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hoshifighting · 8 months ago

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— Synopsis: Jihoon, a shy guy, really wants to talk to you一the new pretty neighbor一but finds it a difficult mission. To help him out, he send his robot friend, Beep Boop, to make the connection as he watches through his window. Surprisingly, you adored Beep Boop, and his creator, Jihoon. — WC: 3.3k — WARNINGS: Fluff, social anxiety, isolation, potential overthinking, Beep Boop is a great buddy! [Issue Club Serie] — This is part 1 of Shy!Woozi. Check the Part 2

Jihoon stretched out on the bed, hearing the telltale beep of a reversing truck. The driver seemed less than careful, and the sound grated on Jihoon's nerves, pulling him out of his drowsy state. With a sigh, he finally opened the window, curious to see what the commotion was about. His eyes widened in surprise when he noticed the window next door, previously closed for months, was now open. A moving truck was pulling away, leaving behind an air of change.

Jihoon’s mind wandered back to the previous resident, Miss Kim, who used to play the piano beautifully. He remembered the rainy nights when he was alone at home and Ahjussi would bring him kimchi, the warm, spicy smell filling the room. It had been a shame to see Ahjussi move to the countryside.

Curious about the new occupants, Jihoon went about his day, keeping an eye on the movement next door. The cool day felt refreshing, and the sunlight streaming through his window warmed his room. He picked up a poetry book, one he had started but never finished, and sat on his soft bed, losing track of time as he leafed through the pages.

Before he knew it, he was holding the last page of the book. "Yeah, it looks like I'm going to have to read it all again," he murmured to himself. Why were poetry books always so short? He didn't even understand most of what he had read.

But he knew the reason for his distraction. The open window in his room gave a clear view of the house next door. He could see newspapers scattered on the floor, evidence of a fresh start, and a newly painted wall. And then, there was you.

Your hair fell insistently over your face as you painted, your hands methodically rolling the paint onto the wall. Jihoon watched, intrigued. You seemed so focused, so immersed in your task.

Jihoon bit his lip, the internal struggle playing out on his face. Should he say something? Should he offer you help? From his window, you could clearly see or hear him if he did. He wished he had more social skills, the confidence to simply say, 'Hi, if you need help, I'm Jihoon, your new neighbor.' But no, striking up a conversation with someone he had never seen before, especially a girl, felt impossible. What if you thought he was weird? Or worse, what if you thought he was coming on too strong?

Feeling stupid for not being able to start a simple conversation, he sighed. After all, the architecture of the old houses in this neighborhood meant the windows were ridiculously large. You could see practically everything in your neighbor's life if you didn't have good curtains.

Jihoon was pulled out of his self-banter when you turned around, facing his window. He quickly hid himself against the wall, leaving your line of sight. You frowned, confused, then resumed your painting. But in his hasty movement, Jihoon noticed a treasure—his robot, a project he had worked on for college. A big friend that could help him interact with his new neighbor, at least as a conversation starter.

Meanwhile, you were in the kitchen, putting supplies on the counter, when you heard a bell—not your doorbell, but some kind of chime. You frowned and opened your front door, only to be met by a robot with a humanoid shape, dressed in a big pink hoodie. Instead of a head, it had a large tablet displaying cute, animated emotions.

You looked around, unsure if you should talk to this... thing, or if it might explode if you said a word. Tentatively, you spoke, "Hi, big friend... how can I help you?"

The screen on the robot’s head displayed the word 'Welcome' and then a cute basket extended from its torso. Hesitant, you picked it up. As soon as you did, the robot turned around and rolled away on its wheels, heading towards the sidewalk. You stood there, paralyzed in your doorway, clutching the basket and trying to make sense of what had just happened.

"Um, thank you?" you called after it, not knowing if it could hear you.

The basket was filled with cookies一cookies that you can easily find in the market, but the intention is cute一, a small note tucked among them. You opened the note, which read:

"Hi! I'm your neighbor. I hope you enjoy these cookies. Welcome to the neighborhood! - Jihoon"

Jihoon doesn't know how many times he wrote and rewrote this, trying to make it beautiful and presentable for you to read.

You looked back at the robot, now waiting patiently at the sidewalk. Smiling to yourself, you felt a warm sense of welcome.

Back in his room, Jihoon watched anxiously from the window, biting his lip again. This time, though, it was out of nervous anticipation. He saw you reading the note and, after a moment, a smile spread across your face. He exhaled a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, feeling a bit of the tension ease from his shoulders.

Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all.

The house was coming together nicely, and installing a few essentials was a breeze. Some furniture would come with time, but you had to admit, you were struggling to put together this wooden bench for your backyard. The sun was beating down on your skin, and you had already rebuilt the bench a couple of times, each time more frustrating than the last.

Beep beep

You heard the now-familiar sound. Glancing up, you saw the robot again, its tablet head showing a curious expression. You scoffed, feeling almost embarrassed that even the robot was witnessing your struggle with the instruction manual.

Before you could say anything, the screen changed, displaying a tutorial on how to assemble the exact wooden bench. You couldn't help but laugh.

"Wow, this would help a lot. Thanks, buddy," you said, genuinely appreciative. But then you glanced up at the scorching sun. "But the sun is brutal today. I hope you don't overheat or something."

You quickly opened the umbrella and positioned it over the robot, casting a nice shadow. "There you go, some shade for you. Now, let's get this bench sorted out."

Following the tutorial step by step, you began assembling the bench correctly this time. The robot beeped encouragingly, its screen displaying a thumbs-up emoji.

"Okay, piece A connects to piece B, and then this screw goes here..." you muttered to yourself, feeling more confident with each step. "This is actually going pretty well."

The robot beeped again, displaying a smiley face.

"Thanks for the help. I don't know what I'd do without you," you said, wiping some sweat from your forehead. "I guess I should also thank Jihoon, right? He really knows how to make a good first impression."

The robot nodded, or at least it looked like a nod, with the screen displaying an animated head bobbing up and down.

You laughed again, feeling a strange sense of camaraderie with the machine. "Tell Jihoon I said thanks, okay?"

The robot beeped once more, its screen now displaying a "You're Welcome" message before it turned and rolled back towards Jihoon's house.

You wondered who was controlling this super kind robot. Jihoon must have seen you struggling with the bench all morning and sent the robot to help. You chuckled at the thought; he probably wasn't the best with assemblies himself. But it was endearing how you found yourself listening attentively to the robot, even asking if it could replay part of the video. When Jihoon replayed the part, your impressed face was priceless. You couldn't help but laugh at yourself, and Jihoon laughed too, watching from his window.

The umbrella part? That was pure instinct. You just didn't want the poor robot to overheat in the sun. Jihoon found that incredibly thoughtful. He mused that it was something only a woman would think of, a gentle touch he always admired. He wondered if you would do the same for him, considering his pale skin burned easily under the sun, but he brushed the thought aside, not wanting to dwell on it.

Days passed, and you missed your robot friend. After a particularly rough week, you found yourself sitting in your front yard, on your now fully assembled bench, drinking a cola. The night was calm, the neighborhood quiet. Then you saw it—a cute pixeled face approaching.

Beep beep, it sounded.

You couldn't help but smile. Tonight, the robot was dressed in a tiny blazer with a red tie.

You laughed, "Well, don't you look elegant tonight! Any special occasion?"

"I'm curious to know the person behind you, buddy," you continued, "all dressed up and everything."

To your amazement, the robot spoke. With a robotic yet clear voice, it said, "Hello, I am here to keep you company. Jihoon thought you might like that."

Your eyes widened in surprise.

"You can talk!" you exclaimed, still processing the surprise.

“Yes, technology is getting scary, isn’t it?” the robot replied in a robotic voice, but with a hint of playfulness.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re too cute to be scary. I think you need a name.”

The robot made a giggling sound, a funny robotized laugh that made you chuckle.

“How about… Beep Boop?” You suggest.

“Beep Boop,” the robot repeated, its screen showing a happy face. “I like it.”

As you sat on the bench with Beep Boop, you couldn't help but wonder. "So, Beep Boop, why did Jihoon send you to talk to me?"

Beep Boop's screen flashed a thoughtful emoji before responding. "Jihoon thinks you look cool. But... he's weird."

You frowned, tilting your head slightly. "Weird? How so?"

Jihoon, watching through the robot's camera, felt a sense of anxiety.

Beep Boop continued, "He finds it hard to talk to people. Especially girls."

Your expression softened. "Oh, I see. Well, everyone has their quirks. He's kind to send you over, though."

Beep Boop's screen displayed a nodding emoji. "Jihoon says he likes watching you build things. He thought you might need a friend."

You smiled, feeling empathy. "That's really sweet of him. You can tell him he can come over whenever he feels ready. I'm not the type of person who's going to judge."

Jihoon, on the other end, felt a rush of relief.

"Do you think Jihoon likes cola?" you asked.

"Yes, Jihoon likes cola," Beep Boop replied.

You stood up, grabbing a plastic bag from inside and placing a few cans of cola in it. Tying the bag to Beep Boop, you patted the robot's head. "Here, take these to him. Maybe it'll help him feel more comfortable."

"Thank you," Beep Boop said, the screen displaying a happy face.

"You're welcome, Beep Boop. Tell Jihoon I appreciate him sending you over and that he can come by anytime."

As Beep Boop rolled away with the bag of cola, you watched with a smile.

[...]

You affirmed that everything was fine, but a part of you couldn't help but find the whole "Beep Boop" thing slightly funny. But honestly, you found the idea rather adorable. It was intelligent of him to create such a robot—amazing, actually.

Even though you hadn't seen Jihoon face-to-face, you thought he was pretty cool. From the glimpses you'd caught of him through the window, he looked quite handsome. And through Beep Boop, you learned that he liked music, had finished college, and worked remotely, which explained why he rarely left his house.

On the other side, Jihoon had been mentally preparing himself. You had been so kind with Beep Boop, and he couldn't imagine you hurting a mosquito. You were careful with the robot, even hugged it sometimes, and the little pats on its electronic head and the goodies you sent through it—Jihoon appreciated every gesture.

Why should he hide himself any longer?

He saw you arriving home today, your bag slung over your shoulder as you entered your house. He waited for a moment, then saw you in your bedroom after your bath. Breathing deeply, he opened his window.

"Psst!" he called out, trying to get your attention.

You turned towards his window, seeing Jihoon there, ready to talk, for the first time. His skin glowed softly under the moonlight, his blonde hair swaying gently in the breeze. His elbows rested on the windowsill, and you noticed his cheeks were blushing. You smiled and approached your window, leaning on it.

"Jihoon?" you asked, and he nodded shyly.

"Nice to meet you, Jihoon," you said, tilting your head.

Jihoon's feet were shaking anxiously where you couldn't see, but he managed to speak. "I, um, wanted to say hi in person. You've been really nice to Beep Boop and... and me."

You chuckled softly. "It's nice to finally meet the person behind Beep Boop. You're pretty amazing, you know? Creating such a robot."

Jihoon blushed deeper. “I hope Beep Boop wasn’t too weird. I just... I didn’t know how to introduce myself.”

“Beep Boop was great. Very helpful, actually. And pretty entertaining.”

"Thank you. It was a college project, but I'm glad it's been useful. I just wanted to make things a bit easier. And maybe... I thought it would be a way to talk to you.”

You both lapsed into a comfortable silence, just looking at each other. Jihoon started to feel the anxiety creep back in, wondering if he should close the window and hide away again. But then you broke the silence.

“You’re so pretty, Jihoon,” you said softly.

Jihoon’s eyes widened in surprise, his heart skipping a beat. “R-really? Thank you. You’re... you’re pretty too.”

You smiled warmly, feeling a flutter in your chest. "You know, you can come over anytime. You don't have to send Beep Boop every time. I promise I don't bite."

Jihoon laughed nervously. "I’ll keep that in mind. And thank you for the cola. It was really thoughtful."

"You're welcome," you said, your smile widening. "It's the least I could do for my new friend."

Jihoon’s heart swelled with warmth. He felt a sense of relief and happiness he hadn't felt in a long time. "I'm glad we're friends."

"Me too," you replied, feeling the same warmth. "Goodnight, Jihoon."

"Goodnight," he said, and as he closed his window, he couldn't stop smiling.

You watched him disappear behind the curtains, and you were happy that he felt comfortable talking with you, even if it was only for a few minutes.

You decided to take things slow, making sure Jihoon never felt pressured. The next day, as you watered your plants in the garden, Beep Boop appeared once again. Seeing an opportunity, you approached the robot with a smile.

"Hey, Beep Boop," you said warmly, "can you tell Jihoon something for me?"

Beep Boop's screen displayed a curious emoji. "Sure, what do you want me to tell him?"

You leaned in a bit closer, knowing Jihoon was likely watching through the camera. "Give him my number," you said, reciting it carefully. "Tell him he can text me anytime."

Beep Boop's screen showed a thumbs-up emoji, and you glanced up at Jihoon's window, giving a thumbs-up yourself. Almost immediately, you felt your phone buzz with a notification. Smiling to yourself, you knew it was Jihoon.

From that point on, you made an effort to bring out the best in Jihoon, genuinely wanting to hear more about him. The idea turned out to be a great success. Jihoon slowly began opening up, and now he would even give you a good morning through the window when you both opened the wooden shutters at the same time.

Of course, it took courage for Jihoon to start with the Beep Boop thing, but your kindness had helped him more than he could ever express. Now, you found yourselves often in each other's company, albeit separated by the window.

Today, you were reading a book while Jihoon wrote letters for his songs. You both leaned on your respective windows, the quiet filled with the sounds of children playing in the street and birds singing. Occasionally, you would steal a glance at each other, sharing brief smiles. The windows were close enough to allow for light conversation without any problem.

"What's your book about today?" Jihoon asked softly, not wanting to break the serene atmosphere.

"It's a collection of poems," you replied, looking up from the pages. "They’re really beautiful, but sometimes I get lost in the metaphors."

Jihoon nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips. "I know what you mean. Sometimes, when I'm writing lyrics, I have to take a step back to make sure they actually make sense."

You chuckled. "I'd love to hear some of your songs someday."

"Maybe one day," Jihoon said, his cheeks reddening a bit. "When I’m ready."

You both fell back into a comfortable silence. The connection you were building felt natural and unforced. Every now and then, your eyes would meet, and it felt like you were communicating more through those glances than words ever could.

After weeks of talking through windows, exchanging messages, and of course, through Beep Boop, it didn't take much time for the inevitable to happen.

You found yourself standing face to face with Jihoon at your door right now. There was no robot this time, just Jihoon nervously holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers.

"Jihoon, you came!" you exclaimed, feeling a rush of happiness to see him standing so close to you.

Jihoon chuckled nervously, handing you the bouquet. "I, uh, brought these for you. I wanted to say thank you for being so patient with me."

You took the bouquet, the sweet scent of flowers filling the air. "Thank you, Jihoon. You didn't have to bring flowers, but I appreciate them." Stepping aside, you gestured for him to come in. "Come on in."

Jihoon hesitated for a moment before stepping into your home, his eyes scanning the interior briefly. "Your place is nice," he commented softly.

"Thanks," you replied, closing the door behind him. "Can I get you something to drink? Maybe some cola?" you added playfully, remembering how you had often sent cola through Beep Boop.

Jihoon chuckled again, a bit more relaxed now. "Sure, cola sounds great."

You led Jihoon to the living room, where you offered him a seat on the comfortable couch. As you fetched two cans of cola from the fridge, you couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment. It was surreal to have Jihoon in your home after all the conversations and moments shared through windows and messages.

Handing him a can of cola, you sat down beside him. "So, what made you finally decide to come over today?" you asked curiously.

Jihoon took a sip of his drink, gathering his thoughts. "I... I wanted to see you face-to-face. It's different, you know? Talking through windows and messages is nice, but... being here with you feels... real."

You smiled warmly at him. "I feel the same way, Jihoon."

He nodded, looking down at his cola can for a moment before meeting your gaze again. "I know I've been a bit... hesitant. But I really enjoy talking to you, and I want to get to know you better."

"I'm glad you came," you said sincerely, reaching out to gently touch his hand. "I've enjoyed getting to know you too, Jihoon."

He smiled shyly, his cheeks turning pink. "Thanks for being patient with me."

"You're worth the wait," you assured him softly.

Jihoon's smile widened, and for the first time, you saw a glimmer of confidence in his eyes.

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theetherealbloom · 9 months ago

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CLOSE TO YOU

Summary: A commute crush turned meet cute with Pedro Pascal

Paring: Pedro Pascal x Fem!Reader

Warnings: strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, Commute Crush, TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Slight Angst, Meet-Cute, Swearing, Anxiety, Surrounded by A-Listers, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Alcohol, Club/Bar Setting

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Happy Close To You release day! I’ve waited for this song since 2018 LMAO. Usually, I don’t write about real-life people, but I really can’t help it since this song is SO Pedro Pascal-coded. Just know that this is fictional and if this isn’t for you, you don’t have to read it! Keep scrolling :> And for those who stay to read this delusion of a fic, hey girlieeee I see you <3

P.S. I’ll be doing a bunch of fics related to Gracie’s new album that comes out next week!

Song: Close To You by Gracie Abrams

| Main Masterlist |

It all began as a harmless crush on your morning commute. The New York subway was your daily stage, a bustling backdrop as you headed to meet a client. As a social media coordinator, your days revolved around managing high-profile partnerships, coordinating with celebrities and Instagram influencers to craft campaigns that seamlessly blended their brands with consumer appeal.

But today was different. And of course, you recognized him.

You noticed him immediately – Pedro Pascal, seated right in front of you. Lost in his book, with a iced quad espresso in a venti cup with extra ice and six shots cradled in his hand, he exuded an effortless charm. His dark, curly hair framed those whisky eyes that glanced up and met yours. Just for a second, you were frozen in time, captivated by his gaze. You quickly looked away, not wanting to seem rude, yet feeling the familiar flutter of a crush brewing.

Did he smile? You swore he did, and your heart skipped a beat. The train doors opened, announcing your stop. Reluctantly, you stepped off, joining the throng of commuters spilling onto the platform. As you ascended the steps, the city's vibrant energy washed over you, but your mind was elsewhere.

Walking towards the restaurant for your client meeting, your thoughts kept drifting back to him. The way his presence ignited a spark within you, a longing that seemed almost irrational. Here you were, burning for a man who didn't even know your name. And yet, in the anonymity of the subway, a fleeting connection had stirred something deep inside you.

It had been a few weeks since that subway encounter, the memory of Pedro Pascal’s whisky eyes lingering in your mind. In the meantime, you had started managing social media for Sarah Paulson, whose busy schedule had her juggling multiple projects and interviews.

Sarah's latest project, a Broadway play titled Appropriate, was garnering critical acclaim and several award nominations. Your job was to promote her involvement, ensuring every post captured the essence of her talent and the play’s success. Though you hadn't been working with her long, you were pleasantly surprised when she invited you to watch one of her performances.

That night, you arrived early at the Belasco Theatre, adorned in your favorite long dress and practical flats, mindful of the commute back to your apartment. Ushered to a seat close to the front, you settled into the plush red velvet, feeling a mix of excitement and anticipation. As the audience trickled in, you busied yourself with casual texts to friends before putting your phone away, taking in the theatre's intricate architecture and the stage's grandeur.

Moments later, an usher guided someone to the seat next to you. Curiosity made you glance to your right, and there he was—Pedro Pascal, settling in beside you. Your eyes widened in recognition before you quickly looked away, a quiet panic bubbling in your stomach and tightening your chest. You fidgeted with your fingers, a nervous habit, trying to quell the flurry of emotions and resist the urge to stare.

As the house lights dimmed and the show began, you couldn’t help but steal occasional glances at him. The man who had unknowingly captured your heart was now mere inches away. The performance on stage was captivating, but you found yourself equally entranced by the man sitting next to you. In the soft glow of the theatre lights, you wondered if he remembered that brief moment on the subway, and if fate had just given you a second chance to connect.

When the show ended and the cast took their bows, the theatre erupted in applause. Pedro, sitting right next to you, cheered loudly when Sarah stood with the rest of the cast on stage. His genuine enthusiasm for his friend made you smile, and as you glanced at him, he looked down at you with a radiant grin.

Your heart raced, and for a moment, you felt a concrete connection that was almost tangible. Both of you opened your mouths to speak, but just then, an usher cleared their throat, drawing your attention.

“Mr. Pascal, Sarah Paulson is asking for you backstage… if you would follow me, please,” the usher said, causing Pedro to hesitate, torn between staying with you and fulfilling his friend's request.

“Uh,” Pedro began, glancing between you and the usher. Seeing his dilemma, you made the decision for him. Gathering your things, you offered a polite smile to both Pedro and the starstruck usher.

As Pedro glanced back at the usher, you seized the moment to make your getaway. You might have heard him call out, "Wait!" but you didn't stop. Stepping out onto the bustling street, the city lights of Broadway twinkled around you, a stark contrast to the growing ache in your heart.

The possibility of what might have been gnawed at you, the fleeting connection slipping through your fingers. A voice in the back of your mind echoed doubts, whispering that you didn't quite belong in this world of beautiful, glamorous people. You tried to shake off the feeling, but the bittersweet sting lingered.

You begin to walk away from the theatre, weaving through the crowd lined up for autographs by the backstage door. Just as you're about to cross the street to catch your subway, your phone vibrates in your clutch. Stepping aside, you see Sarah Paulson’s name flashing on the screen.

Shit.

You quickly answer, praying your voice doesn't betray your nerves. "Hello?"

"Hey!" Sarah's voice is warm and enthusiastic. "How are you? Did you enjoy the show?"

"Yeah, I did! You were absolutely incredible," you say, offering genuine praise and shifting your weight to your other leg.

"Thank you so much! Oh, where are you right now? Are you still nearby? I had told the usher to bring you backstage with Pedro, but it seems like they forgot."

"Oh, um, yeah, I'm near the backstage door," you reply, glancing at the crowd still waiting for autographs.

"Perfect! Some of us are going out for drinks later, and you are welcome to join us!" Sarah’s excitement is infectious.

You stammer, "Uh, I..."

"It'll be great! I promise. I'll introduce you to everyone. You're my best social media manager by far."

Taking a deep breath, you muster, "Okay, yeah, I'd love to come."

"Great! I'll send you the address of where we're headed. We'll meet you there!" Sarah says, her smile practically audible.

"Alright, see you soon." You end the call with a click, clutching your phone tightly as you take another deep breath to steady your nerves and keep the world from spinning.

A ping alerts you to a new message. Glancing at the notification, you read the address and know exactly where to go. With a mixture of excitement and anxiety, you put away your phone and head towards the bar, the city's lights guiding your way.

It took you a while to figure out how to get there, but eventually, you arrive at the bar. As you step inside, a warm hum fills your body, the lights and the pulse of music thrumming through the room. The smoky, dark atmosphere feels electric, bodies moving in a rhythm that seems to make the air itself burn.

Under the soft pink light, everything seems slightly surreal, yet oddly perfect. You spot Sarah, who immediately pulls you into a warm hug, which you happily accept. As you exchange pleasantries near their table, you feel at ease, enjoying the camaraderie.

Then, suddenly, you sense a shift. You glance up and see Pedro looking right back at you. Your heart skips a beat as your eyes meet, and in that instant, the crowded room seems to fade away.

There he is, the man who had unknowingly captured your heart, his gaze steady and intense. As Sarah guides you over to introduce the rest of her friends, castmates, and of course, Pedro, you feel a pull between the two of you.

You muster the courage to speak, telling him your name, and even through the loud speakers and endless chatter, you hear him say your name with a breathless relief. Finally meeting the mystery girl he saw on the subway seems to have stirred something within him.

When you shake hands, there's a lingering touch, a silent acknowledgment of the connection between you. You can't help but duck your head a little, feeling shy under the intensity of his gaze.

"Nice to finally meet you," Pedro says, his voice soft yet filled with warmth.

"Likewise," you reply, your own voice tinged with a hint of nervousness.

In that brief exchange, you both sense something unspoken, a silent understanding that this meeting is more than just chance. And as the night unfolds, amidst the laughter and music, you find yourself drawn to him, unable to resist the magnetic pull of fate.

As Sarah goes to mingle with the rest of the group, you both stand there, caught in a moment suspended in time. The air crackles with anticipation, and you can't shake the feeling that if you asked him to, he'd give up everything just to be close to you.

"You have a way of lighting up a room," he says, his voice low and full of sincerity as he leans in closer.

A blush creeps up your cheeks at his words, and you find yourself smiling despite yourself. "And you have a way of making me feel like I'm the only one in it," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

As the night wears on, you find yourself completely enchanted by Pedro. His easy charm and quick wit captivate you, and it's as if the two of you are in your own little world, separate from the chaos of the club.

He tells you stories about his acting career and his passion for music. You share your dreams and aspirations, feeling a sense of comfort in his presence that you've never experienced with anyone before.

Throughout the night, there are moments where your hands brush against each other or your eyes meet in a lingering gaze. Each time it happens, a spark of electricity shoots through your body, igniting a fire within you.

At one point, he leans in closer to whisper in your ear over the loud music. "I have a confession to make," he says, his warm breath tickling your skin.

You turn to face him, your heart racing with anticipation.

He chuckles softly, the sound sending a delightful shiver down your spine. "I can't deny that you've caught my attention since the moment I saw you on the subway."

The admission sends your heart racing, and you can't help but feel a surge of boldness. "Funny, because you've been on my mind ever since," you confess, meeting his gaze with newfound confidence.

His eyes light up with a mixture of surprise and delight, and you can't help but be drawn to the way his lips curl into a playful smirk. "Is that so?" he teases, his voice a low, husky whisper that sends a shiver down your spine.

You nod, feeling a rush of exhilaration coursing through your veins. "Absolutely," you reply, unable to tear your gaze away from his captivating stare.

Before you can say another word, he takes a step closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like a dance choreographed just for the two of you. Your breath catches in your throat as his hand brushes against your neck, sending tingles of anticipation racing across your skin.

And then, in a moment that feels like it's been plucked straight from a romance film, his lips meet yours in a soft, tender kiss. Time seems to stand still as you melt into his embrace, the world around you fading away until there's nothing left but the two of you.

As you pull away, breathless and exhilarated, a sense of euphoria washes over you, like a chemical override in ultraviolet. "I just wanna be close to you," he murmurs, his words sending a thrill through your entire being. A smile dances at the corners of your lips as you revel in the electric connection between you.

"And you could be mine tonight," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, the words tinged with a hint of playful flirtation.

He chuckles softly, his eyes sparkling with affection as he leans in closer. "I think I could get used to being yours," he says, his voice filled with warmth and sincerity, melting away any lingering doubts or fears.

He can't wait to fall in love with you.

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outsideratheart · 8 months ago

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Snippet - Anyone But You (Alexia Putellas x reader)

It was the most important night in football as players all around the globe gathered in Paris for the prestigious Balon d’Or ceremony. Despite being one of the front runners you really didn’t want to be there have just played the last game in the international break. This was now the third time you have been ranked high but having just lost out in the previous two years, last year’s being to Alexia Putellas.

The moment your name is called though all irritated feelings disappear and proudness replaces them. You look into the audience and connect eyes with your sister Leah who was hands down your biggest fan, you could ask her and she would say the same thing. Even though Alexia had just lost, she too stood and applauded you with a grin on her face. You can only nod your head as your own sign of respect.

A couple of hours pass by and your social battery is all put empty. When Leah is having a little photoshoot with your trophy you see it as a perfect time to leave given that your younger sister is else wise occupied.

There was a chill in the air are you wait for your car service to arrive. Out the corner of your eye you see Alexia who is also waiting for her getaway car only she has a look a frustration on her face.

“¿Esta todo bien?” You took the small of amounts of steps so that you were by her side. Alexia sends you a soft smile as you make the effort to speak her language.

“I wanted to leave but the car is for the team and they are still in there�� Alexia points back to the building.

“You’re staying at Le Grand Mazarin, right?” The Spaniard nods her head “Me too. You can share my car if you want”

Alexia thanks you many times and by the time she is done your car is pulling up.

Both of you watch the streets of Paris pass by you. The car journey is taking a little while longer due to traffic but neither of you seem to mind. You do find yourself stealing glances at the blonde, choosing to take in the sights of her instead of the french architecture.

Truth is you found her extremely attractive and looked forward to these awards shows because you knew she would also be in attendance.

It is when the car comes to a complete standstill for the fourth time that you decide to make a move.

You place your hand gently on her thigh as a way to get her attention.

“Do you want to walk the rest of the way?”

Alexia glances down at her shoes before asking you how far away you were. When you tell her that it’s only an half hour walk she accepts your invite whilst butterflies flutter in her stomach.

Yes, the hotel was only a short distance but somehow you are both walking the streets of Paris two hours later. You both talk about the pressures of your career, the love you have for your families and the kind of things regular people would talk about on their first date.

When you get back to your hotel Alexia invites you for a night cap in her hotel room. It is an invite that you do not decline. She, like you, had a room with a balcony that overlooked the Eiffel Tower. You never saw Paris as the city of love but with Alexia standing beside you, your outlook began to change.

“Can you believe that this is our lives?” Alexia asks you the unintentionally heavy question.

“Do you ever think about living a different life? Like you are destined for something more?” You answer her question with another question.

“We are Balon d’Or winning football players. What more are you talking about?”

“You wouldn’t understand. You are living your dream at Barcelona”

“And you are at Arsenal. It is your club just as Barcelona is mine”

But what if I don’t want it to be my club anymore?

You don’t say that or at least you didn’t think you did.

“I cannot imagine you in anything but an Arsenal shirt” Alexia response lets you know that you did in fact say it out loud.

“I can’t either and that’s the problem” you shake your head as you rid you mind of the thoughts “Forget I said anything”

“I can make you forget about it” Alexia closes the space between you, her hand comes to your cheek before leaning in to kiss you.

She did in fact make you forget about football and the stresses you were feeling.

When you wake up several hours later you do so with her arm wrapped securely around your waist. You feel vulnerable and exposed so you do what you think is best; you leave.

The walk from Alexia’s room to the elevator felt much longer than it did the night before and it makes you realise that you are making a mistake. You have an incredible night with the Barcelona Captain, the best night you have had in a long long while. You are filled with regret as you all but run back to her room only you find the door slightly ajar.

“You never do this Alexia. You slept with Y/N Williamson and she is-“

“It was a mistake. You know how these nights are and I used her as a distraction. It was nothing, a mistake and it shouldn’t have happened”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Last night you felt a connection with Alexia but clearly she didn’t feel the same thing.

Paris wasn’t the city of love. Paris was the city of lust and severe disappointment.

#anyone but you WIP #Alexia putellas x reader #woso x reader

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pikatsum · 7 months ago

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Lights, Camera, Chaos | 1 | Todoroki Shouto / Reader

Summary: You and Shouto are forced to make your first televised appearance as a couple. What starts as an embarrassing invasion of privacy completely upends itself once you realize just how cutthroat the world of reality TV can get.

Tags & Warnings: Reader uses she/her pronouns, Quirkless Reader, Pro-Hero Shouto.

Part of the Pretty Boy Summer collab! [cross-posted on ao3]

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Being the partner of a pro-hero was the kind of thing that should really come with an instruction manual. And emblazoned on uncoated paper stock beneath chapter one, the golden rule that nine of ten couples managed to break: keep it on the down-low.

Those who didn’t faced the consequences— particularly civilians.

Their faces were ultimately the ones that got splashed across the front page of every gossip-rag in Japan. They became public pariahs, their names repeated ad nauseam on the news, whispered with glee in hair salons and social clubs. In the story of their life, everything became forfeit to the public— their friends, their profession, their dating history, their homes. All of it.

Now, for nearly three months, you’d been one of them. At the end of the day, that was the noodles’ fault, really.

The summer after culinary school, you’d scored your first full-time role, working as the head chef in a small noodle shop just a few blocks from your college campus, at the edge of the city. The owner, Okuda-san, had been in business for years, but the dreams of grandeur that had brought him to central Mustafau as a young man had long since been struck by reality. Though the quality of his meals had never diminished, he’d vastly scaled back his operations over the last ten years— gone was the opulent restaurant in the center of downtown with its sleek metallic architecture and warm ambient lighting. Gone too was his wife, or so you suspected, based on the mutterings you could pick up from the front office, when business ran slow.

The day you met Shouto, the rain had been coming down in sheets, blurring the windows and filling the reception area with a soothing white-noise as you oversaw reservation bookings, dinner preparations and engaged in a small bit of gossip-gathering on the side. It was that same rain that had led you to warn him about the biodegradable styrofoam that his takeout was packed in, and offer the restaurant’s tiny enclave seating to avoid having his meal ruined by the deluge. You’d shared polite conversation— mostly offering tips for balancing buckwheat dough to make proper soba noodles.

Over time, the street in front of Okuda-san’s little shop had become a well-worn patrol path for Shouto’s agency. Conversations turned to texts, and invitations out with his friends. After an unhealthy amount of pining, you’d finally steeled your nerves enough to ask him on a date— an awkward but effective kickstart to almost two years of the best relationship you’d ever had.

There truly was no protocol for having such an intimate piece of yourself revealed to the public, to millions of your partner’s diehard fans. There weren’t words to describe the moment you first laid eyes on the incriminating photo that had started all of this: the two of you, sharing a kiss on the way up to your apartment. Your longing, exacerbated by Shouto’s tedious travel schedule had faced off against your building’s perpetually-slow elevator doors and came up short.

One grainy picture, posted to one account incited a slew of Internet detectives, stealing your anonymity in a matter of hours.

At the very least, you’d been blissfully unaware at first— overlooking the increasing stares from the diners at Okuda-san’s, and glossing over the fact that the cab driver knew your name on the way home. You’d remained blissfully ignorant up until arriving home to find Shouto on the doorstep, still in his costume. He’d quickly shepherded you up to your apartment and barricaded the door. In full pro-hero mode, he’d guided you through the essentials to pack in a duffel bag, and then quickly brought you back to his, to wait out the full extent of the madness.

The worst of it was concentrated in that first two weeks. You’d been unable to turn on the TV without hearing the diminutive nickname the media had chosen for you— “Noodle Legs”— coupled with the same clip of Shouto guiding you up the steps into his high-rise building, over and over. Unfortunately, your legs had been wobbling, as the full magnitude of what was happening had finally begun to set in. In those first days, you’d sequestered yourself in the guest room with the blinds drawn, the drone of the TV only semi-effective against the catastrophizing taking place in your mind.

The public had judged your relationship with Shouto and you clearly had not met expectations. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Even a decade on from the war that had rewritten the operations of superhuman society, competent wasn’t a word that paired well with Quirkless.

As the media storm raged, you had never seen Shouto so upset. In the first few days, his schedule was particularly erratic, his whereabouts always announced by text and sticky notes left on your door, or the bathroom mirror in tight, neat script. Often, he was out amidst the public, speaking to media outlets on his own, trying to stem the influx of public opinion about you that had become the nation’s topic de jour. As you slowly began to emerge from your cocoon of solitude, you saw just how oppositely this ordeal was affecting him.

When he was home, Shouto paced, relentlessly. He completed a book of Sudoku puzzles as you absently cooked enough udon to feed a small army— or at least four of his pro-hero friends. Each night, he scarcely settle in on the couch next to you before noticing a stray sock or a flickering lightbulb, some small thing to put right. Nothing was enough, anymore, and even as you asked him to come to bed— his bed— he only ever seemed to sleep on the couch, if at all.

After nearly a week, his mania and your melancholy finally collided, spectacularly. You could still remember the whisper of the paper against the hardwood, as it slid under the bedroom door, late that night. Nearly two pages offered a handwritten letter apologizing for the upheaval of your entire life, and his absence in the aftermath. The third carefully recorded the plan he’d been building to mitigate the fallout, mentioning the friends he’d enlisted to help him and proposed ideas for a manufactured scandal, enough to take the limelight off you. That moment of shade, he argued, would allow you to distance yourself.

“I promise to help you establish a future that will make you happy.” the letter concluded, “And I understand, if that future no longer includes me.”

It was carefully-worded, largely self removed and so quintessentially Shouto that it nearly broke you all over again. Not much about your future was determined that night, apart from one, indelible truth: you didn’t want a future without Shouto in it. If that meant you’d have to face the public— the cameras and opinions and bigotry— so be it.

You’d casually perused enough gossip magazines to know the general strategies that hero & civilian relationships used, publicly. Some couples went on luxurious (sponsored) vacations, their devotion shamelessly showcased through glossy magazine spreads and corny ‘What’s in Our Suitcase?’ Q&As. Others used their moment in the limelight to launch one partner’s passion project — a private art studio, a taproom, a crossfit gym— often trendy, always overcrowded and never necessary public infrastructure.

The rest wrote memoirs. So. Many. Memoirs. You’d just finished “Catching the Copycat. — How I Fell in Love with Phantom Thief” earlier that month, and it wasn’t half bad. Amidst the unending slew of public attention and the realization that you were going to have to market yourself somehow, the idea of writing a novel was contenting. At the very least, your partner’s versatile Quirk meant there was no end to the pithy puns you could come up with for a title.

And then, Shouto’s PR team put out a press release announcing that the two of you would be starring in the next episode of Split Shift— the Hero Network’s one and only reality television program.

‘Think you’ve got what it takes to be a hero? Think again!” announced its pithy tagline, in the promotional packet,’ Each week, Split Shift lets its viewers experience a day in the life of the nation’s top defenders, exposing their personal sides, through the eyes of their inner circle!.’

The two of you had tried to fight it. Oh, how you had tried, your combined efforts quickly spawning endless hours of email chains. But Shouto’s public relations team was relentless— apparently, the clamor of the public for more details, photos, evidence of your leaked relationship was stronger than any villain in the known universe. And without it, they warned, Shouto’s rank in the heroics charts was severely at risk.

“I’m sure you’re aware,” Omori Mika, Shouto’s head of PR, explained, fingers flying across her keyboard as a window of metrics popped up, “a significant portion of Shouto’s fanbase finds him anywhere from “considerably” to “highly” attractive. Early this year, he dethroned Best Jeanist to win Quirk’d Magazines’ “Hottest Hero Alive.”

“Oh, yes— well deserved.” you nodded, sparing a glance to your own well-loved copy, resting on the coffee table. The cover-shot had really captured his intensity, the haunting contrast of his heterochromatic gaze in low lighting.

From the other side of the couch, Shouto cleared his throat, and you found yourself impishly delighted by the fact that he refused to meet your eyes.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because that faction in particular wants to know — why her?” Mika made a brief gesture towards you as she expounded, “Why, out of every person in the nation— the world, even— why is she the one you chose?”

Shouto blinked, glancing between you and the laptop.

“Do they want a list? I’d have to ask Midoriya for—“

“—evidence is the name of the game, Shouto.” Mika broke in, “Photos, maybe, but what people really want is footage.”

“Footage that we have to get by being publicly humiliated, got it.” you sighed.

A notch appeared between Mika’s perfectly- plucked eyebrows.

“I know you’re both unhappy about the booking, but the Hero Network is the best platform to showcase Shouto’s capabilities. The nature of the show won’t just remind people why they trust him— it’ll show that he’s chosen a capable and resourceful partner, as well.”

You flushed and averted your gaze. Capable and resourceful were just about the last things that you were feeling, at the moment.

“And honestly, Split Shift is tame in comparison to some of the shows that have been asking for you.” Mika began to flip through her color-coded planner, “Let’s see… Quirktastrophe, Save my Love Life… oh, you’re lucky we didn’t put you on Zero to Hero, I hear that host is a real piece of work, off-camera…”

“Message received.” Shouto intoned, cutting off the diatribe. You moved your legs enough to allow him to scoot over, leaning forward to minimize the chat window and zoom in on a contractual document, written in a font size in the single-digits. He met your eyes

You took a deep breath and sealed your fates with a nod.

“Where do we sign?”

The devil worked hard, but apparently the scheduling team for Split Shift worked harder. Less than a week later, the two of you were arriving at the studio at the crack of dawn, for what promised to be a grueling day of filming. The process began two blocks before the filming lot, a two-man crew driving out to meet in an adjacent parking lot. You and Shouto were each asked to step out of the car in order to have a microphone pack strapped and secured beneath your clothing. They also hooked a small portable camera to the dashboard, to “capture your authentic reactions to arriving on-set.”

In a mutual act of defiance, you and Shouto remained dead-silent for the remaining two blocks. It was a welcome respite, especially given that it seemed those silences would be few and far between for the rest of the day.

Two steps out of the car and you were being accosted by a human gale-force. She arrived in a cloud of cherry-scented perfume, and wasted no time in handing over the two smoothies she was carrying. The badge pinned smartly to her dark blazer read “Noujuu Yōko”.

You’d just barely opened your mouth to offer a ‘thank you’, but the woman barely spared a glance before she turned and circled a finger in the air to follow.

“You’re seven minutes late.”

“Your crew was delayed and there were a number of road closures en route.” Shouto fell in line, his cooler hand lacing with your free one, “We weren’t—“

“—I sent a reminder email at 2:45 AM with these details. Your coordinator should have shared them.”

You watched as a notch appeared in your partner’s brow, a subtle display of his annoyance. Before he could retort, you broke in with a small laugh that felt as awkward and forced as it sounded.

“Sorry about that.�� you said, “This is all… very new.”

You didn’t receive a response, nor at this point were you particularly expecting one. Avoiding the wires criss-crossing the asphalt while keeping up with her brisk pace was taking enough effort, anyways. Unfortunately, an experimental sip of the smoothie in your hand revealed that it tasted like chalk.

“Don’t feel the need to apologize.” Shouto murmured, as you slowed your pace. This close, notes of mint and jasmine stood out in his cologne as he leaned over to murmur to you, “She’s just high-strung. They can film and record as they like, now— I’ve already seen a camera following us, from the right. They’re looking for reactions.”

“So, no public meltdowns— got it.” you smiled weakly, a chill going up your spine at the prospect of indirectly being ‘on-air’.

Yōko led the way back to the first of the sound stages as she explained that Split Shift was filmed in a “psychologically-backed” sequence. The core of that process was candid footage, occasionally guided by interviews.

“You’ll be interviewing throughout the day, both separately and together.” she explained, at the door, “At midday, we’ll have a thirty-minute lunch, and a touch-up with hair and makeup. The afternoon will then be dedicated to wrapping up the heroics case.”

“The… what?” you asked, glancing at Shouto, “Is there something you’re supposed to look into?”

“Not that I am aware of.” Shouto said, “Although I assume, based on the increasing number of cameras that have tracked us here, that this is meant to be some kind of dramatic twist.”

It took you a moment to begin to spot them— angled around corners, hidden in the shrubbery and eaves of the soundstage. There was even a drone flying overhead, high up enough to muffle the whine of its motors. Apprehension bloomed in your chest, counting at least fifteen cameras, knowing there were likely more.

The tone Shouto adopted was pure apathy— but you knew it as a defense mechanism, to hide the anger he hated to show.

“Is there a particular direction you’d like us to face, to express our shock?” he said.

Yōko’s chartreuse eyes narrowed in a silent declaration of war.

“This way will be fine.”

In the next instant, a loud metallic screech made you jump. Whirling around, you realized that the garage door of the warehouse was opening, and although you couldn’t see much through the gloom, the sun’s rays did catch off another two camera lenses, at least.

“We’ve made a few changes on set.” Yōko had to raise her voice to speak over the shuffle of the film crew as they filled in the space, the descending screech of the drone, “Audiences used to prefer viewing the world of heroes at street-level, through the eyes of those they loved most. Now, they want to experience it, for themselves.”

You weren’t looking at her, though, or any of the multitudes of cameras. Instead, your gaze was focused on the mannequin angled in the center of the sound stage, and dressed in a disconcerting blend of lycra and tactical gear— specifically an all-too-familiar vest and utility belt.

Yōko’s voice rang out behind you, sending a chill up your spine as the full scope of what you had gotten yourself into began to click into place.

“So, [Last Name] [First Name]. Are you ready to become a hero?”

#todoroki shoto/reader #prettyboysummercollab #todoroki shoto #bhna x reader #mha x reader #beloved: shouto

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slowd1ving · 7 months ago

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OUT ON A LIMB ･ﾟ DAN HENG NSFW

"Tender was the kiss when you held me captive In your sweet embrace, Lips begin to burn and my heart beats faster, Than the normal pace." The prestigious Astral Institute is no place for those who are too afraid of competition. Though the thralls of the Music Society may tear you asunder with their particularly fierce intra-club rivalries, those fears are brushed aside as the company of a certain bassist overshadows them. PREQUEL to roommate au rough designs for blade & dan heng here male guitarist reader warnings: amab m! reader, nsfw, porn with plot, blowjobs, alcohol consumption, overstimulation, friends with benefits but one's already got feelings lmao wc: 11.4k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Few universities on the globe offer the same prestige that the Astral Institute does. Talk to anyone on the streets with more awareness than a rock, and you’ll find that the common opinion is this: amidst its hallowed stone walls, a treasure trove of knowledge it hosts. Take a stroll beneath its grand marble friezes, and if the architecture isn’t enough to enthral you, perhaps the floating snippets of discourses and lectures echoing from the halls are.

Naturally, aspiring scholars from across the planet find their way here—either on their own two legs, or from their vaunted perch on their parents’ coattails. Yet, contrary to popular belief, the sprawling grounds offer less competition to get in than one expects.

Maybe that’s the reason the fierce streak of rivalry manifests in other ways.

It’s not unusual—the sports teams for the Astral Institute dominate the field, and for the past n decades, the goal of every other college in the area is to get second place. Silver is most coveted, for the hapless scholars know they’ll never touch the gilded gold of the Institute. But even their aspirations for second cannot hope to reach the silver tongues of the more academic societies: such as the Debate Society, completely trouncing their opponents round after round with mercurial elegance.

Vying for heights grander than one can even imagine is encouraged—nay, it is the shackle placed about a scholar’s wrist.

It is even worse, you’ve observed, when clubs that aren’t necessarily clubs germinate and flourish beneath the nourishment of the Institute. The most prevalent example would undoubtedly be the Music Society, but the Dance Society is another place where intra-club, cutthroat rivalry occurs.

It’s an official society: has its own choral branch, orchestral branch, and even its own dedicated division of audio engineers and managers who aren’t necessarily involved with the music but the image cultivated for the club.

Officially. On the spidery ink detailing the aged vellum, which resides outside the building the Society claims.

Unofficially, it is also a stamp of authentication for the numerous bands that have sprung like weeds with the revival of pop culture. On school grounds and the buildings surrounding the university—which the Institute owns, whether it be the sensuous jazz bar downtown or the towering library next to the river—only groups with permits can perform at these locations.

Though, with the spike in tensions between bands in recent years, it’s become a de facto requirement to blend in: anonymous, identified by only the mask that conceals your appearance during performances. Of course, with the roughly dozen or so factions, there's new speculation about a particular member’s identity every few days: only fueled by people practising in the music halls in the open, or those prone to gossip.

For scholars with a meagre social life and even less free time, joining a club in the school roster is practically a given. It’s a distinguished mark to put on your school record—and if you want the full Institute experience, competition needs to be an accustomed flavour on your tongue. To those who successfully balance both studies and the rigorous requirements of the Institutional Societies, it is a distinction in of itself for any academic.

Venture forth in spite of inexperience; only ignorance shall meet those who keep still.

That’s the pretentious quote of today, faintly watermarked onto your post-it note as you carefully unpeeled it from the stack in the on-campus café just a few moments prior.

“How stupid.” You tap your pen on the list inked harshly on the paper: Engineering Society, Archery Club, Chess Society, Classics Society. Though they had initially piqued your interest as being mildly intriguing, it now seems more of a bother than anything: time-wasters dressed up in erudite clothing.

“What is?” Kafka sits opposite you on the plush couch: steam wafting from her Earl Grey and against her maraschino lips as she observes you amusedly.

You don’t even know how you became friends with her—the Literature buildings and the Physics laboratories are on opposite sides of the expansive campus, after all. Maybe it was your frequent trips to the bars last year, or maybe it was your exasperated comments plastered on the school gossip board—which she ran, believe it or not—but whatever it was, you’re now stuck with a fuschia shadow at your side. Though she’s as mysterious as they come, you don’t think she’s a bad person. Key word being think, not know; there’s just something shady about her, after all.

“Ah,” she figures as you grimace. “The club deadline’s coming up, right?”

There’s an unspoken rule when it comes to joining clubs in a university as large and diverse as the Institute. Halfway through the second year is the cutoff point—it becomes exceedingly difficult to join any society past this point. You’ve still got four months, give-or-take, but the notion of not getting anywhere is unpleasant. Perhaps it’s the intrinsic striving this college has slowly ingrained in you over the past year—but part of you really can’t be bothered.

“Unfortunately,” you sigh. Mindlessly, you swill bitter coffee down—savouring not the aromatic taste but the piercing heat entering your mouth.

“And you can’t figure out which to join?” she prompts. You stare down at the list—neither the Chess nor the Classics society sound particularly inviting, the Engineering Society sounds dead, and the Archery Society seems too dangerous for the you who does calculations and paragraphs by hand almost daily.

“Uh,” you reply intelligently. “No.”

“How about the Music Club?”

You pause. And you swallow, temporarily debating the pros and cons of navigating a minefield such as the aforementioned club.

And as the wise men of years yonder have sagely expressed to problems which require impulsive solutions: fuck it.

“Sure.”

It’s too late for regrets.

✦ . 　⁺

Though, against your nervous expectations, you’re not immediately dragged into the thick of the competition and bloodlust. It’s surprisingly underwhelming—a brief ‘that’s it?’ before you’re assigned a small pass granting you access to the numerous practice rooms and a basic certification to perform in the less-prestigious venues.

Hmm. You stare at your electric guitar gathering dust in the corner of your friend’s garage, and just like the void, it stares back.

No doubt the literature student expected you to pick up some managerial duties, but maybe it’s fate that led you back to collect your stuff—and not the nagging after your friend bought a new motorbike and needs more space for his baby.

“No hard feelings, man,” he says, and perhaps it’s the forgotten discovery that allows you to break into a smile that is neither terse nor annoyed.

No hard feelings, indeed.

It’s a week after you’ve received the metal placard, and an hour after attending a lecture for vector fields. Maybe it’s the curiosity peeking through, but something prompts you to ditch the stack of thick sheets of homework on your desk and pick up your guitar.

Your guide through the long-winded halls pauses, blood-red hair swaying to a cascading halt as she points to her right. “This is your practice room for today. Make sure to read the rules before you begin, alright?”

She’s friendly, introducing herself as Himeko with a dazzling smile. She’s one of the managers in the music club—veering into engineering territory. Compared to her, you’re just some guy with his guitar; you look away from her cheerful expression, gazing at the rules emblazoned in a red less vibrant than her locks.

No intercourse. No hot food. No unauthorised persons. Scrawled beneath in messy purple pen is a blinding neon post-it: get the fuck out if you’re not using the room properly, you bums.

“Wow,” you cough out in surprise, breaking your laconic pattern of responses. “I assume those have some crazy stories behind them.”

That elicits a small laugh from her, and finally it feels like you’ve done something right.

“You have no idea,” she bemoans exasperatedly, ushering you into the room. It’s nothing too large—small enough to feel cosy rather than make you self-conscious, but big enough so sound carries well. “Right, if you need help setting up, just let the admin at the end of the corridor know.”

She leaves in a whirl of crimson and gilt gold, and you’re left standing bemusedly in the doorway.

It’s not like you do need the help: hands deftly unravelling and plugging in cords and tuning the pegs with the ease only muscle memory evokes. How long has it been? With your mountainous studies, it’s little wonder that your hobbies were pushed to the bottom of the priority list.

Your breathing turns rhythmic as you warm-up: chord after chord gently brought into existence with the fretboard and a copper penny as an impromptu pick. Though it’s been a few years, your hands fly across the strings.

A little bit of Bauhaus. Improvisation for The Cure. A brief snippet of Fields of Nephilim.

“I was cold as I mouthed the words, and crawled across the mirror,” you sing along with the backing track, embellishing the sombre baseline—chords ringing out clean in the daylight. It’s been so long that your mouth tastes sweet: letting the tones sweep you away in its ebb. The melody and harmonies blur together—as do your eyes. They flutter shut, focused only on replicating the feeling. “I wait, await the next breath.”

The notes fall apart and distort in the empty room: jarring and incomplete, yet harrowingly beautiful.

“Your name like ice, into my heart.”

Your voice is hoarse: fingers raw and voice scraped tender from just these meagre hours of practice.

“Everything is as cold as life—can no one save you?”

It’s not enough, but as the sound of song dies out and is replaced by the buzz of alternating current and low whir of air conditioning, you realise there’s someone in the doorway.

Fingers drum on the lacquered body of the guitar as you look at him, and he looks back at you. He’s roughly your age: wavy black hair cut messy round his head; silvery chains decorating his neck and pale wrists; red liner accentuating sharp, lucid eyes that bear directly into you.

“Can I help you?” you frown, scanning his face and realising you’ve never seen him around before: be it at a lecture, the library or any of the small stores dotted around campus. At least, you hope you’ve never seen him around—it’s awkward enough knowing he heard you, let alone that you might’ve come across him and forgotten his name.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he murmurs. His voice is pleasant: slightly melodious and clear even with his lowered volume. “The other rooms are all full—I was wondering if we could share?”

Wow, you blink. He’s so damn polite.

“I don’t mind,” you shrug it off, ignoring the smile that he gives you. While it may do you good to get along better and make friends with your fellow club mates, you don’t particularly care about that.

“Wait,” you call out to him as he walks past you towards the back, scratching your neck hesitantly. “I don’t have headphones to plug into my guitar.”

Sure, you may be cold, but you aren’t that much of a prick to disrupt his own practice like that.

But contrary to whatever you expected him to do, it’s certainly not him rummaging around in his bag and extending his hand with a pair of headphones. “I’ve got spares.”

“Uh, thanks,” you reply, fairly dumbfounded as you walk forward. After all, the most prepared student in the physics class you’re in only carries around a half-eaten pencil and a crumpled sheet of A4 paper on a good day. Yet as you reach out for them, he holds on to the pair. Inevitably, his fingertips brush yours, and you swear his hand trembles minutely.

“Dan Heng,” he introduces himself. “Data analysis major.”

“Bit too late for introductions, is it not?” you comment, and it’s the second time someone’s laughed today with you. No, it’s not really a laugh—more like an exhale of air that suggests a laugh. It suits him: restrained as he is.

“It’s never too late.” He doesn’t budge: fingers firmly clasped around the headphones, tips still brushing past your skin.

“I’ll give you a clue instead,” you compromise, wondering what exactly keeps driving the conversation. “Analyse that qualitative data instead.”

“So original,” he remarks dryly, but he does free you from his warm hands. His eyes linger upon you as you gift him a strand of red to investigate: one of the sciences. It’s vague enough to be frustrating, but he could easily view the roster for the Music Club. Or not, actually—since the club is so volatile, it can’t be easy to peruse just who’s in it.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave dismissively, plugging the plain black headphones into the instrument with practised grace. “Think of it as repayment for letting you stay here.”

“Hah,” he grins freely this time—as bright and messy as a finger painting—and you stare at him for a few seconds. “You’re really stingy, you know that?”

The mask of politeness has slipped minutely; you see it in the crescent shape of his eyes and the casual cant of his head. Even the long white coat he’s wearing is falling from his shoulders—he simply shrugs it off and tosses it on the couch behind him, as though he’s shedding an outer layer of his very being. It’s strangely personal; for a brief second, you’re privy to a stranger’s deeper feelings beyond meaningless platitudes.

“Better than outright kicking you out,” you mutter, averting your eyes from his now-calm face. “How many doors did you knock on before you stumbled on my generous being?”

“Generous—” he coughs abruptly, and your head whips back up from your guitar. “—apologies, that was purely reflexive.”

You sit on the sofa by the window, letting the sunlight dapple over you as you watch him clear his throat. There’s no use sitting awkwardly when the tension has pretty much dissipated; you lean back until you’re comfortable, elbows resting neatly on top of the body.

“So? Who slammed the door on you?” You adjust the jack in the insert until the static fades completely, gazing at him all the while.

“I was hoping you’d imagine yours was the first door I knocked on,” he sighs. “How embarrassing.”

“I’m not an idiot.” You tap your penny against the lacquered wood of the guitar. Tap, tap. “This room’s on the very end of the corridor.”

A heartbeat passes.

Tap, tap.

“So how many people rejected you?” you snicker. Third time’s the charm.

“Don’t phrase it like that,” he mutters. His eyes flick up to yours, and you stare at him with raised brows, evidently nonplussed. “...Twelve. Three rooms are out of commission currently.”

“Pff— wow,” you stifle the sound against the back of your palm, but you can’t hide the grin in your words. “Your charm sucks, man.”

He sighs in exasperation. “Then what does it say about you if you’re so easily swayed?”

Did he just call me easy?—you gape, then quickly deduce he’s pretty funny when he wants to be: all dry humour and quick wit.

“Sorry, sorry,” you wave your hand in a gesture of conciliation. “I’m not surprised that they all rejected you, though.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, now?”

“I don’t mean it like that.” You rub the penny—the familiar metallic scent coats your hands now, and you can almost taste it on your tongue. “I mean the students here are mostly competitive pricks.”

“Unlike you?” he deadpans, and you feel somewhat offended at the sarcastic undertones he’s emitting. So rude.

“Uh, duh,” you grin, flipping the coin with a calloused thumb. “I let a stray cat like you in, didn’t I?”

“And here I was, about to compliment your playing,” he sighs out instead of acknowledging your words. “Guess you won’t want to hear it from a stray cat like me, huh?”

Woah, you blink, almost impressed at how quickly he’s mastered passive-aggressiveness.

“No, I would,” you retort shamelessly. “I love cats, strays included.”

“Think about it,” you continue, missing how startled he looks—the tiny twitch of his brows as he looks on incredulously, the minute waver in his hands as he raises his finger hesitantly. “If a cat came up to you, started talking, that would be cool as shit, right?”

“I’d think I was on psychedelics,” he proclaims flatly. “And possibly insane.”

“Way to ruin a scenario.” You lean back your head until it hits the back of the couch: warm sunlight gently washes over your face and closed eyes, all red through your blood vessels in the delicate lids. “We’ve established I would absolutely not mind talk from a stray cat, so give me my compliment.”

“You always want the last word, don’t you?”

“Yes.” You’re a bit too quick with your reply.

He sighs. Deeply this time.

“Fine. I don’t think your rougher style of playing will ever get boring,” he considers thoughtfully, and you can feel his eyes rake over you and your guitar. Assessing—just some guy with his instrument, lazily basking in the sun.

“And… your style is very emotive,” he adds, and there’s something about that emphasis that’s ever-so-slightly different.

“Aeons—you’re only saying that because you heard me singing, right?” You peek one eye open in a glare.

“I liked it.”

“Be serious,” you groan.

“I am,” he shrugs. “I’ve never heard someone sing ‘Cold’ so enthusiastically. There’s real hope for The Cure fans.”

“Damn, you’re definitely making fun of me,” you quiver in mild irritation.

“You figure that out for yourself then.” And you’re left just like that—staring at him dumbly while he unlocks the tall cupboard in the back. This bastard…

From its mahogany depths, he pulls out a hard black guitar case—and silently you wonder at the coincidence. It zips open with a strangled buzz: careful teeth sawing against careful teeth under his nimble fingers. You watch, entranced, as he pulls the guitar out by the neck.

It’s not six-stringed like you expected. Rather, the black fretboard and polished azure body boasts only four strings. He’s a bassist, you realise with a start; the notion enthrals you, just a little.

“That’s yours, right?” You point, double-checking not just the way he took it from the cupboard, but to make sure you aren’t hallucinating it.

“And to whom else could it belong?” he humours you.

“Oh wow.” You sit up, setting the headphones around your neck while he sets up. “It must’ve been fate leading you here.”

“I would’ve come here to collect my guitar regardless of fate,” he answers.

“So fate assigned me this room in particular,” you shoot back, undeterred.

“Coincidence.”

“Explain why no one else wanted you in their practice rooms then.” It’s a pointless back-and-forth, which is precisely what entertains you.

“As you said—” and here he looks up, eyes catching yours in such a placid stare with lips poised in a nigh-triumphant grin that you can’t look away. “—they’re all competitive pricks.”

Seamless. You can’t even argue back; he’s agreed with you and gone against your words in the same breath.

“Shame,” you sigh, twirling with the length of headphone cable streaming out from your guitar. “Here I was, about to use it as an excuse to get you to play with me.”

“You needed an excuse?” he comments. You look on as he fiddles with the amp: too preoccupied with the technical aspects of setting up to notice your stare honed onto the back of his curls. Or maybe he does notice—he’s observant, after all.

“Who knows? Maybe you’d demand my name in return.” You pluck the D string lazily—it faintly echoes against your neck through the headphones. Jokes aside, there’s something itching against your flesh that urges you to take this opportunity for practice.

“Great idea,” he replies laconically. Just like that, he’s standing with his own headphones still in his grasp—as clear as scales with just another push to tip the balance in your favour. “You’re quite stingy, after all.”

“Act broke to stay rich.” You pluck another string, then another. With the presence of your hand covering the fretboard, there’s only a jarring quality to each note.

“So—” you look up this time, only to find he’s already staring your way. Got him. “—wanna play with me?”

“Depends. Can you keep up?”

“I mean, based on your spying, what do you think?”

One stingy, the other arrogant. It’s a perfect joke—a meticulous comedy Kafka would no doubt write in a moment of drunkenness.

Your hand wavers on the headphone jack, as though awaiting his answer. A stingy, hesitant fool.

Thump. That’s what you hear when he tosses his own headphones onto where his long coat rests on the couch. You received your answer after all.

It’s safe to say that your first encounter with Dan Heng is neither bad nor good, just a mixture of both that titrates itself into mundane neutrality.

His notes are mellowed against yours—smooth, buttery—and it’s like you read his mind and he yours. But it’s futile to ponder on the concept more; after all, it’s not like you’ll encounter him any more often.

✦ . 　⁺

You’re right, as you oft are.

Truly, your studies of physics have left you with a talent for predicting trajectories—including human ones. You don’t see the bassist in the following days; the practice room you’re beginning to get rather fond of is blissfully devoid of chatter and teasing remarks strewn back and forth.

It’s… quiet.

Rather, the only conversations you have are rushed ones with Kafka throughout the week when you spot her on campus—she updates you on whatever gossip she’s heard recently, and the scandals she’s personally witnessed.

Or, more accurately, Kafka isn’t the only one you talk to. Small tidbits of chatter between you and Himeko have also become tentative routine. It started off as polite exchanges, but ever-so-slowly, the two of you occasionally peruse different topics.

(“Have you thought of joining one of the bands in the Music Society?”)

The question she left you with just yesterday plagues your mind as you wait in line in one of the tiny, cosy cafés dotted around campus. There’s the strong aroma of roasted beans, but you can’t focus on them—nor the quaint atmosphere, nor the menu items.

No, you haven’t. Of all things, you’re not planning on entangling yourself with creating a persona to present to the rest of the student body—a mask slipping onto your features while you showcase your music to the world.

But as you turn around with a steaming coffee in your takeaway cup, there Himeko is: sanguine dripping off her shoulders in glossy waves, a crimson smile playing on her lips, a jaunty flair to her movements as she waves you over to her tiny table in the corner. She’s better suited for the window seats—shining like the sun itself. It almost makes you squint as you look over.

“Have you given it any more thought?”

“Aha,” you stare at the scalding cup in your hands nervously. There’s something about seeing someone with their life perfectly put together that makes you instinctively on edge. “Honestly, I’m not too keen on the idea.”

“Hmm,” Himeko rests her chin on a manicured hand, drumming on the varnished oaken table with her other one. Tap–tap. “Is it the competition? Per my understanding, you’re a rather reserved scholar, aren’t you?”

She’s sharp, you acknowledge.

“I just find it rather pointless,” you shake your head in half-agreement. “I may be reserved, but I can handle the pressure.”

“Otherwise I wouldn’t have picked physics for my studies,” you comment as an afterthought. “Call me pessimistic, but I can’t find much merit in anonymous rivalries that only benefit the ego.”

“You were assigned the Nihility path at orientation, weren’t you?” Himeko remarks—a reference to the quiz each first-year takes to determine a ‘house’. You thought it was more arbitrary than anything; with a school as intra-competitive as the Institute, it’s only natural that it has its own factions to compete with each other even further. But clearly, there are some who value the path system as measures of personalities.

You hadn’t given that much thought either.

“I think so.” You play with the empty sugar packet, twisting it in your fingers. “Dostoyevsky isn’t my favourite author, before you ask.”

She exhales wryly, and just like that, the small tension in your shoulders dissipates somewhat.

“Well, it’s not entirely ego-boosting. Of course, due to rumours and information of that ilk, the rivalries are what’s the main focus for those who aren’t in the Society.” Red stains her own cup as she takes a sip of her espresso. “It’s a good opportunity for scholarships, prizes, and extra credit. The rivalry’s a natural consequence, of course, but there’s only one or two groups with bad blood like that between them.”

“You’d need to be a bit more careful to keep your identity as a band member a secret,” she adds. “But since a portion of the club are part of bands themselves, they mind their own business out of a mutual ‘stay out of each other's' way’ policy.”

You think back to Dan Heng’s rejections from the practice halls, and suddenly it makes a lot more sense.

“But you’ll know who’s in your band, right?”

“That’s a given,” she nods, and you’re sweating slightly from the enthusiasm that shines bright in her eyes. “Group managers will be eager to snatch up a talented newbie like you, so I’ll extend my hand first.”

Your tongue is leaden in your mouth as you swallow.

And just like that, you begrudgingly join the Trailblazers.

✦ . 　⁺

“What the fuck?” you point at the man before you incredulously, though retrospectively, you should’ve expected this.

Himeko had driven you to the more private practice rooms in the city: a space subsidised by the Institute for each band. Your expectations had been low, but the glossy building led you to rethink your entire philosophy (each practice room was twice the size of your dorm) and wholeheartedly accept your new reality.

It was going too smoothly, perhaps. March 7th was the first proper band member you’d met—an enthusiastic Environmental Studies student in charge of the synthesiser. Her affable personality wholly reminded you of bubblegum.

Next through the door were Caelus and Stelle—twins which you had met before. Kafka had taken them under her wing a while back, and they’d tottered after her (or at least, that’s how you remembered it) before they grew accustomed to the Institute on their own. Theatre and psychology majors respectively, if you recall correctly. Caelus on the drums, Stelle on vocals; two roles that fit them surprisingly well.

“Ah, Welt won’t be joining us today,” Himeko informs you as you’re idly tuning the pegs for your guitar. You recognise the name of your blunt upperclassman; an animation major who looks like he’s on the verge of dying every time you see him. Condolences, you sympathise for the man who’s finally kicked his personal bucket. “But he’s good with the harp and cello.”

“So you guys are missing a guitarist?” you interject. As far as you knew, there was a bassist left on the roster. There’s also the ‘mascot’, Pom-Pom: Himeko’s small rabbit that you’ve unfortunately not had the pleasure of meeting but you have seen from March 7th’s phone as she gushes over the tiny, fluffy thing.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Stelle sighs. “Our old one quit a while back.”

No—she assures you, the reason was perfectly normal and not any unsavoury reasons that would’ve definitely given you cold feet.

“He’s so late,” March 7th grumbles, but you don’t have time to ask just who exactly the mysterious bassist is—because speak of the devil, the wooden door swings open and suddenly you’re staring at a man whom you thought you wouldn’t see much of.

Which brings you to your current predicament: spilling an expletive from your lips while pointing at a man just as dumbfounded as you.

“Huh?” he stares back. “Himeko, what did you do?”

“You mentioned him, so I checked out his talent for myself,” she shrugs nonchalantly. “Even if you hadn’t said he was good, I would’ve seen it for myself anyway.”

He gapes for a moment longer, but your own astonished expression is a lot more difficult to stave off.

“Oh, oh—he was talking about you, you know,” March 7th bounds up to you with her hands clasped behind her back in a picture of innocence.

“What’d he say?” All too eager to play along, you lean so she can whisper it without the aforementioned man overhearing. She responds in kind, already cupping a hand around her mouth, but—

“March.” You’re pulled away by a glaring Dan Heng: hand firmly grasped around your wrist. Just as quickly, he lets go with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, she’ll probably embellish what I actually said,” he fumbles.

He’s warm, you notice. And flustered, you note, this time with far greater amusement.

“He said the two of you had great chemistry,” Stelle calls, and her tone of voice is so steady that you half-believe her.

“Stelle, I did not—”

“—totally did—”

“—part of ‘we played well together’ could you have possibly misheard like that? I said four words—”

They’re bickering, March 7th and Caelus jumping in on their argument—and suddenly there’s a messy, bright burst of feeling tangling in your chest.

They’re always like that, pay them no mind—Himeko tells you, but you don’t mind. Despite your initial reluctance, there’s something that draws you to this mismatched group.

And perhaps your second encounter with Dan Heng isn’t the greatest either, but it certainly isn’t terrible.

✦ . 　⁺

Though it doesn’t seem like it at first, Stelle’s offhand comment—chemistry—seems to be more prophetic than teasing. From a purely objective standpoint, his buttery-smooth playing wraps into your rougher style seamlessly: a steady, unwavering foundation.

It’s never boring; you’re watching as his hands practically fly against the fretboard as he plays a post-punk piece, spellbound even as you churn out gritty chord after chord. There’s a small smile on your lips as you gaze at his concentrated face—which breaks just as the last rattles of the song die out.

The two of you are back in the practice room like all those weeks ago. It was quickly made clear to you that other than the weekly meetups, individual practice is more efficient since there’s no other way to meet sooner without taking study time away. It’s either good luck—or fate, as you’d like to put it otherwise—that Dan Heng’s schedule is pretty similar to yours, since now you’ve essentially got a free partner to practise with in the afternoons.

“What?” His head snaps up as a response to the scorching sensation of your eyes drilling holes in his face.

“I think you’re my favourite bassist I know,” you answer seriously. In all honesty, he’s the only bassist you know—but you’re not about to say his chord progressions give you goosebumps. It’s become a running bit—one that you feel a strong obligation to commit to—which consists of offhand remarks that seem a bit too much like compliments.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the only bassist you know,” he deadpans. “So that compliment doesn’t count.”

How’d he know that?—you blink in surprise. Drat. “I think you’re a mind reader.”

“That’s just fact.”

He leans back on the wall at the back; maybe it’s the gentle sunlight washing over his features, or maybe it’s the low hanging light fixtures in the practice room, but his eyes sparkle cerulean at this very moment. A lazy smile paints his face, and your brows raise in mild surprise.

“Um,” you wrack your brains. “Your eyes are pretty.”

He coughs loudly—taken off-guard at how casually you admit it. Even now, you’re still tapping that damned penny against your keyboard as you keep looking at him: nonplussed, as though you’re simply saying the grass is green and two plus two equals four. No other intonation other than neutrality. Just like any other compliment you’ve given him nonchalantly.

His stomach tightens. Just a little.

✦ . 　⁺

It becomes habitual: practising every other day turns into hanging out. From walking to that shiny room together (both of your dorms are surprisingly close together, after all), to greeting him whenever you see him pass by to his lecture hall, it feels like you’ve gotten closer to the not-so-stoic man.

Twenty-one days it takes to form a habit.

You’ve gotten far too used to his company: neither March nor the twins live nearby, Welt looks like he’s fighting off death each time you see his haggard face, and Himeko’s a lot busier than you initially thought. Past those three weeks, and it seems like you’re slowly extending and accepting tendrils of friendship from the bassist.

Maybe that’s why you’re currently in this predicament.

Even with your new-found (and old-found) hobby, there’s an obvious need to keep studying—that physics degree won’t award itself, after all. In comes the expansive library on-campus: a marvel of classic academia and modern architecture that scholars never get used to.

“Is anyone sitting here?” It’s just you and Dan Heng in this corner. You—sitting down at a four-by-four walnut hued table, stacks upon stacks of atomic structure reading piled neatly on your right. Him—standing before you with a meagre, slim laptop in his hands that cannot possibly contest with the fat stacks of paper by you.

“Absolutely,” you lie through your teeth. “The whole table is reserved for my company.”

That’s a prime example of falsehood.

Dan Heng, the smartie-pants he is, sees through the fib quite easily.

“You and what friends?” His brow piques.

You make an obvious show of looking around him. If the space beholden to him was any emptier, there’d be a tumbleweed merrily sweeping past him.

“And where’s your company?”

He scowls.

“Know the enemy and know yourself.” You place a palm on your chest sagely. “It appears you do not know yourself, nor your enemy.”

“There’s someone willing to spend time with you?” He sits down anyway, but it’s not like you were going to reject him in the first place.

“Yes.” You turn back to your book mysteriously. Ignoring the very obvious contender who’s currently sat himself opposite you, willingly, there’s also a text on your phone refuting his words.

< Living Poets Society <3 > 11:32 > I’ll be there in fifteen. Save me a place, won’t you?

There’s a smile playing on your lips while you tap out an ‘okay, see you soon’, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Dan Heng as he glances up at your sudden movement. He’s still looking over as you place your phone down and crack open the textbook once more: eyes so blatantly heavy you can’t help but speak while you skim over the information.

“Need something?”

“I still haven’t gotten your number—” and this time he pointedly adds your name to the end of his statement, courtesy of a slip-up from March 7th a few weeks back.

“Oh, yeah,” you turn your page, unlocking the phone without looking and passing him the device. “Just add yourself.”

He notes the anonymous sender in the back of his mind, the heart directly after, and the message itself. His teeth grit together as he adds himself to the list of contacts: why March and the twins are there before him, he doesn’t know. He’s known you longer and better, damn it.

His thumb swipes a quick message to himself so he can save your number too—a simple ‘hi’ that makes his mouth dry, even with how lacklustre it is.

Though, his mouth is dry due to deliberation over whether to put a heart next to your name, which he now knows thanks to March 7th. Just as quickly, he strikes the thought from his mind—it doesn’t matter.

Why the hell would it matter in the first place?

He glances back up at you—you’re engrossed as ever in the text, which is all well and good because his hands wobble a bit as he slides your phone back. You still barely notice: a low ‘thanks’ slipping from your lips as you turn the page.

Dan Heng appears to be working away silently from where you’re sitting, but what you can’t see is how he’s rereading the same few lines of data with furrowed brows.

What you can’t see when Kafka arrives and kisses your cheek in greeting is how his hands clench around his pencil—but she does, purposefully lingering just a second longer to leave maraschino smeared on your face.

What you can’t see when you make no moves to wipe the gloss off is the stony look on the bassist’s face—as well as the questions he has for himself. Why the hell is he so annoyed anyway? It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t, but the way you’re unbothered by it increases his bothered levels as though it were inversely proportional.

He doesn’t know her—though he thinks he’s seen her with Caelus and Stelle before—but he’s never been so irritated by a stranger before.

She’s sitting next to you, a model scholar: typing away on her laptop with a concentrated look on her face. But she’s leaning into you, head canting in your direction at such a sluggish speed that had he not been glaring at her, he wouldn’t have noticed it.

You’re none the wiser. Absent-mindedly, she’s tapping on your palm: kneading away at the flesh and you let her, too preoccupied with inking notes into the memo pad before you to really care what she’s doing. She’s always been slightly touchy with her friends—lingering hugs, grasping your hands and twining her fingers with yours, dotting her spiced perfume right against your wrists—so this isn’t particularly out of the blue.

With a loud clatter, Dan Heng’s pen falls to the floor—you’re too busy looking his way to notice the coy smile brimming from her pout.

Gosh—she coos internally, what an oblivious little student you are. This is what collecting organic material is all about; even if he doesn’t realise it himself, he’s practically brimming with jealousy.

“Wanna get out of here?” she whispers after a half-hour of noting his reactions to various visual stimuli: outright holding your hand, resting her magenta head on your shoulder, letting you take a sip of her sweet coffee. It’s low enough to appear as though she’s making an effort to stay quiet, but she knows he can hear it; the now-familiar creak of the plastic biro graces her ears.

“Sure,” you reply absently. Perfect. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Dan Heng.”

And as she saunters out of the library with you in tow, she makes sure to wrap her long coat around your shoulders.

It’s rather cold outside, after all.

Well, certainly outside. For poor Dan Heng, he’s likely stewing over in his irritation.

✦ . 　⁺

If it weren’t often before, it is now—seeing Dan Heng has become a daily routine. Whether it be at the library or at the music practice halls, the familiar ping on your phone alerts you diurnally that he’s located somewhere in the vicinity.

To be more accurate, it’s nocturnally now. He’s at your dorm door tonight—

< Dan Heng > 23:48 > Snack run?

—a motorcycle helmet held out to you in his steady hands. This development only came to life a few days ago; you had opened his mini-fridge to find no actual food, and thus came his offer to go on a late-night snack run.

With his jacket wrapped snugly around your shoulders, and your hands tightly gripping the valley of his waist, his abdomen trembles somewhat. But not enough for you to notice, and certainly not enough to stop him from poking fun at you:

“What, you planning to fall off? Hold on properly.”

He shivers as your arms sling round his middle: fingers splayed then grasping his shirt, right at his shaking diaphragm. He can feel your chest press up right against his back—muscle shifting against muscle as you get comfortable against his quaking torso.

It must just be the frigid wind nipping at his body.

He doesn’t quite know why he’s offered these rides to you when he’s never done this with anyone else, but the smile you give him as you pick out food for the two of you to share is somewhat endearing. Dan Heng sighs in annoyance as you forget to get him a drink—yet he supposes he’ll just steal some of yours in return.

“You got a lecture tomorrow too?” Sitting outside on a bench—cherry juice on your breath—is pleasantly eye-opening. With the city just waking up, it’s a profound experience to witness.

“Yeah,” he hisses as you poke his cheek with your gelid fingers when he spaces out.

“And you’ll wake up for it?” you remark sceptically, retracting your hand. He’s warm, you note—a mild flush on his cheeks from the boreal night.

“‘Course.” His tone is somewhat insincere, especially right after he takes a swig of your drink. There’s a red trickle of the sticky juice that lingers on his mouth, and your eyes can’t help but be drawn to the motion of the liquid.

“Okay…” It’s clear you don’t believe him.

“What, you wanna skip?” Dan Heng doesn’t quite know what possesses him to ask. Maybe it’s the specific look in your eyes that makes him want you to acknowledge him—something childish and petulant, sure, but isn’t it natural to feel like this with your friend?

You weigh your options: Intro to Mechanics, or the slightly pleading look in his eyes?

“Um—” you swill down another gulp of the tart juice—there’s a prickle of redness on his cheeks as he realises he also took his sips from that particular spot. Sanguine coats your lips, and now it’s his turn to stare as your throat bobs and juice trickles from your warm mouth. “—sure.”

And perhaps watching B-rated horror movies isn’t the best way to keep grades up, but there’s something addictive about keeping his leg pressed against yours on his cramped couch—something he can’t quite put his finger on.

When you tell Kafka about those forty-eight hours, she lets out a cackle that sounds like it’s been marinated for that long too—and she won’t tell you why.

✦ . 　⁺

With the rigorous academia of college comes a universal, practically hallowed tradition that resides on the other side of its gleaming coin. Parties. Gatherings, events, soirées—whatever elegant name one wants to disguise it with, all meld into a party with enough booze and enough people.

One lonesome Friday, there’s a ping that graces your phone—followed swiftly by another, then a final one that finally catches your attention.

< Music Society: ANNOUNCEMENTS (do not reply) > 10:00 > For those in the Society, an opportunity to socialise and mingle with fellow club-goers is here for next SATURDAY. Hosted in the illustrious Avis Hall by the POP MUSIC division…. [108 members reacted to this message]

< Kafkalicious <3 > 10:05 > I’m picking you up. 10:06 > There’s no way you actually have good clothes to wear for this.

Sheepishly, you type out an affirmative. The club can brand this however they want, but the specific division they’re referring to is often labelled the unhinged party of the year—sneaking in dozens of students who aren’t necessarily in the Music Club, serving enough liquor to comfortably drown in—yet still managing to keep it under wraps. Unfortunately, this also means the clothing you have in your dresser—casual ensembles and a few ones suitable for performing as a member of a band in the darkwave genre—won’t cut it.

Which is precisely why you’re feeling the biting cold particularly clearly as soon as the next Saturday rolls around—Kafka’s lended jacket does little to warm you up when the mesh, spider webbing top she selected lets through all the frigid air. It ghosts white against your skin, while the pallored cargoes she picked out are likewise spectral and blend in against the snow dotted around campus. Even the jewellery she painstakingly selected is almost intransient: shifting like silvery mercury against skin with their delicate links and chains. To put it simply, the only skin that isn’t somewhat on display is the skin of your legs—the trousers are thankfully opaque.

As you enter the building, the strong odour of spirits and alcohol hits you: just like any other college, its parties aren’t any more illustrious than the next.

There’s the press of bodies against bodies in the small hall; dim lights make it hard to spot anyone clearly, let alone your friends. If it weren’t for the stumbling wake of drunken dancers in your path, it might’ve been easier to navigate—but this building is crowded, and you probably would’ve been swallowed in the horde already were it not for the sight of the stairs in the corner.

With a solo cup unceremoniously taken, you inch past the thumping decibels of music that cannot be classified as pop—ironically, almost every genre save the division’s namesake plays before it—and the amorphous mess of people milling about on the ground floor.

A text from March 7th saves you the trouble of meticulously searching the rooms to find your friends.

< National Cereal Day <3 > 21:16 > first floor, room at the end of the corridor!! We’re playing seven minutes hurry up!!

It’s why you find yourself squished between Kafka and Himeko in the dim room; if you squint, you can make out Dan Heng, Caelus, March 7th and some other oddballs like Ruan Mei and a few you can’t place the name of.

There’s no actual closet in the room, which brings in question the integrity of this game. A confused glance at Kafka later, and you get your answer—the janitor closet next door will suffice, won’t it?

“You look simply divine,” she compliments directly into your ear, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who the glare she feels on her belongs to.

“I bet my stylist would love hearing that,” you shoot back, and she twirls her hair coquettishly in response. She’s right—the outfit she picked out for you feels like you’re about to step into an angelic rave, minus the wings.

Is it luck that spins your name first?

You swill down the bitter, slightly lukewarm alcohol down—setting the red plastic down as you select a piece of paper out of the hat. Kafka whistles as you take your time unfolding it; she’s got a knack for noticing things that people hide in the shadows, and currently she’s noticing how your little friend’s hands clench tight around his trousers in the dark. It almost makes her feel bad—almost.

“Uh—” your brows raise in mild surprise. Dan Heng’s breath hitches, and now even March notices—the look she sends him is one half-disbelieving, half it just dawned on her. There’s approximately a nine-percent chance of being drawn—

“Dan Heng,” you read carefully. What a joke—to have someone you’re close to rather than not to accompany you to the space sequestered away in the hallway. When you look up at him, there’s a strange expression settled on his face: slightly agape, as though he’s uncomfortable with the thought of being in a closet with you.

He stands abruptly, and you flounder after him: too busy ignoring the wolf whistles to notice the faint rosy hue that radiates from his ears.

Maybe you would’ve asked him if he was okay with this, but the way he opens the janitor closet door and steps in leaves you at a loss for words instead. As it stands, you simply follow him in—the heavy thud that resounds from outside confirms that there’s no backing out.

It’s smaller than you expected; only a foot or so separates the two of you, and the air is thick with the lingering odour of lemon-scented cleaning chemicals. You’re thankful for the faint tendrils of light that pierce through the small holes in the door—since at least now you can observe the look on his face as he glances at the floor, then the shelves. Anywhere but your face.

“You… alright there?” you murmur. There’s a certain incandescence to his features as he looks back up, evidently startled by your question. If you focus on the heavy bass that you can somehow faintly hear from downstairs, the effect is almost dizzying.

“Um,” he begins hesitantly—that in of itself strikes you as unusual. “I’ve never kissed anyone, so don’t expect too much—”

“Dan Heng,” you interrupt, and suppress a laugh as his head snaps up awkwardly. “This game doesn’t actually force people to kiss.”

“Oh,” he starts, and this time you don’t miss the hazy red painting his cheeks. “I… knew that.”

You snicker—he can’t bring himself to meet your eyes. “Yeah. We can pretty much just stand here until seven minutes are up. Talk. Gossip. Hang out in this tiny space.”

It’s easier said than done, though. You can smell his cologne, the scent of the liquor he drank earlier tainting his breath; you can feel the warmth radiating from his body as he shifts in place. This isn’t comfortable, but you don’t mind staying like this for those few minutes.

“But,” and your eyebrows pique at that word. “I’d like the full game experience.”

Wow. That’s new, but then again, he’s always saying things you don’t expect. You mull over a reply quickly—he’s practically trembling after all, breathing shallow and face radiating the same rosy shade as his cheeks now.

“Oh? Would you have asked this of whoever you ended up with?” It’s out of curiosity that you ask, but you’re hoping his answer will be a no.

“No,” he breathes. “I’d rather have my friend be my first kiss.”

“So we’re doing this as friends?” you mutter. Your hand slips under his chin, and you can feel his breathing waver. You’re no stranger to friends with benefits-type situations, which is precisely why you miss the adoring look his eyes briefly hold—flushed, hazed, yours.

“Exac—exactly,” he practically whines as you grip his face tighter. He’s scorching to the touch, much more than usual. “Don’t get the wrong idea—”

His hands loop around your neck as you lean down to match his height. Your eyes follow his throat bobbing when he swallows nervously.

“Dan Heng.” He clams up immediately as you tilt his head upwards. “Shut up.”

“Mmph—” Whatever he’s about to reply with is cut off by your lips pressing against his suddenly—his movements come to a halt as his arms coil tighter around your neck. Almost reflexively, like some sort of snake.

He tastes like venom too—the impression of liquor and a hint of whiskey clings avariciously to his lips. If you weren’t so pressed for time, you would’ve spent longer tasting his flesh. But judging by the desperate curl of his hands tangling in the chains around your neck, it appears he feels hounded by the sand grains in the hourglass as well.

Your thumb and forefinger press into the sides of his face. Pliantly, obediently, his lips open with a gasp; you waste none of those precious sand grains in how you languorously probe into the warmth of his mouth. Just as you taste the profound tang of alcohol and salt on his tongue, so does he taste the familiar palette of sweets on your own. Sweets that you’ve shared with him on all those snack runs.

The very thought of it makes him press urgently into you. He’s shivering as he melds the seams between your lips and his more: chest rising and falling heavily as he laces you tight against him. But that’s a mistake—your much-too-thin shirt lays bare all the divots and dips of your flesh against his, and his mind blanks out shamelessly as he whines low into your mouth.

He flinches as he feels himself sink down onto your thigh—flinches as he hears himself.

“You good?” you murmur as you pull back. Your thumb traces small circles in his side, and perhaps that’s his last straw; he’s tugging you back onto his mouth with a small groan.

So, so good, his thoughts jumble out in a haze, and it’s not until you pause that he realises that he did, in fact, say that aloud.

But it’s not like he cares: not when your scalding mouth targets his jaw. Rough fingers grasp at his hair and crane his neck backwards, and it takes everything within him to muffle the sounds he’s making.

Fuck, fuck.

Almost unconsciously, he’s grinding on your leg—blood rushing straight to his head with how numb his mind feels. Aeons above. As you trail your mouth beneath his collar, he can feel his abdomen tighten impossibly.

“Ah—” he lets out as you nip at his collarbone, and those eyes go wide as saucers as he stutters to a halt against you. He’s practically dripping into his boxers: hips flush against your leg, so utterly done for as you shoot him a grin.

“I hope that was satisfactory,” you deliberately speak with a polite cadence, as if he wasn’t just writhing against you. As if— as if you weren’t just drawing him to the brink of pleasure. “Did you enjoy the game?”

Perhaps he should be grateful when the scraping sound appears once more and light—though not much brighter—floods into the small space. Perhaps he should be thankful, but instead he buries his red face in his hands and desperately composes himself—bile entering his mouth at the interruption.

He leaves early that night.

✦ . 　⁺

A friend, as he buries his face in his pillow and ignores the painful tent in his pants. The air conditioning turned on full blast with the winter breeze streaming through the open window does nothing to cool him down—skin burning, teeth worrying away at his lips.

A friend, as he recalls the skilled movements of your hands against both the fretboard and his skin—drawing out small noises that he can’t help but blush at.

A friend, as his own hands attempt to recreate the feeling of your body on his—practically towering over him in that small space. If he closes his eyes, he can picture it vividly: tasting even the liquor that lingered in your mouth just an hour or so prior, feeling the firm press of your arms as you caged him against those shelves.

Did you… want to go further?

As a friend, surely it would be rude to not acquiesce, right?

“Dan Heng?” That’s your voice, right? He’s not… imagining things now, is he?

With a start, he realises he’s staring at his phone—black reflection coming to life with his sudden movement, revealing that he did in fact call you.

“Yes,” he practically whines as he soaks in the rougher lilt of your voice; if he zones out, he can almost feel your breath ghosting across his neck and stirring the dark curls by his ear.

“Did you need something?” Stoic image gone, he’s entranced by the cooler tone of voice—fuck, fuck. There’s a dark crimson flush on his face, and a sheen on his forehead as he smiles against the receiver.

“Wanna come over?” Aeons he’s desperate—vocal cords twisting into something breathier, heavy with implication.

“Oh—” and he can practically hear the purring grin stretching out your face—taunting him that he can’t see it at the minute. “—I get it now.”

“You— you do?” He feels himself twitch against his mattress, ever so slightly shifting until he’s rocking gently while you speak.

“You want more from me, don’t you?” There’s a mocking tone laced under your words; common to when you make fun of him, but currently, it only serves to make him harder.

“Yes,” he groans, half-muffled through his pillow.

He’s so, so shameless.

“You alone?”

Luck smiles upon him tonight. He’s never been particularly fortunate—serendipity for him is painfully average. The most he expects from his middling chance is for his boot to occasionally knock against a discarded penny: burnished copper never picked up by his clean hands regardless.

But tonight? He’s lucky.

“Yeah,” he slurs into the soft fabric. “Roommate’s gone home for the weekend—I’m all alone for you.”

No feelings involved, he thinks—too oblivious to notice the dopey grin on his face as he hears your next words:

“Give me ten minutes.”

And when you disconnect with a sharp click, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the hazed look dilating his pupils is akin to a rather adoring one.

✦ . 　⁺

Fuck—he should’ve never suggested this, he should’ve never come to that stupid party in the first place.

It’s only one predicament after another; squirming on the edge of the bed was not what he had in mind when he practically begged you to come over. But now he’s in this mess because of only himself: rolling his fucking eyes back while you spread his pliant thighs even further with your shoulders.

His teary gaze meets yours from where you’re kneeling before him, staring right at his face as you trail your mouth across his weeping cock. It’s torturous—and worst of all, he can’t feel himself softening anytime soon. Not even with the pearled globs of white that spilled just from grinding into your leg, and definitely not with his sore chest as you soothed it with your balmy mouth: bruising teeth marks upon bruising teeth marks left to bloom mauve come tomorrow.

“Hurry—ah,” he whines as you suckle on the angry, flushed head; cold saliva and precum drip down the length, and he shivers at the sticky shick-shick that resounds in his small dorm as a result of your pistoning hand.

But contrary to his plea, your pace slows until it’s deliciously agonising. He wants to buck his needy hips into your face—yet your hand firmly maroons him on the spot by his trembling waist.

Aeons, his flesh feels scalding beneath his taut skin—the bloodiest of reds sprawls across his damp cheeks, to his shoulders, to even his very chest.

Even like this—with just your warm, slick mouth barely grazing him—he can feel the now-familiar tightness in his abdomen building up within. But you don’t let him adjust to the new pace you’ve set; almost immediately after his mind stops reeling, you dip your head and take him down your throat.

He’s arching into your touch reflexively as white spurts onto your tongue—messy, thick. It dribbles from the corners of your mouth as you swallow with him still in your mouth; tears streak from his placid eyes at the weird sensation in his stomach that leaves his hips writhing with how sensitive he feels.

“Fuck, fuck,” he mewls as you finally draw back with a wet pop sound—lips slick with his release as you lick them clean. The view certainly doesn’t help him; you’re looking at him so ravenously that his flush won’t ever let up.

“Happy?” You’re licking your fingers clean now, and he’s aching once more.

“No—” he sobs as he twitches in your tight grasp. His head’s spinning, but he’s so fucking empty he wants to cry.

“You want more?” Can you believe this guy?—your expression seems to state: a slight concern present in the pique of your brow.

“Yes, yes,” he slurs, cupping your face in his scorching fingers. “Need you in me.”

Despite his words, he’s gasping as you slide a single finger in: roughly probing to only the second knuckle, but he’s already gripping onto your shoulders for dear life.

“Mmph—feels weird,” he breathes before you kiss him sweetly. Your mouth swallows up his cries as he adjusts to the sensation that makes his stomach churn devastatingly. It’s uncomfortable, but he wants you to be buried in him—wants you to lose yourself in his tight walls and never want to let him go.

When you probe a second finger in, he’s struggling to prop himself up: arms shaking far too much as you scissor and stretch him open. It hurts, but there’s something budding in his gut that keeps pulling whine after whine out of his kiss-bitten lips.

That all changes when you crook your fingers slightly. Something shifts inside his walls—a specific spot of nerves is pressed, and he freezes in your arms.

“Wait—ah—feels strange,” he gasps out. You rock him closer, but you don’t relent with the steady pistoning of your fingers: making sure to brush and hammer right into that spot. His eyes dart everywhere and nowhere—dizzy as a twirling teacup, beyond measure. He’s stuffed so full; each time he hears that squelch, he can’t help but moan out.

“It’s okay,” you murmur softly in his ear. He shivers at the small gesture—so tender he’s getting whiplash, quite frankly. “You’re doing great.”

“Ngh—” he whimpers—he fucking whimpers—at the praise. Maybe it’s the proximity of your skin against his naked body, or maybe it’s your words—but he’s clenching around your goddamn fingers as he spills more white over himself and now you. The aftershocks hit him like a train; blinding incandescence flashes bright in his eyelids while his body writhes against you.

“That’s a surprise,” you mutter. What’s a surprise?—is what he wants to ask, but a gasp is forced out of him as soon as your fingers leave him.

“See that?” you ask in fascination as you lift them—clear tendrils coat the digits, sopping all over his sheets and staining his own face a dark red. “Must’ve liked it, huh.”

“Shut up,” he hisses. Although, it’s pointless to even begin to defend himself—not when his dripping hole still flutters like it was made for you.

“Oh— oh fuck,” he eats his words as soon as you smear his fluids against his peaked nipples; cock bobbing stiffly against his tummy with each languid ministration.

“So weak-willed,” you coo; he’s so cute like this. Knuckles white with how fastened they are to the sheets, it’s really no surprise that he looks like he’s losing his mind. Those blue irises are almost completely gone—dilated completely as he gazes up at you with a quivering bottom lip.

With a shaking hand, he pulls you closer by your white belt loops—you’ll have to apologise to Kafka later, since you’ll never wear these ruined clothes again.

He’s the one who unzips your pants. He’s the one who palms your front—it’s so heavy and warm he can’t help but feel a little flustered by the foreign feeling. He’s the one who ultimately slips past the underwear and handles it with something close to reverence.

“Fuck,” you hiss as his hands wrap carefully around your sore cock—neglected, but so utterly worth it as he gazes all doe-eyed at you. “Dan Heng, baby—”

His fingers quaver to a halt, and he stares with eyes large as saucers. Ignoring the obvious stain on his cheeks, it’s evident his breathing’s picked up to shallow, rapid rise-and-falls.

“Aeons, please put it in,” he all but begs. His syllables stumble over each other in a race to exit his mouth first, but they trip into incoherency as he feels the fat head of your dick press against his slick hole.

“Ah.” He cants his hips upwards in delight—stars in his eyes and shimmering across his mind’s theatre as the very shaft burns into him with a slow squelch. Hurts so good, he wants to say, but all that comes out of his mouth is a drawn-out moan as you latch onto his fat tits with your mouth—suckling—until he feels the sensitive buds harden once more.

He’s so embarrassingly close from just the tip alone—especially since your tongue is unrelenting, just the way he likes—

“Ngh— fuck, I’m cumming,” he wails, choking each word out just as your teeth graze his chest. But you’re unrelenting, even as you’re groaning into his ear from how he tightens around you—you simply rock him in your arms so he can ride out his orgasm.

The waves of pleasure ebb and flow in his mind so poignantly he sees the most blinding of whites. Right after it fades, he’s greeted with the sight of your face and chest plastered with slightly thinner, paler ropes of liquid.

“Aeons.” He barely knows what he’s doing anymore. Weakly, his tongue kitten licks and suckles the salty liquid off the areas he can access—namely, your jaw and neck—before he bites hard on the flesh, slinking his arms tightly around your nape so he can arch into your touch.

He’s softened now, but he’ll be damned if you don’t stuff him full for the rest of the night.

“So pretty like this,” you whisper. The words, paired with the slightest roll of your hips as you adjust your position, jolts him with a delicious pain. “You wanna keep going?”

“Yes, ah—” he sobs, legs wrapping tightly around your waist. It hurts—his dick feels spent and all too sensitive to the lightest of brushes of your soaked abdomen. But despite it all, he can still feel the stupid thing harden once more as he imagines you filling him to the brim.

“Fuck,” you curse, long and drawn-out as his hole flutters around you once more. “So damn tight.”

Inch by inch, he takes you deeper; swearing he’ll be split in half by the time you’re done with him. Uncontrollable moans spill from him, mixed with incoherent babbling as he claws at your skin; he feels so damn full that his spent cock still dribbles precum from the slit.

“Are you in fully?” he slurs after a few more minutes of this agony. It’s not until he glances down and sees a bulge in his lower stomach that his heart skips a beat—only to find you admiring the sight too. You lift your hand, and—

“Wait,” he begs, but it’s already too late.

—you press down on the mound in his tummy, and he wails.

He arches into your touch fully; tears leaking out his eyes as drool escapes his lips. Like a mantra, he’s chanting your name in between his broken sobs—too cock-drunk to think about formulating any other word. There’s only thin cum streaming from his softened dick now—and it hurts so good.

His mind’s so numb, but there’s still something missing from this giant puzzle.

He’s so far gone with pleasure that he can’t think of anything else.

“Do you want to stop?” Your voice comes fuzzy and disembodied, like he’s hearing you through a pool. But he musters up enough energy to shake his head in a vehement no.

“Keep— keep going,” he whimpers. That’s all the encouragement you need as you start moving faster, thick cock splitting him right in two as you tightly grip his hips. With each collision of your pelvis against his plush ass, a devastated whine rips out his hoarse throat. He’s so spent, but somewhere in his subconscious he wants you to think how good he squeezes you, how tight and warm he is around you.

“Aeons, you’re so beautiful like this,” you mutter between kissing him desperately. With each rough thrust, you drill into his prostate over and over—blood wells up on your back with how hard he digs his crescent nails in.

“Fuck—” you swear as you finally spill into him—hot seed stuffing his hole so full that he sees stars one final time. It’s a dry orgasm—he thinks he hears you say, but he’s far too delirious to think of anything but the sopping mess between his legs.

His eyes flutter shut, and the last thing he can feel is the warm, gentle touch of a wet cloth wiping him down—and the sweet press of a kiss against his forehead as he slips into the land of slumber.

It may have been a bad decision. He may have a crisis over his terrible impulsivity. It may have felt so good he was positively wracked with pain.

None of that stops him from coming back for more. And more. And more, until it’s more common to see Dan Heng with a bite mark just poking out the top of his turtleneck than not.

When you tell Kafka about this hypothetical friends-with-benefits situation, she supports you—of course she does. But what she doesn’t tell you is how this man looks at you.

She’s a poet, so she could talk about how enamoured his gaze is. How devoted the brush of his knuckles against yours is. How he looks at you as if the stars strewn across the fabric of space were your doing.

But she’s a sadist, so the adoring haze in your so-called ‘friend’s’ expression is one she lets you be oblivious to.

If every other band-mate of yours can see how obsessed he is with your very existence, surely you’ll be able to tell eventually?

#dan heng #dan heng x reader #res ･ﾟ writing #slowd1ving #x reader #dan heng x you #astral express #gn reader #male reader #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail #snippet #male character #sub male character #smut

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meimi-haneoka · 6 months ago

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Clear Card Trivia 5 ~ Real life models of buildings featured in Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card

Hello and welcome back to my column dedicated to Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card Arc!

After a rather "heavy" 4th one, for this 5th episode of the series I've chosen a topic that doesn't require to dig down into complex matters, but actually just admire the real life models of some of the buildings featured in Cardcaptor Sakura Clear Card!

All of the buildings mentioned here have already been featured in a thread or tweet in my Twitter account, but I thought it was time to collect all the info relative to them in a single post, easy to browse through when needed! Maybe for some of you it'll be an interesting discovery!

Two of these models are old acquaintances, since they already existed in the old manga/anime but they came back, particularly one of them became pretty much a big deal in this arc, so they will be dutifully featured here.

Without further ado, let's explore these buildings under the cut! (I will also add useful info in case you want to visit them one day - many CCS fans already do this regularly!)

Tomoeda Middle School - The Gate Hotel by HULIC (ex Rissei Elementary School)

We start this review with one of the most iconic buildings in Clear Card Arc: ever since chapter 2 of the manga (because it didn't appear in chapter 1 yet) and episode 1 of the anime, this new building helped us getting accustomed with Sakura's new life as a middle schooler! Obviously I'm talking about the Tomoeda Middle School! It is a very nice building surrounded by cherry blossom trees, but the best part of it is that it's an existing building in real life!!

Let me introduce you to the ex Rissei Elementary School of Kyoto, which has been renovated in 2020 and turned into the current The Gate Hotel by HULIC. At the time of planning of Clear Card, the building was still known as the ex-Rissei Elementary School, although the building hadn't been used as a school since March 1993 (it had been turned into a multi-purpose space for the local community's gatherings and cultural activities). But don't be fooled: CLAMP didn't choose this building only because it's a pretty school - it is a very, very important historical building for the city of Kyoto (where CLAMP currently live!). This building is considered "the birthplace of cinema in Japan", since in 1897 an early film projector brought from Paris was installed in this school and an experimental showing of Lumière cinema was performed. Furthermore, this school also had the first swimming pool ever installed in an elementary school in Japan.

There's a very nice video explaining in details the history of this important building, subbed in English:

youtube

After a 10-years period where the building was used for cultural activities and festivals (particularly cinema oriented), in 2020 the renovation works ended and the place turned into a commercial building hosting a hotel (the current The Gate Hotel by Hulic), but also a library, events hall, restaurants, etc. enclosed in a complex called "Rissei Garden Hulic Kyoto". CLAMP also took interest in the renovation works, mentioning them in their social media at the time.

The thing that immediately stands out is that, in their renovation works, they kept the original architecture intact and so the building still looks exactly like Sakura-chan's school! You can see them here beside eachother and it's really the same.

If you are in Kyoto and want to do some "fan pilgrimage", as Japanese fans call it, you can reach this building at this address:

Rissei Garden Hulic Kyoto 310-2, Bizenjimacho, Kawaramachi Higashiiru, Takoyakushi-dori, Nakagyo-ku, Kyoto 604-8023 JAPAN Official website with detailed info on how to reach there.

Clow/Eriol/Akiho's mansion - The Former Moji Mitsui Club

In Cardcaptor Sakura there's another iconic and mysterious building that had been pretty important in Sakura Card Arc already, but in Clear Card Arc becomes basically a matter of "life and death" for the new tenants who live in it: of course I'm talking about the mansion that first belonged to Clow Reed, then to Eriol Hiiragizawa, then to Akiho Shinomoto (along with Yuna D. Kaito) and ultimately is bought and managed again by Eriol! 😆

Kaito, the stoic and unfazed magician Kaito we all know, had been uncharacteristically nervous about obtaining Eriol's ex-house, since he was afraid that the previous owner had left some trick that would prevent them from obtaining it. This info was not revealed in the manga, but actually in a "behind the curtains" scene of the 1st Drama CD that came with volume 7 of the manga. Why was it so important for Kaito to get Eriol's ex-house? It's easy to deduce, once you remember that Eriol himself told Syaoran that his ex-house is a very good place to store and protect magical artifacts. And who carried a ridiculously powerful magical artifact inside herself, unaware of it? Akiho, of course. Eriol's house was probably the best chance Kaito had to protect Akiho from all the attempts of the Association+the Squids to take her away, back into their control (as we have seen in chapter 33).

This house was so important that the anime staff (along with scriptwriter Ohkawa-sensei) had to come up with a convoluted explanation as to why the house was back on its feet again when Akiho invited Sakura and Tomoyo in episode 8, since it had been completely destroyed to build an amusement park at the beginning of The Sealed Card movie!! (which, mind you, it's still canon!! They just suggested that Kaito brought that house back with his magic and the majority of the characters didn't realize the discrepancy).

Well, did you know that such an important mansion is an actually existing building? Let me introduce you to the former Moji Mitsui Club in Kitakyushu, Fukuoka prefecture!

As you can see by comparing it with the pictures above, the anime version had to change some elements of the front here and there, but the manga counterpart is basically a tracing of the real existing building!! Just like the ex-Rissei Elementary School, this building isn't just aesthetically interesting, with its exposed timbers evocative of German design of its time. It was built in 1921 as an accommodation facility of Mitsui & Co., Ltd., Japan's first general trading company, but it's famous for having hosted none other than Albert Einstein and his wife, during their tour of Japan, in 1922!! In 1990 it was designated as an Important Cultural Property of Japan.

It is very interesting to note how the anime staff was pretty careful in keeping the same European vibe of the interiors of the existing building, with its big curtains, mantelpiece in each room, exposed wooden beams on the ceiling, dark brown half-wall wooden panelings.

In the manga we can mainly see, of this house, the living room where Kaito and Akiho always chat and have tea (which is the same of the anime), and only limitedly we can see another room (some kind of studio) and Akiho's bedroom. We even get a tiny glance at Kaito's bedroom in chapter 80, but it's basically just the bed.

This one above is the "Einstein Memorial Room" and it replicates faithfully the suite where Einstein and his wife stayed at while visiting Fukuoka.

The teal colored wallpaper with all those flowers makes me think that the design of Akiho's room in the anime might have been inspired precisely by this room! ✨

If you find yourself in the vicinity of Fukuoka, you can't miss the opportunity to visit this building at this address:

Former Moji Mitsui Club 7-1 Minatomachi, Moji-ku, Kitakyushu City JAPAN *Admission fee required for the 2nd floor - Einstein's Memorial Room More info on this page.

Masaki's Summer House - Rokkaen

And now we get to what I consider one of the most beautiful buildings featured in Clear Card Arc: one of Masaki's houses shown in episode 20 of the anime and chapter 20 of the manga!

This was seemingly Nadeshiko's favorite summer house and precisely for this reason, Masaki has planned to leave it as an inheritance to our Sakura-chan in the future! Truth to be told, he wanted to give it to her immediately, but Fujitaka understandably refused (for the time being) the inheritance of the house on his daughter's behalf. I don't even think Sakura knows of this, it's a matter the two men must have discussed in private. Regardless, dear CCS fans, this is a sneak peek into the future of our Sakura-chan and Syaoran-kun, as this might be the future nest of our two lovebirds. 🥰 And could a building of such importance and beauty be just a fictional house?? Of course not!!

Meet the Rokkaen, a gorgeous light blue European-style building in Kuwana, Mie prefecture!

The official Visit Mie website reports: "Completed in 1913, Rokkaen is an old European building with a four-story tower combined with a Japanese-style structure. It boasts a garden in the front complete with a pond. It was built by Josiah Conder, a British architect who also designed the Rokumeikan". Even this building, just like the former Moji Mitsui Club, was designated as an Important Cultural Property of Japan in 1997.

As you can see, this is what the manga shows of this building, and at first glance it might seem like a different mansion because the tower doesn't appear, but worry not: it is still the very same building, only showing the left side of it! The tower on the right side is hidden by the trees (and the Japanese side of the building is missing).

I've checked a bit the interiors from the anime and manga, and while in the anime I didn't recognize particularly any room (the style is still similar though, particularly the half-wall panelings), in the manga there's one scene where it is incontrovertibly featured the sun room on the second floor: it's when Sakura wanders inside and eventually finds Nadeshiko's room!

From the accuracy of the drawing, we can assume Mokona sensei worked closely with different pictures of the real life building! 😉

At this link you can even take a virtual tour of Rokkaen! But if you really want to visit it in person, then take note of the address below:

Rokkaen 663-5 Kuwana City, Kuwana 511-0005 Mie Prefecture JAPAN *Admission fees required to visit the building More info on how to reach the place on this page, using an online translator.

Tomoeda Aquarium - Kaiyukan Aquarium

As for Clear Card, this building only appears in the anime, but it is another one that got a second chance after having appeared in the old anime first: the Tomoeda Aquarium! I still remember how the choice to feature this building again for a very important episode was met with lots of criticism from the SyaoSaku fandom at the time of announcement of episode 9, only to end up making everyone fall in love with the portrayal of Sakura and Syaoran's first date ever. ✨ The magical and intimate atmosphere of an aquarium, with its soft lights and pretty colored fishes, got an unrivaled charm! Well, it seems the design of this magical place (where Kaito and Akiho will have a date of their own later on - only mentioned and manga-only, for now) was inspired by a real existing aquarium, the Kaiyukan Aquarium in Osaka!!

And of course, for CCS, they couldn't choose an average aquarium: Kaiyukan was, when it first opened in 1990, the largest public aquarium in the entire world. Nowadays that record has been surpassed by other aquariums, but it's still one of the largest. Goes without saying, but the design was the same even in the old anime.

Not everything we saw of this aquarium in CCS comes from Kaiyukan, though. It seems like the iconic cylindrical tank (yes, the one that broke twice in the anime) might have been inspired by AquaDom, which was a very popular aquarium situated in the lobby of the Radisson Collection Hotel in Berlin, Germany. This aquarium held the World Record title for the biggest cylindrical aquarium in the world. Why do I talk in past tense? ...Well, this might seem like a joke, you might have heard about it or not, but sometimes fiction turns into reality and on December 16th, 2022 the big tank suddenly ruptured, destroying itself and propelling 1 million litres of water and 1.500 tropical fishes into nearby facilities and streets, with devastating damage. Only two people got hurt from the glass debris since this happened early in the morning (before 6 am), but if this happened even just an hour later, the human damage would've been so much worse, on top of everything else. Unfortunately, all the fishes died. ☹️ When the news came out, I saw a lot of Japanese fans relating the incident to what happened in CCS. 😅

Well, I can't leave information to visit AquaDom anymore, since it seems they don't have any intention to re-build the cylindrical aquarium, but I can certainly do so for the pretty Kaiyukan aquarium in Osaka, so if you visit nearby, definitely check it out! 😉

Kaiyukan Aquarium 1-1-10 Kaigandori, Minato-ku, Osaka City 552-0022 JAPAN *Tickets required Additional access info here.

Old Library of Trinity College & The Eiffel Tower

Alright, alright, I'll admit it: these two come straight from my obsession for YunaAki, hence why I've lumped them together. 😆 When I started getting more and more involved in the story of these two, I (over)analyzed all their panels together, in hope to understand them better and grasp some foreshadowings on the story. And chapter 39 of the manga is particularly dear to me because it showed some fragments of their travels together around the world. I got so interested in that scene in particular, that I started to look if I could recognize the places depicted. And while I had a hard time recognizing some of them, there are two places that are actually existing buildings in real life!

One is the old library of the Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland! When I saw that huge library in the corner of the manga page, I had to look for it. It looked so majestic and beautiful that it had to have a real life inspiration. And it took me to just type "biggest libraries in the world" on Google, to find it! As you can see from the panel circled in purple above, Mokona sensei reproduced (simplifying the design) the one that's called "The Long Room", the biggest and most important room of this impressive library, hosting around 200.000 old books in its 65 mt of length. There are also marble busts lining the room, which have been just vaguely sketched by Mokona sensei, but they do appear along with the seats in the middle of the aisle, indicated by my magenta arrow. The old library is just one building of the Library of the Trinity College, but it is also famous for housing The Book of Kells, which is "an illuminated manuscript and Celtic Gospel book in Latin, containing the four Gospels of the New Testament together with various prefatory texts and tables", as reported by Wikipedia. When Akiho was introduced, they didn't mention she had lived in Ireland, and even though this technically could be just a randomly referenced library and nothing else, it's nice to imagine Akiho and Kaito lived there too. But they DID mention that those two lived in France for a period, hence why the next feature was easier to spot:

Despite the design is sliiiightly different (it's not a perfect tracing of the original, particularly where it seems to be corresponding to the second level deck), I think it's apparent this was meant to suggest the Eiffel Tower and the period they lived in France. The "atmosphere" of the scene also kinda fits it (Kaito always manages to get the best houses - like what do you mean they got an apartment with a view on La Tour Eiffel while they were living in France?? 😆). I don't think the Eiffel Tower needs any introduction, as it's one of the most famous and iconic towers in the world (even the Tokyo Tower is inspired to it!).

So let's just leave some basic info here in case you're traveling the world and want to visit the two locations above:

The old library of Trinity College Old Library, College Green, South-East Inner City, Dublin 2, D02 VR66 IRELAND *Admission fee and pre-booking info here. (Note that currently most of the books have been removed from the Long Room as part of a redevelopment project and will be moved back when works are done)

The Eiffel Tower Av. Gustave Eiffel, 75007 Paris, FRANCE *Admission fee required Additional access info here.

Special Feature / The Pictures in Sakura's Bedroom - Hong Kong

And I've chosen to end this post with an extra: not all of them are buildings but it's something I've already featured in another post loooooooong time ago on this same blog, and I believe it deserves to be featured and collected here again, along with all the other buildings of this arc, for easier reference!!

Have you ever wondered what are the pictures pinned to the wall of Sakura's bedroom in the Clear Card anime? When episode 1 aired on January 7th 2018, some chinese fans were lightning-fast to spot the landscapes depicted in those mysterious photos - they might have looked like some random photos at first glance, but in this anime nothing is left to chance!!

They actually were a very conscious, deliberate choice of the anime staff: they're all referencing landscapes from Hong Kong!!! The chinese fans recognized all the places immediately (and from blurry shots of episode 1, at that!) but later on director Morio Asaka confirmed in the interview of the Starter Book that they were in fact postcards that Syaoran sent to Sakura from Hong Kong during the time they've spent apart between 6th grade and 1st year of middle school.

When I first saw the post from the chinese fans, I remember my heart exploded with tenderness for SyaoSaku, but even more so when director Asaka confirmed it: it was a testament to the efforts made by our two lovebirds to keep their bond alive, waiting for the moment when they would finally be together again. And seeing that Sakura filled her personal space with Syaoran's home gave me a good idea of how much she had been missing him, and used those postcards to "wrap herself in his presence" whenever she needed to. I always appreciated so much this little "present" from the anime staff, always so careful in depicting feelings even through these little details. So let's review what each of those postcards depict (sorry for having to do it like this, but I ran out of pics allowed)

First column The Peak Tower Temple Street Ngong Ping 360 cable car Second column Victoria Harbour ferry Victoria Peak night view

For these ones, as they're just hidden cameos, I prefer leaving a convenient link for each of those places/attractions so you can delve far and wide into the interesting info provided by the official websites (all in English), and maybe even plan your next visit to Hong Kong!

And I believe that's everything, for what I could spot, but if you find other buildings in the Clear Card anime or manga that are clearly referencing real life buildings, let me know and I'll add them here to this post with credits!! ✨✨✨

Remember you can always check the other posts of this series through the hashtag #clear card trivia !

Are you already planning your next trip for a Clear Card pilgrimage?? 😆

#cardcaptor sakura #card captor sakura #clear card arc #ccsakura #sakura card captor #clear card trivia

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greenorangevioletgrass · 1 year ago

Text

fever pitch (b.b.) - part two

previous part | series masterlist

soundtrack: lavender haze - taylor swift pairing: footballer!bradley x popstar!reader synopsis: you and Bradley go on a date. they say the wrong things --or right things-- and surprise each other as they get to know each other better. warnings: language, so much unresolved tension, mentions of character deaths, fluffy heartfelt stuff, but also like sexy stuff 👀 notes: i had so much fun writing this! special shoutout to @gretagerwigsmuse who had to deal with my annoying thots at all hours. comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated as always. happy reading! <3

✨I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notification to get the latest update on my fics✨

Subject: Guest Attendance Confirmation From: [email protected]

Dear Madam,

Thank you for confirming your information regarding your upcoming visit to Annabel’s.

It is our pleasure to host you for your dinner reservation on the 23rd of March, 2023, as a guest of our member Mr. Bradley Bradshaw. We hope that you have a wonderful experience dining and entertaining at the Club with us.

In order to ensure your positive and memorable experience with us, we kindly ask all members and guests to be aware of a few key rules of the Club:

DRESS CODE. We encourage individuality and style in your smart attire. After 6PM, gentlemen are required to wear jackets. Read the full dress code guidelines here.

PHONE & PHOTOGRAPHY. As a Private Members’ Club, we kindly ask Members and Guests to refrain from taking photographs within the Club’s premises. Posting content to your social media from your visit to the Club is not permitted. Phones must be kept on silent at all times and are only permitted for use in limited areas of the Club.

For guidance, read the Rules & Bylaws of the Club here.

If you require further information or assistance, please do not hesitate to reach out through this email address or by phone at +44 20 7946 0011.

Thank you and see you soon.

Best wishes, Maude Adams Floor Manager.

***

You’re not sure why you’re bracing for something to go wrong.

The restaurant is rife with opulence, with rich chartreuse and bronze walls and Japanese-style paintings over classic British architecture. Bradley booked a little corner booth just off the fireplace, the privacy still granting a nice view of the grandiose bar across the room. He pulled up your chair and told you that you look beautiful—a good three or four times, and it feels just as genuine as the first. With your show and his training the next day, you both had to pass on the booze and settle with some green tea to go with your food. Conversation flows effortlessly, exploring easy topics like your shared love of old movies, the Venn diagram of your music tastes, the novelty of the sport that he plays…

“Okay, but how did you get into soccer—I mean, football?” You smile sheepishly as you correct yourself. “Sorry. Wouldn’t wanna get maimed to death by the locals.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry. You’re safe with me.” And then he takes a deep breath as his finger toys with the condensation on the side of his glass. “It’s… uh, my dad, actually. He bought me a soccer ball for Christmas when I was like 2 and… it’s most of the memories I had with him, playing kickabout in the backyard.”

“Oh?”

He smiles—diplomatically, all things considered. “He died when I was 4.”

Your face falls. Fuck. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry…”

“Nah, don’t be. It was a long time ago. And I feel like he’s with me every time I step on the pitch.” Bradley nods, ever so reassuring. He’s had enough ‘I’m sorry’s’ for every time his dad comes up in conversation, and he doesn’t want you to feel obliged to do the same.

“But hey, I think it’s wonderful… that he’s right there in spirit with you every game.” You smile back, trying to save this slip-up in conversation. “And I bet your mom’s really proud of you, right?”

To his own surprise, he chuckles. It really is true that tragedy plus time equals comedy. “I mean, I like to think so.” He notices your questioning look, and realizes he needs to let you in on the joke too. “My mom died when I was 17. Cancer. I moved out here and lived with my godfather. Got scouted for Arsenal.”

And there it is.

You’ve been so worried about all the external factors going wrong, that you didn’t consider that the faulty one might be you.

The clinks of plates and cutleries suddenly become so loud. The subtle piano playing over the speakers sound garbled, like you’re underwater. And the salmon sashimi in your mouth tastes like lead now. How the fuck does lightning manage to strike twice?!

“I’m sorry, I…” and now you can’t even muster up a proper apology, because what do you even say?! The only thing that comes out of your mouth is a lame excuse, “I… thought it was a good idea not to Google you.”

His heart catches at the sight of you, all wide-eyed and dumbstruck. You wouldn’t believe it if he told you, but he thinks he might have just fallen in love with you there. Foot in mouth and all.

But you… you think you must’ve looked so stupid right now. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“No, no, no. It’s alright!” Bradley quickly interjects, that twinkle of amusement in his eyes still lingers. “I appreciate it, actually. I’ll take awkward moments with you over anything else you can Google about me.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Of course. I mean… it’s not like you killed them, did you?”

There’s a split second of silence, when you meet his playful gaze, and his mouth pulls into a grin over your petrified look, and then… the tension simply melts away in a sigh of tentative laughs. The garbled underwater music has come up to the surface, the dining noises dissipates, and everything turns back to normal… ish.

“Anyway, what about yourself? How did you get into… all of this?”

“Oh, it’s all I’ve ever known, really. Pretty sure I sang before I knew how to talk. I was always pestering my mom about ballet and piano lessons and living room concerts… I was that kid, you know?”

The image makes him smile, and it sends butterflies to your stomach. “Your mom must’ve been thrilled.”

“Eh.” You shrug flippantly, and that non-answer is enough of an answer for Bradley. “But she knew I was stubborn as hell, and she’s better off letting me tire myself out than trying to stop me, so…”

“But you didn’t.”

You shake your head. “By 5, I was on Broadway—”

His jaw falls open, and he looks at you like grew a new head. “I’m sorry. Five years old?”

You raise your hand in defense, not wanting to oversell yourself. “To be fair, though, it was mostly luck. My mom was working in the theater company and they needed a kid, so I volunteered to stand in—I mean, naturally,” you roll your eyes at yourself, “And they liked me. So they put me on. But I didn’t have to do anything but pretend to be asleep while the adult cast carried me around.”

“Still. That’s more than most people can say. You continued doing it afterwards, right?”

“Mm-hm. Stage, commercials, TV, the occasional movies… anything I could get my hands on.”

Bradley studies you with this look of awe—not an unusual reaction, he’s sure; it’s a pretty impressive feat. But he also catches a lost sense of melancholy in the way you say it, and he can’t help but ask, “Did you have a childhood at all?”

And your heart catches. That’s something nobody ever asked you before… “What do you mean?”

He pauses, realizing he may have inadvertently touched on a sensitive subject with this line of questioning. So he tries again more carefully. “I just meant… you’ve been working most of your life. Did you ever just get to be a kid?”

“I…” you trail off, considering your answer. You want to say yes, of course you did, but the little sting in your throat makes you question yourself: did you?

And with the soft look in his eyes, you know he knows the real answer to that. Both of you do.

It’s alarming how disarming he can be, and you would hate it… except you don’t. At least not enough to make you run off. “I guess, being in that kind of environment, I didn’t really know how to be a kid…? If that makes any sense.”

Bradley nods, understanding. He’s not entirely sure how to respond, but he wants to be empathetic.

“I went to school and made friends for a while, but…” Normally this would be an uphill point in your story, but tonight… this part is tinged with distant sorrow. “I got a record deal when I was 15, and suddenly I was living in LA and working in the studio or going on tours and… I just wasn’t a kid anymore.”

It breaks his heart, the thought of a childhood lost on you like that. “Wow. You really have lived a life, haven’t you?” He can’t resist but reaches out for your hand.

The touch makes your heart catch, and it feels overwhelming. It feels like you’re gonna burst, so you chicken out with a lame joke. “Haven’t slept in 22 years.”

Bradley can’t help but smile at that, squeezing your hand three times in comfort. And just like that, the bubble bursts and the world continues on its axis once again. He finishes his last slice of tuna tataki and washes it down with his konacha.

“You know, for how much you’ve done since you started out, I thought you’d be more… Hollywood.”

You raise an eyebrow in amusement. “Hollywood?”

“Okay, that came out wrong,” he admits bashfully. “I just… you’re very down-to-earth. And real. I guess I expected more, like, an attitude?”

“Oh? I can have an attitude…” you smirk coyly over your tea, “...if you can handle it.”

Fuck. You’re gonna be the death of him. It’s insane how easily you switch from being sweet and vulnerable, to flirty and borderline devilish. But he wasn’t born yesterday, and he knows he’s well-equipped to handle this back-and-forth.

“I think you’d be surprised by what I can handle.”

Oh, here comes the fun part. “Is that right?”

He nods, leaning into you a little bit from across the table. “I think you’d find a lot about me surprising.”

If the whiff of his Tom Ford Black Orchid catches you off-guard, you don’t show it. Instead, you mirror his body language, propping your chin on your knuckles for good measure. “Like what?”

God, he really wants to kiss you… but it’s way too soon, and he doesn’t know how you feel about public displays of affection. “Like… I’m a pretty decent cook. And I like reading.”

“An athlete who can read? My, my…” you smirk teasingly.

Bradley laughs. He walked right into that one. But he’s not ready to admit defeat yet. Instead, he makes use of that bedroom voice girls like so much to push the point further. “That’s right. I know how to use the washing machine, too.”

You bite your lower lip and sigh, shuddering a little from his low rasp but definitely playing up the dramatics. “You do? Mmh…”

Jesus. If that’s you faking it, he can’t wait to make you all wet and needy for real. “And you wanna know the best part?”

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, the lustful tension is real. “Yeah?”

He leans in just a little closer, head tilting as if he’s moving in for a kiss. Maybe if he throws it out there… “I can put together Ikea furniture.”

You throw your head back and feigns a quiet but dramatic moan for your one-man audience. “Oh my gosh, I think I just came in my pants a little.”

Fuck. He really wants to make you come now. With his fingers, his tongue, his cock—

Your gaze drops to his mouth, the stupid 80’s pornstache you’ve never been into before this, the soft inviting lips underneath. The ball is in your court now, and you know he would kiss you earnestly if you close the distance…

But you burst out laughing instead. Bradley releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, although your bright laughter doesn’t deter him from thinking dirty thoughts about you. If anything, it just makes you ten times hotter in his eyes.

“Well played. That was a good one,” Bradley concedes, his face turning just a little bit pink.

“We should probably stop before the staff kicks us out for having too much fun,” you lean back into your seat, looking around the restaurant, making sure no one is listening. Squeezing his hand three times as the next course arrives… not entirely putting the kiss off of the table either.

Bradley recommends the vanilla mille crepe to close the meal, and you come up with the idea of sharing a slice. The dessert arrives, a lush little golden brown thing with thin layers of cream in between, so simple and so intricate at the same time. He lets you take the first bite—insists upon it, actually. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.

That, and he wants to watch your face twist in pleasure again. Eyes fluttering closed, chest falling in a sigh, lips parted ever so slightly... God, he can’t wait to be the one responsible for it.

“Amazing, right?” He beams at you, very pleased with himself.

“Mm, it truly is,” you hum in agreement, watching him take a bite. It gives you a naughty idea… “It’s so amazing, I might just hijack this whole thing.” You jokingly pull the plate a little closer to you.

Bradley playfully holds the plate back, looking faux offended. “Hey! Come on. You know I’m a little bit stronger than you, right?”

“Please. That’s never stopped me before.”

“Really?”

“I have my ways…” your finger reaches out just enough to touch his, just slightly.

Between that and your eyes darkening in mischief, Bradley fights hard not to turn into goo under your slightest touch. He bites the inside of his cheek to contain himself. “You’re really making me earn this, aren’t you?”

“Why? Girls never gave you a hard time before, Mr. Big Time Football Man?”

He laughs. “No. But you’re probably the only one giving me this hard a time for a bite of dessert.”

“Is that all we’re playing for? A bite of dessert?” you smirk, egging him on.

“What else do you think we’re playing for here?” He takes a second bite, maintaining eye contact as he does so.

You take another bite and lick the cream off of your fork. “I don’t know. A bite of… something else?”

Ah. So we are interested. Bradley is unfazed as he gently warns you, “Careful. I might take you up on that.”

“Good. I was hoping you would.”

The tension rises as reality sinks in. You both want to fuck, and looking at the trajectory of the evening, there’s a good chance you will. And it sobers you the hell up, pulling you both straighter in your seats. Sharing the slice of cake in quiet civility. Keeping a completely respectable distance, as if worried you don’t trust yourself not to climb over the table and kiss him senseless.

But the game… oh, the game is on.

“I don’t know about you, but… I was thinking maybe a few bites, though.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yeah. I intend to explore every part of this… dessert.”

You stop chewing for a moment. There’s something so hot about how he says it so casually. “That’s… very optimistic of you.”

“Not optimistic enough to decide if kissing you out here was a good idea,” he admits sheepishly.

“Why is that?”

Bradley shrugs. “Just a hunch.”

He’s right, of course. He didn’t choose an ultra-exclusive, members-only establishment with a no-phone policy just for kicks. He sees the security detail that follows you around, lurking at a safe distance—from back at the club. And tonight, you’re traveling light with just two bodyguards, each strategically posted near you and the exit, but it’s still more than he’s ever encountered. There’s no way you would risk a first kiss in public, no matter how discreet the place is. No matter how much you like him.

And you like him a whole lot.

“Tell you what…” you put the fork down as quietly as you can. This is the moment of truth. “I’ll let you kiss me all you want back at my hotel, hm?”

Bradley’s eyes light up instantly. He takes a moment, not so much to consider his options, but to process what’s about to happen. “I would like that very much, yes.”

“Alright, then. Shall we?” you smile brightly, flagging the waiter for the check.

“Uh, yeah. Totally. We shall,” he stammers a little, recovering fast enough to snatch the check and slips his credit card in the tab. Barely addressing the waiter as they walk back to the till.

It all happens so fast, and you whine in complaint. “Oh, come on!”

“What, was I supposed to let you pay or something?”

“You were supposed to let me pretend to fight for it, at least…” you huff.

He smiles in amusement. You are so adorable, it makes his heart fucking swell. “Okay. Next time I’ll let you pretend. I’ll even give you a little pushback for good measure, how about that?”

“Perfect.”

“Now, let’s go back to your hotel and… I don’t know, pretend you have to try really hard to resist my charms.”

“Yeah, okay.” You chuckle in agreement. This is really happening. Wow. And just as the excitement sets in, another point of concern pops up in your head, like a really annoying notification. “Did you drive here or…?”

He nods. “You wanna take my car?”

“No, I got a car waiting for me…” you smile apologetically, glancing at her bodyguard. There’s no way they’re gonna let you jump into some guy’s car. “And there’s gonna be paps out front…” Here comes the tricky part. “Would you… mind if we… go separately and meet up at my hotel?”

Oh. Bradley’s face falls a little upon realizing that he can’t just walk out the door with you. He sees how this works. You don’t want the media to jump on this first date, and it’s actually a smart move. Besides, what’s a few more minutes to a whole night of complete privacy? “Sure, no problem.”

You nod tentatively. Well, that was surprisingly easy… “And just to be clear, this has nothing to do with you. It’s just… this whole thing can be a circus, and I don’t want you to deal with anything you didn’t sign up for.”

He smiles at you. Bless you for being so thoughtful, but it does make him wonder if other people have had trouble with it. But maybe that’s a question for another time. “Hey, I totally understand. We’ll just meet up at the hotel and leave it at that.”

“I’ll text you, okay?”

You squeeze his hand gently before you get up, making your way out of the restaurant. Powering through the camera flashes as soon as you walk out of the front door. Giddy because you know something these vultures don’t.

Meanwhile, Bradley sits. Waits. For one minute, and two, and three. Looking at people walking in and out, wondering how inconspicuous he would be if he walks out now.

And then…

His phone buzzes.

#stick around for some more fun stuff 👀#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x reader #footballer!bradley #footballer!bradley x popstar!reader #top gun imagine #top gun au #ava writes #fever pitch

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shiyorin · 1 year ago

Note

What do you think it would be like if primarchs used social media?

Lion El'Jonson:

Private account, doesn't accept follower requests

Rarely posts, usually just sunset or forest photos

Uses emojis sarcastically in replies

Has 20 followers but thinks it's way too many

Fulgrim:

Aesthetic pictures pose artfully depict exotic hobbies and runway couture

Filters all photos to perfection

Constantly debates high art vs pop culture

Thirst traps cause monthly massacres

"Like for a follow back 🔥"

Perturabo:

Photos are exclusively poorly-lit fortress blueprints

Bio is 25000 character treatise on siege tactics

Follows exactly 12 history scholars

Hates everyone and everything on the site

Actually ran some incisive political commentary bots before being banned

Jaghatai Khan:

Only posts the sickest motocross and extreme sports clips

Videos have insane views but no captions

Fans think he's a cryptid until rare livestreams

Hijacks Fulgrim's comments to hype rad stunts

Leman Russ:

Changed his name to 'Wolf Daddy 🐺'

Shirtless hunting/drinking photos get 10K likes

Roasts everyone in comments but they love it

Followers think he's a viking hipster meme page

Follows biker gangs, sled dog accts, scholars of old Terra

Rogal Dorn:

Only posts are architectural blueprints and records of fortifications

Gets into epic debates about structural principles in comments

No one knows if he actually loads new content or just archives old

Somehow gains tons of followers thirsting for DILF

Konrad Curze:

Pure darkness and screams in hazy JPEGs

3 followers and they're all bots

Posts disturbing ‘prophecies’ and murder puzzles

Under investigation for doxxing

Sanguinius:

Angelic selfies bring all the followers to his page

Flowing locks and golden abs get 20K likes instantly

Quotes poetry in every reply but no one understands

Only follows animal shelter and children's hospital accounts

Ferrus Manus:

Only follows engineering/robotics pages

Posts heavily filtered machine shop mini-documentaries

Photos of custom machines that make engineers weep

Comments are unintelligible techno-babble

Somehow gains huge gym bro following thirsting for muscle

Angron:

Gets banned monthly for graphic content and abuse

Posts angry rants about society in broken caps

Got suspended after sending death threats to Guilliman

Only follower is Khârn who comments 'THIS' on everything

Roboute Guilliman:

Shares updates on the latest Codexes

Only follows serious history/philosophy lecture pages

Posts long analyses of governance strategies

Constantly lectures others in comments

Has blocked half his followers for trolling

Mortarion:

Aesthetic is grimy gas mask selfies in back alleys

ONLY reposts plague doctor memes from 2003

Bio is endless copypasta about essential oils

Gains cult following of goths, metal heads and preppers

Magnus:

Endless livestreams talking about theoretical magic at 3AM with 2 viewers.

Tries making TikToks explaining sorcery but the videos are an hour long each.

Overexplains memes and emojis in long-winded threads

Memes and facts threads blow up as the most esoteric

Horus Lupercal:

Selfies showing off abs get him 50K followers in a week

Posts stunning photos from across the Imperium with #blessed captions

Fan club is half the mankind

DMs from people asking for selfies blow up his notifications

Lorgar Aurelian:

Aesthetic is dark robes and candlelit monasteries

Constantly reposting zealot sermons out of context

Accidentally starts wars of faith whenever he livestreams

Got suspended for uploading hardcore Slaneeshi hymns

Still has 10 alt accounts all named Brother [REDACTED]

Vulkan:

Only follows puppy accounts and craft bloggers

Posts Happy Holiday baking tutorials and dad jokes

Likes and comments positivity on everyone's posts

Followers think he's the nicest DILF ever online

Secretly the biggest wholesome meme page

Corvus Corax:

Only darkness, shadow puppets and cryptic poems

No one knows if he's real or a myth on the deep web

Internet detectives can’t trace his true identity

Only sends encrypted coordinates in mysterious DMs

No one has any idea what he's trying to say

1 follower is Alpharius who only replies 'No, I'm Alpharius'

Alpharius/Omegon:

Constantly pretending to be other online

No one knows their true forms or agenda

Takeovers of government sites spark conspiracies

Leaves clues implicating everyone else’s schemes

#warhammer 40k #wh40crack #primarch #lol #warhammer 40000

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animeandcatholicism · 5 months ago

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My biggest hot take

Is that, personally I believe that people should try to avoid body modification unless it's absolutely necessary and to accept themselves as they are.

Ultimately, you don't "fix" yourself by getting cosmetic surgeries and pumping yourself full of hormones or to alter your physical condition in order to achieve some perceived ideal that will "solve" your insecurities. The truth is, you have to accept yourself warts and all and nothing will magically solve that.

The only thing that you can control is how you respond to your own insecurities and often the way you do that is by confronting the reasons for that. Stop going onto social media and looking at people's "perfect lives" or consuming content that tells you what you need in order to be "happy". Talk to your friends and family, join a book club, an in person rpg group,go camping, somewhere that exposes you to the real side of life with as little bs as possible. Heck examine architecture and see how even in its flawed state it's still beautiful.

Understand that despite your flaws, insecurities and misgivings, you too are beautiful.

#personal #ramblings #mind you #if youre a third degree burn victim #or amputee then yeah go get those surgeries #also knee cap replacements count as “plastic surgeries”#long story short middle school band teacher got flyers for MONTHS after his knee surgery for breast implants #dude was in his sixties at the time #beauty #goodness #light

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simplegenius042 · 5 months ago

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WIP Wednesday, Enemies To Lovers Meme & OC Dialogue Meme

Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat and @imogenkol

Tagging @inafieldofdaisies @voidika @cassietrn @adelaidedrubman @aceghosts @josephseedismyfather @icecutioner @derelictheretic @shallow-gravy @strangefable @statichvm @cloudofbutterflies92 @carlosoliveiraa @wrathfulrook @raresvtm @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @minilev @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @justasmolbard @alypink @noodlecupcakes @aceghosts @shellibisshe @josephslittledeputy @skoll-sun-eater @g0dspeeed @afarcryfrommymain @strafethesesinners @turbo-virgins @softtidesworld @florbelles and @yokobai + anyone who wants to join.

[Edit: Sorry for the second tagging, I had to fix a mistake on my post and my laptop for some reason negates the tagging I made so… yeah.]

WIP for Life, Despair & Monsters, the Enemies to Lovers Meme for The Silver Chronicles, specifically for Silva and Faith, and the Dialogue Meme for Archangel Metatron and Xiang Ba'al for Wings And Horns WIP.

A snippet of my DDLC WIP You Make My Heart Go Doki Doki Literature Club! Monika has the opportunity to taste her first meal in the real world... a bowl of rice porridge. This WIP is still under heavy construction so things may change in the near future:

Once she had found a relatively empty area, devoid of prying students (and concerned clubmates), Monika sat down on the corner of a stone slab.

Taking one last look around for any lingering peers, Monika's relief was interrupted by the grumble of her empty stomach, yearning for the hot consumable in her hands.

She seated herself down on the cool stone, the shade of the cherry acting as additional protection from the eyes of others. Her skirt acted as a blanket against the slab's roughness.

Monika, though having no previous set opinion on buildings like her high school (the falsity of that reality notwithstanding), however, here she couldn't stop herself from really admiring the architecture. If this were a digital world, as she feared it could still be, she'd still be impressed by the level of detail that its developer's implemented.

But if this really was the reality she yearned for... she was absolutely breathless.

Her stomach rumbled in demand of sustenance once more.

And hungry, she reminded herself, placing the heated bowl of boiled grains on her lap. Faced once more with one of the mandatory functions of having a real body, the anticipation set in.

Hunger was never a concern she had prior in the game unless it was demanded for a scene, but with her new life, she was going to have to make this a daily occurrence.

She looked down at the simple rice porridge, or rather, okayu. At first, she hesitated stabbing her spoon into the bowl. After all, the mix of hot soggy rice drenched in boiled water hadn't looked very appealing. However, it was amongst the few meals she found out could soothe an ailing stomach (after the incident that occurred prior to the week), and the alternative dishes weren't optional today.

In addition, it wasn't something that had existed in the game.

I will give credit though, Monika thought as she dipped the spoon's head into the melted grains, It does smell way too good for something that looks so unappealing.

She brought a small spoonful up to her lips, blowing gently on the heated rice, she closed her eyes before swiftly shoving it in her mouth.

Her eyes involuntarily opened, green irises widening at the new sense. Spoon still in her mouth, her tongue slathered itself in the porridge. The watery texture of the rice grains was dull, and yet, softly comforting in its heat. The mix of boiled rice and water tasted surprisingly nice, and when swallowing it, she hummed in satisfaction as .

It was nothing she had ever felt before; she could never have any sense of taste in the few moments she got to eat in the game. All it was in that prison was nothing. Less than nothing. But here...

Her eyes welled with tears as she stabbed another spoonful into the porridge. She didn't know if this was reality or a less limited version of her former one, but she was grateful for this all the same. In quick succession, she had nearly devoured half the porridge, and savored in a dish by looks alone shouldn't be this good.

She wouldn't be satisfied until the entire porridge was empty in the bowl.

[NOTE: I will most likely rewrite this scene in the future, as I want Monika's reaction to be a lot more impactful, considering in the game she probably could never truly "taste" the food she "ate" (if she was given the chance to eat anything that is)]

Anyway, have an enemies-to-lovers meme for the slowest-burn couple I've ever had the pleasure to make; "Boa Lurking In The Bliss", or rather my FC5 Deputy OC Silva Omar x Faith Seed ship. Also, for some reason, Silva has a questionable taste in women; most of whom (Irene and Faith) are powerful, feared and dangerous & manipulative, with the only normal commonality between them that Silva finds attractive and mesmerizing being their green eyes. Anyway, meme and template below:

To clarify, these two change a lot throughout their... uh, for a lack of better words, complicated romance. Especially when it comes to Faith. Also for the "would kill", Faith would have killed Silva if Joseph gave the a-okay during the "I hate this woman for destroying my weed crops" phase, however, this ultimately changes later down the line when she realizes she has feelings. Also it's not that Silva doesn't hold a little contempt towards Faith's actions in the "Hate Meter", but she's honestly got worse people to hate (a prominent figure being her father, Adam Omar). Things get better... eventually.

I've got two Dialogue memes for two major characters in my Wings And Horns WIP; that being Archangel Metatron and Xiang Ba'al. Metatron's is first:

Translation for the small text:

Have them introduce themself:

"Greetings to you, saintly soul. Have no fear. I am the Archangel Metatron, and from the Heavens, I seek your assistance."

Describe their voice, generally: (e.x. accent/type/inflection)

There's a certain gentle divinity in it, with an atmosphere of wisdom retained, like an experienced worker or an older man. Clearly masculine but not too deep.

In their own words, what are they proud of/what is their most passionate interest?

"I am impassioned by my service to the Allfather of the Heavens. Any work I do under his name I find to be an honor. One of my proudest achievements would be leading an exodus of a flock of believers out of harms way."

They've been caught doing... something! Can they talk their way out of it?

"If I can, on my word, blessedly sworn by the Allfather, his kingdoms and his children… I have a reason and probable jurisdiction too which I can and will explain."

Free space/Dramatic Monologue!

"Cadet… I wish you the best. And should your journey be… opposed by non-believers… you have my endorsement to proceed to the next life. If that means much anyway…"

[Image Reference Credits: Art of Archangel Metatron that I found posted on Quora]

And here's Xiang Ba'al's:

Translation for the small text:

Have them introduce themself:

"Well, well, well… Hello there good pedestrian. You look a little down. Perhaps horrified even? All because of that dreadful soul mark isn't it? No need to worry, I'm not here to judge. I'm here to give an escape from this cursed "destiny". Who am I? Silly me, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Xiang Ba'al… and I offer you freedom."

Describe their voice, generally: (e.x. accent/type/inflection)

Xiang's voice is deep and rough, but in spite of this, he holds a certain mix of showmanship and a upperclassman (which he is not). Whether this is an act of playfulness or a mockery towards the Heavens, he often uses it when freeing humans of their red string.

In their own words, what are they proud of/what is their most passionate interest?

"I'd have to say removing those restrictive marks from those humans above had been quite liberating. Not to mention, it eventually worked in our favour… the lord dickheads in charge realised the system was collapsing and axed it before it could get worse."

Free space/Dramatic Monologue!

"Jezebel was long abandoned by her family when they allowed that perversion of a marriage to go ahead. To them, she was just property to benefit off. To me, she is my reason to continue this crusade against those pricks up above. She is why I got off my ass in Hell. She is why I learned to cook. She is why I learned to read, to write, to travel and work and do all the things a demon of Sloth would think ridiculous and a waste. They told me, "She will be the undoing of your nature." And maybe they're right. I no longer sleep the millenia away. I no longer wish for a final ending. I no longer let the rot of regret and shame chain me. But I'm not unhappy with that. Why? Because she is my reason to live. Her smile. Her cheer. Her obsession with scissors. And if bringing down the system that damned her in the first place makes her sleeps ever more peaceful, then Archangel, you can fucking bet I'm not going to stop until your superiors FINALLY GET OFF THEIR ASSES!"

[Image References: Kagetane Hiruko from Black Bullet and a picture of a sloth].

And here are the empty templates below:

#wip wednesday #tag memes #series: life despair & monsters #wip: you make my heart go doki doki literature club!#doki doki literature club #ddlc monika #series: the silver chronicles #far cry 5 #otp: boa lurking in the bliss #oc: silva omar #fc: mina el hammani #faith seed #fc: kenz lawren #wip: wings and horns #oc: archangel metatron #oc: xiang ba'al

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thought-filled-unfortunately · 11 months ago

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The Overlord Power Couple— this is probably a billboard or magazine cover

This was just supposed to be a sketch but yeah

• They co-own a talent agency— Vox handles TV, commercials and film, Alastor specialises in voiceover, music production and obviously radio

• Alastor is the harsher critic when it comes to talent— very much has an ‘either you have it or you don’t’ attitude

• They have two towers and actor’s village at the bottom and it’s like its own high end neighbourhood, think like a classy mashup of old and modern New York architecture

• The Agency is located on Vox’s tower, along with the meeting rooms and the sets of Vox’s programs that he hosts. Vox’s office is the top floor.

• Alastor’s tower is more a place of entertainment and indulgences— exclusive to the talent within the agency except for major events where it’s invite only. Ground floor is a restaurant, next floor is a jazz club/theatre, recording studio is on the third floor, Al’s office and radio station is the top floor.

• Events at the jazz club/theatre are the social events of the season

• Alastor writes and directs radio plays and Vox is super invested— so this has absolutely happened post episode:

Vox: *teleports to Alastor’s office and grabs his shoulders, violently shaking him* *distraught beyond belief* WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! WHY WOULD YOU LEAVE IT LIKE THAT?! YOU FUCKING SADIST! I COULD KILL YOU! HOW’D YOU LIKE TO DIE AGAIN, YOU HORRIBLE PRICK?!

• There is a cork-board at home for Vox’s theories about what happens next episode— it’s on the side of the fridge so Vox remembers to eat.

• Alastor loves leaving his thoughts on post-its on what he thinks of certain theories.

• Vox has tried to sneak peaks at the script before the episode airs. He has failed miserably each attempt. Alastor is very pleased.

I’m so unwell about them actually… obsessed in the sickest most twisted way

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin vox #thoughts #concept art #au art #AV Entertainment AU #radiostatic

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doubledeadstudio · 6 months ago

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Deal with the Devil: Signed, Florentin Blanchett

(Note: Do not read this if you don’t want to be spoiled for Pygmalion’s Folly and my potential Deal with the Devil series. Also, this is largely unedited.)

GOMORRAH.

One of many night clubs in the city of San Francisco. Its red, neon letters are spelled in jagged Gothic font, with an illustration of flames behind it, rhythmically blinking from one flame to the next.

Florentin holds up the glossy, pitch black calling card to its sign. Its hellish glow lights up the back, and shows the outline of a peculiar symbol — a circular sigil with intricate lines.

To a bystander, it’s nothing but a drawing of no import, its intricacy inviting their attention to slide off from memory. To an occultist, it’s a calling card of the granter of wishes and Solomon’s fabled lost son.

He’s here. He’s finally here. How long he’s waited to meet him!

He holds his invitation to the bouncer with an expression of bored entitlement. He thinks lowly of the line behind him, waiting to get into the club, with their glazed eyes and empty heads.

If they only knew the sanctity of this temple.

But, much like him, Gabriel protected himself with a reputation of frivolity.

Florentin walks past the bar and the dance floor, steady in his march, weaving to a crowd of partygoers with careful, determined ease. The loud, thumping bass and the cacophony of voices in the crowd threaten him with a splitting migraine.

He couldn’t let this place deal the first blow against him.

He has to remain resolute.

The double doors inscribed with symbols of dragons open up for him, a pulsating, hypnotizing wash of red lights seduce him inside, swallowing him into the madness within.

This was supposed to be the VIP room. A hidden strip club for premium members. Really, it isn’t titillating so much as intimidating.

The music is slowed and distant, giving the impression that it’s playing underwater, muffled by the water. The dancers are propped up in high, dangling cages with draconic architecture.

He finally ends up at Gabriel’s table. It’s sunken in the ground, circular, with black leather padding. Gabriel is seated behind the stage of a beautiful dancer, each of her practiced sways decorated with elaborate tassles and glistening jewelry.

Florentin can’t see his face in this lighting. He can only make out his golden, cat-like eyes, and black, fitted suit. He’s with two companions, but judging by the state of them, they’re more decorative than anything.

Gabriel raises a finger, and beckons him to sit.

His aura is incredible.

He does as instructed, carefully descending down the steps to sit with him. It seems like Gabriel wants him next to him. He keeps his eyes on him with a pleasant expression. He doesn’t want him to suspect he’s sizing him up.

He needs to think of an angle here. He can’t be dominated so carelessly like this. Solomon dominated the Goetia with an iron will centuries ago, but Florentin doesn’t have his name or his experience to do the same.

He’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way — as sloppy mortals, blindly grasping at the dark with awkward social cues.

Think.

Gabriel seems to like the company of beautiful women. What about men? Could he butter him up the same?

Gabriel takes a sip of his scotch, and raises the glass to him.

“Blanchett. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.” His voice is nice, a firm baritone.

He’s good-looking, too. He has a hedonistic, womanizing aura about him, but he knows well-enough that these pleasures are a way to sedate a great, untameable beast.

“Thank you for inviting me, Mr Baltimore.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Red wine, please,” he answers, almost mechanically. It’s always what he answers in places like this. People expect you to drink, and get caught off-guard if you don’t. He doesn’t want to fail his first hurdle, but he intends to only take careful sips, so Gabriel can’t dominate him without protest. “And some snacks, if you’re already being so generous!”

Gabriel’s lip quirks in amusement. I got him.

“What snacks?”

“Well, do you have a menu? Some chocolates would pair perfectly, but I’ll take nachos with cheese. I’m not high maintenance.”

Gabriel snaps his fingers, and relays Florentin’s order to a waiter.

With the awkwardness of the initial meeting dispelled, Florentin takes out his gift from his messenger bag, and presents it to him casually. An offering would put him the same as his other, simpering fans, but a gift, given carelessly, can elevate his image without the same impression.

The gift’s wrapped in gold paper adorned with silky black ribbons. It’s a carefully constructed gift box, with post cards, soaps, perfume, lotions, and jewelry with a pretty enough sum total that a person of higher stature wouldn’t find it offensive.

“I made you this. I remember you mentioned enjoying France when you stayed. It’s a bit hard to find French artisinal products here in the States, no?”

Gabriel takes the box, and Florentin studies the reaction. He looks amused, like Florentin’s a cat or a bird that offered him a shiny token. Will he open it? No. He sets it aside, but he doesn’t seem affected by the gift in either direction.

“Yes, the US has fallen in love with mass manufacturing. You’re always only going to get a quarter of what you paid for.”

A waiter offers him the wine, and he smiles brilliantly at him, offering a thanks.

“Perhaps you should move to Europe, then!”

“Europe wouldn’t be my first choice.” He flicks his cigar’s ash into a tray. “And I suspect it isn’t yours either.”

Florentin pales, caught off-guard by the abrupt segue. He swallows a lump in his throat. Back to business.

(Gabriel wouldn’t let him sedate him during a business deal. Of course not.)

“No. It’s not.”

Fifty-five missing persons, mysterious deaths, strewn across Austria, Germany, and Poland. It got a little too close one night, during a snow storm, when the cops knocked at his door at midnight. He had to hide out under the floorboards. They found two, malformed ghouls, barely able to function, writhing in pain. They were clearly constructed from the parts of the other victims.

Florentin had to escape in his car and drive out into the dark, snowy woods with nothing but what he can carry.

“You’ve certainly taken a number of risks, Blanchett. How’s your relationship with your parents?”

“…Admittedly, estranged.”

They both know what that implied.

Despite Florentin keeping up the image of a rich heir, he doesn’t have anything to his name.

“How are you funding your research now, then?”

Florentin sighs, and scratches his head. “I… used to work at local clinics and vets. It was usually enough to pay for rent. But switching residences all the time is costly. It’s difficult to do this myself.”

“Then what do you want?”

“A great number of things. I was hoping for a sponsor.”

“Why not ask for the magic to be revealed to you?”

He takes a moment to consider that.

“Because you and I both know you life and death are outside the domain of mere devils. I’m not going to let you sell me a half-baked spell.”

Life was strictly the domain of God and his angels. Death, the domain of death gods like Thanatos, Hel, and Yama, and all their little reapers.

Gabriel laughs in surprise. “You did your research. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Of course.”

“Death is outside the jurisdiction of mere humans, too.”

Florentin couldn’t hold back a flinch.

“Well, humans don’t follow their own rules, as you already know. You’ll be surprised what we can do. God said we shouldn’t fly, so we built airplanes. He said we shouldn’t speak to each other in one language, so we made translation apps.” He holds his steepled fingers in his lap. “Humans are born nothing, so we’re allowed to be everything.”

He leans in, inspecting Gabriel’s face.

“You know this too, don’t you, devil? That’s why you feed off us. For a creature ever eternal and boundless, you don’t generate your own energy. You need… a power source.”

And human life is the ultimate battery.

Gabriel thoughtfully swirls his scotch in his hand, letting the conversation dip into a tense lull. He takes a sip of his drink, again, and finishes his glass, leaving it on the table in front of him.

“So, you intend to defeat death.”

“I fully believe it’s just another handicap we have yet to triumph over, so yes. I do,” Florentin says, leaning back. Even with his casual posture, he’s all in with his approach. “I believe we will eventually. We’re too stubborn. The average human lifespan creeps up every year. I just… intend to expedite the process.”

A head with beautiful, glistening blonde hair, severed at the base.

Gabriel raises his chin, appraising him. “Tell me, if you got all the resources in the world, what would you do?”

Florentin grins. “All the resources? You have to be more specific. I’ll be running a whole research lab with a thousand of earth’s most brilliant biologists, chemists, and physicians, and endlessly feeding them the human population until we can say definitively that we’ve conquered death for good.”

“That’s a lot of bodies that’ll be fed into your machine.”

Florentin tilts his head. “But imagine how grateful the remaining population would be, free from death and disease, eternally and forever. They would be like gods.”

“And what happens after that?”

He giggles. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll board space ships, and conquer our solar system.”

Florentin crosses his legs, and peers into Gabriel’s face. Gabriel’s face isn’t without interest. “I know it sounds like science fiction, but think about it. We’ll be able to live alongside the masters, and build all our knowledge and technology alongside each other. Imagine how much Nikola Tesla could have expanded our information lines and electricity. Imagine if we never lost Marie Curie to radioactivity. Isn’t it a shame death takes all our legends away from us?”

“Death creates the legends, you know. Van Gogh would never have been discovered, if he lived a long life, healthy and happy.” Gabriel smirks, and takes Florentin’s glass from him, putting it on the table so he can lean in closer. “You know everyone could get sick of him, too, if they knew more about him. Never meet your heroes, doll. They’ll always disappoint you.”

Florentin quiets down. He can’t win with this rhetoric.

It’s dishonest.

He cups Florentin’s despairing face in his hand, and makes him look at him.

In a seductive whisper, like the serpent to eve in the book of Genesis, “How much do you want this?”

Florentin’s eyes snap open. “Bad.”

“How bad?”

“Anything. Anything! I’ll do anything to accomplish this.”

“A lot of people will do anything for their goals. Be more specific.”

Florentin reaches up, and grips Gabriel’s shoulders, fingers digging into his skin. His pupils are blown, his skin is trembling.

“This is my life’s work. I don’t intend to get fucking consumed by a force of nature like the rest of them. I know there’s endless potential with this kind of research, and I can prove it!”

He pulls out a stack of photos from his suit’s breast pocket, and presents it to Gabriel. Each one are snapshots of his research, with progress written in sharpie on each one.

This, Gabriel actually picks up, and inspects one by one.

Day 45: The magic can trigger physical motor functions. The subject has opened his eyes.

Day 129: The subjects respond to programming. They can obey orders if they had been taught.

…

Gabriel finishes flipping through them. He taps them against his lips, appraising Florentin.

“You know the price of my sponsorship.”

“I do.”

“So you’re willing to give that up?”

“…Not so fast. My magic is tied to my being.” He shakes his head. “I was hoping for a different sort of deal. This is why I came in the first place.” He swallows. “My proposal is this… You give me every resource to succeed. Money, power, health bills, lawsuits, passports, whatever I need. And if I succeed, if I defeat death, you can use my powers for whatever you wish.”

Gabriel looks interested.

“That must be of interest to you, huh? I bet there’s a huge number of people going through your revolving doors, asking you to bring back their dead loved ones every single day. But you know you can’t.” He tilts his head. “Now, you can profit off them in the very same way, without compromising the price of your services.”

“Hm… And what happens if you don’t succeed?”

Florentin takes a deep breath, and stares at his feet. “…I’m going to hell either way. It might as well be yours.”

Gabriel chuckles.

“I’ll draft up a contract.”

He offers a handshake.

Florentin takes it.

As soon as he gives him a firm shake, he snatches his hand back as unimaginable pain spikes up his hand. Florentin’s vision blacks out for a moment, and he cries out in pain, sweat beading around his forehead as his nerves burn in agony.

It leaves almost all at once.

He tries to catch his breath, chest heaving as he watches molten gold burn on his palm, before disappearing.

(He could still feel him there, lingering in his veins, dormant but watching.)

He peeks at Gabriel’s face, who seems nonplussed as he finishes his cigar.

So, the deed is done.

He’s made a pact with his soul on the line.

The devil wins either way.

He just has to make sure that he wins, too.

He stands up, and gathers his belongings.

“I’ll draft up a list of Universities I want to study at,” Florentin says, decisively.

“Don’t bother. Give me your top pick.”

“And for my residence…?”

“Whatever, wherever you want.”

Florentin nods shakily. He’s never felt this much power and mobility before.

This will make everything so much easier.

He straightens up his suit jacket, and smiles.

“I’ll see you soon, Gabriel.”

“Mm.” Gabriel takes out a platinum credit card from his suit pocket, with Florentin’s name already on it. “Try not to spend it all in one place.”

End

#writing #florentin blanchett #gabriel baltimore #pygmalion's folly

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