i'm really tired and i have an examen in an hour but just know this was the first thing I saw upon waking up today and i'm in the verge of having an attack
tagged by: @mediioxumate and @vaciiviity thanks nerds
tagging: tag yourself
keiji
"everyone else is more important than me."
you're deathly afraid of being selfish. you're also deathly afraid of being forgotten. all you want is to be somebody's favorite person, but that feels like a far off dream. you try and make yourself interesting so that people stick around you. it doesn't feel like that's working. you want to hang out more with your friends, but it seems like they're always busy or that they have better friends than you.
courier
"i don't know how to accept this fact about me."
you have a secret. be it something going on in your life or a revelation about your personal identity, you've just learned something new about yourself and you feel wrong about it. you should be sure about this, but you're just not! even though you aren't comfortable with it, the secret feels important to you and it wants to break free. with the nature of the secret, though, you couldn't stand telling anyone.
"i'm hurting and help is beyond me."
there's something going on with you mentally. you haven't told anyone because you don't want to drag them down with you. it kills you on the daily and you feel like you're falling apart, however, nobody's noticed. you feel like you should be thankful for that, but it just hurts more. you feel selfish and weak for wanting help, yet something deep and knotted beneath your diaphragm is screaming to let go of the pain and let someone else handle it for awhile.
when steve harrington first heard of the extremely smart girl dustin and robin thought was next to god, he knew you were special. and he was more than intrigued.
for dustin henderson to say anyone was smart, let alone smarter than him, that is something that must be taken seriously.
steve genuinely thought he was having a stroke when dustin told him about you at family video.
“i’m telling you, steve! she’s smart, and so pretty it’s unfair she’s your age” dustin says with admiration evident in his tone, fiddling with the star wars tapes he has in his hands for the boy’s movie night. “she’s been helping us out with all my stupid questions”.
“and you’re saying she lives in hawkins, and i haven't seen her?” steve questions, moving around his desk fluidly, rewinding tapes with a frown and putting the correct tapes in the right cases.
dustin nods enthusiastically, “she can be a little quiet, and then you get to know her and she’s extremely feisty, it’s hot” dustin winks exaggeratingly.
steve narrows his eyes at the young boy, “ah..don’t do that” he says with a look of grimace on his face.
“so can i set you up?” dustin says hopefully, steve shakes his head immediately, “dustin, i can get girls on my own, okay?” he says confidently, adjusting his posture to stand up straighter, more confident.
dustin laughs, that type of laugh where you feel left out if you don't hear the joke. “what’s so funny, henderson?” steve grumbles.
“nothing man, it’s just been a while since i’ve seen you land a successful date, unless the ladies are flocking to you in secret” he says cheekily, “ha ha, get out” steve says simply, sliding the tapes to dustin angrily, ushering him off with a dismissive hand. the tapes left on the counter.
“what was that about?” robin smirks, steve groans dramatically, “he’s telling me about this girl he wants me to be with”
robin’s eyebrows raise, “oh? do i know the unlucky lady?” steve gives her a glare, “y/n” he can’t help but think the name sounds so pretty rolling off his tongue.
robin’s eyes widen a little, a pleasant smile on her face, “oh, dingus, she’s way too good for you” robin breathes out, a sympathetic pat on her friend’s shoulder.
“why do i not know this girl?” he rakes through his memory, the name sounds familiar but he can’t place your face. then again, he was a really big dick in high school sometimes.
“well she really cared about her studies, i know that. she is also so fucking pretty, man, like better than anyone you’re thinking and she’s super smart” she grins, “she didn’t really do the social events cause she was focused on the books.” steve nods, trying to place a memory.
and almost like a fucking sitcom, in walks a mysterious girl being dragged through the door with a cheeky dustin henderson.
steve and robin lift their gazes up to the sound of the bell attached to the door, steve’s mouth ran dry. he is fucked.
“dustin, i told you i’m on the way to work” you call out to the younger boy you’ve grown fond of. “come on, y/n, this won’t take long,” dustin gleams, dragging you further into the family video.
steve can genuinely feel himself freeze, how the fuck had he not seen easily the most beautiful girl in hawkins till now?
“henderson! you’re back” robin greets brightly, tapping the top of his hat teasingly, “yeah yeah, do you know, y/n?” dustin looks up at you beside him.
you're looking at the scene in front of you, a cheeky smile on both robin and dustin’s faces, and steve looking a little pale.
you smile at them kindly, “hey guys, how are you?” robin returns your smile “we’re great, right harrington?” she bumps his shoulder, steve snaps back to reality.
“uh, yeah, good thanks, how are you?” he stumbles, you nod smiling sheepishly, god this was awkward.
“so, y/n, what are you doing at the moment?” robin tries to ease the situation, “oh! well i’m currently a medical student so i just do some research assisting in the hospital and help out when they need me”
you feel so embarrassed for some reason, you’ve always had a little thing for steve, he’s gorgeous, you couldn’t help it. and you thought when you graduated, it would dissipate but you were so utterly fucked.
steve gives you an impressed smile, admiration tickling at his lips as he looked at you. he takes in your appearance, your scrubs making you look like a model in his eyes.
“that’s really cool” he feels himself ushering out, he wasn't even aware the words had left his mouth until you looked at him, really looking at him, that gentle pink tinge on both of your cheeks.
“thank you” you say softly, robin whistles, “god, y/n, i remember you being really smart but holy shit, dude, you’re a doctor” she says with genuine interest.
dustin looks at steve with that ‘i told you so’ look, and he hated when that little fucker was right.
“i’m not a doctor yet” you roll your eyes jokingly, feeling a little more comfortable in the situation. “you’re as good as a doctor to me” dustin nods, arms crossing over his chest like he was some proud dad.
“so you go to school around here?” steve says, feeling a little braver, you look at him surprised, feeling yourself accidentally forget to answer, dustin giving you a gentle nudge.
“oh, sorry!” you chuckle, the sound music to steve’s ears, “yeah, i go to the college in town and i work at the hospital” steve smiles at you, “that’s really great, y/n” he says earnestly and it makes your heart swell.
“thank you, seriously” you fiddle with the ends of your scrub top, “so you guys work here together?” you ask, steve and robin both nod at you.
“yes, doctor, we do” robin says cheekily, you all share a laugh. “that’s actually really fun” you smile, a real one. dustin and robin look between you and steve, this looks promising.
steve swallows, adam’s apple bobbing in the process.
this is the first time someone from his high school comes into the video store without making him feel embarrassed.
the first person that’s come in and hasn’t made him feel like a complete loser for working at a video store instead of going to college.
“yeah, you should come in more often, y/n, steve is really good with recommendations” dustin grins at the older boy, winking at him.
steve’s eyes darken at his words, looking like he’s about to pounce over the table. “for sure” you grin at dustin, nudging his side with your arm.
steve’s gaze focuses on you, only you and it's driving you crazy. “oh uh, yeah anytime” you feel your breath catching in your throat, you need to do anything to avoid his gaze right now.
you look down at your watch, gasping. “fuck! i’m so sorry, this is so rude of me but i really have to go” your eyebrows furrow in worry, clutching at your bag. steve looks disappointed.
“no no, go save lives, doctor” robin salutes you teasingly, “research assistant, buckley” you sigh, shaking your head with a smile.
“it was so good to see you guys, i’m sure i’ll see you guys around” you wave at steve and robin, they both smile at you, “bye, dusty” you pinch his cheek softly, grinning at him as you move past.
“bye” steve calls out, you turn back when you reach the door, “see you” you wave again and steve’s hand lifts quickly to return the gesture. you rush out the door, borderline running to work. your cheeks are burning, you’re sure of it. you're so grateful for the cold crisp outside.
“bye” robin mocks his voice when she sees you leave, dustin follows suit making kissy faces at him. “i hate both of you”
–
the minute steve harrington got home from work, he rushed up the steps to his room, reaching under his bed to retrieve his high school memorabilia.
he immediately got his hands on his yearbooks, flipping through the pages quickly until he saw your photo, his inhales sharply, his finger gently tracing over your photo.
“jesus..” he murmurs, you are so fucking beautiful his heart couldn’t take it. he curses himself for being so wrapped up in his dickhead ways. his head is full of thoughts by you.
he wishes he knew you sooner.
he’s determined to know you now.
–
it’s been about a week since steve had seen you, and he feels like an idiot for missing you.
he can’t admit how much he’s been thinking about you.
your gentle yet intriguing aura.
the way your smile curls on your lips.
the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed.
he was truly fucked and he didn’t know what to do.
all of the kids, and the babysitter teens noticed the difference in steve, the way he would daze between conversations, the gentle blush on his cheeks evident when it would be pointed out.
you were just coming off your shift at the hospital, heavy steps following you after a long day. and like clockwork, you ran into dustin henderson.
“y/n, what a small world!” he greets, you grin at him, “smallest world ever, dustin” you match his energy, bumping the fist he raised to you with your own.
“hey, i’m going to the video store, did you wanna come with me?” dustin proposes, you look at him a little surprised, stuttering with your words, the video easy meant steve. “uh, i don’t know, dustin” you scratch your arm, looking at him with a nervous expression.
“come on, please! it’ll be super quick, it’s friday and i wanna watch a movie and don’t wanna go in by myself ” he pleads, giving you those signature puppy dog eyes that unfortunately, always gets you.
“okay fine” you huff, walking in step with him. you pull out a little compact mirror from your bag, quickly checking your appearance. dustin gives you a shit eating grin.
“trust me, you look great” you give him a plain faced look, ‘shut up, henderson, hurry up and walk” you shove the mirror into your bag, though secretly hoping steve would think the same about your appearance as dustin said.
the jingle of the bell had both steve and robin groaning, friday was always their busiest day, especially at this time. that groan quickly disappeared when they saw who walked through the door.
“hey, bitches!” dustin basically yells, you wince at the volume suddenly feeling immensely embarrassed, why on earth were you here?
robin laughs, “hey, bitches!” she copies, making you chuckle lightly, letting dustin drag you by the arm up to the desk.
despite the laughter, robin receives a little slap on the arm from steve, “don’t call her a bitch” he hissed under his breath. robin gives him the cheekiest smile ever, “hello, henderson and miss doctor” she waves at you lightly.
you smile warmly, lifting your hand up, “hey robin,” your eyes flicker to steve, “hey, steve” you let out a slow breath taking in his appearance, how could he make that ugly green vest hot? steve smiles back at you, “hey, y/n” you smile back at him.
“y/n here wanted a recommendation for a movie” dustin says to steve, you whip your head to him.
“no, you wanted a movie” you correct, he shakes his head with a shrug, “i have no idea what you’re talking about” you could kill him.
“i can help you out if you want?” steve says softly, softer than he intended. he clears his throat quickly when your eyes meet.
“oh, okay” you nod, he cocks his head towards the shelf, gesturing for you to come with him, you give dustin a glare when he turns, flipping him off.
of course that’s when steve turns, seeing you flip off dustin cheekily, steve lets out a boyish laugh, one that you knew was gonna send you into a spiral for the rest of your life.
“he’s such a little shit” steve shakes his head, looking at you sheepishly. you smile at him, “he’s so annoying” you say with affection, following steve through the isles.
“so, anything in particular that you’re looking for?” steve says slowly, voice so smooth you swear you could melt into the carpet of the store.
“um, anything really” you respond, you’re slightly brushing his as he walked next to you. you both look down at each other’s shoulders at the same time, “sorry” falling out of both of your lips simultaneously followed by a gentle exchange of laughter.
“i mean, this is always classic” he says, picking up the breakfast club, you give him a surprised smile. “i didn’t expect steve harrington to watch something like this” he rolls his eyes with a smile.
“i’m not the same person i was in high school, you know?” you respond quickly, “i know” saying it in a way that made his heart flutter.
you were seeing him for who he was now, not solely on his past that he knew you had knowledge on.
“and do you cry at the ending?” you smirk, dustin was right, fuck you were hot when you had that cheeky glint in your eye.
“i mean” he shrugs, “do you?” he quips back, you look at him challengingly. “i asked you first” he grins, “and i’m asking now” he says low, making you shudder, you really hope it wasn’t evident.
you let out an uneasy breath and he seems to do the same, “yeah, i do” you say confidently, “and so do i” he matches you.
“i think i’ll take your suggestion, harrington” you're driving him up a wall.
“well, good, still employee of the month” he jokes, “do you have a little plaque with your face on it?” you giggle, “yes ma’am, i do” he smiles at you from his side.
you let out a laugh, “sorry, that’s just cute” you break out your fit of giggle. he looks like you just told him you stopped all the supernatural shit happening in the town. “it’s okay” you’d both reached the counter.
“soo, i had an idea” dustin said, “oh no” you gasp, steve laughs, you both look at each other, a sheepish glance.
“shut up, i was thinking you guys should come to mine and watch the movie you picked. all the kids are coming and i thought you guys should come too”
robin nods, “we’re in”, steve gives a look, “how do you know i don’t have plans, henderson?” steve scoffs, you smile at him and look to dustin.
“yeah dusty, i’ll come” steve’s eyes widen at your words, “okay fine, i’ll come” he looks at dustin too, dustin gives him the biggest smile you’ve ever seen from your time of knowing him.
—
you went home to change into more comfortable clothes, driving yourself to the henderson household after. you knock nervously on the door, you can hear the kids yelling, and you can most definitely hear dustin pushing steve to answer the door.
“this is your house, dickhead” steve says angrily behind the door, you can't help but laugh, steve opens the door and all that anger quickly disappears.
he gives you a private smile, one just for you to see. you smile back at him, “hi, y/n” dustin says cheerily, “hey” steve greets after, “hey, guys, long time no see” you joke, it had been about an hour since you last saw them.
they both chuckle at your words, steve steps aside to let you in, pushing dustin from blocking your path.
“just letting you know, they’ve started with the sugar, they’re gonna be bouncing off the wall” he whispers to you softly, the butterflies swarm your stomach at the tone he uses with you. you sigh loudly.
“of course they did” looking at steve, he’s already looking at you, he’s completely caught off guard when you glance at him. you both pause in the entry way, breaking eye contact when robin and the rest of the kids greet you.
“hey, guys” you smile, taking a seat on the couch, next to robin. steve sits on the arm chair next to you, you both smile at each other before robin gets in conversation with you. steve’s eyes flicker to you often, the breakfast club filling up the light hearted atmosphere of the friday night.
you look so beautiful with the glow of the tv on your face, your features softened in the dark room. robin catches steve looking.
“steve, can we swap seats i can’t see” she looks at him, you follow her gaze, steve looks confused “you’re in front of the tv” she nods, “yeah, i know, dingus, you’re closer to the tv though” she points out like it’s obvious.
steve huffs, standing from his seat, he sits next to you, though still a little far from being at your side.
you smirk at him, “harrington, i don’t bite, you know?” you whisper, he glances at you with a smile, shuffling over on the couch until his arm is almost pressed against yours.
“i don’t know, you seem like a biter” he flirts, you choke on a laugh. you’re so fucked.
“w-whatever” you scoff, pulling your legs up on the couch, bumping his knee in the process. he looks down, breath hitched at the sensation. you let out a hushed apology, he shakes his head immediately assuring it's okay.
you feel like you’re breathing loudly, you feel like you’re shaking, your head is completely hazy. steve however is convinced he’s not breathing, he can’t tell if he’s dreaming.
you’re sitting so close, your scent is deep in his lungs, every time he adjusts himself, your arms or knees brush against each other and it's driving him crazy.
you both watch the movie intently, and when the ending nears, you and steve both glance at each other knowingly, smiles exchanged knowing it was about to get sad. the kids are complaining about the movie choice, restless.
“shut up we’re finishing it” steve gives a look to the kids.
you and steve tear up at the ending, you wipe your tears quickly with your hand, steve using the collar of his shirt to wipe at his eyes. you both let out a quiet laugh, a comfortable feeling of intimacy washing over the moment.
he nudges your shoulder with his, urging you to look at him, when your eyes meet, he smiles softly, “you okay?” he’s so sweet.
you nod, “you?” he nods quickly, eyes flickering over your face in a way that literally made you flatline.
unknowingly, there was a left over tear on your chin, steve’s curled finger gently brushes the spare tear away before he has time to think about it, the gentle touch on your jaw making you slightly jump.
“sorry” he’s back to reality, you shake your head, “no no, that’s okay” you say quietly, his mouth is slightly agape, snapped out of his trance when dustin breaks the silence in the room.
“what a downer, i’m putting aliens on” the kids agree immediately. you roll your eyes, leaning close to steve to speak quietly.
“they have no taste,” you tutt, steve laughs, the sound going right to your heart. “agreed” he smiled, a real smile. a genuine one and to know it’s just for you makes you want to scream.
your moment was quickly interrupted because it was way too good to be true.
“i want watermelon” robin says, the kids agree, all looking to steve, “what?” his eyebrow raised, “go cut it” dustin quips.
steve groans, “why do i always have to do it?” you laugh, and steve follows the sound, he can’t fight the little grin playing at his lips.
“because you do, go” robin smiles, steve throws his head back with exaggeration, head falling on the back of the couch leaving you with an extremely close up view of his neck. fuck. you feel hot.
steve gets up like he’s pissed, “well i’m not doing it alone, you’re my sacrifice” steve smirks at you, his hand extending to you.
you laugh, “alright, harrington, i’ll supervise you” you shot back with a smug smile, taking his hand gently as he helps you up. you hear some hushed whispers and giggles, you don’t miss the way robin winks at you.
he doesn’t let your hand drop until you reach the kitchen, you sit at the kitchen island, watching him move around the kitchen.
the domesticity of the situation is something the both of you could get used to.
“those kids, i swear to god” he laughs, beginning to slice the watermelon with diligence. you grin, “they’re cheeky” he chuckles, “more than cheeky, they’re little shits”
you laugh with him, “they can be like that, huh?” you rest your elbows on the island, your chin resting on your joined hands. he looks up at you, your face making him short circuit. the knife slips and he nicks his finger, gasping slightly. “ah” he hissed, shaking his finger as he drops the knife on the cutting board.
you sit up alert immediately, already moving the distance to stand in front of him, “shit, are you okay?” you ask concerned, grabbing a tea towel on the table and holding it around his bleeding finger, holding it up a little over his heart.
he nods, “i’m okay” he tries to reassure you, you shake your head, “no, you’re bleeding” your eyebrows are pinched, you’re basically pressed into him.
you look up at him worried. steve’s eyes meet yours, he’s stopped breathing.
“dustin, bring me your first aid kit” you yell out, your urgency in your voice made dustin bring it immediately.
“everyone okay?” dustin breathes, steve nods, you shake your head, pushing steve backwards to sit in the stool you were just on.
“i just have a small cut on my finger” steve laughs, you narrow your eyes at him, “he’s bleeding” grabbing the first aid from dustin’s hand.
dustin leaves the kitchen quietly after knowing steve was okay. oh steve was more than okay.
you gently clean steve’s cut, focused. steve’s focus however was on you, your soft touch, your slightly worried expression.
“hey” he says gently, you don’t look up right away, “hey” he repeats, even more softer than the first time.
you look up slowly, he smiles when your gaze meets his.
“i’m okay” you nod.
“i know” his smile only grows.
“it’s a tiny cut, sweetheart” you nod again.
“i know” you huff, wrapping a bandaid around the tip of his pointer finger.
“good as new” you smile, he returns it, “good practice for you hm?” he teases.
“oh yeah, best patient i’ve had” he gasps, hand on his chest, “what an honour!” you laugh.
“thanks for putting me back together” you pat his shoulder, “my pleasure” you know you were exaggerating, but hey, that was worth it in your opinion.
“let me finish this up,” you wash your hands, moving to cut the watermelon.
“okay but don’t cut yourself, i’m not a doctor” he grins at you, resting his forearms on the island, giving you a clear view of his biceps. you shake your head, “don’t start with me, harrington”
–
when you went home that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about steve. there was genuinely no other thought in your brain it was worrying.
as you lay on your bed, comfy in your pjs, freshly showered, the doorbell rang. you sit up confused, walking down the hallway to open the door, and there stood steve, not even an hour after he saw you.
“hey” he smiles.
“are you stalking me, harrington?” you cross your arms with a surprised smile gracing your lips, he looks down embarrassed before meeting your gaze again.
“i asked dustin where you lived and he gave it up straight away, not very trustworthy” he utters, you smile shaking your head, typical dustin.
“do you wanna come in?” you smile, he nods, stepping into your house, looking around with a fond smile.
“you gonna give me the grand tour?” he smirks, you roll your eyes guiding around the house until you reach your room. he steps in, looking around. he feels at home, it was so you, he was smitten.
you watch him from the doorway, “so what are you doing here?” you question, he looks at you, sucking in a breath.
“i don’t know, honestly” he shrugs, stepping a little closer to you, “i just..wanted to see you” he says earnestly, you look at him with an unreadable expression.
he moves closer, standing right in front of you. he’s breathing heavily, contemplation evident in his expression.
“y/n” he says simply, “tell me if i’m reading this wrong, please” his eyes bore into yours, you shake your head carefully. “no, you’re not” your breathing picks up.
you both just stand like that for a moment, feeling like it was hours just looking at each other. calculating the next move.
“can i?” he asks nervously, looking down at your lips, you chuckle, “yeah, stevey” he almost groans, his hand moving to the back of your head and the other completely wrapped around your waist, pressing himself into your body.
the moment his lips touched yours, you were both gone.
it was languid, soft and passionate all at the same time. your hand rests on his arm, the other cupping his jaw, thumb affectionately rubbing back and forth on his stubble. he shudders against your lips, tongue licking into your mouth with purpose and intention.
“you’re so” he mumbles into your mouth, kissing you again, you hum against his mouth curiously.
“beautiful” kiss, “you’re so beautiful” he whispers against your lips.
you inhale sharply, lips still moving against his. you pull away for a second, he’s chasing your lips immediately, a peck pressed on your mouth.
you smile, “you’re so handsome, stevey honey” you whisper, each word hitting his lips, a cool sensation.
he grins so brightly, pulling you back in for another kiss. he walks back clumsily as you push him further into your room, lips never leaving each other.
—
“so how is y/n?” steve asks dustin, the younger boy choosing to pester him at work. you and steve hadn’t told anyone that you two were official.
you were both choosing to keep it private as it's new. well..you tried to at least.
dustin smiles, “she’s good, i keep catching her smiling randomly at nothing though, it’s weird” steve smiles immediately, scratching the back of his neck.
“oh really, wonder why” he mumbles, dustin gives him a weird look, “yeah..” he goes back to scribbling things he needs for an upcoming campaign.
steve looks like an idiot, smiling a little too brightly while rewinding tapes, even though it's something that angers him immensely.
the bell on the door rings, and you walk in with a smile, steve knows its you before you even come closer.
you pause when you see dustin, “oh, dustin, hey!” dustin looks at you confused, “what are you doing here?” you shrug.
“wanted a movie” you smile at steve, he’s looking at you like you personally aligned each constellation with your bare hands.
“oh okay” he looks at you with intrigue, you clear your throat.
“hey, steve, mind recommending something?” steve nods way too eagerly. robin comes out of the break room, giving you both a look, you were both acting really weird.
steve walks ahead of you, ducking behind an isle. his hands cup your face and he pulls you into a kiss before you can say anything, you smile into it, your arms wrapping around his neck.
“i missed you” you mumble between kisses, he groans against your mouth, “oh, baby, you have no idea” he huffs, quieting your giggles with repeated kisses to your lips.
what you didn't know is dustin and robin followed, and screamed when they saw you locking lips behind an isle, looking anything but pg13.
“oh my god” robin exclaims, dustin is completely shocked. steve pulls away, resting his forehead on your shoulder with a deep sigh leaving his lips.
you look at both of them sheepishly, “hey guys, stevey just helped me pick a movie” he chuckles into your skin, lips kissing your collarbone, making you ticklish.
“stevey?” dustin marvels, eyes looking like they're gonna pop out of his head, he never thought his plan with robin would work.
steve stands up confidently, “yes, stevey. she’s my girlfriend and i’m taking her home now” he looks at them, dragging you by the hand to his car outside.
“you owe us an explanation!” robin calls after you two, steve shakes his head, “nope” he calls out, opening the door for you.
“bye guys” you say quickly, being pushed out by steve by your hips.
dustin and robin look at each other in surprise, watching as you two drove off.
when you and jeon jeongguk's paths cross again, you question if having a crush on the school's emo and alternative boy was really just a phase, or if it was true love after all.
⌗ repost. from the grande series.
pairing tattoo artist!jk x fem reader
genre fluff, smut, grumpy & sunshine, f2l
contents jk 24 | oc 24, jk thinks he's too cool for love, oc suffers from a chronic case of "i can fix him", she eventually does, oc simps HARDDD and jk only pretends to be unaffected, yea he's a bit of a dick sometimes but he's also Very funny, description of panic attacks, male masturbation, kissing, idk what else to add i just rly rly love them and will think of them for the entirety of xmas season
word count 10k ish
author’s note HAPPY DECEMBER LOVIEKU NATION!!! you know we had to start xmas szn with a banger… i missed them sm and i hope u can show this couple much love again 🩷 i know i said i’d be back with something new but unfortunately i’ve been feeling so burnt out and i’m positive this is going to be my last fic upload of the year. jus wanna thank u for welcoming me back 💋 and see u again so soon
banner by my sunshine love most talented @voyter 🩷
On the first day of December, your path crosses with thee Jeon Jeongguk’s after enough years for your brain to trip slightly before recognising him. But it would have been impossible not to — there’s likely a whole, well-preserved section of your thinking organ dedicated to that mortifying phase of high school.
The moment your eyes widen at having him stand in front of you, you’re yanked unceremoniously into the past, brought back to buried, locked and left to gather dust feelings that have your teenage self’s screams echoing within you.
Jeongguk, on the other hand, is simply following his duties as a tattoo artist. When he catches sight of you next to his appointed client on such a breezy day, the cold December air starting to find its space even in the confines of his studio, he only nods his chin upward at you in slow recognition.
It’s awkward, at first. Only because you make it.
You’d volunteered to accompany Eunbi, your best friend, to get her first tattoo as an early Christmas self-gift. Your mission was clear: support her, hold her hand if the pain became unbearable (though you’re probably the least dependable person when it comes to making clarity in situations of panic, as seen right now), and be the first to bask in her excitement as she finally sees what she’s always pictured to be inked on the skin of her forearm. A blue whale tattoo, large enough to make you wince just thinking about the needlework.
You’d never go through something like that. Never.
And that’s exactly what’s showing on your face when you’re met with Jeongguk’s full sleeve of tattoos, leaving you rooted to the spot.
You’d always known him to be the different kid, the quiet one with forced sharp eyes that canonically listened to alternative rock and glared at anyone who dared approach, whether to tease him or befriend him. He’d convinced himself that no one could ever understand him.
See, you’d fooled yourself into thinking you were the exception. That you did understand him.
Fourteen-year-old you had gone through some weird phases, and the one that resurfaces now at the vision of his adult self is the one centered entirely around him. You unashamedly had the biggest crush on Jeongguk. To you, he was mysterious and edgy in an effortlessly cool way.
You’d tried everything. Offered him your lunch more times than you were left with any for yourself. Even cut your bangs to have them fall over your eyes to mimic his fringe, dyed a strand blue. None of it worked. He never noticed.
Yet, thinking of it now, there’s no way he didn't. How could any boy ignore a lovesick girl’s heartfelt Valentine’s letter who almost cried on the spot when she got rejected?
Jeongguk just chose to willingly ignore it.
These are all valid reasons as to why your functions seem to slow down in his unexpected presence. And you’re not going to deny nor fake that his calm, almost detached demeanor doesn’t flow through your body and right to your left eye, making it twitch with a slight tremor.
Jeongguk has changed drastically but he’s also stayed the same. You think fourteen-year-old him would be proud of where he is right now. Two piercings on his lower lip and one on his eyebrow, intricate ink tracing up his muscled arm, his… muscled arms. Wow.
And then, his studio. His own studio, a place for him and his passion, one that he made into his job. That’s undeniably cool.
Maybe just not cool enough for you to be gaping like an idiot as he moves with purpose, adjusting your friend’s arm to position the stencil he had prepared, perfectly fitting in the space she had chosen. His muscles flex with every shift, and it’s impossible for you to go past that with the way the black beater he’s wearing is loose on his torso, but still clinging on his chest.
Eunbi notices, of course. You don’t have time to feel embarrassed and in return she doesn’t even try to hide her amusement when your usual chatter dries up entirely, only gulping obnoxiously noisily and alternating that with nervous silences. Jeongguk, too, catches on.
He’d always known you as obnoxious and noisy. In, like, a good way. Or whatever.
Jeongguk just agrees that you were (and probably still are, if the pastel yellow skirt softly flowing down your legs paired with a cozy baby pink sweater and the full toothed grin you shoot at your friend are any indicators) the pinpoint embodiment of his opposite. You’ve always been talkative, smiley and friendly, eager to help and to receive help, not in the slightest ever turning down the opportunity to blabber on, and on, and on.
Honestly, Jeongguk doesn’t think he ever truly listened to a single word of your rambling back in the day, especially during those times when you’d bounce up to him and launch into enthusiastic rants about obscure alternative bands he hadn’t even heard of. He respected the hustle, though.
Yet, he much preferred when you were less trying so hard to be him and mirror his tastes, more when you gave up on impressing him and simply stayed true to yourself, the girl whose heart belonged to Justin Bieber and One Direction. Truthfully, he fucked with them. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. His brooding image wouldn’t survive that revelation.
What he respected the most was your resilience. After all the times he rejected you and your awkward blurts, you still didn’t think it was enough of a reason for your villain origin story to take off, and instead remained the same frustratingly positive ray of sunshine you’d always been.
Now, as Jeongguk works on the tattoo in front of him, the very one that caused all these long-buried memories to rise back, his dark eyes flick toward you sitting on a stool in a near corner every now and then, a hint of confusion in his expression every time you take more than five seconds to reply to his small talk.
It’s just, you’re a bit taken aback. Since when does he do small talk? The foreign smoothness with which Jeongguk handles interactions is so far removed from the sullen boy you used to know. You’re not prepared for this version of him. It’s disarming, to say the least.
Enough time has passed for you to settle into the odd scenario, your college best friend and your long-standing high school crush in the same room. Slowly but surely, your curiosity sparkles again, and the signature tendency to let thoughts tumble out of your mouth unchecked returns to you naturally.
“Ouch, that looks painful.”
Jeongguk snorts, eyes trained on Eunbi’s arm as he glides the tattoo needle with precise strokes that have his brows pinching and the tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of his lips, a habit you remember from the past but one you’ve never found quite so distracting before.
Still, he multitasks and replies without missing a beat. “Wanna try?”
Wow. This is, like, the longest conversation you’ve ever had with him. It spurs you on to hear more of his voice, the sound of it definitely deeper than the shy tones you struggled to coax out of him ten years ago.
That is probably why you literally lie, “Hm. Maybe. I was thinking of getting one actually. In the future.”
Eunbi chokes on her spit, her chest coughing with the sudden, blatantly fake revelation, and Jeongguk promptly pauses, lifting the needle from her skin as his tattooist reflexes kick in. While your friend apologizes between a clearing of her throat and sinks back into the chair, she doesn’t keep from glaring at you, her expression screaming What the hell are you doing?
You squint your eyes with a quick shake of your head, a loose strand clinging to your glossy lips. You’ll explain everything later and it’ll all make sense. And you know this will inevitably end up being added to the list of the many embarrassing facts she knows about you and threatens you with when she wants to go clubbing and you don’t.
Jeongguk uses the brief interruption to glance up at where you’re perched in the corner of his peripheral vision, just to square you up and down with a skeptical arch of his brow. “Really?”
You scoff, smoothing out the creases on your skirt as if the fabric is somehow responsible for the lie you just told. “Is that shocking?”
He hums, returning to his work with the buzz of the needle filling the studio again, his voice padded the more he gets closer to Eunbi’s forearm. “I just find it hard to believe such a princess like you could handle any pain.”
You gulp.
What you’re getting from this conversation is that Jeongguk has always had an idea of who you are in his mind all along. That he’s always perceived you in some way. As much as your inner fourteen-year-old is swooning at the attention, gobbling up each of the tiny crumbles he’s giving you, it doesn’t sit right with you. What exactly does he think of you?
“Test me.”
He shrugs, eyes fixated on the shade he’s perfectioning with black ink. “Busy now.”
“I’ll go pay for mine. I saw you have one last free spot today,” you announce, the words tumbling out with more confidence than you feel. You’re already on your feet before the sentence is fully formed, betraying the fact that your nosy tendencies had gotten the better of you earlier. You’d discreetly glanced at his appointment book when Jeongguk and Eunbi were finalizing her tattoo details and negotiating the final price at the desk.
He hums, head tilting slightly. “And I wanted to spend it bumming around.”
“Too bad. You’ll have to postpone that.”
You walked into this studio swearing you’d never let a needle even brush you.
Thirty minutes later, you’re stretched out on a leather bench, Jeongguk leaning over you with a stencil in hand, gloved fingers moving with careful precision.
The design you’d chosen came from his portfolio — a delicate illustration of two butterflies in motion, their soft threads intertwining. You’d flipped through countless pages of bold skulls and intricate linework before settling on this.
The spot you’d chosen for the tattoo was the flat, firm plane between your breasts. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just a place you’d always liked. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that nature hadn’t exactly blessed you in the cleavage department. Subconsciously, perhaps, you thought that adding something there might give the illusion of more.
“Tehe,” you can’t stop the breathy giggle that escapes as the cool paper brushes against your skin. Your hand is pressed to your bra, holding it in place as best you can, though the situation feels so surreal it’s hard to focus on anything but the ridiculousness of it all.
Jeongguk glances up at you with a glare that’s more exasperated than angry before returning to the delicate task at hand. “What’s funny?”
Your voice wobbles. “I just— I tend to laugh during serious moments.”
“Oh. Weird.”
“Sorry.”
With a small sigh, he smooths the stencil, and once it’s transferred he hands you a square mirror, waiting for your approval. You nod, the butterflies now perfectly poised in their eternal dance, and Jeongguk doesn’t waste a moment.
The buzz of the needle fills the room as he leans closer, one gloved hand resting on the upper part of your chest to steady himself. He’s mere seconds from beginning the inking process when another laugh bubbles out of you.
Jeongguk sits back abruptly, dropping his pen onto the metal tray with an audible clink. Tilting his head, he levels you with a look of thinly veiled irritation. “I really can’t work if your chest keeps moving.”
“Sorry,” you blurt again, turning your head to face the wall. You clamp your lips together tightly, mentally scrolling through every sad memory you can conjure. Think of something awful. Your childhood dog dying. Okay, maybe not that sad—
“You haven’t changed a bit since high school. Always smiling like you live surrounded by flowers and rainbows.” Jeongguk’s mutter vibrates against your chest, warm breath fanning over the cold skin, almost distracting you from your no-giggling mission.
The unexpected observation has your brows furrowing in a mildly offended frown, and banter is ready on your tongue. “You’re just the same too, Gguk. The emo boy who thinks he’s too cool for a smile.”
“I’m not an emo boy. The fuck,” he scoffs, kissing his teeth and murmuring more of his indignation under his breath.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night. I can teach you.”
The whirring needle glides across your skin with a slightly firmer touch, making you hiss softly under your breath. He seems unbothered by the reaction, and instead bothered by your words. “Teach me what.”
“How to smile a bit more,” you reply, your voice laced with mockery as you keep your gaze firmly fixed on the wall. The smirk playing on your lips is triumphant; he walked right into your little jab, hehe.
Before you can get anything else out, maybe something about how his black eyeliner era made him look ridiculous (though that would be lie number two of the day) Jeongguk straightens his posture, pulling away from your chest. With a practiced motion, he tosses one of his gloves onto the counter behind him, his expression cool and indifferent. “It’s done.”
“Done?” You exclaim, tilting your chin down to look at your chest. You go slightly cross-eyed trying to catch a glimpse of the design now inked onto your skin. Forever.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t even feel it.”
Jeongguk seems equally done with small talk, transitioning into a professional explanation of the tattoo’s aftercare steps. His tone is calm but clipped, and you can’t tell if it’s his usual work demeanor or if it’s reserved just for you. He also hands you a small tube of cream of which you’re not sure the use of, too enthralled by the vision of his colored sleeve this up close.
And still laying on the leather bed, you almost reach to trace one of the many lines with your finger before he interrupts, “You can pay with Yoongi at the entrance.”
Clearing your throat, you sit up, brushing imaginary dust off your skirt as Jeongguk turns his broad back to you, focusing on cleaning his tools. You still are not over, though. “Thank you, Jeongguk. Can I— huh. Can I get your number?”
He pauses mid-motion, just long enough for the silence to stretch awkwardly. Turning around to study your features, he stares you up and down with knitted brows and a hostile kind of confusion painting his expression. “…For what exactly?”
“In case anything happens with the tattoo.”
Jeongguk stills for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, then turns back to what’s keeping him so occupied with a noncommittal grunt. “Huh. Sure. Yoongi has my business cards at the desk. You can ask him. Have a good day.”
With Eunbi practically dragging you out of the room, you don’t have the chance to say anything more, though your chest burns with indignation. It’s not that you expect him to fall over himself at the opportunity of catching up, but the sheer indifference is maddening.
Should you pretend you don’t care either? You could. But really, who are you fooling? You still have those old diaries buried somewhere in your childhood room closet, their pages crammed with his name written in looping, lovesick cursive. That little girl in you never truly died.
On the fourth day of December, you finally text him. It’s about your tattoo, of course. There’s not much else to say to him, but when his only reply to your picture of the healing process is a yellow thumbs up, you find your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Words start forming before you’ve fully processed them, and then you’re hitting send.
You [3:39 p.m]: btw you still friends with kim tae?
jeongguk [3:42 p.m.]: Yeah
You [3:43 p.m.]: ohhh cool
jeongguk [3:45 p.m.]: What, you want his number?
You [3:46 p.m.]: no i’m good with yours ☺️
You can’t help but giggle at how his typing bubbles appear and then fade, biting your lower lip with a sheepish grin. Your fourteen-year-old self would’ve squealed at the thought of making Jeon Jeongguk flustered. But you’re a different girl now. You’ve changed. No man could ever reject—
jeongguk [3:48 p.m.]: If there’s nothing else about the tattoo then 👋
“Hmph,” your frown is so pronounced that you feel your chin aching and your wrinkles prematurely deepening. Well, this is not the first time you come face first with his sour antics. Only now, you’re prepared.
You [3:48 p.m.]: y’all hanging out soon? i’ll join
jeongguk [3:49 p.m.]: Why lol
jeongguk [3:49 p.m.]: He barely even remembers you probs
You [3:50 p.m.]: who would not remember me
jeongguk [3:50 p.m.]: The only thing I’m now remembering about you is how I couldn’t stand your ass
You gasp, hand coming up to brush against your parted lips. With a huff, you hastily click at your keyboard, “Mean. Sent. Ugh.”
On the sixth day of December your persistence pays off, and you find yourself at a random bar you’d never been to before, seated with both Jeongguk and Taehyung.
Between Jeongguk’s cigarette breaks—forcing the three of you to brave the cold outside—and brief moments in corners of the cramped place where the music felt muffled against the walls, you managed to catch up with Taehyung. The rest of the time though, the noise inside was so deafening that it made any kind of meaningful conversation impossible.
Even more when a random girl slides into the booth next to him, capturing his attention entirely, leaving you and Jeongguk in silence.
The tattoo artist has been glued to his phone with his head down for the last 20 minutes, and now you alternate between observing his side profile, roughened by the piercings and a more defined jawline, and analysing the weird dynamic that is beginning to form between Taehyung and the girl, sitting in front of you.
Alone with your thoughts and, well, the pulsating music, you feel yourself getting unreasonably closer to symptoms you know all too well, that threaten to have you spiraling. You shake your head, forcing it to stop. There’s no reason for anxiety to visit you at such an inconvenient time.
But of course, the little voice in your head starts listing all the totally valid motives why this is indeed the perfect time for it to visit you.
The bar feels suffocating on your skin.
Your dress clings too tightly.
The couple facing you is shamelessly close to making out.
Jeongguk sighs in visible boredom.
You shouldn’t have come. Hell, you shouldn't have even suggested it. A smarter version of yourself would have at least brought Eunbi along for balance, for comfort. But in your foolishness, you thought this could be an opportunity for you and Jeongguk to catch up. Instead, you feel foreign to him, foreign to this pub booth, and the air begins to feel foreign to your lungs.
You’ve never liked bars, clubs, or any loud places.
You sniffle, looking down at your lap. Then up at the ceiling. Then around the room. It keeps spinning and booming with volume that only adds to the feeling of helplessness. Quick, quick, quick.
What are five things that you can see?
Five. Your gaze falls on Taehyung and the girl, their lips and tongues clumsily entangled as they laugh between sloppy kisses. No help there. The air catches harder in your throat.
Four. Your empty glass, its smudged rim a reminder of the single drink you had, now sitting uncomfortably in your stomach.
Three. Your scuffed heels, their tips worn to the nub despite your best efforts to hide it with a marker.
Two. The swirling lights above the bar, dizzying as they flash brighter and brighter.
One. Jeongguk’s tattooed hand on your thigh.
His fingers dig into the skin, shaking you alarmedly, with a force you’ve never known from him, not even when it came to stopping your shaking stomach as you were laying on the studio’s leather bed.
Head snapping up to face him, you’re met with a perfect resemblance of how you must look right now. Wide eyes, knitted brows, nose flaring and exhaling, and you try to follow the movements of his mouth, but the words jumble together annoyingly in your brain.
You lean closer, narrowed orbs still fixated on his lips to try and read them. Are… you… ok—
“___, you’re scaring me. Hey, hello? Are you okay?”
Jeongguk moves from your thigh to your shoulders, jolting you gently but firmly from the fog that is threatening to cloud up your brain. Sudden clarity hits you, but weakness still has you stumbling forward, your weight toppling over his chest. With it, your head dips rapidly, hurtling toward the sharp edge of the table, and before Jeongguk knows it his instinct snaps and he catches you promptly.
The next steps blur together. You vaguely register the boy next to you standing up and pulling you along with him, his broad shoulders supporting one of your arms while his inked one secures around the small of your waist, holding you firmly against him.
Then, it’s nothing but brief flashes.
Jeongguk pressing a water bottle to your lips.
Sitting you down on the stairs outside the pub.
Holding your hair back as you double over, emptying the contents of your stomach onto the pavement.
Cracking a smile to make you laugh, trying to distract you by giving an exaggerated description of each one of his arm tattoos like it’s the grandest tour of your life.
Opening the door to his car and gently easing you into the passenger seat, ensuring the seatbelt clicks into place.
Inside his car, you slowly feel your senses come back to you.
At a redlight that you recognise as the one near your apartment complex, you muster a small and hoarse thank you. Jeongguk only hums low, eyes fixated on the road and fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.
Before a sheepish smile can make its way on your lips and spread across your face, your head twitches back as your brows furrow. Your thoughts suddenly catch up with you, “Hey, how do you know the way to my flat?”
His gaze briefly flicks toward you in annoyance, then back to the road. “You literally just told me.”
“Oh.” A beat passes before you giggle softly. “Don’t remember.”
Jeongguk mutters something intelligible under his breath, and next thing you know he’s turning down your street and slowing in front of the building that matches the number you gave him. Given your current state, he begins to question if that is even the right one.
“This one!” You point at the tall front gate with an almost childlike excitement, back shifting slightly from the seat as your grin stretches wide.
Jeongguk grimaces. Why the fuck do you look like you’ve been reuinted with your home after years apart, as if you weren’t there just a couple hours ago?
“Right. Huh, you good with going back on your own?”
“Yes. I’d hate to bother you further. I’m sorry for this, I… was getting better, I guess.”
The sad confession doesn’t land with the weight it should, softened by the smile painted on your lips and the chuckle you let out as if it were nothing. Jeongguk’s eyelid twitches, unsettled by the unnecessary happiness that always seems to drip from you, even when it shouldn’t belong.
“‘S okay. Have a good night,” he awkwardly bows his head, waiting for you to exit the car. When you stay still, he clears his throat, adding just to fill the silence, and maybe because he means it. “Huh, and make sure to rest a lot.”
You take a moment, maybe longer than you should, to study his features up this close. You particularly fixate on the way his eyes dart everywhere but never land on yours. Then, with your signature toothy grin, you bow back and open the car door, leaving with a string of thank yous, and get home safe, and I’ll text you, and please, reply to me, and bye.
Jeongguk has to fight a smile of his own.
On the tenth day of December, you realise you want him. Even more badly than your fourteen-year-old self ever did. Which is frankly insane.
You don’t know if it was the natural way he looked after you during your episode, or his dry sarcasm and how he actually started replying to your random updates throughout the day.
But no, it was definitely the selfie he sent you after what he said was a long day. Messy hair, tired eyes, a hint of a smile.
You’d struggled to even gulp down your saliva when the picture popped up in your chat, and maniacally stared at it with eyes glued to the bright screen before sending one of your own. He had replied with Cute followed by Your hair pin is cute.
That is why you find yourself facing… Yoongi? If you remember correctly. The guy at the front desk of Jeongguk’s studio.
You beam at him, and what you’re met with instead is a confused stare. You inhale, “Hi. Is Jeongguk in?”
Yoongi scratches his head, muttering. “He’s busy with a client.”
“Oh. It’s okay,” you wave off his concern. “Can I wait here?”
The boy hesitates, looks unsure the more your interaction develops, and he glances between you and the empty waiting area. He relents with furrowed brows. “Sure… Huh, It’s a back tattoo, so it’ll take him a while.”
You shrug and plop yourself onto the leather sofa, seemingly unfazed. “I like waiting.”
Crossing your legs, you take in the studio’s atmosphere, eyes drifting to the dark walls lined with framed artwork and certificates. You spot Jeongguk’s name on many of those.
For the next fifteen minutes, you try distracting yourself by flipping through the stack of tattoo magazines on the coffee table. You wince at inked heads, faces, butts, and even… more private parts. Deciding this world is definitely not for you, you slam the book shut.
By the time an hour passes, you’re fighting a battle with your lack of sleep. The third yawn you manage to stifle, but the fourth escapes before you can stop it. Yoongi, seated at the desk, doesn’t bother hiding his unimpressed stare. Still, he’s polite enough to offer you a glass of water, a coffee, or even a chance to join him for a cigarette break.
You decline all of it, though your throat does feel dry.
Maybe you should have planned this with a bit of rationality. Or at least gotten more sleep. Now, your every blink is slower, eyelids batting to shut and taking longer to flutter open again. Hm, this feels nice. You’ll just let them rest for a bit longer. And longer. And a bit more.
The next time you open your eyes, Jeongguk’s face is inches away, his warm hand resting firmly on your arm. You jolt upright with a startled yelp.
“Jeongguk.”
He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up with it in an unmistakably mocking smirk. “Hey. You don’t have a bed?”
You sit up, forcing Jeongguk to step back and straighten to his full height. Your neck cranes upward to glare at him, brows furrowed in what you hope is an intimidating glare, though you sport a pout that is all but menacing. “Shut up.”
He tsks, turning back to round the desk and fiddle with the appointment book, clearly unbothered. You take the moment to rub your eyes—only to remember, too late, that you’d worn makeup. A quick glance around reveals how much has changed since you fell asleep. The lights in the studio are dim, the hallway is dark, and every door is shut. Yoongi is nowhere in sight.
It’s just the two of you in the deathly quiet space.
You gasp, pressing a hand to your parted lips. “Did I fall asleep? I'm so sorry. I was probably really tired from yesterday.”
Jeongguk hums, focus still locked on the book in front of him, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t ask why you came here in the first place, and doesn’t acknowledge your apology. Ugh. This is humiliating.
Before you can stand, you feel something heavy draped over your body. It’s a jacket. Definitely not yours, since you never took it off. At least not consciously. No, this is a worn black leather one on which his scent lingers.
You tug it closer, puzzled, and then look up at him, holding it out. “Did I steal this in my sleep?”
Jeongguk scrunches his nose, “Ew, are you a sleepwalker?” Locking the till, he strolls over to you and plucks the jacket from you, casually slipping it on. “No, I put it on you. Wanted to see how long someone could feel safe enough to pass out in my studio. Thinking of turning this place into a daycare. I’ll have you play in the morning, get some lunch, nap time...”
There’s a beat of silence in which his sarcasm lingers in the air, and you stare at him, unamused. He shrugs, smirk unwavering.
You huff. “I regret coming here.”
“Yeah, why did you come here?”
Smoothing down your pink wool sweater, you stand up to stretch with zero shame. Then, fluttering your lashes at him, you assert with a smile. “You’re coming with me to the Christmas markets. This Sunday.”
Jeongguk groans like the idea physically pains him. “Oh, I would fucking hate that.”
Ignoring him, you zip up your puffer jacket and rock on your toes. “Pick me up at seven, okay?”
He glares, unimpressed at your excitement, before heading toward the entrance and pulling a hefty set of keys from his pocket. “I don’t even remember where you live.”
You hurry after him, following him outside and shuffling closer in your coat at the cold air hitting you. Watching as he locks the door and pulls down the rolling shutter with its red and black skull graffiti, you chirp. “You’ll have to text me for that.”
Jeongguk rises up again, giving you a slow once-over. He seems distracted by your stretched lips before snorting. “You’re talking like I’m the one who spent their afternoon napping in my studio just to drop this bomb and leave. Couldn’t you just text me this?”
You shrug innocently. He sighs, reaching out for you, “Do you need a ride hom—”
“Bye!”
You spin on your heel and skip off in the opposite direction before he can let his own greeting out, waving a gloved hand behind you. Jeongguk stays where he is, arm still held out.
Do you even have a car? He hopes so— it’s freezing out.
With another sigh, he shakes his head and tugs his jacket tighter around himself. Why are you so fucking weird?
On the fourteenth day of December, your arm is looped tightly through Jeongguk’s as you stroll through the Christmas markets, burying your face further in your scarf to shield against the icy air, and with each few step you gasp at things that the boy next to you finds utterly unimpressive.
You stop at nearly every stand, eyes glowing with the warm fairy lights strung all around, effortlessly picking up conversations with the vendors and melting even the most stoic faces with the scrunching of your nose and exaggerated nods.
Through all of it, Jeongguk remains put at your side, his arm linked with yours and a subtle pout on his lips. When you tease him about it, he simply shrugs, and you figure it’s just his natural expression. You find that oddly endearing.
He still humors your enthusiasm, offering low hums or murmured praise whenever you exclaim you’ve finally found what you’ve been searching for everywhere, and he offers to pay every time, the gesture so casual that he doesn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest.
When you bow to the nth seller, clutching yet another bag of sweet treats tightly to your chest, Jeongguk exhales and resumes slow walking beside you. “I don't like these places.”
You glance up at him, fluffy beanie almost slipping off before he promptly secures it back on your head with a gesture so smooth you hardly notice it.
You instead wonder, “Then why are we here now?”
He slips his hand into his pocket. “Because you threatened me.”
“With a really good time.”
“If this is your version of a good time, might as well kick me in the balls. That probably feels better.”
You gasp, halting in your tracks to glare at him. When he lets a small chuckle topple out of him, you think you might forgive him. No, you’re more than sure with the way his smile lingers.
You sheepishly look away, muttering, “Don’t tempt me, emo boy.”
“I’m not—”
“Oh yes, you are,” you interrupt, snapping your face back to his. Clearing your throat, you exaggerate a frown and lower your voice. “I’m so different, I hate Christmas.”
Jeongguk scoffs, pulling you tighter to him when a scooter unexpectedly zips past you. You yelp, instinctively shuffling closer to his arm.
He continues the conversation casually, unaffected. “That’s the worst impression of me I’ve ever heard. And also, I never said that.”
Releasing the breath you held for a moment too long, you uncertainly keep your slow stroll going, only narrowing your orbs at him. “It’s written all over your face.”
“I love Christmas.”
The admission is small, his voice soft and almost reluctant, like it pains him to reveal something as simple and obvious as loving Christmas. When you lean your chin on the puffed arm of his jacket, he doesn’t look down at you, his gaze fixed ahead, guiding the two of you through the chaos of the busy street.
You chirp, your steps stumbling. “Really?
Only then he shifts his attention to you, steadying you with his other arm wrapping around your figure in what seems like a hug, before he lifts you up by the neck of your coat and retreats just enough to face you.
His lips press into a straight line as he nods, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes the more he stares in yours. “Yeah, really. I just don’t like… crowded spaces.”
You can’t help but think back to what happened just a week ago. The exact reason why the spirals in your brain wouldn’t stop twisting and tangling is now slipping from his lips in a voice that quietens as he seems to grasp the delicacy of his own confession.
He doesn’t like the way you’re looking at him. Drawn-up brows over wide and sparkling eyes—the only part of your face visible beneath your scarf—stare at him with something too tender, too focused, that makes him uneasy.
He turns his head to the side, the tips of his ears red not only from the cold, and pulls you along toward another stand, an almost nervous distraction.
It’s your turn to frown.
Maybe the one that’s permanently plastered on his face tonight isn’t just a reflection of his usual sullen demeanor. With a knot tightening in your chest, you can’t help but feel like you dragged him into something he truly hates, and that he wasn’t just pretending to.
What if this isn’t just your evil inner voice talking? What if this isn’t just overthinking, but the factual truth of your current reality? He’s hating every second of this but still enduring it because— you catch your breath with a long and strained inhale, because—
“Hey, dimples. You okay?”
Jeongguk moves to stand in front of you, his hands settling gently on your shoulders, a stance eerily reminiscent of that night you were just thinking back to.
He nods at you. “Breathe with me, hm?”
You find yourself quickly adjusting to his comforting aura before you can slip, drawn in by the reassurance in his eyes trained on you, never wavering. He watches closely as you begin to mirror the measured rise and fall of his chest, your breathing gradually syncing with his until the tightness in your chest starts to ease.
When you feel your feet touching the ground again, you offer a small, apologetic smile. “I’m okay. Sorry. Just…” You quickly scan your surroundings, eyes landing on a colorful stand. “Wait here a second, okay?”
Jeongguk lets you slip away, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. He takes a few hesitant steps closer, careful not to crowd you but unable to tear his eyes away from your next actions, how your grin comes back on your lips with unpracticed ease, lighting up your face as small talk flows between you and the seller.
Soon you’re holding two churros, their chocolate-dipped ends threatening to drip onto the ground.
You don’t hesitate, biting into one of them before it has the chance to make a mess, and with a quick nod of your head you motion for Jeongguk to follow. He does so, only after taking the churros from your hands, and letting you seek his warmth again with an arm snaking under his.
He’s only letting you do this because it’s fucking cold, no other reason.
You walk, and walk, guiding him along until you find a quieter corner, far from the bustle, where you two stand isolated from the rest. The dim lighting casts a softer glow on his face.
Glancing up at him, you flash a sheepish smile before leaning in to try and bite another chunk of the churro he’s holding. Your laughter spills out as he playfully pulls the sweet away from your reach before giving in with a small grin and a fond look he’s unaware of.
You settle onto a nearby bench, patting the empty spot beside you invitingly.
Jeongguk is unsure of what this means. He takes slow steps towards you, handing you your churro—which you take eagerly, already chewing on it—before tilting his head back in mild confusion. “But… you wanted to visit the markets.”
You shake your head, your bug eyes meeting his as you speak around a mouthful of sugar and chocolate, both literally and metaphorically, your words coated in sweet honesty. “I just wanted to spend time with you. It doesn’t matter where.”
The look you’re giving him is one he’s seen countless times before — familiar, and annoyingly reminiscent of ten years ago. It’s the same look you gave him when the two of you were the only unpaired people left for a chemistry project. The same that you reserved for him when you offered to sit together at lunch, the alternative eating alone.
It’s the same look that, he’s convinced, is solely responsible for making his knees weak and his fingers jittery, no longer something he can blame on the cold.
You’re unbelievably frustrating.
He clicks his tongue, looking away. “You’re fucking weird.”
You giggle, humming. “If weird is a synonym for whipped, then sure.”
He has to fight the twitch of his lips. Fakes a gag instead. You chuckle. Only then, he hints at a smile. “C’mon. Let’s go check out some other stuff.”
“But—”
He interrupts, pulling you up by your forearm. “I’m hungry.”
The next hour you spend wandering around is made of Jeongguk’s small, imperceptible ways of cracking: his lips less scrunched, more relaxed and even hinting up when you try on Christmas hats; his sarcasm less sharp, more playful as he comments on how the old vendor was totally flirting with you, or when he adds to your over-the-top excitement every time you spot a dog. All in all, he’s less tense. More himself.
You then find yourself standing in front of the churros stall from earlier, the warm scent tugging you closer. Without hesitation, you ask the lady behind the counter for another four churros — this time with extra sugar. You add two thank yous.
To fill the wait, you pick up casual conversation with the woman, until she pauses mid-sentence, wrinkled hand coming to rest over her heart as her gaze flits between you and Jeongguk.
Her crinkled eyes light up with a sudden fondness and a content smile finds its space on her chapped lips. “You two look perfect together.”
Jeongguk snorts. “Oh, we’re not—”
“Thank you, auntie!” You chirp, and your grin is so wide it squeezes your eyes into crescents. You accept the first churro she hands over, biting into it and talking through it. “These are delicious. Is the recipe a secret or can you share it with me?”
The woman laughs, clearly flustered by your energy, and leans in with a conspiratorial expression, though she gives in pretty soon. “It is a secret, but… Oh, c’mon. A pretty lady like you deserves to know.”
You burst into chuckles, joined by auntie’s own rolling and carrying a contrasting warmth to the cold air. Jeongguk, for his part, stands slightly to the side, observing. You still cling to his arm, even as the vendor reaches over to gently smooth her fingers through your curls, complimenting the way they frame your face. You roll your eyes shyly and there’s a dimpled smile stretching on your cheeks that gives you away.
Before you leave, the lady points to Jeongguk, voice growing earnest. “You, handsome. I can see you’re a good guy, so you probably don’t need my advice. But treat her right, yes?”
Jeongguk stills for a second and stumbles over an awkward nod, managing to force a smile that has you stifling a laugh under your scarf. You tug him away with a cheerful wave to your new friend, promising her you’ll come visit again before Christmas.
Once you’re at a safe distance, he mutters, “Why did you not tell her that we’re not together?”
You tilt your head considering his question. “It’s not like she knows us. She looked like she adored you. I didn’t want to ruin that for her. Maybe seeing a young couple like us really means a lot to her.”
Jeongguk observes how the more you explain, the more you’re convincing yourself as much as him, eventually solidifying your reasoning as you nod. He scoffs, looking away to hide his lips twitching up.
When he turns back he’s frowning, though it doesn’t quite match the way he lets you hook arms again, with your pastel pink bag that has been hanging on his shoulder ever since you told him it felt too heavy on yours.
Still, he sulks as though the mere thought of your observation has him shivering, and not with the cold. “We’re not a couple.”
Jeongguk barely gets to let his unnecessarily petty comment out before you drag him with an unusual strength over to another stand, his voice seemingly not even touching your ears. “Oh, let’s go over there, Gguk!”
On the twenty-first day or December, you send him a picture of your tattoo.
You had been talking non-stop ever since your… date? Or was it just a hangout?
Whatever it was, it’s been a week, and Jeongguk finds himself smiling at a fucking screen too many times a day for his linking. It’s irritating.
Even brings his phone with him to the bathroom in case you text him. Not because he cares. No, it’s practical. What if you ever had an emergency and he was the only one who could help? Most of the time it’s just you sending TikToks, but he clicks on the links with the same urgency he’d reply to a genuine plea for help.
He doesn’t really want to think of the reason why.
Now, this picture— it catches Jeongguk off guard.
It doesn’t even look like it’s about the tattoo. Not really. It feels like an excuse, a flimsy pretext for you to show yourself to him.
The tattoo — the one he himself inked — is there, yes. But it’s not at all the main focus of the photo that has his grip tightening around his phone.
You’re wearing a thin, white tank top with delicate lace trim, the straps barely clinging to your shoulders. Your fingers hook under the neckline, tugging it down just enough to expose the tattoo nestled between the soft curve of your breasts.
The angle of the shot is deliberate, he can tell.
Your back arches slightly off what he assumes is your bed, and your face is cropped out, save for your glossed lips, full and slightly parted, catching the dim light.
Jeongguk blinks, hard.
Then again.
His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, the low light of his phone screen doing little to soften the image burning itself into his mind. His eyes dart upward, scanning his surroundings, just to make sure everything is in place.
The shop is empty, the door is closed, the hum of quiet settles over the space.
The picture stares back at him paired with a single message.
Dimples [11:39 p.m.]: do you think it’s healed? need your help 🥺
He’s not stupid. He knows exactly what this is.
He alternates between the photo and your words, jaw ticking and tightening more with the seconds flowing.
It’s almost cruel, the way you’re testing him like this. He tries to push the feeling down, to reject the buzz of heat pooling low in his stomach. You know him well enough to know he won’t reply to something like this. An unnecessary question. The tattoo is healed — he told you that a week ago, clear as day. There’s no reason for you to ask again.
What’s the purpose of this, then?
He gets a distorted idea when he shifts uncomfortably in place, the dull ache tightening his pants almost unbearable now.
Jeongguk groans and locks his phone, tossing it onto the counter as if that will put an end to this. He tries to refocus on his tasks, the last ones before he clocks off. Cleaning needles, throwing away used stencils.
But his heavy balls keep sending desperate, silent prayers to his brain, to please let them have this. Just this once.
It’s been a bad day. Two of his appointments canceled last minute, leaving him to sit around bored. The last client showed up drunk and wouldn’t stop trying to flirt with him. His coworkers were loud and distracting, and to top it all off, the heater broke, leaving the studio freezing cold.
It’s been such a bad day.
So, what’s the harm? It’s not like anyone will know. Not you, not his friends. He’s the only one that will. And he’s far more willing to live with this dirty secret rather than with his hard dick straining achingly in its confines.
Jeongguk abruptly snatches up his phone again, unlocking it to the same picture that caused him to brush the device aside just minutes ago. He lets out a shaky breath, thumb hovering over the screen.
You won’t get no reply from him. But if you knew what he was up to right now, you would probably simper. Tease him, with your warm smile that digs dimples in your cheeks; timidly play with your hair, with those perfectly manicured hands of yours.
“Shit,” his free hand is already pushing the jeans down along with his boxers, and he drops his weight onto the nearest stool as he grips at the base of his thick cock, eyes devouring the image of you on his screen.
He doesn’t zoom in. That would feel too shameless. But he finds it oddly better like this. Is it weird that your text, so innocently worded, is turning him on? That the simple idea of you needing his help is enough to have his hips jerking?
What could you possibly need his help for?
Fuck.
The different ideas that pool his mind have him squeezing harder at his growing tip.
Jeongguk focuses on your dainty hand, slim pointer finger snaking under the collar of your flimsy shirt to show yourself to him, and your small boobs spill from the sides with a delicious, soft swell. He hisses when he pictures that same hand working on him instead, his warm mouth stuffed with your stiff nipples, visible through the sheer material.
He can’t help the loud groan leaving his lips, wrist flickering up and down in a motion that feels sloppy way too soon, hips jutting up to fuck into his tight fist.
Throwing his head back, he sees you even behind closed eyelids.
He pictures your delicate figure sprawled on his bed, long lashes batting up at him as you sheepishly hide with your cheek to your shoulder. Can clearly make out how you’d sit on his lap instead, unsteady breath fanning over his lips, using his long shaft to make yourself cum.
The whole time, he sees the tattoo on your chest, the one that is forever on you, eternally a reminder of him.
When he lets his head topple forward again, his bright screen still stares at him, only because a new message pops up in the chat. He startles, and his cock throbs in his hand.
Dimples [11:52 p.m.]: oh, and i miss you.
“Oh, fuck,” the curse is strained through a loud whine, followed by more of his full moans filling the room. His brows knit the more his hand moves rapidly, palm collecting the precum spreading embarrassingly fast on his tip and rolling it down his length.
He focuses on your parted lips, the soft curve of your breast, your hard nipples begging to be sucked and spit on. Your last text has flashes of your bug-like eyes staring up at him seizing his mind.
That’s what undoes him.
He’s delirious as he lets out his every sound, freely, unchecked, not caring about how loud he is, whimpering as he gets closer to his climax.
When he thinks of those eyes locking with his, kneeling before him, eager and willing to swallow his every drop, he cums. Hard.
Jeongguk pumps everything he can out of him, and it’s messy — spilling over his hand, staining his clothes, pooling on the floor. His chest heaves with the effort, and the sensation of abandon he feels is so pleasurable, energy drained but leaving him with a lightness that threatens to make his cock hard again.
Fuck. He can’t afford that happening if you’re not the one attending his needs. This won’t be enough, not until it’s you. He’s insatiable.
Jeongguk needs to hear your voice.
It’s an instinct, and he bends to it. He’s careful not to tap on the FaceTime option, because if you were to see him right now, it’d be glaringly obvious what a sinner he’s been.
When he looks to the side, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the long mirror, and he visibly grimaces at the way his cheeks are flushed, how pearls of sweat coat his forehead and cause his bangs to stick uncomfortably to the skin.
Guilty doesn’t even begin to cover it.
With the phone to his ear beeping to eternity, he hesitates, contemplates ending the call before you can answer. But just then, you do.
“Jeongguk! Is everything okay?”
Your voice is familiarly soft, but there’s a trace of concern. Blinking, he brings the device closer to his ear and gulps thickly when he can make out your panting breaths.
He clears his throat and puts on his best nonchalant act. “Huh— Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know… You just never call. Or text first. This is weird. You sure you’re okay?”
Oh. Is that really what it is like?
Jeongguk never realized this was how he came across — so detached that a simple phone call feels out of character. Your naive honesty hits him square in the chest. God, he needs to get better at this.
The irony stings: he just fucking jerked off to your picture and the simple thought of you, while you’re on the other side thinking he’s a careless piece of shit who doesn’t even know how to call.
The long stretch of silence registers in his brain, and he coughs to buy time. “Yes, I’m sure. I— huh,” he thinks of stuff you usually ask to keep the conversation flowing. Not out of courtesy, but out of genuine interest, the curiosity that makes people want to open up.
He’s still not used to that. Still finds it hard to accept vulnerability. He knows he can be with you, though.
“How… How was your day?”
It must be equally weird for you because it takes you a longer beat to reply. In that quiet moment, he clenches his eyes shut and feels his jaw tick with shame. And embarrassment. And this icky feeling that makes him feel too mushy for his liking. Hell, what is he doing? He’s never been like this, he’s not supposed to be like this.
But you recover quickly, as you always do, and you smooth over the moment. Fix it all for him like you were born to be just that. Make him feel like he fits in ways that have him exhaling shakily.
Jeongguk senses a foreign drumming in his stomach. It’s warm but odd, and he loves it but he doesn’t want to.
On the twenty-fifth day of December, cheekily under a mistletoe, Jeongguk realizes he wants you.
There are parts of him that probably knew way sooner. But the parts of him that didn’t, fighting tooth and nail to suppress the mere thought, are finally surrendering.
Jeongguk has always found you admirable, ever since high school. You had this determination to you, not only when it came to him. It shone particularly when you catered to others, finding ways to help, to mend, to offer yourself with a fully toothed smile and expect nothing back.
But he’s also always thought you two were — and still are — too different to work. He can’t be what you want, let alone what you deserve: someone who can match your enthusiasm and unwavering smiles, your frustrating positivity; someone who sees the world the way you do.
No black, no grey, no shades in between. Just bright, hopeful white. Blinding white.
It’s the white making him dizzy, shifting his perspective, making him believe the opposite of what he’s always known. Pushing him to be a little more egoistical, deceiving himself that he’s right for you.
Because he wants to be.
He oh, so selfishly wants people to know he’s the one who finally gets to have you, the one gifted with such a light, unreasonably deserving of all the love you carry into every room you walk into.
Just a few days ago, during another one of your increasingly frequent phone calls, you asked him what he was doing for Christmas. He could have lied, come up with something on the spot.
But you so easily coax the truth out of him, so he let it slip. He told you he’d be alone, words subtly heavy. But they didn’t have the chance to even drop their weight before you were already inviting him to your friend’s party, insisting that he would be the most welcome.
And now he’s here, and he sits beside you, and every time you laugh you lean your weight over him, and the room vibrates with the energy you fill it with, and each one of your friends is so enamoured with you, and for reasons he can’t fully understand it fills him with a sense of pride that shouldn’t belong to him. But it does, and it comes with so many other feelings.
You don’t push him to talk. You never force him into the spotlight when he takes a step back, quietly observing, choosing to stay in the background. Because you read him like it’s in your nature to do so, your soul seems to intuitively melt with his, and it intertwines in such a tight knot that he feels it constrict his throat. He knows he’s still alive because his heart is beating, faster with each time you flash your dimples at him.
“Dimples. What are you doing, hm?”
Now, he’s in front of you, a small smile on his lips as you stand on your tiptoes, trying to dangle the mistletoe over both your heads. You’re struggling just a little, your hand unable to reach high enough, and the fake plant awkwardly brushes his hair, the tickling sensation causing his nose to scrunch. You laugh.
Looking up at your swinging movements, you lose your balance for the slightest second. Jeongguk’s hands move instinctively, catching you promptly by the waist to steady your body. But even after that, he doesn’t move, his warm palms stilling. And when you face him, he’s closer and his chest brushes against yours. From this proximity, he witnesses the Christmas lights painting a galaxy of their own in your orbs.
You beam. “What does it look like? We have to kiss now.”
Jeongguk stares in your expectant eyes, brows wiggling and all. The more his mouth keeps in a straight line, the more your wiggling slows. You eventually come down from your tiptoes, letting the mistletoe fall to the side, tilting your head.
He snorts, looking away briefly to hide an embarrassingly wide grin behind his hand. When he turns back to you, your pout is enough to have him scrambling to meet your gaze.
“On one condition, though.”
You chirp. “Yeah?”
He licks his teeth, reserving you with a smug look. “Admit that you were scared to get your tattoo.”
Your smile vanishes in an instant. With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you turn on your heels, pretending to walk away from him. Pretending, only because you know he won’t let you. And you’re proven right when his fingers wrap around your arm, tugging you back with enough force to spin you into him.
Suddenly, you’re pressed so close you can feel the heat radiating from him. Your chin nearly touches his chest as you glare up at him, narrowed eyes meeting the mischievous glint in his.
He bites a smile, lips twitching. “C’mon, princess. You wanted to act all tough and shit, but I could feel you shaking.”
Your scoff is loud and incredulous. “You’re so annoying.”
He only shrugs. “You want my kiss, no?”
“Oh my god,” groaning, it’s your turn to face the side to hide a grin. “Are you always this cocky?”
His chin tilts upward slightly, and you can tell he’s enjoying this. “Say it.”
You whip back to meet him with a seriousness he hardly ever sees on you, and you even clear your throat, channeling every ounce of the determination he knows you for, every drop of resolve that makes you you. “Yes. I was scared shitless, Jeongguk.”
Foreign excitement brims out of him. His eyes widen just a fraction, and his nose scrunches the more he leans closer to you, inches from you, swinging side to side with exaggerated mockery and a grin splitting his face. “See! I knew—hmph.”
There’s no other second to waste.
The condition has been met, and now there are all the requirements for you to claim what you were promised, your reward. Even more when kissing him means catching him mid-taunt and silencing whatever teasing remark he had ready.
Your lips touch his in effortless ease, breaking the air as they press together. It’s tentative at first, almost uncertain as you feel Jeongguk remain still.
But it doesn’t take him longer to move, mouth molding against yours in a sickeningly sweet hug, tasting each other with hungry curiosity, still taking your time to adjust and melt, instructing your bodies to imitate the dance.
Your arms lock around his neck, his stronger and tattooed ones circle your waist, and the way you click together feels so right, almost too perfect, so perfect it scares you.
When you arch yourself further into him, even the already non-existent space between you unbearable, he accompanies the motion with his wide palms gliding along your back, squeezing you into him, feeling the curve of your hips.
The soft whine that vibrates against his lips betrays you and the useless effort to contain the intensity of what you’re feeling. The emotion disarms you, the sound gasping in your chest, but in Jeongguk’s arms it feels safe to let go.
On Christmas day, you crown a childish fantasy, the kind you’ll look back to even when you’re older.
Jeongguk feels like he could be at your side to do so. With that same smile he breaks in against your lips, his vulnerable whisper fanning over them.
all will had ever known was you as his winger, his best friend, and then suddenly, you're none of those things. as you both navigate adolescence, coming together and breaking apart, does will finally come to understand that the burning desire in his heart can only be quelled by you
wc: 10.8k
tags! wsh x childhood friends to lovers!reader, ANGST, so much angst you might want to throw your phone away, hockey player!reader, miscommunication/no communication, will smith hockey the biggest loser of the century speedrun, you’re both childhood bruins fans, timeline: kids to high school to college, macklin mention, no use of y/n
warnings! descriptions of reader getting hit and bullied by other boys as a kid, mentions of blood, misogynistic language used, lots of curse words, alcohol consumption, BRIEF mention of masturbation (like genuinely just alluding to it it’s not descriptive)
a/n! i use so much repetition (sorry). this is LOOSELY based on like six lines from nettles. i didnt want it to be that gut-wrenching. please read my dumb fanfiction about will smith hockey and it also became feminist kinda. i did not play hockey growing up so im sorry if there are inaccuracies
p/s: I make up a random guys name for the plot. take the name and interpret it how you want to :) or not, you can hate me
The thing about Will Smith was that at one point, he wasn’t just the precious blue-eyed starboy of the NHL, touted as this mysterious young man with pearly white teeth and a real good knack for the game. He was groomed to look the perfect part of an all-american hockey player: flushed cheeks, blond hair, dirty mouth, and a borderline narcissism only found in the freedom land.
For a time, he wasn't all this. He used to be just yours.
Sprawled out on your front lawn, watching the fireworks on the fourth of july, there was a time you two had no worries in the world. He was your line partner. You both used to show up to practice at the same time, tying your skates shoulder to shoulder on the bench. He used to have dinners at your house more often than not. There was an extra chair on the dining table right next to yours.
You joined a U8 boys team when you were six. You were inexplicably good. The girls’ team closest to you barely had games scheduled. Lack of teams in the area. The boy’s team traveled, and they played in tournaments, and that excited you. Besides, on your first day of tryouts, you met Will. He was all wide-eyed when you first talked to him, like you were some four-leaf clover in a valley of threes.
Since then, you two couldn’t be separated. You loved most of all being able to nerd out about hockey with him. You’d go down to the sports store and buy packs of hockey cards to unbox as you ate frozen yogurt in the sweltering heat of summer. You had a built-in friend who happily obliged when you wanted to play street hockey in twenty-degree weather. You were both really bad at math and needed a tutor. He talked about the NHL with you as if it were possible you could be drafted.
He just thought the same way as you, which felt so achingly sweet and innocent. That was why it was so hard to let it all go.
The first time you were called a bitch on the ice, you were nine. The first jab of the knife to your stomach. It shocked you, and you came off that period in tears. The kid probably didn’t know what it meant, only that he knew it would hurt you, that he would feel for those few seconds on top of the world. You let it sting the rest of the day, then decided you wouldn’t let it upset you. You would be the bigger person.
That role was so hard. It all just got worse as the years went by. The knife twisted, got stuck deeper beneath your ribs. Different variations of the word bitch or whore would be muttered under feeble breaths. They were echoes of the words those boys would hear their fathers call other women. At some point, you became numb to it. You were faster than them — Will always reminded you of that — so you would simply score instead. It made you feel good. It helped even more when Will celebrated with you, pulling you in a sweaty hug, your helmets bashing, and you’d have to shove him away because he was too busy smiling that bunny-toothed smile at you to notice the other three players on the ice coming to share in the celebration.
You didn’t want your friendship to ever change. You wanted to go to the rink and push him around and score goals with him on your line. You wanted to eat sliced apples at intermission and whack him across the head with your stick when he said a bad word or kept his mouth open too long. You wanted him to still see you as a boy, as someone equal and no lesser than.
You’re forced to quit when another boy punches you clean across the nose after you score at the age of 12. You were skating towards the bench, taking your cage off prematurely, and then it happens. Blood immediately spurts down your face, forcing its metallic taste into your mouth.
Nothing monumental came out of it.
It needed to be kept quiet.
His parents were so apologetic. They cried to the league’s president that their little boy didn’t fully understand what he was doing. He was just emulating what he saw in the big leagues. You’re forced to sit across from him and his pig nose and dirty hair. His eyes never lifted from the floor as he apologized. One of the worst apologies you’ve ever heard. Just a sorry is all he can muster, and then everyone thinks it’s okay. So it’s okay. You won’t make a big deal out of it.
“I can hurt him for you,” Will says, with large eyes, so worried when he comes over to your house the next day. You’re lying down on the rug in the living room while both sets of parents whisper about grown-up stuff down the hallway.
“No!” You say, turning your body to his. Your voice is all stuffy because your nose is still blocked — it will be for a couple of weeks. You’re already starting to get that purple swelling on your under eye, and the redness on the bridge of your nose has not subsided yet. The only thing that’s gotten better since your trip to the ER is that you weren’t bleeding anymore. “That’s embarrassing. Please don’t.”
“The refs broke us up before I could do anything.” Will needs to get a haircut. His hair falls over his eyes.
You gawk at him, “What?”
“I tried to get him, you know, but I wasn’t fast enough.” Your vision went black so fast when it happened, you never got to see or hear the aftermath. You didn’t think about what happened then, in the background, but Will, with his long limbs and prepubescent voice, tried to start a fight with your perpetrator.
You lie flat down again, staring at the ceiling. He does the same as you both let the silence fill the room.
“But when we play them again, it’s over.” He says abruptly.
“I won’t be there. I’m not playing anymore.”
Will jumps up, “Are you joking?”
“That’s what they’re talking about,” you gesture over to the sounds of your parents talking to his. “I can’t anymore. You guys will be too strong for me soon. Better to leave now.”
“But you’re our best winger!” Will can’t believe it, like it never occurred to him that you’d have to quit. You knew all along, you had just wanted another year at least. You wanted to end it on your own terms, but alas, this was the way the tide turned. You just look at him because you don’t know what to say. He looks back. “I’ll kill him.”
“Stop!” You hit him in the arm.
“I’m serious.” He puffs his chest out, hands on his hips. You laugh, getting up to hit him with a throw pillow from the couch. He lets you beat him up with that soft thing, he thinks, because he wants to feel the quiet punishment he deserved for not protecting you then. For it all spiraling out of control, while he stood there, dumbstruck, as you held your hand to your nose. Blood was dripping down your forearm in a small puddle by your feet, he remembers, tainting the ice forever with the last of your innocence.
—
When you’re thirteen, Will decides to stop making an effort to see you at lunch time or sit by you in class. You’re off the team, so you weren’t part of the immediate group he ‘needed’ to be around. Now that there are no afternoon hockey practices, there’s not much reason to talk about professional teams with him at school, either, especially when he was trying to fit in with the other guys.
You guess you didn’t help either. You busied yourself with girl friends, forcing yourself to pick up new hobbies, trying to be feminine. Maybe trying to be the person everyone wanted you to be. Besides, you didn’t want to get confused and start liking Will romantically in all the chaos that puberty rushed in, so spending as little time with him was good, you thought, in the long run. It felt like rebelling a bit when every girl in school was in love with him. That was all a facade, though, because at the end of the day, you’d write about him in your diary, locked with a key and hidden underneath those hockey card binders you left to dust.
Hockey became an afterthought. You tried out for a U16 team at the age of 14, when you stopped having flashbacks and nightmares of the fight. You cried on the way home because your limbs felt heavy and you declared you hated the sport. Not necessarily because you were playing with other girls now, but because it wasn’t fun. Every pass felt like a chore, every backcheck so mentally exhausting you wanted to break your stick in half and walk down that hallway. If you didn’t get any goals in a game, you curled up in your bed and didn’t talk to anyone the rest of the day.
Most girls in sports stop playing at that age. You knew that. You weren’t going to be the outlier as much as your younger self would have wanted you to be. There’s so little hope. Not much to dream about. Men get everything. They can dream of million-dollar salaries, of luxury sports cars, of pretty girlfriends, and it’s dangled so close to their heads they can reach out, grab it, and make it true.
You think it came into focus sitting on that hospital bed, napkins stuck in your nose, dried blood staining your neck, doctors touching and prodding at you as you try not to wince. As you try to be the big girl hockey taught you to be. Even though you were only twelve, you realized the world wasn’t made for you. So you gave up on that dream. When you think back on it now as an adult, you don’t blame yourself. You blame everyone else. You don’t blame Will, though. He tried to be there until he realized you gave up on your own, and then there was nothing else he could do.
—
He actually comes up to you one day in the first month of high school, voice still a bit shaky, tall but not as tall as you know he’ll be, and all tanned skin from the summer, asking if you were going to join the women’s team at the school. There had never been a women’s program until that year, and he thinks you’d be fucking great. Really. He goes out of his way because he wants you to keep playing. Because maybe, despite what you thought, he still cared.
It’s not like you aren’t friends. You still saw him at neighborhood barbecues, saw him playing street hockey as you walked your dog, maybe managed a couple of polite words to each other, but it was just different now. He was sort of a revered figure. Everyone knew he was going to leave eventually, go and join a development team. He was the talk of Boston suburbia.
“Eh, I don’t think so.” You say, cramming your huge history textbook into your locker. “It’s a big commitment.”
“I don’t understand. You loved hockey.”
“Key word: loved, Will.”
He purses his lips, reels back in whatever he was going to say.
“Just wanted to let you know is all.”
“I know, the coach already tried to recruit me.”
“Why aren’t you playing then?” He whines. His eyes are darting all over your face, scanning that default look of annoyance you used to have when he’d slide the puck between your legs or pull the one player you wanted in those card sets. “You’re so good.”
The compliment is not in the past tense. Your heart bloomed. Then you quickly shut it down. You force that lump in your throat to go away. “Not really.” Is all you say before you see your friend over his shoulder and you give him a hasty goodbye.
—
You only hear about Michigan and the NTDP through social media. There’s a goodbye party, but you don’t go. He’ll come back in the summer. It’s not like he’s dying or anything. You tell yourself this.
Until Sunday the following week, he’s at your door bright and early asking for you. You ask your mom if she’s being serious. You wade over to the front door, nerves prickling your cool skin.
“Hi.” You’re wearing a boston bruins t-shirt two sizes too large and long, formless gray sweats. His heart almost jumps out of his chest.
“Hey.” He says back, “Did you hear?” He must have been out for a run before the day got too hot. There are beads of sweat running down his neck. He’s wearing a gray sleeveless tank and white shorts, and the juts of muscle along his thighs make your mind go blank. He’s still partly gasping for air, pretty pink tongue running over his dry lips.
“Yeah,” you reply sheepishly, rubbing a hand over your cheek, trying to pretend like you don’t care about Will standing two feet away, acting like he has no idea what he looks like. He actually doesn’t, which makes you more annoyed. He was still as dumb as a rock when it came to things non hockey-related.
He stutters. You’re so pretty. You’ve grown into your face so well. You still have that dusting of color on your cheeks. It’s always there when he’s around.
“I’ll be back next summer.” He breaths out. It’s August now. He runs a hand through his damp hair.
“You’ll do really well, you know that, right?”
He blushes, though you can’t tell because he’s already red from the run. “Don’t say that.”
“You’re so humble that it’s really annoying, Will.”
“You are too. Humble, I mean.” He says without any second thought.
You tilt your head. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he looks at the ground, then back up at you, “Sometimes I wish you didn’t have to quit.”
You’re stunned by this statement. Ever since the moment you lay on your carpet years ago and Will complained about the boy who hurt you, you’ve spoken maybe 100 words to each other.
“I can’t— I can’t do anything about it now.”
“I know. I just wanted to tell you that.”
“I wish I were born a boy. Then I could take the hits.” You laugh, he doesn’t. You also think that if you were a boy, Will would never have disappeared. You try to believe that he did it unconsciously: the missed eye contact, the pretending he didn’t notice you when he was with his male friends. It makes your heart break thinking about your worth to him after quitting. You often thought bad things, like hypotheticals about being prettier, because you felt that if you somehow were, he’d have kept his eyes on you. If you weren’t helping him score goals, then what were you to him? Why the hell did he have to grow up and have long eyelashes and pale cheeks flecked with moles and that stupid, perfect nose? Why the hell did anything have to change?
“I wish they respected you, though. They could have at least done that.”
You roll your eyes. “Not how the world works, bud.”
He drags his hand across his face and groans. “I know, I know.” He repeats. “Doesn’t make it right.”
“Can we… be friends?” You ask now, all timid. You roll on your toes, all shifty and nervous.
“What do you mean? Aren’t we friends?”
“Well…yeah,” not really, you internalize, “but when you leave too. Like texting and stuff. I want to know about your team and everything.”
“Oh, of course.” He beams, “I’ll do that, yeah.”
“Cool.” And now there’s an awkward pause. You’re both sixteen, an overflowing bottle of hormones and shame and he’s dripping sweat. You put your hand on the doorknob.
“Okay, I’ll go back now. I’m already late for church.”
You grin. You felt like you’ve fixed something.
—
Will has been in love with you since the moment he heard your voice behind that helmet. He wasn’t paying attention at first, thought you were just a boy because your hair was tied back. You were quiet. At the end of practice, when you took your helmet off, everything fell apart for him.
He latched onto you very quickly. He figured out you were really fun to play with. Maybe the other boys poked fun at him, but it didn’t matter. You loved assisting him, and he loved scoring.
That day, when he saw your body fall back, red everywhere, his world stopped.
He managed to shove the boy down, and before he could do anything else, he was pulled back by a referee. Usually when scrums happen, the auditorium is loud, full of parents arguing and the other teammates ragging the two on. That day, it was dead silent. All he could hear was the sound of skates on ice. The sound of his coach running towards you. He tried to see what you looked like, but there were about five adults crowded over you, blocking his view. He was so worried. He’d never felt that way before.
Then you quit, and he relinquished his tight hold on you. The others were right. He was like a little love-sick puppy waiting for your attention. When you went off and spent time with girls your age, the excuse he had to spend time with you at the rink was gone, and he begrudgingly forced himself not to think about you. He spent the hours he used to be sitting in your living room on the weekends watching the Bruins, at practice, alone. Hitting the same pucks over and over from different angles.
He wasn’t supposed to keep falling for you. When you weren’t looking, he watched you push the loose strands of your hair behind your ear from across the classroom. He envied the people who were making you laugh. His temples felt like they were going to burst when he saw another boy talking to you.
When he lies in his new stiff bed in Plymouth, there’s nothing else he can think of. In his mind, he sees you in jean shorts and a tank top, ice cream cone dripping down your fingers, looking at everyone but him. He imagines you lying on a chair, sweat and chlorine water from the neighborhood pool sticking to your forehead as you click your tongue and ignore him. He feels like a loser.
He sends you some pictures of the rink his mom took because she was so excited. A couple of photos with his new teammates.
Fuck that’s so cool
I know right, he responds. He’s biting his fingernail, phone all pushed up to his face.
im going to a boston game this weekend
lucky :(
hopefully there’s a goalie fight
if that happens when im not there im going to murder you
oooo im so scared
And it goes back and forth like this for the year. Sometimes he gathered enough strength to call you after a game and tell you how it went. You always told him about how impatient you were waiting for those stats websites to update his point record. Who was he to deny you of anything you asked?
—
He comes back, so much taller, his voice deeper, exuding the confidence of a man.
Of course, it’s all awkward. Sandwiched between your families, not sure how to greet one another again. You’d been texting like you were best friends for the last eight months. Later that night, he asks you to come to a house party by the lake that one of his friends was having that weekend. You enthusiastically agree. It was the summer before your senior year, and Will was going to go back to Plymouth anyway. You wanted to force as much time out of him before he got drafted. He always shook his head and denied it whenever you joked about the draft, about being drafted to the Canadiens. He wouldn’t even entertain the jokes anymore because it was all so serious now. He was worried sick about the future. He’d say he needed to perform well during the season again because nothing was guaranteed, like he wasn’t always the top goal scorer of any team he was on.
He comes to pick you up then, feet scuffing up your doormat in anxiety. He’s wearing a stupid polo shirt his mom got him and black shorts, a backwards baseball hat to tame the hair that the humidity made so frizzy. You’re yelling out over your shoulder to your mom a series of yes’s before you shut the front door behind you, leaning back and sighing so loud that Will laughs.
“Giving you a hard time?”
“You don’t even want to know.”
You straightened your hair. It accentuates the bare skin on your shoulders, your pretty collarbones. You’re the definition of sun-kissed. He can’t help but find your socks and beat-up sneakers endearing too. He thought about kissing you the whole day. He thinks that this might be the night he can summon the bravery to do it.
At the party, you decide to drift off from Will. You didn’t want to seem too attached. Besides, your friends were already getting on your ass about him. You didn’t want one of them to say something stupid to his face and ruin your teenage life.
He’s holding a beer bottle, in the middle of a conversation, when his eyes scan the room. He’s had his eye on you the whole time, just in glances that made sure you hadn’t left the vicinity, but he got distracted by something for a couple of minutes, so he’s trying to find you again. He does a double-take when he sees you leaning against the wall on the far corner of the room, only a couple of inches separating you from a man who’s leaning forward, trapping you there. He squints, tries to focus on the side profile, on the hair he can hazily remember, and then it clicks.
You’re talking to one of the idiots from your hockey team all those years ago. One Will visibly remembers was a shithead to you. Jack.
And then he notices Jack’s eyes falling down to your lips as you talk. He’s not listening to a word you’re saying. It makes him sick because you look so bubbly, so keen about your topic of choice as the alcohol courses through you. Will has no idea what his friends are talking about at this point.
Jack asks for permission before he dives in, which you found out of character, but you don’t think about it much. You let him close the distance. He pulls your hips flush to his, and you let out a surprised noise before he kisses you. It was nice, actually. Nothing electrifying, but something close to what your friends described the experience to be. You kiss back.
“The fuck are you doing?” You don’t ever hear Will’s raised voice. The only reason you recognize it now is that you saw a blurry video of a scrum he got himself into a few months back, posted online. He said some things you never thought he would then, but you guess you didn’t really know him anymore.
You break apart from Jack. His hand is still at your waist, and you slap it away. All six feet of the blond is suddenly in front of both of you. It feels like you’re about to get reprimanded by a coach. Your heart drops in your stomach, pivoted to the hardwood floor.
“Hey, what’s wrong with you, man?” Jack asks, turning fully toward him now. You’re helpless, watching the way Will’s eyes narrow as he looks between both of you. You feel the press of the other man’s lips still there, and it fills you with a guilt so sharp you feel your stomach turn.
“Fuck’s wrong with you?” He counters, taking a step closer. The other man laughs in his face, takes a glancing look at you, then at Will, knowingly.
“Sorry. Forgot you two still got a thing going on.” Your brows furrow. You don’t understand the harsh tone of his voice, the smirk that plays on his lips in the dimly lit room.
“What are you talking ab—“ You’re cut off with Will’s own string of expletives.
“Don’t act stupid. You’re an asshole.” He spits out. Jack doesn’t deserve to touch you. The scene he just saw made his vision all blurry. Feels like the world was spinning twice as fast. The taller man turns to you, “We’re leaving. It’s late, and your dad’s gonna kill me.”
You try to protest, but Will, despite his attitude, grabs hold of your wrist gently to guide you through the packed room. You hadn’t processed what happened enough to be angry yet. You let him take you. You like the feel of his large palm wrapped around your wrist. Although this only lasts for a minute before you’re hit with the sudden chill of the late evening. You can hear the crunch of both your feet from the scattered leaves and branches allowed to fester on the driveway. You wriggle out of his touch, hand dropping at your side, stopping completely. When Will realizes this, he sighs and turns one hundred and eighty degrees as if it were an obligation to hear you out.
“Why did you do that, Will?”
“Are you serious? Is this what you do now?” He huffs out.
“What are you insinuating?” Your voice gets weaker. He notices and sees the wobble of your lower lip in the vanishing light reflecting off the lake.
“No, it’s just…” He grabs his keys out of his pocket, moving over to his side and unlocking the car. He didn’t want to have this conversation in the middle of a quiet street. You follow, only because you want to get home as fast as possible.
“What is it then?” You ask as he starts the ignition. He pulls off the curb, waiting a few long beats until he’s at the stop sign at the farther end of the cul-de-sac to reply.
“It’s the same Jack that pulled your hair and never passed when you were open.” He says this like you’d had amnesia. He also says this like youre still a child, incapable of your own decisions. It infuriates you.
“We became friends this year,” you confess, lying lightly. You had one class with him and he was only nice to you so you would finish his part of the group project. You didn’t really ever like him. But in the moment, you wanted someone to find you pretty and kiss you. God knows Will never did. It was dumb, but you weren’t going to let Will, someone who once saw you as an equal, a teammate, make you feel bad for kissing someone. For putting your lips on someone else’s. A mortal sin, apparently. You were sure he was getting up to much worse things in Michigan.
“But…he was so mean to you then.” His voice falters; he doesn’t understand. His grip on the steering wheel tightens. How could you ever look twice at the boys who used to make jokes behind your back, who made you out to be some sort of witch when they’d get pissy you had a better backhand? How could you when he was right there the whole time? When he’d shut the conversation down in the locker room, even when you weren’t there to hear the gross remarks. When he’d have to take the heat of the other boys saying he was in love, that he was a little suck-up to the one girl who would pay attention to him.
Granted, you never saw those things happening. He did it without you knowing. But he wants you to know now, in a stupid childish way, he wants you to know that you were the only person that mattered to him on that team. Everyone else had three measly leaves, and you were his four-leaf clover.
But now he’s left thinking he didn’t do enough.
“So? It was like seven years ago. He seems fine now.”
“But he’s not!”
“How do you fucking know? You keep saying that. You weren’t here this year!”
The muscle in his jaw ticks as he grinds his teeth.
“I know enough to know they’re assholes, and you shouldn’t be around any of them, especially Jack.” He never looks at you, keeping his eyes on the beam-lit road that seems to never end.
“Jesus, William. I’m not 10 anymore. You don’t have to save me. I know full well what it feels like to get hit. I’ll call you if it happens again. Maybe then you’ll feel good that you were right about something. And I was wrong, because I’m always wrong.”
“I never fucking said that.” His voice cracks the tiniest bit at the curse word. He’s taken aback when you say his full name. He takes offense to the notion that he would ever bask in your hurting. He would be the last person in the world to do that. He steals a quick glance at you, your head is turned down, the oversized sleeves of someone else’s jacket covering the hands that you use to furiously wipe at your eyes.
“Well— that’s what it sounds like.” He can hear the tears coming through your voice now. The sniffles and the quivering and the hurt all wrapped into one.
You shut your eyes and try to forget this all happened. That you never went to this party and that Will was still in Michigan. How it was supposed to be.
When he pulls up to your house, he tries so hard, but his mouth opens and closes like a fish because he doesn’t know how to console a girl who’s inconsolably crying in his passenger seat because of him. There’s a soft swoosh of the car doors unlocking.
“For your information, that was my first kiss. I don’t ‘do’ that now, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not a whore.” You turn to him fully, using quotation marks around the do, trying to emulate the way it came out of his mouth ten minutes ago. Tears won’t stop falling down on your lap. He can’t look at you like that. He looks out his driver’s side window instead, watches the way your neighbor’s trees sway lightly in the summer breeze.
He says a quiet, “alright,” jaw tight, still refusing to make eye contact, and waits for you to open the car door. He taps the steering wheel in anticipation.
You mutter an angry bye before you slam the door and walk down the front yard and up to your porch, keys in jittery hands. He waits, of course, till you’re inside, and even still until he sees the light from your bathroom turn on. You’re probably washing your flushed face, rubbing your face raw of the damage he inflicted. He hits his forehead on the top of the wheel, then drives a street over back to his house.
A week later, you wake up to a message from him: im sorry. i didn’t mean any of what i said. i just worry about you. i hope you’ll forgive me.
You don’t respond.
—
It’s a year later.
All you could manage was congrats, with a red heart emoji, the night Will signs his NHL contract with the Sharks. If you stared at your phone too long, you would have kept typing and rambling about all the big things that have happened in your life that he wasn’t there to see. Maybe you would have berated him, asked him why he ever had the nerve to imply the thing he did that night. Or you would have just deleted the message and never sent anything in the first place. The congratulations text looked stupid underneath his apology from eleven months ago that you never bothered to acknowledge.
You felt so much guilt following that night. You know he just wanted to make sure you were okay. He was the first witness to that hit on the ice. It probably hurt him to see you get constantly beaten down by your own teammates and opponents. It hurt him to see you kiss someone who used to chirp about how weak you were at practice. It didn’t matter if it was all ten-year-old boys being stupid. They knew what they were doing.
The guilt didn’t help you respond; in fact, it made it all worse. You couldn’t gather the courage to text him. You wouldn’t even know where to start.
Hey sorry I got so mad at you that night where I was trying to rebel and make you look my way because I was a bit tipsy and desperate and I hadn’t seen you in eight months so I wasted my first kiss on someone I actually hated. I wanted to pretend like I changed over the year and that maybe I was mature but obviously I’m not and blah blah blah. You were right Will.
This was not anything you were willing to type out and send. The congrats was as close as he was going to get.
Will has hundreds of messages that night — all blurs of long sappy text that he’s surely grateful for, but he’s not in the headspace to care now. He scrolls all the way down his contacts, scared to type your name and it coming back with nothing, coming back with his half-assed apology that made him burn so hot whenever he thought back on it his mom had asked him once if he was running a fever. It worsened when he was reminded he was planning on kissing you that night, too. So he buys time by reading each celebratory text with glazed-over eyes and a leg that won’t stop bouncing. When he sees your name (just your first, because your full name in his phone felt too impersonal) and next to it that blue dot that tells him you’ve texted, he shuts his eyes. He selfishly wanted his draft to be an excuse to talk to you again. If only about hockey, if only about his stats, and maybe just to argue about the bruins again. He didn’t need anything else unless you’d give it to him.
His heart melts at your text. Relief floods him. He doesn’t know what he expected; maybe this was the greatest outcome. You were watching, and you cared enough to reach out. He can’t help himself. All you did when he won gold in Sweden was like his post.
He’s overthinking this. People he’d known for two months back in middle school had texted him. It’s not that big of a deal. He groans, flopping back on the bed, keeping his phone close to his face, reading the single word over and over again. It’s almost more heartfelt than those long essays he’s received. All that history left unsaid. So simple it makes him believe that you always knew this was his path, that he was always good enough, so why make it a big deal?
He doesn’t know how to keep the conversation going. You left it so open. He should just thank you and leave it at that. He should.
thank you
you’re going to bc right?
Of course, he already knew. Your mom told everyone, and the information eventually snaked its way back to him in passing. He had to pretend he vaguely remembered you. He repeated your name in questioning, then acted like the image of you just dawned on him, when it was always in the back of his mind.
It’s the worst five minutes of his life turning his phone off and back again, throwing it on the opposite side of the bed, then grabbing it back.
yes
no one will believe I’m friends with the big hot-shot on campus
He sends a flurry of crying emojis and with it, don’t call me that
too late
your new title is mr. hot-shot nhl player
don’t get ahead of yourself, he typed out. It still wasn’t a given. He often thought about the worst things, like getting injured before he’s able to play professionally, or flaming out and being stuck as the wonder-boy that never was. It’s what keeps him up at night. That and the distressing thought of losing you forever.
oh shut up
everyone knows it
He doesn’t know what to say. Friends. His mind blanks. He hopes there will be another excuse to talk to you again.
—
The issue is there isn’t. The summer before the first semester, you’re rarely home. You’re hanging out with people he’s never seen before in his life. Then freshman year starts, and he never stumbles upon you on campus organically. He swears he’ll see the friends you post on instagram walking to class, in the dining hall, but he never sees you. It feels like some sort of divine punishment. It gets so bad he has to force himself to look forward, to not hope that after every turn of the corner, he’ll see you all bright and smiling and doing so well without him. He thinks bitterly on that term friends, and how it didn’t mean anything. But how could he blame you? He was the one who let you drift away from hockey. He was the one who left for Michigan. He was the one who blew up at you last summer because of his insecurities. The word friends was actually a nice thing for you to say, all things considered.
You don’t go to games, is what he assumes, because you don’t post about it like the other hundreds of women that follow him do. You don’t go to the hockey house’s parties on the weekends, though he secretly wishes you’d show and take him from the pounding music, sweaty bodies, and disgusting alcohol. Because you’re a good girl — focusing on your studies and being a part of clubs and organizations, and not stuck up on things that happened a decade ago.
Because you don’t care about hockey anymore, and that’s what he believes is the only thing he can offer you. You’re so three-dimensional. You have passions and interests he’ll never understand, and you’re involved with a different crowd. He wonders if you still had your binders full of cards stacked by your desk, or if it was packed away in the attic now, completely forgotten.
He doesn’t understand why he can’t move on. A thousand other people were waiting to sink their teeth into him if he let them. Is it nostalgia for a time before everything was so serious? The knowing that he can’t get the one thing he wants? Or is it real, deep yearning love that bubbles up and can't be traced? He figures, the covers all twisted around his limbs one late morning, it was a mix of all of it, and unless he shut his brain completely off, he was never going to stop thinking about you when he tuned his coach’s speeches out at intermissions, when he drove by your house in the summers, when he saw women with your features at the bar. If love could be explained, then he’d be able to leave you as a memory. A biological instinct that could be replicated over and over again with other women, but, obviously, that wasn’t true. It left him sick sometimes, that thought.
—
Then he’s hit in the gut by your presence.
He can’t mistake your hair, your dusty bookbag, and the swing of your hips as you walk down the hallway, away from him. You’re in the NCAA training facility, someplace, technically, you’re not allowed to be. Then he thinks about how you really should be there — you should be on the women’s team. You were supposed to do it with him. He shakes his head, trying to physically rid himself of the thoughts of this alternate reality he may or may not have created when he was bored on an away game road trip.
There’s a beat where he thinks he should stay quiet, then he gathers all the stupid courage he has left and says your name from across the hallway like he was 13 again. He was just exiting the trainer’s office, a large pack of ice wrapped around his thigh from a nasty purple and yellow bruise he got the other night.
You turn and see Will, his hair freshly washed, a tight BC shirt on, and his shorts hiked up to accommodate the tape job. He’s gained a couple of inches and filled out, and he runs his hair through that thick blond hair like he always did. You’re wearing a winter coat. It’s December. You smile, say hi, and manage a wave as you lean on the door. You’re stuck between awkwardly staring at him and leaving to go to class.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Oh!” You say, suddenly the ground looks really inviting. “I was just…walking my friend over here. We had class, and I was already heading this way for my next one. It’s also warmer in here.” You nod at your own explanation. He’s puzzled, but can’t manage another question that doesn’t sound invasive. Does this friend happen to be on the baseball team that has weight training after us? Have you seen those stupid banners on all the campus lamp posts with my face on them? Do you hate me?
He mutters an ah instead. There’s a good ten feet between the two of you.
“Well, it’s nice to see you.” That’s safe, he thinks. Maybe it kills the conversation, but he doesn’t just want to say bye. How does he even start to reconfigure a friendship in the middle of a ridicuously hot, carpeted hallway, where anyone else could come through?
“Yeah, you too.” You lean on the door, slowly turning away from him before he sees you halt. Your hand comes up to your forehead as if you’d had an epiphany.
“You played really well last night. I don’t have time to go to the games, but I still watch them sometimes.”
“Thank you,” he breathes out a bit too quickly, “You should try to come to one. I can get you tickets for Friday night, if you want.”
“I don’t know. I think I have plans.” As soon as he’s built up some foolish belief, it’s all shattered.
“That’s okay.” He musters, cheeks violently flushing. You mistake it for the heat pumping through the hall.
“Sorry, I have to go. I’m going to be late,” and you’re gone into the hazy morning, wind whipping your hair before the door shuts and he’s left staring at nothing. He’s spent a good part of the latter half of a decade watching you disappear behind closed doors.
There is a lingering hope now, as he quickly turns, snow flying up on the boards, slotting the puck in the upper left corner on Friday night, that he didn’t have to rely on the fluttering fantasy of you in the stands anymore. He hopes you’re watching, even if you’re at those “plans” you made, smiling at your phone when he scores the game winner.
—
Involuntarily, he thinks about you when he has his palm around himself. As he’s trying to imagine something else, someone not you, you’re there, underneath a man with no face. Maybe you like girls too. He wouldn’t know. He doesn’t know much about you these days. And then he’s getting angry all over again about how he fucked everything up. So much so that he can’t release and just groans and tries to sleep with a red-hot ache deep in his stomach that won’t go away.
He doesn’t let himself look through your Instagram following because then that would be crossing the line — as if everything he’s been doing hasn’t already crossed this imaginary barrier. He only lets himself watch your stories. Sometimes, he clicks on them too fast when he reloads the app, and then he’s sat staring at a picture of you and your friends, you out on a hike, your notebooks and energy drinks as you study late on a Saturday night in the library. 2 minutes ago. 53 seconds ago. 25 seconds ago. That one was a new record. He was sitting on the couch in the middle of a frat party. It was utterly ridiculous.
He can’t hide behind an ambiguous history like he can when he screws up with the other women he tries to pursue. You can’t look the other way at his shortcomings because he knows his hockey boy novelty doesn’t exist for you as it does for other people. Because you know he’s not just this shallow athlete he tries to portray himself as for protection. He can’t just text you, ask you if you’ll go out with him, and pretend like your rejection wouldn’t alter everything. The truth is that he’s always been that scared boy, watching you leave. Never closing the distance and sealing his lips to yours.
—
The year Will leaves college to join the Sharks, your sophomore year, you try your hardest to forget him. He spent his summer getting ready for the season in San Jose. You had to trust that time would mend whatever he unknowingly broke in your heart.
Now that he’s not there on campus, you feel less suffocated. His presence isn’t there as a reminder of how badly you messed up your friendship. You feel like maybe you can branch out and date people so you can finally get over this hump.
Your friend picks out some guy she thinks you’ll be compatible with, and forces you to go out on a Thursday night.
Unfortunately, the date was at a nice little bar downtown, and Will decided to be on the fucking television. Not just on one TV, but practically all of them. Must have been a dull night in sports. He’s suffocating you via broadcasting networks now.
You shifted the whole time nervously, eyes somehow knowing to snap up at the screen when they’d do a close-angle shot of him. He was annoying: biting his useless mouthguard, spitting on the floor, and saying quiet vulgarities under his breath.
The man across from you had brown eyes. He didn’t smack on a large piece of gum just to irritate you like a certain someone used to. How boring. There wasn’t a second date. If you could place blame on anyone, it would be on #2.
You decided not to tell people about Will when you got to college. You couldn’t really explain your history with him in a way that made sense to other people. It was cliché, but you had something other people didn’t. Maybe for good reason. Most people didn’t want to have a horrible unrequited crush on a boy; their feelings all jumbled between the confusions of womanhood, and their self-worth being tied to a sport that wouldn’t love them back. It was kind of a nightmare. Besides, it was hard enough having your friends tell you in vivid detail how hot they thought he was.
“Why didn’t you want to come with us last year?” One of your friends asked. You shrug. You’re three rows up at a boston college hockey game. They’re winning quite comfortably that day, even without Will.
“It’s obviously because she was scared to see Will Smith. You’re so stupid. If I were you, I would have drafted our marriage contract and sent it to his DMs.”
One night, they all ganged up on you, trying to figure out why you were such a stickler when it came to guys. You always brushed them off or said they weren’t your type. They were scrolling through your following as you jumped on them, trying to steal their phones.
“Why do you follow Will Smith?” One of them squeals as you lunged at her. Your face turned into a tomato.
“More importantly, why does he follow you back?” Another one of your friends gasps. All their jaws dropped.
“He follows everyone.” You tried to deflect, “I think we went to the same high school for a year or two. I don’t know. It was a big school, and I never talked to him.” You rambled on.
“He does not follow everyone.”
“God, I wish he followed me.”
“This conversation is over!”
—
Even Macklin figured out who you were before he met you.
Originally, Will was going through his camera roll out of boredom, trying to delete the things he didn’t need, but Macklin was nosy and bored, too. They were both lounging on the couch, scrolling absentmindedly. The older boy was stuck flipping through ten pictures, all from similar years. As he glances over his shoulder, Mack recognizes Will’s younger self, but in the pictures, there’s always the same person next to him. There’s one of him with you, maybe at age nine, all dressed up in your too-big hockey gear and holding a small trophy. Another one at a Bruins game. The next one is you making a terrible attempt at an American flag with face paint on Will’s chubby cheek at some sort of backyard summer party. The way the sun emits a hazy light through the dark exposure and pixelated image makes Will’s body tense up. To him, those days didn’t seem that long ago.
“Who’s that?”
Out of instinct, Will covers his phone like he’s just been caught watching porn. And Macklin has caught him doing that once, so he recognizes it.
“No one.”
“Uhhh, I don’t think so.” Macklin would have shrugged it off, but his best friend is flushing violently, and you can’t exactly just forget about a reaction that strong. “Who is it?” He tries again.
“Literally no one. I don’t know what you’re talking about. They’re just childhood pictures.
“That’s not your sister though.”
Will grunts, looks away like he’s contemplating punching Mack in the face.
“I didn’t know you had girls on your minor team as a kid,” Macklin adds.
“Just one.”
“Does she still play?”
“No— no, I fucked that up.” Then Will has his hand over his eyes.
“Holy shit, man. Is this the love of your life or something?” And at first, Mack says it as a joke, trying to tease him, but then he quickly realizes it’s not one at all. He hit the dart dead center. Will stares at his stunned face, frowning, and it’s an answer.
“Have you ever even told her that?” Will shakes his head.
“Isn’t that a good place to start, buddy?”
“Fuck you.”
—
You’d only be envious of Will if you also weren’t so goddamn enamoured by him. He had such a great rookie season. You should be mad that he gets to live this life and you don’t, but you don’t have the energy to think like that anymore. He’s just really good, and it’s not his fault.
One of your friends from high school is getting married in July. Then someone mentions that Will was invited at a dinner and your heart drops. You didn’t know what you were thinking. You thought you wouldn’t have to see him again for some reason, even though the Boston suburbs was such a clique and you knew better. Maybe you thought you would have had a boyfriend by now, and Will would be left in your most formative years, trapped in the distorted memories of fleeting touches and half-crooked smiles you convinced yourself might have meant something at one point.
He notices you first. You’re a little bit late to the pre-ceremony gathering, placing your carefully wrapped gift on the overflowing table, looking around for people you know. You’re wearing this pretty lilac sun dress because that’s all the heat afforded you.
It’s in the groom’s parents’ backyard. One of these huge ones with perfectly mowed grass that can fit two hundred people somehow. It’s still the early afternoon, the sun hasn’t started slipping, so your face is illuminated in bright light, like the sun’s rays are favoring you. He ached in every bone in his body. He’s standing by the open bar talking to some people he barely remembers, nursing a beer to be polite, and when he even remotely sees your face turn in his direction, he’s looking away. He grimaces at this childish behavior you always elicit in him. He swears he can feel your eyes land on him.
Everyone is taking their seats now before the ceremony. Will finds his.
He feels a small finger poke him on his shoulder from behind. “Hey, Will, you’re blocking the view.”
He turns his head and sees you smiling at him like a dream.
“Oh, I can switch with you?” He questions, body unintentionally sliding down a bit in his seat.
“No, I’m just joking. I can see. You’re bigger, though, than when I last saw you.”
“Had to. Was getting my ass handed to me in the big leagues.”
You suppress a laugh, not well, because when he smiles at your expression, you end up giggling.
“You look pretty.” It just slips from his mouth. He didn’t mean to say it.
“Thank you,” you stutter out, smoothing your dress with your palms, unable to look at the way his eyes scan over you. Big blue eyes that seem to swallow you whole.
Then he notices people around you stifling their conversation, and maybe it’s a cue for him to turn around. “Anytime,” says it loud enough for you to hear, then turns his attention over to the altar, where apparently some people were getting married today.
When the ceremony ends, the dinners all served, some lackluster speeches made, the night stretches into clusters of people and terrible dancing on a woefully made platform. Again, he’s reminded he’s good at multitasking. You’re flowing between groups and couples, a glass of champagne, then a glass of wine. The backyard is lit by string lights. Your hair gets more unkempt as the night drags on.
Then, in a lull of conversation he’s having, he’s able to spot you sitting alone at a circular table, on your phone. He makes a lame excuse, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly, walking in your direction before he can convince himself not to. He sits down next to you. You hum, telling him you know he’s there.
You both say nothing until Will breaks the silence first.
“What do you think about it, the happy couple?” He asks, honestly. The noise from the dance floor dulls as you give him your full attention. You can hear the sound of the late summer crickets.
“They’re way too young.” He forgot how brash you were. It’s what he liked when you’d argue who should be on the World Juniors American team at eight years old. You’d mix your hockey cards with his on the floor of his room, and try to make up your own lines as if you were the head development coach — the one who’d make the call to tell them their dreams were going to come true. “You know how it goes…21 and married? Never works out.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe they’re different.” He jokes, letting the way his voice lightens tell you that he agrees. He smiles, focusing on the way your face shifts to the couple in question, your expression all tight-lipped cause you’ve already made up your mind.
You rolled your eyes. “I bet you he doesn’t even know what her favorite color is. And she doesn’t know he’s got a secret bank account and they’ll divorce over it.”
Will remembers your favorite color instantly. He refrains from saying it out loud because it would sound like a love confession… or something.
“You’re making things up now.”
You look at him, eyes glimmering, then your eyes wander to something else in the distance. You hesitate, mouth open, then you just say it.
“I’m sorry for not being a good friend. For never responding to you after the whole…car thing. I felt so bad after that. I was immature.”
Will takes a second to respond. He didn’t think this would ever be brought up again, but he’s glad it is.
“I, uhm, I was the one who hurt you though,” long pause, “I was so jealous that night.” He scoffs at his own actions while they flicker through his mind.
You tilt your head at him, hair falling so perfectly around your face.
“Like, I couldn’t bear the thought of another man kissing you.” He thinks now, head already hot with embarrassment, to just finish what he started. “It still irks me, to be honest.”
“You…what?” You whisper, as if there weren’t twenty feet of distance between you and another group of people all drunk out of their minds.
“Yeah. I mean, it made it worse because it was him, but I would’ve had the same reaction to anyone else kissing you,” he laughs. If anything, he’s fueled by the thought that he can say this and maybe he’ll never have to see you again. That he can finally get it off his chest. He thought about it a lot these past few months after Macklin figured you out. His career was taking off, and you were about to start your own work career. It would be the best time to close this chapter of his life. To finally be man enough to take the risk. Maybe it’d eventually help him be a better hockey player. He didn’t know. He just needed to get rid of the twinges of regret he’d feel at random parts of the day.
“Are you joking?” You breathe out.
“No,” Will says, “Definitely not.”
“You’re just saying that,” tearing your eyes away from him and his intense stare, “because im like a sister to you or something.”
“You think I want to kiss my sister?”
“Ew, gross, Will!” You say, before what he said is repeated in your head, and you understand what he’s implying. Your hands that we’re fidgeting in your lap come up quickly to find your wine glass, but you’re kind of erratic, and the glass falls over. Falls over onto his white dress shirt.
“Oh shit!” You jump out of your chair. He’s in a daze. Watches you grab the empty glass from his lap and assesses the damage. It’s drenched the bottom half of his button-up deep red. He watches your concerned face as your hands feel the fabric, your feathery touch just a layer away from his abdomen.
“I’m so sorry,” you plead at him, face so close he just wants to kiss you and get it over with now. You turn your head to look at the party. No one’s even noticed what you’re so worked up about. “Maybe we can clean it up inside.”
He nods, stuck on the way your small hand grabs his forearm to lead him towards the wooden deck and through the sliding glass door. He lets you pull him around a corner, flicking on a light from an open bathroom door.
You rummaged through their towels, finding the one in the darkest shade of gray. “Uh, hopefully they don’t get too mad about this.”
“They’re having a wedding at their house. It’s fine.” Will argues. You flounder a bit before stepping closer to him, lightly dabbing the towel over the dampest parts, trying not to spread it any further. He starts undoing the buttons, slowly revealing the expanse of his chest. You want to tell him that he doesn’t have to do that.
“I really like you too, I mean, obviously. It was very obvious this whole time, Will. I don’t know how you didn’t know.”
He stops his movements. The towel in your hand is still pressed to his body. You said this while staring directly at his bare sternum. “And please don’t ever mention sisters or kissing a sister ever again, please.”
“It was not obvious.” His voice is soft. He’s staring at the top of your scalp. You pull back to look at him now. His lips part.
“Yeah, you’re stupid. I had to spell it out for you.”
“Hey!” He’s smiling again, and it feels like the air gets thinner in this cramped bathroom. “Mine was also very obvious too.”
“Don’t call me stupid. You’re pushing your luck right now.”
“When did you know?” The towel falls between both your feet.
“I’m not sure. Maybe thirteen or fourteen?” You flush because it’s so embarrassing to admit you’ve been pining after him for that long. You were sure his answer would be tamer.
“Oh, jeez.” His hand covers his face.
“What? I know it’s really young—“
“No! Oh, God.” He says again.
“What?” You say impatiently. If he was going to make fun of you, he might as well say it.
“I liked you since we were six.”
“Why are you lying to me? Are you trying to fuck with me?” You push his chest half-heartedly. He stumbles back, grinning from ear to ear.
“I’m not! I swear!”, he stops laughing, “seriously.”
You look at him warily. He responds, “We’ve been lying to each other too long to start now.”
“When did you get so poetic?”
“Communications major, remember?”
You groan. “Shut up. Can’t you just kiss me? All you do is talk and talk—“ and then he does.
He tests you first, plush lips softly angling into yours. When you withdraw, foreheads touching, there aren’t any more reasons to wait. He’s on you again with a quiet hunger. The smacking sound of your lips fills the room, and it all becomes a tangle of your hands in his hair, one of his hands cupping your cheek, and the other firm on your side, afraid to let you go. You don’t know how long you stand there, finally half of him.
You would be wasting so much time worrying about all the little events that should have made you two realize it sooner. You were both scared kids, afraid to hurt the other. It didn’t matter now. You had him breathless against your body, and that sight alone made it all worth it.
You’re the one to pull away. You need oxygen, and he’s been depriving you of it your whole life. He stares at you, love-struck.
“Can you cover up now? You’re indecent.” You pat his chest.
“I’m so decent and you know it.” His hands fumble around the small buttons. You pick up the towel, folding it nicely on the counter.
“They should make a button that immediately turns you off when you’ve reached maximum stupid word limit.” You glare at him like he didn’t make your cheeks turn the color they are now.
“You would get so bored you’d have to turn me back on.” He wiggles his eyebrows at his poorly structured double entendre.
“I’m done with you. Goodbye.” You try to get past him, to evade his broad shoulders, but you can’t. All he needs is one hand on your shoulder to make you stop.
“Okay, sorry, but I can’t really go back out there.” He gestures to his shirt.
“Did you congratulate the bride and groom?” You ask.
“Yeah, like two hours ago.”
“So we can leave.”
“Like…together?”
“Are you twelve?”
“Why are you asking me when you know the answer is yes?”
You sigh. You finally brush past him, and he’s all eager, his hands on your shoulders, practically jumping up and down behind you.
As you walk down the paved concrete, he's holding your hand, and not because he was trying to drag you through a packed td garden, down the stairs to watch the bruins warm up before a game, but because he’s able to hold you like he always wanted to.
“It was all for you,” he says. You stop, and he turns to look at you in the darkness. It feels like a recreation of that night, without the tension and anger and stupid decisions. “College, the NHL. Wanted to make you proud somehow. Wanted to do it because you couldn’t.”
“That’s dumb.” Your eyes water, and he knows you mean the opposite of what you say.
𑣲 How does your future spouse look like? (Description + moodboard)
Pick a card tarot reading
Pile 1: 🌿 Pile 2: 🌺 Pile 3: 🌊
Hi guys! Back with another fs reading :), I hope you guys enjoy! For more info about your fs check out my “Who’s your future spouse” which explores areas such as personality, career, first meeting and more! 💗
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Pile 1: 🌿
First thing I’m seeing about your future spouse is that they have a very inviting smile. When they smile they look adorable and their eyes squint when smiling. This person has a very attractive smile, could be how the ends of their lips look that makes them so attractive. Very charming. Your future spouse is someone who has a sleeper build, literally, regardless of gender they exude a very masculine energy and aura. If a man, they have strong hands and very masculine. The way they stand could be very attractive lol. Your future spouse has a very neutral resting face, kinda like they look bored when not smiling, they could have green/hazel eyes leaning more toward a brown color. They could have a mole under their right eyebrow. Your future spouse has a very serene look, they could like to dress with flowy clothes. They could also be Italian. I’m not seeing much about how your future spouse looks like, but their energy is coming off strong. This is someone with a very strong and laid back energy, I keep saying it but very attractive. Reminds me of the swag that Taehyung has, ifykyk. This is someone very confident in themselves. They have straight hair or wavy but more straight, leaning more toward a lighter hair color like light brown with highlights, or dirty blonde. They could have small, hidden tattoos throughout their body. They have a very attractive energy and serenity, “European boy,” they’re definitely a foreigner.
Pretty smile, eyes get small when they smile, has a lot of eyelashes, medium sized lips, could have very distinct ears, maybe you meet them at a time they broke their arm? Freckles, wavy long hair, kinda wolf cut
Pile 2: 🌺
Hello my pile 2! Your future spouse is someone who looks or acts older than their age, someone very serious. They’re very clean looking, their skin is almost perfect and they take a lot of care of it. They could like to slick their hair back if a man, and if a woman their hair could be very straight/sleek. They have bushy eyebrows, and the space between their eyebrows and eyes is small. They have a defined facial structure which contributes to how serious they look. They have a big nose, but for their specific face it fits them and makes them look unique. They like to dress casual elegant, and their style screams old money. They have a mysterious gaze and I don’t see that they’re the type to talk a lot with strangers hahah. Their height is average, could have short proportions. Their body type is normal to slender. They like to wear watches, and their lips are full, very kissable. This is someone that have a certain spark in their eyes when they flirt or try to make someone nervous. When they want their gaze could be very strong and seductive, type of gaze that makes you weak lmaoao. Their resting face could be one of disgust 😭, hilarious. Dark brown hair to black.
Very clean looking, bushy eyebrows, serious face, big nose, full lips, small eyes, eyebrows and eyes could be close together, mysterious stare, likes to slick hair back if a man, casual business black attire, average height, normal to slender body type
Pile 3: 🌊
Your future spouse pile 3 is someone that has a serious resting face. This is someone who literally looks like a model, bone structure is amazing. Their nose could even be used as inspo, their nose is very small and defined. Someone with an athletic body type, their veins could be prominent, and their skin is on the lighter side. Caucasian. Their hair is curly, like a 2b hair pattern and leans more toward a honey brown. Their face looks like someone that would star in a romantic movie. This person is very good looking, conventionally attractive. They have thinner lips, and their eyes are almond shaped, their features all harmonize together. This person could have a mole next to their eye. This is someone intimidating, they seem very smart. They have a nerdy appearance and they wear glasses. They could have a nose piercing, and a tattoo on one of their forearm. I’m seeing this person could go to the gym. Their calf’s are defined and it appears that this person is on the taller side. Your person could be American. Their eyebrows are defined and could be on the thinner side. I didn’t get much, this person’s energy is more mysterious lol.
Defined facial structure, nerdy, glasses, mole on arm, curly hair 2b pattern and honey brown, tattoo on forearm, nose piercing
I hope you guys liked this one :), as always thank you for reading 💗🫶🏻
I'm having thoughts on how you meet the LADs LIs in a modern AU, no evols, no past lives, no mysterious connections to each other, just regular meet-cutes (or perhaps more like meet-ugly in some cases). Please note MC is not a separate character in this scenario, it’s just you and the boys (*^▽^*) Enjoy~
Xavier
You meet Xavier on a blind date your friend set up for you at a hotpot place. It’s been a while since you’ve been out with anyone—thus your friend insisting on you meeting this new guy she’s sure is a perfect fit for you—so you’re a bit nervous and you end up arriving early. Figuring you might as well get the two of you a table, you take a seat while keeping your eyes on the door, anxiously bouncing your leg under the table as you message your date to let him know you’re here.
A man enters, at least 6 feet tall and with a head of blonde hair, which matches the description you were given when this was all set up, so you merrily wave him over. He pauses and seems to look confused for moment—oh God, what if your friend hyped you up too much and now he’s disappointed—but he obligingly comes over and you shove the menu into his hands and usher him to sit down. You pour him some water from the jug on the table as you ask how his journey was, and he replies it was fine, albeit a little stiltedly.
Unfortunately, that makes you even more nervous, and when you’re nervous, you get chatty, like you’re trying to fill an awkward silence before it can form. It’s only the waitress coming over to take your order—which he provides in a soft, smooth voice—that finally gets you to quiet down. There’s a pause after she leaves and you take the moment to apologise for yapping away, explaining that you haven’t been on a date in a while and he’s a lot more handsome than your friend made out, so you’re a little tense.
As you’re nearing the end of this explanation, you get a text pop up on your phone from… your date?
You look up at the man in front of you, who is decidedly not on his phone, and then back down at the message which reads sorry, smth came up, can’t make it.
At this point, the guy across from you is also looking at your phone, and it seems he’s started to put the pieces together himself. You’re not sure you’ve ever been more mortified than when you realise you have effectively forced some poor random man on a date with you. For a while you just stare at him helplessly, as though maybe the truth will un-reveal itself and you can go back to blissful ignorance, until he interrupts by offering to move to a different table.
Looking around, you realise the restaurant has quickly filled up since you arrived, to the point you’re not sure there is another free table, and even if there were, you really don’t think he should be the one to move. You explain as much when you finally come to your senses enough to apologise, offering to pay the bill and leave yourself. After a little back and forth, you eventually decide together that since the order’s been placed you might as well eat while you’re here and you can split the bill later.
Xavier, as you find out his name is, actually turns out to be quite easy to talk to, once you’ve calmed down enough from your mistake to have an actual conversation. It turns out you both like the same comic series as well, and you leave the restaurant with a plan to meet up for lunch again.
Needless to say, you don’t bother trying to rearrange anything with your actual intended date.
Rafayel
You meet Rafayel when you rescue him while working late one night at the University. It’s a Friday and everyone else has long since left to start their weekends but you have a review meeting coming up, and after dealing with some deeply uncooperative cell cultures, you’re grinding to gather as much useable data as you can possibly get. You step out of the lab briefly to grab yourself something with caffeine in it while the centrifuge whirs away, only to stop when you see someone gesticulating wildly while talking loudly into their phone outside the building.
They’re in the courtyard that connects your Biology building and the Art department—why someone had put the two next to each other, you would never know—the very same one with doors that could only be opened via keycard after 6pm and no alternative exit route. You’re just wondering if the young man might be stuck out there when he spots you through the glass door and starts waving at you before pointing at the door’s release button on the inside. Ah, so he is stuck then you think, as you walk over and press it, how long has he been out there?
The doors start to open automatically, and as soon as enough space opens up, the man hurls himself through the gap almost as though he thinks they might change their mind and try to shut him out again. He looks back through the doors like the mere existence of the courtyard is an attack upon his person and asks you if your university makes a regular point of trying to trap its guests. You can only shrug in reply, but he looks put out enough that you feel a bit sorry for him, so you offer him some of the fancy tea and snacks you keep around for when your experiments go to shit and you need some cheering up.
And that’s how you end up entertaining Rafayel, art legend who had been cajoled into doing a guest lecture at your university, in your lab group’s office space over tea at almost 9pm. He regales you with the story of how he’d been kept late by the Dean of the art department talking his ear off, trying to persuade him into taking a fixed-term position, and had then wandered out the wrong exit and ended up in the predicament you’d found him in. You have the sense this venting is much needed, so you let him carry on, offering sympathy when appropriate.
Surprisingly, he then turns the conversation to you and you find yourself prattling away about your research project. You do make something of an effort not to fully nerd out on him, but it’s difficult when he’s a good listener and seems able to pick up on the bits you’re the most passionate about. He manages to wheedle your phone number out of you before he leaves, with the excuse of needing someone to rescue him should he fall victim to the courtyard again—though you struggle to imagine why he’d come back after his first experience with the University.
It catches you rather by surprise then, when you see his name pop up as a new hire in the newsletter that circulates the week after.
Zayne
You meet Zayne while on your way to comfort your friend after a break up. Said break up has been a long time coming—at least, in your opinion as someone who never liked the bastard to begin with—but that doesn’t mean she’s any less upset about it, which is why you step into the elevator of her apartment building with a plastic bag containing a full tub of rocky road ice cream, a box of her favourite truffles and a cheap bottle of wine. You press the button for her floor and then the one to hold the door as you spot a man also walking towards the elevator.
He thanks you politely, reaching the doors in just a few long strides and pressing the button for a different floor before standing on the opposite side to you. The doors close and the elevator starts to rise as you get your phone out to let your friend know you’re here. It’s then that you hear an awful grinding noise and the elevator comes to an abrupt stop, decidedly not at either of your intended floors. For a moment, you hope it’s just stopped to let some other resident of the building in, but several seconds pass with the doors refusing to open and you exchange concerned looks with the only other occupant. It seems, you both agree, that the elevator is stuck.
You do the sensible thing of pressing the call button and alerting the building’s management team to the problem, who promise you they’ll deal with the issue as soon as they can, and you’re then left with the reality of being trapped in an enclosed space with a complete stranger. As you attempt to surreptitiously study the guy, you note that while he’s pretty good-looking and well-dressed, the faint dark lines under his eyes scream of someone who’s had too long of a day to deal with the bullshit of getting stuck in an elevator.
Spreading your old, tired coat on the ground, you sit yourself down and offer the spot next to you to the guy. He initially looks like he’s going to refuse but with a bit of needling, he seats himself next to you with a heavy sigh. Figuring you might as well try to get comfortable, you offer him a handshake and introduce yourself. You learn his name is Zayne, he works as a doctor at the nearby hospital and the only reason he’s in the building is because he planned to pick up something from a colleague before heading home. As your conversation continues, it’s not too difficult to pick up on the fact that he’s not the most extroverted individual in the world, but there’s nothing like being stuck somewhere with no other source of entertainment aside from your nearly dead phone to spur you into keeping the conversation going.
More time passes with no sign of immediate rescue, so you dig the portable cutlery set out from your workbag and offer to split your rapidly melting ice cream with your new elevator buddy. Once you are finally liberated from your shared confinement—a process that takes over two hours in the end—you’re down one tub of ice cream and a half a box of truffles. Zayne offers to compensate you for both, but you’ve grown fond enough of his dry sense of humour that you propose a counter offer: next time he can treat you to some ice cream, ideally in a nicer location than the floor of a broken down elevator.
He accepts.
Sylus
You meet Sylus during a run in with your miserable, cheating ex. It’s been a rough month all in all, trying to stitch together the tattered edges of your life where they’d previously been entangled with another person. As a treat, you decide to take yourself out shopping, a higher end store than you’d usually frequent, but you feel like you’ve earned it by surviving the last four weeks.
Your nice day out is cut short however, when you spot your ex with the sidepiece he’d been seeing behind your back clinging to his arm and sporting a sizeable diamond ring on her left hand. Unfortunately, they spot you before you have time to process properly that the person you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with is engaged no more than a month after your break up. They approach you and the conversation is as full of petty bullshit as you would expect from the two worst people you know—your ex making sure to mention the expensive honeymoon they’ve got booked after the lavish wedding they’re going to have next spring.
Then the conversation turns to you, and your ex’s new fiancée asks snidely if you’re seeing anyone. It’s obvious from the smug look on her face that she knows the answer is no and something in you just snaps. You’re not thinking straight—you’d never do something like this if you were— when you grab the poor stranger unfortunate enough to be standing close to you and announce him as the new guy you’ve been seeing. All you can tell from your peripheral is that he’s well-dressed and considerably taller than your ex, who always had a bit of a thing about his height.
You see your ex’s expression falter as he looks the guy over and it emboldens you enough that you finally let loose the verbal tirade you wanted to give him the day you found someone else’s nudes on his phone. To say you eviscerate the pair of them would be putting it mildly; by the end of your little speech, half the store has turned to watch and at least one grandmother is clutching at her pearl necklace.
To finish off with the appropriate dramatics, you march away from the pair with your head held high and manage to make it halfway across the shop floor before you realise you’ve dragged the random stranger you grabbed hold of with you. An apology to end all apologies at drawing the poor man into your drama starts to form on your tongue, only to have it wither away the moment you get a proper look at him. The arm you’re hanging onto belongs to one of the most intimidating—and good-looking, but that’s a little beside the point—guys you’ve ever seen.
It’s immediately apparent from his build that the only reason you got this far is because he let you haul him away. And then there’s the way he’s looking at you, like a big cat eyeing up something that wandered into its enclosure, trying to decide whether it’s worth hunting. Suddenly, you are struck by the feeling that you have just done something very, very stupid.
Caleb
You meet Caleb while having the worst day of your life. A failing grade on your latest piece of coursework, your barely acceptable average hanging on by a thread, your best friend for over a decade seems to have decided you’re a poor relation to the new friends she’s made at her own college a city away and you have a rat problem your landlord is refusing to address. In some attempt to try to salvage things, you decide to treat yourself with a beverage from your favourite coffee shop. Do you really have the budget for it? No, but the thought of staying in your shitty rental for the rest of the day is too much to bear.
You go up to counter and order as usual, wincing a little when the number comes up on the till but tapping your card regardless, however it’s when you collect your drink and turn to find your usual seat in the corner that things go horribly wrong. Someone shoulder checks you, hard, and you manage to tip your drink all over yourself as you stagger backwards.
Time seems to freeze for a moment, you can feel the eyes on you, watching as the liquid drips down from your formerly white shirt. Looking down at the contents of your now nearly empty cup, something in you breaks. You start bawling—tears, snot, the works. The arsehole who ran into doesn’t even bother to stop as you burst into hysterics and everyone else seems content to just stare at you like you’re some kind of spectacle.
Then, you feel an arm around your shoulder, guiding you towards a quiet corner at the back of the store as someone takes the cup from your hands and presses a wad of napkins into them instead. You try to thank them through the tears, although you’re not sure anything intelligible comes out and the kind stranger just quietly hushes you in response. They get you to sit down and you look up to see an extremely handsome guy—you think you might have seen him around campus before, although you’re not sure—standing in front of you, blocking the view of you from the rest of the shop with his back.
He lets you cry it out for bit, disappearing only briefly after you’ve started to calm down and coming back with a duplicate of your drink order. That act of kindness is almost enough to make you start back up again, but then he asks what happened and you end up spilling your guts to him. It seems like bad manners to dump all your problems on a stranger, though once you’re done, you do feel more like a person and less like a total walking disaster. He introduces himself as Caleb and he is indeed at the same college as you, just a couple of years ahead. You thank him profusely for his help and try to give him some money for the drink but he waves it off, asking instead if he can borrow your phone quickly. Not seeing any reason to refuse—maybe his has run out of charge, you think—you hand it over and he steps away to make brief call before handing it back to you.
That encounter seems to serve as something of a turning point, as shortly after you say your goodbyes, you receive a message from your landlord promising the rat problem will be dealt with immediately. You also notice that Caleb :) has been added to your contacts list.
A/N: Fun fact, the building thing in Rafayel’s bit sounds made up but is inspired by a genuine set up at one of the Universities I’ve worked at where if you forgot your keycard after hours, you could literally get trapped in a courtyard with no way out other than trying to scale the buildings or calling security. This almost happened to me once and I lived in permanent fear of actually getting stuck out there, so I am passing my trauma onto Raf <3
These are all free to download from itch.io on computer. I’m not sure if any of these could work on any other device but most probably not. Most of these games aren’t finished either and it’s the demo you play(they’re indie games created during, what I presume, is the persons free time, so it takes a while to develop) Still, you have content to play and it doesn’t end after just 5 minutes, I promise.
I will continue to update this post with new games I enjoy!
14 Days With You- by cutiesai
Here’s a link to the official tumblr blog
OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION: 🔞(if u like gettin very freaky THIS is for u)
"14 Days With You" is an upcoming romantic horror visual novel centred around Ren, a mysterious individual who seems more than obsessed with you — and is willing to do anything he can to have you.
Prescription:LOVE - by Livingslime
Here’s a link to the official tumblr blog
OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:
"You wake up in a hospital with no memory of how you got there. A kind and attentive doctor assures you that you will be under his care, patiently nursing you back to health. No one seems to know what caused your condition. "
The Kid at the Back - by Fantasia | TealCat
Here’s a link to the official tumblr blog
OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION: 🔞(behind a small paywall abt 5$)
"There's this guy, pretty tall guy, often times people don't even realize he's there but he is. Usually sits at the back, wears nothing but black. His eyes however, were bright, red as the autumn leaves, and they for sure aren't leaving your eyes once you lock with his."
Heart Cage - by rice love coffee
OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:🔞
You are a detective who has just moved to a new town. You are involved in a serial killer case, and three mysterious residents (Or more?!) are approaching you!
Don't trust anyone! But... can you?
Please Don’t Hate Christmas- (also) by rice love coffee
OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:
Yandere x Otome x Christmas x Urban Legend!!
You last celebrated Christmas a few years ago. This year, you returned to your hometown---Snowflake Island, with your childhood friend, Albert. Albert treats you so well that you choose to stay forever. However, you forgot something in the past, and it's still not solved...
(A/N: it was a long time since I played this ⬆️ but it shouldn’t have changed much- when I played it was really good. )
Pulsatio Cordis
OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION;
The popular guy meets a random nobody and inexplicably develops a crush on them. Sound familiar? It’s only the premise of 90% of the teen fiction genre. But dream no more. Your love letter, once a wishful Hail Mary, has been accepted by the one and only Liev Latané!
Liev seems unattainable 一 how can any sane eighteen-year old juggle being head student with being leader of the debate team and the school athletics team, on top of being a UN Youth Ambassador? But somehow, out of 150 students, he chose to go on a date with you!
Binary Star Hero- by Concrete Parasite
OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:
Binary Star is the country's top Super Hero. His light shines bright against any darkness... but the brighter the light illuminates, the darker the cast shadow becomes.
Discover who Binary Star is behind the mask.
Sunlit Grove - by Bingzi
OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:
Burned out and overwhelmed, your doctor insists you take a break. What better escape than a retreat far from technology?
Help prepare for the local festivities with the overly affectionate Maverick, and do your best to avoid his unsettling brother.
Explore the secluded, self-sustaining town of Sunlit Grove, where the people are kind and a little bit too welcoming...
(A/n - this one felt a bit shorter than the the others but I still liked the vibe of the setting and the cute country boy love interest.)
