#the phrase 'show not book' is not code for 'what about the book'

[saturns-peachy-honeymoon]

show her

summary: you get very distracted by your handsome neighbor (who is equally distracted by you) and meet the rest of the gang part iii of the girl across the way (can be read as a stand alone tho!)

content: flirting. yearning (just kiss already!). shirtless darry. pony is so baby brother coded. dally being soft and yet still very dally. steve being a little bit of an asshole.

warning: implications and jokes around sex (the boys tease darry relentlessly). profanity. canon typical violence(ish)

word count: 2616

a.n. this slow burn's finally heating up a bit!!!

Darry thought back to his conversation with the woman, the words echoing in his head. Don’t wait too long to show her. 

Show you that you’re special? You had to know that. How could you not? Every child, animal, and person you met seemed to adore you. Hell, he swore the sunflowers in your garden would confuse you for the sun itself and stretch out toward you as they bloomed. 

“Earth to Muscles,” Two-Bit snapped in front of his face. “What’s on your mind?” 

“Nothing.” Darry snapped defensively.

Within seconds, the chaos of the room went quiet, and six pairs of eyes were on him. 

“Damn, Darry, what’s got your panties in a wad?” Dally asked. 

“Probably thinkin’ ’bout that babe across the street's panties,” Steve howled.

Darry grabbed an abandoned book off the table and swiftly chucked it at Steve’s head. Hard. 

“Watch it, Randle,” Darry growled. 

Dally smirked, “Looks like you found the soft spot, Stevie.”

“In all my years, I never thought I’d see Darrel Curtis nervous about some girl,” Two-Bit chimed in. 

“That’s ‘cause she ain’t just any girl,” Soda teased, a dreamy expression in his eyes. 

“You met her, Sodie? She hot?” 

“Sodapop Patrick, don’t you go running your mouth now,” Darry warned.

Sodapop made the motion of zipping his lips before turning to Steve and nodding enthusiastically. He beamed, proud of his loophole. 

“Do you really like her, Darry?” Ponyboy asked, finally entering the conversation. He had a look in his eye that Darry couldn’t quite place. Fear? Hope? He didn’t know. 

Darry ran a hand through his hair before diverting the subject, “You boys here to play football or what?” 

. . . 

You had been trying to read. Key word: trying. But that ship seemed to sail when Darry Curtis’ shirt dropped to the pavement as he called out the phrase, “Shirts vs. skins.”

You knew he was fit. It was hard not notice the way his biceps practically stretched the sleeves of his t-shirts, the way his arms were thick with corded muscles, or that he had the broad shoulders of a linebacker, but damn your imagination couldn’t even fathom how absolutely toned his chest was. 

And there he was, running around in his front yard with his friends, perfectly sculpted abdomen glistening from sweat that slid down his chest. You tried to be respectful. You really did, but you were only human. To make matters worse, he had definitely caught you staring. And what did he do? What did Darrel Curtis do? He smirked at you. That bastard smirked at you. Yeah, he waved, too, but that smirk? That smirk was personal. 

. . . 

“Shocked you haven’t burned a hole in her door yet,” Soda remarked, sitting beside his older brother on the front step. 

You had walked inside about five minutes ago, and Darry really wasn’t doing the best job at hiding his disappointment.

“Ya know, she couldn’t stay outside all day. Sure, she has stuff to do.” The middle, Curtis continued to reason. “Besides, you missed a fatal flaw in your plan.”

“What plan?” 

Steve raised an eyebrow, rubbing his face with his shirt. “Get your head out of your ass, Darrel. We all know why you had the brilliant idea to play shirts vs skins.” 

“Just an easier way to see who’s on whose team.” 

“There are literally seven of us.” 

“Okay, well-” Darry started, but was interrupted by your sweet chirp of a voice. 

“Hey, boys! Halftime already?” You chirped, interrupting their previous conversation as you crossed the road with a tray of cookies. 

“Somethin’ like that. How ya doing, honey?” Darry asked, ignoring the pointed looks he was receiving from the idiots he called his friends. 

“I’m doing just fine. I’m sorry for intruding, just thought you boys could use a snack,” you said, offering out the treats. 

Two-Bit nearly rushed you, swiping a cookie off the tray and dropping to one knee, “Marry me.”

“I’ll take it you’re Two-Bit?” 

“How’d ya know?” 

“Lucky guess.” 

“Good to see ya, neighbor,” Soda smiled, pressing a kiss to your head as he grabbed more than his fair share of sweets.

“You didn’t have to do all this, honey,” Darry said as he took a cookie. 

You did your best to keep your eyes on his rather than looking straight ahead at his bare chest, “Wanted to.” 

He smiled slightly when he caught your eyes linger a little longer than they needed to, “Well, thank you.” 

“Want one, Johnny baby?” You asked, leaning over the porch railing to extend the tray to the boy before all the cookies were gone. 

He smiled shyly, “Yeah, thank ya.”

Darry smiled softly to himself. He had noticed Johnny walking out of your house in the morning before picking up Pony for school or coming over to watch cartoons. He’d asked you about it once, and you simply said, “He needs a home and I have a room,” shrugging as if that was the simplest arrangement in the world. You took good care of him. Darry could already see that Johnny was putting on a bit of much-needed weight, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that you doted on him the same way you did his younger brothers. 

“Johnnycakes, you’ve been holding out on me. You knew this babe and never introduced us?” Dally teased. He was kidding, mostly. 

“Dallas.” Darry snapped. 

You giggled, “It’s okay, Darry. I’m kinda flattered- I’ve never been called a babe before.”

Darry crossed his arms and leaned back against the porch railing. “I find that highly unlikely.”

You smiled, “You calling me a liar?”

“I think I’m calling you oblivious.”

“You’re sure one to talk, darlin’.” 

What the hell was that supposed to mean? 

Two-Bit, Steve, and Soda let out a chorus of oos reminiscent of the ones you’d hear in a classroom after getting called to the principal's office. 

“So Johnnycakes,” you sat beside the boy, slinging your arm over his shoulders. “Can I expect you for dinner tonight? I’m going to try to make chicken. Promise it’ll only be slightly burnt.” 

“You ain’t gotta do all that for me,” Johnny looked at you from beneath his bangs as he spoke. 

“I want to, baby.” 

“Why don’t the two of you join us for dinner? You know, we always have plenty of food.” Darry offered. 

“Darry, with as much as you’ve been inviting me over, I’m starting to wonder if you’re doubting my cooking abilities,” you teased. 

“I’m just bei-“

“Being neighborly, yeah, yeah.” You turned to the boys, “This one is Mr. Neighbor extraordinaire. He helped me move in, painted, and even built flower beds for me. I’m shocked the neighborhood hasn’t erected a statue of him yet.“

“Maybe that’s cause he only seems to care about being neighborly to you,” Pony murmured to himself, just barely loud enough for the boys to hear but quiet enough that you didn’t seem to.  

“Maybe it’s cause he’s trying to erect something else,” Dally snided. 

“Dallas. Manners.”

“You ain’t my dad.”

“Thanks for the reminder. Means I can do this,” Darry said, smirking slightly as he smacked the boy upside the head. Not particularly aggressively, but a little harder than he typically would. Definitely hard enough to send a message. 

You shook your head. 

Pony took the seat beside you. “I just finished Hamlet.”

“On a Shakespeare kick, huh?” You gazed at Pony with an almost maternal care, reaching out to gently push his sweaty hair out of his face. “What’d ya think, sweet boy?” 

Despite leaning into your touch, Pony’s face turned red. Bright tomato red. Cheeks, ears, the whole shabang. 

“Damn! I always forget how fucking red Ponyboy gets,” Two-Bit exclaimed doubled over in laughter. 

You retracted your hand quickly, a sympathetic expression crossing your features. “I’m sorry, am I embarrassing you, sweetheart?” 

Ponyboy shook his head wide-eyed, “No, no.” He shot a menacing glare at the boys, “They’re just assholes.”

“Better watch your mouth, little boy. Darry’s gonna wash your mouth out with soap!” Steve laughed. 

Darry shook his head and ruffled his brother's hair, earning yet another signature Pony death glare. “I’m gonna give this one to ‘im. Someone has to put y’all in your place every now and then.” 

“I’ll be damned if that person is some fourteen year old kid,” Steve groaned. 

“I am not a kid,” Pony jumped to his feet, bucking up to Steve. 

“Yeah, throwing a tantrum’s really gonna help drive that point home. C’mon, we all know you’re a baby, sweet boy.” 

With little to know warning, Ponyboy tackled Steve, head buried in his stomach to throw off the older boy's center of gravity. They fell down the porch stairs with a loud thud. 

“Jesus Pony, your coach really oughta play you more,” Darry mused, pulling his baby brother up by the collar of his shirt. 

Ponyboy, to everyone’s surprise, decided to join the football team this year. He was serious about it, too, and even joined Darry at the gym some nights. He’d grown quite a bit in the past year, nearly 5’11 and still growing. Darry couldn’t be prouder. 

Steve advanced, ready to take his swing. Darry shook his head, “Picture day is next week. No black eyes, no bruises. Understood?” 

Despite Darry’s stern tone, the boys continued to stare daggers at one another. Pony was so antsy he was practically vibrating. 

“Pone, c’mere,” Soda called out, raising his arm slightly. 

With one final glare, Pony turned to walk to his brother, letting him wrap his arm around his shoulders as he started telling him and Johnny a long and most definitely dramatized story.

Two-Bit stepped up to Steve, who was muttering curses to himself, “C’mon Stevie, let’s go get into some trouble, huh? Dal, you in?” 

“You know it.” 

“We’ll catch y’all later,” Two-Bit waved, guiding Steve down the driveway before he did something stupid. 

Dally put his hand on the back of Johnny’s neck and ruffled his hair as a quiet goodbye, “Stay outa of trouble.” 

He looked at Pony, who was still wrapped in Soda’s arms. Pony’s eyes almost looked glassy; you’d later learn that he had a tendency to cry when he got really mad. Dally touched his head, “Remember what I told ya?” 

Pony rubbed his eyes and nodded firmly. 

“Good, you’re alright, man.” Dally turned to follow after the boys, pausing to shoot you a mischievous look, “Nice meeting you, babe.” 

. . . 

“Honey, why’d you make so many damn sides?” Darry asked, staring at the array of vegetables spread across your kitchen counter. He was in your house now, helping you as you packed the sides you had made to take over to his house for dinner.

“I’ve always been better at making sides. Besides, I’m still figuring out what Johnny likes. I’ve never had to feed a teenage boy before.”

Darry smiled, “Well, pro tip, they’ll eat just about anything you put in front of them.” 

“Can I ask you something?” You didn’t wait for his response before continuing, “Do you think I embarrassed Ponyboy? I’ve never seen him act like that before, and I just… I can’t help but feel like that was my fault.” 

“Honey, that ain’t your fault. Pony and Steve have been at each other’s throats as long as I can remember. Doesn’t help that his temper’s gotten a lot shorter after everything he’s been through this past year.” 

“That makes sense. If there’s anything I can do to help… I… Do you think I should stop being-”

“No.” He wouldn’t even let you finish the thought. “Pony adores you. He glows when you’re sweet on him like that. I ain’t so good at that kinda stuff. One conversation with you and he’s practically floating down the street. He needs more of that. It’s real easy to become hardened in this neighborhood. I don’t want that for my little brother. People like you, Soda, and Johnny, I think y’all are all that stand between him and that life.” 

“Dally seems to care about him an awful lot, too,” you said more to yourself than to him.

“Yeah, in his own way. He’s a character that’s for sure. They all are. I’m sorry you had to put up with them.” 

“Don’t you dare apologize. I work with toddlers, there ain’t anything I can’t handle.” You paused before reaching out to take his hand in yours, “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re really good with Pony. He needs you, sweetie.”

Your kind eyes met his blue-green ones with a fire he’d never felt before in his life. What was this? 

You released his hand, turning back to the task at hand. He watched as you scooped brussels sprouts out of a pan into a tupperware container. 

“Now, can I ask you something?”

“Only seems fair,” You lilted. 

“What’d ya mean earlier? About me being oblivious?” 

You shook your head, laughing, as you exclaimed, “I’m just saying, I know you got mirrors in that house of yours!” 

“And so do you!”

“Darrel.” You jumped to sit on the counter, meeting his eyes seriously, “You have to know what ya look like.”

“What exactly do I look like?” Darry leaned in; he could smell your floral perfume, and if he leaned in just a little more, he could press his mouth against yours. His head was reeling. You were so close. It’d be so easy to press you up against that counter. He was starting to think that damn shirt was the only thing that kept him under control. And dear God, did he need to find it. Why did he think it would be a good idea to come over without one? What was he thinking? 

Your eyes flicked down to his chest, a flush spreading across your face as you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. Oh! Yeah, that’s why. 

You avoided his gaze, “Like a damn Greek god, Curtis. I know it can’t be the first time someone told ya that, baby.” 

“Only time it’s mattered.” 

“And why’s that?” 

“I.. um… because you’re…” he hesitated, not sure how much to reveal.

“Sorry, that was stupid to ask. Don’t answer that.” 

You began to move on the counter, embarrassed. You stood up to reach a container you needed, but between your haste and frenzy, you lost your footing. You collided with Darry’s solid body as he reached out to catch you, tucking you against him. Your hands gripped his shoulder like a lifeline, and you looked up at him wide-eyed.

Darry stared at you hard. He wondered if you could feel his heart beating rapidly against his ribs, trying to escape and fall right into your delicate hands. He could feel your fingers ever so slightly brushing up against the hair at the base of his neck. He met your eyes, and without his consent, he felt his gaze flick to your lips, almost out of instinct. And he swore he saw you look at his lips too. God, how was he going to come back from this?

You smiled at him nervously, “Great catch.” 

He chuckled, a real, genuine chuckle, lowering you to your feet. “You really oughta be more careful, honey. I ain’t always gonna be here to catch ya.” 

“I know.” The look in your eyes absolutely wrecked him. How did you not know what you did to him? 

Cathy’s words echoed in his head again: Don’t wait too long to show her. 

He reached out to tuck a piece of hair out of your face, his fingers brushing along your jaw as he did so, “What I was trying to say was… it matters cause it’s you.”

a.n. dally being soft for johnny and pony is so important to me, you don’t understand!!!

series masterlist

[palmtreesx3]

Burning Through the Pages

Summary: Steve Harrington never planned to be a college professor, but somehow, a decade after Hawkins, he��s got tenure, too many girls in the front row, and a well-worn reputation as the guy everyone secretly signs up for. He’s charming, infuriating, and cruising comfortably through faculty meetings—until you show up. The newest hire in the Education Department. Sharp-tongued, no-nonsense, and utterly unimpressed by his smirk It’s enemies to lovers. It’s “fuck you” with feeling. It’s hot copy rooms, faculty fanfic, and a battle of wills that leaves them both undone.

Warnings: Eventual explicit smut (f/m), delayed gratification, academic banter-as-foreplay, enemies-to-lovers slow burn, emotionally repressed idiots, hallway tension, power dynamics (equal, but charged), inappropriate office behavior, emotionally competent aftercare.

Read the Epilogue Here || Read the Bonus Content Here

Steve Harrington rounds the corner of McKinley Hall, leather satchel slung over one shoulder, sunglasses low on his nose. His button-down is rolled at the sleeves, collar popped just enough to look like he didn’t try too hard. 

He did. He always does.

Late morning light filters through the leaves, the kind of golden glow that makes the whole campus look like a catalog. A breeze kicks up, ruffling his hair just right—effortless, even though he’d spent seven minutes with a pomade wand this morning trying to tame the one curl that always flips too high.

Girls—and guys—part like the Red Sea when he walks through the quad. Whispers trail him like perfume.

“He’s even hotter this semester.” “Do you think he has a TA? I would literally die to grade for him.” “He wore glasses last week. Glasses. Like, please, sir, ruin me and my GPA.”

He hears every word. Doesn't acknowledge a single one.

Steve smirks but keeps walking. He doesn’t look back. He never looks back. He doesn’t need to.

What started as a happy accident—subbing in for a tenured psych professor on sabbatical—turned into tenure-track real quick once the department clocked his “natural rapport with students.” Which is code, apparently, for hot and somehow competent.

He loves it. Not the attention, per se. (Okay, yes the attention.) But the rhythm of it. The power of it. The control. 

He hits the steps of the faculty building, adjusting his collar, when it happens.

You.

You walk by, nose buried in a manila folder thick with class rosters, syllabi, and a color-coded planner peeking out from between pages. Coffee in hand, the kind of cup that’s been through war—stickers, Sharpie scribbles, a small scratch near the lid like it survived a desk drop. Your cardigan sleeves are shoved to your elbows, revealing ink-stained fingers and a glimpse of a tattoo along your forarm—one of those dainty ones, maybe a phrase or constellation, hard to tell from this angle.

You're muttering to yourself like you're the only one on the planet. Something about “course shells not loading” and “students emailing at 2 a.m.” Your brow is furrowed in a way that says no time for bullshit and your shoes? Comfy. Practical. Still somehow hot.

You don’t even look at him.

Steve stops mid-step.

Your lanyard swings on your neck. A new one. Still stiff and shiny. “Faculty.”

 New hire, he thinks. Probably from the Education Department. Probably earnest. Probably tired.

But then you unlock a door.

And the office it reveals?

The office is a whole goddamn vibe.

The inside glows warm like a hidden reading nook in a secret corner of a vintage bookstore. There are tiny string lights looped around a cork board. A woven throw blanket draped over the arm of a loveseat. A bookshelf with color-coded spines and one leaning stack of children's books, The Velveteen Rabbit, The Napping House, and something with a cracked spine that looks like it’s been read fifty times. There’s a lava lamp. A basket of granola bars with a handwritten note:

“Take one if your brain feels like mashed potatoes.”

A candle flickers on a high shelf. (Technically against fire code. Bold.) And music —faint music—spills into the hallway as you shut the door behind you.

Steve blinks.

 Great. Someone with taste, and clearly not here to fuck around.

He lingers a second too long outside your door. The air smells like bergamot and cedar. And maybe a little vanilla. He rubs the back of his neck. Mutters something about caffeine. Heads to the lounge.

And just like that, the campus heartthrob feels—off-center.

---

The folder in your arms is a chaotic stack of color-coded syllabi, annotated department memos, a crumpled sticky note that just says “DO NOT trust Chad in IT,” and a worn planner threatening to burst at the binding. The corner keeps jabbing you in the ribcage as you try to sip your lukewarm coffee without sloshing it on your sweater.

You're muttering to yourself. Not softly. 

“If one more Canvas shell ‘accidentally’ deletes itself I’m going to throw my laptop into the koi pond.”  

“Why are students already asking about extra credit? The semester started yesterday.”

You pass clusters of students lounging in the sun, glowing with unearned optimism and oat milk lattes. A few wave at you—the “cool new prof” buzz is starting to catch on, but mostly, you’re flying under the radar. 

You're almost at your office when the air shifts.

It’s subtle. A flicker. Like walking through a sudden sunbeam. You don’t see him at first, just feel the collective ripple across the quad. The tilt of heads. The hush of whispers. That specific brand of breathless energy reserved for only two things on campus: free pizza and someone hot enough to melt a MacBook.

You glance up, and there he is. Professor Steve Harrington. Tenure-track. Psychology. 

 Known around campus as “Professor Panty Dropper,” though you would never say that out loud.

He’s walking across the quad like a Calvin Klein ad and a back-to-school sale had a baby. Aviators, rolled sleeves, that stupid little smirk that says he’s fully aware of every pair of eyes tracking him like a migrating sun god.

And not just students. The woman from HR tripped over her stapler when he leaned across the printer last week.

He’s the kind of handsome that should come with a warning label. Probably smug. Probably has a signature cologne. Probably thinks the faculty lounge is his runway.

You… do not have time for that.

Your office is around the corner and the door sticks unless you hip-check it just right. You bump it open, nudging in backward with your shoulder, coffee still miraculously upright. A breeze chases in behind you, lifting the edge of your curtain.

Inside, it smells like cedar, lemon balm, and ambition.

Fairy lights blink to life as the door swings shut behind you. You toss the folder onto your couch, tap your Bluetooth speaker, something alt rock humming low, and breathe in your space.

It’s small, but alive. There’s personality here. A lava lamp burbles on the corner shelf. Your bookshelf is stacked with children’s lit and theory texts, paperbacks and worn journals. One shelf is dedicated entirely to tiny thrift store figurines of frogs and foxes. You tell people it’s a mindfulness collection. Really, they just make you happy.

You light your “cozy stormy evening” candle (yes, it has a crackling wick, yes, it’s against code, no, you don’t care).

And then for a split second you feel it. A presence outside your door. Lingering. You don’t have to look.

It’s him.

Because of course the campus Adonis can’t resist curiosity. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. You let the door click shut.  Let him wonder.  Let the song with the wicked guitar riff keep playing. You kick off your shoes, settle into your chair, and smirk to yourself. “Heartthrob Harrington, huh? Cute.”

But you?  You’ve got lessons to write, freshmen to wrangle, and a strict no-fraternization policy—with your dignity.…Probably.

Later that week, you find yourself in the faculty lounge mid-morning, between classes. It smells like burnt coffee and academic disillusionment. Beige walls. Beige chairs. Beige energy. A sad vending machine hums in the corner like it’s dying slowly.

Steve pushes open the door to the lounge, a half-empty mug in one hand and the confident slouch of a man who never brings his own lunch. He’s already mid-text with his TA (who's begging to switch to online office hours again—coward), when he hears a laugh.

Not a polite laugh. Not a forced, colleague laugh.

A real one. Low, warm. Kind of musical.

You're standing at the coffee counter, staring down the sad excuse for a Keurig like it's personally offended you. Your sleeves are rolled, again. That same pen is tucked behind your ear. There's a new pin on your cardigan that says “Born to teach, forced to grade” 

He smirks. Leans against the counter next to you. “You know the coffee’s been dead since 2012, right?”

You don’t flinch. Don’t giggle. Don’t even glance at him right away. Instead, you casually add a comical amount of powdered creamer to the cup. “Cool. I’ll embalm it, then drink it out of spite.”

He blinks.

You finally look up and your eyes don’t do that thing. That thing where they go wide and starstruck and thirsty. You clock him like he’s just… there. Present. Human. In your peripheral.

“You’re the psych guy, right? Harrington?”

He straightens a little. Not because he's flustered. (Okay. A little flustered.)

“Steve. Yeah.”

“Right.” You stir your disaster coffee. “I’m…New this semester. Education.” 

You extend your hand and introduce yourself. Firm shake. Cool fingers.

“Nice to meet you, Steve.”

Not Professor Harrington. Not Oh my god, I’ve heard so much about you! Just Steve. Like he’s some adjunct in khakis and a lanyard, not the main character in every psych major’s late-night fantasy.

He watches as you lean on the counter, sipping your tragic little drink like it’s the elixir of life.

“So,” you add, eyeing him over the rim. “You always get followed by an entourage of undergrads, or is that a syllabus week thing?”

And god help him, he laughs. Actually laughs. Caught. Red-handed. Ego dented.

“It’s… a thing,” he admits. “I try not to encourage it.”

“Mm.” You raise a brow. “Try harder.”

---

You don’t mean to enjoy the way his jaw ticks when you say that.

Okay, you do.

You knew who he was, obviously. The moment you walked onto campus, students were whispering about him like he was a myth. Like he wasn’t just a thirty-something in tailored pants that were just snug enough you hesitated to question their appropriateness. With movie star hair and the smuggest dimples you’ve ever seen.

But now, standing next to him in this godforsaken excuse for a lounge, you realize something: he doesn’t know what to do with you. You’re not impressed. You’re not intimidated. And worst of all? You see right through him.

So you smile - slow, lazy, like you’ve got nowhere to be and all the time in the world to keep him guessing.

“Well,” you say, rinsing out your cup, “enjoy the groupies, Harrington. Try not to break too many hearts this semester.”

You turn to leave. Toss a wink over your shoulder. “And don’t steal my granola bars. I count them.”

He watches you go like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. You don’t even look back. You never look back. You don’t need to.

He stands there in silence for a few seconds, a little dumbfounded. Shit.

This particular Wednesday afternoon, the Campus Center conference room is packed to the gills with first-years. You’ve been “voluntold” to join a faculty mentorship panel and of course Steve’s on the panel too. He agreed because he thought it would be low stakes and high praise.

And as he will quickly find out, it is neither.

Steve drops into the conference room chair with the casual flair of a man who fully expected to be the most interesting person here. His name card is perfectly angled. His shirt fits just right. He consciously buttoned up his shirt one more than usual, for the freshman’s sake. He plants one ankle over his knee. Casual but composed. His smile’s already dialed in at 65% charm, 25% intellect, 10% effortless heat.

He’s ready.

He’s got a few solid anecdotes locked and loaded about student success, mindfulness, and how office hours are important but boundaries are sexy—he means, necessary. A story about a kid who discovered cognitive psychology through a breakup. A bonus quip about coffee dependency, if it feels right.

This is his arena.

Then you walk in.

Late—but not flustered. Smirking like you already know you’re going to own the room. You’ve got a legal pad under one arm and a novelty cup that reads “This Might Be Wine” in sparkly font. Your hair’s up, barely, in one of those messy knots that looks like it took three seconds and still somehow makes you look put together. Your cardigan sways when you move, and you’re wearing those little earrings again—pencils today. Last time? Moons.

You greet the moderator by name. Thank the admin. You nod at Steve like he’s a familiar bench on a walking trail—recognizable, comfortable, unremarkable.

And then—you sit next to him. Of course you do.

Your knee bumps his under the table. You don’t pull back. He doesn’t breathe.

“Just so I’m clear,” you murmur, eyes on the moderator, voice honey-smooth, “this is the part where we all pretend we have our shit together, right?”

He glances at you. You don’t look back.

“Speak for yourself,” he says, smile sharp.

“Oh, I am.” You sip your coffee. Cross your legs. Settle in like you own the goddamn floor.

The panel starts. It’s a blur of pleasantries and awkward icebreakers. Steve’s distracted. Normally, he loves this shit—being asked for advice, watching students lean in when he drops something inspirational, tossing in the occasional wink that leaves half the back row short-circuiting.

But today? Today, he’s watching you.

You field the first question like it’s a beach ball lobbed underhand. You're warm, relatable, but disarming in your honesty. You admit that sometimes you forget to eat lunch. That grading makes you question your life choices. That you once cried in your car over a printer jam—but you still believe teaching is the most powerful thing a person can do.

The crowd? In the palm of your hand. You speak like you're letting them in on a secret. And Steve’s left gripping his chair, trying not to visibly squirm.

Then it’s his turn.

He speaks—well, objectively. He’s charming. Polished. Drops the right buzzwords. Tells the story about the heartbroken psych major.

But something’s off. You’re too calm. Too quiet. Too still. Nodding with just enough delay to make it unclear if you’re agreeing or letting him spiral.

He speeds up. Talks more. Tries harder. And then—you do it.

A student asks a follow-up question—his question—and you jump in. Not rudely. Not competitively. Just with this smooth, practiced, lived-in ease.

“Actually, that reminds me of something that happened last semester—”

You tell a story. Quick. Funny. Undercut with a punch of emotion and just enough vulnerability to make it land. The students laugh. One of them claps.

You turn to Steve, touch his arm like punctuation. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hijack. I just get excited.”

You don’t even look sorry.

And Steve? He is losing. His. Fucking. Mind.

---

You feel him unraveling like a cassette tape in a too-hot car and it’s delicious.

You don’t say that out loud, of course. But you can feel it. That tightness behind his easy grin. The tiny pause before he responds when you raise your eyebrow. The way he’s blinking a little too fast and shifting in his seat like his shirt suddenly doesn’t fit right.

You didn’t do anything cruel. You were just you. Which, lately, is enough.

It’s not that you try to get under his skin. You’re just existing. Thriving, really. Which seems to offend the natural order of Steve Harrington’s universe.

You caught his whole vibe the second you sat down. Tthe twitch in his jaw, the way he adjusted his sleeve twice, then again. The overly casual slouch that’s now bordering on orthopedic discomfort. He smelled like cedar and expensive laundry detergent when you passed him. He smelled…nervous when you sat down.

You knew his type. You were warned about him, in the way that other professors warn you about the broken heater on the third floor or the feral raccoon that haunts the dumpsters.

“Oh, and avoid falling in love with Harrington. Everyone does eventually.”

You didn’t listen. You just didn’t care. Because what’s the fun in handing someone power they clearly expect?

So you sipped your coffee, played your part, and smiled at the students. Told them about your ugly crying in the supply closet. About how real leadership sometimes means admitting you don’t know the answer but you’ll figure it out together.

And when you touched Steve’s arm? That was for you.

Now, as the panel wraps and students swarm the edge of the room with thank-yous and questions, you catch a few lingering near him. But more than a few come to you. One asks about your playlist. Another wants to know where your cardigan’s from.

Steve’s watching. You can feel it. Burning at the edges of your awareness like a sun flare. You turn to him only once the room starts to clear.

“You okay there, Professor Harrington? You look like you just got hit by a bin full of ungraded midterms.”

His stare is sharp. Heated. His voice low, quiet, nearly clenched between teeth.

“You know you’re kind of infuriating, right?”

You smile.  God, you love being right.

“Good. I’d hate to be forgettable.”

You wink - again, always just teetering on the edge of too much and walk away.

 Not looking back. You don’t need to.

He’s still sitting there, in the wake of your personality, eyebrows scrunched and rubbing his temples.  Jesus Christ, I’m gonna marry her or punch a wall.

It’s late, and you're tucked in the reprieve of The Resource Library for the night. It’s a quiet, dimly lit little faculty-only zone with overstuffed chairs, creaky floorboards, and the kind of hushed atmosphere that makes every pen click sound like a gunshot. You’re settled in and you smirk at the muffled commotion you hear through the heavy paned windows, students shouting at each other as they make their way to the bar for the night. Thirsty Thursday and all.

Steve enters the resource library with a stack of essays under one arm and a jawline so tight it could cut glass. He wasn’t looking for you.

Okay. He was.

He knew you sometimes graded here in the evenings. He’d seen the light under the door once—warm and flickering, like you’d lit a fireplace with your bare hands—and now it’s burned into his memory like a fever dream. He tells himself he needs the quiet. The focus. The printer…whatever.

But when he opens the door and sees you? Legs curled under you. Sweater slipping off one shoulder. A pen tucked behind your ear and something straight out of Warped Tour 2006 humming low from your phone speaker. You’re highlighting something in a copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed and nodding along like you’re absorbing it.

And there’s only one goddamn chair left.

Of course.

You glance up. “Wow. You made it out of your leather throne and into the wild.”

He bites back a groan. “Didn’t realize this was your private lounge.”

“Oh it’s not.” You smile sweetly. “I just don’t usually have company that radiates… fragile masculinity and bergamot.” You say it without venom. Too casually. That’s the worst part.

He lowers himself into the chair across from you. The arm creaks. His knee bumps the table.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone who owns a frog figurine shrine.”

“That’s sacred, actually.”

“You should label it. For when they put your office in a museum. ‘Local chaos witch with excellent taste in cardigans.’”

You don’t blink. You just keep reading.

And Steve?  Steve is falling apart.

---

He’s spiraling. Again.

You instantly clock the way he fidgets. How he shifts his weight, rakes a hand through his hair like it betrayed him, clicks his pen three times before remembering to unclick it.

He’s trying so hard to seem casual. But there’s nothing casual about the way he keeps glancing up. Like he’s waiting for you to break. To crack. To swoon, or stammer, or finally lean forward and whisper something breathless like, “I get it now. You’re irresistible.”

You don’t. You won’t.

Instead, you underline a passage and speak without looking up “You know, most people who live off student adoration eventually plateau. It’s science. Diminishing returns.”

“You think that’s what this is? A cry for help?”

“I think you don’t know what to do when someone sees you coming a mile away.”

That gets him.

He exhales sharply. Leans back in his chair like it’s trying to restrain him. The air shifts. The banter slows. There's a second where neither of you says anything. And it hums. Like the bass line of a song that’s about to drop.

You finally look up. Your eyes meet.

It’s electric.

“What is it you want from me, Steve?” You say it plainly. No challenge. No flirt. Just the question, dropped between you like a lit match.

He stares. And for a second, he almost answers. But then? He smirks. Shrugs. And lies. “Just borrowing the printer.”

Coward.

The semester is full swing and it’s Friday evening - the semi-annual faculty mixer. An annual event held in the campus art gallery, it's surprisingly refined. Jazz trio in the corner, string lights overhead, mini crab cakes and charcuterie on trays. Plus…the wine is free. 

You arrive fashionably late, because of course you do.

You trade your usual cardigan for a slouchy black blazer and a silk camisole, hair down for once, lips just barely tinted berry. Not to impress. Just to remind the world that yes, you can. You float through the gallery like a whispered rumor. Something light and unbothered. The kind of presence that makes people check their posture.

The Education Dean beams at you. A biology professor asks what scent you’re wearing. You flirt with the appetizer table and offer a slow, purring “thank you” when a visiting adjunct says he loved your article on emergent curriculum.

And then you feel it. Like heat behind glass. Like a summer storm rolling in on silent feet.

Steve Harrington is watching you.

Across the room. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink he hasn’t touched. Black button-down rolled at the elbows. Hair tousled like he tried to look like he didn’t try. The exact kind of effort you now recognize as desperate control.

He doesn’t move. So you do. You loop your arm through the adjunct’s, just casually. Just friendly. Laugh a little louder than usual at something not that funny. You don’t even look at Steve. You don’t have to.

He’s vibrating. You can feel it from twenty feet away. So when he finally approaches, posture tight, eyes slightly narrowed. You’re ready.

“Fancy seeing you out of your natural habitat,” you purr, swirling your drink.

“You mean my throne of desperation and first-year psych majors?”

“I mean your office with the tiny couch and the ego to match.”

You sip. He fakes a laugh.

“Making friends tonight?” he asks, nodding toward the adjunct, who’s since been absorbed by a conversation about fungi and academic burnout.

“Something like that.” You arch a brow. “Why? Jealous?”

“Of an adjunct named Greg who quoted Nietzsche with spinach in his teeth? Sure. Terrified.”

“Mm. Thought so.”

You let the silence stretch. Let the tension thrum.  And then you lean in, voice velvet-smooth, just loud enough for him to hear “You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”

He exhales through his nose. His jaw flexes. You can see the war happening in real time—charm battling pride, attraction strangled by ego.

“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”

Your smile is sweet. A weapon.

“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”

---

He is not okay.

He’s on his third glass of pinot and his fourth imagined fantasy of pulling you into the supply closet just to wipe that look off your face. Not even a sexy look.

Worse. It’s amused. It’s the look you give someone trying too hard. A toddler with jam on their face insisting they didn’t touch the jar.

He watches you flit through the mixer like it’s your stage. Like the night exists to orbit you. And goddammit it does.

Your laugh? Fucking illegal. Your hair down? Criminal. The way your blazer slides off your shoulder like it doesn’t even know it’s misbehaving? A personal attack.

He should walk away. Should retreat. Should win. Instead, he follows. Because he’s already lost. And when you look at him like you’ve already got him pegged?

You do.

“You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”

“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”

“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”

He swallows hard. Wants to say something clever. Something cutting. But the truth hits him like a wine glass shattering in slow motion.

He likes this.

He likes the taunting. The chase. He likes you treating him like a puzzle instead of a prize. And that? That scares the shit out of him.

Last time you checked your watch it said 9:42 PM. The office wing is mostly dark. The desks are littered with energy drink cans and half-eaten granola bars. You don’t notice he’s there until you hear the door click shut.

You’re on the floor of your office, barefoot, cardigan tossed over your chair. There’s a half-empty box of tissues, three cold coffees, and a student portfolio spread out like battlefield debris.

You haven’t cried. Not technically. But your eyes are hot. Your neck aches. You’ve rewritten the same feedback note four times and every version feels wrong.

“Didn’t peg you for the collapse-in-the-dark type.” His voice is soft. Too soft.

You look up. Steve’s standing in your doorway, sleeves pushed to his elbows, backpack slung casually off one shoulder. There’s a half-smile on his face—but not his usual weaponized one. This one’s tired. Curious. Worried.

You roll your neck, trying to summon a quip. Nothing comes. “Didn’t peg you for the stalker-who-lingers-after-hours type,” you finally mutter.

“You’re lucky I’m hot, then,” he says. But it’s reflexive. Hollow.

He steps in, closes the door behind him. That makes it feel too real.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes sweeping the mess of your desk. Your floor. Your face.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to tell him, but because if you start—you might not stop.

You reach for a student essay. Hold it up. “She plagiarized her final. Her whole paper. And she’s the one who calls me ‘her safe person.’ She brings me tea. Leves notes. I was gonna write her a rec letter.”

He says nothing. You swallow. “And I don’t even care that she cheated. I just—”

 Your voice catches. “I feel like I’m constantly giving everything I have to everyone else, and there’s just nothing left for me. And I keep doing it anyway, like some idiot academic martyr with a Pinterest office.”

You laugh, but it’s sharp.

 Ugly.

 Real.

And you hate how quiet he is.

You expect pity. Or worse—comfort. The kind that makes you feel small.

But instead—

---

He’s never seen you like this.

Not controlled. Not cocky. Not laced with irony or caffeine or your signature brand of bite me but make it witty.

You look tired. Really tired. And so fucking human. Something twists in his gut. He thought he wanted to crack your armor just to see what was underneath. Turns out? What’s underneath makes his chest hurt.

“Can I say something?” he asks.

You glance at him. You’re curled on the floor like a study break ghost, face streaked with the beginnings of not-quite-tears, fingers gripping the corner of a highlighted rubric like it wronged you personally.

“You scare the shit out of me.”

That makes your eyes flick up. That gets your attention.

“You walk into rooms like you’re already ten steps ahead of everyone. You don’t fawn. You don’t perform. You don’t need anyone to tell you you’re good—you just are.”

He kneels across from you now. Elbows on his knees. Voice low. “And I’ve spent so long being the one with the spotlight, I didn’t know what to do when you didn’t hand it to me. And now…”

He stops. Swallows.“Now I think you’re the only person I actually want to see me.”

You blink. The silence swells. Too full. Too vulnerable. So you do the only thing you can do. You break it.

“God,” you groan, dropping your head against your file cabinet. “That was disgustingly sincere.”

He barks a laugh. Real. Loud. Relieved. “Shut up. I’m evolving.”

“Into a thoughtful adult man? I liked you better when you were mad about your TA ignoring you.”

“I am still mad about that,” he mutters. “But also now I’m mad that I want to fix everything for you and I can’t.”

You look at him.

Really look.

He’s sitting cross-legged on your office rug, hair messy, face open. For once, he’s not playing a role. Not flirting. Not managing a brand.

He’s just here.

And that? That’s new

You haven’t spoken since Thursday night.

Not really. Just a clipped nod in the hall. A shared smirk during a joke about burnout. But you haven’t met his eyes. Not like that. And it’s driving Steve insane. At this point, it’s Monday afternoon and you’ve all just come from your respective division meetings. He’s trailing you down the hall. You’re not exactly avoiding him. But you’re not making it easy, either.

He keeps replaying it—the way your voice cracked, the way your hands trembled when you held that essay, the way you let him see you for one slivered second before you buried it all back under your wit and your warpaint.

Now he’s trailing behind you like a lovesick intern, watching the sway of your blazer and the curl of your fingers around your folder.

You stop by the mailroom. He catches up, heart hammering for no good reason. “You good?”

You don’t turn. “Fine.”

He clears his throat. Steps closer. Lowers his voice.“I meant… from the other night.”

You pause. Turn just enough to look at him over your shoulder. The look you give him could sharpen knives. “Oh, that?” you say lightly. “That was just a midterm meltdown. Happens to the best of us.”

You wink. And just like that—you’re back. 

Unshakable. Unmoved. Fucking infuriating.

He should back off. Should let it drop. But instead he presses. “You ever let anyone help you?”

You cock your head. “Sure. All the time. They just never make it past the interview.”

He chokes on a laugh. Jesus.

You brush past him toward the copier. You don’t invite him to follow.

He does anyway.

---

You know he’s following you. You could feel it like a spark pressed against your spine. You shouldn’t bait him. You shouldn’t. But something about his presence sets your nerves buzzing in the most dangerous way.

You lean over the copier. Hit the wrong button twice on purpose. His shadow falls across your side.

“You’re hovering,” you murmur.

“I’m helping.”

“Are you?”

You turn to face him—too close now, your hip grazing the edge of the copier, his arm practically brushing yours. The air feels thick. Still. Like you’re both underwater and waiting to see who breaks the surface first. 

He watches your mouth. He’s not subtle about it.

“You keep looking at me like you want something, Harrington.”

His breath catches. “And I keep waiting for you to admit it.” His eyes flicker. His soft mouth parting, chest rising, that one heartbeat away from something unforgivable.

You could kiss him.

You could ruin both of you. But instead, you lean in. Real close. Lips almost to his ear. “Go home, Steve.”

A pause. “Take care of it yourself.”

Then you walk away. Again you don’t look back. Again you don’t need to.

He stares at the ceiling. Shirt half-off.  Sweat clinging to the hollow of his throat. Mouth parted like he’s still trying to catch up to what the hell just happened.

You’re all he can think about.

Your voice. Your mouth. The way you said his name like it was a weapon and a warning and a promise you had no intention of keeping tonight.

His cock is hard—throbbing in his pants—pressing against the band of his sweats like it’s angry with him for walking away.

He palms himself through the fabric, groaning quietly into the dark.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But you told him to.

“Go home and take care of it, Harrington.”

And he’s never been so obedient in his goddamn life.

He pushes his sweats down, his fist already wrapping around himself like muscle memory, slicking over the head, dragging his hand down the length with a hiss that sounds like your name.

He strokes slowly at first. Controlled. Like he’s punishing himself for not staying. Like he deserves this ache. He squeezes harder.

Thinks about the way you might taste if he kissed you. Like coffee and fire and something he still hasn’t earned.

He’s imagining that you kissed him. Hard. Unapologetic. A kiss with your hands in his hair, maybe even tangled up with your thighs brushing his hips. He thinks you might grind against him. Fuck, that grind. It would be burned into his skin like a tattoo.

He jerks harder now, eyes shut tight, your voice echoing in his head.

His hips lift into his fist, thighs tensing, body coiled with tension that no fantasy can quite shake.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes. “You’ve got me so—fuck—”

His stomach tightens. He can feel it—close, fast, coming apart like a thread being pulled from the inside. “Say it again.”

“Keep going.” He commands no one at all. Your voice is everywhere. And when he comes, it’s with a sharp, breathless grunt, his whole body curling in on itself, hand clenching, back arching like the release physically hurts.

Hot, messy streaks paint across his stomach, onto his shirt. He barely notices. He just lies there, one arm flung over his eyes, breathing heavy. His cock twitching against his stomach, still half-hard, because one orgasm is not enough to get you out of his system.

It never is.

It never will be.

---

On the edge of campus, you finally shove through your front door and it clicks shut. The silence hits like a slap.

You lean back against the door, jaw clenched, fists tight at your sides. 

You should feel smug. You left him clearly wanting. But you’re the one with soaked underwear and trembling thighs.

So…who really won?

You stalk to your bedroom, muttering curses under your breath. Strip your shirt. Toss it. Peel off your jeans with furious efficiency. You don’t even make it under the covers, instead you just drop back onto your bed, legs spread, chest heaving.

You drag your pan“Fucking Harrington,” you mutter. “Asshole.”

You circle your clit hard. No pretense. No warmup. It’s pure damage control—get off, get over it, and get some fucking sleep.

But your breath still stutters because you imagine the sound he might make if you bit his jaw. You imagine the way his hips would roll against you like he was already fucking you through two layers of clothing.

You rub faster.

Deeper.

Your other hand fists in the sheets. You picture him sprawled out on his bed right now—shirt half-off, pants shoved down, hand working over his cock because you told him to.

The thought makes your stomach flip.

You imagine him groaning into the dark, jerking off to the thought of your mouth, your body, your voice in his ear telling him to be a good boy and go take care of it himself.

“Yeah,” you whisper bitterly. “Me too.”

You push two fingers inside and grind your palm against your clit. It’s messy. Fast. Almost angry.

Your back arches. Your toes curl.You clench around your hand and come with a ragged gasp that you immediately swallow—because fuck him if he ever gets to know how good you just made yourself feel thinking about him.

You lie there sweating. Unsatisfied. Still fucking pissed.

You wipe your hand on the sheet and roll onto your side.

“Go take care of it, Harrington,” you mutter into the pillow. “Not the only one who did.”

You did it again. You weren’t planning on staying late, but here you are.

Tonight your grading pile was taller than usual. Your neck ached. Your playlist looped twice. And you hadn’t eaten since breakfast. So when you wandered into the café and found the lights on, you didn’t ask questions. You just slipped into the corner booth and unbuttoned the top of your blouse. Not for anyone else. For you. To breathe.

You didn’t expect him to walk in five minutes later.

Steve freezes like he didn’t expect you either. He’s in a hoodie—rare—and joggers. Hair messy. Phone forgotten in his pocket. He looks like he’s just come from a run, or like he’s been pacing his apartment all night and finally gave up.

Your mouth parts. Something behind your ribs stirs. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks over. Drops into the seat next to you like he’s out of lifelines. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says.

You nod. Don’t ask why.

“I keep thinking about that night. In your office.”

You glance down. Your hand tightens around your mug.

“You were real with me for, like, four minutes, and then you put the mask back on.”

You bristle—but not because he’s wrong.

“Yeah? And you’ve been real for how long, Harrington? You want a medal for not flirting for twenty minutes?”

He flinches and looks down. Suddenly you’re exhausted. Not just physically. Emotionally. You drop your voice. Let it crack. “I’m tired of holding everything together. Of pretending this job, this ego, this game doesn’t eat me alive some days.”

He looks up. Slowly. The cocky glint is gone. “Same.”

And it’s the way he says it - soft, almost broken - that makes your stomach twist.

He didn’t come here to cry.

He didn’t come here to beg.

But the moment he sees you with your hair messy, blouse  loosened and exhaustion etched into the curve of your mouth, he knows he can’t keep up the act. Not tonight.

He sees the way your shoulders tense. Sees the way you don’t deflect.

Progress.

But when you shoot back—sharp, tired, true—he realizes something: You’re not untouchable. You’re just surviving. Like him. Only quieter.

He exhales. Laughs—but it’s dry. Cracked open. “You want to know something pathetic?”

You look at him. No smirk. Just waiting.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever seen me. Not really. They like the version I give them. The smart, hot, chill guy with the tragic eyes. But that night when you looked at me like I was just… a guy…I didn’t know what to do with it.”

You don’t answer. You just slide your mug to the side and rest your hand on the table. Open. Neutral.

A peace offering.

He stares at it for a beat. Then reaches out. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just a simple, grounding touch. Fingers brushing yours.

---

You let him touch you.

Just barely. Just enough.

And when you speak, your voice is hoarse.

“You keep trying to be impressive. And I keep trying to be untouchable. We’re both full of shit.”

He huffs a laugh.“So what now?”

“Now,” you say, “we stop pretending.”

The air pulses. Slow. Charged. And then, just like that, you’re kissing him.

It’s not soft. Not sweet. Not polite. It’s months of tension, sarcasm, vulnerability, almosts crashing all at once. His hands thread into your hair. Yours tug his hoodie like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you don’t anchor him to something real.

He kisses like a man who thought about this too often, too long, too alone.

And you? You kiss like a woman who stopped trying to win and started needing.

It goes on for honestly, far too long. After some time, you find yourself a little breathless, foreheads still pressed together when you finally speak. 

“I still want to ruin you,” you whisper.

He grins. Chest heaving. Hair wrecked. “You already did.”

He knocks before entering now.

Which is wild. Because before? He used to just stroll in like your space belonged to him.

Now he pauses. Waits. Adjusts the coffee tray in his hand like it’s a peace offering. Or a gift to the gods.

You look up from your laptop, glitter gel pen in your mouth, brows furrowed. Barefoot again. That little woven throw blanket around your shoulders like you’re the spirit of overworked professors past.

You nod toward the chair without speaking. He takes the cue.

Sits. Quiet. No smirk. No lines. Just the coffee.

“Got you the weird oat milk thing,” he says.

You hum in acknowledgment. Sip it without looking.

He watches you read. Watches the way your eyes move. Watches the way your lips part when you’re processing something. He should say something.

Instead, he just breathes. And something in him—something unfamiliar—settles.

He’s comfortable. Which should scare him. It should send every red flag up, every muscle in his body screaming run, asshole, this is feelings—

But instead? He closes his eyes. Lets the silence stretch.

---

He’s not saying anything.

And that, somehow, says everything.

You expected him to push. To nudge the line again, cocky and smug and desperate to reclaim ground. But he’s not. He’s just… there. And it’s unnerving.

You’ve never had to figure out what to do with a man who doesn’t demand space. Who just occupies it. He’s being warm and magnetic and so obviously trying not to make it weird.

You glance over your laptop. He’s leaned back in the chair, legs sprawled, fingers drumming on his thigh. Eyes closed like he’s finally stopped performing. Like the show’s over and he’s just Steve now.

It makes your chest feel tight.

You clear your throat. “You know you haven’t hit on me in like... twenty-four hours.”

His eyes open. He looks at you. Llazy, soft. “That a complaint?”

You smile. Small. Crooked. “Just an observation.”

“I can pick it back up if it’s part of your wellness routine.”

“Nah. I think I like this version.”

His brows raise. “This version?”

“The one who sits quietly. Doesn’t flirt. Brings oat milk like some kind of reformed frat boy.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You both smile. It's small. Safe. And under the safety, there’s tension. Not the usual brand. Not the "press me to the wall and bite my shoulder" kind. This one’s quieter. Heavier. Like a whisper brushing the back of your neck.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You know I’ve never done this before, right?”

You tilt your head.“Done what?”

“This.” He gestures between you. “The… slow thing.”

“Oh. You mean restraint.”

“I mean not fucking someone the second I want them.” He says it so bluntly, so plainly, it lands like a gut punch.

You blink. The air goes still. “And how’s that working out for you?”

He stares at you. Serious. Unflinching. “It’s killing me.”

You sip your coffee. Unbothered. “Good.”

But behind your eyes? You’re soaked in want. In fear. In maybe. Because this version of him—the one who waits, who breathes in your space, who doesn’t take what isn’t freely given? He’s becoming real. And real is dangerous.

He doesn’t touch himself tonight.

He thinks about it. Of course he does. About your voice, your breath, the way you licked a little foam off your thumb without noticing.

But he doesn’t. Because this craving isn’t just physical anymore. It’s personal. And he doesn’t want to use it. He kind of wants to earn it.

You weren’t supposed to invite him in. You were supposed to take the food, say thank you, maybe touch his wrist with a lingering hand, and then shut the door like a well-behaved woman with excellent boundaries. But you’d been tired. The light was nice. And he looked so… uncomplicated with his hood up and a paper bag of Thai food clutched like a peace treaty.

So now he’s on your couch. Grading with his legs spread too wide, his hoodie half-zipped, hair a little messy. There’s a purple pen tucked behind his ear that isn’t his and chopsticks resting in his mouth like he forgot they were there. He keeps making tiny noises when a student says something smart and you hate how much you love it.

“This kid gets it,” he says, tapping the paper. “I might cry.”

“Don’t ruin my couch. It’s vintage.”

“You say that like I don’t respect antiques.”

“You say that like you’re not an antique dealer’s worst nightmare.”

He laughs. Leans his head back. Exposes his throat.

You don’t look. Except you do.

You sip your tea to distract yourself. Burn your tongue. Pretend you didn’t.

The silence grows. Stretching into something else. Something hungry.

And then your fingers brush his. Reaching for the same pen… The one behind his ear. The one that’s yours.

He doesn’t move. Neither do you. It’s such a small thing. Such a stupid, harmless little thing, but you can feel it. In the charge. In the shift. In the way the air tightens.

You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

---

He should pull away. He should. But your fingers are warm. And your gaze? Bare. Not amused. Not taunting. Just… open.

He hasn’t seen you like this since your office. And this time, you’re inches from his mouth.

He wants to touch you.

Not to fuck you. To feel you.

He wants to place his hand on the back of your neck and breathe you in. Wants to press his mouth to the place just below your ear and wait for you to say yes.

“Say it,” you whisper.

His brows knit.“Say what?”

“Whatever’s sitting behind your teeth like it’s trying to crawl out.”

He swallows.

Hard.

“You undo me,” he says. Voice gravel-soft.

“Good,” you whisper. “Maybe I’ll get to see what’s underneath.”

---

The line stretches. Taut.

You’re breathing too loud. The tea’s gone cold. And your hand? Still against his. You should move. You don’t. Instead, you say “If you kiss me now, it’ll matter.”

He flinches like you hit him. And maybe you did. “I know,” he says.

His eyes drop to your mouth. Flicker. Linger. Then—He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. Maybe less. But enough. And it hurts.

Not because he rejected you, but because he heard you.

Because he listened. Because he meant it.

You nod - slowly - and go back to grading. Like you didn’t just almost change everything.

The faculty parking lot is deserted at this hour. It’s late and everything is rain-soaked but tonight you just finished chaperoning a student showcase together. It was cute. It was fun. It felt like a date. And now you’re standing in the blue-black quiet of night, under the buzz of a dying streetlamp. There’s no one else left. Just you. And him.

He’s soaked.

Not dramatic-romance-movie soaked. Just enough for his hoodie to cling to his chest and for his curls to frizz at the edges. He should be annoyed. But he’s not. Not really. You’re laughing with arms wrapped around yourself, raindrops beading along your jaw, and he’d stand in a goddamn hurricane if it meant seeing that smile again.

“You let a freshman tell you his poem made him cry and then gave him your umbrella,” you say, nudging him as you both head to the far corner of the lot. “You’re such a sap.”

“I’m a mentor.”

“You’re a mess.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Your laughter fades, but the warmth doesn’t. It hangs there—between you. Like fog on glass.

And he can’t do this anymore. He stops walking.

You take two more steps before realizing he’s not beside you. You turn. Brows lifted. “Harrington?”

“I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t mean something.” The words are out before he can filter them. Bare. Ugly. Real.

You blink. Caught. “Steve—”

“No. Let me—just—” He runs a hand through his wet hair.

“You’ve seen me. You’ve rattled me. And I’ve tried to play it cool. To match your pace. To act like I wasn’t spiraling every time you smiled at me like you knew. But I’m not built for this. I want more. I want you. And if that scares you—fine. If you’re not there—fine. But I had to say it. I had to give it to you.”

You’re silent. Too long. Too still, and his heart breaks before you even speak.

It’s not that you don’t want him.

God, you do.

But hearing it like this. So raw, unscripted and real knocks the wind out of you. You’ve made a career out of reading between the lines. Out of parsing subtext and maintaining distance. But now? Now he’s not leaving space for you to run.

He’s standing there in the rain, heart in his hands like an offering. And you freeze.

Because no one ever offered. You’ve always been the one earning affection. Not receiving it like a gift.

“Steve…” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He shifts. His shoulders tighten. You can feel him retreating already, pulling into himself, bracing for rejection like it’s muscle memory. You panic. “This does mean something.”

He stops. “But you’re not ready.”

You hate that he’s right. “I don’t know how to be with someone who doesn’t need me to be perfect.”

The silence between you is loud.

“Then let me be the one who doesn’t expect that,” he says softly. “Let me be the one who stays when you don’t have it all together.”

You blink, and there’s moisture in your eyes. From the rain. Maybe.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He steps closer. Slow. Gentle. Rain trickling down his temple. Breath fogging the space between you.

“So am I.”

He reaches for your hand, and you let him. But just as your fingers brush—

“I can’t,” you whisper, stepping back. “Not yet.”

His hand hangs in the air for a beat, then drops. The look on his face? It destroys you.

He nods once. Just once. Then turns, and this time it’s him that walks away.

You almost don’t notice him.

In the midst of the bustling Campus café, mid-afternoon, you’re picking up a quick espresso between advising appointments and the line is long. The vibe is normal. Until you see him. You’re too busy scrolling through your calendar, juggling a dozen little fires, sipping the wrong drink the barista handed you because you're too tired to care. 

And then—You hear it. That laugh. That laugh. The one he does when he’s flirting. Actual flirting, not the subtle, almost-affectionate banter he’s given you for weeks. It’s his signature sound: light, confident, just a little too self-aware.

You glance up. 

He’s leaning across the counter, elbows braced, head tilted just so. And she—a new adjunct, you think—is giggling. A lot. Flushed. Her hands fluttery. She touches his arm and you watch him let her.

You freeze.

Something ugly blooms in your chest. Jealousy is too simple a word. This is primal. Petty. Petulant.

And what’s worse? It’s humiliating. Because you don’t get to be jealous. You were the one who pulled away. Who said not yet. Who told him this mattered. So why the fuck does it feel like he’s rubbing it in your face?

Your stomach turns.

You hate how you’re staring. Hate how your mouth goes dry when he smiles that slow, crooked, charming-as-shit smile and says something that makes her laugh so hard she leans in.

You swallow your bitterness like bile.

He hasn’t even looked your way.

---

He sees you. Of course he does.

You walked in two minutes ago. Same stride. Same coffee order. Same low hum of exhaustion wrapped around your shoulders like armor.

He feels you before he sees you. But you haven’t looked at him, so he keeps talking.

The adjunct is nice. Pretty, even. But empty. There’s no pull. No static. No fight. She laughs too easily. Blushes too quickly. There’s no sport in it. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe he’s tired of being the one who always feels like he’s waiting to be chosen.

So he leans into it. Hard. Smiles like he means it. Makes her feel like the sun. And maybe, maybe, he can pretend he doesn’t feel your gaze like a blade between his shoulder blades.

But when she touches his arm?

He hates it.

Because it’s not you.

And when he finally dares to glance toward the door—You’re already gone.

Later, in your office, you’re ripping open a granola bar like it owes you money. You don’t know what pisses you off more. The flirting? The way she touched him? Or the fact that you care. You shove the granola bar into your mouth. Stare blankly at your calendar. And think about how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. How easy it looked.

Like it never meant anything. Like you never meant anything.

“God,” you mutter, throwing the wrapper in the trash. “Get a fucking grip.”

But your pulse says otherwise. Your jaw is tight. Your chest aches. You’re not okay.

You miss him. And you hate that he made you soft enough to admit it.

All the while, Steve is right there, standing outside of your office door, hand raised to knock. He’s there. He’s ready and then…he doesn’t. He stands there for a full minute. Then walks away.

The moment you step inside and see him, you know it’s too late to turn around.

He’s standing with one hand on the copier lid, sleeves shoved to his elbows, staring down like the machine personally insulted him. There’s toner on his wrist. His jaw’s tight.

He looks up. Freezes.“Of course,” he mutters. “Because of course it’s you.”

You cross your arms, your own stack of handouts balanced on your hip. “I’m not thrilled either, Harrington.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” His voice is low. Rougher than usual. Like sleep deprivation or restraint.

You nod toward the copier. “Let me guess—tray’s jammed again?”

He sighs. Moves aside just enough to let you pass. Your bodies brush. Barely, and it’s too much.

He leans against the counter. Arms crossed. Watching you. You open the tray, jiggle a few things with practiced expertise.

Silence stretches. It screams.

And then— “You saw me at the café.”

The paper you’re holding stiffens in your grip. “I saw you doing what you do best.”

“That what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“That’s not fair.”

You slam the tray closed harder than you mean to.“Neither was watching you turn it back on like it never meant anything.” You’re not sure if you mean the charm or you.

He flinches.“It wasn’t about her.”

You turn. Finally.“But it was about me.”

The words sit between you like broken glass.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you say, quieter now. “You say it’s not a game, but every time I start to believe you, you remind me what you used to be.”

His voice is rough. “You think this is me reminding you? You think I want to go back to being that guy?”

He takes a step forward. “You think I don’t know I fucked up the second I let her touch me?”

Your chest tightens. You blink too fast. “Why’d you let her, then?”

He doesn’t answer at first.“Because for a second, I needed to pretend I could be wanted without hurting.”

And that—that cuts you clean open. 

You’re both quiet. Breathing too loud. The copier hums softly behind you like background noise in a dream. Then he steps closer. One more step. Close enough to touch.

“You still have me.”

You shake your head. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I’ve only ever meant it.”

Your eyes meet.

And there it is. The pull. The moment that could be something. Could be everything.

But instead, you turn. Slowly. Press the print button and whisper “Then show me.”

You don’t notice it at first.

Not really.

It starts with coffee. Again. But now it’s every Tuesday. Always exactly how you like it. No note. No fuss. Just sitting on your desk when you arrive. Still hot.

Then it’s classroom overlap. He prints extras of whatever handout he knows you’ll need. Leaves them in your box. Sometimes with post-it notes that say “Fixed the typo in paragraph three. You’re welcome.”

Then it’s your office light. You forgot to turn it off one night. You were tired. You left in a fog. And the next morning? A text. Short. Simple.

💬 Locked up for you. Light’s off. Sleep, for once.

You stare at your phone for ten full minutes before responding. You don’t thank him, but the next time you see him in the hallway, you hold his gaze for just a second longer than usual.

He notices.

---

He doesn't flirt anymore. Not really.

No lines. No games. He just shows up.

He picks up your favorite gum from the bookstore and leaves it on your chair with your notes after a staff meeting. He starts letting students out three minutes early so you can use the room next door for your class without awkward overlap. He starts reading the books on your shelf—the theory ones. The dense ones. Just to see what you see.

And he listens. Like really, fucking listens. To your rants. To your tangents. To your silences. And somewhere between all that effort he forgets how not to care.

---

“Okay but like… Professor Harrington’s been soft lately.”“Right?! Like he still looks hot but now he’s… dad hot.”“He literally told us to take care of ourselves emotionally before we try to ace exams. Who is he.”“I swear he smiled at the Ed Prof in the break room like she hung the goddamn moon.”“I think they’re dating.”“No way. She’d eat him alive.”“Exactly.”

---

You walk into your office and stop short. Because he’s there. Not waiting. Not leaning against the wall like a smoldering statue. Just sitting. Quiet. Reading something from your shelf. One of the denser volumes on pedagogical theory. The copy you’ve highlighted to hell.

He looks up. Smiles, slow and soft. “This is good,” he says, holding it up. “Hard to read. But good.”

You raise a brow. Toss your bag onto the couch. “Since when do you read anything without pictures?”

“Since you stopped looking at me like I’m a joke.”

Your heart stutters, and he sees it. He sets the book down. Stands. Doesn’t move closer. “I know I can’t fix what I broke. Not fast. Maybe not ever. But I’m here. Still.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be the kind of person who deserves you.”

The room goes quiet. Heavy. Holy. You don’t answer, but when you walk past him, you let your fingers graze his. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

And maybe he has.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

You know it the second your hip bumps the edge of his kitchen island and your fingers brush the rim of the glass he just poured you.

It’s bourbon. Warm. A little sweet. The kind that burns slow. Like him.

He’s leaning against the fridge. Hoodie unzipped. White T-shirt clinging a little too nicely. Hair still damp from a shower, and God help you, it’s unfair. Unprepared, you think. You should’ve come armored. Closed off. But instead you’re here - dropped by to drop off a book he asked to borrow. It’s late and you’re both trying way too hard to  pretend that means nothing.

“Didn’t expect you to actually read it,” you say, nodding toward the book you dropped off.

“Didn’t expect to like it,” he replies. “But then again, I didn’t expect to like you either.”

Your breath catches. 

He watches you. There’s no smile. No smirk. Just intention.

You hold his gaze. “Careful, Harrington. That almost sounded sincere.”

“It was.”

Your pulse pounds. You take another sip. He steps closer. Not a lunge. Just a shift. One that brushes his knee against yours. One that makes your back touch cool granite and your glass feel too warm in your hand.

“You’re doing it again,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Looking at me like you’ve already got me.”

He tilts his head. Inches from your face. “I’m looking at you like I want you. Still.”

Still. After all this. After the café. After the retreat. After all the nights he didn’t knock.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not done showing you.”

He sets his glass down. Slowly. His hand brushes yours. “Can I?” he asks.

Just that.

You nod.

Once.

And then his hand is on your waist. Light. Barely there. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You don’t. You lean into it, and when his forehead drops to yours you feel the heat of his breath. Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, you whisper,“We shouldn’t.”

He whispers back, “You’re still here.”

And you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter, because the second it happens, you both stop thinking entirely.

Your back hits the counter, his hand tangles in your hair and your name leaves his mouth like a vow, and every second of waiting, of aching, of almost-touching?  Gone.

You pull back just enough to breathe. Just enough to need. “This changes everything,” you whisper.

“Good,” he says. “Let it.”

You don’t know who moved first. Maybe you blinked and his hands were on your waist. Maybe you tilted your chin and his lips were right there. Maybe none of it matters, because the second his mouth touches yours—everything breaks open. 

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s starving.

He kisses like he’s drowning in you—like you’re the first breath after years underwater. Like every banter, every brush of your hand, every lecture hallway stare was foreplay to this exact second. His hand slides under your shirt, not greedy, just desperate. Fingertips dragging heat across your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, one stroke at a time. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, dragging him closer until his chest is flush against yours and you’re gasping into his mouth.

You gasp into his mouth when his palm finds your ribcage. He groans—low and wrecked. His hands roam—down your waist, over your hips, gripping your thighs like he’s claiming territory. His tongue slides against yours and you moan—sharp, involuntary.

He lifts you—just lifts you like you weigh nothing—and plants you on the edge of the counter, stepping between your legs like he was built for it. Your hands dive under his hoodie, pulling it up, dragging nails along bare skin. He groans—filthy, wrecked—and yanks your shirt up in return, just high enough to mouth at your collarbone, your shoulder, your chest.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Then die pretty,” you breathe, raking your fingers through his hair and tugging just hard enough to make him bite.

And he does—your neck, your collarbone, the corner of your jaw. You arch against the counter. He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs until there’s nothing between you. 

His cock presses against you. Just grinding—hard, slow, desperate—against the soaked seam of your leggings and the unforgiving press of his sweats.

You cry out. Loud. Needful. 

He swallows it with a kiss.

His hands slide under your ass, angling you closer, pushing right there—deliberate and devastating. You clutch at his shoulders, arch into him, rock your hips, chase the friction like your life depends on it.

You wrap your legs around his hips, and just like that—you’re both undone. His hands are everywhere. Your shirt rides up. His hoodie’s gone. You’re kissing like you forgot how not to. Like every second of restraint has finally snapped.

“You feel so fucking good,” he pants against your skin.

“Keep going.”

“Say it again.”

“Keep going.”

He grinds against you, hard and slow, and you moan before you can catch it. His hands tighten. His mouth finds yours again, all tongue and teeth and hunger. 

You’re right there. On the edge. One more roll of his hips and—

You reach for his belt. He catches your wrist and you freeze. 

“I want you,” he says. "So bad it hurts." He presses his forehead to yours, chest heaving. “But not like this. Not yet.”

Your whole body is buzzing. Your thighs are trembling. Your lips are swollen. But your heart? Your heart cracks wide open. Because it’s not rejection it’s reverence.

You nod. He kisses your knuckles. One by one. “Let me want you the right way.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t walk away right now, I will ruin your life.”

He grins—wrecked and wrecking. “Not if I ruin yours first.”

The next morning, his T-shirt hangs loose on your frame. A little too big. A little too soft. It smells like him—cedar, clean laundry, heat.

You’re standing in his kitchen, one hip popped against the counter, sipping coffee from a mug that says #1 Psych Professor in faded print. You slept in his bed last night, but surprisingly he moved to the sofa. Said something about not having any self restraint before tugging a pillow from the bed and kissing your cheek and walking away. 

In your morning daze, you’re pretending you’re not remembering his hands under your shirt. You’re pretending you didn’t moan his name with your lips at his throat. You’re pretending you’re not thinking about the way he said not yet—like it physically pained him to stop.

He walks out of the bathroom, rubbing the back of his neck, still shirtless. Gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips.

You glance up and instantly regret it. Because your body remembers. And based on the slow grin spreading across his face…So does his.

“You drink all the good creamer?” he asks, opening the fridge like he didn’t just catch you checking him out.

“Maybe,” you say, deadpan. “I let you dry hump me against a countertop. I figured it earned me hazelnut privileges.”

He chokes on a laugh, grabs a spoon and stirs his coffee like he’s trying not to lose it all over again. “You’re evil.”

“You’re easy.”

He hums, steps in close. Doesn’t touch you. He just sets his coffee down next to yours, leans forward, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me something.”

“No promises.”

“When I walked away last night…” His breath is warm. Wrecking… “Were you hoping I’d come back?”

You swallow. Hard. “You wouldn’t have made it ten more seconds in that kitchen if you had.”

He groans. Burying his face in your shoulder, biting back laughter—and something else. Then his hands are on your hips again. Casual. Familiar. Possessive. But he doesn’t pull you in. “If I kiss you again,” he murmurs, “I’m not going to stop this time.”

You’re supposed to be in your office in twenty-three minutes.

You’re hardly presentable. You were—before Steve smuggled you into bed and dragged the sheets down, pushing your legs apart with a lazy strength that said, we have time, even though you absolutely do not. Instead, your legs are trembling and his head is between your thighs. 

Your hips are tipped toward him, your thighs already sore from how long they’ve been bracketing his head—his shoulders broad and solid beneath them, his mouth ruinously good.

His tongue moves with slow, indulgent precision. Not rushed. Not greedy.  Like he’s tasting, not just devouring—like he wants to savor every twitch, every moan, every sharp little gasp he drags out of you.

One of his hands is flat on your stomach, holding you down as you start to arch. The other is gripping your thigh, thumb stroking absently against your skin as his mouth works. He licks you in lazy circles, lips closing around your clit and sucking softly. Just enough to make your spine curve, just enough to make your toes curl.

Your hands are buried in his hair, fingers clenched tight, and your voice is a high, choked whisper of “Steve, I swear to God—” as he drags his tongue slowly, obscenely, across you again.

“That’s not my name,” he murmurs into your skin.

You gasp. Yelp, really. “Steven. Jesus—”

He groans like you just handed him the keys to heaven. The vibration goes straight through you. Your thighs twitch around his head. He doesn’t stop. He presses in deeper, tongue dragging upward in a long, slick stroke that makes your eyes roll back. His grip tightens on your hips. He pulls you closer. 

“There you go. That’s better.”

He licks again—slow, deliberate. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders.

He’s taking his time.

He loves taking his time.

He flattens his tongue, works you with long, even licks—up, down, up again—before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard enough to punch the breath from your lungs.

Your entire body is flushed. A mess. Shirt wrinkled, hair twisted, one sock still on because he got distracted halfway through undressing you.

Your planner is open on the nightstand. Your to-do list, pristine and untouched. Your phone is buzzing with a department chair text. You couldn’t care less, because right now, Steve Harrington is worshiping you. Not with flowers. Not with words. With his mouth.

And God, is he good.

He’s smug about it too, that little shit. The way he flicks his tongue like he’s testing theories. Like your body is a subject he’s about to publish a groundbreaking paper on. He lets go with a filthy little pop. Looks up at you, completely gone.

“You always sound this pretty when you’re late?” he says, voice full of smug, sleepy sin.

You slap his shoulder. “You’re the reason I’m late,” 

“Yeah, but you’re glowing. So technically I’m improving faculty morale.”

You collapse back into the pillow, laughing breathlessly and then he hums low in his throat—that sound, He just smiles. That lazy, post-sleep smirk. Bedhead. Swollen lips. His chin shiny with you.

And then—he goes back down. No warning. No teasing. Just mouth on you like he’s starving.

He works his tongue over your clit in tighter, faster circles now, your body jerking with every pass. Your hand flies to his hair—fisting, tugging, anchoring—and he groans into you again like he lives for it.

You’re already close. So close it’s humiliating.

“Steve—fuck—I really—class—”

“Just one more,” he growls, lips brushing your skin.

“You said that twice ago.”

“And I meant it both times.”

His hands slide under your thighs, holding you open, as his mouth descends. He sucks. He flicks. He hums.

You shatter.

You come with a sound that punches from your chest—half-cry, half-moan, full-body wreckage. Your back arches, hips grinding into his face, thighs clenching around him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking—slower now, gentler—drawing out every last ripple of pleasure until you're twitching, over-sensitive, gasping for air.

When he finally pulls away, his face is flushed, lips slick, pupils blown. He looks up at you with a grin that could end empires. “Good morning to me,” he says, voice low, utterly self-satisfied.

You try to respond. You can’t. Your whole body is boneless, so you glare instead.

“We are so late.”

“Worth it.”

“I hate you.”

“You love it.”

You mutter something unintelligible. He kisses your thigh, then your knee, then flops back into bed like he didn’t just commit oral war crimes.

“You’re glowing,” he says.

“You’re a menace.”

“I told you, you love it.”

You do. And when he finally gets out of bed, pulls on sweatpants, and saunters to the kitchen still licking his lips, it really settles in that you’re going to be very, very late.  

You both start clamoring around the apartment. You’re trying to find your left shoe. He’s trying to find his dignity. Neither of you succeeds.

“If I get called out for being late,” you snap, throwing your bag over your shoulder, “I’m blaming your tongue.”

“I’ll write you a note,” he grins, adjusting his shirt. “Excused tardiness: wrecked her with my face. Respectfully, Prof. S. Harrington.”

You kiss him. Quick. Possessive.“We are not telling the students.”

“No promises.”

“I swear to God.”

“What? They’ve already started whispering.”

You freeze in the doorway. “They know?”

He shrugs, smug as ever. “Only that I’m happier, wear fewer button-downs, and keep looking at you like you’re the answer to a question I forgot how to ask.”

You blink. He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth. “Go teach.”

“You gonna behave?”

He smirks. “Absolutely not.”

Everyone’s tired, under-caffeinated, and suspiciously quiet when you walk in together to the Monday morning Faculty Meeting a few weeks later. Like, suspiciously quiet. Like maybe you should’ve come in separately. But his hand brushed yours in the parking lot and… well. You’re human. Truly, you knew it was a bad idea the moment he held the door open for you. Not because it was chivalrous, but because he smirked. That just-fucked, slept-on-your-pillow, wore-your-shampoo smirk.

And now? You’re trying to look composed while Diane from Math is squinting at your neck, and Steve is across the room pretending he didn’t absolutely tell you to call him “Professor” last night—off the clock. 

You sit down, chairs a respectful, appropriate distance from one another. Except his knee bumps yours under the table.

You flinch. He does not.

You glance at him. He’s reading the agenda like he’s not tracing circles on your thigh under the table with his fucking pinky finger.

“I will end you,” you whisper.

“Promises, promises,” he murmurs back, not even glancing up.

Across the table, someone coughs. Someone else mutters, “Tension in here is wild today.”

You cough. Sip your coffee. Do not look at him again.

---

He’s not even trying to hide it. He should be. He knows that. But you’re sitting there in that blazer and those glasses and he can still feel your nails on his back from the night before and, honestly, restraint is done.

You’re both adults. Consenting. Employed. You just happen to be very recently wrecked by each other and now expected to discuss budget reallocations.

He leans back in his chair. Tilts his head and you shoot him a glare that could kill a man at twenty paces.

He grins wider.

Then your dean says “Any… questions about cross-departmental collaborations?” 

And before anyone else can speak, Greg, the adjunct from two months ago—the one who tried to flirt with you at the mixer—leans forward. “Actually, yeah. Is Psych and Education… working together on something lately? Seems like there’s been a lot of overlap.”

The room goes dead silent.

Your head turns. Slowly. 

Steve just smiles. Cool. Calm.“We’re exploring some deeply engaged, hands-on strategies.”

You choke on your coffee.

Half the room does too.

“Very experiential,” he adds, not missing a beat.

Your face is burning. “Well,” you cut in, voice tight, “we have been reviewing active learning outcomes. Long-term retention. Depth of field experience.”

He nearly loses it. You don’t look at him again. But his pinky? Still brushing your thigh.

Once the meeting wraps you find him in a quiet hallway, tugging him into an empty office. “You’re going to get us fired.”

He presses you against the door. Grinning like a goddamn devil.

“You’re glowing,” he says. “You should see yourself.”

“I’m glowing because I haven’t slept and you won’t let me function like a normal person.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart. You’re glowing because I made you come three times last night and moan my name into my sheets like a prayer.”

You stare at him. Your pulse pounds.“You’re an asshole.”

“You love it.”

And when he kisses you, hard and fast and deep—hand braced against the door, tongue slipping into your mouth like he owns it—You let him. Because for once? You’re not hiding and neither is he.

You’re not technically doing anything wrong. You’re walking. Talking. Drinking bad coffee from the Student Union and arguing over whether your classes should collaborate on a capstone project next semester. Totally professional.

Except you’re standing just a little too close, your laugh is just a little too soft, and he keeps nudging your elbow like he can’t help himself.

“You seriously think your students could handle a shared project with mine?” you tease. “They’re used to watching Fight Club for extra credit.”

“That happened once,” he grins. “And it was deeply psychological.”

You snort. Sip your coffee, and then—you hear it.

“Okay, wait—are you guys, like, together?”

You freeze.

Steve tenses beside you.

You both turn.

It’s one of his students. Freshman. Wide-eyed. Holding a psych textbook and a half-melted iced latte.

“I mean,” she stammers, “everyone’s been kinda wondering? You guys are always... around each other. And you’re smiling. A lot. And he’s nicer now? Which is weird?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, and before you can craft the neutral, chill, professional response you should give, Steve speaks. “Yeah. We’re seeing each other.”

Your head snaps toward him.

What. You blink.

“Oh. Cool. Okay. Sorry. Just—yeah. Cool.”  She scurries off like she witnessed something she shouldn’t have.

You stare at him. He stares back.

“Steve—”

“What? Was I supposed to lie?”

“No, but—” You look around. Lower your voice. “You just labeled it.”

“Because that’s what it is.”  His voice isn’t loud. But it’s firm. Frustrated. Exposed. 

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to kiss you in the hallway. I’m tired of not calling this what it is because we’re scared someone might see.”

You blink, the beat of your heart hammering.

“So yeah,” he says, shrugging, voice sharper than he means it. “We’re seeing each other. Is that really so bad?”

You don’t answer.You can’t.

 Because the worst part? It’s not that he said it.

It’s that a part of you needed him to.

---

💬 I didn’t mean to say it like that. 💬 But I meant it. 💬 So maybe that’s okay?

You tried.

God, you tried.

You retreated into the fortress of your work, your planner, your independent woman armor. Told yourself you didn’t need him to say it. That it was better to keep things unspoken. Safer. But it’s been two days, and nothing feels good. Not your coffee. Not your playlists. Not even the jazz that usually soothes your racing thoughts.

All you can think about is the way he said it.  

We’re seeing each other. Like it wasn’t terrifying. Like it wasn’t fragile. Like it was true.

And suddenly, you’re in your car. Keys in the ignition. Your pulse screams in your throat.

You don’t knock. You should, but when he opens the door, you’re already stepping inside. Already yanking your coat off. Already done pretending.

He opens his mouth.

You grab his shirt.

And everything else disappears.

---

He’s halfway through grading when you burst in like a storm, and he knows.

He knows this is the moment you stop running.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t speak, just pulls you into him the second your hands find his collar —fisting it, dragging him down, mouths crashing like you’re angry at how long it took.

You kiss him like it’s oxygen. Like you’ve been underwater for days. Like you’re angry at your own restraint and even more furious that it’s finally broken.

Your teeth graze his lower lip. He growls.

“You want to label it?” you gasp. “Then fucking show me what it means.”

That’s all it takes. The dam breaks. Clothes hit the floor—fast, frantic. You’re already walking backward toward his bedroom as he follows, tugging at your jeans, shoving your shirt over your head, lips never leaving your skin. Your bra unclasps without a word. He groans when it falls.

There’s a trail—shirts, socks, his belt undone, your panties half-hanging from one ankle. He kicks the door shut.

He lays you back against the mattress like he’s waited years for permission. Hands framing your face, body hovering, staring down at you like he can’t believe you’re finally here.

You pull him down like you’ll never let him go. Your mouths meet again—harder now, deeper, wet and filthy and full of everything unspoken.

His hands are everywhere. Palms dragging down your sides, cupping your tits, thumbing across your nipples until your back arches off the bed.

You writhe under him—hips rolling, legs spreading, breath coming in ragged bursts. Your fingers dig into his back, nails biting down hard enough to draw blood, and he moans into your mouth like he wants you to leave marks. Like he needs to wear them.

“I want all of you,” you whisper. “No more games.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes blown wide, breath shaking.

“Then take me,” he growls, thrusting forward, finally, filling you with a groan that sounds like a man being saved.

He fills you completely. Thick. Hot. Stretching you in that perfect, devastating way.

Your mouth drops open on a gasp. Your hands clamp around his shoulders. He holds still, forehead against yours, both of you shaking from the sheer relief of it. Of finally being here.

“Holy fuck,” he pants.

“Move,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He fucks you like he’s learning you. Like he wants to leave something behind inside you. Not just heat, not just release—but a memory.

His rhythm is fast, deep, hungry. His hips slap against yours with delicious force, the wet sounds between you obscene and beautiful. Your legs wrap around him, ankles locking at his back. You meet him every inch of the way. Body to body. Mouth to mouth. Eye to eye.

He groans your name into your skin like a man being saved. You kiss his throat, his jaw, the hollow of his collarbone—dragging your tongue along the sweat-slick skin, biting down when the angle hits just right.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasps.

“So do you,” you breathe. “Harder.”

He gives it to you. All of it. Every thrust hits deeper, rougher, more desperate, his hands everywhere—your waist, your ass, the back of your neck—gripping like he needs to keep you grounded, needs to know you’re here.

You’re close. So fucking close. And when he slips a hand between your bodies—fingers finding your clit with practiced, perfect pressure—it’s over. You come shaking, gasping, clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity, like letting go would destroy you completely. Your whole body pulses around him, pleasure ripping through you like a damn breaking and clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity

He follows with a whine—hips jerking, cock twitching, spilling inside you with a groan that’s half-relief, half-prayer. He buries his face in your neck and you hold him there. Both of you panting. Wrecked.

It’s hot.

It’s filthy.

It’s honest.

And when he finally lifts his head, presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing yours like a question. You already know the answer. Because there’s no going back. Not now. Not ever.

You’re both still breathing hard.

He hasn’t moved. You haven’t told him to. His chest is pressed to yours, skin tacky with sweat. Your thighs are sore, legs still wrapped around him like your body hasn't figured out how to let go yet. He shifts—just barely—and you both groan.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick. “You okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again.

“That was—”  You laugh once, breathless. “You ruined me.”

“Good,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “That’s what you asked for.”

He pulls out slowly, carefully, and you both hiss—too sensitive, too much, too good. You twitch as he slips free, and you feel it—him, everything—slick between your thighs, your skin flushed and trembling.

You reach for him instinctively, fingers brushing his stomach, not ready to break the contact. He catches your hand and brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like they’re holy. Then your wrist. Then the inside of your forearm, slow and reverent.

“Don’t move,” he says, already rolling off the bed, standing naked and still hard, but now focused.

You don’t. Because you can’t.

He comes back with a warm washcloth and a glass of water. Kneels at the edge of the bed like he’s about to worship again.

You spread your legs without being asked. Your thighs tremble when the cloth touches you—warm, wet, gentle. He moves slow. Careful. His eyes are locked on yours the entire time.

He wipes away the mess between your thighs, catching what he left inside you, what leaked down to the backs of your legs, what you’re still clenching around like your body can’t bear to lose it.

“That okay?” he asks, voice quiet now. Real.

You nod again. And then he leans in—mouth just above your thigh—and licks.

Just once. Just to taste it.

Your breath stutters.

“Couldn’t help it,” he says, eyes dark, lips shiny.

He climbs back into bed, slides under the blankets, and pulls you onto his chest. You melt into him—sated, spent, but still buzzing from the way he holds you like he means it. One hand slides between your legs again—not to start anything, just to rest there. Fingers lazy and warm against your pussy, palm cradling you like he wants to remind you that you’re his now.

“Still full of me,” he murmurs, voice smug and sweet at once.

You hum. Kiss his collarbone. “Still throbbing.”

“Same.” His cock twitches against your hip.

You don’t do anything about it.  Not yet.

“I want more,” you whisper.

“You can have it.”

“Later.”

“Later,” he echoes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “For now just… stay.”

You do. And when you fall asleep with his hand between your legs, his cock warm against your thigh, and his heartbeat under your cheek? Well, it’s the safest you’ve felt in years.

💬 You guys. YOU GUYS. 💬 What. 💬 I just saw them arguing over who gets the last blueberry muffin at the café and it was the most sexually charged thing I’ve ever witnessed. 💬 Was he wearing that tight henley again??? 💬 She literally called him a smug bastard and he just said, ‘You love it when I’m smug,’ and winked. I need a cold shower. 💬 Are they married yet or are we still suffering through foreplay energy? 💬 They’re disgustingly perfect. I love them. I hate them. I want them to adopt me.

It’s finally the end of the semester and you and Steve have your Joint Panel Presentation. The room’s full of students trying to pretend they’re not staring. You and Steve walk in together, completely unbothered, radiating power couple energy like it’s built into your DNA. You finish each other's sentences. Your banter is lethal.

💬 OKAY NO ONE PANIC BUT THEY JUST WALKED IN TOGETHER 💬 they always do that tho?? 💬 NO. LIKE. TOGETHER. TOGETHER. 💬 she’s wearing his hoodie. THE GRAY ONE. 💬 I saw him grab her coffee cup and drink from it without asking I am unwell. 💬 he pulled out her chair and she rolled her eyes and said “you’re not charming, you’re annoying” and he just SMILED LIKE IT WAS FOREPLAY 💬 I am filing an HR report against their sexual tension 💬 bold of you to assume HR doesn’t ship them harder than we do

You still fight.

Over coffee. Over pedagogy. Over who forgot to return the whiteboard markers to the supply closet. But now? The fights end with your back against a wall and his mouth on yours, or his smug grin wiped off with one whispered threat in the break room.

The fire never died. It just evolved.

You pass him in the hallway and he grabs your hand like he has every right to it. Like you’re the thing he reaches for without thinking. You grade together. You share playlists. You present on collaborative learning and co-teach a lecture where everyone leaves sweaty and confused about the nature of attraction.

You're not the professors they expected.

You're the professors they fantasized about but never believed were real.

You’re chaos. You’re love. You were so in love it was exhausting for everyone else around you.

You’re in his lap during planning meetings.

He keeps your nameplate on his desk.

He carries your stupid frog pin on his bag like a badge of honor and threatens students who joke about it.

He kisses you in the copy room. On the quad. Behind the lecture hall door after you give a student-teacher speech that makes him feel like he’s never known pride until you put it in words.

The students ask when you're getting married.

He doesn’t even pretend to be flustered anymore.

“Not yet,” he always says. “But she’s already mine.”

And you? You never correct him.

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 4

[prompt: roleplay] male reader x kang hyewon 8k words

“I need you,” Hyewon says in the uneasy dark of a hotel room, with two urgent fistfuls of your shirt, “need you to do to me all the things my husband never will.” “Yeah, I know,” you tell her, “you said that,” and her eyebrows move in all the wrong directions, “I’m just wondering if, you know, maybe we should give him a little more credit.”

-

Here’s the truth:

Hyewon doesn’t believe in leaving evidence behind and you don't find it particularly productive to doubt her; you’ve been talking in code for years. Parts and pieces of yourselves reduced down and bottled into set phrases that, to anyone else, would be totally incomprehensible.

"i've been thinking," she texts you, which you've come to understand means she's already made up her mind, "maybe we should do that thing we were talking about. tonight."

(You're not always so fast on the uptake.)

You send two back two texts, both of which ask "which thing?" because the hallway from the breakroom to your desk has poor reception and it never lets you send just one.

Then, right after you cross the threshold between signal-drowning-concrete and the glitzy glass-walled arboretum they've built to make you feel like you're not a total cog in their corporate machine, your phone pings the receipt of Hyewon's reply: a picture - her laptop, propped up on your coffee table with its screen angled for perusal, of a booking site that's filtered to show results for their 'king bed & view' room at a midrange hotel a forty-five-minute ride from your apartment.

"not really doing much narrowing down here hyewon."

She replies to you - her text bubble appearing over another couple still images, of herself in the vanity mirror as she curls her hair around her finger and holds this little black slip of a dress over her shoulder, black lacy lingerie in tow, the whole nine - with:

"i'm feeling kinda adventurous."

-

Five o’clock rolls around but you never really do figure it out. You spend the last three hours at work deciding which kink of hers (oh, does she have a few) this is all in service to.

There's nothing overtly sexual about her pics in the first place - not more than usual anyway, more showing off her curves and cut jaw than showcasing anything for her 'adventurous' intent. So that can't be the tell - you'd seen her in a corset once (you can't unsee it) and the angle of her hips to the mirror makes you think that if she was planning on pulling on a  pair of crotchless panties then she probably would've found her thigh high stockings, too.

You try and think of what the two of you had even talked about when discussing these little scenes - how many times you'd ended up 'in the mood' during or after such a meeting of the minds, how it'd snowballed from there, a whole list of filthy what-ifs that she'd probably put more thought into than you ever have - but you draw a total blank. It could be any of a number of things.

Until,

"i left you instructions on the kitchen island," reads a text on your phone which you definitely don’t check while you’re driving -

And then it hits you.

"ah."

"yeah, 'ah'," she replies.

-

A quarter past seven at the hotel bar is way too early for any real promiscuous activity, but then again, you're here playing at pretend and half the fun of games like this is in the setup.

Meet me at the bar, your instructions read, introduce yourself, and play it by ear.

There's some couples at the other end, some friends downing shots by the round, people musing over their aperitifs, and a woman sipping alone at the bar - Hyewon, appearing to you from the back first:

The pointed edges of her shoulders narrow out over this tiny cocktail dress that somehow covers less of her than if it weren't there at all, skin tight, accentuating even her softest curves. She has her hair fixed a particular way - teased enough to flip at the ends but still a single sweep down her shoulders, pulled together softly by a ribbon in the back, tied like a fantasy, allowing a wispy strand to fall to her face - glossy and dark and glowing to this rich, deep mahogany where it's cast in the lamplight.

The line of her throat, of her chest. Where her hips meet her waist in a rounding flare. The effort and beauty she's gone to, for you - that she puts in every day just because she knows it gets your attention, can do more than turn a head or two; Hyewon's appearance is almost indifferent of you, only coincidental, but she puts on a damn good act.

(You look a lot more worn in comparison: jacket thrown over dress shirt and khakis, tie loose at the neck. Standard office attire with just a step-outside-regulation. Disheveled.)

A drink, you suppose - approaching the bar to try and catch the bartender's attention to order a single malt.

But if Hyewon's been waiting long, she doesn't complain when you pull into the stool beside her and sit for a long moment.

"Do you mind if I join you?" you say over a pair of politely folded hands - and that's generally where her 'instructions' end.

The look she fixes you with is just this unashamed smoldering, her body language this contradictory kind of lazy - cool, like her night was going exactly the way she planned but she still had places to be.

"It depends," she replies, one slender finger curled around the stem of her martini glass - which historically, is a drink she hates. "Who's asking?"

"Just me," you offer, letting the gesture and your tone leave it up to her. And then slowly, perhaps awkwardly: "ostensibly a complete and utter stranger who knows a gorgeous woman when he sees one - and who could never pass up a chance to see how the rest of her is."

"Smooth."

"I guess it is, considering you didn't immediately run for the exit."

Hyewon nearly snorts.

"Hard not to." She tilts her head back at you, assessing. Her cheeks are rosy pink. "A handsome thing like you doesn't usually buy themself a girl's time with flattery -"

"Buy your time or your drinks?" you tease, and you can tell she wants to roll her eyes - but she keeps them carefully lowered. Eyelashes dipping down like blackened fans.

Hyewon shifts slightly, resting her chin onto the heel of her wrist like she's leaning against an imaginary windowpane and tipping her face a little sideways. It makes you smile. "One gets the other, if you catch my meaning."

Maybe it takes you a little too long to lift your gaze off her lips to find her eyes, or off the sweeping curve of the hemline sitting high across her long legs, but she watches you for just a breath. It's a more telling moment that she pretends she doesn't know you.

"You can look at me if you like," and then without further preamble, she introduces herself with a slight tilt of the head and an expectant expression: "call me Hyewon."

You figure that if you've gotta say one word to get the ball rolling you want to say her name, and as a little revenge for forcing you to think on this scene and think on what to say, what your character would say, how exactly she wanted you to go about 'meeting' her in a hotel bar, how her fucking scenario's been building up in her head for god-knows-how-long (even though, in the scheme of the two of you and your relationship, it’s nowhere close to being the most demanding sex you've had), you reply simply with:

"Pretty."

It's satisfying, how she hesitates - pausing a little longer on your face to gauge exactly what you meant. Studying. But the next beat of your heart - or hers - is effortless, easy.

"I know. That's what my husband calls me."

"Husband?" You keep yourself from raising an eyebrow. "And I don't suppose I'm also... married?"

"Different day, different you."

"Meaning I have a wife or a mistress of my own," and you flick your wrist at the barkeep for a top-up of what's in front of Hyewon. "You're telling me I'm the kind of man who'd only settle for two."

It doesn't sound quite right, though Hyewon picks up on it. Doesn't let on. "Aren't men like you always? Charming to a fault, but always voracious - insatiable, especially with women like me."

"Women like you."

"Married women. Unavailable," she simpers, and in a practiced little motion, draws her hand out to where you can see it properly, this sparkle on her fourth finger that catches the lowlight of the bar. The diamond looks real - not that you'd actually know - and your stomach flexes up mid-somersault thinking about the financial impropriety for what amounts to a gag. A practical joke. Hyewon the comedian.

Still, you go with it and take her hand in yours, admiring. "What a pity." The glint off its faceted surface - Hyewon's watchful as she allows it.

"Isn't it," she agrees.

The more unnerving thing - besides how composed Hyewon can make herself be - is how the narrative quickly becomes a whole hell of a lot clearer with the context of marriage in play. She's mentioned it before: the infidelity thing, the way it leads to the raunchiest, filthiest bits she'll dare to explore. In some ways, her desire for the untouchable makes a lot more sense -

And maybe that's what had been nagging at your mind since she brought up the idea of playing the part: you always end up kissing in that stupid 'caught up' sort of way. With an intensity that's hard to beat. Even though you wouldn't ever cheat on her. Not in a million years. You'd watch her leave before doing anything like that.

But it's thrilling, almost, and even more thrilling that this isn't entirely improvisation: how well the two of you might actually play this off, as two total strangers to this illusory little roleplay that you'd normally say was your very last interest.

"But you know there's something I've come to appreciate about married men," Hyewon continues, her voice in this conspiratorial sort of hushed.

You blink, drawing her out.

"They know how to tie a knot."

There's the flirty wink, an upward flick of the chin that draws your eye to the span of her chest. To her body in that skin-hugging dress and your fingers entangled in hers - the gentle bump and shift of the bodies behind her, moving between the tables - Hyewon a queen of circumstance, playing to the moment as it bends; as her lips part in a pleased smile, red and smooth, almost innocent, and you can't help but imagine tasting her on your tongue, the force that'd take for her to yield when you finally got your hands in her hair.

(What a character, honestly.)

"Tell me something," you say, "why would a married woman, this pretty little thing like you, be all alone in a place like this - without her charming husband."

Hyewon's smile curls at the edges like smoke. "I never said he was charming."

You raise an eyebrow. "Good-looking, then."

"Never said as much either."

“Why are you with someone you find neither attractive nor charming?”

Hyewon makes a face, slightly pitied. “If that Isn’t what I’m asking myself everyday.”

"Hm." You narrow your eyes into something more quizzical than suggestive. It works on her anyway. "That doesn't feel too much like it's in character, Hyewon."

She shrugs, but it's that coy kind of shrug. She thinks you'll let her off easy - you usually do. All considered, she's the type who thrives off the chase and, as of today, so do you.

"But he is cute." Her expression is just this side of sweet, as she takes a dainty sip of her drink. Like the taste doesn’t bother her, like she isn't pretending she doesn't hate it with every fiber of her being. Like this is easy. "And maybe -" she quirks an eyebrow at you, withholding a smirk. "-you're right. Maybe, I was looking for someone cuter to fill the bill. And luck would have it, here he is."

So - apparently - her character doesn’t mind a little light infidelity.

Hyewon takes in the vague sense that the message wasn’t as clear as she might have liked, her forehead scrunching as she tries to convey - in a way that would communicate even to an airhead - some realization to play your part.

"Maybe it's the wrong question,” you start over, taking it from somewhere near the top, “what are you doing here, with me?"

That's when Hyewon graces you with one of the soft, slow kind of smiles: the kind that manages both an air of 'you dimwit' and 'good question'. Her fingertips barely graze yours but it's noticeably electric. Just enough to feel your pulse fluttering.

(You don't care that none of it’s real - Hyewon looks to you through thick eyelashes like a goddess of temptation and sin - and it makes something wicked coil up warm at the pit of your gut. A curious thrill and a recklessness that you have to admit feels a little nice - being the man trying to talk this woman into bed. The challenge and the buildup, the want to work for it. It's new. It's fresh. Lo-and-behold, it's kinda hot.)

When you catch her stare, she fidgets. So slightly, so briefly, your chest is on fire and you're barely into the pages of her plans, of this night ahead.

"Wish fulfillment, let's say," and that is no less true. "See it’s my husband."

"Mhmm."

"He respects me too much to do the things I'm going to ask you to do."

"Like?" you continue to prod.

Hyewon lets out the tiniest shiver of a sigh, like a trickle of cold water down the length of her spine. "Take a good guess."

You finish the rest of Hyewon's martini, slow. Savoring the warmth and bitterness sliding down the back of your throat. The night's young, sure - and if you're supposed to be spending it all wrapped around Hyewon's finger. This means you can take your time.

"Show me your room?" you propose, gesturing to the empty glass.

"I thought you'd never ask."

At your offering, she stands up and throws on her coat - long, double-breasted, chic - but only really just off her shoulders to have the hem hit her legs mid-thigh. One of her many personal quirks. Hyewon knows how to move like there aren't two eyes staring at her wherever she goes: not the awkward side-to-side of a girl who wasn't made to wear heels - a loping gait - nor the assured click, click of the taller kind that totter like it's all they've got going for them.

Something totally different: a little careless and a little haughty and an assurance of the highest confidence.

She winds an arm round yours like they do in movies, this parody of a leading lady - Hyewon not a seductress as much as she is someone who'll look the part just to convince you otherwise. There is a pretty big discrepancy, you find, between her bravado and her smile, her figure and her artistry - you couldn't act if you wanted to; meanwhile, she does whatever she damn well pleases. And somehow that doesn't even begin to cover the things that turn her on.

The two of you make for the stairs, winding up floor after floor until it's perfectly quiet, perfectly out of sight - hidden away from prying eyes and ears.

The silence of an empty hotel stairwell is thick - Hyewon's hand comes off the railing, as she takes to the wall and turns to face you. It's a gentle tug at the tie loose around your neck, barely any give before you're already there, holding her by the hips.

"Might've gotten us lost there," you whisper, as her finger plays at your chest and finds its way round the collar of your shirt. Your top button is already undone by the time you notice she's not fond of it. "The elevators would've gotten us where we're headed faster."

"Don't worry." She hums, leaning in close - like a magnet, like gravity. "You're getting the scenic route."

"Anything to stall the inevitable," you tease, but it isn't a thread she seems interested in developing.

"Something like that."

Hyewon shifts her weight back onto her right foot, her skirt riding up just barely. The dip between her inner thighs and the smooth curve of her leg is open and bare to your sight, her dark stockings like an unspoken challenge: the panties, lacy, loose, no crotch.

And it gets... indecent, the way your lips connect, how you realize half-way into that kiss, she's still smiling. It isn't any one way that does it; maybe it's the clever use of her tongue, or that particular position you've coaxed her up against the stairwell wall that makes it seem like Hyewon can't be any more in danger - it's too much to handle and your mouth goes slack on the reflex of an apology; her hand has a hold on you by the jaw and it won't budge.

"My husband," she murmurs into you, the trace of the words ghosting into the breath between the both of you. "Never lets me."

"What," you rasp, barely recognizing your own voice, your hand heavy on her side - the very real fear that you might tip over a banister because Hyewon's got her heel half-way into the back of your calf and any less bracing would bring you down. Your thoughts are a fog, with her cheek in one hand and your knee already up between her thighs.

"His wife," she almost swallows down, kisses turning chaste because maybe it's just easier to gently peck out her intentions, how she looks to you with dark eyes, heavy-lidded and wanting, a thumb trailing down the plane of your cheek. It'd feel like pity if you weren't thinking exactly the same.

You try to finish it for her:

"She likes it rough."

"No." Her nose traces yours before she connects you again - gentle and slow, and a shudder rolls all down the expanse of her shoulders; you think you have it about right. Until she makes the slightest adjustment and her grip in your hair turns agonizing, perfect and burning on the edge of too tight - too much. You are straining against the wall of a hotel hallway and she's saying, "not rough."

She kisses you. Hard. Until you gasp for the stolen air in her lungs.

"Filthy," she manages against the heat and sting at the side of her cheek.

(Damn.)

Your voice has gone and lodged itself firmly somewhere between her lungs - but there's something that says she knows. That you've got it in you, the brimming potential that might just say everything you ever wanted but couldn't figure the right way to put it.

It's the tone of her voice or the spark in her eyes, but one moment into the next - you're caught in this pull - like gravity's increasing tenfold at her will; her heartbeat's so strong you swear you feel it against your ribs as she's demanding:

"Messy. Dirty. A little uninhibited," and the obvious thrill of that must flare up like lightning under her skin - the way it makes her moan, soft and breathless: "fuck me like my husband doesn't."

She’s not even waiting for the comfort of the room yet, which in hindsight is probably checking more of Hyewon's many boxes - it's the sex in public thing, the fear of discovery thing, the desire to have you ravish her out where anyone can come upon you sort of thing - the thought of which has your jaw go a little slack too. Her leg up is coiled up around your hip, your fingers tangled in her hair and sliding up the length of her thigh, until you're fucking kneading up her ass and drawing out that desperate whine in her.

"Fuck," she exhales into your shoulder - a hand on the metal bannister to brace against those little circles you start to rub inside her, pushing - slowly - one, two, three knuckles deep, testing - before drawing back, and plunging forward again. This ache, slow and purposeful, pressing just enough into her until there's a wet sort of friction that has your hand slick all down your wrist.

It never takes long, with your fingers on her clit, fingers inside her, a palm covering the moans out of her mouth -

She cums just like that.

Whining and broken and bent under you, and with an elbow hard against her ribcage to make the breaths come shallow.

"Stay quiet for me, sweetheart," you find yourself murmuring, as your teeth graze the shell of her ear - the short burst of hair and silky strands across the back of her neck; you're undoing the neat ribbon tied round the length of her hair and letting her waves settle on her shoulder in time for you to swallow down the sound of her sighs, the tension in her lips, and the frantic jolt when your fingers push through the wet, heat of her pussy again, merciless and quick. You have to be careful; she nearly bites your fucking tongue out.

"Can't." Her jaw's tight on it, the slight staccato to her breathing, murmuring and slightly dazed: "if we get caught, someone will see. Someone will notice."

Her next exhale is more shaky. "Anyone could see us like this," with just her toes curling and her stomach tensing on every second beat. Your grip leaves a bruise. "Please-"

"We're not supposed to be doing this at all, are we? If you've got a husband waiting somewhere?"

You hear yourself, and it sounds sorta degenerate, though in all the right ways, you figure, like something straight out of one of Hyewon's romance novels, the dirty, smutty ones that she swears up and down she simply reads for the plot, but the dazed, hazy kind of mood they get her worked up into suggest otherwise.

You trace the rough pad of your thumb over her pussy, this delicate, ghost of a touch. One you'd have to strain to even tell if it was there or not until she whines - eyes screwed shut like she doesn't mean to, just does. The sound of it bouncing around the stairwell.

And then, all this wet: her skirt's ridden all the way up to her stomach, damp and near-transparent with slick, and you can just imagine the puffy pink between her legs - between her stockings in the afterglow of an orgasm, spent and sensitive and sore and wanting for more. Your eyes linger a little too long -

"I shouldn't let you," she manages, half a moan on it - one of her heels comes up the stair you're standing on and the way Hyewon clings onto you for balance says enough, but still, she demands, with all the strength her throat allows: "make it fast. You're lucky I let you see me like this at all -"

And she cuts off abruptly, looking at you.

(She'll play coy for a while longer. Which, Hyewon being Hyewon, will look like as much an effort as her sprawl out on the bed for you is.)

"The room," you say to her, harshly, "where is it."

"Four more floors."

-

Room 1014 as it turns out is like every other room you've ever been in, each one perhaps a little more identical than the last - except this one has Hyewon sitting in your lap while you get comfortable on the bed, and there's also the way she looks in the mirror above the headboard, the desperation in her stare, right back into the reflection.

"What all," she says, "do you want to do to me?"

This time - no explicit instructions - just an implication. You have to figure it out.

See, the image of her is like every fantasy rolled into one, wearing this thin black bra that has her breasts just about spilling over. They're amazing - the color and shape of her skin. Soft. Cradled between the cups like a godsend, and maybe that's why it drives her a little crazy how good you look biting down the ridge of her breast and flicking your eyes back up to catch her expression.

It has you feeling, if nothing else, a little ‘adventurous,’ too.

Her belly tenses on a heavy sigh and it's one hell of a thing to have Hyewon staring you down, like you're an animal or an idiot, with her eyes flashing and a thinly veiled anger in the purse of her lips. There's a thousand things she'd like to do to you - for you to do to her - but it's about the predicament: the silk necktie she'd pulled off you as you both stumbled through the door has ended up around her wrists, pinning her arms behind her back in a way that suggests a loss of control. Just the mere suggestion of a little playacting, but she's almost keening.

You feel the touch of her right calf keep rising - curving down your waist, hooked behind the small of your back - her thighs smooth, and a hot line along your sides.

"I should fuck that pretty mouth of yours," you say against the shell of her ear, because you know better than anyone, the very concept gets her wet. Uncomfortably so.

And she leans her head against your temple like she'd love it. You could be imagining the little whimper as she clenches up round nothing - until a growl escapes the back of her throat and she's saying -

"Is that how you're going to cum? With me on my knees and nothing else? Cover my pretty face? How you’ll completely ruin me?. You’re more creative than that."

“I don’t know that I am.”

Her hips move to find some friction where there isn't any until you give her some, pulling your cock out through your pants and feeling it brush, once, twice against the seam of her. Hot, and hard. Ready. And if she only tried a little, the angle was made perfectly to slot your head in, but neither of you move. She doesn't yield.

"Let me fuck myself on you," she suggests, strained, almost pleading. "Then perhaps I will."

You could take her like she is. Any which way. But this is about getting a particular reaction - one that'll leave her spent and trembling - and nothing like that will happen without a little bit of preparation and prelude. You want to watch her writhe for hours. Until she forgets she's playing a character at all, until she's panting your name and whimpering for release, her cheeks burning.

But at least it gets her writhing on you, the heat and press of her body as she leans in close, your eyes locking:

"Get your cock inside me-" the urgency in her voice. "-fuck me right now, this second-"

"Say it again."

"Fill me with your perfect cock." The words land right on your lips, frayed at the edges as the tether to her control slips another notch. "Push my thighs apart until you break me," Hyewon tells you - and then with her legs twisted up in the comforter, the creaking mattress and the sweat on the sheets: she rolls her hips like they're pleading for it.

"Pushy."

"Gentle's got no appeal for us."

"Apparently not," you reply - but then it's suddenly a lot easier, to slide one hand in Hyewon's hair, and grip at the knotted silk wrapped tight 'round her wrists to hold her. There's no hiding the subtle arching of her spine, how the pressure off her arms pulls her chest in or makes it all the more comfortable, she doesn't let on, she'll probably keep pretending she doesn't like this, that she hasn't always wanted -

You run your tongue over her collarbone and thrust up inside her, once - a warning that you're not giving in to her quite yet.

The smile that runs her lips is brittle. Like her patience isn't what it used to be - she makes a quiet little noise, pained. A flash of discomfort. But there's a moan and a curse out of her:

"Like that. Harder."

"What does harder mean?" you ask, with a deliberate repetition in motion, thrusting upward, forcing her hips to shift a few degrees further back - her knees clenching around the sheets as you're met with no give - Hyewon's resistance through a dark smile, and her grip slackened in her hands, despite you keeping a fist wound tight in the hair on the back of her head, tightening the other around her restraint.

Her throat flinches: this shudder.

She takes a couple heaving, open-mouthed breaths, before she has it in her to glare at you again.

"Harder-" The way her mouth shapes around the word gets the better of you - cute little cupid's bow in pink, full and swollen and pursed up as if in pain. Or desire. Or both, the way her head is tipped back, hair half undone - an idea is already coiling at the back of your mind. "-until I can't stand."

"Or talk?"

And when your hand loosens on her wrists, her posture slumps like it's relief, that you're finally going to move along in a direction she's getting some satisfaction from -

Hyewon shakes her head in a moment that's almost blissed.

"You," her voice breaks on the tail end, "fucking wish you could shut me up that easily -"

In a motion almost gentle, you twist the length of hair down around her, from her scalp to her jaw, and wrap it around a hand. "Let's see if you'll change your mind, shall we."

There's a sharp draw of air in past her lips, just one sound, not a word. No proper rebuttal. She bites down, teeth clicking.

So you pull.

And this isn't some revelation, that Hyewon's cunt is heaven. Slick and tight, the fit around your cock and the gasp escaping the base of her throat - that isn't new. You've been here countless times, fucked her past her breaking point, beyond what should reasonably satisfy her or satisfy you, but that still doesn't take away from this incredible, heady rush that pulses through your entire body. It never stops getting better, not inch-after-fucking-inch the way you're bottoming out inside Hyewon's body and feel how hard the rest of her muscles tense up in the contact, how her pussy tightens and quivers, and grips around the entirety of your cock, the briefest taste of pleasure and release before it's pulled back just out of her reach - overstimulated, until Hyewon cries out.

You expect, predict the fight, the whimpers that spill out of her mouth with every slap of your skin and the breathless way she begs, pleads, like she'd rather her pride take it from her than have your fingers tug her hair up, right out of her scalp, with your arm locked around her lower waist. With your cock pumping faster, faster and a pressure, hot and inescapable, right there - the friction building - the slippery-wet heat sliding along your shaft with every stroke until you bottom out and her next exhale is a sob.

A goddamn fucking sob and the warm gush of liquid down her thighs - all on you. You fingers are pressed into her ass, pulling onto you, steading her bounce - and Hyewon finds her breathing uneven, as you smear wet across the curve of her backside, rubbing circles into her lower back as you catch up on the rhythm she'd lost.

"This tight little cunt, huh," you tease, and she nods so desperately it seems like she might snap. Like she might cry again and this time for real, a drop of her eye color past the blush, streaking down her cheek. You have the wherewithal to remember your character, your blocking, your lines: "this is what your husband won't do? Won't fuck you on every piece of furniture until you're a ruined fucked-out mess? Doesn't have the decency to work over his little slutty-wife until she's passed out, dripping with cum?"

Hyewon's fingers curl up into two balls of white knuckles and she chokes on her reply. "He won't."

"Tell him. He has a hot and dirty little piece of ass right under his own roof-"

"You think," and the string of words trails off when you manage to grind in, at this angle that has her reeling, trembling at every shift and jerk in momentum. Your knuckles drag against her soft and giving curves, almost gripping at her in the attempt to hold her down on you. "-my husband isn't enough."

"Well you wanted me to fuck the domestic housewife out of you," you murmur, taking two greedy handfuls of the ass bouncing in your lap, rubbing your palms along her hips, up and around the shape of her abdomen and her ribcage like you'd map it, memorize it. She wants this, you know this: your palms come around and over and brush your thumbs against her rising gooseflesh - she's putty in your hands. "No strings attached, remember, a one night kind of thing-"

"My husband loves me."

"Then it seems-"

"He makes me cum with his hands alone."

Your jaw works tight - Hyewon's cunt feels as good wrapped around you as she says your cock feels making a mess of it.

"Tells me he'd die happy hearing me moan his name."

"Oh, because no matter where he goes," you say, fingers wrapping under and around the back of her neck, forcing her to look you in the eye, "no matter what, your sweet cunt's the only one his mouth is ever watering for, isn't that right-"

A blink, lashes thick and feathering down and over the pools of her pupils as you have a hold of her tight. 

You're having a hard time with this, and you want to give it to her, the toe-curling-crescendo that would see her cumming at your will, or worse, losing the plot completely and your entire setup falling away from the charade of characters you'd both conjured. But she looks at you like she's never loved anyone like she loves you, the naked, barefaced devotion, the tenderness - a quick breath, a second - and the game is suddenly something far more personal, a truth. It isn't exactly fair: how your heart stutters. How much her heartbeat makes your pulse flutter, the electrifying rush you get when you fuck roughly up into her tight, wet cunt and make her bite down on nothing in the throes another orgasm.

You barely have a second to think of something coherent, let alone an out before she kisses you. If that isn’t totally disarming. So you move her into the next, flipping her onto her stomach, and she does nothing to fight back: Hyewon just lies there - the side of her face plastered to the comforter - exhausted, and gives a willing, malleable moan at the contact where your hand digs into the shape of her upper thighs, spreading them out as her elbows struggle behind her back.

"Here, baby," you say, finally unwinding the silk knot between her wrists, "I'll have you like the little desperate fucktoy you really are."

There's the bite to her bottom lip, the whole five seconds it takes for her hands to spread out and twist her fingers tight in the bedspread, before she whines - full-throated - and rocks back onto her toes to arch her back.

(See, the thing: Hyewon likes being fucked within an inch of her life. On all fours and pleading for more.)

With your free hand, you reach around her to run over her inner thighs.

Hyewon brings her grip to the bottom of the bed frame, for purchase, or leverage, you don't know, and in one simple motion, you slip your cock back deep inside her pussy.

You curse under your breath.

Hyewon fucking collapses.

It's a dangerous combination, having her begging and you nearly fully clothed while she's wearing barely more than this thin strip of black silk around her waist and a stocking on one leg, but you can't help it - she looks good this way.

"Fuck," she spits out, voice lost when your hips find hers in this wet, sloppy crash of skin that gets louder, faster and more punishing on each beat. "Like that, oh my God-"

Her whimpering only gets worse - when you start only pulling out halfway, until she's gasping like she can't breathe. You think there isn't a more wonderful, more obscene, more gorgeous thing than Hyewon spread out in front of you - the curve of her spine defining each and every one of the lines, dips, and rises of her body - and you would thank God or some higher deity right about now.

It’s fuck and please and every other little pliant utterance of “fuck my brains out, use me, make me beg, I'm so turned on right now I'll let you fuck me anyway you want - harder, faster, I can do whatever, just show me how, make me, push and fuck me hard until I'm raw and aching - god - like this, let me cum, please, let me - keep fucking going, oh my god, please, like this, fuck, just like this-"

You do thank God, actually - there's mirrors everywhere in this room, and you can catch the circular swing of her tits every time you force a curse and a sigh out of her: the bared teeth and the effort to push herself back on her arms, bracing for every thrust, fighting and fumbling to keep her balance and to make sure you have to pound her into the mattress until her cries reach a pitch.

Then, the thing you'd learned she'd never ask for but oh-so-dearly-wanted - you open your palm and bring it down hard on her backside. The impact of your flesh to hers, a crack, a moan and her whole body flexes - and it's then you do it again: matching the hit to the visible red outline of your handprint. The third time, she hisses, biting into the bed sheets so as not to cry out.

"Right? This is what you want? To be fucked and used?"

She doesn't reply with words, because she may in fact be biting her teeth into the cotton threadcount at the end of the bed, but she lifts her ass higher, angles her hips like she's waiting for more. Her brow is creased in a smile, even though a frustrated groan escapes her lips - so you give her that again, and again, until the back of her thighs are turning red and she's clawing one hand back along the length of your legs - pushing and pulling.

"You want me to fuck you senseless, sweetheart?"

And then, so needy and desperate she's just saying the first word that come to mind:

"More-"

"-when I've been railing into you so hard and your husband probably knows already, has to have seen, maybe he's listening at the door- oh," and your whole train of thought comes to a sudden halt upon seeing Hyewon's hand land on the perfect round of her ass, fingers pulling her soft, reddening skin taut, up and away from where your cock is disappearing between her cheeks - to allow more of your shaft into her hot, wet cunt - allow you to fuck her and fuck her up - allow the length of your shaft to slide deeper and hit all the spots that will send her reeling into this orgasm and the next.

Your gaze is stuck however, not to her curves rippling in excess, the damage of your thrusts pounding her body to ruin, or the look of flawless pleasure twisting up the pretty features of Hyewon's reflection, but instead it's the fucking flash and catch of the diamond that adorns her fourth finger. Even when you have her completely helpless, bent on your mercy, she's still wearing that promise, that intention to have and to hold, and you think, for at least a second, this whole roleplay thing isn't the worst idea: being a surrogate to fulfill someone's wildest fantasies. It might even be enough to make you hard all over again - the thrill and the debasement of your girl, lines quickly blurring between the Hyewon you'll take home and put back together and the Hyewon you're fucking pouding into a mattress - the here and now.

"Fuck, Hyewon," you find yourself swearing - steadying the hips rolling back in your palms, bending down until the flat of your chest meets her back, until your nose is in her hair, the long strands sticking to her lips and the back of her ears. Until you feel her shaking as you suckle against her skin, at her neck, hot kisses between the shoulder blades, finding a grip in her hands. Her grip in yours - as she's muffling these exquisite, needy sounds; she is perfect. Hyewon is perfect.

The first time you cum, it's this hot splatter of white: smeared across her ass and the crease of her lower back. It feels almost dirty to think that's just how you feel about it; your heart is stuttering in its erratic pace, but your eyes are drawn and enraptured, the sight of it all.

Then second, maybe your favorite: when she slips her hand to your aching shaft and simply takes you back inside her. This soft, wet, inviting heat that pulls you back to her.

"God- please," her head tips back, you feel the arch of her back through her ribs and stomach, the way her breath catches as you slide your cock through her creamed-out-cunt so much harder and smoother. "It feels so fucking good, baby," and there are tears now, welling in the corner of her eyes, "don't stop, God don't ever stop-"

She can barely finish her sentence before she's cut off, a moan ripped from the bottom of her lungs and a gasp straight from the pain-pleasure that has your balls slapping against her pussy every other stroke. And suddenly she's sitting, or rather, squirming into your arms, her face buried in your shoulders as she starts riding you, and not-quite crying and saying again - again, the whole filthy lot of things: about her wanting you to fill her, to plug her up with your cock. Every thrust she whines in your ears, clutching onto the fabric of your shirt and making a mess of herself in you.

It's this wild and reckless thing that makes its way around the room, on every surface and bit of furniture. You fuck her over the counter, let her ride you on the sofa, the chair, the two of you managing to find some sort of assistance in the wall even, the door frame, her legs up your sides and the slippery-sticky-heat of your mouths connecting and everything that isn't exactly meant to support that kind of strain buckling and nearly giving way - once when the wooden joints in the door-frame shift, once when she begs for release in that frantic voice that doesn't sound a thing like her. And the way she comes apart under you after, on top of you - is even sweeter; you imagine there's this endless possibility for love, for pleasure, a whole world in bundled in the notion that you could do it for her again, that it was always a question of Hyewon letting you have her that way, and the rest was mere foreplay - a stretch.

Only, on the bed again, Hyewon shivers beneath you, this full-body response, and you've got her stretched as she opens up - that the slightest of movements has her already whimpering out "fuck," and "please," and "right there," and "fuck you're going to make me come like this. You're so good, just fucking," and "more, harder, please, you feel so fucking good-"

The desperation for release is so palpable in her that it's curling into your stomach as your press Hyewon's knees into the points and edges of her shoulders and fold in her half - this perfect angle of leverage. Fucking her like she's yours and no one else's - the absolute delight of her cunt, wet, hot, and desperate to milk you empty - her body quaking at the force of each thrust, and the hungry grind of your hips into hers. Her fingers digging and knotting in the sheets around you until her knuckles pale, and your own grasp on her skin threatens to bruise.

"Inside me," she gasps out, because she can feel that edge just as well as you, "I want you to fill me, just cum inside, God, you always feel so amazing, fuck, like that, cum inside me, cum in me-"

"How could I say no, especially when you ask so sweetly," you tell her, kissing into her smile, "can you take another? Baby, look at me, look into my eyes, yeah? Look right back at me."

Her eyes blink and roll back a bit, almost losing focus and her eyelashes flutter - the creases in her brow, the elegant lines of her face locking up in the overwhelming tension, then, a peak.

And a demand, meekly asking you to fill her up. Until there's nothing left. "Cum," Hyewon moans, "for the love of fuck-"

You push her past her climax until she's practically weeping, sobbing through a litany of nonsense and slurred, unfinished sentences and almost howls, struggling beneath your weight and coaxing her fingers over the surge at the base of your spine. Before a hot liquid mess bursts out of you, into the deepest reach of Hyewon's throbbing cunt - cumming inside her, while you hold her down, not allowing her to move as your hips lock and you're both left groaning in utter agony.

(This was the thing you'd told her once - cumming inside her was almost always worth the effort it took to clean it all back out. You like the possessive aspect of it, maybe the slight humiliation, and more than anything, she'll just melt: once she's gone past the immediate discomfort. If anyone could really learn to get off on feeling a little filthy, it's the two of you. And she knows that too, Hyewon's eager little pout intimates, as she blinks down to watch where the two of you connect.)

You don't say much for the next while. If there's a line where this particular escapade blends back into your normal life, where the Hyewon curled up in the sheets is your own girl and not some half-conceived entity that didn't fit the reality of the rest of the evening, or how you see Hyewon everyday, even then, it’s not clear.

She's utterly boneless - this fragile, dazed thing that runs her palms all the way around her breasts and pulls up her stockings a little further up the line of her hips, as if you weren't going to peel them back and slip them all the way off when you had the wherewithal to handle it. But the strength in her isn't entirely lost either, she looks ready to burst: this air of pride and smugness - victory, right in her grin, which isn't totally surprising. Hyewon usually gets an odd satisfaction out of your participation in whatever hedonistic or obscene thing it is she wants to try.

This was her fantasy - maybe not a deeply rooted or unattainable one, but she'd worked out some kinks of hers and has walked away a far better woman for it, knowing what a sight she is to you. Like this.

"That was... fun," Hyewon eventually says, collecting articles of clothing strewn about the room.

Her shoes are one of two sets in the shoe-rack, but she'll have to look around and under the bed to find her dress. It would probably be some strange level of easy to play dumb and wait until she comes to the conclusion on her own that she should bend down and check down there, but she looks a little too worn out to really be interested in her clothes, more like, ready for the next part.

"We should do it again," her gaze lands, intent, and serious, back to you.

"Which part?" you have to ask, because you're probably still, a little slow on the uptake.

A small laugh, the sly smirk to herself; she knows she has you wrapped so perfectly around her finger, ready to bend to whatever game she can come up with: "whichever part you like."

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

book 7 part 8 thoughts!!

***THIS POST CONTAINS MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR BOOK 7 PART 8 OF THE MAIN STORY!!*** Please note: this is NOT meant to be a summary or a translation; these are only my initial thoughts on the events that roughly unfold. There may be details overlooked or misunderstood in this post, so PLEASE do not use this as a translation.

Right off the bat, we're starting off strong with a video presentation from Idia!! He uses many MMORPG terms and analogies to better explain his concepts, even referring to allies as "party members".

The video is ~3 minutes long and the artwork used are Takashi Mifune-sensei’s LINE stickers. Yana says she is particular about functionality like Idia is, so she is pleased that they were able to implement this video. “Please watch Idia’s debut as. YouTuber!”

AGKVTIUOD8VQFVE IDIA SHROUD ASKS US TO LIKE AND SUBSCRIBE IF WE LIKED HIS PRESENTATION....... . . .. ...... .. . . . . .. . . . . I'LL GIVE IT TO YOU, IDIA... You popped off on the editing fr...

Idia tells us that there the population of Sage’s Island is roughly 20,000!

He basically explains his plan to defeat Malleus. Idia's going to fuck around with stuff in his own dream to make cheat codes to debuff Malleus (ie remove his invincibility). The others shall distract Malleus so he doesn’t catch onto what Idia is up to. Yuu, Grim, Sebek, Silver, and Ortho will infiltrate the dream worlds of classmates, "wake" them, and then recruit them to their cause. They will then lure Malleus into Idia's dream, at which point all the recruited students will JUMP HIM 🤡 Truly, the power of friendship but the NRC way…

Idia grants everyone the ability to DREAM FORM CHANGE!! By saying that phrase, it opens up a menu where you can magically change your outfit in an instant. The NRC boys are becoming magical girls… ✨

akjlfabidfbefeqof Grim has fun changing into his various Anniversary outfits! Ceremonial Robes, Labwear, Apprentice Chef...!

Silver and co. hop into Epel's dream! (Idia keeps in touch with everyone via his tablet while he stays behind in his own dream.)

Everyone at NRC seems to speak in the same Harveston dialect as Epel. And, well... here's apple boy...

IS THAT EPEL’S HEAD ON JACk’S BODY????????!!!!!?!?!?!!!?!?

THIS IS LITERALLY THE BUFF NATSUKI DDLC MEME 😭 I MEAN I WAS KINDA EXPECTING THIS BUTNIT FLOOKS SO FURGINGNGGGF GS CURSED

Anyway, the group just casually walks up to Epel and tells him everything is a lie??? And when Epel's world starts to go all wibbly wobbly, a dream!Rook and dream!Vil show up to praise him. Rook says he has heard rumors that Savanaclaw wants to recruit Epel for their own dorm, while Vil praises Epel as being both strong and beautiful, a perfect fit for Pomefiore.

I like that the implication is that while Epel still has a desire to be in a "tough" dorm like Savanaclaw, this dialogue seems to also say that he now also finds value in Pomefiore. This is why dream!Rook and Vil are tugging Epel in opposite directions; his soul must like BOTH options. Further proof is that Epel is still a Pomefiore student in his dream, he is not in Savanaclaw. To keep him under the sleep, the dream is trying hard to appeal to both sides of Epel's wishes.

So we battle the fake Rook and Vil!! Then Epel's memories come flooding back to him; the cracking glass effect is so pretty and calls into mind a mirror shattering as Epel gains his lucidity.

(Rook and Vil get similar "glass breaking" scenes upon waking, so I'm only going to comment on Epel's here and leave it at that!)

Cut to black to explain the situation to Epel!

Ortho invites Epel to join their "party" in Idia's dream! Then I believe he uses Epel's dream data to project a hologram of buff!Epel to remain in the dream while Epel joins the gang to hop into the next dream.

Next up is Rook's dream, and--

YUP, THAT'S A YEEHAWING ROOK HUNT IF I'VE EVER SEEN ONE 💀 I thought for sure his in-game 2D model would have larger arms (like, at LEAST Leona-sized arms, if not Jack-sized)... I guess not though, because we cannot have nice things/j

I love the extra detail of the leaves being stuck in the brim of his hat!! dfhlbafbiapia and bro just walks around with a quiver of arrows and a bow strapped to his back at all times...

ahbfg8yoadf9pbaegpb ROOK JUST DROPEPD A FUCKING BOMBSHELL ON US???????? Apparently Vil is a student at RSA and is besties with Neige???????????? BRO'S HEAD IS FR WRITING OUT FANFIC ABOUT HIS TWO MOST BELOVED IDOLS HOLDING HANDS AND GIGGLING TOGETHER

Uhhhh long story short, Rook runs off to his room and we chase him. What we find is--

YEAH THIS IS ROOK'S ROOM??????? It's probably what is depicted in his Savanaclaw Dorm Uniform SSR too. Note the split bed and the completely different carpets in the SSR artwork.

AEBFYVQEVYOFBQB THE WAY THE ROOM IS PERFECTLY SPLIT DOWN THE CENTER AND IS JUST STACKED WITH MERCH (including Tsum Neiges and Vils????????!????!?!?!?!?!??!!!!)

Rook starts to chuckle menacingly and pops off about his hyperfixations to us???? Then he wrangles us all to sit down and watch DVDs with him for the next *checks notes* 5 HOURS?????? AM I READING THIS CORRECTLY????? Rook... HONEY... THE WORLD IS ABOUT TO END, WE DON'T HAVE TIME TO DO THIS...

We keep trying to talk to Rook, but he isn't quite waking up yet. So we have an aside with the gang and Epel suggests... RECREATING OUR VDC PERFORMANCE??????? ? ?? ????? He shows Silver, Sebek, Grim, and Ortho the dance moves and the show goes on!

Rook is lured to the VDC stage and we get a new Absolutely Beautiful rhythmic with our current squad! Unfortunately, the vocals are the same as book 5, so we do not get a new variation with Epel, Sebek, Silver, Ortho, and Grim singing.

I love Love LOOOOVE that Epel is the center here!! He took the initiative to suggest the idea as well as teach everyone, and now he's REALLY walking the talk by serving as the "leader" of the group.

Watching the NRC Tribe makes Rook's head hurt and he starts to remember...!!

Well, wouldja look at that... Here comes dream!Neige and RSA!Vil to distract Rook. They say they are inspired by the NRC performance and start to perform Everyone Yahoo! This entrances Rook, making our task of "waking" him all the more difficult.

aihfboyfpie LMAO THEY'RE SO DRAMATIC?????? Vil steps up to defend Neige, and Neige is all like, "Nooo, Vii-kun! If anything were to happen to you, I'd be crushed by sadness :((" ROOK... IS THIS WHAT YOUR MIND COMES UP WITH...

Rook points an arrow at them and cries about how he betrayed Epel... (AYO LIKE THE HUNTSMAN????) and now he has to destroy Vil and Neige, who are "proof" of his betrayal. It makes him cry even more because he can't think of harming them, even if it's just a dream...

Anyway, time to pummel the sparkly duo! You can see from the battle sprites that RSA students seem to use REAL ASS SWORDS to channel their magic instead of magical pens. Man... Imagine being handed a writing utensil and then glancing over at the next guy and seeing them holding an ACTUAL WEAPON.

If you look closely, you can tell that Neige and Vil's pommels, grips, and rain guards are slightly different. Apparently, every RSA student has a unique one? WOW, I feel like NRC got ripped off then??? Cuz only the dorm leaders get unique items or staves to channel their magic and everyone else has the same standard issue magical pen but with a different magestone color. The only exception to this for the average student seem to be Diasomnia kids, who have baton style magical pens in their dorm uniforms.

Rook fully awakens and we rinse and repeat what we did with Epel (cut to black to explain things to him, make a hologram Rook to leave behind, and invite him to join us).

The last part of the update has us venturing into Vil's dream.

OMG, WE'RE IN FAIREST CITY??? AT QUEEN'S FILM STUDIO???? We just visited this place in a recent event! What perfect timing... I see you, clever TWST devs!

I swear that Vil's outfits are getting worse with each new one I see him in, but that's probably just my fashion sensibilities clashing with his 💦 I thought from the initial silhouette that we would be getting a slightly older Vil to show us how his values have changed since book 6, in which Vil declares he is always beautiful no matter what. Him being older would truly drive that point home; I feel this was a missed opportunity but maybe it wasn’t possible because these dreams don’t seem to be taking place in the “future” but mostly center on the present or past? Something, something, magic limited to what can be imagined and maybe the magic can’t reach that far “ahead”?

aefyeyovfyvqvf HIS NEW HAIRSTYLE KINDA LOOKS LIKE CROWLEY'S, DOESN'T IT...

Here, Vil seems to be highly popular + considered fairest of them all. Additionally, a certain SOMEONE has been relegated to being his mere assistant (and uh, Vil is somewhat demanding of them):

VIL... THIS ISN'T HELPING YOU BEAT THE MEAN GIRL ALLEGATIONS, SWEETIE...

On a more serious note, I think this raises an interesting point about Vil’s character. Try as he might to get over his envy of Neige, it’s clearly still something so deep-rooted in Vil, right up to the end of booo 5. Now this element also permeates in his dream world. Neige “has” to be demoted in so Vil can stand on top—but is that really “fair” to Neige?? Is it truly Vil’s jealousy that informs the dream of this, and thus the dream is spinning this shallow, easy victory for Vil’s satisfaction??? Because the noble Vil I know of in book 5 wouldn’t consider this a real “win”. Very fascinating topic to ponder!

Vil has Neige toss us out, which Neige does. The dream is preemptively acting this time, with dream!Neige coming at us. We make a getaway and somehow whack the head of the announcer + have Rook usurp his role.

As Vil is walking down the red carpet, Rook announces the various sins that Vil has committed. Vil panics and demands that someone shut Rook up, but then he starts to realize things aren't quite right.

We try to intervene, but Neige gets in the way and ultimately Vil is pulled deeper into his own darkness. Everyone else plunges into the dark with Vil?? I was worried that we'd have another battle map segment but thankfully there was none!!

We're back in the VDC backstage hallway area and stumble across a horrifying sight. Neige is on the ground (next to an empty bottle of apple juice) and all Seven Dwarves are surrounding him and sobbing. Ortho runs a scan on his vitals and Neige... FLATLINES...

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?????? THAT VIL ACTUALLY INTENDED TO KILL NEIGE IN BOOK 5????? 💀 Dude... No wonder why Vil was feeling so guilty and screaming that his actions were so "ugly"...

Epel uses his UM to encase Neige in a magical glass coffin to keep him safe. Then they run out onto the VDC stage and hear the announcer declaring that NRC has won. Vil is there soaking up all the attention and praise until we confront him.

Just as he is starting to "awaken", the darkness comes back and Vil alone is taken.

What I find really adorable here is that both Epel and Rook rush to his side and try to pull Vil out of the darkness. They're... OFFERING THEIR HANDS... TO HELP HIM OUT OF THE MIRE... OFFERED HANDS... A MOTIF THAT HAS BEEN IN TWST SINCE THE PROLOGUE... 👁️

Vil finally faces off against his Phantom. Like Idia in the last update, Vil willingly assumes his OB form to do battle. These fights seem very symbolic in the grand scheme of things. Idia and now Vil, confronting the worst, most unsavory parts of themselves, their inner demons, and rising victorious, proving that they have become better people… It continues the little bits of character growth that we’ve been seeing in each of the past books!!

He rises from the darkness and joins up with everyone else after conquering the fight!! The update ends here.

Okay, there's a LOT to talk about????????

The highlight for me was definitely Idia's presentation. It was very fun to watch because of the slick editing and it was a silly way to lay out the plans. I appreciate that we get to see Idia's strengths on display here; he can get long-winded and throw in lots of eccentric gamer slang, but you can also see how quickly he's able to tailor a complex plan together while accounting for many variables. adfhlboafoiyebif I UNDERSTAND THE IDIA HYPE NOW, I UNDERSTAND IT ALL...

(Side note: I did not know where to insert this, so I'll do it at the end! BONUS POINTS TO IDIA FOR RIGHTFULLY CALLING MALLEUS SHALLOW 💀 because his understanding of constitutes as happiness truly IS shallow. Once again, Idia slays with his brutally real words...)

I already said my parts about Epel and Rook's dreams when they happened. It was great seeing how their characters have developed, especially Epel! I never much cared for him, but I really appreciate all that he has done this update.

This pretty much confirms that future updates will have us visiting every remaining classmate's dreams and "waking" them. Admittedly, I'm both excited and worried??? Because that's a TON to cram in, and I worry that not everyone will get proper screentime or development. On the other hand, I'm hype to see what their dreams are like and what other limited SSRs the game might throw at us.

I feel like with the reveal of Vil OBing to fight his Phantom/"inner demons", we'll get similar scenes with the other OB boys coming to terms with what they've done and where they can go from here. This... might lead into the highly desired and speculated about Overblot series of SSRs, which I theorize will be the limited SSRs for each of the OB boys. I'll definitely be keeping my eyes peeled for those, TWST... I wonder if we'll get a Neige card eventually too??? Since we did see his battle assets exist this time. Will Chenya get one too, assuming he comes in a futureHeartslabyul update??

Aaaaaah, next time... Scarabia... 🤡 I'm so hype for that, Scarabia is like my second favorite dorm next to Octavinelle!! (SPEAKING OF, WILL WE FINALLY GET EEL FORM CARDS FOR THE TWINS...)

I’m sliiiightly concerned for Silver because bro used his UM no less than, what? 4 or 5 times this update alone??? He used his UM to enter Yuu’s dream and then Sebek, Lilia, AND Idia’s. Presumably, he also has to use his UM no less than 13 more times (12 more for the remaining boys + 1 more time to return them all to Idia’s to ambush Malleus). And even worse, he has to transport an increasing number of people each time. HOW TF IS SILVER NOT OVERBLOTTING????! 😭

bxjsgwjwnwkcbjsbs This update was nonstop WTF moments sandwiched between genuinely heartfelt moments. It’s been really rewarding to follow along and see how the Pomefiore boys have changed since we first met them all the way back in late book 4, early book 5. Looking forward to seeing how the other boys play out!! (… Book 7 is fr about to be 200+ parts long 😭)

[forsaken-headcanons]

Yippee! A place to yap about Exploiter / Past 7n7!

I think young 07 swore like hell. Just a small show of power, that he isn't bound to any Roblox filters. It's kinda dumb, but hey, 07 is in his what. late teens - early 20s? He's allowed to be childish still. (On the flipside, current 07 doesn't swear at all, and doesn't even like using substitutes for swearing. He figured he should stop after CK copied him swearing.)

07 didn't immediately stop hacking / exploiting when he got CK. I think it took him a few years to actually stop. Part of the reason he didn't stop was, well, he'd already been doing it for years. There's really no point in suddenly stopping, kid or not. Then I think it grew to a desperation thing. A time before he stopped and started to leave that. When he thought it was the only way to help himself and baby CK, since he didn't know how to do much else.

Back when Kidd was really young, I think 7n7 used to read a Lot of parenting books. Some he obtained normally, some he stole, some he just. seemed to be in possession of. He read enough to the point that he could quote the basic ideas each shared. Hell, there was a point he could probably write his own book, or argue with people about it. (He had a lot to say about some the books, since they seemed like pure bullshit to him. Never did.) In that same vein, he went to a few different parenting classes! They. went. They weren't bad, but they definitely weren't the best.

Since he was a hacker, 07 knew the most random people that you'd never expect him to know. Most of the time it was one off conversations, or knowing a guy that knows a guy. People knew his name, he knew theirs kinda ordeal. (Current 7n7 mentions that he knows people off handly because of this. Mostly whenever another exploiter or hacker is referenced, or if a specific hack / exploit is referenced. Though he's also aware of random users that the others talk about. He just knows about a ton of people.)

There was a time 7n7 only spoke in coding phrases and leetspeak. He thought it was funny and cool, and then became a habit. He mostly kicked it as he got older, but still does it periodically in a cabin. (Sometimes it's bad enough, that only the admins can get what he's referencing, and even then, it can be iffy.) c00lkidd picked this up from him.

And another 7n7 hc that isn't quite past 7:

7n7 would definitely have been the house that every kid wanted to spend time at when CK made it into middle / high. The one that people stayed at when they had no other place. Which 7 was happy for, that he could be safe! But it is kinda hard when you're a single dad who's already struggling to care for himself and Kidd.

(Anyway, thanks for reading my yapping. I'm just so abnormal about 007n7 and hope everyday for lore about past him. Either with baby CK or pre c00l time.)

I love exploiter 7n7 so much. Especially after he got c00lkidd and tried to straighten up his act.

[triangular-static]

look i understand if people just don't like the idea of billford, i think we have a different internal concept of what shipping means (they're not good for each other at all but i need to dissect their dynamic like a bug. you understand. it's fun) but it's fine to avoid things you don't like, good for you genuinely

however people saying they like. don't see it. like. i'm not saying there's no platonic way to read it, i'm aroace spec myself i'm all for reading things in different ways. but i do think saying they weren't partners in any queer sense at all is trying too hard to go against what the narrative is trying to say, or missing it. somehow

anyway media literacy time if a character makes a joke like this

and the previous context of that joke within the show is that it's about an ex wife. what connection do you think the text is trying to get you to make.

and that's just from a writing point of view. not even noting that from an in universe perspective ford likely knows the joke from the same source as stan. and is therefore. placing himself in that role of the joke are you seeing where i'm coming from

(not to mention bill's side of this text which is. extremely manipulative but also does not read very platonic. again, it can technically be read as platonic! bill literally can manipulate ford's feelings. but the specific wording used is very much meant to look like possessive ex partner wording whether the character means it that way or not. it's coding. look again i'm not saying it was good for them i'm just saying there was something there.)

and then there's also the divorce/break up/rock bottom input on the website. like. how else is that supposed to be read. and the corresponding page in the book itself.

the language being used here. like yes he's saying it in a joking way but then there's the other side that isn't joking which is him crying at the bar. it's the both sides (the very coded language on top of the very genuine emotions and dynamic beneath)

i know most of us are on the same page with this i've just seen a couple people saying they don't see it when this is some of the most clear cut coding i've ever seen. and these are just the things that explicitly reference a relationship off the top of my head i'm not even including the general vibes of Everything

tl;dr it's barely even subtext anymore it's all but straight up text. what's not clicking have we forgotten what coding is (lighthearted i just enjoy the phrase what's not clicking. what's not clicking)

[softantlers]

please share the main thesis of your lottie matthews gender dissertation

god, okay. so there's this book called "my race is my gender" that i always paw through when i see it in stores and it's a portrait book with essays. to be honest, i care less about the concept of the book (which seems -gestures- interesting) and more in the phrasing. *that notion* of "my race is my gender" is really important to my conception of lottie as continually becoming her gender at the same time as she moves into her race at the same time as both are obliterated (and liberated??) by the wilderness.

WOO BOY.

people will say the show gives us shit-all on lottie's race (and to some extent, they're right) and that the show codes her as functionally white. i don't really like this take because it presumes that someone mixed race with a white parent who is (we are assuming because the show doesn't explicitly tell us this) dissociated from their other parent's culture is necessarily living a white context. speaking from my own experience, that's not true. there are levels of dissociation i feel, but the in betweeness of it all isn't the same as being white. if anything, the in betweeness makes you feel like an alien, not able to fully slot either which way.

i actually don't have a problem with the perception that lottie may be dissociated from her mom's culture because i think that's VERY REAL and fascinating rep to see in a show like yellowjackets. some mixed race people with a white parent are raised with intention toward integration and some (like myself) are not and have to claw their culture back over the course of their lives (or not). it's just real! and so, lottie's upbringing with a white dad (who seems so fucking unlikely to support or even be interested in her mom's background, let's be honest) makes me think this is the scenario for her. at the same time, simone's decision to incorporate the koru tattoo for adult lottie makes me think it's important and humanizing to consider teen lottie as being in this journey space. something has happened between the timelines that gets lottie to a position where she has a more explicit marker of culture on her skin.

wrt teen lottie, she is trying to be... someone. she is trying to actualize herself in the wilderness. the combination of growing up mixed race (which i don't think we should try to remove from lottie's character just because the show isn't doing much with it explicitly) with an unspeakable (in the 90s) mental health condition + being in such a different class space as her peers makes her entirely unrelatable. i really think lottie is less of a popular rich girl than an alien disguised as a popular rich girl to others. maybe she gets away with being "weird" more because of the regard people have for her wealth, but it doesn't take away her isolation. lottie is an island. the scene where the maid hands her the loxapine bottle at an empty dining table speaks VOLUMES. her mother doesn't understand what it's like to be mixed white. her father sure as hell doesn't understand what it's like to be multigenerational mixed and māori. she's got no common ground, no peers, no nothing to see herself in.

but the wilderness... this is a place where lottie slots in. where she makes sense to people (if only temporarily) and possesses an influence that is wholly apart from her dad's. people like her for HER (who she is unmedicated and unfiltered, as problematic as that becomes)... until they don't... but the baseline affirmation in s2 keeps lottie going.

what i think is so interesting about lottie's connection to the wilderness is something that's kinda ignored within the fandom... it's that lottie, at first, tries to do the christian thing. she falls in with a white girl and gets affirmation from her that what she's experiencing has something to do with capital-G GOD. what i find so important about this dynamic is that lottie IS NOT tapped into God, and--and--AND she doesn't go on to pretend that she is!! lottie's tapped into something else... to me, there's something so understated but important in lottie's quiet decision not to accept the white western conception of God that's being directly handed to her on a platter... it's just... very very good. without even discussing why she doesn't, lottie simply... doesn't.

because lottie is feeling something ELSE, even if she never directly tells laura lee so. and i think it speaks A LOT that lottie doesn't go on to frame her connection to the wildrness in an explicitly christian context moving forward. to me, it's so natural for her not to that it doesn't require a passing thought. christianity just isn't what's happening here.

(here, i'm not trying to diminish lottie's relationship with laura lee, but it IS a relationship of misinterpretation. i mean, god, for me it's a lot like the following exchange wrt race:

"what are you?"

"oh... my mom is māori, cook islander, some chinese. my dad is white."

"really? you look like xyz!"

"...okay."

lottie is not SEEN for all of her. instead, a sliver of lottie is seen by laura lee, but tbh a sliver of lottie is all that's seen by anyone. she's an island.)

and yeah, so here is where things get dicey because we have to deal with the fact that the show is probably not intending the majority of the messages that it has sent with lottie wrt her being indigenous... disclaimer: i am not claiming the representation is good or thoughtful or ANYTHING in terms of her being māori (and i'm going to take a backseat to people who have the perspective to judge this better than me).

BUT i am suggesting that it is, at the minimum, interesting to think about lottie tapping into the natural world while all of the yellowjackets (including her) are forced out of their western bubble. it's interesting that lottie never frames the wilderness in exchanges or bloodlust until the other girls start to frame it that way themselves (as when gen says "two people dead in exchange for a break in the snow?" and lottie responds that this isn't how the wilderness works, it doesn't operate in exchanges, it listens to us...) the idea that the wilderness is something that responds to the corruption within it and that lottie is this sort of conduit for the girls who then begins to reflect back their corruption, even as she initially introduced the wilderness as something nurturing and listening... makes my brain buzz with messages about indigenous assimilation, appropriation, and scapegoating/villification. but like i said, i think this is something the show is presenting by accident without much intention, so... it's difficult to run with!

anyways, anyways, anyways. so gender. (i'm losing steam but bear with me.) a lot of people talk about lottie as a jesus figure in the wilderness. while the xtian of it all is meh to meee, it's still a compelling comparison. lottie becomes a kind of blank canvas in the wilderness. she feels very gender ambivalent to me. throughout s2, she wears pretty much the same clothes (sort of at odds with natalie who is actualizing her gender/personhood through clothes despite the wilderness). and same with s3. she seems to be wearing whatever the hell is around, or just wearing laura lee's dress. the only thing that seems more intentional about lottie is her pink docs (which i've written about as a sliver of her personhood peeking through before). but yeah, there is a jesus vibe. lottie is equal parts gentle (with akilah) and she is jibing (with tai). she is affectionate and she is forgiving. she is thoughtful and she is distant. she's really fucking homoerotic. she's tortured. sure, it gives jesus.

but i think that it also gives wilderness. the wilderness becomes lottie's whole personhood. it becomes her gender. the gender ambivalence feels like part of this transmutation. she's losing who she was before and on a journey toward something different. she's all she's ever been really, in between, in between races, in between periods of lucidity and delusion, but it's different now because she feels like she's *on to something*. she'll give herself over for it...

i think lottie surrendering her personhood to the wilderness is simply everything about her character. she, more than most of the girls, is never allowed to be certain. not of her race, not of her own reality, not of any of her identities... but the wilderness is one of the first things that feels certain to her. to be honest, i relate a lot to this drive to sort of absolve your ambiguities. take away the pain and the clash that makes me this too complicated person, this too much person, and deliver me into something else, something that clicks. the wilderness, unlike either sides of her race, unlike the social dynamics around her gender, unlike the regulation on her mental health, is hers. (does that make sense? it's hard to put into words, but dammit! i get it. this is mine, this is who i am, i want it to *take me*. oh, lottie.)

so in the adult timeline, it's interesting because we have a lottie who is elegant and feminine. a lottie who has the koru tattoo. she's done some growing but growing isn't without pain. one thing about being mixed is that you don't get affirmation that you belong from others. you have to try to justify yourself as legitimate or turn away from trying. it is lifelong and continuous! in the adult timeline, it seems that lottie is trying. and trying hurts!! i have to wonder what it was like living with her mom after her parents divorced and if that proximity to her own mother impacted the gender she leans into in the adult timeline. maybe this also relates back to the koru tattoo-- lottie's efforts to get closer and perhaps succeeding!

but then the wilderness comes back and we see lottie lose herself again. god, i just have to keep saying it's so relatable. working toward a gender, working toward belonging within your race-- it fucking sucks. it hurts. you get pushed away, you get pushed around. not to mention the mental health of it all, which i don't want to circumvent by just addressing gender/race. idk everything inside her is meshed up and connected. she's always been a character that's drowning.

even on the compound, lottie isn't really seen. it's an image. it's a role. is it her? who knows?? but she is trying, and for fuck's sake can everyone just see that she's trying??? (who the hell is lottie matthews indeed)

but yeah, i think the wilderness coming back offers a sort of release from the energy of navigating it all. "here i am again. i can take you and make it all stop if you let me." here, let me just say: i'm not idealizing the wilderness at all-- i don't think it's good for lottie. but i do think it makes sense as a maladjusted desire to become something that is HER OWN, rather than trying to fit in boxes that sometimes strangle her (even if she might find what she needs in the struggle). what i'm getting at is that lottie's gender... lottie's race... lottie's mental health... it's this battle, and i think it's why the wilderness appeals to her. and i think it's why we have such interesting swings pre-, post-, and during the wilderness wrt gender.

and idk-- this was long as FUCK, and i am not saying my interpretation of lottie is correct. it's influenced a lot by my perspective, and i'm sure i'm missing layers of her (like everyone will since no one is precisely her) but i do think it's a humanizing take on her relationship with the wilderness, race, and gender. and idk she as a character means a lot to me because of it!

[fear-is-truth]

What is a random headcanons you have of Kai? Like the type of headcanons that would make him seem really human and not like he's constantly a murderer or psychopathic.

KAI ANDERSON // headcanons

a/n: here goes.. but i fear he’s just as fucked up bc i was trying to be realistic ya know

judges people by their handshakes. a weak grip disgusts him, and he’ll never respect someone with gross clammy hands.

watches old footage of leaders like hitler, stalin, or jfk to study their body language, hand movements. kai practices in front of a mirror until it feels natural. every gesture he makes while speaking is rehearsed. the way he waves his hands, points, or clenches his fists is meant to manipulate emotions.

practices subtle gestures (touching someone’s shoulder, making intense eye contact) to make people subconsciously trust him.

enjoys watching true crime documentaries and infodumps about jonestown or heaven’s gate.

remembers oddly specific details about people but weaponises them later in arguments.

thrives on debates, especially when he can dominate someone intellectually. he’ll derail conversations just to win, even if it’s about the dumbest shit like the best way to eat a subway sandwich.

has entire passages of nietzsche and shakespeare memorized, knows random latin phrases and sprinkles them into conversations to seem cultured.

hates losing at anything—he’ll rage quit a game of monopoly if it’s not going his way.

when fixated on something—a person, an idea, or a goal—he becomes consumed by it. spends hours researching or strategising, often at the expense of his health.

has casually invested in bitcoin and other cryptocurrencies. checks his coinbase and binance accounts obsessively. has strong opinions about dogecoin being a joke.

occasionally reads self-help books.

his library consists mostly of power-centric books. his favourites include the prince by machiavelli, the 48 laws of power by robert greene, the art of war by sun tzu, and nietzsche’s thus spoke zarathustra. also delves into russian literature like dostoevsky’s notes from underground and tolstoy’s war and peace.

collects super offensive internet memes in a private folder. posts pepe memes on 4chan ironically but secretly thinks they’re funny.

leaves people on read for hours, just because.

desensitised himself to gore.

loves gta, rdr2 and civilization VI. played cod religiously in his incel days.

follows elon musk on x (formerly known as twitter) and admires him as a disruptor of society. or maybe it’s a tech bro thing idk. retweets his memes but also calls him a sellout for pandering to the masses.

loathes andrew tate for his shallow and illogical takes but agrees with 10% of his misogynistic rhetoric.

posts inflammatory tweets that toe the line between radicalism and satire, carefully wording them to avoid getting banned.

an avid user of letterboxd. some of his reviews are super scathing—but for some reason, they always blow up. he’d open the app to find that his hate review on la la land got 7.2k likes. screenshot compilations circulate on reddit and instagram.

his letterboxd favourites are: american psycho, fight club, the social network and the matrix (all 5 star ratings)—but claims he likes them for their philosophical depth.

his favourite show is mr. robot, saying elliot alderson is “the closest thing to a genius on tv.” he also likes the twilight zone and breaking bad.

obsessed with eminem—he’s been a fan ever since d-12. the marshall mathers lp are his go-to rage anthems. thinks lose yourself is the pinnacle of motivational music.

thinks kanye west is a misunderstood genius and frequently defends him online.

uses dark mode on every device.

apple loyalist. owns a macbook, iphone, and airpods because he appreciates their sleek and minimalistic design. calls android users “peasants.”

never charges his phone until it has like 2% left.

brilliant with tech—can hack into nearly anything. knows how to code in several languages, always staying on top of the latest tech trends and occasionally contributes to dark web forums.

builds custom pcs for fun. dabbles in coding and hacking. knows how to create computer viruses.

used to spend wayyy too much time on forums like 4chan, r/RedPill, r/foreveralone and r/incels, though he’s mostly active on subreddits like r/iamverybadass, and r/unpopularopinion. also lurks r/atheism just to mock people with religion.

frequently visits r/AmITheAsshole to judge people, always siding with the “bad guy.” bro has the potential to be a criminal defense lawyer that the DA despises.

lowkey obsessed with angelina jolie, specifically from her tomb raider days. probably has a pinup poster stashed somewhere in his room.

uses arctic fox’s poseidon blue hair dye.

firmly believes in the efficiency of 3-in-1 body wash, shampoo, and conditioner.

wears dior sauvage because it’s “masculine but sophisticated.” probably bought it after seeing johnny depp in an ad.

when he’s in a mood, kai loves sneaking up on people to startle them. he’s perfected the art of standing silently in doorways until someone notices.

prefers dogs because they’re trainable, loyal, and trusting on their owner. in other words they are easy to manipulate and control.

constantly rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. it’s both a habit and a way to intimidate people.

his lust for power stems from feeling powerless in his youth, particularly after witnessing his father’s abuse to his mother and the lack of control he had over the situation.

struggles to process complex emotions like guilt, shame, or empathy. often suppresses them or redirects them into rage.

swings between grandiosity (believing he’s destined for greatness) and crippling self-doubt (thinking he’s fundamentally unlovable)

finds it almost impossible to open up emotionally unless it’s to manipulate someone.

criticism, even minor, eats away at him. he’ll stew over it for days, replaying it in his head while devising ways to “prove them wrong.”

gets uneasy if someone expresses affection without clear reason—suspects ulterior motives.

goes online to stalk whoever winter’s dating at the time. sends cryptic, vaguely threatening texts from a burner number or straight up dox them. half of it is for shits and giggles, the other half is rooted in jealousy.

he’s attracted to girls who are intelligent and opinionated. independent but emotionally vulnerable, so he can swoop in and “save” them (he has a saviour complex). loyalty is non-negotiable, and she has to make him feel like her top priority.

anyone resembling winter is immediately his type, but he’d never admit it.

freakishly good at darts and chess.

knows how to pick locks and also, how to build a perfect pipe bomb.

his clown mask is inspired by satan in dante’s divine comedy (based on this convo with @porcelainlipgloss)

alternates between ice-cold showers and scalding hot ones depending on his mood.

drums his fingers or shakes his leg while sitting. can spin a pen around his fingers like a pro. learned it during boring college lectures and now does it absentmindedly.

can’t stand slow walkers, or when someone scrapes a fork on their teeth. his reactions to these are disproportionate and borderline hostile.

prone to road rage.

has read elliot rodger’s manifesto once, mostly out of curiosity and boredom, but ended up getting weirdly immersed in it. he disagreed with the bravado and entitlement, though—he finds it pathetic and would mock it, but still, he couldn’t put it down. deep down, he understands the mindset too well, which makes him uncomfortable.

selectively polite. says “please” and “thank you” when it benefits him but will completely ignore social etiquette in other situations, like cutting lines or taking the last slice of pizza.

his workout playlist consists of nine inch nails, rammstein. aggressive rap like eminem (“till i collapse” is a staple) and dmx. sometimes mixes in orchestral movie scores (the dark knight rises soundtrack pumps him up)

brushes his teeth aggressively, so his toothbrushes always wear out quickly.

loves gas station beef jerky and bags of plain popcorn with way too much salt.

doesn’t drink often, claiming alcohol dulls the mind. but when he does, it’s always something hardcore like everclear or absinthe. has a surprisingly high alcohol tolerance.

can literally live off black coffee or monster zero ultra (white can). claims he doesn’t need caffeine, but drinks it constantly because he “likes the bitterness.”

his handwriting is pretty neat, but only when he’s focused—otherwise, it’s chicken scratch.

loves the smell of gasoline and sharpies.

can’t sit his ass down during phone conversations—kai paces back and forth like a caged animal.

rarely gets more than four hours of sleep.

and when he does sleep, he sleeps on his stomach with one arm dangling off the bed.

sleep talks under extreme stress.

secretly likes it when someone takes care of him. whether it’s bandaging a cut or insisting he eats when he’s been working too hard, he fucking melts. he’ll complain about being babied, but it’s a front.

[mister-snape]

Severus Snape’s Speech Characteristics Across the Harry Potter Series (Part 5)

Idiolect and Unique Speech Patterns

Despite being a British wizard, Snape does not use a distinct regional dialect – his English is standard and refined. Instead, what stands out is his idiolect, the unique way he speaks. We’ve touched on many idiolect features: the formality, the sarcasm, the signature insults. A key aspect of Snape’s personal speech is how he addresses others and refers to things in his own way. For example, Snape consistently refers to Lord Voldemort as “the Dark Lord”. This is telling – “Dark Lord” is the term Death Eaters and his followers use, rather than saying Voldemort’s name. In a conversation with Bellatrix Lestrange, Snape pointedly asks, “Perhaps you disagree with the Dark Lord; perhaps you think that Dumbledore would not have noticed if I had joined forces with the Death Eaters?” This not only shows Snape’s alignment (he uses the same terminology as Voldemort’s circle), but also his rhetorical style of doubling phrases (“perhaps you…; perhaps you…”). Using “the Dark Lord” instead of any other name is a distinctive Snape trait that other Hogwarts staff do not share – for instance, Dumbledore or Harry say “Voldemort” or “You-Know-Who,” but Snape sticks to the reverential term from his Death Eater days. His idiolect thus hints at his background and loyalties (at least on the surface, as a former Death Eater).

Snape’s idiolect also includes repeated expressions and verbal habits. One noticeable habit is his frequent use of certain adverbs like “obviously”, “clearly”, “certainly”, and “perhaps” – typically employed to condescend. For instance, as mentioned, “Clearly, fame isn’t everything.” or “Obviously, Potter, your aptitude is lacking.” (Snape implies things are obvious to him that others have missed). Another common phrase is his biting “I have no idea.” We see this when Snape feigns ignorance with Umbridge – Harry gives Snape a coded plea for help in Order of the Phoenix, and Snape coolly replies, “I have no idea what you are talking about.” delivered in a deadpan manner. This phrase “I have no idea” (said coldly) becomes a sort of catchphrase for Snape’s feigned innocence or sarcasm. Additionally, Snape sometimes uses antiquated or very formal constructions like “Do not tell me you have forgotten our appointment” instead of a simpler “Don’t tell me…”, which adds to his stern persona. He also tends to attach “Potter”, “Mr. Potter”, or other names at the end of his sentences (“No doubt you thought that was clever, Potter.”) – this habit of punctuating statements with the person’s name emphasizes his direct, confrontational style. It’s as if he’s verbally underlining who is being addressed and put in their place.

Another unique behavior is Snape’s tendency to speak in a very controlled volume and pace. This isn’t a lexical choice but a speech pattern: he often draws out certain words or speaks slowly for effect. For example, when extremely irritated, he might enunciate every syllable of a student’s name or a phrase with deadly deliberation – “How... very... touching...” or “Potter...**”. This slow, measured drawl is a Snape trademark, indicating simmering anger. The books sometimes indicate this with ellipses or descriptions like “Snape’s voice was dangerously soft”. In text quotes, we might not see the ellipses, but readers infer the drawn-out tone from context and wording. Snape also uses emphasis on certain words (often italicized in the text) to convey sarcasm or ridicule. For example, “Obviously,” said Snape in a tone that implied it was anything but obvious. These emphases and pacing choices are part of Snape’s idiolect as much as the words he chooses. They create the unmistakable rhythm of Snape’s speech – a mix of pauses, silken smooth phrases, and sudden snaps.

Finally, Snape’s polite or respectful mode of speech is reserved for very few. When speaking to Dumbledore, for example, Snape is generally courteous and succinct, yet still retains his dry manner. He doesn’t gush or become chatty; he simply states information or opinions directly. In private, he might drop some of the classroom sneering. For instance, in a memory in Deathly Hallows, Snape speaks candidly and emotionally to Dumbledore: “You have kept him alive so that he can die at the proper moment?” – here Snape’s tone (inferred from context) is shocked and angry, but the phrasing is still perfectly clear English. Another famous line in that same conversation is Snape’s one-word response “Always.” – which he says quietly when asked if he still cares for Lily. This brevity and sincerity is striking coming from Snape, whose usual speech is neither brief nor openly heartfelt. It shows that his idiolect can shift when discussing something deeply personal: he abandons sarcasm entirely. In that moment, his typical speech patterns fall away (no insults, no elaborate sentences, just a simple, honest word). This reveals that Snape’s standard speech – formal, sarcastic, controlled – is partly a persona or professional mask, which can drop in rare circumstances.

to be continued...

[riverreignwrites]

Player Two

Henry Cavill x Male reader Requested? yes/no Warnings: Tom Nook Intended reader: Male reader/Female reader Parts: one

🥭🍑🥭🍑🥭🍑🥭🍑🥭🎞️🎮❤️👾🍑🥭🍑🥭🍑🥭🍑🥭🍑

Henry had known love before. Or at least, he’d thought he had. He’d loved games, his dog, stories, characters, and silence. But he’d never known what it was to love someone who handed him a four-page critique of his Witcher performance on set, complete with color-coded notes and a highlighted diagram of the differences between the show’s timeline and the game’s quest structure.

He’d stood there, flipping through the annotated packet, while his boyfriend casually sipped coffee next to a baffled production assistant.

“You annotated a script breakdown,” Henry said, dumbfounded.

“Page three has footnotes,” his boyfriend said, like that explained everything.

That’s when he knew. Knew-knew.

This man was it.

They were the same breed of nerd—though his boyfriend might’ve been even deeper in. Henry liked to think he was seasoned, but nothing could prepare him for the moment he learned the love of his life owned three Nintendo Switches.

“Why?” Henry had asked, holding one like it might multiply if he blinked.

“Islands, babe. I need more islands.”

“That’s not… that’s not a normal sentence.”

His boyfriend just grinned. “Neither is the phrase ‘I repainted a Warhammer battalion while my RTX was compiling shaders,’ but here we are.”

Their love was messy and beautiful. They yelled at each other during split-screen Mario Kart, threw pillows during Halo, and fought dramatic, Shakespearean battles over who kept killing the farm’s chickens in Stardew Valley.

“You put the mayonnaise machine next to the graveyard!”

“It’s thematic!”

Henry, for all his strength and charm, absolutely refused to be in the room if Tom Nook was on screen. His boyfriend would enter the Animal Crossing shop, and Henry would stand up like it was a fire drill.

“Nope,” he’d say, grabbing his book and walking out. “I’m not getting emotionally involved in your raccoon loan shark spiral again.”

His boyfriend once threw a controller during a seemingly minor dialogue about loan repayments.

It had bounced.

Henry never forgot it.

But in the quiet moments, they sat side by side, controllers in hand, eyes glassy from a late-night indie game session. They passed snacks back and forth without speaking, like a well-oiled co-op machine.

“Did you cry at Spiritfarer?” his boyfriend asked once, in the dark.

Henry didn’t look away from the screen. “No.”

“Liar.”

Pause. Then, a quiet: “…Yes.”

And his boyfriend just smiled, sliding closer until they were touching.

When Henry finished a hard day filming, voice raspy from lines and body sore from armor, he’d come home to a blanket fort already built. A Switch charging. Steam already open. And his boyfriend with a second controller in hand, scooting over on the couch.

“Player One is tired,” he’d say, patting the seat. “Let Player Two take the lead tonight.”

Henry would smile. Sit. Melt.

And as the soft glow of screens lit their living room, fingers brushing on shared keyboards, bodies curled into each other between boss fights and stargazing in pixelated skies, Henry would think:

Yeah.

This is it.

His Player Two.

Always.

[vidavalor]

Why do you think Crowley was awake in the 19th century in the show but not the book? 🤔

Hi there 💕I think that the simple answer is that sleep passage in the novel isn't just about sleep. If you look at how it is worded, it is also using sleep-- rest and relaxation-- as euphemistic for sex. It's a pretty funny part of the coding in the novel so let's take it apart. The parts that I bolded are what we'll look at, in particular:

"Evil, in general, does not sleep, and therefore doesn't see why anyone else should. But Crowley liked sleep, it was one of the pleasures of the world. Especially after a heavy meal. He'd slept right through most of the nineteenth century, for example. Not because he needed to, simply because he enjoyed it."

The first line in the paragraph establishes that Evil-- Satan and the demons of Hell-- don't really literally sleep and therefore do not see the point of it. This line is also a joke on what Aziraphale puns about elsewhere-- the "evil never sleeps"/"no rest for the wicked" idioms. The second line in the paragraph shows us how Crowley is different and tells us something else about him that then helps to set into motion the euphemistic nature of the paragraph:

"But Crowley liked sleep, it was one of the pleasures of the world."

If it had just said that Crowley enjoyed sleep, the paragraph would just continue to seem to be only about sleep. By mentioning, though, that Crowley enjoyed sleep because "it was one of the pleasures of the world", the paragraph is now also telling us that Crowley enjoys not only sleep but the pleasures of the world... which is a noticeably erotic way to put his enjoyment of sleep lol. The phrasing immediately reminds us that sex is one of the pleasures of the world and gives us the impression that this paragraph is saying that Crowley enjoys sex, too, which sets up for the next line really hammering home the euphemistic layer of the paragraph.

The following line adds that Crowley enjoys sleep-- literal sleep lol-- "especially after a heavy meal." Ah, yes. Food is here. This being Good Omens, we're now for sure also talking about sex. 😉

In reality, they aren't doing anything terribly original with food-as-sex here-- the very first sexual euphemisms ever were food-related-- but that was also sort of the point. Nightingales Cant is not an impenetrable bit of coding. And if you can't see food as also sex in Good Omens, well... I'm not sure we're watching the same show. This topic giving me a fun excuse for this amusing gif I came across the other day...

So, now we've switched back to talking about literal sleep in the first half of the sentence-- but only because Good Omens' favorite sex euphemism of food has now entered the paragraph to take up the innuendo torch for a moment. Crowley enjoys literal sleep after a heavy meal-- and after a "heavy meal", if ya know what I mean? 😉

In fact, the paragraph continues with further details...

"He'd slept right through most of the nineteenth century, for example." Stop 😂... The first time I read this line I snorted an iced mocha up my nose laughing.

So, Crowley had plenty of literal naps in the 19th century-- following what he also had during that time period and many others, which was plenty of food and quite a lot of sex. The wordplay in this sentence is also made funnier by the inclusion of "for example"-- ample amounts of x/sex was had in the 19th century for our sleep-loving Crowley. 😂

Why did he sleep so much in the 19th century and continues to do so, in general?

"Not because he needed to, simply because he enjoyed it."

The words simply and simple are also used repeatedly in The Arrangement passage in the novel, which is all using wordplay to detail aspects of Crowley & Aziraphale's relationship euphemistically as well. The story is shouting the word IMPLIED at the audience as a wink to read the double-meanings there on the page.

In the t.v. series, they flip back and forth between having the word implied itself and using the word simple in scenes that have an element of sex involved in them-- Bildad's "... and, to complete the process, a simple embrace."; Aziraphale's "It's perfectly simple. You just aim for my mouth but shoot past my ear." The 1601 scene, which is echoing aspects of The Arrangement from the novel, has Aziraphale helping people to get it by saying imply where the book said simple and simply in the "what I infer that you are implying" line.

The choice of the word enjoyed in the sleep paragraph here is also relevant for the etymology of joy, which I've included in the post linked below. Its original definition was sexual ecstasy, which adds to the wink-wink nature of sleep in this part of the novel.

The paragraph is saying that it wasn't required that Crowley slept-- or "slept"-- since he was a supernatural being who could, technically, go without either but the paragraph tells us that he doesn't go without sleep or sex because he enjoys all forms of rest and all the pleasures of the world. He leans into the desires of his particular human corporation which, for him, includes sex.

This is also why Aziraphale ties that dry joke about virtue being ever-vigilant to discussion of sleep in the novel-- because they use sleep as euphemistic for sex between them. For other sleep-as-sex, see: Good Omens: Lockdown, where Crowley refers to jerking off as "having a nap."

The etymology of joy, also relevant to Crowley's flirting in 1941:

[respectthepetty]

Background Noise in Peaceful Property

Because I have a lot of feelings about Peaceful Property, I need everyone to sit with me in the knowledge that the only parts of the sign that are lit are "Cok Long" hehe

Kan was the only one to have a double show up in her intro, which goes with my theory that she is not who she appears to be.

Also, she couldn't decide what sucker to pick at the store.

Interesting . . .

Although Kan has already picked up on Pang's phrases ("Did it alone, my bum"), she hasn't picked up on the ghost activity. She wasn't in Best's house the first episode, she left the warehouse to take a call before Rak showed up, when Home went back to give Rak expensive food, Kan was too busy examining the lockers to see anything else, she didn't see Pang being possessed because when she showed up with Rak's husband, Pang passed out, and when she made the wig for Rak, Rak didn't do anything, so she had to rely on Peach's word that the ghost was there.

While Kan grabbed a sucker in the store, Pang picked ham

And Peach picked bread, but this was BEFORE the manager told them what Rak's favorite food was, so he most likely made it up based on what they had already selected.

The picture we saw in the first episode of Best and Peach with the frowny face covering up whoever is standing between them,

It now has a smiley face in the middle, and it's bleeding in the intro.

In the intro, the books by the pictures of Home with his grandfather are American Style, Kinfolk (2x), Changeless (a paranormal romance novel), and a book about cooking (interesting)

But both pictures shatter causing a separation between Home and his grandfather in the image.

And his grandfather kept these pictures on his desk in his office which is now being occupied by the lead attorney.

All of the characters are color-coded.

So Rak possessed the Pink Person.

Red Rascal Home wore orange twice

But in the end, Blue (and Green) Boy Peach wore orange

And Home wore blue.

However, I think everyone will wear orange at some point because all roads lead to the grandfather.

Finally, the uncle joked that he would buy all the properties, and Home told him he knew he just wanted to make a profit, but the warehouse immediately got in offer while they were still in the building. It's too sus to be connected, no?

Oh, and when Pang told Peach that he was a good and kind big brother who she would always support, the steak in the shape of a heart was behind her.

And when Peach was talking about how much he hates the name Home picked for them, the heart steak is by Peach's left sleeve

I ship it.

[boilingcowboy]

my take on the judo flip thing because uhhh yes i know this is a kids book but i still wanna talk about it so deal with it.

BECAUSE OKAY listen the hole „omg annabeth is so toxic she’s so abusive“ thing is not getting old it is old

and honestly i do not think that some people understand the different layers that that scene has and by that scene i mean the hole reunion scene not just the judo flip

(i should be color coding this but ehh who cares) and also obviously everyone interprets things differently bla bla bla the stuff

but i do think that this scene has a multitude of layers that especially make sense when you take into account that at that time percabeth had spent more time being friends than being a couple and that plays deeply into why the judo happened

because yes you have the reunion of them as a couple where they kiss and embrace which you would expect cus yk they’re together they haven’t seen each other in months and it was all sort of tragic and it’s just what you would expect from a couple

but also to them percabeth as a whole the kissing and embracing openly in front of people and generally just being a couple to them that’s still new-ish, it’s still a bit unfamiliar, it’s not how they have been in public for most of their time knowing each other. yes i know they kissed and embraced in front of people before that but largely that was after the battle of manhattan before that a lot of scenes of them kissing is in private even hugs are mostly in private.

basically what i am trying to say is that because they didn’t get the time to get used to being a couple in public and getting comfortable with that and familiar before percy got stolen the hole display of the reunion didn’t 100% register nor prove to honestly both parties that they fully got the relationship they had before back.

which is where the judo flip comes in.

because before being a couple you know what percy and annabeth were ?? yeah best friends. best friends who for YEARS routinely fought, trained and worked with each other.

Honestly the hole judo flip and then the „if you do this ever again i swear to gods“ thing is the most them publicly that they know because for a good majority in public they’re like that they were like that since day one!! they were at each other’s throats since day one!!! this is what’s familiar to them both!! And the fact that both of their reactions to the judo flip are relief/calmness (annabeth) and laughter/i know what she means by this (percy) just proves that. And yes they were still at each other’s throats in all of the books sometimes good natured sometimes not but especially publicly they were like that.

Also the reason i keep saying publicly publicly all the time is because they behaved differently in public/around other people vs in private and it’s pretty noticeable and it also in my opinion affects how familiar certain actions feel to them both in public and in private. (while yes there is the hole phrase of „oh nothing else matterd no one else mattered“ sometimes subconsciously it still does!!)

so to get back to my layers i think the two different embraces where the two different stages percabeth has because yes they’re now a couple but before that they were friends and a lot of times the „oh they were literally best friends before this“ comes out to show and play into their dynamic

okay yay done this probably doesn’t make sense but i need the thoughts out of my head so take it and i might rewrite this when i can coherently make sense of this…or not who knows i don’t it’s really late rn

pretty sure i lost the plot two sentences in but ehhhh

also if you see pervy instead of percy that’s a typo!!

[arkanis-englishupdates]

SUMMARY OF ALL ARKANIS POVs

DAY 07 — 09/09/2024

The day begins with the city returning to its chaotic routine.

Matt gets another fear book that contained another coordinate, the day suddenly turning to night again. The demon gathers his friends online to bring the day back again (after the admins fixed the coordinate error), arriving at the indicated location.

In the place there was a strange all-black building a little higher in the sky, the song (Which unfortunately the Admin couldn't find) playing the same way as the last two songs. Breaking down the entire construction, a chest is found with countless buckets of blood forming the letter "B" and a book with the following text:

"The boy was cursed

he wears

gsslw qaq epi buaua elfz"

Translating the code using the vigenere cipher using the keyword "Lobisomem" ("Werewolf") the following sentence is revealed:

"Green with his blue friend"

After the group splits up after theorizing, Matt meets with Meiaum and Felps and the trio theorize about Quel (It is said by Meiaum that he was there the day Quel appeared and he was the first to arrive at the burned house, finding a book inside the trunk saying about Quel having so much potential, but fail in something we don't know yet

Afterwards, the trio meets with Quel and Wuant to talk about the negative reaction that Jota has towards Quel, Matt then has the idea of ​​taking Quel to the house where there are books in other strange alphabet hoping to spark a memory in the half-masked bear. It didn't work and Secretary Alice, who was with the group too, said she didn't know anything about the books.

After Quel leaves to talk to Meiaum, Felps, Matt, and Wuant begin to theorize about Quel and her broken mask again. Strange boats start to appear and move slowly.

Meanwhile, while Quel and Meiaum were talking, a voice coming from nowhere started talking to them (mainly Quel), making the two run away to where Matt, Wuant and Felps were. As soon as he heard about the boats, Meiaum freaked out and started running away calling for someone called "Tracinho", stopping on a hill. More boats start to appear around as Meiaum calms down.

While they were talking, Felps ended up getting into one of the moving boats and was teleported into an underground cave with a small lake in the center. After talking for a while (and more boats appearing around the cave) everyone agrees to leave Quel inside the cave for a moment to see if anything from her memory comes back.

After a few minutes inside the cave, Quel is teleported into a dark purple cube, seeing Bia Raux for the first time. Bia starts saying repeatedly that she is disappointed with Quel, disappearing right before Matt appears and appearing soon after to say the same things (Note: Matt could only hear whispers coming from Bia, while Quel could understand her perfectly)

After that, Bia disappears again before Felps appears, with all players online on the server appearing inside the cube. Several seconds later, all players are teleported to the lake located in front of the city hall.

After this event, everyone starts talking and theorizing about what happened near the city hall, with Quel showing the "gift" that Bia gave to her (A small blood soul lamp), and then going their separate ways.

Quel then reveals to Matt a location that Gravedigger Gomez told her about, being a strange type of monument with a small library with some cauldrons below. Not knowing what to do there, the duo leave the place while talking about masks.

Quel explains that the mask only remains half full if the person suffers a large amount of damage or if someone tries to remove it by force. The duo say goodbye after that and go their separate ways.

Felps and Meiaum began to break the giant block that floats in the sky, encountering various crazy things along the way.

While breaking the cube, Felps and Meiaum find a book with the following phrase written:

"Someone has already had access to the factory. Every corner has a secret."

While mining, Matt receives a warning and a book written in Thai. While translating the contents of the book, the demon receives another book, this time written by Bia Raux:

"Fear likes poetry,

Not everything makes sense,

But who appreciates good art,

Understand who you once were.

Just, a poetry."

It is then revealed that Bia is the one who makes Matt have strange dreams. Matt goes to sleep.

[Please let us know if anything is missing! Sorry for the delay on this!]

[elainsgirl]

It must be SOOO disappointing to be a Gwynriel. When you are an Elucien, you get credit from the books where E and L at least have some intertwined plot and interactions + Lucien time to time gets mentioned in the articles

But GAs 🤣 Like, they don’t get anything:

1. Articles don’t mention them. Not do they with GA. Only one Gwynriel or smth article said “or maybe he’ll end up with Gwyn”, but, mind you, the same author had to edit it because of the WOMB argument 💀

It says a lot about that person and her words automatically lose any value. Or how Gwyn wasn’t even mentioned as a single possible love interest. Sorry, but the “unconventional theories” and “Gwyn or another LI” sounded similarly to Gwyn or Eris. Because even Bryceriels got a separate mention lol, despite the fact that GAs were here for much longer. To wrap it up, Spotify and other companies don’t interact with them or even acknowledge

2. No merch. Cards or those color-in pages, it’s about Elriel. GAs mentioned some “licensed” merch (which was a card), but, really? Some art getting printed? Not to understate, however, it happens to be that even the Amazon-like market in my country sells such thing. And it’s like a huge place. Trust me, I doubt they asked for a permission. It goes from like Elriel to Azris arts

3. No scenes. They are always “READ THE BC”. Bro, f/ck off. I don’t want to go to some website, to zoom in and read pages crookedly scanned. Or have to go to wherever else to do this. I read Ana Huang and, at least, she mentions the existence of the BCs and has links on her site (just saying that it’s easier; nothing against SJM)

It’s just annoying to hear about the bonus chapter and how “small breadcrumbs” are big and fat phrase “smithing sparkled in his chest”

I’d say that I feel sorry for the hardcore Reddit shippers, but you get what you deserve 🦦

The thing with elucien is - at least there is a bond, something tying elain & lucien together. Its not possible for them to never interact again which gives eluciens some leg to stand on, right? Even though its shaky and gets weaker by each book, its still a foundation.

Gwynriel dont have that. There is nothing tying them together in the books. Acotar 5 can come along, Rhys says to Az “hey man I need you more focusd on spying then training the girls, Cass and maybe Mor can do that” thats it for any gwyn and az interactions. Az comes back living w feysand or in the townhouse. Him & Gwyn dont ever have to interact ever again *unless* Gwyn received the necklace which rn is an assumption as it wasn’t confirmed.

the few articles that do mention GA are never serious. The womb article was a mess but showed the truth about gwynriel. The other articles mention Gwyn as a hypothetical, potential Li. Gwynriels were lumped in w brycerials & Azris which is rlly insulting for the crows that claims gwynriel have sooooo much foreshadowing, parallels and were so obvious in acosf. As far as I’m aware, no company has acknowledged/interacted with them….again it’s embarrassing for thoses stans because they have always used their popularity in the fandom as a card against elriel yet…no one from the outside is talking to them.

you can get art licensed- its not too much of a hassle nor is it proof of anything. Didn’t the card company work partly w a team that was representing Mass, the fact even they (an unbiased outsider) paired all the brothers w the sisters instead of all the mates together shows how clear & obvious the direction of the series has always been & who the focus is on.

for a ship thats supposedly next, they barely have any good, romantic coded scenes together & most importantly neither main character of acosf, pair gwyn and az together. Nessian don’t think about gwynriel, whereas in comparison they are thinking snd connecting lines between elriel.

Lmfao same, the bonus isn’t easily accessible for me and im not going through the hassle to read something that does not affect the books aside from confirming what I already gathered from acosf. The fact Gwynriels *need* to have the bonus shows how weak the ship is in acosf itself. Which honestly speaks volumes.

I don’t feel sorry for any of them. In fact this can be a great learning experience for them & thats what they need the most.

[triangular-static]

irregular

just read flatland and i am 10x less normal about bill cipher now. it's so interesting to think about passages of this book with him in mind

(and also as its own book it's very interesting to read as an examination of dimensions and as a satire of victorian society, i very much enjoyed it)

but one of the first things that i noticed when my friend was looking at website codes at the same time i was reading the first half of the book was:

the code for bill cipher's mugshots is irregular. having read flatland this being the code seems like a reference to how shapes with irregular sides are labelled as criminals and morality is very heavily judged on whether your angles are equal or not. the term REALLY sticks out to me having read the book, given it carries. a lot of weight there.

(trust me, there were many excerpts i could have chosen from. even the narrator is very biased against irregular shapes. like. from the way it's used it pretty much reads as a flatland slur)

yeah. i don't know if the unfair link between morality and irregularity existed in euclydia, but with this as a code? it's not impossible. euclydia is not identical to flatland from what we know, but there are still places where they match other than just the base concept.

bill being implied equilateral by the axolotl makes this interesting. while he could definitely be labelled irregular in other ways (his eye), being equilateral would mean he doesn't fit the main flatland definition. but that doesn't mean they wouldn't use it as an insult anyway.

his exact angles could have shifted, which is possible in flatland (and he shapeshifts to forms that look far less equilateral in the show, so i don't think he's really that confined in shape at least currently), but i think him being equilateral yet being the one to destroy euclydia could also be interesting as a subversion of the flatland bias. though him being irregular by a small amount would also align with themes he already has. i think both could work.

but, if irregularity IS as heavily punished in euclydia as it is in flatland, one of his parents being named scalene (a term that is notably quite absent from the book! instead they use phrases like "irregular isosceles", from what i could see. i love when things are made significant by omission), is very interesting as well, if it's more than just a name.

given scalene seems? to be able to lead what seems a fairly normal life from the bare snippets we have? i think if there is discrimination of this nature in euclydia, it could be less extreme, and may be one of the cases where the worlds are different.

but irregular being used in relation to bill as a criminal makes it seem like something in his universe, at least. or maybe it got picked up from a different 2d world and applied to bill later?

at the very least, it adds a layer to his aversion to answering this question in the ama:

TL;DR: the website code "irregular" leading to the color version of the mugshots is likely a reference to flatland connecting it with criminality. which is interesting if that means being irregular is a notable thing in euclydia as well, but even if it's not, it's an interesting reference!