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[astraystayyh]

Starry night.

in which you and hyune fall in love through paintings.

idol!hyunjin x museum guide!reader. love at first sight, kinda. both mc and hyune are romantics.. lots of art analysis and conversations. very fluffy and soft. like so soft i hurt myself with this you guys.

all the info about Vincent Van Gogh’s life and works are from the Van Gogh Museum. the interpretations are my own but im not an art critic, obvi, just a yearner 💔 please enjoy, feedback is highly appreciated 💞

thank you to the lovely reader who commissioned me!!!! the money went to our stayblr fundraiser for palestine. please consider donating if you are able too as well <3333

“You’ll be able to do it, right?” Your manager Martin looks at you expectantly, and you blink slowly in response. It, referring to leading a private tour of the Van Gogh exhibition.

You’ve been a museum guide in New York for four months now. When you’re not painting, you’re here, amidst the array of artworks nestled in a quaint street near East River. You’ve led group tours before, always under the watchful eye of Martin, a middle-aged man who never forgets to bring you a vanilla bourbon macaron every morning.

However, you’ve never handled a private tour before. You see the desperation in Martin’s eyes as he awaits your answer—he’s the one who usually handles these tours, but he has urgent family matters to suddenly attend to.

You blink again, your tongue unknotting in a split second. “I’d be happy to,” you beam. The exhibition feels like a second home to you; you’ve visited it countless times long before you started working here.

Martin heaves a sigh of relief, smiling back at you. “I believe in you,” he reassures, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Remember why I chose you.”

You grin at his words, nodding vigorously. Your love for art brought you here; your very being seems molded to breathe in paintings and live among them. It’s as sweet a life as it can get.

“You’ll find all the details about our guest in our log. He’s famous, so he’ll be a bit discreet. He’ll expect you to be too,” he explains, hurriedly packing his things. You nod, taking the keys to the art gallery from his hand.

“Don’t worry, the gallery is safe in my hands.”

“I know,” he says with a comforting smile, before finally waving goodbye. You take a deep breath and check the booking for tonight’s exhibition—Hwang Hyunjin.

The name is unfamiliar to you, and so is the face that greets you at 8 p.m. sharp—at least, what you can see of it. He’s wearing a navy cap and a face mask, with a varsity jacket sitting perfectly atop his broad shoulders. He looks young, roughly your age.

“Hi, welcome to our Van Gogh exhibition,” you greet him with a grin. He bows slightly in response.

“No one’s here, so you can remove your mask if you wish. I can take your bag as well,” you offer with a smile. He nods and hands you his black duffel bag, which you quickly pass to the security guard, who places it inside a safe cabinet.

Hyunjin removes his Versace cap, running a hand through his silky black hair. There is an aura of assurance around him, as if he’s poised before a camera in a professional photoshoot. But then, a shy smile appears on his face as he finally removes his face mask, his eyes glinting beneath the golden lighting.

You feel your breath catch in your throat; for a split second, the world around you seems to still, the paintings dimming before the beautiful face in front of you.

“Right,” you clear your throat, “shall we?”

Hyunjin nods, falling easily into step with you. You pause before the first painting, ‘Woman with a Child on her Lap’, 1883.

“This is rumored to be about Sien Hoornik, who became both Vincent’s lover and model. She was a former prostitute, pregnant at the time, and had a five-year-old daughter. Vincent was determined to help her through her hardships, and they dated for a year and a half. But then, he broke it off because he said she was too far gone to be saved.”

Hyunjin nods, his eyes fixated on the painting, his head tilted slightly to the side. “The eyes are telling,” he speaks for the first time, and his voice floods your being like dewdrops reviving flowers at dawn. It is smooth and soft, the end of his words getting lost in the air and caught by your heart.

“The way the mother and daughter look at each other, I mean.” He clarifies, stealing a fleeting glance at you. “There is disdain on the mother’s face, but more toward herself, I think. Maybe because she sees her reflection in her daughter.”

Groups usually scurry past this painting, eager to see Vincent’s more renowned works. You feel your heart soften at how much he seems to be thinking about it, lost in his own world. You’re not even sure he remembers you’re there.

“Vincent was really determined to help her, although his brother Theo disapproved. His parents did too.”

“Isn’t that what love is? To hold someone’s hand even if everyone tells you to let go,” he mutters quietly, his eyes still lost in the painting. A hue of vulnerability colors his words before he clears his throat, as if unwittingly revealing his inner thoughts.

“That’s a beautiful way to view it,” you smile, and he nods, shyly biting his lower lip. For some odd reason, his timidity stirs something unfamiliarly tender within your heart.

You walk over to the next set of paintings. “When Vincent moved to Paris, you can see how his style developed. He let go of the darker tones he used in his infamous ‘The Potato Eaters’ and began using lighter colors, like here,” you explain, pointing to ‘The Hill of Montmartre with Stone Quarry’.

“Do you think it’s because he was happier?” he suddenly asks, and you frown slightly. “Pardon?”

“The shift to lighter colors. ‘The Potato Eaters’ is so sorrowful and shrouded in darkness. ‘The Hill’ is much more colorful, lighter, you know?” His eyes glide to yours, a twinkle of curiosity glimmering in them.

“Vincent did flourish in Paris. For once, he was in the same city as his brother Theo, whom he loved dearly. But he was mainly influenced by modern art, which uses much lighter colors than his previous works. Art critics usually attribute this change in the influence of his contemporaries, such as—”

“But what do you think?” he interrupts softly, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are penetrating, and you find yourself lost in the seas of emotion they contain.

You quiet down, licking your lips tentatively. No one has ever asked for your opinion on these tours before.

“Well,” you begin slowly, “I think it’s possible. Being around his brother and other artists who embraced brighter palettes could have uplifted his spirit. But also, maybe the light colors were his way of reaching for happiness, even if he didn’t always feel it. Art often mirrors our hopes as much as our realities.”

Hyunjin listens intently, a thoughtful look on his face. “I agree,” he finally says, smiling sincerely. You don’t know why the sight of his grin renders your brain putty, like melted ice cream under the kind sunrays.

“His use of lighter colors continued when he moved to the south of France. He was delighted with the bright colors in Arles, painting orchards in blossom and workers gathering the harvest,” you explain, pointing to the respective paintings.

“That’s when he told his brother that he wanted to open a studio for fellow painters. He wrote in a letter the following: 'you always lose when you’re isolated.' He sent out many invitations, but only one painter agreed to come.”

“Paul Gauguin,” Hyunjin swiftly replies.

“Exactly. He was the first and last painter to move in with Vincent.”

“It seemed like the more he tried to escape loneliness, the more it found him,” Hyunjin muses, his eyes fixed on ‘Portrait of Gauguin’ by Vincent. The bright colors he asked you about earlier make you wonder if, beneath the spotlight, Hyunjin too feels lonely.

“Sometimes loneliness becomes a friend. You have to make room for it to allow other things to come in,” you say softly.

“It’s sad how nothing good came out of that roommate situation, though” he frowns, and you nod in agreement.

“Paul and Vincent were very different. They had a lot of eclectic views that often led to disagreements. I assume you know their most prominent one.”

“Yes, when Vincent cut off his ear.”

“Correct, he then wrapped it in newspaper and presented it to a prostitute in the nearby red-light district.”

“A prostitute…” Hyunjin muses, his thumb swiping slightly across his lower lip. “It seems like phantoms of his first love found him again. Even in his most disoriented state, he somehow remembered her.”

“You speak of love beautifully,” you suddenly say, before biting your tongue harshly, instantly regretting your words. But Hyunjin’s eyes seem to soften as he gazes at you, the warm light dancing across his pupils.

“It is a beautiful feeling.”

“Only to those who have beautiful souls,” you speak earnestly, and your words seem to morph into brushstrokes, painting the gallery in hues of red. Intimate, soft, too intimate all of the sudden.

“Vincent’s mental health rapidly declined, and he put himself back into the mental asylum,” you quickly clear your throat, though you can still feel Hyunjin’s eyes on you, not the painting. “Still, that’s when he created some of his most famous artworks, like ‘The Starry Night’. He was inspired by the view from the asylum’s window. It’s dominated by vivid yellow and blue, and the colors and paint seem to describe a world outside the artwork itself.”

“It’s breathtaking,” Hyunjin marvels, lost in the painting, leaning in until his nose almost brushes the canvas.

You suppress a giggle, but your laughter fades as you take in the mole right by his jaw, then the one by his neck. The delicateness of his face, the plumpness of his lips, and the curve of his lashes.

He’s beautiful. The painting could seep him in and he’d fit right in with the silver stars. Outshining them too, surely.

“I really liked the tour,” he smiles, nearly two hours of lazy strolls later. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” you grin back, grabbing his outstretched hand. His fingers wrap around yours slowly, deliberately, as if on a mission to ignite your nerve endings. To set your soul ablaze with his palm alone.

His hand holds yours for a few seconds longer than necessary. Your blush mirrors his when he finally lets go.

He quickly bows again, grabbing his bag from his manager, who was waiting by the door. He almost bumps into the handle on his way out, and you let out an endeared chuckle, your eyes lingering on his figure until he disappears into his black van.

You think you'll never see him again, two lines crossing serendipitously at one point, never to cross paths once more. The thought sends a pang of sorrow latching onto your heart, before you quickly brush it away.

But then you do see him again, the very following night, at that.

It is near nine p.m. when Martin exclaims suddenly, “Mr. Hwang!” and you freeze in your place, book guide in hand.

It has been exactly twenty-four hours since you last saw Hyunjin, but when his voice softly echoes through the art gallery, it feels like a lifelong ache finally soothed.

“Please, call me Hyunjin,” he says, shaking Martin’s hand, though his eyes quickly find yours. They stay on you, unmoving yet tender, like a cotton blanket draped over your being.

“How was the tour with Miss Yn?”

“Ah—“ his gaze finally drifts away from yours. “Yes, it was really nice. That's why I came again,” he explains, a touch sheepishly, and your quizzical eyes meet Martin’s.

“Hyunjin booked another private tour. He specifically requested you to be his guide,” Martin explains, and your eyes widen in shock. You don’t have time to reply because your manager quickly scurries away. “I’ll leave you two then. Have fun!”

You wait until Martin disappears into his office before turning to Hyunjin, who avoids your gaze, one hand deep in his pocket, moving side to side. You remain silent for a few moments, simply admiring the side of his face. You’ve always had a deep appreciation for art running through your veins, after all.

“Hi,” he finally says, his eyes quickly meeting yours. You can’t stop the smile that floods your face, coating every nook and cranny of your features.

“You came back,” you say with a breathy giggle.

“Mm,” he instantly grins. “I don’t know when I’ll be back in New York, so I wanted to truly memorize the art here.”

“When are you going home?” you ask as you take his bag again, your eyes taking in his outfit—a green cap this time, a knit vest over a white shirt, and a silver teddy bear necklace nestled perfectly against it. Pretty.

“Tomorrow. We had a tour stop here, and we’ll go back to Seoul now.”

“And you’ll be spending your final night in the city here?” you chuckle slightly, and he shrugs as if it’s the most obvious decision he ever had to make.

“Why not? I think it’s beautiful here.” though his eyes never move to look onto the paintings, gliding across your face instead.

“And I forgot to take pictures yesterday,” he quickly adds, pointing to the camera in his hands.

“I’ll help you then,” you offer, and he smiles so brightly that it renders you speechless, suddenly wondering if the first person who ever drew a portrait had a similar thought—that they saw a smile so beautiful they just needed to immortalize it.

Hyunjin is at ease before the camera. You can tell by the way he almost pretends the device isn’t there, his eyes fixed on the paintings, mere centimeters away from the canvas. He’s whisked away into another world. You see your love for art mirrored in his soul as well.

“Do you paint, by any chance?” you ask between pictures, and he nods.

“Whenever I have free time. And you?”

“I do. I can show you later, if you’d like.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says, pointing his finger at you, before looking directly into the camera this time. “I’ve been painting magnolias lately.”

“Really? Why magnolias specifically?”

“I read a poem about them. It said that when magnolias wither, they aren’t considered beautiful anymore. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t at one point. It really moved me.”

“You have to be very optimistic to view it that way,” you say as you finally hand him the camera, satisfied with your pictures. You are both standing in front of ‘Almond Blossom,’ the pastel colors drawing you in.

“Withering flowers mean that at one point they were in full bloom. Grief means that at one point you did love,” you muse. “It takes a lot of gentleness to find beauty in endings, to celebrate them as proof of what once was. Don’t you think so?”

You turn to look at him when the flash of a camera catches you off guard.

Hyunjin looks at your picture, a soft smile on his face. “You fit right in with the flowers,” he compliments, though it does not feel superfluous or bearing a hidden intent. It’s a simple observation he wished to share.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, a blush sprouting from your very veins. You quickly fix your posture, pointing to the painting. “I told you yesterday that Vincent painted this for his brother Theo, to celebrate his newborn, whom he named after Vincent.”

“Yes, I remember,” he nods, slinging the camera over his neck and taking a picture of the painting up close. “It seemed to bring Vincent a lot of solace in his final days.”

“I’ve been thinking about your question, whether Vincent was happy. I think he was hopeful more than anything. He had hoped his works would be recognized, he had hoped he wouldn’t be as lonely anymore. Sometimes hope keeps you going much more than happiness.”

“Because happiness will eventually wear off?”

“Right, it’s only natural. But hope… it’s like a flame that never goes out. It might flicker and dim, but it will still be there on your darkest nights.” You bite your lip slightly, your thumb digging into your palm.

“I hope you’ll always have hope in your life, Hyunjin. You’ve been my favorite person to talk about Vincent with,” you say sincerely, your eyes unwavering from his.

You imprint the way his gaze softens into your mind, the slight blush that powders his cheeks, the way his teeth peek behind his smile. You memorize his velvety voice in your mind, the way he accentuates certain letters and how it pulls at the strings of your heart when he says—“I’m very happy I met you, Yn.”

May is gone, and with it Hyunjin, and you think you are a fool for thinking of him as often as you do after only five hours in his presence. You don’t know why your mind is permeated with his essence. But why wouldn’t it be? is the better question. When he’s beautiful, truly, body and soul.

You feel slightly less foolish when a postcard is delivered to your exhibition on a sunny Saturday, one month later. It depicts the front entrance of the Museum of Modern Art in Seoul.

June 13.

“yn,

i saw Vincent’s works once again in this month’s exhibition. somehow they seem less beautiful without our conversations.

i hope you’re surrounded by art, too.

hyunjin.”

June 23.

“hyunjin,

i visited claude monet’s immersive exhibition, you have to visit it as well, once you’re back in new york.

i am still surrounded by art, as always. i don’t think i could ever part from it.

did you finish your magnolias? i hope you’re seeing beauty in them even after they wither.

yn.”

July 5.

“yn,

claude’s works are so different from vincent’s... don’t you think it's beautiful that they lived at the same time yet depicted their world so differently?

my magnolias are finished. i’ve been drawing scenes from your exhibition lately, the picture i took of you is particularly inspiring. i hope you don’t mind.

hyunjin.”

september 26.

“hyunjin,

leaves are falling all over new york. new beginnings are upon us. i hope this view of my window inspires you too.

i wish you happiness no matter the season.

yn.”

october 7.

“yn,

i just saw the first snow at dawn, it was such a pretty view! i’m happy i’m alive today.

i hope snow reaches you fast enough, too.

stay warm.

with love,

hyunjin.”

october 23.

“hyunjin,

i’ve always preferred spring, but snow brought me such a happy opportunity. i’m invited to an exhibition in seoul, next month!

i’ll enjoy it well and think of our conversations.

with love,

yn.”

october 5.

“yn,

the weather is beautiful in seoul lately. i’m happy you’ll be here to see it.

it is late at night, and the moon is shining brightly. i hope it’ll shine as brightly for you too, in new york.

with love,

yours.”

The click of your black heels against the marble floors echoes through the museum, a comforting sound as you stroll through the immersive Vincent exhibition; now gracing Seoul. The colors wash over you, reflecting off your skin, swirling around you until you feel as though you’re being drawn into the very heart of the paintings.

“Enjoying the art, Yn?” a voice like honey drips across your being. Your heart skips a beat, plummets to your knees and races back to its place once again. You feel an ache inside you unfold. memories of Hyunjin’s voice rewriting themselves, perfecting your recollection of his accent and the tender way in which he spoke your name.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, though you refuse to turn around and meet his eyes. Not yet. The scent of his rose perfume is enough to have your heart rattling against your ribcage— a bird wishing to escape its cage and deliver your love letter to its rightful owner.

“Isn’t it an amazing coincidence we met here? In Seoul, no less,” he says, his voice airy as he inches closer.

“I know you’re the one who invited me,” you giggle, finally turning to meet his gaze. His eyes widen slightly before morphing into crescents, as if lifted from Vincent’s Starry Night.

“How did you know? I thought I kept it a secret in our postcards,” he grins sheepishly.

“I kept pestering Mr. Martin about why the museum invited me specifically until he finally told me you were behind it.”

“Well,” he licks his lips, his eyes roaming over your face. “I admit, I missed you. I wanted to see you again. And I happen to be a major contributor to the museum.”

“Fancy,” you beam, before your grin morphs to something much softer, as you realize that you are away from your work, and that the Hyunjin of your postcards is finally before you.

“I missed you too. Show me around?”

“Am I your guide now?”

“Mm. I expect you to be an expert.”

“Oh, I am.”

Hyunjin speaks of the paintings as if it’s his first time seeing them, finding new things to admire, new details to point out to you. You find it hard to keep up, only because your eyes seem more interested in observing him. You’ll tell him later that you were right in thinking he’d make every painting more mesmerizing.

But for now, you stroll together, his hand brushing against yours every now and then. Before long, you’re far from the museum, walking into the chilly Seoul night, his jacket draped over your shoulders.

And you talk, you talk about every painting you’ve seen since his departure, the flowers you’ve picked, and the strawberry field you visited at the end of June. He shares stories of his favorite painters and his beloved dog, Kkami, whom he misses dearly. He speaks of the moon and how your postcards lessened his loneliness. You tell him you’ve kept every card by your bedside, the first and last thing you see each day.

Suddenly your pinky is entwined with his, your cheeks ache from how much you’ve spoken and laughed, your heart lighter than it had ever been.

“Thank you for walking me to my hotel,” you smile softly.

He nods, his thumb swiping across your palm tenderly. It’s only after a while that he speaks again. “I know you said that happiness wears off eventually. But right now, the happiness i feel… I think it will last me for the next four months, at least.”

“Just four months?” you tease, and he giggles, tipping his head back. You wish you had your paintbrushes, your camera, a simple pen, anything to commit his laugh into something tangible.

“For a long time,” he finally says, quietly, resigned. Tomorrow’s flight ticket makes your heart ache, all of the sudden.

“I… I’ll get going. Thank you for inviting me,” you smile, dropping his hand. You know it’ll hurt the more you hold it, the easier it’d be for you to remember the softness of his hand.

So you walk back, you’re near the hotel door, a hand suddenly wraps around your wrist, the security guards both discreetly look away.

“Yn,” Hyunjin turns you around, his eyes are as wide as the full moon hanging close to earth, listening in to your conversation.

“You didn’t- you didn’t show me your paintings.” he says a bit too quickly, desperately.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“Back in New York, you promised to show me your paintings. You didn’t.”

“You remember?”

Hyunjin's chest heaves in response, his warm palms cradle your cheeks, his eyes speak of a yearning you haven’t thought existed. When his lips crash upon yours, fervently, passionately, like the collision of all stars in Starry Night, you have your answer.

He remembered. He remembered as much as you.

Epilogue— seven months later.

“Now… next question,” Hyunjin grins as he takes out a folded paper from a glass jar, five sets of camera’s all pointed at him in the shooting set of Elle Korea.

“If you could feel only one emotion for the rest of your life, what would you choose?”

Hyunjin puts the paper down, adjusts the sleeves of his Versace blue silk shirt. He doesn’t need to think too much to answer— he already has his reply.

“Someone told me, a long time ago, that hope keeps you going longer than happiness. Because happiness wears off eventually. But hope doesn’t. hope is like a flickering flame, it surges and it dims, but it doesn’t go out, so I choose hope.” he smiles suddenly, eyes looking into those of the staff behind the camera.

“That got deep all of the sudden, right? Done worry, Stay, I have hope, happiness and love, all at once.”

He chuckles quietly, picking up the last piece of paper.

“Finally… who’s your favorite painter? Ah, easy, it’s Vincent Van Gogh.”

“What's your favorite painting by him?” the shooting director asks behind the camera, his eyes fixate on the lens. He knows his love will be watching.

“A woman with a child on her lap. It’s not very known, but… if you look into it closely, beautiful things might come into your life and change it forever.”

from left to right, Woman with a Child on her Lap, 1883 — Portrait of Gauguin, 1888— The Potato Eaters, 1885—The Hill of Montmartre with Stone Quarry, 1886— Almond Blossom, 1890— The Starry Night, 1889.

[sweetbans29]

Varsity Jacket - CC

Pairing: Caitlin Clark x Reader

Summary: You and Caitlin keep it light and playful at a game (based on THIS request)

Warnings: fluff

Word Count: 2.4k

Sweetbans Masterlist

AN: Is this not everyones dream?

It's the first time in the state's history of WBB that they decided to play basketball in a football stadium. A piece of history that has been led by one girl allowing thousands to benefit.

The game was chosen to be an exhibition game, a kick-off to the season, naming it the Crossover at Kinnick. They laid the Iowa WBB court within the confines of the outdoor football stadium, drawing a near 55,000 fans to be a part of the first game in Caitlin Clark's senior year. A NCAA record-breaking 55,000 fans. The first of many records Clark would break this upcoming season.

The game followed a lot of football Saturday traditions. The way the team was called out, a stadium flyover, and your favorite part - the Hawkeye Wave over to the kids in the UI Stead Family Children’s Hospital. You had done it before when your team had danced at football games and were excited to be a part of it today.

You are proud to be part of the Iowa Hawkeye dance team - have been for the past three years now. It is what brought you to IU in the first place.

Growing up dance had always been something you enjoyed. Unlike most of the other girls on the dance team, you didn't start taking dance classes until halfway through middle school. When you learned you had a natural talent for it, you started taking it more seriously. You joined your high school's dance team and decided it was something you wanted to try your hand at in college. When you auditioned going into your freshman year, you were one of two freshmen to make the team.

Since then you have captained the team for two football seasons, going into your third. Yet here you are, freezing your azz off because you forgot your damn coat.

Upon arriving at the stadium, you should have been prepared. You should have thought through how it is November in Iowa and how it is about to be winter but that doesn't cross your mind until you are shaking courtside.

"Didn't you bring a coat?" One of your teammates asks. She is currently bundled up in two jackets, ear muffs, and hand warmers.

"If I did, don't you think I would be wearing it?" You snap and immediately realize. "I'm sorry babe, I am just freezing."

You are trying to hide your shaking body and keep moving around to generate any sort of heat that you can.

A part of being on the dance team was being visible during the whole game. You weren't the cheer squad but your team had to be posted up next to them every game. It wasn't bad, it was just cold.

As halftime approached you directed your team to stretch out again, not wanting them to pull anything while dancing. You did the same, as you watched your basketball continue to do what they do best.

Once everyone was stretched, you all bunched together ready to take the court.

"I am still freezing my ass off," you say rubbing your hands together and huddle close to your friend. "I can't believe I didn't bring my freaking overcoat."

The team was coming off when someone bumped your shoulder causing you to take a few steps back.

"Hey! Watch it," you tell the 6-foot frame.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry," the girl says. You pull down your skirt and smooth it over. Once you are satisfied with your outfit adjustment you look up.

'Of-freaking-course', you think to yourself as you make eye contact with none other than Caitlin Clark.

"I didn't see you there," she says, the slightest smirk peaking out.

"Very funny Clark," you say trying to hide your own smile and keep it serious.

"Oh, keeping it professional now are we?" She says. "It's cute, but you can call me Caitlin."

"That is so kind of you," you say, kind of surprised she is still there talking to you. You finish your sentence with, "Clark."

She just smiles and shakes her head. You hear the music come on and you know it's your cue. Caitlin doesn't follow the rest of the team back through the tunnel, rather stands to the side and watches you and your team take the court.

Caitlin knows she should be back with her team. More so to warm up but she couldn't nor wanted to take her eyes off you. She stood there watching you and your team keep everyone entertained during halftime. A smile resting on her lips the entire time.

She has seen you around before. How could she not, you were at practically every sports game. Caitlin would frequent the Hawkeye's football games but never really got close enough to see you perform (something she will probably never admit to you). If it wasn't seeing you in passing there, she noticed you would go and watch other sports just for fun. She has to think about it but if she remembers correctly she has seen you at both the men's and women's volleyball matches, women's soccer, and even some track and even the women's swim and dive meets.

Caitlin cheers on your team as you finish your routine and runoff, making way for the cheer squad to perform their routine next. As you make your way back you see Cait standing in the same spot she bumped you in. She is smiling at you and clapping as you make your way over. You walk up to her despite the murmurs you hear from your team, only making out your name and Caitlin's in their muffled conversations.

"Aren't you supposed to be somewhere, Clark?" You ask as you cross your arms over your chest. You may have just performed a 6-minute dance routine but the chilled air was unforgiving.

"Wanted to stay out here and watch - making sure your little frozen ass doesn't fall off," she says, her eyes never leaving yours.

"The team is great," you say with a smile choosing to ignore the second part of her statement and refusing to be the first one to break eye contact.

"I wasn't watching the team," she says, that stupid smirk playing on her lips again. You could feel yourself losing this battle.

"That's a shame, they are great," you say trying to regain any part of this conversation.

"Maybe, but not as great as who I had my eyes on," she says. You blush and look away. You felt like you were being interrogated by the freaking CIA not flirting with your school's superstar.

"Okay, Clark, you win," you say as you crumble under her gaze.

She rubs the back of your arm, letting her hand linger on you. You look back up at her.

"I should get back," she says not wanting to leave you but knowing her job isn't done.

"You should," you say, agreeing for her - the first time since this conversation has started.

"Thanks for umm, thanks for watching," you say, your nerves peaking out. She nods and heads in the direction of her team.

What the hell was that? You make your way over to your team and they are all chattering about the interaction. You take your seat next to your co-captain who is just looking at you.

You keep your head forward still processing it all. Caitlin Clark was just talking to you. Not only that, but she waited and watched you perform then proceeded to flirt with you about it. Her hand was on your arm. You were thankful it wasn't skin-to-skin contact because you probably would have never let her walk away. She was teasing you.

You are too caught up in your own thoughts to see when someone had walked up to you. Your co-cap tapping your leg and nodding at the woman who was standing in front of you.

"Oh hi," you say and stand.

"I was told to bring this over to you," she says holding something, you look down and it's a jacket.

"Oh thank you," you say grabbing it.

"She wanted me to say it is from Caitlin," she says, emphasizing the name. "Told me I had to emphasize the name."

The woman walks away and you unfold the jacket to see 'CLARK' on the back right above the number 22. This girl is not serious right now. If you were under any other circumstance, you would not be putting it on but since the only time you have stopped shaking was while you were performing you decide to put the jacket on.

If your team was whispering about your interaction with Caitlin before, they are shouting from the rooftops now.

The basketball team comes back out and you find yourself looking for a particular someone. To your delight, she is making her way over to you.

"You got it, good," she says, wrapped in an Iowa jacket of her own.

"You didn't need to do this," you say but make no move to try and hand it back to her. It has been the warmest you have been the whole game. She lets out a little laugh.

"Sure, says the one who was shaking like a chihuahua," she says taking in the sight of you in her clothing. She could get used to this.

"I appreciate it, Clark," you say and she groans.

"Caitlin," she says.

"Clark," you retort.

"Cait," she responds.

"Clark," you are not giving in.

"CC, Caity, C - anything but Clark," she says frustrated.

"Why does it bother you so much that I call you by your last name?" You ask now the one who has the slight edge in the conversation.

"Clark, get your butt over here," one of her coaches yells at her.

"That's why," she mumbles and gives you one last look before running back over to the team.

"Get it Clark!" You yell after her, earning some whistles and shouts from your team.

You're thankful it is still cold out because the redness on your cheeks can easily be taken as cold, hiding your blush.

Your team doesn't shut up about the fact that you had talked to Caitlin but she gave her varsity jacket to you to wear. All the girls were staring at you and taking in the sight of the player's jacket.

A ball gets swatted out of bounds and you catch it before it can hit anyone on your team. Caitlin sees where it goes and books it to grab it from you.

Here is the thing about Caitlin, she is the last person to go and catch a ball that has been hit out of bounds. Her whole team was aware of this. So it is to everyone's surprise when she is the first one to hustle after the ball when the whistle is blown.

You hold up the ball for her.

"Careful there Clark, could have hurt someone," you say.

She laughs, "Ya right."

"Since when are you the first one to run after a loose ball," you say exposing that you may have watched her more than a few times. Could anyone blame you? Caitlin has been drawing the attention of the whole nation.

"Didn't want to miss the opportunity to come talk to the pretty girl," she says with that damn smirk.

"You are too kind Clark," you say faking flattery.

"Oh, I was talking about the girl next to you," she says teasing you.

You sit there speechless as Caitlin finally takes the ball.

"I'm kidding, but you should see the look on your face. It's priceless," she says winking at you before heading back over to inbound the ball.

'Oh it is on Clark' you think as you watch them finish up the last quarter.

Caitlin, of course, plays amazing. She finishes the game off with her first triple-double of the season. You watch as she celebrates with her team - all of who were excited to start the season on a high note. You are celebrating with your team when they all go quite in front of you and stare at something behind you. You turn around before Caitlin can tap your shoulder.

"Ahh, so we meet again," you say with a smile. "Well done Clark."

"Okay, enough with the Clark. You are wearing my jacket for goodness sake," she says and shakes her head.

"Oh, ya, thank you for this," you say and begin to take it off. She stops you by putting her hand on your arm - the second time today you note.

"Hold on to it, if you take it off now you will start shaking again and I don't really care to see you looking like a little chihuahua," she says and scratches the back of her neck. You raise your eyebrow at her. If you don't give her the jacket back now, that means you will need to see her again to return it.

"And who exactly am I supposed to get this back to you?" You ask.

"Well that is actually why I came over here," she says and you can tell she is a little more nervous than she had been before. You don't notice but both of your teams are watching the interaction between you.

"Okay," you say encouraging her to continue.

"How would you feel about going out with me this weekend?" Caitlin says as she has to mentally remind herself to keep her breathing steady and to not rush her words.

"I don't know..." you start. "I was thinking I could just have someone swing the jacket by one of your practices."

Caitlin's face looks mortified and you immediately bring your hand up to hers to ease her, your joke being taken a little too serious.

"I'm kidding Clark," you say and give her hand a squeeze. "I would love to go out with you this weekend."

She smiles widely.

"Great," she says. "I'll text you details," she begins walking backward.

"And how are you going to do that without my number?" You say as she is now just out of reach.

"You're cute," she says, now back in control of the conversation. "I've had your number for a while, now I just get to use it."

You stare at her, mouth agape. You don't know how to get the last word in so she does.

"Talk to you soon babe!" Caitlin says and runs back towards her team.

AN: This was a cutie. Hope you enjoyed it and let me know what you think! And as always, thank you for the love and support 🤍

[famwhy]

"Do you have any idea how long I've waited..."

"...for this moment?"

Diary of a Wimpy Kid

Yandere! Rodrick Heffley X F!Reader

Synopsis: Rodrick Heffley couldn't believe his own luck; you noticed him—you noticed him. This must've been fate, right? You must've loved him, there was no way you didn't. And if you loved him, then what he was doing was okay, right?—there was nothing wrong with it? Of course not, after all, you two were going to get married in the future, he was sure of it! All of this would just turn out to be a silly story you would tell your future kids about how you two first met. Yeah, that's all this was—one big, silly story.

Warnings: Mean!Reader, Depictions of toxic relationships, Stalking

"Dude, you're staring again."

Rodrick knew; he knew that he was staring again. But, how could he not? How could he not stare when the most drop-dead gorgeous girl in school was within just 10 feet of him?—when you were right there, before his very own eyes?

So close, and yet, so far.

"Dude!"

You stood by your locker—lips painted in that really pretty shade of cherry red to match with your striking eyeliner—basically demanding everyone's undivided attention; attention which you undoubtedly got.

Though, even if you—by some chance in this fucked up world—didn't receive that attention, Rodrick wouldn't hesitate to give it to you; Rodrick would give all of that attention times ten to you. Hell, if you so much as asked him for it, Rodrick would give you the world.

"Hey!"

He was melting—he knew he was—turning into putty at your very arms, even if they weren't anywhere near him. Regardless, his bones morphed into mush and his face went as red as the lipstick you adorned on that pretty mouth of yours he longed to get a taste of. 

He could gaze at you for days and never get enough.

What he couldn't gaze at for days, however, was what occurred next.

A pair of strong arms sprung out of nowhere, wrapping around your torso and lifting you into the air in a way that had molten lava coursing through the Heffley's veins, heating up his insides and igniting a fire within; a fire that ached to burn the male adorning a bright, varsity jacket beside you.

His eyes narrowed, teeth grinding over one another and skin losing all hints of previous colour, going as blank as an empty canvas sat aboard an abandoned easel at the sight before him.

That man—Lenwood Heath—oh how Rodrick loathed him; despised the very air he breathed; cursed the very home he inhabited. If the ground you strutted over was worshipped by the aspiring musician, then the ground that Lenwood trudged over was spat on by him.

Oh, how he could just picture it now, wrapping his hands around the neck of that pathetic, little—

"Heffley!"

Rodrick blinked, suddenly able to register the hand waving before his very eyes. "Huh?"

The blurry form in front of him quickly grew clear with a couple more blinks, revealing one of his best friends with a brow raised, lips pulled taut, and a pointed look on his face. "You fazed out staring at her again."

A longing sigh left the lips of the drummer. "Can you blame me, Chris? She's just so... so..."

"Hot?"

"Ethereal," Rodrick smiled, tunnel vision drowning out the dumb teen next to you in favour of only seeing you. "She'll love me one day, I know it."

"Dude—" Chris deadpanned, "—she doesn't even know you exist."

"Uh, yeah she does," responded the other musician, "Of course she knows I exist."

Chris' lips pulled up after that, and—even through his peripheral—Rodrick could see the smugness radiating off his friend's smirk. "Oh yeah? Prove it. Walk over there right now and say hi."

"What do you think this is? Some high school drama? I'm not doing that."

"Alright dude," came the voice of his friend again, taking on a bit of a defeated tone this time, "just tryna help you build up your confidence, that's all."

Rodrick's face scrunched up, now turning to fully face his friend and fellow band member. "My confidence is—"

A light 'ahem' cut through the air.

The Heffley whipped his head to the side—brows furrowing and lips parting in preparation for a sassy speech—when he saw just who exactly was clearing their throat at him.

His breath audibly hitched in his throat, wind getting stuck in his pipe—hindering his ability to respire as his vision flooded with that familiar pink he knew all too well. 

"Do you mind?" The question came out your pretty lips with an air of both boredom and your own bit of sass—both fists placed upon your hips as you stared at him pointedly.

Oh, you stared at him—you were staring at him.

Holy shit.

He didn't know what to do; what to say; what to think. His mind was a muddled-up mess with you sat in the middle of it all—in the eye of the storm, occupying your throne within his thoughts while the rest of his head went to shit.

But, the real you, the one stood before him right now, was quickly growing impatient. He could tell from the way you started tapping your foot against the ground in a quick rhythm—one of your cuter habits, he noticed; not that they weren't all cute.

A huff—escaping your lips; exasperated and very much fed-up. He was losing you. 

No, no, no, no, no.

His eyes widened, pupils shaking as his breath grew quicker and shorter and sharper. A tightness grew about his chest, contracting his lungs—folding them in on themselves—and tensing his muscles to the point they turned into multiple ropes that unfairly seized him by the throat.

He was panicking, and so—as any panicking person would do—said the first thing that popped into his head—

"Y/N."

—it was your name, of course. That was always at the forefront of his mind.

You scrunched up your nose in that super cute way that you do before speaking again—tone sounding a little... judgemental—"Do I know you?"

A harsh jab to his side and a pair of smug eyes burning a hole through his head followed after that sentence. Annoying.

With a quick glare directed straight at Chris, Rodrick rose his right arm to rub the left—as if to get rid of the lingering buzz of pain left in his friend's wake—before devoting his full attention back to you. "It's uh, Heffley—Rodrick Heffley?"

You narrowed your eyes, staring at him a little incredulously now—but he didn't mind, so long as you were staring at him and not past him, he didn't mind at all. Rodrick was on cloud nine anytime you gave him just an inch of attention, be it good or bad.

Everything about you was just so—

"Wait..." Rodrick blinked—today must've been his lucky day because you were gracious enough to greet him with lit up eyes once you broke through his thoughts. So pretty. "Heffley as in the same Heffley who destroyed Heather Hills' Sweet Sixteen?"

He grimaced a little at the memory, but nodded nonetheless. 

Your lips quirked up—by God, please place them on his—

"Y'know, I've been meaning to thank you for that..."

"Thank, uh—thank me?" Dear lord, he could feel his own heartbeat drumming against his ears.

"Yeah, thanks to you, I was able to take Hills' throne." A glint reflected off your beautiful eyes after you said that but Rodrick was too busy admiring your everything to decipher what it was. Was that a new pair of shoes? They suited you.

His eyes snapped back up to your face when a sudden warmth coated both of his shoulders, a familiar hand making its way into his peripheral. "Yup, that's my buddy." 

Your eyes briefly left the dark-haired male's form to flit over to his companion, and he found himself grinding his teeth against one another just as he had done before; the pink in his gaze quickly being replaced by a heated crimson.

But, as quick as the overwhelming urge to slam his own friend against the wall came—to rip his very skin off and watch as blood flowed straight out of him—it was gone—just in time for your eyes to return to the Heffley and send another explosion of those pretty, little insects to attack his insides and fill him with so much warmth, he found himself wishing to share it with you—

—God, please let him share it with you.

"Can you move now? I need to get to class." 

"Oh, uh, right." He damn-near stumbled over himself in order to make way for you, harshly shoving Chris to the side too—and if he could, he would've rolled out a red carpet for you as well. Your precious feet deserved more than the filthy school floor.

"Ack! Dude!"

Rodrick paid no mind to his friend's scowling form beside him—choosing, instead, to train his gaze onto your figure as it slowly grew smaller the further you walked away.

For a moment, as you brushed passed him, an overwhelming cherry scent flooded his nose, coursing through his innards to roll his eyes towards the back of his head and whisk him up into the air so that he could sit upon a cloud as high as the earth would allow; as high as you would allow.

But, of course, not higher than you—never higher than you. 

"She loves me—" Rodrick smiled; dopey and wide, "—I just know it."

"Whatever you say, dude."

'Whatever he says'? No, this was written in the stars. This was the epitome of fate; of destiny woven upon the finest of silks and stored in the most beautiful of halls—indestructible and unalterable.

This was love—true love.

And you knew it too—you must've. Why else would you have approached him the way you had? 

And it's because of your reciprocated feelings, that Rodrick felt perfectly fine with leaning forward in his seat next period—right up to the back of your neck—and taking another huge whiff that knocked him straight out of commission.

"The hell are you doing, Heffley?!" 

A voice snapped him out of his appreciation time—cruelly ripping him away from his blissful state of basking in your glory and forcing him to look over to his side.

Lenwood.

Rodrick rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat to kick his shoes atop his desk and rest his hands behind his head as he said, "Nothing."

The jock narrowed his eyes, brows furrowing as he parted his lips—gearing up for a threat, no doubt—when another voice cut through the air.

"Something the matter, Mr Heath?"

The jock quickly muttered out a denial before turning to face forward again.

Rodrick smirked.

"Mr Heffley, feet off the table please."

He rose his brows but said nothing, choosing to obey quietly—if only to have the opportunity to stay in the same room as you for just a little while longer.

Speaking of you, the commotion seemed to have caught your attention, because you spun around in your seat, eyes landing solely on his figure for the second time that day.

His breath hitched. It was definitely meant to be.

It stayed like that for a few moments, the two of you just staring at one another as the world dissipated into irrelevance around you. Your beautiful, E/C pools were enough for him to get lost in for hours—just as beguiling as the rest of you was. 

Alas, the moment couldn't last forever, and you shattered it with the tug of your lips downwards alongside the cute scrunch of your nose before spinning back around with the elegance of a ballroom dancer.

Ah, he could stare at you all day and never get enough.

He said that already, didn't he? Oh well, it deserved to be reiterated if the subject it was referring to was you.

Today had been a good day—one that he was sure would only end up getting better with the upcoming pep rally in a few periods time. An excuse to devote his entire attention to you without getting weird or judgemental looks? Yes please.

Though, to be entirely honest, he didn't care for those looks. He was too busy hoping, wishing, praying to be the one you woke up next to in the morning; the one whose embrace you cuddled into and found comfort within; the one who'd get to spend the rest of his life with you—

—God, please let him spend the rest of his life with you.

He couldn't help it—staring at you with the intensity he had during your cheer session once the pep rally did come around. 

Your lashes fluttered prettily as you peered up at the stands, hands covered by the balls you adorned and lips jutting out in that perfect pout that he just wanted to completely devour—

Ah, his throat was feeling a little dry. Just another effect you had on him.

Unfortunately, he had to part from the stands for a few moments to go grab himself a drink but, for you—his darling pretty girl—he made sure to rush back as soon as he possibly could.

Unfortunately, this speed of his meant that he wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings, and not paying much attention to his surroundings could only lead to one thing: an incident.

The can in his hands slid straight out of his grasp, falling to the ground with a loud 'crash!' as liquid scattered the area, still bubbling and fizzing up even out of its container. A pair of white shoes seeped into brown at the end, and Rodrick found himself trailing the legs adorning them upwards, eyes falling upon a white skirt stained in the same brown that was slathered over the floor.

His gaze kept going upwards, only stopping when they met with an infuriated pair of dazzling eyes narrowed back at him; a familiar, infuriated pair of dazzling eyes.

"Ugh! What the fuck did you do, you freak?! You ruined my outfit! No wonder why Heather fucking hates you!"

No, no, no, no.

He was sorry, he was so sorry. Just don't hate him, please forgive him. God, he didn't know what he'd do with himself if you didn't forgive him.

He wanted to beg for your forgiveness—grovel on his knees and hold onto you like his fucking lifeline—but you were ushered into the toilet by those... friends of yours before he even had the chance, and he was left there, eyes wide as his whole body trembled.

Make it up to you. He had to make it up to you

But how could he when you were constantly surrounded by people who got in his way?—when you both were?

First Lenwood, then his own friend, and now, your friends.

Where could he get you completely and utterly alone?—when it could just be the two of you?

That was when it struck him, and his feet started moving before the cogs in his head even could.

He arrived before you—bathroom trips always took awhile when it came to you and your posse, so he didn't have to worry about you being faster than him.

Setting up wasn't too hard either, he knew where everything was and also learned enough from his dad about women to know how to woo one back into loving you.

All he had to do... was wait for you.

And wait he did. It felt like years had passed as he stood shrouded in darkness, each second as agonising and torturous as the last—if not, more so. But it was worth the wait—you were worth the wait—and soon, the sound of the door opening was accompanied by a loud yell.

"Mom! I'm home!"

Silence.

"Mom?!"

Again. Nothing.

"Fucking—of course."

His lips tugged down, heart practically being pulled on by the words that spilled from your mouth.

Yeah, sure it was convenient that your mom was never home, but he couldn't help the way he cursed the woman who gave birth to such an amazing being but didn't have the heart to properly stick around and bring her up.

But nevermind that, he could hear thuds growing closer to him.

A click. Then a flip. Then—

"What the actual fuck?!" 

Rodrick grinned, arms opening wide as his heart picked up in both pace and volume, drumming against his ears like he often would his set in band practice. "Welcome home, sweetheart!"

"Heffley?! What are you doing in my house?!"

Your eyes were wide, pupils shaking as your muscles lost their strength and your bag went tumbling down. Aw, you must've been happy to see him.

"I wanted to apologise," said he, "for earlier."

You blinked, still staring at him with that cute expression sewn onto your face.

For a few moments, nothing was said, and Rodrick found himself lowering his hands to awkwardly clear his throat.

Then, you spoke again, "Heffley, get... get out of my house."

"No."

"No..?"

"Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this moment?" As he spoke, he started slowly approaching you, and you started slowly backing away.

"Heffley..."

"No need for that anymore, babe." His smile grew wider and his cheeks grew hotter as the wall blocked you from moving any further—allowing the distance between the two of you to grow... shorter. "Just call me Rodrick, or honey, if you'd prefer."

"You're crazy..."

He could feel your breath now, right up against his skin. It was perfect, and only proved to send shivers down his spine. "It's okay, babe, no one's here now. It's just you and me. You can speak your mind without worrying about anyone else. Go on, tell me you love me."

Your features scrunched up at that, teeth grinding against one another as you spat, "I don't love you, psycho."

"Uh, yeah you do." He dismissed your words with a wave. "It's okay to admit you're in love."

"I'm not, you psycho. I barely know you."

Ah, you could be so cruel sometimes.

"Sure you do. You know me just like I know you—" another whiff, "—and how I know this is your favourite scent."

You were shaking much more violently now, body leaning up against the wall for support in a way that made him envy it—all this effort to get to where he was and your wall got more attention than he did? Absolutely not.

He looped an arm around the curve of your waist, basking in the way they fit together as perfectly as puzzle pieces, before pulling you into his chest and taking another deep inhale.

And just like that, you went limp in his arms.

Oh well, at least now he got to carry out his fantasy of being the one that got to wake up next to you.

Omg guys, I acc feel so bad for turning Rodrick into a creep in this, he's such a cutie in the movies.

[xuchiya]

"inner children" || park seonghwa

| genre: fluff. fluff. slice of life? fluff | mentions: bullying

you and seonghwa had been friends since you were both 4 years old. you both have been the chao duo. from causing trouble inside the playground towards doing a ding dong ditch on your neighbors that almost caught you both and reported to the local police about you two.

Or when the two of you are now in high school, you always find yourself in and out of the principal's office with the violation of "bullying" even though it's far from that. Everyone in school salutes you both for defending those who gets bullied, you defend them by being silly.

By silly, you would let them have a taste of their own medicine. you and seonghwa never dared to get pass through them without having to swallow down their pride and apologize for their wrongdoing.

Then when time came and college life had cut through your childish acts, seonghwa became a trainee. you were far from becoming an idol since you prefer working on the camera, but your friendship didn't falter one bit.

Seonghwa, on his way back home, alone. You were busy with your multimedia meeting when he stops midway outside his journey outside when thunder and lightning combined with heavy rain startled him. He huffs, pulling out from his backpack his umbrella until he realizes it wasn't there.

"You got to be kidding me." Seonghwa whispers, sighing he looks around in a way of searching for anything. You. Apparently, the meeting ended, and you were on your way out when you noticed a tall figure by the entrance.

"Hwa?" Seongha turns around, surprise to see you. You chuckle, "No umbrella?"

"Yeah ... forgot it at home." You both stared at the pouring rain. It was like back then, when you both were still at age of eight, you both were forbidden to play in the rain because you both are hard to handle when sick, so you both stick watching the rain.

That is until you were being a rascal back then and still played in the rain.

You chuckle, remembering how you were scolded by your grandma and now had a reason not to go to school. Seonghwa glances at you frowning slightly, "What?"

Shaking your head, a smile still evident on your face, "Remember when mama was so mad at me for pulling you in with me when it was storming outside?"

Seonghwa thought for a second, recalling about your memory until he is also chuckling, "You were such a rascal and now we both have reasons not to go to school."

You both were in a soft laughing fit until you calm down, staring at the storm. Growing up seems to be so full of responsibility that it weighs you down, missing the life of having no problem, no burdens and expectations for you.

Looking at Seonghwa, he must have felt those things too. Most especially his debut is nearing. You can't turn life around as you like, you have to live, and you have to accept it.

Taking Seonghwa's hand, he was startled at your sudden skinship. You look up at him, "Ready?" Seonghwa wasn't able to comprehend your words before he was drag out of the safety of the roof; he felt his clothes weighing him down and his hair sticking on his forehead.

But what he heard the most is your giggles. His heart was in such speed that it hitches in his throat when you turn around, wet hair whipping on your back as you giggle, mumbling incoherent in his ears until you both settle under the bus stop.

"Sorry." You giggle, wringing out the rainwater out of your hair. Seonghwa shake his head, knocking your head out of habit. You both were almost drenched in the rain, thankfully your university is just near the bus stop.

"Here." Using his varsity jacket, he drapes it around you. You chuckle, looking up at him, "Nah~"

You threw the other part around his head, pulling him close to you, "I won't let you get sick." Seonghwa chuckles, leaning down just so he could directly see you eye to eye.

"You'll take care of me if I did?" If cold had already sip inside your system, it must be because of the sudden warmth going through your neck up to your cheeks, nodding subconsciously.

Seonghwa was surprised from your reaction, yet he finds it cute. He leans in closer, placing a sweet kiss on your cheek, "I'll take care of you too."

[hannie-dul-set]

PATIENCE, PATIENCE.

p — SIM JAEYUN x gn! reader. g — humor, fluff. w — swearing, making out, secondhand embarrassment aka the hannie-dul-set fic triumvirate + a good amount of public indecency. 1.5k words.

requested by — anon: cocky jock (who loses that cockiness around you) x reserved student librarian (who loses that cool because of him).

note — loosely inspired by a moment from the manhwa "unstoppable hayoung" ifykyk. in a prev fic i alluded beomgyu to a mosquito, in this one jake to a pest. i think i'm seeing a pattern here.

a pest has been following you for quite some time now.

“sim jaeyun.”

his name falls icy off your tongue, prefacing it with a sharp inhale yet the man in question is unfazed. he’s trespassing the barrier that’s preventing you from socking him in the face: the front desk of the library where he’s decided to prop his arms over, leaning into the surface, smiling oh-so-handsomely at you as if you aren’t politely telling him to fuck off with your eyes alone.

then again. you don’t really expect him to understand social cues.

“for the dozenth time, please leave me alone.”

so you verbalize your intent instead.

“i can’t do that, baby,” he replies. “not until you agree to go out with me.”

you suck in a deep huff of air, close your eyes, and dig your fingers into your thighs to ward away the distress.

“just one date. please?” he prods, nudging himself closer over the desk as if the scrawls of paper you’re trying to organize aren’t as important as his incessant badgering. “are you really going to keep saying no to this face?” the face in mention looks particularly punch-able right now. you’ve always taken pride in yourself for being a very patient, patient individual. jake sim from philosophy 102 is testing that patience.

“the library is for reading,” you say through gritted teeth. patience, patience, patience. you’re a daffodil on a breezy field, a piece of driftwood on a steady river. you will not fight a man in your workplace. you will keep your job and maintain inner peace.

“i am reading,” he argues. “i’m trying to read your mind because i don’t get why you don’t want to go out with me.”

holy crap. he’s insufferable.

“i’ve already told you dozens of times, jake.” now, you don’t know a thing or two about the ball sport he does, but that pink varsity jacket is starting to look abhorrent. it’s being shoved into your face the more he tries to throw himself over your desk. a bright jarring color, unsafe for the eyes. “i don’t want to go out with you. also, i’d appreciate if you stop ruining my work.”

one of the documents got wrinkled under his elbow. his mouth opens, “oh, sorry!” and he quickly backs off, ironing the sheet with his palms. “but at least tell me why you don’t want to go out with me. you keep rejecting me with a blank face but i don’t know why.”

your upper lip twitches. 

because this is all because of a dare, that’s fucking why.

no, even that aside, the way he keeps arrogantly trying to hit on you, expecting you to just accept it and go is grinding your gears. you’re calm. you’re usually calm. but something about this guy just pushes all your buttons in one go, makes you spew out bullshit you’d never dare yourself to say to anyone else.

“hey,” your rouse. “can you kiss me right now?”

two can play at that game, bitch.

it works. it works really well because jake is suddenly as pink as his jacket. well, you don’t blame him. the library isn’t safe from gross, hormonal activities, but those are usually done in between the shelves— not at the front desk near the entrance. 

you’re mimicking his stance, leaned forward, arms crossed over the desk and all. “like— like a peck on the cheek?” he stutters.

“no. like tongue in mouth kissing me like a starved man and it’s your last meal on death row,” you clarify. it’s funny how you can see his brain circuits crashing in real time. serves him right. you let out a breath and stand up, seeing the clock tick closer to your break. you quickly gather your things and circle out from behind the desk, now in cross-armed disappointment next to your persistent pest. “this is why i don’t want to go out with you, jake. you don’t even have feelings for me. you’re doing this because your friends told you to, and i don’t—”

suddenly, you feel something soft on your lips.

suddenly, your knees are weak, your mind is fuzzy, and you’re exchanging spit with jake sim in the library lobby.

wait, you gasp into his mouth and he responds with a grunt. wait, your eyelids flutter, air knocked out of your chest that’s somehow now pressed against his because wait— this wasn’t supposed to go this way. 

how dare he actually do what you told him to? how dare he give you the best damn kiss you’ll ever have in your life? 

“what the fuck?” you breathe out in intermittent huffs, hands on his chest as you pull yourself back. jake’s hazy eyes are looking at you in a way that makes your brain jump in circles, coupled by the arm that he has looped around your lower back. he’s crazy. he’s fucking crazy. “why— why would you do that?!”

“you told me to kiss you!”

“and you did?!”

your eyes widen at the volume of your own voice, quickly slapping a hand over your swollen lips, but making noise is at the bottom of your library sins today. you see your supervisor’s attention on you from the corner of your eye, and your face flushes. “why would you go this far for a dare?” you say in a quieter voice, still manic, still frantic, and jake flinches hard when you jab a finger to his chest. “you’re nuts, you’re actually nuts, oh my god—”

“wait, what do you mean dare?” your finger seems to be hurting him because he grabs your wrist and brings your hand down. “a dare? a dare to do what?”

you seethe. “don’t play dumb with me, jake. overheard you and your little soccer friends last time—”

“it’s football—”

“i don’t care.” your voice is getting louder again. jake flinches once more. “the problem here is you keep asking me out to date you because your soccer friends are betting on who can bed the quiet library assistant first and— and i’m not going to play dumb just because you’re a good kisser. i’m angry and disgusted and—”

“do you mind continuing your argument outside?”

your mouth is hanging open, paused mid-speech. when you peer to your left, you see that your supervisor has teleported right next to you. oh, god. there goes your job. jake apologizes for the both of you and skews your frozen figure out the door. you’re screwed. your patience could handle six months at starbucks and three months babysitting three toddlers, but i cannot handle one sim jaeyun.

“so,” the perpetrator’s voice snaps you back to reality. you’re both now outside the library, and he’s looking at you with a smugness that begs a kick to the balls. “you think i kiss good.”

your face bitters. “is that your only takeaway from all that?”

“no,” he shakes his head. “i also got that you’re rightfully mad at me for something i have to clear up.”

here we go. you’re curious to see what excuses he’ll make, how many sorry’s he’ll impart, and if he’ll get down on his knees. jake. but his starting words aren’t what you’re hoping for. “there isn’t a bet,” he starts. “my teammates were just trying to tease me because i didn’t have the balls to ask you out. dumb, i know, but they were dumber because they were all like, ‘if you don’t make a move soon, we will, blah, blah, blah’ to provoke me so—”

jake is matching his varsity jacket again.

“long story short, i made them run fifteen laps and decided to get it over with by asking you out on a date.”

you’re brought back to the first instance jake had asked you out— it was in the lecture hall, right after class, and he was wearing the same pink jacket that at this point seems like his second skin. the color isn’t as jarring as you initially thought.

“but rejection didn’t feel nice. so i thought i’d try again.”

you narrow your eyes. “again, as in like, eight times?”

“you counted?” he muses. you are unamused. he clears his throat and continues. “you’re always so calm and collected, but your eyebrows would furrow and your face would scrunch up whenever i threw you the question. it’s cute. i got addicted. you can’t pin all the blame on me.”

you let his words simmer, and with each passing second of silence jake grows more nervous, fidgeting in wait. you decide to spare him the agony, letting out a deep and heavy sigh. “okay. you’re forgiven.”

it’s instantaneous how his face lights up. now, you’re the one flinching.

“nice! does that mean we’re dating now? can i kiss you again?”

“now hold on,” you stop him, mildly appalled, mostly flustered. “i said i forgive you. i never said we can start making out in a public area again.”

he bats his eyes at you. “in private then?” 

you want to hit him. you want to hit him so bad. sim jaeyun is the pest that has been following you for quite some time now. you fear that at this point, there’s no getting rid of him now.

PATIENCE, PATIENCE. © hannie-dul-set, 2023.

[creativeashproductions]

Murder Mysteries and Afterlife Businesses // Wally Clark

IN WHICH: Maddie Nears is unaware of one ghost at Split River High School with the connections to help after dead end after dead end. The issue? Well the reader hasn’t stepped in the school since 2013 due to a certain dead jock.

Warnings: Swearing, angst, mention of murder, ghosts and some fluff

Words: 2.7k

A/N: Reader’s nickname is Renaissance since she’s an artist! Renai is pronounced Ren-ah. Reader is a twin!

I could be persuaded to make a part 2 (or more parts).

Masterlist | Next Part

The frustration of dead ends for the mystery behind Maddie was driving her crazy. The inability to leave the school property left Maddie placing a lot of trust and lack of control in other people’s hands. And most of the ones involved had no clue Maddie was wandering the school in the afterlife. And Maddie thus far only trusted 25% of the Scooby Gang attempting to get answers.

There was really only one person in the afterlife with better ways of providing new avenues of searching. But it’s difficult when a metaphorical cavern between two ghosts prevents it.

“Well, Cherrypop, if you want the behind-the-scenes exclusive, maybe you should visit Wally’s girlfriend.” Rhonda’s lips were twisted in a smirk. Her beret sitting prettily on her curls.

Maddie’s blue eyes fled one ghost for the one shifting on his chair in the library space. The support group ended thirty minutes ago, but Maddie needed more information.

“Girl-“

“Rhonda, seriously.” Wally groaned, flopping back on the couch and staring up at the speckles of some mysterious substance on the ceiling, “We’re on a break.”

“For the last ten years.” Charley supplied, flinching when Wally pinched his leg.

Wally’s mouth opened to reply before closing, “She doesn’t want to speak to me.”

Once upon a time, Split River High School had a bludgeoning art studio and an excellent program. You dabbled in many different art forms, but following an unfortunate fire, the program perished, along with the studio and you. The school had rebuilt the studio with better fire-resistant products and attempted to revive the program. It failed ultimately. Even the art scene didn’t want to work in the same building where two students and a teacher had perished. So the program was shifted to a wing inside the school.

Out of sheer surprise, the building was sealed off and avoided by everyone but the janitor.

You and Brady had built a moderately successful afterlife business creating different objects. Then, you were commissioned by the fellow dead to make blankets and pottery around the holidays and birthdays. You barely left the studio, and then you met Wally.

Split River High School, 2010

Your face glanced down at the watch on your wrist before shifting the blanket in your arms around. You were running behind delivering the blanket to Mina. How humourous that even in death, you were always running late.

Typically Brady was the one to deliver items while you stayed in the art studio working. But, unfortunately, the delivery date for Mina fell on the annual day he deemed his ‘day off’ to mourn his life.

And to think you were the theatre kid with how dramatic he could be.

“Why the hell do I need to deliver this. Mina barely likes me and- OH!” You exclaimed, slamming into the linoleum ground.

“Shit!”

You grunted when a body fell right onto your body, “Jesus, dude!”

The other person rolled off to stare at the ceiling in pain. His eyes scrunched closed and curled in the fetal position.

“Watch where you’re going, meathead!” You exclaimed, sitting up to grab the blanket lying on the ground. You didn’t give the guy another glance while you carefully folded the blanket back up and fixed the card on top.

“I’m dead. Why does getting kneeled in the balls still hurt?” He wheezed, slowly rolling to sit up. You knew even with him sitting, he was tall and a jock, given the varsity jacket he wore bearing the older mascot the school retired years ago.

“God, I am so giving Brady garbage duty for the next month!” You huffed, turning to look him in the face properly, “You are so glad this was breaka….”

Wally knew of the afterlife business conducted out of the building on the far corner of the school’s property. Knew that Charley had gotten the coffee mug Wally got for Christmas a few years prior. While Rhonda had tall, thick walls, and sarcasm adored the bracelet Janet had given her. Wally had just never had a reason to go there. He’d seen one of the twins delivering items, but he never saw the other twin. You.

“Hi.” Wally breathlessly spoke, instantly falling for the person standing before him. Regardless of the harsh glare, he quickly scooped the items from your arms, “Let me help.”

And for some reason, you let him. He held the door open to the theatre for you and listened intently to everything you said. It was an instant connection. A friendship with the potential of more.

Wally became a new feature in the art studio while Brady and you worked. He was with the twins when he wasn’t at the support group or on the field. It didn’t take long before Wally asked you out.

And for three years, you built an afterlife together. Until it fell apart in 2013.

For the last decade, you had become more reclusive than previously, partially due to running Highlands House alone without Brady and partly to avoid running into Wally. An ache swelled, thinking of the tall brunette.

You shoved the thought of him aside to focus on the handmade journal Rhonda had commissioned. You’d worked hard to develop the craft of making your own paper and enjoyed it when she popped in when you asked to go over the cover details.

When Brady was still here, you worked more on having clients come to the studio, but you’d managed to get a phone. It was hard to get and used for clients to contact with requests for appointments and contact.

As you said. You’d become reclusive.

So when the knock on the door happened, your eyebrows raised. Your e/c eyes glance at the calendar on the desk. Not a single appointment for today and one known visits you. If Mina left the theatre, you had a feeling she would.

“Renai?”

Your eye quite literally twitched hearing his voice. You kept silent.

“I know you’re there, Renai. I can hear the kiln, and I know you barely move your eyes away from it when it’s firing!”

No matter how much you wanted to slam Rhonda’s notebook on the floor, you refrained. Instead, you smoothed your hair and took a deep breath before striding out of the workroom to the front office. The lock clicked open, and you saw Wally standing there with Charley behind him.

“Hi.” Charley’s smile was watery at best. The apology clears in his expression.

“You so afraid of seeing me you brought backup.” You inquired through the open space between the edge of the door and the jam.

“I think you’re less likely to punch me with him here.” Wally returned with a half smile. His brown eyes watched your lips twist.

“I’ve always had a soft spot for Charley.” Although you admitted opening the door to the duo standing outside, “I wouldn’t punch you. I need my hands.”

You ignored the feeling Wally’s chuckle brought you by leading them to the small sitting room you’d set up. You’d barely sat in the chair with drinks in hand. Tea for Charley, a Gatorade for Wally and your beverage of choice.

“What made you crawl out of whatever hole you’ve been hiding in for the last decade.” You questioned, “Because Charley was here last week to get Mr. Martin’s mug. By the way, how’d he like it, Charley?”

“He loves it.” Charley quietly interjected decidedly, trying to avoid the quarrel he hoped would end sooner rather than later.

Yet it still smouldered.

“It’s not like you’d left the buil-“

“Not like I have a choice.” You shut Wally’s question down. He winced, nodding, “I’m guessing this is more of a business trip than personal.”

Wally nodded. Charley delved into the story of the newest member of Split River Afterlife and the mystery of her death. You didn’t know who this Maddie was, and that was primarily due to how you kept away from the living world.

“So she was murdered in the boiler room.” You finished for Charley, “And you’ve found out she can talk with the living.”

“And I was wondering if you could check in with Jo-“

Your eyes left Charley’s calm ones to Wally’s sitting there in the audacity he had. The cup in your hand slammed against the table so hard you wondered how it hadn’t shattered.

“Are you shitting me, Clark? You come here after so many damn years because you need something from me?!” You exclaimed, taking a step away from your ex-boyfriend.

Charley bit his lip like the meme he saw on Emilio’s phone of Michael Scott from The Office. Charley really didn’t like confrontation all that much. But look where it got him.

“It’s just I feel for her, you know. We all came to the afterlife knowing what happened. And she’s suddenly dead with no idea how or who did it. She’s all alone, and I think you two-“Wally pleaded, attempting to step closer.

“And whose fault is it I’m alone.” You snapped. Wally flinched back, and Charley gasped, “Please leave. I have work to do.”

You fled for the workroom leaving the two in the sitting area digesting what had happened. Charley guided Wally from the building toward the library, where they had left Rhonda and Maddie alone.

“I knew me going was a bad idea. She hates me. Still.” Wally moaned, collapsing onto the couch to sling his arm across his eyes.

“Blowout?” Rhonda ignores the lump of an athlete on the couch.

“Explosive.” Charley replied, turning to ask Maddie, only to find the place empty, “Uh… where’s Maddie?”

You’d slapped the closed sign on the door before stalking away from it and the memories. A trinket is nimbly held by your fingerprints. But, despite wanting to rebel against Wally’s request, you couldn’t ignore the guilt of even considering not helping.

“Joel!” You shouted near the edge of the school property. The chain link fence is the physical evidence of where the property was cut off from the forest. You hated coming to this part because you could feel the eyes of the dead watching from the shadows.

A tall, lanky form materialized from behind one of the trees. He was wearing the sweater you’d swiped from the lost and found. His red hair was as bright as the fire extinguished in the kiln.

“Renaissance,” Joel responded, coming to the chainlink fence. His hand held out for the stamp you’d pay with for any information.

Life was easier when money was accessible. Now instead of cash, it was trading items and favours. Paying for information was more complicated, and Joel didn’t require new clothing as of yet.

“Have you heard anything about the recent disappearance of Madison Nears? She goes by Maddie.” You questioned, stepping away before his skin could brush yours. You hated the screams you audibly heard each time you felt his skin or even his clothes.

Joel curiously looked over the stamp, “I do not have this stamp.”

Getting information from Joel was more challenging than pulling teeth. You loathed any time you lost a piece of leverage for information. It is tough to find stamps the soldier hadn’t collected in the last century and a half since the Civil War.

“Joel.” You huffed, bringing the soldier’s attention back to you.

“I have not. The death of Maddie Nears is no more significant than that of a deer.” Joel responded, looking up to meet the disappointment on your face, “You are kind to me and my fellow soldiers in the face of our part in the Civil War. I shall gather information for you.”

You watched silently as Joel faded into the shadows of Split River’s forest bordering the school grounds. The unease of his presence followed him as well.

Working on any Highlands projects was illogical with how distracted you were. Wally appearing after so long had indeed thrown you for a loop. You were sure everyone would understand things being late by a day.

“You never did tell me where you got this.” Mr. Martin announced from his spot at your desk. His eyes scanned the phone lying facedown on the table.

Your spine stiffened, seeing the ghost in your safe place. The afterlife teacher, slash support group leader, had always rubbed you the wrong way. Something about him felt off, but you could never put your finger on it.

“You evade every question I have.” You deflected grabbing the phone from the desk to lock away in the filing cabinet, “What can I do for you, Mr. Martin?”

“I’m wondering how your grief eased after seeing Mr. Clark so much you agreed to help him. You know this misguided wild goose chase is destructive to Maddie acknowledging and accepting her death.” Mr. Martin replied, dragging a finger down one of the planting pots you had on display. Your flesh goosed seeing his finger disrupt the pottery.

Your laser focus is pinned on Mr. Martin, “Everyone copes differently.”

“And how are you coping with Brady crossing over?” Mr. Martin demanded, turning to face you fully.

Brady’s name, let alone the question, felt like Mr. Martin was shoving a red-hot poker in a wound.

“Fine.” Your features shuttered close from the prodding, “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave Mr. Martin. Highlands House is closed.”

You had never distrusted someone more than the teacher, leaving your business and home with confidence.

“Remember our agreement Renaissance.”

The nickname you’d gained in the afterlife felt comfortable hearing from him. You refused to speak more to the teacher.

Walking the halls of the high school’s main building felt odd after so long. It still smelt of a mixture of questionable cafeteria food, BO, and unrecognizable scents. Little had changed. You couldn’t tell if you felt comforted by that or not.

“-she’s a loner.” Charley’s voice drifted into the library’s opening as you entered quietly.

“All the more reason to talk to her!”

The object of your mission cradled delicately in your hands. The heads of the ghosts in attendance; Charley, Rhonda, Wally and the new girl, you guessed.

“Rhonda, I have your journal ready.” You notified the group but focused on the teen kneeling before the coffee table.

“You’re Renaissance. You own Highlands House.” The blonde female declared, leaning forward, “Have you learnt-“

“Maddie. Manners.” Charley ground his teeth together in a small that bordered more on a grimace, “I’m so sorry, Renai.”

You waved it off, “Hello, Maddie. Welcome to Split Valley afterlife. I haven’t gotten anything from my contact yet, and I’ve received no messages from other ghosts in town. So I’m just here to drop off Rhonda’s journal and head back to the studio. Unfortunately, the ghost who died in Mr. Anderson’s house crossed over a few months ago.”

With that, you turned on your heel and made it a handful of steps down the hall when Wally called out. Then, your feet abruptly stopped striding from the library.

“You haven’t made a delivery since Brady crossed over. You have one of the freshmen help out. What brought you to the school?”

“Curiosity more than anything. Strengthen the relationship with the customers.”

“Bullshit.” Wally spoke, stepping closer to you, “You know something.”

“Nothing of importance yet. It’s hard to get information when and I quote, ‘her is no more significant than that of a deer’. It’s not like she doesn’t have eternity to figure it out.”

“She shouldn’t have to wait that long for answers,” Wally argued, crossing his arms and stretching the white t-shirt under the varsity jacket.

Your e/c eyes scrutinized the jacket you’d worn often during your relationship with the brunette. The dances you’d attended with him and cheering from your spot in the stands for homecoming. Getting to know Mrs. Clark, albeit her being unaware of yours or Wally’s presence and holding him the fifth anniversary, his dad stopped coming.

You’d loved, and if you were to admit it, still loved Wally Clark in every atom of you. But the pain of losing Brady and Wally’s involvement cut deep. You weren’t ready to forgive. You didn’t know if you would ever be able to forgive him.

You cleared your throat, “I’ll let you all know if I hear any news. Be easier if Maddie had someone from her life helping.”

You didn’t see the guilt appear on his features.

“For what it’s worth, Renai. Thank you for helping.”

Your soft smile was answer enough for the football player and reignited his mission to have you forgive him. And rekindle your relationship. Wally wasted enough time with you.

Tag List: Let me know if you want to be tagged!

@websterss

[marsspeedway]

COD HEADCANONS! (1?)

This is translated from Spanish so I'm really sorry if there is a translation error or a word that shouldn't be there!

SIMON RILEY GHOST

His casual outfit is really simple: jeans and a t-shirt or hoodie, his shoes of choice (usually his sneakers or boots) and a leather jacket if it's a more "formal" outing (a date?) or if he feels like dressing up.

Yes yes, balaclava on the base and cloth mask off the base.

Due to his past he has developed a defense mechanism of making jokes to "get over" or lighten his trauma.

After the betrayal of his team and his capture by Robas he basically got used to survive with very little. Therefore: he doesn't eat much, doesn't sleep much and is always in alert mode.

His chuckles are low, deep and feel mocking 99% of the time even though they are not. Instead his real laughter, his guffaws, are LOUD but very very strange to hear.

This man does NOT have a driver's license.

He has constant nightmares and/or night terrors so he tends to sleep very little.

Simon "Ghost" Riley is sleep deprived.

Ghost is the soldier, Simon is the human. So, Ghost is the armor that protects Simon, the tough exterior that protects the sensitive and too fragile interior. 

His room is simple, he doesn't have many belongings and the few he has are really valuable for him.

Ok yes, "Ghost collects knives" or "Ghost collects guns" but... Ghost collects lighters.

Bonus if you think he's a smoker.

Bonus X2 if you think he's an EX-Smoker!

Sleeping near Soap, or cuddling him, surprisingly calms him down (considering how much he dislikes and discomforts physical contact).

Soap is like his safe place, then Price follows, but he doesn't get that close to him physically (almost not at all really).

His closeness to Price has been very helpful to him, the man is a great listener and a great advisor and Simon can't thank him enough for always being there when he needs a shoulder to lean on or someone to give him good advice.

Ghost's "Fucking hell..." at the moment of meeting Soap in MW2 is mainly because he didn't expect to meet him again, he didn't expect to see him again after Makarov, let alone have to WORK with him again. It's not that he dislikes him, he just didn't expect the guy to be HIS sergeant instead of Price's.

During "Alone" Ghost tells jokes and talks to help Soap through the bad time, to calm him down and help him move forward but he also does it for himself because damn: just betrayed at the border of a country/city they don't know, with the colonel who received them captured, with a (his) wounded and messed up sergeant who is the only ally he has right now and who in turn is trying to get to him, with mercenaries nipping at their heels... I think the poor guy has a right to be a little bad. Well, Simon is bad because Ghost seems to be hiding it well.

Hairless?

He tends to eat fast, very fast.

JOHN "SOAP" MACTAVISH

He told Price that they should make varsity jackets with the Task Force logo on them...

Guess who has varsity jackets with the Task Force logo on them?

OG!Soap (2009) hates dogs (according to a line of dialogue) but personally I think Reboot!Soap (the current Soap, the one from 2022) likes them quite a bit.

He's a bit (too much) hyperactive.

He tends to gift and buy things for Ghost, little trinkets or things he knows Simon can use. It goes from clothes to some toy he thinks Ghost might like, they are usually toy soldiers, little action figures or legos (or anything that reminds him of Ghost).

Simon keeps them all. Every single one, even if it's a rock or a note that Soap left him or a doodle that Soap gave him.

He's a freaking master with butterfly knife tricks.

No, he doesn't use them to impress Ghost....

Maybe he does...

Ghost pretends the tricks don't impress him but they do.

He gives me Golden Retriever Boyfriend vibes that can send a bomb to your house.

Let's not forget he's a 30 year old man, military, explosives expert who basically operates in an elite task force... I mean, he could easily kill you. But, still, he's got a nice vibe, he's sociable and it's hard to dislike him.

Bookworm! He'll devour a book in a matter of hours and if he likes it enough he'll do an essay or summary.

He's a homebody with a big, big family. And he would love to have his own family with his own little house in the camp.

To pass the time he usually draws and occasionally writes in his journal. That thing is a little bit of everything: drawings, notes, stories, a personal diary, etc. Anything goes in there.

He cuts his mohawk himself and also usually takes care of rookies' hair, or really anyone who asks (nicely).

He can actually do more than cut mohawks or shave heads, his mother knows how to cut hair and he learned how to do it himself.

You want him to braid your hair? Of course, he's the one! He grew up with several sisters, so of course he knows how to braid. Ponytails? Go ahead. A bun? Sure. You ask and he'll know what to do and if he doesn't, he'll find it.

He can cook a little, just enough to get by and not live on instant noodles and take-out.

[lanternb61]

Hi guys, recently I just try char.ai for the first time and I end up made a fan story about reader x Togame Jo from Wind Breaker. I used bots authored by rubyreverie. I'm sorry if I make some mistakes as I'm not fluent in English but I try my best! Hope you enjoy the story :)))

Second Chance

Contain angst with fluff, amnesiac, accident blood and sfw.

Part 1

Jo stumbled through the dimly lit streets of Makochi, his orange varsity jacket barely concealing the bruises that marred his fair skin. His raven braid hung loose and disheveled, strands of hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead. Dull emerald eyes scanned the familiar surroundings to stay alert. This was Bofurin's turf after all.

Once your home came into view, Jo's steps quickened with a sense of urgency. You two broke up a couple of months ago and hadn't seen each other since. He knew he was pushing his luck by coming here, but he had no other choice.

"Maybe I should expect to get slapped or somethin'."

With a grunt, he hoisted himself up to the second-story window, his muscles protesting the effort. Knocking gently on the glass, he waited, his heart pounding in his chest.

You open curtain and stare at Togame coldly.

Jo tried his best to keep his gaze neutral as you stared at him, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of vulnerability before he masked it. He leaned against the windowsill, waiting almost patiently for you to respond.

"Look, I know I'm the last person you want to see right now, but I didn't know where else to go," he said softly, his voice thick with weariness. "My ribs are hurtin' like hell."

You tried to ignore Togame as you look into your smartphone.

Your cold response stung far worse than Jo's injuries, but he tried his best not to show it. He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. "Still a cold-hearted one, aren'tcha?" he murmured, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He reached into his jacket pocket with a strained wince and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and took a long, defiant drag.

"You won't leave my house until I treat your wound?" You know your ex so well.

Jo chuckled darkly, the nicotine coursing through his veins as he exhaled a plume of smoke.

"That's right, babe," he replied, his voice laced with a lazy smirk. "I ain't movin' from this spot until you fix me up. We're in this together whether you like it or not."

As the window closed, Jo's smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked his disappointment. He took another puff of his cigarette, the smoke swirling around him like a veil of defiance.

When you finally relented and agreed to treat his wound, Jo's eyes lit up with a mix of relief and satisfaction. He made his way to a seat, wincing slightly as he sat down. His pain was temporarily subdued by the adrenaline of being near you again, but it still throbbed with every breath.

The thick silence that settled in the room was almost suffocating. Jo sat there, his emerald gaze flicking between you and the cigarette in his hand. He took another puff, the red tip of the cigarette glowing in the dim light. His fingers itched to reach out and touch you, to feel your skin against his once more, but he knew it was a pipe dream.

"You got anythin' stronger to drink, doll?" he asked finally, breaking the silence with a low, hoarse voice.

"I dont have anything." You replied nonchalantly.

"Damn," Jo muttered under his breath, disappointment evident in his sigh. He took another drag from his cigarette, the tension in the air palpable.

"So uh... How long do you plan on ignorin' me like this?" he asked, his voice laced with a mixture of frustration and pleading.

The sharp hiss that escaped Jo's lips at your touch sent a jolt of tension through the room. His emerald eyes widened fractionally as he registered the pain, his expression betraying a moment of vulnerability.

Reeling himself in quickly, he took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. "Watch it, babe," he muttered under his breath, but despite his grumbling, he complied, sitting as still as he could.

Jo let out a weary sigh, his emerald gaze locking with yours for a split second, your eye-rolling clearly not lost on him. For a moment, he considered saying something sarcastic in response, but then decided against it. 

Silence settled in again as you worked on tending to his injuries. There was a strange intimacy in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the complicated history between you two.

You finished tend his wound. "Okay that's settle it."

Jo let out a relieved exhale as you finished tending to his wounds. He flexed his fingers and rotated his previously immobilized arm, gingerly testing out his newfound mobility.

"Thanks, doll," he muttered gruffly, his voice gruff but grateful. He gingerly touched one of the bandages wrapped around his arm, wincing slightly as he prodded at it. "Feel like I survived a battle, but you got me patched up real good."

The cold indifference in your demeanor was a dagger to Jo's heart, but he masked his pain with a cocky smirk and a shrug.

"Just pretendin' I'm not here, huh? Well, I'll just sit here, being your invisible guardian or somethin'. Watch over you and stuff," he quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He stretched out on the nearest chair, feigning indifference as he crossed his arms.

As Jo sat there, attempting to maintain an air of nonchalance, his thoughts drifted back to the good old days when you and him were together. He vividly remembered your infectious laughter and the warmth in your eyes when you smiled. Damn, he miss that.

The weight of his regrets began to bear down on Jo, guilt gnawing at him from within. He knew he was wrong, but he was too stubborn and proud to admit it openly.

Jo couldn't bear seeing you upset, despite you and his strained relationship. He swallowed his pride and called out your name, his voice softer than before.

"Hey," he began, his emerald gaze fixed on your sulking form. "Come on, what's eatin’ you? You don't gotta keep puttin’ on a tough act, you know?"

He moved closer, reaching out a tentative hand to gently brush away a stray strand of hair from your face. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes.

Jo flinched almost imperceptibly as your furious glare met his gaze. The venomous energy in the room could have fried an egg, and Jo cursed to himself for pushing your buttons.

"Sorry," he mumbled apologetically, retreating a step. "Just thought you might wanna talk..." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his varsity jacket, suddenly feeling vulnerable in the face of your intense anger.

As Jo stood there, his guilt weighing heavy on his shoulders, you moved to the window, lost in your own thoughts as you gazed at the night sky. A heavy silence hung in the air, both of you wrestling with thoughts.

Jo hesitantly sidled up next to you, your and his shoulders almost touching, but he refrained from invading your personal space. He followed your gaze, looking out towards the city skyline lit up against the darkness. His heart ached, and he longed to wrap his arms around you.

"Tonight stars really pretty up there right?" You hummed your favourite song.

Jo's emerald eyes fixed on the twinkling stars in the night sky, and he couldn't help but agree with your sentiment.

"Yeah," he mumbled softly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "They are beautiful, but you know what's even more beautiful?"

He turned to look at you in profile, the city lights casting a warm glow across your features. He wanted to tell you how pretty you looked, but he held back, the words stuck in his throat.

"What's more beautiful?"

Jo chuckled softly, tilting his head to get a better look at your face. He wasn't good at expressing his feelings, but he wanted to try.

"You, babe," he murmured, the term of endearment slipping out before he could stop it. "You're the prettiest thing I ever saw."

"Then why did you hurt pretty thing like me? Like I'm a toy, Jo?"

The pain in your voice cut right through Jo's heart, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. He wanted to reach out, touch your cheek, but he refrained from doing so. Instead, he chose to answer truthfully.

"You're right," he muttered in a raspy voice. "I hurt you... I know I messed up."

The weight of his guilty conscience pressed down on him, and he turned his gaze down, unable to hold your gaze.

Jo's emerald eyes widened slightly as he caught a glimpse of your teary eyes and saw you brushing away your tears. A pang of guilt shot through him like a dagger.

"Hey," he whispered softly, taking a small step toward you. The urge to comfort you, to wipe away your tears and hold you close, was almost overwhelming. He extended a trembling hand but stopped himself, unsure if his touch would be welcome.

You sobbed continuously. "How could you...."

The sight of you sobbing and the sound of your broken voice broke Jo's heart into pieces. He couldn't bear to see you in such pain, especially knowing that he caused it. With a strangled cry, he rushed forward and took you in his arms, pulling you tightly against him.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled brokenly, burying his face in your hair as he held you tightly. "I'm so sorry, doll... I'm such an idiot. Please, stop cryin'... Please."

Jo winced as you battered his chest with your fist, but he didn't try to stop you. He felt that he deserved it, after all. His arms remained wrapped around you, holding you close even as you tried to push him away.

"I deserved that, doll," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Hit me all you want. It'll never hurt as much as I hurt you."

Jo loosened his grip slightly, giving you some space to breathe. He withdrew a little, but his arms still hovered close, ready to pull you back into an embrace.l

"I don't deserve it, but do you think you can ever forgive me?" he asked softly, his emerald gaze filled with remorse and longing.

As you pulled away from him, Jo felt a surge of panic. He watched you grab your bag and head towards the bedroom door.

"Hey, wait! Where are you goin'?!" he called out, his voice laced with anxiety. "Doll, please, don't leave. We still gotta talk! Wait!"

But it was too late. He had pushed you away for the last time, and now you were gone, leaving him alone in the darkness of your living room with his guilt and regrets looming over him.

Jo's heart raced as he watched you climb out the window, desperation seizing him. He quickly followed suit, clambering out the same window and landing on the ground just as you fled.

"Doll, stop!" he called out, his voice filled with anguish. His athletic build allowed him to keep pace with you, and he was gaining distance as you ran. He couldn't bear the thought of losing you for good.

Jo's heart leaped into his throat as he saw the truck bearing down on your running figure. Adrenaline surged through him, and he sprinted towards you, screaming your name.

"Y/N! LOOK OUT!" he cried, his voice a ragged shout.

But it was too late. He witnessed in horrified slow-motion as you were struck by the vehicle, your body sent flying through the air before landing on the pavement with a sickening thud.

As the crowd of passers-by gathered around, a chorus of horrified gasps and panicked voices filled the air. Jo shouted desperately for someone to call an ambulance, his voice filled with dread as he cradled your bloodied head, his hands trembling with fear.

"Please, someone call an ambulance! Hurry! She's hurt real bad!"

"Doll! Please, wake up! Please, I'm so sorry! Don't do this to me, babe, please!" Jo's voice cracked with despair as he cradled your unconscious form, tears streaming down his face as he whispered pleads and apologies.

The arrival of the ambulance, its siren piercing through the chaos, was a blur to him as he clung to your limp body, feeling his world collapsing around him.

Part 1/2/3/4/5/6

[captain-lessship]

Crow

Request: Could you do one for Wednesday Addams x a mischievous shapeshifter/Loki-esque male reader?

A/N: I wrote this reader to be a sort of prankster. I honestly wouldn’t mind writing more for this version of reader if a lot of you want me to. I had fun with this! Thank you for requesting <3

A bird was  perched in the rafters listening to her type in her type writer. It  had been up there for a while, just listening. 

 Boredom struck the crow, causing it to float down to her, landing on her desk, looking at her. Black eyes scanning.

Her eyes never left the typewriter, “You know it’s not polite to lurk.” 

The bird cawed at her, before slowly shifting, black smoke covering parts of the creature as arms grew from its wings, feathers shrinking up into skin. It grew in size, parts of it twisting and snapping, returning to a human size and shape. With a caw like laugh, it spoke. You spoke.

“C’mon Wednesday! Let’s do something.” You swung your legs as you sat on the desk.

“Such as?”

You gleamed at the fact she even was thinking about it. It took a lot to get the love of your life to do anything non-melancholic. “I was thinking we go on a nice walk and I heard that they are having a party down by the lake?”

“Enid told me.”

You decided to add something for Wednesday, “With parties, comes bonfires, with bonfires, scary stories.”

“I believe I am following.” She said, a glimmer in her eye. 

You grabbed her hand pulled her up from her chair, spun her around. “Let’s go, come on.” 

She barely smiled at your affectionate action, moving to her jacket. You straightened your varsity jacket from your old school and re-tied your shoes. 

You had gotten expelled because of your prank. You played basketball and the opposing teams mascot was a leopard. You decided that it would be funny to shape shift and it was:

Until someone called animal control and you got shot with a tranquilizer dart. 

You and Wednesday carefully walked to her balcony, you looked to Wednesday, “Do you want help getting down?”

“I will take the drain pipe.” She said, throwing her leg over the ledge. You watched her carefully as she slid down. You, wanting to show off, flung out your arms, the same black smoke covering you. This time, as long, black shimmering snake, you entered the drain pipe, slinking through and coming out the at the end. You stopped at Wednesdays feet, looking up to her.

“I love the look but I prefer when you can talk to me. Even if you make no sense.” 

With a somehow loving hiss, you shifted back into your form Wednesday knew and loved. It had taken you two years, a lot of near death experiences and patience for you both to be like this with each other. 

You had started out hating each other. She stepped on your tail while your were in dog form and you hated her from that moment til you were forced to interact because of educations worst attributes: Group work. 

Slowly, you forgave her and became some resemblance of friends, to true friends, to confidant, eventually ending as lovers. 

You fell first. How could you not? Her sarcasm, her misdirection and her bluntness is what you need. You had realized this when you ended up biting a supposed-to-be-dead pilgrim’s arm. 

Wednesday fell in love the next year, you were sitting, as a crow, in a tree. You were watching over Eugene, whom you both considered a younger brother like figure. Wednesday fell in love with the your passion, your resilience, your slight arrogance. 

Many were amazed when they saw you, arm draped over Wednesday’s shoulder, walking and laughing with her and her looking happy about it. You both made sure to take care and understand each other.

Wednesday didn’t like extravagant displays of affection and you had a need for physical touch. So you two went with the shoulder position and hand holding. Her hands fit perfectly in yours and she was surprised when she noticed this. 

She remembered that her father told her people are made to interact, physical or not. She loved holding your hand but she also loved watching you from afar. 

You loved pulling her into hugs and you loved listening to her do anything. Typing, walking, talking and her heartbeat. 

You could find each other in a dark room if you were asked. That’s how you described it to other people. 

With in a few minutes, you both could hear the laughter of your school mates and light. You both stopped, Wednesday looked at you.

“Story of the Evergreen Woodsman?”

You smiled, you teeth glowing in the faint firelight that shined through the tree. 

“It will be the performance of the century!” You said, slowly backing away further from the party. You began shifting.

Wednesday walked through the trees, surprising everyone.

“Oh my god, you came!” Enid said from her place beside Ajax. She motioned the girl over. Wednesday sat beside her.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Nah,” Ajax said, “We are just kinda chilling. Make a s’more.”

Wednesday grabbed the stick and bag of marshmallows the Gorgon handed her. She began toasting one when Xavier stood up.

“Alright alright, we all know the tradition, stories. Know who wants to tell one.”

There was a pause before Wednesday handed her the flaming marshmallow to Enid.

Xavier looked at her, “Try not to scare us to bad.” He laughed as he went to go sit back down.

Wednesday took his spot, facing the party goers.

“In these woods, a long time ago, there was a logging camp, before Nevermore was there and before the Gates family bought it.”

The winds slowly blew, making the reflection of the moon in the water shiver and shake. 

“One man, Todd Gragg, was a dedicated lumberjack. He would show up early and stay late. He worked hard and helped everyone and he was well liked, except his co-worker, Jason Luke. Jason hated Todd and was plotting how to get a leg up on Todd.”

You snapped a couple limb, catch the attention of only a few.

“Jason finally saw a way: Todd always sharpened his axe after his shift. No one was around. The plan was to damage the axe after Todd was done with it.” 

You slowly moved forward getting to where you could move quickly. 

“Todd sharpened the blade, once satisfied, he slammed it down into the stump. He stood up and began walking away, Jason quickly walked to the axe and tried to pull it from the stump. It wasn’t coming loose. He tugged hard, pulling with all he could.”

You stomped loudly, making everyone look around.

“It came out of the stump.”

Another stomp.

“It flung from Jason’s hands..”

You ran out of the tree line, screaming “Right into my head!” 

Screams ensued, a few stood to run, only realizing your laughter. You were doubled over, laughing your heart out as you return to your normal size.

“You shoulda seen the looks on your all faces.”

“C’mon you two!” Enid said, still shaky from the scare. 

You grinned a Cheshire grin as you walked to Wednesday, throwing your arm around her shoulder, “We got them real good, cailín álainn.”

[stubbornfactory]

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[thatoneguy031]

Real talk? Real?? Real?!

Why on EARTH was the cast of The Owl House so drippy?!

(A sort of breakdown from someone that's only kinda sorta kept up with the show... Me, Guy.)

Spoilers too, I guess...

Look at our favorite witch-in-training, Luz Noceda. As we can all see here, she's wearing Eda's varsity jacket when she attended Hexside. Level with me, the jacket alone was enough to be a super-dope outfit, but she took it one step further and even wore matching pants, too! Heck, she even tied up her hair in a bun, for crying out loud! She kept the aesthetic of "I'm able to stay calm, but I'm not afraid to kick your butt when the time comes."

And here's another frame of yet another scene...

Luz dancing with Amity during that one Grom episode...

She wanted to look fancy while she boogied with her soon-to-be girlfriend(At the time, anyway), so she decided to wear what exactly? A tutu, and a frickin' tuxedo! Wonderful! Fabulous! It's all so wild, but you can see that not only did Luz have a plan, it worked danged-near flawlessly! And of course, she decided to wear dance shoes, as well.

And you know what?!

I'm still not done.

I'm going to be real with you here. This is where the spoilers for the end of the show REALLY, REALLY begin! If you really want to watch the show without witnessing the beauty of Luz during [REDACTED], I HIGHLY suggest that you stay away from this post, and move on with your day! Please, leave!

...Are you still here?

Are you sure you wanna be here for [REDACTED]?

Alrightie, then...

3...

2...

1...

...

Okay, you asked for it.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Freaking. Bam. Meet Titan Luz.

This is near perfection in cartoon form. Luz looks like she told Amity's parents, "Your daughter calls me mommy, too." She looks deranged in the best way possible.

First and foremost, the cloak nearly perfectly displays everything she's done throughout the series. The glyph on her chest, the bones appearing along the tips and edges of it, referencing her "magic donor", Arin Hanson- I mean Papa Titan(...Is he just called Papa King by the TOH fandom, or am I being dumb? Since, y'know, he's King's dad? I don't know, but back to the comedic analysis).

For Hootie's sake, she even somehow has longer, puffier hair, giving Eda a wink-wink-nudge-nudge without saying a thing. Even further, her eyes turned a pitch-black with yellow irises, making sure that King himself is involved with references as well.

Y'know, this reminds me of a character that I've had written out for a while. Y'all won't see her for a long, long while, but just know that she's tied to this in a way. Backstory aside, she has this one... form, let's call it, where she kind of becomes a vampire. This aspect of her is derived from an art account I follow, I won't say who until the time comes, but she also likes using her legs as her main means of attack, not only calling back to Izuku from MHA, but to her friend who she loves dearly, like a family member.

Back to the main point, I love characters that reference multiple other characters they have a connection to without being overbearing, which is why I love Titan Luz's design. Above all else, this proves that Luz really cared for everyone that has helped carry her this far, and was willing to fight for them, even after her death. And Eda even teaches her magic the way she said she would as early as the second episode of the series, iirc. And, something even more wild, is that Luz sort of looks like Azura, as well, even using one of her quotes for the finishing blow on Belos...

"...NOW EAT THIS, SUCKAAA!"

Admittedly, I don't know much about Luz's palisman, but I do indeed see that they're a cute little snek dude! ...Like how Luz freaked out the school and her principal with those snakes in the first episode(At least, I recall it being the first episode)! Everything about Luz's design is just... It's all just. So. Good.

...Look. I originally wanted to make a fun little ha-ha post about how stylish the characters from The Owl House were, as I highly respect this show and loved it, from the moment I saw King, to the very end of the series where the Collector gave Luz and the Hexsquad the ability to travel between realms, but seeing this transformation and taking the time to dissect her Titan Form design... It really brought me to tears. Not just because the show's actually over, but because I loved it with everything I could give. The way the show handled its characters, even with the rushed development that Disney demanded(Those freaking warm toilet seats), was phenomenal, given the circumstances.

I'll make a post talking more about King and just... him, I guess, but this post is already long enough as it is. Maybe even Eda, Hunter, Gus and Willow as well, if this post really makes its rounds.

[carolmunson]

you can count on me (nurse!s.h.)

inspired by: i'll be home for christmas brought to you in part by carol's christmas song blitz, holiday cheer, and viewers like you. a/n: i cried while writing this, so good fuckin' luck. cw: 18+ minors dni, hurt/comfort, sad/complicated family dynamics, lots of hospital talk (but i don't know shit about nursing or hospitals so i'm sorry if any of this is just blatantly wrong), mentions of illness/cancer, talk of death, overall holiday stress. mentions/discussion of WWII and the korean war, some slight homophobia, religious references (praying/heaven/'upstairs'), but on the bright side the party is featured and nurse!steve is a total flirt, so.

Christmas Eve, 1974

“I’ll be home for Christmas. You can plan on me. Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents by the tree…”

“Grandpa, why do you always have to sing this song? It’s so sad,” Steve asked, curling onto his side to face his grandfather. He smiled, running a hand over the boy’s hair, a little chuckle rattled his lungs.  “Says who, sport?” he asks, creases on his face crinkling in faux offense. “Says daddy, says me. Daddy says it’s like if a funeral came for Christmas dinner,” Steve crosses his arms under the covers.  “It’s not a sad song to me, kiddo. Came out the year I was far away from your grandma,” he explains, “They played it a lot when we were away – but I got to go home that year and surprise ‘er. It was playing in the diner when I walked in to say hello and she cried and cried – cried like a baby, kissed me all over my face.”  “Ew,” Steve teased and laughed, “That’s gross. Girls are gross grandpa.” 

“They won’t be so gross when you’re old like me,” he laughed back at Steve, tickling him on the tummy, “But I don’t think it’s a sad song, buddy – it reminds me of how much I love Grammy.”  “So it’s a happy song, even though the words are sad?” Steve asked. He’s too young to understand, but that’s expected for such a little kid.  

“Songs are whatever you make of ‘em,” his grandpa shrugged, tucking the covers around Steve while his eyes drooped with sleep, “But I gotta finish singing so you go to bed, or else Santa won’t come.” 

“Okay, okay,” Steve smiled as his eyes fluttered closed, the soft hum of his grandfather’s voice sending him off for the seventh Christmas Eve in a row. 

Christmas Eve, 1979

“He’s always at the office, he’s never even here. And then when he is, he’s just –” Steve’s eyes brimmed with tears, hugging his knees to his chest on his bed spread, “God damn it, he’s so mean.” Steve’s grandfather lets out a big breath, clapping a hand to his grandson’s shoulder, “I think your dad is just really overworked, kiddo. He’s tired.”  “We’re all tired, grandpa,” Steve groans. He can’t believe the types of grown up things come out of his grandson’s mouth sometimes. 

“All he does is talk about how much – how much better I can be to his friends. Like I’m not good enough for him now,” the tears spill over onto his cheeks, sliding past his running nose, the mole near his jaw, “Like ‘Steve could be varsity his freshman year if he just gets that three-pointer right. It’s looking rough,’ or like, like, ‘Don’t think my Steve’s gonna be in any honors classes, maybe your kid can tutor him’” 

“You heard him Grandpa! He might as well have just – I don’t know – stood on the coffee table and told everyone h-how much – h-how much I s-suck at every-everything! Like I’m his favorite j-joke to tell at the w-watercooler. ‘Oh all he got from me was the good looking genes, other than that, not sure who’s kid he is.’” 

“Well your mother is very pretty. I would know, she’s my daughter,” he says softly, “So I think you got a lot of those genes from her.” 

He runs a hand over his bald head and smiles, “Maybe not my hair genes though.” 

Steve lets out a weak laugh, “It’s not funny, Grandpa.” 

“It’s a little funny,” he nods, a chuckle making his heavy shoulders bounce in his suit jacket. Steve laughs a little stronger, their laughs bouncing off each other, laughing from laughing, then laughing some more. 

“You know something buddy, I’ve been around a long time. I’ve met a lot of people like your dad,” he starts, “And I when it comes to people like that, it’s important to just be kind.” 

“But why? He’s not kind,” Steve argued, brows furrowing behind his new glasses. Another thing his dad teased him relentlessly over. ‘Shoulda named you Steve ‘Four-Eyes’ Harrington, kid.’ 

“I find the most unkind people need kindness the most,” he encourages, “And even if he’s still acting mean, at least you know you were the bigger man, right?” 

“I guess,” Steve shrugs, “Why do you think dad needs kindness? Everyone kisses his ass. You saw them down there.” 

The new tradition of the Harrington Office Christmas Party instead of the Harrington Family Christmas Party was weighing heavily on just about everyone. The time when they were supposed to be the closest and coziest quickly became the coldest. If this is how his dad was at home with his friends, Steve could only imagine what he says about him when he’s not there. 

“I’ll bet you your dad’s not very kind to himself,” he confesses, “So he doesn’t know how to be nice to other people.” 

“Well that’s too bad for him, then,” Steve broods. His grandpa barks another laugh. 

“That is too bad for him, isn’t it, sport?” he gets up, motioning for Steve to get comfortable before he starts to sing, “Gotta get to bed, Steve. It’s late – Santa’s not gonna make it if you don’t go to sleep.” 

“Grandpa, Santa’s not real,” Steve mumbles sullenly, getting under the covers. 

“Who told you that?” he asks, putting on a show of acting shocked. Flabbergasted. 

“Who do you think?” Steve shrugged, curling in on himself on his side and putting his glasses on the nightstand, “Dad told me. He said twelve’s too old to be believin' in Santa.” 

“If Santa’s not real, then how did he call me this morning?” he asks, “He told me about the Atari you put on your list.” 

“How do you know about that?” Steve shot up in bed, he only put the Atari on his Christmas letter to Santa. He didn’t tell anyone else about it. 

“I just told you! He called me!” he urges with a full belly laugh, heading to the door, “Now go to sleep, or he’ll put it under that tree for me, instead.” 

“Wait, Grandpa – sing the song.” 

“You sure? You’re not too old for your grandpa to sing you to sleep?” he asks, his heart swelling. 

“S’my favorite part of the night,” Steve smiles a drowsy smile, settling down in his covers while his grandfather starts to sing. 

Christmas Eve, 1981

“Christmas Eve will find me, where the love light gleams…” 

Steve sings softly to himself while he puts his pajamas on, the matching set his mother always made them wear for photos the next morning with the family. He can hear the sounds of the big corporate style Christmas party his father threw for the firm this year milling about downstairs. Even at fourteen, he wished his grandfather’s singing could drown out all the noise, but his Walkman would have to do. 

“He would have loved that you’re still singing it,” Steve’s mother says gently from his bedroom door, tears shining in her eyes, “It must be really hard to not have him around this year.” 

Steve forces a tight lipped smile, turning back to look at his mom and nods, “S’really hard.” 

“Oh, Steven, I miss him, too,” his mother cries, walking over to hold him tight in her arms, “He loved you so much.” 

It’s the most comfort he’s felt in months. 

8 AM - Christmas Eve, 1996

“Makin’ a list, he’s checkin’ it twice…” Steve mumbles to himself, going over his charts for the morning leg of the day. He flicks his eyes up to Darlene at the admin desk. She’s in her late forties, gray lacing through her dark brown hair. She wears a new holiday theme brooch on her cardigan every day, resting on her heavy bosom. She carries her weight in her rosy cheeks and her big thighs. Her husband comes in every lunch break to give her a kiss and picks her up every night at five.  “Where’s your name this year Darlene,” he asks with a wink, “Were you naughty or nice?” 

Darlene, who’d never been immune to Harrington charm, smiles big and waves him off, “You better stop that before my husband comes through that door.” 

“You didn’t answer my question,” he smirks, leaning over the counter, “Were you naughty or nice? Bet I could guess.” 

He runs a hand through his hair, always half surviving double shifts on the thrill of flustering the married women in administration. Darlene’s face turns red as she turns to the computer in front of her, “I was very nice this year, Steve.” 

“I’ll take your word for it,” he shrugs with a knowing glance, swiping another chart out of the file holder and giving it a once over, “I won’t be around at five to ask Gary.” 

“Oh, I saw you got the night off – who’s luckier than you?” she asks, “Gotta hot date or something?” 

Steve snickers, “I could never play around with your heart like that, Darlene.” 

She focuses on her work but shakes her head again while he continues, “Having some people over at my house. Parents are in Hawai’i again so –” he shrugs, “Just haven’t had some of the holiday off in a few years.” 

“Night shift tomorrow?” she asks. He nods with a deep breath while he looks over the white board on the wall past Darlene’s head. 

“Arthur’s coming in today?” Steve asks with a furrowed brow, looking at the patient list, “Isn’t he all good? He was in remission six months ago.” 

“Oh yeah, he’s got a biopsy this afternoon – can you imagine? A biopsy on Christmas Eve?” Darlene asks, looking at the list with him, “Just routine, though. I’m sure he’ll be excited to see you.” 

“Sure his wife will be, too,” Steve winks again and Darlene shoots him a look. 

“Will you go do your job please, before I call security!” she teases, “I know what list you’re on this year, Harrington. You’re on my list!” 

Steve laughs, adjusting his glasses and slinging this stethoscope around the back of his neck, charts tucked neatly under his arm. He’d been at the hospital a couple of years and even though his dad wished he was a doctor and not a nurse, he preferred this gig. It was all about making people feel good. He never had to give bad news, all he never had to do was just be there. All he ever had to do was be kind. 

He loved the nurses that took care of his grandpa when he was sick, they were there all the way to the end. Steve made friends with all of them, especially Georgia – who called him a little heartbreaker and was always trying to convince his mom to let him have a playdate with her daughter. Steve thought Georgia was a whole lot of woman – spitfire red hair, the kind of nurse you found in dirty magazines. He guessed her daughter was just as pretty. He wouldn’t know, he never got a chance to meet her. 

Arthur was a lot like Steve’s dad when they first met. Scrooge-like, a curmudgeon, not one nice word to say to anyone but his wife. 

November, 1995

“Why do they got a male nurse in here for? What’s the issue kid, bein’ a doctor too hard? You a fruitcake or somethin’?” Arthur’s voice was gruff and angry, huffing and puffing into his mask while his oxygen pump wheezed above his head. He’d just gotten out of surgery for a chemo port in his chest, so the last thing he wanted to do was be greeted with a nurse he wasn’t able to flirt with.

“Oh Artie, will you just relax? You’re gonna have an aneurysm,” his wife chides.

“Of course you don’t care that he’s a guy, Dottie,” Arthur grumbles under his breath. 

“Mr. Robbins, I get that you hate that I’m a guy,” Steve starts with a smile, “But if I don’t get your vitals you’re gonna be spending a lot more time with me than you want.” 

“Please, take your time,” Dottie says softly, “Don’t listen to him. He’s such a grump.” 

Arthur tosses her a look, it’s almost cartoonish. His frown pushes his jowls further down his face, deepening the creases by his nose. His furrowed brow in a permanent scowl from the deepened wrinkles in his forehead. 

Arthur’s life reads on his leathered skin and perfectly parted hair. Still styled like he was stuck in the 50s, covered in pomade – the silver shining in the fluorescent lights above them. A set of dog tags hung on a chain, slipping over the dipping collar of his hospital gown.

“World war two?” Steve asked, casting his eyes over to them while he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Arthur’s arm. 

“And Korea,” Arthur wheezed, listening to the hiss of the cuff get tighter and then release, “Met my wife when she came over to sing for the boys.” 

“Thanks for your service,” Steve nods, while he writes Arthur’s stats down on his clipboard. He’s not sure if he’s thanking Arthur or his wife, he might as well thank them both. 

“Did you have any family in the war?” Dottie asked, crossing her legs. Dot was a winner, her hair a salon dark brown but the smile lines in her cheeks and the crinkles by her eyes showed her age. She wore a dark brown fur coat and carried a black leather handbag with a gold clasp that Steve was sure she’d kept in mint condition for the forty years she’s had it. 

“My grandpa fought in World War Two, too,” he smiled, “My mom was born in ‘45, though, so he didn’t volunteer for Korea.” 

“Well, thank him for his service from us, too,” Dottie says warmly. 

“He’s no longer with us,” Steve says, still smiling, “He passed away in ‘81 – but I’ll send a prayer up to him from you.” 

“Heh, if this thing keels me over, I’ll say ‘hi’ to your grandpa for ya instead,” Arthur lets out a grumbly, dark, chuckle.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Dot coos, tossing a reproachful look at her husband. Her voice sounds like it was made for the movies. 

“Will you stop chattin’ him up and let him do his damn job?” Arthur growled. 

“Stop being such a big baby, Artie. You want me to get you some water?” she asked her husband sweetly, “I’m about to go grab a coffee for myself.” 

“Yeah, fine,” Arthur grumbled.

“Looks like that port went in okay,” Steve says to himself, inspecting the small contraption on Artie’s chest, “Everything feeling alright?” 

“I’m fine,” he huffed. 

Steve shook his head, scribbling down a few more things on the chart at the end of the bed, “I believe it, sir.”

“You from around here?” Steve asks, hoping to strike up a small conversation. They’d definitely be seeing a lot more of each other. 

“From Florida,” Arthur wheezes again, “My son and his wife, n’ my grandson all moved up here for some job she got. He’s some stay at home dad, can you believe it? ‘Least you sorta made somethin’ of yourself.”

Steve doesn’t respond, just nodding along. 

“Well anyway – hmmmff – s’cuse me,” Arthur coughs roughly, it sounds his Steve’s grandpa’s cough from when he was a kid, “Anyway, Dot couldn’t bear to be away from her boy so, here we are. Got here, two months later I got cancer – so, Indiana’s working out great for me.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Steve says earnestly, looking up from the board, “Your son comin’ in at all?” 

“Nah,” Artie makes a face, shaking his head, “That boy doesn’t talk to me. Prob’ly happy I’m sick.” 

“Oh, I doubt that–” Steve starts, but Artie let’s out a laugh. 

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Arthur’s chuckle is gravelly and deep in his throat, “I’m the meanest son of a bitch you’ll ever meet – and if anything’s true in this life kid, mean people never die.” 

Christmas Eve, 1995

“Well I’ll be back shortly, honey,” Dottie chirped while Arthur got his port hooked up to his tubing. She nearly knocked Steve over when he came into the room. 

“Oh, Steven, honey! I’m so clumsy! Merry Christmas,” she beams, rubbing his arm affectionately.

“You’re okay, Mrs. Robbins,” Steve says with a wink, “You’re leaving so soon?” 

“Just running out for a few last minute gifts! Gonna grab the Grinch here some cookies from my son’s house for him to snack on later,” she lists, “Can I get you anything, dear?” 

“I’m perfect, Mrs. Robbins, thank you though,” his dentist perfect smile makes her blush. 

“Steven, I keep telling you to please call me Dottie,” she huffs, pulling her coat on, “Mrs Robbins sounds so…ugh, so old.” 

“Ah, yes, don’t call her by her married name Steve. She’ll remember how married she is,” Arthur grumbled from his chair, a low chuckle shaking his shoulders. 

“Oh, stop,” Dottie teases, opening the door, “I’ll be back in a bit, I’ll see you both soon.” 

“You keep flirtin’ with my wife I’m gonna die a divorcee,” Arthur joked while she disappeared down the hall. 

“Well if it weren’t for you still kicking around here, she’d be more of a Mrs. Robinson to me than Mrs. Robbins,” Steve smirks into Arthur’s file, “The ladies love me here.” 

“God, don’t I know it – you’re everywhere, kid,” Artie rolls his eyes, “Whenever the girls are in here fussing over me they’re always checkin’ the board to see when your shift starts. I tell ‘em every time, ‘Will you shut up about that Harrington boy? I hear enough about him at home!” 

“Sees you when you’re sleeping, knows when you’re awake,” Steve shrugs, “Might as well be Santa Clause, huh?” 

“You doin’ anything for the holiday?” Arthur asks, he sits up a little, slowly. He’s gotten weaker with the chemo, it shows in his eyes. It shows in the growing softness in his voice. It shows in the thinness of his skin, olive green veins bleeding through a tan film. He’s thinner now, more fragile – it reminds Steve of the hospital in ‘81. His grandfather’s hands lying there, rigid and waxy. 

“You’re lookin’ at it, Artie,” Steve mumbles, adjusting the levels on the machines next to him. 

“Even tomorrow? What about your folks?” 

“My parents are in Hawai’i,” he lets a chuckle out in puffs of air from his nose, but Arthur knows it’s not a happy one, “I don’t really talk to my dad, much.” 

“You and my boy would get along -hhhgggack- get along great,” Arthur wheezes into another coughing fit. 

“Probably,” Steve laughs, “We both don’t like you.” 

Arthur’s coughs turn into barking laughs, loud enough that other attendants are craning their heads to look over at him. 

“Oh Harrington, you’re funny,” Arthur says, wiping his eyes, “You’re real funny.” 

The early evening rolls around and Arthur’s treatment finishes up just on time. Lung cancer was hard, but lung cancer with COPD and emphysema was a little worse. Steve was surprised that they were already starting to see some progress on the tumor after three weeks – maybe Dottie had a deal with someone upstairs. No one in heaven was looking out for Arthur Robbins. 

Steve undoes the connection to his port, starting the wrap up, singing softly to himself. 

“Please have snow, and mistletoe, and presents by the tree…”

“That’s Dorothy’s favorite Christmas song,” Arthur hums, staring down at his feet. 

“Yeah? Was my grandpa’s too,” Steve says, grabbing Arthur’s coat from the chair and passing it to him, “He used to sing it to me every Christmas Eve, just sort of kept up with the tradition.” 

“We do the same for my grandson,” Arthur smiles, “It’s better as a duet. You should really hear Dottie sing – the pipes on her she just –” 

“Hi, so sorry I’m late!” 

As if summoned by the angels themselves, Dottie rushes into the room, gifts in hand. Arthur stands up, slowly putting on his coat and scarf, picking up his portable oxygen (which was hardly portable for a man his age). 

“Stevie, here,” she says with a smile, handing him a gift bag, “It’s not much, but I notice you always just come in with a coat on and I’d love for you to stay a little warmer, honey.” 

Steve melts, opening the tissue to see a red wool scarf and a pair of gloves nestled inside, “Dottie, you didn’t have to get me anything. That’s so sweet, thank you.” 

“Merry Christmas, Steve, we’ll see you soon,” Dottie presses a kiss to his cheek, Arthur rolls his eyes. 

“See you in the new year, Harrington,” Arthur says gruffly while he shuffles out of the room with Dot. 

“I’ll see you Monday,” Steve corrects, putting his file in the holder by the door. 

1PM - Christmas Eve, 1996

“Merry Christmas Artie, I got you a biopsy,” Steve cheers as he walks into Arthur’s room. 

“Oh, there’s my boy,” Arthur laughs, it’s hearty but he still wheezes, the tubes in his nose shake against his face. Steve comes in for a hug, completely missing the two people in the corner of the room. A man in his forties or fifties, and a boy around ten or eleven next to him. 

“Hi there,” Steve says, adjusting his glasses and putting his hand out, “I’m Steve, I was your dad’s nurse when he was here for treatment – and uh, I guess I’m his nurse today, too.” 

“Mark,” the older man says, he doesn’t smile, “We’re not staying long.” 

“This is my grandson, Mikey,” Arthur says, gesturing to the boy. Steve looks at him and his curly hair, his wire rim glasses that look like his own and his heart leaps.

“Hey Mikey,” Steve puts his hand out for a low five, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” Mikey says back, slapping his hand against Steve’s. He watches Mark start leading Mikey to the door and he cocks his head. 

“I’m just taking his vitals, you’re welcome to stay,” Steve says gently. 

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Mark says with finality, “Say bye to grandpa, Mikey.” 

Mikey runs over, reaching over the bed on his tiptoes to pull Arthur into a hug, “I love you grandpa, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” 

“Okay,” Arthur smiles, “I love you, too.”

He watches them go and Steve turns back to him. 

“Where’s Dottie?” 

Arthur smiles at him with downturned eyes, “We lost Dot in August, Harrington.” 

“Oh, no. Artie, I’m so sorry,” Steve apologizes, leaning against the end of the hospital bed. 

“Still looked like a movie star down to the last day,” Arthur says with soft eyes, “Had me put her lipstick on the morning of, like she had someone to go meet in Heaven. I says, ‘Honey, I’m still here! Who’re you trying to look pretty for?’ She tells me she just wants to look pretty for me. Can you believe that? I’m just some schmuck she married.” 

“She probably lied to you,” Steve teased. 

Arthur swats at him with a grin, “She probably did.” 

“Things okay with your son?” Steve asks, unfurling the blood pressure cuff. 

“Nah,” Arthur shakes his head, “Mike though? That kid really is somethin’. He’s so friggin’ smart. Knows everything about computers and shit – even started teaching me how to use one. He’s ten! He’s gonna be – I don’t know, flyin’ rocket ships or somethin’ when he grows up.”

“You living with them?” 

“No, no, still at the house. Can’t part with Dot’s stuff – y’know? So much of her is still there. She decorated the whole place. S’like I’m still comin’ home to her when I do,” he smiles up at Steve and Steve follows suit. 

“You miss her?” he asks, the answer is obvious. 

“Like the deserts miss the rain,” Arthur declares gently, Steve notices the soft heave in his chest. 

“So what’s the deal, Artie, what’s the biopsy for?” 

“You’re the nurse, you should know!” Arthur laughs in surprise, “Whaddya mean what’s the biopsy for?” 

Steve rolls his eyes while Arthur wheezes back to speaking, “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. They found a spot – I got a scan back in Florida, we were there for a couple months. It’s not big, but better safe than – y’know – cancer. But honestly kid, it’s nothing. I’m not worried about it.” 

“Neither am I,” Steve nods. They go through the motions of his surgery prep, vitals, the works. They make jokes and share stories – it’d been a long six months. It was hard to leave each other – but his remission was a blessing. He’d become a different man in that year. They both had. 

“I’m heading out around three today, so I won’t be back until tomorrow,” Steve says. 

“Aw, c’mon, you’re supposed to be my Christmas buddy!” Arthur complains, “My son’s basically having me fuck off until he gets me tomorrow. Stick around!” 

“You want me to stick around or do you want Sara-Jean to be your night nurse?” Steve smirks. Sara-Jean was real pretty. Pretty enough that Steve had pulled her into a few empty rooms to play doctor every now and again. 

“Oh, you can get the fuck out right now if you want,” Arthur’s chortle is scratchy when it comes out. Steve missed that, and the soft puffs of his portable tank in the background. 

3PM - Christmas Eve, 1996

“Barb, did you hear about Darlene?” Steve asks while he gets to the admin desk. Darlene ‘tsks’ under her breath while she types away. 

“Did I hear what?” Barb asks, tossing a look at Darlene, “What’d she do?” 

“Well I talked to the big guy, y’know?” he says, tugging on his jacket, wrapping a red wool scarf around his neck, “Turns out, she’s on the naughty list.” 

“Ooh, Darlene! We better call Gary!” Barb teases with a laugh, opening a filing cabinet under the desk. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Steven?” Darlene whips her head around with a laugh, “Go home!” 

“I know someone on the naughty list isn’t telling me what to do,” he tutts with a sly smirk. 

He slaps a hand playfully on the counter, “Someone oughta teach her a lesson, huh Barb?” 

“You’re pushin’ your luck here, Harrington,” Barb says, emerging from below the desk with a stack of files, “You’re luckin Gary’s not here to knock you into ‘98.” 

Steve smiles, waving to the women, “If I don’t see either of you tomorrow afternoon, Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” they call back. 

Steve pops his head into Arthur’s room, still waiting to go in for surgery. 

“Hey, Merry Christmas, Artie,” he says. 

“Hey, Harrington,” Arthur says, beckoning him over, “C’mere for a second.” 

“Yeah, what’s up?” Steve asked, walking to the edge of his bed. 

“I got a gift for Mikey that got delivered to my house this morning, my neighbor brought it in for me. But since I’m gonna be here overnight I was wondering if you could grab it and bring it in for me tomorrow? I just wanna tell ‘im Santa dropped it off so this whole thing doesn’t bum him out. I’m sure ya already got plans but I’d really appreciate it.” 

“No, no, of course,” Steve shakes his head, “I’ll go pick it up. What’s the gift?” 

Arthur smiles a knowing, grandfatherly smile, “He’s been begging Mark for a Nintendo 64 for since September – and they’ve been sold out everywhere. They can’t really afford stuff like that anyway, so Mark’s been telling him to ‘manage expectations’. Pfft.” 

“Think I’d ever tell my grandson to manage his expectations?” Arthur asks, Steve swears he hears his own grandfather saying it. “So I used the lessons Mikey gave me about the computer and I found it on this website called E-bay – hefty fuckin’ markup I’ll tell ya that. Now, I had to go to the library to find out how to really order it but, y’know, here it is. Who’d a thought you could just click a button and get something sent to your house, huh? Friggin’ magic.” 

Steve’s heart swells, “That’s really nice, Arthur.” 

“He’s a good kid, he deserves it. And y’know, Mark could use a break – he really could,” Arthur nods, considering for a moment, “He really loves his boy – so I think it’s sort of a gift for him, too.” 

“Well, I’ll give ya a call when I pick it up, okay?” Steve asks, walking back toward the door. Arthur nods, jotting the address down and passing it to him. 

“Thanks a lot Harrington,” he smiles, stopping him while Steve gets to the door, “And nice scarf.” 

Steve winks and pats the wall as he leaves. 

7PM - Christmas Eve, 1996

“Well I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” Robin confesses, “If she didn’t get you a gift, she probably doesn’t like you like that.” 

“What do you know about girls liking you back anyway, Buckley?” Eddie frowns, playfully tossing a red M&M at her on the couch. 

“Hey, hey, be nice,” Steve says, holding his hand out to Eddie who fills it with M&Ms. 

“You look so tired, Steve,” Nancy frowns, “How many shifts did you pull to get tonight off?” 

Steve shrugs, tossing his head back on the cushions of the couch, “I don’t know, too many.” 

The door opens and the kids file in. They aren’t kids anymore, Steve guesses, but they might as well be. 

“Party people! Merry Christmas!” Lucas calls, head of the line to file in followed by a deeply embarrassed Max. She has a big bag full of shiny wrapped boxes in her arms but before Steve can scold her about presents, she shoots him a look that could kill him dead. 

Henderson comes in after, immediately running to Eddie first, also carrying a bag of gifts. 

“Merry Christmas, folks,” he announces with a smile while passing out gift bags one by one. 

“Guys, I said–” Steve starts. 

“Shut up, nerd,” Erica says, walking in the door with Will and El flanking either side of her. Mike follows up at the end, closing the door behind him. 

“You say no gifts every year and we never listen to you, so,” Erica continues, crossing her arms and looking down at him from behind the couch, “Merry Christmas, though.” 

“Merry Christmas, Sinclair,” he says up at her. 

“Merry Christmas, Lady Apple Jack,” Eddie calls from the other end of the sectional. 

“There’s food all laid out in the kitchen,” Nancy calls to them. Steve yawns, sitting up and watching the group move as a unit to the kitchen, dropping their gifts off under the tree on the way. He looks around, a smile creeping onto his face, a Christmas that finally feels like family. Like home. Like he’s seven years old. 

His eyes zero in on the Nintendo 64 on the side table and his heart skips. 

“Shit, I’ll be right back, I gotta make a phone call.” 

Steve heads upstairs to his room, dialing to hospital without even looking at the numbers, counting the rings down to the second for Barb’s voice to pick up. 

“Hey Barb, it’s Steve. Can you transfer me to Artie Robbins’ room? He feelin’ okay?” he asks. 

“Uh, yeah, let me double ch– Hey, is Mr. Robbins out of surge–he is? Okay, okay – alright honey, let me transfer you over.” 

Steve holds his breath while the phone rings, letting it out when Arthur’s scratches through the phone, “Hello?” 

“Artie, hey, it’s Steve. Your gift is secured.” 

“Oh, good, good –hhgggack-, s’cuse me,” Arthur coughs wetly, Steve can hear him spit on the other end, “Sorry about that.” 

“Hey, don’t worry man. How was um, how was surgery, how’s it lookin’?” Steve asks, heart thumping in his chest. 

“Well um…” Arthur trails off, another wet, hacking cough echoes through the line, “Y’know I uh – I got some bad news for you, Harrington.” 

“Oh shit, Arthur…Arthur I’m so sorry,” Steve starts, “We can start you right back up on –” 

“I can’t believe you’d lie to me like that, Harrington,” he confesses, ignoring Steve’s apologies, his voice grinding with phlegm. 

“What? I didn’t – what do you –” sweat formed on his brow. Why did he tell him it was gonna be fine? He’s just a fucking nurse, how would he know? 

“Sara-Jean wasn’t my night nurse,” Arthur says, exasperated, “It’s some old broad I’ve never met before.” 

Arthur laughs and it gets caught in his throat like a wheeze, Steve lets out a long breath through his nose. 

“You’re such a fuckin’ asshole,” Steve chuckles, rubbing his eyes under his glasses, “You almost gave me a heart attack, Jesus Christ.” 

“Merry, merry, Harrington,” he says, “See ya tomorrow.” 

“Do you want me to wrap it?” Steve asks, “The gift?” 

“Hey, if you’re offering – I don’t gotta pay you for that, right? They gonna add that to my bill?” 

“Actually, I’m gonna make sure they charge you double,” Steve smiles through the phone, hearing Arthur’s breathy laugh one more time before he says goodnight and hangs up. Steve heads back down stairs, the group all around the living room. 

“Here,” Robin calls, beckoning him over and patting a seat next to her, “I’m gonna put on Miracle at 34th Street.” 

“Why? It’s boring,” Mike frowns. 

“Cause it’s your sister’s favorite and she made all the food, dumbass,” Steve snap at him, walking over to the couch, not resisting the urge to give him a soft smack across his mop of hair. 

Eddie giggles, “Yeah, don’t be such a dumbass, Wheeler.” 

8PM - Christmas Eve, 1996

Beep beep. Beep beep. Bzz.

Beep beep. Beep beep. Bzz.

The group looks over at Steve who immediately reaches back into his pocket, beeper lighting up and buzzing. He squints down at it, the hospital’s number flashing below, “Ugh, shit. They’re really calling me in now?” 

“Just don’t go,” Eddie said, “They gave you the night off for a reason. Can’t they call someone else?” 

“That’s not really how it works Munson,” he mumbles, “Sorry guys, I gotta go um –” 

He looks around the room, eyes scanning everyone before they land on Nancy, “Nance can you just make sure everything’s locked up before you leave?” 

She nods, Henderson’s voice calling over the TV, “Why do you always ask Nancy?” 

“Do you really think I’d trust any of you other twerps to do it?” he asks with a laugh, pulling his coat on and wrapping the scarf around his neck, “Merry Christmas, guys.” 

The traffic was low, everyone home and inside, cozy with their families while he races back up to the hospital. He lets out a sigh, exhaustion rolling over him in waves like he hadn’t worked three days in a row – the twelves hours he had off would’ve been a great welcome. Before he knows it, he pulls into staff parking, still in his scrubs, hurrying into the lobby. 

“What’s up Barb,” he asks, “What’s goin’ on?” 

“Oh, honey…” she says, her frown tells him enough. 

“What’s happening, what’s wrong with him?” Steve asks, his body felt like he’d been dunked in ice water. In his peripheral he can see Arthur’s doctor come up behind him. 

“Steve I – I’m sorry,” he says. 

“What’s happening, what’s going on?” Steve eyes, nose prickling with heat, the back of his throat getting thick. 

“He’s hemorrhaging,” the doctor said, “It’s happening slowly, but we can’t stop it…he’s not gonna make it, Steve.” 

“Well you gotta, like, you can do something,” Steve says, a hurt smile pulling at his lips, “Like, there’s gotta be something that can stop it.” 

“There’s nothing we can do, Steve,” he confesses, putting a hand on his shoulder, “He wants to go.” 

“Well, um,” Steve swallows thickly, “Can you – has anyone called his son? Or? Where’s his family?” 

“They aren’t coming,” Barb says, shaking her head. Tears pooled in her eyes, “He asked if we’d call you.” 

“How much t-time does he have?” Steve gasps out, breath coming out of him in short spurts. Shoulders rising and falling unsteadily. 

“Not much,” the doctor says, “You should go see him.” 

Steve nods, numb, dizzy, the floor spins under him and suddenly he’s fourteen again – sitting in the waiting room with his dad while his mom wails outside the door. 

He gets to the room and opens the door slowly, Arthur laying there covered in tubes – with every blink it’s 1981 all over again. 

“Hey, Artie,” Steve says softly. He see’s Arthurs eyes flit toward him, a twitch of a hand standing in for a wave. Steve pulls a chair over and sits next to him, the healthy man he’d seen just hours before suddenly paled, older than he’d ever seen him. 

“Hey -hmmmfff- Harrington,” he pushes out. Pulling in a big, strained, wheezing breath between the words. It sounded like it hurt to breathe – but with only one weak lung working at this point, the other filling with blood, Steve assumed it must be. 

“Shh, shh,” Steve coos, “You don’t have to talk.” 

He sits there for a moment, listening to the beep of the EKG, the whoosh of air from the oxygen machine. Steve watches the drip of the IV drip – morphine. Arthur’s eyes are drowsy, but they still sparkle playfully at him. 

A lump builds in Steve’s throat while he watches him, he feels guilty taking deep breaths to keep from crying. He’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to hold back. 

“Aw, come on man, you were – ugh, fuck – thought you were too mean to die,” Steve asked between sniffles. He tries to blink back his tears but they finally spring out of him, leaking down his cheeks. 

“Well –hhhmmmfff- look what m-meeting you -hmmmfff- got me, k-kid,” Arthur laughs through labored, shallow, breaths, “One good -hhhmmfff- de-deed and I’m k-kicking the buck-bucket –hmmmff-. 

Steve takes his hand, holding it tight, a shuddering breath hitting his lungs before he breaks, “I’m s-sorry your s-son’s not coming.”

“S’okay I don’t want -hhhmmfff– Mikey to -hhmmfff- see me like th-this,” he gasps out, eyes lulling, breaths getting farther and few in between. 

“You think -hmmfff- Dot’s st-still gonna think I -hhhmmmff- look sh-sharp?” 

“Oh, for sure,” Steve cries into a laugh, “She’d probably still think I look sharper.” 

Arthur lets out a weak wheeze of a laugh, using whatever left over strength he has to push a half smile onto his face. 

“I’ll say -hhmmff– hi to your gr-grandpa –hhmmff- for you,” he whispers. Steve nods, squeezing his hand, wiping his face with the other. 

“He’ll thi-think you’re a real p-piece of work,” Steve jokes, his thumb grazing comfortingly over Arthur’s hand. 

They sit there in silence, outside of Arthur’s labored breathing and the monitors beeping, Steve’s sniffling and shuddering cries. 

“-hhhmmmff– H-harrington?”

“Yeah?” 

“Sing the song.” 

Steve doesn’t have to ask which he means, his heart breaks as he looks at the clock – 9 PM – right when his grandpa would bring him off to bed. 

“Sure, Artie,” Steve promises, “Sure.” 

“Christmas Eve will find me…”

“As the love light gleams…”

“I’ll be home fo– Oh, no…no, Artie. Arthur c’mon, c’mon man.”

The monitor holds a steady note, and against it, a rattle Steve knows all too well. 

Christmas Day, 1996 

Steve got home late but Nancy, Robin, and Eddie were still there when he got in. “How’d you know?” Steve asked, eyes red behind his specs. 

“Your girlfriend Barb called,” Robin joked, pulling him into a hug. The rest followed suit, pressing against him so that maybe the pressure would relieve him of his grief. They all stayed the night, they saved cookies for him, a plate of snacks, dinner. They stayed up until he was fast asleep – all sneaking out quietly the next morning to spend time with their families. 

Steve woke up around nine in the morning, blearily peering around the living room. He must’ve fallen asleep on the couch, glasses laid neatly on the side table and a note from Nancy. His eyes lingered on the present for Mikey, he heaved a deep and heavy sigh. 

Steve got up and took a quick shower, hoping the water would take his aching along with it down the drain. It didn’t, but it woke him up a little. He didn’t bother getting dressed, just getting back into his scrubs from the night before, slapping on some deodorant and cologne before trudging back downstairs. 

He took his time to wrap the gift, folding over the edges of the paper and sealing it seamlessly. The North Pole would’ve hired him in a heartbeat if they could get a look at this wrap job. 

He pulled on his coat, his red wool scarf, and tugged the present under his arm while he walked to the car. He pulled out a small piece of paper from his coat pocket, his own sloppy writing looking back at him with Mark’s address scrawled on it. It was a twenty minute drive – it felt like an eternity. 

He rang the bell and knocked on the door, and even though he knew they were home he was still surprised to see Mark open it, his wife next to him. 

“Hey, Mr. Robbins,” Steve says softly, “Sorry to come by but um – I know this must be a really hard day for you both, but –” 

“It’s okay. Um, Steve – right?” Mark guesses, Steve nods. Mark looked worse for wear, “This was dad’s nurse at the hospital.” 

“Hi,” his wife murmurs, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merr–” 

“Dad, who is it?” Mikey calls, pushing between his parents, “Oh hey, you’re that guy from yesterday.” 

Steve guessed it must be hard to really dampen the magic of Christmas for a ten year old, even if his grandpa just died. 

“Hey buddy, you’re actually the guy I wanted to see,” Steve said with a smile, kneeling down to get closer to his level. 

“I found this on the desk in the lobby at the hospital,” he says, looking down at the box, holding it out in front of him, “It’s addressed to you, looks like it’s from Santa.”  Mikey frowns, and at a closer look, it’s clear Mikey had just as rough of a night as his dad had. His lower lip wobbles slightly but he quickly straightens it out. 

“Santa isn’t real,” Mikey says defiantly, crossing his arms. 

“Who told you that?” Steve asks, his brows furrowed. 

“No one told me,” Mikey mumbles softly, “I told Santa that all I wanted for Christmas was for my grandpa to get better. And he didn’t…so…” 

“Well if Santa’s not real, then how did he call me this morning?” Steve asks with a smile.

“What?” Mikey asks, eyes shining with excitement. 

“He told me he left this at the hospital because he thought you were still there,” Steve explains, “So he asked if I could bring it to you. It was something you really wanted, he told me.” 

“Oh man, is this –” he takes the box from Steve, it’s a little too heavy for him, “Is this what I think it is?!” 

“I don’t know, dude, you gotta open it!” Steve laughs. Mikey sits right on the ledge of the front door, Mark and his wife behind him. The paper rips away to reveal the Nintendo 64 Mikey had begged for since it came out in September. 

“WOW! Dad look! Santa saw it on my list! He didn’t forget! I can’t believe it!” 

Steve stands back up to see Mark, his red eyes pooling with tears. 

“Honey, why don’t you come with me and I’ll see how we can set it up,” Mark’s wife says to Mikey, taking the box from him. Mikey runs inside and his mom gives Steve a small wave, wishing him a Merry Christmas.

“S’that from my dad?” Mark asked, wiping his eyes. 

Steve takes his glasses off, wiping his own, “Yeah, he um, ordered it online – if you can believe it.”  They both let out a small, pained, airy chuckle. Two men who are suddenly boys. Red noses and cheeks. 

“He asked if I’d bring it to him to give to Mikey but um, y’know.” 

Mark nods, face contorting while he tries to hold back a sob, “Merry Christmas, man.”  Steve puts his hand out to shake it, but Mark pulls him into a tight hug where they both fall apart, “I’m so sorry, Mark. I’m just so sorry.” 

They stay embraced for a few minutes before breaking apart, both taking deep breaths while they settle. Two boys who know what it’s like to not understand their dads. Two boys who know better now. 

“You’re a very kind man, Steve,” Mark says, “Thank you so much, for – for this.” 

“Thank you,” Steve says gently, “I hope you and your family are able to have a good holiday.” 

They say their goodbyes and Steve takes his keys from his pocket, swinging them into his hand. He gets in the driver’s seat of the BMW, the leather quickly cooled over. He watches Mark shut the door behind him and takes a cleansing breath through his nose and out through his mouth, putting the key into the ignition. 

The heat blasts and he pulls out onto the road, flicking the radio on. 

He chuckles sadly to himself, eyes closing briefly behind his glasses at the coincidence, while the radio crackles to life. 

“Merry Christmas, guys,” he says, staring up at the sky through the windshield. 

Bing Crosby’s voice fills the car, and Steve’s red, wool scarf feels warmer than it ever has around his neck.

“Christmas Eve will find me. As the love light gleams. I’ll be home for Christmas… 

If only in my dreams.” 

[ummick]

Mick Schumacher On Fashion, Le Mans and Fronting Tommy Hilfiger's New Campaign

It's a big year for sports, as the Paris Olympics near, tennis champs prep for Wimbledon, and the Euros inch closer. In the midst of it all Tommy Hilfiger is getting in on the action with the release of an International Games collection. Refashioning timeless icons for the new generation, the collection is a modern interpretation of the brand's 1996 capsule collection released to celebrate the Olympics arriving in Atlanta, reworking track-ready styles including archival varsity jackets, rugby jerseys and basketball vests in Tommy's signature red, white and blue. Speaking on the new collection, Hilfiger says: "The sporting calendar sets the cultural pulse for the year, and 2024's shaping up to be amazing. We're building on our legacy of working with pioneers in sport and reimagining timeless American icons through an archival lens." To front the campaign, the US house has turned to the global sporting stage to curate a team of athletes who embody the brand's spirit, including All-Pro NFL wide receiver Stefon Diggs, college basketball guard Deja Kelly, star of the all-Japan skateboarding association Aori Nishimura, and Formula 1 driver and current member of Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 Team, Mick Schumacher. Ahead of the collection drop, in the conversation below we speak to Schumacher about his first memories of Tommy Hilfiger, his personal style, and prepping for Le Mans.

Ella Joyce: "What was it like working with Tommy Hilfiger? Do you have personal memories of the brand?" Mick: "It was great! Not only is it exciting to wear Tommy and to have attended the NYFW show with all the exceptional details, but to be a part of the campaign and the bigger brand story is just incredible. A personal memory for me is when the brand worked with Ferrari back in the day, before their current partnership with the Mercedes-AMG F1 Team. My dad used to bring back so much kit and, honestly, I was just running around as the best-dressed kid in school!" EJ: "How does the campaign resonate with you?" Mick: "I really believe Tommy was able to create something that brings both sport and style to the table. I'm sporty, I love to do my workouts and be active outdoors, and to be able to do that fashionably is so important. I was so happy to be part of this campaign with other athletes, too. It was amazing to get to know them better and see how their sport and personalities impact their individual styles." EJ: "Off the track, how would you describe your personal style?" Mick: "I think the best word would be 'changeable.' I love to experiment and try new things with my style. I think you can see this across my social media, but I would probably look different if you saw me on the street two days in a row. From a classic look to a more casual or baggy streetwear look, I love the creativity that comes with personal style. It's so fun."

EJ: "You're currently competing in the 2024 FIA World Endurance Championship. How's it going? What's coming up next for you?" Mick: "Yes, we just had our first race in Qatar, a ten-hour race! It was the first time I had to be on for that amount of time while learning and experiencing that type of race, but it was an interesting run. We learned a lot as a team. One of the cars even scored points, so it proves that we're on pace and the project is moving in the right direction, especially as everyone is gearing up for Le Mans." EJ: "Do you have any pre-race rituals?" Mick: "I don't, actually. It depends on how I'm feeling in the moment. If I'm nervous or stressed, or whatever it is, I'll always try to adapt to what's happening. Maybe one day I'm nervous so I have to work on calming down, and another day I'm too calm so I have to pump myself up. It all depends on the day."

EJ: "You're photographed alongside a host of other athletes for the campaign. How do you think your generation of athletes compares to generations which have come before?" Mick: "I think we are really different to athletes from the previous generation. Of course, social media and phones have made an impact, but it's also because we're so precise about what we're doing. We have strict training and a solid laid-out plan in front of us on how to achieve our desired results. We have so much research and information which leads our way, while back in the day it was more experimental." EJ: "America and collegiate heritage heavily inspire Tommy Hilfiger. Is there a specific place which inspires you?" Mick: "The racetrack. I've always been a part of it, from doing laps in a car to just being on the track. In terms of style, I've always been interested in fashion, most likely inspired by my dad at a young age; however, my girlfriend is heavily involved in the fashion world, so it's helpful when I need to know what looks good and what doesn't. Inspiration is all around, so it depends on where I look!"

[vaguely-humanoid-form]

thanks, Matt

matpat means.... a lot to me, to say the least. I was raised in a single parent household and l haven't really considered myself to have a dad for a long time. while yes, I do technically have a dad, that's only really in the context of genetics. and my daddy issues but that's not important.

what is important is that matpat was my father, in a way. he was dubbed the title of "internet dad" long after he had already been one to me. he's part of the reason that I am the person I am today.

this piece exists because of matpat, for many reasons.

one, because I sobbed watching "goodbye internet" and want to do something special for his retirement.

two, because fnaf is the entire reason that I create what I do today, and that is partially heavily credited to matpat for overanalyzing a game about murderous animatronics in a pizzeria that I was obsessed with the moment I found out about it. 7 year old me was hooked, man.

and then I think through that, I found even more creators, which led to even more hyperfixating on weird nerdy shit, which led to me making more and more art.

and now, here I am. I'll be 17 years old in April. I graduate high school in one year.

I'm growing up.

not that I haven't been for my whole life because, well, that's how that works.

but I am nearing the true "end" of my childhood.

this year is fnaf's ten year anniversary.

this year marks a decade with game theory.

this year marks the beginning of the end.

I look back on my childhood. I went back to make one quick edit of my incredibly old Instagram account that I had way before I should've even had it.

I look back on the friends I had. I look back on all of the early-mid 2010s shit I posted and I smile. because it's cringe. it's cringe as hell and it's beautiful because of that.

and the nonsense theories are beautiful, and every single theory is beautiful because it exists. because it stems from the need to learn and think and have fun.

because that's what theorizing is about, in the end.

having fun.

matpat means a lot to me.

matpat is the reason that I am the person typing out this post. matpat is the reason that I am the person who spent 6 hours and 45 minutes drawing a piece featuring undertale and fnaf characters in it.

matpat inspires me to exist. and create. and think and learn and seek and everything.

yes, it's a bit parasocial. but it's hard for it to not be considering that I've spent more than half of my life growing alongside this man, seeing him grow in real time in tandem with myself.

I'm growing up.

but I still feel like a kid.

that's good and bad.

the bad is the part of my childhood that I didn't get to have because of my puberty hitting early. it's the fact that some of me is still a 12/13 year old in 2020. it's how the internet affected my growth.

the good is the part of me that still gets unreasonably excited when one of my interests gets brought up "in the wild." it's the fact that I love stuffed animals. it's how the internet affected my growth.

I look back on myself as a kid and, yes, I do indeed get embarrassed or genuinely cringe at how I was in some aspects. but I smile.

because it's me.

despite everything, it's still me.

despite everything, I'm still me, and matpat is still matpat, and despite every single thing that we've all gone through,

we're still us.

I remember one year, I bought myself the theorist varsity jacket with some Christmas money or something.

my best friend has the theorist backpack, I'm pretty sure.

hell, matpat's probably one of the reasons that they are my best friend.

two absolute geeks of GT kids, bonding over the nerdy stuff they liked, probably talking about theories. I don't remember super well, that was elementary school, man.

but isn't that incredible?

the fact that I'm still friends with someone I met in the first grade because of nerdy people like matpat.

I am forever grateful that I found the game theorists and became part of that group. so much of who I am is because I am a theorist. because I found one guy on the internet making overanalytical videos about games.

matpat means a lot to me. and if in case he somehow reads this whole weird ramble prose post open letter thingy, then I hope it means something to him.

but, hey, that's just a theory.

thanks for everything, Matt. <3