#I've done my best to format this properly and put the most under a cut

[caiminnent]

shadow play [shaundes, rated T]

Prompt: surrender (1/25) [metaphorically speaking]

Summary: A discussion about tattoos and permanence that gets sidetracked in the best possible way.

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed

Tags: Friends with Benefits to Lovers, Relationship Discussions, Mutual Pining, Tattoos

Note: Also written and posted as an entry for @denydesmondsdeathday​, which I seem to have forgotten to tag. #justCaithings

2.4K || Also on AO3.

He likes to touch Desmond’s tattoos in the dark.

It’s not an accomplishment, per se—he is far from the first person to learn the topography of Desmond’s marked skin, won’t be the last—but there’s still an odd pride to it, being able to trace the black lines spanning across his shoulder blades, swirling up his arm without having to see them. Sometimes he imagines he can feel the texture of the art, the shadows and the sharp edges—that he could map out Desmond’s entire upper body with just his fingertips.

Desmond releases a long sigh, hugging his pillow closer, the movement drawing his shoulders tighter in. Whatever has been on his mind, keeping him up, he won’t say—and Shaun can’t ask, no matter how tempted he is. Especially because of how tempted he is. He’s already risking things by letting himself linger, not quite ready to draw the night to a close; he can’t afford another indulgence.

Running a finger down a long line from the back of Desmond’s shoulder, carefully avoiding where it tickles, “How did you end up with tattoos?” he asks instead. He might not be able to give Desmond some peace of mind, but he can offer distraction. That one he’s good for.

Desmond makes an amused grunt. “Thought you’d never ask,” he says with half a mouth, muffled against the pillow. Another drawn-out sigh and he’s slowly pushing himself up on his hands, stretching out his back like a cat. Putting on a show, almost.

He hardly minds.

Desmond settles back on an elbow, mirroring Shaun, barely more than an outline against all the white. He doesn’t speak again, though; the air growing heavy with something Shaun can’t identify but dislikes all the same as Desmond stares at the patch of sheet between them, his expression blurred back into the dimness of the room with the distance.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he offers, heart at his feet. Leave it to him to find the one topic that would make Desmond uncomfortable. Congratulations, really. Very well done.

Desmond shakes his head. “No, no, it’s not that.” He shifts again, this time to reach over the gap and lay a hand down, right next to Shaun’s on the sheet. “Keep touching? Please?”

As if he could deny Desmond anything.

He drags a finger up his wrist, forearm, sliding over that twist of ink over the muscle he can always find so easily. The lines aren’t as sharp here, the angles not as precise. Were they drawn in a hurry? Did Desmond move too much, filled with restless energy or twitching at each bite of the needle?

“I got this one first,” Desmond starts, as Shaun traces one of the longer lines, twirling at the end. “On my nineteenth birthday. I was supposed to work that night, but the boss—bless her heart—she put some money in my pocket and sent me on my way, told me to go have fun with my friends.” He huffs out a little chuckle, entirely joyless. “Only, I didn’t have friends. Didn’t have anyone I could celebrate with, didn’t have anywhere to go except my shithole of an apartment—which I really didn’t wanna go back to. So, I took to wandering.”

It’s easy enough to imagine: Desmond in his teens, walking up a storm on the streets of New York with his hands deep in his pockets, lips curled into that scowl that really only comes out when he thinks no one’s there to see.

His stomach churns.

“Then you saw a tattoo shop,” he guesses, following the same path up.

“Then I saw a tattoo shop,” Desmond confirms. Pauses, before adding, “I know it’s not... tasteful, or anything, but—it was mine, y’know? Something I’d picked for myself that no one could ever take away from me. It was... I dunno.” Shrugs a shoulder. “It was big, at the time.”

He understands the feeling.

In theory, at least. The wish for something bold and tangible and his, a middle finger to anyone who sneered and snickered at him for being who he is and wanting what he wants—that he understands. Getting it etched onto his skin for everyone to judge, however? That takes a kind of impulsiveness he only wishes for in secret.

What would that be like, even? Doing things without twisting yourself into knots? Deciding that you want something and just—getting it?

Desmond brushes the back of a finger underneath his wrist, oddly reassuring. “Is that the good kind of silence?”

If only he knew. “It’s not the bad kind,” is all he can allow. “It sounds... terrifying, is all.”

“Terrifying?” Desmond repeats on a low laugh.

“I mean...” He waves a hand vaguely, racking his brain to find the right words. “It’s a tattoo,” he settles on at last—rather lamely, he might add. His way with words never stepped outside of a classroom door, much less inside a bedroom. “It’s permanent—or as close to it as it gets, I suppose. It’ll be there long after us—after you, even—and you decided to get one on a whim. I don’t think I could ever be so…”

“Reckless?”

He rolls his eyes. “I was going to say spontaneous. Though, yes; that, too.”

That finger is still running back and forth, a teasing touch right under his pulse, starting to build something warm low in his belly. He wants to kiss Desmond. No secondary intent, not to get anywhere; kissing only to enjoy the feeling, Desmond’s warmth against his—and maybe fall asleep in the same bed after, just once. Just to see what it would be like to wake up there, curled up around Desmond or Desmond curled up around him, nowhere to rush to or run away—

Well, if that’s not his cue to get the hell out of here before he makes a fool of himself.

Rolling onto his back, he reaches for the alarm clock on the nightstand and slides it over with his fingertips to squint at the numbers, just this side of careless—even he has his moments. Well past one in the morning; earlier than the weight settled onto his bones suggested, late enough to be his excuse.

“Looks like we’ll have to leave the story of the back piece to another day after all,” he says, putting it back down in favour of the light switch above—blinks, the sudden brightness stabbing at his brain.

“You’re leaving?” Desmond asks—oddly put off, by the sound of it. What else did he even expect?

Throwing the covers off himself, “I should if I want to get some sleep,” he points out, stepping out before he can change his mind. Before the temptation to stay under the covers becomes too great.

Glasses, phone, his bag over by the door, his coat on the rack—where the hell are his clothes?

“In the closet,” Desmond says before he can ask. “I put them away while you were in the shower.”

Huh. Since when does Desmond care about tidying up?

“Thanks,” he says anyway, heading over to the closet—where his shirt and trousers are carefully placed on hangers, the bottom two buttons of the shirt done up like he prefers, his sweater sitting neatly folded on the rack above.

Something not unlike foreboding twists in his gut.

See, he has never seen the point of not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Call it paranoia; he cannot receive something nice and not poke and prod at every opening until he’s sure it’s meant in kindness. He doesn’t like surprises, doesn’t like getting caught off-guard—he does not like not being able to read Desmond’s expression as Desmond watches him through the full-length mirror, sitting up against the headboard with the covers pooled in his lap.

He needs to get out—fast.

Turning away from the mirror, he puts his focus entirely on dressing out of Desmond’s clothes into his own, buttoning up his shirt like he’s being timed on it. The very air is tense with anticipation—for what, he can’t tell, nor does he want to find out. For once, he doesn’t.

“So, after us, huh?” Desmond says—apropos of nothing, for all that he sounds as if continuing an interrupted conversation.

It takes Shaun longer than he would like to admit, to figure out what the hell Desmond’s talking about. “What of it?”

“That really what you think?” Desmond asks, serious like he never is. The feeling in his gut intensifies. “That this—” Gestures at the room as a whole, the open space between them. “—is temporary?”

Bitter laughter bubbles up in his chest. He pushes it down before it can escape, the pressure making it difficult to breathe. Is this what you think, Desmond asks—like what he thinks matters. Like what he thinks changes any damn thing here. It must be a joke, right. It must be a joke, because Desmond can’t be bloody serious.

If it is a joke, though, it’s a very cruel one.

Suddenly self-conscious with words like us hanging over their heads, he turns away from Desmond and the mirror both, back to the closet. “More lovers than you could keep track of,” he lists as he shoves his legs into his trousers, no trace of the resentment gathering and thickening in his chest making it to his tone, thankfully. “Not knowing how to do the ‘domestic stuff’. I’ve never learned how to stay still. I can read between the lines, Desmond.”

“I’m not denying what I said,” Desmond says—dares to sound upset, as if Shaun is being the difficult one here.

Cinching his belt, he reaches for his sweater. “Then we’ve got nothing to talk about.”

Behind him, the bed groans as Desmond steps out of it. He can’t help tensing at the slow approach, Desmond’s footsteps too loud in the still of the night.

Desmond touches Shaun’s arm, hardly more than a caress.  “I think we do, Shaun.”

He panics.

There’s no other word for the fist that grips his heart and throat both, his hand tightening instinctively around the fabric of his sweater. God, of course. Of course he’s already fucked up, given himself away—how could he have not? He’s transparent, obvious, subtle as a brick to the face and Desmond—

Desmond’s too gentle to let him down any other way.

“Shaun?” Desmond urges softly, his hand a light pressure on Shaun’s arm—not a weight but an anchor, grounding. “Look at me, please?”

He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to face Desmond, doesn’t know what his face will do if he does. If this is the end, he’d much rather leave with at least some of his pride intact.

Nonetheless, he turns.

Desmond’s watching him with open wariness, as if Shaun is a bloody caged animal, something to tread carefully with—the door a mere three steps behind Desmond. He could leave. Desmond wouldn’t follow if he did, just walked past him out of the room, the house. Avoided Bad Weather and anywhere else they could potentially come across, left this all behind.

He couldn’t, though; he knows he couldn’t even as he’s thinking it. He’s too greedy not to latch onto this—too needy to let it go.

“Look, it’s fine,” he sighs before Desmond can get a word in, running a hand through his wild hair. “You didn’t sign your life away by kissing me first; that’s not how this works. We don’t have to be more than—whatever the hell we are now.”

“But you want to be?”

Christ, Desmond can be worse than a bloodhound on a trail sometimes. “What does it even matter? I’ve already said I’m not going to tie you down. It’s fine.” Nothing has to change. Just leave it.

The slow smile that spreads over Desmond’s face is a rare kind, small but no less bright for it. He brushes tentative fingers over Shaun’s lips—Shaun’s breath stutters against them, his heart seizing. “What if I don’t want it to be fine?”

Oh.

Perhaps he’s been a bigger idiot than even he thought.

Desmond slowly slides his hands down onto Shaun’s chest, thumbing the top button. “I know what I said before,” he murmurs, meeting his gaze briefly, as if for permission, before he undoes it. The next one. The next. “You have every reason not to put faith in me. But—things have changed. For me. In here.” He rests a hand on Shaun’s chest, sizzling on the naked skin and there’s no way, no way, that he can’t feel the stupid beat of Shaun’s heart under his palm, hard and rabbit-fast— “Is it bold of me to hope they did for you, too?”

He can’t breathe.

He should be happy. Hell, he should be ecstatic, dizzy with joy instead of the wet, cold fear latched onto his insides, rooting his feet to the spot. It’s not usual for him, is the thing. To get what he wants. This—it can’t be—nothing is ever so easy. These things always come with a catch, some sort of a trap—consequences he can’t always foresee. He’s not like Desmond; he can’t just leap into things.

Desmond’s smile is dimmed with the hesitation creeping back into his eyes, his hand pausing over the last button above his waistband—and Shaun did that, right, with his paranoia. His useless anxiety.

Must he talk himself out of every good thing?

Swallowing against the burn up his throat, he lays a hand over Desmond’s; not an apology, not quite, but the closest thing to one he can give. “Do you even know what you’re offering?” he asks, matching Desmond’s tone. Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into?

“Not really,” Desmond admits on a quick, breathy laugh. “Think we can find out together?”

He’s not ready for the jolt that passes through his heart, nor the weight in his chest that he’s not quite ready to name—too light to be what it was, too deep to be anything else. Insufferable and exhilarating at the same time. Too familiar.

Sucking in his bottom lip, Desmond meets his eyes again—it’s the same everything cluttering up his insides reflected back in them; the hesitation, the uncertainty. The fear. “You don’t have to say it. I don’t need pretty words or promises. Just—” The last button, undone—leaving him bared. “Stay.”

“Okay,” he whispers—and isn't that an admission. “Okay.”

[n3verending16]

you were good to me - Oikawa Tooru x Reader

So, this is my first ever fanfic! Aah! Writing this was 100% a daunting experience for me, but I largely enjoyed writing it (posting it tho? *rapidly spams space button to align lyrics with the middle* *posts* *formatting is completely off and i have to do it all over again* *screams*). If you have any constructive criticism/ formatting tips, please comment it or send me a message ʕ •́؈•̀ ₎

Not requested, but certainly inspired by all the other oikawa x reader writer-chans out there (and a good friend of mine, yejin if you're reading this ily smkamsjskamssjk)!

caitlin and cindy ily too uwu

Based off "you were good to me"

All credits belong to their rightful owners

………………………………………………………………………………………

Lying, isn't better than silence

"I don't love you anymore."

Oikawa Tooru could feel the bitter aftertaste of his own words to you that night.

Floating, but I feel like I'm dying

One year later, and he still couldn't break off the chains that anchored him down every time he jumped for the ball in a match. He couldn't fly like he used to, the guilt in his gut pressing him down every time he looked towards the stands and you weren't there, cheering for him as you usually did. It was his choice, his fault. And he regretted it, although he wished he didn't.

Still, no matter where I go

At the end of every road

You had always been there for him before, whenever he felt he wasn't good enough. The gentle caress of your fingers through his hair and your soft eyes peering into his own chocolate irises had helped him get over the loss of the match and focus on getting even better than he was. On particularly harsh days, you sang him to sleep, the dulcet tones and lull of your voice relaxing him as he passed into a gentle slumber.

You were good to me

You were good to me, yeah

You had always been understanding of him whenever he ended his practice sessions late. You never asked for his time, knowing his passion for volleyball burned brighter than anything you'd ever seen before, and you wanted to support him. You hugged and congratulated him with a smile on your face when he won, and you comforted him when he lost, but most importantly, you were always there in his life. A constant he could trust, someone he could rely on, someone he could love. He'd been thankful for it. And yet, when he saw the successful application to the Argentinian Volleyball Team, he was hit with the truth. Oikawa was moving to a country on the other side of the world, and things would've gotten so much harder for the both of you. You deserved someone that was so much more than him, someone who would hold you at night, someone who could go on real dates with you, someone who could, and would, put their own time away for you. As much as it hurt him, he knew for your own good, he had to let you go. So he did it the way he hoped would hurt you the least.

I know it's easier to run

After everything I've done

Cut it off. Keep your emotions away from this. This is what's best for them.

"I'm moving to Argentina, and I think it's time I tell you something..."

"I don't love you anymore. We should end things."

You were good to me

Yeah, you were good to me

He still hears your quiet sobs that night sometimes.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Leaving, isn't better than trying

You'd spent that night lying on the couch, crying to yourself over your boyfriend who'd just walked out on you. What had you done wrong? Were you still not good enough for him? As soon as you had began to stop, reduced to sniffles, images of his silhouetted back as he walked out the front door and the cold glint in his brown eyes as he said the words that broke your heart flashed through your mind made you start bawling all over again. Had everything that had happened between the two of you been a lie? Had your presence in his life not mattered to him as much as his presence in yours?

Growing, but I'm just growing tired

You would've liked to say you were a different person than you had been one year ago. You would've liked to be spiteful and show Oikawa Tooru, international volleyball star, that you had outgrown being lovesick and was now independent and successful, with people who truly loved you. You would've liked to tell yourself that you were so, so much better off without him. But that was a lie, and you were not one to lie to yourself.

Now I'm worried for my soul

And I'm still scared of growing old

You had, honestly, tried to get over him though. You'd made yourself pass out from drunkenness only to wake up the next morning with a pounding headache and the incident more ingrained into your head. You'd busied yourself with cooking, gaming and knitting, and when that hadn't worked, considered a one-night stand from an overly amiable guy you'd just met at the corner café, after deciding against it when one of the girls standing in front of the window outside sent you two a deathly stare. You'd stacked all of his belongings and tried to burn them, until you realised your shaky hands couldn't start the lighter properly.

Even if you had forgotten him for a while, a dull, grey, reprieve from the emotions in your head, it wouldn't have been for long; the memories were everywhere. There was the book he'd accidentally spilt his bubble tea in when you snuck up behind him. There was the somewhat-lopsided drawer, a result of when it got stuck and he'd tried to force it in anyway, ending up in the sides breaking. There was the red christmas mug you'd gotten for him; only to realise he'd given you the exact same one, but green. The small bin in your room was full of milk bread wrappers. Even the study desk in the corner reminded you of days where he would try to draw something cute for you- you'd laughed and told him he had all the time in the world to improve.

You were good to me

You were good to me, yeah

That had clearly been a lie. And yet, you couldn't bring yourself to believe the words he'd said to you before he left a year ago were the truth. You had been sure that your relationship was pure, built from the ground on trust and a mutual understanding of each other- you'd respect his love for volleyball, he'd respect your desire to work harder in your career. Sure, he didn't sound like he was lying, but he was THE Oikawa Tooru- a man who held his confident and flippant façade up to the spotlights, letting the light shine on him however he pleased. You needed to know the truth, and like a burning question at the back of your mind, it never disappeared- before you contacted Iwaizumi Hajime, his best friend and your former close classmate, who told you "It was about time you knew the truth". You were glad to have heard those words.

After having a long conversation with Haji (most of it was you cussing), you wanted to hug Oikawa and punch him at the same time.

One decision led to another and the next day, you were standing on an airplane one year after the breakup with a plane ticket clutched in your hands, and a ticket to the Argentina vs Spain match folded up neatly in your purse.

"Try to let him off easy, yeah? He hasn't been at his best ever since he left you. I think he still regrets it."

………………………………………………………………………………………

And I'm so used to letting go

But I don't wanna be alone

There's noise in the stadium, filled with the audience's cheers and camera shutters going off, but drowned out by the silence in his own head. Oikawa lines the ball up to serve, watching the other team, analysing their positions. "Where should I hit?" he thinks to himself. This is his chance to take another set against Spain. If he misses this one, they will have lost the match 3-1, and it would've been his fault. He can't let that happen. The whistle blows, the ball goes up, and he's doing his jump-serve again, feeling the chains around his feet ready to snap taut like always.

But then amidst the bright lights, among the screaming crowd, he sees a flash of white and teal. Time seems to stop, and he floats in the air.

Was't that his Aoba Johsai volleyball jacket from high school? The one that he'd left behind at your house?

At first, he dismissed it quickly, thinking it was another die-hard fangirl who had one made or maybe even someone from his old team, because no way in hell could you be here right now watching him play when he'd walked out of your life and caused you so much pain and heartbreak one year ago. But then he saw the black purse, with a delicate pink floral pattern and gold highlights. The one he'd gotten for you on your birthday. He meets your wide eyes, your name is on his lips as he stares at your form.

But time moves again. And he grunts as his palm makes contact with the ball, making it fly into the corner and the other team turns and gapes at where surely there was a dent in the ground from the impact. They'd taken back a set, the score was 2-2. His team cheers wildly around him. The commentators rapidly fire off about the service ace- something he hadn't been able to do for a long time.

He's still staring at you in mid-air, but then he falls, meets the ground, his legs give out from under him and everything blurs.

You were good to me

You were good to me, yeah

You stare, lips parted as he collapses, slightly rising from your seat from worry. Had his knee gotten any better from before? Would he still be okay? Surely everything he'd worked for couldn't just end from a fall... but you realised if it did, it would've been your fault. You were, after all, the one who distracted him. Something punches you in the gut as you watch him get up, and he looks at you, the expression on his face one of pure shock and something you can't quite decipher. He keeps his eyes on yours as they shrug on his national sports jacket and carry him off, and you stare into his milky chocolate irises until the doors close behind him. Then you're pushing yourself through the crowd of seated anxious girls to find him again.

God only knows where our fears go

Hearts I've broke, now my tears flow

Oikawa finds himself in the hallway staring at the azure blue sky outside the window as a flock of birds soars past. The medics fuss over him, lifting his mildly sore leg and checking it once, twice, and he absentmindedly nods at their questions. There's a commotion at the door at the end of the hallway and he hears your muffled, strained voice. "No, please! I need to see him... you don't understand..." Eyes widening, he lifts himself up and hobbles over to the door at the end of the hallway, ignoring the protests of the baffled medics and guards. He puts his hand on the handle of the door and pushes, finding you arguing with a guard on the other side of the door. He hears his name from you, your voice giving him comfort. He smiles, albeit a broken one but still, a genuine smile, before he falls, his knee giving out again.

But this time, you're there to catch him.

You'll see that I'm sorry

Cause you were good to me

You were good to me

You hold Tooru as he sobs onto your shoulder. His tears cascade down his face as he clings to you, and he knows he doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve you. Why had you tried to find him, after he broke your heart a year ago? You realise you're crying too when your vision blurs and all you can sense is the warmth from his skin on yours, his smell filtering the air around you. You take a deep breath in, honey vanilla with slight mint curling into your nose. People awkwardly stand by as they watch the reunion, mindful of the emotions and rawness in the air but also aware of the need to relieve pressure from his leg a bit. Eventually, someone bites the bullet and Oikawa sits down against the wall with you on his right. "You came here from Japan." Tooru hoarsely whispers. "Why?"

Before you could answer, the door opens and his teammate pops his head in, taking note of the people standing uncomfortably around.

"Hey Tooru, are you gonna be able to play?" he speaks in Spanish. He takes sight of you, a girl he's seen somewhere before, sitting next to his friend, and pauses.

"Wait, isn't that the girl on your wallpaper? I thought you said- never mind." He carefully speaks in broken English.

"Anyways, coach says if you're still fine we can send you in." You blink as Tooru puts his arm around you, a pout evident on his face. "I'm pretty sure I'll be able to play (the medic nods along in agreement), just give me a few moments." he answers. His teammate hesitates, nods, and closes the door. Tooru turns his head and rests his head on your shoulder, his fluffy brown hair tickling your neck. You nearly want to cry at what his teammate just told said. "Oh, Tooru..."

"You still haven't answered the question," he tells you. "Iwa-chan must've told you that I left because you deserved more than someone who couldn't be here for you. I don't deserve you, y/n-chan. You deserve to be happy, and... I'm not the one." He tucks away your air behind your ear. "But now that you're here, I can't help but want to be selfish. I want us to be together. I still want you."

You can't help laughing quietly at him, the little pout forming on his face again. "Oh Tooru... you wanted me to be happy. And you thought leaving me so brashly would achieve that? You forgot one very, very important thing." You lean into his shoulder, and play with his calloused fingers.

And now I'm closing every door

Cause I'm sick of wanting more

"If I'm ever to be truly happy..." You tell him, shifting yourself so you're cupping his soft cheeks and looking into his chocolate eyes. "Then you are, absolutely, essential in my life." His heart leaps, soaring at your words. After all that time, you still...

You tut at the dreamlike, adorable expression on his face. "C'mon, Tooru. Don't cry on me now. You've still got a match to win, don't you?" He breaks himself out of his reverie as you lightly pinch his cheeks, and grins ear to ear as you begin to move back to the stands. "Wait, wait." He shrugs his volleyball jacket off his shoulders and hands it to you. "Wear this over that, I want everyone to know you're still mine." You rolls your eyes at his childish request, "Your fangirls are going to kill me, I swear," but comply nevertheless. He's still smiling as he watches his oversized jacket swish around at your mid-thigh as you walk towards the doors. Anything else could come after the match, but for now, this was good enough for him.

You were good to me

You were good to me, yeah

For the rest of that match, for the first time, Oikawa Tooru flies. They do eventually win, 3-2. He's never felt more ecstatic as he pulls you in happily, kissing all over your face and handing you his Most Valuable Player award as you giggle from his childlike antics. The reporters rapidly take note of everything and theres a collective groan from the gaggle of fangirls somewhere, but it's you and him both in your own little world.

Swear I'm different than before

I won't hurt you anymore

Life goes on. You fly back to Japan, with a promise that he would never shut you out again. Sure, you would've preferred it if he was next to you, but you called and messaged each other so frequently that you found you had little to worry about. In rare spaces of time, he flew back to Japan to meet family and friends before spoiling you on dates, decorating your house ("Hey, we need to retake this photo! I'm even better looking now!") or cuddling on the couch together. Every relationship had its downsides, and long-distance relationships were even more a pain, but you were more than ready to take the troubles on if it meant you could still see his smiling face through the messenger call at 1am in the morning.

And you knew this time, he wouldn't stop you from trying.

Cause you were good to me