#the first line and then the other two join in and its like a. semi-conversation | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wincore · 4 years

Text

atlas | kim dongyoung

pairing: doyoung x reader

words: 15.4k

summary: kim doyoung has a lot of titles. student body president, music club president, favourite student of every professor who’s blessed enough to have him. in other words, he’s not your type and never will be. at least he’s a good kisser.

or, you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and you do not know how to hold things as delicate as glass.

genre: college au, fwb au, hurt/comfort, angst, some fluff

warnings: very suggestive content, making out, language, smoking, alcohol, mentions of sex under influence, me being pretentious,,

prompt: anonymous said: slippery + doyoung + "you can rely on me, you know." from the first dialogue link! LOVE YOU ❤️

song rec(s): playlist here !

a/n: yes it’s me experimenting out of my comfort zone again. yes you are required by law to listen to keshi while reading this hahahaha anyway writing this was painful. <3 (aka today i tried writing very complex human emotions and failed again. classic.)

In the beginning, there was no beginning. Ergo, this isn’t really a thing.

You shouldn’t be thinking of summer in Introduction to Latin. You are a good (perhaps great, if your ego allows) student after all. Here you are, though, listening to the ticking of the clock and wondering if you sigh loud enough, you won’t have to construct another sentence with the word for ‘death’. You pause to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be thinking of summer out of class either. Unremarkable; that's what it was and you don’t like unremarkable things.

When two people end up alone together, there’s not much to make of.

“You know,” he had said, locking eyes. “We should get out of here.”

“And then what?”

“Fuck.”

So here’s the thing: this isn’t and won’t be a thing.

Doyoung has never been subtle when drunk, you found out, and he’s not as gentle as he looks. You flip the page of your notebook absentmindedly. You don’t like where your thoughts are going; the clinking of ice against glass rings in your ears again. It’s been far too long (one whole month) and you’re craving a bit of fun. You may forget yourself but you’re reaching your fingertips a little too far to call him again. More excuses pop up. See, in your world of perfection, there’s a hierarchy of things; men rank rather low.

(Fun doesn’t.)

Here’s another thing: you forget yourself quite often. You know very well that you’re the one who continued this not-thing and now you’re daydreaming of Kim Doyoung in class hours.

And under grey bed sheets with a tired smile, Doyoung is hard to forget.

It was a party, it always is. That time, however, was the first party of the year Doyoung and you happened to be attending at the same time. You can’t remember who hosted it—the frat probably—but it was at a bar called the ‘The Meeting Place’ which had too many people you didn’t care about. Doyoung was there, in his laid-back glory, and you were drawn in far too easily. Being single did not help your case—and the alcohol certainly didn’t. You’re not sure if it was the gentle touches against your wrist or quick words that left his mouth or the attractive all-black get-up. All you know is that it was your mouth against his by the end of the night in a small booth, hot and impatient. Once, twice, thrice and you didn’t even need parties anymore.

It’s not like you weren’t aware of what you were doing; it’s just that you were quick to give in—like you didn’t want to resist in the first place. And now, summer smells like Doyoung’s perfume.

The first night had given Mr. Student Body President a near-stroke. You weren’t the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men at parties either so the morning had been full of awkward explanations to each other till you’d kissed him to shut him up (much like in a disgusting romantic comedy, minus the feelings) and somehow, it worked. He didn’t refuse and if you recall, he’d eventually pulled you closer by the waist.

You huff, twirling your pen. He’d never admit it.

You didn’t kiss so sloppily after that, unless it was to make out against a wall or while fumbling with the keys to your apartment. The lack of alcohol can bring wonders. You were a little surprised that he’d agreed—he is the Doyoung you’ve known since freshman year after all; blunt, rude, cares more for his grades than he’d ever for you. How laughable. He’s almost the same as you.

Here’s one last thing: Kim Doyoung is not and cannot be your type.

You had the same part-time job in your second semester at a local fast food joint, and to summarize, your interactions were less than friendly. You can’t possibly count the number of times he yelled at you for trivial mistakes, and the number of times you sent angry, clipped sentences his way. So, yes, neither of you have told anyone—just acting friendly got you enough eyebrow raises. If there’s anything worse than contradicting yourself almost directly, it’s having to explain that to your friends. So, you kept it a secret and so did he, for his own reasons.

You massage your forehead. If you think any more of this during class hours, you’re going to have to classify this as a terrible, terrible problem; like you don’t have enough already. You tune in to the lecture again, hoping it drowns out the rest of your thoughts.

You tap your pen against the desk till you’re asked to stop by the professor. There goes your last resort. It isn’t the first time, but you breathe a sigh of relief at the hands of the clock. Casual means casual—you know it better than anyone. Maybe it would be easier if you could be more open about it. But you can’t. Your own problems aside, Doyoung would kill you if his reputation went down, even a nick. Men like that are so difficult, you curse to yourself.

You run into Ten in the hallways, brightening at his absurdly wide grin. In fact, you haven’t seen him remotely upset since freshman year, when he couldn’t join the dance club, not because he failed the audition but because he mixed up the dates and missed it entirely. (It’s okay; he got in the next year.)

“Guess what!” he yells before you’re even in conversation range.

“What?” you yell back.

“No, guess,” he says, when you’re close enough.

You roll your eyes. “You scored a date?”

Ten deadpans. “No. I don’t even want one.”

“Loser.”

“No, you.”

“How clever.”

Ten flicks your forehead with no provocation whatsoever, making you yelp in pain. After a minute of cursing on your part, he squishes your cheeks to bring you back to reality—like he wasn’t the cause. You bite your lip to keep yourself from scowling. His hair is still light brown from the bleach, and you fix his bangs out of habit; your dumb friends are all you have at the end of the day. You sigh. They all lean on you unwittingly.

“Anyway, the news? I’m not guessing anything else,” you warn, taking a sip of your coffee.

“Well,” he draws out the syllable. “I heard- know you’re into the smart type. You know, student council kinda guys? So…”

You choke, the coffee leaving your mouth just as quick as it entered.

“Who told you that?” The laugh that leaves your mouth is forced and certainly fake but it’s the best you can do.

Ten rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I was thinking if you would be interested in a certain Park Hyungmin.”

Oh. Student body vice-president. He’s most definitely your type, with a gifted body and equally strong academic prowess—not to mention perfectly maintained tan skin and the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Oh, yeah, he’s hot,” you nod in agreement. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“He likes you. Like, totally has the hots for you. And I owe him so please help me out here.”

You furrow your brows, heaving a deep sigh.

“You...want me to go on a date with him?” you ask.

You can oblige. Park Hyungmin is the hottest dude on campus (probably). It’s a win-win situation—in fact, it’s even better. A certain bitter taste finds itself in your mouth. It must be the coffee. You swallow it.

“Yeah.”

And the deal’s done.

It was casual commitment, like most things you do for fun. You don’t think much of it, and the thought takes its final bow when you run into Doyoung himself.

Well, sort of.

You turn heel when he appears in your line of sight, pretending to fix your hair against a damn wall. You aren’t quite ready to face him yet, considering the coffee hasn’t kicked in—it’s not healthy how much you depend on it. Dependence is different, however, from consciously drowning yourself in it.

See, Doyoung is anything but tolerable without a few shots of vodka. Or after sex. Or when he’s mumbling in his sleep. And you can’t erase any of those scenes. This is you trying to save yourself (and Doyoung) from embarrassment and a whole lot of explanation.

His coat looks expensive and you’d rather he had it on instead of on his arm. The tucked-in sweater and pants combo accentuates the line of his waist and the colour—you wonder where he found a teal so fitting—looks serene in the crowd. He’s wearing his glasses though, looking a little less put together than usual. Still, no one seems to notice and he continues to explain something to his group of friends.

God forbid you find Doyoung attractive during daytime.

His lips are chapped but pink as ever, the hair messed up by either the wind or his friends—you should stop staring by now. You give in. You’ll text him to book a hotel room tonight.

Sometimes you wonder how he has that large a friend circle, and always, the question answers itself. Eloquence, wit and regrettably, good looks—what does he lack? Maybe if he lost the habit to nag people around fifty-six times a day, he’d be the perfect man.

An arm slings over your shoulder, punting the soul right out of your body.

“Fuck, Johnny, don’t do that,” you hiss, placing your hand over your chest involuntarily.

The head of the photography club apparently spends his time terrorizing everyone he remotely knows. You make a foul expression but iIt’s not like he ever minds your scowling. He says he’s had enough practice from teasing Doyoung (and you’ll admit, it’s the only time you feel sorry for him). You were certain Doyoung would have filed him for harassment sometime in sophomore year.

“What are you even looking at?” Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow at the plain offwhite expanse of the wall in front of you.

You feel hot at the neck. “I was fixing my hair.”

“In front of a wall?”

You click your tongue. “Do you not have class?”

“Oh, don’t be so quick to send me off.” He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt, fingers stretched delicately.

To your dismay, the rest of his friends gather around giving you happy greetings—greetings only carefree college boys are capable of delivering. To your further dismay, Kim Doyoung arches an eyebrow at you, the same way he does on nights you’re doing things less than appropriate to think of in broad daylight.

“Hey, Doyoung, don’t you have anything to say? Or were you too drunk to remember?”

You bite down on your lip a little too hard. Doyoung, on the other hand, looks like he’s just seen God, stammering out a “what?” nevertheless.

“Weren’t you supposed to buy (name) a drink for driving you home that night?”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.

Oh, he’s bought you a drink enough times. Summer has waned but whatever thread you tied around your wrists hasn’t. Right now, your guess is that Doyoung has been ensnared in the common ritual for college boys to walk around campus and declare their friend is single just to embarrass him (or by some miracle, score him a date).

Everything, apart from the way you look at Doyoung, feels like a charade. You shake your head with a quick laugh, smacking Johnny in the arm and pay your condolences to Doyoung—keep it light. You’re good at it, or pretending you’re good at it, at the very least.

Doyoung’s gaze on you lingers for a moment and then you breathe. You’re going to be late for class—you offer the classic excuse and you’re out of there. In a way, it’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to have a secret relationship, even if this isn’t a real one.

Doyoung is like the summer breeze, and you’d like for him to stay that way.

The next time you grace each other’s presence is when Doyoung’s tongue is in your mouth and his hands are running up under your shirt.

He’s quite a pretty sight—messy hair, red lips and rosy cheeks. He moans into the kiss as he has quite a few times now and there’s the lovers’ high running through either of your minds. When he presses his lips to your neck, a soft restrained sound escapes you, not quite prepared for the sting of electricity through your skin. He moves to your collarbone and shoulders and then even lower, hands gripping your waist tight. The walls do not have ears here; these hotels are cheap but they’re built for privacy and maybe you’ll let yourself believe for once that you can belong to someone.

“Why did you text me in the middle of the goddamn night?” he mutters against the base of your neck.

“You want reasons now?” you whisper, hands running through his hair.

Doyoung has pretty fingers, pressing at the right places and prettier eyes that look at you with something akin to, dare you say it, love. He kisses you like he hasn’t had enough; and it makes you feel important.

He’s even better when he’s annoyed.

You wake up at around five in the morning. Propping yourself up on one arm, you take a moment to look at your partner. It’s easy to make out the line of his nose against the pillow, and if you focus, you can see his lashes against his cheek and his dark mop of hair clinging to his forehead. However gentle the moonlight is, it is kindest on a lover.

Funny.

Too tired to sneak out, you go back to sleep.

“All I’m saying is that you have too much coffee,” Doyoung complains, slipping on his loose black sweatshirt. “It can’t be good for your health.”

You shake your head, scrolling through your phone as you lay on your belly. You’ve seen this view enough times—his back to you and sitting at the opposite edge of the bed, his incessant complaints and opinions about something that happened recently, running his hand through his hair when he sighs. You press on the calendar app and type in a note labeled ‘x’. Keeping tabs isn’t a bad thing; especially if you like order. Spending too many nights with someone is going to land you in trouble. That said, if you could trap love in a bottle, you would.

“You taste like coffee,” Doyoung adds with reddening ears.

Sometimes, it’s easy to ignore what he says if you listen to the sound of his voice instead. You sit up, scooting closer as Doyoung shoots you an alarmed look. He’s so cute like this; something about all the painted fences he puts up around him makes you want to lean in closer.

“So,” you poke his side. “How many relationships have you been in? Proper ones.”

“Three,” he answers, to your surprise.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s more than I’ve been in!”

Doyoung furrows his. “How many have you been in?”

“One.”

He seems equally surprised but doesn’t probe further. After all, the price sticker that spells ‘youth’ clings to his forehead just as it clings to yours.

“How many people have you fucked?” you ask suddenly, enjoying the visible flush across his neck.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he notes, flicking your forehead.

“Ow!” You place your palm against your forehead. “Okay, I get it, you have nothing to brag about.”

He shakes his head, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “I just don’t think you have to know. I like privacy.”

“Wait.” You gasp. “Don’t tell me- That night- don’t tell me you were a virgin—”

Doyoung squishes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, a laugh erupting from your mouth.

“Who’s a virgin?”

Nothing about this, you find yourself realizing, is complicated. It’s easy, gentle, natural, like a breath of fresh air—everything but complicated. Even under dim lights and within the depths of night, Doyoung is warm and uncomplicated. His chest, his hands, his lips—they are warm, as are his words.

But Doyoung is a fucking fairytale.

Even after these few months, all you know about him, in the definitive format, is that he plays the keys for more hours than he sleeps. What he does for fun, what his classes are, how he became student body president—you could play guessing games all night.

“Do your friends know where you spend your nights?” you ask, leaning back against the pillows.

“They know what I’m doing, not who I’m with,” he responds, running his fingers through his hair.

You purse your lips. It’s nothing hurtful but you don’t like the hush-hush in his tone.

“Why not?”

“Because this is a secret,” he responds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you want them to know?”

He’s right.

“Ah, whatever,” you mutter, a stream of curses following when your elbow collides hard with the edge of the bedside table.

“Your mouth is filthy.” He looks away to his phone. “I don’t swear as much.”

“Well, of course it is. I had your—”

Doyoung presses his palm against your lips with a tired sigh. “Please. Don’t speak. For the sake of my sanity.”

You smile under his hand and he returns it; and the November morning warms up.

“Where were you last night?”

You were expecting the question. Areum is the worst possible candidate for a roommate if you want some privacy. You don’t think she ever sleeps; sometimes, you wonder if she even showers because all she does is stare at her laptop screen and adjust her designs. Her lips are always chapped and her hair is always in a simple low ponytail but somehow still messy. You’ve never met someone so exhausted yet so full of life at the same time.

“Who were you with last night?” Eunji yells from the bathroom, before the two of them laugh.

You knew you shouldn’t have stayed the morning. You have the nosiest roommates anyone could (not) ask for. But they’re still your friends, you tell yourself begrudgingly. You would tell them about Doyoung if it weren’t for Eunji’s big mouth and Areum’s lack of common sense. And if it weren’t for the inherent comfort of privacy.

(Some part of you wants to keep him to yourself. You don’t care about student council president Doyoung or his friend group’s everything-regulator Doyoung or always-has-his-shit-together Doyoung. The one in your bed is the most loving.)

Areum adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes at you. “So? Any answer?”

You break out of your daydream at her voice, feeling a flush creep up your neck.

“I don’t have to explain anything,” you retort, snatching the coffee she brewed from the tabletop. “It was a Friday night and the two of you like Netflix more than me.”

“That’s mine,” Areum mumbles out a weak complaint.

“But don’t go out alone,” Eunji whines. “It can’t be safe.”

You laugh. “You know me. I don’t do anything too dangerous. Besides, you guys have that tracker app.”

They shrug, offering you a thin smile. A part of you is happy that they trust you but another part wonders what it would be like to be worried over. Maybe getting nagged isn’t so bad.

You take a sip of Areum’s coffee and almost spit it out right back.

“Did you add salt?” you ask, wiping at your mouth and hoping the taste disappears.

“Uh.” A reply so intelligent, you wonder if she ever pays attention to anything she's doing.

You take a moment (a few), sigh (several times) and make your way to the shelves. Grumbling, you make her a proper cup of coffee before you leave.

Classes don’t wait for you (even if you think they should) and the world doesn’t wait for you (again, you think it should wait for people) so you’ve made it a point to understand the whole deal about rules. If everyone followed the rules, it would be quite a pretty scene; messing up is only valid if it’s done prettily. You laugh at the thought. That’s near impossible. The bus ride to the campus consists of music and thoughts of bleak tomorrows—an average commute for college kids, you think. You sure hope you aren’t alone in this.

Doyoung smiles at you in the hallway today, and despite your best efforts, it makes your day smell a little fresher.

Your day: classes, coffee break, classes, complaining with Ten, assignments, ‘me’ time. For someone who pretends to be laid back, you use your planner as though for survival. There’s no sticky notes or colourful sketches (except on occasion); just good old fashioned to-do lists and a calendar marked with time you’ve spent on productivity. Every day is a list to be completed. If people call routine a man-made cage, instinct is the biological cage. You’d rather be in control of the cage you’re in. You’d rather be in control of yourself. It’s scary otherwise.

So you know how to get the job done—it’s ingrained into you the same way you would place your hands over your ears at loud sounds, or the way you would run to your bed in the dark after switching off the lights.

It never occurs to you that the reason your world is so perfect is a sad one.

Sometime next month, it’s going to snow. Not yet though, and it’s still too cold.

The inside of the cafe helps the slightest, the heaters situated far back from where you sit. Christmas decorations are up already and the combination of red and green meshes delightfully into the form of an aching headache. The wood paneling on the walls are worn at the corners, the garlands hardly covering them, and the barista behind the counter seems as gloomy as the decorations are bright. You wouldn’t be noticing all of this if you weren’t stuck in one position.

You lean your cheek further into your palm and sigh, only this time Ten asks you to, quote, ‘shut the fuck up’.

He pulls up his sleeve and reaches for another pencil. His cryptic process continues, as it has been for the past half an hour and you feel yourself getting impatient, trying to not bounce your leg and get another bout of quibbling from your half-mad artist friend. You don’t usually run low on patience; but Ten has a special pass to test drive it.

“How much lon—”

“Shh!” He hushes you quickly. You can’t remember why you agreed to being his portrait study subject but you sure as hell regret it.

Around fifteen minutes later, you take a (permitted) breath. You have neither the energy nor the neck strength to glare at Ten but you make sure to show your displeasure by snatching the cookies from the table with a particularly sour look. He gets up and pushes you to the side of the small worn-out couch offered by the equally small booth.

“God, that chair was uncomfortable. My butt is frozen solid,” he lets you know, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, if we weren’t friends in high school, I would never be friends with you,” you state.

Ten tilts his head to the side, a mocking pout over his lips. “I would die without you, (name). Really.”

You smack his arm and he yelps, smacking your arm right back. The sound attracts some attention and giggles, and you make a gagging gesture to let them know you are in way or form in a relationship. The low-volume music changes to something with a more distinguishable beat, the sound of doors opening and closing almost every two minutes accompanying. Arriving on time is an accomplishment, especially arriving before rush hour on Fridays at the only decent cafe on campus, but both of your classes end early and there is no way you aren’t taking advantage of that. Leaving, however, is mostly done when you’re being glared at by the waiters and waitresses.

“Doyoung asked about you,” Ten says, all of a sudden. “Kim Doyoung.”

You try to not show concern, but raise an eyebrow. “What? So? He’s not my type or anything.”

You bite your tongue. That was too quick a response, too obvious. Your cheeks grow hot. Ten doesn't say anything, however, and for a moment, you think you’re in safe waters.

“Are you guys… into each other or not?”

You cough, trying to show your surprise at something so outrageous. “Why would you think that? Does he look like someone who dates around?”

“Actually, he’s been on quite a few dates.”

“No way.”

You know that. He’s told you about it before, in vague references, but you know about them nonetheless.

“Isn’t one student council guy enough?” you mumble. “Why are we talking about Doyoung?”

He shrugs, a familiar feline smile on his face. “Just asking. He talks about you sometimes. Actually, we forced it out of him but whatever.”

You shake your head. “You’re all terrible.”

“You seem to like him though.”

“Who said that?”

Ten sighs, ignoring your question. “If you guys are dating—”

“We’re not.”

“—or fucking—”

“Ten.”

“—you should learn a thing or two about him. The guy’s not as annoying as he looks. Or stuck-up. He’s really nice but don’t tell him I said that.”

“I know that,” you snap, feeling warm at the neck all of a sudden. “I know him.”

“Oh, you do? Tell me what his hobbies are then. Or his major. Or the clubs he’s in, apart from the student council.”

“He- He likes to sing and he’s- he’s—god, what is this? An interrogation? I’m not going to meet his mom for dinner.”

Ten gives you an ‘I knew it’ look before leaning his elbow onto the table. “You’re sleeping with a guy you don’t know anything about. Serial killers would love you.”

You massage your forehead. “Look, I know he’s a good guy, okay? And he’s sweet- and- and—wait a minute. Oh my god, you tricked me.”

Ten lets out a snort. “Hey. Okay, look, the other guys might be dumb as shit but I have, you know, a working set of eyes. I can tell. It’s not that hard.”

You grumble but the cat’s out of the bag anyway. You should’ve known Ten would figure it out—he’s a nosy little shit, and he’s been that way since high school.

“Whatever. As long as Doyoung doesn’t start panicking about his tarnished reputation or whatever.”

“Oh, I think he’s desperate to let everyone know.”

“To you, Ten, everything seems obvious. It’s annoying.” You mess up his hair.

“No, I mean, I thought you were dating.”

“Well, we’re not.”

Ten shrugs.

“And I don’t like him,” you add. “I like the- the thing that’s going on because there’s no feelings attached.”

He looks somewhat pained, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, but doesn’t respond to your explanation. “Can I ask for a favour?”

“No.”

Ten sighs. “Come on. You didn’t even hear me out.”

“You’re going to say something stupid. Or insulting.”

“It’s neither, promise.”

You run your hand through your hair, breathing shallow. “Fine. I don’t have to agree though.”

Ten purses his lips. “It’d be better if you did.”

You hum in response, biting into the cookie and trying to ignore the glare from the nearby waitress. It’s about time you left anyway.

“Get to know him, dude. Don’t break his heart.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. There’s a party tonight. Hosted by yours truly. Finally moved out of that stinky dorm room. Bring over some friends but not more than three. And lend me some money for a juicebox.”

“That’s a lot,” you mutter. “You ask for a lot of favours.”

“Oh, speaking of which, Hyungmin—”

“He already asked me out on a date. Am I supposed to say no? You never mentioned he has such an attractive voice.”

“Oh, I’m not telling you to not go on that date. You have to, actually. I’m going to be in a lot of trouble otherwise.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Shut up. I’m not done speaking.”

You roll your eyes.

“But if you didn’t, I could draw some conclusions.”

“What am I, your chemistry experiment now?”

“Well, you and Doyoung seem to be—”

“Don’t complete that sentence.”

“I was going to say something funny.”

Ten flashes you a blinding smile and you sigh. By now, you’re about to get kicked out of here so you stand up discreetly while he packs up his stuff. You hug your jacket close to you as soon as you leave, shivering at the evening breeze. The sky is inky, but with a faint sort of ink—deep blue and light, all at once. From the crowd, you can tell classes just got over for quite a few people, eclectic chatter filling up the street.

“Fine. I’ll bring Eunji,” you tell Ten after some contemplation. “And whoever else responds to my text first. Areum never leaves the room. You know that.”

“Thanks, (name)!” he messes up your hair. “I would give you a kiss but someone will end up punching my pretty face.”

You furrow your brows. “Well, you’re not my type anyway.”

“I’m too good for you,” he responds in a sing-song manner, waving at you before running off and disappearing into the university crowd.

There’s always a sort of buzz in the air you can’t quite describe at college parties.

Even if this is a relatively small one, you feel an oncoming headache the moment you enter Ten’s new apartment, which you’re sure had a ‘no parties’ rule in the rental contract. You spot Kun, Ten’s roommate from the dorms and he flashes you a quick smile in greeting before he’s swept up by a doting crowd. Apparently, a cute guy in animal sciences is rare and it makes him rather popular.

Eunji disappears from your side the moment she spots Johnny, and the number of eye rolls you’ve given her haven’t warned her off him yet. You suppose it takes heartbreak to change a person. Sighing, you make your way to the kitchen only to be greeted with the strange sight of Yuta trying to balance Jaehyun on his back so they can imitate some anime formation and back out immediately. Living room, it is, despite its populous space. (You don’t really want to think of bedrooms right now.)

The apartment is quite big for what Ten told you the rent was. The hallway to the two bedrooms is narrow but you suppose something has to be sacrificed for space. You furrow your eyebrows at the two bedroom doors. Ten never said he was getting a roommate. You shrug it off, sitting down on the rather stiff couch. The lack of furniture, apart from the couch and a coffee table, makes the place look even larger and people sparse. You like the beige walls; Ten’s always loved warmer colours but something makes you think he’s going to be ruining them in a few days with garish green paint before he comes crying about that to you.

“Hey.”

You look up to the familiar voice, heart rising to your throat.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Doyoung remarks before sitting down beside you and offering you a cup of god-knows-what.

“I don’t take drinks from strange men,” you say, biting down your smile and crossing your arms.

“If you didn’t take drinks from strange men, we wouldn’t be fu—”

“Doyoung!” you hiss before looking at him with careful suspicion. “Are you drunk?”

“No. A little bit. Not enough.”

You sigh. “How will you get home now?”

“I live here, idiot.”

“You’re- You’re Ten’s roommate?” you sputter.

“Yeah. New one,” he responds. “He used to live across our room in the dorms, I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”

“I can’t believe it either. I’ve seen cats and dogs friendlier with each other than the two of you.”

Doyoung laughs. “He’s surprisingly one of the better people to room with. I’d rather eat my own blanket than room with Yuta again.”

You laugh at his irked expression, eyebrows furrowed so cutely. The line of his brow bone to nose to lips, it seems a little too perfect to belong to someone. He relaxes his shoulders a little, leaning back on the couch as he looks somewhat lost in thought. (“You think too much,” you’d told him once. “And you think too little.”) If only that were true, you smile to yourself.

“Are you sure you can hold parties here?” you as when the music suddenly rises in volume.

“Well, it said student-friendly,” Doyoung responds, looking visibly disturbed. “Not sure if I want to test the limits of that so early.”

There’s a pause, filled in with loud pop music. You don’t think Ten, your dear introvert, would have agreed to such a party but there’s a chance Johnny or Jaehyun had something to do with this. You don’t know who to suspect when it comes to their group of friends.

“I still can’t believe you’re rooming with Ten.” You look at Doyoung.

“Well, that makes, what, eleven of us, I guess?”

You laugh, feeling conscious all of sudden. Maybe you should listen to Ten’s advice.

“Doyoung,” you call, looking at the cup in your hands a little too passionately. “What’s your major?”

He looks at you with eyes widened ever so slightly, and a pause over his lips.

“Linguistics,” he answers.

“Oh. You said something about it once,” you mumble, recalling something vague about an assignment of his. “You know mine?”

“Yeah,” he answers, eyes cast on his watch.

“Well, that makes me feel a little guilty,” you mumble as softly as you can.

“You should be,” he says. “You never listen to anything I say.”

You scoff. “You just complain most of the time.”

“Really now?”

“Yes,” you snap, looking away.

You look back again when you hear the sound of Doyoung’s laugh, a distinct brightness in it. Sometimes, you wonder if you really are as awful as you’ve made yourself be.

“You’re cute,” he says. “No wonder everyone is so in love with you.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

“Everyone?” you laugh. You don’t care about everyone. It’s burdensome.

“Everyone. They hate you too, by the way.” He smiles to himself. “Heard you’re going on a date with that dimwit. Hyungmin.”

You feel a sudden discomfort in your being. Taking a sip of the drink, you try to shake it off as best as you can.

“Yeah, I- I don’t think I’ll go,” you say, waving it off.

Why are you lying? You left it hanging on a maybe. Part of you wants to tell Doyoung; he is your friend after all and you tell friends stuff like this. The other part tells you this is cheating; lying and pretending everything is okay—it feels like cheating.

“Oh.” He looks lost before he focuses on you. “Why not?”

“Why do you care?” you ask, trying desperately to calm the uprising in your chest.

He stays quiet for a few seconds and then shrugs, looking away from you. It makes you feel a little guilty to dismiss the situation so quickly, another item to add to your troubles. You sigh.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” You can see his Adam's apple bob up and down.

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m wrong. I really didn’t mean it.”

He looks at you all at once, his gaze so gentle that it makes you think he wants to kiss you, or do something equally affectionate. Instead he sighs, downing whatever’s left of his drink before a wash of sudden looseness does away with the tension in his body.

“You have any more questions for me?” he asks, smiling. “What's it like to be student body president—or, or what instruments can I play? My favourite animal? Colour?”

You smile back. “What is your favourite animal?”

“I don’t have one. Don’t like them. Unless it’s a soft toy.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“Now, I answer your questions and you call me a liar? Makes me a little hesitant to answer the next.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, next then. Why didn’t you join the frat? All your friends are in it.”

“Hurts my ego.”

You laugh. He’s still probably an honorary member. There is no way he’s apart from friends for too long with all those feelings of fraternity he has, no matter what he says. It’s the same as you. Affection leads nowhere though; just to short-lived moments of comfort.

You realize, through the course of the night, that you never asked. How he got into the student council, what his classes are, what he does for fun—you never asked. It’s almost like you didn’t want to know.

How sad, you muse to yourself, to be this way. To be so wrapped up in your own problems that you fail to see people around you. Pity, however, isn’t something to feel at a party. You talk with Doyoung for the rest of the night till the sound of his voice makes you feel certain ghosts of butterflies, and till you have to take Eunji home before she does something she regrets. This is what it really means to have the price tag of ‘youth’ strung across you perhaps—when you feel old and immature all at once, and in between, when you feel nothing at all.

Doyoung is too old to mistake love. Or too young.

Labels don’t define anything, especially when it comes to relationships—so even if he calls it love, whispers it to himself at midnight when he’s sitting alone on his bed while his friends are passed out drunk on the floor, it is empty. And then there’s you. The heat of your skin, the curse of your smile and that cheeky laugh you do to get on his nerves. He wants all of it and he’s not ashamed—but he’d be a liar to say he can shout it to the whole world. He’s not that kind of man, and what is his can remain his without the rest of the world prying its damn fingers in. The first night, no, the second—third? He can’t remember which night it was but something pent up in him exploded and he didn’t try to control it for once.

“Ow,” he mutters.

His throat burns from the whiskey. He hates drinking alone but you’re either asleep or with friends and he can’t think of anyone else but you. He tugs at the turtleneck collar, getting uncomfortable by the minute, and then proceeds to take off his coat.

For a moment, he considers getting back to the living room. There were more than enough people with lingering touches against his shoulder and longing gazes—they’re not you. He leans back onto his bed. Another hour and everyone will be gone; why did he even let them hold a party in the first place? Parties just remind him of you—he takes a whiff and smells summer and lemon vodka all of a sudden. A deep sigh leaves his lips.

You might not seem to find yourself especially sad, but Doyoung finds something oddly touching about you. Maybe it’s the way you say his name, he muses, like you’re desperately trying to fill the gaps. But it can’t be him in particular, of course—it’s a lover, any lover.

He hates long nights, just as he hates winter but lately, they haven’t been feeling too cold. Isn’t it ridiculous the way he’s running after you? Doyoung was never meant for this. It’s fucking pathetic and it makes him want to tear all his hair out but there he is, still and quiet in the same place. A certain agony makes its way through him. His hands are freezing and yet his insides are burning—nothing makes sense and right now, he doesn’t want it to. He presses his cold hands to the warmth of his cheeks and a laugh erupts from his mouth.

He must be going crazy to laugh like this in an empty room. The car lights from the window travel slowly from wall to ceiling, the only thing moving in the stagnant of his room.

Inevitably, he thinks of the end. It should come quick; in fact, he’s never been one to do this. He’s always been someone to get attached to people. He doesn’t know how the end will come because this shouldn’t have begun in the first place.

Doyoung’s out of breath.

“Crazy bastard,” he mumbles to himself, followed by a groan when he lifts his head up. As if on cue, the door opens and shuts with a bang. Ten walks in looking drowsy, running his hand through his hair with a disgruntled face.

“I hate to say this,” he slurs. “But you’re right. We can’t have extra furniture and parties. Gotta choose one.”

Ten lays down flat on the bed. “I vote out that ugly ass clock you bought. Why do we need it? We have phones and laptops.”

“It was a gift,” Doyoung mutters.

“Oh. Uh. Actually, someone already, uh—”

“Leave it. We’ll talk about that in the morning.”

Doyoung massages his forehead, groaning at the pain when Ten suddenly decides he’s all up for cuddling.

“Ew,” he says, scooting away from Ten. “Get away from me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ten whines, trying very hard to pull Doyoung into a hug. Of course, his attempts are blocked by Doyoung’s palm against his forehead.

After a few more seconds of trying, Ten huffs and turns away, crossing his arms. “I don’t like you anyway.”

“I know,” Doyoung mutters.

Ten erupts into laughter, sounding more like a psychopath than a close friend of his.

“You do that every time you like someone?” he asks in between fits.

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “I just said—okay, yeah. Whatever.”

There’s a much needed silence and Doyoung wonders if he can just fall asleep without kicking Ten out.

“You should tell (name),” Ten says all of a sudden, Doyoung’s heart stopping at your name.

“What?” he whispers.

Ten looks at him as though he’s talking to a particularly stupid child. It makes Doyoung scowl but there’s too much alcohol in his system to know if he really means it.

“You don’t- you’re- everyone in this goddamn building knows,” Ten explains, exasperated. “Jaehyun knows, and he’s the densest kid I’ve ever met. God, if you like (name), go for it.”

Doyoung blushes so deep, he considers pressing his palms to his cheeks again. He thinks for the next few moments. Ah well, if they had to find out, he’s glad he didn’t have to declare it himself.

“Whatever, just ask (name) out. It can’t be that complicated.”

Except it is. You don’t have to spell it out for him—he knows the way you feel. The two of you only ever wanted one thing out of this. But if there’s something Doyoung isn’t good at, it’s keeping his mouth shut. He wonders how many times he let it slip, wonders if you even care enough to notice. God, it’s starting to sound pitiful for him.

“Ten. How much did you drink?” Doyoung asks, raising his head.

“Nothing. None. I’m not drunk.” Ten shrugs. “Just sleepy.”

A ‘wow’ is all Doyoung can respond with. He still isn’t quite finished figuring out what sort of horrific planet Ten stumbled from. A notification ding distracts him from kicking Ten off his bed and he has half a mind to toss it onto the bedside table but it’s still half. He softens almost immediately.

It’s a text from you: a ‘u’ followed by a smiley face and then a meme he can’t quite read through hazy eyes. He finds himself smiling anyway and sends a barrage of emojis, whatever he finds because he likes the way you get annoyed at them. Sighing, he decides that’s enough. He’s not in the right state of mind for conversation.

Doyoung shuts his phone off, attempts to push Ten off the bed one last time before closing his eyes and dozing off.

Not every day is meant to be fun—you know that in your twenties—but it’s still somewhat disappointing to have bad days. Like youth is meant to give you some sort of happiness daily. That’s what they make it sound like.

You groan, rubbing at your back. Sitting at your study desk for so long does not have good long term effects. At least, your temporary, meaningless assignments are done. You scowl at the text on your laptop screen; the more you look at it, the more you hate it and so, you shut it off. It’s not like your pissy professor is going to be impressed by anything you do. However, you like the orderly certainty of schoolwork.

Break time consists of guilt and sugary snacks. You’re done with most everything and you suppose leaving the final review of things to a later date can’t hurt. In fact, it sounds rather appeasing. A few more moments pass in making a decision.

You get dressed. The apartment feels eerie all alone, and you’re sure as hell not going to spend the rest of your evening here. You shiver, quickly striding out the front door and locking it before taking out your phone.

People misunderstand winter. Winter is only the end of things; and sometimes, the beginning. It isn’t cruel or crushing, it’s just taking its course. However, you have a tendency to blame seasons for all that happen in it. For instance, you shouldn’t be missing summer when you really miss the first night with Doyoung.

He picks up after calling thrice. You wonder what he’s even up to, if Saturday evenings are also booked full for such a guy.

“Why do you take so long to pick up?” you complain. “Do you not get days off?”

“I’m busy,” he hisses.

Something’s wrong.

You pause, unsure what to do. It’s not his voice but the one in the background that catches your attention.

Inviting him somewhere.

Rather sensually.

Your ears feel hot and you drop the call. Of course. Of fucking course. You’re the idiot thinking it was a thing. This whole thing is casual—feeling sorry wasn’t in the contract. Fucking around was.

It’s not like you’ll be heartbroken by something like this. Of course not. Of course. Doyoung and you never had a beginning so there isn’t an end, really. It’s fine. It’s fine. You take a deep breath and browse through your phone. With the onset of Christmas holidays, you have around three options left. Ten (yikes), Jaehyun (no way) or the latest addition, Hyungmin.

Well, you’re dressed. You have to go somewhere. And your statement about Hyungmin being the hottest guy on campus still stands.

You send two texts to the boy before deciding that’s apparently enough time waiting. He picks up after a few rings, voice groggy from what you assume to be a late afternoon nap.

“You up for a drink?” You cut to the point.

“Uh? Oh, uh, now? I am, of course- I just need—”

“Twenty minutes. I’ll text you the address.”

Nothing cheers you up like your favourite bar. Or friends. Or people who respond to calls.

Hongdae is as busy as ever. You knew the bar would be packed but not this packed. Still, you managed to grab a seat at the bar table. With the oncoming night, the smell is just going to get worse—so there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself to some lemon vodka (and its refreshing scent).

Hyungmin arrives exactly four minutes early, and the mussed up hair makes you think he must have been in a hurry. For what, you can’t be sure.

You can still see the inklings of Hongdae nightlights on his hair right before he enters, and in the fallacy of that moment, you think it’s going to be Doyoung. You sigh. This isn’t the time for that.

“Sorry,” you say, gesturing to the bar table. “All the tables were booked.”

“No, no,” he responds quickly. “I actually prefer it here.”

He’s tall, not that it’s the first time you’re noticing, but even when he’s sitting, he’s at least two heads taller than you are. His shoulders are accentuated by the mocha coat, no doubt part of the latest trend this winter. As a fashion student, he hits the mark and more.

For a moment, you feel bad for knowing his major. Ten let it slip about him and yet still, you feel guilty for remembering it. You’re not supposed to go into unnecessary detail about people that don’t matter. Does he matter?

“Surprised you could make it,” you joke half-heartedly. “Aren’t you lot always busy with something?”

He laughs. “The student council? Oh, we’re busy alright.”

Busy. Right.

“What about you? Aren’t you part of like three different clubs?”

“So what kind of busy?” you ask, ignoring his question. You’re part of two, now that you left the music club last semester. It’s not like small talk matters though.

“Uh,” he hesitates. “You know- attend meetings and events, coordinate committee work, supervise stuff, etcetera etcetera. So busy, yeah.”

“Busy on Saturdays too?” you ask, before thanking the bartender for the drinks.

“Yeah, I guess. Doyoung has it worse than me honestly. Even now, he has to take care of stuff because of me. Hah…”

You gulp down your drink making Hyungmin raise an eyebrow in concern. “Stuff? Because of you?”

“Yeah.” Hyungmin scratches the back of his head. “He’s with the girls.”

“Girls?” you ask, playing with the glass. You’re starting to feel annoyed, red lining your vision.

“Yeah.” He makes no notion of clarifying his statement.

“Must be quite the president,” you say, resting your cheek against your palm.

“Oh, he’s a nightmare.” Hyungmin laughs. “He has to control everything.”

You try to mask your scoff. You know what he can be like when you’re working beside him.

“Oh, and the guy has no sense of humour,” Hyungmin laughs, the sound easy on the ears.

You blink.

“I think he’s funny,” you say quickly. You swear you have no idea why you sound so defensive.

He hums in response and you consider biting your tongue, telling him you’re only here for one thing and forgetting the uncomfortable churning of feelings inside your chest.

“Forget I- I’m a little confused today.”

Is that an acceptable explanation? You can’t think straight enough to decide. The silence on Hyungmin’s part, however, worries you. The crowd around you fills in for the next few moments as your companion seems to debate something with himself.

“Look, I know you and Doyoung are… I don’t know, something.”

You huff in irked amusement. “God, does everyone seem to know?”

“Not until late actually.” Hyungmin takes a gulp. “He’s been acting weird. Doyoung.”

You look away, breathing shallow. You don’t like it, the way things seem to be getting out of hand. All this time, the world seemed to be in the palm of your hand and now, it’s spilling everywhere; the sand in the hourglass is already up to your knees and you don’t know what happens when it fills.

“Do you actually like him?” he asks, leaning back just a little. You know where this is going. “Are you guys dating?”

“No,” you respond, checking your watch.

“Oh.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation in him but you’ve seen that look before. You know that look.

“Then we can- uh- we can—”

“Fuck?” you ask.

He gulps. “I mean, you can say no any time—”

You pull him by the collar and kiss him, hard enough to melt away your hovering thoughts. He kisses like you expect him to, not how you want him to. You know this sort, and somehow, that makes you feel comfortable. Knowing what you’re getting into is easing but it doesn’t lessen the weight of it.

It’s sickening. The way you’re pretending it’s Doyoung.

Hyungmin pulls apart, panting heavily. “Oh, okay.”

“Tell me you drove here.”

He holds up his car keys in response.

You’re not the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men, but it’s better than falling in love with them.

So you follow a lover to a hotel room and try to feel something. Some time, when he’s kissing you against the hotel room walls, he pulls apart and asks, “You’re thinking of someone else, aren’t you?”

You know the answer; it just won’t leave your lips.

“It’s okay,” he says with a weak smile, “Let’s just have fun.”

And every time his mouth was on yours, every time you saw stars, you felt the ghost of Doyoung and his haunting touches. It was strange and unfair and unlike you—or at least, unlike the you that you built over the past few years. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something—like something was supposed to be there when you reached out but instead, it was empty space.

The night ends as it should and you leave right before dawn with an apology text you couldn’t put half your heart into.

Most winter nights, you wake up with pain so profound, it’s seeping into your bones.

It never made sense. You never tried to make sense of it. So you let the aches push you down by the shoulders, lodge itself into your neck and back; and you tell yourself, it must be what you deserve. It’s cold and you’re walking barefoot on frozen ground.

You gasp. The weight of who you are and who you have to be—it has its knee on the back of your neck, shoving you into the damp earth. There’s no particular reason to it; it makes it seem as though it’s insignificant. Unimportant. Irrelevant. But that’s the problem—the weight of the world on your shoulders makes no sense. Whose world are you even carrying? Whose approval are you trying to win? You scramble to get up, messing up your bedsheets in the process, and pull your blanket around you. Your own warmth surrounds you and it makes no difference. You frown.

You remember your phone call with your mom, and your lips tremble. You shouldn’t have told her about how crappy your finals went but it slipped. You tried to explain that you did work for them, that you gave it your best but sometimes things don’t work out. She didn’t have to say it out loud for you to hear her thoughts.

You’re disappointing.

You wipe at your eyes, feeling annoyed at the emotion. If you could let the ground swallow you whole, you would. In a heartbeat. You don’t even know what you’re doing most of the days despite that pretty planner of yours.

You get out of bed, pull on your cardigan beside the bed and grab your lighter and pack. The tiny balcony makes for a great smoking spot and while you would scold any of your friends for committing to this, you do it yourself. Hypocrite.

For all you try to shove into yourself—hobbies, student clubs, actual clubbing, friends—the more you feel less than enough, as if everything just vanishes into thin air inside you. As if you aren’t enough and never will be. You play by the rules and you lose, you break the rules and you lose.

Maybe it’s because you let yourself be filled by the intricacies of other people that they like you. And thus, you cannot stop for fear of loneliness.

Just as you’re feeling crushed again, you picture Doyoung against your back, placing his nose in the crook of your neck—something he has never done—and you wonder why it helps.

Sucking in air too fast, you cough. You shouldn’t have let it go on for so long.

It was fun—harmless fun. You shouldn’t even be thinking of taking a step in some other direction. You’re friends, barely, but you like where you are. If Doyoung was that important, you wouldn’t be going about this all backwards. You sigh, though it comes out jagged. The room is quiet and that’s the way it should be at four a.m, of course, but you crave music all of a sudden. Doyoung and you are just a temporary fix; and you let that thought relax you.

When you think of his chin on your shoulder, however, it feels feather light.

“Why are we doing this?” you ask.

The atmosphere is warm and toasty, just like you expect it to be in a bakery with light pink doors and a collection of plastic potted plants on display. The decorations aren’t an eyesore here and somehow, it makes you feel better. It’s a little far but you decide it’s worth it.

Doyoung shrugs, sipping his hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas, and we’re both here.”

Your eyes follow the hanging lights over the counter, wrapped in pine tree stickers and eventually to the neat display of a ‘Season’s Greetings’ menu, the contents of which are currently at your table. A Christmas song by some singer who’s been popular lately plays, tunes light and dancing. You hate the end of the year solely because of the extra pressure January brings. Nothing you can’t handle, of course. Nothing you can’t handle.

You sigh. It’s been a little difficult lately.

“Doyoung, really, why are we doing this?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Are you- uh- are you not enjoying this? I could—”

“No! No, it’s not that. I feel better, actually.” You bite your tongue almost immediately after. It’s not like he’s supposed to know the sort of hell week you’re having. A poorly received term paper, finals that weren’t up to your expectations, crippling loneliness without friends and, oh, the self-doubt—you are at the lowest you can be in college. The only sweetener right now is in the hot chocolate and the way Doyoung’s looking at you.

You feel something close to guilt.

“Good.” He smiles. “You seemed… You seemed a little down.”

The sliver of warmth between your ribs makes you think this is unreal. It feels uneasy to be so affected by someone but you let it slide, turning back to your hot chocolate.

“Why didn’t you go home this time?” you ask, sipping your drink.

“Oh, I didn't really want to face my parents,” he says before leaning. “Didn’t do too well this semester. And my brother’s going to be there with all his achievements.”

You chuckle in disbelief. “You don’t like your brother?”

“I love him to bits. Just can’t stand my mom’s nagging when he’s around.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” You cross your arms, smiling triumphantly. You feel like children squabbling but it’s so lighthearted, you want to laugh.

Doyoung raises a pointed finger, about to retort but nothing comes out. He puts his hand down.

“I guess you’re right.”

You shake your head. “I’m sure she’s proud of you too.”

“I know that,” he says, laughing. “Of course she is. I don’t keep myself busy for nothing.”

You gulp, a sudden sourness rising at the base of your tongue.

“Busy, huh? Didn’t know spending saturday evenings with girls also counted as busy,” you mutter against the cup, half-hoping he doesn’t hear you.

“What?” There’s a perplexed look across his face.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “Oh don’t mind me.”

“Are you talking about me giving a tour to the fresher girls?” Doyoung leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Hyungmin does that usually but Mr Man was sore from soccer practice and Friday fucking.”

You blink. “Fresher… girls?”

“What, did you think I was at a brothel?” Doyoung laughs in amusement.

You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “No! No, of course not.”

You wave your hands about for a few more seconds, trying to come up with an explanation. This makes things rather embarrassing.

“Sorry,” you say finally. “I jumped to conclusions.”

Doyoung laughs, rather deep and heartily, and you wonder if your apology really did sound as stupid to him as it did to you.

“You do that a lot,” he notes.

“Thanks,” you quip, cutting the pastry with your fork a little too forcefully. His laugh follows. (You hate it so much. It sounds like pure adoration.)

The next few moments consist of scrolling through your phones (because Doyoung says his ‘mouth hurts from talking to you’) and you would’ve been in a better state of mind if everyone wasn’t posting pre-Christmas photos with their families.

“You know they’re opening that park. What’s it called- Winter Wonderland or something. You said you wanted to visit.”

You look up at Doyoung amused.

“Let’s be honest. You want to be in bed, Doyoung,” you say. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care,” he answers, looking at you with his doe eyes. “About you. You sulk when you’re upset.”

“I don’t sulk,” you reply but your smile is obvious when you exit the cafe.

It’s like a date. The more you think of it that way, the more it makes you smile.

The evening is perfect—orange and pink and loving and happy. Doyoung trails behind you as you tread over the sidewalk with cheeky remarks about his speed.

“I’m in the track club, you know?” he huffs, finally tired of your jabs.

“As what, the start point?”

A fake, sarcastic laugh leaves him. “I wouldn’t get to see you if I walked ahead.”

You feel warmth creep up your face. You mumble, “that’s cheesy.” It’s too weak though, and it goes unheard.

For the first time, you notice his eyes are a little like yours in what they reflect. You love them.

So this is where the crowd went. The amusement park, or whatever you call it, is buzzing with a faint sort of excitement, mostly in the children that didn’t get to go on a vacation elsewhere. It’s quite the wonderland though so you can’t see them complaining.

“Do you think they’ll kick us out if we make out on the Ferris wheel?” you ask, smiling at Doyoung.

“I’m not making out with you on the Ferris wheel,” he replies, making a face.

You do end up making out on the Ferris wheel, and you get butterflies from it. It’s like a teenage dream but Doyoung looks even better. You pass on the cotton candy because frankly, you’ve had enough of sweet things. You sit at the frozen wooden seat, hoping it warms up while Doyoung brings the two of you some fries.

Your phone buzzes with a notification. Your eyes light up at the mail from your professor. You had turned in the term paper three days ago, weeks ahead of schedule and were particularly proud of the way it turned out.

You look at the email and zero in on the word ‘redo’.

Your shoulders sag immediately. You spent four weeks on that—and it’s not good enough? You search frantically for how it could have gone wrong and come up with none. That’s not supposed to happen. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. The week’s exhaustion swallows you up again.

When Doyoung returns, he looks at you concerned before quickly setting the fries on the table.

“(name). Is something wrong?”

“Huh?” Your voice sounds so weak and squeaky, you feel embarrassed. It’s embarrassing that after all these years, you still don’t know how to handle failure.

Because it’s not supposed to happen. You tell yourself that over and over and it makes things worse.

You feel dirty, underneath all that dust and crumbled rock dangling in your hair. Whatever rests on your shoulders is cracking and collapsing, and you’re pushing in the wrong direction to make sure it all stays up.

He reaches out his hand but you avoid it.

“No,” you mutter, weakly shaking your head.

You rub at your nose and eyes, hoping you can hide behind your forearms. Doyoung shouldn’t be seeing you like this, he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. You turn away from him, your palm gently pushing against the soft material of his shirt.

Doyoung doesn’t move. Instead, he gently tugs on your wrist so you have no choice but to face him with your red-rimmed eyes. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or pity, but the concern in his eyes makes you cry harder.

“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers. “You don’t have to find a place to cry.”

For the first time in adulthood, you learn what it’s like to lean your forehead against someone’s chest this way. Doyoung wraps his arms around you and the sound of his breathing soothes your near-erratic heart.

“I worked really hard on it, you know?” you mumble against his chest. “My term paper.”

“I know,” he whispers.

Doyoung strokes your head delicately, fingers running through your hair with airy touches. Eventually, you let go of a final sigh and look up to his lips.

He seems surprised at the kiss but it’s all you can think of now. It’s gentler than usual and Doyoung moves cautiously though he seems to like it all the same. His arms feel comfortable around you. When he pulls apart, he looks at you yet still with careful concern.

“We can- we should stop if you want,” he says, and he means it.

You shake your head. Night is creeping in overhead, deep and quiet and slow.

“I like you, Doyoung,” you say finally. “I really, really like you.”

Doyoung’s eyes widen, as though a rabbit wary of the traps it might set foot on but he eases into your touch almost immediately.

“I like… I like you too.” His lips waver but he looks away and takes a deep breath. “I like you so much.”

You smile and think that maybe everything is set right now, with his chin against your shoulder and your arms around him.

Doyoung discards the jacket once you’re in your apartment, kissing you fuller now. Every other thought leaves you; you beg him to make you forget the rest of the world. The walls are comforting now that he’s here, and it’s warmer, hotter.

“Can we- Can we go a little slower?” you mumble, his arms still gentle when they wrap around your waist. He parts his lips from your neck to look at you momentarily before nodding.

You suddenly understand why he always makes you feel so good. There’s a certain fondness to his touch and warmth to his kisses. There’s no one quite like him, really.

“I love digging graves, especially if it’s my own,” you mutter against the pillow.

Doyoung laughs. “What did you do this time?”

“This time? Excuse me? Do you think I’m some sort of trouble child?”

“Hm. Let’s see. Yes.”

You pause. Why do you hesitate to tell him you slept with Hyungmin? It’s not like you were cheating—you weren’t dating Doyoung. Besides, that night with Hyungmin didn’t mean anything. A horrid feeling snakes around your throat, heavy and piercing. You resort to changing the topic.

“I’m… I took another course beyond my understanding.”

“That’s it?” he asks.

You nod.

No, no, no; it’s all backwards now and you don’t know how to reverse it.

Doyoung takes your hand in his, delicately and yet firm. His chest is against your back, bare and warm. When he presses his lips against your knuckles, the warmth that flushes through you makes you want to believe in something else entirely. You feel weak.

A part of you argues that you feel honest—in a moment of clarity you don’t think you deserve. Neither vodka nor whiskey can make you this clear in the head; you struggle to breathe straight. How awful it is to feel warmth and not believe in it at the same time.

“You can rely on me, you know?” he whispers.

The knot in your chest makes you want to cry.

You feel lonely and the opposite of it all at once. Doyoung is too much for you—too kind, too pretty and too true. He makes you realize too many things at once.

There are a few things in the world that can stifle loneliness. Like the notes Doyoung plays on the piano, like the songs he hums in the morning till you place open-mouthed kisses against his neck.

You realize, all of a sudden, that Doyoung really is your dearest friend.

And yet, you don’t think you deserve it. You’ve never loved, you believe, but you have. You don’t remember it well enough. The lovers’ touches you kept searching for led to this. Hypocrite. You wanted a lover’s touch and you rejected the love that came with it. What a complicated bundle of emotions. You weren’t always this way.

You loved your first cat when you were six, all the way till it died a warm death in your bed. You loved your mother even when she yelled at you for skipping your chores. You loved your middle school friends when you talked about comics and movies you saw for the first time.

It’s hard to love the same way now.

You suppose sympathy needs a little backstory. Nothing is unconditional.

It had all started when your heart had broken into two clean pieces. You put a bandaid on it and called it a day. No one taught you to ask for help.

Your friends know someone broke your heart; you tell them everything. Friends, friends—you wanted them so bad and yet, you keep them as far from you as you can. You pretend to be paper-thin and so shallow, sometimes you wonder if that’s all there is to you. But for all they know, they know next to nothing. It wasn’t just the aftermath of reckless puppy love.

The first time your heart broke, it was watching your mother cry in the living room for a reason you didn’t understand. You wondered who committed the crime, who should be charged—and you found no one. A loveless marriage is cruel, yes, but you cannot point fingers. It isn’t just cruel; it’s infuriating.

The second time, the two pieces of your heart broke into a few more. It was a boy with an inviting smile and flags whose colour you couldn’t quite discern. They must have been red, but everything else was too—hearts, cheeks, lips, and the threads around your wrists. And eventually, he guided you to the conclusion that you are undeserving, unworthy, unloved.

You were strong, however. It was easy to collapse on the bed and feel the weight of the world settling in, but you stood up again on shaking knees and you told yourself to have fun; you can have fun without feelings. You know better than to attach meaning to fun—you might hate insignificant things but it’s only fun if it’s pointless. You’re not letting go of this place you’ve worked so hard to arrive at, with all the shattered pieces in your hands.

It’s better to offer nothing at all than offer broken pieces.

“Can we stay like this?” Doyoung’s arms tighten around your waist, his breath shallow against your shoulder. “Just for a little bit.”

His voice is beautiful as always, but for a moment, it strikes you as sad.

Everything’s twisting up into knots and you are frantically running your fingers over them to straighten it all out. You know what it’s like to let things rot; and you are tired of it. Why can’t everything disappear for one moment? Why can’t you just let it be the two of you?

You sigh in response, nodding.

“I might not know what’s happening in there,” he starts, drawing circles on your chest with his finger, touch comfortably light. “But…”

I’m here and I get it.

Is that what he wants to say? You don’t think you’ll get to know. You’re not exactly voicing yourself either.

Stay the night. You want to say it but your lips are frozen.

Instead, you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, fitting into each other as perfect as a lie. You would tell him, you try to convince yourself, if you could say it with enough conviction. There’s no point to saying things that are half-meant, that are true but only just enough. You’re a coward.

And now, this has gotten complicated.

An end.

Tapping his pen against the desk, Doyoung grows increasingly annoyed. The council's next meeting agenda isn’t going to finish writing itself but he can’t bring himself to either. Besides, Ten’s pacing outside his room is starting to get on his nerves.

“Ten!” he yells. “Can you quit it? You’re making too much noise.”

His disapproval is met with silence. For a moment, he spaces out and reflexively thinks of you, only to feel a confusing sort of emotion. It’s normal, he tells himself, and that it’ll sort itself out.

Doyoung feels like a glass box more often than not. If he breaks, who picks up the pieces? Who gets cuts all over their fingers?

‘Whoever breaks him’ should be the answer. But that’s wishful thinking. It’s not that simple.

He’s so see-through that it’s painful. He used to tell Taeyong he’s wrong but he’s never been able to prove it. He is easy. It’s embarrassing.

But then again, part of him likes it when it comes to you. He likes it when you kiss him after a particularly heated disagreement, he likes when you get on his nerves just so he’d fuck you and most of all, he loves the push and pull. Fun is just that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if that heart of his he placed so gingerly into your palms falls and shatters.

The line between hate and love is thin; and he’s enjoying walking it too much.

He has nothing to offer but himself. He laughs at the thought and shakes his head. It’s somewhat dirty, and not just in the sexual sense.

“Ten!” he yells again. “Stop pacing!”

Getting up from his seat, he strides over to his door, swings it open and finds Ten scratching his head and glancing at his phone in repeated action.

“Ten?”

He’s so in a trance that he hasn’t noticed Doyoung. He is the lovable sort of idiot if he ever chooses to be so. Most of the time though, he’s just a smartass.

“Oh, oh no, I’m a bad friend,” Ten mutters to himself, his pacing growing more restless. He scratches the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed and too inside his head to notice Doyoung. He wants to ask but something tells him he shouldn’t.

Turns out, his apprehension isn’t strong enough these days.

“Whose date did you crash?” Doyoung asks, more than annoyed already.

When Ten looks at him, Doyoung feels rather shriveled and freezes on the spot. Call it instinct but Doyoung respects fear and pain. Ten has a mixture of the two, amplified when he looks at Doyoung.

“Doyoung. Hey,” he says, trying to tone down the distress in his voice.

Doyoung still hasn’t recovered from the initial surprise of Ten looking that way.

“Did you fuck up? Did someone fuck up? Why do you look like that?”

Ten sits down on the small couch. “Long story… I guess. Too many details, you- you know? Just—”

“What the fuck happened?”

Ten still can’t look him in the eye. “The group chat’s a little…”

“Ten,” Doyoung snaps. “Cut the crap.”

“No, that’s- that’s what I’m- You’re going to be upset.”

Doyoung straightens, furrowing his brows. “I think I can fucking handle it.”

“You know that date I set up for (name) and Hyungmin?”

“You set that up?”

“(name) slept with Hyungmin.”

Doyoung quietens. The silence seems to make Ten uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, getting up when Doyoung speaks.

“So?”

Ten blinks. “You’re not upset?”

“Just what kind of loser do you think I am?” Doyoung mutters.

Glass shatters just that easily. Maybe he wanted you to shatter him. Maybe he was already cracking at the edges.

“Doyoung, you don’t have to—”

“Stop,” he exclaims a little louder than he intended. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m a grown man, I can handle shit like this.”

It still hurts though. You lied to him and he let you in. You lied to him. Doyoung sighs, returning to his room with a realization he should have had long ago. His night ends with more deleted drafts than he’s supposed to have and eventually, with increased discomfort, he delegates the job to Park Hyungmin himself with the excuse of sickness.

Doyoung does feel sick. He felt this way once, in highschool, but it had turned to red, hot anger ready to lash at anyone and everyone, spilling from his lips as easy as it was to breathe. And Doyoung can never feel that way towards you. He was different back then too, of course, but you—you’re unlike anyone he’s ever met. He loves the comfort of you, and something like that is hard to come by.

He feels like laughing again but instead he finds tears on his cheeks. Silly boy, he can hear his mother tell him. You don’t give your heart to heartbreakers.

So Doyoung falls asleep to the sound of upbeat music in his earphones, music he hates even just to pass the night. Morning will come and he will have to become stronger. Comfort is fleeting, after all.

With everything said and done, you know very well that if you were to tell someone you love them—genuinely, truly, from the heart—it would be Doyoung. It’s not a sudden realization, like the sky falling apart or a tidal wave crashing against the shore and sweeping away the city. It is like the gentle lapping of water, though, or the way the clouds change shape—natural and anything but alarming. You want to stare at it forever, and you want to believe that’s how it will be forever.

“You told everyone we had sex?” Your voice is boiled to a shout.

Hyungmin looks torn, lips moving but no explanation making its way out. “I- I told my friends, not everyone.”

“And you forgot that your friends talk? Everybody talks, Hyungmin, what were you thinking?”

He sighs before taking a step towards you. “Why are you so angry about it? As far as I remember, you had no trouble talking about whose pants you got into.”

You scoff. “With friends, not the whole campus.”

“That’s exactly what I did!”

You cross your arms, feeling so upset you might cry and unsure as to why. You’re usually good at dealing with stuff like this, keeping things in the right place.

“It’s because of Doyoung, isn’t it?”

You snap your head to Hyungmin. There’s a serene sort of look to him despite his unkempt appearance, and a look of understanding.

“I’m sorry. Really. But if you were so into him, you shouldn’t have called me that evening. It might not matter to me but…”

You broke his heart. All that devotion he had towards you led to this.

“You’re right.” You choke on your words, leaning against the wall. “Fuck… Fucking…”

You turn around, making your way out of the hallway and hope the tears on your cheeks dry faster if you run.

You can’t remember the last time you ran. Your world didn’t need running from, it was right in the palm of your hands. Now that you look back, the world was always on your shoulders and heavy as it can be. Maybe you liked it—the weight. You could’ve shrugged it off any time; you didn’t need all those caging schedules or careful, elegant steps.

No. Atlas couldn’t shrug because his punishment was his existence. To have weight is to have meaning; and that is how you intended to live out your life.

Doyoung makes you see it differently. To love so fully even if it seems cautious—you, who has never loved at all, couldn’t comprehend it. And because he makes you see it differently, the box is now open and all hell is loose.

For once, you don’t want to live in the world you crafted. You want more love, more hurt and you want to open the doors. You don’t mind hell if it’s for him.

You ring the bell to Doyoung and Ten’s apartment and pray the news hasn’t reached him yet. He said he was busy this weekend; maybe he was detached enough from his phone for once. You just want to be the person to tell him. It’s not a perfect apology otherwise.

Doyoung opens the door with pursed lips and cold eyes. There’s a sense of ease over his shoulders and arms but he won’t look at you and panic rises to your throat.

“We’re not fucking tonight, (name),” he says.

“That’s not- That’s not why I’m here.” Your voice is so meek, you wonder what happened.

Doyoung steps back, crossing his arms. He’s still looking at his feet and you feel the urge to reach for his face.

“I wanted to tell you- I… I just—”

“That you’re fucking other people?”

“God, Doyoung, stop with the fucking. I don’t care about that right now.”

“Really?” His voice is so sharp, it digs into your skin. “You were just in it for that. That’s the fun part in your stupid life, isn’t it?”

You feel a sharp pain in your nose and forehead. “You’re- Now that’s- Doyoung. I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“After—” His voice chokes up. “After everything is done? Stop with the excuses and face it for fuck’s sake. You aren’t made to fall in love. That’s why you dance around it all the time.”

Although he says that, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds defeated.

“It’s not like you aren’t cautious,” you retort, throat feeling heavy. “You said it yourself- you don’t want to care too much.”

“I was wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “I care about everything more than I’d like to admit. I care about you more than I’d like to admit.”

“The Hyungmin thing didn’t mean anything, okay? You were busy and—”

“So why did you lie?” He strains to not raise his voice. “Of course I knew our little thing didn’t mean shit to you. Why did you pretend it did? Last week, you said- you said—”

“Doyoung, last week- last week I- I wasn’t pretending, I swear.”

“You could’ve just saved yourself the trouble and the dignity.” A short, humorless laugh leaves him.

You feel your lips tremble, the explanation not quite made its way out yet. He looks so innocent like this, rabbit-like eyes watery and full of pain, pure the way they have always been. This is your mistake, isn’t it?

“Doyoung, please,” you manage to say. “That was wrong. I couldn’t clear up my head. Please don’t—”

“No. I was an idiot. Or you see me as one.” He frowns deeper, lips trembling. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have been at the same fucking party and I shouldn’t have drank so much. You’re- I’m not that kind of person.”

You bite down your lip. “What kind?”

Doyoung laughs, the sound raspy and empty. “The kind to not fall in love with you.”

It damn near breaks your heart to look at him. You have to say something, it shouldn’t end like this. You’re desperate and all you think is that you don’t want it to end at all.

“Please, I thought of you as a friend, that’s why—”

“And this is what you call being a friend?” he cuts you off.

You feel the sting in your eyes and nose, making you turn sharply to the side. You wish he’d just make you cry. It makes you feel the rancid guilt all the more.

“Make Hyungmin your friend for all I care. Let’s stop this.”

You stare at your feet, unable to respond.

“You can have every boy in the world, (name). Don’t come to me.”

“Can you just stop talking about everyone else?” you yell, desperate. “Do I talk about your exes? Seungjae or- or what’s-her-name—”

“That’s different!” He looks distraught, breathing heavily and with a painful red flush over his nose and cheeks. He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “You lied to me, (name). You lied.”

Your cheeks are wet and the look that flashes over Doyoung makes you think he wants to step right out to you. He stays frozen in place, however, looking away to the side.

“Did you notice?” he asks softly. “Even once? How much I cared?”

You can’t answer, letting the tears drip down your face. It’s getting colder and colder.

Doyoung bites down his lip before parting them. “All we did was have sex anyway. So please just- just leave.”

You take a long few moments but nod, hugging your coat closer and stepping out of his apartment. You think you hear Ten’s footsteps but it’s followed by the bang of a door—this is how it ends then.

The line between hate and love is thin; and you are deserving of neither.

You perfect your next semester’s academics, and the next. It still feels empty. You go out to drink with friends and return to a messy bed you sleep in alone. You smile as always and you laugh as always. No one asks you how you are as always. You never needed anyone to ask you how you are.

Ten tries but you push him away. You don’t need to drag in other people into a mess you made. He feels sorry for the whole thing but you tell him it was you that spilled the paint, Ten just handed a dash of it to you.

You were right. You don’t deserve Doyoung. At least, you made it so that you don’t deserve him.

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all’—it still hurts.

Every day is part of a list again. You doodled in some of the pages, when you thought you were starting to fall in love. There’s only a skeleton of it left now. Soon, you’ll let it crumble to dust too.

You tear apart the planner sometime after graduation and cry and curse at yourself for doing that. No one’s good at parting with things they care about. You’re no exception.

It’s December again.

This place is a little strange to visit right after graduating, especially with the memories flashing you by. Johnny said he booked one of the private booths (“A senior’s treat!”) but you feel your steps growing hesitant when you reach the neon signs by the stairs. It spells ‘The Meeting Place’ and smells of cigarettes just like it did the first time.

You stop midway up the stairs. For a moment, you think of Doyoung sitting there and wonder if you’ll ever be able to talk to him again. If you had the chance now, would you take it?

Of course, you wouldn’t. There’s too much to be set right and you can’t do it.

There’s supposed to be the six of you. Johnny mentioned Ten and you know Eunji’s invited too. You saw Jaehyun on the way here, still a student. You sigh. It must be him, the one they failed to mention to you. Kim Doyoung. There’s no one quite like him.

You spot him first. Looking a little forlorn as he gazes absentmindedly to the side, he faces away from you and you get the inevitable urge to run away. It’s a funny feeling.

Your stomach is churning. You don’t want him to see you. Ten babbles on about something to Johnny, smiling like he found candy while clearing his drawers. Eunji looks tired, leaning against Johnny’s shoulder and you wonder if she already drank more than enough shots.

“(name).”

You jump at Jaehyun’s voice from behind you.

“Hey,” you respond, giving him a wide smile.

He hesitates. “Are you okay? Not that you don’t look okay- you look really good actually. I mean, are you and… you know okay?”

“I don’t think so, Jaehyun,” you say and make your way to the booth.

It’s a little cramped for the six of you and Doyoung gets up before you can even greet him. It’s not like you deserve it anyway but it tugs at the wound.

“I’m going to go take a drag,” he mutters.

“You don’t smoke,” you say, looking up.

He stares at you momentarily and you look away. You think Ten and Johnny glance at you with pity but you don’t really care.

“Can I come with you?” you ask, barely a whisper.

“Sure,” he says, to your surprise.

The smoking area is so small, you’re surprised it’s even there. A glass structure overlooking the neighbourhood, there’s barely any light within. The only thing nice is how warm it’s in there.

Doyoung lights his cigarette and then offers to light yours. It’s quiet, the music from inside numbed to the cold doors. You really can’t take it. You stub the barely consumed cigarette and throw it into the bin.

You’d rather just stay quietly in his presence.

“You’re not smoking,” he notes.

“It’s a bad habit.” You look out through the glass.

Doyoung chuckles. “You were a collection of bad habits.”

“And good ones too,” you quip. “I was a perfect student. I was perfect in most everything actually.”

Doyoung’s smile widens. “You were. You certainly were.”

A few more moments pass in silence, your eyes traveling over the outside scenery which seems to be growing duller by the second. City lights have never felt fainter.

“It was an accident, right?” You say suddenly. “The whole thing? Us?”

Doyoung hums. “Yeah. I fell in love by accident.”

You smile weakly. “Right. I never got to apologize.”

“I loved you on purpose.”

You look up at him. There’s not a lot of people who say what they mean. He looks the same as he used to under your grey blankets, with a warm blush over his cheeks and kind, wide eyes.

“You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, “even now.”

You scan his face for signs of lying.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” you ask finally.

Doyoung blinks before easing into laughter. “You- You’re- You’re the same as ever.”

You let yourself crack a smile.

“Doyoung I- I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “And I did- do care for you.”

Doyoung stubs out his cigarette and discards it before looking you in the eye. You notice he’s wearing his favourite black turtleneck in the proximity, the grey plaid coat covering most of it. You really liked that look on him.

“I’m sorry,” you say once again. “I want you to know that. I didn’t want to hurt you and I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

You mean it. You’re never going to hold glass again. He doesn’t deserve it.

“That’s a problem,” he responds, breath mingling with yours. “I want you… I want you to hurt me. If you really do love me, I’ll take it.”

“Doyoung,” you whisper, turning away despite your whole body screaming at you to give in. “I meant it. I can’t hurt you.”

Doyoung cups your cheek with one hand, glancing at your lips for a moment.

“You’re warm,” he says.

He’s warmer.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You want to kiss him too.

“We went about this all wrong, didn’t we?” he asks.

“We did,” you answer, voice barely above a whisper. “I did.”

Doyoung pulls back. “Then let’s start again. I’m Kim Doyoung, I majored in linguistics. I was student council president and I made a mistake.”

You smile. “We don’t have to do that.”

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “After all the trouble I went through to make a good introduction?”

The two of you laugh, and it gets warmer.

“I’m (name),” you say. “I was a top student and I made a bigger mistake, Kim Doyoung.”

“Oh? I wonder what it was.”

“Kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time for you.”

You smile and start. He responds with gentle kisses. You’re piecing your world back together again; but this time it’s feather-light and fits right in the palm of your hand.

2K notes · View notes

aestherians · 3 years

Text

Choice or Chance?: Exploring voluntarity and categorization in the otherkin and therian communities

Under the cut is the full script for my Othercon 2021 lecture, in which I examine the way we categorize nonhumans based on the perceived amount of choice they had in their identity and how this practice is detrimental to both questioning people and our community as a whole. At the end, I propose a new way to define otherkind and otherlinkers to hopefully move our community forward.

Reading time: 30-40 minutes.

The focus of this lecture has changed a bit since I started working on it. My earliest idea was to discuss the grey area between otherlinks and kintypes - in fact one of my working titles was Grey Zones and Silver Linings. And I still plan on talking about this, though not in the way you might expect. I originally wanted to argue that those who found themselves in this grey area should be able to choose how they wanted to refer to their identity, but the more research and thinking I did, the more I realized that this would still leave a bunch of people torn and confused and wouldn’t solve any of the greater problems in our community. It also seems like such a water-is-wet statement with how the conversation has developed… and you know me, I’m only happy when I’m starting controversies.

So I went looking for the root of this whole categorization debacle.

The nonhuman community, as we know it, didn’t always exist, and though we often say it has roots in elven communities from the ‘70s, that’s only half the truth. While the Elf Queen’s Daughters and related successors such as the Silver Elves are the earliest known organized nonhuman communities, they’re by far not the only pioneers.

Because nonhuman identifying people have always existed, and our numbers have always been relatively small, some of us ended up grouping together without even being aware of the other groups that existed. And of course, all these independently formed groups ended up with their own cultures and traditions and philosophies.

Mailing lists, like the Elfinkind Digest, were generally open for anyone to join and read. But they also weren’t widely known or easy to stumble upon for folks who didn’t already have an interest in these kinds of spirituality and identification. This resulted in a culture where people’s self-identification was generally respected, and they would only be questioned if they made extraordinary claims.

Compare this with the newsgroup Alt.Horror.Werewolves, which was open for anyone to access on Usenet, and which was originally created as just a place to discuss werewolf media. On AHWw, the therians (or ‘weres’ as it was back then) would frequently have to defend their existence against strangers who just found them by coincidence. This would lead to a culture more focused on appearing respectable, which in turn would lead to grilling of new members and shut-downs of “fluffy” topics.

Other independent groups, such as Alt.Fan.Dragons, which was centered around dragons, or Always Believe, which was centered around unicorns, had their own cultures as well. For example, AFD generally accepted dragons from modern fiction, which would not have been tolerated on AHWw.

The Silver Elves is another semi-independently evolved group of elves, fae and similar beings that still exists to this day. They only represent a fraction of our community, but for today’s discussions I find their writings very illustrative. They’ve written about choice of identity on multiple levels. For starters, they believe a lot of elven spirits have actively chosen to incarnate into human bodies. More provocatively, and more interesting to me, they’ve stated multiple times that simply wanting to be an elf means you are an elf.

This is in contrast to the therian community on AHWw, where there was a big focus on involuntary shifts and theorizing on why some people were born with and animal side. I think it’s reasonable to assume this focus on involuntary experiences is due to the werewolf narrative that the community stemmed from. In werewolf media, a person’s wolfish side is rarely, if ever, a choice, while in new age and spiritual communities, like that of the Silver Elves, there’s a greater emphasis on choice of spirituality and subsequently on choice of identity.

It wouldn’t be right to say that every therian back then shared the same idea; however, the idea that involuntary shifts are a core trait of therianthropy does seem to persist in the AHWw’s userbase. Nearly all introduction posts include a line about involuntary shifts. Another idea that repeats itself is that the therian either had a “sudden awakening” or “just always knew” they were animalistic; contrasted with the Silver Elves’ idea that simply wanting to be an elf is enough for you to be one.

There are two main ideas about origins that seem to persist in all of this: That one is either born nonhuman or becomes nonhuman. Both are equally true. The ‘born-this-way’-narrative is quite a bit more common than the ‘becoming’-narrative, though that’s not to say that the idea of becoming nonhuman is rare, or even all that controversial in most communities - with a few caveats, that is.

The idea that one can become nonhuman tends to rest on the idea that what we become is outside our control. On the more metaphysical side of things there are stories of people being spiritually transformed into an animal after encounters with an animal spirit, or of having a shard of a god put into them. And on the more mundane side, there are stories of imprinting on a species during early development, or of taking on the experiences of a character after being engrossed in a piece of media. Most people I’ve talked to don’t have a problem with these ideas of ‘becoming’ as something outside your control.

What really gets people’s goat is when someone describes specific choices they’ve made on their journey, which ultimately led to their nonhuman identity.

This finally leads to the theme of this lecture: The topic of choice itself and how we categorize others based on the perceived amount of choice or chance there’s been in the development of their identity.

Questions I’ll discuss include: What kind of choices do we have regarding our identities? What the heck does ‘choice’ even mean in this context? And how does the idea of choice (or lack of choice) affect the way our community functions?

There are many kinds of choices that we inarguably do make on our journey of self-discovery. Probably the first universal choice is to undertake the journey and to seek out a nonhuman community. Choices that naturally follow include choice of labeling - whether we want to call ourselves otherkin, therian, fictionkin, nonhuman, and so on - and the choice to accept or reject whatever feelings caused us to seek out a nonhuman community in the first place. In this line of thinking, being otherkin is a choice - you choose to label yourself as otherkin. However, the feelings, on which you base your decision to label yourself, are not a choice. The feelings that pushed you towards the community were already there.

Another choice that follows pretty naturally in this line of thinking is the choice to strengthen whatever connections you already have. This is something I’m intimately familiar with, as I’ve been doing it since I awakened as a bison. Before I even became aware of my species identity, I knew I was nonhuman. I’d been having simultaneous bison and gnoll feelings for a few years, but couldn’t separate them, and had, without much introspection, decided that I must be some weird kind of wolf. I think a lot of us with uncommon theriotypes have gone through a phase like that.

However, one day I experienced a very strong flashing image - basically a flashback - of being physically a bison. The vision was so vivid and tactile, I immediately knew what it meant, and for the next few weeks I ignored every experience that wasn’t quite bison in nature, and just examined the recognizably bovine feelings. This helped strengthen my bison identity, and in total my questioning process only took around 2 months.

Though I’ve settled in my identity as a bison, and I’m comfortable referring to myself as a bison, I never quit reinforcing it. While I didn’t create the original bison-like feelings, I’m very conscious of the fact that I do choose to connect every trait to my bisonhood that I can. Whether I see the traits as a cause of my current bisonhood, or a result of it, things like being stubborn, preferring physical fights over verbal ones, and even liking the taste of those Beanboozled jellybeans that are supposed to taste like grass… all these traits, that any human could have, are things I connect to my identity as a bison.

I’ve experienced some pushback towards this idea from a few therian communities. A very common rebuttal I’ve run into in introduction threads and grilling threads (which, introduction threads should never be grilling threads in my opinion, but that’s another story)… a very common rebuttal to considering these kinds of traits part of your nonhuman identity is: “Isn’t that just a regular human thing?”

I have so many problems with that question, I’m honestly not sure where to even begin. Yes, those traits are experienced by humans all the time. I think some of the only experiences in the community that regular humans don’t experience are, perhaps, species dysphoria and shifting. But if your identity began and ended with having dysphoria and experiencing shifts, it would hardly qualify as an identity. Treating an identity like just the sum of its parts, rather than a whole and complicated construct, is reductive and it doesn’t just hinder discussion, it stifles discussions.

I don’t know, maybe I’m the odd one here, but my whole nonhuman identity can not be encompassed by my horn dysphoria or the fact that I sometimes feel more like a prey animal than an apex predator. My identity is so much more than that. It’s how I view the world and how I view myself in relation to the world. It’s how I react to things, what I like and dislike, and what I want out of my life. When you envision an identity in this way, as a way to describe who you are, rather than a summary of every individual thing you experience, you absolutely will see some overlap with humans, like it or not.

Another reason I dislike the question “Aren’t those just human traits?” is that it’s often asked in communities where the consensus is that you were born nonhuman, and that your identity is somehow more real or ‘valid’ if it can be corroborated by childhood memories.

While looking back at your childhood and seeing how your current identity might have formed or changed throughout the years can help paint a picture of the identity as a whole, that kind of reminiscence should always be secondary to what you are currently experiencing. Your identity is not based on the fact that you played dog when you were a toddler. Pretty much every human child has played dog or been obsessed with cats or wished they were a dragon. It might be related to your current identity, but if those were your primary nonhuman experiences you would hardly consider yourself nonhuman, nor would you find a home in the community.

No, your identity is based on who and what you are right now, and what you’re experiencing this moment. The validity of your identity should not be judged based on the number of times you pretended to be that creature in kindergarten. Your kintype should be determined based on your current experiences. And if your current experiences include things that humans can also go through, that should have no impact on the validity of your identity.

Alright, back on topic: Hopefully, we can agree that there’s no shame in strengthening your connections, reinforcing what traits you already have, and in drawing connections between a nonhuman identity and seemingly human traits. Which is a nice segue into a statement that might ruffle a few feathers:

Linktypes are typically based on preexisting traits that are reinforced to fit a certain narrative or ideal. A copinglink or an otherlink is rarely if ever pulled out of thin air. You just can’t craft an identity from nothing. Yeah, crazy, I know?

This parallels otherkin identities, which, as I mentioned earlier, are based on preexisting experiences and connections that one chooses to give a name and to strengthen.

The process of becoming a linker usually starts with recognizing certain traits that one either wants, or already has but wants to reinforce, by focusing them through a linktype. For example, wanting to become better at handling stress can be difficult to accomplish on its own, but is made easier by thinking about what a specific character or animal would do in a stressful situation.

But you can’t just establish a connection to any given character. There needs to be a resonance between you and the linktype, and if you don’t already have that resonance with the character, it’s impossible for you to craft an identity around them. And in that sense you could easily argue that there is an involuntary aspect to linktypes.

Once the prospective linker has recognized a connection with a character, they will begin the process of reinforcing the identity, which can include anything from writing fanfics in 1st person to wearing clothes reminiscent of the character to asking people to treat you like the character. All things that an otherkin or fictionkind might do when first establishing their identity.

A key trait of linking is that a linktype should fade away once you stop reinforcing it… Linktypes are supposed to go away if you just ignore them and push them away long enough. They’re built to be temporary.

However, a significant number of linkers or former linkers have talked about their linktype becoming an inseparable part of how they view themselves - even the ones who might be able to force their linktype away would at this point become completely different people if they did so.

In other words, their linktype has become an inherent part of who they are as a person. This integrality can appear regardless of how much effort they put into creating the linktype in the first place, and regardless of how nonexistent the linktype was before they created it… What I’m getting at is that some people describe creating an identity from scratch by their own choice, which later becomes an irreversibly ingrained part of them. It’s an experience completely contrary to the idea that we are born nonhuman. I’ll refer to these people as ‘linkers-turned-kin’.

There are a few regular rebuttals I’ve seen to this idea: That linkers-turned-kin just had a late awakening. Or that, perhaps, they felt compelled by their inner true species to seek out the identity. Or even that they were actually born nonhuman, but just didn’t realize until later.

All these rebuttals are disrespectful of the linker-turned-kin’s experiences and intelligence. I won’t even try to hide it: They make me angry. The rebuttals ride on the idea that the born-this-way idea of nonhuman identities is a fact rather than a common belief. I know that for a lot of people the born-this-way narrative rings true. I see you and I am not trying to invalidate your beliefs. Instead, I want you to acknowledge that others may not have the same belief as you. For several people in our community otherkinity is an identity that develops in response to certain traits they have - for some, those traits are inherent, something they’re born with. For others they’re traits that developed later in life, or that were worked towards. And I want to argue that, for some, these traits were expressly chosen.

The reason these arguments against linker-turned-kin make me so angry, aside from the fact that they’re built on the idea that linkers-turned-kin don’t understand their own experiences, and the assumption that your idea of how nonhuman identities work trumps someone’s lived experience… Another reason the arguments make me so angry is that they prescribe more importance to the why than the how of our identity. When you define otherkin by the way our identity formed, you’re basically saying that the cause of otherkinity is more important than the experience of otherkinity.

We can’t talk about this without also exploring the community’s animosity towards psychological beliefs.

Through my years in the community, I feel like I’ve had to handhold some folks through the concept of religious tolerance. I remember a little over 4 years ago someone on tumblr asked me my opinion on fictionkind - it would be another 2 years before I had my own awakening, so my response was basically that I was fine with fictionkind, though I didn’t understand their experiences and the only way it could fit into my own worldview was as a psychological phenomenon. Even after my awakening, the latter still holds true. My fictionkinity is primarily psychological. But yeah, somehow my statement that I didn’t believe fictionkinity was caused by past lives got twisted into me saying that fictionkind were all just roleplayers.

Rereading the whole debacle that ensued, this twisting of my words had little to nothing to do with my own personal beliefs - it instead exposed a widespread antipathy towards psychological otherkin. When I have talked about my current experiences as a gnoll, my shifts and my flashbacks and my hiraeth, people generally accept it without a second thought. But when I mention that I believe it’s caused by various psychological phenomena, I have on multiple occasions been told that it must not be a real identity. Some people have even treated my parallel life as just an elaborate fantasy, rather than something that’s completely real to me. I have, word for word, been told that there’s no way I could identify as a nonhuman, or be another species than a human, without believing I have a nonhuman soul. A direct quote: “To say “I am fae” when [you] don’t believe in fae is illogical.”

What I take from these kinds of responses is that a subset of people within our community take it for granted that whatever beliefs someone has about the origin of their identity are objectively true, rather than understanding that our beliefs about our origins are just that: Beliefs. Whatever conclusion we’ve reached based on our experiences, reincarnation or imprinting or something else entirely, and no matter how much we believe in it, it will always be a belief and never a fact. I’m fully convinced that my bison identity is caused by a past life, and that my gnoll and Ben 10 identities are caused by various psychological phenomena. But if that doesn’t fit into someone else’s worldview, they have all the right in the world to explain it away however they want. I have friends who believe my bison identity must be caused by something psychological, and I have friends who believe my gnoll identity must be caused by something spiritual. That is their prerogative.

It doesn’t matter how people make sense of my nonhumanity, as long as they’re respectful towards my own experiences with my identity and don’t try to impose their beliefs on me. If you have to quietly believe that someone really has a faerie soul in order to accept that they’re really a fae, so be it. As long as you don’t try to deny the reality of their current identity. As long as you don’t try to claim that they aren’t really nonhuman, just because they have the quote-unquote “wrong” beliefs about their origin.

There is another, more recent and more prominent, example of the animosity towards psychological otherkin that comes to mind. I will not mention the term itself for fear of people harassing its creator. For the purpose of this lecture, I’ll refer to the concept as “nonhuman by birth”, which is essentially its meaning. If you know which word I’m talking about, I ask that you please don’t mention it in the chat. If you need to know, you can DM me. Also, don’t misunderstand this as me hating on people with past life or soul beliefs. Remember, my own bison identity is based on a soul from a past life.

So, last year a rather old community member on tumblr coined a term, separate from ‘otherkin’, to refer specifically to those who believe they have a nonhuman soul. Which wouldn’t be a problem in and of itself. After all, terms like animafidem and cerebrumalius have been around for half a decade with no issues. However, “nonhuman by birth” is specifically described in its coining post as a “less bastardized” alternative to the word ‘otherkin’. What this post describes as “less bastardized” is spiritual experiences, and specifically those spiritual experiences that are based on soul transfers and reincarnation. Essentially “nonhuman by birth” defines all other beliefs as bastardizations of what otherkinity is supposed to be. All beliefs, including spiritual beliefs that aren’t based on souls or past lives, psychological beliefs, beliefs of becoming nonhuman, beliefs based on magic, neurological beliefs, and archetypal beliefs… None of these are quote-unquote “true otherkin” according to the “nonhuman by birth” concept.

The word thankfully never gained much traction off tumblr, but I have seen individuals use it, and it always, without fail, makes me feel unwelcome, and unwanted. Not because there’s anything wrong with a strong belief in past lives or souls, but because those who choose to use that label specifically believe themselves to be the only true nonhumans. Because the term itself is not based on a respectful, individual belief, but on what its coiner believes to be an objective fact. Because this subset of our community has an almost-evangelical conviction that all nonhumans have nonhuman souls, and those who don’t have nonhuman souls are not nonhuman.

And like I mentioned earlier: The cause of otherkinity can affect the experience a lot. That’s why we have these discussions in the first place - we come together due to our similarities, and we try to understand each other and ourselves by discussing our differences. And this is exactly why proclaiming any version of nonhumanity as the One True Kind of Nonhumanity is so damaging. It completely stifles any exchange of ideas. It makes it impossible for us to understand our differences, and it leads to more and more narrowly defined subcommunities that all believe themselves to be more real than the others.

To define is to limit. We need some limitations, otherwise a dog is a cat and no words have meaning. But we need to be extremely careful where we want those limits to be, otherwise we end up with a community where psychological otherkin are bastards, and only those who are born with nonhuman souls are really nonhuman.

The next thing I want to discuss is subjective truth… Subjective truth is one of the most important concepts to understand and really internalize if we wanna have fruitful discussions and respectful experience sharing. In short, a subjective truth is something that is not real because it can be proven to exist through scientific measurements but is instead real because a person experiences it as real. If I make the claim that tea tastes better than coffee, for example, you cannot refute that simply because you think coffee tastes better. We have to understand each other’s experiences and accept that we experience the world in different ways. It’s equally true to say that coffee is better than tea and that tea is better than coffee. This is what I was talking about when I said that the “born-this-way”-narrative and the becoming-narrative are equally true.

So, how does subjective truth apply to this discussion?

A phenomenon in the community I’m sure we’re all aware of is kin memories. If you’re somehow not aware of them, in short they are images, episodes, sensory information, and similar experiences that are thought to stem from another life, usually a past life. They have all the qualia of a memory, except they didn’t happen to the body currently recalling them. These experiences, though, are not restricted to those who believe their nonhumanity stems from a past life. They aren’t even restricted to spiritual otherkin. Plenty of folks with psychological beliefs, mixed beliefs, and other beliefs report the exact same experience: Images, episodes, and sensory information that does not originate from this world or from this current life.

For decades there’s been a lexical gap in the community to describe these memories that aren’t memories. Which is where I can’t avoid tooting my own horn a bit. I have an extremely rich and detailed parallel life as a gnoll, from which I can quote-unquote “recall” events, people, traditions, names, and so much more. It’s all integral to my nonhuman identity.

However, because I believe it all stems from some deep unconscious part of my brain, and because it feels like a parallel life, not a past life, I never felt right calling these things memories. So almost two years ago at this point, I undertook the quest to fill that lexical gap. And after looking through dozens of obscure web pages and dictionaries and articles, I found something useful: The word ‘noema’. Noema is a rarely used Greek word that translates to concept, idea, perception, or thought. And I’ve been very happy to see the term catching on in my corner of the community, where it’s often used as a broader alternative to ‘memory’.

In philosophy, a noema is defined as “the perceived as it is perceived.” At first this might sound a bit vague or esoteric, but when looked at through the lens of subjective truth it suddenly starts to make sense. A subjective truth is something that’s real just because a person experiences it as real. A noema is the perceived as it is perceived. So when we’re using noema as a substitute for memory… when we’re discussing memory-like experiences in the community and we explicitly refer to them as noemata, instead of referring to them as memories, the actual cause of the noema is then irrelevant. The only thing that matters is that it’s in one way or another perceived as a memory. When talking about noemata, it’s completely and utterly irrelevant if they’re real in any objective way - the only thing that matters is that the individual experiences the noema as real. Essentially the word ‘noema’ makes the cause irrelevant, so we can instead focus on the experience alone.

And I think the fact that this word has caught on (at least on tumblr) hints that our community might be moving in a positive direction. I at least dream of a community where we care a lot less about our origins, and a lot more about our actual presence in the world.

I had a conversation with a friend a few months ago, about this community-wide worry about the origins of our identity. And just to reiterate, I’m not saying your spiritual beliefs are irrelevant, because they can be really important when forming a whole picture of your identity. I’m more so saying they can be a bit of a distraction. In my opinion, the whole discussion about spirituality vs psychology is a red herring. Most of us didn’t seek out the community because we had certain spiritual beliefs. We sought it out because we felt not-quite-human, and it was only later that we reached any conclusions about why we feel nonhuman.

So, my friend and I talked about the role this discussion of origins plays in our community, and we reached a few interesting conclusions. For starters, it’s really upsetting to some folks to have to earnestly consider the idea that reincarnated souls are no more real or ‘valid’ than psychological imprinting, or any other non-spiritual beliefs for that matter. That’s part of what started the whole ‘nonhuman by birth’ idea I mentioned earlier. And it seems this uncomfortableness stems from a place of insecurity.

At the risk of offending some folks, I’m gonna draw a parallel to the trans community. In the trans community there’s a discussion of origins that parallels the one in the kin community and is likewise an attempt to draw lines between the quote-unquote ‘real’ trans people and the so-called transtrenders - which are supposedly people who pretend to be trans for clout. Those who attempt to draw these lines proclaim that being trans is a medical condition that they wouldn’t wish on their worst enemy, and one that’s marked by intense dysphoria and stress. They’ll also regularly state that being trans is only real or ‘valid’ because it has been proven through MRI brain scans that some female-assigned people have supposedly male brains, and vice versa.

(And just to make things clear, those brain scans are not real. It’s malicious pseudoscience spread by people who want to ‘cure’ transness by preventing trans kids from being born.)

But I think this attempt at validating your identity - in this case with science - stems from a dislike of one’s own traits, or more likely from the outside world’s dislike of those traits. When certain trans people try to prove themselves more valid than others in the eyes of the public, it’s not because they just hate those they deem ‘not trans enough’ - it’s because they’re afraid of being rejected by the rest of the world. These people are basically saying: “I didn’t choose to be trans. This is how I was born, so you have to accept it because it’s unchangeable.” It’s a cry for acceptance in an unaccepting world. And all this is not to say that some trans people aren’t born trans; I really think most trans people have a narrative like that. I’m more so trying to get across that, someone else’s narrative of choice should have no impact on your narrative of involuntarity. Both are real ways to experience being trans. And in many ways, having a narrative of choosing to be trans is necessary for the community, because it closes the doors for eugenicists who would try to eliminate quote-unquote “the trans gene”.

Viewing transness as a purely medical phenomenon where you need to meet certain requirements to get a trans diagnosis is a really reductive way to look at identity. Like I mentioned earlier: An identity is not just the sum of its parts, and it cannot be summarized by being forced to feel dysphoria. The fact of the matter is that we don’t know trans people are real because we have brain imaging technology, or even because certain people meet the medical criteria for having gender dysphoria. We know trans people are real because there are real people who identify as trans. We should be able to trust that people are trans when they tell us they are. And I think we need to look at nonhuman identities the same way.

Before I move on to the conclusion, I want to explain why this topic has become so important to me. A couple of months ago, after a good year or two of introspection, I realized I had created a hearttype. Not a kintype, but nonetheless an equally integral part of how I view myself and engage with the world. And changing something so fundamental about myself sent my thoughts racing.

When I was a kid I picked up a fear of spiders. It wasn’t bad enough to give me panic attacks, but it was bad enough that I couldn’t pick up a spider and carry it outside, even though I could do so with other bugs. I was around 10 years old when I decided that this was dumb, and I wanted to change it. So as a tween I quickly started on my own exposure therapy, looking at photos of spiders, reading about them, photographing them in nature, and after several years it had gotten to the point where I barely had a reaction to seeing them. But as I continued on, getting used to the idea of holding them and touching them, something changed in me.

Where I had previously felt fear, I started to feel admiration and love and a sense of familiarity. I wanted to surround myself with these animals, I wanted to work with them, and I started spending a not-insignificant amount of money on terrariums. And now, after more than a decade of rewriting my own thoughts and changing a mild fear into a love so deep it affects my sense of identity itself, I feel confident saying I created a hearttype. It was not an easy process. Like I said, it took more than a decade. Changing your entire mindset like that can’t be done with just a snap of your fingers. But evidently, some people are able to do it.

Though I have to add that, even here, it’s very easy to argue that there was some level of involuntarity. I already had an emotional response to spiders when I was scared of them. I don’t think I could form this kind of relationship with something I’m completely indifferent to, like, I dunno, a Toyota or a Marvel character. You can’t really form a relationship from nothing. And I appreciate this argument, because it really highlights just how confusing the entire concept of choice is, and how it doesn’t make sense to define ourselves by our lack of choice, when we can’t even define what counts as a choice.

But yeah, realizing that I created a hearttype, an identity that at the time was considered involuntary… realizing that I didn’t just play a part in creating this identity, but that I did create it, period. It sent my mind spinning, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what else might be possible. If I could create such love in myself, could I also do the opposite and tear down my own hearttype and recreate the phobia? Not something I want to test. But I think I could. And which other identities could be created like this?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the creation process has no impact on the nature of the identity itself, and I ended up posting a really controversial thing on tumblr. In hindsight I understand why some people got so pissed off about it, but I still stand by those thoughts. I’ll read it to you in full: “Theoretically I probably could force myself to not be otherkin. But it would take a decade or more, the way my hearttype creation did, and it would require constant work throughout those years. However, I see no way I wouldbenefit from that work, the way I did when I unintentionally created a hearttype in the process of getting rid of a phobia. It would just rid me of a part of myself that’s intrinsic to how I recognize myself. That’s not something I in any way want - and because I don’t want it, and because the choice would have to happen continuously on a timescale I can barely comprehend, I couldn’t make that choice in practicality.”

A very long and very complicated discussion came out of this post that I’d need a whole separate lecture to recap. But a few important ideas were developed, which I need to mention here. For starters, when discussing shadowwork and the Jungian archetypes, Jasper accidentally coined the term ego alteration. Through that discussion we ended up defining ego alteration as the process by which you proactively alter your conscious mind, your self-perception, and your thought-patterns. It’s not something to be taken lightly, as you’ll essentially be changing your sense of self by it. And it’s also not something everyone has the ability, desire, or drive to do. To integrate something into your sense of self, or to remove something that’s currently a part of your sense of self is serious business, and, like my hearttype creation, is something that should be thought about on a decades long timescale. I don’t have time to get in-depth about it here, but to consciously change your identity and your sense of self is definitely possible for some folks, and it’s nice to have a name for the concept.

Something else that came of that discussion is my own thoughts about how we define otherkin. The most common definition I’ve seen is “to identify, wholly or partially, as something nonhuman on a nonphysical level, by no choice of your own.” … I suggest we drop the last bit.

Okay, it’s a bit more complicated than just deleting a few words. In order to drop the “by no choice of your own” bit, without losing the meaning of otherkinity completely, and letting kin for fun take over, we’d need to rethink that entire definition.

Instead of defining otherkin by the amount of choice we had in the formation of our identity, I suggest we define otherkin by how integral our identities are to us. It was briefly mentioned on in one of the other panels (though I forget which one), but a pretty big source of conflict is that kin for fun just don’t understand the gravity of otherkin identities. If we define otherkinity as something that’s inseparable from who we are as individuals, it would not only make it clear to kin for fun that this is, well, not for fun. It would also get around the problem of people who worry that their identities might be invalid because they’ve made certain choices.

Your otherkinity is inherent, and by that I mean you would be a fundamentally different person if not for your kintype. At its most basic level, your kintype is what you recognize yourself to be. It’s the kind you belong to, rather than, or in tandem with, belonging to humankind. You kintype is an intrinsic part of you, and even if you could get rid of it, it would fundamentally change who you are is a person. If you chose not to be otherkin, you would also choose not to be you. In that sense, I suppose otherkinity is involuntary, in that you yourself can’t choose not to be otherkin, because as soon as you make that choice, you aren’t you. Though you could also argue that it is a choice because you wake up every day and choose to be you. And thus, the topic of choice leaves us running around in circles like it always has.

Being otherkin… being otherkind has never been about being forced to feel species dysphoria. It’s about being of another kind. It’s about knowing and recognizing humankind, and accepting that, in one way or another, that does not describe us.

And all this is not to say that copinglinking shouldn’t be a concept, but we need to rethink that as well. From the very few copinglink writings that exist, one topic I’ve seen several times is the idea of copinglinks becoming inseparable from you. This is not the point of links, and those who do go through a change like that find themselves more at home in the kin community than the link community. I don’t want to impose myself on linkers, but if we want these two words to make sense and have a use, we need to redefine both. I suggest defining copinglinks and otherlinks by their lack of integrality or by their ability to be dropped when necessary.

The line that has been drawn between otherkin and copinglinkers doesn’t help anyone as it is. There are far too many nonhumans who straddle the line, who feel torn between either community, or who only call themselves linkers because they feel pressured to do so. There are far too many nonhumans who don’t feel like they have a community they can call home.

So, I’m gonna propose a new and much more inclusive definition: To be otherkin is to identify as something nonhuman on an inherent or integral level. There you go, clean and simple. No more caveats or nested sentences.

#otherkin #otherkind #fictionkin #fictionkind #alterhuman #othercon #i don't think this is gonna show in the tags so reblogs are very appreciated

174 notes · View notes

equestrianwritingsstuff · 3 years

Note

More drugged villain please?

Okay so I did not know if this was an ask for a new piece, or a continuation of Paying For It. Because I already am planning on Paying For It Part 2, this is going to be a new piece, so ladies and gents I present to you *drumroll*...

Villain Pursuit

@shydragonrider

Warnings: drugged whumpee, tranq dart, needles, fever, tired characters, chasing of whumpee, bullet wound, guns, infection, descriptions of injuries, knocked out by blunt force, kidnapping

*not edited, sorry*

"He is getting much weaker," Hero reported as she stood in front of her boss, Superhero. "His right leg is very swollen and he can hardly walk, much less run. I believe it is infected and-" a yawn "- and he can hardly walk in a straight line anymore."

"Then, why didn't you grab him if he is this easy?" Superhero asked, ignoring his employee's obvious signs of exhaustion- it has been a long, rough two weeks of chasing a villain across multiple states. One of the other heroes managed to shoot his leg in hopes of incapacitating him, but the slippery villain somehow walked it off. Or, he did and now the wound was badly infected.

"He disappeared into a crowd," Hero replied. "I think it's time to chase him down and sedate him or something. If he continues like this, he is going to die."

Superhero nodded curtly in agreement. "Okay," he sighed. "We go out there and we do not rest until Villain is safetly behind bars."

Hero narrowed her eyes at the bluntness in Superhero's voice, but decided that her boss was just tired. She also reckoned that was the reason he didn't mention the infirmary as Villain's first destination after capture.

He was just tired, right?

《~~》

"Okay," Hero said, adjusting the tranq gun on her belt. "There he is."

Villain was laying against the steps to a door in an alleyway. His head was thrown backwards against his shoulder, eyes cracked open in semi-consciousness. His injured leg was stretched out whereas the other was curled up in an attempt to use some leverage to support himself. One arm was propped to keep himself upright, the other strewn to the side.

"He looks horrible," Teammate commented, chewing nervously on his lip. "I doubt its going to take much to put him out."

"Yeah, me neither," Hero agreed, feeling a rising nausea in her stomach. The pair crept towards the injured villain. Hero glanced over to see more heroes also advancing to corner the man.

But, at the last moment before Hero was able to shoot the dart, Villain saw them. He scrambled up his feet, leaning heavily against the door and swaying wildy. He looked over all the heroes, before turning and running off.

Hero cursed under her breath and sped after the hobbling villain. For a moment, she felt absolutely sorry for him. He could hardly stay on his feet, his right leg not even stepping that much on the ground. She could hear his pained groans from where she was.

Hero stopped running and drew out her tranq gun. Whispering an apology, she let the dart fly.

The feathered dart hit Villain directly in the side of his neck. He stumbled a bit, the drug already taking effect. He made an awkward circle- more of an oval- before collapsing backwards on the ground, his arms limply trying to break his fall, but they failed. His head crashed into the ground, leaving him laying in a motionless heap.

Hero grimaced. She never saw someone go down that quickly from the tranq gun before.

She walked up to the villain, crouching down and staring at him. An odd mixture of defeat and relief expressed itself on his unconscious face. Hero sighed, running a hand through her hair, before taking a look at his swollen leg.

The bullet that previously imbedded itself in his leg was gone, leaving a very infected gash. His whole calf was twice the size it would normally be- due to the infection and the fact that he seemed to have a badly sprained ankle.

"Finally!" Teammate exclaimed, sitting down exhausted next to Hero. "I was getting to the point of just shooting him and being done-"

"Look at this," Hero gestured towards his leg. She pressed into the flesh, it wasn't like he could feel it. It was burning hot.

"Yeah, looks nasty. I'm gonna call Superhero and then let's get him to the infirmary," Teammate said and went to call their boss.

Hero positioned herself by Villain's head and placed it in his lap. For some reason, even though he was incapable of realizing her presence, she felt a call to comfort him.

"It'll be okay buddy," Hero whispered, brushing the unwashed hair out of Villain's face. "Just hang on for me, will you?"

Superhero came within a few minutes, oddly without the aid of doctors and nurses. Hero watched with a perplexed look on her face while Teammate shrugged, also very confused.

Superhero smirked down at the unconscious man, nonchalantly using his foot and shoving his shoulder over. Villain rolled deeper into Hero's lap, his muscles devoid of any resistance.

"Well good job my heroes," Superhero said in an annoyingly chirpy voice. "Help me get him into my car, and I'll take him to the, uh, infirmary."

Hero nodded curtly, but really she found this odd. Why was Superhero taking Villain? What if Villain woke up? Maybe he meant for Teammate and Hero to join him in the ride and just harmlessly forgot to mention it?

Teammate and Hero loaded Villain into the back of the car and buckled his limp body up. They had him in a sitting position with his leg dangling over his chest, arms lazily lying at his sides.

"Thank you so much, guys. Really, great job," Superhero applauded in an interestingly quick voice. Hero smiled back and prepared to ride shotgun.

"Wait! No, no, no," Superhero chuckled nervously. "Honey, why don't you and Teammate go home and get some sleep. You two have been working incredibly hard."

Hero detected the tension in her boss's voice, but chose to ignore it. Truthfully, she was too tired to argue and the thought of collapsing on her bed and sleeping was too tempting. She stepped back and Superhero got into his car and drove away.

《~~》

"It's been a week Hero," Teammate spoke over in between sips of his morning coffee. "A week and no signs of Superhero, we can't visit Villain, and the agnecy is a mess."

"Yeah, kind of odd," Hero agreed, looking out the window and across the busy street. She took a lip of her own coffee and glanced bavk over at her partner. "Maybe we should call him."

"Yeah." Teammate nodded, then a mischievous grin dawned on his face. "You do it," he challenged.

But Hero was not in the mood for games. She flipped out her phone and dialed her boss's number.

"Hey Hero, how are-" cough "-you." The superhero on the otherside of the line sniffled.

"Are you sick boss?" Hero asked, brow furrowing in concern.

"Yeah, just the flu. Nothing serious, just miserable."

Was it Hero's ears playing tricks on her, or did Superhero's voice seem suddenly much less congested?

"Oh well I'm sorry. Rest up and we'll see you next week."

"Is everything okay Hero?"

"Yep all good."

It was not all good. Hero hung up and looked over at Teammate. A wordless conversation passes between them and they both hustled to their feet and practically ran out the door.

Superhero lived on the outskirts of the city in a vintage farmhouse. Hero's sport car felt very out of place in the picturesque view of the red barn and old tractor.

Teammate knocked on the screen door and stepped back. Hero tried not to notice, but he had a gun with him.

"Coming! I'm coming!" Superhero's clearly not sick voice rang out. Hero heard the poudning of footsteps before Superhero, dreased in a sweatpants and a tank top, opened the door.

His face paled at the sight of his employees.

"Oh, hey ack. What brings you here? I said I was totally good," Superhero chuckled, tapping his fingers against the doorframe.

"Cut the bull Superhero." Teammate drew his gun. "Where is Villain?"

Hero was shocked. She didn't really piece two and two together, but it seemed like Teammate did.

Superhero had Villain.

"No where. What makes you think-"

Teammate brought the barrel of the gun to Superhero's temple, knocking him out. He immediately rushed over and stuck his boss with a needle.

"What?" Hero asked, astonished.

"I'm always prepared. Never trusted that guy anyways," Teammate replied, turning his nose up slightly at Superhero's sleeping form in amusement, before rushing into the house. Hero followed.

They found Villain unconscious on the floor of the basement. His arm was strewn over his face, bruised and bloodied.

Hero ran over and took one look at the villain an immediately knew that he was in reallt bad shape. The original infection seemed to be drained, but it was still quite pussy. Also, the swelling did not yet go down.

Teammate grabbed Villain's arm and turned it over to reveal tiny holes. Hero swallowed. He has been drugged, she realized with a shudder.

Teammate, without another word, scooped Villain into his arm and carried him back up the stairs. Hero followed, stunned into silence.

When they came across Superhero's peacefully sleeping form, Hero brought her heel down onto his nose. With a satisfying crunch, it broke.

"Serves you right," Hero whispered, voice dripping with malice.

Teammate had Villain lying in the backseat of the small car, his bad leg resting against his jacket as a pillow. Hero scooted in next to him, laying his head on her lap. "Okay, let's go," she said and Teammate droved to her house.

The first thing the two did was get the disgusting, soiled articles of clothing off Villain's partially starved body. He immediately started to shiver, convulsions overtaking his body.

"Okay, he need to be warmed up," Hero said. "Bath?"

"No, wrap him in warm blankets and then sit with him on the couch. I need to tend to this leg ASAP," Teammate said, voice completely focused and monotoned.

Hero did as she was told, swaddling Villain in a fluffy beige blanket. She laid his upper body across her lap as Teammate went to work on properly draining the abscess. Villain didn't stir and Hero got worried. She checked his pulse finding it too fast and erratic to be normal.

"Okay done." Teammate cleaned his hands off on a paper towel and doused the wound with antiseptic. When that was done, he wrapped the gash in thick bandages.

Hero clutched Villain, dragging him closer to her. Waking up slightly, he nuzzled his face into her arm. Then, he stilled again, asleep.

"What are we going to do about him?" Hero whispered. "Superhero won't let us get away..."

"I know." Teammate rubbed his eyes. "That's why I am going to pack and we are running away."

#villain whumpee #superhero whumper #hero caretaker #teammate caretaker #hero x villain #drugged whumpee #drugged villain #evil superhero #guns tw #unconscious villain #kidnapping #injured villain

123 notes · View notes

aenaxes · 3 years

Note

OMG ok for the 200 follower celebration (based on your smoking post) PLZZZ write sharing a spice blunt with cross or any batcher of your choosing I would simply die 😩💅🏻❤️

vapor trails

[crosshair & hunter x f!reader] you don't really run with the fett twins' crowd, but you find yourself at one of their parties anyway (in reference to this post lol)

warnings: college!au, recreational drug use, suggestive themes, but consent is sexy & mandatory & sober babes

w/c: 3.8k

a/n: anon, you ask for one batcher, but why not two? thank you for enabling me nonnie & @mallr4ts lol (im so sorry to all the previous requests for the event, this one has just been needling in my brain all day and i had to get it out hsdfs)

event details here! requests are open until july 4th!

You don’t know much about the Fett twins.

They’re something like campus legends even though they’re only a year your senior and at the tail end of their fourth years. But as much as you’ve heard their names slung around in weekend plans and excited chatter, you’ve never once met them, much less seen them yourself. Between idling class whispers and dining hall conversations, all you can piece together from the rumors is that: one, they’re from a big family (you’ve heard anywhere from two to twelve other brothers, yikes); and two, as much as they work hard (because the venture capital and pre-professorial tracks seem rigorous enough), they play even harder.

It helps that they apparently own one of the biggest apartments off campus, one in which you find yourself hopelessly and miserably lost. And overdressed.

Great.

It hadn’t occurred to you that your roommate, who is nowhere to be seen, had been dressing up for her girlfriend, and that most people who had half a mind would wear something comfortable that could withstand a few spilled drinks and ash. So seeing the rest of the room in rumpled tees and sweats has you and your little black dress seeking out the nearest wall as you fiddle with your questionably sweet cup of margarita mixer.

You feel like a first year, and it sucks.

But for once, with everyone too busy mingling amongst themselves over the heavy thrum of some mumble rap beat, you manage to slip by unnoticed.

Every now and then, you dart your eyes around the ever shifting landscape of faces in the dim room, looking for even the vaguest familiarity that might let you feign being tipsy and join a group for the night. But every time you try, there’s no luck.

Fuck, you haven’t even seen anyone here before.

But there might be a god watching out for you yet when the crowd shifts just enough that you catch sight of the couch, and on it, someone you suspect to be one of the twins as he greets a few girls with a disinterested nod.

Emboldened, but mostly nervous that in the crowd of bodies and red solo cups you’re still helplessly alone, you push off the wall and squeeze past huddled cliques of conversation to make for the dark couch.

By the platinum bleached hair and big-name consulting group quarter zip, Crosshair—at least you think it’s him—lounges over the couch. He isn’t the only body on the suede seats, but he keeps to himself, his head dipped low as he works one hand over a small metal canister in his other palm.

If you weren’t having luck with the other nameless faces around you, maybe the Fett twin would keep you company—at least until your roommate came back to find you (if she did). And worst case, you’d just slink back to your dorm and mope until your roommate apologized to you with your favorite overpriced smoothie bowl the day after.

Mustering every ounce of courage you have, you plant your feet by the couch and finally speak.

"Is your name actually Crosshair?" you ask.

The man on the couch pauses, his motions stilling over the small metal cylinder in his palms, and he lifts his chin just enough to flick his eyes up towards the sound of your voice.

You always thought the girls in your droning 9AM gen-ed were wildly exaggerating his hype for their own devices, squealing over his (apparently) brooding charm and sharp looks to nip at his stash for free. But for all the vague haze surrounding your perception of the twins, you never thought that they were telling the truth.

If you had been in broad daylight under the incandescent glow of your creaky lecture hall lights, you might have called him cocky, almost haughty, how he meets you with an unreadable look for having interrupted him. But in the purple LEDs and heavy haze of vape juice and shitty tequila, he’s captivating, all dark eyes and perfectly lit skin, marked only by the needle-thin design tattooed over the right side of his face and a worn wooden toothpick bitten between his teeth.

You swallow down the dry lump in your throat when you catch him flick his eyes from your face, down the short length of your dress, and back up again.

"Smoke with me; maybe you'll find out," he drawls, toothpick bobbing as he speaks. He twists the cylinder once and offers you a wry smirk. And when you stay, speechless but there all the same, Crosshair scoots to the side and pats the narrow space between him and the couch arm, inviting you close.

"I've never smoked before," you admit a bit shyly as you drop down beside him. Your dress hikes up your thigh, and you shiver when your skin presses up against the soft denim of his jeans.

"Not even cigs?"

You shake your head. And you tell yourself that when he leans close and brushes his shoulder up against your arm, that he’s only doing it because someone’s boosted the bass, and you can’t hear him over the reverb.

"Well, good thing I'm here, yeah?"

He gives the metal canister a final twist and sets it down on the coffee table before you. Swapping the canister for a small brown sleeve, you watch in a daze as he pulls a semi-transparent leaflet from the folder and tears a strip of cardstock straight from its flap. He has pianist fingers, you think wistfully, neatly kept nails and slender grace, and you wonder if he’ll entertain you if you ask to compare your hand to his.

“What’s your name?”

You scrabble back to the present at the sound of his voice. “Uh, y/n,” you offer.

“Well, y/n,” he says with a soft laugh, having caught on to your daydreaming. “Step one, you fold your filter.”

You nod along absently as Crosshair artfully crimps the thick paper into a neat roll. As if there isn’t thirty-some odd people crammed into his apartment, he quietly takes you step by step, offering you the filter, the paper, then the contents of the canister (a grinder, he explains) like it’s a game of show and tell. But with every piece he places into your hands, you gravitate closer, closer, until you’re flush against his arm and practically hanging over his side to watch as he gently taps a line of bud over the paper.

“Here, let me give you a better look,” Crosshair says.

You expect him to bring the neat line of bud to you, but when nothing comes, you look up and find him waiting for you, one arm open in invitation as the other pats once on the dark denim of his thigh.

“Uh—”

“Sit,” he says as if you haven’t just met him fifteen minutes ago. “Front row seats if you want ‘em.”

On one hand, you barely know Crosshair outside of the rumors you hear on campus. On the other hand, he’s a genuinely pleasant person, careful to accommodate for your boundaries and offering a snide playfulness that’s banished your nerves from earlier in the night.

He’s also really fucking hot.

“Okay,” you murmur, and you let him wrap his arm around your waist and tug you onto his lap. And he’s right. Perched over his thighs, you see with perfect clarity (and without the strain in your neck) as he gently folds the paper over the mound of bud and carefully twists. It’s the prettiest joint you’ve ever seen—though it might be because it’s the only one you’ve seen.

"Final touch," Crosshair's voice rumbles over your back, shooting straight into your core as he lifts the paper's vellum edge to your lips. “Lick it for me.”

Since you sat down with him, you’ve only been the passenger, nodding along as Crosshair’s long, nimble fingers creased over filter paper and patiently pointed out things like the stray pistils in his baggie and the keef gathered at the bottom of his grinder for if you really want to get fucked up. And even though you aren’t doing much (because licking paper doesn’t really seem too crazy), it’s a step forward from the comfortable rhythm that had settled between you, and you twist around in his lap to shoot him an uncertain glance.

“Just,” Crosshair flicks his tongue over his lower lip, flashing a brief glimpse of a ball piercing towards your wide eyes. And if you weren’t so flustered, you might have recognized the coy playfulness in his gaze. “Give it a lick, right over the edge.”

“I—uh, what if I—” you stammer.

“You’re not gonna mess this up, darling,” Crosshair chuckles. If his hand squeezing brief over your waist wasn’t enough to bring heat searing over the tops of your ears, his next words, crooned low and breathy into your ear, certainly do. “You’re a smart girl. You can do it.”

"My brother giving you trouble?"

Another voice cuts through the din of the party, sparing you your stammering nerves as you whip your head up in its general direction. You’re greeted with the sight of his brother, peering down on you as he takes a sip from his cup.

“You’re such a killjoy,” Crosshair mutters, drawing his arm tighter around your waist as he jabs the half-rolled joint to where Hunter sprawls down onto the couch beside him. “No, I’m not being a creep. I’m teaching our pretty underclassman here how to roll.”

Oh.

Heat rushes over your cheeks, and you can’t decide whether you want to shrink into yourself or bask in it and beg for more.

He called you pretty.

“With her in your lap,” Hunter snorts into his cup.

“It was your idea to invite your entire fucking rugby team. Where else would we do it?”

“I’m so sorry he’s like this,” Hunter laughs, tilting his head and looking up at you through his (unfairly) long lashes. Where you thought Crosshair’s tattoo was bold, Hunter’s practically blows him out of the water, a well-worn swath of ink on the left half of his face, curving into neatly stylized teeth right at the edge of his lips. “I’m Hunter.”

Huh, maybe you do have a thing for tattoos.

“Y/n,” you squeak. “It’s, um—it’s nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, sweetheart,” he says as he offers you an easy smile. “Has my baby brother been treating you right?”

“God, two fucking minutes,” Crosshair snaps. You hear the embarrassment seeping from the vitriol, and it strikes you like a shot to the head that he’s trying to play cool in front of you. “I come out two minutes after you and—”

“We’re fraternal, and I got all the oxygen in the womb. Explains why he has awful people skills,” Hunter fake-whispers loud enough for Crosshair to hear, and you giggle as the other man groans from behind you.

“No, he’s been really nice,” you say softly once you realize that you’ve been laughing a little too loud. “He’s teaching me about weed.” It sounds juvenile when you say it, awkward and clumsy on your tongue. It’s a dead giveaway that has Hunter’s smile mellowing into something soft.

“Your first time?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, Cross here’s high as shit at least four hours every day. Says it helps him do the math. I hate to say it, but you’re in good hands.”

“You try running a nonlinear regression sober,” Crosshair snorts. “Anyways, we were just finishing up this joint before you decided to kill the vibe.”

Crosshair lifts the half-rolled joint back up to your chin, and this time, he leans forward and presses his chest close against your back as the playful snark leaves his tone, in its wake, something patient and calm as his voice rumbles by your ear.

“You gonna help me finish the job, sweet girl?”

You surprise yourself when the initial trepidation vanishes as you tip your chin down and stick out your tongue. Maybe you’re showboating now that you have an audience, feeling Hunter’s dark eyes on your lips when you touch the tip of your tongue out over the edge.

Whether it’s your lip gloss or the fine crumbs of bud stuck to the roll paper that fills your mouth with something earthy and sweet, you can’t say. All you know is they’re both following you with that intense intent, the bass and blend of voices faded out around you; just you in Crosshair’s lap and Hunter pretending to care about the drink in his hand as you lift your tongue off the far corner of the paper and close your lips.

“Good job,” Hunter muses, and you’re pretty certain he’s not talking about the joint when you feel his gaze boring into you alone.

The smell of smoke pulls you out of Hunter’s gravity, and you look back in front of you to see Crosshair snap a scuffed metal lighter shut and toss it onto the coffee table. He brings the joint back down in front of you, blowing a neat stream of whitish gray smoke past your ear.

“You know how to pull?” Crosshair asks, and his chin brushes over your bare shoulder as he speaks. He’s so close. You can smell the burn, acrid and sour, but it doesn’t matter that it doesn’t smell like some bubblegum vape when you feel his breaths curling over your skin. You just want more.

Mutely, you shake your head.

“Mm, you know how to shotgun?” Hunter offers, and you hear Crosshair huff laugher from behind you. “Might be easier for your first try.”

You shake your head again.

“It’s,” Hunter pauses, and his brows knit close as he thinks for a moment. “It’s kind of like a kiss. But not really. I take a hit and you catch my smoke. That sound okay?”

You don’t think it matters that someone’s hit shuffle on the playlist, filling the room with a hard electronic beat that might have otherwise drowned out all sound. All you hear is your heart pounding in your ears as you nod and watch Hunter lift the filter to his lips and inhale deep, then pass the joint back to Crosshair.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, white trails of smoke curling over his upper lip as he lifts one hand to cup over the base of your neck.

“Open,” Crosshair whispers.

Wordlessly, you obey. Your lips part just as Hunter pulls close, so close you feel the heat of his skin spreading warm over your cheeks, and blows a soft stream of bitter smoke into your mouth. It can’t be more than a few seconds, but all the while, you can’t seem to tear your eyes from his.

“Breathe in, deep,” you hear Crosshair instruct as he begins to rub one thumb over the curve of your hip.

The smoke is thick, sluicing down your throat and filling your lungs like nothing you’ve ever felt before. It’s not bad, just new, and pressed between the twins over the couch, you think it just might have been worth being ditched by your roommate earlier in the night. But your lungs ache, and you slowly exhale, watching as your vision fogs with a loose cloud of smoke until your chest feels clear again.

“And you didn’t even cough,” Hunter smiles. His calloused fingertips follow the slope of your neck, lingering one moment more before he pulls away. And you aren’t sure if the low buzzing in your fingertips is the weed or their combined warmth as Hunter rubs over your knee and Crosshair leans his head against your neck. “Good girl.”

“Wanna do it again,” you whisper as the buzz begins to crawl up your neck, fizzling around your temples as you lean your cheek over where Crosshair nuzzles into your shoulder.

“With him or me?” Crosshair murmurs, his lips brushing over your skin.

“You,” you say dreamily, and Hunter laughs, a sound that suddenly seems so far away as you tip your head and press close against Crosshair’s silver hair.

Crosshair leans into your touch, pressing his cheek up against your neck one last time before he’s lifting his head and bringing the joint to his lips. You hear the hiss of his inhale, smoke curling up through the narrow body of the joint as the charred end glows warm beside you.

And instead of Hunter’s approach, level with you, Crosshair looms above you, meeting your wide eyes with something of a fond smile. Dragging his hand up your chest, he follows the line of your neck and holds snug over your chin. He squeezes softly, and your jaw falls slack, lips parted in a soft ‘o’ as he dips low. He's closer than Hunter as you feel his mouth just brush over yours and breathe smoke over your tongue.

This time, it’s easier.

You swallow down the smoke and hold, just a beat longer than before. But both Crosshair and Hunter notice as your lips stay parted, and they share a soft laugh that has you exhaling smoke and pride all at once when you finally relax your diaphragm and breathe out.

“Fast learner,” Crosshair muses, nosing up under your jaw as you sink back against his chest.

You mumble incoherently, chasing his touch as the high creeps heavy and warm from your chest to your collar and settles at the back of your throat. It anchors you, molding you up against Crosshair who feels nothing short of perfect as he circles his arms loose over your waist.

You turn your head to thank Hunter when you distantly register him pressing a cool cup into your hand (water, you think you hear him say), but the words slip back down into your throat, your eyelids suddenly unbearably heavy and coarse over your blurry vision.

“You wanna lay down?” Hunter offers, and his voice comes to you like you’re underwater, warped and bubbling past the din of the party around you.

You're pretty sure you nod.

For a few moments, you catch traces of an unintelligible exchange between the twins, only aware of the rumble of Crosshair’s voice at your back, and then you’re being lifted up off the couch, the music and raucous laughter fading behind you.

A door opens, squeaking half-shut, and you wince as a light clicks on beside you. Whoever was carrying you sets you down on something soft and cool, and you sway as the light dims and you settle into your seat.

You’re on a bed, you think.

Crosshair’s, judging by the shock of light hair that you can make out through your lashes. He helps you into a worn tee that reaches past the short hem of your dress, and you wiggle into it with a soft whine, holding it tight.

But where you expect a familiar weight to dip down next to you and pull you close, your eyes fly open when you see his figure turn away from you and towards the neon lights of the party outside.

“You aren’t staying?” It's the most coherent you've been through your first high.

“Not tonight,” Crosshair says softly. He turns back towards you and reaches up to fix the strap of your dress as you sit on his bed. “Baby’s first tokes got you all dopey. Right now, what you need is this,” and he presses a plastic bottle of vitamin water he’s seemingly produced out of nowhere into your palm. “This,” he adds, pressing your phone into your other hand. “And a good night’s sleep.”

“And what if I say I need you, too?” you pout.

Some part of you—the conscious part locked away in the back of your skull—bangs up against the hazy high at the crown of your head because when you’re good and sober and when Crosshair inevitably turns you down, you won’t be able to look at yourself in the mirror for the next semester.

But he breaks into a smile that crinkles at the corners of his eyes before he leans down to press his lips to your forehead. It’s just a split-second of warm, chapstick-soft lips on your skin, but it floods you with an indescribable good from the top of your head all the way down to your toes.

And as high as you are right now, you have a hell of a hunch that the flutter in your chest is going to stay, even when the room stops wobbling around you.

“When you’re all sobered up in the morning, we’ll make you breakfast, and we’ll figure it out from there,” Crosshair says after he’s pulled back, reaching up to smooth his palm over your hair. “Sound like a plan?”

You nod, probably with a little too much enthusiasm, but you’re rewarded with another low chuckle that’s practically music to your ears. His hand gentle and firm over your shoulder, Crosshair guides you down onto the bed and pulls the covers up to your chin.

“Now text your roomie so she doesn’t call the cops on us, get some sleep, and drink all of that, okay?”

“Okay,” you respond.

“Good girl.”

And when the lights click out, you curl into Crosshair’s pillow, breathing in cold, fresh notes of his cologne, and then you’re asleep.

You climb out of bed the next morning, your minidress rumpled under a long shirt. It's not like a hangover, no, you just find yourself a bit lightheaded and throat parched, and the disorientation makes your head spin as you’re greeted with the smell of fresh coffee and something savory—

Your roommate doesn’t wake up earlier than you, and she can’t cook for shit. And why were your sheets grey? Whose shirt were you—

Oh.

Fuck.

You practically burst out of Crosshair’s bedroom, and you’re not sure what you expected, but somehow you hadn’t expected to see Hunter sipping mildly on a mug of coffee while Crosshair pushes something around in a pan over their kitchen range.

“Mornin,’” Hunter offers you a small wave, and reaches for a third mug on the countertop. “Wasn’t sure how you liked your coffee so we just made it black.”

“What happened last night?” you gasp. If you weren’t so panicked, you’re certain the sight of them sporting nothing but grey sweats would have been your only concern, but you’ve just woken up with foggy memories and the slimy dread of anxiety that follows a blackout night.

“Easy, easy,” Crosshair assures you as he steps away from the stovetop. “Nothing happened after we smoked. You took, like, two hits, and you were so hazy you couldn’t remember your dorm number, so we put you to bed, and I slept out in the living room. Fetts are wild but we’re not scumbags, promise.”

And judging from the throw blanket sliding off the edge of the couch cushions, you’re fairly certain you can believe him. Relief floods your chest.

“Oh thank God,” you sigh, and your shoulders sag as the weight of panic sloughs off your back.

They both laugh softly, the sudden tension lifting from the bright morning light, and you can’t help but join in. And when that rosy relief gives way to silence again, it’s Crosshair who speaks next.

“So, you staying for breakfast?”

“Can I borrow some actual clothes first?”

“Done deal.”

#fun fact: my signature party trick is flirting with a guy and then stealing his blunt ✌️😗#thinking about how schlorbe n i agreed crosshair listens to souncloud mumble rap :/#its ok i kiss him anyways #hc that crosshair’s an econ/finance bro and hunter’s a history major hehe #sequel series: crosshair goes venture capital (gross)#tech's probably at like the space equivalent of mit or something #and i will Die on the hill that wrecker's super smart with kinesiology #crosshair x reader #hunter x reader #sergeant hunter x reader #the bad batch x reader #anon #yaej.writes

190 notes · View notes

liron-ao3 · 3 years

Text

Happy birthday, Alexander

A Malec Oneshot 🔞

Having your birthday on a Sunday has its perks. You can sleep in, have a relaxed breakfast in bed, can cuddle with your partner for hours. Okay, you might have to interrupt it for all the birthday calls, but really, no one can drag you out of bed if you don't want to.

And Alec definitely doesn't.

The bed is empty beside him, but he can hear Magnus puttering about in the kitchen. He probably has bought Alec's favourite chocolate cake from the Parisian patisserie they had their first overseas date at. Or maybe he conjures up a French toast feast or Belgian waffles. Alec scents the air, but the bedroom is too far away from the kitchen to smell what Magnus might be up to.

It doesn't matter anyway. Alec is already in high spirits. This is their day, painstakingly shovelled out of their busy schedules. It's one of many things that Magnus has taught him. It's important to take time for the things you care about. And caring about their husband, both of them do.

There are footsteps and the sound of quietly clacking dishes coming through the open bedroom door, and it doesn't take long for Magnus to appear in it, a delicately filled breakfast tray in hand, red rose and all. He wears the maroon dressing gown that Alec loves so much on him and the warmest smile that still elicits tiny butterflies in Alec's stomach. This man is his, and Alec is the luckiest guy in the world.

"Good morning, Alexander."

Alec smiles back at him. "Good morning, love."

Magnus puts the tray on the bedside table and leans in for a languid kiss that makes Alec's blood rush south. By the Angels! Magnus is such a good kisser.

Alec pulls Magnus on top of him, and then they make out for long minutes, only shortly interrupted by a snap of Magnus' fingers to keep their coffees and oven-fresh pains au chocolat warm.

Alec's hands run over the smooth fabric of Magnus' clothes. He loves the feel of Magnus' muscles under his hands, the knowledge of how wonderful the skin itself would feel if he'd pull the gown away from his husband's perfect body.

Alec knows every millimetre of skin, every edge and curve of Magnus' body. He mapped it out a thousand times with his hands and lips. He loves his scent, especially in the morning when the remnants of his shampoo and shower gel have dissipated and Magnus only smells of himself.

Alec rolls Magnus on his back and kisses him fiercely. Magnus lets him, moans quietly into his mouth. It's a heated slide of lips and tongues, teeth joining now and then. It's perfect, familiar and still full of surprises. Kissing Magnus never gets dull. And judging by the way the warlock returns it with enthusiasm, Magnus would agree with his husband on this.

Alec pulls back after a while, catching his breath. He sends a questioning look down to chocolate coloured eyes. They perfected these silent conversations over the last two years, the wordless 'Can I?' hanging in the air between them.

Magnus smiles at him softly as he usually does, his lips red and slightly swollen. Alec gets rid of his boxers, opens the belt of Magnus' bathrobe and pulls his satin shorts down, just enough to settle his throbbing erection in the crease right above Magnus' hip bone. To his surprise, Magnus lets out a discontent sound. Alec furrows his brow in confusion.

"It's your birthday, Alexander."

Alec huffs a laugh. "Yes, and?"

"You can have me."

It takes Alec embarrassingly long until he understands. His cock gets the message immediately after, though, and a shiver works itself through Alec's body.

"You don't have to," he replies nonetheless when the spike of arousal subsides. It's nice that Magnus is willing to sleep with him from time to time, even though he doesn't derive any pleasure from it. At least not in the traditional sense of sexual satisfaction. But Alec would never expect this from him, much less over the fact that it's his birthday. He wants Magnus to be in the mood for this kind of intimacy.

Magnus cards his fingers through Alec's hair, just the way the shadowhunter loves it. "I want to," he simply states.

And it is that simple. Honesty, that's what they promised each other. No pretending to be fine, no important words postponed to later, no doing things out of a misguided sense of duty.

Alec dives in for another kiss. He'll never get enough of these lips, of this man, of holding his heart and Magnus his in return.

He brushes the fabric to the side and kisses a long trail from the spot behind Magnus' ear to the place where he should have a belly button. Alec grins and enjoys the goosebumps that he can conjure on Magnus' skin when he does things like this. His husband is so responsive, and Alec loves it. Loves him so much.

When Alec pulls down Magnus' shorts, his dick is lying there, not even semi-erect. Alec ignores it. He learnt that Magnus' arousal is unpredictable and says nothing about how much he loves him, of how beautiful Alec is in his eyes, of how much he likes to feel and taste him.

Alec's eyes roam over Magnus' caramel skin up to his beautiful cat eyes. They smile at each other for a long moment as if frozen in time. Alec could bathe in the glow of their love for all eternity.

Magnus breaks the moment with a snap of his fingers, and Alec chuckles in surprise when he feels his fingers slick with warm lube.

"Impatient, are we?" Alec smirks.

"For you? Always, darling." Magnus grins up at him and spreads his legs invitingly. Alec's eyes fix on the inviting hole. He gives his own cock a few strokes before he touches the rim, a heady feeling overwhelming him.

It's not that they never have sex. No, far from it. Alec enjoys Magnus' body, his hands and mouth ever so often. But this here? This is special. This is something they haven't done since their wedding anniversary.

Alec loves being inside Magnus. It's not that he loves it more than all the other sexual things they share, but it's different. Very good different. Nothing compares to the tightness of Magnus' ass, the way he clenches around him, the feeling of being so utterly connected that they become one.

It's stupid, Alec thinks, as if we weren't one at all times and especially in bed. But tell that to his cock that springs excitedly at the mere thought of burying himself in Magnus' narrow heat.

Alec pushes a finger slowly inside. It always fills him with wonder how easily Magnus lets him in. It's trust in its purest form, and it doesn't cease to amaze him, doesn't cease to flood his body with all-encompassing want. Magnus does this for him out of love because he wants to give him what Alec could live without but is happy that he doesn't have to. They always do this on Magnus' terms, and knowing that his husband wants it, too, makes the sex for Alec only better.

"I love you so damn much," Alec breathes, looking up in his husband's eyes, and Magnus clenches around him as he laughs.

"I love you too, Alexander." It's spoken with such joy and sincerity, it takes Alec's breath away. How is this not a fairy tale?

"I can take more," Magnus states, and Alec chuckles. He complies, feels Magnus stretching around his fingers.

Briefly, Alec wonders if he is the only gay man with a cis partner who has no clue where his lover's prostate is. He only knows that he will stimulate it by mistake when he adds a third finger. But Magnus takes it. Alec hates it when he makes him bolt up the bed, the touch too intense and arrow sharp, nothing like the pleasure Alec experiences when Magnus does the same to him.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"It's quite alright, Alexander," Magnus breathes. "I think I'm ready."

Alec furrows his brow in concern, but Magnus is already moving. He cleans Alec's hand with a snap of his fingers and pushes him on his back. Alec can't help but think that he's one lucky bastard as he watches his husband getting ready to ride him. He loves the sight of Magnus hovering over him, lining himself up with his dick. He looks so good like this, all sexy muscles framed by maroon silk, a masterpiece of art.

But it's nothing compared to the feeling of Magnus sinking down on him. Alec closes his eyes for a moment, tries to keep in the lewd moan threatening to fall from his lips.

Magnus clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Let me hear you, Alexander. Your passion is my greatest reward."

And so, Alec lets it out, moans Magnus' name and praises him as he starts moving. The drag of Magnus' walls over his cock, the quiet moans falling from his husband's lips—Alec can't help but think that Magnus enjoys himself.

It's not exactly true, he knows that. But Alec learnt to relish it nonetheless. Magnus wants to make him feel good, and who is he to deny his beloved anything? Magnus is in charge, can control the intensity of what he feels. And Alec is in for the ride, can enjoy the pressure of Magnus' hand on his chest and the slide of his ass over his cock.

Magnus moves his hips exactly how Alec likes it, pulls himself up just to slam down again, a constant assault on Alec's nerve endings. It feels like ages and seconds, an eternal tide. Alec gets lost in it, lost in Magnus' loving ministrations.

Alec hums when the telltale sign of concentred heat pooling in his stomach announces his near climax. He doesn't warn Magnus, well-knowing he might stop and prolong their love-making. But this is enough, will always be more than enough for Alec. The fact that Magnus allows him to have him like this—glistening with a sheen of sweat, eyes closed in concentration, his body moving in ways Alec's blood-drained brain can't properly process but that he enjoys to the fullest—is the greatest gift of all, birthday or not.

But something must have given him away. Magnus surely knows how to read his body, or maybe his mind even. He opens his unglamoured eyes, looks at him with so much adoration and love, it pushes Alec only closer to the edge.

"Come for me, darling," Magnus huffs out, strain clear in his voice, as he keeps on slamming their bodies together with clear intent. And Alec does. His body spasms, his sight is replaced with darkness and fireworks. He moans Magnus' name as he fills him as if there were a way to get even closer than this.

When he opens his eyes afterwards, his brain still far from being back online again, they are already magically cleaned, and Magnus lies in Alec's boneless arms.

"Happy birthday, Alexander," he chuckles against his shoulder.

Happy birthday, indeed.

#alec lightwood #magnus bane #fluff and smut #birthday sex #asexual magnus bane #malec fandom #malec fic #malec fanfic #malec fanfiction

75 notes · View notes

justkeums · 3 years

Text

melting ice

𖥻　lee jaeho/jeff x gn!reader 𖥻　fluff, semi-crack, enemies to lovers, ice hockey player!jeff, figure skater!reader 𖥻　warnings: none 𖥻　word count: 1.0k words 𖥻　requested 𖥻　author's note: at first i was like who would make baby jeff their enemy??!? imma fight- but this idea is rly cute i loved writing this one!

you jump and twirl, expecting to land on your two feet steadily, but your left foot lands first, making you slip and fall on the cold ice. you mentally curse yourself as you hear the annoying hockey player, jaeho, laugh at you.

"what the hell are you looking at?"

you get up from the floor immediately before he gets the chance to see you on the floor up close. jaeho seeing you fall was enough embarrassment for today.

"you look so pitiful. i feel bad for you," he skates his way towards you. "you sure you're okay?"

he notices the flakes of ice on your back before you do and dusts it off for you, to which you swat his hand away. it's a simple kind gesture from him but he knows you'll never see it that way though. you swear on your pride that you'll never accept anything from your enemy.

you pretend to ignore his question. "why the hell are you here anyway?"

"are you the only one allowed to skate in this rink?"

"touché. just- don't disturb me when i practice." you sternly tell him before skating towards the other side of the rink.

the district's ice rink is open for anyone to use. you do your official trainings at bigger and private ice rinks but you still enjoyed skating by yourself, free from criticisms and compliments that would sometimes make you more insecure. it provided you peace and comfort whenever you skate alone, rather than feeling lonely.

you usually arrive at 7am, because it's rare for other people to arrive that early. and now, you're not skating alone as jaeho arrives shortly after you.

he's very hardworking like you, and it's not difficult, even for yourself, to admit that. you first met him when he joined the hockey team in his first year of high school. he usually comes with his teammates to practice or skate for fun.

you were acquaintances for a while, only recognizing each other by face. the negative feelings you have for him started when you hear he and his friends talk about you, comparing figure skating to hockey.

"figure skating doesn't even look that difficult."

you clearly remember the face of the one who said that. you were able to figure out his name when he's being called by his teammates. lee jaeho.

he wasn't dense and quickly noticed the death glares you always gave him when he's around. there wasn't an actual conversation that started until when the two of you sat on the same to remove your skating shoes and you muttered somewhere between the lines of 'hockey players are so annoying.' it ended up in a debate of defending your respective sports, which leads to the current relationship between you and him.

you shake off your thoughts about him. the best way for you to train right now is to ignore and pretend he's not there. so you try to do the same stunt as earlier.

this time, you land on both of your feet, but your right foot loses its balance and you twist your right ankle, leading to a sprain. the loud wince of you in pain catches his attention and quickly skates towards you, who was already sitting on the cold ice while holding on to your ankle.

"y/n! are you alright?" he crouches down to your position and assesses the injury. "it's just a sprain, but i'll help you get to the bench quicker. hold on to me." his hand reaches out to grab your arm but you dodge it.

"don't touch me." you hiss at him.

"okay. try walking on your own, then." he stands up and turns his back, preparing to walk away.

"urgh, fine!"

jaeho smirks to himself when you finally give in. he reaches out his hand, waiting for you to take it. you hesitate for a while and the sight of it worried him.

"you know, y/n, am i that disgusting to you? why do you hate me so much?"

"you belittled and offended me! my career! how am i supposed to treat you nicely after that?"

it took him a while to realize what you were talking about. "is this what i said about figure skating?" you continue to stare at him with hatred and he took it as a yes. "i'm sorry about that. it wasn't intentional- we were just joking. i also said it so my teammates wouldn't take me as a childish kid in the team anymore.."

"if you can remember it like me then you should've apologized earlier," you snap back at him, refusing to forgive him that easily.

"y/n, i'm sincerely apologizing right now and i never hated you. don't you know why i came here right now? i've waited for this chance to talk to you, to ask you why you hate me, and to tell you that i like you."

"... you're kidding, right? is this one of your pranks? well, you aren't fooling- ow!" he flicks your forehead.

"you're really annoying sometimes."

"if you like me so much, why do you always annoy me?"

"because you're cute when you're mad."

you quickly shift your eyes towards anywhere but him. when did he learn to say things like that with that innocent cute face of his? it's also weird how you're fanning yourself while being surrounded on ice.

ice! you almost forget the pain in your ankle that restrained your go-to solution to every problem, running away from it. but you can't run away from jaeho now, both romantically and literally, because you can never see him the same as before again.

"hey, you! help me get out of the rink first then i- i'll give you an answer to your confession." you think that it'll help you buy more time than thinking of one right at the moment.

"i just felt that today, not really this moment while you're with a sprain, was the day i can finally confess. you didn't have to give me an answer right away." he smiles warmly towards you and you turn your head down, trying to hide your flustered face.

#epex #epex jeff #lee jaeho #epex imagines #epex reactions #epex fluff

58 notes · View notes

crescentsteel · 4 years

Text

Keeping a Secret - Part 3

pairing: Tsukishima x f!manager of Sendai Frogs genre: sexual tension/crack/fluff/slow burn warnings: lots of swear words, tsukki being a a closet softie wc: 7.3k (Ill just stop apologizing for this long chapter updates at this point)

[a/n]

Let me know if you want to be part of the taglist uwu

AO3

Part 2 || Part 4 || masterlist

“Remind me again why are we here.” Tsukishima tells you as soon as he steps foot inside your room.

He scans the room and immediately notices the mess that it is, particularly the top bunk of the bed which he doesn’t doubt must be your share of it.

On the wall on the left side of the room are posters of seascapes and sea animals of different varieties while the desk bolted under it are framed photos of Sendai Frogs. He recognizes them all;, one was taken from the first win of the team on the first year you joined as the manager. The second is a photo of the team at the gym with the new members that year, including Kyoutani who had just recently joined. The last one is a selfie of you on the bus doing a peace sign and winking at the camera while everyone was sleeping.

He kinda feels bad for your roommate now. You’re practically hogging the whole room.

You put down your bag on the floor and shoot him a confused look. “To do our project?”

When you told him to meet in your dorm, he agreed because he thought you meant the common area. After all, he had no reason to think you’d invite him to your room. You two may have disregarded the club incident, tucking it away as a sordid memory from a night of insanity, but that doesn’t mean it is forgotten. However, that doesn’t seem to be the case with you as you appear to genuinely find nothing wrong with the current situation.

You seat yourself at your table, taking out your laptop and notes from the trip last time.

“Go sit, Tsukishima,” you say without even looking at him as you spread out your notes on the table’s surface as your laptop boots up.

“We could’ve just done this in the library, or at least in the lobby,” he says as a matter-of-factly.

“True, but I also don’t see any problem with doing it here,” you answer passively, still occupied with arranging your papers.

He was right. It really does not bother you at all. So, he shouldn’t be bothered with it either. This way, at least, no one would see you and him together. You’re a person he doesn’t want to be associated with hanging around with anyways.

“Do you always invite your groupmates to your room?” He asks out of curiosity since it didn’t seem like anything for you to just invite him in, as if you didn’t care much about your privacy.

“Hmm. Depends,” you answer.

He takes out his own laptop, but still eyes you as he prods further. “On what?”

The curve of your lips tugs up slightly as you sit up straight and lift your gaze away from the notes you took out and finally turn your attention to him.

“I welcome those who won’t get handsy with me.”

“Even if you’re the one who’d get handsy with them?” he boldly counters.

You cock your head to the side with hints of amusement playing across your features, which vexes him. The question was supposed to tear your composure, not entertain you.

“Alright, let’s get the fucking elephant out of the room since it bothers you so much,” you announce with levity.

If you’re going to be honest, the kiss still finds its way to your mind sometimes. You just keep pushing it off so that you won’t get stressed out by it. What you find interesting is that he still keeps shoving that fact that you kissed him as if you wanted to do so.

Well, you literally did kiss him, but it’s not like you sought for it prior to the incident.

It just … happened.

“I’ll come clean, good sir, if you’ll allow me,” you declare sarcastically before setting a more serious tone. “I admit it. It was one hell of a mistake to kiss you. But I didn’t mean to. As ridiculous as it sounds, I really didn’t. It was just one of those stupid, off-the-cuff things people do.”

Your voice takes an accusatory note when you ask, “And why do you sound like I harassed you or something? Hmm? ‘Cause if I remember correctly.”

You cross your arms and look up, pretending to be deep in thought before facing him again with a fraudulent shock. “Oh right!” you exclaim exaggeratedly. “You kissed me back,” you add in almost a sing-song manner.

You put an elbow on the table and rest your cheek on your palm as you hold his glare with a snide grin. “How about that?”

He continues shooting daggers at you but you don’t falter. Quite soon enough, he lets up and returns to the passive, apathetic face he usually wears, which signals your victory for the argument. “Like you said, it was one of those dumb on the spot whims.”

You nod agreeably. “Alright, great. Now that that has been established, let me reassure you. It’s never ever gonna happen again. Ever.”

Your eyes are devoid of any humor while your words drip with firm resolve. Yet, he finds it off that you’re not asking him to do the same given that you both just agreed that you are equally accountable for that imprudent act. He is almost just as guilty.

“Aren’t you going to ask the same from me?”

Your somber expression breaks into a humored one as a laugh rumbles from your throat. You shake your head in comical delight while you look at him. “No, I won’t. Actually...” you drift off as you scoot closer to him until you’re right beside him. “Give it your best shot.”

You close your eyes and tilt your chin up. Did you really just dare him to kiss you? Kiss those stupid lips and have a repeat of that appalling night?

Should he?

He would do it just to erase the smug off your face, just to prove you wrong. But similar to that night, he can’t bring himself to do it. He hates the idea of instigating such a thing.

Even more so now that he’s already had a taste of those lips. Those lips that felt too exquisite that it infuriated him. Those lips that took away his logical thinking. With you offering those lips to him so generously, you make him hate them even more. That pretty face and that playful smile of yours do nothing but add to his fury.

“Can you get your face away from me?”

You peek one eye open before bursting into laughter, making his displeasure towards you skyrocket. Why the fuck is he always your laughing stock?

“See? This is why I don’t mind you coming over, Tsukishima. I bet if I strip naked right now, you’d walk out in a heartbeat.”

His scowl deepens. The mental image of your unclad body is very much unwelcome and unappreciated. “Bring that up again and I really will leave,” he snaps.

Even with your smile intact, your humored expression dissolves a bit and is replaced by a curious guise.

“You know, everyone likes me except you,” you say with no shred of diffidence.

You really are full of yourself. You might be ‘likeable’ for a lot of people, but that doesn’t mean every single person you meet actually likes you. He’s certain there are people who you rub off the wrong way -- people like him.

“Isn’t that a bit too conceited, even for you?”

You shrug your shoulders indifferently. “Maybe so. But you’re the only person who shoves your blatant dislike on my face.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it for the past three years,” he replies as he flips his laptop open and boots it up so he can turn his attention somewhere other than you.

“I didn’t need to work with you like this for the past three years.”

He doesn’t know where you’re going with the conversation so he doesn’t respond anymore. He’s certain you know why he finds you a pain in the neck. You constantly get on his grill with every opportunity you get. Maybe if you didn’t, he could actually tolerate your topsy turvy persona. But it’s as if it’s your personal mission to aggravate him.

“I’m putting the deal I offered during the trip,” you announce.

“What deal?” he asks as he starts typing bullet points of what should be done today so he can go home already.

“Forget I’m the annoying manager when it’s just us two. And I won’t deliberately piss you off.”

He types the last bullet point before returning his attention on you. “Then what? I suddenly become nice to you?”

“Hell no! I’m not asking for a fucking miracle. It’s not like you’re ever nice to anybody. Geez!” you explain derisively. “I just want us to have a conversation where you’re not giving me death glares.”

You give him a smile, one that lacks your usual haughtiness. Still, he can’t tell if you’re being serious or if you’ll actually manage to hold the deal you’re proposing. Truth be told, he wants it. He can’t handle you being your usual if you two have to meet beyond training hours and, even worse, in private.

If this keeps up, he might end up cursing this subject by the end of the semester, which would be a waste because likes this subject way too much for you to taint it with your idiocy.

“Deliver your end of the bargain. Then you’ll have mine.”

Your eyes twinkle with glee at his semi-approval. “We have a deal then.”

You go back to where you’re seated a while ago and proceed to start discussing at hand.

With the start of the game season, training has become more intense. Coach Mira had the team work on the weak points she identified with the help of the data you tallied from last season’s games.

“Kyoutani! Do not lower those arms just yet. Keep those elbows up when you block,” Coach yells at him, as Kogane spiked from the other side of the court.

She looks over at the other players practicing their jump serves. She furrows her brows at something. Following her line of sight, you see that it falls on Tsukishima.

On his next serve, the ball spins ferociously but is of low height that it hits the middle of the night.

“Y/n,” Coach calls out. She didn’t have to say anything else as she cocks her head to Tsukishima’s direction with a telling expression on her face. She’s asking you to handle him, and you know exactly why.

Before he can toss the ball for another jump serve, you yell out merrily which you know will definitely catch his ears, “ Tsukki!! ” and jog to where he is. His blank expression turns into a scowl when you reach him.

“Can you stop calling me that?”

“You’re so mean. Aren’t we close enough for me to call you ‘ Tsukki ’?.” You ask with a dramatic pout and exaggerated false woes that he visibly cringes after hearing it.

He doesn’t respond to your pretentious act. “Why are you here?”

You instantly lose the cheeky act and get to what Coach Mira wants to let him know. You’re just going to twist the words a bit to his ‘liking.’

This is the problem you noticed with Tsukishima, one worse than his rotten way of interacting with the team. He can be incredibly unmotivated at times, and when he is, he only gives the bare minimum amount of effort.

It’s the one thing you can say you truly dislike about him because he’s a professional athlete for crying out loud. It doesn’t matter if he’s unmotivated, uninspired, or doesn’t feel like trying. He should be disciplined enough to push himself to put as much work as he usually does when training.

“You’re not going to get those serves in with that half-assed attitude of yours,” you say sternly while you eye him with a threatening stare.

His face scrunches in utter displeasure. He’s well aware that he’s not feeling his best today and he’d rather do blocking drills for the whole raining than do ten consecutive jump serves.

“Since enthusiasm is the answer to everything else, why don’t you try it?” He bites back, which you obviously weren’t expecting. He’s always irritated when you point out his mistakes, but thus far he has always stayed silent.

Maybe the amount of time you’re spending together outside the gymnasium has made him reach the limit of his patience… which isn’t even a lot to begin with.

“Are you serious?” you ask incredulously.

Of course he wasn’t. You might have some sort of experience with volleyball (although he doesn’t know to which extent), but jump serves are difficult. The coordination of the toss and the run up to hit it at the right angle is aggravatingly hard to pull off, especially for him since jump serves need tons of practice.

He detests the practice for it; he needs to run, jump, and swing his arm over and over. It is boring and tiring for him because it is purely based on physical prowess, compared to practicing blocking where he’s actually thinking.

He thought you’d leave him alone when you stepped away. Instead, you come back with a ball in your hand. You dribble it off the floor with unbendable focus as if you’re trying to recall something.

“Are you serious?” he’s the one who asks this time. He was just fucking around. He didn’t expect you’d actually respond to his provocation.

“Yep,” you answer with your full concentration on the ball in your hand as you spin it vertically. Some of the players notice what you’re up to and briefly stop what they’re doing to watch.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You bat them open with burning determination before you toss the ball.

Instead of watching the ball, he watches your form. There’s no trace of awkwardness in your movements, almost like you’ve done this frequently before. The three-step approach is nearly perfect as you propel yourself up to jump.

The sharp sound of the ball hitting your hand causes the rest of the gym to look at you. The ball spins ferociously at a height he’s not sure is sufficient to get over the other side of the court. He wishes it won’t. That would be the second worst thing you could ever do to him, the first one being that certain occurrence he’d rather not think about again.

You falter on your feet when you descend from your leap but you immediately look up to see if your serve makes it. Everyone else, including him, is on the edge as they watch whether the ball will get in or not.

It roughly scrapes the edge of the net, effectively thwarting its velocity. Still, it bounces off and lands inside the opposing court, causing the rest of the team to cheer you on as the ball hits the floor.

You seem to forget for a short while that you did it to spite him as your face beams with inexplicable joy while his contorts with ire.

Even if the momentum of the ball was broken, you still managed to get it over - the one thing he hadn’t been able to do from his last eight attempts. Meanwhile, you did it on your first.

You definitely had a lot of experience in high school. No beginner can manage to do a jump serve like that, even if it was flawed.

‘Shit,’ he silently curses when you face him with a cocky grin disguised as a pleasant one.

“Who knew that my experience being an outside hitter and captain of my high school team would still be useful as your manager?” you ask as you slowly walk towards him.

He doesn’ expect that your knowledge about the sport came from first-hand experience. He thought you’re manager of another team previously or just a crazy volleyball enthusiast.

You pick up another ball and softly push it against his rib as you look up to him with contempt. “Don’t tell me I can do better than you,” you spur him on with squinted eyes.

He snatches the ball away from your hands and steps back from the serving line. He spins the ball one time and tosses it high. Instead of a three-step approach, he makes it a four to increase his vertical jump. He tosses it high enough and channels all his rage for you at the ball.

With how high he jumped, the ball easily goes over the net. Its trajectory curves when it crosses over and hits a spot a little bit just beyond the end line.

He clenches his fist at his another failed attempt despite exerting more than necessary effort for that shot. He avoids looking at you for he’d be put in an even worse mood if sees that taunting grin of yours.

But of course you had to make yourself seen and intentionally go in front of him with an impressed look in your face instead of a condescending one.

“That was great! Holy shit. It was just a smidge out. Wow.” You applaud him earnestly, and as much as he despises it, it makes him a little less bad about that missed shot.

“Can you leave me alone now?” He drives you away to fend off the stupid feeling. He’d rather you just walk away and don’t say anything. “Not like that serve mattered,” he mutters in annoyance.

“What are you talking about? It was awesome!” you yell out with your eyes shining with flagrant admiration, which annoyingly strokes his ego.

“Just a bit less and it would have been in a spot difficult to return,” you remark as you pat his shoulders approvingly before heeding his request to leave and go back to where Coach is.

“Sorry, Coach. I distracted everyone else,” you scratch your head with an apologetic smile when you return.

“I’d tell you off, but everyone seems more motivated now, so good work I guess,” she commends you with a satisfactory tone.

“He looks really pissed though,” Coach Mira adds as she glances at the blonde middle blocker.

“More than you know, Coach,” you reply with a wide smile as he serves another ball and gets it in this time.

Prior to your meeting with Tsukishima today, you proposed to finish the project as soon as possible so you can both focus on other other uni subjects on top of training hours. He immediately agreed, which didn’t surprise you because even though it’s not game season, you’re pretty sure he can’t wait to stop having to see you.

The project’s deadline is in three months, but you believe you can finish it in less than two if you meet up at least twice a week to work on it.

It should be okay, given that you both agreed to have a truce of some sort from the usual dynamic of your relationship. You actually think that it’s not going to work out smoothly, but you still suggested it with the hopes of decreasing his animosity towards you. Yes, it’s fun and amusing most of the time, but outside the gym where you’re just a classmate and not his manager, it’s kinda draining to deal with it.

“Won’t your roommate mind if there’s a stranger in your room?” he asks as he sits down and rummages through his bag.

“Oh.” You thought he already figured it out because he didn’t ask about it on his first visit. “Didn’t I tell you before? I don’t have a roommate.”

His eyes immediately go to your bunk bed that you didn’t bother getting replaced because it’s convenient when you’re too tired. You usually just mindlessly throw your stuff at the top bunk for a later clean-up.

“Wanted the whole room to myself,” you add.

“Spoiled, little rich brat, aren’t you?” He really doesn’t have much basis for his statement. He just wants to say something nasty and sneer at you because he wants to get back at how you called him out during training the other day.

When he meets your gaze, you raise an eyebrow at him, reminding him about your agreement while working on the project. He purses his lips to the side and returns to his passive expression without saying anything. You roll your eyes in response.

“Well if being a scholar while working as your manager is being a spoiled rich brat, then by all means. Do consider me one,” you answer before looking back on your screen.

He would have never thought you were a university scholar. You don’t look like the type. You’re way too carefree and all over the place. He would’ve thought it was a joke, if not for the tiny offended glint he caught when he said you’re a spoiled brat.

That’s exactly the reaction he wants to get from you, yet it didn’t feel satisfactory. On the contrary, it’s making him feel like a prick. He is being one, but he doesn’t expect to feel like one, especially towards you who does nothing but get on his skin.

Still, hell would freeze over before he apologizes. Instead, he prods on the topic.

“Why would you even work as a manager if you’re already a scholar?”

It doesn’t make sense to him. You don’t need the work if your university fees are already waived. It will just pile on to the academic requirements you will need to maintain.

Your hand stops scrolling on your mouse as your eyes soften, still remaining on your laptop. “Cause I love it,” you utter like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

The look in your eyes is instantly replaced by mockery when you lift them to meet his.

“Someone’s being inquisitive today.”

He gets his headphones out and plugs it to his laptop. He really is curious why you chose you to be their manager, but you just had to be an obnoxious bitch and break the agreement you offered to him just the other day.

He knows you’re too much of a chaos to actually pull it off, so instead of wasting his energy by being irritated by you for the day, he’d rather pretend you’re not there.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” you say loudly with a wide smile, yet he can see the sincerity of the apology through the slight panic in your orbs. You must have realized he’s had enough of your shit. “My bad. Old habits hard.” You laugh nervously.

You speak again when he puts down his headphones on the table. “I may have quit the sport, but I still love it. I love taking care of players like you guys who have the same passion for it.”

“Doesn’t seem like it’s worth it,” he comments with unheld honesty. You could have a lot of time off of your hands if you quit being their manager. You don’t even need the job.

You plant your hands on the floor and lean back as your gaze drifts to the photos of the team displayed on your desk.

“You might be right. A marine science student dedicating her time on sports even though she’s not an athlete? It does sound impractical. But,” you revert your eyes back to him as you continue on, “it makes me happy. That alone makes it worth it. Even if I don’t get paid, I’d still do it.”

Your face glows with pride and joy with your last statement, completely undeterred by his earlier cynicism. If anything, you look even more convinced that you’re doing the right thing.

He can’t tell if he finds it admirable or disturbing. Probably the latter.

“There’s more to life than just sleep, study, and survive, don’t you think?”

It was a rhetorical question that he would’ve still refuted if someone told him that years ago. Back in his freshman year in high school, he thought overzealous passion was stupid. Unless an individual is some sort of prodigy, it wouldn’t get them anywhere even if they keep trying to death.

Still, he put in a lot of work -- more than he should -- when he was playing in Karasuno. What was just a club became entirely something else for him, which, up until now, he still hasn’t put quite a finger on.

When he graduated from Karasuno, he wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to continue playing, but there was a nagging feeling behind his head that he shouldn’t. He thought that that part of his life was already over and while it was good while it lasted, it was time to move one.

Yet, when he was handed out an application form for the university’s college team, he found himself grabbing the sheet of paper.

He didn’t have any reason to pursue it beyond high school. He knows he’s good, but he’s not that good. He was at university already. It was time to focus on his future and ignore the itch to hold the ball with five other players on his side of the court.

What’s even more absurd was the next day, he submitted the application form and tried out for the team. He said to himself it wouldn’t hurt to go on playing until he has finally had enough. He’d just ride it out until he got tired of it.

In his sophomore year, he was scouted by Sendai Frogs and that’s when he knew that the unreasonable passion he has for volleyball is not going to go away. Even now in his graduating semester, he’s still not ready to give it up.

He won’t admit it in your face, but, in a way, he can agree with what you just said. Life is more than just getting by and surviving. That’s the only reason he can think of to justify his choice to continue volleyball: so that he wouldn’t have this constant dissonance that pursuing the sport is a vacuous path he’s treading on.

“Anyways, back to work now, yeah?”

You smile briefly at him and return to the research you’re tasked to do. He puts his headphones back in his bag and gets back to his own task as well.

He thought all is well and you won’t pester him until you both finish what you’re supposed to accomplish for the day. Unfortunately, he thought wrong.

You suddenly close your laptop and start whining.

“Tsukki.”

As usual, he does his best to not acknowledge your existence.

“Tsukkiii, ” you whine louder.

For the love of God, you sound the most annoying when you use his nickname. Even though you’ve used it several times now, he’s still not used to it. In fact, he does not believe he will ever get used to it. Shimizu and Yachi not even once called him that, and they were more respectable managers than you are. Sort of. It doesn’t matter that you’re more active and hands on when managing the team.

“Tsuuuk -”

“What?!” You successfully manage to get his eyes off the screen.

“I’m bored,” you pout.

He glares at you unbelievably. What are you, a five-year-old?

“And that is my problem, how?” he asks with disdain.

“Aren’t you getting tired?” you ask back, unfazed by his blatant irritation. But then again, you never are.

He is getting tired too, but he’d rather drag his brains and eyes out than rest and extend the time he’s going to spend with you.

“Let’s take a break, please, ” you cry out with pleading eyes.

“I don’t care what you do. Just leave me out of it.” He puts his attention back on his laptop and looks for the journal article he found significant among the other tabs he opened.

“I’ll feel guilty if I see you still at it while I goof around,” you admit.

He really couldn’t care any less. None of what you’re blabbering about is any of his concern. If you keep at it, he’ll just take out his headphones again to drown out your childish whining.

“I know!” You suddenly perk up. “Let’s review for our quiz,” you suggest eagerly. “We have one tomorrow, right?”

He almost smirks at your suggestion, but he manages to suppress it. He’d rather not let you see that he’s pleasantly amused with your suggestion.

He didn’t expect that that was your idea of taking a break. He thought you were going to propose something completely absurd like watch stupid videos online because that’s something he could totally see you doing on your free time.

But yeah, he can definitely use a review. It would be a productive break from the strenuous researching and writing you two have been doing.

Even though he still hasn’t verbally agreed, you continue on. “To make it interesting, there’s a penalty for every wrong answer.”

He sits up straight, pushing his glasses closer to his face as you successfully gain his full attention. “What penalty?”

Your smile widens when you realize that he’s finally acknowledging your idea of taking a break.

“Okay, okay.” You rub your hands together in excitement before you clasp them together. “For every wrong answer you get, you need to say something nice about me. And of course vice versa.”

He scowls at the idea. “I prefer the opposite. Get the answer wrong and you get insulted. That sounds more of a punishment.”

You shake your head with your lips pressed into a thin line from disapproval. “Nope. If I get even one wrong answer. I’m sure you’ll get into a litany of rude shit you piled up against me over the years. And I’ll just sit here uncaringly receiving your fury. Does that excite you?”

Hell no. It will infuriate him even more if he throws something at you and you just take it apathetically. But he still doesn’t agree with your initial mechanics. It’s not fair to him.

“No, it doesn’t. But the consequence of a wrong answer is too easy for you.”

You place a palm on your chest and gape at him. “Me? Too easy for me ?”

You break into a boisterous laugh while still maintaining eye contact with him. He just stares back at you stupefied with no idea what you found so hilarious.

“Tsukishima,” you say after recovering from your disparaging hoots of laughter. “I can think of literally one nice thing about you. Maybe two if I tried hard enough,” you explain with your face still crinkled with the laughter you’re trying hard to contain.

If you’re trying to provok him to take on your challenge, you definitely succeeding. “Fine,” he hisses.

Your laughter is completely thwarted when your eyes widen with delight as he succumbs to your plan.

“Great! Okay, two more rules. One, objective questions only. Two, we can’t say anything that involves Volleyball. For example, you can’t tell me that I’m a great manager, because I’m very much aware of that already, okay?”

His frown only deepens from your conceitedness, only to realize that that’s the only aspect of you he’d consider complimenting you about.

“But there is nothing else nice about you other than that,” he says without any trace of sarcasm or ridicule, only stating what he considers the truth.

But you don’t take any offense in his statement. You’re expecting as much. That’s why you added two more rules to push the both of you to take the review seriously.

“Better not get anything wrong then,” you counter easily because it’s as simple as that. It’s a review just for a quiz after all. He shouldn’t be that worried.

“Thirty minutes to review. Then let’s start the quiz?”

You take that he’s fine with it since he closes his laptop and gets his set of notes from his bag.

You get your phone and set a thirty minute timer. You do just as he does and focus on your own notes, skimming over the last two chapters covered during lectures. You concentrate on your learning materials but the alarm sets off after what seemed like ten minutes to you.

You frantically check your phone to see if you put the wrong time, but you didn’t. Thirty minute have indeed passed.

When you glance at Tsukishima, he’s already looking at you with crossed arms and a self-satisfied smirk. He must have finished before the timer went off. He wouldn’t have that smug expression if not.

Even though you haven’t fully gone over the last parts of the lesson covered, you can’t help but be enlivened at how competitive he is. He must really hate losing.

You notice it too with the way he plays volleyball. He might look calm on the surface, but you know he wants to crush his opponents. And right now, that opponent is you.

His muted excitement affects you. Even though you’re not totally prepared, you’re confident with your own wits.

“Ladies first, so go ahead, Tsukishima.”

He clicks his tongue, his usual habit when he’s irked with something, but this one was forced to make it appear as if he didn’t like what you said. But you can tell that he doesn’t give a shit about that and he actually can’t wait to ask away just to so you can get it wrong.

Unfortunately for him though, you two are just exchanging questions when your mini game starts. He answers your questions without hesitation and you do just the same since most of his questions are in your own list that’s supposed to be for him.

“What’s the movable membrane found on the eyes of amphibians?” It’s his sixth question that has you racking your brain for the correct answer. When you don’t respond immediately, he sniggers like he’s already won.

But you do know the answer, or at least the first letter of it. It's the letter N. N-something membrane.

“Nictaling membrane,” you answer unsurely.

The spread of his wicked smile immediately tells you you’re wrong. “It’s nictating,” he corrects you.

“Oh come on! I’m just one letter off,” you strongly reason out.

“Yeah, and that would still be marked wrong in the actual quiz,” he refutes.

Damn it. He’s right. That one letter makes a whole lot of difference your professor will definitely not let go.

He places one elbow on the table and rests his chin at the back of his hand, keeping his eyes trained on you as he silently anticipates for you to pay the price of your penalty.

You bite your lip disquietly when you realize the rule you set was a double-edged sword for you can’t also think of anything nice to say about him. There’s that terrible attitude of his which is usually your source of fun, but not exactly something you can call nice.

You have something in your mind, but your pride won’t let you voice it out.

He starts tapping the table with his fingers. “You’re wasting both our time, y/n.”

You accept your defeat and tell him anyway. “Fine. I think you’re smarter than me,” you confess.

You expect him to agree unanimously, but instead he looks at you stupefied, blinking a few times without saying anything.

“But you’re a scholar,” he remarks. You’re not sure if he just disagreed with you or he’s just putting that fact out in the open.

“Well, yeah. But I’m just really good at studying and have good time management. You’re actually smart. You’re critical with stuff,” you explain.

You cheated a bit with your answer since most of your basis is from volleyball games. Although your trip last time is also proof of that. He provided really good input on how you should go about with the project.

“Okay! Moving on,” you proceed before he can comment further on what you just said and milk it to his benefit.

You ask another question, which he also knows that correct answer to. Originally, you just wanted a fun but effective way of reviewing, but now you kind of want him to get at least one question wrong so you can get even.

“What do you call the structure the lower vertebrae of anurans is fused into?” he asks another difficult question.

You rub your palms on your face, your frustration clouding your mind from recalling what it could possibly be. You push your hair back and sigh when you realize that you’re not getting this one either.

“I don’t know,” you surrender.

His current expression is the most lively one you’ve ever seen from him outside volleyball games, but it isn't a pleasant one. He looks like a villain whose evil master plan is coming to fruition.

Maybe you should’ve just agreed with his earlier suggestion to get insulted when you get it incorrectly. You would’ve just sit it out and brush it off afterwards, not make your brain hurt even more from thinking about non-existent good traits from the guy across your table.

You look around as you desperately try to think of something remotely nice about him.

“Oh,” your eyes meet his right the moment you recall that instance, and form a genuine smile as you remember it once more.

“It was real nice of you to let me lean on you on the way back to Miyagi last week.”

He removes his elbow from the table and fixes his posture, losing the lax and confident aura he had two questions ago.

“You would have woken up face down on the bus floor if I didn’t,” he says defensively as if what he did needs that explanation for it to be acceptable.

You honestly thought he’d rather let you fall flat on the floor. You’re about to ask him back then if he was sure, but you just accepted his angry, yet generous offer which you didn’t expect to come from him.

“I know. I just didn’t think you’d let me rest on your shoulder, so thanks,” you say earnestly, not a trace of your usual cheekiness present.

“It felt nice and comfortable” you add reservedly. You’ve been wanting to thank him but you didn’t know how to bring it up without being awkward for you’re only used to dealing with grouchy Tsukishima.

It’s only then you realize that despite his palpable dislike towards you, he’s not a complete asshole and still cared enough for your welfare that time.

He remains expressionless with his eyes drifting down to his notes, avoiding your gaze as he does so. “The answer is coccyx, also called urostyle,” he ushers back to the question you got wrong, dismissing what you just divulged, which you’re thankful for because you feel like fidgeting with what just dawned on you.

“My turn again then!” you said too loudly as you try to shake off the feeling and put your focus back on the review.

You read the only item left in your list, still hoping that he gets it wrong since this is the last.

“What part of the amphibian nervous system regulates heart and respiratory rates?”

Unlike previous questions, he doesn’t answer off the bat this time.

“You’re wasting both our time, Tsukishima,” you repeat what he said to you earlier even though it's only been seconds after you uttered your question.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I know the answer,” he declares with reassured confidence. “It’s the cerebrum.”

You decide to hold his gaze for two second before you burst his bubble. “Fucking finally!” you rejoice in his defeat.

“Close enough, Tsukishima. It’s the cerebellum,” you announce all too cheerfully.

He hurriedly gets his notes and cross checks if you’re actually telling the truth. You just watch him scramble with a very pleased smile on your face as he goes rigid.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. He must have seen that you were telling the truth.

You start squirming in your seat. Oh man, you’re way too excited to hear what he has to say about you. You want to egg him on, to tell him to hurry up but that might affect what he’s going to say so you force yourself to shut up.

He raises his gaze at you while you make sure you’re not smiling too wide to annoy him even though you’re reeling from anticipation.

He still doesn’t say anything, but you know he’s thinking based on the way he’s studying your face.

“You have a slightly above average face.”

You run that by again in your head, not understanding what he meant by it at first.

Above average face? Did he just say you’re pretty if translated from a socially incapacitated person’s language? Is that why he was staring so hard at you?

Of all the things he could choose to say something about, he decides to compliment your appearance? You know that you're a bit good-looking, but you don’t think he notices it. He doesn’t seem to be the type to care about that stuff.

Even when you first met, he just looked at you with a vacant expression and greeted you blandly out of courtesy while the rest of the team ogled at you. His apathetic eyes eventually turned scornful over time because of how often you pick on him, and despite that, he does acknowledge that you are pretty.

You’re used to being showered with admiration because of your face so you’ve developed a natural response to it: a gleeful smile with a spritely ‘aww, thanks!’

But with Tsukishima, it doesn’t kick in. Instead, you avert your gaze away from the unwanted fluttering in your chest. You can’t even look him in the eye as you try to collect yourself and think how you’ll respond to that without looking flustered.

What the heck is wrong with you? That could hardly be called a compliment. Now that you think about it, it actually sounded sort of like a product review with its lack of any fondness.

With that in mind, you manage to regain some of your composure and offer him a faint. “Um, thanks.”

Tsukishima looks at his two remaining questions he listed and even though he’s winning the game, he doesn’t feel victorious at all. Your confessions did nothing to make him feel good about himself. They were too sincere that they made him uneasy.

He also doesn’t like that he had to admit you’re pretty. He expected you’re gonna make a fuss about it. He actually would’ve preferred that than you being uncharacteristically embarrassed about it.

Something weird is definitely going on. You’re not acting like yourself and neither is he. There had been too many opportunities to badger you, but he just let them pass by. Same with you. You could have easily teased him about letting you know he finds you attractive.

“I’m out of questions,” he lies to end the damn review.

“Me too, actually,” you say with an apprehensive laugh.

So it’s not just him. You also feel the change in the atmosphere between you two. Your smile is uncertain and you look like you don't know what to do to remedy the situation -- that is, if you even know what’s wrong with it because he sure as hell doesn’t.

But even if he has no idea what’s going on, fortunately, he knows how to end it.

“I’m tired. I’m calling it a day,” he says as he starts packing up his stuff.

You seem to agree since you don’t say anything and just watch him collect his things. You only react when he stands up.

“Oh yeah. Sure!” You stand up as well.

“I can see my way out on my own,” he stops you when you start to head for the door.

You freeze on the spot then nod timidly. “Okay.”

As soon as he steps out and closes the door, you plop yourself back to where you were sitting. You grasp the edges of your table as you softly bang your head against it, gasping a heavy breath of relief when the air becomes undoubtedly lighter after he is gone.

“What the fuck was that?” you mumble with your cheek against the wooden surface.

Part 2 || Part 4 || masterlist

taglist (those crossed out can’t be tagged)

@ameliaxo @suikrem @akaashisslave @tsumurai @babythotshq @loving-unicorns106 @flairlust @geektastic84 @anaiss97 @berna-dette @just4readingfics @suteorra @xxekitten69xx @simp4tsukkii @music-is-all-i-need @keshinslittlegirl @raspberrysunshinebby @iminlovewhaikyuu @pdiddy11 @lightyagamami @sailorscout1902 @lovershaikyuu @expectonothinfromme @mitzuya @yamigoop

#tsukishima x reader #tsukishima fluff #tsukishima smut #tsukishima angst #haikyuu x reader #tags pls work

190 notes · View notes

the-midnight-feline · 3 years

Text

¤¸¸.•´¯`•¸¸.•..>> So this piece is actually part of the Piliin mo ang Pilipinas Collab event hosted by @lumpiang-toge, you guys should seriously check this out since the works posted there are such good reads ❤️️<<..•.¸¸•´¯`•.¸¸¤

this is the first time i've joined a collab, (ngl i thought i was waaay in over my head lol) i'd like to thank a friend of mine, Dylan, (won't tag his blog just cause, loves you for reading it !) thanks so much for the encouraging words ❤️ and of course Mama Rae (@hq-girl-next-door) for the advice on the banner**❤️

**For the banner I did, I took the image from pinterest, if you guys know who the artist is, please let me know so I could properly give credit to them :)

Tags/TW: Mutual pinning-ish, friends to lovers, fluff to angst, Cheating, swearing (I think theres one or two in there)

(A/N: Please don't get too confused /-\, the italic parts is you recollecting the past, it comes and goes (。♡‿♡。))

WC: 3.8k ;-; didn't know it get that long

Pairings: Tendou Satori x fem!Reader

Summary: It all started with a simple crush, you wouldn't have guessed that it'll be more than that, It was a dream come true to loved and be loved by the person you loved, but not all dreams end good, some end as a nightmare.

“You like the Guess Monster, like THE Guess Monster?!?!” your friends shouted in unison, looking at them frantically as you’re in the gym watching the guys warm up for a practice match and the way they shouted had the sounds of balls hitting the floor just below where your group sat, you willed yourself to look at the who were the people below you guys trying repress the blush you feel creeping on your cheeks, swallowing that lump on your throat as you peaked just a little over the ledge and saw his red hair. Internally cussing out your so-called friends, you tired to act like you calm and collected as he was looking up at the bleachers, maybe trying to guess which one in your group, who was also looking over at whoever heard them, liked him, shaking his head, chuckling toward Ushijima and Semi who was already making their way to the court to get this warm up started.

A single tear began rolling down your cheek as you remembered how it all began, your friends’ sudden outburst in the gym gave you the opportunity to talk to the guy you’ve been crushing on when you first saw him in the opening ceremony just something about him drew you to him and you were adamant on getting to, at the least, know him. Sitting on the floor of your shared bedroom, opening the memory box you and your husband made a few months after you started dating.

Semi knew your friend, he actually liked her and from that outburst of theirs at the gym, he 89immediately thought of a way to hit two birds with one stone. “hey, y/f/n, I heard you guys at the bleachers, sooo” scratching he neck out of shyness “which of your friends like our Tendou? Maybe we could setup a date or something?" He really liked your friend and would honestly do anything to get her on a date, she pointed to you, the quiet in of the group, usually the source of rationality and guidance, the one that acts like the mediator of the group. You really always kept to yourself, didn’t really want to attract attention towards yourself. Semi was skeptical at first, you the quiet, shy girl of the class liked that loud ass friend of his? Maybe y/f/n was pulling his leg, she can’t be serious.

A bitter laugh escapes your lips as the memory of your first date comes crashing on you as see the pressed flower from the little hole in the wall café near the school, Semi was the one that found that café and planned every detail of the date.

As you and your friend were walking towards the café Semi told her about, you were itching to just keep hitting your friends back “why the hell did you fucking agree to this?!!” you hissed at your friend, you were practically shooting daggers at her for saying yes on your behalf and you didn’t even know what she agreed to but she told you to get dolled up, silly you, thinking that it’ll be just a girls day out, but peering over her shoulder as your guys walk out of the dorm, you see her texting Semi, thinking maybe it was him asking for notes since they were in the same class. She led you to this small café and you guys sat at a corner booth, making you sit inside by the wall, you really thought nothing of it, until you saw that distinctive red hair bounding towards your booth. Your palms got a tad sweaty, nerves getting the best of you, a million thoughts racing in your mind that you didn’t notice that the Tendou Satori was there taking the seat opposite of you in the booth, the ever infectious smile directed towards you and you alone. Seeing as you and Satori were basically having a silent conversation with just your smiles, Semi and your friend made a discreet exit and left you two be. Little did you know, he often saw you around, he knows you like shounen jump as much as he does since he sees you go to the store he usually goes to, he knows what snacks you liked since he usually goes out at the middle of the night to get some snacks of his own at the convenience store around the corner. He sees you in the library with your nose buried in some book when he follows Semi there just to annoy him. Tendou didn’t tell anybody about the girl he liked from afar, he knew he’d scare you off, no one wanted to date a Monster, or that’s what he thought.

Looking back, that impromptu date was what started the relationship with Satori, a soft sob escapes your lips as tears gently fall on the first picture you have together, he suddenly rang you up and asked you to go to the mall with him. In the picture, he had his arm wrapped around your shoulder while you were hugging his waist tightly, seemingly scared that being with him was a dream you don’t want to wake up from.

Getting out of the shower, you hear your phone ring from under your pillow, confused as to who might that be since it was an unknown number calling you, curious you answered it. “hey y/n! I know it’s kinda out of the blue but, you wanna go to the mall with me?” shock was evident in your body, it was Tendou! Your thoughts was scrambling, you know you didn’t get a chance to give him your number before you guys parted ways on your first meeting since Coach Washijo made Ushijima contact both guys for a weekend practice. You knew the coach was a hot head and would make anymore run 50 laps if they were late and that was a few weeks ago, a worried Tendou called out to you again “uh…y/n? If you have other plans I totally under-“ blinking back to the present “I’d love to go! Lemme get ready and I’ll meet you down” you cut him off midsentence hearing a small chuckle at the other line “don’t make me wait too long ok?” he said in a teasing tone which made you giggle on the line “yes, yes Satori, I’ll hang up so I could get ready ok? See you!” it took every ounce of self-control to not shriek the whole conversation, once he hung up you were practically jumping on your bed out of pure joy, but then you remembered that he’ll be waiting, you quickly snapped out of it and looked through your dresser for a decent outfit for going out with Tendou, you quickly settled with a simple get up of a long sleeved shirt and pants with some sneakers on, you excitedly exited your room, to meet up with Tendou, hoping you haven’t made him wait too long, turning the last corner you see him outside your dorm, almost wearing the same thing as you, even the color of your shoes match, biting your lip to stop a stupid smile from taking over you walk up behind him, gently poking his side, his sudden jump made you giggle as he took in all of you, a smile makes its way on his lips and eyes as he himself lets out a chuckle. “y/n? Are you copying me?” shaking your head, letting a small laugh out “Satori, please you’re the one copying me here” he just shook his out of amusement when he saw the glint of teasing in your eyes before he offended his arm to you like a gentleman would, the small action made you faint blush.

You two spent the day just walking around the mall, just browsing from store to store, having just a blast at all the random comments he makes, the last stop you guys make was the arcade, you guys played all sorts of games, air hockey, tried your luck at a pachinko machine and Tendou even tried the basketball game, which he surprisingly good at that he won a lot of tickets getting you a small rubiks cube, but near the back of the arcade something caught your eye, a purikura, Tendou saw where your eyes went and with a small smile he took your hand and walked towards the machine, and ushered you in the booth, he felt at comfortable around you, he would’ve never guessed that you were a crack head like, random outbursts of ideas and thoughts spouted from you made him laugh as you spent time together. He quickly wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close to him, a flash went off, that was the first shot, with the blush creeping on your cheeks you hid your face under your hair and hugged him another flash went off, that was the second shot, he tipped you head up, making you look at him, his infectious smile directed at you as another flash went off, and the last shot was of him kissing your forehead. You were left speechless after that whole scenario, seemingly in a dazed as he guided you out and grab the prints of the photos. That’s how you guys ended the date, he held your hand in his all the way back to the dorms, placing a chaste kiss on your cheek as you parted ways.

Rummaging further through the memory box, you see all the mementos you both kept from your dates, a few fallen leaves, a couple of pretty rocks, stickers, napkins, flowers, pictures, the cork from the bottle of champagne you drank at your wedding. More tears fell from your eyes as you dug through all the stuff in the box, who knew you both collected a lot of things in just a couple of years. What made you sob so hard was the acceptance letters you both got when you were selected as the few students for the incoming year.

A few months before graduation, you both got accepted into a culinary school in Tokyo, you were ecstatic as this means you and Tendou could get a place together since your parents already gave you two a small amount to get a place near the school so you two could still practice and create new dishes together, it was really no surprise to your friends or the whole volleyball team that you two would get into culinary school, you’ve always had a thing for cooking, you’d often come their practices with some bento boxes for all of the guys so they don’t have to go out and spend for food, on the weekends, the kitchen was his domain he’d let you watch him bake and oftentimes let you help him out. It’s often that the whole group get together during the weekends, you cooking for them while Tendou makes that dessert. For some reason, they got jealous of how your relationship started, it was as if all the pieces just fell into place at the right time, you two together just seemed right like you two were always suppose to be with each other. There’s always been a carefree air around him, it calmed you down so much that it helped you be more open or that’s how you saw it. You were the opposite of him always worrying, always, over thinking, being overly critical of your actions and how you overwhelmed with everything so you turned to anything that’ll help you divert your mind but once he was in your life it just got easier. He voice would immediately calm the voices spewing negative thoughts I had your head.

Looking around your room, you see pictures of you together, your graduation picture, the picture of you guys on the front of the school, the picture of your guys graduating culinary school, a photo of you two at the restaurant where you two both apprenticed and next to that was the candid shot of his proposal there, a mix of joy and hurt shoot through you as you the memory come rushing back to you.

The way he sheepishly confessed that he asked the manager if he could do his proposal there and invite your family and friends for that surprise. “Hey y/n, come with me, a customer just complained about the sauce you made being too salty, I’m not taking blame for that!” an angry chef came shouting at you, shocked and anxiousness dunning through you, you timidly follow behind him, thinking how you could screw up a simple sauce like that, your thoughts were everywhere, but once you stepped outside the kitchen you noted that the dining area was dimmer then usual, but maybe that’s because you’re used to the bright lights of the kitchen, you hear a soft melody playing, it’s one of your favourite songs ‘I Choose' you’ve always related that song to your relationship. On the far wall you see photos of you together, looking around you see familiar faces, his and your parents, your friends, the Shiratorizawa boys were there even the coach came!

The euphoria you felt from having everyone who had been part of your relationship through the ups and downs just had you in tears, your head was fuzzy with the mix of a dozen emotions swirling in you, through a blur of tears you see him kneeling in front of you, he let out a huff of breath to calm his nerves before asking you the question “y/n, my love, my baby, my better half, my paradise. You’ve stuck by my side through my highs and lows, loved me unconditionally, took care of me whenever I got sick, urged me to follow my dreams, guided me into being a better guy, especially with my chocolate making you supported my dreams like no other can, you, you made my world complete, you made me feel things I haven’t felt in a long time, you gave me your heart to cherish and protect. You made my life whole” the words flowed out of his mouth so freely, every word making more tears come out of you, every word so heartfelt, with shakey hands we presented you a pear cut yellow emerald ring “My Paradise, would you do me the honor of being my paradise for eternity?” no words could express how happy you were nodding your head, trying to stop happy tears from falling a hushed ‘yes’ slips past you lips as he stands to slip the ring on your left hand, pulling you in for a tight hug, whispering endless I love you’s and thank you in your ears as the people around you cheered for the newly engaged couple.

Biting back another sob, you feel fresh tears streaming down your cheeks as your eyes land on your wedding photo above the bed, he loved you enough to marry you, he was yours and you were his, you can’t help but stare at the framed photo, he had that infectious smile of his that made you fall from him the day you saw him. He has you up in his arms as your arms were wrapped around his neck, pecking a sweet kiss on his cheek. You asked him many times if he’d like to blowup another photo from your wedding, he simply shook his head and wrapped you up in his arms “you’re perfect in any picture of us, but in that one you look like the most perfect human being in existence and I’m just lucky to have you in my life” you basked in his love and affection on those simple words pulling him closer and burying you face on his chest, inhaling his sweet scent “I’m lucky to have you Tori, lucky to be called your wife” placing a chaste kiss on his chest as you look up to him with love-struck eyes. This was it you guys moved countries after your wedding to France since Tendou was offered a job at a famous pâtisserie there, all you wanted was your husband happy, wherever you guys may be.

You never really cared where you two were, as long as you were together, you could get lessons on the French cuisine as Tendou works, that was the plan before you guys flew out. You worked hard to learn the basics, you’d often have Tendou taste test all your creations and you’ll you the same for him since he likes to experiment with different flavor combinations, things were great the first few months of moving cross countries, you enrolled in a cooking classes there to build up your repertoire and after a few weeks of learning a few new techniques you've decided to look around for places you could work at just to keep your body busy again. You've decorated the apartment the way you liked it and how you think Tendou would like it, just adding different odds and ends giving it a familiar vibe. This place was your starting ground.

When you got a job at the nearby bistro, Tendou didn’t really mind it, since he’d often come home a bit later then usual saying something along the lines of making things in the experiment lab with the other chocolatiers at the shop to have something new for the upcoming season, in turn you thought nothing of it since you do work nights after getting a gig in a restaurant in town as well, it also means you could still have time to make his dinner and keep it warm for when he gets home. You two actually got into an argument when you got that gig since Tendou was adamant about keeping you in the apartment after the morning shift at the bistro so you don’t work yourself too hard, he wanted to start thinking about getting a kitten to keep you company when he’s out working but you argued back that you didn’t wanna feel like mooching off of him even though he said it was fine, he loved coming home to a warm meal that you made with love and gets more time to spend with you, but he did cave in after a few bats of your eyelashes.

It was perfect, you both were doing what you were passionate about, you two scheduled your offs near each other’s so one could take care of each other after a long day. But there was this weird feeling creeping in you but you simply don’t know why it was there, you and Tendou always kept communication open since you two do work different shifts and that itself puts a strain in the relationship but you two made it work. You loved him. So you would really sacrifice anything for him, he had have a rough childhood, he was bullied cause he looked different, acted different, but he wasn’t like that for you, he never was, even though he had a wicked sense for things which really surprised you, you can’t even hide a gift from him cause he knew what you’d get him or more likely sense what you’ll give him.

You don’t tell him that you swapped shifts with someone so you technically have a day off so you decided to drop by the pâtisserie where Tendou worked with some home made Pan Bagnat since it was nearing lunch, as you were close to the shop you saw his figure near the window placing new confections on display, but something made you stop, another person, a female chocolatier, was hugging him from behind and not in a friendly way, there was familiarity to it, it looked as if she’s been hugging him for so long, like she’s always hugged him, you didn’t notice that you’ve dropped the basket you were holding on the sidewalk, the glass bottle shattering on impact, the sangria spilling on the pavement, the sandwich you made, making a mess, the fruits you packed rolling in every direction. People around gasped at the scene, some tried to help in picking up the fruits that escaped, your mind in thought again, maybe you just interpreted it wrongly they’re just so so close, like a brother and sister kinda way, since they both work in the shop, you simply jumped to conclusions too fast, those thought completely vanished as the next sight you saw.

She kissed him. SHE KISSED HIM!! Your mind played that in your head like it was a song played on a loop. That was what made your heart break, that was the tipping point, he didn’t push her away, it was the opposite, he pulled her closer, the way he held her mirrored how he would hold you when he came home from work, people around you were asking you things trying to snap you out of your trance but you paid no mind to them, your legs moving on their own.

It was as if you were on autopilot, you got home, your mind racing with so many thoughts, how long had that been going on? Is she why he’d come home later than usual, is she the reason he had woken up earlier to get to work everyday? Did he spend his days off with her when you suddenly get shifts? Walking into your apartment, you didn’t know what to think, how to feel, how to make sense of things more questions come into your mind. Does he bring her here? Did they do anything sexual in the place you called home? What places were safe? Did she please him better than I did? You walked into your bedroom where the memory box laid in the middle of bed. It was your first wedding anniversary, did he really forget? Your anniversary was engraved on your wedding rings with your initials on it.

A scream of agony escaped your lips as everywhere you looked at it was all you and him the very place you thought was the safest of all was not. It's tainted with infidelity, your heart broke even more as you took the box from the bed with shaking hands contemplating on whether to open the box or not, he loved you with every part of him didn’t he? You were enough weren’t you? You made sure he was satisfied right? You gave him all the love you could and even more right? Didn’t he promise you that he’d protect your heart? You're still his paradise right? He loves you right?

Maybe opening the box, and finding something that you both placed in there would make him rethink his choices right? With broken sobs and uneven breathing, your fingers shaking as you pulled the pretty red ribbon that held the lid shut, looking at all the things that you both collected that reminded you both that you loved each other you broke even more. Every one of them held the promise of love, of fidelity, of trust. But now, a part of you is doubting every word that passed his lips, every kiss that landed on your skin made you feel dirty, every I love you's he uttered seems like a lie. You didn’t want to feel that way, you love him with every part of your being, you’re THE Mrs. Satori Tendou, no one else but you had that title, just you, it was only you right? You were his paradise for eternity right? Right?

★──────────★───────────────★─────────★

I hope you guys liked this, I actually really liked working on this one(played my brokenhearts plays it nonstop for it) , but I do have another one coming so...yeah!

Song inspiration :Anong Nangyari Sa Ating Dalawa by Aiza Seguerra

Song used in the proposal I Choose by Alessia Cara

63 notes · View notes

alwaysbeliev · 4 years

Text

Same as the Last

pairing: Arthur x Reader

summary: Mary Linton has summoned Arthur once again, and he has dropped everything to see her. You're left at Shady Belle to wonder what is going on and what it means for your relationship.

word count: 1,782

notes: you can find this on AO3 under the same username, if you wish to give it love there, too! it’s been a long time since i really got into writing, so i’m taking baby steps. it might be small, but i hope you enjoy it anyway!

Curse that Mary Linton.

Pacing, pacing, all you could do was pace. The others were getting tired of it. Mrs. Grimshaw had already given you several chores, all of which you completed at haphazard speed. The laundry was still dripping on the line, puddles forming underneath in the already soaked ground. It was gonna take a thousand years to dry. But you had other things on your mind.

“Is that from your secret lover?” you had teased Arthur earlier. A letter had arrived for him, brought from the post office by Pearson, and he had scarcely looked at it when you asked. He chuckled at your joke. But as he studied the writing and unfolded the paper, his smile fell, replaced with a strange mixing of emotions you couldn’t quite place.

“No, it’s…” His voice trailed off as his eyes scanned the words before him.

“Arthur?” You tried peeking over his shoulder, but in a defensive move, he turned so you couldn’t see it. “Is everything okay?”

Your mind started racing as you wondered what it might be. As far as you were aware, the outlaw had no outside obligations. None of the gang did. Quickly, you started cycling through any recent or semi-recent events, wracking your brain for an answer, anything that might help solve this weird and uncomfortable puzzle. Maybe it was some kind of summons? You’d heard of the law issuing letters. But if that were the case, then the gang’s pseudonym at the post office was compromised. Was it related to unfinished business in Valentine?

It suddenly clicked. Right as Arthur finished reading, you said, “Mary.”

“I, uh... “ At least he had the decency to look sheepish. He nodded.

Immediately, your mood had soured. And it had only gone downhill from there. The letter arrived this morning, Arthur had read it after breakfast, and offered it to you to read after he had finished. It was from Mary, alright. She was in Saint Denis, and, yet again, she was begging for Arthur’s help. You tried not to be angry, but you were. Mary was long before you and you knew that, and yet, you were still strangely jealous of her. Despite existing long before you in Arthur’s life, she was still receiving so much attention, so much of his time, so much of his… You couldn’t think of what it was exactly, but it was infuriating.

And now, here you were. Mid-afternoon. Roaming aimlessly around Shady Belle, getting on everyone’s nerves. Pearson, who was usually one to nag those who were bored into helping prep the food, was avoiding you like the plague. You had taken to practicing your aim, your volcanic pistol in your hand, squinting at the glass bottles you had lined up on the end of the dock. It was cruel, but you imagined each one was Mary and Arthur. Bang! There goes the engagement ring. Bang! Their stupid faces kissing. Bang!

You jumped about a mile in the air as the last gunshot came from behind you. Whirling around, you found yourself face to face with Arthur, lowering his revolver. He was smiling, just a slight lift to the left side of his mouth, and he pretended to blow smoke from the barrel of his weapon, spinning it poorly around his finger before replacing it in his holster. He approached you with his thumbs hooked in his belt to admire his work.

“Always were a strong shot,” he commented, nodding his head towards the bottles.

“You’ve been doing this a long time,” you grumbled. Arthur chuckled.

“Not me, I was talkin’ about you.”

You could only half shrug. You didn’t want to look him in the eyes, though you knew he was searching for yours. He sighed deeply and shuffled his feet.

“Look, can we- Can we talk? I don’t want this to be turned into a, a big thing.”

Reluctantly, you lifted your eyes and met his. The look on his face was begging you to have pity on him, exposing a strange vulnerability you had been seeing more from him lately. It tugged at your heartstrings and you finally caved. You tossed your head back, staring at the sky for a second as you exhaled sharply, drawing strength from the clouds above you.

“Fine.”

With a flourish, you extended your arm in a sweeping, “Right this way” motion, indicating he lead the way to a quiet spot. He stared at you a moment before stepping past you, walking towards the house. You trailed behind him, your mind returning to its tumultuous state it had been in most of the day. He had been gone so long, the sun was starting to go down, painting the campsite in orange hues. What could he have been doing all day? Mary hadn’t said what was going on in her letter, just hinted at it. You had spent an hour looking over it and scouring it for information. Man, your stomach hurt from the anxiety.

The two of you ended up in your shared room on the upper floor of the former plantation home. Arthur had held the door open for you, and you found yourself unable to sit down. Behind you, Arthur tried to encourage you to sit, but you could only shake your head. He edged past you to take a seat instead.

For a long while, you just stared at each other. Arthur removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. You couldn’t bring your mind to form any words for him. All the anger you had had that morning started to drain out of you at the sight of him. There was a sad air around him, something had happened, but you weren’t sure you wanted to hear what. He finally broke the gaze you had each other trapped in and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“How’s Mary?” Your voice finally broke the silence. You cut him off preemptively, scared of what he may have been about to say.

“She’s just fine,” he answered, apparently relieved to hear you speak. “So’s her father, the bastard.”

“It was about her father?”

“Yeah, no good asshole spending money he don’t even have.” The venom in Arthur’s voice made your skin crawl. It was easy to forget, in more tender moments, that he was an outlaw. The fire in his eyes lasted less than a second, however, rapidly replaced by the strange sadness from before. “He, uh… He tried to sell her mother’s brooch. For his.. Hell, I don’ even know, whatever he keeps spending money on. Same shit it’s always been.”

You were frozen, watching him carefully. He didn’t look up. Thinking there was more, you allowed the silence to continue, but the air was still heavy and you needed the weight off your chest.

“Was that all?” you finally asked. Your voice came out soft and fragile. You had your answer when Arthur turned his head upwards, the slightest guilty smile tugging on the corner of his mouth, and the churning feeling returned to your stomach. “Well, did you-- Did you kiss her?”

Arthur let out a bark of laughter. Suddenly, you felt very silly for even asking.

“Darlin’, no,” he said. With a whoosh of air, your shoulders relaxed, and you even felt a smile approaching your own face. “I didn’t kiss her. But I’d be lyin’ if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind.” The tightness returned as quickly as it had left. Anger bubbled upwards, rushing hot to your head, and you opened your mouth to accuse him, but the look in his eyes registered: it was pain. Pain?

“Arthur,” you whispered, “what happened? Please tell me.”

Making eye contact once again, the cowboy shifted on the bed and gestured for you to sit beside him, this time closer to a command than suggestion. Hesitantly, you joined him. Your hands were placed gingerly in your lap. He returned to his previous position, elbows on his knees, and he barely looked to you as he recounted everything that happened. He started with Mary shouting to him from the balcony, to their almost argument about the what-ifs of their past, through pursuing her father and chasing down the brooch. They had gone to the theater together. A date? And, finally…

“Mary… Mary asked me to run away with her.”

The range of emotions running through your head was making you dizzy. Too much to process, too much to consider, so much anger at her, anxiety towards Arthur’s thoughts. You stared hard at your fingers, picking absentmindedly at a loose thread on your clothes. You wondered at what the conversation was like, what Arthur had said, what his expression had betrayed. Did Mary mean it? Was she truly still thinking about him all these years later? Would she ever stop trying to take him away?

“Say somethin’.” His gaze turned to you, the worry clear in his voice. His piercing blue eyes were burning into the side of your head. Without enough time to compose a kinder phrasing, you spluttered out the first thought you had.

“So why didn’t you?”

“Why--?” Arthur chuckled, a low rumble deep in his chest. Relief, you realized, was the cause for his sudden change of tone. “Mary has played me for a fool more times than I can count. We was just kids, then. We’re… Well, we’re grown now, things have changed. Besides, I love you too much to disappear like that.”

Every other thought left your mind. I love you. I love you. I love you… He had never said those words to you. They were spoken every day through action, sure, but out loud… They were almost taboo. Tears filled your eyes as you looked up into his face. His eyes widened in alarm.

“You love me?” you managed to say, your voice strained by the tightening of your throat.

“I have, for a while,” he said. “I-I’m sorry, I jus’ didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but it’s the truth. I do love you, darlin’. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Relief in the purest form of ecstasy washed over you. You threw your arms around Arthur’s neck, pulling him in for a tight hug. He stiffened for a moment before returning the embrace. His warmth filled you up and washed out every bad feeling and thought you had that day.

“I love you, too,” you said softly, burying your face in his neck. He still carried the smells of Saint Denis with him, but you didn’t care. He didn’t smell like Mary Linton, and he never would. He was yours.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #rdr2 reader insert #arthur morgan reader insert #gender neutral reader #angel writes

159 notes · View notes

ickymichi · 3 years

Text

𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝.

a tendou satori x reader series.

✟ there’s always been the one rule every person who’s been in a band knows not to break, never mess around with your band mates. but Satori was sick of the groupies, sick of catching the bra’s and panties that were flung at him every night. he just wanted the one thing he couldn’t have.

✟ warnings: swearing, eventual smut, eventual angst(?), drug use, inappropriate themes, comedy.

✟ things to know: band au!, some timeskip careers mentioned, slow updates.

✟ if you’d like to be added to the taglist just send an ask! <3

✟ word count: 1.8k

✟ note: first actual chapter of this series! it’s nothing big but obviously i wanted to get something written for this series! but i hope you enjoy my dears! reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

all contents belongs to k1ttykawa 2021. please do not repost or modify on this or any other platform.

.:previous:.

.:next:.

.:masterlist:.

𝟎𝟎𝟐:. 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐜𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬

The bright lights and screams from the small crowd in the underground venue was what brings you back down from the high you’re always on whenever you sit on the small bouncing stool behind the drum set on stages every second or third night. You heard Semi thanking everyone for coming and whatever shit he always says. Once you seen him bow and Tendou go to pick up the collection of bra’s and panties thrown on stage, you raised a hand and threw one of the drumsticks into the crowd, your own way of saying goodbye before making your way offstage. Semi and Tendou’s tall frames following behind, the same order as always.

The sweat was pouring out of you, tonight being more of a wilder one than the usual calm sets you’ve been having in bars or party’s recently. they were easy money, but they got boring after just a few hours. so all three of you were in desperate need of a night like tonight.

Turning the corner of the small, dark corridor to your dressing room for tonight you were met with the stench of weed, 3 different girls on the beat up leather couch, a rolled joint in one of the girls hands and white lines on a tray to the others left. Like always, you went straight to the showers to get the scent of sweat and fake smoke of you.

You really don’t know when but the cropped black tank top you had on was ripped down one side but your usual headband you sported every show was missing and it now became you new priority to track it down. “Satori! Where the fuck is my headband?” you stomped back out to see the wanted man desperately trying to pull the tight leather pants down his lanky legs. His head was whipped up to at the sound of your annoyed voice and then quickly darted his eyes over to the blonde that had previously rolled the joints and was now fawning over semi and his revealed tattoos. “oi” was all you muttered out behind her and holding out your empty hand—also noting some of your rings were gone. She turned her head to you with a scowl covering her features, which also revealed your missing accessory that caused your distress. “that’s her bandana and she’s quite obviously looking for it back,” Tendou quipped in making every one bar the girl laugh. After time, she untied it from the back and forcefully placed it back in your hand. Dramatically you held your arm, acting as if she pained you, tendou again laughing with you.

Finally you were able to hop into the shower and quickly get your self freshened and rub the accesses makeup off your eyes that was already smudged from your constant wiping, trying to stop the sweat dripping from your hairline.

“(y/n)!! please help me out of these, semisemi just keeps fucking laughing!” the peace and quiet you had was quickly interrupted by Tendou’s loud whining. “how the fuck am I not supposed to laugh when your walking around with them swinging around your ankles and your dick hanging out?” “what, Its out?!”

The large door separating the bathroom from the connected dressing room swung open and revealed Satori with his leathers pooled at his ankles and— surprising his dick not actually ‘hanging out’. “please help me sugartits, they’re fucking stuck even with my skinny ankles,” he hopped onto the counter and held his legs up for you to guide them off him. “well for starters, take your fucking shoes off!, and also I swear i saw these in the women’s section of some online store?” jokingly you shouted at him and moved to untie the doc martin’s around his feet. “yeah? You probably did, stole them from that chick that wouldn’t stop hanging off me last month,” both of you laughing at his silliness and falling into a comfortable silence.

The only noise was the voices off the others in the separate room and a recognisable Mötley Crüe song shaking the floor from the stage.

“what you think of tonight then?” the silence being broken by Satori like usual. “uhhh, it was definitely something but yeah, it was fun. Its nice to have a night like that every now and then, specially since we’ve just been in bars doing the same covers for the past two weeks. What about you huh?” he hummed, a noise of agreement showing he was listening, a habit you grew to learn. “I guess it was good fun yeah, although I didn’t appreciate nearly getting hit with a dildo within the first two songs. But I agree, it’s nice to do our own shit and not covers in a bar with a bunch of middle age boring shits. I think we’ve another show that’ll probably be like this again on Saturday.”

Saturday, today was Thursday so you’ve a nice day or two to just lie around, the other probably filled with travelling and setting up.

After about 10 minutes you had unlaced both his boots and chucked them onto the floor and not too long later his ‘borrowed’ pants joined them. “thanks chicken, lifesaver as always,” he pulled you into an embrace with one arm before leaving to find his spare clothes in the other room. He did always have the weirdest nicknames.

The night bled into the early hours of the morning, Semi and Tendou both getting their share of the girls there while you kicked your feet up, sparking up a conversation and passing the joints with your friend Taichi who was also your ‘manager’, he wasn’t really he just acted like it when venues would ask important questions and tagged along for the free show and nights at different clubs.

He was also the one who suggested you start moving to the motel down the street for the night before the venue boots you all out. Quickly you agreed, not fancying seeing any more glimpses of your friends and strangers body parts. Obviously the girls whined to the boys, asking if they could come, saying it’s dangerous for girls to walk home alone at night, “sorry ladies, but we’ll be sharing a bed tonight and I don’t fancy getting an unwanted facial on a Thursday night,” you butted into their persuasive conversation by wrapping an arm around the boys from the back of the couch and giving a friendly smile.

By the time you all got your equipment packed away and into the van it was nearing 4:30 in the morning and you, quite literally we’re going to fall into the bed. It wasn’t the nicest of places but you were just spending tonight and the next two there, unless you decided to go out after the shows and find some rando’s condo to spend the night in. All three of you pushed your way into the small room trying to get the edges of the double bed. And it wasn’t easy trying to squeeze through two 6’2 lean men, resulting in you again stuck in the middle of them staring at the blank roof, desperately waiting for the sun to rise so you could find some place to get food and away from the mess of limbs under the covers.

When you did wake up it felt like you’d only slept for two hours, when in reality it had been about 10. The afternoon sun melting through the old curtains and falling into your pillow. As you moved to see what had finally woke you from the deep sleep you saw Semi at the small table, his guitar resting on his knees and his worn, nimble fingers scribbling words on his notebook he kept for when lyrics would come to him.

“mornin’ early bird,” all you could let out was a groan, your mind still coming to its senses. “there’s food n’ shit there Satori went out to get it, we was the first up, surprisingly,” he breathed out the last remark before moving to pick up the red pencil and get back to writing lyrics before they left his head.

The food that Tendou got was still warm so he must’ve of been up long before you anyway. “where is he?” “beats me, probably wandering round like always,” quickly he responded and took the pic from between his teeth and started strumming a tune while humming, what you were guessing, was the lyrics on the page.

Letting your curiosity get the better of you, you pulled your phone from where it was connected to the wall by the charger and found Satori’s contact and pressed the call icon, moving away from the sound of Eita and his guitar you went to go outside and sit on the bench outside your rooms window.

“hello, hello,” his ever cheerful voice filled the speakers of your phone that was wedged between your shoulder and ear. “hey, I was just calling to see where you are that’s all,” you piped up when he went quiet, tutting when you realised you were out of cigarettes. “oh you know, just out sightseeing ‘tis all,” “cool cool, well i’m going to the store now you need anything?” he hummed into the phone, indicating that he was thinking of something he needed. “just cigs I guess and get me that drink I like while there, i’ll pay you later,” bidding him goodbye as the small shop on the corner came into view you slipped your phone into your sweatpants pocket and walked to the back where they kept the energy drinks.

Exiting the shop with everything you needed you walked to make your way back till you saw a familiar head of red locks across the street and quickly, but quietly made your way to his figure.

Sneaking up behind him and wrapping your arms around his middle, feeling his ribs press into your arms, something you’ve noted recently. He sucked air into his lungs and jumped slightly before laughing with you. “here you go your highness,” was how you greeted him and chucked him his requested items. “thanks muffincake, i’ll pay you back later I swear,” you scoffed and shook his offer off, suggesting you stroll around the city until Semi called either of you to ‘get your sorry asses back to the room’.

Your stroll progressed into a very long walk and by the time Satori suggested you head back with an arm around your shoulder it was already dark, the night life staring to come out of hiding. eyeing a club across the street you thought might be a good shout to visit in case you three got bored tonight, making a mental note of its location.

“Didn’t Semisemi say we need to go over the set list again cause, someone, messed up last night,” a sing-song voice dragged you out of your club browsing and brought a scowl to your face. “excuse me, you’re the one who told me we were doing ‘nasty’ after the interlude, prick,” he pulled his chin up and started to ‘think’ about your accusation before loudly dubbing it false; “nope, I don’t recall doing such a thing. I could never, but if it boots your already sky high ego then, of course I did my dearest apologies baby cakes,” “do you ever shut up,” “when i’m face first in pus-” “Don’t even!”

t a g l i s t: @evan-rose @elianetsantana @weebintheinternet @kuroos-roosterhead

please lmk if i missed you if your not there! <3

#🎸.my band #🤍.satori #tendou fic #tendou satori #tendou x reader #tendou headcanon #tendou smut #tendou x y/n #haikyuu tendou

80 notes · View notes

maeve-writes · 3 years

Text

The Significance of Fair Food

Pairings: Human!Castiel x Reader

Rating: General

Warnings: Fluff, bad decisions.

Summary: You talk the boys into making a stop during your travels and you show Castiel the joys of being human.

a/n: This was written for a SPN challenge years ago.

My three categories were: Fair, snow cone, getting sunburnt.

This is unbeta'd, please forgive any mistakes. This is also my first time writing Castiel, so forgive me if it’s a little... off.

Formally posted on the account @plaided-ani

When you asked the boy to make a pit stop, the last thing they expected was to end up pulling into a fairgrounds parking lot. The world was ending, again, you had demons and angels and everything in between after the four of you, but damned if it didn’t seem like a good idea. “Dude,” Dean reasoned with his brother, slapping him on his arm, “fair food.”

“Yes,” you chirped, popping your head between them from the backseat. You wrapped your hands around Sam’s shoulders, fingers digging into the tense muscle and you shook him like a maraca. “Yes!”

“What’s the significance of fair food,” Castiel inquired beside you, curious eyes watching Sam’s head snap to and fro from your jarring.

You rounded on him immediately, releasing Sam before you slid into the former angel’s personal space, slinging your arm around his shoulders. “Castiel,” your voice was quiet, intimate, “fair food is the most delicious nourishment that humans have to offer.” You reached up and ran a hand down his cheek and forced him to look you in the eye, “And all of it’s fried.”

He stared at you unblinkingly, puffy lips slightly parted in confusion. You were a hair’s length apart, close enough to be sharing the same lungs, and he nodded once causing his nose brush against yours.

“If you two are done making out,” Dean cleared his throat, arm perched over the back of his seat to glare at you. “I want a corndog.”

You immediately released Cas and then turned to scramble out of the car. You joined up with Dean, hooking your arm around his and the pair of you charged the fair’s main gate, Sam and Castiel trailing behind you.

The sun was out in full force and what little clouds floating in the sky provided no comfort from it’s heated rays. You turned your head up, eyes closed to bask in the warm as you four waited in line for the first vendor that Dean deemed acceptable.

“Fried butter,” Castiel droned behind you, “that doesn’t sound very healthy.”

“It doesn’t have to be healthy, Cas,” Dean replied, pulling you forward as the queue moved, “it’s fair food.”

Sam huffed in annoyance and shook his head, “That’s not an excuse to clog your arteries.”

“Yes, it is,” you and Dean replied simultaneously.

You righted your head and turned to glare up at the youngest Winchester, but you caught sight of Castiel clutching at his chest, his fingers clenching around the soft white shirt that Dean leant him. “Your heart’s gonna be fine, Cas,” you assure him, stumbling along as Dean pulled you forward yet again. “It takes years of eating bad crap to clog you up. If anyone is gonna die of a heart attack, it’s Dean!”

“And I would have no regrets,” came the proud sniff beside you.

“You two are idiots,” Sam sighed.

You opened your mouth to retort, but Dean yanked you one final time and you spun to order the biggest funnel cake they allotted, double sugar and strawberries on top. Dean, of course, got his three corndogs, Sam opted for cup-o-salad, but Cas was at a loss. “He’ll have a corn dog and fries,” you decided.

Dean stayed back to wait for the order and Sam lead the way to find a semi-clean table nearby. “I’ll admit, Y/N,” Cas confided in you, eyes darting to Sam’s back cautiously, “that this fair food does smell delicious.”

“Oh, Cas,” you cooed, once again slinging your arm around his arm and placed your head on his shoulder, “you’re in for a treat.” You take one side with Castiel, Sam opting to sit across from you. The sounds of the crowd washed over you as you baked in the afternoon sun, the shrills from fast rides and rigged games were the soundtrack of your best idea yet.

“Alright, heart attacks on a plate,” Dean cackled gleefully as he sat the tray down in the middle. He passed Castiel his basket and you snatched up your funnel cake with a loud smack of your lips. “You’re gonna give me some of that, Y/N, right?”

Your face twisted in aggression, your body curling around your plate as you claimed your territory. “Absolutely not,” you snarled. Cas shifted uneasily beside you which snapped you out of your daze, “But you can have some, Castiel.” Blue eyes met yours and his brow pinched with uncertainty.

“Oh, so you’ll give some to Cas and not me,” Dean growled, corndog shoved in his mouth and mustard dribbled down his chin.

“Yes,” you answered simply, cutting of a nice, big piece coated with the most sugar and biggest strawberry and held it up for Castiel to eat. The former angel frowned at you and looked to Dean before opening his mouth wide to let you choo-choo it in.

He chewed it slowly, considering its taste. Sugar outlined his mouth and a drip of syrup rested in the very center of his bottom lip. Without thinking, you swiped you thumb across it, shoving it into your mouth to lick off the excess. His eyes went wide, watching the finger disappear between your own sugared lips. “This is very good,” he said hoarsely when he finally managed to swallow.

You wiggled your eyebrows in victory and pointed to his meal, “Clog those arteries, Cas.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent queuing in lines, you and Dean hogging the cotton candy. You did share a bit with Castiel for educational purposes, but most of it was shoved shamelessly into your mouth.

“You two are going to throw up,” Sam grimaced as you headed closer to the Tilt-a-Whirl.

“That’s the fun of fairs,” you replied cheerfully, nudging Cas to make a mental note of it. “You stuff yourself full of bad food and then you get on all the rides so you can throw it up later!”

Cas shook his head, “That doesn’t sound like fun at all.”

“It is,” Dean winked, “you’ll love it.” Sam contradicted his brother with a silent shake of his head, but you were all ushered into your seats before the older brother could argue. And when the ride was over, you were hugging your stomach, looking a little paler and Dean shuffled slowly beside you.

“I told y-” Sam started but heated glares from the both of you had him holding his hands up and laughing.

Despite your aching stomachs, you and Dean drag the other two on the Teacups, the Falling Tower, even in the Haunted House. It was the Tunnel of Love that caught your eye, though, and not because you had anything romantic in mind, but it was a slow, easy ride that hid you from the harsh afternoon sun.

The boys fought over who would actually sit with you because it was the Tunnel of Love, after all, and you can’t go in with your brother without people raising eyebrows and they sure as hell didn’t want to ‘fall in love with Cas’. “You’re all idiots,” you exclaimed and pulled Cas into the small swan shaped boat.

“This ride doesn’t actually make humans fall in love, does it,” he asked you hesitantly.

You leaned back against the hard wooden frame, head tilted back as the tunnel’s cool air breezed over your sun kissed skin, “No, Cas. It’s an excuse for teenagers to make out in, though. Or older people to make out like teenagers.” There’s a deep rumble of thoughtfulness next you and you can feel Cas’s eyes on you. “You wanna make out with me,” you asked with one eye cracked open.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “That means kissing, right?”

“Yes,” you snorted.

His brow wrinkled and he nodded, “Yes.”

“Yes,” you repeated, surprised. You sat up and tilted your head, a smile split your face in two.

“Yes,” Cas said for the second time, “I’ve thought about kissing you before. I’ve watched you with the men that you’ve taken home from bars and…”

You held up a hand and blinked, “What do you mean you’ve watched me?”

“I was afraid that they might hurt you, so I kept watch,” Castiel explained, noting your sudden discomfort of the conversation. “I stopped watching when you… you know.”

“I am so glad you’re human now,” you groaned, bringing up your legs in the open bench seat and hid your face away. You felt a hand atop your knee and a gentle squeeze in timid comfort. “If you ever get your grace back, dude, please don’t ever watch me again,” you pleaded once you lifted your head.

Cas nodded, those deep blue eyes full of regret and understanding, “I promise.”

The ride finished without a makeout session, but you had forgiven Cas by the time you caught up with Sam and Dean. The sun was getting low and the fair’s lights slowly started to flicker on, the Ferris Wheel drawing everyone’s attention. “Last ride,” Sam warned you, so you tugged them along, waiting in the longest queue of the day.

“Snow Cones,” Dean whispered, pushing at your shoulder. “Wait here,” he instructed his brother and friend before dragging you over to the stand. While the ice did sound like a good idea in the warm summer evening, more sugar was going to make your veins explode.

“I dunno, Dean,” you patted your belly, “I don’t know if I can fit anymore.”

“Don’t be a wuss,” he egged you on and shoved you up to the counter. You order a small one, rainbow all the way and kicked Dean in the shin when you got your purchase and ran off to the safety of your friends.

“More sugar,” you told Cas, holding up the shaved ice settled in a paper cup. “Sweets for a sweetie,” you offer it to him, “just bite.” He looked from you to the colored ball of frost and scraped his teeth along to gather some with an approving hum. Dean soon joined you, tagging you on the back of your head when he returned and nearly had you spilling your treat. “Watch it!”

Cas frowned in disapproval at Dean, but the oldest Winchester smirked smugly and bite down hard on his snow. “For as much sugar as you consume, Dean, you can be sour,” he reprimanded, patting your shoulder and taking yet another bite of your snow cone.

“Are you really white knighting, Y/N, right now,” Dean snorted, the tip of his nose dyed blue from his flavoring.

“If that means I’m defending her, then yes,” Cas replied, his eyes, like yours and Sam’s, trained on the small spot of blue. “Dean,” he started, but you wrap a hand around his wrist and squeeze. How the three of you are holding a straight face, you’ll never know.

“What,” came the gruff reply accompanied by a frown.

“Nothing,” Cas replied casually, tearing his eyes away from his friend and back to you and the Snow Cone. You return the stare, both of you leaning in to take a bite and you tried not to choke on the flavored ice.

“What,” Dean asked pressingly.

“Line’s moved up,” Sam answered, pulling his brother along.

Dean eyed you all suspiciously, but he moved along with everyone else, digging back into his ice and coming out with an even bigger spot of blue. Sam’s jaw is clenched so hard you could hear his teeth starting to crack and you’re sure you’ve snorted some of your ice in an attempt to stop your laughter. But Castiel? He was standing there, smiling at the three of you, suddenly understanding what the significance of fair food was.

“Dammit,” Dean groaned the next day, waddling in from the bathroom, “Y/N!” Castiel looked up from the newspaper and tilted his head, his eyes shifting from Dean to you splayed out of the bed in nothing more than a thin cami and cotton shorts, looking just as uncomfortable as Dean with your cherry red skin.

“Shut up,” you spat, not able to move from your bed. It wasn’t fair, not really. All four of you were out in the sun all day and only you and Dean managed to get burned, even through all of your layers. “Your voice makes my skin hurt.”

“Your face makes my skin hurt,” Dan shot back, slowly climbing onto the bed next to you. The pair of you weakly slapped at each other from your prone positions and you felt the bed dip behind you.

“Sam said this might happen,” Castiel stated as he flipped open a cap of aloe. “He said I would need to rub this into your skin.”

Dean jerked his head up and immediately winced from the pain, “You’re not rubbing anything on me.”

“Shut up and enjoy it, jerk,” you hissed and twisted your head as much as you could to look at Castiel. “Rub it all over me, Cas, as deep as you can.”

The former angel flushed as bright as the pair of you, but set to work.

#castiel x reader #castiel x you #castiel x y/n #human!castiel #formally posted on @plaided-ani

47 notes · View notes

khantoelessar · 3 years

Text

Hogan’s timeline prior to Stalag 13

The purpose of this meta is to make an attempt at trying to fit Robert Hogan’s timeline pre-Stalag 13 to match something close to that of the actual historical timeline of World War II. I’m not saying this is actual canon, more like suggesting a possibility to stimulate conversation about Hogan’s timeline before being shot down and also an interest in World War II itself.

There are going to be holes in my theory. I’m well aware of this. However, trying to fit Hogan’s Heroes canon timeline to actual historical timeline is like trying to piece it together with baling wire, duct tape and glue. But that is half the fun anyway.

So on we go.

Our first semi-confirmed date for the series is the pilot episode which tells us it is the winter of 1942.

We also have a semi-confirmed date from A Tiger Hunt in Paris that “Frank Dirken” escaped Stalag 13 December 1942. Now America entered the war when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour on 7 December, 1941. Roosevelt officially declared war on Germany on 11 December, 1941.

But actual hostilities did not commence right away. There was the problem of getting all those men and material across the Atlantic but also, and I mean no disrespect to the Americans when I point this out, but due to America’s neutrality and non-intervention policy a majority of those in uniform at that time had no combat experience.

What this means in terms of Robert Hogan’s past prior to Stalag 13 is that it greatly constricts the time Hogan would have had to fight if he had first arrived in Britain with the rest of the USAAF. The first of the US 8th Air Force didn’t arrive in Britain until 12 May, 1942. (1) The first joint RAF/USAAF bombing raid was in the Netherlands on 4 July, 1942 (2) and the first solo US bombing raid in Europe was on 17 August, 1942, over Rouen. (3)

This would leave at the very most seven months for Hogan to not only establish his reputation as a bomber commander but also get shot down and then get the Stalag 13 operation up and running. In “Happiness is a Warm Sergeant” Le Beau says:

Le Beau: “Maybe we can tame [Kreb]. If he likes strudel.”

Hogan: “Come on. It took us six months to get Schultz to look the other way.”

Le Beau couldn’t have gotten the ingredients to make the strudel that is Schultz’s main bribe prior to the operation being set up, not from a POW camp.

Then there was the raid on the submarine base in Breman mentioned in “Two Nazis for the Price of One.”

Hogan: “I supposed you’re talking about the bombing mission I flew against your secret submarine base in Breman.”

There were three raids on Breman between May and December of 1942. 3-4 June, 25 – 28 June and 19 November. However there were other raids prior to that. (4)

One more interesting detail that I want to add before putting forward my theory as to Hogan’s timeline is that the first of the B17 flying fortresses saw action in Britain when the RAF used them to bomb Wilhelmshaven on 18 July, 1941. (5)

So here’s my theory. Hogan was flying for Great Britain before the US entered the war. There have been fanfics written on this which I highly recommend. However there is one snag with them. Hogan could not have been enlisted in the US Army Airforce when he did so. Not only was the US officially neutral in the war until 7 December, 1941 but it was illegal for US citizens to fly for Great Britain under America’s neutrality laws. But many did so by sneaking across the border into Canada with false papers, claiming to be Canadian or of other nationalities and travelling to Britain to join the RAF. (6) I think it is worth taking a moment to honour the courage of those men and what they risked. In the beginning the United States did not take these transgressions lightly as this story posted on the Warfare History Network attests.

“As they boarded the train for Montreal, the two Americans tried to look as inconspicuous as possible. They were well aware that if they were caught they would be in trouble. At the very least, they would be sent back to the United States. There was also the possibility that they could be sent to prison, as well as fined more money than they had seen in their entire lives.

At the Canadian border, the train stopped and several sinister looking officials got on board. They wanted to know where the two were going and why.

“We’re on our way to Montreal to see a cousin who runs a fish hatchery,” was the reply. One of the unsmiling officials—probably an FBI agent—wanted to know if they were fliers. “Don’t be silly. Do we look like fliers?”

The officials were apparently satisfied by the reply. One of them opened the suitcases of the two travelers and rummaged through the top layer of clothing. He did not look any deeper. If he had, he would have found what he was looking for—flying helmets, goggles, and logbooks. Instead, he closed the lid and wished the young fellows a pleasant trip.

The two Americans, Eugene “Red” Tobin and Andy Mamedoff, were not smuggling contraband. They were going to Canada to enlist in the air force of a foreign country which, in the early weeks of 1940, was against the law. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation kept a pretty close check on all Americans going to Canada,” Red Tobin later said, “so we had to watch our step.”

You can read the rest of the article here. (7)

The men who chose to go to Canada risked not only fines and imprisonment but also loss of their citizenship. (8)

It wasn’t until 19 November, 1941 that Britain officially revealed that there were three squadrons of American pilots called the Eagle Squadrons. (9)

Another fact the prohibits Hogan being part of the USAAF prior to the American entry is that prior to the war America had start to build up its own armed forces. (10) It began on 15 June, 1940. By 7 December, 1941 they had over 2 million in all branches. (11) This means that the USAAF was in desperate need of competent and skilled pilots to not only lead attacks but also to train new ones in its Air Corp tactical school. (12)

Combine these and I think it highly unlikely that the USAAF would have turned a blind eye to one of its best and most brilliant tactical pilots and officers to go AWOL to fight for a foreign country, especially at a time when the isolationist movement was strong.

There is another route open to Hogan having fought for the RAF and even during the Battle of Britain that I would like to explore here as a possible . . . let’s say, alternative headcanon.

He could have taken the route mentioned earlier by those other Americans, crossing the border into Canada, getting training there and then going onto Britain. I can see Hogan doing something like this. In the face of the news of repeated atrocities being committed by the Nazis and his country refusing to get involved, I can see Hogan taking on a false identity and slipping across the border in order to join the fight.

But this is also the same reason I think that Hogan was not allowed to go AWOL from the US Army. It would have violated Roosevelt’s Neutrality Laws, even though he declared,

This would have crossed to far over that line, to have an American USAAF officer openly fighting with the British, especially after Hogan started gaining fame as a war ace and bomber commander. If he was so feared by the Nazis that Biedenbender was jumped from Colonel to General;

Biendenbender: “You see I am the reason you are now here as a prisoner of war.” Hogan: “Thanks.” Biendenbender: “When the bombing raids of the squadron you commanded started to become . . . oh slightly annoying to the Third Reich I was assigned to study your tactics, to get inside your head, I know everything about you . . . so I was able to predict precisely the planning of your last bombing raid on Hamburg in which you were shot down, and I, hah, I was shot up to a General.”

then his fame would definitely have spread to the Commonwealth and then to America.

This is why I put forward the possibility that Hogan never enlisted in the USAAF. Also, Wikipedia states “None of the Eagle Squadron pilots had previously served in the USAAF and did not have US pilot wings.” (14)

There is the option that Hogan never joined the Eagle squadrons directly but flew for the RAF separately. First of all, according to the Wikipedia site (13) none of the Eagle squadrons flew bombers, let alone B17s. Also, in the episode “Some of Their Planes are Missing” and “Funny Thing Happened on the Way to London” we are told that Hogan was attached to the RAF.

If we take this into account when we look at Hogan’s timeline, we get a lot more room for Hogan to have accomplished all that he did. If he snuck across the border into Canada under a false identity prior or during the Battle of Britain which was July through September 1940 (15) he would have over a year of experience, including making his bombing runs on Breman before being finally transferred over to the USAAF and the 504th bomb squadron once America entered the war. The same Wikipedia site quoted before also states that the ranks in the RAF were transferred after some negotiations to the nearest equivalent rank.

There is another detail from the series that supports Hogan’s story links to Britain and the RAF over that of the USAAF and that is the fact that he reports to London, not Washington. Almost all his links to the Allies are British. There are a few Americans, General Barton in “The General Swap”, General Tilman in “How to Cook a German Goose with Radar”, the captain of that submarine in “The Pizza Parlour” and we do see the alliance of the British and the Americans in “Easy Come, Easy Go”.

But other than that all of his contacts and command structure that he reports to are British. There is no mention of the OSS or of Washington. When Hogan is flown back to England for the briefing before D-Day in “D-Day at Stalag 13” the General (we are not given a name) is British, not American and the “old man” they refer to is Churchill, not Roosevelt.

General: “Even to tell you this much this much had to be cleared at the highest level of intelligence, the Old Man himself.”

Hogan could have been one of those Americans who crossed the border into Canada, got false papers there and traveled to Britain to joined the RAF. He didn’t join the Eagle Squadrons (although I can see him qualifying on the spitfires because they were one of the best planes out there) because he’d been transferred to Bomber Command. When America entered the war, he transferred to the USAAF with the equivalent rank of Colonel and put in charge of the 504th bomb group (even though in reality the 504th flew in the Pacific theatre and not the European one and was part of the 20th Air Force) because by then his reputation had long since proceeded him. He was part of the US mass bombing raid on Ploesti on 12 June, 1942 (16) but was shot down after that and was transferred to Stalag 13 just about the same time as Klink, who (I’m assuming was there to solve the massive escape problems) as we are told in “The Kommadant Dies at Dawn”

Hogan: “Are you kidding, before I arrived you had so many escapes they were going to put a revolving door at the front gate.”

Now like I said this headcanon is not water proof. There are some holes that I can’t fill.

Hogan does say that he was assigned to the Pentagon in “Klink vs the Gonculator”

As mentioned previously, I don’t think the Army would have let him go AWOL to fight for a foreign country if he was already an officer.

On the other hand I should point out that he was talking to Klink and was running one of his cons on him. It is also possible that he was assigned briefly to the Pentagon after Pearl Harbour but before he was shot down. His experience and connections in the RAF would have been invaluable. So maybe this possible headcanon of mine still holds water.

There are also other people who could have taken this path to the war and that is Kinch and every other black POW in Stalag 13.

The Tuskegee Airmen, the only black American squadron in World War II were first deployed overseas in North Africa on 24 April, 1943. (17) That’s too late for Kinch and the other black POWs to be shot down and sent to Stalag 13.

But while the American forces were segregated Canada and Great Britain weren’t quite so insistent on it. They couldn’t afford to be. This is not to say there wasn’t discrimination. Both Canada and Britain did have discriminatory practices (18) (19) that limited enrollment to all but the most general positions to those not of white European descent. But in practice a person of colour’s ability to not only enlist but to serve in a role beyond that of support personal depended very much on the recruitment officer as shown in this story.

“In 1939 the so-called colour bar that prevented black people from serving in the British forces was formally lifted, largely because the Second World War meant that the Army, Navy and Air Force needed to recruit as many men as possible.

The lifting of the bar didn’t necessarily mean it was easy for would-be West Indian recruits to get in however.

There were people who would try three or four times to get in, or pay their own passage to come to Britain from the Caribbean.

Another route in was via the Royal Canadian Air Force. Canada may have been freezing cold but it was considered to be a warm and tolerant place for prospective black servicemen.

Billy Strachan couldn’t get into the RAF, so he sold his trumpet and used the money to pay his own passage to travel through U-boat-infested seas to London. He arrived at Adastral House in Holborn and declared his desire to join the RAF. The corporal at the door told him to “piss off.”

Happily however, an officer walked past who turned out to be rather more welcoming. He asked Strachan where he was from, to which Strachan replied “I’m from Kingston.”

“Lovely, I’m from Richmond” beamed the officer.

Strachan explained that he meant Kingston, Jamaica.

Shortly after that, he was training for aircrew.”

He went on to do a tour as a navigator in Bomber Command, then retrained as a pilot and flew with the 96th squadron.” (20)

See this link for the full story.

There were black fighter pilots in the RAF as shown in the links above. Not only that there were women of colour as well, such as Lilian Bader who joined the WAAF and Noor Inayat Khan who was one of the Special Operations Executive’s top agents in France. (21)

This is not to say that there wasn’t discrimination against people of colour in Canada and Britain. There certain were as the websites quoted here show.

But the racism was not as bad or as extreme as it was in the United States. People of colour could fill high ranking and highly visible prominent positions in the Second World War as shown in this article here. (22)

So this is a route that Kinch, Baker and the other black POWs could have taken to Stalag 13. Sneaking across the border, getting fake papers, training in Canada and then heading to Britain.

One of the holes in this possible theory is the issue of their uniforms. Unlike the American pilots who were white the black Americans pilots (if there were any) would not have been have been given equivalent rank in the USAAF or even been allowed to fly in the Eagle Squadrons once they were transferred to the USAAF. America was adamant on segregation, as shown here, (23) something that caused extreme tension in Britain.

While there was racism in Britain towards people of colour the racial hatred demonstrated towards black servicemen by the American G.I.s came as a shock to the British population. (24)

Hogan could have protested segregation all he wanted, demanded Kinch be allowed to fly until he was blue in the face (assuming he and Kinch did know each other as implied in “Prince of the Phone Company” episode).

Kinch: “Hogan?” Hogan: “Robert. Hogan.” Kinch: “Ha Ha! Of course! I went to school with this man in America.”

The Americans would not allow an integrated air force. At best Kinch and the other black pilots would have been sent back to the States to join the Tuskegee airmen.

At this point there are two routes open for Kinch and the other black POWs to have been in Stalag 13 in time to help Hogan start his operation. One, they had been shot down prior to the arrival of the 8th Army USAAF in Britain by 12 May 1942.

The second option is that they remained with the RAF instead of transferring to the USAAF. As this article point out some of the Eagle Squadron members decided to remain with the RAF instead of transferring to the USAAF. (25)

So my theory for a possible route could work for Kinch as well as for Hogan. They could have both snuck into Canada as civilians, got official training and then joined the RAF. Hogan joined bomber command and gained his reputation as a war ace and tactician then joined the USAAF after America entered the war. Kinch was either shot down on a mission just before 12 May 1942 or remained with the RAF and was shot down later. Hogan flew several more missions until Bienderbender overwhelmed him. The Red Cross would have notified Britain about Kinch and the others and Britain in turn would have notified the US who in turn would have had the American Red Cross send the black POWs American uniforms.

This may have led to a reduction in rank for Kinch. The role of navigator (originally titled observer in the RAF) which he fills in “Hogan throws a birthday party”,

was usually filled by commissioned officer, see link (26), but could hold any rank from airman second class to Group Captain. The rank of flight sergeant in the RAF is the equivalent of a Master Sergeant in the USAAF. But if Kinch held a rank higher than that (which seems likely given the skill and high level of responsibility) then his being a sergeant in Stalag 13 would have meant a reduction in rank.

But as I said, this is just speculation on my part in an attempt to try and put the canon of Hogan’s Heroes into something that fits the actual historical timeline. I freely admit that there are holes in my theory.

Which is why I’m saying that this theory of mine is put forward as a possible alternative route that Hogan, Kinch and the other black POWs could have taken to get to Stalag 13 and leave them enough time for them to do all that they did and I hope it stimulates discussion and thought and (not to sound like I’m getting on a soap box here but I love research) a desire to research World War 2 for interest in the subject. Certainly that is what Hogan’s Heroes did for me.

Sources

1. World War II Database: https://m.ww2db.com/event/today/05/12/1942

2. History.net: https://www.historynet.com/first-usaac-raf-joint-combat-mission-july-4th-1942.htm

3. World War II today: https://ww2today.com/17th-august-1942-the-usaaf-makes-its-first-raid-on-occupied-europe

4. Bombing of Bremen in World War II: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bombing_of_Bremen_in_World_War_II

5. World War II Database: https://ww2db.com/aircraft_spec.php?aircraft_model_id=4 \

6. Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Non-British_personnel_in_the_RAF_during_the_Battle_of_Britain#United_States

7. Warfare History Network: https://warfarehistorynetwork.com/2017/01/18/americans-in-the-royal-air-force/

8. Royal Air Force Museum: https://www.rafmuseum.org.uk/research/online-exhibitions/americans-in-the-royal-air-force/eagle-squadrons/

9. WWII: The Complete War Report. Directed by Various. Mill Creek Entertainment. 2017

10. Not Even Past: https://notevenpast.org/inching-towards-war-military-preparedness-in-the-1930s/

11. National World War II Museum: https://www.nationalww2museum.org/students-teachers/student-resources/research-starters/research-starters-us-military-numbers

12. The US Army Airforces in World War 2: https://media.defense.gov/2010/Nov/05/2001329898/-1/-1/0/aaf_wwii-v1-2.pdf (pages 85 & 142)

13. Teaching American History: https://teachingamericanhistory.org/library/document/radio-address-delivered-by-president-roosevelt-from-washington/

14. Wikipedia: Eagle Squadrons: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eagle_Squadrons

15. Britannica.com: https://www.britannica.com/event/Battle-of-Britain-European-history-1940

16. 142nd wing : https://www.142fw.ang.af.mil/News/Article-Display/Article/1211286/redhawk-reflections-on-the-first-american-mission-in-europe-1942/

17. Tuskegee Airman: https://www.tuskegee.edu/Content/Uploads/Tuskegee/files/TUSKEGEE_AIRMEN_CHRONOLOGY12.2011.pdf (page 9)

18. Historyhit.com: https://www.historyhit.com/was-the-raf-especially-receptive-to-black-servicemen-in-world-war-two/

19. CBC.ca: https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/black-canadians-second-world-war-1.5793974

20. Historyhit.com: Was the RAF Especially Receptive to Black Servicemen in World War Two? | History Hit

21. Second World War Experience Centre: https://war-experience.org/lives/noor-inayat-khan-soe/

22. Royal Air Force Musuem: https://www.rafmuseum.org.uk/research/online-exhibitions/pilots-of-the-caribbean/across-the-commands/

23. Royal Air Force Museum: https://www.rafmuseum.org.uk/research/online-exhibitions/pilots-of-the-caribbean/answering-the-call/the-second-world-war-1939-to-1945-segregation/

24. Theconversation.com: https://theconversation.com/black-troops-were-welcome-in-britain-but-jim-crow-wasnt-the-race-riot-of-one-night-in-june-1943-98120

25. The National Interest: https://nationalinterest.org/blog/reboot/these-americans-flew-royal-air-force-during-world-war-ii-168713

26. Wikipedia: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/RAF_Bomber_Command_aircrew_of_World_War_II

#Hogan's Heroes #Colonel Robert Hogan #Sargeant James Kinchlow #Colonel Klink #World War 2 #World War 2 timeline #racism #segregation #Nazi Germany #RAF #USAAF

25 notes · View notes