AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
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A HELPING HAND
A Roleplay Brought to You By: |
Adrian Wolfe written by AJS Roleplaying |
Delilah (Lilah) Hayward written by Kita-san |
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A Helping Hand (AJS Roleplaying x Kita-san)
- Thread starter AJS Roleplaying
- Start date
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah carried the drink and fries back toward their lane, her steps unhurried but her mind far from relaxed. The ice clinked in her glass with every movement, but she was barely aware of it—her head was still replaying the sound of his last throw. That sharp, satisfying crash of pins toppling, almost all of them. Nine. She still couldn't believe it. Nine was dangerously close to perfect, close enough to make her chest tighten with a mix of irritation and—God help her—admiration
She set the fries on the small table beside their lane, the warm scent of salt and oil curling up toward her. She took a sip of her drink instead of diving for the food, letting the cold hit her throat while she replayed the moment again. The precision in his release. The way his arm had followed through like he'd done this a hundred times before. He'd wanted that strike—she could see it in his stance, the quiet confidence—and he'd come within one stubborn pin of getting it.
And that was what lit the fuse for her.
She told herself she didn't care about winning. Not really. It was supposed to be fun—just friendly competition, no stakes worth the energy. But that was a lie, and she knew it. Every time he got a clean shot, every time his score ticked ahead of hers, there was this little flicker inside her. Not resentment. Not even bruised pride. Something hungrier. She wanted to match him. To push him. To show him that she wasn't just here to be charming company while he coasted to a win.
The question—Do I want to win? Or do I want to let him have it?—looped in her mind as she pulled a fry from the pile and popped it into her mouth. It was tempting to play it both ways: keep it close, keep the tension sharp, maybe even let him think he had her cornered until she decided to take the game in a final, perfectly timed strike. That would be satisfying in a different way. But then there was the other part of her, the one that wanted to walk up to that lane, line up her shot, and make the pins explode in a clean sweep—just to watch his face when she did it.
Her eyes flicked toward him as she chewed, studying him without letting it look like she was. He was watching her in that way he did—measured, a little too intent to be casual—but she didn't break the glance. She let it hang there for a heartbeat before looking away, her mouth twitching in the smallest hint of a smirk.
Setting her drink down, she wiped her fingers on a napkin and picked up her ball, feeling the weight settle into her palm. Nine pins. He'd set the bar high. Fine. She'd set it higher. If she could get a strike now, it would pull them closer on the scoreboard, but more importantly, it would prove something—maybe to him, maybe to herself. She wasn't sure yet. Either way, she decided as she stepped toward the lane, she was going for it.
The ball warm in her hand now from the way she'd been holding it, her fingers snug in the holes like they belonged there. She took a breath, slow and deep, tasting salt from the fries still on her tongue. The rest of the room faded—the muted thump of music overhead, the clatter of pins from other lanes, the low hum of voices—and all that remained was the long, slick stretch of polished wood ahead of her and that neat, mocking triangle of pins at the far end.
Her mind ran over every throw she'd made tonight, searching for the sweet spot, the rhythm that made the ball spin just enough to glide into the pocket. She adjusted her stance, rolling her shoulders back, grounding her weight through her legs. She didn't want to overthink it—overthinking was the fastest way to miss—but she also wasn't about to let this moment slip by. One step. Two. Three. Her approach was fluid, practiced enough to look effortless even though her heart had picked up speed. She could feel the momentum building in her arm, the subtle torque in her wrist that would decide everything. The ball left her hand in a clean, smooth release, the faintest kiss of spin in its path.
It rolled straight and true, the sound a steady hum over the lane. Halfway there, the curve began—gentle at first, then sharper, drawing it toward the exact spot she'd been aiming for. Her breath caught without her permission. The moment the ball slammed into the front pin, the explosion was immediate—pins scattering left and right in a chaotic spray of white, spinning and tumbling out of sight. In that blink, she knew it. She didn't have to wait for the confirmation; the sound told her before her eyes did.
Strike.
A slow smile crept across her lips as she straightened, turning back toward the table with measured steps, letting the satisfaction settle in her bones. She didn't need to announce it. The scoreboard would do that for her. She winked at Adrian and sat down, letting the silence intensify the moment.
She set the fries on the small table beside their lane, the warm scent of salt and oil curling up toward her. She took a sip of her drink instead of diving for the food, letting the cold hit her throat while she replayed the moment again. The precision in his release. The way his arm had followed through like he'd done this a hundred times before. He'd wanted that strike—she could see it in his stance, the quiet confidence—and he'd come within one stubborn pin of getting it.
And that was what lit the fuse for her.
She told herself she didn't care about winning. Not really. It was supposed to be fun—just friendly competition, no stakes worth the energy. But that was a lie, and she knew it. Every time he got a clean shot, every time his score ticked ahead of hers, there was this little flicker inside her. Not resentment. Not even bruised pride. Something hungrier. She wanted to match him. To push him. To show him that she wasn't just here to be charming company while he coasted to a win.
The question—Do I want to win? Or do I want to let him have it?—looped in her mind as she pulled a fry from the pile and popped it into her mouth. It was tempting to play it both ways: keep it close, keep the tension sharp, maybe even let him think he had her cornered until she decided to take the game in a final, perfectly timed strike. That would be satisfying in a different way. But then there was the other part of her, the one that wanted to walk up to that lane, line up her shot, and make the pins explode in a clean sweep—just to watch his face when she did it.
Her eyes flicked toward him as she chewed, studying him without letting it look like she was. He was watching her in that way he did—measured, a little too intent to be casual—but she didn't break the glance. She let it hang there for a heartbeat before looking away, her mouth twitching in the smallest hint of a smirk.
Setting her drink down, she wiped her fingers on a napkin and picked up her ball, feeling the weight settle into her palm. Nine pins. He'd set the bar high. Fine. She'd set it higher. If she could get a strike now, it would pull them closer on the scoreboard, but more importantly, it would prove something—maybe to him, maybe to herself. She wasn't sure yet. Either way, she decided as she stepped toward the lane, she was going for it.
The ball warm in her hand now from the way she'd been holding it, her fingers snug in the holes like they belonged there. She took a breath, slow and deep, tasting salt from the fries still on her tongue. The rest of the room faded—the muted thump of music overhead, the clatter of pins from other lanes, the low hum of voices—and all that remained was the long, slick stretch of polished wood ahead of her and that neat, mocking triangle of pins at the far end.
Her mind ran over every throw she'd made tonight, searching for the sweet spot, the rhythm that made the ball spin just enough to glide into the pocket. She adjusted her stance, rolling her shoulders back, grounding her weight through her legs. She didn't want to overthink it—overthinking was the fastest way to miss—but she also wasn't about to let this moment slip by. One step. Two. Three. Her approach was fluid, practiced enough to look effortless even though her heart had picked up speed. She could feel the momentum building in her arm, the subtle torque in her wrist that would decide everything. The ball left her hand in a clean, smooth release, the faintest kiss of spin in its path.
It rolled straight and true, the sound a steady hum over the lane. Halfway there, the curve began—gentle at first, then sharper, drawing it toward the exact spot she'd been aiming for. Her breath caught without her permission. The moment the ball slammed into the front pin, the explosion was immediate—pins scattering left and right in a chaotic spray of white, spinning and tumbling out of sight. In that blink, she knew it. She didn't have to wait for the confirmation; the sound told her before her eyes did.
Strike.
A slow smile crept across her lips as she straightened, turning back toward the table with measured steps, letting the satisfaction settle in her bones. She didn't need to announce it. The scoreboard would do that for her. She winked at Adrian and sat down, letting the silence intensify the moment.
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
A strike with her third throw - clean, decisive, and with a kind of elegance that seemed almost unintentional. Adrian felt the smile tug at his mouth before he even registered it, the warmth of it pressing into his cheeks. Either I'm a really good teacher, or we just discovered your hidden talent, he thought, the words sitting in his mind with the weight of a small truth. The line had that mix of playful pride and reluctant surrender—because, if he was honest, there was something undeniably thrilling about watching her succeed at his expense.
It confirmed something he had already begun to suspect about her, a quiet suspicion that had been sharpening itself ever since they'd stepped into this strange little arena together: Delilah was every bit as competitive as he was. Not just in the obvious way, not just in the way of keeping score or wanting to win, but in something deeper - a need to match, to meet, to challenge. It was in the precision of her aim, the narrowing of her gaze, the unspoken refusal to let him take this one without a fight. It made the air between them hum with a kind of charge, the kind that wasn't entirely about the game at all.
He finished off his first drink, letting the last mouthful burn briefly on the way down before dissolving into a slow, pleasant warmth. There was an impulse to let it linger, to let the slight blur at the edges of things add to the looseness of the night. Instead, he placed the glass aside and reached for another ball. This time, he wanted a strike - needed one. Not just for the numbers on the scoreboard, but for the balance of things. But once again, the strike eluded him, and he could feel the tiniest sting of frustration prick at him. It wasn't enough to sour the mood - nothing tonight could - but it was enough to remind him that he had wanted to come out on top. Not in an obvious, chest-beating way, but in the quiet satisfaction of being the one to set the pace, to be just a little better. And now there was the delicious risk that she might take that away from him.
The game edged toward its final throws, the pins standing like stubborn teeth at the far end of the lane. Each round had narrowed the margin between them, until now - unexpectedly - he led by a single point. A single, precarious point. It was absurd, how much that one point began to matter, how the numbers on a little glowing screen began to mirror something larger, something unspoken. He hadn't anticipated this—hadn't anticipated the way the game would start to feel like a quiet metaphor for the undercurrent moving between them. Every frame felt like a flirtation. Every spare or strike felt like an answer to an unasked question. And every miss carried with it that faint throb of possibility - what it might mean if he lost, what it might mean if she won.
There was a rhythm to it now, a cadence not just in the game but in the way the night was unfolding. Something about the way they existed in this small, enclosed moment, shielded from whatever titles, expectations, or histories followed them outside these walls. Here, they were stripped down to something simpler: two people, a narrow strip of polished wood, and the unyielding certainty of ten pins waiting to be knocked down.
The scoreboard flashed, pulling his focus back to the present. One throw each left. Just one more chance to decide it. The stakes were ridiculous, really - childish even - but he found himself invested in a way that went far beyond rationality. It wasn't about the game anymore, not exactly. It was about the dynamic that had taken root between them, the subtle push and pull, the way neither seemed willing to yield the smallest advantage. The ball in his hand felt heavier now, as if it knew it carried the weight of the evening. He rolled it slowly in his palm, his mind already turning over the possibilities. Victory would be satisfying, yes - but so would the kind of loss that came with the right person.
The last throw loomed between them, almost ceremonial in its anticipation. The air felt charged, bright with the faint thrum of competition and something sharper that neither had put into words. The scoreboard glowed like a quiet dare. One point. One throw. And then it would all be over - or, perhaps, only just beginning. Somewhere beneath it all, beneath the sound of pins scattering and the faint hum of conversation from other lanes, was the awareness that this was about more than numbers. It was about seeing each other fully, about testing the edges of what they were willing to give and what they were determined to keep. It was about not letting the other walk away without knowing exactly where they stood—equal parts playful and dangerous.
And as that awareness settled over him, he realized the truth: whether he won or lost, the night was already his favourite kind of game.
It confirmed something he had already begun to suspect about her, a quiet suspicion that had been sharpening itself ever since they'd stepped into this strange little arena together: Delilah was every bit as competitive as he was. Not just in the obvious way, not just in the way of keeping score or wanting to win, but in something deeper - a need to match, to meet, to challenge. It was in the precision of her aim, the narrowing of her gaze, the unspoken refusal to let him take this one without a fight. It made the air between them hum with a kind of charge, the kind that wasn't entirely about the game at all.
He finished off his first drink, letting the last mouthful burn briefly on the way down before dissolving into a slow, pleasant warmth. There was an impulse to let it linger, to let the slight blur at the edges of things add to the looseness of the night. Instead, he placed the glass aside and reached for another ball. This time, he wanted a strike - needed one. Not just for the numbers on the scoreboard, but for the balance of things. But once again, the strike eluded him, and he could feel the tiniest sting of frustration prick at him. It wasn't enough to sour the mood - nothing tonight could - but it was enough to remind him that he had wanted to come out on top. Not in an obvious, chest-beating way, but in the quiet satisfaction of being the one to set the pace, to be just a little better. And now there was the delicious risk that she might take that away from him.
The game edged toward its final throws, the pins standing like stubborn teeth at the far end of the lane. Each round had narrowed the margin between them, until now - unexpectedly - he led by a single point. A single, precarious point. It was absurd, how much that one point began to matter, how the numbers on a little glowing screen began to mirror something larger, something unspoken. He hadn't anticipated this—hadn't anticipated the way the game would start to feel like a quiet metaphor for the undercurrent moving between them. Every frame felt like a flirtation. Every spare or strike felt like an answer to an unasked question. And every miss carried with it that faint throb of possibility - what it might mean if he lost, what it might mean if she won.
There was a rhythm to it now, a cadence not just in the game but in the way the night was unfolding. Something about the way they existed in this small, enclosed moment, shielded from whatever titles, expectations, or histories followed them outside these walls. Here, they were stripped down to something simpler: two people, a narrow strip of polished wood, and the unyielding certainty of ten pins waiting to be knocked down.
The scoreboard flashed, pulling his focus back to the present. One throw each left. Just one more chance to decide it. The stakes were ridiculous, really - childish even - but he found himself invested in a way that went far beyond rationality. It wasn't about the game anymore, not exactly. It was about the dynamic that had taken root between them, the subtle push and pull, the way neither seemed willing to yield the smallest advantage. The ball in his hand felt heavier now, as if it knew it carried the weight of the evening. He rolled it slowly in his palm, his mind already turning over the possibilities. Victory would be satisfying, yes - but so would the kind of loss that came with the right person.
The last throw loomed between them, almost ceremonial in its anticipation. The air felt charged, bright with the faint thrum of competition and something sharper that neither had put into words. The scoreboard glowed like a quiet dare. One point. One throw. And then it would all be over - or, perhaps, only just beginning. Somewhere beneath it all, beneath the sound of pins scattering and the faint hum of conversation from other lanes, was the awareness that this was about more than numbers. It was about seeing each other fully, about testing the edges of what they were willing to give and what they were determined to keep. It was about not letting the other walk away without knowing exactly where they stood—equal parts playful and dangerous.
And as that awareness settled over him, he realized the truth: whether he won or lost, the night was already his favourite kind of game.
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah could feel it—his energy had shifted. Not in some dramatic, sweeping way, but in the subtle adjustments: the longer pause before he picked up the ball, the way his gaze lingered just a beat longer on the pins, the slight tightening in his posture as if his body was unconsciously bracing for the outcome. She recognized it because she knew it in herself. That quiet, sharpened awareness that came when something—no matter how small—started to matter more than you expected it to.
Her third-throw strike had been satisfying, yes, but the real pleasure had come in watching his reaction. Not gloating, not smug, but that fleeting flash in his expression—half amusement, half acknowledgment—that told her he'd noticed. And cared. It was the kind of acknowledgment she thrived on, the kind that wasn't handed out freely but earned in small, precise ways. She had no intention of letting him take the night without working for it.
She wrapped her fingers around her own ball, feeling the smooth coolness under her palm, the faint oil-slick sheen of the lane lights catching in its surface. It was heavier than she remembered from her last throw, though she knew that was just the awareness of what was at stake. The scoreboard glared at her—one point. Just one. It was ridiculous how much that single digit could spark the same kind of pulse-quickening tension she felt in the early stages of a flirtation. Maybe because, in a way, that's exactly what this was. Adrian had that quiet determination now, the kind that made her want to match him not just pin for pin, but intention for intention. She knew the game had already stopped being about bowling for either of them. The pins were placeholders. What mattered was the unspoken dialogue between them—each frame a question, each result an answer.
She remembered their earlier throws, the near-silent exchanges: the way he'd glance at her just before stepping up, like he was checking whether she was watching (she always was), the little half-smiles they traded in the space between turns. It wasn't just competition—it was a dance. A step forward, a counterstep. Testing and teasing. And now here they were, down to this. The last throw. She could already picture the outcomes: the electric little rush of stealing the win from him in the final moment, or the almost equally intoxicating pull of letting him have it—not out of concession, but out of a deliberate choice to see how he handled victory. Either way, she wouldn't lose. Not really.
She rolled the ball between her palms, letting her mind linger on the way the weight grounded her. In that moment the music began to fade, becoming nothing more than background static. Her focus was narrowed to the length of polished wood ahead of her, the neat white geometry of the pins, and the awareness of him just a few feet behind her, watching. She could almost feel his gaze against the back of her neck, a warm, steady pressure that made her want to throw well for reasons that had nothing to do with points. It struck her that this—this blend of competition, attention, and tension—was the kind of thing that didn't happen by accident. You didn't find it with just anyone. The game might end in minutes, but the current between them wouldn't. If anything, she suspected it would only get sharper.
As she stepped up to the line, she allowed herself the smallest smile. Whether the pins fell clean or stubbornly refused, she knew one thing for certain: she'd already matched him. Not just in score, but in intent. And matching him, she suspected, was only the beginning.
The pins clattered in a satisfying, staggered cascade, the sound sharp and final. One stubborn pin at the far edge rocked in place, teetered as though it might stand its ground… then tipped. The final pin. The last frame. She didn't need to check the scoreboard to know what it meant, but of course, her eyes flicked there anyway, catching the satisfying glow of the numbers: her name above his, by exactly one point. The same narrow margin that had hovered between them, now inverted in her favor. She turned toward him slowly—not with the triumphant swagger of someone out for humiliation, but with the composed grace of someone savoring the quiet victory. There was a sparkle in her eyes, though, a glint that said I wanted this and I took it.
Adrian's smile was already there, tugging at the edges of his mouth before she'd even met his gaze. It wasn't the smile of a sore loser, nor was it entirely surrender—it was something else. Something that acknowledged the game they'd been playing wasn't over just because the scoreboard had stopped changing. Delilah let the moment stretch. She didn't rush toward him, didn't blurt out a gloating remark. Instead, she stepped closer with deliberate slowness, the faint scent of her perfume drifting forward before she did. When she was within arm's reach, she leaned in—not enough to touch, but enough to let the space between them feel charged again—and said, almost in a whisper,
"Guess I just discovered my hidden talent."
The words were light, but her gaze held steady, anchoring them with something more than teasing. She could see the flicker of thought in his eyes, the recalibration of whatever balance they'd been playing with all night. He'd wanted to win, she knew. Not in some chest-thumping way, but in that quiet, internal way that mattered more. And now she'd taken it. But it wasn't about proving herself better. Not really. It was about showing him—showing them—that she could meet him, match him, even surpass him when it mattered. That she wasn't going to stay in the safe shadow of his lead. And from the way his smile deepened, she suspected he didn't mind losing. Not to her. She picked up her drink, taking a slow sip, eyes never leaving his. "One point," she added, a faintly satisfied curve in her lips. "But that's all it takes."
The scoreboard still glowed above them, a frozen record of the night's outcome. And yet, she had the feeling they'd both remember it less for the numbers than for the moment it represented—the point where the game they'd been playing stopped being about pins entirely. Now that bowling was over it was up to her to pick the next game but up to Adrian to pick the prize for the winner of the next game.
Her third-throw strike had been satisfying, yes, but the real pleasure had come in watching his reaction. Not gloating, not smug, but that fleeting flash in his expression—half amusement, half acknowledgment—that told her he'd noticed. And cared. It was the kind of acknowledgment she thrived on, the kind that wasn't handed out freely but earned in small, precise ways. She had no intention of letting him take the night without working for it.
She wrapped her fingers around her own ball, feeling the smooth coolness under her palm, the faint oil-slick sheen of the lane lights catching in its surface. It was heavier than she remembered from her last throw, though she knew that was just the awareness of what was at stake. The scoreboard glared at her—one point. Just one. It was ridiculous how much that single digit could spark the same kind of pulse-quickening tension she felt in the early stages of a flirtation. Maybe because, in a way, that's exactly what this was. Adrian had that quiet determination now, the kind that made her want to match him not just pin for pin, but intention for intention. She knew the game had already stopped being about bowling for either of them. The pins were placeholders. What mattered was the unspoken dialogue between them—each frame a question, each result an answer.
She remembered their earlier throws, the near-silent exchanges: the way he'd glance at her just before stepping up, like he was checking whether she was watching (she always was), the little half-smiles they traded in the space between turns. It wasn't just competition—it was a dance. A step forward, a counterstep. Testing and teasing. And now here they were, down to this. The last throw. She could already picture the outcomes: the electric little rush of stealing the win from him in the final moment, or the almost equally intoxicating pull of letting him have it—not out of concession, but out of a deliberate choice to see how he handled victory. Either way, she wouldn't lose. Not really.
She rolled the ball between her palms, letting her mind linger on the way the weight grounded her. In that moment the music began to fade, becoming nothing more than background static. Her focus was narrowed to the length of polished wood ahead of her, the neat white geometry of the pins, and the awareness of him just a few feet behind her, watching. She could almost feel his gaze against the back of her neck, a warm, steady pressure that made her want to throw well for reasons that had nothing to do with points. It struck her that this—this blend of competition, attention, and tension—was the kind of thing that didn't happen by accident. You didn't find it with just anyone. The game might end in minutes, but the current between them wouldn't. If anything, she suspected it would only get sharper.
As she stepped up to the line, she allowed herself the smallest smile. Whether the pins fell clean or stubbornly refused, she knew one thing for certain: she'd already matched him. Not just in score, but in intent. And matching him, she suspected, was only the beginning.
The pins clattered in a satisfying, staggered cascade, the sound sharp and final. One stubborn pin at the far edge rocked in place, teetered as though it might stand its ground… then tipped. The final pin. The last frame. She didn't need to check the scoreboard to know what it meant, but of course, her eyes flicked there anyway, catching the satisfying glow of the numbers: her name above his, by exactly one point. The same narrow margin that had hovered between them, now inverted in her favor. She turned toward him slowly—not with the triumphant swagger of someone out for humiliation, but with the composed grace of someone savoring the quiet victory. There was a sparkle in her eyes, though, a glint that said I wanted this and I took it.
Adrian's smile was already there, tugging at the edges of his mouth before she'd even met his gaze. It wasn't the smile of a sore loser, nor was it entirely surrender—it was something else. Something that acknowledged the game they'd been playing wasn't over just because the scoreboard had stopped changing. Delilah let the moment stretch. She didn't rush toward him, didn't blurt out a gloating remark. Instead, she stepped closer with deliberate slowness, the faint scent of her perfume drifting forward before she did. When she was within arm's reach, she leaned in—not enough to touch, but enough to let the space between them feel charged again—and said, almost in a whisper,
"Guess I just discovered my hidden talent."
The words were light, but her gaze held steady, anchoring them with something more than teasing. She could see the flicker of thought in his eyes, the recalibration of whatever balance they'd been playing with all night. He'd wanted to win, she knew. Not in some chest-thumping way, but in that quiet, internal way that mattered more. And now she'd taken it. But it wasn't about proving herself better. Not really. It was about showing him—showing them—that she could meet him, match him, even surpass him when it mattered. That she wasn't going to stay in the safe shadow of his lead. And from the way his smile deepened, she suspected he didn't mind losing. Not to her. She picked up her drink, taking a slow sip, eyes never leaving his. "One point," she added, a faintly satisfied curve in her lips. "But that's all it takes."
The scoreboard still glowed above them, a frozen record of the night's outcome. And yet, she had the feeling they'd both remember it less for the numbers than for the moment it represented—the point where the game they'd been playing stopped being about pins entirely. Now that bowling was over it was up to her to pick the next game but up to Adrian to pick the prize for the winner of the next game.