#lecture ado

[mesfeuillesvagabondes]

George Sand l’indomptée ou Aurore Dupin, femme libre et engagée. 

Livre plutôt d’ado, se lit vite et surtout donne envie de lire du George Sand 😊

[martinbouquierauteur]

Un elfe... Un royaume... Une guerre...

[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 suppose 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. But only 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 really fucking does.

I’m gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I’ll genuinely commit homicide if I have to do all this 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 ♡

[keferon]

I just binged through your Mecha AU and I am delighted by the range of relationships!

Between your art, writing and everyone else who has contributed I’ve got extremely vivid ideas on how each human/mech pairing interact:

Without further ado: How does each mech hold their human?

Jazz and Prowl:

Totally natural, completely comfortable. Jazz and Prowl talk as if they were standing side by side rather than Jazz being held like a hors d'oeuvres. Shoulder rides common. Everytime someone looks back, Jazz is dangling somewhere else on Prowls body. Prowl maintains a completely stoic persona.

Ratchet and Deadlock:

Ratchet does not tolerate getting picked up without a damn good reason. Even when there is a good reason he will bitch the entire time on principle. Deadlock knows when Ratchets not actually that mad about it and thoroughly enjoys getting a rise out of him. Picked up under the arms like a grumpy ass cat.

Blurr and Swerve:

You ever see a kid who has clearly never held a small animal before hold a bird for the first time? Arms locked, hands and eyes WIDE open and absolutely terrified of either dropping or crushing it so they’re just kinda standing there frozen in fear while the bird could not give less of a shit? Yeah, Blurr is the very pretty bird.

First Aid and Vortex:

Like a pack of cigarettes.

Like a pack of cigarettes HELP HAJFJGKKGKF

Bonus points if Ratchet actually does a whole lecture about "how to hold humans properly" to Deadlock. So Deadlock wouldn't break anyone in half on accident.

After the lecture Deadlock has one free chance to practice and immediately after that Ratchet is like, okay, you aren't allowed to do that without my permission ever again.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

lecherous

part I

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Fem!Reader

Summary: You were only supposed to be in New York for the week. A quick visit, a break from Brown, from the safety of academia, from the clean-cut world you belonged to. Then you ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now, you’re trapped in your brother’s world—surrounded by danger, by violence, by men who don’t play by the rules. But the worst of them? The one you should fear the most? He’s watching you. And he’s waiting.

Warnings: 18+!, Soldier Boy is kinda his own warning?, language, innocence, corruption/corruption kink, smut (dirty talk, dry humping, fingering, handjob, overstim, biting, marking, p in v, spitting), misogyny, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 8,146

A/N: I just had to do a Soldier Boy one. I was compelled to do it!!! Listen, Ben??? <333 I would pay for this dude to smash my face in with his goddamn shield, and thank him through the blood and shattered teeth in my mouth. I hope you guys like this as much as I liked writing it. Feel free to give me feedback! This is part one... (so while all of the warnings listed above may not be evident, they will be in the next part) and I'm thinking this will only be a two-parter, so keep an eye out for the next one. All the love.

Without further ado: LECHEROUS

Corruption is a slow, creeping thing.

It does not strike like lightning, does not announce itself with fire and fury.

It is quieter than that, softer. A whisper in the dark. A hand at your throat that never quite tightens. A steady unraveling, thread by thread, until you are something else entirely—something ruined.

Something willing.

You were only visiting New York for the week.

Seven days between brick and steel, between the bones of a city that never sleeps. You thought you’d spend them wandering through old bookstores, drinking overpriced coffee in little sunlit cafés, maybe slipping into the Met just to stand before Waterhouse and let his brushstrokes sink beneath your skin.

Your world was soft—delicate as pressed flowers, bound together by old books, lazy afternoons, and the scent of rain on cobblestones.

And then it wasn’t.

Then it was blood, and smoke, and the rough hands of men who lived in the dark. Then it was your brother’s frantic voice, the slam of a van door, the stench of whiskey and bleach.

Then it was them.

The Frenchman with kind eyes. The silent girl with something feral in her bones. The Brit who smiled like he enjoyed ruining things.

And then—him.

And God help you, the second his eyes landed on you, you knew—deep in your bones—you were never making it out of this untouched.

The first week with them had been messy in a way you’d never been prepared for.

Two years ago, you left for Providence, and the world you once knew softened at the edges, blurred like ink bleeding into paper. You only came back for holidays, quick visits filled with familiar places that didn’t feel quite the same anymore. The journey wasn’t too long, but there was always something pulling you back—essays to finish, lectures to attend, books to drown in.

Daily calls with Hughie turned to weekly. Weekly turned to monthly. By the time you were halfway through your first year, the calls all but stopped. And that was okay.

Because he lost Robin.

You still remember the phone call from Dad, the way his voice was hushed, careful, like he wasn’t sure how to say it. Like grief had teeth, and speaking too loudly might wake it. You tried to reach out to Hughie, but you knew him. Knew the way he shrank away from sympathy like a touch too firm on bruised skin. Knew he wouldn’t want to talk about it, not when it was being shoved in his face by news anchors with empty voices and replayed in grainy footage on every screen.

So you gave him space. Let him breathe. Let him reach out when he was ready.

You just never expected that when he finally did, it would be like this.

Butcher had rubbed you the wrong way. From the first instance. There had been something about him—too loud, too brash, too willing to drag your brother into the fire and call it heroism.

You couldn’t deny that Hughie was different now. Sharper. Harder. The softness in him—the part that used to let you steal fries from his plate without a fight, the part that laughed too easily, that cried at dumb movies—that was gone. And you were almost certain Butcher had been the crux of that.

It was in the way Hughie had watched him, had followed his lead even when he knew better. In the way Butcher had smirked like the devil himself whenever Hughie did something reckless. In the way he had treated people like chess pieces, pushing them toward the front lines with a wink and a whiskey-drenched grin.

And you had hated it. Hated him. Hated what he had turned Hughie into.

But at the same time, you knew that if Butcher had told you to run, you would have. Because whatever else he was—whatever violence had lingered beneath that cockney drawl—he hadn’t lied. And when he had looked at you, you had known he saw it for what it was. You hadn’t been meant for this world. And one day, if you weren’t careful, it was going to swallow you whole.

Frenchie had been charming from the start. Too charming, if you were being honest.

He had done far too many drugs for your liking, had smoked like he was trying to become a ghost before his time, but he had been pleasant. Warm. Always quick with a grin, always ready with some poetic nonsense that had sounded more like lyrics than conversation.

And yes, he had flirted. Too much, too often, too shamelessly.

"Ah, mon ange, how is it that you float through all this chaos and remain untouched? Hmm?" 

Or...

"A girl like you does not belong in places like this… But, ah, you do make it a little prettier, non?"

It should have bothered you. It hadn’t. Not really. Because there had been no bite to it, no real weight. Just something easy, familiar, and fleeting.

And when the world had felt too sharp, too jagged, you had rather listened to Frenchie talk about some obscure French film than think too long about what had happened next.

Kimiko had always been sweet. Always watching you with those dark, thoughtful eyes, her expression somewhere between curiosity and quiet understanding.

She had smiled at you. A lot.

And sometimes—sometimes she had looked at you like she had felt sorry for you.

Not in a condescending way. Not pity, exactly. Just… something close to it. Like she had known what it had meant to be dragged into something you had never been meant to see.

She hadn’t talked, but she hadn’t needed to. Because some nights, when everyone else had been asleep, she had sat with you at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug, and just… existed beside you.

And sometimes, that had been enough.

MM had been a tough one to crack.

He had been smart, disciplined, methodical—but where Frenchie had flirted and Kimiko had watched, MM had just… kept his distance.

You had been too soft for this. He had known it, and you had known it, and sometimes, when you had said something naïve—something that only someone who hadn’t seen the worst of the world would say—he had barely held back a sigh.

You had gotten it. You had. But sometimes, his silence had felt colder than it had needed to be.

But then—sometimes, just for a moment, his expression had softened.

And you hadn’t known if it had been because he had seen something in you that had reminded him of someone else or because—just maybe—he had been starting to get used to you.

And then there had been him.

The worst of them all.

A relic. A man who shouldn’t have existed, who hadn’t existed, who had died and stayed dead for so long that the world had moved on without him.

And yet—here he had been.

Standing in the doorway, watching you like a wolf watches a lamb.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck is this?"

Or—

"Kid, you didn’t tell me you had a little sister. Or, fuck, is she your pet? Girl like that doesn’t belong in a place like this."

Or, worse—

"Shit, look at her. You ever even held a gun, sweetheart? Or are those dainty little hands just for turnin’ pages and touchin’ pretty things?"

You had hated him.

But most of all? You had hated that—somewhere, deep down—you had been afraid he might have been right.

Hughie had made it clear to everyone—especially Soldier Boy—that you were off-limits.

"Do not touch her. Do not fuck with her. As soon as this blows over, she’s heading back to Brown, back to her life, and she’s staying the hell out of all this bullshit."

And you remembered the way Butcher and Soldier Boy had snorted at that.

Like it was funny. Like Hughie had said something so spectacularly naïve that the only appropriate response was mockery.

And then the questions had started.

"So, how the fuck's a little Ivy League princess end up in a mess like this?" Butcher had asked, grinning over his drink like this was all some grand joke.

"Yeah," Soldier Boy had drawled, looking you over with lazy amusement, his elbow propped on the table. "What, ya get lost on your way to a poetry readin'?"

Hughie had snapped.

Sweet, sensitive, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly Hughie. Your big brother, who never raised his voice, never lost his temper. The boy who still flinched when doors slammed too hard.

He had sworn at them.

"Leave her the hell alone. She’s too fucking smart to be around you assholes."

And when Butcher had smirked, amused, Hughie had turned on him instead.

"This is your fault. You know that, right?" He’d spat. "I told you—I was just having lunch with my sister. And now she's here. Because of you."

No one had responded to that. Because there was nothing to say.

And then Frenchie had signed something for Kimiko, her dark eyes flicking to you with quiet curiosity.

"She asks what you are studying?"

You had answered without thinking.

"Literature. Philosophy. Art History."

And that had earned another scoff.

This time from Soldier Boy, who leaned back in his chair, gave you one of those looks—head tilted, half-amused, half-unimpressed.

"Jesus. You’re one of those doe-eyed, frilly little chicks who thinks she’s gonna make a difference in the world, huh?"

And the worst part?

He didn’t even sound mean when he said it.

Just… like he already knew you wouldn’t.

More days passed, more chaos unfolded. And at the halfway mark of your second week stuck in this hell, the safe house was quiet.

Hughie had gone to bed an hour ago, muttering something about needing at least six hours of sleep before Butcher dragged them all into more bullshit. Frenchie and Kimiko were in their room, and MM had disappeared behind a closed door with the kind of finality that made it clear he was done dealing with everyone for the night.

Which left you alone at the kitchen table, tea cooling in your hand, fingers tracing the delicate spine of a book you had read too many times to count.

Sappho.

The words sat heavy on the page, as sweet and delicate as a pulse pressed beneath a lover’s thumb. You let them settle in your mind, let them soften the edges of the world.

Until he walked in.

Soldier Boy.

His presence cut through the quiet, casual as anything—sweatpants slung low on his hips, some faded jersey clinging to broad shoulders. You didn’t recognise the team, didn’t know if they even still existed, but it didn’t matter.

Because he was there. And he was watching you. He let out a low, exaggerated sigh as he strolled to the fridge, pulling it open with a careless tug.

"Jesus. You’re still awake?"

You didn’t look up from your book. "So are you."

"Yeah, but I got a reason. You?"

You took a slow sip of your tea before answering. "I like the quiet."

He snorted. Loud. Disbelieving.

"Yeah, bet you do. Let me guess—"" he drawled, grabbing a beer from the fridge, popping the cap off with one sharp flick of his thumb, "—you sit here every night, readin’ your little poetry books, pretendin’ you ain’t in the same world as the rest of us?"

You ignored him.

Or at least, you tried to.

Because a moment later, he was behind you. Standing too close, leaning over the back of your chair, body brushing against yours as he peered at the book in your hands.

"What’s this one? More girly shit about love?"

His voice was low—mocking, warm, edged in something heavier.

You could smell him. Clean skin, sweat, whiskey. It should have been unpleasant, should have made your stomach turn, but instead, your pulse kicked.

Because he was too close. And he was too warm. And for all that you hated him—for all that he was a chauvinistic pig who smirked at you like he already knew how this would end—he was still a devastatingly handsome man.

You swallowed.

"It’s Sappho." Your voice was calm, even. Polite.

He hummed like he wasn’t impressed, like the name meant nothing to him.

"Lemme guess. More lovesick shit?"

You shouldn’t have answered. Shouldn’t have played into it. But something about him dragged the words right out of you.

"She wrote poetry about desire. About love. About longing so strong it was painful."

His chuckle was low, rich, full of something sharp and knowing.

"Yeah? That right?"

His chest brushed against your shoulder, solid and warm. And for the first time, you felt it. The game. The slow, creeping inevitability of it.

Because the worst part? You didn’t move away.

Soldier Boy didn’t move away.

No, he did the exact opposite.

With a sigh like this was all so exhausting for him, he slid into the chair beside you—sprawling out, legs spread wide, arms draped over the back like he owned the whole damn place.

Like he owned you.

"You at a good bit?" He asked, nodding toward the book still open in your hands.

You huffed a soft little laugh through your nose. A tiny, unconscious thing.

"It’s all good," you murmured, tucking your fingers into the crease of the page.

And that was all he needed. That tiny little laugh—like you weren’t entirely immune to him.

It was fuel.

His mouth pulled into something slow and satisfied, one corner curling up like he’d just won a bet no one else knew about.

"Gonna fuckin’ read me somethin’ then?" He asked, voice low, lazy, thick with amusement.

You hesitated for half a second, but he didn’t fill the silence. Just sat there, watching you, waiting. So you turned the page, ran your fingertip down the words, and read.

"He is more than a hero. He is a god in my eyes—"

You heard the soft sound of his breath through his nose, but you didn’t look up.

"—the man who is allowed to sit beside you—"

Your lips curled around the syllables, shaping the words slow, careful, thoughtful.

"—he who listens intimately to the sweet murmur of your voice—"

And that’s when you noticed it.

The way he was watching your mouth. Not the page, not the book, not even your hands—just your lips.

You wet your bottom lip without thinking, just a quick dart of your tongue.

And then he did it too. A barely-there flicker of his tongue over his own lip, almost like mimicry, almost like instinct. Like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. Like he was imagining something else entirely.

You swallowed.

"—the enticing laughter that makes my own heart beat fast."

He hummed, low, deep, thoughtful.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I bet it does."

And you didn’t know if he meant the poem or something else entirely.

Soldier Boy let the silence sit there for a beat.

Then he snorted.

"Christ on a cross," he muttered, shaking his head, taking a slow sip of his beer. "This what passes for romance these days?"

You blinked, coming back into yourself.

"Excuse me?"

He leaned back in his chair like this was nothing. Like you hadn’t just let him into something soft, something intimate, something you didn’t share with people like him.

"I mean, c’mon. A girl’s got a guy sittin’ next to her, all close, hangin’ on her every word, and she’s gettin’ worked up over poetry?" He scoffed, head tilting. "What’s wrong with kids these days? You ever actually been with a man, sweetheart, or you just get off on recitin’ pretty words about ‘em?"

Heat flared up your spine, spreading fast—anger, humiliation, something else.

"That’s not—" You exhaled sharply, shaking your head, snapping the book shut with more force than necessary.

But he was still watching you, still too relaxed, too knowing.

"C’mon," he continued, still smirking, still delighted by this. "You’re tellin’ me you’d rather have some guy whisperin’ poetry in your ear than puttin’ his hands on you?"

Your breath caught.

His eyes sharpened, locking onto you like he could see it. Like he could hear the way your pulse had just picked up.

He chuckled, voice low and syrup-thick.

"Jesus. You would, wouldn’t you?"

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, crawling down your neck, shameful, unwanted.

"You have no idea what you’re talking about," you muttered, forcing your gaze away, forcing yourself to focus on anything but him.

"No?" He mused, voice mocking, curious.

And then, he leaned in. Slow. Deliberate. One forearm braced on the table, body shifting just enough to make sure you felt it—the weight of his presence, the heat of him, the sheer size of him.

He was crowding you.

And you were letting him.

"Bet you get real sweet for the right kinda guy, though," he murmured, his tone just toeing the line of filthy. "Bet you got all sorts of pretty little noises bottled up in there. Probably never even heard yourself make ‘em."

Your stomach tightened.

This was humiliation. This was infuriating. This was working. You were leaning in. You were hanging off his words.

And he knew it.

That smirk deepened.

"What’s it like, sweetheart?" He pressed, eating this up. "Being so goddamn innocent in a world that’s just waitin’ to fuck you over?"

It snapped something in you. The chair scraped hard against the floor as you stood too fast, breath uneven, pulse hammering.

"I’m heading to bed," you announced, voice clipped, too rushed, too affected.

And the worst part?

He laughed. Low, smug, completely victorious.

"Yeah, sweetheart. I bet you are."

The days passed in a blur of avoidance.

You spent most of your time glued to Hughie’s side when he was around, soaking up whatever small slivers of normalcy still existed. When he wasn’t, you gravitated toward Kimiko—because at least she wasn’t a raging asshole like everyone else in this godforsaken safe house.

Butcher, though? He had a way of ruining peace on sight.

That morning, you had been sitting with Hughie, Frenchie, and Kimiko at the rickety kitchen table, sipping coffee, listening to Frenchie ramble about some film you had never heard of, when Butcher came storming in like a goddamn hurricane. MM trailed behind him, looking just as pissed off and impatient.

"Alright, you lot, move your arses. We got business to attend to."

Just like that, the energy shifted.

Hughie shot you a look over his shoulder as he scrambled to follow the rest of them, a look that said "stay away from Soldier Boy."

You waved him off. You didn’t need to be told.

You would happily stay away from that smug, antiquated dog.

So, with the house suddenly quieter, emptier, safer, you made yourself a cup of coffee, grabbed another poetry book from the small stack you had left in the corner, and settled into your chair. The fabric of your white dress pooled around your thighs, soft against your skin. Your bare feet pressed against the cool wooden floor where you had kicked off your chucks, leaving them discarded beside your chair.

For the first time in days, you exhaled.

And then—like he sensed it—he walked in.

Soldier Boy.

You didn’t look up, but you felt him. That heavy, unavoidable presence, the scent of whiskey and musk and something uniquely him curling in the air.

He was comfortable, casual—sweats again, another jersey stretched over that ridiculous frame.

And this time? A cigar.

You kept your gaze locked on the page in front of you, willing yourself into complete indifference. You heard the flick of his lighter before you smelled it. A moment later, the thick curl of smoke drifted into the air—in your direction.

Your lips pressed into a tight line.

Ignore him.

You turned the page of your book with deliberate patience. Another drag. Another slow exhale. More smoke, rolling straight into your space.

You finally sighed. "Do you mind?"

"Nah."

That smirk was in his voice. You didn’t even need to look to know it was there.

Slowly, so slowly, you dragged your gaze up to him. He was leaning against the counter, big and lazy and completely entertained by his own bullshit. The cigar was perched between his fingers, burning red.

"Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?" He drawled, lifting it to his lips again, blowing another purposefully slow stream of smoke in your direction.

You didn’t even blink. "Aside from being in the same room as you?"

That amused him. Of course it did.

"Atta girl," he muttered around the cigar, like your bite was endearing.

He pushed off the counter, strolling toward you, slow and unhurried, a king in his own little kingdom.

"You always this cranky, or just ‘cause you need to get laid?"

Your brows shot up.

"Excuse me?"

Smug asshole.

He gestured loosely with his cigar, motioning toward your book, the way your fingers gripped the pages a little too tightly.

"I mean, c’mon. First, it was Sappy, or whatever bullshit you called it. Now it’s somethin’ else. What is it this time, huh? Another little daydream about some poor bastard who’s got you so fuckin’ worked up you can’t think straight?"

You wanted to kill him. You wanted to leave. You wanted to stay.

You inhaled, slow and measured.

"It was Sappho. And it's poetry, not a ‘daydream,’" you corrected, voice calm, even, unaffected.

His smirk deepened.

"Yeah, sweetheart." He took another slow drag, watching you through the haze of smoke.

"That’s what they all say."

You frowned at him, eyes flicking pointedly to the cigar between his fingers. He noticed. Of course he did.

"What?" He drawled, tilting his head like he wasn’t blowing thick curls of smoke into your space on purpose.

You shook your head, gaze lingering on the burning cherry-red tip.

His smirk deepened.

"Lemme guess. You never smoked a day in your life."

"No," you admitted, crossing one bare leg over the other, adjusting your dress where it pooled over your thighs.

He hummed, shifting his weight onto one foot like he was actually considering something.

"Wanna try?"

"No."

That made him chuckle.

"Jesus, you’re just full’a nos, huh?" He muttered, shaking his head.

You exhaled sharply, gripping the edges of your book a little too tight.

"What do you want, Soldier Boy?"

He shrugged, looking wholly unbothered, comfortable, amused. Then he pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Read to me."

You blinked, brows pulling together. "No."

He scoffed. Mocking. Indulgent.

"C’mon, sweetheart, what else you gotta do? Sit here all night readin’ to yourself?"

You ignored him. Or at least, you tried. But then you looked down at the page, at the very first line of the sonnet you had just landed on—

And your breath caught. Heat flashed up your neck, a sudden, horrible, involuntary blush creeping over your skin. You tried to snap the book shut.

But he was too quick.

His hand landed on top of yours, firm, unyielding, stopping you from turning the page.

"No fuckin’ way," he murmured, watching you now.

Really watching you.

"This one’s got you all flustered, huh?"

You scoffed, shifting under his stare, hating the way your body reacted to the weight of it.

"It’s nothing," you muttered, shaking your head, trying to move past it.

But he wasn’t letting it go.

"Nah, sweetheart. You went red." His lips curled, slow and knowing. "Means it’s gotta be good."

You pressed your lips together, rolling your eyes to hide the fact that your hands had started to tremble.

"It’s just poetry," you deflected, but it was weak.

"Yeah?" He took another slow pull of his cigar, exhaled thick and deliberate.

"C’mon, doll," he drawled, voice soaked in smoke and amusement. "Fuckin’ read it to me."

You shook your head, tucking your hair behind your ear, desperate to find something to busy your hands.

He let the silence sit there for a beat.

Then—the final push.

"I’ll ask real nice if you want me to."

You went even redder. His smirk was criminal. You swallowed, exhaled through your nose, adjusted yourself in your seat—

And he noticed.

He watched.

The way your hands smoothed over your dress, fabric shifting over the soft skin of your thighs. The way you shifted your weight, curling your legs under yourself, tucking your feet beneath you.

You were kneeling in the chair now, spine straight, breath shallow. And he was looking at you like a goddamn predator.

"C’mon, doll. Read it."

His voice was low, insistent, thick with mockery and something else, something darker, something that settled deep in your bones.

You let out a soft, frustrated whine, tilting your head back to stare at the ceiling like it might save you.

Bad move.

"Oh, sweetheart," he chuckled, slow and smug, shifting in his chair, elbow resting on the table, eyes locked onto you like a heat-seeking missile. "That little noise you just made? You sure you wanna go makin’ sounds like that ‘round me?"

Your head snapped back down, eyes narrowing at him, face burning.

"God, you’re such an ass," you muttered, gripping the book so tight your knuckles ached.

"Yeah?" His mouth curled. "And you’re still sittin’ here, lettin’ me get you all flustered."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to fight back. But you knew how that would go. So instead, you inhaled sharply, forced your gaze down to the page, and started reading.

"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair."

The words felt heavy on your tongue, slow and deliberate, curling in the air like something sacred and dangerous all at once.

You could feel his stare.

"Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets."

You swallowed, your breath coming just a little too quick.

"Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps."

Your hands tightened around the book.

He wasn’t just watching you. He was consuming you. Every movement, every shift of your body, every tiny tremor of your voice.

"I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the colour of a savage harvest."

Your thighs pressed together.

It wasn’t intentional. Just a tiny movement, a reflex, something almost subconscious. But he noticed.

"Hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond."

A slow exhale left your lips, shaky and uneven.

The heat of his gaze didn’t let up. If anything, it grew heavier. Like he could see inside you. Like he already knew what was happening, what was unfolding beneath your skin, creeping lower and lower, winding tight.

"I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face."

Your voice wavered. Just barely. Just for a second. And he smirked.

"I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes—"

A shift in your seat. A small one. Barely anything. But it was too much.

The fabric of your dress whispered against your thighs, your knees tucking tighter beneath you, your whole body tense and warm and flushed.

"—and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue."

Silence. Thick. Drowning. The kind that made your skin prickle, made your chest tight.

You didn’t dare look up. Didn’t dare move.

Because you already knew. Knew that if you lifted your gaze, he would be watching you like he was starving. Knew that if you moved even the smallest bit, he would catch it.

Because Soldier Boy saw everything. And he knew exactly what was happening to you.

The silence was suffocating. Thick, weighted, pregnant with something unspoken as it stretched between you.

Your skin felt too tight. The heat coiled low in your stomach, twisting around your ribs, crawling up your throat, threatening to betray you.

Then—he broke it.

"A guy or a girl write that?"

His voice was low, rough, amused. Like he already knew the answer. Like he was just toying with you.

You swallowed, licking your lips, forcing your voice to sound steady when you answered.

"Pablo Neruda."

And then, the worst goddamn thing happened. He laughed. A slow, lazy chuckle that dragged through your skin, caught on your ribs.

"Figures."

You gritted your teeth, already knowing something insufferable was coming.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged, all careless arrogance, the cigar still balanced between his fingers, exhaling another slow curl of smoke into the air.

"Just sayin’," he mused, voice deep, casual, like he wasn’t fucking with you on purpose. "Even though the guy’s clearly a fuckin’ pussy, that one was a good one."

Your head snapped up.

Pablo Neruda... a fucking pussy?

Fuming. Your hands tightened around the book, knuckles white.

"Excuse me?"

He grinned. That slow, knowing grin. Like he’d just pulled the pin from a grenade and was waiting to see what you’d do with it.

"Relax, sweetheart. Didn’t say it was bad, just said the guy sounds like he’s got a real tragic case of the fuckin’ blues."

And that’s when he really looked at you. Not just the way you were glowering at him, but the flush creeping down your neck, burning hot against your collarbones. His smirk deepened.

"Jesus. You got real fuckin' red there, didn’t ya?"

Your stomach dropped.

He leaned in, just slightly, enough to throw off your balance. Enough to let the heat of him settle in your space.

"What’s got you all worked up, huh?"

You hated him. Hated the way he could see everything. Hated the way your body betrayed you before you could even stop it.

"Nothing," you muttered, voice too soft, too tight.

He snorted. "Nothing, huh?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. His eyes dragged over you, slow, deliberate, indulgent. And then—he went for the kill.

"You a virgin or somethin’?"

Your breath hitched. You choked. Literally. Sputtering, heat flashing up your throat, down your chest, creeping under your skin like a live wire.

"What? No—"

His grin sharpened.

"Nah? You sure?"

His voice was soaked in mockery, thick with condescension, teasing but firm.

You clenched your jaw, swallowing down the white-hot mortification clawing its way up your throat.

"I am not a virgin."

It should have come out firm. Confident. A clear, unwavering correction. But instead, it sounded rushed. Flustered.

And he caught it. He fucking caught it.

"Huh."

A sound, low in his throat. Thoughtful. Borderline amused. Then, he tilted his head.

"So what’s got you all shy then, huh?"

His voice had shifted. It wasn’t mocking anymore. It was lower. Thicker. Heavier. Something coiled behind it. Something just as sharp as it was slow.

Your stomach twisted.

You hated the way your body betrayed you. Hated the way his eyes locked onto you like he was drinking in every reaction, every flicker of heat beneath your skin.

And the worst part?

You didn’t have an answer. But he did. And you knew he wasn’t letting this go.

You pushed up from the table too fast. Too sharp. Too obvious. Your body knew before your mind did—you needed to get away. Now. You grabbed your mug, fingers curling tight around the handle, breath unsteady, pulse erratic.

You weren’t looking at him. Couldn’t.

Not after that. Not after he had looked at you like that. Not after your body had betrayed you, your thighs pressing together, your voice getting breathless, your skin turning traitorously warm.

You stepped away, headed for the sink.

And then—his hand caught your wrist.

The world tilted. The air caught in your throat. You stopped, completely. Your chest rose and fell too quick, too shallow. Your lips parted slightly, a soft, silent intake of breath. And when you turned your gaze to him—wide-eyed, startled—

He was already looking at you. Really looking at you. His eyes dragged over your face, scanning every inch, every tremor, every tell.

Your mouth. Your throat. Your blush.

And then, he smirked. Slow. Easy. Like he had just figured something out. Like he had you all mapped out, like he had already won.

His grip wasn’t harsh. Just firm. Deliberate.

"You know," he mused, voice low, thick with something lazy, indulgent, impossible to ignore. "Broads back in my day? They weren’t like this."

Your pulse jumped.

"Like what?"

His smirk widened.

"Like you."

His eyes flicked down your body, slow, taking his time.

"They weren’t like the ones now, either. All teeth and bite, runnin’ around talkin’ about sexual fuckin’ liberation like it’s the best thing since sliced bread."

Your jaw tightened.

He tilted his head, eyes still dragging over you, voice soaked in amusement.

"But you?"

His fingers flexed slightly around your wrist.

"You ain’t like them. Not the ones from back then, not the ones now." He smirked, something mean and smug curling behind it. "You’re somethin’ else entirely, sweetheart."

Your stomach twisted. A hot, tight coil of embarrassment and indignation.

You knew what he was saying. You knew exactly what he was calling you.

"I am sexually liberated," you snapped, too quick, too defensive, too transparent.

And that? That just made him grin. That slow, smug, lazy kind of grin. Like he was saying sure you are.

His lips pulled into a smug, disbelieving frown, chin tilting slightly, eyebrow raising just enough to let you know exactly what he thought of that answer.

"Yeah?"

His grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go.

And then—the final move.

He shifted. A slight, easy motion. Subtle. One knee sliding further apart, his weight shifting into a slouch, his shoulders relaxed.

And then—his eyes flicked downward.

Just for a second. To his thigh. It was silent. Unspoken. But the message? It was loud as all hell. A silent suggestion. An offer. A dare.

Sit.

Your body locked up. Every nerve, every muscle, caught in place, frozen in the thick, suffocating weight of silence.

Because he was waiting. He had made his offer. And now, he was watching you decide.

Your breath shook, barely noticeable, but he noticed. Of course he did.

His hand was still wrapped around your wrist, warm and solid, thumb just barely grazing the thin skin there.

You should leave. You should pull away. You should say something sharp, something final, something that would put an end to whatever the hell this was before it started.

But you didn’t.

You lowered yourself down. Slow. Hesitant. Carefully tucking your knees together, shifting to sit sideways, keeping yourself polite.

Like you could still pretend this wasn’t what it was. Like you weren’t settling yourself into the lap of the most dangerous man you’d ever met.

And then—he laughed. Low. Deep. Amused. As if he was thinking of course. Of course, you had sat like that. All prim, all proper, like you weren’t already fucked.

His hands spanned your waist, heat bleeding through the fabric of your dress, grounding, firm, unbearably present.

And then—he moved. Not rough. Not rushed. Just careful. His fingers brushed over your shoulder, slow and deliberate, catching the strands of hair there, dragging them down your back, stroking them into place like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

Your breath hitched. His touch was warm, soothing, steady. And it disarmed you completely.

"Sweet little thing," he murmured, voice low, thick, nearly affectionate.

You shouldn’t have melted. You shouldn’t have let your shoulders soften, let your breath come out in a slow, shuddering exhale. You shouldn’t have let your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks like this was something delicate.

Like this was something soft.

But God help you—

It was.

"Didn’t know they made ‘em like you," he muttered, almost to himself.

Your stomach tightened.

Not in fear. Not in anger. In something else.

"Like what?" You asked, barely more than a breath.

His hand dragged down your spine, slow, reverent, like he was committing the shape of you to memory. His lips brushed your temple, and then—

He started talking. His voice was low, barely more than a murmur, settling against your skin like smoke, like sin, like something inevitable.

His fingers traced absent, lazy paths down your spine, warm through the thin fabric of your dress, gentle in a way that felt almost cruel.

"Soft little thing," he mused, voice almost thoughtful, indulgent. "All wide-eyed and sweet, sittin’ in my lap like it ain’t gonna get you in trouble."

Your breath shook. You weren’t sure if it was from his words or his hands, the slow drag of his palm down the length of your back, the way his fingers curled, just slightly, at your waist.

"Never met a girl like you," he continued, voice warm, thick, honey-slow. "All polite, all careful. All dressed in white like you don’t belong anywhere near a guy like me."

Your stomach tightened.

"You know what they used to say ‘bout girls like you, sweetheart?"

You swallowed. "What?"

His lips brushed your temple, a ghost of a touch, nothing more than a breath of warmth.

"They called ‘em good girls."

The words sent a shiver straight through you.

And he felt it. Of course he did. His grip on your waist tightened, just for a second, like he wanted to test something.

"That what you are, sweetheart?"

You hesitated. It was a simple question. It should’ve been easy. But your breath hitched, caught somewhere between your ribs, and that was enough.

Because he noticed.

"Oh," he murmured, his smirk curling slow against your skin. "That’s cute."

Your hands fisted in your lap, nails digging into your palm as heat crawled up your neck, burned at your cheeks. You felt him shift beneath you, the slow spread of his thighs beneath yours, the way he let his hands slide lower, fingertips teasing at the soft curve of your waist.

"Tell me somethin’," he continued, voice still unbearably soft, unbearably slow. "A girl like you…"

His fingers traced one slow circle against your hipbone, deliberate, measured.

"You ever been touched right?"

Your breath caught.

His smirk deepened.

"That’s a no," he decided for you, low and mocking and so fucking amused.

You bristled. "That’s not—"

But his grip tightened, just for a second, just enough to stop the words in your throat.

"S’alright, sweetheart," he murmured, pressing his lips just beside your ear, barely-there, just enough to make you shudder. "I got time."

His hand slid up, slow and deliberate, fingertips tracing the curve of your jaw before cupping it completely. Warm. Firm. Unyielding. Your breath hitched as he tilted your face toward his, fingers pressing just enough to keep you still.

Just enough to say, stay right there, sweetheart.

Your stomach twisted.

He was so close.

Close enough that his breath ghosted over your lips, that you could see the thick fringe of his lashes, the sharp curve of his cheekbone, the slow, heavy drag of his gaze as it flicked between your eyes and your mouth.

"See, darlin'," he murmured, so low, so warm, voice settling deep in your chest. "I got all the time in the fuckin’ world."

A small, embarrassing noise slipped from your throat. A soft, startled squeak.

And he heard it. Of course he did. Because his lips curled, something slow and lazy and so goddamn entertained.

"Hughie told you I was off-limits," you blurted out, desperate for something, anything, to break the moment.

And he laughed. Soft. Rich. A low hum that rolled through you, warm and indulgent, like you had just said something sweet.

"Yeah?"

He tilted his head slightly, thumb stroking just once along the hinge of your jaw.

"Your brother’s a pussy, sweetheart."

Heat flashed up your spine.

"I don’t take orders from kids."

You shook your head slightly, your movement stunted by his grip, by the way he held you in place like you were something fragile.

"I don't imagine you take orders from anyone," you murmured, voice breathless, quieter than you meant it to be.

His eyebrows lifted, just slightly. His head tilted, lips pulling into something slow and considering, like he was actually thinking about it.

Like he was indulging you.

"Now that," he hummed, voice a little lower, rougher, thicker, "That’s true."

And then—he leaned in. Just slightly. Just enough.

"‘Less," he murmured, voice a rasp against your skin, thumb pressing just barely under your chin. "It’s from a sweet little thing tellin’ me exactly how she wants to be touched."

A full-body shiver wrecked through you. And he felt it. Of course he did. Because he was waiting for it. And now? Now, he was smirking again.

You shifted.

Just a tiny movement. A small, instinctive press of your thighs together, an attempt to relieve the tight coil of pressure winding deep in your stomach.

But he felt it. And he let you have your moment. Just long enough for you to think he might let it slide.

Then—

"What’s up, sweetheart?"

Low. Smug. Like he wasn’t already fully aware.

Your breath hitched. "N-nothing," you whispered, the word barely holding its shape.

His fingers curled tighter against your waist.

"No?"

The word sat heavy between you, thick with disbelief, amusement, triumph. And then—he leaned in. Close enough that his lips ghosted over yours, warm and teasing, just a whisper of contact.

"See, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low, dripping in something thick and honeyed. "I think it might have somethin’ to do with the fact that you’re sittin’ in my lap right now, soakin’ through your fuckin’ panties."

Your stomach plummeted. Your fingers fisted in your lap, nails biting into your palms, thighs clenching tighter.

He felt that too. And he grinned.

"That what’s got you all squirmy, sweetheart?" He continued, voice slow, syrup-thick, filthy and knowing. "That what’s got you all breathless, pressin’ your thighs together like it’s gonna help?"

Your eyes fluttered shut.

Because his lips kept brushing against yours. With every word. With every filthy, unrelenting syllable.

"Bet it’s drivin’ you fuckin’ crazy, huh?"

A small, stuttering breath escaped your lips, a quiet, involuntary whimper. And that made him hum in approval.

"Christ, listen to you," he muttered, voice a low, gravelly rasp, drunk on the way you reacted to him. "Bet you’ve never been this fuckin’ wet from just a little talk, huh? Bet you never even knew you could be."

Your breath hitched. Your fingers trembled. And his lips were still right there.

"M’gonna kiss you now," he murmured, voice low, reverent, completely victorious. "You want that, right, doll?"

And God help you—

You shouldn’t have said yes.

You should have pushed away. Should have climbed off his lap, walked out of the room, out of the house, out of his orbit before you got caught in it completely.

But you didn’t.

Because he was warm. Because his hand was still holding your jaw, still tilting your face up to his, still keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Because his lips were so close, just barely brushing against yours, just enough to make your breath shake.

And then—

He kissed you.

Soft.

Slow.

A careful, deliberate pull, barely even pressure—just heat, just warmth, just something devastatingly careful.

And you melted.

It was instinct, the way your body eased into his, the way your shoulders softened, the way you sighed against his lips like you had been waiting for this, like your body had been craving this.

And that? That was all he needed. Because the second that sigh left your lips—

He took more.

His hands moved fast, sure, effortless. One gripping your waist, pulling you forward, shifting you in his lap like you weighed nothing. And suddenly—

You were straddling him.

Your dress bunched up around your thighs, his sweats pressing warm and solid between your legs, his hands anchoring you against him.

And the kiss?

It was deeper now. Hungrier. His tongue slid against yours, slow, dirty, claiming every inch of your mouth. And then—his teeth. A sharp scrape against your bottom lip, a small, teasing bite that made you whimper into him.

And he felt it. His hand slid up, curling tight around the back of your neck, holding you right the fuck there.

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ, sweetheart," he muttered against your lips, breath hot, thick, full of something dark and victorious.

"Listen to you."

Your fingers curled against his chest, gripping the fabric of his jersey, trying to ground yourself against the pull of him.

"Bet you didn’t think you’d be sittin’ in my lap like this a week ago, huh?"

His other arm locked tight around your lower back, pressing you down against him, letting you feel everything.

"Look at you now, though," he murmured, teasing, smug, utterly devastating. "Pretty little thing, sittin’ all soft in my lap, lettin’ me kiss her however I fuckin’ want."

Your breath hitched, your body tightening instinctively, thighs squeezing just a little. He noticed. Of course he did.

"Yeah," he hummed, grinning against your mouth, pressing another slow, deep kiss against your lips. "I think you like this."

And Christ wept—

He was right.

He pulled back. Just enough. Just enough to see you. To watch the wreckage, to take in what he had done to you, what he was doing to you, how much further he could still push.

But the second his mouth left yours—

You chased it. Your lips followed his, an instinctive, helpless movement, so soft, so sweet, so fucking desperate.

And God, he loved it.

He grinned. That slow, lazy, insufferably smug grin, like he had been waiting for you to do exactly that.

"Look at you," he muttered, voice thick and warm, all rough velvet, all self-satisfied filth.

A thin line of wetness still connected your bottom lip to his.

Your breath shook, a soft, involuntary whimper slipping out before you could stop it. And that made him groan. Low, deep, pleased.

"Christ, sweetheart."

Then—his hand on your lower back moved. He curled his fingers, gripping tight, grounding himself against the soft curve of you—

And he pulled you down. A slow, firm drag, pressing you flush against the hard heat of his cock, making you feel every inch, every shift, every pressure that you had caused. Hot and heavy and solid.

You gasped. Your fingers tightened against his chest, grasping at his jersey, clinging to anything solid.

"Feels good, don’t it?"

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your lips were parted, breath coming in soft little shudders, eyes hazed over, body so warm, so pliant, so desperate for more.

And he saw all of it.

"Go on, sweetheart," he murmured, low and sweet and completely wrecking. "Take what you need."

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. You moved. A slow, shaky roll of your hips, seeking, testing, pressing down.

And God, the feeling of it. Heat sparked sharp and bright in your stomach, a soft, breathless moan catching just at the back of your throat, barely escaping.

And he felt that too.

"Fuckin’ hell," he groaned, voice lower now, rougher, rasping at the edges.

Then—

Reward.

He kissed you. Slow. Deep. A teasing pull of his lips, a slow slide of his tongue against yours, rewarding you for doing exactly what he wanted.

And Jesus Christ—

You did it again. Another slow, hesitant grind of your hips, another small gasp caught between his teeth, another kiss pressed against your mouth, against your jaw, against your throat.

"There’s a good girl."

His voice broke something in you. Your thighs tensed, fingers gripping tighter, a tiny, instinctive whimper escaping before you could stop it.

And he knew.

"Oh, sweetheart."

His hands tightened on your waist, guiding you, coaxing you, praising you.

"See? Told you I had time."

A slow, filthy chuckle, pressed against your cheek, your throat, anywhere he could reach.

"You can take whatever you want from me, doll."

You moved again. Because you needed more. And he gave it to you.

"That’s it, baby."

The words were practically a whisper, all heat, all filth, all praise.

"Look at you. Just needed a little help, huh?"

Your breath shook. Your body was thrumming, your skin burning, and he was still watching, still touching, still giving.

"Knew you were innocent, sweetheart, but fuckin’ hell—"

His hands spread wide, one sliding up to curl around the back of your neck again, keeping you right where he wanted you.

"You really don’t have a clue what to do with yourself, do you?"

Your eyes fluttered shut. Because he was right. And you didn’t even care.

Because it felt so good. Because his voice was breaking you down, piece by piece. Because you had never been touched like this. Because you had never felt wanted like this.

And the worst part?

You weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to stop wanting it now.

Something was happening. Something warm and heavy and unbearable. It started low. Deep in your stomach. A slow, building heat, curling tight and restless, stretching through your ribs, wrapping around your spine, crawling lower, lower, lower.

It felt like—

God, you didn’t know what it felt like.

You just knew that it was taking over. That you couldn’t stop moving now, couldn’t stop pressing yourself against him, couldn’t stop gasping into his mouth.

And he knew. Of course he knew.

"Oh, sweetheart." His voice was a slow, knowing drawl, pulling you further, pulling you closer. "You gonna come from this?"

Your breath caught. Your fingers fisted into the fabric of his jersey, trying to hold onto something, anything, but nothing could anchor you now.

Because it was getting sharper. Because it was getting closer. Because you had never felt anything like this before.

And he could tell.

"Fuckin’ adorable," he muttered, low and reverent, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you down harder, letting you grind yourself against him. "Sweet little thing, sittin’ in my lap, never even felt this before, huh?"

You shook your head, barely even aware of it.

Your skin was burning, your breath was shaking, your body was chasing something it had never known before.

"Jesus fuck," he groaned, watching you completely fall apart, completely helpless to it. "S’alright, sweetheart. I got you."

His mouth brushed against yours, hot and filthy and so goddamn smug.

"You wanna come, don’t you?"

A whimper. Soft and helpless.

And he grinned.

"Course you fuckin' do."

His grip tightened, his hips tilted, pressing right there, right where you needed him, right where it felt like you were about to break.

"Go on, baby." A slow, syrup-thick hum, pressed against your jaw, your cheek, your mouth. "Come for me."

You did.

It hit you like a tidal wave. A slow, creeping swell suddenly crashing down, dragging you under, under, under. Your eyes screwed shut, your breath hitched, your entire body tensed—

And then—

A soft, shattered whine broke free against his mouth.

And he groaned. A deep, satisfied sound, his hands locking tight around you, feeling every shudder, every tremble, every helpless, overwhelming aftershock.

"Christ," he muttered, his breath hot and heavy, wrecked and victorious. "That’s my girl."

The high shattered like a glass dropped from too high, like a curtain yanked back too fast, like cold water hitting bare skin.

Awareness crashed into you all at once.

Where you were. What you had done. Who you had done it with.

Your breath stumbled, caught somewhere between your chest and your throat, and before you could even think—

You scrambled off his lap. Too fast. Too shaky. Your legs wobbled slightly, knees still weak, thighs still trembling from the aftershocks. Your fingers brushed over your lips, swollen and sensitive and still tingling from his mouth.

And him?

He was lounging back in his seat. Sprawled out, utterly unbothered, utterly victorious. His gaze dragged over you, slow and indulgent, like he was savouring the sight of you.

The way your lips were red and bitten, the way your dress was rumpled, the way your chest was still rising and falling too quick, like you couldn’t quite catch your breath.

And then—

He stretched his legs out, exhaled slow, adjusted the thick outline in his sweats, and grinned.

"Well, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction. "You better grab your little book and run off to bed before your big brother comes back and sees the state of you."

Your stomach dropped. Your fingers twitched at your sides. Your cheeks flushed, burning, shame and heat and panic tangling up all at once. You nodded, stiff and silent, hurriedly grabbing your book, clutching it tight, spinning on your heel.

You didn’t look at him.

You couldn’t.

But as you darted out of the room, steps quick, heart hammering, the heat of his gaze stayed on you. And then a soft, filthy chuckle followed you down the hall. Low. Satisfied. Like he already knew.

Like he knew you’d be back.

[headcanonenthusiast]

Valeria Garza NSFW headcanons. 

This was made with fem readers in mind.

Also quick note, I apologize in advance if this isn't as detailed as my headcanons on some other characters. It was definitely harder for me to come up w/ stuff for Val, especially bc girlie is nowhere near one of my favorites (I'm sorry 😔) but what better way to expand on writing then doing headcanons of characters you rarely think about? So, without further ado, I hope you enjoy! 

(I completely understand that this type of content is not everyone's cup of tea, and that's ok! But, please scroll and ignore if this type of content isn't your thing as opposed to leaving any sort of negative comments.)

NSFW under the cut.

-THE brat tamer.

-Absolutely will not take your shit if you disobey her in any way, shape or form. 

-"What did you just say to me? Do you have any idea who you're talking to?" 

-Gets this look of absolute disbelief on her face if you dare to act like a brat, then her eyes turn dark and she's suddenly dragging you to bed. 

-"I'm the woman who decides whether or not you get to cum every night, querida. And if you're gonna keep acting like a fucking brat, then it looks like you won't get to cum for the rest of the week." 

-Her favorite forms of punishment include anything to do with orgasms. Whether it be edging you, overstimulating you or even denying you the right to cum entirely, she loves making you squirm and beg to release. 

-Shakes her head and clicks her tongue, as if you begging to cum is the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard after you've misbehaved. 

-"Oh, so now you're sorry? Chica, a sorry isn't going to cut it. I warned you about acting like a little brat, but you didn't listen. You never fucking listen to me." 

-Proceeds to lecture you and switch between degrading you in English and Spanish as she either forces a strap down your throat or harshly plays with your clit. 

-"Perra estúpida. Never listening to me and then acting surprised when I don't let you cum." 

-Will also partake in bondage, cuffing up your wrists to the headboard before she runs a vibrator painfully slow over your pussy. 

-As rough as she is when it comes to sex, if you're genuinely feeling upset about something, her gaze will turn more sympathetic (which she refuses to show to anyone besides you.) 

-"What? What's wrong, amor?" 

-And you're welcome to tell her about all of your troubles while she gently eats you out. 

-Probably has multiple straps. Prefers buying the thickest one possible but she does have one that's much longer for when you really piss her off. 

-Is very willing to spoil you with new sex toys and lingerie. Anything to make her pretty girl happy. 

-Also, I feel like she'd switch between wanting to see you touch yourself and not letting you at all. 

-When she's not there with you, she probably encourages you to masterbate and send her tons of videos of you doing so.

-But, if she's actually there and catches you touching yourself, it won't be pretty. 

-"Oh, can I not satisfy you enough anymore? Is that it?" 

-Then she fingers you so well your legs are shaking as she rants. 

-"Look at you, cumming just from my fingers. What a slut."

-"And you really thought you could make yourself cum the same way I do? No, no, estás loca por pensar eso, querida." 

-She wants anything sexual to be completely dependent on either her or toys she picks out for you. 

-In other words, very dominant. 

-In other other words, if you ever asked or God forbid tried to make her submit, you're a dead woman. 

-"Thats it. You're getting too fucking bratty for your own good. Get over my Goddamn lap right now if you know what's good for you." 

-And when you are on her lap, she'll switch between spanking your ass and spanking your pussy. 

-Leaves hickeys on the most visible spots on purpose. 

-Smirks when you get all shy about it, gently brushing your hair away as she chuckles. 

-"Don't worry, amor. I won't make the marks too visible." 

-But then she does, so she buys you the prettiest necklace with her name engraved on it as an apology, and another reminder of who you belong you. 

-Some translations for the Spanish stuff, chica = girl, querida = darling, perra estúpida = stupid bitch, amor = love and "no, no, estás loca por pensar eso, querida" = no, no, you're crazy for thinking that, darling. 

(Also I apologize if anything in Spanish is incorrect, online translators can only get you so far 😕)

Look at me go, writing about a character I don't even like and am not even attracted to because I'm straighter than a wooden ruler 🙃

This was honestly fun to write though! Valeria takes up like 0% of my thinking space, so coming up w/ headcanons for her when I barely remember she exists nor am attracted to her at all was a bit more challenging. Hoping y'all enjoyed this! 

Rudy NSFW headcanons r coming up next, so be sure to lookout for those in the near future 🤭

[prythiansprincess]

kiss with a fist | chapter one.

home | chapters | playlist

pairing: theodore nott x reader.

song inspiration: kiss with a fist - florence and the machine.

author's note: i'm so excited to share this series with everyone. this was literally meant to be a one shot fic but i have no self control therefore it spiraled into a whole series. without further ado, please enjoy the first chapter and let me know what you think 🤎

Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure. 

Intelligence, knowledge, wisdom. These were the traits that Ravenclaws valued most, but if the founder of your house could see you now, Rowena Ravenclaw would probably roll over in her grave. 

Because there was nothing smart about falling in love with Theodore Nott. 

In fact, it might be the most idiotic thing you’ve ever done in your entire life. 

So why did it feel so bloody exhilarating? 

To understand your descent into madness, it was prudent to trace the events back to point zero. 

It was a rainy September afternoon, unusually dreary even for the Scottish Highlands. The first week of your return to Hogwarts had been chaotic to say the least. Between performing your prefect duties by showing the first years around the castle and dealing with the clueless third year that accidentally set off Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs in the Great Hall, you were absolutely knackered by the time Friday rolled around. 

Unfortunately, you had no time to rest. Even though the term just started, you were already spending much of your nights studying until your eyes felt like they were going to fall out of your skull. Tonight, you were in the potions laboratory tackling a particularly stubborn advanced draught. No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t figure it out. 

You dropped a sprig of wormwood into the cauldron and stirred counterclockwise then clockwise, just like the recipe instructed. The concoction bubbled to the surface. Holding your breath, you peered into the mixture with hope that this try would finally turn out successful. The potion turned a vibrant magenta color before exploding all over the front of your uniform. 

Sadly, this was the closest you’d come to brewing the Angel’s Trumpet Draught. You sighed, wiping down your tie with a washcloth. It did nothing except make the mess worse. What you needed was a good old fashioned soak.

Luckily, you had access to the prefect’s bathroom on the fifth floor. During this time of night, it would be gloriously empty. Giving you the perfect opportunity to wallow in bubbles and self pity. 

The trek from the dungeons to the fifth floor was fortunately uneventful. The hallways were dark and quiet, allowing you to slink off to the bathroom in peace. With a whisper of pine fresh, the pearly gates opened.

You turned on the faucets, setting the temperature just below boiling and dispensing herbs and fragrances into the tub. When you were finally satisfied, you quickly discarded your soiled clothes and eagerly stepped into the warm bath. The scent of rosewater and pink himalayan salt instantly relaxed you. 

You sighed deeply, leaning against the marble tile and closing your eyes. This was definitely not the way you thought seventh year would go. Your last year at Hogwarts was supposed to be the highlight of your academic career. While your housemates fretted and fussed over quidditch games and blood moon balls, you refused to take your eyes off the prize.

Ever the diligent student, you had no interest in extracurriculars unless it brought you closer to your dream of becoming an accomplished potions master, which would hopefully catch the eye of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. Joining the prestigious group was a dream that you had been working towards since first year. Blood, sweat, and tears had gone towards achieving this goal, especially during your most recent break. 

You spent the entire holiday interning at the Brewery, attending lectures at the Magical Division of the University of Oxford, and you had not only completed the assigned reading for your Advanced Potions class, but Professor Slughorn’s personal recommendations as well. All of that hard work should have placed you ahead of the curve, but your class rank remained the same as always. 

Second. 

Not first.

Never first.

No, that spot belonged to that rich infuriating smartass pureblooded motherfu—

“Theodore Nott,” you said, lacing your voice with as much venom as you could muster. 

Between the pale moonstone pillars stood the source of your academic anguish. Theodore was dripping sweat, his green and silver quidditch jersey covered in mud and grime. The prefect badge pinned to his robe was barely visible, more brown than silver. His curly brown hair fell erratically across his cheekbones as he brushed a stray strand away to squint in the faint light. 

The side of his mouth quirked up into a smirk when he recognized you. “You know, most people just call me Theo.” His gaze lingered on your form, which was barely covered by pink suds. “Especially those who know me rather intimately.”

You flushed in response. Amusement danced in his watercolor eyes, which seemed brighter now thanks to his sun kissed complexion. Knowing Nott, he probably spent his summer laying out in the Italian sun while attractive witches fed him grapes by hand. You didn’t get a tan like that from holing up in the English countryside with nothing but a boiling cauldron and a dusty textbook for company. He didn’t even have the audacity to pretend like he was worried about his class ranking. The bastard. 

“Every rule has its exception, Theodore,” you gritted out. “Now get the fuck out.” 

He cocked his head, sending a mass of wavy brown locks to spill to one side. “You’re right. Most people don’t usually say my name like it’s an unforgivable, but I guess you’re special in that way, diavolina mia.”

Little devil, Nott's idea of a fond nickname, irritated you to no end. Your annoyance only made him use it more. Gods, what a wanker. 

“Are you deaf or just thick? This bathroom is occupied,” you huffed, sinking lower into the bubbles. “Leave before I scream bloody murder.” 

Theo smirked. “Oh, I guarantee you’ll be screaming.” He kicked his shoes off, leaving them in a messy pile beside your own neatly arranged boots. “Though the only thing I’ll be murdering is that pu—”

The glare you sent his way would have sent lesser men running for the Forbidden Forest. “I’m serious, Nott. I’ve had a terrible fucking day and I am not giving up the bath.” 

“Neither am I,” he countered. “Practice was brutal. I ate shit on the pitch and all I want to do is to reap my prefect benefits via bubble bath. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to learn how to share, sweetheart.”

You watched in stunned silence as he peeled off his jersey. The moonlight streamed through the glass stained windows, painting him in a surreal sort of light. There was no ounce of shame to be found in Theodore Nott as he stripped off his trousers and stood stark naked in the middle of the bathroom. 

Look away, you thought. Look the fuck away now.  

But like a moth to a flame, you found yourself horribly drawn to the cocky, arrogant, son of a bludger. His tall frame cut an imposing figure in the dark as slivers of moonlight danced across his ridiculously toned chest and well-defined abs. He was neither brawny nor scrawny, but somewhere in the middle, which unfortunately happened to be your sweet spot. 

To make matters worse, the smug prick seemed perfectly aware of your ogling. You could’ve sworn Theo flexed as he stalked towards you. Unlike most boys his age, he wasn’t awkward or bumbling. Theo was confident in his body. Too confident. 

You sighed. “Can you at least attempt to be decent?” 

“Why? It’s not like you haven’t seen it all before.”

As if you needed a reminder of this ongoing tryst between you. Theo waded to your side, leaning his head back as the warm water sloshed around him. His eyes fluttered close, those thick lashes of his kissing the top of his cheekbones. Water trickled down his collarbone and you had to fight the urge to lean over and lick it off. 

“I told you, last time was—“ 

“The last time,” Theo finished. “I’m perfectly aware, principessa. You say it every time.” 

“I mean it this time.” 

He cocked his head, flashing those hypnotizing eyes at you. “Oh?” Theo drawled slowly, reaching out to brush a wayward lock of hair that had escaped from your braid. “Did my poor little Ravenclaw finally find the courage to say no to the big bad Slytherin?” 

Your breath hitched as he pressed his lips against your throat. “Fuck,” you whispered. 

“Go on then, love,” Theo hummed against your skin. He kissed the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe, making you involuntarily arch into him. Slender fingers wrapped around the base of your throat, holding you in place. “Tell me what you want, diavolina.” 

You sighed in defeat. “Stop being an asshole and kiss me, Nott.” 

Theo grabbed the back of your head and crashed his lips against yours like a man starved. After months of going without, you came to the horrid realization that you craved this as much as he did. You crawled into his lap, straddling him as he gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises. 

I am a stupid girl, you thought. A stupid, horny girl who had no business snogging Theodore Nott. 

One, you were bitter rivals. Two, Theo awakened a dangerous side of you that defied all logic. This whole fucked up situation started because of your lapse of judgment last winter. As always, Theo had said or done something to annoy you during class and in return you hexed his drink to taste like dragon dung. He retched for a week straight. Somehow Snape found out that you were to blame and placed both of you in detention.

One thing led to another in the potions classroom and you ended up with your skirt around your waist and Theo’s head between your legs. You quickly resolved that the only way to shut him up was to keep him occupied and occupied he was. Ever since then, the two of you had been at it like rabbits. 

You thought that you would leave all of it behind in sixth year, but barely a week into this term and you were already repeating the pattern. 

“I’ve been thinking about this all summer,” Theo groaned into your mouth. 

“That’s cute, Nott,” you responded sarcastically. “Miss me over the holidays, did you?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. Don’t act like you haven’t been thinking about this too. You’ve been testier than a Hungarian Horntail since the minute you got off the platform. I could tell that you haven’t been properly fucked since our little impromptu goodbye in the broom closet last spring.” 

“You’re absolutely repulsing.” 

He smirked. “Then why are you pulling me closer?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up and fuck me before I change my mind.” 

“You could say please.” 

“I could,” you said with a shrug before gripping his cock and lining him up at your entrance. Theo groaned as you sank down into him with a satisfied little smirk. “But I won’t.” 

The moan that came out of his mouth barely sounded human. “Fuck,” he said, burying his head in the crook of your neck. “How do you always feel so fucking good?” 

You knew what he meant. As much as you hated to admit it, Theo was right. You hadn’t gotten properly laid since your last tryst. There had been other boys this summer, but none of them made you feel like this. Because sex with Theo wasn’t just sex. It was warfare. You fucked like you both had something to prove. 

Even now, as you grinded your hips against him, Theo thrusted upwards with equal force like you were competing for the bloody house cup. You ran your fingers through his hair, frowning a little. 

“What?” Theo asked. 

“Did you cut your hair?” 

He grinned as he trailed kisses along your jaw. “You don’t like it?”

“Less to hold onto.”

“Don’t worry dolcezza,” Theo chuckled darkly. He squeezed your thighs and pressed you against him roughly. “I’ll make sure to hold on tight for the both of us.”

You hummed in agreement before sinking down again, setting a steady rhythm as you rode him with reckless abandon. For someone who valued logic, every ounce of common sense you possessed went out the window when it came to this infuriating boy. 

Maybe you were a masochist. But as Theo thrust sharply into you, the stupid little voice in your head said that you didn’t really mind the pain. 

You moaned as Theo tilted your chin, capturing your lips with his. It was a clash of tongue and teeth as you fought for dominance, putting your bodies to the test. He knew exactly what buttons to press, which sensitive spots to hit, how to challenge you physically and mentally. 

“Gods, right there.” You whimpered, digging your fingernails into his back. Theo’s hypnotizing eyes snapped to yours, piercing through every layer until you felt even more bare than you already were. “Don’t fucking stop, please.”

He smirked. “So you do have bedside manner after all.” 

“Not for you,” you said as you grinded down hard, making Theo bite into your shoulder. 

“Salazar fucking save me,” he grunted. 

“Your founder can’t save you now, Nott.” 

“Cruel, ruthless woman.” Theo looked up at you like he was praying to the stars. His movements stilled as your gazes collided. “Tell me you missed this. Tell me that no one else makes you feel like this.” 

You whined at the loss of friction. “You’ve picked a shit time to get all sentimental on me, Nott.”

“It’s not sentiment, it’s the truth,” Theo declared, thrusting lazily. “And I want to hear you say it.” 

“Why?”

“Call it curiosity,” he said casually. “I want to know if I measure up to the boys back in Oxford.”

Not even close, you thought. But you were not about to admit that out loud. 

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.” 

Theo chuckled before sinking his teeth into your neck. “But I’m not a cat, little bird. I’m a snake and I’m coiled around you ready to strike if you say the word.” 

You shivered slightly. This constant back and forth, all the bickering and banter, was just you and Theo’s sick and twisted version of foreplay. Gods, you fucking missed it. 

“Fine,” you grumbled. “Theodore Nott, you are an infuriating little shit but you fuck like an absolute demon. I missed sneaking around with you in the broom closet, the charms classroom, the astronomy tower, and wherever else we managed to defile in this bloody castle. Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

The shiteating grin on his face almost made you want to take it all back, but then he flipped you over, laying you down on the cold marble tile and staring at you with so much lust in his eyes that you felt the depths of his desire in your core. He crawled over you, water trickling down his tanned skin. 

“Close enough,” he remarked before hiking your leg over his shoulder and burying himself so deep that you clawed the edge of the tub to keep yourself from slipping. 

The rest of it was a blur of skin on skin as Theo unleashed himself on you. His mouth, his fingers, his cock were all just tools of seduction that he wielded with lethal precision. 

The pleasure washed over you in waves, crashing again and again as he made you cum not once, not twice, but a total of three times. By the time he reached his peak, you were so exhausted that the two of you collapsed in the dark. 

You laid side by side, staring up at the domed glass ceiling in stunned silence. After a moment, Theo turned over to face you.

“So?” 

“So what?”

“Did I manage to knock that stick out of your arse?”

You rolled your eyes, pushing off the tile. “And that’s my cue to leave.”

“I’m kidding. I’m good, but I’m not that good,” Theo teased, following closely behind as you put your clothes back on. He eyed the bright magenta stain on the front of your uniform. “What happened there? Did you murder some poor unsuspecting pygmy puff?” 

“No, but I did a number on the potions lab,” you lamented with a sigh. “That stupid Angel’s Trumpet Draught is bloody impossible to brew.” 

“That old thing?” Theo asked, pulling out a fresh set of clothes from his quidditch bag. “I finished it ages ago.” 

You gaped, nearly tumbling over your own skirt. “How? I followed the recipe word for word and this disastrous stain was all I managed to achieve.”

“Sometimes you have to go off the book,” he replied. “Experiment a little.” 

“No thanks, I’d rather keep all my limbs intact.”

“I think you’re doing a rather splendid job of endangering yourself all on your own,” Theo said sarcastically. He cocked his head as you slipped on your boots. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll show you how to brew the draught in exchange for a favor.” 

You narrowed your eyes in suspicion. “What kind of favor?” 

“That’s for me to decide and for you to accept.” 

“I’d rather not give an egomaniac a nuclear advantage.” 

Theo rolled his eyes. “Do you want my help or not, diavolina?” 

“Fine,” you said with a sigh. “But only because I’m desperate.” 

“Words every bloke is dying to hear.” 

Without a word, he tossed a mass of balled up fabric in your direction. “What’s this?” 

“A jumper, an article of clothing generally worn to retain warmth in colder climates,” Theo deadpanned.

“I know what a jumper is, you tosser. Why are you giving it to me?” 

“Because, you’ll get a cold walking around like that,” Theo explained with a longsuffering sigh as though you were a clueless first year. The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Plus, I can see your nipples through your blouse and as much as I enjoy the view, I doubt that flashing Filch is at the top of your bucket list.” 

“You truly are appalling,” you replied, shrugging the slightly faded jumper on. The thing was so worn that you couldn’t even make out the inscription on the front. The fabric swallowed you whole, skimming the top of your thighs. It also smelled like sea salt and smoke and boy. One boy in particular. 

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” He grinned, showing off those stupid little dimples of his. “Meet me in the potions lab tomorrow. Eight o’clock sharp, just like old times. And bring a muffin.” 

“For the draught?’ 

“No, for me.” Theo said, holding the door open. “I’ll need motivation if I’m spending my Saturday morning with you.” 

You slipped into the hallway and flipped him the bird. His laughter followed you in the dark like an annoying shadow.

“See you tomorrow, my little pygmy puff!”

Taglist: @annaisabookworm@marina468@yaraasthings @the0doreslover@bubybubsters@moony-artemis @natasha887@lucyysthings@criesinlies @bunnymallowo@niktwazny303@letmedownslows @siriuslyalovergirl@wordsarelife@clairesjointshurt @daydreamingabthar @mishtay @cherry-hoe  @littlebookbengal @maybefoxysouls @nomup  @aliensknowmyillusions

[darthwhorecrux]

This is a part II to this fic. Without further ado...GIRLDAD!Shinji !!!!

A special shout out to @villainsrtasty for the pigtail's idea!

With your daughter taking up space in your home now, your son was going through a clingy phase, making grabby hands and whining for you constantly, desperate to be the baby again. In the past, Shinji would pout and grumble something about your son favoring you over him, complaining that he was such a "momma's boy," and that he was basically chopped liver in comparison, but now that your daughter had been born, she kept Shinji's hands full. He hardly had time to complain about your son's neediness when your daughter was all over him every waking hour, and he loved every second of it.

It was obvious from the beginning that she was meant to have a special relationship with your husband, the daughter he so badly wanted, and now she was here. In a room full of people, her little eyes would dart about, searching for him, a smile spreading on her face only when she found him. She clung to him the same way your son did to you, curling the fabric of his clothes in her tiny fingers or plopping down in his lap with a book in hand, a silent command that he read to her. Shinji did any and everything she requested of him. It made you proud, the way she had him wrapped around her little finger. She hadn't even been able to talk yet and he still always understood exactly what she wanted and got it to her without hesitation, better than even you could. She was so young, so new to the world, and already spoiled, sure to be trouble the older she got. 

There was also Shinji’s protectiveness, and a new special kind that developed, reserved for her and her only. Jokingly, or maybe not so jokingly, when another baby boy shared toys with her and she followed him everywhere he went, Shinji lectured her on the way home, as if she could understand. “No, no boyfriends. Yer mine for life.”

“What do you mean?” You’d tease him. “That’s my little heartbreaker. Her and I are gonna get all done up and go out clubbing when she’s old enough. She’s going to be my party girl partner in crime…”

“No way!” He’d whine. “The both of ya stay home with me. The day some slimeball gets to her and tries to take advantage of my baby girl...” He didn’t need to finish his thought, the hint of the threat in his narrowed eyes. 

“So when some idiot’s approaching her with some corny ass pickup line…?” You side-eyed him, also with no need to finish the thought. 

“If he’s as handsome and charismatic as me, then maybe I’ll consider letting it slide.” He grinned smugly.

On one of the better nights, your son was napping upstairs, and your daughter was wound for sound, giggling wildly as she made attempts to pull your husband's blonde hair into pigtails. The more he made noises of protests and "ouch!"'s, the more amusing she found it. Though it was at the expense of his comfort, her laughter was one of the most beautiful sounds you had ever heard, and you were sure he agreed, hence why he endured the pain. You seared the sound into your brain, pulling your phone out to capture a short video of the moment to keep forever, smiling distantly as you watched her tangle her hands into his bangs. 

"She's kind of hurting me," he chuckled to you. You tucked your phone away and moved to grab her, with other ideas to keep her entertained, but he put a hand up to stop you, looking appalled that you would even think to take her from him. "Not so fast. She thinks it's funny."

You laughed and shook your head, watching as only moments later she tugged on his blonde tufts so hard she jerked his head down. You intervened despite the fact that he'd let her rip his hair out if she so desired. You weren't sure what it was about your husband that made him have such a history of getting beat on by small girls, snickering to yourself as you thought of how funny Hiyori would find your daughter’s antics. 

She tried to pry your hands off of her hips as you pulled her away, but you held tight, pulling her into your chest. "You like hurting Daddy, do you?" You asked her, tickling her stomach and making her giggle again, squirming in your hold.

Meanwhile, Shinji had busied himself with pulling his hair into the ponytails she wanted to see, excitedly showing her the two small sprouts of blonde on the sides of his head when he was done. "You want matching ones, girly?" He offered her, ignoring your teasing giggles as you admired his silly appearance. Anything for his girl. 

She squealed and laughed and climbed into his lap eagerly, turning her little head this way and that as she impatiently awaited for him to style her hair. He gently combed it away from her face with his fingers and gathered what he could into two little pigtails. They were tiny, her hair barely fitting into them, but it was only a matter of time until it'd be longer, and you were certain Shinji would be fashioning it into unique styles for her every day. 

She curiously reached for her head to feel for her father's creation, only to yank them out, grinning proudly and looking for her father's adverse reaction. 

Shinji sighed. "Brat." 

He couldn’t stay mad at her for long, an affectionate smile spreading on his lips, gathering her in his arms and pulling her tightly into his chest, tickling her the way you had moments earlier. Even as her flailing arms and legs delivered blows to his body, he remained unfazed, peppering her tiny head and face with loud, dramatic smooches. It was obvious to anyone, but to you most of all, how in love he was. It made you snort, his pigtails and his clinginess and his doting, how someone so dangerous and deadly could also be the goofiest and the softest. It made your heart swell too, the father of your children, and what an amazing father he was. 

On one of the not-so-good nights, it was still evident to you how much and how hard he loved his girls. Sickness frequently paid a visit to your household with the two little germs running rampant, and a particularly vicious flu had struck when Shinji was at his busiest. He managed to avoid the plague, gone for long hours due to the demands of the Soul Society, and you were left to bear the brunt of it. Just as your son’s condition was starting to improve, the virus invaded yours and your daughter’s systems at the same time. 

Feeling deathly ill and weaker than ever, you had no choice but to rise from your bed, to fend off the nausea and fight through the fever and chills to take care of your daughter who was suffering just the same, all while handling your son as well. As a mother, you had learned to make sacrifices for your children’s wellbeing and had grown accustomed to it, but this challenged and broke you down in a way you hadn’t experienced before. It got worse before it got better, and you had no idea how you were managing, sleepwalking through each moment. You couldn’t eat, could hardly sleep, and were constantly on the verge of vomiting and/or collapsing, but you were forced to soldier through it for them, hiding from Shinji just how sick you were knowing that he had his own matters to handle.

He hadn’t returned home until late that night when your daughter was crying incessantly, the poor thing tortured by a slew of symptoms that seemed to not want to go away despite your many remedies, and you were trying but failing not to cry with her. 

Her tiny, fragile body in so much pain, she went back and forth between pushing you away from her and grabbing onto you, wanting to be cuddled, but frustrated that it was not solving all of her problems. Snot and tears shined on her face as she wept intensely. You had become hopeless, sharing both her physical and emotional pain. Shivering, wrapping around her tightly, you sobbed with her, telling her that you were sorry and pressing your lips to her burning forehead. 

If you could, you would take all of her heat, all of her chills, all of her upset stomach, and all of her boogers, even if it meant doubling your own suffering. You’d do it just so you didn’t have to hear the heartbreaking sound of her anguish, of your failure to help her. But alas, you were just as beaten down as her, and simultaneously wishing that you could be her size and her age again, crawling into someone’s lap and having them hold and comfort you and tell you that it would all be okay again soon. 

Shinji walked in on the two of you in hysterics, your son playing with toys nearby, watching the scene unfold from a place of innocent curiosity. Your daughter was wailing so hard, she hadn’t even noticed that her savior had returned. With a deep frown, your husband instantly took her from you, and she melted into him, tucking her runny nose into his robes as he caressed her hair and back, shushing her and cooing to her and rocking her to sleep. 

On cue, your son stumbled over to you, getting into your lap now that your hands were free. You snuggled him into you desperately, your sweet little guy, subduing your sobs so that your sick daughter could have peace. Shinji threw you a concerned look as he did everything he could to console your daughter, not stopping until she was drifting off in his protective embrace, just the medicine she needed.

When there were tiny snores escaping her stuffy nose, he disappeared to ease her into her crib, returning quickly to remedy you next. Your son didn’t make much of a fuss when Shinji pulled him from you, knowing that his mother wasn’t herself right now. Your husband reached for your forehead, brows furrowing as he felt the immense heat radiating from your skin, though he didn’t need to confirm your fever to clock that you were ill. The sight of your pale skin, glassy eyes, and hunched, shaky body were evidence enough. 

“Why didn’t ya call me?” He asked softly, wiping stray tears from your cheeks. In his lap, your son observed, his large round eyes looking up at you as if he wanted an answer too. 

“I didn’t want you to worry,” your voice broke. “I thought I could handle it on my own, but I feel so bad, Shinji.” Tears threatened to spill again, and you didn’t hesitate to curl into his free arm, just as clingy and needy as your daughter had been. “I can’t do this.”

“If I had known you were this sick, I never would have left ya here alone with them,” he said sternly. “You need to rest, sweetheart.”

“Don’t cry, Ma Ma,” your son chimed in. 

It tore through your heart. You reached for him, hugging Shinji with him sandwiched in between. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m okay.”

“Come on.” Your husband gently tugged the back of your shirt before rising, pulling you up with him while he balanced his son in one arm. “Let’s get ya to bed too.”

“But-” you started to protest, throwing your son a worried glance. 

“No buts,” Shinji interjected. “We need a guys night anyway.” He looked towards his son, managing half a grin before placing a hand on your lower back, gently nudging you forward. “C’mon.”

After letting him feed you medicine and tuck you in, the last thing you saw before entering a night full of broken sleep, strange dreams, and fevered hallucinations was your husband’s fleeting silhouette, your son on his hip. You never fully woke, but throughout the night, Shinji was in and out of your bed, sometimes with your son, sometimes with your daughter, sometimes with both. When your eyes peeled open again, early in the morning before the sun had even risen, all three of them were tangled in the sheets, your son nuzzled into your chest, and your daughter on the other side of him, poking Shinji awake. 

You jolted upwards at the sight of his sleeping figure, head spinning, sweat clinging to every part of your body, your mind not quite all there at this hour. Your poor son jerked awake at your side, the whole room coming back to consciousness at once.

“Aren’t you late?!” You gasped at your husband. 

“What?” He asked groggily, turning onto his side and wrapping an arm around his daughter in one swift motion. She laughed at him, clearly in higher spirits than she was last night, as he squinted at you.

“For work,” you fretted. “Don’t you need to be at the barracks?”

 “Momo’s gonna take care of things,” he informed you hoarsely, letting his eyes flutter closed again. “I’m staying here today.”

“Oh.” You sunk back down into bed as your son clawed at you, trying to pull you back into your previous position, though you thought there was no way you were going to get back to sleep now, not with how sweaty you were.

“How are ya feeling?” Shinji asked you as his daughter crawled around, attempting to play peekaboo with the blankets. “Cause’ this one seems to be doing better…” He nodded towards her with a lazy smile.

“Better.” You wiped your forehead. “Seems like my fever broke, at least for now.”

“Mmm, that’s good,” he hummed. “My poor girls.” He pouted, launching into a rant. “I’m so sad. Her nose is so stuffy.” He looked to his daughter, his fingers cradling her head. “Do you know how annoying a stuffy nose is? And my baby has to have one? This world can be so cruel!”

“You’re gonna get it next,” you huffed a laugh at his dramatics. “All cozy with her snot all over you.” 

“Nah, I don’t get sick,” he assured with a smirk.

“Yeah, yeah.” You rolled your eyes. “We’ll see.”

“Don’t care,” he grumbled. “It’s worth it. I’d do anything for her,” he said seriously.

“I know you would,” you cooed, mindlessly finding your son’s back to rub soothing circles into.

Knowing that Shinji was back now, and you were safe, that you weren’t alone in this, it made your body soften with content, falling back into a drowsy state. Without realizing it, as you soothed your son, you were self-soothing too. With the four of you pressed together soundly, you could relax. You could take care of your little family and allow yourself to be taken care of too.

“Thank you,” you mumbled to your husband as your eyes fell shut again. “For taking care of us, for taking care of me. Thank you for staying.”

He responded, “I love you,” in an explanatory tone, in a way that said I need no thanks, I’m not doing this for thanks. His words from earlier pierced through your head again, “I’d do anything for her.” 

You drifted off again with a smile on your lips, no more strange nightmares to be had when you were surrounded by so much love. “I love you too, Daddy.”

Of course, Shinji did eventually end up getting sick. There was no way of avoiding it, not with how he was glued to you and your daughter until the both of you got better. 

You took care of him with the same tenderness he had, nursing him back to health as you continued to juggle your children with your energy somewhat restored. Your daughter, his little best friend, knew there was something wrong with her father, and as he spent most of the day in bed, she was there with him, snuggling into his chest or pressing a cold cloth to his head with no idea what she was doing but watching you do the same, so it must have been something helpful. She even offered him her comfort stuffed animal, a serious token of affection as she wouldn’t ever allow anyone else to have it. Shinji accepted it graciously, cuddling it tightly when she wasn’t there. You snapped a sneaky picture of him sound asleep, the stuffed creature tucked under his arm, and made it your new home screen wallpaper, your babies already taking up your lock screen. Now you had the whole collection.

When he was better again, heading back to resume his duties as a Captain, your daughter wailed after him, crying for her “Dada,” having been spoiled to have his presence around so much. He himself seemed to be on the verge of tears, apologizing profusely and promising his sweetheart that he’d be back again for her later. You tried to tell her that you’d still be around, but she didn’t seem interested.

You shared an exasperated look with him, knowing that you were going to have to deal with her crying and missing him until she was distracted by something else. “Who’s chopped liver now?” You laughed.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “She’s a Daddy’s girl.”

Indeed, she was, and you knew deep down that there was no other way for your little family to be. 

Tags: @tomitsulikeslemons @eleftheria93

[a99jazzybean]

Why do we Keep Playing These Games?

Chapter 3: Beg

Ch.1/ Ch2./ Ch.3/ Ch.4/ Ch.5/ Ch.6/ Ch.7/ Ch.8/ Ch.9/ Ch.10/ Ch.11

synop: College TA au

Jayce Talis... He's your unrequited sworn enemy. You are the object of his obsessive affections. After discovering your disdain toward him, He decides to win your heart... Through playing games. Winner gets to make the loser do whatever they want. You'll take him up on the bet, but what will happen if he wins?

words: 5K

includes: jaycexfem!reader, sexual implications, sexual tension, enemies to lovers, humiliation, betting

The first day of school had arrived. Humidity clung to your skin as you made your way across campus. It was going to be a boiler today, and not just because of the weather. While you were anxious about starting the first year of your masters, the thing at the top of your mind that you were really concerned about was your deal with Jayce. After your first office hours that night, you were going to have your first game. If he won… no, you couldn’t imagine that. You weren’t much for superstition, but just in case, you didn’t want to somehow manifest a win for the man. 

Briskly walking, you clenched your palms. Attempting to squeeze out the anxiety coursing through you. Once you made it to the physics building, you paused. Taking a deep breath as you were about to open the door. Before you could push it open, a large hand reached over your head and pushed it open for you. Craning your head you felt a rush of heat as your eyes met honeyed hazel ones. They were practically sparkling with excitement. A wide smile plastered on his face. 

“Morning!” He said, way too cheerily. 

“Morning.” You mumbled back, charging forward. 

Attempting to outpace him was a futile effort. He casually strode along with you, that damned smile never leaving his face. Behind you, you heard the familiar sound of a cane clacking on the tile. You slowed, allowing Viktor to catch up to you. In hopes that it would prevent the object of your disdain, from speaking with you. 

“Please, don’t wait on me. I’m going to the same place you are.” Viktor said. 

Viktor was technically not working this class period, but Heimerdinger wanted all three of you to attend all of the classes during syllabus week since you were “resources” for all of the students, regardless of what section you helped instruct. 

Thankfully, none of you had classes that overlapped with Heimerdingers today, so it worked in your favor to be introduced to all of the students. Sadly, that meant you would be spending the majority of your day with Jayce. 

You  were all aiding in six courses that Heimerdinger taught. Three were introduction to physics, the others were secondary level courses. Two you would work with Jayce and the other two you would work with Viktor. The three of you had various office hours during the week that any student could attend for assistance. You disliked the fact that many of your hours overlapped with Jayce’s, but it couldn’t be helped. The first of your shared office hours were that night. While the likelihood of students coming in was slim, you were required to work 20 hours a week. So you were stuck with him for three hours that evening. 

The three of you arrived at the giant lecture hall in the physics building. Professor Heimerdinger was already inside preparing his syllabus day presentation. Jayce, ever the gentleman, opened the door for you and Viktor. You mumbled a thanks and rolled your eyes. Viktor pat the man on the shoulder as his face fell from your response. No matter, he had plenty of time to win you over. Plus, you had your first game that night. 

Jayce could barely sleep the previous night. It wasn’t because of his excitement for the school year. No, it was because of the anticipation for the game you were going to play. Based on your clear determination, he had no doubt you were going to continue to play with him. No matter what the bet would be, or if you lost. You were too driven to win. Something he adored about you, but you didn’t seem to notice. He would make you realize it though. His intentions were clear with you, and he wasn’t planning on hiding them. 

“Ah, my star pupils!” Heimerdinger turned to you as you entered the room. 

He shuffled over to you, offering his hand to each of you. His cheery cheeks red, a soft smile hidden under his large moustache. 

“Well, how are you feeling? Any first day jitters?” He asked.

“I’m excited, professor.” You said, giving him a polite smile.

“As am I.” Viktor chimed in. 

“Yeah, really excited!” Jayce looked at you when you spoke. 

You ignored his gaze, and the red rising to your cheeks. 

“Well, I’m very excited to have you three working together! Especially since you are all such good friends! It’s always important that colleagues get along, and you’ve already checked that box off!”

You were taken aback at that statement. Giving Viktor a questioning look, who returned with a confused shrug. Then your gaze turned to Jayce, your eyes narrowing in accusation. 

“Right.” You said lowly. 

Heimerdinger was seemingly oblivious to the tension that had suddenly appeared in the room and continued to ramble. Jayce avoided your searing gaze, feeling sweat prickle at his forehead. 

“Well, now that we’re all here I’ll prepare you before the students get here.” The short man walked over to a large stack of papers. He split them into thirds and handed each of you a stack.

“That’s the syllabus. You’ll pass these out as I’m completing attendance. Then I’ll introduce you to the class!”

A few minutes later students began to arrive in the room. They filled up most of the seats in the lecture hall. As Heimerdinger took roll, you walked up and down the rows handing out the syllabi. Afterwards, joining Viktor and Jayce at the front. 

“Now class, I would like to introduce you to my teaching assistants this semester!” Heimerdinger motioned to the three of you. “Would you like to introduce yourselves and your studies?” 

Jayce stepped forward, beaming at the class.

“I’m Jayce Talis, currently on track to getting my masters in applied physics.” The man turned to you to introduce yourself. 

“I’m y/n. Studying for my masters in theoretical physics.” 

“And I’m Viktor. Studying applied physics as well.”

Heimerdinger smiled at the three of you. 

 “Jayce and y/n will be your official TA’s in this course, but Viktor will be available to assist you during his office hours.” 

The rest of the period went by slowly. Heimerdinger going on about the requirements for his course and grade percentages. You spent it sitting idly, just waiting for the period to be over. Begging for the time to pass faster as Jayce decided to sit next to you. Giving you puppy dog eyes while you attempted to avoid looking at his gaze. It was his attempt to catch your attention, and it was mostly catching your irritation. He nudged your shoulder, making you whip your head and glare at him. The expression on your face doing nothing to deter the man. Instead, making him smile as you finally looked at him.

“What?” You hissed through your teeth. 

He leaned close to you, making you catch a whiff of his cologne. Oh, okay he smelled really good. Wait, no, now is not the time. You raised a brow, waiting for him to speak.

“I just wanted to say you look nice today.” He gave you a sweet smile that tugged at your heart. 

You mentally shook off the reaction to his words. Whatever, he was your opponent. You wouldn’t allow yourself to waver from some kind words. 

Looking over your outfit you huffed. Sure, you had to look nice. Heimerdinger was very clear of his expectations for you and your compatriots. He expected you to be dressed prim and proper for all of his classes except for Fridays. Designating them as “casual Fridays.”

“Just like at an actual workplace.” He said, giving one of those cheery smiles of his. 

You worked up a smile to return to Jayce. Speaking through grinding teeth.

“Thanks.” 

He softly chuckled. Leaning back, a smirk on his face. 

At the end of the period the new students milled around you and the other TA’s asking questions about the course. From the corner of your eye you spotted the group around Jayce clearly attempting to flirt with the man. Jayce knew what the younger students were doing, he was hoping that you might be a tad jealous at the attention he was receiving. Instead you just rolled your eyes and continued speaking to the student in front of you. It didn’t bother you, this wasn’t your first rodeo being around Jayce. The man was a magnet for attention from everyone, you weren’t surprised that fresh new students were attracted to his charm. Again, the man was objectively attractive. No one could argue that. Plus, you knew he wasn’t one to entertain them. 

After seeing you ignore him, Jayce’s cheery smile fell. He watched as you continued to discuss whatever it was with the student before you. His jaw tightening as you didn’t even give him a passing glance. Instead, giving all of your attention to your conversation. 

“So Heimerdinger’s a good professor, right?” The man in front of you asked. You believe his name was Sam, if you could recall correctly.

“Uh, yeah. Do you have any questions about the course?” You personally didn’t enjoy small talk. 

“Oh um…” The student was taken aback at your bluntness. “Oh I guess…”

You tapped your foot impatiently. 

“How easy is the course?” He asked.

“Depends on if you’re willing to put in the work.”

“Can you help with that?” He asked. There was something suggestive behind the question, making you cringe inwardly. 

Before you could respond, a strong hand grasped the guy’s shoulder. Jayce had on one of his bright smiles, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course we can! That’s our job after all!” He told the student, a slight hint of malice behind the otherwise cheery tone. 

“Right.” You said, giving him a questioning look.

The student looked over his shoulder. Slightly sweaty as he caught the irritation in Jayce’s eyes. 

“O-okay. Good to know.” He shook the large hand off of his shoulder. “Well I look forward to working with you guys.” He squeaked before making a quick getaway. 

Jayce puffed out his chest, glad the student was out of the way. Specifically away from receiving your attention. He smiled at you, making your gut twist. 

“What was that about?” You huffed in irritation. 

“Just helping you out with answering student’s questions.” He stated cheerily. 

“Yeah, more like subtly threatening them.” You muttered. 

Jayce leaned closer to you. His proximity making you shiver. 

“Well, you didn’t seem like you wanted to be having that conversation any longer. Thought I could assist.” 

“Right, cause you weren’t concerned that another man was speaking with me at all.” You raised your brow at him, making the man look down in embarrassment. “Am I wrong?”

“N-no…” His cheeks burned as you’ve caught him. “I just didn’t appreciate it.”

Groaning, you turned away from him. You didn’t realize how easily jealous the man could be. Just to make it worse though, you decided to push him.

“It’s not like I cared when you had that gaggle of students checking you out and batting their eyelashes for your attention.” 

Jayce’s jaw tightened. He knew you were just trying to get to him, but it was working. 

“Well you don’t seem to care about me all that much anyways.” He said, hurt laced in his voice. 

Viktor stood nearby, overhearing your spat. He cringed at Jayce’s last response. 

You froze up, then turned back to Jayce. Expression softening. It was the first day of school, you shouldn’t be working each other up so soon. 

That didn’t seem to matter to Jayce though. Instead he was plotting up what he would be wagering during your chess game that night. You weren’t playing nice, fine. That just meant that he wouldn’t be either. Sure, he was ultimately trying to get your heart, but the man felt he needed to teach you a lesson. If you wanted to make him hurt, he’d make you hurt as well. 

“I’m sorry. That was rude of me.” You said. 

While Jayce’s own expression softened, his resolve didn’t crumble. He’d make you see. He had to. Something primal inside him needed to prove to you his abilities. While you understood he was extremely intelligent, he needed you to see he had more to offer you. And to make sure that you would accept those offerings. He knew that he could get you to like him, you just needed to see how good he could be. 

“It’s fine.” Jayce huffed, then let a small smile find his face.

You could tell he was still affected by your little spat, but hoped he would get over it soon enough. After all, you had extended a truce of sorts. At least you had apologized. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Too soon you found yourself tucked into the cramped office with Jayce. Checking the time on your phone you groaned internally. There was still an hour left before your office hours were over. Which meant you had to play your first game with the man. Jayce was very chipper after seeming off earlier in the day. He was giddy for your game. Ready to absolutely cream you at chess and make you do what he pleased. And boy did he have quite the wager. 

You had spent the day trying to figure out what you would make Jayce do when you won your game against him. After passing through many ideas you landed on having the man clean your apartment. Due to the hectic beginning of your masters program, you knew you were not going to have much time to clean it. Not that you were a slob or anything, just that you had more dishes piled in the sink than you wished to deal with. Your compromise, having Jayce do the cleaning for you. The man was a very clean person, you were sure it would be an easy job. And you could lounge on your couch and watch as he became your personal maid for a day. Yeah, that would be quite nice. The thought brought a smile to your face. 

“What are you so pleased about?” Jayce’s voice broke you out of your daydream. 

“Oh nothing. Just how I’m going to enjoy my win after our match.” You said smugly. 

The smirk and glint in your eyes causing butterflies to churn in Jayce’s stomach. He chuckled at your cockiness. 

“Right, because you’re definitely going to win.” He said sarcastically.

“Uh, yeah, obviously. You think I’m going to let you beat me? Nice try, Talis.” You scoffed. 

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” He bit his lip after the term of endearment. Red bloomed on your face, that you begged to calm down. 

You hadn’t ever spent this much time in close proximity with the man, and to your dismay, you had somewhat enjoyed it. So much for “sworn enemy”. You had to at least try to keep a strand of your dignity. But you were failing quite miserably at it. Especially when it was so easy for him to get a laugh out of you. A laugh that had the man wishing he could rewind time just so he could hear it over and over again. Beautiful, chiming, with the tiniest hint of an adorable snort. God, you were something. Something Jayce desperately needed more of. If this was how your office hours were going to go, he would gladly work overtime with you. 

The only thing that seemed to stand in his way were the few students that had already visited with claims of not understanding the syllabus. Jayce wasn’t an idiot, he knew when people were interested in him. The gaggle of young students weren’t subtle about their advances, but the man had boundaries to uphold. Plus, they paled in comparison to you. No one that tried to schmooze with him could ever throw your charming sass and wit his way, and he wouldn’t have it otherwise. 

“Well, I am going to beat you. I’ll have you know I was a chess champion.” You said smugly.

“Is that so? When’s the last time you competed?” This was news to Jayce.

You paused, a flush of an embarrassment on your face. Lips pursed into a thin line as you contemplated telling him the truth. Not that you could really lie, Jayce would be able to easily see through that. It wasn’t a secret, you were a terrible liar. 

“Sixth grade…” You said quietly. 

A booming laugh jolted you out of your seat. Jayce was practically crying as he laughed at your expense. The grimace on your face making him laugh even more. 

“Wow, y/n. I’m impressed. 12-year-old chess champion over here.” He smiled at the thought of a younger version of yourself crushing the youthful competition. It was cute. 

“At least I’ve won something in it!” You argued. 

Jayce smirked. He could tell you that he was highly ranked in the local chess club, or he could enjoy watching you flounder. Chess wasn’t his pick of game for no reason. It was very calculated. He knew you loved a challenge, and he knew he was very good at the game. While he had a feeling he could make a game end quickly, he decided that he was going to enjoy his time with you. Especially if he could toy with you. 

“Sure, sure. You talk pretty big game. We’ll have to see how you really do.” He said with a wink. 

There was about ten minutes left of your office hours when a student walked in. Another person asking Jayce questions over the syllabus. The man bit his tongue to avoid sighing in annoyance. He hoped this wouldn’t extend past their hours. Your game time was so close, and he didn’t want to wait a minute longer than he needed to. 

You watched in amusement as Jayce rushed through answering the girl’s questions. Almost laughing out loud at how he kept scooting his chair further and further away from her as she attempted to move closer. His jaw was tight, grinding his teeth as he continued to help the poor thing. Hazel eyes glanced up to meet yours, melting at the smirk you had on your face. While most would find your smugness irritating, it was oddly endearing to him. Maybe it was because it was directed toward him, but regardless he enjoyed it. 

“Well, I think that’s everything. If there’s anything else I suggest visiting Professor Heimerdinger for assistance as he was the one who wrote the syllabus.” Jayce said, trying to end the office hours. 

“Okay, thank you so much, Jayce!” The student gave him a dazzling smile. 

“Of course. And don’t be afraid to ask the other TAs for help too.” He gave a pointed look at you. 

“Right.” The girl glanced at you, as you continued to smirk at them. 

“Well, office hours are over now. Have a goodnight, get home safe!” Jayce stood up, motioning for the student to leave. 

“Actually…” The girl lightly placed a hand on Jayce’s arm. You held back a snort at the action. “I was wondering if you could walk me back to my dorm.” 

“Ah, um…” Jayce was trying to figure out how to let her down softly. “That’s not really something that’s appropriate for me to do. I’m sure y/n could walk you home.” He said, knowing full well she wouldn’t take up the offer. 

“Are you sure?” She attempted to give him puppy dog eyes. 

“And besides, I have some thesis work that I’m planning on getting done here anyways.” His eyes were pleading with her to just leave already.

“I’m patient, I can wait.” This girl! 

“Look, I’m not walking you home.” 

“I’ll take you home.” You said, grabbing your backpack. 

Jayce narrowed his eyes in warning. 

“Oh that’s not necessary.” The girl said. 

“Nonsense! I know campus at night can be a bit eerie.” You clamped a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll walk you.” 

Jayce spoke your name lowly. 

“She said she’s fine walking herself home.” He looked at the girl, all hints of tenderness absent from his face. “Am I correct?”

The girl’s eyes widened at the shift in demeanor. 

“Um, yes…” She quickly grabbed her items. “I’ll see you in class.” She squeaked before leaving. 

Once the door shut, Jayce sighed and slumped into his chair.

“I thought she’d never leave.” He practically whined.

“That excited to play chess with me?” You poked his shoulder teasingly. 

He grabbed your hand, rubbing his thumb along the top. The tender action warming your heart, before you abruptly pulled back. 

“More like excited to beat you at chess.” That dazzling smile of his had reappeared. 

You felt a churning in your gut as the man walked to lock the office door. He grabbed the chessboard from his backpack and set it on the desk. Meticulously setting out the pieces, each clack making you shiver. 

It had been a long time since you had last played the game, and you were sure you were rusty. By the glimmer in Jayce’s eyes you had a feeling he knew the game well. Signing away your win with just a look. You gulped, and mustered up a determined look. You were going to try at least. And that’s what mattered, right?

“So who’s gonna be white?” You broke the tense silence building in the room.

Jayce hummed thoughtfully before answering. 

“I suppose we can flip a coin for it.” He said. “Or if you really need it, you can play white.” 

“I don’t need it, I was just wondering.” You feigned confidence.

“Right. Of course, my mistake. Miss sixth grade champion.” He grinned at you, making you gulp again. 

“Don’t doubt my skill.” 

“Oh I would never, sweetheart.” There it was again, that pet name. The one that had your heartstrings tugging. 

“Whatever, let’s get this started.” You sat down and cracked your knuckles. 

So you began, moving out one of the many pawns two spaces forward. Jayce’s grin never leaving his face as the two of you played. He decided to make the game last a bit longer than necessary. Enjoying the way he could make you sweat. The furrow on your brow growing as you bit your lip red in frustration. 

“You sure about that move?” He said after you sent a knight forward. 

You glared at the man before you. His side practically full, while yours held a measly five pieces. Almost all of your pawns obliterated, a bishop, and two rooks, and a knight on the sidelines. Jayce was pretty much chasing your queen across the board, picking off other pieces one by one as you attempted to protect her and your king. 

The tension was making your breath harder. With no idea what Jayce was wagering, you only had your running imagination to think of his future plans with you. It was inevitable, your loss. Even if you tried to buy yourself time, you knew he would win in the end. Perhaps he would be kinder to you if you forfeited. No, there was still a chance. Your king was still out of check, you could do this. Maybe. 

“What interesting choices.” Jayce teased. 

You attempted to pay him no mind, which ultimately was your foley. The man snatching up your queen with a sneaky bishop. 

“Would you look at that?” He exclaimed. 

You wanted to cry. Losing your queen at this point was your undoing. Jayce quickly cornered your king, making it impossible for you to get out of check. You groaned, fingers pressing into your temples. Something, there has to be something… But there was no way out. 

“Just accept it.” Jayce said smugly, enjoying the scowl on your face. “I’ve won, sweetheart.” 

“I will not accept it.” You moved your king to take his queen, making the man chuckle. 

Toppling over was your king as a bishop sealed your fate. 

“Checkmate.” That damned smile was larger than ever. 

He was giddy, so excited for you to keep up your end of the deal. And based on how you had complained that you were broke, he knew you had no other way out. 

Shoulders tense, you pushed yourself up from the desk. Of course, of course this happened. And you were so nervous about what was to come. He could ask anything of you, and you would have to do it. There was a part of you that knew you could end this, but the thrill of competing had you nixing that idea completely. No, you would follow through on your end. 

You looked at him with a heated glare.

“Aww, don’t look like that. As cute as I think it is when you’re mad at me, you should take the loss with dignity. Don’t you think?” He was gloating, and loving every reaction he got out of you.

“Cut to the chase, Jayce. What were you wagering?” You spat. 

“Oh nothing big…” He paused for dramatic effect. “Just that you have to beg for my forgiveness. On your knees. And..” He pulled out his phone. “I get to record it. For my own personal use, of course.” 

Your eyes widened at the deal. No fucking way…

“Beg for forgiveness?!” You said incredulously. “Forgiveness for what, exactly?” 

“Just for being so mean to me, avoiding me all these years.” He said, that smug smile growing on his face. 

You grumbled, turning away from him. Fists clenching as red rose to your face. 

The man walked up to you. Fingers lifting your chin to look at him. 

“Don’t be embarrassed. I’ll be the only one to witness it.” 

“Do I have to be on my knees?” Your voice wavered. 

“Yes.” There was no negotiating with him on this. 

If you wanted the games to continue, you had to follow his demands. 

“How do I know when you’ll be satisfied with my apology?” You looked up at him, scowl on your face. 

His smile didn’t waver.

“I’ll let you know when I’m satisfied.” 

You let out a huff of frustration. God, this was embarrassing. And he was going to have video evidence of you doing it. Since he was only going to keep it to himself, it didn’t go against the rules. You had to follow through. 

Jayce sat back down, turning his chair towards you. Continuing to grow giddier as your frustration and embarrassment grew. He spread his legs apart, and held his phone up. Pressing record, he looked back up at you.

“Well, I’m waiting.” He said smugly.

“Give me a moment.” You said quietly.

Just get it over with. You sighed as you began to sink to the floor. The wooden boards hard against your knees. When you looked up you had to hold in a gasp. The man before you, looking so smug appeared almost kingly. The chair he was seated in, the throne of a champion. And now you his prize, kneeled down before him as if you were worshipping him. You didn’t want to admit it, but it sent something straight to your core. Something that would certainly keep you up with want that night. 

With a harsh breath, you began.

“I-I’m sorry, Jayce…” God he loved the sound of your voice. 

“For what?” He pushed. 

“For being mean to you.” You turned from him, a motion he did not appreciate. 

A strong hand grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him.

“No, you have to look at the person you’re begging for forgiveness. Try again.” 

You ground your teeth, wanting to spit an insult at him.

“Please forgive me, Jayce.” 

“That’s better, keep going, sweetheart.” The way he said the pet name, sending a shiver through you.

“Please forgive me for being mean to you.” You looked straight into his eyes. Your words shooting straight to his groin. 

He hoped you wouldn’t notice him getting hard at your words. So far you hadn’t, as you focused on his eyes while you spoke.

“Please forgive me for purposely avoiding you.”

“And why would you do that to me?” You did your best not to glare at the man before you.

“Because I consider…considered you my enemy.” That made him raise a brow.

“You no longer consider me your enemy?” He asked, sincerity in his voice.

“More like my rival.” You gave him a cheeky grin, one he couldn’t help but return.

“Mmm…better than enemy, I suppose. Please, continue.” He motioned toward you.

“What else is there to apologize for?”

He chuckled.

“Beg me for my forgiveness for all of your wrongs. For hiding your beauty from me for so long, for running away from my affections, for fighting against me when all I wanted was your attention.” His voice was low, he fully expected you to beg. 

Your heart tugged at your chest at his words. Did he really think all of that? Beauty… It wasn’t a word you associated with yourself. Yet, hazel eyes glimmered with sincerity. He was being fully and completely honest with you. 

You sighed. Fine, you’d comply. Looking up at him, you continued. 

“Please forgive me for my wrongdoings. For hiding my…” You paused, not sure if you wanted to continue. Red painted your cheeks as you thought of his words. “Forgive me for hiding my beauty. Forgive me for running away from your affections.” 

“Will you keep trying to run?” He questioned. Still looking mighty upon his seat. 

“I thought I was only begging for your forgiveness.” You stated, your teeth worrying over your lip.

“Forgiveness is not just asked for through words.” 

“Jayce…I…I can’t promise that.” 

“But you can try.” He said, eyes growing dark. 

You only nodded, then continued with your final apology.

“I beg you to forgive me for fighting against you. For not giving you my attention.” You looked up at him, eyes pleading for it to be over. 

He nodded, stopping the recording on his phone. He stood from the seat, then kneeled down before you. A warm hand twirling a loose strand of you hair as he looked into your eyes. 

“Thank you.” He said. 

He offered a hand, and you took it. Allowing him to lift you up on your feet. His strength is always surprising to you, despite having those large muscles. 

“Now what?” You asked, feeling yourself come down from adrenaline rushing through you. 

“Now, you let me walk you home.” He gave you a soft smile. “It gets eerie on campus after dark.” 

[frankingsteinery]

i’ve seen a lot of people in general agreement of the headcanon that victor is on the spectrum, but i’ve very rarely seen someone examine the why, and being the persnickety superfluous person that i am (and not being immune to projection myself) i thought i’d try my hand at it and break down his autistic traits!

disclaimer that this interpretation is speculative and is simply my unprofessional neurodivergent opinion + it’s based on contemporary understandings of psychology, which were not part of shelley's context, however autistic people have always existed even if there wasnt a word for it during that time period, etc etc. you know the drill

without further ado!

-- communication & social interaction

first and foremost, many autistics struggle with socialization. victor’s inclination to attach himself to a single friend (henry) and only talking to those inside of his close circle rather than forming many connections reflects this tendency, and he himself acknowledges his dislike and indifference of strangers. for example:

“It was my temper to avoid a crowd and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my school-fellows in general; but I united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them”

“My life had hitherto been remarkably secluded and domestic, and this had given me invincible repugnance to new countenances… I believed myself totally unfitted for the company of strangers”

furthermore, he lacks relationship degradation (he does not require regular interaction or relationship maintenance to sustain a bond). during the creation process, he (presumably) goes months without writing to his family and friends, which clerval lectures him for:

“Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself."

yet upon his arrival at ingolstadt:

"...nothing could equal [his] delight on seeing Clerval."

victor also takes things literally several times and social nuances can fly over his head. he demonstrates this literalism when first meeting elizabeth:

"And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth as mine"

and, of course, the infamous i will be with you on your wedding-night scene, when the creature obviously means he tends to harm elizabeth, not victor himself:

“It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your wedding-night.” I started forward and exclaimed, “Villain! Before you sign my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe!"

he also goes nonverbal and groans/vocalizes instead of speaking when upset. there's several instances of this that i can recall (i believe another is with walton), but i could only find one, where elizabeth has to speak for him during their visit to justine:

"When she saw who it was, she approached me and said, “Dear sir, you are very kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty?” ... I could not answer. “No, Justine,” said Elizabeth"

and this is more of a sidenote but he gives walton every. minute. detail. of his story, including his childhood in-depth (which was not particularly relevant to the moral of victors tale, which was the whole reason he wound up sharing his story in the first place) which definitely feels like. Something. reminiscent of infodumping almost.

-- repetitive behaviors

victor shows both repetitive motions and repetitive language to such an extent that it'd be ridiculous to put them all here, particularly when he is distressed and agitated. some of these motions include clasping his hands, covering his face with his hands, and gnashing his teeth, which he does on walton's boat, after finding out about william's death, in his confrontation with the creature, during his time at the orkney islands, etc. the use of certain phrases/verbal repetition  include his many "great god!"s and "begone!"s, which he usually says in reaction to the creature or while grieving a loved one. these behaviors are arguably self-stimulatory (stimming) and done to cope with overwhelming, stressful situations.

-- fixations/spinterests

ths one's perhaps his most blatant characteristic. victor has a highly focused, intense interest, initially in in the workings of the world itself:

"It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn... still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world."

"The world was to me a secret, which I desired to discover;"

"I have described myself as always having been imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature"

this is to the extent that his education is noticeably different from his peers, both in acceleration in the topic of his choice and neglect of other, more typical studies due to the intensity of this focus:

“I confess that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments, nor the politics of various states possessed attractions for me.”

“…but by some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed studies.”

this early fixation eventually narrows into a special interest in ancient alchemy, after victor finds one of agrippa's works and a "new light seems to dawn upon [his] mind," upon which he proceeds to acquire all the works of agrippa and other authors:

"When I returned home my first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures known to few besides myself"

this remains his special interest until he is a teenager, upon which, after finding out ancient alchemy has been disproven, he takes up mathematics until his arrival at ingolstadt. then, his interest shifts into a fixation on natural philosophy, particularly chemistry, which becomes his "sole occupation":

"He concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget... one by one the various keys were touched which formed the mechanism of my being; chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one conception, one purpose"

"I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination, which modern inquirers have written on these subjects... the stars often disappeared in the light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory. As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress was rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students, and my proficiency that of the masters"

which, of course, develops into an interest in physiology and the structure of the human frame, which leads to his obsession over the secret of life, followed by being "thus engaged, heart and soul, in one pursuit" during the creation of the creature.

-- intense, volatile emotions; resistance to change

in general, victor is very emotionally demonstrative, and has difficulty managing these emotions. he also experiences quick fluctuations in emotion. this is something he has experienced since childhood, and is something he maintains as an adult, when he acknowledges that:

"My temper was sometimes violent…"

some examples of these shifts in emotion:

"My heart, which was before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy..."

"Sometimes he commanded his countenance and tones and related the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression of the wildest rage as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor"

hand in hand with his emotional dysregulation, he shows resistance to change and has strong reactions to this change. the most obvious example of this is during the animation of the creature:

"The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature... but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart"

"Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!"

but it also occurs when moving to ingolstadt, suggesting a discomfort with unfamilarity and a need for stability:

I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away and indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure—I was now alone.

-- black-and-white thinking

this aspect is most clearly shown through the way victor thinks about, and drops and gains interests and relationships. he spends years studying ancient alchemy and it is his principle interest, and then drops it on a dime and suddenly looks upon this passion with contempt:

“By one of those caprices of the mind which we are perhaps most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former occupations, set down natural history and all its progeny as a deformed and abortive creation, and entertained the greatest disdain for a would-be science which could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics and the branches of study appertaining to that science as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my consideration”

later, he spends four years with his mind filled with "one thought, one conception, one purpose" studying the processes of life so intensely he forgoes adequate food, water and rest. this culminates in the creation and subsequent animation of the creature, which he again turns around and abandons this interest immediately, to the extent that he cannot bear to think of natural philosophy:

Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy.

it's a very polarized, all-or-nothing approach that is mirrored with his relationships, too, which he alternatedly neglects -- he cuts contact when he goes to ingolstadt but abruptly picks it up again when henry comes into his life; when the creature flees victor's apartment, victor treats it as if he never existed entirely; his family only comes to the center of the narrative again when he gets the letter from alphonse about william's murder, despite 2 years having been passed at ingolstadt, etc.

and finally;

-- low empathy

victor repeatedly focuses solely on his own internal emotional experience, and struggles to fully comprehend and understand the depth of feelings of others and respond with compassion in conventional ways. during justine's trial, for instance, he elevates his own suffering above justine's, even as she faces her literal execution:

I rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my bosom and would not forgo their hold.

Despair! Who dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the awful boundary between life and death, felt not, as I did, such deep and bitter agony. 

similarly, victor dismisses ernest's grief after william's death, he frames it in terms of how it affects himself -- telling ernest to "be more calm" to avoid causing his own discomfort:

Ernest began to weep as he said these words. “Do not,” said I, “welcome me thus; try to be more calm, that I may not be absolutely miserable the moment I enter my father’s house after so long an absence.

this detachment suggests not deliberate cruelty (victor very clearly loves his family, and he's said to be kind several times) but a limited capacity to process and respond to other's emotions. this is a detachment that extends to his views of the dead. during the creation of the creature, he refers to the corpses he utilizes as only "materials" instead of once having been fully-fledged human beings, and he does not contemplate the lives or dignity of the deceased.

aaaaaand thats it! thank you for indulging my. headcanon projection land. let me know what you all think...

[oppropro]

Chapter 2 of my fanfic

I am so happy to receive the positive feedback on my story inspired by @jttw-monkeybusiness. I had a hard time writing this chapter as it is from the perspective of different pilgrims. I want their thoughts to be believable and true to their nature, while also being true to @celestialkiri 's vision of these characters in her AU. I got a bit overly ambitious with this chapter and had to cut it short; the rest of the story will continue in a 3rd chapter. This has a better narrative flow.

So without further ado; I present chapter 2 of Monkey Business based on the creations of @jttw-monkeybusiness all credit goes to her.

********

CHAPTER 2- Here's your sign

            Sun Wukong, King of Mount Huaguo, Great Sage equal to heaven, was losing his patience. His master, the monk Tripitaka once again avoided near death thanks to the valiant efforts of his disciple, Sun Wukong. The very same disciple he chose to ignore when he warned the monk of the dangers of the demon hoard that had laid a trap to kill and eat the monk. A trap so obvious even Pigsy should have seen coming. That is, if Pigsy could ever think with his brain and not his stomach.

            And what thanks does Wukong get for saving his master and his pig-headed brother? Another lecture on how violence does not solve every problem. Well, violence certainly solved that problem. Besides, if his master had simply listened to him in the first place, they could have easily avoided the demon’s trap and Wukong wouldn’t have to resort to violence.

            “Hardships we face on our pilgrimage are simply a test of faith, and it is through our faith that we will ultimately persevere.” Monk Tripitaka spoke in a slow and deliberate manner.

            “Well then start showing more faith in me!” Wukong replied.

            “This journey is not just about you.”

            “And yet it is I, once again, coming to everyone’s rescue.”

            “I appreciate that you were able to rescue us, but that does not change the fact that you do not get to dictate the path we must follow, or default to wanton violence as a solution to every obstacle.”

            “Those demons were going to eat you and the pig alive! They weren’t even coy about it! If everyone just listened to me, it wouldn’t have even been an obstacle.”

            “We cannot avoid every danger, or burden, or obstacle we face on our journey.” Tripitaka’s tone conveyed a clear message: this conversation was over. “Even if such a challenge were to fall from the heavens and land directly on us. We will face whatever lies before us head on and accept the fate that has been ordained by Buddha.”

            “Well then, Master, you can find somebody else to save your ass because I am tired of being the only one around here who-” Wukong’s sentence was cut short as, apropos of the monk’s declaration, the heavens had opened up and a strange blonde woman fell upon the angry monkey’s back.

********

            Sandy, Pigsy, and Bai Long stood at the side of a clearing and watched their brother and their master argue back and forth. They had seen this exact same scenario played out before; it was safe for them to assume that it wasn’t going to be the last. The novelty of these fights had worn off and now they simply wished they would get to the point where Wukong would learn his lesson about self-control, humility, and acceptance so they could move on with their journey. For all the talk about other people slowing him down, Wukong sure liked to waste time arguing moot points.

            However, a girl falling from the heavens and landing on their elder brother’s back was new. They and the monk stood agog staring at the unforeseen spectacle before them: the woman had hair the colour of summer sun, and her clothes were foreign. The sack that she carried on her back had fallen off, that too was made of some strange and heavenly material not found on earth.

            Her face had landed in the dirt, her legs tangled amongst the limbs of Sun Wukong, and she moaned as she cradled her temples in her arms, nursing whatever wound she incurred from her less than graceful decent from heaven.

            Tripitaka was the first to break free from his spell. Still unable to process what had just happened, he rushed to the side of the stranger in an attempt to help her sit up an regain her composure. Pigsy followed his master’s lead and the two of them were able to prop the woman up and assess her for any injuries: some bumps and scratches, all superficial. That didn’t rule out the risk of any serious, or even deadly, head wounds.

            “Little sister, are you hurt?” the monk asked. “Do you understand me? Can you open your eyes?”

            The woman replied with a whimper, as she slowly blinked her eyes several times trying to purge her tears. Pigsy watched her blue eyes dilate and constrict in an attempt to regain focus. They had never seen a foreigner before. He knew that humans in other countries looked different, and that they were bound to meet foreigners on their journey to India, but the difference in eye colour was striking. This wasn’t something to dwell on, however; the woman needed help.

            “Good, good, little sister, you’re going to be alright. Let us help you. Just keep breathing nice and slowly.” Pigsy spoke to the woman in a low, slow voice and began to exaggerate his breath in so that the stranger might mimic him.

            “HOW ABOUT THE TWO OF YOU QUIT FAWNING OVER THAT STUPID SKY WOMAN AND HELP YOUR BROTHER OUT!”

            Wukong’s voice hit the stranger like a slap to the face. She gasped as her eyes widened and she finally focused on her surroundings. Pigsy was familiar with the expression on the stranger’s face: shock, confusion, fear; a primal fight or flight reaction that all humans experience when face to face with a demon.

            The stranger’s breath became quick and shallow, Pigsy could sense her heart rate bounding. There may still have been hope that Tripitaka may calm her down, but as she looked down at his elder brother, the demon monkey trapped between her legs, flashing his fangs as he scowled at the woman, he knew what was about to happen.

            He let go of the stranger as she screamed and began kicking wildly at Wukong until they were finally untangled. As the terrified woman struggled on all fours to get up and make a mad dash into the forest, Wukong jumped up with an unwarranted sense of accomplishment. Congratulations you stupid monkey; you successfully scared a woman.

            Tripitaka went to mount Bai Long. “Sandy. Pigsy. Please, help me look for our new companion. Monkey, you stay here and watch over our camp.”

            Whatever pride Wukong felt fled his body as soon as his master spoke. “What? Why are you chasing after her? She means nothing to us.”

            “Where you not paying attention to what our master had said?” Pigsy spat.

            “Yes. Even if such a challenge were to fall from the heavens and land directly on us. Well, I just passed buddha’s test. I overcame that challenge and didn’t even resort to violence. I guess I have learned my lesson now and we can all continue on our way. Oh thank you great and wise buddha! You have made me a better monkey.”

            “You have learned nothing,” Tripitaka snapped. “Now we have to go find this woman lest a fate worse than crashing into you befalls her.”

            The monkey growled. His blood was beginning to boil.

            “Then I will bring this challenge back to you, master.”             Wukong took off in the same direction as the woman before the monk could object. beginning to boil. He raced through the canopy following the stranger’s trail. The path she left was easy enough to follow. Even if it wasn’t glaringly obvious, Wukong could smell her: her scent; her blood; her fear. He could hear her: her ragged breath; her racing heart; her pitiful cries for help. The great monkey king would catch up to this pathetic whelp in no time and return her to his master so he can figure out what he wants to do with her. But before he brought her to his master, Wukong had some questions of his own to ask the woman. At the very least, this stupid woman owed Sun Wukong an apology.

[mr-sadman]

Hello wonderful people! 

We are back again this year with our wonderful Dreamling Week, which will be taking place from June 2nd to June 8th this year!

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Being a server member, while strongly advised, is not mandatory for this event. Our AO3 collection will be entirely open and unmoderated for everyone to post. We will be accepting late submissions, so fear not if you don’t have time to post everything you wanted to post! Additional events, such as watch-parties, fic read-alongs and game nights, will be held on the server.

The official tags for this year’s edition are : #Dreamling Week 2024 and #Dreamling Week

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The Mr. Sadman Modteam is a firm believer of “ship and let ship” as well as the kinktomato (https://fanlore.org/wiki/Kinktomato). In accordance with the Server’s existing rules, we will not tolerate any discrimination and harassment in any forms whatsoever. This includes: queerphobia, homophobia, racism, content policing, hate speech, doxxing, shaming, etc, as well as hostility towards organisers and fellow participants. 

Since the event is a few weeks away, what can I do now?

Spread the word and the joy! We have decided to post the prompts earlier this year to give more time for people to get creative!

Without further ado here is this year’s prompt list : 

Sunday 2nd Hunt Body swap Indulgence [First Time] Monday 3rd Pirates Hourglass Flowers [Exhibitionism] Tuesday 4th Steampunk/Solarpunk Painting Meet cute/ugly [Massage] Wednesday 5th Shapeshifter Storm Finger food [Dirty] Thursday 6th Soulmates Lecture Midsummer [Friends with benefits] Friday 7th Through the ages Nightmare Monochromatic [Hate sex] Saturday 8th Assassins Memories Sunrise/Sunset [Roleplay]

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Keep on Dreamling!~ <3

[that-fall-guy]

HIHIHI IM THE PERSON THAT DID THIS

I saw that you reblogged and in the tags you said Rise! Donnie fits zed more and i 100% agree!! I don’t watch zed so i wasn’t sure what exactly he is like💔💔

omg hiiiiii!! someone sent this to me on discord too without your comment and i came up with my own matches last night so you get to see those for funsies hehe. i will admit that i have seen secret of the ooze Once and remember almost none of it (i was watching with a friend and we were solely making fun of it. for obvious reasons). i think rise!Donnie fits zed more because zed can really have fun with the mad scientist bit and has, like Donnie, performed unethical experiments on his friends/hermitcraft family (and also himself)

my thoughts are long so they go below a cut, but they're not as specific as yours by any means lol : ]

listen i love tmnt SO. i have made an official list. a few notes: rottmnt (2018) notably changes the characters of the turtles. it does so well and i love it for that! but it changes who ZITS would be. the first emoji refers to the original cartoon, 2003, and 2012; the second refers to rise. i'm not counting the batman crossover bc i don't like it, IDW comics bc they are also unique characters and i dont wamna, 2007 because theyre unique characters, mutant mayhem bc i'm less familiar with their personalities, or bayverse or live action bc i havent seen them and dislike them on principle. 03 and rise are my special favourites, which probably affects things. without further ado:

(scuffed mobile screenshot bc the emojis were fun)

okokok my reasonings!!

first of all i'll give a lil explanation of the turtles' personalities, divided into "87, 2k3, '12" and "rise".

'87, '03, '12

Leo: the leader in blue; responsible; that's pretty much it tbh. he's not a bad character, but he can be rather boring

Don: the tech guy; smart; has some self-esteem issues but is generally pretty level-headed and good in a pinch

Raphael: anger issues mcgee (and i love him for it); angry but also the most complex character imo because they always give him an interesting way to deal with his anger issues; despite it all he's a softie at heart

Mikey: the funny youngest sibling; irresponsible; loves pop culture; underestimated because he's effortlessly good at stuff, and people assume if he's listening to a tape he's lazy or something

Rise

Nardo: snarky twin with 500 mental illnesses; arrogant, horrible self-esteem

Donnie: smart twin; evil supergenius; frequently revolutionizes tech for fun, has his own trademark, commits morally dubious experiments (often on his own family)

Raph: Anxiety (also the leader. but mostly anxiety)

Angelo: fluffball who *could* kill you but would rather tie you to a chair and lecture you on talking about your feelings

Why I'm Right (aka why ZITS are what they are)

First off, for the first three shows, Leo is the leader who's pretty levelheaded. Everyone's right with that one. Raphael could be either Skizz or Tango, but Don is too chill to be anyone but Tango. Raphael as Skizz makes sense when you watch, for example, Pico Park pt. 2. He gets a little intense. But Raphael is also a softie at heart, like Skizz. Zed has to be Mikey, which works because he's often underestimated and tends to enjoy the sillier side of life.

Then, in Rise, we see the shift in leadership from Leo to Raph (until the very end, but we don't see much of it so I'm basing this off the majority of the show). This works for Impulse, because he, too, is just a bit ball of anxiety constantly. Zed is clearly a mad scientist like Donatello. But, you may be saying, what about Tango? Isn't he a mad scientist too? Sure, sure, but listen to me: the self esteem issues. What is Tango if not a tower of self esteem issues in a trench coat? So he's clearly Nardo. And that leaves Skizz as Angelo, which 100% works because of Dr. Feelings (angelo's alter ego who evilly forces people to talk about their feelings).

ANYWAYS i love tmnt and deciding on a lil crossover was so fun, and im glad to see someone else who knows their tmnt weighing in as well!!!

[pollenallergie]

cassie my love, i need more of this in my life. getting high post-sex w older!tom just seems soooooo <3

So…. it took me an embarrassing amount of months to get back to you on this but um…. here you go… this took a turn??? and then a swift turn back in the other direction???? so um…. horny whiplash warning??? ig????

Tagging @ali-r3n bc she asked me to and also @ghosttownwherenoonegoes because Eri helped me out with a lot of the british specifics (the britifics??) so thank youuuu

Okay, okay, without further ado:

Your First Introduction to Older!Tom’s Post-Sex Ritual

(except I can’t stick to a prompt)

Word Count: 2.1 k

Warnings: Nudity, allusions to sex and also some *ehm* inappropriate touching, reader has boobies and a bajina.

18+ only!! MDNI!! Minors do not read this!!! This is not for you!!!! This is for adults only!!!

“Fuuuuuck,” Tom exhales as he lays on his back, staring up at your bedroom ceiling.

“Fuck,” you agree weakly, still slowly drifting down from cloud nine. Tom chuckles at your response as he sits up and eases out of bed. You smile at the sweet sound of his laughter, though you don’t immediately register the movement; still just a bit too far gone.

When Tom struts past your line of sight, still naked as the day he was born, on his way out of the room, that movement manages to catch your attention finally. You frown, at first, because you were already missing him, and then because you were disappointed in yourself for already missing him. Casual, this is just casual, keep it casual, you remind yourself. Tom doesn’t do the whole dating thing, you know that, so keep things platonic and casual. Don’t scare him off.

Suddenly, you’re pulled out of your internal self-lecture by the sound of a distant, but not distant enough, crash and Tom exclaiming, “shit!”

You sit up as quickly as you’re able to, your whole body still feeling pretty limp and boneless after Tom spent the better half of the evening pulling as many orgasms from you as he could. Once you’re upright, you call out, “Tom? Are you alright?”

“Yeah! Yeah. Shit! Er, yeah, just, erm- hang on,” Tom calls back. You hear more shuffling and clattering from the other room, and then you hear the undeniable creak in the floorboards from Tom’s heavy-footed steps as he approaches the bedroom. Soon enough, he appears in the doorway, still shamelessly nude but now with a joint in hand and a sheepish expression on his face.

“Have you got a lighter or, er, matches or anything like that? I tried looking ‘round for either of ‘em, but erm… Yeah, I couldn’t find anything,” he asks, his cheeks blushing as he carries on.

“Is that what all that crashing was?” You ask amusedly, failing to stifle the grin that curls on your lips.

“Yeah… I erm, I might’ve knocked some of yer shit over,” Tom admits sheepishly.

“Tommy,” you say, your tone a perfect mix of amused, exasperated, disappointed, and scolding.

“But, but!! But I put it all back, and none of it’s broken. Swear on me granda’s grave,” he promises.

You can’t help but roll your eyes fondly at that before chastising him a bit, good-naturedly, of course, “Don’t swear on that poor man’s grave. Knowing you, you probably already put him through enough when he was alive.”

Tom chuckles, “Fair enough,” he concedes before raising up the joint to draw your attention back to it, and then simply asking, “Lighters? Matches?”

“Er, right. Lighters. Kitchen, the counter to the left of the fridge, top drawer, it’s my catch-all drawer, there should be a few lighters in there, take your pick,” you inform him.

Tom grins at your response as he makes his way over to the bed. His grin widens tenfold and becomes much more smug when he notices your gaze flit down toward his cock, which gracelessly flops around with his strides, still limp and spent from your previous activities. When he reaches your side of the bed, he places his hand down on the mattress near your thigh, using it to support his weight as he leans over and plants a kiss on the crown of your head. He holds his lips there for a few moments, softly inhaling the residual scent of your shampoo as he does so, deciding to allow you both to enjoy this moment of peace without even being truly aware that that’s what he’s doing.

When Tom finally breaks away, he leans down to whisper into your ear, “Don’t get any ideas, love,” he warns cheekily, “You and that heavenly little place between your thighs milked my cock dry; don’t think I’ll be able to get it up again anytime soon,” he finishes teasingly before kissing you again, this time pressing his lips against your cheek to punctuate his teasing.

You scoff and stifle a smile as you push him away. Cocky little bastard, you think.

Tom holds his hands up in surrender as he backs away from the bed, joint still clutched between his index and middle finger and a smug grin still on his face.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, baby. It’s yer fault for bein’ greedy,” he teases as he walks off into the other room, still refusing to put on clothes.

God, how are you supposed to keep your feelings in check when he treats you like that? He’s just one of your mates, and yet he treats you better than many of the dickheads you’ve dated in the past ever had, better than some of your mates’ current partners treat them, even.

As if he can sense that you’ve begun to spiral from the other room, Tom calls out to you, effectively pulling you out of your fretting, “Ay, me lover, think I’m gonna light up and make meesen a bacon butty. You want anything while I’m out ‘ere? Water? Bacon butty? Some wine? This Crunchie you’ve got hidden in your cupboard? Actually, wait, nevermind, I call dibs on the Crunchie.”

“Maybe some wa- Hey, wait, Tom, no! Leave that Crunchie alone! I’ve been saving that!”

Of course, you frantically try to get up to rescue your precious candy bar from Tom’s thieving grasp. However, your legs are still a little unsteady, which forces you to walk to the kitchen looking like a newborn giraffe, all while Tom’s grating (read: annoyingly sexy) chuckle fills the space of your flat.

You find him cock out, lit joint pursed between his lips, standing in front of your stove, hands on his hips, heating up a frying pan for his bacon, and, annoyingly, nowhere near your candy stash.

“I haven’t got any bacon, so, it’ll just be a butty, I’m afraid. No use heating up a pan for that,” you grumble as you walk over to the cupboard where you stash your candy. Might as well snag that Crunchie before he can.

At the sound of your voice, Tom turns around and looks at you, bemused, albeit amused as well, and says, “the fuck are you doing out ‘ere on those wobbly li’l legs, Bambi?”

His words come out a bit muffled, thanks to the joint perched between his lips.

“Thought you were gonna steal my Crunchie,” you shrug and admit sheepishly through a mouthful of chocolate and honeycomb. At that, Tom barks out a laugh, which quickly morphs into a cough from accidentally inhaling during said laugh. He promptly removes the joint from between his lips, ashes it in the makeshift ashtray he’s made out of foil, clears his throat, and goes back to smoking.

“Jesus, you’re a strange one, aren’t you,” he remarks fondly, his voice slightly hoarse from coughing, as he begins to gather the ingredients for his sandwich.

“I’m very serious about my Crunchies,” you reply, half-jokingly.

Tom chuckles as he rifles through your fridge.

“Yeah, I’m well aware of that now,” he replies, pausing to inhale before continuing to speak on his exhale, “Sit down at the table then, yeah? I’ll get you some water and make us some toasties if that sounds alright?”

“Y-yeah, yeah, okay,” you agree awkwardly as you sit down nearby at your kitchen table, watching him as he works on preparing the food.

Soon enough, he comes over to you with a glass of water and that same cheeky smile.

God, that smile will get you in so much trouble someday, won’t it?

“What’s that grin for?” You ask as he sets down the water, though you can’t help but reciprocate it with a smile of your own.

He shrugs before leaning over to press his lips against yours, moaning into the kiss when you needily take the initiative to deepen it, parting your lips eagerly for him. Far too soon for your liking, though, he’s breaking the kiss, pulling away just slightly to look into your eyes with his lovely brown ones.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have really, really great tits?” Tom asks, his voice low, sultry, and serious, but you can see the mischief swimming in his gaze.

You roll your eyes and scoff at his question, leaning back in your seat, though anyone could see the amused smile you fail to keep from tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“Yeah, you have like a million times since we started hooking up,” you reply with a chuckle.

“What can I say? I’m a man of honesty,” Tom teases, making you huff out a laugh; he smiles at the sound of it before holding up the joint in your line of sight and asking, “Do you want to take a few tokes ‘a this while I finish up our sandwiches?”

You nod and purse your lips, and, as if it were already second nature to him, Tom slots the joint between your lips.

Instead of immediately going off to work on the food, he sticks around to watch you take your first few puffs, still leaning down so he’s just about at eye level with you, his hands boxing you in on either side, one palm pressed onto the tabletop and the other holding onto the back of your chair. Meanwhile, you sit diagonally in your seat, facing him and maintaining eye contact as you smoke. The haze of your high slowly but surely begins to set in, lowering your eyelids to a relaxed level and easing your posture. Between your new relaxed state, the sex hair you’re sporting, the fact that you smell like you’ve just got done having sex, the fact that you’re completely naked right now, and the fact that you’re, well, you, Tom thinks you might be one of the prettiest things he’s ever fucking seen in his whole life.

But he mustn’t forget about the toasties!

So, he plants one last kiss on your cheek because, hey, he fucking feels like it. Then, he surprises you by kneeling in front of you to say goodbye to ‘his girls’ (your tits).

“I’ll see you ladies in a minute, yeah? Be good while I’m gone, try not to miss me too much,” he whispers to them, making you giggle.

“Tom, you’re so fucking wei-” That (affectionate) jab immediately dies on your tongue the moment he leans forward and wraps his lips around one of your nipples, engulfing it in the warm, wet heat of his mouth and applying just enough pressure to make a heated, buzzing sensation spread beneath your skin as he sucks on it. Then, just as you feel that pleasant sensation spread down through your core, Tom’s pulling away, but only so he can give your other, neglected nipple the same attention.

Small mewls and moans spill out from between your parted lips as the long forgotten joint, still clutched between your fingers, hovers over your table, where the ashes fall from it carelessly, sure to leave a mark. Once Tom’s had his fill, he places a final kiss to the center of your chest before pulling away completely and leaving to go finish preparing your sandwiches, waltzing back over to the stove as if he hadn’t just done, well, that.

“Tom… what the fuck was that?” You ask breathlessly. Still too bewildered to notice the damage the neglected joint is doing to the surface of your table.

Tom has to stifle a cheeky, mischievous grin as he feigns nonchalance, shrugs, and simply replies, “Just giving the ladies a proper goodbye, love. They get nervy when I leave ‘em just out of the blue. You know, separation anxiety, and all that?” Tom tuts, “Poor girls. Think maybe you should start keeping a couple pictures of me in your bra, one in each cup, so they can still see me when I’m not around.”

“Tommy, you’re ridiculous,” you laugh as he dishes up the toasties onto plates and turns off the stovetop.

“Ridiculous…ly fit? I know, baby, but why don’t you finish that glass of water and eat some of that sandwich before you go jumpin’ me bones again, yeah? Gotta stay fed and hydrated,” He teases you as he brings the plates over to the table.

“Oh, and, you’re ashing on yer table, love,” Tom informs you with a kiss on the head as he sets the plates down and goes to grab a wet rag to wipe the table off with, along with the makeshift ashtray.

“Shit!” you exclaim as you lift the joint away from the table. You hand it to him when he gets back, trading it off for the rag so you can wipe up the mess you’ve made whilst he gets everything else sorted.

Tom tuts and shakes his head, feigning disapproval, “that’s the devil’s lettuce, it’ll do that to you.”

“Shut up, Tommifer,” you reply, feigning annoyance all while sporting an amused smile. He chuckles at that, though he also appreciates the fact that you neglected to call him ‘Thomas,’ his full first name, when you very easily could’ve.

“Eat yer toastie, me birdie,” He says as he nudges you teasingly, “sooner you finish it, sooner I can get back between those thighs, yeah?”

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

hi, can we please get a blurb for Roll the Initiative where Joe is pining for the reader during their 10 years of friendship/Joe realises he's falling for his friend. Thank you ❤

Hi, thanks for this! I love this fic so much so I'm glad to see that others want to see the before!

Am tempted to hold a blurb weekend just for this little universe (and maybe sub!joe) so def let me know your thoughts.

Without further ado!

The Pining/ A Roll for Initiative Blurb

Series Masterlist

Complete Masterlist

_______________________

The lecture hall is bright, a stark contrast to how Joe actually feels. 

His bout with food poisoning flat lined him starting Sunday night. He’d missed the Monday lectures entirely. The moment he stood up after a rather fitful sleep, collecting only a mere three or four hours total, the room spun again and he barely made it to his trash can so it could hold all his liquidated innards. And the worst of it is that if it wasn’t coming out of one end, it was coming out of the other. 

The janitor responsible for the building merely sighed after passing Joe sitting on the floor in front of the stalls and handed over extra paper towels and toilet paper. “Feel better soon, kid.”

Tuesday morning, he didn’t feel hot or have a rocky stomach. Though considering he’d been not holding much down, keeping his eyes open used too much effort. After a call to his mother, and a fifteen minute struggle to just get crackers down, Tuesday afternoon turned the tides, enough to show up to practice even if his coach benched him for all of it.

Joe wouldn’t say he feels stellar. Well enough now, with more solid foods in him. But he still feels tired, a hazy edge to his concentration that if Joe let's take over will pull him immediately into sleep. 

An email to his professors had yielded prompt replies about his absence for Monday and curt directions that the powerpoints had been uploaded so he should be able to review those easily enough to catch up. Except for Art History, where he is now, taking the steps down the stadium seating to the middle of the room. 

The professor for Art History is eccentric, which is to be expected given the subject. The slides are bare--just pictures and a few dates. The lecture notes have sporadic and sparse information. Everything necessary to passing the course is only mentioned in lecture. The textbook is a good start, but there’s a thousand times more information from one little brain at the head of the class and it does leave Joe a little worried. If he wants to keep his head above water and pass this class to stay on the team, he’s going to need notes. 

Notes that Joe is sure you’re going to have. 

The two of you haven’t talked much, mostly ‘excuse me’s’ to slide into and out of the row as necessary and about needing to borrow a spare pen or pencil, an exchange of names. Though, Joe’s probably noticing a bit much, he realizes when he can immediately spot the braids--which are new--and a bright purple--also new. 

He carries on, whispering though he doesn’t need to, “Sorry.”

“Long time, no see, stranger,” you quip. 

Joe huffs a tiny laugh and then slips down into the seat to your left. “Not that long.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

And so far, this is the most you two have talked. Not that Joe would’ve thought that you noticed whether or not he was in class or not. But you seemingly have a more extroverted nature, jumping in conversation with the two girls in front of you once before class started. Maybe you see more than he even sees. 

“Random question,” Joe starts, pulling out the notebook for the course.

“Shoot,” you return. 

“Could I get the notes from Monday’s class from you? I got sick over the weekend and this is the only class that the powerpoints aren’t helpful for.”

“Oh, sure! But I have to warn you that my handwriting is atrocious. And the notes are color coordinated, so that might be a little weird. It just helps me better that way. But if you write down your email, once I finish typing them up, I can send them your way.”

And Joe almost says no need to worry, his own handwriting is even worse, but your notes are spread out, blues, greens, pinks, and black ink decorating the page. “Holy shit,” he laughs. “Never thought I’d see rainbow highlighters again.” He almost wants to say it’s neurotic. The kind of system you have that could make a man go blind, but he doesn’t get the chance. 

“Either you want the notes or you don’t.”

“Good point.” Even if it’s an additional delay, the thing Joe won’t do is risk his grade. He takes the pen you extend and the scrap corner of a page and scratches down his email. “I appreciate it. A ton.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you laugh. “But I’m happy to help.”

And it’s only supposed to stop at notes, that’s what Joe tells himself. But he grins at the email that comes later that night, stirring right up against the midnight hours: Joe, here’s a Word doc with the notes. I had to take a magnifying glass to my own notes--just for you--not because I couldn’t read it. Hope these help. 

There’s heading and subheadings when Joe opens the document. A significant lack of color coordination, but he lets that slide. Thanks for this. These are better notes than I could’ve ever taken. How do you feel about the midterm in a couple weeks? I could probably use half your brain, if I’m honest. 

Your reply is damn near immediate, as if you still are lingering on the thread just as Joe replied. I never thought art would make me shake in my boots. I know you’re on the football team, so I don’t mean to impose, but I can rent out my brain during study sessions whenever it works for you.

It’s just supposed to be notes, and study sessions for Art History so that he survives and you survive too. But you’re cool to be around. You make him laugh with just a look and it’s easy. So Joe goes with, takes up offers to hang out at the library when he can, asks about your life in the lull between class starting. There’s a trickle of emails in between scheduling study sessions that turn into text messages. Text messages about being late to the library room or about class of course. But there’s something there, something under the surface that nearly threatens to bubble when you text, much too late at night, Hey, Joe, I don’t think I can make it to the study session tomorrow. Sorry about such late notice. 

That pang of worry hits his chest hard and fast. Feels like it should be a warning but Joe doesn’t stop to process it. Joe just replies, You alright? No worries about the session. I think I’ll survive the Renaissance on my own. 

Nothing you need to worry about. Thanks for understanding. 

But Joe’s going to worry. He keeps his place, however even with the worry. He doesn’t push it until he sees you the next week, on a Monday, settled as always on the outer edge of the row. “You know how to give a man a heart attack. You good?” Joe asks, squeezing past you again. 

“Yeah. Roommate needed me. It’s not my place to talk about, but I just wanted to be there for her.”

“I understand. I hope she’s okay.

“Thanks. She’s better now.”

“Cool.”

Joe should really stop qualifying the relationship with you. Should stop trying to put it in a box, because even as he passes by you in the dining halls, you and your friends exiting and him and the team entering, seeing you around is a nice bright spot in his day. Art History becomes Intro to Psych becomes sitting in the lounge of dorm buildings, surrounded by too much paper, too many books, too many notebooks. 

“I could go for those sour candies,” you mutter, flipping the page in your statistics book. 

“The watermelon ones?” Joe questions. 

“Yeah,” you draw out the word. 

That’s all it takes for Joe to rummage into his backpack. He’d been out with a few of the guys yesterday and they stopped at a little convenience store not too far from the campus. He unearths the bag of candy--a bright yellow color buried in the notebooks--and tosses it over to you. “Those are the right ones, right?”

“So you can pay attention,” you snort. “Thanks.”

And all that--the little passing glances, the text messages, the hour long phone calls-- comes to a head in his last year, your third. Joe listens to the crackle of your breathing over the phone. You’re headed back to campus and he’s already returned--early, much too early. “That sucks, but you should do what’ll be good for you. If OSU’s not doing you right, then go where you think they might.”

It’s encouragement. Joe knows that, but it sounds too unfocused. Though you were listening to his gripes about not getting enough time to play on the field, about how no one seems to be taking him seriously enough as a quarterback, there’s a dip in your tone that Joe can spot anywhere. 

“Spit it out.”

“No, we’re talking about you. I am listening to you talk about your problems.” There’s another crackle, the sniffle of something and Joe pushes up off his too small twin bed. 

“Well I’m done talking,” Joe returns. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s stupid shit.”

“I don’t care if it’s stupid shit. Talk to me.”

“I can’t Joe. Not right now. I’m driving and talk to me. About anything. I don’t care. I just need the distraction.”

The dials are all clicking into place. How you need a distraction, how the sniffle might’ve been the start of tears. “Is it about the girl you were seeing? You haven’t talked about her much since earlier this summer, now that I think about it.”

“You know, Joe, for a guy you pay more attention than I would’ve thought.”

It’s not a no, so he knows he’s on the right track. Another call comes in through the line and Joe looks to see who it is, his own girlfriend that he was supposed to call half an hour ago, but he doesn’t hang up on you. Just lets the other call ring and ring before it finally disappears. Joe should feel something, should hang up with you and call her. But he doesn’t. There’s a pang, something like a tiny bit of relief now that the call’s gone mixed with the ache for you. 

“Forget about her,” Joe offers. “Whatever she did to hurt you doesn’t matter now. Because soon you’ll be back on campus and then we’ll get to hang out again--like old times. And it’ll be fun. We can have fun.”

“So much fun on study dates,” you laugh. It’s shaky, but it’s a laugh. One that shouldn’t make his chest flutter and when it does, Joe notices. Takes stock of the fact that he swears his cheeks are a little warm too. “You in your finance bro courses and me over here learning about the intestinal tract and medical coding.”

“Exactly like that. And our shared class. Like we have every semester.” Because Joe needs  them though. Needs you, he realizes. Even if you don’t need him. And when he started needing those classes, when he started craving you, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t fucking know, but what he does know, now, is that he’s in way too deep. 

Joe is in way too fucking deep. And he hadn’t even realized it. 

“I still can’t believe you signed up for African American Religions with me. Like we could’ve taken like underwater basket weaving or some shit.”

“You made it sound interesting.”

“Whatever you say, Joe. Look, I’m going to make a pit stop at this McDonalds to bawl my eyes out and then get something to drink. Can I-can I call you back?”

Joe wants to tell you to stay on. Wants to say that you shouldn’t even be worried about someone else because you’re so much better than that. But he doesn’t. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t want to drive to wherever you are. He shouldn’t want to wipe the tears from your cheek. Shouldn’t want to sit on whatever bathroom floor you sit just to hold your hand. 

But he does, he really fucking does. “You can always call me back. Anytime.”

What Joe should do is call his girlfriend back, apologize for missing the promised time and her followed up call, find some sort of believable excuse, ask her about her friends, a kind of gossip that Joe was barely keeping up with, the kind of pattern he can already see now waiting to boil over if he doesn’t get his act together. 

What Joe wants is to find you. He wants to be there for you, but he’s not sure if you want him the same way. And that’s okay--his life is football, a fact that even he can recognize, the thing he’d been chasing after for years. The thing that was going to be his ticket out. He just don’t want to leave you though. 

With a hand scrubbed over his face, Joe dials his girlfriend back, listens to the ring once, then twice. “I was starting to think you forgot about me,” she laughs, a kind of tease that felt like it was growing closer and closer to reality. 

“Sorry about that. Mom called, wanted to check up on me.”

“I know how she can get. But you could’ve texted me that she called.”

There’s an awkward silence. Because Joe knows he’s lying. Knows he is right through his fucking teeth. He was praying she’d fall for it, buy into the small little white lie. Because his mother did call, twenty minutes before you did. He’d ask his mom then, if he could call her back to take your call. And there should be shame--there should be something burning his insides. But there’s only worry, about you, about you bawling your eyes out in that McDonald’s parking lot. 

 “I’ll text you next time something comes up. Sorry again,” Joe promises. Another fucking lie. 

The lies catch up to him, right in the middle of midterms, outside of the library, where he can see you inside through the giant glass windows. “It’s just football,” he hisses, promising more empty words. Because it’s also you. 

“I find that a little hard to believe Joe. Don’t lie to me.”

But he’s already lying. Has been for months now. If only she’d told him that he shouldn’t be lying--the kind of continued verb--that he might start feeling guilt. “It is just football. I’m sitting on my ass over here after I play well in practice, I’m putting the reps in and no one seems to care. I’m going to transfer and I can’t fuck that up.”

“So, if it were football or me, you’re picking football?”

Joe peeks back into the glass, spotting you as you return to the shared table. There’s two paper cups in your hand, undoubtedly from the small coffee shop attached to the library. You set one down next to his books and then settle back down into your seat. You catch him watching, crossing your eyes at him before turning back to your books. 

“I’m sorry,” Joe answers, still watching you through the glass. “It’s football.”

“You’re unbelievable, Joe! I was there after you won games and lost games too. Two years, Joe! You’re going to throw away two years just for some game? I’m more important than some sport.”

The tirade’s just begun but Joe doesn’t really care about that, just watches the work of your rainbow highlighters. “I’m sorry,” he repeats again when there’s a break between the shouts. 

When he ducks back inside, thankful for the blast of the heat, he finds his cup still steaming. “I did light on the vanilla, since you have a figure to maintain.” The tease falls easily from your lips before you even look up at Joe. 

Though, given the years together, maybe you don’t need to look up to see if it’s him. You just know. It’s more likely that you assumed it was him. But his chest warms at the thought that he’s just seen--purely and so simply. The first sip of the drink, ordered to perfection he might add, warms his insides, makes the flutter he’d sort of felt blossom and grow, that is until you ask, “How’d the call go?”

And Joe doesn’t want to talk about that, but he can’t stop himself. Not around you. “I was honest about the portal transfer. Didn’t go well.”

“You deserve to be seen, Joe. I’m sorry she doesn’t see it that way. Maybe she’ll come around.”

Joe shakes his head. Because he knows that’s not all. “I think it was sort of over before the semester really started. I just didn’t want to hurt her.”

“So football was just the easier scapegoat? I’m disappointed, Joseph.”

“Oh,” he groans, pressing the palm of his hand into his chest. “God, kick a man while he’s down after a breakup? That’s cruel. My government name.”

The flick of the pen cap misses him by only an inch. “I’m being serious. If your heart wasn’t in the relationship, you should’ve just said that. Now, the girl’s going to be traumatized by football for the rest of her life.”

“You don’t know that,” Joe returns, picking the cap up off the floor. 

“I don’t. But I do know I’m right about being honest with her.”

Joe knows he should’ve been honest. But he can’t. Because it’s you and though the two of you have exchanged those glances, been each other’s solace in times when it felt too vulnerable to let anyone else in, Joe’s never had an in with you, never been able to take the leap. Because what if it all fell through? What if this is just how you’re friends with people? He doesn’t want to risk that. 

He’d rather have this than nothing. He tosses the cap back and you catch it, in a clasps between your hands. “You’d make a terrible quarterback you know? Aim was awful.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not the one transferring, now am I? Because there’s one guy I know who is a deadly QB and he’s going to be honest next time. Right?”

Joe nods. “Absolutely.”

The distance is said to make the heart grow fonder and Joe’s fucked. When he checks his box and sees a slip about a package too ready for pick up at the window, and when he sees the giant box, and when he sees it’s from you, his heart is so utterly fond and he’s fucked. 

Here’s to QB1. Get ready for spicy food and humidity. A survival guide, if you will. And in the basket, that was in the box, are bottles of hot sauce, old school maps and a Triple AAA trip book for Louisiana, photographs of you to back in Ohio, letters from his parents and brother, a letter from you, stuffed with his favorite snacks, and the shredded tissue paper, plastic wrapping to keep bottles from breaking and leaking and Joe knows he’s not getting off this ride. 

“Is that from your girl?” Ja’Marr wastes little time after his knock to peel open the door that’s cracked open just a hair, held for a light breeze by an old shoe. 

“They’re just a friend,” Joe corrects, even if it feels bad to say, even if he does want more. 

“I don’t think friends do handwritten letters much anymore,” he probes, pointing to the letter on top from you. “But what the hell do I know?”

You do. Because you’re that kind of person. “We’re friends,” Joe states, firm and with a bit of an ache that cracks his voice. 

“Don’t sound like you want to be friends. But we’ve got a party to hit, so you can do your sad boy hours and feelings later and I promise to listen to all of ‘em.”

Joe’s done this before, attempts at burying you in other girls, and knows that it won’t fill the ache entirely. But it’s what he has, so he pushes away from his desk, places the letter onto his bed and follows Ja’Marr out. Because it’s just what he has, and a little bit is better than nothing when it comes to you. He’s honest, like he promised, with the girls that keep looking for more from him, that he can’t deliver on it. Joe’s not afraid to be their good time. He just can’t be their long term. Knows his heart wouldn’t be in it. 

The distance helps in some ways. Joe is solely focused on football. He doesn’t worry or fret about much else, just keeps focusing one game at a time, one practice at a time. It doesn’t ache as much, as it once did to be this far from home, this far from you. You’re always there in the back of his head, when he wins, when he’s tired, there’s always the soft calm of your voice, You deserve to be seen. Joe knows you mean about football, about a deserving and deadly quarterback. But part of him thinks, hopes one day, that it means more than that too. 

You’re always just one phone call away. The stolen moments, even with Ja’Marr sliding in through the background, your laughter bubbling remind Joe that you’re not too far. Just far enough away that sometimes it hurts more than it should. 

 “I think he’s getting bored, I can see him snooping,” you quip. 

Joe turns, spotting Ja’Marr cracking open the shoe box Joe saved to put all your letters and photos in. “Get out of that, man! Oh my god.”

“You’ve been on the phone for like half an hour. A man’s just bound to get curious what you keep in this shoebox. Ain’t no shoes in them. I can tell.”

“None of your business that’s what,” Joe laughs, clamping the top on it closed again. 

“Are you ever going to come down and visit?” Ja’Marr questions. “I think he misses you.”

Joe whips back around in the direction of Ja’Marr, eyes narrowed and jaw stern. “Quit it,” he warns lowly.

“I miss Joe too,” you answer. “Maybe if I can swing the spare cash, I’ll come down. Things are tight after my root canal.”

I miss Joe too. The sweetest sounding Joe’s heard in a while that manages to cut the hot store he was leveling at Ja’Marr into disbelief. There’s no way he heard that right. “You miss me?” Joe questions, facing the camera again. It’s such a dumbfounded question, one that Joe should’ve been aware of the answer too, and yet here he is still shocked, still surprised. 

“Of course I miss you.” You return it like it’s obvious, like Joe should know this. “But you’re out there, working to achieve your dreams and I think that’s more important. I’m always rooting for you.”

If there were any further go, Joe is sure that’s the moment he’d fall deeper into the hole. That somehow, someway, the most simple of sentiments have sealed his fate. Of course I miss you. He waits though, waits for you to make some remark about that’s just what friends do, miss each other, root for each other. It doesn’t come. Instead it stays like that, like it’s so fucking obvious. Like it’s not potentially earth shattering if Joe were to ever let himself fully let go. 

The relationship with you hasn’t always been obvious. It always has been easy. It’s just so fucking easy that maybe it should be obvious. Because after he’s drafted, you’re the first person he calls after the camera’s have left, after his parents have hugged him. You’re the first voice that he wants to hear. In the background the deep voice echoes, almost threatening the frayed edges of Joe’s reality. You’re not here, not next to him in Athens. 

Football’s always been the scapegoat, the thing Joe’s kept his hawk-eyed gaze on, because it’s his ticket out. It’d take him away and that’s the thing that’s easier to face. That he’d have no other choice because there’s football, not fear. But fear’s bubbling in the background, the deep voice that Joe knows isn’t his or your dad’s or any family member. 

Joe swears, with the phone pressed impossibly close to his ear, he hears something else, something deeper when you said, “You did it, Joe. I am so incredibly proud of you. I hope you’re proud of yourself. You’re truly amazing to witness.”

He wants it to mean more. That’s what Joe realizes when he’s in bed later that night, Joe really fucking wants those words to mean more. 

The true beauty is you. The true star dazzling presence is yours. When he finally settles into your hometown and doesn’t run into you, he keeps waiting, keeps thinking it’s going to happen, because Cincinnati has you written all over. You are in the city in a way that Joe never thought a person could be. You are in the sidewalks, in the breeze that blows, in the stop lights that pause him, in the sips of his coffee from his favorite places because he wonders if by chance you’ve been here too.

It’s always been you. The person Joe thinks would fit into his life so effortlessly. You that he's had to keep tucked away from himself, hide away the thoughts because the timing's never been good. He's always been a little too scared to make a move.

“Welcome to Cincy, Joe.” 

Perfect fucking you in front of him. Joe laughs, like somehow his own desires might’ve conjured you up, some figment of his imagination. But he knows it’s not. Because he has the text messages to prove it.  When he asked if the two of you could chat in person, he was halfway expecting you to have plans, telling him you couldn’t make it. But you answered with ease, ‘Of course. I’ve been waiting on you.’ 

The hug is long, longer than Joe would like to admit but fuck, he’s forgotten what it’s like. Forgot how you rock into your hugs. How you squeeze tight. How it feels so fucking right. And Joe knows he shouldn’t. He’ll get himself back in check. Promises he will, but he soothes a hand over your back, taking in the warmth of you against his cheek. 

“Let me get a good look at you,” you hum, pulling away first. Your eyes dance over him but Joe’s not worried about that, just thinks how much you’ve grown into your features now. How you feel more settled and more mature next to him, even in the scrubs. 

He’d wanted to give you time to change, but you insisted that wouldn’t matter, that it didn’t matter. And he shouldn’t, though the thought creeps up, that you do make the scrubs look enticing. Joe tosses that aside and focuses on the fact that you’re real, in front of him. He’s back next to you. 

“How does it feel?” The question is soft as you ask it. The two of you settled now under the awning of the sidewalk seating. The summer’s thick heat makes the early fall evenings cool. 

“Better than that I’ve seen you. It’s been what? Five years now since I’ve last seen you?”

You shrug, noncommittal. “Give or take. I’m still the same.”

“Dentist office, right?”

“Yeah, need a cleaning? I know the schedule.”

“When I do, I know who to call.”

Later, after the two of you have parted ways, Joe lies in bed, wondering when he’d gotten this deep into the whole. If he was digging himself deeper and deeper in until he had no other course of action but to see it through. Right now is a bad time still. You’re dating someone, but Joe’s not sure if he wants to find out what life would have to look like without you in it. 

What if he’s still reading this all wrong? 

[doctorbunny]

That thick and bloated rulebook is your own delusion/That self-righteous and condescending lecture/go ahead and say it to the mirror

Ado's newest song (about a rebellious teen girl finding out that she was just acting out in a safe environment the whole time) made me think about Amane's threat

Her next target is Shidou! >:3