#may have accidentally stayed up all night once again due to getting into a groove

[tenojan-in-tevinter]

Another art! Was on a roll so I decided to finally draw my Tav :) idk how I feel about the style that happened it's different from what I normally do but we'll see. The coloring was my favorite part

[vampiregirl1797]

When You Need to Escape to Your Happy Place

Spencer Reid x Reader

GIF Not Mine.

Click Here For Masterlist.

Word Count: 2,621

Warnings: talk of a toxic relationship, but otherwise SO MUCH FLUFF.

Summary: A fight with your father leads to you seeking out Spencer’s calming presence.

‘Can I come over?’ I said, speaking quietly in an attempt to keep my voice from cracking due to all the tears I’d shed in the past hour.

‘Of course you can.’ Spencer’s voice was soft, but I could hear the concern in his tone— he knew me well enough to know that a call past 11pm followed by me asking to come over meant one of two things: I was drunk, or I’d had a fight with my dad again and I needed to get out of the house. In this case, it was the latter.

‘Great, I’ll be up in a few minutes.’ I murmured, hanging up the phone and wiping the moisture from my cheeks with the sleeve of the oversized hoodie I was wearing.

Spence had become my safe place, somewhere I could escape and feel content and free. My dad and I didn’t get along, and honestly it had been that way for as long as I could remember. I’d given up hope that we ever would, but that revelation didn’t help when I was still living at home and was faced with his presence more often than not. The relationship was complicated, but honestly I couldn’t wait for the day I could afford to move out and never have to live through forced conversations again. The thing with my dad was... he was a bully. An emotionally manipulative bully. Maybe it was harsh, and a few years ago I would have felt awful for even thinking it, never mind saying it aloud, but it was the truth. Our opinions differed, and when they did he would scream at me and tell me I was childish for not respecting his opinion, when in actuality I had no problem respecting that his views were different from mine. What I did have an issue with was him being blatantly ignorant to the information I tried to bring to his attention, especially if that would lead to him questioning his own opinions. 

Aside from that, he also didn’t respect my personal space, or my right to have control over my own body. I’ve never been close with my dad, perhaps due to our differing personalities, but either way I’ve never felt comfortable around him. Whenever he’s in a room, I’m hyper aware of his presence, unable to completely relax. If he’s on the same sofa, I’m focused on making sure he stays out of my space, the prospect of him accidentally touching me putting me on edge. I’m less chatty, partly because I know he most likely won’t respond to anything I say to him anyway, but also because I minimise my talking to avoid saying something that may lead to an argument. Occasionally, he’d demand a hug, or some form of affection. He wouldn’t ask, he would demand: ‘give me a cuddle’ or ‘give me a hug.’ Now for me, this would be equivalent to a stranger walking up to me and demanding physical affection like I owe it to them. When I say no, he pulls his face and makes snide comments intended to make me feel guilty or to earn my mum’s attention to get her in on the guilt trip too. I don’t understand how he thinks I’d feel comfortable enough around him to casually give him a hug, especially since we’ve never been close, and we don’t get along. It’s as if he feels he’s owed affection from me because I’m his daughter, and that’s not the case. 

Due to our distant relationship in close living quarters, I was unable to act like I wasn’t uncomfortable around him, it was apparent in my tone whenever he spoke to me and I answered him, it was obvious in my behaviour whenever he ‘told’ me to do something (he never asked) and as a result, we argued a lot over my “attitude” towards him. And believe me, I’d beaten myself up over my tone when I speak to him more than a hundred times, and I’ve actively tried not to do it, but it’s instinctive and because I simply cannot pretend to be something I’m not. I just can’t do it. 

This was why we’d argued tonight. He’d told me to clean the living-room, I’d put some Ariana Grande on over the Alexa, he’d yelled at me for putting it on too loudly because of the dog, I’d pointed out that mum had it the same volume whenever she cleaned the house and it was never a problem then. I’d tried turning it down but I couldn’t hear it loudly enough to get into the proper groove of cleaning, I’d stormed to my room to grab my headphones, he’d lectured me and told me my attitude stinks and ordered me out of his sight. So after throwing on some sweats and an oversized hoodie I’d stolen from Spencer a few weeks prior, I’d left. I ended up driving around for a while and when I stopped I found myself in front of Spencer’s apartment building. 

‘Hey honey,’ Spence greeted after he’d opened the door. He waited until I’d stepped inside before he asked the question that made my already brittle defences crumble, ‘are you okay?’

Just like that, the tears returned and I found myself instinctually nuzzling into his chest as his arms wrapped around me. I loved being in Spencer’s arms, he was so tall that being hugged by him was guaranteed to make me feel safe and content as I was surrounded by his scent and warmth. I don’t know how long he held me for, but by the time my sobs had subsided, my throat felt raw and my head hurt from all the tears I’d shed. When I pulled back, his usually cinnamon eyes were dark with concern, but he didn’t speak, knowing by now that if I wanted to share then I would in my own time. Instead, he took my hand and led me over to his sofa, and when I saw the blankets and two cups of still steaming hot chocolate he must have prepared for my arrival, I nearly broke down in tears again. He was such an amazing, kind, considerate man and honestly I’d been in love with him from the moment we met six months ago. I’d wanted to tell him, but the timing never seemed right, with him getting called away at a moments notice because of his job, and also because I was a chicken who was afraid of him rejecting me, and then me losing him altogether. 

‘I’ve bought all of your favourite movies on Prime,’ he murmured, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and allowing me to snuggle into his side, ‘what do you feel like watching?’

‘Hmm... I would love to watch Moana, but I’m intruding on you so—.’ I never got to finish as he shushed me and played the movie I’d requested. 

A small but genuine smile broke out on my face and I rested my head on his chest to hide it, knowing he’d want to know the reason for the goofy expression on my face. The truth was, whenever Spencer took care of me, or did something for the simple reason that it would make me happy... it made me all warm and gooey inside. And that happiness, that warmth, often found a way to make itself known, whether it was through a blush or a goofy grin. Either way, I always attempted to hide my reaction from Spencer, afraid he would want to know the reasoning behind it. 

I felt my eyes flutter closed as Spence settled a grey fluffy blanket around the both of us; the comforting warmth and the smell of him was enough to relax me down to my bones, and to allow the emotionally taxing day to catch up with me. The last thing I remembered was hearing Spence humming along to “You’re Welcome” as Mowi sang to Moana. 

//

Waking up was disorientating when I found myself in a bed that wasn’t my own and surrounded by furniture that certainly didn’t belong in my bedroom. But then Spence’s arms tightened around my waist and I figured out where I was, relaxing again immediately. I turned to face him, my arm wrapping around his middle and my leg settling over his hip as I got as close as physically possible. A contented noise fell from my throat as I inhaled the scent of him: he smelled like citrus from his shampoo, faintly woodsy from his cologne and like soap from his fabric softener. It was heaven and I swear if I could somehow bottle it up, I’d never leave the house without it. 

I didn’t realise that Spence was already awake as I rearranged myself around him, but he didn’t mind, in fact he was delighted at her willingness to snuggle back up to him once she’d remembered where she was. He’d felt her stiffen when she’d woken up, which was why he’d pulled her closer a subtle way of reminding her of his presence. Now here he was, fully rested, more comfortable than he’d ever been and able to observe Y/N’s beauty closer than he ever had without her catching him staring. If he believed in such a thing, he’d swear he’d woken up in heaven.

Despite how comfortable I was, I couldn’t fall back asleep. So after I took a few moments to appreciate the tranquility of the moment, because honestly, I’d never felt this content in well, ever, I reluctantly shuffled out of bed, careful not to wake the sleeping genius. I shrugged off the hoodie I was still wearing, leaving myself in a tank top as I made my way to his kitchen, deciding to make him his favourite breakfast as a thank you for looking after me last night. I was familiar enough that pulling out the necessary appliances to make him some chocolate chip pancakes didn’t take me long, and pretty soon I was pouring his coffee and adding the obscene amount of sugar. Once that was done I was about to yell for him, but he surprised me by wrapping his arms around my waist. I squealed and almost dropped my cup of coffee, but I couldn’t deny how good it felt to have him holding me again. If he wasn’t careful, I was going to get addicted. 

‘Good morning.’ He murmured against my shoulder. I shivered at the feel of his warm breath against my skin and the sound of his voice husky with sleep. God, how was it possible for me to be so attracted to him? 

I cleared my throat before I answered with a, ‘good morning. I made you breakfast.’ 

‘You didn’t have to do that, but thank you. I love your pancakes,’ He smiled brightly as I turned to hand him his plate. He seemed reluctant to release his hold on me, much to my delight, but he did and he made his way over to the breakfast bar to eat. 

I slid into the stool next to him and we ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, both enjoying the food and waiting for the caffeine to kick in to allow us to wake up properly. After a while, I decided to share with him my reason for needing him last night, he deserved it and honestly, there was no one easier to open up to than Spencer.

‘Thank you for looking after me last night, Spence.’ I murmured, his warm cinnamon eyes were soft with understanding and another emotion that evaded me, ‘I got into a fight with my dad again, about something stupid as always, but the result was the same.’

‘I’m sorry, honey.’ He murmured, his hand enveloping my free one, the warmth from his touch radiating throughout my body, ‘you know, if you wanted, you could always move in here.’

I blinked at him, surprised at his offer, I knew how much he appreciated his space and I couldn’t believe he was offering me the opportunity to invade it, ‘Spence that’s really sweet of you to offer, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it but I can’t afford to pay rent. That’s one of the reasons I’m still at home, it’s one less expense when I start at university.’

‘You wouldn’t have to pay rent,’ he assured me, continuing before I could protest, ‘think of it as helping me out, okay? I’m gone on cases more often than not, sometimes the apartment can be empty for days at a time. If you’re here, you can look after the place for me, keep food in the fridge, and make me feel more secure knowing that someone is watching over everything. Think of that instead of rent, okay?’

I took a deep breath and thought it through instead of immediately dismissing the idea, like my instincts were telling me to— I didn’t want to take advantage of him. It would be nice to get out of my parents house, to find myself in a warm environment absent of my father’s toxic presence. Plus, living with Spencer would be like a dream come true— one I’d admittedly had a few times— but what if I got too lost in my own feelings and it ruined everything? But he would be on cases more often than not, so that limited the time I could potentially jeopardise our friendship. But I feel like I would be taking advantage of his generosity— living here rent free, only having to keep the place tidy and the fridge stocked, was that a fair exchange?

‘Just know that I wouldn’t be offering if I wasn’t completely happy and comfortable with my proposal.’ His soft voice broke me out of my thoughts, and I felt a sheepish smile on my face as I processed his words. He never failed to amaze me at how in tune he was with my thoughts.

‘Honestly, Spence, it sounds perfect, but I just worry that it’s not a fair exchange for you.’ I bit my lip, worried he’d realise I was right and take the offer off the table.

‘It would be, Y/N.’ His eyes softened to chocolate and shone with nothing but reassurance, ‘Honestly, more than the cleaning and grocery shopping, it would be nice to have someone here. I feel so alone when I return from a case that more often than not I’m eager to go back to escape the emptiness of my apartment. But if you’re here, it won’t feel so cold, it’ll be warm and welcoming.’

I swear to god my heart melted to a puddle of blood and goo in my chest from his words. The sincerity in his eyes told me he meant it, and what kind of heartless monster would I be to argue with him after that admission?

‘I’d love to move in with you, Spence.’ I whispered.

His smile lit up his entire face, his cinnamon eyes glittering with happiness as he wrapped me in a tight hug. I was powerless to resist his excitement and a delighted chuckle fell from my lips as he stood and span me around in a circle. A part of me couldn’t believe that this was happening, that I was finally going to be able to escape the prison I was starting to think I’d be trapped in forever, to move in with the only man I felt truly comfortable around. But one thing was for sure, in that moment, I was happier than I’d ever been in my entire life, and I knew that as long as Spencer was in my life, I’d never feel any different.

A/N: I know, I know all I’m writing is Spencer Reid imagines lately, but I can’t stop!! I hope you liked this one, even there was no declarations of love like in my previous Spencer one-shots, I kinda love how this turned out. 

[differentworlds-fiction]

30

HILL

A pair of slender lips greeted me, followed by a meek ‘good morning’.

Amid a plethora of pointless decorative pillows propped up against the cream tufted headboard, Tarin sat upright with her legs crossed, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Barefaced and all, her beauty never radiated more than it did at this very present moment. Much to her chagrin, she apologized for her current appearance. She reached upwards and pulled off the colorful paisley headscarf, allowing those loose ringlets of hers to fall past the nape of her neck. Amusement flickered in her eyes reminiscent of the hue of rum.

Her nose scrunched up at its narrow bridge.

“Did I wake you?”

“Mhm, but I needed to get up anyway.” she yawned and stretched. The strap to her thin camisole grooved down her skin, no hint of a bra in sight.

She fixed her mouth to speak, but sucked her teeth instead and grabbed a hold of the loose strap. “Hill, it’s way too early for you to be a fuckin’ perv.”

“It’s,” I pulled away from the phone, “Seven minutes to eight over here, which means that it’s almost eleven in New York.  I thought you’d be leaving the office for lunch at this time. Yesterday must’ve been awful.”

“You don’t even know the half. Yesterday was a day from Hell. Truly.”

“Did that nail polish launch thing go over well?” I queried.

“It went over well -- so well that the guests didn’t want to leave. Randoms started poppin’ in from off the street wanting to see what the hype was about, which conflicted with the schedule. The launch was initially scheduled from one to four o’clock p.m. That time was specifically stated in the mass email sent to all the social media influencers invited. Could you believe the party didn’t end until eight o’clock? I wouldn’t have cared about her having to pay for the allotted time if I wasn’t expected to stay there longer than I should’ve. My grandmother ended up having to pick my kid up from day camp and keep her overnight, all because that washed up reality star with bad injectables wanted me to stay there and ‘man down the entire operation’.”

“And where was Cara when all this was happening?”

“Getting her nails done. She might’ve helped put out the supply of polishes for the nail technicians, but that was it.” She huffed. “On top of that, she left halfway through the event. Like, who does that? Mind you, putting together this event was joint. We were splitting the commission percentage right down the middle!” Her anger could easily be detected through the video chat application. Her eyebrows knitted together; deep ridges emerging across her forehead. “I had to check the inventory and I had to make sure there was more than enough wine for everyone coming in, on top of that.” An aggravated sigh escaped her. “I know it doesn’t sound all that hard to handle, but when you have to deal with middle-aged trophy wives who’re under the notion that they’re always right and you’re in the wrong, then it becomes pretty difficult. Something like this wouldn’t have such a negative effect on me. I would’ve let this shit roll off my shoulders under any other circumstance. I think my lack of sleep had something to do with it. I, uh, I had this weird dream that kept me up most of the night before. I had a dream, about my daughter’s father.”

My back relaxed against the car’s plush interior after turning off the car’s engine. Beads of sweat still coated my body; my heart still racing after the routinely morning run.

“I had a feeling he was coming to see me. Most times -- whenever I dream of him, it’s never expected. But this time was different. It felt different. It was weird. I just knew he was coming.  But, it wasn’t like my other dreams. In my other dreams, we meet on Fulton street. For some odd reason, I dreamt about the night he was killed.” She murmured, her voice deadpan; Tarin’s eyes, though wearisome, harbored an ample amount of emotion that I couldn’t seem to distinguish. “It was still summer. He was wearing these baggy jean shorts. He walked me home that night wearing the same shorts. It was so hot out that night,” she reminisced, “like, unbearably hot, Hill. Blackout hot. Still sweatin’ in the shade hot --”

“I get it, Tarin.”

“ We’d spent most of the day together so it was definitely time to part ways. I wasn’t feeling all too well that day, to begin with. I’d been nauseous on and off for over a week.”

“You were pregnant by then, weren’t you?” I asked in an attempt to piece these significant occurrences in chronological order.

“Sure was. I thought my poor eating choices were to blame. You should’ve seen me that summer. I ate a bunch of shit I had no business eating. Greasy Chinese food, chopped cheeses from the deli -- you name it, I ate it, and then some!” Tarin laughed. “Um. Where were we before I got sidetracked? I forgot.”

“Your dream, baby. Your dream.” I laughed myself at her recent spell of absent-mindedness. Often she mentioned she fell victim to losing her train of thought whenever she was dwelling on something greatly significant.

She let out a timid giggle and quickly reined it in with a low ‘oh’. “It was as if it were any other night and I was sneaking back out the house. My grandmother was sleeping and my mother was probably working back to back shifts. So, I left out the back door to my grandmother’s house, hopped the fence and met Richie up the block. Our meetup spot was always in front of this beige paneled house with a rusted iron gate. He was there waiting for me. I saw him from far away and I was expecting him to get on my case about him having to wait for me, but he didn’t. He didn’t suck his teeth or groan, or anything like that.” She placed the phone on the bed; the camera capturing her bedroom ceiling. “His t-shirt was white, but there was this small dark spot that kept getting bigger the closer I go to him.” Tarin rushed out. “By the time we were face to face the spot had spread across the whole lower half.” There was a pause, followed by her taking a deep breath in an attempt to control the sudden shakiness in her voice. “He told me he loved me. In my other dreams, all his ‘love you T’s’ were rushed. He took his time, this time. And I appreciated that.”

“And?”

“And, what?”

“What happened afterward?”

“He left me standing in front of that beige house. I kept calling his name, over and over again. But he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t turn around. He just kept on walking up the street towards this bodega we frequented...without me…”

We hadn’t resumed our usual forms of communication since she cut the video call short Tuesday morning.

Whether accidentally or purposefully my calls during the dismal forty-minute plane ride were ignored and sent directly to voicemail, causing me to dread heading to Vegas altogether.

Bria, my parents, and two of my cornermen were either bracing themselves for all that awaited us in a matter of hours or busying themselves with their phones through the uneventful travel. Craig, on the other hand, decided to peruse the swank loaner the chairman of the Showtime network had given us access to so we could ‘ride in style’.

Whatever the fuck that meant.

“Impressive jet,” Craig murmured, adjusting his seat, “Do you have any idea how much this bad boy runs for? Just guess.”

“I don’t know, maybe forty mill’.”

“Close, but no cigar.” He retained an inward laugh. “Sixty-five, and that doesn’t include maintenance, kid. That Kyser fella at the network told me that yesterday. Could you believe that? Spending almost a hundred millions dollars on a goddamn private plane? These people are bat-shit crazy, I tell ya.” Craig let out a deep, raspy chuckle; the whites of his eyes disappearing when his eyes narrowed into thin slits. “So where ya flying to after this? Victoria wants me to go with her on her family vacation this year. He sounded as shocked to say it as I was to hear it. Though they’d grown closer over the years for the sake of Madison’s upbringing, Vickie and Craig were a bit estranged. There were no or ill feelings or bad blood between them, as far I knew, but unless it was a birthday or around the time of the holidays, they hardly kept in touch. “You ever been to Aruba?”

“Not yet.”

“Me neither. Apparently, that’s where her, the hubby, and little Maddie are going -- where they want me to go. That little prick she’s married to --”

“Language, Craig!” My mother blurted out, lifting the satin mask up from around her eyes.

With a push of a button, Craig sat upright in the plush leather recliner; his elbows grazing the small table between us. “That little prick she’s married to rented out this villa in the northern area of the island.”

“You going?”

“Damn right I’m going. There’s a casino not too far from there.” He guffawed. His boisterous burst of laughter settled within seconds. “What about you? Where do you plan on going once this thing is finished and over with?”

I had no intention of fleeing out of the country for a week-long vacation this time around. My sole intent was to meet back up with Tarin.

That is if she ever answered my calls.

After arriving at McCarran International Airport, the seven of us dispersed into two separate vehicles. Bria, our parents, and I packed into an SUV parked closest to the hangar while Craig and two of the cornermen rode with security personnel to locate the other service car. Once nestled inside the silent black Chevy Suburban, my mother and Bria ensued with aimless conversation as my father listened on, adding in his two cents to let them both know he was paying attention. They attempted to include me in the comical banter by questioning whether or not I was still plagued by the same pre-match jitters I had as an amateur, but I refrained from answering due to the fact that my mind was on other things.

Without putting forth much effort, my hand patted along the seat, searching for the cobalt blue encased smartphone and idly checked Tarin’s social media activity.

She may not have been acquainted with social media prior to becoming Cara Santos’ apprentice but her online following increased in the matter of a few weeks. Part of it having to do with her association to Cara Santos, but most of it having to do with her professionalism and execution. On Monday she revealed the alias of her newest client; a child actor turned crossover crooner by the name of Haneef Parker. The masses, women generally, were enthralled by him and his singing abilities for as long as I could remember. Since childhood Smith had been in the spotlight, gaining moderate success from the various TV-sitcoms he starred in. He managed to strike gold in the music industry after signing a lucrative recording contract with a major label.

He was like a teen idol a decade go, Tarin brought up during her instance of fangirling. With high regard, she mentioned the copies of his albums she had in her possession, the J-14 posters taped onto her bedroom walls and the college-ruled notebooks marked up with the playful moniker ‘Mrs. Smith’ on them. I had it bad back then. He used to perform on 106 & Park all the time but Marjani’s parents would never let her go to Harlem without any supervision. We came pretty close to sneaking off one time, but we were never successful.

Of all the women Smith was linked to -- talented songstresses with whom he collaborated with, ditzy socialites the media often linked him to, and the frequently exposed video models who threatened to expose him on Twitter -- he ended up settling down with a registered nurse from his hometown.

Him and his girl are expecting, Tarin spoke lowly into the phone as if she weren’t within the confines of her own apartment. She mentioned how fortunate the opportunity was on account of him finding out about her through Instagram’s Discover tab.

Realizing Tarin hadn’t been active on social media since our last interaction, I proceeded to stuff my phone back into my pocket.

“Trouble in paradise?” Bria queried, lifting up her massive sunglasses for dramatic effect.

“What?”

“I watched you call the same number three times while we were on the tarmac.” She mentioned, reaching inside her knapsack’s unzipped compartment, retrieving a handheld mirror. The sight of her using holding the regal-esque mirror just to slab another layer of lipstick. “And now you’re scrolling down Tarin’s Twitter page like a stalker.”

“I’m not stalking her,” I made clear, “I’m worried. There’s a difference.”

“Worried my fucking ass.”

“Bria!”

All eyes darted towards the front of the truck. Seated beside my father who happened to be entirely engrossed with finishing the final pages of Nigger: An Autobiography of Dick Gregory, my mother mussed with her bangs angrily.

“What ma?” Bria peered over at her.

Raising an eyebrow, mother raised her hand, wagging her finger as she did. “Don’t be cussin’ in front of me! You know better than that.”

“Your mother’s right. Show some respect, Bria.” My father chimed in, pushing the e-reader aside.

“Sorry,” Bria said apologetically before turning to me. “You’re still a creep.”

“How exactly does this translate into me being a creep? By all means, let me know.”

“What you should be focused on is tonight’s final weigh-in. You have a lot riding on tomorrow’s fight, son.”

“And I’m aware of that, pops”

“Act like it, then.”

For the remainder of the commute to MGM Grand located right on the Las Vegas Strip.

As if it were her very first time experiencing the wacky Elvis Presley impersonators donning differentiating versions of the infamous studded jumpsuit or the old folks peddling off the shuttle buses and hurrying for the casinos.

“Act like you’ve been somewhere, please.”

She waited until my parents were mere feet away before advising me to ‘pull the stick out of my ass’.

Courtesy of the networks close relationship with the hotel, the family, Craig, the cornermen, and I were provided complimentary rooms of our choosing for the duration of our stay. Staying throughout the entire weekend wasn’t in the cads for Bria and my parents, being that they were heading back to their home in Florida Monday morning. With the assistance of a hotel staff member, the three of them were led through the main entrance. Craig and the cornermen followed close behind as bellhops unloaded every bag from the service trucks.

By the main entrance, a lone woman stood nearby equipped with a clipboard, extending her hand to acknowledge me. “Mr. Dawson, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Valerie,” She pushed her glasses upward by the bridge as they grooved down, “and I will be making sure your stay here at MGM Grand Las Vegas will be a remarkable one. I’m aware that you frequent the hotel quite often but it’s been brought to my attention that you’ve never visited our diversions.”

“I can’t say that I have, Valerie,” I answered truthfully. Aside from the matches being based out in Nevada and a few last minute meetings held inside of a restaurant or two, sticking around in the city of sin just wasn’t my thing. After matches, I allowed my body time to decompress and checked out at dawn.

“Well, If you’d like to reserve the best table at any of our ten restaurants or acquire tickets to any show of your choosing, please do not hesitate to call the skylofts’ private lobby and ask for me personally.” She said, pressing her hand against my back. “Now, if you don’t mind, the head of hotel security would like to escort you through the VIP lounge. There, the three of us will take a private elevator to your loft where we can check you in.”

I figured the extraordinary service I was currently experiencing was due to executives at the network pulling out all the stops to make sure the networks and I were all on the same page.

I’d be a fool to believe there wasn’t a proposal of a potential partnership in some capacity impending.

In the skyloft, at the elaborate dining room table complemented by chairs draped in yellow fabric, Valerie walked me through the hotel’s preliminaries and procedures; a document that I’d signed many times before. “If you’ll just sign right here and here, Mr. Dawson.” Valerie pointed to the bottom of the document. She leaned over the table’s edge. The deep V-neckline shifted, unintentionally granting me unwarranted peaks of her lacy bra.  “Alrighty then. Here is your keycard.”

“I was never good at keeping up with keycards.”

She rested her hand on my shoulder but slowly pulled it away. “In case you happen to misplace your room’s keycard, a staff member will be happy to help you recover another one.” I nodded, indicated that I had heard her. We sat in a prolonged silence until Valerie the concierge took the hint that I wanted to be alone. Grabbing her clipboard along with the preliminary and procedures document she made a beeline for the door, muttering ‘good luck tomorrow night’ prior to closing the loft’s door.

My mind ran rampant.

Not with thoughts of tomorrow night or what I intended to do once I headed back to California.

At the forefront of my mind remained thoughts of Tarin and the longing for her to alright with whatever she was up to.

TARIN

Roberta Flack’s “Feel Like Makin’ Love” poured in through the recording studio’s powered speakers connected to a white oak turntable.

Records suited in tethered jackets remained scattered across the state of the art soundboard; audio from the likes of Teddy Pendergrass and Donny Hathaway were two of the few I’d been able to identify from their covers alone.

My time was limited, I reminded Haneef once obliging to meet at the last minute.

Considering that evening was steadily approaching and my hunger was getting the best of me, I still found time to schedule a last-minute meeting with Haneef Parker to come to a general agreement about the event, its budget, and the non-negotiable commission percentage I expected for my services.

“Could you tell me a little about -- I’m sorry. What’s the mother of your child’s name again?” I queried. The fact that she wasn’t famous was making it all the more difficult to remember her name.

“Marissa,” He answered quickly as he sorted through a crate containing hordes of records. D’Angelo’s Voodoo album had been pulled out and placed over Bilal’s 1st Born Second and Erykah Badu’s Mama’s Gun.

A boyish grin tugged at the corner of his mouth; one that instantly put me in the mind of the one he sported on the cover of Essence’s annual Men’s Issue.

He scooted back in the swivel chair, lifting the turntable’s needle carefully before swapping the Roberta Flack record for D’Angelo’s.

The opening track was slow and taking its time to build up with a succession of hand claps and layered vocals, luring me to sway along to the song infused with jazz and funk.

“You like that?” He inquired, his voice low.

“It’s easy on the ears.” A moderate screech hollowed out the song Haneef referred to as “Playa Playa”. “Drawing inspiration, by any chance?”

He twiddled his thumbs. “Every now and again I always seem to hit a dead end. It never fails.That’s when I take a breather and dig in the crates. Creatively I’m burned out. My mind’s on other things.”

“You’re about to be a father. It’s be expected that music isn’t your main focus.”

His mouth hung slightly ajar in an attempt to form some sort of rebuttal, but he paused, looking to be in deep thought as he bopped his head to the beat of “Devil’s Pie”. Rather than giving forth an audible answer, Haneef nodded his head in agreeance.

“I’ve always wondered whether men freak out over parenthood as much as women do.”

“I can’t speak for all men, but I’m a lil’ nervous. I ain’t gonna front.” Haneef admitted, running his hand down the length of the fitted, distressed jeans he donned.

“The fear will go away. Trust me.”

“How you know? You’re speakin’ like you know. Like --”

“-- I’ve been where you are. Well, not exactly where you are. You’re a multi-millionaire having his first child in his late twenties. I’m not saying I was when I had my kid, but I didn’t have a ton of cash at my disposal, either..”

“Wait. You have a kid?”

I nodded.

“You lyin’!”

“No, I’m not. I’m serious!”

“Bullshit,” His laughter came out a low, gruff roar, “you can’t be no older than --”

“-- I had her young.” I retorted without thinking much of the revelation. I turned forward, taking in the isolated room ahead equipped with bass drums, a microphone, and an electric guitar. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. The same way your child will be the best thing that’s ever happened to you. And despite the fame, the money, and all your accolades, they will be your greatest accomplishment ever. Enough of all that, though. By any chance, do you have a theme in mind?”

“Nah.”

“What about a color scheme?”

“Nah.” He repeated.

“Do you know what you’re having?”

“Nah Rissa,” He called her for short, “wanted the baby’s gender to be a surprise.”

“Haneef,” I huffed, “Haneef. You’ve got to give me something to work with here. Something.” I stressed, easing my back against the chair. “Now, since the baby’s gender is unknown, it’d be best if we stick to a gender neutral color scheme. This leads me to ask you whether you’d be content with the use of yellow.”

““I’m not put off to it being used’.”

“Alright. Yellow is a possibility.” I nodded. “How about I look into some potential venues and follow up with you sometime next week? If you’re available we could schedule another meeting Monday morning.”

“Tomorrow’s my only free day.” He mentioned.

“Eh, tomorrow’s no good for me.” I spoke sheepishly, “I’m gonna be outta town.”

“After tomorrow I will be, too.” Haneef expressed with a head nod. “I’ma be in Miami until next week doing a few intimate shows. From an artist’s standpoint, I haven’t garnered enough attention leading up to the release of this album --”

“Which is why you’ve considered doing these performances.”

“See, you get it.” Haneef scooted in the chair up to the soundboard, carelessly fiddling with the buttons and knobs. “My management said those bastards at the label want me to put forth a bit more effort this go around. I’m booked all month for radio interviews and segments for morning talk shows. They even got me doing those interactive Q&A’s with the fans so I could seem more attainable.”

“You have to put in more of an effort now than you’ve probably had to before. I’m no music industry guru that knows all the ins and outs of the biz but album sales are definitely not as high as they used to be. You had it pretty easy back in the day, Haneef. You were the sangin’ pretty boy with the big hazel eyes --”

“'Was the sangin’ pretty boy’?" He scoffed. "I still am!”

I pursed my lips together, fighting the urge to tell him he’d handed over the title of reigning supreme the moment he decided to chase musical fads and cross over. A former label A&R and longtime mentor of Haneef introduced him to a duo of producers responsible for the reemergence of EDM in mainstream music. Working with two of the hottest producers of the moment earned Haneef concurrent chart-topping hits and favorable co-signs from the mediocre pop stars who conquered radio airplay day in and day out.

No longer was he the Haneef Parker record executives pitted against other rivaling act, nor was he the same Haneef Parker who critics regarded in the same class as the talented luminaries who had come before him. On the heels of his crossover success music aficionados referred to the R&B golden child as nothing more than a sellout who sacrificed true artistry for mass-notoriety; a man who disregarded his core audience.

I took a moment to ponder how I could break the silence that loomed over us, witnessing him looking at me with intent the moment my stare drifted to the True Believer tattoo cascading down his right forearm.

Either the bold marking was a new addition to the throng already coating his arms, torso, and legs or I was officially disinterested with all minor things Haneef Parker; the latter rang true the longer the singer and I occupied the same space.

“Um. So...conference call it is, then. And if I can’t get a hold you that way, I will send photos of venues within the budget directly to your email.”

“Damn. You on it, ain’t you?”

“It’s pretty much essential to be.”

Reaching for the slouchy tote bag that had been grazing my exposed ankles, I rose from the swivel chair, stopping per Haneef’s request; his rendition of the Roberta Flack record he played previously.

“Couldn’t let you leave without hearing his version.” His hand fell to the knobs again, feathery croons matching the tone of D’Angelo’s tone fluttered into the air as Haneef sung along, merging with the track’s infectious bass.

“I like this one, too.” I murmured as the studio’s door opened. I assessed the group of people; a collective of both men and women, passing through the entryway, dispersed into groups and occupied the two leather couches. A man holding a guitar case ambled towards Haneef and proceeded to give him dap before inquiring about the audio engineer scheduled to be present for the session. As they engaged in conversation, and the trio of women behind me began belting out rehearsed verses they’d read off sheets of papers, I bid my farewell to Haneef and slipped out the studio.

It was nearing six when I finally arrived home.

Silence greeted me on the way inside the darkened apartment.

Traces of Ayla were present throughout the furnished space complemented by teal or orange decorative accents. Small shoes idled the cubby space by the door. In the living room, toys that she failed to put away as well as a box of misplaced crayons and a coloring book rested atop the coffee table. Releasing a huff, I tossed my bag and keys on the bare kitchen island in passing and proceeded to gather her belongings and return them to their rightful spots.

Before peeling off the frayed denim dress and slipping out of the mahogany rose Vans I hurried to hook my phone up to the charger port plugged in beside my nightstand, dreading to reply back to the inquisitive text messages from Marjani that I’d already skimmed over or hearing the voicemails Mama Sarah had left prior to my phone dying while on the way to meet with Haneef. With the dress puddled at my feet, I shrugged out my bra and shimmied out of the matching hip-riding panties, making a beeline for the master bathroom soon after. A backpack containing a change of clothes, travel size toiletries, and an alternate satin scarf hung above a change of comfortable shoes that were lined neatly against the bathroom’s wall.

I doubled back into the bedroom simultaneous to a resounding blare emitting from my cell phone. I figured it would be Mama Sarah calling to coax me out of leaving tomorrow afternoon, but I was wrong.

For what seemed like an eternity I watched my cellphone continuously dance from left to right and back again on the nightstand, a zoomed-in picture I’d screenshot one night during a facetime call appeared before a notification stating that Hill had left a voicemail, popped up. I contemplated on calling back but decided against doing so.

As soon as the voice on the other end greeted me the plan itself would be botched.

I had to remain focus and act accordingly.

Bria and Vickie would have my ass if I didn’t.

****

I was in over my head.

I’d come to that realization thirty-thousand feet in the air.

The flight scheduled for two remained stagnant on the runway due to the pilot being a no-show.

My mind instantly resorted to the worst.

Perhaps he was at someone’s bar getting sloshed prior to risking the lives of all the passengers or cooped up in a private bathroom somewhere snorting bumps of coke off a bathroom counter. As if harping on that horrific possibility wasn’t troubling enough, I grew frantic from feeling every erratic motion the alternate pilot who’d been assigned to fly the plane at the last minute determined was turbulence.

In a matter of minutes, I’d lost feeling in my limbs. The violent churning in my stomach commenced when the short-haired Asian woman sitting beside me commanded my attention. Since accidentally bumping into each other during my frequent trips to the bathroom, she’d been itching to start up a conversation. On more than occasion, I’d caught staring at me out the corner of my eye. I couldn’t even browse through Twitter in peace without spotting her take unwarranted peeks at my phone’s screen.

Heaving a heavy sigh I shifted against the window, closing the application after retweeting photos Cheyenne had uploaded from the recent nail polish launch onto CS Event Planning & Productions’ user account.

*Nervous?” The woman sitting beside me spoke up. With the hand that wasn’t cradling the latest issue of The New Yorker, she brought it upward to toy with her blunt ends. In contrast to her pale skin, her hair was dyed blue-black which complemented the reddish brown matte color staining her round lips.

She didn’t bother waiting for an answer.

It was as if she’d picked up on my timidness.

I mean, we were sitting directly next to each other.

“Relax. Sit back, and breath. Ditching the caffeine always helps too.” She nodded in the direction of the venti ice coffee cup that was now empty.

“This is my first time flying.”

“Shocking,” the woman muttered, laughing a little.

****

Often I wondered how it would be to see him again. To share his presence. To succumb to that familiar embrace and settle against his chest as his arms enclosed around me. He’d left an impression on me long before this moment. Long before our dinner at Buddakan. Long before our heated kiss at the bar. I wanted him more than I’d led on. More than I had ever predicted if I was being honest with myself. The wracking emptiness that lingered within me due to our purposeful strain in communication, attested to my developing sentiments. That, and the fact that I’d left my obligations in New York behind to simply be alone with this man for a few hours.

With the help of Bria snagging Hill’s keycard out of his pants’ pocket when he changed into his match attire, I entered the swank loft suite moments after the third round began. A series of alarming text messages and corresponding voice notes from Victoria stating that the fight had come to an end when Hill’s gloved fist connected with his opponent’s jaw, idled my notifications.

By unanimous decision, Hill had defeated his opponent by way of knockout.

Sports journalists wasted no time rushing to various social media platforms to discuss the bout that lasted four rounds.

In an attempt to allay the nerves afflicting me throughout the excruciating wait, I passed through the beautifully decorated suite more than once, finding myself in awe of the art bedecking the walls of the sitting area. Atop a checkerboard carpet positioned by the floor to ceiling windows was low-lying furniture paired with intricate additions of red and oranges. Hues of creams and browns were used avidly throughout the bedroom and master bathroom. Per Bria’s rather rigid request, every touchscreen tablet control panels were left untouched being that Hill hadn’t yet altered the settings himself.

When perusing every inch of the suite began to bore me I retreated to the ottoman positioned against the bed’s footboard. With my phone as my sole source of entertainment, I scrolled through my Twitter feed and stumbled upon a link to the post-match press conference. Both Hill and his opponent stood at adjacent podiums with their respected trainers behind them. It took an hour and a half for them to get through every question members of the press had asked, most of which were recycled inquiries concerning their training regimens, their diets, and each side’s honest opinion of the other. Much to my disappointment, the distorted live-stream was cut short just as Hill uttered a heartfelt expression of gratitude to Craig.

With haste, I sent a series of text messages to Jani with whom I failed to respond to earlier on account of being escorted to a black Chevrolet by a driver Victoria arranged to meet me at the airport. Our conversation that consisted of her urging me to let loose while in the city of sin placated momentarily until the commotion filled the air, followed by the opening and closing of the door downstairs. Instinctively, I shot to my feet; a voice belonging to Bria Dawson approached and grew closer as footsteps padded up the stairs.

“You have your own room for a reason, Bria.”

“I’m aware of that,” she scoffed, “I wanted to use the bathroom.”

“There’s a bathroom downstairs. It’s right by the door.”

“Why do I have to use that bathroom? Am I not good enough to use the one up here?”

“Look, I’m not about to argue with you about no stupid shit. I’d appreciate it if you’d go back to your room --”

With a slight push, the bedroom door swung open, unveiling a stoic Hill standing in its entryway. His eyes drifting from me to Bria; doubt present in his expression.

Grinning, I muttered a low ‘surprise’, receiving a boyish grin I’ve had the longing to witness face to face since his previous stay in New York.

Standing before both Hill and me in a satin top and matching wide-legged pants the color of champagne, Bria’s tongue ran across her top row of teeth; a triumphant look spread across her face.

I didn’t know whether to acknowledge her efforts with a comforting embrace or with an acknowledging head nod.

Coolly she strutted to me, her oversized blazer draped over her shoulder, adding to the awe of her tantalizing gait. She oozed every bit of confidence. Everything I wished I was at nineteen. “Well, Tarin, I have to hand it to you,” her breaths jagged, “I’ll be the first to admit that when Victoria ran the plan by me I wasn’t too sure you’d be able to pull off ignoring my idiot brother until the weekend. I figured you were just as sprung over him as he is over you. But, you stuck with the plan. Good job, girl!  Mission a-damn-complished!”

“It was the easiest task.” I confessed, my eyes meeting Hill’s once again. He pressed his lips into a fine line, dropping a large Under Armour duffle on the swing-back armchair. He moseyed in more, skirting by Bria who stood just mere inches from me.

Her glossed lips parted into a goofy grin. Unrestrained laughter escaped her, settling once she took our non-verbal communication through fixed stare. “I’ll think I’ll be headin’ to the bathroom now.”

“And leaving afterward, I hope.”

“Do you see this Tarin? This the thanks I get for helping bring this plan to fruition. You’re an unappreciative ass, Hill. Where’s the gratitude? Where’s the appreciation? I’ve yet to hear a thank you!”

“Jesus Christ --”

“Thank you, Bria.” I butted in an attempt to keep the peace.

She shifted in her stance, elongating her right leg which showcased the nude strapless ankle-wrap sandals.

“I know you’re thankful,” forcefully, she nudged Hill right on his shoulder, “but I wanna hear this jackass say he is. He doesn’t seem to be!”

“Knowing you, a ‘thank you’ isn’t all you’re looking for.”

She snickered, “It it ever?” A series of pats were landed on Hill’s cheek prior to Bria making her way towards the bedroom’s door. “You owe me big for this one. We’ll talk later. Okay? Until then, have fun.”

Just as she was about to make her departure, Hill’s hand found its way to her shoulder, restricting her from moving any further. Without expressing words, he enveloped her in a hug from the side. At first, she tried shooing him away, but settled into the embrace, smiling although the moment was short-lived. Per Bria’s request, they separated, following up the endearing moment with an elaborate handshake consisting of two turns, three consecutive hi-fives, and a knuckle pound. Slips of laughter escaped me as I stood nearby witnessing the two siblings carry on lovingly as if they weren’t acting like a pair of bickering children moments ago. After she used the bathroom and Hill phoned hotel security to escort Bria to her room, he returned into the bedroom, discovering that I took a seat on the bed. He joined me; a hand rested on my thigh, putting me at ease.

“I’m usually not one for surprises.” He admitted lowly.

“I’m usually not good at keeping surprises. Anyone who knows me knows that I couldn’t keep a secret of this caliber. In the past, I tended to talk a secret right outta me.” I spoke faintly, reaching for his hand. His long, narrow fingers intertwined with mine. “I couldn’t ruin this one. I just couldn’t.”

His lips found their way to my neck, peppering my skin with kisses. I relaxed against his touch yet I desired nothing more than for his arms to surround me and for his lips to be on mine.

Fortunately for me, my earnest desire was met.

In seconds, his mouth collided with mine. His tongue slid inside, eliciting a stifled moan from me. Rather than gently running my hand up the side of his face, my left hand found its way to a spot just above his brow bone. The pads of my fingers traced over the thin, white bandage concealing a minor cut.

“How was the fight?” I asked in between fervent pecks.

“I won.” He retorted blankly, seeming somewhat disinterested in the topic.

“I know that.” I mentioned. “It doesn’t seem like you were hurt too bad.”

“You should see the other guy.” He responded, removing his lips from mine.

Impassioned kisses were left on my collarbone; the scent of sandalwood combined with another subtle manly scent wafted into my nose. My back came in contact with the sheets that felt expensive to the touch. He paused, assessing the ribbed hunter green mini dress that fit snug against my frame. At hem gathered at my thighs, Hill pushed the ribbed material up; a devilish smirk settled on his face upon realizing that I was pantiless, his grimace wholly manifesting into a look of mischief.

My dress was carelessly thrown to the floor.

The plunging triangle bra I donned was the next to be discarded after Hill’s struggled effort in unclasping the final row of hooks. Succeeding, he tossed the bra onto the armchair, basking in my naked frame and all its supposed glory. He regained footing when arising from the bed, unbuttoning each button stitched onto the mosaic-printed button-up he wore. He went on to remove his dark-wash jeans, but, I quickly shot up, wobbling on the heels I loathed wearing altogether.

“Let me.”

Somewhere in between Hill stepping out of his loafers and his belt producing an audible when his pants hit the floor, a ball of nerves flourished right in the pit of my stomach.

We stood before one another exposed. Face to face, chest to chest. “Hey. Hey,” he called out, halting me from any sudden movement, “we don’t have to --”

“But..I..want to.”

My hands aimlessly ran down his torso, patting over the deep-set grooves and contours of his abdominal muscles

We retreated to the bed, then.

I anticipated the moment our lips reunited.

For a moment I watched on with intent as he roughly parted my thighs. To his knees he sank and buried his head between my thighs, coaxing me to moan out his name. Nipping at my flesh as my thighs quivered -- tickling the smoothness of my thighs with his the minimal stubble coating his cheeks. Solace was found the moment I planted hand atop his head, raking my nails through the low heap of coarse locks he’d yet to trim off and down towards the scalp. A drawn out guttural mewl sputtered from my lips, prompting me to undulate my hips against his face.

I pushed further -- relentlessly, nearing the brink of my peak.

Goosebumps coated my fervent skin.

Shivers cascaded down my spine.

Warm tears settled at the lower rims of my eyes from the thought alone, thickening while they trickled down the sides of my face. Subsequent to removing his head that was recently situated between my legs, Hill rose from the bed and made a beeline for the slate grey sports duffle, leaving me aching for him; He searched through the two smaller compartments located on either side, retrieving a black leather wallet.

A condom or two -- perhaps maybe three rested inside the slip compartments.

“C’mere.”

Despite the sudden hoarseness detected in my voice, he happily obliged.

In quick movements he labored over me, gently caressing my cheek. With erratic haste, we eased down his boxer briefs together, only for him to rear back to rip one of the condom’s wrapping open. Our eyes locked shortly afterward. My expression was assessed for the slightest hint of hesitancy -- any inkling of uncertainty. Beats of silence pervaded the air thick of unspoken lust that became almost dire to be acted on.

“I want you.” His head lowered, granting me the opportunity to run my tongue over the fullness of his lips. “Do you want me?”

“Of course I want you.” Hill asserted firmly; the throbbing between my legs became unbearable the longer I continued to ache for him. “Of course I want you.”

The words reverberated into my skin. Within seconds, he was inside me, producing slow, marginal strokes that quickly progressed into deep thrusts. I panted his name until words were no longer comprehensible. My worrisome thoughts -- tasks that I knew had to be handled as soon as I landed back in New York, were subdued by warm breath cooing onto my skin. Repeated remarks of my beauty were made amidst struggled groans. Beneath him, I cursed and met his urgent movement with an eagerness of my own. My hips rose, prompting my thighs to anchor around his waist entirely. He reared back, supporting my trembling thigh as it started to ease down his torso; lust evident in the eyes of the man shuddering above me.

Curses bellowed from his parted lips, the very same succulent pair I latched onto and kissed tenderly, reaching the ascent to another climax. He plunged harder then, releasing a harsh, throaty groan onto my lips simultaneous to his body tensing up atop my quaking frame. I fastened my arms around him, asserting that I was unwilling to let him go.

In my grasp he stilled, his head resting on my breasts.

Still, plunged deep into my depths, his manhood pulsated.

“Don’t move. Stay right here.” I begged.

His large, taut hand ran over the tops of my breasts, kneading them softly until Hill decided to get off the bed and amble into the bathroom.

I rolled over, feeling the freest I’d felt in years.

[wintercovers]

52 short stories 2: A story about rising to a challenge [feat kanesawa]

There are four knocks at Shinji’s door. Fast. Loud.

Seto jumps twice. Once at the knock and a second time when Shinji smacks his books closed because he gave Sawamura a fucking time to come over if he needed help studying and this is not fucking it.

“No!” Shinji shouts at the door, already getting up to open it. Seto looks slightly confused at the difference between Shinji’s words and his actions but for whatever reason, he simply lets out a soft oh when Sawamura whines Shinji’s name from the other side of the door. A whine which only gets louder when Shinji doesn’t respond to it.

Shinji takes a deep breath before throwing the door open, he won’t let him add his own voice to Sawamura’s noise; it’s already late, and while people have come to expect noise from Sawamura at all hours of every day Shinji wants other people to view him with a bit more respect.

“Shut it!” It’s just that sometimes his patience is tested.

Sawamura mimes zipping up his lips and tip toes dramatically over to the desk littered with Shinji’s recently abandoned textbooks. Shinji sighs, closing the door much softer than he’d opened it. He’s done it now. He’s let Sawamura in. And this is why he keeps on showing up two hours after Shinji told him to because it doesn’t matter how forcefully Shinji makes their plans Sawamura knows he’s going to help anyway. Idiot.

Shinji is one, for letting him in.

“You’re late,” Shinji growls, sliding an extra chair across the room seeing as Sawamura has stolen his. “You better concentrate properly.”

Sawamura takes the words to apparently mean he can push everything off the desk except for his own notebook and thankfully the textbook Shinji had been using earlier.

Shinji did not sign up for this.

Shinji did not sign up for Sawamura rearranging his room, his desk. Shinji did not sign up for Sawamura showing up while he was trying to get his own shit done. Like… he kinda did but if anyone asks, this is a long-held promise that he could not simply abandon and absolutely not something he signed up for.

Deep breaths, deep breaths are the key to dealing with Sawamura in enclosed spaces.

“What do you need help with?”

“Boss’s essay,” Sawamura answers quickly.

Not what he was expecting. Shinji takes a deep breath, “which part?” His own is somewhere in the pile of things Sawamura has thrown on the floor. His essay and the workbook from Modern Japanese where he has notes on what Kataoka was looking for in their writing and what issues he wants them to address; as well as further points Shinji thinks will be important without having to be told them directly. Sawamura will probably benefit from Shinji’s notes by adding some of the points written down to his own essay.

Sawamura says nothing, stays silent until Shinji has retrieved what he needs just in this moment and has everything set out neatly at the back of his desk out of the way. Sawamura’s silence is, as always, louder than his words and Shinji definitely didn’t sign up for this. “Fuck,” he breathes out as Sawamura opens up to a nearly blank page in his book, simply titled at the top book essay and all Sawamura has in response is a giant cheesy smile.

“That’s not going to help you,” Shinji says, gripping at the edge of the desk to keep himself from gripping at the collar of Sawamura’s shirt, “why haven’t you started yet?”

Shinji’s invitation tonight had been planned around the maths test they have coming up next week, not helping Sawamura write an entire essay that is due to be handed in just two days from now. Less, seeing as it’s due when they have class in the morning. Due in less than two days and handed into their coach. Kataoka isn’t going to let any excuses wave away an assignment. Shinji can’t let it get to Sawamura needing excuses anyway, it’s no secret to anyone that he’s somehow officially become Sawamura’s unofficial tutor.

“Just please tell me you’ve at least read the book,” Shinji sighs.

“Of course I have!” Sawamura sounds offended but he’s the one here with nothing written asking for Shinji to help. He sounds offended but Shinji would not put it past him to daydream with his eyes open and the book in his hands. Offended even when too many in their people in class go easy on them, on Sawamura and Furuya both, and Shinji has walked in too many times to them both copying out homework before classes. He’s offended but it would not surprise Shinji in the least if someone was feeding lines to Sawamura for him to spout every time Kataoka called on him in class.

“Then,” deep breaths he tells himself, “have you thought about what theme you want to focus on?”

“Mortality!” Sawamura answers immediately and Shinji is able to release a breath that eases some of the tension from his shoulders. Sawamura may not have started yet but if he’s been thinking about it and already has a theme in mind it makes things easier. It’s also a different enough topic from his own essay that he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally leading Sawamura on to accidentally mimicking his own.

“Okay,” Shinji says, “that’s actually pretty good.” Sawamura actually brightens at the words as if they’re a compliment and not the slight upgrade from Shinji thinking he was totally useless. It doesn’t really matter though, Shinji is not going to actually spend his night telling Sawamura how to write his essay. “Go back to your room,” he directs, “find the quotes and passages you’re going to use and come up with an outline by lunch tomorrow, then I’ll help you with it.”

“Okay!” Sawamura yells, and Shinji sees Seto jump again in his periphery. “Goodnight!” He shouts again, even louder this time.

“Goodnight,” Shinji responds sharply, pushing Sawamura towards the door. He still has his own shit to do tonight and now he also needs to pick it all up from around his desk.

“Goodnight!” Seto calls out as well, sounding much more cheerful than Shinji had. Sawamura sends one last beaming smile to Seto before Shinji shuts the door on his stupid face.

“Finally,” Shinji sighs under his breath. Apparently not quiet enough. Seto starts giggling under his own breath and does not stop when Shinji glares at him — and he’d been so happy to hope that a junior roommate meant one who would respect him. Seto wouldn’t be laughing if he was the one unofficially responsible for making sure two of their regular pitchers were actually eligible to play in games.

As promised, Sawamura shows up at Shinji’s desk at lunch the next day with food, a chair, and his library copy of The Sound of the Mountain littered with sticky notes. This might go better than expected. It also might not. It is due in before this time tomorrow.

Over the break period, though, things go well. Shinji reads over Sawamura’s outline and some of his notes, rearranges a couple of things and when he hands them back Sawamura picks his pen up, sets his head down and gets to work. All Shinji really has to do is shoo anyone away that tries to talk to him. Occasionally he has to set Sawamura back to work when he takes too long over a mouthful of food, but things go rather well.

He’s not sure what to make of Sawamura ignoring most of the afternoon classes to quite obviously work on his essay. It’s a problem for future Shinji for sure but all he can do now is be happy that at least this one thing might get done.

He holds Sawamura back when class ends to do the same. Keeps the both of them in class for an extra half an hour until they both have to race down to change into their gear and race again out to the field.

“I hope you know you’re not pitching extra today, I’ll tell Miyuki if I have to.” Sawamura throws up a salute.

Post dinner and a warm bath the very last thing Shinji really feels like doing is supervising Sawamura as he continues to write his essay. The imminent due date of tomorrow morning does a good enough job of keeping Sawamura focused that Shinji almost feels unnecessary. Almost. He still has to direct Sawamura’s attention down every time his eyes wander the room for too long.

Other members of the team don’t disturb them. In fact, it is Kataoka himself who ends up being the bigger distraction. When he walks through the hall both Shinji’s and Sawamura’s shoulders hunch — neither of them wanting to be caught working on his assignment at what is actually the very last minute.

He probably already knows, they are not the first team members he has taught, they are far from being the last, and somewhere in the middle there must be someone worse than Sawamura. Someone who didn’t hand in anything. But Shinji will die before letting Sawamura show up to class with nothing.

As it ticks over to midnight, Shinji calls for a break.

“Practice if you need to. Pitch with a towel, pitch to the net, to a person, swing. Just don’t you dare fall asleep.”

Shinji takes the time to step quietly back into his own room, the darkness of the interior throwing him for a loop after the bright lights of the main hall. He yawns as the darkness swallows him but there’s no way he can allow himself to sleep either, no matter how appealing it seems right now. Sawamura could probably get it done without supervision, but the illusion of being watched, of someone having someone present with expectations of what he should be doing... Shinji thinks it helps.

He knows even without the use of a flashlight how to navigate the beds and stray clothes to his desk, then using only the backlight of his phone screen Shinji locates his maths workbook, the textbook to go with it. It doesn’t matter that he’s been neglecting it these past twenty-four hours. It definitely doesn’t matter that Sawamura probably doesn’t even know they have a test coming up. With Sawamura in the groove now of what he’s doing, there’s no real reason for Shinji to stay idly watching over him. Not when he has to prepare himself for the test, and probably also has to prepare for the oncoming storm of Sawamura having forgotten this too and coming to Shinji again for last minute help.

It’s not a pattern he wants to get dragged into.

Shinji has to learn now so that he has time to ease Sawamura into a passing grade before the test appears in front of them.

He accidentally stubs his toe in the doorway on the way out and manages to contain a soft but powerful fuck until he’s closed the door and taken a few steps away from his slumbering roommates. Half his foot throbs at what Shinji logically knows is not something that should hurt that much but at least he feels more awake now. More awake to see through this half of the night he’d really rather miss.

Shinji prefers his method of staying awake to Sawamura’s apparent method. Sawamura’s hands twitch on the table in front of him and when Shinji sits down next to him he realises it’s actually his entire body. Sawamura’s chair rattles, the table knocks, it’s just enough small noise to be annoying but Sawamura gets straight back into work so Shinji doesn't complain.

It takes him a little bit longer to be able to settle into his own work after neglecting it for so long. It takes a while for Sawamura’s twitching and turning of pages to settle into the background and for Shinji to trick himself into not thinking he should be in bed right now before he really gets into it.

He half studies himself, half draws up revision notes for sections he thinks are particularly hard; he’ll give them to Sawamura tomorrow… today. He’ll let Sawamura go over them for one night so that he can catch up on the sleep he’s missing now before getting back into this again. Back into this but less intense, because at the very least they still have the weekend ahead of them in which to study.

Shinji keeps it up for… he doesn’t know how long.

He keeps it up until numbers and letters and formulas all blend into one dark blur of ink in his eyes.

He keeps it up until he needs to close his eyes for just a moment— dry and heavy as useless as they have become.

Shinji is so sore when he wakes. Before even opening his eyes all he knows is that everything hurts. His neck hurts, his back hurts, his wrist hurts, his butt hurts. His eyes hurt too and opening them seems only likely to make them hurt more. Shinji doesn’t want to be awake, he definitely hasn’t slept enough. He just wants to stay curled up in bed longer.

“Shh, don’t wake him.”

A weight leaves the back of his bed, and another settles somewhere in his gut. He never went to bed. He’s not in bed. He’s in the dining hall with Sawamura and by the voices whispering quietly around him, people are starting to gather for breakfast. No, he doesn’t want it to be morning already.

Opening his dry and caked together eyes Shinji discovers something has been draped over his head. He pulls it off and sits up to discover not only are there the few people Sawamura is coaxing into a deeper quietness, but another fifteen or so people are sitting on the other side of the room in various stages of eating breakfast. Great. He’s missed morning practice and all these people know he slept through it here.

Shinji thought he had woken up too early, but it hadn’t been early enough. Especially if he’s also taking into account the drool that has apparently collected to smudge at the ink of the page that was his pillow for the night. He just knows it’s mirror will be printed across his face because this morning is the best morning he’s ever woken to.

Shinji stretches, which catches Sawamura’s attention but has others pointedly turning their faces away. “I finished!” Sawamura cheers too loud for Shinji to handle this early in the morning. It’s also too early for him to speak. Shinji nods and stretches again and stands as what turns out to be a jacket, the thing that had been draped over him, falls to the floor.

He leaves the dining hall, steps into his own room to change into his uniform, hits the bathroom to splash his face with cold water and then heads back to the dining hall to eat. In helping Sawamura finish his essay he’s missed practice which means he’ll end up facing Kataoka’s wrath anyway. It wasn’t worth it. It never is.

It kind of is. It’s why he keeps doing it.

Sawamura has a loaded plate and an empty seat next to him which Shinji takes and eats. “Thanks for your help!” Sawamura says, Shinji only grunts through his mouthful of rice. “I saw what you were working on and I totally forgot about the test!” Shinji wishes he could high five himself without looking like a complete idiot, he called it. “I’ll come at lunch again and you can tell me what I need to work on!” Lunch. Not even a day to recover.

Shinji’s face hits the bench, once, hard, and then he’s back to eating. There are plenty of faces looking his way but Shinji doesn’t care. This is his luck, his lot in life, he did not sign up for this but he keeps on signing up for it.