#I did open up a document for the essay so like a little progress is better than no progress

[cat-dragron]

I take an adderall in the hopes it'll help me write this essay and work on my thesis stuff.

Instead it gets me into the writing groove for fanfiction. Well... at least I'm writing something.

[inkareds]

can you do a cass cain x female reader story?

Rest Your Weary Eyes Cassandra Cain

nav // dc m.list // ko-fi

✧.* word count: 1k (a shortie) ✧.* genre: Fluff ✧.* warnings: The reader is female, that's it

After a long night, Cassandra just wants to be in the arms of the woman she loves

Jesus christ this was requested last year I am so fucking sorry I had like 0 ideas for her so I'm really sorry if she's a bit ooc (also I'm working on everyone's requests starting from the oldest one 💀)

“Black Bat watch your six!” Cass quickly turned around at the sound of Barbara in her earpiece. 

Unfortunately, she didn’t turn quickly enough as the moment she did turn around, the assassin had already lunged towards her. Being around thrice her size, the assassin barrelled towards her and shoved her entire body towards a brick wall. 

Cass groaned as he landed a punch to her abdomen, disoriented from the crash the assassin was quick to land a few more hits to her. Though once she did regain her focus, her eyes saw opportunity after opportunity within the assassin’s hold against her. Making use of his weak points, she efficiently took him down. 

Finally, back on her own two feet, Barbara spoke again. 

“There’s four more coming your way.” Cass sighed. 

“This is going to be a long night.” She muttered under her breath. 

~

Your tired eyes tried their best to stay awake as you glared at the document in front of you. There were barely any words on the screen, yet you have to finish this four thousand-word essay by the end of the week. A task, at this point, you felt was impossible to do. You shook your head. 

“I can do this.” You muttered to yourself as you began to type. 

After the first few paragraph and sips of your favourite tea, you finally got your groove for writing back. The words came somewhat easily to you as you progressed into the essay. 

In fact, you were so focused you didn’t hear the loud thump on the outside of your fire escape. Nor the sound of the window opening. All you saw was a black shadow in the shape of a bat behind you from the reflection of your computer. Causing you to scream out. 

Cass immediately took off her mask and put both her hands up. 

“It’s me! It’s me!” 

Realising now that this was Cassandra Cain, your longtime girlfriend, you let out a loud sigh. 

“Oh my fucking god! Why’d you gotta scare me like that?! I know you’re like trained to be quiet or something! But Jesus, I think you shaved off four years off my life.” You chuckled holding your chest as you heaved, still panicked. 

Though, after seeing Cass’ reaction to your statement, you sterned yourself. There was a tired tight-lipped smile on your beautiful girlfriend’s expression. Your brows furrowed together as you looked across her body. 

With her standing up and you still sat down on your chair, you could get a good look at her costume. Muck, dirt, and blood greased the surface of her suit. Sweat stuck to the skin of her face and her hair was much greasier than usual after a night of patrolling. Not to mention how tired she actually looked. Her eyes dropped and it would seem that she was begging for a shower. 

You sighed and shook your head. Cass was just standing there, her chest rising and falling at the deep breaths she was taking to try and calm her quick heartbeat from the tough patrol she just went through. She came here to just see you. Spy on you for a little bit, as creepy as that sounds, she just wanted to make sure you were okay. 

Today’s patrol made her remember how dangerous of a place Gotham could be. She needed to know that you were safe and sound. What she didn’t expect was for her body to not listen to what her brain wanted and snuck into your room. 

But now that she was actually in your room, in front of you, she didn’t really know what to do. 

“Go shower, my love. I’ll get some of your clothes that you left here then we can rest together.” 

At your response, she smiled before making her way towards the bathroom. 

Though the two of you didn’t live together, it was almost like your apartment was her second home. Next to your towel was a grey towel just for her. Next to your toothbrush was her own. She even had her face wash and skincare right next to yours. She smiled looking around the bathroom, it was such a simple space. 

Something a lot of people overlook, but it was an important part of a home. It was almost like you in that regard, though she chuckled over her mind comparing you to a bathroom. 

You were far more than that. But it was true. You weren’t a vigilante, you weren’t a hero, you were just a normal civilian student going by her daily life. You were by no means special in the grand scheme of things and you could be overlooked by many things in life. 

But by her? By Cassandra Cain trained assassin and Black Bat? You were everything. You were one of the most important things in her life. And seeing her life slowly merge into yours in the shape of her belongings slowly making a home in your home? That caused her heart to swell. 

So much that she couldn’t help but take a quick hot shower so she could cuddle with you on your bed. 

When she finished her shower, you were already in bed ready to welcome her. 

Cass wordlessly shuffled to your bed and wrapped her hands around your torso as she lay on her side. Her face buried deep in the crook of your neck. You chuckled at her touchiness, who would’ve thought one of the genuinely most terrifying vigilantes in Gotham was such a cuddle bug? 

As you kissed the top of her head you whispered. 

“Good night Cass.”

Cass hummed back. 

“Good night beautiful.” 

At the comfortable weight of your love safe and sound in your arms. Her somewhat still wet hair against your hands, you felt yourself drifting into a deep sleep. Though not before you heard Cass mumble. 

“Thank you.” 

Leaving you to sleep with a wide smile, knowing tomorrow morning you’d actually be able to have a conversation with the woman you loved. Now, though, now, you’d both rest. 

[gamersonthego]

Chase Koeneke's Top 10 Games of 2022

I think in general, I found myself wanting in 2022. While new games in some of my favorite franchises saw releases, very few lived up to the expectations I had for them. I also just completely missed games that would almost assuredly make this list (Hardspace Shipbreaker, Immortality, Pentiment, Coromon, Chained Echoes, the list goes on). But what did make the list? Let's find out.

10. Digimon Survive

Look, I promised myself this would be my token tenth slot, and it’s not because it deserves it. Digimon Survive isn’t very good. Its strategy parts are thin and tedious, plagued by low movement ranges and bad maps. And its visual novel parts go on way too long, yet rarely offer much depth. 

But dammit, there’s something here, and with some adjustments, a sequel to Digimon Survive could be really good (though I’m not sure it’ll get that chance.) The art style is excellent, the writing is solid (again, it’s an issue of quantity and redundancy, not necessarily quality) and outside of one or two of them, I ended up really connecting to both the characters and the Digimon. Other games deserve this slot more, but there was no other game I wanted to like more than this, and I think that accounts for something.

9. Platformer Toolkit

I love playing games, but I think I love analyzing them even more, which is probably why Mark Brown’s video-essay-inside-a-video-game appealed to me so much. Mark Brown’s YouTube channel, Game Maker’s Toolkit breaks down game mechanics, theory and psychology, and after he taught himself Unity this year (documenting his progress on the channel), he built a game that gave a tiny window into the the minds of game developers. 

Platformer Toolkit is a simple browser-based 2D platformer, but it controls like garbage. This is by design though! Mark walks and talks you through the physics of character movement, unlocks sliders and panels in a Mario Maker style design that lets you tweak everything from jump height and run speed to squash frames and coyote time. And once you’ve finished the short and free experience, Mark opens up a number of presets that lets you toggle through a group of classic platformer physics setups (Mario, Sonic, Celeste, Meat Boy, etc.) so you can compare and gain a greater appreciation for why those characters control the way they do. It was really compelling and I felt like a learned a ton.

8. Marvel's Midnight Suns

I’ve felt this way for years and I haven’t been shy in saying it: I’m fucking tired of superheroes. Throw them all in the bin right next to zombies and let’s find a new thing to obsess over please. But I do love me a turn-based strategy game, so when the makers of XCOM: Enemy Unknown announced they were making a game based on Marvel heroes, the pros outweighed the cons, and I checked it out. And while I’m not back on the MCU train (in fact, the writing is so, so, so Marveliciously awful, that I’ve started skipping cutscenes whole cloth), I’m finding myself addicted to the game parts of this game. 

Midnight Suns does not play like XCOM. At all. It’s an entirely new, card-based system, played in very small arenas. You’re always outnumbered and you always have a very limited numbered of actions available to you each turn. To overcome this, you have to employ clever strategy to make the most of every move, using attacks to bounce enemies off each other or parts of the environment, disabling the most vicious threats and finding the perfect opportunity to burn an action on achieving an objective. And while I never could thematically wrap my head around why these larger than life super-beings were all fighting in these cramped little spaces, the fact is, it’s just a really fun system to play around in. 

7. Vampire Survivors

More than any other game this year, Vampire Survivors justified my purchase of a Steam Deck. That sounds weird, right? I spent over $500 on a thing just to play a $5 game on it most of the time? But, uh, Vampire Survivors really is that good. This horde mode meets roguelike with a thick coat of Castlevania paint and a sprinkle of idle game sensibilities just kept sucking the hours right out of me. 

While the game on its own is fun enough, the real secret to the game’s success is, well, it’s the secrets. Finding the right combination of active and passive power-ups leads to special ultimate upgrades that turn you into an absolute buzzsaw of destruction against screen-filling masses of enemies. The more you play, the more fun, new toys you unlock, compelling you to try just one more run. A compulsion I would often give into. 

6. Citizen Sleeper

I was so hot on Citizen Sleeper when I first loaded it up. I’ve followed Guillaume “blackysan” Singelin’s work for awhile now, and seeing their work translated to a video game was really exciting. And the writing, my god, the writing! I hung on most every word. And its dice-heavy tabletop game mechanics and extremely limited resources brought in a satisfying combo of luck and desperation that gave me a real sense of scrounging and stretching for survival. 

And then I realized that the game rarely allows the player to fail, almost always throwing them a bone at the last minute, never fully committing to the survival tale the story would have you believe. And about two-thirds of the way through the game, the economy just falls apart completely, as any reasonably competent player can amass more than enough resources to live comfortably, even while the story tries to convince you otherwise. 

It was a real heartbreaker to me, one that partially led to me taking the first potential ending the game presented. But the more distance I get from it, the less I think about the busted economy and the more I think about my sleeper, and the choices and friends she made along the way. And thinking about that makes me smile.

5. Live A Live

Man, I wish Live A Live had gotten a western release back on the Super Nintendo. I know young Chase would’ve loved the JRPG-meets-turn-based-strategy combat, the amazing music and the fragmented story that stars multiple protagonists in different time periods. I know this because current Chase loved it, especially with this HD 2D touchup it got on the Nintendo Switch. Is it better than Chrono Trigger and Final Fantasy? I mean…maybe? The fact that it’s even a question at all speaks to how good Live A Live is. 

It’s so inventive for its era. Heck, it’s still inventive today, playing with both genre and expectations to create something unique while wearing its influences proudly on its sleeve. More RPGs should’ve taken cues from Live A Live. And they still should. 

4. Triangle Strategy

Oh look, another turn-based strategy game. Oh, and it’s HD 2D too? Yup, I have a type, and Triangle Strategy almost fits it to a t. The game tells a grand story that genuinely gripped me (even though the voice acting often didn’t), and offered real, tangible choice leading to different story paths, character recruitments and endings. 

And while the battle mechanics weren’t perfect, there was enough depth and variety from the different characters that I took great pleasure in building each soldier up, unlocking new skills and equipping with new gear, looking for synergistic combinations. I love tactics games that make me care about my characters, and I fell hard for this cast of knuckleheads.

3. Tinykin

One of my favorite gimmicks in media is shrinking down and exploring a normal-sized space as a tiny character. I love the MacGuyverness of recontextualizing modern household objects as buildings, tools and transportation. And Tinykin has this in spades. In this miniature adventure, you explore kitchens, bedrooms, bathrooms and greenhouses as you collect Pikmin-like Tinykin — creatures that help you navigate the world and solve its objective-based puzzles. 

Tinykin has no combat, just chill, puzzling vibes that allow for curiosity and coziness to walk hand in hand. And as your posse of Tinykin grows, you roll deeper and deeper with your crew, until you are masterfully climbing, gliding and sliding about these creative spaces. It’s the perfect game to wind down with, and one I’d happily return to if another room got added as DLC.

2. Pokemon Legends: Arceus

Coming into 2022, this is not the Pokemon game I expected to make this list. Legends: Arceus looked awful in trailers: Empty worlds, lifeless combat, no real multiplayer to speak of. And none of those things changed once I got my hands on the final product. What did change though, was my perspective of the game in the first place. 

Legends: Arceus has you exploring an ancient Sinnoh region, in a world where the concept of Pokeballs and capturing Pokemon is just being discovered. Battling Pokemon isn’t all that fun with the new speed and strong style mechanics, but there’s hardly any battling in the game at all. Instead, Legends: Arceus is about the thrill of catching and collecting. It’s the first game in a while that makes “catching them all” feel like a relevant goal again. And the arrival of Alpha Pokemon (which are essentially bigger and rarer versions of their normal counterparts) added yet another layer of collection on top. In a year where Scarlet and Violet mostly disappointed me, Legends: Arceus is what kept me carrying a torch for my beloved pocket monsters.

Neon White

No other game made me feel as smooth, as cool, as fast and as clever as Neon White. Traversing this deadly parkour demon hunting time trial was my favorite experience of the year. I loved parsing out the fastest route through a level, discovering shortcuts and time saves along the way, before spotting a collectible and slowing down to a puzzling crawl to work my way up to where it was hiding. I loved taking on the challenge rooms that require precise and inventive ways of using your arsenal, not just for killing, but for traversal purposes as well, and then taking that knowledge back to the main game and seeing how i could implement it into my runs. 

Just about the only thing I dislike about the game is some of its writing and voice acting. Spike Spiegel himself, Steve Blum does a great job, but very little else of the cast is pulling their weight. 

But when a game makes you feel this damn cool, it just doesn’t matter what little hiccups you encounter. It’s my favorite game of the year, and one I’d probably love even more if I had a dedicated crew on my platform of choice to compete for the best level times. Neon White is a kinetic experience that turned me into a speed runner with every level.

[smokestarrules]

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?

27. Who is the most stressful character you’ve ever written? Why?

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

:)

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

Okay how did you fucking know... So here's the thing. This especially goes for, like, essays and such, but it also tends to be my system when I'm writing recreationally as well. I pull up a YT video I've saved for later. I open my document. It goes like this:

I watch five minutes of whatever video.

I write 100-200 words.

I watch another five minutes of the video. I write another 100-200 words. And repeat.

I don't know why it works for my brain, but it does. It works so well that I'm able to essentially just do that for hours on end, and I'm usually able to make a shitton of progress if I'm not interrupted/distracted. But it is... strange. I'm aware lmao

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?

Fairly organized, I guess. Since I'm apparently doing proper outlines now I usually just have two docs for the fic; one a pure outline with very little prose and the other the actual body of it all. Everything I need to remember goes in the first one. Although I did recently try mapping a timeline out in one of my notebooks! Didn't work very well.

27. Who is the most stressful character you’ve ever written? Why?

Shannon, because I'm friends with you KIDDING. Uh, for a character you don't know: Caleb Wittebane, because, well. He's not actually ever said a word in the show and I had to go off of ~vibes~. For a character you do know: Lilith, probably. I find her voice really hard to narrow down and I spent a lot of time rewriting her dialogue in Road Trip AU. Hope it ended up okay.

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

This is kind of silly, but despite having not even played the source material, this comic has always stuck with me in terms of poetry, and it's the first one I thought of. The weight of the words, the emotion behind everything, its just.. incredible. One of my favorites of all time.

[jiminisnotavirgin]

A+

Pairing: professor!taehyung | collegestudent!reader

Genre: smut

Description: A one-on-one video call with your hot, college professor takes a surprising turn.

Words: 3.8k

Warnings: inappropriate student/teacher relations, mutual masturbation, fingering, clit-stimulation, and innapropriate language.

Note: After much anticipation, I hope this is my return to the writing part of the lovely fanfic world. Here’s a little something mischievous and self-indulgent (clearly!). I started writing this when quarantine and remote-learning first began last year and I returned to it earlier this week. Let me know what you think :) I hope you enjoy A+. Love, Phoenix.

Email after email, document after document, the light from Taehyung’s laptop shines bright blue across his features. The hours go by and the sky grows darker but he remains at his desk, only taking small breaks to lighten the strain on his eyes. His chair creaks as he leans back and glances outside the window. Like most nights lately, only the stars keep him company tonight.

His courses shifted to an online-only remote format due to the need for social distancing. Despite the initial confidence he displayed to his boss and colleagues over the change, Taehyung is more unsure than ever. Frustration sneaks its way into his mind like a viper wrapped around its squirming prey. His life has turned into a turbulent sea of e-mails and complaints from upset students. What’s the best way for him to support his students? How can he assure them that their mental health is more important than any essay or assignment they’ll ever complete?

A sudden knock at the door steals his attention. Jungkook, his roommate and best friend, leans against the doorway with crossed arms. “Professor Kim,” he begins with a smirk. “Do you have a minute to speak?”

“What’s up?” asks Taehyung, ignoring his friend’s use of the name his students address him with.

“Did you see Jimin’s text? He invited us over for drinks at his apartment. Are you coming?”

“Can’t,” answers Taehyung. His computer glows in his peripheral vision. “I have—“

“Emails to write, work to do. I get it, you’re a busy man.” Jungkook shrugs. “I thought I’d ask anyway since it’s Saturday night.”

“Maybe next time.” Guilt floods Taehyung’s chest and makes it difficult to look Jungkook directly in the eye. Not only is he a shitty professor but he’s a shitty friend, too.

Jungkook finally steps inside the room, occasionally tinkering with Taehyung’s things until he reaches his desk. “Whatever. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Jungkook’s already-large doe eyes go wider. “Because all you do is sit at that damn computer all day!”

“I have to teach classes online, what do you expect?”

“It’s not healthy. You barely even leave your room to eat.”

“Who are you, the food police?”

“No, I’m your best friend,” Jungkook answers. “When was the last time you did anything fun? Or normal? You’re twenty-six, Tae, not a hundred and six.”

Taehyung sighs. “I can’t think about any of that right now. Actually, I should get back to my work...”

Jungkook takes the hint and leaves, but not without shooting a glare that makes Taehyung regret his choice of words. He can’t worry about it right now though—not when he has a call planned with you in about two minutes.

He was surprised to see an email from you in his inbox yesterday. You’re one of the students that hasn’t reached out all semester unlike most of the others in his courses. He knows just what kind of student you are: the type who floats through classes quietly but still gets high marks. You’re an older student. You fade into the background by avoiding the attention of your peers but your work stands out, therefore, you do too. He recognizes it because he was that student, too.

Taehyung opens the app for the call, expecting you to pick up after a minute or two but you answer within seconds. “Hello,” he greets you.

You tuck a stand of hair behind your ear and speak but no sound follows the movement of your mouth. He waits but nothing changes.

Taehyung clears his throat. “I think your microphone is off,” he says and types the same words into the chat box at the bottom of his screen.

You squint as you bring your face closer to the monitor. “Can you hear me now?”

He smiles. “Perfect. So, how are you doing? How’s the semester been so far?”

You shrug. “It’s been okay. I’m just trying my best, you know? What about you?”

“Pretty much the same. There’s nothing to do besides read and grade assignments.”

“I wanted to talk to you about the midterm, actually...” your voice fades out and your eyes drift away from the camera. He digs through his memory for what you wrote but his mind comes out empty-handed.

“Let me pull it up on my computer.” He searches through his saved files and documents.

“Oh, you don’t have to do all of that.” You pause for a few seconds. “It’s about my grade.”

“Let’s see... B-plus. Nice work.” When he looks away from your paper, he catches you frowning.

“Could you give me some feedback on it?” you ask.

“I left a few comments on the side,” he answers, eyes still glued to the document. He exits the window and focuses on your face once again. “I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you. You’re a lovely writer.”

“Not good enough if I can only get B-pluses,” you answer with a sigh. Taehyung sits up in his chair, surprised by your shift in tone.

Are you looking for an explanation? A justification for the grades he’s given you? “Most students would be satisfied with a B-plus in an almost graduate level course.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not your other students.”

His brows twitches. “Oh?”

“I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an arrogant jerk but I’m not used to getting anything lower than an A on my papers. The fact that I’m about to graduate and can’t hack yours is pretty... frustrating.”

He presses his lips together. “I don’t know what to tell you.” What do you want to hear? Can anything he’ll say wipe that glare off your face? It’s interesting to see you lose your cool after all this time.

You refuse to back down from the challenge. In this impromptu staring contest, your brown eyes penetrate his through the computer screen.

Taehyung decides to give in. Slightly. “One thing I will say,” he continues, “is that I’m particularly tough on my best students. If I gave you an A-plus on every essay you handed in, what would you work up to? There’s no doubt about the strength of your writing.”

Your expression changes immediately. “Oh,” is the only word that leaves your lips. The lines of anger decorating your forehead smooth out as your mouth eases into a relieved smile.

It’s in this moment that Taehyung finds himself looking at you. Truly looking at you.

There’s something about the determination in your face as you plead your case, as though nothing else in the world matters more. Your glossy, heart-shaped lips possess a reddish tint that reminds him of cherries, or rubies. Even through the pixels on the computer screen, you retain the same freshness he remembers from a few months ago, if not more now.

All this time on the computer has gone to your head, he thinks to himself. Perhaps there’s still a chance for him to catch up to Jungkook and the others.

A giggle erupts from your side of the call. “So my papers are good? And here I thought I wasn’t good enough for you.”

“I didn’t mean to make you suffer,” he murmurs and runs a hand through the waves in his raven hair. His eyelids flutter closed as he sinks into his chair and stretches his arms. Finally, a meeting he can consider a success; a meeting where the student leaves the call less frustrated than when it began. He prepares to end the call and log off for the night.

Then he hears it.

It’s faint and quiet and quick but he hears it, as if all sounds in the world were turned off and yours was amplified. The sound echoes in his mind as though you were right there beside him: “If only you knew how you make me suffer.”

This progression of thoughts occurs in a matter of seconds. By the time he’s processed your statement, his eyes have been forced open and any chance of relaxation for the rest of the night disappears into thin air.

“What?” he asks, voice betraying the casualness he wishes to exude.

“Oh, nothing.” You blink innocently, long lashes fluttering like a pair of butterfly wings. “I just care about your opinion, Professor Kim, if you can’t tell.”

“Right...” His eyes trail to the messy display of pens and papers spread out across his desk—anything to avoid your gaze. Its intensity has multiplied a thousandfold and threatens to melt him like a popsicle in the sun. He ignores the surge of anxious heat flowing through his veins.

“I mean,” you continue, lips pursed. “Who doesn’t love hearing a little bit of praise every once in a while, right?”

Your statement hangs in the air for what feels like an eternity. His shirt suddenly squeezes his torso. His pants suffocate his thighs. The room feels like a furnace and dizzying all at once, but the tension in the air keeps him in the moment.

“What are you doing?” he finally asks.

All the blood drains from your face and your limbs freeze. You hold your hands up in the air. “I’m sorry, professor. I didn’t mean to—“

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” warns Taehyung. A new fire fuels his gaze. With his thick brows, chiseled face, and beautiful black hair to match, your professor is a flame and you’ve been dying to get burned since you first laid eyes on him.

You pull off your hoodie and toss it onto the ground behind you. With a small tug of your index finger, you adjust the spaghetti straps of your pink tank top, underneath which you wear no bra. Your nipples prick at the thin fabric that stretches with each of your breaths.

“You deserve so much more than a little bit of praise,” he murmurs, erasing any doubts over your advances towards him.

“I do?”

“Mmhmm. Especially since you’ve been such a good girl.”

This man couldn’t possibly be the same one that lectured your class all semester. Something sinful replaces the innocent, awkward mannerisms you’ve grown to know over time. No more does he hesitate with his words or actions. Instead, he leans towards the camera with his shoulders pushed back. You’re greeted by his neck and the tan slope of his chest that hides beneath the loose collar of his button-down. You want nothing more than to rip off his shirt with your bare hands. For now, you can only imagine what lies beneath.

“Good girls deserve rewards,” he says with a swipe of his tongue across his plump bottom lip, snapping you out of your daze.

“What should I do?” you ask and glance at your closed bedroom door. Fortunately, you locked it before the call started. You don’t want any intrusions from your roommate.

“You should wind down and take care of yourself. You’ve been working so hard.” His eyes dart down to your tank top. “Close your eyes and imagine it’s me worshipping your chest.”

Your eyes fall closed as your hands drift to the hem of your top. Your fingertips graze your stomach and stop when your skin begins to slope up into the mounds of your breasts. “What would you do if you were here with me right now?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I’d make it my mission to kiss every part of you but first, I’d focus on those beautiful breasts of yours. They’d fit in my hands perfectly.”

With your left hand, you grasp one breast and tighten your grip just the slightest bit. The squeeze forces a sigh from your lips and although your eyes are closed, Taehyung struggles to control his own breathing as he watches you begin to unfold. With the other hand, you bring two fingers to your mouth and coat them in saliva only to bring them down to your nipples which harden with each squeeze and stroke.

Taehyung swallows in anticipation. “Just like that. Keep going.”

“Wait, what about you?” you ask, voice raspy and slightly out of breath.

“What about me?”

“I’m not the only one who deserves a reward.”

“Watching you wriggle and writhe in desire is enough for me.”

You cross your arms. “Nope.”

He chuckles. “What do you suggest I do, then?”

“I want you to fuck yourself with your hand and imagine it’s my pussy squeezing the life out of you.”

Your words knock the air out of Taehyung’s lungs but he manages to recover quickly. “You may be a good girl but you’ve got a dirty mouth.”

You smirk. “What are you going to do about it?”

The sound of his metal belt buckle clinks from his end. “Touch yourself right now. Play with your clit and we’ll see if you’ve still got that nasty mouth of yours when you’re begging me to cum.”

You raise your brows. “I fully intend on cumming at least once in your presence tonight, professor, whether I have your permission or not.”

“Call me Taehyung.” He takes a moment to reflect on the current situation versus the dynamic you had only minutes ago. “Why now? Why did you initiate—”

“My grades go above all else. I didn’t want to jeopardize any of that,” you answer. “And I also waited for your sake.”

“My sake? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were doing this to secure your grades,” he muses.

“Nothing boosts my ego like getting an A-plus based solely off my hard work,” you answer. “Fucking my hot professor is for my own personal pleasure.”

You description makes it sound so typical, just another everyday thing like washing the dishes. Are you using him? Deep inside, the thought of you using him arouses him. He wants to be used by you.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, suddenly absorbed by you and the way you carefully orchestrated this interaction. How long did you think about this moment? Were you afraid of rejection?

“I know. Everyone likes me but I always want what I can’t have.” You wink. “Life’s more fun that way.”

Fun. “Enough talk. Let me see.”

“Yes, of course,” you stutter, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. You don’t mind his demands or commanding tone. In fact, you invite them.

“Slide back,” he instructs you. “I want to see everything.”

You swallow and obey immediately, rising to pull your chair further away from the camera. You take the chance to slip off your sweatpants which leaves you in nothing but your underwear and tank top. Your underwear isn’t fancy but it’s what’s below that he’s interested in.

You lower yourself onto the seat, not bothering to keep your legs pressed together. You spread your knees slowly, as if your legs were a book with pages waiting to be read.

“Good. Open up more and show me how bad you want it,” he says. The smile in his voice urges you on.

Your hand creeps along the stretchy waistband of your underwear. The material works against you, forcing your wrist against your pelvis and the area you so desperately wish to touch. You have to be patient since you seek to milk this moment for as long as possible.

Your middle finger searches for any sign of dampness and you gasp when you find a small pool already built up at your core. When you look back at the monitor to see what he’d like you to do next, you watch as he adjusts himself into a similar position to yours.

“Your turn. Take off your shirt,” you instruct.

He raises his eyebrows. A mischievous smile dawns on his face. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“So demanding. That’s what got us here in the first place,” he remarks but proceeds to unbutton his shirt.

“I’m not afraid to go out and get what I want.”

“I know, and I admire you for it,” he says. His shirt begins to crinkle as he unbuttons lower and lower until eventually, the front parts to reveal his chest. His abs are soft and his warm honey skin looks smooth. You wonder what it would it taste like.

As he rolls up his sleeves, you observe every movement of his hands. They’re large. One of the first things you noticed about him when he spoke in class and lead discussions. You always wondered what his hands would look like if they were doing something else entirely... Now, your fantasies have come to life.

You force your jaw closed but he’s already caught you staring. “Like what you see?” he asks through his low lids.

“Oh, please. As if you don’t know you’re attractive as hell.”

A low laugh emerges from the man and you smile. If only you could bottle it up and keep it. When he reaches into his pants, you follow along, taking the slick from your finger up to your clit in one smooth stroke. You hum and bite at your lips to contain your reaction.

He shakes his head. “Don’t hide it. You sound beautiful.”

Your other hand starts to wander as you go to work on your clit. From your head to your chest, you seek something to ground you as your soft bud puffs with pleasure. No longer does it hide, tucked away beneath the crevices of your lips. You grind against it using your hand and a slow swivel of your hips from left to right.

“You’re doing so good. I’m so proud of you,” coos Taehyung. “Your body was made for this. For pleasure.”

The sight of him gripping the base of his cock is almost enough to send you over. A light glaze of sweat builds on your forehead but you make no effort to wipe it. Taehyung wishes to feel the heat of your body on his. It’s probably better than anything he could ever imagine.

Perhaps now more than ever, he longs for the days before the virus took over and broke everyone apart. He misses those times so much he could cry, especially since he took them for granted. At the same time though, he thinks about the effort those close to him have made to keep in contact. Even old friends he hadn’t spoken to in years called to catch up with him. His students have stuck out the most out of anyone. One or two of them don’t even own laptops but they show up to class on time and bring their A-game. He believes he should take a note or two from them.

As he studies you, the way you squirm in delight, and the way your body responds to the ministrations of your hand, a wave of relief washes over him. If it weren’t for these circumstances, he wouldn’t have had this moment with you.

“Taehyung,” you moan, bringing him back.

The sound of you calling his name shoots heat straight to his cock. With the precum glistening at the top, he grabs his cock and works the tip using his thumb. “Fuck. Look at what you do to me,” he groans at the sensitivity.

“Please,” you take in a breath and continue, “t-tell me more.”

If praise is what you want, praise is what you’ll get. “You’re so hardworking in everything that you do. Look at you now. Touching yourself just for me.”

“Yes, yes.” You moan as your fingers settle into the one position that feels like you’ve struck gold.

“How far inside can those fingers go? I bet you can put them in real deep.”

It’s as though your hands were waiting for his approval. You slip inside your clenching, gaping hole using two fingers. They slide in easily but the initial stretch is foreign since it’s been so long.

Taehyung groans and for the first time tonight, you begin to see him lose control. His cool exterior sinks into the pleasure of his hand—and of you—leaving him a sweaty, desirable mess. His hair sticks to his forehead and his stomach clenches with each stroke of his hand. He moves slowly, trying to match the pace of your hand. You pick up speed and allow your body to move against the rhythm of your hand. Your insides feel warm and soft and slippery. You close your eyes and imagine he’s the one fingering you with those gorgeous hands of his.

The rubber band of pleasure in your stomach begins to stretch. The squelch of your pussy grows louder with each passing second.

Taehyung is well-endowed but never did you imagine his dick would expand so much in length and girth. He could spear your pussy in one fell swoop, destroying your insides and anything else that gets in his way.

“Taehyung, I’m close,” you say with a sigh. You barely have the energy to speak.

“Fuck, me too,” he adds. “I’m almost there. Cum with me.”

His hand travels from base to tip and each part of the journey is smoother than the last. He massages each vein and ripple and moves even faster when he catches a glimpse of the uneven quiver of your thighs. Heat churns in his stomach and all he can do is chase it desperately. He needs it like oxygen, to breathe in the sight of you along with the pleasure of his nether regions.

The rubber band snaps. It strikes you in waves, each crash stronger the last. You let the waves overtake you and succumb to the burst of pleasure spreading through your limbs. You pull out your hand and clench around nothing as the sensitivity forces your legs closed.

Just when you thought things were over, Taehyung makes a request: “Taste it.”

You waste no time in taking your fingers to your mouth, gliding your tongue on the pads of your fingertips, and spreading the salty fluid in your mouth. All you can focus on is the heavenly sight of Taehyung coming. Each breath he lets out comes with a moan. You swear you can feel the vibration of his low voice against your own chest. His hair covers his eyes but you know they’re closed in pleasure. He intakes one sharp breath before it finally takes him over.

He can feel nothing but release. Release of stress. Release of work. Release of anything except you. As white spurts of cum squirt from his dick in a messy stream of strings, all you can think about is the beauty of his body.

“This was fun,” you admit with a smile. “I’m glad my attempt didn’t flop.”

“No, that would’ve been a huge mistake on my part.”

As you look down, your eyelashes brush the top of your cheeks and you bite your lip in anticipation. “I know I’m graduating and all, but we should do this again sometime. If you’re interested.”

He rests his elbows on his desk and brings himself closer to the camera. With his hand holding the side of his face, he takes in the sweet sight of you. “Did you enjoy it that much?”

“Oh yes. In fact, unlike some people, I’d give you an A-plus.”

[armysantiny]

Pretty - LTY

Pairing: Taeyong x male reader

Genre: fluff, oneshot

Includes: college au, college au, third-year reader, third-year Taeyong, Taehyung mention, Johnny mention, Changkyun mention, injury, library, crushing, confession, strangers to lovers

Word count: 1.1k

Warning: reader falls from a ladder, head injury

Rating: 12

Tagging: @kwritersworld, @kdiarynet, @kpopscape, @kpopficsnetwork, @ultkpopnetwork @kpopcontentcreatorsclub, @k-dinernet​, @lovesick-net, @neo-constellations, @neoswitchnet​

Beta reader/s: @queen-of-himbos​ (ty!)

Summary: Who knew watching Taeyong every day would leave y/n with an infatuation that craved his attention? Maybe he was a fool to fall for the school’s resident pretty boy, but that was on y/n.

An: Love Fools~ And the collapse is lifted straight from Thai BL lol (2gether and 2moons2 to be specific). Okay a lot of this is lifted from Thai BL

Y/n didn’t watch Taeyong on purpose. At least, he didn’t the first time.

Typing away at his essay, y/n glanced at the notes on his desk every so often. There was something about studying in the library late at night that the third-year med student enjoyed. Everything felt still, and he could focus on his work - and the music he was listening to. Pausing his progress to search for a book he needed, his fingers brushed along the spines of the books absentmindedly, he snapped back to reality when he bumped into someone. 

“Oh, I’m sorry were you looking for a certain book?” Taeyong smiled, finding himself amused at y/n’s flustered apology. Shaking his head, he offered to help find the book y/n was looking for, which was gladly accepted. The faster y/n could find his book, the better. The pair looking for the textbook, y/n couldn’t help but watch Taeyong - the university’s ‘pretty boy’; peach pink hair, bright eyes and his iconic soft denim style. Shaking his head when he realised that he was staring, y/n focused on finding the book.

Finishing the essay a few hours later, y/n saved the document and gathered his things, ready to get some well-earned sleep. Heading out, the third-year student was joined by Taeyong, who had been humming something or other under his breath. He hadn’t already left? Y/n thought the popular boy had already gone back to his room, 

“Taeyong-ssi, I didn’t realise you were still here - are you heading to the dorms?” Turning to y/n, the male in question nodded, putting his headphones around his neck in exchange for ear warmers. Y/n was heading in the same direction, so naturally, it made sense to the par of them to walk there together. Little in the way of conversation being made, y/n arrived at his door first, waving a short goodbye to his companion before heading inside. However, he couldn’t help but watch as Taeyong walked away, something unidentifiable playing on his curiosity.

Second time’s no mistake, that’s for sure.

Sitting in the cafeteria with a book in hand, y/n’s focus was mainly undisturbed, until he heard Taeyong’s name called. Looking up, he recognised the voice as Johnny’s, but again, he found himself watching Taeyong. They were only a few tables apart, but the stars in Taeyong’s eyes were more than clear, and y/n had started getting lost in them. And of course, his friends found it amusing when the bookworm didn’t respond to a thing they were saying.

“Y/n! Are you listening?” Changkyun laughed, waving his hand in front of y/n’s eyes. Looking over confused, y/n raised an eyebrow when his table started to laugh amongst themselves, murmurs here and there.

“What, what were we talking about? I wasn’t paying attention.” Rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile, y/n’s ears flashed a shade of pink. Sighing, Taehyung returned to what he was was talking about, which happened to be his latest art piece. Trying his hardest to listen to the topic of conversation - he really did try - y/n’s mind wouldn’t stop; Taeyong looked perfect, and his smile was imprinted in y/n’s imagination. What if he could make him smile like that?

No, that wouldn’t happen, would it?

Third time’s a charm, isn’t it?

By this point, y/n was certain that he had something for the pretty boy he watched everyday. There had to be a reason why his heart wouldn’t rest whenever Taeyong came to mind, right? He would confess, but the timing had to be right, and it wasn’t the right time yet. Not when helping his seniors’ hang up banners and he had to keep steady on the ladder. And just as it happened, y/n was distracted for a second too long, his head hitting the ground hard only moments later. Vision blurry, the last thing y/n saw before he passed out was Taeyong calling for help, and his seniors making sure he wasn’t bleeding out.

Waking up in the infirmary with the sun still high that afternoon, y/n got up with a groan. His head was throbbing and the glare of the sun hitting his face hurt his eyes. Rushing to close the curtains, Taeyong walked over to the injured male and helped him sit up, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

“Y/n, are you okay? You hit your head pretty-”

“I have feelings for you.” Blurting out his confession, y/n wished - by some miracle - that he could reverse time. Embarrassed and very much humiliated by what he thought was a rejection, y/n looked down, his hands suddenly more interesting than talking to Lee Taeyong. Clenching his fists as he waited to hear a response, the lovestruck third-year raised his eyebrow when his crush slowly opened his hands, a simple hum filling the silence.

“You’ll hurt yourself if you keep doing that, you know?” Saying nothing about whether he had accepted or rejected y/n’s feelings, Taeyong went about getting y/n some painkillers and water. Judging by how hard he fell, he’d be out of class for a while.

His, but I didn’t know.

Y/n and Taeyong had started spending more and more time together - and as a result so had their friendship groups - but y/n had yet to get a response to his flash confession. And it had been a week already. Chatting amongst themselves, they stopped when a group of what looked like first years approaching their table. One of the girls stepping forward with some encouragement from her friends, she blushed heavily, taking a breath before she spoke.

“Y/n sunbae, I like you. Could I have your-” Stepping up and taking y/n’s hand with a glare directed at the first year, Taeyong spoke up,

“I’m sorry, but he’s already taken,” everyone - y/n included - watching Taeyong with wide eyes, he continued, “he’s my boyfriend.”

“What?” Y/n blinked, confused and hurriedly apologising as Taeyong pulled him aside and away from everyone else. Watching him, y/n’s mind was racing a mile a minute. Did Taeyong just say what he thought he just said. He was his boyfriend? When they had finally stopped walking, y/n let go of Taeyong’s - or apparently, his boyfriend’s - hand, in need of some answers.

“Taeyong, what was that just now? Your boyfriend?” Y/n asked, waiting on a response. He needed to make sense of what just happened.

“I should have told you earlier huh? I accepted your confession I just - didn’t know how to tell you without embarrassing you.” Taeyong admitted, looking the other way before looking back. “Well?”

“This means we’re together, right..?”

“Yep, that sounds about right.” A smile forming on y/n’s face, he felt that familiar butterflies-in-your-stomach, but he could put it to the side, at least. Gently reaching for a hug, y/n rest his head on Taeyong’s shoulder, his mind at ease.

Maybe falling in love wasn’t so foolish after all.

[whipped-cream-writings]

Midnight Coffee

In which you say something that you think no one will hear. Unfortunately for you, someone does. And that someone happens to be Akaashi.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: None

A/N: Tumblr just keep it in the tags!! I’m not a bot I’m just super annoyed at this point >:(

Anyway, thank you @poccosticks​ and @emmicchi​ for being wonderful and helping me out with this!! Go give them lots of love! And thank you to my followers who have to deal with this. I’m so sorry but this is the last time I’m reposting!! 

You should not be drinking coffee at 1AM.

But was it really your fault? There was so much homework. There was a test tomorrow and an essay that’s due at eight AM that was worth 100 points. It wasn’t your fault that you were doing it now, either - it was assigned two days ago and it had to be at least seven pages.

“Focus.” A soft voice reminds you. “The faster you finish, the sooner we can go to bed.”

“We?” You echo. You dragged your gaze from your bright computer screen to see him sitting cross-legged on your bed, a book on his lap.

“As in you’ll go to sleep in your bed, and I’ll go home and sleep in mine.” Akaashi’s smile is crooked as he looks up from his book. “But I wouldn’t mind either way.”

The shock you feel is just as effective as coffee. “Huh?”

“I sleep at Bokuto’s house all the time. Sometimes I even carry a pillow and blanket in my bag just in case.”

You can’t tell if that strange feeling in your stomach is relief or disappointment. You don’t have enough time to acknowledge it. Acknowledging it leads to thinking about it and that leads to thinking about him and-

“Oh. Must be tiring.” You respond, cutting yourself off.

“I’ve gotten used to it.” He sighs, laying on his back as he turns the page once again.

You turn back to the blank document in front of you and start to type up your paper. Will it be obvious that you’re typing up the paper six hours before it’s due? Maybe, but you don’t really care at this point. As long as you get a grade that’s higher than a D, then it’s fine.

You feel like someone is staring at you after page one is complete. A prickly feeling spreads all over your back and you turn to look at him.

“Do you need something?” You wonder aloud. Why was he staring at you? Not that you were mad about it, but-

“I think your formatting’s off.” He blurts, standing up from his spot on your bed and walking over to your desk.

You rub your stinging eyes and ask, “How so?”

“It’s MLA, right?” You nod, “Remove the empty line in between the paragraph and title.” He gestures to the gaps and hits delete before your brain even registered what he said.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He gives you a small smile and walks back to where he left his book. You look at him for a moment longer before kicking yourself mentally and typing away.

It’s been about three years since you’ve met Akaashi, and you’ve been friends with him for two and a half. A year ago, your perception of him changed drastically. You don’t know what did it. Was it because of his willingness to help anyone at his own expense? Or was it his dedication and how responsible he was? You weren’t sure.

But you did know that you were smitten with him. Did he know that too? Maybe, but he’d never show that. A small part of you hoped he didn’t know and that he’d never find out. That would ruin the friendship, wouldn’t it? Even if it did work out, then how long would you two last? Would it end in a way that would make you two hate each other?

No, you told yourself. You had an essay to finish. You can think about that later, when he’s not reading in your bedroom.

You’re making fast progress. That coffee must’ve helped a lot more than you thought it did. Sure, your leg is shaking uncontrollably under the desk, but it’s a small price to pay for a passing grade.

The words are coming easy and your thoughts are organized just enough for it to make sense. The bottom of page three is so close, and it’s only been an hour! Or maybe two? You’re not sure, but checking the time will stress you out, so you keep going.

You put in earbuds once you get to page four. Three more pages and then you can go to bed.

Well, that’s assuming the coffee will let you sleep.

It’s now 4AM.

And your essay is done. You skim through it and hit submit once it’s ready, letting out a long sigh of relief. You turn to your bed, tempted to just flop down, but something stops you.

He’s still here.

The book is covering his face, but you can hear the smallest, quietest snores coming from under the book. His hand is dangling off the edge of the bed.

He’s asleep.

If your heart could burst out of your chest, it probably just did.

How long has he been here? Is he cold? You delicately take the book off of his face.

He looks so peaceful like this. It’s… really nice to see, actually. Today he looked stressed to you, so now, seeing him relax, it made your insides all warm and fuzzy.

You stop staring (after realizing that it’s kind of creepy) and place the blanket over him. You’ll have to sleep on the floor tonight, but you don’t mind.

You grab an extra blanket and pillow and place it on the floor. It makes your back hurt but it’s fine.

You sigh and try to get as comfortable as you can.

The thoughts come rushing back instantly. It’s hard for them not to, since he’s less than a foot away from you and he’s asleep. Maybe… maybe saying your thoughts would make you feel better. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so suffocating if you just said the words.

You hold his hand and take a deep breath. Why did it feel so hard? He was asleep and he wouldn’t know. He would never know. That was the plan.

So you say the words.

“I love you.”

It’s barely a murmur. It sounded light, partially because it was a whisper, but it contained all of the emotions that you’d been holding in for so, so long.

You let go of his hand. Yeah, you’re feeling a lot better. Now all you need is a good night’s-

Something grabs your hand in the darkness.

And it squeezes your hand gingerly, like you might break.

No.

This isn’t real, this can’t be real.

This is some sort of nightmare.

You look up and in the faint moonlight streaming through the window, you can see eyes. In particular, there are sapphire eyes staring down at you.

“I’m glad.” He whispers, voice raspy from just waking up. “Because I love you too.”

You’re silent. How are you supposed to respond? If a brain could melt, yours was. Yours had melted as soon as he grabbed your hand.

Words died on your tongue and you stared at him with a dumbfounded look. He laughed a little and a small smile blossomed on his face.

The moonlight is blocked by him and you don’t have time to say anything.

Because he’s kissing you.

His movements are delicate, his thumb rubbing your knuckles tenderly. His lips are a little chapped but you find that you don't mind. You close your eyes, letting yourself enjoy the sensation. You feel his free hand tilt your chin up just a little more.

But it gets to a point when neither of you can breathe, and break away, with barely enough space for your heavy breaths.

“Were you actually asleep?”

“I heard you moving around a little and it woke me up.” He admits. You try to apologize when he shakes his head. “I didn’t mind one bit.”

“Thank you.” He nods a little and lays back down.

“We can talk in the morning.” He notices your sleeping area and moves back, making space for you as well.

There are no more words spoken for the rest of the night. There’s only you, Akaashi, and your hearts beating in unison.

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate everything you guys do! My requests are open so feel free to request anything you’d like! I hope you have a wonderful day 💕

[writing-with-olive]

How I write consistantly

This is about my process personally, so if this doesn’t work for you, you are under no obligation to try and replicate it. Anyway, these are my two rules for myself about writing.

1) I have to write every day.

2) I have to work on my story every day.

On the surface, this is a little bit extreme, but there’s some nuance to it so I won’t get burnt out, and so I can also have time to focus on school and my social life. 

For the first point, that I have to write every day, this does not necessarely mean I have to write on my WIP every day. Keeping my writing skills sharp is important, but I extend writing to working on essays for school, journaling, making tumblr posts and other things, as well as my WIP. As long as I write ~500 words (that’s the number that works for me - if you’re following my method choose a number that works for you), in any given day, it counts. 

(more details under the cut)

There are a few exceptions to this. The first is that if I”m doing any travelling that’s longer than a few hours, I am not obligated to write, as travelling is time consuming, and often it’s surrounded by other time sinks like packing and unpacking. The other is that if there are larger school or familial events that take up most of the day, I am not required to hit that word count. For me, as I am unpublished, and therefore do not make writing my carreer (yet), I let other things take priority. 

.

The other point, that I have to work on my story every day, is also not as daunting in reality as it might seem. To me, working on my story means writing and creating new words, but it can also mean brainstorming new content, figuring out how to fix plot holes, editing, working on character development, and so forth. I don’t force myself to take an exorbitant amount of time on this, but at the end of the day, I need to be able to point to something I did, and be able to say “that’s progress.” The benifit to this method is it helps me to avoid burnout. I’ve I’m on a roll and write thousands of words one day, the next, I don’t have to force myself to create new content if I’ve exhausted that well. Instead, I can work on smaller things, or just straight-up different ones.

.

I developed this strategy for myself about a year ago, after wasting an entire summer thinking about how I should write, and wanting to write, and all of that, rather than actually writing. Yes, taking breaks is good for you, and yes, burnout is a real thing, but by that point, I was just too lazy on any given day to just sit down and start. All it would have taken would be to open up the story document. This method is nice because it forces me to at least do something while still letting me take care of myself. 

If you think this system could work for you, go ahead and try it! Let me know how you like it.

[goodnightyoongi]

Yoongi x fem!reader pt4

genre: hurt/comfort/smut

rating: E

word count: 4,5k

summary: In this series, Yoongi and you are childhood friends, and he’s helping you through some issues you’ve been facing lately, while your relationship slowly blossoms into something more. 

warnings: implied depression, self-critical thoughts, EXPLICIT SMUT (oral sex) in the later part of this chap. Start and finish are indicated

Can be read standalone, but is part of a chaptered series

Part I: Catalyze

Part II: Flicker

Part III: Rise

“...and yeah, that’s...why I haven’t been keeping up with my schoolwork.”

You finished the sentence with a timid glance at the curly-haired woman on the other side of the desk. Her hands were knitted on top of the table, one of her eyebrows slightly arched. You understood why. Answering the question “so what seems to be the issue here,  Miss Y/LN ?” hadn’t been easy, and you were pretty sure it hadn’t made sense, either. 

Basically, you had just stuttered some disjointed, vague gibberish about "feeling a little under the weather lately". Aka, nowhere close to the truth. And now, the anxiety was making itself known. In the form of beads of moisture running down your neck, and your hands fidgeting in your lap.

Because you didn’t want to be here. In fact you wanted to be anywhere but here.

But once again, Yoongi had showed himself perfectly able to push you into motion and help get you back on track. Using his steady, encouraging flow of reassurances, and fingers laced into yours as he pulled you with him to your final destination. And now you were here. Squirming uncomfortably in a chair in the university counselors office, and discussing why you had fallen behind on your studies, all entirely against your will if you were honest.

Your eyes wandered over the neat rows of folders on white shelves, the piles of documents on her desk, the sterile academic environment. Run, is what your brain told you. Just get up, walk out, escape this situation – but Yoongi’s hand, inconspicuously resting on your thigh, prevented it.

Because he’d insisted on coming with. And now he sat next to  you, like a parent there to discuss his child’s progression. Clad in his usual uniform, black hoodie and snapback pulled far over his forehead, all in order to avoid being recognized. It worked, and you alone had the counselors undivided attention.

“So, if I understand correctly,” she started, pushing her half-moon glasses further up her nose. “You’ve been...feeling ill? That's why you’ve been absent?”

"Uhm...kind of..."

“I see here that you have a lot of overdue assignments...and you haven't attended classes...but it would be best if you book an appointment with the university healthcare, if you have a condition that interferes with your ability to study.”

Your ears heated up as you digested this information. A tiny, sober voice within you told you yes. Do it, open mouth, voice the issue. Another, more overpowering and toxic one told you no. Repeatedly, until it was basically chanting it like a whole firing squad in your brain.

“No, no, I don’t need to. I...uh, I’ll make sure to finish all the assignments, ma'am. Just been feeling a little...unwell, but, yeah. I’m fine.”

You ignored Yoongi’s pointed glare, along with his attempts to kick you in the shin under the desk. Your counselor expressed clear puzzlement over the sudden change in your narrative.

“Oh? But didn’t you say that you’ve been feeling down and experiencing difficulty with keeping up with your studies?”

“Uh...yeah but, it was just a temporary slump,” you lied, and accompanied it with the most convincing smile you could conjure. “I really am fine, and I will catch up on it. Promise.”

“Miss Y/LN...I really do think you should go see the healthcare unit.”

“No need, I’m fine, I’m absolutely –”

“She’s depressed.”

The sharp exclamation draped itself over the three of you, and the office fell silent. You slowly turned to your left, quiet anger flaring in your gut. And Yoongi, the bastard, was wearing a polite smile and blatantly ignoring your burning looks.

The perplexed-looking lady opposite you blinked about a million times in confusion, before clearing her throat.

“Is what your friend is saying true, Miss Y/LN? You've been feeling depressed?”

Your airways were blocked, by what felt like a thick bundle of dry cotton. You didn't get a word out. Yoongi decided to just nod in affirmation on your behalf.

"Yeah, yes, she’s...been down. Not left her apartment much and just slept and not eaten and...I think she needs to see someone.”

“Oh, oh dear...well, that sounds worrying indeed." The lady turned to you with a motherly smile. "I’ll book you an appointment to the healthcare center, Miss Y/LN. They can refer you to a mental health professional if there's a need for that...hold on a moment...”

She started tapping something on her computer, while she kept talking, but you didn’t focus on it much. You were forced to just listen and accept the documents shoved into your hands, with the appointment date and other information. Forced to nod affirmatively when she announced it would be next week.

Not like you were about to go. No way.

Once you were dismissed, you were fuming. You stormed out and over the university grounds, leaving Yoongi and the repeated stream of requests to slow down behind you.

“Y/N, fucking wait – jesus, can you wait!?"

He finally caught you, but you ripped your arm from his grip instantly, backing further away while spitting furious words in his face.

“No, I can’t! Why the hell did you have to tell her that, Yoongi?! You had no right to tell her I’m…”

You came to a screeching halt just as you were about to say it, and gathered yourself. Yoongi regarded you from a distance, his eyes like dark, tranquil oceans as usual.

Always so understanding, always compassionate. Even now when you wanted none of it.

“I’m not depressed. Everything is fine with me.”

You said it with steadfast conviction. Maybe, if you said it enough times, it would become true.

The wind rustled the leaves in the trees around you. It was actually a beautiful day. The warm rays of sunshine heated your back up, and Yoongi’s sympathetic smile was securely in place as always.

“Y/N...I had to. If you get to decide yourself you just dodge your issues and pretend they don't exist for all eternity. I can’t just stand by and witness it anymore, okay? Please just trust me. Everything isn’t fine with you.”

“Yeah it is,” you interjected stubbornly. You shook your head, shook it until nausea hit you and you just stumbled uselessly when trying to vocalize what you felt.

“It is, and I don’t want to go...it makes me feel sick. I don’t want to talk about it...I don’t want to be the person who has something wrong with them, Yoongi...I want to be normal.”

Your voice was suddenly saturated with hysteria and tears, and Yoongi was on you in an instant. Picking you up, just like he always did, collecting the pieces and patching you up again. You sobbed into his hoodie, and asked him, over and over again, why it was so hard.

“It’ll get easier,” Yoongi promised. He hugged you as you cried, while a warm breeze blew past and gently ruffled your hair and dried your cheeks. “It will. But not until you face it, hun.”

During the next few days, you spent a lot of time hunched over your laptop. Slogging your way through email after email, and doing your best to figure out exactly how far behind you were in your studies. 

Really damn far turned out to be the answer.

You did his best to fix that, finishing up half-written essays and projects collecting dust on your hard drive until you were close to crying from the effort. All of this happened while Yoongi sat next to you, peering over your shoulder and making sure the process was moving forward. But it left you exhausted, and the list of assignments was mile-long.

“I’ll never have energy to finish all this...might as well drop out,” you whined, face buried in your hands, multiple times when it all felt too overwhelming. But Yoongi wasn't about to just accept that. Of course he wasn't.

“Nope, you sure as hell won’t,” was his stern reply to that. He was like an impenetrable wall you couldn't bulldoze your way through, and so you remained in front of the laptop, while his hawk eyes made sure your attention stayed on the screen.

Annoying. It was, but you had to admit it was effective. After many cups of espresso and bordering-on-meltdowns the list gradually shortened, and you were left slightly less stressed. But you’d transformed into a wet rag at the end of it, a wet rag that Yoongi transported to the couch and kissed and hugged and showered with compliments about how you were doing so well.

And it felt good, admittedly. Even though he must be lying through his teeth. His arms wrapped around you also felt great, and his gentle kisses made you all tingly – but that was the problem. He was too gentle. Too soft, like you were some kind of fragile flower to be handled with care.

Yet another week had passed since your almost-steamy-encounter on Yoongi’s couch. Another week’s worth of wet daydreams, of imagining the two of you in scenarios that stretched so much further than just kissing. Another week’s worth of not daring to make the first move.

Because without alcohol flowing through you, you remained much too shy and insecure, even though he was your boyfriend now.

The desire you felt for him made your blood pump faster, made your lower regions heat up. Every time Yoongi held you, every time he sat next to you with his elbows leaning on the table. Because you just wanted so badly for those veiny hands to undress you. To wrap around you. To travel further down and envelop you, all of you.

But at the same time, you were scared when imagining it.

Maybe Yoongi’s vision of you wouldn’t match the reality, the you hidden underneath the oversized sweaters and baggy sweatpants you’d worn for the past week. Maybe he would just see what you saw in the mirror. 

Someone a little too gray and washed out, who didn’t get nearly enough sun and who lacked that rosy, healthy glow on their cheeks.

Maybe Yoongi’s feelings would even cool once he saw your body. Despite all the things he’d said for the past weeks about how you were gorgeous and beautiful and perfect. 

The thought brought you close to tears.

You just felt like an illusion, about to crumble anytime now.

All of this messed things up, and soon you found yourself in bed. At 5PM on a Saturday evening. And all of Yoongi’s messages sat in your phone, unread and ignored since a good 24 hours.

You were pushing him away again, and it was just a matter of time until the doorbell would ring.

It did, like an ominous church bell ordering you to return to the land of the living. And you dragged yourself over the same damn floor, towards the same damn door, mentally preparing for yet another lecture by the same person you’d let down, again.

“Hey there, bun,” Yoongi greeted casually, leaning against the wall in the corridor when the door slid open. “What’s up? Ignoring my messages again?”

“Yes,” you confirmed dully. Unnecessary to pretend otherwise, and you were aware how wantonly snappy you sounded. Yoongi took absolutely zero notice of it. He looked stunning as ever, the dark hair slightly tousled by the wind and hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

Hands that still hadn’t touched you where you wanted them to and when would they?

You slammed the door with unnecessary force after Yoongi strode past you, causing him to turn around in surprise.

“Woah? Easy with that. Bad mood huh? Look kinda rough.”

“Yeah. I always look kinda rough, if you haven't noticed.”

“Hold it right there. Don’t twist it into something it’s not. I just meant you look a little tired.”

He gave you a sharp glance, a warning that clearly told you "don't even try to argue". You yielded, heaving unhappily. 

“I’m sorry. I just...I wasn’t feeling well, and everything just felt shit, and...I couldn’t get out of it”

“Uhuh...that’s...kinda why you need some help, sweetie.”

“I don’t need help.”

You tried, but it was weak at this point. Yoongi closed in on you, raising a hand to cradle your cheek and sneaking the other one around the small of your back.

“Sorry to slap you with uncomfortable truths, but...yeah, you do. And I understand that your mood shifts and you want to be alone sometimes...but please don’t ignore my texts. You're making me sick with worry when you don't answer. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Alright, baby. So did you shower today?”

“No.”

“Eat?”

“No.”

“Y/N...that’s no good." He trapped you in a kiss, before separating you and giving you another look that left no room for arguing. "Come on. Go get showered or changed and whatever you need and let’s head to the shop.”

You huffed, turned and stomped off to your bedroom without a word.

Getting changed and going outdoors didn’t feel tempting at all. You dug through your closet, but once again there was nothing of use, because once again you'd failed to do the laundry. Because you’d been nestled in bed instead. And crawling into it again felt like a splendid idea now.

"How's it going over here?"

Yoongi had made an appearance in the doorway. He raised a critical eyebrow, skeptically eyeing the pajama shorts and coffee-stained t-shirt you were still wearing. You just stared blankly ahead, cross legged on the bed and not about to move another inch if you could avoid it.

"Badly. Have nothing to wear and I'm hideous."

You knew how that sounded, oh you knew. But you could do absolutely zilch to prevent it. Yoongi closed the distance between you, his gaze oddly dark, like a looming thunderstorm.

"Stop saying those things about yourself."

You bounced up, gurgling with unidentified frustration you just couldn’t seem to kick.

"No. Because it's true."

“It's really not. I understand it feels true to you. But you’re stuck with these ideas about yourself, because you’re seeing everything through a skewed lens. That makes you overly critical of yourself. Understand, baby?”

“Nope. You’re fucking wrong.”

Yoongi's finger on your mouth silenced you. He was right in front of you now, and he leaned in until his lips brushed over your ear.

"You're not hideous. Get that through your thick skull."

And then he pulled back, and kissed you. And it wasn't gentle. In fact it was everything but gentle. It was demanding, his tongue finding its way into your mouth and his fingers weaving themselves into your hair and his nails scraping over your scalp.

When you finally parted, your body was already in overdrive, your pulse crashing through your veins and your lower regions practically on fire and thumping almost painfully.

"Think it's about time I touched you, huh,” Yoongi pondered, eyes half-lidded and with his finger pressed down on your lower lip.

You just swallowed, whining something that sounded like "uhuh" in response. Yoongi's hands were all over you in an instant. He swung you around with your back facing him, and moved your hair out of the way so he could press feather light kisses down the junction of your neck. You were lost, to the unexpected shivers worming all over your skin, lost until you heard a request that made your knees weak.

"Is it okay if I take off your clothes?"

"Ye– yeah," you managed, without really thinking. There was just a split second of self-consciousness, and then your shirt was pulled over your head, your shorts hiked down – and you were bare, save for your underwear. You went rigid for a second, shielding yourself, but Yoongi untangled you quickly.

"Nah, none of that. Don’t do that. Let me see you."

He looped his own arms around your waist, and sprinkled kisses all over your exposed skin – your shoulders, your jawline, everywhere he could reach. And then, he spun both of you around. Facing the full length mirror, the one you’d been about to throw out so many times now.

"Look at yourself."

You looked. And looked away the next second. You saw yourself, the body you hadn’t studied for a while. You saw your skin illuminated by the lamplight, showing every little imperfection in unforgiving technicolor. And you saw Yoongi's toned arms blanketing you.

"Yeah, I'm looking. What's there to see? I'm, just...whatever. Just...meh."

"No. Not meh. Everything but meh. Stubborn, a little bratty, but definitely not meh."

He forked fingers into your hair, yanking you back to stress the fact.

"Or ugly. Or useless Or anything negative you want to imagine. I know you don’t see it yourself, but trust me, then. Can you do that?"

“Maybe.”

^^^^^^^^

You couldn’t, still – but you were coming undone, basically unable to speak, unable to do anything but succumb to Yoongi's voice and touch and tongue leaving goosebumps all over your skin. 

Your breaths picked up as he unhooked your bra, sliding it off and throwing it to the side. You let out a pitchy whimper and dropped your gaze as he cupped your breasts. One by one, gently caressing them and rolling the pink buds between his fingers.

“Beautiful. Beautiful and mine,” he whispered into your hair.

He kept one hand loosely around your throat, while the other traveled down your spine – down, down down and all the way down. There, he gathered one of your asscheeks into his hand, squeezing possessively and pressing his own, very blatant boner against your ass.

“This too,” he purred cheekily, a little louder, and slapped it once, very lightly. 

And you choked.

Well, nearly. Choked on the feeling of the pulsating, warm and very real body pushed up against you. It infused you with a craving that practically hurt, and you gasped in surprise when Yoongi’s hand snaked its way to your front, sliding down to part your thighs. He nibbled on your neck, while his fingers found your clit, lightly brushing over it and drawing moan after bated moan from you.

"You're hot, okay. I love your face, I love your body, I love your personality, you’re gorgeous and don't ever doubt that." Yoongi murmured, while stroking you through your underwear and holding you steady with his free hand. "I've wanted to fuck you for ages."

Oh shit. Okay. All you could do was whimper needily in response. The sinful confessions into your ear made your head spin violently – and that voice. Surely couldn’t belong to Yoongi – it was too husky, just oozing dominance – but it did. It did and it seeped right into every corner of you, into every cell of your body all the way into your fingertips and not least, your crotch.

And you felt like you might suffocate from the pressure. From Yoongi's fingers rubbing teasing circles all over you, his breath hot and wet against the nape of your neck.

"I want to see you too,” you whined, wrenching yourself loose and pawing desperately at his t-shirt.

"Sure thing, baby.”

You held your breath while his clothes were discarded. Shirt, jeans, briefs, and then he stood there, stripped in front of you. Not just a smudgy almost-Yoongi in one of your vivid dreams, but the real Yoongi. With a heinous twinkle playing in his mischievous eyes, his posture self-assured and his dick half-hard and smooth and...actually a little menacingly thick in girth.

You swallowed down the nervously flapping butterflies, and stepped forward, tentatively running hands all down his pale chest and around his back and his ass and absolutely everywhere.

You’d imagined this man naked so many times. All throughout your adolescence, and now that it finally happened, it felt like some trippy dream.

"God, you’re fucking...beautiful, Yoongi.”

"Says you.”

He grabbed you, kissing you and pressing the two of you together, with his hands firmly on your ass. And you heated up to scorching temperatures, while your brain was filled with only one thought.

“I want you.”

“Want you too. But we’re taking it slow.”

You grumbled, but he just briefly let his finger travel into your mouth, and smirked in response when you sucked on it like it was a lollipop. Then, you were hauled up and lowered onto the bed on your back, and turned into a shivering, whimpering wreck of a person. Yoongi kissed you, pushing his tongue in to drag it over the roof of your mouth, and continuing down your torso, your chest, your tummy until you shivered pleasantly underneath him. 

He mumbled little words of praise at you while he went, and your breath came out shorter and shorter the further down he traveled. Soon he had to tell you to remember to even breathe.

“Relax. You’re so pretty, been wanting you for so long.”

He parted your legs gently, wrapping his hand around your thigh and sucking teasing love bites into the sensitive skin until you were almost crying from the sensation.

“Want me to touch you, baby? Can I take these off?”

You curled your spine against the sheets, desperate for him to just do it already. “Yeah – yeah. Please.” 

"Good. Cause I'm really dying to."

Your panties slid off, finally, and Yoongi crawled between your legs, blinking up at you, dark eyes clouded with lust and tousled bangs falling into his forehead.  All of you was practically vibrating, filled with electricity sprouting underneath the tips of his fingers as he rested one hand on your tummy and settled the other one between your legs.

“Look at you...already so wet for me.” He spread you with a thumb, sliding it between your lips, and you whined in response. Not like he was wrong. You’d basically been soaking wet since that first kiss. “So pretty. I want to make you feel good, hun. Can I eat you out? Do you want that?”

You nodded frantically. You could feel your release literally around the corner, and whatever Yoongi was about to do to you would lure it out at record speed. He offered you one of his gummy grins, gripping your thighs with both hands for leverage and pushed his pink tongue out, dragging it all over your clit and making you cringe against the sheets. 

“God – Yoongi, holy shit-”

“You taste good. Fucking sexy as hell.”

You didn’t care about restraining yourself anymore. You allowed yourself to moan unabashedly while he sucked on your clit, and tantalized you by pushing his tongue into you and pulling it out the next second.

You hadn't been touched for so long, you hadn't come for so long . An eternity. And now you watched, eyes feverish, as Yoongi turned you into a slobbering mess in minutes. Your orgasm was close, and Yoongi must have felt it, because he quickly pulled back, lips glistening and cheeks flushed. 

Next you felt his fingers teasing your entrance, and he threw you a quick, questioning glance and asked, voice hushed and dripping with lust, if it was okay. You hurried to nod again, crying out when he pushed a finger into you, slowly gliding over your walls and filling you up, while his thumb rubbed against your clit. Settling on his knees, he threw one of your legs up and squeezed your thigh as he started finger-fucking you, slowly but surely.

You couldn’t help but wonder, amidst all the hazy pleasure, how the hell he was that skilled with his hands.

Probably because he was experienced. You knew he’d had kind-of-girlfriends, but maybe he'd even had multiple partners. That thought made you irrationally jealous, once again, and also worried you’d appear like a rookie in comparison.

But those thoughts were quickly washed away, for now, as Yoongi hit the spot again, and a pitchy whimper escaped you, echoing through the whole bedroom.

“You’re tight,” he hummed, gaze heavy on you. “How’s that? Feels good?”

“Y– yeah...feels great…”

Your neck cringed, your hands gripping the sheets as he picked up the pace, before adding a second finger. Soon he had two of them knuckle-deep in you, fucking you while working your clit while you squirmed against him to create even more friction. You watched him, his lustful dark eyes plastered on you, the veins in his arms tensing as he brought you closer and closer. 

"Yoongi...I'm gonna...c-come...if you keep doing that–"

"Well that's the goal, right? You're moaning so prettily, turning me wild," Yoongi teased, leaning forward. He positioned himself half-laying on top of you, so he was able to reach your quivering lips while his fingers slid in and out of you.

He kissed you hungrily, and you could feel his cock poking you in the side. You glanced down. There it was, all stiff and veiny and fully erect and – damn.

Yoongi wanted to fuck you with that.

You pictured it, and then you were done for.

"Coming?"

"Uhuh..."

"Go on, baby girl.”

Well. That did it. You shuddered your way through your release, spasming against Yoongi’s fingers and crying out a lewd and elongated “fuck” as you came. You faintly heard Yoongi mumbling something as you rode it out, and then you collapsed into the mattress. Completely drained, and with your chest heaving and droplets of sweat running down your neck.

^^^^^^^^

Yoongi pressed a chaste kiss to your lips, and withdrew his hand. "You okay, pumpkin?"

You nodded wordlessly, slow waves of pleasure still rippling through you. Yoongi sneaked an arm around your shoulder, pulling you against himself and squeezing you tightly. 

"See why I wanted to take it slow now? Yikes...you look like you just finished a marathon. Didn't take you very long.”

He nuzzled into your hair, and you weren’t even able to provide anything coherent in response yet. Soon he announced he was taking you to shower, and before you could protest you’d been scooped up and carried off, bridal-style.

The shower was turned on, and you were dazed when jostled into position underneath the spray of water. It splashed down between the two of you, heating you up as you rested your head against Yoongi’s chest, just enjoying the warmth and being so close to him for now. 

He pushed strands of soaked hair out of your forehead, and propped you up more securely when you were in danger of sagging to the floor. "Are you alright, sweetness?”

“Yeah...sorry, it’s been a while since I, uh…was...touched...”

You quietened, bashfully pushing your nose against his chest again to avoid meeting his eyes. He gave a little chuckle, and ran his hands all over your back in reassuring circles. 

“Yeah, I figured. That’s okay. Just take it easy, baby. I’ll take care of you, don't worry.”

Yoongi gathered you into his arms, and your throbbing muscles were soothed by the flow of hot water. But you also felt a rigid boner poking your thigh, still. Belonging to him. 

You peeked down at it. It was a little intimidating, but you were also eager to return the favor. Even though your tummy turned into slush at the thought of doing something wrong.

You swallowed down a lump, and Yoongi noticed your hesitance. 

“Y/N. Just relax.”

"You're still hard though, I can –"

"Yeah, duh, I'm hard,” Yoongi chuckled, and pressed a tender kiss to your lips to shut you up. “...cause that was hot,” he added, and your cheeks instantly turned tomato-red.

"But we got all the time in the world. I can wait. You're the most important, bun."

"Fine, ugh...okay."

You burrowed into his chest, letting out a soft moan when he squeezed some shampoo out and started massaging it into your scalp. Yep. You could definitely see yourself getting used to this.

[dearlazerbunny]

If/When/Then

Pairings: Kyoya Ootori x Reader

Genre/Ratings: Five Times trope; G, mentions of severe anxiety

Words: 4200

Summary: Or, five times Kyoya didn’t kiss you (and the one time he did)

WARNING: the last bit gets a little angsty

One

“Kyoya. I swear to god. Can we please just-” you rub your eyes exhaustedly, trying to get the harsh blue glow of your laptop out from under your eyelids- “take a break? Or better yet, call it a night?”

The boy sitting across from you on the sofa glances up, his work reflected in his glasses. “How many words do you have?”

“Kyoyaaaaaaaa-”

“Y/N. How many words?” His tone is partially amused but mostly paternal, like he’s asking a small child how many candies they snuck before dinner. If you weren’t so brain dead it’d piss you off, but as it is you’re mostly just petulant.

“Um… three thousand and… something?”

A slender finger pushes his glasses further up his nose. “And the minimum word count is…?”

“You damn well know,” you mumble, before letting your head drop into your hands. One of your elbows is resting on your keyboard, leaving a long trail of jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjs across your half-finished essay.

“What was that?” A socked foot aims a kick at his shin, but your aim goes wide and he dodges it easily. “I believe the answer is six thousand.”

You give a long, heartfelt groan.

Kyoya sighs. He can easily knock out an essay in under an hour, while you require a little more effort- and a lot more bribery. Even if English is one of your best subjects, he knows sitting here for the past few hours laboring over a boring political comparison has to be dragging on you. And he’s been too caught up in his own work to even try to keep your spirits up- something he’s now regretting, seeing the usual sparkle in your eye dull to something uncharacteristically quiet.

“Here.” He reaches over the edge of his perch and feels for the basket of blankets he knows will be sitting there- his sister has a fondness for being wrapped in a minimum of three layers at all times. Carefully, as so not to disturb his own precious computer, he reaches over and drapes a loose-knit woolen beauty over your lap. He even takes a second to tuck the ends over your toes. You watch, fascinated, so used to his fingers tapping out mile-a-minute documents in a harsh staccato that this moment of softness seems unreal. Maybe you’ve already fallen asleep and are dreaming, or it’s a particularly nice sort of 2AM hallucination. Kyoya notices you staring- of course he does, he notices far too much about you nowadays to try and convince himself he only values you as a friend- and very pointedly looks anywhere but your gaze. He’s not sure he could look away if he caught your eye now, hazy with sleep and reflecting starlight from the nearby open window. “Better?”

“Um- yeah.” You settle a little further into the cushions. “Thanks.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Of course, when he glances over at you not ten minutes later, you’re fast asleep, laptop precariously close to toppling to the floor. He rescues it and saves your work before shutting it down. There’s a slight smile on your face as you dream, and the overwhelming urge to lean over and press a kiss to your forehead makes Kyoya stop still.

His fixation on you has grown over the past few months, that much is clear, but he hadn’t predicted them to progress this quickly this fast. He has his grades to maintain, a club to run, and a company to prepare for. He shouldn’t have time for silly distractions, like categorizing exactly how peaceful you look curled up next to him, or reaching out and brushing a piece of hair out of your eyes.

He shouldn’t. And yet, he does- he always will, for you.

Two

“Remind me again who said this was a good idea?” You squint your eyes as you turn your face towards the sky, which is lit by a brilliant sun. The Host Club is hosting on location this time- a beautiful stretch of beach peppered by towels, umbrellas, waiters offering fruity drinks, and a couple hundred squealing girls. You know. Relaxing. “I think I might like to punch them.”

“You might talk to Mori about a healthy and productive way to manage your rampant anger issues.” You snort and roll your eyes, which in turn makes the corner of Kyoya’s mouth tick up. He’s under an umbrella nearby, neatly marking down figures on his notepad. “Besides, I thought you liked the water.”

“I do, when it’s not so…” you gesture to the gaggle of twenty or so girls nearby, all primping and twisting in their bikinis to hopefully catch the eye of their favorite host- “crowded.”

“Ah.” He can sympathize with that. The smell of salt and brine takes him back to childhood, with the two of you making castles in the sand and pestering the other with seashell-finding competitions. Beach days were lazy days when your parents couldn’t be bothered to have either of you in the house, but to the two of you they were worth their weight in gold. Today, as he watches you stretch into the heat, his childhood friend is overshone by the you of here and now. You’re gorgeous in a simple one piece more stunning than any of the frills the other guests are wearing and hair in a sea-woven braid dangling down your back. Likewise, the Kyoya of here and now is having some thoughts that his five-year-old self have would never even dreamt of.

“I’m going swimming. If I don’t come back in an hour, tell Tamaki it’s his fault for dragging us all out here.”

“Hm? Oh,” Kyoya clears his throat. “Yes, of course.”

You throw him a glance- is he acting strangely? You can’t quite tell; it might just be the heat- before jogging off towards the waves, well away from the party as a whole.

He watches you go, and thinks about going with you, before a guest trills his name and his attention is dragged back to where he doesn’t want it to be.

At the end of the day, the crowd has left, and the club gets a precious hour or so of pink sky and calm surf to themselves. Hikaru, Kaoru, and Haruhi are searching the shoreline for shells and sand dollars; Mori is hauling damp sand for Honey’s massive sand castle; and Tamaki surveys all of them like a proud father. You and Kyoya are sitting a little away, just close enough to the water to let it kiss your toes. “This is more what I remember,” you murmur, a smile on your face, and Kyoya digs his fingers into the sand so they don’t accidentally wind their way around yours like they want to.

“Oh, here.” You pluck your friend’s glasses from his face and use the towel draped loosely over your shoulders to wipe the lenses. When you hand them back, Kyoya has a bit of a stunned expression on his face, making you giggle. “Sorry. They had salt on them. Seemed like it would annoy you.”

“Indeed,” is what he says, willing his tone to be nonchalant or at least neutral. What he wants to say is, do you remember when we were eleven, and you tried the same thing? You ended up getting knocked over by a wave and lost them in the ocean. I was so mad at you, but I still had to hold your hand on the way home so I wouldn’t fall. You didn’t let me trip. Not once.

If he were a braver, bolder, better person, he’d kiss you right now, and see how you taste like salt and sunshine and memories. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t- he lets the Hitachiin twins, who are sneaking up behind you, douse you in water instead. He lets you shriek at them and take chase, threatening to drown them both, breaking the moment and leaving him sitting by the sea alone to remember what was and what might be.

Three

It’s safe to assume that Valentine’s Day is never a dull affair in Music Room 3.  

Everything is decorated with lace and delicate crystal trimmings; the roses are even more bountiful and in every color the human eye can see. The attire is more formal than usual, the cheeks rosier and the lips pinker, and it tends to be the one day when the hosts receive more than give.

Each of their tables is piled high with gifts, cards, baked goods swirled with elaborate frostings. Even though Tamaki keeps insisting that the girls should be the ones receiving sweet nothings, not the hosts, you can tell he’s more than pleased by the growing mound of sentiments slowly dwarfing the other boys’. As it should be, Kyoya supposes.

Honey’s haul is mostly sweets, naturally, and this year Mori also has a surprising armload- apparently one of the only times his admirers hear him speak is when he says ‘thank you’, leading to multiple gifts just so they can hear his voice more than once. Hikaru and Kaoru’s combined mountain looks more like a dragon’s treasure horde than a pile of presents. Haruhi adamantly refused everything until one guest brought her a particularly excellent platter of fish, based on the way she’s been sitting in the corner with her cheeks stuffed for the last twenty minutes.

Kyoya notes all of this with a vague smile, adjusting his calculations and trajectories for the next few months to match the turnout. Valentine’s Day is one holiday he can generally sit out. Sure, there’s a small stack of cards and remember-me’s on the sofa next to him, but his persona as the analytical and aloof host tends to leave him further down in the ranks than the other boys. Which is just fine with him, if he’s being honest- he has manners, but being constantly charming is tiring at best and egregiously aggravating at worst.

“Mother Dearest, it appears you have another card to add to your beautiful collection!” Tamaki flounces over in his wine-colored suit, at least thirty guests in pursuit. “It doesn’t come with a giver, unfortunately- oh! Perhaps you have a secret admireeeeeer!” He wiggles his fingers excitedly and hands over the card with a flourish. “How exciting! A mystery for Valentine’s Day!” His groupies sigh and fan their faces, overcome with the romance and intrigue of it all.

“Thank you, Tamaki,” Kyoya says drily, nimbly plucking the proffered gift from the boy’s fingers. “Please, don’t ignore your guests on my account.”

“I would never! Each and every one of my princesses mean the world to me!” As he and his followers fade back to the other side of the room, Kyoya props his glasses back up on his nose and curiously slides his thumb under the flap of the envelope. It’s a plain white paper, not embellished with hearts or gemstones or ribbon or any of the other garish decorations usually attached to such a thing. The card is similarly simplistic, with only a pencil-sketched heart on the outside and a greeting that reads, “To My Favorite Host.”

Interesting. Perhaps there’s a mystery here after all. He flips it open, not sure what to expect- and immediately has to keep himself from laughing outright. Inside is a crude sketch of two stick figures- one has comically large glasses drawn on its blank face to helpfully distinguish itself as the Kyoya of the pair- and note in chicken scratch: You’re such an asshole, but I guess I love you anyways.

Only one person could be responsible for such a thing. After all, you were never renowned for your artistic talents.  

…

“I got your… note.”

You don’t look up from the book you’re paging through out in the courtyard underneath a spectacular old tree. The leaves frame you beautifully against the afternoon sky. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mmm. I found the art particularly museum worthy.”

Now you smile a bit. “Well, you’re a museum worthy sorta guy.”

“Favorite host is quite the compliment.” He’s getting dangerously close to… something; toeing a line he hasn’t touched before, and it’s making his heart race.

“Don’t get too cocky. Mori’s still got like, an eight-pack.”

Kyoya sits beside you, careful to leave several tree roots between you and him. “Why a valentine? I see you every day; you could have just told me yourself.”

“I dunno.” He fixes you with a look, one that says sure, I believe you. You give a halfhearted shrug, shoulder almost brushing Kyoya’s. “I went by the music room. Everyone else had, like, mountains of stuff and I just… felt like you were under-appreciated, that’s all.”

“I see.” A beat passes with nothing but the wind ruffling your hair. “That’s… kind of you.”

Now you do close the gap between the two of you, nudging your knee against his. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Four

Your laugh, Kyoya thinks, is the best thing he’s ever heard.

You’re draped over the edge of his bed, head towards the floor, giggling wildly to yourself as you mutter an inside joke that only make sense to you. Your cheeks are flushed, and the bottle of alcohol you snuck into Kyoya’s room is sitting a few feet away, half full. He’s had a few sips, but he isn’t much for relinquishing his mental faculties so easily. It’s tempting, though, what with you so lazily tapping his shoulder or nudging his side to get his attention- it’d be so easy to demolish all his carefully crafted walls and drown in you.

But someone has to be the responsible one- and if he’s honest with himself, the thought of you or he regretting what happened in the dead of night come light of day makes him sick to his stomach. So he sits primly against his headboard, the computer on his lap a boulder pinning him to his spot, only glancing at you every so often to make sure you haven’t tumbled off the bed completely, despite your absolutely intoxicating mood coaxing him closer and closer to throwing caution to the wind.

“-and you’re just… you’re just a good person,” you continue, meandering through your thoughts. “Like, seriously. Why do you have to be so amazing. It’s so goddamn annoying.”

He desperately hopes you’re too out of it to notice the reddening of his own cheeks. “I am hardly what anyone would call ‘good.’”

“Lies! Lies. And. Slander.” You emphasize every word with a poke to various parts of his body- his big toe, his elbow, his knee. “Like- okay. What are you working on right now?”

In actuality he’s browsing through the Ootori Group’s latest research and development journals, evaluating their recent findings and sifting the unimportant from the extraordinary. But you’re most likely far too gone to actually understand any of that, so instead he just generalizes: “refining new data from the company.”

“Yeah! You wanna be a fucking doctor, that’s like- that’s amazing!”

Kyoya quirks an eyebrow. “You do realize my entire family is in the medical profession.”

“No, your entire family throws their money at the medical profession.” You wave a finger in the air like a drunk scientist hypothesizing their theories. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“No, listen you jerk!” You haul yourself up and place yourself face-to-face with your best friend, close enough that Kyoya can see the intensity in your eyes. “It’s one thing to pay for shit, it’s another to actually be in the room when someone is having a heart attack and wanting to save their life. You care. More than anyone I know. And that makes you amazing.” You let out a rush of air, the sudden verve in your words having worn you out. “I dunno. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense. Whatever. I’m gonna lay down.” You curl up next to his knee and half heartedly arrange a blanket around your legs before falling asleep.

Meanwhile, Kyoya’s gaze has never left your face. The words may have been spoken by a loose tongue, but anyone could hear the honesty in your voice and see the passion in your eyes. You really think that much of him? Or rather, could you possibly think as much of him as he does of you?

He wishes he could shake you awake and ask you to elaborate. He wishes he could tell you that if he’s amazing, you’re a supernova. He wishes he could get drunk and fall asleep next to you while pressing lazy kisses anywhere he can reach.

His reaches for the bottle, but his fingers barely brush the glass before changing course and clicking off the lamp instead.

Five

God, I hate these things, you think to yourself as you tug on the straps of your dress. You’re not quite sure if you’re referring to the pins sticking your scalp, the uncomfortable formal gown you’re squeezed into, or the entire event in general- actually, it’s most likely all of the above. As much as you love Kyoya and the rest of the boys, you adamantly refuse to attend any of their grand balls. You’re not a fussy person, so the general pompous air of the things always gives you a headache, and you hate wearing dresses anyways. But today you zipped yourself into a slinky black sheath number that’s long enough to hide tennis shoes under the hem, forced your hair into something presentable, and even threw on a little mascara.

Because of Kyoya.

Kyoya, who mentioned in passing that this was the best celebration he’d ever planned, and seemed extremely proud of it to boot. Kyoya, who always grumbles as he slips on his suit, wishing he could spend the night with his charts and figures instead. Kyoya, who always returns to school the next day more stressed than usual, a tight smile plastered on his face as he fends off hordes of fangirls.

The things you do for this boy.

It’s immediately clear when you arrive that you stand out in your ebony gown, a wisp of smoke and night sky amongst a sea of flouncy pastels. Luckily, each of the boys steps up to greet you- a sweet hug from Honey, carefully avoiding wrinkling your dress; good natured teasing from the twins; a particularly extravagant complimentary poem from Tamaki. Eventually you meet Haruhi at the table laden with food, grateful for someone down to earth to laugh with.

After an hour, you’re almost convinced Kyoya finally worked up the nerve to skip the event altogether when there’s a delicate gap on your shoulder. “Would you care for a dance?”

“No,” you say, because that’s what you always say when Kyoya asks you to do something (even if he knows you’ll do it anyways). He smiles and takes your elbow, ignoring the whispers and glares from the other guests- who is she? What makes her so special? Everything, he wishes he could tell them. So many things he it would take him years to count them all.

“I thought you hated these things,” he says when you’re safely tucked in his arms on the dance floor. The fabric of your dress shimmers softly, as though marking you as something uniquely precious amongst all the other attendees.

“I do,” you reply. You’re slowly taking his lead, following the waltz music played by a six-piece orchestra. “But I think you hate them more, so I figured if anything I could help put you out of your misery.”

“Hm. Poisoned boutonnière, perhaps?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of hiding up in the rafters with a blowdart gun.”

Kyoya chuckles, sweeping you along. You’re not a bad dancer, all things considered. “I appreciate the thoughtfulness, though that might be difficult given your choice of attire.”

You grin at him playfully, raising your hem up just enough so he can see your battered old sneakers on your feet. “Nah, I always come prepared.”

It’s such an odd juxtaposition- this beautiful girl in the sinful dress accessorizing with sharpie-covered shoes that are peeling rubber- he can’t help but laugh, a real laugh, perhaps the first one he’s given since the night began. Even out of your element, you still maintain something that is so quintessentially you. He wishes he could tell you how beautiful you look. He wishes he could nudge your sneaker with his dress shoe in a secret invitation to follow him somewhere quiet, to steal small fleeting moments that would make the whole night worth its while.

He thinks about this every time you scuff your feet, hearing the slight squeak of rubber against the polished tile floor.

And the beginning…

“Stop it, Kyoya,” you grit out through a clenched jaw, using all your strength to unfold your friend’s fingers from his bloody palms. His fingernails have dug so far into the skin they’ve left bright red crescent moons dotting his hands. You focus on those, trying to soothe the sting with the fabric of your shirt, because if you look at his face and the tears crawling down his cheeks you’ll start crying too, and that’s not what either of you need right now. “Just talk to me. Please.”

No response. He’s trembling as though there’s a blizzard only he can feel, so you sit him on your bed and wrap him in every blanket you have, leaving his hands free so he can clutch at yours like a lifeline. “Just focus on me, okay? Everything is fine.” You try to keep your voice steady as you murmur anything reassuring you can think of, trying to coax life back into his eyes. You knew his anxiety had gotten worse, but this… this is the most catastrophic yet. You sit cross legged in front of him, so close your knees brush his, and hold onto his fingers for dear life. “Keep breathing. I’m here. It’s all okay.” Please please please come back to me. Come on, Kyoya. Don’t let the demons win.

Slowly, piece by piece, something in him seems to uncoil. His grip lessens just a little, and his breathing becomes audible enough to reassure you he’s still with you. Gently, you put a hand to his forehead, then cheek, testing his temperature. “Hey. You with me?”

Something like a sob escapes his lips, thin and heartbroken. Your own shatters along with it. In an instant you have him in a hug, arms as tight around him as you can possibly manage. Kyoya tucks his head into the crook of your neck, practically collapsing on top of you until you aren’t sure where he stops and you start. He says your name over and over and over again, a hymn only he can hear. You press your lips to his temple just to reassure yourself he hasn’t left you and let him cry; only able to offer comfort in presence and spirit. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you hold him tighter.

“I’m always here. You know that.”

He sniffs and wipes away a tear with the heel of his hand, wincing when the salt burns his cuts. “Idiotic. I apologize for… all of this.”

“Stop,” you say firmly. You bring his eyes up to meet yours, so he can see the fire in your gaze. “You have nothing to apologize for. Ever. Okay?”

Kyoya stares back at you, feeling small and worthless against the monsters in his own brain. Every second spent with you banishes them a little farther back into his mind, loosening the vises wrapping his chest and letting him breathe a little easier. It has almost consumed him today, so he ran to the only safe place he knows-  you. And you had held him and wiped his tears and not for a single second judged him for falling apart.

It occurs to him you are one of the few people on earth who see him for who he truly is, and will still hold his hands anyways.

Ever so gently, he presses his lips to yours- soft, tentative, and barely there. It’s a thank you, and offering, and a question all at once. It’s not the grand romantic gestures he’s planned late at night, wanting to sweep you off your feet in a shower of confidence and joy, or even really a conscious decision- it’s instinct, want, and something like bittersweet love.

You blink at him, eyes wide. “Kyoya… I-”

He stills. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, bringing a hand up to press your fingers against his cheekbone. “Don’t ever be sorry,” you say again, and then you kiss him back. You kiss him like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do; like you’re saying to him what took you so long, you idiot?

He doesn’t know. But he won’t ever make that mistake again. He’ll kiss you every day for as long as he lives to make up for all that lost time, all those late nights and seaside musings and dances with a hand on the small of your back.

When the sun rises, it illuminates a world of a thousand new possibilities.

[dantesintegrity]

You know what I absolutely yearn for these days

Just the ability to go to a Diner. The kind that is open all the time, day and night, so you can simply just go in and just sit down. Perhaps you chose a table, or on one of those stools near the counter, but you always end up picking a booth next to the wide windows. You don’t order anything, but you do have a Coffee Mug next to you. You always loved the smell that Coffee makes. You take a sip of Coffee. You sit there with your computer open, and you just write. Whether it be an essay you need to finish, or your dream novel you are finally writing, you just write. 

A waitress walks up to you and asks ‘do you need anything ...?’ while pointing to the menu that has been sitting by to you for the past hour. However you instead point to the Coffee Mug near your hand and say, ‘More Coffee please,’ She walks over to the Coffee brewer and takes the jug from it and pours your Mug before walking away. As she walks away, you take in the scene once more. You turn to your right, there are dozens of people in the Diner. All of them are talking to the person they sit next to, on their phone, or to no-one in particular. You don’t pay attention to any one of them, but the echoes of their voices provide a good ambience. You turn to your left, there you see the parking lot with cars, bikes, but you also still see the road people got here from. It's noon, so the Sun is high up in the air and the Natural light it provides gives you some warmth. You look back forward, you see your computer with a word document open with a few sentences written. You take a sip of Coffee, and start writing. When you start typing, the world starts to blur away as you enter the Flow.

Suddenly, You are interrupted. It’s the Waitress again, she asks, ‘you need anything ...?’ While pointing to the menu once again. You shake your head as you point to your empty Mug, ‘I just need more Coffee,’ She then takes the jug she was already holding and refills your Mug with Coffee before moving along. You take a sip of Coffee. Then you take a second to actually look at the menu you were given. It has a standard retro style to it, completely consisting of bold lines of Red on White. The things you can order includes many different types of Burgers, Hotdogs, Steaks, Sandwiches, Patty-melts, Fried Chicken, Fried onion Rings, Fries, Soft drinks, Hard drinks, Milkshakes, and whatever it is that’s acting as the Special for that particular day. The pictures look delicious and the descriptions sound quite appetizing, but you’re not hungry. You take a sip of Coffee. You look outside to see that the Sun that had risen high up above is now in the middle of Setting, and the blue sky is now warm orange. There are fewer cars and bikes in the parking lot, to turn to look back inside and notice that there were fewer people within. Luckily it is still enough to create an ambience to zone out to. You look back to your computer, you see the number of words, sentences, and Pages of the Document have increased dramatically, and while you do feel pride for your progress, you still wish to continue writing for just a little bit longer. You take a sip of Coffee. 

You look on your word document and put your hands back on the keyboard. You read the sentences once more, thinking of a way to continue on with what you just wrote down. You read the last few paragraphs, nodding to the subtle little metaphors, and similes, and analogies, and allegories that you put in, as you try to think of any more you could add. You go on to read back a couple pages more and try to determine flow and the speed of which everything you wrote down moves in, and you try to think of how you can progress. You try to read from the start, but you keep scrolling up, and up, and up with barely any movement in the scroll bar. Surely you haven’t written that much? Even if you did, it would still be best if you continue writing from here on. Right? You would do that, but the words, the words are just not coming to you. It’s not as if you aren’t trying, you are desperately trying to grasp the straws that come up in your mind, yet they are just too out of reach, or too close to you that they just seem generic. You take a sip of Coffee.

After you take a sip, you realize that you are out of Coffee. You call out for the Waitress, trying to find her. You seem to be completely alone in the Diner, yet the Ambience of a hundred half heard conversations still echoes within. You look outside the window next to you, and see that it is night. It’s dark, so dark that the street lamps barely shine enough to reach the ground. You can see the night sky, the hundreds upon thousands of Stars that litter the dark purple that is space. Other than the Stars, the moons, and the barely visible street lights, it is pitch black outside. You can not see anything out there. You can not see the people out there, nor their brightly colored clothes. You can’t see them wander around smiling as if waiting for you, nor can you see their gestures of beckoning you to come along. It’s too dark for you to hear them whisper about you. You take a sip of Coffee.

You notice the menu once again. Last time it was Lunch and Dinners, but now you see the menu consist of Desserts, mainly pies. There’s Apple pie, Cherry pie, Strawberry pie, Blueberry pie, Pecan pie, Lemon meringue pie, Chicken pot pie, Pork pot pie, Beef pot pie, Lamb pot pie, Wild game pot pie, Civilized game pot pie, Game pot pie, Sport pot pie, Fight pot pie, Lie pot pie, Truth pot pie, The actual truth pot pie, etc. You aren’t hungry for any of those. You take a sip of Coffee.

You look for more things to distract your mind. The diner has barely any lights on, yet it still seems brightly lit enough for you to see clearly. You look at the tables, and the small circular shape it consists of. Condiments, Jams, Coffees, and all of the other standard dining table materials are laid on it; probably more than their needs to be. You don’t know if there is even enough space to put a plate on it. Now that you are looking at them, those chairs, were they always that tilted? The counter with stools looks like a nice place, but after shifting your view you realize that the Stools are just optical illusions, painted on the counter and floor. There is also a display case with the various different kinds of pies you just read about, their colors look mesmerizing, but the way they move bothers you. Not only that but you just noticed that the front door that you were certain existed before is no longer there. Well, that does not particularly matter to you, you don’t plan on leaving anytime soon. You take a sip of Coffee.

‘Need anything ...?’ the Waitress from before says to you. You turn to her. You take a sip of Coffee. ‘I need a refill on Coffee’ You tell her, pointing at your Coffee Mug. You hear her head tilt slightly, and Coffee comes pouring down. You thank her for the Coffee as she shifts away from your sight. You take a sip of Coffee.

As you are Sipping your Coffee, you realize that both your hands are typing something on your computer. You stop your hands with your hands and scroll back up to read what you just wrote. You take a sip of Coffee.

‘You need to move on,

Please,

You have to go,

Just go,

It doesn’t even need to be forward,

You can go backwards,

You can go leftwards, or rightward.

You can go north, or south, or east, or west, or north east, or north west, or south east, or south west, or ascend, or descend, or climb, or drop, or straight, or pass, or across, or along, or between, or behind, or over, or under, or around.

Just go somewhere.’

The writing continues for five hundred more pages, you don’t like how condescending the words are. You take a sip of Coffee.

When you look back to the Diner, it appears that several more hours have passed. The sun is shining through the window but the sky is a Mossy-Brick color now. It doesn’t bother you though, you never really cared about what color the sky is. You take a sip of Coffee. Besides, you can’t even see the window anymore. There is only a Mirror there, you don’t like looking at it though, the way the reflection looks back at you annoys you. You take a sip of Coffee. The ambience in the Diner has fully returned, there is still no-one else in the Diner, but no-one got bored and they decided to have a conversation with each other. You take a sip of Coffee.

The Waitress returns. You take a sip of Coffee. ‘Anything ...?’ she says to you. You try to look up to see her face, but no matter how far you look up, and twist your neck, and bend your back, you just can’t seem to reach her face. Regardless, you look at the general direction you assume her face would be in and say, ‘I would like some more Coffee please,’ while pointing at the Coffee Mug. She blinks, and doesn’t say anything. There was no malice in what she didn’t say, but you didn’t particularly like how she phrased the thing she didn’t say. She demanifests after she refills your Coffee mug. You take a sip of Coffee.

There’s a person sitting on the other side of the table with you now. You don’t remember seeing him before, but his face seems friendly so you must have allowed him to sit there. You ask him, ‘What do you think?’ He responds with a simple, ‘Yes.’ His eyes are the color of petrichor, and his breath smells like Sapphire. You take a sip of Coffee. Suddenly, there is a person playing piano behind you. Without even looking at you, the pianist somehow plays a song that aligns with every single one of your actions; She smiles as she shifts the melody to a higher octave as you grab and lift up your Coffee Mug. You take a sip of Coffee.  As you take your sip, The Pianist, The Person Across You, and every single one of the No-Ones in the Diner whistles along with the melody in perfect pitch. You take a sip of Coffee. Everyone and No-One suddenly comes to the same conclusion, and walks over to a lamp to paint it Cyan. You take a sip of Coffee. 

The waitress is now with you once again, ‘...?’ She asks. ‘More Coffee please’ You ask her for more Coffee. She doesn’t say anything to you.

She doesn’t ask you where you are going.

‘No where, I don’t need to go anywhere.’ you ask her for more Coffee.

She doesn’t ask you where you think this place is.

‘It’s a Diner.’ you ask her for more Coffee.

She doesn’t tell you that you are on the Crossroads.

‘This isn’t a crossroad, this is a diner’ you ask her for more coffee.

She doesn’t tell you that everywhere is a crossroad, this place is just more so the Crossroads.

She doesn’t tell you that you have been sitting on a crossroad for a long while, and while you can make a choice to move one direction, another direction.

She doesn’t tell you that you never even made a choice, and that even moving back is a Choice.

‘Are you forcing me to choose?’ you ask her for more coffee.

She doesn’t tell you.

You look back to the window, but you still can’t see the outside due to the Mirror, the mirror only shows you what you know you will do; and you can’t see the Sun telling everyone prophecies and the others Dancing, beckoning for you to join the dance. You look back in the Diner, and you see Everyone and No-One eating the pies that were displayed earlier, all of the colors look delicious, but you scoff at their decadence. You look forward to seeing your Computer writing on its own, all while plucking out its own keys. You look back, the Piano is now playing poker with the Cyan painted lamp. You look at the Waitress.

‘Am I dead?’ you ask her for more coffee.

‘Have you decided that you are dead?’ She asks you.

You don’t tell her your Answer.

You take a sip of Coffee.

[keiththespacekitty]

Gentle

There was a mystery to solve with Adam. 

He had a way of appearing stoic, as though he constantly put up a professional mask, the only cracks that overtly appeared being a sharp wit and a dry, sardonic humour. Even back at the garrison, even as a teen, Adam always seemed like a man determined to have a personality as beige as wallpaper.

But that wasn't the real Adam.

Shiro was used to people watching- at first, out of boredom, although after everything, people watching had become a necessity. Although watching Adam was intriguing to him.

Adam was currently writing something at the desk, although Shiro didn't know what. He sat with his back straight, shoulders back, feet flat against the floor, professional, cold. Except Shiro knew him well enough to see through it.

Shiro noticed the way that Adam's brows would knit slightly in confusion every few lines, and he'd grip the pen just a tad tighter. He'd breathe out loudly through his nose, and continue with a small shake of his head. After a few minutes, he'd pause to roll his shoulders and crack his neck with either a bored or frustrated sigh, before pulling his chair a marginal fraction closer to the desk and continuing with a blank, unreadable expression.

That's how he knew that Adam cared about what he was writing, because when Adam didn't care, he'd type it out straight onto the document instead of drafting it on paper first. Shiro had been woken up multiple times by the frustrated clacking on the keys of Adam's laptop, the heavy sighs, and the frustrated groans of a man with two cups of coffee on his desk working at three am.

Shiro had the luxury of knowing Adam during his garrison days, a young cadet who, to most people, seemed uptight, if not a little angry. But Shiro remembered the first time he saw Adam cry.

They'd been in Adam's dorm, talking, at first, whilst Adam finished an assignment for biology. It had gotten to five am, and Adam had raised his hands as if to knock his work off the table, before he politely excused himself from the table and made to walk out of the dorm, but Shiro has caught the tears in his eyes and gently guided him to sit on his bed, and Adam had cried. 

He'd started slowly, holding back his tears and trying to control his breathing, insisting that he was fine. Shiro had gently laid a hand on his shoulder, and Adam had just started sobbing. Shiro had tentatively pulled him closer, scared that Adam would pull away from the touch- after all, he never really seemed like the cuddly type. But Adam accepted the hug without protest, lifting his feet off the floor and curling up, clinging to Shiro like his life depended on it. 

It had surprised Shiro, because Adam had never appeared emotionally vulnerable. It was the first time that Shiro stopped seeing Adam as an acquaintance and started to see him as a friend. Because Adam was closed off, and here he was, sobbing into Shiro's shoulder over a 5am essay. He seemed inconsolable, and Shiro regretted never making much effort to speak to him in class, because maybe if they'd been friends sooner, Shiro would have noticed that nobody else seemed to talk to Adam. 

After that, Shiro had made the effort to talk to him more in class, and had found that before making a sarky comment to the teacher under his breath, the corner of his mouth always quirked up in a subtle, troublemaking grin. And just like that, Shiro was falling for him. 

It became apparent that Adam wasn't naturally studious and neat. Adam's room was progressively messier the more relaxed he became around Shiro- and for Adam, that wasn't much, maybe an unmade bed or a rogue jumper that Shiro could have sworn he had in his wardrobe somewhere, but it was a sign that Adam was becoming more comfortable around Shiro. And then it occurred to Shiro that Adam was almost never so unguarded, was therefore always uncomfortable.

Adam wasn't easy to make friends with. Not because he was boring, but because he didn't seem to know how to make them. He didn't see any of his own hobbies as interesting, often professing that he didn't have any, and the two often descended into awkward silences where Adam didn't know what to say and he wasn't unguarded enough for Shiro to be let in.

But Adam was a warm person. Socially awkward, stoic, and warm. Adam would get a goofy smile on his face whenever Shiro cracked a particularly terrible joke, would respond with a thinly veiled insult, although his voice always softened when he did so.

And most importantly to Shiro, Adam was the only one who called him Takashi. 

Sure, Shiro liked his nickname, but Adam had seen through that. Shiro remembered the first time Adam called him his name, and how emotional the day had been.

"Shiro?"

"I'm fine," Shiro protested, "I'm okay."

"Shiro," Adam repeated, voice firm with intent, but softened at the edges of his words, "I can tell that you aren't okay. What's happened."

"Nothing's happened, I just…" Adam frowned, as though it didn't register to him that Shiro could be upset without a reason. Of course, Shiro was upset with a reason, and of course, Adam knew this somehow. Shiro had noticed himself falling in love, with Adam, and it scared Shiro, because a huge part of his identity was still a secret from anyone except the garrison staff, and Shiro was sure that it would throw away any chance he had of Adam loving him too. 

"Shiro," Adam repeated softly, "what's wrong?"

"I have something to tell you," Shiro managed, because it was bubbling up and festering into self hatred again, and Shiro knew that he couldn't let himself spiral again. He'd worked too hard to love himself, and besides, Adam was his friend. He knew that he could be vulnerable with Adam, and Adam would take that vulnerability with complete seriousness, would unquestioningly hold it close to his heart as though it was his own secret to protect. 

"I'm listening," Adam replied, body language relaxing to show that he was open, that he could be the emotional support that Shiro needed right now. 

"My name isn't Shiro," he began slowly, "it's a nickname. Part of my surname, Shirogane." Adam already knew this, but it was an important detail, and Adam seemed to understand this, looking to Shiro with gentle intent. Shiro almost felt like crying, emotionally drained thinking of all the outcomes to this talk, even if he knew that the worst ones weren't realistic. "The teachers call me Shiro because I asked them to, so they don't read out the name on the roll call."

"Why," Adam asked softly, no judgment, no question, just a gentle prompt for Shiro to continue. 

"Because it's my deadname," Shiro replied quietly, "and I'm scared of people using it. My surname is the same no matter what, no matter what people see me as, so they have no reason not to use it. My surname doesn't change if they see me as male, or… not. And I'm scared that if I stop telling people to call me Shiro, that if I start asking people to call me Takashi, then they'll call me my deadname instead."

"Takashi," Adam began softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm, "you have a right to hear your name. Especially if you chose it yourself, just like you have a right to every other part of your identity. I think I already know, but, can you tell me, personally, why you changed your name?" 

Shiro took a deep breath. "I'm trans." Saying it with Adam, however difficult, felt as natural as breathing. The nerves were creeping in, but Adam remained gentle and patient. 

"Takashi," Adam began, looking Shiro in the eye, "you never have to worry about that with me. You'll always be Takashi to me, unless and until you change that yourself. I'll always call you Takashi. It's your human right, and it's important to me- you're… important to me, okay?" Adam took a deep breath, moving his hand up to cup Shiro's cheek. "I love you, Takashi."

Shiro was feeling sentimental. Adam was loving, kind, accepting, gentle. Adam was gentle, and Shiro felt safe. Even after all these years, all the hurt, the break up, the trauma, he'd found his way back home, to Adam. Adam who would smile softly when Shiro hugged his teddy bear whilst he helped him with his T shot. Adam who would laugh unguarded every time Shiro shot him a cheesy pick-up line when they couldn't sleep at night. Adam who would hold him close after the nightmares and whisper gentle reassurances into Shiro's ear, would rock them gently, would make sure that Shiro was aware of his needs and emotions, would keep him grounded.

Most importantly, Adam loved him, gently. 

[canchewread]

Editor's note: this journal is original content (written by myself, of course) and has not appeared elsewhere online before today. I should also note that because this is both an opinion piece and an informal journal, my level of commitment to providing citations for the disingenuous wasn't particularly high; if you're looking for formally documented evidence that we're currently in the middle of a fascist takeover, I encourage you to check out my academic writing about the subject on ninaillingworth.com instead.

Journal 09/09/2020: Looking the Beast in the Eye

When I originally sat down to pen this journal, my intention was to call it something along the lines of “advice to a young leftist” which is probably in no small part, the reason why it's taken me three days to write this piece. This is because unfortunately I do not have very much good advice for a young leftist today in two-thousand and twenty, or at least much advice that isn't going to sound rather a lot like “quit before what you believe destroys your entire life.”

As I've written (extensively) elsewhere, we're in the middle of a fascist takeover that is more or less succeeding across the entire Pig Empire, and what passes for the liberal (read: capitalist) establishment in our respective nations seem quite content to try and appease the beast by feeding them the entire left and any marginalized group “uppity” enough to demand justice, equality or representation. There is not a lot of upside to being an open leftist right now and understanding what I know about both the history of fascism and the history of reactionary crackdowns in America, it's awful hard for me in good conscience to advise any young person to willingly subject themselves to the tender mercies of an uncaring state and its fascist cutout vigilante groups.

Let's talk a little bit about what that history, including very recent history, can tell us and why what it tells us isn't very good for the American left. Here in particular, we as both a class in American society and a people that believe in a more equal, compassionate and humane way of life, stand at the intersection of state power, class oppression and the homicidal revenge fantasies of a fascist political order that has seized power throughout much of the United States. The fact that this is not understood by our milquetoast Dem Soc allies and the bougie “progressive left” is completely irrelevant; as any Ferguson activist (who is still breathing) can tell you COINTELPRO never ended, performative liberal anti-racism stops well short of opposing police repression, and genteel society will respond to violent reprisals against activists by the reactionary right with either dead silence or some mild clucks of disapproval at best.

Are the liberals aware that when the increasingly fascist American right says “the left” they mean liberals and suburbanite Democrats too? On some level I'm sure they are, but clearly the threat of increased taxation and social programs for the poor terrifies them far more than the possibility fascism will progress to the point that they're next in front of the firing squad – I've been told the liberals of Weimar Germany felt much the same way during Hitler's rise; which merely demonstrates that the liberal capacity for coddling fascism if it's profitable knows few limits. Furthermore the nauseating truth is that many of your misguided and misinformed liberal allies in the working class simply don't understand that the fascist right always seeks to eliminate the militant left first simply because those are the people who're going to fight back when you start loading Muslims, Latinos and lanyard Democrats onto cattle cars.

This historical process of fascism of course intertwines with the American establishment's history of ruthlessly repressing, criminalizing and even murdering the left. As I detailed extensively in a prior essay called “The Inversion Perversion” the state's war against Americans who want a more equal society (in any number of ways) predates the rise of Nazi Germany, the American Civil War and as those who've studied colonial America might argue, even the foundation of the country. Between the mass deportations of anarchists, suppression of left wing literature through the mail, two Red Scares, anticommunism, Hoover's COINTELPRO war against the civil rights movement, the black power movement and the American student left, or all the way up to the Obama Department of Justice's ruthless oppression of the Occupy, Ferguson and North Dakota Pipeline protests, I could easily spend this entire essay demonstrating that when it comes to persecuting, destroying and yes even murdering the left, there is a long and storied history of bipartisan consensus in America – I see no reason or evidence to suggest that has changed much in our modern times.

In other words history, even recent American history, says that this story ends in a jail cell or a shallow grave for some of the folks reading this journal right now and I don't know how to sugarcoat that for anyone, let alone a young person with their whole life (such as it is) ahead of them. The plain, god-awful truth is that the American right wants you dead, and the center-right American liberal establishment simply doesn't care, just as it has never cared, because they also want the left destroyed and fear sharing their ill-gotten wealth more than they fear fascism. Furthermore, this same elite “liberal” establishment is actively engaged in splitting the component parts of the current American uprising up into acceptable and non-acceptable targets; that's why Joe Biden keeps yammering about police funding, anarchists and “looters.” Democrats in particular are doing this even as fascist militia vigilantes are starting to execute antifascists and protesters in the street, might I add.

Did I mention that it's a really bad time to be an open leftist, or even just someone who passionately feels cracker murderpigs shouldn't get away with murder because some fascist gave them a badge? And yet of course therein also lies the rub; just as there is danger in resisting the imposition of a fascist order there is also danger in refusing to resist.

Turning once again to history, we know that the fascist creep isn't going to stop itself until well after it has killed millions of people and destroyed everything about our lives that contains any meaning whatsoever. The reactionary backlash will not stop with silencing, arresting and/or killing teenage anarchists, African Americans protesting against racialized police violence or Portland soccer moms who've had enough fascism for a lifetime. The fascist mindset and method of societal control dictates that there must always been more enemies both within and outside of the state who represent both an abomination that should be destroyed and a threat to everything good and pure in the national character. Right now, the waking dragon of American fascism has cast a laser-like focus on those brave few Americans who are willing to physically resist the transformation of the country from a corrupt Oligarchy to an overt fascist police-state with rigged elections. Once that enemy is crushed and defeated, the beast will turn its eye to others – unions, teachers, and yes even Democratic Party politicians who've always been friendly to the fascist capitalist billionaires running much of the reactionary American right today.

Whether you choose to fight, hide or run, it has become crystal-clear clear to me that we are all headed towards dark days in the very near future and the only variable left to be determined is which segments of the audience reading this will be thrown onto the pyre first. What we know today as “Western Society” is blindly crashing through the kinds of barriers people who desire peace, comfort and security simply don't breech without expecting violence, bloodshed and a whole lot of rain.

Perhaps in light of all this my advice to the young leftist should be to harden oneself for the torrential downpour of violence, repression and yes death that lies ahead, regardless of whether or not you choose to resist the fascist creep. Perhaps the best thing I can offer a young person staring directly into the eye of this beast is the assurance that it is not their fault, that nobody in history has ever asked to be born into the war against fascism and that ultimately the fascists cannot win because fascism is a death cult that will eventually eat itself and has done so every single time before this one. Perhaps all I really have to share with you is the hope that in the darkness and despair that lies ahead of us you will remember my words and know that no matter how much they repress, terrorize and torture us, fantasy cannot be reality, slavery cannot be freedom and life cannot be death.

And that I think is the handle and the comfort I can offer those of you reading this who’re young enough to have a future beyond the fascist order; I have no optimism to sell you but I can make one promise that may help carry you through the bowels of the hell we are all descending into after all. It might not amount to much yet, but I promise you there will always only be four lights; no matter how many of us they murder to try and “prove” otherwise. Do not give these maggots the satisfaction of seeing your fear; know that at least some of you reading this will eventually dance on their graves and take whatever comfort you are able to, in that inevitability.

Never forget - one way, or another, the future is left.

nina illingworth

Independent writer, critic and analyst with a left focus. Please help me fight corporate censorship by sharing my articles with your friends online!

You can find my work at ninaillingworth.com, Can’t You Read, Media Madness and my Patreon Blog

Updates available on Twitter, Mastodon and Facebook. Podcast at “No Fugazi” on Soundcloud.

Inquiries and requests to speak to the manager @ASNinaWrites

Chat with fellow readers online at Anarcho Nina Writes on Discord!

“It’s ok Willie; swing heil, swing heil…”

[parkerparts]

Nothing Scarier Than a Broken Heart

“You’re a gift to the world, Harley,” Peter sighed, burrowing closer to Harley. His cider mug, cupped in his hands, seared Harley’s skin, but he welcomed the warmth.

“I don’t really care about the world, I just care about you.”

“Bold words from a man who told me he wanted to fix the world. Seems like that man would care a lot about the world.”

“What if I told you that you are my world?”

Parkner Halloween Week 2019 Day Two: Spiders, Scary Stories, “I feel like I’m being watched.”

Read on AO3 here.

The click of a flashlight is accompanied by a bright, blinding light that causes Abbie to cringe and Morgan to shriek, half in discomfort, half in delight. Abbie grabs a corner of a blanket, folds it a couple of times, and places it over the bright light, effectively dimming it and giving it a scary, red glow from the color of the crimson blanket.

“There we go,” Abbie says, flashing a grin at the younger girl. It’s Abbie and Morgan’s fall break at school, and Pepper drove them all out to the lakeside cabin to spend the long weekend. Morgan and Abbie set up camp in Morgan’s tent in the backyard, the sound of the wind howling all around them. “Now, what were we going to do, Lady Morguna?”

“You were going to tell me a scary story,” the young girl replies, sitting cross-legged across from Abbie.

“That’s right.” Abbie places the flashlight on the ground face up, letting it cast its light and form long shadows against the walls of the tent. “Once upon a time there was a boy. He was a mechanic, which means he fixed things. He was really good at what he did, but he was very ambitious and never satisfied with just fixing things. He wanted to fix the world.”

Morgan props her chin up with her hand, staring at Abbie with dark, shining eyes. “What was his name?”

Abbie smiles sadly. “Harley. His name was Harley Keener.”

Of course, only the people who actually knew him called him Harley. Most people knew him as Junior. Once, that “Junior” stood for Harley Keener Junior, the son in the spitting image of a man who ran away from his family. Over time, it came to stand for The Mechanic Junior, the mentee of a legend who crash landed in Rose Hill on a snowy winter night.

Junior fixed things. He fixed cars, washing machines, lawn mowers, ovens, bicycles, tricycles, motorcycles, and once, even a unicycle that belonged to Dave Davis, who stubbornly refused to learn how to ride a bicycle or drive a car.

Every summer, a jet landed in a clearing in the woods behind the gas station. Little boys and girls like to run out and watch as Junior, sometimes accompanied by his sister, boarded the jet and took off.

The jet would eventually land in New York, on the grounds of a sprawling, high-tech compound that housed the world’s most famous, yet most controversial, heroes. Junior had never officially met any of them, save The Mechanic Senior. As soon as he arrived, Junior holed himself away in the expanse of laboratory space and got to work.

You see, Junior had a plan, a vision, a dream. He didn’t want to just fix things. He wanted to fix the world.

One summer, when Junior was seventeen and done with the formalities of high school, he locked himself in the labs and made a silent vow to himself to never leave. However, the universe had other plans for him, and these other plans came in the form of Peter Parker.

“I feel like I’m being watched,” Junior muttered aloud, fingertips buried deep in the recesses of metal and wire and electricity and something more like magic.

“You are.” Junior violently ripped his hands free at the unwarranted voice, eyes darting around. The sound of his pocketknife sliding out of its sheath and clicking open reverberated around the sterile room. “Don’t be scared. It’s just me.”

“Show yourself.” Junior swallowed a scream when a body dropped from the ceiling, landing gracefully at his feet in a catlike manner.

“You must be the other kid Mr. Stark talks about all the time. Junior, right? Or was it Tudor? Luther? I wasn’t really paying attention to him. I sort of had a stab wound in my stomach when I called him on the way here. But that was like four hours ago! I’m okay now. I’m Peter Parker, by the way. MJ says I talk a lot, so I’m sorry if I’m bothering you or something like that. I should really stop talking.”

Junior stared at the outstretched hand, let his eyes travel to the boy’s pale, glowing face as he talked a mile a minute, traced the swoosh of his freshly-washed hair, still damp. Before he even registered what he was doing, he placed his hand in the other boy’s. “It’s Harley, actually. Nice to meet you, Peter Parker.”

The gesture seemed to effectively shut the other boy up for more than just a breath. He stared at their joined hands, which should have been moving up and down but instead just held on tightly, but then his eyes wandered up to meet Harley’s gaze, and the world stopped moving for all of half a second. “Oh. Yeah, it’s nice to meet you, Harley.”

Morgan raises her hand like she’s in school. Abbie calls on her with the uptight air of an elementary school teacher. “Yes, Morgan?”

“That’s Harley and Petey, right? Mommy told me they were Daddy’s other kids, that they were my brothers, but I wouldn’t remember them.”

Abbie has to close her eyes and take a deep, shuddering breath before answering. “Yeah. That’s Harley and Peter, your brothers.”

Morgan’s dark eyes pierce through Abbie’s delicate demeanor, like she can see all of the pain buried underneath, and that’s why she just nods. “Tell me more.”

Abbie always finishes what she starts, so she hides her shaking hands beneath her legs and pushes on.

Peter Parker had a vision, and it looked a lot like Harley’s: Harley wanted to fix the world; Peter wanted to save it. They helped each other do just that.

Peter, with his signature sheer genius and emotional intelligence, helped Harley channel his energy into what matters. Within half a decade, they made remarkable progress, accomplishing what only the bright-eyed generation of young geniuses can accomplish. In return, Harley crafted an armor of iron and flies around New York, the country, the world with Peter, doing all they could to save make sure people lived.

In the process of fixing and saving the world, Peter Parker and Harley Keener fell in love.

It started with the little things, as the big things always do. Catching the other staring while working in the labs, not-so subtle touches while working together, saving each other day after day.

It was a cold day in October, back in New York for Peter’s last semester of high school. The door to the lab hissed open, and in slipped Peter with two cups of apple cider and a weary smile. “Rough day?”

Peter shrugged, but the way he collapsed into the nearest chair, said a lot. “You could say that. Could you take over patrol tonight? I know it’s my turn, but I have this huge essay for English due tomorrow, and I’ve barely started. And by barely started, I mean I made the document, but it’s blank and haunting me.”

Harley laughed as he stood and made his way to where Peter was curled up. He settled in the spaces Peter’s body didn’t and tried to get comfortable as he draped the blanket over them. “Of course I will. I’d do anything for you, you know that?”

“You’re a gift to the world, Harley,” Peter sighed, burrowing closer to Harley. His cider mug, cupped in his hands, seared Harley’s skin, but he welcomed the warmth.

“I don’t really care about the world, I just care about you.”

“Bold words from a man who told me he wanted to fix the world. Seems like that man would care a lot about the world.”

“What if I told you that you are my world?”

Peter burst out laughing, cider sloshing dangerously in the mug. “That’s awful, Harley. Truly awful.”

“You love me anyway.” Harley hid his smile in his own mug as Peter flushed.

“Yeah. I love you anyway.”

“This doesn’t sound like a scary story to me,” Morgan pointed out.

Abbie just ruffled her hair and pulled the girl closer. “The best scary stories don’t start out scary. They’re happy at first, and then they become horrible. That’s what makes them so terrifying.”

Morgan sighed, but she still had a light smile plastered on her face, so Abbie knew she wasn’t actually bored. “Can we just get to the scary part now?”

The scariest thing about love was that it never lasted.

When Peter didn’t show up in the labs one afternoon after school, Harley got worried and emerged from the labs for the first time in weeks for something other than patrol, but Peter was nowhere to be found. “FRIDAY, where’s Peter?”

“Mr. Parker is not on the premises. Would you like to call him?”

“Yes.” FRIDAY redirected the call to his phone, which he clutched tightly to his ear, ignoring the stuttering of his heart.

“Junior? This is May.”

May’s warm voice did nothing to calm him. “Hi, May. Where’s Peter?”

“He’s sleeping. He wasn’t feeling well today and stayed home from school.” Peter was Spider-Man. No simple illness was supposed to be able to bring him down, which meant whatever was afflicting him was serious business.

“Oh. Sorry to hear that. Will you tell him I called?”

“Of course. Take care, Junior.”

“You too, May.” Harley ended the call with trembling fingers and retreated back to his section of the labs with a sinking heart.

Hour later, or maybe days, FRIDAY says, “Mr. Parker has entered the labs and is heading your way.”

Harley pulled himself away from his task and stared at the door. After a few moments, it opened, revealing a tired-looking Peter in his favorite pajama pants and one of Harley’s shirts. “Harley?”

“Hey, sweetie. What are you doing here?”

Peter burst into tears. “I’m dying.”

“This isn’t scary. It’s sad.”

“Patience, oh tiny demon.” Morgan giggles. “The fright is yet to come.”

The story is so cliche. It’s the perfect tragedy of love and death and shattered hope, and it makes Abbie want to vomit as she tells it, but Morgan’s looking up at her, enthralled, so she pushes on.

Peter was dying of radiation poisoning. The spider bite left radiation in his DNA, in his blood. The symptoms of it had been subtle at first, barely noticeable, but it had been nearly three years since he was bitten, and the rate at which he was dying sped up enough to cause alarm. The diagnosis from Bruce -- who worked in the same labs that Harley did, so he had no idea how he missed that -- came in that morning.

“Four months?” Harley asked, holding a shaking, sobbing Peter in his own weakening arms. “That’s plenty of time to find a cure.”

Everyone knew those were empty words, but an empty promise was better than letting an empty heartbreak consume them both.

Harley did work on a cure, alongside Peter himself, Bruce, Tony, and any other doctor or scientist Tony brought in. It was the first collaborative project Harley had ever done, aside from whatever he did with Peter, whose soul was so intertwined with Harley’s that it had never really felt like a group project at all, but rather shared ideas and genius. The only difference between Harley and everyone else working on the cure was that he had hope.

“Harley?” He hardly looked up when Peter woke up from the couch he had collapsed on while waiting for Harley to finish his work. He had claimed it would only be ten minutes, but that was ten hours ago, and the early risers of the team were starting to trickle in.

“Yes, honey?” Harley felt Peter’s presence creep closer, felt the fatigue rolling off the other boy in waves. “You should go upstairs, get some sleep.”

Peter’s arms wrapped around his waist, his cold fingers nipping at Harley’s skin, even through his lab coat. “You should too. You look exhausted.”

Harley sighed, marking his place in his readthrough of the data from the latest tests, and whirled around to face Peter. “Have you seen yourself?”

“I look like I’m dying because I am. You look like you’re dying because you are. If you keep up like this, you are going to kill yourself.”

“Peter, I have to keep working.”

“Working on what? Harley, in nine weeks, give or take, I will be dead. I want to spend what time I have alive with my boyfriend, who insists on spending every hour of every day in these freaking labs. It used to be fun down here, when we would create and make to our heart’s content, but now it’s all tests and pitying looks and empty promises.”

“They’re not empty.”

Peter screams out of frustration then, startling Harley out of his sleep-deprived daze and drawing the glares of the few people in the room. “Nine weeks, maybe less, to find a cure for radiation poisoning? You’re mad.”

“Peter, I have to at least try. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I didn’t do everything I could to fix this.”

“You haven’t left this lab in weeks. You haven’t eaten in days. You haven’t slept in days either. You haven’t patrolled once since I got the diagnosis. You haven’t done anything at all. Once upon a time, I met a boy who wanted to fix the world. What happened to him?”

“He fell in love.” Harley reached out to cup Peter’s face, shining with rage and disappointment and concern and heartbreak. “You are my world, Peter. I have to fix you.”

The fight left Peter in a single breath, and his shoulders fell. “Okay. Fine. Just promise me something.”

“What is it?”

“You’re my world too, Harley, and all I’ve ever wanted to do was save the world. Let me save you from yourself.”

“Okay.”

It wasn’t easy. They still got into fights about it, but Harley left the lab more, went on patrols with Peter, spent some time with his boyfriend, who grew weaker with every passing day. In return, Peter submitted to the tests and the spark of hope in Harley’s eyes that refused to die.

Then Peter died, and with him, all of Harley’s hope.

Harley Keener fixed things, but he wasn’t even able to fix the one thing that mattered most to him. How was he supposed to be able to fix the world?

That doesn’t mean he stopped trying. He tried his best to carry on with his dream, with Peter’s dream. He ran away from New York, and although he knew Peter cared a lot about New York, about his home, Harley was never able to step foot in the area again. He roamed the world, doing what he could, but he never felt like it was enough. Peter always made him feel like he was enough. God, he missed Peter so much that it hurt to breathe most days, but he carried on and tried his best to live.

They say he’s still out there, that sometimes, when you’re in need, you’ll find yourself visited by a knight in shining iron armor.

“The End,” Abbie sighs, switching off the flashlight. The harsh shadows and red glare in the tent disappear, leaving only the faint, warm glow of the single electric lantern in between their two sleeping bags.

“That’s so sad,” Morgan says, squeezing Abbie’s hand in both of her own. “So what’s what happened to Petey and Harley?”

“Yeah. Your mom or dad ever tell you anything about them?”

“Daddy doesn’t really like talking about them. I think it makes him sad. Mommy mentions them sometimes, but I never knew what happened to them.”

“Well, that’s their story.”

“It’s a sad story. It was a very nice story, but you said you would tell me a scary story.”

Abbie laughs gently, as she helps Morgan zip up her sleeping bag. “I’m sorry, baby. I forgot. Maybe next time?”

“It’s okay. I like it when you tell me stories, even if they’re not very scary but very very sad.”

Abbie smiles fondly. Morgan is still young, but one day, she’d understand. Abbie hopes that day was very far away because she doesn’t want to imagine her little sister’s heart broken, shattered. There’s nothing scarier than a broken heart, than the pain of loving someone. the scariest thing in the world is to watch the people you love get hurt or slip away or die, knowing you can do nothing about it. “Goodnight, Morgan.”

“Night, Abbie.”

Abbie reaches over and switches off the electric lamp. In the silence and the darkness, she takes a moment to collect herself, allows a few of the tears she had held in to escape. It’s been years since Peter died and Harley disappeared, but she feels their absence deeply every day.

“Abbie?” She sniffles quietly and wipes her face before replying.

“Yes, Morgan?”

“I feel like I’m being watched.” Abbie sits up and listened hard, to the world outside their little tent, their safe haven. There, amongst the chirping crickets and the rippling water, was a familiar sound.

“Don’t worry. It’s just the Iron Knight. Want to tell him goodnight?”

Morgan quietly giggles. “Goodnight, Harley.”

The pain in Abbie’s chest intensifies, and for a moment, she can’t breathe, blinded by the tears that threaten to fall whenever she misses Harley the most. “Goodnight, Harley,” she repeats.

Within moments, Morgan’s asleep again. Abbie too lies back down, but she keeps listening intently to the quiet whine of a repulsor hovering just outside the entrance to their tent. When she’s on the brink of sleep, she hears a quiet blast of acceleration and listens as the sound of the repulsor fades away.

[raiswriting]

bf!doyoung

request: cute annoying bf doyoung pls uwu

a/n: hey its rai. i just wanted to say thank you for being patient with me. this is the first time i’ve written anything in like 9 months so i hope its okay and pls feel free to leave constructive criticism. ALSO, i didn’t know what format anon wanted this in so im just gonna do bullet points like the doyoung college!au which is linked here if you wanna check it out. this can kinda be seen as like a sequel to that but like they are also totally fine as stand alones okay okay that’s it enjoy!

warnings: none (unless rusty writing counts as one)

genre: fluff

pairing: doyoung x reader

summary: doyoung is clingy and you’re trying to finish an essay

word count: 980 words

so lets say this is like a solid bit into your relationship with mr. kim doyoung

like about 6ish months

are yall in love? absolutely

actually he was the first to say it, on your 3 month anniversary

it was super cute and romantic, you guys were having a picnic and watching the sunset

you were busy painting some cherries (is that random? idk. oh well)

and you could feel him looking at you so once you finally looked up towards him he just blurted it out

now i wouldn’t say it caught you completely by surprise because prior to this you and doyoung did this thing where instead of ending a phone call with “okay bye i love you” you would always add something extra to the end of it

“okay stay safe!”

“i will. bye bye, i love you…r smile”

“later babe i love you…r positivity”

ya know cute shit like that

so when he actually said it all you could do was smile at him and say it back

and it was like everything was settling into place

it wasn’t necessarily fireworks and rockets going off

it was just like how it felt watching the sunset

calm

serene

peaceful

like everything was just right ya know?

anywho that was 3 months ago, let's talk about the present

you were currently lounging around with doyoung

well, doyoung was lounging, you were working on essay

or at least trying to

it was one of the unfortunate times where your schedules just hadn’t been working out lately

he was busy promoting and it was almost the end of the quarter which meant term papers and finals for you

so even when he got the rare day to relax and spend time with you, you were busy

and so even though you wanted to just spend all day cuddled up with him, you couldn’t

today doyoung was in desperate need of love and affection

tbh he just missed you and wanted to be near you

and right now you were all the way at the dining room table while he sat on the living room couch

which was entirely too separated for his taste

you were too into the essay to even realize that he had gotten up and was slowly making his way over to you

doyoung tried to loudly casually grab a water bottle to get your attention

when that didn’t work he tried to start up a conversation and stand directly over your shoulder as you type away

“hey y/n how’s the paper going?”

“good thanks”

“how much more do you have?”

“about 2 and a half pages”

“wow great job babe. do you want some water?”

he placed his water right in front of your face

“thanks but im good do. i just finished a glass”

“okay but what about a snack, you’ve been working for so long

“do, i appreciate the concern but i just want to power through this last bit and then we can watch some movies and order some take out.”

you turned your head up towards his and placed a kiss on his cheek before going back to writing

you couldn’t see how he huffed and puffed as he walked into the kitchen to brainstorm up another way to get your attention

he eventually decided on getting a snack for himself, some kettle cooked chips

aka the loudest possible chip he could’ve gotten

not only is it super crunchy but for some reason the bags are also super loud to open

or is that just me? just me, okay.

which was perfect

so he pulled a chair directly next to you and began to eat these chips as loud as he possibly could

and after getting about halfway through bag he realized that you would never tell him to quiet down so he wanted to up the ante

he started to hum regular

and the humming progressively got more and more intense

until he was not only full-on singing but he did ALLthe background vocals, drums, guitar riffs, synth beats.

literally every possible element of this song

and doing the choreo in his seat

all less then a foot away from you and your so close to being done paper

you sighed and slowly turned your head to him

“doyoung sweetheart. whatcha doin?”

he immediately gave you the puppy dog eyes

“huh? what do you mean y/n?”

you couldn’t help but give him a small smile because even if he was preventing you from finishing your work, you couldn’t stay mad at him

just look at him

hes too cute to be mad at

mad? no.

annoyed? a little bit.

“look doyoung i just need to do the works cited and then i promise i will give you all the attention you want”

“oh please. don’t rush on my account. i can wait as long as you need.”

you playfully rolled your eyes at him before finishing the essay as quickly as possible before he starts singing simon says lmao

and he patiently sat beside you as you worked

well if patiently means you could feel him shaking his leg up and down and could ear the incessant tapping of his fingers on the table

finally, he watched as you typed the last word

you were barely able to save the document before he dragged you into the living room and onto the couch

laughter bubbled up from inside as he threw himself next you and simultaneously draped a blanket over the both of you

where did he get the blanket from? no clue. but now it’s here.

he snuggled himself into your side as he mindlessly put a movie on netflix

and tbh the movie really didn’t matter

because finally doyoung had you all to himself at least for now

and that’s all either of you could ask for

fin!

a/n: alrighty! that’s it. i hope it wasn’t too bad. i’m still trying to get back into the swing of things but either way i hope you enjoyed. sorry if it was all over the place or sloppy, i did a quick passover and edit but like i said i am always open to constructive criticism :)

thanks, rai

[fictionalnormalcy]

Face Amidst the Smoke Ch. 4

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 1319 Characters: Astrid Hofferson, Hiccup Haddock Summary: Astrid is paired for a project with someone who she is definitely not eager to work with. Haddock has a reputation of being a bad student, just a bad role model in general. But in being forced to work with one of the worst seniors in the school, she comes to see what is under this bad boy’s exterior… and she may be getting in over her head.

Investigation

“Are you sitting in front of a computer?” 

“What do you think?”

“I want to believe that you’re somewhere sheltered from the rain, a library maybe. You’re valuing these last few hours before they close on you.” I said into the device. 

“Let me tell you something Hofferson.” There was a distant clatter. “Some of us, don’t have all the time in the world. Not all as privileged as you. We work to make a living and make something of ourselves.” 

“I work too! Where do you think I just came from?”

“You expect me to read your mind?” He said shortly. 

“Whatever.” I grit my teeth. “Have you gotten anything done?”

“Checked those links you gave me.” He grunted. “Made a thesis. Look, I’m a little busy right now. Come morning, check your phone. I’ll have sent you what I came up with. You tell me what you think.”

Then the call disconnected, the last thing I heard was an engine beginning to roar. I was left to wonder where he could possibly work. Or, he might’ve gotten out just like me and was starting his car. I don’t know… but I could find out. If I hadn’t contacted him, I doubt he would have even sent me a word today. This couldn’t wait. We had to choose a topic today to be ready to show to the teacher for tomorrow’s class. But we couldn’t move anywhere if we didn’t agree. There was too much anxious energy running through me. 

If I were partners with anybody else, I wouldn’t be chasing them. We would have already found a topic, and at this very moment finding sources for the essay. The teacher gave us a deadline to have three sources chosen by next week. The week after a completed outline. Enough time for us to look over and revise it. Then to type out the essay, include our sources, and then start constructing the presentation. But I was stuck with Haddock. This meant that I would constantly have to be at his neck. If this didn’t get done, I had to continue exercising the severity of it. I turned on my laptop. I had nothing to do, nothing to get done if we both hadn’t agreed on it. 

I started to construct an outline. There would be nothing to fill in because we hadn’t agreed on anything, but there would be a document ready to share. I was wondering what text messages I would find in the morning. I set my alarm to wake up earlier so I had time to insert something into the document. In class I could tell him if any of my links matched up to what he had come up with. Or I could confront him and tell him we had to change it. I had no idea what this guy was capable of coming up with. He was a slacker, that much I knew. His work could be of the grade level of a student in primary school. I stared at the document. I’d need his email as well. 

[#$%*&^]

As should have been expected, Haddock did not even deign to show up to class. I was hoping that he’d show up last minute, as he was famous for doing so. Better to be marked tardy than have an absence on your record. I was woefully mistaken. I’d squeezed my pencil so tight that I was afraid I’d break it. The teacher once again gave me her glance of sympathy after her gaze had passed over his empty desk. I considered what Heather had told me yesterday. About asking her if there was anything else I could do. But I answered the question for myself.

There was still time to make progress. Still able to achieve the deadline. Haddock may ditch classes on occasion but hardly ever an entire day. So he was on campus. After I walked out of the class we shared, I looked at the texts he had sent me. Having been received at 12:34 a.m. Five texts I hadn’t seen until I awoke this morning at 6:45. His thesis, had been well-constructed. It was similar to what I had found. Before I had to head to school I managed to plug in the thesis and print out a peer-reviewed journal for research. If only he’d bothered to show up to class so we could discuss further. 

Once school ended I immediately headed to where I had found him yesterday, but today there was no smoke from behind the tree trunk. There were still five cigarette butts on the ground. There were still two other places, but they were on different sides of the campus. Then I started thinking, of another place I knew he could be. I began to head toward the school parking lot. I knew that I was heading to the right place, judging by the blaring music that started reaching my ears.

I saw the cloud drifting out through the small opening of the window. I had come to know that only one person would ever deign to do it on school grounds. I had seen what had happened before when the smoker had been caught. Given enough warning that once the supervisor walked up to them they simply leaned down and extinguished the cigarette. They no longer bothered punishing him. 

I opened the door and swooped into the passenger seat. The vehicle had miraculously been left unlocked, though the music could be enough to deter anyone from approaching. There were three empty spaces on either side. 

“Can I help you?” An naselled voice groaned.

“You know that’s bad for you, and could get you suspended.” I tried to say over the music. 

“And frankly, I don’t give a fuck. Besides, this is my private property, you have no right to tell me what I can and can’t do on my terf.”

“Usually what people do on their property shouldn’t call attention to others.” I reasoned. 

“Well you’re a snoopy Berkian, not much different than the others.” He watched me with a glare. “You haven’t learned to mind your own business.”

I reached toward the music player and lowered the volume. Reducing it to background noise. I settled into the seat, marvelling that the car was actually comfortable, and amidst the smell of tobacco there was a faint cherry. Showing he did attempt to keep it to a suitable smell. 

“It’s like you set up a shield of repulsion.”

“Smoke and music.” He said with narrowed eyes. “Clearly it’s not enough. What the fuck do you want?”

I crossed my arms. “You didn’t even deign to show up to class today.” 

“I sent you what you wanted. You want more?”

“There’s still the rest of the research, the essay, and the presentation! A damned thesis is not all you’re going to do!”

He took in a slow inhale. “And I bet, you’re sitting here because you found a source. You’re oh so desperate to make sure I’m informed on every step you’ve taken.”

“Yes. I had even brought my laptop so we could manage something during lunchtime. But I couldn’t find you during that time either.”

“When it’s hard to find someone, it means they don’t want to be found.”

“I’m not letting you off that easy Haddock.” I gave him a hard stare. “Give me your email. I need to send you the outline so we can start working on it.”

“Don’t have one.”

“How, do you not have an email!?”

“No device that connects to the internet. Never a need for it. Who even sends emails anymore?”

“You need it so we can actually work on this together.”

“Hofferson, you’ll be able to get by without me.” 

I grabbed the wrist that held a cigarette.

“Come on, the library here is open another hour. We’re setting you up with an email.”