#(( i am in dire need of comfort ))

[firenati0n]

and all i can taste is this moment, and all i can breathe is your life

by firenati0n on ao3

T | 9999

tags: city of angels au, guardian angel henry, lawyer alex, 5+1, dual pov, hurt/comfort, angst with a HAPPY ENDING! NOT THE MOVIE ENDING I PROMISEEEEEEEEEEEEE

“In all the years, across all the universes, in the midst of all these people…you saw me. You felt me somehow. A gossamer fine thread connecting us, yet you grasped and tugged and held on tight. If losing my wings means I gain you, then that is a loss I will bear with gratitude.”

Five times Guardian Angel Henry yearns for a truly human sensory experience, and the one time he feels them all at once. Or, Henry discovers the joys of humanity through Alex’s eyes, finds himself, and falls in love. Or, Henry takes a leap of faith, and Alex catches him.

xoxo roop

also i know i talked about this in literally january so tagging some folks who expressed interest in this in the past pls don't mind me <3 ilysm xoxo

@ninzied @suseagull04 @onward--upward @duchessdepolignaca03 @@candyspandemonium @anincompletelist @inexplicablymine @heysweetheart-writes @wordsofhoneydew @nocoastposts @onthewaytosomewhere @magicandarchery @celeritas2997 @cha-melodius @junebugclaremontdiaz @kiwiana-writes @eusuntgratie @bigassbowlingballhead @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @littlestar2911 @leaves-of-laurelin @tinyarmedtrex @galitzine-nick @anchoredarchangel @gltzine @getmehighonmagic @thirdeye1234 @movetoheavens @starkfridays @indestructibleheart @littlemisskittentoes @songliili @theprinceandagcd @gay-flyboys

[pinky-in-blankets]

{ Scribbles is an Ambivert. On the few days she isn't extroverted, She wears a Bell around her tail to indicate she's more nervous then usual. The more she jingles it, the more nervous or uncomfortable she is.

If it gets really bad- she'll let out a bunch of loud squeaks for help. It's best to not be around her or being the cause of her distress - or else you're gonna be in for a very unfortunate time with either Jax or Caine- whoever gets to her first. }

[jaypgartifacts]

october is coming. which means, of course, that it is time for the horrors. tfw the dream self must confront the Nightmare Self

[likehephaestionwhodied]

I'm so fucking alone it makes me want to strangle myself.

[honestlyvan]

I think I get what you mean about the weird found family stuff. I also don't really love shipping stuff, but, at least in the last couple of years, I find people get real weird about stuff like "oh he's the found family dad" sort of thing. It's hard to describe why it weirds me out, but I think it's that compulsion to give the characters "roles" in the found family stuff, where when I think of irl friends who are as close to me as family, I don't think of them as like a "sibling", they're just in my mind categorized under "family".

Of course this isn't even mentioning the weird sex negative stuff. Sometimes I want characters to have freaky weird sex stuff in their lives! Unsanitized. People into genfic can be weird about that stuff.

Yeah like for me it was the worst during the height of XC2's popularity and the absolute wealth of raging about the anime fanservice game having anime fanservice in it and the desperate urge to Divest From The Queer Horny that came with it. I don't know if the majority of the people perpetuating the moral panic eventually realised they were just useful idiots and the Killing The God That Supplanted Reality franchise was the place to get into endless unnecessary tailspins about sexual purity or not but it definitely put me off on quite a permanent basis in trying to do anything that deals with eroticism in this franchise.

It was all very prescriptivist, it was all very twee, it was all trying so hard to be cuddly and nonthreatening and safe, and it just got so uncomfortable when people were bringing all their deeply sexual baggage into the conversation over a story that, as horny as it was in places, just completely lacked any sort of genuine eroticism to me. The very few things that were hot to me that I was interested in exploring were completely ignored by-and-large, disinteresting to anyone but me, specifically. And I just couldn't get a conversational foothold about them with anyone, so I gave up.

So I kinda have this same problem with XC3 atm where I actually do find some things in it really damn hot and I am embracing the eroticism and then.... I just fail to find people with similar interests so I have no good fic to read and nobody to really talk to about it. (I've dragged two people into XC3 with me to have someone to wordvomit about the OTP to). The overt hostility against sex isn't as present, in my experience, but even if people didn't titter around the sexual aspects of the story as much.... IDK man I am tired and I am not a teenager anymore at this point themes of self-discovery and adolescence and normative pairbonding just don't do shit for me. None of it is queer and weird enough, nobody here is that attractive to me anyway, I'd much rather read gen, but then the gen is also kinda just. Like that lol.

And I know I'm probably biased, I definitely read less Xenofic than I'd like to because I look at how stuff is tagged and the summary and go "is it worth the disappointment" when there's probably good writing being done out there and I'm not giving it a chance b/c I'm fucking bitter. Like it's entirely possible that just like XC1 and XC2 didn't really have a ton of overlap in the fandom, XC2 and XC3 don't also and the things I'm really put off by the hardest are not even a thing in the fandom zeitgeist anymore.

But like man. IDK. The things I want to do with this story and the things people are doing with this story are just... really divergent. This has always been a franchise where I like the worldbuilding more than I like the characters, and then I will have like the one or two characters that I absolutely 100% am completely bananas about and they never get written in ways that I would enjoy reading.

[forlix]

𝐚𝐜𝐞・h.h.

— volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.

words・15.2k

pairing・volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)

genres・college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!

warnings・mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.

playlist・collision by stray kids・value by ado・waiting for us by stray kids・eternity by bang chan・dreaming by smallpools・fly high!! by burnout syndromes

a/n・writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved ♡

“Not a word out of you,” you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. “I’m serious.”

Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. “When did people stop saying good morning?”

Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Please, angel.”

“No! Leave me alone.”

Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. “Coffee on me for a week.”

At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you. 

When you finally humor him and turn around, you’re flinching like you’re in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes if he wasn’t so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.

“What the hell did you do?”

“Tried to cut my own bangs,” you sigh. “It didn’t go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.”

Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. “You’ve seen Naruto?”

You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when he’s staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.

The air between you curdles like sour milk.

Things are awkward between you often, he’s realized recently. What’s more, he didn’t think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailor’s knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh you’ve given him since. Maybe there’s more to it, maybe there isn’t—Hyunjin doesn’t think about it much. He doesn’t like thinking in general.

You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere. 

“Of course I’ve seen Naruto,” you quip, and everything is normal again. “Why do you seem surprised?”

“Because you’re so scholarly.”

“I am not scholarly.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.”

“I need to get my steps in somehow.”

“You didn’t know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look up—”

“God, I learned so much about you that day."

“Your favorite social media platform is Quizlet,” he bursts, exasperated. “Quizlet.”

“It is not.” An introspective pause. “Or is it?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. “There is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I don’t buy it.”

“Honestly, I thought you’d have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.”

He does, though. Matter of fact, he’s been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorer’s hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.

But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. He’s reminded that it’s hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time, Vector resemblance and all.

He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.

“Watermelon,” he mumbles with a sickening smile.

You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. “You’re getting soft.”

He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.

“I only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,” you say as you’re strolling out the building together, “and I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?”

“Your faith gets me out of bed in the morning,” Hyunjin deadpans. “I’ll handle it, love. Text me your order.”

All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that he’d recognize anywhere.

“Body flicker jutsu,” you whisper, and then you’re scurrying off without another word—but you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quad’s busy thrum.

Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the court’s sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.

“Don’t look at me,” Minho says mid-stretch. “Godspeed.”

“Thanks, cap.” Useless.

Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. It’s all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the man’s propensity for violence. He’s packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.

Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “You can read, right?”

“Yes, coach,” he sighs. Everyone’s expectations for him are subterranean.

From: Park Jinyoung «asiansoul_jyp@snu.edu» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «cb97@snu.edu» Subject: Not good See email from Hwang’s antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now he’s failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP JP Sent from my iPad

Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. “Wrong email.”

“Yep.”

From: Kim Kyeyoung «kyeyoungkim@snu.edu» To: Park Jinyoung «asiansoul_jyp@snu.edu» Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin To Director of Athletics Park, I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kids’ movie instead of his midterm paper. It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him. Regards, Kim Kyeyoung Professor of Anthropology

“That’s bullshit!”

“We’re in agreement there.” Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. “Do you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?”

“Does anyone?” Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman. “No way you just had that.”

“I had it delivered ten minutes ago,” Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. “All student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.”

Hyunjin stiffens. “What the fuck? I’ve never heard—”

“If any Department of Athletics personnel,” Bang continues, raising his voice, “have reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.”

He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. “Read that name aloud for me.”

Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.

“Hwang Hyunjin,” he says under his breath.

The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.

Then comes the yelling.

“The Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?”

“It was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! How’s that for anthropology?”

“BAD!” Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. “VERY, VERY BAD!”

Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.

“You’ve never had trouble with school before.” He leans over his desk imposingly. “What the hell happened this semester? What changed?”

Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjin’s pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists haven’t discovered yet.

He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.

“Beats me,” he fibs. “Typical junior year stress, maybe.”

“Does any of it have to do with Piazza?” 

Hyunjin shudders.

It just might, actually.

Modesty has no place in the career he’s had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution. It’s a mouthful, he knows.

It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.

At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the world—and current home to Hyunjin’s personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.

Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didn’t ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.

Piazza replied within the week.

For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the team’s social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazza’s emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.

But that’s the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because he’s laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldn’t care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you can’t contain your excitement. You, you, you.

He cards a hand through his air, regaining focus. “You know how I feel about Piazza.”

“Expect the worst, hope for the best.” Bang’s chair skids backwards as he stands up. “I think it’s a good approach.”

Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.

“But hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,” he says. “Do not let it, Hyunjin. I’m not asking.”

Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin can’t help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.

Bang lets go of him. “I’m not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.”

Hyunjin groans. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”

A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.

“I thought you said your order was complicated.”

You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.

“Was it not?” You ask.

“It was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if you could handle that much.” He flips you off as you squint at the cup. “Someone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.”

“What? Really?”

“No.”

He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; you’re still cackling by the time you’ve straightened up again.

“Why did you get this, anyway?” Hyunjin grumbles. “I thought you had a sweet tooth.”

“I do, but you don’t.”

Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.

“Thanks,” he says at last. “Nice of you.”

“I know, right? Hated it,” you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.

You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “Yo.”

Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. “I fully forgot you were in this class.”

“Well, I’m due for my weekly appearance.” Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hi,” you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.

You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the “I would relinquish all of my rights for you” way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. He’s funny, gorgeous, and talented—a vocal performance major with a student-athlete contract—and you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks it’s hilarious.

You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. You’re met with something far more worrisome.

He’s thinking.

That can’t be good.

Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. “Can this guy do his fucking job?”

“He wouldn’t have to if you didn’t quit,” Seungmin answers. “I’ll never forget you, Manager Hwang.”

“Shut up.” You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. “Our captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League rule—Seung, why do you look morose?”

“I’m mourning.” Seungmin does look morose indeed. “Hyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the season. It was so funny.”

Hyunjin slides down his seat. “It was the worst experience of my life.”

Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the mention of larceny. You choose to digress. “Can I ask why?”

“He had to be responsible,” Seungmin whispers. “For other people.”

The top of Hyunjin’s head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. “Poor thing.”

“Hardass refused to do it again this year, so now we’re recruiting.” Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. “I don’t suppose you have four hours to spare every day.”

Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. “This one? Team manager?”

“I can see it.”

“I can see killing myself, maybe.”

The next time you reach for him is to hit his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall. Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.

“Seems like a great candidate to me,” Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, it’s pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.

Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. “I miss when you didn’t come to class, Seungmin.”

Eighty minutes later, you’ve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.

“Sorry.” He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. “I couldn’t unsee it.”

You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.

Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.

“I didn’t like that at all,” you say.

“I don’t care. I have something to tell you.”

“You have a kid, don’t you?”

“Wha—huh? Who do you think I am?”

“The one-night-stand’s poster child. The champion of the contraception industry.”

“Yeah, contraception industry. It’s right there in the name.”

You can’t argue with that. “What do you have to tell me?”

A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjin’s face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that you’re about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you should’ve saved the secret son bit for another time.

“I’m failing anthro.”

So much for a serious conversation. 

“Come again?”

He repeats the mystifying statement.

“You’re joking.” The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair. “You’re failing anthro?”

“I just said that, yes.”

“You’re failing anthropology?”

“Mhm.”

“Just so we’re clear—you’re failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?”

“Yes. I’m glad you’re having fun.”

This is the best day of your life. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Yeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Hyunjin clears his throat. “Anyways, I was thinking—”

“Wow! Congratulations. That’s a big—oomf—”

Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.

“I was thinking,” he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, “you and I can work out some kind of deal.”

You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. “I think I just ate some athletic tape.”

“Happens. You wanna hear the deal or not?”

“Does it involve ingesting more sports equipment?”

“Do you want it to?”

“Just tell me the deal, boy.”

“Alright.” He takes a deep breath. “If you help me pass this class, I’ll set you up with Seungmin.”

Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: “I’m gonna need you to elaborate.”

“On which part?”

“All of them. Everything.”

Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. “Are you hungry?”

You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think it’s the prime minister you’re about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.

He’s chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they don’t know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that he’s drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager you’ve had better company.

“You like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.” He traces over the wrapper’s left corner. “And I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?”

“Yes, definitely,” you mumble around a mouthful of bread. “Go on.”

“Conclusion one: you should be my tutor.” He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. “You also like my teammate, but he’s neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold of—for most people.”

“Let me guess. Not for you.”

“Ten points to Ravenclaw.” His British accent is nightmarish. “Seung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.”

“To dinner or to practice?”

“To both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusion—”

He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.

“—you should manage our team.”

“I knew it!” You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. “You’re trying to swindle me! You can’t pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?”

“It’s not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didn’t do shit!”

“Yeah? Who was your last manager?”

“Me!”

Oh, right. “But you hated it!”

“I hate everything that isn’t playing volleyball. Try again.”

You fold your arms over your chest. “You said you’d kill yourself if I managed you.”

Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. “It’s true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seung’s—”

“STOP!” A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. “Stop right there. I get it. Stop.”

“It’s a good plan.” He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. “You know it is.”

You’re loath to admit that you do. “When did you even come up with all this?”

He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class. No fucking wonder he’s failing.

“What is this, mock trial?”

The owner of this voice is the third man you’ve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighbor’s cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. There’s a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like he’s enjoying the company of a court jester.

“Slamming tables like fuckin’ tariff lawyers,” the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “I could see it from all the way inside.”

“Captain!” Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. “Just the man I was hoping to see.”

“Really? I thought you’d be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.”

“I would never.”

“You did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.” He pauses for emphasis. “As fast as possible.”

“Well, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.” Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. “And today, I bring you a new team manager.”

You stiffen. “I haven’t—”

“Is that so!” When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. “Music to my ears. What’s your name, cutie?”

You catch Hyunjin’s eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungmin’s—

Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.

“Y/N,” you grumble. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

He shakes on it heartily. “Likewise. I’m Minho. Welcome to the team.”

“Yes, welcome to the team,” Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.

He’s lucky that his proposal holds so much water. He’s lucky that you don’t plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.

You do kick him under the table, though.

The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You can’t tell which is the bigger endeavor.

“I’m going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,” you tell Changbin.

The team’s libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the university’s sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and you’ve already decided he’s the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.

“You will not,” Changbin answers. “One, because this won’t involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldn’t ask you to help if it did.”

“You’ve misunderstood me,” you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. “I want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.”

“Oh.” He opens the door with a frown. “Oh dear.”

Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.

“I am going to get maimed,” Hyunjin tells Changbin.

“Have some faith, both of you,” Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages you’re looking for and begin poring over them like you’re cramming for an exam. “You’ll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.”

“Studied?” He repeats. “For this?”

“I’m pretty sure Quizlets were made.”

“Three, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. “Now tape me.”

Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. “See? What could go wrong?”

The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly “sprained his ass,” leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.

You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypress—laundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesn’t wear that insufferable cologne to practice.

“Go easy on me, yeah?”

While Hyunjin’s tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.

“I can’t promise anything.”

With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.

A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. It’s the first time you’ve seen his fingers untaped; they’re pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.

Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

“No. Maybe a little.” You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. “Fine, yes. Very.”

“But you made Quizlets. You’re prepared for anything.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that he’s making fun of you. “I hate you.”

“Actually,” he hums, “I think you care about me, love. That’s why you’re nervous.”

“Nonsense—I care about disappointing Changbin. That’s it.”

“And me. And hopping on Seungmin’s dick. All these things don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.

“Have you lost your mind?” You whisper-shout, your face on fire. “Don’t bring that up here. I’ll maim you for real.”

The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you don’t hate when that happens.

“My bad, my bad. It slipped out. I won’t—”

One incremental shift of Hyunjin’s body later, you find that you’re precariously, alarmingly close to one another.

So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath. 

Things are awkward between you often, you’ve realized recently. You’re both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later you’ll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.

Since you’ve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. You’re not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesn’t go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as they’re doing now.

Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. “What for?”

He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.

“Caring about me.”

Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.

“Now stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.”

“Okay,” you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. “No need to get violent.”

It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.

As you’re walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. “It’s not too tight, is it?”

“It’s perfect.” He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. “Want another taste?”

You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. “You are truly grotesque.”

The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.

The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.

You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.

Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ball’s tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.

“Oi, this isn’t your backyard! Go pick that up!” Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.

Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. “Crazy bitch. What the fuck was that?”

“Lower and faster. Further from the net too,” Seungmin returns. “How’d it feel?”

The grin on Hyunjin’s face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. “Like we just won everything.”

He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. You’ve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjin—and you can’t move.

It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.

A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you. 

“Hello?” He immediately starts laughing. “Where the fuck are you?”

You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. “My face is preoccupied at the moment.”

“Oh, you have to show me. Please.”

You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.

“Motherfucker!”

He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “I’ll treasure this forever.”

“You’ll be punished, Hwang.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle. 

“Aaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.”

The first thing you did as Hyunjin’s tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the “truly piteous timbre” of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.

“You should’ve opened with that.”

“I tried, hello? Someone distracted me!”

“Read. It. Before I change my mind.”

You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.

You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that it’s as if you’re leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.

Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldn’t move for ten minutes.

With that, his attention span has run its course.

“Baby,” he interrupts gently. “Let’s stop here, okay? You seem tired.”

You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.

“I suppose I am. Will you keep working tonight?”

“I think so. I hit my stride.”

“Text me if you have questions, then. I’ll respond when I wake up.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjin’s face incurably quickly. 

“I had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime you’d experienced since preschool.”

“It really is.”

“You also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.”

“I really would.”

“And you once referred to academia as ‘Virgin Village.’”

“Didn’t you come up with that?”

“No, hello? I live in that village.”

He grins. “I know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ah, don’t threaten me with a good—”

“What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t think you would take this seriously, but I’m happy to be proven wrong.”

Hyunjin leans back. “Well, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.”

“Really?”

“No.”

You pretend to punch him through the screen. It’s so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.

“But I do give a fuck about you.”

There’s nothing crazy about the statement. You’re friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didn’t. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a star’s final breath. And Hyunjin’s heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.

He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.

Then he opens his texts.

Hyunjin: We have team bonding tomorrow btw Hyunjin: Don’t forget Y/N: i forgot. Y/N: pick me up at 6:45? Hyunjin: 🫡

He picks you up at 7:53.

You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and he’s walking too close to your lawn.

“His fault,” Hyunjin says before you start yelling.

Minho simpers at you through his open window. “Hey, you! So glad you could join us!”

You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. “Aren’t you the captain? Why are you this late?”

“Whoa, okay. I would’ve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.”

“You did schedule it for earlier,” you say. “You scheduled it for way earlier.”

“Yeah, well, you’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me, Minho.”

“I can too. Tell ‘em, Hwang.”

“I want nothing to do with this.”

When you step through the doors of the arcade, you’re met with a surge of sensory input that you haven’t experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that they’ve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.

“I’ll go pay,” Hyunjin says. “How much time do we want?”

“Infinity,” Minho answers. Hyunjin doesn’t move. “Two hours.”

He flashes him a thumbs-up. “And you?”

“I’m okay, I think.”

“No you’re not,” the two men answer in perfect unison.

You glance between them warily. “I don’t mind watching, seriously. I don’t even know how most of these games work—”

“There’s Tetris,” Hyunjin cuts in.

You purchase an hour.

One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU men’s volleyball team, not to bond them. You’ve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like it’s a shot. It’s a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.

But they’re happy. You’ve picked up on it when they’re on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as they’re eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that you’re glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so special—especially because there’s Tetris.

“Have you ever considered going pro?” Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.

You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. He’s been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.

You don’t respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.

“I already did,” you finally answer.

“Sorry, what? You played professional Tetris?”

“In middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.” You pause. “Then I got bored again and switched to chess.”

“How do you look like this with these hobbies?”

Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. “I think I’m washed.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.”

“It’s a small pond,” you say, and an idea occurs to you. “Do you wanna try?”

“I get the feeling I don’t have a choice.”

“Then you’re smarter than you look.”

“Well, you look—”

His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.

“What was that?”

“Ugly. I said you look ugly.” He cracks his knuckles. “Now let’s break some fuckin' blocks.” 

When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade. 

He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy prince—and he’s with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.

Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.

Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjin’s chair. You can’t watch. You can’t think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.

“Seung!” That’s Jisung, you think. “You made it!”

“Yo, sorry we’re late.” That’s Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. “Dinner took longer than I thought.”

“Min, are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” You don’t know who this voice belongs to and you’re not sure you want to. “I feel like I’m intruding—”

“Hwang,” you say suddenly. “I have to go.”

He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. ”Already?”

“I forgot I had an important call to make.” You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. “Sorry. I’ll see you around.”

You have touched Hyunjin’s hands many times. He’s asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment. 

Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when it’s been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.

He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You have never been asked such a thing—you have never asked to be asked such a thing—but, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes. 

“Yes, please,” you whisper, and you pull your hand away.

When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting. 

Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where you’ve left your phone.

You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.

Hyunjin’s right; the team manager doesn’t have to do much.

Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someone’s waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything  your schedule allows. 

Last week, you could be found helping Minho put up the volleyball nets before practice, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professor’s distinct “cabbage scent.” Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammates’ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the team’s water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. You spent more time in the gymnasium those ten days than you had your entire college career.

Then came the arcade.

Five days have come and gone. You haven’t attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. You’ve taken the best notes of your life. He doesn’t mention the previous weekend; he doesn’t mention much of anything. 

In person, that is.

That Friday afternoon, you’re reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. It’s from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.

Then you listen to it again.

And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.

As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you haven’t the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.

Coach Bang is leaving the building just as you’re approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe it’s the shadowy landscape; more likely it’s the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.

“It’s been a while,” he greets.

“Coach,” you return, lowering your head. “I want to apologize for—”

“Save it,” he says, not unkindly. “There’s nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.”

You manage a grateful smile. “I’ll be back starting next week.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. “I would give him some space, by the way.”

Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.

Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation. 

Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when he’s picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where it’s plastered to his neck. He’s alone.

You only catch sight of Hyunjin’s face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.

“I was told to give you space,” you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball he’s holding.

His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that they’ve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.

“Is this enough space?”

More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.

“Don’t make me go further, please. I’m not ready to die.”

Finally, this earns you a smile. It’s not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.

The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You don’t care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.

The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. You’re worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.

There’s a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights. 

“How do you see under these things?”

“I don’t,” he returns. “I complained about it to Coach once.”

“And?”

“He made them brighter.” Sounds about right.

Hyunjin spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjin’s way with words.

But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. It’s not that Hyunjin has a way with words; it’s that he’s brave enough to break the silences that you can’t, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you won’t have to.

This cannot be his burden alone.

You inhale. “What’s on your mind?”

Hyunjin doesn’t answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes. The lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.

“I don’t think I know how to put it into words.”

You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. “Don’t think, just talk. I’m here.”

The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.

“Do you remember Ishikawa Yuki?”

His role model.

“He’s currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.” He blows out a deep breath. “I’ve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.”

The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. “Holy shit, Hwang.”

“He emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, he’s excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldn’t wrap my head around anything. I still can’t.

“I am who I am because of that man, and now…I have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why I’m not—not happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he—he would—”

You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.

Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.

You stop thinking after that.

You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.

You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.

“Don’t fight it.” You trace over the hill of his cheek. “Healing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.”

His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.

“You don’t have to continue if you can’t.”

“S’okay.” Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. “I want to.”

You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before; does he do the same?

“I used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feet—I blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.” He smiles at the memory. “But every time I came close to quitting, I’d go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and I’d promise myself it would be me on some other kid’s screen someday.

“That kid would tell everyone who’d listen about how cool I am. That I’m a secret superhero. That I’m living proof humans can fly if they really, really try—just like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.

“The other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proud—even if it meant losing myself.” He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. “That’s what’s on my mind.”

Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.

The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; it’s long overdue.

“Every time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,” you say. “He is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.”

Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.

“Jeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,” you continue, “even for things related to school—which I still find hard to believe, I’m not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.

“I know you think he can’t stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. It’s written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. You’re like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.”

“Then there’s me.” You pause to catch your breath. “When I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didn’t like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone else’s personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.

“But I found a person. Someone who wouldn’t know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearly—your body is not normal, by the way.”

Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like you’re flying.

“Don’t get me wrong,” you say. “Your sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when I’m around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.”

The next time you blink, you discover that he’s not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?

“There’s so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.” You give him a watery smile. “That kid will be spoiled for choice.”

When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: “I knew you cared about me.”

You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.

“How the fuck are you still sweaty?” You choke out, and you think you like his cologne after all.

Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.

A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like you’ve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead. 

Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.

“Can you come inside, please? My RA will think I’m doing some freaky shit again.”

You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. “What, exactly, does freaky shit entail?”

He smirks as the door falls shut. “You want me to tell you or show you?”

You turn to Kkami, disgusted. “Your owner’s a bit of a pervert, my dear.”

Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjin’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Traitor.”

Naturally, Hyunjin’s parents chose the eve of his final anthropology exam—and the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his career—to ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration. 

“Do you want anything to drink?” He calls from the kitchen area.

You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. “What do you have?” 

“Alcohol.” He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. “Americanos.”

He stops speaking.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Wait—and apple juice.”

“You are about to be a professional athlete.”

“What the Italians don’t know won’t hurt them. You want apple juice, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

“Maybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.”

Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.

“Let’s get this over with.”

At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.

At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.

You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then he’s kicking open the door.

Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a month’s worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.

“Hyun—Kkami?” Seungmin swivels. “Yo, what the fuck is—”

Hyunjin is already out the door.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.

“What is this thing?” Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass. 

“Kkami gets sad after throwing up,” he sighs. “His blanket makes him feel better.”

Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. “He ate too fast again?”

Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t get it. Nobody’s gonna take his food from him.”

Seungmin laughs. “I didn’t even know he was on campus.”

“I picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for work—they say hi, by the way.”

“I say hi back. I miss your mom’s cooking.”

“Me too,” Hyunjin says, smiling. “She would love to cook for you again—she’s always saying you’re too skinny.”

“She really is.”

A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.

Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of them—a concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjin’s backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjin’s dissuading; half of Hyunjin’s father’s wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.

It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the net’s fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungmin’s hitter—Seungmin, always Hyunjin’s setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.

At least, that’s what Hyunjin used to think.

Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know? 

Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he can’t remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not “talked” as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practice—“talked” as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.

Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago. 

“Yeonwoo, right?”

He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what he’s trying to do—and forgives him.

“Yeonwoo,” Seungmin affirms. “We’re in the same songwriting intensive this semester.”

“Also a singer?”

He shakes his head. “Piano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so talented.”

“Wow, that’s—hi, old man. You done?”

Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkami’s head as he hydrates.

“You’ve suffered,” he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.

“As I was saying—that’s crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.”

“Thanks. It’s weird. I’m happy.”

“You deserve it. You really do, Kim.” They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. “When are you introducing us?”

“The arcade wasn’t enough?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Whenever you want, then.”

“Dinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,” Hyunjin recounts. “I’m holding you to it.”

“Bet.”

They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasn’t already reassured by Seungmin’s smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that they’ll be okay.

“What about you?” Seungmin asks. “Are you together yet?”

Hyunjin knew this was coming. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. “Someone you have questions for that you’re too scared to ask. Someone who’s lived in your mind since the day you met. There’s someone like that, isn’t there?”

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek. 

Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjin’s been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.

But then he’ll get out of bed, and walk to that café on the east side of campus, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There, he’ll order a vanilla latte with extra sweetener, then turn around to see you standing five feet away, holding an Americano and trying not to laugh. And he’ll just know, with everything in him, that you are where his head goes when he’s not keeping watch.

He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time you’re within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because he’s happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.

It’s impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. He’s already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?

Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. “There is.”

Hyunjin doesn’t know what to say.

“It might’ve been me, at some point,” he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkami’s ears. “But it has always been you, Hyun.”

Four floors above them and inside Hyunjin’s place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkami’s return.

Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all that’s in front of you.

Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what must’ve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns district’s first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of “ace spiker” label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang “Christopher” Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. There’s one—Who is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution—beside which he’s written the singular word “mouthful.” You laugh; you agree.

But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.

You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as you’re playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you can’t see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kim’s email. You, you, you.

You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didn’t know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.

It has always been him.

The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes. 

It’s not awkward this time.

Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.

He moves his eyes to his best friend’s back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play they’ve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration. 

He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.

The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjin’s heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. He’s not scared at all.

He balls his fingers into fists.

“JUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACE—”

An arm seizes Hyunjin’s neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He can’t feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

“—DEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEAR—”

His eyes find Seungmin’s among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungmin’s gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.

He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.

“—YOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!”

Hyunjin’s post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.

The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: “Is there anyone you’d like to thank?”

Hyunjin exhales. “You want the short answer or the long—”

Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.

“Love you,” he yells before hurrying off. 

“Love you too, Bin.”

Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.

“The short answer,” she deadpans.

He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his family—his first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys he’s ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.

In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. There’s a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.

Hyunjin thanks you.

You didn’t ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and they’re all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselves—it’s hard to believe you’ve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.

What are you like? What aren’t you like, is the better question. You’re caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sun’s doting radius, and so did he.

You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; you’re wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky, and they’d be right.

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.

“Why the fuck am I still talking to you?” 

“Pardon?” The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.

He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.

He calls out to you.

You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the area’s busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but he’s used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.

You’re beautiful. God, you’re fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like he’s everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will. 

Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes—if he didn’t have something far better to do.

“Tell me now if you don’t want me to do this,” he whispers.

A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. “My lips are sealed.”

Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before they’re colliding again.

He kisses you until he’s crying, again, until he’s no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and he’s really won everything, now.

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.

“I know nothing,” Seungmin says, walking away. “Good luck!”

“Thanks, cap.” Hyunjin swears he’s had this exact exchange before.

Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.

Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “Read.”

From: Nicola Daldello «ndaldello@pvm.com» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «cb97@snu.edu» Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game Christopher, Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza. It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki. Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwang’s travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club. I’m looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all. Yours, Nicola Daldello Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano

“I told you, some opportunities just present themselves,” Bang says, turning his monitor back around. “As for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social ev—Hwang, is that foam coming out of your mo—NOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!”

In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baek’s king with a triumphant yelp.

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!” She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. “You! Get over here. Your reign is over.”

You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldn’t even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.

“As excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,” you call back. 

She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.

Hyunjin: Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris Hyunjin: Same park? Y/N: yes Hyunjin: Who’s our opponent today Y/N: mrs. choi Hyunjin: Not that bitch again Y/N: ?

He’ll be here in eight minutes.

You return to the task at hand. You’ve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all that’s left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely you’ll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.

Instead of hitting the “delete” button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.

You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.

He finds you a sobbing mess.

“Hey, hey, whoa.” He’s on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. “Baby, what’s happening? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you say in a flustered haste. “Yes, I’m okay. I don’t—I don’t really know what’s happening.”

“Did that hag do this to you?” He asks this question so seriously. “I’ll beat up a senior citizen, I don’t give a fuck—”

“No!” You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. “No, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.”

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.

Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.

“I’ll tell you later,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline. 

He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then you’re smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.

You rest your foreheads together. “Have I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?”

He smiles. “Does that make you my flower, then?”

“Because you’re irresistably drawn to me?”

“No, because I wanna put my pollen in—”

You shove him away. “You are grotesque.”

He returns in a flash. “You love me.”

You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.

“Why did Coach hold you back, by the way?” You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “Are you in trouble again?”

“No, no. The opposite, actually.”

Your brow furrows. “The opposite? What—”

“In this lifetime, please,” Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.

“Duty calls, my love.”

“Tell me your thing later too?”

“Of course.”

You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, “now watch me beat up a senior citizen.”

He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.

“Hypocrite.”

Hyunjin: [1 Audio Message]

This is my seventh take and I’m not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I don’t care anymore.

I understand if you don’t wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldn’t, either. I just wanted to say that you don’t have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I won’t be able to fulfill my end of our deal, so…yeah, it wouldn’t be fair to you. You’ve already done so much for us. For me.

As for team manager, you’ll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesn’t sound like a fun conversation, I know—but if that’s what you decide, I’ll have your back. They don’t scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.

You’ve been…distant, this week. I’ve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldn’t care less if you’re my tutor or my team manager or whatever—I just don’t want you to be a stranger. Maybe that’s selfish of me to say, but I’m tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesn’t terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.

I’m gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I would’ve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, and…I’m sorry about everything. You deserve better.

Come back to me whenever you’re ready, okay? I’ll be waiting.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp・@automaticpersonabatpaper・@aceofvernons・@linos-kitten・@newhope8・@weedforthoughtz・@hyunverse

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[yawn-emoji]

[buffysummers]

Hi. So, those of you who have been following me may already know the financial struggles I've had in the past, but the situation has become much more dire. So, I started a gofundme so that if I raise any money, it is publicly displayed.

I don't really expect anything but I do have to try. I took a job that is commission based after I was laid off from my editing job, but that it is not high paying nor is it reliable because it is commission based only. The money I make from this job will never be enough for me to live off of.

I am also, of course, actively searching for other jobs but things are so competitive and also barely pay a living wage.

Sorry if this is either too long or too short. If anyone needs more details about the situation in order to feel comfortable donating, please feel free to message me. ❤️

Thank you to anyone who took the time to read this, spread this link or donate to my tense situation. I know this is embarrassing, I hate having to do this. But I gotta try something.

[etheries1015]

He finds you falling apart; in complete shambles, a sobbing mess.

Malleus

He isn't certain how to handle such strong emotions, he doesn't know what to do when he finds you sobbing in the garden. As the tears fall down your cheeks and you mutter apologies to the fae, All he can do is sit next to you and kindly offer his shoulder and words of comfort, waiting for you to calm down so he may ask what is causing your soul such misery.

He hopes you will communicate what it is he could do to assist you. If a hug is what you need, he shall provide. If silence is what you wish for, he will grant it as such. If you are in dire need of a distraction, he knows a place you will adore while he speaks about its history. He is not the type to simply assume what will help in this situation- he will awkwardly hover until you guide him to the best possible course of action.

You must expect to find new trinkets and shiny objects to come your way for the next week- he wants to make it abundantly clear he wishes for you to smile once more, and he hopes to achieve that by his little gifts.

"My dearest, what causes these tears to flow so heavy from your eyes? Whatever it may be, I shall be by your side and face it with you, for you needn't suffer alone. Now tell me, who do I need to confront for stealing your precious smile away from me?"

Lilia

Lilia had known the ins and outs of emotions fairly well. He could easily read people- you were no exception. He understands immediately if you need a hug, to be left in peace, or to be endlessly pampered. Upon hearing your painful wails of sorrow, he was quick to react.

Any attemps at apologizing to him for your sobs were fallen upon deaf ears. You were quickly chastised for those "sorrys" and were engulfed in his embrace, his hand stroking your hair or rubbing circles on your back gently with a tune of old escaping his lips. He had used this method for his inconsolable children in the past, and he found it just as effective for adults as well.

Even thanking the fae for being there for you was also quickly shut down. He insists that you need not thank or apologize to him for your tears, for you were important to him thus it was a requirement he be there in your time of misery. You felt comfortable talking to him about your woes, the red eyed fae listening intently whilst brewing you tea, setting up video games, or cooking you a meal (you didn't have much of the energy to reject this offer, he was doing it purely out of concern for your being. Crying takes a lot of of someone, he must do his due diligence and be certain you are properly sustained!)

"Ah...it pains me to see such tears. Remember, time moves forward, and you shall prevail past this little bump in the road, my little bat. Would you like to talk to me about it? I give good advice, if I do say so myself! Or shall we change the pace and play some games? I am not moving from this spot until you are smiling and laughing again!"

Kisses, cuddles, and comfort <3

[stellar-skyy]

♡ - LOST & FOUND - Platonic Arlecchino & reader

i. SUMMARY: Hell hath no fury like a parent whose child has been taken from them. ii. CWS & NOTES: description of blood and injury (mildly graphic but not gory), violence, mentions of kidnapping, swearing (like once), implied murder. PLATONIC arlecchino & gn!reader. house of the hearth!reader. angst & slight hurt/comfort. 2.5k words. iv. A/N: i am... so normal about parental arlecchino... so normal... i hope you enjoy because i loved writing this!! i have a little written for an epilogue featuring the lyntwins + freminet reuniting, so stay tuned for that ♡

It had been fifty-eight hours, and twenty-seven minutes since [Name] had vanished.

Freminet sat curled up in a velvet armchair that dwarfed his small frame, with Pers on his lap and his brother and sister flanking each side. They had both refused Father’s offer of a seat, which showed the severity of the situation more than words ever could.

No one ever refused Father. Even she had raised an eyebrow at their sudden rebellion.

“Lyney, Lynette. Defiance will not make [Name] come home faster. Take a seat.” Father sipped her tea, poised as ever. Even with that impassive mask, Freminet still noticed the tension in her shoulders.

He always noticed.

“There’s no need,” Lyney said shortly, adding on a respectful “Father.” as an afterthought.

“What my brother means—” Lynette cut in smoothly. “—Is that we do not want to draw this conversation out any longer than necessary. We only came to get permission to postpone our current assignment and search for [Name]. I’m sure you can see the circumstances are dire enough to warrant such action.”

“I’m afraid I do not, Lynette.” Father placed her cup down and folded her hands over her lap. “They are a very skilled agent, and this mission was hardly out of their ability. No need to compromise your current—and very important, I might add—mission, for trivial matters.”

“It isn’t trivial, it’s our sibling!” Lyney burst out, causing Freminet to flinch. He reached out a hand blindly to settle on Freminet’s shoulder, squeezing it quickly in both a comfort and apology for startling him.

“I would be mindful of your place within this household, Lyney.” Father said mildly, the warning clear. “I have given you a direct order, and you will follow it. Do not stray from your assigned mission. [Name] will be fine.” She paused for a beat. “You are dismissed.”

“That’s it?” Lyney hissed. “So, you’re going to just leave them to die?”

It sounded like less of a question and more of an accusation. Freminet winced, feeling Lynette stiffen beside him as well as they waited for the consequences of Lyney’s bluntness.

Arlecchino rose from her seat, the tension in the air thick enough to choke all three of the siblings.

“I never said that. [Name] will be home in due time.” Her gaze shifted from the left to the right side of the armchair. “Lynette, you will have tea with me later, won’t you?” Father asked, causing the girl to freeze.

She bit her lip, answering carefully. “I may. Maybe if [Name] returns, we can all have tea together.”

“A good plan,” Father agreed, ignoring the quiet angry undertone of her words. “When I see them, I shall invite them.”

“It had better be soon; it’s getting late.” Lynette countered. Freminet’s eyes darted back and forth between the two of them. Lynette was always better at matching Father’s games. Freminet crumbled under the weight of her gaze, and Lyney wasn’t any better at handling the pressure without his emotions causing him to crack and splinter.

“Lynette, Freminet. Let’s go.” Lyney said sharply.

Throughout the entire exchange, Lyney’s hand had not moved from where it was planted firmly on Freminet’s shoulder, as if he was refusing to let another of his siblings out of his grasp. Freminet might have remarked that Lynette was handling her worry better, but he noticed how her tail kept curling around his leg when they walked into Father’s office. Neither of the three was willing to part with the others for even a second; not when one of their own had gone missing by doing just that.

As he drew back his hand and moved away, Freminet caught his arm.  

“Just… a moment, please. Wait outside, I’ll join you soon.” Freminet murmured, letting go. Lyney pursed his lips.

“Be quick.”

The twins vanished through the doorway, leaving Freminet alone with his Father.

“Freminet dear. You’re hesitating.” Father raised an eyebrow. “Are you waiting for something? Do you want me to give Pers a kiss on the head before I leave?”

Freminet flushed at the memories of holding the toy up to Father when he was young, insisting the penguin deserved a proper goodbye too. “Ahem. I’m not a child anymore… Father.”

“No? Then why are you still here?”

He swallowed awkwardly, forcing himself to look her in the eyes. He met her stare

“I know you’re just as worried as I am.” He said bluntly.

Father’s expression was almost impossible to read, but Freminet managed to catch a hint of surprise at his words. “I see. How did you come to that conclusion?”

It wasn’t denial, nor was it defensiveness. That was a good sign. Freminet continued, “There is a pinch between your eyebrows that you keep trying to smooth over. You’re gripping your teacup much tighter than usual. Your shoulders are tense. And you were far too quick to dismiss the twins’ concerns. You of all people would know that the situation is severe enough to allow a brief pause to their investigation, but you were swift in making sure they were kept as far away from the situation as possible.”

Arlecchino stared back at Freminet silently. She always had that unsettling way of watching him, as if she was picking apart the cogs and wheels spinning in his mind to know exactly what he was thinking.

“Observant as always, Freminet.” Freminet stood up straighter, pink touching his cheeks. “So, tell me this: what am I to do next?”

“You’re… going to find them yourself?” He asked slowly.

“That is correct. I will be.” Father agreed, and something inside him swelled. If only Lyney was still in the room, he would have collapsed with relief. “And what will you be doing?”

“Helping.” Freminet said without a thought.

“Incorrect. You are going to return to your room, go to sleep, and not say a word to your siblings.”

“But—”

“No. You are not involved here.” Arlecchino turned her back on him, looking out the window with her arms folded behind her.

“Father—”

“Do not forget that if you or your sibling’s interference costs me my mission, [Name]’s blood will be on your hands.”

Freminet recoiled sharply, as if she had struck him across the face. Arlecchino refused to lay a hand on any of them, but her words were more than enough to wound them.

“I—”

“I’m not looking for an argument, Freminet.”

Freminet shut his mouth with a click, lowering his head. He forced back the wave of emotions sweeping across him, sinking them so far into the depths of his mind that not even a champion diver like himself would be able to reach them.

“I am looking for an answer.” Father raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Father.” He said quietly.

“Good child,” She murmured, laying a gentle hand on the top of his head. “You are dismissed.”

-----

Arlecchino made her move at the stroke of sundown.

It was disgustingly easy to track them down, and the sheer incompetence only fuelled her rage until it burned brighter than the flames that curled beneath her skin. The assailants were sloppy, leaving plenty of traces for her to find, as if they were waiting for her to find them.

One of her agents had returned with a slip of paper that evening—a ransom note, crudely explaining that they had captured a House of the Hearth agent, and demanding a hefty sum in exchange for their safe return. She had chuckled at that last part. They would be lucky for her to leave them with their lives after what they have done, let alone a reward.

Their hideout was located in a quiet cave near the ocean, with an entrance half-hidden behind a curtain of vines. It was a quaint spot, a cosy place to sit back and watch the sun set over the water. She was sure the view behind her was breathtaking, but she made no move to take a glance for herself.

The vines made way for a long, narrow tunnel, ending with a wooden door. Arlecchino quietly turned the handle, scoffing under her breath when it turned without a key being inserted, and slipped through without making a single sound.

Six were scattered around the dingy room; one woman, five men. Seeming to be aged between their mid-twenties at the youngest, and early-forties at the oldest.

“Have we got a response yet?” The woman muttered impatiently, tapping her foot against the floor.

“How should I know?” One of the men grunted. “We left the note. Eventually it’s gotta make it’s way to the boss herself, and we’ll get the reward.”

“Just gotta be patient,” Another murmured. “Gotta be patient.”

Slightly past them was a wooden cage, secured with a metal lock.

They were in a heap on the floor of the cage, breathing weakly—Arlecchino quietly thanked the Tsaritsa that they were breathing at all—and looked to be passed out.

The fire inside her sang, and she could hardly breathe under the heat of it all.

“How long is this woman gonna take?” The woman rolled her eyes. “I’m tired of waiting.”

Arlecchino chuckled, causing all of the six to jump. “Oh, then allow me to assure you that you won’t have to wait much longer at all.”

Instantly they were on their feet, grabbing whatever weapon was closest. Their expressions ranged from outright fear, to an egregious amount of confidence for how weak they were in comparison to her.

“Knave,” the closest man grinned crookedly. “How kind of you to join us. I’m assuming you’re here for—” he jerked his head towards the figure still unmoving. “—that one?”

“‘That one’?” Arlecchino repeated slowly, drawing her scythe to her side. “I am here for my child.”

Two of the men—the ones closest to the cage—looked at each other nervously. Arlecchino smiled. It was a pity the rest of the group didn’t share the sense to fear her, but they would learn soon enough.

“Well you see, we’ll be happy to hand them over—” the man’s grin widened. “For a price, of course.”

“A price, you say?” She mused. “How about this. You step aside, I retrieve my child, and offer you a quick death. I would say that is more than fair, considering what you have cost me.”

The smile dropped off the man’s face. “That ain’t an option, lady.”

“Then I think you misunderstand.” She took a step towards him, then another, eyes glinting dangerously in the low light. “I wasn’t asking.”

“Boss—” one of the men tried to say.

“Shut it.” the first man hissed, bringing his shovel up in a defensive position. It was almost laughable, how he thought that would protect him.

“You made four mistakes tonight,” Arlecchino said smoothly. The tip of her scythe brushed the floor, sending a loud scraping sound across the walls. All of the people inside the room winced at the sound, but Arlecchino was unfazed as she continued prowling towards them.

“One… you failed to cover your tracks, making it remarkably easy to track you down.” In one swift motion, she lunged. The group barely had time to blink, before her scythe sliced across the chest of the closest one.

There was silence, before the man made a low gasp, bright crimson blood spilling down his shirt. He collapsed forward onto the ground with a thud, and the room erupted into chaos. A scream tore from the throat of the woman, and she dropped to her knees at his side, desperately clutching his shoulders. Arlecchino aimed a quick strike at her back, and she fell against the man heavily.

“Two, you left the door unlocked.” A pair charged towards her, hammers and shovels swinging. She knocked the weapons from their hands with one hit, and knocked them down with a second.

“Three—” One snuck up from behind, quickly tossing a string of rope over her head and around her neck, pulling harshly to cut off her breathing. An elbow in his ribs winded him enough to loosen his grip, and a knock to the head with the hilt of her scythe sent him to the floor. “You brought far too few people to last in a fight against me.”

The final man stumbled backwards until he hit the wall, shrinking against the bricks. Arlecchino walked with slow steps, stalking towards him like an animal cornering their pray. He shielded his face with his hands, in a desperate attempt to protect himself. Once she was about a foot away, she stopped, leaning in close.

“And four.” Arlecchino grasped the man by the throat, digging her nails into his skin hard enough to draw blood. “You hurt my fucking child.”

She tossed his body to the side, watching him hit the wall with a thud and collapse to the ground like a ragdoll.

“Pathetic.” She scoffed under her breath, stepping over his limp body. Her anger wasn’t nearly quelled—an inferno is not easily cooled, after all—but seeing them all lying lifelessly across the floor of their own base at least brought some vindication. She turned her back to the man, looking over at her child.

They were curled up in the cage like a trapped animal, rattling breaths ringing through the bars. Arlecchino gritted her teeth at the sight, making sure to step on the nearest captor’s fingers as she walked over. She swung her scythe against the lock, shattering it into bits of metal.

Her hands were gentle in reaching into the cage, hooking a hand under their knees and cradling their back with the other. They made a pained cry, and Arlecchino hurried to pull them out. She held them close to her chest, letting their cheek rest where her heartbeat pounded against her chest. Her face didn’t falter from that stony expression, but inside she was burning with fury.

“My child,” She murmured, more to herself than the shivering form in her arms. There was something dangerous in her tone, a note of warning to the assailants still conscious enough to hear her voice. She kissed their forehead, a tender gesture out of place among the bloodshed. “Didn’t I promise you that while you’re with me, no one can hurt you?”

“F-Father…?” A broken whisper slipped through their lips, followed by a sob, first sinking Arlecchino’s heart then shattering it into two.

“Shh… it’s okay. It’s okay, darling, I’m here.” She crooned, carrying them out of the room and through the tunnel. All throughout the journey through the tunnel and back onto the beach, she didn’t stop murmuring comforts and pressing kisses to their head in the most maternal way she’d ever remembered acting.

“I’m sorry, Father…” they mumbled, cheek pressed against her chest.

“Darling…” Arlecchino hummed, even as the smouldering ashes in her chest began to spark and flicker. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

The night was cold, but her child was a warm weight in her arms. She revelled in the warmth, a gentle reminder that they were still alive.

“We’ll be home soon,” Arlecchino promised, even though they were barely conscious enough to hear her. “Soon.”

reblogs are appreciated ♡

[nerdgirlnarrates]

Even though it's been months since I switched from neurosurgery to internal medicine, I still have a hard time not being angry about the training culture and particularly the sexism of neurosurgery. It wasn't the whole reason I switched, but truthfully it was a significant part of my decision.

I quickly got worn out by constantly being questioned over my family plans. Within minutes of meeting me, attendings and residents felt comfortable lecturing me on the difficulties of having children as a neurosurgeon. One attending even suggested I should ask my co-residents' permission before getting pregnant so as not to inconvenience them. I do not have children and have never indicated if I plan to have any. Truthfully, I do want children, but I would absolutely have foregone that to be a neurosurgeon. I wanted to be a neurosurgeon more than anything. But I was never asked: it was simply assumed that I would want to be a mother first. Purely because I'm a woman, my ambitions were constantly undermined, assumed to be lesser than those of my male peers. Women must want families, therefore women must be less committed. It was inconceivable that I might put my career first. It was impossible to disprove this assumption: what could I have done to demonstrate my commitment more than what I had already done by leading the interest group, taking a research year, doing a sub-I? My interest in neurosurgery would never be viewed the same way my male peers' was, no matter what I did. I would never be viewed as a neurosurgeon in the same way my male peers would be, because I, first and foremost, would be a mother. It turns out women don't even need to have children to be a mother: it is what you essentially are. You can't be allowed to pursue things that might interfere with your potential motherhood.

Furthermore, you are not trusted to know your own ambitions or what might interfere with your motherhood. I am an adult woman who has gone to medical school: I am well aware of what is required in reproduction, pregnancy, and residency, as much as one can be without experiencing it firsthand. And yet, it was always assumed that I had somehow shown up to a neurosurgery sub-I totally ignorant of the demands of the career and of pregnancy. I needed to be enlightened: always by men, often by childless men. Apparently, it was implausible that I could evaluate the situation on my own and come to a decision. I also couldn't be trusted to know what I wanted: if I said I wanted to be a neurosurgeon more than a mother, I was immediately reassured I could still have a family (an interesting flip from the dire warnings issued not five minutes earlier in the conversation). People could not understand my point, which was that I didn't care. I couldn't mean that, because women are fundamentally mothers. I needed to be guided back to my true role.

Because everyone was so confident in their sexist assumptions that I was less committed, I was not offered the same training, guidance, or opportunities as the men. I didn't have projects thrown my way, I didn't get check-ins or advice on my application process, I didn't get opportunities in the OR that my male peers got, I didn't get taught. I once went two whole days on my sub-I without anyone saying a word to me. I would come to work, avoid the senior resident I was warned hated trainees, figure out which OR to go to on my own, scrub in, watch a surgery in complete silence without even the opportunity to cut a knot, then move to the next surgery. How could I possibly become a surgeon in that environment? And this is all to say nothing of the rape jokes, the advice that the best way for a woman to match is to be as hot as possible, listening to my attending advise the male med students on how to get laid, etc.

At a certain point, it became clear it would be incredibly difficult for me to become a neurosurgeon. I wouldn't get research or leadership opportunities, I wouldn't get teaching or feedback, I wouldn't get mentorship, and I wouldn't get respect. I would have to fight tooth and nail for every single piece of my training, and the prospect was just exhausting. Especially when I also really enjoyed internal medicine, where absolutely none of this was happening and I even had attendings telling me I would be good at it (something that didn't happen in neurosurgery until I quit).

I've been told I should get over this, but I don't know how to. I don't know how to stop being mad about how thoroughly sidelined I was for being female. I don't know how to stop being bitter that my intelligence, commitment, and work ethic meant so much less because I'm a woman. I know I made the right decision to switch to internal medicine, and it probably would have been the right decision even if there weren't all these issues with the culture of neurosurgery, but I'm still so angry about how it happened.

[tabarkraed]

Giving birth is a profound and transformative experience for any mother, but the stark contrast between bringing a child into the world during a war and in a peaceful environment is heart-wrenching. Imagine the emotional turmoil and physical hardship faced by mothers who deliver their babies in the midst of conflict, within the confines of a makeshift tent, surrounded by the constant threat of danger.

For my friend’s @bilalhammadsblog sister and sister-in-law, the journey to motherhood was fraught with fear and uncertainty. Instead of the calm and controlled environment of a hospital, they endured labor amidst the chaos of war, with explosions and gunfire as their background noise. The tent that served as their delivery room was a far cry from the sterile, well-equipped birthing suites that most mothers have. There was no access to pain relief, professional medical care, or the comforting presence of loved ones.

The conditions were harsh and unsanitary, increasing the risk of infections and complications. The lack of clean water, proper nutrition, and essential medical supplies made every moment perilous. These mothers had to summon unimaginable strength and resilience, not only to give birth but also to protect and care for their newborns in such dire circumstances.

In contrast, mothers in peaceful settings prepare for childbirth with a sense of excitement and anticipation. They attend prenatal classes, have regular check-ups, and often create a birth plan with their doctors. Their biggest concerns might be about the birth itself or the baby's health, but they are surrounded by support and resources. Hospitals are equipped with advanced technology, skilled professionals, and all the necessary amenities to ensure a safe and comfortable delivery.

For these war-affected mothers, there is no such assurance. Their overwhelming joy at meeting their babies is tinged with the constant worry of how to keep them safe and healthy in an environment that is anything but. The basic comforts and reassurances that should accompany childbirth are replaced by the harsh realities of survival.

Every cry of their babies is a reminder of the fragility of life in a war zone. The emotional toll is immense, as they grapple with the fear of losing their children to preventable illnesses or injuries caused by the surrounding conflict. The physical exhaustion from childbirth is compounded by the stress of providing for their newborns in such conditions, often without adequate rest, food, or medical care.

Despite these overwhelming challenges, these mothers display an extraordinary level of courage and love. They hold on to hope and fight every day to give their children a chance at life, even in the face of such adversity. Their strength is a testament to the incredible resilience of the human spirit, even in the darkest of times.

Please open your hearts 🤍

and donate to support these courageous mothers and their precious newborns. Your generosity can provide the essential care and comfort they desperately need during this harrowing time. Every donation is a lifeline of hope and love for these innocent lives. 🙏🏻🙏🏻

[cod-z]

[NSFW 18+] Pegging Series (Anon Reveal)

Your media consumption isn't my responsibility | TW: NSFW 18+, Title itself explanatory

Pairing(s): John 'Soap' MacTavish x Stoic!Reader

| One-shots | A/N: My anon reveal and brain-rot. For those who knows said story, yes, I am THAT anon from said blog

---------------------------

Johnny has a thing for Stoic!Reader because of the mystery behind them, always keeping a poker face even in dire situation and the strong, powerful aura that reader has but it's also reassuring. A mix between Price and Ghost the stern yet comforting from Gaz.

Johnny knocking on stoic!reader's door because Price had asked him to get the paperworks that were needed but ends up just stammering towards reader because the way reader speaks is so emotionless and stern, it sends him into a horny frenzy-

Finally telling stoic!reader what Price wanted, reader dismisses him but he doesn't leave and just stands there like a sweet, lost puppy and who is totally not horny or anything because reader is only in a black tank top and their cargo pants while reader does paperwork.

Stoic!Reader casually staring at Johnny because he hasn't left and asks if there is anything else.

Johnny stutters as he tries to explain that Price, Ghost and Gaz were getting ready for a mission, clenching onto the documents, trying to ask a certain question because poor pup was going to be alone for quite awhile but ends up silencing himself and leaving. 'Cause why would reader do that for him if reader was aroace? (again, sue me).

Not even 2 weeks in when the other three were gone. Johnny pathetically asks Stoic!Reader if they could fuck him.

Stoic!reader who wanted to say 'no' till they saw the twitching outline of Johnny's bulge and felt a twinge of pity for Johnny boy and sighs.

Stoic!reader who says 'yes' but only on one condition which makes Johnny happy, though the next day Johnny was now on his hands and knees with stoic!reader prepping his rim to take in the strap-on they bought online together (Johnny totally didn't get the overnight shipping).

Johnny is already a squirming mess as he came twice already from being prepped by reader. Reader obviously not done with Johnny, had already put the big, girthy, bumpy strap-on, on already and grabs him roughly by his mohawk. Rubbing the plastic-rubber against his weeping cock gathering the cum and proceeds to rub coated strap-on onto his ass, slicking it up before pushing it to the hilt.

Pathetic whining moans leaves Johnny's lips as he's drilled onto Stoic!Reader's bed like reader hates him, shocking Johnny at the full force that comes from reader's frame, he never would've guessed reader would have it in them to be this way. Letting him orgasm in this position twice before doing it once missionary.

Johnny already an overstimulated little pup on stoic!reader's bed, crying from too much pleasure and was ready to give out, to fucked out to even help reader orgasm. But don't worry, reader already had a plan for that.

Stoic!Reader pushing Johnny's legs up, stroking the tip of his cock before guiding it into reader's hole making poor Johnny weep from overstimulation, pain and pleasure. Knees behind Johnny's ass while holding his legs up as reader fucks down onto him, closing in on their own orgasm and Johnny building up his, what? 5th? 7th orgasm? He doesn't know.

Neither of the two hearing the sound of multiple boots hitting the floor nearing reader's barracks. The door opening as both Johnny and Reader orgasms at the same time.

Johnny looks weakly at the other three with a smile, who stared at Stoic!Reader in shock, Reader's expression remains stoice but as their eyes trailing down the three men's body already seeing their growing bulge, stoic!reader gives a small smirk and removes themselves from Johnny (who totally didn't pass out).

Well shit. Price, Ghost and Gaz later on couldn't remember that reader smirked at them, nor did the four remember that reader pecked their foreheads as they all lay together, asleep, after being fucked and looked after by reader.

Stoic!reader who finishes changing, closes the door quietly letting their four boys sleep. Till next time.

[avocad1s]

Bring Back What Once Was Mine

Summary: It’s been five hundred years since the people of Teyvat celebrated the return of their Creator. Oh what a joyous day that was! However there was something off with the Divine One, had they always acted like this? Not only that, being in their presence didn’t bring the same warmth it did all those centuries ago, but to go against their creator is the highest form of treason they could commit. So when another shows up sharing the exact face as the one on the throne, many are conflicted on who to follow.

Characters Featured: Multiple Characters Mentioned

Note: Reader is the true creator of Teyvat. GN! Reader

Content Warning: Cult and Religious themes ahead! You’ve been warned.

Part one (You are here!) Part Two

This is not beta read. So I apologize for any mistakes.

For the first time in decades, six of the archons stood in the same room.

It was an odd occurrence, most of them preferred to stay in their respective nations, the only time they would all meet up like this is if something dire was occurring.

One of these occasions was when the Divine One descended down to Teyvat, it was a day to remember for everyone. Celebrations went on for weeks, many hoping that the Creator would acknowledge them with a vision, mora, or even a simple glance. However, blinded by their own excitement, the people of Teyvat didn’t notice how… off the Creator was. Well, besides the ones who are considered to be the closest to them.

…

“We’ve all noticed that Their Grace has been acting a bit different ever since they returned,”

“Well they have been away for a while, maybe they need time to adjust?”

“That can’t be it, they’ve already been here for centuries. They would’ve adjusted by now.”

“Even though I never met them personally before they returned, anytime they are in Sumeru they are nothing like the scriptures say.”

“Maybe the Divine One is acting off due to what happened to…”

The room falls silent.

“Was there any response from the Cryo archon?”

“No she had locked down her nation years ago, nothing goes in and nothing comes out. Except for the Fatui… Mor- Zhongli, do you think that she knew something before the rest of us?”

“It is possible, but we cannot say for certain. Yet, we cannot act without knowing the truth.”

“I agree, acting with only suspicion rather than proof would be foolish.”

“So what do we do?”

“For now we do nothing, eventually something will come to light.”

Present Day

The heat in the desert of Sumeru was unforgiving, you could get caught in a sandstorm or if you do not bring enough supplies that could also be the end for you. So it was only natural that when the Traveler and her floating companion noticed someone passed out in the sand, they would rush over to help.

“Hey Traveler…” Paimon begins, “look at their clothes, it’s not like anything we’ve seen before.”

The girl looks down at the unconscious person. Paimon was right, they weren’t wearing any type of clothing that indicated that they were from any nation in Teyvat.

Not to mention the sudden comforting feeling the girl had gotten once she had approached them. It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced since her and her brother were still traveling worlds together.

“Let’s wake them up.”

It took more shakes and taps than the Traveler was expecting but soon their eyes open and they sit up slowly, sand falling off of their body with every movement.

“Are you okay?” The Traveler asks.

They let out a soft groan turning to look at the girl and her companion.

“Where am I?” Were the first words to leave their mouth.

“Sumeru’s desert!” Paimon says, “erm, do you not remember how you got here? Traveler, maybe we should bring this person to Tighnari, they seem to be a bit disoriented.”

Without realizing it, the Traveler ignores Paimon keeping all of her attention on the mysterious person still sitting in the warm sand. She holds her hand out, “here let me help you up.” They take the Travelers hand standing up on their feet, dusting the leftover sand off their clothing.

The Traveler continues to keep their gaze locked on them while they dust off their clothing. Noticing her friends odd behavior, Paimon clears her throat and begins talking.

“Well this is Lumine, but everyone just calls her the Traveler. Paimon is Paimon.” The fairy gestures to her friend then to herself. “What’s your name?”

They hesitate for a moment before saying their name, “thank you Paimon and Lumine for waking me, there’s no telling what could’ve happened if you didn’t.”

Lumine feels a warmth bloom in her chest at their kind words.

“It’s not problem, the Traveler is always happy to help!” Paimon says happily, “but Paimon has to ask, why are you unconscious in the desert anyway?”

“I don’t… I can’t remember. The last thing I remember seeing was a blinding light.”

Paimon and Lumine exchange glances.

“Well if you want, you can tag along with us to Sumeru city, we have some really smart friends who may be able to help you there.” Lumine offers.

They smile, “thanks but I don’t want to intrude on your journey.”

“Oh you’re not intruding! The Traveler and Paimon we’re already heading to the city to meet the Creator!”

Lumine shoots the fairy a dirty look causing her to shrink back apologizing while also whispering something about how she wasn’t supposed to say that.

However they had already perked up at the mention of the Divine. “The Creator?”

Lumine lets out a defeated breath, “we weren’t supposed to say anything…” she glances at her companion, “but the Creator has finally granted me an audience.”

“Yeah the Travelers been asking for ages to meet them but the creator has always refused until she helped the Dendro Archon.”

Paimon gets another, less noticeable glare thrown her way.

“I see…” They began, “you must be something pretty special to meet someone like them.”

There was a small silence.

“Well we should probably get a move on, we shouldn’t keep someone this important waiting!”

———

The walk back to Sumeru City was awkward to say the least. It seems that ever since the Creator was brought up in the conversation, Lumine and Paimons new friends seemed to be more closed off than before. Maybe they were apart of the few that didn’t blindly worship the Creator? Or maybe they’re using this tactic to hold back their jealousy? Lumine wasn’t sure but she’d rather not know.

Soon enough the city was visible from where they were standing, it would only be another twenty minute hike until they reached the entrance.

“I hope that walk wasn’t too bad for you considering your condit-“

Lumine pauses mid-sentence, they were gone? Just a minute ago they were behind them and now they were nowhere to be seen.

“Paimon didn’t even hear them wander off, I hope they’re okay…” The fairy says worriedly. Lumine nods but continues forward, if they had left on their own then it was clear they could handle themselves. The Traveler just hopes that nothing bad happens to them and she hopes to see them again.

You didn’t feel bad ditching the two girls.

After all that wasn’t the worse thing you did to them today.

You lied to them multiple times, maybe the only true thing you told the two was your name, but it didn’t matter.

As soon as you laid eyes on the girl, you knew she wasn’t from this world. Maybe that’s why you didn’t feel that bad lying to her? Or maybe you’re just lying to yourself.

Truthfully, you only followed them after they had brought up the Creator.

Ah yes, the “Creator”

The was the main reason why you returned after all this time in the first place.

You were aware that they had crowned another as the Creator when it first happened five hundred years ago, and you would’ve returned then and extinguished them, but you were still mourning the loss of one of your nations. Then it simply slipped your mind. Until now, when Teyvat has cried out to you once more.

You can’t keep neglecting your creation, especially since you care about it deeply.

Now of course you could’ve just bursted in the room that the usurper was in and defeated them right then and there but you wanted more information.

How did they pass off as you so easily? More importantly, how did anyone believe it?

Sure there’s a chance they may look like you but there’s no way they could replicate your power or your connection to the world itself.

You huff hiding behind a tree watching the two girls look around for you before eventually giving up heading towards the city.

This was going to take more effort than you thought.

The first thing Lumine noticed when she entered the dark room was the sheer coldness. She couldn’t see them at the top of the stairs but the presence of being in the room with them was already overwhelming.

She was in the room with the Creator.

Despite all the questions she had, her throat felt dry, like she couldn’t talk or rather, she didn’t have permission yet.

The girl kneels before them locking her gaze on the ground, she was slightly disappointed that she wasn’t the only one in the room. There were many Sages in the room and even Nahida was off to the side giving her a welcome smile.

“Traveler…” a voice brakes through the silence causing Lumine to tense, “I’m so happy to finally meet you.”

“I’m honored to be before you,” she stutters. Why did she feel like this? She met four Gods already, but why did she feel so tense around them? Like she had to watch her words carefully or something bad may happen.

“Please come here,” their voice calls out.

Lumine stands up shakily walking slowly towards the stairs, she keeps her gaze lowered as she walks up slowly. Soon enough she was right in front of the Creator. The girl goes to kneel once more but she stops when another order comes instead.

“Will you look at me?”

A audible gasp leaves the Travelers mouth as she stares out their face. This was the first time the Traveler had ever been face-to-face with them ever, although their elegance was undeniable their face was unmistakably the same as the person in the desert.

Without realizing Lumine mutters out the name of the person she had met just a few hours before.

Now it was time for everyone else to gasp.

A plethora of snide remarks and comments were thrown at the girl, many yelling out how dare she calls the creator by their true name or how she needs to show more respect.

The creator holds out a hands and the room immediately goes silent.

“Traveler,” their voice sickly sweet. “How are you aware of my true name?”

The blonde fiddles with her fingers for a moment, “Someone in the desert had told me that was their name. They had the same face as you.”

Their eyes widen but quickly relax as they uncross their legs to stand and approach the outlander.

“Are you telling me you saw someone running around with my face and my name?”

Lumine nods.

They rest a hand on the blonde girls shoulder giving her a soft smile.

“Where is this person now?”

Lumine shakes her head, “I’m not sure, they disappeared before I got to the city.”

They nod, “don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just want you to find this person for me and bring them here, okay?”

Words fail her and she nods at their request.

“Great. You may leave.”

———

Lumine lets out a deep breath once she was out of the room. Just being in that room made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Traveler!” Paimon floats over to her friend, “how did it go? Do they know anything about the unknown God you’re looking for?”

“They had the same face.”

“Huh?”

“The Divine One and the person in the desert.” Lumine clarifies, “they had the same face and name.”

“How’s that possible?”

The Traveler decides to stay silent, she didn’t know either and now she was tasked on finding this person and bringing them here.

“Lumine!” A voice calls out.

She turns around relaxing visibly once she meets their gaze. It was Nahida.

“Oh Nahida! It’s been a while, how’s the Wanderer?”

The Dendro Archon smiles, “he’s perfectly fine but that’s not why I approached you.”

Lumine was completely aware why the Archon decided to approach her, she was in the room when she had her ‘outburst’ with the Creator.

“You had said you saw someone who looked exactly like Their Grace, right? I was wondering if I could tag along with you in finding them.”

Lumine raises a brow, “really? You want to tag along?”

“Let’s just say I have my own suspicions…” Nahida says. “Now, where was the last place you had seen them?”

-

-

-

Note: Well if you made it this far that means you must’ve read all that way to the end, so thanks for that! I apologize for any spelling and grammar mistakes, my english is :P but I’m trying!

I know that everyone has written something for the imposter au of sagau but this has been in my head for weeks and i finally decided I wanted to put it into words and post it. I’m not sure how well it will do, or how good it even is… but yeah… :>

© avocad1s please do not plagiarize or post to any other website

[cloudedgalaxies]

Three Nights Remain

Leona Kingscholar loves sleep more than anything else in Twisted Wonderland. So he is determined to continue sleeping all through the night when he has to host two freshmen crashing in his dorm for taking a rather stupid deal he had nothing to do with. It wasn't his problem.

Yet for some absurd reason, the three nights that the prefect stays in Savanaclaw, he doesn't get a wink.

Second Choice, Last Place

(part one) (part two) (part three) (read on AO3)

Word count: 4.5k

The moment Leona saw one of his freshmen bringing the herbivore and the weasel into his dorm, he knew that it was going to be trouble for him. He tried to avoid it as much as he could. Anything that didn’t involve him wasn’t his business, and wasn’t about to become his when it meant more work added to his plate he kept purposefully empty.

But here he was, watching his dorm get humbled by that very same freshman and strange package deal, where one wasn’t anything more than a pipsqueak and the other didn’t have a drop of magic in him. Here he was, finding that strangely enough, the person he thought would be dead last in a fight seemed oddly good at throwing down when the need arose.

Here he was, in his room, with two extra freeloaders on his couch that were much too loud and much too foolish for his taste, if they had gotten into a situation dire enough that forced them to stay here of all places. “Thank you again for letting us stay here,” the prefect said, as he made sure for the umpteenth time that his and Grim’s bags weren’t taking up any more space than they had to like a good little student.

Leona just hummed, making himself comfortable on his bed. “Don’t make me regret it.” Out of all the reactions that could have gotten out of him, the herbivore laughed. It made Leona crack open an eye to peer at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” Yuu sighed as he shrugged out of his uniform jacket, still trying to be as unimposing as possible as he draped it over his bag. “Usually I’m the one regretting things. Like this deal, for example.”

“Getting cold feet now?” Leona taunted, almost more a leer than a real question. He couldn’t help but smirk just a little. “You made your bed, herbivore. Now you gotta lay in it.”

Yuu huffed lightheartedly, the faintest hint of a smile etched on his lips. “Grim’s already taken care of that, I’m afraid.” He looked down at where the thing was already conked out, spread out on enough of the couch that it’d be a pain for the freshman to fit, too. Maybe that was the reason why he sighed, glancing down at bare wrists revealed by scrunched-up sleeves. “You wouldn’t happen to have a first-aid kit, would you?” he asked, that smile turning into something of a frown.

Another hum, as Leona eyed him through the slit he had to see through. “Didn’t know the herbivore was so easy to knock around.” He didn’t look all that beat up, but Leona could smell the tang of metallic blood in the air. Somewhere, skin had been broken. Wherever it was, he did a good job of hiding it, he’d give him that.

Maybe Leona was being a little mean. Something in him paused when the prefect’s eyes flickered, a dimmer thing flashing in them. “Didn’t know the lion took such pride in playing with his prey,” he shot back, making Leona’s second eye open as his eyebrow raised. “What a catch I am. ‘Doe-eyed and dimwitted,’ I think you put it. You must be flaunting me to everyone who’d listen as your best hunt.”

So the herbivore still had guts, even after facing beastmen full of snarling teeth and crackling spells. Leona smirked this time, tail flicking from where it was next to him. “Finally decided to drop that little act of respect, huh?”

Yuu grinned back, something twisted and dark and just evil enough to make Leona wonder if this frosh was really as out of place in this school as he originally thought. “Not at all.”

Doe-eyed, dimwitted and cheeky, he mentally added, a little more amused than he should’ve been to find out that the prefect had claws beyond just physical fights. “If I got anything, it’d be in the bathroom,” Leona finally said, trusting he wasn’t blind enough not to miss the door.

“Thank you very much, Housewarden Kingscholar.” He almost didn’t let the laugh that got out of him be anything more than another hum, but it did when Yuu somehow schooled his features to look as prim and proper as physically possible. He didn’t know how to feel about it. He could be asleep and yet here he was, laughing at some forgettable freshman’s joke.

Leona decided he’d sleep now, letting his eyes shut again. It wasn’t his problem that he had been foolish enough to make a contract with the cephalo-punk, and it wasn’t going to be. The only thing that he would contribute and take from this was a temporary lodging and a new, equally temporary servant. 

But then little noises kept coming from beyond the wall—clinking and ripping and the shuffling of clothes—and he found that it was enough of a distraction to keep him awake. “Knock it off,” he called with a lazy snarl, turning onto his side. There were days that he didn’t mind his heightened senses, and then there were nights like now, when he almost wished he was as deaf as a human so that he could get to rest.

“Sorry. I’m almost done.” Leona’s ear swerved as he picked up something else. A faint gasp, the sharp inhale of a hiss. He felt a growl rising in his throat when he heard it, though he didn’t know quite what it was directed at. Irritation that he was still awake, he decided on, when another of those breaths were sucked in.

Leona dragged himself off his bed, stalking over to the doorframe. Yuu almost jumped when he saw him, making a little flash of predatory satisfaction run through the housewarden. It was accented with the smell of blood, sharper now, since the wound was exposed to the fresh air instead of covered like before. It was a gash on his arm, still weeping a thin stream of scarlet.

It wasn’t just that one place, he realized, when his eyes slid to the hand gingerly letting his bunched-up shirt fall again. There was a bandage already on his abdomen and a bruise budding on his hip, only the very edge visible from where it dipped below his pantline. Leona supposed if he looked closer, took in a deeper breath, he’d find hints of even more blood and blue on his body.

That growl returned. “You really are easy to rough up,” he scowled, eyes smoldering as he looked at the prefect. Yuu averted his for a moment, but then thought better of it, staring right back with a face that said how unafraid he was. Leona’s glower grew. He was too bold for his own good.

“I’ve managed just fine until now,” the herbivore reminded, going back to his wounds as though Leona was nothing but a shadow on the wall. He didn’t make a sound when he dabbed some sort of ointment on the cut, biting the inside of his cheek to muffle it. But Leona still caught the faint scent of pain, something just as sharp and thick as though he was feeling it himself. If he looked close enough, he could see the way the herbivore’s eyes squinted, in annoyance and exhaustion and a list of other things Leona didn’t want to list, because he shouldn’t be thinking about it anyways.

What a pain. 

Yuu opened his mouth as Leona stepped closer, undoubtedly about to shoot another quip at him, but he stopped when he noticed that the housewarden had swiped a roll of bandages, ripping off just enough to wrap around his injury. His wrist was thin, Leona found himself musing when he felt the way Yuu’s heart skipped and thudded from his vein. It was almost impossible to see what he really looked like, thanks to the uniform that was at least three sizes too big for him, but even then, he wasn’t nearly as brawny as he’d imagined, to be able to take on the number of his dorm members he had and win. Then again, he would have to be small, to avoid the spells that seemed to follow him like fire streaking through dried grass.

He didn’t say anything, even as Leona tied the bandage ends together, keeping it there to cover the slice on his skin. “Thank you,” Yuu finally murmured, when Leona dropped his hands and leaned back, eyeing him a bit more. He really was puny. He couldn’t imagine that he’d be close to a filling snack to the menaces that were the Leech twins, let alone himself.

“Just stop making noise.” Yuu sighed, but the hints of a smile were on his face. Leona almost scoffed at it. The prefect started to put back together the supplies, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen into his face back again. That was when he saw it, able to look at it without distractions like other people or fights that he’d started. 

Leona had known that Yuu got hurt from when he’d overblotted, but he had never been able to see just exactly what he’d done. It was the first time he was seeing it from so close up—taking in the claw marks that spread from the side of his head to the corner of his jaw, still red and still fresh, even though the tournament had been some time ago now. With how big and long the four scratches were, Leona was almost surprised that the herbivore still had an ear on that side. But miraculously, it was still there, only with a few nicks and tears to speak of. 

It was healing as nicely as it could, but even so, it would no doubt hurt like no one’s business if it was put in saltwater—like the very sea he was going to dive into. That silent growl returned, but now Leona knew what it was directed at. 

“You’re staring,” the prefect mused, not looking over at him as he crouched to put the kit away. “I’m done now, I promise. You can go back to sleep.”

He felt something whisper inside him, like mounds of sand were forming to weigh him down. “Change into something else,” Leona grumbled, despite the way something putrid covered his tongue like rotten meat. “Your shirt’s bloody.”

The prefect blinked, and it almost looked like he was noticing that for the first time when he caught sight of the crimson stain on its front. Leona fought the urge to make that growl audible. “I don’t really have anything else,” he admitted, looking a little embarrassed as he did.

Of course he didn’t. Whether that was because the eels didn’t give him enough time to pack, or he just never had enough clothes in the first place, Leona didn’t know. He sighed either way, feeling the telltale drag of drowsiness start to pull him back to his bed. If he didn’t get to go back to it within a few minutes, he’d be angry. “Take something of mine then,” he ended up saying, trying to make this go faster so that he could get to sleep earlier.

“Are you sure?”

Leona just eyed him in return. “Anyone with half a sense of smell in this dorm would catch a whiff of it. They’d be on you in seconds if they knew it was from you.” 

It wasn’t a lie. The members of Savanaclaw were more feral than they should be some days, and it ended badly for anyone who was foolish enough to show their weakness off for others to exploit. If they knew that Leona was housing a wounded defect instead of just a defect, things would get bad for the both of them.

Only, he wasn’t either of those things. Leona didn’t know what to think as he watched Yuu tentatively open his closet while he stalked back to his bed, taking out the first shirt he thought Leona wouldn’t mind him wearing. This was a person—a herbivore—that had somehow taken him on at his stupidest, weakest, but still most powerful moment, something that he still didn’t know all the details of and didn’t want to, and won. Out of everyone in this school, Leona could count the people who were capable of that on one hand.

And yet, he still got pushed around like he was the weakest in the pride, beaten and used like a chew toy. Every time Leona had seen it, when those little spats had taken place in the botanical gardens for whatever reason, he had seen how the prefect had never fought back. He just defended himself with a look of set grimness on his face, and once his assailants were satisfied, he just went back to his day like they did. Maybe it was because he didn’t have magic. Maybe it was for some other reason, but all Leona knew and cared to know was that that was the way of the world. Those not favored were always second choice, and those not gifted were always last place.

Leona’s eyes narrowed as the prefect reappeared again, gently scooting Grim away for him to have enough space to curl up. Except, he didn’t. He reached down for his bag, pulling out a stack of documents thick as Leona’s wrist.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, a snarl in his voice. It was too far past when he should have been asleep. It was too far past when the prefect should have been asleep, if Leona cared, but now he was starting yet another thing to keep them awake.

Yuu gave him a smile. Even in the dim light, Leona could see how it was strained, speaking of how desperately he wanted to drift off, too. “You can turn off the light. I won't disturb you.”

“That’s what your words are sayin’, but that’s telling a different story,” Leona countered, shooting an icy look at the papers. There was no reasonable way that a freshman should have that much of anything, homework or dorm responsibilities or anything else. 

He didn’t put them away, much to Leona’s annoyance. He couldn’t read the text on it from his position, so he couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but he had a sneaking suspicion about it when Yuu sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “They have to get done by the end of the week,” was all he told Leona, an apologetic tone woven into his voice. Leona met it with an unimpressed stare. “Pretend I’m not here. I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

Leona’s eyes narrowed. Yuu tried to give him a sheepish smile, and that was finally the thing that made Leona relent, rolling his eyes as he let his head fall on his pillows. “You’d better be.” The last thing the prefect did before Leona made the light go out with a wave of his hand was put a finger to his lips, already displaying how silent he could be.

It wasn’t his problem, and it wasn’t his mess to clean up. So Leona let his eyes close, nestling just a little further into his bed to get comfortable. But he found himself keeping his ears alert, pricked and swerved just the right way to pin down the herbivore’s every noise. He really was quiet, Leona would give him that—the only thing he could pick up for the most part, even with his inhuman hearing, was the faint scribble of a pen and the occasional louder exhale of a weak sigh. 

At one point, there was something a little off. The air changed in a way Leona couldn’t quite place, making everything smell and sound and feel different. Then there was the sound of a cork uncapping a bottle, a whispered swallow, the rustling of a jacket as something was taken out or put back into his bag. Everything changed to normal a few seconds later, as though the strange abnormality had never happened. Leona chalked it up to his half-asleep state playing tricks on him, when he wasn’t quite sure what was real and what wasn’t.

But the sounds continued. Every time Leona thought that he was finally done, as a silence dragged out for long enough that he felt himself slipping into complete sleep, something would always break it. The resuming of writing on paper, or a little murmur so breathy Leona couldn’t even call it a whisper.

Finally at his wit’s end, Leona let his scarred eye open, peering through the night to catch a glimpse of the herbivore. He doubted that the prefect had moved from his position in all the time they’d spent in darkness. If he had, Leona couldn’t tell—he still was hunched over his papers, pen moving as though it were the last thing keeping the world from ending. He’d gotten through a good portion of it, at the very least. The stack at his feet that Leona assumed were the finished ones was thicker than he’d expected it would be, especially when he could hardly see in the dark as well as Leona could. Efficiency seemed to be one of his strong suits, if nothing else.

Yuu stopped as he finished the sheet he’d been working on, staring down at the ones on the ground with a dull look in the eyes that otherwise glowed like two ghostly blue stars. Leona could practically hear the gears turning in the herbivore’s head, screaming and clicking from the lack of oil rest would give them. And then he stopped, listening to his mind's pleas by joining the two stacks together before storing them back in his bag. Leona breathed a sigh. 

Only for the prefect to pull out another stack of papers. 

Enough was enough. “What,” Leona hissed, making Yuu jump at how a single emerald fire was aimed at him from the dark, “are you doing.”

“My homework,” he answered, too surprised to lie. It took another snarl from Leona to finally make Yuu come to his senses, albeit if he had any. “I thought you were asleep.”

“You can see just how right you are, can’t you?” Leona could hear the way Yuu’s breath hitched when he lifted his head, raising up to glare at the freshman. “Wasn’t that other stack it?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “No. That was— that wasn’t.” Yuu seemed scared. Good. It reflected in his eyes as Leona sat up further, silently demanding a better answer out of him. “They’re from the headmage,” he admitted, fidgeting with his hands under the housewarden’s smoldering gaze.

“‘Course they are.” It almost sounded like Leona wasn’t convinced, with the venom starting to seep into his voice. He was more surprised that the birdbrain would trust a job like that to a freshman with no place in the world and no magic to his name. Maybe that was exactly why, he realized, as he remembered that Crowley was the reason why the herbivore had even been investigating him in the first place.

It clicked then, what Yuu's role was in everything. Of course—he was someone unnoticeable and disposable. And Leona’s anger surprisingly changed to a new target, as he recognized just how little say the student in front of him had in anything. But no one in the room had to know about that. “Put them away,” he ordered, giving the papers such a heated look it wouldn’t be surprising if they spontaneously combusted. Yuu opened his mouth to speak, to no doubt argue with him, but Leona stopped it with another hair-raising snarl. “Now.”

Yuu gave him a look that only seemed half-annoyed, with how worry and fear was taking up the rest of his brainpower. “I’m sorry. I—”

“Stop talking.” Yuu immediately listened, closing his mouth without another word. So now he had some common sense. “Lay down ‘n sleep,” Leona told him, narrowing his eyes more for every second that passed where he didn’t. “I’m not askin’, and I’m not saying it again.”

Leona watched with eyes that didn’t miss a thing as Yuu did as he said, making sure there was no way for him to worm his way out of it again. Maybe he should start calling the herbivore the weasel instead of the pipsqueak, he thought with an almost sarcastic tone. He was small and slippery enough to be one.

Finally, the freshman seemed like he was done. So Leona laid back down again, hoping for sleep at last. “Sorry,” the herbivore mumbled, not-quite-quiet enough for Leona to miss. 

His eyes opened again from where they had almost closed shut, feeling those sand dunes press down on his chest again.  “Go to bed,” he answered, in a voice that was not quite as harsh as before. 

The prefect shifted one more time, readjusting the blanket draped over his body for one final last noise of the evening. “Good night.” 

Leona sighed, forcing himself to stop staring at the ceiling and listening to the prefect. Some sleep he was getting.

Once Yuu and his gang of freshmen disappeared from campus, Leona returned to his room instead of his regular spot in the botanical gardens. He’d been tipped off by the herbivore’s frantic studying to know that there were going to be one too many classes there for him to stomach, so he returned to his room instead, peacefully and blissfully quiet without his two extra roommates.

And yet, he did not sleep. For some strange reason, Leona dug through his possessions, without rhyme or reason, trying to remember where it was that Ruggie told him he’d stored a particular group of stuff. Of course, he’d been falling asleep, so he hardly remembered what the sophomore had said to him. At the time, Leona hadn’t cared in the slightest, but he supposed he was a little ticked off at his past self now, when he’d rummaged through enough places and thrown enough things around that he wanted to just stop and get in his afternoon nap.

Then, finally, in the last few seconds Leona had grumbled to himself he’d spend doing this, he found it, left to gather dust in a box in an unused room. Anyone without magic or muscle would have been doomed to get buried in all the discarded things, which was why Leona had held off looking in there until he was completely sure that was the only place it could be. It really was for the best that Yuu and Grim roomed with him, Leona found himself thinking, before he threw the thought out of his head.

He’d done more than enough for today, Leona decided. So he haphazardly threw it onto one of the many piles of things scattered amongst his floor and slunk back to his bed, hoping to catch a few winks before Ruggie came looking for him for lunch.

No one at this school pulled any punches, Yuu found, even for those younger and weaker than them. Any other day, under any other circumstances, she would have respected that. But now, when she was tired and cold and sore, Yuu just wanted to go back to her moth-eaten bed and let the world crumble around her.

“You’re not done yet,” Ruggie chimed, noticing how Yuu and Grim were about to fall back onto Leona’s couch and pass out, even though it was littered with mess. “We gotta clean, then you can conk out.”

Of course. Yuu sighed, grabbing Grim by the scruff to pick him up again and set him on the ground, too tired to speak. “This feels messier than last night,” she mused despite herself, knowing it was probably a little rude, but exhaustion removing her filter.

“It always seems that way when it’s your job to clean up.” Yuu hummed, grabbing any and all laundry nearby to throw in the hamper. If nothing else, she could try to be quick. Then she could get to the mountain of paperwork she still needed to do, between her homework and the papers Crowley had assigned to her.

The last few rays of sun trickled in through his balcony, and Yuu couldn’t help but pause for a second, watching the great ball of fire descend to the horizon. She only had two more days to achieve the impossible. It would have been difficult enough with a month, but with only three sunsets given to her, Yuu had half the mind to just curl into a ball and let herself give up.

But she couldn’t. Yuu wasn’t the only one standing to lose something now. It was the mess she’d told her friends she’d help them get out of, so it was her burden to bear. Yuu sighed, rolling her shoulders to hopefully shake some of the aching soreness in them from swimming the entire day, and got back to work. Leona did nothing but watch with half-lidded eyes, lazily following their movements as the two of them cleaned while Ruggie oversaw.

Once the rest of the room was devoid of things haphazardly tossed around, Yuu moved onto Leona’s desk, seeing that there was clutter still near its surroundings. She hadn’t meant to pry, but when she carefully took the blanket that was draped over the table into her hands, folding it absentmindedly, her eyes dragged across the words of the opened book below.

And then they widened. “Leona,” she called, feeling a spark of hope ignite in her for the first time in weeks, “are these your textbooks?”

His eyes had closed, and they did not reopen at her query. “What’s it matter?”

It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no, either. “Could I borrow them for tonight?” Yuu asked, glancing down at Grim when he made his way over. Hopefully he didn’t miss the silent plea she’d given him to start reading, just in case Leona suddenly got up and snatched them away.

Not that he'd do that. Or maybe he would. After last night, Yuu wasn’t really sure where his boundaries were in what did and didn’t make him mad. But the housewarden just hummed, not bothered enough to give her a proper answer. It wasn’t a no. “Thank you,” she breathed, taking them in her hands as though they were the most fragile glass and bringing them back to her makeshift bed.

“You’re still doin’ homework?” Grim exclaimed, the hint of disapproval in his voice. “We’re not even goin’ to class, minion. There’s no point.”

“We’ll still have to learn the material,” she countered, only half present in the conversation. The last of her attention on her surroundings disappeared when Ruggie snickered, echoing in her ears like the whispers of sand grains shifting against each other. Maybe tonight, she could finish her homework before such an unreasonable hour.

And Leona watched through that one hardly-opened eye, as the last of the light disappeared from inside his four walls, and yet the prefect still worked.

[tadc-ragatha]

I saw your requests open and I am in dire need to ask: Could you do some headcanons of Caine with a shy child reader?

I absolutely love your writing and saw a few others with stuff like that and I just need to word vomit how adorable of a situation that’d be. I feel like Caine would be ECSTATIC to have a child playing the game! It’s literally perfect for kids! He’d be over the moon about showing them around and chattering nonstop, only to find they’re…gone?!? Turns out, the situation is very overstimulating and adding a terrifying and loud ringmaster to the mix doesn’t really help. Queue the confused yet frantic search for the hiding newcomer, and Caine’s bafflement on how to handle the situation after. Just this over-excitable AI trying to connect with this little shy bundle .u.

Caine with a Shy Child Reader

TW: Crying

Type: Headcanons

A/N: The reader is about 9 years old. Obviously platonic only. Spoilers. You specified headcanons so I did that, but I also have a fic in the works that goes more in-depth. Thank you for the compliment!

Caine

Caine is, as you said, ecstatic to have a new, younger member of the circus. The youngest he's gotten before that is Jax, who was born in the first half of the year and was aged twenty-two. So, getting a member as young as nine in was quite the surprise.

And compared to the now second most recent member, Pomni, it seemed you had a much better transition. You didn't say much--or anything, really--and although it made some of his jokes flop (why didn't you respond?), he took it in stride.

After giving you a tour of the world of the digital circus, he dropped you off back inside to announce the day's activity. Turns out, you would be playing a fun game of hide and seek, with you being the seeker. But as Caine went to point to you, he found you gone. Very strange, considering before that you mostly stood there quietly shaking.

Caine, however, didn't quite understand what was going on. Gooseworx confirmed he's just clueless to how humans work, and so he assumed you must have just been very excited to get started. Because you got a head start, Caine decided to send everyone to look for you.

Gangle was the one to find you. You were hiding behind a set of curtains backstage somewhere crying. She had a lot of empathy for you in that moment, and although she's not very good at comforting people, she tried to make you feel better by resting a hand (or ribbon) on your shoulder.

However, the comfort was short-lived, as soon the rest of the group caught up to you. Everything got overwhelming again, and you started to cry. Gangle gave up on trying to comfort you as Ragatha took over. She was much better at the job, and managed to get you to tell her what was wrong.

You explained you were scared of being in the circus. Understandable for everyone. But you also explained being scared of Caine. You said having a loud set of teeth talking to you was overstimulating (or, in your words, "made you feel bad"). The others had known your silence wasn't one of comfort, and quickly understood Caine was clueless to this, too.

Once they told Caine, he was confused. But he wasn't harsh about it per se. He was disappointed you didn't like his game or self-described fun personality, but he tried to be nice about it. But don't get me wrong; the show is about the characters facing their traumas, so you'll definitely unfortunately have to deal with many more unpleasant-at-best moments.