-shirt. 

This is his undoing. Wraps his fingers around your wrist and insists you’re not. You’ve never been that. It’s just– he wants to keep this private, not that he loves you, but how he shows it. Feels like it should be something sacred. You blink, startled, completely taken aback.

“You love me?”

“God. Yes,” he breathes. “Didn’t you know?”

“I thought you might– I didn’t know.” You’re crying. Silent tears spilling over, fingers plucking at a hangnail on your thumb and this is the worst. His heart aches. “You’re so quiet, how could I know anything for sure? How long?” 

“I–” He fucked up. Oh, he fucked up so badly. He rags his hands over his face, pushes his hair back while he searches for the right way to say it. “Too long.”

“After Siyeon?”

Wonwoo sighs. His thing with Siyeon wasn’t anything real. It started as a one time thing that stretched into semi-regular hook ups. She was in love with someone else, and he was pretending he wasn’t. The whole getting over someone by getting under someone else thing doesn’t work on a heartache as sour as his, and fuck anyone who said it would, actually. 

“Before?” 

“Before.”

You suck in a breath. “Oh.”

“Since we were kids, really,” he says. “Since before we ever–”

“Oh. That’s surprising.”

Wonwoo laughs ruefully. “Is it? I feel like I was plain as day. The guys at school used to tease me for it.”

“I hate this,” you say after a moment, voice thick and sad. You rub at your face. Push away the still falling tears. “It should feel nice, shouldn’t it? You saying you love me and I just feel sad about all the wasted years. And now it feels like I forced it out of you, before you were ready. I love you too, you know. Have all this time.”

Wonwoo feels too big for his body. Like he’s full of hot air and could float right out of the window high high higher until he burns up in the atmosphere. Even still, there is that small voice in the back of Wonwoo’s mind, telling him he’s self-centered for getting what he needs, that he’s cruel for making you feel like this, selfish for wanting you just for himself. Stupid, for having wasted time. The alarm goes off– he doesn’t deserve it, your kindness, your patience, your love. When it comes to you he is, and always has been, a coward. But you’re still here grounding him, head resting against him, arms still linked, and you’re making no moves to push him out the door. 

“How can I make it better?”

You sniff. “You can tell me again when I’ve stopped crying. You can stay.” 

“Can I hold you?” Like you’re his, he doesn’t say.

You chew on your bottom lip. “Yeah. Yes. I’d like that a lot.”

Wonwoo shifts down, turns on his side and lifts the duvet for you to move into the space in front of him. You take his glasses, fold them carefully and place them on your nightstand. You slot in next to him, back to his front, his body curls around yours and you press into him. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and he starts to let himself hope it could be okay. 

“Have you stopped crying yet,” he asks softly, after a while. His hand is splayed across your cotton clad stomach, one finger toying with the hem. Yours is tracing figures of eight on his forearm. 

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

For a long time, you’ve imagined it would feel like fanfare. A marching band size confession if there were to ever be one. But that’s not who he is, and it’s not what you really want. It’s better like this. Whispered sweet things. His breath warming your skin. His fingers on the soft skin of your stomach, lips on your neck. 

It feels honest. 

It feels real. 

Wonwoo turns you on your back, leans over to kiss the skin beneath your eyes. One– two– Wonwoo has always had so much love in him. It’s just quiet. You place your palm over his cheek and he leans into it. Turns to press a kiss to the centre, to your fingertips, one by one. Everything feels soft and pink and fragile. 

“Wonwoo?”

He makes a soft, curious noise. Lips still pressed to the tip of your ring finger.

“Kiss me?”

Every time holds meaning, but now it’s morphed, reincarnated into something new. Wonwoo loves you properly, and this time he’s said it out loud. The way he kisses makes everything go hazy and light and it feels like sunset. Slow and deliberate and feathered across your skin. You thread your fingers into his hair, pulling him deeper, kissing him open mouthed, and his body goes molten against you. The weight of him is exquisite. 

Wonwoo loves like moonlight. Comes in cycles, and yes, this time it’s clearer than others, but it turns out he’s always just there even when he’s not, even when it goes dark and things turn ugly, he’s still there holding your hand. There is moonlight in his eyes, now, shining and shimmering. With tenderness, Wonwoo runs his thumb over the apple of your cheek, your bottom lip, the pulse point on your neck. You slip a hand beneath his t-shirt, touch the skin there and sigh over the way he presses against you. Your hand moves down and he stills you. 

“This is embarrassing,” he murmurs. “I didn’t bring any–”

“I don’t need one if you don’t,” you whisper. “I’m on the pill now.”

“Okay,” he says, more to himself than to you. “Okay.”

“Don’t you want to?”

Wonwoo buries his face in your neck, you can feel his eyelashes tickling your skin. “I always want to.”

“Then touch me.” 

He does. Works deft fingers over your middle, watches the way the goosebumps raise as he takes your warm body from your clothes. Soothes his big hands over your skin to warm you. You don’t tell him you’re already burning. He mouths over the swell of your breast, pebbles the nipple between his fingers, asks if it’s okay, like this. It’s okay. Anything he wants is okay. You tell him that– that he can do anything he wants to you, that you’re his to do as he pleases with, and he groans, a small disbelieving sound. 

“Don’t say things like that.” 

You don’t ask why. Wonwoo has always been possessive, but it’s not something he likes about himself. Hates to share but doesn’t like to take either, feels some kind of shame about it. Wears the word selfish like a chain around his neck. And so he doesn’t take at all, tries to stay content with nothing. You tried to tell him once, it’s not selfish to want things. It’s not self-centred to have your needs met. You deserve good things, too, Wonwoo. And he looked at you, both forlorn and skeptical, said something about how caged birds can forget how to fly. He never seemed to get that he’d only ever imprisoned himself. Tonight you’ll give him your body, push his shame away with your hands and your mouth, and let him have this. 

You fist your hands in his hair, drag him up by it just to crush your lips against his to kiss him messy. He groans again, a little louder, and it’s this you’ve missed the most. The way he forgets himself when he’s touching you. The way he lets go. You wiggle underneath him, let his body shift so he’s caught between your legs and you can feel how he presses against your core. You nip at his lip, toy with the waistband of his underwear. “Off,” you say, and Wonwoo complies. The t-shirt follows straight after, and his body is back on you, looking at you like you hung the moon. 

He brings a hand between your bodies, taps you almost where you want him, asks if he can touch you. Please. A finger dips inside, an open mouthed kiss, his length, hard, pressed into your thigh. Wonwoo likes things wet, and sloppy. You like whatever he likes. He gathers up the wetness inside you, smears it over your clit, brings his fingers to his mouth, closes his eyes as he tastes you on his tongue. God, what the fuck. 

“Missed you,” you say, and he kisses you deep. Licks into your mouth, pushes two long fingers back inside your slick heat, and curls them over the sweetest spot. You pull off his lips to gasp. 

“Can we keep doing this?” Wonwoo whispers against the corner of your mouth. “Will you kiss me anytime you want? Baby, say yes.”

You nod, head hazy, swimming in the moment. Baby. The ache in your chest, once dulled but never gone, is pounding. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Wonwoo holds you like you’re about to disappear, grips your waist tight with his free hand, fucks into you slow and messy with the other. You whimper as he plays with your clit, spread your legs wider so he can see, if he wants, but he’s watching your face, watching your mouth form a silent o. You’re so pretty, he tells you. So pretty always but prettiest like this, when it’s just the two of you. Watches your eyes go glassy, watches you come apart for him, feels your pussy clench around his fingers and commits the way your body shudders to memory. He doesn’t wait for it to pass before he kisses you again, takes your whines in his mouth and eats them. They taste saccharine sweet. 

He slots between your legs, rests his cock against your core, pressing languid kisses to anywhere he can reach without moving from this spot. Nips at your collarbone, laves his tongue over the sensitive spot on your neck. Will leave a mark there, one day, when you’re his. A small part of him says that you’re his now, always have been, but it’s not really true, is it? Wonwoo needs the conversation, needs the lines drawn and the expectations laid out. Needs you to be sure that it’s him you want. Needs to know he’ll be able to give you what you need. He hasn’t, always, and that was part of the trouble. Wants it to be different, this time, because being with you is one of the few things that makes him feel whole in his own skin. 

Right now he wants to feel you like this, chasing friction and needing more. He’ll give it to you, would give you anything in this moment, just wants you needy first. It starts with you wrapping your arms around his back, running your fingertips down his spine, lighting little fires in their wake. You press a gentle kiss to his forehead, the tip of his nose, his jaw, and tell him you need him inside. That you want him to fill you up. Fuck, if he could do this forever–

He wraps long fingers around your ankle, bends your knee to press your thigh to your chest, gives him better access like this, and it’s then he rolls against you, his cock dragging along your clit. He’s always loved the way you sound. Loves the way you get wet for him. Wonwoo loves you. So much. 

“Love you, too, Wonwoo.”

He groans as he slots a hand between your bodies, fists his cock and slides into your slick, tight heat. It’s agonising, he thinks, the way you tighten around him. Wants to go to sleep this way, wrapped up in each other like this. He knows if he asks you’ll let him, but he wants you to want it too. Maybe another time. This time there’s going to be more. He knows it.

“Need you to move,” you sigh. “Move for me.”

He does. Fucks into you slow, shit, baby, you feel so good. He gets in deep, feels the tension burning in his guts, gasps into your kiss when your cunt goes impossibly tight and wet around his cock, loves when your nails dig into his skin, when your moan comes out muffled and broken. 

He pulls out to look down at his cock slipping inside you, pushes in as deep as he can again and you arch your hips to meet him. He rolls the pad of his thumb over your clit. His body is alight, the perfect amount of heat and pressure and you.

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” His voice rasps. Your lips are pink and swollen. He wants them back on him. “So wet for me.” 

The pressure of his hands on you– it wavers. Digs in hard in one moment and become the ghost of a touch the next. It’s like he loses himself and then remembers that you’re a flower, soft, and delicate. You won't break, because you’ve never been the least bit fragile, but that doesn’t mean he’s allowed to hurt. More so he doesn’t want to let himself claim you. Can’t let anyone know he knows you like he does. 

“Leave marks on me, Wonwoo,” you say, reading his mind. You run your fingers over the top of his, where they rest upon your middle. “I like it.”

He did once, at the end of the first time. Sucked a deep, purple bruise beneath your neck for everyone to see. And he loved it, loved knowing he put it there in the dark, and loved how it deepened into your skin a day later, knowing that every time you looked in the mirror you’d be reminded. Loved it– until the brakes were slammed on, and he had to watch it deepen still. Watched your friends tease, asking ‘who’s loverboy?’ just for you to say oh my god, no one, shut up. The next day you’d covered your mottled skin with make-up, so like you he pretended nothing happened. And all too soon it faded, much faster than all the rest of it. He wouldn’t have done it at all, had he known he was no one. 

But now you’re telling him to. Wanting clouds his judgement. It’s a dream, maybe, but dreams have never felt like this, you were always just out of reach. He’s all shallow thrusts and quickened breaths, and you take his hands to show him where you want his mouth. 

“Here,” you say, pressing his palm over your breast. Here is good, he thinks, as he mottles the flesh with his lips. Private, just something for the two of you. He’ll ask for a picture in a few days, jerk himself off over it, probably. You thread a hand through his hair, pull on it (his cock twitches inside you, embarrassing) to angle his head up your body. You look so happy, smiling soft, and watching him through your eyelashes. God, why didn’t he get his shit together before? 

“Here, too” you say, directing him to your collarbone. Wastes no time leaving a small mark. He likes it, looks a little like a love heart. There’s still a chill in the air this April, you could easily cover it if you need to, he wouldn’t mind this time. But then you say here, and this time you’re tipping up your jaw to give him access, pressing his fingers to the column of your lovely neck. He stills inside you, and you make a small noise of discontent, and angle your hips to draw him in deeper. 

“Please, Wonwoo,” you beg, eyes big and shining. You touch his bottom lip, wet with spit. “Need it on me. Wanna be yours too.” 

He uses teeth, this time. Sinks into your body and groans against your neck, you press kisses into his hair as he fucks you. Hard breaths, sloppy thrusts, the sound of wet skin and your broken noises. Wonwoo whimpers into your neck as you pulse around him, sucking the deepest bruise, fuck fuck fuck. “Gonna come,” you breathe. “Are you close?” He nods, laves a soothing tongue over the ache, makes it shine. 

“Harder,” you plead, pulling at his hips to drag him against you. “Make me sore.” And it’s fucked up that he wants to. Has this morbid, fascinating thought of you feeling him for days afterward as you go about your life, a heavy, aching reminder that he did this to your body– but maybe it’s okay, if you want it too? He feels the pressure on his skin, in his bones, of your need for him. He thrusts deep and fast without warning, even the breath he takes is sharp, and the noise– fuck, the noise is obscene. You come with a gasp, eyes fluttering like you want to keep them open but can’t, too lost in the feeling. He whispers sweet praise in your ear as he comes too, and you kiss, lazy and open mouthed, at his cheek. His sticky release seeps out of you around his cock, and he fucks it back in, head clouding and body taught with overstimulation.

After a moment, when he’s caught his breath and your body goes molten, he shifts his weight and starts to pull out, but you drag your listless limbs over him to hold him there. “Stay,” you ask quietly, all gentle and loving and shy. “Just for a little while.” 

Words are inefficient, here. Can’t tell you all the ways in which he loves you. Just places those feelings on his lips and presses them to your temple. Hopes you know what you mean to him and hopes he means the same to you. Wonwoo welcomes this arrow through his heart. 

When it’s quiet, and the air in the room is all still and heavy, you murmur against his sweat-sheened skin, “It’s never like this with anyone else.”

No. Nothing could ever be like this.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

May 2006

You’re home for the weekend, and today you're taking a day trip to Dadaepo beach, the south side of Busan. Wonwoo is driving and the windows are down and you’re listening to music and you’re in love. For real, this time. No second guessing, no wondering if he loves you back, because it’s out in the open and it’s tangible. He holds your hand all the time, and it’s so nice not to have adrenaline coursing through your veins before he knots his fingers with yours. He’s driving like this, hands clasped together in your lap. 

Iseul and Seoyoung got close so fast, and they’re singing old songs together in the backseat. Mingyu’s too long body is squished between them, looking utterly perplexed at how he ended up in this car with these strange, loud women. 

Later, you lay out the picnic you’d packed. The others are in the water, in the distance you can almost hear Iseul and Seoyoung shouting happily at Mingyu, and him yelling back. Wonwoo lays stretched out on the blanket like a cat, half dozing in the sun, face covered by the book he was reading earlier. He’s stroking your knee absentmindedly. 

“Talked to my dad earlier– he asked after your applications,” you say.

“Should find out the rest soon,” he replies. He’s already been accepted at KNUH, but that’s his back up. 

A couple of seabirds soar high overhead, can hear them calling to each other, flying so close their wings almost touch. They go like that together, far out above the ocean, and you watch them go until they’re just specks in the hazy blue.

“It’d be nice to live here,” you muse, looking at the way the sunlight dances on the water. “Wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Wonwoo smiles soft, half-hidden under the book. “Yeah it would.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Happy birthday,” Wonwoo whispers into your skin. He’s half-asleep still. Breath warming your neck and fingers slotted into the waistband of your pyjamas. Not to go further, just to touch. 

You press a kiss to the tip of his nose, more alert, having been awake a little longer and waiting for him to stir. “Thank you,” you whisper back, smiling wide. “When do I get my flowers?”

“Patience is a virtue,” he mumbles. 

“One I don’t have,” you say into his cheek. 

“Liar.”

“Did you hide them in the bathroom?” You shift, ready to go get them yourself, but Wonwoo holds you tighter, dragging you back in. 

“You’re not getting your own flowers.” Wonwoo pushes up from the bed. Hair messy and face all scrunched up. God, he’s lovely in the mornings. “Stay there.”

You suppress a giggle, touching his bare thigh just to touch. 

“I like when you’re bossy.” 

He kisses your forehead. You put his glasses on for him, wonky because he just looks so cute like that. He grumbles.

He pulls on his grey sweatpants from the night before, doesn’t bother with a shirt, to fumble his way out of his room in the barely-there morning light. He comes back in about five minutes later, singing the birthday song, voice soft and slow with sleep, tray in hands, two coffees, a bowl of fruit to share, a funfetti cupcake with one pastel green candle, blush pink tulips pretty in a vase. 

He makes you blow out the candle, sets the tray on the nightstand on your side of his bed, and flops back in beside you. He curls into your side, arm over your middle and drawing you close, eyes already shutting. You smile, touching the petals and making birthday wishes that all of this carries on, even as you get old. 

“They’re pretty, thank you, Wonwoo.”

“Pretty flowers for my pretty girl,” he says simply, like it doesn’t make your heart sing. “Your real present is later.”

“You already got me my present,” you protest.

“S’different now,” he says through a yawn. 

You grin. Things are different. There still hasn’t been a conversation, nothing defined– you should do that, soon– but it feels like you belong to each other, more so than any other time before. The two of you are swimming into open sun-dappled waters, and it feels warm.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

June 2006

Wonwoo sits on the edge of his bed, the envelope thick with papers lying forgotten on the floor. He drags his free hand over his mouth, reads the letter again in disbelief, because it can’t be real. It shouldn’t be. 

“I shouldn’t have applied.” His voice is strained. Hurts to hear. 

Of course he should have. 

“You couldn’t have known.” 

“I’m not going.” He meets your eyes, stricken, and you know he’d mean it if you even gave him an inch.

“Oh, Wonwoo,” you sigh. “You’ve got to. It was made for you.”

The letter is crumpling in Wonwoo’s fist. He’ll want to save it, probably. A memento of the start of his new chapter. He should save it. You take it from him, smooth out the creases, pull a heavy book from your shelf and press it over the paper. You won’t cry, not here in front of him, but your eyes feel too wet. He’d only feel some awful boundless guilt and it’d just make everything worse. You rub at them. 

Wonwoo moves close. Tugs at your belt loop to bring you between his legs, presses his forehead into your sternum, and you cradle his head in your arms. 

“It’s okay,” you insist, soothing a hand over his hair, reassuring yourself as well as him. “What was it your dad used to call us? Do you remember?”

He nods. You tug him by the chin to look up at you. “Tell me,” you say as you touch his neck, feel his pulse quicken, and his eyes flutter closed. 

“Birds of a feather,” he breathes.

Wonwoo pushes up your top, presses open wet kisses up your middle, bunches the material under your arms and drags the cup of your bra down rough. 

“That’s it,” you say, voice thick. “That’s it, Wonwoo. We’re birds.”

Takes your nipple in his mouth, makes it wet with his tongue, pulls off just to watch it pebble in the cold, slick with spit. 

“You need to go,” you say. Your throat is dry. Deep in your mind, the cruelest part of you, says it was purposeful, him applying for something that’ll take him away from you, right on the precipice of it all. Before lines can be drawn, while the boundaries are still blurred. He’s not like that, really. It’s just your projection, you remind yourself. Doesn’t stop it from hurting because two short months isn’t enough, but you’ll never be the one to hold him back. Not when he’s been working so hard, not when he holds himself back more than anyone. You fist your hands at the nape of his neck. “I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

He pulls at your hips, fingers digging so tight they hurt. It’s good. It’s awful. 

“I can’t do a distance like this,” you admit, carding your hands through his hair. “A year is too long. Might be more.” His clumsy, desperate hands fumble with the button of your jeans, pushing them down your legs so you can kick them off. You slide into his lap, wrap your legs around his waist. His mouth moves up your body, clawing and aching and needy, teeth nipping at your collarbone, sucking purple into your spit-sheened skin. Slips a hand between you and hums pleasantly at the wetness on your underwear. Circles his fingers over your cotton-covered clit. “How long have we got left?”

“Three weeks,” he says, between bites. His eyelashes are wet. 

You nod. Okay. “It’ll be okay. We’ve got three weeks, and then we’ll be friends again. We can do this.”

Wonwoo pulls your underwear to the side, slips a finger over your wet, wanting cunt. “Friends don’t do this,” he rasps, sinking his finger in, curling just enough to make you keen. He’s so hard, you can feel the denim-clad bulge against your body. “Friends don’t touch each other like this.”

“We can,” you sigh. “If we want.” He wrenches at your clothes and kicks them to the floor, leaves you bare and he’s still wearing too much. 

You push him back on the bed, drag his hands from your body to pin them at his sides. He looks at you, wounded and desperately turned on. You turn your back on him, spread your legs over his body to let him see you, wet and needy, pull on his belt and shove his jeans and underwear away just enough to free his hard cock. 

“You know I want more than that,” he admits, breath warm against your clit. He hisses as you take him in your mouth, whines desperately as you pull back and swipe your tongue over the head. Let the spit bubble between your lips and work it over him, because this is how he likes you, sloppy and messy and wet. He licks into you, all tongue and teeth and soft lips against your core, pressed deep, getting his face wet with you, drags your body down tight against his mouth, arms wrapped around your hips and fingers digging into your flesh. You moan, pornographic, around his cock. Wonwoo arches his hips, fucks rough into your mouth, chasing the heat. 

Wonwoo is greedy, sometimes. You love this part of him, when he lets it out. Wants your release fast, it seems. He moves between sharp bites at your thighs, marks pressed into the juncture of them, secret and lovely, heavy sucks over your clit, all while working you open with long, thick fingers. Makes you come unexpectedly fast, shuddering over him and pulling off his achingly hard cock with a broken moan. “You’re so wet, baby. Wanna be inside you.”

You nod, dumb and lovestruck and hazy. He grabs at your wrist and tugs, pulls you back over him and tight against his body, kisses you deep and lets you taste yourself on his tongue. You tug at his shirt, drag it awkwardly over his head and his glasses get pulled off with them, they clatter to the floor, but he’s pulling your breast to his mouth again and nothing matters but this, right now. 

Right now, you sink over him slow slow slow, let him feel all your tight, wet heat before he gets needy, before he fucks up into you hard, like he wants to become part of you. Like he wants to crawl inside and make a home there. You watch his chest rise and fall, touch his skin as best you can between the lack of space between your bodies, lay your palm over his heart and feel it beat for you. He calls you beautiful, and you say it back. Says he likes the way your eyes roll back, that he loves how wet you get when he kisses your neck, when he calls you his pretty girl. Baby, fuck– you take me so well. He reaches behind your body, fingers splayed over where you join, feels the way your cunt hugs him. Groans as you grip his length with your pussy, hisses when you dig your nails into his chest as you come– everywhere, everything tight tight tight. 

Wonwoo runs soothing hands down your back as you sag against him, tells you he loves you, asks delicate and concerned if you want to stop because you’re crying, and when you hold him closer, tell him no, you need this– he puts you on your back and fucks you hard enough to make you forget about it. Presses your body into the mattress and lays his entire weight on you. Wonwoo buries his face in the crook of your neck, whispers that you mean everything to him, and you nod, hold his body and let the fever set in. He comes with the deepest, most languid stroke, holds his cock tight inside and fills you up. Asks desperately if you can feel it. You can. Yeah, yeah I can feel you. Feels so good. 

Much later, you lay facing each other in the quiet, tears already shed and conversation put on pause. It’s too hard to talk about being friends, just now. He kisses your eyelids, your cheeks, your lips, and you let him. Too sad to move, too in love. Friends don’t mean I love you the way you do.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

August, 2006

From: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> To: You <bowser80@aol.com> Date: 2nd August 2006, 21:13

Hello from Naxos, 

I got here from Athens a few days ago. I stupidly left my laptop in one of the lecture halls (I think) and no one has handed it in to the office, so I didn’t see your emails until now. Sorry about that. I feel like I’ve been living in a daze since I left home. Can’t keep my head on straight.

I don’t know how to describe this place. It’s beautiful. It’s hot. My room doesn’t have air conditioning and the sweat makes the sheets stick to my skin even in the middle of the night. The air hangs still and it’s thick in my throat. I think you’d hate it. And even then I’m sure you’d want to be held to sleep while complaining about the heat. I’m in the internet cafe now, and it’s so nice and cool I might pay for an extra hour just to sit here and feel like a person again.

Tomorrow we’re visiting Keros for the first time, and I don’t know how to feel. Whenever I imagine stepping off the boat the roof of my mouth goes dry. Is that excitement? I don’t know. I do know that I’m not sure I fit in here with the others. They’re quite similar to you, in the coming from a well off family regard, but they’re completely unaware of how they sound. I don’t think they realise how they flaunt it. When I first got here they talked about taking ‘the boat’ down to Santorini and asked if I wanted to join them. I said I’d need to check how much the ferry costs, and they looked at me like I’d sprouted another head right in front of them. Turns out they took someone’s dads yacht for the weekend. I didn’t go. I think you’d know how to talk with them. You’d know how to relate to them in some way that wouldn’t come across awkward or fake. I mean that as a compliment.

You asked me what I’m thinking about and right now it’s that time you and I dug out those old coins in your grandparents garden. Do you think your Grandfather buried them there for us to find? I’ve often thought that that small thing brought me to where I am, to what I’m doing, and I wonder if it was real? I miss that garden a lot. I miss us in it.

Am I complaining too much? I am, aren’t I? I think it’s the heat. 

How is your summer at home?

What have you been doing?

From: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@.com> To: You <bowser80@aol.com> Date: 2nd August 2006, 21:18

Mum and dad say you’re welcome to visit them before you go back to the city next month.

I miss you.

From: You <bowser80@aol.com> To: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> Date: 4th August 2006, 18:52

Hello to Naxos,

I’m sure you’ll be in Keros by now, so I hope it’s everything you hoped it would be. It looks lovely in the photographs on Google but I hope you’re taking some of your own for me anyway. I want some photos just for me, please, Wonwoo. I hope you’re looking at the sea and thinking that I’d like the colour of it. 

I don’t know how much I’d enjoy the company of your colleagues though. They sound stuffy and out of touch. Is there anyone you actually like yet? Tell me about them. 

I’m in the garden right now. I’m quite positive Grandpa buried the coins for us because there was mud all over his knees, don’t you remember? Granny scolded him for washing his dirty hands in the kitchen sink but she said the smile on your face made her forget about it. Just because it was engineered doesn’t mean it wasn’t real, you know? That your joy wasn’t real. Don’t you feel joy now, being exactly where you’ve wanted to be for the longest time? 

It’s been almost two months since you left and you haven’t sent one single photo of a cat, and I know for a fact that Greece has many. Have you spent all your time off holed up inside? Go out for a drink. Make some friends. Stand on the grass with your feet bare. It’ll do you some good.

Summer at home is as it always is. I saw Mingyu and Seokmin at a bar a few days after you left, Mingyu said to say hi but I told him to do it himself and gave him your new email address, I knew you wouldn’t mind. Mother has been down, I think Dongho cheated on her again but she won’t say anything. I haven’t done much else besides sleeping and shopping and playing games. Don’t tell anyone I said so but it’s boring without you here. 

I don’t think I’ll stay for the whole summer, actually. Iseul and Seoyoung are saying they want to visit the States. I’ll probably go with them. Iseul’s parents have a little place in California. I’ll take my laptop though, email me every time you think of me.

Tell your parents I’ll visit in the next few days, I’ve been craving your mum’s kimchi jjigae. 

PS - I miss us in the garden too. 

From: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> To: You <bowser80@aol.com> Date: 7th August 2006, 19:36

Keros was definitely something. I worry I built it up in my head too much, you know? Thought I’d feel more moved than I did. One of the leads, Edward, from a village in Wales I can’t pronounce the name of, is walking us through the project for the next few weeks. If I could learn half as much as he knows for the time I’m here, I’m sure I’ll get by for the rest of my career. I stood in the ruins of what was a home built over 2300 years ago and wondered what the people who lived there must’ve felt about it. Were they happy? Did they think the island too small? Were they jealous their neighbour had a better view of the ocean? Did they start sleeping with their best friend (again) just before moving to a Mediterranean island hahaha?

Should we talk about us yet? I worry if we leave it any longer we’ll just start pretending it didn’t happen again.

I did take some pictures on the island. Shall I post them on Facebook? There’s this small cove you would’ve liked that had these tiny iridescent fish that swam up so close to my feet that I thought they’d bite them. There was one cat outside my window but it was dark and the one photo I got of it is so blurry it’s not worth showing. I’ll find more to take photos of. 

Thanks for giving Mingyu my details, he’s already emailed me. He said you were looking well. I’m sorry about your mother. 

I won’t go for that drink you suggest because all the would-be drinkers seem more interested in snorting lines off each other's chests, and I don’t have the spare cash for all that. I have met some people - Matteo and Emma. Matteo is from Naples and Emma is from London. Emma reads, and she said she’ll lend me her copy of The Little Prince when she’s done with it. I haven’t told her I’ve already read it.

California sounds like it’ll be fun for you. Knowing Iseul her parent’s “little place” has eight bedrooms, a tennis court, an olympic swimming pool, and a live-in chef haha. How long will you go for? 

PS - on second thought I don’t know how you would’ve felt about the fish and the feet. 

PPS - if I emailed you every time I thought of you then I’d hardly ever leave the cafe.

From: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> To: You <bowser80@aol.com> Date: 8th August 2006, 17:52

Should I have brought it up?

From: You <bowser80@aol.com> To: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> Date: 9th August 2006, 06:28

Hello from LA,

Sorry for the slow reply, it’s been a bit of a whirlwind.

Wonwoo, I don’t know what there is to say about it all. Do you? 

I’m trying very hard not to be pathetic but the fact is that despite whatever state our on and off hook up thing is in, I still want us to be in each other’s lives. I don’t think you’re going to be in love with me forever, are you? You’re my safe space and I like hearing your thoughts and I feel like being your friend makes me a better person. We have good sex, great sex, but we’ve never managed anything solid. I mean, I know that you left because of the fellowship and because I encouraged you to take it, but things between us always seem to end just as soon as it gets real. 

Don’t worry, Wonwoo. We’re always going to be friends. You’re going to marry the girl next door type that doesn’t ask too many questions. She is sweet and knits you scarves for Christmas and prefers doggy style so you don’t see her face when she comes. She isn’t me– the selfish, obnoxious girl from three streets across, who beat you in the spelling bee when we were seven. You’re probably going to have three children, and definitely become very accomplished in whatever archeologists are accomplished in. And I am going to have at least four husbands, one child who’ll grow up rolling their eyes at me, and I’ll become infamous for whistleblowing the government for…. something gross and scandalous. Like listening in to everyone’s phone calls. We’ll holiday together and our children will grow up like cousins and when we get drunk and our spouses go to bed I’ll go “remember our last night before you left for Greece? Remember that night? You put your wet fingers in my mouth and told me ‘bite down when you come.’ I think about that all the time.” You’ll be so mortified your ears will go red. You’ll probably spill your drink.

I’m laughing my ass off just imagining it. Isn’t it funny that you’re only bold enough to say things like that when we’re in bed? It’s like you need to be cocooned up with someone in order to let your inside voice out. God, you’re so impolite when you fuck me. 

But don’t worry. You were my best friend long before you ever touched me like that. Every time we do this you tell me you just want to be friends, right? So let’s be friends. I can do platonic if that makes it easier for you.

Anyway. The update is I visited your parents (they probably already told you) and your mum made the BEST japchae for me. They love me sooooo much, I’ve got no idea why. I’m sure you’re very jealous and that sustains me. Now I’m in LA for the rest of the month. Iseul’s place is only six bedrooms, actually! No tennis court or live-in chef but the pool is admittedly gigantic. Please see attached photo. I look great, right? I’m sure you’re nodding. Maybe while I’m here I’ll find husband numero uno. If I'm going to have four I should start working on that ASAP. 

We’re okay, Wonwoo. 

PS - don’t you dare upload those photos to Facebook, send them to me and me alone. Also send me one of you because you’ve been gone so long I’ve forgotten what you look like. 

From: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> To: You <bowser80@aol.com> Date: 10th August 2006, 20:39

Hello to California,

Is that really what you think? That I fall out of it so quickly? That we started sleeping together again, and you think I didn’t feel fucked up over leaving? I’m starting to wonder if it was worth leaving at all. I’m glad we’re friends but do friends kiss the way we do? Are friends allowed to do that with each other? Does it make me a bad friend if I looked at the photo you sent and thought how pretty you are and let my mind run away wondering how you’d look if you were in my room here. I almost thought about printing your photo off but is that perverted? You’re fully clothed but I feel like a pervert. You do look great. I love that colour on you. 

I can’t imagine this life you’re dreaming up. I can’t imagine marrying some faceless person. Can’t imagine anything for me beyond what’s happening today. I can see you with four husbands though. I don’t mean that in any type of way, just that you find it easy to find people who love you even if they don’t exactly fit.

If you’re going to uncover some government spy operation let’s get started on the theories right now. If they’ve been listening to phone calls then it stands to reason they’re probably reading emails and texts too. Do you think they’re reading ours? Do we have our very own spy?

What is your first husband going to be like? The antithesis of me? Or maybe someone so strangely similar that all of our friends whisper about how weird it is? Don’t you think it’s messed up that we’re talking about this?

Please see attached a couple of photos of the island, one of me in my room, for your eyes only. Don’t go showing them to Iseul and Seoyoung. They’re not as good as the ones on my film camera but you’ll have to wait until I’m home for those. 

PS - can you download Skype? Efraim, the guy who owns the cafe, is installing it on all the computers, he says we’ll be able to video call. I’m free on Sunday after 7PM, that’s 9AM for you. Are you free?

From: You <bowser80@aol.com> To: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> Date: 11th August 2006, 12:05

It was worth leaving because this is what you’ve been working for your whole life. And it doesn’t matter that we started again because as long as we’re both single it can pick up whenever we want. I know you care for me in your quiet way. I know you’d never hurt me with intent. It’s fun, and we’re young, and we know it’s easy with each other. It doesn’t have to be more than that. Maybe we shouldn’t have said the L word, though, don’t you think? I try not to think about it. It would have been more sensible not to. Hindsight blah blah blah. 

We can be whatever kind of friends you want. I don’t mind that you think about fucking me. You did, right? When you saw my photo? I’d quite like it if you did. I like thinking about your cheeks getting hot and having to adjust your jeans in the middle of the cafe. Did you feel the need to hide your screen?

You’re probably right about the spies reading our emails too, I’ll note that down somewhere offline. Have you considered that our spy may be Efraim? After all, he has easy access to the computers you use every evening. Maybe you should consider getting a laptop of your own. It must be costing you a small fortune going to the cafe to email little old me every day. Dad is getting a new one soon, shall I ask him to post you his old one? Don’t be weird about accepting it, it’s just a laptop.

My first husband is so so so handsome. Grossly rich because of generational wealth, he doesn’t have to deal with the stress of being self made. I need to start strong, you see. A little shorter than you, so you’re not entirely emasculated haha. He probably knows how to sail. I bet he drapes sweaters across his shoulders like those guys in Ralph Lauren ads. I bet he’s played Wonderwall on an acoustic guitar and doesn’t realise how cliche it is. He’s probably doing it right now. I hope he’s not conceited. That’d be unbearable. Though I suppose we’d need a good reason to divorce. 

How are Matteo and Emma? What are they like? Did you tell them anything about me?

Seoyoung says hello. Iseul said she thinks you need a haircut (sorry, she peeked over my shoulder when I read your email) but I don’t. I think you look hot with long hair. Send me more photos of you? Take a shower first and think about me. Leave your clothes off. Shut your eyes and imagine I’m with you. I’ll open them in private.

We’re going to a party in Malibu on Saturday. Iseul’s cousins (Joshua and Kevin– they’re cool, you’d like them) are family friends with some big shot Hollywood producer so maybe I’ll meet some celebrities! Maybe I’ll meet my husband! If you send me a photo before then just know I won’t look at it, I need my head in the game. I’ll call on Sunday morning and tell you all about it.

PS - don’t open the attached photos in front of Efraim. It’s okay if you print them.

From: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> To: You <bowser80@aol.com> Date: 12th August 2006, 22:47

God. You’re right about getting another laptop while I’m here (I’m not taking your dad’s one, I’ll save up for one by myself) because I had to wait until Efraim went to the bathroom before printing your photos. I nearly broke a sweat wondering if he’d come back too quickly and see me holding them like some kind of sick freak. You’re so beautiful, do you know that? Your husbands won’t know what to do with themselves.

Yes, I’ve been thinking about fucking you. Do you think about it too? I’m guessing by your photos that you do. Did you think of me eating you out when you touched yourself? You probably won’t read this email for another twelve hours but just know that I failed miserably not getting hard in the back of the cafe. I had to spend ten minutes catching up on the news back home just to stop remembering being inside you, how wet you get when I kiss your neck. What am I, a teenager?

You should’ve come here for your summer trip, rather than LA. Why are you going out tonight looking for someone else when you could have been here. I’m jealous. I miss you. 

I’ll send you your demands before we call tomorrow. I want to see your face when you open it.

Matteo and Emma are great. They’re funny, and well read, and they know more mythology than I do, if you can believe it. Matteo is a good cook. He made lasagne for dinner the night I last emailed you and it was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I wish you could try it. If he ever wanted to open a restaurant he absolutely could. If you wanted to take him as one of your husbands I wouldn’t be opposed. It’d give me more reason to have dinner at your house. Emma has the most infectious laugh I’ve ever heard. 

They both know about you. We work together here a few nights a week, so they’ve seen me writing you. I told them we’re best friends, that you’re a little bit insane despite being one of the most level headed people I know. I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth. I told them that you’re smarter than I am, and that you’ll probably take down several governments one day. I told them that you miss me terribly. And that you understand me better than I understand myself, and that I can hardly understand you at all. 

Emma asked if we were ever together, and I didn’t know how to answer. I almost said not really, but I don’t know if that’s true. Is it true? Matteo changed the subject before I could answer anyway. He wanted to know who bowser80 was. On that note I’m begging you to choose a more sensible email address, if only so Efraim doesn’t think I’m sending vaguely horny emails to a Super Mario character. He probably has the wrong impression of you. 

I’m really looking forward to speaking to you properly. Your photos are- well they’re obscenely hot. But I want to see your smile. 

Talk soon. Don’t fuck your husband-to-be on the first night, he doesn’t deserve you.

PS - I’m not sure if Efraim is our spy, actually. I just watched him pick his nose and wipe it under the desk. I would hope someone trained in espionage would have better decorum. 

From: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> To: You <bowser80@aol.com> Date: 13th August 2006, 18:56

Don’t open these until we’re on the call. 

Can’t wait.

From: You <bowser80@aol.com> To: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> Date: 14th August 2006, 09:08

I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ve been looking at your photos again since I woke up and I fear I’m never going to leave my bed. 

Wonwoo, I’m being very serious when I say you need to get a laptop again as soon as possible because Efraim absolutely cannot read or hear the things I want to say to you. God, Wonwoo, I need to suck your dick inside out. I need you inside me.

How long have you got left in Europe? Is it forever?

From: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> To: You <bowser80@aol.com> Date: 14th August 2006, 17:31

I can’t stop thinking about you either. I forgot the sound of your laugh for a while and now after hearing it I’m worried I’ll lose it again. Let's keep calling, so we stay real for each other. For the sake of my sanity please say less about sucking my dick. It’s only Monday and it’s a personal goal of mine to make it through the week without rocking a semi in this cafe.

On the topic of buying a laptop, I’m picking up a part time job. The stipend doesn’t stretch as far as I’d hoped. Efraim is hiring, and I asked if working here means I can read everyone's emails and he looked so confused I was almost convinced. Perhaps he’s a better spy than we thought. Of course working here means more opportunity for talking to you, which sweetens the deal somewhat. 

It does feel like it’ll be forever, doesn’t it? I won’t be able to come home to visit until March. I wouldn’t be opposed to you visiting me here during your winter break. Would you like to?

Say yes.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

December 2006

From: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> To: You <bowser80@aol.com> Date: 30th December 2006, 09:40

Hi baby,

My palms are sweating but I don’t know why I’m nervous. It’s just us, isn’t it? I haven’t been this nervous to see you since before school the day after we slept together. The first time, I mean. We were idiots, I know that much. 

I’m borrowing Matteo’s car to come pick you up, I’m nearly ready. Please excuse the mess in it, he lives like a pig but he’s so endearing Emma and I forgive him anything. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him tonight. Emma can’t make it until New Years, she sends her apologies- I don’t know why I’m telling you this, I’ll say it to your face.

By the time you read this, it’ll be tomorrow morning and we’ll have already had one whole day together. You’ll ask to use my laptop to check your emails, and I’ll still be half asleep in the bed next to you. 

Have I kissed you yet? 

I’ve been working up the courage to kiss you as soon as you get through customs. I’ve been playing out how it’ll go. I’m going to set your bags down on the floor and take your face in my hands and kiss you right there in the middle of the arrivals lounge. Even as I’m typing all of this out, I know it won’t happen like that. I’m going to wave awkwardly when I see you coming through the doorway. I’m going to be hit with a rush of nostalgia when I catch the smell of your shampoo when we hug hello. I’m going to look at your lips and think about the taste of you, but then I’ll feel the eyes of other people on us, and they’ll be wondering if we’re together, and then I’ll start thinking too much and accidentally leave it too late, and you’ll be handing me your bags to carry. I’ll feel foolish and thoughtless for not taking them from you in the first place. 

I’ll kiss you without an audience. I hope you don’t mind. 

From: You <bowser80@aol.com> To: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> Date: 31st December 2006, 06:15

Hi Wonwoo, 

I like when you call me baby outside of the bedroom. Are you trying it on for size?

Don’t worry, you were a real gentleman at the airport yesterday. Took my bag and opened doors and everything. Five stars. It’s sweet knowing you were nervous. You didn’t look it at all. I thought how confident and self assured you seemed, like you knew all the answers to every question ever asked. I’m kind of in awe of you. The way we talk online has me forgetting what you’re like in person. How quiet you go, how the comfortable silences have me wondering what you’re thinking, how deliberate you are with your words. You say sometimes that I understand you better than anyone but I don’t think I do. You must think that your expressions give away your every emotion but they don’t, Wonwoo. You have this huge inner world I know nothing about and your emails give me a peek at what’s inside. You’re a mystery to me, the same way everyone is a mystery. 

Even now, you’re fast asleep (I’m sorry I didn’t wake you to ask to use your laptop, but you don’t mind, do you? I wanted you to rest.) and I have no idea what you’re dreaming about. Is it me? I hope it is. I like how you sleep next to me, did I ever tell you that? You’re like a koala. I like how you reach for my hand when I think you’re already sleeping and draw lazy figures of eight across my palm, with your chest against my back. I like the way your hair is even longer now. Messy and soft. Wonwoo, you’re so so so handsome. You look like an artist. You look like someone Jane Austen would write about.

I liked that you kissed me in private. I liked that you kissed me at all. I liked that you held my hand when you introduced me to your friends, even though you were quiet as ever. Were you feeling shy?

I’m looking in the mirror now and I like the marks you left on my neck. They’re so dark! I’m going to need a vat of concealer to cover these up if we leave your room today. I’m going to steal your scarf. I should complain about the mess you made of me, but I like that you’re secretly possessive. Don’t tell anyone I told you that haha. 

I like the way you touched me last night. The way you pressed my hips into the mattress and licked over my clit. The way you twined our hands together and rolled into me. If I close my eyes I can still feel it. Your teeth on my jaw. You, thick and hard, so deep inside me. Your skin felt good against mine. Were we always that good together? Is it better now because we haven’t seen each other for so long? I was so wet I’d be embarrassed if it were with anyone but you. Fuck, I want you again. 

You don’t know that I’m wearing your t-shirt right now. Would you be bothered? Would you like it? 

Wonwoo, would you mind if I woke you up? I want you to fuck me in your t-shirt. I want you to open your tired eyes and be glad I’m in something that smells like you. Reach under the hem and find me without underwear, already wet and wanting. I want you to fuck me harder than last night. I want you to fuck me so deep I can feel you in my throat. I want to feel the vibrations of your groan against my chest. I want it to hurt so much that I still feel you there when I leave. 

I’m going to send this email and wake you up. Sorry it’s so early, baby.

From: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> To: You <bowser80@aol.com> Date: 31st December 2006, 07:53

Good morning,

You’re in the shower. I’m laying on my bed wondering how I’m going to survive this week. We’ve always been good together, I think. But I’ve never, ever seen you like that before. In a good way. The best way. 

Baby, you know I still love you, don’t you? I’m going to say that to your face any second now, so you will already know by the time you read this. Do you love me too?

Keep wearing my t-shirts. Take that one home with you so you can wear it when we Skype, and I can remember the morning you ruined my life. That one looks better on you anyway. God. We’ve got five days left and I’m already hating the thought of you going home. Is it insane to ask you to stay longer? Probably. You’ve got work. Tonight I'm going to kiss you at midnight and make a wish.

I love you. 

I hope you say it back.

PS - it won’t be too long before I’m home. Please wait for me. We can be birds again.

From: You <bowser80@aol.com> To: Wonwoo <everyonewoo@mail.com> Date: 1st January 2007, 08:29

I love you too.

Don’t worry, Wonwoo. We’re always birds.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed this fic, please consider telling me what you liked via a reblog so my fic can get seen outside my own little space <3 i love seeing your feedback. if you have any questions, please ask!! it gives me life to talk about these babies. ily, goodnight!

prequel: joke me something awful.

taglist: @noona-neomu-yeppeo @starmy-143 @haaruki @channieschubbycake @minahaeyo

@mingiboye @kkaetnipjeon @lleercy @itsnotnaomi @ateez-atiny380

@blvked19

[materia-girl88]

Lakeside Lovers

18+, minors dni

Graphic smut

You're on a walk with Bucky after celebrating a successful mission, outdoor shenanigans ensue.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You were never going to wear heels again, dammit.

Your feet throbbed painfully as you walked down the little dirt path behind the restaurant, your hand clasped in a larger, warmer palm.

"You okay, doll?" an amused chuckle came from your fiance.

Bucky had suggested taking a walk after you had gone out to dinner to celebrate yet another successful mission with the Avengers.

It had been a year since the battle between Steve and Tony happened and it had taken some time, but thankfully the team was able to flesh out all their issues.

The same could surprisingly also be said about the conflict with Tony and Bucky, once Tony finally accepted that Bucky had no control over his actions that led to the death of his parents. They were actually on decent terms, almost friends.

"I'm okay, Buck," you said, smiling over at him, refusing to give in to the ache that the black pumps you were wearing gave you. You wanted to look nice for him.

But unfortunately, Bucky know you like the back of his hand.

"Take your shoes off. I can tell they're bothering you. I'll carry them," Bucky offered, but you refused.

"I'm fine, seriously babe. Don't worry." a reassuring squeeze was given to him.

Between work and daily duties, you never really had an opportunity to dress up, and didn't know when you'd get to again.

Bucky cast a doubtful look but gave a, "Suit yourself," before you continued on.

It was a pretty night, the moonlight the only guide on your walk, and surprisingly there was nobody out there with you both.

There was a little lake with a small pier you both wanted to go to, and you knew it was only a bit further before you could sit and dip your feet in the water.

But when your ankle wobbled again a moment later, Bucky sighed.

"That's it," he huffed, before he quickly bent down and scooped you up, throwing you over his shoulder in a fireman hold.

"Bucky!" you squealed in surprise, fingers clutching his jacket.

You never would be used to his lighting quick reflexes.

"James Buchanan Barnes, put me down!" you said, squirming to try and free yourself, but a firm *slap* to your ass caused you to go quiet as you sucked in a breath.

Oh..

Bucky laughed as he carried you for a moment before he stopped.

There were a few benches by the lake, and he soon set you down on one before kneeling in front of you.

"I'm not gonna let you hurt yourself," he said, grabbing one of your ankles and pulling the heel off, carelessly throwing it behind him.

You protested, but he paid no mind as he did the same with the other one, before locking his arms around your thighs and pulling you to sit at the edge of the bench.

His lips landed on your left knee, left exposed by the short fabric of your dark green dress.

"You look beautiful all the time. And I don't want you in pain." he said, blue eyes looking up through long lashes.

Your heart swelled as it did every time he showed you care. You loved this man with your entire being.

Your fingers began to run through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp.

"I love you, Bucky," you said softly, and he grinned, before landing another kiss to your opposite knee.

"I love you too, doll. And since we're alone, maybe I can show you how much," he said, hands playing with the hem of your dress.

Your eyes were wide. You both were adventurous when it came to sex, but you had never done anything in public before.

Oh well. First time for everything.

"Come here," you said, pulling him to sit on the bench by you, your bodies turned to face each other.

You leaned in and wasted no time in kissing him, the whiskey from dinner still sweet on his lips.

The air was warm and the only sounds around you were the sounds of nature, crickets chirping while the water of the lake lapped at the shore.

It was honestly romantic, and you feel your need for him growing.

Your hands, which had started on his shoulders, soon began to trail down over the soft gray shirt he wore under his black blazer jacket.

It wasn't long before you hit the leather of his belt, and he rumbled against your lips as you began to undo it, the buckle clinking.

"I want to taste you, baby" you whispered against his lips, hand finding and undoing his button and zipper before dipping inside, feeling his hard length beneath the fabric of his underwear.

A grunt escaped him as you cupped him.

"Never gonna say no to that," he joked, causing a laugh to escape as you pulled him out, exposing his cock to the night air.

You never would stop being astounded at his size, and you always secretly wondered if the super soldier serum made...other parts superior as well.

You began stroking him, your thumb swiping at his tip now and again to spread the small head of precum, and Bucky's head leaned back, unable to handle the feeling.

That just gave you easy access, and you quickly leaned in, latching your lips to his neck to leave soft kisses, sucking at the crease where his neck met his shoulder before continuing down, down over his muscular torso and down to where he was exposed.

"Fucking hell," he growled as you let your tongue peek out to lick at him.

His hand came to rest on your back where you were bent over kneeling on the bench, and his breathing quickened as you hollowed your cheeks around his dick, sucking at the tip the way you knew he liked.

You could never get enough of his taste. You never really enjoyed giving head with previous partners, but you couldn't get enough of it with Bucky. You craved it sometimes, to be honest.

"Do you like it?" you pull away to ask, grinning up at his flushed cheeks as you let your tongue come out to play against the notch under his tip.

It caused his hips to jolt and he fisted the fabric of your dress, "You know I do," he huffed, his hand pulling the dress up from the back to expose your black thong. You don't usually go for this kind of underwear but you didn't want panty lines to show through the dress.

He certainly wasn't complaining as his hand came down to roam over your ass cheeks, jaw clenching as you got back to work on his cock, head bobbing as he began to play with you.

He grabbed the thin strap of the thong and moved it aside, causing you to let out a hum of anticipation around him as his warm fingers found your soaking slit from behind.

He ran his fingers up and down, up and down for a moment, cursing at how wet you were already.

A finger sunk in just a bit, causing you to shudder as he said, "I fucking love how easy you get wet for me, doll. You're such a good fucking girl."

The finger left, having just gathered some of the wetness and continued it's journey to where your clit was throbbing.

You couldn't help the moan you let out around him as he circled it, and the vibrations caused his thighs to tense.

The both of you continued, the only sounds besides nature being both of your staggering breaths and the sound of slick flesh.

Before too long though, Bucky couldn't take anymore, and he tangled the fingers of his free hand in your hair to pull you away, his other one three fingers deep in your cunt, his thumb continuing to strum at the little nub.

"I need to fuck you before I come, baby." he said breathlessly.

You nodded as you rose to your knees, dress still around your waist and thong pushed over.

He helped you climb onto his lap, hands gripping your hips with bruising strength, and you knew the next morning you would have his fingerprints on you.

You loved it.

Your arms slid to wrap around his neck as you leaned in to kiss him, both of you exchanging breaths as you began to sink down on him.

You had to go slow so you could adjust to his size, but before long, neither of you could stand it anymore.

His hands controlled the movement of your hips, his coming up to meet you as he fucked into you from below.

"Bucky, please," you whined, thighs shaking as you let him have full control.

Your head began to tilt back, the action causing you to push the breasts into his face.

He took the invitation, one hand leaving to pull the straps of your dress down, taking the top with it and exposing your breasts to the air, nipples perked and waiting for the lips that descended on them.

He loved your breasts, and never left them out any time you both were intimate.

His lips wrapped around one nipple as he fucked you, and you could help the small exhalations of "ah, ah, ah" that left you with each bout of stimulation you received.

Nobody had ever been able to please you like Bucky had, and he reveled in it.

Soon, you were both nearly at your end, Bucky's muscles wound up tight and you were moaning uncontrollably, head still tilted back as your fingers were tangled in his hand.

But there was one thing he needed before you finished.

His hand, the metal one, gently grasped your jaw, pulling you to make eye contact with him.

As soon as you gazes locked on each other, you came, shuddering with a moan as your pupils expanded, tears welling in your eyes at the pleasure.

Bucky couldn't take it anymore, and the wooden bench creaked beneath you both as he fucked into you, shivers of overstimulation wracking your body, before he came. You felt the flooding of his warmth in you, and you sighed in relief, leaning down to kiss him.

Moments passed as he softened within you, and you pulled away from his lips, leaning to rest your forehead against his shoulder as you both caught your breath.

"Well, shit," you said, voice a bit hoarse, "that's one hell of a way to celebrate a successful mission."

Bucky couldn't help but laugh. He didn't know what he did to deserve you. But he did know one thing.

He would never let you go.

[marrowkind]

Wanted to take a crack at some Disco Elysium-style portraits and thought I'd pay homage to one of my favorite games, OFF.

Thought process for each under the cut:

Batter - Stark, graphic style to reflect his dogmatic views. More some vague ideal than a human being. His bat serves as a barrier between us, cuts off his head, and is a burden upon his shoulders. He is in profile because he is defined by movement; behind him is only a white void. Pale cyan because it complements red and white, and isn't used for any zone in the game. Faces to the left, aligned with the Puppeteer

Judge - Friendly, trusting body language (back to you). Faint halo since he can be thought of as Zone 0's guardian. He has his zone's colors. Batter casts a shadow over him with a faint cyan light, foreshadowing the end of the game (the bat crossing the Judge's neck). Faces left, aligned with the Puppeteer (also foreshadowing).

Zacharie - Purposefully video-game-y with strange perspective and coloring closest to the game. Pixel edges, the top edge of the dialogue box. He is distant and placing a small barrier between him and the viewer with his arms. Looking up, at his mall location. Centered, neither aligned nor against the Batter or Puppeteer.

Sugar - As a secret boss, it felt apt to keep her in shadow, only catching some of the doorway's light. Rough and spattery to hint at her sugar use, similar to how the drunks are drawn in Disco Elysium. A more sickly yellow to help remove her from Judge and move her a little closer to Enoch (again, sugar). A foe, facing right.

Dedan - Profile, because like Batter he is defined by action. Not afraid to get his hands dirty, facing the meat waterfall (which is red like the boss background). Rougher textures. Painted in the colors of his zone. The clock numbers are a reference to his attacks and a halo for his guardian status. A foe, facing right (you get the idea).

Valerie - Valerie is dead, hence the big X, the rictus-like facial expression, skull-like head, and large eyes clouded with Japhet's color. His composition is the inversion of Judge's. His body is vague; this is not about him. The wings, of course. I found the use of red in Disco Elysium's corpse portraits very striking, so I wanted to do that here. Japhet, acting inside Valerie's body, is wrathful, and this is expressed in the tense body language. You first encounter him in the library, so he gets blue.

Japhet - Honestly, most of this comp was just "how do I get Japhet in frame?" I wanted him to feel massive. He gains the color of his zone from the reflected light from the ground. The music notation is a reference to his attacks. One of these forms his halo.

Enoch - Like Japhet, I wanted Enoch to feel big but also wanted his face in view; these are portraits after all. His attacks are drama terms, so he gets a spotlight. This, combined with the smoke, creates his guardian halo. With the intense orange, I wanted to evoke both his zone colors and its incinerators. The smoke and sooty texture also allude to this. Besides ash, the particles can resemble sugar. I liked the idea of him being so large that much of him is in shadow. Enoch is very menacing (but also charismatic), and I hope I captured that.

Queen - The most complicated. Mortis Ghost drew her with a skull face once, which stuck with me. The moth is from her chapter's title card, it matches how we don't really see her face or eyes. Her hair is meant to evoke the battle screen background; this was clearer when the original comp was more zoomed out (I had matched the silhouette). Her color is black because of her chapter's color scheme, chess (her attacks, she is also acting second), and the opposite of Batter's primary color. There are hints of the zone colors in her hair as she grants all zones her power. Her halo is the sun Hugo drew her as; she is, after all, his god. The cold front light from Batter returns.

Hugo - The most human of them all. The pattern from his room makes his halo and evokes a crosshair. He is centered; he is not a combatant. He is afraid, small, the meat is a small barrier between him and the Batter. The lighting gives him a bit of a skull-like look, his flesh tones are sickly.

Puppeteer - The Puppeteer is a character, narratively. The game needs your participation and acknowledges this. I thought an older computer would feel right, besides allowing for a better monitor reflection. This one's what it says on the tin.

Bad Batter - He now faces right! Oh no! It's just Batter but worse. Violent spatter. If you look back at Batter you might see there is already the suggestion of teeth along his jaw.

[pearlzier]

tbh i think nerd!matt explaining fortnite terms, items.. guns.. ect to me would fix me

- 🧃

⠀⠀⠀ˑ   𓈒 𐔌  ㅤnerd.ᐟmatt  ×  nerd.ᐟreader   ͡꒱ ۫⠀

⎯⎯⠀⠀⠀your honour i love them !!! theyre so cutesy !!! also someone tell me if the layout is cute or not....... gdjdh yay :3 n also whether i should write more for these two gaspsies

YOU'D BEEN SAT BESIDE MATT as he played fortnite for a while now, maybe an hour or so. you didn't exactly want to bother him, so you'd been quiet for the most part. when matt plays fortnite, he takes it seriously, when he loses? yeah, he needs a little time to cool down after before he says things he's pretty sure he'll regret. his tongue idly flicks at the gum in his mouth, jaw working occasionally on it as he sits at the desk, meanwhile, his fingers deftly work at the mouse. your eyes linger on the veins on his hand a moment before you catch yourself, knowing he almost has a sixth sense for those sort of things.

eventually, he notices your silence. pushing back his headphones, he glances at you over his shoulder and gives you a soft smile. even though he was focusing on his game, he always preferred hearing your voice. "you're quiet, babe," he murmurs, multitasking glancing at you and also playing the game. you always wonder how he does it, but well, that's matt for you. "you okay?" his brow furrows a minute, biting his bottom lip before his head tilts to the side a little bit. at that, a soft smile plays on your lips, and you nod.

"yeah, yeah, just watchin' you," all you'd been doing was scrolling your phone, watching him. you were pretty content to be completely honest, but of course, you did want his attention. "m'not distractin' you, am i?" you say after a second, placing your phone down into your lap so you can focus your attention on him.

"distracting me?" matt scoffs, a quiet chuckle slipping past his lips. "in all respect, you're not exactly doin' anythin' to distract me," he teases softly, and his smile grows when he sees the way you roll your eyes. a warmth runs through him at the sight—god, he falls more and more in love with you each day, he's sure of it. "c'mere," he says, "missin' you." his voice goes a little quieter there, a tad bit needy in parts.

"needy," you retort, a giggle escaping you, but all the while, you get up and make your way over to him. his eyes rake over you, lingering at different parts of you. damn it, he loves the dorky little graphic tee that you're wearing, it suits you so damn well. "y'too far away," he's quiet for a minute, "if i asked you to sit on my lap would that be crazy?"

"might have to ask my lawyer," there's a playfully reluctant tone in your voice, and matt gasps, his mouth falling open with a little indignant noise. that in itself makes you giggle, and you peck a quick kiss to his forehead before planting yourself into his lap. matt leans back, letting you settle in his lap before he moves forward again to press his chest up against your back. shifting his weight beneath you, a soft sigh slips past his lips. "comfy?" he asks, head tilting to the side.

glancing back at him, you agree, "comfy," and he hums, resting his chin against your shoulder so he can look at the screen once more. wrapping his arms around you, he gets back to playing the game, humming occasionally. "gonna actually crash out if some kid starts campin' again," he scoffs, eyes rolling as he plays. your brows furrow a moment, a tad bit of confusion filling your gaze. "campin'?"

"y'know, people who stay in a certain area, jus' waitin' to kill you. campin', like they're settin' up a tent in a place just to shoot at ya," he explains it effortlessly, licking his lips after, not even giving it a second thought. he knows fortnite like the back of his hand, like he knows you. basically—he knows practically everything about it. "oh," you nod, biting your bottom lip before you release it with another nod. "you get it?" matt asks gently, wanting to make sure you understand what he's on about before he continues playing.

he enjoys telling you things about the stuff he likes, sharing his interests. though he knows you're not as into fortnite or gaming as he is, he knows you like learning things from him anyway. "okay, good, you'll be a pro in no time," he muses, placing a gentle kiss on your shoulder before he glances back at the game again. you watch him, seeing how he doesn't have to focus all that much and still be damn goof at the game. it's admirable.

after a few minutes, he realises the warmth that ran through him when he'd explained what camping was. it was simple, shouldn't have meant as much to him as it did, but it did. he's quiet, quiet grunts coming from him as he plays before he's speaking again, voice soft, "y'know what a dub is, baby?" it's hard for him to hide how giddy this makes him, getting to teach you this stuff.

"uh.." immediate thought? like, the english voice overs for animes and stuff, but you're 99% sure that's not what he's talking about right now. "no," you say, once you've considered his words. "mmh, a dub is just a win, i guess. what, uh, about a one pump? in game, of course, uh.. not anythin' else," he knows you don't know this stuff, which makes it a little better for him. eyes lifting to yours, a soft smile plays on his plush lips, followed by a flush on his cheeks when he clears up any misconceptions.

"you're askin' me like m'supposed to know," the words are grumbled as they leave your mouth, but you smile, shaking your head. you're not exactly into video games like he is, he's a video game fiend. you literally have to rip him off his console to get him to sleep or to get him to leave the house. meanwhile, you've got your head buried in a book or eyes glued to your phone screen 'cause of some good fanfiction. you'd get him to read some fanfics with you one day, you're sure of it.

"there's uh," matt sits up, "one sec," he waits until he's shot some guy in the game, so he can focus on explaining to you as he hides out in some corner of the map. "i mean, it got vaulted, but there's a pump shotgun, right?" you nod, not exactly understanding what he means by vaulted, but sure. seemingly, he notices this, and he adds, "vaulted s'like, they're not in the weapon rotation right now. so taken out, like, to balance the loot pool. you followin' so far?" you're a little busy looking at the way the light in his eyes shimmers with every word he speaks, but you mumble a quiet, "uh-huh," in response to show you're listening.

"okay, yeah, so s'called the pump shotgun, so what d'ya think a one pump is?" damn matt and his ability to teach so well. no wonder he tutored people for some extra cash on the side, he was damn good at it.

"one pump?" you ask after a few seconds.

one corner of his lips flits up, into a small smirk. "that's right, yeah, one pump. think about it," matt encouages, leaning his head against your shoulder a little more before he adds on, "you got this. real simple. like.. a type of shot."

"one pump.. uh, takes one shot to kill someone in game? with the.. pump shotgun?" it's a wild guess of yours, you had no clue, a shot in the dark, to say the least. but to your surprise, it's right, and he practically beams. "you're so fuckin' smart," he sighs, a little giggle of his own escaping him. nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck, he gives you a few gentle kisses as a little well done for getting it right. it was simple, sure, but he was so proud of you for getting it right.

"y'sure you haven't played fortnite before? might be even better than i am," matt mutters, and he revels in the way you laugh at his words. "you're laughin', i mean it!" he whines a little, poking you in the side which only causes you to laugh more. "mmh, okay, baby, whatever you say," though your words are a little muffled by the kisses you give him on his cheek, he hears you, and his smile only grows a lot more. "don't 'whatever you say' me.." he grumbles.

the moment is cut short however by him realising that the storm is closing in on him, and he quickly sits up, "oh, shit," he grabs the mouse again, "impromptu lesson on don't stay in the storm or y'die, you payin' attention? great."

ִ ֹ ★ @mattybsgroupie, @mattslolita, @stellasturns, @stevelacylovebot, @55sturn, @jetaimevous, @phone4pills, @aesthetixhoe, @venusiers, @chrissdollie, @stvrnmc, @sarosfilms, @beetlejenna, @funkycoloured, @v3nusasagrl, @imwetforyourmom, @deansbite, @beridollie, @pr3ttyf4wn, @sincerebabydoll, @cayleeuhithinknot, @j2ss7, @sweetrelieef, @l3sbiancvnt, @fallbhind, @beausling ִ ꒱

[strawberryyyenthusiast]

More of my diabetic Steve verse!

Steve, who doesn’t realize that Eddie is super famous and robin who could literally not care any less.

Steve and Eddie exchange numbers and text all of the time. It takes a week for Eddie to crack and send this message:

Eddie: Please for the love of god let me take you on a date I need to wine and dine you so hard I think I might pass out

Steve obviously says yes.

Eddie takes them to a small diner because he doesn’t want to risk being seen by crazy fans who somehow always find out where he is. If Eddie is being honest, he blames twitter.

Eddie gets there to find Steve already sitting at a booth, fiddling with something on his phone. His glasses are sliding down his nose again and he is wearing a Wham! graphic t-shirt and light wash jeans. He stands up once he notices Eddie and flashes a huge grin, which causes Eddie to also smile.

They both sit down on their respective sides of the table and get comfortable, making small talk. It takes a bit, but Eddie notices that Steve has the menu pulled up on his phone and laughs.

“Doing some homework?”

Steve looks confused for a second before glancing down.

“Oh yeah! I always make sure to look at it beforehand whenever I go out to make sure that I have options depending on my blood sugar level.”

“What’s your… number, is that the correct term, now?”

Steve nods enthusiastically. “Yes! And let me check.” Steve pulls out a cute green pouch and takes out a bunch of supplies. “I just changed my CGM—“ At Eddie’s confused look, he says, “My glucose monitor. It’s not completely synced yet so I can’t rely on my pod to tell me what level I’m actually at.”

After he says that, Steve cleans his finger with an alcohol wipe, lets it dry, and then pricks his finger. He squeezes the pad of his ring finger and blood pools to the surface.

“Yikes. I’m gonna have to give myself a correction or two.”

Steve cleans up the space but leaves his pouch out, and then wraps a sparkly bandaid on his finger.

“What’s a correction?”

Eddie feels dumb. He wishes he knew more about diabetes and actually researched it before showing up to the diner with no prior knowledge.

“I just give myself a little extra insulin to make my blood sugar go down. I’m flirting with 250 right now and I really want a burger.”

—

The date passes swimmingly and the two men find themselves sitting in the same booth at the same diner, but on the same side. Their hands are intertwined and Steve wrapped up half of his meal to take home.

“I made this for you!” Steve says suddenly. He grabs a stack of stapled papers and hands them to Eddie. “I made you a ‘diabetes guide!’ Since I plan on our relationship being permanent, it would give me peace of mind if you knew what to do in case of an emergency.”

Steve begins thumbing through the packet and explaining everything, but Eddie can hardly focus.

Not with Steve clutching his hand or with him wanting their relationship to become “permanent.”

“Hey, are you okay?” Steve waves his hand in front of Eddie’s face. “I understand if this is a dealbreaker or whatever, but I just like you so much and I want to be your boyfriend as of two weeks ago.”

Eddie just blinks. Then he smiles. “We only met a week ago, Stevie.”

Steve blushes, tucks some hair behind his ear. “I know that. I just had a feeling that I would meet the one.”

“Yeah?” A pause. “Can I kiss you?”

Steve releases a breath. Puts his hand on Eddie’s cheek.

“I thought you’d never ask. I hope you don’t mind the taste of hamburger.”

Eddie laughs before lunging forward.

—

As they head back to Steve’s apartment hand in hand, Eddie tells him about his more than ordinary job. Explains what might happen when people see them together.

Steve just laughs and says, “I’ve fought literal monsters from hell, I can handle anything.”

Eddie falls more in love than he knew possible.

[cloudyluun]

Like Hell You’d Tell Me No | PB fic

(tommyshelby x fem!reader – s2 era)

Summary: When Y/N gets sent to Birmingham for her own protection, the last thing she expects is to be dropped into the middle of Shelby territory, especially under the icy watch of one Thomas Shelby. But somehow, she keeps breaking his rules... and somehow, he lets her. Between unannounced office visits, drunken nights in his chair, and a new bestie in Ada Shelby, Y/N is stirring up more than just trouble. And when things start to heat up between her and Tommy, they might just find themselves caught in a moment that neither of them is quite ready for, yet.

A/N: okay so, I always write Harry (literally always), but while prepping for my internship I decided to finally watch Peaky Blinders... and now I’m unwell. Like, genuinely not okay. Tommy Shelby lives in my head rent-free and I can’t make him leave. 😭

So instead of lesson planning like a responsible adult, this little fic idea basically wrote itself at 1AM with Taylor Swift playing in the background lol. Not sure if I’ll continue this or if I’ll dabble in multiple fandoms, but I had fun writing it and wanted to share in case anyone else is also deep in their Peaky Blinders phase

Word Count: 4147

Warnings: 

Light drinking

Mentions of past threats/harassment (non-graphic)

Protective/possessive behavior (from Tommy, ofc)

Language (it’s Peaky Blinders, there’s swearing lol)

Slow-burn tension and emotional build-up

Mentions of minor violence (one punch, classic Tommy move)

Unresolved romantic tension (aka cliffhanger ending 😌)

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Tommy just… stares.

The silence in the room stretched, thick as the smoke curling from his cigarette. Papers sat idle in front of him, ignored now. The man across the desk – some poor bastard talking percentages – had gone completely still, mouth half-open like he was about to continue his pitch until she appeared out of nowhere.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like she’d walked into a pub instead of the Shelby Company office. Young, maybe mid-twenties, wearing a travel-worn coat and scuffed boots. There was something in her look. Not arrogance. Just no fear. Like she'd met worse than a room full of Shelbys.

“Door was open,” she said again, tilting her head. “Didn’t think it was a problem.”

Arthur snorted behind her. “Bloody hell, she’s brave.”

Polly didn’t say a word, but the look on her face was a mix of amusement and caution. Always watching.

Tommy took a slow drag, tapped ash into the tray. “You must be Y/N.”

“Yeah,” she said, stepping in without being asked. “You must be Tommy, Thomas Shelby.”

“Bit early to be on first-name terms.”

“Bit late not to be,” she replied, dropping her bag by the wall like she belonged there. “You owe my brother a favor. I’m the favor.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. Not from her mouth. Not from anyone, really. But the message had come a few days ago, and he’d read it twice just to be sure. Michael Carter. They’d served together. Pulled him out of a trench once. Didn’t talk much after the war, but when a man like that writes and says his sister’s in trouble, you pay attention. You don’t say no.

“What kind of trouble?”

She shrugged. “The vague kind. London’s full of it. Wrong place, wrong time. Few names I shouldn’t have known, a few blokes who didn’t like me walking away.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair. “You running?”

“I’d call it more of a stroll,” she said. “Don’t worry. I didn’t bring much baggage.”

He looked at her. Really looked. She was tired but not broken. Something restless behind her eyes. There was a fight in her, the kind that either got people killed or made them dangerous friends. He wasn’t sure which yet.

“You’ll stay above the shop,” he said after a pause. “Spare room. Polly’ll take you up.”

Y/N glanced toward Polly, who gave a small nod.

Tommy picked up his pen again, glancing at the man across from him who’d gone completely pale. “Now, if we’re done with the interruptions–”

“I’ll get out of your hair,” she said, already walking off.

“Don’t wander.”

She turned in the doorway, gave a small smirk. “No promises.”

Polly followed her out a moment later, her heels sharp on the floorboards.

Arthur leaned in with a low whistle. “She’s got some fire, that one.”

Tommy didn’t answer. He was staring at the spot she’d been standing in. His jaw clenched as he exhaled smoke through his nose.

“She gonna be trouble?” Arthur asked.

“She already is,” Tommy said quietly, then went back to pretending to listen to the pitch in front of him.

--

Upstairs, Y/N was already sizing up the space. The spare room was clean enough. Not warm, but not cold either. Polly stood by the door, watching.

“You’re lucky,” Polly said finally. “He doesn’t like people in his office. Doesn’t like people full stop.”

Y/N looked around, then dropped onto the bed with a soft thump. “I’ll keep out of his way.” Polly gave a dry smile. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Downstairs, Tommy stubbed out his cigarette, but his hand hovered near the tin for another. He didn’t light it. Just sat there, staring at the door where she’d come in like a storm in worn boots and sharp words.

A favor owed, he thought. Just a favor.

But he already knew better.

The days that followed proved it. She didn’t just stay in the spare room. She moved through the betting shop like she’d always been there. Tommy had told himself he’d figure out what to do with her once things settled, once he had time. But time didn’t slow for the Shelbys. And she didn’t wait for permission.

“You know there’s a kettle in the back, right?” she asked one morning, walking into his office without knocking. Again. She set a chipped mug down on the desk like it was hers to do so. “You don’t have to drink your weight in whisky before noon.”

Tommy looked up slowly. “You bring tea to every man who gives you a place to sleep?”

“Only the grumpy ones,” she said, hands in the pockets of her skirt. “Which is lucky for you.”

He didn’t answer, just stared at the steam curling from the cup.

She lingered a second longer, then turned to leave. “Try not to scowl into it too hard. Might go bitter.”

That was the third time that week she’d barged in. Polly had stopped bothering to intervene. Arthur found it funny. John asked if she had a death wish.

Tommy just drank the tea.

It wasn’t that she was rude. She just didn’t care about the little rules. Rules like knocking before you enter a room that belongs to Thomas Shelby. Rules like not sitting in the man’s chair while drunk at the end of a long day.

Which she did.

It was Friday, the shop was quiet, and she had found the whisky in the cabinet behind the front desk. Arthur had offered her a glass earlier. She’d declined then. Hours later, she helped herself.

Tommy walked in to find her kicked back in his chair, legs tucked under her, nursing a glass. Her boots were off and resting on the floor beside her. She looked comfortable. Dangerous thing to be in his space.

“You’re in my chair,” he said.

She turned her head lazily. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

He didn’t say anything. He looked at her for a moment, then walked to the other side of the room. Took off his coat, hung it up. Sat on the edge of the desk, lit a cigarette. The quiet filled the space between them.

“You always drink alone?” he asked finally.

“I wasn’t alone,” she said. “You came in.”

Arthur came by halfway through and nearly choked on his laughter. John followed, paused in the doorway, gave a long low whistle.

“She’s got some bloody nerve,” John said under his breath.

Tommy said nothing. Just exhaled a long stream of smoke and looked at the ceiling.

After a few minutes, she stood, wobbling just a bit, and set the glass down neatly on the desk.

“Thanks for not shouting,” she said. “It’s rare.”

He watched her as she walked out, barefoot, leaving the smell of whisky and some kind of sweet soap in her wake.

The door clicked shut.

Arthur leaned closer to Tommy after a beat. “You gonna let her get away with that?”

Tommy didn’t look at him. “She’s not doing any harm.”

John raised an eyebrow. “She was in your chair, brother.”

Tommy stubbed out his cigarette. “She’s not in it now.”

That was how it was. She floated in and out of the betting shop like smoke, slipping through the cracks no one else dared to touch. She was younger, yes. Full of jokes and sudden laughter. The kind that didn’t come from politeness but from deep inside, like she refused to let the world make her quiet.

He didn’t know what to make of her yet. But he noticed things. The way she talked to everyone. The way she read newspapers he hadn’t even opened yet. The way she knew how to patch a rip in her own coat with needle and thread without making a fuss. Like she’d done it a hundred times.

She didn’t belong here. Not really. But she was here. And the longer she stayed, the more it felt like a storm had rolled in and decided to settle.

He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do with her. But he knew sending her away wasn’t an option anymore. That thought sat in the back of his mind the night Arthur burst through his office door, out of breath and sweating.

“She’s at the Garrison,” he said. “Alone. Some bloke’s not takin’ the hint.”

Tommy didn’t say anything. He stood, grabbed his coat, and walked past Arthur without a word. His pace was calm, but his steps were hard. Each one louder than the last on the wooden stairs.

The Garrison wasn’t far, but it felt like miles. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Inside, the music was low and the laughter was higher than usual. A Friday night crowd. Voices blurred together until one stood out.

“Come on, sweetheart,” a man was saying. “Don’t be so bloody cold.”

Tommy moved through the crowd like smoke. He didn’t shove. Didn’t speak. Just walked until the man came into view. Broad-shouldered, older, drunk. Y/N was backed against the wall near the end of the bar, her arms crossed tight and chin lifted. She wasn’t scared, but she wasn’t laughing either.

“I said no,” she repeated, voice firm.

“And I said I don’t care,” the man replied, hand brushing against her arm again.

Tommy didn’t stop walking. The man didn’t see him coming. One second he was smirking, the next he was on the ground, nose caved in and blood gushing. No warning. No words.

The room went quiet.

Tommy didn’t look down. He turned to Y/N, who hadn’t moved. Her face had gone pale.

“Come on,” he said.

She followed him out into the street without arguing. The cold hit her hard, cutting through the whisky in her blood. They walked in silence for a few blocks, her footsteps uneven beside his. She hadn’t even grabbed her coat.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said finally.

He didn’t look at her. “Yes. I did.”

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I’m sure,” he said, voice flat. “But, he touched you.”

She stopped walking. He stopped too, turning to face her.

“I don’t need a fucking bodyguard, Tommy.”

“No,” he said. “You need someone to keep you alive. That’s me now.”

She stared at him, jaw tight, but her voice cracked when she spoke again. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

He looked at her. Really looked. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair wind-blown, and her eyes shining in that way they did when she was holding too much in. She was trying to be tough, but her hands were shaking.

He stepped closer, calm now. “You all right?”

She looked away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“It wasn’t the first time someone got too close.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched. His fingers flexed at his sides. He didn’t say what he wanted to say. That London was behind her, but its shadows were still clinging. That he should’ve never let her walk out alone. That the second he got word she was in danger, his heart had pounded like it hadn’t since France.

Instead, he took a breath and said, “Next time you go out, you take someone with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Arthur? Polly?”

“Me,” he said. “Preferably.”

The silence stretched between them, and something shifted in her face. Not fear. Not defiance. Just something quieter.

“Right,” she said. “Okay.”

He nodded once, then turned and kept walking. She followed.

The streets of Birmingham were dark, damp, full of half-spoken threats. But she walked beside him like it was the safest place she’d ever been.

The next morning, Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor of the spare room, trying to make sense of the mess she called her belongings. Half-unpacked bags, a few folded letters, and a pair of boots still caked in city grime. She was tugging a comb through her hair when there was a knock on the door. “Mind if I come in?” came a voice.

Y/N turned to see a woman leaning in the doorway, lipstick perfect, hair pinned up tight like she meant business even on a quiet day. She looked familiar in that way all the Shelbys did.

“Ada, right?” Y/N said.

“That’s me. Figured it was about time we had a proper chat,” Ada replied, stepping in without waiting. “They’ve all been talking about you.”

“Yeah?” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

Ada grinned. “Only if you hate compliments wrapped in irritation.”

She handed over two cups of something that smelled strong enough to kick. Y/N took one with a grateful nod.

“Whiskey in the coffee?” Y/N asked.

“Bit of both. It’s the Shelby way.”

They sat near the window, legs stretched out, warmth settling into the space.

“You’re not like them,” Ada said after a moment. “Not from here. Not stuck in it like the rest of us.”

Y/N gave a little shrug. “London’s not exactly better.”

“No, but you’ve still got light in your eyes,” Ada said. “Most people around here have it beaten out of them by twenty.”

Y/N looked out the window. “I don’t know about light. I just don’t see the point in pretending everything’s always awful.”

Ada sipped from her cup. “That’s what I mean. You’re a bloody breath of fresh air. Especially among all these grumpy bastards.”

Y/N laughed. “Speak for yourself. You’re just as sharp.”

“I get it from my mother. And years of watching Tommy scowl at paperwork.”

At the mention of his name, Y/N glanced away, but Ada noticed. Of course she did.

“He’s different with you,” Ada said.

Y/N frowned. “Different how?”

Ada leaned in, smug. “Less growling. More… I don’t know. Breathing.”

“You’re making things up.”

“I’m not.” She pointed her cup at Y/N. “You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, you know that?”

Y/N blinked, actually blinked, and then laughed into her drink. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Ada said. “He doesn’t even let me in his office unannounced.”

Y/N bit her lip. “Maybe he’s just tired of telling me off.”

“No. That’s not it.” Ada gave her a long look. “He trusts you.”

There was a weight in those words Y/N hadn’t expected. She didn’t answer right away. Trust wasn’t something she’d had a lot of lately. It felt strange to even think about.

“He walked me home last night,” Y/N said quietly. “After a man at the Garrison got pushy.”

Ada nodded. “I heard. Arthur said Tommy didn’t say a word. Just broke the bloke’s nose and left.”

Y/N stared down into her mug. “He didn’t even look angry. That’s what got me.”

Ada tilted her head. “That’s worse, you know. Means he meant it.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “I know it’s just a favor, what he’s doing. Letting me stay. Letting me be here.”

Ada stood and stretched. “It started out that way, but i believe it has turned into more. That’s why it matters.”

She walked toward the door, then turned. “You’re good for him. Whether he admits it or not.”

Y/N stayed by the window after she left. The coffee had gone cold, but she held it anyway, hands wrapped around something solid.

Out in the street, she caught sight of Tommy crossing to the shop, coat pulled close, face unreadable as ever.

She watched him for a second too long. Then she looked away, heart skipping in a way she pretended not to notice.

By the time evening came, the betting shop had been cleared out, lanterns strung up, and Polly’s birthday turned into one of those Shelby nights that started quiet and always ended with someone singing out of tune. Y/N wasn’t much of a drinker, but it was hard to say no when John poured heavy and Polly kept pressing glasses into her hand with a look that said she’d take offense otherwise.

She’d laughed too hard, danced once with Ada, twice with Arthur, and ended up slipping out when her head started to spin and the voices all blurred into one. The music still floated through the floorboards when she made her way up the stairs and pushed open the office door.

She didn’t even bother with the lights. The soft glow from the hallway was enough. She crossed the room like it was muscle memory now and dropped into the chair behind the desk. His chair. She tucked one leg under herself and took a slow sip from the bottle she’d brought up.

The first sip burned. The second didn’t.

She leaned back and closed her eyes for a second, listening to the muffled laughter below, the distant clink of glasses. The door creaked after a few minutes. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Told you I like your chair,” she said lazily.

Tommy stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “You’ve got a habit.”

“I’ve got nowhere else that’s quiet,” she replied.

He walked across the room and sat on the edge of the desk, facing her. No coat, sleeves rolled just enough to show the edge of his tattoo. His tie was loose. He looked like he’d stopped pretending to be the man everyone thought he had to be.

She glanced at him and smiled faintly. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the party?”

He shrugged. “They won’t miss me for a few minutes.”

She tilted the bottle toward him. “Want some?”

“I’ve had enough.”

“Then keep me company.”

So he did. They sat in the kind of silence that had weight but no pressure. She traced a line in the wood grain of the desk with her finger, then spoke, soft and unguarded.

“Do you ever feel like you don’t belong anywhere?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on her face.

“I used to think London was it,” she went on. “Then everything went to shit. I came here thinking it’d be worse. But now I just feel stuck in between.”

She looked down. “And I hate feeling like a guest. Like I’m just waiting for someone to tell me it’s time to go.”

“You’re not a guest,” Tommy said.

“Then what am I?”

He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t answer either.

She looked at him, really looked. The way his eyes softened in moments like this, when no one else was around to see. How still he went when he let his guard down. Like it scared him more than war ever had.

“You don’t talk much,” she said.

“I say what needs saying.”

“Right.” She took another sip. “But you listen.”

Their eyes met. Her thumb brushed the side of the glass, and his fingers reached out absently to take it from her. Their hands touched – just a second – but it was enough to make her chest tighten.

He set the bottle down without breaking the gaze. Neither moved.

“Why are you always so calm?” she whispered.

“I’m not.”

His voice was low. Closer now. She hadn’t noticed how near he’d leaned until she could feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of tobacco and something colder underneath.

Her fingers curled around the arm of the chair.

His hand was resting near hers on the desk. Not quite touching. But close.

Too close. Not close enough.

The silence pulled tight between them. She wasn’t sure who was holding it there, but it felt deliberate, like something balanced on the edge of a blade.

She didn’t move her hand.

Tommy shifted closer, the worn fabric of his sleeve brushing hers. Her breath caught. He didn’t look at her yet, not directly – his eyes stayed on the papers scattered across the desk like they meant something. Like any of this was still about business.

“Don’t smoke in here,” she said quietly, not looking at him either.

“I’m not.”

“You were earlier. Without me.”

He didn’t argue. Just leaned back the slightest bit, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might smile, but didn’t. His voice stayed low.

“You always this jumpy around men, or just me?”

She turned her head. Met his eyes. “You always this full of yourself, or just with women who talk back?”

There was a flicker in his expression, something like approval, maybe amusement. Maybe something sharper underneath.

“Maybe I like women who talk back.”

“Maybe you like trouble.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth for the briefest second. “I’m in the business of it.”

That pull in her gut tightened. Her fingers curled harder around the arm of the chair, grounding herself. It wasn’t enough.

The room had gone quiet again, except for the tick of the clock on the mantel and the soft hum of music and voices seeping in from the hallway. The party still spun on without them, but here it felt like everything had narrowed to the space between their hands.

She turned slightly, just enough that her knee brushed his. She didn’t apologize. Neither did he.

“Thomas.”

He lifted his eyes again. That look he gave her made her forget what she was about to say. Or maybe she hadn’t planned to say anything at all.

He leaned in. Slowly, like he wanted her to see it coming. His breath was warm against her cheek, and there was that scent again – tobacco, sharp gin, and something colder. Something metallic, like the edge of a coin.

The air between them thickened. She could feel her pulse in her throat, in her fingertips.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Is this the part where you kiss me, or tell me I’ve crossed a line?”

Tommy’s eyes darkened, his focus slipping to her lips, then back up. A slow smirk curved his mouth, not the cruel one he used in business, not the charming one he pulled out for show. This one was quieter. Closer to real.

He leaned in just a little more.

Then came the knock.

Three sharp raps on the doorframe.

“You two decent?”

Ada’s voice cut through the moment like a blade.

Y/N jerked back in her chair, heat rushing to her face as if she’d been caught doing something she hadn’t even done.

Tommy straightened slowly, not looking away from her. The smirk was gone. What replaced it was something harder to name. Something held tight behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” he called, not loud. “We’re decent.”

Ada poked her head in, grin wide, eyes darting between them. “Well, don’t let me interrupt whatever this was.”

“It was nothing,” Y/N said too quickly. She cleared her throat. “Just work.”

“Right.” Ada’s grin didn’t budge. “You’re missing the part where Finn tries to charm the Americans. It’s going about as well as you’d expect.”

Tommy gave a short nod. “We’ll be out soon.”

Ada raised a brow but didn’t push. “Suit yourselves.” She ducked out again.

The silence came back, heavier this time.

Y/N stood, smoothing her skirt like it might help her pretend nothing had happened. Nothing almost had.

Tommy watched her. Didn’t say anything at first.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

“I should–” she started.

“Go back to the party,” he said softly.

She looked at him then.

“We’ll finish this later.”

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

[thekoalapastriesbakery]

SHAMELESS

sub!bottom!lance stroll x transmasc!dom!top!reader

request: subby bottom lance with trans top reader??? – 🥄

summary: your first time with lance.

warnings: mild implications of lance having bad sexual experiences in the past, male anatomical terms used for reader but reader is explicitly trans, use of a strap-on referred to as reader's cock, reader has bottom growth from hrt, very mild cum eating, oral sex (reader receiving), graphic sexual content, fairly vanilla though i think?

word count: 4,035

CONTENT BELOW THE CUT IS NSFW. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION. THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING.

lance knew you were trans long before you got together. of course he did. if for no other reason than your own safety, you had to tell him in advance. not to mention the extra buffer between when you started dating and now, the first time you would sleep together. still, lance had momentarily forgotten that little detail because … well, you'd caught him at a time where his brain was entirely focused on sending all of his blood south. it took him approximately .2 seconds to reconsider how you could rail him.

from that split second, he just mumbled an okay and pulled you back in to kiss you. he was too desperate to care about technicalities. lance relished in the way you backed him against a wall, tilting your head to kiss his neck. the whines that escaped him were downright sinful. you could hardly wait to get into the thick of it and see what other sounds you could draw out of his pretty lips.

"just fuck–fuck me," lance panted, tugging you by the hair to get you to stop marking his neck. "please."

you raised an eyebrow in amusement.

god, he was easy. you would have fun with him.

"with what, lancey?" you teased.

lance whined loudly at your words, his addled brain only just realising there was an extra step for you. his hands scrambled to find your shoulders. he couldn't exactly be blamed for his lack of balance. "fuck, something—anything—just … please."

"'please'," you repeated, mimicking the slightly pathetic tone to his voice. it took so very little to get him to beg. you loved it. "come on, you can do a bit better than that, can't you? it's not an unreasonable question, love. what do you want me to fuck you with?"

"th–there's a box …"

your ears perked up at his words. your sweet, bubbly boyfriend had a box of toys he used to get himself off? "where."

it wasn't a question so much as a command for lance to show you where he kept his secret stash. lance's knees nearly buckled at your tone. on shaky legs, he retrieved the box from where it had been hidden at the very back of his sock drawer and handed it to you. what a collection it was—toys of all varieties, several different sizes, and some in very interesting shapes.

after scanning the box briefly, you held it out to lance again with a sly smirk. "go on then, lancey. pick one."

his cheeks flushed pink. shyly, he picked out a good-sized dildo. it wasn't his biggest by far, but you guessed those would take a lot more prep than he had the patience for at the moment. you grabbed the lube out of the box as well, then set it aside. there was no need to make your first time with lance overcomplicated. you had full confidence the two of you would find a way to have a good time without toys at all, but where was the fun in that?

you guided lance over to his bed. not once did your eyes stray as he slowly stripped. for a usually exhuberant guy, he was certainly shyer than you expected him to be. once he was fully naked in front of you, lance looked at you cautiously, and you realised he was waiting for your reaction.

"god, baby, you look …" you breathed, eyes roaming up and down his figure appreciatively.

lance bit his lip and crossed his arms in a half-hearted attempt to cover himself. "i look …?"

"you look amazing," you assured him. without another second's hesitation, you kissed him as he was gradually pushed down onto his back. you trailed kisses down to his tummy before looking up at him with a grin. "my pretty boy."

the little squeak your boyfriend let out before he covered his face was adorable.

you left a few hickeys on his abdomen, but you didn't linger long. if you were being truly honest, you were just as excited to see lance all fucked out as he was to be it. spreading his legs was easy. the way he didn't even slightly hesitate to let you manoeuvre him into whatever position you wished made your heart pound—some day, you'd have to test the limits of that, but today was no day to push his comfort zone.

the lube bottle in one hand, you patted lance's thigh once get his attention. "you tell me to stop or slow down whenever, okay?"

"okay." lance nodded. he wanted to ignore how his heart fluttered at the concerned lilt to your voice, but he couldn't. it wasn't like you'd even done anything special yet—giving him an easy out wasn't even the bare minimum, and yet so many of the men he'd hooked up with in the past had failed to even reach that. "please just start already."

"alright, alright."

you drizzled the lube onto just one of your fingers at first. probably more than you needed, but there was far more harm in skimping than in going overboard. lance hissed quietly at the cold sensation against his skin. you gave him a second to get used to it before he nodded you on. one finger, then two, then three stretching his hole until you deemed him ready to take the dildo.

now it was your turn to strip. down to beneath your boxers, you got everything set in place before letting the silicone tip prod at lance's hole. the wait was beyond worth it, though, when you saw the way he threw his head back and rutted his hips forward. it was crystal clear how desperate lance was to have you wreck him. who were you to deny him when he'd been so good for you?

you let his greedy hole swallow your cock inch-by-inch, until you couldn't physically push it any farther into him. lance locked his ankles behind your back so tightly you could hardly thrust at all. regardless, you let him lead your pace, simply rolling your hips forward. his eyelids fluttered softly. you barely caught the way his breath hitched when the tip of the dildo grazed his prostate.

"you gonna let me move?" you murmured, amusement bleeding into both your voice and your expression.

lance whimpered slightly. he reluctantly loosened his vice grip on you, allowing you to begin thrusting shallowly. soon enough, you felt the sweet sting of his nails scraping down your back. you didn't let it distract you too much—you were far more interested in the other reactions lance was giving you.

a soft hum left your lips. "my beautiful boy. wish you could see yourself, lancey, look so pretty like this."

you knew he could be noisy, but nothing could have prepared you for the drawn-out moan that answered you.

lance felt like you were splitting him in two. sure, he had longer and thicker dildos, but he had drastically underestimated how intense it would feel to have you use them on him. he could hardly imagine what it would feel like to have you fuck him with his largest toys—he'd never leave his bed again, he was sure. his hands switched between clawing at your back and clutching the sheets.

"god, y-you can't just say that …" he whimpered, desperately attempting to maintain a sliver of his dignity. it was slipping away from faster than he could comprehend as you delivered the first proper thrust. lance's voice broke. hell, he was half-certain his mind broke just the same.

the wave of ecstasy that followed one short movement shouldn't have been possible. nobody had ever made him feel so good so easily, but for you it seemed almost like second nature.

you tilted your head slightly at his words. one hand held your boyfriend's hips steady, ensuring you were the one to do all the work, and the other hooked under his knee. the subtle incline you pushed it into changed the angle of how your cock dragged inside lance. his breath hitched.

"why not?" you inquired softly. there was something deceptive in it, as though your words were sweet and innocent, a current of taunting lay just below the surface. "you do look pretty like this—all worked up and i've barely started."

lance's head snapped up, his voice cracking as he spoke. "barely started?! this is so … 's so much already …"

a chuckle preceded the lewd sound of you thrusting in again slowly.

"oh, darling … there's so much more i have to show you," you murmured, hiking your boyfriend's leg to hang off your shoulder. you pressed a light kiss to his knee.

you knew better than to try too much too fast. lance was delicate. you could explore all the ways you could wreck him later; now was the time to move slowly and enjoy the scenic route.

angling carefully to hit his prostate with your dick, you settled into a rhythm of long, deep thrusts. you savoured the utterly ethereal expression your boyfriend's face. the way his eyes crossed ever so slightly, the way his lips parted, the way his normally fluffy hair stuck to his forehead with sweat—it was all so enchanting.

you knew you were teasing him.

the very nature of your movements lent themselves to a torturously gradual build of the ecstasy you were sure lance was craving. yet, he hadn't once complained about what you were giving him. he was a good boy, after all. that didn't mean you couldn't tell when he was finally–finally–approaching his climax.

"close?"

lance let out a high-pitched hum in confirmation, his eyelids drifting closed as he allowed himself to sink into the feelings. "mhm. 's good."

"yeah?" you smiled slight. maintaining your rhythm, you asked, "what do you need from me, love?"

the question seemed to take him by surprise. you couldn't imagine why—you wanted to make him feel good, so asking him how you could do that seemed like a logical step.

"mh, harder, please?" lance requested, almost shyly.

he let out a startled moan as your hips immediately snapped against his. "ngh, fuck—"

"just like that?" you smirked. your pace didn't falter for a moment, the intensity of each thrust only increasing.

lance whimpered and nodded. his back arched off the mattress, his head swimming with pleasure. "f-fuck, yes, keep–keep going …"

"use your manners, love," you teased, pulling out until just the tip of your cock rested inside your boyfriend. "been such a good boy so far, i thought you'd at least say please."

"please!" he whined. his hips jerked forward in a desperate attempt to regain the feeling he'd been chasing. "please, please, please … keep going, 'm so close …"

you smirked. you'd have to do this again just to see how quickly you could get him to beg like that. "there we go. that wasn't so hard, was it?"

without another moment's pause, you began to fuck lance at a regular pace—making sure each thrust hit his prostate. you weren't getting much physical stimulation yourself, but god, the mental stimulation from watching your affect on your boyfriend … it was almost as good. the tiniest part of your mind attempted to distract you from the euphoria by whispering how it would feel if you were a cis man. you didn't let it take over.

lance let out increasingly loud moans and whimpers the closer he got. at some point in the night, you had shifted to be kneeling on the bed with lance's head on the pillows. the different position allowed him perfect access to claw at your back whenever you leaned forward. if he'd been in his right mind, he would've been concerned about actually managing to scar you from how deep his scratches were. but lance was not in his right mind.

the sensation building was so intense that he felt it starting deep in his gut and spreading to the rest of his body. it took barely a handful more thrusts before he cried out in ecstasy.

"ah! o-oh my god, 's so … so goo–ooo–ood."

in any other scenario, lance might've been embarrassed by the way his voice cracked. the cloud of pleasure that had encased him dispelled any of that. he could barely think straight at all. when he could form a semi-coherent thought, all it would be about was how good you were making him feel. how could he possibly be thinking of anything else?

your thrusts slowed and shallowed gradually. easing lance through his orgasm, you could barely take your eyes off the spurts of cum that landed on his belly.

without even thinking, you swiped your thumb over the pool of white before bringing it up to your lips. you weren't really sure what you were expecting. whatever it was, the taste on your tongue far exceeded it. your eyes widened. the smirk on your face didn't exactly conceal your thoughts.

you hummed appreciatively before leaning down to kiss lance. the way he whimpered told you instantly that he could taste himself on your tongue.

"that …" you murmured. "… was hot."

lance nodded dazedly, only vaguely aware of the fact that you had yet to pull out. he wasn't upset about it in the slightest—just aware of it. "ngh, mhm."

his mind was a little fuzzy. the pleasure was still fizzling out in waves, a pulsing ache in his core that made him want more and more and more. lance thought he'd felt that ache before but, god, never this intensely. nothing had ever been as intense as it was with you.

you had just barely pulled out when lance immediately started reaching for you and pouting. he looked particularly insistent, but you couldn't for the life of you figure out why.

"c'mere," lance mumbled. he struggled to scoot forward to the edge of the bed before slipping onto his knees in front of you. "wanna make you feel good too."

your brain short-circuited momentarily at the sight of lance on his knees for you. with a sharp intake of breath, you threaded one hand into his hair gently. "you … yeah? you wanna?"

lance nodded and whined again. he tugged at the side of your harness, blinking up at you pleadingly.

"use your words, lance."

the words were largely instinct (what else were you supposed to say when a sub was whining at you?) but lance simply repeated the noise and huffed.

"wanna suck you off," he explained shyly.

your heart sped up by what felt like fifty beats a minute. you weren't sure what was more appealing—the idea of lance's pretty mouth on you, or the fact that he'd used an affirming phrase for head without you even needing to ask him. he was better about your transness than you'd even hoped for. regardless, you composed yourself as quickly as you could, looking down at lance with your head slightly tilted. "i thought i told you to use your manners."

"please?" lance added with a pout. "pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease?"

he continued to beg, nuzzling his head against your thigh in an attempt to win you over.

as if you'd ever refuse.

it took you longer than it usually would've to remove the harness that had allowed you to fuck lance the way you had just moments before. in your defence, it was a lot harder to be coordinated when you were rushing to get head from your boyfriend for the first time. but you got there.

when you did, lance's jaw dropped open. if you looked close enough, you could've sworn he was even drooling.

"don't catch flies, lancey," you teased. the slightly nervous tone to your voice was impossible to hide. "what're you staring for, huh?"

lance gulped, blinked, and shook his head. he looked up at you sheepishly. "it's just, um, you-you're bigger than i expected."

if that wasn't both the biggest ego boost and the most euphoric sentence you'd ever heard, you didn't know what was.

lance very clearly didn't want to waste any time. he leaned forward slightly and licked your tip, a little whine escaping him at the way your breath hitched. you tugged his hair gently and his lips parted fully. without another moment, he took your dick into his mouth and hummed happily.

your eyes fluttered shut. the warm wetness of lance's mouth enveloping your dick was borderline heavenly. his little hum certainly hadn't decreased the sensation by any means—and if you'd thought that was good, you weren't prepared for when he started actually sucking you off.

his tongue traced the underside and tip of your dick expertly. even though your dick was undoubtedly smaller than most cis guys, lance didn't let that stop him from giving you the best he had. he bobbed his head enthusiastically, licking and sucking all the while. he didn't have a full understanding of the difference between your anatomy and his own since you'd been on testosterone. but a dick was a dick, and a blowjob was a blowjob, so he figured it couldn't have been all that different.

you, on the other hand, knew the differences and you knew how much it meant to you that lance seemed to be treating you the same as he would any other guy. it wasn't like this was your first time getting head. you weren't exactly inexperienced.

… and yet it seemed the increased intensity of being with your boyfriend affected you as much as it had him.

"shit, that-that's good." you panted, making eye contact with lance as he dragged his tongue along your shaft obscenely. "good boy."

lance moaned loudly. his reaction to the simple praise caught your attention, but he didn't give you much an opportunity to dwell on it. he immediately began to suck you off with even more enthusiasm. you weren't exactly sure how that was possible, but lance had surprised you enough that evening that you didn't really question it.

"like it when i call you a good boy, huh?"

your voice came out breathily. it sounded like more of a chuckle than actual words, but it got your point across.

your boyfriend whined and nodded. he knew he liked making you happy. he had still severely underestimated how much he'd enjoy giving you head. it was oddly brain-muddling for him, having your dick in his mouth and your hand in his hair. lance loved it. he loved how close he felt to you, and he loved not only seeing but hearing that he was making you feel good.

it was barely a few more sucks before he had your knees buckling. if not for lance's hands on your thighs and your grip on his hair, you surely would've lost your balance. "f-fuck …"

lance hummed, giving your dick a few more languid sucks to help you ride out your climax. your hips bucked towards his mouth gently. you took a few deep breaths before you tugged lance up to kiss him again. his legs were still incredibly shaky from how thoroughly you had fucked him earlier, so you had to let him lean on you almost fully.

"god, lancey, that was …" you trailed off, tilting your head to leave a quick hickey below your boyfriend's jaw. "that was incredible. so fucking good at that."

he beamed in response, squirming happily when your hands found his waist. lance wound his arms around your neck and kissed your cheek with a dramatic 'mwah!' sound.

you hummed in amusement at how affectionate he was acting. it never failed to both warm and break your heart how differently your boyfriend behaved when he was out of sight of the media. how much sweeter and more vulnerable he became when he could trust that he wouldn't be attacked for it. nevertheless, you had long since resolved to just enjoy his giggly self when you could.

leaning in for one more kiss, you squeezed his waist gently and pulled away. "'kay, i'm gonna go to the bathroom and then i'll clean you up, yeah?"

"but i wanna cuddle." lance pouted. he clung to you a little tighter when you tried to separate. "don't want you to go."

"i'm coming back, silly. then we can cuddle all you like," you promised, laughing slightly as you pried him off you.

lance's nose scrunched up. he flopped back on the bed rather dramatically, peeking at you through his fingers as you walked out of the room. he huffed and whined and groaned loudly and pointedly from the second you were out of sight. if there was anything your lovely boyfriend didn't like, it was being left alone after sex. his noises of discontentment only increased in volume when you took longer than he expected.

finally, you returned with a collection of items that his hazy brain couldn't quite recognise.

one being a damp cloth that you could use to help clean the residual cum and lube that stuck to his skin, another being a glass of water, and the remainder being a couple snacks for the two of you.

handing lance the glass of water, you got to work with the damp cloth. "drink up."

"if i drink it do i get a kiss?" he bargained playfully.

you chuckled quietly and pressed a kiss to lance's now-clean tummy. "sure, love. if you drink it all, i'll give you a kiss."

your boyfriend squirmed happily. he sat up, sipping the water and watching you put on a pair of boxers before you left to put the cloth in the wash. when you got back, lance held up the empty glass victoriously before pouting his lips dramatically.

"a deal's a deal, i suppose." you sighed, faking disappointment—though the grin on your face clearly showed your boyfriend that you weren't serious. kissing lance was your favourite thing in the world. "kisses for the good boy, yeah?"

"kisses for the good boy," lance agreed.

you knelt on the bed and playfully tackled lance until he was lying flat on the bed and you were hovering over him. without another moment spared, you began to kiss all over his face. lance hummed happily and wriggled until you kissed him properly. unlike the kisses you shared earlier in the evening, it was long and sweet and gentle. still passionate, but in a very much softer way.

the two of you continued until you were gasping for breath. you flopped onto your back beside lance, looking at each other before bursting into laughter at the sight of each other so out of breath. it was one of your favourite parts of being with lance. there was just something about him that made you feel at peace. you weren't sure if you'd ever be able to describe it in any way other than, "god, i'm so in love with you."

lance blinked. it wasn't the first time you'd told him you loved him. it was, however, the first time he'd heard you say it with such … finality. like you were certain it was true and would remain true for the rest of your life. like lance had taken up a permanent residence in your universe. like he had his very own star in your sky.

"i love you too," he said softly, leaning forward to kiss you again.

you smiled cheekily and sat up to grab one of the little post-sex snacks you'd gotten for yourself and your boyfriend. "even more than dilfs?"

he couldn't help but laugh. it was a running joke in your relationship that lance was loved dilfs—your proof was how he acted with sebastian and fernando as his teammates, even if lance denied it. you'd even gotten him a croptop that read 'certified dilf hunter' that lance swore up and down he hated. and still wore at least twice a week at home.

"more than dilfs," he agreed, accepting the snack you handed him. "more than everything."

as you cuddled up to watch a sitcom on your laptop, lance was feeling particularly grateful. the best relationship he'd ever been in with the best sex he'd ever had … what more could he possibly ask for?

©thekoalapastriesbakery :: please do not copy or rewrite my work on any platform!!

author's note: asdfghjklmnbvcxz thank you spoon <3

comments + reblogs appreciated!

taglist: @raizelchrysanderoctavius @crispysoup318 @op-81-lvr-reblogs @ncrsbrg @spoonfulofmilo @justaf1girl @widow-cevans

[lazycats-stuff]

Hi, I wanted to ask if you could make a batbro who is a clone of batman and supermam and the batfamily and the superfamily fight over who will get him (you can also make him a few months younger than damian and jon and also a cute moment with families please)

Sure, of course I can. They would totally fight. Absolutely everyone. I'm running out of gif ideas... I don't know what to do anymore... Also, this is under Clark kent masterlist, just to let everyone know... I the batfam list is getting too long... I don't know what to do anymore.

Summary: (Y/N) is a clone of Superman and Batman. Fighting ensues.

Warnings: none really, just a (Y/N) clone, nothing graphic or anything in that matter.

Superman and Batman has found that that Lex Luthor has been making clones, yet again. However, Lex has decided to spice the situation up. How, I might hear you asking? With Conner, Lex only used Bruce's DNA. Aka Batman's. Turns out that the boy was growing up like a normal child, in terms of development. However...

That doesn't mean that his childhood was anything but normal. Bring prodded, examined... Being taught how to use his powers to be a weapon. He wasn't being treated like a normal person, a human, should be treated. The fact that (Y/N) grew up physically like a child, meant that they had more time to manipulate (Y/N).

Bruce was appalled at the news of having a clone made from his own DNA and Clark, however, he was livid when he saw that (Y/N) was growing like a normal child, physically, so that would mean he is young.

Younger then Damian and Jon... Bruce nearly exploded with anger once he saw (Y/N), so young, so afraid... Damian was older by a couple of months. Superman was disgusted by Lex Luthor and has vowed to bring him down somehow. No matter what it took. And it tugged at his heart too. Jon was also a few months older than (Y/N).

Both fathers saw red. Pure and utter red. Clones are still human beings... Seeing (Y/N) so afraid, utterly terrified of them... Bruce, despite his code, wanted to rip Lex's throat out. He really wanted to. Clark was no better either.

Thankfully, karma has hit Lex. Bruce and Clark woke up in their respective cities on morning, when the breaking news hit. Bruce was confused. Crime in Gotham happen during the night. Rarely during the day. Only if it's something that involves the Justice League.

So, Bruce was curious and decided to watch the news.

Tax invasion. Damn tax evasion. And a whole lot more of financial crimes. Bruce had to sit down in the living room, on his arm chair.

" Who would have thought... The bastard is also greedy. " Jason mutter from the kitchen, sipping some coffee to fully wake up.

" Deja vu of Al Capone. Couldn't get Lex on meta human trafficking and what not, but on finances. " Tim said and Dick chuckled at the comparison. Al Capone, a big mafia boss, brought down by the all mighty IRS. And now Lex too.

" It seems so. These are nice news, " Damian said as he sipped his tea.

" I agree Damian. This is a nice way to actually start your morning... Did Titus eat? " Bruce asked, bringing his mug up to sip his coffee.

" Yup. He is now out and about playing with Pennyworth, " Damian said, referencing the cat, not the person.

" Okay. " Bruce then stood up, cracking his neck. " I'm going to the League, I need to check on (Y/N) and how he is doing. And don't worry, we are having our movie night. " Bruce reassured everyone as he finished his coffee and put it in the sink for Alfred.

" How is he doing anyway? " Jason asked and Bruce shrugged his shoulders.

" We are trying our best, but he is still scared. " Bruce explained and everyone nodded.

" That's no surprise. " Damian said as he finished up his tea. Bruce nodded, getting ready to leave the room.

" Please don't fight. Any of you. " Bruce said before he left the room, making everyone chuckle.

" (Y/N) is staying with us Bruce! End of the discussion! " Clark raised his voice, making Bruce scoff. It's been a few weeks since Lex Luthor was arrested and (Y/N) has been doing much better, so much so that there was a big difference. And it was noticeable. (Y/N) talked more, tried to smile more...

Everyone stepped up for him and tried to make him as comfortable as possible. Once (Y/N) got better in every aspect of that word, talks about where he would live after he was stable enough to be released. At first it started objectively, but as time passed, both families have gotten attached.

And that's why this argument was going on.

On one side, you have Clark and his 'Superfamily' on one side and you have Batman and his 'Batfamily.' Both patriarchs of the families argued with everything in them, trying to keep (Y/N) with them. Conner and Jon were ready toe to toe with the bat boys and vice versa.

" What can you do to help him? And if you bring up Conner as experience in clones, I'm going to use Kryptonite on you and make sure you can't get out of bed for the next 10 years! I know all of your weak spots! " Bruce threatened making Clark scoff.

" Oh please, I know all of your weak spots too! (Y/N) would benefit more in Metropolis than Gotham! More so on in our household! Your boys fight every chance they get! "

Bruce and Clark continued to bicker, both of them standing their grounds. The 'bat boys' glared at Clark and Damian was ready to fight with Jon. The other 3 were ready to take Conner on.

" What's going on? " (Y/N) asked as he came in, hearing all the commotion, even from the hall. Everyone froze and started acted friendlier, not as if they were just arguing like cats and dogs.

" Nothing, we are just talking about where you should live. " Bruce explained and (Y/N) nodded.

" Do you have a preference? About where you want to live? With me or Bruce? " Clark asked and (Y/N) tilted his head, clearly thinking about it.

(Y/N) loved them both equally. He was not really sure with whom he wanted to live with.

" What about I spend some time with one and some time with another? " (Y/N) proposed and everyone stopped for a second to think.

That isn't a bad idea.

" Paired with his online schooling once he starts... I like it. " Clark said and Bruce nodded, also agreeing with this idea.

" Good thinking (Y/N). " Bruce said. Clark and Bruce could work around this. The best option would be 6 months with Clark and 6 months with Bruce.

" How about a group hug? " (Y/N) suggested, making everyone jump in, ready to hug it out. Bruce and Clark joined last, hugging their boys too.

" Why didn't we think of this idea? " Clark asked and Bruce chuckled.

" Because we are idiots apparently. " Bruce answered and both chuckled.

" I guess we are. " Clark confirmed.

" Yeah, you are. " (Y/N) chimed in, making everyone laugh. " You could have just asked me what I preferred. " (Y/N) said and everyone nodded.

" I guess we should have. " Bruce said, reaching to pat (Y/N)'s head.

[pheracy]

Can you do headcanons for kuroo from haikyuu?

Kuroo Tetsurou ☁️ headcanons

He does the Wordle of the day when he's bored or when he's waiting for the subway.

He'd be open to letting his partner paint his nails, preferably black.

In case of having a pet, he'll take care of a Dobermann dog.

He's the type of guy to be in a long-term relationship; once he's with someone, he doesn't care about other suitors.

He never skips breakfast.

His favorite k-pop boy group is Monsta X, and he adores DPR IAN's music.

He actually cares about his outfits and loves wearing the most fashionable swimsuits to the beach.

He'd planned a food tour visiting the most famous chiringuitos in Andalucía (Southern Spain) and eating espetos (skewered and grilled fish, typically sardines, on a stick over an open fire on the beach).

He'd take all his Nekoma teammates to play beach volleyball every summer.

He would convince Kenma to go together to have a pair of glasses made for them since Kenma gets too much screen time, and Kuroo usually reads at night on his phone before going to sleep.

He was truly nervous when he had to say his now traditional peptalk about Nekoma's being the blood and oxygen. He rehearsed the speech several days before in his head non-stop and when it worked when he said it with the team, he was super happy.

When he's with friends and they say to take a group pic, they always ask Kuroo to hold the phone.

His back is gigantic and really strong.

He always sleeps with his bedroom door closed.

He'd ask Kai and Kenma for advice when he's overthinking and then Yaku for a second opinion.

He has a scar in his shoulder that didn't heal properly.

He admires Jungkook from BTS and gets inpired by his outfits to make his own.

He's one of the most loyal people you could find.

He definitely talks to animals he encounters on the street "hey little birdie".

He loves his grandparents more than anything in the world.

He had social anxiety as a child and got super excited whenever he made a friend.

Doesn't comb his hair but has a skin care routine.

He puts ketchup to fish dishes.

Kenma introduced him to ASMR and he's obsessed now.

His love language is quality time and words of affirmation.

It's very hard for him to talk about how things were at home when he was growing up.

Note: Thank you so much for this request! Kuroo's my fav hq boy and I love him to the core. I hope you find these headcanons kinda accurate and entertaining. I've loved making them and getting to know him a bit better through my mind. Thanks again for asking for it <3

📬∿ Requests are open and much appreciated! You can read the fandoms I'm in to ask for a poem, headcanons, lil fics and more in English or Spanish.

⏤⏤ ✎ Headcanons masterlist 💭

Credits: divider by @saradika-graphics ♡ banner template by @tinytowns

[alsofoundinpeas]

I Don't Need To Know

Summary: Spencer Reid has no choice but to watch the love of his life fall in love with another man. 

CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI!! This fic is intended for adult audiences. Major character death. HEAVY angst. Bittersweet ending? Graphic depictions of violence (for maybe two lines). Fingering (f receiving). P in v sex/unprotected sex (in terms of a condom, birth control is mentioned). Loss of virginity (both m and f). Creampie (god I hate that word ugh!!). Slight age gap (roughly five years). Argument scene that may be triggering for readers that have experienced SA or manipulation from a partner (nothing of that nature actually happens, but just in case).

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader/afab!reader

A/N: This is inspired by Will He by Joji, so I highly recommend listening to it while reading. I cried several times while writing this, but I felt it needed to be done so here it is. :’) Please tell me what you think! If you enjoy it, please like, reblog, and share it with your friends! <3 Thank you and I love you all :) (I also ask that my work not be uploaded to other platforms or translated without my explicit permission. Thank you!)

I got knots all up in my chest… Just know, I’m trying my best…

Spencer had always found the saying “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If not, it was never meant to be” absurd. He couldn’t fathom willingly letting go of something he loved on the off chance that it would come back to him. Not after having everything he’d ever loved ripped from his clutches throughout his lifetime. To him, love wasn’t about releasing someone to see if they’d return. It was about holding on as though his very survival depended on it—like a feral cat finally finding food after days of hunger, sinking its teeth in and never letting go, no matter the cost. 

It wasn’t until today that Spencer finally understood the meaning of that stupid phrase. And he wished with every intricate thread of his being that he didn’t. 

Five years. Five long, agonizing years had passed. So why was he here now? Why, after what felt like an eternity of pleading for just one more moment with her, did the universe decide now was the time to give him what he wanted? 

Ironically, the timing only drove home another phrase he’d always hated: “Be careful what you wish for.” 

There she was, as beautiful as the day he’d met her, sitting in the corner of what had once been their favorite café. The sunlight streaming through the windows catches on her ring, the enticing glinting of the jewelry drawing his eyes away from her face momentarily. His heart is in his throat. She’s still wearing the wedding ring he’d given her, twisting it in the same nervous fashion she always used to. 

And there across from her is a man that isn’t him making her smile. 

‘Cause when you look… When you laugh… When you smile… I’ll bring you back…

Spencer Reid had never been a particularly angry man. He had his moments—who didn’t?—but he usually considered himself level-headed, patient. But now, watching Y/N hide a bashful smile behind the rim of her mug as she gazed at the man across from her, all Spencer could feel was rage. Raw, unbridled rage. It flared up inside him as her head tipped back, the sound of her laughter crashing over him like a tidal wave, stirring his veins with a violent rush. The same sound he’d yearned to hear again for five fucking years. And it was all because of him—Ben. 

That was his girl. His perfect, beautiful girl. The love of his life. His angel. 

All Spencer could do was stand there, feeling every broken shard of his non-existent heart pierce his chest. 

And now I’m sad… And I’m a mess… And now we high… That’s why I left… That’s why I left…

It wasn’t meant to be like this. Spencer had never wanted to leave her. But that choice wasn’t his to make. 

That cold, cruel September night six years ago had robbed Spencer of his very existence. 

Everything that could have gone wrong during that case did. The bullet wasn’t meant for him, but he took it anyway. He had traded his life in exchange for JJ’s. It wasn’t even meant to be heroic. It wasn’t done out of love. It was just instinct. It’s who he was as a person. 

Was. 

The word leaves a bitter taste in the back of his throat. Because that’s his reality now. He was a person; an agent, a professor, a son, a husband…

Now he’s… well, that he didn’t quite understand. As a man of science, Spencer was stumped by what he could even call his existence now. Calling himself a ghost felt silly—he felt as alive as the day he’d died. And yet, that was essentially what he was. A whisper of the person he’d once been. A soul caught between worlds. 

Spencer could still feel the exact moment his soul wrenched free from its physical tether to the world. Even recalling it sent a shiver down his spine. It hadn’t been peaceful, as so many people claimed in interviews. No… it had been agony in its purest form; white hot and searing as his very essence clawed its way out from his ribs. There was no light waiting for him to step into it and find peace.

Instead, he had watched helplessly as the team he called his family swarmed his dead body, uselessly screaming for a medic as the crimson puddle underneath him grew and smeared beneath their hands as they knelt beside him. He had watched Y/N swing open their door that fateful night, the excited grin on her face vanishing as she came face to face with a tearful Emily instead of the husband she’d been eagerly waiting for. And he had watched the guilt eat away at JJ as their eyes met at his funeral, the hatred on Y/N’s face so raw it made Spencer’s own stomach twist. 

Despite the Bureau's insistence, she took charge of every detail—planning his funeral in a way that honored everything Spencer would have wanted. Y/N held Diana as she wept over her baby boy's body. She delivered a eulogy that left even Spencer in shambles. She was the first person to arrive and the last to leave, waiting until everyone had left to sink to her knees beside his casket and howl her grievances. 

For that first year, Y/N was as strong as she could be during the day. She handled everything that needed to be done, as long as the sun was still up. But when night fell, and the suffocating silence of their empty home settled in… that’s when she’d finally let herself break. 

Spencer had never been a religious man, but the year after his death felt like an endless descent into his own personal hell. He would never escape the sound of those gut-wrenching screams. He cursed whatever force had condemned him to an eternity where he could do nothing but watch, powerless as Y/N crumpled to the floor night after night, her wails so desperate it seemed as though she thought breaking the sound barrier might somehow bring him back to life. 

All he could do was stay beside her, silently pleading for his touch to somehow reach her, his hands brushing over her again and again, unnoticed and unfelt. 

Time was no longer a concept to Spencer. 

The limits of his existence perplexed him. He couldn’t roam freely, couldn’t go where he pleased—he could only follow where Y/N went. It was as if his very soul was bound to hers, linked by some invisible string that kept him tied to her even in death. It brought him both joy and sorrow: joy in the fact that he could still watch her, still admire the way she carried on, and sorrow because she would never know he was there, silently urging her forward, so incredibly proud of her strength. 

The longer he lingered, the more control he gained over his abilities. It started with the smallest things—a strand of hair lifting with the brush of his fingers, a faint chill against her skin as he cradled her face while she slept. But soon, it became more. Doors creaked open as he stepped into rooms behind her, and objects shifted ever so slightly from their places when he pushed with just enough force. 

There were times when she seemed to sense him—moments Spencer cherished more than anything. In those fleeting instances, it felt as though she could see him, even though he knew she couldn’t. Every day, rain or shine, she visited his grave, and when she spoke to him, her gaze would drift forward, as if she were looking into the honey-colored eyes she once loved. Her hands would rest open in her lap, as though she knew he was holding them. When she was home, she’d speak aloud every thought that came to mind, as though she knew he could hear every word that fell from her perfect lips. And he always responded as if she could hear him in return. That was their new life for the first year after his death. 

After a year and one day, he was gone. 

That’s where his understanding of the phrase “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If not, it was never meant to be” came from. It was because she had set him free. 

One whole year had passed. The hardest year of Y/N’s life. She had knelt by his grave, laying fresh flowers with trembling hands, her tears falling freely for hours. When she finally stood to leave, her legs unsteady beneath her, she pressed a soft kiss to his headstone. Through her tears, she whispered how much she missed him, how he never left her thoughts, and how she’d never stop loving him—but above all, she wished he could be at peace. And on the night following the anniversary of his passing, her wish was granted. He had faded into nothingness, existing only in her dreams and memories for five long years. 

But now, he was back. Because he had always been hers. 

Will your tongue still remember the taste of my lips? Will your shadow remember the swing of my hips? 

Spencer remembered their first time like it was yesterday, though he wasn’t sure if he could thank his eidetic memory or the fact that it was because of how remarkable it had been for the memory lingering so vividly...

“You’re lying! You’ve really never had sex before?” 

Y/N squawked the words incredulously as she sat atop Spencer’s lap, grinning down at the stammering mess of a man beneath her. Spencer’s hands flexed against her hips, unintentionally squeezing as he took a deep breath to calm himself. 

They were inside Spencer’s apartment, having enjoyed the museum and dinner but still craving each other’s company too badly to end the night there. What started as sweet, innocent pecks pressed up against the kitchen counter had quickly devolved into ravenous, passionate kisses that had them stumbling towards the couch. It was going so well… until Spencer panicked after Y/N had whispered into his ear asking how far he wanted things to go. 

That resulted in him spewing out the fact that he, at twenty-six years old, was a virgin.

“No, I haven’t! Why is that so hard to believe?” Spencer huffs, his small smile belying his annoyed tone. 

It was their sixth date total in a span of four months, but it was their first date as an actual couple. Spencer had reluctantly agreed to let Penelope set him up on a blind date after his failed attempt at taking JJ out had shattered any of the confidence he’d built up, leaving the man petrified of taking his chances romantically again. He suspected Penelope’s pity for him was why she was setting up said date to begin with, but he quickly found himself grateful that he went. 

Y/N had been friends with Penelope for years, having bonded online over some indie punk rock band that was no longer around and developing a close friendship from there despite their age difference. When Penelope found out Y/N had moved to Virginia and was single, she couldn’t resist setting the two up. 

It’s Y/N’s turn to stammer as she quickly thinks of a response. “I, uh… you’re just so handsome that I naturally assumed you’d had sex before.” 

Spencer blinks up at her skeptically, trying to detect even the faintest clue that the otherworldly woman in his lap was lying to him. All he found was nervous adoration as she stared back down at him, her cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of pink. It suited her. He wanted to cause it more often. 

“I had, um… I graduated super early from both high school and college, so I didn’t do much dating.” 

Instead of the judgment Spencer expected to see spread across her face, Y/N simply just hummed in understanding, her eyes curious as they watched him. He’d elaborate more on his unfortunate (for lack of a better term) adolescence later. For now, he just wanted to keep from scaring the poor girl off of his lap so he could taste her sweet chapstick again. 

“I see…” Y/N murmurs before continuing, shifting forward slightly with a smirk. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m also a virgin.” 

Spencer’s eyes widened almost comically as he gawked up at her. His heart stutters in his chest, his mouth going dry. His tongue pokes out in a meek attempt at wetting his lips, his voice cracking as he responds. 

“Et tu, Y/N?” 

Oh fuck. Spencer hadn’t meant to let the lame reference slip from his mouth. She just made him so nervous that he couldn’t think straight, and Rome had been heavily on his mind since she had perched herself in his lap. Specifically Roman goddesses, because she looked like she should be amongst them on their thrones. Surely she was going to leave now—-

Loud, genuine laughter bubbles from Y/N’s lips, the noise startling Spencer as she tips her head back and her hands grip his shoulders to stabilize herself. She thought it was funny. She thought he was funny. 

“That’s, like, the last thing I expected you to say,” Y/N managed once her laughter had simmered down into giggles. “But, to answer your question… I too have really never had sex before.” 

Spencer knew that it wasn’t due to a lack of suitors. The woman was sex personified; the archetype of beauty and seduction wrapped into one perfect being. The twitching in his pants brought his attention back to the situation at hand. He could ask her later why that was. For now, he brought his focus back to her. 

In an uncharacteristically bold move, Spencer tilted his head up to brush their noses together. “Would you… would you want to?” 

It didn’t take a profiler to notice the hitch in her breath or the almost imperceptible squeezing of her thighs around his hips. Her pupils were already blown, her lower lip trembling from what Spencer prayed was anticipation and not regret as his question settled over her. The silence stretched between them, the seconds feeling like hours in Spencer’s overly anxious mind. 

He’d done it now. He’d gone off and opened his stupid mouth and frightened the one woman he could actually see himself having a future with because the head straining against his zipper overruled the head housing his supposed genius level IQ. The apologies were already forming in the back of his throat, but they weren’t needed because she— she was kissing him? 

“God, yes. Please,” Y/N murmured eagerly against his lips, effectively clearing every cohesive thought from his brain. 

If Spencer thought her words were enough to bring upon his undoing, he was sorely mistaken. The grinding of her hips against his erection ignited something inside of him that he had no idea existed. It was feral, drowning out all of his other emotions and replacing them with one thing: primal, unfiltered desire. 

Spencer understood now why men used to start wars over women. 

With each gasp that fell upon his ears, Spencer pledged his allegiance to her. Every stuttered moan that came into existence from his hips rutting up into her clothed core fueled his devotion to her. It was animalistic, the way his hands gripped her ass and pulled her tighter against his body as his mouth devoured her now, every cell swimming through his veins screaming for more. More of her touch, more of her taste, more of her sounds... God, those heavenly sounds that had Spencer finally believing in salvation, if only in the form of her skin against his.  

Tongues danced together as layers were hastily stripped away. Layers of insecurity. Layers of self-doubt. Layers of uncertainty. Their clothes fell to the ground as though the fabric burned them, clumsy hands fidgeting with buttons and tugging at zippers with a vendetta. 

Those layers that had crumbled so easily were replaced instead with the firm knowledge that this was exactly where they were meant to be: in each other’s arms, trembling and panting as their world’s trajectory tilted so violently it uprooted them from their upright position, knocking them down against the leather cushions as their bodies attempted to mend their separated souls back into one. 

Spencer choked on the words he wanted to worship her with, so instead he used the most primitive sense he could to get his message across: touch. His lips sucked purpling reminders into the crook of her neck of what they both knew to be true now: He is hers just as much as she is his. Lithe fingers tugged the soaked fabric of her lace panties down until they landed in a heap with their other clothes. Those same fingers pause at the crest of her most intimate spot, his eyes meeting hers with a silent plea. 

Y/N found herself in the same position, her words failing her as they were strangled in her throat by the overwhelming adoration she felt for the man hovering above her. Instead of chanting her desire for Spencer to please touch her, she canted her hips up in approval. 

Her moans were swallowed by swollen lips that claimed the sound straight from her body as nimble fingers dug themselves into the deepest parts of her. Their rhythm was clumsy but steadfast, her hips bucking against his hand in jerky movements as the palm of his hand pressed against her clit. Spencer’s own hips ground against the bare skin of her thigh, shielded only by the immature fabric of his equation-covered boxers. 

Spencer hadn’t for a second thought the night was going to go like this. If he had known he’d have the definition of art itself clawing at his shoulders and panting into his mouth while he made her legs tremble beneath him, he wouldn’t have worn what he deemed his lucky boxers. At least they had done their job, he supposed. 

Their lips separated completely as a guttural moan wrenched its way from Y/N’s throat, her body beginning to thrash wildly underneath him as the tension in her lower belly coiled tighter. Spencer wouldn’t allow her first time to happen on his couch. She was much too precious for that. But he’d already made the decision to unravel her at least once while they were there, to bring her over the edge before taking her into his bedroom so that he could experience the glorious sight of her falling apart more than once tonight. 

Spencer was a virgin, not a prude. He’d seen porn before. He’d read erotic novels. Anything he could use to try to prepare himself for the real experience, he did. But nothing could have prepared him for the downright visceral reaction Y/N had as his fingers curled and brushed against the rough patch of skin inside of her that caused the tension building in her body to snap. Her cries of pleasure tore through him as her pussy clenched around his fingers, his free hand leaving its place beside her head to keep her thighs pried open. He quickly shifted up onto his knees to watch her taking his fingers as she came, taking the pleasure he inflicted upon her. 

He sang her praises while slowing his pace, cooing softly at her as he stroked her hair and worked her through the aftershocks of her orgasm. Only when she was squirming and whining beneath him did he finally remove his fingers, sucking them into his mouth greedily. Y/N’s mouth gaped open as her chest heaved, her eyes locked on Spencer as his tongue lapped over his fingers, enjoying her essence with a groan. Her body sagged into the couch, a delighted laugh spilling from her exhausted frame as she smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling in the dim light of his living room. 

“Do you still want to keep going?” Spencer breathed as he gazed down at her, his cheeks flushed and eyes full of something that made Y/N's heart flutter. “B-because we can stop there if you want. I just… I want to do what makes you happy.” 

Above her was the man she’d recognized, soft and timid, but now with a newfound air of confidence in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Above her was the man that she wanted more than anything. Above her was the man that she knew, without a shadow of doubt, would be her husband. 

“Spencer… if you don’t fuck me right now, then I’ll die a virgin, right here on your couch... and it will be all your fault.” 

Spencer’s hearty chuckles filled the room, his nose twitching as he grinned down at the dramatic woman. He simply couldn’t let that be her fate, could he? 

Shaking his head, he stooped down to press a gentle kiss to her nose before standing from the couch, offering her his (clean) hand. Y/N’s face twisted in confusion as she stared up at him, still reeling from the earth-shattering orgasm surprisingly given to her by the same man who’d eagerly rambled about the lore behind Doctor Who on their first date when she’d mentioned she hadn’t seen it. 

“Not here, silly girl. The bedroom,” He whispered. 

He guided her down the dark hallway as though he were escorting the most priceless treasure known to man to his bed, and in his eyes, he was. His hand stayed steady on her hip as she swayed lightly, her body pressed into his side as he opened the door with shaky hands. Any confidence Spencer had managed to muster throughout the night vanished as they crossed the threshold into his bedroom, his teeth gnawing at his lower lip gently as his courage began to crack. 

In an almost startling display of being seen, something Spencer had never experienced before, Y/N looped her arms around his neck and tugged him into a kiss that simultaneously stole the breath from his lungs and filled him with the air he needed to breathe again, effectively calming his nerves.

“It’s okay,” She reassured him against his lips. “It’s just me.” 

She walked them backward until the backs of her knees pressed into his cool comforter, taking over where Spencer so willingly handed her the reigns while he regained his momentum. She sat on the edge of his bed, her hands pressed into his hips to keep him from following after her. Her eyes met his, the moonlight streaming through his bedroom window illuminating her as though she were a vision, a figment of his imagination that he’d conjured up in the dead of night, ready to haunt his every waking moment once he inevitably woke up to an empty bed. She was too good to be true. 

Spencer’s hands fell to rest on her shoulders, just to give himself proof that Y/N was real and that he hadn’t dreamed her up or somehow followed in his mother’s footsteps and succumbed to early onset schizophrenia. 

She was real and she was here, eye level with the tent in his boxers and naked as the day she was born, her warm breath fanning across the smattering of hair trailing down from his belly button to below his underwear. His muscles tensed and twitched as she smirked up at him, pressing a tender kiss to the head of his cock through the thin fabric. His entire body flinched from that one touch, his brows furrowing together as he hissed quietly. 

“N-not that I wouldn’t love to feel your mouth on me—“ Spencer’s pitch raised as her hands found the elastic of his waistband, pulling his boxers down his legs. “But I… I won’t last if you do.” 

The fondness in her eyes quelled any humiliation he felt from having uttered those words. 

Placing a kiss to his hip, she nodded in understanding before shuffling backwards to lay in the middle of his bed, with him kneeling onto the mattress after her. The sight of her— stretched out and languid and looking at him as if she wanted to ravage him— had him sending up a silent ‘thank you’ to whatever in the universe had deemed him worthy enough of having this divine of a woman in his life. 

As Spencer reaches for his nightstand to grab a condom, Y/N stammers, grabbing his attention. He watches for a moment as she flounders over her words, his brow furrowing in concern at her sudden diffidence. 

“Are you sure you still want to do this?”

“I’m on birth control if you want to skip the condom!” 

Spencer inhales sharply at the same time she smiles sheepishly up at him, her blurted words almost making him finish before they’d even started. He holds her gaze, tracing her irises for any hint of hesitancy. When he finds none, he nods once, swallowing hard. 

“I— uh. Um...” 

It was rare that Spencer Reid was rendered speechless, but Y/N had managed to do it with just eleven words. He clears his throat, trying again. 

“Yes. Yes, I would like to skip the condom. Only if you’re absolutely sure that’s what you want.” 

“Yes. It is. I pinky promise.” 

Y/N holds up her pinky for him, the sight so endearing he can practically feel his heart melt away, dripping in a sticky mess inside him. He just grins, linking his pinky with hers before he moves to settle over her once more. 

Her fingers tangle themselves in his hair as his elbows dig into the mattress beside her ribs. The flushed head of his cock bumps against her clit as he reaches down to line himself up at her entrance, a small whine leaving her lips at the sensation. He repeats the action, dizzy from the sound of her soft noises. She was still soaked from their time on the couch, a small feeling of pride welling in Spencer’s chest at the knowledge that not only did he make her cum, but he’d kept her wet while they made it here. 

His lips meet hers in a searing kiss, the both of them quivering with anticipation at giving themselves so intimately to someone for the first time. He was happy it was her. And she was happy it was him. 

Spencer couldn’t remember a time where his mind had ever been quiet. All he knew was incessant thoughts and worries, unable to put a halt to the chaos jumbling around his brain. But as he pressed forward and sunk into Y/N for the first time, his entire mind went blank. White static crowded the spaces where various facts and tidbits of information had been stored, the only thing he was able to focus on now being the sheer ecstasy coursing through his body from being inside of her. 

His mouth hung open as his eyes rolled back into his head, his hips stilling as they pressed flush against hers. She mirrored his response, squeaking out an “oh!” as her walls fluttered around the intrusion instinctively. He throbbed in response, his head dropping to rest in the crook of her neck, unable to stop the pitiful whimper that escaped from behind clenched teeth. 

She was so tight. So wet. So warm. 

Sparks of pleasure zinged up and down his spine as he remained still, waiting patiently for Y/N to adjust to both his size and to the feeling of being filled for the first time in general. He’d wait as long as she needed him to. All he wanted was for her to feel good. To enjoy this as much as he was. 

He was a humble man, truly. But even he wasn’t too shy to admit he’d been gifted with a size that was bigger than average. Not necessarily just in length, falling just shy of seven inches, but in girth as well.  

Spencer peppered soft kisses up and down her flushed skin, feeling her rapid pulse beneath his lips. He was sure she could feel his own heartbeat pounding against his ribs from where their bare chests were pressed together. Her nipples were taut, pressing into his skin enticingly. He wanted to touch them. Taste them. But he’d wait until she was ready. He didn’t want to overwhelm her. 

At her gentle nod, Spencer lifted his head to press his forehead against hers, their lips brushing together as he pulls his hips back. The sensation of her grip tightening in his hair as he pushed forward does more to him than he’d care to admit, but he still lets her hear just how affected he is by her. With a shaky moan, Spencer repeats the motion, easing out of her before gently rocking back into her. He keeps this up for a few minutes, her sharp breaths dissolving into muted moans of her own. 

“You can— you can move faster if y-you want.” 

Spencer’s eyes flutter shut at her words, and he’s pressing a fervent kiss to her lips before he begins to really move. The sound of skin smacking together begins to fill the air as he ruts his hips into hers, his walls bearing witness to every pleasured noise that spills between them. His pace is frenzied, his rhythm stuttered, but it feels so good that neither of them really care. 

Y/N’s nails roamed his body now, alternating between dragging harsh lines into the planes of his back and burying into his shoulders to leave little tender half moons in their wake. Spencer yearned to pull every single noise that he could from her throat, planting his hands beside her head and hefting himself up for better leverage before his lips wrapped around her right nipple. He sucks harshly at the pert bud, reveling in the desperate whimper it causes. 

Spencer grunts when she clenches around him, letting his mouth glide over to her neglected breast, his hips hammering into hers now as she cries out his name over and over. He was close… so, so close. But he needed to make her cum one more time before he’d allow himself to. He needed to know what it felt like for her to fall apart around his cock. With every ounce of willpower he had, Spencer slows his hips to a stop inside of her. 

Y/N whined her discontent at his sudden pause, her eyes opening to blink hazily up at him. “Why’d you… why’d you stop?” She panted, her fingers finding and twisting her own nipples as if she couldn’t help but to touch herself. 

Spencer muffled a curse at the sight, sitting back on his haunches as he stared down at the woman beneath him with reverence. 

“Flip onto your stomach for me, angel.”

She does as instructed, wiggling her hips coyly as Spencer grabs a pillow from the head of the bed and stuffs it underneath her hips to prop her up better, ensuring she’d be comfortable. Once she’s settled on her front, Spencer wasted no time in pressing himself back into her, both of them releasing a moan so loud he’s surprised the walls don’t shake. Thank God he didn’t have neighbors right now. 

He eased himself down so his chest is pressed to her back, lavishing her neck and shoulder in open mouthed kisses while his hips drilled into her. This angle was deeper, allowing him to plow directly into her g-spot as she writhed and begged incoherently beneath him. He laced his left hand with hers, shoving them into his mattress. His other hand stuffed itself between the pillow and her wriggling body until the pads of his fingers found her clit, his breath coming out in sharp pants into her ear. 

Y/N felt delirious with pleasure, bucking her hips back in a feeble attempt to meet his. He began whispering into her ear about how good she felt around him, thanking her for allowing him to fuck her, praising her for taking him so well… 

His words paired with his fingers circling her clit have her second orgasm ripping through her body with so much ferocity that tears begin to fall down her cheeks, her eyes squeezing shut and her hand clutching his so tightly her knuckles whitened as she wailed into a pillow, gushing around him. 

Spencer let out his own guttural moan at the feeling, spilling into her with a shout as he planted his head between her shoulder blades, his hips weakly thrusting into her as they rode out their climaxes. 

He held her until her tremors stopped. He kissed her forehead before he darted off to the bathroom to get a warm rag to clean her with. He thanked her in soft whispers as her eyes began to drift shut before he’d even finished cleaning his mess between her thighs. 

And he knew, watching the gorgeous woman before him sleep so soundly in his bed after they’d just defiled each other’s innocence, that he was looking at his future wife. 

Will your lover caress you the way that I did? Will you notice my charm if he slips up one bit? 

The air was thick with tension as Y/N stared at Ben, her chest heaving and eyes watering at the hurt look on his face. Spencer watched from the corner, his concern for his wife outweighing the jealousy he had previously felt when he watched the couple slip into her— though he still selfishly thought of it as their— bed. Y/N had been dating Ben for three months now. That made for three months that Spencer ached so heavily he’d sometimes wish he could fade back into nothingness if it meant he didn’t have to watch the love of his life with another man. 

The furthest Ben and Y/N had gone physically was a few pecks here and there, with Y/N always being the one to draw away and cut the kisses short. Ben had played the nice guy act, reassuring her that he understood her hesitance and that he’d be okay doing whatever she was comfortable with. Spencer despised him. He could see right through Ben’s facade, and if he could do more than nudge a door open, he’d make that hatred known. But he couldn’t. 

Spencer watched on with furrowed brows as Y/N reached a shaky hand over and turned the lamp on her nightstand on, illuminating the dark room in a soft glow that contrasted with the dark energy that began to cloud the small space. Spencer could see it all on Ben’s face: hurt, betrayal, anger. He could see the fear, guilt, and shame on Y/N’s. 

This was the first night Y/N had tried to push past her discomfort so that she could offer Ben more than just false promises of physical intimacy. It started slow, with soft kisses that dissolved into hungrier ones as they laid together in the dark. But the second Ben went to roll on top of her, sliding a hand down her body to pull her hips against his, she panicked. Her body jolted, and her hands had shot out instinctively to shove him off of her, leaving them where they were now in some sort of silent standoff. 

Spencer knew as soon as it had happened just why it did. She had thought of him. His guilt overruled the smug pleasure he’d felt as he watched it unfold. As painful as it had been watching Y/N move on with her life, all he ultimately wanted was for her to be happy. Spencer had been barely thirty-five when he passed, and she had only been thirty. That left almost an entire lifetime ahead for her, and even though he so desperately wanted to have lived that lifetime with her, he had to accept that that wasn’t what fate had in store for them. 

“I-I’m sorry-”

“What the fuck is your problem?” 

Spencer’s jaw tightened at the same time Y/N’s dropped. 

“Excuse me?” Y/N leveled Ben with a narrowed glare, rage flashing in her eyes in place of the shame that had just been there. 

“I get that you have a dead husband. I’ve tried to be patient with you. But fuck! It's been six years, Y/N. It’s time for you to move on,” Ben seethes, his face reddening with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “I can’t even touch you without you flinging me off of you!” 

It’s as though Y/N is the exact physical embodiment of Spencer’s own emotions, physically reacting in the way that he can’t. She was out of the bed before Spencer could even blink, marching over to the bedroom door and yanking it open. Ben watches in bewilderment, his mind clearly not catching up with what was happening. 

“Get out of my fucking house.” 

Y/N’s voice is cold as she stares menacingly at Ben. When he doesn’t move, she speaks again, her voice louder. “Get out of my fucking house, Ben!” 

Ben stammers, standing from the bed and attempting to plead his case. “Babe, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, I just-”

“I don’t care. Get out of my house,” Y/N repeats herself, cutting off his pathetic excuses. 

Spencer smirks proudly from beside her.

 That’s his girl. 

Ben sighs, hanging his head and scrubbing his hands frustratedly across his face. 

“If you kick me out over some guy that’s been dead for six years, then we’re over. For good.” 

Spencer cackles at Ben’s proposition, though it can’t be heard by either party in the room. That was his attempt at fixing things? Seriously? Good riddance. He’d drag the guy out of there himself if he could. 

“If I haven’t made myself clear, we’re already over. No one talks about my husband like that. Now get out before I call the police and have you escorted off of my property.” 

It doesn’t take long after that for Ben to tuck his tail and leave, slamming the front door on his way out. Y/N’s steam runs out the second his car pulls out of her driveway, tears streaming down her face as she curls up on her couch. 

Spencer’s own chest twinges uncomfortably as he sits beside her, stroking her hair despite her inability to actually receive the comfort. He didn’t know what hurt more; watching his beautiful, broken girl sob and not being able to stop her tears, or being the cause of the tears himself. He had to do something, anything to let her know he was still there and that he still loved her beyond death. 

The same time Spencer stands is the same time Y/N’s tears pause, a hiccup rocking her frame before she glances up. 

“Spence?” Y/N calls softly. Spencer’s heart would have stopped right there had he not already been dead.

Spencer turns slowly from his place at the end of the couch, his eyes wide and hopeful as he responds. “Yes, angel?” 

His hope fades as he realizes she isn’t looking at him, rather her eyes are just darting around the room. 

“Spencer I… I know it’s been awhile since I’ve talked to you. And for that, I’m so sorry,” Y/N starts, her voice cracking. “I don’t know if you can even hear me. Or if you ever could. But I miss you. I miss you in my bones. I just… you were— are my everything.” 

The lump in her throat grows as the tears begin to stream down her face again. Spencer’s own eyes sting with tears that she’ll never see drip down his face. He swallows hard, making his way over to their— yes, their— bookshelf. 

“I’d give anything to have you back in my arms… I should have begged you to leave the BAU and just teach full-time if it meant I could still have you here, safe and at home. It’s not even a home without you.” 

Y/N sobs freely now, tucking her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them before she buries her head into them. 

Every ounce of grief, guilt, sadness, and anger from what his death has done to his precious girl fuels Spencer to do something he deemed impossible: he yanks the leatherbound notebook holding their vows inside of it off of the bookshelf, sending it tumbling to the ground in a desperate attempt to show her that he’s still there and that he still loves her. 

The noise causes a yelp to slip from Y/N’s lips, her head jerking up as the book hits the hardwood floor with a loud thump. It had fallen open exactly to where Spencer wanted it to: the page starting his vows to her.  Y/N crawled from the couch to the book, her trembling hands lifting the journal so that she can read the words her husband wrote to her ten years ago. With a deep exhale, she sits cross-legged on the hardwood floor, reading Spencer’s chicken scratch he called handwriting with a heavy heart. And for the first time since his casket closed, she feels a sense of peace wash over her. She was going to be okay, despite it all, because he was hers just as much as she was his.

Continued A/N: Ahh!! Ghost!Spencer my beloved. :') JUST TO CLARIFY: I am not a JJ hater!! It just fit better for the story to have her be the one this all happened for. I hope you guys enjoyed reading this fic just as much as I enjoyed writing it. I look forward to sharing more in the future with you as my blog grows <3

K <3

[hypothalamuthesis926]

Perspective of an Outsider at NRC

”𝘉𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘯𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦... 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝙗𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙤𝙨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝘶𝘱 𝘣𝘺 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙨?”

𝙏𝙒𝙄𝙎𝙏𝙀𝘿 𝙒𝙊𝙉𝘿𝙀𝙍𝙇𝘼𝙉𝘿 & 𝙉𝙋𝘾 𝙊𝙐𝙏𝙎𝙄𝘿𝙀𝙍 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍.

𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎: Swearing, Slightly(?) graphic descriptions of injuries, mentions of nsfw, spoilers for book1 and book2.

𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨: Reader is absolutely an asshole, reader has a plot armor greater than tanjiro and yuu combined, chaos everywhere, reader is an 2nd-year Heartslabyul student that loves their oshi a bit too much, has some memes references, characters might be ooc.

I'm guessing this is like 5000 words or even more, I wasn't able to copypaste it so i couldn't check the wordcount.

Dorms included: 𝙃𝙀𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙎𝙇𝘼𝘽𝙔𝙐𝙇 & 𝙎𝘼𝙑𝘼𝙉𝘼𝘾𝙇𝘼𝙒

Enjoy! - Iwa

Sometimes, all you need in your life is a sprinkle of drama, chaos, and nightmares to ease your boredom.

You were simply a student studying in one of the most prestigious academy, Night Raven College.

Or it's well-known term;

𝗔 𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗹 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗢𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗯𝗹𝗼𝘁𝘀. (AKA filled with emotionally repressed mage nepo-babies that can't buy therapy even with mommy's money.)

You weren't exactly rich, nor famous.

You just got here by the entrance exam, which you 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 got a slightly above-average score.

Despite that, you were just another NPC in a school full of promising prodigies.

And now that you were assigned to the dorm of the strict queen that once reigned her land dutifully, Heartslabyul, everything in your life seems to be going smoothly....

*𝙎𝙋𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙏𝙀𝙍*

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It seems.

You were standing at the frontlines, watching as your batchmates threw an egg at your 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 house-warden, 𝙍𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙍𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨.

From a duel between two mere 1styears and housewarden to straight up rebellion against Riddle's authority.

Murmurs filled the garden as they watch their housewarden, utterly speechless as he pick up the cracked shell of an egg out of his hair, eyes wide open with an unreadable expression.

Man, the freshman just had to slap the housewarden too. You won't be surprised if he starts crashing out.

The situation before you almost feels like you were witnessing the French Revolution all over again. But in a magic school filled with rich kids that had a weird system of social monarchy...

Riddle Rosehearts is the Dorm-leader of your dorm, 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙮𝙪𝙡. Similar to the Queen Of Hearts herself, he enforces strict rules that bestows negative consequences once you break them.

Even you broke the rules multiple times, causing the house-warden to make a certain expression once he lays eyes on you.

Not like you care about getting punished for the rules, in some way, despite your normalcy, you were quite rebellious.

In fact, you find Riddle quite annoying, getting worked up by simple rules. Like imagine eating hamburger steak on a tuesday would get you collared?

(Ignoring the fact you broke almost half of the rules without anyone's acknowledgement and got away with some if you were lucky)

.... Ahem.

Despite his petite physique, Riddle is pretty tense and intimidating to interact with. Top student and all, he studies so much that he has little to no Internet knowledge! Talking to him is similar to interacting with a privileged victorian child that knows nothing of modern technology.

Despite that, he had also another title.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙮𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙩.

Known for his top skills in almost every subject, Riddle was also known for his tyranny, everyone who breaks the rules, would be disobeying him. Whoever disobeys him, results in punishment and loses their magic until he says so.

Despite his stern exterior, he is hardworking and harsh with himself as he is with others. You noticed after a few interactions with him, that made you 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘺 respect the tyrant.

Seeing him trembling pathetically like a stray cat getting splashed in water almost made you feel an ounce of pity for this housewarden, until he suddenly bursted out in anger—

"𝗢𝗙𝗙 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗!"

Just one command and a terrifying amount of people were being victim to Riddle's Unique Magic; "𝙊𝙛𝙛 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙"

A spell that constricts your magic, almost like getting your head cut off. A way to get people to beg for mercy. Truly terrifying. Magic is as important as a mage's life. Without it, you were merely a downgraded version of a human itself— like pre-historical homosapiens with no intelligence nor consciousness whatsoever.

Oh shit, did you just had a shallow foreshadowing?

As the surrounding people falls victim by the red tyrant's outrage, you close your eyes as you brace for the impact of Riddle's Unique Magic.

.

?

Oh....

Seems like he missed. You sighed in relief, putting your hand to your chest. You really thought that the collar would be aiming for your neck for like, the one-hundredth time since Riddle became housewarden. Plot armor is the best protection. :)

As chaos starts unfolding before your eyes, something strikes within you, a certain instinct rising from the depths of your body.

.

Ah.

You had to take a quick shit.

Feeling your lower-body rumbling, not from hunger, but from the absolute urge to let out a big fat lump of poo, you slowly walk away from the crowd that was currently full of collared people.

Now you successfully escaped from enemy territory!

What could possibly happen after this chaos? You wonder as you casually stride away from the Heartslabyul portal, like your body wasn't rushing you to hurry up and go to the bathroom.

After taking a big fat pile of poo, you walk towards your beloved dorm that 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺𝘺𝘺 isn't flooding with students vacuating, sliding between a crowd of collared students as they run out of the magic portal, what disaster shall your eyes feast upon today?

You gently enter the portal...

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What the fuck.

The sky was suddenly darker in comparison from before, the garden maze that was once neat and tidy— now filthy and covered in thorns. The bushes that was tamed and properly cared of— now rotting and dying. It was like some type of change in genre from a casual RPG MMORPG game— to a psychological horror game about escaping your near-insanity-mentally-unstable-tyrant-housewarden!

The flamingo crochets are trembling in fear, feeling the bad vibes in the air... and the hamsters probably got squished into mashed bloody pool of potatoes or whatever.

Then you hear manic laughter, of a voice that was familiar, and had a certain tone that you always known.

Riddle Rosehearts, becoming a literal ink monster, fighting his own kind. His hair transformed into a darker hue of red, ink surrounding his whole body as his eyes went from cloudy grey to crimson. From behind, was a giant ink figure that seems to be consuming all of his magic. Did stress from studies turn him into an over-powered prodigy demonlord? You wonder.

"RIDDLE!" The students cry out.

This looks straight out of a shounen anime fighting scene... You deadpanned in the corner of a tall bush near the group of students.

An idea popped up, and your hand hovered to your pocket, getting your phone as you zoom in the camera to the housewarden and the heartslabyul students knocking sense into eachother.

Welp. Gonna make your time here worthy, atleast.

Hiding in the bush, you angle your phone towards certain dormmates..

One was a dude with a heart on his face. He was the one who challenged the dorm-leader to a duel. Ace Trappola. You heard that he was almost expelled along with Deuce Spade at the first day.

The other had a spade this time, and beautiful blue-colored hair. He also challenged the dorm-leader to a duel for his status along with Ace. They certainly got guts for sure, challenging Riddle Rosehearts out of all people...

Though it was low-key funny that they both lost within a few seconds, not even one foot away from his position, the tyrant had already caught the two mice in a bind.

The third had a half-up hairstyle, with bright orange hair and a diamond on his right cheek. It was Cater Diamond, one of your friends. Not close enough for you to call bestfriend, though. You two would chat about magicam and stuff. The most memorable moment with Diamond was just the time where you lended him your spare tripod.

The green-haired dude, who you remember to be the vice, was Trey Clover. He seemed to be the closest to Riddle. Sometimes you see him soothing the dorm-leader whenever he was getting off-hand. He was a peace-maker, thats for sure.

And here's the last, the person that piqued your interest the most— 𝗬𝘂𝘂. The one that sort-of invaded the opening ceremony, the magicless human. Who somehow enrolled in the school due to the Headmage's "kindness". They seem pretty 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗸. Why exactly is there a magicless human in a magic school? If you had to describe them with one word, it would be 𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀.

They also got a pet weasel with them, though you don't even bother knowing the pet's name. You'll stick with fire weasel. How efficient, though the prefect has no magic, no use whatsoever, they could always use the weasel as a magic fire cannon.

You continue hiding in the corner of Heartslabyul, confident that your presence will not be found out due to how little your presence is, you were a non-playable character in a school full of main-characters.

And you are absolutely taking it to your advantage, for the sake of entertainment.

Almost everything that was in the garden maze was floating. Like Riddle's magic had some type of upgrade in anti-gravitational spells and decided to apply it to all of the dorm. Riddle threw the throny bushes towards the group in anger, emotions all jumbled up like a sticky pile of goo.

He certainly is 𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 to think rationally right now. It was the first-year duo's fault for pushing him to the limits. You thought.

You were glad that you knew how to nullify the magic. Every bush was floating— 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯.

Seems like they didn't notice, much to your benefit. Ignoring the shouts of battle and dodging the small thorny roses that almost went straight to your face, You will definitely entertain some people and post this later.

After the group finally defeated the housewarden, they all come together near the currently unconscious dormleader, who got bonked in the head by the magicless prefect using some kind of.... wooden sword? You would ask why they would bring it in the first place but even so, the people here are crazy. So if someone who was magicless was able to enroll here, then they must be crazy. That was the conclusion you got from studying here for a year. (Ignoring the fact you are probably one of them, Laugh-out-loud.)

You'd admit, you didn't expect that from the prefect. It 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 changing your views about them being '𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴'.

"Riddle." Trey called out.

In response, the rose tyrant flutters his eyes open, then he suddenly woke up in a bolt.

"Gah!" Riddle quickly sat up.

"He's back!" Ace said, a mix of relief and irritation in his tone.

"Well, finally... we were close to losing our heads here cause we thought you weren't gonna wake up!" Cater sighed in relief.

"What exactly happened here?" Voice still breathy from all the blot his body 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 consumed.

"Ah, Rosehearts-kun has regained consciousness." Crowley walked in, eyeing the boys to check whether they were injured.

Was it just you or you didn't notice the headmage there until now?

"Don't worry, Riddle. Just rest up." Trey reassured.

"That is just the pampering that made him crash out in the first place! The garden is destroyed from top to bottom, and we almost died!" Ace contorted as he crossed his arms.

They continued chatting, until your ears pick up on a certain person's voice.

"The truth is, I wanted to have the chestnut tart. And I don't care if the roses were white, nor the flamingos being pink. And I like honey and sugar cubes in my tea, and milktea is much better than lemon tea." Riddle continued, then a sudden burst of emotion that seemed almost uncharacteristic consumed him.

"A-and after every meal, i want to sit in the table and get along with e-everyone else.. A-and i really want to play with trey and chenya more..." As he continued, the dorm-leader's stern exterior crashed out. He let out a heartbreaking cry, much like his inner child was finally coming out after suppressing it for years.

"Riddle Rosehearts in tears at 4K.... #WOW" Cater said sarcastically.

You almost thought of the same sentence mentally, you swear.

Seeing the group all together safe and sound(except for one person), you wondered if you were the audience of a fairy-tale live adaption, watching the ending where they defeat the villain.

That being said, you 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 expected Riddle to be like that. Though you aren't empathetic nor sympathetic much, you could tell that anyone in the tyrant's position would be suffocating and suffering.

*𝘾𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙠!*

What the students didn't know was that in a click, the video has been recorded.

Satisfied with the entertainment you've watched, You walked away carefully to escape the dorm premises, making sure they wouldn't notice.

*𝗖𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸*

......Until you suddenly step on your precious keychain of your Oshi.

The sound echoed throughout the garden maze, in a flash, you quickly hid in the nearby bush, heart jumping from surprise.

𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵! You wish you were permanently bonded with the grass right now. Fuck life.

In response of the sound, the group turned their heads hearing the noise.

"Is it me or my ears picked up on somethin'?" Grim asked.

"I heard it too. Probably the hamster escaping out of the cage due to all the chaos and all." Ace joked, looking at Riddle with a sarcastic look that screams "It's your fault" all over.

"Wah! Then shouldn't we check on them?!" Deuce said, concern visible in his expression.

"Dude you can't even tell it was a joke?" Ace deadpanned.

Phew. Seems like they didn't notice you. Thought your lovely keychain had to be sacrificed. You'll just buy another one at Sam's shop.

Escaping the Heartslabyul dorm with a dissapointed expression due to stepping on your beautiful oshi's keychain, running away from Enemy Territory: Part two is mission success! You left in a rushed fashion, holding back a smirk. You really can't wait for the drama you will soon implement.

You shut down your phone and hid it in your pocket, hoping that they won't notice the keychain left in the middle of the ground and find the owner(AKA YOU.)

For the action you are about to take, will soon to be the talk of the whole school.

After Riddle was done with his outrage, the whole dorm was in shambles. The Vice Housewarden nearly worked you and the other dormmates to death, cleaning up after the aftereffects of a disaster.

Though you don't know what exactly happened on how Riddle became some type of anime final boss with maxed out stats, I think they mentioned it and called it... 𝗢𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗯𝗹𝗼𝘁? Not your business anyway, you sure had a fun time watching the show!

It was quite adrenaline-pumping to try not to get caught by the group—Even if they did found out it was you?

It makes the thrill even better.

The only suprising thing is that the first-year duo, vice, and the ginger-haired guy managed to not get too heavily injured..... 𝗘𝘅𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻.

The magicless prefect, who got enrolled with no background or status— the mysterious first-year, that was apparently from another world.

They fainted after their battle, and despite their inability to cast magic, they contributed the most by bonking the shit out of Riddle.

....

That human gotta have bat-shit strength. Would be risky to get on their bad side.

After cleaning and fixing the whole dorm, you were excessively fatigued. Worked down to the bone. Even doing your homework took up some of your stamina. Like overworked corporate slave to your company.

Changing into a simple T-shirt and shorts, you plop to bed, face down to pillow. Arms and legs sore from fixing the broken furniture, destroyed bushes, and also looking for the dorm's beloved pet hamster.

To be honest, you were kinda expecting to see the hamsters squished corpse, with blood splattered in the ground. Knowing how small they were and the amount of students evacuating the premises, a foot as big as 5 inches could instantly kill a small creature.

You let a sigh of fatigue as you continue lying on your stomach in bed, scrolling through Magicam, you decided to open a certain website; 𝙉𝙍𝘾 𝙉𝙂𝙇.

It was a website made for NRC students to rant and vent their frustrations, and also confess hidden feelings, as anonymous users.

In a blink of an eye, your post receives multiple views from almost all of the school.

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𝘕𝘙𝘊 𝘕𝘎𝘓

𝙃𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙮𝙪𝙡 𝙜𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙠 𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨?! 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙮𝙪𝙡 𝙏𝙮𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙮 𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙚𝙣𝙙! [Video Link]

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⚫ 𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒏777

𝟏𝑲 𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒘𝒔 ?/?/𝟐𝟎

𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔: 𝟑𝟎𝟎

Anon789: 𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗶 𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗵 𝗶 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗳𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗱𝗼𝗿𝗺 𝗹𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗹. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗻 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝗺𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗶 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗲.

Anon669: 𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙊𝙘𝙩𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙚! 𝙄𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚:) 𝗢𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝗺𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳!

Anon456: 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝘄 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗴𝗴. 𝗜 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗮𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝗶𝘇𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗻 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝘆 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗜 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻. 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗶𝘁 𝗗𝗜𝗗 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝘀𝗮𝘁𝗶𝘀𝗳𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗜 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝗺...

Anon997: 𝗜𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗹? 𝗖𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝗔𝗻𝗼𝗻𝟳𝟳𝟳. 𝗜𝗳 𝗶 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝗶 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝘆𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝘀.

Anon211: 𝗗𝗮𝗺𝗻 𝗶 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗮 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗯𝗮𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗰𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝟭𝘀𝘁𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿, 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗼𝗹 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗥𝗶𝗱𝗱𝗹𝗲 𝗹𝗺𝗮𝗼 𝗔𝗻𝗼𝗻 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗰𝘂𝘇 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘃𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗲𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲𝘀

---------------------------------------------

Look at 'em go.

You snickered behind the screen, still plopped in bed.

The video posted by Anon777, AKA 𝗬𝗢𝗨, is viewed by almost all of the school.

The students, staff, and even the headmage are looking for whoever posted this video, inspecting and demanding it to be taken down even.

You were wondering why the staff didn't ask the website to be taken down. They probably rant there too or whatever.

Every recess, you could hear students whispering bench-to-bench about the overblot incident. Sometimes, even the Vice-housewarden and Diamond-san steps up and defends our Housewarden whenever they hear bad rumours about it.

Even you suppress a smirk whenever someone mentions your alias; Anon777. Knowing that you were becoming of influence and fame, felt good. Though you will definitely be a target of doxxing now.

At first, the video was reported by the kind fellow heartslabyul student. Reporting it to the teachers, it eventually went to the headmage's ears.

You know damn well it is a breach of privacy to post shit like this.

But that what makes it even more fun. The rush of adrenaline knowing that you were sought by others, how can one resist?

You were bored with life, sure. But who cares? Being the adrenaline junkie you are, the thrill, anxiety, and stress does not strain you, instead— 𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗳𝘂𝗲𝗹𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂.

Do you have a motive for why you are doing this? Nothing. Just bored with your life.

With your luck (that is definitely not your forgettable presence) you were able to get out of trouble easily.

You were already on your path to become a hot topic in school.

"𝗪𝗵𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝘀 𝗔𝗻𝗼𝗻777?"

"𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗼𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗲?"

Looking for this exact user, they continue to bare questions in mind.

Do you have any "I feel" statement?

Yeah, you feel like a mastermind in a school-life melo-drama anime with 100+ episodes and a dream.

Another average school day has passed. Good thing there was no homework for today. You blended in the crowd like the NPC you are, walking in the school street as you let out a yawn. Despite the whispering and gossiping of the students, it was definitely just another 𝙗𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 day. Even when you joined in the gossip-spree, it only got interrupted by the Vice Housewarden and Cater, to your dissapointment. It was all going to a dramatic conclusion, too. You sighed in dissapointment.

Drowning in your thoughts, you walk and walk, spacing out with no sense of surroundings, until you bumped into two first-years.

"Deuce, relax! Not like Riddle will know if we sneak one of these babie— KAK! " The orange-haired freshman wobbled as you crashed behind him. He fell onto the blue-haired first-year's shoulder, both of them comically falling to the floor.

"Oi! Watch where you guys were going. 𝘜𝘨𝘩, 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴" You cursed under your breath, patting your uniform to check whether there was dirt on you.

"Hey! 𝙔𝙤𝙪 should be the one to apologize!" The first year said, he seems to be the same dorm as you, based on the heart on his face and the ribbon on his sleeve. While the blue-haired first-year below him was struggling for life, he was sitting on the poor dude...

"Hey Ace! Get up for a sec, I'm struggling here!" The blue freshman coughed, desperately trying to get up and breathe.

You scoffed at the scene, then walked away. How irritating. Your day is ruined now. Why can't freshmen respect their upperclassmen? (Like you weren't the one that bumped into them in the first place...)

From behind the scene where you left, two first-years slowly get up, body absolutely aching from the impact they fell.

"Ughh! That second-year thinks they are all that just because they enrolled a year sooner than us!" Ace complained, putting a hand to his shoulder to massage the pain away.

Deuce poked Ace's shoulder, trembling as he pointed at the mushed-up body of what seems to be a deflated...hamster? "H-hey.... Ace...!"

"What now, Deucey—"

......

Shit. Deuce picked up the deflated hamster, hesitantly poking it to check whether it is still alive.

"Bro, why are you 𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 it?!"

"I'm making sure it's still alive!!"

What would Housewarden Riddle react after knowing the dorm-pet got smashed by two big-asses?

Goodluck, Adeuce...

— 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙮𝙪𝙡 𝘿𝙤𝙧𝙢; 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙢 —

Yet another average, long, and tiring day, you plop into your bed again, continuing your doom-scrolling in Magicam.

𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘰.... 𝘌𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘴𝘩𝘪.... 𝘐𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘳𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵... 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳...

Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Yeah, just an average page.

!

A notification from your NGL popped up.

It was a private message from someone called "Anon334"

You click on the chat.

-------------------------------------------

𝘕𝘙𝘊 𝘕𝘎𝘓

Anon334: 𝗵𝗶! 𝗜'𝗺 𝗮 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘀𝗹𝗮𝗯𝘆𝘂𝗹. 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘂, 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝘂 𝗽𝗹𝘇 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘃𝗶𝗱? 𝗢𝘂𝗿 𝗱𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗶𝗱, 𝘁𝗵𝘅!

Anon777: 𝗗𝗶𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗶 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗮 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝗮𝗱𝗺𝗶𝗿𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝗵𝗮𝗵𝗮

Anon334: 𝘂𝗵𝗵𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝘆 𝗶𝗺 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗵 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹;;;

Anon777: 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗱𝗼 𝗶 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁?? 𝗔𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗻𝗼 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝗶 𝗮𝗺 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝗺𝘆 𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝗹 𝗴𝘁𝗳𝗼

Anon334: 𝗟𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝗴𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘂, 𝗮𝘁𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘁.

Anon334: 𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗹. 𝗜 𝗳𝗲𝘁𝗰𝗵 𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁— 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗱𝗿𝗮𝗺𝗮, 𝗴𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗽, 𝗼𝗿 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗰𝘂𝘁𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗰𝗮𝘁 𝘃𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗼𝘀!

Anon334: 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝗹𝘇 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘃𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗼 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘂 𝘄𝗼𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀. 𝗣𝗹𝘇? 🙏

Anon777: 𝗡𝗮𝗵 𝗜'𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝗻

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘳.

----------------------------------------------

Boom blocked. Why is he negotiating with you like he has something to gain from this?

Maybe he was a close friend with Riddle?

Oh well, you will just take a quick nap. Too tired to even function.

Your eyelids slowly surrender to your fatigue, still holding your phone in hand, without knowing it, you fall asleep in a diabolical, yet comfy position.

What could exactly happen after this?

— A certain magicam addict's POV —

It was just his average day. Going to class, assisting Riddle and Trey with dorm-associated business, and doomscrolling through Magicam.

Though, after going through the NRC NGL, he took it back.

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺.

.......

𝘈𝘩.

He can't believe it. His eyes was glued stuck to the screen as the furst thing he saw in his feed was a video of the heartslabyul overblot incident. With 1K views too! Almost all of the school, possibly even outsiders!

A video, of Riddle's Overblot, was 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗱!

Whoever did it gotta be nuts. In a flash, he shared the video to the GC containing Trey and Riddle.

----------------------------------------------

MESSENGER

✨Cay-Cay✨: [Video] uh oh guys seems like someone managed to record our fight - ˢᵉᵉⁿ ᵇʸ ᵗʳᵉʸ-ᵗᵒʳ

😡Trey-tor😡: what?! Do you know who posted it?? We have to get it deleted before it spreads!

✨Cay-Cay✨: its too late man it got like 1K views almost everyone in the school probably saw it

😡Trey-tor😡: still, what would Riddle react if he saw this?

✨Cay-Cay✨: who knows lets wait for him to get online first

---------------------------------------------

Though Riddle was annoying to deal with sometimes, he still respected him. And that feeling strengthened, from today's events.

All Cater can do right now, is just pray that the anonymous user will take down the post.

Well, in some sort of way, Cater felt kinda indebted to Riddle in a way. Especially after seeing him.... crash out.

So, why not do a favor for his cute housewarden? Not like Anon777 will know who is behind Anon334. Cater sends a message to the mysterious Anonymous User, in an attempt to bring down the video. He doesn't really think that the Anon777 will bring down the video simply cause someone requested but, think positive I guess. We'll never know until he tries, atleast?

— POV END —

You woke up, with your notifications filled, not from the video, but from something else.

So basically, you probably clicked on random things while you were sleeping.

And that ended up posting your precious horny-postings fanart of your oshi.

Great! Now you will face more punishment for posting inappropriate imagery in a NGL for college students. Though certain people will probably enjoy it....

Your eyes were glued to the screen, your expression being something that would give a forensic pathologist nightmares.

--------------------------------------------

𝘕𝘙𝘊 𝘕𝘎𝘓

𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒏𝟕𝟕𝟕: [insert mouth-watering, oxytocin-inducing, temperature-rising fanart of your oshi idek]

Anon763: 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗼? 𝗛𝗼𝘄'𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗱𝗮𝘆? 𝗜'𝗺 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗲? 𝘁𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝘂𝗽 𝘃𝗿𝗼💔

Anon235: 𝗟𝗠𝗔𝗢 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗜𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦?? 𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗢 𝗥 𝗨 𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗨𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗪𝗛𝗢 𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗘𝗫𝗔𝗖𝗧 𝗩𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗢??

Anon556: 𝗜 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗱𝘂𝗰𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝗻 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗹!! 𝗜 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗲!!

Anon889: 𝗱𝗮𝗺𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗮 𝗯𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝗼��𝗶𝗻🤤🤤🤤

Anon765: 𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗻𝗼 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘄𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗻𝘀𝗳𝘄 𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 [𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿] 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗡𝗥𝗖 𝗡𝗚𝗟 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗟𝗲𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗺 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴'𝘀 𝗮𝗱𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘀𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗰𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗷𝗼𝘆 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗷𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝟳𝟬 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝗰𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗺𝗲 😭😭🙏🙏

Anon004: 𝗜 𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝘆 𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗮𝗻 𝗼𝗻𝗲-𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗮𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘆 𝗼𝗻 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗱:((

---------------------------------------------

What seems to be a few hours later, you seem to be getting even more likes. A part of you is debating whether to be happy that people like your art, or that your simping-spree should be something to be ashamed of.

— After school —

Today was the compensation Unbirthday party. It was an apology from your housewarden on how he behaved last time.

The dorm seems to forgive him, despite attempting mass murder...

It was a pleasant day. Boring for you, though. "Atleast they enjoyed it!" would be one of your thoughts, but you aren't feeling sweet. You are absolutely craving stimulation!

You use magicam in the middle of the party, not caring for whatever the party is doing right now.

"Hey, it is pretty disrespectful if you did that during parties... Especially Unbirthday parties!" Cater smiled.

In surprise, you exit magicam and went to your home screen to cover whatever you were doing. You didn't notice he was there! In an attempt to regain your composure, you gave a smile back.

"Oh hey, Cater! Fancy meeting you here.." You give a friendly but bland response.

?

He eyed your screen suspiciously, staring exactly at your website browser.

"Hey, could I borrow your phone for a bit?" Cater asked. Before you could 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 decline, he already impulsively snatched your phone, checking your website browser for your NGL account.

......

Cater checks your account, it was a simple, unregistered user.

"Diamond-senpai." You glared at him as he continues eyeing your NGL. He snaps back to reality as he makes eye contact with you. Realizing what he had done, he immediately gave back your phone.

"Ah! Whoopsies! Got a bit too carried away now, was I?" Cater scratched his neck awkwardly. He was behaving oddly, 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗼𝗱𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗮𝗰𝘁. Probably his late-night doomscrolling messing him up... Maybe? Or was it simply 'instinct'?

"Well, Got-to-go! See you!" Cater left awkwardly, leaving you confused and pissed.

𝘞𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥... The exact thought you two had.

You put your hand in your chest, heart pumping like crazy. It was a good thing you owned two phones, with different accounts and internet connection. Otherwise, you would have been doxxed and people would find out your identity at this point.

A week before the anticipated 𝗦𝗽𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗗𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗲𝘁𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻! You were excited to get your skills to use, as you were looking for new entertainment to stimulate your bored thrill-seeking ass.

Walking to your dorm as you finish the day, you hear a voice that signals you to turn around.

It was your Dorm-leader, Riddle Rosehearts. After all this time, he seemed to have lightened up a bit. Seems like he learned his lesson.

Though you two weren't exactly close, he sometimes gives you small tasks like "Could you carry these to ____?" And others.

"[Name], could you give these papers to Trey?" Riddle said, not breaking eye contact. After his Overblot and the compensation unbirthday party, you swear you could slightly feel an atmosphere of guilt and awkwardness lingering in the air. But atleast he got some character development.

Currently, he was asking you to deliver the papers to Trey. So you simply nodded obediently and went down the stairs.

......You were definitely not cursing your beloved dormleader under your breath as you go down the stairs each step.

But suddenly, you found yourself—

*𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗦𝗛!*

.

.

.

.

.

.

....down the stairs, neck craned to shoulder. In a not-so-human position.

Did the universe heard your thoughts on how you would reverse the status between you and your housewarden, imagining the scene of making him beg under your feet as you make a mess of him into nothing but a dog slaved to you?? Yeah, that's overload.

The pile of papers that you were once holding were flying all over, and you were laying in the floor, an inch close to death.

You debate whether to move and risk snapping your spinal cord, or just lay still and pretend to be dead.

Oh well, you shut your eyes close, savoring the chaos that unfolded as you continue laying like a ragdoll, looking like someone had forcefully dislocated your neck and attempted murder.

Ignoring the calls of your House-warden as he runs towards you, calling for help, you force yourself to faint, not wanting to deal with your embarrassing position.

Maybe next time, learn to respect your Dormleader?

It was night. And you woke up in a familiar room.

That's right, it was the Heartslabyul Dormroom. Though you don't recognize this room. You are guessing it is a spare room.

You seem to be in a tatami bed. It was quite comfy despite the fact you were in the floor.

Sighing as you slowly get up, you notice that your neck injury was lifted, thankfully. But the real problem was—

Your feet. It was twisted like lotus feet of imperial china.

Yeah, this would serve as a great excuse to skip class.

Though you doubt you can enter the Spell-drive tournament now.

Ughhh. You let out a groan out of mental defeat. Wishing you could reverse time and beat the hell of whoever did this to you.

"You okay, [Name]?" A voice from the bed beside you asked.

You turned around, thinking that god was about to fly you back to heaven and judge you for every little sins you did in your lifetime, you comically put your hands up in the air, signaling you don't mean any harm. Until your eyes come in contact with a familiar green-head.

"You scared me, Trey." You sigh in relief, suppressing the shock written all over your face.

Trey let out a chuckle, then reassured you.

"Seems like I startled you. I apologize for that."

Eyeing his twisted ankle, you let one of your thoughts slip through your mouth;

"Seems like we are twinning, huh?" You thought out loud.

"Well, I was supposed to participate in the upcoming spelldrive, but it seems like i won't be playing this year." Trey said, slight dissapointment in his face.

"That being said, how in the world got you injured like that?" You asked, eyes still glued onto his injury.

"That is what i should ask of you too...You were brought here by Riddle, with your neck disfigured." He deadpanned, staring at your injury back.

"So basically, Riddle was about to fall down the stairs, so I caught him but now my ankle's all messed up." Trey said.

"How terrible..." The sentence that came out of your mouth, knowing that you don't feel an ounce of pity to your 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺 housewarden.

.....In fact, you 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 suppressing a smile from the fact that Riddle was supposed to be the one to get injured.

But even if he was about to fall down the stairs, he would probably use flight magic as a reflex...

"Riddle said you had the same situation as me. Though your injuries was worse.." Trey pitied.

You comically looked away from him, feeling odd from the pitiful look he gave you.

"Nah, this is fine!" You turned around to face him and gave Trey a reassuring smile, despite the rage inside you wanting to hurl up in a washing machine and inhale the bubbles to calm your anger of being unable to participate in the tournament.

Seems like Diasomnia and Savanaclaw will remain the highest this year.

A day later, you were still resting on the tatami bed, feet aching from the pain of healing magic tingling your senses.

Your roommate, currently, was simply reading a book. Wasn't he atleast bored of that?? As for you and your doomed attention-span, the only thing close to stimulation was the healing magic that the school nurse was applying on you, stretching your feet to it's normal position.

A portion of your feet where the three small toes lie, was arched to the back. Even yourself wonder how in the world was possible for this to happen.

You let out small and quiet groans of pain as the nurse slowly pull your toes back. It was a long, small, but painful process. The nurse had to do it everyday, stretching it little by little.

This was worse than the time where you entered a contract with Octavinelle's Housewarden for your Oshi's merch.

..... In exchange for your physical labor at Monstro-lounge.

Your roommate, Trey, that was currently reading a book to ignore your cries, gave you a pitiful look as you tear up from the burning sensation.

God, When will this nightmare end exactly?

A week later, it was the all-anticipated Spelldrive competition!

During your stay-cation with your roommate, the Vice housewarden, you were hearing rumours from the NGL such as;

"These accidents weren't merely a coincidence. It was staged by someone!"

"It was because of an instigator!"

To be honest, you noticed that alot of students beside you also got injured. If it were the cause of someone, you 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 be incredibly pissed.

The fact that Trey and you, who were both players of Spelldrive— were injured, doesn't seem like a coincidence at all. Like you both were targets from the beginning.

You admit, It really 𝘪𝘴 Suspicious. You get where the rumours come from.

If you think about it, it got to be someone from one of the dorms.

..... You don't have time to think about this. Shaking the thoughts out of your head, you think towards something else.

Thankfully, your injuries was good as new. Your toes, that was once curled to the back like lotus feet— were now back to normal with the use of modern healing magic!

And you got 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘺 closer with the Vice! (Who barely remembers your name after you both got discharged)

You ignore your negative thoughts and let out beaming energy as you happily take steps to the ground, finally savoring the touch of earth after what seems to be a long time of a nightmare.

You walk towards the place where the SpellDrive Tournament will take place, a crowd of people from different nations all together to watch, and multiple foodstalls with an irresistible amount of snacks waiting to be bought. An exciting sight to see before your eyes.

Oh well, even though you can't participate in the game, atleast you can enjoy the show!

Carrying a mountain of food you bought from the stands, you hear the PA system.

"Welcome everyone! To the Night Raven College interdorm SpellDrive tournament! Thank you very much for waiting. The players shall enter the stadium soon."

As soon as the system finishes their sentence, a wave of anticipation shakes up the whole ground.

"The first dorm to enter was last year's champion. Though will they be able to keep the title? Cheer for the Raging Winners, DIASOMNIA!"

Another cry of excitement bursted from the crowd from seeing the participants this year.

From the corner of your eye, you could see a stillhoutte of a beastmen.

"What a nice crowd! Should be large enough sheheheheh!" The hyena said. Judging from the fact that they were a beastman, you could tell they were from Savannaclaw.

What is a dude from Savanaclaw doing here? You thought. Something's telling you that he has to do with something sneaky.

From afar, you watch the hyena with eyes wide open.

"Now, to drink Azul's potion..... Urk!" He let out a disgusted yelp as he drank the potion.

You nearly pissed yourself as the hyena mentioned Azul's name. Reminiscing the hell you've experienced with that man, you let out a shiver. What could be the potion he's drinking though? You wonder.

"Bleh! The taste is just awful! It is like someone put their unwashed sock in an expired smoothie. Ugh, time to use my Unique Magic."

Preparing for the action he will do, he pulls out his magic pen.

"Time to create a running-man stampede. Let's go! 𝗟𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗺𝗲—!"

Then, he ran.

.... And so did the people surrounding you.

The crowd from the stalls grouped together, following the beastman's actions.

"Agh!? My body!"

"Stop squishing me! Help!!"

As the swarm of people starts reaching your destination, you quickly hid inside the stalls in reflex.

....All while carrying the pile of food you bought.

Feeling the vibrations and stomping of multiple people at once, it was like an earthquake was going on.

What the hell is he exactly doing?? You thought as you continue hiding underneath the tablecloth inside the stall. Placing the food beside you, covering your ears as a loud wave of cries was the only thing you heard.

You, out of curiosity, decided to check onto the crowd. Peeking out of the small curtain in the bottom. You could barely see the hyena-guy now.

What benefit does he receive, to initiate all this chaos? You thought, deep in wonder.

Maybe he is doing it for his housewarden? Leona Kingscholar? Savanaclaw had always been 2nd place in terms of SpellDrive, it wouldn't surprise you if 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 was the cause.

Though, Leona? To stoop that low and cause chaos? What happened to his pride?

Oh well, you get out of the stall and climbed on a tree, hiding somewhere where you can see anyone, but nobody can see you.

"The stampede is rushing towards the Diasomnia players! I urge the remaining spectators to run away!!" The PA system cried out. Only for helpless shouts and screaming to be heard and the rumbling of ground as the crowd starts rushing towards the Diasomnia group.

You see two Diasomnia Players, one with beautiful silver hair like a knight, and one with striking facial features, exuding tough and strong aura. They shield the tall horned figure, who you recognize.

It was Malleus Draconia, the mage with superior magic compared to all of the school. He was stunning for sure, but incredibly hard to approach. He was otherworldly, like a precious ancient artifact. To think he was a housewarden in the school, makes you think he deserves far more, in terms of his status.

You've heard he was also a prince! Even though you've seen alot of terrifying nepo-babies in this school, this exact man, surprised you out of all people.

The two men guards Malleus, but they ended up being crushed. Can they just use a flight spell to escape from the swarm? You thought.

To your suprise, the Diasomnia players got squashed by the swarm of people. For Diasomnia, the dorm filled with magic-prodigies, to be simply crushed by a group of mere mortals?

Hah.

You don't believe the sight before your eyes. Must be someone's Unique Magic or whatever.

In the corner of your eye, you spotted the hyena beast-man. He was running out of the crowd in a hurried fashion.

You decided to trail him, making your footsteps lighter each step.

"Leona-san! I did it! Did you see the broadcast?" Ruggie rushed over to Savanaclaw's Housewarden; 𝗟𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗮 𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗮𝗿, who was standing at the corner outside the stadium, along with his Savanaclaw group.

Leona Kingscholar, dormleader of the lion king that eliminates his enemies with cunning and precision. He ruled his land greatly with his hyena subordinates.

Though, the dorm that was supposedly representing the great lion king, had a quite lazy mess of a housewarden...

Hearing rumours on how he almost 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 attends class and is often seen in the botanical garden sleeping, you find it pretty 𝘪𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤.

One time, you saw him there. At the botanical garden. That was a memory you didn't want to relive...

But you did anyway, much to your dismay:)

— FLASHBACK —

You were trying to look for a blue strawberry. It was your project for Potionology. Knowing how scary your teacher was, you 𝗵𝗮𝗱 to finish this 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝗸!

Then, you see the rumoured Savanaclaw Housewarden, arms crossed to the back, lying down peacefully.

Knowing the rumours of him roughing up anyone who dares disturb his slumber, you make your footsteps lighter.

But your own phone had backstabbed you.

”𝑶𝒋𝒐𝒖-𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒂, 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒅.”

.

.

.

.

.

If it was possible to lock yourself in a dark room and hide for an eternity, you would do it exactly at this moment.

Your alarm— that reminded you to go to bed whenever you were binge-watching a melodramatic K-drama, trashtalking your newbie teammates in MOBA VC, or creating delusional fanfics of your oshi— was blasted at 100% volume, jerking the once sleeping lion, 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦.

You two make eye contact for what seems to be long enough for your whole uneventful, pathetic shit-of-a-life flashing before your eyes, you ran away without a word, not minding the blue strawberry you were holding to fall off your hands.

In the end, you got an one-hour long lecture from your potionology teacher, nagging you due to the fact you were missing a week-long pileof homework 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 in his subject.

— FLASHBACK END —

Your body jerked as you found yourself back to reality yet again.

In an attempt on focusing on the scene before your eyes, you pinch your knees hard.

"Yeah. Good work, Ruggie. So long, Malleus. This year, the champion will be us." Leona smirked.

"Long live the king! Sha hahaha!" Ruggie exclaimed in victory, followed along by their other dormmates.

"𝙄 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚 𝙬𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝." A sharp voice interrupted their cheery celebration, footsteps slowly going forward towards the group.

?!

It was your Housewarden, 𝙍𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙍𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙝! What was he doing here, with his dorm-group? And the magicless prefect with a 1st-year from Savanaclaw to be exact!

Shock was written in the whole Savanaclaw group, only the hyena and the lion switching composures to not show weakness.

"Well, well, The Heartslabyul group. With our lovely 1st-year, Jack? Did ya really transfer to Heartslabyul, Freshmen?" Leona let out a growl. He slowly approached the wolf, eyeing him like a predator that stood in his territory.

"Nah, I just didn't want to celebrate the victory seized with underhanded methods of a bunch of cowards." Jack said sharply, not breaking eye contact.

𝘚𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴. 𝘕𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘚𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥.

"You filthy traitor!" Leona scowled, pointing his staff towards Jack's forehead.

Damn. You were really feasting your eyes on this drama. Good thing you brought your phone with you, it was recording the conversation from start! But your phone will probably lose a good amount of storage later.

You watch the scene before you, munching on chips as you angle your phone in the other hand.

As they converse with eachother, each line filled with tension, you focus on them, making sure the video is of good quality. You wouldn't want a single second to be of low quality, no?

They initiate a fight, but in a second, the Savanaclaw group besides Ruggie and Leona, got collared up by none other than the Heartslabyul housewarden, Riddle.

Yeah. This was good sign not to rebel against Housewardens. You mentally deadpanned, reminiscing the multiple times you got collared as you touch your neck like the feeling was deeply embedded within your muscle memory.

"Damn, housewarden are no joke..." One of the collared students groaned in pain.

"Tsk, knew those kiddos wouldn't stand a chance against Riddle." Leona pinched his nosebridge in dissapointment.

"Shyheheheh! Doesn't change the fact that they were too late to save Diasomnia." Ruggie sneered.

Only to be interrupted with another plot twist AGAIN.

"Oh my? That's quite the interesting claim." A short fae-like student appeared out of nowhere infront of the hyena, upside down as the fae looked at the shocked beast-man with a sly grin.

"Seems like they went right on time to me." The tall green-haired guy with striking features said, putting his hands on his waist while furrowing his eyebrows.

"Indeed. It was thanks to them that nobody in Diasomnia didn't get hurt." The silver-haired guy accompanied the green-haired boy as they walk towards the group.

You recognize those two! Not the eccentric fae that was floating upside down though...

You knew that it got to be a sick joke when you saw them completely crashed in the crowd like scrambled eggs. Diasomnia was a dorm full of magic-prodigies, after all.

"What?! How?! I saw you get crushed up by the swarm!" Ruggie flinched and took a step back in shock.

𝘼𝙖𝙖𝙖𝙖𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙮����, 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙩-𝙩𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙩.

Will there be a plot-twist that they knew you were trailing them or what? You deadpanned.

Nobody— none other than a certain gingerhead, Cater Diamond had appeared.

"Oh! About that... It turns out these were actually my clones of me, made with my Unique Magic; Split Card. I admit, I really slayed those Diasomnia Dorm Outfits. They're so stylish!" Cater explained, revealing the trick in his sleeve.

"Riddle told us everything. So we had him put a little charade for us." Lilia said.

"Waka-sama has been clearing up the chaos, using his magic to guide the people safely back to the stadium." Sebek stated.

Silence filled the space between the two groups. It was dreadful, sharp, and painful to see before the eyes. Until a certain housewarden broke the tension.

Actually... More like he 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 the tension.

"Tch. Whatever. At this point, I don't even care anymore. I'm done. It's over." Leona surrended, switching back to his apathetic facade.

The hyena's eyes widen, a wave of shock splashing throughout the two groups.

"Boss, what are you saying?!"

"Were you even listening? If Malleus is able to participate, then we've got absolutely no chance of winning 1st place."

"𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼 𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀, 𝗜'𝗺 𝗼𝘂𝘁."

Leona said sharply, without batting an eye, he walked away in defeat.

In the midst of the moment, Ruggie grabbed his wrist, a desperate attempt to stop his tracks.

"Malleus might still be in the game, but we took out all the other dorms' best players right? Without you in the field, I don't even know if we'd have a shot at the top three! You're just gonna abandon our dreams like that?"

"For all the talk about "the world watching" this is just some schoolkids playin' a game. All you doe-eyed tenderfoots yappin' about your dreams... Pfft. The whole thing amused me, so I threw a bone. That's all this was.

"What do you mean? What happened to all the talk about "turning the world upside down"?

"Are you 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮 still going on about that?" Leona grabbed Ruggie by the collar of his shirt.

"All right, fine. You wanna hear the truth? You're a hyena who grew up in shitty dump, and I'm a secondborn prince who will 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 be king."

"𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙!"

The lion let go of Ruggie's collar, a sour expression written in his face.

"I'm out." He said sharply.

Ruggie stood there, gripping his fists until it became pure-white.

"𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯... 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘐..." He mumbled, looking at the ground. Rage coming to boiling point, he popped his head up, brows furrowed, lips pursing in an attempt to quell his anger. But it was no use.

"𝘿𝙊𝙉'𝙏 𝙍𝙐𝙉 𝘼𝙒𝘼𝙔! 𝙁𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏 𝙐𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙇 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙑𝙀𝙍𝙔 𝙀𝙉𝘿!" Ruggie unexpectedly shouted, running after Leona as he walked away.

"You can't do this to us, Boss!"

"You're gonna play, even if we gotta drag you out there kicking and screaming!"

The surrounding Savanaclaw students join in, switching sides on their housewarden. They are absolutely against Leona's decision.

"How irritating. I'm so sick of this shit. Shut 𝙐𝙋 you nobodies!" Leona let out a growl, shoving the group of students away using his Unique Magic; 𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗴'𝘀 𝗥𝗼𝗮𝗿. It is a signature spell, that turns everything the lions touches, into nothing but sand. He makes a windy barrier of sand to send the group flying back.

No way...

"Gwah!!" Sand was swirling around everywhere, like everyone including you were inside a sandstorm. It was an uncomfortable feeling, the sand drying out your eyes and nose, the itchiness of sand going through your skin, and the wind making it harder to spy on them.

"Ack! M-my nose is drying out!"

"Everything Leona-senpai touched is turning to sand?!"

"That'd would be my Unique magic; 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜'𝙨 𝙍𝙤𝙖𝙧. Ironic, isn't it? Nothin' the savanna despises more than a drought. Yet it's prince dessicates everything— reduces it to nothing but sand."

?!

As the surrounding Savanaclaw students gets wrapped in a storm of sand, all of a sudden, a certain someone jumped forward and tackled Leona.

"Boss! Snap out of it!" Ruggie desperately clung to the housewarden, in an attempt to shake him out of his outrage.

But unfortunately, it just made him a victim.

"𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥, 𝙝𝙪𝙝?"

He grabbed Ruggie by the neck while using his signature spell, causing the poor hyena to dry out as his skin visibly cracks.

"L-Leona-san.. It hurts!" Ruggie was desperately trying to get away from his housewarden's grasp.

"Kingscholar! I do not tolerate this behavior! 𝙊𝙛𝙛 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙!"

....

Riddle's collar flew off..

"Huh?! Riddle's signature spell flung out!" Grim surprised.

"Maybe you're some type of magic prodigy, kid. But don't underestimate your seniors."

Leona lets out a laugh as he keeps his grip on the hyena's neck. Not the 'happy' type of laugh— but simply pure anger and manic.

"Hah! How you like that Ruggie? Is your mouth too dry to keep licking my boots? That was your best talent, too."

"If this keeps going on, Ruggie is gonna-!"

Before Jack could even finish that sentence, the Ramshackle prefect was already seen running towards Leona in an attempt to stop his act of violence.

"YUU!!"

"You got some guts for a herbivore, huh?"

"𝙐𝙣𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩!" Jack transformed into a gray wolf, running towards Yuu as the swirl of sand was about to hit them, he grabbed the prefect before it could hit them. While Leona was distracted, Riddle immediately used his signature spell on him.

"𝙊𝙁𝙁 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙃𝙀𝘼𝘿!"

"Gah!" Leona yelped as he got collared, dropping Ruggie in the process. "No! You can't collar a lion! And Jack! Transformation potions is forbidden! Where did you get that?"

"That isn't a potion, it is my signature spell, 𝙐𝙣𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩. I can transform myself into a wolf. Dormleader Leona, I want you to know... I only came to this school because of how I admired you!"

"Shut up... Stop pinnin' your dreams on me! What do you know about how I feel?!"

"Would that the Lion king of the savanna would witness this farce. No, if you ask me, a collar suits you far better than a crown. You may lament the fact you're not higher in line to be king..." Lilia stepped in. "But with that sensitive ego of yours? That quickly lashes out petty anger on your retainers... Well, the idea of you ever standing face-to-face with a REAL king like our Malleus— is absolutely laughable. Even if you COULD defeat Malleus, so long as that's how you conduct yourself?" 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜!

Dreadful silence was followed as soon as the fae finished his statement. Until he laughed. "Hah.... Haha. You are probably right. No, you are EXACTLY right! Ha ha ha ha!" A dark aura was slowly releasing in the air, blot was gathering up behind the lion. "𝙄 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙣𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙄 𝙩𝙧𝙮."

"Myah!! My fur's standing on ends!" In a snap, Riddle's collar was flung away, again.

"I've been loathed since the day I was born. I never had a place, never had a future! None of my hard work is ever rewarded! How could any of you understand?! My lament! My pain!!" The housewarden let out a roar as the blot slowly consumes him. No way...

There stood Leona Kingscholar, in extreme final boss with maxed out stats. AKA; 𝙊𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙩. He was in a completely different outfit resembling drought of a savanna, his right eye glowing wild-orange, a scar on his face, and a huge blot figure behind him, that was consuming his life force. You were only focusing on his snatched waist, though. Your surroundings was going through anti-gravity, again. But you remained unaffected cause you were hiding in the corner. If you were asked what was your special trait, it would definitely be your invincible plot armour. The others get evacuated by the fae as chaos unveils again, the group knocking sense onto Leona as he continues his violence. You, on the other hand, were simply watching. Don't ask about the chips you were holding earlier, the sand got to it..

"I dunno what's going on, but if we hit Leona hard enough, maybe we can snap him outta it?" Jack, despite the situation, was a bit... too calm? Or is he simply confused?

"Yuu, if we beat Leona to a pulp, maybe they'll let us play in the Spelldrive!" Grim said in fighting stance, ready for battlefield.

"Let's do this!"

They dodge the incoming attacks, sand piling up the whole ground as the storm shows no mercy towards the group. Jack, Cater, Silver and Sebek, are the frontliners. Ace, Deuce, Ruggie, Yuu are in the back, and Riddle serves as the finishing blow.

How about you? What is your purpose? Recording all this while eating the fried tempura chips you found on the ground? While waving a flag that says “MAKE PEACE NOT WAR” with uncanny emojis that looks like it had been made by a drunk middle-aged business man that thought children would love it? Yeah, that was exactly what you were doing right now.

Hurry up and finish the battle already.. Your storage is about to die..

After what felt like an eternity, Ruggie n Cater served as distraction to break Leona's focus, then Riddle collared him. Yuu did the final blow by handchopping the lion's head. Talk about too much. They both lost consciousness, just like the last time. At this point, you aren't even suprised if Yuu was connected to them by fate.

Leona let out a groan as he slowly awakes from his slumber.

"I did it! He is awake! Now hurry up and confess." Grim said, putting his paws on his waist like a demanding familiar he is.

"Kingscholar. You're negative energies accelerated your blot accumulation, inducing an overblot episode. Do you not remember?"

"Wait, ME? I overblotted? No way.."

"I need you to confess that you're the culprit so I can enter!" Grim nagged.

"Heh. If this is a joke, I ain't laughin'."

"The headmage got Yuu's group to investigate the accidents in exchange for letting them compete in the tournament." Jack said.

"WHAAAT? Thats all this was?" Surprise written in Ruggie's face.

"You bet it was! And EXCUSE you!? You were the one pushin' people down the stairs for the chance at a little fame and glory!" Wait. 𝙍𝙪𝙜𝙜𝙞𝙚 was the one that caused you to fall down the stairs?! It seems you got hit by the shockwave, too."

"Very well. Then to begin with, Savanaclaw will be disqualified from this year's tournament. The rest of your punishment will be decided after I discuss it with the victims. Are we clear?"

"Understood." Leona accepted his defeat.

"Wait." Riddle and a few 2nd-years interrupted.

"Mr. Rosehearts? And I see you are with... Ah." Crowley approached the group, along with some students that was supposed to participate. How come you weren't invited? You negatively deadpanned.

"Correct. They are the victims in this incident."

"Headmage, I got a request for you. We would like you to permit Savanaclaw to play in the tournament despite their crimes."

"What?... You wish to forgive their actions?" Crowley questioned the group's motives.

"No. That's the last thing we want." The vice housewarden of scarabia student said sharply.

"If Savanaclaw is disqualified, then we'll lose our chance at revenge.

"WHAAAT?!" Said Jack and Ruggie, in unison.

"I understand where you're coming from, However, the question is: Are these Savanaclaw students even capable of taking to the field?" The headmage contemplated, cupping his chin deep in thought.

Leona lets out a laugh as he slowly gets up from his position. A positive one, this time. "Heh heh... Hahaha! Don't you underestimate me, Headmage. I don't need to be awake to handle these feeble pack of herbivores."

"And 𝙮𝙤𝙪, the one hiding in the corner eating tempura chips.... Stop hiding like a weasel and show yourself."

Ah.

Alas, you got caught.

[anika-ann]

Thirst for Life (As It Is) - S.R.

Type: one-shot, established relationship, next-to-zero plot

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 3,7k

Summary: You loved him for it; you hated it. You were still coming to terms with it, still learning to accept and believe that he damn-well meant it when he said he would always fight tooth and nail to come back to you.

You’d count your blessings; you celebrated his efforts by being the very home he was to you to him and if you could sooth his pain in any way you knew, as a physical therapist, as his lover, as a human being, you would.

A slice of life kind of fic, a moment of love life of Steve Rogers and his beloved.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, fingering, oral (F rec), allusions to penetrative sex, brief mention of canon typical injuries, briefest allusions to angst, FLUFF, dorks in love

A/N: Super belated entry for Stevie BB 200 Followers Celebration Writing Challenge hosted by @steviebbboi. Thank you for hosting and congrats again💕 I got inspired by the prompt Aw, does it feel good right here?🤭

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @saradika-graphics; enjoy y'all 🥰

Lips pressing to heated skin; to entice, to sooth the burning.

Fingertips dancing over strained muscles. Body arching into the touch.

A silent blissful keen escaping.

A sinful whisper.

“Aww, is that the spot, love? Does it feel good right there?"

A blatant, wicked tease, rewarded by a breathless curse spilling from parted lips, a soundless complaint.

Unable to help yourself, you giggled, kissing the spot again, earning a grunt – a sound of protest and approval alike.

“Just you wait…” Steve muttered, annoyed and somewhat fond at once, groaning when you pressed with your fingers this time, feeling the tight knot right under his right shoulder blade as if growing thicker to rebel against your care. “And this isn’t funny.”

You licked your lips, biting back to fight another laugh and losing anyway.

“Come on, Steve… it’s a little funny.”

It was a little funny.

Steve Rogers, a mighty supersoldier, all muscle and broadness, filling the space of the large bed. A paragon of strength and justice, shoulders wide enough to carry the weight of the world, his heart a shield for those who needed protection, his shield the heart of the Avengers. A seemingly fearless leader, a strategic mastermind, an excellent fighter; the embodiment of masculinity and power and righteousness and love.

All that and more – brought to its knees by a pulled muscle.

Of course, if it were up to Steve only, he would not even let this slow him down, not in the slightest, let alone bring him down his knees. Oh no.

It was your gentle offer; a soft touch of a hand, a sweet promise, a confession and a plea on your lips.  

“Let me help, love.”

A gaze of mutual affection exchanged; a kiss to his lips to seal the deal with tenderness you knew your might have to abandon if you wanted to help set his body right.

It was a little funny.

The huge hunk of supersoldier muscle, turned into a puddle of a man under your touch. You treated him with as much skill as you would any other client or a patient of yours, if perhaps with a little softer care and with considerably less professionalism.

Obviously, Steve was not your usual client or patient; Steve Rogers was infinitely much more to you. The love radiating from the depth of your heart turned tangible in his proximity; undeniably present in your touch, be it your hands or your lips trying to sooth the pain, be it you straddling his hips which seemed almost absurdly narrow in comparison of the enormity of his shoulders, be it your words of affection or gentle teasing.

Obviously, Steve was not your usual client or patient; most of those who came in specifically with a pulled muscle were there because they had been helping a friend moving furniture, overestimated themselves in a gym, or snapped their head to the side too fast.

Your boyfriend of almost one year, on the other hand, had pulled a muscle when lifting a goddamn car off of someone to whose rescue he had rushed to.

Pressing against the knot, gently but firmly enough to make Steve groan – a sound of complaint bleeding into one of gratitude as you gradually released the pressure – you allowed the piece of information about him having practically lifted a car wash over you again, the astonishment at absurdity and curiosity of life fresh as if it was something entirely new to you.

But it wasn’t. It most definitely wasn’t the first time you had been confronted with this part of who Steve was. It wasn’t the first time you were confronted with how much the serum had enhanced his strength and possibly stubbornness, with what he did for living and how, or with the insistent calling in his very soul to help and serve and be nothing but a profoundly good man. It was hardly the first time and yet you guessed it would never cease to amaze you.

His good heart and his kind soul. His brilliant mind and his incredible body. A man all strong and resilient, but not invincible, not unbreakable.

And perhaps that was where the laugh was coming from – the reason why you couldn’t quite help yourself but tease him, why you couldn’t quite stop giggling.

The relief.

Because Steve Rogers – one of the greatest heroes of your time and the past alike – coming back home with only a pulled muscle was nothing short of a miracle, and this was how your strained body and mind expressed the utter, overwhelming relief coursing your veins.

Because Steve came home. Home to you.

Another day, another save.

Another day he could have caught a knife to his gut or to his neck. Another day he could have caught a bullet an inch from his heart or straight through. Another day he could have been taken and tortured for information or for the twisted fun of hurting Captain America.

None of that had happened.

Instead, it was another day Steve came home to you in one piece. Even if tired and with a pulled muscle.

You’d count your blessings, over and over, more so since you knew how and why he had pulled that muscle; gold of heart and dumb of ass, he couldn’t have waited for someone to come help him, not when the man who had been pinned under a damn car was so clearly and understandably in pain.

Steve’s mind was a brilliant thing, coming up with impenetrable strategies, with a plan B for the plan B and with a plan C and D just in case, carefully predicting outcomes and calculating risks; sometimes he just got bad at math when calculating risks for himself when he couldn’t bear seeing others suffer.

You loved him for it; you hated it. You were still coming to terms with it, still learning to accept and believe that he damn-well meant it when he said he would always fight tooth and nail to come back to you.

You’d count your blessings; you celebrated his efforts by being the very home he was to you to him and if you could sooth his pain in any way you knew, as a physical therapist, as his lover, as a human being, you would.

And he’d let you, even if the first time you had met had certainly not been the case. Not with him having been dragged in, after having his knee busted in a fight, arguing that he did not need anyone’s help, because he was enhanced by the supersoldier serum and his body had always healed on its own. You wouldn’t have it; you had met all the unwilling patients and sceptics. So you took one glance at the man who had literally dragged him in – his best friend, Bucky Barnes, seemingly more exhausted by his attitude than by the fact he had been carrying a significant weight of the huge pile of muscle Steve Rogers was – and then took another look at the man behind the shield himself, before you listed all the muscles, tendons and bones that would have begged him to differ in reaction to such claim.

To this day, you were not quite sure whether it had been your knowledge or your ability to simply not have his attitude that had impressed him more, but later you would find out his attitude was more about him feeling like others needed your help more than him and less about him questioning your field or expertise. That had mattered to you; what mattered also was that Bucky was never going to let you or Steve live your so-called meet-cute down, claiming he knew right away Steve had fallen in love the very second.

So you’d count your blessing and you’d let yourself feel whatever came, and you’d let yourself be consumed by the love with gratitude and thirst for life as it was.

You let yourself laugh again even as Steve grumbled under you, muttering something about maybe deserving it. You appreciated the self-awareness. You appreciated him.

You smiled as you let your hands roam with purpose, warm touch mapping out his pains and still taking moments to caress and indulge in exploring his body, cherishing the beautiful view of the expanse of his back and the feel of his strength yielding to your care with endless trust.

“I feel a little less treated and little more objectified at this point,” he muttered, a smile evident in his voice even before your gaze flickered to his face, now turned to side as he rested his cheek on the back of his hand.

One corner of your lips rose higher, barely a flicker of shame in your chest. You’d never violate a patient or a client like that; but you’d also never miss a chance to feel closer to Steve, miss a chance to touch him, to cherish the contact and to make him feel loved.

“Is there a complaint you’d like to submit, sir?” you questioned, a wide smile setting on your lips as he hummed in disapproval.

Still, you finished the treatment with a last few strokes that were indeed more of a gentle closing than anything else, climbed off of him and pulled the blanket over his naked back to keep the muscles warm.    

He blinked his eyes open as you sat by his side on the bed, leaning in to kiss his forehead.

The second he reached out his hand to hold you, you clicked your tongue disapprovingly, making him huff but obediently stop his progress.

“You know the rules, Steve. Stay still for a bit, let the body process. I’ll bring you some fluids.”

He sighed, squinting at you with adorable defiance. “I do know… I don’t have like it. Maybe just a minor complaint then.”

You grinned, leaning closer to him on the pillow, feeling your heart tremble in thorough warmth as he observed you with sleepy intent and a look closest to adoration you had ever seen.

“What’s that, Captain Rogers?” you whispered conspiratorially.

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

You relaxed into the mattress, shoulders slumping, heart a second from melting as the lightest and most delightful feeling spread through your veins, a rush so powerful it almost chased tears into your eyes.

To care and be cared for; to love and be loved, so utterly you had never believed it possible until you met Steve Rogers, most certainly the love of your life.

Reaching out, your fingertips lightly caressed his cheek, his eyelids slipping shut; you brushed over the arches of his brows, over the slope of his nose, over his lips – instantly pursing for a light kiss to your fingers – and caressed his scalp, only to meet his gaze again, so tender you felt something inside your soul shift and shudder in pure happiness.

“I know you will when I need it,” you assured him, bringing a ghost of a smile to his face. “And I’m pretty sure that’s the idea. That we’re supposed to be taking care of each other, love.”

A sparkle lit up his tired eyes, his smile turning positively goofy.

“I like that,” he whispered.

“Good,” you said, pressing another kiss to his forehead and climbing to your feet. “Now be a good patient and stay still for a bit, just like everyone else… no matter how special you are to me.”

“Mmm, if you say so… I love you.”

You fought the urge to lie next to him, reminding yourself that if you got him fluids now, you could lie with him and bask in his warmth later and with no interruptions.

“I love you too, Steve.”

By the time you got back, hands clean of the essential oil and full with a mug of tea and a tall glass of water, you found him fast asleep, still on his front, arms hugging his pillow.

Not bothering to fight off your smile this time, you set the mug on the nightstand, tucked the blanket higher to his chin and climbed up to the bed to sit and prop up on the headboard.

You reached for the engagement ring you had taken off for the massage first and put it back where it belonged, and only then for your half-read book, gaze once more flickering to man who had stolen your heart and would never give it back.

Attention divided, you read; but mainly you kept your future husband company, watching over his peaceful and more than deserved sleep.

Because that was what you were supposed to do; watch over each other, look out for one another, and take care of each other.

And in a few months, you’d promise to continue doing that with love for the rest of your lives, swearing so in front of your friends and families.

Lips pressing to heated skin; to entice, to sooth the burning.

Fingertips dancing over strained muscles. Body arching into the touch.

A silent blissful keen escaping.

A sinful whisper.

“Aww, is that the spot, love?” he teased, every syllable dripping off his lips rich and heady like honey, and even with your eyes fluttered shut, you could see his beautifully wicked smile, the spark in his eyes that shone dark, lit alive in a way that was reserved for you; and only for you. “Does it feel good right there?"

You recognized the echo of your own words, Steve’s voice coloured with sweet vindication. He knew exactly what he was doing and he revelled in it; you would protest and complained again if your lips remembered how to speak beyond Steve’s name and breathless pleas. You would protest if you truly wanted to and he would stop in an instant. You would protest if your hands were not literally tied.

Again, unlike your other patients, all Steve had needed was your skilled touch and a good rest. A few hours of sleep, Erskine’s serum working its magic and he had been good to go; perhaps not for another mission, not for a training session, but for repaying your service with love and adoration and desire.

Hugging your middle after waking up, resting his head over your thigh, he had sent a single glance up at you and you had very well forgotten what you had been reading.

He had kissed your palms in thank you, one and then the other, lingering with his gaze and his lips, and you had already been forgetting your own name.

He had pressed a kiss to your wrists, wrapping them in satin like a precious gift, smiling as he had to ruck up the sleeves of his very shirt you had chosen to wear to bed to do so.

He had ghosted his lips over your fingertips as he tied your wrists to the headboard, making sure you rested your hands, the most important asset for your work; conveniently putting your engagement ring on display for him to see at all times while doing so.

He had met your lips in a kiss so sultry you barely caught your breath, before they strayed over every inch of newly revealed skin as he unbuttoned the shirt, lingering in all his and your favourite places, hands roaming, caressing, holding, owning.

You arched against his mouth when he reached his prize, forearm draping over your middle, keeping you grounded as he lifted you towards the stars once, almost for the second time, until his fingers joined to show off his own talented touch and to bring you to the brink of madness.

“Did not quite catch that, sweetheart,” he muttered to the burning skin of your inner thigh, rendering you speechless with his tongue before you could catch your wits and answer. “I suppose I should try again…”

“Steve-“

“Right here, love… give me one more. Let me take care of you… you said you knew I would take care of you when you’d need it, didn’t you? Do you need it now, love?”

Steven Grant Rogers, you little shit- was the thought that flew through your head so fast you couldn’t hope to catch it let alone verbalize it. Not with how your head was beginning to spin when his lips, his hands, his wicked tongue and seemingly innocent filthy talk carried by his deep voice overwhelmed your senses and chased you higher and closer to your peak with every passing torturous second.

“Yes-“ was what actually spilled from your lips breathily, followed by a keen of please.

“Then be good and stay still.”

Steve’s dark mischievous gaze met yours, the erotic sight of him between your legs, wide shoulders barely fitting, with his palm sprawled to your belly and seemingly enjoying himself thoroughly was your undoing, along with things he did and you could not hope to put into words; not when your vision whited out with a cry of his name and wave of numbing bliss washing over you and pulling you under.

You were trying to catch your breath as he let you ride out your high, firm, wet languid kisses pressed to your thighs, your stomach, your breasts with just a graze of teeth to both increase your pleasure and to satisfy the man who loved to get lost in exploring your body and consuming you whole.

When his lips finally met yours again, you did not care you still hadn’t quite earned enough oxygen, whimpering against the demanding kiss as Steve’s fingers curled just to press at the spot again, while he casually rested his weight on his elbow, left hand interlacing his fingers with yours to feel the ring he had slipped on your finger just a few weeks ago.

“Love you so much, sweetheart. Love seeing you like this, so beautiful, so blissed out and so, so mine…” he whispered, voice hoarse as if he had been the one to crying out in ecstasy.

“I love you too, Steve.”

Instinctively moving to touch him, to keep him closer, you tugged at the soft fabric around your wrists, huffing in frustration when all you could do was squeeze Steve’s hand tighter.

“Hands, love?” you pleaded, arching your body against his, hovering too high for your taste even when your bare chest brushed his, your body drinking hungrily the heat which his own was radiating. “Want to touch you.”

“Anything for you, love.”

As thoroughly distracting as his lips were, pressing back to yours as he blindly loosened the knots, your hands sprang the moment you were free, sighing as the utter delight at holding onto your lover flooded every cell of your body, fingers raking through his hair, digging into his back to pull his closer to your embrace.

His lips eased the pressure, nose bumping yours, fingertips brushing your cheek tenderly, his smile as sweet as sinful, and when you blinked your eyes open, you couldn’t but bask in the blinding light of adoration shining in Steve’s blown pupils.

“You alright, sweetheart? Can you take more?”

The question nor the concern were new; yet they tasted as lovely as Steve’s smile when he leaned in to kiss you again.

You ran your hand down the lovely expanse of his back, pressing to meet his hardness, a wordless agreement.

“Yes, just… be careful.”

Steve’s lips parted from yours with a wet pop, genuine worry instantly overtaking his features, his weight easing from your body – almost making you regret what you were about to say when he’d inevitably ask-

“Are you hurting? Did I do anything-“

“I’m fine, Stevie…” you assured him, brushing a lose strand away from his forehead, smoothening the crease that formed there, your wildly pounding heart shivering from his tender care for you, his consideration, his willingness to walk away from chasing his own pleasure and just hold you should you wish so for whatever reason.

You pressed a soft kiss to his lips, his frown only deepening with disapproval as he probably thought you were about to downplay whatever it was that bothered you, what he had done to hurt you or was causing you pain – like Mr. Hypocrite, your softest, biggest love.

“No need to worry, Steve. I just want you to be careful, you know… you might pull a muscle and need medical and fluids after.”

A beat of silence, bated breaths.

And then you were bursting out with laughter at Steve’s scandalized expression, the sound blending into a yelp as he grabbed you by the hips and lifted you to the air. He stood up in a whirlwind of a movement, spinning you until your back hit the wall, blow softened by his palm while his other moved under your bottom, fingers digging to your flesh, pinning you to the hard surface by his hips, his chest, and mainly by his lips crashing against yours, stealing the laughter from you very lungs, drinking your love from the very bottom of your heart.

He nipped at your bottom lip, hips bucking against yours, his voice a sultry promise you couldn’t wait for him to make good on; for all the teasing, you knew that indeed, your Steve would have caring for you at the forefront of his mind. You could feel his love undeniably present in his touch, be it his hands or his lips, be it his words of affection or the gentle, exhilarating threats:

“Oh just you wait, love… we’ll see who’ll need what after I’m done with you… I was so well-taken care of by my future wife, I think I want to start training for our wedding night. And sweetheart,” he whispered, warm breath brushing your ear, “I think it’s time we try to push our record to double digits.”

As a shudder ran down your spine like a livewire, your heart jumping to your throat with how your blissed-out mind scrambled to try to imagine that, you let your body sink into his, counted your blessing, and let yourself feel whatever was about to come.

You let yourself be consumed by love with gratitude and thirst for life as it was.

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

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May November be kind to you���