#my humor is one of a middle schooler but I know when to switch up 🤝

[jaylleoo14]

There are some things I want to write….

And I will write it, just not now

But just know

If you like books similar to Normal People or The Love hypothesis then you can expect some good stuff in the future (put in some more common well known books) <3

I still have a lot of books on my tbr but omg I have so many ideas that need to wait… 😔

Hoping I get the book The Lovers soon though><🤞

I really like the book loving community tho its like if you know it you know it and MY LORD IS IT SO ><!!!!!! Sometimes I'm reading the book and I get to a scene and im like "Oh!😯" Okay but they got me CRYING TEARS AND FANNING MY FACE AT THE SAME TIME?!! Hello?! I'm pulling my hair out and immersing myself into the story because THINGS GET SO FRUSTRATING!!!

[waterparksdrama]

ok track by track review of Intellectual Property. GO!

as you wish anon. be warned this is literally like one of maybe 4 times i've listened to this album in full again

st*rfucker - a bit too saccharine on first listen but it has better replay value as time goes on. the beginning of the shoehorned jesus lyrics and the continuation of limo imagery to represent fame which is actually fitting admittedly bc just like a limo that is supposed to represent glamour and celebrity living, they are just as widespread and accessible as him and aren't really that glamorous at all. also this is me saying again wow he complains a lot about fame for someone who isn't really that famous. i still hate the cutoff at the end bc. cmon man. 7/10

real super dark - ok i did like the gilbert gottfried inspired melody i think that's fun actually. the song lyrics? uhhhhhh. just more complaining. if you have listened to any of the albums since fandom you are not missing much there other than the otto serial killer jokes he has inserted here? which is a choice i guess. instrumental is great tho. i feel incredibly stupid listening to a lot of the other parts of the song tho. 7/10

funeral grey - god i can't bear listening to this one on my own i'm sorry. live it's fine, but the studio recording i would rather kill myself than listen to again. IT'S SO ANNOYING. the terrible overenunciated vocals. awsten's attempt at humor by writing these wattpad fic lyrics that make me cringe to my core because i know there's a part of him being genuine. the one direction ripoff hook because he managed to get one of 1d's actual songwriters to help write the track. the only saving grace is the ending but at that point it's too late for any redemption. 2/10

brainwashed - ironically this was written with the 1d guy again and. i'm actually fine with this one LOL. it's simple and lowkey so it's considerably less annoying than funeral grey. considering awsten said the lyrics on this album were hypersexual, but it's 2023 so this is fairly tame, it just makes me wonder how much he has repressed in his psyche. 6/10

2 best friends - ok now we're back to simple annoying. if you tune out the lyrics enough, it sounds like disney channel filler music. but it's actually about ~~sExxxx~~ hahahahaha everything about this album so far is like reading fanfics clearly written by middle schoolers. awsten's sad about his situationship so he goes out with his 2 best friends to forget but it doesn't work :( but he could just fuck his friends bc it wouldn't hurt to try at this point. hey what if this was what the song was actually about that because in travis' insane songfic he made jawn and awsten hook up during this chapter #neverforget #riptravisficeventhoughmebitchingontumblrmadehimkillit 4/10

end of the water (feel) - hearing awsten try to hit those high notes reminded me of people saying brendon straining on his high notes on the last panic tour was like hearing a dog that needed to be shot out back for its own good. this is very obviously a charlie puth ripoff to the t because not only does he hit high notes that no man should ever reach, but i'm pretty sure the verse instrumentals rip off "light switch" by charlie. anyways more of "ughhhhh i'm not getting a text backkkkkk" that makes me want to throw awsten's phone into the pacific. i still don't know why kurtis conner is here and how this is supposed to relate to any of this at all. also actually now that i'm crossing checking the genius pages for these, the descriptions for these songs make them sound much better than they actually are lol. 3/10

self-sabotage - this one is mid on it's own but funny because i remember the amount of twitter discourse this song has spawned. "awsten's being toxic and misogynistic" did we not listen to some of the songs off fandom "awsten has bpd" what if he just sucks sometimes. the memories of this are more memorable than the song itself. 5/10

ritual - remember when i found out the soundbyte at the beginning was from an aids psa. good times. fine song other than the shoehorned soundbyte. the entire song is just a repetition of the verses and chorus like a ~~ritual~~ spooky! i like the flair vincente void adds with his screams i feel like this feature makes more sense because it's a song about protecting yourself from the doctrines of religion that harmed you when you were growing up and apparently vincente has known awsten since he was 13???? only thing i hate is the corpse ripoff ending so much so that i have a personal version where i edited that out. 8/10

fuck about it - BORINGGGGGG OH MY GODD. if you've heard one blackbear feature, congrats you've heard them all because they all sound the same and blackbear adds no energy whatsoever. he made a bayside instrumental sound boring you really can't underestimate him. anyways back to the song itself; the situationship has dissolved into pure sex and disinterest and annoyance outside of that and with the way awsten sounds like he plans having hate sex, i don't think he's ever had hate sex before. there's the ending synth i think is fun and that's the only reason this gets a point at all. 1/10

closer - it's a sweet song but um. haven't we heard this in a way before? *cough cough 21 questions* i think this is the closest (lol) parx comes to at a return to pre-fandom form, but when i listen to the chords too much i'm just like "did he lowkey rip off that one smashing pumpkins song". anyways it's just about needing to be closer to someone or ending the relationship completely. simple but effective but not nearly as effective as 21 questions for me sorry. 7/10

a night out on earth - ok i had physical tickets to the last tour bc i won them on idobi so i was like "THIS SONG BETTER BE AT LEAST DECENT BC I STILL HANG UP THE TICKET WITH THIS NAME" and it was at the least. it's like. a good waterparks song, but i feel like i've heard it already? my mind goes back to see you in the future but for these i can't tell who's ripping off who more lol. yeah i feel like other than some interesting production here and there it's a rehash of shit we already heard before. shoehorned religious lyric. fake ass band guys. "i turn my agony into songs and people only like when i'm hurt". "i've been dead since 2016" (part two). "i'm evil now. idgaf. wat ever."

and then i think the part that makes me go awwww but also confuses me is the im a natural blue radio interview snippet? like why does this all tie in together now. geoff's not even here bro how is this the only release where otto's the only one namedropped when awsten hasn't even named dropped him until last album. 80% the album is about some random relationship how is this supposed to tie into all of these.

idk i feel like i've just had this on my mind when when of my mutuals made their own analysis on awsten's mindsets towards life and said how he uses fear as motivation but his perfectionism keeps him from using failure as an editor and how this song was the peak example of this; the rehash of the same ideas over and over because despite his stubbornness, despite "ultimately -not- giving in to the perception that you’re worth ‘Demonizing'", he never confronts the problem for real, just compartmentalizes the problem away and doesn't truly overcome the root of his problems. that's what i feel like manifests in this album for me to be put off by it at its core. nothing ever changes, he just finds a new situation to complain at. maybe that's also why his fans never change even as new ones come though. maybe that's why we also stay stagnant in this with him.

again i get it, he's a public figure; if he did dive too deep into this and didn't choose to generalize the lyrics for his own sake, he would probably end up incriminating himself way too much and have a hard time performing some of these songs. but i can't help but wonder. if he's truly getting over a mental obstacle like that, or keeps himself so set on the future that he ignores the problems he never solved. like he always does. like he always seems to be doomed to. anyways, 7/10 song.

all in all, it's an album that tries to reach a concept of coming to terms with your sexuality and religious trauma all entwined in fame but in reality it's mostly just about a sucky situationship and awsten complaining again while putting in random religious references sometimes and the beginning and ending are about fame. my hot takes are: tennis imagery = gay sex, there's not enough of a distinction between "soulsucker" and awsten to make "album lore" when the overarching concept of parx's discography is "awsten's life sucks", and darth vader is luke's father. - iz

[casspurrjoybell-20]

FOOLS - Chapter 5 - Part 1

BOOK ONE: The 'Fools Fall in Love' Trilogy

*Warning - Adult Content*

Samuel Moretti

Jason and Noah were still outside and it had been fifteen minutes since I walked back into the house.

How long did it take them to get high?

Why did they feel the need to get high?

Didn't their middle school make them go through the D.A.R.E program?

I couldn't stop thinking about it and it wasn't even a big deal... was it?

So when Cater got up and said something about going to the bathroom, I waited before he's out of sight and blurted out...

"Noah smokes weed," to my sister and Emily.

The two girls looked up from their phones.

"Yeah, Noah and Jason have been smoking weed since they were like thirteen," Emily told me.

"Jeez," Haven muttered.

Thirteen? Five years of smoking pot... I mean I guess weed isn't that bad, right?

But, at thirteen?

I heard it's a gateway drug.

"Yeah but don't let Kaitlyn know. She caught Noah smoking once and totally flipped out. She has to do a drug test for volleyball and she thought Noah cumming inside her would leave a trace of it."

Emily chuckled.

"She's such an idiot but I love her."

Emily must've seen a sour look on my face, which I hadn't realized I was making until she said...

"Oh, right. No talk of hetero sex," she joked.

Haven laughed.

It wasn't the 'hetero' sex that bothered me but whom the sex was between.

Then Haven switched the subject before I could rebuttal Emily's statement.

"Who's Zachary Price?" my sister asked with a tone that read she had a crush on him.

"Zach Price? Why?" Emily questioned.

"He's in a few classes of mine. He sits next to me in math and he just followed me on Instagram," she told us with a smile.

"Oh, girl don't do it," Emily said.

"Zach Price is a fuck boy. He'll ruin your life."

"But he's so..." Haven started, still smiling down at her cell-phone.

I looked over her shoulder and she was scrolling through his Instagram.

She pulled up a picture and turned the phone more toward me.

My eyebrows raised, damn, he was definitely hot.

He was clearly on the football team 'which I almost rolled my eyes at because Haven always dated football players'.

He looked tall and buff... too buff.

I bet he went to the gym every day and took pictures of himself to post on his Stories and drank too much protein shakes.

He had blonde hair that was styled like every typical F-boy high schooler, really Haven?

Zach was hot but basic but then again, my type was brunettes, not blondes.

Noah was my type if I was being honest, which was why I already had a shallow crush on him.

Just for his looks but his personality sucked.

"Attractive? Charming? Flirtatious?" Emily filled in the blank for Haven.

"Yeah, that's how he gets ya'. Last year, Chelsea Flenderson got sucked into his charm and she was head over heels for him. Obsessed with him and he treated her like an object. Like dirt and then he cheated on her. Don't follow him back. He'll DM you. That's how it starts."

But Haven had already followed him.

My sister had always been one to fall for the 'bad boys'.

"Good luck," I spook to only my sister as I patted her shoulder.

"What's starting?" Carter asked, walking back into the T.V. room and then finally Jason and Noah came in, laughing about something that I wasn't too sure was actually humorous given their intoxicated state.

"Zach Price took an interest in Haven," Emily said with a smirk.

All three guys made a disgusted sound and cringed.

"Not an interest," Haven defended herself.

"He followed her on Instagram," I added despite my sister.

Haven whacked me with a decorative pillow making me squeal.

"Yeah. Don't trust, Zach. He's an ass," Carter claims, taking a seat on the La-Z-Boy.

Jason had walked off in the direction of the restroom and then, the last thing I thought would happen, happened.

Noah sat right next to me, I could smell his sweet cologne again.

"And that's Carter calling Zach an ass, that's saying something," Noah jested.

I laughed then stilled when Noah leaned back into the couch and placed his arm on top of the couch cushion.

BEHIND MY HEAD.

'Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh. What was he doing?'

I mean technically, his arm wasn't around my shoulder but it might as well have been.

Didn't he know I was a gay, hormonal teenager who EASILY CRUSHES ON HOT GUYS?

'Chill out Sam, jeez-louise. Who cares?'

Noah was just a very attractive guy, get over it.

He got mad way too quick making me confused... like a mysterious, brooding, sexy... oh my goodness stop.

Noah was not brooding, he was just rude and mean and he was... standing up?

I watched as Noah got up from the couch.

I must've missed the previous conversation due to my... distracting thoughts because Noah was saying something like...

"I can go get it."

And because I was an idiot, I said...

"Do you need help?"

'Was there eagerness in my tone? There might've been but we didn't need to talk about that,' I thought, nervously.

I didn't even know what Noah was going to get but nonetheless and quite surprisingly, Noah shrugged.

I took that as a tolerable 'sure' and stood up.

Haven gave me a teasing, knowing look, so I glared at her before following Noah.

Which, I found out, downstairs was where we were headed.

I walked behind him as he opened a door, flipped on a light and began stepping down the  wooden stairs.

No, I did not notice the waistband of Noah's briefs sticking out from his black sweatpants 'Pair of Thieves was the brand' and I 'definitely' did not watch his butt the whole time he descended the stairs.

I exhaled for what felt like the first time when I got to the finale step.

The basement was huge but empty, save for a few objects.

There was an old T.V. stationed on an equally old and equally dusty entertainment center.

I was positive the television didn't work.

There was also a treadmill that was dust free, Emily must've used it often and two bins near the back.

Which looked to be where Noah was headed.

It was odd because Emily's house was so full and put together upstairs, yet downstairs seemed abandoned.

"So, um, what are we getting done here again?" I asked, rubbing my arms.

It was chilly down there.

Noah removed the lid off of the top bin and squatted down to search through it.

"Did you not hear all of us agree on watching a horror movie?"

"Horror?" I questioned, hoping my tone didn't convey the nervousness I felt.

I hated horror movies.

Noah paused at digging through the bin of, what looked like, DVD's.

He turned to face me, gave me a quizzical, yet teasing look.

"Don't you like horror movies?"

'Heck no.'

"Yeah. I like horror movies," I lied nonchalantly, with a nod.

Noah made a 'pfft' sound and went back to searching for movies.

"You're a shit liar."

He must've found the agreed-upon movie because he replaced the lid back over the bin with a DVD in hand.

Back at his full height 'a good four or so inches taller than me' Noah looked at me with bored eyes and said...

"You didn't need to come down here with me."

Definitely not for just a stupid DVD.

Which, by the way, who owned DVD's anymore?

But, then I had to think of a reason as to why I'd offer to help in the first place... and as Noah said, I was a terrible liar.

"I... didn't know if you wanted to bring the whole bin upstairs."

Noah stepped closer to me, his black t-shirt clang to him in all the right places.

"This is your first time here, how would you have known Emily has bins of horror movies in her basement?"

Checkmate.

"So, why'd you come down here?"

My nervous laugh came through again.

"Ah hahaha, um good point. I actually wanted to... talk to you, um, privately about... uhhh where you get your..."

'Gosh dang it, Sam, you always embarrass yourself.'

Noah raised his eyebrows, willing me to continue with my knowing lie but he also looked a little amused.

"Your..."

I glanced down at his hips then immediately back up to his eyes,

"Sweatpants. They look really comfortable."

Noah just stared at me for a moment then laughed.

"You're such a dumbass, let's go," and he walked past me and was already on the stairs.

"Meat-head. I know," he finished my sentence with a dry tone but he glanced at me with a smirk, before continuing upstairs.

Okay, maybe Noah's personality didn't completely suck.

********

Yeah, I definitely hated horror movies.

Especially The Conjuring, which was the lovely movie everyone choose.

Jason had the brilliant idea of turning off all of the lights, so it was pitch black in the house besides the film glowing through the sixty inch T.V. screen.

I was huddled on the middle seat of the couch with my legs brought up, so I could burry my face in my knees at any given spooky moment.

Haven was to the left of me and get this, Noah was on my right.

A large blanket 'that I had requested' was laying over all three of us.

Emily was curled up in Jason's arms 'I found out they were friends with benefits but they seemed to like each other more than they were letting on'.

And Carter was on the La-Z-Boy, shouting at the character on the screen to 'tuck your feet in, dumb fuck-head.'

She didn't tuck her feet under the blanket 'which is what Carter warned her to do' and an unknown force yanked her leg.

I yelped and buried my head in my knees.

'Oh gosh. I'm not sleeping tonight,' I thought but then my mind went blank.

Noah's hand was on the small of my back, comfortingly.

I turned my head a smidge just enough for my eye to catch him.

He wasn't looking at me.

Just watching the movie like his hand being on my back was the most mundane notion.

That night, when everyone left Emily's and I was in my own bed, I had a hard time falling asleep but not because of some horror movie but because a certain brown eyed boy was stuck in my mind.

[choco-exe]

the one where tsukishima and sakusa go too far with teasing their crush

anonymous asks:  Hiiiiii I LOVE ur writing, and I was wondering if I could request the haikyuu boys (whoever u think fits best) who constantly tease (borderline insult) their crush, who one day just breaks down from their harsh words and say to them something along the lines of “why do you hate me?”, and how the the haikyuu boys react to that. If possible, end with something fluffy 🥺? (Like a confession) TYSMMM ❤️❤️

a/n: hello! aww im glad you do :D wait i just realized you said to have the boys react to their crush saying why do you hate me- fuuuuu- ahem please forgive me for not reading the ask correctly ;w; i hope you still enjoy, nevertheless! and why did i write these long-

tw: mentions of self hate, kind of toxic behavior from sakusa

𝚝𝚜𝚞𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚊 . . .  🖉

  ☾ he’s gonna be meaner the more he likes you   ☾ like if he’s only realized he developed a crush on you, he’d treat you the same, but if it’s been weeks and you haven’t picked up the hint, he’s gonna be treating you like trash   ☾ you find him staring down at you with a dead eye stare   ☾ “what’s up, kei?” “you’re so short you look like a toddler” “..i’m the average height for a high schooler though-”   ☾ his comments about your height never got to you, but then he started to target other regions of yourself   ☾ like he’d give a rude remark about a low score you got on the quiz, or how you always look dead inside well he isn’t wrong   ☾ whenever he said something negative about you, you just shot back a counter and brushed it off   ☾ after a month of this going on, though, his words started to sting a bit   ☾ “hey kei-” “can’t you stay quiet for one second? it’s like you blab out words every chance you get”   ☾ imagine your surprise, since it was unusual of him to comment about you talking   ☾ and one of your biggest insecurities is being annoying to others; you knew you tend to ramble about things, and a nagging voice in the back of your mind was always telling you about how people around you would get fed up with it   ☾ did tsukki mean to say it like that? of course not; he was meaning to have a bit of humor in his statement   ☾ he just said it in such an annoyed tone and way that it made it seem like he was bothered by you talking   ☾ “..sorry, kei. my mind wandered for a bit..”   ☾ you figured that he just had a bad day, and you were over it after a full night of sleep i could really use that   ☾ the voice inside your head grew louder, however, and tsukishima’s comments didn’t help at all   ☾ “stop bothering me about the homework; cant you see i’m busy? ugh, fine, take my notes if you’re that stupid-”   ☾ “if you want attention, listen to this playlist. it should satisfy your longing for voices; i need to study for a test now”   ☾ it got to the point where your mind was yelling at you about being a nuisance, and the final piece you needed to break just so happened to be during a practice match..

“You did great, blocking them all, Tsukki!” You exclaimed, flashing him a grin as you pass him his water bottle and towel. In all honesty, you were forcing your smile so hard, it began to hurt your jaw. “I could’ve blocked better if someone wasn’t screaming the whole time,” the middle blocker said, wiping sweat off his forehead. You had been passing out water bottles to the other players, but you stopped dead in your tracks when his words hit your ears. “Y/N-chan..?” Shimizu asked worriedly, eyeing your expression that Tsukishima couldn’t see. The said blonde took off his goggled to switch them out with his regular glasses. “It was just a practice match; getting hyped up wasn’t exactly the brightest idea your mind conjured up.” Putting his glasses on after wiping the lenses, he looked down at you to see your tear ducts brimming with your sadness. “..huh..?” You touched your face as a tear slid down your cheek. The other club members looked at you in concern. “Ah- don’t worry, everyone..” You wave your hands frantically as Daichi and Sugawara stare disapprovingly at Tsukishima. “It’s nothing to worry about. I’m just gonna.. step outside for a bit.” You forced another smile out onto your face, then quickly scampered out of the gym. The silence was so thick, you could slice it with a sword. Four-Eyes clearly didn’t expect you to be that emotional over his statement, as his face was filled with a small mixture of concern and confusion. He ran after you, shoving his things in his hands to Yamaguchi and leaving the rest of the team shocked into standing still. You had fled to a nearby bench, where you collapsed onto and shoved your face into your hands, desperately trying to stop your tears from shedding. How stupid, you thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Look what you did; you made the team worry about you, and they’re all going to resent you the moment they find out the reason behind your crying. “Y/N.” Jolted out of your thoughts, you looked up to find Tsukishima staring down at you with an unreadable expression. Almost immediately, your face became flooded with streams of tears. You quickly looked down at your lap, fidgeting with your hands. “I-I’m sorry for talking so much, Tsukki, I’ll try to keep my thoughts to myself-” “Shut up, Y/N.” He interrupted. You sighed and calmed your breathing. “This is what I’m talking about, Tsukishima.” You muttered, putting your face in your hands once again. “I’m just a pest to everyone; anyone I encounter will automatically hate me-” “Stop insulting yourself, dammit.” The middle blocker clenched his fists in anger. “You aren’t a nuisance, and you most definitely aren’t one to be hated on- I know I can be a bit of an asshole sometimes, but did it really affect you that much-” You slowly took your face out of your hands to see the blonde crouching, staring up at you. “'Did it really affect you that much?’ What do you think?! God, it really seems like you don’t consider my feelings at all, Tsukishima! I’ve been suspecting that you hate me, but why-?!” Said boy quickly clasped your hands in his, surprising you greatly. His usual expressionless face was morphed into one in a slight panic. “It’s because I like you, idiot!” Taking a moment to process his words, your whole face flushed a scarlet-red. “What?” The tips of Tsukishima’s ears were dusted with a soft coral-pink hue. “You heard me. I won’t repeat myself.” He averted his eyes from yours, squeezing your hands in nervousness. “I-” You were internally melting inside; who would’ve thought the salty beanpole would like someone like you? “But you would always push me to the side! Telling me you were busy and such!” Tsukishima stared at you like you were the biggest dumbass in the world. “I gave you my notes because I knew you didn’t have the energy to take them in class, and the playlist was a collection of songs I thought would suit you. Are you that dense?” “Who are you calling dense?!” You replied hastily. “And for your information, I haven’t given you my answer yet! Let go of my hands, and I’ll tell you, okay?” The middle blocker leaned in close to your face with his dead eye gaze. “It’s an agreement or disagreement, Y/N. What is your response?” You leaned back into the bench, but Tsukishima followed with your movements. “Um- I-” Your words crossed with each other, the lack of personal space making your head spin. “Yes?” Satisfied, the lamppost removed his hands from yours and flicked your forehead. “Simple as that, shortcake. If you want to freeze to death outside, that’s fine by me.” He began to walk back to the gym. “Wha- I’m not short!” You exclaimed, running after the four-eyes. “Also, I’m not the one who’s been sweating profusely for the past hour, so speak for yourself!” Tsukishima gently smiled as he heard you rapidly firing back at his comment. Looks like she’s back to her usual self. 𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚜𝚊 . . .  🖉

  ✤ obviously he’s gonna be commenting about your hygiene 24/7   ✤ the fact that he’s developed a crush on you doesn’t help, either; it means that you should be extra clean if he were to date you   ✤ and of course he has to remind you almost every hour of the day; whether it be by text or in person   ✤ now, you didn’t mind him checking up on you every couple of days, but every hour??   ✤ you’re convinced that sakusa has had some sort of trauma in the past, fighting with germs ever since he was a child okay not really.. unless?   ✤ he doesn’t even do this to the other people he’s acquainted with; you’ve asked koromi about it, and he says sakusa just sprays him with holy water a disinfecting solution    ✤ now you’re confused as to why you’re getting special treatment from him, when you two aren’t as close as him and his cousin   ✤ so you personally went to his class to ask him about it   ✤ “hey kiyoomi, why do you remind me to be clean every hour that you’re awake?” “because you shouldn’t have a single germ on you.” “but it’s literally the same message every time; at least make it seem more interesting” “cleaning yourself should be simple, not complicated”   ✤ you got fed up with it as another week went by, which is understandable, since this clean freak was spamming your phone hour after hour without missing a single text   ✤ the fact that sakusa was willing to put effort into reminding you about your hygiene was kind of sweet, but the same message every. single. damn. time. was annoying you like hell   ✤ and when you tell him to stop and that you already know how to get rid of germs, he gave you a disgusted look   ✤ this had to be one of the most nasty expressions he had ever made, because you stood paralyzed to the floor   ✤ “i have been reminding you for your own good, y/n. why don’t you just appreciate what i do for you, instead of complain about it?”   ✤ your mouth stayed shut, your tongue feeling as though it was glued to the top of your mouth   ✤ “don’t mention anything like this again”   ✤ you meekly nodded, and he strolled out the classroom   ✤ the moment he was gone, you collapsed onto the floor out of fear, shivering as you replayed the scene again and again in your head   ✤ the main question that circled your head was: why was he acting so controlling?   ✤ the night after, you texted sakusa, and asked him to meet up with you at your favorite spot   ✤ surprisingly, he complied. and you were waiting for awhile by the time he got there..

“Sakusa, hi!” You greeted your friend with a small but warm smile. The ace frowned; it was unlike you to call him by his last name. In fact, it had been months since you’ve said his name with such coldness in your voice. “..why did you call me out here?” He questioned in a low tone. Your eyes grew dark as you thought about what to say to him. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened yesterday. I feel as though we need to.” Sakusa’s own eyes narrowed as you spoke each word. “Are you still going to complain about my reminders to you?” Shaking your head, you stared at your feet while hugging your arms to your chest. “Of course not, I heard what you told me to do. I just.. wanted to know why you got so angry, is all.” The jet-black haired boy stared down at you, furrowing his eyebrows as he tried to remember what specifically happened the day before. “I don’t know what you’re remembering, Y/N, but I wasn’t angry in the slightest. Are you sure you aren’t thinking of another memory of yours?” Your head snaps up when he said that he wasn’t angry. “Yes, I’m very sure.” You firmly say. “Maybe you don’t think you seemed angry, but you were downright furious. It was.. kind of terrifying.” “Are you saying I was out of control yesterday?” “No, just..” You subconsciously hugged your arms tighter to your body, trying to make yourself as small as possible. “..intimidating.” Sakusa tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. You found him intimidating? Just from a little conversation that happened because of you’re questioning ways? “I’m tired, and I’m sure you are, too,” you continued, not catching on that your friend was becoming annoyed with your talking. “Which is why I want to end this quickly. Sakusa, I have a life, too. As much as I appreciate what you do for me, I can take care of myself without your help-” “You’re repeating the same words you stated yesterday, just in different phrasing.” The germaphobe harshly cut in. “I said this once, but I will say it again, for your sake. I am doing this for your own good-” “-and I know what’s good for me and what isn’t, Sakusa!” You exclaimed, your arms no longer crossed. “I can make my own decisions! I’m not some dumb little kid you have to look after-” “Y/N-” “-so just drop this already! It doesn’t help anyone; it doesn’t help me, it doesn’t help you-” “Y/N.” Sakusa lost all patience. He towered over you, his hands clenched tightly into fists. You slightly shrink at his actions, your arms up in defense. The ace didn’t seem to notice your fear as he took a step forward. “You are crawling with so many germs, I can practically see them all over you. You are in no condition to be deciding on your hygiene, when you can’t even rid of the many dirt particles covering your skin.” He took another step forward, and you step back, unsure of what to do. Sakusa broke out of his anger when he heard a slight sob leave your lips. “Why do you hate me so much, Sakusa?!” You asked, pain laced into your voice. “I’m perfectly capable of not being dirty, can’t you see?! Why can’t you just leave me alone-” You used your sleeves to start wiping the tears away, although they doubled to replace the ones you removed. The ace hesitantly enveloped you in a hug, making you break down even more. “Sakusa- no- you’re gonna get germs on you-” You stammered, resisting the temptation to bury your face into his chest. “..I made you cry. I need to pay the consequences.” Said boy murmured, rubbing shapes onto your back. You continued to cry for a good 5 minutes, before slowly pushing him away. “..thank you.” You sniffled. “I know consequences has nothing to do with that. Why did you-?” “I like you, Y/N.” He cut you off, making your eyes widen. “The reason why I’d been constantly reminding you to wash up is because I thought I should date someone who was clean to the touch. That was wrong of me, so very wrong. I apologize, and it’s fine if you reject-” You shut him up with a kiss to his mask. “Are you traumatized yet?” You asked, trying to crack a smile. “That’s my revenge from yesterday.” Sakusa blinked multiple times before realizing what you did. “..I guess I deserved that. So is that a yes..?” You broke out into a beautiful, radiant smile this time, the moonlight making you glow even more than you already were. “Of course, Kiyoomi!”

[4ragon]

Any Simon Blackquill thoughts?

Bro you have no idea how many thoughts I have about Simon Blackquill.

I keep saying this, but I used to hate this dude a lot. I went into Dual Destinies with a lot of spoilers, but I hadn’t realized that Simon Blackquill was just a dude convicted of murder?? Prosecuting?? For some reason??? And again, DD was that game that really liked to stretch the limit of my tolerance. I get that they retroactively make it work like they do with every other ‘pushing the limits’ plot twist they’d take away at the last second, but at the time, it was just one more “Oh okay, they’re just going to not care about making sense” to add to the pile. It was stupid! And Simon was a mean asshole, I didn’t get him. I didn’t get why people cared about him. Sure his backstory was sweet but what was the point of what he was doing anyway? I didn’t get it.

And for a while after I finished Dual Destinies, that was kind of it. He was a frustrating presence, and he was boring and bland, and I didn’t care for him.

And then I replayed Dual Destinies with some friends, and I realized: Oh? Wait. This guy is genuinely kind of funny????

Like. Simon Blackquill is really funny. He’s funny! He talks like a fucking ye olde samurai for literally no reason, and the things he says make no sense. He switches rapidly between angry no-nonsense asshole and “Ah Yes Your Baldness That Man Is A Ghost” and then he just up and leaves in the middle of court to go for a walk??? Like. He’s unhinged and weird and I appreciate that.

So that was it, right? He went from Bland and Uninteresting to Funny. Maybe that was enough. Surely there wasn’t more to it than that, right?

Listen. You guys. I think Simon Blackquill is my favorite prosecutor.

He’s got all these layers to him. There’s this angry no-nonsense ruthless prosecutor, who is dangerous and scary, who threatens people who annoy him, who has this short fuse. And then he’s refusing to respect a single person he talks to like some sort of petulant, sulking teenager, calling the judge Your Baldness and lounging backwards at the bench and falling asleep during a very boring testimony. And he laughs at his own jokes even if they’re bad, and he loves that fucking bird so much, getting angry and menacing when someone said “Birdbrain” in a derogatory way. Guys, he was So Stoked To Kill A Whale. And for what??

And then you add into the mix the fact that he’s on death row for a crime he didn’t commit.

Like. How much of how he presents himself was a defense mechanism of a scared young man who had to pretend to be a ruthless murderer at all costs? He had to be this violent, scary monster because the moment he stopped was the moment the jig was up, the moment he failed. There was not a person alive who knew that he was innocent, other than Athena and the Phantom, and the fact of the matter is, there was no instance where Simon could let that facade drop even for a second, probably even for himself.

Like he had to have been terrified to let his guard drop with anyone. For one, as a man who was supposed to put criminals in prison, being this ruthless scary monster was probably his biggest defense he had in prison. And conversely he couldn’t even drop the act around people he trusted if he had any hope of convincing them he murdered his mentor in cold blood.

And he was so ready to die for Athena, too. He was so close to his execution. And he had to keep pretending, keep building these walls around his heart just to save one girl from taking the blame. He’s an asshole, and I wonder how much of that was a conscious effort to drive people away? How much of it was him not wanting to hurt people by getting close to them, and how much was him not wanting to hurt himself? I feel like he did desperately want to be saved, wanted to cling to life, was terrified of what was happening, but anything that could possibly give him that hope was also just as quickly going to damn Athena, and he couldn’t even let himself care about that, or about his own personal wellbeing, since after all, he himself was throwing all that away anyway. All he could do was cry in private, letting his tears stain his face but not even caring enough to wipe them away.

I’ve said it before, but the Simon who went to prison and the Simon who was released from prison had to be two different people. He spent so much time becoming the Twisted Samurai and facing his own mortality that so much of who he was had to have been warped and twisted just to survive, just to keep himself together until he could be sacrificed for his mentor’s child.

There’s clearly so much trauma wrapped up in him. And yet there’s still this twisted humor that he thrives on. He fucks with the other inmates by greasing the floors, he asks Apollo if he wants to come back to his prison cell for the night for Some Fucking Reason and then has to write fucking Lines like a middle schooler. He’s trying to squeeze all this humor out of his shitty taste of freedom as he hurls himself off a cliff, while still being an uncooperative asshole to everyone around him.

Shit, dude, I love Simon a lot. I love characters clinging so desperately to these facades they create to protect themselves. I love characters who are so desperately lonely and still lash out to keep people away from them. I love it. I love it so much.

And I love that he’s a little more chill in SoJ. He’s reconnecting with some old friends, eating at restaurants he used to love. He’s still spending time with Athena and growing past the horrible shit he’s been through. And he’s still this smug, uncooperative asshole, butting heads with anyone and everyone he physically can, but there’s no longer that air of “A dying man recklessly wringing everything he can out of the last year of his life,” now he’s just enjoying being an asshole. And you know what? I think he’s earned it.

There was an artbook or something that described pre-prison Simon as polite and reserved. I do like to think there was a mischievous side to him too, especially given the fact that he had someone like Aura as an older sister. But he was just a polite, gentle soul who had to twist himself into something horrible just to get through to the other side. And now he gets to heal and grow, and get a new chance at life that was taken from him for seven years.

Shit. I can’t believe how much I’ve grown to care about this shithead.

[joonie-beanie]

Feline Charms

Pairing: Satan x Reader

Word Count: 5,753

Preview: After sneaking into Satan's room to return a book for Mammon, you end up coming in contact with a charm that turns you into a cat. Everything starts off innocently enough, but...

“Can you not feel it? The way your tail is wagging behind you—like you’re ready to pounce. Did you enjoy the outcome of me getting frustrated with you?”

"I..."

"If you admit it, I'll give you what you what."

"What do you think I want?"

“I think you want me to be rough with you. I never thought of you as the type to get off on being dominated, but I can see now that I pegged you wrong. You’d love to be used until you’re just a toy with no thoughts of your own, wouldn’t you?”

** Please note that this is a cross-posting **

This chapter was originally posted on 2/6/2020 as a part of my “Devil Doms” series on AO3.

This is all Mammon’s fault.

…as things usually are.

The Avatar of Greed had begged you for a favor; “ya gotta take this book back to Satan’s room for me. He’s pissed because I haven’t given it back yet—but if you’re the one who takes it, then at least you’ll make it out alive!”

So, you’d agreed out of the kindness of your heart, and had made your way to Satan’s room. After knocking and receiving no response, you debated taking the book back to Mammon and telling him you had tried. Instead, you test the doorknob, and are surprised to find that it’s unlocked.

With all the precious books Satan treasures so dearly inside his room, he tends to lock the door when he’s not home. After all, the last thing he needs to deal with is another body-switching incident, or worse.

For a moment, you hesitate. You don’t want to invade his space without permission, but…all you need to do is take a few steps in, set the book down, and leave. What could possibly go wrong?

Pushing the door open, you cautiously pad your way into the book laden room. You fear that simply leaving the book on one of the many stacks won’t be obvious enough. It will likely blend in, and as annoying as Mammon is at times, you don’t want Satan to maim him.

So, you opt for placing the book somewhere more obvious—like Satan’s desk on the other end of the room. Making your way over, you place the book directly in the center of the flat wooden surface, and then rip a piece of paper out of the notepad resting nearby.

A gift from Mammon –Y/N

You smile at your own sense of humor, and set the note on top of the book. Turning, you begin to head for the door, but a flash of gold catches your eye. You pause, walking over to the source of the gleaming metal.

On top a pedestal is a book with a golden charm. You note that the charm is in the shape of a cat—almost like one you’d find hanging off a middle schooler’s backpack--and giggle to yourself.

Despite what Satan says, you know he has a soft spot for felines, and it’s adorable.

Reaching forward, your hands skim the soft white pages of the book. There’s an illustration of a cat in the middle of the page, and you have just enough time to make out the word’s “magic” “charm” and “water” before there’s a clicking sound behind you.

Panicked, you jump, and accidentally stumble—losing your balance. The only thing to help steady you is the pedestal, and you reach out to grab it. However, as you do, you touch the golden charm, and suddenly the world has gone black around you.

What the hell? You think to yourself, aimlessly reaching out. It feels like there’s fabric around you, and after a moment you manage to find some light ahead. Pushing your way through the darkness, you blink at your new surroundings.

It still seems like you’re in Satan’s room, but…everything is…much larger.

“Guess I forgot to lock it,” you hear the Avatar of Wrath mumble, and your blood runs cold. How are you going to explain why you were snooping around in his room?! Returning a book is one thing, but clearly you’d done something wrong, because his room is about 5x bigger than before!

“Satan, I--,” you open your mouth to explain, but the only sound that comes out is a…meow?

Blinking, you hold a hand up in front of you, but instead you only see fur, and a 5 squishy pink toe-beans.

“Oh? How did you get in here?” you hear Satan speak again, and suddenly a hand is tucking beneath your belly. You squeak in surprise, wide eyes turning up to face the blond man now holding you. There’s a perplexed look on his face, but he doesn’t seem mad.

“Satan, it’s me!” you try to say, but again, the words come out as mewls. Satan frowns, leaning in closer.

“What’s wrong? Are you hungry?” he asks, and you vehemently shake your head. The clear side-to-side motion obviously surprises the Avatar of Wrath.

“Well, you’re a smart one, aren’t you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

You nod, and Satan takes a few steps forward, placing you gingerly on top of his desk. You sit, staring up at him—so badly wishing you could just explain the situation. At least when he and Lucifer had switched bodies, they’d still been able to communicate.

Unsure what to do, Satan cocks his head to the side and stares back at you.

“Cats, as cute as they are, typically aren’t so…aware,” he mutters to himself. Reaching a hand forward, he rubs your head, and you immediately startle. However, after a second you realize how soothing the feeling is, and can’t help but lean into his touch.

Satan chuckles. “Feel good?” He moves to mess with the furry ears on your head, and you melt at the feeling, a purr rumbling in your chest uncalled upon. The sound startles you, and you know that you should really be focusing on the issue at hand—but damn.

“Y/N would likely be happy to meet you. She loves cats,” he muses to himself, and hearing your name manages to snap you out of it. You duck out from his grasp, taking a step back and staring at him sternly. Satan eyebrows raise.

“What?”

You lift your front paw and then slap it back down on the desk—something akin to a child stomping their foot in dissatisfaction. Satan looks positively bewildered.

Unsure what to do, he attempts to reach for you again, but you dodge his hand. As you do so, you notice the note you had left him nearby, and immediately dash over to it.

“Look!” you cry, your desperation reflected in meow that leaves you. Curious, Satan glances over. He takes the small note into his hands, his eyes scanning over the words. His brows furrow, clearly wondering why the feline that had magically appeared in his room is so adamant about this note, but after a moment realization shines in his eyes.

He looks from the note, to you, and back again. Then, his eyes stray to the other side of the room, where the book with the golden charm is now laying face-down on his floor.

“…Y/N?” he questions, as if not believing it himself. You nod, your head hanging in both embarrassment and relief. You’re glad that Satan is smart, because if it were anyone else, you’re not sure they would have thought twice about your un-feline-like reactions.

Sighing, the Avatar of Wrath brings his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Let me guess…you came to return Mammon’s book for him because he’s a coward, accidentally touched the charm on the other book, and now you’re a cat?”

You meow your affirmation, and Satan shakes his head—a tiny chuckle sneaking past his lips.

“Of course.”

Turning, he moves to pick up the book that obviously contains some sort of magic, and moves to sit in a chair nearby. Curious, you pad your way over to the edge of the desk and watch him.

“I just got this book recently. I knew that the charm hanging on it contained a spell, so I was being careful not to touch it, but…,” he trails off, and you feel your ears flatten in embarrassment. Satan notices, and reaches over to pet your head. Again, the feeling is strange to you, but not unwelcome. If anything, you want to sprawl out and let him run his hands over your fur, but…that seems a bit strange, even if you are trapped in the body of a cat at the moment.

“It’s not your fault. We’ll blame Mammon,” he says, trying to cheer you up, and it works.

Turning his attention back to the book, Satan quickly scans through the pages. Your curiosity gets the best of you as you watch him, and you daringly hop off the desk onto the arm of the chair. Satan blinks in surprise, watching you as you unthinkingly make your way onto his lap. You take a seat on his thigh, your innocent gaze peering up at the book, and he can’t help but laugh.

“Maybe I won’t turn you back,” he says, his fingers moving to rub your ears once more. “You’re very cute like this.”

You whine at his words, head turning to look at him. Your eyes are nearly begging, and despite himself, Satan lowers his book and bends down to kiss the top of your head.

If you were human, you’re sure your face would be the color of a tomato.

“I’m joking. Give me a few minutes to read. I haven’t gotten to the section about spell nullification yet.”

You nod, understanding, and patiently wait.

Sure enough, after a short while, Satan makes a satisfied grunt, and closes the book. You jump up in excitement, looking back at him. He responds by picking you up—cradling you against his chest as he begins to pad across his room.

“Unfortunately, it seems that I can’t break the spell. It will wear off naturally within the next 24 hours. However, according to the text, there is a way to lessen the effects.”

Your ears perk up curiously at that, your eyes taking in your surroundings as Satan leads you up a spiral staircase and to a part of his room you’ve never seen before. At the top of the stairs, you find a nook with another chair and another book shelf. Just beyond it is a doorway, and as he traverses the threshold, you note that the inside of the adjoining room is much cleaner—a perfectly made bed positioned against the middle of the far wall.

However, Satan doesn’t lead you to the mattress. Instead, he diverts to another doorway, and beyond it you find a bathroom. It’s spotless—a spacious, dark tiled shower located in the corner. The walls of the shower are clear glass, and Satan makes his way to the door—pulling it open.

You watch him eagerly as he reaches inside, turning on the water. Immediately droplets begin to rain down from the showerhead—and he places his hand into the stream, waiting for it to warm.

You meow up at him, wondering what he’s doing.

“Water, apparently, is an aid to nullification,” he explains.

After a few seconds, steam begins to fog up the glass walls, and Satan bends to set you on the ground.

“Go on,” he tells you when you stare up at him. However, your instincts are screaming at you to run away. You’re pretty sure it’s because you’re a cat—and cats hate water—but no matter the logic you try and convince yourself with, your body doesn’t move.

Satan frowns. “What?”

You shake your head, fur standing on end as you back away from the evil shower. Realization dawns on the demon, and he sighs—finally getting a bit irritated.

“You don’t want to go in the water because you’re a cat?”

You whine in affirmation, taking another step back. The Avatar of Wrath narrows his eyes.

Abruptly, he reaches down and grabs the hem of his green sweater. You stare in shock as he pulls the fabric over his head—his blond hair messy at the action. Next, he undoes his belt, and slips off his shoes and socks—tossing them to the side.

It’s in that moment that you realize what he’s planning, and without thinking twice, you make a break for the door. Seriously, if you were in your right mind, you would have just gotten in the shower. After all, it’s not like you want to stay a cat! But your feline nature is affecting your actions, and right now, warning alarms are sounding in your head.

“Oh, no,” he speaks up, closing the bathroom door in your face before you can escape. You bristle, turning and trying to find somewhere to hide, but he scoops you up before you can. Satan holds you tightly to his chest, making his way back to the shower, and you push against him. Your claws draw lines in the skin on his chest, and he gives you a little squeeze in warning.

“Stop. Don’t make me punish you,” he growls, finally pulling the door to the shower open and stepping inside. You cry out as the hot water washes over you—struggling against him to break free and escape—but Satan has no intention of letting you go.

You feel your claws sink into his skin once more, and you see anger beginning to seep onto his face—but before either of you can react, something happens. The world around you blurs, and when you regain your bearings, you find your face just inches from Satan’s.

He’s still holding you tightly, and it doesn’t take long for you to realize that you’re…

Your cheeks flush deep pink as you experimentally move—feeling your wet breasts slip against his chest.

…oh god. You’re naked.

“Satan, I--,” you babble out, intending to apologize, but when you look back up, Satan captures your lips with his own. You startle, goosebumps rising on your skin as he loosens his hold on you—one of his hands moving to rest on your hip as the other moves to tangle in your hair.

“Mm­--!” you cry when he sternly yanks on the wet strands, effectively deepening the angle of the kiss. His tongue claims your mouth as his own—swallowing up your whines—and despite yourself, you begin to feel arousal swirl in your gut.

“I told you to stop. You didn’t,” he speaks after pulling back, his displeased emerald eyes boring into you.

You know from experience that Satan’s anger appears as if flipping a switch, but this is the first time he’s responded like…this.

“I…,” you blush, unable to look away. “I didn’t want to fight you, but my instincts…”

He stares at you for a few long seconds, his grip on your hair gradually loosening, before he sighs and releases you.

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching past you to turn off the water. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, blushing. Your arms raise and hug your chest—thighs pressing together—and suddenly Satan is turning red as well. For a second there, he’d forgotten that you’re, um…ahem.

“I’ll grab you a towel,” he says, pushing the shower door open and stepping out. He rummages around in a nearby cabinet and you hesitantly follow after him—stepping out onto the cold tile floor. When he turns back and notices you standing there, you note that his eyes do a quick rake of your body before he hurriedly averts his gaze.

“Here,” he says, holding the towel out.

“Thanks,” you respond, taking it from him. He idles for a moment, seemingly lost. And to be fair, you’re not quite sure how to act in this situation either. It’s not like you had ever expected to be naked in Satan’s bathroom after accidentally turning into a cat.

“I’ll, uh, let you dry off,” he eventually speaks, coughing, and turns to leave. You nod, waiting until he’s gone to start drying yourself off. You start with your arms—quickly brushing the towel down your front, and then your legs. It’s not until you move to run the towel down your back that you jump in surprise—a certain spot above your tailbone unexpectedly sensitive.

What the--, you think, stepping in front of the mirror nearby. What you find causes a small cry to slip from your lips.

“Y/N?” you hear Satan question from the other room. Quickly, without really thinking, you reach for the nearest piece of dry clothing—shove it over your head—and then burst out of the bathroom.

“I have ears!!” you exclaim, appearing inside the bedroom in nothing but Satan’s sweater. “And a tail!”

The Avatar of Wrath stares at you with wide eyes, his brain trying to process the sight in front of him. If your outburst isn’t startling enough, seeing you standing there—barely covered by his shirt—definitely raises the stakes.

“I did say water would cure only some of the effects,” he tells you, and it’s in that moment that you realize he’s standing just feet away from you in nothing more than a fresh pair of boxer-briefs. Your eyes drag down his toned torso, pausing when you notice a bulge in the fabric, angled against his thigh.

Satan notices where you're looking, and is about ready to apologize again—making excuses regarding why he’s rock solid—when he notices that your tail is waving behind you. Pausing, he glances up to your face, and finds that your pupils are dilated as well.

Clarity washes over him, and a wicked grin spreads on his lips.

“Did you like it? When I kissed you in the shower?” he asks, posing a hand on his hip. The cocky look on his face catches you off guard. How is he able to so easily switch between being kind, and…sadistic.

“W-What? Why are you asking?” you retort, cheeks flushing pink. Your hands grip the soft fabric of his sweater as he takes a step forward.

“Can you not feel it? The way your tail is wagging behind you—like you’re ready to pounce. Did you enjoy the outcome of me getting frustrated with you?”

You can feel your heart thundering in your chest—embarrassed, and nervous, but…the way he’s speaking also has arousal pooling between your legs.

“I…”

He’s bearing down on you now, one of his hands lifting to tenderly rub against your cheek. You can’t take your eyes off of him—watching his face carefully as he wraps his other arm around your waist, dragging you into him.

“If you admit it, I’ll give you what you want,” he says, his fingers lightly coasting up the skin on your face. You feel his touch on your ears—ears that are fuzzy, and usually not on your head—and the sensitivity of them has you gasping quite loudly.

You attempt to escape his touch (despite your instincts, which are currently screaming at you to let him continue, because god it feels so good), but Satan isn’t letting you go anywhere. With his arm wrapped around you—you’re stuck. There’s no way you can beat him in a game of strength.

“What do you think I want?” you manage to respond, mustering up a bit of courage. It’s not in your nature to just let someone talk to you like that without teasing them back. Satan, however, is blunt with his rebuttal.

“I think you want me to be rough with you.” His fingers leave your ear, moving down to wrap around your throat. His grip is firm—not enough to choke you—but you still feel light-headed nonetheless.

“I think that despite attributing it to a natural feline reaction, you enjoyed the repercussions of our little chase in the bathroom.”

He takes a step forward, and your back hits the doorframe. Still, you’re unable to look away from him—his bright eyes full of unspoken promises.

“I never thought of you as the type to get off on being dominated, but I can see now that I pegged you wrong. You’d love to be used until you’re just a toy with no thoughts of your own, wouldn’t you?”

Your breathing has picked up now—fanning in hot puffs between your bodies. Each of his words causes sinful scenarios to bloom within your mind—and you feel your pussy clench around nothing—hot, and aching to be filled.

“But…if I’ve got it all wrong, just tell me to stop, and I will,” he says, taking a small step back. However, you don’t want him to stop. You desperately want more.

Without missing a beat, you close the gap he had created—your lips greedily capturing his own as you lift your hands to cup his face. Yet, as soon as you touch him, Satan is pushing you away—your back roughly hitting the wall behind you.

His fingers tighten around your neck.

“If you want more, I expect a verbal response.”

“Please touch me,” you respond, breathless. Satan leans in, your lips nearly touching, and he looks you in the eye.

“Tell me how. If I’m not satisfied, you won’t get anything.”

“I…,” your mouth feels dry—brain amiss with the amount of desperation currently afflicting you. You’ve never needed to be touched so badly before. If Satan doesn’t fulfill your desires, you’re not sure what you’ll do.

“I want—,” your words are cut off as a gasp involuntarily escapes your mouth. Satan’s other hand has found its way between your legs—two fingers rubbing between your soaking folds.

“D-Didn’t you just say I wouldn’t get anything?” you question, thighs clenching against his hand—desperate for more. He cocks an eyebrow at you, an infuriating smile on his lips.

“Does this really count as something?”

His fingers tease at your entrance, barely dipping into your pussy. Even if you think of grinding down to force him deeper, his hold on your neck prevents you from doing so—and you whine as he pulls his fingers away—simply continuing to tease your womanhood while neither touching your clit nor pushing his digits inside of you.

“I would suggest saying what’s on your mind, Y/N. You shouldn’t be a mindless slut just yet, considering I haven’t really touched you.”

His words have you feeling warm all over, but you decide to listen.

“I want you inside of me,” you say, starting off innocently enough. You’ve never verbally been lewd before—the idea of telling someone what you want them to do to you while they’re standing right there is a bit terrifying—but you know if you don’t start somewhere, you’ll never get what you want.

“I want you to finger fuck me until my knees buckle, and I’m begging you to let me cum.” You get braver with every word, and when you feel Satan’s cock strain against your stomach—trapped in the tight space between your bodies—a wave of satisfaction emboldens you.

“Your sweater smells like you—so very good—and I want you to rip me out of it. To punish me for wearing what’s yours without permission. I want your hands on me—pushing me down into your mattress and grabbing my hips as you fuck me with little regard for my own pleasure—only chasing after your own.”

Satan’s breathing is a bit gruffer now—his face burying against your shoulder as his hand drops away, coming to momentarily rest near your hip. You feel his canines scrape the flesh on your neck—his hand sneaking beneath the hem of his sweater and dragging upward—and goosebumps rise on your skin. Your confidence momentarily falters—a hot wave of arousal jumbling your thoughts—but you continue.

“I want you to have your way with me knowing that what I desire doesn’t matter. You’re in charge, and I have no say—just the way it should be. The Avatar of Wrath’s personal little pet.”

Without warning, he bites down on your skin—two of his fingers slipping inside of your pussy at the same time. A breathless whine escapes you—pain and pleasure mingling—and when you attempt to grind your hips down on his hand, he nips at you again.

Immediately you cease all movements, wincing at the sting, but you’d be lying if you said the pain didn’t turn you on. And Satan knows it does. He can feel your pussy clenching around him, getting even wetter as he soothes his tongue over the marks on your neck.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad--,” he speaks up, mumbling hotly against you, “—if you kept the ears, and tail. I could put a collar on you—let everyone know that you’re my personal property. Wouldn’t you like that?”

You open your mouth to respond, but he doesn’t give you the chance—his lips moving to capture your own as his digits thrust between your walls. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, swallowing the moans that rip from your throat—his pace ruthless as he fingers fucks you. But he knows it’s what you want—your pussy positively drenched for him—lewd sounds permeating the room with each flick of his wrist.

His other hand finds your breast, squeezing the soft flesh roughly and causing you to whine. Satan’s touches are sure to leave you sore and bruised, but the idea of having marks to remind you of this moment for days to come is undeniably appealing.

“S-Satan,” you gasp, your knees beginning to buckle. You’re already racing towards your climax—his fingers pressing into your sweet spot with every jab.

“Are you already going to cum?” he asks, placing an open-mouthed kiss against your jaw. Your head is spinning, but you manage to nod.

Satan hums. “Should I let you cum?”

“Please.” Your voice is raw with desperation—your head pressing back against the doorframe as the dam holding your orgasm at bay threatens to collapse. Weakly, your hand raises to grab Satan’s arm—your fingernails digging into his skin.

He chuckles, placing a tease of a kiss against your jaw.

“Cum then.”

And you do—mouth opening into a silent scream as you release around his fingers. He pumps you through it—pace slowing to drag out the waves of pleasure. And finally, once you’re able to breathe again—your head slumping forward against Satan’s shoulder—he pulls his hand from between your thighs.

You feel him wipe his soaking digits on your leg, smearing your own juices against your skin. It’s an embarrassing realization—that you had drenched his hand with your arousal—but you don’t get long to think on it, because both his arms wrap around the backs of your thighs. He hefts you up—your arms instinctively raising to wrap around his neck as your legs dangle on either side of his torso.

You can feel his clothed erection pressing at your womanhood—and you realize that despite cumming—there’s no way you’re done.

“Don’t regret what you said earlier about letting me use you,” he whispers into your ear, and turns towards the bed. Within seconds, you find yourself thrown onto the soft sheets—the Avatar of Wrath flipping you onto your stomach.

There’s movement on the mattress behind you, and then Satan’s hands are reaching forward to grab your hips. He forces you onto your knees—dragging your ass backwards—and without warning, something quite large shoves between your walls.

“Mm--!” you bite your lip, fingers grasping at the sheets as Satan begins chasing his own release. His hips smack against your ass, rattling the bedframe with each movement, and despite yourself, pleasure begins building in your gut once more.

“Look at you,” Satan speaks, a little breathless. “So submissive, and perfect.”

You whine at his words, thighs shaking as the intensity of his love-making begins to overwhelm you. If it weren’t for Satan’s grip on your hips, you’d be slack against the sheets—twitching, and taking a much-needed breather.

But this isn’t about you. Right now, it’s about him, and you both know it. It’s Satan’s turn to do whatever he wants. It’s the least you can give him, considering he’d already let you cum, right?

“Do you think you can cum again?” he asks, and you shake your head no. He chuckles, one of his hands reaching around to toy with your clit. The stimulation immediately has you crying out—pussy tightening around him and forcing a grunt from his throat.

“Let’s see, shall we?”

The next few minutes are a blur—your mind spiraling into incoherency as Satan’s dick stretches and fills you in all the right ways. With his fingers rubbing circles at your clit, you’re brought back to the brink of orgasm quicker than you’d imagined—the pleasure beginning to tip into overstimulation.

“Please please please please,” you chant, forcing yourself to clench around him. Satan groans, retaliating with a brutal thrust that has tears pricking at your eyes. You’re not sure if you want to cum, or simply want him to cum so you can finally catch your breath.

“Shit,” he curses, beginning to fall apart around the edges. His fingers work at your clit even faster than before, and you choke on a cry—attempting to pull your hips away—but he doesn’t let you.

With a guttural moan tearing from your throat, he forces another orgasm from your spent body. You go limp—any remaining strength fading from your limbs, and Satan drags you back onto his cock a few more times before his pace falters, and he finds his bliss as well.

When his touch disappears from you, you immediately collapse onto your side—covered in sweat—your clit twitching with aftershocks. Your eyes are closed, yet they open tiredly when you feel a palm cup your cheek.

Satan is sat in front of you now, a tinge of concern showing in his emerald eyes. Since you can’t move, you simply lean into his touch, and he breathes a laugh.

“I tend to forget that humans are so fragile…”

“I’m not fragile,” you respond, smiling a little. “I’m just exhausted. You gave me the fucking of a lifetime—how am I supposed to act after an experience like that?”

There’s a beat of silence, and you glance up to find a perplexed look on Satan’s face. It’s almost as if he feels…guilty.

“Hey,” you speak up, catching his attention. You beckon him forward with a nod of your head, and Satan complies—scooting to lay next to you. Once close enough, you reach your arms forward and hug his head to your chest.

“I really enjoyed that,” you tell him honestly. “Please don’t feel bad.”

“I…it’s hard for me to control my nature, sometimes,” he admits, but relaxes into your embrace. “While it feels good to give in, I don’t like the idea that I did anything without your consent first.”

“I know that if I had asked you to stop, you would have. So, don’t worry, Satan. We��re fine.”

At your reassurance, he sighs quite loudly, and you feel his lips press a soft kiss against your breast.

“Will you stay here? Tonight?”

You laugh. “You would have been stuck with me either way. I can’t move at all right now.”

He snorts, his blond hair tickling your chin, and you continue thoughtfully. “Well, I guess you could have carried me back to my room. But then you run the risk of running into the others—and having to explain why I can’t walk and have ears and a tail. And I don’t think you want that.”

“The others don’t get to see this,” he speaks up seriously, pushing onto his forearm and catching your gaze. “I want these moments to only be mine.”

His words cause a blush to spread on your cheeks, and you avert your eyes.

“That’s quite greedy of you. I thought you were the Avatar of Wrath, Satan.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Will you let them be mine?”

Shyly, you nod, and Satan smiles with satisfaction.

“I’ll get a wet rag, and some clothes for you to sleep in,” he says, and disappears from your side. You hear him padding around the room, but you’re too tired to move an inch. Eventually, you feel a warm cloth on your thighs, and a soft shirt being pulled over your head, but the minutes blur together. You’re exhausted, and as soon as Satan returns to his bed—his arm resting across your waist as he settles in beside you—you’re out like a light.

In the morning—

“Oi! Y/N!” Mammon’s loud call startles you as you step foot into the dining hall. He presses up from his seat, hurrying towards you. The other brothers are already gathered around the table—Satan included, and he watches the interaction silently.

“Where the hell were you last night? I went knocking at your door and you never came to answer. I thought Satan had killed ya!”

“LMAO but you were too scared to go to Satan’s room and check,” Levi butts in, causing Mammon to flush bright red.

“I ain’t scared ‘a him!” he denies, pointing a finger at the 4th eldest brother. Satan ignores the outburst, but from his side, Asmodeus hums happily. There’s a sparkle in his eye.

“I don’t know, Mammon, I would be. I could have sworn I heard Y/N screaming when I walked past Satan’s door last night~”

Asmo’s comment has heat creeping up your neck, but Satan’s response gives nothing away.

“She decided to stay and read a book from my collection. I realized she was getting to a scary part, and decided to play a prank on her. She didn’t really appreciate it.”

Six pairs of eyes turn to you expectantly, and you laugh—your hand rubbing at your neck.

“Sorry if I worried you…I’m really bad with scary things.”

There’s a look on Asmo’s face that tells you he doesn’t buy your excuse one bit, but nevertheless, he decides to roll with it.

“Ooo~ If that’s the case then I say we have a scary movie night soon! I want to hold Y/N in my lap and make her feel safe while watching~”

“That might be the most dangerous spot to be,” Belphegor mumbles, and Asmodeus feigns hurt. At the same time, immediately Mammon is yelling about how you’re under his watch, and no one is allowed to touch you but him. That draws responses of indignation from an array of people at the table, but in the middle of it all, Satan raises a hand to hide his smile.

His eyes meet yours, his emerald orbs flashing with something akin to mirth, and you know that even while the others argue about who has the right to touch you—from here on out, your most intimate moments will be reserved for Satan.

And that, you don’t have any problem with. 

[eldritch-elrics]

this summer, me and my brother watched four whole shows. at long last, here is my comprehensive review of all of them!

in the order we watched them, these shows were:

avatar the last airbender (ATLA)

mob psycho 100 (MP100)

demon slayer / kimetsu no yaiba (KNY)

fullmetal alchemist: brotherhood (FMAB)

they were all very very good!

i’m not going to try to rank them, but, as is probably obvious by the state of my blog, my favorite was FMAB :) if i had to pick a least favorite, then, it would probably be KNY—not by any fault of its own, but just because it didn’t appeal to me quite as much as the others. still a very good show!

i will review each show by:

giving a quick plot-based pitch discussing the show’s hook or appeal

discussing one element that i believe it does better than any other show on this list—in other words, a quality that i think it stands out for

discussing one element that didn’t appeal to me or that i had issues with—a criticism

putting forth my favorite character and favorite episode or arc, just for funsies

including various other commentary. mostly positive, as, again, i did really like all of these!

(i’ve tried to make this whole thing free of specific spoilers, but if you’re planning on watching any of these shows and want to go in more-or-less blind, it might be best not to read this.)

first of all, i’d just like to discuss all four of these shows as a whole! it was definitely interesting watching one after another and noting similarities between them.

all of them have siblings in them! which is, perhaps, fitting, as i watched them with my brother

two include a pair of siblings in which one has powers and one doesn’t (at least at first), and part of the narrative involves getting better at using those powers (ATLA, MP100)

two include a narrative centered around a pair of siblings and something tragic that happens to them, resulting in the older one being traumatized and forced to train to become a soldier, and the younger one turning into something (arguably) inhuman. the protagonist’s major goal is to return his younger sibling to the way they were before (KNY, FMAB)

ATLA and FMAB are both fantasy political dramas, which is rapidly becoming a favorite genre of mine

most of these are historical, or historically inspired in some way, which is interesting!

all of these shows are really really good at character building. all the main characters are interesting and complex, and the relationships between those characters are similarly nuanced and very well written. they make you really care about both the protagonists and the side characters!

avatar: the last airbender

pitch: as the ever-growing imperial force of the fire nation threatens the earth and water nations, a kid from the long-lost air nation turns up and it turns out he can control all four elements and he has to save the world and all that. sorry i tried to write this pitch like five times and realized that well at this point i think everyone reading this will know the plot of avatar

stands out for: avatar has possibly the best worldbuilding i have ever seen in a show—it takes the time to introduce us to so many places and aspects of its world, both explicitly and subtly. the main highlight of this is the magic system. by creating a magic system based in body movement, the process of using magic and learning to use/control it better becomes immediately obvious to the viewer. combine that with the philosophy behind each type of bending and the way that characters take bending inspiration from types different than their own, and you’ve got a system that is complex, flexible, believable, internally consistent, and just plain fun! it makes action sequences a blast. i especially liked the moments when bending was stretched to its limits in totally logical ways (metalbending, bloodbending). not to mention the way that bending is seamlessly integrated into the world of avatar! the example that comes to mind is the earthbending-powered transport system of omashu. a whole essay could be written on that topic alone!

criticism: i know this is a sentiment shared by many people, but the first season was kind of boring to me. some of the humor and the plots felt hit-or-miss. of course, it needed to take that time to establish the world, and it does a great job of doing that. it just didn’t hook me until the second season.

favorite character: i love toph she’s so much fun :) iroh is a close second! and zuko is great, too, of course

favorite arc: i loved ba sing se a ton, especially the episode when they get there and everything feels off. it felt so resonant with real life, in a very fun way. there’s a reason “there is no war in ba sing se” is a meme…

other commentary: what can i say? it’s a classic for a damn good reason. the plot is tight, and it does a great job raising tension and introducing new elements and twists. i also love the care put into the antagonists, especially azula, who has a fascinating arc.

mob psycho 100

pitch: a middle schooler and a charismatic con artist team up to smite ghosts using extrasensory powers. thing is, only the middle schooler actually has ESP, and it happens to be really, really powerful. can he navigate the difficult world of middle school while also getting a better grip on his powers—and his bottled-up emotions?

stands out for: the way that MP100 uses animation is excellent. it takes a little getting used to but it’s just so fun, combining all sorts of different techniques to create an experience rich with drama and emotion. it’s playfully exaggerated and self-parodying, adding to the show’s fantastic sense of humor as well as its truly emotional moments.

criticism: the way that ESP works makes suspension of disbelief tricky. it’s a great feat to introduce a character who is essentially all-powerful and still make them interesting (even in fight scenes), but at times (especially the second season finale) it felt like a magic system with too much breadth and too few limitations. this might just be my bias for hard magic systems talking, though.

favorite character: other than mob and reigen? probably teru. he’s loads of fun AND all the season 1 episodes he’s in slap hard

favorite episode: the one where the girl asks mob out on a date as a dare.. it’s super cute

other commentary: thank you mp100 for being the leftist propaganda we all deserve <3

in all seriousness though, this show is a blast!! it does a great job switching between silly and serious in the blink of an eye. i also really appreciate the way that it balances comically huge stakes with much smaller, more personal stories. for example, the conflict between mob and reigen in season 2 is especially well-done. in general the emotions just feel so real? characters whose emotions tie into their powers are an excellent trope, and mob is a wonderful protagonist who exemplifies this really well.

finally, on a more critical note—there are so many characters in this show! and it feels like only a handful are fleshed out? however, this may be due to the fact that it’s not an adaptation of the entire manga (which i haven’t read). there’s a lot more to go! more characters to dive into! so i probably shouldn’t try to critique it in the same way as a finished work.

demon slayer / kimetsu no yaiba

pitch: demons kill a boy’s family and turn his sister into a demon, so he decides to try and figure out a way to turn his sister back into a human. what follows is a demon-killing adventure that’s in equal parts harrowing, poignant, and hilarious.

stands out for: there’s not much i can say about this other than “please just take a look” but the art and design is phenomenal. it does a much better job of integrating 2D and 3D than a lot of other animated series, and overall it is just so so pretty! all the character designs are complex, memorable, and fit the characters perfectly. the color choices are interesting and satisfying. i also really like the sound design? not often that i notice that in a show. i’ve watched so many KNY amvs by now lol it’s just amazing animation

criticism: the narration style leans too heavily towards tell instead of show. this is mostly an issue with the first few episodes, but i got super annoyed by how much the show would narrate every single one of tanjirou’s thoughts instead of letting us infer those thoughts through his actions and reactions—the latter, i think, would have been more emotionally impactful. sometimes silence speaks louder than words! tanjirou was also not the world’s most compelling protagonist in my opinion, though i think that mostly has to do with my own tastes.

favorite character: *holds up zenitsu* I Just Think He’s Neat. i actually kind of lost it when he first used his powers, like… damn i love characters with weird relationships with their magic like that. i also think the narrative about how having a solid foundation is sometimes more important than knowing a ton of different moves was really powerful. and he’s just funny! pathetic boy i love him

favorite arc: really just the whole spider arc. fucked up man… i love it. they pulled off that last twist so well, and all the family stuff was so weird and complex and emotional…

other commentary: it’s just a really solid and very well-written show! the team of tanjirou, zenitsu, and inosuke is so much fun… bro bonding :) i also quite like the horror elements; it’s fucked up but in a good way. finally, this is very specific, but the demon that can alter buildings/rooms through drumbeats? appealed to me very much. it’s a cool and unique power!

fullmetal alchemist: brotherhood

pitch: two kids do some fucked up alchemy and end up getting parts of their body stolen by god. now they’re on a quest to get their bodies back, but find themselves wrapped up in crazy government conspiracies and alchemy more powerful than they ever could’ve imagined…

stands out for: plot. by this i mean less overall concept (though the overall concept is pretty great too), and more that the pacing and progression of the story is extraordinarily tight. for the most part (the first few episodes are a little weak but i’ll let it slide), it does an excellent job establishing its premise and building on it logically, adding layers and layers that extend naturally from what we already know. everything has a reason for happening; everything is revealed in good time and all the twists are super satisfying. there’s great balance between exciting moments and quiet moments. it’s just very good at being a story!

(fun fact: i’m reading the manga right now and so far it’s even better paced than the show, which is super interesting! it’s especially good at how it lays out pieces of the backstory and then fills everything in later in a really satisfying way.)

criticism: this is incredibly specific but it’s what comes to mind as something that bothered me: winry’s character arc was really disappointing. for most of the series she’s a pretty strong character, but in the end it feels like she gets pushed aside, defined only by her relationship with ed. what happened to her wanting to take action more? that was a specific desire she expressed—wanting to be less passive! since she’s such an important character, i wish she could have had more presence in the last season other than as a sounding board for the elric bros’ emotions. (even though her one scene in the last episode was really good and emotional…)

favorite character: other than the elric bros, absolutely ling. he fits into multiple of my favorite character archetypes (fun, silly, bastard, gets possessed…) and he’s just overall a delight. plus his relationship with greed is really really good. bro bonding at its peak!! (my other favorite is pride. i will not say why because spoilers. but if you know me.. you know)

favorite episode: this is really really hard to choose but i’m gonna go with envy’s death because. holy shit.

other commentary: i’m a really big fan of the complex and nuanced way in which FMAB breaks down militaristic, imperial regimes from the inside. many of the characters have done awful things, and the story forces them to grapple with that and accept that all they can do now is be better in the future. the moral complexity is just really good! characters with flaws—we love to see it!

finally, parts of this story seem so so catered to Me Specifically that it’s no wonder i got so into it. like just the entire premise? the way that so much of the conflict is built out of identity crisis and exploring the nature of consciousness and human vs inhuman? beautiful. i love ed and al so much

*

if you made it all the way to the end, thank you so much for reading!! glad to have finally gotten this done (3 months late…) and put all my thoughts down. i hope this inspires someone to try watching one of the shows i discussed!

[cryoculus]

Lunaris [5/11]

*casually changes the chapter count* yall didnt see A THING

!! ALSO !! Trigger warnings for graphic depictions of gore at the latter half of the chapter. Just thought I’d put it up there. 

Navigation

Chapter Title: Full Moon Pairing: Yokai!Akaashi Keiji/Reader Word Count: 3,543

***

"This week's lunar eclipse was reported to be a total eclipse! The shadow of the sun will engulf the moon completely—what a sight to see, indeed!"

"Bah," your grandmother scoffed through the sound of sautéing ingredients as she switched off the TV. "News channels poison the minds of people, anyway." 

You gaped at her incredulously from where you sat on the dining table. "Oba-san, I was watching that!" 

The older woman tutted at you as she transferred the leftover rice from last night onto the frying pan. "You know eclipses are a bad omen, and these people intend to say otherwise."

"Ba-san, not everybody lives by the Tsukuyomi traditions—"

"Do you want some sukonbu flakes on your gohan?" 

"I—yes, please."

When your grandmother was done cooking breakfast for the day, she laid out two bowls of gohan, each topped with a raw egg in the middle. The scent of the freshly fried rice wafted to your nose, and you immediately forgot about your prior sulking because of how delectable your food looked like. As you reached for the soy sauce to encourage more flavor, however, your grandmother took your hand in hers, shooting you a stern look.

"Don't go out on the night of the eclipse," she said. "It's been a while since I've last seen one, but it always preceded misfortune."

Confused, you asked, "How long ago is 'a while', oba-san?" 

Instead of humoring you with a proper answer, she merely chuckled at the inquiry as she sat down right across from you. "It doesn't matter. Just stay in the house, alright? It's a good thing it didn't land on the day of the festival, itself."

Knowing it would be no use arguing with her, you exhaled a sigh of defeat once you've dripped enough soy sauce onto your food. The snap of wooden chopsticks rang in your ears as you let anticipation swell in your chest. Was it just you or was the egg yolk seemingly glittering in the morning daylight?

"Thank you for the meal!"

*** 

Japanese Literature was easily your most favorite subject because of two reasons. 

The first was that you were already familiar with most of the topics listed off in the course module already. Genji Monogatari was one of the first books your grandmother had given to you as a child, and she'd be the one to help you out with understanding the difficult words. But even if you've spent a majority of your life with your nose stuffed in books and manuscripts snagged from the shrine's old storage room, there was still a lot more to learn—about the vast, hidden truths of the world that still eluded you. 

That's where the second reason came in. 

"The moon goddess, Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto, was born from the right eye of the creator, Izanagi-no-Mikoto; while her brother, Amaterasu-omikami was born from his left eye," your teacher drawled out the facts you already knew from the pocketbook in his hands. The disinterested set of his brow was clue enough of how much he would rather be doing anything else other than spitting out excerpts from Japanese mythology in front of high schoolers. 

It was last period for you, and even though you were normally motivated to listen despite your teacher's apathy for the course, you were feeling the fatigue you've accumulated from training slowly catching up to you. Fukurodani was a powerhouse when it came to its sports teams, and the reputation that you had to uphold was a heavier burden than getting remarkable official records for future reference. Though Coach Yamamoto was usually lenient, he'd already transformed into his demon coach persona at the beginning of the week. 

But after you've zoned into your own thoughts for a good twenty minutes, your teacher managed to yank you back into attentiveness when he'd tackled the topic of yokai. 

"In more popular literature, yokai were commonly depicted as grotesque creatures that consume human flesh," he began, "but there have been several tales that told of those able to take on the form of human beings; making it much easier for them to prowl across the land unnoticed." 

Hm. Sounds like a certain, unsuspecting second year to me. 

"However, even though they use deception as their means of getting by, those yokai still revert back to their true forms under specific circumstances. For children of the first Tengu, they are quite susceptible to rain. Once it begins to pour from the heavens, their disguises wear off at the snap of a finger." 

Your brows knit together in curiosity. Akaashi was one of those shape shifters, then. But if that tale applied to all shape-shifting yokai, what could Akaashi's trigger be?

Shaking your head, you proceeded jotting down the assignment that your teacher began scribbling on the chalkboard once he's gone over the topic. It wasn't something that should warrant your interest. Strictly speaking, you weren't even friends with Akaashi. You were just someone who'd managed to figure out what he was. That was all there was to it.

Yet, a few hours later, once you'd gotten your fresh taste of your demon coach's training regimens, you found yourself waiting by the school gates.

As you bounced impatiently on the balls of your feet, jamming your hands in the pockets of your track jacket to distract yourself somehow, your gaze darted every now and again at the other students that also stayed behind for club activities. There was still no sign of the volleyball team. 

In hindsight, you could have just hung around in the gym, waiting for them to finish. Bokuto's admirers did it all the time, so why couldn't the captain of the track team do the same? Ah, right.

You still couldn't bear to look Bokuto in the eye after he'd asked you to go with him to the lunar festival.

How on Earth could you face him eye-to-eye after that? Why would he even ask you, of all people, in the first place? You've been giving Itsumi the cold shoulder for the past few days, too. How dare she tell the ace to get a red kimono when your favorite kimono was patterned after crimson cherry blossoms?! 

"(Surname)-san?" 

You didn't know how your instinctive reaction to Akaashi's voice would reflect on the way you supposedly saw him as, but in your defense, you were surprised by how he addressed you. The setter was donned in his school uniform, and he didn't have the air of someone who'd just gotten out of volleyball practice.

"A-Akaashi," you stuttered, hoping it wasn't glaringly obvious that you were waiting for him in particular. "You weren't at training?" 

His brows were raised with subtle curiosity before he shook his head. "My class has a production coming up, and it costs about seventy percent of our final grade. Coach Yamiji allowed me some time off." 

"Oh," the word tumbled pathetically from your lips, before you cleared your throat. "I-I see. You're quite diligent, huh? I mean, for a yokai blending in as a—"

"(Surname)-san," Akaashi interrupted warily, and you were immediately struck by the awareness of how loud your voice was. Getting his plea, you toned down your voice a couple of notches lower.

"I still find it kind of interesting, you know." Chuckling, you folded your arms across your chest. "From what you told me, I think you're someone ancient. You could track down whoever has your heart in no time and you wouldn't have to subject yourself to mundane things like that." 

Akaashi merely stared at you with the same, navy-eyed gaze before his line of sight darted around the vicinity. Then, he beckoned you to come closer. When you leaned your ear next to his face, the setter whispered, "(Surname)-san, I would appreciate it if you didn't disclose such information out in the open." 

"It's not like anyone's listening," you argued, pouting at him. "By the way, I have something to ask you." 

"Does your curiosity have no bounds?" He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. You'd only noticed it now, but there were traces of fatigue on his face that you would've missed if you hadn't looked so closely. You almost felt bad for cornering him like this, but...

"Can you show me your true form?" 

Something flashed across his eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it surfaced, and now Akaashi was just staring at you like he was just done with your demands. 

"You know, I only ever meet extremely infuriating humans one after the other," he told you, dragging a palm across his face. "But it seems like the gods are subjecting me to the punishment of handling both you and Bokuto-san at the same time."

You snorted out an ugly-sounding laugh, covering your mouth to somehow stifle your giggles. "I told you, you didn't have to do any of this kiss-ass shit. You could just—"

"You wanted to see my true form, didn't you?" 

The tone of his voice had dipped into something more serious—one that you're unused to hearing from him when you were talking alone. Before getting to know Akaashi as well as you have now, he had just been the apathetic vice captain of the volleyball team. But from the short time you've spent with him, you figured that there was certainly more depth to his personality than he was letting on. 

Yet now, he's talking to you just how he would address any other student in Fukurodani. Your smile receded slowly. Somehow, you didn't like that.

"Yeah," you replied with a lackluster intonation you hadn't meant to make. The last thing you wanted was for him to think you actually...cared about the way he talked to you. You didn't, and that was that. 

With a sigh, Akaashi tilted his head up so that he was glancing at the sky. You noticed that he did that a lot—looking up at the heavens like it gave him answers you didn't know he was looking for. 

When the yokai met your gaze again, no longer did you see the soothing, gunmetal blue of the human whose skin he wore like it was his own. Deep, vermillion eyes bore into you so intently, you could feel him gazing at your very soul—bare, and without any chance of deceit.

"Meet me at the cemetery on the first night of the full moon," he said, voice almost sounding ethereal in your ears, like his voice wasn't his at all. "I'll show you what you want to see so badly."

***

A few days passed since that strange encounter with Akaashi, and you haven't heard from the yokai since. Every time you tried getting a glimpse of him from outside the gym, it was either he was always out of sight or he just wasn't there to begin with. You'd even asked Kazuto, who turned out to be classmates with Akaashi, a thing or two about the said setter, but it seemed that he's called in sick for the past few days because of a nasty cold.

Yokai don't catch colds.

Nonetheless, you found yourself thinking of him less and less as the lunar festival drew closer. Your grandmother insisted that you focus on training for the track meet instead of concerning yourself with the preparations no matter how much you protested. 

"You're only young for a brief time, child," she had told you. "It's your last year in high school, so you better enjoy the festival with your little friends before you all head your separate ways. Leave it to the monks and volunteers to work behind the scenes."

Seeing no point in going against her wishes, that's exactly what you did.

"Hey, (Name)! Over here!" At the bottom of the stairway that led to the Amatsuki shrine, you saw Itsumi and Kazuto idling by as your vice captain frantically waved her hands to get your attention. Overlooking the secondhand embarrassment, you picked up the pace of your descent. 

Once you've managed to join them, Kazuto whistled out loud. "Looking great, cap!"

The compliment urged you to look down on your own get-up. You looked just as you did every year whenever the lunar festival came around, since you've always opted to wear the cherry blossom kimono that used to belong to your mother. But Kazuto was probably talking about the moon pin your grandmother had insisted on styling your hair with. 

It was designed to look like a branch of a sakura tree dipped in silver with a crescent moon embossed in the middle. You had no time left to ask where she got it from and why she gave it you since you were running a bit late on your agreed meet-up time with the team.

"No flirting with senpais, Kazu," scolded Itsumi as she playfully smacked the younger boy across his back. "But he does have a point, though. You look spicy tonight, (Name)!"

"Sumi, I worry about you sometimes."

"Hey!"

Wading through the throng of visitors in the courtyard was none other than Bokuto, himself. His grin was as bright as the lanterns strung above the venue, the golden lights shining down on him like he was the most important person out there. Or maybe that was just because your rose-colored vision was specifically catered for the said ace. When he'd managed to squeeze past the crowd, he breathed out a sigh in relief, wiping a sheen of sweat off his forehead.

"What do you think?" he asked, twisting around to show off his outfit. "I kind of had to compromise with the hakama, but the haori's red, just like Furukawa said—"

"Bokuto-san," you breathed, feeling your heart flutter at his effort alone, "you look great."

The ace blinked at you like he wasn't used to receiving compliments on the daily. It was probably just the lanterns messing with your eyes, but was he...blushing?

"So do you," he laughed. "I didn't know we were matching!"

"I didn't either," you replied, shooting Itsumi a narrow-eyed glare, to which your best friend responded by incessantly tugging on your wrist. 

"Come on, you idiots!" Itsumi hollered as you let her drag you to the concessionaire stands. "Last one to get to the goldfish catching booths will treat everyone to candied apples!"

***

"I forgot how enjoyable these festivals really were."

Your ears perked up at the sound of Bokuto's voice. Sparing the ace a sideways glance, you sighed out a long breath as you propped your chin on top of your knees. "I'm glad we managed to remind you, then." 

The two of you were seated on the stone steps just under the torii gates that led up to the shrine. Most of the festival's visitors have already gone up to see the shrine elder's (in this case, your grandmother's) annual performance of the lunar dance. It was dedicated to Tsukuyomi herself so that the shrine and its followers would see good fortune for the months ahead. Itsumi and Kazuto have gone ahead of the both of you, but you'd insisted on staying behind for a while.

But you didn't know that Bokuto would like to keep you company, too.

"Something on your mind?" he wondered, inching a bit closer. "You've been kinda distracted."

As you trained your gaze on the younger visitors that were still trying their hand at catching goldfish at the kingyo booths below, you breathed out an airy chuckle. "Sorry. Was I that obvious?"

"Not really," he said. "Call it a gut feeling." 

"Gut feeling, huh..."

Your gut was telling you right now that you were forgetting something...something important.

But when you turned to glance at Bokuto once again, his mouth was perked up in a lopsided smile that sent a flush of heat crawling up to your cheeks. You've always found his honey-eyed gaze endearing, and knowing that he had his eyes trained on you? Under the light of the moon? The shoujo manga protagonist in you practically jumped—

Meet me at the cemetery on the first night of the full moon

"Bokuto-san," you mumbled as you shot up to your feet, startling the ace as you shot your gaze up to the sky. The moon was in perfect form today, shining oh-so brightly in the sea of stars. "I'm sorry. I have to go. I-I'll... I'm sorry."

You forced out the sound of Bokuto calling out your name from your mind, pushing down the guilt that might fester for later. Your wooden sandals collided with each step in a way that sounded like cannons in your ears. Your heart was beating abnormally fast, just like when you're trying to best another runner at a track meet. Akaashi, who's been missing in action for days now. Akaashi, who looked like he was losing his grip on his own sanity the last time you saw him. Akaashi, who was probably waiting for you at the top of the hill.

You had been the one that coerced him into this agreement, yet it slipped your mind?

When you made it to the shrine, you caught a glimpse of your grandmother's lunar dance in the blink of your eye. She faltered in her movements for a split second. Had you not spent your entire life watching her practice every year, you would've overlooked it. But it seemed that she'd noticed you darting through the audience even if you were cloaked in the darkness. You already knew you were getting a thorough questioning later, but that was at the bottom of your priorities right now.

There's something wrong, you thought. I don't know how, but something's wrong.

You pushed the gate to the cemetery back without care for the rust that coated your fingers. The foreboding was rooted deep into the pits of your heart, and you couldn't placate yourself no matter how many times you told yourself it was probably nothing. Even if you were running out of breath (which terrified you because it took a lot to make you breathless in training), you called out to the yokai.

"Akaashi!" you called out, placing your hands by your mouth to articulate your voice louder. "Are you here?"

The moonlight spilled onto the cemetery startlingly bright, illuminating the gravestones in place in a way you hadn't seen them before. As you passed by your parents' graves, muttering a quick prayer in the process, you began trekking further into the area—towards the forest that you were told to never set foot in. 

The shade of the trees seemed thicker, they loomed higher than you thought they would. At the corner of your eye, you would see the shadows scuttling about, only to be met with nothing but a leaf wafting in the air when you turned around to look. The fear factor was maxed out at this point. But even if your mind yelled for you to turn around, and that you shouldn't even be here, your heart told you that you were exactly where you're supposed to be.

After a few minutes of blindly walking in the darkness, you saw the light of the moon once more as you emerged into a clearing. In the middle of it all, kneeling in a pool of blood, was Akaashi.

Or at least, you assumed it was Akaashi. 

The humanoid creature had its back turned you, like it was preoccupied with something else. Its naked skin was as white as the snow that coated the shrine grounds on the first day of winter, but the mop of unruly hair on top of its head resembled Akaashi's. With blood roaring in your ears, you slowly flanked the creature from the side in attempt of getting a better look. But the sight that greeted you was something that would be burned in the back of your mind for eternity.

It—Akaashi—had a pair of horns jutting out from his forehead, tinged the same hue as his ivory skin. In his taloned hands, he had a carcass so mangled, you could no longer identify if it was an animal or not. His lips were caked in the same blood that pooled beneath him, as deranged, crimson eyes glossed over with the ecstasy from feasting on his meal.

A scream bubbled in your throat, but you knew better than to announce your presence just like that. This was what you wanted, right? To witness him in his true form? You were the one who asked for this and yet...and yet—

The sound of a twig snapping underneath your sandals echoed in the vicinity like you'd just set off a land mine. You could no longer hear him tearing the flesh from its bones, as Akaashi slowly turned to look at you. 

Those weren't the eyes of the kind-hearted yokai you thought he was.

They were the eyes of a killer.

Someone was screaming as you bolted out of the clearing and back into the cemetery. They were still screaming when you nearly tripped on your own feet as you ran down the hill. 

You'd only realized it was you when you barged into the shrine's foyer just after your grandmother finished the dance, weeping inconsolably in her arms for reasons that you would continue to refuse to let them know of in the days to come.

[bubmyg]

game, set, love - jhs

pairing: hoseok x reader

genre/warnings: tennis!au, enemies to lovers, fluff, angst (w a hopeful ending), some humor because seokjin is in it, grumpy tennis instructor namjoon is here too, mentions of injuries, lots of tennis terminology (sorry)

word count: 13,466

summary: you like to be on the opposing side of the net from jung hoseok so when you drill a forehand volley through his teeth it can be considered kind of an accident or where seokjin just had to go and tear his ACL.

There’s a specific sound associated with that of a good, great, volley, the satisfying thwack of the thin fibers of the ball smacking against the spaces in your strings, rebounding off the surface and ricocheting into the thin space of the alley. It’s easy to imagine catching the angle instead, aiming the ball for the box just on the other side of the net, nearly impossible for the opponent to sprint to even if they catch the way your body angles. 

It’s a more complex shot anyway, the angle and trajectory and the pronation of your wrist just right so the ball doesn’t catch on the frame of your racket and sail out. Cross court is the safer shot. It’s not even cross court, not really, not in the same way a forehand is from your partner. The safe shot is to aim at the other net player, their feet to be exact. 

But Namjoon wouldn’t ever tell you to aim at another player and he definitely wouldn’t encourage your favorite net strategy. 

Imagine every hanging ball at the net is Jung Hoseok’s face. 

“Again,” There was a mechanical whir and the ball machine at the baseline rumbled to life at the hands of Namjoon. He’d emptied another basket of balls into the top, shifting them around with the head of his racket as he waited for the first one to spit back out. “Hit your target areas or I’ll put you on court five and make you do it throughout Seokjin’s session.”

You leaned into a backhand volley, making it spin when it landed. “Noted.”

Another basket of balls and Namjoon was satisfied enough to let you switch sides, nearly tripping into the ball machine cord as he rolled it aside. Your arm had just begun to ache on your third basket, neon yellow littered in a sea around your trainer’s feet, when the door to the courts of the complex slammed shut. 

You were distracted by the wave of Namjoon’s arm as he began to nudge through balls toward your side of the net and the incoming ball caught on the neck of your racket, dribbling sadly down your side of the net. You hit the next one properly for the sake of Namjoon’s knowing glance at you, a single cocked eyebrow letting you know he was still watching even if he’d nearly rolled his ankle on your most recently hit ball. There was a flash of yellow in your peripheral, not a stray ball from one of the courts over the mesh nets that separated them, and you gaped as you lost your stance.

Hoseok was looking directly at you as he shrugged himself out of the massive bag perched over his shoulders, dropping it rather unceremoniously to the bench between courts. He was every shade of yellow, sweatbands, slick t-shirt, the stripe down the sides of his shorts, the laces on his white shoes, the headband peeling back faded blonde hair, like he’d just stepped out of an athletic magazine for pretentious assholes who thought the sport was all about the matching clothes. A smirk twitched at his lips as the clinking of rackets in his bag sent your water jug toppling to the ground. 

Your racket clutched at your torso was the only thing keeping the next ball that fired out from smacking into your chest and you huffed, halfheartedly swinging to catch the next ball on your strings instead of on the handle. 

“If you’re done, go turn it off and start picking up.”

You glared at Namjoon because why the fuck is Hoseok here? but that question didn’t come out, instead a sickly sweet, “Am I done?” as you jerked your racket to hit another sloppy but angry ball onto the other side of the net. 

“You’re done. Pick up.”

You snatched an empty hopper en route to dodge another shot that barreled from the machine without someone on the other side of the net to intercept it. You only managed to collect three balls before you made it to the small black box, flicking it off and silencing the courts into the chatter of the two individuals on your court. A dent was barely made in the sea of balls surrounding the opposite end of the court but you only wanted enough out of the way to make a path for Namjoon and Hoseok, approaching with the half full hopper bouncing against your thigh and your racket tucked underneath your arm. 

“What’s next, coach?” You pointedly dropped the hopper, crouching to snatch up your water jug from where it’d tumbled just in front of Hoseok’s shoe. He nudged it toward you and you resisted the urge to pop the lid and let ice water spill through into his socks. 

“I’m going to have Hoseok take some serves for a little while…”

He had two crooked fingers in parted bangs, brushing them aside the elastic of his headband and he smirked when you quipped, “I meant for me seeing as this is my training session…”

“Relax,” Namjoon glanced between the two of you, “You’ve got twenty minutes to deal with being in the same general proximity. I think you can handle it.”

“Twenty minutes?” One of Hoseok’s dark eyebrows nudged underneath the seam of neon green on his forehead, “Tapping out early? I get it, conditioning has never been your forte—”

“Seokjin’s coming in,” You gritted, “Then we have a joint practice.”

“Ah,” He flicked the hair he’d just fixed, dropping his racket from his chest to properly grip in his hand, “Your better half.”

“Could kick your ass.”

“I don’t accept challenges from doubles players, sorry.”

“Enough.” Namjoon’s fingers brushed yours aside, taking the hopper from you to turn it in nimble fingers, effectively spilling all the balls you’d worked to pick up. When the bouncing had subsided for the most part, he stretched the wire basket back toward you. “I thought I told you to pick up. All balls. Every one you miss is a lap for Seokjin.”

“...as for you—” 

Albeit satisfying, forcing the image of Hoseok to conjure on the surface of the ball hurtling at you over and over and over becomes not only frustrating, but mentally taxing with the bubble of discontent that burst in the pit of your stomach with even the ghosted hint of his stupidly swollen cheeks above tiny little dimples indented into his smirking lips. The real pleasure came when it was the real thing standing on the opposite end of you, way out of range from where your shots were meant to be landing but there, tangible and an easy target if you wanted to face the wrath of Namjoon after welting a bruise on the face of the tennis club’s star singles player. 

Hoseok paused in between serves, as if expecting you to do the very thing your mind craved, shuffling on his feet as the ball bounced from the flick of his wrist to the surface of the court. Namjoon stood opposite of him, serve in his own hand with the stipulation that you had to get it back cross court regardless of it was out or not. No matter how out it was. You’d barely taken three off a low, slicing bounce on the corner of the box when Namjoon was holding up a single finger in your direction, crossing the center line to nudge a hand under Hoseok’s elbow when he raised his arm to serve. 

There was a certain aura about Hoseok that made your blood boil, from the content nod he passed Namjoon, stepping out of his grasp and disrupting his serve routine but making it easily with barely applying the correction. It’d always been that way, skills coming easily to Hoseok that you’d kill or pay or both to acquire in a years time. He’d won a game before you on your first day of tennis camp, a tiny elementary student with the ball perfectly balanced on the end of his racket as he terrorized everyone near him with screams and flailing hands that made others go scrambling after their balls. He’d learned to slice before you, a tiny middle schooler with clunky running shoes on and a sleeve stretched over his elbow that he’d seen his basketball player friends wear, doing the shot to you two seconds later in a practice match that had you stumbling head first into the net in front of thirty thirteen year olds. He’d made the varsity team before you, taking the last unofficial but official spot because he beat you in a third set tiebreaker when you were still adjusting to ankle braces the trainer said you needed to wear and there was never time the rest of the season to challenge him again. 

You’d joined the tennis club first, however, a youth instructor during college until Namjoon had found you taking serves after a group lesson and coaxed you into a pickup match and eventually to try out for the competitive team. As a manager of the club by the time Hoseok’s application came across your desk, you had half the mind to shred it, but your degree and your job position knew better. Hoseok was Namjoon’s friend. Park Jimin had just left a singles spot open on the competitive team.

You decided you could put up with him. If he stayed out of your way. He had since graduation.

But of course he couldn’t. Switching trainers to be with Namjoon. Taking the open locker next to yours when there were, at minimum, seventeen free ones. Wooing your middle school group lessons to the point where they asked for him to teach. 

Standing in on your training sessions just weeks before the first of regional qualifier matches. 

“Are you awake?” Your cheeks burned at Namjoon’s call and you glared at Hoseok just because you knew he’d be laughing. He was. 

“What are you doing?” He continued to scold and you continued to flame, “Back up. And step toward the middle. You aren’t a twelve year old trying to protect your backhand anymore.”

You didn’t move, setting up to take the next serve directly down the line, a fiery ball that bounced lowly just in on the baseline before smacking Hoseok hard on the knee. You twirled your racket as you stood, eyes on your watch and Namjoon’s tight sigh helped with your curt exit. 

“Go. Send Seokjin in.”

“Who let Hoseok spit in your lunch?”

You glared at your doubles partner and he giggled, leaning against the locker next to yours as you began to yank clothes out of it, sweatpants and a hoodie and the dangling fabric of your lanyard with your car and house keys attached. 

“You joke—” You slammed the metal so hard you hoped it reverberated through the walls to the courts, “—but he’s out there. He was out there during half my training. He’ll probably still be out there for yours and for when I get back. Who knew going undefeated two seasons in a row earned ass kissing from your trainer.”

Seokjin quirked an eyebrow as you struggled with a leg of your sweatpants, cupping a gentle hand on your elbow. “Yeah. Who would have ever guessed. We should try it.”

“We’re regional runner up.”

“Runner up…”

“Look, fuck—” 

“I’m aware you hate everyone today, don’t remind me of those who beat us last year,” He held onto your arm until you cinched the drawstrings around your waist, “...look I’m not trying to be an asshole. But when you go home, can you do something for me?”

You glared with the hoodie curled in your fists until Seokjin continued, deadpan, “Crawl into your bed. I know it’s not made because you had an early lesson this morning. Shut your eyes. Then roll over and get up on the other side. Then come back for our joint training.”

If you wouldn’t have got caught in the head of your hoodie, your fuck off would have been entirely more effective. 

Seokjin held up two hands in solace anyway, his bag hiking higher on broad shoulders. “Just saying. I don’t need drilled in the back of the head with your serve. Again.” 

“That’s only happened twice.”

“Four times,” He wiggled four fingers in front of your nose, “All Hoseok induced. It’s the I can’t stand Hoseok serve. Otherwise known as us losing a point immediately.”

“Whatever,” You stretched your lanyard around your neck, smacking his hand that continued to wave in front of your eyes in order to step around him, “I’ll be back.”

“Bring me an iced coffee from McDonald’s?”

“...you don’t want an apple or something?”

“Yeah, apple slices from a happy meal would be amazing—” 

Fresh from your apartment, ankle braces shed in favor of your knee brace, and a happy meal with an iced coffee in hand, you shouldered your way back into the complex. It was silent in the middle of the afternoon, no one aside from the staff, competitive teams, and adult patrons milling around until the children showed up for their evening lessons. 

Rather, it was normally silent. And the lobby area followed the same routine when you settled the brown paper bag onto the front desk, no one at the tiny row of bleachers set in front of the window for viewing, no clinging lockers or running shower heads in the locker room. Instead, through the window, figures rushed by. Back and forth. Up and down. A squinted glance and you registered the neon yellow blur to be Hoseok. Then Namjoon. Then one of the other tennis pros who had been on the far side of the complex. Namjoon again. 

Namjoon catching your attention by means of wide eyes and frantic hands. 

“What?” You didn’t know what you were running for but your slide on sandals weren’t a tripping hazard as you dashed after Namjoon, “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t turn over his shoulder but it was easy to make out his loud it’s Jin when you saw the crumpled heap of your doubles partner, shoulders slumped against the glass viewing window with his knee curled upward to his chest. 

“What? What—” You ran out of your sandals, socked feet sliding into a crouched position, “—what happened?”

Seokjin’s ears were painted in red, not the same color as when members of an opposing team complimented the width of his shoulders on a changeover, but one that traveled upward from the pained purse of his lips, curling around the lids of shut eyes. A soft groan let some tension from his shoulders and he tried to roll them out when his eyes curled open to look at you. 

“Took a fall,” He tried to smile more so for your benefit, “Thought I could get to a corner backhand. Didn’t have you at the net to cover me.”

“What hurts?”

Seokjin blinked, “Darling, it’s my knee.”

Namjoon was back, dangling fabric bandage in hand but Seokjin batted it away immediately. The trainer agreed with the sentiment, arm around Seokjin’s ribs as he fumbled to a crouched position, tugging. “Come on, let’s get you to the hospital.”

There was a muted shock that numbed at your stature as you watched your normally bright and bubbly double partner limb feebly at the grace of Namjoon off the court, racket forgotten at the far corner of the court, water bottle and bag untouched and forgotten. Three steps after them to the door and you remembered there was another individual who’d witnessed the incident, too. 

“I’m coming with you.” 

You glared at Hoseok, clammy hand slick on the screen door. “You’re not.”

“I wasn’t asking,” You bristled at his hand coming in contact with the small of your back, coaxing you through the door, “I’m driving. Also not up for debate.”

You didn’t have much energy to be disgruntled, ducking into his sports car without the top on and your first thought was that it’d probably rain because why wouldn’t it. It was a second before he jammed the keys into the ignition, a roar of an engine where you gladly wouldn’t be able to speak to him any longer. 

“Is it bad?”

Hoseok squinted, not bothering to yank expensive sunglasses from the cupholder. Instead of verbally answering, he nodded. 

The next question, quipped, “Did you do it?”

He sighed, wrist limp on the top of the steering wheel and his breath visibly stuttered in his chest. 

“I can’t believe we’ve got to a point where think you need to ask me that.”

“So it’s torn?”

“Absolutely ripped to shreds.”

“And there’s no miracle of science that can heal you in a month?”

“The only miracle that powerful is—”

“Your face, yes, I’m aware,” You touched the back of Seokjin’s hand, IV’s covered in thick plastic bandages, “You couldn’t have just like, fractured it, huh?”

“That’s now how it works and—” He winked, “—I don’t do anything half-assed.”

Your fingers curled a bit tighter between the spaces in his own, letting your smile fall with your chin to your chest and a miniscule shake of your head. Seokjin watched you, steady gaze without falter when you looked at him again, tight lipped and with a shrug. 

“Guess we won’t even have the chance at runner-up this year.”

He shrugged, equally as carefree laced in disappointment as you. There was barely a hesitation from that movement to the part of his lips. 

Seokjin corrected, “I won’t have a chance, no. But you can still play.”

You scoffed, drawing your hand into your lap to pick at a stray piece of skin still clinging to your cuticle. “What, in a singles spot? Not a chance.”

“Surely you can find someone else to play with,” Seokjin’s eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead, “What are some options—”

“You got hurt less than six hours ago and you expect me to have thought about a new partner already?” You glared at him at his smile grew into the dimples in his cheeks, “Well I haven’t, Jin.”

“I would have. I want—”

You held a hand up, the other coming to scrunch your closed eyelids between the stretch of your fingers. “I don’t want to hear about your fantasy doubles partner.”

“Not even if it’s Venus Williams?”

“Fuck, is she an option? I would have traded you out yesterday.”

Seokjin beamed, “Seriously, darling. Ask Namjoon to find you a new partner, if he can. I’ll be the one at the finals waving two crutches around.”

“Can we attach streamers to them?”

“Obviously…”

“Sit.”

Your iced coffee sat first, cubes clicking dully against plastic, a ring of condensation immediately soaking into the chipped round table engulfing the majority of the conference room. The metal folding chair bumped against the wall with the proximity but you managed to squeeze onto the ripped upholstery, fingers trailing upward on the cup to twirl at the straw. 

Namjoon, meanwhile, continued to shuffle stacks of paperwork from within an unbuckled orange binder, registration fees and scribbled rosters and a calendar with a poetic picture of a live tennis ball smacking into an ambiguous line, in no matter the circumstance. A neat pile turned messy when he shuffled the papers again, and finally he settled with three stacks, ends overlapping visibly so you could count the number in each pile. 

“We have two options,” He fingered at the end of a piece of paper that hung over the edge of the table, effectively creasing the dull yellow sheet. 

The ring of condensation expanded into more of a cylinder when you dragged the cup closer, noisely slurping from the straw as Namjoon sighed. “Mhmm?”

“We add an extra singles spot to the roster,” He fished out the piece of paper, pointing to the empty cell at the end of a complicated spreadsheet. “It wouldn’t be too much trouble. You’d just have to place in at least two of the four remaining qualifiers to make it to the regional. I haven’t researched the competition much but that wouldn’t be too much of a far fetched feat. Trying doesn’t hurt either, seeing as the club is currently paying for a spot that’s not being used anyway.”

You pretended to consider it for a moment and even if you wouldn’t admit it, tiniest part of your conscious seriously considered it. Instead, you nodded, straw still balanced in the center of your bottom lip as you hummed for him to continue. 

“The other option is we find you a new partner,” Namjoon’s expression grew considerably greyer, reaching for a different stack of papers this time. His shoulders sagged as he shucked aside the top piece face down, “and of everyone in the club, only three players are currently eligible to take on such a role.”

“And of those three players…”

“One is Park Jimin who I, evidently, have yet to throw paperwork out for. I tried to call him, regardless, and his loyalties lie with his new club. Not that I blame him…”

“The next is Jeon Jeongguk,” Namjoon eyed you through annoyed eyelashes, another paper slapped onto the wobbly table, “...who has preexisting eSports obligations during two of the qualifying matches.”

“Which leaves us with one option—” He peeled the sheet away, nudging it toward you. It messily fluttered but you managed to drag it closer by only wetting the corner with the excess from your cup. A stat sheet with an invoice for lessons scrawled across the bottom, two things among other numbers you passed through in a rush to try to find the name but Namjoon spoke right as your eyes scanned the block printed characters. 

“—Jung Hoseok.”

You slapped the paper down into the puddle created by your drink, drowning his name much to Namjoon’s audible dismay. “That’s fine. It was a good season while it lasted but I think I’ll just wait for Jin and the next circuit to begin. You can turn my Friday lessons back over to me early, if you like, since we won’t need to train any longer—”

Namjoon murmured your name, gentle like the way he pried Hoseok’s stat sheet out of your clutches in order not to tear it in the way the delicate width of it was soaked through with caramel water. 

“You did used to play together, you know. Well, might I add.”

Hoseok was your first true doubles partner, put together by a student coach on your university’s club team who had no idea of your ever growing distaste for the loud, and then, brown headed man, seeing as Hoseok never left your side during practices, was seen walking you home, among a few things. You were good together, good enough to beat surrounding universities, at the very least. Good enough to stay out of each other’s way, lack the communication of normal doubles teams for the most part, win in silence and easy, truly a silent but deadly duo. 

He was never openly cocky, never a keyword as his extreme humbleness seemed to further your not-so-maxed distaste for the man who’d now messily bleached his hair where bits of brown continued to poke out in reverse highlights. At least, not until you ran up against some sizable competition in the finals of the university club tennis championships, his first instinct to insert his vast knowledge in skill in place of your lack of communication while you responded with the same resistance that you always did, except now with a hint of I knew it. 

You lost and Hoseok took his slip up as a confirmation of your horrible impression you not-so-subtly had of him. You took it as a confirmation of what you’d thought all along. 

“There’s a reason we stopped.”

“A good one?”

You fumed, the water beneath your palm evaporating into steam that, quite literally, could be billowing from your ears if your cheeks heated anymore. You tried to stand, push the chair back, but it lodged against the wall and you stumbled on the leg. 

“Good enough for me.”

Namjoon muttered your name again, once soft and again an octave firmer, waiting until you stopped flailing between the rungs of metal to order again, “Sit down.”

“Your already have your answer—”

“Sit down,” He seemed disinterested as he began to carelessly shove papers back into the open flap of the folder but you knew better as he added a quieter but insistent, “Please.”

The back of your knees knocked into the metal ring around the seat of the chair and you sighed upon impact. 

“Can you do one thing for me?”

You blinked and your fingers were back to fiddling with the straw. “Depends.”

“Try,” Namjoon closed the folder once everything was tucked semi safely inside, letting his fingers fold into a neat fist on top, “Just try it. We’ll double training sessions so that you’re ready to play in that exhibition match next weekend. If it’s a disaster, I’ll pull your team. It won’t affect you next season and it won’t affect Hoseok’s singles bracket.”

“What do I get in return?”

“My undying appreciation,” Namjoon took your lack of immediate no as you folding, rising to his feet with the folder tucked to his chest, “and maybe I’ll buy you muffins for your morning sessions.”

“I have another question.”

“No, you can’t use Hoseok as a human volley target just because he’s your new partner—”

“First of all, I haven’t said yes yet—” You leaned back in your chair, water dribbling onto the front of your shirt as you brought the straw to poke between your two front teeth, “—secondly…”

“...have you asked Hoseok?”

“Absolutely not,” Hoseok’s watch clinked against the table when he placed both palms flat, shoulders tensing pre-stand, “Anything else?”

Namjoon was a bit firmer with Hoseok than he had been with you, pinning him to the spot with a glare and even you shivered when he hissed, “Sit down, Hoseok.”

The man in question let the tension sink from his shoulders all the way into his wrists, settling his cheek into one palm instead, ringed hand attached to his watched wrist pattering an off beat tune into the wood. After a second of Namjoon staring at him with a single raised eyebrow, he folded his fingers again, the sound of his jewelry rebounding off the wood making your eyes roll back in your head.

“Let me put it a little clearer—” He glanced at you, serious albeit the comical raise of both eyebrows, “—and I’m not in any way trying to hurt your feelings, but I don’t play doubles. I have the singles championship to worry about.”

“Who said you were going to win that,” You grumbled into the knuckles curled over your mouth.

Hoseok’s lips parted, hand flattening in your direction, “I never said I was going to win—” 

“Listen to me,” Namjoon exchanged a pained glance between the two of you and you could see his hair greying at the roots. 

He turned to you first, “I already know how you feel. I don’t need your input at the moment, not yet.”

Your face heated but you slumped in your chair nonetheless, trying to ignore Hoseok’s stare at the side of your face no matter the expression he had. Especially if that expression was one of sorrow or apology. 

“As for you,” The shrug of Namjoon’s shoulders into his hands he began using to help him speak was exasperated, “I’m not trying to take anything away from your training for the singles championship. If anything, this will help. The extra training sessions. The ability to play high level doubles. Everyone should have to play at this level of doubles at least once, if you ask me.” 

He jerked a thumb in your direction, “Season’s over if you choose not to play. Which is fine. I just think it’d be a waste of that position. A waste of potential grants for the facility. You know, we could use new quick start nets for the kids but—”

Hoseok groaned but there was a hint of laughter to his tone, “Oh, you’re going to guilt me with the children then, huh, Joon?”

“—but, most of all, it’d be a waste of potential,” Namjoon’s admission silenced even the annoyance brewing in the pit of your stomach, “There’s too much potential here to let an entire season’s worth of work go to waste just because of a little bad luck and two stubborn adults.”

There was an uncomfortable shifting between the two of your chairs and Namjoon took that shade of silence to continue, “Today is Saturday. You train every day twice a day with me until next Friday. We go down the street to the exhibition match. You—” Namjoon pointed the end of his pen in Hoseok’s direction, “—kick Park Jimin’s ass in the morning. Then the two of you kick whoever’s ass in the afternoon.”

“If you don’t do well, which I doubt, then we’ll call the whole thing off. Hobi can continue on to be king of the tri-state area in singles tennis and you can have your six to eight year olds back on Friday evenings,” He finished with a sigh, like he’d just rang seven consecutive laps around the perimeter of the complex, “Yes?”

There was a hesitation and it wasn’t a yes but a sure that grumbled past your lips, one that was mirrored by Hoseok when his chin met his shoulder and he spoke to the tattered shag carpet below. 

“That has to be a yes,” Namjoon pointedly glared at you, “From both of you.”

“Sure,” Hoseok waved a dismissive hand under the watchful glower of his longtime friend, “Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”

You saved the theatrics for glaring at your expression in your mirror. It’d be soft and unsure, just like the murmur that you spoke directly to Namjoon’s awaiting features. 

“Yes. Let’s do it.”

“Again.”

You hadn’t sweat this much since it was a fall temperature, almost winter with the whip of the wind, in an early morning clinic in high school only to be summer, extremely so, by hour two and you hadn’t brought anything else to change into and had to suffer with bulky fabric curled around the entirety of your upper half. 

You grunted into the forehand, force so much your body tumbled forward a full pace to where you’d been before. The ball sailed past Hoseok at the net, landing at a sharp angle where Namjoon sat in wait. 

“Not deep enough,” Another ball was fished from his pocket, prepared to feed to you again, “Again.”

You hadn’t been this sore since you’d forgotten your proper shoes at your apartment and hadn’t had time to go back, taking a hundred serves in low top, completely flat converse that rubbed raw blisters into each pinky toe and made your knees hate you more than ever. 

Your ball landed past the service line this time, past where Namjoon stood next to a full basket of balls. He considered it until it thumped against the back wall, rolling sadly to a stop upon impact. 

Another ball snagged in the nylon of his shorts. 

“Again.”

It was unintentional, a footwork error, the force in which you leaned into the swing of your racket just late enough to have the ball misshit, bad. If there hadn’t been a person in the way, it would have caught in the center of the net, collecting with a few others that had unfortunately met the same fate. But there was a human there, barely crouched like he should be, head hanging low with his racket poised up at his face. 

The ball smacked into Hoseok’s waist, the sound audible and the force of the ball so great it shot off in the opposite trajectory as before. 

Namjoon had barely turned to dig for more balls to fill his pockets, another again lingering on the tip of his tongue when Hoseok straightened. 

“You did that on purpose.”

He was equally covered in sweat, dirty blonde sticking in uneven pleats down the side of his headband and you’d never seen his cheeks so pale and sunken in. His tank top was pasted to the defined planes of his torso, splotches coating his back similarly and it even shone down into the rivets of his bulging calves. 

For once, “I didn’t.” Your racket drooped lazily to your side and you heaved in some much needed air, “I swear I didn’t.”

“See, I know you’re lying,” He dabbed the soaked sweatband on his wrist into his bangs, “That doesn’t just happen. Not to you.”

“But it did. It was an accident,” Your grip tightened on the sweat stained handle of your racket, “You’d know if it was on purpose.”

“Okay,” Hoseok kicked a ball, one of the ones displaced by a former shot of yours that had hit the net, “Do it correctly, then. Get it deep in that corner—”

“I know where it needs to go.”

“Then why haven’t you hit it one time yet? Forget your horrid topspin technique…”

“Who’s the coach here, Hoseok?”

There was a distinct sound of spilling tennis balls, ones from the cart Namjoon had carefully dumped over until each and every one of the hundreds of balls littered around his feet. He spoke coldly, knuckles anemic where he gripped his racket two his chest in two hands, “Don’t look at me. I’m done.”

Hoseok watched after Namjoon while you continued to stare at a droplet of sweat contouring the slope of Hoseok’s nose, your attention only diverting when your trainer paused in the doorway. 

“Come tomorrow with a better attitude or don’t come at all.”

“And pick all of that up before you leave.”

“Are you ready?”

You glanced at your bare feet shoved in some slides, loose sweatpants rolled twice at the hip and stained university hoodie where it draped over your torso underneath your key lanyard. The next glare was directed at Seokjin, propped half on the row of lockers, half on one of his crutches. 

“...to play?” 

Seokjin rolled his eyes, “No. To go watch Hoseok—”

“Why are you in here, by the way?—”

Heart shaped lips bloomed into a drooping tulip, shuffling on one crutch. “Just because you replaced me doesn’t mean I’m not still part of the team.”

“I didn’t willingly replace you—”

“Are you coming or not?”

You resisted the urge to throw your keys directly at the tiny hole in the brace supporting his knee. “Coming where—” 

Seokjin cocked an eyebrow and you smacked him with the wallet part hanging off your keys, letting him work his way through the weased laughter of amusement at himself before he finally shrugged. 

“Don’t know I guess, darling. I’m going to watch Hoseok though, so if you’d like to sit here for another five hours, then be my guest.”

You paused as Seokjin shuffled, retrieving his other crutch and settling it underneath his arm. He was one swing toward the door when you sighed, “Is he playing Jimin?”

“Yes.”

“What color hair does Jimin have?”

“Does it really matter? He has those tight shorts on—”

“Oh fuck off. I’m coming, I’m coming, slow down, you’re faster on those things then with two good knees—”

You navigated into the fairly crowded set of bleachers outside the first court of the outdoor complex, taking a seat on the first row while Seokjin tried to balance his crutches against the fence with muted squeaks of protest. He finally went for flat on the ground by the time the players on the court were nearly halfway through the match with Hoseok in a comfortable lead.

But he didn’t show it, sweat pouring out from underneath the dark blue headband that contained the flattened part of his hair, white sweatbands pressed against his face between each point, groans of effort emitting off the surface of the court every time he had to strain for a corner shot from Jimin. 

He made eye contact with you when he jogged to the fence to retrieve a loose ball, a serve way out by Jimin, tucking it into his pocket with blind eyes as he instead stared you down with parted lips. He nodded, barely, the smallest acknowledgement that shook the sweat stained ends of blonde hair, splattering more to the dark blue patches that made his shirt stick to his torso. 

Seokjin nudged you, “His hair is pink right now, I guess.”

You tried to pretend you weren’t eyeing the peak of Hoseok’s thighs where his shorts rode up on his sticky skin, spluttering, “You think that’s pink?”

“Well it’s not blue.” 

You managed to avert your gaze enough to notice that Seokjin wasn’t lying to get a rile out of you, it was pink, cotton candy in variety and fluffed in waves even if he seemed to be sweating as much if not worse than Hoseok. It was your mouth that betrayed you in the end, ranting, “Blue? Why would it be blue? Blue sucks really. Who would dye their hair blue—”

Seokjin watched the side of your face with a smirk pressed into his dimples and knuckles curled across his lips, “Maybe I should have warned you about Hoseok instead of Jimin—”

“Hey, will it hurt if I punch your scar right now?”

“Probably, why?”

“Good, turn toward me a little bit—”

You grew comfortable in your absent stare at the loop of Hoseok’s shoelaces, one through a whole tightened, repeat. They were a different pair than he’d worn in the morning, white now, with what appeared to be a strip of pastel purple shoved into a sleeve on the side of each shoe. The laces were similar, a soft hue that looked delicate in Hoseok’s nimble fingers, a woven melody that seemed to overlap Namjoon’s droning words in the back of your conscious. 

“Are either of you listening to me?”

Your grip tightened on the straps of your bag as your gaze jerked away from comfort and it was the startled part of your mouth that gave you away before you could even try to lie. 

Namjoon’s palms hit the bench he’d been perched on with renewed fervor, shaking his head as he stalked for the doorway. “I don’t even know why I try. All I ask is that you don’t kill each other out there. Otherwise, I’ll see you afterwards.”

Hoseok grunted as he straightened, joints cracking as he deliberately twisted his spine in time with hiking his foot up higher than necessary to push it off the elevation he’d been tying his shoe. 

“Don’t need him anyway, right?” He teased. 

“Since when do you not have to listen to your coaches?”

The sunshine curved upward into the apples of his cheeks immediately flattened, turning downward even as his chin curtly cocked. 

“I didn’t see you listening to him either, princess,” Hoseok heaved his bag onto his shoulders, smile returned but anything less than inviting as it had been before. 

Your features burned, “That’s not—”

“Whatever.”

You made every excuse possible to debunk that the expression on his face was not one of genuine pain. 

You didn’t stop from the firm shake of hands with each member of the opposing team to the gravel around the trunk of your car where you, rather unceremoniously, dropped your bag from your shoulders to dig around for you keys. You’d just snagged the end of them, buried underneath a couple stray balls and a shock absorber shaped like a broken heart emoji, when scuffing feet passed by you.

You wished you hadn’t look up.

“Don’t look at me,” Namjoon ordered, hands up, palms wide on either side of his shoulders. He paused next to his own car, three down from your own but he didn’t climb inside, fishing out a binder as he took off back the way he came, “Figure it out on your own.”

“In fact, there’s two of you,” Namjoon tripped when he tried to walk backward and talk to you, clutching the binder to his chest as he faltered, “Figure it out with him.” 

But you weren’t in the mood, not after the walking purple highlighter had spent the entire match scolding your technique under his breath and not bothering to communicate strategy with you once, not even when you won the first game on your serve and had them down forty love in the second game. 

It’d gone south from there. Two-six, zero-six. Not in your favor. 

You didn’t stop from the jam of your keys into the ignition, nearly reversing into a truck that was pulling out at the same time, until you navigated into a kind-of-but-not-really parking spot just on the edge of striped lines in the garage beside your building. 

You’d figured it out on your side, not needing to consult Hoseok’s opinion because you’d already come to terms with your season ending while trying to convince Seokjin you couldn’t sneak him out to the nearest Chili’s (it’ll take thirty minutes, no one will even notice I’m gone). You dumped your tennis bag and keys in the foyer, tripping over them with your phone pressed to your nose as you spit out the nasty text message to the bleeding highlighter himself. 

I think you know what I’m going to say. Best of luck for the remainder of the season. 

You left your phone face up on the counter while you disappeared into face melting steam only the rest of the hot water in your building could produce. 

A stress ordered pizza and half the pieces later, you passed by your phone with still dripping hair, droplets smearing onto the screen when you leaned over the device as it lit with a notification.  A top notification of five. Three emails, one from Namjoon and business related which meant he wasn’t going to fire you from your manager position. 

Two texts from Hoseok. 

Thank you. 

Dinner at my place tomorrow? 

Your burp tasted of pepperoni as you clutched the phone to your chest, bouncing onto your couch with a dramatic hop. One leg propped up on the coffee table. A pillow tucked underneath your elbow. 

Disinterested in the recording of a Wednesday night reality show, you tapped with one thumb busy. 

Three bubbles appeared almost immediately and you almost puked in the rush to exit out of the application because, no, you hadn’t turned on read receipts just to send him a text. 

Busy with what? 

You gasped but he couldn’t hear you. Angrily now, with two thumbs I have work at the complex to finish. 

An eye roll emoji in response. Followed by a smiling one but not the one with rosy cheeks. The one that looks slightly uncomfortable but also all-knowing. 

We’re closed on Sundays. 

I do comanage. I have keys. 

...so you’ll be over at five? 

You glared at your phone and, unfortunately, you could picture he triumphant smile filling up the entirety of your screen. The smallest part of your seasoned conscious said there he goes, cocky again. Your fingers worked before that thought fully traveled to the angel on your left shoulder, the devil on your right controlling your joints as you tapped on your phone. 

What’s your address? 

You tossed your phone aside as the next message lit up your phone immediately. The address. You acknowledged the text so you wouldn’t have to get the second notification, pulling your knees to your chest instead. 

There was a second text because of course there was. A heart emoticon, this time with the blushing cheeks. And three tiny hearts. You sighed and you didn’t know why your singular heart fluttered a bit against your ribs. 

Your knuckles had barely tapped against the door for a third time when Hoseok’s sharp voice flit through the sizable gap underneath the door, spilling light into the dim hallway. Shadows danced by the white, small, rounded at the end with little points. 

The points explained the sound of scuffling from within, Hoseok’s cooing explained when the door was pulled open from the inside to him crouched on the floor, palm curved around the breast of a brown and white shitzhu. The dog didn’t bark, but it was clear he wanted to get to you, feet absently swimming underneath him as Hoseok rose with him in toe, eyeing the tongue that curled out of the puppy’s mouth with a tender fondness you’d never seen before. 

“Hi,” Hoseok bounced the dog once in his arms. “Mickey was excited for you to get here.”

Frozen steps brought you through the threshold, fingers reaching gently for the dog. He seemed to melt under your touch, letting you rub behind and up and down his ears. It was unintentional the way you glanced up at Hoseok, through your eyelashes and with a smile tucked into your cheeks. 

You weren’t surprised to see that his wardrobe wasn’t any less when outside of the confining lines of the tennis court. A baggy button up tucked into the waist of tight black jeans, sleeves hanging past his elbows and decked in brightly colored shapes pasted above and below vertical black lines stretched the length of the top. A bright gold watch strapped to his dainty wrist. What appeared to be clip-on matching earrings suffocating his lobes. A thin chain dipping below the first two buttons that were undone. His blonde hair was fluffier when not carefully parted with a sweatband, swept in a flattering bowl across his forehead, more of the brown roots tucked behind his ears. 

Even his smile was different, crawling upward in pretty pink lips the longer you failed to break eye contact with him at the close proximity. 

You broke the trance by speaking way too loud for the door still being open and for that part of your conscious seeming to forget that this man was your mortal enemy. 

“Mickey, huh?”

Hoseok hummed in acknowledgement, wordlessly passing the dog to your arms as he reached around you to tug the door shut. You awed at the tiny creature as he tongued at the apex of your elbow, gently and almost methodical in nature before beaded brown eyes peered up at you. 

“He keeps me company.”

You’d been too busy prodding at the dog’s nose to laugh when his tongue darted out to try to chase your affections to notice that Hoseok had already disappeared into the depths of the apartment. You exchanged a glance with the puppy, bundling him tighter to your chest as you trekked down the hall. 

Hallway was a relative term, just a few feet of walls on either side before the room opened up into a kitchen, living room combination. Something played on the television, muted, but a program you didn’t recognize nonetheless, curved in by a thick black throw rug and a tattered, red leather couch. Dark grey walls paired with a monochromatic interior theme didn’t match the ratty white linoleum peeking out from corners of various colored rugs. 

You were entranced in the most mundane aspects of the apartment, focused on a worn edge of matte black countertop when Hoseok’s gentle voice chided at you. 

“You can put him down, you know.”

The dog hadn’t so much as made a noise in your aimless wandering and when you glanced down, you found his muzzle resting on your forearm, eyes fluttering with soft sighs. You cooed, gently rocking him as though he were a child. “But he’s napping.”

Plates knocked together as Hoseok spread them two across the bar, diligent in his work with cocked eyebrows and the beginnings of a smile. “He’s always napping,” He dove for the pots on the stove, a pronged utensil dipping into the depths before drawing out a stringy clump of pasta. The meal was deposited onto the first plate and he murmured, “Better not bring you around too much, he won’t want to walk anywhere.”

You relented when Mickey woke with a soft yawn, jostled by your conversation and the continued sound of dishes. He skidded across the floor with the softest delighted yip!, disappearing around the corner and you could tell by the way Hoseok chirped and glanced down that he was pestering his owner for attention now instead. 

“I didn’t even ask,” Hoseok continued to plate the dishes, now spreading a sweet smelling sauce to the top, “Is spaghetti alright with you?”

You hummed, elbows knocking into the edge of the counter to peer at his creation. You lessened the severity of your tone in hopes that he would recognize you were kidding, “A gourmet meal…”

“Hey—” The glint in the wrinkles around his eyes let you know he too was kidding and the tension in your shoulders relaxed, “—it’s all I had here on such short notice.”

“You asked me to come. In fact, you didn’t give me much of a chance to say no…”

“I wanted you to be here,” His final dollop of sauce ended up half on the plate, half splattered on the counter, and he slid the clean plate across to you before ducking for a napkin. The mess was cleaned with scrunched features, a sigh falling from parted lips when he balled the paper and missed the trash bin on the very edge. 

You watched Hoseok quietly from your perched position on one of two barstools as he collected his own plate, silverware in hand as he rounded the bar to you. “I think we have some things to talk through—” He tugged the empty chair back with the round of his foot, depositing the cutlery to the surface of the counter as he went, “—don’t you?”

“Without Namjoon?”

He shot you a pointed look, stabbing the end of his fork into the center of his pasta spiral, “Definitely without Namjoon.”

You quietly cut into the ends of the noodles, scooping up a sizeable bite, “Yesterday was clearly a disaster.”

“It wasn’t that bad. The score doesn’t always tell the whole story,” There was a fleck of garlic stuck to the corner of pouted lips when he glanced at you, “A little more practice can fix our chemistry issues.”

“Can it though?” You dumped the pieces of pasta you’d cut back to the plate, gently setting your fork down, “I don’t know that any amount of practice can make us like each other. Or even pretend—”

“Do you dislike me?”

“No,” You answered quickly and earnestly because you didn’t. For the most part. Not really. “I mean...no. No, I don’t.”

Hoseok nodded, quickly at first and then slower, more to himself as he began to stab around the pasta some more. Moving it back and forth, coating the clean parts of the plate in sticky red sauce and then finally he mumbled, “Good...that’s—that’s good to know.”

 “Truthfully, I don’t know why it ever got to this point. Where we can’t even collaborate for a few days on the thing we both love.”

More pointed clicking of metal against glass. A noisy slurp of water from a plastic cup. More scooting and then, “Why can’t we though?”

“You saw how yesterday went. How all our training sessions have gone—”

“Forget about those,” He dropped his fork now too, rotating until his knees almost knocked into yours, “Seriously, forget about them.”

Hoseok inhaled, a deep sigh that had his gaze trailing over your head, “...look, I don’t know what you think about me. I try not to care. But let’s just...for the sake of right now, start over?”

A mental slideshow passed by in front of your eyes as you stared at the genuine plea pasted over Hoseok’s heart shaped features, all the moments your stomach had stirred with a fire and your tongue had lashed out those internal hardships but you suddenly couldn’t find the ignition, the accelerant that made the flames engulf your nerve endings to the very tips of your fingers non existent, smoking like doused with water (or store bought, jar made spaghetti sauce). A mirage, maybe, just like the limp noodle lodged between one of your back molars.

You extended your hand toward the figure across from you. 

“Yeah, let’s start over—” You sucked in a sharp breath, setting your shoulders and the smile that spread to your lips was supposed to be faux but turned out light hearted anyway. You cheered your name, tilting your head toward your wiggling fingers, “—it’s a pleasure to be your doubles partner for an eighth of the season, sir.”

He touched your hand, loose in sliding his fingers across your palm to squeeze, not shake. His voice feathered out of twitching lips just like the stumble of your heart, wholy unsure but willing to try. 

“Nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

“No Namjoon?”

Seokjin was off his crutches now but still sporting what appeared to be the world’s largest brace, coated in metal gears that made you joke if he was starting his transition to immortality. He met you in the doorway of the locker room, holding a hand out for your water jug. You handed it over, expecting him to carry it for you as you brushed past but he flicked the lid and took the longest gulp, mashing a piece of ice between his teeth as he handed it back. 

“No,” You popped the lid closed, smacking his bicep with the knowledge he couldn’t catch up to you if you took off running, “No, no Namjoon today. He’s here but not...here. Not trying to coach us yet.”

“Not after what happened last time,” Hoseok was fiddling with the velcro strap of a visor as he exited the opposite door. He sported the same light purple color scheme, something about reversing the bad luck of the exhibition match. 

You’d changed up your outfit, just in case omens were real and the tennis gods hated red. Yellow was your color choice. You weren’t brave enough to match him yet, either. 

He looked up when he secured it, jamming the hat down over his hair, eliminating the signature part that marked his quick dashes across the court. The bright smile stayed as he flanked your small posse, nudging you with the arm covered in two sweatbands and a skin colored arm sleeve. 

“Are you two...like friends now?”

Seokjin’s loud inquiry heated your cheeks but Hoseok just shrugged, still looking at where his elbow had touched your stomach. “Partners, at the very least,” Hoseok provided, “Doubles partners. Ones who work together and don’t try to concuss each other with serves.”

Your mouth parted to deny that I’ve never done that but Seokin quipped, “Oh, she’s tried to do that to you for ages. It was one of her training strategies with me—”

“Where’s your off switch, Mr. Robot.”

“Don’t have one. Anyway, best of luck!”

When there was a sailing lob over Hoseok’s head, you were eager to call out to switch!, worn traction on the soles of your shoes allowing you to slide to catch the shot, lobbing it back cross court while Hoseok lay in wait at the net, seeking out the easy put away shot at the net that would eventually and did eventually come. 

When there was an opportunity to play strategy on his serve, you did, each starting on the left side the second point into the game, allowing Hoseok to serve a hard, down the line ball to the opponent's backhand which, in turn, set you up for a sneaky and easy floater that you crammed in the center of the two players. 

When there was a changeover in the first set, five games to love in your favor, your hand was there for Hoseok’s to smack, a high five he taunted a little bit above your head while you tried to balance your water bottle in one palm and seek out his hand in the other. It earned a smile when you spilled ice water down the front of your top and he had to hand you a hand towel from his bag while the opposing team watched impatiently from their positions.

When there was an opportunity in the second set for the opposing team to get a breakpoint, make it three to four rather than five to two, Namjoon called you over to the fence with only a sliver of the feeling of dread lingering in his posture. He eyed the pair of you as you approached, Hoseok shoved lightly on your arm as you went to plant but instead of an outraged screech from you, it just earned another push and a fit of mingling giggles, ones Namjoon nearly went into cardiac arrest over and he never thought he’d have to tell you and Jung Hoseok to stop laughing at each other so that he could speak. 

There were still moments of tension, moments that made you inhale and dig your fingernails into the grip of your racket but instead of muttering obscenities under your breath and using his head as target practice for your spin serve, you smiled, real and genuine, and you leaned closer to his fiery explanations spoken as a similarly smiley octave, “What was it you wanted me to do?”

They were easy to navigate in the first round of the tournament, take you through the lunch of cold cut sandwiches Seokjin had laid out on a picnic table for you, the second round that drew a little bit closer in score but was still a win (both statistically and morally, especially when Namjoon walked you out to the court with instruction rather than hid in the safety of his car until it seemed like you wouldn’t try to slash Hosoek’s achilles with the frame of your racket). The third round brought more of the past to rear its ugly head, a dark storm cloud that reminded you in rain and miscommunication at the net that you were a human, not a miracle worker. 

But you won, barely, in a tiebreaker that nearly killed your stamina for the championship but the taste to win was so fresh on the roof of your mouth, you grit your teeth to grind it up and swallow it. Second best wasn’t good enough, even if it would qualify you for the regional champions, if you were already qualified. 

But you lost and you had to accept the bitter regurgitation of the victory you could taste, washing it away with your lukewarm water that had melted all the ice cubes onto your tongue throughout your fourth and final match of the day. Except it was just that, a learning experience, bitter but available to all the critiques Namjoon chattered in your ears as you trekked into the parking lot. You didn’t speed away, nearly destroy your ignition with your keys this time, instead leaned against your driver side door while Hoseok coaxed your bag from your shoulders and stuffed it into your trunk with your keys in his hand. 

Namjoon’s fleeting expression at the action was the same when you entered the complex for a training session not nearly a week later, both from Hoseok’s car, your bag slung over one of his shoulders while you held up what appeared to be a strawberry smoothie for him to sip out of. The startled trainer explained the wrong drill four times and resorted to letting you do the wrong thing on the fifth try as he went about collecting barely there balls in a hopper while muttering to himself. 

Thus is why you didn’t think the hotel conseguir was kidding when she handed you two keycards while asking, “Are you checking in for Jung Hoseok as well?”

“Oh, no. Why would I—”

“You’re each listed under this room,” Her grip tightened on the plastic cards when you pinched them, trying to pull them back, “Is that incorrect?”

Someone in the growing line behind you coughed and the quick glance behind you noted that his t-shirt advertised some sort of local tennis tournament. Similarly to the person approaching the desk in the opposite line from you with a spare racket tucked under their arm, one that must have spilled from the half open bag slopped at their ankles. 

“I...no, that’s—”

“That’s how it was booked,” She continued to tug on the cards, freeing them from your grasp to flatten them on the desk in front of you as she began to click around on the monitor, “...and it appears we have no other rooms for the weekend, so—”

“Yes, I’m checking in for Jung Hoseok as well. He’s with me—” She glanced up at you through a stray hair that had escaped from behind her ear and you panicked, “—I didn’t know he booked it under his...other name.”

“Right…” A receipt printed with various pieces of information, one of which blurred the majority of the tennis club’s credit card number, a card held in Namjoon’s name. “Third floor, room forty. Enjoy your stay.”

You called Namjoon in the elevator, ranting at him before the dead spot could end as you stepped off on the third floor. 

“Why’d you book us the same room?”

He yawned into the receiver and you briefly felt bad for waking him from his pre-connecting-flight-nap. Briefly. “Me and you?”

“No dumba—” You stopped yourself to fumble and jam one of the keycards into the slot of room forty, waiting until it clicked over. “—no, Namjoon. Hoseok and I.”

The edge of one of your rackets misplaced inside your bag, catching on the doorframe as you stumbled inside to find the worst part of the singular room. The singular bed.

“You couldn’t even book a room with two full beds?”

“I booked two rooms with one queen bed each.”

“No, you booked one room with a king bed—” You dropped the handle of your suitcase to swat at the towel folded like a swan at the edge of the bed. 

“Well at least it’s a king.”

“Namjoon.” 

“Did you just...ask for another room?”

“They’re booked for the weekend. Kind of a large tennis tournament going on at the attached event center. And some cooking ware convention, but I didn’t take the guy’s brochure…”

“...speaking of which, are you sure you booked yourself a room? Or did you just book the entire club one singular room—” You swatted the swan again to take a seat on the corner, “—because if so, we’re about to get real comfy for the weekend.”

“I’ll call here in a second but if they only mentioned you and Hoseok’s names in the room...then I think it’s just the two of you, love.”

You groaned to which Namjoon sighed, “Just try for me, okay?”

“I just tried to be his doubles partner, not—”

“And look where that got you,” You paused because Namjoon was right. You were a better team than either of you cared to admit. Than you cared to admit to yourself. And all it took was trying, sincerely, applying your passion for the game to the partnership with someone you would no longer regard as you mortal enemy. 

Just your roommate for two days, apparently. 

“...anyway, I need you to call Hoseok and explain what’s going on. That’s a phone call I don’t have time to make.”

“Namjoon—”

“Have a good night!”

You glared at your thumb for it’s seasoned ability to move to Hoseok’s contact but especially the ability to hit call and place it on speaker. 

“Was just about to text you,” He sounded far away, out of breath, and faintly you heard the call of a boarding flight. “Just landed. Meeting my driver to the hotel now.”

“Room three-forty.”

“Do you want me to make a pit stop at a grocery store or something? Get some fruit and waters—wait what?” 

“Room three-forty,” You repeated, glaring at the opposite wall to prevent yourself from calling Hoseok a dumbass out loud until you noticed in your reflection of the flat screen television that you still had your backpack on, “That’s where you’re staying.”

“...okay,” You heard him utter a thank you and then a door shut, “Are we neighbors or something?”

“Mhm, I suppose you could call it that.”

More silence. More muffled directions, and then he sighed, “Did Namjoon book us the same room?”

“Were you in on it?”

“So that’s a yes but, w-what? No, I—” Hoseok laughed and under normal circumstances you’d fume, “—sweetheart, he joked about it in practice like twenty times. He probably joked about it so many times that he did it without thinking.”

You paused and one of the twenty instances flooded back, when Namjoon had entered the complex to you leaned back in your desk chair while Hoseok wrapped new purple grip onto the handle of your racket. 

“Maybe I should just book you the same room for the championships,” His voice had faded as he ducked into his own office, “Wouldn’t that be a treat!”

You’d snatched your racket back from Hoseok not without jamming the end into his stomach playfully. “Maybe you should not do that!”

“Oh,” You switched the phone between your palms as you finally shrugged out of your backpack, letting it sag limply against the neatly stacked pillows, “Oh yeah.”

“So do you want those snacks?”

“If you get something other than fruit.”

“Noted, you want junk food,” You could hear the smile in his voice, “Any other requests?”

You flopped backward onto the mattress, forearm over your eyes and you sighed into the immediate heat that spread across your skin. 

“Yeah, hurry up. I’m lonely.”

“Just one bed too, huh?”

Hoseok rubbed at his eyes, skin coated in a thin sheen underneath the lowlights of the room where he’d just lathered two layers of a fresh smelling skin cream. A loose pajama shirt hung cockeyed over his torso and he fiddled with the top button, not done up in the same way the two below it weren’t either, knee bending to sink into the spot on the mattress across from you. 

“Yeah,” You rolled where you’d already cocooned yourself in the duvet. You pitched your voice to match Namjoon’s, exaggerated and drawn out, “but at least it’s a king.” 

He hesitated in peeling back the sheets, waiting until you glanced curiously at him to soften, “Is this...okay?”

“What?”

“I can sleep on the floor,” The bracelets still attached to his wrist tinkled together as he gestured to the lumps on lumps of white sprawled across the massive bed, “I think there’s enough here to make some decent padding—”

“And give you stiff joints before the first two rounds tomorrow?” You rolled your eyes, patting the space next to you, “Get in here. Namjoon was partially right. This is a massive king bed.”

Hoseok was hesitant in the entrance albeit confident in the way he sprawled, nearly intruding on what you’d deemed “your side” with a vertical pillow that prevented you from seeing his face when he finally settled his cheek to his hand. But you could tell he was facing you from the slide of his foot underneath the sheets and you held your breath that it wouldn’t brush the bend of your knees until something else drew your attention, a hand slapping over the pillow in the middle and gently pushing it down until you could see shower fresh blonde hair and crinkled brown irises. 

“There you are,” His voice trilled at the end of the last syllable and you tucked the blankets tighter to you as if they would shield the sound of your heart in your ears. 

Lamely, muffled by the blankets you nodded, “I’m here!”

His smile shifted to where his fingers drummed against the pillow still placed between you. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“Yeah, first round shouldn’t be too difficult but either opponent we’d face in the second round will be the real challenge. They’re both from different complexes in the north that are known for being pretty competitive so...I heard Namjoon say you got one of the best draws in your singles bracket though so that’s—”

“Yeah,” Hoseok’s fingers stopped their movements on the pillow, “I mean, like are you...are you actually, you know, ready?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He shrugged, still avoiding your gaze and his fingernails went to picking at loose fibers in the pillowcase, “I know you wanted to get back to this spot with Seokjin. And instead it’s with me, so I can understand why you wouldn’t…”

“Where is all this coming from?”

“You know I never…” Hoseok’s wandering eyes stared directly at you now, dark and dilated and shining with the city lights that sheared through the curtains, “I’ve never hated you. I want you to know that.”

“...and I never wanted you to hate me. I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not but I will apologize for whatever I’ve done to give you this horrible impression of me.”

You burned with a sickening realization that only grew worse the longer he talked to the sheets. 

“You intrigued me, so I thought, you know, you were an obstacle to conquer, especially when it seemed like you vehemently hated me. And then I realized you did actually not like me, and I wasn’t really sure what to do.”

“Remember the day Seokjin got hurt?”

You didn’t trust your numb chords to vocalize so you swallowed and nodded.

“You asked me if I’d done it. If I’d sabotaged you for virtually no reason,” He blinked, eyes closed for a little longer than necessary and your breath felt heavy in your lungs, “I could live with you thinking I’m a little cocky because sometimes, I am. I’m confident in my abilities and I won’t apologize for that.”

“But for you to think I’d purposely injure your doubles partner, injure someone else so you...what? Couldn’t share the notoriety of winning a championship like I had? I began to, you know, question it.”

“And I thought it was all in my head, that maybe it was just a fit of passion that made you ask me that, and everything would continue per normal. Less than friendly insults. You using the image of my face as serve target practice.” 

“After that first exhibition match is when I kind of knew that it wasn’t in my head, you know,” Hoseok shrugged, sadly again and the last bit of your heart crumbled, “I wanted to fix it. Because I never wanted you to hate me. I’ve always admired you too much for that.”

You shed the pillow barrier to scoot closer, rushing, “I was jealous of you, you know that? I always have been. It’s ridiculous. Sorry doesn’t cut it, but I am. So sorry.”

He laughed and you touched his face to lessen it, scooting another space closer. “I know you were. It’s okay.”

“It’s not though, I shouldn’t have been. I had no reason to be other than my stupid petty personal vendettas,” Your palm fully cupped his cheek, thumbing at the passion induced liquid that had leaked underneath that set of eyelashes, “I’ve been an asshole to you.”

“I’m not exactly innocent.”

“No, but I’m not going to play a game of who's the bigger asshole,” You didn’t startle when he touched your hand, holding onto the cling of his gaze, “I’m sorry for this giant misunderstand. I am.”

“A years upon years long misunderstanding.”

You laughed, soft and dry on a tiny cough that racked through your body. “Yeah...that.”

“I’m sorry. Too,” Hoseok’s hand threaded underneath your own, holding up a hopeful pinky and the remaining tears glittered at his irises, “Truce?”

You linked your pinkies, letting him tug you close enough to ghost his lips to your forehead. 

“Truce.”

You woke with his limbs tangled around your torso, lips in your hair telling you to stay asleep as he sleepily shuffled for his suitcase still laying limply at the edge of the bed. But you didn’t listen, you alarm going off after he’d disappeared into the shower with his uniform in hand, bright yellow this time and matching of yours with the team name scrawled across the front. You were happy it said Game, Set, Match Tennis HQ instead of Namjoon’s proposed Namjoon’s Ball Kids. 

(“We’re the same age.” “You’re still my kid.” “No.”) 

“Did I wake you?” He hushed into the room as if you weren’t half dressed with the room light on. 

“I’m coming with you?”

“Why? Our call time for warm up isn’t until at least after one o’clock and—”

“I’m coming to watch you—” You paused with an arm half in a sweatshirt and you pumped it cheesily, “—you know. Cheer you on.”

“Ah,” He fluffed deft fingers into partially damp hair, sweatband twirled around his arm, “My good luck charm?”

You were enough luck for him to finish in plenty of time for you to get a nap in before your first round draw. Enough luck for you to catch dinner with an arriving Seokjin just before your second round match. Enough luck for you to go two and O on the day while Hoseok belted four wins between his two positions. 

Not enough luck for the matching trophy to the one cased in glass at the complex, instead earning Hoseok a third place plaque on the second day that he displayed in the center of your hotel room bed. 

“Would rather win with you, anyway,” He muttered into your ear before the championship, popping out one of your earbuds mid calf stretch. You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way his lips brushed down your neck as he pulled away into his own stretch, shrugging bulky headphones back across his head. 

Frustration pricked early at your conscious, Hoseok’s quip not under his breath but directly to your face while you sucked down water on a changeover, informing you to fix your grip on the backhands and seal the line on the deuce side of the net. It was the flex of his palm toward the fire in your eyes that quieted you though, the silent assurance that he was just trying to help and he didn’t so much as flinch when you pointed out the forehand player on the opposing team was eating him alive at the net. He just shrugged, holding his racket up for you to click together and agreed. 

“You’re right. I’ll play double back for a game.”

He played double back while you switched to a flat shot on your backhand and you won the game, tying the first set at three-three until you won on your serve from a similar strategy of capitalizing on Hoseok’s quickness at the baseline, giving you the opportunity to charge for putaways. 

It was a communicated strategy that you tweaked between games but otherwise allowed you to sail through the first set with only one more dropped game, six-four, and two games into the second set until your grip started to drift again, sending three backhands in a row sailing out of bounds. 

“C’mon now,” A simple enough encouragement, spoken at a slightly irritated tone that forced Hoseok’s next shot to sail into the center of the net. 

You cut in front of him on the third shot of the next game, ball meeting a similar feat where the net and the ground met and Hoseok threw up his hands in frustration. Namjoon spoke freely now, a single yell from the side that said settle down and although it was meant for both of you, you took it personally and fumbled through two double faults on your next serve opportunity, putting you down two-three. 

“I don’t care if you win or lose, frankly,” Namjoon said when you met him at the fence, “but we will not play a third set.”

Hoseok didn’t wait until Namjoon shuffled away to his spot on the bleachers to chide, “Let me get the next few shots. Stop trying to cheat at the net.”

...which led you to cheat at the net four more times, only two of which were successful. Five-three, Hoseok’s serve, his reluctance of fine, go for it when you’d gone up four-three and a simple nod when you’d tossed him the extra balls for the beginning of his serve for, potentially, the entire match. 

You let him get the fifteen point, then the thirty point. They fumbled his serve on the forty point. 

It was an all or nothing shot up the line, fired at an angle and you knew it was coming from the way your opponent set up with open feet, an audible grunt ringing down the other courts as the ball raced off the strings. It was down the line, a beautiful shot in any other circumstance, and your reflexes forgot your years of training, footwork, drills. 

Instead, you stood up and stuck your racket out. 

The ball caught the corner of your frame, barely brushing the worn and tattered black edges, applying just enough spin to fall in over the net, dying upon impact and winning. 

Six-four, six-three, championship. 

You turned, dropping your racket as you spread your arms and through a loud, unabashed laugh did you call, “I thought you told me to stop going for them?”

A steady pair of arms engulfed your waist, lifting your feet from the ground and you lost count of how many circles you’d actually spun but you tallied at least seven when your heels were planted back to the court and a warm pair of lips pressed between the seam of your own. 

“We won!” You cheered into Hoseok’s face and he just blinked happily, smile permanent, each of you shocked to the previous kiss but not to the next when you threaded tight fingers into the sweat stained blonde, effectively knocking his headband off to where it bounced between the connection of your mouths. 

“Told you I would rather win with you.”

You hummed, kissing his chin, “Saving it for me?”

You shivered with the way he nosed down your cheek, “Always, sweetheart.”

There was an audible pout in Seokjin’s voice even when you weren’t looking at him. 

“What about me?” 

Hoseok chuckled from where he was craned behind you to inspect the trophy, palm rubbing gentle circles into the small of your back. “Don’t worry, buddy. I prefer singles, anyway.”

“...but not when our doubles champion here is single, yeah?” You finally glanced up at Seokjin as he traded a curled fist between you and Hoseok’s stomach. “Yeah? Yeah!?”

“Oh come on. You don’t think the entire audience didn’t see that kiss?”

“Get out of here, Jin.”

“Pinky promise not to ditch me next season.”

“I pinky promise.”

“You have to do the thing.”

You held up a limp pinky just to sate him but he clucked his tongue. “No. The thing.” 

Hoseok’s hand stiffened on your spine as he watched you wet your smallest finger, lathing your tongue over it for good measure before sticking it out for Seokjin. The older man popped his from his cheek, twisting your fingers together before scampering off. Or at least, you thought. 

“Does anyone want to go drinking tonight? My treat!”

“For the record, he’s right,” Hoseok brushed hair off your neck to press soft lips there, “I’d prefer you not be single.”

“Oh, yeah?” You hugged the trophy to your chest to turn to him, “And what would you prefer I be?”

“Mine.”

Your lips rounded into a perfect circle, one droning syllable leaving as you reached up to pat his cheek, “See, that kind of cocky is attractive.”

“M’not cocky,” There was a pout to Hoseok’s heart shaped mouth but a seriousness behind his statement that made you heat with more than sunburn. 

“You’re not at all,” You turned in the slot of his arm, stretching to peck his jaw. “I would prefer to be yours, too. If it’s any consolation.”

He pretended to think, shadows falling over one side of his face as the sun began to set and reflect off the gold plated award clutched in your arms. 

“Want to try it?” Hoseok grinned finally, dropping his chin to look at you, “Just see how it goes?”

You placed the trophy aside, down on the bottom row of bleacher closest to you to wrap both arms around his neck. “Yeah, let’s try it.”

[exploding-plastic-inevitable]

This or that tropes

tagged by @shiny-good-rock (thank you! my anxiety is doing a thing rn so this should be a fun distraction!) 

Slow Burn or Love At First Sight (I don’t really like either tbh, but love at first sight has potential for interesting stuff with a character seeing another in action and wanting to be them and idealizing them, and how that mixes with attraction. it’s not a good set up to a healthy relationship of course, but the way its dysfunctional works for character exploration)

Fake Dating or Secret Dating (i’m a sucker for two people from conflicting factions having a relationship they hide, and i like some settings where societal homophobia and class divide makes secrecy in relationships a necessity)

Enemies to Lovers or Best Friends to Lovers (i really like characters who change a lot over the course of their story! and i like it when an antagonist switches sides and istead of dying or going to jail forever theres all kinds of messy working them into the group stuff)

Oh no, there’s only one bed! or Long-Distance with Correspondence (i like this for platonic immimacy more than anything, because thats what its been in my experance, but i can like a romantic angle if its done well (like in moby dick))

Hurt/Comfort or Amnesia ( i dont think amnesia is even really a popular fandom trope anymore )

Fantasy AU or Modern AU (i DO really like fantasy aus, but i like modern aus quite a bit more. especally when the setting is harsher on the characters then modern day would probably be and putting them in modern day lets them devolp in more possible directions)

Mutual Pining or Domestic Bliss (established relationships are underrated! plus having a couple whose happy and established leaves more room in the story to focus on other things)

Smut or Fluff (both are good, but you can do more with smut i think, as far as character dynamics and exploration goes)

Canon Compliant With Missing Scene or Fix-it Fic (i like both a lot, and while i wish i could say i didnt like fix it fic more... i do. althought not all fix it fic, my favorites are ones that undo an endiing that kills or otherwise destroys characters so they can have further stories)

Alternate Universe or Future Fic (i like the characters i like, not their kids haha)

One Shot or Multi-chapter (nnnnnn i’m not good at reading either way)

Kid Fic or Roadtrip (ppl often dont write kids so well, and i love roadtrips)

Reincarnation or Character Death (weirdly enough i think fic with character death scratches the same itch for me as fix it fic where characters live instead of die)

Arranged Marriage or Accidental Marriage (neither? but arranged marriage has potential as something to escape at least)

High School Romance or Middle Aged Romance (this is hard because i like a good high schoolers au that doesnt focus on romance but... well writen high school aus are pretty rare. i like stories about romance between employees at a high school, like a teacher and a janitor, while other characters are students, but those are even rarer. so...high school wins out but very narrowly)

Time Travel or Isolated Together (what if we self quarentined... together 😳😳😳)

Neighbors or Roommates (i’m an anatomized modern american and i dont know any of my neighbors by name :/. i think neighbors could be cool if it was a story about like... a rent strike tho, or in a setting where ppl talked to neighbors more)

Sci-fi AU or Magic AU (aaaa this is really hard because theres more you can do with magic aus but cyberpunk aus!! i love them so much!)

Bodyswap or Genderbend (god i LOVE aus where male characters are women, it doesnt work for all of them but theres quite a few i activiely prefer as women then as in canon, like hammer horror dracula and van helsing)

Angst or Crack (i dont have to much preferance for either if its writen well, but  ive found humor fails more often)

Apocalyptic or Mundane (this is the same as modern au! but anyway yeah mundane, college aus included)

I’m not gonna tag anyone because i’m nervious about but what if they dont want to? so if you see this and want to feel free

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

Spider-Man: Far From Home Thoughts Part 1 a.k.a. MCU Chapter 23

As I did for Homecoming I’m going to split my thoughts on the film up based on looking at it as a film unto itself/part of the MCU and then separately looking at it in terms of being an adaptation. 

However in trying to write the former section I soon realized it was more practical to further partition coverage of the film.

Because MCU films can be looked at not merely as part of a film trilogy/quadrilogy (or as the latest chapter in a specific character’s arc) but as installments in the wider MCU story. Spider-Man: Far From Home is in essence simultaneously ‘Marvel Cinematic Universe Spider-Man 2′ and ‘Marvel Cinematic Universe Part 23′. And those two lenses do affect how you evaluate the film.

So as such I’m going to have three sections across...however many parts it takes. These posts are something of a stream of consciousness so I’m aiming for 3 parts but we’ll see what happens.

Let’s start with how this stacks up as the latest installment in the MCU Saga.

On a scale of Iron Man 3/The Dark World/Captain Marvel to Winter Soldier/Civil War/Endgame, Far From Home sits comfortably in a middling position, much like its predecessor.

Like Homecoming it’s a mostly entertaining time killer, decent popcorn fun...just not quite as high quality popcorn fun as say Avengers 2012 or Iron Man 2008.

Speaking of Iron Man his post-humorous presence in the film illustrative of a strength and weakness of the MCU’s narrative style, hence I’m going to talk a lot about it here.

Whilst the MCU is often touted (even by Disney themselves) as replicating the comic books’ shared cross continuity nature, in truth it doesn’t.

In Marvel comics one can mostly follow Iron Man or Spider-Man or Avengers runs on their own. The shared universe is there and comes into play at times, but really you don’t need to follow everything.

With the MCU, whilst a lot of the films are accessible you really couldn’t just watch the Iron Man Trilogy and call it a day because Tony’s arc plays out across other films too, it climaxes 5+ years after his last solo film. In essence the MCU is like a TV show wherein you get 2-3 episodes per year and the season finales are the Avengers movies.

This is relevant to Far From Home because, despite what anyone tells you, this is the start of Phase/Season 4 and it feels that way (it more or less states that to you at the start of the movie). As such the film acts as MCU Spider-Man 2 but also MCU Chapter 23/MCU Book 4 Chapter 1 and HAS to address the fallout of the last episode/chapter/season finale.

Thus Peter’s arc in FFH gets hijacked as a kind of Endgame/Tony Stark post-mortem...sorta. We’ll talk more about that in another post, but understand that in so far as Tony’s post-mortem does hijack the movie it undermines Peter’s personal narrative.

However, in regards to the post-Endgame state of affairs it is rather unsatisfying, almost disrespectful.

And by disrespectful I mean that as the Marvel Studios logo opens up we have a rendition of ‘I Will Always Love You’ (the Whitney Houston version I believe) over poorly picked out, low res stills of all Avengers who died or didn’t come back in Endgame; to the film’s credit it does look like something a high schooler would make. That is followed by the first of two clunky exposition drops played for laughs and repeating the unrequited romance joke between Betty and Jason from Homecoming, complete with a focus upon Jason’s bewilderment over now being older than his little brother. Oh and let’s not forget the gag about the high school band turning to dust and then reappearing in the middle of a basketball game to wacky effect. The film even makes a point of not  addressing if the Avengers are even around as a team anymore, which is likely a meta commentary as well.

I’ll give the movie this, it made it’s intentions clear. It was not going to really treat the aftermath of the biggest MCU movie with much weight, it was going to be a superfluous, light, fluffy funfest. That’s a stupid direction to adopt after Endgame but at least it didn’t try to trick the viewers that it would be anything else.

Now in spite of that tone and approach the film could still explore how the post-Endgame world has changed. Maybe we won’t get anything dark or dramatic per se, but at least we’ll get some information right?

In fact, as much as I had disdain for this film going in, seeing the post-Endgame MCU was what I was really interested in. And the film delivered on that...initially...in the very same clunky exposition drop played for laughs.

We don’t talk about the blip again apart from 3 or 4 quick references, one of which explained who Mysterio was and why he could’ve duped Fury.

As for how this affected Peter, it didn’t. Many speculated Aunt May might’ve survived the blip but no, we’re told very explicitly she disappeared too.

This is very much a mixed bag for FFH as an MCU film and as a Spider-Man movie (yes I know I said I was separating those two things but it’s more efficient for this next part).

On the one hand for those who want to follow the broader MCU story FFH gives them answers but brief ones. It’s the equivalent to simply googling the answer to a murder mystery rather than experiencing the story unfold towards that answer. We had a huge opportunity to examine the ramifications of such a globally changing phenomenon but we simply acknowledge it happened and then press on as though it didn’t. The same opening exposition makes that clear too when it says that they’re moving on.

On the other hand were the film to properly explore the ramifications of the blip it would hijack the whole movie, even more than the Iron Man post-mortem already was.

On the other other hand having everyone of relevance to Peter’s life (sans Happy and Tony) die and come back, keeping them all ‘synched’ with him basically, is extremely convenient.

On the other other other hand it’d derail his narrative in a huge way if MJ or Ned or May (who’s still not ‘Aunt May’ btw because fuck this movie) were suddenly in their 20s.

On the other x4 hand the presence of such a massively fantastical event like death and resurrection (along with aliens and space technology) has already derailed the verisimilitude of his solo films which began by painting themselves as comparatively more down to Earth and ‘friendly neighbourhood’ even in spite of alien tech being repurposed. The same applies to having him go on international adventures; yet another inconsistency between this and the last Spidey movie.

So it’s very much a case of pick your poison.

Getting back to this film as a Tony Stark tribute, when viewed as part of the ongoing MCU saga it’s presence and handling succeeds more than it fails.

As I said Tony began the MCU and along with Cap was one of the twin pillars holding it up, so his death demands examination. On a metatextual level we need a film grieving Tony Stark before we can move on to the next step.

So in this regard the film giving so much attention to the hole left behind by him and how that’s really the impetus for the entire primary plot of the film is incredibly fitting.*

This applies to Mysterio in a sense.

I’ll talk more about his place when compared to certain other villains in a future instalment, but in the context of this movie his role as a kind of evil Iron Man/pretender to Iron Man’s throne works well. In fact he’s an exceptionally great villain...for Iron Man.** You see where I’m going with this, but that’s for another post.

Lets switch gears a little and discuss another wider MCU element, Nick Fury. At certain points of the film I felt Fury was out of character and a huge jerk. But twist at the end that it was actual Talos mitigated all that, it made sense. It also addressed another huge problem I was having with the movie up until that point, the absence of other heroes.

Like in the trailers the movie takes strides to address why Thor, Captain Marvel and Doctor Strange can’t help out against the Elementals. But of course this leaves the huge problem of literally everyone else. You could make a case for Falcon and Winter Soldier being of little use against such seemingly powerful foes like the Elementals, but what about Scarlet Witch, Black Panther, Valkyrie, etc? Thankfully the Talos reveal addresses this as Talos is ultimately not Nick Fury so wouldn’t have access to all those heroes.

It also sets up for future films, implying the Kree/Skrull War is far from over and that we will soon be seeing S.W.O.R.D.

Really that’s all there is to say about the movie moving forward into the MCU.

We get answers but they’re underwhelming and unsatisfying whilst getting a movie grieving Tony Stark and making the audience feel his loss.

If only Spider-Man himself seemed to feel as upset...

*Too bad all the comedy and light teen drama crap undermines it.

**In fact the entire villainous crew and villain scheme revolves around Iron Man’s legacy. I guess that makes this film also a.k.a. Iron Man in Memoriam 

[dat-fandom-losertown]

Cat Out of the Bag

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

Chapter 1: Prologue & The Encounter

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

Neko!Hank Anderson x Artist/Author!Connor

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Warnings: Swearing (assume this’ll be in all future chapters as well lol), A tad of Violence, Panic attack similar to my own, Blood/Injury Mention

Word Count: 9,453 (I have no clue how to write short chapters/fics lol)

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

Synopsis:

   “I ain’t some starvin’, twink cat that you can just bring home and teach how to trust and love or whatever the fuck else books try to say. Hell, I’m not even a Persian or Maine Coon cat with those bushy, pale tails like people always love to give us bears. I’m just an old, fat calico.”

   “I personally don’t agree with the stereotypes as well. But as I offered before, you’re always welcome to leave. The front door is right there, I’m not keeping you trapped here... If you wanted to stay, though, I can make you breakfast? You can watch me make your breakfast, or you can make it yourself if you want.”

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

~> Next

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

                   Growing up, Connor was always stuck in the worlds he fabricated in his mind, and he wasn’t ashamed of it like his family tried to tell him to be. Even when he would introduce himself to people since middle school, he would always say his name then state that he had an uncontrollably active imagination, and if they ever are speaking to him and he doesn’t appear to be actively listening that they should try to not be offended. He just simply found inspiration and was committing whatever it was to memory to come back to later, or has laid out a simple plot to follow along later. He really meant no harm or disrespect to them.

    Let’s just say that, among the school’s nerds, jocks, or other cliques, “Crazy Connor” did not fit into any social group, and regularly gained more bullies than friends. He never minded too much, though. He always lived vicariously through his character’s lives which he created, and they always had plenty of friends and allies they could turn to when in trouble. That’s all he needed, or at least, that’s what he always convinced himself so he wouldn’t become swallowed by loneliness.

    By his first year in high school, he wrote an entire book, and by the end of his first year, he wrote another, longer one. For his second year in high school, he was “gently persuaded” into taking an art class for whatever reason the school offered (he wasn’t listening on purpose that time), and he discovered he had a natural gift in the subject. With the encouragement of his art teacher and his one and only friend, Markus, he started posting his artworks on a blog he created just for this purpose, that way he didn’t flood his normal social medias with the unusual content. Soon after, he bought himself the equipment to start doing digital art and quickly switched to that for any piece that wasn’t a graded assignment.

    By the end of Connor’s second year, an online social media influencer found the one fanart of them he made– and his blog and all of his other works by extension– by pure chance. After some talking and interactions, they asked if they could commission him to do a small line of t-shirt merch designs. Of course, Connor said yes. They loved it, and so did the customers and fans who looked at and bought the t-shirts. He still knows to this day that he is more than extremely lucky to have had this chance.

    After designing the merch, his art blog started gaining more attention, and by christmas break of his third year in high school, he was making more money each month than any student he knew with a job. He got donations from very generous people just for sharing his art and little comic scenes, and he regularly got commissions from people, and was even asked to create pin and more t-shirt designs for that same online influencer. Connor never gave up writing, however, he simply never posted it anywhere public. Although, as soon as he turned 18 early in his Senior year, he immediately self-published the first book he wrote after doing some heavy editing (it was an actual cringefest trying to read through it), and made it well known on his blog that more were coming in the somewhat-near future.

    It didn’t do too well, to say the least. A world where nekojins and inujins don’t exist, especially for the sake of not making certain things in the plot happen conveniently and provide crude or perverted humor? It doesn’t fly for most people. He didn’t give up, though, of course not. He expected this book to not do well at all, so he wasn’t put off in the slightest. He self-published his next book during his final new year’s break of high school, which ended up doing much better than his first, considering it was a fantasy adventure genre and had a nekojin as one of the main characters. Looking back on it now, this is probably where his career in writing first started.

    Up until this point, Connor was convinced he’d be stuck at a nine-to-five office job for his entire life, since he couldn’t see himself doing what he loved due to the lack of publisher and author connections and, as much as he loves art, that’s not where his true passion lies. He knew that he’d eventually get burnt out if it were his job and only source of income. Although, he also couldn’t imagine doing something he actively disliked because he would rather rip his hair out than be an accountant or anything of the sort like what his family wanted. However, this second book made him realise that it could be possible to do what he wanted full time.

    As Connor very soon found out, nekojins and inujins weren’t popularly a main character in books or any media for that matter, and if they were, the book almost always had a forbidden love type of plot or the partial-human was a slave of some sort of one of the other main characters. The fact that Connor, a high schooler, wrote a book with a kick-ass nekojin who gives no fucks and takes no shits as a main character with a pure human lover/sidekick was decidedly open minded and extremely controversial.

    At one point, an encounter with a reporter brought up the question of how he found the courage to make such a bold statement. Connor felt somewhat guilty when he admitted that this story idea had just been in his head for so long and it just had a bad-ass nekojin as the main character. He put no thought into what people would think about it or what kind of statement it could possibly give. It’s just what the story always was, so he made it how it is. Simple as that.

    And apparently that was an open minded answer. The fact that he hadn’t even thought about what the public might think and didn’t care whatsoever that the main character was a nekojin proved that in his head was a world that easily existed where partial humans and pure humans lived in perfect equality. The writers of those articles weren’t exactly wrong, but Connor still didn’t like how every single one of his artworks and writing pieces were soon heavily criticized and people looked far more into them than even Connor himself thought was possible. It was almost intriguing how people could pull such in-depth ideas and conspiracies from works that were made simply because he thought “Oh, this kind of pose looks cool for this character” and “Wow, these colors look cool with it so we’ll smash them together like this” and “Ta Da! I did it! I made a thing! Look guys!”.

    By the time he graduated, he was in the midst of self-publishing a third book that Connor carefully picked because the story line didn’t have anything blatantly controversial in it. His fourth or fifth ones didn’t have anything especially attention-grabbing in them either. Although, that’s just how he planned them in his head. Yes, he did have other titles deemed more risky and controversial, but he didn’t release them only because he didn’t want that kind of attention on him again yet. Eventually, all the controversy surrounding Connor had died down once people began realising that such a large statement from him was likely going to be a one time deal. All that was left behind from the ordeal was a sudden spike in interest and income from the people who found his work because of the fuss.

    Yes, he hated that partial human slavery still existed, and no, he never planned on getting one of his own and helping the economy of those types of businesses, but he couldn’t gather the bravery needed to make any grand statements on his blog and march along with the groups of people trying to make things equal. He had morals and human decency, but they apparently didn’t run deep enough to make him less terrified of the mass of negative attention he once faced, so he supported the protesters in spirit for doing what he can’t with minor guilt.

    He still feels that way even now at 32 years old. He’s lucky enough to no longer be a starving artist, and he moved out of Markus’ and Simon’s shared apartment to live on his own a couple years ago. He still mainly does digital pieces when creating art, but he took inspiration from Markus and his father and started using different types of traditional medias again. Although, somewhere down the line, art stopped being the larger source of his income, and started being extra cash he put into savings and funding for larger luxury items– such as trips across America for more experiences that he could use in his art and books.

    He no longer has to self-publish anymore, yet he still occasionally does under an alias when his agent, a good friend of his by the name Luther, wants him to change too many aspects of a book to make it more commercialized. He has told Connor in the past that he comes up with other manuscripts to pitch quickly compared to the other writers he works with, so he doesn’t worry too often about Connor self-publishing something he didn’t accept. He understands that, to Connor, these aren’t just books, these are tiny pieces of himself in written form. Though, Luther always goes into detail about what parts he doesn’t like and why because there are times where Connor decides that the world in his head would be made better with the changes Luther wanted.

    Connor is currently heading home after one of said moments. He just got done with a meeting to pitch his next potential book, and Luther had suggested that he change the time travel portion in it to make it a trilogy and expand on some character’s backstory and development. Connor, not understanding why he hadn’t written a series of any kind yet, since most of his books are rather long, quickly and happily agreed to go home and edit large chunks of it to make it work.

    He wonders if he can somehow convince Luther or the publishing company to hold off on publishing the books until all three are completed. Connor hates waiting months for sequels and much prefers having all of the books in a series so he can binge them, and he knows that he’s far from the only one who feels this way. They probably won’t stall until all 3 books are fully completed, though. He’ll just have to somehow work quicker than usual without getting burnt out, or pitch a different book from his list of ideas to work on in the meantime.

    Connor blinks out of his head to pause and take in the scenery around him. Connor’s lucky to live in a more suburban area. He’s always been an extremely light sleeper, so he could never get much rest when he lived in the city with his family. The nearest area like that is just far enough away that the only evidence of it being there are the skyscrapers in the distance and the fact there are precisely 14 stars on a clear night sky, and on the nights that aren’t clear, the clouds over the downtown area have an enchanting glow to them.

    In the area Connor lives in now, most of the roads are all one lane per direction, with the exception of the main roads with the stores and sloppy grids of traffic lights. This is where Connor is right now, walking along the strangely empty sidewalk. He lives in one of the apartment buildings in the area, and the rumble of cars and occasional shrieks of emergency vehicles are enough to make him want to move back to Markus’ quieter area, despite there still being five more months left on his two-year lease. Looking off to the side where his apartment building should be, Connor decides that he should start hunting for other apartments if he really wants to move somewhere else.

    Connor pulls out his phone to take a picture of the serene scene he’s just been greeted by. The setting sun casting the sky in a brilliantly beautiful gradient of rich orange and gold. He has to shove the small sense of guilt away for thinking something that air pollution has caused is gorgeous, because that’s exactly what it is. The small trees that are planted in the middle of the wide sidewalk on the other side of the road look like a black void is trying to rip and glitch its way into swallowing the sky whole, yet is always coming up short. The road he walks along is empty for now due to the traffic light glowing red behind him, which gives him a chance to get an unobscured picture.

    This is the perfect scene to paint back at home. Maybe it’s just the thing to finally get him out of his art block.

    Connor quickly snaps several pictures at varying levels of brightness and contrast before the light turns green. He quickly puts his phone away and continues on his way home. Honestly, Connor should have taken an Uber or something instead of walking, but he isn’t regretting it quite yet. He probably will in a few minutes, though, when the only light will be from the moon and the occasional street light. He supposes he can always call an Uber now, but he’s currently only a fifteen minute walk away from his apartment complex if he doesn’t take the shortcut through the trees, closer to ten minutes if he does.

    Besides, the air is nice and cool for once, if not a bit on the humid side– but that’s just what happens when you live along the east coast, you get non-stop humid air. On top of the air being nice, Connor really needs to get more of it from outside, rather than the stale air inside. The last time he left his apartment (besides hopping into his car for grocery, work, or mail related journeys) was probably a little under a year ago, maybe a little over. Sure, once in a while he’ll open his windows, but that isn’t the same as being outside, feeling the sun on his skin and slight breeze in his hair.

    Huh, that could make a cool land in his series. A place where no matter where a person stands within the small civilization, there is always wind to be felt. They could remain protected and unspotted with the use of a force field of sorts that spreads itself over the town. Maybe that could be because they are a true neutral civilization and don’t want any part in the war–

    A thud of something hitting metal immediately followed by a quiet groan of pain interrupts Connor’s wandering train of thought. He probably wouldn’t have even heard it if he hadn’t retained his habit of somehow being alert to his surroundings while zoned out from back when he was in school. He doesn’t even know where the painful sounds came from, but that doesn’t matter because he wouldn’t just jump in to other people’s problems. What if there isn’t anything happening at all and that was just someone who tripped and fell?

    So he checks the time (for evidence purposes, just in case) and keeps walking straight, hyper aware of every little movement and sound around him, yet never turning his head. That is, until he jumps at the abrupt sound of sharp laughter coming from behind the boutique that’s closed for the night.

    “The fucker’s weak and already passing out! Who would’ve guessed! Ha!” a nasally voice taunts. Connor freezes against both his will and better judgement.

    “Should we call some place to pick ‘im up? We could get some extra cash?” a woman asks.

    “Hell no!” a masculine voice shouts, “Who the hell do you think would want an old, fat neko like him, anyway. We’d be doing everyone a favor by just killing it.”

    That gets Connor moving silently into the narrow alley towards the voices. He may be socially awkward and loathe conflict, but he grew up training in different types of combat and self-defense. If someone’s life is in danger, he damn sure will fight, and as long as none of these people have a gun, he will win.

    “Uh, I didn’t fuckin’ sign up for murder.” the nasally voice says uneasily, “I just wanted to go out and have a good time.”

    “Ugh, it’s not like we’d get caught. And even if we did for some reason, we would get a slap on the wrist at most.”

    “Are you actually that fuckin’ stupid, Damien?” the woman snaps. “If we kill him, that will be seen as worse than killing an animal. Even I’m not stupid enough to think that we’d get away with something that in a place out in the open like this. Someone’s gonna have to take out trash, and evidence of us being here is everywhere.”

    Connor finally lets himself fall still, ceasing his silent shuffling towards the corner. He presses against the wall in hopes to lower the chances of being spotted, and promptly rests his back on something sticky. He jumps forward just slightly, but not enough to be seen.

    “What was that?” the first guy asks.

    But is apparently loud enough to be heard.

    Connor braces himself for a fight, tensing up and getting into position–

    “Dude, you’re being paranoid. Let’s just get the fuck out of here. I’m bored, anyway, and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.” The supposed ringleader persuades, his boots thumping on the concrete as he walks away. Connor lets himself relax, thankful that nothing more is going to happen for now.

    “Same. C’mon.” The woman starts following him if the sound of clacking heels is anything to go by.

    There’s a relieved sigh, then one last set of footsteps walking away. Luckily, based off of the sounds of scuffling and skateboards from around the corner, there’s another way to get in and out of that place besides the one Connor is hiding in. He stays completely still and silent for several minutes after they’re gone, just to make sure they won’t come back. When he finally feels that it’s safe enough to look at the time on his phone, only twelve minutes have passed since he last checked it.

    Taking a deep breath, he moves himself out of his hiding place. He spots the large nekojin laying against a dumpster in the alley and can immediately tell that the 911 emergency responders won’t do much, if anything, for him because there’s no collar around his neck and no obvious lethal wounds. The poor guy’s got blood in his hair, which is grey with age, and there’s a bit of blood on the ground and dumpster where he was presumably knocked down. His wrist is also zip tied to the back handle of the dumpster, so his arm is raised high above his head and Connor can see where the zip tie is digging into his skin. He watches as the man takes a small breath with a small sigh of relief.

    That seems to make something in Connor click, because he’s suddenly dropping to his knees to check for any less obvious injuries. First thing’s first, Connor removes the zip tie from the man’s wrist by jamming his fingernail between the latch and tail slowly undoing the loop. He carefully puts the man’s arm down by his side. Connor only knows so much about first aid and injuries from past, admittedly extensive research for his books and comic scenes, but he does remember how to spot the signs of various broken bones. He also knows that won’t be enough to make sure he’s actually okay.

    Therefore, he yanks his phone out of his pocket and texts his friend, Kara, who is some kind of doctor, hoping that she’ll be kind enough to come and look this guy over herself. It’s not like Connor wouldn’t pay her for her expertise, after all.

        Connor Child Today at 19:28 (7:28)

Hey, are you busy right now?

   Connor doesn’t even have time to repocket his phone before it vibrates in his hand. She mustn't be busy, if she responded so quickly.

        Best Mom Friend Today at 19:28 (7:28)

i’m free. what’s up

        Connor Child Today at 19:29 (7:29)

You know how you’re a doctor? Are you, like, a general doctor, or are you specialized in something? And is there a difference between pure and partial humans medically/biologically?

        Best Mom Friend Today at 19:30 (7:30)

We’ll call it a general one. and no there aren’t major differences besides the tail and ears and heightened senses and all that jazz.

weren’t you just with luther? what happened?

        Connor Child Today at 19:20 (7:30)

I was, but I found an injured Nekojin that was beat up by these three assholes while walking home. It doesn’t look life threatening, but I’m not a doctor and I also have no way of getting him to my place.

    When Kara doesn’t respond immediately, Connor carefully lifts up the large man’s shirt, carefully avoiding touching his white, tan, and black blotched tail that’s draped protectively across his chest before he passed out. He notes that there’s a lot of bruising, which could mean a few things, some worse than others. He’s taking even breaths instead of short, sporadic ones, though, which could be a good sign. After checking a few other things tenderly and carefully, Connor decides that it’s probably okay to carefully lay the stranger down so he can check his back.

    It’s immediately apparent that they jumped him from behind. The entire back of his shirt has blood all over it, and some blood on the wall and dumpster where he was leaned against them. After a solid twenty seconds of processing what he’s seeing and choosing what to do about this first, Connor finally forces himself to tenderly lift the back of his shirt up. He notices that none of the cuts should be deep enough to do any lasting damage beyond scars. He doesn’t even think blood loss should be a problem, since the blood wasn’t even visible for the most part until he was rolled over. That doesn’t account for any possible internal bleeding though, and for the fact that Connor still isn’t a doctor.

    At that thought, Kara finally messages back with perfect timing.

        Best Mom Friend Today at 19:34 (7:34)

first of all, where are you?

second of all, you shouldn’t bring strangers into your home.

third of all, you should take him to a hospital anyway.

    Connor cringes at his phone at the last suggestion, then begins typing.

        Connor Child Today at 19:35 (7:35)

We both know he won’t get proper care at a hospital, especially since he doesn’t appear to have a collar or a way of contacting someone who will pay off the debt for the stay. Also, I’ve already thought about every other option besides bringing him to a hospital and they all end with him getting abandoned and/or hurt again out here. I don’t wanna leave him like that.

   It’s then that Connor realizes that he likely has most of the things needed to take care of these types of injuries at home in his jumbo first aid kit. Markus bought it for him on his birthday as a jab at how clumsy he is, but it’s come in handy multiple times since then and none of his friends let it die.

        Connor Child Today at 19:36 (7:36)

Besides, I think I have everything needed to clean him up at my apartment, I’m just not sure about any internal injuries or how to move him.

    Oh god damn it, apparently Connor’s going to be one of the dumbasses who brings injured strangers back home. He can’t just leave him out here and he can’t trust anyone else in this area– state, even– to not abuse this guy as soon as Connor is out of sight, though. He gently feels around the stranger’s head, carefully avoiding his tan and black ears, for any obvious injuries as he works things out in his head.

    Maybe he can call Markus to come over to help keep watch just in case? No, he and Simon are out in New York on vacation until Monday, and today’s Thursday. He can’t ask Carl or Luther to come over, since Carl is old and wheelchair bound and, as well as Luther can act and despite his massive size, he does much worse with conflict than Connor does. He’d be on edge from being around a wild card for the night, then stressed for days after. Connor knows Kara would come help him out, but she doesn’t get enough sleep as it is, with the weird hospital hours and helping with taking care of Alice. She doesn’t need to be more involved in this than she already is, anyways.

    This is either going to end surprisingly well or very badly, and Connor has a feeling of which it’s going to be. That is decidedly not a good sign, but Connor elects to ignore it anyway.

    Connor finds a rather large knot on the right side of the man’s head where the majority of the blood in his hair is, which is probably the same injury that pretty much knocked him out in the first place. He doesn’t even know if there’s a way to check for concussions when the person is unconscious.

    His phone finally pings an alert for a new message.

        Best Mom Friend Today at 19:37 (7:37)

fine, you win. tell me where you are and i’ll bring you guys to your place. who’s staying with you, cause it isn’t going to be me or luther.

        Connor Child Today at 19:37 (7:37)

Thank you so much!! I’m at the boutique near my apartment complex! And I have a friend that I’m going to message!

You’re the best!!

    Connor rolls the stranger into what he hopes is a more comfortable position, then finds a place where he’ll be able to watch the parallel parking lanes in front of the boutique and the unconscious nekojin at the same time. His phone chimes again, and he doesn’t bother opening it for the simple three letter in the message notification.

        Best Mom Friend Today at 19:41 (7:41)

Omw

    With that taken care of, all there is left to do is wait for Kara. He moves and sits down in his spot, and just a bit over ten minutes later, she pulls up. Connor glances back at the old stranger, making sure he won’t die or something in his absence, then quickly steps out of the alley so Kara will see him. She does and parks her blue SUV in the spot closest to where Connor is waiting.

    “Kara! You’re a lifesaver, really!” he calls after Kara steps out of her car.

    “I know, I know,” She shuts the door behind her, “Where’s the guy?”

    “He’s back here. I didn’t want to move him too much.”

    She nods in approval and silently follows him to the old nekojin, then starts looking over his wounds. She decides that the cuts on his back aren’t as bad as they could be and the bleeding has already slowed down a bit. At her request, Connor retells everything he knows. After a few more minutes of checking, she states that the stranger no doubt has a concussion and will need plenty of rest and another check up once he’s awake. Thankfully, she doesn’t think his wrist is dislocated or fractured or anything, and his ribs seem fine. Together, they carefully lift the unconscious man into the back of the SUV, and Connor climbs in the back to sit with him.

    They reach Connor’s apartment complex in just over two minutes (he swears he isn’t staring at the clock in the car), then fight to awkwardly lift the man out of the car and up the flight of stairs to Connor’s apartment. Once inside, they lay him on the bed in the guest room. Kara makes a comment about the sheets not making it through unscathed, but Connor disregards her with an obvious lie about needing new sheets anyway.

    Kara then washes the man’s back and arms then carefully tends to his plentiful superficial wounds with Connor’s help, since there was apparently glass in some of his cuts. By the time they’re finished with that and the man has a light blanket draped over him, a couple of hours have gone by. Kara leaves once Connor promises (lies) that the person he texted about staying over will be on their way very soon and isn’t there now because they have a shift at the grocery store.

    Now that Connor is completely alone and is starting to feel the nerves from having a large, presumably strong stranger unconscious in his home, he doesn’t quite know what to do. Normally when things get stressful or unusual, he’d write a short story depicting a character going through something that would make them just as uncomfortable and stressed as he is and post it on his Patreon, but he doesn’t want the click-clacking of his keyboard to mask any noises that the man might make.

    After a bit of thinking and standing around, he decides to paint the sunset he took a picture of earlier.

    He goes down the short hallway that connects his room, laundry room, and bathroom to the rest of the apartment. He opens the closet on the right side of the room and grabs a canvas and various paints and brushes. Going back out to the area of life, as Connor calls it (since the kitchen, dining room, and living room are all one large area, with the living room sectioned off by couches and the kitchen by a counter island and tiles on the ground), he sets up his stuff on his small, square table. He makes sure he’s facing the doors to his and the guest rooms with his back to the front door and the sliding door to his balcony/patio thing.

    He pauses in his painting every 45 minutes to an hour so he can check on the nekojin. When the sun finally rises in the morning, Connor’s finished two sellable paintings and is starting a third. He has officially reached the level of exhaustion where he no longer feels tired as long as he ignores the pressure behind his eyes and the headache starting to form. Sometimes his insomnia-like-symptoms flare up until he gets to this point, so he isn’t worried.

    After checking on the man yet again, Connor decides to fix a breakfast sandwich using his near-expired bacon and a tube of premade biscuits. He makes enough eggs and bacon for only one person, not knowing when the nekojin will wake up and if he even eats eggs or meat.

    He’s in the middle of putting his food on a plate when there’s a slight and distant creak. If he were alone, Connor would have been able to convince himself that it was the building settling or something of the like, but he isn’t. He quickly turns around and is relieved to see nothing behind him. He hastily scoops the last bit of eggs onto his plate before cautiously walking through the living area towards the guest room. He pauses right at the door and listens for movement, just in case the man woke up and is trying to do something stupid and/or dangerous.

    Connor may be trained in various types of combat and self defense, but he’s not stupid enough to think that makes him invincible. Especially against someone who is as large as that man was, and that’s excluding the chances that this stranger has training in some kind of combat as well.

    After a couple of seconds of complete silence, Connor hesitantly opens the door just wide enough to slowly peek half of his head through. He immediately sees that the man is no longer in his bed. He’s barely able to open the door wider to step inside before a heavy weight barrels into him from the side. Next thing he knows, he’s pinned to the wall by a furious nekojin, with his ears pinned to his head and fangs sharp as needles. It’s already getting hard to breathe and Connor, as predicted, can’t move the arm that’s pushed against his throat. Trying to move his right arm and both legs is useless because the man also has them pinned enough to where he can’t make any effective attacks on him.

    He must have some kind of training in combat as well, or has learned from personal experience. Connor is completely screwed if this man decides he is too much of a threat or isn’t worth his time.

    “Cause any trouble and I make your life painful, ya hear?” the man snarls lowly, and if Connor wasn’t already used to being pinned against walls and threatened, he’d probably be panicking right now. Connor rapidly nods as calmly as he can (which isn’t nearly calm enough) while being in this situation. “Who the fuck are you?”

    “Connor” he rasps painfully, “I’m– no harm. Please–”

    The older man hisses, and it sounds nothing like when cats do it. When cats hiss, it almost sounds like an air leakage from a pipe; high pitched and more breathy than anything. This hiss, though, is not unlike what demons sound like in horror movies. It’s lower and almost growlish and absolutely terrifying enough to make up for the lack of a small, agile body.

    It shuts Connor up to say the absolute least.

    “Where the fuck did you bring me?”

    “My–” Connor coughs and gasps painfully, “apartment.” That must have been the wrong answer because the pressure on his throat increases. Since moving the arm is impossible, he starts patting it to try to signal the stranger that he really needs air.

    “I can fuckin’ see that, dumbass. I meant where the fuck is this place?”

    “Not– far, fr-from… alley…” Huh, so the darkness not only invades from the sides of your vision, but the focus of it also dims too. And nobody ever mentioned in the books he read about how much pressure is building in his head right now, like it’s going to explode soon. Aw great, now he’s starting to mildly dissociate. Just what he needs.

    The nekojin is trying to say something to him, but the only things he can make out clearly from the sudden white noise are “you”, “better”, and “punk”. Connor doesn’t want to agree to something preposterous, but he also doesn’t want to try to ask for clarification or anything like that and make the man angrier. He suddenly has a fleeting thought of dying here, and his mind just as suddenly latches onto it and won’t let go. God he’s so fucking stupid. He knew this was a horrible idea, and he still fucking did it. Why doesn’t he ever listen to anyone?

    Just as Connor tries to reach his left arm up to damage the man’s face somehow and force him to let go, he’s abruptly released.

    Connor barely avoids dropping to the ground and instead leans against the wall because his legs want to function more like jelly than anything remotely solid. He coughs and gasps but locks his knees so he’s less likely to fall over into a more defenseless position. He distantly recognizes that the nekojin is trying to talk to him again, but he’s too preoccupied with getting air into his lungs and not falling over to even try to decipher it. Thankfully, whatever he said apparently wasn’t super important because nothing happens when Connor doesn’t give any kind of response, and nothing continues to happen until he’s breathing normally and standing up on his own again.

    “You said I wasn’t far from the alley,” the nekojin spits out, “How close is it?”

    Connor blinks the tears from his eyes. “Five minute walk, maybe.” he answers quietly, throat hurting.

    “Where are your roommates?”

    “Don’t have any.”

    “You live completely alone?” he asks, an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

    Connor silently nods.

    “Why’d you bring me here? Think you could tame some fuckin’ stray to be your personal pet? ‘Cause you’re very wrong.” he ends in a growl. It sends shivers up Connor’s spine and he can feel the sweat on him beading and rolling down. If this comes to blows again, there’s no way Connor will be able to win, especially not like this.

    “No. You’re hurt.” he says more sure, finally lifting his head to meet the other’s eyes.

    “You honestly expect me to believe that you brought an old, stray nekojin home just because he was a little hurt?”

    Connor nods. “Didn’t know if you were bleeding out or not–”

    He shuts his mouth with a click and braces himself for another attack when he sees the stranger move. It’s barely a shift to the side, but it’s enough to send Connor back into highest alert. The guy must realise this because he shifts backward a step.

    “What do you get outta patchin’ me up?”

    “...technically nothing?”

    “No one does anything without any reward, so fuckin’ spill it.” he spits.

    “A clear conscious, maybe?” There’s no bite in his words, only the underlying fear of giving the wrong answer. When the older man doesn’t immediately shoot another question, Connor continues. “Look, I just don’t like it when people’re in pain. I wanted to help, so I did.”

    “People.” When Connor stares blankly in return, he continues. “I’m not people. Won’t ever be, thanks to the ears and tail.”

    “You should be people.” he breathes. “A lot of others agree with me, nowadays.”

    “Ah, so you’re one of those activists? You realise you guys are going to get killed before anything substantial changes right?”

    “I’m– uh, I’m not really an activist? I don’t like all the attention.” Connor forces himself to loosen up a little, more to prove that he isn’t a danger to the wild card in front of him and less because he actually wants to. “It makes me nervous.”

    “Yet you supposedly bring home a dangerous stranger from the streets into your own home just for the sake of patching up a few scratches.”

    Connor stands at full height once more, his voice sharp, “You also have severe bruising and a concussion. And the hospital wouldn’t have done much for you because it wasn’t immediately life threatening and you don’t have a collar.”

    “If it wasn’t fucking life threatening then you should have left me out there! To hell with your hero dilemma or whatever the fuck you have!” the man snaps, waving his arms in wide, angry gestures, “How the hell did you even know where to find me, if you really aren’t with the fuckers who did this to me?”

    “I was walking home from work and heard someone get hit, then voices threatening murder. I just stayed until they left in case I needed to jump in and stop them.” Connor says gravely.

    The man sighs. Connor can feel his exhaustion from that one breath alone, but holds his ground. He doesn’t know what is genuine and what is an act to get him to lower his defenses. He’s suddenly aware that he’s shaking.

    “And how the fuck did you get me here?” His tone is slightly less angry.

    “Called a friend with a car. She’s the one who patched you up ‘cause she’s a doctor.” Connor tries to slow his trembling, and, to his surprise, it’s kind of working.

    The older man eyes him, “And why the fuck did she help?”

    “She thought someone else was staying with me last night so I wasn’t alone with you.” Connor blurts before reassuring, “No one else is here, but she doesn’t know that. She has her own things to worry about. I don’t want her involved.” With that, he stops his breathing exercises, confident he won’t start panting or hyperventilating.

    “And you don’t have one?” he can almost hear the raised eyebrow accompanying the nekojin’s question.

    “Not really.” He doesn’t really want to talk about this, especially not to someone he doesn’t know.

    “Nothin’ to lose by taking in a stranger, huh? Self destructive much?”

    “Not– not exactly.”

    There’s a few moments of tense silence. Connor still refuses to move a single muscle from earlier and it’s starting to get strenuous now, but he won’t lower his guard until he knows this nekojin isn’t a threat anymore. 

    “...You’re not gonna try to name me or some shit?” the partial-human asks warily and, if Connor isn’t wrong, with a hint of timidity.

    That… was not at all what Connor was expecting out of the gruff man after what has been going down. He didn’t even know that people did that to partial humans. It sadly makes sense, though, considering history. Animals have always been renamed with little issue, and back in the day, people used to do just the same to partial humans too. Connor thought that kind of thing died decades ago, though. 

    “No? I didn’t even fully realize that was a thing people still did…”

    “And none of these drawers have clothes of my size in them?”

    “I– No! Check if you want but–”

    Connor falls silent when the other man suddenly turns to the single dresser in the room and opens the first drawer. Every drawer after that was opened and reshut with great haste. Finding it all empty, he moves on to the closet and goes through the small shelving unit in there. He once again finds nothing, and shuts the closet with an obvious breath of relief. He sharply turns back to Connor. The man must see something in Connor because he sighs and shuffles towards where he’s still sitting against the wall.

    “You really don’t want any ownership over me?” The man sounds less angry and more skeptical.

    “If you don’t believe me, then you can always leave. I don’t want to trap you. But you’re still hurt.” Only silence follows, so Connor tries again to make this man trust that he won’t slap a collar on him. “I’ve never been interested in getting a nekojin. I hate what you guys have to endure, and I’ve always pretty much seen everyone as equals. It actually got me a bit of unwanted attention when I was younger.” He adds after a split second of hesitation.

    The stranger huffs in what seems like a mocking manner. Connor can understand why.

    “You sure you’re not an activist? Going out and parading and getting arrested by plan?”

    Connor fights the urge to squirm in shame and apprehension and shakes his head. “I’ve always been too shy for anything like that, and I don’t like a lot of attention focused on me. It’s stressful.”

    The man takes two steps closer to Connor, who instinctively tenses, not realizing that he ever relaxed just the slightest bit in the first place. The other pauses, then shuffles back half a step, putting his hands in his pockets in a way that makes it obvious that he’s forcing himself to do so, rather than keep them ready for a fight and out in the open.

    “How do I know you aren’t with those three brats and are gonna try your shot at taming my fugly mug into something sellable? Hm? How do I know that no one’s waiting to catch me if I try to leave like you offered?”

    Connor speaks without thinking. “You’re not fugly, just in need of a shower and new clothes.” Connor hates the tense silence that immediately follows, so Connor quickly moves on and fills it, “And, I– uh– I guess you don’t? I mean, I don’t know how to prove it? That I don’t think it’s a good idea to ‘tame’ anyone? I mean, don’t you need those life skills? To like, survive and stuff in our current society?”

    The nekojin only gapes at him as if he’s said something completely absurd, and knowing himself, he probably did without realizing it. When it becomes obvious that Connor isn’t going to continue, the stranger shakes his head incredulously.

    “Do you know how many people would call a nekojin’s feral state ‘life skills’? Even the damn activists have their own ideas about how our sanity should be managed. Are you fucking insane?”

    Connor winces at his tone. “Uh… I mean, you don’t seem feral to me, as such… But I know I’m socially awkward and I’ve been told I’m dense–”

    “I can’t tell if you’re shitting me or if you’re really trying hard to get me to not fucking hate you.” He suddenly sniffs the air and his expression becomes darker. “Something is burning. What the hell are you cooking?”

    Burning? Connor thinks, sniffing the air. He can’t really smell anything. A partial-human’s sense of must be substantially stronger than a pure human’s; a single truth within the many lies of the internet.

    “I was making a breakfast sandwich before you woke up… It might be the biscuits that you smell burning?”

    He should really go pull them out of the oven, but he’s still afraid that this guy will pounce on him again if he tries to make an unannounced move for the door, and he doesn’t want a repeat of that whatsoever. On another note, there is absolutely no way he’s going to have his back turned to an aggressive stranger for any amount of time, especially because this one has claws and fangs. 

    “Fine, I smell the eggs and bacon too, but I’m gonna go sit out where you’ll be cooking so I know where you are and what you’re doing.” He straightens up and crosses his arms defiantly. The post is practically begging Connor to refuse the guy so he can do something about it. Too bad Connor doesn’t want to.

    “That’s fine,” Connor pauses, then tries something bold at the last moment, “As long as you tell me what to call you.” The other startles at that, “I’m tired of calling you ‘stranger’ and ‘nekojin’ in my head.” Connor relaxes his pose just enough to seem like he isn’t ready to spring into any kind of action still, even though he definitely still is. “I’m Connor.”

    He scrutinizes the younger man, then sighs and untenses just a tad. “Fine. Lead the way, then. I’m Hank, and that’s all you’re gonna get outta me.”

    “I didn’t expect anything else.” He attempts a smile that he suspects looks more like a grimace.

    Now that Connor is somewhat confident that the stranger– Hank isn’t going to pounce on him the moment his back is turned, he’s able to exit the door and walk to the kitchen area without looking alarmingly tense and uncomfortable. Connor hears a door close as he finds and pulls on a pair of oven mitts. Connor still keeps a mental map of where Hank is by the sound of his footsteps as he grabs the pan of moderately burned biscuits out of the oven.

    He sets the pan on the counter so the cooked-to-dark-brown biscuits can cool so the trash bag doesn’t melt when he throws them away. Then he swiftly pulls out a stool from the kitchen island and takes the smoke alarm off of the ceiling, then deactivating it right as it begins beeping with the timing and grace of only someone who has done this a million other times can achieve. He gets down and puts the stool back. He moves back to the oven and turns it off all while avoiding having his back completely to Hank, who’s standing in his living room.

    There’s complete silence in the room that makes Connor’s nerves bristle. Connor glances over to the knife block next to the fridge, knowing that he would never actually use them to harm anyone, but he likes to believe he could bluff his way out of a dire situation. Although, now that he’s thinking about it, maybe he couldn’t. Hank would probably be unfazed or get angrier after everything he’s experienced in his lifetime, and that’s if he somehow believes that Connor would actually use said knife after everything he’s said and done.

    Connor jumps when Hank starts speaking.

    “Everything good now? You’ve been standing there starin’ at nothin’ like a lunatic.”

    Connor says nothing, choosing to just nod instead as he casually crosses his arms and leans against the counter next to the oven in a strained act of nonchalance.

    Hank studies him carefully. “Why are you helping me, really?”

    Connor can’t help but silently sigh. He may have already said this once or twice before, and he may not blame the guy in the slightest for not believing him, but still. It’s not like his answer is going to change from when he asked earlier. Although, that may be why he’s asking again, as some form of test or something.

    “Like I said before, I don’t think I’ll get anything tangible out of this. If you really need something, then maybe self-satisfaction or a clean conscious for helping someone in need, but nothing tangible like money.” Hank shoots him a blank look that he hates. He sighs. “I just– My gut told me that you needed some real help, and I was going to give it whether you were a pure human or partial. It’s just that after finding out you had cat ears and a tail, I knew that no hospital in the area was going to give you proper care so 911 was essentially useless. I generally have good intuition when it comes to people, so I trusted it and brought you home instead of leaving you tied down in that nasty alley.” What Connor doesn’t mention aloud is how he’s been regretting not leaving him bandaged up in the cleaner part of that alley ever since he couldn’t see the other man in the guest room’s bed earlier.

    His last statement catches Hank’s attention, who then turns his head to look away from Connor for the first time since being awake and looks out a window. He clears his throat, cutting off Connor’s growing panic. The guy’s head is down and his shoulders are slumped, but it’s still obvious that he’s still on edge and wary of his surroundings and Connor. When he speaks, it sounds like he has to force the sound from his lips.

    “Look, Connor, I’m sorry for snapping at you, even if I don’t entirely regret protecting myself like that. But I still don’t trust or like you, got it?”

    “Yeah. The sentiment is kind of the same right now, no offense.”

    “None taken,” Hank pauses and straightens up, “Do you at least get where I’m coming from, though?” he takes a step forward. “Like, according to society, I am an untamed animal or slave, and I wake up in a strange room and am getting checked on every god damned minute by a complete stranger when the last thing I remember is getting kicked around and beat with broken bottles.” He shakes his head and looks away.

    “I ain’t some starvin’, twink cat that you can just bring home and teach how to trust and love or whatever the fuck else books try to say. Hell, I’m not even a Persian or Maine Coon cat with those big bushy tails like people always love to give us larger people. I’m just an old, fat calico.”

    Hank suddenly stiffens upon saying that last word, but Connor ignores it and lowers his head.

    “I personally don’t agree with the stereotypes as well. But as I offered before,” Connor raises his head to meet Hank’s eyes again, “you’re always welcome to leave, The front door is right there. I’m not keeping you trapped here, and there’s not anyone after you or anything that I know of, so…” Connor shrugs.

    For the first time this morning, Hank looks more uncomfortable than anything else, and Connor doesn’t really have the energy to unpack that. He starting to feel tired because of the lack of adrenaline in his system, so he’ll probably need some caffeinated tea soon. Maybe a new breakfast to go with it, too; his stomach is starting to hurt with hunger because he forgot dinner last night.

    Still, Hank hasn’t responded, so Connor takes this opportunity to give him the explicit option to stay because he’s already given the nekojin multiple outs and, as stupid as Connor knows he can be, he doesn’t think Hank should be left on his own quite yet. Besides, he really doesn’t think that Hank will do any harm for no reason. His anger and violence earlier were understandable at the least, and neither of them seem to want a repeat of that any time soon. Connor doesn’t think he’s making the wrong decision by doing this since Hank’s already here in his apartment, anyway. Emphasis on think.

    “If you wanted to stay, though, I can make you breakfast? Or you can watch me make your breakfast, or just make it yourself if you want. I mean, because I’m willing to bet that you haven’t had anything decent in a while, yeah?” He chuckles awkwardly. It almost works to make the atmosphere less heavy. Almost.

    Hank stares him down, obviously still skeptical and wary of Connor. The creator tries to not do anything that could be taken as suspicious, but that in of itself could be suspicious in a way. A few more seconds pass like this in tense silence before Hank finally sighs and relaxes his shoulders the slightest bit.

    “What the fucking hell is my life anymore.” He mumbles, then raises his voice to a normal speaking level “Alright. I’m gonna sit on that stool,” He points to one of the two the kitchen island, “And I’m gonna watch you so you don’t poison my food. And then you can hear me if I even so much as shuffle, so you’ll know I won’t attack you from behind.”

    “Okay.” He watches as Hank moves with a slight limp in his left leg and sits with a poorly concealed wince. “Did you… did you want to maybe redress your wounds? I have over the counter pain meds if you want, but I doubt you’d trust that.”

    “You’re right. I don’t trust that a single fucking bit. This ain’t nothin’ I haven’t gone through before, so you can quit your worryin’.” Hank hesitates, then continues, almost meeker. “And you don’t need to worry about allergies. I’ll eat anythin’.”

    Connor simply nods in response, already getting used to Hank’s vulgarity and irritation. It’s probably not healthy why he’s already getting used to it, considering it’s mostly due to questionable parenting choices and plenty of childhood bullying, but no one really has the time or patience to unpack that right now (or ever, if Connor has any say in it). Therefore, he does what he does second best, and instead of slowly unpacking that box of troubles and sorting through it like any healthy person should, he simply tapes that box shut tightly with three layers of duct tape and shoves it to the back of his mental storage unit while he takes out his pan cleaner to wash off the remnants of his food before starting Hank’s.

    As he gathers ingredients and tools to the island so Hank can see exactly what Connor is doing at all times, he never once looks up at Hank. The why from earlier tries to rear its ugly head again, but he shoves and forces it down again with practiced ease. Unlike what it has to say about the damnable why, his gut is telling him that Hank isn’t really a bad person, that he’s just been dealt a shit hand in his life. It’s right about people much more often than it’s not, and Connor can only hope that this isn’t one of those times where it’s not.

    He finds himself almost wanting to like Hank, to show him that the world isn’t completely filled with stupid assholes, only mostly full.

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

~> Next

•◊•◊•◊•◊•

A/N: Hey guys!! I hope you didn’t mind the wait too much, but I ended up changing the plot to this story last minute and rewrote this chapter, like, 3 and a half times now? So, yeah, there’s that. This chapter was a bit angsty and I still kinda really hate it, but!! But!!! I am moving on because Protective Hank™ will be making an appearance next chapter!! The next chapter of The Drift Between Us may not come for a couple of weeks because I have to update the EXO x Reader I’m writing on a blog I share with my friend that I have been neglecting lately Lol. So, that’s pretty much it! Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you have a pleasant day/night! 😊💕

[svtskneecaps]

Where is Your God Now

Ok the title was meant to be a placeholder but here we are.

Vernon x reader ish

man idfk i was tired

i didn’t mean for this to be a chaotic fic, but with the narration style i picked for this it honestly might as well be

Warnings: nerf guns, words that would make a grandma run for her soap, jokes that probably have no place in the house of God, calling a game of capture the flag a war the whole damn time and two awkward high schoolers.

Words: a lot (2801 i wasted more words in less time on this than i did on my essay oh my god)

Main Masterlist

So usually you weren’t really one for the whole ‘youth group’ thing. Sure, you came, you cracked open your Bible, you spouted answers you didn’t truly mean simply because they sounded right, and you kind of wished you could go home. Even the cute boy that sat in the row behind you couldn’t make you more interested in being there.

But there was one thing you enjoyed about youth group, and that was the annual youth group lock in, where people spent the night in the church, got either Chinese food, Little Caesars, or Joe’s BBQ from the mom and pop shop across the street from the church, and were allowed to crawl into cupboards and on the floor of the sanctuary and use the supplies in the church left over and either almost unusable or reusable from the fundraisers they’d held since they’d cleaned out the storage room last.

Which was how you found yourself crouching in the blank concrete stairwell at the back of the building at three in the morning with a nerf gun and some old face paint some kids had mixed together smeared under your eyes, waiting for your attack team’s scout to return.

You took capture the flag very seriously.

The door at the top of the stairwell opened slightly and Chan slid in. The freshman had taken to the strange lock in antics like a fish to water, with only minimal complaining. Mostly he was glad Jeonghan was on the other team. The senior had the tendency to baby him.

“How’re we looking?” the strategist of your group, a senior called Wonwoo, asked.

“They’ve got their flag in the sanctuary.” Chan hunched down with his nerf gun cocked. “Five guards, three watching the doors, one watching the flag.”

“Where’s the flag specifically?”

“Up in the the choir alcove.”

“There’s a back entrance in the alcove,” Jihoon said from where he was watching the door at the bottom of the stairwell. “I’ve used it for choir before. Was anyone watching it?”

“No, just the front entrance.”

“Okay so here’s the plan.” They clumped closer to hear Wonwoo. “We’ll have some people go in the front and start warfare. Meanwhile, one or two people sneak in through the back entrance and get the flag back to base unnoticed.”

“Okay we’re gonna need more than four people though,” you said.

“We’ll grab a couple allies.” Wonwoo said it like it was obvious. You guessed it kind of was. “You and Jihoon keep watch for now, we’ll be back.”

You’d thought maybe it’d be awkward, waiting in a dark stairwell with an upperclassman you really didn’t know all that well, but it wasn’t. Somehow. Wonwoo and Chan were back soon enough, with Mingyu and Seokmin. You split into two teams, with yourself and Jihoon going ‘behind the curtain’ as it were, sneaking around the back. You glanced around the corner, peering between the legs of the chair with your dark hood pulled up to hide your face.

Just your luck; the cute one was watching the flag. And he might’ve seen you. Oh no.

Shouting erupted at the other end of the sanctuary, echoing off the high ceiling. You’d never heard it ring with anything but hymns. It was an experience, to say the least, especially because Soonyoung’s battle strategy was to throw himself bodily at the enemy while screeching at the top of his lungs, but you didn’t have time to think too much about it, throwing yourself forward to crawl under the seats towards the flag. The chaos distracted the cute one (you didn’t actually know his name; you were a little too intimidated to talk to him) and you snatched their brightly colored flag from the chair and frantically backing up. It was harder than you thought

The chair screeched louder than the baby with the dumbbell in that vine you’d seen the other week.

You froze. He turned.

Nerf bullets began flying around you. Evidently Jihoon had jumped out of hiding and begun shooting. You heard the cute one bounding up the choir risers as Jihoon thundered down the other side. Game rules said you had to get tagged to get out, no matter how many nerf bullets you got hit with, although they stung like a bitch sometimes so you weren’t eager to get hit by any. You tried to stay as still as possible as they leapt off to sprint around the sanctuary. You had one priority and that was to get this obnoxiously colored bandana back to the first grade sunday school classroom.

Which was surprisingly easy, actually, after Jihoon’s brilliant (if unexpected) sacrifice play. You were through the choir door in a second, using the back stairs again and at your base even before the battle was won. The youth leader who’d chosen to place their bets on your team texted the other leader, and that was it. The round was over.

But the war became the least of your worries, because in the thrill of victory you’d forgotten that the youth leaders each got to choose one person to switch teams. And from the little whispers and the side looks from the other team’s huddle, you had an idea of their pick.

Your team ended up picking a linebacker looking Junior whose name you’d sadly missed when you were deciding, since you were a little bit distracted by the other huddle. And in the end it didn’t matter that you didn’t know the Junior’s name because the other leader stood up, smirked, squared his shoulders and called your name.

Just your luck; now you’re on a team with the cute one. Hurrah. At least you might learn his name now.

Your new teammates huddled in the sanctuary, talking strategy. You did your best to avoid looking at the cute one at all costs. The war was more important than your hopeless crush.

“I think now we’ve built our allies enough to make a stealth attack.” Seungcheol, it seemed, was their strategist. “So what I think is we send Y/N and Vernon to steal their flag as we create a diversion.”

That seemed simple. You’d just successfully completed an attack like that. You weren’t sure who Vernon was. You were just hoping he wasn’t an asshole.

“We should send out a team to see where they put their flag first, though,” Minghao suggested with a thoughtful frown.

“I think that might be too big a risk.” Soonyoung tapped his nerf gun against his leg. “We don’t want them to know we know or they might move the flag and we’d be back to square one, and then they’d get time to steal ours.”

You glanced at the flag, a neon orange bandana tied around the head of the life sized plastic Jesus left in storage from the Christmas decorations. Soonyoung had insisted that it would be less conspicuous there. You weren’t so sure about that. It just made Jesus look like a biker. Or a fashion disaster.

“You have to think like the enemy.” It took you a minute to remember the long haired Senior’s name (Jeonghan). “What was their strategy?”

Heads turned to you. Oh right. You’d forgotten you were a reformed enemy. You shifted under the eyes. “Well, we split into two groups, one based on defense and one on offense, and the offense group split to do some recon, because two people are less conspicuous than five. Once we’d done recon we planned and launched the attack, two people to grab the flag and one to create a diversion.”

“That’s a good plan.” Soonyoung nodded. Minghao rubbed his forehead like he had a headache.

“So the question then is, who’s going on the scouting team?” Seungcheol asked.

“I think Y/N, and someone else.” Joshua hummed slightly as he thought. You only really knew him because he sang in service sometimes. “Y/N because they know about where the team set up base last round.”

“I think Joshua,” the cute one said. Wow. He had a nice voice.

“I was actually thinking you.” The elder smiled a little. “You’re much better at acting casual than I am.”

He had to be kidding. Your plan was to work as a team with the one guy you find attractive to the point of anxiety to infiltrate the other team’s floor by acting casual?

You were dead.

“But Jeonghan’s better at lying,” the cute one protested.

“He’s also more recognizable. Not that you aren’t. Recognizable, I mean. But in the dark, it’s easier to see that Jeonghan’s not on their team.”

He was right, the Jesus hair was kind of a dead giveaway. You didn’t realize you’d stated your thought out loud until they laughed. Oops. At least they found it funny, and not blasphemous. Curse your terrible humor and poor filter.

“See, even the enemy agrees.” Jeonghan indicated you as he spoke. The cute one blushed. He was even cuter when he blushed. That shouldn’t be possible. You called bullshit.

“Okay, I guess we’ll go. If Y/N’s okay with that.”

If you were okay with that? Or maybe you wanted to stress a different syllable. If you were okay with that? You felt nauseous even being this close and you didn’t even have to interact with the kid yet. “Of course,” you said. God fucking damnit, you were dead weren’t you. Curse his handsome face and your inability to say no.

And now you’re back in that blank, dark stairwell with the kid who’s so attractive he gives you anxiety to infiltrate an enemy fortress in the middle of a war and you don’t even know the kid’s name.

Okay maybe you were exaggerating the stakes a little more than a little, but that was how it felt.

“Where did you guys set up shop last round?”

Oh right, war.

“In the first grade classrooms.” You had your pistol out as you approached the door at the bottom (it wouldn’t do much, but it was comforting). You checked the hallway with the Pre-K classrooms, then surveyed him for a quick second. “You need face paint. I hope you’re not allergic?”

“No.”

And now you’re both in the Pre-K classroom as he smudges face paint lines under his eyes.

How the hell did this happen again?

“Um- sorry, but I don’t know your name.” You were seriously considering packing your things and fleeing the country but somehow you managed to ask the question you really wanted the answer to.

“Oh, it’s Vernon.”

Damn, it sounded as nice as he looked.

Wait.

“Cool.” You smiled, mentally berating yourself. Cool. Seriously?

“Does that look good?” He turned to you, the face paint making it look like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Perfect.”

And now came the hard part. You walked down the hall, a hand on your nerf pistol listening so hard you were about to go deaf. You swore to god you were so paranoid that if he said anything you were gonna snap like a rubber band and shoot him in the face.

“There,” he whispered.

Okay so you were a dirty liar, but at least you found the flag.

They’d moved it under the main staircase, the brilliant green bandanna sitting on the windowsill. That would be too difficult to launch a stealth attack on. You weren’t sure the old strategy would work.

Actually you were sure the old strategy wouldn’t work. You weren’t getting in there undetected.

Unless...

You retreated to the sanctuary where the rest of the team was waiting. Evidently your old team had kept the same strategy because Chan was sitting in the pvc pipe construction used for the children’s puppet sermon while sunday school wasn’t in session, which your new team was using as your jail (“For extra humiliation factor.”).

“We caught him snooping around,” Seungcheol explained.

You just nodded. Vernon explained your findings, which was helpful. Now that you weren’t slinking around behind enemy lines your brain was focused right back on your crush and it wouldn’t have gone well if you’d done it. You were resisting the urge to slap yourself.

“So here’s what I’m thinking.” The attack team had moved to the nursery to plan where Chan couldn’t overhear. Seungcheol sketched the bottom floor plan in brown crayon. Jeonghan made a small dot in lime green where the flag was. You found it ironic that two Seniors were drawing serious battle plans with huge crayons. Seungcheol switched to red. “We split into teams and attack from two fronts.” He drew arrows from the hallway and the stairs, then set the crayon down to pick up an orange one, drawing another arrow from the stairs. “Then we’ll send two people in with the sole job of getting the flag.”

“Minghao has to be on the combat teams.” Soonyoung wrote the boy’s name on the edge of the sheet in purple. “They have Jun guarding. I’ll be on combat too.” He wrote his name underneath.

“Josh can grab the flag.” Seungcheol checked if it was okay before writing the boy’s name in orange.

Eventually they’d finished splitting the teams. Apparently the Almighty was trying to send you a message because you were on a combat team with Vernon. Joy of joys. At least your nervous energy was more potent than coffee. You were waiting by that damn stairwell for them to finish putting face paint on (it would confuse the other team).

“Hey.”

You shot him in the face.

Okay maybe you weren’t a dirty liar after all.

“Oh god I’m so sorry!” You would’ve dropped the nerf gun if you weren’t in the middle of a war. “You startled me!” And he’d practically ASMR whispered it in your ear.

“I guess I deserve that.” Vernon laughed, rubbing the red spot on his cheek and dislodging his crumbling face paint.

“I’m still sorry.” You shifted foot to foot, glad your painted cheeks hid your blush. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” He picked up the dart, handing it to you with a shy smile. “It’s a lucky dart now,” he joked.

Well the face paint wasn’t covering your blush anymore, you could guarantee that. Damn this kid and his sweet gesture and good joke.

“No kissing, we’re at war!” Jeonghan called down the hall.

Oh. So you were being obvious about it. Actually, that wasn’t too far fetched.

Was he blushing?

“Nobody’s kissing anybody,” he defended.

He was blushing.

Your team assembled, you, Vernon, and Minghao. Reportedly, Jeonghan was being a perfectionist about his face paint so they were going to take a little longer. You sat in the storage room just off the hallway you’d be charging out of on Seungcheol’s signal. It functioned both as craft storage and puppet storage. Gordy the off brand muppet boy hung on the hatrack turned puppet stand with his mouth hanging open and felt pupils seeming to stare right at you. He was freaky.

“Don’t worry about him.”

Was your crush a fucking mind reader?!

“Jeonghan, I mean.”

Oh. False alarm.

“He’s just trying to make me flustered,” Vernon continued. Evidently it had worked; he seemed pretty fidgety. “I’m sorry you got caught in the crossfire. He only said that because he knows you’re my-” He checked himself.

If he was about to say what you thought he was going to- well you weren’t sure what you’d do. Maybe cough butterflies because there were too many in your stomach. Well, you’d gone out on enough limbs to strip a tree tonight, might as well fall out. “Do you want to get coffee sometime?”

He looked shocked. Should you backtrack? It would be tactical to backtrack.

“I’ve just- had a crush on you for a long time.” You weren’t a strategist. You didn’t know tactics. Or care about tactics. God this was going to be a firestorm. “And I really want to- um- get to know you better.”

He fished around with his mouth open long enough that you wanted to take back what you’d said, but it was too late, you’d gone too far on the damn limb. Now you were just waiting for it to snap.

“I’d like that.”

Oh.

You couldn’t stop smiling, and it didn’t seem like he could either. Minghao groaned, snapping you back.

“Are you done? We’re kind of on an important mission.”

“Is Jeonghan done?”

“Yes, now stop being lovey dovey.”

Your new team may have won the round, but you’d won a battle of your own, ending a two year war you’d been having with yourself. For a second, it felt like capture the flag wasn’t important.

And then you were back in game mode. This was war, dammit, but now you had a new ally.

and less anxiety.

[faithfulnews]

Look Who’s Here

Look Who’s Here

By Brett C. Hoover

March 23, 2020

Editors’ Note: We’ve​ asked a number of authors to discuss the state of the American parish and what it means to be church in a time of migration and movement. We also wanted to offer practical suggestions for how parishes can be more welcoming, just, and Spirit-filled in these times. Together, our contributors provide a picture of the U.S. church today, one not so much in decline as undergoing a profound transition. To read all the articles, see the entire collection, The American Parish Today.

  When my parents left their hometown in central Indiana in 1966, theirs was the “German” parish, though about the only thing really German about it was the heritage of many of the parishioners. I never knew that parish—St. Joseph, a large, gray neo-Gothic edifice on Market Street downtown. My parents were married there a couple of years after my mother converted to Catholicism. Then they moved to California, where I was born. Decades later, in my thirties, I began to visit my extended family in Indiana more frequently. St. Joseph’s was now All Saints, a single combined parish for the entire town. Latin American and Southeast Asian immigrants had moved in to work at the pork-processing plant, and there was a Spanish Mass. By my last visit, a good number of the congregants even at the English Mass were Hispanic.

The town I grew up in lies in suburban Orange County, south of Los Angeles. As a child I rode my bike among the endless subdivisions, and almost everyone I encountered was white. By the late 1970s, however, refugees from Southeast Asia and other immigrants began settling in the area, and our parish offered a late-afternoon Vietnamese Mass, so remote from the rest of the life of the parish that we hardly knew it was there. In the mid-80s, I went off to college, and by the time I moved back to California decades later, my home parish had not only a Vietnamese Mass but a Spanish Mass as well. My mother found herself helping to organize a multilingual, multicultural Thanksgiving Day Mass.

In both cases, local demographic change had turned our hometown parishes into shared parishes, each with two or more distinct cultural, racial, or ethnic groups whose regular worship and ministries were separate, but who used the same parish facilities and were served by the same clergy leadership. Perhaps most Mass-going Catholics in the United States today have at least visited a shared parish on vacation. But at the same time, very little specific data about them has emerged. The Center for Applied Research in the Apostolate (CARA) found in 2013 that fewer than one-third of U.S. parishes had Mass in a language other than English (in four-fifths of those cases, the Mass was in Spanish). In 2014, Boston College’s National Study of Catholic Parishes with Hispanic Ministry reported that just over half of the parishioners at parishes with Hispanic ministry were not Hispanic, and that on average half or more of the Masses at such parishes took place in a language other than Spanish. Over the past decade or so, my students and I have studied various dioceses around the United States and calculated the percentage of parishes with Mass in more than one language. Dioceses in “gateway” cities and states where immigrants have been arriving for decades showed a majority of parishes with multilingual Mass schedules—in the most immigrant-rich dioceses, it was usually a supermajority and as high as 75 percent (Los Angeles) or 81 percent (Miami). Across the Midwest and South, where demographic transformations began in earnest in the 1990s, the percentage lay somewhere between 15 and 45 percent.

[In 1950, U.S. Catholics were regionally concentrated in the Northeast & Midwest. Since then, it's migrated to the South & West. See the data here.]

Shared parishes were almost never the result of a pastoral plan but rather an ad hoc response to demographic change. They constitute a kind of “middle way” between parishes that simply refuse to accommodate newcomers (or will only do so if the newcomers adapt English-language Masses and Euro-American Catholic customs) and those parishes that, de jure or de facto, devote their entire communal life to a particular racial, ethnic, or language group. A few shared parishes remain breathtaking in their diversity, such as St. Camillus in a Maryland suburb of Washington D.C., where Mass is held in English, French, and Spanish, and distinct ministries exist for Mexican, Central American, Francophone African, Haitian, Bangali, and African-American Catholics. Here in Los Angeles, I have personally visited and researched an inner-city African-American and Hispanic parish, a historically Mexican parish gentrified into multicultural affluence (but retaining a Spanish Mass), and a suburban parish with English-speaking Mexican Americans, Filipinos, and Spanish-speaking Mexican and Central American immigrants. The most common kind of shared parish, however, remains the combination of a Euro-American English-speaking community and a Spanish-speaking community of Latin American descent.

Shared parishes juxtapose unity and difference, sometimes emphasizing one side and sometimes the other.

Shared parishes juxtapose unity and difference, sometimes emphasizing one side and sometimes the other. The best such parishes balance the two effectively, providing safe space for different groups to worship and minister in their own way, but also joining those groups together in certain activities—liturgy, parish maintenance, festivals, committees—that offer an experience of the parish as a common project. Some native-born Americans object to the preservation of safe space for difference in shared parishes, insisting that Spanish Masses or Simbang Gabi celebrations just foreground the racial or ethnic differences that otherwise people would take little notice of, and that such displays delay necessary assimilation. In truth, people always take note of differences, even if they do not speak of them, and such differences remain very strongly felt by immigrants bewildered by the customs of their new country. In areas with a long history of immigration, a different kind of resistance emerges, where people of all groups tend to assume that regular contact has already made them interculturally competent enough—they have little more to learn from one another. Probably the deepest resistance to the unity-in-diversity model in shared parishes comes from patterns of avoidance. We tolerate one another well, but there are few or no opportunities to encounter one another as human beings and as equals.

Theologian Susan Reynolds speaks of shared parishes as “borderlands,” and they often do bring out the tensions, encounters, hybrid identities, and absurdities that we associate with lands near national boundaries. Regarding tensions, there are the angry battles over parish-room space, between-Mass confusion over the parking lot, and the occasional prejudicial complaints about “the Mexicans” (or, on the other side, “the white people”) uttered with disdain. An English-speaking Mexican American woman married to a white man spoke of how other whites would vociferously complain about “the Mexicans,” seemingly unaware that she was also Mexican.

On a more positive note, shared parishes also engender a lot of “code-switching,” where people naturally adjust their behavior depending on whom they’re speaking with. A Puerto Rican refers to the same priest by his first name in English settings, but always as “Padre” in Spanish. Then there are the beautiful and rich encounters that may occur. People deliver the peace in their neighbor’s unfamiliar language at a bilingual Mass, surprising their pew mates; older Euro-Americans fawn over the young children of their immigrant parish-council colleagues; people from multiple cultures pray the rosary in different languages at the same time in matched rhythm; and people sing the bilingual parts of the Mass without hesitation and in unity.

There are also absurdities, sometimes exasperating, other times humorous. A middle-schooler tells me after Mass how he was scolded by an adult for speaking Spanish (at recess!) to another child who had just arrived from Mexico. A couple with steadfast anti-immigrant views declare their love for the afternoon bilingual Mass. Celebrating Our Lady of Guadalupe on December 12, there are ebullient calls and responses of “Viva la Virgen de Guadalupe” (long live the Virgin of Guadalupe), and “Viva Mexico,” but then the Mexican priest eyes our modest group of visiting Anglos and cries out, “Viva Estados Unidos” (long live the United States), a cry so unexpected for the occasion that the whole congregation begins to laugh, we visitors included.

  In my experience and research, there are four big challenges in shared parish life.  First, the language barrier figures prominently, even in areas where bilingualism is common. People grow nervous not knowing how to speak with one another, or they commit offense unintentionally. Even where translation is readily available, it has its politics. Translating secretaries soften up blunt complaints for their monolingual priest (often to his chagrin). Language barriers lead to culture clash, as when communities accustomed to avoiding mention of death find themselves face-to-face with the skeletons and candied skulls of the Day of the Dead (Día de los Muertos). Second, culture clash emerges in daily misunderstanding—perplexity at why white people do not shake hands with everyone when they enter a room (as in Latin American custom), why Mexicans double park on major feast days, and why African-American liturgies are so long—but it also manifests itself in misinterpretation of different approaches to key parish activities such as fundraising, popular devotions, and the emotional tone of the liturgy.

The third and most difficult challenge to confront in shared parishes has to do with the way the larger U.S. society seeps into parish life. We suppose and celebrate the equality of all Christians in our common baptism and one faith, but we live in an unequal society where injustice persists. How do we maintain equality at the parish when at local workplaces all the bosses are from one cultural group and all the workers are from another? How does one exclude from parish life the unconscious biases and half-conscious stereotypes that appear on the streets or in the stores? How do we keep the differences embedded in societal structures out of the structures of the parish? The answer, of course, is that we rarely can. Affluent people of one group struggle to separate out their parish interactions with another group from interactions with the same people who serve as their gardeners and housekeepers. Because of educational advantages or longtime presence in the parish, parish professional staff (parish associates, directors of religious education, music directors, youth ministers) often come from dominant groups, even sometimes when the volunteer-led immigrant choirs or youth groups are far larger than their own. Middle-class Euro-American volunteers think nothing of using parish resources (reasoning that they give on Sunday), while working-class Hispanic parishioners host fundraising events for every penny they spend.

These inequalities between cultural, racial, and ethnic communities pose significant challenges. When I give workshops, people do not want to talk about power dynamics in the parish. To speak of inequality or injustice in the parish itself brings long simmering resentments out into the open, provokes fears of being branded as racist, and sparks worry that conflict will consume the community. Addressing inequalities raises thorny questions about who should work for the parish, about accurate representation on parish committees or at multicultural liturgies, about who gets to use which rooms, when, and why. Many immigrants come from places where rules are never equitably enforced and fairness is hobbled by corruption, while native-born Americans often assume that fairness and equitably enforced rules will settle everything. We can struggle to see how fairness may not translate to justice, that equal opportunities may be technically available but not truly accessible, and that people born in the United States have a kind of home-field advantage when it comes to interpreting and following the rules. At one parish I studied, the African-American lay leadership insisted that members of the Hispanic immigrant community attend monthly liturgy meetings so that everyone had a voice and was on the same page, but the translation offered at the meetings was so poor that the Hispanics could not meaningfully participate. The situation looked fair but was actually unjust.

Finally, there is the grief that comes with change. Fr. Stephen Dudek, a priest of the Diocese of Grand Rapids who writes and presents frequently on shared parish life, calls shared parishes “crucibles of grief.” Immigrants struggle with all they have left behind—family, culture, language, home. (I once visited the father of an undocumented immigrant in Mexico; when I brought back a photo of him, his daughter wept at how much he had aged.) People in receiving communities see their hometowns transformed by different languages, restaurants, social media, stores, and music. In places where immigration is a relatively new phenomenon, the emotional whiplash can feel particularly acute. Age differences between communities exacerbate the issue, as when, for example, an aging white or African-American community finds itself paired with a young Hispanic or Asian community. At the same time, grief in the face of change is such a common human experience that everyone can relate. Once clued in, we recognize emotions that may at first shock us—anger, longing, sadness, depression—as part of a process of letting go. Recognition that everyone grieves what they have lost can engender more sensitivity, perhaps especially to elders who find themselves dealing with multiple experiences of loss near the end of their lives.

Nothing can replace the long, sometimes challenging, ultimately joyful process of communities getting to know one another and learning to cooperate.

People often ask me to offer them a packaged program or set of bullet points on how to successfully navigate shared parish life, but nothing can replace the long, sometimes challenging, ultimately joyful process of communities getting to know one another and learning to cooperate. I will say that time helps a great deal. A shared parish I attended in New York City, and another my wife attended in Chicago, had juggled two language communities for decades, and most parishioners were unbothered by cultural differences. They continually committed themselves to cooperation across the communities, and they genuinely wanted a parish of equal partners, even if the larger societal dynamics kept getting in the way. I would also argue that having a priest-pastor (or a lay parish-life director) with a vision of equal partnership goes a long way. One pastor I know worked hard to confuse people as to which community was his favorite. He would also intervene if any pastoral leader began to speak of one group’s needs as more important than those of others.

As Catholics, however, we cannot and should not expect our often-overburdened priests to always come to the rescue in a context like this. These days there are far more shared parishes than there are clergy who are prepared to work interculturally, who have language skills, or who know how to express a vision of unity in difference. Our long hangover from the centralized uniformity of nineteenth-century Catholicism leads us to subtly expect that everyone will ultimately express their Catholic faith in the same way, and somehow be officially sanctioned by Rome. Such uniformity was always more an ideal than a reality, even in the heyday of medieval nostalgia, common Catholic culture, and Bing Crosby in a collar. Today’s diverse parishes require genuine acceptance of many distinct Catholic practices, tones, and styles, finding our unity in the things we truly hold in common—core beliefs like our faith in the Eucharist; sacramentality; patron saints; common prayers like the rosary; and shared pastoral leaders like our pastors, bishops, and Pope Francis. I recognize this puts us at odds with some of the ideological fervor of our times, where differences are poison and often exaggerated. The tenor of our times requires, however, that whatever our legitimate political differences, we must not speak of our immigrant brothers and sisters in Christ as if they were some sort of plague rather than people. If we can speak hatefully without any compunction, then we have lost our moral compass as a people.

In some specific aspects of shared parish life, we have come a long way; in others, wisdom and expertise has only begun to emerge. Preparing a proper multilingual or multicultural liturgy is now easier than ever; the Federation of Diocesan Liturgical Commissions has a thoughtful guidebook to show us the way. Less clear is the way forward on stewardship. Long-resident cultures sometimes lament the low collections in working-class immigrant communities. But one has to calculate expenses longtime residents may not have, such as sending money (remittances) home, as well as the cultural customs around giving in the country of origin (almost never state-sponsored, despite what people think). I would argue that the primary problem with stewardship in shared parishes is not that immigrant communities do not give; rather, it is the odious comparisons between long-established, stable communities and poorer immigrant communities. They will always make newcomers look rather unjustly like freeloaders.

The proper language and cultural idiom for faith formation still stymies us. The answer will be different for different communities, but many shared parishes thus far have emphasized either English to push people along toward assimilation (usually imitating the public-education system), or an immigrant language to facilitate the preservation of cultures. Both have their limitations. Monolingual English risks dividing families, especially in places where immigrant parents have insufficient time or resources to learn English properly. Monolingual Spanish, Vietnamese, or Korean programs keep families united, but they can compartmentalize faith as an aspect of one’s culture of origin and not a matter for everyday life, much of which is lived in English. Parishes that develop some kind of bilingual program, admittedly harder to pull off, have often found a sweet spot that prepares children to pray both with their families and with their peers in the larger society. Again, there is no sure solution for every parish.

I began this essay with an account of the changes in the parishes of my parents’ hometown and my own. Even in those two stories, one can see some reliably recurring patterns in shared parish life, such as the way newcomer communities emerge in response to unforeseen local pastoral needs, and how such communities are only gradually integrated into the center of parish life. Like all parishes, however, shared parishes are a product of their unique local environment. Our incarnational theology celebrates this rather than finding it a problem. All Catholic unity is communion, that is, unity amidst difference, rooted in the three-persons-but-one-God of the Holy Trinity, present as much within a family as within a parish as within the global church. That unity in difference unfolds in history, which means that the way we live our common faith constantly adjusts to a changing world. Thus, I would be foolish to say too much with certainty about shared-parish life moving forward. Instead, I look to the perfect communion that we will find only in the “eschatological parish,” that is, the Reign of God. In the meantime, we do the best with what we have, struggling and celebrating.

—— RELATED:

A pastor's take on best practices for integrating communities

Parish life as landscape of change

What extra-parochial groups can teach parishes

What's missing from our homilies

Go to the article

[zac-maya]

Both Sides.

Part 1 - Their Side.

Based on the Jubilee YouTube series “Both Sides.”

Word count: 2,782

As always no proof read. Probably more things needed to be italized but ins midnight now and I need to be asleep so I just got the real important bits.

I hope you like it.

“Can you hear me?” Their eyebrows came together as they tried to see if she gave any sort of acknowledgement that she heard. “Van Gogh is the worst artist in the world.” The sentence was said in confidence, waiting to see if it caused a rise out of the blond across from them. Nothing. They started to laugh, the crew behind the cameras joining in. “Nope, she can’t hear a thing.”

Agreeing and being apart of this video series that the YouTube Channel Jubilee was putting together called ‘Both Sides’ was quite a shock for them. For one, they weren’t exactly the most outgoing, in front of the camera, type of guy. To their core, this was something completely out of their comfort zone, just sitting here was causing them to shake, to get that pinching feeling in the pit of their stomach. Across from them, she must have sensed what was going on because she was sitting straighter, a hand caressing their thigh, the first question wasn’t even asked yet, but it helped ease the tension they were feeling.

What was your first impression of each other?

“Oh man. My very first impression of her was that she was sort of obnoxious and mean?” It did truly mean to come out as a statement at first, but as they spoke, the first memory of ever hearing about Maya Hart playing in their head like an old movie. The first impression was based on what their younger brother told them about her and ‘obnoxious’ and ‘mean’ was what came to their mind. “I want to make it known, my first impression was all from something a third party told me. It was my second impression where I really got to know her, when she came over to our house for the first time later that year. We were just wee little middle schoolers than. And I thought that she was funny and kinda cute and a lot shorter than I expected.”

They watched as she titled her head at him, eyes narrowed slightly. Smiling, they looked over at the crew letting them know that was it before telling her to switch the music and soundproof headphones.

It was only seconds after they started the music that they were sure she was saying something snarky. “I don’t know what you just said, but I know it was snarky.” In response, her whole body moved in laughter. Smiling they shook their head but dropped their eyes to their lap. At the beginning of their relationship, way back when, only seconds would have gone by before illogical and idiotic thoughts would have passed through Zac’s mind. They’re very proud of themselves about the fact that it’s no longer the case, that the trust they have for her, the proof she’s shown again and again that they didn’t need to worry, kills those thoughts before they could even happen.

Maya tapped their leg to tell them she was done.

“Okay,” came the voice of the one conducting the interview, “now you share what you said to each other.”

“You mean I have to be mushy with them too?” A grown escaped her, eyes doing a full around the world.

They let out a chuckle, “I know, it must be so hard for you.”

“Excruciating. Okay, well, I told them when I first saw you,” she scrunched her face, “on your brother’s SnapChat story.”

“Wow, very millennial of you.”

“I know, that’s what I said.” Their laughter filled the small room.

“I just told them that at first I thought you were obnoxious and mean,” she let out a fake gasp, placing a hand on her hear, “I know! And than how when I first saw you you were just a lot shorter than expected.”

“I’m not that short.”

“Mmm, you’re short.”

When was your first date?

“Our first date I guess could be a little unconventional? I don’t know. Like it really wasn’t a date at first but it sort of turned into one?” They paused, thinking it over. “Yeah, I mean, it started out as this weird group date thing for her and another person, not me, and that sort of didn’t work and than we kind of ran into each other at the place her original planned date was supposed to happen, she ditched the people she was with, we got some snacks at this grocery store across the way and headed to this outdoor movie in the park thing. We sat in the very back, couldn’t even see what movie was playing - though I’m pretty positive it was E.T. - and just talked the whole night. It was like... September 15th, 2016.”

Only a couple minutes passed well it was her turn before they could remove the headphones again and they were back to sharing what they said well the other couldn’t hear.

“What’d you say?” They asked her, a small smile on their face.

“I said it was September 15th.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you mention how it didn’t start a date for us?”

They laughed, “Yeah. And that we ditched who you were with -“

“To get groceries across the way?” She finished, laughing.

“And the movie in the part.”

“What movie was it? I never saw.”

“Pretty sure it was E.T.”

“You would know.”

What do you like the most about each other?

There wasn’t even a second after asking the question before Zac was diving in, words spewing out. “She’s caring. So caring. A lot of people wouldn’t think it, but you’d only have to hear her talk about her friends for two seconds to know how much she cares. She has one of the biggest hearts I know. I mean, yeah there are times where she can be selfish, who isn’t, but in the end of the day she’ll figure out a way to do whatever is needed to make it right.” They stopped, taking a deep breath, smiling softly as she titled her head at him, sticking out her tongue, “What I love the most though is that she tries, she never stops trying. You knock her down and she gets back up to try again. And funny, but you can’t tell her that.”

As soon as her turn was over and they was taking off the headset, words came pouring out of Maya’s mouth. “I only talked about the superficial stuff. How you have pretty eyes and a great jaw line.”

“I do, though, don’t I?” Hand going to their jaw and stroking it, laughing all the while. Her humor was perfect for them, she effortlessly knew what to say to make them laugh.

“But really,” a softer smile appeared on her face, “I talked about how I think its really great that when you open yourself up to someone, you’re truly opened up. You’re not afraid to be a big goof, make weird noises at the most bizarre times. How your whole face lights up talking about things you’re passionate about.” By small words, their heart fluttered. It wasn’t abnormal that she would say nice things to him, but at the same time it always felt wonderful getting compliments from someone that meant so much to you.

“I said that you had a big Hart.” They smirked at her, giving her thigh a small jab.

“Shut up,” eyes rolled, but they could see the corners of her lips trying to fight turning up.

“I said you were funny. And caring.”

“I... might have said you were funny too.”

“Oh, really?!” Excitement written all over their face, “Oh yeah, lets go!”

“Okay, okay, calm down. Don’t go getting a big head.”

“Too late.” And than they booped her nose.

What about the other person bothers you?

“This is what’s going to get me in trouble. Thanks Jubilee team,” they joked, leaning forward to move a piece of hair that was hanging annoyingly in Maya’s face. “She sends to many memes in group chats. Particularly this one of like, an adult body and a crying baby face? She’ll send it like 50 times in one setting even if it’s inappropriate and I want to die ever single time.” Letting out a sigh, they scratched the top of their head before diving into another one, “Sometimes she’ll get a little to angry over things and it’s unnecessarily intense.”

When it was her time, they watched as this time, she was a lot more animated with her body and they couldn’t help but laugh because they knew exactly what she was talking about. Maya wasn’t afraid to be more intimate and touchy, and they know that has a lot to do with growing up with who her best friend is, well they isn’t really aren’t that much of a physical person unless they initiate it. And she always says they’re always a little “too over dramatic” when they try to avoid the physical touch of others. They disagree but no one helps back them up on their argument.

As soon as they removed their headset, laughing still, they just said, “I knew exactly what one of the things you were talking about was. About my weird thing with physical touch, as soon as you were like,” they proceeded to mimic her. She laughed in response, nodding.

“I also said that you sometimes live behind your camera lens instead of in the moment.”

“I said you were a tiny small angry person.”

“Nothing about my phone filled with notifications?”

“I could have but I didn’t want to seem like an overachiever.”

“No, we couldn’t have that.”

What was your biggest fight?

They let out a groan, feeling regret start to seep into their bones. It’s not that they didn’t know that questions like this wouldn’t come up it’s just that it’s hard for them to open up personally about this kind of thing. To them, stuff like this isn’t a thing you share over the internet where thousands of people can watch, but they’re here and they agreed to this. “Our biggest fight - not that it was anything with like, a big scene or crazy yelling or anything, just um, sort of tested us I guess - involved this old crush of hers.” They took a deep breath, and stared directly into the girl’s eyes across from them, giving them the strength to talk. “She used have this huge, and I mean huge, crush on this guy a couple years older than us, and it’s sort of understandable why he was a cool guy but I just always had this insecurity about them together. They had great rapport and similar personalities and humor and interests and the whole nine years and you might not be able to tell from my killer style,” they gestured to skinny fit khakis and almost wrinkle free tee they were clad in, “but I was, still am, the quiet kid in the back that likes to take pictures of moments than really be in them. And it was something I had to work through, that someone like her, as cool and amazing and beautiful even with her flaws, wanted to be with me when it seemed like someone who was perfect for her was right there.”

As they let her know it was her turn, their hands shaking from answering the question, the look of worry on Maya’s face. They know how lucky they were to have Maya in their life, to be able to still have her in their life. A lot of other people would have walked away after having to deal with someone who constantly thought they were going to be left or who knows what instead of trusting their significant other. They know how lucky they are to have someone who was willing to stick it out, to work through it, and try to understand why they were acting the way they were. That it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with them and what they needed to work on.

“Alright guys, time for the both sides.” The director person announced.

This time, they weren’t first. “I just, um, talked about when I was annoying and insecure.” Letting out a laugh after, feeling any pressure on their chest be released.

“I said the same,” the response came, her own laughter following, “just not in those words.”

“Oh, good.”

Why do you love each other?

Rubbing their face, they took a deep breath as words started to stumble inside their brain. “Is it weird that talking about what I like most about her was not even a problem but trying to put why I love her into words is so hard? Like, the movies make it seem so easy, you know? Grand gestures, fantastical lists, the whole freaking nine yards. I don’t... I don’t know. There’s so much, you know? It really is hard to put into words because she really exceeds everything I could ever imagine I would want in a partner. Not just as a friend but like, relationship wise. I love that she breaks me out of my shell, but never pressures me to do it if it’s to overwhelming. I love that when I wake up, every day, all I want is to be with her. I never really wanted that with another person.” They could feel their throat start to clog up, eyes water.

She was staring at them, questions in her eyes, but they could also see that glint of amusement in her eyes and knew, before the words came, that she was going to make a snide remark. “I have some tissues in my bag if you need them,” a smirk playing at her lips.

“Oh shut up,” they rolled their eyes, “Um, she’s not perfect in any way, but she’s perfect for me. I used to never believe in soulmates until I met her. She doesn’t... she doesn’t know that. But I always knew. You know? I knew.”

Watching her talk in response to the question was bringing a smile to their face. This was never exactly one of her strong suits, talking about her feelings for them, it always took coaxing from Riley and it was always in private and now she was doing this in front of crew members for a YouTube video that was going to be open to the whole wide world... of people with the internet. They couldn’t believe it. And when she covered her face with her arms, knowing her face was breaking out in a blush, they knew it was getting to her. Reaching out, they rubbed her thigh, an amused smile on their face, knowing when she saw it she told them to stop. That she had to stop, that she couldn’t go further and they were right.

“Okay, so, what’d you say?”

“That I love you because of your money.”

“You mean my Duck Tales inspired bank room?”

“That’s it.”

“Damn, this whole time I knew you were just after my coin pool.” They gave her knee a small tap, “And here I was spilling my guts about how you make me a better person and I couldn’t have asked for a better partner and you just want my shinning gold coins. The audacity of some people, I tell ya.”

“No I um, I said that it’s with the way you see the world and how you’re just like, this all around nice person, even when you can rightfully be an asshole. How well you love me for me, flaws and all, and how you help show me how much I can be loved. I don’t know... I guess you’re just God’s gift to man. Fu... fffft ridiculous.” They couldn’t help burst out laughing at that. Not just her sarcastic wit at the end but her horrible attempt to correct her swearing. “Sorry.” She turned to the cameras, “Sorry Jubilee.”

“You’re so bad.”

“Hey, I lasted this long without swearing, give me some credit.”

They let seconds pass, tilting their head, “No.”

“Whatever. What did you say, Golden Boy?”

“I told you what I said! Better person... better partner... blah blah.” She raised an eyebrow, “Okay fine. I also might have maybe said you exceeded all expectations I could have had on a perfect partner, you know, that you’re like imperfectly perfect for me.”

“Excuse you, I’m not any sort of imperfect.” They opened their mouth to reply but she got ahead of them, “You try and disagree you’re gonna be on the couch.”

“We don’t live together.”

“I know people. I can make that happen.”

Blinking, they let those words simmer before turning towards the Jubilee crew. “Alright, so we nailed this right?”

[canvaswolfdoll]

CanvasWatches: The Disappearance of Nagato Yuki-chan

In the fine tradition of the Franchise and also my viewing of it, we’re skipping Disappearance of Haruhi Suzumiya[1] and moving straight to The Disappearance of Nagato Yuki-chan, which inexplicably maintains the name order for the title.

I am often confused by Japanese names in media that’s been localized. Character names are often obvious, because speech and grammar and context makes it clear whether its the given name or family name being used by the speaker, but I’m not always clear with credits. Do publishers switch the author’s name on the book, or do they maintain it?[2]

I’m not actually sure how I want names ordered in dubs, while we’re going through this tangent. I view both arguments (Accuracy to the original text vs. Approachability to new audiences) as largely equal, so as long as the text maintains consistency, I’m satisfied.[4]

However, the actual show switches the names, making it inconsistent with the title. Poor showing, Funimation.

As for the subject of today's review, the conclusion is: I liked it! Maybe one should view it as a continuation on the rest of Haruhi Suzumiya to better catch the jokes and nods, but it’s not necessary.

Onto the analysis! (Spoilers for all of Haruhi Suzumiya, though I will try and avoid major plot points not in Yuki-chan itself.)

Right off the bat, Yuki-Chan fixes the greatest sin committed by the original source material: Yuki gets to keep her glasses!

Let there be rejoicing! Yay! Woo!

In fact, glasses are used as a subtle narrative device, making them a required prop.

The anime is adapted by a comic written by Puyo, who also created the Haruhi-chan comics that were adapted into animation themselves. Haruhi-chan was an extensively goofy version of the Haruhi canon, and includes its own ongoing interpretation of the plot and characters.

Yuki-chan sits in a comfortable midpoint between realistic and cartoonish, with a good balancing of tone, and brings elements from both Haruhi-chan and Nagaru Tanigawa’s source novels. The comedy’s good, the drama’s good, and it flows well between them.

The setting itself comes from one of my favorite ways to find inspiration: looking at the throw-away details of other narratives, and exploring the logical extreme.

In this case, what is it like in the other world created for The Disappearance of Haruhi Suzumiya?[5] What stories can be told when you grab Haruhi, strip her of god powers, and set her over there, and settle everyone else into normal human forms?

This is an exercise I think writers should take more often. It’s a common trope in fanfiction for a reason.[6] Stories are often built from extraordinary people in extraordinary circumstances, but good characterization should prevail even if you take away the magic and monsters, and set everyone in a coffee shop. How do Yuki and Kyon get along when they aren’t saving the world?

And, more interestingly, who is Yuki when she’s no longer a Humanoid Interface for the Data Overmind?[7] Because it’s equally valuable to consider what changes when you remove elements from characters.

What does change is Yuki becomes the shy, bookish (well, video game playing) girl that would be her common trope. But she’s also oddly voracious in regards to food, and has her share of quirky behaviors to match those of, say, Tsuruya.

This version of Yuki is also notably the first Moe character to actually appeal to me. I am invested in Yuki, and want her to succeed!

Because one of the opening conceits is a lack of Haruhi, (at least initially. Ms. Suzumiya does, of course, always find a way) Yuki’s literary club doesn’t get forcibly hijacked into the SOS Brigade, though it is at risk of closure due to lack of members. Also, as a nice meta gag, the production team’s name has been switch from ‘SOS Brigade’ in the closing credits to ‘North High Literary Club’.[7]

When we open the series, only Yuki and Kyon from the original cast are immediately present, along with Ryoko Asakura, who originally only existed long enough to attack Kyon with a knife and be deleted by Yuki, so as to show off what sort of power and danger Yuki and her contingent presents.

Since there is no Data Mind, Ryoko gets to be a main character, and thus act as a major change to the dynamics we’re used to. She’s a lower energy member of the ‘enactors’ end of the cast. Motivated by her friendship by Yuki, and a caring individual, she is still one of the few characters able to stand toe to toe with Haruhi without risk of being swept up into something against her will.

Her element of wackiness, however, is gleefully displayed during the first episode when, while shopping for the Literary Club’s Christmas Party, the trio encounters Mikuru and Tsuruya, to continue making the most of characters that didn’t get to fully shine during Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, and someone needs to be pushing Mikuru into situations.

Tsuruya and Ryoko begin pitting Yuki and Mikuru against one another for Kyon’s affections, before competing against one another directly, forming a friendship, and pretty much enlisting Tsuruya and Mikuru into the literary club.

Luckily, Mikuru is allowed out of the love triangle for this story. She’s still the soft spoken eye candy, but even that element’s toned down. Honestly, Mikuru could’ve been cut without making much difference, but we do need the full brigade eventually.

No, this time the love triangle (still pointing into Kyon) is a fight between Yuki and Haruhi!

Haruhi rejoins the dynamic by leaping out of snow-covered bushes in a post-credits scene of episode two, then collapsing on the ground. In this reality, a lot of the big events remain, but the details are shifted so that fantastic elements are no longer required. Kyon was still present when Haruhi drew her message on school grounds, but he was present as his middle schooler self, it doesn’t lead to Haruhi’s god powers, and the lack of Future!Kyon means Haruhi isn’t inspired to go to North High, and instead enrolling at a Prep School stationed at the base of the hill.

It’s also notable that Haruhi attempted to recreate the event during the series, but this time it’s a ploy to capture Santa Claus[8], and drafted a passing Yuki into it. It takes both of them a while to realize this, as Yuki forgot her glasses, and it was dark at the time.

Obviously, Haruhi immediately sets about taking over the literary club, dragging in Itsumi (also at the Prep School, and hopelessly in love with Haruhi), closes the deal with recruiting Mikuru, and hits the other notes of the original canon.

However, this time Ryoko is there to prevent Haruhi totally running rampant. Which is likely for the best, since it’s supposed to be Yuki’s story. Which even Haruhi seems to realize at some level.

Because Haruhi’s clearly got a crush on Kyon, but he doesn’t remember the night in the courtyard. And, at the same time, Yuki’s very clearly interested (not that Kyon notices that either) and Ryoko makes it very clear that Yuki deserves her shot. After some Valentine's Day confusion, Haruhi pretty much silently concedes the competition to even the playing field with consideration of Yuki’s social anxiety.

The Disappearance of Nagato Yuki-Chan could be divided into three arcs, following the interpersonal issues of three characters: Yuki, Other Yuki, and finally Kyon.

Yuki’s arc is more or less what I described above, as it also needs to introduce the cast. Yuki loves Kyon,[9] who is oblivious, because of course he is. Yuki has pretty severe Social Anxiety, however, and thus can not spit out her feelings, even while sharing a coat during a Christmas Party, or during Valentine's day, or during a club trip, even while being cheered on by the other club members.

Poor girl.

There’s the usual misunderstandings, fear of ruining a perfectly functional friendship, distractions by Ryoko and Haruhi, and plenty of ship teases.

Still, the stretch of episodes is filled with plenty of Haruhi-Chan style humor and chibified moments. I also found myself, in a rare instance, noticing the background music, which was all lovely.[10] It’s standard romance material, which isn’t a genre I usually seek out, so the first nine episodes were both fresh enough to me, and with well executed comedy.

Then, after the credits of episode Nine, Nagato is involved in a car accident. We don’t see the impact, so there’s just enough ambiguity not to make the audience question the results.

We do know Yuki’s glasses are knocked off and bent. Oh no!

But don’t worry, Yuki has a back up pair of glasses.

Also, she’s got some level of brain damage now, altering her personality to be very similar to the Yuki we know from past material. Thus enters Other Yuki. Marked by the slightly different glasses she wears.

Told you they’d be significant.

Thus we enter a more psychological and ponderous arc. Starting with an episode entitled ‘Someday in the Rain’.[11]

This Other Yuki has the memories of Yuki Nagato, of course, but feels a disconnect from them and her life from before the car accident. With that disconnect, her emotions are also gone, leaving a monotone and subdued character in. Her interests also turn from video games to books.

Or, in other terms, the Data Overmind Yuki. Though not really. I’ll come back to this.

She attempts to go undetected, living Yuki’s life, trying to leave it in the same shape as she found it.

Though it doesn’t work on her closest friend, as Ryoko asks ‘Who are you, and where is Yuki Nagato?’

Which is a very dramatic way to phrase that, Ryoko!

So, for a short spell, I theorised that maybe this is the Humanoid Interface Yuki stepping in for the period covered by Disappearance of Haruhi Suzumiya. However, they didn’t put in any other clues to that interpretation, and the healing process that gradually brings back Yuki makes it essentially untenable as a theory. This series is severed totally from the Prime Timeline.

Yuki explains her situation to Ryoko, who drags her to see a dang doctor, like, come on girl, that’s step one. The doctor confirms there’s no apparent damage, and that Yuki merely needs time to recover, including plenty of sleep.

Yuki continues to live the life of a High Schooler through exams, as Ryoko and Kyon worry over her out of earshot. They’re unsure how to feel about this Other Yuki, but resolve to do their best.

So, as Other Yuki narrates, we hear the story of a robot developing emotions and attachments, brought in by her healing, told over of the course of four episodes. This includes fearing what is essentially her death, as once she finishes healing, Other Yuki will be gone, replaced by her body’s original owner. Emotions are mixed for all involved, as of course they want their Yuki back, but they also grow attached to Other Yuki and don’t wish to see her go fully.

On what Other Yuki knows will be her last day, with only one sleep remaining, she spends time at a used book fair, then as much time with Ryoko as possible, before heading to the library to finish reading a book she checked out before she’s gone.

Once that’s done, one final task remains as sleep begins to come for her, she phones Kyon to confess her love. Also to ask him to return the book for her.

She’ll be dead in a minute, so why not?

Kyon races to meet with her before she’s gone, but finds a napping Yuki once he reaches the bench outside the library. Other Yuki is gone.

Which leaves the remaining episodes of the series to deal with the fallout of the situation. Ryoko, sad to see Other Yuki go, collects herself quickly and resumes her life. Yuki seems to have lost her memories from the period, and I don’t think anyone tells her what happened in the interim.

Kyon is unsure what to do, as he realizes he’d fallen in love with Other Yuki.

Further, Haruhi has to deduce the events, as exams had kept her and Koizumi away. She encourages Kyon to work through his confusion.

I hand the final arc to Kyon because the roles switch places from the first arc, with Yuki blissfully unaware of Kyon’s feelings as Kyon is overthinking everything. It’s an interesting turn around.

Eventually, during a festival, Kyon uses the sound of fireworks to cover up his own love confession, as a symbolic message to the Other Yuki, so that he can finally let go and move on.

Which leaves us in the stalemate we began with: Yuki loves Kyon, and Kyon is blissfully unaware, even though Other Yuki’s confession should be a hint.

And maybe it is, as we don’t get to see much more.

Honestly, I’d be satisfied if this is where the Anime Adaption remains. I know of the Manga, of course, but short of a second head injury, Other Yuki is not likely to return, and it’s her segment that gives weight and purpose to the series. We’ve told the story of both Yukis disappearing, so it’s complete in my mind.

I’d much rather the resources be put instead into continuing adapting the Haruhi Suzumiya books.

The Disappearance of Nagato Yuki-chan works best as a companion to Melancholy, but I believe it’s strong enough on it’s own legs if you prefer. Yuki is an endearing character, the titular arc is a strong tale of melancholy (ha!), and it’s an enjoyable ride. So give it a go.

If you have comments, questions, or loose thoughts, feel free to contact me and I’ll attempt to meet them with due diligence. If you want to support me, my projects, and/or fund me getting a dog, please check out my Patreon. If it ever gains traction, I’ll modify it to reward people with things they like. I aim to amuse.

Kataal kataal.

[1] Funimation has secured the license, I’ve preordered it, it’ll come. [2] I’m mostly wondering about Isuna Hasekura’s[3] name, as I intend to use it for fun reference times. [3] Author of Spice & Wolf. [4] Nevertheless, Haruhi Suzumiya sounds better to my ear than Suzumiya Haruhi. That may be habit, though. [5] I am using the english title because that’s what I know it as. [6] Does Yuki-chan count as fanfiction? The lines blur! [7] Sneaking Yuki’s name into the credits would have cinched it, but, alas… [8] Possibly a nice nod to Kyon’s famous opening monologue. [9] Whose real name we still do not know, though this series explains how the nickname passed from his sister to others. [10] There’s a particular Jazz number that first crops up during the mall sequence in the first episode that recurs. I should probably search out that track… [11] Trying to use nostalgia of my favorite Haruhi episode to evoke an emotional response, eh? It worked.