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#these people inspire me to do something with my own aus!!
hajihiko · 17 hours
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Hey. So, I saw your Chiaki & Fuyuhiko comic that I like to call "Look on the Bright Side" (since it didn't have an official name in the post itself), and I loved it. I loved seeing Nanami & Kuzuryu interact with each other with the former comforting the latter on Peko and complimenting on how brave he was to save his friend, the scene between Fuyuhiko & Peko during the latter's execution, and then the scene of you making a throwback to your DR3 rewrite from your Talky Talky Tuesday content where the DR2 cast witness Human Chiaki's death and chose not to help her because of how awful Junko's influence on them was. It was heartwarming, bittersweet, and terrifying all at the same time, and as @/self-in-dulled-gent put it in their reblog of the comic, the 4th & 5th panels depicting your DR3 rewrite is a cool and visceral indication of how far the DR2 cast had fallen into despair. Heck, both the comic & the rewrite even serve as inspiration towards my au/rewrite/reimagine of DR3's Despair Arc & how Junko corrupts the DR2 cast into despair. So, thank you so much for the inspiration. I really appreciate it.
With all that in mind, I have some questions I wanna ask you regarding both the comic & DR3 rewrite, if you don't mind.
May I have your permission to do a review on your DR3 Rewrite post for my Advian Reads & Reviews content (which in case you're curious about, AR&R is reading review series where I read something, like fanfiction for example, while also doing a review on it at the same time, giving my thoughts on whatever I'm reviewing as well as potentially even sharing my own stories)?
Will you ever showcase the bonus panel of the rest of the class witnessing Chiaki's death that you mentioned in the comic's tags?
Who is the 5th person on the right between Kazuichi & Hiyoko in the 4th panel (I'm assuming it's Sonia based on the hairstyle, but I thought I'd ask for some confirmation)?
Will we ever get to see the dialogue of Chiaki not resenting Hajime/Izuru for not helping her you also mentioned in the comic's tags?
Follow up on that previous question, do you think it's possible that we might also get to see if Chiaki resents her classmates for not helping her, or if she would also get it with them like she did with Hajime/Izuru?
How exactly does Junko kill Chiaki in front of her classmates? Does she still have her go through her execution like in canon, or does she kill her in a different way, and if so, then how? I ask because I saw Nanami had blood coming from her eyes & mouth (making it look like Junko literally pulled her eyes out), there's blood on her hoodie & left thigh, and she appears to have been stabbed on her right side.
And those are my questions. In regards to gaining your permission to review your DR3 rewrite, if you do grant permission, great! I'll be sure to credit you and give you a shoutout too if you do. And if you don't, then I'm content with that and will understand and respect the reason behind your refusal, whatever that reason may be. Feel free to respond back to me whenever you get the chance. Thank you and have a wonderful day/afternoon/night. 🤗💕❤️🧡💛💚💙💜💖💕🤗
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that's one heck of an ask so I'm using a readmore:
Thank you! I remember that comment hehe I'm really glad people like it
1: sure! Just know that I'm like, you know, just a fan and a hobbyist and not even really a writer so I'm not saying my rewrite is more right than anything else!
2: the bonus panel was actually everyone else's deaths (in SDR2) since they all sort of died alone, too. But it didn't feel relevant enough, I prrrrrrrrobably don't have the sketch anymore
3: yep that's Sonia
4: I'll be totally real i don't remember what I was thinking there at all. Sssssorryyyyyy
5: I think Chiaki, if she got to see the events of SDR2 as the AI, wouldn't resent her classmates so much as feel sorry for them and be disappointed. At the same time though I think she might be shocked at what they're capable of. Maybe she can't help but be a bit bitter, who knows. Hajime/Izuru is a different deal since that guy literally got his brains scrambled, can't really blame him. (sort of like deleting all the save data, maybe?)
6: the blood and amounts of it was more about the drama lol. But I thought the obstacle was like, a little too fantastical, not serious enough, so in my rewrite she straight up beats Chiaki to death with some kind of instrument. I think the image of Junko doing something so realistic (and slow) while everyone watches passively is even worse.
Thanks for asking beforehand! 💙
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sinner-sunflower · 12 hours
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A HH Lucifer-centric AU 22/22
PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13, PART 14, PART 15, PART 16, PART 17, PART 18, PART 19, PART 20, PART 21
I can't believe it?? I made it, Ma!
Luci's General Suit inspired by this FANART on twt by @kajina_97
This is the COMIC that inspired me to write the whole thing because I wanted this ending so bad klajdklsa it's by @Sandranetta_13 on twt
Dk what tomorrow might entai. Might be the first chapter for the sequel?
Let me know what you guys think! Please, I'm very desperate.
I'm willing to do a Q&A regarding your thoughts. DMs and Asks are OPEN! <3
Will link the sequel here once posted
---------------------------------------------------
Everything was relatively normal the following week. His and Charlie's long overdue moment with no more miscommunication made Lucifer feel a whole lot better. He couldn't ask for a better daughter.
Dressing himself in one of his battle suits, he felt like he could take on the world. Nothing says King of Hell like your best warrior outfit and a badass sword in full display.
Lucifer: Looking pretty dapper there, me.
Lucifer doesn't even bother to style his hair- it now flows animatedly like that of Lilith's.
Flowers were still being sent to him especially when he was first spotted roaming around the hotel after a week-ish long recovery. Charlie had the amazing idea of making a greenhouse or some sort of garden to put all the flowers and keep them alive as long as possible.
They got rid of any red ones after someone sent a buttload of them which then caused him to have a mini panic attack. Alastor is subtly trying to take that moment off his mind by leaving Marigolds everywhere. It's sweet but soon they're going to need a separate greenhouse for just the Marigolds. Where'd he even get these??
Finding his first Marigold of the day, in the bathroom of all places really Alastor??, he makes his way to the lobby. Everyone was there doing their own thing.
Husk and Angel are at the bar as usual, with the latter talking animatedly about something that puts an endearing expression on Husk's face. Nifty is putting on roach puppet shows for Alastor. The radio demon notices him and conveys his most 'help me' face but he just chuckled and gives him a thumbs up. The cyclops named Cherri is today's gift screener, grumbling about the pollen and the shitty taste some demons have.
Charlie and Vaggie were talking to a small group of demons by the entrance. As soon as his daughter sees him, she said something to the group then walked over to him.
Charlie: Good morning, dad!
Lucifer: You look busy.
Charlie: They're sinners who are asking about the hotel! I'm so happy that people are at least coming here to check it out. Did you have a good sleep?
Lucifer: Well, I don't feel like passing out today. So pretty good!
Charlie: That's great, dad!
Angel: Short king! Looking good in that fit!
Cherri: Yeah! Do a spin, hot stuff!
He blushes at the sudden attention. Everyone is looking at him in awe- maybe it was too much?
Alastor: Nonsense, dear.
Alastor appeared beside him in a flurry of shadows, seemingly reading his mind. He bends down at Lucifer's level to whisper in his ear. He plucked the Marigold Lucifer was holding, putting it behind the King's hair.
Alastor: I, for one, think you never looked so.. raveshing~
Damn him.
Lucifer: Shut up.
Lucifer hisses in response. Like, seriously? In front of his daughter? Thank Father, Charlie didn't hear that.
Charlie: Yeah! You look so cool. I don't think I've seen you wear that except for when there's a banquet.
Lucifer: Yeah, well, I wanted to look put together after everything.
Charlie softens at his words.
Alastor: No need for that, sire. I'm sure no one is foolish enough to comment negatively on what the King of Hell chooses to look like.
Lucifer: What does that make you then?
Alastor: Privileged, my King~
Lucifer rolls his eyes at the audacity but he can't help but smile. Man, he never thought he'd miss their constant banter.
Charlie: You look awesome, dad, okay? Al, please slow down with the Marigolds, Nifty's going crazy. Oh! Dad, right, Aunt Bel called said that the Sloth Ring is making incredible progress and that she'll visit again soon. I think Aunt Bee is planning a party with the other Sins and would like it to be held here in Pride! At the hotel! It would be so cool and of course if you're not ready I can tell them and maybe a little get together would be better. I'll even invite Sev! He gave flowers for you too and Vaggie was so jealous when I said he was my ex and thought the flowers were for me, she was so cute-
Lucifer tried, but he stopped listening halfway through his daughter's talk. It was a bit of an information overload but he kept a small, genuine smile on his face for her.
Then something caught his eye that made him stopped smiling altogether.
Charlie notices this causing her to stop talking.
Charlie: Dad?
He should answer but his eyes were locked on the wall behind Charlie. Plastered on the higher part of the lobby's wall was a glowing mark- gold wings with a dot on the center.
Lucifer turns around so fast to look outside the hotel's window. Heaven looks so out of place up there, sticking out like a sore thumb upon Hell's red skies.
A glint in the distance made him act. Without warning, he took off with such force that those inside the hotel were knocked down by the gust of his wings.
He breaks the window on his way out and pulls out Lightbringer. Lucifer brings the sword up and-
A powerful explosion lit up the sky. The sky split in two and fire appeared high and wide over Pride. At that moment, everyone became so hot that they couldn't bear it, as if their whole body was on fire. They wanted to rip their skin off just to get a sense of relief but then the sky shut closed. A strong thump was heard by every demon in the vicinity and then they were all thrown a few meters.
It felt like an eternity before Charlie and the others could get their bearings. Those that didn't get knocked out went outside, once there, they see Lucifer far up in the sky, holding up a flaming sword. The signature pentagram of the city has been fractured by whatever happened and demons all around were either hurt or unconscious.
Charlie: Dad!
Charlie calls out to her dad but he doesn't acknowledge her. His gaze never leaving Heaven, as if he's seeing something that no one else can.
--------------------------------------
A screen locked on Hell zooms out as the machine's voice rang out 'target disengaged'.
An angel looking similarly to Lucifer, except there's blue tints on the spots where Lucifer had reds, was looking down at Hell pulling back a large, golden gun. They blew the smoke residue and sighed.
Michael: Hello, Lucifer... Still causing trouble, I see.
---------------------------------------
it's done??
cliffhanger but don't worry, there's a sequel!
I spent 30 minutes looking for that comic that inspired this ending.
Did y'all catch that Lemmino reference? I'd have that description in my head rent free ever since I watched Grazed by the Apocalypse
Again, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this! This was my first published baby and I'm so proud !
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kazumy-zan · 6 months
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katiexpunk · 27 days
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Desert Dust | Pairing Joel Miller x Fem!Reader
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Summary: You're a small-town waitress in a highway town in Arizona with a standard, safe life. You never really thought you needed more -- until you met Joel Miller. Warnings: Joel is a consent king in this one. No age gap mentioned (make it your own). Self-deprecation. Toxic coworkers. Attempted assault (not by Joel)/nothing too graphic (please be responsible about what you consume). Joel beats up a bad guy. References to blood and first aid. Alcohol. Pet names. Flirting/slow burn. Objectification of Joel by readers coworker. Inexperienced reader. Body hair. References to taste of vagina. Smoking/cigarettes (it's bad, don't do it). References to shitty past hookups. Oral (f receiving). Praise kink. Size kink. Rough sex. Sex on a desk. Just a really passionate, filthy fuck. Creampie (shocker, I know). No use of Y/N, no use of daddy. TLOU au. Reader has no physical descriptions apart from female anatomy. W/C: ~8K. Sorrrrrrry, not sorry? A/N: Hi, hello. It's been a hot minute since I've been here! I took a hiatus for the past few months because life was, well, life and I was busy getting married. Happy to be back. This one was inspired by a drive through the Arizona desert. Special thanks to @syd-djarin for being a slut with me on this one. Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Notifications | Read Joel's POV
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Humans rely on cooperation, communication, and mutual aid for survival and well-being. Without that, it’s like being cast adrift in a hostile sea without the safety net of community and companionship.
You know this.
And so that’s why you stay, that’s why you’ve always stayed. 
Even if most of your days feel lonely, at least you have the comfort of predictability. 
++++
"I’m goin' on my break, Tracy," you call out, tossing the words casually over your shoulder as you grab your hoodie and a pack of American Spirit cigarettes from behind the counter. Sometimes you think the only reason you still have the damn vice is for the excuse to step out of the suffocating walls of the grease-drenched building they call a restaurant. 
Tracy responds with a touch too much of feigned enthusiasm, pouring a steady stream of black liquid into the mug of the customer sitting in the booth before her. 
With a nod of acknowledgment, you slip out the restaurant's back door, the hinges creaking softly in protest as you step into the crisp Arizona air. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty ground as you light up your cigarette, the flame dancing in the breeze.
As you inhale deeply, the familiar taste of tobacco fills your lungs, calming your nerves and grounding you in the present moment. Leaning against the weathered brick wall, your thoughts drift as wisps of smoke curl lazily into the sky. 
In the distance, you can hear the faint sound of laughter and chatter drifting from inside, a comforting reminder of the community that surrounds you. Here, amidst the tumbleweeds and endless blue skies, is a place you’ve called home since you ran away from yours at sixteen. It’s not much, but it’s something. Something is always better than nothing, right? People know you by name when you go to the grocery store, and know your order at the only coffee shop in town – big-city girls don’t get that. 
As you take one last drag from your cigarette, you try to summon feelings of gratitude for what you do have, but as the smoke dissipates into the desert air, a lingering sense of restlessness gnaws at the edges of your mind.
It's only when you stamp out the cigarette in the dirt below, watching the embers fade into darkness, that you dare to entertain the notion that perhaps you could have more. 
++++
You step back into the restaurant, and your eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights above, a stark contrast from the natural light of the sun. Carefully tucking your hoodie away and readjusting your apron strings, you prepare to dive back into work. 
As you glance around, you notice Tracy frantically pacing back and forth behind the bar, her demeanor tinged with a hint of frazzled energy. It's not the busiest you've ever been, but for her, every customer that walks through the door feels like a tidal wave of chaos – especially when it’s just you two on the floor. 
With a sympathetic smile, you nod in understanding as she thrusts a stack of menus into your hands, followed by a piping hot coffee pot. "Be a doll and go take table three’s order, will ya?" she says, her voice tinged with urgency. Before you can even acknowledge her request, she’s off, stacking her forearms with plates, yelling that she’ll be right there honey to the patrons by the door. 
You make your way over to the table, weaving through the maze of booths and tables with practiced ease. As you approach, you notice a lone figure sitting hunched over in a worn leather jacket, eyes fixed on the menu in front of him. He sits up to full height and adjusts himself in the booth, eyes still on the sticky plastic in front of him, giving you a full view of his side profile. 
Fuck – he’s gorgeous. Handsome in a way that unmoors you. 
Rugged, weathered charm exudes from him. He turns to look at you and oh. His salt-and-pepper curls frame a face weathered by sun and wind, a beard streaked with grey adding an air of distinguished maturity. His eyes are soft and brown, enveloped by small creases in the corners. 
Your thighs come flesh with the edge of the table, and with the coffee pot in hand, you can't help but feel a flutter of anticipation in the pit of your stomach, settling there like a stack of pancakes eaten way too fast. 
Clearing your throat, you offer him a tentative smile. Get a grip – he’s just another customer, you silently plead with yourself. 
"Hi," you say, your voice a little softer than usual. "Can I get you something to drink?"
As his eyes meet yours, a brief but intense connection crackles between you. There's something in his gaze, a depth that you can't quite decipher, leaving his thoughts shrouded in mystery. His face remains stony, and unreadable, like the weathered cliffs that dot the desert landscape.
Your breath hitches in your throat as you follow his eyes drifting down your chest, lingering for a moment on the nametag pinned to the worn cotton of your uniform. Heat rises to your cheeks under his scrutiny. You wish you would have opted for your cleaner uniform this morning. You’ve never been one to care too much about your looks, mostly because nobody looks at you, not really. All catcalls from drunk men in bars and the occasional flirty customer. But you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the attention he’s giving.
His eyes finally settle on the coffee pot in your hand, a subtle shift in focus that breaks the spell of tension between you. "Just coffee, darlin'," he says, his voice honey-thick, low, and raspy like the rumble of distant thunder.
You nod silently, the words caught in your throat as you turn to pour him a steaming cup of coffee. 
“You let me know if I can get you anything else,” you whisper, letting the corners of your lips turn up into a small, cordial, smile. 
“Just coffee for me today, sweetheart, thank you.” 
Walking away, you can’t help but notice the feeling of the weight of his gaze lingering on you long after you do. 
He sits in silence, nursing his coffee with a quiet intensity that commands attention. His presence seems to cast a shadow over the room, drawing the gaze of both patrons and staff alike. You steal glances at him between customers and try not to read into the fact that his eyes are usually on you by the time you find him. He’s not staring – he couldn’t be – why would he be? You shove the thought down and focus on your tasks at hand, him calling you sweetheart playing like a broken record in your mind, over and over. 
Tracy, usually bustling about with the frenetic energy of a hummingbird, is unusually attentive to him. She stops by his table more often than necessary, refilling his cup with a gentle touch and addressing him with a warmth you've rarely seen her reserve for anyone else. You swear you even saw her push her tits up behind the wall before going out to him – but you can’t blame her, you’d probably do the same if you had as much to work with as she does. 
As you work behind the bar counter, wiping down tables and clearing plates, Tracy tries to engage you in conversation about the mysterious stranger. "Been a long time since we've had a man like that in here," she says, a hint of gossip in her voice, wrapped pretty in a bow of objectification. She reminds you of a praying mantis, attempting to draw in her prey before she eats him. 
"Yeah," you murmur, not quite wanting to talk about him, especially not with her. 
Excusing yourself, you slip into the bathroom, the wooden door offering a momentary respite. Leaning against the slightly sticky surface, you close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure. But despite your efforts, you can't shake the feeling that something has shifted. Looking at the reflection in the mirror, you can’t help but feel the twisty weird tug that pools in your lower belly, and the uptick in your heart rate. You attempt to fix your hair and pinch your cheeks to add some volume to your face. You slip on a touch of chapstick and assess yourself. This is so fucking stupid. He’s a customer. Just a customer. You’re just bored, horny, and alone. 
But maybe he is, too?
No. Stop.
After a moment, you emerge from the bathroom, only to find his table empty, a worn $20 bill – more than enough to cover his check – left behind as a silent farewell. Your heart sinks at the realization that he's gone, slipping away like a ghost in the night. Shit.
You didn't even catch his name, and now he's just another fleeting memory, a stranger passing through your life like a whisper in the wind. And though you try to convince yourself that it doesn't matter, that you'll forget about him by morning. 
But when dawn breaks the next day, he’s the first thought that crosses your mind. 
++++
The days turn into weeks, each blending seamlessly into the next in the endless cycle of small-town life. But amidst the monotony of routine, there's a flicker of anticipation that ignites in your chest every time you step foot into the restaurant – the hope that he might, too. 
Stupid, silly little small-town girl. 
You’re in the middle of bussing a rather messy table, throwing empty plates and glasses into a bucket after the lunch rush when the sound of bells above the door and heavy boot steps echoes through the restaurant. Not looking up from the table, you yell out take a seat wherever you want, throwing the final pieces of flatware into the bin. Raising it to your hip, your attention finally snaps to the customer and fuck – 
You freeze there. 
His hand lifts in a simple greeting. 
His presence is a magnetic force that shifts the air in the room. Clad in the same worn leather jacket and a dark tee, he exudes a silent, sturdy confidence. You know nothing about him, but you feel like you’d trust him with your life. 
“Oh, hi. Um, go ahead and take a seat, I’ll be with you in just a second, just gonna drop this in the back,” you say, trying to hide your smile, your excitement. 
He’s a customer. Not a bored and horny customer. Just a customer. 
As he settles into the booth next to the window, you can't help but feel a rush of excitement coursing through your veins. You greet him again with a smile, your voice warm with genuine affection, and he nods in return, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary.
But before you can exchange more than a few words, Tracy swoops in like a hawk, eager to monopolize his attention. She's quick to bring him a menu, bring him a coffee, and offer him a selection of homemade pies, her enthusiasm bordering on overwhelming.
You watch from afar, a pang of frustration chewing at the edges of your composure like a moth to cloth in an old closet. It's as if Tracy has staked her claim on him, leaving little room for anyone else to form a connection. And yet, despite her best efforts, you can still feel the weight of his attention on you, a silent reassurance that you're not alone in this silent dance of whatever the fuck this is. 
You think that maybe it’s all in your head – maybe he is into Tracy, and you’re confusing his affection for something it’s not. It wouldn’t be the first time. Lord knows you’re no stranger to having one too many vodka sodas and pining after the affection of the first person who looks at you, crying in the passenger seat of a truck of some guy who gave you attention hours before.
Lord know how many nights you check your phone every three seconds just to be disappointed. Too busy begging for the love of someone who doesn’t want you, and never will. Yet you’re just so hopeful. Hopeful that one day it might not feel this way, hopeful that someone will want you back. 
You wonder if you want so desperately to be seen, that you’d twisted every lingering glance, smile, and hello, for something it’s not. 
When you enter the dining room, your heart once again sinks when you notice him rising from his booth, getting ready to leave. His eyes catch yours and you give him a small wave goodbye. He holds yours while he tucks something under his coffee cup, giving you a nod, letting you know that he wants you to pick it up. His face is unreadable when he eventually walks out. 
Walking over to the table, you notice cash tucked neatly under an empty coffee mug. But you notice something else, too. A worn business card for Joel Miller, CEO of Miller Brothers Contracting. It’s a simple card, just his name and an email on the front. But when you turn it over, you’re surprised to find a phone number scribbled on the back. 
Maybe it’s not all in your head. ++++
Later that night, standing in the dark alley of the restaurant, the cement damp from the afternoon rain, Tracy's words hang heavy in the air like a dense cloud of cigarette smoke. You listen in silence as she talks about him, her tone laced with a confidence that borders on arrogance.
"I think I'm gonna ask him to get a drink," she says, her voice carrying a hint of excitement. "I think he's into me. I mean, come on, who else stops in and only orders coffee, and leaves a tip like he does? Even caught him looking at my ass once."
Her words cut through the stillness of the desert night, harsh and abrasive in contrast to the quiet solitude that surrounds you. Tracy has always been one to flaunt her looks, to revel in the attention of men like Joel who pass through the diner's doors. There aren’t many.
But as you listen to her speak, a knot forms in the pit of your stomach, a silent warning that this pursuit of Joel may lead to heartbreak for one or both of you. You've seen the way he looks at you, the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks no one else is watching. You slip your hand into the apron and thumb over the paper of his business card. 
You want to warn her, to tell her to tread carefully, but the words catch in your throat like smoke caught in a breeze. Instead, you offer her a weak smile, masking the turmoil brewing beneath the surface.
"Yeah, Tracy," you say, your voice tinged with forced enthusiasm. "Go for it. You deserve someone who appreciates you."
But as she stubs out her cigarette and heads back into the restaurant you can't help but smirk knowing he gave his card to you. 
It’s finally your turn to be wanted. 
But you don’t call, or text him. You want to, you do, but you don’t know what to say, or where to begin. You’re so out of practice when it’s something that matters. It’s easier to pretend he still wants you if you don’t break the illusion—or that’s the lie you tell yourself, anyway.
++++
Some weeks later, you find yourself alone in the empty restaurant – Tracy having called out for the night. It’s slow. Way too slow. The late hour weighs heavy on your shoulders. George, the cook, went home almost an hour ago. You work to check off the tasks on your list before you leave for the night, and eventually accomplish everything except filling the salt shakers. 
You could have sworn you turned off the neon open sign and locked the doors until the familiar sound of bells chimes through the empty restaurant. 
“We’re closed,” you yell out, twisting the final cap on the last salt shaker. 
Your eyes flicker up to find a large man stumbling through the door, his presence heavy with the unmistakable scent of whiskey and cigarettes. He doesn’t look so good, his skin is pale and damp, eyes glassed over.
You rise from your booth, a sense of unease prickling at the back of your mind as you approach him. Despite your better judgment, you tell him to take in any booth of his choice, while you head behind the bar to grab him a glass of water. When you set it down in front of him, he bristles at your gesture, his words slurred and tinged with aggression at the fact that you brought him fucking water. Your patience wears thin as he rebuffs your offer, his tone sharp and abrasive.
"Just trying to help you out here" you snap, a hint of irritation creeping into your voice. You’re not sure where the irritation is coming from, but it feels right –  natural – a built-in defense mechanism. But instead of backing down, he responds with a menacing snarl, his hand shooting out to grip your wrist in a bruising hold. Panic surges through you as you try to pull away, his grip tightening with each futile attempt.
"Let me go," you plead, the fear evident in your voice as he rises from the booth and crowds you against a nearby table, condiments spilling over the edge of the table. His hands move to grip your upper arms with a forceful intensity. You stumble slightly, the weight of his presence pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket, your head turned to the side to avoid having to look at him. “I’ll tell you what, you little bitch –” 
You feel the rapid beat of your pulse, the thrum of blood in your veins. You struggle against the man. Your inner voice screams danger, but just as you feel the panic rising in your chest, the familiar sound of chimes rings through your ears. Within seconds, a new figure looms into view, his broad frame casting a shadow over the scene unfolding before you – to you. With a swift movement, he pulls the man off of you, his voice a growl of warning as he asserts his dominance.
“I’d think twice if I were you before you try and win this one,” Joel says, voice low and threatening.  
It's him.
Relief floods through you at the sight of him, a silent thank you echoing in your mind as he stands between you and the aggressor. And as he faces off with the man, his protective stance speaks volumes. Your mind goes a little fuzzy from the adrenaline as you watch the man struggle in his grasp, followed by a slur of cuss words, ultimately ending in Joel punching him in the face, the harsh sound of bone to face. 
It shouldn’t turn you on, the violence of it all, but it sort of does. The outward display in your defense appeals to the primitive, underived part of your brain, the way a knight would defend a maiden’s honor. 
He drags the man out of the establishment, and you hear him tell him to get the fuck out and never come back. 
He locks the door and turns to face you. Your arms come up to grab yourself in an instinctual hug, your body is a little shaky from the interaction. Without saying anything, he walks over to you, bringing both of his hands to the sides of your arms – the same place where the man had grabbed you – but his touch feels different. Gentle, reassuring, safe. 
“You alright?” he says, a deep crease between his brow as he looks down at you, his eyes filled with concern. 
“I’m alright – tha,” your words break a little, and you start to feel hot tears cling to your lashline, “thank you,” you manage to blurt out, avoiding looking at him in the eyes, not wanting him to see yours all teary. 
He brings a hand up to cup your cheek and uses the edge of his thumb to tilt you up to look at him. You bring your hand to meet his on your cheek and notice a sticky sensation under your palm. You grab his hand and bring it down to your eye level, noticing the blood on it, a giant split down the middle of one of his knuckles. Jesus, if his hand looks like this, what must that guy’s face look like?
"You're hurt," you say, the tears in your eyes now replaced with genuine concern. "It's okay, don't worry about it, doesn't hurt," he reassures, but you can tell he's probably lying. 
"We've got a first aid kit in the back. Let me clean you up," you insist, nodding towards the rear of the room.
"It’s alright sweetheart, you don't have to, really…" he protests.
"You just defended me. Bandaging your knuckles is the least I can do to thank you," you tell him firmly, leaving no room for refusal.
Interlacing your fingers with his on his left hand, you guide him through the restaurant.
Navigating through the kitchen, smelling of oil and french fries, you caution him to watch his step on the freshly mopped yet always greasy floors.
In the small office, you flick on the light switch and rummage through the cabinets until you find an old first aid kit tucked away in the back. Joel leans against the desk, quietly observing you. "Ah, got it," you say with a hint of excitement that you found the kit, a little surprised there was even one stashed away. Though most of the bandages and finger condoms are missing, there's still plenty of gauze and alcohol wipes.
He stands silently, watching as you work to open the kit, his eyes fixed on you, particularly when you rip open the alcohol wipe with your teeth. "This might sting a bit," you warn, meeting his gaze with genuine care. 
“You can make it up to me later,” he whispers. His tone, the intention behind his words sends an exciting zap down your spine. There’s shared silence. As you’re patting the blood on his knuckles, that same feeling of raw want, painted with uncertainty, settles in your stomach. 
“Can I ask you something,” he says, and you flick your eyes up to meet his for a moment before lowering them back down his hand. You let out a soft mhmm in response, knowing his question before he’s even asked it. 
“Why didn’t you call?” 
The boldness of his question stops you. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “I wanted to. I mean, I almost did – I typed out so many texts to you it’s borderline embarrassing,” you pause for a second to grab the gauze from the counter behind him. You lean in close enough to catch the scent of him – cedarwood and fresh cotton, the earthy scent of desert dust clinging to his clothes. 
“I guess I’m just not used to being wanted. Don’t know how to do this kind of thing. I’ve been alone for so long, and I guess, I don’t know, Joel,” you affix a little piece of tape to the gauze, before dropping his hand, all finished. 
You stand before him, looking at his chest and the bare skin on his neck that’s dotted with freckles, avoiding his eyes.  
“I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Not sure why a guy like you would even want a girl like me to call him anyway…” you trail off, letting out a small cough to hide the emotion creeping up in your throat. Have you always been this self-deprecating?
His hands float up to your hips, and he tugs you in closer to him, body weight still propped up against the desk, his thick thighs bracketing yours. You still avoid his eyes, your gaze fixed on a button on his shirt in front of you. 
“Look at me, sweetheart.”
The bandaged hand trails up over the side of your body, and his fingers land under your chin, his thumb tilting you up to look at him. You’re sure you must look like a mess, eyes tired from a long shift, mascara smudged from your tears. How pathetic you must look. The pad of his thumb caresses over your lips and you hold your breath. 
There’s so much he could say, so much he wants to say. He wants to build you up, to tell you that you’re worthy of the whole world. That you’re beautiful and kind, and that any man would be lucky to have you. He doesn’t even have to deeply know you to know those things. 
But he can tell from the look in your eyes that it’s not what you need right now. He’ll tell you someday. He’ll tell you every day if you’ll have him. 
But no. 
Right now you don’t need someone to tell you how gorgeous you are, you need someone to show you.
“Joel,” you say, your voice just above a whisper. His thumb is still on your lower lip. 
“Ki–” Before you can continue, his hand drops, and his lips crash into yours and he groans. He wants to rip you open, eat you raw, to devour every inch of you. You’ve had plenty of kisses, but none like this – none full of such heat, a fiery intensity, a need. He wants you. Joel wants you. 
He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth and you let out a little whimper. The sweet sound goes straight to his already hardening cock. He holds you tighter to his chest, thick and capable hands on your hips as he dips his mouth to your neck, kitten-kissing you as delicately as a man his size can. He skims his injured hand underneath your shirt, caressing the skin between your shoulder blades. Your breath hitches in your throat as he nips at your jaw, eliciting a soft moan from you. And oh – he likes that. 
“Fuck, baby. Wanna go slow with you, take my time. Do it right,” he says, his voice a little wrecked already and he’s barely touched you. 
His hand trails up and pulls the shirt of your uniform down over your breast, exposing the simple lacey bra you’ve had for far too long. You would be embarrassed about him seeing it if you weren’t so aroused, drunk on his touch. You continue to let out little moans as he kisses your neck, and thumbs at your nipple beneath the fabric.
“Wanna show you what you’re worthy of sweet girl, in all the ways,” he groans into your chest. 
His words melt into you like butter, making you feel all soft and weak-limbed, fuzzy in a way that’s new to you. 
“I want you to fuck me so badly,” you blurt out, lost in the delusion of arousal. The words come naturally for a girl who never really had more than a one-night stand or some shitty fuck from a guy who drank too much whiskey – his dick half-hard, promising he’ll rock your world.
That does it for him.
Joel’s cock is rock hard, with an almost painful stiffness. He wants so badly for you to just fall to your knees in this tiny little office and suck it. He wants so badly to hold the column of your throat while he shoves his thick cock into your wet and waiting mouth, feel him deep down your throat. 
But as much as he needs that right now, he knows he has an obligation. To make you feel good. To make you feel good about yourself in every way. 
He hopes to god that you’ll chant his name like a prayer when he unravels you like a spool of thread. He can hear it in his head now, as he licks your soft skin and holds you against him. He can’t stop thinking about how pretty you’ll sound when you come for him.
“Patience, angel baby. You’re in good hands,” he purrs. If you weren’t so hazy you might’ve made a joke about him only having one good hand at the moment. He would chuckle at that, you briefly think, before his husky voice speaks again. 
“Can I undress you?” he asks. You’ve never been asked that, most of the other men we’re quick just to take your clothes off. Too sloppy, too eager – careless. You’re starting to realize how hot consent is.
You toe off your beat-up sneakers and work to take off your shirt and bra, all while Joel unbuttons your skirt. You wiggle your hips to assist him in removing the barrier. After what seems like no time at all, you’re nearly fully nude in front of him, bare save the thin cotton of your panties. As a reflex, you cross your arms over your chest in an attempt to hide your body, wishing you could blend into the wallpaper. 
“God damn, sweetheart. Look at you,” Joel says, taking a small step back and admiring the view. He looks at you like you’re a masterpiece, a piece of art holding court just for him to gaze at. 
He gently grabs the arm you’re covering yourself with and exposes your bare chest. Goosebumps collect like pebbles on your skin from the cool air, and your nipples harden from the significance of the moment. 
“No need’ta hide from me,” he assures you. You believe him. 
You push your chest out to him, for him. He accepts your offering; swipes a calloused thumb across your plush, silky nipple, and crouches to catch the other in his desperate mouth. He groans into your chest the second your nipple meets his lips. You can’t control the deep hum that escapes from your throat. Joel smirks at the sound, lips still attached to your breast. 
“Feels so good, Joel,” you moan. You have of course played with your nipples when you touched yourself, but you’ve never had a man pay so much attention to them, to be gentle and firm at the same time. 
He trails kisses down the valley of your breasts, across the soft swell of your stomach, whispering sweet praises as he does. You drape your hands over his broad shoulders and thread your fingers through the curls that gather on the back of his head as he works his way down to the band of your panties. Much like your bra, you’d wish you opted for a cuter pair of underwear. Not like you own any anyway, but something tells you he could give two shits about that right now. 
On his knees, he places both of his hands on the curves of your hips and holds you steady while he looks up at you. He looks up at you with a softness you’ve never seen in a man, his pupils so dark they edge out most of the brown, his hooded eyes are almost a plea for you to let him continue. 
“Can I take these off, baby?” he asks, already hooking his thumbs in the band of them, awaiting your permission. 
You pause with your mouth agape a bit, not quite sure what to say. Every fiber of your being wants you to say yes, yes, yes. But you’re nervous – you haven’t shaved, and you remember Tracy saying something about men not liking hair on women, especially not on their pussy — a man won’t even eat you out if you’ve not been properly groomed. 
What if you taste weird? What if he doesn’t like it? You’ve only been eaten out once if you can even classify it as such, and he was down there for maybe two seconds before he was rising and wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand, claiming whatever you’re wet enough before shoving his rather average cock into your pussy, paying no mind to you or your pleasure. 
“You, um, you don’t have to. It’s okay, really…” you shy away, trying to give Joel an out. 
His prominent nose presses into your mound and he moans, moans, at your smell. 
“Smell so sweet, need to taste you, sweetheart. I won’t if you don’t want me to, but fuck, I would love to,” he says, the truth behind his voice evident in his tone. His cock twitches against the confines of his jeans. 
He suspects you’ve never had a real man take care of you, taking the time to pleasure you to your heart’s content. A damn shame, he thinks. 
“O-kay,” you say on an exhale. You’re determined to not let the negative thoughts swirling in your head win. 
“I gotcha, don’t worry,” he rasps out, his voice equal parts gentle, and gruff with desire. 
He gently tugs the fabric down over your thighs, the fabric gathering at your ankles. You take a small step out of them, and he gently caresses up the back of your calve, and back of your thigh, his hand landing on the curve of your ass. He tightly grabs the flesh there. He gently guides your leg up onto one of his shoulders, and you press back into the wall and lean your pelvis closer to him. 
“Fuck, what a pretty little pussy,” he praises, before leaning in to place an experimental kiss on the top of your mound. You let out a soft little sound at the feeling of his lips on your skin. He looks up at you once again, making sure you aren’t uncomfortable, before once again returning his attention to your cunt. 
He gets bold with his kisses, and once you’re comfortable with his mouth on you, he glides the middle finger of his non-bandaged hand through your wet slit before flipping it so it’s wrist up, pausing with the pad of it right at the entrance of your tight hole. You look down at him with lusty doe eyes and bite your lower lip in anticipation, still a little nervous. He looks at you and gently nudges the nip in, he holds it there for a brief second, before fully thrusting it up into your core, holding your gaze as he enters you. You gasp.
“Fuck angel, you’re tight,” he moans as he continues to feel you, eventually putting his mouth back on your pussy, his lips sealed around your puffy clit. His large finger pumps in and out of you as his tongue flicks and swirls where you need him the most. 
“More,” you moan, “Fuck–please, Joel, give me more,” you mewle. 
“That’s my girl, gonna stretch you out, get you nice and ready for this cock,” he whispers against your wet skin as he slips another finger in, one you greedily accept. He devours you, licks at you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. It’s so precise, so overwhelming, so fucking good. 
Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and the world goes a little fuzzy at the edges of your vision. You’ve had an orgasm before, you think, but you don’t remember it feeling like this. 
You moan as he sets a relentless pace with his mouth and fingers, slowly tightening the coil inside of you in a way you’ve never felt before. Time slows for a brief moment and your vision goes white, little specks of light dancing behind your eyelids, heat rushing up to your chest and cheeks. 
Until – 
“Holy shit, yes, I’m coming, oh my god, don’t stop,” you unravel for him, a babbling mess of pleasure, he holds you steady as he works you through it. And when he’s satisfied that you’re satisfied, he gently hoists your leg off of his shoulder and rises to his full height. 
“Such a good girl for me, you come so pretty,” he whispers against your neck, nipping at your jaw until his lips find yours. You taste yourself on them, feel the wetness in his beard. He slips his tongue into your mouth and you moan. It’s so hot to taste yourself on him, dizzying that he’s not wiping it away. He wants you. Joel wants you.
The daze of your release wears off, hurling you back down to earth. Joel kept his promise, he did show you what you’re worthy of. No more mediocre, subpar sex for you. You are worthy of that. Deserve that and more. It’d be rude of you not to return the favor. 
On jelly-like legs, you begin to kneel before him, wanting nothing more than to be a practitioner of pleasure, to elicit another good girl from him. He stops you before your knees touch the floor. 
“You don’t want me to suck your cock?” you ask, feeling a sting of rejection. 
“Oh angel baby, I would love to feel those sweet little lips of yours wrapped tight around my cock, hold your throat as you choke on me,” he coos.
You bring your palm to cup him through his jeans and he groans, your hands trace over the thick shape. He’s big. You watch as his jaw tightens and his head falls back as you work over him. You can’t help but feel excited when you feel a damp spot on his jeans, the place where his pre-come has gathered. 
“But there’s something I want more right now. Feel what you do to me?” he says, pressing your hand harder down onto him. “Need to feel that sweet, tight cunt of yours around me first,” he says with intensity, an urgency in his voice. You make quick work of undoing his belt buckle and slip off his jeans and boxers in one swoop. 
Truly seeing him, the sight of his heavy cock in all its glory, makes your mouth water a little. 
“Yo–you’re so big,” you say, a little intimidated. He grabs you by the hips and holds you tight against him, his cock pressed between your bodies against the bare flesh of your tummy. You think you might actually feel him there when he’s inside you at this rate. 
“It’s okay, sweetheart. You can take it,” he says, using one hand to grab the back of your thigh and tapping the other. You get the memo. He lifts you and spins you around so you’re sitting on the mahogany desk behind you, your damp skin sticking to the mess of customer receipts and supply lists underneath you. He stands between your legs, holding himself by the base, pumping himself slowly up and down his length. “I’m on birth control,” you say, blurting it out. “And I’m clean, you don’t have to use a condom, I mean, if you don’t want to.” And shit – that’s music to his fucking ears. 
“Okay. Open your legs wide for me, baby. Wanna see you,” he says, and you do. He juts his head down and spits onto it, using his fist to work it onto himself. You hold your legs open in a V, bracing yourself with your arms behind you. Your ass hangs slightly off the edge of the desk, just enough for him to have full access and view of your glistening slit.  
He positions himself at your entrance and gently pushes his hips forward so the tip of him is inside of you. He pauses there, giving you a second to adjust. Your heart throbs in your chest, and your eyes flicker closed. 
“Eyes on me, baby. Wanna see you as I take what’s mine,” he says, his voice a wreck. When you open them, he sinks even deeper. Halfway inside of you, he pauses again. 
“Okay?” he asks. You nod. 
You can tell he’s holding back, not wanting to hurt you. And while you may be out of practice, you know your body was made for this. You feel so full, so content, you just want to feel all of him. After he’s confident you’re ready, he pushes his hips forward once again, fully burying himself deep inside of you. 
Your pussy walls clench against him, and your jaw goes slack. You were right, you do feel him in your tummy. He’s so fucking big, but god, it feels good. It’s like he’s stuffing and filling all of the lonely spaces that have been hiding inside of you for so long. Like he was made for you.
He sets a slow and steady rhythm at first, dragging in and out of you. You can tell he wants to fuck you harder, deeper. You can tell that he’s waiting for you to take it there, to give him that permission. 
“You can fuck me harder, Joel. ‘M not gonna break, I promise,” you coo. His hand at your hip flexes tighter, and that’s all he needs. “Shit, c’mere,” he says, helping you off the desk, steading your legs. He flips you over and presses you against the desk, your bare breasts flesh against the cool wood, your hips perfectly positioned at the edge, bent over and waiting to once again be stuffed. 
He stands behind you, angles your hips up slightly, and once again buries himself in you.
“Such a perfect cunt,” he groans, beginning to set a relentless pace. Something about this angle does something for you, too. His cock fits just right, pushing and gliding over the spongey spot inside of you that makes you see stars. He holds your hips tightly as he pumps in and out of you, eliciting throaty moans from you. The air is filled with the filthy wanton sound of skin slapping against skin. 
“I –” you mew, “I think I’m gonna come again,” you say, breathless. 
“Come for me, baby. Be the good girl I know you are and show me how pretty you are when you come on my cock,” he says, a little out of breath, voice deep. 
Good girl. Pretty. Come for him. 
And you do. Your pussy pulses around him as the wave of your orgasm takes over you, your mind hazy and filled with nothing but the thought of the way he fills you just right. 
His movements begin to slow. You can tell he’s close. 
“Where do you want me, baby?”
“Inside, please. Want you to fill me up, make me yours,” you rasp, beg. 
After a few more thrusts of his hips, he begins to stutter and slow. He pauses buried to the hilt inside of you and groans as his cock paints your insides with thick ropes of come. 
He holds you there, both of your breaths coming a little ragged, his body shaking and jolting a little. You feel him pulse inside of you. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this content, utterly blissed out from the feeling of him – all of him – deep inside of you. 
When he pulls out, you let out a small moan, a little sad your pussy has nothing to clench around anymore. He tells you to stay there for a second before he returns with a handful of paper towels from the kitchen to help clean you up. 
He kisses you again. It’s different this time, not as intense as the first few, but just as hot, just as passionate. The same pull you felt the moment he first entered the restaurant. 
He helps you get dressed, and you fasten his belt buckle for him and check the gauze on his fist. You both stand there in silence, not quite sure where to go from here, until he offers up. 
“Wanna smoke?” 
++++ 
“So, how long have you lived here’?” he asks, holding open the lit zippo from his back pocket to you. With the cigarette dangling between your lips, you steady it between your fingers and lean in, the dim glow of the fire illuminates your features. 
“Too long,” you mumble, taking a big drag. Now you get why in movies after a really good sex scene the characters always want a cigarette. You watch as he lights his own. 
“And you, where are you off to next?” You don’t want him to leave. 
“Not sure, the contract job my brother and I have in the county over ends in a week or so. Was thinkin’ it might be nice to head south, maybe Austin,” he responds, smoke dancing in the air around him. 
Your stomach twists a bit at the thought. Don’t go. 
“Although, ‘M not so sure anymore. Starting to think I might have a few things I need to take care of here first,” he says, shifting his gaze from the ground until his hooded eyes find yours. 
He gives you a subtle wink. You smile.
You stand there in comfortable silence, leaning up against the wall next to him, taking in the crisp desert air, enjoying being next to him. 
And when it’s time to go, he offers you his hand and a ride home. You accept.
But this time when you stamp out the cigarette, watching the embers fade into darkness, you fully entertain the notion that not only could you have more.
You will. 
Especially if Joel has anything to say about it.
END
Or if you want, you can read Joel’s POV here.
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Tagging some moots cuz I'm sure Tumblr will probably fuck my engagement on this one since I haven't posted in forever :/ If you like this, please consider a reblog (dm me if you want to be removed): @endlessthxxghts @theoasisofthings @pedrostories @bastardmandennis @milly-louise @ghostwritesthings @josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @hellishjoel @survivingandenduring @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @ohheypedrito @joeldjarin @nerdieforpedro @amyispxnk @paleidiot @ghostwritesthings @kulekehe @darkheartgatita @goldenhxurs @javiscigarette @morallyinept @ro-nahime-things @gwendibleywrites @missladym1981 @auteurdelabre @morgaussy
ily.
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forlix · 5 days
Text
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.
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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. hyunjin is a huge flirt. mc #DGAF. 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
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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 ♡
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“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—”
“—ugh, 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. “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.
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.
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“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: Jinyoung Park «[email protected]» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «[email protected]» 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: Kyeyoung Kim «[email protected]» To: Jinyoung Park «[email protected]» 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, Kyeyoung Kim 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 of—”
“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 lies. “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 his 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.”
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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 year. 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 larceny thing. 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 smack his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall, and 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.”
“I don’t care. I have something to tell you.”
“You have a kid, don’t you?”
“Hello—who do you think I am?”
“The one-night-stand’s poster child,” you reply. “The champion of the contraception industry.”
“Yeah, contraception industry. It’s right there in the name.”
You can’t argue with that.
“What do you have to tell me?”
A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjin’s face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that you’re about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you should’ve saved the secret son bit for another time.
“I’m failing anthro.”
So much for a serious conversation. 
“Come again?”
He repeats the mystifying statement.
“You’re joking.”
The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair.
“You’re failing anthro?”
“I just said that, yes.”
“You’re failing anthropology?”
“Mhm.”
“Just so we’re clear—you’re failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?”
“Yes. I’m glad you’re having fun.”
This is the best day of your life. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“Yeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Hyunjin clears his throat. “Anyways, I was thinking—”
“Wow! Congratulations. That’s a big—oomf—”
Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.
“I was thinking,” he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, “you and I can work out some kind of deal.”
You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. “I think I just ate some athletic tape.”
“Happens. You wanna hear the deal or not?”
“Does it involve ingesting more sports equipment?”
“Do you want it to?”
“Just tell me the deal, boy.”
“Alright.” He takes a deep breath. “If you help me pass this class—I’ll set you up with Seungmin.”
Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: “I’m gonna need you to elaborate.”
“On which part?”
“All of them. Everything.”
Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. “Are you hungry?”
You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think it’s the prime minister you’re about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.
He’s chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they don’t know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that he’s drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager you’ve had better company.
“You like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.” He traces over the wrapper’s left corner. “And I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?”
“Yes, definitely,” you mumble around a mouthful of bread. “Please continue.”
“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 you’re 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.
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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.
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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,” you grumble.
“I tried! 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,” you concede. “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,” you murmur.
“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,” you cut in, “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: 🫡
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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 on Monday.”
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.
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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 down the volleyball nets, 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’d spent more time in the gymnasium in those ten days than you had in the last ten years.
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.”
He 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?”
“Your 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 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 think you like his cologne after all.
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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.
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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. They’re 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.
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“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 «[email protected]» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «[email protected]» 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 the opp 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.”
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Hyunjin: [1 Audio Message]
This is my seventh take and I’m not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I don’t care anymore.
I understand if you don’t wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldn’t, either. I just wanted to say that you don’t have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I won’t be able to fulfill my end of our deal, so…yeah, it wouldn’t be fair to you. You’ve already done so much for us. For me.
As for team manager, you’ll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesn’t sound like a fun conversation, I know—but if that’s what you decide, I’ll have your back. They don’t scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.
You’ve been…distant, this week. I’ve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldn’t care less if you’re my tutor or my team manager or whatever—I just don’t want you to be a stranger. Maybe that’s selfish of me to say, but I’m tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesn’t terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.
I’m gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I would’ve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, and…I’m sorry about everything. You deserve better.
Come back to me whenever you’re ready, okay? I’ll be waiting.
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© 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 ♡
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moonstruckme · 1 month
Note
hello love! i know you probably a dumpster load of requests so i apologize for taking your time. but i just had a thought.; james potter is totally the kind of guy to tell his girlfriend he's taken when drunk. like that man is to loyal for his own good. even when his own gf is trying to bring to home, he's just like "no. i've got a girlfriend that I love DEARLY. leave me alone" and when she keeps trying he'd call for sirius for backup😭. don't feel guilty if you don't do this!! i just wanted to share my thought, with or without you writing it! have an AMAZING day or night, and keep being YOU!! you inspire many people whether you believe that or not, it stays true!!!
Thanks sweetheart, love you!
cw: alcohol
modern au
James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 844 words
You find your boyfriend in a corner booth, hanging onto Sirius’ arm and waxing poetic about their school days. 
“They never figured out how we always avoided Minnie whenever she wanted to find us,” he snickers, eyes glimmering. “We were soooo slippery.” 
“I think she knew everything,” says Remus, taking a sip of his drink. You notice there’s not one in front of James; it must have been confiscated. “She just liked us—some of us, that is—” He hides a smirk behind his glass. “—well enough to let us get away with it all.” He spots you and, with a nod, turns his attention to Sirius to give you and James space. 
James humphs noncommittally, confused as to why Remus no longer seems to be entertaining him. 
You come up on his other side, touching his muscled shoulder lightly. “Hey.” 
James turns swiftly, clearing not having noticed you walking over. You’re expecting a smile and a hug and expectant, puckered lips—his usual greeting for you—but instead his eyes narrow behind his glasses, brows twitching together almost imperceptibly.
“Hello,” he says, somewhat stiffly. 
You feel your lips curve into a bemused sort of smile. “Hi, handsome. Ready to go home?” 
He guffaws. Actually guffaws, like you’ve just suggested he go jump in the Thames. “I think not,” he says. “I have a girlfriend.” 
A tiny laugh startles out of you. “Yeah, I’m aware. You alright?” 
Now he gives you a smile. Or his best attempt at one, but James has always been a terrible actor, and the false grin manifests as a grimace. “M’good, thanks.” 
He starts to turn back towards his friends, but you pull on his sleeve. 
“C’mon, Jamie,” you urge. “It’s time to go, yeah?” James turns around, looking truly scandalized now. You give his arm a tug. “Let’s go home.” 
“No,” he insists, firmer than you knew could be managed with a slur. “I told you, I have a girlfriend. She’s waiting at my home, ‘nd I love her very much. Leave me alone.” 
“James,” you laugh. “Honey, it’s me.” 
“Pads.” He turns around, wrapping his arm around Sirius’ shoulders like he needs to hold onto something lest you try and haul him away. “Pads, this woman is trying to take me home. Tell ‘er I have a girlfriend.” 
Your mouth drops open. “James!” 
Sirius turns slowly, raking his gaze over you. He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Get lost, babe. This one’s taken.” 
Then he jolts and cuts a glare towards Remus, who sips from his drink innocently. “Be nice,” he reminds his boyfriend, foot moving back under his own chair. 
Sirius sighs, rolling his eyes. “Prongs,” he says with great reluctance, “this is your girlfriend.” 
Even drunk, James knows enough to be suspicious of his friend when he’s in a mischief-making mood. He squints at Sirius. “My girlfriend s’at home,” he reasons. 
“Your girlfriend is here,” Sirius says evenly, and you can’t blame James for his skepticism; if you weren’t fully aware that you are here, you wouldn’t trust Sirius’ deadpan stare either. 
“I texted her, James,” Remus says helpfully. “She’s here because I told her where we were.” 
Your boyfriend’s lips part, and he turns to you with something between joy and heartache—but the shock of both—written all over his face. “Sweetheart,” he cries, “it’s you!” 
“Yeah,” you laugh, letting him tug you forward by the hips into an awkward hug. You set a consoling hand on top of his head. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.” 
“My sweetheart,” he mumbles into your stomach. “I didn’t know it was you, angel. Of course I’ll go home with you.” 
“Glad to hear it.” You pat his back, heat rising to your cheeks at the display. 
James turns his head, still gripping you tightly so the side of his face is pressed to your front. “You texted her for me?” he asks Remus, maudlin.
“Well, I texted her because I didn’t feel like walking in the opposite direction of our flat to carry you home,” Remus says, then shrugs. “But for you too, sure.” 
“Thank you, Moony,” James croons. 
Remus turns to hide a smile, and you take James’ head in your hands, angling his face back up towards you. “Hi, handsome,” you try again. “Ready to go home?” 
He bobs his head happily, clambering out of his seat and whistling rowdily when you slip an arm around his waist to help support him. You wonder if the heat from your face could be harvested to power a hospital or something. You wave goodbye to his friends as James calls over your shoulder how much he’ll miss them until he sees them tomorrow. 
“M’so excited to go home, baby.” He leans into your side as you maneuver the both of you out the door of the pub. “I’ve been dying to get home to you. You should’a heard, earlier, I was talking to this other girl ‘nd I told her, ‘I’m just dying to get home to my girlfriend’.” 
“Yeah, I remember,” you say. “That was me.” 
“Oh, right!” 
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jonnywaistcoat · 23 days
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Hey, Horrormaster Sims. I have a wildly different question that barely relates to TMA (Sorry about that) but its about your own process. Please, if you could, can you tell me how your first drafts made you feel? I'm on the fence about writing my own thing (not a podcast, and again, not Magnus related, though I have a million little aus for that delightful tragedy you wrote, thank you for that!) But I'm discouraged by the collective notion that first drafts are always terrible, because there's no ... examples I can solidly use to help the dumb anxiety beast in my brain that tells me everyone who is in any way popular popped out a golden turd and not, well, you know. One of my friends said 'Oh I bet Jonathan Sims's first draft was nothing like what he wanted' and I got the bright idea to just. Send you an ask, since you're trapped on this hellsite like I am. Anyway, thanks for reading this (if you do) and if you'd rather ask it privately, I am cool with that. Alternatively, you're a hella busy man with Protocol (you and Alex are making me rabid, i hope you know) and you can just ignore this! Cheers, man, and good words.
To my mind all writing advice, especially stuff that's dispensed as truisms (like "first drafts are always garbage") are only useful inasmuch as such advice prompts you to pay attention to how you write best: what helps your workflow, what inspires you, what keeps you going through the rough bits. There are as many different ways to write (and write well) as there are people who write and so always consider this sort of thing a jumping off point to try out or keep in mind as you gradually figure out your own ways of writing.
On first drafts specifically, I think the wisdom "all first drafts are bad" is a bit of unhelpful oversimplification of the fact that, deadlines notwithstanding, no piece of writing goes out until you decide its ready, so don't get too hung up on your first draft of a thing, because a lot of writers find it much easier to edit a complete work than to try and redraft as they go. It's also important to not let perfectionism or the fact your initial draft isn't coming out exactly how you want stop you from actually finishing the thing, as it's always better to have something decent and done than to have something perfect and abandoned.
But the idea of a "first draft" is also kind of a fluid one. The "first draft" you submit to someone who's commissioned you will probably be one you've already done a bunch of tweaks and edits to, as opposed to the "first draft" you pump out in a frenzy in an over-caffeinated weekend. For my part, my first drafts tend to end up a bit more polished than most, because I'm in the habit of reading my sentences out loud as I write them (a habit picked up from years of audio writing) so I'll often write and re-write a particular sentence or paragraph a few times to get the rhythm right before moving to the next one. This means my first drafts tend to take longer, but are a bit less messy. I'm also a big-time planner and pretty good at sticking to the structures I lay out so, again, tend to front load a lot of stuff so I get a better but slower first draft.
At the end of the day, though, the important thing is to get in your head about it in a good way (How do I write best? what helps me make writing I enjoy and value? What keeps me motivated?) and not in a bad way (What if it's not good enough? What if everyone hates it? What if it doesn't make sense?) so that you actually get it done.
As for how my first drafts made me feel? Terrible, every one of 'em No idea if that's reflective of their quality, though, tbh - I hate reading my own writing until I've had a chance to forget it's mine (I can only ever see the flaws). I suppose there's theoretically a none-zero chance they were pure fragments of True Art and creative perfection, but Alex's editing notes make that seem unlikely.
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frogchiro · 6 months
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I hope I’m not bothering you with my ancient greek mythology stuff my little brain is going into overdrive👉👈
Just…sculptor/painter reader using the gladiators as her nude model…running your hands over their muscles and gushing how strong they are and how amazing your latest piece is going to come out!
You don’t even notice they’re getting hard as you run your fingers over their adonis belt commenting how they’re your new muse for your art
I almost (s)creamed the moment I saw this ask nonnie dear you're a genius ;;
Also I feel the need to mention this; please do keep in mind that this is only my silly au and most probably will have historical inaccuracies so if you're a true history/ancient greece/roman enjoyer, please go mild on me ;;
But back to the drill...You are so right??? Like...I imagine that reader would be a young, aspiring artist with a knack for painting. Maybe she doesn't come from a wealthy family so any true school for it is out of the question, your own parents only came along when you started selling your painting and doing commissions for nobles and it actually started to bring in money. Your road to success is still long but you're managing! Plus you're 'stupidly determined like your father' as your mother says so you try to stay positive!
The one problem you had was something you believed many artists suffered from; inspiration and models. Specifically human models. The human body and physique fascinated you from an early age, the moving muscles, facial expressions to different stimuli and so much more but...the problem were the models, or rather the lack thereof.
You could probably hire someone but the money spend on that would be way too much for your limited budget so the next best thing was the coliseum! It was a blessing in poor disguise, the gladiators trained there almost daily and luckily the head keeper of the arena begrudingly let you stay there and practice in exchange for a satchel of money but to be honest...the practice wasn't the only thing you longed for when visiting the coliseum almost daily, it was the gladiators.
They were huge, burly men in their prime, all of them looking like they were born with a sword or spear in hand and to grow up to become warrior and you'd be lying if you said that warmth didn't spread through your body and centered in your lower belly whenever these big, loud and boisterous men didn't call out for you and purred in dripping, low voices how pent up they are and what they wouldn't give for a pretty soft thing like you :((
The worst (or best) part was when you were practicing nude drawings which were equally fascinating and hard to draw, especially with all these men being so...shameless with it. You loved the human body, all artists do but still you were a young lady and watching all the gladiators walking around the barracks all naked and proud was...an experience to say the least and brought a pang of warmth between your thighs, especially when they were so happy to parade themselves like proud stallions in front of you :((
Strong, toned bodies glistening with sweat and water, their hardening cocks proudly on show whenever you run your soft hands over their toned torsos to study the way muscles move and twitch whenever you run your fingers over a sensitive spot, the most reactive being two of the many foreign gladiators, Johnny or like he insisted to be called 'Soap' and Kyle or 'Gaz', like he wants to be called.
These two are always purring low withing their chests to you as you look all over them, their backs, chests, stomachs, making you promise to do a special commission only for them but you're just nodding dumbly because you're too transfixed on the god-like bodies to draw :(
Another gladiator you're very fond of is a huge, blonde foreigner named Simon, or 'Ghost'. A formidable warrior, a veteran for sure, it looked like Ares himself send this one here to grace the people with a demigod of war. He was always incredibly patient with you, letting you roam your hands over his body and all the numerous scars decorating his skin. Once you saw Simon up close you immediately realized why people called him a demigod-he was beautiful. A strong and powerful man in his prime, his muscles jumping and twitching beneath his thick skin and a layer of fat, power and virility was literally radiating off of this man, and you insistently tried not to look at the long and thick cock hanging between his legs, twitching and pulsating with arousal whenever you marveled over his body and your fingers ran over his adonis belt <3
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ew-selfish-art · 6 months
Text
Dp x DC AU: Danny didn't want to rely on his rogues, but Tucker's computer skills only got them so far and if the media black out continues... Danny knows it's not going to be pretty for them. Nightmares begin to plague the Justice League.
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Danny gets back from a shitty conversation with Clockwork and in his frustration, accidentally sets off one of the new GIW sensors that his parents allowed to be installed in the lab. Their collaboration seemed to be going no where but when Danny had new holes blasted through him... it must be going somewhere. Damn it.
The commotion is loud enough that Jazz hears it from her room above the lab (he knows she listens to more than just the lab... it's cause she cares, even if it is a bit invasive.) and rushes in to play the distraction while Danny gets away. This time it works- the Drs. Fenton might have the worst aim in the city but they demand all shots cease if a civilian is nearby- Next time his mom might be aiming her gun at him and not the ground. Danny decides he'll buy Jazz a coffee on his way home.
But first, new holes. Yikes. That like, needs medical attention- He heads to Tucker's place and he's pretty sure Sam is already there.
"Danny! What the fuck, did Clockwork-" She starts, her meticulous cat eyeliner making her glare all the deeper.
"Nah, it's the stupid GIW sensor, the stupid one I told you guys about that has a spring lose in the back?"
"I thought we decided those weren't a concern?" Tucker looks him over, face covered in undisguised and very blatant concern.
"Yeah well, Clocky pissed me off so I forgot about them when I came back in through the lab portal-"
"you were supposed to be practicing making your own." Sam interrupts.
"-And when I did, the thing got knocked and I was swatted like immediately. Jazz launched herself into the lab so Mom made them stop shooting and it gave me enough time to get out." Danny continued to explain, ignoring his friend's 'i told you so' faces.
"Dude. We're pushing it close this week. Sam already had a confrontation with the lab guys and I already got blacklisted on my new persona accounts. We're like seriously threading the needle for getting caught." Tucker, pulls his glasses down to pinch the bridge of his nose and Danny and Sam both get what he's really saying. They need to lie low.
"What did CW say to piss you off?" Sam asks after a silent moment.
"He said nothing really, just like he always does, but insinuated I should try getting a rogue to help." Danny sighs.
"What, Like getting Ember to announce the GIW invasion on her tour? We already agreed that-" Sam is getting angry as she speaks so Tuck cuts her off- "It's a bad Idea. She is- They are all just as likely to get captured and hurt as you are if you go out of town." He comes to the same conclusion they've agreed on for weeks. No rogue involvement.
"Maybe we just need to sleep on it... Hey... wait." Danny sighs, but then his gears start to turn.
"Nocturn. We need Nocturn to help us. He can get the message out through dreams." Danny comes to the new conclusion and his friends look hesitant but at least like they're considering it.
"Isn't he an ancient? He's not going to help us for free." Tucker, ever the Egyptian god in these moments.
"Most people don't take their dreams literally." Sam, ever the skeptic in these moments.
"Yeah but, if they dream it enough times, and they're the right people to do something... they can look it up and then at least see that there is a problem?" Danny sounds hopeful and its the first time he's sounded that way in months.
"What, you're gunna give Batman nightmares?" Tucker snickers but Sam looks inspired.
"That's exactly what he's going to do. We need to haunt the Justice League. They'll see past the fake facade the GIW put up online and they'll be able to get the right legislation passed." Sam is practically buzzing.
"Okay, so lets get scheming- What do you get the primordial beast of the unconscious? Should I google 'what to get someone who has everything'? " Danny laughs.
_____
Bruce and his children rarely do feelings when they have breakfast in the morning after a night of separate patrols, but it seems as though the room is plagued with unease. Tim looks about as tired as ever, so his unease is probably attributable to WE board meetings, but its unlike the rest of his children to be so... disturbed. For some reason, after Alfred has excused them all from eating more than a few nibbles, they make it to the cave. Bruce is glad for the noise his children bring.
The nightmare's he's been having are following a dark plot. A town, a boy who looks like he was kin, and so, so much death. Bruce has had vivid dreams before in life, but this nightmare is... unreal. He tries to remind himself that it's just a nightmare.
When his JL emergency communicator goes off at the computer desk, he's not expecting it to be Dinah Lance. She and her Birds are typically wary of him in Gotham, even if they work well together in the League. He answers it like he would any Batman call, with silence.
"Bats, we have a problem. Any chance you've been having weird dreams about a kid getting experimented on or a town being burned down? Ghosts? Lazarus portals?" Dinah sounds exhausted, but Bruce snaps to her voice with rapt attention. As do all of his children.
"I-" Bruce takes a look around the room, everyone's heads except for Tim's nodding up and down with distress," We all have."
"Something tells me that they whole JL is. Everyone I've talked to this week has had a variation of the same dream. We either have a telepath trying to tell us something, or something even worse than that."
"I'll call emergency meeting, we need to collect details and try to determine the complete message."
"I'll send you what I've noted down so far, sans personal details of course, it's definitely in a town called Amity Park though. My client this morning saw the sign."
Batman grunts and the call ends. It's time to get to work.
----
When the Justice League finally arrives, the town is glowing, and everything feels like... sleep. smothering. snoring. smoking. smoldering.
And then, despite the exhaustion that echos within them, the trudge onwards. The noise of laser guns certainly wakes them up a bit.
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j-0ne25 · 7 months
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KIWI — [18+!]
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“Can you… cuddle me to sleep, please?”
His head snaps up to you, “Y/N… I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m gonna sleep outside, okay?”
You’re the one to wrap their fingers around his wrist now, pulling him towards the van. “Nooo, it’s too cold. You’re gonna get sick. Stay a little longer?”
He sighs, “Okay.”
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🥝 SYNOPSIS: After graduating from college, you decide to travel around New Zealand and celebrate your freedom. But when you buy a van for the journey, the salesman scams you, selling the exact same car to both you and another person who’s no other than your childhood best friend you haven’t seen in years—and still have a huge crush on…
This is my entry for @skzwritingcafe 's July/August event “Summertime Confessions”! (I am a little over the deadline but still wanted to post this since the event inspired me to pick up this WIP again)
🌴 CONTENT INFO: chan x afab reader, dj chan, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, travel au, only one bed trope, fluff/angst/smut, mutual pining, based on a dream I had about my childhood best friend whose name happens to be felix but I changed this story to chan lmao, prices for cars might be unrealistic but a) i don’t own a car and b) i don’t know that much about new zealand’s economy (i did research tho!!), warnings and smut tags under the cut
🛻 WORD COUNT: 12.0K
🗺️ CONTENT WARNING: alcohol consumption (also includes excessive consumption once as well as mention of underage drinking in the past), short mention of breakup, scam/fraud, jealousy (both chan and reader), reader once calls chan daddy but sarcastically and non-sexually lmao
🧩 SMUT: dom/sub dynamics, fingering, oral (f receiving), semi-protected sex, choking, spanking, creampie, name calling (doll, dear, slut, good girl)
The characters do not portray any of the skz members in real life, the names are just used for fiction. Minors do not interact, this post contains mature topics. By reading you consent to nsfw content and agree that you have read all the warnings above carefully.
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Well. That’s a bumpy journey so far. What a start.
A drink spilled all over your shirt, crumbs of crisps in your hair and a bruise on your knee. And if this isn’t already too much for your stressed out and anxious heart—the man you’ve never ever expected to see again stands right in front of you.
But let’s start again from the beginning and how you ended up here. A quick recap, shall we?
Exactly one week and three days ago you finally graduated from college. Hard work pays off—more or less—and since your new full time job will start in a month, you finally have a little bit of vacation in what feels like years. 
So, that’s how you found yourself spontaneously booking a flight to Auckland, ready to spend some time and money traveling through New Zealand’s nature and taking in all the landscapes you’ve dreamt about. You just need this—need to do something different before you will actually start being an adult and drown in boring everyday life.
The flight went quite well but the airport you arrived at was a disaster—due to many delays of other connections you had to wait for your huge backpack for a few hours, totally exhausted and tired from the trip. The hostel you have reserved a bed in for your first night is overbooked and now you have to share the room with ten other people. Well, that is a normal hostel situation but you're just too sleepy to deal with anyone right now.
Which is why it’s ironic that you’re out of all places at a club instead. But no matter how tired you are, it was too noisy in the bedroom so you decided to go out again, hoping to get a little more tired so that you will be able to pass out due to exhaustion and fall into a deep slumber once you’re back.
And then the snowball effect hits you—the people in here are already drunk, too drunk, and possibly on other substances and you arrived sober. Spontaneous ideas aren’t your thing and maybe that's why you underestimated that whole scenario.
The music is quite good though and the drinks aren’t expensive as you would have thought—although they are still ridiculously high in alcohol percentage. So, you stick to sipping on one beer throughout your first hour of being here.
Every man inside here seems to pretend he’s in a zoo, hunting for the next woman that accidentally looks in his direction. It’s disgusting, really.
God. This is a very touristy place. Yes, you are a tourist, too. It doesn’t make any sense but you’re not here to make any sense. You’re here to forget about your exhausting travel to Auckland and you’re here to forget about the past two months or rather your whole life.
It’s a shame he’s still under your skin. That stupid ex boyfriend that decided to break up with you during the last week of you writing your thesis. You still managed to finish on time but you’ve been an emotional wreck ever since.
That was a lie. You’ve always been an emotional wreck but you developed to a whole new level.
However—that’s why you’re here now. Ready for a fresh start. Ready to possibly get a little tipsy and enjoy the music. At least the DJ is doing a good job. You seriously would have expected them to play some shitty cheap produced rap music or whatever young people listen to these days.
All those kids from far away that search for the meaning of life after highschool graduation by exploring either New Zealand or Australia—of course, far away from home, thinking they will come back with a whole new personality.
Well… the longer you think about that harsh thesis, the more you realise the irony layered in your thoughts. This might, partly, apply to you too.
Nevertheless, you didn’t come all the way to New Zealand and crossed the Tasman Sea to worry until your last brain cell melts.
You’re here to forget.
You’re here for a fresh start.
Far away from the troubles. Far away from your past. Far away from Sydney.
And everything that connects with this.
Maybe, the best thing is probably to get another drink—which is more than beer—one or two will be enough. After all, you don’t want to get shitfaced on the first night and the hot temperatures will do the rest anyway. You’ve got an important appointment tomorrow and need to appear at your best.
Heading towards the bar, you ignore the comments of the men that get a little annoyed about you pushing them to the side to get to your destination. Maybe they would react differently, if you gently shoved them aside, placing your hand on their lower back or—accidentally, of course—even a little more south.
After all, that’s what they usually do when the roles are reversed, right?
You manage to get to the bar, a little furious and still way too sober, someone’s drink spilled over your shirt and some crisps in your hair, but you waste no time and order your favourite drink.
You rummage around in your little purse, fishing out your wallet. Opening the pocket in which you stow away your coins, your fingers stumble across a shimmering object.
You’re not surprised. Yes, even after all these years you still have that necklace, carrying it with you wherever you go. You wonder if the magnet still works, if the charm would connect to its opposite one—the one that is owned by someone else. Of course, in case that person hasn’t thrown their necklace away yet. Which you’re convinced they have.
An hour and two drinks in, you’re hovering over the dance floor, still very much enjoying the great choice of music until the unexpected happens.
You take a closer look at the DJ, deeply mesmerised by his skills—when it clicks.
It’s him.
It’s really him.
The one and only Christopher Bang.
He looks so different but he also looks the same. His dimples are visible even in the dim light of the club. He wears his hair curly and black again—he used to straighten it a lot back then and occasionally get it bleached with your help. His face is filled with some piercings, his arms are decorated with tattoos.
His… wow. His arms.
Going to the gym and swimming must pay off.
But the worst part is…
You believe you’re gonna fall for him all over again.
And then his gaze meets yours.
Fuck.
You should have been more careful. Pretending this didn’t happen, you focus on the drink in your hand, watching the ice cubes swirl around when you stir the straw.
Until the unexpected happens once again.
He plays your favourite song.
Kiwi. Yes, you were a Harry Styles girl back then and even though eighteen year old Chan was too cool to admit it, he liked his music too.
What you don’t know is that Kiwi is still number one of his most listened songs on Spotify of all time until this day.
2017. Your last year of highschool. You listened to it all the time.
When Chan and you were cramming for your finals. When that guy from your chemistry class broke your heart. When you realised that you’re in love with your best friend.
You’ve always thought the both of you would end up together. Everyone thought so.
It’s an absolute cliché. You met when you were only one year old in kindergarten. Your mothers were best friends, glad about the fact the two of you could grow up together. Of course, they’ve always made some sort of joke about it—how Chan would marry you once you would be older.
For a long time you thought so, too.
He was your first kiss. Rather an experimental one when you were sixteen and just wanted to get it over with.
You had already had a small crush on him at that time and wondered, if he would return those feelings after making out with you. For a second you were so sure about it. You will never forget about the sparkles in his eyes when he let go of you again, lips even puffier than before from all the kissing.
Then he went on a date with Maya and everything went downhill.
That was in eleventh grade. They dated until your last year of highschool while you throughout that time… well, made zero experiences.
However, in eleventh grade as well, Chan started bringing you to Friday evening parties at the nearby beach. The people with you were other students from your year but they were Chan’s friends and not really yours. Those meetings basically only consisted of getting drunk in the sun and moonlight.
Maya was always there, too. For two years. Jealousy was basically eating you alive at that point but you obviously didn’t want to destroy Chan’s relationship. He seemed so happy. He really was. But you weren’t the one responsible for that.
One night at the beach, one of your classmates—Minho—and you got a little closer than planned. He used to be popular for being the typical high school fuckboy, quite known for changing his girlfriends every other week.
Of course, you fell for it, too. You’ve never regretted it. Although losing your virginity to him a week before graduating, right in the open, in the woods near the beach wasn’t the most romantic experience. But he was gentle. He made you feel wanted and loved although he was far from having any serious feelings for you.
But that was okay. You were still in love with Chan anyway.
This whole thing went on until the start of college and during that summer, your back then still best friend caught Minho and you one night.
Maya and him broke up some weeks after graduation since she was about to start studying in Japan and the relationship was basically doomed. There was another reason that you’ve never known about that also caused their bond to crumble.
Chan’s feelings for you.
But, well, it was too late now anyway. Even if there wasn’t Minho, Chan was still about to go to another country as well, leaving you in Sydney.
You get dragged back into reality when the song ends. However, your former best friend is still looking at you—a huge smirk decorating his beautiful face.
It’s an instinct kicking in. Survival mode, if you will. You turn around, almost bumping into a group of guys.
Downing the rest of your drink, you place the empty glass on some random table before making your way out of the building.
The way back to the hostel is a blur. You realise a little late that your eyes are stained with tears, ready to flood down like a waterfall.
You’ve never expected to see him again.
Well, you probably won’t another time after tonight. There’s no way you’re gonna go back into that club again.
🥝
You’ve underestimated the impact of seeing Chan again for a quick second. Your dreams were wild—partly in a bad way, partly in an embarrassing way that you don’t want to think about.
However, the fact that there’s a superstition that says that whatever you dream about when sleeping in a bed for the first time turns into reality, lets the spiral of worrying wander further.
Fuck. All these years in college you thought you were finally over him.
But Chan was your first love. The older you’ve grown, the more you have realised he has always been more than just a crush. 
But well—you missed that chance.
You’re torn between regretting leaving the club so impulsive and being convinced it was the right decision. You could spend the whole day wondering what would have happened if you stayed.
But well—you missed that chance once again.
After putting all your stuff into your huge backpack, you get ready for the day—taking an unfortunate ice cold shower in the shared bathroom and choosing a comfortable outfit—and leave the hostel once you’re ready.
The next bus brings you to a car dealership you made an appointment with online for today.
Because—you of course can’t start a van tour experience without a van, right?
You usually listen to your gut feeling and in at least nine out of ten cases it’s very dependable. However, with all the overthinking going on, your brain decides to ignore the fact that something about this store and the owner in specific feels… off. Quite oddinary.
The vans all look good, especially the emerald coloured one he is currently showing and presenting to you but you really should have spent at least a minute to look into the Google reviews… because they are either bad or fake. But you’re not aware of that.
You need a car anyway, it’ll be fine.
As long as the car functions and doesn’t cost you your whole year’s income, it’ll be okay.
“What do you say?” the salesman asks you, pointing at another vehicle in a similar shade to the previous one.
“Oh, I love the colour. What a beautiful green,” you tell him.
“It is! And it’s pretty spacious although it doesn’t look like it,” he exclaims.
The man walks around the car and opens it with the keys—he realised you seem to prefer this colour and luckily he’s got a few pieces to offer with it.
“What does it include in the price? It seems pretty cheap,” you ask, realising after speaking how negative your words come off.
But you saw a sign that read $ 2750 and fairly speaking—that is not a lot for a vehicle like that. Not even if you consider that it’s secondhand.
“That’s just because of the vehicle’s age,” the man starts explaining. He opens the door on the side completely, showing off the inside. “It has all the necessities. A mattress, enough storage space, a built-in table that you can let down when you open the trunk and it comes with free camping chairs.”
You take your time to examine all the details, checking if everything works fine.
But there doesn’t seem to be a single issue. He allows you to drive for a few minutes, take a short trip through the parking lot and everything is indeed absolutely fine.
There will probably never be a chance like this. You should definitely purchase it.
Or at least your very sad bank account is whispering that to you.
“I’d like to buy this one.”
The salesman brings you back to his little office which takes you at least a five minute walk but you don’t mind. You get that he wants to sell the car first before handing the keys to you.
“$ 2500 and it’s yours,” he offers once you arrive at the destination, lowering the price a little.
And you’re not here to complain.
Oh, Y/N. You should see all those red flags but apparently you’re a little colour blind. Not a surprise, considering that car you’re about to buy is green.
Or is it?
You pick out your wallet to grab your credit card, when you stumble across the magnet necklace again.
After seeing Chan for a brief moment, you start wondering again, if he still owns that necklace or—possibly—even wears it.
Okay. Slow down, Y/N. It’s getting ridiculous and delusional.
The beeping sound of the payment terminal wakes you up again. The salesman hands you the receipt, before grabbing a metallic object that is hanging on the wall behind him.
“Here. The keys for you.”
“Thanks,” you say, giving him a kind smile.
“I have to thank you,” he replies. “I’m off work now, have a safe trip.”
Oh.
Well, you’re probably gonna find your way back to the car, right?
In a parking lot filled with what feels like thousands of vehicles.
The walk back takes you at least fifteen minutes but there’s no need to hurry anyway.
You’ve got your car. You’ve still got enough money. You’ve got a great journey ahead of you. Everything paid off for this moment. You manifested it and now you’re luck is within reach.
Arriving back at near car, you place your huge backpack on the ground for a second in order to grab a thin jacket—it’s gotten a little chilly and you have to adjust things in the new van first, prepare Google Maps and make a general plan before you’re ready to start the adventure.
You close the bag again, before you walk towards the green vehicle.
You walk closer. And even closer.
Until you spot someone behind the car, hovering a big backpack—that isn’t yours—into the trunk.
You check again if it’s indeed your car but from what you can tell it is the one that the salesman showed and—most importantly—sold to you. It’s the same shade of sage, the little lanterns are hanging inside and the mattress has the washed out grey colour from earlier.
It is your car. The keys fit and you remember all the details from half an hour ago.
You unlock the door on the driver’s side and place down your bottle of water, before you carefully lean the huge backpack against the car. The waist bag stays on, the little keychain with the kiwi dangling around.
“Oh, what a surprise.”
Oh, God.
No.
That is impossible.
The odds are basically zero. Minus one hundred, if you will.
But of all people who could have been here, doing something to the car you just bought, it’s none other than Christopher Bang.
“Hell, no,” you let out.
Your former best friend walks around the corner until he fills your vision completely. It allows you to take in his full figure. He is wearing a black tank top, showing off his ridiculously muscular arms and—of course—fucking grey sweatpants.
“Hell, yes,” he giggles.
But why the fuck did he just put his backpack into the trunk of your car.
How did he even get it in there? How did he open the door?
You keep wondering until two objects cross your gaze.
A key.
And a receipt.
For that exact pastel green vehicle that you just bought.
“He sold that car to the both of us?!”
“Seems like it,” Chan says, shrugging his shoulders.
“Aren’t you… annoyed?! He fucking scammed us!”
Your childhood friend is so different. It’s not just that he looks older, even more tired than he used to in his teenage years but he is behaving so strangely.
Chan used to be the dad of the group, the one who took care of everyone, the one that made sure to pack enough water, tissues, sunscreen and plasters—just in case. He was the first person you came to after a fight with your parents or after getting back a test you failed.
He used to be your anchor. He used to hold you close when the waves hit the shore, clinging onto you.
But from the short conversation you can tell that five years can do a lot to a person. It feels as if there’s someone standing in front of you that looks a little like Chan but isn’t actually him.
“We can go back, if that’s what you want. But I’m not leaving the car to you. I spent four grand on it,” he says.
Your former best friend crosses his arms in front of his chest—just like he used to when you were children. At least this gives you a bit of comfort and familiarity, although it’s pretty stupid.
Then another thing clicks and you giggle.
“What’s so funny, huh?”
Chan’s words come off way more annoyed than he intended. This is not how he imagined to meet you again. He’s dreamt about this day for such a long time now—both wanting to see you and to avoid you for the rest of his life.
After all, you were the one who didn’t show up at the airport when he went to Seoul five years ago. Sure, you weren’t on great terms back then—although you never got into a fight, simply stopped speaking as regularly as you used to—but he expected you, his oldest friend, to at least say goodbye.
He’s still convinced it was because of Minho. Even though it didn’t seem that serious in the beginning, Chan has been wondering throughout all these years if that guy turned into your boyfriend.
But seeing you here alone lets those chances shrink.
Similar to his patience.
Opposite to those feelings that are reborn inside his heart.
“I only paid $ 2500,” you tell him.
Yeah, Chan definitely made a very bad deal here, for sure.
“Then you should leave it to me,” he replies with a smirk.
“Oh, no. Forget that.”
You turn around on your feet, yanking the door open to reach for your water bottle. Downing most of the liquid, you throw it back onto the seat.
Chan is still standing there, watching every move with a smile that turns into a smug whenever your vision crosses his.
“Then we should talk to him,” he offers.
Chan isn’t an asshole. He won’t take the car away from you. Besides that, he got scammed, too.
“He left the lot… said his work day is over,” you share, letting your gaze meet the dirty floor you’re standing on.
“What a coincidence… not.”
Chan lets his head sink down as well, feeling defeated. It could be such a great, almost romantic, reunion but something seems off.
You’re so different.
It feels as if there’s someone standing in front of him that looks a little like you but isn’t actually you.
“What do you want us to do?” he asks, his voice turning a little smaller.
“I’m not gonna be in a car together with you,” you immediately let out.
Chan wants to be respectful. That’s just how he is or, well, how he used to be. Five years can do a lot to a person, being left without a goodbye can break a heart—even of those who seem to be the strongest.
He won’t let you go. Hit two birds with a stone. He could tease you for two reasons—revenge and regret.
Of course, Chan was the one who used to be in an almost two year long relationship with another girl but that was before his feelings. At least that’s what he’s telling himself, up until this day, secretly knowing it’s not the truth.
It’s not entirely your fault. Even though Chan is convinced that you have never reciprocated those feelings at some point, he still feels awful for kind of ignoring you as his best friend once Maya and him became a couple.
He dragged you to all those bad parties at the beach and then complained that you decided to have your own fun with Minho.
Chan is such an idiot. He knows that.
That’s why he decides to take his chance this time instead of letting it slip.
“It doesn’t seem like you have another option, doll.”
Doll.
That’s new.
Chan used to have many nicknames for you.
Angel. Dear. Honey. Darling.
All platonic—of course.
Something tells you he’s only using it to tease you and you might be right about that.
“Let’s just drive together for the first—I don’t know—few days, we’ll get some money and then we’ll buy a second car, okay?”
His offer is the most rational option.
You don’t have enough money to buy another car and even if you were able to, you wouldn’t. The both of you got scammed and the salesman is nowhere to be found. So, just make the best of it and pray that you’ll get a second vehicle as soon as possible.
Or well—let him get the money for that. This isn't how you envisioned your trip, after all.
“I’m on vacation here. I wasn’t planning on getting a job and even if I was, I doubt I will find something that pays well,” you say.
Chan sighs, getting a little closer to you, mainly out of habit. Your heart skips a beat, nevertheless.
“I’m working as a DJ tonight again. In a club by the coast in Tauranga. I heard they hire for other jobs as well,” he informs you.
Shit. Unfortunately—or fortunately, however you view it—that is your next stop on your route anyway.
“What jobs?” you ask then.
He chuckles, a little embarrassed this time, while he simultaneously scratches the back of his head.
“Uhm… dancers.”
His voice is so quiet, almost inaudible, as if he’s hiding something.
“Dancers?”
“Well, yeah… more like… strippers but not exactly,” he replies with a shy smile.
“Yeah—no. I am not doing that,” you instantly shoot back.
Chan sighs again, looking up to the blue sky until his eyes meet yours.
“Well, either that or you have to spend additional days with me. The choice is yours.”
That fucking smirk.
He is already getting on your last nerve.
How the fuck are you supposed to survive this?
Maybe you should indeed drive a little with him—just for a few kilometres until you stop at a gas station and accidentally leave him there when he goes into the store to pay.
That sounds like a plan.
“Get in the car, then.”
🥝
You haven’t abandoned Chan yet as if he’s some dumb little puppy—although that isn’t far from reality, considering how he follows you everywhere and seems to constantly crave your attention.
The only hour of the day that he didn’t spend annoying the shit out of you was when you made a stop at the Hobbiton Movie Set to participate in a tour that he booked. He paid for your ticket since it was his idea and wish to join the journey but you would have rather had him save the money for the second car you need to buy.
However, it reminded you of your childhood—when Chan and you used to do Lord Of The Rings movie marathons. It had always been a tradition, an annual celebration, if you will. Until your paths separated.
You’ve spent a lot of time suppressing those thoughts, pushing away your guilty conscience that told you it was your fault how things ended. After all, you were the one who didn’t say goodbye. Something tells you this is why Chan has been teasing you since yesterday.
But in your opinion this isn’t the full story. Sure, you were the one to cut things off—or rather ghosted him—but he was the main responsible part of why your friendship started to crumble.
God, you were so dumb back then. Well, you were teenagers and they tend to be a little dense and stupid.
You keep wondering how things would be if the both of you would have been able to communicate.
But then again—you believe a little too much in destiny and it can’t be a coincidence that Chan and you met again. Twice. Just when you’re entering a new stage, when you’re finally at a point in your life that isn’t the most satisfying and happiest but you can say that you’re the truest form of yourself that you have ever been.
Maybe it’s meant to be.
However, you’re not ready yet to fully grasp that idea.
“Kiwi juice?”
Your head snaps towards Chan, who is sitting in the driver’s seat. You switched after the Hobbit adventure, currently on your way to the beach in Tauranga.
“Hm?”
He offers you the paper carton in his hands.
Fuck. Those pretty hands. You could get lost at the sight.
Pull yourself together, it’s getting embarrassing.
“You want some? It’s the brand from… when we were younger,” he says, taking a little pause in between the words.
He’s nostalgic, he can’t deny it.
Chan has been wondering if it can really be a coincidence that the both of you met again.
Twice within twelve hours.
“Oh, sure,” you say, reaching for the juice. Your hand brushes his for a second in the process and your heart skips a beat, synchronising with Chan’s a second later.
When his gaze switches back to the road ahead of him, yours stays fixated on his face. You think he doesn’t notice but he does. However, this time he holds back that teasing comment that is tingling his tongue.
Happiness erupts on your face, when you taste the kiwi juice again for the first time. They’ve always been your favourite fruit—of course—and it would be a lie if you said this didn’t have an impact on you for choosing New Zealand as your travel destination after graduation.
“Is good?”
You nod, smiling at Chan and he gives you the same expression. It feels so natural—you look back into those same beautiful brown eyes from five years ago.
A thin pink layer appears on his cheeks and Chan is fast to bring his attention back to the street.
You can’t hold back the enormous smirk that is decorating your face now.
The journey flies by, until you reach the campsite and search for a nice spot to stop the car. Just when he’s about to turn off the engine, no other song that Harry Styles’ Kiwi is playing again. The both of you chuckle, suddenly feeling some kind of connection again.
Oh, Lord. That is gonna be an interesting evening.
Especially, once you remember the job Chan mentioned.
“Wait–“ you say, when you have gotten dressed and join Chan again who is currently busy preparing some dinner.
“What is it? You don’t like pasta anymore?”
You take a closer look at the dish he is currently cooking, as the delicious scents start entering your nostrils. Nostalgia hits you like a fucking train on highspeed once more.
“I– I do, that’s not what I meant.” Sinking down on the seat next to Chan, you help him place down the plates and cutlery. “I am… I don’t think I can do this… dancing job. I know it’s unfair if only you are working, especially since you spent the most on this car but I just can’t–“
“Woah, slow down,” Chan says. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I don’t know what has gotten into me earlier, I just wanted to… tease you, I guess. The club does hire dancers but you seriously don’t have to do this.”
“Okay,” you let out with a small voice and relief washing down your spine.
The pasta is finally ready and served. Chan’s cooking skills seem to have improved by at least ten levels since high school and you compliment him, causing the blush to come back to his cheeks again.
“Do you still want to come to the club with me, though?” he asks or rather offers.
You’re unsure. If you’re honest, you’re not in the mood right now for partying, you would rather have some introvert time and maybe you can get that once Chan leaves to work.
“I… I think I’m gonna lay down for a bit, I’m still tired from yesterday, the flight to Auckland was kinda exhausting.”
What a pity. He would have loved to have you there. Now that Chan has finally gained some confidence and feels the chemistry between the both of you come back to what it used to be—although so many things are still left unspoken—it would have been a great chance to at least build some trust again.
He kind of regrets annoying you in the beginning, pretending to be some douchebag although you deserved the initial teasing. But he rather wants to get closer to you all naturally and he does still believe that the both of you meeting is a sign. A fucking obvious neon sign.
It is ridiculous that after all these years, his feelings haven’t changed in the slightest for you.
He hopes that he won’t make that much money tonight so that you have to travel around together for a little longer.
“Sure. The club is straight this way, like two hundred meters, in case you change your mind.”
🥝
You did change your mind. A nap later and the clock hitting half past midnight, you decide to at least check out the venue. Getting ready takes you a little longer than expected but this can mainly be blamed on the way you packed your things in the huge bag.
You decide to go for a dark shirt combined with a skirt that has pockets—yes, pockets! Your favourite sneakers complete the look and transport you to the club. You follow the sandy path until you reach your destination.
Considering the night is already in full swing, it doesn’t take the employees long to check your ID and sell you a ticket. The venue is partly in the open—turning this into a party by the coast. A lot of people got rid of their initial outfit, deciding to stay in their swimwear. You’re glad you did the same, choosing a bikini over a bra and panties as if you already expected it.
The atmosphere is phenomenal—you’re glad you came here. You missed being at the beach. It’s where you belong. It’s where you truly feel at home.
A beautiful melody fills your surroundings, immediately pulling you closer to the bar that is located near the stage. You order a drink, before you head back into the crowd of people.
Chan—busy showing off his skills—spotted you right away. Even in a gallery filled with the most beautiful art pieces, he’d still be staring at you.
You catch him observing you, allowing your eyes to connect with his and he gives you a soft smile. It’s when your two drinks into the night, that you notice a shift in the situation.
Of course, you aren’t the only person having alcohol and some fun and it’s a club at a very touristy place after all. So, you shouldn’t be surprised that a lot of people, especially women, are approaching Chan, probably asking for certain songs, complimenting him, flirting with him.
It’s mainly groups that try to start a conversation with him, giggling along whenever he replies to one of their questions. That’s fine. You’re fine.
He's a DJ. He is at work and just doing his job, maybe hoping to get tipped or something.
It’s alright. Really. Until those groups turn into individual women that gather up enough courage to talk to him alone. The conversations—despite the insane noise—become longer and he gets closer to them.
An hour passes and another hour follows, filled with girl after girl flirting with your former best friend.
Another one approaches him. She’s even more beautiful looking than the previous one and your stomach turns when you realise she looks a little like Maya.
It’s not her—without a doubt. But when you see the smile on Chan’s face and how he leans closer to her to catch what song she’s suggesting, you know he must have a type.
That type being quite the opposite of you. 
You try to not read too much into his mimics, concentrating on the sound of the music roaming around and the taste of the alcohol on the tip of your tongue instead. 
Then you see him reach for her phone, definitely typing down his number.
That’s it. You’ve had enough.
Why the fuck did you have to meet him again?
Why the fuck is he flirting with all these women?
Why the fuck is he flirting with you too?
And most importantly—why are you jealous?
You spin around on your feet, storming towards the bar. With your back turned to Chan, you don’t see the enormous smirk he has on his face once again. He’s not oblivious—he noticed you staring at him for literal hours and he would be lying if the very obvious jealousy that you are carrying isn’t the main reason for his flirting in the first place.
He enjoys seeing you like this. Chan would have never believed to be such a tease with someone but you seem to provoke a side of him that has been slumbering inside him, waiting to be woken up.
The women that approach him from now on finally become transparent—it’s not as if he’s seriously been interested in any of them, flirting is sometimes part of his job and you shouldn’t read too much into it. However, Chan will use whatever to his advantage when it comes to getting a reaction out of you.
In the meantime, you order a vodka shot at the bar, downing it in one go before you immediately get another one. And another one. In this angle, Chan can’t tell what and how much you’re drinking but when he sees you come back, dangerously confident, heading towards the dancing stage, he knows it’s more than you’re possibly able to handle.
There are other guests on the stage as well, having some fun, letting out their inner desires, getting loose. The paid dancers are somewhere else but it’s still ironic that you’re becoming the spotlight of the whole club now—after being all shy with dancing.
Chan is a bit worried, if that’s really what you want to do or just the alcohol speaking. But you seem to feel comfortable and you really enjoy what you’re doing, you can’t deny that. He still keeps an eye on you—both for caring but also absolutely selfish reasons.
It’s alluring, how you sway your hips to the melody of the songs he’s playing, how your body moves to the beat so perfectly. Chan knows you’ve always been into dancing and music but unfortunately were too insecure to show it.
You’re having the time of your life, you really are.
Until you feel that last shot kicking in, realising it was one too many.
Leaving the stage, you sit down on some sofa for a bit, feeling your head spin like a carousel. When Chan has chosen the following song and switches his gaze back to the dancers, he can’t find you anymore. Hastily, his eyes roam through the club and he feels his chest tighten in anxiety. Possibly, you just went to the bathroom but you are also extremely intoxicated.
Searching for a nearby colleague, he informs them that there is an emergency that he has to take care of. Not quite pleased, the person tells him that if he leaves now, he will be fired from the job.
But Chan doesn’t care. All he cares about is you and your well-being. 
He knows you enough to know that you tend to underestimate the effect alcohol has on your body, at least it’s been like this when you were teenagers. Leaving his own stage, he starts searching for you.
You’re not sitting on the sofa anymore. A kind girl gave you a bottle of tap water and offered to comfort you, however, your emotions washed over you, making you rush towards the beach. She follows you, wanting to know you’re okay.
That’s where Chan finds you, lying in the sand, absolutely shit-faced. The girl next to you immediately senses him approaching you and enters defending mode.
“Who are you?”
He realises now how weird the situation for her must be. He’s a man she hasn’t seen with you before, so of course, hesitation is the right option.
“I’m her friend, just wanted to make sure she’s okay,” he explains.
Chan feels awful for not grasping it sooner. Sure, it was comforting seeing you have fun but he underestimated it. But then again—how was he supposed to help you while being at work?
He’s here now. That’s what counts.
“You really think I would believe that, hm? Any guy could just say that, you better leave her alone,” the girl says, severely annoyed by Chan and worried about you.
“Yeji… it’s good,” you tell her, “I know him. We are on vacation together, we’re childhood friends.”
She lets out a relieved sigh, giving Chan a small smile and telling him to sit down next to you as well.
Unfortunately, in your drunken state you don’t notice him getting closer because, if you did, you wouldn’t say those following words at such a high volume, when you lean towards Yeji.
“I have a huuuge crush on him but he doesn’t seem to notice.”
Chan’s heart stops beating.
What?
This can’t be. His pulse is running at the speed of light and he feels himself getting dizzy now, despite not having even a single drop of alcohol in his system.
“Okay, so you’re good?” Yeji asks.
You nod and pull her into a hug.
“You’ve got my number, just in case, okay?” she says, before saying goodbye and leaving you alone with your friend.
Chan makes sure you drink the rest of the water until the bottle is empty, as he watches the shimmer of the night sky reflect in your eyes.
“Y/N,” he begins.
“Huh?”
You look at him with big eyes, almost like a deer that stops in the middle of the street when a car approaches the animal.
“Let’s go back,” he says, getting up from the ground. Chan offers you his hand and helps you stand on your feet again. You’re stumbling a little but he makes sure to help you gain back your balance, holding your figure.
“Dancing? Sure, but my head it– spin-spinning and–“
“No, to the van,” he says.
You pout, letting your shoulders sink.
“But I wanna daaance, pleeeaaase…”
Chan seems frustrated.
“Party’s over, come on.”
His fingers wrap around your wrist, dragging you after him, as he guides you towards the campsite.
“You’re so mean!”
Chan sighs, deciding to not pay too much attention to your childish behaviour. After all, you’re pretty drunk and he’s glad you’re fine. Going back to the club is the worst idea.
First, you’re not in the right state of mind to be dancing again. Let alone drink something.
Second, the security will probably tell you to leave anyway, once they notice how intoxicated you are.
And third, it would be embarrassing for Chan to go back there, after he basically got fired.
“We’re gonna get you sober and ready for bed, yeah?”
You pout again, letting a whimper follow, as you obediently walk next to Chan.
“Okay, daddy,” you reply sarcastically.
He ignores your teasing now—and the way this dumb name makes him feel flustered—instead helping you brush your teeth which turns out to be a lot more complicated. You’re so absolutely stubborn and not able anymore to control your body and balance. However, he manages to take off the rest of your makeup and put your hair in a comfortable style for sleeping.
There’s one thing that’s still on the list. You can’t go to sleep with your outside-clothes.
“Pyjamas?” he asks you.
“In the backpack.”
Chan gets up from his seat, making you drink another glass of water, as he walks towards your bag. You’re carrying so much stuff with you that it seems impossible for him to find what he’s looking for. His fingers accidentally brush over a pile of panties, feeling the lace material against his skin. Your childhood friend is glad that the blush on his cheeks isn’t visible in the dim moonlight.
“I can’t find your sleepwear,” he says, giving up.
“Then I’m gonna just stay in my party outfit.”
“Oh, no,” he says, “you’re not wearing this worn stuff from outside on the mattress.”
You remember now. Chan has always been like this. When you used to visit him as a child, he made you change your “outside clothing” in case you wanted to sit or lie down on any type of furniture in his parents’ house. 
Your pants came in contact with the bus seats, that’s yikes, Y/N, he used to say. As a teenager you didn’t care but the older you got, the more you adapted to this philosophy.
“Fine,” you groan.
Chan decides to just grab something to wear from his backpack, it’ll do. He finds a nice oversized shirt and some boxers that he hands to you.
“I… you want me to wear your underwear?”
He sighs. Once again. “It’s clean, oh my God. Just change your clothes already.”
The curly haired turns around then out of respect, while you slip into the baggy fabrics.
“Done.”
“Good,” he says.
You crawl into the van, sinking down on the bed sheet, as you feel the weight of the mattress shift underneath you.
Chan gets ready for bed, too. In the meantime, you plug your phone to the power bank and send Yeji a quick text.
She answers within a few seconds.
[Yeji 04:57]: Sleep well, darling. Thanks for texting me. Goodnight 💕
It doesn’t take your phone long to receive another message from her.
[Yeji 04:58]: Also, get that man. He seems to like you back ;)
You chuckle, still way too tipsy to fully grasp what she says. How is she supposed to tell? She spent like three minutes with him and doesn’t even know you that well, either. Yeji is just a random but very kind girl you met while waiting in line in the bathroom.
Chan drags you out of your thoughts when he walks around the car, stopping in front of you to place his toothbrush back into his bag. He’s changed into some sweatpants, not bothering to wear a shirt to sleep.
Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s still swimming in your veins.
Maybe it’s the light of the lanterns tinting his naked chest in the prettiest glimmer.
Maybe it’s the pent up feelings and all those unspoken words.
Or it’s all of those things combined that make you speak the following words, “Can you… cuddle me to sleep, please?”
His head snaps up to you.
“Y/N… I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m gonna sleep outside, okay?”
You’re the one to wrap their fingers around his wrist now, pulling him towards the van.
“Nooo, it’s too cold. You’re gonna get sick.” Chan can’t resist that annoying pout on your face. “Stay a little longer?”
He sighs, crawling into the van as well, as he takes the space next to the door.
“Okay.”
It doesn’t take you long to fall into a deep slumber, while Chan holds you close—you being the small spoon and him being the big one. Whereas you are already deeply occupied in your dreams, insomnia seems to take the best of him again.
He can’t believe he’s got you back in his life.
He can’t believe that you’re getting along again, especially compared to eighteen hours ago after buying the van.
He can’t believe you told your new friend that you have a crush on him.
If that’s really the truth that would mean… that would mean you have had that crush for some time, right? Considering you only met one and a half days ago, you must have already had feelings for him before that.
Fuck. Chan is possibly the luckiest guy on this earth. He dearly hopes this isn’t that dream he’s dreamt a thousand times before.
Just when he’s about to finally get some rest, too, you stir around and change positions, before your eyes open and in your half asleep state, you start speaking,  “You left, Channie…”
His own eyes widen, pulling you closer. Maybe you’ve got some of those nightmares again that you used to have when you guys were younger.
“But I’m here, darling,” he reassures you, using that nickname again for the first time.
“No,” you mumble, “you left and went to Seoul five years ago. You left me.”
His heart stops and then breaks into a thousand tiny pieces.
That might be true but you were the one to literally ghost your lifetime best friend.
“And you didn’t say goodbye, Y/N,” Chan spits back.
He can tell you’re not fully awake. Maybe that’s what gives him enough confidence to speak what’s on his mind. It feels so good to finally let that out.
God, he’s such a coward.
Your eyes open a little more, although you’re still not really awake.
“Is that why you’re mad at me? Why you were teasing me?” you ask him.
He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, “Yes.”
You roll onto your back, hiding your eyes behind the palms of your hands.
“Chan…”
He interrupts you, already regretting that he told you about his feelings, “Just forget it–“
“I couldn’t say goodbye…”
“Just… cut it–“
“My heart couldn’t handle it,” you say, “I was, well, I still am too much… too much in love with you to let you go.”
That’s when you doze off back into sleep.
It’s real. You’re real. Your feelings for him are real.
All these years. All the time waiting pays off—just for you to confess in your sleep. Well, better than nothing. Chan will see what the next day holds for you.
He knows you won’t hear him. However, he still speaks his words out loud, when he says, “I love you too, Y/N.”
🥝
You wake up around two in the afternoon the next day, feeling your pulse pumping inside your head.
Chugging down the rest that’s inside your metallic water bottle, you come to the realisation that you have no idea how you made it back to the van last night.
Speaking of—you find yourself alone in here, the space beside you still a little warm but that could also be caused by the sunbeams that are making their way inside the vehicle.
When you push the blanket away, you observe yourself in clothes that aren’t yours. Looking down at the bottoms, you notice you’re wearing boxers, probably Chan’s.
Why are you wearing his clothes? You guys weren’t so drunk that you… no, Chan wouldn’t do something like that.
However, you were indeed drunk. That is a fact. Otherwise you wouldn’t have a mental blackout about yesterday’s night.
“Morning,” Chan says, appearing in front of the van’s door. “I made some tea for you.” He hands you the beverage, painfully obviously trying to avoid your gaze.
What the hell happened?
“How are you?” 
Chan takes a seat beside you, leaving respectful space between the both of you.
“I’ve been better before. I feel very tired and sore. I also don’t remember much�� my mind is blank after… getting up that stage– oh God, I probably embarrassed myself and–“
“You didn’t,” he reassures you. “You were the life of the party.”
You roll your eyes, “That sounds even worse.”
He chuckles and you join him. It feels good and so familiar to be with him.
Chan feels like comfort. He feels like home.
“Do you feel good enough to go on a two and a half hour trip to Cathedral Cove?”
Wow. Your plans once again seem to match.
“That was my next stop on my route, too,” you tell him with a smile.
“I know. I saw the little sheet of paper you pinned to your backpack. Sorry, I hope it’s okay I read–“
“Of course,” you say.
“Then, take your time to get ready. I have a job again at a club tonight but only for the first few hours.”
After taking a shower—a cold one again—in the public bathroom of the campsite and changing into some comfortable shorts and a baggy shirt, you head back to the van. Chan hands you a bowl, filled with your comfort breakfast.
“You made porridge?”
He nods, “Yeah. We didn’t have fresh fruits and the little market over there was already closed, so I used canned tangarines. It tastes good, though.”
And it really does. The citrus fruits and sugar give you a lot of energy and fight against your hangover, the oats fill your stomach and awaken you.
“Did you make enough money yesterday?” you ask Chan, once you’re done with eating and washing the dishes, before packing everything.
“About that,” he starts, scratching the back of his head.
“What happened?”
“They kinda fired me… because I took a break to look if you were alright,” he explains.
Shit. That’s all your fault. You feel like a helpless child that he has to look after. The fact you drank so much because of your jealousy, lets your guilty conscience wash all over you.
“Chan, I– fuck, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have drunk that much I am so dumb–“
“Hey, it’s fine,” he says. “I don’t care. I don’t want money from a company like this, anyway.”
He waits until you give him a little nod. Chan hovers your backpacks into the trunk again, before you take the passenger’s seat.
The door to your right opens, as Chan sinks down next to you, starting the engine.
“Shall we?”
🥝
You got a little more sleep while Chan drove the two of you to the new destination. Dinner was on you tonight—your speciality, instant ramen, homemade by you. Maybe not the most nutritious meal, but a good and greasy base for possibly drinking alcohol again.
However, when entering the venue—well, it’s really just four neon lanters creating a makeshift square at the beach—you decide to ditch the drinks tonight, instead going for lemonade and water. Once again, Chan isn’t drinking either, knowing he is more focused on his work when he’s sober.
His talent is insane. He even makes you enjoy songs that you don’t like at all, solely by the remix versions he creates. You’ve always known that he’s a virtuoso. 
You’re feeling freedom rush through your veins, letting go of all the worries, as you dance along to the beautiful music.
Until you take a look at Chan and once again find a group of women surrounding him.
That’s when it clicks.
You got drunk yesterday, after watching the exact same scene that is turning into a déja-vu now. He flirted with them and as immature as you were, you decided to drown your jealousy in vodka.
Yeji, the kind girl from the bathroom, comes back to your mind. How she took care of you until Chan was–
Oh, no. 
You also remember now how he got you ready for bed—which explains the shirt and boxers—and how you begged him to cuddle you to sleep.
There’s another distant memory in the back of your head that you can’t quite grasp yet. You can’t differentiate if it was a dream or not, but something tells you, you poured your heart out to Chan and accused him of leaving.
You don’t remember your exact words. You do remember, though, how you told Yeji about your crush on Chan, while he was literally next to you.
Fuck. You’re so embarrassing. This year’s world wide loser award goes to none other than Y/N Y/L/N.
“Fancy a drink?”
The male voice startles you at first, however, you still turn around to search for its owner. In front of you is standing a beautiful man, a bit taller, his long black hair almost reaches his shoulders.
You said you didn’t want to drink. You want to be mature. But when you catch a glimpse of a girl whispering something into Chan’s ear, you know you’ve had enough. He doesn’t like you back, give up already. You confessed having a crush on him and he doesn’t do anything about it, time to live your life and show Chan what he is missing.
“Hm, one drink won’t do much harm,” you tell the guy.
He pays for the beverage and every water and lemonade you order after. It’s fun spending time with him. He’s without a doubt the best dancer you’ve ever seen, encouraging you in your own moves.
You didn’t get his name when he introduced himself due to the noise inside—you don’t know if he’s called Hyunjin or Hyungmin but it doesn’t really matter anyway. He’ll help you get your mind off all the mess nonetheless.
He’s dancing behind you, his crotch pressed against your ass, only a few layers of fabric separating you from him. His lips land on your neck, destined to draw a pretty pattern on your skin.
The clock hits two. Chan’s shift is over.
And you can be sure he will waste no time to do what he’s wanted to do since that prick laid his hands on your hips.
A minute later, Hyunjin feels someone touching his shoulder, making him pull away a little from you.
“Sorry, but the party’s over.”
Why is Chan always ruining the fun? You aren’t even tipsy. What’s his fucking problem?
“What do you want, dude?” Hyunjin says, clearly annoyed.
You stay in his hold, but your gaze finds Chan’s.
“I want you to let go of my girl and piss off, to be honest,” he answers, clicking his tongue.
What?
Your head starts spinning like yesterday, but this time you’re drunk on emotions.
“Man– I didn’t know–“
Hyunjin doesn’t get to finish his sentence, when Chan is already dragging you out of the club and towards the empty campsite.
The curly haired doesn’t say a word, but the tense atmosphere fills the whole beach even until you get closer and closer to your car.
Chan is furious. Sure, those girls talked to him as well, flirted a little but that’s what all there was. But when he saw Hyunjin’s lips on your neck, that straw broke the camel’s back.
Meanwhile, you feel like you’re in trance. You’re obediently following him just until Chan spins you around and watches your back meet the side of the green car.
He cages you between his firm body and the vehicle. The sight makes your knees go weak, makes you lose even the last molecule of sanity. You know you won’t have to say much, it’s obvious what it is.
Maybe it’s the fact you’re thinking clearly, no alcohol in your system this time.
Maybe it’s the way the moonlight covers Chan’s muscular arms and how the stars reflect in those beautiful brown eyes.
Maybe it’s the pent up feelings and all those unspoken words.
Or it’s all of those things combined that make you speak the following words.
“Just kiss me already.”
Chan may be an idiot from time to time, but he won’t let this chance slip. His lips smash into yours, making time stand still, letting the earth and the whole fucking universe stop for a minute.
Every cell in your body wants him. 
And you show him exactly that, when you invite his tongue in to explore the insides of your mouth. Your heartbeat starts echoing in your ears and a moment later, it synchronises with Chan’s.
His hands find their way to your hips, wandering a little further until they meet your ass. He squeezes the soft flesh through the fabric of your skirt, listening to the beautiful moan you let out.
It’s only now that you get aware that you put on the metallic necklace tonight—your friendship accessory that connects you, literally, with Chan. You wanted to get some reaction out of him. But he doesn’t seem to have noticed yet.
He’s too busy placing one kiss after another on your lips anyway, until he decides to change the course and wanders down with his artwork. Your cheeks, your jaw, your neck, back to your lips, right in that order. He wants to make sure that every centimetre Hyunjin touched, will be drawn over.
He’s driving you insane. You already feel yourself getting absolutely lightheaded. Maybe that’s how you justify that next whimper that spills from your lips, when his hand travels between your legs. He wonders if you put on a skirt on purpose but, nevertheless, this will make his mission a lot easier.
“Chan– stop teasing–“ you let out, knowing you won’t be able to withstand any anticipation.
But Chan isn’t done yet with provoking you. Not after you danced with that guy in the club, not after you let him kiss you like that.
“Don’t complain too much or I’ll fuck you against the van, here outside, for everyone to see.”
Oh, God. In the state you're in, you’d probably even allow him that. However, after falling asleep in his arms on the bed inside the van, you should finish what you’ve started exactly there.
And Chan seems to read your mind, as it seems.
“Get your pretty ass on the mattress, doll.”
But you decide to change plans a little, for the sole reason to tease him now. Beating him with his own weapons sounds like the most entertaining thing you can imagine.
Your lips land on his neck, rough bites leaving an astonishing memory of tonight. Chan’s the one to let out a moan now, as he feels his boxers tighten, his growing erection brushing against the fabric.
But he won’t let you defeat him so easily.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns you. Chan catches your face, squishing your cheeks together in an attempt to make you look at him, which you immediately do.
“I’ve had enough of your behaviour.”
His other hand is back between your thighs, disappearing under your skirt, wandering up to your very much soaked panties. Of course, he has to chuckle out loud, when the tips of his fingers brush over that embarrassingly wet spot.
“For me, baby?”
But you won’t let him defeat you so easily.
Chan finds it hilarious that you’re getting shy now but your body speaks what your mouth doesn’t want to—especially, once he carefully pushes the laces aside, grazing over your wetness.
“Fuck– please–“ you let out.
Well, it seems as if you let him defeat you easily. But you don’t care.
“Get inside, doll.”
He yanks the door of the car open, making you crawl inside.
And he wouldn’t be Chan if he didn’t tell you to take off the skirt before sitting down on the bed sheets. After all, you’re wearing outside clothes. Or maybe it’s just a cheap trick. However, when he takes off his jeans as well, leaving him in his underwear and the view of the pretty outline of his hard dick, you giggle a little.
When lying down on the soft cushion, the pendant that’s attached to the chain somehow wanders underneath your shirt, hiding it from Chan completely. But you don’t even notice. Not when the man above you is ready to devour you like a five star meal.
“Maybe I should fuck the brat out of you, make you come to your senses again,” he says, making you scoot a little more upwards.
He places your legs over his shoulders, before he starts kissing the inner sides of your thighs, gradually wandering towards your clothed core. A long stripe meets your panties, as you desperately hold back another moan.
“You’re all talk but no doing, Chan,” you let out.
He just chuckles and wastes no time to pull down your underwear, getting right back to his task. 
“Weird way of begging, but if that’s what you’re asking for…”
As if you’re on autopilot, you spread your legs even further, allowing your friend better access. His tongue comes back into play, as his fingers help him push your pussy lips apart.
Then your mind turns off.
“I– Fuck–“
It feels like heaven. The kitten licks. The vibrations his moans send through your whole body. His fingertips that circle around your throbbing hole.
Chan pushes two digits in at once, adoring the little whimper you let out. Your walls immediately clench around him, sucking him in, telling him how much you missed him.
It’s embarrassing how close you already are. But you’ve lost track of time—you can’t tell if it’s been seconds, minutes or hours that Chan’s head has been between your thighs.
You’ve never been with a guy that enjoys eating pussy that much. How you regret not doing this sooner with him…
“Chan– I–“
He just hums against you, enjoying every bit of your helplessness. You should have done this sooner. How he regrets not confessing to you earlier…
Squelching sounds are filling the car and in the back of your head you’re quite glad that Chan remembered to close and lock the door. His fingers already feel so absolutely amazing inside you, you wonder how great his cock is gonna fill you.
You get a taste of the idea, when he once again swirls his tongue around your clit and changes the angle of his fingers a little. He’s knuckles deep inside your aching hole, now hitting that certain spot just right.
Just a little later, your mind goes completely blank, the sight of the darkness inside Chan’s eyes hidden, when the white sparkles fill your vision instead. The feeling takes over your whole body, legs shaking, when you reach that sweet relief. You cry out his name, forgetting any other syllable you’ve ever known. Almost struggling to catch your breath, Chan helps you ride out your high.
Painfully slowly, he pulls his fingers out of you, watching you squirm at the loss of contact. He licks his fingers clean, making sure to let his eyes stay on your own.
You feel hypnotised.
You feel drunk.
“Hmm, still so confident that you don’t like me back, huh?” he teases you.
Like him back?
Well, you aren’t surprised he must at least find you attractive. Otherwise, Chan probably wouldn’t have eaten you out like a starving man. But you weren’t aware that there are feelings that are thrown into the mix.
“Like you back?”
“Don’t you remember what you said last night?”
Is this about the confession while Yeji was with you or did you…
Oh, the memories are slowly coming back now. You said something to him after accusing him of leaving, after pouring your heart out to him.
Did you, perhaps, tell him more?
“W-What?”
“Right before you fell asleep you confessed that you have romantic feelings for me, honey,” he says, shamelessly clicking his tongue.
“I…” 
You don’t know what to say, so the logical solution is to catch his lips in a heated kiss instead. You pull him closer, tasting yourself on his tongue but you don’t mind. He gives in for a solid minute, until he stops, knowing he has to speak further first.
“I told you before—well, you were asleep—but I return the feelings.”
You gasp. It’s now or never. There’s no reason to hold back anymore.
“Channie… I’m in love with you, have been all this time.”
There appears the brightest smile his face has ever experienced.
“I’m in love with you… have been even before that first kiss together,” he admits.
“You… what?”
Even in the weak light of the LED lanterns, you can still make out that cute pink curtain on his cheeks.
“I was scared… so I decided to hide my feelings but I’m done with hiding now.”
He kisses you then and you give in completely.
Fuck. You can’t believe this is happening.
He loves you back? He’s loved you all this time? You’re so happy that you don’t even care that it took you seven years to realise. 
Your childhood friend turned lover stops the kiss for a second, as he gets back in a seating position. Chan suddenly takes off his tank top, revealing his stunning chest to you.
As well as something else.
The necklace.
He’s wearing it.
That’s what makes you take off your shirt and your bra, too, revealing the metallic chain and pendant to him.
“You’re wearing the necklace?”
“I thought you would have noticed sooner.”
And he kisses you again, enjoying how beautiful you look underneath him, until a clicking sound startles you.
The magnets inside the pendants make the necklaces connect. You’ve expected them to not work anymore after storing the chain wherever for over five years.
“Fuck, I love you so much. I’m gonna show you, baby.”
And, oh God, that’s exactly what he does. His fingers are right between your legs again, playing sensually with your clit, as his tongue is attached to your tits, making out with one of the hardened buds.
But you need more and you need it now.
“Channie?”
He looks up for a second, “Yeah?”
“I need you… need you inside me.”
Chan wastes no time and takes off his remaining clothes, as you watch his length spring free. He’s pretty—maybe a bit above average but the girth is what basically makes you drool at the sight. The tip is already covered in precum, telling you to not wait any longer.
You ask him to come closer, but Chan still has something on his mind.
“I– I don’t have a condom with me right now… it’s in the trunk in my backpack but I can–“
“I have an IUD. If that’s okay with you,” you offer.
“Of course, dear.”
He’s positioning himself between your legs again, reaching for his length and stroking it a few times. Chan could get lost in the look you have on your face—desperately waiting for him to bury his cock inside you. Your fingers wander down to your heat, playing a little with your clit and that’s when he knows he won’t have you wait any longer.
The tip circles around your wet entrance, before he pushes only a few centimetres in first, watching you get used to the feeling. When you nod, he enters further, until he bottoms you out completely. You’re more than glad that he prepared you so well earlier.
After a quick kiss on your lips, he starts thrusting into you, observing every move and noise you make. You’re getting completely lost in the sensation, allowing him to take care of your body.
It doesn’t take long for the windows inside the car to gain a foggy layer from all the panting. Chan positions your legs over shoulders, similar to how he did earlier, as his hand wanders towards your chest.
He squeezes one of your breasts for a little, before his fingers travel further, circling around your throat, adding pressure to the sides. What a beautiful view—he’s dreamt about this so many times. Having you underneath him. Having full control over you and your body.
“Channie– fuck–“ you let out.
His cock is brushing that spot inside you again, it’s as if he’s fucked you a thousand times before.
And you feel so deliciously warm and tight around him, Chan for sure can’t get enough of your cunt.
He has to make sure you remember this. Even now that you’re finally his, he wants to hear those words coming from you.
“Who do you belong to, hm?” 
Fuck. That possessive side is something you sure can’t get enough of.
“I– fuck–“
Chan’s initial idea was to make pure love to you, although he sensed you enjoy him being less gentle, as well. So, the roughness takes over him then. Passion and desire are marking his words.
“Say it, baby. Whose good little slut are you?”
Slap. His hand collides with your ass, when you don’t answer within a second.
“Y-Yours, Channie– yours,” you then immediately let out. You could get used to this side of him.
“Good girl.”
It happens in the blink of an eye, it was inevitable. Waves of pleasure are traveling through your body, conquering your whole existence. Chan holds you close, helping you through the overstimulating sensation of your second orgasm.
After you’ve begged him to cum inside, he then paints your walls, all with the prettiest whimper spilling from his plump lips. 
The necklaces stay connected throughout the entire unholy scene, reminding you that this was indeed meant to be.
Once you’ve both come down from your high, Chan pulls out of you. He watches the mixture of his liquids spill out of your hole, before he brings two fingers right there, scooping up some of the droplets and guiding them towards your mouth.
You obediently lick them clean, before he places a gentle kiss on your lips.
“Y/N?”
“Hm?”
He takes a deep breath, “I’ve always wanted to be your first, to be honest.”
“Yeah… me, too,” you confess.
“But that doesn’t matter.” Another kiss on your forehead. “‘Cause I’ll be your last.”
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💚AUTHOR'S NOTE: *taps on mic* is this thing on? yeah, hi I'm back. This fic had been chilling in my drafts half-chilling for the past few months and I am a dramatic libra so that's the first thing I post. I hope you guys have been well and enjoying your summer (or winter for my beloveds who live on the southern hemisphere and yes I know it's ironic I post a New Zealand summer story in August pls don't cancel me). I hope you enjoyed this one, I feel a bit insecure this time, if I'm completely honest with you. Please consider reblogging and/or commenting, if you want to give something back to the author! Messages via asks are fine, too. Lots of love and take care!
© j-0ne25 2023 | copying, translating or stealing my work is prohibited
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ghouljams · 8 months
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Welcome to the Show
Hello, hello! I'm Ghoul(they/them) and I write fic, like a lot of fic. This is my Directory
I write in second person(you) so all of my fic can be read as x reader, and you can think of any callsigns/nicknames as your own. However, my fic is technically x oc, if that's not for you no problem! I don't include descriptions or names in any of my fics. MDNI
I do not give consent for my work to be used in ai, be that ai chats or ai writing. This is a hard boundary I will not budge on.
COD AUs
Cowboys Fae Demons Ballet Historic Aus Sin Summer Ghost!Ghost Regency Au Cyberpunk Au The Ghost Distribution System I want the Darlings
FAQ:
Can I write Fic with your OCs?
Yep! Just tag me in it if you post it.
Can I tell you about an OC I have for [insert au]?
Of course! OC talk is always open, but posting is contained to the morning.
Can I draw you OCs?
Yes. BUT I try to keep their descriptions vague so people can use them as Reader inserts, so I might not post/reblog it if you submit/post the art.
Do you take requests?
Sort of. If you have thoughts I'd love to hear them and if they inspire me I'll write something, but it might not be exactly what you requested. I tend to use asks as jumping off points rather than direct requests.
Do you cross post to anywhere else?
Not currently! If you see my fic elsewhere that isn't me. I don't give my consent to have my work reposted anywhere else.
Could you make a character AI for [insert character or au]?
No. I absolutely abhor ai and hope it crashes and burns before it does any more damage to art and creativity. Role-Play in a discord server like an adult.
Do you have a list of your OCs anywhere?
Yup. Here you go!
Ghoul's Hozier Bullshit
Pillow Princess Ghost
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mm-lurking · 25 days
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Emperor Blade AU brainrot
I'm struggling to finish my Blade wips so have this for today. Inspired by my interest in historical Chinese dramas (forgive me for my limited knowledge), Im writing this as 12am please don't mind me with the grammar mistakes etc thank you WC: 1000 ish Warnings: blade x fem! reader, NOT proofread! --- Emperor Blade who picks you during the wife selection stage. You, a middle-class woman with a clan that is neither too powerful nor weak, just ok. You, who compared to the many beauties with influence and high political power, are just average. But that doesn't matter to him as he calmly picks you from the list of candidates, dumbfounding his advisors and court members. Emperor Blade who only picked a wife because of the pressure his court was putting on him. In his thundering dominant reign of purging corruption and enemies, he had never considered being married even once. Marriage to him was an inconvenience and an unnecessary contract to sign.
Emperor Blade who keeps you at an arm's length, treating you just right so it's not controversial yet keeping you so distant that your only companion is your right handmaid. He doesn't speak much to you, and your conversations are short and out of formality. You barely see much of him as he spends most of his day running the nation and the times he is free he rarely visits you.
Emperor Blade who frankly doesn't care what you do or say, as long as you let him be and don't cause trouble. You're merely a pawn in his eyes, a pawn to get everyone to shut up and let him reign however he wants without interfering, that is -until you're pulled into the games of politics.
Emperor Blade whose eyes are raging with a fire his court members have never seen when a faction decides to take advantage of the awkwardness of your marriage and hurt you. He has never liked innocent people being involved in the deception and web of lies of politics. The anger in his voice followed by the withdrawal of his sword makes everyone present cower with fear as they rush to cease his anger so they can save their own heads.
Emperor Blade who works tirelessly at night to figure out who had dared to poison you so shamelessly without any consequences, his jawline clenched and knuckles white as he looks through all his reports to find the mole within the palace walls. Despite saying he doesn't have time for you before, he finds a way to visit you when you're unconscious in your bed, holding your hand as he looks over your peaceful face. Your touch is comforting yet foreign and despite his initial reservations, he finds himself wanting more.
Emperor Blade who rushes over to your chambers when he's informed that you're awake so he can see you for himself and breathe a sigh of relief. There is a twinkle in his eyes that you have never seen before but in your weak state, you shrug it off as your imagination. He swears to find the ones who have hurt you and promises to keep you safe. The tiny smile he shows you has you flabbergasted for the rest of the day.
Emperor Blade who does not hesitate to execute the perpetrators publicly as a warning for everyone to see, to fear the consequences of what would happen if anyone even thought about hurting his wife, his empress. He makes sure you're not watching so he doesn't subject you to the brutality of his role as the emperor. To him, he does not find the need to scare you with his powers. He does not want you to fear him.
Emperor Blade who is slowly but surely falling in love with you. You find yourself welcoming him into your chambers more and more as he drinks tea and chit chats about his interests with you, something you were confused by at first but now have become accustomed to. He loves how you eagerly listen to him and offer your opinions if asked while making sure he's comfortable in your space.
Emperor Blade, who swore to never fall in love, has his heart beating faster and faster whenever he sees you, his breath hitching in his throat when you pass by him in the halls wearing your beautiful gowns. Your scent is intoxicating and he finds himself addicted to you, unable to get enough of you.
Emperor Blade who asks you to accompany him to the pavilion to admire the moon one day. He asks you to wear your favourite gown and says nothing more, leaving you confused but curious. You comply as you meet him in front of your palace, shyly smiling as he admires you.
Emperor Blade who takes your hand into his own, causing you to gasp as the public display of affection. His grip is firm and unwavering, a sign that he doesn't plan to let go. He dismisses his guards and your maids, leaving only you two alone as you both walk to the pavilion and stare at the night sky. The moon is bright and beautiful today with stars that twinkle in the sky like jewels.
Emperor Blade who pulls you into his arms, lifting ur chin with one hand as he looks into your eyes. "You're beautiful", he murmurs causing you to blush. The faint redness of your cheek makes him chuckle as he draws closer. Your noses are touching and your hearts thumping.
Emperor Blade who before only viewed you as a pawn, an inconvenience and a waste of time, now looks at you endlessly as he flicks his gaze back and forth between your lips and your eyes, asking for silent permission as his grip on your waist tightens and the gap between you two closes.
Emperor Blade who asked you to keep your distance from him now closes the distance between you both with a kiss, a kiss that washes away every painful thing he had said to you before. The winds of the night embrace the both of you at this moment as if it were a sign of acceptance from nature itself, a thumbs up almost.
Emperor Blade, a man of fear, blood and formidable reign had now become a man of affection, love and security. A man who swore to never love and never be married is now a man who is deeply in love with you. As the night continues and the moon illuminates your figures, he promises to cherish you and be your man for the rest of your life. A man whose tenderness, warmth and devotion are reserved for you and only you to see. ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ©mm-lurking 2024 do not copy, steal or reuse my work.
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mercurygguk · 1 year
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freaky deaky · jjk (m)
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⤷ summary; being a worldwide superstar can be overwhelming at times – luckily he has you to help him get his frustrations out.
pairing; idol!jungkook x f. reader
rating; 18+
word count; 4.7k
genre/au; fwb au / idol au, smut/angsty and fluff if you squint
warnings; making out, swearing, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, nipple play, slight choking, aftercare <3
author’s note; been wanting to write something like this for a while so here you go – i hope you like it !! slightly inspired by ‘freaky deaky’ by tyga & doja cat
ps. ignore my typos, i was speed writing this kskdls
let me know what you think – don’t be a silent reader, thanks <3
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Jungkook is well aware that he should be heading home, get into bed and sleep for a whole day. He has barely slept for a whole week, the nerves and excitement for his upcoming concert too overwhelming. It was simply impossible to calm down enough to fall asleep.
However, he’s headed in the opposite direction of his own penthouse apartment. Instead of his own home, he finds himself in a quieter part of the city, the buildings in this area much smaller than the skyscraper he lives in himself. It's past midnight, a few houses are still lit up but it seems most people have turned in for the night.
There’s a yellow hue in the window on the second floor of the small house he pulls up to. The roaring of his bike is loud in this part of town late at night but he can’t bring himself to care about anyone else – there’s only one person on his mind as he turns off his motorbike.
As he gets off his bike, he glances around him to see if there’s anyone who might spot him; a scandal with the media isn’t what he needs right now. When the coast is clear, he removes his helmet and makes his way to the front door, knocking on it a few times. His teeth are chewing his bottom lip as he waits in silence, staring at his feet while listening for the sounds of footsteps on the other side.
Half a minute later, the door opens. He looks up from his stomper boots, the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen meeting his. There’s a possible chance he just felt his heart skip a beat at the sight. 
You smile at him, opening the door wider for him, silently inviting him inside. 
His eyes never leave yours as he steps inside, closing the door behind him and locking it. You’re wearing your pajamas – a flimsy top that doesn’t do much to cover your bare breasts underneath and loose, small shorts paired with a pair of fuzzy socks to keep your feet warm. You watch him with impatient eyes as he puts his helmet down, kicks off his stompers and unzips his biker jacket. He’s impatient too, too impatient to even greet you. Instead he opts for the next best thing; kissing you.
A soft whimper leaves you the moment his mouth connects with yours, the sound going straight to Jungkook’s cock, blood rushing to the tip. The kisses are eager, hungry and rushed, probably bruising too. He pushes you backwards, pinning you against the wall. Goosebumps rise upon his skin as your hands slide into his black strands of hair, your hips buck against him. A low groan escapes his lips as his hands roam your body, sliding over your curves and underneath your flimsy pajamas top.
The sounds of moans and whimpers tumbles from your mouth as his mouth moves from your lips to your jaw and further on to your neck, open-mouthed kisses being left against your skin. His hands cup your breasts underneath your top, thumbs brushing over your already hardened nipples.
“How was the show?” You breathlessly ask him.
“Not important right now,” he manages to say between the kisses he’s showering you with. “Just need you.”
You whimper at his words as he bends to pick you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, hands on your ass to support you. His mouth returns to yours, tongues meeting with wet, lewd sounds as he makes his way upstairs with you in his arms. He knows the path to your bedroom too well at this point – it might be a sign that he’s at your place way too often but he can’t find it in him to care or contemplate what that might mean.
“Feels like I’ve been waiting forever for you to get here,” you admit as you enter your bedroom. 
Jungkook grins against your mouth, a soft chuckle leaving him as he puts you down on your bed. You watch as he stays by the edge of the bed, looking at you with those big, dark eyes that hold the galaxy in them. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his hands as he slides them from the top of your thighs and down to your knees, giving them a soft squeeze. He fixes you with a slight smirk, a playful glint in his eyes.
“You missed me that much?”
Flustered, you groan softly and avert your eyes to the ceiling. Jungkook can’t help but laugh at your reaction to his teasing question, getting rid of his biker jacket and t-shirt before crawling onto the bed, hovering over you. He gently grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him again. You’re glaring at him, a soft glare that makes his heart tingle in ways he didn’t know it could.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he quietly tells you, “I missed you too.”
The words leave him before he can think about the meaning behind them. He barely catches the way your face softens at his confession as he dips down and connects his lips to yours again, slipping his tongue past them to intertwine it with yours. You moan against his mouth, arms sliding around his neck to pull him down, as close to you as possible.
“Kook,” you moan his name against his lips as you feel one of his hands slipping between your legs, fingers pushing the flimsy fabric of your shorts to the side. His fingers touch your wet core instantly, your arousal coating his fingers. He groans against your mouth when he realizes you’re not wearing panties. “Please–”
“No panties, huh?” He muses, lifting his head just enough to watch the way your face twists in pleasure as his fingers slip between your folds, running up and down to collect more of your wetness. “You made yourself ready for me, mhm?  
You nod, your back arching and a whine leaving you as he sinks a finger into you, thumb pressing down on your clit at the same time. Your pussy sucks his finger in, your walls tight around it as he pumps it in and out. You’re already panting beneath him and he has barely done anything to you. He smirks, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“Such a good girl,” he rasps before sliding down. You feel his breath brush over your skin as he moves down your body, tingles shooting through your body as he leaves occasional kisses on your skin.
Cold air hits your core as he tugs your shorts down, causing another round of goosebumps to rise upon your skin. He throws them over his shoulder, a soft thud reaches his ears as they hit the floor. A shaky sigh leaves you as he leans down, face leveling with your core. Jungkook smiles to himself as he watches your pussy clench, your folds glistening as he reaches up with his fingers, spreading them apart.
“Been thinking about eating this pretty pussy of yours all day, baby.”
The words fall from Jungkook's lips before he can stop them, feeling his heart freeze over for a second in fear of how that might have sounded to you. He feels relieved when all you do is whimper in response, core clenching around nothing, inviting Jungkook to come closer.
“Could barely focus at rehearsals…”
He wets his lips, leaning closer, his breath brushing your bare core as he hovers right above where you want him the most. You whine his name impatiently, desperate to feel his mouth on you.
“What was that, ____?” Jungkook hums, lifting his head to look up at you. You shudder, another round of goosebumps rising upon your skin when he leaves a gentle kiss right above your clit, the action teasing and torture all in one.
“Want your mouth.. please,” you whimper, fists gripping the sheets tightly.
Jungkook smiles, kissing your inner thighs softly before throwing your legs over his shoulders and tugging you closer by a tight grip on your hips. You yelp in surprise, a surprised gasp leaving you as Jungkook’s lips latch onto your clit, sucking roughly.
“Oh- god!”
Your hands dig into his black, curly hair, your fingertips tightening around his dark strands as he licks and slurps up your arousal, coating his tongue with it and swallowing it. He moans against you, the sound sending vibrations through your whole body, causing you to arch your back and digging your heels into his back.
Jungkook knows exactly how to eat you out, how to pleasure you to make you cum within minutes – his tongue sucking and flicking your clit is one of the safest and most effective ways to make sure you reach your high every time. He’s spent months learning everything about your body; what to do to make you cum quickly, where to kiss you to cause a shiver to run down your spine, where to touch you in order to have you pleading for more. 
He knows it all and it’s to his advantage as he sucks harshly on your clit, earning a whimpering whiny moan from you as your back arches off the bed once again, your chest rising and falling in pants of air as your orgasm sneaks up on you. He watches from between your legs, his mouth still working on your pussy as you reach your high – your brows furrowed together as you bite into your bottom lip, the orgasm rippling through you and causing your hips to jerk against his mouth, thighs trembling.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck-”
The word leaves your lips repeatedly as you cum on his tongue, your juices seeping out of your pretty, perfect pussy; sweet and delicious on his taste buds.
“Oh my god… please fuck me, Kook-“
Jungkook swallows every drop of your orgasm, humming and moaning as he does so, the sound of your pleads for him to fuck you going straight to his hard cock. It’s straining against his jeans as he leaves a kiss right above your slit before moving up to hover over you. He smirks softly at you, tongue poking out to lick away the bit of your arousal that’s sitting at the corner of his mouth.
You let out a soft groan of arousal, hands reaching up to grab him by the nape of his neck to pull him down for a kiss. Jungkook grunts against your mouth as your other hand reaches down to cup his bulge through his jeans, giving him a soft squeeze. Jungkook is breathing heavily against your lips, pulling away just enough to meet your eyes. You whine at the lack of his lips on yours, giving his cock another squeeze. He grins mischievously at the desperate sounds you let out.
“You want my cock, baby?” He hums, slightly breathless because of your touch.
His pride grows as you instantly nod, a soft ‘please’ leaving your pretty lips as you lift your head to kiss him again. Jungkook welcomes your kiss, groaning against your lips. He reaches down to undo his jeans before covering your hand with his, guiding it inside his pants, silently urging you to touch him through his boxers instead. You obey, receiving a low ‘fuck’ from Jungkook as he moves his mouth to your neck again, kissing and nippling at your skin.
“Want me to fill this pretty, sensitive pussy of yours, hm?”
Jungkook growls the words in your ear as he finds your core again, fingertips teasing your wet and glistening folds. You whimper underneath him, goosebumps rising on your skin as he teases your clit with his thumb, the bundle of nerves sensitive from your orgasm just a few minutes ago.
“Yes.. want your cock so bad, Kook-”
Jungkook tuts, the lack of a certain word not going unnoticed.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, please-“
His lips curl into a smile as you obey in an instant, needy and desperate for his cock, to be filled to the brim and spread wide open for him to devour as he pleases. 
Jungkook removes his fingers from your heat, sitting up on his knees between your legs to look down at you. As if magnets connect the two of you, you follow and sit up, hands supporting you behind you as you look up at him; beautiful, intriguing eyes that are heavy-lidded and dazed as you stare at him.
Jungkook’s hand reaches out to cup your chin, tilting your head up as his eyes roam your face and down the expanse of your body. His eyes zoom in on your glistening pussy, clenching and throbbing in need of his cock. He smiles to himself as his eyes move further up, noticing the way your nipples are hard underneath your flimsy pajamas top, evident underneath the thin fabric and making his cock twitch in his boxers.
God, he needs to be buried deep within you right this second or he’ll lose his mind.
“On your hands and knees, princess,” he demands, thumb running over your bottom lip before he retracts his hand from your face. His soft and gentle touch causes you to take a few seconds to register what he said, your brain not catching up until he speaks again. “Now.”
He watches in amusement as you realize what he said, face twisting in arousal as you do as told and get on all fours in front of him, your back facing him. Jungkook’s smile widens into a smirk as you place your feet on either side of his knees, positioning yourself perfectly for him. 
“Pretty girl,” he hums as he reaches for your ass, grabbing two good handfuls of your flesh before giving it a squeeze, spreading your cheeks apart to reveal your holes; one of them wet and glistening with arousal practically dripping from it, the other tight and small, still untouched by Jungkook after all these months.
“Kook…” you impatiently whine, arching your back and pushing your ass closer to him, glancing at him over your shoulder. He looks so good – unbelievably sexy with his dark black hair and lip ring, tattoos covering one of his arms and hands.
Jungkook is biting his bottom lip as he continues to play with your ass cheeks, unable to keep himself from collecting a pit of spit before letting it drop to your hole, a surprised gasp leaving you as he runs his thumb over it, spreading it out in a circling motion. You let out a shaky breath, a delicate whimper escaping you as you press your chest to the mattress, ass in the air as he continues to circle your tight hole with his thumb.
“Would you let me fuck this tight little ass one day?” He suddenly asks, voice low and deep as he moves his gaze to watch you. The way your brows knit together and lips part in pleasure as he keeps on circling his thumb around your hole has his cock turning painfully hard in his boxers. “Hm? Would you?”
“Fuck- god, yes..” you moan, breathless voice and uneven breathing as you revel in the feeling of his slow and attentive touch.
“Yeah? You’d let me fuck you however I want?”
You nod vigorously and whimper, “yes.. would let you do whatever you want, Kook.. ah-“
Jungkook swears under his breath, the thought of fucking your ass making his cock twitch uncontrollably in his boxers. Unable to hold back any longer, he reaches down to pull his cock out from the right confinements of his boxers, fisting his length in slow, prolonged strokes as he guides his tip closer to your folds.
He huffs out a proud chuckle as you jerk and yelp in surprise when he presses his tip between your folds, prodding at your entrance teasingly. You whine impatiently, hands tightly gripping the sheets as you push back in an attempt to make his cock slip inside of you.
“So fucking needy,” Jungkook rasps, his words a growl in his throat as he rubs his tip up and down between your folds before slipping inside of you, pushing deeper in the slowest thrust he can muster. You moan delicately as he groans in pleasure. Your walls engulf him, sucking him in deeper and fitting just perfectly around his cock. “Fuck, you were made for my cock, princess-“
You let out a relieved, fucked out moan as he bottoms out, back arching as his hands slide over your ass cheeks and down to you waist. His fingertips dig into your flesh as he watches himself pull out and slide right back inside, lips parted as he settles into a slow, torturous rhythm.
“Ohh.. fuck- your cock feels so good,” you moan, moving back against him meeting his thrusts halfway.
“Yeah?” Jungkook grits as he uses his grip on your hips to pull you back on his cock, fucking deeply into you with every thrust, his tip hitting your cervix over and over. “You love being filled and stretched out, hm?”
“Y-Yes..” Your words are laced with a breathless moan, breathing ragged and following every thrust of his hips. The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin fills the room every time your ass slams against his thighs. Your moans turn higher in octave as he picks up the pace of his hips. “Love it so much, Kook-”
Jungkook groans at your words, loving how your pussy just fits him, how easy it is for him to slip in and out again in smooth thrusts, his length rubbing against your walls over and over again. In need of your mouth on his, Jungkook slides his hands up the expanse of your back, pushing the fabric of your pajamas top up. He pulls it over your head, getting rid of it before closing his hands around your throat to pull you up. Your back stays arched, ass continuously slamming back against him as he tilts your head back by his grip on our throat. You whimper, becoming immensely wetter the moment Jungkook catches your lips with his own, his tongue melting with yours instantly. 
“You take my cock so fucking well..” Jungkook growls against your mouth, slipping one of his hands underneath your body to grip your breast, giving it a tight squeeze before pinching your already hardened nipple. A sudden feeling of possessiveness fills him as you moan his name, walls clenching around his length every time he buries himself in you. “My good girl-”
Jungkook is too caught up in the feeling of your pussy to even think twice about how his slightly possessive tone might have sounded in your ears. He can’t find it in him to care or worry about it as his thrusts turn slower yet harder, slamming into you over and over. He moans against your mouth, his hand on your breast sliding down to your clit to rub it in circles. 
“Wanna feel you cum around me, baby- can you do that for me?”
Another whimper escapes you as you weakly nod, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he rubs your clit in a circular motion, the bundle of nerves sensitive as hell, chills filling your skin as another orgasm sneaks up on you fast. Jungkook feels it all, the way your walls start to clench and unclench around him, how your breathing turns heavier than it already was, your moans becoming whiny whimpers as you near your high.
“Cum all over my cock, ____,” Jungkook growls, his lips now brushing the shell of your ear. “Let me feel it- come on…”
“Fuck- ah, Jungkook!”
“That’s it, baby- shit..”
Jungkook lets out a groan as you finally cum around him, the sound reverberating into your ear and sending chills down your spine. He continues to fuck into your perfect pussy, hitting deeply over and over again as he slams into you through your orgasm. You whine in sensitivity as he lets go of your throat, pushing you into the mattress, hands back on your waist as he chases his own orgasm.
“Gonna cum so hard, baby- gonna fill your pretty little pussy until it overflows..” he grunts as he slams into you, his thighs slapping against your ass as you whimper underneath him. One of your hands reaches behind you to grab his forearm, nails digging into his skin as his thrusts turn brutal and definitely leaving bruises for you to deal with tomorrow. Jungkook grits and swears under his breath as his hips stutter, his high sneaking a hold of him and pulling him under, tingles of his orgasm running through him as he fucks into you with a few more hard slaps before stilling inside of you. “Fuck-”
“Oh my god-” You moan as he slams into you one last time before stilling, the swear word he lets out in a growling tone sending a shiver down your spine.
Spurts of his orgasm fills you, white and warm cum painting your walls as he empties himself deeply inside of you. He’s breathing heavily as he grinds into you, riding out your highs. One of his hands supports himself on the mattress next to your head, tattooed hand gripping the sheets tightly as he tries to control his uneven breathing. Silence surrounds you as you come down, your hearts beating wildly in your chests and bodies buzzing with the aftershocks of your orgasms.
Jungkook isn’t sure what to say as he pulls out of you, hissing softly as his cock slowly turns soft the moment it’s freed from your tight walls. Your arousal and cum mixed with his own coats his silky shaft, glistening in the yellow hue of your bedside lamp. Jungkook leans down to leave a soft kiss on your shoulder, his free hand sliding up and down the side of your torso in a caressing stroke. There’s an unfamiliar feeling filling his chest as he lingers above you, leaving another soft kiss to your skin before removing himself from you entirely.
You stay lying on the bed as he makes his way to the ensuite bathroom you have. Out of routine and growing habit, he grabs a small hand-towel from your cabinet under the sink. He wets it with lukewarm water, his gaze on you through the mirror. You haven’t moved since he got off the bed and you’re definitely more quiet than usual. Jungkook lets out a frustrated sigh as he cleans himself up before wringing the towel under the water once again and returning to you.
“Hey..” He softly calls to capture your attention, gently tapping the back of your thigh to urge you to turn around. For some reason, he’s holding his breath, not sure what to expect when you face him. Jungkook feels his heart sink into his stomach as he watches you roll onto your back, eyes briefly meeting his for a split second before they shift to the ceiling instead, obviously avoiding his gaze. Not entirely sure what to do or say, Jungkook cautiously places a hand on your thigh to gently spread your legs so he can clean you up after making a mess between your legs.
He watches you intently as he starts cleaning you up. You let out a shaky breath as he touches your sensitive core with the damp towel. He wants to say something but he’s not quite sure what you want to hear right now or what he wants to say himself. He knows something has changed between you lately, especially from Jungkook’s side but he knows it will only cause more trouble than anything else.
“You okay?” He decides to ask instead as he finishes cleaning up his mess, an urge to make sure nothing is wrong overwhelming him because it feels like something might be exactly that – wrong.
“We should talk.”
Your voice is soft as you speak up. He stays quiet as you close your thighs and pull your sheets up to cover yourself, the sight of your beautiful naked body disappearing from his vision. He sits down on the edge of the bed and stares at you for a moment, chewing his bottom lip as nerves fill him.
“What’s on your mind?” He asks, his voice careful and quiet.
You shrug, frowning faintly as your eyes focus on nothing in particular for a second before returning to meet his, “you…”
Jungkook feels his heart melt at your answer yet it keeps beating harshly in his chest.
“Us…” You trail off, still frowning. “What we are and what we could be.”
“Could be?”
Jungkook can’t help but repeat your last words, intrigued by them and also very scared of what you might mean by them.
You nod, “yeah, you know… if you weren’t who you are.”
His heart sinks for the second time tonight, laying at the very bottom of his stomach with cracks in it because you sound so fragile as you admit what’s on your mind, as you talk about what you and him could be if the circumstances were different – if he wasn’t Jungkook of BTS but just Jeon Jungkook from Busan.
“Do you think that maybe… we’re wasting each other’s time?” You ask him, voice so small and careful he fears it might crack in a second.
Your question catches him off guard. 
When he rode his bike here, he didn’t think you’d end up in the middle of a deep conversation like this but here you are, talking about what you could possibly be if he wasn’t who he is, talking about how you might be wasting each other’s time by seeing each other, by being exclusive and only fucking each other, by having an arrangement with no strings attached.
Jungkook doesn’t feel like he’s wasted his time by being with you; in fact, you’ve probably made life a tiny bit easier and more normal for Jungkook. Being a worldwide superstar can be overwhelming and frustrating from time to time but he knows a night with you will remove every single hardship he comes across.
“No,” he finally says, shaking his head. “I don’t think we’re wasting each other’s time.”
“No?”
Jungkook shakes his head again, offering you a half smile along with a hand, silently asking you to come closer. You take his hand without hesitation, the gesture causing Jungkook’s heart to skip a beat. His smile grows a bit as he tugs you closer, pulling you into his lap, arms wrapping around your waist. Warmth spreads in his chest as you cuddle into him, your own arms snaking around his torso.
“This… arrangement of ours has been one of the few good things in my life lately,” Jungkook admits, his hands roaming your naked back, fingertips playing with the ends of your hair as he brushes his lips over the skin of your shoulder.
You lift your head to look at him, frowning at his words. “Is everything okay? Are you okay?”
The evident concern on your features has Jungkook smiling as he reaches up to tug a strand of hair behind your ear. He nods, “yeah, everything’s fine, I’m fine.”
“Jungkook…” You gently say his name, eyes shifting between his, “are you not happy?”
“I am,” he tells you, “it’s just… sometimes a life like mine can be kind of hectic.”
“I’m sorry,” you frown as you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers playing with his hair.
“It all gets better whenever I'm here though… with you.”
Jungkook watches your frown turn into a small and shy smile, the sight making his heart flutter. You’re so beautiful, he can’t stop looking at you, a constant urge to kiss you filling his body whenever he’s around you.
“You treat me like me, like Jungkook,” he admits, “and not like Jungkook of BTS.”
You shrug, smiling as your eyes shift from his eyes to his lips and back again. “Well, you are just Jungkook to me. You’re human like the rest of us, aren’t you?”
He smiles and nods, “yeah.”
“There’s no reason for me to kiss your butt and boost your ego,” you giggle softly, the sound sending butterflies flying in Jungkook’s entire body. He cocks an eyebrow at your words, smirking softly.
“And why’s that?”
You lean in closer, lips ghosting his. Jungkook’s arms tighten around your waist as you press your chest flush against his.
“Because I already have you right where I want you.”
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rmsrkive · 2 months
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in the beginning | my strange addiction — bts
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summary: in which bts find themselves completely and utterly infatuated with one of the members of hybe’s newest girl group, le sserafim, developing a strange and unhealthy addiction to their junior
warnings: age gap (3-8 year age gap), oc is of consenting and legal age, yandere bts, unhealthy, possessive, and obsessive behavior, violence, smut, idol au
rating: 18+ (minors dni)
pairings: ot7 x fem reader
a/n: the first oneshot of my strange addiction is finally here! it is a bit short but i want this oneshot to serve as a foundation for the longer ones that are to come in the future (and i also wanted to upload something for you guys asap). i don't know much about how idol evaluations go so i quite literally pulled this out of my ass so please forgive me if it sounds stupid! hope you enjoy and thank you for being patient with me :)
word count: 2115
taglist: @thepixienamednyxie @inlovewithallmusic @afiaaaa19 @moon33214 @minchedchilli @severuslovebot @jjkluver7 @itznyelle @taekritimin123 @notvantaes @jewishmommy @weeeeeekly @0rubyrose0 @thechillmage @cuntessaiii @earth2joon @huni7857 @yukichan67 @coralmusicblaze @ts-1030 @mochisdayone @devilzliaison @hollyschit
masterlist
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"Ten minutes until evaluations start. All of you should start heading over to the staff so that they can hook you up to your microphones and test whether or not they are working properly. The makeup artists will also be there for any finishing touches on your makeup so don't worry about that. The hairstylists will join too so your first priority is to get mic'd up as soon as possible."
Hyeongeun looked visibly distressed as he passed by you and the rest of the Le Sserafim members, frazzled as he ensured that the evaluation would flow smoothly. The seven of you watched in amusement before heading over to the sound team, each receiving your own microphone. The hairstylists and makeup artists surrounded you, fussing over your makeup and hair before deeming that there was nothing more they could do.
"Less is better, right?" Naeun asked, dusting your face with a bit more setting powder. She had been spiraling for the past few minutes as she touched up your makeup, worried that it was the wrong look for the occasion. Her panic was causing you to slowly panic as well. “Well, they'll be looking at your dancing and singing abilities rather than my makeup skills so there's nothing for me to worry about."
"Thank you for the reminder." You huffed.
The evaluations before debuting came up much closer than you anticipated. You had been so focused on recording music, learning the choreography, and preparing content for Le Sserafim's YouTube channel that the days flew without you noticing. Now you were preparing for evaluations that would take place over the next week with three different groups from HYBE. Hyeongeun informed you and the other members that Tomorrow by Together, Seventeen, and Fromis_9 would be evaluating the group to provide feedback.
"I can't believe this is happening." Yunjin exhaled shakily, nervous yet excited to finally perform in front of an official group of people. "It was like I got kicked off of Produce 48 yesterday. Dreams can come true." She sighed dreamily.
"How inspiring." You deadpanned.
She sent you a wink before the two of you followed Sakura and Chaewon to the open space that was created specifically for performances to take place. You knew several HYBE artists used the space to record live performances for their fans and that it was even used to host events. It was reserved for Le Sserafim for the next week which made the evaluations all the more official.
"I can't believe we're performing in front of TXT sunbaenim." Eunchae shared her disbelief, her doe eyes growing even larger. "They're gonna be across the room from us and watch us perform. That's terrifying."
Garam patted her shoulder. "They're probably the politest idols we have under HYBE. I don't think they'll be harsh and think badly of us. Imagine we had BTS sunbaenim evaluating us instead—"
Her words died out as she stopped walking, causing you to bump into her. You looked up to see why she stopped, only to notice what she was staring at. Or more precisely, who she was staring at. A quiet gasp escaped your lips as you stared at BTS, who were talking amongst each other and had yet to notice the seven of you standing in front of them. While all of you were standing in their presence with your mouths opening and closing like fish out of water, they all shared a laugh over a joke Jungkook made.
"What the hell are they doing here?" You whispered, a new wave of horror washing over you.
"I have no idea but Hyeongeun-nim better have a good reason as to why he didn't inform us that BTS sunbaenim are the ones evaluating us today." Chaewon gritted through her teeth.
"Sorry for not letting you girls know earlier." Hyeongeun approached you guys from behind, startling Kazhua. "I was informed earlier this morning that Seventeen won't be able to make it to your evaluations this week but Namjoon-ssi graciously offered to fill in with the Bangtan members instead. They only have time today for the entirety this week so you guys will see TXT on Wednesday instead."
What more could the seven of you do besides nod your heads and prepare to perform? The situation was unideal but completely out of everybody's control so none of you could be mad at Hyeongeun for not telling you beforehand. You wondered what could've possibly conflicted with Seventeen's schedule for them to pull out at the last minute, considering that the evaluations had been scheduled since the end of last year. You were surprised that BTS even had a free day where they could cram in an evaluation considering how much they had scheduled in a regular work week.
"We'll start off with Chaewon introducing the group and then we'll go straight into Fearless, alright? Good luck, girls."
Without another word, Hyeongeun patted Chaewon on the shoulder before immediately moving over to the BTS members, greeting them loudly and joyfully. You shared a look with the girls, in disbelief with how nonchalant he was being about the unexpected situation. You supposed he was less nervous since he wasn’t the one who was going to be scrutinized by the biggest boy group in the world. It was weird, however, considering he was a nervous mess ten minutes ago. Perhaps he was putting up a facade in front of the BTS members.
“We’ll introduce ourselves,” Chaewon glanced at everybody to ensure each person was prepared. “2,3,”
“Hello, we are Le Sserafim.”
The Bangtan members clapped and cheered loudly as you bowed, each of them sporting a wide grin. Hoseok in particular was excited, shouting each of your names before Seokjin forced him to be quiet. How he knew who any of you were was beyond you but you appreciated that he made the effort to learn your names nonetheless.
Maybe you were tooting your own horn and possibly jinxing what would be said during the evaluation, but you thought that you and the rest of the girls performed flawlessly. It was the first time any of you were practicing in front of people who didn’t consist of your usual team and quite frankly, you convinced yourself that there would be some mistakes from the nerves of performing in front of other idols. Even if your opinion didn’t matter, the reaction of the members seemed rather positive.
"That was a wonderful job," Namjoon began, sitting up straight. "The hard work all of you have been putting in really showed through this performance. The synchronization of your moves was impressive because of how difficult it is for seven people to move simultaneously in time with the music, yet all of you did it with ease. The seven of you work like a well-oiled machine and I strongly believe Source Music did a wonderful job putting this group together. However, there are still some things to work on as a group and individually which we'll all address. We'll start with individual feedback and since there are seven of us and seven of you, each of us focused a bit more on only one of you. We'll start with Chaewon-ssi and Sakura-ssi since they are the oldest and have the only experience as idols. From there it'll be age order if that's alright."
Hoseok and Jungkook were the first to provide their feedback, which sent immense relief. The knowledge of either of them focusing closely on you, particularly Hoseok, made you want to pass out. Sakura was considerably paler than she was earlier once he started speaking but by the end of his feedback, she was grinning ear to ear.
"Y/N-ssi, I was very impressed with how well you performed." Jimin smiled. "I can tell that your background as a former Olympic gymnast who specialized in the floor routines helped you become a fantastic performer. You know how to sing, dance, and manage your facial expressions at the same time which is difficult yet impressive. The one thing I do have to say is that I noticed during certain parts of the choreography, you remained rather stoic and lost your expressive aura. I believe it's because those were the more difficult parts of the choreography so it would be great if you practiced maintaining the appropriate expressions and emotions throughout the song. Also, remember to sing with confidence. It's easier said than done considering it's your first time performing in front of people who are not part of your immediate team but you did sound a bit flat in some areas. Once you gain confidence and are used to being on the stage, you'll sound wonderful." He flashed a smile at you which you weakly returned, all of the tension in your shoulders disappearing. He made a few more remarks before moving onto Yunjin's evaluation, where Seokjin immediately took over.
Namjoon and Yoongi gave final criticisms for the group overall before you were saying your goodbyes. You thanked them for coming alongside the other members before everybody was dismissed to leave. Though performing in front of BTS first was nerve-wracking, you had to admit that it was best to begin with them and then move onto TXT. You were able to get the worst of your nerves out of the way and felt better about the other evaluations since you knew what to work on.
"Y/N-ssi?"
You looked up from your bag to be met with the sight of Jimin hovering over you. Flustered, you immediately stood up and bowed to him. "Oh, hello! I'm sorry, I was packing my bag."
"No worries," He shook his head. Much to your surprise, Jimin seemed a bit nervous. He fiddled with his thumbs, eyes flitting back and forth before they finally met yours. "I wanted to apologize if I was too harsh when providing you feedback. I'm afraid I was too blunt and I hope I didn't come off as rude or anything like that."
Your mouth fell open at his apology, not expecting for him to apologize for doing his job. You hastily shook your head, spewing out nos and reassuring him not to worry. "It's okay! I don't think you were harsh at all and even if you were, you had every right to be since you're giving me feedback on what to improve. Thank you for taking the time to evaluate me and the rest of my group, it's an honor and we appreciate it a lot."
The smile on Jimin's face appeared again as he sighed in relief. "That's good to hear. I was worried that I came off too strong, especially to someone who was undergoing an evaluation for the first time. I hope that I was of some help."
"Yes, you definitely were. Thank you again."
"Of course, Y/N-ssi. I'll see you around HYBE in the future. Good luck on your debut."
"Thank you."
Both of you bowed to each other before Jimin joined the rest of the BTS members, who were waiting for him by the exit. You resumed packing your bag, unable to fight the giddy smile that was forming across your face. You couldn't believe that the Park Jimin approached you first and had a conversation with you. Never in your dreams did you think you would be debuting under the same company as BTS nor did you ever think you would be meeting any of them. To be fair, you also never considered you would abandon your career of being a professional gymnast to sing and dance for a living instead.
Yunjin immediately rushed over to you with Eunchae in tow, both of them visibly excited by what they witnessed. "Y/N! What did Jimin sunbaenim say to you? I can't believe he approached you first."
"He just apologized because he thought he was being too harsh. Which he wasn't in the slightest bit." You explained. "I think he felt bad but I thought he was kind. A little to kind considering the circumstances we're under."
Eunchae seemed disappointed at your answer. "And here I was thinking that you were the pathway to us becoming best friends with BTS sunbaenim." She pouted.
You rolled your eyes. "They're an eight almost nine-year-old idol group while we haven't even debuted yet. I don't think we'll ever be close to them because they're in a different league than us."
"You never know." The maknae shrugged. "When I'm best friends with Jungkook, I'll be having the last laugh."
"I'm sure you will."
If only you and Eunchae knew how much weight both of your words would carry. Perhaps you would have been more careful for everything that was to come.
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miguxadraws · 2 months
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AU/Comic idea I guess?
Doll sized Ragatha, inspired by that one Gooseworx post
Anyone can do whatever they want with this idea, i'm just throwing a (low quality) base for the development of a story to the community!
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I don't consider myself to be the most creative person when it comes to stories, but bear with me here... (+ some doodles)
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After having miscommunication issues with Caine, he makes her the size of an actual doll. Before she can even process what happened, he teleports away, leaving Ragatha with the task to search for him.
The first person Ragatha stumbles upon after this ordeal is Pomni, who is incredibly freaked out at first when she sees her, but Ragatha manages to calm her down by explaining what happened.
Now that Pomni knew what went on + seen how this situation seemed to be affecting Ragatha, she decides to help her find Caine as it would not only help the doll but also (hopefully) compensate for her own screw up on her first day in the circus
Moral of the story? Maybe something like "don't trust your AI kidnapper with handling your issues"
This is the base for the story! You can develop it however you want. Comics, fanart, fanfics, whatever you want is allowed (i dont even know if people will even be interested enough for that tbh) Also, sorry for any typos or grammar mistakes, english aint my first language ugh
I will probably draw more stuff related to this in the future, but don't rely on me for more elaborated things! I only drew this for fun in the first place, then the idea for a story came to my mind
anyways, some other doodles
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ao3commentoftheday · 4 months
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This is more of a question for the fanfic author community at large. Recently I had someone tell me they were writing a fic based on my fic. I was obviously flattered by it. But when their fic was posted, it was basically a re-write of exactly what I'd written. And that made me feel uncomfortable, because my story was a very specific AU. I know in fandom/fanfic anything goes and people are free to do what they want. Who am I to say 'no you can't write this'? I brushed it off and let it go. But it just got me internally asking: what are some rules of decorum around fics inspired by other fics? Can I as an author say it made me uncomfortable? If author A is writing something based on author B's work, is it expected for author A to tell author B about it? I welcome any other discussion on this topic that I didn't cover in my questions because I'm curious to see what others think! Thanks!
I'm not going to lie to you, anon, this one can be a bit of a minefield.
There's a tradition? (if that's the right word) in fandom of asking permission before writing a work inspired by someone else's fanwork.
While we don't do this with the creators of canon, we also don't share a community with the creators of canon. In fandom spaces, everyone knows everyone to a certain degree. This might be less true now that fandom has exploded in popularity in recent years, but even so.
I personally love when someone writes something inspired by my work, and I've written a few fics inspired by others too. It's part of that community sharing that I value so much in fandom.
But the minefield comes in when the original fan author feels like the "inspired by" fic is a little too close to their own.
Emotions can be fraught in online spaces where tone is hard to convey over text and there tends to be an assumption of the worst motives and interpretations rather than the best.
You're definitely well within your rights to feel uncomfortable about what that other person wrote. I'm not going to tell you that your emotions are wrong or unfounded. In fact, I'd likely feel the same way if I were in your place.
What you do about that feeling is your own decision to make. Do you just sit on it and hope it goes away? Do you reach out to that other author and say something about it? Do you just vent to a friend and get it out that way?
Folks who have had similar experiences, share what happened if you're willing. From either A or B's perspective.
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