#i am falling back into my roots | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rowarn · 5 months ago

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SURPRISE, SURPRISE !

john "soap" mactavish / reader – 9.3k sale of a lifetime mini series !

tags: smut, developing relationship, virginity for sale trope, protective!soap, virgin!reader, afab!reader, no prns for reader, mean!soap? or maybe just intense!soap, soap is NOT beginner-friendly

cw: loss of virginity, soap's filthy mouth, fingering, multiple orgasms, wet&messy, sloppy blowjob, cum facial, squirting, crying during sex?/dacryphilia, consent check bc johnny is a GOOD MAN, intense heated sex to sex with feelings, cunnilingus, corruption kink if u squint, multiple rounds, sloppy sex tbh

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It’s not like it’s hard to find someone to sell your virginity to, men come out of the woodwork offering you the money. It’s no problem at all to set up a little meeting and get to know them before you’re whisked away to a bedroom.

At least, that’s how it should be.

The problem was there seemingly was always something that got in the way. Or rather…someone.

Soap, in fact.

or.

After continuously getting in the way of your attempts to sell your virginity, you finally let yourself fall into bed with him instead.

You couldn’t believe you wound up here. You always thought it would happen in some sweet way. A long-time boyfriend or girlfriend, happy and in love. You’d snuggle up afterwards and be told how good you were.

But no, instead you became swamped in debt and ended up on the verge of eviction even though you were living in the cheapest apartment you could find that wasn’t in an area that would get you stabbed for stepping outside. You needed money fast and you had one thing that plenty of perverts would pay for; your virginity. It’s not your most crowning moment in life but as they say, you gotta do what you gotta do.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself so you don’t crumble under the shame of it all.

When the chair across from you suddenly gets yanked out, feet scraping obnoxiously across the floor, making you nearly jump out of your skin. The man who sits down looks nothing like the picture he sent and you internally groan. He looks much older than you, no doubt in his mid 40’s, balding, and graying hair. You wouldn’t mind an older man if he were a little more…attractive. Sure, maybe that’s a bit shallow of you but fuck, it’s your virginity you’re giving away. You should be allowed to be picky with the man you choose! Under normal circumstances you would be so why not now?

Then again, this isn’t exactly normal circumstances was it?

You pick up the glass of the strongest drink you could handle that you ordered at the bar while waiting and downed it in one deep gulp. You gave the man a very fake smile and he grinned back, the sleazy sight making your stomach turn.

You were going to need a lot more alcohol.

The evening turned into night and you’re feeling the effects of the alcohol. Your ‘date’ doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest as you drink, if anything he seems elated. That thought makes you curl your lip in disgust.

“So,” he starts when you finally lean back in your chair, having had your fill of alcohol for the night, “Shall we move this along? My place or yours?”

“You got the money you promised?” you ask, raising a brow, unsure if you sounded as drunk to him as you did to yourself.

“In my car,” he responds, grin sitting irritatingly lopsided on his ugly face, “Got it all ready for you. After services are rendered, of course.”

Anxiety coils in your stomach at the mention of what you have to do to get the money. It’s a lot of money and that makes your palms sweaty – you need it. You feel like there’s eyes on you from behind, making the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. When you turn to look around, there’s no one paying any attention to you. Everyone in the bar was having a nice time. You wish you were one of them.

“Let’s get out here,” the man grins, “I am just achin’ to get my hands on you.”

He stands up but you find yourself rooted to your seat. Your entire body feels tense, you can’t find it in yourself to stand up. You don’t want to go with the guy, you decide. Your fight or flight activates with terrifying speed, alerting you of the danger you’re in. Though you’re not exactly sure what danger that is just yet.

“I think…” you start and the guy heaves a big sigh.

“Don’t tell me you’re backin’ out?” he grumbles, not bothering to mask his irritation, “After I came all this way? That’s awfully rude of you.”

“I just don’t think I want to–” he groans, embarrassingly loud.

You feel the eyes of nearby patrons on you and your cheeks burn under the scrutiny. Shame bubbles up inside you at the thought of them finding out what exactly was going on between the two of you.

“Let’s go,” he snaps, his anger bubbling to the surface as he rounds the table and grabs hold of your arm.

You don’t bother fighting back as he yanks you to your feet, instead leveling him with a fierce glare. You don’t want to make a scene in front of all these people so you plan to let him drag out outside where you can really give him a piece of your mind before hopefully coming back inside and peacefully getting drunk alone.

But a sudden, growling voice has both of you freezing in place, “I don’t think you’re goin’ anywhere.”

Your eyes fall upon a man, standing tall and confidently. He has a mohawk, brilliant blue eyes and handsome features. Upon first glance, you could immediately tell he was in the military based on his posture alone. He was intimidating, broad and well-built.

“Hey, dude, why don't you mind your own fuckin’ business,” your ‘date’ snarled, yanking you harshly towards him.

You felt your eye twitch in irritation but your drunken brain was too slow to react properly. You were still hung up on the appearance of this rather good looking man.

“This is my business,” the stranger said, Scottish accent thick as he took two big strides over to the both of you, “Why don't you just leave quietly so things don't have to get ugly?”

Your ‘date’ stares the strange man down for a few seconds, taking a glance at you before kissing his teeth and ripping his hand off of you.

“You ain't worth this shit,” he huffed, stomping off into the crowd. You could hear the bell over the door ring, announcing his final departure from the scene.

“Well, he was just a dandy fellow,” your rescuer jokes, a crooked grin settling on his face. His shoulders relaxed and he held his hand out, “Name’s Soap. How about I walk you home?”

“That'd be great,” you responded, feeling your stomach starting to roll as the alcohol settled. You knew you were going to be stuck with your head over the toilet bowl soon and you'd rather be in the comfort of your apartment for that.

“Let’s get a move on then,” he waved forward for you to lead the way.

The crisp outside air had you sighing happily. You hadn't realized how hot you were in there but now that the light breeze brushed against your skin, you noticed how you had begun to sweat.

“So you’re military, huh?” you ask, leading him in the direction of your apartments “Soap.”

He chuckles, “You caught me.”

You smile, “It's kind of hard to miss, no offense.”

“None taken,” he assures, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, “What were you doin’ with a piece of shite like that? Was he your boyfriend?”

You sputter, “No! Nothing like that. I just…had a deal with him, that's all. I called it off and he got pissed. I'm sorta pissed at myself. Just missed out on a fuck ton of money.”

Soap’s brows raise, “What kind of deal?”

Your drunken brain forgets all about the fact such a deal should be kept quiet. Your mouth opens before you can stop yourself, “My virginity for his money. But I’m not like a prostitute or anything!”

He holds his hands up as surrender when you get defensive at the shocked look on his face, “You need money that bad?”

“You have no idea,” you sign, pinching the bridge of your nose at the mere thought of your money troubles, “I never do this. You know? I-I mean obviously…with the virginity and all. But-!”

“I’m not judgin’ you,” he assures, “Hard times. But you should be careful. Lot’s of dangerous characters out there.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, shrugging your shoulders as you come to a stop, “This is my place.”

“Right,” he mutters, “Let me give you my number.”

“For what?” you sputter, watching him pull out his wallet.

“Just in case,” he smiles, “I doubt anyone really knows what you’re dealin’ with right? I do. So if you’re ever in any trouble,” he hands you a business card, “Give me a call.”

You take the card and look it over. It’s got his name and military rank but not much else. You raise a brow, “Why do you have a business card on you?”

He chuckles, waving his hand flippantly, “Just ‘cause. I’ll see you around, darlin’.”

“Yeah,” you smile, stowing the card away in your pocket, “Thanks for walking me home, Soap.”

He stands outside of your place, waiting until you’re safely inside and shutting the door. When you peek out the window, you see him walking off in the direction that you had come from. You smile and go about getting ready for bed, grateful that you’re not feeling that awful nauseous pit in your stomach you had earlier.

When you wake up in the morning, you’re still dressed in your clothes and you have no recollection of having laid down the night before. You groan, your head throbbing in your skull as you sit up.

You stumble your way to the bathroom, grimacing at the sight of yourself in the mirror. You take the time to start the shower and strip yourself, determined to scrub the grime from last night off of your body.

By the time you step out, you’re feeling like a brand new person. You stretch your arms over your head and work on drying yourself off. Wrapping your towel around your body, gather your clothes in your arms, and trudge back into your bedroom.

You look through the pockets of your jeans from yesterday, pulling out various coins and candy wrappers that you remember snacking on in the car to ease your nerves. You finally pull out the last thing – the business card Soap had given you last night.

It all floods back to you, and you find yourself pulling your phone out, opening it to make a new contact under the name Soap.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, still wrapped in your towel, you shoot him a text.

“Hi Soap, remember me? You walked me home last night! I was just wondering if I could take this as a business inquiry?”

You aren’t sure where the burst of confidence came from. Last night, you would have never even thought to ask him such a thing. But the fact your plans fell through last night with that pig of a man, you kind of had no other choice at this point.

And luckily for you, Soap texted back almost immediately.

“Sure, darlin’. We can consider it a business inquiry.”

Jackpot, you think. Not only is he very good looking and nice – if he has the money, then you can’t think of anyone better to sell your ‘goods’ to.

He’s perfect.

Turns out, Soap is more than ready to meet up. Not at a bar, you’re thrilled, but at an actual restaurant. It almost feels like a real date!

You have the opportunity to dress yourself up and feel pretty. It feels so much better than meeting up with that guy at the dingy bar. Your nerves are almost non-existent.

You still have that jittery feeling everyone gets when they’re going to be going out with someone new.

But this isn’t actually a date, you have to tell yourself, as you get into your car to drive to the restaurant. It’s a meeting.

When you walk in, you’re greeted with the heavenly smell of food and what you can only deduce as something akin to mint. It’s a lovely restaurant, tablecloths and wine glasses everywhere.

You look around the room before you spot him, sitting at a table in the far back nursing a glass of water. You make your way there, coming to a slow stop in front of the table. He looks up, blue eyes widening at the sight of you before he jumps to his feet.

“You made it,” he says, a smile growing on his lips.

He rounds the table and pulls your chair out, gesturing for you to take a seat.

“Thank you,” you say as he pushes you in a bit before returning to his own seat.

Soap situates his elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands as he gazes across at you. You feel your cheeks burn underneath his intense gaze, not able to gain the courage to look directly at him.

A waiter comes by, depositing a basket of fresh, buttered bread on your table, letting you know he’ll be around in a moment to collect your orders. You offer him a polite smile as he vanishes, acutely aware that Soap is still staring right at you.

“Why are you…” you clear your throat, finally looking at him.

“You look lovely,” he says, a smile growing on his face when you become more bashful, “You’re truly breathtaking, has anyone ever told you that before?”

You can feel how hot your cheeks are and you resist the urge to reach up and pat them in an attempt to cool them down. You’re at a loss for words, no clue what to say in response to that. You hadn’t been told anything like that before, actually. Nor has anyone ever looked at you with such infatuated intensity like he is right now.

Thankfully, the waiter arrives to relieve you of this immense pressure. Pulled from his devoted admiration, Soap orders first before you put your own order in.

Left alone once again, you and Soap fall into an easy conversation. You’re surprised by how nice it is to talk to him, he’s open and funny. He tells you about his buddies in the military and about how he goes out to drink every weekend with some guy named Kyle and that he thinks his buddy Ghost’s jokes are just the worst abomination on Earth.

You get so lost in talking to him, you don’t even realize how much time has passed. Your food arrives and the table finally falls quiet.

You both get lost in eating your meals. Soap finishes his glass of wine and leans back in his seat with a content sigh. When you finish your own plate, you do the same. The chair creaks underneath the shift of weight and your eyes meet his.

You wait to see if he’ll say something. But he just continues to stare at you, drifting from your eyes and down the rest of your body that’s not hidden by the table.

“So, should we get out of here?” you finally find yourself asking, burying any embarrassment deep down, “Your place or mine?”

Soap seems to falter suddenly, crooked smile slipping off of his face, “Listen, darlin’...I-I don’t actually want to…you know…”

Your cheeks burn a little and you shrink in on yourself where you sit, “Oh! Well, that’s fine. I-It’s just that you said it was an inquiry so…I assumed.”

Soap shakes his head, reaching across the table to place his hand over yours, “I know. I told you that just so I could see you. I’m just worried about you, darlin’.”

“You want to talk me out of it,” you sigh, leaning back in your seat again, “I appreciate your concern, Soap. But I’m really at the end of my rope here. This is my very last resort, you understand?”

“But you shouldn’t have to-!” you pull your hand out from underneath his and stand.

“I know,” you shrug, “I’m only doing what I can with my circumstances. I appreciate you taking the time to see me and let me know you’re worried. I’ll see you around, okay?”

You leave him behind at the table and make your way back to your car. As you sit, engine idling, the disappointment bubbles up within you. Soap is probably the absolute best you could have gotten in a situation like this. But, it’s clear now that you’re going to have to find a new guy.

You just hope you don’t walk right into the clawed talons of some unknown serial killer or something.

The thought sends shivers down your spine as you make your way back home.

So begins the process of finding a new person to get the money from.

At least, that’s how it should be.

The problem was there seemingly was always something that got in the way. Or rather…someone.

Soap, in fact.

Around every turn, he was there to intercept the meeting you had with a man.

A terribly boring man named Charles; Soap showed up at the bar you met at. The surprisingly young guy you weren’t even sure had enough money for his own monthly rent, Brandon; Soap was there. Justin, the doctor that lowkey gave you the creeps; Soap was there too.

Every single time, the Scot would sit himself at the table and run the guy off, leaving you no choice but to go home alone and moneyless.

You’re getting angrier with every passing day and before you know it, you’re calling him up and asking him to meet you.

The second you lay your eyes on him, you’re marching right up to him.

“What the hell is your problem, Soap?!” you cry, practically nose to nose with him as you glare.

“Whoa, darlin’,” he holds his hands up in mock surrender, “Don’t know what I did to get you so wound up but-”

“You know exactly what you’ve done!” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest, “Why do you keep getting in my way?”

“That’s a mean thing to say to someone,” he responds lightheartedly.

But then your glare wipes the smile off of his face and he sighs, running a hand through his mohawk. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, rocking anxiously back and forth on his heels as he seems to think over his next words carefully.

“I’m just lookin’ out for you, darlin’,” he assures, “This…isn't safe, what you’re doin’. You could get into somethin’ real serious. I just…want to make sure you’re safe.”

You deflate and sigh, “I already told you, Soap. I appreciate your concern but…”

Suddenly, he surges forward, big, rough hands cupping your cheeks as he pulls your lips to his. You gasp, hands resting against his chest as you allow yourself to melt into the kiss.

When he pulls back, he seems almost nervous, “I wanted to kiss you really badly the first night I saw you.”

“So you like me?” you ask softly, not taking your hands off of his chest.

He reaches up, wrapping one of his hands around yours, “I’m afraid so.”

“Soap…” you start but he interrupts you.

“Johnny,” he says, “Call me Johnny.”

“Johnny,” you correct yourself, feeling your cheeks burn at the positively giddy look on his face, “I don’t know if…this…” you gesture between the two of you, “Is a good idea…with what I’m dealing with.”

His brows furrowed and a frown lines his lips. You find yourself wishing you could wipe the solemn look right off his face – it doesn’t suit him, “Just give me a chance, yeah? That’s all I ask of you.”

You sigh, “Okay, Johnny.”

You’re not sure why you gave in so easily to him. But the bright look returns to his eyes again and you find yourself feeling lighter.

He steps back, slipping his fingers in between yours. He tugs you in his direction to follow him and you do, heart skipping in your chest as you look at your hand wrapped up in his.

You haven’t been in a relationship in a very long time so this giddy feeling wasn’t one that you got to feel very often.

Sooner than you’d like, he’s slipping his hand from yours to open the door to an apartment complex for you. You step inside and make your way down the hallway, tailing close behind him up to a door on the first floor – apartment 108.

“It’s not much,” he gives you that charming, crooked smile as he opens the door.

“It’s better than my place,” you joke as you toe your shoes off.

“Have you had anything to eat?” he asks, helping you out of your jacket before hanging it on the rack by the door. You shake your head and he nods, “I’ll order us somethin’. Go ahead and make yourself at home.”

You watch him disappear into the kitchen as you look around his flat. It’s a modest apartment, a bit bare but there’s little bits of Johnny scattered around the place. There were picture frames on the walls and on different surfaces. The couch was navy blue and looked well loved.

“Here’s some water,” he says, startling you as he comes back into the living room, “I ordered us some food, wasn’t sure what you liked so I guessed.”

You chuckle, taking a seat on the couch, “I don’t mind.”

“I’m not really,” he chuckles, sounding nervous, “Good at this.”

“Well,” you sink into the cushions, “I can’t say I am either.”

He laughs, a sweet, melodic sound that makes your cheeks flush, “Well, in that case. We can just…go with the flow.”

“Yeah,” you nod, “Go with the flow.”

By the time the food arrives, you and Soap are invested in watching a random season of The Bachelorette. Neither of you could decide so you looked online to find a wheel to spin to decide your fate for you.

“Ugh,” Soap groans, “Can’t believe she’s goin’ on about how dreamy this bastard is. He’s a total tool!”

You giggle, holding one of his throw pillows against your chest as you sit. You’re about to add your own two cents when the doorbell rings.

Soap jumps to his feet, “Fuckin’ hell, I could eat a cow.”

You admire the view of him from behind when he opens the door. His tight green t-shirt hugs the dip of his waist, riding up just a bit to show a sliver of tanned skin. His shoulders look impossibly wide as he stands in the doorway to take the food, muscles rippling beneath the fabric. His jeans sit low on his hips, belt tied tightly around them.

Fuck, he’s good looking.

He turns, grinning and holding up the bags as if to show you his spoils. He raises one dark brow curiously, as if he knows what you’d been thinking.

“So,” he coos, saddling up next to you, placing the food on the coffee table, “Did you enjoy the view?”

You squeak, “I don’t think it’s polite to call out someone for looking…”

He cocks his head to the side and chuckles, leaning down to grip your chin, “Mind if I kiss you?”

“Now you’re asking?” you respond, breathless as you look at his lips coming closer and closer to yours.

“Aye,” he breathes.

You nod and his lips are against yours in an instant. He supports his weight by placing his hands on the back of the couch. You have to crane your neck back to be able to kiss him but having him over top of you like this is exhilarating.

You know you should stop before you get too carried away but you can’t seem to bring yourself to break away from him. Your attraction to this man is palpable and all consuming.

Against your better judgment, you let him push you down, back against the cushions so he can crawl onto the couch. One knee on one side of you, he keeps one foot on the floor to straddle you without crushing you under his weight. But you wish that he would, fuck.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, fingers slipping through the short hairs of his mohawk. He sighs against your lips, one hand coming up to wrap lightly around your throat, just pinning you down so he can deepen the kiss.

You find yourself tugging at his shirt, edging it up and up until he’s forced to pull away.

“Are you sure?” he asks, blue eyes swallowed by the black of his pupils when he meets your gaze.

You nod, “Want you, Johnny.”

“I’ll give you all of me,” he promises, sitting up to yank his shirt over his head.

It feels like the air evaporates from your lungs at the sight of him. He’s built, muscles rippling underneath a layer of fat – a man who is built for pure strength. His tanned skin is littered with tattoos here and there and hair speckles over his chest and stomach, a thick happy trail disappearing under his jeans. Which are tented with how his hardened cock presses against the fabric, desperate to be released.

Your hand slips down the planes of his chest and down his tummy, cupping his erection. It twitches and kicks beneath your touch and pulls a groan from him.

He reaches out, wrapping his hand around your wrist and bringing your hand to his lips where he places a kiss upon your palm.

“Strip yourself, baby,” he orders, “Wanna see that pretty body.”

He sits back on his heels, watching your every movement as you slip your shirt off and shimmy your pants down your hips.

When you stop, he realizes you're not going to take your panties off so he quickly does it for you. His thumbs hook into the band and yanks them down, making you squeal as the force jostles you.

Soap chuckles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as his hands eagerly cup your breasts. You sigh at the contact, arching your back to press more into his touch.

His kisses all over your chest, leaving no spot untouched, until he can pop one of your nipples in his mouth. You whimper, fingers sliding appreciatively through his mohawk while his other hand slips between your thighs.

You easily part them, nearly panting by the time his fingers slip between your folds. You're already wet and sticky, drooling all over yourself with slick he uses to circle your clit.

Your hips twitch as the first feeling of his rough fingers on the little bud. You cry out, tugging on his hair as he switches his mouth to give your other nipple proper attention.

You arch your hips, his fingers sneaking down to prod at your entrance. With a glance at your face to make sure you're okay with it, he slides one in.

There's a loud squelch when it sinks in to the last knuckle and you whine in embarrassment.

He can't resist commenting, “So wet.”

You whimper, lightly slapping his shoulder at his teasing. He chuckles, leaning up to press his lips against yours as he carefully works you open on that one finger. He presses and prods against your walls, waiting for you to relax so he can slip another one inside you — really prepare you for his cock.

He presses against your g-spot and it rips a heavenly sound from your lips that only encourages him to do it again. You get wetter and wetter, throbbing and clenching around his middle finger.

When he decides you're ready, he introduces a second finger. His ring finger easily fits in right alongside his middle.

“There you go,” he praises, unable to resist looking down to see where his fingers are buried inside you, “That's it, baby, look at you go.”

You gasp, eyes rolling back in your head when he adjusts his hand. His palm cups over your clit, the angle letting him really grind the tips of those digits right against that gooey little spot inside you.

He watches the way you cream his fingers, milky colored slick dripping down his knuckles. It makes his mouth water.

The movements rub his palm over your clit, stimulating the tender little bud and driving you closer and closer to the edge. You cry out, moaning and wailing the tighter that cord winds in your tummy.

You clench and pulse against his fingers, a signal that you're going to cum for him. He works even harder, diligently worshiping your precious cunt until you toss your head back and sob.

Your body trembles, thighs twitching in time to your walls squeezing around him. He moans with you, watching your pretty body in the throes of pleasure.

When it becomes too much, you weakly reach down and bat his hand away. He slips his fingers out, watching you clamp your thighs shut.

As you lay there panting and collecting yourself, he pops his cum-covered fingers into his mouth. He moans at your taste, slipping his tongue between them to catch every single drop of sweet cum he can get.

By the time he finishes off the delicacy, you're watching him with lidded eyes and your bottom lip tucked between your teeth.

“More?” he asks, a crooked grin on his face. You nod and he chuckles, “That looked like a good fuckin’ orgasm. Sure you can handle more?”

“If I can't,” you whisper, sitting up to tug at his belt, “You can make me.”

“Fuck,” he groans, reaching down to help you open his pants, “Want me to make you take it, baby? Make you cum on my cock until you can't even think?”

“Please, Johnny,” you whimper, not tearing your eyes off the sight of him stripping himself bare.

His cock was fat and heavy, a thick patch of hair scattering the base with thick, full balls to match. You felt your mouth fill with saliva at the sight of his hand wrapped around his big cock, stroking himself languidly until enough precum had dripped out to slick himself up.

“Let me hear it again, doll,” his eyes are heavy lidded as he looks at you laid out beneath him, breathless and sweating from the orgasm he’d worked out of you.

“Please, Johnny,” you whisper, needily reaching your hands out towards him.

“Shit,” he grunts, “Alright.”

He scoots closer to you, spreading your legs open for him. Your sticky folds part, exposing your swollen, sensitive clit and clenching hole that’s still drooling your creamy release.

He slips the tip of his cock through the gooey mess, tapping it meanly against your little bud. Your knees flinch at the stimulation and your jaw drops open when he starts to push inside.

It burns and you arch your hips away instinctively from the pain. He slips out and curses.

“You gotta relax, sweetheart,” he mumbles, hoisting your hips into his lap with an iron grip.

“Can’t,” you pitifully whimper.

Soap clicks his tongue, purses his lips and lewdly spits on your clit. You whine, hands covering your face when he uses his cockhead to smear it all over.

When he starts to push in again, the burn starts but a rough thumb finds your clit.

“Shh,” Soap soothes you, watching as the furrow in your brows vanishes.

He works your clit in tiny circles as he carefully saws his cock in and out of your tight hole, inching a little bit more in every time. Your body grows pliant and soft, slumping against the couch until he finally buries himself to the hilt.

“Thaaaaat’s it,” he praises, still rolling your hard clit under his thumb, “Good fuckin’ job. Take your reward, sweetheart.”

He remains completely stuffed inside you, grinding his hips up just a little until he prods at that gooey little spot inside you. His thumb continues to swirl around your clit and he watches your eyes grow wide, a grin stretching across his face.

“C-Cummin’-!” you manage to gasp before you throw your head back.

He groans, jaw falling open as he works you through the orgasm, rubbing your clit to ease you through every pleasurable wave. It’s only when you reach down, grabbing his wrist to stop him that he ceases.

“Fuck,” you pant, pupils blown wide as he looks at you coming down.

“Feels good cumming on cock, huh, sweetheart?” he asks, once again wearing that crooked grin on his face.

You nod your head, still too fucked out from your orgasm to properly formulate words. He chuckles, carefully pulling back until only the thick head of him remains nestled inside. With a swift, experienced roll of his hips, he stuffs every single inch right back in.

You wail, grappling haphazardly against his shoulders for stability as he starts to really fuck you. He punches so deep, makes you feel him in your tummy. The friction burns and feels incredible at the same time.

It feels so fucking good that you can’t stop any of the sounds that are forced from your lungs with every mind-numbingly pleasurable thrust of his cock. You’re soaking him, dripping all creamy down his cock in a way he knows you’ve never done before. No way your own fingers could make you cream like this and he doubts you’ve ever sat this pretty cunt on any stupid toys.

He groans, grinding against your clit every time he reaches as deep as he can, “Not gonna have shit to sell now, huh?”

You whimper, shaking your head as you stare at him wide eyed, drool dripping over your lips because you can’t close your mouth for even a second. There’s no way for you to quiet yourself, you’re loud, you wear every pleasurable experience on your face with no ability to hide or perform. Every reaction is real and authentic and he loves it.

“Don’t think I can ever let you go after this, sweetheart,” he coos, slowing his thrusts so you can focus on looking at him, “That alright with you?”

You swallow thickly and shakily nod your head, “O-Only want you, J-Johnny.”

He snorts, sharp canines glinting at the predatory grin he gives you, “You only sayin’ that because you’re got your cunt stuffed full of my cock?”

You whimper at the punishing thrust he gives you, the pain of him battering your cervix making you tremble, “N-No! L-Liked you when I first saw y-you. I-I swear, Johnny. Please!”

“Alright, quit fuckin’ beggin’,” he snaps, leaning out of your reach, making you whine.

He takes a mean grip of your hips, using just his strength to yank you onto his cock like a fleshlight. You wail, head tossed back against the couch as he really fucks you. Every thrust is too deep but gives you nothing but pleasure. He grinds against your clit every time he sinks in, making sure to also aim for the gooey little spot that gets you creaming around him. His fat, heavy balls slap against your ass every time he stuffs that cock into you.

It’s all just too much. He should know better, really, treating a little virgin pussy so meanly. You’re too new to this, don’t know how to take such cruel, deep strokes. You’re squeezing tight, staring at him with wide, glassy eyes. He can’t stop the moan that tears from his throat at the sight of tears trickling down your cheeks – proof that this is all too much.

But he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. Not when he feels how tight you’re squeezing around him, how much wetter you’re getting as you get closer and closer to what he knows is going to be the best damn orgasm of your life.

“Cum,” he whispers, shocked at how fucked his voice is from pleasure, “Cum right fuckin’ now.”

“W-Wait, Johnny-!” you wail, feet kicking as you fight against his iron-tight hold on you, “I-It’s…It feels w-wrong!”

“Stop fuckin’ runnin’,” he snarls, easily pinning you to the couch. He folds you up, knees to your chest as he presses his body weight down on you. He can feel the air being forced out of your lungs under the weight, “I said cum.”

You open your mouth, wanting to say something. But you can’t get the words you, only whimpers and tears. He doesn’t care what you had to say, though. All he cares about is feeling your tight little cunt cum around him so he can have his own orgasm.

You still try to fight him from how intense the build up is. You slap against his shoulders, squirm and try to kick him off but he easily holds you down. Even as you fight, you never once tell him to stop.

After a few, long seconds, he feels it.

Fuck, does he feel it.

You gush. It splatters all over his cock and stomach. He curses, slamming into you over and over, every thrust forcing another squirt out of you. You’re sobbing, fat tears falling down your cheeks and you’re moaning the prettiest damn symphony that has ever blessed his ears.

The orgasm is too much, it’s intense and all consuming. You can’t come down, every time he stuffs you full, your orgasm continues to wash through you.

“J-Johnny-!” you sob, “N-No more!”

“Fuck!” he snarls, cutting his own orgasm off when he pulls out of you.

He pushes himself off of you and you curl in on yourself, softly sniffling and shaking in a little ball. He licks his dry lips at the sight of you covered in your own squirt.

“C’mere, darlin’,” he coos, panting and breathy, hoisting you up and into his lap.

He cradles you in his arms as you’re wracked with trembles and twitches, your nerves zapping through your body from the pleasure. He shushes you, cupping your chin to make you look at him. Your eyes are red-rimmed and wet from your tears, pupils blown out wide. He clicks his tongue and wipes his thumb underneath to swipe some away.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he coos, “Just get some breaths. Got a little overwhelmed, huh?”

You nod, slumping against him with a sigh when you finally feel like you’re back in your body. Johnny is solid and sweaty beneath you, warm and comfortable as he cups the back of your head and strokes his hand over your body.

“I-I’ve never um…” you clear your throat, cheeks burning hot.

“Knocked your damn socks off, huh?” he jokes, a crooked smile on his face.

You giggle, endorphins still rushing through your body. You shift on his lap and catch the pinch in his brow before he can school his expression back into place. You look down, biting your lip at the sight of his cock still hard and twitching, smeared in a creamy mess of your cum.

“Ah, it’ll go down on its own, darlin’,” he assures, no irritation to be seen or heard from him.

One look in his eyes shows you that he’s perfectly prepared to go without his well-earned orgasm – just for you.

But you don’t want that, you realize. He had made you feel incredible, given you an orgasm that you’ve never been able to experience in your life. You doubt anyone else will ever be able to make you do it again.

“I-I want to help, Johnny,” you whisper, trying to swallow down your nerves.

His brows raise in interest, “What did you have in mind?”

You slide off of his lap and slowly sink to your knees. You place your shaky hands on his thighs to steady yourself, looking up at him with wide, too-innocent eyes.

He lets his head fall back against the back of the couch, a breathless, “steamin’ blood Jesus,” following.

“I-I’ve never done this,” you confess, though he’s not surprised, “Is that okay?”

“Is that-” he laughs softly, “darlin’ any man who isn’t appreciative of you willin’ to swallow his cock is a man you kick in the balls, got that?”

You giggle, nerves dissipating as he wraps a hand around the base of him. You scoot a bit closer when he holds it out for you, waiting for you to do what you please with it. Your tongue falls from your mouth and Soap feels like he’s suspended in air as he watches you get closer and closer to the sensitive, leaky tip.

The first contact feels better than he could have imagined. He’d gotten so fucking close earlier, buried in your cunt as you came around him, squealing for him and all. He knows it won’t take much to send him over the edge this time.

Perfect practice for you, he thinks. You won’t have to be on your knees for too long or do any real work to get him to cum for you.

You’re clumsy and it’s clear you’re unsure about the taste of his cock. It’s not just his precum, it’s your own cum mixed with it. He can’t blame you for being unsure.

He reaches down, a soft, gentle hand resting atop your head to encourage you. When you look up, he smiles so softly at you that it makes your heart jump in your chest. You suddenly feel like you’re the center of his world. Those baby blues never once waver from you as you sloppily lick and slurp on the tip of him.

“Take a little more,” he whispers, lashes fluttering and chest rising as he takes a deep breath when you eagerly follow his directions.

Your pretty lips stretch around the girth of him, taking just the head inside your hot little mouth. The flared glans are greeted by your curious tongue, making him whimper when you lick. Your mixed taste lingers on your tongue but you quickly grow accustomed to it.

Feeling braver from Johnny’s unfiltered reactions, you take a little more into your mouth. Then more. And a little more until you suddenly choke, gagging around him. You pull your head off, sputtering and coughing a bit.

Johnny coos at you, thumbing away some drool on your chin, “Not too deep, darlin’. You’re not ready for that.”

You hum, not at all discouraged from taking him back into your mouth again. You don’t take him as deep, accepting that you have your limit – for now, judging by Johnny’s subtle promise of more to come.

“Just suck, watch your teeth,” he whispers, not caring about the way his voice cracks, “Move your head like this. Go at your own pace, alright?”

You lazily blink up at him, hoping he understands your agreement. You do as you’re told, folding your lips over your teeth to keep them away from his sensitive skin. Bobbing your head feels awkward and it makes your jaw ache but the sounds Johnny begins to make makes you temporarily forget about your own discomfort.

His eyes are rolling back in his head and he starts to stroke the rest of his cock that your mouth can’t handle yet. You can’t tear your gaze away from the sight of those thick, veiny fingers wrapped around himself, getting covered in a slick mess of your cum that he had so generously fucked out of you earlier. Drooling all over him like this only gives him more of a mess to work with. It’s gross, frothy and dripping down your chin and neck, slicking up your tits.

It makes your cunt tingle selfishly. You think you could make yourself cum, slip your hand between your legs and stroke your clit until you find release. But you don’t – you focus on Johnny and his pleasure. He’d already given you so much that you don’t want to come across as greedy by making his moment about your own pleasure.

Johnny’s free hand grip around the back of your neck, squeezing and caressing your skin as encouragement since his mouth is too busy moaning. You take his sounds as signals, sucking and moving at whatever pace makes him cry out the loudest.

You had no idea men like him were willing to be as loud as he was. Usually, the masculine type of guys like him would be online whining about how moaning was ‘gay’ or some stupid shit.

Johnny didn’t seem to give a fuck. If he felt good, he was going to let you know. It made you feel more at ease, like you were doing a good job even though you knew you were still clumsy and it probably didn’t feel as good as head he’s surely gotten in the past.

But it encouraged you to work harder to please him, to earn more of those beautiful, unfiltered moans that he was so willing to give you. They were your reward for the intense ache in your jaw.

“F-Fuck,” he groans, suddenly, eyes opening from when he had closed them at some point, “I’m gonna cum. Oh fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”

His words are slurred, like his brain’s oozed down to his cock, too stupid to think of anything except how heavy and full his balls felt.

“Shit, shit, shit-!” he whimpers, an honest to god whimper, “Off, pull off!”

You do as you’re told, releasing his cock from your mouth. Strings of frothy drool connect your lips to his tip and you don’t dare break it, the sight making you clench around nothing.

Johnny strokes his cock, another loud moan erupting from his lips as he cums. It spurts out, splattering against your cheek, making you flinch in surprise. You can see the way his balls throb in time to each rope of cum that his fat cock spits out. More splatters on your cheeks and lips and across your nose until it tapers off to slow, thick oozes that dribble over his knuckles.

When he lets himself go, he sags against the couch, staring dazedly at the ceiling as his erection flags and grows soft.

When he finally looks at you, you can see his eyes widen almost in alarm. He leans forward, cupping your cheek, messily swiping some of his cum off of your cheek.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles, still sounding breathless, “Didn’t think you were gonna get splashed with it.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper, feeling his cum still lingering on your lips.

You can’t resist sticking your tongue out to taste it. His eyes darken at the sight of you licking up his cum. You don’t make a face of disgust like he expected, instead he catches the way your thighs clench together.

“Is that right?” he mumbles, cock twitching in interest, “Isn’t that an interesting development? You like to taste cum, sweetheart?”

You whimper when he swipes more up onto his thumb, bringing it to your lips for you to suck off, which you eagerly do. You suck his finger clean until he pulls it back out, pupils blown wide, making his blue eyes look black.

“You ever had that pretty cunt eaten before?” he asks, a predatory grin splitting across his face when you shake your head.

His hand wraps around your throat, ripping a moan out of your throat. He easily manhandles you onto your knees, tits pressed against the cushions of the couch with a nasty “stay.”

You never thought you’d enjoy being manhandled and ordered around like a dog but fuck if you’re not learning more about yourself tonight.

Soap smacks your thighs apart, and slips his head between them. You take a glance down and nearly choke at the sight of him laying on his back, staring hungrily as you cunt drips gooey, sticky strings right onto his waiting tongue that he holds out for it.

The sight is so fucking filthy.

But it’s nothing compared to the sounds he makes when he gets that tongue on your cunt. He slurps between your folds, groaning at the taste of your cum on his taste buds. He swallows your clit, cheeks hollowing out as he sucks.

You’re already a moaning mess, crying out into the cushions which you claw desperately at. Your eyes roll up into your head when you feel him pop your clit out of his mouth, spit on it, and then slurp it right back up.

He eats so fucking dirty, it’s disgusting and sloppy. But it makes you rut your hips against him.

Soap chuckles, pulling back to watch you work your hips over nothing before you realize he stopped and whine.

“Fuck yourself on my tongue then,” he whispers, earning him a relenting whimper in response.

You can feel the flat of his tongue, hot and thick, against your clit. The little bud’s so hard, swollen and pulsing against the muscle.

With his order ringing in the back of your head, you clumsily hump his tongue. You drag your sensitive little clit back and forth along the surface of his tongue. It feels so fucking good that you actually sob. The sound tears from your chest and makes his cock twitch.

You rut faster and faster, not caring about the way you’re messing up his face when you move too high or too low. You know there’s a mess on his chin, cheeks and nose but you don’t care. His tongue is there for you, for you to cum all over. He’s so good to you, holding it out just so you can use him as you please.

As you grow closer and closer, your moans change in pitch and he suddenly reaches up, stilling you. You groan, an irritated sound that makes him laugh. You frown at that but it’s quickly wiped away when he grips your ass, spreading your cheeks apart so he can stuff his tongue into your creaming cunt.

You shout, sitting straight up in surprise, your weight falling onto his face. He moans at that, rewarding you by pushing his tongue even deeper. It feels odd, different from his fingers and his cock. It’s soft and almost slimy, not long enough to quite reach any pleasurable place.

But just the fact that he’s got his tongue buried in your pussy is enough to have you clenching on it. He watches you through heavy lids, waiting to see what your next move is.

He’s enjoying your little show, he must admit. He likes seeing a sweet, clumsy virgin experience these things for the first time. He likes the fact he’s breaking you in, tearing your walls down and seeing you lost in mind-numbing pleasure.

You surprise him by resuming the motion of your hips. You hump back and forth, riding his tongue like it’s a little toy just for you. And he supposes it is, he’d be a toy for you if you so wished. He’s addicted to this sweet, creamy little pussy and he’s not afraid to admit it.

You reach down, swirling your fingers around your sticky clit. There’s lewd clicks that accompany the movements along with the sound of his tongue sliding in and out of your hole.

You meet his gaze, he’s staring so intensely at you. It spurs you on, makes you fuck yourself on his face more confidently.

You tap your fingers against your clit, slapping the little bud and pulling your fingers back to show Soap the sticky strings of slick that connect them to your cunt. He can’t stop himself from reaching down, wrapping his hand around his cock, jerking himself off to the sight of you smacking your clit and fucking his tongue.

You’re pulsing around it, dripping down his face and mixing with the drool that's pooling out of his mouth. His face is a mess, it drips down his cheeks and under his neck. He’s sure there’s a pool beneath his head that will need to be cleaned up and fuck, he’ll lick it from the floor if you let him. Just as long as he gets to taste you again.

You gasp, tossing your head back. His cock fucking aches, harder than it was before and more sensitive now that he’s already had an orgasm. He knows he’s leaking, drooling sticky precum all over himself like the horny mutt he is.

You cum spectacularly, twitching and trembling, rubbing your clit and clenching around his tongue. It’s like a reward, swallowing down your cum straight from the source. He pulls his tongue out of your hole and wraps his lips around your clit again.

You wail, shaking and throwing yourself face down against the couch again. You try to wrench your hips away from his punishing mouth but he wraps his arms around your thighs and continues to slurp and slobber all over that tender little bud. Your eyes roll back in your head as another orgasm tears through you, far too soon after the other. It almost hurts from how sensitive you are through it, not even able to make a sound as it washes over you.

Only when you’re left twitching and trembling does he finally relent. There’s tears falling out of your eyes and drool dribbling down your chin. The picture of fucked out.

He laughs, folding himself over your back.

“You still with me?” he asks, kissing your shoulder.

You whimper, “Fuck, you’re so good, Johnny.”

He chuckles, “Think you can take more?”

You eagerly nod your head and he doesn’t waste any time. He sinks his cock into you in one deep thrust. You choke on a moan, arching your back so you can feel him even deeper.

He doesn’t start slow like he did before. He knows your little cunt is fucked nice and open for him now. You’re still dazed, drunk on endorphins, any attempts to meet his thrusts are sloppy and clumsy. It’s cute so he doesn’t bother stopping you.

“Spread your legs,” he orders you but doesn’t wait for you to do it.

Instead, he meanly knocks them apart, opening you up even more. His balls slap against your clit and you wail, the exact reaction he was hoping for.

“There you go,” he laughs, “You liked slapping that little clit earlier. How’s this?”

“So good!” you cry, kicking your feet against the floor as pleasure washes through you.

You feel like a live wire, every movement forcing you closer and closer to your next orgasm. Soap isn’t far behind you, too sensitive and worked up to draw it out for long.

He clasps the back of your neck, pinning your face to the cushions as he fucks. He takes and takes, using your sticky, gooey cunt. He’s pounding into you, hips slamming against your ass and his balls slapping your clit.

You can’t even say anything as the orgasm washes over you. He only feels it, the rhythmic clenching of your walls and the gush as you squirt. You’re silent, completely still against the couch as he saws his fat cock in and out, squirt after squirt of cum splattering all over his thighs until he inevitably reaches his own end.

This time, he fills you up. Seats himself as deeply inside of you as he can before he moans. His cock pathetically spits only a few strings of cum but the orgasm lasts far longer, encouraged along by the clenching of your cunt as you’re coming down. Or maybe you’re still cumming, he’s not sure.

There’s a faraway look in your eyes, a wet spot of drool underneath your cheek on the cushion of the couch. You’re panting and glistening with sweat. When he pulls out of you, you drop to sit on the floor, the measly load he had given you drooling out of your cunt as it continues to clench and throb around nothing.

Fuck, he’s never felt so proud to fuck someone brainless before. He knows you’re gonna need a good bath and cozy arms to sleep in.

And his are the best around, if he does say so himself.

He kisses up your spine, curling himself around you as you finally start to come back to yourself, pliant and soft. The both of you sit there, holding one another and sharing soft kisses until he decides it’s time to move.

He’s in no rush, though. He’s wrapped around your finger now and you’re never getting rid of him.

do not modify, translate, repost, or use for c.ai. reblogs OK!

#soap x reader #soap smut #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish smut #john soap mactavish smut #john soap mactavish x reader #cod x reader #cod smut

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irisinluv · 4 months ago

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Isekaied as the Yandere Villain!? Pt 2

Part one

It was almost 2 minutes before I realized I was still dragging the crown prince behind me. I quickly dropped his hand and looked at him, not able to hide the embarrassment on my face. Listen- I’m committed to the bit. I WILL be the crazy jealous fiancé. But… I’m still human ok. I just dragged a full grown man down several halls and a flight of stairs while I spaced out thinking about how I’m gonna buy my cat premium wet food once I get back home to her.

It’s fine, I’m not flustered at spacing out about my cat, my characters just flustered because she’s been holding the hand of the man she’s obsessed with, that’s all!

“Well…. Did you still want to dine and take that walk?”

I expected him to scold me for my mistreatment of Cressida, grow irritated from me dragging him along like this. Instead, he chuckles and threads his arm in mine, and begins escorting me down the hall.

“Absolutely, have you dined outside by the roses yet? There’s this lovely pavilion that I am eager to hear your thoughts on.”

And that’s how I found myself under an impressive array of roses, all trained up and around a cozy dining area, creating a canopy of green and pink over an intimate tea table. The food was equally impressive, I had to keep reminding myself that the other me is used to this lavish lifestyle, to not gawk at the fancy tiny sandwiches and deserts.

“Well? Is everything to your liking? ”

I’m going off script here, how am I supposed to know how the villainess would react to a romantic scene like this?? If my “evil crazy” side isn’t supposed to be directed at him, and she’s usually kinda distant and unsure around him…. That means I should probably respond pretty curtly, polite, yet not really engaging. But…. I’ve already messed that up…. I guess I can be more genuine when it’s the two of us like this. He can think that this version of me is the facade, that I’m pretending to be pleasant, and then will start to see what a jerk “I” truly am when Cressida’s around. Besides…. I almost feel bad for the villainess. She really just seems like she was shy. Who knows- maybe, if given the opportunity, she really would have opened up more. It’s clear she loved the prince, and just didn’t know how to show it. So, with that thought, I made up my mind.

“It’s breathtaking! Roses are my favorite flower, and I’ve never seen so many kinds in bloom at once…. Plus the food and company leave little to be desired.”

There you go- slip in some subtle flirting! I’m not quite sure what time period this is supposed to be, but I get the impression flirting as bit more high class here, and I think I can have some fun with that.

“I’m glad, to be honest I was a bit flustered asking you to dine with me… you caught me quite off guard today, but in a good way.” He reaches his hand across the table and places it on my own, “I’d like to do this more often, you and I. I feel like the confines of our current arrangement have left us practically strangers, despite being engaged for several months already. I’m enjoying just being companionable with you, even if it’s just existing comfortably in the same room.”

Ohhhh, I know I’m the villain in this story but I can’t help but root for him- what a sweetheart! It’s so obvious he’s been lonely, I can’t wait for him and Cressida to fall in love and have a couple of kids that they’ll spoil rotten. And in the meantime…. Maybe I do have a bit of evil in me, because I’m going to selfishly enjoy this handsome man treating me to lunches under roses and reading in cozy libraries while I can.

“I know exactly how you feel your highness. Now, you mentioned a walk?”

We spent the afternoon laughing and chatting, and it felt nice to chat without worrying too much about my role. He asked me about that book I picked out earlier, and listened attentively as I caught him up with where I’m at in the plot. In turn, I asked about what papers he’s been signing, documents he’s been drafting, etc.

The only thing I had to do was send glares to any young ladies we passed, settling my hand on his arm possessively, and I saw their eyes widen and faces disappear behind fans as they whisper to one another. I can picture this illustrated in a manhwa- the nasty princess sinking her claws into the gullible prince… hopefully all these ladies will start gossiping and we can really cement this evil persona of mine now that Cressida’s here.

When we returned to our separate apartments, I explored my rooms a bit until servants came to get me ready for dinner, and I slipped back into the frigid bitch persona. The servant girls dressed me in a slightly stuffy gown, but I had to admit, I looked gorgeous. I sat stiff and straight as they did my hair, forcing myself to be the very picture of cold indifference. I then dismissively thanked them for their help, then sat there awkwardly as they stared at me like I was crazy.

Ohhhh shit…. The original story hadn’t prepared me for this. My character was a villain, yes, but a side character for the most part! How was she supposed to act towards her servants? I went over what I knew- the novel showed the villainess alone quite often, usually obsessing over Eric and plotting/stalking. It showed her with Eric, and how distant and awkward their relationship was when together. And then of course the numerous scenes with Cressida where the Villainess did all sorts of heinous things to the sweet girl. But… it never depicted her with servants, or even any friends or other nobles. Just… Eric and Cressida. Was other me not actually a bitch all the time? Am I being unnecessarily rude right now? Oh god I’m such an idiot.

The story is told through Cressida’s point of view- of course there’s more depth to my own character than I initially thought! The Villianess must be a misunderstood introvert! Unsure of how to act around her crush, she’s fiercely insecure and jealous of this new girl who doesn’t struggle the same way she does. When she notices the prince slipping from her grasp, she acts out against Cressida because she can’t bear to lose Eric!

As someone’s who’s worked minimum wage jobs and struggled with social anxiety most of my life, I try to be nice to the people just working to survive, but here I am acting like these poor women are the dirt beneath my shoe…. Ok. Um. Well they’re still standing there in shock, I can fix this….

“You really did a lovely job… my hair has never looked so gorgeous, you’re truly talented! And I think the prince will be very pleased with this choice of ribbon!”

There- I was nicer, and I brought it back to Eric, so I’m still the lovesick fiancé whose entire world is waiting for her in the dining room. I frowned as the servants scuttled out of the room with hurried excuses, all of them looking like they were about to faint. Damn it… I can’t believe I misread the relationship between us. I probably just ruined their night by being uncharacteristically rude. I’ve gotta learn their names next time…. Maybe ask them to help me eat some fancy pastries as an apology…?

I didn’t know it, but while I was lamenting how wrong I was about the Villainess’ character, the servants were all gossiping to the others about what had just transpired.

“You’re telling me she said THANK YOU!?”

“Yes!!! And then you should have seen how nervous she got! She just rambled, blurting out such a sweet compliment, and she even tied it back to the prince!”

“I had no idea how precious she was… I can’t believe I never realized she’s just shy! In a new place, all alone aside from her new fiancé…. Who I gather she’s got a bit of a crush on! Poor dear.”

“Ohh our sweet girl, I’m sure it must be hard bonding with the prince, when all you do is sit yards apart and hardly speak …”

“Well I may have some news about that… and it’s no wonder she was a bit flustered today, because I saw the two of them in the gardens today! They were both nothing but smiles- absolutely smitten with one another!”

“Such a lovely girl, and we never knew it all this time!”

Apparently, I had it backwards. The real villainess truly was a 2D, basic character. She was insecure and possessive over the prince, bullying Cressida half to remind her who Eric belonged to, half for the fun of it. But she didn’t let on to anyone about the true depth of her love for him. She didn’t gossip to her handmaid, didn’t ask the servants which dress he would like better. Simply acted as if they did not exist, hardly saying a word to them.

While I thought my blunt “thank you” was colder than they were used to, and then tried to smooth things over…. It was more words than they’d heard from me in the whole time I’d lived in the palace. They lapped it up and declared me their own shy little dove after that.

When I arrived to dinner, I realized why daily dinners weren’t exactly a bonding activity for the villainess and Eric. The table was massive, and only held two chairs, one at either end. It felt so…. Cold?

Eric had beat me there, and quickly stood up from his seat, waiting until I sat and a servant pushed in my chair to retake his own seat. He smiled at me and said,

“Good evening, princess.”

He had to project his voice slightly. It wasn’t like he was shouting or being loud, it was just the manner of speaking you use when talking to an elderly relative, clearer, and enunciating better so they could hear you.

I replied back, projecting my voice similarly, and found the conversation was, in fact, more awkward than it had been earlier. We ate our food mostly in silence, occasionally one of us would say something and the other would stop moving their utensils on their plate, listening closer as they ask,

“What’s that?”

By the time dinner was over and we each went to bed, I felt drained. I could have just been louder I suppose- but it’s so hard to keep up a conversation like that. I know we get along- we had chatted all afternoon after all. But some part of me realized it’s probably good to keep a bit of distance between us, even if I’ve rewritten things to be a bit chummier between the two of us. Cressida needs to swoop in and steal him from me… and my job is still to leave that room for her to do so.

It’s hard trying to be someone else, yet also making sure you lead the plot in the right direction- it’s exhausting! I feel like both director and actress!

It’s with this in mind that I launch myself into the softest bed I’d ever felt, and passed out. My first day as princess consort, the Yandere fiancé, complete.

While I was getting acquainted with my feather bed, Eric was speaking with the head waitstaff.

“Yes, tomorrow, would you mind adjusting the seating situation? I’d like for the princess consort and I to be closer together from now on. Yes, and ask my assistant to arrange my schedules like so, I’ve detailed it here. Thank you.”

At the same time, Cressida was recounting her run in with the prince and I to her handmaiden as she finishing unpacking and settling into her family’s guest apartments. Which, unbeknownst to me… was right across the hall.

Aaaa! You survived your first day! And look at you- doing suuuuch a good job staying true to character. Nothing could go wrong… right?

Tag list for the series;

@bitternsweet @tonightwrites @confused-they @lanxianschoenheit @poptrim @siriuslyobsessedwithfiction @one-really-annoying-tree-rat @anonymousdisco @forbidden-sunlight

Tag list closed! Stay tuned for part 3!

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forlix · 9 months ago

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𝐚𝐜𝐞・h.h.

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

words・15.2k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Please, angel.”

“No! Leave me alone.”

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

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

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

“What the hell did you do?”

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

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

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

The air between you curdles like sour milk.

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

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

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

“Because you’re so scholarly.”

“I am not scholarly.”

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

“I need to get my steps in somehow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Watermelon,” he mumbles with a sickening smile.

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

He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

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

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

“Thanks, cap.” Useless.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yep.”

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

“That’s bullshit!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hwang Hyunjin,” he says under his breath.

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

Then comes the yelling.

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

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

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

Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin shudders.

It just might, actually.

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

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

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

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

Piazza replied within the week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you said your order was complicated.”

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

“Was it not?” You ask.

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

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

“What? Really?”

“No.”

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

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

“I do, but you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s thinking.

That can’t be good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can see it.”

“I can see killing myself, maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t like that at all,” you say.

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

“You have a kid, don’t you?”

“Wha—huh? Who do you think I am?”

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

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

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

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

“I’m failing anthro.”

So much for a serious conversation.

“Come again?”

He repeats the mystifying statement.

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

“I just said that, yes.”

“You’re failing anthropology?”

“Mhm.”

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

“Yes. I’m glad you’re having fun.”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it involve ingesting more sports equipment?”

“Do you want it to?”

“Just tell me the deal, boy.”

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

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

“On which part?”

“All of them. Everything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me guess. Not for you.”

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

“To dinner or to practice?”

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

He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.

“—you should manage our team.”

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

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

“Yeah? Who was your last manager?”

“Me!”

Oh, right. “But you hated it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is this, mock trial?”

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

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

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

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

“I would never.”

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

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

You stiffen. “I haven’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do kick him under the table, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Studied?” He repeats. “For this?”

“I’m pretty sure Quizlets were made.”

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

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

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

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

“Go easy on me, yeah?”

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

“I can’t promise anything.”

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

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

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

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

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

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

“Caring about me.”

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

“Now stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, you have to show me. Please.”

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

“Motherfucker!”

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

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

“You’ll be punished, Hwang.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

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

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

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

“You should’ve opened with that.”

“I tried, hello? Someone distracted me!”

“Read. It. Before I change my mind.”

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

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

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

With that, his attention span has run its course.

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

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

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

“I think so. I hit my stride.”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

“Why is that?”

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

“It really is.”

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

“I really would.”

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

“Didn’t you come up with that?”

“No, hello? I live in that village.”

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

“Fuck you.”

“Ah, don’t threaten me with a good—”

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

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

“Really?”

“No.”

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

“But I do give a fuck about you.”

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

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

Then he opens his texts.

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

He picks you up at 7:53.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, well, you’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me, Minho.”

“I can too. Tell ‘em, Hwang.”

“I want nothing to do with this.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m okay, I think.”

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

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

“There’s Tetris,” Hyunjin cuts in.

You purchase an hour.

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

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

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

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

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

“I already did,” you finally answer.

“Sorry, what? You played professional Tetris?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then you’re smarter than you look.”

“Well, you look—”

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

“What was that?”

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

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

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

Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to be alone?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the arcade.

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

In person, that is.

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

Then you listen to it again.

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

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

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

“It’s been a while,” he greets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this enough space?”

More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you see under these things?”

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

“And?”

“He made them brighter.” Sounds about right.

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

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

This cannot be his burden alone.

You inhale. “What’s on your mind?”

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

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

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

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

“Do you remember Ishikawa Yuki?”

His role model.

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

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

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

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

You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.

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

You stop thinking after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Traitor.”

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

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

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

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

He stops speaking.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Wait—and apple juice.”

“You are about to be a professional athlete.”

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

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

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

“Let’s get this over with.”

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin is already out the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She really is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeonwoo, right?”

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

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

“Also a singer?”

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

“Wow, that’s—hi, old man. You done?”

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

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

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

“Thanks. It’s weird. I’m happy.”

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

“The arcade wasn’t enough?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Whenever you want, then.”

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

“Bet.”

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin doesn’t know what to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It has always been him.

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

It’s not awkward this time.

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

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

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

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

He balls his fingers into fists.

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

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

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

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

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

“—YOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!”

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

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

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

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

“Love you,” he yells before hurrying off.

“Love you too, Bin.”

Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.

“The short answer,” she deadpans.

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

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

Hyunjin thanks you.

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

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

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

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.

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

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

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

He calls out to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll be here in eight minutes.

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

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

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

He finds you a sobbing mess.

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

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

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

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

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because you’re irresistably drawn to me?”

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

You shove him away. “You are grotesque.”

He returns in a flash. “You love me.”

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

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

“No, no. The opposite, actually.”

Your brow furrows. “The opposite? What—”

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

“Duty calls, my love.”

“Tell me your thing later too?”

“Of course.”

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

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

“Hypocrite.”

Hyunjin: [1 Audio Message]

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

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

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

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

I’m gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I’ll genuinely commit homicide if I have to do all this again. Sorry that this got so long, and…I’m sorry about everything. You deserve better.

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

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

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devotedlystrangewizard · 2 years ago

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yeah im so stable all of the time im such a normal person these arent tears my eyes are just sweating what

#just finished werlyt on my alt i am sooooooooo normal about this questline #so normal!#i should probably do eden as well but...#cloud deck went horribly as expected 3rd worst trial run ever for me (zodiark & shinryu are still 1st. they share the spot)#like i was scared of the emerald weapon bc i remember falling off a LOT but i managed quite well #but no. diamond weapon was very predictable. really it brought me back to my dragoon main roots when i spent half the first attempt #just laying there.#THE FIRST. THE FIRST TIME I DIED. I USE DISPLACEMENT ON ACCIDENT. AND JUMPED OFF.#never give me #a sage main #a skill that sends me flying backwards.#please.#please that was AWFUL i almost started crying #and then made sure i had that on cooldown all of the time by using the other skill on cooldown so that me pressing displacement #on accident wouldnt. kill me again. worst time of my life.

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lokidjarin-7567 · 25 days ago

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The Prophecy

Viktor x You When the friend of your youth, Viktor, sees you still living in the Undercity, and working in a strip club at that, he is determined to reconnect, and rekindle a childhood friendship that was rooted in something more. Contents: fem!reader, fluff, angst and smut all in one folks, 18+ MDNI, a few physical features described but still reader insert I think (hair colour and freckles), both Viktor and you POVs, long-ass one shot 8.1k words Taglist: @night-fall-moon @zsuzsu321 @sh1zhu @circeinspace @casualjagodek @retrokatz @am-3-thyst @xlittlemissydjx @sseleniaa @thefandomsfervent Hi guys, thanks for bearing with my while I've been working on this one!! I have been absolutely obsessed with this man ever since I finished Arcane, so I just had to write something about him! I also think a lot of people mischaracterise him, so I tried really hard to get his personality right - let me know if I actually have lol. Anyone who knows my works knows how slutty my smut can get lol, but this is actually quite tender so a new one for me too. Anyway, I'll stop waffling now, I hope you enjoy. TTPD Contents | General Masterlist | AO3

DISCLAIMER: while this, in my opinion, is still classified as an ‘x you’ fic, a few physical features are described, namely ‘you’ having burgundy red hair that is, at one point, described as curly and having freckles, alongside a handful of super vague descriptors (eg. fluttering eyelashes, slope of her nose AKA things that can be applied to any and all faces) - basically everyone in the Arcane show has cool hair so I thought this would be a cute detail. It’s possible to ignore if you don’t want to think about have a different hair colour, but if you don’t want to, don’t read it! Almost every comment on this fic has been relating to this which, when I put hours of hard work and effort into something that I was proud of, is insanely demoralising. There has always been a disclaimer in the contents above, but I’m adding it here as well so it’s as clear as possible. Dead dove do not eat and all that. And I’m always open to constructive criticism, but there’s a way to go about it, and a way that will put someone in a slump for months, so please think before you comment! Anyway, not to put a downer before the work, thank you for the reposts and loves so far ❤️

Viktor was lost in thought as he made his way back to Piltover, small tube of Shimmer tucked away in his satchel. He didn’t know what to do. Using it might stabilise the Hexcore, allowing it to keep the plants alive and accomplish everything he and Jayce had been working towards for years, maybe even curing this sickness that had taken over him, or…

Or it could end horribly.

The undercity was as dark and unpleasant as he remembered it. He had never fit in here in his youth - too scrawny, too bookish, and with his leg, he stood no chance. And now was no different.

The neon store signs stood out against the blackened buildings and muddy streets. This part of the city, deep in the underbelly of Zaun, seemed busier than the rest, roads bustling with call girls and salesmen and tourists from Topside taking their pick of unruly establishments. Hundreds of voices layered atop each other in a cacophony of harsh laughter, garish music and argumentative tones. There was barely space to walk, especially with his cane, and he was starting to wonder if this journey was even worth it.

Then something caught his eye. A flash of red, deep and vibrant, moving towards him on the far side of the lane. It was hair, bouncy and curly and his subconscious told him it was shorter than it should’ve been, but it was a colour he knew. Her face wasn’t one he could place at first, but as she got closer, he saw the freckles that smattered across her nose like a constellation, her pink lips that were perpetually curled into a soft frown, her eyes that she always accentuated with brown liner. It was her.

The only friend of his youth. A young girl who used to sit behind the foliage near the water where he tested his inventions. She was shy, even shyer than he used to be, too scared to ask him anything about what he was making for a long time, just watching with curious eyes. But he would never forget the day she moved closer. The way her long, burgundy locks flowed around her, almost touching the floor, the way she was trying her best to be confident, but there was a soft shake in her hand, and a slight stutter as she said hello. Then she produced a small invention of her own - a submarine, the same colour as her hair, designed to float perfectly so the periscope was the only thing that peeked out from the surface.

For years, they were inseparable. She was more artistic than him, always adding a flair to her designs that he didn’t have, so he’d let her ‘improve’ his too. They would play together, and then as they got older, build together, each creation more daring and experimental. And then they started to drift apart. They were in their mid teens when her mother got sick, and she couldn’t make it out as much. Viktor always offered to help, but she refused, not even allowing him to see where she lived. And so, when Professor Heimerdinger found him and offered him an opportunity to be his assistant, he couldn’t even tell her. He left a note, delicately placed under a rock where they would build together, telling her where to find him and how to get in touch, but he never heard anything.

And now here she was. He called out her name softly, not wanting to alarm her in this hostile city, but she didn’t hear. She’d walked past him now, so he turned, following but she was walking fast, faster than he could manage. He called out again, but it wasn’t until then that he noticed the headphones over her ears. She couldn’t hear a thing. He carried on, hoping she would stop but she didn’t. If it was anyone else, he would’ve gone home, given up, but now he’d caught a glimpse of her, he had to see her. To talk to her. To find out why she never got in touch. To apologise for leaving her behind.

She disappeared from view for a moment, and he panicked, thinking he’d lost her again, but he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, entering an alley beside a row of bars and clubs. He grimaced, following her to see the red locks just moving out of sight again, and a bouncer closing the door behind her. He tried to follow her into the building, but the man stopped him.

“Please…” he asked, out of breath, “it’s an old friend, I need to see her…”

“Staff entrance only, pal. You’ll have to go ‘round the front like everyone else.”

“But… she’s right there… I only need one moment, if she just saw me…” The words died on his lips. Would she even recognise you?

“Don’t make me ask you twice.”

It was dark inside the club, the lights low apart from on the stage and around the bar. It was only mid afternoon, but the place was near full of lowlifes just starting their evenings, sloshing their drinks and talking loudly. The neon from outside carried into this space too, strip lights around the platforms accentuating their presence. There were dancers atop each of them, but he averted his eyes. He shouldn’t have come here. This was so far from his comfort zone, loud and unruly, a long way away from his lab, but he had to see her. He couldn’t let her go again.

He found a stool by the bar, ordering a soda and waiting for her to start her shift. There was no way he could miss her again if he was right here when she started.

And then he saw her at the very edge of his vision, as though his eyes were programmed to search her out in any crowd. She was on stage, cherry red hair glowing in the soft lights, combined with the neon from below making her look like a ghost, ethereal. What was she doing up there?

***

“Afternoon, Joey.” You muttered to the bouncer, and he opened the door for you wordlessly as you slipped off your headphones, replacing your perfectly selected playlist with the sleazy music of the club. Just one of the many reasons you hated working here. You were running late, as per, throwing your things in your locker and quickly changing. Lacing up your shoes always took the longest time, and you barely even had a chance to check yourself in the mirror when you were finished. Your hair looked perfect at least, the naturally burgundy curls sitting at shoulder length. You missed the long hair of your youth, but it become impractical very quickly, and the memories it held… you ended up cutting it all off soon after your mum died. That was when you started working here too. You’d had dreams, of course you did, but growing up in the Undercity made it almost impossible to follow them. There were worse places to work though - for the most part, the patrons were respectful, and everyone who you worked with was kind, but it was still a strip club. At the end of the day, no little girl wanted to be an exotic dancer when they grew up. At least it just about paid the bills.

You had been put on a long shift today - late afternoon until the early hours. You didn’t mind though; it was exhausting, but more time meant more tips. And you needed the money. You were saving, slowly but surely. One day, it would be enough.

These shifts always started slow. Not many tips this early in the day. Not enough drunks - they were all too willing to part with their money, an exploit you knew how to use. After a while on stage, it was your turn to make your way into the crowd. You started away from the bar, smiling at a few, a couple of words of flirtation thrown around, but no one was loose enough for anything else yet. There was something different about the energy today though. You felt… exposed, on display, more than usual. Self conscious in a way you hadn’t been since your first week. By the time you got to the bar, you were already feeling frustrated at the lack of interest. But your favourite coworker was pouring the drinks tonight, and she had one ready for you already.

“Thanks, Katie” You crooned, knocking back the shot quickly and she immediately offered to refill - something you gratefully accepted.

“Thought you might need it. Slow start?”

“Yeah, not the best day so far.” You took your second, thanking her again, when you heard a voice call out your name. Your real name. It made you start, whipping your head around to find the source. You didn’t use that name here. You were expecting to see an ex, or an old boss, but instead you were met with a face you hadn’t seen in years.

His eyes hadn’t changed. Kind but tired, amber in colour and glowing like whiskey in sunlight. The curve of his nose was the same, the curl of his lips, the small moles like points on a map - one beneath his right eye and the other to the left of his lip. There was a cane tucked beside his stool, and he was dressed well. Too well to be in this part of town. A uniform of some sort, something a Topsider would wear: blue shirt accented with a cream ascot and waistcoat. It suited him.

As soon as you saw him, every fond memory of your childhood rushed back to you like a river. The gentleness when he explained his creations to you. His willingness when you asked if you could paint them pretty colours, or add cute designs. The way he held you as you cried about your mum falling ill. How quickly he offered you support, and how quickly you turned him down. You didn’t want to be a burden, but you regretted that choice as soon as he stopped showing up to your usual spot. You kept going for months before you gave up, still trying to find him. The last time you visited was to scatter your mum’s ashes - your stories of Viktor’s designs and the beautiful creek where you tested them out together being one of the last things that brought her comfort.

And now, he was here.

He’d made it out. He’d made it Topside. And you’d only fallen further down.

If there was one person you never wanted to see you like this, it was him. He was the only slither of your youth and innocence left, the only soul in the whole of Runeterra who knew the true version of yourself, the first version of yourself. The version you actually liked. And now, he had to see this. You couldn’t tell what you were feeling. Every emotion was vying for attention: joy, nostalgia, anger, envy…

He repeated your name in a questioning tone, and you realised you’d been staring at him, the rollercoaster of emotions you just went on likely visible on your face.

“Do you know him, darling? Or shall I grab Joe?” Katie asked from behind the bar, staring him down with a protective look. Viktor opened his mouth to speak, indignant look on his face, but you answered for him, never once being able to tear your eyes from him.

“Yeah I… cover for me? If anyone asks, he got a dance.”

“Of course.” Viktor’s gaze had returned you, confused, and you just muttered a ‘come on’, signalling him to follow you, and you lead him across the floor to one of the private rooms. They weren’t exactly the nicest places to talk, the whole room painted a hideous deep purple, a weirdly-shaped black velvet sofa the only thing to sit on. As soon as you closed the door, turning around to see the soft look on his face, every drop of anger seeped from you, replaced with relief. Relief that he was alive. Relief that he had done something with his life. Relief that you hadn’t lost him forever.

You couldn’t help it but let the tears fall as you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him tight.

***

He was surprised by her warm welcome. After all these years, he had always imagined she would resent him, but here she was, face pressed to his chest as she hugged him, tears falling onto his shirt. He didn’t even have to think about it, one arm naturally surrounding her as she cried, keeping her close, while the other held firm to his cane, ensuring it was stable for the both of them. He never wanted to let her go again.

She eventually pulled away though, wiping her tears with the shy smile he remembered so well.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.. on your fancy Topside shirt too.” She laughed nervously, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I… um, I imagined bumping into you one day, finding you again, but I never thought I would be dressed like this.” He finally let himself glance down at her when he said that, to take her in completely, safe in the knowledge that she wasn’t meeting his eyes. She looked beautiful - a black two-peice set, solid silk on the areas that counted, but the frills and accents were a sheer lace, stockings too, glittering beads woven into the delicate material. Even if the environment didn’t suit her, somehow the clothes still did, the same style he’d seen her develop in her teenage years. Simple in colour, beautiful in design - the cunning of her inventor’s mind applied to her other passion.

“What are you doing here, Viktor?” She sat down on the awkward sofa, curling her legs up onto it, and he followed suit, resting his cane against the arm.

“I could ask you the same thing.” It fell from his lips before he could stop it, and he winced, expecting her to be offended, but she just smiled sadly.

“You got out.” She stated as a shrouded question, ignoring his quip, and he nodded. He could explain, he should, but not yet.

“And you never wrote me.” He responded.

“Write you? Viktor, I didn’t know where you were.” She never got your letter.

“I left you a note by the creek. You never got it?” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve found you somehow, or…”

“It’s ok, Vik.” She shuffled closer on the loveseat, grabbing his hand and squeezing tight. Hearing the name she used to call him sent a pang of pain to his heart. This is what he had been missing out on all these years, all because of a stupid letter. “If I was in your shoes, I’d have done the same. Besides, I never let you see where I lived, or anything else about me. And when mum… I fell off the face of the earth. I wouldn’t have let you in no matter how hard you tried.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“I know.”

***

You spent a long time asking about his life now. He was working in the academy, partners with Piltover’s favourite researcher, helping to create the HexTech that kept the whole city afloat… he had changed the fucking world. And you were… here. Still.

He said your name softly, as though trying to broach a subject carefully and you knew what was coming. You had seen the query floating in his eyes since the moment he saw you.

“What are you doing working here? I mean, you’re brilliant, more so than me, and yet…”

“I’m still stuck in the Lanes?” You sighed.

“Well, yes.” You’d never once thought of him as ignorant. Maybe he’d been living Topside for too long.

“I never got my break. You deserved what you got, of course you did, and you’re the smartest person I know, Viktor, but that doesn’t change the fact that you got lucky. And it’s not the same here as when we were kids. Sure, things weren’t great then, but now… There are no jobs, no money, housing is insanely competitive even though most of it is disgusting.. it’s a vicious cycle meant to keep you in the shitter. This is what I could get. It pays my bills and lets me save a little, the other girls are nice, it’s close to my apartment…”

“But…” You knew from the look on his face what he was going to say - a long speech about how much potential you have, and how much better you could have it. You dropped his hand.

“But what?” You couldn’t help but snap, defensive over the very job that you cursed daily. “But I’m better than selling myself to sleazy drunks? You think I don’t fucking know that? You think I want to be losing my sense of self every day just so I can keep the lights on? You think it’s my dream to feel like I’m a lesser human being because I will let someone pay me to take them into this room and…” You stood up then, starting to pace as silent tears fell. You never let yourself think about any part of your life longer than you had to. Not pondering on it was the only thing keeping you alive.

“You know I wasn’t saying that…”

“I know I’m sorry… I just…”

“I know… I know…” He stood up then too, wrapping you in his arms and letting you cry. Again. You felt so stupid. “I missed you.” He whispered, face nestled into your hair, barely audible.

“I missed you too.” The tender moment didn’t last for long though, as a sharp knock on the door startled you, jumping away from him and wiping your eyes.

“Vikki?” Joey’s voice called out, and you breathed a sigh of relief. “You ok in there?” You put on your smiley voice, cooing back to him.

“Yeah, all good Joe, got a paying customer in here...”

“You got it, doll.” You heard him walk away, and turned back to see Viktor looking at you, head cocked, small smirk playing across his features.

“What?” You asked with a shy smile, wiping away the last of your tears.

“Vikki?” Oh.

“Well I couldn’t exactly use my real name.” He laughed at that, and you couldn’t help but giggle too. “That does mean we’ve been in here too long though, I should…”

“Yeah, no of course…” he moved to open the door, grabbing his cane, but you stopped him quickly, pressing your hand against the door frame.

“One second…” He frowned as you reached towards him, but he didn’t move, just watched curiously as you took your time unknotting his ascot. Once it was off, you unbuttoned a few of his buttons, trying to ruffle his shirt a little, make it look like you had actually been doing your job rather than talking to an old friend. “There…” you muttered quietly, realising he’d shuffled a little closer to you as you worked, and now his lips were only a breath away. He was looking at you so intently, as though there was something he wanted to say, but he never spoke, just gazed at you in a way that made your heart swell. Your hands lingered on his chest, comforted by the warmth and solidness of him. A reassurance that he was real and here. You didn’t want to move.

“Please, don’t go anywhere just yet…” you muttered, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

***

She had been backstage for a while now, muttering something about trying to move her shifts around. She came back beaming, and it was infectious, a smile he was trying to fight taking over his own face just at the sight of her.

“Ok, if you’re busy tonight, or you have plans, you can tell me to piss off…”

“Never.” She blushed in response, her wide smile spreading further as she spoke, and he was helplessly drawn to her, eyes scanning her face intently.

“Well, someone came in early for their shift, but someone else is running late… anyway, our schedule is a mess, but good news is I only have to stay for another hour and then I’m free so… I was thinking, maybe you’d want to grab some food and catch up? Unless you have somewhere else to be…” She still sounded so shy, so unsure - the same habit she had when she was young, babbling when she was nervous. He was finding it hard to connect the dots in his mind: the timid person before him now, the girl he used to know, and the dancer on that stage, full of bravado and confidence.

“That sounds wonderful.” The joy in her face was intoxicating, and he watched as relief visibly washed over her body.

“Ok, brilliant.” She spun away for just a moment, trying to track down the bartender she seemed to know well. “Katie, he’s with me, ok? Send him back in like an hour, and his drinks are on my tab.” He tried to protest, but she rested a hand on his shoulder, quickly silencing him. “I insist. It’s the least I can do, considering how long you have to wait around.” Again, he tried to tell her didn’t mind, that he’d wait as long as she needed, anything for her, but she was gone already, slipping into the crowd, his shoulder cold where her hand had been. He sighed, turning back towards the bar on his stool, taking another sip of his soda.

“That’s our Vikki…” Katie mused, slicing a few garnishes behind the bar. “Never accepting that somebody else would want to do something for her.” He let out a dry laugh, half at the name, half in agreement.

“That sounds like her.” A beat of silence passed between them. The club was starting to fill up, but it wasn’t too rowdy yet, and nobody else was at the bar, all relying on bottle service and shot girls instead.

“Drink?” He shook his head politely. “How do you know her?” Katie asked, staying busy but obviously trying to snoop. He didn’t mind. She was a topic he didn’t mind talking about.

“Childhood friend. I haven’t seen her in… a very long time.” Her eyebrow shot up at that.

“What was your name, by the way?”

“Viktor.” A look of surprise flitted across her face.

“Ohh.” She drawled knowingly, smiling at herself as she continued to wedge limes.

“What?”

“I’ve heard of you, that’s all. Her childhood love who disappeared on her while her mother was dying…”

“You don’t know the whole story…” He snapped back quickly. He might hate himself for what happened, but he felt the need to defend his choices. It had turned out well for him, he just wished he could’ve found her. Taken her with him. Their life could’ve been so different. Katie chuckled, continuing her tasks.

“Oh trust me, I do. She’s very quick to defend you, you know. You can do no wrong in her eyes…”

“Not so sure about that…” As he muttered to himself, something she’d said suddenly hit him. Her childhood love…“Actually, on second thought, I will grab a drink please, whatever she usually has. But don’t put it on her tab…”

“I wasn’t planning on it, Topsider.” She saluted mockingly with a smile.

Two down and that was all he was having, just needing something to take the edge off after Katie’s admission. All those years wasted, because you thought childhood love was stupid and pointless. And now, seeing her again, you still love her as much as you did back then…

Katie was on her break, so he twisted in his seat, trying to find her in the crowd. She had never been difficult for him to spot, everything about her so familiar to him, and this time, she was centre stage, which made it even easier. Every part of him was screaming to turn away, to not taint his view of her, but he was instantly transfixed. She danced so fluidly, so gracefully. Every movement she made was purposeful and poised. However much she hated her job, she took pride in it. He was a scientist, sure, but she was a creator, through and through.

***

You were finally finished, and you were exhausted. Even though it wasn’t even half a usual shift, seeing Viktor, all the memories it brought back, it had been so emotionally draining.

You were grateful that the changing area was empty. It wasn’t the usual shift time, and no one ever came here on their break, so at least Viktor wouldn’t have to deal with that. You almost laughed at the thought.

There was a gentle knock, and his voice sent a flutter straight to your heart.

“Vikki?” He called out mockingly, and you laughed at the way he’d latched on to your new name. It was inspired by him, after all. “Are you decent?”

“Yes, you can come in.” You were looking good, if you said so yourself. The fashion and the opportunity you were afforded to express yourself in that way was one of the few things you did like about this place. You’d tried to incorporate the shapes and designs of your ‘work attire’ into a more Lanes-friendly outfit, layering a black organza shirt over the lacy bodice, beading shining through the sheer fabric, pairing it with a bubble skirt and knee high boots, just the right height to allow your stockings to peek from the top. There was only one item that wasn’t black; his neckerchief that you had taken earlier was now around your own collar, tied in a dainty bow. He grinned as soon as he laid his eyes on it, striding towards you and gently holding the hemmed edge between his fingers.

“I guess I’m not getting this back, huh.”

“Never.” He shrugged.

“I’m ok with that.” God, the way he looked at you. It made you melt without fail, warm flush spreading across your cheeks.

“Are you ready to go?” You muttered, eyes still glued to his, honey tones making you feel as though you were stuck in them. A fly trapped in amber, resigned to its fate.

“I’m ready when you are.”

You’d decided you were going to cook for him tonight instead of taking him out. The places near you either weren’t nice enough, or they knew you for the wrong reasons. Besides, you wanted to show him your place. To show him that, even though you were still here, you had done everything you could to make the best of it, to continue learning and inventing and developing yourself.

That did mean you had to stop by the store, though. Which meant bumping into Angel. He and Viktor would not get on.

You had grabbed Viktor’s arm as soon as you left the club, a habit from the times Joey had walked you home, knowing that you were safer beside a man than by yourself. Even though the Undercity was bustling tonight, there was something so soothing about being here with him. A nostalgia warming you from the inside out. He let you guide him into the shop below your apartment, chatting absentmindedly about nothing and everything, when a smooth voice stopped yoou in your tracks.

“Not so fast, Vikki…” You groaned, turning back the few steps you had made into the entrance.

“Hey Angel.” You cooed, although it felt wrong falling into your usual flirtatious routine when Viktor was right behind you. He was working behind the counter today, thumbing through the till. His long dreadlocks were down, grey peeking through his beard, wide grin as his eyes traced over you, following your arm to where it joined the man next to you.

“Is that a nickname, or…” Viktor muttered, and you couldn’t help but laugh as you responded.

“No, Vik, this is my landlord Angel…”

“Landlord, huh? Thought I was more than that, sugar…” He leaned across the counter, shit-eating smile on his face, clearing noticing and enjoying the fact he was winding up your new companion. Viktor scowled, moving a step closer to you.

“Yeah, yeah, keep dreaming, old man…” You sent him a wink, and he laughed, the booming noise of it always making you smile. “What have you got in that’s fresh? I’m actually cooking tonight…”

You chatted a little longer, grabbing what Angel recommended and some wine, before heading upstairs via the back of the shop. Viktor was still scowling slightly as you were unlocking your door, and you laughed lightly, nudging him with the bag of shopping.

“What?” He huffed.

“I don’t like that guy.” He grumbled, feeling smug that you had called it.

“He’s my landlord, Vik, and a friend. He’s a good guy, don’t worry.” He just shrugged as you finally got the door open, and you thanked the stars that you had remembered to tidy last night, or else it would be a complete tip. There were still remnants from your busy morning scattered all around the studio: scrap pieces of fabric and thread strewn across the kitchen table, the half-finished neglige you were constructing laid over the back of one of the chairs, the cogs and pieces of machinery lie abandoned next to your sewing machine in the wake of the modifications you were trying to make so it could handle more delicate material. The space itself was dark in colour, olive and navy washing the walls, brown leather sofa and black countertops marking their territory in the small apartment, the stain-glass screen in front of your bed the only splash of jewel toned colour. You could feel Viktor’s curiosity at the place, and as he stepped further into it, a smile settled onto his lips.

“It’s so very… you.” He said, and in any other intonation, it would’ve sounded like a bad thing, but when he said it, full of adoration.. it was a compliment of the highest order.

***

She was mesmerising as she cooked, twirling in the kitchen to her carefully selected vinyl, a wide smile on her face as she tested what she was making. He wanted to help but she wouldn’t let him, batting him away and telling him to sit down, and for now, he had obliged. But, as much as he wanted to help her always, right now, he just wanted to be close.

“At least let me pour the wine?” He said, already standing to help, and she huffed, but didn't object. Instead, she handed him the corkscrew and the bottle wordlessly. He smiled, leaning against the counter and continuing to watch her as she stirred. She was always so chaotic when she was creating, something evidenced by the near bomb-site on her kitchen table. It was just so… her. Everything about her apartment was as well, such a perfect and beautiful representation of everything she was, every tiny detail of her life and personality reflected in the space she lived in. The colours, the soft furnishings, the bookshelves lining the wall behind her bed. Then, he noticed something about the stain glass screen that separated the room, soft light from her bedside lamp washing through it and creating a blue ripple across the floor like a stream. It was of their place, their creek. It was abstract, sure, but he would recognise it anywhere. The way certain rocks jutted out, the colours of it all, the small boat floating in the still glass water.

“Did you make that?” He asked earnestly, and she briefly glanced up from the stove to see what he was looking at.

“Yeah, I've been trying out a lot of different hobbies actually, things to keep me busy when I’m not working. That was one of my favourites…”

“It’s beautiful.” She smiled sadly, focusing her attention back to the pan.

“It reminds me of you.”

He poured them both a glass, and she gratefully accepted.

“It’s nearly finished, just a few more… oh I meant to ask earlier…” Her mind was such a beautiful thing, the speed at which it moved so captivating, not even time to finish her own thought before starting another, “why were you even here today? In the Undercity, in my club… I just never thought I’d see you back here by choice.”

“I was visiting an old friend, a quandary about a new gadget Jayce and I are working on, but…” He was going to say something about it, ask her opinion on whether he should follow Doctor Reveck’s advice, what he should do next, but he decided against it. “He didn’t have any insights.��

“Maybe I can help?”

“No, I…” She looked hurt at the speed the word left his mouth, almost recoiling and turning back to her cooking with a frown. “I mean that you probably could, but I don’t want to taint tonight by talking about a project that has been frustrating me for weeks. Another time though, of course I would appreciate your insight.” She sighed in relief, smile flitting back across her face. She grabbed a spoon from the drawer, humming as she did, a flurry of breathtaking movement as she dipped it into the sauce, spinning back around and holding it up to him.

“Taste?” She asked, the look on her face so hopeful it melted him, her joy infectious. But underneath all of it, he couldn't help but notice the cracks: the bags under her eyes, the tiredness set into them, the subtle shake of her hand. But he just smiled, enveloping her hand in his and bringing the spoon to his lips.

“It’s perfect.”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far.” She looked proud nonetheless, spinning back away from him and he was left to watch again, heart swelling. He wanted this. Cooking with her, drinking wine in the kitchen to her favourite record, letting her order him around. He wanted the… intimacy of it. The domesticity. The realisation of it ached. You could’ve had this. All these years without her, all these years wasted. Precious time that you no longer have to spare. If you’d have just waited, just taken more time to find her, insisted on helping her even…

“It’s ready!” She exclaimed, presenting a plate with a wide grin, and every stress, every regret simultaneously melted away and intensified, a pit forming in his stomach.

“It looks wonderful.”

***

You had eaten, and you were both now on your second glass of wine. You felt closer to him with every single second, drawn to every word he said like moth to a flame. At some point in the evening, you’d moved to the floor, backs to the sofa, as you looked through some of your old sketches you had found. The conversation lulled momentarily, a faraway look in his eyes, and you realised how close you had gotten. Your elbow was leaning on the sofa, supporting your head with your body twisted to face him, knee pressing against his thigh. You moved your head forwards to glance at the sketchbook, and your hand fell, resting on his shoulder. A stillness fell over him at the touch, and he smiled sadly to himself.

“I think you should come back with me.” He stated with finality, and you froze.

“What do you…”

“I think you should come back to Piltover.” He closed the book, placing it gently on the low coffee table. He was serious. “Help Jayce and I with our projects. Let me teach you about HexTech.”

“Vik, I don’t exactly have any actual experience. I don’t have an education. I can’t afford to live Topside…”

“You can live with me.” He said it so simply, like it was so obvious. Of course you would love that. Now you’d seen him again, you didn’t want to be apart from him but… “Professor Heimerdinger can give you lessons, but you have the mind already. There are certain things that can’t be taught. You have the passion, the skill, the creativity…”

“But…” You weren’t trying to pick apart his plan, but it felt terrifying. Even though it was everything you had ever wanted, it felt so far fetched. Like a fever dream. It didn’t feel like your life, your future.

“No, I… I lost you once, I can’t do it again.”

“Vik…” He grabbed your hand that was resting by his shoulder, and you felt yourself relax into his touch. He turned head to meet your eyes, sadness creeping into them.

“I don’t have much time left.” The finality of his statement shocked you, and you couldn’t tell what he was talking about. Did he have somewhere else to be? Oh god, you’d already kept him here too long…

“What do you mean, time left?”

“I’m dying.” It felt like somebody had punched you in the gut, all the air in your lungs gone.

“You’re…”

“Dying.” He repeated factually, and your heart sank further into your stomach. “And if we don’t… Jayce and I are working on something that might help, but if it doesn’t, I need someone I trust to take over from me.”

“Viktor, hold on, I need to think…” Your mind was racing, and you still couldn’t quite wrap your head around everything, hands running through your hair. He was dying. He wanted you to move Topside. He wanted you to work with him. To take over his life’s work. “It’s been years. I haven’t seen you in years and now you want me to… now you trust me to…”

“Of course.” He muttered, speaking your name softly to get your attention, hand gently wiping your face where tears had fallen without you noticing. “You’re everything to me, you always have been. There’s nothing I wouldn’t trust you with.” His hand was still resting on your face, and as you searched his eyes, you saw something else. Something pleading, something that echoed the feeling bouncing around in your heart. It would be hard. It would take a long time to settle in, to learn the ropes, to feel like you belonged. But it was your dream. To help change the world. And if he didn't have long, there was no chance you were wasting any of your time left with him.

“Ok.” You answered nodding, and you watched a smile take over his face, heart swelling at the sight.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… Vik, you’re offering me my dreams on a silver platter, and on top of it all, I get to be…” You nearly slipped, about to say be with you but you knew that was a lot. That you had only just reunited and to spring the whole I’ve loved you since I was 10 and I’ve never loved a soul since thing on him might ruin the dream that he’s just given you. But, fuck, you wanted to kiss him right now. “I get to work with you again.. there would have to be one hell of a catch for me to say no to that.”

“The whole dying thing isn’t too much of a problem then?” He asked with a slight smile, trying to hide a genuine fear beneath a joke.

“Oh, honey, knowing that we don’t have another decade of time to lose… I’m not letting you slip through my fingers this time.” His hand felt so natural resting against your cheek you’d forgotten it was there until it moved to cup the base of your neck, thumb drawing gentle lines across your jaw. His amber eyes were searching your features, looking for anything to indicate that you were unsure, but your resolve shone through, and you could see the moment he realised this was going to work, relief flooding through them.

Then, before you could process what was happening, his hand gently guided you forward until your lips brushed against his—light as a feather. For a moment, you couldn't believe he had just kissed you, that it was real. But as you met those pleading honey eyes, everything else faded away. Every doubt, every regret, every sliver of worry vanished, replaced by such overwhelming care and love that you felt you might burst. Your body gave in without conscious thought, melting into his arms as you kissed him. His hands drifted to the back of your head, tangling in your hair and pulling you closer. You couldn't get close enough, your hands gripping the front of his shirt. His fingers traced down your body until they reached your hips, pulling you over him. A soft giggle escaped into his mouth as you swung your leg over his, settling onto his lap. When he finally broke for breath, you found yourself chasing his lips, panting into the space between you with a wide smile.

His lips found yours again, this time with more urgency, more need. Your hands slid up his chest to his shoulders, steadying yourself as his grip on your hips tightened. The feeling of his fingers pressing into your skin sent shivers down your spine, and you couldn't help but let out a soft moan into his mouth. He smiled against your lips, one hand moving to cup your face while the other remained firmly at your waist.

"I've wanted this for so long," he whispered against your mouth, voice rough with emotion. You could only nod in response, too overwhelmed by the feeling of finally being in his arms after all these years.

The record had long since stopped playing, leaving only the sound of your shared breaths and racing hearts in the quiet apartment. His thumb traced gentle circles on your cheek as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, full of warmth and something deeper, something that had been there all along. Something that you had been too blinded by insecurity to notice earlier. Something that you knew all too well, reflected in your own heart. You pressed your lips to the mole on his cheek, and the one beside his mouth, a small smirk playing across his features as you did.

“I still can’t quite believe this is happening.” You muttered softly against his cheek, and he sighed, thumb dancing across your lips.

You eventually found yourselves entwined on your bed, limbs tangled in soft cotton sheets, his back pressed firmly against your sturdy wooden headboard as you rocked into him with gentle, deliberate movements. Each subtle shift of your hips sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body, making your breath catch. You panted softly into his mouth as his strong, careful hands helped guide your every motion, his touch both grounding and electrifying. The overwhelming need to be closer drove you to pull him tighter against you, your arms wrapping securely around his shoulders until there wasn't even a whisper of space between your bodies. Your chest pressed firmly to his, feeling his rapid heartbeat matching yours, as your head naturally found its place in the crook of his neck. You pressed feather-light kisses against the sensitive skin, tasting the salt and breathing in his familiar scent. The intimacy of the moment was almost overwhelming - so intense, so raw, so perfectly natural - and you found yourself climbing toward your peak faster than you ever had before, your body responding to his every touch as if it had been waiting for this moment forever. You whined softly into his skin as pleasure built within you, each movement bliss, and he responded with a groan as he pressed his lips tenderly to your temple.

"That feels so good, sweetheart," he drawled, his voice coarse with desire, and your hips instinctively bucked harder against him, drawing a sharp gasp from both of you. His meticulous fingers traced teasing patterns across your hipbones before finding their way between your bodies, circling your sensitive clit with perfectly measured pressure that made your toes curl. His other hand gently cupped your chin, drawing you back until your eyes met his, gilded with desire but still so full of tenderness. His lips ghosted across yours before he pressed his forehead to your own, releasing your face and returning his hand to your hip, guiding you once more. You could feel yourself fluttering around him as your pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak, and his eyes rolled back, a broken groan escaping his lips and filling the charged space between you. The coil of pleasure wound tighter and tighter as you approached your climax, desperately seeking more of him, claiming his mouth in a deep, passionate kiss that swallowed the stream of desperate moans spilling from both your lips. When your release finally crashed over you, it was like nothing you'd ever experienced - all the pressure, all the built-up desperation exploded like a supernova and pure, white-hot ecstasy consumed every nerve ending, every thought, every sensation except the feeling of him inside you and against you. He followed shortly after, gasping your name like a prayer against your skin as his own pleasure overtook him, his lips finding purchase on your neck as he shuddered through his release. In that moment, it was perfection, hearing him, feeling him, everything you had ever dreamed of and more. But as you came down from your shared bliss, you couldn't quite silence the intruding thought lurking at the edges of your consciousness - that you wouldn’t have him for long.

***

She looked so peaceful curled against him, her head nestled perfectly in the crook of his chest as if she belonged there, her beautiful red hair fanning out like a fiery halo in the dim light. Her beauty was staggering - the gentle slope of her nose, the delicate arch of her brows, the soft curve of her lips - and he couldn't help but trace each feature with his fingertips, mapping the geography of her face with tender precision. She sighed contentedly in her sleep at his touch, unconsciously pressing closer to him, one hand curling loosely in the fabric of his sheets that lay across them. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this complete, this profoundly at peace, as if all the jagged pieces of his life had suddenly aligned. His fingers continued their gentle exploration, committing every detail to memory - the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the subtle flutter of her eyelashes, the way her lips curved slightly downwards even in sleep. He wanted to capture this moment, to carry it with him always like a talisman, a protection. A reminder that he would do anything to preserve her peace of mind. To make her happy.

The soft amber from the bedside lamp caught in her hair and painted her skin in warm honey tones, making her look almost otherworldly in her beauty, an ethereal being who had chosen, inexplicably, to be with him. He pressed his lips to her forehead in a feather-light kiss, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair, before letting his own eyes drift closed. Despite everything - the illness creeping through his veins, the uncertainty that clouded their future like a torrential storm on the horizon - right now, everything felt exactly as it should be.

#viktor x f!reader #viktor x reader #viktor arcane #fanfic #fanfiction #viktor fanfic #viktor x you #viktor smut #viktor angst #viktor fluff #one shot #arcane #arcane season 1 #glorious evolution #childhood friends to lovers #ttpd #the prophecy

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wrioluvr · 8 months ago

Text

flirty playboy x mature male reader

this stupid ass meme had been on my mind forever and i realised how funny it would be to have a slutty playboy who just sleeps with anyone to seriously pine over a more mature, secure guy who doesn't fall for any of his shallow charms and tricks.... here are just some blurbs of their dynamic (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

his name is roman. he's a little toxic, but he just wants to be loved.

cw: some smut, top male reader

it all started with a little night out. you didn't do those often, due to devoting most of your time towards work and earning a stable career, but finishing this particularly gruelling assignment called for a celebration. at the bar, dancing with your friends, a good-looking man with a playful glint in his eyes approached you full of bravado. he told you how handsome you were, and had been eyeing you from across the room for a while now. but from a single glance, you could tell he was the type to break hearts. beach-blonde dyed hair, a tight fitting tank top revealing his muscular build, an eyebrow piercing, the way his mouth curled up so subtly into a little smirk.... he was everything you knew to avoid getting serious with. but a little hookup couldn't hurt, right? you deserved a little fun.

and it didn't hurt you at all. a few failed relationships had made you wise beyond your years, knowing to easily seperate the good guys from the bad. you knew your self-worth. roman, on the other hand, was absolutely smitten. no other man had fucked him THIS good, gave him such gentle aftercare, and even let him stay as long as he needed. the way you so effortlessly lifted his legs up to thrust in and out of him at a rhythmic pace, or fondling his tits and squeezing his nipples softly while you hit it from the back, or tenderly running your fingers down his spine, arching it sensually.... he loved it all. it was clear to him that you prioritised his pleasure as much as your own, and it showed in how he orgasmed several times before you even came in him once, panting breathlessly while wearing the sluttiest expression of his life. it was nothing like any of the men he had sex with before. afterwards, you let him stay the night in a guest room, and even brewed a cup of coffee for him in the morning.

roman was damn near tears when you offered to drop him off at his house before you headed off to work. if he was being honest with himself, his insecurities were the root of his constant need for sexual intimacy, so being treated with genuine kindness for once was new to him.

"is dropping you off here alright?" you ask, turning into the road of his apartment complex.

"y-yeah...." he looks out the window, unsure how to look you in the eyes.

"okay. thanks for last night. stay safe." your words carried an air of finality to them, like you were so sure the two of you would never cross paths again. he didn't like that.

"uh, uh......" he stuttered, all his usual flirtatiousness thrown out the window as he couldn't meet your gaze. "could i... get your number?"

your friendly smile froze on your face. "uhhhh.... sorry, i'm not really looking for anything serious right now."

he quickly regained his composure, charm turned up to the max. shifting his tank top so more of his chest was exposed and you could notice his nipples protruding, roman whispered in a low tone, "that's okay! we can just be casual... and fuck anytime you like." a wink. a hand on your thigh.

"jeez... okay, no offense, but i've heard rumours from my friends that you're a bit of a... playboy. i'm not interested in being your toy, sorry."

roman's face flushed in embarrassment, knowing what you said was true. except the part on him seeing you as a toy. that was untrue. he could feel a warmth growing from the pit of his stomach at the thought of spending more time with you. were these... butterflies?

maybe begging would work.

"okay fine, i am a bit of a player... but please, please, pleaseeeeeee.... let's be in contact, okay? as friends?" roman sniffled pathetically, shaking your shoulder in desperation. he needed to be in your presence. why weren't his usual maneating tactics working?!?!

"alright. here you go. just don't spam me or anything, okay? i gotta go for work. see you." you sigh, a little exasperated but choosing not to let it show. he immediately lit up, typing your number in his contacts and saving many hearts next to your name. you prayed your acts of basic human decency wouldn't cause him to catch feelings. you needed to focus on your job right now.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

3:02pm

[romanbabyxx]

hiiiiiii

[romanbabyxx]

i know you said not to spam you but like

[romanbabyxx]

i miss u

[romanbabyxx]

can we meet up at the bar for drinks or something like that? please?

3:10pm

you check the messages on your phone, rolling your eyes and ignoring them. he was probably sending this text to at least three other guys right now. he had a history of cheating, based on what you heard from your friends. you weren't going to be another one of his victims.

5:35pm

[romanbabyxx]

are u ignoring me?

[romanbabyxx]

im sorryyyyyyyy

[romanbabyxx]

pls hit me back when ur free

7.30 pm

[name]

sorry, just got off work. will be super busy this week, so not free. mb.

[romanbabyxx]

oh, its okay! next week then?

[name]

i'll see

this went on for a few weeks, you constantly evading his invitations, being polite and professional, never too intimate over text. roman was starting to get fed up. he's so used to getting everything he wants, he doesn't know what to do when he actually has to work for the one he desires. he actually hadn't hooked up with anyone since your one night stand, but you didn't believe that.

roman was at his wits' end. he could only think of one final plan to get your attention.

trying to make you jealous.

over the next week, he hooked up with any and everyone he met in the bar, not bothering to keep his slutting around discreet. he wanted you to hear the rumours. he wanted you to feel a sense of unease within your very being. he wanted you to feel possessive. he wanted you, to want him. the whole time, even as he was getting fucked, he could only imagine you caressing him, holding him close, loving him.

his deeds didn't go unnoticed. your friends told you about it, yet you didn't feel anything in the slightest. you were right, after all... he forgot about you within a week and moved on to whichever poor man he would leave high and dry next.

the next time you bumped into him at the bar, roman was his usual, party-loving self, excitedly slinging an arm around you, a drink in hand. his plan had to work, surely? you would be begging to have him back. but yet, when he offhandedly (yet so intentionally) mentioned how much dick he had been getting the past week, anticipating your change in expression, nothing happened. "oh. good for you." was all you said.

he sputtered, flustered by your calm demeanour. didn't you care? at all?! "but.... but.... aren't you jealous? that i've been hooking up with other guys?!"

you stare at him, a genuine quzzical expression plastered across your face. "why would i be? it's not like we're dating or anything. it was just a one time thing."

your words hit like a knife through his heart. he clutched his chest dramatically, a pout forming on his lips. "i'll be faithful! i promise!" his words came out more desperate than he intended. he felt so vulnerable, so naked, yet you were the face of serenity. your unimpressed eyes stared through his soul, as if you were scrutinising his very core. he knew you could heal him, make him feel loved, but he was starting to doubt there was any possibility you would feel the same.

"i'm sure that's what you said to the last guy you cheated on."

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

i intended for this to be lighthearted but why was it actually kinda depressing tbh

#male reader #dom male reader #top male reader #bottom male character #sub male character #playboy x male reader #wrioluvr: roman #i admire ppl who can just write pure smut with graphic descriptions coz i end up spiraling into a full mini plot everytime crying emoji

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mooonjin · 26 days ago

Text

Reminiscing

Notes: BLESS THE SECOND SEASDON OF ARCANE OH MY DAYS HES SO GOIREGOSUSSSSSS can u tell viktor is my fav :3

Pairing: Viktor x f!reader

Summary: Years ago you and Viktor had parted ways, and for good reason. It was no longer about science to him but evolution. But evolution is the future? So why was Viktor dwelling so much on the past?

Warnings/Tags: 16+ because its bit suggestive so shooooo - tin/machine viktor, SLIGHT submissive viktor, SLIGHT submissive reader (hopefully its pg enough), swtiching, exes, trying to get back together (oof dont do that), suggestive innuendoes, touchy feely mentions, f!reader implied but no use of feminine pronouns — tell me if I've missed anything!

Part Two >

It had been years since you last saw Viktor, yet the memory of your parting remained etched into your mind like a wound that refused to heal. You remembered the way his gaze had shifted, once warm and full of curiosity, now cold and unyielding. His obsession with the Glorious Evolution consumed him entirely, leaving little room for anything—or anyone—else in his life.

He spoke in absolutes, his words more like calculations than sentiments. You watched helplessly as the person you once knew vanished piece by piece, replaced by a man driven by a vision far beyond your grasp.

The day you walked away was devastating. You hoped, perhaps foolishly, that he might pause, might see the toll his ambition was taking on everything he once held dear. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Viktor had chosen his path and you had no choice but to choose yours.

In the years that followed, his name became a distant echo, carried to you only by the occasional whisper of rumours. Tales of the Machine Herald, a figure deemed a God, filtered through the shadows of the world. You heard of his relentless march toward perfection, but not once did he cross your path. Not once did you imagine he would.

Until tonight.

The moment you flicked on the light in your living room, your heart stopped, the air leaving your lungs in a rush.

Someone was there.

Seated in your armchair like they owned the place, their silhouette sharp against the glow of the lamp. You froze, instincts screaming at you to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there rooted in place. For a moment, they said nothing and neither did you. The stillness stretched thin.

Then, their voice cut through the tension like a blade, calm and deliberate.

“We need to talk.”

Your chest rises and falls erratically, the sound of your ragged breathing filling the heavy silence around you. He stays where he is, his presence is unnervingly calm. The dim light catches the gleam of his golden eyes. It feels alive, almost predatory, as it fixes on you.

“Are you done gasping for air?” he asks after a long moment, his voice gripped with impatience. The words slice through the room as if your panic were little more than an inconvenience.

“What the hell—who are you? Get out!” you exclaim, your voice raw and trembling with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. Your fists clench at your sides, your body tense and coiled, ready for a fight or flight you haven't yet decided on. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for something—an escape, a weapon, an explanation—anything that could make sense of the stranger sitting so calmly in your home.

The figure doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react to your outburst. Instead, he remained perfectly still.

“You know who I am,” he replies, his voice distorted by the rough mechanical overlay of the mask he wears. The silence stretches taut, heavy with tension, his lack of movement somehow more menacing than any action could be.

Then, with a faint whir and the soft ‘shing’ of metal, he shifts slightly. The purple artificial muscles in his left arm flex beneath the layers of metal, “And there’s no way I’m leaving until we’ve spoken."

He leans forward in the chair. You take a step back, your foot catching slightly on the edge of the rug, but you don’t dare look away from him. Another step, then another, the distance between them never feeling like enough.

You stumble slightly as your heel brushes against the wall, your retreat halted. You were trapped between the hard surface behind you and the immovable figure in front.

Yet he doesn’t rise. He doesn’t chase. He simply watches.

With a deliberate motion, he takes a step forward, and another, closing the space between you with ease. Panic rises in your chest, but before you can react, he’s there, leaning over you. His body is so close, trapping you between himself and the walls of your home.

“You’ve changed,” he remarks after a long pause as he regards you like an old friend. His eyes narrow slightly, taking in every detail of your appearance.

“You look… softer,” he adds, his tone flat and dismissive, as if this change in you is something that doesn’t sit right with him. You don't miss how mechanical his voice sounds.

“Who... are you?!” The words escape in a rush. Your voice shakes, betraying the fear that is starting to creep up your spine. Who is he? Why does he feel so familiar, and yet so... wrong?

There’s no trace of recognition, no warmth in the air, just cold steel and the distant hum of something supernatural beneath his skin.

His fingers graze your skin lightly before gently grasping your chin, the coldness of his touch like ice. His grip is firm but there’s an unsettling gentleness to it. He tilts your face upward, forcing you to look into his eyes.

You can feel the weight of his touch and yet, it feels like it’s not just physical. It’s invasive, as though he’s reaching inside, probing for something. Your neck feels exposed, your breath catching slightly as your body instinctively tenses.

There’s nothing soft, nothing human about his stare. It’s all too alienated, too distant. The faint hum of his prosthetic arm seems to vibrate through the air, a constant reminder that whatever—whoever—this is, it isn’t entirely human anymore.

He leans in slightly, his head tilting to one side, as if pondering the absence of recognition in your expression.

His mask doesn’t convey anything, “You really don’t recognise me?” His tone carries an edge of disbelief, as though it’s almost unthinkable that you wouldn’t. He shifts his weight slightly, but his grip doesn’t loosen, his fingers still lightly holding your chin.

“Take your mask off!” your voice firmer now, though it trembles with the intensity of your frustration. The metallic distortion of his voice only makes it worse, the mechanical overlay making everything feel distant. He’s not any person you could remember, not even close.

He raises an eyebrow at your demand, "Very well," he mutters, his voice still tinged with that mechanical rasp but there's an odd calmness in it now. He pulls it free and it’s as if a veil is lifted from the air.

What lies beneath the mask is a face you know all too well, yet so different from the last time you saw it. His features are gaunt, sharper than you remember, as if the years have carved something out of him.

His skin is pale, almost ghostly under the light. There’s no mistaking it. His eyes, though shinier, still carry a familiarity that hits you like a wave. It’s him. The man you once knew—his face, his expression, the very essence of the person he was, buried beneath the mask and the years.

For a moment, you just stare at him, speechless. He’s right in front of you now.

Real. Yet he feels like a ghost, like a shadow of the man you once knew.

"… What happened to you?"

It’s the first thing that comes to your mind and it seems to carry the weight of everything that’s changed, everything that has shifted between the two of you over the years.

You stare at him, your gaze traveling over the sharp angles of his face, the hardness in his eyes. This isn’t the person you once knew, the person you once trusted and once loved.

The question seems to amuse him, “What happened?” He echoes back to you, his voice ringing with that familiar accent of his. A humorless smile twists at the corner of his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The smile is dull, "Piltover happened," he adds, as if the mere name of the city is enough to explain everything.

"What happened," he says again as a growl now, “is that Zaun was cast aside—ignored, neglected, abandoned.”

His words hit you. Zaun. That forgotten, broken city that had always been on the edges of Piltover’s gilded perfection. The place that had been swallowed up by the ambitions and the indifference of those who held power.

The place where everything was left to rot, "So I made the city better, myself." His voice is steady, but there’s a dangerous edge to it now.

“And now Piltover is afraid.”

Before you can even react, he reaches up with a swift, practiced motion, placing one hand on the wall beside your head. His fingers splayed wide, as though he owns the very space you’re standing in.

“And you?” he asks, his voice dropping even lower, laced with taunting amusement. The question hangs in the air, thick with challenge, daring you to respond. “Are you afraid of me?”

It’s a question loaded with intent, the kind of question that isn’t meant to be answered, but to make you feel small. However there’s something else in his voice, something... hungry. His words aren’t just a challenge, they’re a test, a way for him to gauge whether or not you see the change in him.

There’s a part of you that wants to deny it, to pretend he’s still the person you once knew, but the truth is right in front of you. This is not the same Viktor.

“You’re not a person,” you’re not sure if he can hear the quiet desperation in your voice as you speak. But as his gaze locks with yours, the chilling look in his eyes seems to confirm what you fear most. Whatever humanity once existed in him is long gone, replaced by something far more dangerous.

He’s not a person. Not anymore.

“That’s the first thing you’ve said that isn’t obvious,” he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain, “I’m as human as you, if not more so,” he rasps, his words cutting through the space between you with confidence.

There’s a hum in his voice, a certain finality in his tone. “I still have a soul—a heart. One that beats just for you.”

His claim is so absurd, so twisted. A heart that beats just for you? He sounds like he believes it, like he truly believes that his obsession, his transformation, was somehow a sacrifice made for you.

His hand on your chin tightens and you can’t help but flinch. Here he is, speaking of love and devotion as if those words still carry any meaning. As if you’re supposed to believe him.

“No, we parted years ago.” The statement feels heavier than you expected. His expression flickers, ever so slightly, the faintest crack in his demeanor. The bitter smirk that had curled his lips falters for just a second before settling back into place.

“We did,” he says, a blend of mockery and intimacy. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. The corner of his lips quirks into a sly, humorless smirk. “I always parted you… in bed, that is.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as if holding back the sharp retort you wanted to hurl at him.

He laughs again, this time his chuckle is dark and deep, “You remember that, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous hiss. “You remember how I used to make you scream,” he says, the statement suggestive as it sounded.

His smile widened, the curve of his lips taking on an unsettling mix of nostalgia, “I’d drop to my knees for you,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth. “Anytime, anywhere… begging you to touch me, just where I needed you most.” His eyes burned into yours.

His hand finally released your chin, the absence of his grip almost startling. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers trailed down your neck in a slow motion, the touch lingering just enough to make your skin prickle. When his hand slid around your waist, the shift in contact was seamless.

“You didn’t just take my heart when you left me,” he continued, his voice softening into a purr that sent a shiver down your spine. “You broke it.” Viktor whispered. His lips quirked upward again, but this time, the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“You know why we split,” you say, your eyes narrowing as you force yourself to meet his gaze, despite the suffocating proximity.

"Always in the lab,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly, but the growl lingers beneath the surface, ready to rise again. “Late into the night, always trying to find a new way to reach the Glorious Evolution.” His lips curl into a faint, humorless smirk, as though mocking himself as much as the memory of his relentless drive. “Always chasing perfection… and always losing sight of everything else.”

His fingers continue their slow, deliberate path down your body. His hand finally reaches the edge of your shirt, pausing there for the briefest of moments before grabbing it and lifting it slowly.

The fabric drags against your skin, exposing your chest inch by inch. His gaze flickers down, and a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

“You really are soft now,” he murmurs, "so soft."

You grimaced, "Stop it."

“Why?” He asks, his fingers moving even further down, sliding over the top of your thighs. “You don’t like it when I touch you?”

You instinctively swat his metal hand away but the moment your hand meets the hard, surface of his prosthetic, a sharp jolt of pain runs up your arm. You winced in result.

He grabs your wrist in a sudden, forceful motion, his fingers tightening with a painful grip, “Don’t do that.” He says, a warning tone in his voice. “Don’t swat at me like I’m some filthy little pest, when you used to kiss my hands like I was your god.”

"You're no God." You try to pull your wrist free, but his grip doesn’t budge.

“I’ve never stopped wanting you.” He says, leaning down to bury his face in the side of your neck. Viktor lets go of your wrists and instead pushes himself between your legs, pinning you to the wall with his body.

“I thought of you when I was supposed to sleep.” He purrs, his voice soft and rough in your ear. “I thought of you when I woke up.”

Then, with a deliberate movement, his body shifts closer, and you can feel the undeniable pressure of him grinding against you, pushing you harder into the wall. “I thought of you when I was desperate.”

Viktor's lips are close to your ear, his breath warm and unsteady as he speaks again, this time with a cruel twist. "You don’t even know, do you? How much I’ve ached for you." His words hang in the air.

“I thought of the way you looked back then.” He says, one of his hands trailing back down, grabbing your thigh and wrapping it around his waist. “When I still had you…”

He presses close to you, his hips pushed firmly against yours and his body close enough that you can feel the heat from his body against your skin. “How your skin used to taste…..”

“...You need to leave, Viktor.” You murmur. He leans in just a fraction closer, his lips curling into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s no amusement there.

“Oh, I’ll go.” He says, his lips tracing a path over your neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses over your skin.

“But not until we’ve caught up.” He lets go of your hair, one hand grabbing your thigh to keep your leg wrapped around his hip, while the other goes to your shirt, grabbing hold of the material once more.

“Maybe we should start with a little… reminiscing.”

Post Notes: lol i want to make another part but wioth smut oopsise!!!!!!!!!!!! viktor is eating my brain rn

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my taglist form!

#viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor lol #mooonjin #arcane #arcane viktor #the machine herald #viktor machine herald #viktor m #machine herald #arcane act 3 #arcane s2 #arcane spoilers????#arcane season 2 #viktor season 2 #viktor x you #ENJOY PLS :DDDDDD #viktor imagine

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occamstfs · 2 months ago

Text

What You Really Want

Milo mouths off about a man dating his long time crush before immediately learning the lesson that he should be less trusting of strange voices promising to fulfill his desires

Pretty standard straight to gay himbo/jockification! It will also be my final story for some time I believe, so I do hope you enjoy! -Occam

“It’s no fair that they literally have it all.” Like many a ‘nice guy’ Milo has spent an inordinate amount of time skulking social media and disparaging more physically gifted men as he stumbles across them. The root of his despair is not difficult to ascertain, his eyes burning with envy make quite clear the inner monologue of ‘girls always date assholes.’ He sneers as he comes across the most recent post of his friend and crush, Juliet. The jealous man of course knows next to nothing about the character of James, the jock-type now dating her, but judging by the gleaming smirk and the bulky arms of a killer hanging from his shoulders, the judgemental dweeb has more than enough evidence to speculate.

Delving into his memories, Milo’s face burns with embarrassment as he recalls mentioning his crush to Juliet, ‘Oh!’ her bright eyes shift uncomfortably and her cheeks begin to blush enough to match the pink tint she threw on this morning. Milo’s fist clenches as she almost giggles in her discomfort, ‘sorry Milo I guess- Well, I guess I just thought you were gay?’ After this Milo played it cool, he thinks. Hand scratching the back of his head as he asserts his straight identity and the two go on to have a meal far more quiet and awkward than usual. When new-boyfriend James comes to pick up Juliet, Milo forces a smile before staring daggers at his back as the pair walk away.

This brings us to the present hate scrolling session in which Milo is more than absorbed. Lips curl into a sneer as he traces the impossible to ignore curves of this must-be dullard’s defined body. Milo scoffs as he sees the litany of women that must make up the man’s dating history. “Bet they won’t even last a week, ha! I mean judging by how much the douche spends in the gym I bet he’s just using her as a beard anyway.”

With this final rather homophobic assertion, the nerd’s phone flashes before going dark, “What the-” before he has to determine whatever caused this, he goes stiff as a strange voice resounds through his head. ‘Tired of all the big boys getting what they want, hmm?’ Immediately concerned he’s lost his mind, Milo gets to powering back on his phone to call for help. ‘Now now, Milo. Do not worry your little head. I am here to help. Would you not like the chance to be just like them?’ Just like them. Envy burns through his veins greater than anything. Sensing this immediately, whatever this voice is seizes upon his clearly fragile psyche, its laughter steely and alien, ‘Ah ha ha. I thought so.’

Dropping his phone once more, Milo tries to drill the voice, “Wh- what are you exactly. Are you a dem- hm, an angel?” The voice answers almost before he even finishes the thought, ‘It matters not what I am. All that matters are your desires. Now. Do you wish to be all you desire, all this James embodies? All that he is in your head.” Miles gulps and almost starts drooling at the idea, just like James. Women at his fingertips whenever he wants, a body sculpted by the gods while keeping a far better mind than that oaf could ever afford. With next to no hesitation or forethought, Milo nods and the world goes dark.

When he awakens the poorly mannered man finds it’s the next day. His phone rests in his hand and when opened he finds it zoomed in on a picture of James’ meaty bicep. Milo rolls his eyes and tosses his phone aside before going to stand. Making it halfway up he grunts in pain as he only then discovers morning wood more pressing and turgid than he’s ever encountered. Falling back down he clutches at the pain in his crotch from his cock being forcibly yanked by his underwear. Hands now grasping it he gasps as he finds it filling them far more than it has any right to.

Well now, while they’re already down there he might as well have some fun right? After briefly struggling to get his waistband over his swollen package his mouth falls open in shock as he’s finally able to appraise the almost unrecognizable cock hanging from his crotch. It’s like none he’s seen before, not that he generally observes dicks of course. Far more impressive than he imagined a dick could be. His fingertips can scarcely meet his palm when he tries to grasp it, and as he begins rubbing it it feels leagues more sensitive than it has before now, as if nerve endings are multiplying. Looking to his awaiting phone he sees the photo of James and what’s her name as he begins masturbating outright.

Seeing a bulge in James’ strained pants he grunts as he returns to stare at his own suddenly substantial cock. More like him. The already thicker rod strains as he reflexively humps into his hand, forcing his grip wider as it expands to simply need more room. The new veins painting the length of his nascent ten inch dick surge higher up its length as he swears he can see them pulse and bulge with each racing heartbeat. Beneath his thrusting hands, bouncing as his hips continue to forcefully thrust with more strength than he has, his balls similarly grow heavier, larger as they send hormones flowing through him enough to metamorphosize and, more immediately, cause pre to stream and coat his fingers.

Milo leans his head back as he is bursting with a need for release greater than he can understand. He shifts his jaw as it twinges with the pleasure of growth, widening and strengthening into one fit for titan. Below his newly defined chin, his neck thickens and moans grow deeper as an Adam's apple bulges out of his throat. Hearing his voice echo deeper throughout his bedroom, his heady pleasure comes to a head as he is struck with the bizarre urge to lick the pre off his fingers. Before he’s able to acquire or express shock and disgust, his eyes blast open and he is again staring at the image of James, more like- and he blows his load.

The moment of release may as well have shut him down once more, pleasure overloads him like a flashbang as every inch of his body feels at once. Drool drips from his plumper lips as his mind is fried and his hips continue to thrust without any input or awareness, sending stains across his wall and splattering into his darker hair as it begins to pull shorter and tint darker. Eyebrows thicken and cover more of his forehead as his brow hangs lower over his eyes staining brown and growing duller.

His whole form tenses as he finally achieves release, staring at the image of his, uh, competition. Arms flex as his hands crack wider, fingers stretch longer, skin grows rougher. For the first time in his life definition appears on his arms, biceps and triceps compete for which can increase faster, which can catch more eyes, which can rival those alluring arms of James. Beneath shoulders packing on weight are pits that darken with curls now thicker, a deeper brown nearing black as the forest strives to prevent any light from breaking the canopy. Similarly they moisten with the masculine heady musk that they are perfectly designed to disseminate, powerful enough to allure any twink towards his dick, or uh, huh.

Milo moans as this seemingly intrusive thought makes itself at home in his morphing psyche. Barely returning to sentience enough to realize the stray gay thought, he arches his back and stretches as if he were waking up. Mindlessly he wipes the cum staining his larger hands on the new dark treasure trail as it itches and slowly inches up from pubes unshaved. Feeling the hint of an Adonis belt he sits up with a shock, the feeling of something he has long envied bringing back his awareness.

Despite the obvious differences it takes far too long for him to be aware of, to truly notice what has become of him. He struggles to make sense of the effort it takes to move his new larger limbs. He grabs at his new hair and sucks drool through his teeth as he tries to understand how it’s changed texture and color so totally, did he dye it and forget or what? The gears in his mind slowly turn as his fingers move to scratch an itch under his arms, struggling through the dank jungle of curls. Thoughtlessly he brings his sweat-wet fingers to his nose and grimaces. “Fuck man, I smell like an, uh, like a, unnh-” he moans quietly as he’s unable to even finish the sentence, instead an image of James forces its way to the front of his mind and two now-malnourished brain cells spark together and strain to form a thought.

“Oh fuck I’m turning into a imbe-, an uh imbekle? Ugh, an uh- a dumb jock.” Milo bites his lips and flexes an arm to try and assuage his nerves, to get his attention focused on anything but his anxieties. Fortunately to this end, seeing his bulging biceps he feels his larger cock begin to stir. Some semblance of rationality knows ceding to his wanting package is probably what led to this encroaching fog over his mind. His skin begins to prickle as all-around it grows more sensitive. Beyond these skin deep sensations it also seems as if darker hairs are beginning to spread out wherever his follicles will allow.

Seeing hair beginning to prickle his chest and blanket his legs his mind produces images of hairy men he has leered at through the years. His neck twitches as whatever dregs of the pathetic skirtchaser he once was rise up and try to combat his new predilections. He’s straight, he’s always been straight. Right? His mouth goes dry as he tries to remember ever having dated a woman in the past. Barring that, only just able to recall that something is happening to him, only just able to remember that he is transforming into some alien self, Milo tries to produce an image of what he used to look like. And he cannot.

His mouth falls open as it often does whenever he struggles to produce a thought, making it almost his default state. Mouth-breathing mouth ajar he fully experiences the thick air of his bedroom as it fills with his new musk. The room around him begins to dissolve and reform into surroundings that reinforce who he is now, that prove this is who he has always been. Clean pressed laundry dirty and shift into unwashed gym clothes that help cloud the room with his stink. Posters of whatever movies and video games he enjoys corrupt into images celebrating the impressive male form, all distinctly stained from the years of hanging on Milo’s bedroom walls. He hears clanking outside of his bedroom as bookshelves collapse and reform into weights heavier than he would be able to lift.

Milo stumbles to his larger feet and ignores the hefty weight of his balls and cock bobbing in the air as he drags himself out of his bedroom to find a mirror. He leaves sweaty footprints larger than any shoes he owns on the tile of the bathroom as he bumbles in. Leaning over the sink his lips quiver as he sees a razor clogged with hair darker than he feels he should have. Sooner than the doubts arrive they vacate as a thick, stubbled beard rapidly bursts onto his face. Looking up he smirks as he sees a thick mustache surges over his upper lip, looking just like the ones he appreciates, just like he has always been into. His eye twitches and he grunts as his hair retracts once more into something far more intentional and stylish. At the same time pecs suddenly bulge larger and hang lower as Milo leans heavier over the bathroom sink.

His eyes glaze over as complex thoughts once more become too elusive in the face of his rising lusts. Muscles bulge larger as his back and legs creak, stretching him taller as thighs and shoulders widen and continue putting on mass. Feet spread like fins on the floor as his hands widen and sweatily slide on the ceramic sink. His mouth continues to water as he inspects all these increasingly masculine changes and his cock continues to throb. Milo bites his lip as new sensations arise from his cock once more, this time the change is apparent as his foreskin regrows, making his cock look even thicker as its head grows hooded and he struggles not to immediately break into masturbation at the powerful image of his own seductive form.

Milo’s barely functioning mind struggles to argue for any reason to not just return to the immeasurable delights of gratifying his all-encompassing urges. He stays his hands for a moment before the greatest horror yet rears its head. A monologue begins in his mind that is not his own, that cannot be his own. Dull laughter echoes through his increasingly vacant mind as a voice even slower and deeper than that which sounds from his new vocal chords, “Yooo broo come onnnnn. Give up, give in. This is what you wanted, ‘s what we wanted huhuhuh.”

He feels a pressure in his balls as they almost churn with the otherworldly need that seemingly always flows through him. He can’t help but imagine the men he’s going to bed with his new endowment, how many cocks he’s going to take in his new powerful ass. Drool trickles from his lips through the dense black stubble that coats his face denser with each second, with each breath. Spit continues down the length of his more defined face before dripping onto weighty, similarly furred pecs. His heavier hands slowly creep towards the hardening cock standing tall and long from the jungle of pubes. Before he’s able to assist his thrusting hips however, his lusty haze is interrupted by his phone chiming. His mind immediately thinks it must be James which fills him with conflicting emotions of rage and giddiness. “Ohh bro maybe he’s inviting us over. It’s been toooo long since we fucked huhuh-”

Milo pointedly tries to ignore his hairier, bulkier reflection as he stumbles out of the bathroom to check his phone. Unfortunately he catches a glimpse which makes it all the more difficult to ignore the throbbing weight dripping, almost pouring, pre onto the floor. Despite it all he stands strong, quieting this other voice as it urgently tries to convince him to give in before he’s able to pick up his phone. In a final act of resistance, or perhaps impotence, he has the lofty idea of calling for help before his mind goes completely blank and, seeing the notification, he instinctually goes to his messages to find who texted him. It’s Juliet!

First his heart flutters before he’s absolutely confused at the sensation. She’s just his bestie? Weird. He shakes off whatever that was and gets on to reading the message, “heyy girlie- which of these do you want me to post? Oh ya and lmao, are you and james cool if I do the last one?” At the mention of James his pulse again races and there are butterflies in his stomach far more powerful than whatever bizarre feelings he had but moments ago. No time to dwell, Milo starts swiping through the images sent. They’re a photoset of their little group outing to a halloween party last week, the trio, Milo, James and Jules dressed up as a group, as X-men! Respectively dressed as Wolverine, Cyclops and Jean Grey.

He smirks as he starts chubbing up again thinking of how easily he was able to pass as the hairy beast. His eyes then return to see James’ bubble butt in trademark spandex, which only makes it harder to not lose control then and there, moaning as he imagines playing with that ass. Holding to whatever well of willpower remains within him Milo holds strong and keeps his hands above waist level. Finally he gets to the specific image Juliet mentioned, one of him and James messily making out on the dance floor. James yanks at the hairy Milo’s hair, visor half hanging off as Milo reciprocates by shoving his hand into James’ pants. Fuck that’s hot.

Without even touching his needy cock, without any pleading from the new voice in his head, without a single chance to hold back. Simply from seeing the steamy image of him and James, Milo’s mind is overrun with memories and desires of the new man he is. The man he ever was and always will be. And for the second time today, but not the last, he loses control. Cum splatters against his phone as his mind goes blank anew with rushing pleasure. Painting himself once more with his most-used utensil he laughs dumbly as he realizes how swiftly he just came. Almost with pathetic haste, though now he’s quite unfamiliar with any sense of shame. The voice that only just wormed its way into his head spills from his mouth as it fully and forevermore wrests control as the true Milo.

“Huhuhuh guess I should work on my hair trigger,” He grunts as he looks at his phone and texts back some variation of ‘girl that’s porn you can’t post that!!!’ he turns his mind where it goes more often than anywhere in his new life. He wonders what James is doing and immediately texts him. Waiting for a reply Milo heads off to the gym to get a pump in before presumably going to meet him, not worrying about cleaning up or covering his scent. The gym’s for smelling like a man right? He certainly wouldn’t mind if everyone else followed his lead huhuh. Milo bites his lip trying to ignore his hardening cock as he makes his way out of the apartment clad in too-tight, stained gym clothes.

Before he even makes it out the complex he gets a text from James and promptly changes course. Immediately Milo’s racing down the street to his lover’s apartment. Cock already snaking down his shorts and creating a stain at its nadir, Milo hopes he can keep his needy cock at bay until he makes it. Thinking of the alternative work out he’s to enjoy in bed with James, Milo struggles to not moan obscenely as he waddles as quickly as he can into the lobby of James’ building. Heart racing with excitement he can’t wait to see James in person. Jittery with nerves, it feels like he’s going to meet the man for the first time. Hah! Milo promptly ignores the idea and starts to get some stretching in before their session. Trying to practice mindfulness with a mind thicker than mud he quickly finds himself possessed with memories of their countless times fucking in the past. Easy enough as the pair have been doing so for years. Still nerves assail him as his cock continues to strain his shorts. As the elevator doors click open he smirks as he was able to make it this far without blowing his third load of the day. His cock throbs with anticipation for its release soon to come, and impatiently awaits each and every similar session to follow.

#male tf #mental change #straight to gay #male transformation #hair growth #muscle tf #jockification #dumber #reality change

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