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fushigowo · 2 years ago

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𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 | 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

⇢ ˗ˏˋ PAIRING: gojo satoru x fem!reader

⇢ ˗ˏˋ SYNOPSIS: the aftermath of yours and gojo satoru’s midterm essay and how your relationship came to existence. contrary to popular belief, gojo satoru is actually the sweetest jerk of a boyfriend you’ve ever had.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNINGS: none!! just some cute fluff and suggestive themes <3

⇢ ˗ˏˋ NOTE: i have finally awaken from my peaceful century of slumber, resurrecting amidst the fog from the land of the dead, and bringing back the fluffiest, tooth-aching, heart-warming set of fluff i have ever written.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ PART I | PART II

1. The midterm essay was a success. However, Gojo Satoru noticed that something is wrong.

You and Satoru were able to score a high grade in your midterms for literature class. It was amazing how the two of you managed to finish a ten-page essay regarding the social context of Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. However… during the week of working on the essay, of course there were some… other sessions that Satoru initiated.

During the entire week, you felt like you had lost your ability to walk and you’re not even exaggerating.

“You okay, sweetheart? I didn’t overdid it this time, right?” Satoru asks as he puts his shirt on while sitting on the edge of your bed.

“I’m literally struggling to walk right now, Satoru.” You stare at him in disbelief.

“Oops, my bad!”

But that being said, the entire week was a blast for both you and Satoru. Not only you’ve been fucked several times by your beloved, you also earned a high grade from your literature professor and was able to help Satoru in LIT 2000.

After the midterm week, Satoru noticed that you’re back to being the shy quiet student who rarely participates in class again. You’ve also been ignoring him after the week. The white-haired man couldn’t help but feel unsettled about your actions. Because why would you avoid him when you like him so much? And to Satoru, being ignored by the person he admires and likes is no different from being stabbed right through the chest.

Why were you being so distant from him all of the sudden? Why were you ignoring him like you didn’t just spend the entire week together?

Satoru knows that something is wrong so he decided to disturb you when you were studying in the library.

You were busy studying for a test when a loud voice called you from afar; a voice that you knew too well.

When you raised your head to stare at him, the other people in the library were staring daggers at him. Satoru makes his way towards you, ignoring the other students and even the librarian. The white-haired man stops in front of your table and sits across where you’re sitting.

“Hey, sweets,” he smiles. “What are you doing?”

“Studying…?” you said, as if it wasn’t obvious. “Why are you here, Satoru?”

“The question is why are you ignoring me?”

You let out a sigh and ignored his question. You close your laptop and pack your pens and notebooks but Satoru suddenly grip your wrist, making you look at him with furrowed eyebrows.

“What is it, Satoru?” you ask, trying not to make your voice loud enough for everyone else to hear. “Look, let’s not discuss it here.”

“Fine. Take me somewhere more private.”

And that’s how you end up being eaten out by Gojo Satoru in the most secluded part of the library after explaining why you’ve been avoiding him.

2. Gojo Satoru remembers the little details.

After a tiring week, Satoru came busting in your library work to free you from the stress that you’ve been dealing with since… well, since forever, he thinks. But now, he’s here to alleviate your stress (and back pain).

Satoru had plans of dragging you out from your library work but he had to wait for you to finish since library work is an important part of your schedule. After that, he finally drags you out of campus to try the new dessert shop that had recently opened.

“I know you’re fond of sweets because it relieves your stress,” he smiles at you before holding your hand and enters the small shop. “I had to explore places that serve desserts near the campus so I can treat you. Oh, and you definitely deserve a treat after a stressful week.”

Oh… he remembers my rambles during aftercare.

Your heart races rapidly inside your chest, cheeks start to heat at the sweet gesture of Satoru. Like he predicted, the weight on your back of carrying loads of responsibilities and stress was suddenly lifted. It was amazing how Satoru was able to understand you more than you understand yourself. He knows what to say, what to do, and what not to do to lighten your mood.

Contrary to popular belief that Gojo Satoru is a cheating fuckboy, he is actually the opposite. Every one in the campus just see him as one because of how he constantly flirts with every girl he sees. In your defense, you think Satoru is just being nice to them. The nicknames are actually what gives it. He told you that he just likes calling everyone with the nicknames he gives.

“Sooooo… how is it? It’s good, right?” he smiles.

“Yeah. So good.” you smile back.

“You got something on your nose,” he says.

“Hmm? Where?”

“Here!” he yells before coating the tip of your nose with chocolate ice cream.

3. Gojo Satoru understands how your mind works.

You are anxious.

And Satoru can see it.

Sitting on top of the rooftop of your apartment building, you stare at the cityscape with your arms wrapped around your legs and chin on top of your knees. Satoru sits down next to you and asks what’s wrong but you didn’t answer and just continue to stare at nothing.

“Alright. Tell me what’s in your mind, sweetheart,” he says. “Something’s bothering you, obviously.”

“I’m just… I’m scared, Satoru,” you whisper, still not looking at him because of how pathetic you feel. “I’m scared of what might come. I don’t know how things will be for me after I graduate. Like, I know I have plans—big plans—but what if… what if I didn’t—what if I didn’t get to do all those plans? What will happen to me then? What will happen to me if I didn’t get to live the life that I wanted? If I didn’t get to become the person that I wanted to be?”

When you finally had the courage to look at him, your eyes are blurred with hot tears, making Satoru’s eyes soften at your current state.

Satoru doesn’t understand why but he likes it when you’re vulnerable around him. He likes it when you’re not scared of telling him what you really feel and what goes inside your head. Because a person like you, who rarely opens up to anyone in their life, means that you trust him enough to tell these things and to be vulnerable around him.

“I’m sorry, Satoru. I shouldn’t have said tha—”

“Thanks for telling me that, sweetheart.” he smiles before cupping your cheeks, his thumb rubs your soft skin, as if his hands are touching the most delicate flower that he has ever laid hands on, afraid of breaking its petals and ruining its beauty. But Satoru, no matter which state you are in, you are still the prettiest in his eyes.

“I know the future can be… shit and unpredictable but y’know, that’s kinda the exciting part of it. It’s full of… unexpected things; full of surprises; full of ups and downs. But one thing that I’m sure at is you will definitely be the person that you want to be. And right now, you’re doing everything you can to have the future that you want,” he says. “It’s okay to be anxious, sweetheart. Trust me when I say this, you will get the things you want and desire because you work so hard for it. Even if you didn’t get all of what you want, I’ll be by your side to help you. Even if you feel like what you did wasn’t enough, I’ll be by your side to tell you that it’s more than enough, okay? You are more than enough. Now come here and give me a hug.”

You smile at him as you sniff and wipe your tears away before giving him a tight hug. Satoru kisses your forehead.

And what seems like a dream is actually a moment in reality.

4. Gojo Satoru is your biggest supporter and your number one fan.

Upon sitting on your desk in LIT 2000, your professor called your name for you to recite the earlier discussions regarding your lesson last meeting, which was African American Literature. Recently, Satoru has been participating more and more in class which was because of you.

He figured that if his girl is the smartest student in class, then he’d better step up and level your intelligence. Everyone else were surprised except you and your professor. The both of you know damn well that Satoru is a smarter than he looks. But Satoru’s recent constant participation burned something inside you. Every time he speaks, he would look at you with a smirk on his face. It was as if he was taunting you.

Ever since you and Satoru would do your study routine together, his grades were over the top and his participation started to become consistent. Of course you wouldn’t let your smartass boy take the number one rank in literature class from you.

“Yes, Mr. Gojo? Would you like to share your—”

“I would like to answer it, professor.” you raise your hand, surprising the others as well as Satoru.

When you finally stand up from your seat, all eyes are on you as you answer the professor’s question. But it was then followed by another question and another question, and you figured that your professor is definitely taking her time asking you all those questions to make up for the ones that you didn’t answer because of your… shyness. As you answer every question she throws at you, the smile on Satoru’s glossy lips becomes wider and wider as this is the first time he has witnessed you talk in full confidence.

“Yes! That’s my girl!” his loud voiced echoes in the entire classroom, which made you hide your face from your professor and the others because of how… embarrassing that was.

When you finally sit back down, you look over your shoulder and made a face, asking ‘what the fuck was that?’. But Satoru just smiles widely at you and gave you a thumbs up.

You couldn’t help but to smile back at him and give him a thumbs up.

5. Gojo Satoru finally unmasked himself in front of you.

It was the worst of times of Satoru.

However, everyone was oblivious to that thought. Well, almost everyone. To them, Satoru remains the same goofy person that he is even after… losing someone so important to him. To them, Satoru is a big asshole. Why? A big asshole for not even shedding a tear even after losing someone important to him. A big asshole for not reacting the way a normal person would react to a loved one’s death.

How did Satoru react?

Laughing and shrugging everything off. Showing no signs of tears nor sympathy. He just fucking shrugs it off.

“Oh, yeah that! I’m not thinking about it too much, y’know? I’ll eventually get over it!” he smiles. “People come and go after all.”

And people would say to him: “How can you be so insensitive?”

To everyone, Gojo Satoru is a rude, insensitive jerk.

Well, almost everyone.

“Satoru?” you call out. “You can talk to me. I’m right here. I’ll listen.”

Satoru’s back is facing you and you notice how he wiped something off from his face and sniffed before turning around for you to see a wide smile on his face as if he’s not falling apart. His red yet pretty eyes says otherwise.

“Hey, sweetheart! What are ya doing here? Went to see me for a kiss?”

“Satoru,” you mumble. You are definitely not amused. “Stop it.”

“Stop what—”

“Stop whatever this is,” you say. “You keep putting on these faces to make everyone see that you’re okay or unaffected by these events but I know that you’re falling apart, Satoru.”

Satoru’s smile slowly disappear from his face as he continues to listen to you.

“You can cry in front of me. You can tell me what’s in your mind. You can let yourself out of that… that façade of yours and just fall apart just this once.” This time you look at him straight in the eyes. “I just don’t want you to go through this alone, Satoru. I’m here. Let me carry the weight of grief with you.”

And then, Gojo Satoru fell apart… but this time, you were there to pick him back up.

Satoru wraps his arms around you. His legs start to wobble, making him fall down on the concrete along with you. Even though his face is buried on your chest and his arms wrapped around your back, you can tell that Satoru is crying because of his quiet whimpers and sniffs.

“It’s okay, Satoru,” you whisper as you caress his pearl white hair. “I’m here.”

“I lost him,” he whispers, accompanied by whimpers and hiccups. “My best friend… the only one I had…”

For the first time, Gojo Satoru finally unmasked himself in front of you.

6. Gojo Satoru has interesting ways to claim that you are his.

Satoru had invited you in their fraternity party.

It wasn’t the first time that you’ve been in these kinds of party. Your best friend invited you to come with her before but that was the last time you went to one because of how uncomfortable it was for you. Your best friend told you that she’ll stay by your side the entire night but once the both of you had entered the party, she was already chugging down some beers and partying with the other students, leaving you no choice but to sit and hide in the corner.

But this time, you had trust in Satoru that he’ll never leave your side because you already told him why you don’t come to these kinds of parties anymore.

Now, you’re sitting next to Satoru, talking to some of his friends and some freshmem that tagged along. The freshmen—Kugisaki Nobara, Itadori Yuuji, and Fushiguro Megumi—are actually fun and nice to hangout with.

This is the first time that you’ve enjoyed a party.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Satoru leans closer to your ear for you to hear. “I’ll go grab us another beer. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know, ‘kay? I’ll be right back,” he says before kissing your temple and stands up from where he’s sitting.

After a few minutes of waiting for Satoru, you felt uneasy so you left your seat to go look for him. Since he was getting drinks, you figured he'd be somewhere in the kitchen where you encountered someone you don’t know. The guy was probably drunk since he can’t seem to walk straight and has a bottle of beer in his hands.

“Hey, pretty, what are you here for?” he asks, making you back away.

“Uh—I’m just—I’m looking for my—”

“Hey, sweetheart! What’re you doing here? I got us some drinks!”

Hearing your boyfriend’s voice made the fear and panic jump out of you. When you saw him through the doorway, you immediately sprint towards him and wrap your arms around his waist.

“And I thought she’d be available in bed,” the guy mumbles, making Satoru furrow his eyebrows and the next thing you knew, the guy was beaten up pretty badly and your boyfriend was kicked out of the party and the two of you spent the night driving around the city, looking for the perfect spot of the city lights where you and your boyfriend can feel like you’re on top of the world.

7. Gojo Satoru loves your drunken state.

When you told Satoru that you’d be out drinking with your friends, he asked each and every one of them to text him if you ever get drunk. He doesn’t want you to take an uber or have your friends take you home, he wants to be the one doing that so he is sure that you are completely safe.

And that’s what your friends did.

When you finished two bottles of beer, you were a complete mess and god knows how much of a mess you are when you’re drunk as hell. The moment that your friends realized that you need to be taken home is when you started to cry about how much you miss your boyfriend and kept asking why your friends took him away from you.

So when Satoru got to the street where he’s supposed to meet up with your friends and you, he didn’t know what he was seeing. You were throwing up in a trash bin like you’re about to transform into a fucking werewolf.

“How many did she drink?” he asks.

“Five. She was… enjoying,” one of your friends replies.

“I can see that,” he chuckles before taking you in his arms. “How worse was it?”

“Not worse than before. All she did was cry and whine. Anyways, our ride will be here soon. Take good care of her, Gojo. We trust you.”

“Yep. Thanks for looking after her!”

Satoru waves to your friends as they get inside the car then turns his gaze on you, clinging onto him like a koala holding onto a tree.

“All right, sweetheart. Let’s go home, yeah?”

Oh, you were drunk as fuck, alright. You can barely even walk so Satoru decided to carry you like a newly wedded wife. But your sniffs and whimpers stop him in his tracks to check up on you.

“You okay, babe?” he asks. You nod and wiggle yourself to get out of Satoru’s grasp to make yourself walk. You told him you can, so he let you. Now you’re wiggling and can’t even walk a straight line while your boyfriend chuckles from behind.

“All right, that’s enough,” he says before holding you again.

Satoru cages you closer in his embrace, feeling your warmth and breathing the scent of alcohol in you. But your instincts suddenly kick in, so you shoved Satoru over before yelling, “I have a boyfriend, mister! His name’s Satoru and he’s gonna beat you up if you touch me!”

“Oh? Who’s your boyfriend again?” Satoru tries his best not to laugh.

“Gojo Satoru. And he’s not gonna be my boyfriend anymore after this,” you say.

“Why not?” Satoru raises an eyebrow.

“Because I’m gonna propose to him and ask him to marry me so he can be my husband,” you chuckle. “So don’t touch me! I need to go home to him!”

Satoru lets out a laugh, almost loud enough to echo in the quiet streets an hour after midnight. His shoulders shaking up and down as he amuses himself at the things you were saying in your drunken state.

No wonder you don’t drink much when you’re out with Satoru. You don’t want him to see you in your drunken state yet this is a side of you that Satoru wants to see. Yes, he knows you’re an introverted woman who is secretly a very horny one yet comfortable when it comes to people she’s close with, but this is something that Satoru has not yet seen. He doesn’t know if he’s going to record you or just let this be a memory in his mind. He chuckles to himself and figured that this is something that only he knows and he witnessed.

“Oh, that won’t happen, sweetheart!” Satoru hugs you behind your back, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“Why not? Is he dating another person? Would he say no if I propose to him? What if he says he doesn’t want me to be his wife?! What if—”

“No! That’s not what I mean,” he chuckles. “That’s not gonna happen because… Satoru will propose to you first. He will ask you to be his wife and if you say yes, the two of you will have a cozy home and a sweet, little family, full of small Gojos and a pet too.”

“You think he’s gonna propose to me?” you ask.

“Oh, he definitely will,” Satoru smiles before wrapping his arms around you again to take you to his car. “Now let’s take you to Satoru.”

8. Gojo Satoru loves hearing you read to him.

Aftercare with Satoru is almost similar as being in heaven. His kisses, his rambles, his praises, the way he takes care of you, the way he whispers sweet nothings to you is the same as floating on Cloud Nine.

But this time, you wanted to be the one to take care of him, too.

“I love you so much, baby,” he whispers before kissing your temple. “I’ll make you a hot bath, okay?”

Just when he was about to stand up, you call out to him, making Satoru look over his shoulder.

“You can just stay here with me, ‘Toru. Let’s stay in bed for a while, please?”

And how can he say no when you’re giving him those doe eyes that he can’t resist?

So when you told him to get back on the sheets, Satoru didn’t hesitate to do so. With a large smile on his lips, your white-haired boyfriend settles himself on the bed, his arms wrapped around your back and his face rested on your chest, you being the big spoon and him, the little spoon.

“Read to me, angel,” he whispers. “Wanna hear your voice.”

“Okay,” you chuckle. You stretch your arm to get the book on the nightstand on your side of the bed. “Where did we stop—Ah, here.” You settle yourself wrapping your other arm around Satoru will the other holds the book.

You clear your throat before reading, “‘I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain.’” As you read the passage from Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, your fingers caress Satoru’s soft, white hair while the man feels himself slowly drifting to a peaceful sleep.

“YN?” he calls out.

“Hmm?” you hum in a low tone.

“I’m so glad we got partnered at that midterm essay.”

You chuckle before leaning closer to him. “I’m glad too, ‘Toru…”

9. Gojo Satoru gets along with your cat very well.

“Tada!”

“Uh, babe? What am I looking at?”

“His name’s Tooru! With double O’s!” You smile as you hold your white, Persian cat by its armpits, showing its full glory to your boyfriend. “He’s so white and fluffy and he reminds me of you, so I named him Tooru but it’s spelled with double O’s.” You nuzzle Tooru in your embrace while your boyfriend processes what’s happening.

Did you just replace him with a cat?

“Did you just replace me with a cat?”

You didn’t answer him. You didn’t even bother looking at him since you’re too busy baby-talking your new cat, Tooru. Satoru can’t deny that Tooru isn’t cute. In fact, he is the most adorable cat he has seen, but the now that you’re giving attention to your cat rather than him, he couldn’t help but be—

“…jealous? Satoru, are you jealous of Tooru?” you ask, almost bursting out in a laugh.

“So what if I am?” he pouts. “You obviously love him more than me! You only had him for, like, 4 hours and you have me for three years!”

“Come on, don’t be so immature, Satoru!” you chuckle. “Tooru deserves much as love as you get. Oh, and can you play with him for a while? I’ll make us dinner!”

You stand up and kiss Satoru on his cheek then kiss your cat all over his face before heading toward the kitchen. When you finally disappeared from Satoru and Tooru’s sight, your white-haired boyfriend glances at your cat like it’s about to steal the love of his life—which he actually thinks is happening right now.

The bored expression of your cat’s face as it stares into Satoru’s cerulean blue eyes makes him even more pissed because what are the odds that the cat has the same color of eyes as his? Your cat is the cat version of Satoru and he hates it because he is the only Gojo Satoru in your life. Immature, yes, but almost nothing is ever taken maturely by your boyfriend.

But since you came to love Tooru so much (but not much than you love him, Satoru thinks), he realizes that it would make you happy if he gets along well with your cat.

“Fine.” Satoru sighs. “Hi, Tooru! Aren’t you adorable?” your white-haired boyfriend attempts to caress Tooru’s soft fur but was taken aback and shrieked when Tooru’s claws swiftly attacked Satoru’s hand.

“Shit! What the fuck, Tooru!”

“What happened?” you run from the kitchen to the living room only to see your boyfriend’s arms crossed and your cat curled up at the corner as if a father is scolding at his child.

“Babe, Tooru just—”

“Oh, my poor baby.” You didn’t take a glance at Satoru and made your way to Tooru to caress him in your arms and pull him in a hug. “Satoru, you know better than to yell at our child! He’s just a kid!”

“Are you serious right now?”

It’s been weeks since Tooru came home with you and since then, he has been ruining yours and Satoru’s relationship. It’s as if the cat has a manipulative mind of its on to sabotage Satoru. And every time Tooru successfully does so, Satoru swears that his cute, little tongue sticks out to mock your white-haired boyfriend.

Now, you’re packing your bags to go visit your family for a few days. Satoru has to stay since he’s finishing his graduate studies in Language and Literature so your boyfriend has no choice but to stay with your cat that he cannot get along with.

“Alright, Tooru, your mom’s gone which means I’m in charge.”

For the next few days, Tooru has done nothing but mess with Satoru. But it wasn’t until your white-haired boyfriend finally figured something out when he bought a laser. He read somewhere that cats can be played and tamed with lasers and catnips and a ball of yarn so that’s what he did.

Satoru realizes that you cut Tooru’s claws before going so he won’t get a chance to claw him out. The more Satoru gets closer to Tooru, the more Tooru gets comfortable with him. So when your boyfriend thought it was time to buy another bed for Tooru, he bought the most expensive one since he thinks your cat will soften with him if he buys something expensive.

But that wasn’t until the package finally arrived but then Tooru decided to make the box of the package to be his shelter instead of the expensive one that Satoru bought.

“God, what would I do with you, you little devil.” Satoru chuckles then rubs Tooru’s head before picking him up in his arms. Satoru sits on the couch and opens the TV, your cat is now purring on his stomach. “Heh, your mom will be home for another hour now. And, you won’t be staying in our room for the night.”

After spending the night waiting for you while watching TV, Satoru fell asleep with Tooru still purring on his stomach, leaving the TV open. The dim light of the screen is the only source of light surrounding the apartment but it wasn't until you open the door and flick the light switch on. You were greeted by a sleeping Satoru and Tooru so you had to hold your excitement back in order to not wake them up.

My boys are so cute!

You cheer before taking a picture.

Needless to say, you had the photo put in a picture frame.

10. Gojo Satoru realizes that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

Satoru stirs awake from his sleep, his eyes start scanning the room, still engulfed with darkness with no rays of sunlight coming from the windows. The white-haired man glances at his sides to check the digital clock next to him, sitting on the nightstand. It’s already ten minutes past 3AM.

His gaze travels back to your side of the bed. There you were, so deep in a peaceful slumber as you lay on your sides, facing Satoru. He pulls the sheets of the bed up to your chest before letting out a soft chuckle. Satoru knew you were tired as hell after last night’s session since he couldn’t control himself.

His slender fingers caress your soft cheeks, your warmth traveling to his fingertips like lightning striking the grounds of the earth that sends shivers down his spine. Satoru leans in closer to you and gives you a delicate, gentle kiss on your forehead, his lips feels like petal gently touching the ground as he gives you his kisses.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Gojo Satoru couldn’t help but look forward for tomorrow and rest of the days, of the months, of the years that he will be spending with you soon. He looks forward to waking up every morning when the first thing he will be seeing is your face, he looks forward to spending peaceful days with you and Tooru, and he looks forward to spending the rest of his life with you.

From the moment Gojo Satoru enters your life, his goal from the very start was to marry you, and that’s what he’s going to do.

#jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #gojo satoru x reader #jjk gojo x reader #gojo fanfic #gojo x reader #gojo x you #satoru x reader #satoru

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229zmi · 8 months ago

Text

BLIND DATE

Kuroo Tetsurō/Reader | 1.1k words, fluff, reader is a little clueless at first, based off of this tiktok

“I’m sorry, what? Could you— sorry, could you repeat that?”

At the sound of Kuroo’s cackles echoing throughout the study room (that you had booked for yourself, and then he decided to invade it after spotting you through the window), you shake your head, feeling the regret creep up your neck like smoke rising from flames. Still, he continues to offer half-assed apologies in between abrupt laughs, as if that’ll soothe your embarrassment in any way.

“You heard me the first time.” You scowl when he opens his mouth to deny it, feigning cluelessness with a dumbfounded look on his face. “And your sense of humour sucks by the way. It wasn’t that funny.”

“But it is. You really want me, out of all the people, to set you up with someone?” He grins, twirling a pen around his fingers. Inwardly, you wish for the pen to suddenly fly out of control, for him to finally have a moment of failure that will eventually spiral into his downfall in the hopefully near future (a few seconds from now), but it never happens.

“Just one date,” you say, with venom preemptively hanging from the tip of your tongue in case you need to further defend yourself.

However, he surprises you when all he does is lean back in his chair instead of bursting into a fit of laughter again. His eyebrows furrow in thought, and the pen stills in his hand; he sets it down atop his notebook.

“I know someone who has a small crush on you,” he tells you after a beat. You straighten at the newfound information, suddenly interested.

“Really? Are they a friend of yours? Who is it?”

Kuroo — that bastard — shakes his head, now sporting a smug smile as he crosses his arms. “That’s classified information, I’m afraid.”

You groan. “You can’t just say that and not tell me who it is! C’mon, can you at least give me a hint?”

“Sure. What kind of hint?”

Your question hurtles toward him at lightning speed, only half-joking. “Are they rich?”

Waving his finger disapprovingly, he reprimands you, “Such a shallow question. I’m disappointed in you.”

“Yeah, well, are they?”

“Can’t say he is. He’s a college student, same university and year as us,” he says, and you act devastated over the news, slapping a dramatic hand over your chest. It’s too bad your dreams of becoming someone’s sugar baby have been crushed so tragically like this, though you suppose there are other important factors to consider as well.

“Is he—?”

“Hey, you said a hint, not multiple hints.”

“Oh, shut it. Is he hot?”

“Very,” he confirms, so quickly that it’s almost suspicious. You eye him warily, to which he shrugs. “What? Birds of a feather flock together, or something like that.”

“Yeah, okay. So he’s butt-ugly, then, by association with you.” At that, Kuroo kicks your knee as you snicker to yourself.

“You know that by saying that, you’re also calling yourself butt-ugly. Plus, I’m doing you a grand favour, and this is what I get in return?” A long sigh escapes him. “Absolutely nothing but insults. Unbelievable.”

“You’re such a baby.”

“Nothing but insults,” he repeats.

You roll your eyes. There’s no winning with him. “Fine, then. I’ll lend you my old statistics textbook. You’re taking Intro to Stats next semester, right?”

“Yup.” He smiles, and you know you’ve got yourself a deal. “I’ll text you the location and time as soon as possible.”

Disappointingly enough, your date is late.

Kuroo, however, is right on time.

You narrow your eyes at him, glancing at the outfit he’s got on. You’re used to him wearing sweatpants and hoodies with holes in the sleeves every time you see him, but today, he’s put something unusually nice on, although you’re not entirely sure why. You’re also not sure why he’s here, outside of the café and at the exact time he told you your date had agreed to meet you.

“Where’s my date?” you ask before looking around for the umpteenth time to check if he’s arrived yet. However, your movement is stopped when Kuroo gently places a hand under your chin, guiding your focus back to him.

A sly grin reveals itself; his hazel eyes twinkle beneath the glow of the café’s hanging fairy lights.

“Right here. I’m your date.”

You frown, still puzzled. “What? But you said a few days ago, you were gonna set me up with someone who—“

Wait a minute.

Oh, you realise.

Then, you shut your eyes tightly, turning away from him.

“What are you doing?” There’s a slight chuckle in his voice that he doesn’t even attempt to hide, obviously entertained by your actions. He steps to the side to see your face, but you turn away again. “Hey, is my hair really that ugly? I tried combing it down like a gazillion times this morning, I swear.”

“No, just—” You stick your arm out, and Kuroo holds onto it awkwardly, both concerned for you and unsure of what he’s supposed to do. “Pinch me, please. I think I’m dreaming.”

“Oh. You’re not dreaming,” he assures you, opting to instead rest his hands on your shoulders, yet it’s pointless in getting you to look at him. Stubborn as always, he thinks fondly.

“That’s exactly what someone in my dreams would say.”

“Ah, I see. So, I’m the man of your dreams?”

Bingo. Picturing himself doing a victory dance in his head, Kuroo watches you open your eyes to glare at him for his remark. His celebration is short-lived, though, because in a matter of seconds, you’re quick to point out, “You’re blushing.”

Rubbing a hand over his cheek as if to erase the pinkish hue, he denies the observation. “I’m not.”

“You are.” You feel all giddy inside, with your heart feeling like it’s about to leap out of your chest, walk inside the café, and buy a cup of coffee. You’re worried a gooey mess of feelings is what’s going to spill onto the pavement if you so much as speak too quickly, so your question comes out tentative, like a butterfly’s wings fluttering in the wind, “And… you like me?”

That, he cannot deny. But there’s a poor attempt at it anyway. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I said a small crush.”

“Really?”

“Really.” A pause. Then, he adds sheepishly, “Well, maybe it’s a little more than that.”

Your expression breaks into a grin at the confession, but before you can tease him any more for the blush that has now spread to the back of his neck, he pulls the door to the café open and uses his free hand to gesture towards the interior, bowing his head slightly.

“For my lovely date,” he says, looking up just to wink at you. Whether this is actually to charm you or just to distract you from his embarrassment, you can’t tell.

Nevertheless, as cheesy as it is, you decide to play along, intertwining your fingers through his and extending your gratitude to him for his chivalrous act before pulling him along as you head inside.

notes: another kuroo fic 4 the Kuroo kissers ♥︎ tumblr user @kyoghurts i hope u like it teehee

#kuroo x reader #kuroo x you #kuroo fluff #kuroo tetsuro x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gender neutral reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x you #229ZMI

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undying-love · 2 months ago

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Paul's grief over time: A Compilation

“During the session [in 1981] Paul fell into a lugubrious mood. He said, ‘I’ve just realized that John is gone. John’s gone. He’s dead and he is not coming back.’ And he looked completely dismayed, like shocked at something that had just hit him. ‘Well, it’s been a few weeks now.’ He said, ‘I know, Eric, but I’ve just realized." (Eric Stewart)

“It’s still weird even to say, ‘before he died’. I still can’t come to terms with that. I still don’t believe it. It’s like, you know, those dreams you have, where he’s alive; then you wake up and… 'Oh’.” (Paul, 1986)

"Occasionally, it wells up. Y'know, and I'm at home on the weekend suddenly and I start thinking about him or talking to the kids about him and I can't handle it." (Paul, 1987)

"Is there a record you like to put on just to hear John’s voice?" I ask Paul the next day. Paul looks startled. He fumbles. “Oh, uh. There’s so much of it. I hear it on the car radio when I’m driving.” No, that’s not what I mean", I persist. "Isn’t there a time when you just wish you could talk to John, when you’d like to hear his voice again?" For some reason, he instead responds to the original question.“Oh sure,” he says and looks a little taken aback. ‘Beautiful Boy". (1990)

"Also not obvious is that McCartney [for the Liverpool Oratorio] has penned a gorgeous black-spiritual-like piece for mezzo-soprano that intones the last words spoken to John Lennon as he lay dying of gunshot wounds in the back of a New York police car -- "Do you know who you are?" McCartney gets a bit choked up at one point when he reveals, "Not a day goes by when I don't think of John.” (1991)

"Delicious boy, delicious broth of a boy. He was a lovely guy, you know. And it gets sadder and sadder to be saying “was”. Nearer to when he died I couldn’t believe I was saying “was”, but now I do believe I’m saying “was”. I’ve resisted it. I’ve tried to pretend he didn’t get killed." (Paul, 1995)

"Paul talked about John a a lot, but the strange thing was that it was in the present tense, “John says this" or "John thinks that. Very weird." (Peter Cox, 2006)

“John Lennon was shot dead in 1980. That totally knocked dad for six. I haven’t really spoken to him a lot about it because it is such a touchy subject." (James McCartney, 2013)

"It's very difficult for me and I, occasionally, will have thoughts and sort of say: "I don't know why I don't just break down crying every day? […] You know, I don't know how I would have dealt with it because I don't think I've dealt with it very well. In a way… I wouldn't be surprised if a psychiatrist would sort of find out that I'm slightly in denial, because it's too much." (Paul, 2020)

"Like any bereavement, the only way out is to remember how good it was with John. Because I can't get over the senseless act. I can't think about it. I'm sure it's some form of denial. But denial is the only way that I can deal with it." (Paul, 2020)

"When I talked to Paul about John and when he missed John most, he couldn't answer me for a long time and his eyes teared up. And I asked him where he thinks about John and when John comes into his mind and he just … he lost it, he completely lost it." (Bob Spitz, 2021)

-------------------------------------------------

The following two are from the gossip website Datalounge, so they may or may not be true. Still interesting though:

"The one time I was ever actually in a room with Paul, zillion people between me and him (and no way I'm gonna bother him, all of us who travel in celeb circles have people we're fans of and all of us inexplicably try to hide it to seem "cooler"), he started talking loudly about himself and John, and how hard it was not to have him there. I remember him saying something along the lines of not a day passing that John's not still in it with him, but it's not like he can pick up a phone and say, "Hey, just needed to hear your voice today," and even when he got craggy responses, he still missed them. He misses it all, and it's bothering to him that he misses him more as time goes on -- it doesn't heal, he just learns new ways to bandage the wound."

“Since everyone is anonymous here, I guess I can give a bit of info I got from a female friend of mine who at one time worked as one of Paul’s assistants. [...] She does not know for certain if John and Paul were involved but she suspects it since to this day whenever John’s name is brought up he acts in her words ‘like a widow’ and he also addresses John in present tense. He would say things like, ‘John thinks that the music should be like this,’ and during his bitter divorce from Heather he was saying, ‘John says that this is getting nasty.’ Kind of creepy." (this one actually seems very intriguing because it sounds very similar to what Peter Cox said, about Paul often talking about John in the present tense, saying "John says.." or "John thinks...")

#mclennon #beatles #heartbreaking #💔#paul mccartney #compilation

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mountainficss · 5 months ago

Note

idea: collegeboy!jeonghan type but it's minghao hoshi or shua instead

i’ve been thinking about this prompt and i can’t stop thinking about a collegeboy!minghao…

collegeboy!minghao who is very very quiet. he sits next to you in your biology class, but has never spoken a word to you. you can’t help but notice how pretty he is, glancing over every once in a while to admire his plump lips and pretty painted nails. every time you peek at him he’s always hyper focused on his work, his dark hair hanging like a curtain over his eyes. you’d do your best to distract yourself, ripping your longing gaze away from him to focus on your work. even though you’re trying your best to not think about the gorgeous boy next to you, you continue to wonder what it would be like to know everything about him.

meanwhile minghao wonders the same things about you. sitting next to you every day was the most heavenly torture he’d ever experienced. he gets to sneak glances at the pretty girl sitting next to him, studying every detail of your face and features. but he also has to deal with the jittery feelings he gets just by being in close proximity to you, trying his best to ignore the nervous sensations in the pits of his stomach. he also has to attempt to ignore the faint smell of your perfume, the sweetness only making his weak stomach twist more with anxiety, with nerves. he’s never even spoken to you, but he swears he’s memorized the shape of your lips, and he’s certain that he’s embedded the exact color of your irises into his brain. he almost feels your eyes on him every time you glance in his direction, and he tries to pretend it doesn’t get to him. he tries to act nonchalant, but his heart hammers in his chest and a wave of heat courses through his body solely from the thought of you. the urge to talk to you eats away at him with each passing day, but he’s not sure if he’ll be able to overcome his hesitance. until then, he’ll just keep thinking about you.

·𖥸·

you were stumped. you’d stare at your work with your eyebrows furrowed, slightly nibbling on the end of your pen as you try to understand the mass of information in front of you. biology was never your strongest subject, but you had always figured out the bare minimum of the lessons on your own. unfortunately, your luck had run out up to this point. you had no idea what was going on. you’d absentmindedly peek at minghao, studying his features for the millionth time already, and then trailing your gaze down to his hand. your eyes would widen at the sight of his practically finished work, and you were surprised to see how quickly he was writing down his answers. how does he understand this? you had decided to never again ask your professor for help, because the answers they provided only confused you more. now, you have another option. “i’m sorry,” you’d start quietly, watching minghao slightly turn his head towards you. “but do you think you could help me, please? i don’t understand this.” after a beat of silence, he’d give you the smallest nod and begin explaining his work to you. you can barely pay attention to his explanations, allured by his quiet voice and his gentle expression. you’d do your best to listen though, finding that his explanations make way more sense than your professor’s. minghao seemed so certain and sure of himself, and you were astonished with the ease he grasped the concepts.

but of course, poor minghao is not certain or sure of himself. he’s overthinking every sentence, over analyzing every expression you make. he’d wonder if you understood his explanations, almost positive you thought he was stupid from the little stutters escaping him occasionally. you just make him so nervous, and his well-developed composure evaporates from his body every time he even looks at you. his heart is hammering in his chest once again, so harshly that it feels as if it might break through his ribcage. “ahhh,” you’d observe, finally understanding the lesson now after minghao’s thought out explanations. “i totally get it now.” you’d gaze back up at the pretty boy, shooting him your brightest smile. you were beyond grateful for his help. “thank you so much, minghao.” you’d grin, receiving a shy “you’re welcome” from him in return. as you both refocus on your work, minghao would be reeling. the way you said his name sent a whole new swarm of butterflies to the pit of his stomach. he couldn’t help but blush when his name left your lips in such a captivating way. and oh, the way you smiled at him? he felt like he was going insane. time had seemed to pass quicker than usual due to his stray thoughts, and just as he’s grabbing his things he hears your voice calling his name again. “hey, minghao?” you’d utter gently, watching him whip around towards you. you couldn’t help but think the dark blur of his form whirling around was cute in a way. “yes?” he’d answer timidly, hoping his voice didn’t sound too small and pathetic. he can’t control it when you say his name like that. “do you…think you can help me more with biology sometime? i’ll pay you, of course,” you’d propose, feeling a bit embarrassed to have to ask someone for extra help. you knew it was either that or risk failing, and you would much rather pass. “you just make it easy to understand. but if you don’t feel like it, it’s really no pressure. i totally understand.” of course your question would send minghao’s nerves through the roof. helping you with biology? alone? with you? he’s positive his heart would explode. he’d swallow anxiously, his adam’s apple bobbing slightly from the movement. “you don’t have to pay me,” he’d hesitate, opting to shove down his anxiousness and take a risk. he wouldn’t let himself pass up an opportunity to spend time with his biology crush. you were too pretty to turn down. “when do you want to meet again?” your eyes would widen a bit in surprise. you didn’t expect him to even consider it, let alone actually agree. “whenever you’re free. i’ll go by your schedule since you’re the one helping me,” you’d decide. “my dorm or yours?”

“y-yours,” minghao would falter. he wasn’t mentally prepared to be flung into your dorm, where you live and sleep every day, but seeing you in his dorm would be worse. imagining you seated prettily on his couch or sprawled out on his bed would just make his brain develop more detailed daydreams of you. he doesn’t need to make things harder for himself. you’d open your phone, giving it to minghao so he could put his number in. “let me know when you want to come over, okay? i’ll text you in a bit,” you’d smile at him as he responds with a tiny “okay.” poor minghao would be so distracted in his other classes, thinking of you and wondering when you’d text him. he can’t help but be eager when he knows that his number is nestled in your phone and that you could text him at any minute. hearing the ding from his phone while he’s in his dorm would make his heart stop. you had texted him.

unknown: hi! it’s (y/n)

unknown: when’s a good time for you to come over?

the thought of him coming over to your dorm made his stomach twist again. he couldn’t help but be excited, even if he was just coming over to help you with biology.

minghao: hi 👋 i’m free right now if you’re not busy.

you: sounds great! come over whenever you’re ready :)

after sending him directions to your dorm, minghao would waste no time making his way there. he’d be at your door in less than 10 minutes, knocking softly at the wood and waiting eagerly patiently for you to answer. you’d open the door for him, flashing him a pretty smile and moving aside to let him in. minghao could feel his face heating up already. he truly felt like he couldn’t breathe around you at times. you were dressed so comfortably, changing your clothes from earlier and throwing on a large hoodie. your shorts were proving to be trouble for him, slightly riding up your thighs when you moved and leaving little to his imagination. “wanna come to my room?” you’d ask sweetly, missing the way minghao gulped nervously at your wording. he’d respond with a slight nod, following you to your room and trying not to admire your exposed thighs.

you’d plop down on the edge of your bed, crossing your legs and patting the spot next to you. minghao would sit down cautiously next to you, clutching his biology notes in an attempt to ground himself. he had no idea why sitting on his crush’s bed felt so intimate to him, and he couldn’t help but blush a bit at the thought. “okay,” you’d begin, peeking at minghao’s notes. “where do you think we should start?”

you’d spend the next few hours with minghao going through all of his detailed biology notes. he’d help catch you up on the lessons you didn’t understand, explaining them in depth and answering all of your questions. no disrespect to your professor, but minghao explained all of the concepts way better than they ever could. you were thankful that you sat next to a pretty boy with such a strong understanding of biology. and minghao was thankful too! without biology being his strongest subject, he wouldn’t have an opportunity to get so close to his biology crush. (of course, he was only so good at the subject because he needed a distraction from his pretty seatmate. each class session he was invested in the lecture, solely because he needed a way to divert his attention away from you. you’d still find ways to sneak into his thoughts though, albeit without your knowledge <3) he was glad all of his hard work paid off, because now he has an excuse to meet with his biology crush :) he continued to hope that you would use only him for help, secretly wanting to get closer to you. now he finally had a chance!

writing a smutty continuation later of course, just want to start it off with a lil sweetness like i did with jeonghan’s <3

taglist: @jeonghanpill , @bangantokchy , @caratboy , @bewoyewo , @luvseungcheol , @wonvsmile , @haolovre , @aaniag , @writingbarnes , @dokyeomkyeom , @allieyaaa

#thoughts #seventeen smut #seventeen #smut #svt smut #sub!idol #svt #xu minghao #svt minghao #minghao smut #minghao #mountainficss

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edgeray · 3 months ago

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Custody Battle with a Dragon

(Arlecchino x GN! Reader)

A/N - Hi 🏹 anon! Accidentally deleted your ask when I did dragon! Arle part 3😅. Uhh… mbad. Reader just kidnapping three random human children is so funny to me, I will never not find this funny. Anyways, just wanted to say the only reason why I’m fulfilling both parts of this ask is because I already have to work on part 3. If I get an ask giving me more than 1 prompt, I will choose only 1 prompt to do. If you want me to do more, feel free to request from me, but with school starting soon, I probably won’t be able to get to many requests until I get used to the first semester. By the way, since I’m lazy and don’t want to think of more/different worldbuilding, this will be like an alternative universe of my ‘dragon hunter mother' series and it will just be a role reversal. the lore with the hoth though is different from the series, i have a completely different backstory for arle and the hoth hehe. Sorry, this is really awkward and I didn't know how to not write it awkwardly since the reader decides to adopt them just impulsively and I doubt arlecchino would be happy about it. Naturally, they would clash but I tried to get them to get along. Not my best work... :( Content warnings / info - in arle's pov majority of the time, reader is referred as 'it' a few times, 1.6k words

Arlecchino likes to consider herself a successful and (justifiably) proud dragon hunter, among the best for the Tsaritsa. Dragon hunting has been in her veins since she was born into a well-known generation of dragon hunters. She's been trained and has performed the best out of her class in the kingdom’s most renowned dragon hunting academy, the House of the Hearth. Now, as the new head of the House of the Hearth, as ‘Father,’ she's able to change some things.

For how rigorous and demanding the old House of the Hearth, underneath Crucabena (that despicable woman), it was also quite the precarious and perilous, though that was to be expected with what came with dragon hunting in general. It was easy to get into the House of the Hearth if you had enough money, and by then, you had basically paid for an early grave. Arlecchino remembers that the majority of her peers died, one way or another, before graduating. Families that were wealthy enough and had enough children were happy to enroll some of their children as an investment; being a dragon hunter paid immensely well given that they were paid by the kingdom themselves.

Now, the classes were fewer due to the rigor requirements. Arlecchino has no need for people that want the job just for the money or to roleplay–with that mindset, they'll get themselves killed. For those seeking glory with none of the gore, for wealth without wear, dragon hunting is far on the list for what Arlecchino would recommend. It is daunting and never safe or relaxing. For this reason, the House of the Hearth takes very few individuals, often strays that she deems worthy and resilient enough for the task. A year is all it takes for her to train the small batch into formidable dragon hunters, about three times more valuable and efficient than the average hunter.

This year's batch is particularly small, but that does make for more personalized lessons and unique opportunities. It's much easier to allow three children to accompany you on a dragon hunting mission than it is ten.

Today is one of those days for the children to witness how a real dragon hunter deals with a dragon. Most hunters work in a group to hunt a singular dragon, though the best can do it alone. Today's dragon has been reported to have been killing some livestock occasionally–a few chickens here or there. At the very least, the dragon hasn't destroyed any other property besides the chicken pens, nor has there been any assaults on the people but the kill order is set in stone. Pity has no place among this job, but it is a shame to have to kill an innocuous dragon.

“Children, maintain a good distance as we have always done. This dragon has been reported to be a two-paired dragon, so be cautious. I trust that you three will be able to handle yourselves during your observing?”

Lyney, the leader out of the three, nods. “Of course, Father.”

The order should have been simple. It is. A two-paired-winged dragon is usually of little difficulty for Arlecchino, even with how volatile dragons are. Baiting them with fire as well as a large portion of fish is enough to draw the dragon out without waiting for it. With the help of the children, the preparations were done quickly, and all there is left to do is to ignite the fire and wait.

Except, Arlecchino waits for quite some time. In fact, an hour has passed, and there are no signs of a dragon. Perhaps the villagers were mistaken on the dragon's whereabouts, though instances like these are rare. Nonetheless, it seems like that case, and the dragon hunter heads towards where she last left the trio. As she does, she hears a muffled outburst, recognizing it as Freminet’s, and rushes towards the direction.

Did the dragon target her children on the assumption that they were food? Did she make a mistake, bringing them here? Are their deaths on her hands once more, innocent lives lost because of her again? Her thoughts press her on as she increases her pace, fueled by fury and anxiety for her children. With each child she takes under her wing, with each soul she gently guides, with each hand she teaches how to wield a blade, a bit of her heart has parted and latched onto them. With the three, they are no different, except they are.

Lyney, the ever natural-born leader with a persistence like no other. Lynette, with a placid and rational demeanor to balance her brother's personality and fiercely loyal. Freminet, although timid, holds more potential and skill than he credits himself, and his kindness never fails to shine through even in his conscious actions. These three are endearing, as she has found all children she's taught in such a way before, but perhaps it is these children whom she'd like to call her own finally.

Drawing her sword once she spots the familiar silhouette of a giant, scaly beast, she approaches, only to halt as she takes in the sight.

A sleeping dragon lays on their stomach in the middle of the forest, curled around Arlecchino's children, their tail hugging the children to the body. Instead of the two-paired-winged dragon that the villagers said, it instead has three-paired wings. That makes the dragon twice as dangerous.

Against the dragon, Lyney, Lynette, and Freminet sit against the dragon's back. Once they spot the dragon hunter, they noticeably perk up.

Why the dragon is like this, the hunter is not sure, but she knows that it has taken her children.

“Father!” They simultaneously cry for her. The dragon’s head lifts as they're awakened and turns their head towards the dragon hunter, snarling. They whip their tail upon the grass, and they stand on their legs.

“Are you hurt in any way?” Arlecchino inquires as she prepares to lunge at the dragon.

“Wait, Father, don't kill it!” Lyney states as he ducks underneath the dragon's tail, escaping from its vicinity quite easily. “It hasn't hurt us!”

“No? Then why did it take you three?” Arlecchino questions, her blade still pointed at the creature. Their slitted eyes glare at the swordswoman in response, also tensing for an assault. It spun its body the other way, this time standing in between Arlecchino and Lyney, and Lynette and Freminet. They maneuver their head to be beside Lyney, using their head to almost shield him from the hunter.

“I don't know, but… it–they clearly have no intentions of hurting us. See?” Lyney hesitantly reaches out, running his hand on the underside of the dragon's mouth, and the dragon coos from the action, before opening their mouth to lick his hand.

“I think…” Freminet states outloud, though his appearance is obstructed from Arlecchino’s view thanks to the dragon. “That we're their young. They have been offering us fish, and they're doing this right now.”

Arlecchino contemplates the situation. The dragon had essentially adopted her children as their own, perhaps even imprinting them already, claiming them as their own. Trying to take the children away would not do any good, especially if it feels threatened, there is no saying what it would do to the nearby surroundings when enraged. But the dragon has been hostile, and given the children's defense for it… it seems that it is rather docile. The hunter narrows her eyes on the dragon, sending a nonverbal warning before sheathing her blade. The dragon relaxes.

“Even though you three remain unharmed, you still are my children, and under my care. I cannot simply give them away to you,” Arlecchino addresses the dragon, placing a hand on Lyney's shoulder. “Do you not have any young yourself? Why take human children?”

The creature growls, before shifting away from Lyney. Abruptly, the dragon's form is outlined with a blinding light, and when the light dies down, you stand in place of the beast. The three children gap at you, but Arlecchino remains unfazed, already aware that you have a human form.

“I cannot bear any children without any mate,” you gruff, your tail flicking behind you in an agitated way. “Why can't I keep human children? They look so small. I can feed them better.”

Arlecchino steps closer, her eyebrows furrowed slightly in vexation. “My children's diets are fine, and they are not in need of more.”

“The little ones are tiny even for just hatchlings. You cannot feed your young better?”

Never did Arlecchino think she’d have to fight a custody battle with a dragon. Should she kill you? No, the children have already rejected it. Though, she cannot deny that you are much more appealing now that you are in a human form…

“Children, what do you think of this?” Arlecchino questions, and all three, expectedly, hesitates. None of them could ever expect a predicament like this, and not surprisingly, a definite answer is hard to come from them.

“I will come with you,” you suddenly suggest, eyes gleaming with determination. “And you will feed me and not harm me. In turn, I will protect and parent the little ones, and I will not destroy another human’s building. Is that enough for you, dragon hunter?”

“You will do that for human children you just met?”

“I’ve been wanting children for over a decade. If they come in the form of another species, then so be it,” you assert, and your stubbornness only makes Arlecchino sigh. This is a headache. Though, it was nearly winsome of how protective you are over them, and Arlecchino can do nothing but surrender.

Arlecchino, proud dragon hunter, ‘Father’ to three, and now sharing custody with a dragon.

#arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #arlecchino #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact fanfics #genshin impact fics #genshin fanfics #genshin fics #edgeray.writes #edgeray.requests #edgeray.🏹anon

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liillyliilly · 4 months ago

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Detective Business

kenji sato x reader words; 7009 synopsis; enemies to friends to lovers- she's a private investigator and he's just ultraman (but she doesn't know that). she also has to deal with that annoying pro baseball player who just won't leave her alone.

Trying to find the identity of Ultraman is no easy job for the Tokyo Investigative Department, but for her? It’s more than finding Ultraman, it's about also finally arresting Kenji Sato for his reckless driving on the highway.

Unfortunately, she’s also a reckless driver. Which is why Kenji Sato was folding his arms and frowning while she pulled out a pad of ticket paper from under her motorcycle’s seat. The rain was dripping on her helmet and Mr. Sato’s white shirt was getting soaked through.

“I just think I shouldn’t be getting a ticket, Officer.”

“I’m not an officer, I’m a private investigator under contract with the department. Don’t lump me with them.” She bites the pen cap off and starts writing a ticket for him clocking in at around 170 kilometers per hour.

“You don’t even have a radar detector, so the only way you know I was speeding is because you were too.” Kenji kicks off from the wall of the divider on the highway. He inspects her motorbike slowly, dragging fingers over the dashboard and the mirrors. The key in her ignition is black, with a small baseball keychain, he notes this and keeps it in mind.

She grins, “As I said, I’m not a policeman.” She lowers her voice a little, “My bike isn’t factory tuned like theirs are.”

He groans, upset at her for giving him the ticket. But also because she intrigued him more than most people did. MINA spoke into his helmet, reminding him about the Kaiju raging in Sendai. He shushes MINA’s comments.

She scoffs, assuming that the shush was for her. She shoves the ticket into his chest, accidentally soaking up some water that was drenching his t-shirt.

“If you want to fight the ticket, go to Courthouse 5 in Tokyo at 9 am on Wednesday. A representative from the department will have all my notes from this. And Mr. Sato, please drive safely, it’s raining. Hydroplaning is no joke.”

“I’ll drive safely if you drive safely, Officer.” He laced the title with some grittiness, the kind of tone that grinds her gears.

“I’m not an officer. I’m-”

“A private investigator, yes I know, you’ve told me three times before. Since you’re the only one who can actually clock me going above the speed limit.” He rolls his eyes, “Same time next week Officer?”

She sighs, putting the visor of her helmet down. When she gets onto her bike, kicking up the stand and revving her engine, Kenji teases her and blows an overdramatic kiss in her direction where she can clearly see it in her mirrors. She brings her hand up to throw him a middle finger, he earnestly returns the gesture.

The road is empty now, and she’s far enough away to not recognize Kenji using his willpower to morph into Ultraman, needing to get to Sendai soon according to MINA’s instructions.

MINA speaks into his audio system, “You really should listen to her. She’s smart. Safe driving is critical in the rain Ken.”

“MINA, I love you, but please shut up.”

She never liked arrogant people. Maybe because she was arrogant herself? But the real reason for arrogance is that it masks the reality behind the person, it’s a cover for something more futile and undeniably human. Arrogance acts like a shield holding back a person from revealing too much. For her, arrogance defended against her ideals. The world could be changed to be better. Peace is well within a grasp. That ideal, that dream of what the world could be is hidden and buried deep within her. To cover for it, arrogance does a great job biting into people she meets.

It’s a good thing her best friend was always there for her. Ito Yuuta, rookie of the year and a new addition to the Yomiuri Giants baseball team. He was one of the first round draft picks, immediately getting sweeped into the team. So there she sat with Yuuta, while he threw pitches in the baseball cage, her talking about his teammate with disdain.

Yuuta clocked in some high speeds, and was extremely sweaty. His shoulder was killing him, but practicing as often as possible was a new priority if he wanted to be utilized and get off the bench for this season.

“I don’t understand how you can play on a team with a guy like that.” She chews a piece of licorice, a guilty pleasure snack that she was addicted to. Yuuta steals a piece and sits next to her.

She’d met Kenji before, in circumstances where she wasn’t giving him a fine for speeding down highways. When her friend got scouted, she met the members of his team at a mixer. Kenji Sato just didn’t seem to play nicely with his teammates. When Yuuta had initially introduced himself, Kenji had given him a signed baseball card, saying something about how selling it would be worth something.

After hearing that story, which Yuuta laughed at and gladly embraced as a characteristic of Kenji’s behavioral traits, she just furrowed her eyebrows and puckered her face. It rubbed her the wrong way for someone to act like that. But she couldn’t control the roster of the Giants’ team.

“He’s a great player. You’re just too tied up in your whole ‘I’m a harbinger of justice and righteousness’ to see that there are people out there with the exact same personality as you.” Yuuta drinks some water and throws a sweaty towel on her, which she tosses back to him in disgust, “Come to a game, watch him play, maybe then you’ll join a fanclub other than mine.”

She clicks her tongue to her teeth, bouncing her knee in consideration. Yuuta let the whole Kenji Sato thing go, and instead just invited her to come watch him play in the most upcoming game.

He had her try to throw a ball, how to raise her leg just enough, bringing her arm and hand back just enough. While he was adjusting the length of her arm and the angling just so, none other than Kenji Sato walked into the baseball gym. He slinks over to the pitching cage and watches for a moment, the rookie member of his team sliding his hands over Kenji’s pretty private investigator. He just had to make a comment, right?

“You should move her hips a little to the left while you’re at it, Ito.” She jumps a little at his voice, dropping the ball. It rolled over to Kenji’s foot through the wire fencing around the cage, he reached down and picked it up from under the cage. Throwing the ball up a little, analyzing it. Ito accepts the help, and uses his hands to twist her hips just a smidge.

She couldn’t help it that she was ticklish. A brief laugh escapes her, and she chokes when she sees Kenji stare right at her. Except it wasn’t at her face, rather where Ito’s hands began to slide up to her waist to tickle her a little more. Kenji presses his lips into a line, tossing the ball over the cage.

Ito yells out a quick thanks and Kenji waves his hand while walking to the locker room.

She throws the ball that Kenji had returned to her. It clocked in at around 128 KPH. Yuuta lets out an approving hum in reaction to the speed of her fastball. She does a little spin and flexes her arms to show off her natural talent. It’s a good thing the locker room had TVs that showed camera footage from all the baseball cages. Kenji laughed at her silliness while he was watching on the screen, tightening his shoes.

A few days later, at the Tokyo Police Station, she’s getting briefed on the newest details of the Ultraman case. It’s all things she’s heard before, and they were no where closer to uncovering the true identity of Japan’s biggest hero. Biggest hero, her ass, more like the biggest vigilante who runs around fighting Kaiju and also destroying the structural integrity of Japan’s cities.

All the secretaries and computer techs loved Ultraman, all the mugs in the kitchen area were Ultraman themed to prove it.

She spins around in her chair, listening to the Head of the Detective Department drone on in his monotone voice.

“Which is why I’ve decided to reach out to the KDF in helping us.”

Now, that was something she did not like. The KDF were brutalistic, inhumane, and quasi-militaristic. It was like their organization ran on the idea of killing out the entire Kaiju race with no concern for the theories and realities that Kaiju could actually help the world. If only people actually did their research and showed patience with the dedicated scientists who worked tirelessly to find out more about Kaiju.

She would prefer Ultraman to the KDF anyday. Ultraman at least gave the Kaiju respect, and he always seemed to guide them in certain directions once he got them to the ocean. Almost as if he was releasing the beasts to their homeland.

“No way. The KDF are horrendous. They treat Kaiju like pests that need to be destroyed. Any sort of information they have on Ultraman’s identity is sure to be unethically obtained.” She raised her concerns, looking to her fellow coworkers for support in backing her statement. They just lowered their heads when faced with her stare.

“Miss. You’re just a private investigator, all you need to do for us is follow instructions and see where our leads take us. And, you’re one to talk about ethically obtaining evidence, we all know your little tricks.”

She bites her tongue, leaning back into her chair. She had three more months of working for the police and then she could go back to discovering cheating husbands and trailing drug cartels for the other government departments. At least when she was doing that she wasn’t at risk for getting crushed underfoot by a superhero or getting lasered by KDF robots and fighter pilots.

Her boss puts a hand on her shoulder, picking away a piece of lint before going back to the head of the table.

“You’ll meet with a KDF representative, take detailed notes, follow the trails you find, and then report back to me. Do you understand?”

She mumbles.

“What was that?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

That night, she had to put on dressy clothes for the dinner with her KDF intelligence personnel. On the phone with Yuuta, she’d gotten appraised when she slid on a tight black number, “Damn! I thought you only had jeans and black shirts in your closet. Maybe I’ll have to ask you on a real date and not just the baseball banquet in two months.”

She held her head in her hands, while her elbows rested on her desk, phone sat up against her water bottle. Yuuta put the back of his hand against his forehead, giving a playfully deep sigh as he got a view of her cleavage. She rolled her eyes at Yuuta’s behavior, but still felt slightly proud at her ability to clean up nicely.

“Bye Yuuta, I’ll text you later.”

He waves to the camera, holding up a peace sign before finally ending the call.

The restaurant is dimly lit, live jazz music ebbs and flows throughout the building. Tables have white and black cloth laid out, and there’s an overabundance of marble decor. The KDF employee couldn’t have been younger than forty, but the salt and pepper hair did add an appeal she didn’t expect.

He pulled out her chair for her, and had the waiter take her order first. She sipped some water, not wanting to feel buzzed at all from alcohol. He was nice enough, just making some small talk before they got into the real meat of why they were there.

“We have intel that the ‘Hero’ is likely a sporting figure. We’re leaning towards baseball, due to the popularity of the sport. Also, based on audio recordings, he spent time abroad, using a mixture of slang and an American accent to color his lived experiences.” He downs his beer when he finishes the bulk of his information.

She jots the main points down on her notepad. In between sips of water, and bites of her pasta dish, she finds herself quickly making trails and thinking of all the roads she could go down to find Ultraman. When all the information is expressed, she leans back in her chair, waiting for the waiter to come back so she could pay for her meal.

When twenty minutes elapse, she says she’ll go looking for their server so they can leave. He nods, finishing off his fish and chips.

Turning the corner, she bumps into a solid wall. Except, the solid wall lets out a short ouch. It’s Kenji. Despite trying to clearly cover something up, his suit only goes so high on his neck. There’s black and blue bruises canvassing his face and neck, she glances and sees that there’s marks on his hands as well.

“What happened to you?” She reaches out instinctively to touch his cheek where there’s a dark purple bloom from the peak of his cheekbone to right above his jawline. He whines when she makes contact, but eases up when her warm hands soothe the flow of blood beneath his skin.

“You should see the other guy.” He remarks. In response she just scoffs a little, dropping her hand even though he wishes she would’ve just kept it there.

Soon, the salt and pepper KDF member finds her, “Hey, you need to come back.” He waves his card in the air for a moment, letting her know she needed to pay. He motions for her to hurry and come, and Kenji feels appalled. She nods, but Kenji furrows his eyebrows.

“What kind of man makes his date pay?” His voice is scratchy, and only she can hear him.

She puts a hand on his chest, “It's not a date, it’s business.”

Kenji nods, letting his hand graze hers as it slides down his chest. What once was, no longer is.

When the much older man puts a hand on the small of her back, his jaw clenches reflexively. He twitches in pain when he realizes he pulls the muscles where he’d taken a massive hit from the most recent Kaiju attack. At least he’d managed to make the fight only last around thirty minutes. The quickest fight of the year.

His legs were crossed, bouncing his foot that rested on his knee. He used his chopsticks and prodded at his noodles. His private table was hidden in a nook, with a bamboo room divider separating him and the world. Appetite crushed and meal soggy, Kenji pursed his lips slightly. Contemplation could only last for so long.

Pushing his plate away from him, he leaves a stack of bills on the counter. Stalking away to steal one last glance of her. He saw her hair, the curve of her spine, and heard the click of her shoes as the entrance to the restaurant came to a close.

What kind of business did she have, and more importantly who was he to think about what she was doing? The whole internal monologue was getting tired quick, especially when his thoughts had become plagued with her. Everytime he dished his attitude out for her, she served it right back and with her own additions and special spices.

He’d need some sort of counseling. And soon. But did he really?

She was committed to following the outline of details that the KDF personnel had given her. But she just kept running into Kenji Sato and didn’t get anywhere far with her approach.

At first she had tried to study all the baseball teams that had the quickest reaction times to a Kaiju attack. Each time she attended another game, with her hoodie pulled over her head and hands in her pockets, she just saw people running all around trying to escape the stadiums. Not optimal when a person is trying to go towards the danger instead.

A man had narrowly clipped her shoulder, she kept pressing forwards to get to the field. The Kaiju was on the outskirts of the stadium. If Ultraman really was a baseball player he would’ve appeared in the field from where the players had been. Her line of reasoning was that going down to the field and having her camera ready was the optimal discovery technique.

“What are you doing? You need to get away from the Kaiju, not run toward it?” Kenji, still in his Giants uniform, grabbed her by the arm pulling her further away from the baseball diamond. The Kaiju began to stomp away from the stadium. She groaned, ripping her arm away from Kenji.

“Leave me be.” She tried to go toward the center of the field again.

“You have a death wish and I will not be granting it.” He thwarts her plans and gives her the keys to his motorbike when they get to the parking lot, the Kaiju’s roar rumbles lowly from a distance in the eastward direction. “Get on the bike. I swear to the gods, get on the bike.”

She turns the key, and starts the engine. Kenji goes back to the stadium, leaving her to try and track down all the players from the game today who had already left the stadium, maybe following one of them would lead to the Ultraman reveal. An hour later, the Kaiju was back in the water leaving Japan behind. Ultraman’s face and video footage rang through the screens in the streets. She tossed her camera in the air, annoyance clear on her face.

That was the third time that month that Kenji had done something like that, found her trying to go towards the danger instead of avoiding it, and each time he pushed her away and told her to leave.

It was starting to annoy her more and more intensely that she still couldn’t catch a baseball player turning into Ultraman. Why did there have to be so many baseball games, and why were there so many players on every team?

Yuuta had invited her to a practice match between the Giants and a team from Singapore that had flown in for the friendly. She obliged him, thinking that she could narrow down her list of baseball players better if a foreign team was playing as well. It was around mid-game, and she didn’t expect another Kaiju attack so soon after the last one. Alarms blared and the ground rumbled.

This Kaiju was dark green, scaly, and looked a lot like a water monitor, with fangs like a rattlesnake. The size of it was smaller than most, and it slithered around instead of standing. It lunged at one of the lights in the stadium, and she was shaking against her intentions to remain resolved.

She supposed now was as good a time as ever to see an Ultraman transformation. Except maybe, getting too close to the creature was a bad idea. Yuuta had screamed at her for getting to the field, but he couldn’t stand in and do anything when the tail of the Kaiju knocked her off her feet and she landed on her arm roughly.

Kicking off with her feet, she kept trying to backtrack, elbows bloody and pain shooting through her shoulder. Now she was worried for her life, especially when the Kaiju slinked around the dirt and grass, getting a little too close to the catcher’s area, where she sat. Dirt coated her clothes, and she felt iced into her position.

She closed her eyes for a second, preparing for the worst.

Ultraman always saves the day in the end. The snake-like monster was curling itself around the arm of Ultraman, he shook his arm but the lizard stayed firmly in place. He flung his arm, and to her shock, the snake flew away, Kaiju genetics and formation letting it slither in the air. The Kaiju made its way to the coastline, and the harm was successfully resolved.

The audio muffling voice was just human enough to remind her to come back to her senses. The voice and of course, a huge presence kneeling in front of her would bring anyone back.

His hand was the size of her whole body, maybe even bigger.

“Do you need medical attention?” Ultraman stuck out a finger and she pulled herself off the ground by leveraging her weight and the arm that she hadn’t landed on.

“No, probably just some regular first aid.” She lifts her head up to try and make eye contact, that could be another clue.

When there’s no movement from either of them for a moment, he stutters something out yet none of the words make any sense. Fainting when she sees the Kaiju come back might have been her stupidest biological instinct.

Yuuta sits by her bedside table, snoring. Rubbing her head, she turns on the TV to see what happened after she lost total consciousness.

Ultraman had picked her up and set her somewhere safe while fighting the beast, headlines declaring another day safe because of his intervention. As much as she wants, she can’t roll her eyes.

Maybe there’s more to a superhero than meets the eye.

“Well folks we have it here, the championship game. We have the Giants pitching first and the Pumas at bat. Pitching for the Giants is an upstarter by the name of Ito Yuuta, or as the new fans like to say, the Michelangelo of pitching. And I can’t say I disagree with them, I mean his form is so natural and smooth.” The other announcer elbows his companion in the stomach, “And for the Pumas we have American Clint Wilks ready to bat.”

She sits in her seat, the same one Yuuta had reserved for her so many times before. She has her camera filming her friend, his first pitch he wanted filmed in slow motion, and then the rest he wanted normal speed. Something about wanting tons of content for the promotional manager to work with at various angles. Her phone camera wasn’t the best, but she made it work. And Yuuta had always been satisfied with the videos she sent to him.

When the batter manages to skim the edge of Yuuta’s first pitch she groans a little. The ball was recovered quickly, but Yuuta wasn’t shaken up at all. His next two pitches were seamless, going straight to the catcher in the blink of an eye. She cheers.

Disconnecting from the game for a moment, she scrolls on her phone, she may have enjoyed baseball, but it was Yuuta she only really came for. Yuuta and Kenji that is. Her other camera, her private investigation camera laid safely in her backpack. Should another Kaiju attack happen today she might need an early retirement, especially considering how the last run in had altered her.

It had been a while since she had caught Kenji Sato late at night, ignoring the speed limits with an overwhelming sense of confidence and ability. Maybe the lesson had finally set in, the fifth ticket may have been overkill.

When she hears the announcers say that Ken Sato is out of commission for this championship game due to injury, her ears burn. Now this was a quick mystery that needed to be solved. She had seen him in the pit, yelling with his teammates and jeering at the opposing team. But he hadn’t been quite all there, like his brain was in another body and a robot had filled in for him. When the announcement had been made that Kenji wasn’t going to play, he excused himself and left his team. She noticed that he had been rubbing his arm with a grimace.

The locker room would hold all the answers to her questions she supposes. Yuuta wasn’t going to pitch again for the rest of the game, already knocking out so many strikes in one game. She remembered how Yuuta had told her to get to the additional secret door to the locker room.

Getting into the locker room was easy, seeing Kenji Sato in his current state of undress was the hard part.

She couldn’t say much but let out a small squeak to disclose her presence in the room. Kenji finished pulling up his grey sweatpants, and coughed into his elbow to diffuse any sort of discomfort.

“Uh, sorry. My bad.” She tapped her forearm, keeping her arms locked into a folded position.

“It’s, um, it’s all good. Ito’s still at the diamond, I’m the only one here right now…” He trailed off.

Seeing the full expanse of his injuries across his torso and chest, she feels her heart sink. He’d come up closer to her, shutting his locker and almost circling her to study her. Initially, upon her walking in, she had seen him scrutinize the various marks across his body. His entire length of his arm was purple, almost like it had been wrapped in a rope that had been tightened too many times.

“Is your current partner an abuser?” She bluntly asks.

Kenji’s eyes open wide, “No, I’m not dating anyone right now.”

It was her turn for her eyes to go wide, in addition to extreme heat tingeing her skin and sweat starting to build up. Her assumption was that of a hired sort of company making those marks then. Surveying her reaction, Kenji knows what her best guess may have come down to.

“I also don’t make a habit of hiring escorts. Or any sort of paid companionship.” He swallows thickly. All his attempts to mitigate the tension in the room had absolutely failed. He tries another angle, “I’m glad that you care enough to ask though.”

She laughs at that.

“I guess I do care at least a little. It’d be a shame if you died by hooker, especially since I’ve spent so many hours giving you tickets in an attempt to save your life.”

They settled into their dynamic. Friends, but not quite friendly. Kenji wouldn’t call them enemies either, not when he held her too close to his heart. But her barely concealed occasional animosity did harbor some sort of anger or hate toward him that he’d just have to brush that aside while he categorized their relationship.

Their dynamic was hued by an innate sense of connection, but layers of social conditioning and abrasiveness between the two had deemed their magnetism a fluke.

Maybe that’s why he asks her to come to the baseball banquet with him despite being half naked in the middle of the locker room.

“I’ve already told Yuuta I’d go with him.” She shifts her weight between her feet, trying to remain balanced in spite of the extreme uneasiness that ran through her.

“I got him a replacement date.”

Her eyebrow raised at his slight supplication, he continued, “Ito told me he’d tell you soon. Guess I beat him to the remark.”

The awkward chuckle he lets escape makes him wish that he was anywhere but here. He’d take a monstrous Kaiju wanting to bite his head off then be faced with a rejection like this. Would it even be considered a rejection? He just asked if she wanted to be his date to the championship banquet. He chews the inside of his mouth, it would definitely be a direct rejection if she said no.

The crowd roars and tells the both of them that the banquet will in fact be for the Giants winning and not a solemn affair telling everyone to prepare for the next season.

“Okay. I had already cleared my weekend for the banquet anyway.” She wrings her hands out, twisting and playing with each of her fingers.

“Sounds great. It should be fun, you know, since we just won.”

She turns to leave the locker room, before turning on her heel.

He finishes putting his relaxed Giants jersey on, slightly stunned to see her still in the locker room.

“I’ll need your number, so you can tell me what to wear.” She pauses, unsure of what else he’d need to inform her of.

“And so I can let you know when I’ll pick you up, and where to pick you up.” He starts listing off items, using his fingers to keep track.

“Yeah, all that stuff.”

He gets her number, sending a short ‘hi it’s ken’ text. She feels the pull to exit again. But has to let one last thing off her chest.

“I’m not calling you Ken. You’ll always be Kenji to me.” He pushes down a smile, but she continues her word salad that climbs out of her mouth without much censorship. “Too many tickets written out in your full first name for me to call you anything else.”

“We’ll go with that then, Officer.”

She sticks her tongue out at him before finally trekking out of the baseball changing room.

To- Officer Cutie 💎🌟 : i’m sending you a dress, this is your size right?

ATTACHMENT: 1 Image

To- KENJI SATO 🚨🏍️: How did you know my size? Also you know I can buy my own clothes for a banquet right?

To- Officer Cutie 💎🌟: lemme do my own thing

To- KENJI SATO 🚨🏍️: fine then mr. bossy pants

To be fair, the dress really was gorgeous. Silver with red detailing, although the slit wasn’t quite an expected feature of the dress, coming up to above her mid thigh. The straps of the dress had an almost pearl beading which contrasted nicely with the deep blood shade of the red throughout the dress.

“You know, if my date saw you she’d wonder why I was going with her and not you.” Yuuta teases, because he does genuinely feel excitement for who he was going with, a reporter by the name of Ami Wakita. She does a spin for Yuuta in her phone camera.

“I don’t know all the way though, the colors remind me of something I can’t quite put a finger on.”

She can see Yuuta grabbing his phone and searching on Google due to the angle of his forehead that she was now enduring. When Yuuta laughs, she knows she might be in for some sort of practical joke from Kenji.

Yuuta sends her a photo of Ultraman.

“Damn him to hell. We’re going with an Ultraman theme.” She drags her hand down her face in irritation.

The black Mercedes-Benz he drove to pick her up in was definitely an appreciated touch. He was wearing a silver suit with a red button up underneath. At least they matched really well.

The banquet looked expensive. It smelt expensive. It sounded expensive. With draping fabrics hanging off of tall columns in the cream and gold shades of the Giants logo and uniforms. The bouquets of dense floral scents carried throughout the event center, and the fresh scent of pastries and cooked steaks also added to the aromas floating around the air. Clinking glasses, clicks of heels, laughs that sounded like they were dripping in a blend of nepotism and celebrity status.

Kenji and her are at a table with some of the older members of the Giants team. Kenji isn’t amused with the questions they pester the pair of them with. She wittily responds to each glaring comment that had intended to poke deeper and deeper.

The speeches awarding the team and celebrating the momentous win aren’t bad, just bland. Each time a server comes around with glasses of wine, or champagne, or shots, she grabs one and starts sipping. Kenji sticks to just water and some glasses of juice. He mentions that he’s the one driving so he’d rather not get black out drunk. She chuckles sarcastically.

While they don’t talk to each other too much, he does keep a hand on her thigh or knee for most of the night. Which in turn may have been the cause for her to keep getting drinks.

Eventually, as to be expected, the banquet shifts from an event of elegance into a slight rager. Music transitions from classical to club style hip hop and R&B. She keeps nodding off, much to Kenji’s amusement. He couldn’t imagine accidentally falling asleep when the noises around the building were booming and thunderous.

They sit at the table, the only ones left not on the dance floor. Kenji doesn’t mind, especially with how she keeps nodding off and blinking her eyes to try and stay awake regardless of how the alcohol weighs her cognizance down.

“Hey, pretty girl, you keep falling asleep.” Kenji rubs her back, his fingers touching the bare skin exposed from the back of her dress. His hands aren’t cold, they’re far from it, a warmth blossoms from them, springing forth a desire to feel the heat wherever she has exposed skin.

Mumbling, she says something about his observational skills, a ‘Captain Obvious’ is thrown in there somewhere along a line of insults. She keeps trying to rub the sleep away with the back of her hand.

“Ready to go?” She shakes her head yes and lets him guide her out to his car.

It really was the only solution. She was already asleep in his car, and he didn’t know which key was the one that opened her apartment door.

“MINA, can you please change the temperature of my room to 68 degrees? Keep the pillows cold, but make the blankets warmer.”

MINA adjusts the requested temperatures. Kenji lets her take his bed, opting to sleep in one of the guest rooms in the Ultrabase. He sets out a pair of sweatpants and a sleeveless sleep shirt. He puts a hand on her leg, moving it so she’d wake up a little.

“Pajamas are here, I’ll be down the hall if you need anything. I got water and some pain relievers on your side table.” She murmurs in response, her face in the pillows. He puts a lid on the water cup, and turns off the light as he shuts his bedroom door.

She hardly recalls that she changed into the comfiest pajamas she’s ever worn, but she did remember drinking the whole glass of water and swallowing the pain pills. Waking up was surprisingly pleasant though, a perfect mixture of cold and warm coated her senses. She freezes for a moment, remembering how last night had unfurled. With her embarrassing herself by drinking way too much and getting sleepy probably much earlier than Kenji had expected.

A good private investigator would study and analyze each item in a person’s bedroom. An even better private investigator would do all that and make fun of what she could. That’s why she’s considered the best in the business.

The room is relatively bland, but pictures of a pink Kaiju stand out to her. It looks like a dragon, but it’s so adorable she had to stop herself from using her phone to take a picture of the Kaiju. There’s a family photo, and oh, his dad is Professor Sato? The Kaiju whisperer? That’s intriguing to her but she keeps lurking around.

Once she examines his room enough, she leaves the room and goes out to discover further.

The smell of fresh fruit and possibly waffles draws her out further and further from the hallway of bedrooms and bathrooms.

Kenji talks to MINA, asking for help in making the waffles actually edible and not burnt. MINA offers to cook them for him, but he says he can do it and wants to make them himself. MINA rereads the instructions for the waffle maker. He’s wearing plaid bottoms and a black tank top. She admires his arms for a moment before shaking herself out of the slight daze.

She keeps looking around. Until she finds something particularly interesting, she checks that she’s still out of his line of sight and she touches a few of the buttons on what looks like a computer keyboard. Except the buttons vary in shape and size instead of being uniform and sequential.

Falling back a little from the bright holograms she gasps. Kenji whips his head around and drops a spoon that had batter all over it onto the floor.

The holograms display various scenes of Ultraman, and Kenji. Of Kenji turning into Ultraman, of Ultraman transitioning back into Kenji. Of Kenji with the pink Kaiju, of Ultraman with the pink Kaiju. Of Kenji and his dad studying the Kaiju. Of Ultraman playing baseball with a huge bat. Of Kenji messing around with various Ultraman maneuvers and martial arts styles.

She turns her head to Kenji, now exposed from her perching site away from his view. He glances his eyes in all directions. He hiccups and laughs forcefully. He can’t even say a simple, let me explain. It’s just all too clear.

“Whoops?” She offers.

He pushed a bowl of fruit in her direction, she was sitting across from him at the dining table.

“No one can know.”

She keeps blinking and eating another piece of fruit as she processes the whole thing. Almost like a fish, she keeps opening her mouth but then closing it without ever saying a word. She downs a glass of orange juice that he gives her.

“So, you’re Ultraman.”

He shrugs.

“All those times I saw you bruised and injured? Ultraman?” She rubs her temple, trying to make sense of it all.

“For most of the time, yes. I did fall off my bike once.”

“I’m going to have to quit my job.” She deadpans. “If they knew that I knew, but didn’t tell them, I’d be hunted and killed.”

Kenji drops his fork that has a slice of mango on it.

“Not literally, but I’d definitely be tortured for what I know.” Finishing off her fruit, she lets out a deep exhale, and makes eye contact with Kenji. He taps on the table for a moment before exchanging her thoughts for his own.

“I hate to admit this, but that would literally be my worst nightmare because I unfortunately like you a lot.”

She suspends all sense of reality for a moment, also ignoring his confession to her, “Kaiju Island is real?” He nods. “I want to go and see it. I want to see the Kaiju.”

So they go and see the Kaiju.

When Kenji introduces her to Emi, a toddler Kaiju, she stands stunned but amazed at the mystical energy of it all. She considers dropping her career as a private investigator and instead studying a course in Kaiju Sciences. She sees a wide variety of other Kaiju, Kenji making sure she stays a safe distance away from anything that could potentially be too dangerous.

The whole day is spent asking and answering questions. From Ultraman to Kaiju, from KDF to Tokyo Metropolitan Police. He’s aware of what the KDF knows about him now, and he’s grateful to know where to start burying tracks for them.

The beach is pretty in the evening. The way pink and orange dance along the glimmering ocean waves. The way the sun hits Kenji’s eyes just right and makes them look like a vibrant purple. His black earrings almost turn into inky ebony gems.

“This is actually amazing.” She exhales the words she’s been holding in during the entire exposure to this alternate universe that coexists with hers.

He speaks without thinking, something he believes he really should start working on, “You’re amazing.”

“Even with all my sharpness?”

“That’s your whole appeal.” He leans in, giving just enough space for her to back out.

She doesn’t lean away. He dives in.

He doesn’t bother with any brushes of their lips, going straight for an open mouth exchange. She’s the one who grazes her tongue in his mouth first though, leaving him wanting more, needing more, an appetite needing to be satiated with her touch.

He’s leaving a path of heavy kisses over her face to her neck, sucking on the skin as he licks under her jaw. The way her skin tastes should be studied he muses, using his hands to pin her to the sandy bank by her waist. Her hands were too busy fiddling with his earrings and hair to let him pin her by the hands.

The hums he has in his throat make her want to hear what other sounds he can make. Maybe biting his bottom lip was her best option after all because as soon as her teeth came into contact with the puffy skin he shudders and it’s like music to her ears.

He has to lift himself up and off her, out of breath and panting heavily. He pulls her up with him once he’s sitting back down.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time you cussed me out for almost swerving into you when I was speeding.”

She pauses, letting him intertwine his fingers with hers, he sets the joined hands on his thigh, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand in order to brush some sand off of her.

“That was a while ago.”

“Yeah, so now you know how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

She pushes his shoulder that was right up against hers. He recoils, and she thinks that he might be sore from fighting a Kaiju. So she goes to apologize when he stops her before she can get any words out.

“I think I deserve an apology kiss.”

“What a faker.”

She rolls her eyes but gives him another kiss.

The headlines the following weeks put the world into a tizzy.

PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR QUITS TOKYO POLICE IN A FURY

EX-TOKYO POLICE INVESTIGATOR EXPOSES KDF BRIBING GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS

KAIJU AREN’T ALL BAD: THE KDF GENOCIDE SCANDAL

KENJI SATO, WHO’S YOUR GIRL?

ITO YUUTA NAMED GIANTS VICE CAPTAIN UNDER KENJI SATO’S CAPTAINSHIP

NEW KAIJU RESEARCH AND SCIENCE RELEASED BY PROFESSOR SATO

EXCLUSIVE ULTRAMAN INTERVIEW: HE’S OBSESSED WITH KENJI SATO’S GIRLFRIEND

#ultraman rising #ultraman x reader #ultraman #kenji sato x reader #kenji sato #ken sato #ken sato x reader #private investigator #identity reveal #ito yuuta multiverse #lilly's red string of fate

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ayyy-pee · 1 year ago

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Discord 18+ - Twitter - Kofi

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Female Reader

Summary: Following his mothers passing, Nanami inherits his family's rundown bakery. With the bakery on its last leg, Nanami reluctantly takes on the task of trying to save what his family has worked to keep for decades, but he can't do it alone.

Genre: Bakery/Coffee Shop AU

Warnings: Workaholic meanie Nanami, employee x boss relationship, but also enemies to lovers, death, grief/mourning, profanity, jealousy, fluff, angst, Nanami owns a bakery, parental loss, Nanami is bad at feelings, I don’t know if I’ll do smut for this one but sexual tension, mutual pining, Nanami is sort of an asshole here

Art by: Ilameys + (Unknown artist (right pic). I'd love to credit the artist so if you know who it is, please let me know!)

Chapter 1 - Inheritance

A/N: There's some Danish in fic that I hope I'm using correctly! (If not let me know) Nanami calls his mother "Mor" in this fic, which is Danish for Mom (according to Google lmao)

“Are you okay with this arrangement?” a stocky, bald man ahead asks. In the harsh fluorescent lighting of the office, the beads of sweat forming on his head are apparent. He reaches up and swipes his hand across where his hairline probably resided at some point in time, but is now long gone. He clears his throat, repeating the question.

“Um-” he glances around at the other men at the table, dressed in bland, ugly suits. A bunch of blank faces that’ll be forgotten once this is over. The man behind taps his shoulder.

“Mr. Nanami?” He speaks.

Nanami’s brows raise as he’s brought back to the present and he looks around to find the men surrounding the table staring at him. He looks back to the bald man next to him. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

The bald man wipes his forehead again and Nanami hopes whatever paperwork and pen he is about to offer him is passed with his other hand. He resists shuddering in disgust.

“I was saying your mother has left her bakery to you in her will and testament with the wish that you continue to keep it open.”

Right. Nanami remembers now. His mother is dead - the only family he can remember having now leaving him alone in this world. He figured this would happen eventually. She was elderly and in declining health. He was truly surprised she lived as long as she did. To top it off, she wants him to keep the piece of shit bakery that’s been passed down generations in business.

Nanami didn’t get to see his mother often. He worked as a corporate executive so he didn’t have much time to allocate to visiting her and being forced into the kitchen with her. Instead, he opted to call her often and visited when he had the time.

The sensation of his bottom lip trembling pulls Nanami from his thoughts.

“I don’t want it.” He confirms, voice as even as he can manage.

The bald man glances around nervously before looking back at Nanami. “Mr. Nanami, I understand this must be a lot to take in and quite difficult for you. However, this bakery has been in your family for generations. Your grandfather left it to your mother when he passed and now your mother to you. Are you sure you don’t want to–”

“It’s a sinking ship”, Nanami cuts him off. “I’ve seen the books a few times. I know it’s bleeding money and has been for some time. What do you suppose I do with that?”

The man shrugs, not that Nanami truly expected him to have an answer. Nanami pinches the bring of his nose, his brows stitching together in irritation. He really doesn’t want to deal with this. It’s annoying and an inconvenience. He wants to coast by in his cushy corporate executive job until retirement, making loads of money and not worrying about the crippling debt brought on by selling baked dough in some sad, rundown family owned establishment.

His mind drifts back to the very last time he was at the bakery, remembering his mother kneading the dough between her shaky, liver spotted fingers. When the aches became too much for her, she asked Nanami to give her a hand. He always complied if only to keep himself busy for the moment.

“When will you settle down? Work won’t be there forever”, she would ask as she took a seat on her stool next to the confectionery ovens. The massive machines loomed over her thin frame and Nanami wondered how she did this everyday. He wished she would close up shop and live the rest of her days resting. He had offered many times to support her, each time being met with a hard “no”.

“I don’t have time to date anyone. Besides, they’d just end up leaving me anyway. I’m too busy to make time for anyone else.”

His mother hummed in acknowledgement. “Yes, but you have to make time for them, Kento. A relationship is about compromise after all.”

“I don’t want to have to compromise. That’s the point of me not dating anyone right now”. His mother was always pushing for him to find someone. Asking for him to bring someone home to meet her before she met her demise - her words. She was always so dramatic, often prompting Nanami to roll his eyes in amusement.

Nanami molded the dough into an oval shape, grabbing the bread lame from the side of the table and quickly slicing leaf cut patterns into the dough - both his and his mother’s favorite. Carefully, he placed the dough onto a baking pan before gently shooing away his mother from her stool to slide the pan into the oven and turn it on.

“Kento, money comes and goes. You won’t have forever to live your life the way you see fit. And I want to see you get married before I’m dead and gone!” His mother sighed dramatically as she took Nanami’s large hard in both her smaller ones. “In all seriousness, sweet boy. I want to see you happy, living your life to the fullest.”

Nanami smiled softly down at his mother. He gently folded her up in an embrace. “My life is full as long as you’re here, Mor .”

His mother smacked him playfully in the chest. “Don’t try to butter me up with speaking Danish”, she scolded, though her voice held no anger. “Kento, take a break. Life will pass you by before you know it and you don’t want to look back at your life to realize you wasted it sitting in an office rotting under those awful lights.” She squinted her eyes to drive her point home. Nanami rolled his eyes playfully, looking down at his watch.

“I have to go back to work. I’ll call you later this week.” He bent low to place a kiss to his mother’s cheek before heading out through the front of the store.

The quiver in his lip returned and he let out a shaky breath to steady himself as the bald, sweaty man next to him slid over what looked to be a contract.

“If you’re sure, Mr. Nanami, we will have the bank take possession of the property. I’ll just need your signature here.” He extended his hand to give Nanami a pen and he fought the curl of disgust threatening to form on his lip when he noticed he held it with the same sweat-slathered hand he’d been using to wipe his head this entire meeting.

Nanami’s eyes roamed across the room. The faces of men he’d likely never see again surrounded him, just like every other day in this godforsaken boardroom. All dressed in some variation of the same ordinary suit and tie, talking amongst themselves about who knows what. And the lights, the fucking fluorescent lights threatening to trigger the same migraine Nanami found himself having everyday.

Life will pass you by before you know it and you don’t want to look back at your life to realize you wasted it sitting in an office rotting under those awful lights.

Nanami squinted just as his mother did that day, a wry chuckle escaping him. Fuck it. What did he have to lose?

“Actually–” he begins.

- - - - - - - -

Nanami is standing in the front of the bakery he now owns. It’s been about two weeks since he inherited this gaping wound bleeding out money every second it’s standing. He’s quit his corporate job, his peers whispering that his loss must have triggered a mental breakdown. They were almost right. The moment he signed the legal documents to take over the bakery, he felt free - as though the weight of the corporate world had been lifted from his shoulders. Now, as he entered the bakery and flipped on the lights, watching as a piece of ceiling tile tumbled to the lobby floor he felt his impending breakdown sneaking closer.

This place was a mess. He couldn’t blame his mother. She wasn’t able to handle the upkeep on her own and honestly, Nanami should have come around more to help out. Now, he was literally paying the price. It was no wonder the place was struggling when it was open. The furniture was worn, the decor was outdated and not in a trendy way. He understood wanting to keep the family memory alive, but the bakery was feeling more like a moldy old hole in the wall and not as welcoming as his mother believed it to be.

Repairs would be needed as soon as possible if he wanted to have a reopening for this place next month. He also needed to renovate the space and hire a baker who knew how the hell to run this place because he had no intention of doing it himself. No way. He fully intended on staffing this place up and collecting money from behind the scenes - the perfect retirement plan.

Nanami spent the day scheduling repairmen and interviews for the Head Baker position all within the next week. If he could find someone knowledgeable and adept, he could breathe easy knowing he would never have to be here unless absolutely necessary.

After scheduling the last interview, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face. This sucked. He was putting in way too much effort already and it did not seem worth it. Only time would tell.

- - - - - - - -

The first interview was easy enough. A young girl who seemed exhausted but eager. She had prior bakery experience, but the way the bags hung under her eyes made Nanami uncomfortable. It was as though she had something clinging to her and if he were totally honest, it gave him the creeps. At the end of the interview, he wished her well, advised her to try to get some rest and maybe see a medium about whatever strange aura was following her.

The second interview was an odd man with tattoos all over his body that looked something akin to stitches. He was young and lively, but it was apparent the moment he entered the bakery that he lacked basic hygiene skills. His long, gray (how old was this kid?) hair hung messily around his shoulders and the stench…Nanami could not describe the stench. If he absolutely had to describe it - like gun to the head, forced to recall the smell - he'd compare it to something along the lines of a sewer rat dipped in rotten eggs and left in the sun to bake. There was also the awful vibe Nanami got from him. He had a feeling if he hired this guy, Nanami would come in one day to find the entire bakery empty, the only thing left behind being hand soap since this man definitely didn’t wash his hands after using the bathroom, or shower, or brush his teeth or–

The third interview was annoying, but by far the best. Nanami sat at a table in the lobby as his eyes skimmed over the resume in his hands. A previous position as a Head Baker already, excellent. This resume even included custom recipes and pictures of their creations which he could not deny looked delicious. Nanami had to admit he was already impressed.

The door to the bakery opened and Nanami stood. Your eyes roamed around the lobby until you spotted him. You offered him a wide, friendly smile, holding your hand out to him as you approached. He asked your name, to which you confirmed and he shook your hand. Professional already. He liked it.

You both took a seat across from each other as Nanami went over the interview questions he had prepared. The usual - tell me about yourself? Tell me a time when…How would you handle…

Your answers were professional with enough of your personality shining through to let Nanami know you were a likable enough person. Nanami especially enjoyed the way your eyes lit up when you went over how you came to write your recipes. Clearly you were passionate about baking, something his mother would have appreciated. As you explained to him how you once created a cake made of broccoli for a child’s birthday party that had not a single crumb left by the end of the night, Nanami couldn’t help but think how much his mother really would have liked you. He shook the thought away as he watched you take in the bakery again. He suddenly felt ashamed of its condition.

“I apologize. This place is an absolute dump, but I’ll be renovating soon enough and will be sure you have top of the line equipment should you get the position.” He muttered, rubbing his temple to ease the migraine that had been slowly creeping up on him since his last interview.

You shot him a look of confusion, tilting your head to the side. “What do you mean a dump? This place is gorgeous !” You beamed. “I mean, look around. There’s so much character in this building. You can tell whoever ran the place loved it. It looks like it really met its purpose.” You ran your hand across the worn wood of the table and sighed wistfully.

Nanami scoffed. “It appears outside of baking, you have questionable taste.”

“How can you look at this place and see a dump?” You questioned, genuinely curious.

“Because I grew up in this bakery and it didn’t used to be a dump and now it very obviously is.” Nanami said easily.

Your grin faded into a scowl. “Mr. Nanami, with all due respect, you seem to be looking only for flaws here.”

You stood from the table and pointed behind the front counter to the kitchen in the back. “Do you mind?” Nanami shook his head, sighing as he stood with you and followed you to the back.

Your head whipped around as you entered the kitchen, taking in the worn down appliances, pans, tools and other materials. You didn’t touch anything, only a small smile gracing your features as you observed everything.

“I love bakeries like this personally. I love to be in a space that feels like lots of love and care was put into the end product. Anyone can throw flour into a pot with some eggs and sugar, but what makes one bakery different or better than the next?”

You watched Nanami intensely, not speaking. Oh. Was he the one being interviewed now?

“How much money they make.” He answered confidently. You snorted.

“Loud and wrong”, you stated. “It’s love , Mr. Nanami.”

He rolled his eyes and you burst into laughter. Nanami was now slowly becoming convinced you were a crazy person.

“I’m joking…to an extent. But if you put in the time, the effort and the care into your baking you’ll gain so much more than you ever thought possible. The fancy furniture and stupid bright lights won’t make a difference if you just slap whatever dry, shitty bread onto a plate and sell it.”

Nanami stared blankly.

“What’s your favorite memory here, Mr. Nanami?” you asked suddenly.

“Irrelevant to this interview”, he replied instead. You scowled.

“Come onnnnn, indulge me”, you pleaded.

“No.”

You folded your arms across your chest stubbornly. “Will you always be this difficult if we work together?”

Nanami’s brows shot up in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Will you always be this difficult if we work together?” You repeat, a little more slowly this time.

“I am not difficult”, he lied. He knew he was being difficult at this moment, probably sounding like a child arguing back. He could have just answered your damn prying questions but…he didn’t want to. Okay, yes he was being childish. Regardless, he continued.

“Why should I give you this job?”

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, chewing on it absentmindedly while you thought about your answer. “Because I love baking. I love baking more than I love breathing and I could work a boring office job like anyone else, but I know I’d hate myself for it. This place needs a little help and I want to be here to make it into whatever you need it to be.”

Hating yourself for working an office job, huh? Nanami could relate. He was in this position mere weeks ago. You were sort of annoying always trying to see the bright side - rainbows and butterflies and shit - but maybe he could look past that. He did need a baker after all and his only other interviews were not exactly what he was looking for. But, he needed to establish some ground rules first.

“If you accept this position, I will be your boss and you will respect me. Please don’t misinterpret this relationship. I am not interested in establishing a friendship. I simply need you to run this kitchen and make sure your desserts are up to par.”

You stood up straight, your demeanor shifting to strictly business. “Noted.”

Nanami sighed, feeling relieved that he was able to establish who the boss was around here before things got out of control. He squared his shoulders, looking at you from across the kitchen.

“Now, I am formally offering you the position of Head Baker. Do you accept it?”

“Absolutely”, you said with no hesitation before continuing. “But if you’re standing in my kitchen, I demand respect too”, you spoke up. “My desserts will never not be up to par, Mr. Nanami but please don’t misinterpret this relationship either. When you step into my kitchen, I am in charge here.”

You moved across the kitchen and held your hand out to Nanami, who shook it quietly as he assessed you. You were passionate, spoke your mind, demanded respect but you were also annoyingly way too positive. It would be an adjustment for Nanami to work with someone like you. He was used to the drab routine of office work and the bland personalities that came along with it. This entire process was going to be an adjustment for him.

Nanami walked you out of the bakery, giving you a start date of next Monday to go over recipes for a soft reopening. He watched you go, a small skip in your step and for the first time since losing his mother, his lips curled up into a tiny smile.

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thetriumphantpanda · 1 year ago

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it's new, the shape of your body | javier peña

Take The Weight Off His Shoulders - Chapter Five

Chapter Summary | A dead end following a lead at work leaves you tense, with Javi only too happy to help you destress.

Chapter Warnings | Mention of drugs, drug related violence and the drugs trade. Zero knowledge of how journalists find information in the 90s but we ride with it. Explicit smut, these two do some stuff in public that the lord wouldn't approve, fingering, Javi is a dirty talking menace.

Pairing | dbf!Javier Peña x F!Reader

Word Count | 3.5K

Authors Note | So, as well as being a sexy little dbf!Javi fic, this also has another overarching plot that I'm starting to introduce in this chapter - I really hope you like the addition of this other part of the story, as well as these two finally getting it on! Another huge shoutout to @undercoverpena who has been such a rock with this chapter, helping me smooth out the kinks to get it to where I wanted it to be. Thank you for the support so far. If you're enjoying this then reblogs and comments really do help and if you’d like to support me further, please consider a donation to my Ko-Fi.

I no longer use taglists. Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs to be notified of new updates.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi | Series Playlist

There’s a spring in your step when you walk into work on Monday. You’d spent all of Sunday is some sort of daze, thinking about what had happened with Javi and all the things that he’d promised you over the phone. You let your hand wander a little on Sunday night, bringing yourself off to his promise of showing you exactly what you’d been missing, so much so that the lack of sleep from keeping yourself awake didn’t bother you as you sat down at your desk, taking out your notes to start working on the piece for the newspaper about the drugs bust in town last week.

“You seem more chipper this morning,” Your boss muses, setting down a mug of coffee next to you like she always does each morning, “You sleeping better?”

The answer is no, not really, just that you’re awake for a far better reason that pining for your dad’s buddy, now you’re awake because he wants you just as much as you want him and those daydreams and the visions that come to you in your dreams are far nicer to deal with than the wondering of if you were going to make a fool out of yourself in front of him.

“Yeah, much better, thanks,” You smile, picking up the mug to take a sip, “I’m gonna start working on the bust story today, hopefully it’ll be ready by the end of the day.”

She places a hand on your shoulder and gives you a squeeze, “Nice work,” She smiles back at you, “Your stories have been really well received recently.”

She leaves you to it, letting you open your notebook, you rip the old pages out, lie them out on the desk in front of you, picking up a pen, putting it to the fresh page to start formulating the bare bones of the story.

It’s easy to start with the facts.

1. There’s a house in town had been involved in a police raid.

2. A large amount of both cocaine and marijuana had been seized.

3. The house had been empty.

4. The police had spoken to the neighbours.

You circle the last point on your notepad: no-one could figure out who would be responsible for storing that amount of drugs at the address. Staring at it, seeing it in a new order, your brain begins to think, wondering about how you might be able to dig deeper.

Something, the instinct that made all of this possible, tells you to start with who owns the house. Fingers typing, suddenly remembering that you’d overheard your dad talking with your mom a few days ago about how they’d tried that avenue and come up at a loss down at the station, but not why.

Opening the webpage for the public records for the county, your fingers drill in the address, clicking on the search result that pops up. Leaning forward in your chair, chin propped on your palm, you scan the information in front of you. There’s a list of everyone who had ever owned the address since it was built, starting from the first all the way down to the last, which is where you realise what the dead end is. The last owner was dead. Had been for almost a year, and the property was waiting to go up for sale again, which meant whoever had been storing the drugs in the house was squatting.

You let out a frustrated sigh, because if the police can’t figure it out from here then what makes you think you can. Except, when you sit there, tapping your fingers against the desk in frustration and realise you’d been there. You’d been in that house a few months ago with Liv, who had dragged you to some kind of party.

Almost automatically you’re reaching for the phone and dialing the number you’ve got memorized for her. She picks up on the third ring.

“Hello, this is Laredo insurance, you’re speaking to Liv, how can I help?”

You bite back a giggle at her customer service voice, it’s so unlike the girl you really know, “Hello bestie,” You greet, which has her gasping down the phone.

“Oh my god have I forgotten a lunch date?” She asks.

“No, it’s okay, don’t panic,” You say, “It’s a really random question, but you know that party we went to a few months ago, do you know who hosted it?”

You can hear her clicking her tongue in the background as she thinks, “I can’t even remember who invited us,” She sighs, as do you, “I think I just heard about it from someone, who’d heard about it from someone else.”

“God damn it.” You mumble, head in your hand.

“Is it important?”

“I don’t know,” You answer honestly, “It was the place that got busted last week, and I’m just trying to do some digging, but it’s okay, I’m sure if it’s meant to be I’ll figure it out.”

“I have every faith in you,” You can tell she’s smiling on the other end, “Listen, I gotta bounce, but how about we do drinks later on this week?”

“Sounds good, phone me later and we can sort it out.”

“Alright, bye bestie!”

You laugh and wish her a goodbye, deciding you’ve gone as far as you can with this for today. You save what you have of the story, thinking you could send it to your boss for approval as is, but deep down you know there’s something here you can pull on, something bigger than just busting a house full of drugs and taking them off the streets to be dealt, so you keep it to yourself for the rest of the day.

“I’m heading out,” Your boss speaks as she walks past your desk on the way out, “Did you get the story finished?”

A smile thrown her way in response, trying to cover the fact that you want more time, “Almost,” You speak, “Just a few more tweaks and a couple of things I want to check, but I’ll get it to you as soon as I can.”

She nods, seemingly pleased that you’re wanting to make it as perfect as possible, “No rush, we can hold it for a few days until you’re happy with it.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

“Well, you have yourself a good evening and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You wish her the same, watching as she heads out, leaving you in the office alone. You sigh, annoyed that there’s nothing further you can really do. You save the document, gathering your things and deciding you can worry about what to do next tomorrow.

When you emerge from the front door of the office and look across the parking lot to your car, you’re taken aback to find Javier’s truck parked in the space right next to it. He’s leaning against the driver’s side of the truck, casual as anything, with his ankles crossed over each other and his arms crossed over his chest. He notices you stood still, motions you with his head to come over.

Your feet carry you across the parking lot, shoulders heavy with stress and that niggling feeling that you’ve been missing something all day, the one thing that’s going to make you realise what’s going on, but seeing Javi slip his aviators off his face and tuck them into his shirt, shooting a smile your way, you feel a little better.

“What are you doing here?”

He shrugs, in that cool, casual way that he always does, “Wanted to see you,” He reaches out, taking your hand in his to pull you closer, but does so whilst looking around, making sure no-one either of you know can see you, “Wanted to do this.”

Then he leans down, presses his lips to yours, one hand cradling your cheek. It’s different to the kiss at the ranch, it’s not rushed. He keeps his lips pressed against your own for a while, pulling away, but planting one right on your forehead as he leans back against the car.

You bite your bottom lip between your teeth, smiling a little as you feel the temperature rise across your face, “How did you know what time I finished?”

“Lucky guess,” He shrugs, “Thought if you didn’t come out within an hour I’d have just gone home, tried again tomorrow.”

“You would have waited for me for an hour?” You chuckle, leaning against your own car behind you.

“Yeah,” He nods with a smile, “Would wait a lot longer but you know how it is, things to do.”

You settle your back against the passenger side of your car, rubbing a hand up one of your arms, “You seem tense,” Javi observes, “What’s up?”

You consider telling him the whole story, but there’s something niggling in the back of your mind that this is something you should keep to yourself for a while, just until you can try digging for more information first. If you keep drawing up blanks then you can ask him, see if his expertise can offer any ideas, but for now, you keep it vague.

“It’s just work,” You shrug, “Deadlines and stuff, but I’ll be okay.”

You watch him look at you, those beautiful brown eyes looking directly into your own, his mouth pulled into a smirk, “You wanna take a drive?” He asks, head tilting to his truck, “Let me help with some of that stress.”

That familiar pool of arousal is settling in your tummy, excitement thrumming through your veins at what he means. He wants to touch you, and God do you want to touch him right back. But it’s getting late, and you know you’re parents are going to wonder where you are soon enough. There’s not enough time to go driving around, but you think there’s just enough time for something else.

You grin back at him, reaching to grasp his wrist in your hand, somewhat aware of how big he is when you can’t fit your fingers all the way round it. You drag him back across the parking lot, and down the side of the your office building. It’s a small alley, definitely not the most romantic spot, but at least it doesn’t smell, and unless someone is coming looking, you’re not going to be disturbed, most people having gone home from the offices on either side of you.

You go down just far enough that you’re in the shadows, far enough that even if someone did wander past, you’re going to be hidden as much as possible. You drop his hand as you lean back against the brick wall, staring at him as he takes a step closer to you, hands settling on your waist.

“You want me here?” He speaks lowly, bringing his face closer to yours, so close that you could reach up on your toes and kiss him, but you want to see if he breaks first.

You nod your head, tipping it back against the brick, shoving your hips off the wall as some kind of hint to him, “What do you want, hermosa?”

“Want you to touch me, Javi.” You breathe, leaning up just a touch so he can feel the breath from your lips across his.

“But I already am.” He smirks, eyes flitting to where his hands are resting on your hips.

With a roll of your eyes, you reach your own hand down your body, coming to rest of the waistband of your work trousers. You motion your head a little, dragging Javi’s eyes down to where your hand is resting on the button of your trousers, making sure he’s watching when you pop it open, dragging the zip down and then leaving it like that.

His own hand trails from your right hip, warm fingers brushing the skin you’ve revealed, but he doesn’t move them further, just lets his fingers rest on the skin as he brings his lips to your jaw, kissing softly from your chin, all the way up to the delicate skin behind your ear, “Want me to touch you here?” He all but growls into your ear as his hand sinks beneath your trousers, wide palm cupping you through your underwear, bringing a gasp from your throat, “Yeah, sounds like you do baby.”

You bring your hands up to rest on his shoulders – something to grip onto as his fingers trace along the seam of your pussy through the thin cotton of your panties. His touch is gentle, but the way his mouth is pressing hot and wet to the skin across your neck is anything but. It’s searing, and exciting, and wrong but in all the right ways.

“If I dip my fingers under here,” He asks, fingers toying with the elastic of your panties, “You gonna be wet for me, querida?”

“W-why don’t you find out?” You choke out, feeling him smile against the skin of your neck as his fingers dip just below the waistband of your panties, fingers dragging over the curls on your mound, down lower, until they’re so close to where you want them.

He dips his fingers through your folds, slipping them into you so easily. Your mouth drops open, his own so close to yours that you could feel his lips on yours as you moan, his fingers dragging out of you and up to your clit, where he starts gently circling.

“What’s got you all worked up, eh?” He asks, his other hand coming to grip your chin, forcing you to look at him, your mouth dropped open as he works his fingers across your clit, “Can’t just be from me right here,” He muses, “You been sat at your desk thinking about me?”

He presses his fingers more firmly across your clit, it feels so good, the way he’s working you, “T-think about you a-all the time.” You croak out from your throat, hips starting to move with his hand, needing something more.

“Naughty little thing,” He breathes into your ear, teeth nibbling lightly at your earlobe as his fingers drag from your clit back down to where you’re so slick for him, his fingers slipping back inside you, but curling up, finding a spot inside you that no-one had even shown you existed until now, “Feel good?” He asks, “You tell me what works, okay?”

You nod, two of his fingers working in and out of you. It feels good, but it’s nothing compared to the way he made you feel before, when his fingers trailed over your clit in little circles. You grip his wrist, “Outside,” You say simple, “Like how you were doing it before.”

He presses his lips to yours, dragging his fingers back up through your folds, using his middle finger to draw light circles over your swollen bundle of nerves, “Like this?” He asks, which is punctuated with a moan from your lips. It’s loud enough this time that his free hand is flying to cover your mouth with his palm, shushing you as he presses his body against yours, pinning you in place, his own excitement no longer hidden from you. You can feel the bulge of his cock through his jeans, pressing into your side as the movement of his fingers speeds up, just a touch.

Whilst it’s a familiar feeling – it’s the way you’re used to bringing yourself off, more often than not to the thought of the very man in front of you – there’s something so different about Javi being the one to have you dangling over the edge, teetering on the edge of pleasure just with his fingers.

“Tell me, bebita,” He coos into your ear, “Has anyone else ever made you come?”

His palm is still covering your mouth, so you can’t speak, so all you do is shake your head in response, watching as his eyes darken and he sticks his bottom lip out a little in a pout, “Poor girl,” He says, his middle finger speeding up just a touch again, pressing harder, “Shall we fix that?” He asks, which has you nodding your head so ferociously that it should be embarrassing, “Go on then,” He coaxes, “I know you’re close, just let go for me.”

If someone had told you months ago, before he’d reappeared in town, that Javier Peña would be the first man to make you cum, pressed against the brick wall of your office, with his hand clamped around your mouth to stop you from crying out, you’d have told them to get lost.

Your entire body shakes as your orgasm starts to ripple through you. White hot pleasure explodes across your lower body, your fingers dig into Javi’s shoulders, fisting the material of his shirt as he finally drops his hand from your mouth, gripping at your waist to keep your upright when the shaking of your legs threatens to topple you to the ground. His fingers are moving across you more slowly, but are adding just enough pressure to work you through those aftershocks, until it becomes too much.

Your forehead hits his shoulder, your hands wrapping around the breadth of his broadness as he drags his hand from your trousers, slipping both around your back to drag you into his body, “Did so good for me, querida.” He praises, rubbing a soothing hand up and down your spine through your shirt.

“Felt good.” You manage to mumble into the material covering his shoulder, pushing yourself back up and off him, hand trailing down his chest to try and touch him, return the favour, but he’s gripping your wrist to stop you.

“Not tonight,” He says, “Just wanted to make you feel good.”

“But-” You try to protest, but his grip on your wrist is strong and you can’t move it.

“I promise I’ll let you return the favour, but not tonight, okay?”

You nod your head. Javi brings his hands to your trousers, zipping them back up and pushing the button through the buttonhole. He tugs the hem of your shirt back into place, before he presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. He glances at the watch on his wrist, clocking the time, “It’s late, querida,” He sighs, “We better get you on the road.”

And it’s a strange feeling, that this tiny little bubble is bursting so soon. You know it’s important to keep this under wraps, you’re sure no-one would be pleased to find out that Javier Peña, your dad’s friend, had been pinning you to a wall and coaxing an orgasm from you with his fingers, and there’s something about the secrecy of it all that makes it more exciting, but as you walk back to your respective vehicles, Javi so far away that you can’t reach out to touch him, it stings a little. Stings a little that you’re not going to get to be normal with him, that for now, your relationship, whatever that might be, is going to be kept secret, clandestine meetings and stolen glances wherever possible, when all you really want to do is grasp his hand in yours and shout to everyone that he belongs to you.

“We going to make this a habit?” You ask, unlocking your door and sliding into the drivers seat.

Javi keeps a hang on the top of the door, keeping it open for a while, “What?” He smirks, “Pressing you up against brick walls?”

“Pressing each other against brick walls,” You correct, “It’s your turn next time.”

He runs a ringer over his bottom lip, a habit you’ve known for years is something he does when he’s nervous or stressed, “I need you to know if I didn’t have to keep you a secret, I wouldn’t, okay?” You smile up at him, nodding your head, “I promise it won’t always have to be like this, but just for now, okay?”

“Okay,” You nod, “Now give me a kiss goodbye and let me go home.”

He does just that, leans down and gives you a kiss, one that you would class as proper this time, where he opens his mouth against yours, licks into your mouth, the coarse hair above his lip scratching lightly at your skin. He pulls away just a touch, pecking you on the lips once, then twice, then a final time, when you grip the collar of his shirt to keep him there just a little moment more.

“Go home, Javi.” You giggle when you finally let him go, “I’ll see you soon.”

He gives you a final chaste kiss to your lips then shuts your door for you, walking around your car to get in his truck. You wonder for a while if there’s going to a weird stand-off between the two of you, but he turns the key in his ignition and drives off with a final wave, leaving you to do the same.

When you pull up outside your home, you pull the mirror down, make sure nothing on your face gives away what you’d just been up to, smoothing down your hair. You take a second to take a few deep breaths, before you step out, going back to being the innocent daughter your parents still believe you to be.

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ohmyeyesmyeyes · 6 months ago

Text

i couldn't stand you - m. bunting

summary: (slow burn enemies to frenemies to friends etc / f!reader x mb) three years: arguments, truces, break-ups, moving houses...michael bunting wasn't nearly as irritating as you'd initially expected.

warnings: swearing, consumption of alcohol, reader is a pens fan, scenes with eating involved, reader is a chef, I PROMISE THE WRITING GETS BETTER THE MORE YOU READ (toronto to carolina sequence my fave <3), sid being an obliviously adorable cockblocker, angst/pining, fluff, the ending is so unfinished and doesn't do the 20k justice at all...(i lost inspiration)(but i might edit it in the future/do an alternate ending)

a/n: i got inspiration from this from that tom welling hug in cheaper by the dozen

In all honesty, you hadn’t really been paying much attention to Ellis, which kind of defeated the entire purpose of even stepping into the bar. Taylor had wanted you to meet her new boyfriend, and it had barely taken all of five minutes of being in his presence to deduce that he was not only a nice guy, but clearly liked her a lot, was funny, the whole works, etc, etc. Only, your attention had been (completely against your will) stolen by the…idiot sitting next to you.

You didn’t really know what else to call him. An impatient dick? That was also fitting. A bad driver? There wasn’t a 100% certainty in that statement, but it felt fitting given the incident from earlier that morning.

Nevertheless, when you’d clocked each other, the only empty space being that on the bench right next to him, there was no doubt he recognised you too. He’d rolled his eyes and scoffed into his beer, and you’d sat down rather aggressively and dropped your bag on the floor, downright refusing to look at him.

Hence, the intervening from Ellis, with his polite smile and countenance, a complete contrast to aforementioned impatient dick sitting on your left. Taylor had raised a brow, a silent question on her face but you’d simply shaken your head and accepted the cocktail she’d already ordered with a grateful smile.

“I’m confused.” Ellis muttered, leaning his head on one hand, eyes darting confusedly between you and Michael Bunting, Maple Leafs player apparently, “Do you two know each other?”

You shook your head, sipping your cocktail. Judging from the silence next to you, Micheal had done the same thing, neither of you too eager to explain anything. It wouldn’t have been a big deal. In fact, if the subject hadn't been poked and prodded further, you’d have probably been fine with it, maybe even accepted the fact that you were going to have to spend however many hours with him for the sake of your friends.

Who knew? Maybe you’d have eventually gotten past this pre-established dislike for one another, but Taylor was never really one for ignoring gossip when it was sitting in front of her – a trait that you rather found entertaining until you were the victim.

“What, so it’s dislike at first sight, or something?” She asked, eyeing the two of you with more intrigue than you were comfortable with.

In fact, her eyes seemed to shimmer like a greedy shark when you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, briefly glancing at the man on your left.

He was rolling his eyes. And you didn’t care to even guess if it was at you or if it was at Taylor, but with the morning you’d had – because of him – you turned back to her with more conviction this time.

“Pretty much, yeah.” You shrugged.

Taylor scoffed in disbelief, sharing a look with Ellis, “Why?”

“Because she’s a shit driver.”

You gaped, head snapping to Michael with appal. He was frowning in a way that just exuded arrogance. He actually thought he was right – the nerve.

“I am not–”

“Oh, yes you are.”

“The traffic in front of me was at a complete standstill, what was I supposed to do–”

“They were moving–”

“Oh, please. You were just in a rush because someone clearly forgot to set an alarm this morning–”

“I was not in a rush–”

“Then what was the reason for honking at me?”

“You flipped me a birdie!”

“You honked for no reason – who even does that?”

“You flipped me a fucking birdie!”

“After you honked!”

“You were too slow, you weren’t even looking at the road.”

“Yeah, because God forbid I skip a song in a traffic jam.”

He scowled, but said nothing else, sharing a rather irritated glance with Ellis across from him.

You, however, were a little different: sure, your jaw was ticking, your pulse was higher than usual from his stress-inducing attitude, but the first thing you did was share a wide-eyed glance with Taylor, whose jaw had dropped. You rarely fought with people, let alone in public spaces. In fact, the last time you’d bickered like that was when you and Taylor were little and arguing over who got to marry which celebrity from the magazine in make-believe play – but that was exactly all it had been: make-believe.

This was real life, and when you argue like that in real life, people tend to stare. You could feel strangers’ eyes boring into the side of your face and your cheeks flamed against your will. Add that onto the fact that Ellis – who you’d never met before, and were intent on setting a good first impression – had just witnessed you argue with his best friend? You were nothing short of mortified.

“Right.” Ellis sighed, scratching the back of his head, and all three pairs of remaining eyes sitting at the table zipped to him for some form of guidance as to what to do next, “So, now that everyone’s introduced…another round?”

There were muted expressions of agreements, and even just looking at Taylor, you could tell that she was about to slip out and join Ellis at the bar, even after your pleading.

You watched her go sadly, your hands tucked under your thighs, trying desperately to ignore the other presence. You weren’t sure how you’d feel even looking at him – didn’t know if you could. Not only for the embarrassment, but for the sheer…eugh of having to look at him.

Blue eyes, brown hair – not too dark. Apart from that, your mind was drawing a blank.

He cleared his throat. You ignored it.

“What’re your first thoughts on Ellis for Taylor, then?” He mumbled, half-heartedly trying to engage in conversation, and it was because you knew he was only doing it to try and ease some of the tension for Ellis that you turned to face him.

The flare of irritation that presented itself felt like an allergic reaction to simply looking at him, but you swallowed, trying to paste on a nonchalant expression. You could do this. You just had to stare at the blank spot on the wood just a little bit off from his face.

Only, he seemed to take your lack of expression and interest as something else, because he tilted his head towards you fractionally, a rather condescending look on his face.

“Your instincts?”

Instincts? You had instincts – not necessarily about Ellis and what it was Michael was asking about, but you had them. And maybe it was the patronising glare, maybe it was the day’s frustration, maybe you were just tired and needed someone to take it out on, but you ignored his context for the question.

“My instincts?” You repeated, and he nodded, eyes squinting slightly, “That you’re full of shit.”

***

Usually you’d have no issue avoiding Michael when both of your presences were dubbed mandatory to these kinds of things: there was space, there were people – no reason to talk or even look in each other’s directions.

Only, this time, Ellis’s birthday party, somehow the invitation had been extended to you and the get-together was small. Intimate. Maybe seven people in total, not including Ellis himself. And because Ellis was Ellis, a party meant drunk games – and if not drunk, certainly alcohol-induced.

And to your bitter astonishment, the only two people left without split-second partners for a rough game of charades was…you and Michael. In theory, it shouldn’t have been much of a shock: it was inevitable for Ellis and Taylor to pair up together, and you were Taylor’s plus one (even though Ellis had told you himself he wanted you there), and it had become increasingly obvious throughout the evening that Michael didn’t know anyone but Ellis and Taylor; everyone else seemed to have gone to school together and jumped into pairs pretty quickly.

Needless to say, when you’d looked around the room and locked eyes with an equally disgruntled Michael, the two of you hadn’t broken eye contact as you’d downed whatever was remaining in your glasses and immediately reached for a refill.

Yet, for all your displeasure in the pairing, there was an odd satisfaction in knowing that you’d both absolutely thrashed the living daylights out of everyone else. It scratched a competitive itch inside of you, and against your will, you felt yourself softening up to him. His grin had become less irritatingly smug when he was directing it at you after a speedy guess, and his failure to hide his equally competitive edge through the half-smirks directed at his lap when other couples failed were more endearing than grating.

(You just blamed the alcohol.)

Although, probably just as shocking as that turn of events, Taylor and Ellis were awful at charades. They’d gotten one word right in the allotted time, and although they’d tried to hide it, no one was completely ignorant to their harsh whisperings to each other and pointed gestures. Or the confused glances they seemed to direct straight towards you and Michael, who, unlike everyone else, were sitting side by side on the carpet, a sizable distance between each other and managing to neither look or speak apart from when it was your turn.

It was remarkable, really, that two strangers could guess each other’s frantic motions easier than people who knew each other in arguably the most intimate ways. It felt like a test of compatibility, and Ellis and Taylor knew they were failing – hence, in your head, said compatibility test was clearly false. Michael was living, breathing proof of that.

“And Team We Don’t Care Just Pick Whatever wins.” Taylor announced, glancing direly at the small scrap of paper that she’d been documenting the scores on, “Ten points clear from the runners-up.”

You raised your brows, sighing despondently at your glass because you weren’t quite sure you could look Taylor in the eye without feeling some form of inexplicable guilt. You, however, wanted to savour this moment of triumph.

And what better way to celebrate than to pour yourself another glass?

The kitchen was quiet, dirty dishes stacked near and in the sink, along with a plethora of glasses and bottles from where people had decided to mix their drinks. It was quieter and cooler, too: a place to rest and breathe for a second. Only, as soon as the first sip touched your mouth, you had to stifle a yawn, your eyes suddenly dry and heavy.

Half past twelve.

“You leavin’?”

You turned your head to see Michael standing in the doorway, clearly having just come back from the bathroom and with a rather blank look on his face. At your attention, however, he seemed to force his mouth into a slither of a smile, looking mightily uncomfortable under your gaze.

His eyes quickly dropped, momentarily drifting to your glass, a little hesitantly.

“Might do. You?”

You almost wanted to wince at the awkwardness emanating in the atmosphere. It must be the first time you’d ever willingly engaged in a conversation with each other – let alone by yourselves. The silence in the room seemed to intensify that realisation that there was no Taylor or Ellis to act as a buffer, but Michael looked remarkably calm and unbothered by that knowledge. In fact, at your question he raised his brows as though shocked you’d reciprocated the conversation and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

“Yeah, I’m pretty tired.”

There was nothing particularly to say to that, so you just nodded, standing by the counter. He looked as if he wanted to say something: his hands were tapping against his jean-clad thighs and he kept glancing at you and then away, something playing on his features.

“You okay?” You found yourself asking, much to his surprise.

“Yeah, I just…” He stepped closer, throwing a careful glance back towards the open door, “Has Taylor talked to you about me?”

You blinked, tilting your head.

She had, many times on many different occasions and with a variety of different tones. Just off the top of your head you could list that time you’d gone over to hers for a movie night and she’d softly suggested that you try to get along with him; that one time she’d caught you pulling a rather put-off facial expression after he’d said something questionable; that one time she must have been a second away from grabbing you by the shoulders; eventually she’d given up, but that was after the basketball incident when you’d thrown the ball a little too harshly at him and winded him in the park.

The ignoring each other thing worked – so why did you find yourself beginning to tolerate his presence? After all this time, surely, nothing would change so suddenly?

“Yeah.” You admitted, rather guiltily. In your defence, you’d tried to get along with him, but there was something about your personalities that clashed in the wrongest of ways. Both Taylor and Ellis had openly observed the two of you were pretty similar (you were a little offended by that statement) and would probably get along if you both put your pride aside, “Has Ellis…” You trailed off, watching him carefully.

He nodded, “Oh, yeah. He’s made a few bold statements about it, I’ll say that.” He huffed a bitter laugh, “But I was thinking–”

You pulled a face and he looked about ready to stop talking altogether, until he sighed, “Maybe we should just call a truce, or something? A fresh start, if not for us, for them. They seem pretty stable and if they’re for the long-term, then I think it’d be easier if we just agreed to get along, or at least pretend.”

Maybe it was the alcohol in your system, or maybe it was because tonight you’d found him a lot more tolerable than you usually would, but you nodded. And to that, he just blinked.

“Really?” He asked, almost recoiling in reaction.

“Yeah.” You shrugged, “Under one condition though.”

His face dropped – the almost triumphant smile that he’d nearly allowed himself to display had vanished completely in replacement for something harsher, more annoyed. His jaw had clenched and the hand he’d placed on the counter seemed to tap with more aggravation as he rolled his eyes in resignation, “And what would that be?” He asked, sounding rather like he already had an idea as to what it was.

“Just admit I’m not a bad driver.” You reasoned.

“Oh, I thought you were gonna…Nevermind.” He shook his head, holding his hand out for you to shake, “You’re not a bad driver.”

“Thanks.” Then, “Are you Michael or do you have any nicknames instead?”

There was a brief pause, and he looked at you like you were an alien, “Why?”

“I don’t know, Michael – you don’t look like a ‘Michael’, that’s all.”

“And what does a ‘Michael’ look like?”

“Probably twenty-thirty years older, balding–”

“Wow.”

“Is that a no?”

He seemed to think about it for a moment, “Purely because you don’t like it, no, I don’t have any nicknames. I’d rather you called me Michael.”

“Nice one. But when we’re in a public space and I yell your name, there’s gonna be at least three older, balding guys turning to look at me–”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Well, one of us has to be.”

Neither of you seemed to remember you were still holding hands.

***

One thing you never thought you’d be doing in your near future, was packing all of your makeup and three outfit choices and driving to Ellis’s place to have a conversation with Taylor. To be honest, there was a small part of you that was a little bit aggravated that to talk to your best friend you had to drive twenty minutes and risk missing packing something for the date you needed help with, especially seeing as though said date was in forty-five minutes.

Although, you did have time to reason with yourself in the car, the usual stuff: she could have just said no to helping you when you called her in a frustrated panic; the last-minute pep talk was probably going to make up for any residual irritation; on the bright side, though, at least Ellis’s apartment was closer to the date location than your own.

You knew you’d feel better once you got there – only…

“You have got to be kidding me.” You breathed a solemn laugh, head lolling backwards and cheeks flaming at the sight before you.

Michael Bunting standing in the doorway with a wicked grin on his face, each pore practically oozing mirth at your current situation, eating an apple. And sure, you’d agreed to get along for the sake of your friends, but you had no idea that would mean him being privy to your moments – nor did it mean you were particularly pleased to see him at such a dire time.

“Hello, sweetheart. Heard you were stuck?” He tilted his head, pouting in your direction, and you didn’t miss the way his attention zipped curiously to the backpack over your shoulder and the garment bags slung over your arm.

“Do you really not have anything better to do on a Friday night other than third-wheel your best friend and his girlfriend?” You asked, smiling flatly and walking through the door when he opened it further.

He shook his head, crunching a bite, and you stood in the hallway, patience ticking away by the second as you waited for him to finish eating to speak. There were voices drifting down the corridor, and you turned your head to see shadows and flickers of light in the other room, Taylor clearly on her way – thank fuck.

“I have a game tomorrow, gotta have a tame night.” He muttered, reaching out a hand to touch the soft plastic covering of your garment bag, “And I’ll tell you one thing, I am so glad I get to witness this.”

You pulled a face, “Ha ha.”

“I can already tell you’re gonna make my fucking night, so I’m gonna just thank you in advance–”

“Hey, stop psyching her out.” Taylor appeared, a crease between her brows that clearly hadn’t materialised at his words alone, and for a split-second, you and Michael shared a worried glance, any previous teasing evaporating along with it.

He nodded easily, holding his hands up in surrender and disappearing into the living room, his footsteps slow and leisurely as though he was hoping to overhear a snippet more, but before you could even spit out a greeting of your own, Taylor had dragged you into Ellis’s bedroom and locked the door – the man himself nowhere to be seen.

“Is everything okay?”

Taylor spun on her heel, flashing you an urgent glance, apparently brushing off your question of concern, “I should be asking you that.”

“Oh, I’m fine–”

She shot you a look of disbelief.

“Just nervous, I guess. And I can’t decide what to wear, so I brought some stuff.”

In the other room, Michael was sitting on the sofa, apple half-eaten and trying to ignore the rather violent knee shaking Ellis was doing by tuning into the faint sound of voices from the bedroom that could still be heard over the TV. He knew he should probably be focused on his best friend – who was anything but subtle in trying to convey the fact that he was clearly irked by something – but he also knew that Ellis would talk when Ellis wanted to talk.

He was also kind of curious as to what had gotten you in such a pickle: he knew you were about to go on a date (first, he assumed), but why the sudden panic? You’d turned up armed with a Hannah Montana-type level of hair, costumes and makeup stuff and he’d just eyed it all a little bit confused.

He was very aware of the fact that you were pretty – he’d seen you with the barest amount of makeup on (he assumed, he actually had no idea if you did) and in a pair of sweats, and his opinion hadn’t changed, so why all the makeup? Surely, if someone was to like you in that sense you shouldn’t have to dress up and put loads of makeup on?

He wasn’t too sure, really. His extent of first dates was restricted to his high school experience and he’d only been on a few since.

“Why the panic?” He found himself asking aloud, turning to Ellis like he’d hold the answers in the universe.

Ellis, however, turned to face him, a scowl already on his face, and it didn’t take a genius to gather that he wasn’t going to get much out of him with the mood he was in.

“What?”

“The girls.”

Ellis shrugged, turning his attention back to the TV, “Why would I know?”

Michael pressed his lips together tightly, trying to ignore the answers popping up in his head. Why wouldn’t Ellis know? He’d been talking to Taylor when you texted so if anything it’d be weird for Ellis to not know what was going on.

In fact, the longer he spent in Ellis’s presence, the more uncomfortable Michael felt. He shifted in his seat, the tense and awkward atmosphere feeling oddly claustrophobic and he felt the sudden desire to get out of the room, even if it was to fake a visit to the kitchen or something.

He pushed himself off the sofa, the apple core in his hand sticky and by the time he’d stood in there and looked out of the window, washed his hands and decided he was going to leave anyway, there was a voice in the hallway.

“-look stunning, I promise.”

There seemed to be a muttered reply, but before he could make his way towards the door and announce his departure, there was a call of his name.

“Bunting–”

“No, don’t.”

He looked right down the hallway, Taylor leaning against the wall. Taylor wasn’t tall by any means, so he could easily see you behind her. You were clearly uncomfortable with something, unable to look at him or any living thing, your eyes instead fixated on the plants on the table next to the door.

He had to remind himself to breathe when you rolled your eyes at Taylor and walked around her, your head down and pointedly trying not to make eye contact with him as you walked to the door to put on your shoes.

You were wearing a long black dress, not too long that you could ever trip over the hem, but long enough to accentuate the sheer length of your legs, and now he was close enough he could make out the little clusters of purple flowers embroidered onto the material.

He couldn’t really get his mind to focus on anything other than ‘wow, that dress fits nicely’; it accentuates your curves perfectly and…he needed to breathe. He cleared his throat awkwardly, wondering when it had suddenly become so dry and ripped his eyes away to blink at Taylor.

He couldn’t read her face, but he didn’t like the look on it.

“Yeah?” He asked, unable to help glancing back at you.

You looked…wow.

“Does she look nice?”

“Taylor–”

“You look really nice.” He blurted, his hands stuck in his pockets. When both of you turned to stare at him, apparently speechless, he felt his cheeks redden and his eyes drifted to the doorframe, a little mortified because you clearly hadn’t wanted him to say anything, but also because he’d said it embarrassingly fast and added a ‘really’ in there. And said it like he had a gun pointed to his head, which was one hell of a contradiction.

“Thanks.” You said, not having moved much.

He just nodded, wanting nothing more than to melt into a puddle on the floor and soak through the floorboards and pretend this moment never occurred.

He wasn’t supposed to like you, he pretty much swore that from the start. But he had a niggling feeling you were wearing him down somehow. He didn’t know what it was, but lately he’d been finding himself sneaking a smile at some of the stuff you said and did. Like you were actually getting along.

And maybe it was because he wanted to test that unspoken theory out – to see if maybe you could be friends – but as he left he waited in the doorway for Taylor to finish talking. He had a sneaking suspicion, though, that Taylor was only talking for herself. The look on your face: he knew you were grateful for what she was saying, but there was something akin to impatience on your face if he looked hard enough.

And it was that, and the fact that the fake smile you’d plastered on your face was slowly slipping with every second that passed and every glance at the time on your phone, that he found himself stepping a little closer, whipping his keys around on his finger, “Hey, are you okay for a lift?”

Taylor shut up and looked to you for confirmation.

There was a pause and he almost regretted asking it–

“Are you offering?” Your voice was different to how it usually sounded when you were speaking to him; softer, perhaps a little more vulnerable.

And when he looked at you, he wasn’t quite sure what it was but it felt different. His stomach sort of dropped and he…lost his train of thought.

Still, he managed, “Yeah. I can drop y’off on my way home, it’s no problem.”

“You’re leaving already?” Taylor asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, I’m pretty tired.” He didn’t really want to say that he didn’t feel like he was welcome at this particular moment in time, not with Ellis clearly in a mood, but he did feel a stab of guilt when he thought about leaving Taylor to deal with it by herself, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” She brushed it off, taking a step back and glancing between you and him with an odd glint in her eye, “I’ll let you go. Have fun.”

There were a few hushed mutters as he stepped out of the apartment, waiting by the elevator for you to join him, and almost as soon as you shut the door behind you, you sighed.

He still didn’t say anything, and instead turned to watch the numbers tick up to the floor, before an audible ding sounded and the doors shuddered open. He let you go first. And if he thought the tension back with Ellis was bad, this was a whole other level, because he swore he could hear the cogs of your mind working on overdrive – about the date or about his uncharacteristic behaviour, he couldn’t possibly guess, but it was driving him crazy.

“You good?”

“Hmm?” You looked at him, shocked at his words, and he’d never seen you this frazzled before, “Oh, yeah. Just nervous, I guess.”

He swallowed, uncertain. He wanted to say something to make you feel better – heck, he had it lined up in his head to just blurt out, but the only thing stopping him was that it might make it weirder, and you’d already been bombarded by that kind of thing from Taylor. And then he thought of you on your date and–

“If you tell yourself that the nerves are actually just excitement, I find it usually eases some of the, y’know, nerves.” He stuttered, glad the doors opened once more.

“Thanks. Also, thanks for offering to drive me here, you really didn’t have to.” You murmured, and he found himself shaking his head.

“You don’t have to thank me, it really wasn’t any trouble.”

“Do you get nervous before your games?”

The question startled him to such an extent that he almost tripped over the rug in the entryway, but his sneakers squeaked against the floor and he felt his body jolt a little.

Was he actually losing it or was this considered a civil conversation? You weren’t at his throat with some quick witted jab, and you weren’t looking at him like you wanted to wring his neck.

It was weirdly refreshing.

“Sometimes.” He admitted, holding the door open to the car park, “It’s usually hit and miss though, it depends on who we’re playing. The car’s this way.” He pointed to the other side of the garage at your hesitation.

And it wasn’t until you’d buckled yourself in and he’d turned the engine on that either of you spoke again.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

He breathed a bitter laugh, “I’m usually nice to people, y’know, I’m not a–”

“Dick?”

“Yeah.” He shot you a look, “You test my patience, though. You bring out the worst of me.”

You seemed to ease up a little at his confession, managing a small smile, “Likewise.”

“I just…” he trailed off, pulling a face before momentarily losing his train of thought as he pulled out into traffic, “There’s a time and a place for that kind of thing. And I could tell Taylor was starting to grind your gears, so…”

You hummed, “Yeah. She’s great but sometimes she, like, I don’t think she knows me as well as she thinks she does. Sometimes I just need quiet.”

So, he thought, that’s what he’ll give you.

***

Unknown Number: SOS

Unknown Number: HELP

Unknown Number: PLEASE HURRY

You: Who is this?

Unknown Number: Michael Bunting

You could hear the yelling and the dumping of objects into a hollow box even through the door, and it was both the noise and the frantic messages that were still pinging through your phone that had you instantly pushing it open. If you hadn’t had some semblance of a warning from the messages, you’d have probably assumed the entire place had been ransacked by burglars: drawers had been turned upside down with the contents littered across floors in an attempt to find their individual belongings; there were cardboard boxes piled and stacked, stuff sticking up – and, more importantly you guessed, both co-habitants standing in the middle of the living room, yelling about something or other with a stricken Michael Bunting awkwardly holding a TV remote and waiting by the door like a kid.

It was clear from his face that he had no idea what to do. And despite the situation, you were able to find some amusement in that.

Although…

“What’s Taylor doing here?” You asked, the both of you still loitering in the doorway, watching your friends rip each other up like it was usual Saturday soap.

He shrugged, and you felt the heat of his stare burn the side of your cheek until you couldn’t take the silence. His cheeks were pink and he looked to be stuttering.

“What?”

He winced, “I kind of walked in this morning and she was in the kitchen.”

You blinked, your attention switching back to the arguing couple. Ellis had a cushion in his hand and they were both insisting it was theirs, only when you looked closer, you noticed Taylor’s bare feet and the Blue Jays t-shirt she was wearing, and you turned, shocked and disturbed, to Michael.

“When you said this morning…”

“Yeah?” He was refusing to look at you properly now, and that little seed of disbelief that had planted itself in your brain seemed to bloom, and a pebble of stress dropped in your stomach. His cheeks were still a bit pink, but it was hidden by a thicker wad of stubble than when you’d last seen each other.

“What time was that?” You continued, watching the delicate lines near his eyes appear when he pulled another face, almost confirming your thoughts with just a look.

“Nine.”

You nodded, “Right. And was she, y’know, dressed?”

His eyes closed briefly, a whisper of mortification barely heard over the yelling – but with the two of you standing shoulder to shoulder sharing a doorway it wasn’t missed, “Barely.”

You huffed a small laugh at his expense because he clearly hadn’t been prepared for his best friend’s now ex-girlfriend to be in the kitchen wearing next to nothing that early in the morning, and at the sound he sent you an offended glance.

“Sorry.” You apologised, turning to watch the spectacle with a barely-there smile that became increasingly difficult to hide the longer you felt him stare accusingly in your direction – if anything his undying attention only amplified the hilarity of his earlier memory and you had to lean your forehead against the wood of the doorframe and turn your back to him to block the image from your mind entirely.

“Listen, she’s pretty and everything, but…it’s weird for me.” He mumbled, folding his arms.

“Was it your first time seeing a half-naked woman?”

He rolled his eyes, “You’re hilarious – shut up, don’t even say it. You know why it’s weird. It’d be weird if you walked in and it was Ellis with, like, a bowl of cereal covering his crotch.”

You wrinkled your nose, frowning, “I didn’t need that image, but point taken.”

You turned your attention to the bickering couple in front of you, now waving a fly swatter. In truth, you weren’t really sure why you were here or why Michael was here. Taylor had asked you to come with her when she’d made her so-called ‘appointment’ to pick up her stuff from Ellis’s place, but looking at them now she didn’t really need the help, or moral support. And neither did Ellis.

In fact, they were standing in front of each other arguing, and it was probably the least stressed you’d seen Taylor in weeks. Sure, their voices were raised, but there wasn’t anything malicious being said or anything physical going on. They were simply picking up objects and having a loud debate over whose it was, and it was that arguing combined with the obvious ‘last time together’ thing that made you think maybe this was more for closure for each other than anything else.

Even from Taylor’s point of view, she wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but she’d said it felt like everything between them had just gradually fizzled out for no apparent reason. It was odd, really: they’d seemed like such a good fit at the start and now, even like last week, they’d be in the same room and have more interest in talking to either you or Michael than showing interest in each other.

And it was that that had you turning to the man next to you, something plucking at your heart strings. It felt an awful lot like the dread you’d felt earlier, except it was laced with something heavier. Like knowing you’d never see your childhood pet again.

“Are they still broken up?” You found yourself asking, wanting him to turn his attention away from the scenes in front of you both.

He blinked once more before turning his head to look at you, about to say something on the tip of his tongue but clearly changing his mind at what he saw on your face. He tilted his head, eyes zipping from each of yours – back and forth – before his mouth curved up slightly at the edges, his expression taking an odd turn.

“What?” You asked, paranoid at the way he was looking at you.

His grin broadened, and he tilted his head adorably, “Nothing. But, yeah, they’re still broken up.”

You nodded, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. There was something rising in your chest, a tightness edged with panic, like you were aware time was clearly running out for something but your head wasn’t quite sure what.

“We’re still gonna be friends, right?”

For a brief moment, you didn’t know what to do. Your pulse seemed to kick against your sternum and that tightness in your chest eased, an inexplicable reaction that you couldn’t quite get ahold of its meaning.

“Us?” You looked at him, and where he previously had a smile on his face, it was now replaced with a kind of cautious curiosity: his mouth was pulled tightly and there was a slight, very slight crease between his brows that deepened when you spoke again.

His eyes briefly skitted to your right before returning to meet yours, “Yeah?” He said, but with the way his voice ticked up at the end it almost sounded like he wasn’t too sure himself.

And you were so shocked at the words falling out of his mouth that you could only blink and stare, “I’m your friend?”

You supposed it wasn’t too shocking: after the initial agreement it had taken a while to warm up to each other, but you’d eventually gotten to the point where you’d managed to unintentionally create some inside jokes, and, sure, you’d still bicker like children from time to time, but the teasing was less malicious and more fond, like you’d known each other for a while.

And it was in that moment that you realised that tightness in your chest was because you just assumed that, like Taylor would lose Ellis, you would lose Michael.

His eyes narrowed uncomfortably, and you could tell he'd gone a little defensive at your questions, probably assuming his own assumptions weren’t exactly reciprocated, “Yes.” He said, a little forcefully, “Aren’t I your friend?”

You nodded, awkwardly scratching your cheek, “I just assumed you only spent time with me because of Ellis and Taylor–”

“Nah.”

You nodded slowly, a small smile creeping onto your face, “Oh.”

He paused for a beat, watching you carefully, “Is that a no, then?”

“No, it’s a yes.”

“Good.” He grinned.

***

He was next to you one second and the next he’d just disappeared completely. It was the strangest thing.

It wasn’t like he was particularly easy to lose in a crowd, either, not with those shoulders and – well, actually, he was quite small so in hindsight, it was pretty easy to lose him in a crowd, especially when he was just another suit-clad man with a fairly recent haircut and shave.

You sighed in defeat, sitting back in your chair at the table surrounded by strangers that weren’t all that interested in your presence. You’d checked your phone at least five times within the past three minutes, expecting a quick text for an explanation and you hadn’t really been able to stop looking at the bar, helplessly expecting his face to materialise in thin air.

It was pretty shitty what he’d done: he’d all but begged you to come with him to one of his friend’s weddings and after you’d had to rearrange plans just so you could agree (he’d been so desperate he’d actually offered you a thousand dollars to go with him), yet the second you both enter the reception location, he dips?

“Excuse me, hi–”

You snapped your neck towards the unfamiliar voice, heart pounding like a jackhammer in your chest at the unexpected intrusion, and managed a polite, albeit confused, smile as you found yourself faced with a pretty raven-haired woman. You’d never seen her before, but with the way she was looking at you, you were almost forced to second guess yourself.

“Oh, hi.” You replied, brain spinning and throwing out names, but your face clearly contorting into one of utter bewilderment, much to her amusement.

She chuckled, “Sorry, you don’t know me.” She said, slightly oddly, and you tilted your head, connecting the dots from what she hadn’t said.

“But you know me?” You asked, and she shrugged, her cheeks colouring slightly.

“Not exactly, but I saw you come in with Michael–”

“Oh.”

She cringed, “Yeah. I am really sorry for approaching you like this, but I was just wondering if he was okay?”

You just blinked.

“You know,” she continued, clearly sensing your confusion, “because of our breakup?”

Oh fuck.

You tried to hide the shock from your face – as though this wasn’t new news to you – but try as you might, you felt your brows rise a little and your heart rate quicken. He’d never mentioned anything like that to you. In fact, you guys rarely ever talked about relationships, even despite you currently being in one (though it probably wasn’t going to last with the way it had been going recently), so you just assumed he hadn’t been in one.

Nevertheless, you nodded, “He’s fine.”

She eased after that, smiling in relief, but still hung around as though you were supposed to say something else, but in all honesty you weren’t sure what to say. You didn’t know if he was okay, not if he’d seen her and bolted; you didn’t know when it was that they’d broken up, and you didn’t know how much he’d want you to say.

So you sat in the chair, smiling awkwardly – probably appearing pretty rude – and just sighed.

“I’m sorry, I can’t say–”

“It’s fine, I understand.” She replied, smiling tightly, “Enjoy the night.”

You watched her walk away, and as soon as she disappeared through another set of doors, you picked up your phone and started to wind your way through the crowds to at least guess where he could have gone. There were little booths and food carts off around the edge of the room, along with some photo booths and drinks stands – it wasn’t until you reached the photo booth right near the entrance that you stopped for the first time.

There wasn’t a queue to this one, but there was a strip of photos in the hatch and a pair of freshly shined shoes under the curtain. You paused, taking a peak at the photos.

It was him, alright. Four photos: one of him in a ginger wig, one with a pair of huge glasses on, one with a moustache on a stick and the final one with all of them combined. If it had been any other time you supposed you’d have laughed, but all the photos did was fuel your desire to get the curtain open.

All he did was raise his brows at your appearance and shuffle over on the bench, tucking himself in against the wall with a defeated, unsurprised smile. You passed him the photo strip and he breathed a short, mirthless laugh before tucking it in his pocket and turning to you, an almost embarrassed look on his face.

“Sorry for ditching you.” He mumbled, looking genuinely guilty.

You shook your head, a pang of adoration shooting through your system for the man in front of you. You didn’t quite know where it suddenly came from or why it occurred, but you did know that it meant he was precious to you in a way you hadn’t even realised. You guys weren’t exactly close – there were obviously things you didn’t talk about (as evidenced), but you cared about him. Wanted him to be happy.

Wanted to wipe that forlorn expression off his face because he was clearly beating himself up about leaving you but still a little caught off guard by…

“You don’t have to apologise.” You smiled reassuringly, before asking, “What’s her name?”

His brows raised, and he tutted as he pulled an uncomfortable face. Whether it was because he hadn’t expected the question or because he was stealing himself, you weren’t at liberty to say, “Jess.” He managed, eyes zeroing in on some lint on the floor by his feet.

You just nodded. If he wanted to talk about it, you knew he would – he wasn’t exactly an open book when you prodded him, but you were all ears regardless.

“We were in a serious relationship for three and a half years before we broke up. That was a week before I met you. I wasn’t really coping well so Ellis dragged me out to that bar. I’m okay now, though. I still get a bit sad about it but I think I’m more sad for the me I was when we were dating than the me now, if that makes sense.” He spoke to his shoes, his arms crossed against his chest, as though to spit the words out and force himself to talk about it, that also meant he couldn’t face you, “I had a feeling she was gonna be here tonight, it was actually why I invited you, but the second I saw her, I don’t know, I just walked away. And the weird thing is that I don’t know why I walked away, because when I saw her I felt nothing. Maybe I walked away because I feel like I should have felt something, like walking away from her was something that was expected of me.” He sighed, swinging his head towards you, his eyes momentarily dropping to the necklace that sat comfortably against your sternum before darting back up to your face, “I’m just a bit confused.” He admitted.

You reciprocated his wry, self-deprecating smile, patting him on the arm fondly, “Me too; I actually thought you wanted to spend time with me–”

“Shut the fuck up.” He breathed a laugh, shaking his head.

That despondent expression had gone, the tension practically drained from the lines of his face, and you rejoiced at the smile now there – a real one, not one put on for the sake of it.

You took a breath, and whether he could sense that you were about to say something potentially cheesy, or something that neither of you would really say or do, his smile dropped, but only slightly. His eyes were focused on you, and you almost wanted to shrink back under his gaze – you two were sitting pretty tightly together: this photo booth bench was only made for one person, so there was little to no room to even look at each other properly. You’d both had to lean backwards against the walls to not end up touching noses, and for some reason, that hadn’t even occurred to you until that very second.

The breath in your chest shook a little, “I know…Um…” You laughed uneasily, “I know you said you were okay, and I know we don’t usually do this kind of thing, but if you ever feel like it…just for the support – that my hand is here for you to hold if ever you want to.” You inhaled, and this time it was you who was unable to look at him, “And that it’s okay to feel confused about it all. You don’t have to have an explanation for everything, but there’s nothing you can feel that’s wrong in any way. And if you ever want to talk about it…I’m always gonna be here for you.”

When you finally found the courage to turn to him again, he was looking at you in a way that was almost equivalent to the secret adoration you harboured for him, and you fought to keep your cheeks from flushing and your face from smiling like a damn fool. With the way the LED overhead lights were shining on you both – the heat of them warming the box pretty quickly, made worse by the two bodies also in there – your eyes drifted to his nose. You’d never really noticed it before, but the light seemed to hit it just right to enunciate the straight bridge of it. There was a scar just above his lip, darker and also more pronounced from the fresh shave (he’d not got rid of it all, there was still a light bit of scruff left), and although he wasn’t smiling properly, the creases by his eyes seemed to suggest otherwise.

He swallowed once he noticed you’d turned your attention back to him, and he nodded, lips twitching, “That really means a lot, hearing you say that.” He said, rather hoarsely, “It also goes both ways, too.”

You tilted your head in question.

“The hand thing – you can hold mine…for support.”

“Ah.”

“I actually do have something to say, now that I’m thinking about it.”

When did his eyes get so fucking bright? It almost angered you that you’d never noticed it before.

“What?” You asked, mildly curious as to his next words.

Though, nothing – absolutely nothing – could have prepared you for the bombshell of his next words.

“You look really beautiful tonight.”

***

“I know I said to avoid Tim Horton’s today, but I didn’t really mean to avoid–Oh, what the heck?”

His phone was immediately pocketed, and the smile on his face immediately dropped, and he stepped through the door without another word, leaving you both severely confused at his sudden actions and slightly light headed at the speed he’d managed to do all three things in. He simply stood in front of your now shut door, a mildly horrified look on his face and his hands tapping against his short-clad thigh.

“Why are you wearing shorts, it’s freezing outside?”

Your question of appal seemingly went unheard, because the crease between his brows only deepened and he pulled a funny face: his mouth turned down at the corners but he wasn’t angry or upset.

“Um…Okay, so you can tell me to shut the fuck up with what I’m about to ask you…” He trailed off, his eyes never leaving your face – all it did was elicit you to swipe against your cheek, expecting your hand to come away with pen or some dirt or something, because he was looking at you like you were an alien.

It was weird. And creepy.

“But have you been crying?”

You blinked, tilting your head with wide eyes.

He didn’t say anything but he copied your actions, before snapping into a more serious role, “No, but I’m being deadly serious.”

You hesitated, and he took that as your answer, his entire body deflating.

There was no point trying to hide it, clearly not if he’d just taken one solid look at you immediately after walking through the door and managed to figure it out. If anything you were a little impressed he’d recognised it because you’d never cried before or in front of seeing him ever – there hadn’t ever been a situation where he’d have seen your post-cry face to recognise it for what it was, and it wasn’t even as if you actually cried much. Maybe two minutes, tops.

“I broke up with Sam this morning.” You bit the bullet, willing your eyes to not tear up as you spoke the words into existence, but as you did so, the lump rose in your throat so impossibly quickly you physically couldn’t bring yourself to say anything else. Not if you didn’t want to actually start crying.

So you waited, and you watched and you looked as he stuttered, his eyes darting all over your face before going to your living room area. He circled his attention back to you after his forehead had creased and he’d seen what was on the TV, looking suddenly more comfortable than he had mere seconds ago.

“Are you okay?” Was the first thing out of his mouth, his backpack sliding off his shoulders easily to be deposited by the door, and all you could manage was a weak shrug, teeth scraping against your bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

You hated crying, and there was nothing worse than crying in front of someone else – you had no idea how he’d react if the dam did end up breaking, but if the soft, sympathetic gleam in his eye as he took an unsure step towards you was anything to go by, you had an inkling you were in safe hands.

He nodded at your uncertain gesture, “That’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

The crack in your chest seemed to split further, as though someone had thrown an axe straight through it, and all you could do was nod, your arms crossed tightly against your chest as though they’d somehow protect you from the inevitable hurt and grief of the next few minutes, hours, weeks and perhaps months.

But, despite all of that, the fact that he’d shown up out of nowhere sheerly because you hadn’t had the energy to pick up your phone, and because he clearly cared, you felt okay. Better than you had earlier when you hadn’t even spoken the truth to anyone.

He was right, you didn’t want to talk about it – but he was here. And he was pulling a Tim Horton’s box out of his backpack, giving you space and time and he was so heart-achingly patient that it almost sent you into another spiral of tears for a whole different reason. There was something about him that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. His friendship was different from yours with Taylor; you loved the girl to pieces but if you’d have told her like you’d just told him, she’d have corralled you into spilling your guts about everything, and you didn’t need that.

You needed peace and quiet and the familiar security and the unspoken knowledge that, yes, you were upset, but you were going to be okay.

“Thanks.” You mumbled, stomach growling when the smells emanated from the open paper bag.

He nodded wordlessly, but looked up with mild horror at the sounds your stomach made, “Hungry?” He joked lightly, already rooting through your cupboards to gather plates.

“Just a bit.” You replied hoarsely, helping him upturn the various boxes onto the plates, before, wordlessly, you both crashed on the couch, your eyes burning each and every single time you blinked. Your throat was aching with the effort to not succumb to the growing lump that had planted itself there, and you were so exhausted. So, so exhausted.

“Thanks for the food.” You said, between mouthfuls, the hungry cramps of your stomach easing with each and every bite. You didn’t let him answer before you jumped into your next question: “How was work?”

You watched him out of the corner of his eye, swallow, also looking at you for a brief moment – as though to suss you out and to gather his thoughts – before he shrugged, a small smile on his face, “It was so bad.”

“Really?” You managed a laugh, the muscles in your face feeling tight at the sudden movements. His face was a picture: he was grinning brightly, the corners of his eyes crinkled and his brows had jumped up his forehead, mind clearly playing something on repeat.

“Really. Willy did the bare minimum and just giggled at me the entire time which made me worse at it, and I – fuck, I couldn’t concentrate on the people in front of me when there were people ordering down the line, and then Mo and Auston showed up too–”

“You’re kidding.”

He shook his head morbidly, “Dead serious. Wearing wigs and the most ridiculous clothes I’ve ever seen, and they ripped us apart, man. I can’t even do it justice, you’ll just have to watch it when it comes out, oh God…” He trailed off, breaking into a small fit of giggles that was so infectious you had to put your own food back down and concentrate on now choking on your drink.

“It was bad, but you had fun?” You summarised, grinning as he nodded, practically glowing at the memory of it.

“I think it’s one of the best days I’ve ever had.”

You just laughed, tucking into your food once more as it became clear he didn’t have anything else to say about it–

“Why’re you watching this?”

Your eyes jumped to him across the couch, briefly frowning in confusion before remembering exactly what you’d been watching before the knock on your door. The frame had been paused mid-first period of the game – there wasn’t anything particularly spectacular about it, and you wondered if he recognised it at all.

He tilted his head, a hint of confusion lacing his tone, and you swallowed, nerves picking up and your heart thrumming in your chest. You never really talked about hockey with him, at least not from your perspective. You guys talked about the Leafs and his games and his practices and his teammates, but you’d never really broached your affinity for the sport. And the longer you’d left it, the more awkward you’d felt it would be to just admit it outright.

“It’s my favourite game.” You admitted quietly, fighting the urge to smile fondly.

He hesitated, his head swinging from you to the screen and back again, and he asked, a little breathlessly – as though he was trying to wrap his head around everything bouncing around his mind – “You watch hockey enough to have a favourite game?”

You nodded, “I love hockey.”

“You do?” He asked, voice higher in pitch than it had been. The surprise was painfully evident, and with it, so was the guilt that seemed to make itself known.

“Yeah.”

He nodded slowly, “I thought you didn’t know who I was?”

“I didn’t. I’d just moved to Toronto, like, a week before you started I think, and the Leafs aren’t exactly my team, y’know?” You explained, watching him carefully for any traces of possible betrayal he might feel, “It was a hectic time to be keeping up with any NHL news.”

He blinked, before shrugging, “Makes sense. Your team’s the Preds?” He raised an inquisitive brow, and for some reason you knew then that you’d both be locked in this amusing back and forth for a while. Of course you would: there’s no greater hockey fan than a hockey player, let alone a hockey player playing for their childhood team.

You scoffed, barking a short, almost offended laugh, “No. I mean, I have nothing against the Preds, but it’s the Pens for me, all the way.”

He arched a brow at your reaction, a smirk beginning to play at the corner of his mouth, “I mean you no offence when I say that.” Before, “I want you to win, though–”

“Just me?”

“Micheal Bunting against the NHL, yeah.” You rolled your eyes, “The Leafs are…I want you to win unless it’s against the Pens. It’s a conflict of interest.”

“What do you do when we play with each other?”

You widen your eyes comically, “Lock myself in a dark room and don’t come out until the game’s over.” You shrug, answering honestly, “It depends whose situation is the most dire, I guess. I always want the Pens to do well, but you’ve thrown a spanner in the works. You’ve made hockey complicated.”

“I’m honoured.” He laughed softly, “Why’s this one your favourite?”

“Sixth game of the Stanley Cup Final, 2017. I don’t know why that one specifically, it’s just the last one we won when I was back home, so it reminds me of…well, home, I guess.”

“You miss it?”

You nodded, almost wistfully, “Yeah. I sometimes think about moving back.”

“But?” He encouraged, almost afraid of what you were about to say.

“I don’t know. I have friends here, a job, somewhere to live; I guess I have that back home too, or I would given the time. I think I’m just waiting for the right moment to go back.” You trailed off, your voice becoming nothing more than a mere whisper, but he caught it – with a slow nod and the parting of his mouth.

You’d seen him speechless before, but he always managed to find something to say. The silence that ensued after spoke volumes, mostly just because you didn’t understand any of it.

He reached over after that, taking the remote, before hesitating and turning to you, shocked when he found your eyes already on him, “What counts as the right moment?”

He pressed play when you shrugged.

***

Even after the conversation you’d both had last year about you leaving, you never would have imagined he’d be the one leaving first. It had always been a possibility, maybe even something you’d thought about since becoming friends, but there hadn’t really been anything to suggest he would leave. At least, not until the last season.

And it hadn’t ever felt realer than this moment: standing in the doorway to an empty house, your clothes sticking to you in the early Summer heat with your hands on your hips and feeling much more emotional about the prospect of a Bunting-less Toronto than you’d initially prepared yourself for.

He was wandering through the empty rooms, double and triple checking everything after you’d done the same, and for those lonely three minutes without him, you got a glimpse of what it’d be like not seeing each other every few days. You couldn’t exactly remember when Toronto had suddenly become him, but the idea of it felt strangely intimidating. It almost felt like you’d just moved in again, not knowing anyone or where anything was.

It was scary.

He came back into view, hand resting on a door frame as he stopped suddenly in the exact spot he’d looked up to you in. You offered a reassuring smile, standing up straight, but you could both tell it was strained.

“Checked everything?” You asked, voice tight, but you didn’t want to ruin this moment for him. He’d been looking forward to settling in Raleigh since he’d signed the contract – at least, once he’d gotten over the initial disappointment and sadness of leaving Ontario.

And you were excited for him, for this new opportunity and this new experience.

You’d just never really anticipated how you’d feel.

“Yeah.” He nodded, swallowing, looking grave and strange.

“You good?”

“Yeah.” He breathed a laugh, walking towards you and scratching his beard – he’d started leaving it longer between each shave now – “Just gonna miss this place, I guess.” He swung his hands in front of him, coming to a direct stop in front of you and swivelling on his heel, taking one last, long look at the place he’d called home for years.

You hummed in agreement, “Me too.”

You hadn’t even realised how true that admission was until you’d said it out loud. It sent an uncomfortable zing down your spine, like pulling down a zipper, and you shivered, rubbing your arms just to give yourself something to do.

He turned to look at you, eyes assessing your every motion, and you froze. You didn’t really know where to go from here. The car was packed, the house was empty: you’d drop by the estate agent’s on the way to drop him at the airport, and from then on he’d be in Raleigh – at least, in every way that mattered to you. Sure, he had his training camps and he had his away games, but you’d very rarely get to see each other.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, unable to say anything.

But where did you go from here? You?

Well…you’d been toying with the idea for a while, but–

“You ready?” He breathed out, lips pressed together with his hands on his hips.

You nodded, managing a smile, but the lack of effort into pretending like you weren’t in the least bit affected by it was noticeable.

“Let’s go then.” You whispered, leading the way to the front door, slowing down each time he turned to get another look – never too far ahead, not wanting to let him out of your sight. These moments felt crucial, somehow. It was the last time you’d actually be able to look at him properly; his eyes, hair, smile, arms, legs, clothes. You felt silly soaking it all up.

He followed closely on your heels, taking the keys from you on the porch and turning round to lock the door behind him for the last time. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth twisted and he ran a brief hand across his brow bone, almost as though he was wiping away some sweat or satisfying an itch.

You tried not to make it obvious you were keeping an eye on him, ensuring to stand behind him, a few steps down to give him the space to collect himself if he needed to. And when he turned back around, he tried to keep his head down but you still caught his red-rimmed eyes and his sucked in cheek and his shaky smile as he caught up with you.

It was silent in the car, too, no music playing through the speakers. He was looking out of the window, eyes catching onto everything that swam passed, drinking it all in.

Each time ‘for the last time’ flew through your mind, you’d have to catch yourself and reign in the prickly eyes and the tightness in your chest as best as you could without drawing too much attention to yourself. It felt pointless, though, because you knew it was inevitable that you’d both end up shedding a few tears at some point.

The only thing that seemed to do it was the knowledge that it wouldn’t even be the last time, because he grew up near here. He’d come back when he could; you’d see each other at the Marner wedding next month, too.

It wasn’t the end of the world, but it felt like a part of it was dying.

“Here.” You mumbled, voice hoarse and wiping at the underneath of your eyes (no tears had fallen, but you could feel them welling up).

He looked up and out of the window, eyes zeroing in on the window of the estate agents. His seatbelt came next, and before you could convince yourself otherwise, you followed him in, ignoring his curious eye but taking the hand he offered anyway. It was something you’d both taken to doing lately, even in mundane moments like this.

Whether it was the knowledge that time was running out or if it was just a comfort thing, you never spoke about it. It just happened. And it seemed today was one of those days you both needed it.

Only, as he made his way towards the desk, you branched away towards the other side of the shop, hands ripping apart. He only threw a confused look behind, but carried on when his own agent walked out from the back of the shop.

You, however, found yourself standing in front of the magazine rack, hands clenching and unclenching at your sides, eyes roving over the words on each, searching for the correct one. Nothing seemed to ease the hollowness under your sternum, though.

There was some comfort when you found the right one, though, picking it up and feeling the comfortable weight in your hands. It felt like a breath of fresh air, and the twinges eased only slightly at the familiar cityscape on the front.

You swallowed, rolling it up in your fist and making your way back over to where he was chatting to his estate agent, a pen in his hand and some papers in front of him. The key had been stripped of its keychains, and for some reason that little difference brought everything back again.

You wanted to reach for his hand, but you held back for a moment. The estate agent caught your eye and you managed a polite smile, but it dropped the second they looked away.

And before you could blink, Michael was pushing himself off the counter, snatching his keychains and pushing everything else back towards the agent with a final thanks, and then he turned.

He blinked, eyes dropping to the programme in your hand, and you tried to hide it by moving it behind his leg, but he wasn’t having any of it. There was a crease between his brows, and he didn’t look to be on the verge of tears anymore, but there was a specific ticking to his jaw – his entire being was still tinged with a veil of melancholy, but he gently took it from your hand once you’d stepped outside. You let him, your fist unfurling.

Your face seemed to act of its own accord, an odd wince appearing as his lips parted.

“You’re really gonna do it?” He murmured gently, an odd glint in his eye.

“Think it’s time.” You breathed an uncomfortable laugh, somehow not able to look at him or anything else.

He was so magnetic it was honestly a chore trying not to give him all of your attention, least of all when he was looking at you differently. It wasn’t something he’d done a lot before, but you’d noticed it a lot more recently: his eyes would fix themselves on you with an unfamiliar intensity, and even when you’d catch him red handed, he wouldn’t ever let up. If anything, the attention from you seemed to make it worse (or better?) because he’d start to smile and he’d expel a stuttering breath, like he hadn’t previously been breathing.

Each time, though, you never failed to blush slightly. Your cheeks would feel warm and you’d only be able to stand his look for so long before ultimately looking away, trying not to appear too flustered by it.

“Yeah?” He asked, handing you the programme back, “You can’t stand to be in a different country than me, eh?” He joked, but you could sense the underlying seriousness to his question, as though he was fishing for a specific answer.

“You wish.” You managed, scoffing slightly but unable to hide a small smile at the familiar dynamic.

It vanished the second the first wave of homesickness took hold of you though, and he noticed. Just grabbed your hand again.

The drive from the estate agent’s to the airport was even worse. Every time the sign appeared on the side of the road, you’d have to inhale and remind yourself to keep breathing in order to stave off the oncoming bout of tears. The entire time you were fighting against the wetness gathering in your eyes, and your nose had started to run – each sniff meant he’d look at you out of the corner of his eye and if anything, that made it worse, because as time went on and as you pulled into the parking lot, you could hear his sniffles too.

You put off turning the engine off. The second you did, he’d climb out, and you weren’t sure if you were ready for that just yet. Judging from the utter stillness he was exhibiting in the passenger seat, he was the same.

Your hands were still clenched around the steering wheel, the rough plastic doing nothing to cure your cold hands, not even when the sun was shining through the windshield and warming the entire vehicle. Your body was on high alert, blood not really flowing to your extremities.

You’d never been so numb yet so aware of everything in your entire life: the way the hairs on your arms stood up when he turned in his seat to face you was almost drowned out by the pounding of your heart in the sheer effort it took to not show the tears wobbling on your waterline.

It was a plane taking off and the sheer volume of the engine that snapped you out of the haze, your hands unclipping your seatbelt, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to even touch the door, flinching when the belt smacked against the inside of the car.

“I feel weird.” He muttered, eyes staring straight through the windshield and into the car parked nose to nose. He sniffed once, before unclipping his own seatbelt, and you watched him in silence as his shaking hands hovered above his lap before eventually settling on top of his cap, a shuddering breath passing his lips.

The sight was such a contrast to how he’d been earlier that morning – he’d gone from bouncing on his toes with giddy excitement to suddenly folding in on himself and the entire world crumbling at its edges.

You pushed open your car door, fully intending to make your way around to his own door and start from there but the second your feet hit the tarmac, he’d also pushed himself out of the car, his door slamming behind him. He’d made it to the trunk before you could even shut yours behind you or ask if he was okay, but it looked as though he’d made the decision to pretend he hadn’t just admitted his inner turmoil.

You helped him lift his luggage out of the car (there wasn’t much: most of his actual things had been packed in a moving van the day before to meet him in Raleigh tomorrow) in silence. The trunk shut.

You swallowed nervously, eyes darting to the entrance of the airport before jumping back to him. He had one fist clenched on the top of a suitcase, his other dropped by his side, gaze focused and unwavering into the glass window of the trunk, blinking every so often.

You cleared your throat and the corners of his mouth twitched before he turned to look at you, feet shuffling against the gravel.

And he looked so despondent and not really like him at all that you didn’t have any choice whatsoever but to grab his free hand, which, similar to yours, was cold to the touch. You were both watching your fingers intertwine slowly, sliding over each other before finding solace in their places between each other’s knuckles. Three squeezes on your behalf and a small step forward had him pulling his suitcase along, an apprehensive and equally unreadable expression on his face.

“I could have stayed here longer.” He said, the both of you crossing over, a distracted gleam in his eye as he looked up at the entrance, nose scrunching on one side.

“If you stayed longer you’d want to leave less when you have to.” You reasoned, “And it’s better to move into your new place and get everything unpacked and ready for the season before it starts, to really get used to Raleigh, yeah?”

He nodded, swallowing, “Yeah.”

“Still feel weird?”

He nodded again, looking to the floor as you walked through the entrance.

You frowned, a stab of something really getting you right in the ribs as he only looked up when the airport atmosphere bled into his bubble. It was busy, but it wasn’t the busiest you’d ever seen it: people were milling about, double checking for passports and boarding passes, everything ready at hand, and at the strangers’ checks, Michael’s own hand pulled away from the suitcase, forcing you to stop walking towards the first checkpoint, and patted against the pocket on the outside of his backpack.

He pulled it all out without looking, peering into the plastic wallet you’d given him to keep everything important organised so he wouldn’t have to check it all at this moment, right in the doorway. You reached over, letting him fret, and wheeled his suitcase over by the inside window, dragging him with you.

“What are you doing?” He asked, brows knitted as he continued looking into the wallet, not sparing you much of a glance as you patted imploringly at the straps of his backpack.

“Take it off.” “Only if you ask me out first.”

“Sorry, I just want no strings attached.”

His eyes slid over to yours, his cheek sucked into his mouth to stop himself from grinning, and he gave you his wallet, shrugging his backpack off easily and dropping it on the floor next to where you’d parked his suitcase.

“Now what?” He asked, eyes darting back to your hand like he wanted to grab it again, but decided against it.

“I don’t know.” You breathed, “How long do you have left?”

“Two hours-ish until boarding.”

“Oh.” He had to leave now, you supposed, eyeing his luggage like they were the ones taking him away, and that ache in your throat reappeared before you could even blink, and you were rendered speechless.

You watched him nod, and reach for his bags, but he must have changed his mind because the next thing you knew, your back was pressed up against the window, his arms wrapped around your shoulders and your head resting against his collarbone.

There was a moment when all you could focus on was the sudden envelope of warmth that circled you, the cacophony of smells: deodorant, fabric softener, a slight twinge of sweat and something else entirely – something very familiar – and before you could even sigh at the ache in your chest, you’d melted into him completely, your own arms hooking around the backs of his. You tucked your forehead down into his chest, pressing at the supple muscle, hands tightening in his shirt.

It wasn’t very comfortable: the ridges of metal edging the glass panes were digging into your back, and–oh.

There was a shuddering against your forehead, and you froze, before tilting your head up to see his eyes screwed shut in an effort to not let anything show.

“We’ve still got the Marner wedding – it’s gonna be okay.” And despite yourself, despite the watery smile on your face, you laughed a little, “You’re gonna enjoy Raleigh–”

“It’s not that.” He shook his head, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and blinking to get rid of the blurriness before dropping them to his sides again, the both of you still in entirely too-close-for-comfort-quarters.

“The weird feeling?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, his chin wavering, and he inhaled sharply, “It’s just gonna be so weird not seeing you.”

“FaceTime exists, as do away games to Toronto.”

“I’m not even in that division anymore.”

You sighed, “Pittsburgh is, though.”

Silence.

He was doing it again: “Stop looking at me like that.”

He frowned, “Like what?”

“I don’t know, just–” You rolled your eyes, reaching to tug him back into you like before, only this time your hands slid up his back to rest across the tops of his shoulders, and he sighed into the touch, his own rough palms dragging up your neck to plant a soft kiss against your hairline.

You stayed like that until he really had to go, but there weren’t any tears.

***

“Do you like him?”

The question hung in the air for a good few seconds, you pulling a face, heart pounding like a jackhammer against your sternum before you could even find the words and the ability to talk, “He’s infuriating.”

“Do you like him?” Taylor’s voice rang out through your phone speaker, her eyebrow raised very matter-of-fact, and you’d never wanted to scream at her before, but you were cutting it pretty close with the way she was looking at you and the tone she was using.

You hesitated, your face falling. The words were caught in your throat, the admission you’d practised like a teleplay in your head, but the only thing stopping you was the way things would change. Sure, it would only be little things to start with, like Taylor nagging you with it, or her insufferably smug ‘I told you so’s. But eventually that meant that you’d have to do something about it, because Taylor could never leave things like that alone, least of all with rock hard evidence.

But…maybe you needed that?

“I…” You looked away from your phone, body trembling with an invisible cold, “Did I tell you what happened at the wedding?”

She frowned, “The Marner one?”

“Yeah.”

“The one that happened, like, Summer last year? Fucking months ago?”

You cringed, “That one.”

THE MARNER WEDDING:

“My God, are you a sight for sore eyes.”

Michael Bunting was never one to care about his appearance, least of all after crawling off a plane, but somehow he’d found himself in the bathroom of the airport, fixing his hair and straightening his clothes. All for it to fly completely out of the window when he strolled towards the exit and the first thing you did was say that. He couldn’t tell if it was the grin on your face or the sheer excitement racking your entire being that caused it, but he’d never felt sillier for feeling nervous about this moment.

“Could say the same thing about you.” He retorted, feeling the tightness in his chest dissolve, “What’s that?” He reached a finger to tap the underside brim of your cap, the sudden intrusion making you blink and jump slightly.

You knew what he was talking about: the black cap on your head, the sticker placed over a hidden logo with your handwritten message scrawled on. He furrowed his brows, eyes tracking over the words, before tilting his head in confusion, reading it aloud, “‘This is indeed my first rodeo’.” He said it slowly, as though he was worried he’d read it wrong, and before he could even ask you what it meant, you felt his fingers pick at the corner, peeling the sticker back.

He smiled sarcastically, patting it back into place with more force than necessary, the pats like small smacks against your forehead, “Shoulda known. What’s with the rodeo thing?”

“Bridal party thing.” You shrugged, “I’m not sure really.” You reached out to take the small suitcase from him, your own hands trying to pry his fingers off the handle, but he only held on tighter, “Let go.”

“No.”

“Yes.” You sighed, looking him dead in the eye hoping he’d get the hint and succumb, but he shook his head, his other hand peeling your fingers off him one by one, more condescendingly than anything else, “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want the dead body to fall out.”

—

“Hey, I forgot to ask earlier,” he called from the bathroom, the door shut as you took turns: he was cleaning his teeth and trimming his beard etc, and you were getting changed – later, you’d swap, “but how’s the property hunt going in Pittsburgh?”

You grinned, slipping the straps of your dress over your shoulders. Even the mere mention of your future plans had you smiling like an absolute idiot; you couldn’t wait to get back there. If you told the you that had just moved to Toronto what you were about to do, you were sure she’d have had a stroke from the shock. For so long, you’d envisioned living your life in Toronto and staying there. Moving back home felt more like a fever dream or something you shouldn’t do, because surely moving back to your home city meant you’d failed at something? At least, that used to be your thought process.

In reality, you just missed your family too much – every time something happened, whether it be a proposal or an illness, something in you just ached to be back there.

“It’s going okay. I’ve got a few places lined up that my parents have viewings booked for to check out, but there hasn’t been anything that’s stood out so far, but…” you paused, sitting on the edge of the bed to sort out your shoes, “I’ve got an online job interview with a company back there next week and the starting date, if I get it, is on par pretty much with moving in if there’s a place found within the next two weeks or so. But that’s only if everything goes well. Reality is I’ll probably end up moving back in with my parents for a few weeks until I find a place which isn’t exactly ideal.”

There were a few bangs, things getting placed on the counter, before his muffled, “Can I open the door?” Could be heard.

“Yeah, I’m decent.”

He creaked open the door, leaning on the handle as it swung open with a dopey grin, and it took everything in you not to stall at the sight: he was only wearing dress pants and a pair of socks, his hair tousled and damp from the shower. You’d seen photos of hockey players shirtless before, but there was something breathtakingly stunning about seeing Michael without one. He was your friend, and friends kept their shirts on – but…you swallowed, rather wishing you didn’t have to tear your eyes away from his toned figure and the smattering trail of hair, and turned your attention to his face.

The grin on his face had frozen, and despite not even looking further down than his neck you could see his chest rising and falling, eyes narrowed playfully as he stood up straighter, eyeing you with something that screamed trouble in all ways imaginable.

“Were you just checking me out?” He let go of the door handle, one hand pointing at you in an accusatory manner, and you just blinked, frowning.

“No.” You shook your head, pasting an incredulous ‘how could you’ look on your face to try and deny what had, in fact, been absolutely true.

He hesitated, his eyes roving your face for a single speck of a lie, “You were looking.”

You shrugged, “I’ve just never seen someone so…well-built before, that’s all.”

He nodded, pressing his lips together to stifle another grin, “So you were checking me out?”

“No, I was looking. There’s a difference.”

He lifted his hand, thumb and pointer finger closed together, a slither of a gap between them, “Tiny difference. So tiny there might not even be a difference.”

You sent him an unimpressed look, one that you hoped would mean he’d shut up about it because the second you even so much as hinted at him being right, it’d be over. He’d hold it above you for the rest of your lives, and you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of that, not if you could help it, “You’d know if I checked you out.”

He fell for it, his smile dropping in curiosity, “How?”

You shrugged, “You’d just know.” You took a deep breath, “Why’d you open the door?”

“I was gonna ask you about this job interview next week – what’s it for?” He disappeared back into the bathroom, but the mirror in the room still provided you with the perfect angle to watch his focused motions as he ran a towel through his hair and picked up an electric shaver. Each time he moved, his body rippled, and you hated that you couldn’t stop looking.

“It’s a cheffing position at a hotel, but it’s almost like a club. There’s an entire golf course; the restaurant is gorgeous; it’s got a spa, and it’s just…it’s like an old estate house in a period film, it’s just beautiful.” You raved, fiddling with your makeup bag as you waited for him to finish.

“Sounds incredible.” He muttered, nodding at you to join him and shoving his things to one side, “What makes you think you won’t get it?”

You shrugged, placing your bag on the counter, missing the way his eyes dragged right across your figure in the mirror, his hand still shaving his cheek with close concentration. Perhaps if he’d wavered, you’d have caught the action, but you didn’t, carrying on, “They can’t really ‘interview’ me without trying my food. I had to ask if it was okay for an online thing and it was lucky they even agreed, so…I don’t know, it just feels too good to be true.”

“Why?”

You sighed, “It just does. Something has to go wrong somewhere.”

“Not necessarily.”

“I don’t want to get my hopes up, that’s all.” You said it forcefully, throwing something back into your makeup bag and not even looking in his direction. He slowly lowered his hand to the counter, eyes fixated on you for a whole different reason.

You’d gone from being so infectiously excited about the prospect to suddenly…not.

“Everything okay?” He asked softly.

It had been four weeks since you’d last seen each other, and although he’d felt your absence like he’d never expected, he’d never felt it more than he had now. Ironic, considering you were standing right next to him. To have gone from texting each other with updates every day in Toronto to that eventually dwindling, mostly because he didn’t want to bother you too much – he’d assumed the same on your end, too – it was a big adjustment. He’d caught himself reaching for his phone a few times or eyeing it as each notification came through, and the remembrance of ‘oh, shit, we’re in different countries’ or not seeing your name pop up sent a shot of disappointment so deep through his chest that sometimes he’d actually have to massage it away.

It kind of killed him, though, that he didn’t know what was wrong. If he’d have still been back here…

“Yeah,” you clenched and unclenched your jaw, “it’s just stressful. There’s so many decisions that need to be made, and I have a date to move out now but I just want to go back to a job lined up at least. It’d be worth it then.”

His mind whirled, ideas of what to say lining up like there was no tomorrow, but he wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say. He swallowed, nudging your arm with his elbow to get you to turn your attention back to him, and smiled smally in the mirror when you met his eyes, “I think it’s worth it anyway if it’s something that makes you happy. And it won’t be the end of the world if you don’t have a place to live or a job immediately. It might be ideal, but if it doesn’t work out, you’ll figure things out. Everything will fall into place, it just might take some time, that’s all.”

It was almost magical how quickly the sudden tension dissipated. The dread in your stomach and your racing heart calmed almost instantly – the very second you allowed yourself to believe his words. You knew he wouldn’t say something like that and not mean it, and the fact that he believed in you to that extent – to hear him topple each and every single doubt in your mind to the ground – had you fighting to grab ahold of him. Whether it be his hand or to hug him or to just check to make sure he was really there. It didn’t matter that one half of his beard was neatly trimmed and the other wasn’t; it didn’t matter that his hair was wet or he didn’t have a shirt.

You wanted to tell him you missed him at that very moment. Especially when he looked at you like that again.

Michael blinked, eyeing you. He was aware the entire room had come to a standstill and that all you were doing was simply breathing and looking right at him, and it was the latter that was odd. There was something skewiff about the way you were looking at him, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Your mouth had parted, and there was a faint, dainty crease between your brows, like when you were thinking about something. If it weren’t for the fractional tilt of your head or the softness to your eyes – they kept bouncing across his face like it was the first time you’d actually looked at him – he would’ve thought that’s what you were doing: thinking.

But then you huffed a laugh, almost shocking yourself, and snapped back to reality, that look disappearing as quickly as he’d noticed it, “Yeah.” You placed a hand against your cheek, eyes darting away from him briefly, and when you pulled your palm away, he could see the growing darkness of your cheeks, “Thank you, I really needed to hear that.”

You looked towards the counter, hair falling in a curtain and hiding your face, and not for the first time since he’d come back, a homesick pang seemed to resonate to the tips of his fingers, as though his entire soul had been plucked like the string of a guitar.

—

He kept telling himself that his arm was around your shoulder, his fingers against your skin, because your strap kept falling down – and he could tell it was irritating you. (He’d also made the mistake of actually looking when it had fallen the first time, the sharp motion catching his eye, and he had no intention of replicating that awkward moment again.) It had absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol in his system, lowering his inhibitions, or the way you’d scooted closer to him because of the tight-packed bar, or the fact that he’d realised mid-way through the ceremony that what Mitch was saying about Steph was eerily similar to how he felt for you.

Mo kept shooting him a look over Tessa’s head when you weren’t looking, and Willy had hilariously looked shocked when he’d had to correct him that, no, you were just friends, even after knowing that exact same fact for over two years now.

But you? He didn’t think you were thinking too much about him at that moment. Your eyes were fixed on someone further down the bar – someone that he wasn’t particularly fond of during the season in the first place – and he was having a hard time trying not to let it get to him.

Sidney Crosby. He wasn’t doing anything in particular, but you kept glancing back at him and he could practically sense you vibrating at the mere knowledge that he was metres away. He was half-expecting you to straight-up ditch him to go talk to the man himself, or he would have if you hadn’t shaken your head at Mitch with a hilariously terrified look on your face when he’d offered to introduce you. Michael had an inkling you did want to meet the guy, but just didn’t want to appear too eager.

And realistically, he knew he had absolutely no reason to even be the slightest bit jealous of the guy. He wasn’t even sure he was jealous, but the thought did make him uncomfortable; though he wasn’t entirely able to think about anything other than the vows from earlier.

“Want me to help you out?” It was Willy talking in his ear. He didn’t even need to look at the blonde to know it was him; the garish chain peeking out between a shirt that was unbuttoned dangerously low down, and the cologne emanating from him. Bunts figured he must douse himself in the stuff before he steps outside, but he’d seen Willy get ready and the only conclusion he’d reached was that guy must just smell that good naturally all the damn time.

He didn’t know why that was the first thing that popped into his mind at that moment. What he did know was that nothing good ever followed Willy when he uttered those words.

“Absolutely not, no.” He was very aware of his fingers still hooked onto the strap of your dress, keeping it held tightly against your shoulder. And on the way your other shoulder was pressed right against his chest. And the fact that you were chatting to someone he wasn’t quite sure he recognised – but the point was that you weren’t listening.

“What, why?” Willy frowned, pouting and swigging a bottle of something. Michael didn’t like the look on his face.

“Because.”

“Because you’re scared?”

His silence was enough to answer Willy’s question.

“You need help.”

Michael frowned, “Like, mental help or–”

“Me help.”

“I just said no.”

“I heard you but I’m electing to ignore that and follow my own instincts.” Willy flashed him a grin and Michael felt his stomach drop, watching and unable to move as his ex-teammate walked to his other side, coming to stand next to you and whisper something in your ear that had you recoiling, your head gently bumping against Michael’s shoulder. He pretended not to notice, but he couldn’t help drinking in your reaction.

He had no clue what Willy had done or said, but he could feel his heart beating in his chest, and he was half-expecting you to turn around and ask if he was okay, but, much to his own intrigue, you shook your head, an awkward apologetic expression on your face.

Willy shrugged, but there was a crease between his brows. And because Michael knew him so well, he could tell something had been proven.

Willy then reappeared at Michael’s other side, and you returned talking to who you’d been chatting to before, a triumphant smirk on his face.

“What?”

Willy said nothing.

“Dude.” Michael could feel himself getting agitated, his hand was tapping anxiously against his thigh and because he was so fully intent on focusing on Willy, he was completely ignorant to the way you’d turned around at the sudden shaking, eyes zeroing in on his spare hand with confusion. Willy noticed it, though. He also noticed the way your hand twitched before clearly thinking the better of it and turning back around.

“I just told her one of my friends thinks she’s cute.”

Michael blinked, nervous.

“Point is,” Willy continued, “That that was obviously untrue. I mean, she’s cute, but she never even thought twice about it. Didn’t even turn around. Said she’d rather not and stayed standing with you.”

“That proves nothing.”

“It proves she’s not looking at other people.”

“Barely. You’re clutching at straws.”

Willy rolled his eyes, “Okay. But you better do something about it before someone else comes along and she chooses them, okay? Because it’ll happen.”

—

You were about ninety percent sure that you were one of the only people in the entire cafe who didn’t have a hangover right now. It might have something to do with the fact that you hadn’t had much to drink last night because you wanted to be as sober as possible just to soak in as much of Michael as you could and actually have a chance of remembering it.

You had no idea when you’d see him next. He was leaving for a training camp in a few days and you had a feeling the next time you’d see each other you’d be in Pittsburgh, all being well. You still had to sort out your paperwork and the whole visa situation still had to come through before anything could happen, but other than that, both of your timelines were one giant question mark.

That seemed to weigh on you heavily now you were sitting opposite each other. His hair was slightly scruffy, none of the gel in from earlier, and he had bags under his eyes – a telltale sign of his own hangover.

He’d acted weirdly last night. You couldn’t really put it into words, but since walking into that bar it was like he wasn’t entirely there all the time. Like he was distracted. He kept checking his phone, and before he’d met up with you for breakfast he’d appeared with a gift bag with a book in it and smiled each time he caught sight of it.

You had a horrible feeling that he was seeing someone. It’d make sense, even if it did come as a bit of a shock considering the four week mark, but who could blame him? He was a catch if you did say so yourself.

You’d tried to put the bubbling anxiety at that idea to the back of your mind, but the more you looked at him, it only felt weirder.

“How’s Carolina?”

The touch of his fingers ghosted your shoulder, a blazing reminder from the night before.

You blinked, goosebumps rising on your skin at the mere memory. What the fuck?

He looked up, nodding with a grin, “I love it so far. I’ve met up with some of the guys that stayed in Raleigh and I’m getting along with everyone well so far. It’s really pretty there, too. How’s Toronto treating you without me?”

You flicked your food over on your plate, “As well as it usually does. It’s quieter, though.”

The conversation wasn’t anything you hadn’t already talked about over text or FaceTime; it was something you kept coming back to when you just wanted to hear him talk. You weren’t entirely sure when that had started. You paused. You’d done for months, even back when he was in Toronto.

This time, when he answered, he leaned closer over the table, and for a brief moment you thought he was going to admit a secret or pick something off your face, but when you looked up he was doing It again.

And this time you didn’t shy away from it. In fact, if the spike in heart rate was anything to go by, you revelled in the attention. And the revelation just took your breath away.

“I know this might sound weird…” He trailed off, eyes carefully gliding over features, and although you didn’t know it was possible, your heart rate skyrocketed, the pounding tingling the tips of your fingers and causing a raucous rushing in your ears. Without even realising it, you’d leant closer across the table, too, the only thing separating the two of you being the condiments rack.

He seemed taken aback at your proximity, eyes widening and his mouth stuttering, “I do miss you, y’know.” He whispered, cheeks reddening almost immediately.

You blinked, allowing your mind to digest the gravity of his admission. Something happened: it felt like something in your brain sighed or something in your chest loosened, something you weren’t even sure existed suddenly being clicked to life, and you smiled shyly. You were completely unfamiliar with what it was or what it meant, but you knew there was a point of no return: you’d be chasing whatever this was for the rest of your life, without a doubt.

Where you’d felt jilted moments earlier, something evened out – it felt smooth, there was no ache when you breathed, and your mind cleared, the only thing on repeat…him.

Oh.

There was a zing straight down your spine, and you shivered at the feeling of it.

“I’m gonna say something even weirder…” Your voice came out shaky, shakier than you’d initially like it to be, and he automatically glanced at your mouth because of it, “I miss you too.”

He blinked, stifling a grin by placing his hand over his mouth, and you took the opportunity to change the subject, not wanting to dwell on anything too long for fear of what it could mean, what it could lead to, “Are you gonna let your hair grow out?”

He pulled a face, his hand moving to his hair self-consciously, “You don’t like it?”

“No, I like it.”

“What about the beard?”

You hesitated, “I…Do you want my opinion?”

He pulled a face, like you were crazy for even asking, “I literally asked to get your opinion.”

“Keep it like that, then.”

“What’s this about my hair, though?”

“Nothing.” You breathed a laugh, wondering how an innocent question led to this entire ordeal, “You look good.”

Silence.

His cutlery clinked against his plate as he looked up, your own hand frozen midair around your cup of coffee, him staring at you incredulously and you staring at a stain on the table, a little too afraid to look at him. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t acted like you’d told him a monumental piece of news that’s changed the entire trajectory of his life. It also shouldn’t be too much of a big deal because he’d told you you looked beautiful before, and that hadn’t been an issue.

You broke first, taking a sip and mustering the courage to look at him once more, raising your eyebrows at the utterly shocked look on his face.

“I look good?” He reiterated, speaking each syllable with his entire body. His breathing was shallow, and for a moment you worried if he was about to pass out.

“Yeah.” This time it was your turn to act like he was crazy for asking, “You always look good.”

He breathed a mirthless laugh that bled easily into one of amusement as he pointed a finger at you, “You were so checking me out last night.”

You blinked, replying blankly, “If you’d have left it five more seconds I’d have lost my mind.”

He grinned mischievously, risking a wink, “Duly noted.”

You rolled your eyes, scratching your eyebrow to try and hide your face with your hand as you stacked your plate on top of his, “You ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

For some reason you hadn’t pushed yourself up and out of your chair very quickly. By the time Michael had tucked his chair under the table and was standing next to yours, his head turned to the side – distracted – you’d only just finished tidying up the table. And because his attention had been stolen, and because he was standing so close to your chair, when you finally did make a move to stand up…

His head snapped in your direction, the sudden motion making you flinch backwards, legs bumping awkwardly against the table, and his hand shot out, flattening against your back. If you were more honest you’d have said you didn’t need the stability: all you’d done was knock your calves against the wooden legs – but the sudden, unprompted touch on the small of your back had you freezing where you were, breath hitching in your chest against your will.

You were watching his face before, trying to pick out exactly what had caught his eye, but this time you could see when the realisation of what had happened set in: his mouth parted like he was about to say something, and his eyes were wide – probably slightly alarmed at the almost-stumble he’d seen in his periphery – and was, for lack of better words, practically hugging you to him. You were forced (though there wasn’t a single cell in your body that felt reluctant) to catch yourself in his arms to prevent yourself from being catapulted straight into him.

He wasn’t wearing a hat. Usually he did, but today he’d left the hotel room without one, and you’d never really thought twice about it or missed its presence more than you did at that moment. A hat would have given you space to think, time to not spend looking straight at him, time to not fantasise about what would happen if either of you happened to lean in at the same time, but–

He’d folded first, his gaze flicking down to your mouth for a brief moment before returning to your eyes, the palm on your back not wavering one bit. He didn’t even take a step back to let you stand up properly, but instead stood there, holding you, waiting. Waiting for some indication from you that, yes, it’s okay to close the gap.

Your heart was thundering in your chest, and you were sure he could feel it against your ribs if he concentrated hard enough, but you couldn't bring yourself to focus on that for too long. Not when the sight of him in front of you was so enticing.

You inhaled quickly, wanting to say something but not quite finding the words, and he waited once more. He only seemed to do something when you chanced a glance at his mouth, not even intending to, but also not doing anything to stop yourself from sneaking a look, and his head dipped–

“Oh, hey guys.”

It happened quickly and a lot less clumsily as to how it had started: Michael blinked at the sudden interruption, seamlessly stepping backwards and pulling you with him, his hand dropping from your back once you were safely on your feet. You were a little slower, only managing to keep your breaths even and to turn your attention away from him in time to see exactly who it was that had just shown up.

Only, your bewilderment and vertigo increased when you set your eyes on the familiar figure taking a seat on the table next to yours, completely and utterly oblivious to what almost transpired.

Sidney Crosby was sitting grinning in your direction, and your mind went blank for a whole host of different reasons. The main one being Sidney Crosby was grinning at you. You were vaguely aware of Michael’s hurried motions, placing your hat on top of your head after a quick greeting. You heard your name, and you smiled politely.

Your face didn’t feel like your own, you were aware of moving your cheek muscles, but everything felt strangely foreign.

And then Sid was looking at your cap, and suddenly you were back in your own body.

“Cool hat.” He pointed, leaning sideways on his chair, and your smile broadened.

“Yeah, Pittsburgh Penguins, maybe you’ve heard of them?”

He laughed, feet kicking slightly under the table, and you felt Michael stiffen next to you, “I don’t think I’m familiar, no. They any good?”

You shrugged, “Won a couple of cups, made us locals proud. There’s this guy, Sidney Crosby, he’s pretty cool.”

He pretended to pull a face, “Oh, I know that guy.” He sighed, shaking his head.

“You don’t like him?”

“Hate that guy.”

***

“What the fuck.” Taylor all but yelped through the screen once you’d done a quick rehash of events, before falling completely silent, her head in her hands.

You nodded, “I know. I got Sidney Cros–”

“Fuck Sidney Crosby, babe. With all due respect, fuck that guy.”

You swallowed, “Yeah, okay.”

“What are you gonna do about Michael?”

“We haven’t really talked since the wedding.” You mumbled sadly.

***

A meal was all you had. In three months, all you managed to snag of his time was a home cooked meal in your new apartment, and even then he couldn’t stay for more than a few hours. You didn’t just have to worry over the fact that things had clearly changed since the wedding, but you had to worry about cooking him a meal that adhered to his plan of what he could and couldn’t eat, and it had to be edible.

So, it was safe to say you were feeling a lot of pressure. Cooking at work was completely different to cooking at home: not only were you usually too exhausted to even cook something that nice when you got in, but there was something personal about cooking for people you know. It always felt like they were judging what you’d made, trying to decide if you were good at your job or not. Sometimes it felt like a make or break deal. If they didn’t like your food, they wouldn’t like you.

And while that had never been the case for Michael, tonight felt different. For starters, it felt like you’d had to fight tooth and nail to even get him to come over for a few hours, which was new.

In all honesty, you were even hesitant in the entire…ordeal. Because that’s what it was, really, it wasn’t a quick catch-up, it was an ordeal. The last time you’d felt this nervous was when you were back in school, and gosh you didn’t miss the feeling at all.

He knocked three times and you had to stop stirring the pasta (shocker!) sauce to answer the door.

“Hey.” He sighed, flashing a tired smile, and in that instant all your anxieties seemed to diminish. They hadn’t disappeared completely, but it was as though the volume had been turned down, and you could breathe easily.

“Hi.” You answered almost breathlessly, and his brows jumped up his forehead in amusement, the small crinkle of a smile making an appearance, “I feel bad for pestering you now. You look exhausted.”

He shook his head, “Don’t, I’m glad I came.”

And then he did something he’d never done to you before: he leaned in and he pressed a delicate kiss on your cheek. The exact place he’d touched with his lips seemed to flame before you even registered what he’d done, and in that same moment, you were catapulted back to Toronto. Tucked next to each other under a blanket, an episode of The Mentalist on, both of you utterly immersed in the plot.

You blinked, not entirely sure where that had come from, and grinned, his scent filling your senses, soon to bleed into your apartment and your couch and your cushions. The one thing you loved about having him around was that you could tell he’d been here even days later: whether it be the faint smell of his cologne when you sat down or the plants that had been purposefully switched around on the windowsill – something you tended to notice when you finally crashed, and it never failed to put a smile on your face.

“This place is adorable.” He commented, easing himself onto the couch, feet up and reorganising the cushions around him, and all you could do was stand off to the side, simply watching him get settled.

“Adorable wasn’t what I was going for.”

“What were you going for?”

“Cosy.”

He hummed, tearing his eyes away from you to have another quick glance around, “It’s that too.” And then he rounded back to you, still hanging around in between the living room and the kitchen, not really wanting to leave him alone but much too devoted to the food to even think about asking him to follow you in there, “How are you doing?”

You shrugged, “I’m really happy here.”

He fell asleep straight after he finished eating.

***

His stuff was everywhere: boxes and bags stacked and piled and thrown in the right rooms; zips unzipped and lids open, objects and clothes and cutlery scattered across floors like he’d picked up a handful and left a trail of nuts for you to track his steps.

It was a mess, but it was a reassuring mess. You hadn’t really believed him until he’d shown up at the airport, and even then it had taken three days for you to actually comprehend the luck of it all. It took you fourteen minutes to walk to his apartment, now. Not over an hour on the plane, not counting the taxis and waiting for your luggage.

Quite frankly, it blew your mind.

It had taken you so long to adjust to even being friends with him, to then adjusting to him moving to Raleigh when you were still in Toronto, to then adjusting to you in Pittsburgh and him still in Raleigh…and now you were both in Pittsburgh and it had taken you approximately three days to get used to it. Not weeks, not months where you’d keep forgetting you couldn’t just show up outside his apartment.

You’d caught yourself laughing at it on more than one occasion.

For now, though, despite the welcome mess (as proof of life), you were looking straight at him. You’d caught yourself doing that a lot lately, but there was a reason this time – not just a genuine wonder at his mere presence.

He walked back into the room, arms stretched out in front of him, clearly assessing the new jersey, and you swore, right then and there, that you’d never loved him more. For all his shit-talking on the Pens over the years, he was now wearing their jersey, much to your appreciation.

“I like it.” You spoke first from your position on his couch, your arm in the box of merch and kit he’d been given (he’d allowed you to have free reign over some of the items, all you had to do was ask him first), your teeth briefly scraping over your bottom lip. It wasn’t the first time he’d worn a black jersey, but it was the first time he’d worn one with a Penguin on the front and yellow text that spelt his name on the back, “A lot.”

You were grinning, and when he looked up to see you shaking with glee, he shook his head, huffing an amused laugh, “Of course you do.”

“I still don’t think I’ve gotten used to you not wearing blue yet, though.” You muttered, and he nodded, mouth flattening but face somehow still smiling.

“I do miss it, but I think I’m getting used to it.” He shrugged, before grabbing the front of the jersey by the NHL logo and chucking it off his shoulders and throwing it straight at your face, “You can keep that one if you want, I’m not short of any.” You heard him say, his voice slightly muffled by the fabric, and you pulled it from over your eyes, hand wrapped in the material – to see his cheeks flush at your expression. It seemed to worsen when you dropped your eyes to his bare torso.

“Thanks.” You averted your eyes quickly, instead focusing on smoothing the jersey out in your lap, fingers tracing the penguin before flipping it over for his name. Out of the corner of your eye you saw him reach into the box next to you and pull out a few t-shirts before a cap was in his hands and he was brandishing the logo in your face.

“Have you seen one of these before?” He asked, pointing to the circular black and yellow logo: the Pens motif was in the top half of the circle with two crossed-over sticks in the bottom half, and you shook your head.

“I don’t think so.”

He spun it around in his fist, eyes flicking from the hat to your face, “You want it?”

You hesitated, “Are you sure you’re allowed to let me have some of this stuff? I feel like they’re giving you different kits because you’re actually part of the organisation and that normal people aren’t supposed to have them.”

He blinked, jaw clenching as he took in your words. And before you could even say anything else, he placed the hat rather lopsidedly on top of your head and rifled back through the pile of clothes for the sheet of paper before throwing himself down next to you, the piece of paper held out so you could read it too.

You felt a bit pathetic at how quickly you felt your pulse start to pick up at the contact: his entire torso was leant against your shoulder, and although it meant you got an unobstructed view of…everything, and although you appreciated it, at the same time it felt a bit cruel. Like dangling a bone in front of a dog.

“It doesn’t say I can’t give it away.” He mumbled, turning to face you, his forehead bumping the brim of the cap. You blinked in surprise, but didn’t miss the way his eyes just casually flickered down to your lips, or the way his hand dropped down, still clutching the sheet, once he realised you’d not actually been looking at the words.

He’d caught you looking at him.

You cleared your throat, cheeks flaring but not too ashamed considering you’d just caught him looking at you, and his eyes zipped back to your face, an awkward silence ensuing. Neither of you moved. You didn’t know if you were too scared to ruin the moment or if you were physically frozen by what could have happened – could still happen. Stillness seemed to be key. His breath was fanning softly against your face, and you were sure the same went for you.

It was eerily similar to the whole Sid-situation. Only this time you were in the privacy of his own home, he was notably shirtless and the risk of getting interrupted was low, but not entirely zero.

You felt your own lips part at the same time his head moved an inch closer as though he was testing the waters, but before you could even think about leaning in, his mouth was moving.

What?

His cheeks reddened, and the blush seemed to travel down his neck and bleed into his collarbones, his attention now flicking between you and something off to the side, clearly too nervous to even look at you and speak.

“I asked if you were free on Thursday?” He whispered, his gaze travelling back down to the piece of paper still in his hand.

He hadn’t moved away from you but the stab of disappointment at the lack of his attention and the realisation that he’d chosen not to kiss you was profoundly disturbing. You didn’t like it, the way you practically yearned for him. The idea that your enjoyment in life was tied to what a random man did or didn’t do was absurd, and if you were being honest with yourself, you did feel a bit pathetic that you’d let it get to that point.

He was your best friend, for fuck’s sake. You weren’t supposed to actually fall in love with him – that was something that only happened in the movies or in novels.

But…he was kind, he was funny, he was charming, he clearly cared for you.

Did he feel the same way? It was impossible to tell in your eyes. Sure, it had just looked like he wanted to eat you, and you’d caught him looking at you like you hung the entire galaxy before, but who’s to say he didn’t look at other people like that?

And in all honesty, you’d spent so much time trying to not look at him that you’d given him plenty of opportunities to (if he did) sneak glances at you when you weren’t looking.

You sighed, folding the jersey, acting like his skin on your forearm wasn’t burning. Like you were completely normal being in his presence, “I should be, yeah. How come?”

He raised a brow, shyly turning back to you, “I was wondering if you wanted to go out?”

Something fluttered in your chest – it felt an awful lot like hope, and when you answered, your voice sounded off. You weren’t breathless, so to say, but your voice cracked and sounded ropey to your own ears, “Go out where?”

The question almost felt futile, especially with the wry smile he just sent your way. You had a feeling, but even thinking the feeling out loud in your head felt like you were about to jinx it, so you fought to keep your mind quiet. Everything else though (heart rate, blood rushing, the feel of his fingers tapping rhythmically against the inside of your wrist), that was loud.

His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek when he looked down at where he was delicately touching your wrist. His motions stopped, but the warmth never left.

“With me, I was hoping.” He didn’t look at you as he spoke, and you held your breath the entire time, a part of you wanting to make sure you’d just heard him correctly and weren’t imagining it, “Like a date.”

“A date.” You echoed, flipping your wrist over completely so your palm was pointing to the ceiling. He didn’t tear his eyes away from your hand, but you could feel his heart thumping through his back from where he’d pressed himself against your shoulder and a smile fell naturally on your face. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was soft. The kind of smile that was only ever really reserved for him.

His hand didn’t falter in its motions as he dragged his fingers down the inside of your wrist to swirl a pattern on your palm, fingers tracing the lines and creases gently.

It took everything in you not to scream.

He just hummed, and when you tore your gaze away from the side of his face – he wasn’t giving much away – his chest was thumping in time with his pulse. Was it possible for nerves to make him catatonic? You’d never seen him this nervous yet so calm and collected at the same time.

You inhaled, feeding your starved lungs, and tried not to shudder when his fingers slowed only to tangle and interlock with yours. It was like he was testing it out, seeing how you fit together, whether your personalities blended as well as your bodies did–

You felt yourself blush at that insinuation, and squeezed his hand, prompting him to look at you instead of away.

He did so slowly, first peeking at you out of the corner of his eye with a small breath of relief when he saw you weren’t annoyed. Then he turned his entire head towards you, leaning back so he wouldn’t knock into the hat again, and his mouth twisted, still awaiting your reply.

“Have you been wanting to ask that for a while, or…”

His stare went blank, and you could tell her was trying not to roll his eyes at your teasing questions, obviously stalling to get a rise out of him. It was working, “Put me out of my misery first.”

“Okay.”

He blinked, leaning forwards slightly, “Okay I’ll go on a date or okay I’ll put you out of your misery?”

“Both.”

He smiled, using his free hand to swipe at his nose and look away briefly, flustered. His chest was still pink and blotchy and you nudged him playfully with your elbow, “Your turn.”

“Uh…” He hesitated, “maybe, like, since you told me I don’t look like a Michael.”

You stared at him, jaw unhinged and dropped in shock, “But that was–”

“Two-ish years ago, yeah.” He nodded, pulling a face at himself, “What can I say? You charmed me.”

“But I was rude to you..”

“I wouldn’t say rude–”

“I wanted you to not like me.”

He froze, “You did?”

“Yeah.”

“It had the opposite effect.”

And then you laughed. Right in his face, not very loudly, but you laughed at him altogether, “You liked me when I couldn’t stand you, I would’ve said no.”

He rolled his eyes, flicking the underside brim of the cap he’d given you, “Good job I held out then, isn’t it? At what point would you have said yes?”

“When you left for Raleigh.”

“Wow.”

“You gotta remember, I was in a relationship for a while–”

“Oh, that guy.” He muttered, bitterly, "I think I blocked that out-"

You interrupted him, leaning closer to briefly press your mouth against his, effectively shutting him up. Even at the brief contact, and even as you were pulling away you could feel the relief of it dissipate from your shoulders, like a worn out elastic band had finally snapped. You paused, a breath away from him, and his eyes slowly blinked open having tried to chase your mouth.

Even despite that, he still maintained his grin, "That's a good tactic." He muttered, hand sliding up the side of your neck as his thumb slid gently and delicately across your jawbone. His eyes zeroed in on the motion, clearly enjoying the way your skin reacted to his touch, goosebumps rising to the surface and eliciting a shiver of pleasure from you.

It was barely three second of contact, but it had changed your genetic makeup.

He was addictive, even the smug look on his face as he pressed his forehead against yours, chin bumping towards yours. You held you breath in anticipation, eyes instinctively fluttering shut - it was difficult to ignore the pounding of your heart or the tingling beneath his fingers.

"Noted." You breathed, unable to help smiling at his tone, "You gonna make me wait until Thursday now-"

"It's rude to keep a lady waiting." Was his answer.

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