#My brother made me promise to watch it with him

[itneverendshere]

lucky strike - brother bsf! rafe (blurb)

pairing: kelce's!sister x hockey!rafe warnings: none, fluff, flirting, yearning

The party was supposed to be fun. Emphasis on supposed to be.

Your brother had dragged you along, promising it would be “chill,” throwing out all his usual excuses—“It’ll be fun, you never go out, and besides, you know everyone there”—but you should’ve known better.

Now you were stuck in a house full of drunk college students, loud music, and—worst of all—a guy who wouldn’t leave you alone.

He’d introduced himself as Jake—or maybe it was Jack; you didn’t care—and you’d been polite at first. A quick smile, a couple of sentences before excusing yourself. But he didn’t get the hint. 

He was following you around like a lost puppy, trying to impress you with stories about his car and his “networking connections,” whatever the hell that meant. 

“Oh, yeah,” Jake was saying now, his voice raised to compete with the music. “They’re starting me at, like, six figures. But, you know, I told them I’d think about it.”

You sipped your drink to keep from rolling your eyes. “Wow, that’s… something.”

“So, anyway,” he was saying as you edged toward the hallway, “if you ever want to, like, grab dinner or something, I know a great spot. And If you ever want to come down to Florida, I could totally show you around. Take you out on my boat.”

You nodded absently, scanning the room for an excuse, but your brother was nowhere in sight, and every doorway seemed blocked by a crowd.

“You and me? A weekend getaway?”

You froze, brainstorming for an excuse. “Oh, uh—”

Then you saw him in all his glory, Rafe Cameron.

He was leaning against the wall near the kitchen, a drink in one hand, his other casually tucked into his pocket. His messy blond hair looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of some ridiculous sports magazine. He looked completely at ease, this party—and everyone in it—existed solely for his entertainment.

You hated that he was your only option right now.

Rafe Cameron was your brother’s best friend since diapers, your public enemy number one on your worst days. Your stomach did that stupid little thingy it always seemed to do when you saw him, and you hated it.

You cut Jake or Jack off, raising your hand. “I need to go—uh—find my boyfriend.”

Jake blinked. “Your what?”

“My boyfriend,” you repeated, internally cringing at the word and already walking through the crowd toward Rafe. “He’s waiting for me.”

Ugh. You groaned internally. You don’t like Rafe. You don’t even think about Rafe. 

“Cameron,” you said when you reached him, grabbing his sleeve. “Need your help.”

Rafe turned, his blue eyes looking down to where your hand gripped his arm. Then he looked back up at you, his lips curving, “Didn’t think I’d ever hear you say that.”

 “I’m serious.”

His smirk widened. “Even better. What’s going on, princess?”

You glared at him. “Some guy won’t leave me alone. He’s been following me around all night, and I need you to—”

“Who?”

You shook your head quickly, knowing that look in his eyes meant trouble and black eyes. “We’re not doing the ‘caveman throws a punch’ thing. I just need you to pretend to be my…” You paused, the word catching in your throat. “Pretend to be my…”

Rafe tilted his head, watching you squirm. “Your what?”

You shuddered at the thought. “My…boyfriend.”

His smirk was back in full Cameron force. “What was that?”

You crossed your arms in defiance, refusing to let him win this. “You heard me.”

“I heard you,” Rafe nodded, leaning closer, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Just didn’t think I’d live to see the day you called me your boyfriend.”

“Fake boyfriend,” you clarified through gritted teeth. “Don’t make this weird, Cameron.”

But it already was, because just standing this close to him made your heart pound in a way you refused to acknowledge.

“Always knew you had a thing for me, but this? You want me sooooo bad,” he drawled out, tongue kissing his teeth as he pinched your arm.

“Wipe that stupid smirk off your face before I do,” You shoved his touch away, heat creeping up your cheeks. “Help me.”

Rafe’s grin widened, and he opened his mouth to say something dumb—but then Jake appeared at the end of the hallway, his face lighting up when he spotted you.

“There you are!” Jake called, heading straight for you.

“Shit,” you muttered, grabbing Rafe’s beefy arm again. “Just follow my lead.”

Jake stopped in front of you, giving Rafe a once-over. “Hey,” he said, clearly confused. “Who’s this?”

You swallowed, forcing yourself to say the word again. “This is my… uh, my boyfriend.”

The second it left your mouth, you wanted to crawl into a hole. It sounded so fake, so awkward—and Rafe wasn’t helping, because you could feel him staring at you with that stupid smug grin.

“Hey,” Rafe cut in smoothly, draping an arm over your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You lookin’ for my girl?”

Jake blinked, “Oh. I, uh—I didn’t realize—”

“Yeah,” Rafe patronized, “You wouldn’t.”

Then Jake's stupid eyes widened, “Wait… you’re Rafe Cameron.”

Rafe’s smirk grew impossibly smug. “That’s me.”

Jake’s mouth fell open. “Holy shit. Dude, you’re the Rafe Cameron. Hockey star. I watched your game against Michigan last month—you were insane.”

Rafe shrugged, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Appreciate it, man.”

You wanted to die, maybe strangle him.

Jake turned to you, his tone almost accusing. “You didn’t tell me your boyfriend was Rafe Cameron.”

You laughed nervously, trying not to grimace. “Yeah, uh,… it’s not exactly my favorite topic.”

The second the words left your mouth, Rafe’s fingers pinched your waist—just enough to make you jolt—and he leaned down, his lips brushing against your hair.

“Careful, princess,” he murmured, “You’re gonna hurt my feelings.”

You clenched your fists at your sides, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Jake, oblivious to your little argument, kept gushing. “Seriously, man, you’re a beast. I don’t know how you pull off those plays—”

Jake was too busy gushing over Rafe, throwing out stats and plays like he’d memorized Rafe’s entire career. And Rafe, of course, was eating it up, nodding along like he wasn’t already aware of how good he was.

That’s when you felt it—Rafe’s fingers, toying with the hem of your top.

Your breath hitched, and you glanced up at him, but he was still focused on Jake, his face the picture of calm confidence.

“Yeah,” He was saying, his fingers moving tenderly against your skin. “That Michigan game was wild. You should’ve seen her, though.” He tilted his head toward you. “Biggest fan in the stands. Couldn’t take her eyes off me.”

Your jaw dropped. “Are you—”

“Yeah?” Jake said, interrupting you. “That’s awesome. Must be crazy, dating someone like him.”

You clenched your fists, your irritation bubbling over. “Oh, it’s insane.”

Rafe chuckled under his breath, his fingers teasing your side one last time before Jake finally walked away, muttering something about grabbing another drink.

The second he was out of earshot, you shoved Rafe’s arm off you and glared up at him. “You’re fucking insufferable.”

He grinned, his blue eyes sparkling. “Dial down the foreplay, you’re gonna make me hard.”

This motherfucker, oh my god.

You stared at him, your jaw nearly unhinged from the sheer nerve. “Are you—did you just—” You couldn’t finish the sentence, the words vanishing in your throat as your face burned hotter than the party’s overcrowded living room.

Rafe, on the other hand, looked entirely unbothered, leaning against the wall like he hadn’t just said the most inappropriate thing imaginable. “What?” he drawled, his smirk practically glowing in the dim light. “You started it, calling me your boyfriend. I’m just playing the part.”

You took a step back, glaring at him like you could kill him with sheer willpower, “How does anyone ever put up with you, oh my god.”

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he quipped, his smile widening as he reached out to tug lightly on the hem of your sleeve.

You smacked his hand away. “If you keep this up, I’ll go back out there and tell Jake—or Jack, or whoever—that I was lying.”

“Please,” Rafe scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You're not gonna subject yourself to that human LinkedIn profile just to spite me.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could retort, a group of partygoers passed by, a couple of them glancing your way and whispering. One of them—a girl in a glittery crop top—stopped to wave at Rafe, her voice eager.

“Oh my god, Rafe! I didn’t know you were here!”

Rafe gave her a polite nod, his hand sliding back to your waist, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to make your stomach go stupid.

“Yeah,” he said, his tone easy. “Just hanging out with my girl.”

Your head snapped up, your eyes wide with disbelief, “Dude.”

What the fuck is wrong with you?! you wanted to scream, but the girl was already nodding, her smile faltering as she glanced at you.

“Right. Cool. Um, see you around, I guess,” she said before walking off with her friends.

The second she was gone, you shoved Rafe’s hand off you again. “You’re having way too much fun with this shit.”

“Can you blame me?” he asked, face softening into something that almost—almost—resembled genuine amusement. “This is the most fun I’ve had at one of these parties in weeks.”

“Glad I could provide you with some entertainment,” you said dryly.

“Don’t sell yourself short, princess,” he said, his voice dipping slightly as his eyes met yours. “You’re the highlight of my night.”

You forced yourself to scoff pretending his sweet nothing’s didn’t hit home.

“I know you, I’m not falling for your little hockey player charm offensive.”

“Who says it’s an offensive?” he asked, tilting his head. “Maybe it’s just a… friendly check.”

“Friendly?” you repeated, arching an eyebrow. “You don’t do friendly.”

He shrugged, his fingers brushing against your wrist in a way that felt entirely too deliberate. “Maybe you just bring it out of me.”

“Why the fuck is everyone saying my sister is dating my best friend?! Hello??”

Your entire body went rigid as Kelce bulldozed through the crowd, looking thoroughly scandalized. He stopped dead in front of you, his eyes darting between you and Rafe with full-on soap opera disbelief.

Rafe, the insufferable fucking bastard, didn’t even try to keep it together—he straight-up bent over laughing, one hand braced on his knee, the other holding his drink like it was sacred.

“Oh, shit,” he wheezed, grinning wide enough to blind someone. “This just keeps getting better.”

You wanted to drop dead right there in the beer-sticky hallway.

Kelce blinked at you, bewildered. “What. The. Actual. Hell?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” you snapped, glaring at Rafe as he tried (and failed) to recover, his chest still shaking with laughter.

“Yeah?” Kelce shot back, jabbing a thumb toward the swarm of gossiping partiers. “Because everyone’s saying it looks like you two are a thing.”

“We are not a thing,” you hissed, making a couple of people nearby glance over. “He was just helping me ditch some guy who wouldn’t take a hint.”

Rafe, still grinning like a jackass, finally straightened up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice was warm, low, “Your sister couldn’t resist me.”

You whipped around, shoving his chest hard enough that he stumbled back a step, laughing like this was the most fun he’d had in years. “Oh, shut the fuck up.”

Kelce’s jaw practically unhinged. “Wait. Are you actually into her?”

Rafe tilted his head, pretending to think it over. “Depends—am I allowed to?”

Your eyes narrowed to murderous slits. “I will put you in the ground, Cameron.”

Rafe’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, sending a traitorous shiver down your spine. “God, you’re mean,” he drawled, clearly enjoying himself. “Kinda hot, though.”

Kelce gagged dramatically. “Nope. Nope. I’m out. Y’all are sick.”

“Glad we agree,” you muttered as Kelce stormed off, throwing his hands up like you were a lost cause.

The second he was gone, you turned on Rafe, stabbing a finger into his chest. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” he echoed, grinning like he’d just been handed front-row seats to your breakdown. “You’re the one who called me your boyfriend, princess.”

You scowled. “Yeah, clearly that was a mistake.”

Rafe’s eyes gleamed, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse hitch. “Nah. Best decision you’ve made all night.”

You flipped him off. “I’m fake-dumping your ass immediately.”

Rafe had that look on his face—the one that made you want to throw something at him. A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned casually against the wall, all cocky confidence and oh-aren’t-I-just-so-fucking-charming energy.

“You know,” he started, dragging the words out like he was savoring them, “this kinda reminds me of when you had that crush on me when we were, what, twelve?”

Your head snapped toward him so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He grinned wider, eyes gleaming with delight. “You used to follow me around like a lovesick puppy at Kelce’s games. Always sitting in the front row, twirling your hair like you were in some rom-com.”

You made a noise halfway between a scoff and a snarl. “Excuse me? I did not have a crush on you.”

“Yeah? So you weren’t the one who told Kelce I had ‘pretty eyes’?”

He did, in fact, have pretty eyes, so what....

Your face went up in flames. “That was a joke.”

“Sure it was,” he teased, leaning in just enough to make you want to run for the hills. “You totally didn’t write my name in your notebook, either, right?”

Your jaw dropped. “How do you even know about that?!”

“Kelce found it last month and showed me,” Rafe said, completely unapologetic. “Heart doodles and everything. Thought you were writing love songs for me or something.”

“I hate you,” you growled, your face now hotter than the sun.

“You loved me,” he quipped, biting back a laugh. “Or at least your little self did. Cute.”

“I’m going to strangle Kelce.”

Rafe smirked, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust off his sleeve. “Too late to deny it now, princess. I’m your first love, and you just fake-dated me tonight. Full circle.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“Yeah,” he drawled, eyes dancing, “but you’re still blushing.”

“I will kick you in the balls, Cameron.”

“Careful,” he warned, “You’re gonna fall for me all over again.”

[syndrossi]

wait we can request again? shit then what do i have to do to get a new scene from Reversal?

what about a scene in which Jon wants to attend sword lessons and Daemon, who is confused but agrees because who is he to deny his daughter a valuable skill set that their ancestor Visenya possessed? and because Viserys obviously goes “no” since she’s a girl, we get to see Daemon go “oh fine, she would’ve been taught by Cole anyway” and proceeds to secretly teach her himself. Rhaegar can join too.

that, or a scene where they pick their new names and we get to read Daemon’s POV and his thoughts on their choices. (i think this may be the easier, quicker scene to write)

also who do i have to bribe to make Jon’s name Daenerys— is it Daenerys or is it Aemma— i will fight, i will beg, i will cry, mostly beg because it’s all that i can do atm, i’m all cried out rn but i’ll do it🥺

side note: it’s thursday and i had pizza, it made me think of resonant.

Mercy! I still have 30ish NYE prompts sitting in my inbox, including at least one of yours from that time! 😂

I love your pizza Thursdays that I often live vicariously through. I'm sure you don't do it every week, but next Thursday should be a Resonant Thursday at least!

This time we are keeping it SHORT FOR REAL...ish.

x~x~x

“—nor should we be left defenseless, should someone try to take us again,” his daughter said with an edge to her voice that told Daemon she still was haunted by their captivity.

“The hunting knives our mother gave us are no child’s toy,” Rhaella added softly, gaze flicking to the clench of his jaw at the mention of his wife. “She promised that we would learn to defend ourselves.”

Daemon fully intended to be the one defending, but for all his daughters’ carefully crafted arguments, he did not object to them learning both the sword and bow. Viserys might remind him that they were princesses, not princes in skirts, but Dark Sister had been wielded by Visenya before him. The women of their family had as much right to know the sword.

“First,” Daemon said, “I would see what you are capable of.”

He did not hold high expectations, though he knew his daughters well enough to anticipate both discipline and determination. But they exchanged a joyful glance and disappeared into their bedchamber to change into their riding trousers. Daemon could not help but smile as he led them to the training yard and watched them eagerly don the padded training armor.

His nephews did not train until the afternoon, which meant the yard was blessedly free of Cole’s dour presence. His daughters’ presence did earn more than a few curious looks from the various knights and guardsmen training in the yard, and they grew more curious still as Daemon tested his daughters.

They have been taught before. 

He did not know whether to be upset or grateful. Their movements were clumsy at times, but it was a clumsiness born of disuse and growing limbs, and over the course of the hour, most of the rust had gone, revealing the deadly blades beneath.

They are far better than my brother’s sons. Better than many squires he had seen. Aemma was quick and ruthless, her eyes narrowed in concentration at all times. Rhaella was more graceful, with nigh impeccable form, though she lacked her sister’s instinct for blood.

He would have been proud of their skill, had they been sons, and his pride was no lesser for the fact that they were daughters instead. The knights in the yard lined the fences, shouting encouragement with each bout, and cheering the princesses on as they drilled against one another.

The interest did not abate when the bows were brought out. His daughters seemed more than a little disappointed at having to use Aemond’s bow for its lighter draw, but after adjusting, it became clear that their training in the Vale had included the bow as well. That was less surprising, given Rhea’s love of hunting.

After both had finished with their targets—with Rhaella edging her sister out on accuracy—Aemma called for a moving target. An apple was tossed from their audience, passing in front of the targets, and his eldest pivoted to loose an arrow at it, pinning it to the target to a roar of appreciation.

[scoobydoodean]

If you had to pick five moments that you think best summarize Dean as a character… What would they be? Like, either each individually makes you go “yup THAT’S the character” or as a whole they male up the most of his facets?

Oooh that’s difficult. Hmm. HMMM.

1.02 "I figure our family's so screwed to hell... maybe we can help some others"

"Saving people, hunting things, the family business" etc etc yeah. But ALSO we often ignore that this whole conversation is centered around not letting desperation for revenge consume you, and Dean's care for others including strangers—wanting to keep them from experiencing the traumas that he has.

DEAN Listen to me. You've gotta prepare yourself. I mean, this search could take a while, and all that anger, you can't keep it burning over the long haul. It's gonna kill you. You gotta have patience, man. SAM How do you do it? How does Dad do it? DEAN looks over at HALEY and BEN. DEAN Well for one, them. I mean, I figure our family's so screwed to hell, maybe we can help some others. Makes things a little bit more bearable.

4.22 "Stepford Bitch in Paradise"

This one is a good representation of Dean's refusal to back down, caring about the whole world, and arguing fiercely to protect it, as well as his ability to stir up the care and love in others.

DEAN Destiny? Don't give me that "holy" crap. Destiny, God's plan... It's all a bunch of lies, you poor, stupid son of a bitch! It's just a way for your bosses to keep me and keep you in line! You know what's real? People, families -- that's real. And you're gonna watch them all burn? CASTIEL What is so worth saving? I see nothing but pain here. I see inside you. I see your guilt, your anger, confusion. In paradise, all is forgiven. You'll be at peace. Even with Sam. DEAN You can take your peace... and shove it up your lily-white ass. 'Cause I'll take the pain and the guilt. I'll even take Sam as is. It's a lot better than being some Stepford bitch in paradise. This is simple, Cas! No more crap about being a good soldier. There is a right and there is a wrong here, and you know it.

12.22 "I hate you and I love you"

Just a very good summary of Dean's childhood experiences and how they have effected him, and how he (yet again) stirs up the care and love in others (and pulls people from mind control over and over via the power of love <3)

I hate you. You lied to me. I was a kid. You promised you'd keep me safe. And then you make a deal with Azazel. Yeah, it saved Dad's life, but I'll tell you something else that happened. Because on November 2, 1983, old Yellow Eyes came waltzing in to Sammy's room, because of your deal. You left us. Alone. 'Cause Dad was just a shell. His perfect wife? Gone. Our perfect Mom, the perfect family... was gone. And I... I had to be... more than just a brother. I had to be a father and I had to be a mother, to keep him safe. And that wasn't fair. And I couldn't do it. And you wanna know what that was like? They killed the girl that he loved. He got possessed by Lucifer. They tortured him in Hell. And he lost his soul. His soul. All because of you. All of it was because of you. I hate you. I hate you. And I love you. 'Cause I can't – I can't help it. You're my Mom. And I understand...'cause I have made deals to save the ones I love more than once. I forgive you. I forgive you. For all of it. Everything. On the other side of this, we can start over, okay? You, me, Sam. We can get it right this time. But I need you to fight. Right now, I need you to fight. I need you – I need you to look at me, Mom. I need you to really look at me and see me. Mom, I need you to see me. Please.

5.22 "Well, then I ain't gonna let him die alone"

Bobby and Cas try to convince Dean that they've lost and there's no point in trying to reach Sam.

BOBBY: You just don't give up. DEAN: It's Sam! CASTIEL: If you couldn't reach him here, you're certainly not gonna be able to on the battlefield. DEAN: Well, if we've already lost, I guess I got nothing to lose, right? CASTIEL: I just want you to understand – the only thing that you're gonna see out there is Michael killing your brother. DEAN: Well, then I ain't gonna let him die alone.

Dean pulls up at Stull right in front of two archangels who could blow him to smithereens, blasting music from his car and making an obnoxious scene. THEN Cas and Bobby show up right behind him (just as Michael says "you are not a part of the story!") Dean's refusal to give up defies causality, and his attitude is infectious.

While Dean is being beaten to death, he's saying,

DEAN: Sam, it's okay. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you. I'm not gonna leave you.

Dean's refusal to abandon his brother fills Lucifer with jealous rage making his control slip, while simultaneously bringing dozens of memories of traveling with Dean to Sam's mind helping him surface and take control.

3.10 "I didn't deserve what he put on me"

I have trouble picking a 5th because there's so many different directions I could go (Dean and Cas in the Crypt, Dean reusing to abandon Cas in Purgatory, Dean in the cemetery in 2.20 crying over John's grave, Dean's "I'm not mad I'm worried" from "Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets" or the similar scene in "The Future", Dean convincing Chuck and Amara to make up, Dean refusing to give into Chuck's writing and kill Jack, Dean telling Chuck "We will never give you the ending you want", etc).

I think I have to go with 3.10 "Dream A Little Dream of Me" because it summarizes a lot of Dean's intrusive thoughts and his overactive sense of responsibility and guilt, identifies the origin of those feelings, connects all of it to his depression and suicidality, and then circles back to the fact that he knows deep down that he doesn't deserve to feel this way, that he's not a tool for others to use, that he is his own person, and that he deserves to live.

DREAM DEAN I mean, you're going to hell and you won't lift a finger to stop it. Talk about low self-esteem. Then again, I guess it's not much of a life worth saving, now is it? DEAN Wake up, Dean. Come on, wake up. DREAM DEAN I mean, after all, you've got nothing outside of Sam. You are nothing. You're as mindless and obedient as an attack dog. DEAN That -That's not true. DREAM DEAN No? What are the things that you want? What are the things that you dream? I mean, your car? That's Dad's. Your favorite leather jacket? Dad's. Your music? Dad's. Do you even have an original thought? No. No, all there is is, "Watch out for Sammy. Look out for your little brother, boy!" You can still hear your Dad's voice in your head, can't you? Clear as a bell. DEAN Just shut up. DREAM DEAN I mean, think about it ... all he ever did is train you, boss you around. But Sam .... Sam he doted on. Sam, he loved. DEAN I mean it. I'm getting angry. DREAM DEAN Dad knew who you really were. A good soldier and nothing else. Daddy's blunt little instrument. Your own father didn't care whether you lived or died. Why should you? DEAN Son of a bitch! My father was an obsessed bastard! All that crap he dumped on me, about protecting Sam! That was his crap. He's the one who couldn't protect his family. He- He's the one who let Mom die. – who wasn't there for Sam. I always was! He wasn't fair! I didn't deserve what he put on me. And I don't deserve to go to Hell!

[vorecaptions]

A Father Tradition - pt 1

(dedicated to @conchoronzon)

“You’re perfect,” John murmured, his voice low and impossibly smooth as he ran his fingers over the taut, rippling muscles of his son’s chest. “Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve molded you into… it’s all here. In you.”

Ethan, broad-shouldered and chiseled, his body a testament to years of rigorous training, looked up at his father with a mixture of pride and unease. John’s touch was warm, almost possessive, and it sent a shiver down Ethan’s spine. “Thanks, Dad,” he said, flexing unconsciously under his father’s scrutiny. “I’ve been pushing hard. The new routine… it’s working.”

“It’s more than working,” John replied, his lips curling into a sharp, predatory grin. “You’re a god among men, Ethan. And soon… soon… all of this will be eternal.” His hand lingered on Ethan’s chest, his fingers pressing just a little too hard, as if he were testing the firmness of the flesh beneath.

Ethan frowned, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean, eternal?”

John’s grin widened, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You’ll see.”

---

John sat in his bedroom. The walls were lined with photographs—his sons, all of them. Ethan, muscular and confident, Brad, agressive and dominant, Lucas, lean but defined, his body honed to perfection. And then there were the others, their faces frozen in time, their bodies now a part of him. He traced a finger over the frame of a photo, his mind drifting back to the deal he’d made centuries ago.

The devil had been… persuasive. The promise of eternal youth, of power beyond measure, had been too tempting to resist. And so, John had become a pred, a man with the ability to consume others and absorb their strength, their vitality, their very essence. It was a gift, he told himself. A blessing. The key to perfection.

But perfection required sacrifice.

John leaned back, his gaze falling to the mirror on the wall. Even now, centuries later, he was handsome. Middle-aged, with a jawline that could cut glass and a body that rivaled the best of them. But time was a cruel mistress, and even the devil’s bargain had its limits. He could feel it—the faintest whisper of age creeping in, the subtle ache in his joints, the first signs of wrinkles around his eyes.

He needed to feed.

And Ethan… Ethan was ready.

---

John had always been a manipulator. It was his gift, his art. He could weave words like silk, wrapping them around his sons until they were bound to him, willing to do anything for his approval. Ethan had been no different. From the moment he was born, John had molded him, shaping him into the perfect vessel. The perfect meal.

It had started innocently enough—encouragement to lift weights, to eat right, to push himself beyond his limits. But it hadn’t taken long for John to introduce supplements, then steroids, always with the promise of greatness. And Ethan, eager to please, had followed without question.

Now, as John watched his son flex in the mirror, he felt a pang of pride. Ethan was everything he’d hoped for—strong, virile, with a body that radiated power. But beneath that pride was something darker, something hungry.

“Why don’t we take this to the next level?” John had said one evening, his tone casual, as if he were suggesting a new workout routine. “You’ve already surpassed your brothers in every way. But there’s a final step… a way to make all of this permanent.”

Ethan had hesitated, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

John had smiled then, his eyes gleaming. “Trust me, son. By the time we’re done, you’ll be everything I’ve ever wanted.”

---

Now, here they were.

John leaned in closer, his breath warm against Ethan’s skin. “You’ve always trusted me, haven’t you?”

Ethan nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Of course, Dad.”

“Good.” John’s hand moved to the back of Ethan’s neck, his grip firm but not painful. “Because this… this is where you become more than just my son. This is where you become me.”

Ethan’s eyes widened, confusion and fear flickering in their depths. “What are you—”

But before he could finish, John’s mouth opened impossibly wide, his jaw unhinging like a snake’s. Ethan staggered back, his muscles tensing as he tried to pull away, but John’s grip was like iron. With a speed that belied his age, John surged forward, his mouth engulfing Ethan’s head in a single, fluid motion.

Ethan’s scream was muffled, his body convulsing as John’s throat expanded, swallowing him whole. Muscle by muscle, inch by inch, John devoured his son, his body swelling with each gulp. The room was filled with the sound of wet, rhythmic swallowing, the air thick with the scent of sweat and fear.

And then… it was over. John took hours to finish consuming Ethan, and the process was always a delicious agony. He could feel Ethan inside him, screaming to be free, fear and adrenaline flooding his veins, now John's bloodstream as well. The muscles being redistributed to his own older frame, remaking him, rejuvenating his flesh. He could feel his face changing, being more handsome by taking Ethan traits for himself. And that wasnt the best part, the boy had a good 8 inches of man meat, that mass was added to his own schlong as well, enlarging, swelling his virility further, now shy of 11 inches of superior white cock. And his testicles, the literal family jewels that made all this possible to continue, the fille themselves with the essence, the potential Ethan had as a male, he was so fucking fertile, but now it was taken, harvested into his father's large balls, making them even more fertile. John looked in pride of how much he got, the next woman he breeds shall make an even more perfect male, possibly many, his seed became so concentrated he was sure he could make as many boys as he could get his cock into a pussy. And that was a lot.

John stood tall, his body rippling with new power. His muscles were thicker, more defined, his skin taut and smooth. He ran a hand over his chest, a low, satisfied groan escaping his lips. Perfect.

He glanced at the mirror, his reflection staring back at him with a smug, self-satisfied grin. “Forever young,” he murmured, his voice deeper, richer than before. “Forever perfect.”

But as he turned away from the mirror, a flicker of something passed through his eyes—something dark, something hungry. There were still sons to mold, still sacrifices to make. And he… he would never stop. Not until he was everything. Not until he was God.

“Who’s next?”

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

YOU ONE OF THEM QUEERS???

Yandere Conner Kent x Weird black!reader

So what if you invited your brother's best friend to watch One Piece with you? He said he never had! What kind of psycho has never watched One Piece? You thought, but then again, the psycho was a test tube baby; he wouldn't know about the amazing run of Disney Channel back in the day, how it used to be, or how hyped everyone was for the Kaido fight with Luffy, or understand the cultural significance of a DBZ movie in theaters. You had to show this little lab rat the greatness of TV. Sure, he knows, but he doesn't know more. I mean, he never rushed home to watch Toonami after school. You had to teach him, and well, your little guinea pig was eager to know. Connor wanted to get closer to you in every way possible—be your best friend, be your favorite superhero, maybe even boyfriend if you catch the hints he's dropping. No, he doesn't just want to play Smash Bros; he wants you guys to be more than tag team buddies, but you'll only see him as something friendly. He calls you "babe," and you hit him with a "bro," you're breaking the poor boy's heart. He holds your waist; you think it's just a friendly gesture. He leans his head on your shoulder, smelling the cocoa butter you spread in your dreads and how it sticks to anything he wears. But to you, "Awe, the little guinea pig is sleepy," you teased, and this was the night you invited him over to the mansion. I mean, there's literally an entertainment room; it would be a shame not to watch the best story created by my man on a freaking projector!

"Wow, you're early; the popcorn ain't even poppin'!" you joked, a coy little smile on your face.

"I like being on time, babe," he smirked back, entering the mansion. "Hey, no boots, mister! This floor is hardwood, and I know you walk around in mud!" you warned, but there was still a playful edge to it.

“Ugh, babe, buy me a drink first before you see my feet!” Conner said with a big grin, and you made a fake gagging sound, causing the two of you to laugh. You took him by the hand and pulled him to the entertainment room.

"So how far are you in One Piece?" you asked. You forced him to watch it, but you couldn't call it force, because he watches it with you, telling him to listen and obey whatever you say. "Don't watch the movie; it's a waste of money." He was looking forward to it, but if you hate it, he hates it too. "Yuck, I hate the comic writer; he retcons almost everything if he can't fit it into a plot." If it's that bad, he won't read their comics.

"This fandom is pretty toxic, but come on, the merch is amazing! I mean, look at these MHA pins; they're too cute!" If you like those pins on your bag so much, then he'll wear a Todoroki pin on his leather jacket to make you smile.

You sat with Conner in the theater; it was the whole Cake Island arc. You were already on Wano, but Conner was new to the game, so you didn't mind going a couple of arcs back for him. His head was laid gently on your shoulder; you felt him sniff you and nuzzle his nose into your neck, which made you giggle.

"Dude, quit coming in. Try to pay attention; this is important for later arcs," you always say, but you're way more important to him.

"You say that every time," Conner huffed.

"Cause it is!" you gave a half-hearted laugh.

You looked down at him, and for some reason, the glowing light of the projector made you look stunning. The blue light cascading on your dark skin made you look so surreal, as if you weren't from this planet.

"Come on, Conner, just pay attention for a minute. I promise it'll be worth your while," you said softly. It felt so intimate, like you guys were in an actual movie theater, and you were like.

"Shhh, baby! We can't make out right now; the fight scene is happening." You're such a dense dork, but oh, it just makes it even better.

"Yeah, I'll pay attention." News flash: he won't. He'll be too busy staring at you and how your face lights up during the fights. His super hearing means he'll still listen, but he'd rather watch you, and maybe later he'll watch a YouTube video explaining the arc.

"God, I wish I were as cool as Sanji. He looks so wicked in that red cape! You know, you should really get a cape like that. I know your whole thing is leather jackets, but come on, you have to try out red. Plus, I heard it makes a person's eyes..." You trailed off as you turned to look at Conner, who had his full attention on you, and, God, it made you blush a slight purple.

"Shit, I'm rambling again. I know you don't want to hear me yap. Good, I feel like such a skeeze-"

"No, you're not," he said softly but firmly. It made you giggle like a schoolgirl.

"What?~" you said, nervously

"I like your voice a lot, baby." Now, when he says it like that, it doesn't feel like a cute little nickname he came up with.

"And I like it especially when you talk about shit you like. You're so passionate about it; you don't see that with regular people. You're so genuine," he continues, getting closer. You turn away, covering your face. God, you're such a dork. He just wants to take you right here and now, but that would be unlawful.

"So what, you think I'm cool or something?" You laughed with a half-hearted smirk.

"I think you're amazing, babe," he answered, grabbing your face to look at him, and you laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. This made Conner laugh too.

"I'm trying to be smooth, and you're laughing at me!" Conner chuckled.

"Smooth? Yeah, right! You're as smooth as the acne on my forehead!" Then you both burst out laughing, your foreheads connecting. "Goofy-ass motherfucker!" you said in between giggles.

"Come on, baby, you know I've moved some; they say I've got rizz~" You pushed Test Baby to the side, snorting.

"Who the hell lied to your bum ass?" you snickered.

"No one!" He protested.

"Uh-huh," you pulled yourself closer to him, wrapping your long arms around his neck. "You have no game."

"You just don't want to admit I'm cooler than you," he quipped.

"In your clone dreams," you snapped playfully.

"You're in my cloned dreams," he said, your face getting uncomfortably close; it made you laugh.

"That shit was corny as hell," and you and Conner giggled some more; he felt your touch ever so gently.

"Can I?"

"Can you?"

He then pressed his lips to yours, and Conner could have sweated as he ascended to another state of being. Your lips tasted like buttered popcorn and cheap soda—something he loved more than anything, especially if that flavor was you. He pulled you closer, his hands wrapping around your slim waist. Your hand was now placed on his cheek as you felt him slowly start to get on top of you, and you let him. And shit, who cares if you're kissing your brother's best friend? He should have called dibs by now.

You gasp for air, but Conner doesn't let you recover. He presses his lips against you hard this time, passionately. He has kissed a whole ton of people before, which gives him the experience you lack. You feel him suck on your tongue, and you whimper just a little, shivering. Is this how it feels to kiss? ‘Cause if it is, God fucking bless! You feel his gloved hand reach underneath your Wonder Man hoodie. You grab his arm and pull away. He hears the great Superboy whine like a puppy, and it makes you snicker just a little. Your hand that was on his cheek moves to his now swollen lips.

"Kon, pay attention; this part is important. This is when Luffy fights Katakuri, and we get to see his Devil Fruit," you whispered against his lips. Da fuck? You stopped good kissing and touching for an anime fight??

Your lucky he thinks your hot.

(Made this one while listening to chapple roan God I love that little lesbian)

[theinfinitedivides]

I WAS F*CKING RIGHT

[eimearkuopio]

I think every finite life has wheat and chaff. The moments that must happen for us to become our truest selves, the observations around which the spline is fitted in this specific iteration that defines the underlying truth in a close enough approximation that we can identify the infinite self (but I believe every butterfly was once many, many caterpillars, and dying in a cocoon only means being born a cocoon the next time around).

Maybe we have more people with disabilities for a few reasons. Maybe because we have already built a better world than the one we inherited, generation after generation after generation. Mine is the first generation to have it worse than their parents in so many ways; to have too much circus and not enough bread. Maybe our parents' generation doesn't understand that if they cling to the reins because they fear the children they raised won't care for them, or will care as little as they cared for their own parents, they are doing us and themselves a disservice.

My Nana and I are very alike. I have already identified and sought and received treatment for ailments she suffered from her whole life, and she was brainwashed into believing that her suffering was the price of her reward in the next life. She applied that principle to everyone she knew and loved. As long as she thought she was suffering the most, she didn't care how much she hurt other people, and she didn't want to understand better or do better. The treatments I need for my physical limitations may shorten my lifespan; but they also nearly made me kill myself at 28, and I suffered (AND CAUSED OTHERS TO SUFFER IN SPITE OF MY BEST EFFORTS) my entire life until maybe a month ago. I don't know if I am cured, but I know that I finally have a treatment that works for me. I think it will work for some of you.

Do no harm, but take no shit. I had to be wounded and to heal so that I could learn what was truly intolerable. Nana couldn't tolerate things either, but she never resolved the contradictions. She just came up with her iterations of the solutions.

My mother's younger sister died this summer. I didn't know her as well as some of my other relatives. We bonded a lot last summer. She wasn't part of the Church as it currently stands, and that is a tragedy, because she was the greatest livestock guardian sheepdog I have ever known. More feral than me, but that's because I have Nana's blood to temper Grandma's. Sometimes when you cross two breeds, you get the best of both worlds. Sometimes when you breed two species, you can get offspring, but it's sterile. I don't want to live in a zoo. I want to be free. I know that I will always be apart from the world, but I still want to be in it. I want to live before I die, and I want the same thing for all of you, and I think He did, too. I think that's why He sacrificed Himself.

Put down your cross. Please. He didn't want you to be crucified. That's why He let you crucify Him: so you could finally learn how to stop fighting each other. I don't think He expected you to take this long to really get the message, but it's not too late. He is a patient God.

[nartml]

My little brother

When I meet people without siblings I can't help but wonder whether they're lonely. And when they tell me that they aren’t, I'm always a bit surprised. I suppose I can understand it, but I can't say I truly get it. When I try to imagine myself in their shoes, I find that it's not exactly impossible, but it’s a very close thing.

My little brother is the most annoying person in this universe; but he really isn't. My little brother is the silliest person in this universe; but he really isn't. My little brother is the smartest person in this universe; but he really isn't. My little brother is the center of this universe.

But he really isn't.

He's only the center of mine.

He's so sensitive, and his eyes well up with tears when he's irritated, and he can be so whiney and picky, and he normally refuses to sit still, but as he climbs down the ladder of our bunk bed when he's freshly awake and groggy, he becomes adorably pliant.

My little brother thinks he's funny, but really, he only repeated something cool that I just said minutes or seconds ago. I swear his eyes sparkle when they see me, but he greets me with an insult that reminds me he's nine years old.

I almost said eight, but he hasn't been eight for a little while now and I find there's something terribly sad about that. He'll be ten years old next year, and I'll be pushing seventeen. I hate that as much as I look forward to it.

My little brother isn't old enough to want to listen to music during car rides, but he's old enough to discuss his current concerns about the state of the world with me, meticulously listening when I tell him that nothing is black and white, fixing the economy isn't as simple as becoming president and investing in new industries, and that he shouldn't be calling ancient Greek a useless subject just because everyone else is doing it.

I hate ancient Greek, but that’s because I find it tedious, not useless.

There's a difference, and it's important to me that he can think critically about these things.

My little brother is a uniquely clever person, and my conversations with him are routinely more stimulating than the ones I have with people my age.

My little brother is a curious thing, and he loves helping our grandpa in the dingy workshop situated directly underneath our grandparents’ house at our village. He spends most of his summer there, exhaustingly sweltering days stretching out endlessly, while he helps repair trucks and sucks in every scrap of information on farming with that brilliant sponge-like brain of his.

My little brother and I share a room. A room that has been ours for way longer than it ever was just my own. There's a desk next to mine, and it's hopelessly messy. The Ikea metal drawers I put together fit snugly under it. The closet doesn't have enough room for two people's clothes, so I have to put mine in boxes under my bed.

He's young, so we both have to go to bed early. He's always restless, so the bunk shakes as he tosses and turns, and I often snap at him to quit it. It's never completely dark, because I like it when light slips in from the small gap created by blinds not thoroughly closed, so I can see it clearly when he pokes his head out just enough to stick his tongue out at me.

And even though he prefers spending his day in the living room, he always gets smug when we argue about my leaving stuff on the desk that he rarely uses.

"This is my side of the room, Sia."

"And why should I care? You haven't used your side of the room in two months, you moron."

Honestly.

My little brother gets on my nerves, and sometimes I think about another me, in a universe where I haven't she hasn't met him, if only to picture the life of someone who doesn't have a built-in buddy to smack upright the head.

I hate my room in that universe.

I don't think the other me would really get it.

[the-kneesbees]

what is it about being an older sibling home alone with a younger sibling that's so overwhelming

[two-white-butterflies]

you'll live forever | part one

Description: Hwang In-ho joins the newest edition of Squid Games as Player 001. He sees the wife that he believes to be dead, and she cannot remember him.

Pairing: hwang in-ho/reader

A/N: I love Squid Games but let us not allow the capitalism-fication of this franchise to let us forget about the series' core message. capitalism sucks. Don't let violence desensitize us. Warning: idk if I used the word hyung correctly... multipart, comment to get tagged.

There were times when he'd wake up too early in the morning when the sun would greet his sensitive eyes, and he'd take a longer time to adjust to the brightness. In those rare moments, he sees the faint silhouette of your body, in those rare times, he even smells your cherry blossom perfume.

A sigh escapes his mouth as he sinks further into the sheets.

No matter how far his hands reach out - you won't be there to hold it.

"I have work tomorrow, I don't want to drink." A complaint escapes In-ho's mouth as his younger brother drags him to the nearest bar. In-ho has never been fond of spending time around other people, he'd much rather focus on work and getting that new promotion...

"Who said anything about drinking, hyung? You promised me that you'd make time to meet my girlfriend," the younger man rolls his eyes, dragging his brother to the center of the room where everyone was huddled near the television. Yep, soccer. "My schedule is cleared next Saturday," In-ho raises an eyebrow.

"Oppa!!" He hears someone scream at the top of their lungs, and his brother quickly makes her way towards the woman - greeting her with a hug. 'Young love,' In-ho thinks to himself, as he turns to look the other way - he suddenly catches a glimpse of someone.

You.

One.

His eyes trailed upwards, soaking in the sight of your face. He sees his future inside of your eyes, your perfect lips, the way you slowly begin to smile at him.

Two.

His gaze trails downwards as he sees the beautiful dress that you're wearing. He begins to praise the summer days, his eyes brushing against your creamy thighs, making his heart thump erratically.

Three.

"Hyung, this is my girlfriend Hee-jo and that's her friend. What was your name again?" His brother turns to look at you, and that smile deepens - your eyes meeting his. "My name's In-ho," he greets, and you mumble your name underneath your breath, shaking his hand.

"I'm sorry for tagging along Jun-ho. Hee-jo's dad made me come with," You blushed. In fear that you were intruding on the couple's personal moment. "Don't worry, you're like a sister to me." Jun-ho chuckles, sitting beside Hee-jo - leaving his brother with no choice but to sit beside you.

As Hee-jo raises her hand to drink a glass of beer, the entire bar erupts into a cacophony of cheers - South Korea has earned a point! Everyone stands up, but In-ho and you remain seated.

He smiles, watching you cheer for the motherland.

This particular memory has been burned into his mind. It only took him three seconds to see you and fall in love. "Yay," you giggled after the bartenders announced a round of drinks on the house. And after that encounter, fate seemed to smile on you both.

He remembers all the memories, the good and bad.

He also remembers your first date. It was the first winter of 2008. "You were born in 1976?" You raised an eyebrow, continuing to stuff your face with beef and lettuce. "Yes, is there something wrong with that?" He pretended to look offended.

'How old is she?' his eyebrows merged together.

He places a piece of kimchi inside his mouth. "How old are you?" He asks, cursing himself for forgetting to ask Jun-ho. "I was born in 1986. I honestly thought that you were much younger," you pouted.

'That would make her...' he calculates your age in the back of his mind. Ten years younger than him! He almost bites his tongue. "Is that going to be a problem?" He tilts his head. He definitely does not have a chance with someone like you, so beautiful and young.

"No, I like older men." You say bluntly. He almost spits out his drink, earning a giggle from you. "Ouch," he pretends to be hit. "So, what is it exactly that you do for work?" You ask with a smile, happily eating your meal. "I'm a police officer. I mostly do detective cases, what about you?" He inquires with interest.

"I just graduated. I work at the hospital." You informed.

"Are you a doctor?" He asks.

"No, I'm a nurse. It's always been a dream of mine," your eyes sparkle at the mention of making your dreams a reality. "Saving people," you quickly added. "- I guess you feel the same way too, since you're a police officer." You pointed out.

In-ho nods.

"I guess we are the same," he continues nodding. The entire date, the smile does not leave his lips...then,

One date, becomes two, becomes a thousand.

And finally, you are getting married to him.

"Hey, are you okay?" In-ho wraps his arms around you, preparing to meet your guests who are waiting in the reception. A deep sigh escapes your mouth. "I'm scared," you confessed. He wraps his arms around you, already aware of your fears.

"I mean everyone's going to be from your side of the family - and everyone's already talking about how I don't have parents." You chuckled nervously. All these ajummas won't stop talking about your personal life. In-ho has even contemplated not inviting them at all, but his father insisted. "Fuck them," he shakes his head, cupping your cheeks and pressing a tender kiss on your forehead.

"Let's enjoy our wedding," he smiles.

"I love you, In-ho." You repeated.

"I love you more," he responded.

He has always loved you more.

The beautiful days of the roses were over, he was only left with the darkness of the night. "ESRD," the doctor opened his mouth to speak. "How dangerous is it?" In-ho fights against that heaving feeling in the back of his throat.

"ESRD, End Stage Renal Disease is where the kidney can no longer support the body's needs. Most typically, I would recommend dialysis in moderate cases, but for severe cases, I strongly advise a kidney transplant. Your wife has a very common blood type, it will be easy to get a match, but that's not the problem." The doctor hesitates, In-ho recognizes the man to be one of your closest friends.

He hands In-ho a stack of files.

"It's expensive to pay for kidney transplants in this country. There is a waiting list for donors, but it'll take decades - there are some who sell their kidneys but it costs almost a billion won, and then there's the medicine, the operation, and the hospital. It takes a lot of money and she's one of my closest friends so please feel free to reach out to me. I can give a bit of what I have." The doctor rambles.

Whatever it takes, even when the cost is too high.

₩649,344,412

In-ho stares at the cost of your transplant, and he knows that he doesn't have that money. "We'll be fine," he tells himself.

"I need to borrow money," In-ho stares at the loanshark. The man looked like a typical gangster, with tattoos all over his forearm, and the smell of cigarettes looming over the air.

"The high and mighty detective borrowing money from someone like me?" The man teased. In-ho has been watching this man for the past two years, waiting for a mistake - the loanshark's #1 enemy, and now begging at his doorsteps for money. "10% interest rate, you pay every month." The loanshark emphasized.

His cronies laugh, and one of them continues to massage him.

"5% and you give me the cash today," In-ho demands, an air of authority radiating around him. "Borrow money from someone else," the man scoffs. "- I know about the money laundering." In-ho leans cooly on the chair, pretending to be confident about the situation.

"6%," the man clenches his jaw.

"You have yourself a deal," In-ho agrees.

After the secret meeting, the loanshark got arrested. In-ho was fired from his job - the superiors believed that he was bribed to hide the loanshark's secret. And then he got a call from a random number.

He played ddakji with a strangely well-dressed man in the middle of the subway station, and he joined the 28th Squid Games.

He won the 28th Squid Games.

He exited the black van, his white shoes meeting the dirty ground. He stands to look at your home, everyone is staring at him. "What are you doing here!" Hee-jo screams at him. "She's dead, you didn't even visit her, she's dead!" Hee-jo yells.

In-ho stares in shock, looking around him, to see different types of flowers scattered all over the porch. 'I have the money,' he wanted to say as tears spilled out of his irises. "How dare you come here." Hee-jo continued crying as her grip on his forearm tightens, hurting him.

"In-ho," his younger brother looks shocked to see him.

"I'm sorry," In-ho mumbles.

I'm sorry.

Comment to get tagged for PT. 2

[pureomi]

˚୨୧⋆｡🍓˚ in which: itoshi sae feels inferior to itoshi rin; even if for just a moment

includes: itoshi sae! x fem reader. 1.7k wc. fluff and humour (i promise the title is just dramatic). silly itoshi brothers but we love them. kind of ooc rin. includes some swearing but it's meant to be lighthearted <3

itoshi rin being sick was somehow more of an inconvenience to sae than it was to rin himself. his brother falling ill during his stay at sae’s place was already a disgusting coincidence. now, sae had to watch the unfortunate scenes unfold in front of him without a choice.

“woah, you’re burning up, rin,” your voice filled the room, holding the thermometer up to check it again, your voice laced with concern. rin only nodded, his quiet nature amplified by the haze of his fever. his half-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks made him look pitiful, almost drowsy.

to sae, it was nauseating how pathetic he looked—and worse, how effective it was.

“here, i got you medicine,” you said, helping him sit up from a lying position. “say ahh,” you sang sweetly, holding an ibuprofen capsule to rin’s lips and following up with a glass of water. he obediently parted his lips without a word, swallowing with a slight grimace but no complaints.

meanwhile, sae stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, scowling like a cat. rin must have it so damn good right now, he thought bitterly. crashed out on his bed, coughing like a mess, and worst of all—being pampered by you! him spreading germs all over the room was annoying enough, but the fact that you were doting on him? that was the real problem. sure, rin was sick, but did you have to treat him like royalty? it made sae feel almost childish how much it irked him. he knew you were just being you—kind, caring, and attentive. you weren’t a complete jerk like sae; of course, you’d take care of your boyfriend’s little brother.

but still, the sight of you meticulously adjusting rin’s pillow, tucking him snugly into the blanket you and sae usually shared, and gently brushing his hair out of his face like he was some spoiled kid—it was enough to drive sae up the wall. and if all that wasn't bad enough, now you were feeding him. feeding him.

rin opened his mouth again without so much as a sigh, his quiet compliance somehow making the scene even worse. sae glared as you dabbed the corner of rin’s mouth with a tissue, your expression always remaining soft and tender.

sae’s patience finally cracked as he scoffed. “pick up your own damn spoon,” he muttered under his breath.

you finally tore your gaze from rin to look at sae, laughing lightly. “it’s okay, sae. he’s sick. it doesn’t bother me.” it didn’t bother you, but it sure as hell bothered him. watching rin quietly accept another spoonful while sae fumed in the corner felt like a fresh insult every second.

“is the soup good? i tried my best,” you asked, giving the bowl another stir, awaiting his answer. your expression was so stupidly expectant that it effortlessly tugged at sae’s heart. rin, naturally, noticed the way his older brother’s jaw tightened from the corner of his eye, sae’s glare sharp enough to cut through steel—nonverbally screaming at him to be nice. rin wasn’t dumb—he knew better than to even consider giving a bad review of your cooking, especially with sae simmering in his spot by the door. and besides, the soup was actually delicious. “it’s good,” rin said, glancing at you. he took another spoonful for good measure, his movements deliberately slow, before adding, “it’s like our mom’s cooking.”

your face lit up instantly, a warm smile spreading across your lips. “i’m glad! good thing i asked for her recipe,” you shared, feeling accomplished. then, after a thoughtful pause, rin continued, “nii-chan should try some.” that last line, paired with the smallest, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at rin’s lips as he subtly shifted his posture toward sae, was so perfectly calculated it could’ve been a soccer play. rin didn’t even bother looking at his brother; he didn’t need to. the strained silence from sae’s corner was reward enough.

sae’s knuckles flexed against the doorframe, his patience wearing thinner than ever. try some? was rin actually inviting him to participate in this ridiculous display? no way in hell. you turned to sae with an inviting smile, completely oblivious to the brewing tension. “sae, you can have some if you want. i made more just in case…” his eyes flickered to you for a moment, and he opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a quiet, disgruntled, “i’m fine.”

rin didn’t look up, but his breath released ever so slightly faster—barely perceptible—like he was holding back laughter. and yet, rin wasn’t done being petty. he shifted slightly under the blanket, letting out a low sigh that seemed almost contemplative. “my back hurts.”

he murmured quietly, drawing out the words just enough to give them weight. his gaze flicked briefly to sae—long enough for him to notice—before turning to you with a soft, almost too-casual tone.

“i think i need a massage.”

before sae could even process the audacity, you were already setting the soup aside. “oh no! here, turn around—” “it’s fine,” sae absolutely snaps, stepping forward and snatching you up from the bed. he firmly guided you toward the door. “i got him. just bring a hot towel, will you?” “huh? oh, okay…” you blinked, a bit startled by his sudden intervention, but nodded. “if you need anything—anything—just call, okay?”

you shot rin a sympathetic look as you left, sae’s hand still firm on the small of your back until you were out the door.

the moment the door clicked shut, it was as if rin’s back was in pristine condition—like he was born with the perfect spine. he sat up straight, stretching with ease, his back suddenly requiring nothing but a headboard to rest on. sae responded with nothing except his expression, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. without a word, sae lifted his leg and dug a kick square to rin’s back. “what the fuck?!” rin hissed, flinching forward. “back pain, huh?” sae asked flatly, mocking his claims. “you’re too old to be attention-seeking, dumbass,” he said, giving him another shove with his foot. “go back to okaasan, since you like being babied so much.” “fuckin’ hypocrite,” rin kicked back with both legs, shoving sae’s leg away with surprisingly good strength for someone whose supposed bones were crackling just a second ago. “you’re the one fuming for her attention.” sae rolled his eyes, unable to accept the fact that he was probably right. “she’s my girlfriend, you fucker,” despite the possibility, he defends, his voice sharper now. “and yet here you are,” rin said smugly, leaning back against the headboard, “competing with a sick kid.” sae opened his mouth to retort but froze. damn it. he was competing. and somehow, rin was winning.

“here’s the towel—” you finally walked in, but not without sensing the tension hanging in the air. “did something happen?…” you quickly remarked, in a suspicious manner. “no.” both rin and sae responded in perfect unison, their tone almost too quick, too practiced. you couldn’t help but feel like you were the only one who wasn’t in on whatever strange, silent competition they were having.

“rin’s feeling better,” sae suddenly spoke out, his voice way too casual, as he bolted for the door. “call if you need anything.” “ah, okay…” you blinked, eyes lingering on him watching him go before shaking your head. maybe you did imagine that awkwardness.

you quickly turned your attention back to rin and handed him the towel. “you should get some rest. i’ll attend to some chores.” rin gave a quiet nod, already looking more comfortable with the towel draped over him. you gave him a smile, relieved to see him at least looking better, before stepping out of the room. you found sae in the kitchen, carefully dishing out a bowl of soup. the act was too adorable; you couldn’t resist. you snuck up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist in a gentle backhug. “what do you want?” sae asked, his voice trying to sound neutral, but you could hear the softness underneath it. you rested your chin on his shoulder, feeling his warmth, and smiled. “why are you sulking?” you asked softly, your tone full of concern. “i’m not,” sae replied, though the words came out more quietly than he intended, a little hint of frustration still there. you could feel his tension, so you just squeezed him a little tighter, letting the silence settle for a beat. “i know you’re worried,” you said, voice gentle and sincere, “but it’s okay. he’ll be fine. i’m making sure of it.” sae remained quiet for a moment, but there was something different in the way his shoulders eased under your touch. he wasn’t used to this kind of reassurance, but somehow it always worked.

there was always something disarming about your presence, the way you seemed to understand him without asking for anything in return. he didn’t quite know what to do with this feeling—this overwhelming need to just be close to you. without making any effort to break the hug, sae's hands gently moved to rest on yours. he turned slightly so he could look at you, his eyes soft and filled with something tender you couldn't quite place. there was a subtle shift as he leaned in, his breath warm against your skin. he paused, just for a moment, before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. the kiss lingered longer than usual, a silent reassurance in the simple gesture. “i’m not worried,” sae whispered firmly, trying his best to rely his feelings. “since you’re taking care of him, i’ll just take care of you.” you blinked, your chest tightening with warmth at his words. it was rare for sae to lose his guard, and in these moments, his affection always spoke far louder than anything he could say. you could feel the space between you narrowing as he moved even closer, his lips brushing near yours. “isn’t that right?” he whispered, his voice low and filled with a quiet confidence.

AH-CHOO! a loud sneeze rang through the hallway, shattering every sense of peace in the house. sae froze, his entire posture stiffening, as he shot a death glare toward the room where rin was.

god he’s gonna kill him.

a/n: this is such an old draft omg...finally got inspired to publish it bcz i currently feel like sae lmao. still figuring out my writing style so i hope nobody minds the randomness of my works T-T

[illyrianbitch]

Are We Still Friends? — Part Five

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: A chance encounter offers a break from your tangled thoughts about Azriel. Meanwhile, Az reaches a pivotal realization.

Warnings: training, sparring and weapon use, severe overthinking, longing, brief use of recreational drugs (lovely 'mirthroot')

Word Count: 7.1k

Part Four | Series Masterlist |

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Even in the early hours, the heat was suffocating. 

You’d been half-tempted to cancel on Mor, to crawl back under the covers and enjoy the blissful cool of your room. But you knew better. Mor would’ve winnowed straight into your bedroom, dragged you out of bed, and reminded you that you’d made a promise. 

So now, here you were, on the training grounds, sweat already collecting at your brow, watching Azriel and Cassian spar on the far side.

Both of the males were dressed in their usual head-to-toe leathers, though Cassian seemed just as bothered by the weather as you. You’d noticed he’d trained shirtless more often lately, something you attributed to the presence of his mate, but today he was fully covered. It probably had something to do with the steady, focused gaze Az held. Something to be cautious of. Wary. 

Unlike his brother, Azriel’s expression was detached, as if the sun didn’t touch him at all— like he was completely unbothered by the sweltering heat. His wings shifted slightly against the back of his leathers, but that was the extent of his discomfort, if any. 

You’d never visited Illyria in the summer months, never experienced the full brutality of its heat. Perhaps it was there, under that oppressive sun, that Azriel had learned to manage heat in such attire. But, then again, Az was entirely too skilled at masking what he actually felt.

Something about him, now before you, made you want to continue staring—his wings, the way his body moved with the smoothness of a predator, the effortless strength in the curve of his form. Lately, everything about Azriel had been doing that— distracting you. Overwhelming you. Calling to you like a siren song. His voice, his smile, the way he moved.

A laugh from Mor pulled you from your thoughts.

"It’s a shame the healing balm worked so well," Her voice teased from behind you. You turned at the sound, watching as she tossed a sword from one hand to the other with an ease that was almost poetic. "Seeing you turned me into a softie, you know.  All those bruises and that pouty face— I had to go easy because I felt bad for you.”

You snorted, catching the blade she tossed your way. "Oh, so that’s the only reason I beat you last week? Because you were going easy on me?"

Her grin widened. “Yeah. But Runa got too many hits on you. You’re rusty. So maybe I’m not doing you any favors by going easy." She raised an eyebrow. "Maybe Cassian’s been going too easy on you, too."

“Or maybe,” you shot back, stepping into the ring, “I was just going easy on a citizen.”

Mor’s laugh was loud and unapologetic as she followed you. "You’re saying that like you didn’t know exactly who she was when you threw the first punch."

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you squared up to her. “Okay, can we maybe stop reminiscing over my recent regrettable actions? Please?”

“Never.” She slid into a stance with ease. “But if you beat me, I’ll stop laughing about it for a week.”

“Only a week?”

“That’s all you’ll get, babe.”

You rolled your eyes, lips still curved in a grin. “Fine. Deal.”

And then, without hesitation, Mor lunged. Your blades collided with a sharp ring, the sound vibrating up your arms. You let the adrenaline of the fight pull you out of your thoughts, focusing on the female in front of you.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that before anything else, Morrigan was a warrior. Graceful, clever, and impossibly skilled. The kind of fighter who didn’t rely on brute strength but on speed, precision, and an uncanny ability to read her opponent. Skills she’d learnt to outmaneuver and beat males that may have been twice her size, twice her age. And if you looked hard enough, past her glittering makeup and the plethora of gold jewelry she adorned, you’d notice the scars scattered across her body, small slices from knives and swords that didn’t have enough time to heal during the first war. 

Mor didn’t hold back, her strikes coming faster, sharper, until your muscles burned from the effort of keeping up.

From across the ring, Cassian’s booming laugh carried over, followed by what sounded like a gruff remark from Azriel. You glanced over almost instinctively, your eyes following the movement of Az’s shadows. They twisted around him, stretching into the shaded spaces between Cassian’s body and the ground, curling around the general’s feet in an attempt to constrict his movements.

Mor’s grin widened as she caught your sword mid-swing. “You’re distracted,” she said.

You twisted to break free, stubbornly meeting her gaze. “Am not.”

You tried to return to the rhythm of the fight, but Mor was right. You were distracted. Every glance in Azriel’s direction made your heart race, your mind spiral. Even from across the yard, you could feel the heat of his presence. It threw you off balance. And before you knew it, Mor disarmed you, sending you crashing to the ground with a grunt.

“Like I said,” she hummed, smirking as she extended a hand to help you up. “Distracted.”

“Maybe a bit.” You winced, rolling your shoulders as you stood straight. “I have too much on my mind. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Mor tilted her head. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head, wiping at the sweat on your brow. “That’s the last thing I want to do, actually.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing you before she nodded. “Well, we just got some new weapons last week—I’ve been dying to test them out.”

You raised a brow. “What kind of weapons?”

Mor shrugged. “Not sure. Rhys says they’re lighter. I think you’ll like them.” She grabbed your discarded sword, tossing both it and hers onto the rack with ease. “You’re too cautious for a regular sword anyway. You don’t like getting hit.”

“No one likes getting hit.”

“True,” she said, laughing slightly as she bumped your shoulder. “But you’re smart about it. Always letting them exhaust themselves first.”

“Go get them,” you nodded to her. “I want to try them out.”

Mor grinned. “Good. Then I can start kicking your ass with them, too.”

She turned to leave, and you watched her go, ready to grab some water. But then, just as you were about to turn, you felt it—a presence behind you. You knew it in your bones, from the soft breeze you swore his shadows danced in, that it was Azriel. Still, when you turned and saw him standing there, you felt unprepared, like something in your chest tightened, hot and sharp, like heartburn. You shoved it down, burying it deeper, just like you had been doing all week.

He raised an eyebrow at you.  “You’re really gonna let her beat you like that?”

You ran a hand over your face, trying to settle your racing pulse. “What can I say, it’s been an off couple of weeks.”

It was hard not to notice how close he stood, the way his presence seemed to fill the space, pushing the air around you in a way that made it harder to breathe.

“Yeah,” Azriel glanced at you, and his expression softened just a fraction. “Are you okay? I mean, now?”

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just hot. Overwhelmed.”

He studied you, his brow slightly furrowed, but there was something else behind it. Something he wasn’t saying.

“You can’t possibly be comfortable,” you said, gesturing at his leathers. “Aren’t you boiling alive?”

Azriel tilted his head as if considering your question, then replied evenly, “I’m alright.”

“You’re lying,” you replied, narrowing your eyes at him. “You have to be.”

That earned you a faint smile, a quick twitch of his lips that you might have missed if you weren’t already watching him too closely.

“You’re welcome to try them on,” he said smoothly. “See how they feel.”

You blinked, a small flutter echoing in your chest at the teasing edge in his voice. You frowned and said to him, “I’m wearing the exact same thing as you.”

“Mine are different.” His smile tugged again. “They’re cooling leathers.”

“Really? That's a thing?”

The look he gave you— a mix of amusement and something else— told you everything you needed to know. You scowled at him, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re messing with me.”

When your eyes met his again, they were practically glowing in amusement. He shrugged, and his shadows seemed to dance with the motion— still clinging close to him, hiding from the sun, but seemingly content despite it. He gave you a quick, warm smile— as if he were afraid for the rest of the public to see.

“I am,” he replied, leaning closer. “My leathers are, sadly, just as basic as yours.”

The sunlight caught in his hair when he stood like this, painting it with faint golden streaks. Along with your growing frustration at the heat, your stomach twisted uncomfortably at the sight of him. You fanned your face with one hand, trying to ignore the ache building in your chest. You blamed the sun for making it tight. 

You suddenly became aware of your presentation—of the disheveled way you must have looked. Your hair had fallen loose during the sparring with Mor, strands clinging to the sweat at your neck, a messy halo around your face. You reached back, gathering it in both hands, attempting to tighten the hold of your hair tie. As you twisted it around, the elastic snapped, the sharp sting of it flicking against your skin.

“Shit.”

A quiet sigh left you as the broken tie dangled uselessly from your fingers. Of course. As if you didn’t already feel like disaster enough. You pushed your hair back again, fingers combing through the tangled strands, debating whether to leave it down or try to secure it with something else.

You realized, quickly, that perhaps this small inconvenience was a blessing in disguise— a reason to walk away from the conversation, to regain control of your scattered thoughts. You opened your mouth to excuse yourself, to say you needed to go put your hair up, but before you could, Azriel spoke.

“Wait.”

You paused, turning back toward him as he reached into one of the hidden pockets of his leathers. When he pulled out a hair tie, your eyebrows shot up.

“What—”

Azriel’s expression was uncharacteristically sheepish as he handed it over. “You always wear the same one. I noticed the band was wearing out. It was only a matter of time before it broke.”

“You… noticed that?”

His shadows shifted around him, curling between you two, and he subtly gestured toward them with his chin. “They did.”

Your fingers closed around the band as you stared at him. “So you’ve been carrying this around just in case?”

He nodded and you blinked at him, unsure if you should laugh or melt into the floor. “That… is very considerate of you.”

Az glanced at you, quiet for a moment, before he replied. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to snap and pick a fight with someone because you're overstimulated with your hair clinging to your skin. I’m just trying to protect the public.”

You rolled your eyes at that, though the thought of your family endlessly reminding you of your actions over the past few weeks made the corners of your mouth twitch. The infamous calm you’d prided yourself on—gone. You’d be hearing about your fight with a citizen for at least the next century.

“Shut up,” you said, but your heart still stuttered painfully. “But, also, thank you,” you added, focusing on twisting your hair into a knot to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Better?”

Your throat felt tight as you looked up once more, meeting his molten gaze. “Yeah,” you said. “Better.”

Azriel nodded, stepping back to give you space again. But you caught the faint curve of his lips, the small, quiet smile that made your chest ache.

You felt some relief as the wind ruffled your now-updo, but your thoughts circled.

Azriel had proven to be a male of his word. He’d spent the past two weeks showing you, in every way he could, that he was sorry. It wasn’t loud or showy—Azriel never was—but his apology seeped into the small, thoughtful things he did. Helping with reports, lighting your room’s fireplace when it got too cold. Nothing demanding, but everything that proved he was trying.

It almost felt normal again, like you and Azriel had fallen back into your usual rhythm. Your routine. 

Almost.

“Good luck,” Azriel said, nodding toward where Mor was returning with the new weapons. He leaned in slowly, his shadows drifting between your shoulders, curling in the pocket of shadow created by your closeness. “And, if you want… we can go flying afterward. To celebrate you beating Mor.”

The idea of being so close to him, of having him hold you to his chest, feeling his heartbeat against yours as he carried you, made your stomach churn, made you feel nauseous. Nervous. But you nodded anyway, smiled like it was just another plan, like old times. It felt tight. Diplomatic. 

“Okay,” you managed to say.

Azriel smiled, and you heard Mor’s voice asking what you were conspiratorially talking about. You didn’t answer, didn’t bother to pay attention if Azriel answered, either. The new, sleek steel weapons she’d returned with felt different in your hands. Lighter, faster. Mor had been right—these suited you better. But it didn’t matter. You were too lost in your head, too tangled in your thoughts.

Even if Mor had kept her eyes closed, she still would’ve won the next fight. You weren’t focused enough to stand a chance. There was a brief, confused look in her eyes when she realized how easily she’d taken you down once again.  But she didn’t press, not even as you yielded for the day and ran home, slipping into a cool bath with the hope that it would clear your mind of everything that tainted it.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You stacked the last of the reports on the living room table, smoothing your palm over the top page before grabbing a scrap of parchment.

Rhys—went through the latest proposals and highlighted the ones most viable. Let me know if you need anything else.

You stuck the note on the pile and stepped back, scanning the work you’d spent the past few weeks compiling.

Rhysand would be by later to go over them with Azriel—discussions about Hewn City’s reformation efforts, the best way to bridge the centuries-old divide between the Court of Nightmares and the Court of Dreams. You’d done your best to outline a path forward, to present the grievances of its citizens in a way Rhysand could use to negotiate.

Your fingers drummed idly against the edge of the table before you caught sight of your wrist. The small hair tie sat there, snug against your skin. And although it was nothing, just a simple band, it felt as if it were burning. You weren’t sure why you were still wearing it—why it wasn’t in a pocket or left in your room, ready to be summoned when needed. You ran your fingers over it, jaw clenching as frustration rose in you, sudden and sharp.

At what, exactly? You didn’t know.

You did know, however, that it was likely related to Azriel.

You’d been avoiding him since the other day at training. Since he’d given you the small elastic now circling your wrist.

It wasn’t intentional, not really, but you’d been thinking too much. Feeling too much. Uncomfortable in your own skin, hyperaware of yourself and Azriel in ways that made your stomach twist. Like pressing against a tender bruise.

The anger you’d been holding onto—the indignation that had burned hot and bright in the aftermath of your fight—faded much faster than you’d expected. You still wanted to be angry, to hold onto the grudge that felt like armor, but Azriel made it impossible. His kindness had chafed against you, rubbing away at the edges of your resentment till all that was left was an overly aware sense of him. Of his presence, his care. His devotion to something as simple as your forgiveness. 

You’d forgiven him within a week, had taken all of his baked goods with open arms, had expressed appreciation for the times his shadows brought you snacks during your late nights with Rhys and Feyre, going over negotiation plans for the reformation efforts. 

But Azriel was being too nice now. Too thoughtful. Too much. And it was starting to wear you down.

You were noticing him in ways that felt deeper, heavier, and far more dangerous. It was overwhelming, this shift in perspective—like seeing him in a new light that illuminated details you’d never thought to look at before. The slope of his shoulders, the way he always seemed to be aware of you, even when he wasn’t looking at you. You felt blinded, too rushed to adjust to this new, backlit version of Azriel.

It stressed you out— made you want to sit down and create a list, sort through the pros and cons like some sort of strategy meeting. Analyze the feelings bubbling in your chest until you could pin them down and find the most equitable, profitable, and logical path forward. The right direction to take.

Realistically, you should wait it out. Let the feelings settle and fade before they could complicate the beautiful, solid friendship you’d built over centuries. You weren’t even sure what you were feeling. You couldn’t risk something so vital over emotions you didn’t fully understand.

The front door clicked open.

You turned at the sound of footsteps, eyes falling on Azriel’s figure as he stepped inside. His hair was a little mussed, dark strands sticking to his forehead like he’d flown through the midday heat. A faint flush tinted his cheeks, and for a moment, you wondered if the sun was still blazing in the midsky—if the warmth on his face was from exertion or simply the sun pressing down on him.

He took two large strides before his hazel eyes landed on you. His expression shifted, then, brightened, as if he hadn’t expected to find you here. The soft tug at the corners of his mouth, almost a smile but not quite, was enough to send your pulse into a sharp, erratic rhythm.

“Hey,” he said, lightly. “You’re home.”

“That I am.” You smiled and met his eyes. “Hi.”

He hesitated for a moment, then stepped farther into the room, something small and wrapped in plain paper in his hand.

“I’m glad I caught you. I have something for you,” he said, holding it out to you.

You blinked, glancing between him and the package. “What is it?”

“Some tea,” he said, his gaze flickering to yours before darting away. “For sleep.”

“For sleep?” you repeated, taking the package carefully, his shadows greeting you with a gentle circle around your wrists.

Azriel nodded, his hand falling to his side. “I noticed the other day. When you were sparring with Mor. You were leaning more on your left. You do that when you’re tired.”

Your chest tightened, your fingers curling instinctively around the package. “It was that noticeable?”

“Yeah,” he said. “ To me at least. I thought this might help.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, the simple thoughtfulness of it wrapping around you like a weight you weren’t ready to carry. You opened the package carefully, revealing a small tin filled with pouches of tea. You swallowed, staring down at the item in your hands.

“Thank you. This is…” You trailed off, your voice failing you. “This is really sweet, Az.”

“Let me know if it helps,” he said, shifting his weight slightly, his wings twitching behind him. “If you like it, I’ll get more.” He gave a small, almost tentative, smile. “Or maybe I’ll try it myself.”

You nodded, clutching the package tighter. “Okay. Yeah. I will.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you. You turned, intending to step away, to put some distance between you and the sudden awkwardness settling in your chest. But as you moved past him, Azriel stepped closer, just enough that the space between you disappeared. For a moment, you were not quite touching, just close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of night-chilled air and cedar.

And then his hand caught yours. When you glanced back at him, his expression had softened, a sense of concern flickering in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low, intimate. Like he was sharing a secret despite you both being the only ones in the room. 

Your breath caught. You could see the faint crease in his brow, the way his gaze searched your face like he was trying to find his answer there, in your features. “Yeah,” you said quietly, even though your heart was pounding.

“Are you sure?” he pressed. His thumb brushed over your skin absentmindedly, as it usually did when he soothed you on bad days. Your breath hitched at how intimate it felt now, how aware it made you of his touch. “Are we okay?”

You blinked, frowning at his words. “Yeah, of course. Why would you ask that?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. I just…I feel like I’ve barely seen you lately.”

“I’ve been busy,” you replied quickly, but the excuse felt hollow even as you said it. 

“Yeah,” he murmured, but something in his tone made you think he didn’t believe you. After a moment, he added, “Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” you said after a pause, and it was the truth. You weren’t angry at Azriel, not anymore. It had completely faded, morphed into something else entirely.

You felt guilty about how you'd been acting, how you'd resorted to avoiding him in an effort to make yourself feel better. Because, despite you telling him otherwise, you knew Azriel was interpreting your distance as proof that you were still mad. 

Azriel nodded, but his expression didn’t quite relax. His hand tightened slightly around yours. “But you’d tell me, right? If something was wrong?”

“Of course.”

His gaze softened further, his eyes almost pleading. “Because I always want to know,” he said quietly. “If something’s wrong. I want to know.”

You couldn’t breathe. His hand was still on yours, his thumb brushing soft, slow circles over your skin like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. You were going to vomit. You were going to be sick. You had to leave. You had to get out of here before you did something reckless, before you said something you couldn’t take back.

“I know, Az. But, I should… I need to go,” you said, stepping back and gently pulling your hand from his. “I have a lot of errands to run.”

Azriel blinked, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Oh. Okay.”

You clutched the package tighter to your chest, avoiding his gaze as you backed toward the door. “Thanks again for this. Really.”

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then stopped, nodding instead. “Let me know if it helps.”

You nodded quickly, forcing a tight, polite smile before slipping out of the room.

When you made it upstairs, you grabbed a coat, barely paying attention to which one, and were out of the townhouse before you had the chance to run into Azriel again. You didn’t know where you were going—only that it needed to be away from him.

For a strange, fleeting moment, you found yourself wishing you were angry at him again. Wishing he was being stubborn and unfair instead of sweet and thoughtful. It had been easier then, even when it hurt, because at least you’d known how to deal with it.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Velaris buzzed with midday energy, alive with movement and the sounds of life. The streets teemed with couples strolling hand in hand, children darting between legs, their laughter woven into the hum of conversation. You wove through it all in a haze, your mind spinning like a top. For a brief moment, you scowled at the love surrounding you—wondering if it had always been this prevalent, this visible, this... everywhere.

You hadn’t come up with a plan since leaving the townhouse, still unsure of where you were going—or if you even wanted to go anywhere at all. All you knew was that you needed to keep moving. Moving meant you were occupied. And being occupied meant you could at least try to ignore the noise—both the loud thoughts and the feelings twisting inside you. But no matter how fast you walked, how hard you tried to lose yourself in the busy streets, the fluttering in your chest wouldn't let you forget.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what it meant, even as you fought with everything you had to deny it. But maybe... maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe Selene had gotten into your head and now you were overthinking everything—reading too much into Azriel’s kindness, his care. You’d seen it before, convincing yourself of something that wasn’t true, spiraling until you couldn’t trust your own judgment.

You didn’t see the person you bumped into until it was too late. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, shaking yourself from your thoughts, but when you looked up—

“Oh,” you said, startled. You blinked at the male before you. “Hello.”

The golden light caught his hair—a rich, burnished brown that framed sharp, handsome features. Made them seem almost celestial.

Adrin smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly, two small dimples forming at his cheeks. “Y/n. Hello.”

“Adrin,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No harm done,” he said easily. His tone was light, but there was a flicker of concern as he studied your face. “Are you…doing all right? I heard about what happened.”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, nodding. “It's a long story. But everything is okay.”

Adrin tilted his head, and although the smile was still there— that warm welcoming smile— his brows drew together slightly. “You seem…bothered. Long day?”

You huffed a small laugh, rubbing absentmindedly at your chest. “Something like that.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “I know the feeling. It’s been one of those days for me, too. I was about to try and make it better—clear my head a little.” He hesitated, then added, “You could join me, if you’d like.”

You blinked at him. “Oh, no, I don’t want to interrupt your plans—”

“You wouldn’t be.” He was quick to shake his head. “Really. I’d like the company.”

You hesitated. Thought through the idea. You liked Adrin. And while you wanted to run—hide away, retreat into the quiet of your own mind—you knew it would only make your thoughts spiral faster. But being around your family, or anyone who might see through you immediately, made you itch with unease.

Maybe this was exactly what you needed. The chance to be with someone who wouldn’t pry, someone who seemed genuine in his invitation.

“Sure, yeah. What are you thinking?”

Adrin’s lips twitched into a small grin. “I might have just the thing we both need.”

An hour later, you found yourself at his apartment, stretched out on his balcony overlooking the city. The air was cooler here, quieter, the noise of the streets below softened into a distant hum. The smell of mirthroot curled in the space between you, something so distinctly warm and earthy.

You breathed it in, already feeling lighter, like you were melting into your chair—but in a good way, not like earlier, when the heat had pressed against you relentlessly.

You took a slow pull from the rolled mirthroot stick Adrin had handed you. For the first time that day, your shoulders eased.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

You exhaled slowly, watching the plume of smoke dissipate into the air. A soft laugh escaped you.  

“Oh yeah. I kind of forgot how much I like mirthroot. This is dangerous.”

Adrin chuckled, and you glanced over at him, watching as his lips curved into a lopsided smile—only one dimple visible now. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

You tilted your head, studying him further. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be into this,” you said, gesturing to the rolled stick in your hand.

His brows furrowed. “Why's that?”

You shrugged, still smiling, your face warm—not from embarrassment, but from the pleasant haze settling over you. “I don’t know. You’re from the Dawn Court. You’re a healer. You just seem disciplined. Like, above this.”

Adrin let out a full, rich laugh, the sound making your grin widen. “Please. Let’s go through that again. I come from Dawn. I’m a male healer. A pacifist, even.”

You paused, letting his words replay in your mind before it finally clicked.

“So it makes total sense,” you said, correcting yourself.

Adrin nodded sagely, and another small round of laughter followed, easy and unhurried. You realized how much you liked that about him. That his presence wasn’t demanding. That he let things be light. Maybe that was why it was always easy to converse with him whenever you’d stopped by Madjas. 

You inhaled again, letting yourself sink further into the feeling, into the rare quiet of your thoughts. Even now, though, even floating, something tugged at you. Some part of you that refused to be fully untethered. The rational side of your mind begged for a break from the relentless circling of your thoughts, but you shoved the worst of them away, opting instead to focus on the ones that didn’t hurt.

“Hey,” you said suddenly. “Can I ask you a really weird question?”

“Sure.” Adrin straightened slightly, tossing you a quick glance as he brought his mirthroot to his lips.

You hesitated, but the mirth haze had worked through your nerves, made you bolder, more loose lipped. “Do you have a crush on me?”

He choked on his next inhale, coughing before looking at you, eyes wide. “Sorry?”

“Nevermind. That was weird. Sorry,” you said quickly, looking away, waving it off. “Forget I said anything.”

But he shook his head, smiling faintly as he leaned in slightly. “No, it’s okay. I’ve always appreciated how forward you are. Honest. It’s refreshing.”

You blinked at him. “Really?”

He nodded. Then he paused for a moment, contemplating.  “If you’re asking if I find you attractive, the answer is yes. I think you’re beautiful.”

Something in your chest tightened.

“But,” he continued, “I wouldn’t say I have a crush on you. That feels… shallow. I don’t know you enough to call it that. It would be liking the idea of you. I don’t like doing that.”

His honesty was just as refreshing as he claimed yours to be. It loosened something in your chest—some small guilt that had settled when Mor first suggested you go out with him. Guilt at the idea that someone you’d grown to enjoy might want something from you that you couldn’t give.

If only everyone was this articulate. If only Az—

You shoved the thought away and exhaled slowly. “That’s… a really nice answer.”

Adrin smiled again, but this time, it was smaller, softer. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” you admitted, shaking your head. “It doesn’t.”

“Good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I have no expectations here. I enjoy the friendship we’ve built—if you’d call it that.”

“Of course I would,” you said softly. A small chuckle escaped your lips as you raised your rolled mirthroot and nodded toward the one between his fingers. “And if I didn’t consider you a friend before, you’re definitely one now.”

Adrin’s laugh rang out, warm and melodic, filling the space between you. It was soothing, like the sound itself carried the calm of his healing touch.

You settled into a comfortable silence, the easy rhythm of conversation lingering between you as you both watched the city below. But then, without warning, your mind wandered once more.

This time, it drifted toward the upcoming event Rhys was hosting—a formal gathering to show appreciation for allies and those who’d supported him. At his own home, too. A gesture of humility. You could already picture the glittering decorations in the River House, the couples dressed to the nines, gliding together in effortless, practiced harmony.

Usually, those scenes didn’t bother you.

You’d never minded attending events alone, enjoying the freedom to slip in and out of conversations as you pleased. But now, the thought of walking into that hall, of watching so many people in love around you… It grated. And you knew exactly why. Azriel’s words, his reasoning for changing while dating Selene—how everyone was falling in love, moving on—echoed in your mind, and you hated how tightly they clung to you.

They’d made you feel like something was wrong with you for not actively seeking out love. For being content with being single. Alone.

You glanced at Adrin.

“Adrin,” you said, clearing your throat. “Are you busy this weekend?”

“I don’t believe so. Why?”

“There’s an event—Rhysand is hosting. It’s an appreciation for those who help him. I was wondering if you’d want to come with me. Considering everything you’ve done to help Madja… and us.”

His brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering in his expression before he smiled. “Really?”

You nodded, waiting and watching him as he thought through his answer.

“The company of a friend is always nice for events,” he said finally.

Your heart stilled at his use of the word "friend.” It felt reassuring. Safe. A reminder that he truly didn’t hold any expectations, just as he’d said only a few minutes prior.

“Yes,” you replied softly, a small smile curling your lips. “It always is.”

“I’d be honored to go. Thank you for the invite, Y/n. I’ve never been to big events like that.”

You laughed lightly. “If you keep letting me smoke your mirthroot, you can come to every event with me forever.”

He grinned, shaking his head, his hair falling across his forehead in an effortlessly charming way. “Is that what I’ve become now? A drug dealer and a friend in one?”

“Yes,” you teased. “A breath of fresh air, really.”

You both fell into another comfortable pause, settling into the easy rhythm of each other’s presence. You wondered what was going on inside Adrin’s mind. His eyes had grown distant, like he was retreating into his thoughts. He had mentioned having a long day too. You hoped he was feeling better now, just as you were, that perhaps your company had offered him what his had offered you—a reprieve.

Adrin reminded you of someone else in your life. Someone with teal eyes and the same easy, friendly humor. You smiled at the fleeting thought that crossed your mind, something quick and bright, like a shooting star.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel’s meeting with Rhysand had taken longer than expected, forcing both males to venture to the Hewn City itself. By the time he returned home, the city of Velaris was already asleep.

Azriel felt conflicted as he passed by your door, his shadows lingering just long enough to confirm that you were safe and asleep in bed. He was relieved, glad that you were finally getting the rest you needed, but a deep, quiet disappointment gnawed at him.

He was planning to catch you one last time today—to talk, even for a moment. To tell you about the meeting with Rhys and how brilliant your plans were, how he was praising them despite you not being there to bask in the compliments. He knew you loved the feedback, knew you loved hearing how your hard work paid off. It always did.

But Azriel knew, even then, the conversation would feel off.

Things had felt off since the night he apologized—and even his shadows had confirmed it wasn’t just in his mind. That he wasn’t simply overthinking.

You’d said you weren’t mad anymore, that you two were okay. But Azriel still felt, still knew, that something was wrong. 

Things weren’t normal. They weren’t hostile, and Azriel was beyond thankful for that, but it wasn’t comfortable like it used to be. You seemed to be hesitating around him. It gutted him to think that he had made you wary, made you overthink how you acted around him. He’d stripped himself of his own comfort.

Azriel stepped into his room slowly, feeling the weight of the day begin to catch up with him the moment he crossed the threshold. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, he just stood there, leaning against the frame as he let the quiet settle around him.

The familiar emptiness of the room greeted him. His dresser was bare, the surface wiped clean once again. Mor had, strangely excitedly, offered to clear it out for him when she first learned about Selene’s betrayal. Despite the anger simmering inside him, Azriel had made her promise not to take any drastic measures—he didn’t want her to engage with Selene at all. Mor had reluctantly agreed.

Azriel took a few more steps into the room, and with each movement, the exhaustion that had been nagging him all day seemed to settle more heavily on his shoulders—his body was sore, his mind buzzing with a thousand half-thoughts.

His shoulders slumped as he sank onto the edge of the bed, his hands moving to rub his face, fingers dragging through the mess of his hair.

Azriel hadn’t placed all the items Selene moved, the minimal decorations he owned, back where they belonged yet. But he opened his bedside table and grabbed the one thing he was thinking about—the strange clay creation of him you’d made.

His mind wandered to the night he cleaned your wounds and apologized.

He’d traced the change back to that moment.

Azriel didn’t know why he felt disappointed, why he had expected something different from that interaction. He’d apologized, finally, as he’d intended to—though too late, he told himself, because you’d gotten hurt. But you had accepted it, had looked at him with that same softness he’d come to admire, and accepted it. You’d cracked a joke. You both laughed. It had felt simple again, natural, like Azriel had finally found his way back to himself. But something in him sank when he’d said that one line—when he said he didn’t know why he’d entertained the idea that you’d ever have feelings for him.

He wasn’t sure why, but it tasted so wrong—sour, like something rotten.

He let himself sink further into his thoughts.

Azriel had never seen himself as lovable. At least, not in the way everyone else was. 

From the moment he was thrown into that dungeon as a boy, he’d believed he deserved every punishment, every scar, every moment of suffering. The people who should have loved him—the people who were supposed to care—had only taught him he was a burden, something broken and unwanted.

When he left that darkness behind, it followed him, reshaping him into something sharp and unrelenting. A weapon. He became what was needed, what a High Lord required, committing acts that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He wore those deeds like armor, each one another layer of the male he thought he had to be.

Love, he assumed, had to be just as hard. How could it not be? He was unworthy of the softness others found so easily. While Rhysand, Cassian, Amren, and Mor managed to find it, to hold onto it despite their own sins, Azriel had only ever known heartbreak.

So he told himself that love—for him—would never be simple. It would require blood, pain, sacrifice, and suffering. He thought love needed to ache in his chest, leaving him hollow and desperate, clawing for scraps of something he couldn’t quite hold. That it had to be fought for with every ounce of strength he had. And maybe even that wouldn’t be enough.

Something had changed, though, regarding how he thought about love. 

His fingers brushed the rough edges of the clay figure in his palm. It was uneven and messy, painted in smudges that bled into each other. The proportions were laughably off—the wings crooked, the body too long—but it fit perfectly in his hand nonetheless.

He held it carefully, turning it over as his chest tightened. You’d made this for him, drunk off your ass and laughing with the others, your hands coated in clay. You’d sculpted a miniature version of him without a second thought.

And though it wasn’t a gift, though you hadn’t even mentioned it after that night, Azriel kept it. Kept it somewhere safe, somewhere he could easily grab it and remind himself that if someone as kind as you could love him, care for him the way you did, then he must not be as awful as his mind often tried to convince him he was.

You’d seen the worst of him—all the jagged edges and dark, unspoken parts. He was the softest with you, a side of himself he never showed anyone else, but somehow also the worst. You’d heard the things he’d done, seen him caked in blood that wasn’t his, and still, you had sculpted him. Still, you thought of him when you were having fun.

Azriel had begun to realize that, in reality, love seemed to be… patient. Gentle.

The love his family had found was hard at times, yes, and needed to be fought for, like everything important. But it was kind. Natural.

And so Azriel thought long and hard, the clay figure resting warm in his hand, his shadows curling and twisting softly around him. They whispered your name, over and over, like a quiet, delicate prayer.

And that was when everything clicked into place.

That deep longing he felt to see you, that comfort he found in your presence, the ability to be open, bare, seen, and unafraid—

That feeling was love.

He was in love with you.

And he suddenly couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: hey yall.... how we feeling?????

so like im invested. and also i kinda love Adrin like yesss gimme a stoner healer man who respects a persons boundaries and doesnt crush on the idea of them before knowing them!!!

and yesss for azriel being in love!!! hes gonna be struggling with this new realization, fighting the Voices in the corner of his room and being jealous over things he doesn’t need to be jealous over. mmmmmm delicious

i do believe….there may only be one (1) part left 🫢

as always— thank you for reading 🫶🏻

and don’t forget your daily clicks for palestine !

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

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@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

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[harrysfolklore]

you belong with me - gr63

summary: george has been in love with his best friend for 15 years, but she can’t see that she belongs with him

folkie radio: MY FIRST GEORGE FIC!!!! idk why it took me so long to write for him but i hope you like this !! send your feedback <3

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by georgerussell63, alex_albon and 87,846 others

yourinstagram finally race week! can't believe it's been 10 years of watching this one from the paddock. from sneaking into george's garage during f3 days to now having proper passes (still can't get used to saying "my best friend is an F1 driver" 😅). ready to watch @/georgerussell63 crush it this weekend!

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username1 MERCEDES QUEEN

username2 you guys are literally soulmates just date already

alex_albon The OG paddock bestie 🙌

└ yourinstagram and you know it

landonorris still waiting for my batch of cookies tbh

└ charles_leclerc Get in line

└ yourinstagram LMAOOO

username3 bestie you spelled wife wrong

username4 10 years of friendship and still going strong

username5 someone convince me they're not secretly married

georgerussell63 Wouldn't be the same without you here! Even if you still support Lewis more than me 🙄

└ yourinstagram HES THE GOAT!!!

└ username1 she’s so real

username6 we need more paddock content of you two!

username7 "best friends" sure jan

username8 george's smile whenever she’s around >>>>>

username9 MY FAVORITE DUOOOOO

username10 no one does best friends better than them

liked by yourinstagram, landonorris 1,028,946 others

georgerussell63 P1 BABY!!! Thank you to everyone for the amazing support - winning here in Austria feels amazing. Special shoutout to @/yourinstagram for the lucky socks tradition since F3 - even if they still have tiny race cars on them 😂 Team did a mega job this weekend! 🏆

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username1 THIS IS MY GOATTTTT

username2 GEORGIE I LOVE YOU

lewishamilton Great drive mate! 🙌

yourinstagram those socks won you GP3 AND F2, respect the lucky socks russell 😤

└ username1 YOU KEEP HIM HUMBLE YN

└ username2 whats the real lucky charm the socks or yn

└ georgerussell63 Fine fine, the socks stay

alex_albon expose him more about the socks pls @/yourinstagram

landonorris lucky socks with race cars?? we need pics

└ georgerussell63 Absolutely not, those pics are staying buried

username3 yn has been his real lucky charm since day 1 😭

username4 not the childhood best friends to lovers story we're witnessing

username5 the socks story is too cute i can't

username6 THIS IS MY GOAT

mercedesamgf1 Brilliant drive today George! 💫

username7 how long before he proposes guys??taking bets

username8 find someone who supports you like yn supports george

username9 that post-race hug though 👀

username10 These two give me hope in love

liked by username1, username2 and 15,378 others

f1_insiderinfo🚨 EXCLUSIVE: Mercedes driver George Russell spotted having an intimate dinner with mystery girl in Monaco! The pair were seen laughing and sharing food. Sources say they've been meeting here regularly. Has Britain's most eligible bachelor finally been taken?

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username1 MY BROTHER IN CHRIST THATS YN

username2 y’all must be new here 😭

username3 HEEEELP see we’re not delusional for saying they need to be a couple

username4 ffs that’s his best friend story being weird

yourinstagram ah yes, the very romantic dinner where I stole half his pasta and made him watch tiktoks of cats. very intimate. also that "usual spot" is just where they make his favorite tiramisu 🙄

└ georgerussell63 you INHALED half my pasta, there was no stealing involved. also you promised not to expose the tiramisu thing

└ yourinstagram what, scared the other drivers will find out you have a sweet tooth Mr. Professional Athlete? 👀

username5 not them exposing each other in the comments

username6 the way they banter like an old married couple

username7 "mystery girl" my foot, that's his other half since forever

username8 someone get me a friendship like this 😩

username9 SO TRUE YN AND GEORGE ENDGAME

username10 this is peak comedy

liked by username1, username2 and 12,836 others

russell.archive A thread of George Russell and his best friend YN through the years 🤍

Slide 1: 2014 - Their high school years

Slide 2: 2015 - Their prom photo

Slide 4: 2021 - His first points with Williams

Slide 5: 2024 - Another season together

The "just friends" agenda for 10 years and counting... 🤔

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username1 WAIT THEY'RE NOT DATING??? All this time I thought...

username2 the prom photo is giving soulmates idc idc

username3 slide 4… that's love

username4 not me thinking they were secretly married this whole time

username5 the way his race engineer calls her "the mrs" though

username6 look at how young they were in the first pic 🥺

username7 their height difference stayed exactly the same I'm crying

username8 everyone saying "best friends" meanwhile they act like this

username9 SOULMATES

yourinstagram omg the prom photo 😭 remember when you stepped on my feet during the entire first dance @/georgerussell63

└ georgerussell63 excuse me? who forgot the corsage at home and made us late?

└ username1 I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

└ username2 not me crying over this

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

texts between george and yn

2019 rookies forever groupchat

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by jamessmith_eng, georgerussell63 and 82,468 others

yourinstagram date night 🍷thanks for a lovely evening @/jamessmith_eng

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username1 WAIT WHAT ABOUT GEORGE???

username2 someone check on george rn 😭

username3 the way my heart just DROPPED

alexandrasaintmleux 😍😍

username4 this has to be a joke right???

username5 10 years of analysis gone wrong...

landonorris inch resting

└ username1 LANDO WHAT DO YOU KNOW

username6 Not me having to explain to my bf that no, George and YN weren't actually dating this whole time

username7 guys can you please be normal for once? george and yn are FRIENDS stop being weird

username8 why is everyone being so dramatic?

username9 HAPPY FOR YOUUU

jamessmith_eng ❤️

liked by username1, username2 and 27,038

russell.archive The way he immediately looks for her after every race 🥺 (Hungary GP, 2024)

Scientists still trying to figure out how these two aren't together...

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username1 THE WAY HE LIGHTS UP WHEN HE SEES HER

username2 bro runs faster to her than he does on track

username3 10 year study of their relationship and still confused

username4 that hug is not giving "just friends" idc idc

username5 THE KISS HELLO

username6 not her wearing his mercedes jacket

username7 remember when he was sick and she flew across 3 countries just to make him soup??

username8 the race engineer calling her his better half I CANNOT

username9 someone tell that alpine engineer to back off please x

username10 very platonic sure

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, jamessmith_eng and 92,268 others

yourinstagram triple header concluded ‼️oh and i have a boyfriend now @/jamessmith_eng

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username1 OH-

username2 this feels... wrong

username3 not me zooming in to see if she's still wearing her matching bracelet with george

lilymhe cuties 🤍🤍

username4 THE ALPINE GUY?

username5 why is everyone acting weird like yn and george are just FRIENDS

landonorris 🤔

└ username1 he’s one of us

└username2 HEEEELP LANDO

└ yourinstagram you’re strange

username6 my heart breaks i really thought she was with george

username7 GEORGE’S SILENCE IS SO LOUD

username8 no like from george either 😭

jamessmith_eng 😍😍

└ username1 UM NO LEAVE OUR FAMILY ALONE

└ username2 go back to alpine

└ yourinstagram ❤️

username9 I JUST FELL TO MY KNEES

username10 i know george and yn are just friends but omfg this feels wroooong

liked by lewishamilton, yourinstagram and 876,366 others

georgerussell63 Gained nine places today but overall the damage was done yesterday. Congrats to LH and the team on the podium. We have another chance to fight before the summer break in Belgium. Bring it on.

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username1 no yn mention??? are you okay???

username2 first race post this without tagging yn i'm worried

username3 the way he usually writes "couldn't have done it without my lucky charm”

lewishamilton incredible drive 👏🏾

landonorris most depressing caption i've ever seen mate

└ username1 HE KNOWS 😭

└ username2 he’s so annoying

username4 where's the usual "special thanks to my favourite paddock menace"

username5 he's posted about yn in every race post for YEARS this is not a drill

username6 even the emojis are gone 😭

username7 BRO IS DEVASTATED and not only about the race

yourinstagram no selfie? 🥺 breaking tradition much

└ username1 CRYING

└ username2 george why are you breaking tradition

username8 alpine guy better make yn happy at least

username9 GEORGIE I BELIEVE IN YOU

username10 the damage in question was un hard launching her bf

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

texts between george and yn

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by jamessmith_eng, lilymhe and 86,992 others

yourinstagram coffee runs with this oneee 🤍 @/jamessmith_eng

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username1 isn't that… george's usual coffee spot??

username2 the way she used to do this with george every race weekend 💔

username3 why does this feel wrong

iamrebeccad ❤️

francisca.cgomes i miss youuuuu

username4 BE NORMAL IN THIS COMMENT SECTION CHALLENGE

username5 she and george are endgame tho idc

username6 the wasy geroge never likes her posts with her tho

landonorris 🤐

└ username1 LANDO STOP

└ username2 he has no chill

└ yourinstagram i never understand what u mean

└ alex_albon oh honey

└ username3 IM WHEEZING

jamessmith_eng My ❤️

└ username1 i don't like his vibe george aside

└ yourinstagram love youuu

liked by username1, username2 and 16,038 others

f1gossip SPOTTED: George Russell with mystery brunette at London restaurant 👀

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username1 HELLO??' SINCE WHEN??

username2 yn's twitter likes suddenly very aggressive

username3 someone check on yn PLEASE

username4 the way she's sitting in yn's usual spot i feel sick

username5 toto watching his team's morale depend on these two idiots

username6 th groupchat must be wild rn

username7 GEORGIE WHAT ARE YOU DOINGGGGG

username8 ou george boyfriend era?

username9 this is alpine guy's fault

username10 THAT SHOULD BE HIM AND YN

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

2019 rookies forever groupchat

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by jamessmith_eng, francisca.cgomes and 83,044 others

yourinstagram date with my favorite human 💕thank you for making me smile x @/jamessmith_eng

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username1 okay this might be cute

username2 CRYING AGAIN

username3 THAT SHOULD BE GEORGE

jamessmith_eng Perfect day with my perfect girl ❤️

└ username2 ewww

└ username1 come on they're happy stop being weird

└ yourinstagram 🥺🥺🥺

lilymhe we should have a double date!

└ alex_albon we're kinda busy

└ username2 LORD

└ username3 ALEX YOU'RE INSANE

└ username4 he said im with my boy george forever

└ yourinstagram buzzkill

username5 george didn't like this post either

username6 this is how we can get rid of him

username7 why are some people so weid about them yn and george are FRIENDS

username8 i want this

liked by yourinstagram, landonorris and 839,022 others

georgerussell63 Some traditions never change. Pre-race selfie and coffee with my best friend #15YearsAndCounting

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username1 I LOVE THEM SM

username2 george russell choosing violence today

username3 HE TAGGED IT 15 YEARS AND COUNTING I'M SCREAMING

mercedesamgf1 🤍

username4 GEORGE MARKING HIS TERRITORY

username5 james has been real quiet since this dropped

landonorris territorial much?

└ username1 LANDO STOP THIS MADNESS

└ georgerussell63 You're so strange mate

└ username2 SURE GEORGE play dumb we'll play along

yourinstagram LOVE YOU GEORGIE BOY!

└ username1 girl he loves you but like loves LOVES you

└ username2 wake up he's in love with you

└ georgerussell63 ❤️

username6 whe said who's james we don't know her

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

texts between george and yn

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by francisca.cgomes, jamessmith_eng and 86,370 others

yourinstagram thank you for the flowers and for always finding your way back to me @/jamessmith_eng 🤍

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username1 GIRL

username2 this is the 4th "second" chance but ok

username3 not the apology flowers AGAIN

lewishamilton 👀

└ username1 EVEN LEWIS KNOWS

└ username2 PLEASE

username4 the whole garage pretending we didn't hear them fighting yesterday

alex_albon 🤦‍♂️

└ username1 ALEX IS HIS BIGGEST HATER

username5 somebody check on george

username6 girl get up

username7 can pierre and este sabotage him or something 😭

jamessmith_eng Love you baby ❤️

└ yourinstagram love you too x

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

georgerussell63 has added to their stories

replies:

username1 GEORGE SWIFTIE CONFIRMED

username2 taylor’s version too

charles_leclerc 😂😂😂😂

alex_albon YOU FINALLY EMBRACED THAT YOU’RE TAYLOR SWIFT

└ georgerussell63 don’t push it

landonorris JUST TELL HER

pierregasly Whats this supposed to mean

yourinstagram YOU’RE SUCH A SWIFTIEEEE

└ georgerussell63 I love the lyrics of that one :)

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by georgerussell63, landonorris and 98,749 others

yourinstagram 15 years of friendship and watching you live your dream from the grandstands, and i still get butterflies every time that 63 crosses the line 🤍 couldn't be prouder of my best friend. race day ready as always @/georgerussell63 (still wearing the lucky charm bracelet you got me when we were 12 btw 😉)

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username1 MY FAMILY

username2 IM SOBBING

username3 james from alpine found shaking

lewishamilton 🖤

username4 THE KARTING PHOTO I'M SOBBING

landonorris remember when she used to hide behind trees to watch him practice?

└ yourinstagram LANDO DELETE THIS

└ username1 I LOVE THEM

username5 it has always been HIM

georgerussell63 Still can't believe you kept that bracelet

└ yourinstagram it's my good luck charm, you're not getting it back russell

└ georgerussell63 Wouldn't dream of it x

└ yourinstagram better not crash today, i'm wearing it

└ georgerussell63 Wouldn't dare disappoint my number 1 fan

└ yourinstagram since karting days

└ georgerussell63 And counting ❤️

└ username1 DID WE JUST WITNESS A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL?

└ username2 THEY CANT JUST DO THIS IN PUBLIC

username6 yeah they’re in love and everyone knows it but them

username7 james alpine you are BONES

username8 JUST GET MARRIED

username9 this slow burn friends to lovers idiots in love…

username10 lando and alex screaming rn

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georgerussell63 Found out she's still terrible at paddle after 15 years. Some things never change 🏸

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username1 girl whatever he said wasn't THAT funny you're just in love

username2 the way she looks at him vs the way she looks at james- anyway

mercedesamgf1 🖤

username3 NO ALPINE BOYFRIEND IN SIGHT WE WON

username4 the way she only laughs like that with george

username5 yn looking at george vs yn looking at james: a thesis

kimi.antonelli Great day 👏

landonorris "terrible at paddle" mate you dropped your racquet 3 times

└ georgerussell63 Trying to make her feel better

└ alex_albon by embarrassing yourself? smooth

└ username1 THIS IS MY FAMILY

└ username2 best trio forever

username6 not yn pulling a zendaya

yourinstagram i'm not that bad!

└ georgerussell63 You hit yourself with the racquet

└ yourinstagram you DISTRACTED me

└ georgerussell63 By existing?

└ yourinstagram by being annoying

└ username3 THE TENSION IS KILLING ME

username7 ou james don’t make that face

username8 i feel like something is shifting and these two will confess soon

username9 JUST KISS ALREADY

username10 the best friends secretly in love with each other of it all

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

texts between george and yn

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by georgerussell63, charles_leclerc and 102,927 others

yourinstagram always 🤍

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username1 THE WAY I SCREAMED

username2 FINALLY FINALLY FINALLY

username3 that's george's hand i've studied it for 5 years I KNOW

mercedesamgf1 🥹

└ username1 toto just fist bumped lewis in the garage

landonorris took you long enough

└ username2 LANDOOO DONT CLOCK HER LIKE THAT

username4 the childhood friends to lovers pipeline never fails

username5 the easy we all just KNOW they finally confessed

username6 AND FUCK THAT JAMES GUY

username7 DO A PROPER HARD LAUCH

georgerussell63 ❤️

└ yourinstagram🤍

username8 if look idiots in love in urban dictionary a pic of george and yn shows up

username9 MY PARENTS

username10 plot twist this is actually the alpine guy 😭

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

2019 rookies forever groupchat

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 19,738 others

f1gossip GEORGE AND YN AT THE LAS VEGAS PADDOCK RIGHT NOW THIS IS NOT A DRILL

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username1 OMFG

username2 I CANT BELIEVE THIS

username3 james found crying in alpine

username4 NO WAY FINALLY

username5 THESE TWO IDIOTS FINALLY REALIZED

username6 i’m crying, this is the softest love story ever

username7 ya conspiracy girlies were always right !!!!!!

username8 we witnessed this best friends to lovers slow burn happen in real time i can’t believe this

username9 NOT ME CRYING AT THIS

username10 guys they’re KISSING like WE USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THESE

username11 george finally grew balls and confessed

username12 JAMES FROM ALPINE YOU’RE BONES

username13 WATCH GEORGE WIN TOMORROW

liked by georgerussell63, landonorris and 102,836 others

yourinstagram not just the race you won today mr russell 🏆🤍

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username1 THE WAY HE RAN STRAIGHT TO HER

username2 YOUR SMILE WHEN HE PICKED YOU UP

username3 the way james had to watch this from p7 💀

mercedesamgf1 Best vegas grand prix ever confirmed 👏

landonorris get a room

└ yourinstagram we did

└ landonorris HELLO???

└ username1 I HAD THE SAME REACTION LANDO

└ username2 no fucking way

username3 I CANNOT BELIEVE MY EYES

username4 they had been in love since forever like we could SEE IT it was about time they realized

username5 HE. GOT. THE. GIRL

username6 george russell you fucking did it

username7 IDIOTS IN LOVE SLOWBURN TROPE I FUCKING LOVE IT

username8 YABADABADOOOOO WE WERE RIGHT ALL THE TIME

username9 a love story fifteen years in the making

username10 EVERYTHING FALLS INTO PLACE

georgerussell63 Still can't believe you're mine

└ yourinstagram always have been. just took me a while to realize

└ georgerussell63 Worth every second of waiting 🤍

└ username1 IM SOBBING AGAIN

└ username2 this is the most beautiful thing ever

liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 2,018,476 others

georgerussell63 Vegas ‘24. Won more than just a race tonight.

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username1 SOBBING AGAIN

username2 i still can’t quite believe this

username3 GEORGE RUSSELL THE MAN THAT YOU ARE

alex_albon boy went from you belong with me era to lover era real quick

└ georgerussell63 Stop with the Taylor Swift references

└ landonorris NEVER

└ username1 I LOVE THEM SO MUCH 😭😭

username4 THIS IS BETTER THAN ANY ROMANCE MOVIE

username5 alex and lando screaming somewhere because of this

username6 imagine being that alpine guy right now LMFAO

username7 they’re proof that real love always finds a way

lewishamilton Prod of you mate. On and off track 🖤

└ username1 AWEEEEEE

username8 best friends to lovers Y E S

username9 the fact that george waited YEARS for her and watched her with other guys but got her in the end. THIS IS TRUE LOVE

username10 this is way too pure

yourinstagram quite the victory lap mr russell

└ georgerussell63 Had to make it special for my special girl

└ yourinstagram you’re such a sap

└ georgerussell63 Your sap tho. Officially now

└ yourinstagram was always yours. just took me 15 years to realize 🤍

[ieirism]

crybaby.

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader

setting: modern au

genre: smut and fluff

contains: brother’s best friend gojo, protective older brother geto, use of pet names (baby, princess, sweetheart), unprotected sex, slightly mean gojo (but he ends up soft and sweet, I promise), dirty talk, overstimulation, mutual pining, dacryphilia, oral (f receiving), cheesy and happy ending <3

summary: satoru had promised suguru that there'd be no funny business while he takes care of his heartbroken baby sister... but he's never been the greatest at keeping promises.

“Stop being so mean to her, Satoru.” Satoru looks over at his best friend, who's clicking his tongue in disapproval, with a nonchalant grin.

“Not my fault she’s such a crybaby, Suguru.”

“Come on.” Suguru shoots him a warning look. “That’s my little sister you're talking about.”

“Hey, hey,” Satoru laughs, raising his hands in mock defense. “You gotta teach her how to grow thicker skin. Not my problem.”

“Every time you come over, she ends up crying.” The black-haired man sighs. “Don’t be a jerk just for one moment, won’t you?”

“Mmh, no promises.” Satoru grins. Sue him, he’s simply too addicted to the way your face scrunches up indignantly whenever he teases you, the futile yet endearing clenching of your small fists at your side, and most of all, the uncontrollable blubbers that leave your lips as tears roll down your cheeks.

Years later, you’re still the same. Just a little crybaby coming apart at the seams, completely at Gojo Satoru’s mercy.

-

“S-Satoru…” The high-pitched whine of his name only elicits a laugh from the man between your legs, sending shock waves of pleasure shooting through your body.

“Baby, you gotta stop movin’ so much.” Satoru’s large hands grip your thighs, holding them firmly in place as he continues to feast on your dripping pussy. “Gotta let me eat you properly.” He punctuates his point with a loud suck on your clit that has you mewling and twitching under his hold.

“T-Too much!” You sob, hands curling into the silky white stands on his head, tugging uselessly. “S’too much, S-Satoru…”

“You wanna take my cock later, princess?” He hums against your cunt, licking a hot stripe up your slit, chuckling as he watches your pussy clench around nothing. His gaze lazily travels upwards, greeted with the sight of you nodding furiously as tears stream down your cheeks.

“Yes,” you plead with wide, teary eyes. “N-need you.” Satoru smirks.

“Then be a good girl and let me prep you,” he coos, before diving right back between your folds, enjoying the broken sob that leaves your lips as he draws zigzags across your swollen clit.

-

“I really don’t understand you,” Suguru bristles, frustration evident by the way his eyebrows furrow as he eyes Satoru.

“Hmm?” Satoru looks at him with feigned innocence. “Whatever could you be talking about, dear Suguru?”

“You’re unbelievable.” He sighs. “Those gifts you bought her… they’re worth almost a million yen. What the hell is wrong with you, really.”

“Well, you told me I made her cry.” The white-haired man shrugged. “I had to make up for it, didn’t I?” Suguru squints suspiciously, at a brief loss for words.

“...You are not normal,” he finally scoffs.

“Of course not,” Satoru agrees, unfazed.

“You can’t keep doing this. You’re gonna end up spoiling her.”

“And what’s so bad about that?”

-

“Gimme another one, baby.” He’s faintly aware that if he makes you cum again, you really might pass out. However, he can’t really bring himself to be too concerned about that, not when he’s quickly becoming addicted to the taste of your dripping cunt and cries of pleasure.

“C-Can’t, I can’t — “ You sob, entire body shaking around his mouth; you’re so sensitive.

“You can,” he insists between hungry slurps, not letting any of your arousal go to waste. “Fuck…” You’re so sweet. Just how did he survive this long without having a taste of you?

“Please…” You’re still shy, trying your best to stifle your cries even as they fall in a steady stream from your trembling lips. Each loud squelch of your sopping pussy still has you cringing a little, not to mention the embarrassment that washes over you every time you catch a glimpse of your juices all over Satoru’s face.

“Don’t hold back anymore, sweetheart.” He reaches up to grab your wrists, pulling them away from your mouth even as you blubber out a weak protest. “Wanna hear you this time, say it loud. Say my name when you cum.” One more combined thrust of his fingers, deep into your hole with a flick of his tongue across your clit has you creaming on his lips for the fourth time.

“S-Satoru!” You’re unable to control the beautifully loud whine of his name as Satoru greets your orgasm eagerly, savoring every last drop of your release on his tongue.

-

“You made her cry again.” Suguru says, rolling his eyes as he approaches his best friend at their meeting spot.

“Huh?” Satoru raises a brow. “Haven’t even seen her since two weeks ago. What’d I do?”

“She’s sad you’re moving away.” Suguru tuts. “Can’t imagine why. Probably because she won’t be able to use you for your wallet anymore.”

“You implyin’ I’m just a wallet to her?” Satoru exclaims, a little offended. The black-haired man shoots him a deadpan glare.

“You know you’re not. But even you’re not enough of an asshole to use that against her.”

“It’s just college,” Satoru muses. “Kid thinks I won’t be back for her?”

“In two years she’ll be going off to college too.” Suguru shrugs. “She’ll get over you.”

“What a cruel thing to say.” Satoru laughs it off, ignoring the small flicker of jealousy that flares to life deep in his chest.

-

Satoru watches as your chest heaves up and down, in your effort to try to recover from the multiple orgasms he had just given you. You’re lying limp on your bed, unable to move save for the periodic twitching of your thighs.

“Sorry, princess, was that too much?” He’s teasing, but there’s a genuine edge of concern to his voice as he cups your cheek in his hand. You nod, a few tears falling down your face. “Aww, forgive me. You’ll forgive me, right?” In response, you tug weakly on his shirt collar, asking him to come closer. He relents, allowing you to drag him down towards you. Satoru’s about to ask what you need, before you suddenly tilt your head upwards to kiss him.

Satoru lets out a small noise of surprise as your soft lips press against his, hesitant at first, but deepening once your fingers find further purchase in his shirt, gripping tightly. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you up into his lap.

You kiss him a little clumsily, still boneless from your release but Satoru doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind at all, of course, when your lips are so soft against his, and he can swallow every quiet whimper that escapes you.

“Satoru…” Your voice is raspy and small, but your eyes are wild as you cling helplessly to him. “A-Am… Am I ready yet?” His jaw goes slack in awe at the adorable, troubled expression on your face. Your lips are swollen into a permanent pout now as you look up at him with those wide doe eyes that always had him weak.

“...Think you are,” he heaves, realizing that he’s just as fucked out as you are. It takes everything in him to hold back the urge to just take you.

-

“She’s grown up.” Satoru raises his eyebrows in pleasant surprise at the pictures that Suguru shows him. Your family had recently gone on vacation, so Suguru had been gone for an entire week, leaving his best friend and roommate all alone.

“That’s what you’re looking at?” Suguru shoots him an annoyed look.

“Oh,” says Satoru, glancing back at the picture. “Uh, nice waterfall.”

“One of the seven natural wonders of the world and all you can see is my baby sister.” Suguru exhales deeply.

“What? You can’t blame me too much. Kid’s changed,” the white-haired man shoots defensively.

“She’s twenty, not sixteen anymore. Of course, she’s changed.” Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“I know that, I just…” Satoru pauses, glancing back at the picture. You’re still tiny, only reaching up to your brother’s, and by extension his, chest. Your face has matured, though, baby fat gone from your cheeks. That didn’t stop you from being any less adorable, though — your smile is as radiant as ever. He can’t help but let a small smile of his own slip onto his face.

“Hopeless,” Suguru mutters in disbelief. “Hopeless, the both of you.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

-

Satoru lets you unbutton his shirt, watching in amusement as your eyes narrow with focus as each button pops open, slowly revealing more and more of his skin.

“Um…” You’re nervous. It’s plain as day from the way your lip wobbles as your eyes sweep down the view of his chiseled chest and torso, only to end at the prominent bulge in his slacks.

“You sure you’re okay with this, princess?” He cups your chin in his hand, gently tilting your face to look straight at him. “Need to rest?”

“N-No!” You protest immediately, shaking your head. “I…” You glance back down at his erection, a flicker of desire in your eyes. “I need…” You trail off, unable to say it.

“Okay.” If he was feeling meaner, he would make you tell him exactly what you want. But he wants to be nice today, especially since you’ve already cried so much for him. “Okay, baby. Don’t worry, you’ll have it. Can you unzip me? Can you do that for me?” You hesitate for a moment. Satoru briefly wonders if he’s perhaps pushed you a bit too hard.

But then you’re reaching for him, small hands finding the top of his pants and slowly undoing the button. Your fingers close around his zipper, slowly tugging it down.

“Good girl.” He pecks your forehead. “Take me out of my boxers, alright?” As his angry, swollen cock springs free from his underwear, you can’t contain your gasp.

“Oh…” The soft sound leaves you almost involuntarily as you stare and wonder at how the hell that’s gonna fit in you. He’s thick and long, rock hard and dripping with pre-cum. You slowly wrap your own hand around his cock, lips parting as your fingers fail to meet in the middle. Your own pussy clenches in a combination of fear and excitement.

“See why I needed to prepare you, now?”

-

“Sorry to spring this onto you all of a sudden, especially since you just got into town.” Suguru sighs over the phone.

“Don’t worry about it. If you’re not around to take care of her, duty falls on me,” says Satoru as he reverses his car out of the parking lot, heading to the location Suguru had sent him.

“Let me know when she’s home safe. Tell her I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Yeah, will do.”

A pause.

“And… no funny business, got it?”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“I’m serious, Satoru. She just confronted her asshole cheater ex. She doesn’t need you drooling all over her right now.”

“Relax, dude. I’m not that desperate.” Satoru rolls his eyes.

“Good. Keep it that way.”

-

His conversation with Suguru lies in the back of his mind, forgotten, as Satoru places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Lay back and relax for me, sweetheart.” You immediately obey, laying yourself down on your bed, heart beating fast in anticipation.

“S’gonna hurt, right?” you ask softly.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ve gotten you ready, see?” Satoru comforts you, brushing his fingers against the wetness still soaking your entrance.

“Oh.” Tears suddenly well in your eyes. “Um, s-sorry, it just always hurt with him…”

“What?” Satoru’s eyes darken, unsure if you mean what he thinks you do.

“He just…” You bite your lip, trying not to let your tears fall. “H-He just p-put it in, y’know?” His heart drops in his stomach. Two years, two whole fucking years with that asshole, and he had never given you proper foreplay? No wonder you were so sensitive and responsive to his touch, your body had never received the attention it’s always deserved.

“Baby.” Satoru squeezes your hand, fighting down the urge to find that asshole and beat him up. That could come later. Right now, he has to focus on you. “It’s not gonna be that way this time. Not with me. Okay?” You nod, squeezing his hand in return.

“O-Okay.”

-

It’s the first time he’s seen you in person in four years, and here you are in the passenger seat of his car, crying your eyes out.

You feel absolutely humiliated. You had called Suguru to ask him to pick you up from your ex-boyfriend’s house after you dumped him, but he had told you he couldn’t.

“I’ll send someone to get you. Hang tight,” he’d said.

You just didn’t know it was going to be Gojo Satoru, who hadn’t returned to your hometown since he graduated high school.

“I’m gonna bring you home,” Satoru had told you, getting out of the driver’s seat to open the car door for you. “Relax, okay? You’re safe now.” He had buckled your seatbelt for you before settling in himself, starting the engine without another word.

The car ride back to your house is silent, save for the continuous sniffles that wrack your body as you try your best to stop your tears. Satoru silently puts a box of tissues in your lap at some point, and your heart stutters at the action.

You’ve known for many years now, that you never got over your first love.

-

Clothes fully discarded, Satoru lowers himself on top of you, enamored with the way you shyly glance down at`his cock, gaze wavering for a moment before slowly looking back up at him, eyes begging for him to do something.

“Tell me if you want to stop.” He brushes his fingers, tender and gentle, across your cheek. You nod, hand curling around his bicep.

“Kiss me,” you request, and he gladly obliges, leaning down to peck your lips.

“M’gonna go slow,” he tells you. “You want me to stop, hit me real hard — “ He smacks his own chest. “ — Right here. Got it?”

“I won’t,” you say bravely, eyes glimmering with determination. “I… I can take it.” Satoru laughs quietly.

“Alright, princess. Don’t act all cute, you’re just rilin’ me up now.” You smile, a little mischievously.

“Oh, you caught me.”

“Fuck…” Satoru groans, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re gonna kill me.” His fat tip taps against your clit once, twice. You gasp, eyes going glossy as you feel your swollen pussy clench desperately around nothing.

“Satoru,” you plead. “P-Please…”

“I’ll give you what you need. Relax for me…” He aligns his tip with your entrance, prodding between your folds. Inch by inch, he sinks his cock into your warm, throbbing cunt, almost blacking out himself at the sensation of your tight, velvety walls clamping around his cock.

“A-Ah…!” You whine, gripping his bicep and squeezing your eyes shut. The stretch is almost too much, but the delicious sensation of being filled to the brim has you seeing stars.

“You okay?” Satoru pants, willing himself to stop from splitting you open on his cock to check on you.

“Yes,” you whimper. “Yes, a-ah, please k-keep going…” Satoru rests his head in the crook of your neck as he continues to push himself in, enjoying the soft, labored whimpers as you take more and more of him, deep into your sopping hole.

“Almost there,” he coos. “Almost there, princess…” After what feels like an eternity, he finally sheaths the last of him in you, biting at your shoulder as he finally, finally feels exactly the sensation of being one with you.

-

“Drink. You’ll feel better.” Satoru places a glass of water in your hand as he leads you to your living room couch. You stubbornly refuse to look at him, letting the glass sit uselessly in your hand as you stare down at your lap.

He sighs, not sure what he should do. He’s never been good at comforting others, let alone his friends’ kid sisters. He knows you’re not a kid anymore, you’re a full grown adult, but the way you’re sulking and ignoring him says otherwise. Still, his fondness for you wins above all else as he takes the water back and puts it on the coffee table, letting you sit in silence.

”You gonna be okay by yourself?” he asks instead. Satoru doesn’t want to leave you alone, but he’s not sure if his presence will even help. He hasn’t been an active part of your life in years, and he has a feeling that this incredibly vulnerable moment isn’t the best time to barge back in. You don’t reply, twiddling your thumbs.

“Call me if you need anything,” Satoru says hesitantly. “You have my number, right?” No response. “I’m gonna write it down for you.” He finds a spare stack of Post-Its and does just that. You don’t react even when he sticks the note right on top of your forehead, in a shitty attempt to lighten your mood. Your deadpan glare, so much like your brother’s tells him it did not work.

“Suguru’s gonna be back tomorrow,” he tells you, taking the note off and soothing the annoyed crease between your eyebrows. “Go get some rest now, yeah?” You look away. Satoru sighs. Seeing you upset like this hurts him way more than he would like to admit. “M’gonna leave. Get to bed soon.” He pats the top of your head, just like he always used to do, which always made you whine when he messed up your hair. You’re quiet now, not a peep of complaint leaving you.

He really misses hearing your voice.

“Bye, then.” Satoru’s about to turn around and leave, but you do something that seems to shock both of you. Your fingers curl and grab onto the hem of his collared shirt, stopping him in his tracks. He stares down at you in surprise, trying to process the sight of your small, thin fingers holding onto him for dear life.

“Stay.” The one word was enough to crumble his self-control.

-

You’re struggling to adjust to his size; he can tell from the way you’re digging your nails into his arm and the trembling of your thighs around his waist. Satoru stays still, waiting for your permission to go any further, right hand rubbing soothing circles on your hip.

“Don’t stress yourself, baby, just tell me what you want, when you want it,” he murmurs against your neck, waiting patiently, torturously, for permission to move.

You’re so overwhelmed by the sensation of being stuffed full; Satoru is much bigger than your ex-boyfriend and yet, the feeling isn’t painful. It’s so good, a throbbing ache that extends outwards from your core all the way to the top of your head and the tip of your toes. You can hardly form thoughts, let alone words, as your pussy stretches around him, trying to accommodate the sheer size of his cock.

A few more moments pass, and you feel like you’re going crazy. The feeling of being so, so full is one that you’ve never felt before, but you think you’re already addicted. Your thighs flex instinctively, closing tighter around Satoru’s waist and pushing his cock even deeper, pressing right against your sweet spot. You mewl, wrapping your arms around his neck, silently begging to be closer to him.

Satoru leans into the kiss you give him, groaning as your walls suddenly clench once around him, brain filling with nothing but white noise. “Fuck,” he grits out against your lips.  “Fuck, baby, I don’t know how much longer — “

“Move.” Your command is quiet. Satoru almost wonders if he’s misheard you. But one look into your pleading, begging eyes confirms what you want. Unable to hold back any longer, he pulls his hips upwards, snapping right back into you with one long, hard thrust. You cry out, nails sinking into his shoulder blades.“M-More,” you whisper. “Need more.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

-

Satoru’s at a loss for words and actions as you stood on your tiptoes, reaching up and bringing his head down to kiss him. His arms instinctively wrap around your waist to steady you, craning his neck to allow you better access — oh shit, what the hell is he doing?

He lets go of you like he’s touched something on fire, pulling back from the kiss. As your heels land back on the ground with a soft thud, he’s greeted by the sight of you looking like you’re about to cry again. “Wait — “ He reaches for you, but retracts his hand; he’s not sure if he can trust himself to stay in line. His heart is beating so fast, you had just kissed him, completely out of the blue.

Satoru knew about your crush on him when the two of you were younger. You started having feelings for him when you were thirteen and he was fifteen, making it painfully obvious. You followed him and Suguru around like a lost puppy whenever he came over, despite Satoru’s constant teasing.

He thought your actions were funny at first, becoming the root of his continued teasing. Despite still making you cry all the time, you always came right back to greet him with a smile upon his very next visit. After a while, Satoru looked at you with fondness, in the way that one would gaze at a small animal. You were harmless, sweet, and so very adorable.

Satoru didn’t return your feelings at the time. You were just Suguru’s kid sister that he liked to toy with sometimes. You were awfully cute when you were mad.

But now, as you look up at him with desperation and longing, his heart clenches faintly in his chest. You’re so, so beautiful — the pictures Suguru had showed him hadn’t done you justice in the slightest. You somehow look so enchantingly gorgeous at this moment, even with tears glistening in your eyes and rolling down your cheeks.

Would you hit him if he tried to wipe away your tears?

He never gets to find out, because you speak his name softly, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. Satoru leans down to carefully listen to what you have to say. “W-Want you.”

-

“So good, so fuckin’ good for me, princess,” Satoru groans, reveling in the dizzying heat of your pussy as he drags his cock in and out of your walls, fucking you at a steady pace. “You feel me in there? You feel me in your little cunt?”

“Y-Yes,” you manage to sob out between moans, each rough snap of his hips into you melting your brain into jelly just a little more. 

“What a perfect lil pussy,” He chuckles as you squeal after a rather rough thrust, the loud squelch of your hole sucking him in echoing through the room. “No sane person in this world would ever give this up this tight wet cunt.” You whine at his filthy words, drool dripping out of the side of your mouth as Satoru continues to ram into you, faster, harder.

“Satoru!” You’re crying out his name over and over, legs wrapped firmly around his waist, pushing him deeper and deeper. “S-Satoru, I-I — “

“You likin’ this, baby? Tell me how much you like this,” he coos into your ear, hand reaching down to rub at your swollen clit.

“I l-like it s-so much, i-it’s so ahh…! I-it’s so good,” you sob out. You never thought sex could feel like this — you never understood why the people around you were so obsessed with it, especially with the treatment you received from your ex.

Now, though, as each rut of Satoru’s dick into your cunt kisses your sweet spot, you get it. You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to forget this feeling of being filled by cock so brutally sweet.

-

“Hold on.” Satoru had tried to protest, he really had. You’d just broken up with your boyfriend. Like Suguru said, the last thing you needed was any funny business. “Listen — “ He sighs out your name, making your bottom lip wobble. “You have to go rest, don’t be reckless.”

“Please.” You tug at his sleeve, staring at him with that puppy-eyed look that always gets you what you want. He really had spoiled you, hadn’t he?

“Not now,” he tried to reason with you. “You’re still hurting, you’re not in the right mind.” You glare at him.

“Who’re you to say m’not in the right mind?” you whine. “I…” You suddenly seem to lose your confidence, staring down at the floor. “...I only ever wanted you.”

“What?” Satoru stares, wide-eyed, at your confession.

“Know you don’t want me that way,” you continue, voice small. “But I… don’t care.” You sniffle. “Don’t care, Satoru. Just want you.”

And when you tug desperately at his shirt again, this time, Satoru is too far gone.

-

“Fuck, I’m close.” He growls into your neck, his pace picking up as he chases after his release, He coaxes you to join him, thumbing at your clit and cooing for you to “Let go, cum for me, c’mon. Cream all over my cock, princess.”

The only sounds in the room are a symphony of your moans and the slick sounds of his cock pushing in and out of your hole as a coil forms deep in your gut, threatening to snap at any moment. You feel tears stain your cheeks as Satoru’s pace increases, pounding into you so deep you can practically feel him in your throat.

“S-Satoru, I’m g-gonna — !” You cut yourself off with a loud, lewd moan, cunt clenching down hard around him as you come undone for the fifth time just this night. You swear you lose consciousness for a second, lost in the euphoric feeling of your release as your swollen pussy throbs in satisfaction.

“Shit..“ A few quick, shallow thrusts later, Satoru finishes as well, thick ropes of cum splurting into your womb, filling you with a warm sensation.

“A-Ah…” you whimper out, pussy fluttering weakly around his softening cock, which is still fully sheathed inside you. A white ring remains on his dick as he gently pulls himself off of you, cum dripping from your spent pussy onto the sheets. Satoru tuts, placing a pillow under your hips so you won’t leak.

You’re only faintly aware of what he’s doing as he leaves briefly and returns with a warm, wet towel, gently asking you to open your legs for him. You obey, but you’re so exhausted you can’t help it as your eyes droop shut. The last thing you remember before falling asleep is Satoru leaning forward to peck your forehead, praising you for taking him so well.

-

You wake up a few hours later to sunlight streaming through your bedroom window, making you squint a little as you sit up in bed. You immediately gasp at the ache between your legs, and the soreness racing up and down your body.

Memories of the previous night come flooding back as a sleepy groan sounds from next to you. Satoru stirs, awakened by your panicked sound, asking softly, “You okay, baby?”

Oh god. Shit. Fuck. You actually had sex with Gojo Satoru.

“Hmm?” He looks a little concerned at your lack of response, pulling you against him. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You in pain? Sorry, did my best to clean you up and everything.” Only then do you realize that the place between your thighs is no longer sticky, and that you’re wearing a fresh set of underwear with Satoru’s unbuttoned shirt wrapped around you.

“...What did we do?” You whisper in a muddled mixture of shock and amazement.

“You regret it?” he asks carefully, pulling back a little to gauge your reaction. You shake your head vehemently, snuggling back close to him. You breathe in his scent, eyes fluttering closed. You feel so right at home in his arms.

“No.” You ponder for a bit. “But it’s never gonna happen again, right?�� Satoru’s breath catches in his throat.

“What?”

“I know last night might’ve given you the wrong impression.” You swallow hard, trying to contain the feelings bubbling up within you. Satoru just looks so beautiful under the morning sun, his crystal blue eyes glittering in the light. You know you’re not mistaken, you’ve never been so sure about it — you love him. “I don’t… do this. Thank you for being with me for this one night, but…” you trail off.

“Hey, hey.” You’re crying again, and this time, Satoru wipes the tears off your cheek, cupping your face between his hands. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Don’t want just this from you,” you continue vaguely, looking away shamefully. “But I don’t… I don’t expect you to want the same.” He stills at your words, trying to decipher them properly.

“You still in love with me?” He deciphered them spot on, but that doesn’t stop a humiliated squeak from leaving you. You’re huffing, face on fire with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment.

“F-Fine, whatever! You know already, so…” You look away, gnawing at your lower lip. “That’s w-why — “

“Don’t really know why you’re so upset, princess,” he cuts you off, pulling you out of the downward spiral he sees you’re about to fall into. “Think…” Satoru pauses to swipe at a tear at the corner of your eyes. “Still such a crybaby,” he can’t help but say, watching with amusement as you scowl at him with all the ferocity of an angry kitten.

“Ugh, jerk! Four years later and you still can’t take me seriously, God, why do I even bo — “ He cuts you off again, this time with a kiss. When he pulls away, he’s smiling gently, chuckling at your dumbfounded expression.

“Think I love you too,” he finishes. “So you’ve got nothing to worry about.” A few moments pass.

“...Are you fucking with me?” You look him dead in the eye.

“Technically, I already did,” he replies cheerfully. You look at him in disbelief. “Okay, sorry, sorry, sweetheart. Let me spell it out for you.” Satoru holds you close to him, tracing slow, comforting circles along your back. “Be my girlfriend?”

You answer him with a kiss of your own.

-

Suguru sighs, fishing in his pocket for his house keys as he approaches the front door. He’s worried about you; although the bastard had cheated on you and deserved to have you dump him, he knows you’re still probably heartbroken.

Or at least a little heartbroken. Suguru’s aware you never really that into your ex, if your drunk phone calls about how much you miss Satoru were enough evidence. Hiding those from his best friend was tough work; he would have to sit in the bathroom or the closet with his headphones and speak as quietly and carefully as possible to not rouse any suspicion.

Either way, he knows you definitely need some cheering up right now. He’s brought you a box of cupcakes from your favorite bakery, hoping it would be enough to at least get you in a talking mood.

Imagine his surprise when he opens the door and the first thing he sees is Gojo Satoru. Not only is Gojo Satoru standing in his kitchen, but he’s wearing Suguru’s apron, a gift from you many Christmases ago. To make things worse, he’s nearly butt naked under it, only wearing a pair of boxers that are — wait a second, are those Suguru’s as well?

“Oh hey, Suguru!” If Satoru is nervous or embarrassed, he plays it off well as he turns around and waves, flashing the stupid, faded picture of Remy from Ratatouille on his apron right in Suguru’s face. “You hungry? Was just makin’ some eggs.”

“What the actual fuck,” Suguru grits out, putting two and two together as you choose that moment to wander out into the kitchen, wearing nothing but an unfamiliar collared button down that reaches down nearly to your knees. Satoru’s.

“S-Sugu.” Your eyes go round, stopping in your tracks. No one speaks for a moment. Satoru’s still happily cooking eggs. Suguru’s expression is stone cold. You’re staring at your brother with embarrassment written all over your face.

“Baby, you ready for food?” Satoru steps away from the stove to wrap an arm around your waist, smooching you on top of your head. You make a stuttered noise under your breath, glancing back at your brother.

Suguru’s smiling now, but not in the traditional sense. He looks almost maniacal as he slowly places the box of cupcakes on the table before locking eyes with Satoru. Finally, the white-haired man has enough shame for his casual grin to falter.

“What happened to no funny business?”

Satoru is forced to abandon the stove, running away from a fuming Suguru chasing after him with the first thing he could find on the dining table — a carrot.

“Sugu, stop, it’s okay — “ Your pleas fall on deaf ears as your brother is hell-bent on finding a way to murder his best friend with a vegetable. You sigh deeply, moving to go after them when you suddenly smell something burning. Your head snaps to where the eggs Satoru was cooking are now sitting blackened over the flame.

Needless to say, the first morning with Gojo Satoru as your official boyfriend was far from perfect.

Thankfully, you would have many, many more mornings with him, each more wonderful than the last, that this one quickly faded from importance.

But not from Suguru’s.

“I still remember,” Suguru says, clearing his throat for dramatic effect. “When I opened the door on that one morning, and you were not only in my house, but you were half-naked wearing my apron and my underwear — “

Satoru groans as the audience bursts into laughter at his best man’s speech, burying his face in your shoulder. You’re giggling right along with them, sparing your new husband a peck on the cheek as his best friend continues to tear him apart.

“Then you had the audacity to pretend nothing was wrong — “

Satoru knew he would never live this down, but he had zero regrets. Not when you’re sitting right next to him in a pretty white dress holding his hand under the table.

“Well.” Suguru looks over at him, raising a brow. “Got anything to say?” Satoru takes the mic from him, face splitting into a shit-eating grin as he says two words:

“Worth it.”

[fxstpace]

little white lies

summary: miya atsumu needs to find a date for his cousin’s wedding, or risk getting hounded by all his relatives prying into his business. unless said business is you—in which case, he’s all for it. maybe he can work up the courage to ask you out for real while he’s at it.

⇢ pairing: miya atsumu x fem!reader ⇢ genres: fluff, mild angst, best friends to lovers au, fake dating au, idiots to idiots in love, debatable attempts at comedy were made ⇢ word count: 9.2k ⇢ warnings: profanity, one (1) scene where atsumu is shirtless

Miya Atsumu acknowledges the fact that he has made several stupid decisions throughout the course of his life. 

There was the time he decided that dipping waffles in hot sauce would make for a tasty food combination. (It did not, and he ended up lying in bed with a stomach ache for three days with a grumbling Osamu looking after him). Then there was that incident where he proudly claimed he could crush an entire watermelon with his bare hands. (He could not, and Suna had laughed his ass off when Aran easily demonstrated the same feat). 

And then, there was the time he tried to comfort you after you watched Hachiko Monogatari together. You’d been sniffling quietly, your eyes red and puffy, when he awkwardly handed you a tissue and said, “‘S okay. The dog’s probably acted in better movies.”  

You’d stared at him, horrified, before bursting into tears. Osamu had walked in just in time to witness you chuck a pillow at Atsumu’s head, calling him an emotionally inept moron; he’d laughed so hard, he dropped the tub of ice cream he was holding and got mint chocolate chip all over the carpet. Atsumu still cringes whenever he thinks of it.

Nothing much has changed in Atsumu’s life. He still has a massive crush on you, and he still makes stupid decisions.

What transpired in the Miya twins’ childhood home’s sitting room fifteen minutes ago is a testament to this tragic fact.

When the Miya brothers’ cousin, Shohei, called them up to invite them to his wedding taking place in two weeks, Atsumu and Osamu were nothing short of elated. Shohei video-called them, and for a good five minutes, all Atsumu did was scream incoherently when he announced that the wedding date had been fixed. Osamu promised to close Onigiri Miya on the Saturday two weeks hence, and Atsumu made a mental note to ask Meian if he could take the weekend off.

Shohei then turned the phone to their grandmother, sitting on her favourite armchair with the pink satin cushion, wrinkles by the corners of her eyes and sagging skin by her cheeks. Atsumu’s heart lifted at the sight of her—he was her favourite grandson, after all—and when she smiled at the twins, her lips were slightly puckered because she didn’t have her dentures in yet. 

But that wasn’t the important bit. It shouldn’t have been what Atsumu focused on most, as he opened his mouth to tease her. He should have been focusing on the knowing, youthful gleam in the Miya household’s matriarch’s eyes—a gleam that spelled trouble when she set her gaze straight at him.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Grandma Miya herself,” Atsumu drawled.

“Grandma Miya won’t be living for much longer,” she retorted, not one to be outdone by her own grandson.

Osamu had frowned. “Don’t say things like that, Grandma. It’s superstitious.”

Shohei had sighed dramatically, making a face at Osamu. “She does it all the time now. You should hear her go on and on. It’s good that you’re getting married, Shohei. This old woman won’t live for much longer, but at least I can see one of my grandsons getting married. Shame on the twins for making me live in suspense!” He said the last bit with an imitation of Grandma Miya’s toothless drawl, and it drew out a giggle from Atsumu and a swat on the shoulder to Shohei from the woman herself.

“Maybe I do have a girl in mind, Grandma,” Atsumu said on instinct, waggling his eyebrows. “I just haven’t told anyone yet.”

Grandma Miya’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? Is she nice?”

“The best,” he had promised. “You’ll love her.”

Beside him, Osamu had gone very still. Even Shohei quietened down, letting Atsumu and their grandmother talk. In hindsight, Atsumu probably should have realised what a horrific blunder he was making, but he had a habit of letting his mouth run loose and this was one of those times.

Grandma Miya’s eyes had lit up. She had lifted the corners of her mouth into such a wide, hopeful smile, that Atsumu felt a twinge of guilt deep in his chest for lying to her. He couldn’t take back his words, however, because Grandma Miya excitedly clasped her fingers together and said, “You’ll bring her along to Shohei’s wedding, won’t you? She must meet the rest of the family. It’ll be nice for Sakura to meet her, too.”

Shohei nodded. Sakura was his future wife, a beautiful and kind lady who complemented Atsumu’s cousin perfectly. “Sakura would love to meet someone that’s going to be part of our family.”

Osamu didn’t say anything. When Atsumu looked at him, he had his lips pressed together in a thin line. “Uh—” he began.

“No hesitating,” Grandma Miya had said firmly. “Tell her to come along. It will be fun.”

Atsumu couldn’t deny that; events that took place within the Miya family were always fun. But he couldn’t exactly create a girlfriend out of nothing, could he? Belatedly, Atsumu felt the guilt and horror of his words seep into his brain. He flashed a panicked look at his brother, but Osamu only shook his head and didn’t say anything. 

He looked back into his phone screen, at his grandmother’s happy expression. If there was one thing Atsumu hated, it was letting down the people important to him.

Meekly, he nodded and forced a smile to his face. “Of course, Grandma. Don’t say I don’t do things for you.”

“Silly child,” said Grandma Miya affectionately, and that had been that.

Atsumu has since paced in front of the living room couch exactly eight times after Osamu pressed end on the call. He twirls in his spot, ready for his ninth walk around the living room. His brother sits on the sofa with one leg thrown up, watching him amusedly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Okay,” Osamu interjects. “Swearing isn’t gon’ help your situation.”

“What else can I do?” Atsumu wails pathetically, flopping onto the sofa next to his brother. “I’m such an idiot.”

“Glad to know you’re aware.”

“Samu, what do I do?” Atsumu leans his elbows on his knees and holds his hand in his hands. “‘m so screwed.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you decided to get Grandma’s hopes up for nothin’.”

Atsumu huffs, annoyed at both himself and his brother for being so unhelpful. “I know that, asshole. I jus’ meant— What the fuck do I do about it now?”

Osamu pats his brother on the shoulder, a sympathetic look on his face. “Tsumu, I can think of only one solution.”

“What?”

“You need to find yourself a girlfriend.”

Atsumu wrinkles his nose when you wave a bottle of some sort of bubbly, green-coloured concoction at his face. It looks disgusting even through the translucent plastic, and he has no doubt that it’ll taste twice as bad.

“Eugh. What’s that?”

“Wow. It’s so nice to see you too, Atsumu. I’ve only just flown back from halfway across the world after two weeks. No big deal at all,” you deadpan, staring at him.

“Yeah, I’m so happy you’re back, but what is that, and is it for me?”

Atsumu is glad you’re back—you’d gone overseas on your first ever business trip at the company you work at, and he’d missed your presence at the Tokyo apartment right next to his. He tries to verbalise it, but truthfully, his attention is solely fixed on the green muck you’re holding out to him.

“It is, actually,” you reply, shoving it into his waiting hands so he can scrutinise it better. You turn back and rummage through your open suitcase, pulling out an identical bottle—only this one is filled with something that looks like a cross between a squashed pumpkin and a gruesome shade of brown he doesn’t want to define. “And this one’s for Osamu. Can you give it to him the next time you go back to Hyogo?”

He lets out a sound of disgust, puffing out his cheeks and blowing a raspberry at you. “You couldn’t have gotten us somethin’ more… eatable?”

“Edible, Atsumu,” you correct, walking around the luggage strewn about your living room and plopping down on your sofa with a grunt. “This is what’s popular everywhere now. Apparently.”

“That doesn’t sound very optimistic,” he points out, sitting down next to you. Atsumu holds the drink bottle close to his face and squints at the ingredients printed on the back in a tiny font. “Is that… spinach?”

“Yeah.”

“And…” he continues, “kale? What’s a kale?”

“It’s some kind of leaf? Kinda like spinach,” you say, shrugging. 

“Oh, wonderful. This is a cocktail for cows.”

You huff out a soft laugh, shoulders shaking with the movement. Atsumu grins, pleased that he’s made you smile. 

“It’s supposed to be healthy, Tsumu. And you’re a professional volleyball player so I figured you’d drink stuff like this.”

“Sounds like a nightmare.” Atsumu shudders, but pockets the bottle anyway. It bulges out of the side of his cargo pants and he might look a little silly, but it’s really the thought that counts; the fact that you’d bought this drink with him in mind makes his heart rate spike. He nods at the muddy orange drink you left on the floor, meant for Osamu. “What’s in that one?”

“Carrot and squash, if I remember correctly.”

Atsumu gags. “Did’ya pick the worst flavours or somethin’? You say this is popular?”

You nod, a little embarrassed. “They were selling it everywhere I went!” you defend. “I just figured it was, like, the thing, or whatever.”

“If me and the team promoted this, it’d be sold out in no time,” he says thoughtfully. “Even if it tastes like a gourmet meal for goats.”

“So humble.” You roll your eyes, letting your head fall back on the couch cushion. 

Your airport clothes—a hoodie and jeans—stick uncomfortably to your skin after hours of being airborne, and you scratch your elbow. Atsumu thinks it must be annoying; you must be itching to peel off your clothes and take a warm shower.

But first, Miya Atsumu needs to ask you out.

He tries not to let the wording mess with his head. He’s doing this for his grandmother, and most certainly not because of the self-indulgent fantasies his mind conjures up for him when he’s asleep. Dreams of holding your hand, walking through the cherry blossoms together, kissing your cheek and taking in your delighted gasp—they haunt him even in his waking moments, and Atsumu aches to make them turn into a reality.

He acknowledges that he is a coward in some ways. This is one of them.

“Hey…” he begins, and then trails off, unsure.

“Hm?”

“That bottle of muck you got for Osamu—” Atsumu gulps, ignoring the hammering of his heart inside his chest. “Think he’d like it more if you gave it to him yourself.”

You sigh. “I would love to, Atsumu, but I don’t know when I’ll be going to Hyogo next. I don’t want that milkshake to stay rotting in my fridge for, like, six months.”

“Well… I’m goin’ there next Saturday. Wanna come with?”

“I don’t know…”

“C’mon. It’s Shohei’s wedding. You can’t miss it. Grandma Miya specifically told me to tell you to get your ass down there.”

It’s a lie that slips easily through his teeth, but he’s not exactly wrong, is he? Just—bending the truth a little. Grandma Miya did tell him to bring his girlfriend with him, and if he thinks about it, you are his girl friend, aren’t you? With a space in between the two words, but that’s just semantics. Atsumu ignores the voice in the back of his mind that tells him he’s coming up with excuses that he used to think of when he was in elementary school. 

“I’ll think about it—”

“You have to,” Atsumu implores, briefly letting go of his pride in favour of convincing you to come with him to his hometown. “It’ll be a nice break. You can meet Samu and Shohei. Have fun at a wedding—you know how fun Miya weddings are. Get dressed up, dance around a bit. And Grandma would be ecstatic if you came.”

“Ecstatic…” you echo, an amused smile flickering on your face. “Did Osamu teach you that word?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. “But that’s not the point! The point is, I want your company for Shohei’s wedding.”

Atsumu waits for his words to sink in. He notices your sharp inhale when he emphasises on the fact that he wants you there. This one is the truth, and nothing but; there is no one else he would rather go to his cousin’s wedding with. 

For all the lies he’s spouted out this afternoon, some part of Miya Atsumu wants you to recognise that he’s not lying this time.

“So, please,” he continues quietly, “will you come with me to Shohei’s wedding?”

You look away, teeth worrying your bottom lip. A moment later, you nod.

“...Fine. But you’re paying for the train tickets.”

Atsumu’s exhale is both relieved and anticipatory.

It takes exactly two hours and forty-six minutes to get to Hyogo from Tokyo by train. Atsumu purchases the tickets, partly because you’d asked him to, but mostly because of the steady feeling of guilt gnawing at his chest. He even purchases tickets for the first-class coach, because he wants you to be as comfortable as possible, even going so far as to give up the window seat for the aisle one.

“You’re being weirdly nice,” you note suspiciously, as he hefts your suitcase onto the rack above. 

Atsumu grunts with exertion, his muscles rippling under his shirt. He takes in the small bob of your throat at the sight with a gleeful sense of pride. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about. I’m always nice.”

Luggage secured successfully, he rubs the palms of his hands on his jeans and settles down into the seat next to you. The plush cushion is soft and velvety to the touch, a dark shade of blue that’s soothing to the eye. As he looks around, he can’t help but notice that the rest of the passengers consist of old people—senior citizens, with wobbly knees and wrinkled skin. Old and married, they must be on their way back to their hometown after visiting their children and grandchildren in Tokyo. As far as he can tell, you and Atsumu are the only two people here who don’t have a relationship beyond the platonic. There’s the occasional family of four: a tired husband, an even more tired wife, and two boisterous children. One child, no more than four years old, with her hair done up in two pigtails, points a chubby finger at him.

“Mama, look! That man looks like Pikachu!” she exclaims loudly.

You giggle at the chagrined look on Atsumu’s face, and his heart lifts slightly at the sound.

“Komi! Shhh. It’s rude to point at people.” Her mother pulls her hand down, giving Atsumu an apologetic bow of her head.

“She has a point, I guess,” you whisper to your friend, nudging his shoulder.

“The point being…?”

“You do look like Pikachu.”

“Huh?”

“Your hair, Tsumu.” You grin mischievously. “It’s yellow. You’re practically halfway to having electric powers.”

Atsumu flushes. He runs a hand through his dyed-blond hair self-consciously. “That bad, eh?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, shrugging. “Your fans seem to like it.”

“And you?” he asks softly. “You’ve never told me what you think.”

You hum and look away, fiddling with your phone case. “If you like it, then I like it.”

“That’s not even an answer.” Still, Atsumu will admit that your reply makes him happy.

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“It’s—”

“You both argue like Mama an’ Papa.”

Startled, you and Atsumu look in front of you. Komi pokes her head out from the seat in front of you, a wide grin on her lips. You stifle a laugh; it turns out Komi and her brother have occupied the seats in front of you and him. The tips of Atsumu’s ears turn crimson—whether with embarrassment at being caught bickering by a four-year-old, or at Komi’s previous comment about his hair, he isn’t sure.

“Hello, there,” you greet the small girl with a grin as wide as hers. “Komi, isn’t it?”

She nods, her pigtails rocking with the movement. “‘m Komi! An’ my brother is Kento!”

“It’s very nice to meet you both, Komi and Kento,” you say, solemnly holding out a hand for her to shake. Although you haven’t met her brother, you can hear his excited babbles from his location on his mother’s lap. “I’m ____, and this is my friend, Atsumu.”

“But you can call me Tsum,” Atsumu supplies, knowing it must be hard for the little one to pronounce his name properly.

Komi shakes your hand with the sort of vigour that one only has at the young age of four, and then glances expectantly at Atsumu. He holds out his hand as well, and the little girl grips it with all the strength she can muster. Her soft palm is sticky; once she releases it, he tries to discreetly rub his own palm on the seat in front of him, garnering a frown from you.

Slowly, the train begins to chug forward.

“Tsum and ____,” Komi says, “are you both like Mama an’ Papa?”

“Like… Mama and Papa?” you repeat, tilting your head.

“Yeah! Like, sleepin’ in the same room an’ givin’ each other kissies while cooking dinner!”

Atsumu gapes at the child. He feels his face heat up at the insinuation—if Komi thought his hair was like Pikachu earlier, then now she’d surely think his entire face was akin to Charmeleon, or something of that sort. Unable to answer, he glances at you.

Your face settles in an expression that he can only describe as pained amusement. Your lips twitch up, finding the whole situation funny, but you pick at your cuticles at the same time. A chuckle forces its way out of his mouth.

“That’s right, Komi,” Atsumu says. “Except we aren’t… married yet.”

The girl tilts her head, confused. “Wha’s that mean?”

“It means” —Atsumu pauses, just enough to notice the stupefied glower you give him— “that we haven’t promised each other what your Mama and Papa promised each other.”

“Oh!” Komi gasps, her eyes lighting up with excitement. She grips the seat with her tiny hands, clearly thrilled at his words. “Like a pinkie promise?”

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Atsumu scolds himself yet again for letting his mouth run loose all the damn time. How is he supposed to break this poor, innocent girl’s heart by telling her that you and Atsumu aren’t married? Heck, you aren’t even dating, and he doesn’t even know if you want to get married to someone eventually. He wishes he could blabber about his feelings for you directly to you—but it appears that he is tongue-tied only around you, as well. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Regardless, he cannot take back his words now, which means he must plough on.

Ignoring your pointed glare, he nods. “Exactly. You’re very smart, aren’t you, Komi?”

“‘m the third in my class!” The girl beams proudly.

“Really?” Atsumu gasps. “I was only fifth!”

“From the bottom,” you interject, seemingly having finally found your voice.

“Don’t listen to her,” he says. “She’s just trying to make me look stupid.”

Komi giggles. “Papa says that’s a bad word.”

“And Papa is right.” Atsumu nods. “Idiot is also a bad word.”

“You’re so brilliant, Tsumu,” you mutter. “Teaching her bad words by saying they’re bad. Genius.”

“See, Komi, now what ____ did is something called sarchasm—”

You let out an odd noise, something in between an exasperated sigh and an amused giggle.

“...And now she’s laughin’ at me,” Atsumu finishes, staring at Komi and shaking his head ruefully. “Can’t believe I’m payin’ for this one’s train tickets.”

Komi’s curious gaze darts between you and Atsumu, a little confused but wholly entertained. “Stop, stop, stop!” She holds her palms out as though she’s a judge imparting all her four-years worth of knowledge to pass her verdict. “Both of you need to make a pinkie promise.”

You blink. “What for, Komi?”

“To always love each other. Forever an’ ever, until you both die!” she declares seriously.

Atsumu’s smile turns soft around the edges. Ah, the child-like innocence that vanishes so quickly. He doesn’t remember much of his own childhood—it’s mostly just a blur of juvenile volleyball and fistfights with Osamu and Aran, and playdates where you would come over with your mother and the three of you would romp around with the twins’ toy dinosaurs—but he hopes he had the same sort of faith in the world that little Komi so proudly presents to him. 

He turns to you, fingers already twitching with the urge to wrap his little finger around yours. “I think you have a point, Komi. Whaddya say?”

“I agree,” you say quietly, shifting slightly in your seat.

Atsumu gently takes your hand in his, hooking his pinkie finger with yours. Your skin is soft, a little bit clammy, but so is his. He swallows thickly, nervous for no reason at all, and says:

“____, I promise to love you forever and ever, until we both die.”

“I, um” —you inhale shakily— “I promise to do the same.”

He squeezes lightly and then lets go, letting his hand drop down to his lap. It was only a brief moment of contact—barely thirty seconds—but Atsumu’s finger twitches again; he aches to prolong the contact, to hold not just your finger but your entire palm, encase it within his hand’s confines, and never let you go.

“No, you didn’ do it properly!” Komi whines, her chubby fingers tightening around the headrest. 

The volleyball player’s gaze snaps back to his small friend’s face. Gruffly, still wary, he asks, “What did we do wrong, Komi?”

“Mama an’ Papa always make me an’ Kento kiss after we fight! You should do the same!”

“But we haven’t fought, Komi,” you try to gently persuade her from exacerbating your situation. 

It doesn’t work. Komi is adamant, as most children are, and Atsumu senses the beginning of a tantrum. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Komi and Kento’s parents napping in their seats, probably taking a well-deserved break from handling two kids. He doesn’t want to wake them up, all because he couldn’t satisfy their daughter’s harmless demands.

“All right, all right,” he says, flashing Komi a winning smile. “We’ll kiss to seal the deal, ‘kay?”

Next to him, he hears your sharp intake of breath. Atsumu’s heart thuds in his chest, a marching band of his own. The words just slipped out—as they always do. It is his fatal flaw.

Before he can turn towards you, he freezes. 

You kiss him on his cheek. 

You kissed him.

He can feel remnants of your lip balm on his skin, a slightly oily residue that he doesn’t bother wiping away. His brain feels like it’s a laptop with the Blue Screen Of Death causing it to cease all functions; blood rushes to his ears.

“There,” you tell Komi with an air of finality. “Pinkie promise made properly.”

The girl giggles and claps her hands, but he can tell she’s getting tired as well. With one last parting smile, she turns back around, presumably to nap for the one hour of travel left.

Atsumu’s cheek tingles at the spot where you kissed him. He resists the urge to brush his fingers against it, conscious of the fact that you might find it weird. Instead, he forces down the giddy smile that threatens to overcome his face and joins you in silently observing the countryside whip past him through the window.

Jealousy is an emotion Miya Atsumu grapples with rather frequently, and it’s no exception when he sees his brother tackle you into a hug as soon as he lays eyes upon you both.

Meanwhile, he’s left standing at the genkan, carrying both your bags and suitcases. Osamu doesn’t even spare him a look. Atsumu scowls; is this what their brotherly love has been reduced to?

“Don’ mind me,” he announces, toeing off his shoes and socks. “‘m just a luggage carrier.”

“Guest room’s all yours,” his brother says, arm still wrapped around your shoulder. 

You snicker at Atsumu’s disgruntled expression and he rolls his eyes. Hefting a bag on his shoulder, he smirks and shoots back, “Someone’s gotta be the useful one. Cookin’ isn’t gonna save your life.”

“Dinner’s on you, Tsumu,” Osamu calls out to his retreating back. “And then we’ll see who survives after eatin’ your food.”

Atsumu blanches, but he sees the amused tilt of your head and flashes a winning grin at you instead, trying to quell the envy that bubbles in his chest when he sees Osamu whisper something into your ear and you giggle. 

After depositing your bags in the guest room, Atsumu heads upstairs to put his own luggage away and wash up a little. He can hear the sounds of you and Osamu talking and laughing downstairs, taking the time to catch up on everything you’d missed in Hyogo district—about the twins’ mother and her little circle of friends, the news about when one of their neighbours threatened to cut down another person’s apple tree—and your delighted laugh sends a ripple of something warm down his spine. 

He knows he’s well and truly fucked when he thinks about how much he wishes he could be the one to draw those elated sounds out of your mouth.

Downstairs, you’re doubled over with laughter as Osamu regales you with the story of their Grandma Miya accidentally crashing the wrong knitting circle and not realising until three meetings in that they were discussing trashy romance webnovels instead of actually knitting. Atsumu lingers at the top of the stairs, listening to your guffaws. You snort, once, and it sends you and Osamu into peals of laughter again. His fingers curl around the bannister.

The volleyball player steels himself, plastering on a confident smile as he saunters down the stairs.

“Oi, what’s so funny?” he drawls. “Ya laughin’ without me now?”

“Just tellin’ her about Grandma’s new knitting club,” Osamu says. “She’s startin’ to think she can direct a romantic drama now.”

“I mean, she probably could,” you agree, smiling. “From what I know of her, your grandmother is a force.”

Atsumu scoffs, dropping into the armchair closest to you. He mutters, “A force that guilt-tripped me into bringin’ a date to the wedding.”

Osamu snickers. You tilt your head, curious. “A date for Shohei’s wedding?”

“Yeah. And if I show up without one, I’m doomed. Grandma’ll start parading me around to every eligible bachelorette she’s ever met—the neighbours, the cashier at the konbini I said looks cute, random strangers on the street.”

The corner of your mouth quirks up. “That doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe you’ll find someone perfect.”

Atsumu swallows down a groan. The last thing he needs is for you to think he’s taking his grandmother’s matchmaking seriously. “Nah, it’s a nightmare waiting to happen. Imagine Grandma introducin’ me to that one lady who brought natto salad to her friend’s birthday party.”

Osamu barks out a laugh. “Everyone ended up with really bad diarrhea that day,” he explains to you. “Guess Tsumu will hafta rely on me for cookin’ unless he wants bowel problems by the time he’s thirty.”

“As if,” Atsumu says quickly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Point is, I need someone to save me from this circus.”

“Hm, better start polishing your flirtin’ skills, Atsumu.” You give him a teasing smile.

His eyes lock with yours for a fraction of a second longer than he intends, and the words sit heavy on his tongue. You’re my date. I was thinkin’ of asking you. But his throat tightens; instead, he tosses a pillow at his twin brother to cover his nerves.

“You busy, Samu? Wanna be my date?” he jokes, deflecting easily.

Osamu catches the pillow without missing a beat, and then shudders. “Not a chance. The second they see me with you, they’ll think you’ve finally lost it.”

“Hasn’t he already?” you pipe up. 

Atsumu clutches his chest dramatically. “Even you, ____? Betrayed in my own home!”

“Technically, it’s Samu’s home.”

Osamu grins triumphantly. Atsumu sneers.

“Well, don’t worry ‘bout me,” he says, leaning back and stretching his arms behind his head. “I’ll find someone. Real classy. Someone who’ll shut Grandma up for a whole year.”

His brother rolls his eyes. “Sure you will, Tsumu.”

You glance at Atsumu again, lips pressed together in a thin line. There’s something indecipherable in your eyes, the way your forehead is creased ever-so slightly. Before he can say anything, Osamu’s phone rings. He excuses himself to take the call, leaving the two of you alone.

“Who’s the lucky fake date?” you ask after a beat. You don’t meet his gaze.

He rubs the back of his neck, debating his next move. His heart pounds as he tries to muster some semblance of courage, but all he manages is a lopsided grin and a shrug.

“Dunno. Guess I’ll know when I see her.”

“We have a problem.”

“We do?” Atsumu has only just woken up. His brain is still struggling to catch up with the rest of him; he blinks once, twice, waiting for your statement to sink in. 

“Get up, loser,” you say, walking into his bedroom like you own the place. You flick his duvet off of his body. “We’re going shopping.”

Atsumu sits up, pressing his palms to his face and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The duvet slips further down.

“Fuck!” you yelp, immediately turning around. “Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t see anythin’.”

A shiver ripples through his body. Without the warmth of his blanket cocooning his body, the cold of the morning seeps into his skin. He’s trying to figure out why, exactly, he’s being presented with a marvellous view of your back, and what you’re apologising for, when the chill makes him shiver again.

Oh. He looks down at himself. 

Atsumu didn’t wear a shirt to bed.

His cheeks flood with heat, the back of his neck prickling with embarrassment. “Er. I’m wearin’ pants,” he says, like that’s going to be of any help.

“I’m, um, going to leave,” you say. Your voice sounds stilted—likely due to being similarly embarrassed by Atsumu’s bare-chestedness. Atsumu grunts in agreement. You walk out slowly, gingerly tip-toeing over a discarded pair of sweatpants he left lying on the floor.

You shut the door behind you, face lowered, and exaggeratedly twist the doorknob until it lets out a click sound, as though you’re showing him that you have not seen anything indecent. As though his abs have personally offended you. Like you’re a National Geographic narrator documenting a rare, disgruntled creature in the wild. 

The shirtless Miya Atsumu, with its ruffled plumage and tragic morning breath, appears to challenge the peace of its habitat.

Ha. Wouldn’t that be a hoot.

To his credit, Atsumu gives himself five minutes before he flops onto his stomach and screams into his pillow. Then, he rises and rummages through his closet for a shirt—he settles for a grey one that he probably stole from Osamu’s closet during high school—and, still mortified, slips out of his bedroom and heads downstairs to see if breakfast is ready.

He finds his mother and you sitting side-by-side on cushions by the chabudai. It’s the usual motherly nonsense she always spouts whenever you come over—gushing over your job, asking about your parents, and, of course, wondering if you have a boyfriend yet.

“Not yet, Miya-san,” you reply politely, though Atsumu can tell you’re a little embarrassed. Your eyebrows furrow just slightly, and it’s always a tic you’ve had, Atsumu’s discovered.

“Oh, well, that’s too bad,” his mother says. “Beautiful girls like you should have boys tripping over their own two feet to date you.”

Atsumu is sure he’s tripped over his own two feet in front of you enough times by now for him to be able to date you. He clears his throat and puts a little swagger to his step when he sits down opposite you. “Missed me, Ma?”

“Slightly lesser than how much I missed ____,” she says.

“Just adopt her already, why don’t you?” Atsumu quips, rolling his eyes.

His mother actually seems to consider this, as she presses her lips together. “Marry one of the twins, ____. You know I would love to have you as a daughter-in-law.”

Your eyes widen, and you flounder, beseechingly locking eyes with Atsumu and begging him to help you out. He smiles a little. He remembers why he brought you here in the first place. His smile gets wiped out in an instant.

It’s not as though Miya Atsumu doesn’t want to spend time with you. He knows Shohei would love to have you at his wedding, and Hyogo is a beautiful place to be at this time of the year. But the thought that he needs you to be a scapegoat to appease Grandma Miya niggles at the back of his mind, unforgiving. He really should tell you, he thinks.

Thankfully, you’re saved from his mother’s matchmaking attempts by Osamu, who walks in balancing bowls of rice and miso soup. He sets them down on the table expertly—Onigiri Miya has trained him well—and plops down on a cushion next to his brother. 

“Sorry for bein’ late,” he says gruffly. “Forgot to add salt in the miso.”

It smells delicious. Atsumu has to admit that he’s missed his brother’s cooking. After surviving on a majority of meals that were either konbini snacks or cheap ramen in Tokyo, home-cooked food makes his stomach grumble in a good way.

The four of you chorus your gratitude for the meal with bowed heads and folded palms, and then dig in. Atsumu slurps up the miso soup, chewing on a piece of tofu. It’s heavenly—it really is, and he nudges his brother’s side with his elbow to convey it. Osamu nudges back, and the table is silent for some time.

“Oh, by the way,” his mother says, “we need to get your suits from the dry cleaners. I have to go help your aunt out with last-minute wedding preparations, so I need one of you to do it.”

“Not me,” Osamu says. “I’ve got a restaurant to run.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that, Osamu,” she continues, giving him a small smile. “That’s why I asked ____ to wake up Atsumu early today. Both of you still have the same build, so Atsumu can go to the tailor’s to see if it fits or if he needs any adjustments.”

“Oh,” says Atsumu. You don’t meet his gaze. “I didn’t know we had actual work to do today.”

“I also offered to buy ____ a dress, but she refused.” His mother casts a quick, affectionate glance at you. “So, Atsumu, I need you to buy her one, all right? Get her a gorgeous one.”

“O’course I will,” he says, quietly.

Osamu looks curiously between you both. “Didn’t ____ tell you all this when she came to wake you up, Tsumu?”

A wad of rice gets lodged in Atsumu’s throat. You accidentally inhale miso soup through your nose. Both of you cough and splutter.

Osamu frantically pats Atsumu’s back, while you, eyes watering, accept a glass of water from the twins’ mother. Something unfurls inside Atsumu’s chest at the thought of spending the whole day with you, getting his suit tailored and buying you a dress.  

It’s almost like you’re actually his date for his cousin’s wedding.

Is it weird that Miya Atsumu wants to see your reaction to him wearing a suit? Is he being presumptuous in the way he lifts his chin and puffs out his chest so that the tuxedo fits him better? What are your thoughts about men wearing tuxedos and ties, in general? Should he buy a tie that matches your dress?

This, and other such mysteries of life, are what the volleyball player ponders over in the tiny fitting room while one of the seamsters kneels in front of him and measures the length of his leg with measuring tape. 

Atsumu has to constantly remind himself that you don’t know he’s your date yet. The wedding is tomorrow. He doesn’t know if he has it in him to stick it out until then. 

“All done,” the seamster announces, getting back to his feet. “Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be able to alter this to the right size.”

“Thanks,” Atsumu mumbles, pulling back the curtain and heading outside. 

You’re sitting on one of the couches they’ve kept by the corner of the shop, scrolling through something on your phone. The bag with your new dress—his mother’s gift to you—is placed on the floor by your feet. He doesn’t know what the dress looks like; you’d insisted on buying it secretly because it was, apparently, embarrassing to go dress-shopping with a close friend who happens to be a well-built, devilishly handsome, popular, famous pro-volleyball player. 

Not that you said those words exactly, but Atsumu can fill in the blanks.

He plops down next to you, leaning back and circling his head to get rid of the cricks in his neck. You put your phone away and glance at him.

“Take a picture,” Atsumu says, not looking back at you. “Lasts longer.”

“If only your face actually looked good in photos.”

“My face looks excellent. Haven’t ya seen me and Bokuto in the Calpis advertisement?” It was a small gig they’d gotten right after the Olympics season. Kuroo had said it would make for good PR, and Atsumu and Bokuto jumped at the chance to have their small five minutes of fame. Shouyou had sulked about not being a part of it for two weeks straight afterwards.

“I have, actually,” you respond, crossing your arms over your chest. “You know I wouldn’t ever miss out on that. I’m surprised no one here’s recognised you yet.”

“Livin’ under a rock, the whole lot of them,” Atsumu mutters.

You laugh softly. “The fame’s gone to your head, Atsumu. Don’t forget me when you and the team go gallivanting across the country.”

“You know I wouldn’t ever be able to forget you,” he says, after a beat. “You’re, like, a part of me now.”

You blink. “That’s kind of weird.”

Atsumu’s cheeks burn. How is it that he always, always fumbles so much in front of you? It’s like his brain sees you and immediately decides to unplug itself for maintenance. He gulps, thinking of ways to salvage whatever dignity he has left.

“‘S not weird,” he forces out. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. I think you spent more time at our house durin’ elementary school than you did at your own.”

“Fair enough,” you acquiesce. Shifting slightly, you eye the bit of fabric from your dress that pokes out of the paper bag. “Still can’t believe your mom insisted on getting me a dress,” you murmur, lightly brushing your fingertips against the edge of the bag. “It’s a bit over-the-top, don’t you think?”

“She just likes you a lot,” he responds. “Honestly, I’m startin’ the think she likes you more than me or Osamu.”

“That’s not a very high bar.” You roll your eyes, but there’s no malice in the action. “But it’s probably ‘cause I didn’t dunk her favourite teapot into the toilet when I was seven.”

“That was an accident! And I apologised more than a hundred times!”

“Yeah, and I’m sure the apology totally made up for the fact that you made Osamu stick his hand down there and fish it out for you.”

“Why d’you always take his side?” Atsumu grumbles. “Can’t ever catch a break with both of you around, I swear.”

You lean back, shoulder brushing against his. Atsumu can feel your gaze roving over his face; he bites the inside of his cheek, feeling strangely self-conscious.

“Maybe,” you say, “I just enjoy making fun of you. You always make fun of me back. It’s nice.”

Atsumu swallows hard, trying to focus on anything else—the tacky wallpaper, the sound of pop music blaring from the shop next door. Anything but the way your words make his heart somersault, or the way your smile lingers for a second more than usual. 

“That’s cruel, yaknow,” he manages to say. “Gangin’ up on me all the time. Makes a guy feel unloved.”

You stay quiet, thoughtfully steepling your fingers under your chin. Atsumu glances at you from the corner of his eye. Your expression doesn’t betray anything, until you reach out and gently grasp his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “Didn’t realise you didn’t like it.”

Miya Atsumu is certain—not for the first time in his life—that he’s utterly doomed. It’s a little bit pathetic, really. It started back in middle school, and still, somehow, he’s unable to move on. You’ve consumed him. Your thumb brushes over the veins on his wrist; he wonders if you can feel his pulse racing.

“Don’t stop,” he says, because what else does a fool in love say?

“Atsumu, I—”

You’re interrupted by the seamster, who calls Atsumu over to the register to finish his billing. He grits his teeth. This is the worst sort of interruption ever. He turns to face you properly, because maybe if he pretends he didn’t hear the tailor, you’ll tell him what you were about to say. 

But your face is carefully blank, your lips pressed together. “Go on,” you tell him. “Don’t forget to collect Osamu’s tux, too.”

“Yeah, okay.” Atsumu nods once, twice. He gently extricates his hand from your grasp, as much as he dislikes it. “I’ll, uh, go do that, then.”

“Okay.”

Atsumu hates this. He’s not sure if he even wants to attend the wedding anymore. All his relatives are going to heckle him about his love life—and that’s fine, he can deal with them. He just doesn’t want his grandmother’s face to crumple with disappointment on finding out her grandson’s whole “relationship” was a farce. Feeling sick to his stomach, he pays for the alterations done to his and his brother’s outfits, and gestures for you to accompany him outside. 

You don’t meet his eyes the entire way back home.

It’s the eve of the wedding reception, and Miya Atsumu can’t find you anywhere.

The reception hall is lovely. Golden lanterns hang from the ceiling, enveloping everyone in a soft, warm glow. Vases of peonies and cherry blossoms, intertwined with sprigs of baby’s breath, are placed on top of the soft linen covering each table. The delicate strains of a koto and shamisen ensemble weave through the air. The centerpiece stage, framed by cascading fairy lights and flowing silk, bear the names of the bride and the groom, written in exquisite calligraphy. An array of traditional Japanese sweets and cups of sake are placed on a long table by the corner of the hall.

Shohei and Sakura sit by the shintaku, looking resplendent in their outfits, surrounded by family members and friends. He’s already congratulated them, clapping his cousin on the back and winking proudly at Sakura. You’re nowhere near them, so he tries the snack table instead.

Atsumu hides his mounting worry by shoving a piece of mochi into his mouth. He racks his brain, trying to think of other possible hideouts where he can find you. It’s not like you to disappear like this—and it’s a shame, really, because all he wants is to be by your side this evening. Osamu is posing for a group photo with his second cousins and his mother is helping his aunt with the gift bags, but you’re not anywhere near them either.

He knows you won’t be at the smoking area where his uncle has held court all evening, but he decides to check anyway. Atsumu gives the area a cursory glance, confirming that you’re not among them, before hastily walking out. He curses under his breath, his usual confidence giving way to an unfamiliar, gnawing unease.

You’re supposed to be here. You said you’d be here.

He adjusts the lapels of his tailored suit and forces himself to think rationally. You’re probably just outside, he tells himself, getting some air or hiding from the relentless matchmaking attempts of meddlesome aunts. It’s probably fine. It has to be.

Atsumu’s footsteps turn towards the garden doors. His urgency is masked by the cocky, practiced demeanour he wears like a second skin.

“Atsumu, boy, where d’you think you’re running off to now?”

The volleyball player freezes mid-step. He exhales slowly and drags a hand through his meticulously styled hair before turning around.

Grandma Miya stands by the hall’s entrance, wearing a lavender kimono that glows under the warm lights. Her lacquered cane gleams as she taps it softly against the polished floor. Despite her diminutive frame, his grandmother commands the space effortlessly. Sharp eyes—so like his own—pin him in place.

“‘M not runnin’ anywhere, Grandma,” Atsumu says, summoning a sheepish smile that he hopes will placate her. “Just, uh, checkin’ on something.”

Her eyebrows lift, arching in a way that shows she’s wholly unconvinced. “Checking on something or someone?”

Atsumu opens his mouth, an excuse perched on the tip of his tongue, but she raises a hand and continues before he can say anything. “Thought you ought to know—there’s a pretty girl standing outside in the garden cussin’ out your name like she’s auditioning for a sailor’s choir. Care to explain why?”

“Wait—outside?”

“So you do know her,” Grandma Miya states.

“Um. Yeah—I— She’s—” The grin he’s worn like armour falters under the Miya matriarch’s scrutinising gaze.

“Out with it, Tsumu,” she prompts, tapping her cane once on the floor. “Who is she?”

“She’s my… date,” Atsumu admits. The words tumble out awkwardly, and he can’t deny the way it sounds both weirdly foreign but strangely right at the same time. “For the wedding.”

His grandmother’s eyes narrow. “And why is she out there cursing you to Hell and back all alone in the cold?”

“I didn’t—” He stops, shoulders slumping. He knows there’s no point in lying—not to her. Grandma Miya has always been able to see right through him, as though his thoughts are scrawled across his face.

“She’s not really my date,” Atsumu mutters, gaze downcast. “I mean, she is, but she doesn’t… know that she is.”

Grandma Miya blinks, and then lets out a short huff of laughter. “Atsumu, are you tellin’ me you brought this poor girl here, told everyone she’s your date, but didn’t think to inform her of that little detail?”

“I didn’t forget,” Atsumu protests, though his words sound weak to his own ears. “I just didn’t have the chance to tell her.”

“Why would you go and do something so spectacularly foolish?”

He hesitates, avoiding her eyes. “‘Cause I didn’t want to disappoint you,” he says quietly, the admission dragging itself out of his throat.

His grandmother’s smile fades, and without it, her wrinkles look more and more pronounced. “Disappoint me?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu whispers. “You’re always askin’ me when I’m gonna bring someone home. You want to see me and Osamu get married, too, before you—” His voice catches. “Before. Um. I just wanted to make you happy, ‘s all.”

There’s a long pause, and when Grandma Miya speaks again, her voice is sadder than he expects. Classic Atsumu, he thinks bitterly. Always findin’ a way to mess things up for everyone.

“Atsumu, you daft boy,” his grandma says, “I don’t care if you bring someone or not. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

Atsumu swallows, her words entering his chest and settling down with a warmth that wraps around his body. When he looks up, he finds her observing him not with judgement, but with quiet understanding.

“Are you happy?” she asks. 

Something about the way she says it is tinged with hope, and it makes his heart lift. The truth lodges in his throat, too big to swallow, too heavy to speak.

“I like her,” he blurts out finally. “A lot. But she doesn’t—she doesn’t know that either.”

Grandma Miya’s lips lift up in a grin—the same smile that passed on to his mother, and then to him and his brother. “Then go find her. Tell her the truth.”

“But what if—”

“No,” she says firmly. “Life’s too short for all that nonsense. If you care about her, you owe her the truth and an apology. Go on, now. Dinner’s starting soon.”

Atsumu nods, the corners of his lips twitching up in a small, grateful smile. She waves him off with her cane, before turning around and bellowing to Osamu to get her another cup of sake. He heads out to the garden.

The cool night air fills his lungs when he steps out of the ornate doors. He catches sight of you pacing near the koi pond; your movements are tight with frustration. The moonlight shimmers on the water, and dances across your face. The ends of your dress billow out because of the wind and Atsumu swears he forgets how to breathe.

It’s not until he climbs down the steps and comes to a standstill in front of you that you finally acknowledge Atsumu. Even then, it’s with flaring nostrils and flashing eyes, and he knows he’s fucked up really badly this time.

“Atsumu,” you say, voice taut. “What the Hell is going on?”

He winces. He doesn’t know what to say, how to explain everything. He tries to speak, but no words come out, and all he can do is watch helplessly as you curl your fingers into your palm with anger.

“Why the fuck did you tell your entire family that I’m your girlfriend?” you snap, when it becomes apparent he isn’t going to say anything. “What did you think was going to happen?”

A dozen half-baked excuses fly over his head, but none of them feel right. Grandma Miya was right—he owes you the truth—but first, he needs to find a way to calm you down.

“Do you realise how messed up that is?” you continue. Your voice increases in pitch, garnering the attention of a few wedding-goers milling about. “You didn’t ask me. You didn’t tell me anything. Do you know how embarrassing it was to get bombarded by all your relatives asking me how long we’ve been dating? They think we’re something that we’re not—fuck it all, they think I’m something I’m not.”

“I didn’t— I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Atsumu pleads, finally having found his voice. “I just—”

“Just what?! Just thought it would be easier? Just wanted to impress your family?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No. I just—shit, I dunno—I didn’t want my grandma to think I was screwing around. I didn’t want my relatives to look at me with pity ‘cause I can’t even stay in a decent relationship for longer than three weeks!”

Atsumu searches your face for something—some sort of reaction to his words. But you’re silent, and he can’t read your face. He can’t tell if you’re angry, hurt, both, or something else entirely, and it’s making him feel even more out of his depth.

“What were you thinking, Atsumu?” you ask softly. Your teeth worry your bottom lip, and he resists the urge to give in and kiss you silly.

“I wasn’t thinkin’,” he says, hoarsely. “I didn’t think about how it would make you feel. I should have.”

You don’t say anything for a long while; Atsumu thinks he’s said too much. But then, you speak and the bite in your voice has reduced.

“You didn’t think about me. You didn’t think ‘bout how I’d feel being that person for you.” 

Your words ring hollow in his ears. The hurt in your voice makes his stomach twist with guilt. He wants to defend himself, but what could he possibly say? Instead, he looks at you quietly, hoping against all hope that somehow you will understand.

“Fuck,” Atsumu mutters under his breath, more to himself than you. He takes a tentative step forward, but you hold up a hand.

“You don’t—” Your voice trembles. “You don’t get to just walk over to me and give me some half-assed apology, Atsumu.”

Atsumu stops, letting silence blanket you both once more. He stares at you for a moment, at your beautiful face and your beautiful dress, and without thinking, he steps closer, his hand reaching out.

You don’t pull away—not immediately.

He’s close enough now that he can see his reflection in your eyes, the small tremor in your lips. Something inside him shifts, something urgent, something that makes his head spin. He doesn’t know what he’s doing until it’s too late. 

He curls his hand around your waist and pulls you in, crashing your lips with his. He feels you stiffen at first—but then you kiss him back, hard and sharp, and everything in him unwinds.

It isn’t gentle or sweet. It isn’t tender, the way Atsumu had always imagined his first kiss with you would be like. It’s angry—you are angry at him, and he is angry at himself. 

It’s over far too quickly. Atsumu’s chest heaves with each breath he takes. You gawk at him, wide-eyed and breathless; a mirror to the expression on his own face, most likely. 

“I—” Atsumu starts, but the sentence gets lost somewhere in his brain when you take a step back.

“I’m not some… prop to your little charade, Atsumu,” you say. “So unless this means something to you—like it does for me—don’t do things you’ll regret.”

“I won’t,” Atsumu promises. His voice is gruff, his heartbeat a rapid staccato against his rib cage. “I could never. I like you too much for that.”

You look at him like he looked at you earlier—like you’ve forgotten how to breathe, like you’re drinking in the sight of him and trying to commit him to memory. It comes out as a whisper when you say, “What?”

“God, ____, I like you. I like you so much I don’t know what to do with myself when you’re around.” He owes you the truth, and so the truth is what you will get. He’s not very good with words—you know this, and he’s sure you will recognise this for what it is: he’s laying his heart bare for you to take and keep safely for him.

“Me too,” you say. “Me too, Atsumu. Me too.”

He kisses you again, gentle and tender and sweet, his hand placed on the curve of your neck and your hands clutching the front of his shirt. 

Osamu finds him and you later, curled into each other’s sides. Atsumu’s cheeks colour when his brother shoots him an impressed look.

“Finally,” he says. “Been waitin’ forever for this buffoon to get his head out of his ass and make a move.”

Atsumu doesn’t deny it, and you laugh softly. “Been waitin’ for him myself,” you say, squeezing his arm affectionately.

“Anyways,” says Osamu. “Grandma Miya’s lookin’ for Tsumu. She says she can’t wait to meet his new girlfriend.”

Atsumu’s mouth splits into a grin. “Tell her we’ll be right there,” he says.

[pearlywritings]

Sometimes the name doesn't matter

synopsis: sometimes it matters that you are his wife. PART 3

pairings: Childe, Neuvillette, Pantalone, Wriothesley x fem!reader (separately)

tw: fluff, established relationship (married/engaged/mated), secret relationship, immortal reader in Neuvi's part

word count: 6.1k+ words

a/n: part 1 and part 2 can be read here!

Childe

Spurred by the whistles and a whip of a coachman three fine white horses are trotting along the snow-covered road, dragging a big sleigh. Made of the sturdiest wood and painted in red and gold, the construction is effortlessly sliding on ice crust, almost lulling you under all those warm blankets and furs Ajax has thrown over your half-sitting half-lying bodies. You are glad to have this instead of jolting in a carriage (not like it’ll even be able to ride through all this snow), sure to have an aching arse even under the thick sheepskin coat, and instead of whatever machinery your lover could’ve gotten his hands onto due to his position - otherwise it wouldn’t have been so romantic.

Resting your head onto his shoulder you sigh blissfully, puffing out a small cloud of warm air. The fluffy-looking firs, tall pines and naked larches are flashing past in a magical gleam of snow-covered branches; you think you see two grayish squirrels chasing one another on a tree on your left.

“Oh, little minxes. A couple of seconds later and that snow could’ve ended up on our heads.”

You giggle at the young man’s comment, taking your gloved hand out of the sable muff and reaching to adjust the hat with earflaps (which he once again refused to tie under his chin) on his head. Before you can retrieve, a bigger hand clad in mitten wraps around yours and brings it to the chapped pale lips. As if spellbound you watch him press a tender kiss just where your ring finger joins the palm - right where the engagement ring is hidden under the thick material.

Now it’s hard to tell if your cheeks are rosy from cold or the swirling emotions.

“A little bit more and we will be in Morepesok,” he says softly, deep pools of his blue eyes staring back at you adoringly. “I can’t wait to share the news with ma, pa, sisters and brothers…”

You know he’s written them a letter right after you said ‘yes” to him, too excited to wait. So excited in fact, that he couldn’t sit still in expectation for the response, so he solicited an impromptu week-long vacation with the help of Pulcinella, and here you are, on your merry way to his home village.

“I can’t wait for that too,” you smile, leaning up to peck his nose, eliciting the same smile from him. “But I worry a little - will they be happy for us? I mean, that it’s me who you are going to marry?”

“Absolutely!” He nods enthusiastically and you have to readjust his hat again. “They all love you very much, I promise you. And if I am being completely honest, mom and Tonia did keep asking me when I intended to make you my wife during the last couple of times we visited.”

“Wait, really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was already planning a proposal at the time - didn’t want to spoil it by accidentally letting my tongue loose.”

It’s hard to believe that this man is one of the Tsaritsa’s Harbingers. Childe is surprisingly good at separating his work and off work behavior, turning into a completely normal, maybe just a tiny bit unhinged, young man as soon as his family is involved. You know he’s built this facade to keep them and you away from harm, but you also know it comes from the heart as well.

“Then I can only hope we can bring the female members of your family to the capital soon - I want them to participate in the wedding dress shopping.”

You are immediately gathered into a tight embrace and your laughter is smothered by the fur on his collar. Yes, he is the Eleventh Harbinger, Tartaglia, Tsaritas’s soldier, Childe… But in moments like this he is just Ajax. Your Ajax.

His parents’ house meets you both with the quiet creak of the gates, the barking of two big fluffy malamutes outside, the clink of the horseshoe against the wood on top of the front door, the warmth of a well-heated inside and a bit taller than the last time you saw him Teucer, who runs full speed at his big brother, practically tackling him.

“Big brother is home, big brother is home!”

Ajax joyously laughs, somehow managing to take off his coat and dropping it to the colorful carpet at the front door before hoisting the exclaiming boy into his arms. Kicking off your felt boots to step from the anteroom, you watch with a smile as he squeals when your lover presses his cold cheek to the warm smaller one, squirming in the strong arms. 

Not a minute later more of his siblings appear, closely followed by their mom - freckled, with her ginger with gray hair tied in a thick braid and an apron thrown over her green dress, the woman smiles brightly and, letting her children surround their brother, walks to you with arms spread, ready to embrace you.

“Mother, my clothes might be cold,” you try to warn her, but she doesn’t listen, hugging you anyway.

“As if it can affect me! Oh, I’m so happy to see you, my dear. How was your trip? Are you tired, hungry? I’m almost done with lunch, and in the meantime I can ask my husband to throw in the firewood and heat the bathhouse for you two.

“It’s very kind of you,” you smile, wrapping your arms to give her a hug in return. “But I think we’ll wash up in the evening - I really doubt Ajax’s sibling will let him go in the following couple of hours.”

Before she can say anything, a tall, wide man appears from the other room. His beard and hair are gingerly brown with gray too, thick brows naturally furrowed. By the rosy cheeks, the remnants of snowflakes melting on his hair and the choice of clothing you guess he’s just returned to the house through the back door - probably after chopping wood.

Upon lowering his gaze to you, his facial features smooth out.

“If it isn’t my son and a dear soon-to-be daughter-in-law!” His gruff voice booms across the house, immediately redirecting everyone’s attention to you and making you blush. “I knew Ajax was too impatient and would rather come to visit and bring his fiance along than wait for a response letter.”

As he moves to greet you properly and help with discarding the outer clothes, you notice your gingerhead whispering something to his siblings, to which they giggle and throw glances at you. Catching the gaze of your lover, you lift an eyebrow, as if asking ‘should I be concerned?’. But he only shakes his head with a smile and ushers everyone to the dining room.

However, the curiosity is getting better of you, as throughout the evening you keep catching the glances, watch Tonia whispering something to her mom, and the woman giving Ajax a ‘really?’ kind of look, but with a fond smile, and then his dad slapping his back with a boisterous laugh, saying something along the lines ‘I was the same way with your mom too’.

So you confront him once you are left alone in the room.

“Hey, foxy, what’s going on?”

“Hm?” He lowers the blanket that he’s just tucked inside the duvet cover and reaches for the sheets. “What do you mean, bunny?”

“Whatever you’ve been doing,” you put one of the pillows down and reach out for the other as well as the pillowcase. 

“And what’s that ‘whatever’ I’ve been doing?” You don’t miss the sly smile finding its way onto his face. You huff.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

The man hums, tucking the edges of the sheet between the mattress and the bed.

“Nothing you should worry about. I just asked them all to practice a little.”

“Practice?” Cocking your head, you throw both pillows onto the bed. “Wait, did you start planning something for the wedding?”

“Not quite. Rather for after it.”

Confused, but intrigued, you step closer when your lover sits down and beckons you, being dragged into his lap a second later. Blue eyes look at you in an unspoken fascination, as he leans forward to place a kiss to the corner of your mouth, prompting you to loosely wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“Since we are getting married, I deduced that it would be only right for my family to call you my wife. Thus I asked them to get acquaintanced with the term, so they could start doing it as soon as we are pronounced husband and wife.”

You blink at him once, twice. After the third time you exhale, shaking your head, but the lift of your lips doesn’t go unnoticed by your fiance.

“I should’ve known you’d pull something like this, I am not even surprised, let alone mad. But they could just keep addressing me by my name. Plus your siblings already call me ‘big sister’ and your parents made me an honor of acknowledging me as the ‘daughter’. It won’t change much.”

“But it will!” He pouts and you can’t resist the urge to pinch his cheek. “You will be my wife and I want everyone to help me show it! Does it bother you though?”

Looking into those uncharacteristically begging eyes, you really can’t deny him his little antics. Not like you were going to in the first place.

“No, no, I don’t mind, love. Honestly, it's very sweet how excited you are. Makes me look forward to it.”

“Yeah?” Look at him, smiling like a satisfied cat, who's had too much sour cream for its own good. His embrace tightens on you a little.

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes as Ajax enjoys the many kisses you pepper to his face, squeezing his eyes shut, grinning, boyishly eager for more.

“Do you think I should ask the whole village to do the same?”

“Ajax, no.”

Nuevillette

“Mother, do you mind helping me a little? I can’t reach over there…

“I’d be delighted, my dear.”

Neuvillette watches with a fond look as you put the tea cup down and stand up to walk closer to Verenata and assist her with whatever the potion maker needs. Your figure is ethereal, clad in the finest fabrics, flowing with every step and gently dropping as you crouch gracefully to hoist the melusine in your arms. From above the rim of his silver goblet the Hydro Dragon can't tear his eyes from the way one of your many “daughters” wraps an arm around your neck and reaches up, while the corner of your lips, which he can see from his position at the table, is turned upwards.

“Mother is so kind and patient,” Laume says just a step away from Neuvillette’s chair. When the man turns his head to look at her, there is Flo standing too.

“Yes, and she is so beautiful,” the other melusine sighs, clasping her hands together. “And she always brings us such nice and comfortable clothes…”

“Monsieur Neuvillette married a wonderful woman,” a couple more melusines nearby agree and there is a warm and fuzzy feeling takes place in the Judex’s chest.

Marriage… Such a beautiful concept humans came up with to validate the union of two. It begins with the wedding - a day full of happy tears and blissful smiles, shared vows to be together in sickness and in health, sweet claims of love and promises of joyful life ahead. Then this very life begins and for beings like you and your husband it’s a long, but welcome trip.

You’ve been claimed by each other for quite some time before the more ‘mortal appropriate’ ritual, and the melusines - the wonderful creatures Neuvillette once took under his wing - were aware and happy for your relationship. And it was actually their idea to hold a wedding too, once Sigewinne naturally asked how the two of you planned to introduce your bond in civil words to humans.

And it was their initiative to start calling you “mother”. With your actions you quickly became one for them anyway, and the girls actively sought your company when it was possible. Thus, such tea parties at the Merusea Village as today are a common occurrence (besides, you always welcome them because it's a great opportunity to dig your husband out of the pile of responsibilities he tends to bury himself under).

However, lately Neuvillette started noticing that when he heard the word leave the girls’ mouths, a strange feeling began rising in his chest. Even though not quite familiar with the concept of jealousy, the Judex was sure it was not the case - he loved when the melusines called you that. So, he could not really put his finger on why the action caused such an indescribable reaction.

He decided to observe. On his walks throughout the city, the man seeked the sights of parents with children to attentively listen and watch while leisurely passing by or stopping at the shopping booths to linger on the scene. He was quick to note that the interactions were hardly different from the ones between you and the girls - kids would call for their mothers in all the same tones: when happy, when asking for help, when seeking comfort and many other typical occurrences he’d seen a handful of times before.

What really caught Neuvillette’s eye was the way the parents behaved. And soon his focus shifted to the married couples instead. As reserved as the nobles seemed to appear, the ones in love still managed to slip a murmured ‘my dear’, or ‘beloved’ or ‘my sweet [Name]’ in their speech. All the things the Hydro Dragon was all too used to call you too, relishing in the image of your loving smile and joyfully crinkling eyes as you responded in kind.

But it is like a waterfall pours on him when a week later, after that tea party where he once again sunk deep in thought, a keen pointy ear makes out a simple word in the crowd.

"Wife"

Male’s heart flutters. The understanding quickly dawns on him, even more so when his eyes find the couple on the other side of the road, - it was no simple term to introduce the partner to the third party. No, the tenderly spoken word was used by that man to address his lover, to softly draw her attention to him, to remind her he is happy she is holding such a position in his life…

At least that’s what kind of puzzle pieces together in Neuvillette’s head. The couple is long gone, yet he is still standing there, hand resting on the handle of his cane and eyes staring into space.

He starts to remember all the sweet names he called you, each and every one stored in his memory with the heart-warming images of your reactions. There are all kinds of those: my love, my pearl, lizzy (affectionate from ‘lizard’; you used to tell him that dragons are just big lizards and it kinda stuck), kisses-stealer, fairy-tail nymph… The man is surprisingly creative with his words when it comes to you.

Sure, he calls you his mate, quite often too, but to his chagrin it has never occurred to him that he could call you ‘his wife’ too! It’s so simple, so absurdly logical, yet it took him weeks to figure out.

Humans are truly fascinating.

When Neuvillette returns to his office in the Palais Mermonia you are already there, lazing on a sofa with a bunch of papers, in which your husband guesses the script of probably another upcoming play of Furina. And judging by the more than a half pages turned you’ve been waiting for him for a while.

When the door closes and the cane disappears in the myriad of sparkling bubbles, you lift your gaze, and a smile immediately lights up your lovely features.

”Neuvi,” You speak softly, getting on your feet and leaving the script behind, “I hoped we’d depart on the afternoon stroll together. So imagine my disappointment when Sedene told me you had left just ten minutes ago! Oh, I knew I’d be late if Lady Furina had kept me for another minute, yet I still hoped I’d be on time…”

As you are approaching him, the Judex remembers the melusine’s words upon arrival: “Mother waits inside”. This makes all his previous thoughts resurface, and when he meets you half-way and reaches for both your hands to place a kiss to the back of each, Neuvillette has half a mind to try out his new discovery.

“Our Archon enjoys your company a lot, and, knowing you, you are not really mad,” you roll your eyes playfully, tiptoeing to peck the tip of his nose, murmuring a quiet ‘hush, let me be a tiny bit indignant’. “And I’d be honored to keep you company for the evening stroll,” and then, after a little pause of hesitation, he adds, “wife.”

He watches as the previously present smile on your face grows even bigger, but after a couple of seconds starts to fade slowly, eyes squinting a little bit to stare at him in hardly-concealed curiosity.

“What was that?”

“What was what, dear wife?”

“This!” As if to emphasize your words you point your finger to his mouth, and it’s Neuvillette’s lips’ turn to curl in a small smile.

“It’s something I hoped to discuss with you,” his gloved fingertips soothingly brush over your knuckles and soon your hand is clasped into his, as the man leads you both back to the sofa. “You see,” he starts when you sit down, “I am fascinated with the notion hidden behind the word ‘mother’ the melusines like to call you. That’s who you are for them both in reality and in terms. I’ve made some observations, and figured that sometimes humans in marriage also use the…familial terms to address one another. It seemed lovely to me and I wanted to try it out with you. What do you think?”

You hum in thought, replaying in your head the way Neuvillette spoke to you twice. It is hard to explain, but you somehow immediately see the appeal and understand why your lover got hooked on it. Seems lovely indeed. You wonder, what if you…

“Will you tell me more about those observations on our evening stroll, husband? Ooh, it does sound wonderful!”

Mark him stunned, but for a moment Judex grows speechless. The violet depths of his eyes swirl with adoration as you clap your hands gleefully, and he knows, that from now on your everyday routine will never be the same

“With pleasure, wife.”

Pantalone

Dancing snowflakes are slowly descending in their tender waltz and are gleaming like the tiniest of gems in the streetlights’, enveloping the already magical winter capital of the Cryo region in a solemn atmosphere. The white cover of the ground is crunching with every step of a passerby and every wheel rotation of the fancy-looking carriages, while the street is a jumble of fur coats and heavy military overcoats, finally breathing life into the afternoon-quiet city.

It’s a wonderful evening, too marvelous to spend it at home, too enchanting to miss the new ballet at the Bolshoy Theater, the true accumulation of the Tsaritsa’ nation’s nobility and intelligentsia. The wonder of Snezhnayan architecture is both the place to rest and enjoy the purest form of art and home to many gossip circulating in society. Some fresh and just hours old, some ancient and undying, like the topic of the Ninth Harbinger’s lovers.

Lord Pantalone is well-known and often-praised for his contribution to the Snezhnaya’s economy, along with extending the Fatui influence all across the Teyvat. But also he is quite famous for the women he appears in public with. It’s always someone new, it’s never the same one as before. Different shapes, different hair, different style - it is impossible to guess the raven-haired man’s tastes. However everybody knew - the Harbinger never entertained the company of the ladies who made attempts to catch his attention. Those ladies themselves say as much.

The Regrator’s companions never open their mouths, never utter a word - at least not when there are people around. There has never been a single name, never a remembered face - all women wear the mask covering the upper half of it, concealing the identity of yet another lucky choice of the rich man. 

Never the same woman - always the same mask.

This evening does not disappoint the gathered crowd - lifting their gazes, directing attention to the Harbinger’s personal box, they once again see the notorious mask. The long fringe of wine-red hair is coquettishly framing the ever-lasting piece of leather, similarly flaming lips are tugged in a haughty smile - as if the young lady doesn’t realize that once the night is over, she’s going to be discarded like many others before her. The dress according to the latest fashion trends and the beautiful garnet necklace do not surprise the audience anymore - even known for his love for replacements, Lord Pantalone dresses his partners royally.

The man himself has chosen yet another black costume, with a dark burgundy shirt hidden underneath and bird-shaped garnet brooch on the left side of his chest. Multiple beautiful rings catch the light when he lifts his gloved hand to adjust diamond-shaped glasses, before turning his head and addressing something to his tonight’s escort. She boisterously laughs, saying something in response, but even if attendants tried to strain their ears, they wouldn’t hear anything so far away. Even harder it gets when the third ring of the bell echoes across the theater chamber and both the Harbinger and the woman are forgotten, until the performance is over.

So no one sees when the ring-decorated hand reaches for a smaller female one, fingers sliding under the chintz-covered palm, thumb immediately reaching to tug on the hem of the glove, so the thin cool lips could press against the small patch of bared skin. A glimpse of a smile is what Pantalone gets when you glance at him with amusement playing on your lips.

Always the same mask, never the same woman, huh? 

Pride has long slithered into your heart, yet it still lifts its snake-like head every time your act of decisiveness succeeds, happily hissing. Every time it’s a test of your skills, a gamble with the eyes of ones around you, and every time you hit the jackpot, leaving the people guessing, staying the only one in possession of the banker despite the speculations.

As long as Her Majesty Tsaritsa is aware of your existence and the place you occupy next to Pantalone, you are free to do anything you want with his reputation relationship-wise. And he allows it, because should you desire the whole world - he’ll throw it to your feet like the cheapest trinket. One would say it’s because he is prideful too - he knows it’s because he loves his wife.

Loves to the point of entertaining the masquerades she stages whenever the two of you need to appear in public. It plays wonderfully into his possessive nature and desire to keep his precious beautiful wife to himself and helps with the enemies - “changing the ladies” minimizes the chances of putting at risk his one and only. Not like many know of you in the first place.

It’s a win-win arrangement for you as well - there is still an opportunity to cling to his arm, to use his expensive cologne, to play with the rings on his fingers and sneakily make out in a dark corner where no one can see. To be tugged into his lap in the carriage on the way back to his mansion, to have his long fingers undo the strings of the mask, and once the piece of leather falls onto the floor, have the palms slide down the sides of your neck, swiftly fiddling with the heavy necklace, only to let it be, the caress the shoulders, pushing the sleeves down… 

…to leave them at the elbows and grab your arms to push your back into his chest as the warm lips press to the juncture between the neck and the shoulder.

And what if you’ve lost your name in the process of this disguising? Having been an actress a long time ago made you used to it. But isn’t it fun to come up with the new ideas for your next performance? Your husband gifts you way too many dresses and jewelry sets - you must find use to all of them! He now has to simply spend a bit more on the wigs and makeup to fit each combination of fabric and gems.

“Did my wife have a pleasant evening?” The velvet voice of the man behind you caresses the ear and you meet his gaze in the full-size mirror in front of you. Amethyst eyes sparkle in the bedroom light and you smile coquettishly, red lips stretching seductively.

“Did she? How could I know?” You tease, reaching to your back to undo the corset, just to be stopped by his hands, fingers digging into the dozens of strings. “And don’t you know, Mr Harbinger, that it’s very offending for the woman, when the man speaks about another lady in her presence?”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware,” he muses, tugging a bit harsher on the ties and making you gasp, “that my dear wife can be jealous of herself.”

“When you know her poorly. Tsk-tsk, what a bad husband you are.”

Pantalone laughs behind you, shaking his head at your untrue words, and you reach to your head to remove the fiery wig. By the time Pantalone is done with your corset, you are done letting your naturally beautiful locks down, sighing in relief from both the released ribcage and hair roots.

The dress, having lost its vital support on your body, falls to the ground next to the wig and quickly becomes forgotten as you two step away from the mirror.

Your husband is still mostly clothed, having only eased out of his coat and unbuttoned the jacket, so you busy your hands with tugging the black article off and then reaching for the gleaming tiny buttons on the shirt. Your figures bask in the warm light of the room as you continue undressing the man - your eyes concentrated on the expensive fabrics, his - on the lovely expression of your face.

“But if you must know,” Pantalone raises his brow, when you look up at him, a much sincere and tender smile lighting up your visage, “your wife loved the evening very much.”

And that’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear. Fingers tangle in your hair, you harshly inhale, and his lips are on yours. Lipstick is smudging, your fingers accidentally catch the silver chain, and his glasses get slightly askew, but it doesn’t matter. His wife loved another thing he’s done for her. The banker’s day has ended in a great profit.

Wriothesley

Fortress of Meropide is a huge metal labyrinth of floors and corridors, where noise is never-ending even in the late hours of the night. The metal box which is the Duke’s office however, is constructed to mute the annoying sounds or else the one inside would have a very hard time concentrating.

Usually, even the ruckus happening outside and the clanking of the heavy machines underneath can’t sway Wriothesley’s attention if he has his mind set on doing the paperwork, even something as boring as bills. Today, however, the man has caught himself multiple times glancing at the clock he’s hung up a couple of years ago - there is no way to tell the time all the way down underwater, true, but it serves him a greater purpose. It helps him count hours and minutes before you arrive.

Tuesdays and Thursdays are the days when you take a half of the day off to come down to the Fortress to meet up with your husband. You both quickly realized that traveling back and forth together in either of the directions (fortress or home in the city) would be way too inconvenient. So, you improvise by visiting him throughout the week a couple of times and then he comes home to properly spend the weekend, having learnt to delegate his responsibilities to the most trustworthy guards. So far you’ve been extremely pleased with the arrangement, and the Fortress’s crew have learnt your face by heart to not cause you any obstacles in reaching your beloved’s office.

Today, nevertheless, something must’ve gone wrong. Pale blue eyes are practically drilling the minute hand of the previously mentioned clock, watching it moving further and further from the tiny 10-minute bar, which should’ve marked your appearance at the top of his stairs. And he gets it, everything could’ve happened, something as trivial as the queue at the pastry shop that might’ve gotten longer today, but when the delay surpasses the half-hour mark, the warden puts his fountain pen down and follows it by the creak of the chair legs on the metal floor.

As he descends down the stairs - each clunking under the heavy soles of his boots - a fleeting thought of you stopping by at the medical bay first is immediately brushed aside - his office is right on the path of entering the Fortress’s main body, and you love your husband too much to let him sulk in his longing. 

When he pushes the colossal doors open, eyes instantly start searching the area ahead of him. However, nothing unusual is spotted - two guards are standing at the front of his abode, not even flinching at the unpleasant scraping noise the metal makes; a couple of inmates are walking past them, bowing their heads right as they see the appearing the figure of their warden - Wriothesley simply nods and sends them off with a flicker of his hand; then there is Monglane’s desk with its irreplaceable owner. And no trace of his beloved wife.

Closing the doors behind him, Wriothesley comes up to the guards, inquiring if they’ve happened to see you. Getting a negative response, he hums and starts walking forward, to the corridor leading to the elevator, not bothering with asking the very same questions to Monglane.

With every passing minute, especially while waiting for the elevator, the man starts realizing how impatient he is growing, if the tapping of his foot and crossed arms are not an indicator enough. Even with just one day apart, he’s missed you so awfully much, your adoring smile, your soft voice and cute little giggles, that he feels rightfully robbed since you are not yet in his embrace, showering his face with kisses and then whining pretentiously because he’s forgotten to shave once again. Sometimes you swear he is not a big bad wolf, but a mean huge hedgehog.

He almost stomps inside the cabin the second its doors slide open and pushes the button to the reddening of his fingertip. It is a long trip up to the next level, and he admits he’s tugged on his leather straps wrapped around his arms a couple of times, but Archons, how little it all matters, when, exiting the elevator, he finally hears such a familiar voice. Your voice.

Your husband’s legs carry him like they obtained a mind of their own, following the full of amusement lilt he knows can belong only to you, just to come to a halt next to the wooden boxes piled up on the side of the path. 

He can see you, quite clearly, adorned in a cute pair of pants and a shirt, shoulders covered in a crocheted shawl - always ready for the cool air of the Fortress, yet looking so comfy, that Wriothesley can't help but desire to tackle you to the sofa in his office and cuddle this instant. And he would've done just that, if the conversation you've been having didn't catch his attention.

“No, it's wrong again. It's not Britney, it's Brytnneigh.

“But you are saying the same thing!"

"No, it is not B-r-i-t-n-e-y. It's B-r-y-t-n-n-e-i-g-h."

"Slower, please."

In the second voice the warden easily guesses a new guard that has just been employed a couple of days ago. He remembers signing the papers his weekend substitute brought him on Monday. Wriothesley also remembers how the man swore that he’d passed on to the newbie all the information and training he needed to know. But, it appears, he forgot to mention the most important thing…

“Did you make sure to write my name with two N’s?” Your voice is laced with hardly concealed mirth, and, though he can’t see the face of the guard talking to you, your husband is sure the poor young man looks quite miserable.

“Yes, mademoiselle, I did.”

“Wonderful, but it’s ‘madame’, I am a married woman after all. But no worries, I am flattered you think I look so young,” Wriothesley shakes his head with a silent chuckle. He adores you so much, but maybe it really is time to stop your little play of a new inmate, or else he’ll surely have to call for Sigewinne to check on the poor guard.

“And your last name, madame?”

“I am Brytnneigh Deirdrophnea de Troistêtesloup. Do you want me to spell it for you, dear?”

Yes, he really should stop you.

Before you can open your mouth again, you see in your peripheral vision a figure moving. Upon turning your head slightly, you are graced with the sight of your beloved husband, walking towards you with a quirked thick brow, and crossed arms. All you can do is sheepishly smile, waving at him.

“O-oh! Duke Wriothesley, Sir!” The guard behind the registration desk immediately jumps to his feet, squaring his shoulders and saluting at the arrival of his superior.

“At ease, young man,” Wriothesley nods, stepping even closer, practically invading your personal space, icy blue eyes looking at you unblinkingly. “What is going on here?”

“Nothing much, Mr Warden,” your eyes crinkle in the corners, a sight so infectious, that the man’s lips turn into a small smile. “Just a cute old me, ending up in the Fortress for Archon knows what time.”

“M-madame!” The guard exclaims rather loudly, that even your husband turns to look at him. “Even if it's not your first stay here, you shouldn’t be taking liberties with the Duke!”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Wriothesley raises his hand. “She is no longer your headache-”

“Hey!” You elbow his side to the bewilderment of the guard. In his shock he doesn’t even reach for his weapon.

“-I will personally escort this troublemaker inside. And cross out that abominable name out, would you? It’s not her name.”

“It’s not..?” Now Wriothesley really sympathizes with the guy, he looks utterly lost.

“It’s not. But,” a big scarred hand gently cups you under the chin and turns your head more properly towards the guard, “be sure to remember this adorable face very well for the next time. You’ll need that to let her in and out.”

“...out?”

“Yes, indeed. This woman is my wife.”

As the elevator doors slide close and the cabin starts moving down, you turn to Wriothesley and throw your arms around his wide frame, face burying into his chest.

“Are you proud of me for coming up with such a long and difficult name in a single thought?”

“Oh, for sure,” strong arms circle your waist and chapped lips press to the top of your head, “I bet you would be hard-to-catch if you were a criminal. But why did you decide to play such a prank on a poor man?”

“Well… I just wanted to see his face when he found out that I am the wife of the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide himself. Another reason is that there was no guard who knew my face and I doubt he would’ve believed my word. I just got creative with the way of making him summon someone else. You simply got here before anything could happen. Plus, it’s good to keep them on their toes with a job like that. Besides, I did apologize and praise him for his patience.”

At that Wriothesley just sighs and then chuckles, raising one of his hands and threading his fingers through your hair, pressing your head even closer to his chest. He is not even feeling iffy about the lost half an hour of your time together anymore. Because you gave him an opportunity to introduce you as his wife once again.