#tendril theory

[stimpunks]

Map of Monotropic Experiences

Monotropism seeks to explain autism in terms of attention distribution and interests. OSF Preprints | Development and Validation of a Novel Self-Report Measure of Monotropism in Autistic and Non-Autistic People: The Monotropism Questionnaire This map highlights 20 common aspects of monotropic experience. How many do you experience? Map of Monotropic Experiences Map of Monotropic Experiences…

[emmic0n]

AAAAAAAAAAA JUST REALIZED SOMETHING

okay so in the new wackywatch teaser, it's introducing the characters, except it glitches and repeats part of Jax's name, and shows an image of jack black

haha funny, right?

well, yes, but i don't think it's just a throw-away joke, because of this shot later in the teaser

Jack black superimposed over a lone cardboard cutout of (presumably) a clown. the only humanoid beings we've seen depicted are Caine and the trapped humans, what if this clown was one of them? imagine a human named Jack (hence the usage of Jack Black to replace depictions of him) from before Pomni's arrival, his avatar was a clown, and something happened to him. maybe he turned into the black tendril monster, which is why it can be seen exiting one of the doors in the hallway with all the human's rooms. that was his room. which would explain why Ragatha can be seen talking to it before she gets snatched, and Ragatha's "something really bad can happen" speech. She knew him, she knew what happened to him, she's trying to (unsuccessfully) plead with him to not do whatever he's doing. So now imagine you're Caine, you've got 6 humans, but uh-oh! the clown one gets all glitched and turns into a monster out of your control! oh well, that's life. but wait! a new human (Pomni) shows up! oh boy! what should their avatar be? well, you're missing a clown, so why not make Pomni something clown-adjacent!

[cherubytes]

i like to think that the reason mindflayers like to make their bodies look so human is because they were originally made to provide some sort of medical assistance and they became intrigued by the human body

[the-thing-inside-your-closet]

Who Started The Fire?

From the prompts list:

“That’s my emotional support entity of questionable moral standing.”

Batman stared down the two teens standing before him. The boy was pointedly looking anywhere but the Bat’s face, finding more interest in the dirt and gravel crunching under his shoes. Meanwhile, the girl stood with her arms crossed, head held high, meeting Batman’s gaze with a defiant glare that wouldn’t be out of place on any of his own children’s faces.

Behind them lay the smoking remains of what was once a warehouse that had been used as a front for a weapons smuggling operation that the bats had collectively spent the past few weeks investigating. Although their investigation had taken longer than anticipated thanks to this group’s rather impressive security, they had been so close to a breakthrough…when the place had gone up in an inferno.

When the Gotham vigilantes had first arrived on the scene the fire had been so intense that they’d had to put in their gas masks to avoid any inhaling any of the thick black smoke from not only the fire, but also whatever chemicals may have potentially been within the building that would have been released into the air.

Batman’s initial hypothesis had been that the group had become aware of their investigation and burned the place to avoid any evidence being discovered while they moved locations. However, that theory had been shelved when Red Hood had announced the presence of charred bodies amongst the rubble, and evidence of explosives having been used in multiple area where the building’s structure had been the weakest. Whoever had been inside had not had any warning of the blaze that had swallowed the building too fast for them to get to safety, and with the structure being compromised from the explosions all exists had been blocked, preventing the inhabitant’s escape. Red Hood and Nightwing had been discussing potential suspects as Batman and Red Robin searched for any evidence that could have survived the destruction, when a clattering sound followed by the sound of voices hushing each other had altered all of the on scene bats to the presence of possibly several unknowns.

The two teens had been apprehended quickly and ushered to the side, far enough away from the scene of the fire to avoid them overhearing details of the investigation and to prevent any potential tampering. Accidental or otherwise. The teens had been stubborn in their refusal to answer any of the bat’s questions to their presence. Nobody knew why they were there, where they had come from, and they had even refused to disclose their names. Oracle, unfortunately, was sick with the flu and had been gently ordered to rest by Agent A. Batman was nevertheless confident that they would be able to discover their identities quickly either once they had returned to the cave or if they could get the kids to talk.

He would have asked Red Hood to speak with the teens, he was the best with kids. And if caught up in anything illegal they often seemed to respond better to him due to his more ambiguous morals and reputation for ensuring kid’s safety. Both from rouges and in some cases, the rest of the bats and birds. But he had been needed in Crime Ally after he had been alerted to a gunfight breaking out between two gangs who had been more hostile and antagonistic in recent months. Nightwing had accompanied him, and Spoiler had diverted from her patrol route to assist. That left Batman and Red Robin behind to deal with both the police and the frustratingly stubborn teens.

Batman resisted the urge to punch the bridge of his nose as yet another question was blatantly ignored by both kids. The boy had begun fiddling with the sleeved of his letterman jacket and the girl had taken to checking her manicured nails for any dirt or imperfections.

Just as he was about to turn the questioning over to one of the on scene police officers, a writhing mass of shadow had emerged from the girl’s shadow. Two tendrils of black smoke reached out to wrap themselves around the wrists and hands of both teens, who had in turn glanced down at their hands and smiled.

“We’re fine,” the boy had muttered quietly, “no need to worry.”

“What is that?” Batman asked, eyeing the mass with a cautious suspicion. He wanted to believe it wasn’t hostile given the kids reactions to it. But this was Gotham.

The girl shot him another glare, one hand on her hip while the other remained in the hold of whatever the shadowy mass was.

“That sir,” she spat out the first word with such venom to her tone that Batman almost flinched, “is our emotional support entity of questionable moral standing.”

[txttletale]

"you, specifically, are a bad and evil person that all my posts are written to condemn" this is not what i said. i'm sorry for not being clearer. i just feel like everyone in this space, not just you, look down on people who live in the first world as people who willingly don't change anything about how the world works when it's just not that simple. i know you all love to combat this and say otherwise but it will never change the simple reality that for some people it really is very hard, if not impossible, to do anything politically, for a variety of reasons. i'm disabled, i live in a remote part of the country, and i'm bad at talking to people. i don't have the money to just move to a population center or get lessons on how to speak to people. i can't do anything and i feel like every time you or one of the other communists on tumblr talks about the imperial core, i feel like i, personally, am being held to an unreasonable standard that i would not hold anyone else to, if i were in one of your situations. obviously i want things to change. i don't want genocide to be a thing that's constantly happening, i don't want my country to have its tendrils dug into every other country, i want socialism and eventually global communism, and if i could do anything meaningful-- anything at all-- to achieve those goals i would be working on that. but right now that just is not the case for me, and i feel like i'm not alone in that either. i just wish you had like a smidgen of empathy for some of the people living here who don't fit into your stereotype of what a member of the imperial core looks like-- i'm not even trying to say that sarcastically, it genuinely feels like you all don't see us as human. like nyanguard especially seems to think of us as incapable of saving ourselves, and one of the reblogs to my first ask just said they "like to imagine that (i'm) crying as i type this". how am i supposed to react to that? is this how all of you feel about people like me? would your feelings about me change if i lived in another country, or would you find some other excuse to talk down to me? is it really just the country i live in that's the problem, here? i'm not trying to accuse you, i'm asking this question genuinely.

i know it's tempting to respond to this with a snarky comment but please just try to understand where i am coming from. i really am willing to help if i can.

i don't think any marxist seriously has a political theory of imperialism that amounts to "citizens of the imperial core simply choose not to do anything because they are all individually bad people". i mean the whole point of marxism is that economic relations are the ultimate drivers of historical change, not abstract psychological or moral qualities of people.

i'm sympathetic to your situation! the imperial core is a very atomizing place to live, and there are places and situations where there's just no practical path to getting organized and taking meaningful political action in the near future. however, your problem here is:

i feel like i, personally, am being held to an unreasonable standard that i would not hold anyone else to

nobody is posting about you, personally. like at the end of the day you have to learn to either not take posts like that personally or just block everyone who makes them to manage your own time on the computer vis a vis niceness--i don't think it's the responsibility of me or any other communist to constantly provide asterisks and carveouts that we're not talking about the Good Ones Who Have Extenuating Circumstances when we talk about the usa and its material political base.

& in the same way that you ask for empathy for your situation i would ask you to extend a level of understanding to people whose homelands and countrymen and communities have been devastated by US coups and sanctions and invasions, that they have as much a right to express the rage and fury and hurt of that cultural legacy as you do to express your own sadness about your own situation. imagine, for example, how you would feel if your grandparents could not reliably get medicine because of us sanctions. & of course the correct target for these feelings are not random usamericans--but these posts are also not serious politcal platforms, they are venting from people who live their lives under the weight of empire.

if you think what they're saying is unfair to you, then you need to develop the ability to say 'well, i understand why they would feel that way' and move on. like i understand why you are upset, and i don't say this to be dismissive, but as real advice: it is not fair (especially to bloggers from the global south) to essentially rest your happiness and self-worth at their feet and demand that they validate you.

genuinely, i hope this helps. it's all i really have to say on the matter.

[forlix]

𝐚𝐜𝐞・h.h.

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

words・15.2k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Please, angel.”

“No! Leave me alone.”

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

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

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

“What the hell did you do?”

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

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

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

The air between you curdles like sour milk.

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

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

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

“Because you’re so scholarly.”

“I am not scholarly.”

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

“I need to get my steps in somehow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Watermelon,” he mumbles with a sickening smile.

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

He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

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

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

“Thanks, cap.” Useless.

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

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

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

From: Park Jinyoung «asiansoul_jyp@snu.edu» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «cb97@snu.edu» Subject: Not good See email from Hwang’s antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now he’s failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP JP Sent from my iPad

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

“Yep.”

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

“That’s bullshit!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hwang Hyunjin,” he says under his breath.

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

Then comes the yelling.

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

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

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

Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin shudders.

It just might, actually.

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

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

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

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

Piazza replied within the week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you said your order was complicated.”

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

“Was it not?” You ask.

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

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

“What? Really?”

“No.”

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

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

“I do, but you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s thinking.

That can’t be good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can see it.”

“I can see killing myself, maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t like that at all,” you say.

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

“You have a kid, don’t you?”

“Wha—huh? Who do you think I am?”

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

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

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

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

“I’m failing anthro.”

So much for a serious conversation. 

“Come again?”

He repeats the mystifying statement.

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

“I just said that, yes.”

“You’re failing anthropology?”

“Mhm.”

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

“Yes. I’m glad you’re having fun.”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it involve ingesting more sports equipment?”

“Do you want it to?”

“Just tell me the deal, boy.”

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

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

“On which part?”

“All of them. Everything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me guess. Not for you.”

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

“To dinner or to practice?”

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

He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.

“—you should manage our team.”

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

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

“Yeah? Who was your last manager?”

“Me!”

Oh, right. “But you hated it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is this, mock trial?”

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

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

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

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

“I would never.”

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

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

You stiffen. “I haven’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do kick him under the table, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Studied?” He repeats. “For this?”

“I’m pretty sure Quizlets were made.”

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

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

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

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

“Go easy on me, yeah?”

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

“I can’t promise anything.”

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

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

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

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

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

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

“Caring about me.”

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

“Now stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, you have to show me. Please.”

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

“Motherfucker!”

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

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

“You’ll be punished, Hwang.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

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

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

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

“You should’ve opened with that.”

“I tried, hello? Someone distracted me!”

“Read. It. Before I change my mind.”

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

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

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

With that, his attention span has run its course.

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

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

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

“I think so. I hit my stride.”

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

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

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

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

“Why is that?”

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

“It really is.”

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

“I really would.”

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

“Didn’t you come up with that?”

“No, hello? I live in that village.”

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

“Fuck you.”

“Ah, don’t threaten me with a good—”

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

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

“Really?”

“No.”

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

“But I do give a fuck about you.”

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

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

Then he opens his texts.

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

He picks you up at 7:53.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, well, you’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me, Minho.”

“I can too. Tell ‘em, Hwang.”

“I want nothing to do with this.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m okay, I think.”

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

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

“There’s Tetris,” Hyunjin cuts in.

You purchase an hour.

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

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

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

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

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

“I already did,” you finally answer.

“Sorry, what? You played professional Tetris?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then you’re smarter than you look.”

“Well, you look—”

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

“What was that?”

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

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

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

Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to be alone?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the arcade.

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

In person, that is.

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

Then you listen to it again.

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

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

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

“It’s been a while,” he greets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this enough space?”

More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you see under these things?”

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

“And?”

“He made them brighter.” Sounds about right.

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

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

This cannot be his burden alone.

You inhale. “What’s on your mind?”

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

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

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

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

“Do you remember Ishikawa Yuki?”

His role model.

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

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

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

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

You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.

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

You stop thinking after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Traitor.”

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

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

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

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

He stops speaking.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Wait—and apple juice.”

“You are about to be a professional athlete.”

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

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

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

“Let’s get this over with.”

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin is already out the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She really is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeonwoo, right?”

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

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

“Also a singer?”

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

“Wow, that’s—hi, old man. You done?”

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

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

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

“Thanks. It’s weird. I’m happy.”

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

“The arcade wasn’t enough?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Whenever you want, then.”

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

“Bet.”

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek. 

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin doesn’t know what to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It has always been him.

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

It’s not awkward this time.

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

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

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

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

He balls his fingers into fists.

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

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

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

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

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

“—YOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!”

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

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

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

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

“Love you,” he yells before hurrying off. 

“Love you too, Bin.”

Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.

“The short answer,” she deadpans.

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

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

Hyunjin thanks you.

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

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

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

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.

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

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

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

He calls out to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

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

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

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

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

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

From: Nicola Daldello «ndaldello@pvm.com» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «cb97@snu.edu» Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game Christopher, Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza. It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki. Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwang’s travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club. I’m looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all. Yours, Nicola Daldello Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll be here in eight minutes.

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

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

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

He finds you a sobbing mess.

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

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

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

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

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because you’re irresistably drawn to me?”

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

You shove him away. “You are grotesque.”

He returns in a flash. “You love me.”

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

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

“No, no. The opposite, actually.”

Your brow furrows. “The opposite? What—”

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

“Duty calls, my love.”

“Tell me your thing later too?”

“Of course.”

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

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

“Hypocrite.”

Hyunjin: [1 Audio Message]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[snowballseal]

Nightmares and Memories

Sylus X Reader

Summary: Based on some theories I've seen on the Sylus flashbacks - After remembering what happened in the past with Sylus, you end up having a nightmare about the events of that night. You wake up calling his name, and he helps bring you back from the edge. Angst with a fluff ending.

Word Count: 1670

Warning: repeated mention of blood - it's Sylus lore y'all, soooo yah, prepare accordingly. It's purposefully pretty vague in terms of lore cause obviously we don't know what happened, but the ANGST!!!

---

There’s…so much blood….

It seems to come from nowhere, seeping between your fingers endlessly, dripping down your arms to pool on the ground around your knees. It’s sticky and warm, like thick mud, clinging to your skin, staining your palms. The smell of iron and smoke fills your nose, coats your tongue, so heavy you choke on it.

You want to scream. You need to scream. But your voice is locked in your chest. You can’t breathe. Cinders dance around you, like little fireflies, only to sizzle out as they hit the blood. Even when you look around, the smoke is so thick, all you can see are piles of rubble, not even the sky.

Where are you? Where is-

The world spins. You feel yourself tilting, your stomach lurching up to your throat. When you reach out, desperate to steady yourself, to stop the spinning, to stop all of this, your hand wraps around something hot to the touch, metal. Encrusted jewels dig into the skin of your palm.

The hilt of a sword.

You choke out a sob, blurry eyes flashing up to the figure lying in front of you. His chest heaves, dark tendrils spreading across his skin from where the sword pierces his flesh.

Blood. So much blood. You have to stop the bleeding. You can’t be the cause-

“You must press on.”

No no no

You try to let go of the sword, desperate to do something, anything. But a large, clawed hand wraps around yours, keeping you locked there. Locked to this fate. This fate you don’t want. Another choked sob escapes you as you fight to free yourself, to help him, but he holds you steady. Always so steady, even after you-

“If you don’t…there’s no going back.”

You want to scream. You want to beg him not to make you go. Not to make you leave him, not like this. You don’t want to, you can’t. Not him. Not-

“Sylus!”

You lurch up in bed.

Panic chokes you. It numbs your mind, clings to you as a fine layer of sweat on your skin, just like the blood in your dream. You scrub at your face, desperate to get rid of the feeling. Get rid of the red still creeping at the edges of your vision. It’s all you can think about.

You don’t feel the cool, silk sheets pooling around your waist. You don’t notice the crow peering at you worriedly from the corner. You don’t even hear the sound of your broken sobs, body shaking with the impossible burden of getting air to your lungs.

All you can hear is the voice ringing in your head.

You left him. You left him. You killed him.

No, that wasn’t-

You forgot.

You didn’t mean to!

Your fingers dig into the meat of your arms, nails pressing deep into your skin. Everything blurs out of focus, your head spinning too much. You need something to hold on to, but you can’t bring yourself to reach out. As if doing so will put you right back there. There in the smoke, the blood, with that cursed blade in your hands. You can’t. You just-

“-ten? (Y/n)!”

A hand clasps your shoulder, gentle but firm.

You gasp and rip yourself away, eyes darting up to meet a pair of red eyes. The ones you had just been so desperately staring into. It takes a while for your mind to even process that this is real.

“Sylus?”

Sylus leans back slowly, hands held up in a placating gesture. As if you’re a frightened, little doe. Which you more than resemble to him right now. Eyes wide and glassy. Your entire body shaking like a leaf. Brow furrowing, concern flickers deep in his chest.

Finding you in such a state has him feeling…off-kilter. And the way you recoiled, as if his touch had burned you, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He feels useless in the face of your pain and confusion, and there’s nothing Sylus hates more than being complacent, especially with you.

“You had a nightmare,” Sylus explains, keeping his voice low and calm, like soft thunder in the distance. Anything to not scare you further. “Do you remember where you are?”

You take a deep, trembling breath, nodding, “Yah, yah, um, this is- we’re home.”

“That’s right. We’re home.” Carefully, Sylus lowers himself onto the bed. He tries to ignore the way you shuffle back, his fingers curling into fists on top of his knees.

You don’t miss the flicker of pain in his eyes. Guilt stabs at your chest, but you can’t bring yourself to reach out and comfort him. Not when you can still feel the phantom blood covering your fingers. His blood. It was your fault. All your fault. You were the one who put that sword in his chest.

“Hey, eyes on me, kitten. I don’t want to see you wandering off right now.” The deep timber of Sylus’ voice draws you back. You take another deep breath, not realizing that you had started to hyperventilate again. Sylus hums approvingly,  “That’s my girl. Now, why don’t you tell me what happened, hm?”

Your eyes fixate on one of the buttons of his shirt. Second from the top. It helps, if only a little, so that when you answer, voice strained from how raw your throat is, you don’t get swept away again, “It was- It was that night all over again.”

That’s all it takes for Sylus to understand. 

Breathing out a low sigh, an unspeakable sadness softens Sylus’ features. Of course that’s what would bring you to this. The distance you give him makes sense now, as does the doubt burning behind your gaze. And why your eyes have barely left his chest since you realized it was him.

Like you’re scared of what you’ll see there.

“...Do you need to see with your own eyes that it was just a dream?”

You force your gaze up to his, hesitating. But Sylus is already stripping off his shirt, movements calculated and slow. He tosses the fabric somewhere across the room. You freeze, eyes staying locked with his. Too scared to look down. Too scared to see what your panic soaked mind still expects.

“Look.”

Unbidden, your eyes trace back down, over his jaw, along his neck, all the way past his collarbone to the smooth expanse of his chest. No dark veins. No blood. Just a shallow divot over his heart, a shadow. You watch the way his chest rises and falls, noticing each time his breath wavers, your own heart jumping each time, as if he’ll suddenly stop breathing. But he doesn’t.

Still, the anxiety plagues you. Your fingers twitch against your arms, desperate to feel him, to find his heartbeat and burn it into your memory in place of this horrid dream.

You look back up at him, the question written on your face. Sylus bites back a smile, giving you a nod instead.

He doesn’t reach out just yet as you shuffle out from under the sheets, crawling across the bed to perch next to him. Though it takes everything in him to stay still as your fingers hover over his chest. You can’t help but hesitate, looking up again.

“Go ahead,” he hums, “Feel for yourself.”

His skin is warm. So warm. You let out a trembling sigh, palm pressing flat against his chest. Seeing it was one thing, but feeling it - the steady rise of his breathing, the rhythmic beat of his heart under your fingertips, the proof that he’s alive and safe - is enough to bring the tears flooding back. 

He’s okay.

All the tension, all your strength, leaves you in a small, broken sound. You crumble into Sylus’ arms. He catches you with ease, finally drawing you into his lap, where he had wanted to hold you from the beginning. 

You clutch onto him, unable to stop the flow of apologies that spring to your lips, “I’m sorry- I’m so sorry, Sylus. I didn’t- I didn’t-!”

“I know,” he hums, hand rubbing soothing circles into your back. “What’s done is done, there’s no need to hold on to it. All that matters is that you’re here now.”

“But I-”

“You have my forgiveness. So just…” His pulse stutters under your fingers. “-keep coming back from now on. No matter what.”

His words are the weakness of your heart. You hold onto Sylus tighter, feeling his grip tighten just as desperately around you. Time passes like that for what feels like hours, until you’ve cried all your tears, and exhaustion weighs down your eyelids. He notices, a relieved smile curling his lips.

“Come, let’s get you back to bed,” he murmurs, “you need a few more hours of sleep if you want to fight Wanderers in the morning.”

You jolt a little at the thought of going back to sleep, eyes flickering open again, but Sylus calms you with a soft hum and a kiss pressed to your forehead. 

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, lips brushing your skin, “I’ll stay and scare away any nightmares that come. You’ll never have to go through that again.”

His words carry a double meaning. An unbearable fondness washes over you as you look into those ruby eyes, gleaming with a hard determination that is so completely Sylus. Your Sylus. Of course he’ll always protect you. And you’ll protect him from now on.

The two of you settle back into the comfort of the bed. Sylus never lets you go, making sure you’re curled against him, ear pressed to his chest so that you can listen to his steady heartbeat as you drift off.

As you do, you whisper one last thing, wishing you could imprint your words into his heart, “I’ll always come back to you, Sylus. Promise.”

He lets out a soft rumble into your hair, watching as your eyes flutter shut, “And I’ll always be here waiting for you.”

In every life.

---

Sorry not sorry. I'm obsessed with what we've seen of this man's lore and I just know its going to hurt SO much.

[radiance1]

Over the course of a month, Bruce Wayne has been followed by these little green creatures relentlessly.

The man himself didn't even know why these little... blobs, started following him, according to him, one just showed up one day, left a few days later, and came back with more.

The batkids have obviously made multiple jokes about how his adoption powers extend to even non-human entities.

(Jarro the Starro is a hard example.

Unluckily for Bruce , they seem to follow him while he's out on the prowl as Batman, luckily for Bruce however, no one seems to figure connect the dots of Bruce Wayne and Batman being the same person.

(Unknownst to him, the batkids edited the theory of Batman being Bruce's sugar baby to include the Blobs and calling them their unadopted kids and calling Batman the mother)

More and more just seem to... pop up, really. It wasn't a problem, the manor had more than enough space for them, and they were completely and utterly harmless really.

It wasn't a problem.

Until, at the end of the month, with the entire Wayne family in attendance at a gala plus their new unofficial yet official siblings.

Something happened.

A bunch of blob ghosts popped up through the room's floor, and that wouldn't be a problem.

If it weren't for a voice following after.

"Yes, yes. I'm still following, don't worry."

Which was immediately followed by a large, and they mean large, tendrils of green goo (that looks similar to the Blobs) raising from the floor.

The entire Batfam was instantly on alert. The rest of the Gala attendees watching on in both curiosity and some fear.

It kept raising, and raising, and raising. Until the tendrils fused into a mass of goo that morphed into a god damn dragon.

A dragon who was holding its face on top of its claw, while Bruce Wayne was pushed forwards by the multitude of Blob towards it.

It looked down at him, seemingly bemused and eyes holding a hint of recognition, as if he was vaguely familiar.

"So, you are the one so favored by my subjects, it seems?" The dragon leaned down, still staring down at Bruce. "Well, you do seem to hold some features of my own father, so I suppose they could be a reason why."

The dragon sniffed, before blinking in reply.

"Oh, you stink of death."

[lady-of-tearshed]

Lost in translation

Cassian x Reader

Cassian Week 2024

Day 4: Lover

@cassianappreciationweek

A/N: Honestly, I think that Cassian, as a lover, is a big fan of physical touch. Massages, hugs, holding hands, cuddling, having sex… That’s exactly how I imagine this male’s love language. So I thought: What would happen if our Lord of Bloodshed's mate had a completely different love language? And here's how this little fic got written. Enjoy! 💕

Summary: Cassian is worried he's being too clingy since you don't seem to show him your love with physical touches... But maybe the two of you just got lost in translation.

Warnings: Mention of nudity, but nothing explicit. Miscommunication angst. Happy ending.

Word count: 1,236k words

Dividers by @tsunami-of-tears

And they lived happily ever after… The end.

You snap the book close in your hands and groan. You slide the back of the book onto the nightstand, right beside your empty mug of tea, and stretch your arms above your head. You sigh at the feeling of your numb muscles stretching out after a long time stuck in the same position. You look up at the clock to check how long exactly you’ve been reading, and the realization hits you full force.

Seven whole hours. Mother above… More like “Mother’s tits”, as your mate would so graciously say.

Speaking of him, you haven’t heard much of him in a while, which was weird, since he would always be tucked at your side at any given time of the day. He would usually burrow his face in the middle of your breasts, and start kissing them sneakily once he has enough of waiting for you to finish reading. He would become insufferable if you have the misfortune to read a relatively steamy part of your book and become all hot and bothered. Cassian would always manage to make you even more flustered or aroused when this happens. 

But the General hasn't shown up for seven whole hours. Tendrils of guilt swirls around your stomach, squeezing it uncomfortably as you come to the realization that you have failed to notice Cassian’s absence until just now. You softly tug on the golden bond that shone permanently in your chest, connecting your soul with the male of your every desire, but you receive no response, as if he had blocked you out. 

You slide your cold feets into your slippers, and pick up the mug on the nightstand, bringing it with you on your quest to find the General. The house of the wind is silent, save from the fire soothingly dancing in the hearth. Your eyes scan the living room, then the kitchen… No sign of Cassian. You walk toward the sink, washing your mug and placing it down into the drying rack, all while thinking where your mate can possibly be at this time of the night. 

Your eyes move to the front door, and you notice that there still was a thin layer of snow melting under the sole of his boots. He must’ve been training until late, which means…

Just as you start to make a connection of where your mate is most likely to be, the sound of water running from the bathroom confirms your theory. You tiptoe to the bathroom, trying to be sneaky, but Cassian’s gaze is already set on you when you walk in the bathroom. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” He says, turning his back to you.

The water is pouring down on him, soaking his hair, droplets of water sliding down the waves of his hair, following the uneven black lines tattooed on his shoulders, sliding all the way down his back, finishing their course by caressing his muscled ass… “I wasn’t sleeping.” You admit, starting to undress, not minding at all that your mate can smell the shift in your scent. 

Cassian shoulder’s tense slightly as you walk closer to the foggy glass door, naked. You raise a brow, halting your hand on the doorknob of the shower, about to question him but he’s quicker to speak. “Y/N, don’t come in here just because you pity me.” All hints of arousal leave your body at his words, your brain blurry from trying to understand where Cassian's insecurity comes from.  

“Alright, then,” You say, stepping inside the shower, standing right behind the General's massive shoulders, hands on your hips. “Mind telling me where such thoughts come from?” Your finger taps on the back of his head slightly, insisting that he turns around to face you, to face what’s on his mind and open up to you. 

Cassian’s shoulders drop, his wings so low that they brush the shower tiles on the floor. “Cassie… My love…” You stroke the spot in between his wings in a comforting manner, and you feel his wards crumble, his emotions pouring through the bond. 

Self-loathing, pain, loneliness… 

His feelings make your own heart sting, and your face crumbles at how much pain your mate seems to suffer from. You lift his wing, and carefully slip underneath it to sneak between the wall and his face. He turns his face away from you, facing the wall. You can’t tell if it’s tears, or water that’s rolling down his cheeks. “I need you to be honest with me,” He sighs, as if trying to gather the strength to speak his next words. “Do you…” His eyebrows knit, and your eyes glance to his fists, clenching, unclenching. He was nervous. “Do you find me annoying?”

“No, Cass-”

“Too clingy maybe?”

You frown, and wrap your fingers around his wrist. “No… My love-”

“Then why is it everytime I touch you, you…” His eyes snap to yours, and you hold your breath at how bloodshot they look. From crying. “You…” His voice softens, and he has to bite his lip to keep it from trembling. “Do you like it when I touch you?” He asks in a whisper, his head tilting to the side. Pain was written all over his face.

“Oh, Cassian…” You smile sadly, opening your arms to offer him a hug. He swings you into his arms, both of you now standing under the warm water. He buries his face in the crook of your neck. “I love it when you touch me. What made you think otherwise?” You comfort him, kissing the side of his head lovingly. 

“It almost looks like you avoid touching me. I just… I don't know. It made me wonder if perhaps I was the one being too touchy.” He confesses, still hiding his face in the safety of your neck. 

“Hey… look at me.” You move back to cup his cheek, forcing his eyes to meet yours. “If I didn't like you touching me, I would've told you so. I promise,” You kiss the tip of his nose. “Now, if I made you feel like I was avoiding touching you, I'm sorry. It's just…” You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “I'm just… I just like to express my love differently, I guess. Like, I usually express my love with little acts of services, or words of affirmation…” 

Cassian nods slowly, and scratches the back of his head, chuckling too. “Oh…” 

There's a moment of silence where the both of you just stand naked in the shower, your hands caressing Cassian’s cheeks, the stubbles scratching your digits softly. 

Cassian’s hands wrap delicately around your wrists, and he brings one of them to his lips, pampering the soft skin of it with kisses. “I'm so sorry I didn't notice all of this… I was too focused on my own love language. And since you weren't so… Gods, I'm such an idiot…”

“You're not an idiot,” You reassure him. “You're allowed to be worried about things, Cass. I'm happy we talked about it.” 

His lips leave your wrist, and hover over your mouth, softly brushing against yours. He tucks a strand of wet hair behind your ear, and whispers against your lips. “Yeah… I'm glad we talked about it too…” Then he kisses you, his lips feeling so light against yours. So was his heart, now that you've communicated.

Acotar Taglist: @lilah-asteria @mybestfriendmademe

Cassian Taglist: @ladybookstan @acotar-lover

[grunckle]

Watcher lore already

“A lonely, lost slugcat scrambles through the ravages of a warped world.

When the dirt beneath your feet cracks and crumbles, will you hold on to all you once knew...or dive into the unknown?”

I was conflicted when I first saw the modded content, particularly for the lore aspect. But it’s been confirmed not only James is helping with all the lore, (which apparently is taking on the more esoteric sides of Rain World) but the whole Videocult team is getting together!

Heres Cappin, one of the downpour devs, talking about writing the lore for The Watcher.

And Andrew talking about Videocult’s involvement.

But anyway I’ll talk about some things I noticed.

This area looks like some sort of Memory Crypt. You have the large ornate boxes that heavily resemble cabinet beasts.

And, in the sky you can see an Underhang-like structure.

Now as for the ripple effect around The Watcher, I have a few theories. There’s certainly echo-relation, (the golden flakes around them basically confirms that) but I don’t think The Watcher is an echo in a typical sense. Instead they peer into a higher reality, maybe the one echos reside in.

Inside the ripples are gold tendrils, or strings, heavily implying the void relation. Though I’m not sure what they are exactly.

But I think Watcher will experience a, “pulling back of the curtain” in some way. In the warped world, we see glimpses of the true nature of reality. Maybe it’s all just a fleeting ripple across the Void, some big revelation like that.

As for why it’s in a Memory Crypt, I already wrote an extensive post on the importance of memory, more specifically qualia, in Rain World so if you want to check that out here’s the link.

As a side note, if this is the underside of an Iterator, I doubt they’re still alive. We see no other iterators still standing above the clouds in a Steam page screenshot.

Anyway this is really exciting! One of the more disappointing aspects of Downpour for me was that they mostly retread on the same story events and themes without adding too much. So it’s a breath of fresh air to explore different, more esoteric aspects of Rain World lore. And having the whole Videocult team return to Rain World is incredibly exciting. I’ll be tentatively awaiting more news.

[the-punforgiven]

Note that the ones you don't choose will not attack you all at once, they'll attack you randomly within the span of a couple months. The unchosen ones are free to form alliances with each other as they see fit, but are not guaranteed to do so.

Additional (optional) details below the cut

- The mercenary and the bounty hunter can be paid off, but only if you choose a protector with the money to do so

- The young wizard's grandfather was much more powerful than the old wizard is

- The magic sword the inexperienced knight wields has a moral compass of its own and HATES the overlord specifically, and she will not ally with the young knight because of it

- The aged wizard does have a spellbook of his own and is experienced enough to teach you, so you could in theory learn some of the spells from it for yourself but it would be very difficult

- The Overlord does have an army of evil minions at her disposal, but has chosen not to use them because she's so confident in her supernatural strength and evil magic. She might stoop to summoning a few of them if the situation gets REALLY dire, though

- The mercenary is VERY well trained with his greatsword, and bodyguarding is his specialty

- The woman in the coat and hat always seems to have wispy shadowy tendrils coming off of her, and you've never seen more than the lower half of her face. She's tall and mysterious but you don't actually know what she's capable of tbh

- The pirate like just finished a fairly lengthy voyage and does not have enough supplies on his ship to stay at sea for the whole month. He will have to make port at least once to resupply

- The dragon knight is the tallest of the bunch, narrowly beating out the Overlord. He can also breathe fire, though it hurts him greatly to do so

- The bounty hunter has an extensive set of plans specifically tailored to kill everyone else on this list individually. However, those plans are somewhat situational and the others regard him with suspicion enough to plan around his planning, which he in turn plans to plan around as well

- The wailing spirit has some beef with the pirate. She terrifies him specifically

- The vampire can create thralls to assist you, but does not have any at the start

- The vampire and the overlord do both have castles you could hang out in, but the vampire's is not well guarded and the Overlord as mentioned previously has given her minions the month off

- The goblins have a small camp of tents in the middle of the forest, with a 5-foot high defense wall made of sharpened sticks. They are armored in scraps and have really shitty weapons but they're a scrappy bunch who'll consider you one of their own, and are very experienced in ambushes and hiding

- The Overlord regards the goblins with a sense of fond nostalgia, recalling her command of them in her younger years

[stimpunks]

Tendrils and Stacks: Assisting Flow States with a Clipboard Manager

In our highly monotropic family, we humorously but also seriously say, “Stop yanking my tendrils!” when someone crashes our stack during high memory state zone work. Interruptions are very dysregulating when they pull us out of an attention tunnel. “Tendrils” comes from “Tendril Theory”. Image credit: Tendril Theory – eisforerin When I’m focused on somethingMy mind sends out a million tendrils…

[rs-hawk]

Creeptober: Day One

Slenderman’s Forest

Slenderman x AFAB Reader (no gender specified)

CW: slight horror themes, stalking, dubcon/noncon, pain, manipulation, public, etc

You grew up on Creepypastas and horror chainmail texts. As a kid, you would find and devour all the CreepyPastas and scary stories you could before shakily watching cartoon theories on YouTube or getting on iFunny. As you got older, that evolved into an obsession with horror movies and stories.

That’s why you’re so mad at yourself when you play straight into a horror movie stereotype.

You decide to go for a walk in a nearby walk around dusk with your dog. You’ve been working so much lately that you feel like you haven’t been paying as much attention to him, which makes you feel terrible. So, you lace up your sneakers and get your dog’s leash.

The park near your house has a small patch of woods separating the playgrounds from the basketball courts, but you’ve never thought too much about it. There’s a well lit path, and even at night, there’s usually a few people wandering around the place. Why would you worry in a situation like that?

To your surprise, there seems to be no one there when you get there. You don’t know if you’ve ever seen that happen. Still though, the lights are on, and your dog is excited. Nothing is setting off alarm bells.

As you walk, your dog starts pulling and whining. You roll your eyes, thinking he just wants to run, so you indulge him. You pick up your speed, walking a bit faster than normally you would want to, then breaking out into a jog. Your dog can sense the strange presence now following you, but you brush off the goosebumps springing up along your spine. The hairs raising on the back of your neck.

The more steps you take, the more interested the creature lurking in the woods becomes. Eventually your dog yanks so hard on the leash that it rips out of your hand. Stumbling to a stop, you blink rapidly, surprised at the sudden outburst of your companion. However, it only takes a moment for you to recover, shouting his name and rushing after him.

When you break through the tree line, you realize you’re at the playground. Looking around, you start calling out your dog’s name again. Every time you shout his, you hear someone… whispering. It makes you pause. You shout his name. Someone whispers in your ear. It’s like the wind has gained its own voice.

A shiver creeps down your spine, dragging those goosebumps back up. There seems to be a chill in the air. Fumbling for your phone, you struggle to unlock it, your hands shaking so hard that it’s hard to type in your password.

Before you can still your fingers enough to type, a long black tendril snakes along the ground, curling around your ankle. Panic sets in. Your heart starts racing. Your stomach drops. Your chest tightens. Your lungs feel like they’re giving out. You can’t even part your lips to scream or cry.

Out of the darkness, a towering figure emerges. Your mouth goes dry at the sight. It’s like all feeling has left your limbs. The tendril trails up your leg, curling around your waist. As the figure approaches, flashes of nightmares you’ve had flicker through your mind. It makes it difficult for you to focus on whatever is in front of you.

It takes several moments through the haze of fear to see, but you realize what it is. Slenderman. A laugh almost escapes your dry mouth. You’ve seen the pictures. Read the stories. He’s just a creature created by some random dude in a photo contest. You were already double digits when this thing started making its way around online. You remember your friends, in hushed whispers, talking about how to summon him and how to protect yourselves if you had to be in the woods alone, even during the day.

Yet, over a decade later, here you are. Standing in front of him. As if he’s always been real. Is this what a tulpa is? Through the haze, you try to remember everything you can about tulpas. They’re like imaginary friends brought to life in Buddhism, right? You can’t remember. Pop culture references flooding your mind and fear clouding it makes proper thought difficult.

As you struggle to think, another tendril darts out, curling around your other leg. Then your arm, then your throat. That snaps you back to attention. Staring at the thing in front of you. He is featureless, as long renditions say. You wonder if hidden behind that is a large mouth full of teeth, ready to snap you in half. What was that from? A video game? Again, you can’t remember.

Eventually the thing has you so wrapped up in his long tendrils that you’re little more than a head sticking out of a mass of them. They feel strange. Almost like cold air being blown all over your body from a hair dryer. The creature is nearly face to face with you now. He reaches out, curling his fingers over the tendril that is wrapped around your neck.

It feels like your heart is skipping beats. Your blood is pounding in your ears. Your fingertips feel numb. Your lips are cold. You can hardly breathe.

He strokes your cheek, sending another onslaught of shivers down your spine. That voice like air is whispering your name again in your ears. That’s when, through the flashes of nightmares, you realize that he is what had been calling to you. How long has he been following you?

Despite your best efforts, you can’t speak a word. He seems to be regarding you struggling, but takes no mercy. Withdrawing his tendrils so he can seemingly gaze down at your clothed body, you feel a rush of heat to your face. His large hand cups one of your breast. You start struggling again, but it’s no use. He has your arms pinned behind your back, and in seconds, he has you on your knees.

When he starts shoving his fingers in your mouth, you bite down on them, expecting to taste blood. All you taste is… chlorophyl? It gives you pause, your jaw going slack. It tastes like grass and leaves. Sure, you know you’ve bitten him enough to break his skin, but not only does he seem not to care, it doesn’t even seem like he has blood. That thought only scares you more.

When you’re forced to swallow the chlorophyll like blood as he continues to pump his long fingers in and out of your mouth, the nightmares stop. You can even move your fingers, not that given the way he’s holding you it does you much good.

After what feels like hours but is likely only a few minutes, he draws back his fingers, a string of spit and green blood-like substance connects your lips and his fingers. You cringe at the sight of your teeth marks in his pearly white skin. Bringing his fingers up to his face, he seems to be looking at them. Looking at what you did.

You squeeze your eyes shut, expecting the worse. However, his tendrils throw you back on your back, adjusting and swarming around you until your arms are stretched high over your head, and your legs are spread apart. Struggling still does you no good. He’s still standing over you. Towering over you. All you can do is gulp, fear making your blood turn to ice.

He finally bends down, using one tendril to yank off your pants and underwear. A scream finally rips through your throat, but it’s silenced as he forces his fingers back into your mouth. Now you’re laid out on the ground, cunt exposed, with his fingers pumping in and out of your mouth in a public park. You know that there was no one here when you came, but someone could come at any minute. Someone could see this.

Slenderman, or whatever this thing really is, doesn’t seem to care about the possibility. With his free hand, he undoes his slacks, a huge cock springing from them. You try to scream again. Try to kick. Try to fight back from the thing you don’t want to be pushed inside of you, but it’s no use.

The whispering voice is trying to soothe you, but the cloud of fear is still smothering you. As you struggle, you feel the thick length being pushed into your cunt. Your eyes roll back in your head as you’re stretched almost impossibly wide on the staff of the creature. The whispers turn to airy grunts and moans, even though less than half the length is being pumped in and out of you.

The fingers in your mouth have stilled, just being shoved deep enough that you can’t scream. Despite the circumstances, your juices are leaking onto the large cock, slickening him. Letting him more easily push in and out of you. Letting him slide deeper into you.

The airy grunts quicken until you can feel a cool liquid being dumped inside of you. Slowly, he withdraws his cock, the cool liquid dripping down your cunt until you’re laying in a puddle of it.

And just like that, everything else is gone. The tendrils holding you down. The faceless monster with his fingers down your throat. All that’s left is the cum still dripping out of your cunt. Stumbling to your feet, you make your way back through the forest to your car. Your dog is asleep beside it, to your annoyance and appreciation. Unlocking the door, you get your gym bag out so you can put shorts on and wet wipes to clean up somewhat.

You wonder if he’s still watching you. An airy chuckle makes you think that he is.

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[bluemoonscape]

Hear me out: Sua and Luka parallels.

In Ruler of My Heart, they're most directly compared and contrasted in this frame including both the real world and Mizi's perception. Here, they both look angelic, something other than human, greater than human due to their purity. They're framed by the moon, something only to be seen when shined on by another.

Both are treated in a manner that strikes the viewer as distinctly different from the other kids. They're all treated as less than human in different ways, but Sua and Luka are the ones specifically treated as dolls. Dolls to be played with, dolls to be moved limb by limb and joint by joint as its superior wishes. They're made to look perfect. They're made to look clean, so clean they look inhuman.

They're perfect narrative foils. Nigeh owns several pet humans who all have the same black hair, white bonnets and fluffy shirts. All girls, all a carbon copy of one another. Perhaps they're sisters, even? And if they're all sisters, there's no possible way they could have been born naturally.

This connects to the widely accepted theory of Luka being made in a lab, artificially rather than organically. They were quite possibly both born unnaturally and were raised to be just as unnatural. Both of them seem rather blank in Anakt Garden. Luka is very solemn and unanimated; the most alive he ever looks in Anakt Garden is at the scene of Hyunwoo's death after Luka presumably killed him. He may exist, but he is not alive. In a metaphorical sense, Luka's life is taken from him every day. His heart is literally under Heperu's constant control, to be stopped and started at will. He is a blank slate for Heperu to use for his own glory. The main change we see in him from his years in Anakt Garden to his time in Alien Stage is how he presents himself. In Anakt Garden, he's fairly meek and stoic. In Alien Stage, he's projecting the idol image the world wants to see from him, the one Heperu has conditioned him to display with nothing short of perfection. He is no more alive in Alien Stage than Anakt Garden simply because he's putting on an act. If anything, this lack of authenticity further deadens him.

Sua, though? Despite Sua's upbringing, she is alive when she and Mizi My Clematis together. She's quite possibly more alive than she's ever been. Just like Luka, she's been dressed in white, made to look like a doll, a blank slate, and yet she is anything but, and she proves it by quietly sacrificing herself for Mizi and (as another post put it) an insurance on Mizi's love. Sua could've ended up exactly like Luka. She could have been made to be the villain, the face of Alien Stage, the lifeless marionette. She could have been Luka, but she isn't. Why?

This scene. This scene is why.

I always took the pink tendrils reaching through the glass between them as a metaphor for Mizi's life and love pouring into Sua, putting life into her. Mizi is so vibrant, so alive, and she loves Sua, of all people. Lifeless, blank Sua, or so she thought. But Mizi saw the life in her. She saw her and she saw someone worth loving. Worth worshiping.

Sua was made alive the moment she saw Mizi. This is the moment her life began.

But then, why couldn't Hyuna's effect on Luka breathe life into him, too? Why couldn't Luka's arc diverge due to this love like Sua?

The thing is, Hyuna did make him feel alive. Just like Mizi, she was so full of life that it was impossible for him not to feel even a hint of something in her presence. Maybe she made him feel real, just for once in his life. Just for once.

But he warped Hyuna's love into something it wasn't.

He warped her love into something Hyuna had no intention of giving to anyone: Her life. Just once had to last, so he tried his hardest to hold onto her with a tight fist. When Hyunwoo threatened to come between Hyuna and Luka and take her life away from Luka, Luka, in some way, shape, or form, dealt with the threat. As I said, the most alive he ever looked in Anakt Garden was in the aftermath of Hyunwoo's death, and I believe this is because he thought he'd secured Hyuna's life for himself. Now my life is yours, and your life is mine.

It could've happened to Sua too, under different circumstances. Mizisua could've been just as twisted and toxic as Hyuluka. She could've fallen into the same mindset as Luka: Your life is mine.

She didn't. Instead, she had the awareness that Mizi wanted to give Sua her life, and she said no. With her death, she put Mizi's life back in her hands where it belonged and made her, as much as Mizi fought against it, live for herself. The difference in the way Sua sings Ruler of My Heart in her cover really highlights this. Opposite to Luka's cool, condescending control over the lyrics and the subject of the song, every word Sua sings is from her heart. Mizi is the ruler of her heart, and she does want to give everything to her out of pure, unconditional love.

Sua's love saved her. It elevated her not to something inhuman and unnatural (untouched by feeling) but to humanity.

Luka's love took whatever humanity he had left of him.

Sua is the moon under the sun's glow, and Luka is left in the dark.

[rapturously]

Idk exactly what to ask for, but I have an ✨idea✨

Dwayne who seemingly has a penchant for choking his SO. He just loves the little whimpers and moans they make, and the way they squirm.

Really basic, ik 💀. You can take this and run, or simply enjoy this thought with me, but I wanted to share 🥰

moving in stereo.

( dwayne x fem!reader. )

➾ pairing ; dwayne x fem!reader.

format: one-shot — requested.

word count: 5.9K.

warnings: SMUT (mdni), making out, dirty talk, cunnilingus, oral sex (f!receiving), bloodplay (he’s a vampire), breast-play, biting, hair-pulling, scratching, breeding kink, scent kink, p in v sex, missionary position, rough sex, begging, unprotected sex, mating press (a little bit), choking, bruising/marking, dwayne is hot

author’s note: i am so obsessed with him, it’s not even funny ngl :’) also, I have a couple of other fics/drabbles that I’ll probably post tonight too, I’m definitely feeling very inspired! If you haven’t voted on my poll, please do so! thank you guys sm for your continued love & support !! ❤️

Beads of blood filled your mouth as you absentmindedly chewed at the skin of your cheek, flesh taut between your back molars — you hadn’t intended to bite down as hard as you did. A singular glance at Dwayne’s hands had contorted into shameless ogling, smitten hues discreetly flickering over the veins and smudges of grayish grease coating his fingers.

He had a way with machinery that transcended you — he often claimed that it was simply natural instinct, but your running theory was something buried in his past life. Dwayne was known for his stoicism and quiet demeanor, neglecting to educate you on his background.

It must’ve been a life of hard work — otherwise, his hands wouldn’t have appeared so rough and calloused. They weren’t smooth and spindly like Marko’s, or pretty like Paul’s. They were taut and thick, dexterous and built for destruction, if he let it.

Hands that had held you many times before, touched you in ways that you longed to feel again. A shudder rolled down your spine as you daydreamed, mind floating into a fantastical haze of lascivious thoughts. If it weren’t for the presence of the other boys, a tendril of drool might’ve leaked from the corner of your mouth.

“It’s fucked, isn’t it?”

Paul’s agitated groan reverberated throughout the cavern as he crouched beside his boombox, slapping a palm against the top of the speaker, as if that would cure all ailments. His brows furrowed together, lip curled in annoyance as he knocked his hand against the machine a second time — for good measure.

“You’ll ruin it if you keep it up.” Dwayne’s monotonous remark echoed from the opposite side of the lobby. He was entrenched in repairing his motorcycle after it had gotten vandalized by a Surf-Nazi who didn’t live to tell the tale. Paul’s beloved stereo was the least of his concerns.

“How are we gonna listen to Alice?” A begrudging sigh escaped Paul, whose theatrics weren’t out of the ordinary. He huffed, falling in a dramatic heap along the edge of the dilapidated fountain. “Can’t you fix it, Dwayne?” He asked, peering toward his brother, who seemed entirely uninterested.

Silence filled the chasm between them, prompting you to stifle a smile. Dwayne didn’t enjoy being bothered whenever he was working on a project — he was always one to see it through until the very end.

David and Marko emerged from their abysmal resting place. Once the sun disappeared behind the ocean and dusk consumed dawn, the boys became wildly active. “Paul,” David’s voice carried, always domineering without even trying. “Let’s go.”

Disappointed in the lack of closure for his treasured boombox, Paul relented, rolling off of the stone bannister with an exaggerated sigh. He ruffled your hair in passing, and smacked Dwayne on the way out, who didn’t flinch or move a muscle. He simply exhaled — you could sense the twinge of irritation in his sigh alone.

Paul snickered, hopping up the ledge alongside David and Marko. “See you later, bud.” He sneered, waving at you as he departed with his brothers. Once the trio slunk away into the moonlight, it left you and Dwayne by yourselves in the cave.

You could’ve watched Dwayne work for hours, captivated by the way he dismantled the machinery, handling the finer pieces with nimble digits. He was wrist-deep in the grease-laden guts of his motorcycle, surrounded by a myriad of scrap and parts. His dark brows were furrowed together in stark concentration.

Intrigued, you abandoned your perch — a rickety, velvet-cushioned chair that had come with the hotel’s ancient wreckage. Paul’s stereo was sitting along the ledge, awaiting a tune-up that you knew Dwayne would inevitably provide. You sat down, inspecting it for any damage — it looked unharmed, on the outside.

“Do you think it was a user error sort of thing?” A burst of laughter escaped you as you opened up the hatch for the cassette tapes, noticing a rather banged-up copy of Alice Cooper’s Constrictor from ‘86. It was a good choice — you had to commend Paul’s taste in music.

Dwayne’s soft, bemused huff was all you needed to hear, prompting you to smile. You never mistook his tranquil, halcyon demeanor as indifference — he was a man of very few words. Even his temper wasn’t violent or tempestuous, like that of Marko or David. His placidity in most things was what drew you to him in the first place.

Being a human amongst a den of rancorous vampires wasn’t your intention, but you were happy — happiest with Dwayne, above all. He was the best boyfriend you’d ever had, not that it was a lengthy list. You idly fiddled with some of the switches on the boombox, removing and reinserting the cassette before closing it up.

Much to your chagrin, the stereo didn’t work — maybe it wasn’t Paul’s imagination after all. You gently nudged it back along the ledge, abandoning it for now. “How come you didn’t go with the others?” You inquired, folding one leg over the other, tapping the heel of your boot against the dusty stone.

There was a slight shift in his body language — a mere shrug of his broad shoulders, accompanied by the noises of metal clanging, gears twisting, and then he grunted. “I’m not looking for dinner.” Dwayne replied, matter-of-factly. He was in the midst of replacing the engine on his bike, placing the damaged part aside, hands stained in dark ichor.

With a soft hum, you pushed yourself off of the ledge, wandering over toward Dwayne’s scrapyard — a rather cluttered corner of the cave that acted as a makeshift garage. You sat along one of the flat outcroppings of rock, opting to watch him fix up his motorcycle. It would intrigue you more than messing with the boombox ever would.

His pearlescent teeth clenched around a wrench, clutched between his maw as he focused on putting the new engine back in. There was a quiet appreciation that he held for you — you were always respectful of his hobbies, if this even counted as one. Dark eyes flickered toward you, sitting there in your billowing sundress like some statuesque angel.

Dwayne appraised you in his usual silence, eyes carefully raking along your physique, as if he were undressing you through gaze alone. His jaw tensed, a fire beginning to spark within his chest, threatening to spread like an encroaching wildfire the longer he ogled you.

Sundresses were a hot commodity — and they never lasted, either. Dwayne made sure of it, and once he got his hands on you, that pretty fabric shielding you from him would cease to exist. He made it up to you with the gift of another, but rest assured, it would be shortlived.

It was a mutual feeling, the silent staring. His keen hues settled along the supple curves hiding just beneath that thin veil of fabric while you were captivated by the visual feast of strong, capable hands and taut forearms. You folded your hands within your lap, beginning to absentmindedly chew at your inner cheek again.

Your scent wafted throughout the short distance between the both of you, heavy with hints of your favorite perfume, a saccharine concoction that Dwayne had grown accustomed to. He loved your smell — it was unique to you, invading his senses as he continued his work.

Those strong, muscled hands of his were buried in the underbelly of the motorcycle, carefully placing the new engine back inside. He began to fasten it all into place, removing the wrench from his mouth, quickly fixing it all up with a series of bolts, screws, and metallic plates.

“I’ll teach you sometime.” Dwayne was, oddly enough, the one to shatter the comfortable silence between the both of you. He prided himself on playing mechanic — his ability to handle such equipment and repair it was rather renowned. Once he was satisfied with the job, he sat back, peering toward you.

Warmth oozed from those earthen-brown hues of his, coupled with a subtle adoration that only he possessed for you. Your smile only served to further it, the only thing to make his dead heart pump to life again.

“I’d like that,” You mused, canting your head to one side. “I think you should fix Paul’s stereo, too.” Even if Dwayne had brushed him off before, he would fix it and have it ready for him whenever he came back. It was the right thing to do, anyway.

Dwayne huffed, lips twitching into a threadbare smile, wrought with traces of amusement. He didn’t say anything — he didn’t need to. He wiped his hands off along the crimson cloth he carried in his back pocket, ridding his hands of engine grease and oil.

He stood, filling in his full height as he bent down to give you a kiss, hand carding through the back of your skull. It never failed to make you shudder, haplessly squeezing your thighs together as you reached for his forearm. Powerful, taut muscle flexed underneath your fingertips, and his kiss briefly intensified before he withdrew.

That familiar aching sensation flickered to life between your legs, a dull arousal pooling within your stomach. You wanted nothing more than to cling to him, beg for another kiss, but Dwayne was already over to the stereo, inspecting it for any damage it might’ve had.

For Dwayne, your mind was exceptionally loud — he could read your thoughts, hear them screaming from afar, which he happened to smile at from where he stood. The feeling was mutual, but he wanted to make you stew in it for a little while — it heightened the experience.

As he dismantled the stereo, you decided to go elsewhere — to Paul’s nest, which wasn’t the brightest idea, but he had an impressive collection of cassette tapes. You began climbing toward the rocky slope that led off into alcoves, using some of the ropes hanging about to pull yourself up.

“Where are you going?” Dwayne asked, seemingly finding the source of the boombox’s disarray — there were pieces of tape stuck in the machine.

“To see what Paul has to listen to,” You mused, nose wrinkling in amusement. “It’s the least that he can do for you since you fixed it. We should go listen to music.” Truthfully, Dwayne owned that stupid stereo just as much as Paul did — joint custody, you’d called it.

Hawkish, dark hues drank you in from afar, and Dwayne decided that he’d indulge himself in your wishes, picking up the boombox by the bottom. The handle had been broken off long ago — courtesy of Paul, once again. He simply trailed behind you, briefly pressing his hand against the small of your back when you made it up the incline, keeping you steady.

Paul’s nest was notoriously cluttered — in a very fascinating and macabre manner. It was littered in trinkets, things he’d taken from people he fed from, bones and all, or general thievary. The boys were all like this, but not to Paul’s level.

Posters of hair-bands and metal groups hung all around the rock, illuminated by flickering candlelight. It smelled faintly of marijuana, decorated by a patchwork array of tapestries, clothes, and stolen jackets. The guitar he’d lifted off of a traveling rock group sat on his bed — he always talked about starting a band.

A mountain of cassette tapes lay in a semi-organized heap, many of them taken from Videomax or anywhere he could find them. Dwayne simply stood at the fringes of Paul’s nest, watching as you picked through his extensive collection. You smiled at the handful you’d grabbed, rejoining Dwayne as the two of you made for his nest.

In an amusing juxtaposition, Dwayne’s nest was noticeably simplistic — yet, his personality was scrawled all over it. He liked to read, keeping a trunk of books, tools he’d taken from garages, and some trinkets stashed away in a large piece of a drawer.

He hadn’t bothered to invest in a bed for several decades — not until he got entangled with you. When Marko had mentioned it to you in-passing, it was rather intriguing, but you never asked Dwayne about it.

With the stereo now placed at the foot of his makeshift bed, placed atop a rather rickety wooden trunk, you ejected Alice Cooper from the hatch and put in The Cars, instead. Dwayne happened to regard this choice with curiosity, sitting along the edge of the mattress.

Moving in Stereo began to drift through the alcove, and you promptly fell back against the plush surface, tucking your hands atop your chest. “This song reminds me of you.” You murmured, gazing at the cavernous ceiling, focused on the jagged edges and outcroppings of rock.

Dwayne seemed curious, twisting slightly to face you. Even when sitting, he towered over you, indomitable and immovable, a wall of sheer strength and muscle. “Why does it remind you of me?” He wanted to hear your answer, eyes flickering toward your exposed stomach.

You smiled, somewhat embarrassed, but you decided to answer him anyway. “I don’t know,” You began, rolling over onto your side, propping yourself up with one hand. “Just a bit of a mystery, but alluring. It’s pretty magnetizing.” With a soft exhale, you began to pick at a stray string on one of the blankets that covered the mattress.

“Magnetizing,” Dwayne echoed, withholding the urge to smirk. Instead, he joined you, laying on his side as he mirrored your position, face mere centimeters away from yours. “You got a way with words, girl.” His chest shook with a brief huff before he leaned in to kiss you.

If a kiss could have destroyed you, this was it — Dwayne’s mouth consumed you, intensified by your seemingly innocuous words. He tasted good, like spiced smoke and the faint bite of copper.

You were eternally grateful to The Cars — Dwayne was careening into you, broad chest flush against yours, veined hand grasping at the base of your skull. Thick digits massaged at the nape of your neck, coaxing you close until there was no space left between you, lips voraciously tangling with yours.

He ripped all wisps of air from your lungs, as cold as ice as he shrugged off his jacket. Arousal reactivated inside of you, no longer dormant as your warm hands reached for his chest, feeling broad muscle underneath your palms. He felt like a god — chiseled, forever perfect — you were sometimes in-awe of his beauty.

In awe — Dwayne smirked against your mouth, unable to help himself when it came to your overactive imagination and racing thoughts. He pushed his hand underneath your shirt, fingers tracing along your curves as he began to feel a familiar tightening in his jeans.

Your scent thoroughly intoxicated him — your natural musk, the cling of perfume, the arousal coalescing between your thighs — it was a perfect amalgamation. Dwayne exhaled, sitting up and taking you with him, hands hooking into the hem of your shirt as he peeled it off of you.

His lips were on your flesh again, hands tearing your thin brassiere apart with ease, reveling in your warmth. Dwayne pressed a string of kisses along your neck, feeling the thrum of your pulse point pound against his mouth. The shorts you wore still clung to your frame, but they wouldn’t be for much longer.

“Dwayne,” You sighed, The Cars becoming nothing more than atmospheric background noise. Liquid heat pooled between your legs, a shiver rolling down your spine as he laid you down against the mattress, covering you with his body. Your eyes locked together as he stared down at you, gaze boring right through you. “I need you.”

Dwayne kissed your neck, sucking enough to create a hickey before he traveled to the base of your throat, peppering kisses across your collarbone. “Where do you need me, sweet girl?” His husky, warm baritone made you shiver in delight. Those eyes raked over you in rapture, full of reverence.

“Everywhere,” You whimpered, goosebumps coalescing along your spine. Dwayne’s huff of laughter made you smile, and you quickly urged him closer for another kiss. His mouth crashed against yours, passionate and blistering, full of an unrestrained want. “I’m yours.” A sweet moan tore past your lips.

A wave of possessiveness swelled up inside of him, coupled with that innate desire to keep you all to himself. Dwayne didn’t have an issue sharing with his brothers, but you? No — you belonged to him, and him alone. A growl rippled across his broad chest as he tore his lips away, returning to your sternum.

There was a prowess to him that the others didn’t possess — Dwayne was emotionally intelligent, just as vicious in the same breath. He was an enigma of so many things, drawing you in with his arcadian charm. Your fingers reached for his dark tresses, perusing through as he kissed your chest.

“You’re beautiful,” Dwayne’s affectionate baritone rumbled across your flesh as he continued his slow, deliberate string of kisses, making his way to your breasts. He trapped one nipple between his lips, gently suckling on the sensitive mound, the other hand tugging at your shorts. “Perfect.” He uttered.

You sighed, fingers tangling within his mane of black tresses, pulling and carding through. It felt silky between your digits, like velvet. Those veined, calloused hands gripped along the meat of your hips, strong and unwavering as he lifted you to discard your shorts.

Arousal pooled between your legs, honey-thick as it toyed with Dwayne’s senses. He wanted nothing more than to drown himself between your thighs, devour you until you were a trembling, mewling mess. Your thoughts shamelessly echoed that sentiment, prompting him to reach toward the apex of your thighs, hand breaking past the waistline of your panties.

Dexterous fingers languidly slipped along your slick cunt, making a line right for your clit. Your body responded in a near-violent fashion, hips jolting up into him, hands curling within his hair. “D—Dwayne!” You whimpered, chasing after the friction his hand provided. Those dark hues hadn’t left you, transfixed on your smitten countenance as he kissed your stomach.

He looked big when his body was spread over yours, but when he began to slink toward your thighs, he was hulking, a massive wall of muscle. Dwayne’s kisses continued, littered all across your pelvis and thighs, fingers still winding you up as he pushed in between your legs with those broad, bronze shoulders.

His visage was rugged with a fine layer of dark stubble, tangible as it scratched against your inner thighs. He curled his hands into your panties, and instead of removing them, Dwayne simply tore them asunder, leaving remnants of fabric behind. The alcove reverberated with the sounds of material being ripped apart.

A thin sheen of arousal painted your cunt, scent stinging his nose in the most pleasant way possible. The velveteen flesh of your inner thighs were layered in faint bite marks — his own, from the past. He looked to you for approval, thumb lazily circling around your clit.

“Please.” You huffed, head bobbing up and down in an idle nod as he moved his lips toward a patch of flesh, unmarred by any bites. Dwayne was always very sensual, and even when he fed from you, it felt so lascivious. Your body jolted, hips writhing closer as he began to bite down.

Dark, earthy-brown hues melted away into pools of a golden-red, unnaturally vibrant. The initial sting of his bite made you wince, but he was always gentle with you when it came to feeding. As sharp teeth drew blood, a low growl reverberated throughout his chest, causing you to shiver. Your fingers continued to trace through his mane of black hair, a myriad of moans escaping you.

Restraining himself from taking this further, he had his fill, kissing over your now-healing bite. Dwayne licked his lips, effortlessly tossing both of your legs over his broad shoulders as he tugged you closer. You were somewhat folded at the hips, but you didn’t care.

Dwayne’s gaze was incendiary, intense — he stared you down from his perch between your thighs. You were visibly flustered, staring right back, nearly shrinking away altogether. He kissed your thighs, mouth dangerously close to your aching cunt. “You ready, girl?” He asked, inhaling another gust of your scent.

You nodded, feeling every fiber of your being scream with desire, and you wanted him terribly. “Yes,” You whimpered, hands having splayed out at your sides instead, no longer buried within his hair. “Dwayne, please,” His deliberation made it worse. “I want you so bad.” Your hips wriggled again, desperate for his mouth.

A warm, hearty chuckle emerged from his lips, making his herculean form shake between your legs. “Just relax,” He soothed, noticing how coiled and poised you were. Those strong, veined hands wrapped around your thighs, keeping you spread apart. The flat of his tongue lapped across your slit in one long stroke. “Relax, Mama.” His voice made your head swim.

Relaxation wasn’t exactly your forte — you were too wound-up, too drunk with desire to simply sit still and melt into the mattress. Dwayne’s tongue began to lap you up, greedily consuming every drop of your sweet arousal, working along your cunt. His fingers clamped hard, enough to leave behind the inklings of bruises, etched into your flesh like his personal brand.

Your thighs threatened to squeeze at his head, but he kept your legs firmly planted on his shoulders, pinning you down and rendering you immobile. Your taste saturated his tongue, and he only chased after it, dutifully lapping at your slit as his nose absentmindedly grazed against your clit.

Dwayne was relatively silent — and you didn’t mind in the slightest. The only ambiance happened to be The Cars, your delighted moans, and your boyfriend’s deep, rumbling grunts. His tongue worked wonders on your aching slit, cunt clenching pathetically around nothing as he lapped you up, gaze flickering towards you.

Your countenance was a vision of beauty, all contorted into an expression of complete and utter bliss. Your hips writhed, with very little room to go considering that Dwayne had you locked down, arms bracketed on your thighs, keeping you caged in against him.

A heavy fire burned bright within the pit of your stomach, demanding to be extinguished. Throaty, noisy moans escaped you in droves, vocalizing your delight as Dwayne vigorously lapped at your cunt. He alternated patterns, between soft and exploratory and recklessly needy. His mouth occasionally brushed over your clit, causing you to shiver.

Each time he ate you out, it was almost like the first time all over again — blissful, filled with a lust-infused passion that threatened to swallow you whole. Dwayne was beyond attentive, savoring you as if you were the most delicious meal he’d ever had.

He lowered himself toward the mattress, musculature flat and poised between your thighs. Those strong, thick arms kept you held in-place, keeping you locked in as he continued to lap at your core. His hips rocked forward, harshly grinding against the bed to relieve some of the friction.

Much to your surprise, Dwayne got off on pleasuring you above all else. There was something intimately carnal about it, knowing that you only made those sounds for him, only let him touch you. Your hips jolted forward, met with a barrage of an eager tongue and mouth as he lapped at your cunt.

Dwayne grunted, lips opting to purse around your clit, instead. Your reaction was visceral, moans ascending to an excitable crescendo as your hands flew toward his hair. He grunted again, attempting to vocalize his own satisfaction of you pulling and tugging on his dark tresses as if they were reins.

A burnished-gold coloration had swallowed brown irises whole, flickering down towards your blissed-out visage. Your body had a mind of its own, twitching and writhing as his mouth relentlessly assaulted your aching cunt. Pleasure licked acros your frame, burning along your sensitive nerves. He was vigorous and attentive, throat itching with a dull, familiar ache.

Hunger could wait — Dwayne merely placed that feeling into the recesses of his mind. His tongue continued to cascade across your slit, lapping at your arousal before he returned his attention to your clit, suckling on that bundle of nerves. He steered you towards your orgasm, mind swimming with a thick haze of lust, overwhelmed by your heady scent.

“Dwayne!” Your voice carried above the nest, echoing throughout your cavernous surroundings. Fortunately, you were alone — you had little desire to mask how you felt about him. Needy digits gripped at his tresses again, hips bucking into his mouth until you were simply a pile of mush, unable to respond.

You were lost to the white-hot heat of your release, an explosive sensation that caused you to quiver and spasm in delight. A glittering perspiration danced across your hot flesh, sparkling from the glow of the candlelight. “Dwayne,” You huffed, a whimper emerging from the back of your throat as he dutifully cleaned you up.

He released your hips from his ironclad hold, crawling along your body until his broad frame nestled between your thighs. That taut, muscled hand rest against the base of your throat, digits gingerly squeezing on either side of your windpipe. You initiate a rather tantalizing kiss, able to taste yourself upon his tongue.

A clattering sound resonates in your vicinity, Dwayne wrestling his belt off of his hips as his jeans sag upon his frame. He’s swift, wrangling his pants aside with one hand, the other clutching onto your pretty throat like a vice, evoking a string of sinful noises from your mouth. You kiss him with a desperation that he matches tenfold.

His hips brush against yours, and the distance is nonexistent, closed by your stoic paramour, whose normally-cold gaze reflects with a semblance of warmth. Your hands clamor for his broad shoulders, sinking into the expanse of bronze skin, nails clamping down when he drags the head of his cock against your cunt.

“Speak up, sweet girl.” Dwayne grunts, lips ghosting above the shell of your ear. He thoroughly enjoyed your begging on occasion, with this happening to be one of those occurrences. His lips briefly press against the side of your face, stubble grazing across your silken complexion.

With an agonizing pace, he continued to toy with you, pushing his cock against your entrance, but declining to go any further. A pained whine escaped you as you tilted yourself closer. The hand around your throat squeezes, effectively commanding your attention.

“Please,” You sputter, squirming in delight whenever those veined digits tense around the slender expanse of your jugular. “Dwayne, please,” Your simpering pleas are met with a hiss as he sluggishly sinks into you, inch by inch. He lets out another shallow rumble when your fingers brazenly dig into his shoulder. “Please move!”

Cold-blooded and dangerous — but not to you, not now. The icy temperature of his flesh swallows the warmth wafting from you as he invades your space, musculature eclipsing any light. His shadow falls across you, visage awash with his own carnal delight. You’re tight around him, aided by your arousal.

Another satisfactory snarl rips forth from his mouth, echoing next to your ear. You wrap your legs around his broad hips, gasping when he began to move. His cock hit new depths, pulling halfway out before Dwayne pushed himself back in again. His pace was rhythmic and passionate — not sloppy or too rough.

The pad of his thumb draws circles along the curve of your jawline, the rest of his hand tight around your windpipe. You moan, legs locked like a vice as he continues to roll his hips forward, cock battering its way into your cunt with a domineering force. Dwayne was taking it easy on you — if he lost control, it wouldn’t be very pretty for either of you.

His lips find yours, kissing you fervently as you reciprocate in a flurry of passion. Heat bled from you, arousal seeping from your core as Dwayne continued to rut into you, one hand splayed beside your head. The sparkling sheen of his ring glints in the lower light, mouth relentlessly assaulting yours in a barrage of kisses.

Dwayne grunts into your mouth, but the entanglement is shortlived as he moves to cover parts of your neck in kisses — whatever parts aren’t covered by his hand. You feel the sudden scrape of razor-sharp fangs drifting over your flesh, testing your resolve. You shudder, eyes fluttering shut as you grip and pull on his hair.

Sometimes you simply forgot that he was a specter of the night, a fanged creature who had the capability to rip you apart at any moment. His fangs continue to hover across your neck before they retracted, lips replacing them as he kissed your pulse point. There was an added element of thrill and exhilaration as you whimpered, his name spilling from your mouth over and over again.

You nearly see stars when he pistons himself into you again, slow and savoring you, enjoying the sluggishness of it all as Dwayne continues to drag out his thrusts. Your cunt clenches pathetically around his length, prompting you to whimper and moan, goosebumps coalescing along your spine.

“More,” It was incoherent, a string of needy babbles that escaped you in droves. “Dwayne, please,” You whimpered, chewing at your lower lip. In the midst of his own pleasure, Dwayne’s calculating stare flickered toward you — it wasn’t a good idea. “Please, please fuck me.” You begged, hearing the growl that echoed deep from within his chest.

“You sure?” Dwayne didn’t want to hurt you, but he was inclined to obey your needy command. Another grunt escaped him as he steadily rutted away into your tight cunt, deliberating in the midst of it all. “Won’t be gentle.” His stark warning was concrete, you knew this — you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you nodded several times over, digits gently curling around his wrist. “Yeah.” You panted, chest fluttering with a tight sensation as he gave you a hasty, passionate kiss, a parting gift as he squeezed at your jugular. That steady rhythm began to pick up instantaneously.

Dwayne made sure to watch you closely, gaze hawkishly trained upon your body as he began to fuck you. The intensity and the heat rose like a tidal wave, consuming the both of you as he pounded away at your poor cunt. Your legs rattled like leaves, attempting to stay locked around his waist.

The taut muscles of his shoulders and abdomen worked in-tandem, body effortlessly exerting strength. For him, it was nothing — for you, it was a different experience entirely. He was rough, manhandling you with one hand as he grabbed at your hips, enough to leave behind faint impressions in the form of bruises.

Moving in Stereo still swallowed any background noise, encompassing the whole of Dwayne’s nest. You were a complete and utter mess, devolving into a puddle of sweet moans and needy whimpers, especially whenever he applied pressure around your throat. He squeezed whenever he thrust into you, force akin to that of a barely-restrained battering ram.

Even in his self-proclaimed roughness, Dwayne was still executing some measure of restraint. “Mine,” His thunderous voice swarmed you from all sides as he fucked you into submission, gritting pearlescent teeth together as he approached his climax. You kept nodding, back arching into his touch.

“Dwayne,” Dwayne — it feels like the only word you’re capable of saying, rolling from your tongue with a wanton moan. You tug on his tresses with an urgency, feeling his hips grind against yours, flesh kissing flesh with unyielding thrusts. His cock continues to bury itself deep inside of your needy slit until it can go no further. “S—Shit! Right there!” You cry.

He huffs, musculature flat against you, chest to chest as you coax him in for another kiss. You whimper into his mouth when his tongue tangles with yours like a heat-seeking missile, teeth breaking the thin skin of your lower lip. Pearls of crimson trickle onto his tongue, fusing lust with hunger — all for you.

Dwayne didn’t stop, showing no signs of stopping as he fucked the both of you through an orgasm, painting your cunt in hot ropes of seed. He doesn’t pull out, a sensation that the two of you feed off of. If it weren’t for his vampirism, you’d be round with his children — the fantasy would continue to linger on for as long as he pleased.

“Shit, Mama,” Dwayne’s strained baritone sends shivers throughout your body. He rarely talks during sex, and this felt like a treat as he continued to thrust into you, feeling your nails dig angry crescents into his shoulder. He groans, savoring the feeling of your constant tugging on his mane of dark tresses. “You’re perfect.” His voice tapered off into a possessive growl.

You want to scream, a raging fire surging throughout your body before it finally comes to an end, extinguished by Dwayne’s rough rutting. He could’ve kept it up, continued all night long with his cock stuffed inside of you, but humanity was both a blessing and a curse. Your thighs shook underneath his grasp, and he began to slow, pressing kisses along your collarbone.

His hand left behind a searing brand around your throat — whether or not the imprints are visible, it’s the sensation that refuses to leave. Your windpipe feels a little sore, but it’s a pleasant burn as he comes to a crawl, nestling his forehead against yours.

The excitement and blissful thrill of the moment steadily begins to fade, composure replacing a very heavy lust. Your heart thrums beneath your breast, beginning to crawl to a more uniform beat as you nudge forward, kissing Dwayne again. Your lips are swollen, split down the middle with a patch of dried cruor.

Dwayne’s exhale of relaxation comes after, and the tension within his body unfurls. He kept himself inside of you still, feeling your poor cunt clench around his cock when he adjusted his position. His kiss is astoundingly tender this time around, able to taste the pang of copper upon your lip, accompanied by your natural sweetness.

A sense of euphoria overwhelms you, body feeling wonderfully heavy as Dwayne peppered kisses all along your jaw and collarbone. “You alright?” He murmured, making sure that he hadn’t pushed the limit with you. It was easy to become lost in the moment, forget about your humanity.

You nodded, wincing slightly when he pulled out of you, resting his head against your stomach, arms encircling themselves around you. “Better than alright,” You mused, tracing your fingers throughout his hair. “You think Paul will mind that we borrowed his stereo?” Laughter burst forth from your mouth.

A bemused huff escaped Dwayne as he reached over with one muscled arm, hitting the ‘NEXT’ track on the boombox. He pulled you close, nose wrinkling in disdain as Drive by The Cars came on — it wasn’t exactly his taste in music.

“Like you said,” He rumbled, peering up at you with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. His arms effortlessly tugged you down to his level, lips twitching into a faint smirk, rare for Dwayne yet mesmerizing all the same. His mouth brushed above yours. “Joint custody.”

[her-satanic-wiles]

Kinktober Day 19 - Filming

Papa Terzo x Reader

The Satanic Church hired a new PR manager to keep the Church afloat during these online times. To establish yourself, and to bring in new people, you suggest a 24 hour charity stream where the Ghouls and Papa complete challenges, play games, and create donation incentives. If they raise $1 million, Papa Terzo joked that he’d start an Only Fans. They didn’t expect to smash that goal so quickly. So who should he fuck online first than the person who suggested this whole ordeal in the first place?

Masterlist ⛧ Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

Words: 10k.

Reading Time: 42 min.

Warnings: clothed man/naked woman, creampie, cunnilingus, filming (with consent), mentions of orgies, PIV sex, this is absolutely 100% a crack!fic, vaginal sex, unprotected sex

Taglist: @akayuki56 @alien-the-ghost @amazing-bobinsky @angellayercake @anonymous-appreciation @babydestinyinfluencer @bitchywitchygardener @blossomsea @call-me-little-sunshine84 @copiaspet622 @copiasslut @cosmixxdust @da-rulah @dolceterzo @dopey-fandom-girl @faithisyours @ghoulishxdelights @hauntedharmonic-ghoulishhaunter @high-above-the-city @howlingco @inkstainedrat @kaijukimchi @kenken-the-shoggoth @ledger-kaos @magopi @megachaoticstupid @meliza1001 @miss-leto @mommy-dust @neganwifey25-blog @piaart @saintbowie @shycardinale @sister-of-sin-claudia @sisterof-sin @sodoswitchimage @the-did-i-ask @xiyingly @zombiesnips-blog

🔞 MDNI 🔞

You didn’t think they’d actually go for it, or that they’d believe it was a good idea. When you stood in the meeting room in front of Sister Imperator, Papa Emeritus III and the other upper clergy members and suggested a 24 hour live stream, you thought their boomer asses would sneer at the thought and turn the idea down. But one minute you were discussing activities to do during the stream, the next they were all nodding and looking at you incredibly impressed.

You’d only been here three months… this was your first major job as a PR manager. You knew what you were doing in theory but the execution could be messy as hell. Yet, there they all were, patting you on the back and taking notes.

Taking notes!

This was either going to make you, or break you - and you could only believe that the latter would come to pass.

Planning took place immediately, people turning Papa Terzo’s office into a streaming zone for that extra peace and quiet, but also to force him to be involved. He just thought he could leave the majority of the hours to his ghouls to entertain the world, but you knew that having him there, the head of the Ministry and the face of the Ghost Project, would make the money roll in. And they needed the money.

The Vatican had wormed their little Catholic tendrils into the Italian government and refused funding for the Ministry on account of mortal enemyship. And, with bribes in hand, the government thanked the Catholic church for “bringing their attention” to “such an evil in the country”, and tried to denounce Satanism as a genuine religion. This was, of course, a few decades ago now, but since then the Ministry never recovered and relied heavily on donations given from Lord Lucifer’s followers around the world - who gave and did so gladly. This live stream and the funds that were generated from it, would fund a huge restoration project and would help bring the facilities up to scratch. There were parts of the Ministry that were crumbling into disrepair, and you had the builders for it in house, but not the materials. It would be the biggest restoration project in the Ministry’s history… and you’d be the one to gather all that money.

No pressure.

The rewards were to be as follows:

€10,000 - First Steps

Reward: Ghouls play a game of “Never Have I Ever” live.

Bonus: Papa Terzo takes a shot of absinthe every time he loses (as suggested by Papa Secondo.)

€50,000 - Peek Behind the Curtain

Reward: A live virtual tour of the restricted parts of the Ministry, including the infamous Chapel of Shadows.

Bonus: Papa Terzo takes a shot of absinthe every time he falls over (as suggested by Papa Primo.)

€100,000 - Ghost Unplugged

Reward: An exclusive acoustic performance of “Cirice” by Papa Terzo and Ifrit.

Bonus: All donors up to this point get access to a downloadable recording of the session.

€250,000 - Makeover Madness

Reward: The audience votes on a ghoul who gets a full drag makeover by Alpha and Omega, live on stream.

€500,000 - Ritual Tease

Reward: A special candlelit ritual performance is conducted by Papa Terzo and the Ghouls.

Bonus: All viewers get early access to a limited-edition Ministry-themed candle collection.

€750,000 - Mystery Caller

Reward: Papa Terzo and the ghouls call random fans live and serenade them.

Bonus: The first person they call will receive signed memorabilia from the band’s archive.

€1,000,000 - Pomona Invitations Unlocked

Reward: Five random donors will receive a VIP invitation to the Ministry’s exclusive Pomona Festival, including an overnight stay in the Ministry’s guest quarters.

Bonus: All donors who contributed over €100 will be entered into a raffle for a personalised blessing from Papa Terzo during the ceremony.

€1,200,000 - Ghouls’ Playground

Reward: The Ghouls will perform a “Ghoul Games” Olympics, complete with ridiculous challenges and hilarious forfeits (e.g., eating the hottest pepper, trying to summon spirits while blindfolded, etc.).

€1,300,000 - One Night Only Concert Announcement

Reward: Terzo announces a one-night-only concert exclusively for the stream’s viewers, with tickets going on sale before the stream ends.

€1,400,000 - The Grand Restoration

Reward: Papa Terzo and the Ghouls reveal the blueprints and restoration plans for the Ministry, with construction to be documented and shared with all donors.

Bonus: Everyone who contributed will have their names included on a commemorative plaque placed inside the restored wing of the Ministry.

The Ministry knew that everyone’s ultimate goal was to be invited to the Festival of Pomona, knowing exactly what went down during the Ministry’s celebrations. The festival may or may not have included eating ripe fruits off of consenting naked bodies, drinking wine and fucking each other stupid (sometimes with the fruits) in the Basilica di Lilith, where the majority of festivities would take place at the Ministry.

Every holiday, a video would emerge on the Hub from the same group of wine ghouls who would all verbally consent to sharing their videos online before taking part in a small orgy in the wine cellars. Honestly, that did more for the Ministry’s applications than anything else, which is why the Papas allowed it to continue. Of course, Papa Terzo relished in the chaos, and would even hold screenings of the videos a few days later, which would then trigger another orgy.

On the days leading up to the livestream you found yourself buried in preparations, hands deep in spreadsheets, schedules, and legal disclaimers (because, unfortunately, someone had to pretend to be responsible). The Ministry was buzzing with activity as the wine ghouls polished off their favourite barrels, giggling over their plans for this year’s video. Every time you passed them in the halls, their smug little grins made it clear they knew exactly what kind of mayhem they’d cause this time around.

And, of course, Terzo was no help. His contribution to the stream planning was strolling into meetings late, lounging in chairs like a cat who knew he was untouchable, and occasionally chiming in with suggestions like, “What if we did a segment where I read fan fiction about myself?”

You thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

The ghouls thought it was hilarious and, before you could veto it, had already spread the idea like wildfire through the Ministry. The next morning, a surprisingly professional-looking flyer had been tacked to your office door:

“Papa Terzo Reads Smut, LIVE: Midnight Madness. BYOB (Bring Your Own Bible).”

You crumpled it up, threw it in the bin, and prayed to whatever deity would listen that it would quietly die off. It didn’t.

By the time the final schedule was drafted, not only was the reading segment officially included, but it was slotted right after the wine ghouls’ “Live from the Cellars” broadcast from last Lupercalia—just late enough in the night that most of the viewers would already be a little too deep into the wine themselves to complain about it.

And that wasn’t even the half of it.

On the days leading up to the livestream, every inch of the Ministry was being scrubbed, polished, and sensually rearranged to fit both the theme of the stream and the aesthetic of the Pomona Festival. The Basilica di Lilith—usually a solemn, shadowed space reserved for the highest rituals—was now being transformed into a bacchanalian paradise. Silk drapes hung from the rafters, embroidered cushions littered the floor, and massive fruit platters were set up along low tables, each piece of produce almost obscenely ripe and glistening.

And the bodies… oh, the bodies.

Ghouls, clergy, and a few familiar outside guests all volunteered to participate in the festival as living platters, lying still beneath the fruits, wine drizzling from lips to thighs as they practiced holding seductive poses in the chapel’s soft candlelight. You’d walked in on a practice session once, seen the trainee ghoul, Cirrus, with her legs spread and an apple resting precariously between them, and immediately backed out before you could make eye contact with anyone. They were committed, that much was certain.

Every time you tried to reign things in, Papa Terzo was already two steps ahead, unravelling your sense of control faster than you could stitch it back together.

“Relax, tesoro,” he’d purr with that infuriating grin, “if things get too wild, we’ll just call it ‘performance art.’ The Vatican loves that stuff.”

You tried to tell yourself it would all come together in the end. Somehow.

But the truth was, it was all spiralling out of your hands, and you were beginning to understand just how the Ministry ran: beautifully chaotic, gleefully immoral, and completely unsupervised.

The livestream kicked off at 10 AM sharp, cameras switching on to capture a shot of Terzo, lounging like a king on one of the deep leather armchairs in his office. His ghouls crowded around him on plush rugs and sofas, bottles of wine and spirits scattered among them. The viewers flooded in—thousands of curious souls watching live from around the world, eager to witness just how far the Ministry would push things. And the Ministry, predictably, wasted no time.

The first stretch of the stream was “Never Have I Ever,” a brilliant icebreaker orchestrated by Terzo, mostly so he could make a mess of his ghouls and drink far more than any of them. The stream chat was exploding—“👀” emojis and donations flying in at an alarming rate. Terzo swirled his wine lazily, the corners of his lips curling as he surveyed his crew.

“Let’s begin, no? Something easy… a little warm-up, sì?” Terzo purred, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “Alpha, you start.”

The hulking fire ghoul—Alpha—grinned around the rim of his whiskey glass. “Fine. Never have I ever…” He paused for dramatic effect, his forked tongue flicking between sharp teeth. “Slept with someone in this room.”

A murmur of anticipation rippled through the chat, and almost immediately, Terzo raised his glass with a devilish grin, along with Ifrit and Mist. The others exchanged knowing looks before following suit, with Aether muttering, “Well, that escalated quickly.”

Ember chuckled, leaning into Ifrit. “I think it’s safe to say we’re all guilty on that one.” He raised his glass, and Ifrit gave him a playful nip on the ear as he took her sip.

Mountain, quiet as ever, drank with a casual nonchalance, his enormous form relaxed despite the debauchery in the room. The chat was frothing at this point—donation notifications pinging nonstop.

“€50,000 milestone reached!” the notification flashed across the screen, followed by a flood of comments:

“Omg I KNEW IT”

“These ghouls are feral”

“Terzo already drunk and it’s only 10:30 AM lmfao”

Omega, perched cross-legged on the rug, hummed thoughtfully. “Never have I ever… worn someone else’s clothes during sex.”

Terzo nearly choked on his drink, laughing as he took a sip. Earth grinned and drank as well, along with Air, who added, “It’s called resourcefulness.”

“Resourcefulness?” Aether snorted, downing his wine. “It’s called kinks, my dude.”

Ifrit, already a little tipsy, leaned back and drawled, “What, you’ve never seen Terzo in someone else’s robes? Guy looks like sin incarnate.”

“Shut up,” Terzo smirked, tipping his glass in salute, completely unbothered by the growing chaos. “I wear them better than any of you.”

The conversation spiraled quickly as the questions became increasingly personal—partly to outdo one another, partly because no one in the room could resist poking at old memories.

Mist, looking deceptively innocent, said next: “Never have I ever faked an orgasm.”

The room erupted in laughter. Aether coughed into his wine, Air raised both hands in mock surrender, and Terzo gave an exaggerated scoff before drinking. “Che bastardo,” he muttered, making everyone cackle harder.

Mountain, as usual, simply shrugged, sipping without comment.

The viewers were losing their minds, donations piling up by the second as the room dissolved into drunken, irreverent chaos. Every time someone revealed something incriminating, the chat flooded with emojis and exclamations:

“MOUNTAIN FAKED AN ORGASM????”

“The AUDACITY of Terzo omg”

“MORE STORIES I BEG YOU”

The first hour of the stream passed in a blur of laughter, spilled wine, and wild confessions. They’d already blown past the €100,000 mark, and Terzo, glancing at the tracker on the screen, grinned like a man who knew exactly how this was going to end.

“Ah, we’re just getting started, miei amici,” he purred to the camera, raising his glass. “I hope you’re ready for a long, sinful night.”

The chat exploded again, the stream rolling on without a care in the world—just as the Ministry had planned. One hour down, twenty-three to go.

You made the executive decision—Terzo, with his wine-drunk smirk and half-lidded gaze, was definitely not in a condition to lead a coherent tour of the Ministry. There was no way he’d make it through the halls without getting distracted, lost, or deciding to take a nap on a velvet chaise halfway through. So you shifted it to later in the week, hoping his sobriety would at least slightly improve by then. But keeping things on track for now? That was another challenge altogether.

Ifrit—already three drinks deep—got it in his head that it was the perfect time for a little music. Before you could stop him, he grabbed an acoustic guitar someone had stashed in the corner, strumming out a chaotic, out-of-tune chord.

“Oh no…” you whispered, dread setting in. But it was already too late.

The chat went feral, donations flying in faster than the counter could register.

“LIVE Cirice karaoke??! I CAN’T”

“50€ if Ifrit makes it through without completely botching the chorus”

“Papáaaaaa, serenade us pls 🥺”

“Okay, okay!” Terzo swayed dangerously as he stood, grabbing the mic someone handed him with more enthusiasm than skill. “You want music? I am music!” he declared dramatically, then immediately stumbled into the edge of the coffee table.

The ghouls erupted in drunken laughter, Aether and Mist clutching each other as Terzo tried to recover his dignity, shooting them a lazy glare.

Ifrit fumbled with the guitar for a second, plucking out a hilariously off-key rendition of the opening riff to “Cirice.” The stream chat exploded with emojis—crying-laughing faces, wine glasses, and musical notes flooding the screen.

“What in Lucifer’s name is happening rn?”

“This is the most chaotic version of Cirice I’ve ever heard and I love it.”

“NOTHING is in tune but I’m still crying”

“I feel your presence… among these ghooooouls,” Terzo slurred into the mic, drawing out the notes like some unholy lounge singer. His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned too far back, nearly tipping over.

The ghouls cackled—Air doubled over on the floor, slamming his hand into the rug. Mountain kept it together, though his shoulders shook from suppressed laughter, while Omega helpfully chimed in, “That’s definitely not the line, but go off, Papa.”

“Shhh!” Terzo hissed, dramatically pressing a finger to his lips. “Art is fluid, Omega. Fluid!” He turned back to the mic, swaying as Ifrit fought to stay somewhat in rhythm. “I can feel your mother… I can feel your mother, beating in the dark…”

And then came the chorus—oh, the chorus.

Ifrit made a valiant attempt to hit the right chords, but by then, his fingers were as drunk as his brain. He strummed something that might have once resembled music, but now sounded like a cat falling down a flight of stairs.

Terzo launched into the refrain anyway, shamelessly belting out:

“Can you feel the thunder?”

“Ciriiiiiiiiiiiiiiice!” he wailed, voice cracking beautifully.

The chat lost it.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS LMFAO”

“This is camp. This is art.”

“€200 if they finish the song without laughing.”

The laughter in the room reached dangerous levels—Aether and Air wheezing on the floor while Mist buried her face in Omega’s shoulder, her whole body shaking. Ifrit gave up halfway through the next verse, falling back onto the couch in defeat, still cradling the guitar as if it had personally betrayed him.

Terzo powered through, eyes closed, arms spread dramatically wide, like a man possessed by the spirit of the song—or possibly just too much wine. He staggered toward Mountain, shoving the mic in his face.

“Sing with me, amico!” Terzo demanded.

Mountain blinked slowly, stone-faced as ever. “…No.”

That sent the ghouls into another wave of hysterics, and even Terzo couldn’t hold back his own laughter this time. He stumbled back to his seat, collapsing into it with a satisfied grin, cheeks flushed pink from wine and joy.

As he tried to catch his breath, he slurred into the microphone: “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all day.”

The donations ticker shot past €150,000, and the stream chat devolved into chaos:

“This is peak content, nothing will top this.”

“€50 IF THEY DO ANOTHER SONG PLS”

“Terzo’s laugh is the sound of the gods.”

“Terzo autotune confirmed.”

The next ten hours passed in a blur of activities, laughter, and enough chaos to keep the viewers glued to their screens. Terzo had sobered up remarkably quickly—though that may have been aided by an embarrassing amount of pizza consumed during breaks—and the ghouls shifted gears, transitioning from tipsy karaoke to various challenges that had the chat on the edge of their seats.

Challenges ranged from food tastings (courtesy of the Ministry’s kitchen staff) to hilariously bad attempts at crafting—some ghouls were surprisingly talented, while others were definitely not. Mist and Ifrit attempted to decorate a cake, and after a chaotic hour of flour flying and frosting disasters, they presented what looked like a mangled abstract art piece that was more comical than edible.

The stream’s chat exploded with laughter:

“This is the worst cake I’ve ever seen, I LOVE it!”

“Is it a cake or a cursed artifact?”

“I’m convinced Ifrit was trying to summon a demon with that frosting.”

As the hours dragged on, they tackled more physical challenges—like an impromptu round of “Twister” where Terzo quickly found himself tangled with Earth and Ember, both of whom were giggling uncontrollably. Mountain, being the quiet powerhouse he was, nailed his positions, winning the game without breaking a sweat while the others fell into a heap of limbs and laughter.

Then came the 15-hour mark. The energy in the room had shifted, weariness creeping in as they gathered around the coffee table for a much-needed pizza feast. Boxes of steaming hot pizza piled high, and the ghouls dove in with reckless abandon, conversation flowing easily as they rehashed the day’s absurdity.

Terzo plopped down beside Aether, pulling a slice of pepperoni from the box. “I swear if I see another cake like that, I might just lose my mind,” he said between bites, crumbs speckling his robe.

“If you keep eating like that, it’ll be your mind that gets lost in the cheese,” Aether shot back with a cheeky grin.

The laughter was punctuated by the chatter of pizza grease and a chorus of “Ooooh, I love this topping!”

Then, the notification chimed in—the stream hit €1 million raised. It was a monumental milestone, and the chat erupted in celebration, accompanied by a flurry of donations and cheers.

“YESSSS!!!”

“THIS IS WHAT WE CAME FOR!”

“CIRCUS OF HORRORS, MORE PLEASE!”

The ghouls, momentarily distracted from their pizza, erupted into cheers and hugs, Terzo’s laughter ringing out above the rest as he stood to address the camera, waving his arms like a conductor. “We did it! One million! Can you believe it?”

Ifrit, eyes slightly glazed but clearly enthusiastic, lifted his slice of pizza high. “To one million euros! And to our loyal fans—cheers!” he declared, taking a massive bite.

The viewers went wild. Donations poured in as they celebrated the milestone, fueling the ghouls’ energy once more. Terzo, clearly enjoying the attention, began to plan the next segment.

“Okay,” he said clapping his hands, trying to keep his eyes open. “If we reach our goal in the next two hours, eh, tesoro,” he looked at you, “how much more is left?”

“€400,000, Papa,” you replied.

“They won’t do it. €400,000 in the next two hours and I’ll start an Only Fans.”

The chat exploded with a mix of disbelief and excitement.

“NO WAY!”

“THIS IS A THREAT AND A PROMISE.”

“I need to see this!”

You felt your face flush at Terzo’s bold declaration. “Papa, are you sure that’s a good idea?” you blurted, half-laughing, half-worrying about the chaos that would ensue if he followed through.

“Absolutely!” he replied, puffing out his chest as if the prospect thrilled him. “Think of the money! And all the juicy content…” His eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned closer to the camera, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “I could do a series called ‘Cooking with Terzo’—a little bit of spice, a little bit of… you know!”

“I’m dead,” someone typed in the chat.

“This is going to break the internet.”

“We’ll donate if you promise to wear that robe.”

Ifrit nearly choked on his pizza, laughter bubbling up as he pointed at Terzo. “Oh, please do! I want to see how many ghouls will actually pay to watch you cook in that!”

Terzo threw his head back, laughing heartily. “You’re all sick! But fine, if that’s what it takes!” He turned back to you, eyes sparkling with an idea. “And let’s sweeten the deal. If we hit that €400,000 mark, I’ll also do a live reading of my favorite poetry… in the most seductive way possible.”

The chat lit up with renewed enthusiasm, and you couldn’t help but shake your head, half-amused and half-concerned about what exactly Terzo was proposing.

“THIS IS A GOLDMINE!”

“I’m about to donate my entire paycheck.”

“Can’t wait to see this sexy poetry reading!”

The only problem was, that goal was reached in less than 30 minutes after Terzo’s suggestion, leaving everyone speechless. Especially Terzo. While he didn’t actually have a problem with going through with what he’d promised, he never expected it to actually happen. He didn’t think anyone would donate multiple times, nor that some would donate such high amounts. He was prepared and so sure that he’d be safe. He was wrong.

When the live stream had ended, over €2 million had been raised for the Ministry’s benefit, and while the clergy were overjoyed with the donation goal exceeding, there was now the concern of Terzo’s Only Fans page. In a feedback meeting with the upper clergy, you were both praised and scolded for allowing Terzo to announce something so stupid, especially as no one could go back on their word.

Sister Imperator put you on content control, whether you liked it or not.

“I do not think,” Papa Secondo began, frowning at Sister Imperator, “we should force ___ to take part in my idiota fratello’s Only Fans. He should be the only one punished, no?”

Sister Imperator sighed. “I didn’t suggest she stars in them.”

Terzo began picking at his nails. “I was thinking she would.”

The entire room looked at him, your mouth agape. “Come again?” you asked, disbelief laced in your words.

“Well,” Terzo donned his famous cheeky expression, “you were the one who suggested we do the live stream in the first place.”

“I didn’t tell you to suggest making porn to reach your goal! You did that all on your own.”

“I would not have suggested it if we didn’t do the live stream in the first place.”

Sister Imperator tried to interrupt but you stopped her. “You were one of the first people on board with the live stream, if I recall.”

“I cannot force you, of course, Sorella,” he began.

“No you fucking can’t!” you exclaimed.

“But, the money made would be… well, a lot. And if I do not have you, I’m going to have to make love to someone else.”

You nodded and stood, straightening your habit. “Perfect, I’m sure the wine ghouls would offer themselves up willingly.”

Terzo leaned back in his chair, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “Ma dai, you know they wouldn’t hold a candle to what we could create together. Besides, it’s not just about the money, tesoro. Think of the divertimento, the thrill of it all.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Immagina the stories we could tell, the cose we could do… and all the fans watching, begging for more.”

You felt your resolve wavering as his words wrapped around you, the promise of adventure tingling in the air. “And who’s to say we couldn’t make it fun for ourselves? Sei d’accordo? Just a little taste of our wild side, and then we can go back to our proper lives.”

He tilted his head, those charming eyes locked onto yours, an irresistible challenge hidden within his gaze. “What do you say? Shall we give them a show they’ll never forget?”

You thought for a moment. “Do I get paid?”

Terzo chuckled, the mischievous glint in his eye growing more pronounced. “Certo, tesoro! You will be compensated handsomely. Think of it as your stipendio for the best performance of your life.” He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms, a grin playing on his lips. “Besides, it’s not just about the money; it’s about creating something special, something that will make waves for the Ministry.”

He leaned in again, his voice low and inviting. “And who knows? We might even enjoy ourselves along the way. After all, this is a nuova avventura—and I promise, you won’t regret it. Just think about it.”

And, oh boy, did you think about it. Long and hard. On the one hand, you’d be on the internet for the rest of your life as the person who was filmed fucking Papa Emeritus III. On the other hand, you’d be the person who fucked Papa Emeritus III. The people on that list was actually quite long, but still, it was a tempting prospect. You knew people who were on that list, who would sacrifice anyone they could get their hands on if it meant another chance with Terzo. And you were sat there, in the dark, at the witching hour, contemplating whether you should or not. The rest of the Ministry would have your guts for garters.

Ultimately, the choice was yours.

And you took it.

The careful deliberation had landed you to the conclusion that you very much wanted to be the person who fucked Papa Emeritus III for the world to see. There was something undeniably hot about being vulnerable in front of an audience, letting the world into your private realm. The thought of it was exhilarating. It transformed sex into a performance, turning every sigh and gasp into a piece of art, a story shared with countless viewers. You could almost hear the murmurs of anticipation as people tuned in, eagerly awaiting the unfolding drama.

And it wasn’t just about the audience; it was about him. With every glance, every teasing comment he threw your way, you could feel the electric connection sparking between you, the tension building until it became impossible to ignore. To be desired so openly, to have someone like Terzo wanting you—really wanting you—was intoxicating. The allure of exploring that passion on camera, of giving in to your desires while the world watched, sent heat pooling in your core.

What made it even hotter was the thought of pushing boundaries. The idea of sharing an experience so deeply personal and yet so public made your pulse quicken. You could imagine the way his hands would explore your body, the weight of his gaze as he looked at you with hunger while the cameras captured every moment. It was an act of surrender, a dance of dominance and submission that could leave both of you breathless and craving more.

And there was a thrill in knowing that the final product would live on forever, a digital record of your passion. You could already picture the comments flooding in—words of praise, envy, desire from viewers who wished they were in your place. The idea of turning the tables, of being the one who brought Terzo to his knees while being cheered on by fans, was undeniably intoxicating.

Ultimately, the choice you made was about seizing the moment, about embracing the adventure that lay ahead. You wanted to explore the depths of your own desires, and what better way to do that than with someone who exuded confidence and charm, all while the world watched?

With a deep breath, you felt your decision solidify. You were ready to step into that spotlight, to become a part of something that was larger than life. Let the world see you. Let them see what it means to be with Papa Emeritus III. The idea ignited a fire within you, and you knew, without a doubt, that you were ready for whatever came next.

You took charge of the preparations, determined to create an atmosphere that matched the grandeur of the moment. Terzo’s room was the perfect setting—opulent and gothic, adorned with rich purple drapes that cascaded down the walls and a massive four-poster bed draped in velvet. The dim, flickering candlelight cast playful shadows, enhancing the sultry ambiance while adding an air of mystery.

You meticulously arranged the space, making sure every detail was just right. A few strategically placed pillows adorned the bed, their deep colors complementing the purple hues around you. You placed a vintage mirror nearby to capture the angles and reflections, knowing it would only add to the allure of the performance.

As you moved about the room, the thrill of anticipation thrummed through you. You set up the camera, ensuring it was perfectly positioned to catch every moment without obstruction. There was a certain rush in knowing you were about to share something so intimate with the world. You checked the lighting, adjusting it to create a soft glow that would enhance the sultriness of the scene.

You stepped back to admire your handiwork. The room looked stunning—every element came together to create a setting that felt both enchanting and erotic. You could almost feel Terzo’s presence there with you, the energy crackling in the air as you imagined how he would take in the space.

Terzo walked into the room with an effortless swagger, his attire embodying the perfect blend of gothic elegance and seductive flair. He wore a fitted black velvet jacket, the fabric glimmering softly in the candlelight, its high collar framing his face and emphasizing his striking features. Underneath, a deep purple silk shirt peeked out, the material clinging to his form and accentuating the subtle curves of his torso.

His pants were tailored and sleek, hugging his legs perfectly and tapering down to black leather boots that gleamed like polished obsidian. The ensemble was completed with a few silver rings adorning his fingers, catching the light with every gesture he made.

As he moved closer, the rich colors of his outfit contrasted beautifully with the opulent purples of the room, making him the focal point of the scene. The combination of textures—velvet, silk, and leather—added an element of sensuality that was hard to ignore. His presence was magnetic, and the way he carried himself with confidence only heightened the air of seduction in the room. “Che spettacolo!” he exclaimed, his voice a mix of awe and admiration. “You’ve outdone yourself, tesoro.”

The way he looked at you—filled with excitement and desire—sent a thrill coursing through your veins. “It’s perfect for what we’re about to do,” you replied, your heart racing.

He stepped closer, his gaze intense. “I have a feeling this will be a night to remember.” The promise behind his words was undeniable, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

With a deep breath, you stepped over to the camera, your heart pounding in anticipation. You flicked the switch, and the red light glowed ominously, signaling that you were being recorded. The moment the cameras turned on, a rush of adrenaline surged through you. You adjusted the angle slightly, ensuring that Terzo would be perfectly framed in the shot.

“Ciao a tutti!” Terzo called out, flashing a charming smile at the camera, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Welcome to the Ministry’s most scandalous event yet!” His playful tone set the stage, and you could feel the energy in the room shift, becoming electric with the prospect of what was to come.

You moved back to the bed, positioning yourself beside him. “Are you ready to give them a show they won’t forget?” you teased, your heart racing as his gaze locked onto yours.

“Oh, I intend to make it memorable,” he replied, his voice low and sultry. With a playful wink, he leaned in closer, the warmth of his body brushing against yours, igniting a heat that spread through you. The cameras captured every nuance of your interaction—the chemistry crackling between you, the unspoken promises lingering in the air.

Slowly, he closed the gap, capturing your lips with his in a deep, hungry kiss. The taste of him—sweet with a hint of wine—was intoxicating. As he kissed you, he pulled you closer, his hands finding your waist and drawing you against him, the heat radiating from his body enveloping you.

With a confident grin, he broke the kiss and looked deep into your eyes, gauging your reaction. “I want them to see how much I enjoy you,” he said, his voice dripping with seduction. He began to explore your body with his hands, his fingers tracing the curves of your hips, slowly sliding up to your waist. The touch was firm yet tender, igniting your skin and heightening your senses.

“Let’s give them a real show,” he murmured, a wicked grin forming on his lips. He leaned back, taking a moment to admire you, and then turned to the camera, making sure to address the viewers. “Are you ready for this? Because I am.”

With that, he directed your body to turn slightly toward the camera, giving the audience a view of you both as he began to slowly undress you, his fingers deftly working the buttons of your attire. Each small reveal felt monumental, the thrill of being watched heightening every sensation as he pulled you deeper into the moment.

With each button he undid, the anticipation built, your heart racing faster as Terzo’s playful yet deliberate touch left a trail of heat across your skin. He took his time, his fingers grazing your sides, lingering just long enough to make you gasp before continuing the slow descent.

“Bellissima,” he breathed, taking in the sight of you, his eyes dark with desire. “I want everyone to see how stunning you are.” His gaze was intense, locking onto yours as if he were the only one who mattered in that moment.

Finally, he pushed your clothing aside, baring your skin to the dim light of the room and the eager eyes of the audience. You felt exposed yet empowered, knowing that Terzo was right there beside you, guiding you through this exhilarating experience. He leaned in closer, his lips trailing down your neck, kissing and nibbling, making you arch into him as the sensations intensified.

“Let them see how I worship you,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. He pressed soft kisses along your collarbone, each one igniting a spark that sent shivers through your body.

As he continued to explore, his hands roamed freely over your curves, and he made sure to play up every soft gasp and moan that escaped your lips. The thrill of being on camera only heightened the pleasure, every touch feeling more electric under the gaze of the viewers.

“Now, let’s give them what they came for,” he said, his voice a sultry promise as he pulled back just enough to position you perfectly in front of the camera, ensuring every tantalizing moment would be caught on film.

He looked at you with that mischievous glint, his eyes flickering between your lips and the camera. “Are you ready for your audience, tesoro?” His tone dripped with playful seduction as he grasped your chin gently, tilting your head back slightly.

You nodded, the thrill of it all making your heart race. “Yes,” you breathed, feeling a rush of excitement as he leaned in again, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue teasingly brushing against yours.

With that, he began to take control, guiding your body to move with his as he pulled you down onto the bed, the plush surface cradling you both. He hovered above you for a moment, his presence dominating yet undeniably magnetic.

“Ti mostrerò,” he said with a cheeky grin, “I’ll show you how it’s done.” And with that, he began to explore your body with renewed fervor, kissing a path down your torso, savoring every inch of you as the camera captured it all—every sigh, every movement—immortalizing the moment for his audience and for you both.

Terzo’s kisses trailed lower, his lips leaving a warm, tingling sensation in their wake as he moved down your body. He paused for a moment, taking the time to admire the way you responded to his touch, the way your body arched instinctively towards him, craving more.

“Sei così bella,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “You’re so beautiful.” His eyes sparkled with mischief as he looked up at you, clearly relishing the moment.

With that, he settled between your legs, a playful glint in his gaze as he teased the hem of your garment. He took his time, pulling it up just enough to reveal the smooth skin of your thighs, pressing soft kisses along the inner seams as he ascended. The sensation was intoxicating, each kiss igniting a fire deep within you, fueling your anticipation.

“Let them see you,” he whispered, glancing up at the camera before continuing his exploration. “Every inch of you deserves to be admired.” His mouth moved closer to your core, but he stopped just short, relishing the way your breath hitched in your throat.

“Dai,” he coaxed playfully, his voice low and teasing. “Let me taste you.”

With that, he finally pressed his lips against you, the warmth and softness of his mouth igniting a spark that sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. His tongue flicked and danced, teasing you with gentle strokes as he expertly coaxed you closer to the edge. You could feel the camera capturing every moment, amplifying the intensity of the experience.

He locked eyes with you, ensuring you felt every ounce of pleasure as he brought you closer and closer. “Voglio sentire i tuoi gemiti,” he said, his voice a sultry growl against your sensitive skin. “I want to hear your moans.”

The thrill of being on camera only heightened the sensations, and as he continued to pleasure you, the weight of the moment settled in—this was not just a private encounter, but a spectacle, a performance where every gasp and moan would be immortalized for the world to see.

Terzo knew just how to play the audience, and as he worked his magic, he made sure to encourage you, his voice a steady stream of encouragement. “Sì, così, bella… Let them see how much you enjoy this.” His words were like a balm, igniting a passion within you that couldn’t be contained.

With a sultry silence enveloping the room, Terzo continued his devoted ministrations, his tongue moving in tantalizing patterns that drove you wild. Every flick and swirl of his mouth sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, as if he were orchestrating a symphony of sensations tailored just for you.

He expertly explored every sensitive spot, his lips pressing against your skin in soft, teasing kisses before returning to his focused work. The weight of the moment became more intense as he leaned into his task, his dark hair falling into his eyes, creating an intimate veil between you and the world outside the camera’s gaze.

Your breath quickened, each gasp escaping your lips louder than the last, and the sheer thrill of being recorded made everything feel heightened. The warmth of the room mingled with the heat radiating from your core, every sensation amplified as Terzo’s mouth worked its magic.

As he continued to feast on you, you could see the way he savored the experience—his eyes occasionally glancing up to meet yours, ensuring that he was bringing you the pleasure you craved. The intimate connection shared between you felt electric, even with the cameras rolling, capturing every moment of your shared desire.

You could feel the familiar tightening in your belly, the sensation building within you as Terzo pressed on, his dedication unwavering. It was as if he was lost in the rhythm of it all, completely focused on bringing you to the brink of pleasure.

As he pulled back slightly, just enough to tease you, you felt a surge of frustration mixed with desire. Your body craved more, urging him to take you to that precipice. Yet, Terzo seemed to enjoy the slow build, prolonging the anticipation, the delicious torture that left you breathless and begging for release.

You squirmed beneath him, your hips instinctively grinding against his face as you sought more friction, more contact. He responded with a deep hum, sending vibrations coursing through you that only heightened the pleasure. The noise escaped your lips unbidden—a soft, needy whimper that echoed in the intimate space.

With every passing moment, the pressure inside you intensified, winding tighter and tighter like a coiled spring. Terzo’s skilled mouth was relentless, coaxing you closer to the edge, and you could feel that familiar warmth pooling in your core, the unmistakable sign that release was imminent.

He alternated between gentle kisses and fervent licks, knowing precisely how to keep you on the brink. Just as you thought you might tumble over, he would pull back slightly, letting the waves of pleasure wash over you without allowing you to reach that sweet release.

The thrill of being filmed only added to the excitement, a spicy undercurrent that made everything feel more urgent. You wanted to cry out, to let the world know just how good he was making you feel, but instead, you bit your lip, savoring the delicious tension that hung in the air.

As he shifted slightly, deepening his focus, the intensity rose to an unbearable level. Terzo’s fingers slipped under your thighs, lifting your legs slightly, opening you up even more for him. The change in angle allowed him to explore deeper, his tongue delving into places that made your back arch and your breaths come in gasps.

Terzo seemed to sense the shift in your energy, and with a renewed fervor, he dove back in, his mouth working at an even more fevered pace. You felt the tension build, pushing you closer and closer to the edge, and as he locked eyes with you once more, his gaze was filled with that same playful intensity that had drawn you in from the very beginning.

You could feel the coil inside you tightening, ready to snap at any moment. Just as the waves began to crash, Terzo’s movements became more fervent, his tongue flicking faster, more insistently, driving you over the edge. The world erupted in a blur of sensations as your body responded, pleasure flooding through you, making you writhe beneath him.

“Terzo!” you cried out, the name a desperate plea as you surrendered to the waves of ecstasy washing over you. Your body tensed, every nerve ending alive with pleasure as you finally fell, spiraling into that euphoric release that left you breathless and trembling.

Terzo didn’t let up, continuing to work you through it, his mouth still latched onto you, drawing out every last moment of bliss. The camera captured everything—the passion, the pleasure, the pure ecstasy of the moment—and as you came down from the high, you realized you’d just shared something intensely personal and thrilling with the world.

In that heated aftermath, as your body slowly settled, you looked down at him, breathless and dazed, and caught the satisfied grin on his face. He pulled back slightly, his lips glistening and a playful glint in his eye. “Che esperienza incredibile,” he said, his voice low and sultry.

You could taste yourself on him when he kissed you, his tongue delving into your mouth and capturing you in a passionate kiss. You forgot the cameras were there until he looked one in the eye, staring down the barrel of the lens with a smug expression on his face that told everyone he knew just how fucking good he was. The arrogance he wore, on another man, would be the most obnoxious thing. But on him? Right now while your cum dripped from his lips and onto his chin, his body weighing yours down into the mattress and eyes wild with lust? This was the hottest thing you had ever seen, and you needed more of that arrogance while he fucked you silly.

“You came so hard, tesoro,” he teased, staring down at you once he finally looked at you. “Who made you come like that?”

“Y-you did,” you replied, breathlessly.

It wasn’t enough for him. “Tell everyone at home, the people who have their hands on themselves and are stroking wildly as they watched you… who made it happen?”

“Terzo!”

He hummed, a pleased rumble coming from him. “Esatto. Such a good girl for her Papa. What do you want next, hm? You have to tell us or we won’t know.”

Us. Including the audience in this as if they had any decision over what was about to happen to you. But the idea, knowing that so many people were watching this happen, and that Terzo was prioritising your pleasure on camera had you clenching around nothing. You wanted him deep inside you, touching all those spots that no one had ever been able to touch before. You wanted him to fuck you until you passed out and had the entire world watching as he did so.

“I w-want your cock, Papa,” you told him, naked hips bucking up to rub against him.

“Davvero? Where would you like it, tesoro?” He ran his index finger over your lips. “In your mouth?” He moved his hand down to in between your breasts. “Against these glorious tits?” He continued his movements, skipping over your sensitive snatch with his hands and rubbing your inner thighs teasingly. “Here? Where do you want my cock?”

“Inside me.”

“Il mia angela, more specific. Do you want me in your mouth?”

You shook your head.

“Words.”

“N-no.”

“Your ass?”

“No, Papa. Please.”

“Then where?”

“M-my cunt. Please fuck my cunt Papa.”

He giggled. He leaned down and bit your neck, playfully. “So polite. Begging so sweetly. Va bene,” he sat up and pulled off his jacket, throwing it over to the other side of the room, “Papa will give you what you want.”

He never undressed much further than that besides him rolling up his sleeves like he meant business. He pulled his cock out from beneath his slacks, teasing the audience with him still being clothed. The entire Ministry had seen this man naked innumerable times, but the rest of the world would have to wait.

From the sides of your body, he lifted your hands and trapped them beneath his own above your head. “Feel me,” he whispered in your ear before sliding himself inside you slowly.

As Terzo slowly pushed inside you, your body arched instinctively, desperate to take all of him. The initial stretch was exquisite, your walls clinging tightly to his cock as he sank in deeper, filling you inch by inch. The weight of his body pressing yours into the mattress was intoxicating, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered sweet nothings in a mix of Italian and English, each word sending shivers down your spine.

“Così stretto,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “So tight for me, tesoro. You feel incredible.”

The cameras were still rolling, capturing every moment of your connection, but in that moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you. The sensation of being so completely filled, so utterly claimed, had your heart racing, and the thought that others were watching only added to the intense heat pooling in your core.

Terzo held your hands firmly above your head, his fingers digging deliciously into your wrists as he began to move, his hips rolling in slow, deliberate thrusts. Each time he pulled out just enough to leave you wanting, only to thrust back in with a firm, measured pace. His cock hit all the right spots, the delicious friction building a heady pressure inside you.

“Fuck, Papa!” you gasped, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, urging him to go deeper, harder. But Terzo, ever the tease, kept his pace slow and torturous, drawing out your pleasure until you were trembling beneath him, desperate for more.

“Patience, bella,” he teased, his lips brushing against your jawline. “We have an audience, remember? We want to give them a show they’ll never forget.”

You moaned in response, the heat of his words matching the fire building inside you. The idea that so many eyes were on you, watching you writhe beneath Papa Emeritus III, was electrifying. You could practically feel the weight of their gaze, knowing they were all waiting, eagerly anticipating the moment he would finally take you as hard and fast as you craved.

“Pl-please, Terzo,” you begged, your voice breathy and desperate. “I ne… need more.”

He grinned wickedly, clearly enjoying the way you were pleading for him. His pace quickened slightly, his thrusts becoming deeper, more insistent, but still not quite enough to push you over the edge. It was maddening, the way he kept you teetering on the brink of ecstasy, his cock filling you completely with every slow, deliberate movement.

“Look at you,” he purred, his voice dripping with arrogance. “So needy, tesoro. You want Papa to fuck you harder, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” you breathed, your hands gripping his tightly as your hips bucked up to meet his. “Please, f-fuck me ha-ah! Harder.”

He chuckled darkly, clearly savoring the power he had over you in this moment. “Brava,” he praised, his lips ghosting over yours. “You ask so sweetly. But I think they want to hear you beg a little more.”

With that, he shifted slightly, adjusting his angle so that his cock hit that perfect spot deep inside you with every thrust. Your eyes fluttered shut as a moan escaped your lips, your body tightening around him in response. The sensation was overwhelming, the pleasure almost too much to bear.

“Tell them,” Terzo commanded, his voice a low growl. “Tell them how much you want it.”

You opened your eyes, glancing at the camera that was focused on your every move, your heart pounding in your chest. “I want it,” you gasped, your voice trembling with need. “I want Papa to fuck me harder. Please.”

“Perfetto,” he purred, his pace finally picking up as he drove into you harder, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. The bed creaked beneath you as he moved faster, his hips slamming against yours with a rhythm that was as punishing as it was perfect.

You could feel the tension coiling in your belly, that familiar pressure building rapidly as he took you harder, deeper, his cock hitting that sweet spot with every thrust. The sound of your combined moans filled the room, the lewd slap of skin on skin only adding to the intensity of the moment.

Terzo’s grip on your hands tightened as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. “Come for me, cara,” he whispered, his voice thick with lust. “Let them see how good I make you feel.”

His words sent you over the edge. Your body tensed as the orgasm crashed over you, your walls clenching around his cock as you cried out his name. The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave of sensation that left you trembling beneath him, completely undone.

Terzo didn’t let up, continuing to fuck you through your orgasm, his thrusts unrelenting as he chased his own release. The look on his face was one of pure ecstasy, his eyes dark with lust as he watched you fall apart beneath him.

“Buona ragazza,” he growled, his pace becoming erratic as he neared his own climax. “You’re perfect.”

As Terzo’s thrusts became rougher, his focus shifting to his own pleasure, the sight of him above you was utterly mesmerizing. His sharp, angular features were illuminated by the soft, purple glow of the room, casting shadows that only added to his allure. His slicked-back hair was now slightly disheveled from the intensity of the moment, and a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, rubbing his paints off him with every bead that dripped onto your body. Every movement radiated raw, untamed power, as he lost himself in the rhythm of his own need.

The fabric of his shirt was slightly wrinkled now, his sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the strength in his forearms as he braced himself above you. Every muscle in his body was taut, working in perfect harmony as he plunged into you over and over. He was fully in control, and he knew it. The confidence he exuded was magnetic, the way his body moved with precision and purpose made it impossible to look away.

You could see the tension building in his jaw, his lips parted as he breathed heavily, and the deep, guttural sounds escaping him were enough to send shivers down your spine. His eyes, still dark with lust, never left you, watching intently as you squirmed and gasped beneath him. The combination of his powerful movements and the way his clothes framed his body only added to his allure—this man, still so composed and dignified, was fucking you like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The way he thrust into you now, hard and fast, each movement rougher than the last, sent waves of pleasure crashing through you all over again. You could feel his cock throbbing inside you, stretching you in all the right ways, and the sound of his hips slamming into yours echoed through the room, mixing with your breathy moans and the wet sounds of your bodies colliding.

Terzo’s head tilted back slightly, his eyes half-lidded as his pleasure began to crest, and the sight of him, still fully dressed, so composed in his authority even while chasing his release, made him look more powerful than ever. He was gorgeous—perfect in his calculated roughness, his eyes locking onto yours as he growled, “Sì, tesoro, I’m close.”

The power he held in this moment, the way he dominated the space around you, both on camera and within the confines of the bed, left you in awe. You could feel the tightening in his body, the way his body tensed as he pushed himself toward the edge, and the sound of his raspy breathing only deepened the sexual haze you were already lost in.

He was fully in control, fucking you with a raw intensity that left no doubt about who was in charge.

As Terzo’s pace grew even more frantic, the pressure within him reached its peak. His grip on your wrists tightened, his body moving with an unrestrained force as he chased his release. With one final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you, his head thrown back, and a guttural groan ripped from his throat as he came.

You could feel his cock pulse within you as he spilled inside, the heat of his release spreading through your body. His hips stuttered slightly, pushing deeper as his orgasm washed over him, his face contorting in a mix of pleasure and relief. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and for a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of his panting and the subtle creak of the bed beneath you.

His body was still pressed firmly against yours, his cock softening but still buried deep inside you, and you could feel his weight resting heavily on you. Slowly, Terzo lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours with a look of satisfied arrogance that only made the moment hotter. The smirk that curved his lips was smug and lazy, a man fully aware of the power he held over you.

“Perfetto,” he murmured, his voice husky and breathless. He lowered himself slightly, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, heated kiss. You could taste his satisfaction, the faint saltiness of sweat and the lingering traces of your own pleasure on his tongue.

When he finally pulled back, he released your wrists, his fingers trailing lightly over your skin as he sat up, his cock slipping from your body. You felt the cool air hit you, contrasting sharply with the warmth of his release that still dripped from between your thighs.

Terzo leaned back, fixing his gaze on the camera, his signature smirk in place as he casually straightened his clothing. He looked powerful and composed, a stark contrast to your naked, trembling form beneath him. Without even needing to say a word, his eyes conveyed everything—he knew exactly what he’d done, and how many people would watch him do it when this finally got uploaded.

Turning his attention back to you, he offered a hand, helping you sit up with a surprising gentleness, given the ferocity with which he’d just fucked you. His touch was still warm, his thumb brushing your skin as he whispered, “Che bella performance, tesoro.”

Terzo’s eyes glinted with a playful mischief as he reached for the camera, effortlessly lifting it with one hand while the other brushed against your thigh, still slick with the aftermath of your pleasure. He aimed the lens down towards you, and the moment he captured the view, he chuckled, his voice dripping with seductive satisfaction.

“Ecco,” he said, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. “Look at what I’ve done.” He held the camera steady, ensuring that every detail was perfectly framed—the way your thighs glistened, your pussy swollen and glistening with his cum spilling out, a true canvas to his art, and to the intense pleasure you’d just shared.

“Non è bellissimo?” he purred, clearly enjoying himself as he glanced between you and the camera, making sure his audience soaked in every tantalizing second. “This is what happens when you give yourself to me completely. Who wouldn’t want to see how beautifully you take me?”

With that, he tilted the camera closer, as if to tease the viewers with a closer look at the remnants of your passion. The sight of you, still panting and flushed, made his grin widen. “Such a good girl,” he murmured, pride lacing his tone. “Just look at you—perfectly ravaged and mine.”

You felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks, the mixture of embarrassment and thrill sending a shiver down your spine. Terzo, ever the showman, basked in the moment, letting the camera linger on your beaten pussy, the remnants of his cum a stark reminder of the wildness that had just unfolded.

Terzo turned the camera back to his face, still beaming with that signature cheekiness, and waved at the viewers. “Ciao, darlings! Until next time!” He flashed a wink before shutting off the feed, the air between you buzzing with the echoes of laughter and satisfaction.

As the last light from the camera dimmed, he leaned over, an earnest expression replacing the playful grin. “Beautiful girl,” he said, brushing a stray hair from your face, “you were incredible. Are you alright, amore?” His voice was soft, laced with genuine concern.

You nodded, still feeling the aftershocks of pleasure coursing through you, but his worried brow made you chuckle. “I’m fine, honestly. Just a bit… well, worn out,” you replied, giving him a teasing smile.

“Worn out?” he echoed, feigning shock. “I’m shocked—absolutely shocked! It’s as if I’ve just put you through a rigorous training regime.” He chuckled, moving down to grab a soft cloth from the bedside table. “Well, allow me to be your humble servant and clean you up, then.”

With a gentle touch, he began to wipe you down, the softness of the cloth contrasting with the heat still radiating from your body. “If I’d known this was part of the gig, I’d have charged more,” you joked, trying to stifle a laugh as he focused intently on his task.

“Ah, ma bella,” he grinned, “I’d pay any amount just for this privilege.” His fingers danced over your skin as he cleaned you with care, his eyes sparkling with affection. “I must admit, though, this isn’t how I expected our little escapade to go. I thought I’d just get to show off my talent.” He winked at you, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

“You certainly did show off,” you replied, giving him a playful nudge. “Who knew you were such a—what did you call it? A ‘humble servant’?”

He chuckled, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a mock-serious whisper. “I do believe that’s my new title. Papa Emeritus III, Humble Servant of the Ministry of Pleasure. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Very catchy,” you replied, fighting back another laugh. “I’m sure the Ministry will put that on your business cards.”

“Esatto!” he exclaimed, puffing his chest out proudly. “Right next to ‘Professional Heartthrob.’” He finished cleaning you up and tossed the cloth aside with a flourish, as if he’d just completed a masterful performance.

“Now, how do you feel?” he asked, genuine warmth flooding his tone.

“Like I just had the most exhilarating experience of my life,” you replied, smiling widely. “And surprisingly, I’m not complaining about the aftermath either.”

“Good!” he exclaimed, his eyes brightening. “Just don’t forget to tell all the viewers how marvellous their Papa is, alright?” He nudged you playfully, his voice a teasing sing-song. “I wouldn’t want to lose my fanbase just because I’m a bit of a messy lover!”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his antics, feeling a rush of affection for this man who could seamlessly blend charm and humour, even in the most intimate of moments. “I promise, I’ll tell them you’re an absolute delight.”

“Delightfully messy, perhaps!” he corrected, throwing an arm around your shoulder and pulling you close. “But no one can resist a little chaos, can they?”

“Indeed,” you replied, leaning against him, feeling the warmth of his presence envelop you. “Especially when it’s this much fun.”

Translations:

Amico - Male friend.

Ma dai - “Come on” or “Oh, come on.”

Tesoro - “Treasure,” often used as a term of endearment like “darling” or “dear.”

Immagina - “Imagine.”

Cose - “Things.”

Sei d’accordo? - “Do you agree?”

Certo - “Of course.”

Stipendio - “Salary” or “wage.”

Nuova avventura - “New adventure.”

Bellissima - Beautiful

Ti mostrerò - I will show you

Sei così bella - You are so beautiful

Voglio sentire i tuoi gemiti - I want to hear your moans

Sì, così, bella - Yes, like that, beautiful

Che esperienza incredibile - What an incredible experience.

Esatto - That’s right.

Davvero? - Is that so?

Che bella performance - A beautiful performance.

Ecco - here.

Non è bellissimo? - Isn’t it beautiful?

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