#more like scribbles out of boredom in class

[vantetaes]

FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS🫧🥂

ATHLETE ONYANKOPON X TUTOR BLACK FEM READER

SUMMARY!!! yn is forced to tutor her colleges golden boy, onyankopon

WARNINGS!!! slow burn, enemies to lovers, mild vougerism, pet names

on a rainy tuesday, the sky hangs low and gray, smothering the campus in a damp chill.

you’re sitting in the library, tucked into a corner where the light from a nearby lamp casts a golden glow across the wooden table. books and papers are scattered in front of you, your pen tapping rhythmically against the spine of a well-worn calculus textbook. the library is quiet except for the faint hum of the central heating and the soft rustle of pages being turned.

then, you hear it. heavy footsteps, a bag dragging along the polished floors. you glance up to see onyankopon striding in, his broad shoulders swaying under a damp varsity jacket. his forehead still wet from the rain, beads of water slipping down his neck and soaking into the collar of his gray hoodie and his large jeweled necklace. his black sweatpants hang low on his hips, the fabric wrinkled and casual.

he doesn’t even apologize as he plops into the chair across from you, his duffel bag hitting the floor with a loud thud. a few drops of water splashing into your work surface.

his presence is immediate, commanding, and unwelcome.

“you’re late.” you say flatly, folding your arms.

he doesn’t look at you as he leans back, his long legs stretching out beneath the table.

“yeah, well, traffic. i’m here now. isn’t that what matters?”

“not when you’re fifteen minutes late. i could be doing something better than this.” you push the calculus textbook toward him, your tone clipped.

“let’s just get started. i don’t have time to waste.”

“psht- sure.” he mumbles lowly, spreading legs wider, leaning back in his chair, arms tucked into his hoodie pocket, hood shielding his eyes.

“you’re awfully cocky for someone failing calculus.” he rears up, eyes narrowing at you.

“and you have a lot of mouth for a tutor.” his frame began leaning forward, his irritating smile beginning to form across his lips.

“be an asshole all you want. i’m what’s separating you and the championship. i separate you and your incompetent little scouts. watch what you say.” his eyes relax from shooting daggers, instead of look of defeat crossing.

“open your book to 215.”

-

the first few sessions are a disaster.

he spends more time cracking jokes and scrolling on his phone, flirting with the library assistants. rather than actually studying. half-listening, scribbling answers in the margins of his workbook with barely any effort.

you were stuck in a loop of wanting to rip the boys head off and reassuring yourself that this would look good on your record.

“what’s the point of this, anyway?” he mutters late one evening, slouched over the table in his usual hoodie, varsity jacket combo and sweatpants.

the library’s soft lighting and sunset through the large windows makes his skin look warm, his dark brown eyes glinting with something that isn’t quite interest but isn’t boredom either. licking his plump lips as he goes to lean back in the chair, pen tucked behind his ear.

“not like i’m not gonna use this in real life.”

“knowing you, maybe not.” you reply, your voice sharp, placing the tip of your red pen down on his paper, marking everything wrong on his sheet.

“but for now, you’ll use it to keep playing football. or do you want to sit out the champs because you couldn’t be bothered to learn how to integrate a function? all the money your parents spend for you to go here, make use.” your tone was straight and nonchalant. sliding over the paper to the man as if it’s confidential files. his eyes scan all the red x’s and o’s. noticing it was the majority of his work.

“do you always talk like this? no wonder no one sits with you in class.” he gives you a look, one eyebrow raised.

the words sting, but you don’t let it show.

“nigga we’re grown. this isn’t high school anymore, onyankopon. maybe people would like you more if you weren’t so fucking obnoxious.”

his grin is infuriating, lips stretching across his face. letting out a chuckle.

“oh, they like me just fine, sweetheart.”

“and i hope to be as delusional as you someday.”

despite your attitude towards each other, you find yourself noticing small things about him.

the way he fiddles with the drawstring of his hoodie when he’s frustrated. index finger and thumb nipping at the metal tips. the way his voice softens, just barely, when he asks you to explain something again, pushing his glasses up. breath hitching when you slide from your side of the table casually, the fabric of your sweater falling slightly over your shoulder. he thought you smelled like fresh baked cookies, maybe a contrast with the way your attitude was. you’d notice the faint scar above his left eyebrow, visible only when the light from the library’s lamp hits it just right.

one day, the library is too crowded, filled to the brim with worried college students, and he suggests meeting in his dorm instead. you hesitate but agree, figuring it’ll be easier than finding another spot in the cramped exam season.

when you arrive, his room is a mess. clothes tossed over the back of a chair, textbooks and playbooks stacked haphazardly on his desk, the faint scent of cologne and sweat lingering in the air.

“sorry about the mess. been trying to keep up with everything.” he says, scratching the back of his neck. he’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt and joggers today, hair protected in a dark maroon durag. his feet padding softly against the carpet as he moves to clear his clothes from his bed to his laundry basket tucked into his closet.

you couldn’t help but notice he’s moving erratically, eyes and hands unable to find a steady place to stay.

“onyankopon.” you reply, setting your bag down. “we can always reschedule, maybe you’re working yourself too hard.”

“no. we can do it just let me straighten up, swear.” your eyes drift from the man rushing to clean, to a pile of crushed red bulls, celcius cans, and empty americano cups. his calendar was packed full of activities and sports events he was mandated to attend. lists of exams growing. he’s running on nothing but caffeine.

“onyankopon.” you say, crossing your arms, your voice tight with concern.

“you’re running on nothing but coke and sheer panic.”

he laughs, though it’s short and breathless, as if acknowledging the truth in your words would be admitting defeat.

“nah, i’m fine. i’ve got it. i always do.”

you don’t respond right away, instead watching as he swipes stray clothes off the only other chair in the room and dumps them onto his bed. his hands move quickly with hangers, his jaw tight, his movements too sharp to be natural. you realize it’s not just the caffeine, it’s everything. the weight of expectations. the need to perform, to stay on top.

“sit down.” you finally say, your voice firm.

“what?” he looks up, his dark eyes blinking in confusion.

“sit. down.” you gesture to his unmade bed, the rumpled gray sheets twisted like he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in weeks.

“take five minutes to breathe before you collapse. i’m serious.”

“i don’t have time to—” he hesitates, his fingers twitching like they’re itching to pick up something else, to keep moving, to do anything other than pause.

“make time. you can’t keep going like this.” you cut him off, your tone sharper than you intend.

his shoulders sag, and for the first time, you see a crack in the cocky, untouchable facade he always wears. slowly, he sinks onto the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees as he rubs a hand down his face.

“it’s just… a lot,” he admits, his voice quieter now.

“if i don’t keep up, i’ll fall behind. and if i fall behind- then…”

“then what?” you press, stepping closer.

“the world ends? the team loses one player for a game? you fail a test? what’s the worst that happens?”

“everyone’s counting on me.” he says, the words heavy.

“the team, the coaches, the professors. hell, even my parents. if i screw this up-” voice cracking, he trails off, shaking his head.

you feel something in your chest twist, a mixture of frustration and sympathy. you’d always seen onyankopon as larger than life, the guy who has it all together. but here he was, cracking under the weight of his own perfectionism.

“look-” you say, your voice softer now. “i get it. people expect a lot from you. but you can’t give them anything if you’re running on fumes, onya. you need to take care of yourself too, okay?”

he looks up at you, his dark eyes searching yours, and for a moment, he’s quiet. then, he gives a small, tired smile.

“you’re bossy, you know that?”

“you’re stubborn.” you counter, sitting down across from him and sliding your notebook back into the bag.

“im serious though. drink some water, eat something. we can pick up next week before exams start.”

as the week goes by, something shifts. it’s subtle at first: he starts showing up on time, asking questions that prove he’s actually been paying attention. during one session, you catch him staring at you. not in his usual teasing way, but with an expression you can’t quite place.

“what?” you snap, your cheeks warming under his gaze.

“nothing. just wondering what you’d look like if you smiled once in a while.” he shrugs, his lips curving into a small smile.

“maybe i’d smile more if you got an answer right for once.” you shoot back, jokingly tapping the side of his face. there’s no real venom in your tone.

one evening in his dorm, with BRENT FAIYAZ playing softly in the background on his laptop. he surprises you by pulling out a red notebook filled with neatly written equations.

“i’ve been practicing.” he says, his voice almost shy.

“you… did this on your own?” you blink a few times, caught off guard. fingers flipping carefully through the work.

“yeah. figured you’d yell at me less if i tried.”

for the first time, you see a different side of him. he’s still cocky, still quick with a comeback, but there’s something vulnerable beneath the surface. it’s infuriating, how much you notice.

you find yourself in his dorm again. the rain is pounding against the window, the room dimly lit by the glow of a desk lamp. onyankopon sits across from you, his hoodie pulled low over his curls. he’s focused on the textbook in front of him, his jaw tight as he works through a problem.

you don’t know why, but your chest tightens at the sight of him like this. serious, determined, and quiet in a way that feels rare.

“you’re getting it.” you say softly, and his head snaps up.

“yeah?” his voice is quieter than usual, almost hesitant.

“yeah.” you smile, just a little. “you’ll pass.”

he leans back, exhaling deeply. “good. because i don’t think i could’ve done this without you.”

you wave him off, trying to ignore the way your heart skips at his words. “just focus on your game tomorrow.”

but he doesn’t look away, his dark eyes fixed on yours. “i mean it. you’ve been there for me when no one else was.”

your breath catches, and for a moment, the space between you feels charged, electric. but you force yourself to look away, gathering your things. “you should get some rest.”

he doesn’t stop you as you leave, but the look in his eyes stays with you long after you’ve gone.

-

the stadium is alive with energy, the roar of the crowd vibrating through the crisp autumn air. the bright lights cut through the darkness, illuminating the field where onyankopon moves like he was made for this.

you’re watching from the sidelines, surrounded by screaming fans and teammates pacing anxiously, but your eyes never leave him. he’s electric tonight, faster than you’ve ever seen him, his body a blur of black and gold as he weaves through defenders. every throw is perfect, spiraling through the air before landing seamlessly in the hands of his receivers. he’s playing like a man possessed, like this is his destiny.

and maybe it is.

the final play unfolds in slow motion. clock winding down, onyankopon dodging two defenders, the pocket collapsing around him, but instead of panicking, he pivots. his cleats dig into the turf as he launches the ball downfield, his arm a perfect arc of muscle and control. the last second. the crowd holds its breath as the receiver leaps, fingers grazing the ball before pulling it into his chest.

touchdown.

the stadium erupts.

the scoreboard cements the victory, and just like that, they’ve won. the team rushes the field, helmets flying off, bodies colliding in embraces and back slaps. onyankopon stands at the center of it all, arms raised, grinning so wide it’s blinding.

you should leave. you should turn away now that your job is technically over. he passed his classes, he made it to the championship, he didn’t need you anymore. but your feet stay rooted to the ground. because despite everything, despite the way he frustrates you and how complicated everything had become, you can’t bring yourself to look away.

but neither can he.

even in the chaos, in the middle of his teammates hoisting him up like he’s their king, his eyes find you. just for a second. just long enough for something unspoken to pass between you.

with a big smile and both thumbs high, you just smile at the man.

then, suddenly, he’s swarmed. scouts in expensive suits push through the crowd, hands outstretched, voices blending together in a frenzy of opportunity.

they’re speaking fast, throwing out numbers, offers, futures that sound too big to be real. you watch as coaches shake his hand, as reporters shove microphones in his face, as his teammates thump his back with shouts of -

“that’s the nfl calling your name, bro!”

“the girls gone love this shit!”

“let’s go drink!”

-

the campus bar is packed, overflowing with students buzzing from the victory, their energy vibrating through the dimly lit space. the neon signs overhead cast a hazy glow over the crowd, bottles clinking together, voices raised in laughter and celebration over the music.

you sit at the bar, half-hidden in the shadows, nursing a drink that burns just enough to dull the tightness in your chest. your fingers trace the rim of the glass as you watch groups of students in jerseys throwing back shots, replaying onyankopon’s best plays on the tiny bar tvs like they hadn’t just witnessed them firsthand.

you should be happy. you should be celebrating too. after all, he won. he got everything he wanted.

so why does it feel like something in your chest is unraveling?

you tip your glass back, finishing the rest of your drink in one go. the ice pressing against your lips yet the warmth spreading through you like a slow burn.

“another?” the bartender asks, eyeing you curiously. almost concerned with the solemn expression that rest on your face.

you nod, sliding your glass toward her.

“yeah. something way stronger please. everclear if you have it.”

“sorry we don’t carry jet fuel.” she jokes, reaching across the counter to grab your empty glass.

the doors swing open, and the energy in the bar shifts instantly. the football team floods in, a wave of jerseys and victory-fueled adrenaline, their presence consuming the space like they own it. someone starts chanting onyankopon’s name, and the whole bar picks it up, the sound rising above the music, shaking the walls.

he walks in at the center of it all, his championship hoodie slung over his broad shoulders, his jersey still clinging to him from the game. his chain catches the light as he moves, bright white teeth grinning, dapping up teammates, accepting the endless praise with that same easy confidence.

he looks good. he always does. but there’s something sharper about him tonight. something almost restless in the way his eyes sweep across the room.

then, he sees you.

you’re still at the bar, fingers wrapped loosely around your drink, your posture relaxed but your gaze unreadable. you don’t cheer, don’t chant his name like the rest of them. you just watch, eyes batting at him and somehow, that unsettles him more than anything else.

without a word, he starts moving toward you. almost like he was gravitated towards you.

“onyan, where you going man? they wanna take shots.” one of his teammates calls, arms thrown over two girls. a small smirk crossing his face. but onyankopon barely hears him.

“shouldn’t you be celebrating with them?” you glance up when he reaches you, arching a brow.

he leans against the bar, close enough that you can smell the faint mix of cologne and sweat still clinging to him.

“i could ask you the same thing.” he says, voice low over the noise. you take a slow sip of your drink.

“i am celebrating.” he huffs a quiet laugh.

“yeah? you don’t look like it.”

“guess i don’t have as much to celebrate as you do.” you shrug, swirling the liquid in your glass, watching the ice clink against the sides.

the words shouldn’t sting, but they do.

onyankopon watches you for a long moment, then reaches past you, grabbing a random shot from the bar. he downs it quickly, barely flinching at the burn before setting the glass down with a quiet thud.

“go back, they’re waiting for you.” your finger points past the man to a group of guys staring at him and you. some of them smiling at you while others stare confused.

“ma, stop acting like this. y’know i appreciate you helping me, i couldn’t have done this without you. im serious.” his hand shoots out, taking hold of yours, bringing it up to place a small kiss on your knuckles. eyes never leaving yours.

“come take one drink with us and the you c -“ yanking your hand back, the man’s big brown eyes widen.

“baby! there you are!”

your fingers tighten around your glass as a girl slides up to onyankopon, wrapping her arms around his bicep like she belongs there.

her black minidress riding up her ass as she pressed against the man. but she’s pretty. long, sleek hair, manicured nails pressing lightly into the side of his face.

kirsten.

you’ve seen her before, walking across campus in his hoodies, sitting front row at his games, in pictures tagged on his instagram.

your stomach turns, but your face remains impassive.

“uh, hey.” onyankopon tenses, like he wasn’t expecting her, but he recovers fast. she looks up at him, pouting.

“you disappeared right after the game! i’ve been looking everywhere for you. even came by the locker room.” then, as if just noticing you, she turns, her eyes scanning you from head to toe.

her smile is polite. too polite.

“who’s this?”

before onyankopon can answer, you set your glass down and meet her gaze head-on.

“yn.”

her brows lift slightly, like the name rings a bell.

“oh-” she hums, the realization clicking in her head. she looks at onyankopon. “the tutor?”

there’s something about the way she says it that makes your jaw clench. like she’s filing you away into something insignificant.

“girl- yes. the tutor. the whole reason your fuck buddy was even able to play tonight.” you exhale slowly, keeping your tone even.

onyankopon mutters something under his breath, running a hand down his face, but kirsten just smiles, saccharine-sweet.

“right, of course. i heard you helped him so much.”

“i did, how did you?.” you arch a brow.

her smile tightens, and for a second, the two of you just stare at each other, an entire silent conversation happening in the space between. neither of you back down.

onyankopon shifts beside you, clearly uncomfortable.

“kirsten, not now.” he mutters.

but she ignores him, tilting her head at you.

“it’s just funny. you’re acting all… close, but you’re just his tutor.”

your lips part, and you could let it go. you should let it go. but the exhaustion from the last few weeks, the emotions simmering under your skin, the alcohol in your system. it all catches up to you.

you lean in slightly, voice smooth but firm.

“ha! kirs baby... you’re acting all secure, but you had to come find him.”

her smile vanishes.

onyankopon lets out a low, exasperated- “oh, fuck.”

“do you need that?” she asks, about to start taking her earrings until onyankopon started to scold the girl.

the bar suddenly feels too loud, too crowded, too full of people pretending not to watch the tension unfold. you sigh, shaking your head, suddenly too tired for this. reaching into your purse, you throw down a fifty dollar bill and snatch your jacket off the back of the chair.

“enjoy your night, superstar .” you say, voice quieter now, pushing in between the couple.

and this time, when you walk away, you don’t stop.

-

the pounding on your door is relentless. heavy, urgent, like whoever’s on the other side has no intention of leaving until you open up.

you groan, burying your face deeper into your pillow, willing whoever it is to go away. but the knocking only gets louder, more insistent.

“yn! open the damn door!”

your eyes snap open. you recognize that voice instantly. deep, slightly hoarse, impatient. onyankopon.

you drag yourself out of bed, throwing on the nearest sweatshirt, slipping on your slippers, your head still hazy from last night’s drinks. your legs are heavy as you trudge toward the door, stomach twisting with a mix of exhaustion and irritation. the knocks still persistent.

the second you yank it open, he’s there, standing in your doorway like he owns the place. his hoodie is pulled up over his waves, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips, like he left in a hurry.

his eyes. dark, intense, scan over you, taking in the oversized sweatshirt swallowing your frame. lashes disheveled, your bare legs, bonnet secured on your head, the clear signs that you just woke up. eyes narrowed at him, sleep still collecting at the corners.

something flickers across his face, gone too fast for you to catch.

“jesus, onyankopon. why you knocking like the fucking police? barely morning.” you mutter, rubbing your temple, wiping your eyes. he frowns down at you, flipping his apple watch up.

“it’s noon.”

“…oh.”

he exhales sharply, jaw clenching.

“can i come in?”

you hesitate, debating slamming the door in his face just to make a point. but there’s something about the way he looks- frustrated, tired, guilty. that makes you sigh and step aside.

he brushes past you, pacing across your living room like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. you cross your arms, watching him, waiting.

finally, he stops, turning to face you.

“about last night—” you cut him off.

“you don’t have to explain.”

“yeah, i do.” his voice is firm. “you left before i could.”

you huff a humorless laugh.

“what was there to explain? your bitch came looking for you, you let her hang all over you, and then she tried to play in my fucking face. sounds pretty clear to me.”

“she’s not my fucking girlfriend.” he scrubs a hand down his face, exhaling hard.

“wow! could’ve fooled the hell outta me.” you blink.

“yn, i swear to god! i. am. not. with. her!” he looks at you, exasperated, hands held out pleading for your warmth.

“she’s not- we were a thing, yeah, but we broke up weeks ago. she just- she doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” he shakes his head, frustrated. you stare at him, skeptical.

“and what, you just let her? let her claim you, let her act like i was nothing? was her dumb ass helping you pass a class you knew you shouldn’t have signed up for in the first place? you could never be my nigga.”

his expression tightens.

“i wasn’t thinking. i was caught off guard. and then you and her started—”

“that, and i just—fuck, i handled it wrong, okay?” he gestures vaguely.

“all this fucking stuttering. yeah, no shit. you chose her last night when you let the weirdo talk to me crazy.” you scoff.

“i don’t want her, ma. i swear, i need you to believe me.” he steps closer, lowering his voice.

“good for you.” your breath catches, but you keep your face neutral.

“no.” he shakes his head, his eyes locked onto yours. he’s towering over you and all you can smell is his cologne and laundry detergent. his head still hooded, lips shining under the low light of your apartment.

“you don’t get it.” he moves even closer, his voice quieter now, more serious.

“i don’t want her. i want you.”

“prove it.”

he wastes no time bending down and attaching your lips to his.

“mm-! i didn’t have time to brush my teeth!” you whine, letting him snake his large hands under your sweatshirt. his trimmed nails running up and down your waist. his lips venture down the side of your neck, humming before pulling away.

“mama, i’ve wanted you for the last two months, i don’t give a damn.”

his lips move against yours with urgency, all heat and frustration, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you even closer until there’s no space left between you.

your fingers dig into his hoodie, gripping the fabric as he backs you up against the wall, his knee slipping between your thighs like he belongs there. the heat of him, the sheer size of him, has your breath hitching, your heart pounding so loud you swear he can hear it.

he breaks away just enough to look at you, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark and intense.

“you sure?”

you don’t answer with words. instead, you fist your hands into his hoodie and pull him back in, crashing your mouth against his like you’re making up for lost time.

that’s all the permission he needs.

he groans into the kiss, one hand cupping your jaw, the other sliding down to grip your hip, his fingers pressing into the soft skin just beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. his thumb brushes over the curve of your waist, slow, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

your body reacts before your mind can catch up, your back arching, pressing yourself against him. the friction makes you gasp, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue past your lips, deepening the kiss, swallowing the small sound you make.

he tastes like mint and something else, something undeniably him, and it has your head spinning, your knees weak.

his hoists you up, rushing down the hall with your lips connected. pushing open your bedroom door, he carefully places you on the bed. hands eagerly paw at your sweatshirt, getting it off over your head.

“let me take care of you, baby.” you watch as he climbed onto the bed, bending to attach his lips to your swollen nipples. his other hand comes up, dragging along your frame, taking hold of your other breast. he gently massages, rolling your nipple in between his thumb and middle finger.

mouth agape, all you can do is grab at his large arms, trying to ground yourself to anything. he removes his mouth with a ‘pop’, sliding down to your stomach. he places a few kisses, eyes locked on yours as he proceeds down.

the warmth of his mouth over your clothed heat is enough to have your eyes closing in anticipation. his places a kiss, using his hands to hook the sides of your underwear. in one swift motion, your pink underwear were draped over your tv.

when he started you couldn’t stop him. like a wild animal, his tongue lapping up your juices as his mouth sucks and bites at your core. he’s humming, using his free hands to feel every inch of your body, every bump, mark, mole, he needed to know all of you.

“oouu- shit! onya just like that.” the large digits of his middle and ring finger pump in and out of you, feeling your gummy, warm wall clenching around him. his tongue playing slowly with your clit, eyes rolling to the back of his head at how good you taste.

he always wondered how you’d look under him.

every assignment, every session in the library, it took him all his might not to bend you over his calculus book and fuck the shit out of you.

showing up in your skims or iamgia two pieces, the fabric fitting snug against your smooth skin. how everytime you got close to show him how to work an equation, the smell of coco butter, vanilla, and hair oil would fill his space. he loved heading to practice, music barely playing as his thoughts ran rapid throughout the drive.

and now he has you.

pad of his fingers press up against the small sponges texture at the back of your heat, tongue lapping at the bud with a sense of hunger. in the light of your room, you can see your slick and his spit covering his face. coating the neck if his hoodie. hands dart out to grab the closest thing to brace yourself. the coil in your stomach burning heavy, shaking with every pump of the man’s fingers.

“i feel that shit. you’re such a good girl for me baby, let it go. mm- let me take it, ma.”

-

you’d always known onyankopon didn’t have many cares in the world.

with your hands tied behind your back with his hoodie string, body pressed against the living room window. onyankopon stands behind you, slowly pumping in and out of you. wet squelches of sound fill the large room, filling your ears as pleasure coiled in the pit of your stomach.

“fuck onyyy, just like that.” you could feel his large tip rubbing across the spongy area, prodding around like he knew your entire body. his hand comes up, cupping the side of your face as his thumb slips inside your mouth, other had anchoring to your hips.

“mhm, hold on for me mama. let em see.” you can only look out of your window onto the balcony, tear filled eyes dashing across the parking lot, making sure no one was actually staring through the glass.

he pulls out, almost fully, tip filling your hole. he leans down, giving the back of your shoulders a kiss before sliding into you. slow, controlled strokes drive you over the edge. tears fall into the glass as your lips wrap around his finger. his hips dip in and out of you, a white creamy circle forming around the base of the man’s cock.

“pussy so good. takin’ it so good for me.” his words fuel the fire, passion burning through your bodies as his strokes become sloppy and shallow.

“yes! oh my- onya im so close, imma cum on this dick!” your breast collide with the door, letting the man take control as he nears his end.

“do it then, ma. make a mess on my shit.” he says through gritted teeth, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he subconsciously begins to lift your frame. too lost on ecstasy and need that he doesn’t notice your feet hovering off the ground. he’s ravaging your insides, swollen cock drilling at your warm walls.

“i’m cumming! onya holy shit!” he continued, using his hand to cover your mouth. your body falls limp, standing no issue to the man as he holds you in place.

“that my good girl! i’m finna nut baby, where you want it baby?” too lost in the pleasure in your core, you just nod. pulling out, he releases white sticky ropes onto his own chest, carefully placing you down on the couch.

he takes his hoodie off, carefully undoing your hands.

“believe me now?”

“maybe”

© vantetaes. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. ageless/blank blogs dni.

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

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Pairing: Dark Shouta "Eraserhead" Aizawa x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: You’re bored – stuck inside the house while it’s sunny and nice outside. Aizawa doesn’t care about that. 

WARNINGS: Implied Kidnapping; Captivity.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback 😊

--

From your spot on the couch, you steal a glance at the black-haired man that sits on the table, surrounded by piles of paper. Midterm exams, he said.  

It seems like a boring task, but Shouta doesn’t seem to mind. Unlike you, who’s getting restless by the minute. 

There’s nothing for you to do.

Your hobbies are fairly limited, only granted when Shouta is feeling generous enough to notice your boredom, which hasn’t been the case lately. 

He’s too busy between the Hero course class and patrols, which inevitably results in neglecting you. There are no new books for you to devour and the TV’s control remote is still “missing”. 

The kitchen is off limits, which means no cooking or baking.

There’s nothing to do!

Perhaps you’re not being as sneaky as you believe yourself to be because Shouta’s suddenly looks up to meet your gaze, catching you off guard. 

“If you have something to say, then spill it.” 

You look at him, eyes still round with surprise. 

“Well, I…” The words stammer when coming out and you tautly twist your hands. “I’m bored.” 

Shouta looks at you. 

“Yes, I have noticed.” 

It’s a bit disheartening when he goes back to marking papers, leaving you at that. 

“So…I don’t know. Maybe…I could go to the garden?” 

He pauses his scribbling, and you rush to add, “I wouldn’t be alone, of course! You’d be there too, you could grade the papers on the outside table, right?”

His eyes are sharp when he looks back at you, the neutral expression on his face making it harder for you to decipher his true thoughts. 

“I could.” 

Your heart positively jumps at that, and almost fool yourself into believing that you’ve successfully convinced Shouta to do something for you. You’re wrong.   

“But I won’t.” he denies your request just like that, barely batting an eye as he crushes down your hopes. 

Feeling so upset over it makes you feel stupid, but then again, you haven’t left the four walls of Shouta’s home in weeks.

You’re so tired of being here, trapped in the bland ugly house. Tired of him and his insensitivity. Tired of the obnoxious boring routine that has been forced upon you. Tired of everything.  

“Why not?” you burst, even if it comes out more as a demand. 

Shouta’s eyebrows raise at the intensity of your words, and you inhale a small breath, calming yourself down. 

“Why can’t I go outside?” 

“Because at this moment I have a task at hand. I’m sure you can see that.” 

"But I’ve been good. You said that yourself.” your nails leave half-moons in your palms, an attempt to keep your anger at bay. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over these past months is that Shouta doesn’t appreciate hysterical displays of frivolous emotions.

Useless and energy-consuming – that’s how he calls them. 

“You have.” he pauses for a moment, tone slightly softer as he sets the pen down. “I’m not denying that. You have been exemplary these past weeks.” 

Even when you don’t ask it, the question lingers in the tense air. Then why?

Aizawa answers it.

“It’s got nothing to do with your present behavior.” his reassurance does little to soothe your bubbling frustration. Aizawa seems to sense it, semblant turning somber and stern as he stares at you.

“However, my priority is your safety, not your happiness. Perhaps you still remember the last time you were allowed outside? Or of the … incident that occurred?”

He grimaces at that and so do you. 

The incident meant the one-single time Aizawa took you on a late evening walk, where you ended up bumping into one of his neighbours – an overly enthusiastic blonde man – and in the moment of heat, you ended up taking the poor decision to reveal your hostage situation, hoping for help.

Only for said neighbour to turn out to be Aizawa’s close friend, someone Shouta had asked to test you. 

Needless to say that you failed his loyalty test. Hence the house arrest. 

You glance away from him, opting to ignore his question. Aizawa sighs, taking his sweet time cracking his neck from side to side. 

“Like I was saying,” he resumes the conversation, “I’d prefer to reduce that sort of risk from the root. Perhaps one day, if your behavior remains ideal, we can have this discussion again – in a few months.”

Aizawa looks at you with red-streaked eyes, taking notice of your well-concealed frustration as well as blatantly ignoring it.

Picking up the pen, he continues to correct the papers, marking the end of your little discussion and leaving no space for argument. 

Leaving you back in the reign of boredom. 

[suntoru]

─ ✰ 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒.

— synopsis: 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔, the popular guy in your class, chooses to sit next to you, of all people. you've fallen head over heels, what happens next?

— warnings: highschool au! angst, fluff in the beginning, will not be writing a part 2, swearing, gaslighting, betrayal, just a bet troupe, gojo being a dick or everybody generally, 3.4k words!

— a/n: not my proudest work to be honest :( also tried another formatting lmk if u liked it! comments and reblogs r very much appreciated i will love u forever

"yo. can i sit here?" gojo satoru grins, effortlessly sliding into the empty seat next to you and making himself at home.

...huh? isn't that the popular guy who's usually surrounded by his friends? he's constantly the subject of admiration among the girls in your class, eliciting swoons and whispers of infatuation wherever he goes. confusion creeps in as you wonder why he didn't choose the empty seat next to suguru. there's no conceivable reason for someone like gojo, popular and charismatic, to opt for the seat beside you. you feel a sense of self-consciousness settling in.

nevertheless, you nod softly, though you're well aware the question was more of a rhetorical one. he's fashionably late, by twenty minutes, to be precise, unabashedly ignoring the scolding glares from your teacher about punctuality. instead, he buries himself in the deep blue plastic seat, sticking his tongue out when the teacher turns his back, letting out a huffy pout from the lecture.

nervously, you glance up from your notebook, cautiously stealing a peek at your new desk buddy. he's pretty─ real pretty, snowy white lashes adorning his pretty cerulean spheres, dainty fingers idly spinning a pencil out of sheer boredom. and as if kissed by the blush of a gentle sunrise, his lips possess a natural rosy hue, smooth and plump, belong to him like a delicate work of art. you wonder just how many kisses they've stolen. caught in a moment of admiration, you find yourself staring a tad longer than socially acceptable.

his eyes flicker, locking onto yours, and the realization hits you—oh, he caught you staring. shit. immediately, you break eye contact as you cough awkwardly. you swiftly attempt to play it off, pretending as if you were engrossed in examining the intricate texture of your silver-grey desk instead. your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and you hope he hasn't interpreted your lingering gaze as anything more than idle curiosity.

...should you say something? try to deny you were very clearly eye fucking him? he probably thinks you're a freak now. perhaps he sat next to you out of pity, and now he regrets it. out of sheer embarrassment, the words die in your mouth before they could ever leave, keeping your gaze glued to the floor as you refuse to acknowledge that his presence ever existed.

however, it appears that gojo won't let you suffer the embarrassment in peace. when your stern teacher turns away, he subtly slides a ripped edge of his blue-lined paper towards you, bearing a simple 'hi :)'. he's attempting a conversation, a surprising but welcome distraction from the awkwardness of being caught staring. an opportunity to salvage a bit of your dignity. now, the challenge lies in crafting a response that strikes the right balance.

would 'hey' sound too dry? but 'heyyyy' makes it seem like you're a little too interested. you opt for a casual 'heyy' with your black pen, scribbling the reply with extra caution to avoid prying eyes. as soon as the teacher is out of view, you subtly slip the note back to gojo. his lips curl into a slight smile upon reading your response.

two minutes pass by before you get a response. 'do you get this lesson? i'm soo lost..' accompanied by a small doodle of a crying suguru. you can't help but stifle a giggle; the drawing is poorly done, yet undeniably cute. the teacher swiftly turns around at the sound, prompting both of you to scramble and make it look like you're diligently focused on the lesson. the suspicious gaze lingers for a moment before the teacher returns to the whiteboard.

'maybe it's cause you missed like, half of the lesson.' you write back. he rolls his eyes playfully upon reading your retort, swiftly countering with a pout. "it's not my fault this class is so boring.'

'who said philosophy was supposed to be fun?' you reply. in response, gojo eagerly accepts the note, maintaining the subtle exchange of eye contact. 'hey, be nice to mr. aristotle, he's a great guy :(' he sends back. and thirty minutes seem to pass in the blink of an eye.

the bell chimes, signaling the end of the philosophy session and the need to transition to your next course. reluctantly, you stow your textbook in your bag, feeling a twinge of sadness at the realization that this amusing interaction might have been a one-time occurrence.

it's been a while since you've genuinely laughed. so when his ocean blue eyes latch onto yours with a genuine sense of hope, you quickly fold when he asks you if you're interested in sitting with him again tomorrow.

in those thirty short minutes, you learn three things about gojo satoru. firstly, you realize you've sorely misjudged him. he's not just another nepo-baby cheating his way through school; he's actually quite smart, smarter than he lets on. he's especially good in biochemistry, and he promises to help you study next time.

secondly, you discover that he loves sweets, just as you do. you both agree that kikufuku mochi is better than strawberry dango, and he even tells you about his favorite shop. maybe you can go together sometime.

and thirdly, he doesn't tell you this outright, but you learn that gojo is insecure. what strikes you the most is the glimpse of uncertainty you catch beneath his confident exterior. it's not about his looks or intelligence, but it's actually about his relationship with suguru. he's afraid to lose him, a fear that seems to drive him more than anything else. he overcompensates for his self-doubt. but you find that his flaws make him all the more pretty.

it's peculiar, the speed at which gojo somehow effortlessly integrates into your daily life. how he's feeling is how you're feeling, which is usually reflected on his friendship with suguru. if they had a fight, he'd be sad, and if everything was alright, he was too. but either way was okay with you, you just want to be there for him. what was once a dreaded fourth period now stands as the radiant highlight of your entire day.

despite the limited instances of verbal communication —perhaps a mere once or twice— the inexplicable truth remains: you've fallen head over heels for him. the simple act of passing notes with satoru becomes more than a routine; it evolves into the sole force that awakens you in the morning, the singular thought that propels you forward and keeps you going throughout the day.

and just maybe, the hopeless romantic within you fervently clings to the belief that his sentiments go beyond mere friendship. his actions seem to carry an extra layer of care, an attentiveness that extends beyond your platonic friendship. he notices the little things that escape the notice of others. it wasn't lost on him when you shed tears the other night due to the weight of stress; he went out of his way to procure your favorite candy bar, a sweet gesture aimed at brightening your spirits.

he took notice of your new haircut, expressing in a note that it frames your face nicely. he had comforted you when a classmate aimed a subtle insult your way, he wrote that the words of someone whose foundation didn't match their face shouldn't hold much weight. he even made an effort to be punctual for class, all to engage in the shared exchange of silly notes with you. and honestly, even if he didn't like you back, you'd be fine.

because your heart swells with gratefulness at the fact that he chose to sit with you. he wanted to be your friend even when nobody else did. you trusted and loved him with your whole heart, because that's what you believed he deserved.

so imagine your surprise when you overhear his conversation with suguru that day.

"just a day more, then you win the bet." geto groans, tossing his head back in exasperation. the two of them linger in the now-empty classroom, the echoes of other students long gone.

"yep, twenty four hours, then you owe me three hundred dollars." satoru sings, playfully nudging his best friend's shoulder. he's all sunshine and smiles, swinging his feet from the desk he's currently sitting on.

"and it wasn't even that hard. i just had to get 'em to fall for me." suguru rolls his eyes. "dude, if i was you, i would've tapped out the first week. how'd you manage to do it?" he huffs, clearly annoyed at the impending financial loss.

satoru mischievously grins. "just used my charm." he fluffs his hair with a smug expression on his face. "can't believe it worked so fast, though. they must be real desperate for someone's attention. all it took was for you to fuckin' pretend like you cared." suguru grouches, being a sore loser. you don't hear the rest, the notebook you had lost long forgotten.

a lump forms in your throat, a sensation of dread creeping up on you. you desperately want to believe he's not talking about you, but you can't shake the realization that to him, you were nothing more than a pawn in a bet— a tool used for his amusement. you're overwhelmed by a sense of stupidity, a painful realization sinking in, drowning every rational thought.

he never cared. you could fall dead at this moment and he wouldn't even spare you a glance. you should've known. why would he? you feel stupid for allowing him entry into your life, stupid for naively believing in his sincerity, and stupid for daring to love a heartless jerk who played with the fragile strings of your heart.

they're right. you are pathetic. you just blindly fell for the first person who gave, or rather, pretended to give a shit. a relentless ache throbs in your chest as you stubbornly refuse to succumb to tears over a boy— a resolution crumbling like fragile glass. despite your stubborn determination, an uncontrollable torrent of hot tears streams down your face, distorting the world into a watery blur.

the desperate yearning for someone to choose you, to envelop you in unconditional and pure love, had fueled your hopes. and for a fleeting moment, you believed you'd found it, only to witness your heart being ruthlessly trampled blue. clutching onto the tattered shreds of your dignity, half-broken and bleeding, you muster the strength to leave swiftly before they catch a glimpse of you.

the bitter taste of betrayal lingers in the air, each teardrop is a testament to the shattering of dreams, the dead hope that once soared. the yearning for a love that stands unwavering proves to be a mirage, leaving you grappling with the shards of a love that was never truly yours.

that day, you learn one more thing about gojo satoru. he's just like everybody else.

cerulean eyes, like pools of shimmering azure, flicker with concern as they scan the empty seat beside him. minutes stretch into eternity on the clock, each tick of the second hand amplifying the weight of his worry. nine twenty morphs into nine fifty pretty quickly, and he can't help but be a little annoyed. at this rate, you'll only get in twenty minutes of 'talking.'

you're always punctual—eight fifty-five on the dot. but today, the clock ticks on, and there's no sign of you anywhere. his brows furrow with concern, a nervous flutter dancing in his stomach. did something happen to you? the mere possibility sends a pang of anxiety through him, and he fidgets restlessly in his seat, unable to focus on the lesson before him.

yet, when his gaze shifts to meet suguru's, he swiftly masks his apprehension with an air of nonchalance, as if feigning indifference to your absence. but inwardly, his heart races as he anxiously awaits your arrival. when you finally walk in, he's already scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, filled with questions about what could have delayed you today. yet, as he extends his hand to pass you the note, his eager smile fades into confusion and disappointment.

you walk right past seat thirteen, your usual spot, without so much as a glance in his direction. instead, you approach a random girl and ask if you could sit with her. his heart sinks, a flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks as a torrent of thoughts flood his mind. is something wrong? are you upset with him? he replays every interaction in his mind, searching for any misstep. but he can't find one. he's been careful to maintain the perfect facade when you're around. perhaps you simply forgot, he reasons with himself, attempting to quell the rising tide of hurt and confusion.

yes, that must be it.

...just a simple oversight.

"hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!! just wait a moment!!" gojo's voice cuts through the chatter of students eager to leave as soon as the bell rings. he grabs your wrist, his touch gentle yet firm, halting your attempt to blend into the rush. his heart races in his chest, the sudden surge of adrenaline making his palms clammy.

"um... you didn't sit with me today." he mumbles, the words coming out in a rush, his voice tinged with uncertainty. his fingers toy with the ring around his finger, his gaze fixed on the ground as he struggles to find the right words to continue the conversation. he doesn't like the way you're looking at him. there's a flicker of irritation in your gaze, a departure from the usual warmth and affection that he's grown accustomed to. normally, when his eyes meet yours, your cheeks tint pink, your pupils dilate, and you give him the cutest starry-eyed look. but not today.

"yeah," you mutter casually, your eyebrow raising ever so slightly. there's a certain coldness in your eyes that sends a shiver down his spine. you're about to leave again, but he moves to block the door, a frown creasing his forehead.

"did i do something wrong? i don't understand why you're suddenly acting so bitchy," he huffs, irritation lacing his voice. the words tumble out before he can stop them, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "no," you reply simply, your tone devoid of any emotion, as if you genuinely don't care. it stings his ego, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

"you can 'use your charm' to make a new friend. since it's so easy for you, right?" you mutter, your voice trembling with suppressed anger. you promised yourself you'd hold it together, but the wound is still raw, etched deep into your mind as a flush of resentment rises within his eyes widen in shock, a pang of guilt stabbing at his heart. you heard that? no, no, no... he hadn't meant for you to be there. he had been so careful, or so he thought.

"i didn't mean it, i just-" he stutters, desperately searching for an excuse, but he knows it's futile. there's no chance you'd believe him now, would you? his heart sinks. he doesn't want you to hate him. "i was easy, right?" you laugh bitterly, each word dripping with sarcasm and pain.

"i hope that three hundred dollars was worth it. not that you even needed it, though. you think toying with people is fun? you're a dick, satoru, go to fucking hell." you hiss, your words laced with venom, cutting through the air like a sharp blade. "let me explain-" he protests, desperation evident in his voice as he tries to reason with you. but you're too angry to even consider it.

"explain? explain what?'" you explode, your voice rising with each syllable, oblivious to the judgmental glances of passersby. you scoff, tears threatening to spill over.

"i didn't mean it," he cuts you off, his own voice strained with emotion. "you're my friend, i just—" his voice cracks. "friends don't manipulate other people's feelings." you interrupt, your voice laced with venom as you spit out each word. you're aware you look like a mess, mascara staining your cheeks. "friends don't trick and hurt you on purpose!" you yell, tongue dripping with malice. "and here's the thing. you may be the greatest, satoru, but you will never, be enough. not for suguru, not for anybody."

you almost regret saying it. targetting his biggest insecurity. but then again, he deserves it. "how could you say that?" his voice is broken, quiet, as he mumbles it out as a whisper. the eyes that you once found so stunning suddenly look just like everybody else's. they well with tears, but are quickly blinked away. "you don't get to cry, satoru," you scoff, unzipping your bag and opening the front pouch.

you toss all the letters you've written in class, all the sticky notes, every single ripped paper, every little doodle, flipping your bag over and emptying it on the floor. every single heart fluttering moment you experienced seems so dead now. "you don't get to act like you cared. it's only fair, after all." you manage to muster, fighting to keep your voice stable. tears drip down your chin as your bottom lip trembles.

every step feels like a battle, a relentless tug-of-war between what your heart wants and what your mind knows is right. leaving him behind is like tearing off a piece of your own soul, but you convince yourself it's for the better— for your own sanity, for your own self-respect. each stride forward is heavy with the weight of goodbye, each breath drawn in a struggle against the ache in your chest. and as you finally turn away, a part of you dies inside, a piece of your spirit crumbling in the wake of shattered trust and broken dreams. you can feel his eyes on your retreating figure, the silent witness to your silent agony.

this time he doesn't try to stop you. and when you leave, gojo finally allows himself to cry.

today, gojo finds himself seated next to suguru, reclaiming his former spot from before the bet. yet, everything feels different now. the idiotic jokes his friends make just aren't as funny anymore. their presence is irritating to him. he laughs, but the sound lacks the same genuine joy it once held with you. he smiles, but it's a mere shadow of the radiant expression he wore in your presence. his heart may feel a fleeting sense of happiness, but there will always be a hole where you once were.

his so-called 'buddies' don't even notice that he's at his lowest point, and he can't help but think about the way you would've noticed immediately.

how you would've sent him a cute note with his favourite candy attached, because you kept them in your bag just for him, for these kinds of days. he feels so numb. he's always been so confident, yet he can't even muster up the courage to pass by your desk.

and he can't help but wonder what might have been if he had chosen differently that day, if his intentions had been pure from the start. would you two have gotten somewhere? he supposes that now, he'll never know the answer. his eyes cloud over at that thought, slouching back down into his seat.

he never had the chance to tell you how sorry he was, how he would take it all back in an instant if he could. he didn't mean to hurt you. he was stupid and careless. and yet, he tries to convince himself that he'll be okay. that he'll be able to get over you one day. one day, when he's married and has two kids, he'll look back at this and laugh. so then why does his heart feel so heavy? you're not suguru, it's true. but suguru never made him feel this way. and he's confused with his own feelings.

he doesn't know what love is.

he's only sixteen.

perhaps he'll never know. but for him, love was sneaking kikifuku mochi into class for you to share. it was sending you cat memes at three am in the morning, only for you to groggily respond with your own. it was doodling you in his notebook in his spare time. it was how what you were feeling was how he was feeling too.

you were right, it seems.

gojo satoru, the greatest, yet not enough to make you stay.

© KAEFFEINEE 2024. do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works on any platform.

[bbyquokka]

nerd in love

– after a misunderstanding, jisung finally tells yn how he feels at his birthday party .ᐟ.ᐟ

pairing | han jisung x fem reader

genre | mutual pining , fluff , uni au – 18+ is strongly advised!

cw | she/her pronouns used ; mostly in jisung pov ; food and alcohol mentioned ; a lil suggestive at the end

words | 10.1k ~ ( 10,133 )

notes | well, here it is! i started this before my break (which is why its so late) but finished it during my break n i just wanted to post it bc im proud of this n i adore this version of jisung n the friendship dynamics !! :( don’t forget to leave feedback, reblog and tell me what you think here. i hope you all enjoy! ‹3

m.list — wips list — you can also read it on my ao3

dont repost. dont translate. minors, ageless & default blogs; dni! feedback and reblogs are highly advised and appreciated!

your pen taps against the white, lined sheet of paper that has a few scribbles and doodles on. your cheek resting on your hand as you sigh a little in boredom. 

the professor has been groaning on and on about the same thing. you want to listen and take in the information as you know it's important, but your mind wanders and you start to daydream; making imaginary scenarios.

you'd imagine an alien suddenly abducting you because it heard your silent cries of boredom. you and the alien would become the best of friends, the alien showing you around it's space shuttle and inviting you to have some tea and cake before making friendship bracelets – because that's what humans do, right?

other times, you'd imagine a strong, buff greek god suddenly turning up in class. he'd walk to you and take your hand, claiming that you're his long lost bride, before carrying you bridal style and off into the sunset where you two would get married and have babies.

so caught up in your fake scenarios, you don't see that another student is now looking at you.

the student is sitting in front of you–his usual designated spot. black hair that's long and permed and covers his eyes. glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. dressed in a button up shirt and black jeans, paired with a few accessories and black doc marten boots.

“excuse me.” he whispers, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “you're making too much noise.” he frowns.

you snap out of your daydream and sit up straight, wiping the imaginary drool from your chin with the back of your hand.

“o-oh.. sorry jisung.” you laugh awkwardly. he tuts and rolls his eyes before facing the front. you scoff a little and sit back in your seat.

you don't have very many friends in university, a small handful but it's enough and you don't have very many enemies either, but since jisung started the same class as you, he's been cold towards you.

he's not like this with other people, just you–it's like he can't stand you.

but for some reason, his cold, mean demeanour just makes you want him and find him even more attractive.

it's not a kink of yours, to be spoken down to and degraded. in fact, you love having the attention on you and being treated kindly and gently so it's unknown to you why you find him so attractive.

“alright class! that's all for today. you're all dismissed.” the teacher says. you silently cheer, packing up your things in your backpack.

jisung rises to his feet and swings his bag onto his shoulder, letting it rest there before pulling out his phone. you both catch eye contact with each other.

“see you tomorrow?” you say politely and smile. jisung quickly looks away and mumbles something before walking out in a rush.

maybe you're still daydreaming, but you swore you could see the tips of his ears turning a light shade of pink. 

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

“fuck, i’m so late!” you alternate between running and speed walking your way to your class. your alarm didn't go off this morning so when you finally awoke, it was up and out in a flash. “i'm so screwed!”

today is an important day. the teacher was going to go over a few things on a test that's due in a few weeks so you really needed to attend it to get an idea–but alas, here you are. hair disheveled, dried up drool on your chin and your socks mismatched with your backpack hanging off your shoulder.

you breathe a sigh of relief before stopping in front of the lecture hall doors. you take a deep breath and fix yourself up before reaching out to open the doors.

the doors suddenly swing open. the students exiting the hall. you stand in the middle of the students as they walk around you, engaging in conversations with their friends.

you frown in confusion, looking at the time on your phone. your eyes widen even more, bulging from the sockets.

“oh wow.. i really fucked up.” you were a lot later than you thought.

you look up to see jisung looking at his phone. today he's in a plain, black t-shirt and skinny jeans. a few chains hanging around his neck and converse.

“hey, ji!” you call out. he looks up at whoever is calling him before his face twists into disgust when he realises it's you. you ignore this, mainly because he rushes past you.

you frown and chase after him, trying to keep up with his speed–but he's too fast.

“hey! wait! i know you heard me, ji!!”

“don’t call me that. my name is jisung.” he mumbles.

“ok ok, sorry! just, i need help!” 

“find it elsewhere.” his tone of voice is cold towards you; like always. again, you ignore it.

“please, i’m desperate! my alarm didn't go off and i clearly missed class! i know it was super important too and–can you slow down and listen to me?!” you huff.

jisung lets out an irritated sigh and looks at you; phone in one hand, earphones in the other. he stops in the middle of the corridor and looks at you.

you bend down, hands on your knees to catch your breath. 

“you being late has nothing to do with me. it's your own fault for being late.” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“yeah, i know.”

“you fucked up and now you want my help? how could i possibly help you?”

“i need your notes.”

“my notes? fuck no.” 

“oh please, ji… sorry–jisung. i really, really need this.” you pout. jisung groans and rubs the back of his neck.

“ok, fine.” he sighs in defeat. you're taken aback by how easy it was for him to surrender his notes over to you; but you don't complain. he takes his notebook out of his bag and hands it to you. you cheer and open it up, looking at the notes.

his handwriting is beautiful. his notes are easy to follow, however, you've come to the realisation that looking at notes isn't going to be enough for you to get the information to stick in your mind.

“make sure to give it to me by the end of the day. i’m usually at the library.” he says as you flick through his notes. “if you can't find me, find minho. he's my roommate.” 

you don't respond due to the fact that so much information is causing your brain to go into information overload. jisung sighs again and, as he is about to walk away, you grab his arm.

“wait!” you make a quick mental note of how soft his skin is and how muscular he feels. jisung looks at your hand that's on him, feeling heat quickly rise to his cheeks and his heart to thumb erratically in his chest.

“your hand.” he whispers. you lean in close to get a better understanding of what he just said.

“pardon?”

“hand. your hand. please remove it.”

“oh!” you quickly remove your hand from him. jisung clears his throat and looks down, hoping that his long hair covers his face to hide the blush that's happily sitting on his cheeks.

you see it though and make a note of how adorable he looks. you feel your own heartbeat skipping beats and beating erratically but you put it down to you having to sprint to class.

“i don't think this will be enough.” you start. he looks up at you. “the notes.. i don't think it's going to be enough.”

“well, there's a library and also the internet. there’s this thing called google, so use that.”

“teach me.” his eyes widen in shock.

“t-teach you?! fuck no, yn!”

“please, jisung! just until the test is over! i really, really need this. i’m desperate and, although your notes are so perfect, it's going to take a lot more than notes for me to understand it!”

“then ask the tutor for a one-on-one! or ask your friend!!” he stutters in shock. his cheeks are now bright red.

“you know the tutor doesn't do one-on-ones and my friends don't even take this class! oh please, jisung. pleeeaseee. pretty pretty pleeease.” you pout, giving him puppy eyes.

“yn…”

“i’ll buy you your coffee everyday for a full month.”

“... just my coffee?”

“what sweet treat do you like?”

“...cheesecake.” he answers reluctantly.

“then coffee and cheesecake on me for a full month!” jisung runs his fingers through his hair slowly, a soft, defeated sigh leaving his lips as he contemplates.

“you really need this, huh.” you nod your head fast to the point of dizziness. “you drive a hard bargain, yn. but fine.”

you cheer and grin widely.

“on some conditions though.”

“what?”

“we study in the library, you don't be late and we only do this until the test is over! after that, i won't teach you anymore.”

“yes sir.” you salute. “oh, do you want my contact information? might make it easier to set up study dates.”

“study dates?” 

“yeah! i assume we have different schedules due to different classes, so it's better to text or call each other so we know when to meet up!”

“true.. ok, fine. give me.” you tell jisung your contact information. he phones you and you smile as you save his contact information.

“thank you so much, jisung! you're the best!” you say before sprinting off to find your friend leaving a flustered jisung bewildered in the middle of the corridor.

“study dates, huh.. i kinda like that.” 

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

“dude, chill. you're just going to the library to study” jisung’s roommate laughs as he watches jisung scurrying around the place as he packs his bag. 

minho is relaxing on jisung’s bed, shirtless and in sweats with round glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose whilst eating an ice pop. him and jisung have been the best of friends since university started and he became jisung’s roommate.

since then, they've both been inseparable. many people speculate that something is going on between the two of them, indicating a relationship–minsung, they call them.

“i am chill.” jisung mumbles as he shoves in a few too many pens into his pencil case.

“yeah, suuuure.” minho laughs as he licks and sucks on his popsicle. “i’ve watched you run around the place like a headless chicken.”

“dude, please hush.” jisung looks at minho just as some sticky sweet ice drops onto minho's chest. he scoops it up with his fingers and eats it. jisungs sighs “do you have to eat that on my bed?”

“yeah. problem?” minho smirks

“yes. quite a few actually. you're going to get the sheets sticky!” jisung whines.

“not the first time i've heard that.” minho laughs at his own joke. jisung rolls his eyes but the corner of his lips turn upright into a smile as he holds back his laugh.

“you're disgusting.”

“yeah? and you're a mess right now, bro.” minho places the wooden popsicle stick on jisung's side table before swinging his legs around to plant his feet on the floor.

he stands and walks to jisung, ruffling his hair a few times.

“you're just going to study, that's all. it's not that big of a deal, bro. unless….” minho smirks and wiggles his brows at jisung.

“unless what? what are you implying, minho?” jisung says as he crosses his arms across his chest and raises his brow.

“unless you, oh i don't know, like her.” jisung's eyes widen a little and he clears his throat, turning his head to avoid eye contact with minho. “aha!! i knew it! you do like ‘em!”

“no, i don't. fuck off, minho.” jisung mumbles and rushes to his desk, messing and organizing a few things to ‘look busy.’

minho skips over to jisung with a smirk. “c’mon ji. we all know you've been smitten with yn since the very beginning. it's soooo obvious!”

“dude, please. i don't like her like that. and it's jisung–not ji!”

“ahuh. whatever you say, dude.” minho laughs. 

“plus, she probably doesn't like me in that way..” jisung mumbles before sighing softly.

“have you asked her that?”

“well… no but–”

“then how do you know?” 

“i just do, ok?! enough with the questions, minho. don't you have that media assignment to do or something?”

“nope.” minho says, popping the p in an obnoxious way. “all done, which means i am a free man.”

“no one is a ‘free man’ in university, minho.” jisung laughs. 

“ugh, you're right. even though one assignment is done, i still have a gazillion more.” minho runs his fingers through his long, shaggy hair. “speaking of which, i best start with at least one of them.”

“good luck, man. you'll do great.” jisung says sarcastically, paring it with a sarcastic grin.

“fuck you. good luck with yn, jisung.” minho turns around and walks out of jisung's bedroom. “hope you get laid!” he shouts.

“fuck you.” jisung laughs. minho sticks his middle finger up at jisung before laughing and closing his bedroom door.

with the last of his things packed, he zips up his back. he checks one last time in the mirror, fixing his hair and spraying his best perfume onto his neck. he puts his hand up to his mouth, huffing on it before sniffing. pulling a face, he grabs a mint and pops it into his mouth, sucking on it as he puts on his shoes and a leather jacket.

“it’s just a study thing. it's not that serious. calm down, jisung.” he mumbles as he laces up his shoes.

but he can't stop his heartbeat from thumping loudly against his ribcage and excitement to rush through his body. his excitement is so big, it makes him shake. 

“it’s not a big deal. she probably doesn't like you that way.” he continues to mumble in an attempt to calm himself down as he takes one last look in the mirror. a smile slowly creeps up onto his face and a small squeal escapes from the back of his throat.

“fuck! i’m so screwed.” 

minho hears this and laughs at his friend's excitement before putting on his headphones. if there's one thing minho loves, is seeing his best friend happy and over the moon. he just hopes he won't get hurt.

“cute.” minho says to himself before typing away at his keyboard. jisung leaves the bedroom and shouts a goodbye to minho before heading out to the library.

nervous doesn't describe how jisung is feeling. as he walks to the library, his legs start to feel like jelly and the urge to turn back strong the closer he gets to his destination. he hopes that you're not there first just so he has time to calm himself down.

he even tries to listen to music in hopes that it would calm him down somewhat. but the soothing sounds of violins and cellos do nothing (he even tried listen to a few seconds of whale noises but even that was useless)

“we’re just studying. nothing more.” he repeats under his breath as he walks inside the library.

the place is nicely decorated, modern with a hint of an historic touch. students at tables and little cubicles, headphones on and studying. some in groups, whispering as they do projects of various kinds. some making the most of how quiet it is to take a quick nap. the occasional rustling of snack packets paired with the occasional crunch breaks the silence every so often.

it's silent but it's lively.

jisung says a few hellos to some students he recognises (either from classes they take together or them being minho's friends) as he searches the area for you.

his heart thumping as he searches. he silently cheers when he can't see you because he has a chance to calm down, but, as he walks to an empty table at the very back of the room, his victory is cut short as he sees you sitting there; ready and waiting.

you have your back to him (and to everyone else) and you're hunched over your notebook. jacket resting on the back seat with your bag on the floor, by your side. jisung takes a quick, small peek over your shoulder to see what you're doing only to see small, quick doodles on the page from boredom.

his heart swells a little as it's another thing he's learnt about you. just when he thinks you couldn't get any more perfect.

“hey, yn.” he whispers only to realise that you won't hear him no matter how many times he calls for you due to the music that's blasting from your earphones. he makes a quick mental note of who you're listening to before trying to get your attention again.

“hey, yn.” he places his hand on your shoulder to which you jump at, causing jisung to jump at your reaction. you look behind you as you take out your earbuds, sighing in relief.

“jesus, jisung. you frightened me.” 

“sorry, yn. i didn't mean to.”

“no, it's ok. my music may have been a little too loud.” you laugh as you put them away and jisung sits next to you on one of the chairs.

“you know you'll get tinnitus if you keep doing that.” 

“yeah… i know. it's a bad habit but music sounds better loud, y‘know!” jisung nods in agreement before pulling out his notebook and pencil case.

you watch him lean down. you take the time to admire him. his hair soft and fluffy. you have to resist the urge to run your fingers through it. a faint smell of strawberries and flowers emits from his hair; a sickly sweet yet pleasant smell.

his skin is dewy and perfect; not a blemish in sight. a beauty mark sits close to his lips. it's a small mark so it's no wonder you never recognised it before.

you notice the way his biceps bulge and flex with every motion of his arms. the chains from his neck dangle a little and his aftershave wafts towards you and tickles your nose hairs.

“you smell so good.“ you mumble. jisung looks at you.

“excuse me?”

“you smell so fucking good.” you repeat and lean in close to him. your hair tickles his jawline and chin as you smell the skin of his neck. “what do you use?”

“...i–urm, i don't know. i just picked it up when i was shopping.” you hum and nod. jisungs soft cheeks slowly start to feel very hot. “personal space, yn. ever heard of it?”

“oh!! sorry. my bad. i didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.” you laugh awkwardly as a awkward silence falls upon you both.

jisung turns his head away from you so you can't see him but his cheeks are very red and hot as his heart beats fast. 

you were so close to him. so very, very close. he thought he was going to have a heart attack. he could smell you and to him, you smell so delicious and sweet; like vanilla cheesecake. 

“this is not good for my heart.” he mumbles to himself. 

“by the way” you begin. jisung looks at you. you slide a cold coffee and cheesecake in the middle of you both. “told you i’d stick to my end of the bargain.”

“i didn't expect you to do it so soon, yn. it's only the first session.”

you shrug. “a deals a deal.” jisung takes the cheesecake and coffee, sipping on it and humming softly as the bitter, cold taste coats his tastebuds and the caffeine enters his system.

“i didn't know what flavoured cheesecake you like so i hope it's ok.”

“what flavour is it?”

“strawberry”

“mhm, not bad.”

“you don't like strawberry?” you say with a small pout. he shrugs.

“it's fine. not the worst. but it's too sweet for me. i’m a vanilla kinda guy.”

“aah, ok. i’ll make a mental note of that.” you say as you tap your temple, laughing softly. jisung lets out a small puff of air from his nose. you see the corner of his lips curl into a small and that makes you feel like he's accepted you.

“now, enough chitchat. i actually want to be done in a decent time so, let's begin?”

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

“sooooo” jisung looks up at minho, his chopsticks half hanging from his mouth, resting on his bottom lip.

the smell of spicy, instant ramen fills the air. minho cooked some food for the two of them as they have both been studying hard for upcoming tests and assignments. 

instant ramen with a slice of cheese on top. rice cakes, fish cakes and other yummy goodnesss swim in the broth. the kitchen looks a mess, pots and pans scattered everywhere–it contributes to the rest of the dorm with the various clothing and shoes scattered around.

“soooo…” jisung repeats, eyebrows raised. his bangs are tied back in a pink hair tie (your pink hair tie), a white vest top and sweats on his body. minho is also in sweats but with an anime print t-shirt and a sanrio clip to hold back his bangs and a pore strip on his nose; getting tighter and tighter by the second.

“have you asked her yet?”

“asked her what?” jisung takes some noodles and a fish cake, putting them on a small, separate plate before grabbing some kimchi.

“dude.” minho rolls his eyes and lets out a long, irritable groan. “for being smart, you sure are dumb.”

“you're just dumb through and through.” jisung smiles playfully as minho sticks his middle finger up at his best friend.

“fuck you.” minho takes a rice cake that's soaked in the ramen broth. he chews it, the sound of sticky, chewy rice cake emits from his mouth. “anyways! have you asked yn about the party?”

jisung lets out a slow grunt. “not this again, minho.” 

“what?!” minho says with a shrug as he continues to chew and talk.

“i already told you, and eeeeveryone else. i don't want a party or anything of the sort, minho. i just want it to be a nice, quiet day.” jisung’s eyes drift to the half chewed rice cake that's being tossed around in minho's mouth. he pulls a face in disgust. “and can you please not talk with your mouth full?”

“you're such a prude.” minho rolls his eyes but swallows his food regardless. “anyways, you know me, changbin and chan won't let you have a quiet birthday!”

“yeah, no shit.” jisung rolls his eyes as he slurps on his noodles. he wipes his mouth with a napkin before munching on some kimchi. “still don't understand why you all decided to plan a birthday party without my knowledge knowing full well i said no in the beginning.”

“dude, you're so boring.” minho jests. “it's your birthday!” he emphasise. “you're supposed to have a party, eat lots of cake and junk. drink beer, hang out with friends and maybe, get laid.”

he wiggles his eyebrows at jisung and laughs softly. with a heavy sigh, jisung puts his chopsticks down.

“no matter what, you're going to go through with this, aren't you?” 

“yup!” minho obnoxiously pops the P. “plus, things have already been ordered and organised for it. we already have a few people who confirmed they're attending.”

“who?”

“mhm–” minho puts down his chopsticks and thinks, looking at the ceiling as he does. “felix from fashion design. hyunjin from art. seungmin from business studies and jeongin who is also from fashion design.”

“how do you know all these people?”

“well, unlike some–” minho's eyes widen as he looks at jisung, indicating he's talking about him in particular “–some of us actually get out. plus, chan is like a social butterfly and changbin is charismatic. put them two together and well, people can't say no.”

“yeah, true. i remember when they begged me to work on a track or something for their music assignment.” 

“they both practically dragged you to do it.” minho laughs.

“only because you told them i said yes without me knowing about the situation!”

“because i knew you'd say no! you have a talent for this stuff, jisung. don't let it go to waste.”

“thanks.” he mumbles, hanging his head low in embarrassment and awkwardness.

“is that… is that a blush i see?!” minho smirks.

“me? blush? for you?! hell no!” jisung frowns. “the ramen is spicy, that's all.”

“dude… it's mild.”

“...fuck you.”

“so, are you going to ask yn or nah?”

“if it gets you and everyone else off my back, then sure”

“good. make sure you do!” jisung opens and closes his hand, mimicking minho's yapping.

“yeah yeah yeah. can we stop talking about this party and eat?”

“just looking out for ya, man. i know how much you like ‘em!” 

“i know. i appreciate it, minho.” minho nods and continues eating the ramen. jisung, on the other hand, is now lost in thought.

how the hell is he going to get the courage to ask you something like that?

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

the study sessions are slowly coming to end. you kept up with your end of the deal, providing jisung with an endless amount of coffees and cheesecakes whilst he has provided you with an endless amount of insights.

one thing you have learnt about him is that he is smart. he knows how to do things with just a quick glance. he's good at explaining things so it's not confusing. 

you've been stuck on a problem for some time and no amount of teachers advice and youtube videos helped you. all it took was five minutes of jisung explaining the solution and it clicked.

today, however, you are alone in the library. jisung messaged you to let you know that he wasn't going to make it. you felt sad and a little heartbroken–you’ve become so accustomed to jisung's presence that you feel a little cold and lonely right now.

you can't concentrate. the music you're blasting down your ears isn't helping either. the text in your book is slowly starting to merge into one big splooge of text. the information just isn't getting through to you and it's frustrating.

you sit back in your seat and sigh as you take your headphones off and throw them on the table. 

“this is pointless.” you mumble. “i can't concentrate. maybe i should just skip it.”

you take your phone and browse through social media before subconsciously opening up the food app. your mouth salivates as you look at the various burgers, fries, pizza and sweet treats–and then your stomach growls.

“maybe i’m just hungry. that's why i can't concentrate.” you pack your things and head to the university cafeteria. the menu looks dull so you settle on a simple sandwich and drink.

the cafeteria is packed. the atmosphere is buzzing with the endless chatter of students. you take your seat and pick up your sandwich.

it's a standard ham salad sandwich with some dressing on. the slices of ham and lettuce (too much lettuce for that matter), tomatoes and other salad stuff squished together by two slices of thick, white bread, smothered in dressing.

you take a few bites. it's ok. it's not bad but you've had better. the bread is a little dry for your liking but the dressing takes that away. you open the cap of your bottled drink and take a few swigs to help wash it down.

“what do we have here?” you turn your head in the direction of the voice–that thick aussie accent you know all too well.

“ew. go away chan. you're disturbing my peace.” 

“charming. don't think that's something you should say to someone you haven't seen in a while.” he says with a pout as he walks to your table and sits down. he's joined by another man, a friend of his, perhaps. he sits opposite you.

“and whose fault is that, huh? maybe if you answered my calls or texts every once in a while.”

“sorry, yn. i’m just a busy man, y’know.” chan grins as he leans back in his seat, brimming with confidence.

“yeah. too busy being the campus whore.”

“blah blah blah. least i’m getting some.” he elbows you in the side a few times. “what are you getting, huh?” he jests.

“a degree? y'know that thing i came here for in the first place.”

“oh ha ha. very funny, yn.” chan mocks, rolling his eyes at you before stealing your sandwich and taking a bite.

the male opposite you clears his throat as a way of telling you both “hi, i’m still here.”

“oh! yn, this is minho. minho, yn.” minho's eyes widen a little and his lips twitch into a small smile.

“so, you're yn. nice to put a face to the name.“ he grins.

“you know me?” you blink a few times in confusion.

“i’m jisung’s roommate.” you mentally slap yourself. of course!

“oh my god. i’m so sorry. i didn't realise! i’m so bad with names.” you whine. minho laughs and brushes it off.

“and how do you know jisung, yn?” chan says with a mouthful of food; your food to be exact. you glare at him, daggers darting out of your eyes and straight into chan as you snatch your sandwich back off him.

“jisung’s my private tutor as of right now.”

“oh.” chan nods before his eyes suddenly light up. he looks at minho for confirmation. “wait, hold up.”

minho nods and smirks. “nah. really?!” you watch the two men talk in code as they communicate by facial expressions and a stings of “ohs” and “yeahs”

“uh, hello. i’m still here!” minho laughs softly.

“sorry, yn.” you shrug it off and eat your sandwich. “how do you two know each other by the way. chan has never mentioned you before.”

“good. keep it that way.” you say coldly, mainly aiming it at chan. chan pouts and nuzzles into you, head on shoulder. he looks at you with puppy eyes and a pout.

“aww. don't be like that, bestie. you secretly love me.” you flick his forehead.

“me and chan are childhood friends. haven't been able to get rid of him since.” chan smiles at your sweet implication. “he's like a parasite. or a fruit fly in the summer.” his smile drops and now, it's your turn to give chan a big, sarcastic grin–teeth and all.

“rude.” he mumbles. you shrug and finish off your sandwich. 

“so, jisung is your tutor.” minho speaks. you nod.  “are you attending his party?” 

“party? what party?” you look at chan and minho. minho sighs a little and runs his fingers through his hair.

“i warned him.” he mumbles under his breath in irritation before looking at you and smiling softly. “me, chan and a few others are organising a birthday party for jisung.”

“his birthday is coming up?!” your eyes widen. “when? i should get him a gift”

“14th.”

“14th?! that's pretty soon.” you mumble.

“jisung told me he would invite you.” you shake your head no. minho rubs the back of his neck. “well, this is awkward.” 

“it’s ok. maybe he has his reasons as to why he didn't mention it to me. no biggie.” you say with a smile. minho nods before a few minutes of silence dawn upon the three of you.

“out of curiosity.” you break the silence. “how is jisung in general?” minho tilts his head to the side. “it's just he seems so….” you think for a second, thinking of the right (and nice) word to use “... cold towards me.”

“cold?” 

“mhm. he seems so bitter towards me and i don't know why. we barely even talked in class but when we did, he would always tell me i’m making too much noise and to hush.” you slowly start to feel slightly irritated. 

“jisung is fine with me.” he says with a. shrug. “he's pretty chill around me.” you huff.

“i know he can be friendly because whenever i see him in the corridors talking to someone, he smiles and is so friendly!”

“what’s he likes now, yn?”

“well, now that we've been spending more time with each other, he's… i don't know… avoiding me to some degree? he won't make eye contact with me. he doesn't like it when i touch him.”

chan raises his brow and looks at minho, both men thinking the same thing. chan puts you in a gentle headlock and ruffles your hair.

“hey!! get off me!!” you push chan a few times, using all your strength to make him release you.

“you're pretty naive, yn.” chan laughs, continuing to ruffle your hair. he ignores your screams and yells, minho laughing at the two of you.

finally, chan let's you go. you push him with all the strength you have left before fixing your hair and glaring at him. chan pouts and nuzzles into you once again.

“i’m sorry, yn. forgive me?” he puckers his lips and makes kissing noises, edging closer and closer to you. you hold him at arm's length.

“ok ok!! just quit doing that!!” chan laughs and pats your head gently.

as fast as he was in the cafeteria, jisung is soon out of it after seeing you and chan, with nothing but festering jealousy in his stomach.

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

you bounce through the library to your designated spot at the very back, coffee and cheesecake in each hand with your bag swinging on your shoulder.

jisung is there, punctual, as always. but something seems a little off. the air around him seems thick and suffocating–dark even. 

“hey!” your cheerful voice ringing in his ears, making his heart beat fast. you sit next to him and slide over the coffee and cheesecake.

today he's dressed in a yellow and orange flannel shirt and white tank-top. black jeans and boots to accommodate. a few of his nails are painted in black, chipping from wear and tear.

he gives you a cold nod of the head. you frown a little but choose to ignore it as you take your books and pens out of your bag.

“so, what's the plan for today?” jisung shrugs. “...ok, well how about we go over that question i was struggling with?”

“k” he reluctantly moves closer to you. the scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafts towards you and tickles your nostrils, making you let out a small hum of satisfaction.

“you smell good, jisung.”

“mhm, thanks.” you let out a silent sigh. something is wrong with him and you don't know why. is it something you've done? something you haven't done? 

jisung is being very dry and sour with you. his usual method of teaching you is that he would go into detail and repeat until you'd understand it, today, however, he's very short and sharp.

“i don't understand.” you say. jisung sighs, a long irritated sigh. you bite your lip, thinking that you've done something to hurt him in any possible way.

“what don't you get?”

“all of it…” he sighs again and rubs his face. his eyebrows furrow together in irritation. the jealousy he is feeling in his stomach is festering, becoming more and more intense.

every time he looks at you, he is reminded of the way you and chan were together. he hates that. how could you fall for someone like chan? he thought you were better than that. his head swimming with negative and harsh thoughts.

before he can stop himself, the words just spill without any control. “why don't you get chan to do it for you.”

you blink. “chan? what does he have to do with this?”

“i mean, you two are close are you not?”

“i mean.. well, yeah, i guess.” you shrug. “he does get on my nerves sometimes though. he is such a pain! but he's a good gu–”

“i thought you were better than that, yn.’ he spits.

“the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you feel the bubbling of rage in your stomach as you stare at jisung, who stares at you back. the jealousy has consumed his body and it's too late to back out now.

“as in, i thought you had standards. chan? of all people? he's a whore, yn. everyone knows that he sleeps around on campus and you chose him?!”

“i don't appreciate the way you're talking about him, jisung.”

“it’s the truth, yn! and you know it so why are you with him?! you can do sooo much better than him!!”

“oh yeah?” you challenge. “then who is good for me, mhm? please, enlighten me?” 

jisung freezes. he looks away and chews his bottom lip. you scoff and pack your things in a hurry.

“i don't have to listen to this bullshit. you've been in a shit mood with me this whole time, which is fine. everyone has bad days. what's not ok, however, is you taking it out on me and bad mouthing the people i care about.” you stand up, swinging your bag onto your shoulder. jisung stares at one spot of the desk, burning holes into it. “text me when you're in a better mood.”

you walk out, leaving jisung to think about what he has just done.

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

“jisunggggg. sungieeee. knock, knock. let me innn!” the sound of minho's high-pitched, cheery voice irritates jisung to the bone. he lets out a slow and irritated groan, hot puffs of air slowly exhaling from his nostrils.

he pushes his glasses up his nose and runs his fingers through his unwashed hair. sitting at his desk in the same baggy band t-shirt and sweats from a few days ago, he checks his phone for the nth time, only to be disappointed.

he hasn't spoken to you nor seen you since that day. in class, it's worse. he's tried to catch your eye a few times, smiling when he does, only for you to turn away. he spent days loathing in his own self pity, locking himself up in his room and only coming out for food, bathroom breaks and class.

minho has had enough. not only is jisung's mood ruining the atmosphere, but minho has no idea as to what happened that day. he was home when jisung came back to the dorm, looking like he was on the verge of tears. 

when he asked, jisung always gave the same answer of “mind your own business.”–and he has; for several days now.

“let me in, jisung.” the repetitive sounds of minho's knuckles against the wood door cause jisung's stomach to bubble more intensely with anger–until he finally snaps.

he rushes to the door and swings it open, brows furrowed together. minho's smug grin makes him foam at the mouth.

“what part of leave me alone don't you understand, minho?” jisung's words dripping with poison. minho shrugs it off.

“all of it.” he pushes past jisung, making himself at home in his bedroom. jisung has no time to protest, all he can do is watch his best friend jump on his bed and rest on his back, arms behind his head.

with a heavy sigh, jisung walks back to his desk. he turns his back on him, hoping that if he ignores his friend, he will get bored and eventually leave. minho watches his friend pick up and put down his phone several times to the point where minho feels irritated by it.

“so?” minho starts

“so?” jisung repeats

“going to tell me what's happened? haven't seen you this down in a while.”

“nope. i'm good.”

“you can't keep moping around the place, jisung.”

“i can and i will.” minho groans and stands up, walking out of the bedroom. jisung mentally cheers only for it to be cut short when minho throws his jacket at jisung.

“put it on.” it's more of a demand than a sentence, but nonetheless, jisung obliges because if he doesn't, minho will force it on him.

“where are we going?”

“to the cafe.” minho puts on his shoes, jisung following suit.

“aah, dude.. i don't really fe–”

“shut up, we're going to the cafe whether you want to or not. a change of scenery might cheer your moody ass up because, to be quite honest, i’m tired of seeing your gloomy ass face.” he looks at jisung who is frowning at him. “in the nicest way possible, of course.”

jisung rolls his eyes before following minho to the local (and one of his favourite) cafes. 

it's a small, local café with an old fashioned sense of style to it. the tables and chairs are worn. cushions on the chairs losing their stuffing and the tables scratched and chipped. the décor is outdated, indicating that the café has been there for quite a few years; but it feels like home to some.

the bell above the door chimes as minho and jisung walk in. they walk to the counter and say their orders before taking their lunch and drinks and sitting at a table.

jisung takes a sip of the coffee. he feels the ice cold beverage trickling down his esophagus and into his empty stomach. minho munches on his chicken salad sandwich, watching his friend look in his drink and ponder.

“i fucked up.” jisung mumbles, lost in thought. the more he thinks about you, the more he can feel the tears threaten to spill down his cheeks. minho tilts his head to the side and as he is about to open his mouth and encourage his friend to continue, a familiar sound in the form of a laugh causes jisung's head to shoot up and look in that direction.

his eyes widen. he feels relief and happy to see a smile finally on your face; but then that same, the green monster in the form of jealousy parks itself on his shoulder and starts whispering in his ear.

minho watches jisung's jaw muscles clench. his facial expression goes from relief to jealousy. minho follows jisung's gaze and raises his brow at the sight of you and chan.

chan is being his usual, goofy self. he's telling you typical dad jokes and being a little grotest by telling you his latest hook-up details. you push him by the arm and roll your eyes, sipping your coffee in the process. chan continues to joke around with you, play fighting a little by wrapping his arm around the back of your neck loosely and rubbing the top of your head with his knuckles.

“i can't fucking stand this.” jisung mutters bitterly under his breath. minho turns and looks at his friend who is green with jealousy.

“stand what?”

“seeing someone as precious and innocent as yn be with someone like chan!” minho blinks a few times.

“what do you… jisung, what do you think yn and chans relationship is?”

“isnt it obvious? they're going out!” minho gives jisung a few blank stares and blinks before bursting out into laughter, choking on his own saliva in the process. “what?!” 

jisungs cheeks flush red with embarrassment but also with anger. his own friend laughing at his statement, finding amusement in his sorrows.

“are you serious? please tell me you're joking?” minho stutters through his giggles.

“dead serious.” jisung says, deadpan. “don't you see the way they are with each other? i saw you all the other day, in the cafeteria! chan's arm around yn and them being all…. lovey!!” 

“oh my god.” minho calms himself down. “you really are serious!”

“i told you! i even asked yn about it and well… it didn't go so well.”

“is that why you've been so moody and upset lately?” jisung nods his head slowly, feeling some type of guilt. minho sighs heavily, wondering how he can soften the blow of the news he's about to give his best friend.

“jisung…” minho starts. “yn and chan are not dating.” jisung's face drops.

“excuse me?”

“they're not dating. they're just childhood best friends. apparently they've known each other since they were kids. “

“so you're telling me.. that i got it all wrong when i saw you three in the cafeteria?“ minho slowly nods whilst giving a sympathetic smile. jisung sits back in his seat in disbelief. “why did chan never mention yn?! fuck, i fucked up… i really, really fucked up…” 

“oh, c’mon. it can't be that bad.” minho tries to lighten the situation.

“dude. i told her i thought she had standards! i called her best friend a whore!”

“i mean, chan is a whore. he knows he is and he doesn't hid–”

“dude, please.” jisung interrupts. “not right now.” minho shrugs and sips his coffee whilst jisung rubs his face whilst groaning. “what do i do?”

“well.” minho puts down his coffee. “you make it right. admit you were in the wrong. explain how you were a jealous lil guy because you like her and that you fucked up.”

“and how do i do that? she’s been avoiding me for weeks and it’s not like i can go up to her right now and be like oh hey yn, sorry i called your best friend a whore oh, by the way, i like you.” jisung mocks himself in a high pitched voice, his face turning red in frustration.

“you're so dramatic.” minho rolls his eyes with a soft, yet heavy sigh. “for a smart guy, you're pretty dumb too.”

“pft, am not!” jisung scoffs and folds his arms across his chest. “... only when it comes to stuff like this.” he mumbles. “i just… don't know what to do or how to fix it. i really, really like her, minho.”

“ok? and? what do you want me to do about it? there's no point telling me about your feelings for yn. i'm not the one that fucked up and then decided to hold myself up in my room to drown in my own self-pity.” minho says with a shrug.

to the outside world, minho's words sound harsh but to jisung, it's a reality check. 

he sighs softly for the nth time as he glances over at you. he watches you laugh and smile with chan, soaking in your beauty and the way you glow with happiness. 

“to make it easier for you.” minho breaks the few seconds of silence between the two, feeling a little responsible for his friend in need. “i may have mentioned your birthday party to yn.”

“what?! why?”

“bro, you weren't going to mention it! so i just.. did you a favour.” minho shrugs, a smug look on his face.

“... is she coming?”

minho shrugs. “dunno. she seemed interested at least but this was before you called her best friend a whore so–”

“that was an accident. i didn't mean to.. i just got too–”

“worked up? jealous perhaps?” minho says, or rather states, with a raised brow. jisung hums and nods his head slowly, teeth chewing on his bottom lip. 

minho chews on his straw as he watches his friend think. he can see the cogs turning in jisung's skull. jisung is inexperienced when it comes to relationships so seeing him like this, brings minho slight amusement.

“look, jisung. if she turns up, you approach her and apologise whilst also telling her how you feel.” minho holds his hand up to jisung who is just about to protest but is quick to close his mouth and listen. “if she doesn't turn up, you find her the next day, apologise and tell her how you feel. heck, text her if you have to!”

“dude… you know i can't do that!”

“ok. then you have the other option, which is to keep wallowing in your self pity and watch yn from the sidelines.” minho shrugs. “i don't know dude. be the main character for once. you clearly like her so take the chance.”

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

jisung's birthday rolled around. you haven't heard nor spoken to him since the argument so you didn't originally plan on turning up to his birthday party; but chan being chan is forcing you to go as his plus one.

“is this ok?” you smooth down your party outfit as you present yourself to chan. chan is sitting at your dressing table, dressed in blue, skinny jeans, a compression shirt that hugs and molds his muscles and combat boots. a silver chain around his neck, earrings in one ear and a few rings on his fingers.

he looks up from his phone and smirks playfully. he wolf whistles at you to which you scoff and roll your eyes at.

“looking good there, yn.”

“really? i threw this together at the last minute.’

“you look great, don't worry. you're gonna knock ‘em dead.” chan laughs.

“i really don't want to go, chan.” you groan.

“weeeell, too late. you're coming with me to this party, even if i have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you there.”

chan has heard about your little argument with jisung from minho. the two of them had a drink together during the week and chan listened to minho vent about jisung.

once minho mentioned the fight did it all come together. you've been feeling down and withdrawn, not knowing what to do or how to deal with your feelings. you've put on a fake smile and basically faked your way through the weeks–but chan has known you for years so he can see through you, he just didn't want to press you.

you'll come to him when the time is right; you always do.

“do i have to?” you ask for the nth time whilst putting on your shoes. chan laughs at your contradicting actions and shakes his head before standing up.

“yes, you do. it'll be fun and hopefully, it'll lift your spirits.” you pout.

“i have been a little moody lately, haven't i?” chan raises his brows and scoffs.

“a little!? pur-lease! i thought knives were going to spawn out of your eyes at one point.”

“mhm.. i’m sorry chan. it's just been a long couple of weeks with a lot of thinking.” you sigh softly. chan elbows your side gently.

“hey. let's not think about that right now. let's go to this party, have a couple of drinks and a dance, yeah?” you nod slowly.

“not like i have a say in this.”

“that's my girl. now.” chan grabs your hand gently and pulls you to the front door. “let's go have some fuuuun!!!”

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

it's loud. the bass of the music rings in your ears and shakes the ground beneath you.

it smells. the stench of stale cigarettes, sweat and alcohol tickles your nostrils and causes you to feel lightheaded and nauseous.

you've tried several times to turn away and head back but chan was always right there.

chan abandoned you to go chat up some girls so you're sat on the sofa, surrounded by people making out, drinking or passing out (if they haven't already)

you hold your red, plastic solo cup which is filled halfway with some punch. the smell is pungent and the taste is awful. it's too strong for your liking so you take small, delicate sips.

as the night rolls on, you have yet to see jisung. not that you want to but, it would help you feel some comfort and less suffocated to see a familiar face.

you glance at your phone screen. 11:20 pm. it's soon time for you to leave. you don't want to be here any longer than you have to and considering that chan has left you alone, you don't feel the need to be here any more.

you stand up from the couch to walk to the kitchen. you shimmy your way in and out of crowds of people who are dancing, talking or making out with someone that they won't remember tomorrow.

you pour your drink down the sink and throw away your empty cup. as you're about to turn and leave, a familiar voice is heard from behind.

“yn. hi.”

you turn on your heels and a sense of relief washes over you as you come face to face with a face you've been longing to see (even if you don't want to admit it)

you forget why you're so angry at him for a split second. his beauty never fails to make you feel star struck and silently go “wow.” but then you remember.

“hi.” you reply coldly.

“can i talk to you?” he shouts, hoping his voice isn't drowned out by the music.

“not right now. i was just about to leave.” you walk past him to leave. jisung grabs your arm gently to stop you. you look at him and he is quick to remove his hand.

“please? just… let me explain…” he chews his bottom lip, his brows scrunched together in the middle. you think for a second and sigh softly, nodding slowly.

“ok. fine. but make it quick.” you swear you see the corner of jisung's lips curl into a subtle smile, his eyes lighting up a little. he beckons you to follow him so you do.

you follow him outside. compared to inside, where it's hot and humid, the harsh, cold night air is refreshing and soothes your damp skin.

“look.” he starts as he stops walking to turn to you. “i know i was a complete asshole.” you scoff but don't say anything. “it's just… aah fuck, how do i say this.”

you watch jisung slowly become flustered. the tips of his ears turn red, his hands clammy as he shakes a little. he shuffles on his feet to shift his weight and avoids eye contact with you.

“fuck.. this is so hard… minho said it'd be easy once i get talking but fuck minho.” jisung rambles to himself. the anger you felt slowly disappears and is replaced with… joy? 

your stomach feels a little bubbly and tingly with excitement as you watch this nerd, whom you've grown so accustomed to, become easily flustered and shy because of you.

“just say what's on your mind, jisung.” you say with a shrug. his eyes flicker at you for a second before looking to the ground.

“ok.. well…” he takes a deep breath. ”i like you and i always have and the reason why i got so pissed and called chan a whore, who i later found out was your childhood best friend, was because i was jealous of how close he was to you and i saw red and i didn't mean it. in fact, i've been cooped up in my bedroom in my own self-pity because i'm a coward and i don't deserve someone as wonderful as you and i’m really sorry. can you forgive me for being a lil silly?”

you blink at him several times. jisung dared take a breath during his little speech so all the information that has suddenly been laid on you, isn't going through your head right now.

“ah fuck.. i fucked up again, haven't i?” jisung shakes, his voice wavering as it breaks the tension in the air. his nerves shaking his body as a shaky hand picks at the skin around his fingernails. “god i knew i shouldn't have said anything. why did i take minho's dumb advice.”

“i… i don't know what to say, jisung. it's all so much.” you say in pure shock.

“oh, that's ok! i’m not looking for an answer right now. please, take your time. i just wanted you to know my true feelings and why i acted out. the last thing i want is for you to feel forced.”

“so let me get this straight. the reason you acted out is because you got jealous of chan, thinking that we were dating?” you watch jisung slowly nod his head, his cheeks turning pink; whether that's from embarrassment or from the harsh cold air. “and that you.. like me?”

jisung nods again. “silly, right?” he laughs, trying to soothe himself of the raging anxiety that's heavy in his heart and stomach.

“no.. no! not at all. i think it's kinda… cute.” 

“cute?”

“yeah. i mean, well, being away from you has got me thinking about me, you and well.. us and how i feel.” jisung walks closer to you, closing the gap between you both.

“and how do you feel, yn?” you swallow a little. the atmosphere has suddenly shifted between you both. jisung is close to you, his body daring to press against you.

you can see every detail of his honey skin under the faint moonlight. the cold breeze sweeps between his hair strands. a faint hint of cinnamon and apple from his aftershave tickles and hugs your nose making you inhale deeply for more.

“at first, i was angry at you. i didn't understand why you were so angry. but i spoke to chan about it and during the conversation, he made me realise something.”

“what?” jisung encourages. he gingerly places his hands on your waist, unsure and testing the waters. his touch is as light as a feather and when you don't push him away, his grip becomes firm. 

“that maybe, i like you too and i have for the longest time. i just never realised it because i thought you hated me but, when we spent all that time together, i started to notice the smallest of things about you and i found them to be so cute. but they're cute because it's you.” 

you slowly run your hands up his chest to his shoulder. his breath hitches and body trembles from your touch. with more confidence, jisung pulls your body flush against his own, closing the gap completely.

“so, you like me too?” his voice dips to a whisper. you hum and nod slowly. “do you have any idea how happy that makes me?”

“why don't you show me.” you whisper against his lips, teasing him by brushing yours against his slowly and gently. they feel soft and plump, kissable even. 

“you're playing a dangerous game, yn. you have no idea how long i've wanted you.”

“show me.” you whisper again, furthering your teasing by ever so lightly licking his bottom lip with the tip of your tongue.

“fuck.” jisung groans. his lips crash against yours in a heated kiss that's filled with longing. your eyes widen a little but are quick to flutter close. you melt into the kiss, the both of you becoming synchronised instantly.

you tilt your head to the side a little to allow jisung to deepen the kiss. he licks your bottom lip and you part your lips slowly.

his tongue slides in to meet yours and you're in a battle of dominance that you lose. jisung's hot kisses make you melt and crave for more. you forget about your surroundings, forget where you are. everything is a buzz in your ears and you can only focus on you, jisung and how your body is tingling and twitching.

jisung is the first to pull away. he pants heavily, his own body trembling with excitement. 

“wow.” you hum in agreement. as soon as his lips are off yours, you want them back on you again; whether that's on your own lips or on your body, you don't care as long as you get to feel the softness again.

“is this real?” he asks.

“it's real.” you respond, giggling softly. “and i’m not drunk either so.”

“so, what does this make us?” jisung cautiously asks. he wants to have an idea of what you two are slowly becoming. he wants to make sure you're both on the same page.

“whatever you want us to be, jisung.”

“well, i want you to be mine. i want to show you off to the world, proudly. i want everyone to know that you belong to me. i want to spend every single second of the day with you and during the night, i want to spend every single second caressing your body from head to toe. i want to soak myself in every single bit of detail from your body. i want to drown you in pleasure and my love.” 

you swallow and let out a small, shaky breath at the implications behind his words. your body trembles with excitement and anticipation from where tonight is going to end and for the future with jisung.

“then.. shall we go ditch the party and go back to mine? because i want that too.” with a fast nod of the head, jisung holds your hand and is quick to make way to yours.

“let's go and let's be quick. i want to make you mine, in more ways than one.”

[whizzing-fizzbee]

What Are Friends For? | Part II

Sebastian Sallow x F!OC

Rating: Explicit/MDNI (smut, language); all characters are 18+ Chapter tags: smut, friends with benefits, friends to lovers, sexual tension, sexual exploration, sex, oral sex, facesitting, mutual pining, 3rd person POV

Notes: Tried to weave some touches of humor and softer moments into this part to further establish their friendship, but we’re teetering toward the threshold of full-blown feral, folks. Enjoy. Part III coming soon.

➡️ Read on AO3 or below the cut. ⬅️ Read Part I.

Two days after their library liaison, Sebastian found himself in Transfiguration class void of all concentration. After all, how could he possibly be expected to pay attention to Professor Weasley when Stella was sitting right next to him?

He’d thought of nothing but their interactions in the library and Beasts classroom; the way Stella squirmed beneath him, the shift in her breathing as she climaxed, the warmth of her lips wrapped around him. Sebastian gripped the edge of the desk to ground himself.

Stella leaned with one elbow on the desk, her legs crossed beneath it. Sebastian could feel her foot bobbing beside him, a sign of her boredom. Her hair was pulled into a loose, single braid today. Stray strands framed her face as she fought to focus on the morning’s lecture.

As Professor Weasley retreated to the blackboard to scribble out spell patterns, Stella shifted in her seat to fish a spare sheet of parchment from her bag. Sebastian watched curiously as she scribbled a quick note and slid the parchment in front of him.

We need to figure out a way to keep Ominis out of the Undercroft tonight.

Sebastian snuck a glance at Stella, who was watching him with a patient, pointed stare. He picked up his quill to respond.

And how do you suggest we do that? he wrote before he returned the parchment. 

I don’t know. You’re the evil and conniving one here. Think of something clever! Stella scrawled back.

I am NOT evil and conniving. 

Tell that to Solomon.

You’re a nasty piece of work. But fine, I’ll figure something out.

Good. See you at 8.

Sebastian straightened in his seat. The gears in his brain slowly creaked to life, turning as he devised a plan to distract Ominis.

What if he simply told Ominis the truth? Sebastian considered it for a fleeting moment, before deciding that his oldest friend likely wouldn’t react favorably to, “Hey, please avoid the Undercroft tonight because I’ll be engaged in sexual activities with our mutual friend down there.”

Perhaps he could steal Ominis’ wand and lock him in a storage cupboard somewhere. But that felt awfully cruel, considering Ominis wouldn’t be able to see his way out.

Sebastian’s eyes scanned the classroom, seeking inspiration. He could always ask Violet McDowell for help – she’d been trying to seduce poor Ominis for months. Ominis, however, found her “uninspiring and far too willing to undress,” as he so unkindly put it.

Then it dawned on Sebastian. Perhaps he could keep Ominis from the Undercroft while also doing his friend a favor. Sebastian’s gaze landed on Poppy Sweeting.

It was no secret to Sebastian that Ominis had a soft spot for the petite Hufflepuff. Though Ominis had never readily admitted to having a crush on her, Sebastian could sense it in the way Ominis’ prim and proper poise always softened in her presence. Perhaps he could find a way to gently nudge the pair together.

Sebastian waited impatiently until class ended. Stella lingered at the end of the desk row for him, but he caught her eye and smirked. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she watched Sebastian catch up to Poppy.

“Hey Poppy!” he called out as he fell into step with her. 

“Sebastian, if you’re asking me for another puffskein to put in Duncan’s bed, the answer is no,” Poppy sighed.

“No, it’s not that,” Sebastian said quickly. “It’s Ominis.” Sebastian observed the way Poppy’s cheeks flushed at the mention of his friend. He bit back a grin. “Ominis told me he’s interested in learning more about hippogriffs,” Sebastian continued. “He’s just a little nervous about it, you know? He still finds them a bit intimidating, especially since he can’t see them.”

Poppy nodded in sympathy. “Would he like me to introduce him to Highwing?” she offered.

“Well, that’s just it,” Sebastian continued. “He would, but he’s too embarrassed to ask. He knows how skilled you are with hippogriffs and is afraid you’ll think he’s a coward.”

Poppy frowned. “I would never think that,” she noted. “Ominis simply needs more time and experience. I’d be happy to educate him and coach him through the introduction process.”

“Excellent. Perfect. Can you meet him tonight?”

“Of course,” Poppy said happily. “I’ll meet him at the Beasts pens after dinner.”

Sebastian practically skipped to lunch in the Great Hall.

“Oi,” he said as he sat down across from Ominis. “Poppy Sweeting needs your help with something tonight.”

Ominis choked on a piece of bread. “Wh-what?”

Sebastian pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth to suppress a laugh. “Poppy. She needs your help. She asked if you could meet her by the Beasts classroom after dinner tonight.”

“Why does she need my help?”

“Why do you care what the reason is? You should be happy to spend some time with her, mate.”

Ominis fidgeted with his water goblet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered. Sebastian blinked at him.

“Look, mate, just meet her there tonight?” he sighed. “She mentioned something about wanting your help because you’re always gentle and kind to the stray cats that roam the castle. She probably rescued some puffskeins or something. Maybe you can borrow another one to prank Hobhouse.”

The corners of Ominis’ lips curved upward as he considered the possibilities. “Alright,” he finally agreed. “I’ll find her after dinner.”

—

“What did you do?” Stella hissed as she followed Sebastian from the Great Hall after dinner. “Why was Ominis talking about meeting Poppy?”

Sebastian tossed a lazy smirk in her direction as he strode toward the Undercroft — nevermind the fact he had his hands stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders tense with nerves. 

“You told me to find a distraction for him,” Sebastian drawled. “And what better distraction than the object of his desires?”

“Sebastian!” Stella chided. “You can’t force them together like that. They have to figure it out on their own!”

“Maybe they just needed a little nudge.”

“You are a manipulator!” Stella scolded. She shook her head, but the faint smirk on her lips wasn’t lost on Sebastian. Still, now wasn’t the time to assert how right he was about their mutual friends sharing unrequited feelings. Now, Sebastian had a far more important task to focus on.

He let Stella step into the Undercroft first and when they emerged in the cool, dark underground, Sebastian had to admit he felt more at ease.

“Just us down here,” Stella said, as if she could read his mind. He let her lead him toward the cozy corner they’d created during their fifth year. Stella had conjured furniture, tables, even bookshelves that stored their favorite reading materials. It was their space, a recluse from the outside world.

Stella stood near a study table, her fingers playing absentmindedly with her braid. She suddenly seemed shy and unsure of where to start.

Sebastian seized the opportunity to quell his own insecurities. “You sure you’re still okay with all this?” he asked seriously.

Stella’s eyes snapped to his, as if she was concerned he was having second thoughts. In truth, Sebastian’s thoughts were already spiraling downward, circling the drain of his dirtiest desires.

“I’m sure,” she said, though her shaky tone was a paradox. “Are you sure?”

Sebastian nodded. “I’m sure. I just… just wanted you to know that you can back out at any time,” he said carefully. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to do this.”

Stella breathed a shaky laugh through her nose. “Sebastian, I’ve saved your life countless times,” she teased. “I’ve kept quiet about your biggest secret since fifth year and convinced Ominis to do the same. Do you really think I feel any sort of obligation to you? If anything, you’re forever indebted to me.”

Sebastian blinked. He couldn’t argue with that, nor did he want to. He’d gladly spend the remainder of his days indebted to Stella Alves, as long as it meant she’d allow him to remain a part of her life.

“Well, in that case,” Sebastian said smoothly, “Do… do you want me to take care of you first tonight?”

He was met with a playful grin. “Nice try,” Stella purred. “But I’m the coach here, remember?” Her assertive tone made his cock stir immediately. Sebastian nodded in compliance. “We’re taking it slow and steady tonight.”

“Isn’t that what we did the other day?” Sebastian asked with raised eyebrows.

“We got a bit carried away the other day. But here, we can relax and take our time. You need to learn proper pacing.”

“Proper pacing?” Sebastian blurted out. “How do you know about my pacing when we’ve never even f-”

“Not like that,” Stella cut in. “Your breathing. Your breathing is all over the place when you’re… stimulated. You need to learn to breathe through it, show things down and relax.”

Sebastian was anything but relaxed now, but his mouth had a proclivity for getting him into trouble. “Alright, oh mighty sex queen,” he challenged. “Teach me your ways then.” Even Sebastian was surprised at his own taunt. Sure, friendly banter had become the baseline for their friendship, but this – this was him practically begging Stella to ruin him. He’d typically never show such desperation.

Stella snorted a laugh. “Sex queen? Sebastian, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

A lot of things, apparently. But Sebastian merely shrugged, his air of casual indifference masking his internal anguish.

“You’re the one in charge here,” he teased. “I just thought you’d appreciate a formal title.”

“Sebastian,” Stella deadpanned. “I’m the hero of Hogwarts. You really think I need any more formal titles and accolades?”

Sebastian scowled at her. “Cheeky little thing.”

Stella smirked. “Anyway,” she drawled, “If you’re so hell-bent on relinquishing the reins to the Sex Queen as you so kindly put it, then so be it. On your back, then.”

Sebastian began to panic. Maybe he should’ve kept his stupid fucking mouth shut. After all, hadn’t Stella ruined him two days ago with the mere sight of her own undoing? Challenging her would surely lead to his downfall. Still, he obliged and sprawled across the sofa.

Stella eyed Sebastian’s waistline, her lips thinning as she hesitated over her next move. “What… what turns you on?” she finally asked as she stood over him.

Sebastian swallowed, his body still and rigid beneath her gaze. “I-I don’t know,” he answered. “Lots of things.”

“Do you like relinquishing control?” Stella asked, her voice raspy with swelling arousal.

“I-I think so,” Sebastian answered. “I mean, normally I’m the one in control. I usually take charge. Girls seem to like that.”

“Do you prefer it that way?”

“I think it depends on the person I’m with. I like both.”

“And what do you prefer from me?”

A bead of sweat trickled from Sebastian’s temple. “I… I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” he croaked. “You call the shots.”

Stella recognized she was standing on dangerous earth; a shaky sheet of shale that threatened to shift and send her tumbling to her demise. It was clear Sebastian wanted her to take control, and she wanted nothing more than to dominate him. They were a match made in heaven — or hell, given the nature of their sins. Stella began to wonder if she’d struggle to walk away from such a harmonious tandem. But she was too far from the ledge to climb her way back, and she’d take whatever she could get from him.

“I’m going to touch you now, okay?” Sebastian nodded. He inhaled sharply when Stella’s fingers grazed his cheek. She chuckled softly at his reaction. “You have got to relax,” she murmured. “You’re going to spontaneously combust if you don’t.”

“I’m doing my best here,” Sebastian growled. Stella traced a finger from his jawline over his neck, down his chest toward the waistline of his trousers. 

“You know,” she purred, “This would be a lot easier if you simply told me what turns you on most.” Of course, her mere gentle touch already had Sebastian’s trousers tightening. But she shimmied her cloak off and climbed on top of him, her legs straddling his sides. “But I have to admit, this is much more fun.”

Her fingers worked slowly on the buttons of her blouse, and by the time it fell open to reveal her bare chest, Sebastian’s pulse reached a dangerous rate. Stella's blouse slipped off, crumpling in a heap on the floor next to the sofa, exposing her to Sebastian’s desperate stare. 

But as his eyes drifted from her collarbones, lingering on her breasts before shifting toward her hips, Sebastian’s face fell.

His eyes found the marks, faded but not forgotten, just above her right hip bone. They were no longer angry and ripe, but the lasting scar was malicious. It taunted him in the way its streaks clawed across Stella’s skin, as if it were suggesting it had claimed her first. But Sebastian was the reason it was there to begin with.

Her Crucio scar. It was more than two years old now, its purpose now watered down to a mere memory, deemed a past mistake by all involved. Sure, she’d forgiven Sebastian as soon as it happened, and Sebastian had committed the moment to the back caverns of his memories, but seeing its outcome up close punched the air from his lungs.

Stella stilled as soon as she realized where Sebastian’s eyes had fallen. The sexual charge between them fizzled.

“Sebastian,” she said gently. She fought the sudden urge to cover herself. She’d never been shy about the scar; the few people who had seen it knew better than to ask anyway. But this was different, because she knew Sebastian would be stricken with responsibility for it.

“Does… does it ever hurt?” Sebastian asked quietly.

“No,” Stella answered firmly. “Most days, I forget it’s even there.”

She inhaled sharply when Sebastian lifted a thumb to trace it. The skin was smooth now, no longer a ridge. Sebastian’s forehead wrinkled in a deep frown, a lump swelling in his throat as his mind revisited the scar’s origins.

“I don’t think I can ever tell you how sorry I am,” he whispered.

Stella softened, her hand gently prying his away from her torso. “Seb, you have said sorry,” she noted. “And you’ve never needed to. We did what we had to.”

“I know. But I regret it more than anything.”

“I know you do.”

“I just… I hate myself for hurting you.”

“Oh, Seb.” Stella squeezed his hand gently. “You have to forgive yourself. Everyone else has. That’s not who you are anymore.”

“I guess I’m just ashamed it’s who I ever was.”

“You’re allowed to have past mistakes,” Stella pointed out. “The important thing is you’re sorry for them and you’ve worked to make amends, which you have.”

Sebastian finally tore his eyes from Stella’s scar to meet her gaze. “I don’t deserve to have a friend like you,” he said.

Stella smiled, her eyes twinkling with hopeful charm in order to ease Sebastian’s angst. “You mean a friend who forgives you for using an Unforgivable on her and then agrees to have sex with you?” she joked “You’re one lucky bastard, Sallow.”

“Don’t I know it,” Sebastian muttered.

The tension broke, loosening the barbed binds within their chests. But now they remained hyper-aware of their situation; Stella, bare above the waist and still perched on top of Sebastian, who was now torn between his unchaste desires and his desperation to make her feel safe.

“Can we get back to the fun part?” Stella asked, desperate to divert the focus from her scars. Sebastian nodded in agreement.

Stella sat back, her chest jutted forward to force Sebastian’s stare toward her modest breasts. Sebastian wanted nothing more than to fill his hands with them. His trousers tightened again.

“I know I’m not quite as curvy as Violet,” Stella said. “And I’m not as feminine or as pretty as Grace. But hopefully this will do.”

“You’re joking, right?” Sebastian blurted out.

Stella frowned at him, offended by his sharp outburst. “What do you mean?”

“You… you really think you aren’t as pretty as them?” 

“I don’t know. I mean, I know plenty of blokes are interested in me, but I’ve always assumed it was because of the whole school hero thing. I figure they like the notoriety.”

“Stella,” Sebastian sighed. “Your appeal extends far beyond your heroics. Don’t get me wrong, your skills with magic are incredibly alluring, but you’re barking mad if you really think Grace Pinch-Smedley’s got anything on you. Her boney little frame looks like it would break if I touched her.”

“Sebastian, that’s not nice.”

“It’s true!”

“Are you just saying all this because you know I’m going to fuck you?”

“For fuck’s sake, Stella. I’m saying it because it’s true. Can’t you feel that?” Sebastian bucked his hips upward.

Stella blinked and shifted her weight backward. “Oh.” She smirked directly into Sebastian’s eyes as she felt his hard cock prodding against her ass. 

Sebastian groaned at the pressure. “Now do you believe me?”

Stella nodded, stunned that an act as simple as unbuttoning her blouse had stirred such a reaction. She had never entertained the idea that Sebastian would ever be sexually attracted to her. The power was intoxicating.

She rocked against him, igniting more arousal in her own core. She could feel it surging toward her entrance amid an ache that threatened to manipulate her every move. She’d planned on providing Sebastian with her full attention tonight, but the memory of how easily she fell apart at his touch was holding her hostage. She needed to know how that felt again. 

Perhaps she should slow down, she decided – for both of their sakes. Stella blinked rapidly to force her racy thoughts into something more manageable. She had to focus on Sebastian, not herself. Another excruciating act of generosity, she thought.

Stella shifted her body to reposition herself over Sebastian’s legs. She straddled them, her hands teasing over his belt buckle. It clanked apart, followed by the button of his trousers. Sebastian shifted as Stella tugged the clothing constricting him downward, leaving them bunched around his ankles. 

She prayed Sebastian couldn’t hear the shakiness in her breath as she eyed his erection. “Ready?” she breathed, unsure if she was addressing him or herself. “We’re going to go nice and slow, okay?”

“Okay.”

Stella reached for him, slowly. Her fingers barely ghosted Sebastian’s cock when he swallowed hard. She brushed the pad of her thumb over his tip as the remaining fingers of her right hand curled around his shaft. Sebastian shuddered.

“Are my hands cold?” Stella mused at his reaction.

“No. Just… soft.”

“Would you rather they be rough and calloused?”

“No. I guess I’m just… sensitive tonight.”

Stella bit back a smirk, instead electing to glide her hand slowly. She needed to pace herself – for her own sanity, not just Sebastian’s. Her posture was rigid, her spine straight and shoulders back as every nerve ending in her fingertips seared over his length.

Their banter halted. Words felt too risky for this moment, though their silence threatened to expose the pounding inside their chests. 

The pace was propelling them both toward hysteria. Stella’s thumb traced tantalizing circles around Sebastian’s tip, committing the soft skin to memory. She began to envision how it would feel as it breached her own entrance, parting her walls until it filled her. She puffed her cheeks out, overwhelmed and aggravated by her own rampant arousal. 

Sebastian noticed her frazzled state. “Alright?” he asked. Stella forced a reassuring smile that Sebastian saw through immediately. 

“Alright.”

“You’re a shit liar, you know that?” he quipped. Stella scowled at him. “Maybe… Maybe you should let me take care of you first,” Sebastian offered again. 

“You took care of me the other day.”

“Yes, and?”

Stella sighed. She’d been so dead set on proving herself to Sebastian, she was failing to recognize how desperate she’d become to be on the receiving end. “Alright,” she relented. “Maybe that’s a good idea… a rare good idea from you.”

It was then that Sebastian decided she’d be appropriately punished for her snark. His hands grazed their way up her thighs until they came to a rest on her hips. 

“You should take this off,” he said with a gentle tug at the waistband of her skirt. It was more of an order than an ask. Stella lifted her hips as Sebastian helped her shimmy out of the remainder of her school uniform, exposing much more than her old scar from the Scriptorium. 

“You’re beautiful,” Sebastian said as his eyes roamed her bare body. He spoke with such conviction, such promise, Stella became scared of the slippery slope that threatened to send her sprawling into a pit of no return; too deep in love to recover from the inevitable heartbreak of their arrangement coming to an end. But right now, all lucidity was clouded by lust.

“Move closer,” Sebastian ordered. Stella shifted until she was sitting on his chest. “No, closer.”

As realization crept over Stella, so did a hot flush. She crawled on her knees until her thighs were flanking Sebastian’s ears. His hands snaked around her legs, fingers pressing into their backs to urge her forward. 

“Please,” Sebastian whispered, sensing she needed more reassurance. When Stella obliged, she sank slowly, her eyes fluttering shut as she swallowed a whimper. Sebastian’s tongue pressed upward against her entrance, falling still as her arousal seeped over it. He hummed in approval.

Stella didn’t move, fearful of being too greedy, too much for him. But for Sebastian, it wasn’t enough. He yanked at her thighs, pulling her downward until his hands pinned her to his own face.

Stella moaned as his tongue sank inside her. It darted through her folds and explored her walls, lapping and pulling until her pursed lips could no longer withhold her whimpers. When he found her clit, she cried out, her fingers ensnared in Sebastian’s hair.

Soon, Stella found herself rocking over Sebastian’s face, his eager tongue calming her concerns. She ground herself against him in slow, sweeping motions, desperate for more friction. 

Sebastian received the hint. He sucked on her clit, lips pulling it against his rigid tongue. It was a tactical assault of unwavering pressure. Stella’s cries chorused higher until she issued a rapid succession of whimpers, one after another as she climbed toward her climax. 

Sebastian applied more force and held his tongue in place until Stella’s body seized. She wailed as she slumped forward, her nails pressing into Sebastian’s scalp while her cunt shivered. 

“Fuck,” she hissed once it subsided. She felt weak, her limbs limp as she recovered without a single coherent thought. But Sebastian pressed a kiss to her inner thigh to ground her, returning her to the moment.

She scrambled off him. “S-sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sebastian laughed as he sat up on his elbows. “You’re the one in a hurry to get away from me, apparently.”

“I didn’t want to suffocate you or something.”

“What a way to die,” Sebastian snorted. 

They stared at each other in silence for a fleeting moment that felt like centuries. Sebastian shifted uncomfortably, wincing at the ache caused by his erection. Stella’s eyes widened as she noticed.

“How do you want me to take care of you?” she asked with a tentative step toward the sofa.

“Up to you. You’re in charge here, remember?”

Stella certainly didn’t feel like she was in charge. Not after the way Sebastian had just turned her into a spineless, shivering mess. She felt like falling to her knees to beg and plead for more, to worship him however he commanded. But Sebastian Sallow, of all people, did not need another girl to stroke his ego. 

Stella shifted from one foot to the other, the chill of the Undercroft prickling her bare skin. “Do you think you’re ready for… you know, everything?” she asked carefully. 

It was a selfish ask that she’d never admit to; a self-serving desire veiled beneath the form of an innocent question.

“I guess we won’t know unless we try,” Sebastian answered with even more tact. He knew the odds for embarrassment were high, but he was convinced he’d suffer even more if he didn’t find out how it felt to be buried within Stella to the hilt. He needed her wet heat wrapped around him as her moans declared her allegiance to him, even if it was only temporary.

“Maybe it’ll be easier for you if you sit up?” Stella offered. Sebastian nodded, though he was certain no position would make this any easier for him. Not with the way his erection was twinging between his thighs.

Once he was upright, Stella stepped toward him with soft eyes. They shared a knowing glance; an unspoken agreement that their friendship would never be the same if they moved forward. They wouldn’t dare admit it, convinced they both could merely cast their feelings aside – another reflection of their shared stubbornness.

Stella climbed carefully onto Sebastian’s lap, a comical contradiction to the way she had used his face as a seat cushion moments earlier. Sebastian held his breath as she lowered herself, her entrance gently kissing the tip of his cock.

“We’ll go slow, okay?” Stella asked. Sebastian truly could not give a fuck. His lungs began to burn from refusing air, but the anticipation was shutting his brain down. Once he nodded, Stella sank downward. She moved so slowly, Sebastian could feel every inch of her walls inviting his cock in. 

“You’re so goddamn tight,” he wheezed.

“You’re so goddamn big,” Stella retorted. The tension cracked and they shared a laugh. It was shortlived as Stella shifted, the movement triggering a grunt from Sebastian.

“Really, though,” he said through gritted teeth. “You feel too fucking good.”

Stella’s movements were robotic; mechanical and detached as she willed herself to focus. She was there to help Sebastian. She should be guiding him, reminding him what to do, rather than melting over the absolute mind-bending, toe-curling, scream-inducing euphoria that was coursing inside her. 

Sebastian sensed her uptight, impersonal movements and frowned. “You alright?” he asked. The inquiry pulled Stella from her devolving thoughts.

“I’m good,” she panted. “You?” The crimson that creeped across Sebastian’s face provided the answer. Stella smiled kindly at him. “Sebastian, relax. Instead of focusing on… on what you’re feeling between your hips, focus on your breathing.”

“Right,” Sebastian grunted with a nod. “Just breathe.” He inhaled slowly. Stella rocked backward and the wind vacated his lungs. “My god,” Sebastian groaned.

“What if you tried distracting your thoughts?” Stella suggested. “You know, try thinking about things that aren’t arousing.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like Potions class.”

“Thinking about Professor Sharp won’t just distract me, it’ll ruin the moment entirely, if you catch my drift,” Sebastian complained in disgust. Stella laughed.

“I didn’t say to think of Sharp,” she said. “I said to think of Potions. Think of next week’s brew. What ingredients do you need, how do you treat them? Maybe the distraction will help.”

Sebastian was in no shape to argue. The way Stella was chewing her bottom lip, the sight of her rosy nipples, the warmth of her body pressing down on him… he wasn’t hanging by a thread, he was dangling from the final frayed bit of fiber that threatened to snap at the slightest breath. 

As Stella lifted her hips, her cunt pulling around his cock, Sebastian frantically forced his mind to flip through its rolodex of potion ingredients. 

Shrinking Solution starts with the juice of two shrivelfigs, he thought to himself. You have to heat the potion before you add your daisy root…

Meanwhile, Stella was fighting the inner demons that were demanding she let loose and unleash a full, untamed assault on Sebastian’s cock. She wanted to rock against him until her thigh muscles burned acid. She wanted to scream his name until her throat was arid. She wanted to unravel until her eyes rolled back and her cunt seared from sensitivity.

But she held back, determined to maintain her composure for the sake of Sebastian’s.

Soon, the sounds of their slick union chorused around them. The obscene orchestra clawed at Sebastian’s control, peeling his thoughts away from potion ingredients.

After adding the wormwood, be sure to stir the solution before juicing the leeches. How many leeches, though? Was it four? Or five? Oh, fuck-

Sebastian’s resolve wavered. His fingers gripped Stella’s hips so hard, her core tensed around his cock. It tightened and squeezed as she dipped downward, sending his tip toward her deepest point.

Breathe dammit, Sebastian thought. He inhaled with slow deliberation, praying the oxygen would assist his brain in controlling his nerve response. He nearly breathed a laugh of relief as it seemed to buy him more time. 

“Oh god,” Stella moaned. Her own willpower was waning, but she became hopeful she could achieve one more release before Sebastian did. She just needed to know how it would feel to fall apart around him, just once. Then this could all end, they could retire their arrangement and she could die happy. She just needed to know how it felt to be ruined by Sebastian Sallow. “Seb, I’m close.”

She shouldn’t have said that. It merely spurred Sebastian’s own impending release, fissuring the final pillars of his willpower.

“Stella, I-”

But Stella cut him off with a kiss. Their first kiss. She couldn’t help it. Their shared sin, the smoldering heat between them, was luring her toward the romantic dream she’d resisted for far too long. It was greedy, but tender; sultry, but sensual. It was theirs.

And with one more rock of her hips, Stella succumbed to her release. She shrieked as it swelled, sending hard spasms within her walls while her nails sank into Sebastian’s shoulders. He swore at the sensation of her surging cunt and crumbled, his own release claiming her inner core.

“Fucking hell,” they chimed in unison as their highs subsided. It forced a breathy shared laugh, easing them into the inevitable awkward aftermath.

Stella’s frame slackened, her arms draped around Sebastian’s neck while they both searched for something to say.

“You alright?” Sebastian finally murmured. Stella nodded, her eyes daring to meet his. She sensed something different in them, a depth she’d never unlocked. It felt safe and sincere, and — dare she think it — loving. Her breath hitched.

“I, uh…” Sebastian’s voice trailed off. He could say it. He could admit it. He could risk everything with three words, a sentence that would split his heart open and expose his biggest secret. But no words seemed deserving of such an intimate moment.

Stella waited patiently, but when Sebastian didn’t speak, she swallowed her disappointment and smiled. “We should get going,” she said gently. “In case Ominis realizes what you did and comes looking for you.”

Neither of them wanted to separate, but the longer they lingered, the higher the chances something could go wrong. Someone could say the wrong thing, or worse, someone could be swept away by the moment and say or do something that could slice their friendship to shreds.

So instead of daring to make any grand declarations, Sebastian took a quiet and calculated risk with a quick kiss to Stella’s forehead. She flushed and climbed off of him before he could see how frazzled she’d become.

They dressed quietly. Silence was a foreign concept to them, but when it did arrive, it was usually comfortable. But this lull left them with insecure and heavy hearts, both weary from withholding so much.

When it was time to leave the Undercroft, Sebastian gestured for Stella to lead the way. They always did this. It was a simple reflection of how they’d come to approach most everything in life – Stella leading the charge while Sebastian was simply content to be in her presence. But as he followed her from the chamber, his fingers itching to reach for her hand, he realized he might have to take charge for a change.

[gaybatmanenthusiast]

Hey hey, can you maybe make one of your sid fanfics gn? (Gender neutral?) thanks xoxo

NOTES IN CLASS (oneshot)

(SID JENKINS X GN! READER)

⋆★ word count : 625

⋆★ warnings : n/a

⋆★ summary : Sid and G/N start exchanging notes during lectures, initially out of boredom. The notes soon turn into inside jokes and small confessions, building up to Sid finally leaving a note that admits his crush on them.

⋆★ extra : I loveee sid, he’s so silly!! anyways hope you enjoy the request sorry it took so long and I hope you like the fic since i didn’t get a prompt ..!! also sorry its short i ran out of creative juices icl!!!! (ALSO THERE IS A LACK OF SID JENKINS GIFS !!!!!!!!)

Sid sat slumped at his desk, barely able to keep his eyes open as the professor droned on about obscure historical dates he’d likely forget by the end of the week. It was the dullest class on his schedule, and judging by the half-asleep expressions around him, everyone else thought so too.

A light flicker caught his attention as a piece of folded paper landed softly on his desk. Frowning, he picked it up, glancing around to see who’d thrown it. His eyes landed on G/N, seated a few rows over, a smirk pulling at their lips as they nodded for him to open it.

Unfolding it, Sid found a simple doodle: a sleepy stick figure with its head against a desk and tiny Z’s floating above. Underneath, G/N had scribbled, “Me, by the end of this lecture.”

Sid chuckled softly, a grin tugging at his lips. Quickly, he scribbled a response underneath. “That makes two of us.” Then, after a second thought, he added, “Actually, you look more like this.” He sketched an exaggerated frown with wild hair and crossed eyes, then tossed the paper back.

This was how it began. Each lecture, G/N would start things off with a new doodle, passing it over when the professor wasn’t looking. Soon, their messages became a regular part of the class, a shared rebellion against the tedium. The doodles turned into inside jokes, funny observations, and eventually, little confessions—things Sid had never thought he’d share with anyone.

One day, G/N’s note asked, “Ever think about leaving this town?��

Sid’s response was hesitant but honest: “Every day. Just don’t know where I’d go.”

Each exchange made Sid’s feelings grow a bit more. It was subtle at first, a quiet excitement each time a new note landed on his desk. He’d find himself arriving early, hoping to catch a seat close to G/N’s, feeling a strange disappointment if they didn’t walk in right away. Their messages became something more than just a way to pass the time; they were the best part of his day.

As the weeks wore on, Sid started feeling the shift between them. Maybe it was the way G/N’s eyes lit up when he passed back a particularly witty note or the way they’d laugh, quickly covering their mouth to stifle the sound.

One afternoon, Sid found himself staring down at the latest note, his heart thudding as he read G/N’s latest words: “You’re funnier than I thought, Jenkins.”

It was a simple sentence, but it made his chest tighten in the best way. Maybe he was reading too much into it, but he couldn’t deny it anymore—he liked G/N, and he needed to know if they felt the same.

On impulse, he wrote at the bottom of his response, pausing to tap his pen nervously against the paper. Finally, he scrawled out the words: “I like you, you know. Properly like you.”

He folded the note tightly, clutching it in his slightly sweaty palm as he waited for the right moment. When the professor turned to the board, he quickly slid the paper onto G/N’s desk and looked away, his heart hammering. He didn’t dare look as they unfolded it, his stomach twisting with nerves.

After a long, torturous silence, another folded note appeared on his desk. With shaking hands, he opened it.

“I like you too.”

The simplicity of the words made Sid’s heart skip. He glanced over, finally catching G/N’s gaze. They held eye contact for a second before both of them broke into shy, matching grins.

It was all the confirmation he needed. The world around them faded, the lecture, the professor, the scratching of pencils all dimmed in his mind. In their quiet little corner of the classroom.

[qualitynightmarelove]

♡ Warnings : age gap (college student x professor), explicit content (18+), heavy tension, possessive behavior, semi-public setting, morally grey dynamics, obsessive thoughts, slight degradation, power imbalance, praise kink, fem reader, dom professor.

Words : 1,851k

♡ A/N : this is my first fanfic on this platform so please bear with me and sorry for any typos.

♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡

I shouldn't be thinking about him like this. Not here, not now not during a physics lecture. But the way he looks when he leans over the desk his thick black framed glasses perched at the tip of his nose, that quiet confidence in his velvety voice when he explains an equation, the way his sleeves are always rolled up just enough to show the veins in his forearms—it drives me insane.

And somehow, in the blur between boredom and longing, my mind slips into places it shouldn’t.

In my daydream, he’s no longer standing by the whiteboard. He’s on his knees. Devoted. Starving.

He starts slow—teasing, like he knows he has all the time in the world. His hands grip my thighs like I'm something sacred, and his mouth... his mouth is sin incarnate. Each stroke of his tongue sends heat spiraling through me, and I can practically feel his breath against my skin, feel his groan reverberating where it matters most.

My fingers tangle in his thick chestnut hair, tugging just enough to make him groan again—and he doesn't stop. Not even when my thighs tremble around him. Not when I gasp his name like it’s the only one I remember.

By the time I reach the edge and fall over it, I imagine him ruined.

My hand is buried in his hair, still clinging to the remnants of pleasure. His lips are slick, glistening with my essence, the taste of me dripping slowly down his chin. His breathing is heavy, uneven, and his eyes—God, those eyes—glazed over, pupils blown wide, like he's high on the taste of me.

And the worst part?

I blink back to reality, still sitting in that hard plastic chair as he scribbles equations on the board. Completely unaware. Innocent. And I’m left burning, hand clenched around my pen, trying to look normal while my imagination begs me to go back.

 

I’m still recovering from the daydream when it happens.

He turns. Looks right at me.

Not a passing glance. Not a quick scan of the room. His eyes lock with mine like he felt it—the shift in the air, the way my thoughts wrapped around him just moments ago. My breath catches. His expression doesn’t change, not fully, but there’s something different in his gaze now. Something knowing.

Did I stare too long? Did he see it on my face? The heat? The guilt?

The hunger?

“Everything alright?” he asks, voice low and smooth, just for me.

I nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

His brow lifts, just slightly. “About?”

God. If only he knew.

Or maybe he does.

His steps are quiet as he moves down the aisle between desks, but somehow, each one echoes in my chest. He stops just beside mine, leaning in to glance at my page, but he’s too close. That cologne—something clean and warm—hits me first. Then the sound of his voice, a soft murmur right beside my ear.

“You’ve been zoning out a lot today.”

His words are innocent. But the way he says them? Loaded.

I swallow. “Didn’t sleep much.”

He hums, low and thoughtful, still far too close. “You look flushed,” he says, almost like an afterthought.

I don't dare meet his eyes.

Instead, I focus on the paper in front of me, pretending like my pulse isn’t going wild, like I’m not reliving every second of that daydream—my essence dripping from his lips, the way he looked up at me, addicted.

He pulls away slowly, giving me one last glance before walking back to the front. And this time, when he speaks, he doesn’t look at the class.

He looks at me.

“Let’s try something a little more... stimulating.”

And I know I’m done for.

    ______________________________________

The bell rings, but I don’t move. I can’t.

My fingers twitch with the memory of his voice—low, teasing, almost like a challenge. I need to get out of here before I melt into the seat, but I can't tear my eyes away from him. Not when he’s standing there, flipping through the papers on his desk with that casual grace.

I’m the last one left.

He notices me immediately, his lips curving just slightly as he glances over his shoulder.

“Need help with something?” His tone is smooth, but there's an undercurrent I can't quite place. Like he knows.

I swallow hard, trying to steady myself. “Uh... yeah. A little confused on the last question.”

He stands, straightening his tie, and moves toward me. I feel the air shift with every step, his presence getting closer, overwhelming.

He stops just beside me, too close. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, the intensity of his gaze burning through me even though I’m looking at my notebook, pretending to focus on the problem I don’t even care about anymore.

His hand slides onto the desk next to mine, fingertips brushing against the paper. It’s casual. It’s innocent.

But it's not.

“Let’s take a look.” He leans over, the scent of him drowning out everything else. His breath brushes the side of my neck as he points to the problem, and for a moment, I can’t even hear the words he’s saying. I’m too lost in the feel of him, in the thudding of my heart, in the way he’s so close I could reach out and touch him, feel his skin, his warmth.

And then, like he’s testing me, his hand moves slightly closer. Just enough to make my breath catch.

“I think you missed a step,” he says softly, but his voice drops, something darker lurking beneath the surface. “It’s okay. I’ll show you.”

His fingers brush over mine, just a touch, but it sends a jolt straight through me. I can’t stop the shiver that runs down my spine.

He notices.

His eyes flicker to mine, the teasing smile playing on his lips, but this time, there’s no hiding what’s there. The desire. The tension.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he murmurs,his hand running through his slicked-back hair leaving it disheveled, leaning in even closer, his lips just inches from my ear. “I think you’ve worked hard enough today.”

I don’t trust myself to speak. My lips part, but no sound comes out. My body is on fire, and every instinct screams to pull him closer, to give in to the heat, to the chemistry sizzling between us.

But I can’t.

Not yet.

    _____________________________________

I don’t even remember how I got here. One second I was asking about math... the next, I was gasping, spine arched, seated right on the edge of his desk—legs parted, skirt pushed up, breath hitched.

And he?

He was on his knees, right where I imagined him. Right where I needed him, his eyes no longer obscured by his glasses they were narrowed focused, but pooled with lust.

His hands gripped my thighs like they were made to fit in his palms, thumbs digging into soft skin as he pulled me closer to the edge. My legs instinctively wrapped around his shoulders, then locked behind his neck, my thighs clenching around him when his tongue finally met me—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every taste, every reaction.

I was soaked. And he loved it.

The sound—his soft groan, half-muffled against me—sent heat flooding through me. His lips were wet, slick with my desire, and every movement of his tongue made me tremble harder. My head tilted back, one hand gripping the edge of the desk, the other tangled deep in his thick chestnut hair.

I tugged.

Hard.

And he moaned in response, like he wanted the roughness. Like he wanted me to ruin him.

“God—” I breathed out, barely a whisper, eyes fluttering shut as he lapped at me, devouring like a man starved. “You’re... you’re so good at this...”

His pace didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened. Grew more intense. More possessive.

My thighs trembled again, instinctively clenching tighter around his head as another wave hit me, my fingers fisting his hair as if I could pull him even closer. My hips rolled against his mouth—helpless, needy—chasing every flick of his tongue, every sinful glide.

When I came, it was like falling.

My whole body tensed, mouth falling open in a silent cry, and I felt it. All of it. The heat. The release. The satisfaction. And the mess—my essence dripping down onto his lips, his chin, his tongue.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept going, riding out every aftershock, licking me clean like I was something divine.

And when I finally opened my eyes, breathless and dazed, I saw him looking up at me—mouth wet, eyes narrowed as he looks at me with a dark desire almost possessive, lips parted like he wanted more.

Like he wasn’t done

[luciellita]

Lion's Tail

A Madarame Shion x Twin Sister Oneshot.

“I wonder if she feels lonely at the top. But I know I feel lonely here, beneath her”

╰---•❥ Written by: Lucielitta

Request Prompt: Could you please do a one-shot of the twin sister of Shion? The reader is everything he isn't. Good at fighting, smart, and much more feared, and worst of all, caught Izana's interest. Romantic or not, this all makes Shion resent her, and she doesn't understand why. If you don't mind, maybe toss in a Mucho and Mochi appearance? I just think they deserve a little more love in the fandom. :) ══════════════════ CW: Graphic violence, physical abuse/themes of domestic violence, blood, attempted murder, sibling rivalry, jealousy & resentment, delinquency/gang themes, profanity, lack of communication. Genre: Angst, drama, bittersweet, tragedy, psychological Characters: Madarame Shion, Madarame Sister, Kurokawa Izana, Mochizuki Kanji, Yasuhiro Mutou WC: 21, 741 Request Portal

He was always beside her. His twin was equal in blood, unequal in his eyes. Close, but never truly close. Together, not by choice, but because they were born that way, two halves bound by the same cord.

Together, they're just two halves, born together on a humid spring night, the nurse saying it was like pulling two screaming little kittens out of the same sack. Shion first, wailing, fists swinging in the air, a tiny wrinkled face already scrunched into a snarl. Then her cry, quieter, her cry smaller, softer, swallowed under his.

Growing up, he was always beside her. Or rather, she was always behind him. He’d charge forward without looking back, kicking rocks at kids who insulted his hair, yelling curses at older boys who tried to push them around. She’d trail after him, her steps light, small hand clutching the edge of his shirt so she wouldn’t lose him in the unforgiving crowded streets.

The half was brash and loud, fists hitting before he could speak. When he was three, he broke a neighbor boy’s soft tooth with a toy for looking at him wrong. When he was five, he bruised his forehead so badly for trying to headbutt an older kid twice his size. Then, when he was seven, he kicked a man in the shin hard enough to make him limp for days, just because he said, “Good girls should hide.” Weirdo.

The other half was often quiet, unnoticed, polite to adults, invisible to kids. Her words echoing before her fists can.

She sat behind him in class, knees pressed together, scribbling notes with her small pencil while he snored into his folded arms, drooling onto the workbook they shared. Teachers rarely called on her, their eyes always drawn to Shion, either to scold him or sigh in exasperation. He liked that. He liked being noticed, even if it was for the wrong reasons.

They were twins, yes, but not equals.

Equal in blood and bone, but the world only saw the lion’s head, never its tail.

“Oi, don’t just stand there,”

He’d bark, yanking her wrist roughly as they walked to school, their shoes slapping cracked concrete.

“Stay behind me.”

She always did. Always behind him.

Not because she was weak, but because that was the shape of their lives. He was the lion’s head, the mane, the roar. She was the tail, flicking silently, unseen.

When they fought against rival kids, against older delinquents, he swung first, laughing with eyes burning wild gold in black. She didn’t like fighting, but she learned to anyway. 

He never asked her if she was scared. He never noticed the bruises blooming on her skin from fists meant for him. He’d just ruffle her hair roughly after, brass knuckles clinking against her scalp, and say, “You’re tougher than you look,” before limping away, pride swelling in his chest like a wound.

But she was there.

Even when he broke a boy’s nose in fifth grade, she stood silent in the back, eyes half-lidded, watching with something like boredom or perhaps unspoken calculation.

When he got suspended for smashing a chair over another delinquent’s back, she sat outside the teacher’s office, on the floor, knees pulled to her chest in sleep, waiting.

And when they were nine, he shaved off half his hair with kitchen scissors and a razor because a boy from the next block said his hair made him look like a girl. He sat there on the rusted balcony railing, tufts of pale blonde falling onto peeling paint, his eyes narrowed in concentration as if performing surgery. She stood by the door, silent, holding the mirror he demanded. The wind lifted strands away like golden feathers.

“You look stupid,” she said quietly.

He sneered, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Shut up. I look strong.”

She chuckled and didn’t argue. He always looked strong to her, no matter how ridiculous he appeared. Because strength wasn’t his fists or how he was perceived by others. It was him, standing in front of her, unafraid.

She remembered once, in winter, when he punched a boy for calling him “a mad dog with fleas,” laughing at him like a joke, his knuckles split open on the ice-bitten curb. She ripped the hem off her uniform skirt to wrap his hand, tying it tightly despite his complaints.

“Doesn’t even hurt,” he hissed between his teeth, glaring at nothing.

“I know,” she said, knotting the fabric harder.

He flinched but didn’t pull away.

When the cold nights came and they slept on thin futons under one blanket, he’d roll onto his back, mouth hanging open in sleep, snoring loud enough to rattle the thin plywood walls. She’d lie curled beside him, watching the dark ceiling, listening to the distant hum of traffic and his chest rising and falling like he owned the air itself.

In those moments, he looked peaceful. Innocent. Almost like a boy instead of a creature born with violent hands.

Sometimes, he’d shift in his sleep, face turning towards her, and his hand would find hers under the blanket, gripping it tight with unconscious need.

And in the morning, he’d wake before her, he roughly flicked her forehead, and say, “Don’t cling to me in your sleep. Gross.”

She never replied. Just rubbed the red mark he left and made breakfast silently while he complained about miso paste clumps and missing pickled plums.

Because that was them.

Together, not by choice, but by birth. Bound by blood.

Two halves, one loud and burning, the other quiet and watching, never quite fitting, but never apart.

And neither of them thought to question it. They never spoke about feelings. He never asked if she was okay. She never asked why he bled every week.

Because what was there to ask?

Because questions were for people who needed answers, and they didn’t need answers. They just needed to keep moving, keep walking down cracked concrete pavement, and keep fighting kids who looked at them wrong. Because if she asked, he might answer. And if he replied, the world they knew might crack open like a bone under brass knuckles.

And even now.

They’re older now. Teenagers with dreams and scabbed knuckles, outfits that smell like sweat and metal, always half-washed because they forget to hang them out to dry before dawn.

Shion walks ahead of her on the cracked streets, brass knuckles swinging from his belt loop. His hair is long and pale blonde, strands swept messily to the right, catching the dim street lamps like tarnished gold. The left side of his head is shaved clean, revealing the black ink of his signature tattoo curling down behind his ear, disappearing into his collar like dark roots under pale soil. Two silver piercings glint against his ears with every swaggering step, and when he turns to glance back at her, the small scar at the leftmost edge of his mouth deepens into a crooked smirk, splitting his face with feral confidence.

She trails after him, hands shoved in her skirt pockets, half her fringe hiding one eye a little bit as she watches his back.

“Oi, hurry up,” he barks, not even looking back.

She doesn’t quicken her pace, just yawns into her fist. The street lamps flicker above, moths suiciding against the hot glass, burning up without protest.

He’s grown taller than her, broader at the shoulders. The lion’s mane is blooming, she thinks absently, flicking a pebble across the gutter with her shoe.

At the corner, two boys are smoking under a rusted traffic mirror, their laughter curling into the humid night. One whistles low when he sees her and says something about skirts and knees, and soft little sisters.

Shion stops mid-step. Turns. His eyes glint beneath the dark glow like a stray dog’s, wild, dangerous, unthinking. She barely exhales before he’s there, fist slamming into the boy’s face so hard his cigarette flicked into the darkness like a dying firefly. The other boy shouts and tries to grab Shion, but she’s already moved, twisting his wrist back sharply until he yelps and drops his lighter onto the wet asphalt.

“Don’t touch him,” she says softly, almost kindly. Her voice is thin smoke in the neon dark.

“Fucking bastards,” Shion snarls, rolling his shoulders as he steps back. Blood flicks off his brass knuckles like raindrops. He glances at her and smirks. “What’re you looking at, huh?”

She shrugs, flicking stray ash off her sleeve. “Nothing. Your hair’s a mess.”

“Shut up,” he snorts, wiping sweat off his forehead with his wrist. His eyes linger on her for a heartbeat longer than usual. Checking for fear or hurt, maybe. Seeing none, he turns away with a scoff. “Let’s go.”

They walk on. The city exhales cigarette smoke and cheap ramen steam into the night sky above them. Stray cats hiss and slink between vending machines. He kicks an empty can down the street and watches it clatter away, echoing through the quiet.

“Oi.”

“Mm?”

“Buy me yakisoba tomorrow,” he says, voice casually like he didn’t just beat a boy half to death.

She chuckles softly. “You have money?”

He clicks his tongue. “You’re buying it, dumbass.”

“Mm.”

He walks on ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, back straight, hair swinging gently against his neck. She watches the blood drying on his brass knuckles tangled on his belt loop, watches his shoulders tense and relax as he stretches his arms behind his head, yawning loud enough to scare a pigeon off a power line.

And at home, he showers first, water dripping down his chest in clean rivulets as he comes out in his loose shorts, towel slung around his neck. He sniffs the air and scowls. “You cooking that bitter melon shit again?”

“It’s healthy, I like it, and I bought the ingredients,” she murmurs, stirring the pot with her chopsticks. “Eat it or starve.”

He glares at her, and it's on the tatami with a loud groan, stretching his legs out until his heel bumps her knee. She doesn’t move away.

“Your face looks stupid today,” he mutters, picking at the lint on his shorts.

“So does yours. Oh, wait, we look the same,” she replies, flicking his forehead with the chopstick tip. He yelps, smacks her hand away, and she giggles under her breath, the sound slipping out before she can swallow it down.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, cheeks pink as he rubs the reddening spot. “Fucking annoying.”

She ladles rice into his bowl and sets it down in front of him with a quiet clink. He scoffs but starts eating immediately, stuffing his mouth with too-hot rice until his eyes water.

“Idiot,” she murmurs, setting her bowl down beside him. Their shoulders brush, but neither moves away.

In the quiet of their small home, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead, she eats silently while he slurps noisily beside her, elbowing her once when she reaches for the soy sauce.

They didn’t talk about the fight earlier. Don’t talk about the blood or the trembling boy or the way her wrist still hurts from twisting too hard. They don’t talk about tomorrow or next year, or what will happen when they grow up.

They’re just two halves sharing the same bitter melon soup, steam curling around their tired faces, eyelids heavy with unspoken words. A lion’s head and a flicking tail, bound by blood, sitting cross-legged on cracked tatami in the belly of a city that never sleeps.

Even now, Shion treats her like she’s just part of the world around him. Always there, always following, without him even thinking about it.

He doesn’t think about treating her any particular way. She’s just there. His twin, yes, but never someone he regards with focused awareness. She exists in his peripheral vision, part of his world, like telephone poles he leans against to chill or vending machines he kicks when they swallow his coins.

And when they walk together, he strides ahead with loud scuffing footsteps, never turning to check if she’s still behind him. He simply assumes she is. If he hears her shoes lag too far, he’ll bark, “Oi, hurry up!” over his shoulder, not out of care but because his world feels unbalanced without her presence orbiting him.

He yanks her wrist when crossing busy streets, his grip bruising, uncaring if her bones grind under his fingers. “Watch where you’re going, dumbass,” he mutters after, eyes glaring at honking cars as if ready to tear them apart. But he never says, “Are you okay?”

When they eat meals together, he steals food off her plate without asking, grumbles about bitter melon, and demands she give him the last fried shrimp. If she flicks his forehead in retaliation, he snarls dramatically like a kicked dog, rubbing the spot with theatrical offense before flicking her back twice as hard, satisfied only when she winces.

He insults her casually and calls her dumbass, idiot, shrimp, and half-pint. Tells her she looks stupid when she ties her hair up, and sneers when she fusses with her uniform hem. But if someone else insults her, he turns feral, fists already rising with bloodlust. Because no one calls his sister an idiot except him.

When he’s angry after losing a fight or getting picked on by someone so small, he vents it on her in small, biting ways. Knocks her chopsticks out of her hands at dinner, shoves her shoulder hard enough to make her stumble when they pass each other in narrow hallways, and snarls curses under his breath with his eyes turned away. If she looks hurt, it pisses him off more, he’ll spit out harsher words just to bury that uncomfortable twist in his chest. Regret is not a language Shion understands, only irritation at feeling anything other than pride or rage.

When he’s happy, he becomes impossibly loud, boasting about how he beat up three punks in a row, pantomiming punches in the air like a deranged lion cub practicing roars. He’ll ruffle her hair roughly in his excitement, palm smacking her skull, brass knuckles cold against her scalp. “You shoulda seen me!” he yells, grinning so wide the small scar at the corner of his mouth cracks open faintly, threatening to bleed. “Fucking awesome, yeah?”

She never answers enthusiastically. Just nods with that half-lidded gaze, murmuring, “Yeah, strong as always.” He never notices the fatigue in her voice, only hears the words feeding his ego. Then he stomps away, chest puffed, not realizing her compliment was only half-true.

He never asks if she’s eaten. Never notices when she’s limping from an old bruise, or when her knuckles split open in a fight meant for his glory. But if she coughs too hard on cold mornings, he’ll shove half his scarf into her face with a growled, “Don’t die before I beat your ass again, idiot.” Then walks ahead, cheeks pink from the chill.

When they sleep under the same thin blanket in winter, he rolls onto his back, mouth open, snoring like a drowning bear. But sometimes, in the dark, his hand finds hers under the blanket, gripping tight with unconscious need. He never remembers it in the morning. Only wakes with drool on his cheek, flicks her forehead hard, and says, “Don’t cling to me in your sleep, idiot.”

When she fights beside him, he ignores her entirely, throwing punches with wild laughter, trusting her to guard his blind spots without question. He never watches her technique. Never praises her hits. Never realizes she fights smarter than he. But if she falls, he sees red instantly, swinging until his knuckles crack and blood spatters across the concrete like red rain. Afterward, he’ll kick her lightly with his boot tip. “Get up. Don’t lie around like that,” he mutters, glaring at her as if daring her to argue. His chest heaves with unspoken relief until she stands, brushing dirt off her scraped knees.

In moments of his rare softness, he treats her like a silent extension of his soul. Throws his jacket over her head when the rain falls too suddenly. Tosses her a can of warm coffee from a vending machine without looking at her. Slaps the back of her head when she zones out, only to grumble quietly, “Stay awake. Don’t let punks sneak up on you.”

But mostly, Shion treats her the way he knows how.

Because to Shion, she is his twin. His tail. Always there. Never needing to be seen to be known. Never needing to be heard to be real.

And he loves her, in the only way he knows how:

With bruises for blessings, insults for affection, and fists for protection.

And in his mind, that is enough.

Meanwhile, she treats him like he’s always been there because he has. Because there’s never been a version of her life without him in it.

She doesn’t look up to him the way others do. She doesn’t fear him, either. To her, he’s just Shion – her brother, her twin, the boy who used to chew on her hidden snacks in elementary school and fell asleep snoring on her homework.

When he yells at her to hurry up, she doesn’t flinch. She just keeps walking at her own pace, knowing he’ll slow down eventually, grumbling under his breath about how annoying she is.

When he calls her names like idiot, dumbass, shrimp- she doesn’t take it to heart. She rolls her eyes, sighs, and flicks his forehead lightly if he’s close enough. Sometimes, she’ll mutter back, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” in a bored voice. It annoys him more than if she yelled back.

She cooks for him because she knows he’ll just eat convenience store bread otherwise. She packs his extra rice balls when they have early fights, slipping them into his pockets without telling him. He finds them later, scoffs, and eats them anyway.

When he gets into fights and comes home bleeding, she cleans his cuts without a word. He complains about the sting and curses at her for being rough, but she ignores it, tying the bandages tighter than necessary so he remembers to be careful next time.

She never asks him why he fights so much. Never tells him to stop. She knows he wouldn’t listen. Instead, she stands nearby when he picks fights with older boys, watching silently. If he loses, she pulls him up by the arm and helps him limp home. If he wins, she watches him grin with bloody teeth and doesn’t say anything, just picks up his brass knuckles if he drops them.

When he’s sulking after a loss, she doesn’t comfort him. She just sits nearby, eating quietly, letting him rant about how unfair everything is. Sometimes, she’ll nod along with his curses, even if she doesn’t agree. Sometimes, she’ll say, “You’re being stupid,” and he’ll throw a crumpled candy wrapper at her face. But he always calms down faster with her there.

She knows his moods before he says a word. Knows when he’s about to snap, when he’s about to laugh, when he’s hiding that deep bruise under his shirt. She never calls him out on it. Never makes him talk. She just moves around his moods like water around a rock, unbothered but always aware.

When he’s soft with her in his rough way, she doesn’t acknowledge it. When he throws his scarf at her face in the cold, calling her an idiot for shivering, she just wraps it around her neck and keeps walking. When he buys her canned coffee with his leftover change, she drinks it without comment, placing the half-full can quietly beside his when he’s not looking.

She doesn’t treat him like a hero. She doesn’t treat him like a villain. She treats him like he’s hers, hers to tolerate, to take care of, to fight beside.

Because to her, he’s just Shion. He’s her brother. Her twin. The boy who’s always walked a little too far ahead, the boy she’s spent her life following without complaint.

And that’s enough for her, even in days when they don’t see each other eye to eye, they still fight together often. Against rival gangs, against older boys in cheap cologne and knock-off leather, against men who call them children with condescension before spitting blood and teeth onto cracked asphalt.

Although the fights are never equal.

He fights to prove himself. She fights to survive.

“Oi, stay back,” he would snap, spitting a glob of blood onto the ground, brass knuckles slick with someone else’s blood and tears.

She doesn’t reply, only adjusts her grip on the broken stick she wields like a staff. Her palm aches where the wood splintered, but she says nothing, eyes tracking the boy limping away, clutching his stomach.

They walk home in silence, shoes scuffing wet pavement, city lights reflecting in oily puddles. He breathes heavily beside her, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, eyes unfocused with adrenaline and fading rage.

“Fucking annoying punks,” he mutters, his voice thick with blood. “Think they’re so tough.”

She hums softly, neither agreeing nor denying. He doesn’t pay attention or listen much anyway. Her shoulder brushes his as they turn down the alley behind the closed udon shop, where stray cats yowl under dented dumpsters. The sour stink of rotting broth clings to the humid air.

She can’t help but notice, their silences have been sharper. No longer the comfortable quiet of two people used to each other’s presence. She doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand him. If only he’d talk to her more instead of snapping, maybe she’ll know…

He just snaps at her more. Calls her useless when she hesitates. Shoves her hard enough to bruise when she blocks his path to a fight he’s spoiling for.

She doesn’t push back. Just steadies herself, flicks stray hair from her eyes, and continues walking.

But even he sees the small twitches in her jaw now. Sees the way her fingers curl into fists at her sides before relaxing. Sees, but does not understand.

At dinner, he snarls when she serves bitter melon stir fry again.

“Fucking gross,” he spits, pushing the plate away so hard the chopsticks clatter to the tatami.

“Don’t eat, then,” she murmurs, turning back to the sink to wash the pans. Her voice is as calm as always, but her shoulders are tight, blades sharp under her thin shirt.

He glares at her back, teeth grinding. Something twists in his gut, not guilt, never guilt, but a prickling irritation that she sounds so unaffected. Like, his anger is inconsequential. Like, he is inconsequential.

Later that night, as they lie on their futons under the thin summer blanket, he stares at the water-stained ceiling, sweat cooling on his chest.

“Hey,” he says into the dark.

She doesn’t reply, but he hears the small shift of her blanket as she turns towards him, waiting.

He swallows thickly, words clogging his throat like phlegm. His fingers twitch against the tatami, itching to reach out, to flick her forehead, to grab her wrist, to do anything except speak.

“…Nothing,” he mutters finally, rolling onto his side and facing the peeling wall. “Go to sleep.”

He hears her sigh, soft and disappointed, but she says nothing else.

Japan, 2005.

Things were changing fast in this city.

Shion could feel it in his bones, buzzing under his skin like a fever he didn’t want to break. Izana was gathering them, Mochizuki, Mucho, the Haitani brothers, rounding up the core S-62 generation members. They were making something bigger than any of them could’ve built alone. Tenjiku.

A goal they’ve been reaching for years, to control Japan’s underworld.

He felt closer to something real for once. Like the punches he threw meant something even more now.

He sat on the cracked rooftop of their apartment building, brass knuckles dangling from his fingers like always, head tilted back to watch a smoke of a nearby fire curl into the washed-out dawn sky. The city felt somewhat quiet this early, just the hum of vending machines below and the distant grind of a truck somewhere in the next block.

“Oi,” he grunted, without looking back.

She stood near the rusted metal door, hair tied up messily, a small backpack slung over her shoulder. The same skirt, the same black socks with one slipping lower than the other, the same blank half-lidded gaze fixed on him.

“Don’t just stand there,” he muttered. “Come here.”

She walked over, her shoes scuffing the dirt and bird shit crusted on the rooftop.

“You know what’s happening, right?” he asked, squinting at her.

She blinked slowly. “Tenjiku.”

He smirked, his scar twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Izana’s building something huge. Bigger than Black Dragon, bigger than anything these punk-ass districts got.”

She didn’t reply, just shifted her weight slightly, waiting for his point.

He rolled his eyes. “Tch. Whatever. Listen, they’re forming quickly. Real ranks. Executives, Heavenly Kings, all that shit. I’m gonna be one of them.”

She raised an eyebrow minutely. “Heavenly Kings?”

“Damn right,” he snorted, pride puffing up in his chest like a feral cat fluffing its fur. “Izana gave me a spot. Mochi’s in, Kakucho’s the head. Ran too. Rindou, Mucho, Hanma, Koko – they’re all in. It’s almost done.”

She nodded slightly. His eyes narrowed at her lack of reaction.

“Oi, you get what this means for us?” he barked, leaning forward, brass knuckles clinking as his fingers curled tight. “We ain’t gonna be no bottom-feeder punks anymore. We’re gonna run Yokohama. Kawasaki. Kanto. Fuck, all of Japan if Izana wants it.”

“I know,” she murmured. Her voice was quiet, unbothered as if they were talking about grocery lists and not gang territories.

He scowled. “Don’t just ‘I know’ me, idiot. You need to understand. Things are gonna change. I’m bringing you in.”

Her eyes finally flickered up to meet his, confusion faint in her dark gaze. “Into… Tenjiku? Me? Isn’t-”

“Who the fuck else would watch your back?” he snapped, rolling his shoulders with irritation. “You’re just a shrimp with decent hits. Ain’t nobody gonna take you in if not for me.”

She didn’t argue. She rarely did. He didn’t know if that annoyed him or comforted him.

“Recruitment ain’t just recruitment,” he continued, standing up and stretching his arms over his head until his back cracked. “It means I’m sponsoring you. You’ll be under me. My division. My responsibility.”

She tilted her head. “So I’m your subordinate.”

“Yeah,” he grinned, teeth sharp and crooked. “You’ll follow my orders. Fight when I tell you to fight, stand down when I say so. Got it?”

“Mm.”

He flicked her forehead, hard enough to make her head jerk back. “Say it properly.”

“Yess, Shion,” she said quietly, rubbing the reddening spot.

He felt something hot bloom in his chest at her obedient tone, something that felt like pride but stung like irritation.

It was a first for her to be in a gang, one with her brother, too. Not even in Black Dragon was she able to be in, not like she wants to. She wondered how this would be for the two of them. Just two relatives in a gang, surely nothing will go wrong, right?

Sure, she's heard some whispers and murmurs of delinquents who are siblings; their relationship didn't strengthen like how their fists would, only melted their hearts like a candle swallowed by darkness, and it only tore them apart. It was unfair, they'd say, it felt like everyone was playing favorites while the other remained their shadow. Always.

She doesn't care much about that. Surviving is what she's thinking. How they'll get through another day.

She's a girl, she knows that. She's too aware of it, the dangers, the expectations, and the violence it brings in knowing this. It's not really common for girls to be delinquents. They're either just some girl, a punk's girlfriend, hiding behind them for protection, forced to become theirs, or a wannabe. Shion wouldn't really want that for her. That's why she's always beside him, he says, his twin, his other half, but in the eyes, not really his equal.

“Stay behind me,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth as he walked forward. They've hit a thousand steps and have arrived at the hideout. She didn’t reply, just fell into step, her shadow folding seamlessly into his.

"Yo, Izana!" He swaggered up to Izana, bowing his head slightly, eyes bright with feral pride. “Brought her like you asked.”

“Hm...” Izana’s gaze slid from Shion to her, eyes narrowing faintly with mild curiosity, assessing her. He didn’t smile, didn’t frown, just gave a small nod.

“Don’t just stand there,” Shion barked at her again, cutting her off before she could open her mouth for herself, shoving her lightly forward. “Introduce yourself properly, idiot.”

She stepped closer, her shoes scraping against the coarse gravel that littered Tenjiku’s hideout ground. The air smelled of rusted rebar and ash soaked into concrete, heavy and metallic, pressing down on her lungs like a quiet curse.

“I’m Madarame,” she said softly, her voice thin but unwavering. “Shion’s sister.”

“Twin,” Shion added quickly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face at her omission. “She’s my twin.”

Izana watched her in silence, his gaze slow and consuming, pale yet striking eyes reflecting back the dull grey of dawn clouds behind her. She didn’t look away, didn’t blink, just stood still as if waiting for a judgment she’d already accepted long ago.

Izana hummed faintly, as if in thought. “I see.”

He turned away slightly, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, the motion making his earrings glint like small cold moons against his light hair. “Is she worth the spot? Are you?” he asked, not looking at Shion, his words drifting lazily out across the rooftop like ash on stagnant water.

Shion bristled. “Course she is. She ain’t as strong as me, but she’s quick. Knows how to stay in line. Once we're complete, I'll show you.”

“That so?” Izana tilted his chin just enough to cast his eyes back at her, gaze unblinking. It's a first that a girl is in a male-dominated gang, one in which their goal is bigger than others. “Don’t fuck up,” Izana said finally, his voice quiet and empty of inflection. He turned fully now, walking away with steps so light they barely disturbed the silence. “We’re not babysitting deadweight.”

Shion let out a breath he’d been holding when Izana left, his chest deflating with a quiet wheeze. “Tch. See? Easy,” he muttered, glaring down at her as if daring her to disagree. “Don’t embarrass me. Got it?”

"Hm," She nodded, her hair falling forward to hide her eyes. “Got it.”

“Good.” He slapped her lightly on the back of the head, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make her sway forward a step.

She scoffed, slapping away his hand lightly, fixing the back of her hair. "Give me a minute. Let me explore this place for a bit before we head home. Looks nice tonight, comfy."

Shion rolled his eyes dramatically, his brass knuckles clinking against his belt loop as he stretched his arms overhead with a yawn. “Whatever. Don’t get lost and don’t fuck with anyone if they're here,” he grumbled, though his voice lacked its usual bite, worn down by exhaustion and half-hearted relief.

She walked slowly, half-lidded eyes scanning peeling posters along the walls – advertisements for cheap karaoke, sleazy hostess clubs, and calligraphy for old ramen shops long closed down, their phone numbers faded into illegibility. The air smelled of stale smoke and sweat, undercut with disinfectant from some half-hearted cleaning hours ago.

She turned a corner and paused when a broad shadow moved ahead.

A man towered over most boys his age she'd seen, broad-shouldered and thick-armed, hair styled in a rattail mohawk, shaved on the sides with a braid that reached down to his neck. His shadow swallowed the narrow corridor where she walked.

She almost walked past him without seeing him, too focused on counting how many ceiling lights were out this. Four. Always four. Or five. Maybe then the hall would finally collapse.

“Oi,” a deep voice rumbled, low and slow like stones grinding in a riverbed.

She paused mid-step, glancing up through strands of hair falling across her eyes. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one ankle propped casually against peeling paint. His brown eyes glinted with mild amusement, like a bear who’d just found a cub in its territory and wasn’t sure whether to pat it on the head or bite its throat out of curiosity.

“You’re Shion’s sister, Madarame, yeah?” he asked, voice vibrating faintly through the floor. She could almost feel it in her soles.

She blinked once, tilting her head slightly. He must've recognized her easily when she had Shion's features. “Yes.”

He studied her silently for a moment. She didn’t squirm under his gaze. Just shifted her weight to her other foot and waited, eyes half-lidded with detached patience. It was the same look she gave vending machines when they refused to give back her change. Blank, unconcerned, faintly annoyed.

“Didn’t think you’d look so… normal,” Mochi drawled finally, scratching the back of his thick neck, fingers digging into his skin.

"You are?" She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, looking at him. Silence pooled between them, thick but not uncomfortable. The humid air smelled faintly of mold, cigarette smoke, and industrial soap that never quite erased the stink of boys sweating testosterone into cracked tiles.

“Mocchi.”

“Call me Mocchi,” he replied simply, voice low and warm, rumbling from his broad chest. He didn’t offer a hand to shake; delinquents rarely did. His brown eyes studied her lazily under the flickering fluorescent light, pupils dilated just enough to make him look faintly sleepy. Or bored. Or quietly assessing.

“You fight?” he asked, voice curling slightly upward at the end, making it less of a demand and more of a genuine question. Like he was asking if she liked sweet corn or karaage.

"Tch, obviously. Why else would I be here?"

He barked out a low laugh, echoing up the hallway, cracking his fingers with a smile. “Show me.”

She blinked again. “Here?”

He rolled his shoulders, the seams of his shirt stretching over bulked muscle. “Nah. Too cramped. Come on.”

He pushed off the wall with easy force and started walking away. She followed without question, their footsteps echoing mismatched, his heavy thuds, hers quiet pads like a cat trailing a rhino. Down the stairs, out the side door, into the concrete lot behind the abandoned pachinko parlor.

The air was cooler outside. Smelled of rust, summer sweat, and cigarette butts crushed into gravel.

Mochi turned to face her, cracking his neck side to side until it sounded like thick branches snapping under ice. He grinned, wide and easy, his teeth surprisingly even for a guy who'd get punched in fights.

“Hit me,” he said casually, gesturing at himself with one thick hand.

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“'Cause I wanna see this girl.”

She sighed softly, slipping her bag off and placing it on the ground beside the rusted dumpster. Straightened, rolled her shoulders back, and shifted her stance. Her fringe fell from her eyes as she looked up at him fully for the first time.

He raised an eyebrow, grin curling further. “Oh? Got a look in your eyes now, huh? Let’s see it then.”

She moved.

Not loudly, not violently, not like Shion’s wild swings that roared their intention before impact. She stepped in, quick and silent, twisting at the hip with her full weight as her fist slammed into his solar plexus with brutal precision.

Thud.

A hollow, meaty sound, like a butcher punching into a hanging carcass.

Mocchi grunted faintly, eyes widening for half a second before his grin returned, sharper now, edged with delight. “Fuck,” he chuckled, rubbing the spot she’d struck. “You’re strong for a shrimp.”

She stepped back, breathing evenly, shaking out her hand once. “Your abs are thick.”

He laughed louder at that, the sound booming off the abandoned pachinko’s stained walls, sending stray pigeons fluttering up into the dark blue-tinged sky.

“I like you,” he declared, still chuckling as he flicked her forehead lightly with his massive finger, a gesture that should’ve snapped her neck back but somehow only made her hair flutter. “You’re way more interesting than Shion makes you sound.”

She rubbed her forehead absentmindedly. Probably used to the flicking because of Shion, reminded her of him. “Mm.”

“You’re under his division, right?” Mocchi asked, folding his arms again as he leaned back against the dumpster, casual as if chatting with an old friend.

“Yes.”

“Hah. Poor girl.”

She blinked slowly, unsure if it was an insult to Shion or pity for her. Maybe both.

Mocchi glanced at her again, the grin softening into something more thoughtful. “If he gets too annoying, come find me. I’ll knock some sense into him.”

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded, laughing softly. “Okay.”

He ruffled her hair roughly, palm engulfing her skull, laughing lightly. “Good girl.”

She frowned faintly but didn’t duck away.

“Go on, let's have a proper fight next time,” he said, jerking his chin back towards the building. “Don’t wanna make your brother think I’m recruiting his little tail behind his back.”

She picked up her bag and walked away without looking back. Behind her, Mocchi watched her small form disappear through the rusted door, his grin lingering.

And somewhere on the third floor, sitting on a cracked windowsill with brass knuckles clenched tight in his fist, Shion watched the whole exchange through half-lidded eyes, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw popped like a gun cocking back, ready to fire.

Lately, time felt sticky these days, clinging to her skin like sweat under an unwashed collar, heavy with the heat of approaching summer.

And it didn’t take long for rot to crawl its way into the cracks. Maybe three weeks, give or take a few nights of half-sleep and busted knuckles. Long enough for bruises to yellow out beneath cheap sleeves, for whispers to crawl through the cracks of Tenjiku’s filthy rooms like roaches drunk on gutter light.

Of course, she still remained under Shion’s division. By Shion’s choice, Izana’s disinterest, and fate’s quiet indifference.

At first, the subordinates barely looked at her. Just a girl, they wouldn't call her a joke- it would look bad on them, she's more of a shadow trailing behind the Mad Dog, silent and unnoticed. Tenjiku’s new recruits laughed behind their hands, mocking the girl Shion dragged in by her wrist. She didn’t react. Just kept her half-lidded gaze fixed somewhere beyond them, as if staring at their future bones ground into gravel under her shoes and fists.

But time revealed what Shion’s eyes refused to see. Little by little.

It started small. During sparring drills in the abandoned pachinko hall, where old machines lined the walls like broken teeth that felt cramped, she moved quietly between them, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable. Boys twice her size swung fists at her ribs, and she twisted, slid, stepped in – thud. Her knuckles buried themselves into their guts with precise violence, folding them to the sticky floor like collapsing scaffolds.

No wild laughter. No taunts. No roaring pride.

Just movement. Quick, silent, efficient. Like a shadow flickering before the light.

Shion watched from the side, perched on a rusted bar stool, brass knuckles clinking faintly as he spun them around his index finger, jaw tense. “Fucking hurry up!” he’d bark when they winced under her blows. “Don’t go easy on her just ‘cause she’s a chick, idiots!”

They didn’t. She just made them look weak anyway.

It became a daily occurrence, involving sparring, training, drills, and fights that frequently happened more often than she was used to. Exhausted, she couldn't say much about it to him or anyone. This gang was vicious and unforgiving at most. A newbie she was, the only girl dragged into a Kingdom that could crush her if they could, was overwhelming at times.

Despite it all, she still stood up and raised her clenched fists that were meant for a girl like her, like the other, to clutch a schoolbook or pull sweaters tight against autumn winds. Fists that should’ve smelled of sweet lotion and pencil graphite, not blood and rusted iron.

But they clenched anyway.

They clenched even when the skin split open like thin fruit skin, dark juice pooling in the lines of her palms, dripping down her wrists to stain the cracked cement beneath her.

She raised them again.

Not like Shion did, with roaring laughter and swinging wild like an unchained dog, but quietly. Silent. Like a girl raising her hands in prayer, even though she knew it wouldn’t change anything.

“Hey…” one of the men mumbled, glancing over at Shion sitting slouched on a broken pachinko stool nearby, brass knuckles clinking rhythmically against the metal bar he spun them on. “Boss, she’s bleedin’. Maybe she should—”

“Shut up,” Shion snarled, not looking up, his hair hiding his eye. “Keep going.”

She watched Tetsu through the hair falling over her lashes. Her arms trembled faintly from exhaustion, bruises blooming across her forearms like rotting lotus petals floating on a stagnant pond.

“Come on,” she said softly, her voice raspy and dry as rust scraping steel. “Hit me.”

It went on again and again, like tomorrow was today.

After drills, when they sprawled in exhausted piles across the still ground with their heads moving in motions, sucking down lukewarm bottled tea, she sat cross-legged in the far corner, unbothered, sipping water quietly while Shion ranted about upcoming raids and territory disputes.

No one spoke to her. At first.

But bruises bloomed on their bodies in shapes only she could make; purple fingerprints along throats, thin cuts where her nails scraped skin, deep greenish blotches spreading under ribs. They started glancing at her when Shion spoke, eyes flicking between him and her like they weren’t sure where the real order was coming from.

And Shion noticed.

One night, during patrol along an underpass, two of his subordinates, Koji and Naru, walked behind them, whispering too loudly under the rumble of traffic above.

“—I’m telling you, she’s scary. Did you see the way she took down Takuya today? Shion didn’t even step in—”

“Yeah, she’s fuckin’ strong. I mean, Shion’s strong too, but… y’know. Different.”

“Like she’s not even trying.”

“She’d make a better division head than—”

Thud!

Naru’s face smashed sideways into the concrete wall, nose cracking under Shion’s fist. Blood sprayed in a fine arc across moss-stained cement, dripping down like rusted rain.

“Oi,” Shion growled, voice low and trembling with something uglier than rage. “You got something to say, say it to my face.”

Koji froze, staring at Naru’s limp form sliding down the wall, smearing red across grey. Shion’s brass knuckles gleamed under the dim lights, casting his face in feral shadow. His eyes burned dark under his pale fringe, mouth twisted in a snarl so sharp his scar split faintly, a dark bead of blood welling at the corner of his lips.

She watched silently from where she stood a few steps away, her eyes blank, almost bored, but a faint tightness coiled around her face. Her hands curled and uncurled by her sides, but she said nothing. Intervening only made him worse anyway, she learned.

“Get up,” Shion barked at Naru’s slumped body, his tone ragged. “You wanna run your mouth like that, stand the fuck up and say it again.”

Naru whimpered faintly, blood bubbling at his nostrils as he pushed himself upright with trembling arms. His eyes flicked to her once, desperate, confused. She stared back, empty as a gutter in rain.

“Shion,” she murmured softly, “let’s go.”

His head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing, face twitching with rage. “Shut up. Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”

She didn’t reply. Just turned away and started walking down the underpass, her footsteps echoing softly in the humid tunnel.

Behind her, she heard Koji dragging Naru along, Shion’s labored breathing scraping the silence apart, brass knuckles clinking with every shaking step he took to catch up.

The next day, in the hideout's hall, she sparred against three at once. Shion ordered it.

“Don’t hold back,” he barked, eyes glittering with feverish aggression as he leaned against the broken pachinko machine, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Beat her down. Make her remember who the fuck she is.”

They came at her fast, adrenaline-fueled, fists swinging with the desperate ferocity of cornered dogs. She slipped between them, pivoted, elbow to chin, knee to stomach, foot sweeping out ankles.

Thud. Thud. Crack!

They fell, one by one, their groans echoing in the hollow chamber. She stood breathing lightly, hair stuck to her damp forehead, knuckles raw and tinged faintly pink. Her half-lidded gaze flicked to Shion, unreadable.

His chest heaved with quick, shallow breaths, jaw grinding so hard a faint popping echoed from his temple or his jaw. His face looked like rage. “Again,” he hissed.

But they couldn’t stand. The boys lay there, broken under her violence, eyes glazed with pain and a new sharp fear. Fear not of Shion, the roaring lion, but of his tail, flicking silently behind, hiding sharp teeth in the closed quiet of her strikes.

As days and weeks passed, she was getting stronger, that’s what everyone said. Not just tougher with her fists, but sharper in the way she moved. Her hits landed with purpose, her head stayed clear even when the fight turned messy, like she wasn’t just using muscle, but thinking three steps ahead while everyone else was still swinging blindly. Smart, too. Too smart for fights that only needed fists. Smart enough to scare them in ways brute strength never could. In this gang, where building power and influence is a goal to reach for, strength isn't the only way to get to the top; her intelligence, too, can be used for something better. She has potential, useful than they think she'd be. If only they moved her up—

"SHUT IT!"

There was no warning. She just walked up to him, words ready on her tongue, something small, something stupid, and before she could even blink, his fingers were twisted in her collar, dragging her close, so close she could see every trembling lash shadowing his eyes. Even she froze. Shock bloomed cold and silent in her chest. She hadn’t expected this. Not from him. Not like this.

“Stop that shit!” he hissed, his breath ragged, eyes wide with something unrecognizable. Shion grabbed her by the collar and slammed her back against the hideout's room wall. His fist clenched her collar tighter, fabric twisting under his trembling grip. “Stop…showing off.”

She blinked slowly, sweat dripping from her fringe into her eyes. Her voice came out soft, echoing between them like a distant radio static. Panting slightly from the rigorous sparring session she endured earlier. The sickly feeling of her sweat clinging to her skin made this even more unbearable to be in.

“I’m not... I'm not showing off.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” His brass knuckles scraped her collarbone as his grip slipped. “You think you’re better than me now, huh? That what this is? You trying to humiliate me in front of my own fucking men?!”

Her lips parted slightly, confusion flickering across her face before being swallowed by calm. “Shion… I wasn’t –”

He shoved her harder against the wall, enough for her skull to thud dully against peeling paint. The impact trembled down her spine like a cracked gong struck with a rotten hammer.

“SHUT UP!” he screamed, voice cracking at the edges. “Just… just shut the fuck up.”

His breathing heaved raggedly in the space between them. Her quiet exhale ghosted across his cheek. For a moment, neither moved. His eyes searched hers wildly, desperately, for what he didn’t know.

"What..."

And her eyes scanned over his, confusion blurring the lines of what they had left between them, then the blood smudged on her cheek. Hearts hitting against ribs louder than the rolling thunder out within these walls. So loud that they couldn't hear their hearts speaking for each other in their ways, only feeling the rage and confusion between them, like a barrier they see but only feel.

"Shion—"

Shion’s head snapped to the side so fast his neck cracked, eyes wild and glassy. One of his juniors stood there, half-hidden by the crooked sliding door, eyes flickering between the two of them with an expression that didn’t know what it was allowed to feel - fear, confusion, disgust, pity. His cheap bleach job was growing out, black roots eating away at pale straw hair. Sweat shone on his temples under flickering fluorescent light.

“The fuck do you want?!” Shion barked, spit flying. The grip on his sister’s collar tightened reflexively, twisting the fabric against her throat until it cut into her skin. She barely flinched.

The boy flinched instead, shoulders curling in like he was bracing for a blow. His voice wavered, cracking like old wood under slow fire. “I… uh… Izana-san… he’s calling for you. For… for both of you.”

Silence throbbed in the space after his words, heavy and sticky like black sap.

Shion’s chest heaved, nostrils flaring. The veins in his neck stood out like dying worms against mottled skin. For a moment, it seemed he didn’t hear, didn’t understand, eyes fixed blankly on the junior like he was looking through him at something far away, something rotting in his mind.

Then, abruptly, he released her.

Her body slid down the wall, knees folding under her like broken hinges until her shins caught her weight. The dusty floor bit cold into her skin through thin socks. She didn’t move to stand, only lifted her hand to her throat where red marks bloomed like ghost fingers. Her breathing rasped softly, calmly, as if this was nothing new, as if her lungs had grown used to tasting pain.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” Shion snarled, shouldering past the junior so hard he staggered against the doorframe, mumbling apologies to air that no longer listened.

Her body slid down the wall, knees folding under her like broken hinges until her shins caught her weight. The dusty floor bit cold into her skin through thin socks. She didn’t move to stand, only lifted her hand to her throat where red marks bloomed like ghost fingers. Her breathing rasped softly, calmly, as if this was nothing new, just surprising, as if her lungs had grown used to tasting pain.

She didn’t move for a while. Just sat there, feeling the sticky hum of her pulse under the bruising grip marks on her neck. The room smelled of rust, sweat, cheap cologne, and old paint left to peel in damp darkness.

Her mind felt blank and churning all at once. Like staring into a dirty puddle under flickering neon; reflections warping under shifting ripples, fractured and unclear. She thought about Shion’s eyes, the way they burned wild and glassy, like oil slick catching flame on black water. The way his breath hitched ragged and desperate against her cheek, smelling faintly of energy drinks and iron.

She thought about how he used to grip her wrist when they crossed streets as kids, fingers tight and unbreakable, dragging her behind him like an afterthought. She thought about his laughter when he beat up older boys twice his size, coming home with blood drying under his nails as he ruffled her hair with a grin wide enough to split his face in half.

She thought about how nothing really changed. Only grew sharper. Bloodier. Quieter.

Finally, she stood.

Her knees popped softly, muscles trembling faintly as she straightened. Her reflection in the cracked mirror near the door was warped and doubled, a ghost of herself flickering beside her real form. Blood smudged her cheek where Shion’s brass knuckles scraped her skin. She wiped it away with the back of her wrist, smearing it into a dull pink stain that streaked down her jaw.

“Whatever…” she whispered to the empty room, voice thin and shaking like steel wire pulled too taut. “Let’s just… go.”

The air was heavier than usual; Izana must've noticed it too. Unpleasant, heavy, and difficult to breathe in. Things like that... get in the way. He wouldn't want that. This means weakness. And Shion's dependency is a weakness in his eyes.

He sat by the wide window, perched like a porcelain effigy on the thin ledge. His knees were drawn up, ankles crossed loosely, hands resting limp against the cold glass. Dawn light filtered through dirt-smudged panes, catching pale strands of his hair and making them glow faintly silver against the dimness.

He didn’t turn to look at them as they entered. Didn’t even blink, eyes fixed on something far below the window, perhaps the barely moving streets, perhaps nothing at all.

Shion’s chest heaved faintly as he stepped forward, trying to steady his breathing so it wouldn’t sound as ragged as it was. His brass knuckles clicked softly against his thigh, a nervous rhythm that only grew louder in the silence.

“You called, Izana,” he grunted, voice low, trying for casual but cracking on the last syllable.

Izana spoke, his voice thin and clear, drifting out across the dusty room like drifting incense smoke:

“Move her to Mucho’s division.”

Silence.

Her eyes blinked once, twice, staring blankly at his backlit silhouette. Shion’s shoulders stiffened as if struck. His fingers curled around his brass knuckles so hard the metal squealed faintly in his grip.

“What…?” His voice was quiet, but each syllable vibrated with something dark and frantic. He couldn't catch if it was irritation towards her, the feeling of being left out, or something else entirely. “What… did you say?”

Izana’s head tilted slightly, just enough for the sharp line of his cheekbone to catch dawnlight, the pale cut of his lashes casting faint shadows down his cheek. His eyes didn’t waver from the window below.

“Mucho’s division,” he repeated softly, almost lazily. “She’ll be under him from now on.”

Shion’s breathing hitched, a small desperate sound caught in his throat before it roared out:

“WHY?!”

His shout cracked against the walls, startling the dust up into drifting clouds that shimmered in thin sunbeams. His chest heaved, shoulders hunched forward, teeth bared in a snarl so feral it almost split his scar again. The brass knuckles in his fist trembled, clinking a discordant chime.

“She-” he snarled, voice shaking with rage, he didn’t know how to swallow. “I brought her in. She’s under me. My division. My—”

“Enough.”

The word wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It cut through his rage like cold steel slicing old cloth, unraveling everything at the seams.

Izana turned his head slightly now, just enough to glance over his shoulder, pale eyes drifting to rest on Shion’s twisted face. His gaze was quiet, empty, bored. It held no hatred, no pity, no warmth. Just emptiness. The kind that didn’t care if you burned or drowned.

“She’s wasted under you,” he said simply, as if reciting the time or the weather. “Mucho needs someone with her skill. Your division will manage without her.”

“But—”

“Do you want to question me, Shion?”

His voice didn’t rise. It dropped, soft as black petals falling onto fresh snow. And Shion froze, the tremble in his shoulders turning to violent shivers, rage transmuting into silent terror. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Just ragged, wet breaths.

Izana turned away, his profile now sharp against the window light. He raised one hand, palm pressed flat against the dirty glass as if feeling for warmth on the other side of the world.

“Leave,” he murmured.

She didn’t move for a moment. Her mind felt oddly blank, calm, like the hush after a scream in a dark alley. Then her feet carried her forward, slow steps across concrete until she passed Shion. Their shoulders brushed, and she felt the quivering tension vibrating through him like a live wire humming against rain-soaked metal.

Her eyes flicked up to his face. He didn’t look at her. His head was bowed, hair hiding his eye, teeth clenched so tight the muscle in his jaw fluttered with each shaking breath.

She thought of saying something. Thought of reaching out, placing her hand against his wrist like she used to when they were small, when he’d cry silent furious tears into his sleeves after older kids beat him bloody. But her fingers curled back against her palm. The bruises on her throat throbbed faintly, purpled fingerprints blooming like rotting flowers under thin skin.

She walked past him and didn’t stop.

“Shion.”

The name drifted out, light and uncaring.

“You should learn when to let go of things you think you own,” Izana murmured, his pale eyes watching the sun crawl its way across ruined rooftops far below. “Before they rot in your grip.”

Today felt different. New.

It would be her first day under Mucho’s division as she stood in the room, arms folded loosely, feeling sweat from her early sparring before seeping into the raw skin of her healed knuckles. Her bruises were fading now. Not healing, just darkening into that final stage of rot before yellowed skin returned to normal.

No Shion. No brass knuckles clinking beside her ear or atop her head. No snarled insults that bit through the air.

Instead:

Mucho.

He approached quietly for a man so large. His footsteps were deep but slow. When he entered the hall, all movement stopped. His silhouette filled the doorway, swallowing the flickering fluorescent light into his bulk.

She turned her half-lidded eyes toward him as he approached. His broad frame seemed to drag gravity in his wake, each step pressing down on the dusty floor.

“Madarame,” he said. His voice was low and steady, almost bored. His eyes moved over her quickly, taking in her thin arms, her bruises, the way she stood without shifting or fidgeting. She couldn’t read anything on his face except a flicker of curiosity, like he was wondering what exactly he was supposed to do with her. “You’re under me now.”

She nodded once, silent, waiting for orders.

He studied her for another long moment before exhaling through his nose, cracking his neck to the side.

“Fight me.”

There was no preamble. No insult. No sneer. Just a quiet command.

Her head tilted slightly. “Here?”

His lips twitched into something that might’ve been amusement if his eyes weren’t so flat and empty. “Here.”

She dropped her bag to the ground with a quiet thud and stood up straight. The damp air felt cold on her skin. Her heart was beating faster, but her breathing stayed calm. She felt a bit shaky inside, like her body was empty and too light, like she could either collapse or keep moving without feeling anything.

Mucho rolled his shoulders back, the leather of his jacket creaking like old wood. He raised one massive hand, beckoning her forward.

“Come,” he said simply.

She moved.

Her foot slid forward, pivoting off her back leg as she twisted at the waist, her fist cutting through the air toward his solar plexus. It was a clean, practiced strike, the same that had folded men twice her weight.

Thud.

Her knuckles met unmoving flesh. It was like punching a cement pillar. The force of her own strike felt like it vibrated back up her arm, rattling her elbow joint painfully. She gasped, a thin involuntary sound, stepping back with her eyes wide and lashes trembling faintly.

Mucho didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His dark gaze met hers with quiet, bovine stillness.

“Again.”

She struck.

This time aiming higher, twisting her wrist sharply to snap her knuckles against his collarbone. He shifted his stance slightly and her fist hit bone with a dull crack that numbed her fingers to the tips. Pain flared up her wrist, hot and biting. She stumbled back two steps, clutching her hand, lips parting around a silent hiss.

He watched her calmly, broad chest rising and falling in a rhythm as slow and deep as sleeping earth.

“Your hits are clean,” he said quietly. “Your form is perfect. But—”

He moved.

For a man his size, the speed was sickening. His foot swept forward, heel hooking behind her ankle as his massive hand snapped up to grip her collarbone and shove. Her balance collapsed beneath her. The world tilted sideways. She hit the ground hard, dust and old sweat puffing up around her head like disturbed ash.

He loomed over her, broad and silent. His shadow swallowed her body completely. For a moment, she felt like she was six again, small and trembling under the shadow of boys who kicked stray dogs for fun.

“Get up,” he said.

She pushed herself up on shaking elbows, breath rasping in her chest. Her heart drummed a frantic rhythm in her throat, but her eyes remained calm, half-lidded, black irises reflecting the fluorescent flicker above.

Mucho watched her rise, his expression unreadable.

“Again.”

She lunged.

This time, she didn’t aim for his chest. Her fist shot out toward his temple, but at the last second, she twisted her hips and dropped low, sweeping her leg out in a sharp arc to catch the back of his knee.

His calf muscle was like tree bark. Her shin slammed into it with enough force to send a shock of pain up her knee and thigh. But he shifted back half a step, balance momentarily interrupted.

He didn’t fall. But his eyebrow twitched upward.

“Better.”

She stumbled to her feet, panting, sweat dripping down her temples into her lashes. Her hair clung to her cheeks like damp seaweed dragged from rotting harbor water. Her chest burned, her lungs dragging air in ragged streams. But her eyes never wavered from his.

Mucho rolled his wrist, the crack of his knuckles echoing like gunshots in the silent hall.

“Your brother teaches you to rely on your fists alone,” he said. His tone wasn’t mocking, just observant, calm as falling snow. “But fists are useless if your mind isn’t sharper than your enemy’s.”

She said nothing, just watched him with those silent eyes that seemed to see beyond skin, beyond meat, beyond words.

He regarded her for a long moment before speaking again.

“You’re quick. You’re small. Your bones are hollow. Don’t fight like him. Fight like you.”

She blinked once, twice, the words sinking into the quiet spaces of her mind like heavy stones dropped into still water.

Mucho stepped forward suddenly, closing the distance between them in a single stride. His hand shot out, but not to hit. His thick fingers curled around her wrist, lifting her fist up between them.

“You have good fists,” he rumbled, voice low and quiet now, vibrating through her bones where he held her. “But your eyes are better.”

She stared up at him, confusion flickering across her bruised face. “My… eyes?”

His grip tightened around her wrist, not painfully, but with an unbreakable steadiness. His dark gaze bored into hers, unblinking.

“You see people’s weaknesses before they see yours. You read them. That’s your real weapon. Not this—” he flicked her fist lightly with his free hand, the motion gentle despite its force. “This is just bone and meat. But your eyes… they’re sharper than any hit you throw."

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight, raw from panting and dehydration. She hadn’t drunk water since dawn. She hadn’t felt thirsty until now.

Mucho released her wrist, the warmth of his palm leaving her skin abruptly cold.

“Under me, you’ll use your eyes,” he said simply. “Strategy. Deception. Psychological breaks. You’ll use what Shion can’t.”

She nodded faintly, silent.

He turned away, rolling his broad shoulders until his spine cracked. “Go drink. Then find me in the second hall. We start in an hour.”

She didn’t move for a moment, just watched his broad back receding down the hallway, his shadow swallowing flickering light with each slow, heavy step.

At first, it was disorienting.

Mucho’s division was nothing like Shion’s. Wherein, Shion’s division thrived on raw aggression. Orders were simple: beat them up, destroy that place, teach them a lesson. Under Shion, she was treated like an extension of his fists.

In here, under Mucho's, she would spar in the abandoned pachinko hall with the other members. And unlike Shion, Mucho didn’t force her to spar endlessly until collapse. He corrected her stance, made her use her hips, and told her where to aim if she wanted to immobilize instead of kill.

She stood barefoot on cracked tiles littered with cigarette butts and small, shattered glass beads from the broken pachinko machines. The air always smelled like rust and stale sweat. The overhead lights flickered dimly, half of them dead, leaving strips of shadow across the sparring floor.

“Again,” Mucho said simply, his voice low and even, reverberating through the empty hall. Not a shout, not a snarl, just a command. He observed her, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes narrowed with focus rather than contempt.

She moved forward, throwing a jab at the padded target he held out with his massive hand. Her knuckles struck with a dull thud, the vibration trembling up her forearm into her elbow. She stepped back slightly to reset her stance.

“Your hips,” he rumbled, tapping her side lightly with his open palm. His touch was heavy, grounding, but not cruel. “You’re just swinging your arm. That’s weak. Put your weight behind it.”

She nodded silently, sweat dripping down her temples into her lashes, sticking thin strands of hair to her face. She shifted her feet, spreading them wider, knees slightly bent, grounding her soles flat against the gritty tile. The next strike, she twisted her hips as her fist shot forward.

Thud.

Better. She felt the force resonate deeper this time, the impact more solid. Her shoulder burned faintly from the torque.

And in her thoughts, for the first time in Tenjiku, she felt something like… usefulness.

She didn’t know if she liked that. But it felt… real. And she had long accepted that reality was the only thing worth clinging to in a place like this.

As hours passed, her skin glowed faintly with sweat under the pallid evening light as she stepped out into the empty hallway, turning to leave after the training. Her knuckles were raw, but not bleeding. Her ribs ached, but not broken. Her mind felt heavy and calm, like dark water holding the reflections of rusted steel beams overhead.

Training under Mucho left her body aching with the good kind of pain, the kind that made each muscle fibre tremble with exhausted usefulness.

Her thoughts were as quiet as the breeze as she rounded a corner.

Then, a movement.

Fast.

She didn’t hear the footfall. She only felt it, pressure behind her shoulder blade, sudden, like a phantom hand pressing a cold coin against her spine. Instinct turned her body before her mind could speak. She dropped her weight low, pivoted on her heel, forearm swinging up just in time—

Thud.

Skin met shoe sole, flesh met leather. Her forearm braced the impact an inch from her ribs, which blocked cleanly. Her wrist vibrated painfully against a solid impact. The shock rattled up to her elbow and shoulder, almost numbing her fingers. She gasped, lashes fluttering with the sting.

She looked up. The breath she’d caught in her throat stayed there, caged.

And then she saw him.

Izana.

He stood before her, leg extended, foot pressed against her forearm where she blocked his kick. His body was turned sideways, hands in his pockets, posture casual despite the force he’d used. Pale hair fell around his face in strands, catching the flickering light and glowing faintly like tarnished silver in gutter rain. His mouth curled faintly at one corner, eyes half-lidded with a quiet amusement that didn’t touch the emptiness beneath.

Her heart slammed once against her ribs, then settled into a quick, trembling rhythm. She dropped her stance immediately, pulling her arm back to her side. Her knuckles brushed against her hip bone, trembling faintly.

“Impressive,” Izana said softly. His tone was flat, almost bored, but his eyes stayed on her with a focused stillness that made her stomach tighten. The words didn’t sound like praise. They sounded like a simple observation, as if he were commenting on the weather or a stain on his shoe. "You blocked it."

Izana lowered his leg, planting his foot lightly against the concrete. His movements were fluid, unhurried, like a big cat stretching under fading sun. He tilted his head at her, pale lashes casting sharp shadows across his cheekbones.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, pale hair shifting over his forehead as he studied her. The quiet stretched out, heavy and uncomfortable, filled only by the faint buzzing of the old fluorescent light above them. She could hear the echo of her own breath in her ears, quick and shallow from the adrenaline still burning in her chest.

She didn’t answer, only watched him with dark, half-lidded eyes. The adrenaline still coiled hot under her ribs, but she forced her breathing to remain calm. Her fingers twitched once against her thigh before stilling.

“Why didn’t you counter?” he asked quietly, curiosity dripping through his tone like water leaking from rusted pipes overhead.

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight, raw from dehydration and training drills that left dust caked against her tongue.

“It’s you,” she murmured softly, her voice barely audible in the echoing hall. “I didn’t… want to.”

He blinked once, twice, as if tasting her words in the quiet between them. His lips twitched upward faintly. “Didn’t want to… or didn’t dare to?”

She blinked slowly, lashes heavy with sweat and exhaustion. “Does it matter?”

Izana smiled then. A real smile, small and delicate, sharp and disturbing. The kind of smile that cracked open the pretty porcelain of his face to reveal something flickering dark beneath.

He stepped closer. She didn’t move. His bare feet made no sound against the dust-stained concrete. The smell of him reached her – faint traces of stale cigarette smoke, cheap soap, and something cold and clean like winter wind trapped in glass jars.

His hand lifted, pale fingers reaching out. For a fleeting moment, instinct screamed through her chest, told her to move, to block, to strike. But she stayed still. His fingertips brushed against her cheek, trailing down to the smudge of blood left drying along her jawline from earlier drills. His touch was light, cold, almost reverent.

“You’re interesting,” he murmured softly, as if speaking only to himself. His thumb smeared the blood faintly, smudging it into her skin like paint across cracked canvas. “I thought you’d crumble under him… but you didn’t. You grew.”

She didn’t respond. Her lashes lowered, not in submission but in quiet acceptance. His thumb paused against her cheekbone, pressing lightly until the thin bone ached beneath her skin.

“Do you know what that means?” he asked, tilting his head so their eyes met fully. His irises were pale, almost colourless in this dim light, reflecting the flickering overhead bulbs,

She inhaled slowly. The smell of old paint and iron filled her chest. “It means I’m useful.”

A soft exhale escaped him, almost like a laugh, but too quiet, too empty. He leaned closer, his pale hair brushing against her forehead. She could see each fine strand glowing like spider silk, smell the faint iron on her tongue.

“No,” he whispered, his lips barely parting. “It means you’re dangerous.”

Her eyes flickered up to his, something shifting quietly in their depths. Not fear. Not hope. Something else. Something like understanding.

Izana’s smile faded as quickly as it came. He straightened, stepping back lightly. The loss of his shadow over her body felt abrupt, leaving her skin cold and naked under flickering fluorescent glare.

“Keep training with Mucho,” he said softly, his gaze drifting away from her face to something far off behind her, something only he could see. “You’ll need it.”

Days passed, and each time felt shorter. Training started to blur together. She woke up before dawn, ate the rice and leftover pickles she prepared the night before, and left with the thin blue light still clinging to the rusted railings outside their apartment, birds littering the sky. Fights filled her mornings, Mucho’s corrections shaped her afternoons, and evenings ended with her walking back home alongside other members who lived nearby, not with Shion anymore.

And Shion... Shion stopped talking so much.

Before, he’d sprawl across the room after fights, ranting about stupid rookies or territory scuffles while she scraped burnt bits off the pot and prepared dinner like usual. He’d click his brass knuckles against the floor, brag about the hits he landed that day, sometimes nudge her knee with his foot to make sure she was listening. Now he just dropped his jacket in a pile, stared at the ceiling, or lay on his side facing the wall.

She didn’t ask him about his day. He didn’t ask about hers either. He didn’t ask what Mucho was making her do, didn’t ask if she was holding up. He didn’t need to. He could see it in the bruises on her knuckles, the faint smears of disinfectant she still wiped on his cuts when he came home later than usual. They still shared that much.

Every day, she still would step into their cramped apartment, even when things changed, the door sliding closed with its usual tired rattle. Shion would usually be there already, sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, flipping through his phone with one hand and the other planted on the floor. The television would be on, glowing dimly, some late-night comedy show, an old fighting match playing in the background, or a DVD movie they've seen many times before, when silence was louder than the rattle of their apartment walls when trains went past.

He wouldn't greet her. Won't say anything. He barely even looked up.

She’d set her bag down quietly, wash her hands, and start preparing dinner. Simple meals like: miso soup with tofu scraps, cold rice rewarmed in the pot, stir-fried cabbage with soy sauce. Shion never complained about her cooking, never praised it either. He ate what was served, chopsticks clacking against the chipped ceramic bowls, leaving the bowl unwashed. Sometimes he finished before she even sat down, leaving his bowl beside her silently before stepping out onto the narrow balcony for space they couldn't have.

She wanted to talk to him, but… every time she opened her mouth, the words dried up, whether it was his stare or the silence she knew he wouldn't answer to.

And when she would glance over, he wouldn't even look at her.

Even if all she wanted to ask was: Did I do something wrong?

She wanted to ask: Are you angry at me?

She wanted to ask: Do you hate me?

But each time was met with a gaze that wouldn't stick too long, a roll of his eyes, a shove, or silence.

Sometimes at night, when his breath evened out beside her, she’d whisper into the dark.

“Shion… are you mad at me?”

But the only reply was the creaking pipes overhead and the faint rattle of a passing train shaking the thin walls. His sleeping breath never faltered.

And she’d close her eyes, swallow down the lump in her throat, and let the silence answer her instead.

It was difficult; her confusion went unanswered through the days. He didn’t even sigh or scoff. Just shoved her shoulder away if she was too close, hard enough that her thin frame rocked sideways on the futon. Or he’d press his palm against her face and push her back, not roughly enough to bruise, but not gently enough to feel like touch.

Sometimes, he’d flick her forehead with two fingers, sharp and fast, the way he used to when they were kids and she asked too many questions. Except now, his flicks carried a bitter heaviness behind them, like he wanted it to sting.

Other times, he’d just hit.

A quick slap to her forearm when she reached past him to grab the soy sauce on their cramped table. A smack to the back of her head if she forgot to wash his bowl after dinner. A palm landed flat and hard against her side when she was folding laundry too slowly, making her stumble against the damp clothesline strung across their apartment ceiling.

He never raised a fist like he did in fights. It wasn’t that kind of violence. It was smaller, pettier. Sharp little punishments for questions she should’ve known not to ask.

And the rest of the time, it was silence.

Silence while they ate dinner side by side, knees almost touching on the tatami floor. Silence while she patched up the scab on his knuckle that he kept peeling open. Silence as she lay down first, and he turned away to face the wall, his back a silent barrier between them.

But in truth, it wasn’t anger that kept him silent.

It was something worse.

At first, he thought it was just an annoyance. Her being moved under Mucho felt like an insult. Like he’d been told outright: you’re not good enough to teach her. You’re not good enough to make her strong. That alone was enough to sour his mood for days. But as days passed, and he watched her come home with new bruises, tighter footwork, steadier eyes, something else started to rot quietly inside his chest.

He realised it the night she blocked his slap without flinching.

He’d reached out, quick, instinctive, to smack the back of her head when she forgot to close the rice container. But her hand shot up, caught his wrist before it landed. She didn’t squeeze. Didn’t glare. Didn’t even meet his eyes. Just pushed his arm back down and continued scraping cold rice into the pot to rewarm.

That was the first time he realised she was stronger. It happened late one night after dinner when she tried again to talk to him, her voice quiet as she set his empty bowl aside, “Shion… can we talk?” and he felt that familiar sting of irritation under his skin, burning up his spine like acid; he snapped without thinking, shoving her shoulder hard enough that she almost fell over the low table, but she just steadied herself with a hand against the tatami, her eyes flickering up to meet his, not angry, not afraid, just tired.

“What the fuck do you want?” he growled, the words bitten off between clenched teeth, and when she opened her mouth again to say something, he didn’t even hear what, his hand was already swinging down, aiming to slap her cheek like he always did to shut her up, a quick flick of his wrist meant to sting and end the conversation, but before his palm could land, her arm shot up and blocked it with a sharp smack of bone meeting bone, her wrist against his, her grip clamping around his forearm so tight he felt his own pulse beat back against her fingers.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The television flickered silently in the corner, the blue light casting thin shadows across the floor where their knees pressed into the tatami, his breath harsh and uneven in his chest while hers stayed calm, quiet, steady.

“Let go,” he hissed under his breath, trying to yank his arm free, but her fingers only tightened, her dark eyes locking onto his with a flat, hollow calm that made something ugly twist in his stomach.

“Stop hitting me,” she said softly, her voice not shaking, just tired, so tired it almost sounded like pity, and that was when it hit him, sharp and sickening, rattling his ribs and scraping down his spine, she was stronger. Physically, she was stronger. And worse, her eyes didn’t hold fear anymore. There was no flinch when he raised his hand, no tension in her shoulders bracing for the strike, just… nothing.

He ripped his arm from her grip, shoved her back so hard she fell against the edge of the low table with a dull thud, and he stood up fast enough to make the dishes rattle, turning away from her as he muttered, “Don’t fucking talk to me,” because if he looked at her for even a second longer, he knew she’d see it, the raw, gnawing fear in his chest that for the first time in his life, he was looking at someone he couldn’t beat down into silence anymore.

Then, he saw it again, during the evening fight when he passed by a hall to collect his brass knuckles from the storage room. She was sparring with two other members, weaving between them with sharp, calculated steps. She didn’t fight like him, reckless, all muscle and rage. She fought smart. Her hits were fast and precise. Every movement had a purpose. She wasn’t just strong. She was good.

Better than him.

His chest felt tight, sour, heavy with a kind of shame he hadn’t felt since the first time he lost a fight as a kid. The feeling burned, crawled up his throat, and made his jaw clench so hard his teeth ached.

And worst of all, he saw Izana there too.

Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, watching her. His gaze wasn’t warm, wasn’t proud, but it lingered. Focused. Interested. Shion’s stomach twisted when he saw the way Izana’s eyes tracked her movements across the mats. They must’ve thought he didn’t notice. But he did. He saw it as clear as daylight.

She had caught Izana’s attention.

Something he had spent years fighting for, those rare, quiet nods of acknowledgment, and here she was, earning them without even trying. Earning them just by being strong. Stronger than him. Smarter. Better.

That realisation felt like a punch straight through his chest. Like his ribs cracked around it. Pride, the only thing he clung to when everything else felt pointless, cracked in half under the weight of it.

At home, he stopped talking because words felt pointless. Every flick to her forehead, every shove of her shoulder, every petty slap was just his own pathetic attempt to remind her, and himself, that she was still beneath him somehow.

But he knew the truth. He saw it every night when she lay down beside him on the futon, breathing slowly, skin still faintly smelling of sweat and disinfectant. He saw it in the way she didn’t flinch anymore when he raised a hand. In the way her eyes never met his for long. In this way, her silence no longer felt like submission, but indifference.

She didn’t need him anymore.

“Shion,” she said quietly, still sitting where she had fallen against the table, rubbing the back of her arm where he shoved her. “Shion, what’s wrong with you lately…?”

He didn’t turn around, just stood there with his back to her, fists clenched at his sides, shoulders trembling with something that wasn’t anger alone.

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” he muttered, but his voice cracked at the edges.

She swallowed down the sting in her throat and pushed herself up slowly to her knees. “I just… I don’t understand. Did I do something? Tell me if I did something.”

He let out a short, sharp laugh that sounded more like choking. “Did you do something? You really don’t get it, do you?”

She blinked at him, her dark eyes wide, soft with worry. “I… don’t. Please tell me. I’ll fix it.”

“Fix it?” he spat, finally turning around to glare at her. His eyes were wild, unfocused, flickering with a frantic frustration that made her chest twist. “You think you can just ‘fix it’? Like, this is your fucking cooking or your fucking laundry? Like I’m just another chore for you to tick off your list?!”

“No… that’s not what I meant,” she whispered, shaking her head quickly, trying to stand, but he stepped forward and kicked the low table between them hard enough that the bowls rattled and her body flinched back down to her knees.

“Shion—” she tried again, her voice trembling, but still soft, trying to soothe him, trying to reach whatever part of him she always managed to soothe before.

“Stop saying my name like that!” he shouted, his voice breaking halfway through, throat going raw and hoarse. “Stop… stop fucking looking at me like that… like you’re… like you’re pitying me…!”

“I’m not… pitying you,” she murmured, tears pricking at her eyes. It wasn't fear, it was the confusion blurring with frustration and the uncomfortable feeling of the rift between them, though her voice stayed calm, still trying to keep him calm too. “I just… I just want to understand. Can't we just talk…?”

“Understand…? Talk…?” he laughed again, but there was no humor in it. His chest heaved with ragged breaths as he took another step forward, towering over her frame on the tatami floor. “You want to understand? Then tell me this… tell me how it feels.”

She frowned up at him, confused, blinking back tears. “How what feels…?”

His hands were shaking as they clenched and unclenched at his sides. “How does it feel… to be stronger than me?”

She flinched at his words, shaking her head quickly, “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me!” he roared, the sound bouncing off the thin walls, making the metal rails outside rattle faintly. “Don’t… fucking lie to me… I saw it. I saw it in your fight with Mucho… I saw it when you blocked me… I see it every fucking day in your eyes. You’re stronger. You’re smarter. You fight better. And worst of all…” His voice cracked again, so quiet now, his chest trembling with each breath as he whispered through clenched teeth, “…worst of all… he sees you.”

She stared up at him, eyes wide, lips parting in a silent question.

“You think you're better than me?” he spat the name like it burned his tongue.

“You think you’re above me just because he sees you? Because Mucho teaches you, because Izana fucking notices you? You think you’re something now?”

Her lips trembled. “That’s… that’s not true, Shion. I don’t think that, I don’t—”

But he didn’t hear her. Or maybe he did, and it just made something inside him snap further. His face twisted, jaw clenching so tightly his teeth creaked. He shook his head slowly, eyes glassy with something between rage and despair.

“You must’ve thought I didn’t know,” he whispered, voice shaking. “But I do. I see it. Every fucking time you come home smelling like the hall, like Mucho’s sweat and Izana’s cigarette smoke. I see it in the way you move. The way you don’t even flinch anymore when I hit you. Like… like I’m nothing to be scared of anymore.”

“Shion—”

“Shut up!” he snarled, stepping forward so fast she recoiled on instinct, her back hitting the wall behind her with a soft thud. He loomed over her, breathing hard, his shadow swallowing her frame whole. “You don’t get it… you don’t fucking get it… if you’re stronger than me, smarter than me, if even Izana sees you more than he ever saw me… then what the fuck does that make me, huh? What the fuck am I left with?”

She stared up at him, tears slipping down her cheeks silently, throat too tight to speak.

For a moment, his face crumpled, something breaking behind his eyes. His fists loosened at his sides as he sucked in a shaking breath. His mouth opened, as if to say something, to call her name softly the way he used to when they were small, but nothing came out. Just a choked, bitter sound that rattled in his chest.

Then he turned away, shoulders shaking as he shoved his hands into his hair, fingers curling tightly into pale strands.

“Get out of my sight,” he muttered, voice low and broken, almost a whisper. “Just… get out of my fucking sight before I do something I’ll regret.”

Japan. 2006.

The rain had never felt heavier than today. Thick, heavy drops that cracked against concrete with a punishing sting. The sky was a sickly grey, clouds low enough to scrape the tallest buildings, thunder rolling in long, trembling echoes that rattled glass windows and vibrated deep into bone.

It was loud, so loud that it seeped into her buzzing mind as she walked back from the abandoned pachinko hall, barefoot in the puddles, the tokkō-fuku clinging to her bruised shoulders, each step splashing grit and stagnant rainwater onto her ankles.

Disgusting. She thought. It was unpleasant, like the ground was sticking itself onto her skin.

Her hair was plastered to her cheeks, droplets trailing down her lashes into her raw, blood-salted lips. Her knuckles throbbed with a deep ache, skin split and scabbing over from repeated strikes gone wrong.

The sparring had been bad today. It was worse than usual.

She couldn’t even get her balance right, couldn't focus, couldn't see clearly, couldn’t land clean hits. Each correction from Mucho felt like a stone pressed into her chest, heavy and suffocating, tiring. When she fell for the fifth time, breath knocked out of her lungs, her vision blackened at the edges, and she felt something in her chest twist sharply, a pain with no physical origin.

It was frustrating, clinging to her where she couldn't scrub raw. So frustrating…

And when she stepped out into the rain, she almost didn’t feel it. Her body was too hot with humiliation; cold didn’t matter. It made her sick.

Biting her lower lip, she couldn't shake her thoughts away.

She turned a corner sharply, head down, watching puddles ripple around her swollen feet—

She collided into something solid, spinning her slightly on the wet gravel. Her foot slipped, splashing muddy water up her shin.

She stumbled back a step, blinking rain from her lashes that blurred her eyes, and looked up.

“Watch where the fuck you’re going—” the voice snapped suddenly, voice hoarse with frustration. Its brass knuckles were on, glinting under the streetlights when the moon wouldn't show, blood dripping down from fresh cuts split into someone else’s face minutes earlier.

Shion.

His silhouette was blurred by the heavy downpour, but she saw the sharp gleam of brass knuckles on his fist, stained dark with blood washed thin by the rain. His hair was drenched, strands sticking to his cheekbones and neck. He didn’t say anything, just stared at her with those hollow, half-lidded, furious eyes.

She clenched her jaw, turning back to face him fully. “You bumped into me,” she said quietly, but her voice cracked halfway through, drowned partly by the rain roaring between them.

Looking at him, it flooded her with an overwhelming sense of frustration and tiredness that he couldn't catch or notice for the past few days.

“What, you gonna cry about it?” Shion sneered, lips twisting into a bitter smile. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, as if every inhale was scraped from the air by force.

There it was again, his tone, the look in his eyes, ears blocked with whatever is going through that skull of his. She stared at him, silent for a heartbeat, thunder cracking distantly behind her like gods fighting in another realm.

“I’m tired,” she whispered.

He snorted, eyes rolling, then back to her. “You always are.”

“No,” she said louder, voice breaking through the hammering rain that beat against the low roofs like drums, like her heart, “I’m tired… of you.”

He paused, brows knitting sharply together. Rainwater dripped from his lashes as he glared at her, searching her face for meaning.

She swallowed hard, her throat tight, fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides. “I’m tired of trying to understand you when you won’t even let me in. I’m tired of wondering what I did wrong. I’m tired of… of feeling like nothing I do is ever right to you.”

Shion scoffed, rolling his eyes as he shoved past her shoulder roughly. “Don’t start your whiny shit with me right now. I’ve had enough—”

“Then fucking hit me!” she yelled suddenly, spinning around, her voice slicing through the roaring rain. He froze mid-step, his back tensing, shoulders curling inward like a wounded dog.

“Hit me,” she repeated, her voice trembling with tears and rage and something deeper, something ragged and hollow. “That’s what you do, right? When you’re pissed. When you hate me. When you’re scared. When you don’t know what else to do. So just… hit me.”

She stepped forward, her shoes slapping against puddles, rain soaking her hair flat against her skull. Her dark eyes burned up at him, trembling with exhaustion and grief. Her fists clenched tight, knuckles whitening despite the blood oozing between split skin.

“Do it,” she whispered, the frustration building up in her chest, sizzling like the sound or rai heavily pouring on tin roofs.

And then she hit him first.

Her fist cracked against his cheekbone with a sharp, wet smack, head twisting sideways under the force. Pain bit up her wrist into her elbow, but it felt real. It felt honest. It felt better than the training and sparring she did. The ache that bloomed in her bones was better than the hollow ache she carried in her chest every day.

But still, it wasn't enough.

For a moment, there was only silence between them, broken only by the thunder rattling overhead and the sound of rain striking asphalt like glass beads scattering across tile.

Then Shion turned back to face her slowly, his lip split, blood mixing with rain dripping down his chin, each droplet a smear of red dissolving into the flood pooling at his feet. His brass knuckles gleamed under the storm light, metal catching the flicker of lightning in fractured shards. His fist rose without hesitation, like it had done a thousand times before, and swung down toward her shoulder with a sickening swiftness.

The impact landed solidly against bone. A wet crack rang out under the pounding rain as her body jolted sideways. Pain flared under her collarbone, hot and electric, spreading out into her ribs like wildfire racing across dry grass. She gasped, inhaling sharply, and the breath tasted of blood and rain, cold and metallic, scraping down her throat like rusted nails.

She stumbled, foot skidding through mud slick with old cigarette butts and broken glass. Her vision blurred with rain, lashes dripping, shadows flickering through the dim alley like restless ghosts. But before he could move again, before his arm could recoil back for another strike, her body shifted. Instinct and training wove together in her bones like sinew spun taut.

His next punch swung wide, aiming straight for her ribs, but she twisted her hips sharply, feet planted in the pooling rainwater as she pivoted low. The fist sliced through empty air just above her bent back, knuckles grazing the damp fabric of her uniform jacket.

She felt his body shift behind her, felt the thrum of his pulse in the inches of air between them, felt the desperate, trembling rage vibrating off his skin.

But he didn’t hesitate.

He pivoted fast, brass knuckles cutting through the downpour, fist hooking toward her jaw in a wide arc. She saw the flicker of metal in the storm light and her arm shot up on reflex, forearm slamming into his wrist with a sharp, jarring smack. The impact rattled up her arm, bone grinding against bone, but she didn’t let go. Her fingers closed around his wrist, squeezing until his pulse fluttered weakly beneath her grip.

For a moment, they froze there, statues carved from rain and rage, bodies trembling with effort.

Shion’s chest heaved as he glared down at her, eyes wide and wild, pupils blown with something deeper than anger. Rain streamed down his face, dripping from his lashes like tears he’d never allow himself to shed. His mouth twisted into a snarl, teeth bared in the storm light, breath coming out in ragged gasps that fogged the cold air between them.

“There you are again!!” he screamed into her face, his voice cracking, splitting down the middle into something jagged and broken. His eyes burned with a frantic disbelief, wide and desperate as his brass knuckles gleamed inches from her jaw. “There you are again!! Acting like you’re stronger than me! Acting like you’re fucking better!!”

His words spat out, dripping venom and sorrow in equal measure, cutting deeper than any fist. His arm trembled under her grip, every muscle straining to break free, to finish what he started, to reclaim the only power he knew how to wield.

But she didn’t let go.

Her grip tightened, her eyes locked onto his, dark irises steady despite the trembling in her limbs.

“Why can’t you just fucking tell me what I did wrong?!” she screamed up at him, her voice ripped raw from her throat, blending with the thunder rolling above them as she pushed him back just like how she'd push him off of her when things between them went violent years ago

“Because it’s not what you did!” he roared back, his fist cracking against her jaw, knocking her sideways into a puddle. Mud and water splashed up her face, stinging her eyes. His voice screamed in his head: It's what you are, what you've become that I resent so much!

She pushed herself back up on shaking arms, hair hanging in soaked strands around her face like drowned seaweed.

“Then what is it, Shion?!” she yelled, chest heaving, rain dripping off her lashes in thick droplets. “Tell me! Tell me why you hate me so much!”

“I don’t hate you!” he spat, grabbing her by the collar and yanking her up onto her knees before him. His eyes were wild, glassy with tears that mixed seamlessly with the rain. “I hate… I hate that you’re everything I’m not!”

Her breath caught in her chest, pain and shock flickering across her face.

“You’re good at fighting. You’re smart. You’re… fuck—” his voice cracked, shoulders trembling under the weight of his own words. His grip on her collar loosened, fingers curling into the soaked fabric weakly. “You’re everything I wanted to be. And worst of all… he sees you.”

She blinked up at him, water dripping off her chin, mixing with blood smeared across her lips. “He…? Izana…?”

Shion’s laugh was broken, jagged. “Yeah. Him. The only person I ever wanted to see me. The only person I ever wanted to notice me. I was there when he.... And you… you just… he just… he sees you like you’re… like you’re something worth looking at. And I… what the fuck does that make me, huh?!”

She stared at him, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, hair plastered to her cheeks. Thunder rumbled overhead, rattling the ground beneath their feet.

“Shion…” she whispered softly, so softly he almost didn’t hear it over the storm. “I never… I never wanted to be better than you.”

All he heard was pity, or maybe it was his own cloud over his head, rumbling like the thunder right here that he couldn't hear. His shoulders shook, head bowing low, forehead knocking gently against hers as rain poured down their faces. His breath was hot and uneven, the smell of blood and rust filling the small space between them.

He screamed as the thunder rolled above them, vibrating down their spines, and the rain continued to pour, washing blood from their skin into the mud beneath them, but it couldn't wash away the bitter line between them.

Another punch cracked across her cheekbone, snapping her head sideways with a sickening jolt. White light burst behind her eyes as pain seared through her skull. The taste of iron flooded her mouth. Rain splattered against her teeth as her lips split open.

“Shut up!” he snarled through clenched teeth, voice shaking with a rage that sounded too close to grief. His fist swung again, crashing into her jaw. The impact rattled down her spine, her knees buckling under the force.

He hit her again.

And again.

Each strike was punctuated by his hoarse, broken scream –--

“Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!!!”

His brass knuckles gleamed under the lightning as they swung down, catching the dim, flickering stormlight with each arc. His other hand twisted into her collar, yanking her up each time her body slumped forward. The fabric bit into her throat, cutting her breath short, choking her in small, trembling gasps.

Her hand rose weakly, fingers wrapping around his wrist, trying to hold him back. But her grip was feeble, trembling, slipping against his rain-slick skin. She couldn’t reach him. Not truly. Not even when his face was this close, not even when his breath burned ragged and hot against her bloodied lips.

She looked up at him through the blur of rain and tears, vision swimming with dizziness, pain thrumming through her skull like war drums. Her eyes, dark and glazed with exhaustion, flickered over his face, the twisted snarl of his lips, the flickering madness in his eyes, the trembling of his jaw as if it took everything in him to keep his teeth from shattering.

She couldn’t reach him.

Not with words.

Not with touch.

Hitting was the only language he knew to speak what his chest could not contain. Violence was his mother tongue, his comfort, his last cradle.

So she let him.

She let his fists fall, let his knuckles split her skin open, let the blood drip down her chin to mix with the rain and sink into the muddy ground. She looked into his eyes the whole time, gaze tired, silent, filled with a quiet worry that cut sharper than any brass edge.

She watched him until his breath came in ragged sobs, until his punches slowed, until his fist hovered trembling in the air above her face and didn’t come down again.

Until his knuckles were as red as the beneath beneath them.

Until all that was left was the sound of rain hammering the cracked concrete around their bodies, and the choked, breaking sound of his breath as he realised that no matter how hard he hit her, he could never beat her into leaving.

Because all she ever wanted was to stay.

Even if it's just beside him.

And as the rain kept falling, falling, falling, drenching the broken silence between them until their breaths turned to fog in the cold night air.

She saw it before he did, shadows moving through the sheets of water, the glint of metal pipes and flick knives reflecting through the streetlights, silhouettes weaving between rusted cars and dumpsters slick with rain. Another gang. Rivals. Opportunists.

She didn’t know who they were, didn’t care. They weren’t Tenjiku. Their jackets were black with white embroidery, sleeves rolled up to their elbows, sneakers slapping against the puddled concrete as they circled around like stray dogs.

“Well, what’s this?” one of them laughed, teeth flashing under his soaked hair as he gestured to them with a chin-jut of cruel amusement. “The Mad Dog of Tenjiku… and his little bitch, all beaten up already? This is gonna be easy.”

Another one sneered, shoving his fists into his pockets as he stepped forward, water splashing up his shins. “Fuck, you guys look pathetic.”

She felt Shion stiffen beside her, his teeth bared, brass knuckles lifting as he took a staggering step forward. “Shut the fuck up,” he snarled, voice rough and ragged from screaming earlier, his chest heaving with uneven breaths.

The gang spread around them in a wide crescent, moving with hungry confidence. They could smell the weakness in his posture, in her bruises, in the tension stretched tight between them like frayed wire about to snap.

“Look at you,” one spat at Shion’s feet. “What happened, Mad Dog? Did your bitch finally bite back? You look like shit.”

Shion lunged at him without warning, brass knuckles swinging wide and recklessly. The punch landed with a wet crack, sending the man stumbling back into his pack with blood spraying across the rain. For a moment, silence fell. Only the rain and thunder and Shion’s ragged, wheezing breath.

Then they moved.

They lunged in together, a pack of black silhouettes surging through the storm. She dodged the first hit, elbow cracking against a man's jaw before she ducked under another’s swing, her body moving out of instinct burned into her bones by Mucho’s relentless training. Pain screamed through her bruised ribs with every breath, but she ignored it.

“Behind you!” she yelled at Shion, but he didn’t hear her.

He swung at another boy, his fists wild and unbalanced. Another came from his blind spot, crowbar swinging down, and she lunged forward, grabbing the man's arm before it connected, twisting it sharply until he screamed. The crowbar clattered to the flooded asphalt.

“FUCKING COVER ME THEN!” Shion roared back at her, spittle mixing with the rain on his lips. His brass knuckles cracked against someone’s temple, sending him sprawling limply into a puddle that rippled with blood.

“I AM!” she screamed, twisting her body to dodge another punch, her fist slamming into a boy’s gut before her knee snapped up under his chin. “Stop moving like a fucking idiot – you’re too open!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he snarled, spinning to elbow another in the nose. His feet slipped in the rain-slicked blood pooling around them. Another boy surged in from his blind side. She tried to reach him, tried to block it, but her movement was half a second too late. The knife swung down.

The blade carved across Shion’s side with a wet, tearing sound. His body jolted violently, mouth falling open in a silent, breathless gasp as blood bloomed vivid and hot through the soaked fabric of his uniform. The rain hit the wound immediately, washing crimson in thin streams down his hip and thigh, pooling black-red in the dark water below.

“Shion—!” she screamed, her voice tearing raw against the thunder above them, her feet sliding across the slick ground as she lunged forward.

But he didn’t fall. Didn’t even look at her. His fist snapped forward with a primal snarl, brass knuckles cracking against the attacker’s mouth so hard teeth flew from the man’s lips like shattered stones into the night rain. The man collapsed backward with a choked cry, curling around his ruined jaw.

Shion’s breath rattled in his chest, sharp, uneven, bubbling with blood and rain. His body swayed as he staggered sideways, one hand clamping against his bleeding side. His brass knuckles slipped from his shaking fingers, clattering onto the concrete, drowned in red water.

“Shion— Shion, God, stay still—!” she gasped, her hands reaching for him, grabbing his wrist to keep him upright.

But another shadow lunged from the side. She twisted, blocked the punch with her forearm, her bones screaming under the impact, her other hand shooting up to slam into his throat. The man gagged, stumbling back, clutching at his windpipe with choking coughs.

She turned back to Shion. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, pupils blown wide with shock and adrenaline. His mouth worked silently, blood dripping from his split lip down his chin to mix with the crimson streaming from his side.

Around them, the remaining men hesitated, circling like wolves with bared teeth, eyes flickering from her to Shion and back again. One of them laughed low under his breath, shaking his head as he flicked rain from his knife.

“This is pathetic,” he sneered, stepping forward. “Look at you two. Fucking pathetic.”

She shoved Shion behind her, planting her feet wide, her fists raised despite how her arms trembled with exhaustion. “Stay back,” she rasped, voice low, quiet, sharp like splintered glass.

The man only smirked, flicking his knife toward her in a taunting little dance. “Or what, bitch? You gonna protect your mad dog? He can’t even stand.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she whispered, but her voice shook. Her vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in with each ragged breath.

A sudden crash of thunder split the sky above them, shaking the ground underfoot. Rain poured down harder, drowning the world in cold, relentless sheets of flood. Another boy lunged forward from her blind spot. She twisted to block him, but her arms were too slow, too heavy with fatigue and bruises. The punch slammed into her ribs, stealing her breath in a sharp, choking gasp. Her knees buckled, body collapsed into the cold flood pooling around her. Men surrounded her next, bats, knives, and pieces of metal carried by their hands, glinting under the streetlight, ready to strike next.

“Get the fuck up,” she heard Shion snarl behind her, but his voice was faint, cracking around the edges, wet with pain. “Get up… get up… get up…!”

She tried to move. Tried to push herself up on trembling arms, but another foot slammed into her stomach, forcing bile and blood up her throat as her body folded inward, gasping silently through the pain. The world spun, blurred, flickering between lightning flashes, spilling rain that felt like tears, and the churning darkness.

“Stop… STOP!!” Shion’s scream tore through the storm, a raw, broken sound swallowed by thunder as he tried to crawl towards her.

But they didn’t stop. They grabbed him by his soaked hair, yanked his head back, fists slamming into his face over and over, each impact sending bright sparks across his vision. He tried to swing back, but his arms were limp, his body sagging like dead weight under their blows. Blood splashed in the puddles below, rain rippling it outward in thin, trembling circles.

“SHION!” she screamed, her voice cracking in terror as she watched his body jolt with each strike, watched his fists claw at their arms uselessly, watched his eyes roll back, the whites glowing under the streetlights like the blind eyes of a corpse.

Something broke inside her then. Shattered. Split open and raw.

No, no, no, it couldn't end like this.

There are so many things she wants to say, so many things she wants to hear from him.

With a scream that tore from somewhere deep in her ribs, she lunged upward, fists slamming into the boy holding Shion’s hair. His nose crunched under her knuckles, blood spraying hot across her face. Another elbow cracked into the second boy’s jaw. They staggered back, cursing, spitting teeth into the dark.

She grabbed Shion’s shoulders, dragging him back against her, her frame curling around his broken one protectively. His body shuddered in her arms, blood dripping from his mouth as he tried to breathe, his chest rising in wet, rattling gasps.

“Stay with me… please… Shion…” she whispered against his ear, her tears mixing with the blood and rain dripping down his cheek. “Stay… stay awake… please…”

His eyes flickered open, unfocused and dull, pupils blown wide in the stormlight. His lips moved silently before a faint, cracked whisper spilled out, tasting of copper and rain. Their eyes darkened as shadows curled around them, closer, and closer, as she held Shion tighter, glints of metal and their grins flashing like the thunder.

Her arms tightened around Shion’s shoulders, shaking with terror and adrenaline, as if she could fold him into her bones and shield him from everything. His blood soaked into her uniform, hot and viscous, spreading warmth that felt so wrong in the freezing rain.

One of the men stepped forward, twisting his wrist to flash the blade in his grip, grinning wide enough to show broken teeth through split lips. “How sweet,” he crooned above the storm’s roar. “You gonna die with him too, little bitch?”

She swallowed hard. Her ribs ached. Her lungs burned with each ragged, trembling inhale. Her hands clenched Shion’s soaked uniform tighter, nails digging into torn seams.

“Yeah,” she rasped. “If I have to.”

The boy laughed, a harsh bark of sound swallowed by thunder. The knife, raised.

She braced herself, shifted her weight, pulled him tighter against her side, though her ribs screamed in protest. One more swing. One more hit. One more—

A massive shadow surged from behind them, impossibly fast for its size. A hand as thick as iron snapped around the boy’s wrist, stopping the knife mid-swing. His eyes widened, mouth opening in a stunned, wordless gasp.

Crack.

The wrist broke clean under the pressure, bending sideways with a wet, tearing crunch that made his scream pierce the storm. The blade clattered onto the asphalt below, bouncing once before sinking into the flood pooling around their feet.

The boy didn’t even have time to scream again before a heavy fist slammed into his temple, splitting skin against bone, sending him crumpling into the water with a hollow splash.

Through the rain, under the humming, watching streetlights, stood Mucho.

His soaked hair clung to his forehead, shadows slicing across the sharp cut of his cheekbones. His eyes were half-lidded, empty, flat, like the deep sea swallowing a corpse. Rain dripped down his leather jacket in silent rivulets. He turned his head slightly, the movement slow, deliberate, gaze sweeping across the stunned men like a blade gliding through flesh.

“What… the fuck…” one of them whispered, stepping back a half-step.

But then –

Another silhouette emerged behind Mucho, taller, broader, a shape carved out of violent earth and brick dust. A grin split his soaked, scarred lips, yellow hair plastered down to his skull, droplets sliding down the bridge of his nose.

“Oi… oi… what’s all this mess, huh?” Mocchi’s voice rumbled low and amused as he rolled his massive shoulders, joints cracking like gunshots. His eyes flicked toward Shion and her, slumped together in the water, blood mixing with rain into thin red threads weaving down the street.

His grin faltered for a moment, something ugly and cold twisting in his gaze. Without another word, he stepped forward, boots slamming into the ground so hard the puddles splashed up his shins. One of the gang boys lunged at him with a roar, brandishing a metal pipe overhead. Mocchi didn’t even duck.

His massive hand shot up, and a hard hit on the face sent the boy to the ground. The boy went limp immediately, arms splayed out, blood blooming dark and silent beneath his skull.

“Mucho,” Mocchi called out lazily over his shoulder, his voice carrying easily through the storm as he cracked his neck to the side. “You take the left.”

Mucho didn’t answer. He stepped forward silently, grabbing another boy by the collar. His fist slammed into the boy’s ribs once, twice, three times, each punch landing with a muffled, wet thud like meat tenderising under iron. The boy collapsed forward, coughing blood onto the flooded street.

And then chaos exploded around them.

She could only watch, her arms tight around Shion’s shaking shoulders as Mucho and Mocchi tore through the remaining men like wolves through dying calves. Blood sprayed across the rain, blooming dark red in cold sheets. Fists split skin from bone, knees cracked jaws sideways, the thunder above swallowed their screams. One tried to run, but Mocchi’s boot swung out like a battering ram, slamming into the side of his knee with a shattering crunch that made bile rise in her throat.

Shion’s breathing rasped harshly against her ear, his weight slumping heavier into her chest. She felt the warm flood of his blood soaking through her uniform with every weak heartbeat against her ribs. She pressed her handkerchief tighter against his torn side, making him hiss in pain and groan. She did what she could, opening his top up and stuffing his bleeding side with the clean cloth she had to at least stop the spill of blood.

Her hands trembled as they pressed the soaked handkerchief into the open wound at Shion’s side. Each time her palm pressed down, he hissed through gritted teeth, his shoulders twitching under her touch, breath ragged and bubbling with wet pain that she hushed with a plea.

“Shion…” she whispered, her voice breaking, lost in the roar of rain pounding the rusted metal around them. Her tears were indistinguishable from the droplets sliding down her cheeks. “Shion… why… why can’t you just… just fucking tell me what you’re thinking…?”

He didn’t answer. His lips were parted, eyes glazed and half-shut, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven bursts. Blood seeped between her fingers despite her efforts, warm and slick against her chilled skin.

She let out a sound between a sob and a scream, curling forward, her forehead pressing against his wet hair as her shoulders shook violently. “I don’t… I don’t get it… I don’t get you…! I’ve tried… I’ve tried so fucking hard… to understand you, to see you… but you… you just… you push me away… every time…! Please! Just talk to me...!”

Around them, bodies slammed into the ground with bone-snapping thuds. Mocchi’s fist swung out, catching a man across the jaw so hard his head snapped sideways like a ragdoll, blood spraying into the sheets of rain. Mucho moved with brutality, his fists methodical, patient, every strike a calculated dismantling of flesh and bone.

Shion’s fingers twitched weakly against her hip, the only sign he heard her at all. His eyes fluttered open halfway, unfocused, pupils wide and glassy under the dim streetlights. His mouth worked soundlessly before a thin, broken whisper slipped out between his split lips.

“…shut… up…”

She sobbed out a small laugh, watery and shaking, her tears dripping onto his cheek and mixing with the rain sliding down his jawline. “You… you asshole… all this time… all I wanted… was to know what you feel… what’s in your head… because…”

Her voice broke again, laughing so softly, so broken. She swallowed down the bile rising in her throat, tasting blood and rain and grief. Her hands curled tighter into his torn uniform as thunder roared above them.

“…because in the end… we only have each other… Shion… it’s always been… just us… you know…?”

His eyes flickered, lids fluttering with exhaustion and pain. The world around him blurred, smudged with rain and blood, with the blurry movements of Mocchi’s boot slamming into a man’s gut, Mucho’s elbow cracking down on someone’s spine with a dull, echoing crunch. His world narrowed to her face above him, hair plastered to her cheeks, eyes swollen and red, mouth trembling with every breath.

But in the end, he saw her.

A memory? No, a feeling flickered through his fading mind like lightning splitting the black sky in pieces.

He saw her. Saw her standing behind him on the rooftop at sunset, hair glowing under the last bleeding light of day, small fists clenched at her sides as she glared at the city with defiance that dwarfed her body.

He saw her crouched in the rain beside him years ago, his nose broken and bleeding after a fight he lost, her hands shoving tissues into his nostrils while tears slid silently down her cheeks. She never said a word that day, just sat beside him as he shook with silent rage.

He saw her first with blood on her knees.

They were children, no, not even that, just strays scurrying under the skeletal beams of abandoned construction sites. Her little fists were bruised purple, knuckles scabbed over with dried blood as she tried to punch the rusted beams like he did.

He’d spat at her back then, annoyed, “What the fuck you doin’? You’ll never be strong like that.”

But she’d only turned her head, tears clinging to her lashes, snot dripping onto her lip, and said in a small, trembling voice, “I just… wanna be strong too…”

He remembered the way her voice cracked on ‘too’. The way it scraped against his ribs like broken glass, he couldn’t spit out.

He saw her again under the streetlight at dusk, the world glowing a dim, bruised orange. They’d gotten into a fight with older kids who’d called her names, laughed about the way she always followed Shion around like a stray shadow.

He’d gotten his ass beat. Blood dripping down his temple, vision spinning, fists clenching uselessly at his sides. He remembered the copper taste flooding his mouth as he knelt in the dirt.

But then, she’d thrown herself onto one of them, small hands clawing at his face, biting down on his ear until he screamed and shoved her away. She fell hard, her forehead splitting open on the gravel with a sickening crack.

He remembered a time in Tenjiku when he came back from a brawl with another division, his nose broken, blood streaked down his chest, brass knuckles smeared with scarlet and ash. He’d thrown himself down onto the cracked leather couch in their dorm common room, panting, triumphant, feeling the raw adrenaline coil like a king’s crown around his skull.

She’d walked in, eyes widening when she saw him sprawled there, blood smeared down his chin. For a moment, he thought she’d look at him with fear. Reverence. Like everyone else did.

But instead, she’d sighed, long and quiet, walking over to him without a word. Her small fingers tilted his face up, examining his swollen nose with clinical annoyance.

“Hold still,” she’d muttered. Before he could react, her thumb pressed against the side of his nose and snapped the broken cartilage back into place with a wet, crunching pop.

The scream that tore out of his throat was strangled and pathetic. Tears burned his eyes instantly, vision spinning white with pain.

“What the fuck— FUCK!!” he roared at her, shoving her hands away.

But she just wiped her bloody thumb on her pants and said flatly, “Stop being dramatic. It’ll heal crooked if you leave it like that.”

Then she turned away, walking off to wash her hands under the rust-stained sink.

He’d sat there, panting, tears slipping down his cheeks. Rage burned under his skin like acid.

He saw her training under Mucho’s watchful eye, her ribs bruised purple, her lips split, but her eyes burned with stubborn, violent determination as she got back up again. And again. And again.

He saw her at Izana’s side, bowing her head with respect, shoulders squared, gaze firm. Izana’s cold eyes swept over her, lips twitching with faint approval. Shion had felt something gnawing, writhing under his skin that day.

Resentment. Jealousy. Rage. Fear.

He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious like they all said. He knew exactly what it meant when Izana’s gaze lingered on her, when Izana called her name instead of his, when Izana praised her growth in combat and strategy. When Izana said,

“You’re stronger than Shion already.”

He’d laughed it off, thrown an arm around her neck, ruffled her hair until she squirmed and slapped him away. But that night, alone in their room, he punched the wall until his knuckles split open like overripe fruit, until blood dripped down the peeling paint in thin, trembling lines.

He remembered her saving him. Again. And again. And again.

In the streets when someone swung a metal pipe at his blind side.

In the back alleys when an older punk tried to stab him with a broken bottle.

In a fight against rival gang kids when he slipped on spilled oil and she darted in front of him, taking the knee to the stomach that would’ve crushed his ribs.

She always laughed it off after, even when her lip bled or her body curled around the pain, wheezing through her cracked ribs.

“Idiot,” she’d rasp, breathless, voice bubbling with laughter even as blood smeared her teeth. “Watch your damn back next time.”

And he would stand there, brass knuckles trembling on his fists, looking down at her shaking body.

He wanted to scream at her. Hit her. Crush her under his fists just to feel tall again.

Instead, he’d turn away, muttering curses under his breath, spitting on the ground so she couldn’t see his eyes blur with frustrated tears.

And he realised, he couldn’t tell if this was his life flashing before his eyes or if it was his emotions finally being seen.

For so long, all he saw was the way she made him feel small. Her strength, her speed, the way she caught Izana’s eye when he never could. He hated her for it. Hated her so deeply it made his bones ache.

But now, lying broken in her arms, her blood mixing with his, her sobs choking against his hair, he saw it clearly:

She wasn’t towering over him.

She was standing beside him.

His equal. His sister. The only one who never turned away, even when he shoved her into the dirt, even when he spat cruel words she didn’t deserve, even when his fists spoke the truths he could never say out loud.

He tried to speak, but his throat burned with copper and cold. He swallowed, wincing at the pain, before he managed to croak out between trembling lips.

“…hey…”

She lifted her head, eyes swollen, tears sliding down her chin to patter against his cheek. “What… what is it…?” she whispered, voice breaking on every syllable.

He blinked slowly, rain dripping from his lashes. His mouth twitched into something small, tired. Almost a smile.

“You’re… fuckin’ annoying…”

A laugh sputtered out of her, half-choked with sobs. She shook her head, hair whipping rain across his face as she leaned closer, her forehead resting against his.

“You always… looked strong to me, Shion…” she whispered, her breath trembling against his lips. “No matter how ridiculous you were… how stupid you acted… you always looked strong…”

Her fingers curled tighter into his collar, pulling him closer as the thunder cracked above them, illuminating the world in stark black and white.

“Because strength… wasn’t your fists… or how people feared you… it was… it was you… standing in front of me… unafraid… even if you were terrified inside…”

He exhaled shakily, his chest hitching against hers, blood bubbling warm between their bodies. His eyes flickered shut, exhaustion pulling him under like a dark tide, but he felt her words brand into his ribs, heavy and aching.

His equal.

His sister.

The one who would always be there, even when he didn’t deserve it.

Around them, the storm raged on. Mocchi and Mucho stood over the fallen bodies, the rain washing blood from their fists, thunder growling low across the bruised horizon. But for that moment, there was only them, curled together in the freezing flood, breathing each other’s air, feeling each other’s broken, beating hearts.

Mucho finished first. His last opponent fell to the ground with his nose split open, screaming through blood-choked gurgles as he clutched his ruined face. Mucho didn’t spare him a glance. He turned toward Shion and her, his expression unreadable in the flickering lightning. For a moment, he just looked at them.

His eyes flicked to Shion’s half-conscious form, to her trembling arms curled around him like a dying cat, to the blood pooling around their knees.

Then Mucho sighed quietly. The sound was lost in the storm. He walked forward, kneeling down in the water, boots sinking into the mud. His large hand closed around Shion’s shoulder, squeezing once–not gently, not cruelly, just firmly.

“Madarame,” he said, his voice low, soft, almost kind in a way that made her throat tighten, “You’re lucky she’s here, you know that?”

Shion didn’t respond. His eyes were open, glazed, rolling slightly in his skull. Blood dripped from his split lip with each trembling breath.

Mocchi came up behind them, wiping blood from his knuckles onto his soaked pants with casual indifference. “C’mon,” he rumbled, his voice strangely quiet in the downpour. “Let’s get ‘em home. Hospital? Before Izana gets pissed, we ruined the streets.”

She swallowed down the rising sob in her throat. Her arms shook as she tried to keep Shion upright, her own ribs screaming with every shallow inhale.

Mucho moved first. He slid one arm under Shion’s knees, the other bracing his back. For a brief second, Shion’s head lolled sideways against Mucho’s chest, eyes flickering open halfway. His gaze caught hers, unfocused, dazed, but for the briefest moment, his lips twitched.

A small, bitter, broken half-smile.

Then his eyes rolled back and his lashes fluttered shut as Mucho lifted him effortlessly from her arms, cradling his limp form against his chest like a broken doll.

“Get up,” Mocchi said gruffly, reaching down to grab her under her arm. His grip was rough, almost painful, but it kept her on her feet as her knees buckled. She gasped at the pain blooming under her ribs as he steadied her against his side. “You good to walk?”

She nodded once, barely. Her vision swam with blackness at the edges, but she swallowed it down, tasting blood and rain and bile in her mouth.

She was like a lion’s tail, always steady and there behind him. Like a flower, a lion’s tail, enduring and thriving even when life is rough, she just kept growing no matter how bad things got. Now, he saw her not as someone above him, but as someone who never left his side. Because no matter how many times he tried to push her away, she always came back. He kept looking ahead, never noticing how she was always there behind him. It was fitting; his name meant lion, and she was his tail. The part that followed, steadied, and moved with him, no matter where he went.

If you have any specific requests, click this!

This was honestly longer than I expected, but it's soo worth it. I was just so dedicated to the story and their relationship that I couldn't stop with just a short one-shot or sleep properly. Also, I used some lines and old parts and scenes from the past stuff that I wrote in a docs, so it was faster for me to write some scenes.

First time writing these characters besides the Haitani's! It was lovely writing the other S-62 Gen gang. I was so excited writing the moment it was requested, as I've been looking into their characters lately, and now I get to write them! Finally!

Though it's just such a shame that we don't get to see Mochi, Mucho, and Shion often in the official manga and games, or learn much about them. I love these guys as characters, and I'll definitely write them again. These guys deserve some attention too.

[itsmyfix]

Draco huffed, cheeks burning red as stupid Potter got in his face after the two had shared some snarky remarks in the hall after their Transfigurations lesson.

“You seriously expect me to believe you’re not up to something?” Harry snarled, warm breath brushing over Draco’s lips.

“And just what, pray tell, has led you to that conclusion, Potter?” He bellowed back, chin held high, refusing to back away.

“You’ve been scribbling in that precious little notebook you’re always carrying around with you,” Harry eyed the leather bound journal Draco held tightly under his arm.

“You spent the whole class scribbling away in it— and don’t think I didn’t notice you staring at me all throughout class! I know you’re plotting something against me, and I’m going to find out what.” Harry glared fiercely into his eyes; Draco just stared back, unimpressed and feigning boredom.

“Always so full of yourself, oh Great Chosen One. You really mustn’t worry that pretty little head of yours, I’m sure you have much more important things that require your attention than the notes I take in class.” Draco sniffed, attempting to slide past and free himself from this impromptu interrogation session.

Harry blocked his path, eyes never leaving his, before they quickly darted down to the notebook tucked under his arm. Just as fast as Harry reached to snatch it away, Draco pulled it to his chest, crossing both arms over it. Not discouraged in the least, Harry dove again, reaching for the top of the notebook that peaked out over Draco’s crossed arms. Draco twisted his body around harshly, bringing him face to face with the wall as he tried to break away from the firm grip Harry had on the notebook, but he held tight.

The back of his fingers pressed against Draco’s chest as he reinforced his grip over the top of the notebook, wrist curved, and arm bent at a ninety degree angle at the elbow, resulting in his chest being pressed to Draco’s back.

“Give me the notebook, Draco.” Harry growled low against his ear.

“No!” He chided stubbornly, pressing his body forward, trapping Harry’s arm between him and the wall.

Harry pressed closer still, adding to the warmth that spread across Draco’s increasingly reddening face.

“If it’s just notes, then why can’t I see it?” Harry hissed impatiently through gritted teeth.

Draco floundered for a moment, before preparing himself to deliver a quip about how Harry should’ve been taking his own notes instead of watching him all class, but was interrupted before he had a chance to voice this sentiment by a shrill voice.

“Boys!”

Harry quickly looked over his shoulder, then let go of the notebook, stumbling backwards and trying to straighten out his robes, as he looked up sheepishly at a leering McGonagall.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” She demanded.

“Oh I um-”

“He was trying to steal my notebook! Most likely to cheat on his homework, no doubt!” Draco announced, shooting a glare at Harry.

“No I-”

“Harry Potter! I expected better from you.”

“But I-”

“No excuses! Ten points from Gryffindor! Now hurry along, I don’t want to see any more trouble out of the two of you.” She dismissed them with a wave of the hand.

“Yes, ma’am.” Harry grumbled, turning to catch up with Ron and Hermione who waited ahead.

Draco sighed a breath of relief and hurried away in the opposite direction back towards the dungeons to the Slytherin dormitories. Fanning himself with the notebook, he thought to himself, wow that was a close one, merlin that sure was hot the way he had me pinned to the wall, I’ve never been so glad to have worn my long robes… I have GOT to put that in the next scene of my fanfiction.

Finally back in the privacy of his own room, checking to make sure the other boys were gone still, he giddily pulled out his notebook and a quill, opened it up and read “Transfiguration Homework and Notes: Lesson 15, How to Turn a-”.

Draco snapped the journal closed, eyes wide, cheeks a deep crimson as the following sequence played through his mind as though watching a moving picture:

Draco stood in line, impatiently waiting for his turn to drop off his homework booklet so he could hurry back to the dorms to work on his writing. A bright laugh made his heart jump as he turned to see Harry laughing at something Ron had said. Gazing fondly, he continued to step forward in motion with the moving line until he nearly bumped into the person in front of him who just tossed him a funny look before dropping off their homework and heading out the door. Shaking himself out of his daze, he quickly threw his booklet on the desk and speed walked out of the room to see if he could catch up with Harry enough to sneak one more peak at him before they split in different directions.

“Ohh no!” Draco cried out. “If this is my homework, then…”

Somewhere in McGonagall’s Office:

Drarry (A Draco x Harry Love Story by Draco Malfoy Potter)

Harry’s soft pouty pink lips brushed sweetly over Draco’s sensitive neck, sucking lightly on the skin, marking him as his own, before licking his way up to his ear and whispering breathily-

“Oh my!” McGonagall giggled, kicking her feet up on the desk and turning the page.

[jinkoh]

now playing: the boyz - christmassy

sunwoo x gn!reader

11th fic for my anniversary event | requested by anon

wc: 1.1k, fluff, established relationship, proposal, this whole fic is just sunwoo being a sap honestly

a/n: i assume most of y'all will celebrate on the 25th, but to those who--like me--celebrate on the 24th and to those in time zones were midnight has already passed: merry christmas~

event masterlist | tbz masterlist

December is a time that always feels special to Sunwoo. Of course, it’s a time of the year that feels special to a lot of people, but Sunwoo likes to believe it’s extra special to him. Because in December, right about this time three years ago, Sunwoo met you for the first time.

It was freezing and he was in a rush to get to class, the Christmas spirit not having reached him quite yet. But then he stumbled into you, with your cheeks and nose red from the cold and your eyes glowing with a sense of wonder he couldn’t really relate to at the time. That was about to change though, because you enchanted him from that moment on. He remembers how fast his heart was racing when you spoke to him and he remembers how much his fingers trembled when he typed his number into your phone. He can also still recall all the lectures spent zoning out, scribbling silly things about you into his notepad instead of paying attention. There was just something magical about meeting you, and even now the magic hasn’t faded. In fact, with every day that passes, he finds himself more smitten with you. Because ever since he met you, every day has been feeling like Christmas on and on. Even without carols and Christmas lights just being together makes life feel christmassy. It’s embarrassing to voice any of those sappy thoughts—Sunwoo likes to think of himself as a bit more cool and collected than that—but then again, he is also a romantic at heart. 

And because he is such a romantic, he is now trudging through the snowy streets, bustling with people hunting down their last christmas gifts, to meet you at the corner he first ran into you three years ago. He has his old notepad clutched to his chest and he still isn’t sure if he should really show it to you, worried about looking uncool in front of you, worried that it isn’t good enough, that it isn’t the gesture you’d want. But he decides to trust that you will understand the sincerity in all of this and he knows you don’t care that much for pricey gifts or putting on a big show.

When he spots you at the end of the street, fewer people around this part of town, he halts for a moment. You’re wearing the same scarf as that time, and your cheeks are just as red again, and it doesn’t feel like a coincidence. He takes a deep breath and then he approaches you, your eyes lighting up the second they fall on him.

“Sunwoo,” you wave with your cute, warm mittens and it makes him smile. “Happy anniversary.”

“It’s not our anniversary,” he says, but you roll his eyes at him.

“Yes, it is,” you pull  him close by the collar of his thick coat to leave a peck on his lips, “it’s the anniversary of our first meeting.”

Sunwoo kisses you back, his body feeling warm and fuzzy at the knowledge you remembered it too. “Yeah,” he says, “You’re right.”

A satisfied smile spreads on your lips before your gaze wanders to the notepad in his arms. “What’s that?”

“Notes I took back in college.”

You raise an eyebrow, “In college? Why would you need them now?”

“I wanted to give them to you.”

“To me?” You let out a confused laugh, “Why?”

“Go and find out,” he says as he hands it over and then he adds, “Happy anniversary, y/n.”

Your expression turns a bit more serious, unsure what to expect as you open the pages. At first, it’s actual stuff from classes and maybe the one or the other doodle created to overcome boredom. But then, as you reach this very day three years ago, you find your name scribbled on the edge of the page. Then there is your name next to his, a messy heart drawn around both of them. I really like you, it says a few days later. With every page you turn, you grow more flustered. “Sunwoo, what is this?”

“I told you, notes from college.”

“Yeah, but—why is it—are they about me?”

“It was kinda hard to get you out of my head at the time,” he says with a shrug that’s supposed to look nonchalant, even when nerves are getting the best of him right now. “Actually it still is.”

“Are they all from back then?”

“Yeah,” he shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat, feeling the small velvet box in his right palm. “Well, almost all of them. There is also one from today.”

You almost seem in a hurry to read through the pages now, unable to hide your impatience to get to today’s note. Sunwoo doesn’t mind though. If you ever want to look more closely, the notepad will still be around later. And if he’s being honest he is just as impatient for you to get to the important part as you are. When you’re finally turning the last page he takes a deep breath and then pulls out the little box from his pocket, waiting for you to read the words before he gets down on one knee.

“Sunwoo—what—,” you stutter, clearly flustered and your eyes shimmering with tears as you look up from the page, only to find him kneeling before you, snow seeping into the fabric of his pants but he doesn’t mind.

“I know this isn’t a big movie-worthy gesture—but it’s always during this season that I start to wonder how many times we’ll spend it together—and it’s always during this season that I come to think that it feels endless—that I’d like it to be endless. Does that—all of this sounded better in my head—but even now when I look at you it feels like Christmas on and on. I’d like it to always feel this way, I’d like there to always be days like this, days with you. So, y/n l/n,” he takes another deep breath before he repeats the words that are written on the last page, “will you marry me?”

You nod almost violently, not even waiting for him to put the ring on your finger before you fling your arms around his neck, getting your knees wet in the snow as much as he has. “Yes,” you agree as you bury yourself in his embrace, “Yes, yes, yes!”

All the tension is slipping out of him as he hugs you close, deciding the ring can wait another ten minutes because holding you is that much more important. He is full of warmth and happiness and wonder, and he can’t help thinking that it really does feel like Christmas on and on.

event masterlist | tbz masterlist

[gumballavocadoharry]

You break it, I'll fix it!

Yn's thoughts seemed to drag on the more the teacher's lips moved 50 words a minute. Mr. Walcurst, didn't really seem to know how to entertain his students with his long lectures of mechanics and engineering in the same way he would demonstrate techniques with different machines he had brought in.

Yn's head was seated on top of her her crossed arms that were neatly settled on her desk; barricading her opened notebook that had only a few scribbled notes and sketches that she claimed helped with her memory in tests and assignments. "Yn?" Her head shot up to the piercing eyes of the bygone teacher. "Can you tell us what the answer to number four is?"

"Yn?"

Her head shot up, the sudden sound cutting through the droning monologue. Mr. Walcurst stood at the front of the lecture hall, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights, his eyes, sharp and unforgiving, fixed directly on her. He was a walking paradox – brilliant in his field, a master of the machine, yet utterly devoid of the ability to translate that passion into engaging instruction. Lectures were a marathon of technical jargon, delivered at a pace that left most students gasping for air, or, in Yn's case, using her arms as a makeshift pillow.

"Can you tell us what the answer to number four is?" His voice was flat, devoid of warmth, the kind of tone that could curdle milk.

Yn’s mind scrambled. Number four? The only numbers she’d processed in the last ten minutes were the ones marking her growing boredom. She glanced down at her notebook, the few scattered notes offering no salvation. A faint flush crept up her neck. "I… I'm sorry, Mr. Walcurst. I seem to have missed that part."

A collective ripple went through the class – a mix of pity and silent commiseration. Mr. Walcurst merely sighed, a theatrical sound of weary disappointment that felt disproportionately heavy. "Perhaps if you were paying attention, Ms. Yn, you wouldn't miss crucial information," he stated, the implication hanging heavy in the air. He turned away before she could stammer another apology, calling on someone else.

Yn sank back into her seat, mortification burning in her cheeks. It wasn't that she didn't want to learn. She did. Engineering was fascinating, a puzzle of physics and ingenuity. But Mr. Walcurst's method felt less like learning and more like enduring a verbal battering ram.

The rest of the lecture was a blur of technical terms and diagrams she couldn't follow. The only thing that solidified in her mind was the announcement of the next major assignment: designing and building a working pulley system capable of lifting a specific weight. It had to be physically demonstrated and submitted next week. A knot of dread formed in her stomach. Pulleys. Simple in concept, maybe, but the mechanics and structural integrity felt like a mountain she was ill-equipped to climb.

After class, Yn hurried out, the air cool on her flushed face. The university grounds were bustling, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere of the lecture hall. She needed coffee, and she needed to wrap her head around this pulley, and more importantly, around Mr. Walcurst's palpable disapproval.

Back in her cozy, meticulously organized apartment, the dread intensified. Textbooks lay open on her desk, diagrams of levers and ropes staring back at her like cryptic runes. She gathered materials – a few scraps of wood, some string, various potential wheels she’d repurposed from old toys and appliances. Hours bled into one another. Her apartment, usually a haven of calm, became a workshop of frustration.

Attempt one: The wheel wobbled precariously, the string slipping off. Attempt two: The frame buckled under the slightest tension. Attempt three: The whole contraption collapsed spectacularly, sending pieces scattering across the floor.

With each failure, Walcurst’s disappointed sigh echoed in her mind. She wasn't stupid; she was intelligent, methodical, and usually capable. But this… this felt insurmountable. Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes. Why couldn't she grasp this? Why did it feel so endlessly complicated?

She slumped onto her couch, staring at the scattered remnants of her failed attempts. Her gaze fell upon her laptop, still open to the class forum. Scrolling through, she saw a few posts about the assignment, mostly complaints about the difficulty. Then, a name caught her eye: Harry.

She remembered the ease with which he seemed to grasp everything, the way his eyes lit up when talking about mechanics, even in the dry confines of Walcurst’s class. He was the class genius, effortlessly navigating the very concepts that were drowning her.

Asking for help went against every fiber of her independent, cautious nature. And asking him? The eccentric inventor who seemed to live on a different plane of existence. The idea felt awkward, maybe even embarrassing. What if he thought she was stupid? What if he was as dismissive as Walcurst, just in a different, perhaps kinder, way?

But the deadline loomed, a guillotine poised over her academic standing. Swallowing her pride, and the last reserves of her self-reliance on this issue, Yn pulled out her laptop. She found the class roster, located his name – Harry Styles– and his university email address.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. What to write? "Help, I'm an idiot and can't make a pulley?" She finally settled on something simple, direct, and hopefully not too revealing of her utter helplessness.

Subject: Engineering 201 - Pulley Assignment

Hi Harry,

We're in Mr. Walcurst's engineering class together. I'm really struggling with the pulley system assignment. I've spent hours on it, but I can't seem to get it to work or fully understand the practical mechanics.

I was wondering, since you seem to have a good handle on this stuff, if you might possibly be willing to spare a little time to help me out? No worries at all if you're busy, I completely understand.

Thanks, Yn Ln

She hit send before she could second-guess herself. Relief warred with anxiety. Now she just had to wait.

The reply came surprisingly fast, pinging into her inbox less than ten minutes later.

Subject: Re: Engineering 201 - Pulley Assignment

Hi Yn,

Absolutely! I'd be delighted to try and help. Pulley systems are quite elegant once you see how the forces distribute. Sometimes wrestling with the materials helps more than diagrams alone.

Are you free sometime tomorrow? I have a workshop setup at my place that might be easier to work in than an apartment desk. Lots of bits and bobs if we need them.

Let me know what time works for you!

Best, Harry

His response was just as she expected – warm, kind, and slightly… unique. "Bits and bobs." A workshop setup? It sounded less like a student's room and more like a real inventor's lair. Despite her nervousness, a spark of hope ignited.

Across the room, she saw him. Harry. The guy everyone privately (and sometimes not-so-privately) referred to as ‘the eccentric genius.’ He had a mane of dark brown hair that brushed his neck, often slightly disheveled, and striking green eyes that seemed to hold a perpetual flicker of curiosity. While others wrestled with equations, Harry would be sketching fantastical contraptions in his notebook or humming softly to himself, oblivious to the classroom tension.

He answered Mr. Walcurst’s most challenging questions with an almost casual insight, often offering alternative, elegant solutions that left the professor momentarily speechless before he’d gruffly acknowledge their validity. He felt utterly out of place in the rigid structure of the lecture hall, a free spirit bottled in a room of precise calculations. Yn had always found him… intriguing, yes, but also a little perplexing, like a complex equation she hadn't bothered to solve.

He wore mismatched clothes sometimes and had a habit of fiddling with strange gadgets in his hands. He rarely spoke unless directly addressed, and even then, his responses were often unexpected, bordering on brilliant yet delivered with an almost childlike enthusiasm that sometimes threw people off.

He was definitely eccentric, maybe even socially awkward, but Mr. Walcurst, for all his harshness, seemed to treat Harry with a degree of grudging respect when he did contribute, which was usually to offer a surprisingly insightful solution to a complex problem the rest of the class floundered with.

***********************************

Harry's 'place' turned out to be a small, slightly cluttered house with a surprisingly large toolshed in the backyard. This, she quickly realized, was the legendary 'workshop'. Stepping inside was like entering another dimension. Tools hung on every available surface, shelves overflowed with wires, gears, screws, and components she couldn't even name. A half-finished contraption involving springs and copper tubing sat on a workbench. The air smelled of metal, oil, and a faint, pleasant scent of sawdust. It was chaos, but a vibrant, organized chaos that spoke of constant creation.

He led her through a house that was indeed "lived-in" – stacks of books and papers covered surfaces, but everything felt intentional, like a mind in constant motion. The air was thick with the faint scent of coffee and something metallic she couldn't place.

The workshop was a revelation. It was a detached garage transformed into a vibrant, organized chaos. Tools hung neatly on pegboards, workbenches were covered in various projects in different stages of completion, and shelves overflowed with components, wires, and peculiar gadgets. It smelled of metal, wood, and something that reminded her faintly of burnt sugar. It was Harry’s world, a physical manifestation of the brilliant, free-spirited mind she’d only glimpsed in class.

"Wow," Yn breathed, genuinely impressed. "This is… amazing."

Harry himself was exactly as she remembered, only perhaps a little more vibrant in his own space. His green eyes lit up when he saw her. "Yn! Come in, come in! Mind the pile of solenoid here, almost broke my neck on it yesterday. So, the pulley!" He gestured excitedly towards a clear space on the main workbench. "Show me what you've tried, tell me about the issues."

Yn, feeling a little awkward but disarmed by his immediate warmth, laid out her dismantled attempts and explained her struggles. As she spoke, Harry didn't interrupt or judge. He listened intently, nodding, his brow furrowed in thought. He picked up a piece of her failed structure, examining it with a thoughtful hum.

"Ah, I see," he said gently. "The stress point here… you've got a shearing force on the axle; it needs more lateral support. And for the wheel material, cardboard will compress too much under load. You need something rigid, something that won't deform."

He didn't make her feel stupid. He simply pointed out technical details, explaining the physics behind them in a way that was clear, concise, and somehow, genuinely interesting. As they started working together, picking out materials from his vast collection – sturdy wood, a smooth metal rod for the axle, a solid plastic wheel – Yn began to relax.

Harry worked with a quiet, focused intensity, but his movements were gentle and precise. He patiently guided her hands, showing her how to measure, how to cut, how to join pieces securely. He explained the principles of mechanical advantage not like a dry textbook, but like revealing a fascinating secret about how the world worked.

"It's easy to get caught up in the equations and forget the simple physics. Think of it like this…"

He didn’t just tell her. He showed her. He used a sturdy beam in the workshop ceiling and a length of rope. He created a single fixed pulley, demonstrating how it only changed direction. Then he added a movable pulley, explaining the concept of sharing the load, the ropes supporting the weight. His explanations were clear, interspersed with quirky analogies that suddenly made perfect sense. He spoke of forces "holding hands" and mechanical advantage as "getting the ropes to do the heavy lifting for you."

As they worked, side-by-side at the workbench, Harry was incredibly patient. When Yn fumbled with a knot, he gently guided her hands, his touch brief and warm. When she looked confused, he’d pause, rephrase, or draw a quick, simple sketch on a scrap of wood with a pencil. He celebrated her small victories – a knot tied correctly, a wheel spinning freely on its axle – with genuine enthusiasm.

"See? You've got it!" he’d say, his smile infectious. "Just needed a little hands-on wrestling match."

Yn, initially tense and embarrassed by her lack of understanding, found herself relaxing. Harry’s kindness was disarming. His genius wasn’t intimidating; it was generous. He wasn’t just helping her pass an assignment; he was sharing his passion, inviting her into his world of mechanical wonders.

As the pulley system began to take shape under their combined efforts, Yn started seeing Harry in a new light. Beyond the kind eyes and gentle hands, she noticed the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the almost artistic way he handled the tools, the subtle enthusiasm that radiated from him when a concept clicked for her. He was more than just the 'weird genius' from class; he was warm, understanding, and incredibly sweet. The afternoon sun filtered through the dusty workshop windows, illuminating the motes dancing in the air around them, creating an almost magical atmosphere.

They talked as they worked. He asked about her interests outside of engineering, listened attentively to her answers, and shared stories about his own projects, his eyes sparkling with excitement. He talked about his dream of inventing things that made life easier, his optimistic belief in the power of ingenuity. Yn found herself laughing easily, drawn in by his free-spirited nature and genuine warmth.

With Harry's guidance, piece by piece, the pulley system came together. They tested it, lifting a small weight. It worked perfectly, the wheels turning smoothly, the rope running freely, reducing the effort required exactly as the calculations predicted.

"We did it!" Harry exclaimed, sounding as pleased as if it were his own project. He looked at Yn, his green eyes full of warmth and pride for her effort. "You figured it out."

Looking at him in that moment, flushed with the success of their creation and the unexpected joy of his company, Yn felt a different kind of mechanism click into place within her. It wasn't just gratitude she felt. It was admiration for his mind, affection for his gentle nature, and a undeniable pull, a sweet, burgeoning romantic feeling that had blossomed in the sawdust-filled air of his workshop. The 'weird' guy had transformed into something entirely wonderful.

Harry’s smile lingered, his gaze holding hers for a beat longer than necessary. There was something in his eyes, a flicker of vulnerability, a hint of unspoken feeling that mirrored her own sudden revelation. He seemed just as affected by the shared experience as she was. But then, almost imperceptibly, a familiar caution seemed to cloud his expression, and he gently released her gaze, turning to begin tidying up a few tools.

"So," he said, his voice returning to its easy gentleness, though perhaps with a faint tremor, "you should be all set for Walcurst now."

"Yes," Yn managed, her voice a little breathless. "Harry, thank you. Honestly, I don't know what I would have done."

"Anytime, Yn," he said, meeting her eyes again, his smile soft. "Seriously. Don't hesitate to ask if you ever get stuck again. It's easier to build things together."

Walking home that evening, the finished pulley system felt incredibly light in her bag compared to the complex, heavy emotions swirling inside her. She had gone to Harry’s house seeking help with a technical problem and had left having discovered a connection she hadn’t anticipated. She was undeniably, surprisingly, falling for the eccentric genius.

The next day in class, presenting her working pulley system to Mr. Walcurst felt anticlimactic after the profound shift in her personal world. Mr. Walcurst examined her work thoroughly, testing the mechanism with the weight. He checked her calculations, tugged on the rope.

"Satisfactory, Ms. Ln" he finally stated, his tone neutral, offering no praise but no further criticism either. "Meets the specified requirements."

A quiet wave of relief washed over Yn. She had passed. Thanks to Harry.

She glanced across the room. Harry was sketching quietly in his notebook, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips as Mr. Walcurst dismissed her. When her eyes met his, his smile widened slightly, a silent acknowledgment of their shared victory and the secret connection forged in his workshop.

They continued to see each other in class, the sterile air of Walcurst's lecture hall now humming with an unspoken awareness between them. Harry remained his kind, gentle, eccentric self, occasionally offering Yn a subtle smile across the room or a quiet word about the lecture after class. Yn, usually cautious and reserved, found herself gravitating towards him, lingering after class, asking him questions about the material she now understood, just to have an excuse to talk.

The romantic feelings she had developed for Harry pulsed beneath the surface of her interactions with him. She saw the subtle signs of his reciprocal interest – the way his eyes lingered on her, the slight blush that sometimes dusted his cheeks when she paid him a compliment, the genuine pleasure he took in her company. Yet, neither of them acted on it. Yn, mature and cautious, was hesitant to potentially complicate their academic lives or risk the warmth of their newfound friendship.

The rest of Mr. Walcurst's lectures still felt like a challenge, but now, Yn had something new to look forward to. Glancing back at Harry, she realized that the path of engineering had just become infinitely more interesting, illuminated by the quiet brilliance and unexpected warmth of the 'weird' guy with the kind green eyes.

[egirlkelly69]

paper trails『izuku midoriya x fem reader』

✎⟿chapter 1⟿

The late afternoon sun filtered lazily through the tall windows of 1A's classroom. Aizawa’s monotone droned on at the front of the room, his usual lecture about teamwork in combat scenarios blending with the hum of tired students. It was the end of the first week at UA, and the initial excitement had given way to the exhaustion of long school days, and repetitive induction speeches.

You sat at your desk, absently doodling in the corner of your notebook. At least the week hadn’t been entirely bad. You’d been sitting with Mina during lunch, and her bubbly energy had made settling in a little easier. Through her, you’d chatted a bit with Kirishima and Denki, though you wouldn't consider yourself as close with them yet.

A soft thwack snapped you from your thoughts. A small, folded piece of paper landed on your desk. You blinked at it, then glanced to the side in the direction it came from.

Midoriya, who sat at the desk next to you, was hunched over his notes, his green eyes fixed firmly on the blackboard, as though he hadn’t just thrown something at you. His cheeks were tinged pink, though, giving him away.

You hesitated, confused, then picked up the note and unfolded it.

"Is it just me, or does Mr. Aizawa's voice make you feel like you’re falling asleep standing up?"

A snort escaped you before you could stop it. Aizawa paused mid-sentence, his sharp gaze flicking in your direction. You quickly ducked your head, hiding your grin behind your notebook.

When you dared another glance at Midoriya, he was looking at you, his lips pressed tight as though holding back laughter.

You grabbed your pen and scribbled a response.

"Definitely not just you. Does this even count as hero training? 'Cause I don’t think villains are gonna bore us to death."

Folding the paper carefully, you slid it onto his desk when Aizawa turned to write on the board.

Midoriya unfolded it with a quiet rustle and read it, his shoulders shaking slightly in silent laughter. He quickly wrote something back and passed it to you.

"Hey, maybe that’s Aizawa’s secret plan. Outlast the enemy with endless lectures."

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing out loud. The two of you continued your back-and-forth for the rest of the lesson, passing the paper as soon as Aizawa turned his back.

"What do you think he’d do if someone actually fell asleep?"

"Probably tape them to the ceiling and make them stay there all class."

"He totally would. Do you think he even sleeps himself?"

"I bet he naps while standing. Like a horse."

By the time the lecture ended, your boredom had completely melted away.

Aizawa clapped his hands sharply to get the class moving. “Alright, you’re done for the day. Get out of here.”

The scrape of chairs and the shuffle of footsteps filled the room as everyone gathered their things and headed for the door. You glanced at Midoriya, catching his gaze again. He smiled at you—It was still the shy, hesitant one you’d seen before when passing each other in the hallway, but it seemed more warm, a genuine grin that made your chest feel a little lighter.

“See you later,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you replied, surprised at how easy it was to smile back.

As you stepped into the hallway, you spotted Mina waiting up ahead, her pink hair bouncing as she waved you over. You jogged to catch up with her, joining in the conversation when she started chattering about weekend plans. I'm

Meanwhile, Midoriya joined Iida and Ochako, who were deep in conversation about the lecture. He looked over his shoulder once, just in time to see you glance back at him before Mina pulled you into a story about something Denki had said at lunch.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the city streets as you and Mina walked home together, your school bags swinging at your sides. The sounds of cars passing by and the chatter of people heading home filled the air, but Mina's voice was louder, full of energy.

“...and then Denki totally thought he could mimic Kirishima’s hardening Quirk somehow,” she said, throwing her head back with laughter. “The guy just slammed his arm into a wall like, ‘I’ve got this!’ and then screamed like a baby when it hurt!”

You laughed, “That sounds exactly like something he’d do.”

“It was hilarious,” Mina said, wiping a tear from her eye. “Anyway, what about you? Anything interesting happen today? You’ve been all smiley since we left school.”

Your lips twitched into a smile at her observation. “Oh... You’ll never guess what happened during class today.”

Mina stopped mid-step and turned to face you, glowing with excitement. “What? What happened? Tell me everything!”

“Midoriya passed me a note,” you finally said, watching her eyes widen with disbelief.

“No way. Midoriya? Quiet, All Might-obsessed Midoriya?”

“Yep,” you said, grinning.

“What did it say? Did he confess his undying love for you?!” Mina clasped her hands dramatically over her heart.

You snorted. “Hardly. He was just complaining about Aizawa’s lecture at first. And then... well, we just kept going. Passed notes the entire lesson.”

“Wait, the entire lesson?!” Mina’s jaw dropped, and she grabbed your arm, practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh my God! What were you talking about? Was it flirty? Did he make a move? Details, now!”

“Relax!” You laughed, prying her hands off your arm. “It wasn’t anything serious. Just... jokes, random stuff. He’s actually really funny. And nice.”

Mina gasped, her eyes narrowing as a sly grin spread across her face. “You like him, don’t you?”

You stumbled slightly at her question, quickly shaking your head. “What? No! I’ve barely said two actual words to him, I don’t even know the guy.”

Mina raised an eyebrow, not convinced in the slightest. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

“I’m serious!” you insisted, “We just passed notes. That’s it.”

Mina didn’t stop grinning, though. “Uh-huh, and now you’re blushing. Classic sign of a crush.”

“No! I’m not!” you protested, beginning to get flustered by her persistent interrogation.

Mina looped her arm through yours with a playful laugh. “It’s okay, you can admit it. He’s sweet, and kind of adorable. I’d ship it.”

You groaned, face hidden in your hands. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing between us. He’s just a guy I sat next to in class.”

“Oh, sure,” Mina teased. “Just a guy you’re definitely not crushing on.”

You rolled your eyes knowing she would never let this go.

[3ugene]

helllloooo it's mika here super excited to bring you ki yujin eugene!! i havent managed to scraggle up a bio or plots page just yet (thx to my timeliness i see) but i have a mini stats page up here and some waaaaaay too long info under the cut abt this 28 year old prim painter turned runaway tattoo artist living in apt #2b ^_^ v v excited to get to know everyone and their muses so please like this and i'll hit up your dms!!

𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙: her childhood memories are clouded entirely by nannies, a subsisting feeling of boredom and the cold marble tiles of her house. having two famous artists as parents (mom a sculptor and dad an ex-90s-idol turned ceo of an idol company) meant they were never really in the house nor did they spare her a glance until ...

it became noticeable to them that eugene shared their proclivity for the arts. suddenly, her scribbles were forced to have structure and introspection behind them (which sucked to say the least when her doodles were meant to be for fun)

she was subsequently shoved into every arts class possible

entered into a bunch of national and international art competitions from the age of 5-18 (came first-third every time 👍👍) but always felt restricted since every artwork of hers that the public saw and were submitted to competitions (think light watercolours, flowers, nature) were carefully picked by her parents and she never felt that it was really a representation of her

got super burned out at 18 from all these competitions so she applied to snu undergrad for fine arts and got in!! (🎉🎉🎉)

incredibly formative years for her and her work -- she met a bunch of people who thought like her and felt that she could be herself for the first time, experimenting with different styles, mediums, etc

inspired her art a LOT n she grew to develop her own style that she still carries forward to this day (main style is a ukiyo-e inspired watercolour paintings mixed with gothic/horror ideas ie imagine a softer takato yamamoto)

after snu she told her parents she was doing a masters in fine art at yonsei when in reality she was just jetting off between jpn and kr and interning at multiple tattoo studios LOL

after "finishing" the year, she held a bunch of exhibitions and galleries. her parents got super excited because they thought she was finally taking art seriously ...

and then they found out what she had been doing for the last year. insert ugly screaming plates smashing argument where years of resentment and bottled up feelings came to the surface!!

ended up with her getting cut off and kicked out of the family aged 22, and now they pretend like she never existed. she still hasn't unpacked how she feels about it/how traumatic it was. will she? find out never :^)

luckily she had made quite a lot of money from her exhibitions (all part of the plan👍) and used that to fund her next actions which were a) move out into a studio apartment and b) guesting at even more tattoo studios

eventually formed a loyal client base who followed her when she opened up her own tattoo studio 캔버스 (canvas) in hongdae around three/two years ago!! 15% student discount just make sure to book in advance :D

moved into gyeogang street lofts a couple of years ago because it was cheaper but also for convenience purposes (closer to studio and she also needs her morning coffee before doing anything)

sort of here there everywhere and nowhere all at once

𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙚: notable aesthetics include early morning cigarettes, the sound of pen scratching against paper, ink on your fingertips, late night drives, biting your bottom lip until it bleeds, headphones constantly pulled over ears, piles of sketchbooks haphazardly stacked, wine stained lips, half-finished journals and mood boards

not the most likeable person. reserved, has a short temper, pessimistic, blunt and doesn't tend to talk much (attributed to the fact that she didn't really have friends her age until she was 19). the little that she does say can come across as snarky until you realise that's just how she talks, but she is trying to do her best to remedy that and initiate conversations first since she realises it's not the best trait of hers. her 2025 resolution was to be more approachable but she's spoken to approximately two people that weren't her clients so far, and one of them was a barista at brewed awakenings

important to note that her abrasiveness never stems from actual ill-wish or anger, she's just unware of how to explain her feelings or communicate very effectively. many of her harsh corners are rounded if you look close enough

loves loves loves her work, however, and any discussion about art or tattooing means her eyes will immediately start shining

𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙘𝙠-𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙩𝙨: sry lack of organisation means i dont have a plots page set up yet but throwing some ideas out so regulars at canvas (she loves u and the only way she can show it is giving u strawberry mogu mogu before every session); first time tattoo-getters (she also loves u); friends from university; fellow artists; childhood friends that she heavily relies on and has seen her at her best and worst; ex-bestfs; fwbs; fwbs getting messier by the second; exes; exes with lingering feelings; situationships; gamer friends; a "muse" for her; someone who's willing to be her practice canvas; someone guesting/interning at canvas; someone who simply doesn't like her and vice versa; found brother/sister; someone she keeps snapping at because you keep catching her on a bad day she's so sorry she promises she's not a bitc-

[callsignfate]

Scandalized by a little romance novel

Day Sixteen of Writemas/Birthday posts!

If you want to see the scheduled posts go here If you want to see more posts like this go here

TW: Talk of 18+ topics, mention of sexual topics and novels.

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡ Kate sat behind the same person in class every day for weeks—you. She always watched as you barely focused half of the time, and the other half, you were scribbling nonsense notes into your notebook.

This time she noticed few people had actually come into the class, as it wasn't half as full as it usually was. Kate's eyes scanned the nearly empty classroom before she leaned back in her seat and watched as you pulled out a book. She couldn't see the cover, but she could tell there was a cover over it as you opened it.

At first, she didn't want to be nosy. Her eyes dashed back to her own notebook and textbook as the professor repeated most of the information she already knew. Her boredom took over, and she passively looked over your shoulder, squinting to read the words in your book.

For a moment, it was a cute romance scene before you turned the page a few more times, and Kate immediately saw the intense and insanely descriptive words that had turned into pure obscene erotica.

She almost gasped before she blinked to try to get the words that stuck behind her eyes out of her mind. A blatant red blush had set across her face as she tried to focus back on taking notes or anything she could to get her mind off of what she had just seen.

She stood as the class ended, as you did, tucking your book away before you turned to face Kate, knowing she had read the book over your shoulder from the gasp earlier. "Didn't like the book?" you teased as her face went another shade of red.

"No! And you were reading that in class with no reaction, nothing. Why read it in class?!" She whispered yelled at you before you laughed.

You laughed, enjoying the vivid redness that painted Kate's face. "Well, it's a good book, and I wanted to finish it. Didn't think you'd be spying on my reading choices, Laswell."

Kate crossed her arms, still flustered. "There's a time and a place for everything. That wasn't the time or the place, and you know it."

"Come on, Kate, it's just a book," you said with a grin, teasing her a bit more.

"Your definition of 'just a book' is... very different from mine," she retorted, her embarrassment slowly turning into annoyance.

You slung your backpack over your shoulder, keeping the playful banter alive. "Well, maybe you should broaden your literary horizons. It's not all boring textbooks and Shakespeare, you know."

Kate rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Just promise me you won't bring the equivalent of Fifty Shades of Grey next time. I don't need to witness that trauma."

"Who would've thought Kate Laswell would be scandalized by a little romance novel? Should I recommend some steamy classics to broaden your horizons?"

Kate gave you a mock glare. "You do that, and I might have to reconsider our friendship."

You laughed, the easy banter between you two making the mundane campus life more enjoyable. "Alright, alright, no more literary scandals. I'll stick to more 'acceptable' reading choices."

As you parted ways for your next classes, you couldn't help but think about how even the simplest things, like reading a book, became a source of entertainment in your friendship with Kate. She might pretend to be exasperated, but you knew she secretly found these moments as entertaining as you did.

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡

If you want to see the scheduled posts go here If you want to see more posts like this go here

[seasidesandstarscapes]

Latte Love

Summary: Bobby's regular job at the coffee shop turns a little more exciting when a new customer stops by

Rating: T

Genre: Modern AU, Coffee Shop, First Meetings, Slice Of Life, Getting to Know Each Other, Team Friendship

Words: 3090

A/N: for @b00ks1ut !! this was so much fun to write ahfjdsklf

-

AO3

or

No one should be awake this early. 

The fluorescent lights taunt Bobby, mocking his lack of sleep. But between classes and extracurriculars, he doesn’t have time to look for a new job.

He’s lucky he’s stayed at this one for so long. 

Bobby sighs and runs a tired hand down his face. Someone better come in soon otherwise he’s going to tell Joe he’s going home. 

The bells on the front entrance jingle and Bobby perks up. He puts on his best PR smile, waits for the tall stranger to reach the counter. 

If Bobby is tired, then this guy is a walking zombie. His eyes are slow to read the menu, his shifting stance moves in slow motion. 

Bobby bites his lip, his patience being tested. At least if the guy falls asleep right now, moving a body will give Bobby something to do. 

“Just an americano, please,” the man orders at last. 

Bobby rings up the order, quick tapping on the tablet. “Name?”

Tall and Handsome, Bobby has decided to call him for now, raises a brow. Sure he’s the only one in here, but Bobby’s boredom is making him follow the rules for once. 

“Okay,” Bobby just shrugs and tells Tall and Handsome what he needs to pay. 

The clatter of coins, rumpled bills, jars Bobby but he manages to stop a penny that’s about to roll off the counter. 

“Sorry,” the man mutters. 

Bobby smiles a little, shakes his head. “Hey, it’s early.”

“Is it?” Tall and Handsome looks around for a clock and his eyes widen a little when he sees the time.

“Didn’t get much sleep?” Bobby smooths out the dollar bills, sorts the coins to make exact change. 

All he gets is a mumble in return and a looming shape heading towards the pick up counter. 

With the shake of his head, Bobby grabs a cup, writes Tall and Handsome on it before preparing the order. The sound of the espresso machine makes Bobby’s teeth grind. He shouldn’t have to hear this until at least 6am. 

At the very least he has someone nice to look at.

His one customer stares into oblivion and Bobby wants to get into his line of sight. Of course, he doesn’t. Not until he has the coffee all ready. 

When he sets it on the counter, Tall and Handsome blinks at the cup, turns it to see Bobby’s scribble. His face remains blank and Bobby’s heart sinks. 

“Thanks,” the man looks away. 

Maybe it’s the lights but Bobby is sure his face is turning red. That’s a win in his book.

“No problem. See you soon.”

Tall and Handsome stares at Bobby for a few seconds before he takes his coffee and leaves. Bobby watches him go, almost sad that he isn’t staying. 

He’s being ridiculous. This is just a one time customer, his sleep-addled mind is making him act like a lovesick dog. 

Groaning, Bobby thunks his head against the counter. God, he needs a nap.

~

“You can’t keep wallowing, Bobby.”

Days have passed but Bobby still can’t get over the morning with Tall and Handsome. The memory sneaks into his mind at the worst times and Bobby has messed up for the fourth time today. 

“Has he come back in?” Bobby shoots back at Joe. “No. So I scared him off.”

“Maybe it’s out of his way,” Joe nudges Bobby away from the pastry case. 

With a full tray of scones, Joe carefully sets them in their spot while Bobby stares at him. 

“Besides, even our regulars don’t come in every single day.”

“Nancy missed one day because she had car problems.”

Joe slams the case door shut and Bobby backs up. He doesn’t need to be walloped by the tray today. 

“Why do you even care? You’ve seen him one time.”

Joe has a point but there’s something about the guy that Bobby can’t let go of. Maybe it was his tired stare full of questions or his quiet demeanor so unlike Bobby’s chaos. Whatever it is, he’s invaded Bobby’s waking thoughts with no plans to leave. 

A few customers come in then, stopping the conversation for now. That’s fine, Bobby needs the time to think. The orders are easy, fast, and Bobby is tapping at the menu, asking the next person what they want. 

“Americano, please.”

Bobby recognizes the voice and his head snaps up. Tall and Handsome stands before him, still haggard but a bit more awake with the sunlight wrapping him in a halo. 

“Hi,” Bobby smiles.

This gets him a raised brow and Bobby clears his throat. “Uh, name?”

The repetition is almost laughable but this time Bobby actually gets what he asks for. 

“Don.”

“Don,” Bobby repeats. 

It fits. Short, sweet, right to the point. He takes the cash from Don, but all conversation dries up as another customer grabs his attention. Joe is quick to help with orders and when Bobby can leave the register, he has to almost wrestle Don’s cup away from Joe.

Joe frowns at him which Bobby only waves at, before writing Don’s name, committing the name to memory. Don’s order is one of the easiest and when Bobby calls out for him, he can’t help the wide grin that spreads on his face.

Don’s face is unreadable and he glances at his order before looking at Bobby. 

“No Tall and Handsome this time?”

Heat rushes to Bobby’s face and he lets out an embarrassed laugh. “Well, I know your name now.”

Don hums at this and then his eyes dart down to Bobby’s name tag. “Bobby. Thank you.”

Bobby’s heart thumps in his chest, his grin as wide as the Cheshire cat’s. Again, he watches Don leave the store and a need digs at the back of his mind. 

Joe’s voice shouting a name next to his ear makes Bobby jump and he nearly collapses to the floor. 

“Jesus, Joe,” Bobby huffs. 

Joe doesn’t apologize, only hands Bobby two orders that need to be finished. With the shake of his head, Bobby gets to work, just wanting these customers out of here. 

He has to figure out how to talk to Don the next time he comes in and maybe not make such a fool of himself 

~

Bobby doesn’t appreciate Roger’s staring. It digs under his skin and makes Bobby feel itchy. 

“What?” Bobby snaps at him.

“I’ve just never seen you like this,” Roger shrugs. “Not even when you were dating that one girl.”

“Natalie,” Bobby supplies. “Anyway, this isn’t Natalie for one.”

It’s silent for a beat and Roger keeps staring. “And two?”

“I haven’t gotten there yet,” Bobby mutters. 

In an attempt to distract himself, Bobby checks over the pastry case. Chuck made too many cranberry muffins and Bobby grabs two of them. 

With a quick glance over his shoulder to see if Roger is busy, Bobby shoves the muffins in a to-go box and stashes it away. 

The sun is just starting to set, thank goodness. Today, Bobby actually wants to get home to his schoolwork, maybe get a head start on his projects. He’s sweeping behind the counter when the front door opens and Bobby sets the broom to the side with a small sigh. 

Why some people come in five minutes before close is beyond him.

“I’m sorry, I lost track of the time.”

Bobby’s smile is instant and he all but leaps to the register. “Don!”

Don is out of breath, face red. He’s digging in his pockets, a dollar here, a quarter there. 

“Same as always?” Bobby slides the money off the counter. 

He gets a nod but Don is still rummaging through his pockets. “Shit, that’s all I have.”

Don is ten cents short and Bobby waves him off. “Don’t sweat it. Oh, and I got you these.”

Bobby grabs the box of muffins and holds it out to Don. The suspicious glare is understandable but Bobby doesn’t move. Not until Don takes the box with tentative hands. 

Smile as bright as ever, Bobby prepares Don’s drink, hums to himself as he does so. When he sets the drink on the counter, Don grabs the cup and in that moment, their fingers brush. 

Bobby jerks away first, clearing his throat. He tries not to think about the callouses he felt, the warmth of Don’s hand. 

Silence edges between them, Don looking right at the ground. His mouth starts to open, only to be interrupted by a clatter by the front door. 

Roger has flipped the open sign over and he just gives Bobby and Don a quick glance before heading into the back kitchen. 

“Sorry, I’ll leave now,” Don snatches his coffee and scurries out. 

It all happens so fast, Bobby’s mind only catches up when he sees Don’s figure disappear. 

“Roger!” Bobby yells, storming into the back. “What the hell?”

Roger and Chuck’s whispered conversation comes to an abrupt end with Roger cowering behind Chuck. 

“He didn’t mean to,” Chuck frowns. “And anyway, who’s your boyfriend?”

Bobby’s eyes bulge and he clenches his fists. “I hardly know the damn man. Who’s been talking?”

“You’re as subtle as a brick, Bobby,” Chuck squirms away from Roger. “He really that cute?”

“You don’t get an opinion,” Bobby bites with crossed arms. “He’s…fine.”

As offended as Chuck should be, he brushes off Bobby’s spoiled attitude. He snatches Bobby’s hat off his head, ruffles his hair before leaving the kitchen. 

Bobby swears at Chuck, grabs his hat back and firmly sets it on his head. He’s working with a bunch of goons. Roger is still keeping his distance but before Bobby can give him any reassurances, Ulbrickson’s head pokes out from the office. He looks between the two boys and then stares at Bobby. 

“Those muffins are coming out of your next paycheck.”

~

Someone must have it in for him. 

The moment Bobby clocks in, he’s running around nonstop. Shelves need to be stocked, machines need to be cleaned, and the line of customers starts as soon as they unlock the door. 

By the time the first bit of light starts the show, Bobby is ready for a nap. That is until his saving grace appears at the counter.

“Hey,” Bobby greets with a small smile. 

Don’s eyes are red and his posture is hunched, trying to make himself smaller. Worry sparks in Bobby’s mind. 

“Don?”

Don’s head jerks up, his gaze watery, dazed. “No sleep.”

Bobby is sure of that, but under the surface there’s so much more. His voice is ragged, too quiet. Each breath is a struggle. 

As unnoticeable as he can be, Bobby gets Don’s drink but before Don has a chance to grab it, Bobby takes him by the arm. 

With the coffee in the other hand, Bobby sits Don down at the back of the cafe before giving him his drink. 

Don’s first sip is shaky at best, a small shudder leaving him while he closes his eyes. Bobby waits, sits close enough for their legs to touch. Enough for Don to know he’s staying. 

“You ever wonder what your purpose is?” Don mumbles.

Bobby can’t say he knows Don, but he’s absolutely sure this isn’t him. His face is pale and his hair hides his face like a curtain. Bobby thinks to grab his hand. Instead, he clasps his own in his lap, thinks over his words. 

“Sure. It’s probably not serving coffee, but for now, it’s where I’m at.”

Don has opened his eyes now, his stare focused on the cup in front of him. 

“I don’t think anyone can ever know. We just have to take things one day at a time. I think we’d lose our minds otherwise.”

With a sigh, Don leans back and sinks into his seat. “I’m sorry,” he brushes his hair away from his face. 

“Nothing to apologize for,” Bobby meets his gaze.

It’s being plunged into ice cold water while getting thrown into a roaring fire. Bobby’s chest tightens but he doesn’t look away from Don. He doesn’t dare to.

“Anyone tell you how pretty you are?” Don tilts his head.

Bobby blinks. Warmth rushes to his face and Bobby struggles to find his voice. In this pause, Don’s eyes widen and he snaps up. 

“I gotta go,” he blurts out and rushes out of the coffee shop. 

Still in shock, Bobby’s mind spins. He’s not unfamiliar with compliments but this one is so unlike anything he’s heard before.

In a daze, Bobby cleans up the table and heads back to the counter. He’s sluggish, his thoughts jumping between Don and his words. 

“Bobby?”

He blinks, stares into the concerned eyes of Jim. A strong hand on his shoulder grounds him and Bobby lets out a heavy breath. 

“Do you think I’m attractive?” He asks.

Jim’s eyebrows furrow and he presses his hand to Bobby’s forehead. Bobby’s first instinct is to slap it away, so he does. With this, he comes back to himself and he lets out a small laugh. 

“Never mind, Stub.”

“Easy for you to say,” Jim frowns, but he turns back the machines anyway. 

Bobby can only hope Don will be alright and he floats through the rest of the day with Don’s words echoing in his mind. 

~

The rain hasn’t let up all day. 

Thunder rolls, lightning crashes and yet people still come in for their coffee. It’s ridiculous but Bobby has to make rent somehow. 

Fat drops of rain thud against the glass and the whole cafe shudders with the raging wind. They might have to hunker here for the night if this continues. 

The door whips open and Bobby scrambles to help close the door. His hopes of staying dry are shattered, but it doesn’t matter. 

Not when he sees a wet, soaking Don in front of him. 

“Shit, why’d you come here?”

Don shakes his head, water flinging everywhere. He makes a noise at the back of his throat, leaving Bobby to fill in the gaps. 

It’s all the answer Bobby needs however, and he grabs Don’s hand, tugging him to the back. He ignores the stares Gordy and Johnny give them and positions Don near the oven.

“Bobby,” Chuck starts to complain and then clamps his mouth shut.

Bobby ignores Chuck’s silly grin, rummages around the boxes until he finds some of the cafe’s merchandise. Large should fit Don and Bobby hands the long sleeved shirt to him. 

“We don’t have pants but I’ll see if Joe has an extra pair in his locker.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Don says but it doesn’t help that he keeps on shivering. 

Bobby raises a brow and then sprints to the back. He memorized Joe’s combination ages ago, promising to never use it to his advantage, but right now is an emergency. He praises Joe in his head when he sees a pair of sweatpants and he rushes back to the kitchen. Chuck is chugging along with his pastries, making small talk with Don. He gets small answers and Bobby can’t help the way his heart flutters. 

“Here,” Bobby gives Don the sweatpants. 

Don stares at the clothing set in his hands and then starts with peeling off his hoodie. 

“Oh, shit, right,” Bobby leads Don to the locker room. 

No sense in failing their next health inspection. Bobby slides out of the room to give Don his privacy and scowls when Chuck smirks at him. 

“Shut up,” Bobby mutters as he leans against the wall.

“Hey, it’s cute,” Chuck shrugs as he fills up a muffin tin. “Since you’re back here, why not make yourself useful?”

Bobby has half a mind to tell Chuck off but to his better judgment he grabs a bowl of batter and helps get another tin ready for the oven.

When Don emerges from the locker room, he shuffles out, but doesn’t cross the threshold. Bobby sees a familiar pair of socks on his feet and bites back his smile. Shorty and Joe are going to kill him. Hopefully, he can convince them it was all for a good cause.

“So, Bobby,” Chuck starts. “Don was telling me he’s at UW too. Studying geology.”

“Really?” Bobby pauses. “Small world.”

Don’s mouth quirks, but he doesn’t open his mouth. Not out of discomfort. In fact, if Bobby looks closer, it seems Don is very much at ease. 

Chuck’s stare digs under Bobby’s skin and he takes a breath in.

“We should meet up between classes sometime,” Bobby offers. “Maybe grab a coffee.”

Don laughs at this, shocking both Bobby and Chuck.

“Okay, okay,” Bobby realizes his mistake. “Grab lunch then.”

“I’d like that.”

The locker room door opens and Don jumps out of the way as a confused Shorty sidles past him.

“What, our new hires don’t even have shoes now? Wait, are those my socks?”

Bobby rushes to explain, leaving out choice parts, but Shorty figures it out anyway. 

“Aw, you’ll love him. He’s a good kid,” Shorty throws his arm around Bobby’s shoulder while grinning at Don. 

“Get off,” Bobby shoves him away and this only makes Shorty laugh. 

Even though Don is biting down his own chuckle, Bobby could never be mad at him. He can’t help match Don’s smile and he has to steel himself from hugging Don. 

“Since when do you have a boyfriend?” Gordy marches into the kitchen followed in tow by Johnny.

“And you didn’t even introduce us?” Johnny balks. 

“Okay, everybody out of my kitchen!” Chuck shouts and then turns back to Don, pointing a batter-covered spoon at him. “Except you. You have no choice.” 

Bobby is quick to shove his two friends out while Shorty, who is propped against the pastry case, gets a glare. 

“Really, man?”

Shorty just keeps on smiling, saved by a customer clamoring into the cafe. The storm is rolling away and a few more cars pull up. 

Bobby will get back at his friend later, but right now, there’s a rush. Despite the madness, Bobby peeks into the kitchen every time he passes and smiles at Don through the rounded windows. The smile he gets in return is beauty personified. 

How funny it is that Don had been so close all this time. Whether it’s luck or fate that brought them together, Bobby can only hope Don will remain a permanent mark on his life. Order after order keeps Bobby busy, but he’s shaking with excitement, an anxious need to get to know Don better. 

The end of work can’t come fast enough. 

[chaoticrebels]

✪ 。゜ ⠀ ☆ 。゜ ⠀ ★ Continued » { Billy }

✦ —   * ⠀ / ⠀ 𝙁𝙄𝙇𝙀𝘿 𝙐𝙉𝘿𝙀𝙍 ⠀﹕⠀ ❪ @legends-and-savages ❫

//Don't mind me, had to move the ask reply from my drafts to a new post cause the ask was done with legacy... Also took awhile to get to the reply, sorry about that.

When Steve had started to scribble on his arm, it was because he was curious to see if his soulmate would answer back. But they never did, it was to the point if he couldn't feel the other's emotions then he would almost swear he didn't have one. Yet it was almost enough to make him stop writing on himself for a bit, always felt bad that he was probably driving his soulmate insane. The only time he would still write to his other half, was the words I'm sorry whenever his emotions were out of control, which usually happened on days he clashed with his father. Because while he could control the scribbling part, he couldn't control the emotions. The rest of the time, it was just random drawings and sayings that he drew out of boredom. Then during school and when his popularity grew, notes, numbers and anything he need to remember would appear more as well. But never his name, that was the one thing he wouldn't do. Then one day, all the scribbling stopped for a bit. At least one day when he was sitting in class, bored out of his mind that he just started writing on his arm again. It wasn't much, just notes. But then Steve decided to simply write hey on his wrist, despite not expecting an answer. Though he quickly covered it up like he wasn't trying to talk to his soulmate again with don't forget to smile.