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#i owe some people some art and i have other doodles ready

joaquinwhorres · 3 years

Text

doodles (Joaquin Torres x Reader, Soulmate!AU)

PAIRING ››››› Joaquín Torres x GN!Reader

REQUEST ››››› ya know the soulmate au alphabet? Could i request Torres + b and w from the alphabet?

b...ody art (doodles that a person draws on themselves appear on their soulmate’s skin). g...uardian (it is said that the person who saves you from a near-death experience is your soulmate—drowning, car crash, etc.)

WORD COUNT ››››› 1,255

WARNINGS ››››› none

A/N ››››› Sooo I kind of cheated by combining the two letters. Also the writing style is kinda different from my usual story work, but hopefully both risks pan out.

The first picture to ever blossom on his skin is a bird.

The other boys in class have flowers and suns and clouds and little stick figure girls and boys, but he has a bird. And while theirs are sketchy and smudged and disproportionate, his looks as if it's been plucked from a picture book with its steady lines and cartoonish detail.

He'd been surprised to find it, nestled into the crook of his elbow, only appearing when he raised his hand to answer a question. He's so used to seeing his friends with images that littered the backs of their hands and wrists and thighs, he’d never thought to check anywhere else.

A thought crosses his mind.

More than crosses.

It takes over.

He knows he isn't supposed to.

If his teacher catches him, he'll get into trouble. He's not even supposed to have a pen in class. The rule's supposed to help kids avoid the temptation of sending off doodles to their soulmates. Of course, like all school rules, kids find a way around it, keeping pens tucked away in pockets and backpacks and lunch bags.

He's never been one to break the rules, but this feels like he has to. His soulmate's out there somewhere, waiting for him. It only feels right to assure them that he's waiting for them too.

Joaquin pulls the pen he keeps tucked in his desk in hopes of just such an occasion and quietly uncaps it. Carefully and stealthily, he drags the pen tip across his skin, eyes darting up to track the teacher’s movements and make sure he doesn't get caught. As a result, the drawing isn't very good. The head's too big for the body and the feet too long. He’d attempted to draw the wing twice, leaving the lines thicker than the rest of the bird. But it's there, facing the first and chirping out a note, so they know he's alive and thinking of them in this moment. And that had to feel nice.

He sticks the pen back in his desk, looking up at the board and quickly copying down the problems he’s almost missed. It's not until he reaches forward to pass in his paper that he notices the addition to the doodle. Two eighth notes tweet out from the first bird.

He smiles.

It becomes increasingly clear that his soulmate’s an artist.

Most people don’t have doodles on their arms and palms anymore. Instead they have drawings sketched into places only they can see--secret notes passed between soulmates. But his body is littered with art.

Intricate patterns bloom across the back of his hand, and twist and twirl up his arm. His forearm becomes a comic strip. Constant commentary on their day or whatever social issues are on their mind. Sometimes they leave a panel open for him to finish. His drawing hasn’t improved much from the first bird.

He wishes he could send along words of praise or encouragement even though he knows words won’t go through.

He wishes that they would use this gift to pass along messages like just about everyone else his age does. But all attempts at starting a conversation like that have gone unanswered. Instead, he simply gets to witness their art and their life play out across his skin. And Joaquin has learned to be content with that.

Because while other kids are coordinating their futures around their soulmates and tailoring all plans to match the other’s, he gets to make his decisions free. He gets to sign up for the Air Force ROTC without a shred of guilt or pushback like some of the other cadets have to deal with.

Their doodles are what keeps him grounded. Throughout basic and his first deployment, their delicate designs and drawings keep him company in those moments when he feels absolutely alone. They make him feel human in moments where he’s asked to be inhuman.

Their art has saved his life more than once too. The obvious doodles keeping him from doomed missions and distracting him for just long enough to avoid disaster. But more than those obvious, blood running cold, vomiting from how close it was moments, the doodles save his life because they are a constant.

He’s not the only one who appreciates the art either. The others in his unit laugh at the comics his soulmate still draws on his arms. They marvel of the intricacy of his soulmate’s work. On how they’re able to create such a detailed band of wild flowers around their own tricep. They laugh as he attempts to draw a bird amongst the flowers. He wonders if his soulmate knows they’re a bit of a celebrity amongst the 547th.

He wonders if he’ll ever get to tell them.

That’s the thought that weighs heavily on him as he watches his friends on base turn to dust around him. As he watches planes fall from the sky and plummet to the ground. As he watches the gentle waves and roles of the ocean that cascade across his forearm disappear.

It's five years before another doodle appears on his skin. He almost cries when he sees it. A small cartoon bird wipes sweat off of its forehead as if relieved.

He lacks all creativity in terms of response and just surrounds the bird in a cloud of hearts.

And that's their reunion. After this, life continues on, and their established routine continues. While the rest of the world still feels like a mess, the familiar rhythm of waking up to a new comic, of finding a new illustration branded on his shoulder makes him feel whole again.

The art maintains its affects on others as well. Both Sam and Bucky like to tease him for the "garden on his arm" or tell him he's a "human gallery." But he notices the way they practice drawing on their arms, watches as the other eyes the spot it appears on their own skin and mercilessly roasts it. Bucky has asked Joaquin if he's willing to trade soulmates more than once.

Joaquin's not.

Ideally, Joaquin would have met his soulmate under calmer circumstances.

Maybe they could have met at a Starbucks when they accidentally reached for the same drink and noticed the matching patterns on each other's arms.

Maybe they could have met while his soulmate was taking a tour of the base, and he just so happened to stop and say hello to the guide and realized that he had the same three birds on his shoulder.

Maybe they could have just finally coordinated a time to see each other face to face.

Instead, he catches them as they're pushed from a stolen helicopter.

Later, they tell him that they wish he'd just walked into their tattoo shop. That his first impression of them wasn't screaming and crying and just about ready to vomit all over him. That they wouldn't have blamed him for keeping the connection a secret when the first thing they said to him after saving their life was "Ow! I think you broke my back." (Which, for the record, he didn't. It was just bruised.)

But when he sees the band of flowers encircling their tricep, he can't keep it in. He can't believe he's holding his soulmate in his arms. The person who's kept him company for almost two decades.

So he says something almost as idiotic as they do: "You're the bird."

And that pretty much solidifies the fact that they're meant to be.

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getitinbusan · 3 years

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The Music Room -

Min Yoongi 18+ Smut

Part of the Lost Boys Series

JIN • NAMJOON • YOONGI •

Warnings: 18+ smut, MF sex, MF oral, A playful bite, Swearing.

Words: 3075

Summary: A stand alone series about a misfit friend group of seven boys. These stories are a day in the life snip it of who they are, where they came from and how they love.

The melody drifting up the barren hall floated through the air like it was made for your ears alone.

The poetic rhythm of the keys made you pause, listening enviously at the talent of whomever was playing.

But who was playing? It was 8 am on a Friday, the room should be vacant. Pulling up the music rooms schedule on your phone, you weren't wrong. The first spot of the day was yours for the entire semester.

You knocked lightly. The sound stopped and the bench made it's familiar dragging noise across the concrete floor.

Pulling the heavy windowless wood open by it's cold handle you peeked inside. He scrambled, seemingly embarrassed, shoving his sheet music into his backpack.

"You should be more careful with your notes, don't want to ruin any masterpieces."

"No fear in that," he mumbled. "They're just a bunch of scribbled ideas."

Pulling the zipper shut he slung it over his shoulder. "Sorry, I didn't know this was your time slot."

"It's fine." you tried to smile at him but he kept his eyes down.

"Don't you have the schools app? I can check to see when you're supposed to be here." You tapped the widget, "What's your name?"

"It's fine, I'm actually not on the schedule."

"Oh, why not? You sounded great. If you missed the cutoff you can still be added to a wait list. People drop out all the time."

He looked up and grinned. By God if he wasn't the most beautiful boy you'd ever seen.

"I don't belong here."

"Don't say that. I was listening and you're really talented, you deserve to be here just as much as any of us."

"I don't though." His eyes met yours and you were done for. "I don't go here, I'm not a student."

"Ahh, I guess that's a problem."

"I already said I'm sorry," he got defensive. "I'll just get out of your way."

He started towards the door.

You tugged his backpack. "So is breaking into schools and playing piano a weird hobby of yours?"

You tried to lighten the mood, "you've got a little Phantom of the Opera University edition kink?"

He laughed. "I'm not technically breaking in, I do have a key fob." He held up the school ID. "It's my roommates. And if you want to know about my kinks you're gonna have to get to know me a little better."

You stepped closer and took it from his hand.

"Park Jimin, Performing Arts." Handing it back you eyed him up and down. "So what's your story….."

"My name's Yoongi."

Pulling a chair out from the corner you sat and rummaged through your backpack until you pulled out your breakfast.

"Listen Yoongi, I was just going to sit here. I need logged practice time for course credit."

You peeled your clementine, "So if you want to stay and play, be my guest."

He looked at you unsure, "Why would you do that for me?"

You smiled and shrugged. "I like your face."

Turning red he plopped his knapsack back onto the floor and reclaimed the bench.

You waited until his fingers were just about to land on the keys. "I do have one condition though."

He froze, "Yeah, what's that?"

"You have to take me for coffee later and tell me your story. Agree?"

"I Agree. But you didn't have to give up your time for that, I was going to ask you out anyway."

You probably wouldn't have given up your time but you were intrigued. Park Jimin was an amazing dancer. The curious boy who was here on scholarship was often the subject of conversation in the dining hall. Not only was he good looking but he was a mystery. He hung out with the strangest group of friends, seven misfit boys who were proud to not fit in. In this small University town they stood out as odd, everyone referred to them as The Lost Boys. Yoongi, now being revealed to you as one of them, seemed harmless enough and the opportunity to get to know a piece of them was too good to pass.

Walking and talking up the worn concrete path you made your way through the bustle of pajama clad students trying to get to class.

"Don't you have to be somewhere?"

"Yeah, but I don't care. I'd rather get to know you."

"You should go, I'm not so important that you should lose a day of school over me."

"It's all bullshit anyway Yoongi, it's not going to get me anywhere."

He stopped abruptly, now just outside the small coffee shop. "You sound like a spoiled brat."

You were shocked, who the hell was he to speak to you like that?

"I'd kill to be in your position and you don't even give a shit about just squandering it away."

He pulled the door open and looked at you crossly. "Still want that coffee?"

You stepped in front of him and shot him a dirty look. "I do. You owe me AND because I'm a brat I'm going to order the fanciest thing on the menu. TO GO!"

He silently walked behind you, following to the counter while you placed your ostentatious order. You stood studying him while he asked for an iced Americano. His blond shaggy hair skimmed his chocolate eyes and his sexy lips seemed to always sit in permanent pout. They looked like they'd be nice to kiss.

"You want to stop staring at me and take your expensive drink. You're holding up the line."

You blushed, knocked from your daydream admiration by his deep voice.

You huffed while pulling the chair out, making a show of your annoyance, situating yourself at the corner table.

"I thought you were getting it to go?" he barbed.

"Why would I do that when I can be a pain in your ass a little bit longer? You promised to tell me your story, let's hear it?"

His inhale was deep. Anxiety? Apprehension? A mix of both? His eyes stared at his coffee while his fingers fiddled with the straw. "I want to be a musician."

"Well I figured that much."

"Listen, if you really want to know can you just shut up? This isn't an easy thing for me to talk about, I don't just tell everyone."

"If you don't want to tell me don't"

He cut you off. "But I do want to, for some stupid reason."

"What reason?"

He exhaled with a smirk. "I like your face."

You smiled, "Then please continue."

"I want to be a musician. I write music and lyrics and it's all I've ever wanted my entire life."

He took a sip of coffee. "My parents didn't approve of my choices so I decided to move out on my own and live my life how I wanted."

You nodded in understanding.

"I didn't take into consideration how hard exactly that would be, but I'm a proud man, and there's no going back."

"So what do you do? You're not a student, do you work?"

"Yeah, I deliver food and groceries part time. It doesn't pay much but the basics are covered."

You looked down at your shitty expensive coffee in guilt, maybe you were just a spoiled brat.

"So whenever I'm not working I try to get as much practice and writing in as I can. I use Jimin's fob to get into the music room and that's where I am most nights...all night." he shrugged in omission.

"So no time for a girlfriend?" you felt silly the moment it left your lips.

"I didn't think so." He looked up for the first time since the conversation started. "But," he smiled, "I think given the right person priorities could definitely be changed."

Talking into the afternoon time flew away. Several less expensive coffees later he looked at his phone and frowned. "I've got to go to work."

He stood up and gathered his things. "But I'd love it if we could see each other again."

You stood to go too. "Next Friday 8am? I can let you in with my fob?"

"That sounds really nice." His hand reached out and his fingers brushed across yours as he took the tray from you. "But I was hoping I wouldn't have to wait that long. We're having a party tonight at our place...will you come?"

You sat on the edge of the sofa watching the group around you getting drunk and philosophical. Definitely nothing like a frat party, these guys were a different breed.

His roommates were all handsome in their own way and something about them just set you at ease. No pretensions, no apologies, they were just who they were having fun.

Finally seeing him walk through the door your heart raced when his eye caught yours.

"I'm sorry I'm late, they kept getting orders."

"It's okay. Your roommate..." you pointed to Seokjin. "The one with the really broad shoulders, he kept me entertained with some pretty good jokes."

He scrunched his nose, "really, really sorry."

You pulled a bottle vodka out of your purse and raised your brows. "Are you ready for some fun."

He grabbed your hand and pulled you up from the couch until you were close enough to hear without having to shout.

"I'd like to grab a shower. Do you want to wait in my room for me? I mean...if you're uncomfortable down here by yourself."

It was a no brainer, the sexual tension and chemistry you'd had all day was like a current of electricity running between you.

"Lead the way."

You looked around his room while he was showering. Sure the mattress was on the floor but the bed was made and his clothes were hung neatly in the closet. His dresser was stacked with notebooks that were overflowing with lyrics. Pieces of paper with doodles and random words loosely spilling from between the pages.

Pictures, they must be family, small resemblances in their smiles and it looked like he had a brother.

He had a shelf full of colognes. Picking up the Paco Rabanne he walked in as you were pulling the cap off to sniff it.

"Sorry, I wasn't trying to be nosey, I just wanted to know what you smelled like." Idiot, of all the creepy things to say.

He smiled, "It's alright, I'm not hiding anything."

"No," your cheeks flushed when it finally registered that he was half naked in front of you. "I guess you really aren't."

"Shit, sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just forgot to grab my clean clothes before I went in." He opened a drawer to pull out a shirt.

"It doesn't," you blurted embarrassed.

He pulled his hand away from the clothing and raised his brows quizzically, "So you don't want me to get dressed?"

You walked towards him, he was gorgeous. Water droplets still clung to his muscular chest like he couldn't afford the time away from you to fully dry himself.

"I think," you stammered, "That I'd actually prefer if you didn't."

You placed your hand on his bicep and waited for his response.

It didn't come from words, it came from two soft warm lips attaching themselves to yours.

"You're a good good kisser Min Yoongi. Is your mouth that good at everything?"

"You mean like singing?" He teased your lips with his while he popped the button on your jeans.

"No," you giggled.

"Then you must mean biting?" His teeth lightly bit the flesh of your thigh as he kneeled to lower your pants and underwear.

"Nope, that's not what I meant either."

"Oh, I know, you must mean eating?" His warm tongue found your clit and gave it a little flick. "I think I'm pretty good at it."

You ran your fingers through his hair while he looked up at you hungry.

"Prove it," you moaned."

Stepping out of your pants you leaned back against his dresser. Ass resting on the edge he opened your thighs, a low mumble of, "fuck" drifting out of his mouth before he dove in.

His large hands held you open while his silky tongue explored every crevice of your sex sending your senses into a frenzy. Coming up for air every so often he'd moan at the loss of your taste before inhaling and going back in for more. He wasn't methodical, his mouth was unpredictable. One minute his tongue would be deep inside you and the next he'd have his lips around your clit sucking softly.

"Come over here with me."

He led you to the bed, taking off your shirt before guiding you down. Your eyes ran over his body stopping at the bulge under the tightly wrapped terry cloth towel. The wetness in between your legs grew just thinking about getting to see it.

He laid down beside you, holding your face and kissing you while you reached to undo his shroud.

Smiling, he pulled your hand away, "I'm not done with you yet. Tell me what you want me to do to you."

You had to rub your legs together for friction, he was driving you wild. "This morning, when I watched you playing?"

He smiled like he knew.

"All I could think of was how sexy your..." He stopped your words by hooking two fingers into your mouth and rubbing them against your tongue.

"You were thinking about how good these would feel inside you?" He kissed your neck, "You really know what you want huh?"

"Some people even say I'm spoiled."

"Do you always get your way?"

He plunged them inside of you changing your words of, "I hope so," into a long drawn out moan.

Kissing his way down your neck and over your collar bones his mouth lingered on your breasts. Skimming his lips across your nipples he watched as they hardened into excited little buds. A small smile graced his face, he was clearly proud of how he was making your body react.

His long piano fingers played skillfully inside of you while he latched onto your nipple and suckled. Your heart beat loudly like it was part of the parties soundtrack, the music reverberating through the floor as he fingered you. The whole unfolding scene felt like a dream. Dizzy and intoxicated from lust and heavy breathing you didn't want to wake up to a reality other than this one.

A thud outside the door snapped you back, your thighs clamping shut on his hand as you pulled the covers up to hide yourself.

"It's locked, nobody can get in, don't worry." He pulled the sheet back off of you to continue his work.

"Are you sure they can't get in?"

A loud moan rang through the hall and the thuds against the wall gave away the truth.

"I'm sure they have their own agenda."

You flopped back trying to regain the moment while his fingers stroked your walls.

It was distracting at first, people fucking right outside his door. But a few minutes of listening to their pleasure, of hearing their moans and the pleas of harder, you were more turned on than ever.

He watched you unravelling at the pornographic sounds. "You wanna cum when they do?"

"Please..please," you begged in time with the drag of his fingers.

The sounds escalating on both sides of the wall seemed to add fuel to the fires of both immanent orgasms. Just as the stranger in the hall screamed her end, Yoongi pumped and sucked harder until you finished longer and louder than your unknown counterpart. He laughed as he pulled his fingers out of you, the strings of excitement cleaned off with a lurid suck of his own digits.

Your head was still reeling when he pulled his towel off. His thick beautiful cock looked so hard and ripe as he reached in his drawer for a condom.

"Can I put it on you?" You took it from his hand and ripped the package open. Holding it between your fingertips you got closer and ran your tongue around the head of his cock. The taste of pre cum on his freshly washed dick made you ready for more.

Giving him a few deep sucks and pumps you needed him now. He watched while you rolled the thin latex tightly over his twitching thickness and straddled him, wasting no time to begin bouncing on his cock.

Your kisses were messy, hands entwined in his hair, your breasts grazing against his skin with every thrust while you rode him. "Fuck, you feel so good."

His hands gripped your ass squeezing as he moaned underneath you. Orgasm building like a hurricane, the eye of the perfect storm became more imminent with every slide of your pleasure point against his soaked pubic trail.

"Make me cum Yoongi."

He flipped you swiftly onto your back and his hips picked up the pace to the finish line. Thrusting in between your open thighs his cock drove you to convulsively cum, your cunt squeezing his own warm liquid into the condom between you.

He lay with his arms around you in silence. Your head on his chest listening to his heart slowly make it's way back to a normal pace.

"I can't promise you anything more than who I am. I don't have anything to offer you but dreams that may or may not come true."

He stroked your hair as he spoke his truth. "I'm working hard, but I can't guarantee that I'll ever amount to anything more than a delivery boy."

You sat up on your elbow and stared at the man you'd just fallen in love with. "I want to share all of my time with you Yoongi. In fact, I insist you take it. I've heard you play and I believe in you."

You waited until your lips were just about to land on his. "I do have one condition though."

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "Yeah, what's that?"

"You've got to promise you'll write me a song. Agree?"

His fingers splayed caressing your back, he couldn't help the huge smile that took over his face when he kissed you.

"I agree. But you didn't have to give up your time for that, I was going to do it anyway."

#Yoongi #Yoongi smut #bts smut #bts #min yoongi #lost boys series #Happy Birthday Yoongi #suga day

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cno-inbminor · 4 years

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immergo

a/n: i recently watched haikyuu and i’m absolutely hooked. to help get it out of my system in time for final papers and assignments, i’m procrastinating by writing this out. hope you enjoy!

featuring: oikawa tooru x fem!reader & some OC’s + iwaizumi

genre: best friends to lovers!au, angst, fluff, slooow burn, some cliches to make people suffer

summary: tooru is as constant as the stars and as real as the earth beneath your feet, yet even for you, he still manages to slip away. and when it’s all too late, only then does he attempt to come back.

word count: 21.9k (this is a monster)

playlist: i wanted to try making one so here's a playlist on spotify: immergo

edit: now crossposted onto AO3 here!

You are five years old when you first meet him.

He’s got a terrible bowl cut and sand particles smudged on his cheek. A plastic, ocean blue shovel is dug deep into the sand before being lifted up with a load, then precariously dumped into a matching bucket. A teetering sandcastle threatens to fully collapse, yet somehow still sporting a little plastic yellow umbrella that some other kids might’ve left behind. You’re clutching your mother’s hand, a clenched fist brought up to your mouth to hide the trembling of your lips from the nervousness of approaching new people. The sandbox is a part of the playground, but you want to be there alone. You want to be in your own little world, too terrified to face the unknowns, but after the last two weeks of coming by, this boy is always in the sandbox.

Your mother somehow convinces you that you can make new friends. ‘But don’t boys have cooties?’ you ponder. There’s only a week left until kindergarten starts, and your mother thinks it would be nice to try to meet someone so you’ll at least have some semblance of familiarity. Just when you think you’re brave enough, you almost yelp in renewed fear when another boy comes into the scene and plops down next to the other boy, his own pair of a bucket and shovel dyed a bright, firetruck red, and is ready to start digging up sand. You watch him eye the falling castle, grumbling something to the other boy before attempting to patch it and stand it back up. The other boy stares at him with wide eyes and an open mouth before morphing his face into a childish, happy grin. And immediately, you think, ‘Oh wow, I like his smile.’

Not only is it bright and wide, but there’s a certain feeling of gentleness. None of this is eloquently elaborated in your brain, but there’s a comfort that settles into your mind. That smile is what causes you to (though still hesitantly) let go of your mother’s hand and slowly wobble to the sand box, pause, before you step up and over the wooden border. The two boys have ceased their castle-building duties to stare at you, who’s now sitting in the sand and looking towards anything but them. Your head scrambles to remind yourself on how to say hello, and it must’ve done something correctly because before they can ask questions, you quietly ask, “Can I play with you guys?”

Both boys look toward each other, giving a look, before the boy with the red bucket shrugs and says, “Okay. As long as you don’t mess up my castle.”

Bowl-cut tyke flicks sand at him, causing him to splutter and yell in protest. “Don’t be so mean, Hajime!” Bowl-cut scolds before turning back to you with that earlier grin. “I’m Oikawa Tooru and he’s Iwaizumi Hajime. Wanna help me with my castle?”

And ever since you moved to this new city until now, your mother has never seen your eyes so bright.

You are ten years old when Oikawa, with a better hairstyle, receives his first love confession of sorts (because you’re ten).

It takes until fifth grade for you to be finally in a class with both him and Iwaizumi. Other years either had one or neither of them, but you were still able to reconvene during recess. The three of you are attached at the hips during those 30 minutes, either running around in a game of tag, swinging as fast as you could across the monkey bars, or seeing who could swing the highest.

On days when the swings are particularly busy, the three of you would take turns pushing each other, trading off once one of you had your fill. “Higher!” Oikawa would always yell happily, his voice blending in with the rest of the screams and laughs in the playground. With your own laughs leaving your lips as you attempt to push the swing, Iwaizumi would instead yell back at him, “Use your own legs, idiot! That’s what they’re for!” To which Oikawa would whine, but eyes would still crinkle in childish delight as he approached the sky.

But Oikawa notices a lot of things, more than the average fifth grader does. Then again, it isn’t hard to spot the group of giggling girls under a tree’s shade nearby, evidently gazing at him in wonder and affection. He feels his heart soar at the attention and in turn, pumps his legs even harder, almost reaching perpendicular height to the ground. Oikawa admits that he is a bit of a show-off, he wants to be the best, and without warning, releases his hands from the chains and jumps off from the swing.

Both you and Iwaizumi gape at him with a mixture of horror and awe. If you could put this moment in slow motion, you would see Oikawa suspended in mid-air, yet somehow seeming to soar like a bird. His jacket flows behind him as his arms lift up to give a sense of balance, legs stretching out to get ready to meet the ground. You wonder what the expression on his face is like, yet the terror manifests itself into your shriek of his name, pitch and tone overpowering a similar call from Iwaizumi. But Oikawa is Oikawa and he lands on both feet, knees bent and almost touching the ground before straightening back up. You’re about to start running towards him, feet already moving, until you stop because he’s twisting himself towards you and Iwaizumi, V-sign held up and that same, big grin he always has. The sun casts a halo around him and you can’t bring yourself to look away. Your feet stay rooted on the mulch and you watch as Iwaizumi stomps over to punch Oikawa in the arm, yelling about how he could’ve broken his legs and who would he play volleyball with then, leaving you to spot the aforementioned fangirls huddled like they’re coming up with a grand plan.

At first, you think nothing of it. It isn’t until after school as the three of you are walking towards the entrance when you wish you were more perceptive like Oikawa. One of the girls from under the tree has gone up to him, quickly bowing while introducing herself, grabs one of his hands to slap a folded piece of paper into it, and almost sprints away. Oikawa doesn’t have a chance to say anything, but he can only give himself a few seconds to register what just happened and unfold the ripped notebook paper. Inside in pretty cursive is an email address (because none of you have cellphones yet), which causes Oikawa to put on a shit-eating grin. He just basically received a love note, a confession, and his ego has just been fed a meal fit for a king.

He brags and boasts the whole way home, causing a permanent frown to settle on Iwaizumi’s face from pure irritation, and you find yourself only able to stay quiet, pondering and contemplating what this small nasty feeling inside your chest could be.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi are fourteen years old, nearly fifteen, when you receive your first love confession, which ends up being a little more refined than a hastily torn piece of notebook paper possessing an email address.

Their afternoons and early evenings are occupied by volleyball. While you had been at Lil Tykes from the ages of 6 to 10, mainly due to a massive fear of missing out and wanting to spend more time with your new best friends then, you didn’t have as much talent as those two and decided to pursue other interests. Iwaizumi and Oikawa had protested vehemently when you broke the news to them one evening over dinner at the setter's house, their mouths full of rice and chicken curry yet somehow still managing to speak over the food. Oikawa’s mother had seen you shrink further and further into your chair before slamming her hand on the table, causing the two boys to startle and cease their yelling.

“Respect (y/n)’s interests! I did not raise you,” she spoke pointedly, directing a finger at her now ashamed son, “to be so rude. If she doesn’t want to play volleyball anymore, then she doesn’t have to. She doesn’t need to keep doing something she doesn’t want to do just because you two said so. Now, both of you apologize to (y/n) and finish your dinner.”

“Yes, mother,” and “Yes, auntie,” both quietly left their lips. You wanted to hug the woman right then and there, tears nearly forming and spilling over at the fact that she was on your side. The two boys had put their spoons down and waited for a few seconds before Iwaizumi finally spoke.

“I’m sorry I got mad at you. We’re just gonna miss you a lot,” he apologized, tone sad and soft. Oikawa was still chewing on his bottom lip when Iwaizumi elbowed him to say something. “Apologize, you idiot,” he hissed.

“Ow! I know, geez. I’m sorry, too. Mom’s right, I should respect what you want to do. We’re gonna miss seeing you, like this meanie said,” Oikawa jabbing a thumb in the direction of his male best friend. Their eyes are still downcast until you let out a small giggle.

“Apologies accepted, you dummies.”

You still found time after your new art classes to go watch them play volleyball with either Iwazumi’s or Oikawa’s mother picking you all up and heading home. The three of you still lived near each other, and the two boys were happy that they could still see you somehow. Lil Tykes after school evolved into official middle school volleyball practice, yet you were still commonly found in the bleachers finishing homework or doodling in a sketchbook, patiently waiting for your two best friends to go home with you.

A teammate by the name of Wakeda had taken notice of you, had seen your interactions with the best players on their team. He had seen how nice you were with your classmates, yet still unafraid to give Oikawa and Iwaizumi shit for the smallest things. Your aura is pleasant and raw in a genuine sense, only fueling his budding, burning crush on you. He decided he wanted to be confident and bold, hoping that you would give him a chance.

The Friday afternoon starts off like any other -- Iwaizumi and Oikawa head off to volleyball practice with a greeting and a wave, receiving one from you in return as you make your way towards the math club. The art classes from late elementary school only served to show that you only possessed some mild talent for drawing and painting, but not enough for you to continue paying money for classes. The passion and drive didn’t exist for you there, not like it does with Iwaizumi and Oikawa in volleyball, and it only became something that you enjoyed in your leisure time. Instead, you eventually find yourself balancing math club and chess club -- math is on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons while chess is on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, but they never run as late as volleyball practice.

As tiring as math club can be sometimes, you usually somehow still find the energy to finish the bulk of your homework before heading home. When you walk through the bleachers and settle into your normal seat, the team spots you and gives you a casual wave. You smile and wave back, setting your stuff down before you clamber towards the edge of the rail and look down to spot the manager. On time, she looks up and greets you with a matching smile, ones that you return. The team is coincidentally taking a quick water break, giving Oikawa and Iwaizumi enough time to quickly chat with you from below (and escape their coach for a hot second).

“How was math club?” Iwaizumi calls out. Oikawa subtly observes you as you shrug. To both him and Hajime, the mental exhaustion is evident on your face and figure, yet they always find themselves asking, waiting, watching.

“It was okay,” you respond, fighting back a yawn. “Practice competition round was a bit brutal. How’s practice?” You quickly digress, noticing Oikawa was about to jump in and ask for some details.

“This crappy guy over here keeps pushing himself too much. You know, the usual,” Iwaizumi speaks before, once again, Oikawa can say anything. The latter turns to him and lets out an indignant “Hey!” before quickly attempting to defend himself.

“Iwa-chan is being mean, I’m not--”

“All right, let’s get back to work! Everybody back on the court!” The coach yells and Oikawa can only drop his shoulders and sigh, slightly trudging back into the bounds of the court outline. You stare after him worriedly -- both he (mainly out of stubbornness) and Iwaizumi (mainly out of friendship and loyalty) had been pulling late extra practice sessions and the dark eye circles were starting to become more and more noticeable. As if he could tell what you were probably thinking, he turns back and gives a thumbs up with a grin, tongue slightly poking out. You can only roll your eyes at his antics, returning to your seat in the bleachers and pulling out your science homework.

The minutes tick by as the sun slowly begins to set, rays streaming through the windows of the gym in a harsh blood orange. The coach takes a look at his watch before blowing his whistle, signalling the end of practice. The sound of volleyballs hitting skin abruptly stops, except for one last jump-serve that Oikawa sneaks in. The coach berates him loudly, only causing Oikawa to sheepishly smile and rub the back of his neck. All the players bow and announce their thanks before moving to complete their respective clean-up duties. By this time, you gather your stuff and make your way towards the ground floor. Even if your best friends were going to do some extra practice, it’s better for you to sit at their level against the wall.

The sound of sneakers squeaking against the floor increases in volume as you approach the court. But before you can make your way towards Iwaizumi and Oikawa on the other side of the net, Wakeda calls out your name. You turn towards the left to see him pick up a volleyball not far from you, and Wakeda is counting his lucky stars that he was provided with an excuse to be near you.

“Aoki-san,” you greet him by his last name. “How was practice?”

“It was good, but Coach really worked us to the bone today,” he nervously replies, hands subtly clenching the volleyball in his hands. “I was wondering if I could speak with you for a second? In private?”

Your eyes widen in surprise. You’ve never really had much interaction with him outside of volleyball practice, and even then it was very limited to pleasantries. Perhaps it’s about Iwaizumi and Oikawa running themselves to the ground, and nothing to do with you. “Sure,” you agree, looking around before gesturing towards the door of the gym. “We can talk out here, if you’d like.” Wakeda quickly nods and follows you. At this time, the other boys have retreated towards the locker room except for one. One who narrows his eyes at the retreating backs of two people making their way out of the gym.

He puts the last ball in the ball cart, ignoring his friend’s confused look as he jogs towards the entrance of the gym and leans against the wall out of sight. He knows it's wrong to eavesdrop, but he just has to know about what could be unfolding.

The two of you are only a few feet away from the open door and you can only look perplexed as Wakeda begins to look more and more bashful, stumbling over words and anxiously tossing the ball side to side between his hands.

“Is everything okay?” You ask worriedly, trying to maintain eye contact until you can because he’s looking straight down towards the ground. Your heart pounds in your chest as you start to fathom what might be happening.

“I’m sorry, I just -- I like you. I think you’re really nice and cool, and I would like it if I could take you out on a date.”

You’re stunned into silence. Never has anyone expressed any semblance of romantic interest in you, nor has anyone confessed. You’ve never been in this position and the first thing your brain starts to unravel is the puzzle of how to turn someone down. It’s not that going on a date with Wakeda would be terrible -- you just don’t know enough about him. You don’t want to bring his hopes up, but you don’t want to bring him down either.

On the other side of the wood, the boy’s eyebrows are furrowed. His arms are crossed and a foot is perched against the wall, legs making the shape of the number four. His eyes are burning holes into the window across from him and he can’t figure out why a feeling of protectiveness is washing over him. But what he can’t figure out even more is why his mind is instantly screaming, “Please say no please say no please say no don’t say yes don’t leave us don’t leave me--”

“I’m sorry,” he hears, ears straining to catch your voice as you softly apologize. You watch as Wakeda’s shoulders slump and the volleyball is finally kept still between his hands. You gently put a hand on his upper arm. “I can tell you’re a nice guy, but I don’t feel that way about you. I’m sorry.”

Wakeda lets out a long breath before mustering up his best smile for you. “It’s okay, I was kind of expecting it." A hand reaches up to run a hand through his hair in embarrassment and he’s trying to think of what to say next. Be bold, be confident, his inner self reminds him as he stands tall again. Wakeda puts up the cheekiest smile you’ve seen on him so far. “But I’ll be waiting, if you ever change your mind.”

The statement only makes you smile first and then chuckle. Wakeda basks in the sound for as long as he can before he shyly joins you. The laughter isn’t meant to demean him in any way, but it’s the only reaction you can feel yourself make. It’s all so foreign to you, but you’re glad that your first interaction like this is with someone as kind as him. You trust Oikawa’s teammates.

“Thank you though, it must’ve taken a lot of courage to do this. To be honest, this has never happened to me before and I just don’t know what to say,” you ramble a little, now wondering if you’ve said too much. Wakeda begins to look a little more comfortable before making his way back to the gym with you following.

“Would it be cheesy to say I’m glad I was the first?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I know now that I’m never changing my mind.”

“Hey, that’s not fair!” Wakeda exclaims, only causing you to laugh. “You gotta leave some room for chance so--”

“Oi, Wakeda,” you hear a familiar voice call out. Your eyes spot Oikawa slowly making his way from the other side of the gym, walking towards you two with a hand in a pocket and another hand in the air, waving. But it’s perplexing because his chest is heaving like he just sprinted his fastest around the court. “Is that the last ball?”

“Ah, yes, sorry senpai!” Wakeda apologizes before tossing the ball into Oikawa’s awaiting hand. It quickly gets thrown into the ball cart. When you two are standing right in front of him, your friend pats Wakeda on the shoulder. “Go ahead and clean up, you deserve a break,” he says before smiling. It’s a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes or even match his eyes. His chestnut orbs have another emotion burning in them, far from the light they would usually glint when paired with a genuine grin. Wakeda quickly lets out a “see you around” and you wave back at him. Once the boy has disappeared into the locker room, you direct your attention back to Oikawa. That earlier fire in his eyes has dimmed a little, but you want to know what it is and why it’s there.

A word barely leaves your tongue when strong arms hug you to a sturdy chest. They intertwine around your shoulders, the squeeze becoming more and more constricting. Your chest tightens and you’re not sure if it’s your heartbeat or his that you’re feeling beat against your chest. In a movement of instinct, you hesitantly wrap your own arms around Oikawa, hand linking to hold onto your own wrist behind his back. Your face is pressed into his shoulder, your nose catching the lingering scent of his deodorant mixed with his sweat. His chin is perched over your shoulder momentarily before he buries his face in the crook of your neck, causing you to stiffen.

It’s not that Oikawa has never hugged you before. There have been plenty of hugs with the two boys over the last nine years, but something is different about this one. There’s an underlying intention hidden in the muscles of Oikawa’s arms, hidden in the way that he breathes in your scent. Something heavy is unspoken as a sense of intimacy falls over the two of you like a soft blanket. You can only gently grasp the back of his jersey, his grip somehow tightening even more, and finally find your voice to speak.

“Tooru,” you murmur, fighting the sensation of your heart caught in your throat. Very rarely do you ever say his name in that tone, one so gentle and full of friendly affection (but did he want it to be just friendly?), so caring and drowned in empathy. “Is everything okay?” You continue and ask. He’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to scream it through his mind, hoping it’ll somehow miraculously meet yours. But even he doesn’t understand what’s drawing him to do this. All he knows is that as soon as Wakeda was out of sight, he needed you here in his arms. The non-verbal pleas of worry and want from earlier have substantially settled, now morphing into thoughts of “It’s okay, she’s here, she isn’t leaving us, she isn’t leaving me--”. It must be the stress from wanting to become the best, from the stress of Kageyama Tobio’s looming ascent to the top, from the general stress of classes. It must be those. It couldn’t be anything else.

“Everything’s fine,” he replies into your neck, sound muffled but just as quiet as yours had been. You can only feel your heart sink at how strained those words came out. Everything was clearly not fine. Your hands unlink and move to his waist, putting some force into your palms to try to separate from him so you can see his face. But Oikawa quickly protests a soft “no”, once again pulling you as close to him as possible with an arm around your waist and the other soon joining. He can’t handle distance from you right now, some budding anxiety from your attempts at separation quickly subdued as you’re pressed fully against his chest again. “Just give me this moment,” he thinks and pleads to some unknown force.

“I’m just...stressed,” he says before letting out a long breath and disentangling himself from you. But he doesn’t move far, the tips of both of your sneakers just centimeters apart from touching. He straightens his back and lifts his head to momentarily look into your eyes, your own face slightly tilted upwards to meet his gaze. But before you can decipher the emotions in his eyes, his head tilts down to lean his forehead against yours. Though his eyes are closed, yours are still open in muted astonishment. If the hug wasn’t very new, then this action was definitely new. The tip of his nose barely grazes yours, causing your breath to hitch, once again feeling your heart stuck in your throat. You struggle to breathe, especially when his lips are so close to yours. Somehow your thoughts drift to thinking of what would happen if you elevated your feet just a little bit, what would it feel like if your lips softly met his--

“There’s a lot going on,” he interrupts your (silly, silly) thoughts. “I keep getting reminded of how I’m not good enough, and maybe I never will be. But I want to be the best, you know?” For how tall Oikawa is, you’ve never heard him sound so small before. Your eyes can’t help but flutter closed as you relish in the sound of his voice. You try to understand what he’s feeling, the frustration, the stress, the insecurity.

“I hate knowing there’s someone better out there. I hate that there’s someone out there, right here, who’s got the pure talent and prodigal level that I don’t have because I keep getting reminded of how I’m not the one who has it. It’s just not fair, (y/n), do you understand?”

“But I know you’re here for me. And Iwaizumi. I know you believe in me and in us. You're right here with us. You always are,” he continues before you can affirm and acknowledge him. His fingers ghost over your skin, up from your wrists, to your elbows, then your shoulders, lastly lingering at the sides of your neck. Goosebumps break out in the wake of his tender trail and you fight the urge to shiver. You so badly want to open your eyes and drink in this moment of vulnerability from Oikawa, but you’re afraid that you’ll do something rash, something you’ll regret. You’re then given all the more reason to keep your eyes shut when his hands gently cradle your face, his thumbs on your cheeks, the other fingers softly splayed down your neck. He inhales sharply, then daring to slant his head down just the slightest distance, your noses firmly touching now. Your heart is now thrashing wildly against your ribcage -- you have no grasp on what is happening.

“Promise me you’ll never leave us, (y/n),” he implores, raw desperation laced and building in his voice. You can’t help but recognize the tears uncontrollably forming behind your eyelids. Nothing else around you matters -- it’s only you and Oikawa in this impenetrable bubble that you two have created. You’re too far in now, sinking and drowning into this body of water that is him, entangled and rooted in this web that he’s so quickly and craftily woven. He could ask anything of you and you would do it in the blink of an eye. How he made you feel this way in just a few minutes, from the door of the gym to the embrace of his arms, is completely beyond you, but you can’t seem to find the complaints within you. ‘How cruel of him,’ you despondently think, still unable to find it in yourself to be mad. ‘How wicked of him.’

But then Oikawa deals the final blow with a shaky breath. He lays out his last trap, one that you can’t escape. It’s the final straw, the last pull into a heartbreaking world that you will never be able to escape from for as far into the future as you can see; desperation, yearning, beseeching.

“Promise that you’ll never leave me.”

Nothing, nothing, can stop you from whispering what he so deeply desires to hear, fall delicately off your tongue.

“I promise.”

And his lips crash onto yours.

You and Iwaizumi are fifteen years old when Oikawa falls to his lowest.

The kiss was a one-time thing. It had lasted no more than a few seconds when the sound of the locker room door swinging open had you two jumping apart and turning away from each other. Oikawa found it easier than you did to compose himself, though internally he was berating his actions. What was it that made him do such a thing? What was it that pushed him to cross the line he never thought he’d cross? What was it that made him want to spin back around and continue what he had started?

“Iwa-chan!” He had hollered across the building, waving over said male who had smartly refrained from changing his clothes. “Help with some tosses? Serves?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Iwaizumi had muttered under his breath, grunting his affirmation loud enough. But in his peripheral, he had spotted your figure hunched over your things on the bench, had squinted at the way you seemed to be shaking, shivering. He had noticed the look, almost a glare, that Oikawa had directed towards Wakeda before imperceptibly shaking his head to focus on the extra task.

And it wasn’t until weeks later that Oikawa breached the subject during a walk home, sans you because you had late night practice with the math club to prepare for some upcoming Olympiad competition. You were insistent through text that they didn't wait for you and that one of your teammates would help walk you home. Oikawa argued quite relentlessly against it until you threatened to block him from the group chat (though it wasn’t the first time you threatened such a thing) and Iwaizumi decided to take his phone away.

While much wasn’t being said, mainly both preoccupied with their popsicles that they had stopped at a convenience store for, Oikawa broke the silence.

“I kissed (y/n).”

Iwaizumi nearly choked on his popsicle, spluttering and struggling to find the right words to say. Yet the best he could come up with was, “So are you two...dating?”

“No.”

“What the fuck? Why are you telling me this?”

“Because we’re best friends, Iwa-chan. I didn’t know when to tell you though, thought you’d get mad at me,” Oikawa said, pouting childishly.

“So...well, you can tell me what happened before it later. But what happened after? And when did this even happen?”

“Everything just went back to normal. We never spoke about it. And it happened a few weeks ago in the gym after practice.”

“But why?”

“Hmm…” Oikawa had pondered for a few seconds and then shrugged. “Not sure. I was just really stressed, and I was scared that she’d leave us.”

“Us? How am I included in this? And where’d you even come up with that thought?”

“Because it’s always been us three, and it’s always gonna be us. We can’t be apart.”

“We’re eventually going to be apart, you know. It’s not likely that we’re all going to end up in the same city.”

“No,” Oikawa spoke obstinately, hands harshly crushing the wrapper around the now empty popsicle stick. “That’s not going to happen. We’re going to stick together wherever we go. We’ll play for the national team and (y/n) will find a job in Tokyo. We’re always going to be near each other. That’s how it’ll be. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

Iwaizumi had nothing to say about that, except for, “We’ll see.”

In the month or so to the blossoming age of fifteen, things don’t change very much. Oikawa becomes more physically affectionate with you and Iwaizumi. You try not to notice how often and how casually Oikawa tends to sling an arm over your shoulders. He does the same with Iwaizumi, though the latter is more likely to shrug it off in mock annoyance and causes Oikawa to lament about lost friendships. But even if physical distance has shortened, Oikawa begins to dig a mental wall between you two. His face becomes more hardened during practice, rarely ever putting up an earnest smile with his teammates. The late-night practices run even later, each serve hitting harder, each toss against the wall getting stronger. The nights when you leave him on his own slowly increase in frequency, going back home with only Iwaizumi. The third leg of the triangle missing feels so adulterated, so wrong. Oikawa is digging himself towards a hell that he won’t be able to return from, but how can you lift him back up? How can you dig your heels into the earth and pull him back out?

“I’m trying my best,” Iwaizumi attempts to comfort you one night. He sees how often you turn back to look at Oikawa as the two of you reluctantly move to leave the gym. Practice had been rough on him, getting switched out with Kageyama Tobio. You had watched his defeated body collapse onto the bench, and there was nothing more that you wanted to do than to run down and snap him out of whatever mental spiral he had created. One serve after another slams into the ground, his figure hunched and panting yet pushing itself to the limits.

“He’s going to kill himself at this rate,” you whisper morosely, turning back to peer at the dark sky. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“You know there’s no one more stubborn than that idiot. He’d have to pass out for you to drag him out of here.”

“Please teach me how to serve!” A young male voice calls out. Both of you pivot on your feet to see the source, eyes focusing on the scene of Kageyama Tobio requesting a seemingly simple task from a senpai.

But you can only watch as Oikawa’s eyes lose any semblance of emotion, instead only darkening with what seems like rage entering his body. He begins to tremble, and Iwaizumi must’ve seen something shift because no sooner than that does he bolt at top speed towards the unsuspecting pair. You can only watch in horror, shell-shocked, as Oikawa begins to forcibly swing his right arm, the back of his hand aiming straight for Tobio’s right cheek.

A horrible screech unearths from your throat in the form of a piercing “NO!” and slices through the air, just as Iwaizumi is able to stop Oikawa’s assault on the poor unsuspecting underclassman. You’ve never seen him so uncontrolled, so ready to intentionally commit an act of violence against an innocent person. Your ears pulse with your heartbeat, barely registering Iwaizumi apologizing to Tobio and giving Oikawa the lecture of his life.

The latter is reminded of the purpose of having a team, is scolded for having been so selfish in his pursuit for excellence. You start sprinting over when Iwaizumi headbutts Oikawa in the nose for his insolence, tossing your bag down as it only decreases your speed. You don’t care for the trouble of cleaning out blood stains from towels when you begin to clean his face, his eyes still furious and full of anguish but somewhat softened when he sees your tears. He continues to let Iwaizumi teach him a lesson while you pinch the bridge of his nose and tilt his head back. Like handling a doll, you have to lift his arm so he can keep the towel in place himself. You then scurry off to find the first-aid kit, leaving Oikawa to fend for himself. Only a couple of minutes later, the three of you are sitting on the ground and you’re dabbing ointment on the emerging bruise right in the middle of Iwaizumi’s forehead. Iwaizumi is a little calmer now, though he’s still verbally punishing Oikawa for even thinking of purposefully hurting a teammate.

Oikawa thinks the three of you are all fine and okay. He’d be ridiculously thickheaded if he wasn’t able to catch onto how quiet you are on the walk home, how instead of walking between him and Iwaizumi, you’re now on the opposite end. There’s a tug at his heartstrings when he plays with the idea that you’re attempting to put distance between you and him, but he refuses to believe it. His actions were a momentary lapse in terrible, awful judgment, and you had forgiven him. Why else would you have tried to help with his nosebleed? There’s no way you’d let something like this drive a rift in the trio.

There’s just no way.

“You’ve been avoiding him, haven’t you?”

There are times when you forget that Iwaizumi can be just as perceptive as Oikawa. For the last two weeks, you would, more often than not, avoid them during lunch. You attempt to show up at their volleyball practice as late as possible, saying that your club activities went longer than usual to prepare for upcoming competitions. You still walk on the opposite side from Oikawa on the way home and only give the bare minimum answers to any of his questions, leaving very little room to continue conversation. The atmosphere is heavy and awkward, tension so thick that Iwaizumi would need a chainsaw to cut through it.

This time you’re on the roof of the school. It’s cliché, so cliché, but the weather was too hard to ignore. Mostly cloudy with a slight wind, the perfect temperature without feeling too hot or too cold. You loved being outside during these days, and you had weaved as fast as possible through the emerging crowd of third years, up the stairs, and onto your personal sanctuary. Your bento is half-eaten when Iwaizumi makes his presence known. You should’ve seen this coming.

“He’s worried about you, y’know?”

“I know.”

“He misses you.”

“I know.”

“...he wants to know if you’re avoiding him because of that incident.”

“...which one?”

“The kiss.”

You whip your head in his direction, giving Iwaizumi an incredulous and affronted look. Instinctively, Iwaizumi throws his hands up, signaling that you shouldn’t shoot the messenger. God, Oikawa could be such a clueless buffoon sometimes. You scoff and nearly snort. Iwaizumi looks about ready to tear his hair out.

“So the great king thinks that I’m avoiding him over something that we haven’t talked about that happened a few months ago?”

Iwaizumi can’t find the words when you slam your bento box down on the ground, chopsticks thrown haphazardly on top and almost rolling off the edges. Iwaizumi catches them as you stand up in anger and begin to pace in front of him.

“Who does he think he is? He’s got a decent following of fangirls to help stroke his ego, and I’m sure some of them are more than willing to worship the ground he walks on. His teammates practically idolize him -- sans you -- but he thinks I’m losing sleep over some kiss we had months ago? It would make much more sense if this had been a couple of weeks after that, but we’re talking months right now! How is it," you stop in your stride, bottom lip beginning to tremble as you look down at Iwaizumi. "How is it that he’s one of my best friends who’s known me for almost 10 years, a genius in his own way, but still can’t tell that I’m avoiding him because I’m scared of him?”

This time, Iwaizumi is confused.

“You’re scared of Oikawa?” He asks, trying to confirm what he just heard.

You let out a long breath, forcing yourself to simmer down and keep a cool head. Part of you feels guilty, yet another part feels justified for your actions. You were only protecting yourself; it was only natural.

“I’ve never seen him like that,” you begin, gingerly sitting back down next to him. The comfort of your best friend that you’ve been denying yourself of is granted as you rest your head on his shoulder. You link an arm around his as well as you begin to curl into a familiar position. Iwaizumi only naturally rests his head on top of yours, hands folded in his lap and legs stretched out.

“I’ve never seen him look so angry, even when that one kid in second grade tried to make fun of you. Or even when someone took the shit talking too far at an official game last year. But he was ready, Iwa-kun. He was ready to displace Tobio out of sheer anger and spite. I know he knows better now. I’ve seen how much better he meshes with you all on the court and attempts to bring the best out of everyone. But it’s hard to look at him sometimes and forget what he was then. What if he gets mad like that at us one day? What if he tries to hit you?”

What if he tries to hit me? is left unsaid, but they ring loud and clear in both of your heads.

“The idiot knows that I could take him down in a fight if it ever came to it. And since it’s apparently not obvious, I’m just letting you know that Shittykawa would rather throw himself off a cliff before ever laying a finger on you like that.”

“But how can you guarantee that?” You argue back, lifting your head up to look him square in the eyes. You want to see if the same hesitancy is reflected in his orbs, the same uncertainty that had been slowly building up in you as an ugly beast. Instead, his eyes are steady and full of promise, never straying from yours as he ends the debate.

“You can trust me. And if I’m wrong, I promise I’ll do anything to make up for it, though the chances are very, very low. They’re practically non-existent.”

And if Iwaizumi says so, well…then it probably is so.

“...I trust you then,” you comply, your head leaning down to rest on his shoulder again. “You better be right.”

“I know I am.”

Silence.

“If you’re not going to eat the rest of your bento, you should give it to him. He’d be happy to see you.”

A few sighs later, a couple of stretches, some steps down the stairs, you find yourself stuck at the door of their classroom. You can see him with his jacket on, head buried in his arms on his desk and turned towards the windows. Iwaizumi gives you an encouraging pat on the shoulder and you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Somehow you find yourself demurely sitting in the empty desk chair in front of him, hands clutching your bento box and chopsticks. Iwaizumi stands by you and watches as you quietly gulp.

“Tooru, wake up.”

Oikawa thinks he’s dreaming. More often than not, you had plagued his visions in sleep, often ending with you attempting to wake him up, but it had been spoken by his mother. He would be disappointed that it wasn’t you by his bedside trying to goad him out from under the sheets.

“Tooru, wake up. I have food.”

This is different. His eyes are bleary and caked with exhaustion, vision catching the light that peaks from under his elbows. Her voice is so close -- he has to give in and just look. Oikawa lifts his head and stares in front of him. He blinks once, then twice, then multiple times, and you’re still there. This is not a dream, he concludes. This is too good to be a dream.

You watch him warily as he attempts to gather his bearings. In the meantime, you open your bento and grab the last onigiri. When Oikawa begins to form the sounds for your name, you quickly stuff the rice ball into his mouth, causing him to give a muffled protest and use one hand to prevent the food from dropping. You watch with muted delight as everything begins to hit him all at once: the food in his mouth, you in front of him with a close-lipped smile, Iwaizumi leaning on the desk next to you two, the sunlight beaming through the windows.

His eyes slightly water, choosing wisely to not say anything for now. Oikawa dutily finishes the rice ball before you place the bento in front of him with chopsticks neatly arranged to the right of it. His hands shoot out to cover yours before they leave the bento, squeezing gently as he looks at you with apologetic puppy eyes. You can’t stop your smile from widening, and only then does Oikawa happily let go, thank the food, and begin to chow down with a gusto that had been missing for the last week.

Things are going to be okay. Unless that group of fangirls seething at you over in the corner is an indication of something otherwise.

You turn sixteen when Oikawa gets his first, real girlfriend.

It’s your first year at Aoba Johsai and Oikawa has captured the hearts of many people from around the area, be it still from middle school, or even some of the upperclassmen. Those who are engrossed in school volleyball were surprised to hear that he didn’t matriculate into Shiratorizawa. And because Oikawa keeps most everyone at arm’s length, only very few people know the reason why. It wasn’t that he was good enough to get in, that’s for sure -- it had mainly been him refusing to “serve” Ushijima. The Herculean boy can criticize his choices all he wants, but Oikawa will never step down from his pedestal willingly.

What no one knows besides Oikawa himself is that Ushijima was only 70% of the reason. The other 30%? He was not going to be the one that separates the trio. What a hypocrite he would be if he had left after having so passionately convinced Iwaizumi that the three of you would always be with each other.

Little do the two boys know that you had seriously considered going to Shiratorizawa. They knew how smart you were as you consistently placed in the top 5 of your class throughout middle school. What they didn’t catch onto was also how well you did in math club and chess club -- to be fair, they knew you excelled, they just weren’t sure of the details. Inquiries about your competitions were always answered in team format: we did well or we placed pretty high. The same existed for chess competitions -- you weren’t a national champion by any means, but you were still somewhat recognized. But again, the same answers were given: we all did well. Math club and chess club never had the public presence that other clubs did. Very few cared, and much less was said.

Before Oikawa pointed out how disgusted he was by the idea of going to Shiratorizawa, you had studied for their entrance exams in your spare time. You didn’t play any sports, so those scholarships were out of the question. It’d all have to be based on merit and you were ready to prove yourself. You had gotten past the first two rounds of exams without them knowing, and your nights only became longer and longer as the material increased in difficulty. But then the two boys talked about going to Aoba Johsai together since they were invited anyways, and not long after, you found yourself at the entrance of the testing center with Oikawa and Iwaizumi on either side, putting Shiratorizawa to the back of your mind.

Things are more brutal in high school. Subjects are more difficult, classes take more time, after-school activities often extend past the sunset. There are physically not enough hours in a day to spend nearly the amount of time you used to have with Oikawa and Iwaizumi. The fangirls increase, Iwaizumi’s irritation becomes more exaggerated, and Oikawa becomes too nice on the fan-service.

He’s the triple threat: smart, kind, an amazing volleyball player. You and Iwaizumi can only roll your eyes as he plasters on his fakest grin for the crowd of girls huddling around him, demanding his attention. A part of him is thankful that so many seem to admire him. As much as he won’t return the affection, he welcomes the non-stop stroking of his ego. It does wonders at keeping his insecurities at bay, even if he knows that everything is superficial and surface level. They think they know him, but only a handful of people truly understand his personality.

So when Oikawa announces on the train home that he’s taking a girl out on a date, you and Iwaizumi can only passively nod, thinking that nothing will come of it. Then the second date happens, the third, the fourth, and then the stamp of the label between the two.

“I have a girlfriend now, guys!”

“Like actually? Sounds fake to me,” Iwaizumi scoffs, Oikawa taking offense.

“You wound me, Iwa-chan! What do you take me for, a heartless player?”

“Somewhat,” you jokingly supply, eyes still trained on your notes from your biology class. You don’t need to physically see him to know that he’s pouting and threatening to stick his tongue out at you. “Who’s the poor girl?” You ask, not really expecting much.

“She’s in your class, actually. Tachi Misaki?”

Your eyes stop registering any of the text that you’ve written. How did you miss that? How did you miss the fact that the girl he’d been dating was sitting only two rows away from you?

“Well,” you reply, clearing your throat. “All I can say is that you’re shooting above your level.”

“Hey! I’m not that bad, plus she’s really smart and pretty. She seems kinda low maintenance, pretty chill. Makes pretty good cookies. You think I could get her to learn how to make milk bread? But only if she has time.”

A heavy sigh leaves you as you stick a pencil between the pages and snap the notebook shut. Iwaizumi looks deep in thought before asking, “You think you’ll be able to handle her?”

“I mean, I’ve been going out on dates with her up ‘til now. She seemed fine and said she knew how busy my training schedule was. Like I said, she’s chill. Doubt she’s ever going to be super clingy or anything like that.”

By this time, you’ve all arrived at Oikawa’s house. He waves goodbye as he enters the front door, leaving Iwaizumi to walk you home.

“I give it three months, max,” you tell him. It’s mean, but you know Oikawa. He’ll be the most caring boyfriend in the beginning, but then he’ll get too comfortable, too complacent. He’ll unknowingly rely on the other person to comply with his needs rather than continuing to compromise to meet theirs. It’s only a matter of time before Misaki realizes that.

“I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt...maybe he’ll finally wake up, y’know. He’ll have an excuse to stop putting in extra practice or do something other than watching Shiratorizawa matches ‘til 2AM.”

At that, you cast a disbelieving look at him, his eyes catching yours. It isn’t long until you’re both failing to keep your laughter in. Oikawa Tooru? Ditching the opportunity for extra practice? Over his dead body.

Your estimation comes to fruition when Oikawa lightly dunks his forehead to lay on top of yours during the train ride home. The three of you had been standing near a pole, your own arm linked around it for some balance as you review and scribble some extra things into your notes from class. Oikawa is hanging on by a handle while Iwaizumi is grasping the part of the pole above your head.

“Misaki-chan broke up with me,” he spoke, loud enough for Iwaizumi to hear as well.

“Did she say why?” You ask, unable to move your head as you stare at the flap of his jacket.

“Becauseimtooobsessedwithvolleyball,” he mutters quickly.

“Say that again? And louder?” Iwaizumi teases.

Sigh. Straighten. “Because I’m too obsessed with volleyball,” he repeats a little bit louder, looking slightly ashamed and embarrassed that he, the great king of the court, the sole subject of so many girls’ affection, was ultimately dumped. The other part of the embarrassment masked the guilt he felt inside, having taken advantage of Misaki’s affections for him. Your eyes meet Iwaizumi’s, knowing that the conversation from months ago wasn’t said for naught. The sad, inevitable truth was there, and someone had to say it.

“It’s okay, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi nagged, patting the bachelor’s back. “You gotta make compromises, too.”

“But she knew! And we went on dates. That’s compromises, right?” Oikawa bemoaned, stubborn and petulant as ever. “It’s not like she wasn’t warned…”

“How many times did you guys go on a date?” You ask, attempting to get him to see reason. You know that the truth is there. He’s just fighting against full acceptance.

“Mmm, three times. No, four.”

“Three times in three months? Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath. “Okay okay, um, what’d you guys do on the dates?”

“(Y/n)-chan, are you jealous? You wanna go on a date with me?” He teases, a pointer finger poking your cheek. You squint at him before (gently) slapping the back of his head, causing him to rub the area out of mock pain.

“Ya, do you want to die?” You threaten. “I will throw you off this train if I have to.”

“Can I help?”

“Iwa-chan! Why are you on her side?? Shit, I need new friends.”

“Good riddance.”

“Stoooppp!”

From then on, Oikawa swears off girlfriends in high school. Everyone is too busy, and no one is going to understand him and be okay with what he does. Volleyball is his passion and dream, why is that so hard to get through people’s heads?

(But he knows that as much as he protests, he couldn’t give Misaki what she wanted. He wanted to make it work, he really did.)

The horde of fangirls only grows over the years. He’d rather hold a torch for no one than to try again. Nothing mattered more than a victory against Shiratorizawa and moving on to nationals. The fangirls’ affection would make up for any lack of a love life and Iwaizumi can only shake his head as a trail of hopeful hearts are left in the setter’s wake.

There are times when Oikawa is incredibly thankful for you, that at least he has some sort of close female companion that’s not his sister or mother. Even if you’re busier than ever, you still make time for him and Iwaizumi, whether it be attending their late practices or making sure that they finish their homework over the weekends. They can’t play if they’re failing classes.

(Y/n)’s personality is what he wants in a girlfriend, Oikawa realizes one night. Someone chill, someone understanding of his lifestyle, someone who goes out of their way to spend time with him. Someone he feels a connection with no matter the distance, someone he wouldn’t hesitate to go to if they needed him, someone who would always, always be there--

But he can’t possibly date you. Why risk losing you when he already has you within his grasp? There’s no need to worry about making time or planning for dates, no need to worry about coming up with a gift for White Day (as if he already doesn’t). There’s no need to worry about you leaving him now when his ugly, petty side manifests from time to time because you’ve seen it all. You would never leave him, he reaffirms to himself. You will always be by his side no matter where he is. He can always count on you to be in the bleachers during games, front and center, with the rest of the school cheer crowd. He can always count on you to lend him a shoulder, to pick up the phone at 4AM when he’s woken up anxious with thoughts going at a million a mile, to hand him two slices of milk bread on the weekends from their favorite bakery, to keep him in line with Iwaizumi.

Why risk voiding himself of all that, of so many memories, just to pursue the chance for some more intimacy?

And as Oikawa’s fingers hover over his lips, his mind reeling with flashbacks on how that kiss with you felt even two years later, the last thing he registers before succumbing to the nothingness of sleep is the painful tightening of his chest.

Oikawa is seventeen when he is reminded of how easy it is for him to lose you.

The three of you are sitting on a checkered blanket on top of a hill that overlooks the nearby area. A plastic bag holds a mix of canned beers and hard ciders, some empty and others waiting to be consumed. You’re taking it a little farther than you usually do, typically sipping one through the night. Yet you’re on your third and the two boys can only look at you with slight concern.

Your finals were particularly difficult -- part of you had still been recovering from the vicarious loss against Shiratorizawa, knowing how hard your two friends had taken it. It had only caused Oikawa and Iwaizumi to spend even more time in the gym after practice, a ferocity and drive in their muscles that you had never observed before. The amount of time and energy it took from you to forcibly change and drag them away from the court was substantial. Sleepless nights were dedicated to thinking of ways on how to lift them back up from whatever mental hell they created for themselves. In a sense, those nights paid off, but not without a price.

The alcohol tingles through your bloodstream and seems to slow everything down. You’re not drunk, but you don’t think you could appreciate the scenery before you as much as you are now if you were completely sober. Oikawa is going on about the constellations in the night sky, Iwaizumi teasing him relentlessly, and you can’t bother to fight the lazy smile that stretches across your face. Would you still have these nights with them if you had gone to Shiratorizawa?

“Did you know,” you softly interrupt them, unable to keep the secret any longer. It’s been two years, surely it couldn’t hurt. “Did you know...that I would’ve gone to Shiratorizawa if it hadn’t been for you two?”

The sound of cicadas has nothing on the sudden pounding of Oikawa’s heartbeat. Iwaizumi has an equally flabbergasted look on his face, searching your own as you pull up your knees and rest your chin on top of them. The lack of a verbal response only makes you chuckle, reaching down to grab your can and take another sip.

“Evidently it didn’t happen,” you drawl and then giggle. “Be-because I’m obviously at Seijou--”

“That’s not funny,” Oikawa interjects, voice hard and stern. “That’s not funny, you don’t get to say that and expect us to laugh it off. Why the fuck didn’t you tell us?”

“Why does it matter so much?” You mumble, suddenly desiring for the earth to open up and swallow you whole. “I clearly didn’t go, okay? Jesus--”

“No!” The setter yells, his face morphed by rage. “You were going to leave us? Why would that ever get into your brain, I mean, did we do something? Did we do something to push you to do something like that?”

“Hey, dude, calm down--”

“Don’t you get it, Iwa-chan? She was going to leave us and go to fucking Shiratorizawa of all places! She--”

“I thought you guys were going to accept their invite, okay?!” You interject, exasperated and frustrated. Evidently, you made a mistake in bringing this up now. “I didn’t realize how much you guys hated Ushijima’s guts and immediately changed plans once Aoba Johsai was on your agenda. So just stop, alright? It was two years ago and nothing’s gonna change.”

Oikawa pauses and attempts to reign in his anger. Why hadn’t you talked about it with them at the time? Why can’t he stop thinking about you donned in their maroon and white uniform, sitting casually in the bleachers of the gym, and instead of waiting for him and Iwaizumi, you’re waiting for Ushijima? Why can’t he stop thinking about how wrong that image looks, how much he’d like to be there and snatch you away because you’re his, you can’t abandon him--

“I’m sorry,” you apologize so mousily. Oikawa glances and sees the glisten of unshed tears, immediately relaxing and feeling guilty for being so hot-headed. It was the alcohol, for sure, he rationalizes before he turns to face you, scooching as close as possible to you. You’re still sitting in a fetal position as he slides one arm behind your waist and another wedges between your stomach and thighs. He buries his head into the crook of your neck. Your body welcomes the familiar heat and continues to relax as Iwaizumi lays his head on your shoulder. Instead of tears of sadness, you can only bask in the realization of how lucky you are two have these two doofuses in your life. The tears spill over as you sniffle, overcome with emotions that could only be so pronounced under the influence of alcohol.

“I’m so fucking lucky to have you guys,” you blubber. Oikawa’s grip tightens for a second as a tacit return of affection. “And I promised, didn’t I? I promised that I’d never leave you two, so you’re stuck with me. I wouldn’t wanna leave, even if you made me try.”

That’s right, Oikawa remembers. You promised -- and you would never go back on your word.

Oikawa is eighteen years old when he begins to truly understand the extent of your selflessness and how much of a selfish monster he can be when it comes to you.

It’s the night of their loss against Karasuno High, their last chance at defeating Shiratorizawa now gone and irreversible. Though tears had been shed towards his teammates, an overwhelming amount of gratitude and pride to have gone down fighting their hardest, the regret was eating at the two boys like nothing else.

Oikawa’s mother is working late -- you met them at the doorstep when they returned from the team dinner, saying nothing but holding up a bag of their favorite desserts. Minutes later, the three of you are a tangled and cuddled mess with the television quietly airing some old rerun of a child’s cartoon. It’s only when the boys’ cries have dwindled down into occasional sniffling do you dare to speak.

“I’m so proud of you two,” you begin but already feel yourself choke up again. “You did nothing but your best. I know how much this meant to you guys, but this isn’t the end. Time doesn’t stop here and you’re gonna go on to be even better players in uni. So don’t give up, okay?” You ask, hands squeezing whoever’s arm or arms you might be holding on to.

“Don’t give up when there’s so much left to fight for.”

They know you’re right. You’re always right in times like these.

Iwaizumi leaves about an hour later, eyes brighter and a small shit-eating grin on his face after about 13 brutal rounds of Uno. He won the majority of them, thankful that there was something to distract him for now. Oikawa promises to walk you home soon since it’s so late, earning a glare that could only mean “You fucking better, you shithead” and waving him off. Such a worry-wart. But when the front door clicks closed, the silence takes over once again.

Oikawa stands from the couch and stretches, gives a few twists before turning to look back at you. You’re curled up with your phone in hand, probably scrolling through social media or catching up on the news. “Hey,” he calls for you attention and holds out a hand. Don’t do this, he tells himself. “There’s something in my room that I need to return to you. Come with me?” Only delight fills his veins when you nod and set your phone down on the couch before sliding your hand into his. They stay linked as he leads you to his room, only separating when he lets go and you take refuge on this edge of his neatly-made bed.

As childish as he can be, you forget how tidy Oikawa is with his room. The books on his shelf are meticulously arranged by last name, photo frames strategically and aesthetically placed in empty spaces. His writing utensils are carefully arranged in a row on the side of his desk, and his drawer looks much of the same. Stapler, tape, sticky notes and tabs are all methodically placed, somehow speaking true to his leadership abilities.

Your observations are cut short when Oikawa sits down next to you with a book in hand, one that you had lent him months ago. To be honest, you completely forgot that he had it and you make it known to him.

“But did you like it?”

He nods with a small smile, yet his eyes are staring at the wall with a faraway look. He’s contemplating something, drawing plans in his brain, and after a couple of glances towards you, Oikawa gives in.

Much like that Friday afternoon four years ago, he leans his forehead on yours. A wave of deja-vu crashes over you as you’re once again plummeted into the dark ocean of his eyes. He keeps his gaze steady, searching for any kind of resistance. He needs something that only you can give him.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he whispers. You can feel a shiver crawl up your spine at the heaviness in his voice. “But I don’t know who else to ask. I don’t know why I can’t think of anyone but you.

“So can I please kiss you?”

What?

“But why?” You ask, the confusion so obvious in two words. Oikawa can only sigh to himself before carefully maneuvering you to straddle him, facing no objection from you. It’s just a kiss, he thinks to himself. It’s just a kiss that he wants with no strings attached to help with the emotional turmoil that only you could begin to understand. Your heartbeat feels like you’ve been swimming against the current for hours, your body betraying you as you let him bring one of your hands to his cheek. His eyes flutter closed and he languidly nuzzles into your palm, lips placing the softest, most intimate kiss there.

“I don’t know,” he breathes. Your heart aches and aches. “I swear that all I do know is that it can only be you. Please, please let me have this.”

And you can’t help but nod.

Unlike last time, Oikawa doesn’t surge forward. He instead bides his time, lips only barely ghosting over yours as he holds onto your waist. The contact becomes progressively fuller, more purposeful, as he completely slants his mouth over yours. In response, your fingers tangle themselves in the strands at the base of his neck and he finds himself drawing you closer to him, arms now completely wound around your waist.

This is a sin, he has to remind himself. This is a sin that only benefits him -- he is taking, he is stealing, he is feeding on an elixir at the cost of your soul. But his desires only overpower his guilt because as devilish as he may be, the sin feels like heaven. A paradise made by you created solely for him.

He catches your bottom lip between his teeth before gently sucking, eliciting the most delicate moan from your throat. The sound only flips a switch in his head as he applies more pressure, desperate to hear it again. Mine, he thinks as he begins to litter kisses down your neck, teeth catching skin to leave marks on you. Mine, he screams to himself as his hands peek under the edge of your shirt, skin on skin.

“Tooru--” you pant, trying to lean back and gather your thoughts. This is too much to handle. If you’re not careful, you’ll unlock the only thing that you swore you’d take to your grave, the three words that could ruin everything.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps before diving in for another quick kiss. “I’m not asking for sex. I just need you,” he confesses, pecks littered between his words. Oh, how you wish this were under different circumstances. How you wish that you could utter those three words without a care in the world and know that they’ll be reciprocated. Your lips meet his again and it feels like the earth has stopped on its axis.

Both of you are unaware of the amount of time that passes. Fervent kisses slowly diminish to a languid pace until it comes to a complete stop. Oikawa can only lean his forehead against yours, eyes hooded and chest heaving with you in a similar state. Neither of you have enough energy to find the right words. His arms only draw you into his chest and he can’t help but marvel at how perfect of a fit you are for him.

“I should probably head home,” you whisper. Being the man-child that he is, he shakes his head vehemently and momentarily refuses to let you escape his embrace.

“Do you have to?” He tiredly grumbles, reluctantly loosening his grip with a sigh as you slide off his lap. You nod and bend forward to give him one last kiss, the separation causing him to whine. You make your way towards his body-length mirror, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles and fix your hair. Oikawa hugs you from behind, his limbs wrapping around your shoulders.

“We’re okay, right?”

You nod. Don’t we have to be?

And that’s when Oikawa Tooru begins to slip through your fingers.

It’s a combined effort, really. Everybody’s trying to wrap things up, all the big competitions are jam packed into the last remaining weekends, and making room for last-minute college entrance exams. If people weren’t already at their wit’s end, then you can barely fathom the amount of anxiety and stress coursing through the halls of the school.

You use this to your advantage, finding yourself unable to go home with the boys, unable to visit them on the weekends, unable to respond to text messages frequently. You begin to learn to look past Oikawa rather than at him, not bothering to spare a second glance when he’s caught in the hallways by a group of infatuated admirers. You fail to see the way his eyes follow your passing figure or how he slows his pace when walking by your classroom, hoping to get a glimpse of you. You fail to see the disappointment on his face when your spot in the bleachers is empty. So he falters, redirects, and lets the distance increase.

The only time you reconvene with the two is after the graduation ceremony. Your mother would kill you if you left without a picture of you and your best friends, and clearly their mothers are thinking the same thing. Outside in the courtyard, the women spot each other, your mother almost dragging you behind her. They’re trying to find their respective sons, though it doesn’t take long because the sudden clambering and screaming of girls can only serve a few purposes. Oikawa and Iwaizumi are craning their heads before they’re able to finally spot the frantic waving from their mothers.

Soon, they’re in front of you, both individually giving a hug. “Congratulations,” you tell them with as much happiness as possible. It’s not like this will be the last time you’ll see them -- you’re all attending the same university. They thank you and return the festivities. It’s hard to miss how your hug with Oikawa lasts a little bit longer than normal, even more so when his hands trail down your arms before slyly slipping a small object into your hand. As you unfurl your fist, a shiny circular object is gleaning back at you. You spot a stray thread from his jacket and it hits you -- the devilish fox has given you his second button. You’d like to pretend to be unaffected, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

“And if I don’t accept?” You challenge. For a second, Oikawa is genuinely taken aback. It’s obvious he didn’t expect you to consider rejecting the button and stumbles over his attempts to come up with a comeback. When he spots you fighting to contain your laughter, his embarrassment only pushes him to lightly shove your shoulder.

“For being my best female friend,” he elaborates. You deserve an award for containing the pain and bearing through it, pretending that his words don’t faze you in any ways. Iwaizumi only shakes his head at his friend’s idiocy -- what is he thinking?

“Oh I’m sorry,” you apologize in a mocking tone, pretending to bow. “Should I be groveling at your feet now like the other girls back there? Oh great king?”

“Why yes, I am indeed the great king--”

Smack. “You’re such an idiot,” Iwaizumi reprimands. The recipient of the hit pretends to bawl, resuming his childish antics once again.

That’s how high school ends, with two aching hearts and three families of laughter, all making way for the start of university.

Oikawa somehow makes it possible to balance his love life, volleyball, and his business major. Both he and Iwaizumi blend in nicely with the university team as your words from before ring in their brains. They could and are becoming better players -- high school suddenly seems so casual compared to the stakes at the university level. Teammates are constantly being scouted and the two begin to strive for the national team. Despite the fact that they barely see you anymore, Oikawa still dreams of his ideal future: he and Iwaizumi playing for Japan in Tokyo, with you having a job there and supporting them in the stands.

Sometimes he’s able to spot you on campus -- the building for the pharmacy program that you’re enrolled in is relatively far from the business building. Most times you’re walking with your classmates, giggling at something or engaged in a heated discussion. He thinks about how beautiful you look in your white coat with your hair tied back, your face donned with some makeup for the natural look and a pair of dainty earrings. Part of him boils in jealousy whenever there’s a male acting particularly close with you, but he knows he has no right to think that way. The thoughts only fuel him during volleyball practice, which seems to satisfy his coach.

It’s easy for him to like someone, he figures out two years in. It’s easy for him to get to know someone and pick up on their quirks. As a social butterfly, it’s not difficult for him to get along with his partner, but when it comes to developing deeper feelings...it just doesn’t happen. He wants so badly to reciprocate, especially considering how much effort some of his past partners have put in. But something stops him every time -- unwillingly, he’s become a master at letting people down easy, that he’s truly sorry he can’t reciprocate their love. On the other hand, Iwaizumi is pretty successful in his current relationship, going strong for the last year and a half. Oikawa seeks his advice at the club one night, keeping an eye out to see if there’s anyone he'd be willing to take home (not that he ever does).

At this point, Iwaizumi wonders how he’s still friends with him. Yes, he’s fiercely loyal and has been by Oikawa’s side since the beginning, but if the guy was going to do nothing but continue his descent into idiocy, there was very little he could do for him. (Y/n) had the same problem as Oikawa except you figured it out much, much faster.

“You idiot, you’re in love with another person.”

“...say what now?”

“That’s all it is. You’re in love with someone else. That’s why you feel like you can’t say it back when a different person tells you they love you.”

“If I was in love with someone else, wouldn’t I know?”

Yeah. Oikawa Tooru is a big, bumbling, messy pile of denial.

“You know what,” Iwaizumi sighs, setting his drink down before paying the tab. “You’re right. You’re in love with yourself.” Oikawa knows that he’s joking. Nothing could be farther from the truth -- he’s always dedicated himself to the happiness of others. That’s the role of him as a setter and captain: to bring out the best of his teammates’ abilities, but he can only do that if he’s at his best as well. His eyes cast another look into the dancing crowd. He downs his drink as someone catches his attention, also moving to pay his tab.

“Tell your girlfriend I said hi!”

Iwaizumi only gives him a lazy wave as he makes his way to the entrance. Oikawa is sliding his way onto the dance floor and when Iwaizumi spots who he’s wormed next to, he hopes that one day, Oikawa will really open his eyes.

Because he’s always going for girls who look wildly similar to you.

It’s hard to have an undefeated season. Some losses are harder than others and during the first two years, you, sweet, sweet (y/n), always managed to find him.

He needed you most on those rare days. Even after weeks of limited texting and quick passings on campus, there was a level of comfort that solely existed by being with you. He would attempt to joke and tease with you to put up a facade, but when you would lead him to his couch and leave your arms open, the veil would drop as he cried into your shoulder. He would then pick up his terrible, terrible habit of giving into sin (as long as he wasn’t dating anyone), selfishly knowing that you would never say no. He’ll ask you if this is okay, and you always say yes. The two of you never cross the line of anything more than making out, yet the kisses become less lust-ridden and more tender over time, laced with something much more meaningful.

(And with each time, it becomes harder and harder to refrain yourself from confessing.)

Oikawa reveled in being able to sigh against your lips, stealing your breaths from your lungs and even convincing you to stay the night. There were mornings when he truly felt that there was nothing better than waking up with his arm around your waist. He could squeeze you to his chest and wish for this all day. Sometimes, you woke up earlier than him and silently admired how peaceful he looked compared to the haggardness just hours before. With his hair so delicately splayed across his forehead, the ends curling up to defy gravity, a tiny scar dusting his right cheek, you would be painfully reminded of just how much you love him.

The last time you woke up next to him, you thought to yourself, “I can’t do this anymore.”

In the beginning of the third year, you fight every cell in your body to not go to him. Instead, you call him up and ask how he’s doing -- he doesn’t question it, doesn’t demand that you come see him. If there’s something preventing you from visiting him, he won’t ask about it. Even only a call brings him the warmth that he usually craved from you, though he knows nothing can satisfy him like your physical presence. The routine continues, volleyball practice becomes longer, and Oikawa thinks he’s finally getting used to this. This is the farthest you’ll distance yourself from him. There’s no way that you’d ever be more than a train ride away.

“are you guys free for coffee this weekend?” The text reads in the group chat. (Y/n) knows they don’t have a game, one of the rare breaks they get. Oikawa and Iwaizumi have the same schedules, so when Iwaizumi texts back “yh, where at?”, it’s for both of them.

“our favorite cafe restaurant by the bookstore okay? 1pm? my treat?”

“sounds good. see you then.”

“see you guys xx”

They think nothing of it -- it’s just a rare moment that everyone is free and able to catch up. Both dress up in their best casual streetwear, Oikawa even donning the glasses that you like so much. He’s nearly buzzing with excitement at finally being able to talk with you and have you within arm’s distance. Everything is normal when they walk into the cafe, spotting you in the corner booth. You’re quick to match their grins and give them both hugs, watching in delight as their eyes take in the milk bread, agedashi tofu, and a few other shareable dishes. They’re starting to think this is a bit of an apology meal for not having seen them in forever. It’s nice that whenever the three of you are together, there’s no awkwardness and everything seems to be back to normal.

Like how it’s supposed to be. But all good things must come to an end, right?

“It’s so nice being here with you two,” you laugh as you lean back against the vinyl leather. “I’m glad we could do this.”

“We need to do this more often,” Iwaizumi agrees. “We don’t have as many classes since we’re juniors now. Practice is still always the same so we should have more time to meet up. What about you?”

“Same here. Actually,” you pause, hesitant and scrambling for words. You’ve even rehearsed what you’re about to tell them, yet everything has been forgotten.

“I’m...I’m applying to doctoral programs in America.”

The boys look like two deer caught in the headlights. Oikawa is immediately filled with a sense of dread and fear -- his worst nightmare is slowly transforming into reality, unearthing its ugly head. A train ride is one thing, but a 13 hour plane ride? Time differences? A whole different country on the other side of the world?

“That’s...wow. That’s um,” Iwaizumi clears his throat. “That’s a big move. Why did you decide on America? I thought you wanted to start working after?”

“I’m enjoying pharmaceutical research more than I ever thought I would. We just actually got back from an international conference a few weeks ago -- there were so many interesting topics and studies being done. And...I thought it’d be nice to travel somewhere, you know. Have a change of pace.”

And you’re not completely lying. You’ve never really been outside of Japan before. Part of you wants to travel and see more of the world, especially after the conference in Berlin. Famous structures and streets that had been mere images on your computer or phone screen were suddenly physically before your eyes. You wanted to gain a better grasp of what it could offer and what you’ve been missing out on.

The other part of you felt stuck here. You needed an excuse to end the never-ending cycle that was Oikawa. It was an infinite loop of running to him, falling into his arms, attempting to put an obstacle on the bridge between you two, but then crossing over it to fall back into his arms again. You were never close to being free of him, not that you wanted to, but you wanted to know who you could be almost nearly without him. You wouldn’t be you if you were completely void of Oikawa Tooru. He would always have a part of your heart and be a part of your soul, no matter what.

“When would you leave?” Oikawa timidly asks, his gaze directed towards the crumbs on his plate.

“I’m actually on track to graduate by the end of this academic year. If I find a research group that wants me and is willing to provide me with adequate funding...I’d probably leave pretty soon after graduation. Y’know, get settled, meet my group, and...yeah.”

Silence ensues as the two boys figure out what to say. Your leg is bouncing restlessly beneath the table, fingers quietly tapping the side of your cup. Iwaizumi seems to be taking it pretty well, but Oikawa...you can’t tell.

All emotion is wiped from his face. He’s choosing to pierce holes in the wall by your head and his arms are crossed in front of his chest. He’s trying so hard to be mature about this and be happy for you, yet all he can register is the fact that you’re leaving. You’re leaving them, you’re leaving him, you’ll be gone forever and you’ll never come back, you’re going to find new friends, a new partner, a new bed that belongs to someone else to fall asleep in, oh how wretched--

“We’re gonna miss you,” Oikawa says, voice barely any louder than the tranquil music playing over the speakers. You feel like you’ve been transported back to when you were ten and breaking the news of quitting volleyball, hearing the same four words spoken in a very similar manner. Your heart settles and softens, you relax and reach over the table to grab one of their hands in each of yours. Iwaizumi doesn’t hesitate to give a friendly squeeze while Oikawa’s grip is only limp at best. But after a few seconds, it tightens and tightens until you understand the message: please don’t go.

“We’ve spent our whole lives together. I’ve told you two this before and I’ll say it again -- I’m so lucky that I have you guys. Part of me is able to do this because I know you’ve always got my back and I know that’s not going to change, even when I’m halfway across the world. So keep in touch? Please?”

“Of course,” Iwaizumi reaffirms and Oikawa nods. You express your thanks and retract your hands, trying to ignore the way that Oikawa’s fingers linger for as long as they can without being too obvious. The three of you eventually leave, bidding goodbye to your waitress and cashier, and continue to amble down the streets. Time always flies when you’re with them, conversation never truly ending. Eventually Iwaizumi has to leave to meet his girlfriend for dinner and Oikawa, being the gentleman that he always is, ensures that he’ll bring you home safe and sound. As the two of you wave goodbye and watch him disappear into the crowd, Oikawa offers his arm to you. He sees the pleasant surprise on your face and can’t help the smile on his own as you wrap your hand around the crook of his elbow.

The two of you continue to chat -- you fill him in on all the little details of your life that he had missed. In return, he does the same, eliciting so many different emotions from you. The pain in your heart increases when you realize just exactly how far away you’ve been from him. You choose to ignore that he’s taking the long way to your apartment, relishing in this rare time you have with him. Oikawa is the only person to make you feel like there truly wasn’t enough time in the world to spend with the one you love.

This must be what it’s like to date you, he realizes. Your hand is still wrapped around his arm, even when the limb became tired and settled for tucking his hand into his jacket pockets. He drinks in every laugh, every scoff, every grin, every gasp of surprise. Very few things bring him greater satisfaction than the way your eyes sparkle when he buys one of your favorite snacks off a food cart or when he points out something that reminds him of you. He never wants you to let go -- all he wants now is to collapse into your bed and wake up with his arm around your waist once again.

Before he knows it, they’re in front of your door, fiddling with your keys. He leans against the wall by your door as you locate the right one, but you hesitate.

“This was really fun. Thanks for basically spending your whole day with me.”

“I wouldn’t trade it for the world,” he replies, unable to stop the words from flowing out of his mouth. “It’s been a while since we’ve hung out like this.”

“Yeah, it has been.”

Silence.

“I guess I’ll see you around?” He asks with eyes full of hope. You’d have to be blind to not notice them, yet you would still be able to tell by the tone of his voice.

“Of course,” you reply with a small smile. “Until you get sick of me.”

Oikawa scoffs, but puts on a sincere face as he quips back, “Never.”

In all the years that you’ve been friends with him, nothing has ever sent blood rushing to your cheeks so fast. Your heartbeat quickens at an alarming rate and it doesn’t help as he begins to lean down, getting closer and closer to your face.

At the last second, he dips his head to the right and places a soft, lingering kiss on your cheek. Before you can blink twice, he’s already walking backwards with the cheekiest grin on his face, a cute little wave towards you. He then turns on his heels and makes his way to the elevator with a bit of a skip in his step.

You don’t even remember unlocking your door and toeing off your shoes. Your entire body feels like lead, yet also buzzing with excitement. And as you’re collapsed on your bed, staring at the ceiling, all your brain can comprehend and tell you is that Oikawa Tooru is truly the bane of your existence.

Oikawa does his best to stay true to his word.

Even with fewer classes, there’s always something that he needs to finish: that project, this homework assignment, extra practice -- sometimes, he wishes he hadn’t been in uni. Or at least picked a different major. When he can, he tries to visit you on nights, sometimes sheepishly empty-handed, other times holding a bag of your favorite pastries. “Are you trying to fatten me up?” You joke one night before biting into your favorite flavor of macaron. “More to hold and hug,” he teases back, causing you to give him a light whack on his arm.

He’s there when you nervously submit all your applications. He’s there when you receive offers to interview. He’s there when you get your first official acceptance. And of course, he’s there when you make your final decision. There’s no hesitation when you jump into his arms after submitting your confirmation of acceptance to University of California – San Francisco, though he wishes you could be there forever. Weeks begin to roll by, much quicker than he’d like. The usual cheery and joyful chattiness of when he usually visits evolves into comfortable silence, both of you settling for watching some space documentary on Netflix most nights. Oikawa hates how the inevitable is slowly creeping up his spine and more often than not, he’s torn between wanting to either just rip the Bandaid off or try to stop time.

The approaching reality of you physically leaving him starts to take its true form when you ask him to tag along on the hunt for suitcases. You want to get at least one of those large suitcases that have to be checked in to try to bring as much stuff as possible. The whole time, Oikawa is half numb, though he tries his best to give his honest opinions on the suitcases you consider. He knows what a big step this is as he watches you eagerly pay for your final selection. However, nothing hits him harder than when he comes into your apartment a week before your graduation and there’s a wide array of empty, mismatched cardboard boxes in every room.

To drive the stake in even further, the recently purchased suitcase lies wide open in your bedroom with some stray objects already neatly tucked in. Yet the one that catches his eye is a picture frame placed in a bubble wrap sleeve. It holds the physical memory of you, him, and Iwaizumi at your high school graduation, each person with their own bouquet of congratulatory flowers. There’s a reason you have this specific shot framed out of all the ones between the parents combined; reason being the fact that Oikawa isn’t looking at the camera lens, but rather looking at you.

His eyes glinted with pride and care in that picture, a certain softness in his posture. The picture has always sat demurely in a back corner of your desk. However, some friends or recent classmates that have been in your room have taken note of it, excitedly asking you, “Is this your boyfriend??” It’s more painful when you have to tell them he’s not, only just a very close childhood friend. A very close childhood friend that you’ve kissed multiple times and will always give your heart to, but you leave that part unsaid. .

Oikawa spends the night with you, taking much longer than usual to fall asleep. You’ve already passed out next to him, mouth slightly agape and hands curled up near your face. Quietly, he adjusts his weight onto his elbow, leaning his cheek into his hand. His other hand gently tucks the strands of hair that have fallen over your face behind your ear. To him, you look nothing short of angelic. He hates that he’s only able to spend time like this with you as the clock is ticking -- he wishes that he made more of an effort to meet and see you during your first two years. Perhaps he wouldn’t feel so anxious at the thought of you leaving. Perhaps the two of you would’ve established something that would guarantee your return.

At this thought, Iwaizumi’s words ring in his head.

You’re in love with someone else, that’s why you feel like you can’t say it back when a different person tells you they love you.

They continue to ring as he finally falls asleep. They ring as he only wakes up hours later, settling on trying to quickly whip up breakfast for you. They’re loudest when you quietly pad up to him and rest your chin over his shoulder, nearly scaring the shit out of him. Even then, his body can’t help but relax from the feeling of your body pressed against his back.

Even as he prepares for his finals, you’re in love with someone else.

Even in the midst of presenting a final project for class, you’re in love with someone else.

All the way up until he’s parked in a seat, arms cradling a bouquet of your favorite flowers, tucked between Iwaizumi and your mother at your graduation ceremony, you’re in love with someone else.

And when he’s cheering his loudest for you as you cross the stage, pausing to shake the university’s president’s hand and receive your diploma, his heart finally settles on the unshakeable truth that he probably knew all along.

I’m so fucking in love with (y/n).

“I’m so fucked,” he mutters to himself, but not quiet enough because Iwaizumi catches it.

“What’d you do, shithead?” He leans in to ask so your mother doesn’t hear. Oikawa only shakes his head, his leg subconsciously beginning to bounce anxiously. Iwaizumi takes a look at the leg, then a look at his face, and when he catches how Oikawa’s eyes follow you happily ambling off the stage, the realization hits him like a ton of bricks. After years and years of living in pure oblivion, Oikawa has finally understood just how much he loves you.

“God, you have such shit timing, you dickhead,” Iwaizumi groans, fingers pinching and massaging the bridge of his nose.

“What did he do?” His girlfriend on his other side asks. He leans over to briefly kiss her cheek, murmuring a “I’ll tell you later,” in her ear before turning back to his best friend.

Oikawa feels like a nervous schoolboy with the way his face is construed, his hands grasping the flower stems like it’s his lifeline. He begins to think about how he should confess to you – should it be during a candlelit dinner? On the roof of your apartment under the stars? Should he take you to a park or by the beach? A million more scenarios run through his head as the rest of the graduation ceremony proceeds. He stands in a daze as the students begin to file out, the families in the stands soon following suit. His body stiffly stands to follow your family and creaks like a rusty robot, absolutely unprepared to face you with his new revelation. The only thing that brings him out of his head is when Iwaizumi yanks him back by the collar of his shirt, practically choking him in the process. His throat coughs and fights for oxygen as he rubs at his neck, watching your mother disappear into the crows before turning to Iwaizumi with a pitiful and defeated look.

“What the hell was that for, Iwa-chan? Why—”

“You are not telling her right now, you hear me?” Iwaizumi threatens in a hushed voice.

“But—”

“She’s leaving. In a week. To America. Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Can’t that be for her to decide? She can turn me down, but I need to tell her!” Oikawa cries out as the three of them do their best to stay out of other people’s way, pressing themselves to their seats as much as possible. People are casting them either curious or nasty looks for being obstacles in an increasingly heated argument, but they could also care less.

Iwaizumi narrows his eyes at him, then stabs a finger to his chest. “What you want, what you need…it’s always been that way for you when it comes to her. Have you ever stopped to consider what she wants?”

“Of course I have, what do you take me for?!”

“What do I take you for?! I take you for an idiot who spent years taking advantage of her!” Iwaizumi drives his point by jabbing the finger on his chest again. “I take you for an idiot who knew that she could never say no to you and you still used her whenever it was convenient! You think you’ve been such a martyr—”

“I didn’t do that! I—”

“Then prove it,” Iwaizumi hisses. “Prove to us that you genuinely care about what she needs. You know what she needs right now? She needs us, her friends, to go out there, find her, and congratulate her with flowers. Then, we’re gonna go to our favorite place with her family and celebrate her. Today’s about her and her achievements. We’re gonna be happy for her because that’s what she needs today. That’s what she deserves.”

Most of the crowd have trickled towards the lobby by now, leaving the three of them with a few student workers running around to pick up trash and stray programs in preparation for the next ceremony. Iwaizumi sighs, seeking comfort in the way that his girlfriend slides her hand into his. Everything that he had been holding in is now out in the open.

“You think you can do that, Tooru?” He asks in a calmer voice.

“…yeah.”

Oikawa tries his best to keep his feelings at bay. They threaten to spill when your eyes drink in the bouquet he’s brought for you, a pure smile of delight as you lean in to catch a whiff of your favorite flowers. It’s even harder when you give him a friendly peck on the cheek, quickly moving to give Iwaizumi and his girlfriend hugs. He can’t stop sneaking glances your way during lunch, watching how happy you seem to be as you verbally recall the last three years. His mind does its best to stay involved in the conversation, yet it doesn’t cease to drift towards Iwaizumi’s words. It’s heart-wrenching because everything he said was true – he had knowingly taken advantage of your lack of resistance, had knowingly acknowledged that he was committing a certain sin in life, driven by greed and desire. He knew years ago that he could never get enough of you and would never be able to.

“…your plans after this?” He hears your mother ask you, her voice reminding him to be an active participant in this chat.

“I kind of just want to go home and get out of this dress, probably start up my packing again. I had to put that on hold with finals and everything.”

“We can come help you if you want.”

“It’s okay, Mom. I might even take a nap first.”

“You can take a nap while I help you pack,” Oikawa interjects without a thought. He just wants more time with you. You look skeptical and he puts on an affronted expression. “I’m a really neat and organized packer, thank you very much. You think I’m some poor slob who can’t properly fold a shirt?”

“It’s exactly what I think.”

“Hey, don’t be so mean! I’ll prove it.”

“Fine,” you say with a smirk widening. “But I’m kicking you out if it isn’t up to my standards.”

“Yes ma’am!” He replies like a soldier, comically saluting with two fingers. Iwaizumi shoots him his best warning glare as the table resumes chatting.

About an hour later, the two of you are walking side-by-side in the direction of your apartment. The pace is slow with your heels on, especially as they become more and more painful. Eventually, you let out a big huff and stop in your path to slip off your heels, picking them up by the straps and letting them hang off your fingers. Your gown, stole, and chords are draped over your other arm, the other hand holding onto the cap and flowers. Oikawa watches as you sigh happily and wiggle your toes before you continue the trek barefoot. He’s terrified that you’ll get a staph infection and stops you.

Without saying anything, he takes the graduation gown from your arm and fits it over you, thankful that the bottom of it nearly reaches your ankles. Your arms have a mind of their own as they slip into the sleeves. He crouches for bit and fiddles a little bit before pulling your zipper up, then takes your cap and fits it onto your head. Before you can question his actions, he sweeps around to lift you up in his arms bridal style, causing you to yelp at the sudden motion. One of your arms is already swung around his neck, the other just trying to make sure your heels, chords, and stole don’t drop. Oikawa adjusts his grip a little, then looks down at you.

“You okay?”

You’re incredibly flustered, saying nothing but giving a few nods. He gently smiles before bringing you closer to his chest. Eventually, you place everything into your lap, leaving your other arm free to lie over the flowers on your stomach. You have an internal battle with yourself on whether you should link your free limb around his neck or not – do you want to come off as clingy? Would Oikawa mind? Would it make him uncomfortable? You soon decide, fuck it. You just graduated, you deserve to be pampered a little bit, even if it means treating yourself to indulging in one of your longtime fantasies with the man you secretly love.

Even though your face is already pretty close to his, by wrapping both arms around him, you’re practically nuzzling into the side of his neck. He smells faintly of the cologne that you gifted him last year for his birthday. It brings you fond memories of your life with him so far, how even through all the pain of unrequited love, every second has been absolutely worth it.

“Thank you,” you murmur and tighten your grasp. “For everything. For being my best friend, for always being there for me.”

“You don’t need to thank me, silly,” he replies affectionately. “You know we love you, right?”

“I know. I just wanted to make sure that you knew how much I appreciate it, that’s all.”

“…I’m so proud of you, (y/n). Look at you, finishing in 3 years and going to California for your PhD. Maybe I should’ve tried harder to convince you to stay in Japan, but I know you wouldn’t have been as happy. Is it too late to still try to persuade you?”

You unwind an arm to smack his chest lightly, playfully scolding him as you fully hold onto him again.

“Don’t even think about it. Of course it’s too late.”

“Well, then there’s no harm in still trying, right?”

“Tooru!”

“Okay, okay, fine~.”

Once you’re home, you grab random articles of clothing from your closet before heading into the bathroom to change. Oikawa offers to find a vase for the bouquet during this time, your ears hearing the clinking of glass and the snipping of stems. You didn’t realize you had grabbed Oikawa’s spare jersey he had given you the summer before your first year of university, only noticing after you begin to fit it over your head. The flush in your cheeks is subtle as you slip on a pair of pajama shorts, a giddy feeling filling your chest.

When you step out of the bathroom and towards the kitchen, Oikawa’s back is facing you as he continues to arrange the flowers. Something about the scene feels comfortably domestic, as if Oikawa just returned home from work and decided to surprise you with a little gift, insisting that he put it together for you. You’re almost expecting him to give you a kiss on the cheek before saying, “I’m home, dear.”

In the midst of your thoughts, Oikawa is satisfied with his work, grabbing the vase and turning with the intent to let you see his work. He startles when he sees you leaning against the wall and staring at him, yet his heart fails to calm once he realizes you’re in his jersey. Part of you suddenly feels shy with the way he can’t stop admiring you, yet another part is filled with newfound confidence. Your feet softly pad towards him, relishing in the fact that you can render the great Oikawa Tooru speechless. He lets you take the vase from him, still frozen in his spot as you gently place a kiss on the corner of his lips. If he were more composed and more cognizant of his actions, he would have taken you up in his arms and kissed you for real. You take the vase from his fingers and place it on your dining table, appreciating the delicate hue of the petals. It’s a shame that you’ll have to get rid of them soon since you’re leaving in a week.

“Come on, Tooru. Time for you to show me how good your shirt-folding skills are!”

Progress in packing is slow as the two of you talk and laugh, the sound of The Good Place quietly playing on Netflix from the small TV in your room softly filling the room. Eventually, Oikawa refuses any of your help, practically ordering you to stay in your bed and leave it to him. In the familiar warmth of your comforter, you fight to stay awake as exhaustion from the morning events creeps through your body. Before long, you’re taking a last look at Oikawa’s side profile sitting on your floor next to a pile of unfolded clothes and falling asleep soon after. It takes a few minutes for him to realize that you haven’t said anything in a while, only chuckling to himself when he sees you slipped away to the dreamworld.

For the next hour or so, he folds and packs your clothes in silence. The pile dwindles and shrinks until there’s none left, though there’s still some in your closet that you’ll be wearing over the next week. You’re still asleep on your side – he can’t find it in himself to wake you, instead doing his best to climb over you and sit on the empty side of the bed without jostling you. Just as he finds a comfortable half-lying, half-sitting position against a pillow and the headboard, you unconsciously do a full 180-degree turn and snuggle closer to him. One of your legs twists around his, your arm slinging over his waist.

Oikawa’s heart almost wants to fly out of his chest. Had it really been over a little more than a year since you last slept next to him? Was this going to be the last time that he’d experience this?

Was this going to be his last chance?

He must’ve nodded off in the end. Your voice speaks to him in his subconscious, softly calling out his name. His body is curled up on the side where you were sleeping, arms stretched out as he finally wills his eyes to open. His vision is blurry and heavily veiled with sleep, needing a few blinks to register that you’re bent over with your face very close to his. He wants to be wakened like this every day, to the sound of your voice rather than an obnoxious alarm tone from his phone. With all the strength he can muster, his arm reaches out to grab one of your wrists and gingerly pulls you towards him. You giggle as you snuggle into the little space you have, his arms hugging you tightly to ensure you don’t fall over the edge.

“Five more minutes,” he pleads, nuzzling into your hair. “Or we can go back to sleep, I don’t mind…”

“Tooru, we need to eat dinner though.”

“But I have you,” he mumbles without thought, clearly saying whatever first comes to his mind.

“That doesn’t make any sense though.”

“It makes all the sense in the world, silly (y/n)…come on, let’s sleep some more…”

“Even if there’s fresh omurice waiting to be eaten?”

“Mmm…did you make it?”

“Yes, I did.”

Oikawa sighs again before moving his hand from your back to rub his eyes. “Well, we can’t let your hard work go to waste then, right?”

“Not at all.”

You disentangle yourself and ignore how your body aches to lay with him again. Your hands take one of his own in your grasp, pulling him from the bed and towards the dining table where a fresh plate of omurice awaits them. Oikawa doesn’t forget his manners, pulling out a chair and indicating for you to sit in it. Like a true gentleman, he’s cognizant of how he pushes the chair back in to meet your sitting position, ensuring that you’re comfortable before moving to his own seat. The two of you say your thanks quickly before digging in.

Dinner is a quiet ordeal besides the occasional laughter. He tries to play footsies with you underneath the table, having full advantage with his longer legs. You threaten to flick rice at him if he keeps at it, but as time passes by, it’s clear your words hold no weight. Light banter continues when you bring the plates to the sink, refusing any offers of help from him. He settles for having an arm around your shoulders, leaning some of his body weight onto you. His eyes watch you with love and fascination as he berates himself for not figuring it out earlier. Things would have been different, and life would have been much better.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he murmurs, tone solemn and heavy as you begin to dry off the dishes.

“I know. But I’ll be back in a few years, you know?”

“A few years sounds like forever though.”

“It’ll be over before you know it, Tooru.”

“I know, but…”

“But what?”

He’s still searching for words when you’ve put the last plate in the drying rack, folding the towel neatly on the counter. You turn to face him directly, causing his arm to slide off your shoulders. He delicately grasps your hands with his and plays with your fingers, eyes focused on them and unable to meet your own. Iwaizumi’s warning voice blares through his head – why, why did he always have to be so selfish when it comes to you? Why did he always give in?

“Tooru, what—”

“I love you, (y/n).”

He’s gone and done it now. His eyes are ablaze with passion as they attempt to convey the depth of his feelings, boring straight into your own shocked gaze. He means it more than anything right now. You have to understand that he’s serious, that he doesn’t mean this in a platonic sense. Without a doubt, he would do anything for you. Could you see that in him?

He begins to panic when you slowly detach your hands, your expression hardening before you turn to occupy yourself with something else. You search for something before heading towards your living room and start packing the decorations into a cardboard box that’s cradled against your hip.

“(Y/n), please—”

“You don’t mean it,” you bite out and somewhat harshly smack a book into the box. “You’re only saying it because—”

“I’m not saying it just because you’re leaving, I swear,” he vows, following you as you pack away more things. “Just look at me—”

“How could you?!” You say accusingly, slamming your box onto the floor and whipping around to look at him. Oikawa isn’t entirely surprised by the tears streaming down your face, yet his heart still breaks at the sight.

“(Y/n), I—”

“What were you expecting?” You ask hoarsely, throat choked with tears. “Did you expect me to just accept it and run into your arms?! We’re going to be on opposite sides of the world for at least four years, and you wanted to start something with me a week before I leave?”

“I can’t lose you!” Oikawa cries out. He watches you collapse into your couch, head buried in your hands to control your sobs. He follows and sits as close as possible in front of you on the floor, reaching up to remove your hands from your face. “I can’t lose you more than I already have,” he whispers dismally, thumbs wiping tears from your cheeks. Out of fatigue, he places his cheek on your knees, eyes closing as you lay your hand on top of his head.

“Tooru, you—”

“I’ve been in love with you for years,” he interrupts, striving to get you to see how much this is for him. “I never knew what it was until recently, but you have to know by now that I would do anything for you. You can call me up at 4 in the morning, ask me for my umbrella even when I’m 20 minutes away. You could even ask me to drop volleyball, and I’d do it. Just to make you happy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you depressingly chastise as your fingers give in and demurely run through his hair. “I would never ask you to give up volleyball, and even if I did, you’d resent me til the day we die. Hell, you’d resent me in your grave for all I know.”

“You’d still be my everything.”

At his words, you choke out another sob. This had been everything you were dreaming of, except Oikawa’s timing was just so off. You would have to spend the first four years of your relationship without him, and long distance wouldn’t be easy. Even though he would do everything to make it work, you’d worry about burdening him when he has so much he wants to live for. Wouldn’t it affect his playing? His studies? Would he eventually get tired of waiting for you and leave?

“Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?” You sniffle.

“The chance of a lifetime, that’s what I’m getting into,” he quickly replies. He turns to rest his chin where his cheek originally on, facing you with eyes of zero hesitation. His expression softens when he senses the doubt in your face and reaches up to remove your hands from his hair, grasping them softly and placing them on your thighs. “I’ve already wasted years not being with you, and I don’t intend to lose another second. So please, please give me this chance.”

Your head is dizzy with all this information. You need time, you need clarity. You need to think this out before diving in, no matter how much you want to comply right now.

“Let me think about it, ok?” You weakly propose. “This has happened all so fast and I just need some time to think it over. This is really big for us, and I just wanna make sure we’re doing the right thing.”

“I’ll wait forever if I have to,” he agrees, then ghosting his lips over your knuckles.

“You can’t see me until we’re at the airport though,” you add in, causing him to whine in objection. “I’ll give you my answer then. It’s just a week.”

“Can I still call you?”

“Of course, you big wuss,” you tease.

“Hey, I just confessed my feelings here, cut me some slack!” He cries, pouting afterwards. You somehow still have the energy to giggle at his antics, happy that some things never change.

“You need to leave soon, Tooru.”

“No,” he objects and wraps his arms around your legs. “I don’t wanna.”

“Tooru—”

“Only if you kiss me before I leave.”

You let out a sigh, yet still smiling. “Deal.”

He removes himself and gets out of the way, stretching as he stands when you push yourself off the couch. Even for the short distance from the living room to the door, Oikawa insists on holding your hand. He grabs every second he can with you, still holding on when he’s slipping his shoes on.

“I’m waiting for my kiss,” he says with a lilt in his voice. His eyes are shining and expectant, causing you to roll your own playfully. For the first time in 21 years, you’ll be kissing Oikawa with no feelings hidden, no motives unsaid.

He meets you halfway, softly cradling your cheek with his free hand. His lips against yours bring a wave of nostalgia – god, how you both missed this, the feeling of being able to lose yourself in another person. How you both missed forming that bubble again where nothing mattered but the two of you being there together. You can’t help but think about how much you’re going to miss this in America, how it’ll be months, years, before you can ever fall into Oikawa’s arms again.

Oikawa wants nothing more than to toe his shoes off and have you jump into his arms. He wants nothing more than to carry you to your room and show exactly how much he loves you, but it’s not in your wishes. Don’t be selfish, he reminds himself. You asked for time and space to think about your future with him – if he wants to make this work, thinking of solely his own desires needs to stop here. He must prove to you that it’ll be worth it, that there’s no reason to lose any more time than you’ve already lost.

“I’m sorry I made you wait,” he apologizes quietly.

“It’s okay. But consider this week as punishment, if you’d like.”

He pouts. “I really can’t come see you?”

You give a small grin, a pointer finger moving to tap his nose. “Nope.”

With that, he sighs begins to walk out the door, but not before stealing another peck. The action only makes you laugh and playfully push him over the door threshold, waving as he walks backwards with a pout. You don’t close the door until he’s turned the corner, nearly collapsing against it once the deadbolt is locked in place. Everything hits you all at once again, leaving you reeling and almost gasping for air. Your heart won’t cease its rapid pace, though it seems to come to a full halt when your phone chimes with a text message from him.

“Good night, (y/n). I love you.”

Yes, it’s amazing how lucky you are.

Without fail, Oikawa texts and calls you every day. He never fails to remind you that he loves you. Twice, he orders delivery to your door because he knows you need to pack your kitchen. A man who buys you food as a surprise and seems to always know what you’re in the mood for? It’s as if the universe is telling you to hurry up and marry this guy.

And Oikawa, trying to be the responsible person that he is, doesn’t see you until they’re sending you off at the airport. Your parents had offered to pick him and Iwaizumi up from his place, especially since it was a little early in the morning. A taxi drops you and your suitcases off at the gate. You hadn’t spotted them when you got in and made a move to go ahead and check your bags in. After you had finished dropping them off, you had turned around to wait outside of the check-in area and spotted the four of them chatting while waiting for you. Even with it being so early in the morning, you can’t help but break out into a smile at seeing them, speeding up your pace as much as you can with the carry-on suitcase lugging behind you.

“Thank you, guys, for coming all this way,” you express your gratitude while embracing Iwaizumi and Oikawa.

“What kind of shitty friends would we be if we didn’t?” Iwaizumi asks as you move to hug your parents. Your mother keeps an arm around you at the end, already fighting her tears.

“Mom…”

“Do you have everything you need?” She interjects, voice choking up. “Phone? Wallet? Passport? Boarding pass? New SIM card? Emergency cash?”

“They’re all here,” you say, pointing to the locations of each item. “I’m gonna be okay, mom.”

“Don’t hesitate to call us if you need anything, ok?” Your father reminds you. “We’re only a call or text away.”

“I know. I’ll try to make it home on the holidays or something, but if not, I’ll be back in a few years at least.”

“What if you end up meeting someone and want to stay in America with them?” Your mother sniffles, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin.

“Well,” you hesitate, casting a quick look towards Oikawa. When his gaze meets yours, you begin to feel more confident about the answer that you settled on yesterday. You know he’s anxious to find out what you’ve decided. “I’m sure that’s not going to happen. Can I have a minute with Tooru please? Alone?”

Your mother’s eyes widen in realization before she’s quick to shoo off your father and Iwaizumi. Once they’re out of earshot, Oikawa looks at you expectantly.

“Do I get my answer today?” He inquires, removing his hand from his jacket pocket to hold one of yours. You take the initiative to interlace your fingers with his, giving a tight squeeze.

“Mmm,” you hum while fishing out your phone with your free hand. Oikawa watches anxiously as you tap and scroll through something, breath baited as your eyes seem to light up at finding what you need. You turn the screen to him and ask, “Does that answer your question?”

At first, he’s confused. Oikawa sees a contact page open and automatically notices it’s his number. It’s not until his vision drifts back to the top of the page where his name usually was. In the past, it had been “crappykawa” with a smiling emoji, but to his delight, it now reads “the boyfriendTM”.

His excitement prompts him to lift you from the waist and spin you around in a few circles. You shriek and shake with laughter as your arms instinctively wrap around his neck to hold on, your eyes closed tightly until he puts you down. Even then, he doesn’t detach himself from you and leans down to kiss you sweetly, never wanting to let up. It doesn’t matter that you’re leaving him in the next few minutes – he’d rather have this than nothing at all.

Minutes later and after more teary goodbyes, you walk through the line towards security. The four of them watch as you exchange pleasantries and answer questions by the guard checking your boarding pass and passport. Once you’ve been cleared, you turn around once more to give a final wave, before disappearing behind the gray walls. After you pass security and find somewhere to eat a quick breakfast, you check your phone. There’s a Snapchat from Oikawa that you immediately move to open. It’s a selfie taken at an angle where his phone would’ve been in his lap. He has his characteristic pout on his face and the caption reads, “i already miss you, my love.”

And at that moment, you know, you can feel it with every ounce of your being, that everything is going to be okay.

(epilogue)

Months after you moved to California, Oikawa received his invite to play for a professional volleyball team in Argentina. He consulted his closest friend, you, his coaches, and they all agreed on one thing: he’d be stupid to turn it down.

It wasn’t the Japan national team, but it was definitely an opportunity of a lifetime. He greatly admired the national Argentine team as a child, and that admiration never wavered. On the plus side, it would make the long-distance relationship easier with you, as the time difference would be cut significantly.

The relationship experienced its ups and downs. Some main recurring themes of contention involved his tendency to overwork himself and your frequent late nights in the lab, as well as your disregard for your physical and mental health during times of high stress. They were issues born out of love and care, and they were worked on to help each other improve. You’d always livestream his volleyball matches and he would attempt to stay up with you on a video call if you were in the lab or up late studying, reminding you to drink water and eat something nutritious.

Oikawa found time to visit you during rare extended breaks in the off-season. He’d always make sure that you two would video call Iwaizumi together, wearing a shit-eating grin when Iwaizumi would pick up the call and roll his eyes. In return, you saved up and visited him in Argentina, though only able to stay up to a week at most. The new life was a little difficult and strange, but he made it work. He loved his teammates, he loved you, he loved volleyball, and he couldn’t ask for more.

You finished your doctorate in four years, just as you had predicted. You already had a job lined up before graduation at an academic hospital in Tokyo, allowing you to practice pharmacy and continue research. Not only that, Iwaizumi also earned a position in the top volleyball team in Japan, leaving Oikawa to be ecstatic. His personal dream from so many years ago was finally coming together – the three of you together in the same city, and him and Iwaizumi on the same superior team, even if it meant playing with Kageyama Tobio and Ushijima Wakatoshi. But he’d get used to it eventually.

When you first returned to Tokyo, you were happy to see that not much had changed. Oikawa had another couple of years in Argentina before he would return to Japan and join Iwaizumi on the team. A few weeks in, you were already enjoying your job immensely – the only thing missing was your boyfriend.

A year has passed, and you are currently sitting at home in front of the TV with a mug in your hands. You’re dressed down in your comfiest sweatpants and Tooru’s jersey from university days. A white gold chain holding a simple silver ring hangs daintily around your neck as a token and symbol of a promise. You check your phone and frown a little – Tooru hadn’t texted or called you all day, though he did mention he would be busy with preparing for an upcoming practice match. You’re now worried that Tooru’s overworking himself again, holding the device now to send a quick text reminder to take breaks and stretch afterwards.

You toss your phone to the side and try to focus on the humorous game show, picking up on how ridiculous some of the antics were. American game shows had nothing on the ones here in Japan.

Someone rings your doorbell. At first, you think it’s the postman dropping off a package you had been expecting and make no move towards the door. But the doorbell is rung once again, leaving you to hesitantly approach the entrance. You peek through the spyhole and spot a young man outside, hat slipped on backwards, glasses perched on his nose, and hands stuffed into his pants pockets. He’s looking away from you and has suitcases around him, but you can recognize that side profile from anywhere. Could it be?

You fumble with the lock and throw open the door as your heart threatens to beat out of its chest. The young man finally looks up at you and you gasp as tears spring forward to your eyes.

Oikawa Tooru is standing right in front of you with the most beautiful smile on his face that you have ever seen.

He’s ready to catch you when you squeal and run into his arms, dissolving into laughter as you blubber into his neck and attempt to make sense of what’s happening. Tooru spins you around a few times for good measure, relishing in the comfort of your body against his. It had been too long since he last held you, and luckily, he’d never have to wait that long ever again.

His invite came as a phone call not too long ago, personally from the coach of the team that Iwaizumi had joined. They were willing to wait for him if he wanted another year in Argentina as he had originally planned, but Tooru decided that it was time to come back. He had buzzed with excitement as he planned out his great return, wanting so badly to surprise you. It’d go down in the book as one of the best reveals of a major life change for the two of you, and he wanted it to be perfect.

“How—what—when—I have so many questions!” You stammer, hands reaching for his face to make sure that this is real. Tooru leans into your palm, eyes catching the glisten of the promise ring that he had gifted you two years ago. He was a little worried that it wouldn’t be noticeable enough (“I need people out there to understand that you’re spoken for!” “What are you, a prince of the medieval days?”), but he did appreciate how beautiful it looked when you wore it as such. The happiness he feels right now is more than he could have ever imagined, especially now when he can finally look into your eyes and say the words that he’s been yearning to speak for years to you —

”I’m home, (y/n).”

fin.

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thehereticaldeserthermit · 4 years

Text

𝕆𝕦𝕥 𝕆𝕗 ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℚ𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤

ROLE PLAYER GET TO KNOW YOU PROMPT

Alright TDC Community It’s time for a task,

and this time we’re all going to get to know each other a little better.

Under the cut, you’ll find forty out of character questions split into two parts: OOC about your muses, and OOC about yourself! Answer what you’d like, add more if you’d like.

When you’re done TAG some of your writing partners and keep FUN going.

-there is no pressure to participate

-IF You Are Reading This And You’d Like To Participate Consider Yourself Tagged My Friend!

Much Love,

TheJesseWhoLurks

I tag @lyr-taxidermist @theghostofharar @hurdygurdyskeksis @urskekyagvi @skekmal-the-hunter @skekso-the-emperor @gourdplayer @hedonistschambers @ulvanmaudra @littlebluezoologist @the-wandering-urru @queenofthetides @juliejewel24 @thecastleurru

OOC About Your Character(s)

1. What do you want to get out of playing this character(s)?

The reason I wanted to write for Gra was to meet fellow fans that loved the world of TDC as much as I do, I wanted to find fellow writers. I wanted to steep myself in the fandom. You can easily consider me skeKSis obsessed but I am growing a fondness for their counterparts -slowly ❤

2. Describe your character(s) with three words.

Passionate | Erratic | Trustworthy

3. What made you decide to write this muse?

Originally I was going to pick up The Ritual Master, he’d been my OG fav from the movie BUT Gra kept ... poking me with his scepter? Like; I live in the desert, you live in the desert, Ima recluse, you’re a recluse =we are simpatico. I think The Heretic picked me because he simply would not leave my mind when I considered him as a possibility.

4. If you could change one event in your muse’s life (in their main or canon verse), what would you change?

Canon. I mean they left us kinda hanging there. We really do not know what happened do we? They are simply, just not there anymore. I do not want them to perish, I want them to make it to the finish line and become urSkek. It breaks my heart to think they did not make it.

5. If you could tell your muse one thing, what would you tell them?

I would not say anything, just hug him REALLY tightly and probably not let go until he gives me a chitter-laugh.

6. If you could give your muse one gift, what would you give them?

I would like to give them...ME.

7. If you had to take one positive thing away from your muse, what would you take away?

I do not want to take a positive thing from the fibers that make up Gra. I feel they are very interwoven in his tale. Removing one would make another untether. If I could take away or diminish a bad trait Id have him not be so stubborn and or impatient but then again he would not be Gra now would he?

8. If you could “borrow” one aspect of your muse and apply it to yourself or your own life, what would you borrow?

His determination, passion. Damn son. You get things done.

9. Do you genuinely want your muse to be happy? What do you think would make them most happy in life?

Yes. He’s gotten his ass handed to him, I think he might be owed a slice of peace and happiness. What makes him most happy? He’s already showed me; his relationships whether its friendship, extended family or a lover those are treasures he holds near and dear to his heart.

10. Do you enjoy putting your muse through angst? What do you think would break their heart the most?

Usually I prefer to plot out angst rather then let it completely run a-muck because you never know what your partner is comfortable with, what might trigger them in a detrimental way and simply set fire to a plot unintentionally.

I already know; it literally is ... break his heart.

11. What do you love about your muse?

His dynamic energy, the wild fire, the mystical chaos, the creativity is off the charts. His sharp distinguished features, the way he looks shamanistically feral as compared to his brethren and their Garthic garb. His use of the color red. His scratchy rasp of a voice. His laugh.

12. What do you hate about your muse?

He is a high maintenance muse, he is demanding and screeches loudly for what he wants.

13. What about your muse amuses you?

The fact that he is a skeKSis. This brings a whole slew of challenges to the table for a writer. Case in point, I was writing a reply one day and I went to put something in along the lines of ‘he arched his brow and blah blah’ THEN he hit me! He has no eyebrows to arch, ahhh! I have to stop and think about how to write out expressive traits or reactions that are not of the usual human reaction tone.

14. What about your muse makes you sad?

How fragile his heart really is after all the shit he’s endeared.

15. How would you describe your muse to someone about to meet them, in person, for the first time?

Get Ready For A Wild SURPRISE!

16. Would you like your muse as a person if you met them in real life?

Yes, I like creative souls. I cherish them.

17. In what ways are you better than your muse? In what ways are they better than you?

I do not think I am or he is better than the other.

But I will say he is a handsome devil, for a skeKSis.

18. Why do you think you connect to your muse?

Creative. Outcast.

19. What aspect of your muse’s personality is most important to you? What aspect of your muse’s personality do you think is most important to them? Is it the same? Why or why not?

His passion and drive. I’d say its the same answer for us both. All of the accomplishments he tackled probably had their stacks of obstacles with each to-do. You’d have to have an unending supply of passion and drive to keep going, to complete all. He really is a work-a-holic and a busy body skek.

20. Has your character(s) changed over the time that you have been playing them? How have they changed?

Not yet but I am sure he will, creative liberties will be taken since I only have a a episode or two to work with -am I right?

About You!

1. What is your name?

Jesse.

2. What is your profession?

secret shit.

3. What do you do to relax?

I write. Play video games. Naps are divine. Hot coffee and watch YT videos. DOodle. Desert combing walks. Long hot baths. Organize things xD

4. What is your favorite treat (desert)?

All kinds, I’m not picky. I love me some chocolate lately.

5. Favorite movie

Too many to list. Its October right now. All I want is Hocus Pocus, some Harry Potter and Practical Magick at the moment. Tis the season.

6. Favorite book

I do not think I have a favorite. BUT I will admit that I have a copy of The Dark Crystal that I STOLE FROM A LIBRARY YEARS AGO! I have kept it all this time, its falling apart and its aged with beauty and I adore it ❤ I also have a Jim Henson book about puppetry and his works, there is a page from TDC and if my memory serves me right it has the concept art of skekGra in it sooo sooo I was looking at skekGra YEARS AGO AND HAD NO CLUE the conjunction that would line up in the future! I really neeed to go find this book but its in a storage shed that will be a fresh hell to get to =[ *

7. Favorite vacation spot

Anywhere where its either very green and or by some body of water. Ocean, river, lake. Yes, good. -not very many humans around save for present company reading thiiiis.

8. Favorite Disney movie

Are you kidding me? Too many to list, although I will say The Sword In The Stone did play a part in Gra’s Crystal Skimmer named Archimedes after the grouchy old owl.

9. How did you first get into role playing?

Years ago. I started writing on face book. I wrote for a pirate believe it or not, he was my first muse and he holds special place in my black heart and probably always will. But I am disinclined to acquiesce the gift of further details about this scurvy cursed muse, Ha!

10. What was your first platform? If it was something other than Tumblr, what made you get into Tumblr?

It was face book, before they got all crazy about accounts and security. I moved over to tumblr because writers were incredibly rude and rapid fire RP-ers. One liner sentences and I’m like NOPE I need a novel length.

11. What’s a grammar rule you find yourself breaking or ignoring a lot?

Sometimes I have a touch of dyslexia, sometimes I typo, sometimes I am too tired to proof read, sometimes I make blunders. But I tend to focus on my mistakes rather then other peoples. I just go with the flow, I just write no matter what their level of ‘proper grammar’ IS because I’d like to think that maybe they are just starting out, maybe they will fall in love with writing and maybe they will be the next author who creates a world we all fall in love with and want to immerse ourselves in.

12. Are there any languages besides English in which you think you could comfortably roleplay?

I do not RP in other languages. However I did have a muse at one time who was French, I would throw in little phrases but it was never entirely done in French and I do have a British muse at the moment, so again I will use slang and little sayings to make them well rounded as best as I can. Those are just little details I like to include that many others might skip on but I thrive for deets.

I do however have role play writing partners that are from ALL over the world which is amazing to me.

13. Do you listen to music while your write?

ALOT. I have tracks specifically for skekGra, that take me to his frame of mind. Even TDC soundtrack at times, the puppet show song and the blue flame part 2 are on replay a lot.

14. Are you a morning, day, evening, or night writer?

I am all over the place. My life is very hectic. I’d like to say its usually in the afternoon of evening for me, the house is settled down and things are silent but thats not always how it works out. Oftentimes I will sit down and write a reply or two, then dip to do mundane human things that adults do, then return back for a few more replies.

15. How does tiredness affect your writing?

Kills it. The weekends I work long hours therefor my brain is like WHAAAT.

16. What is your biggest obstacle to writing every day, if time doesn’t count?

It is always TIME. Sometimes stress levels can be an obstacle too, no lie. If something major is going on, I just throw my hands up like ‘I got nothin’’ and thats that.

17. How many drafts is a paralyzing amount?

Oh damn. Been there done that. I am much more picky about it nowadays. I try to limit skekGra to a certain number of replies because he also has to allow room for other muses.

Currently: Gra has ten replies on tumblr -no actually 11 &&& 4 on discord. I am two shakes away from cutting HIM OFF! lol.

18. Is there anything character-wise or writing style-wise that you can’t stand?

I’m open to different characters, I have written with a lot. I love a writer who has style, I appreciate the effort.

Etiquette, manners and consideration are oftentimes LACKING as of late.

19. What kind of anonymous questions are your favorite?

ANYTHING as long as it is not anon HATE.

20. What is your weakest point in writing? Angst, fluff, dialogue, etc.?

T I M E not having enough time to write the angst fluff and dialogue, smut too lets be real. It really is a bummer to me when I do not have the time, I work, I have a a lotta responsibilities, my life is like a hurricane a lot of the time so TIME is my weakness, oftentimes I am super J E L L O of people who are online all day, every day, always there I’m envious and I get writers FOMO which makes me laugh but its so damn true I could ugly laugh cry about it.

#OOC: Post Is Out Of Character #||| Just a lil get to know me thingy |||#the dark crystal #tdc age of resistance #skeksis #skekgra #skekgra the conqueror #skekgra the heretic

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copias-thrall · 4 years

Text

This is Halloween (Halloween)

Mary expands Suey's world by taking her to a crazy art party.

(Part: 1; 2; 3; 4; 5; 6; 7; 8; 9)

It’s one of the stretches where you actually haven’t seen Mary in a few days. He’d apparently been by your apartment—dishes were done and he took out your trash—but you’d spent that day hunkered down at a coffee shop so you could have sandwiches with a friend who got a job downtown. And while Mary can be lyrical when he wants to be, his texts are usually brief and full of letters that only make sense to him in his shorthand … so you’re not ever going to get any missives from the front lines from him.

Which is fine: you’re super-busy and full of your own hobbies. Like napping. And complaining. Occasionally you’ll round that out with chip-eating. You’ve never been particularly creative—which makes Mary wince at you every now and then (you love art, you’re just not … adept, and sometimes it seems unfair that he can write music AND lyrics AND doodle great sketches)—but you are a voracious reader. You’d been shocked to find out that not only had Mary read Austen, but he also had a love of Persuasion—a novel you yourself found superior to Pride & Prejudice. He’d been similarly chuffed when he’d realized you liked Chuck Palahniuk for more than just Fight Club.

Which is all to say that when Mary’s not around, you like to combine your hobbies—a little chip eating while you read, only to fall asleep with the book on your face.

Tonight is no exception.

It’s nearly Halloween (it’s tomorrow actually, and you’re only slightly bummed that Mary has to work), so in honor of the holiday you’re working your way through an anthology of Lovecraft. Unexpectedly, there's a knock at your door. You check your phone, but there are no texts.

Hmm.

There’s another knock, so you set down the book and sprint to your bedroom to take up what Mary has dubbed your “Masher Hammer.” You make it back to your apartment door just in time for a third series of knocks. When you look out the peephole, however, it’s clear that whoever’s on the other side is blocking the viewer.

Gripping your hammer tight—ready for swing mode—you unlatch your door and open it.

You’re met with the sight of a Jack O’Lantern.

No—

Not a Jack O’Lantern … some guy with a carved pumpkin on his head.

“Ta-d—Jesus Christ, Suey … put Masher down,” says a muffled voice.

“Mary?”

Mary lifts the pumpkin—a real pumpkin, not a plastic basket from the dollar store—a little off his head enough for you to make out his face. You lower your swinging arm.

“Why is there a pumpkin on your head? What are you doing here?”

He spreads his arms out and does jazz hands. “Mischief Night!”

When you just stand there squinting at him, he finally takes the pumpkin fully off his head. His hair is squashed, and he’s only wearing some light makeup around his eyes and on his lips.

“So, you gonna let me in, or … should I duck?”

“Oh, right,” you say as you step back.

As Mary suanters in, you can see his eyes sweep to the couch where you’ve made a nest of blankets and pillows—your book lying face down, and the open bag chips positioned at an optimal angle on the coffee table.

“That looks nice.” He sidles up to you to squeeze your tits through your hoodie. “Almost makes me want to call it a night and get cozy in those blankets … I could crush those chips and lick them off you before I eat you out.”

His hand slides down to your crotch.

You’re trying to take him seriously, but he’s holding a pumpkin under his arm. You snap at his face.

“Mary—focus. What the hell?”

He gives you a put out look, exaggeratedly pushing out his bottom lip—but it’s soon replaced with a wicked grin.

“Mischief Night! Do you wanna go to a weird-ass art party?”

“An art party?” you ask dubiously.

“No, not what you’re thinking.”

He sets down the carved pumpkin on your table and walks to your fridge, rummaging around before pulling out the pisswater beer he keeps around.

“Think of it as a teen-movie house party—but on steroids and no one there got laid in high school. With, you know: art.”

“That’s … very specific.”

He walks back over to you, cradling the beer in one hand, and puts the other on your shoulder.

“We are under no obligation to participate in the orgy.”

You don’t think he’s joking.

He gives you a once over. “It’s also a—hmm—masquerade, so we gotta get you outfitted.”

Your mind darts.

“I only have those stupid headband cat ears my friend got me as a joke.”

He gives you a vulpine smile. “You’re gonna go as me.”

It had been a fun little party of two as you’d put on a YouTube Halloween playlist from your phone. Mary’d given you a dramatic mohawk with his precious airplane glue, then fished around in the pink makeup bag with hearts (that you’d put his stash in as a joke and he’d kept) to give you his iconic look—blood and all.

There was no way you were going to fit in his skinny jeans, but you’d been able to pair one of his well-worn tees (that you hadn’t already stolen) with your favorite denim skirt. Mary had taken off one of his studded belts to wrap around you—it’d needed a couple of safety pins to act as extensions, but Mary had assured you that that just made the style more authentic. Upon Mary’s request, you’d put on your ripped fishnets, and you had your own worn Docs to complete the look.

“Do I get to be a sex-crazed jerk all night?” you’d asked as you’d admired yourself in the corroded full-length you had propped up by the bathroom.

“You say that as if that’s something new and different for you—fuck ow,” said Mary as you’d tapped his balls.

“So where is this place?” you ask as Mary and you head to the train.

It’s in the old factory district, which means it’s a ways away, but still subway accessible.

“It’s actually in a converted co-op. I think they started out as squatters—unclear—but now it’s above board as a residence and shit. I used to know a guy who lived there for a while—they had sectioned off areas with screens—and he had a corner so he slept in a hammock. Most of the space is for their art, though. What a fucking life to live.”

You look at him, incredulous. “Mare. You live in a 2 bedroom with 4 other dudes.”

He scoffs at you. “We also have a couch. It’s a whole ‘nother level.”

You just hum at him.

When you finally get there—after a few mis-turns in this silent neighborhood full of abandoned brick factories—you’re surprised (despite Mary’s description) to see that the place is lit. There’s a guy standing at the entrance to the parking lot (that slopes dangerously toward the river) checking attendees; it becomes clear that not only is he checking for 21+, but for alcohol and toilet paper. Those without either have to “donate” $10.

“Oh—” says Mary right before it’s about to be your turn. “I’m not Mary tonight.”

“What should I call, then? The ‘Great Pumpkin’?”

“Just not Mary,” he hisses as you shore up to the “bouncer.”

The guy is not in any kind of costume—just grey sweats and a sports team hat. He’s sitting on a bar stool, and he has a little flashlight he’s using to check IDs.

“Hey, guys!” he says cheerily. “Welcome to Magical Mischief Mystery at the Factory. IDs? Ah! TP and suds? Cool, cool.”

He checks your IDs, then looks at you, then your IDs … then at Mary’s pumpkin face, then at you.

“OH MY GOD,” he starts chortling and slips off the stool to grab Mary’s arm. “Mary, you old bastard—I haven’t seen you since Dusty left to get hitched.”

You take a deep breath and—in your best screamo voice—you say, “I’m fucking Mary Goore,” (not a lie) “and he’s ‘Late for Dinner’.”

The pumpkin head turns to you. You can feel Mary’s unamused gaze.

The bouncer starts wheezing so hard that you’re afraid he might expire from laughing.

“Fuck, fuck,” gasps the dude. He shakes his head, eyes watery from mirth, and waves the two of you through.

“I hate you,” says Mary.

“I didn’t call you ‘Mary’, though,” you quip as you slip your arm through his.

“Why do I have to carry all the shit? Here. Pull your fucking weight.”

Mary hands you the toilet paper roll he heisted from your bathroom.

“Are we going to TP something?” you ask as you take the roll from him.

“Heh. No, it’s purely functional. This many people? It’s so the bathrooms don’t run out.”

The two of you enter with another mass of people, traveling through the miasma of secondhand smoke from the smokers. You cough, but Mary inhales deep, sighing. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you gape as you look around.

You and Mary stand on an open floor—which is what 5 or so floors look out onto all the way up. The place is crowded, but not jam packed. There’s a makeshift kitchen area where a dude in a bare chest and suspenders is accepting the toilet paper and libations. Above him is a white sheet that’s stretched out, on which an Art Film is being projected. The film has no sound because in the far corner there’s a DJ spinning, and a group of people are “dancing” to his jams. Mary was right: it’s like some kind of frat party for the artsy set. Because of the theme, most everyone is in a mask of some sort, and people—or groups of people—are making out in corners in various states of undress.

Mary grabs two beers, then leads you to a staircase—there’s a freight elevator by it, but it’s got cheesy Halloween “do not enter” tape blocking it.

“The first year too many people loaded into it, and it dropped 3 floors before the emergency brakes kicked in,” says Mary as he notices where you’re looking.

In a loft on the second floor you and Mary watch a woman—nude and covered in white paint—become the canvas to her girlfriend’s landscape painting.

In what’s clearly a shared bedroom, you and Mary peruse some really great paintings and sketches from what must be a number of the co-op residents.

“You should have told me to bring cash,” you say.

“We can always come back. I know a guy.”

You imagine Mary’s probably winking at you.

On the third floor there’s an inexplicable open-air kitchen attached to a bathroom. In it there’s a dude doling out beer from a keg.

“What’s this,” Mary asks him.

“It’s my homemade IPA, dude! Pumpkin for the season!”

He hands Mary a business card.

“We have a small space in the boonies, but we’re trying to get a brewery up and running in the city. Red tape though, man.”

“I fucking hear that.” Mary takes a sip. “Good shit, dude.”

The guy high-fives Mary.

“One for your girl?”

Mary hands you the solo cup, and you take a sip. You were expecting something grassy and hoppy—but the pumpkin actually balances it out nicely without it itself being cloyingly sweet. When you nod, Mary just lets you have his and indicates to the brewer to pump another cup.

The two of you enter what you think might usually be a studio space, but instead there’s a burlesque performance going on. There are some people making out, but Mary and you watch, rapt, praising the skill of the performers to each other.

The fourth floor has the least amount of people. Someone is doing a reading in one corner, and across the way there’s some sort of performance art going on. A woman stands in a white shift and gauze. Every time a dude who looks like a Nazgul rings a bell, she contorts herself to a different pose with a dancer’s ease.

You roll your eyes, but Mary begs your patience—watching solemnly as she continues.

“What is it?” you ask when the set is clearly over.

“Did you not feel it?”

“Uh …”

Even through the pumpkin you can feel his eyes on you.

“She’s a dancing monkey. Bound and constrained, only ever allowed to perform at the whim of her faceless master.”

“Mary …”

“No—don’t scoff. That was meant for you. It’s an allegory for the patriarchy, and I for one found it quite moving.”

You guess you can see it now that Mary’s pointed it out to you. He takes off the pumpkin, and you hold it while he goes over to talk to the woman. You shift uncomfortably as they engage, and she grabs his hands, shaking them profusely. Mary suddenly points over at you, and the woman waves and motions you over.

“Oh my god, look at you!” she squeals. She turns back to Mary. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it—she looks just like you.”

“I liked your patriarchal allegory,” you say.

Mary twists his mouth at you, but the woman just presses her hands to her chest.

“Thank you so much. I’m testing it out here as a protest piece. A bunch of us are going to travel to different cities and perform outside of big corporations.” She grabs Mary’s wrist. “Your boyfriend is wonderful. His song about—”

“—my band’s song—”

“—the nature of performative gender roles is one of my favs.”

You have no idea which song she’s talking about, but Mary looks pleased. So you’re pleased. You wrap your arm around his waist.

“He is pretty great.”

She lifts her veil to chug the glass of water Nazgul hands her.

“It was so nice to meet you person to person, Mary. I’m going to find the ladies before my next performance.”

“Love your work, Lizzy. I’ll put you on the list for our shows. Show up anytime!”

She bows and shuffles backwards as Mary leads you away.

“You have no idea what song she’s talking about do you?”

“I—” you sputter. “Uh. Dead Things?”

Mary looks at you indulgently.

“I’ll let you think about it.”

It turns out that the 5th floor is off limits to party goers, so Mary—back in his Jack O’Lantern—and you wander down to ground level to acquire more beer and to join the crowd of dancers. At some point the two of you take a break to pee, then hydrate as you add your own dialogue to the film on loop above you.

Back on the dance floor, there’s some skanking, some goth writhing, and some line dancing as the DJ spins his own set and sprinkles in some crowd requests. At this point in the night, most of the attendees have already made passes through the upper floors and are now all on the dance floor. Mary does some goth stomping (his pumpkin abandoned and now being passed around), and you do a silly skank until you slip on a slick spot and fall on your ass. After that, Mary pulls you close and grinds against you, his thigh between yours, both of you buzzed from multiple trips to the bar.

“Do you wanna find a corner?” he whispers into your ear.

In any other situation you’d probably say no … but—for all the crowd is packed—this is clearly a private party, one whose hosts don’t frown upon a little bit of lechery. You guess he wasn’t kidding about the orgy, after all.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

It takes a little investigation, but Mary and you find a room that seems to have been either designated or usurped as the makeout room. There’s a writhing mass in one corner, and the bed is covered in rolling bodies. There’re some breathy invitations—and a hand or two lightly caresses your calf as you walk by—but no one insists on participation further than that.

Mary yanks a pillow from the bed and tosses it to the floor. He pulls you down so that you’re both on your knees, his mouth capturing yours and his hands alighting everywhere. A hand of his sneaks down your skirt, and yours slithers down his jeans—the roving fingers of you each more a prelude than anything, stoking you both up to what’s next.

“Can I fuck you?” huffs Mary.

“Kinda drunk,” you say.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No—just not gonna be very useful,” you giggle.

Because you wore the fishnets you’re not wearing underwear, so all Mary has to do is rip a hole in the crotch area—they’re not even good fishnets, so it’s not like there’s a liner to contend with. He grunts at your wetness.

“You sure?”

“Fuck me, Mary.”

He fumbles with his dick, finally managing to sink it into you. It’s a very awkward fuck—you’re lolling all about the place, and Mary isn’t being particularly steady.

At one point a light turns on only for a Sorry! to squeal out as it turns off again.

You try to swallow your laugh, but your jiggling belly can’t hide your reaction, and soon Mary is laughing too.

“Fuck … shut up … fuck,” he giggles. “I’m trying to get off here.”

You’re just catapulted into further fits, and before long Mary’s soft cock is slipping out of you as he joins you in snickering.

“Crap. I might be too drunk for this too.”

The two of you lay like that for a bit, a feedback loop of laughter, until your belly muscles ache.

“Fuck. Take me home, Suey.”

“Yeah, ok,” you say.

After some readjusting, you both stumble out of the room. The crowd has thinned, but that’s not to say the dance party isn’t still going strong.

“We should get a cab,” you say.

“Cash?” Mary asks as you guys shuffle out of the building.

“App,” you say as you hold up your phone to poke at your cab app. “My card s’on file.”

“Fancy.”

“S’for emergencies.”

“Oh.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “Like staying too late at a factory party.”

There’s a comedy of errors when the cab can’t find you and cancels, and you have to rebook—only to have the same cab automatically cancel your order again. Mary calls the number for dispatch, and they direct you out to a main street. The cab that picks you up is the same cab that voided your reservation twice, and he yells at you for giving him the wrong address.

You let Mary argue with him (content to doze on his shoulder)—the conclusion seeming to be that while you put in the correct address, the app didn’t like it and spit out a close, but different, pickup address.

By the end of the trip, however, the cabbie and Mary seem to be old friends. He lingers even after the driver validates your card, talking with the guy about where he’s from, until you tug on his arm.

“Sleepy,” you grumble into him.

The cab driver laughs.

“We are beholden to our women, yes?”

“Happily,” says Mary as he wraps an arm around you.

“Have a good night,” says the cabbie, and Mary just raps on the car, waving as it pulls away.

“What a cool dude,” he says as the two of you shuffle toward your building.

“Mhm,” you mumble.

“Jesus, you’re useless when you’re drunk.”

There’s a lot of fumbling and stumbling, but you both finally make it into your apartment. Somehow Mary gets you into the shower, which you don’t even realize until it turns on, and you shriek when the cold water smacks you in the face before it has the chance to warm up.

“Why am I still in my clothes?!” you whine.

Mary pokes his head in.

“You fucking serious? You almost bit off my fingers when I tried to undress you!”

“I’m more than just sex!” you yell.

“Just fucking wash your face.”

“Kay.”

You fall asleep sitting in the shower, waking only when the water turns cold. It seems to have had a sobering effect, because you definitely feel more clear headed than when you entered—it’s not as funny to be slightly sober and peeling off your cold, wet clothes. Usually you give your teeth the full experience, but tonight (this morning?), you just give them a quick brush.

For all he seemed soberer of you two, Mary doesn’t seem to have fared much better. He managed to get his shirt off, but he’s lying on your bedroom floor—curled in a ball—still in his unbuckled jeans. It would be amusing—and maybe after sleep it will be—if you weren’t so wrecked. It’s a struggle tugging off his jeans, and he semi-wakes halfway through and starts to shiver.

“Wha—?”

He looks at you blearily.

“Help me get your pants off, Mare bear.”

He blinks down at his legs, then sort of squirms his legs to help you wiggle him out of the black denim. Luckily—disorientated as he is—he’s able to assist you in getting him into your bed; he conks out again the minute you trundle him under the covers. The night outside is lightening, and you know there’s no way you can work tomorrow. Today.

Whatever.

You shuffle into your living room and start up your laptop, blinking rapidly as it boots up. When it finally loads, you send off a missive to your supervisor about potential food poisoning you’ve contracted, but how you’ll check your email later this afternoon. You preemptively down some ibuprofen and sneak some of Mary’s Pedialyte.

Mary seems dead to the world when you climb into your bed, but he’s rolling over and wrapped around you as soon as you’re settled, huffing into your neck.

“Took the morning off,” you mumble.

He hums.

You’re in a good doze when he speaks, jarring you back awake.

“Had fun?”

“Yeah, Mare. Now, shh.”

He mumbles something into your neck, but it’s too incoherent and you’re too knackered to decipher it. You just relax into his koala embrace and let sleep take you.

⬅️Previous | Next ➡️

#mary goore #ofc #feral cats fic #gritty girls #gutter punk #my writing #original post #no smut #...kinda #original content

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lyreical-dork · 4 years

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Zhong Kui Skin Concepts That Live In My Head Rent-Free:

This man only has THREE skins, which aren’t bad at all and I think he should get more! (Shout out to @tarfaceinc, @baphelon, @wyrm-off-string, @xbalanqbae, @batterychicken and @sircaterpie for their ideas and art which I’ve linked to the skin concept names!! The ones without links are concepts I thought of)

Scout Leader Zhong

Magical “Girl” Zhong-kun

Pizza Papa Zhong

Space Patrol Zhong

Arcade/Pac-Man Zhong

Another Pac-Man Zhong

Classical Conductor Zhong (like Sigma’s skin from OW, tuxedo is a MUST, musical notes and sheet music replaces his ghosts/tags)

“Pollock” Zhong (Wears paint stained overalls and paint splatters replace his ghosts/tags)

Wizard/Sorcerer/Warlock Zhong (big pointy hat is a REQUIREMENT, magic of some sort for the visuals of his abilities and ofc he’s gotta wear an epic wizard robe)

Hazmat Zhong (literally just put him in a hazmat suit and let his abilities appear as green, toxic slime)

Clock Master Zhong (he holds a clock instead of a paintbrush and his ghosts are replaced with numerical times like 12:00 hits you instead of a ghost, he could have a steampunk look with a lot of gears and stuff)

Demon Summoner Zhong (pretty self explanatory but edgy skin where he summons demons)

Lamp Lighter Zhong (dresses like 19th century lamp lighters and his abilities are represented with fire, he holds a giant candle or what lamp lighters used to actually hold)

Doodle Zhong (just like Doodle-Bob....he looks like a messy, simple drawing of himself and holds a drawn pencil, attacks are scribbles and messy lines)

Rave Zhong (he holds a large glow stick and his abilities are flashy, colorful and neon lights, like the DJ skins other gods have)

Medic Zhong (he looks like a medic, holds a white flag with the red cross and his abilities are shown with bold green plus signs or red negative signs, wears a medic outfit)

Magician Zhong (dressed like a magician, his abilities are displayed as playing cards and doves/rabbits)

Mad Scientist Zhong (pretty self explanatory visually, he holds an electric rod and his abilities are lighting bolts)

Romantic Enchanter Zhong (his paintbrush is a big rose, his abilities are hearts and he’s dressed up fancy as if ready to go on a date/seduce people with his charm)

Beach Bod Zhong (a summer skin! Dressed for the beach with water effects for his abilities, holding perhaps a pool noodle or a large popsicle)

PLEASE feel free to add onto this post with more ideas!!

#smite #zhong kui #zhong kui smite #I dont even play him but i think he shouldnt continue to get swept under HiRez’s rug #when skins are being given out #long post #I DO NOT APOLOGIZE FOR THE LENGTH OF THIS POST

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askyancy · 4 years

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Team Get Yancy

OOC: Art by @smiling-jo Team Get Yancy’s Theme Violence, Blood and Character death warning below the cut. A huge wonderful applause to @smiling-jo for their amazing contribution to this plot and story as the leader of the Happy Trio/Team Get Yancy known as Frank anon but better known on server as Tooth. We had to take them out with one hell of a bang! Please enjoy the following content that went down on the discord server! If you’re not there yet you’re missing all the big action!

The cell block was quiet, inmates falling asleep one by one, and with the gang still oddly missing, it made for peaceful evening....

Swan padded toward the bars of the cell with Frank and Burger and took a careful peek into the cell itself. The room was abandoned, everything perfectly in place with the notable exception of Hank and Jimmy the Pickle. The silence was deafening; there should have been snores, whispers, anything from this cell block and Yancy's gang, but there was nothing. Swan gave the others a nod, signalling that the coast was clear for them to enter the cell..

"I'd love to tango. I was always the dancer of my family." Burger purrs before pulling out their mask and slipping it over their face, tightening it so there was no chance of it slipping. They slightly nudge Swan out of the way and pull out a bobby pin that was swiped from one of the bathrooms. They pull it open slightly before digging it into the lock, leaning in close and holding their breath as they listen to the grinding sound of the lock. With a triumphant 'click' the lock pops open and Burger quickly drags the cell open, inviting the other two inside. "Do your business; I'm going to look around."

Frank walks into the cell where he spots his target: Hank's hooch. "Just don't touch anything that could give us away or I will personally dispose of you." Reaching the small barrel he pulls out the cork that plugs it all, the other hand reaching into his trouser's pocket and pulling out a small flask with the detergent. "Now, this is a little gift from us", is all Frank says before he opens the flask and pours it into the hooch. And to finish it all up he picks up the barrel, puts the cork in again and shakes it to really mix it through - he doesn't want anyone miss their present after all.. As Frank spikes the hooch - after all, who doesn't like a bit of spiked wine every now and again? -

Swan stood back toward the cell bars, glancing between Frank in the cell and Burger in the hall. She kept an open ear for any new sounds, surveyed the belongings in the cell for anything of interest. A few old doodles of Jimmy's, a half eaten candy bar under the bed, the occasional speck of glitter, but nothing of any use to them. "Hurry up," she hissed to Frank, ducking her head back out the cell door to check on Burger..

"Jesus christ who tied your dick in a twist, Frank? I know what I'm doing." Burger snaps at Frank, keeping their voice lowered as they watch him shake the barrel vigorously. "I always hated wine. Mojitos, whisky, and gin and tonics are my go to." Burger mutters as they tap bricks in search of any loose ones. They search the beds but not as thoroughly as they would like given the time crunch. Coming up empty handed, they step back out to join Swan, peering into other cells. They inhaled slowly, enjoying the faint smell of smoke..

Before the trio could leave everything happened fast. Something POOMPFED into the side of Franks head, sending glitter everywhere, then into Burger and Swan as well, followed by another two! Suddenly they were out numbered by people inside the cell. Tiny looked PISSED Hank... even more so Jimmy made themselves as big as possible, a low rumbling growl Bambam and sparkles stayed to the side, murder in their eyes. Each and every one of them had a shiv and Tiny?.... Tiny had a bazooka. The Warden hadn't cleared out Bambams stash yet! "Got you mother fuckers. Freeze where you are or we blow your stupid dorky masks clean off your faces and half way up your asses!" Tiny clicked the safety off the bazooka.

. So they have been busted, huh? Oh well, all fun needs to have it's ups and downs. With the barrel still in his hand Frank does a mock bow, eyes staying on the gang the whole time. "Congratulations to you all, you finally laid a trap that didn't go wrong", he comes back up and gestures towards the hooch he just poisoned: "I am sure you are quite thirsty after waiting for this long, may I offer you a drink in these trying times?".

Swan froze in place, eyes behind the mask darting between the members of Yancy's gang, clothes and hair properly dripping with glitter. Of course they had been so quiet. They were lying in wait. Hiding in the shadows like cats in the hunt. The predators had become the prey. "...Shit." Swan bolted, pushing past Burger and fleeing down the hall. She didn't care if she was leaving a trail of glitter or ricocheting off the walls. This bird wasn't dying tonight.

. Burger squawked when a glitter bomb hit them square in the chest, dropping their bobby pin and hastily trying to wipe it off of their clothing, but it stubbornly clung to the fabric of their clothes and their skin. They hissed when Swan shoved past them and for a moment looked like they would flee as well before they stood their ground. Burger wasn't a COWARD. They snickered, remaining in the open cell door as they sway back and forth, as if showing off the glitter on their clothes. "It feels like a family reunion in here! Isn't that what we are here at dear Happy Trails? Family?"

The gang stand their ground to. Hank looks pissed about the hooch but it's fixable... Hank has kitchen duty, a lot of scrubbing it would be fine. Cleanse it all out. A lost batch wasn't a problem, but it still stung. Tiny growled and took a step forward, pinched an eye shut and aimed right for Frank. They actually looked ready to fire too, if not for the hand on their shoulder from Bambam. "Yer out numbered assholes. We got you. So we'll be nice. We'll give you the chance Yancy offered you at the start. Fuck off. Don't come back. And maybe we won't tear you apar-..." Bambam was cut off when they saw something behind Frank.before anyone could do anything, Yancy's eyes had gone dark and while Franks arms were out stretched he'd lunged, shiv in hand and moved in for the kill. (Heavy violence, Heavy blood warning) He snapped his arm around Franks shoulder and drew the shiv across his throat. He wasn't taking chances. This was them. They had them. This fucker had HURT HIS FRIENDS! HURT HIM! NO MORE! HE grit his teeth watching the blood gush from Frank's throat as the eyes on the gang went wide. Their sweet boy Yancy made a kill. Not something they had ever gotten to see.... The blood was like a switch. Before he knew what he was doing, Yancy blacked out.... He stabbed Frank in the back... then again... and again again again again again again again AGAIN! AGAIN! He kept going over and over and over he didnt stop. Snarls and growls of absolute rage from the tiger within Yancy. He'd messed up before not attacking but this time. No. Frank wasn't getting away this time! The gang slowly lowered their shivs, the bazooka to, Bambam quickly hurried forward to try and grab Yancy's arm "Stop... STOP! YANCY STOP IT! FUCKING ST-HEY! Help!" Tiny was on them too, grabing Yancy's other arm to help pull him away. The second Yancy was away he was glaring at the mangled corpse that was now Frank and slowly his rage filled eyes moved over to the burger....

. Burger hadn't even noticed Yancy's approached until he was already in front of them spilling Frank's blood across his hands and the floor, their eyes widening in horror. They staggered backwards and completely out of the cell, glitter falling to the ground like snowy, sparkling in the dim light. They were holding their breath, listening to the wet squelch of the blade digging into flesh again and again and again, scarlet splattered across skin as Frank was slaughtered in front of all of them. Burger met Yancy's gaze as he turned to face them, their eyes wide. Before he could moved they surged forward and grabbed the cell door, slamming it shut and leaving them locked inside. At least, locked from that exit. "P-Princey finally snapped, huh?" They sneered. "Oho, Daddy's gonna be mad to see blood on birdie's hands. K-Kill me or not you're getting the chair and I'm going to laugh as you join Frank in hell." Burger tears away from the cell bars and sprints down the hall, opposite from Swan to leave a forked path.

Yancy is fast to move, slamming into the bars as the door shuts on them all, a growl of absolute rage leaving them, watching the glitter trail go. He immediately started yanking at the door, Bambam and Tiny holding him back and Jimmy came over to help "Th-this is bad.. This is really fucking bad" "Hank go get a guard. Get the wardem something ANYTHING!" Sparkles was freaking out. There was blood on all of them, all over the cell... It was horrific. Yancy was still fighting them but gave out a grunt, slumping. "Fuck hey.. you okay? Calm down man, deep breaths" WHAP "Snap out of it" Tiny slapped him "Ow!... huhn..ow...... f-fuck... fuck-..oph. OH FUCK OH! FUCK!!" "Hey calm d- CALM DOWN its ok! We got you! It's ok-ITS OKAY! KEEP STILL!" Yancy was thrashing, the need to run, but he could barely move now, everything hurt. "Youre gonna pop your fucking stitches calm down- YANCY!" Bambam got up in his face, grabbing his cheeks. "Hey look at me. Look at me... hey.. deep breath..."Sparkles had a hand over their mouth for a while before slowly going over and peeling off the mask from Franks face. ...... "oh my god..... it's Tooth..." Tiny's head snapped around to look and frowned..... Huh.... that gave them some possible leads... maybe? Whatever the glitter would help... They glanced up at the sound of approaching feet.

Frank Anon was dead....

#ooc #ooc post #happy trails shenanigans #smiling-jo #frank anon #the happy trio #lock down #the tiger awakens #ask yancy #markiplier #tw violence #tw blood #character death #heist with markiplier #yancy #yancy the prisoner #ahwm #ask blog #arg blog

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wild-at-spark · 4 years

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Babysitting Annabelle

Little fanfic for @x-de-con-struct-ed-x ( Sorry it’s long.)

After being accepted and practically adopted into the Lennox family, giving them a new home the least the medic and the weaponsmith could do is help around as much as they can. Wild was intrigued by human life so utilised the domestic side of the Lennox’s everyday life to learn about the human race and how their life occurred, while the world wide web could tell her anything she wanted she preferred to observe it happen right in front of her optics. So when the Lennox’s were discussing getting a baby sitter Wild jumped at the opportunity to babysit Annabelle, giving her chance to learn about the young of the species. Unbeknownst to Ironhide he’d also been volunteered.

***

When Ironhide returned from base Wild’s holoform was waiting for him as he pulled up in front of her. She tapped his bonnet. “ Turn your holoform on we have a job to do.” The weaponsmith did as he was told, holoform appearing by her side, although he felt like he was just about to be scolded for doing something wrong. “And what job would this be?” he asked, arms crossed over his chest.

“We are going to babysit Annabelle so the Lennox’s can have a decent romantic evening without having to worry about their daughter, they haven’t spent time together in ages with Will being away at base with us.” Taking one of his hands in both of hers, looking him in the eyes and sighing. “ We both know all too well how work gets in the way of love.. I don’t want to see the same thing happen to them.” Giving the mech a sad smile before placing a kiss on his knuckles.

Looking at the femme in front of him, yet again thinking of others, he couldn’t say no. He really was going soft. “Okay.. we babysit, but you owe me.” He smirked, winking at her, causing her to laugh.

“Thank you, it means a lot.”

All three Lennox’s came into the garage, Annabelle running straight to Ironhide hugging his legs before turning to Wild arms stretched upwards. “Up! Up!” The little one demanded, making Wild’s spark flutter as she picked the toddler up. “Hello sweetspark, you’re getting big aren’t you?”

“Are you sure you want to do this? We can always get a sitter.” Will asked.

“It’s the least we can do, you’ve accepted us into your home, besides Auntie Wild wants to learn all about little Annabelle here.” The femme replied, Annabelle currently resting on her hip. “It’s only a few hours, we can manage, we can always get in contact if needs must. Go have fun you’ve both been working hard.” Ironhide added.

“Well if you’re sure, she’s already been fed, let her play until she gets tired out and then put her to bed, we’ll be home by 9.” Sarah reassured them. Both parents giving their daughter a kiss and saying goodbye, leaving the bots in charge.

Annabelle waved bye to her parents then looked at the two bots infront of her, before wriggling to be let down. Once Annabelle was set down and was free to toddle off to her hearts content she’d gone to her play room with the two holoforms closely following behind. “Draw!” She exclaimed while giggling.

“Oh someone wants to be a little artist?” Wild smiled at her, getting some paper, crayons and pens for the little one to play with, setting them down in front of her on the wooden floor before kneeling beside her. Both bots watching as the little human let the crayons free from their box, falling onto the floor.

She looked over at Ironhide. “You going to join us or are you modelling for her?” she joked, earning her a chuckle from the mech as he sat down. Wild giving him a peck on the cheek when he finally sat down before returning her attention to Annabelle who was doodling stick people holding hands “ Who are you drawing sweetie?”

“Mommy and Daddy!” Annabelle replied, stopping to show them before carrying on adding more detail. Wild held her hands together trying to contain how broody she was getting from Annabelle’s sheer cuteness. Ironhide just cut her a look implying ‘No we are not having one.’ Although he too could understand why she felt this way. While she understood why she couldn’t help but pout, until she was distracted by Annabelle’s new drawing of Ironhide’s vehicular form. “I think I’ll keep that one at base.” He grinned at her proudly which in turn made Wild cover her face because now she was surrounded by two cute people, unable to control herself Annabelle’s bedroom now had snow falling. Annabelle looked at the floor where the snowflakes were settling before looking up at Wild. “Snow!” she yelled excitedly, trying to catch the snowflakes. Ironhide however wasn’t as excited because he’d be the one to clean it up. “Wild… we’re inside.” He grumbled.

“Oh.. sorry” she apologised, focusing to stop the flurry. “Aw..” Annabelle whined. “You’ll get a snow day soon my dear.. I’ll arrange one with your parents, promise, for now you carry on drawing.” Content with the promise Annabelle did as told and carried on drawing, however she was now interested in the Monarch butterflies located on Ironhide’s wrist, more so the uncoloured one that she was determined to colour, grabbing some pens she held onto his wrist, which he gladly offered out. “ You colouring it again? What colour this time?” he asked “Rainbow!” She giggled and began to focus on colouring in within the lines. Wild was watching the both of them, making sure all the felt tip pens had there lids on properly at the same time. “Very pretty, thank you. What do you want to do now little one?” Ironhide asked, inspecting her handywork.

“Watch a movie”

“Which one? Go choose one.”

“This one!” Annabelle giggled as she passed the DVD to Ironhide and he couldn’t help but laugh. Looking over at the medic, holding up the box so she could see. “Do you wanna build a snow man?” he teased.

“Ironhide you are a bad influence.” She joked, shaking her head, she didn’t mind as much knowing she’ll get him back and she’d tolerate it for Annabelle, who was now sitting in Wild’s lap getting cuddled while the weaponsmith put the film on, only to return to add to the cuddle session currently underway.

***

All was well until the movie had finished because Annabelle had began to get sleepy, her head dropping and hey eyes getting heavy as she tried to fight the urge to sleep. Ironhide picked her up from Wild’s lap, “Come on lets get you to bed.”

“Noo.. not sleepy” the obviously sleepy toddler whined as she was carried to her bed. “Will you go to bed if your Auntie Wild and I read you a bedtime story?” He bargained as Wild tidied up the art supplies into their correct space.

Annabelle thought for a moment before answering. “..okay.”

Ironhide placed her down on the bed and went searching for a book while Wild helped her into her pyjamas and tucked her into bed with her teddy bear. “There all ready for your story.” She smiled.

Ironhide returned with a book in hand. “He we go. Princess and the pea… huh humans have strange stories.” Sitting next to Annabelle’s bed, book in hand with Wild on his lap so she could see the book too and help him read the book and do voices, however they weren’t even halfway through before Annabelle was fast asleep. They both just looked at each other, smiling before putting the book away, leaving and closing the door. They returned to the living room where the two bots collapsed in a heap on the sofa. “Who knew little humans had so much energy? It just doesn’t seem plausible with their size.” Wild exhaled tiredly, snuggled closely to Ironhide, head resting on his chest. “And I thought we had energy.. Primus” he grumbled as he put his arm around her, absentmindedly tracing over the snowflakes tattoo that painted her shoulder and collar bone.

“She reminds me of some of the younglings who would come to my clinic, with silly injuries from siblings egging each other on, new sparks getting their first check-up… something I miss dearly, I miss home.” She reminisced, closing her eyes and sighing, the warmth from the weaponsmith lulling her to sleep. Ironhide looked down at her nestled as close to him as possible, he couldn’t help but smile, placing a kiss on her forehead. “Yeah.. I miss it too.” His arm moving to keep her cold body from moving away, keeping her close before his body decided he needed to sleep too.

It came to 9pm and as promised Will and Sarah returned home, hoping the bots had coped with Annabelle while they were away. They walked into the living room having enjoyed their night out together. “We’re ho- oh?” their voices reducing to a whisper. “Do you think we should wake them?” Will asked.

“No, let them sleep.” Sarah paused, pulling a blanket over the two fast asleep bots cuddled into each other.

“They’ve earnt it.”

#❄ The one who warms my spark ❄#fanfic #tfoc #mun writes

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brawltogethernow · 4 years

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Tagged by @mirrorfalls, hey dude.

Name: Olivia, not a secret but I’ve never liked it.

Nickname(s): Brawl is literally the only nickname I’ve ever had and I love it honestly.

Gender: Can’t claim to understand the concept even after some little study.

Star Sign: Capricorn

Current Time: ............................exactly 4:00 a.m.

Favorite Artists: Calder, Vermeer; not leaving museum fodder or broadening the definition of “art” or we’d be here all day watching me fall apart like Chidi Anagonye trying to pick a hat.

Song Stuck in My Head: *pauses to listen to mental radio* “Caramelldansen” because I keep seeing memes, actively at war with “History Maker” because I’m rewatching YoI. That’s...certainly an otaku cocktail.

Last Movie I Saw: My brother and I coordinated to watch the 2000 Digimon movie. (We live in different states and hold movie nights over text.) It was bizarrely nostalgic despite my never having seen it or literally one minute of any other Digimon media before. It is just so aggressively a product of that year. I could have seen it. I cannot mentally place it into 2020; it has to be edited into ~2000 retroactively.

Last Thing I Googled: “discrete” to check if you can use it like “specific” without the connotation of “separate”. You cannot.

Other Blogs: Reference-saving blog here is ellipsisfolder. A couple empty side blogs, one that isn’t empty that I don’t want people visiting because I use it to save stuff for text post memes and post/reblog things I don’t want an audience for, like if I need a really quick and dirty way to send myself an image. I’m currently clusterfracas on Twitter, which I have basically never used for anything except that it’s recently make it easier to stay tuned in to the only corner of the Spider-Man fandom with opinions I agree with. Thinking of changing it to the same name as this blog for synergy, but it being the clean version of my favorite word (clusterfuck) and also a synonym for brawltogethernow if you tilt your head... Am I ready to give that up.

Do I Get Asks: Yes! I love you guys. Once in a blue moon I even finish answering them.

Reason for URL: An old note on my phone suggests I picked it from a huge pool of roughly Homestuck-username- style blends of words and phrases with common syllables. (brawl + all together now = brawl together now; philosophy + velociraptor = philociraptor) I vaguely remember drafting it? Noodling down all the combos I could come up with in...the schedule-filler law class I had last period of my senior year...? I’m not sure if I intended to use one or wanted to have them on hand for writing projects. I think it was basically doodling, actually. And I guess...I referenced it when I finally made an account? I’m glad I passed over the cutesier ones for one that’s vaguely violent.

Following: Apparently 77. Lots...of these...are dormant. I only follow stuff that updates so infrequently I know I'll forget it before it updates again, aesthetic/theme stuff I 100% jive with, and people whose social media I catch myself starting to check for updates constantly in rotation with the zombie-like refreshing of my blog activity/dashboard/e-mail. Otherwise I check blogs manually when I actually feel like it. Busy dashboard...ungood.

Average Sleep: Bad. I’m currently leveraging shelter in place to experiment with going along with when I naturally get tired and wake up -- which I thought I’d done before and always ended up with a somewhat fluctuating schedule of going to bed around sunset and waking up nine hours later, but I’ve realized that was actually still influenced by my drive to get up and go to bed as early as I could manage, and the concept of a 24-hour day. I’ve abandoned both of those and if I'm afraid to share the results. I think people would cry.

Lucky Number: 22, 9.

Currently Wearing: Artsy Threadless shirt of the TARDIS materializing, dark jeans, burgundy plaid overshirt, disintegrating open front sweater, purple and lavender socks with a landscape of pine trees, clouds, and a moose.

Dream Job: Non-specializing actor but sometimes Marvel calls and begs me to take a writing job for them and I graciously comply, also I have a webcomic and am a novelist and a princess-firefighter.

Okay not a princess-firefighter.

Dream Trip: Check any two: hot, city, ocean is nearby

Favorite Food: Sushi.

Instruments: Took piano for a few years at my own behest but didn’t get very good at it.

Favorite Song: Nah.

Tagging other people. I hate this part. XD ...Who do I owe at least one of these.... @phoenixyfriend @whetstonefires @lizasweetling (??) If you want to play please consider yourself tagged; this will probably get you tagged in the future.

#tag meme

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sun-flower-children · 5 years

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BTS x Male Reader who has really bad eyesight

request: Can I request BTS x male reader how would they react to their boyfriend being almost blind (like having really bad case of short-sightedness which it's getting worse) without glasses (like he can't see even his fingers without them but his hearing is better {like you are losing one of the senses then the other try to replace this one which you are losing}) while they were playfully teasing them and then they get to know how serious it really is? And thank you for reading all of this ♡

Kim Namjoon:

Namjoon had just come back from a productive day in the studio and he was ready to finally relax with his boyfriend. He had already changed out of his work clothes and into something comfortable for the night. Laying down he began thinking about the last time he had spent time with you like this. ' It has been a while, hasn't it 'but before he could go on thinking about his significant other, there was a large crash in the bathroom. Without another thought, he sprang up from his spot on the bed and made for the bathroom. After opening, he found the source of the commotion."Babe, you have to be more careful when getting out of the shower." Namjoon lifted you up and placed you on the counter of the vanity so he could tend to your knees and best he could. During this time you explained what had happened. You were trying to get the towel off the special railing, but it just so happened to be attached to the cabinet. So when you tried to pull the towel, and becoming frustrated you pulled down the towel along with the cabinet. Your injuries were a result of the metal parts coming into sharp contact with your skin. Becoming flustered at how stupid you felt, Namjoon cupped your face." (Y/N) sometimes I get really worried about you. I wish you would take better care of yourself or ask me to help you. When I'm touring I fear something terrible may happen to you and I won't be there for you." While smiling softly you lean in to kiss him on the lips but only managing to get half of yours on target. Namjoon lifted you up bridal style and lay you down on the bed. Passing you one of his huge shirts, he kissed you on the cheek making you redden more. 'Finally' thought Namjoon.

Kim Seokjin:

Jin was enjoying a nice day at the beach. He had rented a private beach so that he and the members could enjoy a bit of time to relax. He also invited his boyfriend, who he hadn't seen in ages. Presently he was rubbing your back with sunscreen in hopes of no complaints on the way back home of sunburns. "(Y/N) how do you plan on beating Jimin, Hoseok, and Namjoon in volleyball if you can barely see past your fingertips without your glasses?" He saw you shoulder slump downwards as you sighed heavily. " I...I don't know." Jin knew that ranting on again about how you could hurt yourself without them but he also knew that you just wanted to have fun without having the constant pressure of you thick glasses. " Jin..." (Y/N) began but stopped."Baby, I understand you miss playing sports but with our eyesight, anyone would worry. PLus your mom made sure that I would take care of you when we went over for Christmas. What kind of a boyfriend would I be if I didn't listen to your mom? Huh?" Now you had turned around facing Jin with a tired facial expression. Jin brought his hands up to hold your face and kiss you. First your eyelids, your temple, your cheeks, and lastly your lips. "How about I make it so if they hit your face they automatically lose, and owe us dinner?" (Y/N) faces lit up and hugged the elder with all of his might. Laughing they both fell onto the sand." I love you hyung." Jin giggled "I love you too baby."

Min Yoongi:

Yoongi was in the kitchen looking for all of the snacks they had for movie night. Every cupboard was searched through and when he was satisfied he made one trip with enough food to feed a village. You were sitting in the middle of the couch wrapped up, by Yoongi, as a burrito sipping some of your favorite sugary drink. As soon as Yoongi gets comfortable, he starts the movie. Sighing happily he starts eating and feeding you and the same time. You were trying to get his attention by talking to him but he would start putting food in your mouth before you could. Your hands were stuck in this cocoon of warmth Yoongi had provided. Beyond the straw you were drinking out of, you could really see much. A large blur of color and the brightest of those colors were moving. Halfway through, Yoongi pauses it for refills on his drink. As he gets up he looks at you and realizes something very important is missing. Sitting back down he says, "Darling I am so sorry for not getting your glasses for you. I really wanted us to have a nice relaxing time together, I forgot." Yoongi was expecting maybe a little backlash from (Y/N) but instead, he got laughter. " Maybe you could say sorry by untangling me from this prison, giving me my glasses, and then watching the movie and cuddling together?" Yoongi smiles back and your cute face and giggles."That sounds great."

Jung Hoseok:

To Hoseok's surprise, his boyfriend wanted to go to the gym with him. They had planned out a workout together and decided that it would be fun to go together. Hoseok thought that his boyfriend wasn't the kind to go to the gym often and workout. When they got there Hoseok was given the single pleasure of seeing this boyfriend without a shirt on. They had only been in this relationship for seven months. They weren't totally new to being close to one another, but they definitely had not done the deed. Seeing his boyfriend without a top on made Hoseok blush. A lot. He took a quick glance in the mirror and saw the unmistakable redness on his face. Looking over to his left was (Y/N). Before he could blush anymore thinking about how (Y/N) somehow has a neat set of abs, he heard " Ah fuck!" from his special someone. Apparently (Y/N) had knocked over some workout equipment and the rack ended up falling over his legs. Hoseok rushed over to see if (Y/N) was okay. The nerd had gotten away with a single bruise, to Hooks relief." Didn't you see where you were going? I know you aren't wearing your glasses, but you're wearing your contacts at least. Right?" He looked at you expectantly but all he saw was guilt plastered all over his face. Hoseok smiled as he helps (Y/N) up. "Come on baby. You know you can barely see anything, it's a miracle that you got into the gym without breaking a bone!"

Park Jimin:

Usually, Jimin would have something planned, but today he was alone until his boyfriend would come by around three to hang out. As he was folding some of his laundries, he smiled as he thought back as for how he and (Y/N) met. They were at a fashion convention of sorts and Jimin was walking around semi-disguised looking at all of the pieces that were being modeled and on the racks. He was in such a trance by all of the beauty that he bumped into someone. The someone being a handsome young man that had champagne over his shirt and hair, papers in a fray, and he was putting his hand on the floor as he was looking for something. Jimin tried his best to help the stranger as he also mumbled a long string off sorry. When he looked back at the man Jimin couldn't help but be a bit flustered." H-hi, I am really sorry for knocking you over, I really didn't mean. I apologize for getting my drink all over your shirt and oh! There is some on your face and hair...are you okay? Do you need something?" Jimin was not ready for the gaze that he had found in the handsome person." You have a beautiful voice, I can't see you right now but I bet you're beautiful too" He was shocked. Out of everything he thought would come out of the mouth that he totally didn't have a few fleeting thoughts about kissing, it definitely wasn't that. From there they traded numbers so that Jimin could make up for tripping him over and making him lose his glasses. Jimin sighed, finally done with folding all of his laundries and putting them in their corresponding places. There was the sound of the key slotted into the door knob, and Jimin slowly made his way over to (Y/N) so that they could spend their evening together.

Kim Taehyung:

Taehyung found himself in another art gallery. Lucky for him he had managed to come in on a day where one of the artists of the more well-known of these paintings was going to speak. The session was set to be at five and his watch told him he had more than two hours to spare. He would go around admiring paintings, and when inspiration struck he would pull out his travel sketchbook and doodle whatever idea that was. Eventually, he found himself in the speaker for that evening's sessions room. Taehyung saw a plaque doe the artist and he began to read. To his astonishment, the artist was very close to being blind. Taehyung took a double take at the paintings and back at the plaque in disbelief. (Y/N) (L/N) seemed to be a very young but wise beyond his years kind of person. He stood in front of a large painting and looked into it, trying to understand and feel what the artist wanted him to feel. There was the sound of the shutter of a camera, a sound Taehyung knew only too well. He turned his head and to camera lens was pointed at him. The man holding the camera got up and walked towards him."Hey, I am sorry for not asking if I could take a picture but you looked...there."Taehyung, as an idol, was used to people taking pictures of him and complimenting him like this afterward. He noticed the man wore very thick glasses. They began to talk, and he thought this man was a quirky and happy kind of person. After a while, the session with the artist and to his surprise, the guy with the glasses was (Y/N). Taehyung listened carefully to his words taking notes and after it was over he confronted (Y/N). "Why didn't you tell me?" (Y/N) giggled." How was I? It was my first time seeing an angel clearly".

Jeon Jungkook:

Jungkook woke up with (Y/N) in his arms. Smiling down at his boyfriend, he observed how cute (Y/N) was when he was sleeping a how there was a single eyelash on his cheek. Jungkook tried hard not to wake (Y/N) up as he turned around to grab him the phone. Unfortunately his plan was foiled as he heard the noises of the bed sheets rustling and of (Y/N) yawning and sighing. Jungkook begins kissing his face, everywhere his lips would reach. Nose, eyelids,forehead, temples, cheeks, and his lips. (Y/N) would break into a smile at Jungkook's antics. " Jungkook I can't see. Stop it" laughed (Y/N). Jungkook rubbed his nose on the crook of your neck. His hair tickled (Y/N)'s left cheek and he let himself rest the side of his head on Jungkook's. " Babe I need my glasses, I can barely see anything. You head is a black blob." (Y/N) felt Jungkook smile against his shoulder. He lifted up his head and looked right at (Y/N). Jungkook could see (Y/N)'s eyes squinting and trying to see him a tiny bit clearer. Because (Y/N) couldn't see him properly Jungkook took advantage of this situation by attacking (Y/N)'s face with butterfly kisses. He felt hands grabbing his shirt, (Y/N)'s pulling him closer. He fluttered his eyes closed, eyelashed contrasting the pink on his face as Jungkook pressed dainty chaste kisses on his cheeks."Want to grab breakfast?"

MASTERLIST

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cniska · 4 years

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Have you ever had encounters with entitled people? Demanding you do art for them for free in exchange for “exposure” or anything like that? If so, what is your most outrageous example? If not... then yay! I’m glad you didn’t have to put up with that. Your work is amazing, and no one should expect you to put in that time and effort for free!

Hello, anon! First of all thank you for thinking my work is amazing, it warms my heart :> !! Second, I’m very sorry for how long this answer is lol, I have a lot of opinions surrounding this topic.

It’s been a while since anyone had the nerve to wholeheartedly ask me to do something for free. There were a lot of times in high school and college it happened but the one that comes to mind right now is the first time I tabled at a con. A guy walked up and asked me to draw his daughter a mermaid for free, wasn’t even all that appreciative either, didn’t converse with me at all and at the time and I was very bad at telling people no when they’ve crossed a boundary so I doodled something quick and they left. I’ve gotten better at saying no with time but I’m sure everyone can relate, it takes some practice putting your foot down.

Lately I’ve had more experiences where freelance illustration jobs will try to offer insultingly low payment for an extraordinary amount of work. Like $100 for a fully illustrated children’s book with promises of sharing earnings after it gets published. Or $150 for a set of 25 full color/background illustrations with “I wish I could pay more but I don’t have the money.” Personalized art is not a necessity, if you can’t afford to pay artists then you can’t afford your project, sorry. If it’s something you want, then save up and come back to me when you’re ready and I’ll be happy to help.

What’s equally annoying is that other artists are taking these jobs and making people think it’s okay to underpay artists. Or the comments that “well at least you like art so it should be easy, right?” Art is hard! Schooling or not it takes thousands of hours to hone your skills and even if it’s a fun project? Enjoyment and exposure isn’t paying my rent or putting food on my table.

Also hey! If you’re a young artist and aren’t sure what you should charge for your work, ask me questions, or other artists questions. Anyone is more than free to drop in here and ask me advice for this sort of thing! I’m aggressively protective of young artists okay, do not let people take advantage of you.

I see so many commissions posts and I want to tell people, hey you owe it to yourself to be charging so much more than this, but I honestly don’t wanna make people mad just dropping in and telling them what to do. If you think you could charge more, you’re probably right. And don’t misconstrue that as trying to squeeze all you can out of clients, it’s about setting a fair price for your time and skill. It’s ridiculous to charge $25 for a full color full body piece that’s gonna take you 4+ hours to do.

Last thing, commercial pricing is a whole other monster. I know it’s a bit expensive, but do yourself a favor and go pick one of these up to have on hand, they have example contracts and stuff in the back and I’ve referenced it a lot. https://graphicartistsguild.org/product/the-graphic-artists-guild-handbook-pricing-ethical-guidelines/

#art #artist #artist things #commission pricing #pricing your art #young artists please i'm begging you stand up for yourselves #Anonymous

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yiriono · 5 years

Text

I ESPecially Like You

Description: One day Jaehyun walks in on his classmate, Taeyong, performing an exorcism.

!highschool au

!psychic au

A/n: Hey guys! This is a high school au Jaeyong fic. Hope you enjoy. Also cross posted on AO3 and AFF. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: The Beginning

The ongoing lecture fades into the background, as Jaehyun glances at the clock, eager for class to end. He’s bored, very bored, so bored, in fact he’s resulted to doodling on the corner of his textbook to pass time.

He’d never been a numbers guy, let alone a math person, but here he is anyways, sitting through calculus. Jaehyun didn’t plan on taking the class, considering he barely passed pre-calc, but it was his mom who convinced him to register.

“It’ll be good for your college applications,” she said, “You need to take a harsh course load”.

When he refused, she retaliated with incessant nagging, until Jaehyun eventually caved. She didn’t know the reason he was so hesitant was because it meant removing the class he actually wanted to take: Art.

He hasn’t told her, or anyone really, that he wanted to go to art school. It just didn’t seem like a feasible option, especially when his mom was dead set on his premed pathway. He tried to drop hints, like alluding to RISD’s prestige or talking about the vast career options available for creatives, but each time he gets the same reply. “You can’t make money as an artist, and it’s a dying career. You’re better off as a doctor.”

To that, he scoffs. If anything doctors will get replaced by robots, making med a dying career. But begrudgingly, he listens to her and adds calculus to his course load.

Now sitting here, as the teacher blabbers about derivatives, Jaehyun really regrets the decision. He doesn’t feel like paying attention, instead focusing on his drawing, which is beginning to look less of a doodle but more so a full out sketch. He’s adding contrast to the shadows when his mind drifts to the anime he started last night.

Mob Psycho. A story about an ordinary middle school boy who has special ESP powers.

It occurs to him that he’s an ordinary boy too. Maybe not in middle school but high school should be a fair substitute. What if he actually has powers that have laid dormant in him the whole time? What if, right?

Jaehyun wonders if he concentrates hard enough, maybe he could activate hidden abilities and make time move faster. It’s an immature delusion, but he’s desperate and bored enough to try.

First he clears his mind, before clenching the muscles in his arm, summoning this strange tension that spreads to his fingertips. He points his middle finger at the minute hand, and in one swift motion, moves it up.

As expected, nothing happens. The clock still beats its regular rhythm, continuing it’s dreadfully slow descent to 3pm. He sighs, dropping his hand in defeat. The only thing Jaehyun learns from class was that he has a bad case of eighth grade syndrome.

♥

When the bell finally rings, Jaehyun rushes for the door, only to be blocked by the lanky senior, Doyoung.

“Move” he wails, trying to squish through. But the other boy doesn’t budge.

“Where do you think you’re going”

“Home” Jaehyun retorts, again trying to squirm his way out.

“Oh no you aren’t” Doyoung chuckles. He yanks Jaehyun’s collar, and drags him out into the hall. The brunette tries to free himself, but Doyoung’s grip is firm. “Remember, you still owe me one.”

Jaehyun lets out a low whine. “Please not today”. More than anything, he wants to go home. The day, though mundane and ordinary, felt absolutely draining. What he needs to do right now is plop onto his bed, play his phone games, and recharge before spending the rest of the evening catching up on the wasted calculus lesson.

Unfortunately, the older boy isn’t at all sympathetic. “Lot’s of work to be done,” he says, completely ignoring Jaehyun’s plea, “It’s nearing exam season, so the student council is especially busy. You’re going to help us with the mountain of paperwork piling on my desk.”

Doyoung pinches his nose bridge, as he lets out this frustrated sigh. “I swear it never ends. Just when I think I’m done for the day, the administration needs us to do more.”

To this, Jaehyun can’t help but to feel sorry for the elder.

He’s weak, always has, at rejecting people’s requests, especially Doyoung’s. During freshman year, they shared a class together; the older had forgotten to take his mandatory art credit the year before, which resulted in being placed in a lower grade. The other boy, though irritatingly uptight, had grown to become one of Jaehyun’s best friends. So as much as he’s craving to rewind at home, he’d rather not have Doyoung work till death.

“Okay fine” he concedes.

Doyoung’s taken back, clearly not expecting Jaehyun to agree. He lets out a grating laugh, causing some heads to turn towards them, before his lips settle into a small smirk. “Good boy.”

Jaehyun groans at the reply. “Don’t make me change my mind” he warns, but with no resolution to enforce his words.

♥

By the time Jaehyun finally leaves school, the sun was beginning to set. Orange and purple hues spread across the sky, expansive and continuous like the sea. Slowly, the bustling town begins to retire: with shops flipping their open signs, cats returning to their homes, and children abandoning the park swings.

The walk home gives him mixed feelings. It’s strange seeing the once lively streets desolate. But at the same time, the emptiness is calming, giving Jaehyun the luxury of silence.

He’s about to reach the end of the block, when he hears this loud crash coming from the alley up ahead. It’s followed by a gruff yelp, and the sound of explosions, like those dramatic booms you hear in action movies.

An ominous feeling travels across Jaehyun’s body, causing him to shiver. He should probably turn back now and take another route, whatever's going on sounds like trouble. For all he knows, it's a gang fight or a mugging. He backs away, ready to run away, before he hears this shrill scream.

It’s a woman, and she sounds distressed.

This was probably a signal for him to get the fuck away, but Jaehyun can’t move. Not when someone’s in trouble. Every instinct in him is telling him to withdraw, but he doesn’t break. Instead, he takes a deep breath, before forcing himself to run up to the alley. His feet feel heavy, a sign of his body’s resistance, but he goes through with it anyways.

He’s standing near the entrance, expecting some grand crime to be occurring, but only to be greeted by darkness. But the screams are still ongoing, sounding even more twisted and pained than previously.

Jaehyun takes another step, when he notices something.

There, at the very back of the alleyway, is this boy wearing a red jacket, his face is covered by the hood. His arm is outreached, while his hand is bent in a way that looks like a claw. Jaehyun’s eyes trail up to the direction the boy’s facing, before he sees it.

The source of the eerie noises, also the most disgusting thing Jaehyun has ever seen: a tall, black figure, with what seems like human hands sticking from its sides. The thing suddenly leaps at the boy, but only for him to suddenly disappear, causing the monster to miss and slam right into the floor.

The boy in the red jacket then appears out of nowhere, before raising his arm, positioned in the same way Jaehyun had earlier in class, and flicks his wrist. This causes the black figure to be flung up: and when the boy moves his wrist down, accordingly, the figure is hurled back down. The thing momentarily stops moving, clearly worn out by the battle that’s transpired. Jaehyun watches, absolutely shocked, as the boy walks over to the figure while muttering something Jaehyun can’t make out, lifts his hand and snaps.

The disgusting creature vanishes. Gone. Vamoosh.

Jaehyun blinks hard, several times, but the thing really did disappear. He barely has time to process what had just happened when the boy in the red jacket lets out a satisfied chuckle, and bends over to pick up a blue backpack that was leaning against the brick wall. At some point during the fight, the hood had fallen off, revealing matching bright red hair that messily spikes all over the place. But in the dim lighting, Jaehyun can’t make out the boy’s face.

“Oh shit there’s garbage all over you” the boy mutters to his backpack, as he picks off the unwanted remnants that litter the bag.

It doesn’t strike Jaehyun that he’s been standing there in utter silence the whole time until the boy, who had been walking towards the exit, suddenly stops in his trail when he sees Jaehyun.

As a final departing gesture, the sun travels to where their standing, finally illuminating the murky alley. Nature exposes the boy, thrusting him away from the mask of darkness, revealing a very familiar face.

“Lee Taeyong?” Jaehyun exclaims.

It’s him alright. That unreal beauty and insanely sharp jawline could only belong to one person.

Taeyong lets out a brief gasp, before suddenly, he dissipates into thin air.

“What the fuck..”

Jaehyun looks around, but there’s not a trace of the other boy, just an emptiness and large garbage bins nestled at the end of the alleyway.

Bewildered, Jaehyun pinches himself. Hard.

“Ow”

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notveryglittery · 6 years

Text

Lava

summary: the floor sizzled and patton screeched excitedly, happy to see just how quickly their imagination had kicked in. ships: it's LAMP! there's leanings towards moxiety and logince! you can read it as platonic or romantic! warnings: imaginary lava, reckless stunts, a tiny bit of panic words: 2,200 notes: i've been wanting to write this for AGES and i dunno, it just finally came to me last night, and i wrote it all in one sitting. read on ao3

It was a quiet afternoon in the commons, each Side peacefully minding their own business. They had gathered together in the living room, perfectly content with spending time together, but for the most part, keeping to their own tasks.

Logan was working on the agenda for the next week, from proper bedtimes to video recording schedules, to various appointments. His pens were lined up neatly next to his planner, in order of which got used most to least (black to navy blue to forest green). There was a mug of coffee, steam rising off of it still, but looking like it hadn’t been touched recently.

Roman was sitting on the floor, hunched over the table, furiously scribbling in a notebook. It was doodles of various imagined scenes including himself and the others: a battle with sorcerer Logan at his side versus the Dragon Witch, a race with a winged Patton soaring ahead of him through the sky, a tour through an art gallery with Virgil eagerly leading the way.

Virgil sat perched on the back of the couch, headphones nestled comfortably over his ears, and scrolling through his phone on what could safely be assumed was Tumblr. He looked surprisingly mellow, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth every other post. He was tapping his socked feet against the cushions along to the music.

The tranquility was shattered when a thunderous noise came from the floor above and Patton appeared at the top of the staircase, looking flustered and out of breath.

“Patton, what on Earth—” Logan began before Patton barreled down the rest of the steps, coming to a sudden stop on the very last one. Virgil looked up, eyebrows raising as he paused the playlist. Roman seemed too intensely focused on his current sketch to even have noticed Patton’s arrival in the first place.

“THE FLOOR IS LAVA!!!!” Patton shouted which garnered him three very different reactions.

Logan’s expression fell from concerned to indifferent as he spoke, “Patton, don’t be absurd—”

Only for Roman’s deafening shriek to cut him off as the prince leapt off of the carpet and onto the table, very nearly knocking over Logan’s mug. He wobbled precariously for a moment before his wide eyed surprise narrowed into an accusatory glare at Patton. “A bit more warning would’ve been nice!”

Virgil let the padded band of his earbuds curve along his neck, adjusting to the sudden lack of a song. He smirked at Logan, whose feet were still firmly planted on the ground. “Better get on the couch, Lo,” he advised, “I think you underestimate how serious Patton gets about this one.”

Logan gave him an exasperated look, “really, Virgil? I hardly expected—” This time, the only one interrupting Logan was himself, by way of an alarmed yelp. He yanked his legs onto the couch, knees against his chest, and arms wrapped around his calves. The floor wasn’t so much lava as it was a shimmering orange and red. It radiated heat the same way asphalt does in the distance but it seemed like it would really only be dangerous after prolonged exposure.

Patton looked absolutely thrilled from his spot, hands clasped together underneath his chin. “Oh, I don’t think so!” Roman exclaimed, pointing to the floor beneath Patton’s feet, “that counts, too!” The carpet took its time shifting which gave Patton the few precious seconds he needed to dart away. He shot passed the trio and to the dining area, where he clambered first onto a chair, and then onto the table.

“Hah!” He crowed in Roman’s direction, looking particularly proud papa; whether it was at himself for his success or at the others for playing along… honestly, it was definitely both entirely. Virgil had stood up, balancing a little uneasily; he shrugged off his hoodie, as if it would only weigh him down for this game. It was then that Patton knew he’d been triumphant in his plans to get everybody to play together.

Roman was on his phone, posing just right so that he could get them all in his selfie. Logan looked disgruntled in a delightful “has a soft spot for Patton” sort of manner, Virgil was half turned away but his grin at Patton was shining clear as the sun on a cloudless day, and Patton was the only other looking directly at Roman’s camera for the photo and he was smiling like he’d won the lottery. Roman kept his peace sign pressed close to his own face, beaming and effortlessly charming.

The floor sizzled and Patton screeched excitedly, happy to see just how quickly their imagination had kicked in. Virgil gestured towards one of the chairs and Patton caught on easily, scooting it closer to him. In a move that seemed uncharacteristically dangerous of him, Virgil crawled onto the back of the couch, and used his agility (thanks fight or flight reflexes) to hop onto it. Roman gasped and then broke into applause. Logan sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Very well then. How does one win this game?” Logan asked, pivoting so that he was facing Patton. Virgil had joined him on top of the dining table by now and Logan took a moment to scowl at them, “we eat there.”

“I’ll clean it later!” Patton promised, clutching Virgil’s arm. “Whoever makes it back to the top of the staircase first wins!”

Roman, who was certainly the closest, gave a mighty “huzzah!”

Virgil groaned, “what’d I come over here for then?” He tried to come off as upset about it but the spark in his eyes was a dead giveaway.

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” Patton whispered, “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve!” He pulled on one of the sleeves of the cardigan tied around his shoulders as if to make a point. Virgil snorted.

“Hey, that’s cheating!” Roman’s shout drew their attention and they watched as Logan tossed a couch cushion onto the floor. It was the second so far and Logan was reaching for another.

“I don’t see how this could be considered cheating,” Logan responded loftily, “I’m not stepping on the floor, am I?”

Roman looked ready to jump onto the path made so far before Patton cleared his throat. “Ah, ah, ah, Ro! You’ve gotta find your own way!”

“And just how is your strategy going to help me then, Patton?” Virgil muttered. All he received in return was a wink. Virgil rolled his eyes but it somehow only came across as exceedingly affectionate.

“Surely you can come up with something for yourself, Roman.” Logan said, and oh, that was a tone Roman simply would not stand for. “You are Creativity, after all.” And, oh, that smug tilt of his lips was absolutely unacceptable!

With a flourish and snap of his fingers, an oar landed into Roman’s open palms. Virgil watched in awe as the table Roman had claimed shifted into what was easiest to describe as a raft. The floor must’ve taken on some sort of liquid properties as it bobbed in what used to be solid carpet. “Imagination really is something, huh, Virge?” Patton giggled, applauding Roman’s feat. There didn’t seem to be any shrinking it, however, and so it moved slowly and awkwardly. Still, he was gaining headway on Logan, who had taken a moment to gather his supplies.

Patton tapped on Virgil’s shoulder and gestured towards the ceiling. A zipline (that really was the best word for it) trailed from above the table to over the step that Virgil occupied for videos. Patton undid the knot of his cardigan and tossed one sleeve over the cable; he wound the fabric around his hands a few times and gave an experimental tug. It seemed to hold just fine but Virgil’s panic skyrocketed anyway. “Are you crazy?!”

Patton leant forward and kissed Virgil on the cheek, “people do crazy things when they’re in love!” And with that, he kicked off of the sturdy surface, tucking his legs up as high as he could.

Roman cried out “Hercules?!” just as Patton went flying by him.

Virgil, more out of fear for Patton’s safety than anything else, sprung back onto the chair towards the couch, grabbed his hoodie, and then moved just as quickly to the table again. He looped his sleeves much the same way Patton had and took a deep breath, before launching himself after his best friend.

It all happened so rapidly that the terror barely had time to take hold. The adrenaline kicked in instead and he actually laughed, startling Roman out of his rowing and Logan from his careful progress. The sound was abruptly cut off when he crashed into Patton and knocked them both to the floor. “Ow, ow, ow,” Patton chanted while somehow still snickering. It didn’t hurt, not really; it was more like the sensation of sinking into a hot tub than burning oneself with hot water. They got to their feet and Virgil hoisted Patton onto the banister before climbing on himself.

“You used Patton’s idea!” Roman criticized, paddling faster now to make up for getting distracted.

“Breaking the rules should lead to disqualification,” Logan agreed, hauling the cushion behind him around and to the front of the one he currently rested on.

“He did not!” Patton argued, gesturing to the outerwear left on the floor. “He had his own mode of transportation!”

“While using your form of transit!”

In the midst of the disagreement, Virgil was steadily climbing up the staircase, slipping his feet between the balusters. Patton either didn’t notice or was more than alright with letting Virgil win.

Roman arrived close enough to the television stand and he lunged for it, very nearly knocking everything over. He tiptoed along the edge, arms outstretched for balance. The same moment he jumped for Virgil’s discarded hoodie went hand in hand with Logan leaping for Patton’s abandoned cardigan. They collided and, much like the others had before them, felt the heat briefly before getting to their feet, and scurrying for the banister. Patton hadn’t pulled ahead by much and so it was feeling very cramped suddenly on the staircase.

Roman, realizing now just how close Virgil was to winning, and feeling very much like adding some tragedy to their game, let go of the handrail and landed noisily on the steps. “Oh no!” He cried, throwing himself against the wall and farther from safety. “Logan, help!”

“What— Roman, what are you doing?!” Logan demanded, holding an arm out for Roman to grab onto. Patton’s horrified gasp was well done and Roman made a mental note to shower him in praise after this was all finished. From the corner of his eye, Roman could see Virgil had paused, a mere three steps from the top. “Go on without me!” Roman wailed, crocodile tears springing to his eyes.

“That would be highly illogical,” Logan sounded very much like a scolding parent, “whatever would we do without you?” And while Roman had planned to draw his death scene out in the most dramatically agonizing way possible, Logan was apparently having none of it as he reached even further. He grabbed Roman by his sash and tugged; Roman willed the fabric into something stronger so that it wouldn’t tear and allowed the logical Side his victory. Something warm bloomed in his heart at the possibility of Logan being entirely serious, despite this all being pretend.

Just as suddenly as it had began, it ended. The floor returned to soft carpet and the heat disappeared. Virgil stood at the top of the staircase, hands on his hips, looking especially proud. Patton hopped up the remaining steps and very nearly tackled Virgil in his enthusiasm; they only stayed standing by way of Virgil grabbing onto the handrail and keeping them steady.

“Hooray, Virgil!” Patton acclaimed, keeping an arm looped around his neck as he took Virgil’s free hand, shooting it into the air. “Three cheers for our favorite emo!”

“He’s the only emo we—”

“Hip hip!” Patton began.

“Hooray!” Roman followed.

“Hip hip!”

“Hooray!” Roman said again, nudging Logan in the side.

“Hip hip!”

“Hooray!” Logan acquiesced, looking at Patton with a gentle fondness in his eyes.

Virgil seemed embarrassed by all the attention and slipped out of Patton’s grasp, rubbing his hand along his bare forearm a little uncomfortably. “This was fun, guys,” he admitted, snapping his fingers and shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie the moment it materialized back onto his body. Roman shot him a pair of finger guns and the headphones appeared back around his neck, to which Virgil gave him a tiny, if not grateful, smile.

“Dinner’s in an hour, kiddos!” Patton chimed, hopping onto the banister and sliding down it, passing Logan and Roman. They both protested his action, proclaiming safety and jealousy, respectively. He scooped his cardigan up off the floor and began putting the cushions back onto the couch. “Go rest up,” he instructed before anybody could move to help him, “I’ll call you when the food’s ready!”

There wasn’t much contradicting Patton when he went full on Dad mode and so the others left for their rooms, each thinking of how they’d thank Patton later on for getting them all gathered for some well deserved fun.

#sanders sides fan fiction #sanders sides lamp #logince #moxiety #sanders sides #dani writes #mine #I'M SO HAPPY WITH THIS I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT #lava #1k

1K notes · View notes

europeanguy · 5 years

Text

Gotta Gogh [Part 2: Apple Water Is Not A Real Drink]

Pairing: Nadia x Maxwell

Words: 3,138

Tags: Canon Divergence, Crossovers, Curse words probably, The Riot Club!AU sort of, Loss

Neville pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves a sigh. It was dark outside, Leo left three hours ago, and they have emptied a bottle of 18-year old Macallan whiskey (it was 70% Leo’s – he drank straight from the bottle). Maxwell didn’t understand why he wouldn’t just simply recruit their friends. Every member of the club had to be handpicked by Neville, approved by Leo, be a noble, or at least be as rich.

“Max, I’m asking you – not as president of the club, but as your friend. Are you sure you can’t do anything about Liam?”

“I told you, several times Neville. He doesn’t like clubs – especially ours. You know how he is –“

Maxwell did ask Liam, but nothing could sway this person’s principles. Not even an offer to get him a life-time supply of baklava. Or buying him a peacock (which he definitely did NOT like. Said peacock now resides at the Ramsford Estate’s menagerie. No returns or refunds.)

“But Leo was president!” Neville looked like he was ready to tear his hair out of his scalp.

Although, it wasn’t just the general debauchery that they got up to that “bothered” Liam – it was Neville himself. And to be completely honest, Maxwell started seeing it too. But he’s not about to tell him that.

“And that’s exactly why he doesn’t want it.” Maxwell stands up and gathers his coat. He slings his UofC scarf around his neck. “Now, until you actually want to talk to me about club stuff, and not His Royal Highness, I’m leaving.”

As he goes down the winding staircase to the main museum wing, Maxwell passes a portrait of Prince Leo Rys, King of Hedonists, probably the worst ex-president in the hall of fame. Maxwell was only familiar of the “dinners” he threw for the club through stories by past members – it made Neville’s parties look stale. His own older brother, Bertrand, was Leo’s right hand during their time. But after their parents died it was hard to imagine Bertrand doing any sort of activity that a normal person would consider fun.

Maxwell doesn’t see where he’s going as he turns a corner to the archway, and he runs into someone. “Otis! shit, sorry,”

Oh. It’s not Otis.

The girl hurriedly straightens up, backing away a few steps. She looks worried, and Maxwell cuts her off before she could apologize. It would’ve been the second time today. “Wait, you’re not Otis. What are you doing here?”

He notices her fidgeting, absent-mindedly picking at her nails. However, she notices it too and immediately stops, and hides both hands behind her back instead. “I’m Nadia,” she smiles. It’s small, but even that he notices. “I work here part-time… uh… sir..?”

“Sir? No, just Maxwell.” Maxwell could feel the corners of his mouth turning up. Technically it was Lord but he was already douche-y enough during their first ‘encounter’. “So, what do you do…for the rest of the time?” Witty, Max. Fucking cool it.

“I’m an exchange student actually, Fine Arts.” Nadia says proudly. “Um, Otis actually left early, if you’re looking for him?”

Maxwell shakes his head. “No, no – I was just leaving. So, Otis left early? What happened to him?” Some nights club meetings go until eleven, and the old man would still be at the museum. Sometimes Maxwell wonders if Otis was actually a real person – not just some grumpy museum spirit who likes to clean and give tourists dirty looks if they get a little too close to the art.

“I may have convinced him to go home,” Nadia smiles and starts walking, Maxwell catches up to walk beside her. “I found out that he collects sketches, doodles, stuff like that – so I promised him one if he went home before dinner today.”

“He talked to you??” Maxwell asks in disbelief. He tried befriending the guy, but he was as cold as ice. The one time Otis did sort of interact with him was three years ago.

Maxwell has stayed over in the museum before – in their club’s office in the upstairs left wing. The office had been there since this very building was built. The whole construction paid for, of course, by one of the esteemed members in 1645. He was nineteen and drunk out of his wits – the night of his parents’ funeral. He collapsed onto one of the leather chesterfield sofas and yet he didn’t sleep a blink. The next morning Bertrand came running in with Otis, his brother looking gaunt and haggard – like he aged ten years. He hugged Maxwell and for once Maxwell had openly sobbed onto his brother’s jacket until there was no more.

Otis left to give them privacy, and when he returned he had coffee for them both. Bertrand thanked the old man, and patted him on the back as they left for home – to Ramsford – forced to face a home without their mother’s infectious laughter.

“Hey, you okay? I didn’t know you wanted to befriend Otis that much.” Nadia jokes, quickly glancing at him to gauge his reaction. Maxwell gives her a reassuring smile. How could he not, when looking at a face like that?

“He likes drawings huh? I’m not very good,” Maxwell confesses. “I think I’ll need lessons.” It was his turn to check her reaction. He has had painting lessons (among others) as a child – his father knew all the tricks to make him and Bertrand look effortlessly accomplished. To keep up appearances. But Maxwell was always the one who would ditch those lessons to go play somewhere else. Sometimes Bertrand would join, and their mother would find them both muddy, their leather shoes and the hems of their shorts soaked with water from the estate’s lake. But she only shook her head, smiling, as she led them back to the house to clean up.

“Well… this is a once in a lifetime offer but, if you’re here tomorrow I can give you one.” Nadia shrugs like it was no big deal.

“Hm,” Maxwell was almost jumping at the thought, but he had to retain some semblance of a cool image. “We’ll see.”

The next day after his last class, Maxwell finds his feet taking him to the museum, walking a little faster than normal. He knew he must’ve looked like a manic high on caffeine, but he didn’t care. He ran into Tariq, spilling coffee into his jacket.

“This is new!” Tariq yelled after him but Maxwell escaped with excuses of promising to pay for it as he backs away. He doesn’t hear Neville whispering to Tariq about “some American on a scholarship”, he can only see Nadia’s face. His fast walking pace turns to a jog – to a full-on sprint – when he sees the museum.

Nadia looks up from the front desk when Maxwell awkwardly (and quite dramatically) bursts through the doors.

“….Hi,” He breathes, taking in Nadia’s appearance. She smiles, but its tight, forced. Only does Maxwell notice the smooth classical music filling the room. “Bach?”

Her smile widens, more genuine this time. “Jon Liefs. How did you even mix that up?”

“Yeah, I-I don’t know anything about classical music. Believe it or not.” Maxwell only paid attention to music he could dance to. Slow dancing doesn’t count.

Nadia nods, humoring Maxwell. “Hey, so I promised you drawing lessons?” She clears her throat, then fruitlessly arranges papers on her messy desk.

This was his chance. “Actually… I was thinking we could go on an adventure?” He sounded more like he was asking a question than asking her out. Like a normal person.

Nadia sighs. “I don’t know. I’m kind of in trouble right now.”

Maxwell’s heart sinks to his stomach. “Trouble? What happened?”

“A professor yelled at me earlier because I couldn’t answer his question,” Nadia frowns. “I spent so much time studying up on paintings that I actually don’t know anything about Cordonia itself!”

Oh.

“My offer still stands...” Maxwell shrugs. “Let’s turn that trip into an educational one! Consider it a tutoring session, courtesy of a true local.”

Nadia narrows her eyes at him. “Where are we going? How should I know you’re not gonna kill me out of school premises?”

Maxwell’s jaw drops. “…did you just ask me that? Me? Look at this innocent face.” He pauses for effect. “See? I won’t hurt you.”

“Make sure of it.” Nadia meets his eyes as she quickly scribbles a number on a piece of paper. “I get off at five.”

Maxwell takes her number – it feels electric inside his fist. Or maybe his nerves are just going off. He shoves it inside his pocket as to not smudge the ink. “Right. I’ll see you later.” Two hours.

When Maxwell turns to walk away, he notices Otis standing to the side, giving the two of them a weird look.

“Hey, Otis.” He waves as he exits the museum.

“…hey.”

“Where are you even taking me?” Nadia walked beside him. It strangely felt natural, walking with Nadia along Cordonia’s capital city – cobblestone roads, traditional architecture, greenery growing wherever it allowed – and yet Maxwell wanted to shoot out of his shoes and into the sky. Calm down. A man was playing his guitar in a familiar tune, well, familiar to him. Nadia looked like she belonged in this beautiful place. He couldn’t help but smile at her and the sunshine she radiated – even when the sun has set.

“I was going to take you horseback riding but you’re wearing a dress… and I’m a gentleman.” Maxwell grins down at her, and Nadia scoffs at him.

“Horses?! You could’ve told me and I would’ve worn pants!” Nadia slaps him on the arm.

“Ow!”

“Oh, you baby. It wasn’t that hard… was it?” Nadia looks at him. “I took self-defense classes before, and I’ve been told to practice controlling my strength.”

Maxwell shrugs. “Dunno, I might need a kiss to make it better?”

Nadia stops walking and Maxwell looks back at her. “You’re a shameless flirt, you know that?” She shakes her head.

“Is it working though?” Maxwell flashes her a hopeful look.

“….no.” And with a smile, Nadia walks past him. She’s taking large steps, dodging a few people – some looking at Maxwell and then back at Nadia with that look on their faces.

“Wait up! You don’t even know where we’re going!” Maxwell weaves through the small crowd.

Nadia yells back, “I’m just following the smell of food!”

They end up inside a hole-in-the-wall café, a place that he has never entered in 21 years. The space was narrow, the brick walls were lined with old photographs, and the smell of freshly baked pastries. It was… as Bertrand would describe it… cozy – not without that judgmental look in his eyes.

“Why is it that you look like a lost puppy in your own country?” Nadia is sitting across from him.

“What? I’m just taking it all in…” Maxwell looks around, his eyes landing on her. “It’s um… very pretty.”

Maxwell clears his throat. “Anyway, how do you feel about breakfast for dinner? It’s not a Cordonian thing, it’s just a Maxwell thing.” Nadia’s eyes light up.

“I’m all for it. Just no apples.”

“Wow, offended Cordonian citizen here. I can only drink apple water to survive.”

“That’s not a real drink.” Nadia laughs.

“We’ll talk about drinks later,” Maxwell narrows his eyes at Nadia. “This apple argument isn’t over.”

He stands up, unsure. Right. So, no waiter. I just order in the counter – wait, do they accept credit cards?

“Do you need help, sir?” The guy behind the counter crosses his arms.

“Ah- yes, I’d like to order please.” The guy nods, finger poised to type in his cash register. Maxwell reads the menu, and looks back at Nadia. She gives him a thumbs up. “Two err- madame cristos-”

He manages to order without blundering and asking for apple water or “your most expensive champagne, preferably from the vineyards of Ramsford – a bottle of the L’ Dame Gold 1995 is best.”

“That will be 16 euros.” He finishes punching the order in, and his assistant, a girl no more than twelve (his daughter, probably) starts to fry up some eggs expertly in a griddle.

Maxwell hands him his credit card. He looks down on it, and hands it back. “Um, we only accept cash…”

Maxwell looks up at a sign above the counter. Cash only painted in big bold letters. Shit shit shit.

He sheepishly hands the man a 500 Cordonian-Euro note.

“Do you have a smaller amount, sir?” The guy looks confused now. “Or I could just run over to the next store to get you some change-“

“No, no! Please just keep it.” Maxwell could feel his embarrassment creeping up like the blood rushing to his ears. Note to self: keep smaller bills in wallet for next time.

The man argues, but Maxwell wouldn’t have it. Even he knows it’s ridiculous. Their hushed back and forth leads to an agreement on him coming back and getting “free” food until his balance runs out. Damn, all that arguing in his philosophy classes really came through.

Maxwell comes back to their table now with a tray of food plus a complementary dessert – their house special apple tarts.

“He gave it for free, couldn’t resist my charms.” Maxwell explains as he sits down, feeling more exhausted than after a jousting game with Leo. “What were we talking about?”

“Fancy apple infused water… drinks?” Nadia muses as she slices the egg on top of her madame cristo, breaking the perfect yolk.

“Right, you told me apple water isn’t a real drink, so we’ll have to agree to disagree on that.” Maxwell starts on his own sandwich. “However, I do have a non-apple drink that I invented and it’s amazing.”

“No apples? Tell me more.” Nadia takes a bite, her eyes widening. “Wow, this is… wow.”

“I know right?!” Maxwell grins proudly at her. “And I was getting to that, I actually need some name suggestions. It’s pineapple flavored, and it’s so good but super deadly.”

“Poisonous?” Nadia cocks an eyebrow. “I’m intrigued.”

“You could say that. My friend Tariq loved it so much – he failed an important test the next day and had to retake that class.” They all failed except for Liam, but he decided to leave that part out.

“Pineapple Paradise Punch.” Nadia says with a flourish of her fork. “It’s pineapple, you drink it and feel like you’re in paradise, and then it punches you in the gut the next day.”

“I don’t have to credit you every time I tell people about it, right?”

“You do! Every single time. Even if I’m not there. Nadia Park, famous painter and expert drink… namer. That could be a thing.”

Even if I’m not there.

Right.

“How about I make it for you whenever you want instead?”

Oh, god. No. No. Too forward. She’s not gonna stay in Cordonia forever.

Nadia simply smiles. “You’ll make it for me sometime this week. That’s a deal.”

It always got a little cold at night in Cordonia. After the cafe, Maxwell leads Nadia through streets that he doesn’t have memorized, but they were familiar enough. The crowd outside is starting to thin, a handful of tourists watching a saxophone solo being played. He doesn’t mind that he’s holding Nadia’s hand now as he practically drags the both of them toward the sound.

“Have I told you I’m a dancing king?” Maxwell grins at Nadia before tossing whatever bill he got first from his wallet inside the saxophone case laid out (he stupidly doesn’t carry change). The saxophonist’s eyes widen at the amount, but continues playing.

Maxwell holds his hand out to Nadia in the middle of the street, no cars, just warmly lit windows and some tourists – they don’t even matter. He half-expects Nadia to hesitate, but she immediately takes his hand and stands before him, matching his position.

“Dancing king? Let’s see then.” Nadia looks up at him, and rests one hand on his shoulder – the other in his hand.

He doesn’t see people looking in either adoration or judgement, he sees Nadia, and he hears the saxophone – like the music was being injected into his nerves. Maxwell easily leads her, surprisingly very light on her feet. He keeps his movement fluid and to the rhythm, raising the hand holding Nadia’s to cue her to do a spin. She does, laughing as she turns away from him and then their eyes meet again. Only for a second, because Maxwell surprises her by doing a spin of his own – quite the struggle considering his height but it only earns a laugh from the both of them. They stopped dancing, but the world is still spinning.

Maxwell wanted to kiss her as much as he needed to breathe.

Instead he drops his eyes and looks away.

“I think I need to see more dancing. Verdict’s still out.” Why did Nadia always know what to say? Maxwell plucks the courage to meet her eyes again but Nadia is simply watching the musician now, looking peaceful.

He sighs. “I don’t think you’re ready for b-boy Maxwell. It’s a lot to handle.”

She looks up at him. “You’ll find that I’m very…strong-willed? Prepared?” Nadia shrugs. “I can handle anything.” True, Maxwell thought. He wouldn’t know what to do if Bertrand had shipped him off to Oxford for one semester.

“I want you to meet my friends.” Maxwell blurts out.

Nadia laughs easily. “Wow, way to change the subject. Okay, why?”

“…Because you can tell a lot about a person by their friends. And we’re trying to get to know one another right?”

“I thought I was here to get to know Cordonia but… okay.” Nadia jokes. “So, are you saying that you carry hair gel and a comb wherever you go too?”

Maxwell snorts. Oh, Bertrand would have an aneurysm if he heard. “Are you talking about Neville?”

“Yeah…? That other friend you were with yesterday?”

Maxwell laughs. “No, I meant my real friends. Liam and Drake.”

“Just those two?”

“Only the ones who really matter.” He looks at her. “Liam is the most responsible and kind person I know. Got tons of girls after him, but he insists that his heart is only for Cordonia – so yes, he’s a dork. Drake, well, a little cold at first – but he’s a simple guy. Talk to him about fishing or camping and you guys will be automatic friends.”

“They sound like lovely guys.” But he could hear the slight hesitation in her voice. “Okay, let’s all hang out. Soon.” Maxwell releases a breath that he didn’t realize he’s been holding.

“How about this weekend? A few of us are planning on a little gathering…” Maxwell cocks an eyebrow at her. “It involves horses…”

“I’M IN.”

to be continued

FUN FACTS these facts are the best part only fools don’t read these

Lord and Lady Beaumont:

- In canon I’m pretty sure they died when Max and Bertrand were pretty young. But in this one, they died in 2008 (story takes place in 2011) so basically three years ago. Maxwell would have been 19 and Bertrand 24-25. It’s still pretty fresh.

- The orphaned Beaumonts don’t go broke in my universe. That’s just sad.

The Club:

- Leo and Bertrand ruled the club six years before Neville and Max. There was a group in between generations, but we don’t talk about them lmao.

- Leo still likes to keep tabs on the club even after he and Bertrand graduated from UofC.

- Members are mostly the nobility, rarely royalty, special cases of new money, and absolutely no commoners.

Just Noble Things:

- Leo had the idea to bring jousting into club activities. Neville loves them because he can take out his aggression – and hate for poor people. While watching, Liam convinced Drake to try it out once, and that was the last time Neville played. (He wasn’t severely injured physically, but his ego was thanks to a certain pants-ripping incident as he was sent flying off his horse.)

Cuisine:

- I HC that Cordonian cuisine is like a fusion of many others – with their own twist of course. Based from pictures, it seems that the geography and climate vary a lot, but the capital is near the sea. It has a Mediterranean vibe so that’s it, short answer: Cordonia has Mediterranean cuisine. Long answer: each duchy would specialize in different dishes. Portavira is near the sea, so seafood. Castelsarreillan is famous for their vineyards, but I’m imagining that they use olive oil, yoghurt marinades, complex spices, veggies, stuff like that – for entrees (simply because it looks like they have a lot of farmland). Olivia has mentioned before that she only likes her animals on a plate, so idk that just gave me a vibe that Lythikos is all about meat, deep and rich flavors that kind of contrast the cold all around. And of course, there are apple-themed dishes everywhere. Bottomline: I think about food a lot.

- Madame Cristos are a THING and yes, they are fucking delicious. It’s a cross between Croque Madame and a Monte Cristo. Here’s the recipe.

Currency:

- I wasn’t sure which currency Cordonia uses in canon. I read a “Krona” before but I’m pretty sure that’s a duchy (Madeleine’s fam). So, I just used “CDE” – meaning Cordonian Euros. It makes sense to me.

Dance, dance, dance:

- For the dancing scene with the sax solo, I was thinking more slow, sweet, “Can’t Help Falling In Love With You” instrumental cover vibes rather than sexy “Careless Whisper” lmao

- This dancing scene is a nod to Miss Saigon’s “Last Night of the World” because I just fucking love Lea Salonga okay LISTEN TO IT FOR THE FEELS

#europeanguy #gotta gogh #part 2 #maxwell x nadia #maxwell beaumont #nadia park #trr #the royal romance #pm #perfect match #fan fiction #fluff #au #canon divergence #multiple crossovers #europeanguy fic #I KNOW I KNOW THE PACING IS too fast but im tryna fix that issue lmao #thanks for 400 followers!#long post

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