#When you look back in hindsight it is even more set up looking that when you're laughing your ass off as it is happening

[sometimesanalice]

That’s My Girl

Summary: Bradley has been looking after you for longer than he can remember. You’ve always been his favorite person. So when some guy makes an unwelcomed move on you, that last thing he’s going to do is just sit back and watch it happen.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 6.7K

Warning: language, male chauvinism, allusions to smut, some angst with a happy ending

(author's note: this is a fic is set in the 'Like I Can' universe, however it can be read on it's own!

In hindsight, Bradley should have known how rowdy the crowd at the Hard Deck was going to be tonight.

Sailors fresh off a several months long deployment were always a boisterous bunch. But Sailors fresh from a deployment during San Diego Fleet Week were a different thing entirely.

The bar is packed and humid, even with the doors and windows opened for the Pacific breeze. Penny’s old air conditioning unit might be on its last legs because Bradley’s shirt is sticking to the skin of his back. He’d nearly lost his mind when he’d seen that bead of sweat work its way down your neck and between your breasts when you’d pressed a kiss to his cheek and told him you were getting a refill and asked if he wanted anything.

Bradley really hoped you’d be up for leaving soon. He wouldn’t mind taking a dip in the pool at your apartment. Or better yet, getting you to join him for a cool shower.

It wasn’t the just the deep v of your tank top- or those sweet little embroidered flowers along the edges of it- that hand his fingers twitching to touch you. Although he liked those too.

It was that damn bow.

When Bradley had picked you up from your apartment earlier this evening and seen you wearing that, he’d given you a wolf whistle so loud it had caused your neighbor’s dog to start barking.

He’d taken advantage of your surprised laugh to back you up against your front door to get his mouth along the column of your neck. He’s always been a big picture kind of guy. And he knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he was tugging open that bow between your breasts with his teeth.

You’d all but sighed his name as your fingers tangled in his hair.

Bradley.

And just as he’d reached your collarbone, you’d pulled him back up to your mouth like you were going to kiss him and murmured Later against his lips before slipping past him, like the menace that you are, leaving him to chase after the trail of your perfume.

You knew what you were doing, that was for damn sure. He’s always been a sucker for a bow. And for you.

Bradley had more than appreciated the extra sway you’d put in your hips just for him as you walked down your hallway towards the elevator. He’d grinned to himself as he set off after you, because at the end of the night, his girlfriend would be coming home with him.

Earlier in the evening, Coyote had been fast to claim the cluster of tables that some Butterbars had left to close out their tabs, most likely onto their way to the next stop of many for the night. It was lucky timing, because there’d been a nonstop steady stream of people making their way into the unofficial designated Naval watering hole for Fleet Week. There was a mix of civilians, Naval regulars who are stationed at North Island, and the visiting Sailors dressed in their uniforms on liberty. Bradley wasn’t sure how many more bodies could be packed in until some of the worn wooden shingles of the bar started popping off.

The lively and loud atmosphere of Fleet Week was something that Bradley had typically enjoyed in the past. He liked seeing people cut loose and laugh as they swapped stories with their friends and families. And he’d been happy to do his part to add to the good times, having been pulled to the piano twice already.

Over the years he’d built up a curated collection crowd-pleasers for occasions just like this. Part peacocking, part coping. While he’s never been the type to shy away from being the center of attention, he’d also found it was easier to breathe in the spotlight. Because with everyone’s eyes on him, it was impossible to feel alone.

So much has changed for him since getting permanently stationed in San Diego. And all for the better. That loneliness was a thing of the past, because now when he played, he was surrounded by all of his favorite people

But Bradley still ends his impromptu sets the same way he always has, with Jerry Lee Lewis. Only now he gets to sing it directly to the girl who’d given him the sheet music to the song in the first place.

The same one, he’s realized, who hasn’t returned back from getting her refill yet.

Bradley takes a quick glance around the corner of the bar they’d laid claim too. Bob, Fanboy, and Payback were lounging against the side of the pool table chatting up some of the visiting Sailors, since there wasn’t enough room to actually play a round without taking someone out with one of the cues. Coyote was leaning over the jukebox flipping through the albums with a pretty civilian who was out with her friends that he’d met and was clearly trying to impress. And Jake and Nat were seated with him at one of the tall round tables taking about the new Top Gun students, where your chair next to him was still empty.

Everyone was accounted for, except you.

There are so many people packed around the edges of the bar that it takes him a moment to find you. He thought maybe you’d been held up by Penny or Jimmy or some other familiar face, but he doesn’t recognize the man who standing way too close to you. But the firm press of your lips tells him everything he needs to know.

He sees the next moment playout as if it’s in slow motion. Watching as you attempt to take a step back, only for the guy to wrap his hand around your wrist to keep you from moving away. Bradley sees you glance down at that hand on you, and back up at the stranger. He knows that look in your eyes as you shake out of his grip. You aren’t just annoyed, you’re pissed.

Bradley slams his beer down and shoves his stool back.

He hears Jake curse behind him, “Oh, shit.”

Chair legs screech against the wooden floor as his friends hustle to follow after him, but he doesn’t wait for them to catch up.

There’s a trail of spilled cocktails and beers in his wake as he unapologetically weaves through the tightly crammed bodies that separate him from you. If anyone has an issue with him later, they can put a refill on his tab. But right now, his only goal is getting to you.

He doesn’t slow for a second. He just struts right up and steps in between you and the other man.

“Do we have an issue here?” he rasps, folding his arms over his chest.

Bradley takes the guy in with a hard glower. The name tape on his uniform reads Wilson. A LTJG, based on his shoulder boards, from one of the visiting ships. The man is big, but Bradley is bigger. And he outranks him. The guy might not know it yet, but it was just another thing he was planning on making crystal clear.

You put a hand on his tense shoulder. “Everything is fine.”

“It sure as shit doesn’t seem fine.” He doesn’t take his glare off of Wilson. “I think it’s time for you to go now.” He jerks his chin towards the front door.

“We’re just having a friendly conversation,” the other man drawls, sending him a wink. The implied innuendo makes Bradley’s jaw clench. There wasn’t anything “friendly” about the way he’d been using his size to keep you trapped at the bar.

The guy is trashed. There’s a blankness behind his eyes that Bradley doesn’t like the look of. He must have pre-gamed before going out because Penny and Jimmy weren’t ones to overserve.

“No, what you’re doing is paying your tab and leaving this bar.” It’s an order.

“Bradley.” You say his name like a warning. “I’m handling it.”

You pull on his shoulder, but he shrugs you off.

“No, kid, I’m handling it for you.” This asshole was Bradley’s problem to deal with now. He’d tapped in the moment he’d seen the man touch you.

“I see.” Wilson’s gaze bounces back and forth between the two of you, an oily grin appears on his face. “You’ve already got someone for tonight lined up. Damn, you didn’t waste any time did you, sweet thing?”

Anger flares hot and bright in his stomach.

“You better watch your mouth,” Bradley spits, pointing a threatening finger.

The bar around him blurs around the edges, but the man in front of him only gets sharper in focus.

You step around him and tug on his arm. From the corner of his eye, he can see you shaking your head at him. “Bradley, stop. I told you, I’ve got it.” Your voice is clipped, tight. “Let me take care of it.”

He knows you want for him to let it go. To back off. And he’s about to- for you- because you want him to. But then he sees the guy’s eyes drop down to the exposed skin of your chest- to that bow between your breasts- and smirks.

It’s a look so filthy that even Bradley feels dirty. He operates out of instinct. Stretching his arm in front of you, he purposefully pushes you back behind him to where he knows Seresin is standing close by, trusting that his friend will move you out of the way.

“A barrack bunny like you must know her way around. I don’t mind another man’s sloppy-”

For a moment, Bradley isn’t at the Hard Deck anymore. He’s standing in Jason Cameron’s kitchen, where the smell of weed and cheap alcohol and Axe hung heavy in the air.

Bradley’s fist flies on its own.

He barely registers the moment his knuckles connect with the other man’s jaw. He doesn’t see the man stumble backwards into the table behind him. He doesn’t hear the surprised gasps or the sound of glass breaking or the thud as the man hits the floor. There’s only the color red and the sound of his own ragged breathing.

When he shakes off the memory and returns back to his body, he’s almost surprised to see the broken bottles on the floor and not shards from a sliding glass door.

The next few minutes are a flurry of chaos as Wilson’s friends come and scoop him off the floor to make their exit. From the looks of irritation on their faces, it seems like this might be an all too frequent occurrence. He makes a mental note to try and look up the man’s supervising officer. And if he can’t find them on his own, he’ll ask Mav to help.

He can feel dozens of eyes on him, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Bradley takes a moment to apologize to Penny. He avoids looking directly in her eyes, not wanting to see the disappointment he’s sure is there. The adrenaline is still coursing and sparking through his body. He needs a moment to work off his anger and get his head back on straight before he comes to check on you. But he knows you’re in good hands with his friends.

Without being asked, he rights the table and stools on his way to the supply closet to grab a broom and dustpan. He takes his time meticulously picking up the bits of broken glass off the ground before he sweeps the rest of it up as he waits for his heartrate to settle back down.

When he’s done, he spots Nat and Jake sitting at the bar top and heads towards them. But for the second time tonight, you’re not where you should be.

“That was some left hook, Bradshaw,” Nat says, pinning him with a flat look over the top of her drink.

He ignores the comment. “Have either of you seen my girlfriend?”

Jake lifts his hand up at about your height. “About this tall? Great smile? Dating a man that’s clearly punching?” He chuckles to himself. “No pun intended.” Those dimples of his are more grating than usual.

Bradley’s hand flexes in irritation. His quick fuse is on its way to being lit again.

“Seresin,” he barks, low on patience, “Where’d she go?”

The other man lets out a low whistle and shares a look with Nat. “She left out the side patio door like ten minutes ago. Looked like she was about to spit nails too.”

“Goddammit,” he mumbles under his breath. He turns to Phoenix. “Did she really look that pissed?”

She shrugs. “I’m surprised she didn’t punch you, I probably would have.”

Bradley’s mouth drops open. “For what? For defending her?”

All he did tonight was stand up for you when someone crossed a line and tried to get physical with you. He wasn’t ashamed for doing it, he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

“But did she want you to do that?” she asks, deliberately.

He doesn’t understand why Nat is giving him a hard time about this.

“That’s my girl and that guy wasn’t listening.”

Nat lifts a pointed eyebrow at him, “Sounds familiar.”

Bradley forces out a breath. “That was different and you know it.”

“All I’m saying is I think she was making herself pretty clear, but you chose not to hear her and did what you wanted anyways.” His teeth clench together as a rock lands hard in his stomach. “And from the sound of it, she wanted to handle it her own way.”

“Yeah, but…” You’re his, he wants to say, but holds back at the risk of sounding like the jealous boyfriend Nat thinks he’s being. Except he wasn’t being jealous, he just wanted to protect you.

“No buts, Rooster. You fucked up.”

Nat has always been a straightshooter. It was one of the things he’s always appreciated most about her, that and her keen ability to read people. He trusted her judgement. And if she feels this way, even if he didn’t necessarily agree with it, then the chances are very high that you do too.

“Shit.”

“Yeah, ‘shit’. Now go fix it.” She pats his shoulder once, and then gives him a shove to the side door they’d seen you leave from.

It’s cooler outside.

The ocean breeze feels good on his hot, sticky skin. Bradley feels like he can breathe a little easier without all those people milling around him.

You’re not hard to spot. To anyone else you’d a solidary figure facing the ocean, but he’d know the shape of you anywhere.

From what Seresin said, Bradley had figured you’d be half way down the beach. He’d been planning just to follow the trail of steam to find you. But you’re still as a statue with your arms wrapped around yourself as you stare out at the inky waves.

The noise from the bar is muffled inside the walls of the Hard Deck, but still slips out from the windows that are cracked open and follows him as he walks towards you. The sand shifts beneath his shoes with every step he takes. The tunes from Penny’s jukebox get carried away on the wind and are replaced with the gentle roar of the waves as he approaches you.

The days are getting longer and dusk is rolling in. The sun is hanging low in the sky. Not quite set, but well on its way. He’d love nothing more than to pull you into his lap in one of the Adirondack chairs to watch the last glimmering moments of golden hour with you in his arms. But knows that’s probably not in the cards for tonight.

The two of you have had fights before. Usually over stupid, inconsequential things. Arguing with you feels different now than when it did when you were just friends. Now that you’re his girlfriend, it feels like there’s more at stake. He knew he’d never forgive himself if he fumbled the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Bradley wants to skip over this part to where the two of you are back on the same page. He wants to skip to the part where he gets to see your dimples and hear you laugh.

He stops just a few feet behind you. He knows you know he’s there, in that uncanny way you’ve always been able to sense him. The minutes tick by as he stands there and waits for you to acknowledge him. Or to turn around and shoot him that withering glare of yours. He’d take anything other than your silence.

But you don’t.

You give him nothing, which is almost worse.

It feels like a standoff.

He folds first.

“Sweet girl,” Bradley says, with a resigned sigh.

He doesn’t miss the way your whole body tenses at the sound of his voice.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now, Rooster.”

The way you say his callsign lands like a punch in the gut.

You’re only standing a few feet away from him, but it feels like the two of you are miles apart.

“C’mon, kid, that asshole is gone now. Come back inside.”

“Seriously?” you laugh bitterly, still refusing to look at him. “You’re seriously going to ignore me right now too? I said I don’t want to talk right now.”

He feels his jaw tick. “Look, I’m sorry,” he starts, still not feeling sorry in the least, “But-”

You put a hand up and whirl on him, shaking your head in disbelief. The thunderous look on your face would have a lesser man taking a step back, instead Bradley steels his spine and digs his feet into the sand.  

“I really don’t want to hear it. I don’t think I’ve ever been this mad at you,” you fume. “Not even in high school when you got in that stupid fucking fight at that Homecoming party when I had to take you to the hospital.”

He presses his lips together firmly. There was a time and place for a conversation about that night, the one where he’d earned the scars on his face, but it wasn’t here and now. It was a secret he’d kept to himself for nearly two decades, the only other person who’d known the full story was his mom. But telling you about it now would only make things worse.

You continue, like a freight train without brakes, “And you’d been drunk then. Not that that excuses anything. But you’ve had, what? Two beers tonight?” When you lift your eyebrows at him expectantly, he nods curtly in confirmation. “So tell me what the hell just happened in there?”

He swears that sharp flash of your eyes could cut glass.  A lick of heat bursts behind his sternum. Hot and fierce.

“He wasn’t backing off,” Bradley grits out, trying to summon the patience he doesn’t have. “What was I supposed to do? Give him a pat on the back and let him keep hitting on my girlfriend?” You scoff and he feels his pulse kick up in his throat. “I have always had your back, and I will always have your back.”

Bradley doesn’t understand why you don’t seem to understand that he’d do anything for you. He’s been looking out for you since your bike handlebars had iridescent tassels streaming from them, and if he has his way he’ll be looking out for you until his number is up.

“But that’s the thing, Rooster! You didn’t have my back in there,” you argue, stepping forward so you’re toe to toe with him. Your use of his callsign again chafes against his ears like sandpaper. “All you did was manhandle me out of the way to get at him and throw fists. I mean, Mav and Hondo would have let it slide if they’d been there to see that. But what about Cyclone? Would he? Why would you put your career at risk like that? What were you even thinking?”

You’re looking at him like you don’t know him, and he hates it. Because you’re the person who knows him best.

He runs a hand through his hair in agitation. He’s been trying to tame his temper, that caged animal that paced within the confines of the ribs in his chest. But his anger and frustration has been feeding off of yours, meeting it measure for measure.

“I wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking,” Bradley explodes, flinging his arms out to the side. “I’m not going to stop and make a damn pros and cons list while I watch some asshole being disrespectful and getting physical with you. It’s not going to happen, kid.”

“And I told you that I had it handled!” you exclaim.

The sound of the waves gets lost in the way both of your voices are raising with each and every parry in the verbal fencing match you’ve found yourselves in. This has escalated quicker than he ever could have expected, and all he wants is to find himself back on the same page with you.

“How am I the bad guy in all of this right now?”

“Don’t you get it? I’m not mad about you wanting you to be there for me, I’m mad about how you went about it. You literally pushed me out of the way and passed off to Jake, like my voice and feelings in that moment didn’t matter to you. Like you didn’t care about what I wanted. You have never treated me like that before.”

Guilt makes his stomach churn.

“You and I both know that’s not true,” he replies. It’s an uncomfortable truth.

That dark period after his mom died and how he’d treated you still haunted him sometimes. When he’d try to set fire to all the bridges around him, including his friendship with you. He hadn’t been worth knowing back then, but you’d never given up on him. He remembers it like it was yesterday, he’s never forgotten it. On the nights he couldn’t sleep, it was one of the many things that played out behind his eyelids like a highlight reel of all his worst moments.

Your eyebrows pinch together in confusion. He sees the moment it clicks for you because the fire that had been blazing behind those eyes he knows so well transforms into something softer. Something sadder.

“Bradley, I’m not going to hold onto something from when you were eighteen and hurting and heartbroken.” Your voice catches with emotion. “But tonight? Tonight, you made me feel small. And you’re the very last person I thought who’d ever make me feel that way.”

He can’t even enjoy hearing you say his name again, because you look so disappointed in him. The two of you stand there staring at each other, searching each other’s eyes as the waves rolling in along the shore fill the silence.

The way your lower lip wobbles steals the fight right out of him. All that righteous indignation that had been whirling in his chest is gone quicker than it came over him at the sight of the tears welling up along your lower lash line.

He’d let you down back then. And he’d let you down tonight too. He feels like he’s broken a promise to you, one he’d made with himself a longtime ago. Bradley wants to be the man whose shoulders you could lean on, the one you trusted to bet there to support you. He never thought he’d be the guy who makes you cry.

Bradley says your name tenderly. Every single letter of it is precious to him because you’re the most important person in the world to him.

The single tear that escapes the corner of your eye and rolls down your face cracks his chest wide open.

He holds out his hand for you, but you half-heartedly bat it away.

“No, I’m still mad at you,” you say, feebly. It’s unconvincing at best.

“You can be mad at me, kid,” Bradley murmurs, “But just let me hold you.”

He needs to know that you’ll still let him. That you still want him.

Bradley reaches out for you again and this time you let him pull you into his chest. And when you thread your arms around his torso and hold him just as tight that knot in his stomach loosens. He rests his chin on your head and releases a sigh. With you in his arms, he feels like his feet are finally back on solid ground.

He knows he owes you an apology, a real one this time. He knows that he’s fucked up, he understands where he went wrong. But he can’t shake the feeling that he feels like he’s missing something, that there’s another reason playing into why you’re so upset.

Every one of your quiet sniffles twists the knife that’s lodged itself between his ribs just a bit more each time.

He doesn’t know how long the two of you stand there wrapped up in each other, as he runs his hand up and down your back. There’s more to discuss, but he doesn’t rush you. He’ll hold you for as long as you need him to.

When you pull away, only far enough to look up at him, he takes the opportunity to gently cup your face in his hands. His thumb skims along the line of your jaw, your eyes are still watery.

“Sweet girl, why are you crying? I know you. Why does it feel like there’s more to this than just me being an idiot?” he asks, quietly. It still feels so fragile between the two of you.

“Because I l-like you so much. And I know you meant well, but I hated what happened tonight.” You wipe angrily at the fresh tears that streak down your face, like you’re irritated at them for them falling without your permission.  “My ex used to pull that kind of bullshit all the time and I always hated the way it made me feel.”

His hands fall from your face.

Your confession surprises him. “Jack?” Bradley asks, his eyebrows pulling together. You nod. “I thought you said he was fine? That the break up was mutual because things got stale between the two of you.”

It’s times like this where he’s reminded of just how much distance there between the two of you over the last decade before you moved to San Diego. Of how much of you he’s missed out on. All the little moments that made up someone’s life. There was only so much an email, or a text, or a call could do.

You sigh, heavily. “I’m realizing now that there were a lot of things I put up with Jack because I didn’t want to rock the boat.”

Bradley’s fingers flex involuntarily where his hands are resting your hips. He doesn’t know what to make of that admission.

“You got to give me more than that to work with, kid. Help me to understand.”

You run you hand along his forearm soothingly, like you can sense his unease. He slides his thumbs through the loops of your jeans, fixing himself to you.

“Jack was really good about wanting to show everyone that he was a good boyfriend. And he was- for a while.” You pause, pressing your lips together. “But there were a few times where we’d go out and he’d make a scene, like what happened tonight. Except instead of someone being an actual asshole, it’d be someone who’d started up some polite small talk with me as we waited in line. And it always became a bigger thing than it needed to be. Then afterwards, he’d make it seem like he was defending my honor or something, even though he knew I didn’t like the kind of attention and all the looks that came with it afterwards. But Jack was always about Jack, and he liked the hero edit his friends would give him.”

You look away from him towards the ocean, the sunset paints you golden. Bradley knows you’re collecting your thoughts, so he waits. When you’re ready, you turn back towards him. There’s a different kind of hurt reflected in your eyes, one that tells him tonight has opened up old wounds for you.

“He’d say all the right things around other people, but when it was just the two of us alone, I never got that side of him. At the time I believed he was saying them because he meant them, but I can see now that he never really showed me that he meant them. I took his words at face value and settled for them.”

You give him a self-conscious shrug. Like you’re embarrassed. But your big heart was one of the things he loved most about you, and he hated the idea that someone had been careless with it before it made it into his safekeeping.

Bradley swallows hard. That tonight reminded you of the low points in your past relationship is hard for him to hear. And knowing why, makes it even worse.

“I think, more than anything,” you continue, your voice much quieter now, “I’m just mad that I let myself get lost in that for so long. Like I knew I needed more and that I wanted more, but I kept putting him ahead of myself when he wasn’t doing that for me.”

You thread your fingers between his and squeeze them lightly. He squeezes yours back.

“But you, Bradley, say the right things and mean them. You show me how important I am to you, with or without an audience. No one has ever made me feel as special as you do. Like, you don’t buy me red roses because you think you should-”

“Wait,” he doesn’t mean to cut you off, but his mind has snagged on a critical detail, “I thought your favorite flowers were tulips?”

A soft smile coasts over your pretty face. “They are.” He loves the warm way you’re looking at him right now, tender and fond. “And that’s what I’m talking about. You show me all the ways you know me because you care about me and want to make me happy. You don’t treat me like I’m an accessory in your life. I mean, I didn’t feel like I could even hang art on the walls of the apartment I paid half the rent for without Jack having an opinion on it. And here you are letting me bring over kitchen towels and plants for you, and we don’t even live together yet.”

Yet. Such a small word, but it means so much to know that you’re envisioning the same future with him that he sees with you.

“I like that you do that. I want you to do that. I appreciate the way you show me you’re thinking about me too.” Bradley runs his thumbs over the back of your hands. “Although, I’d rather be the one buying them,” he says, only partly teasing.

You made his house feel like a home. He hadn’t had that in so long. He wanted you to have things there in his condo that you also liked and made you happy because he wanted you to stay. He couldn’t wait for the day the two of you shared one address instead of two.

“Does that mean I should return the throw pillows I found for you?” He spots a wink of your dimples. “They’re soft, but firm enough that you won’t hurt your neck when you inevitably fall asleep on the couch even though you claim you’re just ‘resting your eyes’.” He never wants you to stop teasing him.

“No,” Bradley chuckles. “They sound perfect, but you’re going to let me Venmo you for them.”

“Ok, fine,” you agree. Almost reluctantly.

God, he loves you.

He leans in to kiss you. Once. Twice. Soft, sweet.

Bradley lets go of one of your hands to settle on your lower back and press you closer to him, until there’s no space between your two bodies. And brings the other one, with your fingers still tangled with his up against his chest. Before resting his forehead against yours.

“I’m so sorry I made you feel like that tonight.”

“Thank you, I forgive you.” You set the hand not entwined with his on the side of his face, your thumb sweeps across his cheek. “But I need you to hear me when I say that I can hold my own just fine, Bradley. I know you want to have my back and look out for me, but please, just not like that. Even if your heart is in the right place, ok?”

He nods. “I hear you, sweet girl. It’s not going to happen again. I promise.” He turns his head and presses a kiss to your palm. And then lifts the one still in his up to his lips, and drops a kiss to the back it.

“Plus, you taught me how to throw a punch, remember? I’m pretty sure I broke a guy’s nose one time,” you grin.

“Atta girl,” he says with pride. It’s so much lighter between the two of you now. He takes a couple step back, letting go of you and giving you a not-so-subtle onceover. “Ok, hot shot, show me what you got.” Beckoning you over with both hands.

“I’m not going to punch you, Bradley.”

“C’mon, kid, show me how it’s done.”

You shake your head at him in amused disbelief. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“No ma’am.” He taps his finger on his abs. “Let’s see it.”

You roll your eyes at him fondly. Then you hook your thumb over the top of your fist, just like he showed you all those years ago. And you ever so slowly, ever so gently press your perfectly aligned fist into his stomach. It could hardly even be considered a graze.

He doubles over with an overexaggerated oof and then tilts his head up at you and winks with a smile.

“You’re ridiculous.” The sound of your laugh fills his lungs.

It’s the same sound when he’d toss you into the pool when you were twelve. It’s the same sound when he’d spin you on the big tire swing when you were fourteen. It’s the same sound when he twirled you around the dance floor when you were nineteen at your mom’s second wedding.

There’s not just a glimmer of your dimples anymore, the full force of them hits him right in the chest.

“Speaking of punching,” Bradley says, straightening back up. “Hangman thinks I’m punching up.”

“Oh, does he? Interesting,” you hum. Your eyes shine in amusement.

He grins. “He’s not wrong. You’re way out of my league.”

You softly shake your head at him. “I’m just right for you. And you’re just right for me.”

He couldn’t agree more, but you don’t give him the chance too because you’re threading your arms around his neck and pulling his mouth to yours. With you in his arms and his lips on yours, he feels whole. You weren’t just right for him, you were perfect for him. And he’d never stop trying to be the perfectly right man for you.

No one’s ever had him, not like the way you do.

You’d always had a special place in his heart, but now the whole thing belonged to you. It was yours for the taking. He knew it would be in good hands with you, and he wasn’t going to stop proving to you that he was the one to be trusted with yours.

“Do you want me to take you home or do you want to go back inside?” He asks against your lips.

You kiss him again. “Let’s go back,” you say, wrapping your arm around his waist. “You owe me a dance, you know.”

He drops an arm over your shoulder. “I do?”

“You do.”

“Well then, lead the way, sweet girl.”

After he twirls you around on the crowded makeshift dancefloor of the Hard Deck, you let him take you home. Where he apologizes to you again, but this time on his knees with your thigh thrown over his shoulder. And twice more in your bed for good measure.

But not before he got his teeth on that little bow of yours.

He never stood a chance against it.

𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫

Bradley is about to line up his next shot at the pool table when Jake saddles up and nudges his shoulder.

“Looks like your girl has an admirer.” Hangman points with his beer bottle, directing Bradley’s gaze to the bar where someone is chatting you up.

He recognizes him from the most recent batch of Top Gun students. To call him overconfident would be an understatement. The guy is clearly as full of himself on the ground as he is in the sky, based on his body language as he monologues to you, all puffed up chest and cocky smiles.

If the guy had any common sense, he’d see that you look like you’d rather be anywhere else. It’s written all over your face.

“So it seems,” Bradley agrees, rests a hip against the table.

He’d noticed the guy checking you out. But it was pretty ballsy of the aviator to be leaning into you the way that he is, considering the two of you had arrived together and that Bradley had been the one tasked with doing some demonstration trainings with them earlier in the week.

The man makes some big gestures with his hands, he’s clearly reached the part of his story that’s meant to impress you. Bradley chuckles to himself when he sees the less than subtle roll of your eyes.

“Are you going to go all Rocky Balboa on his ass?” Jake asks with a knowing smirk.

You must feel their eyes on you, because you glance over in their direction.

He knows you can handle yourself, but he’ll be there if you want him to be.

Bradley lifts his eyebrow in a silent question. You give him a slight shake of your head and he nods.

“Nah, she’s got it.”

He sees the moment the guy fucks up and oversteps, because your eyebrows shoot up. You’re his sweet girl, but he knows the other guy is in for it when look that promises the best kind of trouble settles over your face.

His favorite menace.

Bradley watches on as you lean over the counter and ring the bell with enthusiasm.

A cheer goes up throughout the bar. He brings his fingers up to his lips and lets out a loud whistle.

You look rightfully smug as Penny points out the wooden sigh strung up between the beer taps to the confused Top Gun student whose bank account will be hurting in the morning.

“Damn. I forgot the kid is a straight hustler,” Jake says, clearly impressed.

“She sure is,” Bradley grins, still looking at you, “It’s a good thing she likes you or you’d be screwed.” He pats Jake’s shoulder reassuringly, before pressing the cue into his hands.

You return a few minutes later, with a tray of frothy, freshly poured beers for everyone wearing an all-to-pleased grin that lights up the whole bar.

He waits until the beers are safely on the table before threading a finger through your beltloop and tugging him to you.

“That’s my girl.”

Bradley tilts your face up for a kiss. It’s not his best work, you’re making it difficult for him since you’re too busy smiling.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Disclaimer: my writing playlist included Cassandra, The Prophecy, and Castles Crumbling. So legally I cannot be held accountable for any angst hangovers.

Thank you for reading!

If you want to see what happens next for these two, click here!

You can read more of my stories here!

taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[moondirti]

jigsaws

— surgeon! simon riley x resident! reader

angst. anxiety. panic attacks. neurosurgical procedures. medical setting. mean simon. d/s undertones. 3.3k wc

There's a reason no one likes working with him.

Tough. Censorious, or hard to please – whispered wearily by nurses with permanent distaste etched into their crow's feet. He scathes anyone not accustomed to his abrasive exterior; a talus pile of whetted rocks, poised to flay you open should you take the plunge so confidently. Rubs your skin raw, brutally worms his way into your flesh, infamously bars rescue, allowing only saltwater to cradle your open wounds in the aftermath. Nothing about his criticism is comforting, not in the way an attending's support should be.

It sounds inflated. Excessive. Your intern year, you let the horror stories float you by as though they were nothing more than dust motes in an old room. To be expected, no? Hospital's are brutal for even the briefest of visitors, let alone a man who's worked here twenty years. In hindsight, you see that it's a type of discredit only the very fortunate can claim; inaugural residents and medical directors, those who do not have to deal with the virulent terror himself. You know better, now. Really.

Still, it feels as though you're being punished.

The air in the operating room is heavy. Clotted by a thick sense of unease. It's never like this, usually. Though the smell of burnt bone, blood, and remnant antiseptic is always a force to be reckoned with, you've gotten very good at shunning your nose for favour of your other senses. To tune into the vital monitor's beep, or the distinctions between this lump of amorphous tissue versus that lump of amorphous tissue. Reinterpreting them based on the plans you revised while scrubbing up, focused fingers around delicate tools prodding. Cutting.

Reliable perception is fine work. You've honed your personal ability the best you could.

The first lesson Dr. Riley teaches you, and rather gratuitously at that, is it takes just one person to throw it off kilter.

There's an impossible itch right where your mask hooks over your ears, latched nastily onto your scalp. Nothing you can address physically (sterility before comfort), though you're aware that its source isn't so easy as to scratch away. Figurative, then. An unwavering neg, pointed by a pair of cold eyes in your periphery. You're tempted to look up, throw off his stare with one of your own, but you think he wants you distracted.

So, you shift your weight and centre the electrocautery to another portion of abnormal growth. It comes apart like stale bread.

You haven't felt this micromanaged since medical school, when professors would loom over your shoulder and mark the clumsy way you sutured incisions shut. But where your grade had been on the line then, it's a person's life now. You seem to be the only one privy to that fact, or perhaps the one surgeon who cares.

Because Dr. Riley watches you over his wire-rimmed specs, grunting ambiguously under his breath like you can't hear him standing just a foot away. Maddening in that it's quiet, idle. To question it would be putting the burden of critique on yourself. To let it continue–

Sweat pools beneath your collar. The spotlights don't help, either, heat lamps on your roasting nerves, highlighting the wet sheen of your temple to whoever cares enough to notice (just him). Focus feels a vain pursuit, attention zeroing in and out of control. You're caught in the violent dance, swept away, water beneath your feet, between the operation and everything else. Everything else, like the ground that suddenly pushes too hard beneath you. The walls, stretching further and further away. There'd be nothing to catch you should you fall – a possibility that gains traction by the second, your vision spotting with exhaustion.

You almost lose it before a flash of green reels you back in.

It's instinctual. Entrenched response to a colour that only ever means one thing. Looking up at the neuronavigation, you watch as the silhouette of your apparatus veers dangerously close to the patient's motor cortex, highlighted in nausea-inducing neon for maximum visibility. Dr. Riley's presence darkens the space next to the screen, a point of singularity that consumes anything within its event horizon. Though it's the last thing you want to do, you coast a hesitant look over to him.

A surgical gown is meant to be ill-fitting. You find he fills the fabric in a manner antithetical to that design, shoulders stretching it tight across his neck, tree-trunk arms drawing tense pleats around his joints. Even his cap, wrapped smoothly around his forehead, ripples with every shift of his brow. Doubled-up gloves warped to the contours of his hands, thick fingers and knuckles. You watch the way they twitch, distorting the latex like a swift fish underwater, and swallow the stone lodged in your throat.

"I can't read your mind, Doctor." Your attending snaps when you take too long to elaborate. His voice is rough, a sucking chest wound in the sterile air of the OR – too raw, natural in a way these halls don't see. You squirm uncomfortably in the force majeure. "What's the hold up?"

"Um-" You pull away from the glioblastoma, your patient's head remaining tightly in place by a positioning frame. "I'm concerned about resecting this part. It's all wound up in healthy tissue, right up against the motor cortex. A wrong move could cause permanent damage."

Dr. Riley doesn't move. Instead, his blank stare flicks down to the surgical site, digesting the truth for himself. The anesthesiologist beside you holds her breath. You wish you had it in you to do the same, but your lungs already wheeze for oxygen as it is.

Somewhere, dim and timid in the recesses of your mind, it occurs to you that this isn't normal. No attending should actively foster an environment where help is punished, especially not while being paid a hefty salary to do exactly that. A dour attitude is one thing – everyone has their days – but you know nurses with greater burdens that boast smiles and little stickers on their ID badges, running on three hours sleep while dealing with bedpans and lewd comments all day. Your search for guidance, then, is certainly not the worst thing in the world.

(No matter how stern the look he gives you is.)

"You need to make a decision. Hesitation in the OR can be just as fatal."

Great load of good that does.

But it was to be expected. Pre-op, you sat down with him to discuss the acceptable margins, and got as much out of that conversation as you did this one. Review the imaging. You've been given the functional mapping for a reason. Never mind that it was standard procedure to check-in regardless; he handles you like you're a child playing dress-up, waving around tools too complex for your grubby hands to operate. Asking him anything is validating what he believes, like kindling wood into a roaring fire. Your mouth smacks to the taste of ash.

The discoloured mass growing off your patient's brain seems to glare back at you. Ugly, yellow, and stained in a coating of blood, severed from its sisters that now lay dead on an adjacent table. It kills you to let it stick, to progress to hemostasis with an increased risk of recurrence. Should this individual ever come in again, their pain would be on your hands – a real possibility you cannot reckon with, for all you know how devastating a toll it would have. The last time it happened, you promised yourself you would never allow it again.

(A mistake that even the greenest of medical students know not to make. Promises are null in this field. They'll blow out like bad tattoos, ink smudged under skin. Patients die, families grieve, doctor's bear the guilt – to fool anyone about it would be doing a greater disservice. Conciliation is not your job. It is not a duty you owe.

Not even to yourself.)

"I… I think we should stop here to avoid any potential issues." You resolve, lips pursed painfully tight. Your hands shake, bullet of emotion ricocheting within your ribs. Your nerves are shot, you tell yourself. It'll take time to compose them, time you don't have. Better to shelf this, then. You're doing the right thing by wrapping it neatly for another day, if that day should ever come.

Dr. Riley huffs.

Or, not.

"CUSA," He clips to the scrub nurse, who shakes as they place the tool into his impatient hand. It's all you can do to watch in horror as your attending commandeers your case, addressing the portion of concern with offensive expertise. The activity on the neuronavigation doesn't so much as blink as he emulsifies the target tissue, tumored cells dissociating from the surrounding matter like butter.

And it isn't a learning opportunity – hardly anything at all when he washes the area in saline solution, manoeuvre over as quickly as it started. Instead, your attention sticks to the casual disrespect he felt was necessary. Snubbing your insight like it was dirt beneath his shoes, too competent to even address your error with words. Humiliation rips like a wave up your neck, washing your ears and cheeks in balmy warmth. Underneath it all, settled like wet sand on the shore, you find that it is not your bruised ego that's left, but rather a wilder, darker thing.

Shame at having failed him.

(How obnoxiously redundant.)

"Think you can manage the duraplasty, Doctor?" Derision distorts his expression into something crueller than his usual indifference. You hate to think it suits him.

"Yes."

It's only an hour later that you're granted the chance to break down.

After wound closure, scrubbing out and postoperative discussions with the patient's family, you think you'd have moved on. Things like this happen – it's what necessitates post-graduate training in the first place – and you're certainly not irredeemable for having faltered on the line. At least, that's what the logic delineates. It mutters its assurances like dogma in your head, insisting that because it is rational, it is right. Any other day, you would be inclined to listen to it.

But that's the thing about being strung out beyond measure. The only sentiment with teeth, sharp and stubborn, is anguish. Indignity. Self-turned anger. You replay the scene like something new will come of it, a silver lining or a divot to pin the blame in anything but yourself. The scalp staples back into place, the dressings wrapped tight. The hibiclens soap lathers up to your elbows, your skin itchy as it dries. The family is thankful, little tears dotting their eyes. The storm passes, waters rippling into quiet calm. And still–

In the wake of it all, you're irrevocably changed. Raw.

There's a little closet for occasions like these. You're relieved to find it empty, void of anything but rusted buckets and mildewed mops. It's a welcome crowd, certainly, borderline claustrophobic compared to the wide floors of the OR, and you sink to the floors within the tight, comforting embrace. Immediately, hot tears spring to your eyes, rabbit heart racing along hollowed ribs. Emotion rushes your throat, tumultuous and messy, piling half-formed grievances on top of one another until they form an intricate, prodigious beast.

Impossible to tackle, worse to tame.

Could you have done anything different?

Is there a reason why he hates you?

Are you cut out for this?

Is this worth never getting a good night's rest?

Do you deserve any of the opportunities you've been given?

Would they be better off in the hands of someone more competent?

No answer claims any. Unresolved, they wriggle underneath your flesh, feeding on the muscle keeping you intact. Tunnelling through your marrow, soft matter fattening them up. You feel as though you're shifting to accommodate them, anatomy morphing into an ugly sack of dermis and maggots. True reflection of a degraded conceit.

The dark, at least, remains omnipresent. Clean against your skin, or purifying, in some odd way. If there is no witness to your misery, then perhaps you can pretend it doesn't exist. That it doesn't affect you as much as it does, or how you won't be thinking of it during every case to come–

A knock rattles you out of your reasoning.

"Hey." Kyle's voice is soft on the other side of the door.

You make your best effort to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, warbling a quiet come in to your chief resident. Fluorescent light intercedes on your little sanctum, spotlighting your crumpled frame. The pitying grimace that twists his face is enough indication that you did not do a good job at hiding your affliction. You must look pathetic.

"We missed you at lunch."

"Wasn't hungry." You sniff, taking his hand to pull yourself up.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse than you could've prepared me for."

He snickers. It alleviates some of the weight off your chest, this. Conversation to remind yourself that there is more to the world than your angst.

(Only some.)

"It'll get easier, I promise. He's harsher on the juniors."

"I think that's not for you to say. Tell me, has there ever been a superior who didn't absolutely adore you?" Your voice sobers to a close resemblance of Laswell's. "Good work on the diagnosis, Dr. Garrick. I'll admit, I wouldn't have caught that myself."

The man in question lightly shoves your arm, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Okay, hush. I get it. Still–"

"You don't have to do this, you know." You smile until it gets too much to sustain, then turn to gather your white coat from behind the front desk. The note of positivity his companionship brings is fickle. Appreciated, but not enough to balm the sore blisters of Dr. Riley's rebuff. That'll take the weekend, likely, holed up in your room with nothing but a cuppa and old How I Met Your Mother reruns. "I'm fine, really. I'd rather just continue about my rounds and forget he exists."

But Kyle sighs. Sighs, and bites his cheek in that same way he does when he has to deliver bad news to intakes.

You blanch. "Don't–"

"He came looking for you in the mess hall. Something about the report." The unsteady composure you've built within yourself immediately dissipates, as though it were nothing more than an absorbable stitch. "You know better than to skip out on post-op briefs."

Your voice is weak when you speak again. Breathless. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you, darl. But he wants to see you in his office, now." Kyle's face is sympathetic. It doesn't do you much good. "I'll cover your rounds in the meantime."

"Thanks."

And despite your true gratitude, the words ring as empty.

"Sit."

Like a marionette suspended on string, you do as you're told.

Dr. Riley's office is barren of any personal adornment, cast in the same austere template initially given to him. There's a leather couch tucked prim under the window, throw pillow flat on one end. A wire file organiser sits atop his desk, papers fighting for space between the flimsy bookmarks. Pens in a cup, a stapler by his keyboard. All ordinary, inconclusive belongings, that which you sift through like a ravenous creature, slobbering for clues at the life your attending leads.

Ironically, the one thing that offers any inference is an empty photo frame, faced towards the rest of the room, away from him.

You don't like the uncomfortable feeling it inflicts.

"The family." He levels a bored look to you, that which hardens the longer you take to address his ambiguous question. In the harsh lights of the operating room, his eyes looked nearly black. Now, sunlight paints a clearer picture. Taupe and sepia, flecks of various browns brightened by the pale blue underline of his mask. "Doctor."

Floundering, you search for the clouded memory of your discussion with the patient's relatives. It ripples, faintly, between your revels in self-pity. If you needed any censure of your disordered priorities, that is surely enough.

(Funny how he continues to criticise you, even unintentionally.)

"Good. Hopeful. I told them you managed to resect the entire thing, and detailed the plan going forward." It's as though your hands are compelled to move by electric shock, charged full of destructive energy. You rub your face, twiddle your thumbs, scratch the armrests of your chair; trying any measure to defuse the bomb you feel ticking beneath your chest. "They give their thanks."

All the while, he remains steady before you.

A moment of tense silence clears. "I just submitted the operation report." He says, derailing the conversation to what you suspect has always been its purpose. "I mentioned your inability to close the surgery."

You damn near choke on your spit. He notices, of course, and raises a challenging brow.

"I- I'm sorry, but that isn't what... I was perfectly able to complete it." Your protest carries none of the strength you will it to. As is always the case around him, you're made to sound like a defiant student, instead. Pouting and stomping your foot, inflating your strict sense of justice to an occasion that does not call for it.

"Oh?" You know you're not crazy for thinking that way, either. He speaks in faux conciliatory tones, brows knitting together as his argument waters down to one he thinks you can digest. "Would you rather I have said you refused, then?"

You shake your head, staring down at your lap. You really, really don't want to be here. Is it worth it, then? To stand your ground when the worst that will come of his misstatement is an inquiry from above? The strength has long since left you. Now, it is a matter of bloodletting. Leeching the struggle before it festers into something greater, a malady you cannot control.

"No."

"Make up your mind, Doctor." He hums, grabbing a protein bar from his drawer before standing. He doesn't have to round his desk to tower over you, but he does. Heat radiates off him in waves, blushing your neck so that when you look up at him, owlish, your face flares with stockpiled fervor.

You wonder if it could be read as desire.

"You know best." Shutting down has never been so disencumbering. Acquiescence, upending an ivory flag with the knowledge that you don't have to bleed any longer.

His lashes flutter. When you blink, they seem closer than they were before.

"That's right." Dr. Riley practically fucking purrs, chest rumbling thoughtfully at your chosen response. A pressure settles between your legs, bloating desperately into that bundle of nerves that inhibits all reason. "So next time, if you have a problem with the way I do things, you'll address it to me directly instead of snivelling like a bloody prat. That way, maybe I'll explain it to you, too."

A nod is not enough.

"Yes, Dr. Riley."

He cocks his head, fiddling with the wrapping in his hands. His fingers are scarred, brutish, though they tear the foil with all the precision in the world. Your acceptance does not feel nearly as final, expectation thickening the space between you. The title startles to your tongue, then. Novel. Unsure. You haven't called anyone it since secondary. You do not know whether he'll take to it kindly at all.

"Yes, sir."

But his eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased, and it more than fills the hole he harrowed out from you earlier. Your reaction to the approval should be documented, given a name and listed somewhere on the DSM-5.

(Nothing about it feels healthy.)

"Good." He pushes off the edge of his desk, tapping a knuckle to your chin. Instinctively, you open your mouth. The protein bar fits between your teeth, pasty and dry, but his pulse vibrates near your lips and–

You bite down anyway.

(But oh, does it feel good.)

[masterlist]

[kenobers]

is this love? | jason todd x sionis!reader

but first free palestine !! You started hooking with Jason Todd, the second eldest Wayne child, so that both of you could royally piss off your father, Roman Sionis. Now that you've accomplished that, you're still hooking up. And spending the night. Frankly, you are quite sure what this is anymore. But you know you like it. tw: Post-sex setting, brief description of sexual activity, reader has a lot of anxiety and was maybe homeschooled as a child, mentions of poor father-daughter relationships, fem!afab!reader a/n: Surprise, I like Jason Todd too. This was inspired by this ask on gliverrwrites' blog! In hindsight, it might've been kinda weird of me, but i couldn't get the concept out of my head. thank you to gliverr and anon! please check out their blog!

There was no greater "Fuck You" you could give your father than the sigh of satisfaction that escaped your lips as your head hit the pillow.

However, Roman Sionis and all his misdeeds had been wiped from your mind in favor of the man panting above you.

You were certain that there was no work of art more beautiful than Jason Todd at this very moment. His green eyes flashed before fluttering shut, no doubt following suit with his head as it rolled back. The shock of white hair had been made curly by sweat and the comb of your fingers. His mouth hung open and uttered a string of praises for you - although the only coherent words you could make out were "good" and "beautiful". Still, they passed like poetry through his lips, which were puffy and delightfully red from contact with your own.

It was so polite of him to let you cum first so you could witness this masterpiece. Even if it was through your own post-Jason haze.

Jason's forehead came to rest on yours as his hips stuttered against yours and an all too familiar warmth coated your thigh. You took the opportunity to brush wet black and white strands of hair out of his handsome face. His eyes peered open again as he caught your hand in his own. For a moment, you expected him to smack it away, but instead he brought your palm to his lips and kissed it.

"My beautiful girl."

Even when he had melted the rest of your naked body into jelly, he still managed to turn your stomach into butterflies.

Now he pressed a kiss between your eyebrows.

"Gimme just one second, baby," he panted before rolling off of you. You sighed again as cool air hit your sticky skin, however, an anxious knot began to form in your stomach as your lover disappeared into the bathroom.

What if he left out the window? What if you never saw him again? What if this was just a one time thing to get back at your father for the countless number of things he'd done to Jason's family?

But it would be incredibly silly if he did all this just to leave you in his apartment, especially considering this was far from the first time you'd slept together. Besides, wasn't the should-be-enemies-with-benefits what you had wanted this whole time?

You turned on your side to watch him in the bathroom, subconsciously rubbing the slick between your thighs together. Jason swore as his toe collided with something. You giggled as you realized it was his Red Hood mask, the gleaming metal winking at you in the yellow light.

Jason glanced over his broad shoulder and grinned at the sound of your giggles. He brushed his sticky hair back, giving you a prime view of his sharp canine. You shivered thinking about the mark it had left on your neck earlier. He turned the faucet on and ran something under it, then turned back to you, flicking the bathroom light off.

He really was an imposing man, you noted. 6'2 and built like an ox. To you, he looked like a statue with the way the moonlight streaming though the window illuminated his bare hip and ribs, painting them a comforting shade of blue. If he hadn't just fucked you silly, you would've imagined how scary he must be to a criminal in a dark alley.

The bed dipped as your statue sat beside you. He gently rolled you back onto your back, then began rubbing your thighs down with a warm washcloth.

"You feeling alright, doll?"

He must've asked that a handful of times while he had your legs hooked over his shoulder. You couldn't recall a time when anyone else had checked in with you during or after sex.

You nodded, only to have your words replaced with a sharp hiss as the washcloth brushed over your still sensitive pussy. The administrations stopped abruptly.

"Sorry, baby," Jason apologized, although he couldn't hide the amusement on his face. "I'll be gentler next time."

You snorted, "don't go making threats now."

He chuckled, leaning down to kiss you. Heat rose to your face as you tasted yourself on his soft lips. You let out a whine when he parted and rose again.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm comin' back. Hold your horses, lady," he teased, waving his hand dismissively. You rolled your eyes playfully. Like he had any room to judge someone for their dramatics.

He wiped himself down with the washcloth before dropping it in his hamper, where your torn panties hung over the side. He'd promised to buy you a much more expensive pair to make up for it. He pulled on a fresh pair of boxes and tossed you a pair.

You sat up and just as you had wriggled them over your hips, Jason was ready with one of his t-shirts. You put your arms up and let him slid the worn fabric over your torso - not missing the way his eyes stopped to admire the way Black Canary's logo looked over your bare chest.

"You sure you're alright? You're so quiet," Jason asked, sliding in next to you. You laid back, resting your head against his chest as you breathed in the lingering scent of sex, leather and aftershave. His skin was soft beneath your finger tips, their smooth path only interrupted by a patch of hair or a scar.

You remembered the first time you'd hooked up with him, before you had accidentally caught him with the Red Hood mask. You assumed the autopsy scars were some sort of dark humor tattoo. You told yourself you couldn't catch feelings for a guy with a weird ass tattoo like that.

And now you were still in his bed. Wearing his shirt. And his underwear. Knowing his secret identity. With plans to get breakfast in the morning.

At what point had this gone beyond simply pissing off Roman Sionis? Both you and Jason had just wanted to get back at your father by fucking in his warehouses. But now you had your own space on his bathroom counter. You were staying the night after sex. You whined when he pulled away from you.

Above all else, he was so kind to you. But beneath the sarcasm and snark, he had been kind from the get-go. It was you that had acted like a rotten, spoiled brat. The more time you spent with him, the softer you got.

Jason squeezed your shoulder lightly, murmuring your name. You looked up at him dumbly. His brows were furrowed in concern as he ran the tip of his finger over your cheekbone.

"What's the matter, bub?"

You shook your head.

"'m just tired. And lost in thought, I guess."

"Oh?" He hummed, brushing your jawline. "Whatcha thinkin' about, pretty girl."

You pretended to think for a moment.

"Hmm, just about how tired I am. Ya really know how to wear a woman out, Todd."

"Well, if I recall correctly, you said-"

"I know what I said!" you cut him off with a mock defensiveness, pretending to smack his chest as he snickered. Once more, he covered your hand with his own large one, this time pressing it to his heart.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, lost in each other's touch. You started to wonder if this is what love felt like; safe and warm and blissed out. You tried to push the thought out of your mind.

"Seriously though," Jason said, his voice low. "Did I go too far tonight? Are you actually okay?"

If you had been anyone else's daughter, you were certain that you would've started crying.

"I'm...I was just thinking..." you took a breath. In your defense, this kind of tender-love-and-care wasn't in your DNA. "I'm just...I'm lucky to have you, Jaybird."

"This isn't about to be a 'but comma' statement, is it?"

"A 'butt comma'?"

"Yeah, you know, 'you're great and all, but..."

You shot straight up, now hovering over him anxiously.

"Oh God, no!" You said, your eyes the size of saucers as you shook your head. Oh Lord, if he couldn't already tell you were emotionally unstable. You fell back on your heels, ringing your hands nervously. "Unless you want it to be..."

Now Jason sat up, taking both of your hands in his, running his thumbs over your knuckles.

"No, no, pretty girl. I don't want that."

There was no malice behind his green eyes. No mocking tweak in his slit eyebrow. No violence in his grip.

You sighed in relief and allowed Jason to lay you back down. He wrapped his thick arms around your waist and pulled you into him. You were thankful for the way he tucked your head into the crook of his neck, hiding your embarrassment at the emotional outburst.

Jason kissed the top of your head, "actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to come to the Manor with me on Sunday. Family dinner stuff."

You peered up at him, "Would I be, y'know, welcomed there?"

"Of course," he promised. "Look, if there's any group of fuckers that can empathize with daddy issues, it's these fuckers. Damian'll probably give you shit, but you could've been birthed by the Pope and he would give you shit. But he knows you're cool."

"And Mr. Wayne?"

Jason chuckled, sending a soft vibration through you as his dark chest hair tickled your cheek.

"Believe it or not, it was B's idea to invite you. I think he's curious."

"Probably want to vet me," you grumbled, half joking, half painfully serious.

He laughed again, "baby, if Bruce had reason to be suspicious of you, he would've launched and concluded an investigation by now. He knows you're not your dad. I know I talk my shit about him, but trust me, he gets it."

You were about to ask if Batman had been keeping tabs on you when Jason continued.

"Plus, you know," he shrugged. "He knows you make me happy."

Oh, your heart stopped for a second.

Oh, that wasn't a bad thing.

Jason wanted to take you to dinner with his family. Not because he was a Wayne and you were a Sionis and the situation was inherently funny (and bound to set your old man off). But because you made him happy.

And fuck it, he made you happy too.

That might be love, actually.

"Well, if you insist," you nestled closer to him. "Then it's a date."

[kaiijo]

SUPER-GLUED JAR PRANK — [WIND BREAKER]

characters: sakura haruka, umemiya hajime, hiragi toma, togame jo content: gn! reader, a (very old) tiktok prank notes: they’re so silly, i love them

sakura haruka ✶

in hindsight, you should have known giving sakura the super-glued jar might not have been your best idea but his bright pink face paired with an inevitable tirade were too good to pass up. you can’t take all the credit for it — kotoha played a role too, supplying you with a nearly-empty jar of sprinkles and some acting. 

your boyfriend is sitting with nirei and suo when you emerge from cafe potus’s pantry with the jar. she feigns disappointment when she asks, “any luck?”

“no,” you say, shaking the jar in your hand for effect.

“it’s such a waste to just let all that stuff sit at the bottom.”

you turn to sakura and asks, “can you try opening it, sweetheart?”

sakura’s face flushes at the pet name, which makes his friends giggle, and he takes the jar from you. with each attempt his make, sakura scowls more and more, huffing as he sets it down. nirei suggests that he tap the lid against the edge of the table but sakura uses just a bit too much force and the glass breaks. you gasp and the trio at the table jumps back with fast reflexes. 

kotoha’s already running to grab a broom and dustpan and you’re reaching down to pick up the big pieces. sakura’s hand closes around your wrist before you can and he says, “are you crazy? you could hurt yourself, let me do it.” 

“no one touch it,” kotoha orders as she sweeps the shards up. nirei is apologizing profusely and sakura mutters an apology, complaining about how he almost had it and how they shouldn’t make jars that sealed that tight. when you come clean to him about gluing the lid, he’s huffing and puffing at you, and you make it up to him with a lot of food and a lot of kisses and cuddles in private. 

umemiya hajime ✶

you find umemiya on the roof of furin high, tending to his garden. your heart swells as you hear him coo at his plants, carefully and lovingly watering them. you almost feel bad about this little prank. almost, but you remember the prank he pulled last week with that fake rubber bug in your lunch so you don’t feel too bad.

you thank every star in the sky that sugishita’s not here at the moment because you’re pretty sure this prank would be the last thing you’d get to do if he was. “hajime?” you call to him.

 his head immediately swerves to look at you and his smile is as bright as ever as he set down the water can and makes his way over. he presses a loud, messy kiss against your cheek, and you don’t even have to ask umemiya; he notices the jar in your hand and says, “i can help you open that!”

“thanks,” you say and he takes the jar from you. 

he’s beaming when he replies with a breezy “no problem, baby!” and firmly grips the lid, giving it a firm twist. his smile dims a little and he tries again with no luck. umemiya squares his feet and gives it another go, and you can’t deny that seeing his arms bulge with exertion against the sleeves of his white t-shirt is in any way unpleasant.

he slides on his gardening gloves and tries again. the lid doesn’t budge and umemiya is pouting at the jar and mumbling, “i’ll be right back.” he disappears into the school for about twenty minutes. he comes back with a look of defeat, shoulders slumping. “i can’t help you,” he says. “i’m really sorry.”

oh my god, you feel your stomach twist in sympathy and you answer, “i know. i’m really sorry, haji, it’s because i super-glued the lid.”

he blinks once, twice, and then his smile is back on his face. he wipes some sweat off his brow and sighs in relief, “phew! i thought i’d totally lost my strength there for second!” you can’t help but stare at him as he grins, outshining the sun. what did you do to deserve this angel?

hiragi toma ✶

you walk into your living room, where hiragi is setting up a movie for the two of you to watch. “any movie in mind?” he asks as he leans back in the couch, remote in hand. 

“howl’s moving castle?” 

“again? we watched that last weekend too.”

you grin at him. “it’s not my fault howl’s so cute.”

your boyfriend rolls his eyes, grumbling, “he’s not that cute. and he’s not real.” before you can argue, hiragi motions at the jar in your hand. 

“can you help me open it?” you ask him, holding it out to him. 

he eyes it suspiciously. “you hate pickles.”

“i want to try them again.”

“but why buy an entire jar if you want to just—”

“can you please just open it? help me start this new journey in my life?” he still looks confused but, ever the dutiful boyfriend, takes it from your hand. 

one attempt. two, then three. by the fourth, you feel a giggle threatening to burst forth but the familiar sound of the air pressure releasing has your jaw dropping. hiragi doesn’t take the lid off entirely, letting it sit on top as he hands it back to you. he takes in your awed expression with a frown. “is everything okay?” he’s already reaching for his stomach tablets. 

“i super-glued this,” you say, still a little starstruck. “like, with a lot of glue. you weren’t supposed to be able to open it.” 

you show him the lid and as he swallows down the pill. he sighs, “you’re going to be the death of me.” 

togame jo ✶

“these looks so good!” tomiyama says, marveling at the spread of sandwiches and snacks you had brought to the park. he had been the one to propose a shishitoren picnic, though togame was the one who had pared it down to just a couple of people to make it more manageable. 

“thanks! help yourselves!” you reply, watching on with a small smile as the boys dug into the food you had prepared. you lean against togame, who rests his chin on your shoulder. 

he leans forward for a sandwich, handing you one as well. it’s your favorite variety of the ones you made and you’re thrilled that your boyfriend remembered that. as you take a bite, you figure this the perfect time to execute your plan. you reach into your own bag, pulling out a nearly-finished jar of chili oil. you nudge togame. “you think you can help me open this? i tried all morning.”

“sure,” he says, gently lifting it from your grasp. his arms are still around you as he makes his first attempt and you feel the quick breath he exhales as he tries again. he eventually untangles himself from you, eyebrows furrowing. “shit,” he says, “i don’t know if i can.”

tomiyama makes grabbing hands at it. “let me try!” togame hands it over to his friend and tomiyama tries a couple of times, pouting when he can’t open it either. he hands it over to sako, who glowers when he fails too. the jar gets passed between the shishitoren members present and each one is unsuccessful. the last guy hands it back to you and togame sighs, “sorry we couldn’t help, baby.”

as everyone else apologizes to, you feel a little bashful as you admit to gluing it. you’re relieved when they take it in good stride, letting out relieved cries and playfully protest. you pull out another jar of the same chili oil, this one totally super-glue-free and give it to those who want it as a peace offering.  as the group settles into a nice rhythm, you lean back against togame and his head finds its place in the crook of your neck again.

[dinogoofymutated]

Hi. Could you please write some Gambit fluff headcannons? The Gambit Nation is struggling right now and we could all really use some fluffiness from the man himself.

Btw I'm absolutely OBSESSED with your writing. Like, seriously amazing.

Gambit/GN!Reader

I Know you sent this in forever ago after that one godforsaken episode of 97' and I'm so sorry I'm just now getting to it!!! It's been sitting in my drafts for forever and I've just been struggling to come up with fluff hcs! TBH, It started as general fluff and not a whole ass storyline and eventually i just got too far deep to stop! This isn't even as fluffy as I was quite expecting, but once i started writing it just came out and atp I couldn't stop. It's been a rough night, but this really just turned Into being Remy's comfort person HCs.

TWs: rocky family life mentioned. Sneaking out, underage drinking, so on. Smooth timeskip to adulthood. very much fluffy with a lil bit of somber tones. Not enough to be angst tho.

Think about being Teens with Remy Lebeau. The late nights, sneaking out, ranting to each other in the streets and alleyways of New Orleans.

Getting into fights with your parents/guardians or siblings and wanting nothing more than to just shrivel up and disappear. Curling up underneath your blankets with a pillow wrapped around your ears trying to just block out all of the bad thoughts when you keep hearing a persistent Tap, Tap, Tap. And then a much more obvious pop! Against your window.

You know who it is before you even unwrap yourself from the comfort of your bed, opening your window with a lot less energy than you usually have. You're tired and sad, but the face of that Cajun boy your parents don't like always makes you smile.

The red-eyed teen's smirk falls when he sees the rough state you're in, right before ducking back behind the trashcan when a light turns on in your parent's bedroom. Eventually, it turns back off again, and by the time he's back on the sidewalk you're ready to go. He helps you out of the window much more gentlemanly than a thief and a scoundrel probably should, but he's nothing if not a sweetheart. (And a loverboy, but you wouldn't realise it then.)

"Ah, hell wit' them. S'not like they worth your time anyway." Remy's got an arm wrapped around your shoulders, a beer in hand as the two of you lean against the wall of a particular mausoleum. -Course, you had offered whatever ghosts has resided there the first sip as a courtesy, so you're definitely not cursed, right? Not that Remy was even worried about that, but he puts up with your superstitions to comfort you.

"Don't say that, please." You whisper, rubbing your tired eyes. He frowns, knowing that he wouldn't know the first ting about how "normal" families work, but he doesn't quite get why you worry about what they think so much.

"I don't get why you stay, Cher. Not when they treat you like this." You can feel the rumble of Remy's voice through his chest, and find yourself tucking yourself closer into his side. He sets his head on top of yours when you do so.

"What other choice do I have? They're my parents." You whisper, fidgeting with some strings at the hem of your sweatshirt. In hindsight, maybe wearing pajamas to a graveyard wasn't the best choice. You hear Remy chuckle after a moment as a thought crosses his mind, and he swirls the bottle slowly, a few times, before he hands it to you.

"Well..." He starts, giving the words a moment to rest. "There is one option..." You take the bottle from him, cocking a eye as you sit up a little bit to look at him.

"And what's that?"

"Run away wit' me."

He's smirking when he suggests it, a playfulness in his eyes. If only you knew just how serious he was.

"Remy LeBeau!" You scold, unable to fight back your smile as he chuckles at you.

"What? S'not a bad idea, no? No thieves guild, no drama, Jus' you an me." He laughs when you give him an incredulous look and take a dramatic sip from the beer, only to make a face at the taste directly afterwards. Damn, was it rancid.

"Don't get me dreaming, Remy." You mumble. There's only a little bit left it the bottle, and you decide it's better suited for the graveyard. Remy complains about it, trying to fight you for the rest of the beer. The two of you are a couple of idiots to be laughing this loud in a place like this, and even bigger ones to start play-fighting, but neither of you really mind.

You were each other's safe space. The one person the other could run to as the world falls apart around them. Life as a teen was never easy, especially not when you're mutants- but at least you had each other. But as his life was being consumed with the thieves guild, and the prophesy that came with it, you saw less and less of Remy as the years went by.

When you did meet again, it was under the roof of one Professor Xavier. The others were nervous and distrustful about this ex-con entering the team, but you never doubted him for a second. Your person was finally right where you needed him once again. Your Remy. And as smooth as he is around the team, you knew it was a wall, almost an act. Something to befriend the others- but you knew Remy, and you were grateful that after all the years that had passed, he still came to you when he needed you the most.

"Long day?" You ask. Remy hums in response, plopping down onto the bed next to you. You set your book to the side when he rests his head in your lap, soothingly running your hands through his hair as he sighs in content.

"You know it, ma chérie." Remy says in your lap. You can't help but blush at the name still, despite how many years he's spent calling you by the words. Remy's eyes are closed beneath you, giving you the freedom to fully take in the features of his handsome face whilst keeping him unawares. His stubble is growing in, and he's got a few new freckles and scars from your years seperated, but he's still the same wild, reckless kid you fell in love with as a teen. He hums as you brush your thumbs across his cheekbones, catching your hand and pressing it to his lips, leaving a kiss there. He then kisses your inner wrist before holding your hand to his face.

You still don't really know what to say when he does things like that.

"Can I ask you something?" You ask after a moment.

" 'Course, Cher."

"Would you still wanna run away with me?" When the last words leave your mouth, you can feel Remy frown. His eyes open about halfway, your hand still in his hold as he presses it to his face.

"What brought this on?" He asks, and you only shrug, looking away from him as your thumb idly strokes his face.

"I dunno. I was just thinking about it." His skin on your own is starting to feel too warm, your nerves becoming unignorable. Remy cocks an eyebrow at you, before he smiles. Not a smirk, a real, genuine, smile. He takes your chin in his hand, and moves your head so that you're looking at him again.

"If you needed me to run away with you, Belle, I'd do so without looking back." His words make you smile brightly, holding onto the wrist of the hand that holds your chin. You lean forward to press a kiss to his forehead, but Remy moves. He sits up just slightly, and before you know it, Remy Lebeau's lips are pressed against yours in a sweet kiss.

Remy chuckles at the surprised face you're making when he pulls back, sitting up a little further so that he can press his forehead to your own, leaning into your space.

"You' always known me to be an opportunist, Cher. Can't help but steal a kiss here an there." Remy says, and your laugh is partly from disbelief, surprise, and outright giddy joy.

"Please tell me you haven't been waiting to say that since we were kids." You ask. Remy smiles brightly in return.

"My poker face 'not good enough for you, huh, ma chérie?."

[floswife]

SORE LOSER - T.N X READER

Pairing: Theodore Nott x reader

Summary: Theodore and Y/n learn how to better focus their hate for each other

Warnings: SMUT, oral, dubcon..?

Author’s notes: this is my first time writing smut so I honestly apologise for how inevitably bad this will be 💀

Y/n didn’t know what it was about seeing the anger flash before Theo’s eyes when she’d taunt him, but it honestly was her main motivation when competing against him.

Like now in this quidditch match as she threw the quaffle threw the goal hoops once more, she had to turn to look at Theo for a split second just for the sake of rubbing salt into the wound. She would like to lie and say she was ashamed of her pettiness but what’s the point in that?

She had been out to get him ever since he made her cauldron explode in potions, which prompted Snape to hate her even more than he usually did with Gryffindors. Which was quite a feat, she wasn’t on a Harry Potter level of hatred but on the other hand Snape didn’t have a perpetual hard on for her mother either so that probably helped her too.

In hindsight it was a petty reason to name someone your sworn enemy, but his smug smile when he saw her turn to glare at him was enough to set her eleven year old brain off. Plus she just really liked being a hater for no reason.

After successfully winning the game she went over to Theo who was leaning against the wall, looking like a kicked puppy, she couldn’t lie, seeing him like that really did numbers on her but she wasn’t about to let that get in the way of her favourite thing to do with Theo, gloat.

“How does it feel to lose yet again, Nott?” She called out cheerily, the broad grin he loved hated so much painted across her face.

He groaned in annoyance at the sound of her voice, “leave me alone, l/n, I’m not in the mood.”

He had always been a sore loser, she laughed in amusement “or what? I’m sorry but the last I checked you don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Theo glared at her as she stood in front of him, both of them still in their quidditch uniforms, he towered over her but she did well to push that thought to the back of her mind as she had been doing ever since he annoyingly hit a growth spurt in third year. She remembered how ranted about it to her friends later on, pretending to ignore her friends knowing smirks as she’d feel a rosy blush rise to her cheeks every time she had to crane her neck to meet his cold gaze.

“Why do you always have to be such a brat?” He sneered at the girl.

“Oh I’m the brat? I’m not the one sulking like a child because I lost a match.” Y/n’s continuous retorts just made him snap.

He grabbed her wrist and yanked her to follow after him, practically dragging her, and took her under the quidditch stands.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” She rubbed her wrist in annoyance at his harsh grip.

“I’m gonna teach you how to shut up.” He pushed her down to her knees and she looked up at him in shock, she looked forward and saw the prominent tent in his trousers, “now be a good girl and listen to me for once.” His voice was slightly whiny as he said that, like he was begging her.

Y/n gulped, really beginning to question her morals, but all her internal monologue silenced when he unzipped his trousers and freed his member from its constraints with a throaty groan, wetness pooled between her legs at the sound and just the sight of his pretty cock. Merlin he was big.

He rubbed the tip along her lips, the salty taste of his precum invaded her tastebuds.

“Open your mouth and put that mouth to good use.” He demanded, she did as she was told and tentatively kitten licked the tip, he threw his head back in satisfaction and let out a whimper? She then wrapped her mouth around his tip and sucked.

He moaned her name out even louder, making her moan around his cock at the sound, she took as much of him down her throat as possible, she gagged when he hit the back of her throat but she powered through, bobbing her head up and down and using her hand to pump at the parts of his shaft that couldn’t fit in her mouth.

“Fuck! Just like that. Taking me so well.”

He was groaning loudly, and she suddenly gained awareness that they weren’t exactly in the most private of places, she tried to pull away to tell him to shut up but he just wrapped a hand in her hair and pushed her back down, he began thrusting his hips and fucked her mouth, tears ran down her cheeks and saliva dribbled out the corners of her mouth as he used her as he pleased. The thought of how blatantly he was using her as just an object couldn’t help but arouse her.

“Being such a good girl for me.”

He held her head down on his cock and she struggled to breath, he twitched before releasing down her throat, he pulled out and tapped her cheek, “swallow.”

He tucked himself away and she got up and stuck out her tongue to show him she swallowed.

He now smirked, “it wasn’t that hard to listen now was it?”

Y/n was still in a haze as she tried to compose herself and have the decency to at least pretend to be embarrassed and tried to pull away but he firmly placed his hands on her hips and pulled her right back against him again, “Shut up, Nott.”

He raised his brows teasingly and she couldn’t help but grow frustrated at how he had switched the tables on her so quickly when she was so clearly set up for a win.

“That’s not how someone who just had my cock down my throat should be speaking, now is it?” His voice was mocking, condescending.

She get that familiar heat pool between her thighs once more and she remained speechless, he smirked.

“Such a shame, you were gonna get a reward for being such a good girl.”

She tried to gain her composure as she scoffed, “like I’d want it.” She really did want it

He leaned in, that stupid lazy smirk on his lips again, “so you’re not soaked right now?”

Her eyes widened and he then inched his hand from her hip to under her waistband, as soon as his fingers touched her wetness that had completely soaked through her panties she moaned lightly, her eyes rolling back at the contact she was yearning this whole time.

“Theo!” She gasped.

He pulled his fingers away just as quickly as it came he pulled his finger and he brought it to his lips to suck her juices clean from it and he hummed, “so sweet.. on second thought, let’s continue this tonight, room of requirements?”

“What-“

And just like that he left her there, needy for his touch.

She really did hate him.

But he was so hot.

Looks like she had plans for the night.

Part two?

[casuallyimagining]

Set Me Free || myg

min yoongi x female reader

Summary: Tired of being told how to live his life and unsure of where he stands in the world, Yoongi--your soulmate--yearns to be free. When you give him what he wants, it causes a rift in your relationship that seems irreparable. 12 years later, you find him back in your life. Can you mend your relationship? Do you even want to? Word Count: 14,377 Genre: friends to enemies to lovers, supernatural au, witch & familiar au, soulmate au, angst, fluff Warnings: death of a parent (brief mention), alcohol, soulmate breakup, smooching

Notes: banner by @itaeewon. thank you to @daechwitatamic and @oddinary4bts for beta-ing and listening to me struggle my way through this. as always. and extra thanks to ella for helping me write Yoongi's letters and to my friend tanya for giving me a super helpful base for the ending.

It’s cold. The late autumn wind rustles through amber-brown-orange-yellow leaves, swirling the fallen ones into little tornadoes that scuttle across the pavement. The cold doesn’t bother Yoongi, necessarily. It’s been a while since he’s been here, in this town, on this street, but even after so much time, his body remembers the chill of November in the same way his feet remember the way to his destination. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and pauses at the street corner.

It’s strange being back here. He’d once known this neighborhood so intimately, he could map it in his sleep. Not much has changed in the almost 13 years he’s been gone. The park on the corner is the same. The playground, massive to an eight-year-old with a near-infinite imagination, stands resolute, its plastic and paint sun-faded and weathered. Further up the block is the head of the trail that snakes its way through the forest, where he’d spent countless hours playing pirates as a kid and exploring as a teen. And there, at the end of the street, is his destination.

The closer he gets, the more his stomach roils with nerves. Thirteen years since he’d walked down this sidewalk. Thirteen years since he’d walked onto that front porch. Or rather, 12 years, 5 months, and 11 days. 

But who’s counting?

There’s a light on in the front room of the house, he can see it through the big window despite the shades being pulled closed. He hesitates. He’s spent days–no, weeks–playing out in his head how this was going to go. In a moment, he’ll know if any of those scenarios were correct. And frankly, right now, he’s terrified. 

What if you start to cry? What if you slam the door in his face? What if you hug him? What if you yell at him? What if you don’t answer? What if you want to talk? What if you never want to see him again? What if you invite him in? What if you have someone over?

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

It takes a second. He can hear shuffling around on the other side of the door, so he knows his knock was heard. But the longer it takes, the sweatier his hands get, and the more he considers turning and running away. The door opens before he can make a move.

You stand in the doorway, bathed in the warm light of the living room lamp behind you. And shit, Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. In many ways, you haven’t changed since the last time he saw you, but at the same time, you look so different. He can see in your eyes the moment the realization hits, and your expression changes drastically. You looked tired–and Yoongi can sense that it goes deeper than just physical exhaustion–and you were slouching, but now, you’re standing ramrod straight, and there’s a hard look in your eyes. One he knows all too well.

“Hey.” He raises a hand, offers a wave that, in hindsight, is rather pathetic. You stare at him, unblinking, and slowly, he lowers his hand. “I uh… I heard about your parents,” he says softly, scuffing his shoe against the wood of the porch. “I’m sorry you have to go through it.”

“Brave of you to show up.” You sound almost bored, but Yoongi knows–he senses, in that kind of primal, gut feeling he gets when it comes to you–that it’s an act. “You know I could turn you into a bug and squash you if I wanted to.”

“I know.”

There’s a tense moment where you stare at each other, the scowl you wear pulling your lips downward and creasing your brow. But then you heave an exhausted sigh.

“Why are you here, Yoongi?”

“I…” 

I want to apologize. 

I’m so sorry.

I miss you.

It all catches in his throat. He coughs in a meager attempt to entice something–anything–to come out of his mouth. “I wanted you to have this.”

He holds out his hands, and in an instant, he’s holding a box. It’s full but not heavy, and he thrusts it out in front of him in your direction.

“A 10-year-old shoebox?” You do nothing to mask your surprise. 

“Letters,” he corrects. “You don’t have to read them but… I wanted you to have them.” He pushes the box into your arms, leaving you no choice but to take it. Then, he steps away and nods his head. “Thank you for not turning me into a bug. I am sorry about your parents. I… guess I’ll go.”

Without another word, he trots down the porch steps. And then, in a blink, he’s gone. Disappeared into the night.

You sigh and shut the door, the box he’d given you cradled in the crook of your arm. You don’t have the energy for this right now. Honestly, you aren’t sure that you’ll ever have the energy for it, but certainly not the day before your parents’ funeral.

Whoever had decided that witches and their familiars die together clearly never thought of the ones left behind.

You collapse onto the couch, placing the box beside you. This would be easier if you weren’t alone. It would be easier with Yoongi, your brain supplies less than helpfully. You curse yourself. You curse him. After all these years, you thought you were over it, over the abandonment, over the betrayal. But all it takes is for him to show his stupid face, and you can feel it all bubbling up anew. Angrily, you push the box off the couch. It explodes when it hits the floor, what seems like thousands of pieces of paper tumble out and scatter from the force.

The forest was almost silent as you stalked the trail. Not even the birds were happy that day. Twigs snapped under your feet. You weren’t even paying attention to where you were going, your feet carrying you along the path that you’d hiked countless times before. You needed to get away, to escape, to calm down. But you couldn’t, because what you were running away from was hot on your heels.

“Would you slow down?” You could hear the frustration in Yoongi’s voice as he followed you. You ignored him. “Goddamnit,” he breathed, picking up his pace. “Will you at least listen to me?”

Quite frankly, you didn’t care what he had to say in that moment.

“It wouldn’t be a permanent thing,” he continued. “I just… I don’t know. I need to do this.”

You stopped, sliding a little on the damp new growth below your feet. “What the fuck are you talking about? You’re not being oppressed, Yoongi. No one’s stopping you from going out and exploring the world.”

“Maybe this way of life isn’t for everyone. Maybe not everyone wants their whole existence to be predetermined at birth. Maybe not everyone wants the universe to choose who they’re supposed to be with and how they’re supposed to live.”

His words stung, and until then, you weren’t quite sure why. Rejection. Not just of how you lived, and who he was, and how things had always been. But of you. Yoongi was your familiar, you were destined to be together in some way since you were six years old and the bond gem first appeared. Not all witches and familiars were in romantic relationships–your parents were, sure, and Yoongi’s parents–but plenty of them had other partners, lives separate from each other. Platonic soulmates navigating the world together.

Until a few months before, you’d been content with that. There was no doubt you’d been best friends from the jump. You’d been practically inseparable through school. Then, months before, he’d kissed you at the winter market. Right there in the park, under the aurora. Before that, you hadn’t thought of him as any more than your best friend. But the kiss had unlocked something inside you. And now…

Now he wanted you gone. 

“You want to be free that badly?” By some miracle, your voice sounded positively venomous, even though you felt like you could crumble at any moment. “Fine.”

“Wh-”

There’s a saying your mother told you once, back when you were a child. You and Yoongi had found a turtle in the woods, stuck in the mud. His little turtle leg had been hurt, and you’d rushed it to your mother immediately. Familiars were excellent with animals, and she was no exception, healing the turtle in days when it should have taken weeks. You and Yoongi had both cried when you had to release it back into the wild–you’d both so wanted it to be your friend. ‘If you love something, set it free,’ your mother had said, ‘Sometimes it’s the kindest option.’

Kinder for whom?

The chain around your wrist snapped easily when you wrapped your fingers around it. The incantation meant to keep the bond gem safe became meaningless as soon as you wanted it gone. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been without it around your wrist. You loved it, with its gem of swirling, inky black and navy blue. It reminded you so much of Yoongi, deep and calm and unwavering. 

Without a word, you tossed the bracelet to the ground. Yoongi’s eyes widened as it hit and the gem cracked. For good measure, you stepped on it, crushed it into dust. There was a pitiful swirl of blue magic that puffed up from the dirt. When you moved your foot, there was nothing left of the bond gem or its chain.

“What the fuck?” Yoongi’s eyes were glassy when you finally looked at him. He looked almost as crushed as you felt. “What the fuck?”

“You’re free.” And this time, you couldn’t hide your sadness behind your anger. 

He didn’t follow you as you walked away, and honestly, it was for the best. It was faint, but you could still feel his emotions, and you weren’t sure you could handle that kind of heartache in person.

There is paper everywhere. Hundreds of pieces, folded neatly in thirds. You have no idea how Yoongi had fit them all into the shoebox. He must’ve enchanted it. Groaning, you start to pick them up. 

Letters, he’d said. You flip through some as you gather them up. Now that they’re on the floor, they aren’t in any particular order, but it quickly becomes clear that these letters span years. There are some from 12 years ago, written shortly after he’d left. Some are more recent. You stare at one, from December of the year he left. Glancing through it, you expect it to unearth your anger, your rage. But it doesn’t. Just like seeing him again, all Yoongi’s letter brings is sadness. Grief.

You’d spent the past 12 years grieving. Sure, he hadn’t died, but when he left, you’d lost the closest relationship you would ever have. In 17 years, you’d grown so accustomed to having him there, that when he was gone, there was a Yoongi-sized hole left in your life that you had to learn to fill. And you did your best, sewing yourself back together and moving on. But it wasn’t the same.

Glancing through his letter, it seems you weren’t the only one struggling. You aren’t sure if that’s a comfort or not.

It’s been almost a year since the night market–one year since everything started crumbling around us. I still remember it like it was yesterday. It felt right in the moment, didn’t it? I really thought you would understand.

I’ve tried to figure out where things went wrong. But shit, I can’t wrap my head around it. Why did you react like that when I told you I just wanted to be free?

At the end of the day, I guess we didn’t understand each other as much as I thought we did. As much as this bond brings us together, I guess it doesn’t reveal everything. But… that night I just wanted to kiss you, and so I did. Maybe it was selfish. Sometimes I wish the bond didn’t exist, that we could just be free to choose things for ourselves. That we weren't forced into what the universe wants from us… Maybe that’s selfish, too.

Why couldn’t you understand? I just wish I could turn back time and make you understand. Maybe then you wouldn’t hate me, and maybe then I’d stop hating myself too.

Because watching you destroy the gem nearly killed me, but it wasn’t half as bad as watching you walk away. Should I have run after you? 

Would you still be there if I had?

You sigh and lean back against your couch. That damn night market. You hadn’t been back to it since the year he’d kissed you. It’s silly, but a part of you blames it for everything that happened. Because Yoongi’s letter is right. It had marked the beginning of everything going wrong. It wouldn’t change anything, but there’s a part of you that won’t listen to logic, that refuses to believe that maybe, if he hadn’t kissed you–if you hadn’t kissed him back–he wouldn’t have left. 

The night market was beautiful. It always was, but that year was particularly beautiful. The park had been decorated in all of its sparkling, winter glory. Candles twinkled in the trees, suspended by sheer force of will. Through some magic you weren’t familiar with, they’d enchanted the sky, and an aurora shimmered far above, slowly swirling in greens and blues and purples. Snow fell gently, and you weren’t sure if it was natural, or if it was also magic. 

You browsed the various tents and tables, going from one to the other to see the different things people were selling. Some had crafts, others baked goods, and some were even selling things like potion ingredients and spellbooks. There were a few tables dedicated to familiars–books on shifting and specialty items and insets and jewelry for bond gems.

Yoongi followed you closely, clutching a hot chocolate. You knew he wasn’t cold, the temperature was nowhere near low enough for either of you to be uncomfortable, but the way his fingers tapped against the paper cup, you knew something was up. You could sense his anxiety, could feel it in the pit of your own stomach.

“Want to go sit?” you asked softly, gesturing over to the picnic tables they’d set up under one of the sparkling trees. 

His eyes widened. “No, that’s okay. You’re looking.”

“I’m done. Let’s go sit.”

“I-” He deflated a little and didn’t argue further, allowing you to lead him over to one of the tables. 

You sat side by side on the bench, backs against the table, and watched the snow fall around you. The night was peaceful, quiet for the most part except for the occasional laughter that bubbled up. Most of the older crowd had left, leaving only the teens and young adults to explore the market. You watched the other festival goers in silence, Yoongi’s arm pressed against your own.

“You okay?” you asked softly, bumping your shoulder into his own.

Yoongi being quiet was nothing new. He was an observer, a listener, he took in information like a sponge. Which wasn’t to say that he was never loud and boisterous, that he didn’t talk incessantly to the people he cared about. But he was absolutely the calmest presence you’d ever been around, even compared to the adults in your life.

But you could sense what he was feeling, could feel his nerves and unease and conflict. And you knew that he’d rather explode than burden anyone with his feelings. So you prodded. Ever so gently. Because he was your best friend, and when he was suffering, you were too. 

He stayed quiet, and when you turned to look at him, he was much closer than you were expecting. A moment passed. You shared a look. You’d always thought that Yoongi’s eyes were pretty, but in the twinkling light of the candles above, they were deep pools of warm, dark cedar and flecks of honey. Slowly, subtly, he leaned in–or maybe you did, you weren’t sure– as though some mysterious force was drawing you together. An emotion flashed in his eyes, but you couldn’t quite take the time to consider what it may have been because he was kissing you. Lips chapped from the bitter wind moulded against your own for the shortest of moments. It was tentative and delicate and brief, but as he pulled away, your mind reeled. 

That day had affected you in ways you never would have expected. Before, you’d never considered Yoongi as anything more than your best friend, the platonic other half of yourself. And then the kiss, and suddenly, it was like you’d been awakened. For as long as you could remember, your thoughts had been filled with Yoongi. Of the things he liked, the things he didn’t, of spending time with him, of the academy (with him). Suddenly, you were suspecting that maybe there was more to that, more than just the bond of a witch and their familiar.

You sigh. The letters are all finally back in the box, though nowhere near as nicely as they’d been before you’d kicked it and it had exploded. You should get up. You should go to bed. You have to be up fairly early for the funeral. But you stay seated, the box of letters in your lap.

Seeing him again was hard. You’re willing to admit that. You’d spent 12 years convincing yourself that you were fine, harboring anger and resentment and frustration, all for it to melt away the second you saw him. The bond makes it tough to stay mad at him, but it doesn’t let you forget the betrayal.

You stand out of the way, looking out over the funeral attendees in the park. Your parents didn’t have a lot of friends, but there are enough people here that you’d officially call it a crowd. They’re all mingling–you’d bought beer and wine, and if you didn’t know any better, it could maybe be a party and not a wake. You tighten your fist around the bond gem in your hand. For as long as you could remember, your dad had worn it around his neck, tucked under his shirt. The gem is like your mother–bright pink, fiery orange, deep yellow–and when you were a child, you’d loved to look at it, mesmerized by the swirling, glittering colors. 

The gems have always been a gift from a familiar to their witch, given to symbolize the soulmate-like bonds between them. Most witches–especially those who were romantically involved with their familiars–wear them as jewelry. They don’t really do anything, though some people claim it made their magic stronger (you aren’t really sure about that, seeing as most gems appear in childhood).

As a child, you hadn’t been particularly close with your parents. Especially as a teen, you would have much rather hung out with Yoongi than them. But they were kind, and supportive, and for the most part, they left you to do your own thing. They’d been almost as devastated as you when you’d crushed your bond gem.

Days after your fight with Yoongi, the doorbell rang. Your mother had opened the door. You were upstairs. You’d stayed home from school that day–sick, but not in the way the administrators would have accepted. For a few brief moments, you’d ignored whatever visitor was downstairs. But then-

“She’s not here.” Your mother’s voice drifted up to you. She sounded disappointed.

“Please.” It was Yoongi, you’d recognize his baritone from miles away.

Quietly, you’d slipped out of your room and crept down the hall, sitting at the top of the stairs. You could hear your mother sigh, could see her shift her weight from one foot to the other. Your father appeared from the kitchen and joined your mother at the door.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned against the doorknob, pulling it a little more shut in the process so it blocked you completely from the door’s sight.

A long moment of silence passed before your mother called, “Yoongi?” You couldn’t hear his response–he must have already gone down the porch steps. Your mother continued, “It can be scary, and you’re both still young. Give it time.”

The door shut quietly, and both of your parents looked to where you were sitting. You could see it in both of their eyes. Sadness, but something else. Something that looked a little close to pity.

A laugh draws your attention, and you smile sadly as you watch your mother’s coworkers laugh at some memory. But then you notice, just behind them, a shadow close to the ground and suddenly, you’re distracted all over again. Because there, half-hidden by a bush, sits a black cat. Cedar and honey eyes watch you intently, its dark fur swirling and shining like a thousand galaxies. Your hand tightens around your parents’ bond gem, the chain pressing sharply into the flesh of your hand.

He doesn’t move, just sits there patiently. Watching. He’s there as people approach you, offering condolences and hugs that you don’t particularly want; he’s there when people start trickling out. And he’s there when you’re the last one left, all alone under the large oak tree in the center of the park. 

It’s quiet as you stand there, staring down at the bond gem in your hands. This is the part you’ve been dreading. Because you don’t want to keep the damn thing–you could if you wanted to, but there’s also tradition to think about. But it’s also weird to give up the one thing that is so emblematic of your parents. You wonder if they’d felt like this when your grandparents had died. 

At least they’d had each other during it.

You can sense him approach, even though his steps are completely silent. And though he comes closer, he keeps his distance. On one hand, you appreciate it. On the other…

“If you’re going to be here, the least you could do is be here,” you say quietly, looking down at the gem in your hand. It sparkles a little in the light.

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask you to explain. He takes a few slow steps forward until he’s standing beside you. It’s weird, having him this close again. You’d been too overwhelmed last night to actually observe, but now, you’re exhausted, yet alert. 

His hair is longer–as a teen, he’d kept it short, but the ends curl and sit just above his shoulders now. He’s filled out and put on some muscle, and though he’s still a little on the lankier side, his shoulders have broadened. He wears cologne now, the scent light, like lavender, citrus, and sage. So much has changed, and yet it’s the same eyes that watch you with a soft curiosity.

You look up to the tree, watch its branches wave in the wind. You used to think that the centenarian boughs touched the sky, and even still, it towers above everything else in the park. The leaves sparkle, their iridescence catching the light to make the tree look like something out of a fairy tale. You sigh and tighten your fist around your parents’ bond gem one more time before opening your hand.

At first, nothing happens, but then the gem glistens and rises out of your grasp. It joins the other leaves close to the top of the tree, becoming just another sparkle in the prism. 

For a while, not even the birds make a noise. You just stand there, looking up at the tree that has stood sentinel over most of your life. The wind rustles the leaves, and they shimmer as they move. You have no idea how many leaves are up there, how many bond gems have been placed over time. Thousands–maybe hundreds of thousands–of witches and their familiars, most forgotten to the annals of time.

It’s strange, knowing that you would never be memorialized by the tree.

“Let me buy you a coffee,” Yoongi whispers from beside you, husky baritone cutting through the silence.

Yoongi isn’t sure why you say yes, but soon enough, you’re walking into the Green Bean just behind him. He’s uncomfortable, people have been watching you since the park, and their stares are starting to burn holes in his back. He says nothing about it until you’re in line at the cafe.

“What are they staring at?” he whispers, leaning close so that only you can hear in the semi-busy cafe. He chooses to ignore how you tense up ever so slightly.

“You’ve been gone for 12 years, what did you expect?”

Right. He supposes he should have expected their animosity. But it’s not just him they’re watching. He doesn’t miss the way people stare at you, watch you warily as you simply exist. His mind races. Was that his fault? Did his absence cause so many unintended consequences?

You order a coffee and choose a table in the far corner of the cafe, away from everyone but still near the window. He sits in the chair across from you, the hard metal shockingly comfortable despite its harsh lines. An awkward silence settles over you both, but Yoongi’s not sure what to say, so he lets it linger. He watches you stare out the window. Which is a little weird, right? But he can’t bring himself to drag his gaze away. It’s like after 12 years of being away, he just wants to look at you.

The barista calls out your orders and Yoongi stands to grab both of them from the counter. He places one oversized ceramic mug down in front of you, and the other, he wraps his hands around. It’s warm, almost hot, and he dares not take a drink yet. You stare down at the foam on top of your drink, one finger hooked around the handle of the cup.

“What happened to them?” he asks softly. When you look up, surprised, he clarifies. “Your parents, I mean. I… didn’t hear how they…”

You sigh, tap your mug. He can sense the deep sadness you struggle with and is just about to tell you to forget he asked when you speak. “I always kind of thought it would be dad who’d go first.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “He was always so frail when we were kids. But mom got sick last year and…” You shrug. “One of the neighbors found them.”

“I’m so sorry.” You wave him off. “No. Honestly. They were nice.”

“Thanks.”

He nods, and silence settles again. But then something you said pops into his mind, striking him as strange. “You aren’t living here anymore?” Mentally, he slaps himself. Why did it come out like he’s surprised? He supposes that he’s always just kind of pictured you still… here, in town.

“I’m over in Ashland,” you say, generally gesturing west, toward the city. “I work at the library at the university.”

“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows. “How’s that?”

You shrug. “Mostly good. It’s a job. The library’s usually pretty quiet, so…”

“That’s really cool.”

Ashland is big, much bigger than here in square feet and at least 10 times the people. It’s a real city, with skyscrapers and functioning public transportation and one of the country’s top medical universities. He’s proud of you, he realizes. You’d always planned to leave for the city, too constrained by life in such a small town. For the longest time, he’d planned on going with you. And then, of course, he’d ruined it. It stings a little to know that you’d gone without him like that, that your life had continued as planned, that maybe he hadn’t meant that much in the grand scheme of things.

But then your eyes meet, and he’s confronted by the anxiety and sadness you’re feeling, and he knows he’s just being stupid. Again.

“So, uh…” He feels a wave of nerves wash over him–they aren’t his own. You tap your half-empty mug. “What have you been up to?”

If he’s honest, Yoongi wasn’t expecting you to ask about him. He’s shocked enough that you’d even agreed to be here, let alone that you were interested in his life. “I was traveling,” he starts cautiously, gauging your reaction. You blink slowly, watching his every move. If you can sense his apprehension, you don’t react. “But now I’m up north in Ulmae. I’ve got a pretty good thing going at this restaurant on the North Shore.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, uh…” He chuckles, a little nervous. “They’ve got me bartending on the weekends and let me do music during the week.”

Your eyes widen a little, and you lean forward. “They let you play?”

“It’s only like an hour a night-”

“No, shut up. That’s amazing!” You grin, big and genuine, but Yoongi can sense a tinge of sadness in it. 

He’s disappointed when you both finish your coffees and you stand up to put your cup in the little tub by the counter. It’s starting to get late, the sun is starting to set and the streetlights have turned on. It was nice, catching up with you, short though it may have been. It’s not lost on him how strange it is, having to catch up with someone that was once practically a part of him. 

Together, you stand outside in the chilly early evening air, looking down the street toward the park. Over the roofs of the shops and houses, Yoongi can just barely see the centinel tree with its sparkling leaves. People walk past–people he recognizes but couldn’t possibly name–some are more subtle about it, but others practically break their necks to stare at the two of you. Suddenly, Yoongi feels exposed outside the cafe, like there are eyes everywhere. He hates this, hates feeling like he’s doing something wrong just for wanting to talk to you more.

You sigh, scuff your shoe against the concrete of the sidewalk, shove your hands deep into the pockets of your dark jeans. “I… probably shouldn’t even ask,” you start warily. “But do you want to come back for a drink?”

The house is the same, yet somehow also different, like one of those spot the difference puzzles come to life. The layout of the living room is the same, but the couch is a different style and color. There’s a blanket folded the same way under the coffee table, but it’s clearly a different pattern than he remembers. Most of the photos are the same, but there are 12 years’ worth of more of them. 

Apparently, the stash of alcohol your father kept in the built in cabinet beside the television hasn’t changed.

You pull out a bottle of whisky and two glasses, setting them on the coffee table with a gentle ‘clink.” The shoebox he’d given you sits on the floor. The lid is off, the letters contained within are a mess. Have you read them, or did they spill out? There’s no way for him to really know. 

Silently, you hand him a glass and sit on the other side of the couch, grabbing one of the throw pillows to hug in your lap. You sip at the double in your glass stoically, and for a moment, you stare at him. He has to resist the urge to squirm under your gaze. There’s something different about how you’re sitting, something in your aura that he didn’t notice in the cafe. Maybe you’d been saving it for private, but he can sense that you’re reining your emotions in. 

But then finally, after what feels like an eternity, you turn over your hand. Two pieces of paper sit in your palm. “I’m going to need you to explain these.” The two letters float over to him and open themselves in front of him.

The first is dated only a few years after he’d left.

I’ve been struck by a thought. I had tacos earlier, and I just know you would have loved them. Which made me realize that there’s still part of me that thinks about you at every turn. Your friendship was such an integral part of my life, and not having it anymore feels like there’s a piece missing. Last week it was a song on the radio. Before that, a stray cat I saw that I know for certain you would have loved. Everything reminds me of you, everything leads back to you. You’re everywhere and nowhere, and…

I would like to see you again. Someday. 

How have you been doing? Where has your life taken you? I can only hope it’s treated you kindly. It’s what you deserve.

The other is from the day he turned 25.

A quarter of a century, and for some reason I feel incredibly old. With it comes some realizations, things I didn’t understand before. Maybe I was too young, too blinded by my own need to feel free… but it never was about being free from you. I can’t even begin to imagine how hurtful it must have been for you…

I never wanted to make you feel like I was giving up on you, like I didn’t want you. I never wanted to make you feel rejected, because it wasn’t you I was trying to be free from.

I was so scared of having my whole life laid out in front of me. I never took the time to think what my life could be with the bond–I only ever thought about what the bond meant for my life. All of the expectations, what comes with being a familiar, our roles in society and the universe…

I realize now that I could have–should have–communicated it all better. If only so that I wouldn’t have lost you. So that it wouldn’t have led to me making you feel like I was rejecting you. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered; at the end of the day I was still walking away from you. But at least maybe I could have made it more clear that it was never you that I wanted to be free from.

I’m sorry. I feel like it’s useless to say, but I am so sorry for not realizing any of this before.

Wherever you are, I hope you’ll understand. Take care until I see you again.

I hope I see you again.

Yoongi sighs. The letters–all of them, not just these two–tended to be rambling diatribes, a snapshot of his thoughts as he worked through his feelings about his own life and everything and you. He’d been an idiot when he left–he was 17 and full of himself and terrified of the world but too proud to admit it–and it had taken him far too long to realize a lot of important things.

For a moment, it’s quiet as he thinks of what to say. How should he even begin? But apparently, he’s quiet for too long, because you wave your hand and the letters fold themselves back up and float back down to the shoebox. When you speak, you sound exhausted. “Why are you here, Yoongi?”

“I-”

“Because if the roles were reversed, I don’t know that I’d have the balls to come back. On one hand, I’m impressed. On the other…” You trail off and shrug.

He’s quiet, not sure how to respond. He’s got lots of thoughts, lots of feelings–of course he does–but right now, you’re a wall, and he’s not sure how to read the situation. He’s not sure what you need to hear right now. So he says nothing.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it, and you look down at the glass in your hand, stare into the dregs of the amber whisky you’ve nearly finished. “I’m running on like two hours’ sleep,” you admit. “But fuck, Yoongi, I… I was so convinced that I’d never see you again. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.” Then, softer. “I’m still not sure.”

“Why?” It’s out of his mouth before he can even think and god, he just wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.

It takes a second for you to process his absolute trash heap of an asinine question. But when you do, your face contorts into somewhere between anger, disappointment, and heartbreak. “What do you mean, ‘why’?” You practically spit the question at him. “You… you… Do you know what it’s like to have the most important person in your life tell you that he wants rid of you?”

“I never said-”

“You wanted to be free. From all of it. From me.” You pick at the corner of the pillow in your lap. “And then you just come back out of the blue like nothing happened and drop this damn shoebox at my feet-” from where it sits on the floor, the shoebox explodes, letters flying everywhere, “-and you just… What did you expect, Yoongi? What do you want?”

“I don’t know!” He sounds a little desperate when he says it, and he hates that, hates how pathetic it makes him sound. So he shrugs, takes a deep breath, leans back a little. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I just… I missed you. And then mom told me about your parents, and…” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and out of his eyes. “And then I was on a train.”

You stare at him for a moment, a little gobsmacked. You have no idea how to respond. What do you say to that? Where do you even start? There are a hundred things you could say. You’ve played this scenario out a thousand times in your head over the years–what would you do if he came back?–but somehow, it never played out like this. In your mind, he’d never told you that he missed you.

You’d never considered that he would miss you.

But you should say something, right? It’s weird that you’re sitting there, just staring at him in complete silence. Has your jaw been clenched the whole time? Does he think you’re angry with him? Quickly, you school your face into something a little more neutral and say the first thing that comes to mind.

“How long are you here for?”

Truthfully, you probably should have asked sooner. You’ve been wondering since he showed up on your doorstep last night, but it never seemed like a great time to ask.

He sighs. “‘Till tomorrow.”

You nod, probably longer than it makes sense to, but it takes you a bit to process. Tomorrow. He’s back in your life for two days, and then he’s gone again. That’s not even enough time to catch up, let alone actually talk with him. And that’s… you aren’t sure how to feel. 

Yoongi watches you quietly and takes a sip of his drink. He’s barely touched it. “Maybe…” he says after a moment, leaning forward to put his glass on the coffee table. “Maybe I should go?”

Part of you wants to tell him no, to ask him to stay, to tell you more about his gig working at the bar. Anything to keep him here and talking to you. But there’s a more logical part of you that’s overwhelmed, that needs some time to think. He’s offering to go, which means that he’s either uncomfortable or his train leaves early in the morning. Or both. He stands, thanks you for the drink, and you follow him to the door. He hesitates just outside, opens his mouth as if to say something and closes it almost as quickly.

You say nothing. And for the second time in as many days, you watch him leave without another word.

The playground was almost empty. Mama said it was supposed to rain, but she’d also said that you would go anyway, for a little bit. You were trying to learn how to swing on your own, and plus Yoongi and his mom were going to be there, and he’d said he’d bring his trucks to play in the sand. 

But he wasn’t there yet, so you were on the swing. Mama pushed you, her hand firm on your back, and you closed your eyes. You were flying, wind in your face as you launched forward into the air. And then, just as suddenly, you were falling, swinging backward.

“Remember what I said,” mama said softly. “Kick your legs.”

You weren’t quite sure what she meant by that. Your legs were little, and when you kicked out, you felt more like you were going to slide out of the swing seat than anything. You heard her laugh a little, but her hand was on your back once again, propelling you forward. 

A few minutes passed in a blur of forwards and backwards. You still didn’t quite understand the whole swinging on your own thing, but mama’s rhythmic pushes kept you going. But then, a small voice at the edge of the playground yelled your name, and you heard excited footsteps in the wood chips. Mama helped you slow to a stop, and you jumped off the swing.

A little boy, his dark hair cut short by his own mom, ran toward you. He was carrying an armful of small cars and larger trucks. He skidded to a stop in front of you, a wide, gummy grin engulfing his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“I brought all my trucks!” he announced, looking down at the toys in his arms. “You can be the green one. Here.” He tried to hand it to you, and another fell in the process.

You picked it up and took the green truck from him. It was bright green–the same shade as the lime popsicles Yoongi’s mom usually bought–and it had big wheels. You followed him to the sandbox and you both plopped down. It didn’t take long to have a whole city constructed. Granted, it was all made from rocks and wood chips and other small things you found around the sandbox. But it was a city and it was beautiful.

Yoongi drove his truck over a bump, making engine noises as he pushed it toward you. As he drove the truck down another sand hill, bumping and bouncing it over sticks and rocks, something fell out of the sleeve of his jacket. It was perfectly round, and it rolled to a stop in front of you. You picked it up and inspected it. It was some kind of rock, hard and shiny, but it was also colorful, and you were pretty sure rocks couldn’t be blue. 

One look at the rock and he frowned, calling for his mom. She came over immediately and crouched down to see what he was so concerned about. Your mama followed her, and she was the one that saw the rock in your hand first.

“Oh,” she said, her hand gently smoothing down your hair. “You two have found your gem.”

“Wha’s that mean?” Yoongi asked, looking up at his mom. 

She smiled and sat in the sand beside him, pulling him into her lap. She held out her arm, twisted her bracelet around so that he could see it. “You know how I have this from your dad? It’s like that.”

“But-”

“Your friendship is special,” she continued, pinching his cheek. Yoongi laughed. “It means you’ve gotta look out for each other now.”

For a moment, he was quiet. But then he nodded, just once. “Okay!” He held out his hand to you, tiny palm face up. “Can I have it?”

“It’s not yours anymore,” his mom said softly, brushing his short hair back. “It’s a gift.”

You looked to your mama and she nodded. “Take care of it,” she told you. “You only get one.”

Middle school was the worst. Everything was difficult. Social situations, interactions with your parents, school. At the time, it all seemed like it was unfairly hard. Making it worse, of course, was getting sick. As a kid, you were never sick that often. Yoongi was a different story. For whatever reason, familiars were just more susceptible to illness, and when he got sick, he got sick. 

It was the middle of the semester, and Yoongi hadn’t been to school in days. Your teachers hadn’t even asked, they’d just started giving you packets–homework and printouts of their lessons and extra materials–so he wouldn’t fall behind. So you stopped by his house after school. His mom let you in, offering you some of the snacks she was making for Yoongi before you headed up the stairs to his room. 

You knocked gently before entering. The knock was a politeness–you were close enough with him and familiar enough with his room at this point in your life that you could just barge in without warning and you knew he wouldn’t mind. He looked like hell, stuck in his bed buried in blankets. It was clear he’d had a fever at some point, because his hair looked damp and sweaty. 

But he sat up when you walked in, coughing deeply before speaking. “You’re going to get sick, too,” he protested weakly. 

You waved him off. “Everyone’s sick.” You pulled over his desk chair to the side of his bed and started to go through your bag. “Ms. Miller gave me your math homework, but if you understand it, you’ll have to explain it to me because I have no idea what she’s talking about.” He giggled at that, gummy smile soon hidden by his hand as he coughed. “Here’s the novel for Brown’s class. She said she’d talk to you about making up the paper when you’re back.”

It took a surprisingly long time to go through eight classes’ worth of homework and assignments, but you’d put sticky notes at the front of each packet explaining things, too, so the fact that he was half-asleep for most of your explanation didn’t really matter. 

“Will you stay?” he asked when you were done. “Help me with some of this?”

“What happened to not wanting me to get sick?” you teased.

“I mean, you don’t have to. If you want to go home, that’s fine, too. I just-” He coughed, burying his face in his blankets. 

“You staying for dinner, hon?” Yoongi’s mom called from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes please!” you responded, shuffling through the stack of packets you’d brought for Yoongi. “Wanna take a stab at math?”

Halfway through the fall of your senior year, Yoongi started to get… weird. Cagey. Like he was trying to hide something and figure out particle physics at the same time. You’d tried asking him about it a few times, only for him to wave you off with a quiet “just thinking about some things.” After that, he’d be back to normal for a few days. But every time, like clockwork, he would fall back into it.

Finally, on the third day of the new year, he pulled you aside. Tucked back into the dormant foliage of the park, away from prying eyes, he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was nervous, you could feel it deep inside you, but to be honest, you didn’t really need your bond to tell you what was plain to see. 

“I…” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. His brows furrowed in thought, and after a moment, he motioned for you to sit. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay?” You sat on the edge of a big rock, confused.

“I…” he started again, sitting beside you. You could feel a spike of nerves, and he took a breath to steady himself. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think… fuck, this is harder than I thought it would be.”

“You can just say it,” you told him. “It’s just me.”

He nodded and mumbled something that sounded a lot like ‘that’s the problem,’ but after a moment, he continued. “I need to be free of all of this.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you ever thought that maybe the universe doesn’t know what it’s talking about? That maybe you’d be happier if you chose things for yourself?” He frowned. “There’s rules for gifts. We’re only good at certain types of magic because of how we were born. We have to celebrate holidays certain ways, we have to do specific things on our birthdays-”

“-and we get told who we’re to bond to.”

He recoiled at your words. “That’s not-”

“But it’s true, right?” Your gaze fell from him to your hands. “It’s just one more thing you don’t get to control.”

Yoongi sighed. “I just… want to be able to choose for myself.”

Suddenly, you were sick to your stomach. This was the last thing you’d expected. You didn’t particularly like all of the traditions, either, but you were 17. What the hell were you going to do about it? But this felt like he was saying he didn’t want you. You hadn’t yet talked about the kiss at the night market a few weeks prior, but you’d never guessed that he’d do such a sudden about-face. 

“Right,” you said softly.

“Just… think about it?” he asked, dark eyes pleading. 

You didn’t like where this was going, didn’t like how it made you feel. But you nodded anyway. Maybe he would change his mind.

Days gave way to weeks and months, and before you knew it, spring had come. Yoongi hadn’t changed his mind. If anything, he’d gotten more insistent. 

“I want to find myself,” he’d told you once. “I need to make sure this is how I want to live my life.”

“I just need to get away,” he’d said one day while you were doing homework together. “Start fresh somewhere new.”

And then, on the way home from school one day, he’d said, “I need to be free of it all.” 

And you’d snapped. Three months of hearing him talk about it, three months of him basically saying that your entire way of life was wrong and that he was chafing to get away. You couldn’t help it.

“Fuck off,” you’d told him, taking the trail behind the houses at a faster pace. Despite being so attuned with nature thanks to his familiar genes, he’d had trouble keeping up with you.

“Would you slow down?” You could hear the frustration in Yoongi’s voice as he followed you. You ignored him. “Goddamnit,” he breathed, picking up his pace. “Will you at least listen to me?”

He’d pushed. And eventually, you’d given in. Because despite everything, you’d loved him, and if he was unhappy, you wanted to fix that. And now…

Now you’re sitting alone at the train station at ass o’clock in the morning. The train station has just barely opened, and already you’re inside, clutching a cup of coffee. There are a few other people here, milling around, waiting for their early trains to god knows where. You can feel them watching you, can feel them trying to make it subtle that they’re staring. At this point, you’re used to it. Word travels fast in small towns, especially when that word is as earth-shattering as a broken bond gem and a falling out between a witch and their familiar. 

You try to ignore them, focus on your coffee and the posters across the waiting area from you. 

Report any unattended or suspicious luggage to National Rail personnel.

Bags larger than this poster must be checked into the train’s luggage car.

Please remain seated until your train is announced and National Rail personnel give authorization to enter the platform.

You scroll through the news on your phone. Read the posters again. Stare out the window at the coffee shop across the street. And wait. A train arrives, and the couple that had been staring at you leaves. You sigh and stand to throw out your now empty cup.

Just as you do, the door to the train station opens. You turn to look, and there stands Yoongi. He’s wearing a black shirt, a bag slung across his body. His hair is pushed back off his face and he’s wearing his glasses. He’s clutching an absolutely massive travel mug and his phone in one hand, the other rolls a small suitcase behind him. He looks sleepy, but the second his dark eyes land on you, he jolts a little, as if electrocuted into being awake and alert.

“Hey,” he says cautiously, approaching you.

“Hey.” You wave slightly–awkwardly.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is soft, still a little gruff from sleep. You get the sense that maybe he hasn’t said much of anything to anyone this morning.

You sigh and gesture for him to follow you to a bench. The next train–his, you presume–isn’t due for another 20 minutes. You have time, but not much.

“I didn’t like how we left things,” you admit. “I… I wasn't sure if you were serious.”

“Serious?” His head falls to the side slightly, confused. But then, it seems, he understands, and he nods. “I did miss you–I do. I spent the entire ride here thinking about how seeing you again was going to go.”

“Were you right?”

He chuckles. “Not exactly.”

You hum and nod, and for the briefest of moments, silence settles over you. The stationmaster types away at his computer, the clacking of the keyboard the only sound in the entire station. But then you force yourself to say something that’s been on your mind since he showed up on your doorstep two days ago.

“It’s been good seeing you again,” you say, and even though you mean it, you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “I… think in a way, after so long, I made you the villain in my head. It’s good to see that you’re… not that.”

“I am sorry,” he whispers. “That was the worst thing I have ever done, and I just…”

“I get it.”

“What?”

“I think I kind of always did, but… it just hurt too much to think that you were including me in everything that you wanted to get away from, and I just-”

“You were the last thing I wanted to get away from.” Maybe it’s the waver in his voice, maybe it’s the way he ducks his head to make sure he makes eye contact, but you believe him. He sits his mug down on the bench beside him and gathers your hands in his. “I was so fucking dumb. I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat, but god I was too stupid and selfish to take ten minutes to think.”

“I thought maybe I’d done something,” you admit quietly. “I thought that maybe after the night market-”

“No! Oh my god, no,” he exclaims, his hands tightening around your own. “You’re my best friend! I lo-”

“Train 49–the Northern Limited–will be arriving on the platform in five minutes,” the stationmaster announces, not even bothering to use the building’s intercom. “I’ll take you over to the platform when you’re ready.”

Yoongi groans.

“Here.” You pull your hands away from him and immediately miss the warmth of him. But you reach into your pocket, unlocking your phone and shoving it into his hands in one motion. “Put your number in.”

For a moment, he stares at you, dumbfounded. But then the stationmaster opens the door to his office, and the noise jolts Yoongi into action. He types quickly and hands you your phone. You don’t even look at it, just lock it and shove it into your pocket. He hands you his phone and you enter your own contact information before giving it back.

You stand at the same time, and for one brief, quiet moment, you worry that maybe he’s just going to leave it at that. But then he rubs the back of his neck and glances toward the stationmaster.

“I’ll text you,” he promises.

You nod, almost mechanically. You weren’t expecting it to hurt this much to see him leave again. As he turns to gather his things, something comes over you.

“I- Can we-” You sigh, take a deep breath. “Can I have a hug?”

He makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a squeak, and it takes almost no time for the pink to start blossoming on his cheeks. He sputters for a second, and you can feel his shock. But then he opens his arms, and you find yourself taking a small step forward.

It’s shockingly easy to fall back into him, to step into his arms. He’s warm, and solid, but still also somehow soft. His cologne lingers on his clothes, all lavender-y and citrus-y and sage-y. Your arms fit around his waist, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this is normal, that nothing ever happened and that he isn’t leaving. But you hear the train horn in the distance and you pull away. You kiss his cheek as you part, and his eyes go wide in shock.

“Text me,” you tell him firmly, reaching down to grab his coffee mug and hand it to him.

“I will. I promise.”

And with one last, fleeting look, he steps onto the elevator with the stationmaster to go over to the platform. 

You stand outside the station long after the train departs, feeling very much like you did when he’d left the first time. You should be feeling optimistic–for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe there’s hope. For you, for your friendship, for… whatever comes next. But it’s hard to feel any sort of positive when he’s on a train back to a city seven hours away, and you have to go home in the exact opposite direction in a few short days.

As you’re walking back to your car in the lot down the street, your phone dings. When you unlock it, you get the sudden feeling that you’re flying, like a horde of butterflies have erupted within you. It’s nerves and it’s excitement and maybe, it’s also a little bit of hope.

Yoongi 💙: thanks again for not turning me into a bug

“I’ve been thinking,” Yoongi says one late night, his deep, sleep-deprived voice distorted ever so slightly by the distance and the speakers of your phone. You can barely see him–there’s a dim light that just slightly illuminates his face, but the rest of the room is dark.

“Dangerous,” you joke.

“Rude.” He nuzzles down further into his pillow. “I’d like to come visit,” he admits softly.

For a moment, your mind goes blank. There’s a fluttering in your stomach, hundreds of butterflies trying to escape at once. He’d kept his word after the train station, texting and calling you frequently over the past couple weeks. You’d text throughout the week–little messages about bad days and delicious lunches and cute dogs–and then on the weekends, one of you would inevitably end up calling each other. You’d spend hours on the phone, sometimes talking, sometimes just existing in the silence between you. 

The video calls were a recent development. Since they began, you’d watched him cook dinner, he’d played piano while you worked on a spreadsheet for work, and one early morning, he’d called you on his way home after bartending so he wouldn’t fall asleep on the train.

“What do you mean?” You laugh a little. Maybe it was a little obvious what he meant, but you wanted to hear him say it.

He groans a little, stretches one arm up before covering his eyes with it. He peeks out at you through the cook in his elbow, one singular, dark eye sparkling, even in the poor quality of the video. “I miss you,” he mumbles, and you almost don’t catch it, it’s so muffled by his arm and your phone’s speaker.

You hum. The butterflies in your stomach make themselves known again. “I guess you could come.”

“I don’t have to if you don’t want me to.”

“Hey now. It’s against the rules to take something like that back.”

He laughs. “What rules?”

“You know. The rules.” You gesture vaguely before pulling your blanket up a little further on your body. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the rules?” He grunts. “Being away for so long has rotted your brain, I’m afraid.”

“So rude.” His arm is still obscuring his face slightly, but you can see his big, gummy smile as he laughs. “No, but seriously. Are you busy next weekend?”

You frown. You’d been trying to forget about next weekend. “Normally I’d go home for the new year,” you say softly.

“Why don’t,” he begins, stifling a yawn. You’re a little surprised he’s made it this long without seeming tired. It’s almost 3am. “Why don’t I come hang out? We can do new year’s stuff together.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“What about work?”

He shifts, the arm that was over his face now supporting his head under his pillow. “I make the schedule. They’ll deal with it.”

“Yoongi.”

He continues on, ignoring you. “I can work the day shift and get a train right after work on Friday, but I wouldn’t get there until late, is that okay?”

You sigh. It would be nice to not spend the holiday alone. And it would be nice to see him again. Sure, you’ve been talking to him in one way or another, but it’s different than having him in person. You finally agree, and he shoots you a smug, sleepy smile.

The week passes at a glacial pace. Work is slow because of the break in classes for the upcoming holiday, and spending time in an empty library is infinitely less entertaining than you’d expect it to be. Most of your coworkers have taken off, so you’re mostly alone with your thoughts. You fill the time with paperwork, completing literature loan requests for the University’s faculty and doing intake for the newly released journals the library has subscriptions for. 

In the small handful of weeks since you’d seen him last, you’d replayed things in your mind. But mostly, you’ve been stuck on how nice it is to have him in your life again. You aren’t fooling yourself. You haven’t forgotten. But there’s a part of you–a large part, if you’re honest with yourself–that hopes that this is a step forward, that you can be close again. Maybe not how you were, but something that resembles a friendship.

After an eternity, it’s Friday. You sit outside of the train station in your car, parked in one of the pick up spots just outside of the main door. The trickle of people into and out of the station has slowed significantly now that it’s dark out–you’ve never seen it this dead. It’s late, the station is getting ready to close, but there’s one last train that has yet to come in. There’s another car parked a few spaces to your left, and you wonder briefly about who they’re waiting to pick up, but it’s fleeting. 

The door to the station opens automatically, and out steps Yoongi. He rolls a suitcase beside him, a messenger bag slung across his body, his other hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. He looks around, confused, his gaze going back and forth between your car and the one to your left. You turn on the dome light and wave and he nods.

He gives you a quick greeting as he opens the back door, shoving his bags in the back seat. When he finally climbs into the passenger seat, he sighs deeply, resting his head against the headrest for a moment before turning to you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey. How was the train?”

He groans. “Long.”

You hum. He’d worked a short, early shift so he could catch the last train from Ulmae to Ashland. He looks and sounds exhausted. But he’s here. He’s not a face on a screen, he’s in your car. You resist the urge to reach out and touch him. It’s strange. You’d been without him for nearly 13 years. It’s only been a few short weeks since you’d seen him last, but you’re giddy, practically bursting with excitement at the fact that, for the next two and a half days, he’s here. With you.

You drive in relative silence, willing the lights to be green more for Yoongi’s sake than your own. The radio plays a soft hip-hop song, and you vaguely recognize it as one of the bands he’d been obsessed with in high school, but you don’t turn it up. You’re fairly certain that he’s fallen asleep, his head lolled slightly to the side so that he’s facing the window.

It’s a damn miracle that there’s an open spot in front of your building, but you gladly take it. There are people in your building who don’t know how to parallel park—who refuse to do it—but you’d taught yourself just for instances like this. For a moment, you think you’re going to have to wake Yoongi up, but just as you cut the engine, he unbuckles his seat belt and stretches.

Your apartment isn’t large, but it’s bigger than most for what you pay for it. You’re on the seventh floor, the top floor of the building, and your bedroom has a lovely view of the building beside you. But if you lean a little to one side and press your face up against the glass, you can see out into the city beyond, and the university campus in the far distance.

He sits his bags down in your living room and plops down on the couch. You’ve already set out some blankets and a couple pillows for him. The clock on your microwave says 11:05.

“You’re probably exhausted,” you say. “I’ll let you get settled.”

Immediately, he picks his head up from the back cushion of the couch. “’m not tired.” Ever defiant. But you can tell he’s lying. You can see it in his eyes how groggy he is. Normally, he’s up much later than this–you know, because sometimes, he calls you–but between working an early shift and the six-hour train ride, you don’t blame him for being a little sleepy.

“I put some towels out in the bathroom,” you tell him, gesturing down the hall. “It’s the door on the left. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.”

And with that, you leave him there in your living room. You can hear him unzipping his bag as you retreat into your room.

An hour later, you find that you can’t sleep. Not that you’ve even tried. You aren’t even sure why you’re so wired. But you’re sitting in your bed, legs covered by a sheet, in the dim light of your bedside lamp. You’ve had friends stay over before. But this… you feel like you did as a kid, having your first sleepover. Except back then you were wired on soda and sugary snacks and it was a treat to stay up late. Now, you’re just…

You hear the bathroom door open and shut, and after a moment, Yoongi stands in the doorway to your room.

“You have the softest towels in the world,” he says, hair hanging in damp strands in front of his eyes. He pats and scrunches it dry with one of the fluffy grey towels you’d set out for him. 

“Would you believe I got them on clearance?”

“I’ll just have to stuff one in my bag, then.”

“I charge a 5% fee for any towels that leave the premises.”

At that, he laughs, a groggy, squeaky sound that shakes his shoulders and crinkles his eyes and leaves a wide, gummy smile in its wake.

“So… what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.” He shoots you a look that says he doesn’t believe you, and you relent. “Well,” you pat the bed beside you, inviting him to sit, “There’s this thing every year in the park to watch the meteors,” you say as Yoongi eases himself onto the mattress. “But it doesn’t start until late.” He hums. “Was there something you wanted to do?” 

“No, just-” He stifles a yawn. “Curious.” He leans back against the headboard, settling in.

Just like that, you fall easily into conversation. It’s comfortable, calm. Just two old friends chatting. He likes your apartment, thinks the tile in your bathroom is really nice. He asks about your job, nods along as you tell him about working in the library and your coworkers. 

And slowly, his reactions become slower, delayed, until he finally doesn’t respond at all. You look over, and his chin is tucked against his chest, his breathing gentle. Asleep.

For a moment, you consider going out to the couch. It would be weird, right, to stay here with him? But as you’re about to kick the blanket off, you pause. 

We’re adults. Adults can share a bed. It doesn’t have to mean anything. You’re mature enough to let this just be two people sleeping in the same space. 

At least, you think you are. 

But as you settle in yourself, snuggling down into your blankets and turning off the light, you’re suddenly faced with the quiet peacefulness of his face. He’d always been handsome, and now that you’re both older, you can appreciate just how beautiful he really is. He sighs and slides down a little, his hand brushing against your arm as he gets more comfortable. 

Oh no. 

You sit on the floor of your living room, a box of pizza on the coffee table that you’ve shoved out of the way. Yoongi’s beside you, your backs against the couch as you watch some anime he’d been trying to convince you to watch back in high school. You’re three episodes in, and you don’t have the heart to tell him that you don’t really care for the basketball-themed show. Part of you is still afraid that if you say something wrong, he’ll be gone again. 

His arm rests casually behind you on the cushions, far enough away that it’s more a comfortable way to sit than any sort of advance, but that doesn’t stop the smallest of butterflies from making itself known in your stomach. This Yoongi is so different from the Yoongi you knew—the one who, as a kid, got excited by construction equipment and the concept of ice cream, and as a teen spent his free time hiding from his parents, playing the piano and hanging out with you (though neither were mutually exclusive). He’s quiet, comfortable in the silence, comfortable with letting things linger. 

You’re a little jealous of it, to be honest. 

Yoongi leans forward slightly, and a piece of pizza meets him halfway, floating gently into his grasp. “Do you remember,” he begins, settling back in against the couch, “when we were 16 and we went camping?” You hum an affirmative. “We spent most of the week playing old board games with my parents.”

You smile at the memory. If anyone had asked back then, you would have told them it was lame that you’d had to spend the whole time with Yoongi’s parents. But now? That was one of the more fun summers you’d ever had. “What made you think of that?”

He shrugs, mouth full of pizza. “I dunno. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. Things were so much simpler then…” 

You nod and hum softly, but ultimately, you say nothing. Much simpler indeed. 

“You know,” Yoongi begins, zipping his coat up to his chin, “when you said ‘park’, I was kind of expecting it to be in the city.”

“I think technically it is.” You lock your car and meet him at the front of it.

“We drove for an hour!”

You shrug. “Big city.”

He laughs and shakes his head, incredulous. He can’t tell if you’re being serious or not, but there was a sign on the way in with the university logo on it, so he supposes that whether it’s part of the city or not, it doesn’t really matter. There’s a well-lit trail that runs from the shale parking lot up a hill slightly to a clearing that overlooks the city and the rest of the park. It’s busy–people mill about around the parking lot, and he can see a steady stream of visitors on the trail up to the clearing. 

He adjusts his coat–it’s cold, and both his shoulder and his senses ache with the impending snow–and when he’s ready, the two of you start walking toward the trail. It’s astonishingly busy, and as you weave your way through the crowd, leading him up the hill, he grabs your hand. 

So we don’t get separated, he tells himself. For a moment, he expects you to pull away. Not maliciously, he’s not expecting you to scoff and throw his hand away. But what he isn’t expecting is for you to tighten your grip on him and tug him this way and that as you get closer to the clearing. His hand is warm where your skin touches his, like he’s holding a candle a little too close to the flame.

The clearing is massive, mostly flat but not entirely, with gentle rolling slopes that provide some extra elevation here and there. On one of the little hills, a few food trucks are set up, though how they got there, Yoongi isn’t really sure. Someone must have magicked them through the path or up the hill or something. There are picnic tables scattered around, mostly near the food trucks, but throughout the clearing, as well. Towards the edge of the clearing, there’s a cliff with an overlook that has a spectacular view of the city vista below. People are everywhere. Of course, there are a lot of college-aged kids hanging out in big and small groups. But there’s also a shocking amount of people that are Yoongi’s age and older–professors, he assumes, and university staff here to enjoy the evening. Almost all of them are holding drinks, and just about every one of them seems to be paired with someone.

It’s subtle sometimes, seeing bonded witches and familiars. Of course, the ones who are romantically involved tend to be more obvious, but the ones that are just friends are just as easy to spot once you know what to look for. It’s the people who stand so close together they’re almost touching, the ones who lean in a little extra close to whisper something. And the clearing is full of pairs standing in each other’s personal spaces.

You tug on his hand to direct him off to the left and he blindly follows, squeezing your fingers ever so gently as a response. 

There’s a pair of people at one of the tables by the food trucks. They spot you almost immediately, and one of them stands to greet you. He’s a little taller than you are, made even more obvious when he gives you an awkward, one-armed hug over the picnic table’s bench. The other one–a woman–remains seated, eyeing Yoongi.

For a hot minute, it’s weird, as he stands there in silence while you chat with the man and woman. It’s not even the side-eye that the woman’s shooting him. The man is handsome–Yoongi’s not blind–and you are friendly with him. But there’s a moment, the briefest of moments, where you gesture somewhere off to your left. And when your body moves, Yoongi’s arm moves, too, and a little part of him, a silly, childish, hopeful part, soars.

You’re still holding his hand.

Eventually, you introduce him to the two. Alice works the reference desk in your library while she’s doing a doctorate program in linguistics. Her partner is gone in the winter, fighting fires in the far south. Despite her harsh side-eye, she greets Yoongi with a smile and a polite handshake. Jihwan, on the other hand, is the head baseball coach at the university. How the two of you met, Yoongi can only guess, but you make no mention of Jihwan’s partner, and Yoongi doesn’t see a gem anywhere. He almost–almost–starts to feel bad for the guy, but then he opens his mouth.

You ask a simple question, gesturing with your head to the food trucks. “What do they have good?”

“The pierogi guy from last year is back-”

Jihwan interrupts Alice. “Too much butter.”

It’s not even what he says. It’s how he says it. Like you and Alice are toddlers, like you can’t be trusted not to drown yourselves in carbs. But you roll your eyes and Alice scoffs playfully, and Yoongi realizes that this is not the first time Jihwan has done something like this. And suddenly, Yoongi hates this guy. 

“Apparently, he’s got a new flavor this year,” Alice says, continuing like Jihwan never interrupted. “But the taco guy is also back-”

“Is the popcorn guy back?” you ask. laughing. “Because I kind of want a front-row seat to that.” Yoongi must look confused, because you explain. “Pierogi guy’s daughter was engaged to taco guy’s daughter. But last year, pierogi guy and taco guy just started yelling at each other-”

“-It was amazing,” Alice adds.

“It was ridiculous,” Jihwan mumbles.

You push him.  “It was a little like having our own little telenovela here.”

Cautiously, Yoongi asks, “Why were they fighting?”

“No one knows.” You shrug. “But it launched a campus-wide food war. Everyone was choosing sides. It was like the year the Moondance tried to change its logo.”

Jihwan and Alice look at you, a little confused. But Yoongi knows exactly what you’re talking about. Somewhere around when you were preteens, the owners of the Moondance diner decided that its logo was outdated and wanted to update it. The whole town had been in an uproar, whole neighborhoods entering into a Cold War-esque stand-off over their preferences. People who had been friends for 50 years were suddenly in an unsolvable, unending argument. All over a color palette swap and a slightly newer font. Yoongi hadn’t cared much one way or the other–all businesses change their logos at some point, right?–and he always suspected that you didn’t either, but you’d both gotten swept up in the chaos of it all. It was stupid, ridiculous fun, and he’s pretty sure that his parents still have the buttons you’d made somewhere in their house.

You finally let go of Yoongi’s hand when you’re standing in line at the taco truck, and he’s painfully aware of how empty it feels now. You don’t go far, though, standing close enough that your elbow brushes against his every once in a while. You’re scrolling through your phone, reading some news article to pass the time. It’s gotten darker since you’ve been there, and looking up, he can just barely make out a couple pinpricks of stars in the sky. The clearing is fairly bright, with little flickering balls of light criss-crossing the space like bistro lighting, and the lights from the city below don’t help to make the night sky visible. 

You pay for his tacos–”I get an employee discount,” you say, brandishing your university id like it’s a black card–and Yoongi doesn’t think that you were in line that long, but when you return to the table, Alice and Jihwan are gone. 

“Where’d-” He’s not even asked the question, but you’re already shrugging.

“Alice’s probably off calling her fiance,” you say it like you’re back in high school, all singsong-y and mockingly, “and who knows where Jihwan got to. Probably trying to take someone home tonight.”

“He seems…”

You sigh. “Yeah.”

“How’d you meet him?”

A pang of… something hits him. Your expression falls, ever so slightly, and he regrets asking. But after a brief moment, you clear your throat. “He and I are the only two on campus without gems.”

Oh. 

Well.

That makes sense.

“So they…”

You pick a piece of red cabbage off your taco and eat it. “Yeah, they know.”

Which explains Alice’s side-eye earlier. The weird emotion he’d gotten from you is gone now, and you seem to have just brushed right past the awkward feelings. 

He hums, not really sure what to say. What’s there to say? So instead of saying anything dumb, he does the safe thing. He changes the subject.

“No wonder they didn’t kick the taco guy out of the festival this year.” He takes another bite of his taco. “This is the best al pastor I’ve ever had.”

“His chimichangas are amazing, but he only makes them on special days.”

“More special than…?” He gestures vaguely. Around you, the lights have started to dim. Yoongi isn’t really sure when that started, but things are definitely less bright.

You laugh, and something inside of him warms.

He hasn’t even finished his tacos yet, but the vibe in the clearing starts to dramatically change. The crowd gathers tighter, a palpable buzz in the air. Alice has returned and stands alone near the head of the table. She’s looking up at the sky, and when Yoongi looks up, he sees why. There’s an aurora in the sky, gentle waves of effervescent greens and blues swirling through the heavens, just like the night market all those years ago. It has to be magic of some sort–the city isn’t far enough north for it to be natural–but he can’t tell who’s doing it.

A hand on his shoulder pulls his focus back to the ground. You’re there behind him, bathed in the dim glow of the floating lights around you. By now, it’s almost dark, but even in the low light and deep shadows, you’re beautiful. 

“Come on,” you say softly. “Let’s get a good spot closer to the lookout.”

He follows you through the crowd, weaving around the bodies to get closer to the edge of the clearing. It’s tight, and you grab his hand so you don’t get separated. Normally, Yoongi isn’t a huge fan of crowds like this. You’re a small island in a sea of people, and he barely has room to turn in a circle without bumping into someone. You stand close–close enough that he can feel your warmth through the chill of the night.

The city spans the valley below, a forest of metal and windows and concrete. A bright spot in the middle of an otherwise dark night. But then, individually at first and then more, the buildings’ lights begin to flicker out.

“They’ve been doing this festival since before the city got public electricity,” you explain, answering his question before he could even ask. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

With the lights of the city mostly out, the stars above are much brighter. He can almost see them twinkling and winking as they burn, millions of billions of lightyears away. The night sky is beautiful, and his eyes drift around to locate the constellations he’d learned as a child. Almost immediately, he finds Perseus, right beside his wife Andromeda. You’d loved the myth of Perseus slaying Medusa when you were kids, and even though he hadn’t looked for the constellation in over a decade, finding it is still ingrained in him. 

He nudges you slightly, pointing up to the constellation. But just as he does, a pinprick of light streaks across the sky. You squeeze his hand as more streaks start to appear and the gathered crowd buzzes with ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s. The meteors are all sizes. Big and bright. Small and thin. They aren’t constant, only a few show up every minute, but it’s beautiful to watch. 

There’s a strange sensation growing in his chest, something warm and fluttering and all-encompassing. You lean a little closer and the feeling grows. You must sense something–he’s never really been sure what his emotions feel like for you–because you look up at him. For a moment, you look confused.

Yoongi isn’t really sure how it happens, but what he does know is that suddenly, your face is centimeters from his own. He thinks that maybe someone bumped you and you took a step closer, but maybe that’s just his brain trying to fill in the gaps. He also knows that he’s the one that closes the space between you, leans in and brushes his lips against yours. It’s quick, a little impulsive, and truthfully, it feels a little forbidden. 

He pulls away, not far enough to make it seem like he’s made a mistake, but enough that it gives you an out, if you want it. His brain starts making all these calculations–what he should do if you back away, what he should do if you slap him, what if you don’t react.

But then you whisper, “Why’d you stop?” and your hand slides up his chest to grip the lapel of his coat. You tug with a surprising amount of force, and when your lips connect, he feels himself soaring. 

His entire world narrows to the points where your bodies connect. The firm touch of your knuckles against his shirt, the way your leg presses against his, but mostly the heat from your lips as he deepens the kiss. You fit against him perfectly, as if you were made for each other. He’d only kissed you that one time, but somehow, he’d missed it, missed you. 

When you finally pull away, you stay close, pressed against his chest–though whether that’s fully your choice or because of the crowd tightening around you is anyone’s guess. He can feel your heart pounding, and when you shoot him a small smirk, he’s pretty sure that you can feel the pace of his own pulse. Your grip loosens on the collar of his coat and you smooth it down coolly before your arm wraps around his back. Without a word, you cozy in, pressed close as your gaze returns to the sky and to the stars.

For a moment, he stands there, unmoving, mind empty. But then it’s like he snaps out of a trance, and he snakes an arm around your waist, holding you tightly. His focus shifts to the shooting stars above, catching one just as it streaks across the sky. As he stands there, staring at the heavens and feeling your steady breathing, his mind begins to wander.

12 years, 7 months, and 3 days. He’d spent most of that time wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t left. If, after he’d kissed you at the night market, he’d been satisfied with whatever life had come after that. He’d been so scared back then, of losing control, of his life not being his own. But now, none of that matters.

Now, he’d give up almost anything to stay here, in this moment, in your arms. 

okay so like... what do we think? how are we feeling? I was originally planning on having this be much longer, but I was so stressed out from grad school, I just wanted to get it out now. I'm so excited to hear your thoughts! and let me know if you want to see a part 2 (and if so, what you might want to see in it!!)

[stars-for-circe]

Save A Horse… (1000 Special) - Part 1

Tags / cw: headcanons, cowboy!ellie x high society/noble victorian!reader, 1800s dual Victorian and Wild West eras, historical romance, hidden/forbidden romance, sexual tension, fluff

Surrounded by other patrons in a busy seaside bar, Ellie sat in the corner booth, lazily swirling a whiskey glass in clockwise motions. Her Stetson hung low on her head, hiding her face from the many who chose to seek shelter from the sweltering heat. Occasionally, the doors would be opened, letting in the bright midday sun and outdoor buzz, but the ambiance of the bar remained otherwise undisturbed. Peace and fucking quiet - something Ellie had been needing.

Cowboy!Ellie who was drinking at that oceanside bar when your family first arrived in the Americas

She could remember it clear as day, how it went from a bustling street outside to yelling and gathering in excitement. It seemed that everyone was rather keen to see the new family - and new wealth - moving into the town.

She could also remember the bells ringing and the thudding of the wooden stairs as they lowered for your family to step off the ship, one by one. Curiosity won, Ellie thought, as she raised her hat to take a look out of the window next to her, and she counted four people - two parents and two young boys. Behind them a large group of maids carrying enough luggage to weigh down a small boat.

For a moment, Ellie thought that was that, but then - in the corner of her eye - came a flurry of bright fabric as you ran to the stairs, almost tripping in your dress on the way down. And for the first time in a long time, that heady buzz of the port went quiet, as almost every man (and some women too, Ellie noticed) watched you in awe.

But Ellie ignored everyone else, and their plans and advances on you. Because the moment you stepped off the ship, catching her eye - and quite possibly her heart - in the process, Ellie knew you would be hers.

Cowboy!Ellie who was hired to do work on your property, only to meet you the very first day

The estate your father bought was fucking huge - she could tell from the very end of the winding road leading up to the hill it stood on. But the paddocks were messy, and unkempt. In hindsight, Ellie really should have guessed she’d be hired to fix it up…

…And also get closer to you, of course.

It was a boiling hot day that she was ordered to ride shimmer up to the property, for a tour and and instructions and all that. And by the time Ellie got up there, she was drenched in sweat - all this money and they couldn’t offer her a carriage or something?

It was just before noon, too, so it would only get hotter. Ellie could only hope that the first few hours would be spent inside the property and away from the afternoon sun. She unbuttoned her shirt down by two, pulling it back. and forth to uselessly fan her partially exposed chest. This was a bullshit job for the pay she was promised.

But, she thought, as she noticed not one, but two figures walking out to meet her on the patio, the promise of you once again most definitely payed the rest. God, you were even more beautiful closer up - the sun casting a glow on your face, as the wind at the top of the hill blew your hair around your face like a halo, and the baby blue silks of your dress around you like rippling water.

You walked up to her with your father, as he introduced the both of you to Ellie, and welcomed her to the property along with all the other necessary formalities. She shook hands with him - quite firmly, too - as he told her of the projects and repairs needed to be done on the property. But she couldn't help but let her eyes trace back to you, as you took turns glancing at your father as he spoke, and at Ellie. Or more specifically her hands, that now rested at her side after she shook hands with him.

Partly, she listened to the long list of chores your father had set up, but Ellie was mostly just focused on your wandering eyes finding their way back to hers, and she smirked softly as you blinked in surprise when you realised she was already looking at you, taking you out of your trance. And, as your expression grew slightly more shocked, cheeks warming just a tad past normal, her expression could only be described as one of a mischievous grin, as the never-ending speech your father gave only meant one thing:

She was going to be here, with you, for a while.

Cowboy!Ellie who then spends every waking hour finding spare time to be around you

It would have been a few weeks by now, each day within that filled with stolen glances, shy smiles and sly smirks between you two. Each and every time you passed the old storehouse Ellie had been assigned to repaint, you would feel her gaze leave the building and become fixated on you, daring you to turn around and make eye contact. You almost did - to be fair - by letting your eyes wander the grassy path between the both of you, and travel up her soiled boots and paint-stained jeans, up her dirty wife-beater hidden under baggy flannel, and to her sheening neck, almost glistening under the hot summer sun.

But never her eyes. You weren't ever going to lose that game to temptation, not when she so obviously wanted you to play. Instead, you simply walked past, book tight in your hand as you crossed the field and into the middle of an empty paddock, letting her gaze follow you all the way to the large oak tree standing proudly in the centre - after staying here for a while, you had found the perfect place to read. And, well, the swings on hanging down from the tree gave you the perfect view of Ellie hard at work, safe from her attention.

Unfortunately, however, it seemed that you had been spotted after all these weeks. At first, you hadn't even noticed, much too engrossed in your book. But the clearing of her throat as she smirked down at you, hands on her hips, told you everything you needed to know.

"Nice book you're reading" She spoke, taking her eyes off you as she leaned against the trunk of the tree behind you, placing a cigarette between her lips. And the sun at this time of day did nothing to help, creating shadows and rays through the leaves that made her just that much hotter.

"You mind?" She asked, raising a brow while making a gesture to the lighter in her hand.

"Not at all" you replied, taking your attention back to your reading, before registering what she said. You furrowed your brows and snapped your book shut.

"I didn't know you read books."

She glanced up at you as you said that, huffing out a laugh as she took the lit cigarette from between her lips, the smoke billowing out of her open mouth.

"Nah, but those books definitely ring a bell, doll." You paused, confused for a moment, before realising what exactly you had brought out with you.

"I- you mean you- you're..?"

Ellie let out a full on chuckle this time, kicking her leg out from off the tree trunk and putting the cigarette back between her lips. She took another puff, before giving you once last glance as she walked off. But not before calling out to you one last time, as she headed back downhill.

"You're a smart girl, doll. You'd be right to trust your gut."

...Damn those sapphic poets.

Author's note: *peeks head behind door slowly* hiiiii.......No but actually, I went MIA for a bit sorry ab that </3, there's actually a lot more to life than tumblr when you discover the outside world and fresh air, surprisingly. But anyways! I hit 1000 about a month ago and felt like I really should have posted something for it so here's this! There's actually another half thats incomplete but I felt like you guys at least deserved something after so long without any posts, so here u go <3

Taglist: @happysparklingshadows @irelandzo @r3starttt @iamaboringrattat @genderfluidlesbain999 @slut4mascss @rxreaqia @kylorey25 @massivepeacefemme @elliewilliamsfavborderhopper @ratdungeon @elxarw @mariasabanahabanabana @vvynia @abbyshands @flowersforvi

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

FOOLISH SPRING WINDS, BLOW MY WAY ; SATORU GOJO

summary; a snippet of the spring you share with a certain satoru gojo — who seems intent on making your high school life as difficult as possible.

word count; 5.4k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, enemies to friends (..but the ’enemy’ part is kinda one-sided), fluffy n sweet overall, satoru doesn’t know how to make friends + thinks lighthearted bullying constitutes as a bonding activity, he’s a little shit but he means well, switching povs, lots of gojo slander (but reader sees the light eventually), big shoujo vibes, they’re both tsunderes <33

a/n; i ended up scrapping the series i wrote this fic for originally, so i thought i’d rewrite it and repost it on its own!! teentoru is such a grumpy little kitten i need to squish his paws

satoru gojo is annoying.

it might seem blunt, but after many weeks of careful thinking, you’ve decided no description could possibly fit him better. 

when you first met him, on that first day of school, you had no idea what to think. no real expressions or tonal shifts to clue you in on who he was, how he felt — nothing but the slightest peek of a terrifying blue to set your nerves on edge. 

in hindsight, you’re almost certain it was intentional. he wanted to appear unreadable. purposefully hiding his personality and mannerisms, to gain the upper hand — observing you, dissecting you inside his mind, while revealing nothing about himself apart from his surname. 

it’s a kind of power; a safety measure.

… but evidently, holding back isn’t exactly gojo’s forte. the very next morning, he was already beginning to loosen up, after getting more accustomed to the new environment and classmates. showing you his true colours; just a little hint of cerulean, a single dip of paint on the blank canvas of his soul.

and with the revelation of his genuine personality — your unease around him festered even more.

where could you even begin to describe him? for one, he’s childish. and cocky. and loud. arrogant, selfish and flamboyant — just generally an asshole? you could go on and on. none of the traits are particularly flattering, and you know he couldn’t care less.

gojo is annoying, plain and simple. almost constantly up to something, eager to push someone’s buttons, to get attention. like a bratty toddler. uninterested in manners, or even common courtesy; he says what he feels, regardless of how other people take it. 

to put it simply, he has no regard for the people around him. his self-interest is limitless. 

as if that wasn’t annoying enough — you have no choice but to admit that he does have a certain presence to him. a kind of charisma, or what you think could become charisma, if he’d just get off that high horse already. he won’t, though. you know he won’t. he revels in it, in looking down on everything and everyone, annoyingly boisterous and irritatingly tall. freaky, long limbs. like a noodle and an alien had a baby.

but, more than anything — above all else — what frustrates you most is the fact that his unbridled confidence isn’t exactly unwarranted.

as much as it pains you to say it… gojo is maybe just a little bit incredible. a natural-born genius. he’s intelligent, and observant, and awfully pretty, with those baby blues eyes and those snowy locks of hair. and he has no issue getting what he wants. 

absolutely zero. 

there’s something admirable about it, in a twisted way. like he doesn’t even need to try. he’s good at anything, if he just gives it a single chance. you can only assume he’s never given much thought to the prospect of being a decent guy, because that’s the only thing he sucks at.

effortlessly perfect, in the most imperfect of ways. that’s probably how you’d describe him.

… annoying is still the most fitting word, though. or maybe obnoxious. he’s got this spoiled rich kid vibe that irks you, gets under your skin. you doubt he’s ever had to empathize with anyone, in his entire life. 

and, yes — maybe you’re being a little harsh to him. but why should you bother being jovial when he won’t return the favour?

gojo is annoying; and when you say that, you mean annoying to basically everyone. as a basis for existing. always teasing and taunting, looking down from that high horse of his. you’re no exception to this rule, of course. but you’re almost certain that he has it out for you specifically.

you know he looks down on you, from behind those tacky sunglasses. you’re sure of it.

compared to geto or shoko, you aren’t very self-assured — and you think he must have sensed it the moment he laid eyes on you. sensed that you’re a little meek, a bit of a doormat, easy to push around and get a rise out of. maybe he also noticed your apprehension towards him, your apparent unease. 

you’re easy prey, to put it simply.

evidently, he’s developed a fondness for getting under your skin. it started as soon as introductions were over, and it still hasn’t gotten better. he loves catching you off guard, throwing you an unneeded comment or two, just to see what reaction you’ll give him next. almost like he’s solving an equation — said equation being you, the limit of your patience. and you keep giving him what he wants; a scoff, a roll of your eyes, an earnest fuck right off. you can never seem to successfully ignore him. he’s just far, far too good at being insufferable.

… and, more than anything, he’s far too out of reach. even when you try to get along with him, it backfires. you don’t have a single thing in common. you don’t understand him at all. 

(and that suits you just fine.)

a heavy sigh slips from your parted lips, as you examine your blurry reflection in the surface of the mirror. fatigue clings to your skin like a layer of sweat, your mind muddled, stuffed with anxious thoughts and discomforting feelings.

you’re exhausted. completely and utterly spent, even though the day’s barely begun — running on three pitiful hours of sleep, all broken up and jumbled by nightmares that wouldn’t stop spooking you. not a single wink of proper rest. 

and it’s painfully obvious. in your face, your posture, the dark crescents beneath your eyes; in the way you can’t help but drag your legs as you walk, your hair disheveled, little sighs and grumbles slipping from your lips for every step you take. all you can do is sluggishly blink the exhaustion away.

you just feel so tired.

it could be worse, though. you don’t have any classes today, no real reason to get out of your comfy bed, leave the safety of your cozy little dorm room. but you need breakfast, right now, or else you’ll literally explode — so you still get up on shaky legs and try to mimic the appearance of someone… even moderately well-rested.

it doesn’t work, but that’s besides the point. 

so you make your way to the dormitory’s shared kitchen. walking idly — clumsily — enjoying the sight of fleeting, fluttering cherry blossoms through the windows you pass. little pink butterflies.

once you’ve crossed the threshold, you’re relieved to find the open space entirely devoid of people. no shoko, no geto, not even a mischievous gojo. running into the first two wouldn’t be the end of the world — but it still wouldn’t be ideal. you don’t want anyone seeing you like this, tired and meek, a little vulnerable.

(least of all gojo. you shiver at the bare thought.)

with laboured, groggy movements, you waltz around the kitchen, getting cups and plates and turning on the coffee machine. enjoying the soothing melody of the pan sizzling, singing along to the purring of espresso being made. it’s nice and pleasant to your sensitive ears, as you blink under the rays of sunlight shining in, throwing together a lazy breakfast. 

you waste no time in taking a seat by one of the tables once you’re finished. eager to soak in the peace and quiet, wolf down a sandwich and copious amounts of caffeine.

but, as always — the world seems to have it out for you specifically.

”oh? well, look who it is. and here i thought you had left too.”

you stiffen. ever so slightly, barely noticeable, but still enough that you physically feel the dread envelop every single cell of your body. the voice that echoes out across the open air is a chipper one, a familiar one. a voice you were desperately hoping not to hear today. 

all you can do is continue to sip from your cup of coffee, inwardly wincing, silently going through all five stages of grief simultaneously — before accepting your unfortunate predicament. 

(that’s just your luck, isn’t it?)

finally, you raise your weary head, knowing exactly what sight you’ll be met with once you do. 

and, lo and behold — there he is.

gojo looks the same as always. grinning brightly, a little woflish, wearing those ugly sunglasses and making his way across the room like he owns it. a trait you can’t help but admire, envy, hate and worship at the same time. he plops down next to you like it’s nothing, a little too close for comfort, unconcerned about your concept of personal space.

”whatcha up to?” he chirps, in that sugar sweet tone, layered over with a boyish kind of excitement. there’s a teasing tilt to it, too — the one that always accompanies his voice when he’s speaking to you.

under normal circumstances, you’d flip him off. maybe even just glare at him, silently, or raise a brow in challenge.

but you’re far, far too tired to. too anxious. too in need of sleep, in need of a peaceful breakfast that he oh so cruelly ripped from you. all you can muster is the energy to glance his way.

for just a second, your eyes meet. not like you can actually see them, from behind his glasses — but you know they’re there. menacing and uncanny, bright and excited. too much to handle, right now.

”… morning.”

as soon as the mutter has left your lips, you take a tentative bite of your sandwich. gaze trailing sluggishly back to your plate.

gojo blinks.

he immediately notes that your voice sounds meek. even more so than usual. he expected you to give him a scoff, or even just a timid huff — but no such luck. 

you’re just sitting there, quiet, curling into yourself.

after a moment’s consideration, gojo opts to look at you. to really look at you, study your face, the way those twitchy fingers move to curl around the ceramic handle of the cup you’re drinking out of. the way your eyes shift from place to place, unfocused, your eyelids flicking shut every couple seconds. slow.

he’s always been observant — but it doesn’t take a genius to see that you’re tired. 

gojo is silent, for no more than a mere moment; contemplating his next course of action. he’s never seen you like this, before. did something happen?

…

(— well, it doesn’t matter. not his problem.)

”you look like a zombie,” he grins, a little teasing, showing off the white of his teeth. even though you look out of it, he can’t help himself — despite his own intuition telling him to let you be. 

you’re just too fun to tease. suguru and shoko only ever raise their eyebrows at him, or stare him down like a misbehaving dog, but you always have a good reaction to give. something to entertain him when he’s bored, distract him when his mind is too full of noise. 

so he can’t help but tease you, a little. hoping it’ll soothe the restlessness inside his chest.

but for once, what gojo expects isn’t what he gets. 

what he expects is for you to glare at him. tell him to leave you alone, or even just sigh in exasperation — either one would be fine. it’s just mindless enjoyment, to him, a little fun to lighten up his day. 

especially now, when suguru is away on some day trip he wasn’t privy to. that traitor. shoko is nowhere to be seen, either, probably off smoking in some random alleyway. or hanging out with one of the kyoto losers.

… the whole dorm is so eerily quiet.

(gojo would never admit it, not in a thousand years… but maybe he’d feel just a little bit lonely without any of you around.)

for a while after waking up, he assumed he’d have to spend the whole day alone. no one to talk to, no one to look at. he was practically dying of boredom. but then he entered the kitchen — and saw his saving grace. his dear little irritable classmate. 

he was so relieved. content in the knowledge that he’d get to push your buttons to his heart’s desire, bask in your playful banter and cold, joking little looks until suguru finally comes home.

only this time — you don’t react at all. 

you don’t give him what he expects, don’t indulge his little antics, in the way he’s grown so accustomed to. you just keep eating your breakfast, and drinking your coffee, in total silence. 

gojo waits, just a couple moments more. hoping for a delayed reaction, a witty counter, a snarky comment. anything. 

but it never comes.

finally, he starts to sulk. slumping against the leather seat behind him, quieting down with a low huff. furrowing his brows, as his glossy, cherry-tasting lips curl down into a little pout.

honestly, he’s kind of annoyed. just what is your problem? what is with you, today? 

… it’s no fun if you’re not playing along. 

gojo can’t help but grumble, a little, under his breath. you’re usually so responsive, so easy to rile up. so what’s wrong? why are you just sitting there?

…

whatever. so what if you’re not talking to him? so what if you won’t even spare him a glance? gojo has better things to do, bigger fish to fry. he wasn’t even that excited, when he saw you. the thought of bantering with you didn’t lift his spirits, even in the slightest. 

not even a little bit.

…

but, really — would it take so much effort for you to just say something? to just respond to his friendly little quip? you can’t possibly be that tired. 

or, what — did you get insecure, or something? because he called you a zombie? no way. you’re not that sensitive… are you? or is that it? 

what a hassle.

you know he’s just messing with you. he knows you know. so why are you acting so…. 

(sad, gojo wants to think, but he buries the thought before it can reach his frontal cortex. he doesn’t want to empathize with you, not right now — doesn’t want to feel that discomforting pang in his chest.)

a strange sensation bubbles up in his chest. something frustrated, a little unnerved; at your lack of a reaction, the weak glint in your eyes. he just doesn’t understand why — and that frustrates him even more. 

why can’t you just bite back, like always?

(… it’s fun when you do.)

the silence lingers on, stretches out across the room, festers and grows as you gulp down your breakfast. all while gojo keeps on sulking, still sitting beside you, waiting for something to happen. he briefly considers getting up and leaving, or saying something annoying to hopefully spur you on —

but you stand up before he can convince himself to go through with either option.

having finished your breakfast, your legs carry you to the sink. finally, you can head back to your room. gojo’s being weirdly quiet, but you pay no mind to it; methodically washing your dishes in silence. 

you don’t bother saying goodbye to him, either. still sitting there, seemingly deep in thought, grumbling something under his breath. 

he watches as you leave, gaze trailing after you, until you’re completely out of sight. 

then he lays down, flat on his back, with a frustrated huff. trying desperately to brush away the memory of your dim eyes, the slight frown on your lips. the dark circles under your eyes, that he tried so hard not to notice because they made him feel so weirdly uncomfortable. the meek, meek look you gave him.

gojo sighs.

(he feels just a tiny, tiny bit bad.)

when you wake up from your slumber, you immediately note that your body feels lighter.

this time, no nightmares came to haunt you. having practically collapsed once your head hit the pillow, your body finally decided to give you some peace of mind, some well needed rest. thankfully.

with a groan, you lazily stretch out your limbs — enjoying the feeling of your veins waking up, gaze falling on the clock on your wall. you’ve only been asleep for about two hours, or so, but it’s more than enough to give you the little jolt of energy that you need.

what to do, what to do. you still have the whole day ahead of you. another nap wouldn’t hurt, but you don’t want to waste your precious free time just rotting in bed — maybe you could take a walk around the schoolyard instead? the cherry blossoms have started to unfurl, and the grounds of the school are just littered with them.

even just the mental image is enough to have you changing into some light and comfortable clothes, reaching a hand out to push your door open. excitement stirring in your veins.

as you do so, something is knocked over.

all you hear is a soft little thud, accompanied by the sensation of something colliding with the door. a low curiosity overtakes you — eagerly peeking around for a look at the mysterious something.

your gaze falls on something pink.

it’s tiny, awfully out of place, just laying unassumingly on the dusty floorboards. as you crouch down to get a better look, you recognize it instantly; a small carton of strawberry milk. a plastic straw plastered on its side, and an evil looking cow mascot staring at you from the front. one of the items sold in the schoolyard’s vending machines — your personal favorite. you drink it every time you need a tiny pick-me-up, the sweet taste always managing to soothe your spirits.

and it was sitting right outside your door.

you stare at it, silently, in deep contemplation. holding it in your hand as the gears turn inside your head. could someone have dropped it? no, that’s dumb — who’d drop it right outside your door and then not pick it up?

… did someone leave it for you, then? because they know you like it? that could be it, maybe, but who would —

…

your mind stills. 

(no way.)

when you think about it — that’s the only explanation that makes sense. shoko and geto aren’t there, and you barely know any of your senior students. yaga-sensei would never give you strawberry milk without a lecture on the dangers of cavities, either.

that just leaves one possible culprit.

but you can’t wrap your head around it. why would he do something like that? he doesn’t like you — you know that much. so it couldn’t possibly be him.

… then again, you have seen him drink it. both of you like it, contrary to your other classmates; shoko doesn’t like sweet things in general, and geto wouldn’t go for strawberry milk if he could choose something else. it might as well be the only thing you and gojo have in common — the one thing that binds you two together. 

a single carton of strawberry milk. 

it’s almost comical.

(if it’s really true — if he really did do it… then you wonder why. maybe he noticed that you were feeling under the weather, and figured it’d make you happy. 

you wonder if it’d be foolish of you, to believe that it’s true — if only because you kinda like the idea.)

your feet move on their own, before your mind has a chance to question the decision. 

where could he be? in the kitchen, still? in his dorm?

just as you begin to wonder, a flash of white dances in the corners of your vision. when you glance out the window, you see it; white, soft hair, like a fluffy cloud, in the midst of all the pink petals fluttering about. 

you stop.

then you start walking again. with more decision, this time. hurrying to the exit.

gojo is sitting right outside the dormitory, on a wooden bench, legs swinging idly as he gazes at the sky. his hair sways slightly with the breeze, soft strands moving and caressing his skin. pink petals dance all around him, gracefully descending down to the ground, together with a trail of bubbles. gojo is blowing them, haphazardly, following their movement with his keen eyes. they glimmer in the sunlight, reflecting all shades of the rainbow.

the sight is just a little bit breathtaking. 

the ground crunches beneath your feet, when you take a step forward — and gojo turns towards you. you stiffen like a deer in headlights, instantly regretting your decision. blinking nervously. you walked here almost entirely on impulse, but now that you’re face to face…

(it’s a little scary.)

… still, it’s far too late to back out now. you can’t do much except join him, so that’s exactly what you do — albeit a little hesitantly.

trying to ignore his continuous stare, burning into the side of your head, you plop down beside him. feeling the steady bench beneath you, breathing in the scent of sweet-smelling cherries and soap.

an uncomfortable silence lingers in the air around you both, as he waits for you to say something. 

it’s a little tough. mustering up the courage to say anything, even just to face him. the decisiveness you felt just a moment ago has faded, now only the ghost of a sensation — you’re too nervous to verbalize anything.

but eventually, after a deep breath or two, you force yourself to speak. hoping you won’t come to regret it.

”… hey, gojo?” 

it’s almost a whisper. soft and fragile, mumbled beneath your breath as you stare at the cherry trees in front of you. you know his eyes are on you, though. you can feel them, almost feel their weight in the palm of your hand. like marbles.

weakly, you raise up the carton of strawberry milk. glancing over at him, not quite managing a smile, but trying your best to look somewhat appreciative. 

”thanks.”

a confused blink. gojo looks down the strawberry milk, and then back up at you. eyelashes fluttering.

a moment passes. 

then he turns his head away, swiftly, his hair tousled by the movement — a couple pink petals stuck between the soft strands. you can’t see his face anymore.

”i have no idea what you’re talking about,” he huffs, with a voice you’ve never heard him speak through.

when you look a little closer — you think the tips of his ears may be just slightly red. it makes your lips curl up into a small smile, but you barely feel it.

(like this, he’s actually kind of cute.)

cherry blossoms flutter in the wind, dancing joyously, without a care in the world. a spring breeze ruffles gojo’s hair, as he sits beside you, having begun to blow his bubbles again. not saying a word, and looking straight ahead. but you can’t help but stare, as sneakily as you can muster.

you find yourself thinking that he looks right at home, among the petals. fleeting, hard to get a grasp on, so pretty, and so out of reach — despite being so close. 

if you wanted to, you could reach over and touch him. you could reach for his sunglasses, lift them off his face, and finally see those eyes he’s so intent on hiding. you could see him, see straight into his soul — and find out who he really is.

you won’t, though. some boundaries aren’t meant to be so callously crossed.

instead, you puncture the pink carton in your hand with the plastic straw, and take a tentative sip. the sweet taste soothes you, straight away, blooming on your tongue. you can’t help but sigh, softly, relaxing even further — it’s absolutely perfect, for this kind of weather. the sight before you, cherry petals and shining bubbles, a boy you don’t like, but definitely don’t hate. 

you both look up, following the bubbles with your eyes, as they float up into the sky; as they get smaller and smaller, farther and farther out of reach. neither of you say a word, but the silence is comforting. light. 

gojo is the first one to break it — in a voice so small you barely hear it.

”… you don’t look like a zombie.”

a second passes. you’re left blinking in confusion, trying to decipher the sudden statement. you can’t get a good read on his expression, with those eyes of his conveniently hidden; he must have regained his composure, then.

it takes a couple seconds for his words to sink in — but once they do, all pieces seem to fall into place. 

and you burst into laughter.

gojo blinks at you, caught off guard, his eyelashes flapping like a little dove scrambling to get off the ground — staring at you like you just grew a second head. that makes you laugh harder, a bout of giggles spilling past your lips — you just can’t help it. 

”did —” you wheeze, softly, thoroughly amused. trying and failing to bite back the laughter. ”did you think i was bothered by that, or something?”

gojo looks at you. a little stunned, for a moment. the sight only makes your smile bloom further, eyes crinkled as you meet his gaze. from the angle you’re viewing him through, leaning back against the bench, you catch a glimmer of his eyes. they’re awfully pretty — blue and bright, full of life. when you look closer, you can see tiny, tiny splotches of white. 

they look like the blue sky. 

you called them menacing, before, but now you aren’t so sure. they seem soft, in the sunlight, especially when seen like this — right after catching him off guard. it’s a rare moment, terribly precious. something to savour.

gojo doesn’t let it linger, though. 

after a moment of two, he scoffs — turning away yet again. a soft, soft pout on his lips.

”obviously not,” he huffs, sounding nothing but irritated, resting his jaw on the heel of his palm. ”but with how sensitive you are, i wouldn’t be surprised.”

usually, a comment like that would irk you. now it just makes you giggle, lightheartedly — the tips of his ears turning redder at the sound. 

(he really isn’t so bad, after all.)

for a while, you don’t say anything else. afraid of ruining the tender atmosphere. you feel closer to gojo than ever before — and you wonder if maybe this is the gojo that geto sees. childish, but well meaning. arrogant and cocky, but oddly innocent. selfish — but not really. you’re starting to think that you may have been slightly off, with that one.

the strawberry milk on your tongue tastes sweet. a little sweeter than usual, though you choose not to dwell on it.

”hey,” you break the silence, surprising even yourself. the words fall from your lips like soft little breaths, rolling off your tongue like marbles pouring out of a glass bottle. ”i don’t dislike you, you know?”

it’s an impulsive admission. saying it out loud doesn’t feel wrong, though. maybe a little humiliating, sure, but not wrong. not dishonest.

you suspect that gojo may be looking at you, out of the corner of his eye, but you aren’t sure. after all, you’re vehemently avoiding his gaze — a little embarrassed by your own sincerity. 

he doesn’t know how to respond. you’re being strangely unpredictable, today, and it makes him feel unsure of himself. your tone is soft, almost friendly. he only ever hears it when you’re talking to shoko or geto.

not learning his lesson, gojo opts to tease you again. as always. afraid to let the silence linger for too long. it’s a halfhearted attempt, though, more of a vaguely amused huff than anything. 

”what, got a crush on me or somethin’?”

this time, you don’t scoff, or roll your eyes, or give him an earnest fuck right off. you only chuckle, in a way that almost borders on fond. you’re not one to tease, contrary to the boy on your left, but your words are teasing even still. ”i have better taste than that.” 

gojo should be irked, should grumble and bite back, but you don’t give him the chance to. 

”i just… you know,” you taste the words on your tongue. ”i still think you’re annoying. and childish.” gojo huffs, and your lips curl up. ”but i really don’t dislike you.”

you take a sip of the strawberry milk, before continuing, hoping it’ll make the words easier to say. ”… and it’s not like i know you, anyway. so i’m sorry for making a bunch of assumptions.” 

a pause. for a split second, you quiet down, a little flustered. gnawing on your bottom lip.

”… that’s all i wanted to say,” you exhale, gaze glued to your lap. feeling a heat on your nape.

as always, you can’t tell what gojo’s thinking. out of the corner of your eye, you try to catch a glimpse of his face, but you have a nagging suspicion that it wouldn’t tell you anything anyway. his eyes are hidden by those sunglasses, after all, acting as a wall between him and the rest of the world. so you don’t know if the words reach him, if they mean anything at all. 

but you hope they do. even as you brush cherry petals and non-existent dust off your lap, and get up to leave.

gojo just sits there, for a second, deep in contemplation. 

he tries to bury a certain thought, before it has a chance to reach his frontal cortex — before he has to accept that it exists. only this time, he doesn’t succeed. the words die before they reach his tongue, but he hears them, in his head. he hears them loud and clear.

and he flushes under the light of the sun.

(i don’t really dislike you, either.) 

what actually ends up leaving his throat is merely a scoff, so faint he doubts you even hear it. 

”whatever,” he mutters, hoping it’ll come across as cool and unbothered. it doesn’t.

one last smile reaches your face, before you head back inside. gojo stays behind, on the bench, lost in thought.

tossing the now-empty carton into a trash can, you try to calm yourself down. feeling oddly excited, as if you’ve reached something, the start of an eventual conclusion. something worth cherishing.

you still don’t understand satoru gojo. but you get the impression that you just grew a little bit closer to him. there are layers to him, more than what meets the eye, hidden behind those sunglasses of his. you can only imagine what the world might look like, from his perspective. what you look like, reflected in his eyes, a blur of colours and facial features, sparks and dots.

you wonder if the whole world looks like a painting, to him. 

you feel a little ashamed, for thinking you had him all figured out. a spoiled, self-centered rich kid, with no functional empathic abilities. it might be partially true, but you’ll have to reevaluate the statement. to see how well it holds up. you still don’t think his emotional intelligence is anything to gawk at, but you may have been underestimating it. it’s there, despite everything — in those eyes, in that single carton of strawberry milk.

you think there’s a certain maturity, there, in spite of his childishness. or perhaps the latter is no more than a product of the former, a way for damaged children to dress their wounds. the way he carries himself and the way he speaks both seem a bit forced. like he’s used to performing, used to moving in a way that demands attention. all eyes on him, at all times. 

you think that sounds just a little exhausting. 

even as you return to the safety of your dorm room, you still can’t help but wonder. there’s still so much you don’t know. despite the moment you shared, and the connection you think may be growing between you, he’s still so out of reach. almost lonely, in a way. you wonder what he looks like, when he’s alone, when there’s no one around to perform for. 

(what is an actor without their audience?)

and, despite everything, after all is said and done — you really, really don’t understand satoru gojo. not at all, not in the slightest. not one bit.

but you think you’d maybe like to.

[princessbrunette]

if i may revisit the roadtrip au with jj x reader x john b…

you feel totally content.

with a belly full of icecream, your skin warm with the glitter hibiscus temporary tattoo flaking off your arm from natures gentle exfoliation made of sand, and the sparkling blue abyss that was the ocean— you wondered why the three of you didn’t just live like this.

overheated and lethargic, you drag your boyfriends to the cool water, immersing yourself to the shoulders with a wince before squealing as john b grabs you closer with a splash, easing you to wrap your legs around his waist.

you relax against his hot body in the water, gloopy eyelashes fluttering shut as you rest your cheek to his shoulder, listening to the sound of the tide crashing against the shore and jj splashing about not too far from you, catching up to the two of you.

“you happy?” john b hums, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“love you.” it comes muffled against his toned, tanned skin— and you feel his chest vibrate with a chuckle.

“so, i take that as a yes.”

two cold hands slide around your waist and you squirm against john b— now in hindsight perhaps grinding up against him a little too much, because the feeling of being touched from both sides had somehow trained your body in a pavlovian manner to feel arousal each time.

“y’know once upon a time i would’a saw this kinda PDA at the beach and been like… ew, gross.” jj mutters with a smirk, hands massaging your ass cheeks beneath the water.

“theres like, no one here dude.” john b shrugs, raising his eyebrows when he feels you trying to grind back against jj. “oh, uh — easy tiger. might not be many people around but we’re still in public. remember that talk we had?” his deep rumbly voice reprimanding you does nothing to soothe the growing need for the two of them.

“no one can see.” you mewl in complain, the water splashing a little as you try and hump him beneath the water.

“i’on know, pooch. s’a little undignified, even for you.” jj cares less, but wants to tease you about it nonetheless as his frayed blonde hair tickles your neck, his lips brushing your ear. “got ourselves a lil sandwich action right now.”

“please…” you huff, and you feel john b crane his head around to check the perimeter.

“look— i saw a guy over there like five minutes ago. who’s to say he’s not gonna return and report us to like… the ocean… police, or something.” the brunette stresses, but with the crease between his eyebrows he only looks more and more handsome — with big brown eyes that catch in the sunlight and practically glow orange, and wet curls falling perfectly around his face.

“why you actin’ like you’re scared of the cops all of a sudden? besides didn’t you just say there’s like no one here?” jj scoffs out a laugh, hands that were groping your ass now moved more central— a middle finger rubbing somewhat soothing circles around your asshole through your bikini bottoms. you groan against john b’s shoulder, on the verge of tears.

“please johm’bee, can just pull ‘em to the side. no one has to know!” you whimper, bucking against him and he audibly sighs. how can he resist when you’re talking like that? as if reading his mind, jj speaks up with a know-it-all tick of his head.

“cant say no t’that, right?”

next, you feel a set of thick fingers yanking your bikini bottoms to the side.

“and when we’re done here, we’re gonna talk about self discipline.” john b lectures, sliding his fingers through your folds experimentally — but you can tell he doesn’t really mind.

[moondirti]

𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood. 

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge. 

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself. 

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank. 

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.) 

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb. 

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch. 

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form. 

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat. 

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep. 

Only sleep does not come. 

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands. 

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper. 

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click. 

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree. 

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold. 

“Ghost?” 

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels. 

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side. 

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.” 

“I’m c-cold.” 

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.” 

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision. 

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality. 

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.) 

“What are you–you doing?” 

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off. 

He does not. 

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter. 

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion. 

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard. 

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised. 

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms. 

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes. 

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm. 

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up. 

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.” 

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this. 

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.” 

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths. 

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.” 

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could? 

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers. 

“Let me go.” 

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.” 

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again. 

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse. 

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.” 

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips. 

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two. 

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source. 

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat. 

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you. 

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?” 

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–” 

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.” 

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?” 

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.” 

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.” 

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.” 

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit. 

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.” 

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.  

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.” 

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt. 

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog. 

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good. 

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner. 

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then. 

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency. 

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.  

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his. 

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks. 

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk. 

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft. 

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits. 

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service. 

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue. 

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce. 

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises. 

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure. 

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response. 

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return. 

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise. 

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.” 

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough. 

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.) 

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside. 

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox. 

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils. 

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer. 

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.  

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form. 

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn. 

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting. 

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin. 

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor. 

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink. 

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else. 

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat. 

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.” 

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here. 

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off. 

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence. 

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet. 

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.” 

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that. 

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.” 

“I don’t–” 

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable 

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.” 

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.” 

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead. 

And he does. He does. 

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”  

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums. 

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.” 

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation. 

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word. 

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens. 

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.” 

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery. 

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself. 

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma. 

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten. 

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.” 

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.” 

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it. 

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker. 

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void. 

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end. 

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you. 

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet. 

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds. 

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.  

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.” 

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor. 

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

[bellaxgiornata]

The Devil at Your Window |9: A Hard Problem|

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word count: 3.7k [Series Masterlist]

Warnings/Tags: 18+; fluff, flirting, sexual tension, light angst, pining, eventual smut, identity reveal, and lots of black suit Matty

a/n: Finally some spice has entered the story with our naughty, naughty Devil. Bad, Matt, you shouldn't be doing that! Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Tag list: @danzer8705 @darkened-writer @keepingitlokiii @kezibear @dorothleah @sarahskywalker-amidala @1988-fiend @haruari @sleepysleepymom @marveious @sunflower-tia @fizanotfeeza @cloudroomblog @babygirlmurdock @writtenbyred @idontevenknow1359 @scriptedmoon @sarraa-26 @barnes21cz @loves0phelia @3sriracha @kmc1989 @midnightramble @marissamejia19

Chewing your nail, you stared down at the screen on your phone. You were currently on your lunch break mindlessly scrolling through The Bulletin's website for news updates in the city while you sat in the break room eating the lunch you'd brought from home. But when you'd almost immediately stumbled on a photo of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen on their website, you'd paused mid-bite of your sandwich.

It had been over a week since he'd last stopped by your apartment. He'd even frequented your Devil’s Pantry far less than usual during that time. You'd thought that maybe he just hadn't been going out as often at night, possibly taking a break or recovering from an injury. Because in the past when you hadn't seen him much over a period of time, he at least still stopped by and grabbed some water and protein bars or packets of trail mix from the container you left out for him. But now sitting here and seeing this article on The Bulletin's website was proof to you that he wasn't sitting at home–wherever that was for him–and that he had in fact been out and active in Hell’s Kitchen this week. 

The title of the article had read ‘Masked Man Strikes Again,’ but you had barely managed to read the first few paragraphs before you'd scrolled back up to the poor quality photograph. You'd enlarged it on your phone, setting your sandwich down as the quality of the picture became worse when the image doubled in size. The index finger of your left hand lightly trailed along the line of his mask on his face, your heart sinking in your chest. 

You probably shouldn't have pushed your luck with him last week. Trying to further rile him up by talking about the date and the kiss with Dylan had in hindsight been a bad idea. You were certain now that the Devil had been keeping his distance from you because he thought you were seeing someone. Clearly this photograph of him slinking into an alley sometime in the past few days was proof of that since he was still lurking around the city at night. It meant that he was still going out, he just didn't want to see you.

Sighing at the realization, you exited out of the website and locked your phone before tossing the device hopelessly down onto the table. Burying your face into the palm of your hands, you wished you could scream into them. The Devil’s visits had been a welcome distraction from your mundane life ever since he'd fallen onto your fire escape. Wondering when he'd appear at your window next each day had been something to look forward to, as pathetic as that sounded. Now you might not even have that anymore. Would you ever find him standing on your fire escape again? Or was he just permanently done with you?

As you sat there with your face in your hands, you began doing what you'd been doing all week–imagining things had gone differently the last time you’d seen the Devil. You should have openly flirted with him more, or maybe even just flat out confessed your stupid crush to him. On the slight chance that he genuinely liked you–which would explain the jealousy–at least he would have finally known the truth. Maybe he would've returned to your window by now.

It also didn't help that the image of his perfect ass was now permanently ingrained in your mind after that last visit. Shamefully you'd recalled it a few different times this week already when you'd been in your bed missing him. With his absence these past few days, you'd been thinking about him at night more frequently than usual, finding yourself unable to resist touching yourself to thoughts of him when you lay awake in bed.

Shifting awkwardly on your chair as a burst of heat suddenly awoke inside of you at those thoughts, you tried to push them back as they threatened to take over even now. You felt pathetic sitting there knowing that it took hardly anything to get you wound up when it came to him, but now was certainly not the place to be thinking about the Devil. Not like that. Even though each time you got off to your growing fantasies of him, you only wound up feeling worse afterwards. Especially knowing what you now had just discovered–that he was still going out at night and intentionally avoiding you. 

All you wanted was for him to just come back to your window.

Matt had tried to avoid your apartment tonight like he'd done every other night that he'd been out this week, but somehow he'd found himself on top of your building anyway. 

He knew he should go. You'd made it clear that you were seeing someone. He shouldn't keep showing up and flirting with you just to get a rise out of you. If you were on your way to developing a relationship with someone then he knew he should respect that. 

But your absence from his nights out this week had him realizing just how much he'd grown to miss his banter with you. You always managed to make his bleak nights brighter and to say something surprising that kept him on his toes. He even missed the way you reacted just at the sight of him every single time he appeared at your window. Something about the way your heart skipped a beat before hammering in your chest as your pheromones went into overdrive in turn sent him into a frenzy–internally, of course. Because he wasn't going to ever actually act on his attraction to you.

Not that he could now since you were with that guy.

As he paced his way over to the edge of the building so he could drop down onto your fire escape, he told himself that he'd just stop by to see if you were even still leaving food and water out for him. If you were still filling the Devil’s Pantry, it'd be rude of him not to partake. 

The only reason he'd even allowed himself to stop by your fire escape tonight was also because he knew it was late. On his way over, he’d overheard a conversation where someone had mentioned that it was just after one in the morning. Considering you had work tomorrow, Matt knew you'd already be asleep. There was no risk of you catching him outside your window tonight. 

Landing with a soft thump on your fire escape, Matt remained in a crouch as he threw his senses into your apartment just to confirm what he’d already suspected. Rising to his full height as he picked up on your heart, he'd curiously noticed that it was beating faster than it should have been if you were asleep, which was strange since he'd caught the sound coming from your bedroom along with the faint rustling of your sheets. Which meant you were in bed right now. Had you woken in the middle of the night then? Or were you just struggling to fall asleep tonight?

Carefully he took two quiet steps closer to your window, trying to remain undetected as he attempted to figure out why you were awake so late tonight. But just as the toe of his boot met the side of the Devil’s Pantry that you had in fact left out for him beside your window, he heard a low buzzing sound while simultaneously being hit with the overwhelming and tantalizing scent of your arousal. The smell of it had momentarily struck him dumb as he stood outside on your fire escape, your shallow breaths suddenly loud in his ears.

That's when he realized what he'd stumbled on.

You were indeed in your bed right now–masturbating. He could hear the soft, wet sounds of your fingers methodically pumping in and out of yourself as he placed the faint buzzing noise as your vibrator. Unintentionally focusing closer on you inside, his senses quickly became overwhelmed by the shifting of your sheets as your body writhed along your mattress, the faint sheen of your sweat mingling with the sweet, siren call of your cunt even past the glass.

Stumbling a step back from your window, Matt roughly shook his head as he tried to clear his senses. He should not be listening to this. Especially because you were probably in there thinking about that guy right now. Grinding his teeth in irritation, Matt tried to focus on the sounds of anything else in the city right now–police sirens in the distance, a drunken fight two blocks away, an infomercial on the television two floors down–

Your soft moan tore through all the noise, somehow louder than all the rest. Matt felt his cock stirring further awake in his too tight pants.

“No,” Matt growled, sharply shaking his head again as he spun around on your fire escape. “Not like this.”

Trying to ignore the burning ache now growing between his thighs, he gripped the railing of your fire escape in both of his gloved hands. Shutting his senses off to the sounds of you inside of your apartment behind him, he flung himself over the side of the railing. He dropped down a couple of floors below onto another fire escape, his jaw tensing at the impact. But it didn’t help that the faint jolt when he’d landed had sent a tinge of pleasure through his thighs and straight up his spine. 

With a frustrated snarl, he tried to focus on anything else right now. Someone in the building next door was watching what sounded like an action movie, the sounds of screaming and explosions a helpful distraction. Keeping his attention on the movie as he attempted to place what it might’ve been, he once more threw himself over the side of this fire escape as he continued his descent down the building until he reached the pavement. But as he’d tried to catch his balance on that last drop, his concentration broke and your shallow breaths once more filled his ears. 

“Mmmph,” he heard you whimper a few floors above. “Fuck.”

The quiet curse had sounded as loud as if you’d whispered it straight into his own ear. Matt’s eyes snapped shut as he tried hard not to imagine the feel of your lips pressed to the shell of it as you’d spoken. Ducking around the corner of your building and into the nearby alley, your heavy breathing continued to plague Matt’s hearing. 

Roughly he slammed a gloved fist against the brick wall beside himself, an aggravated roar barreling forth from his chest as he fought to tune you back out. He felt like every other sound of Hell’s Kitchen was slipping through his grasp right now. He couldn’t manage to hold onto anything else for long enough to keep you out of his head, the sounds from your bedroom steadily growing louder and louder in his ears. The strain in his pants was becoming more and more urgent and unbearable with every ragged breath and soft squelch of your fingers.

Part of him was desperate to turn around and climb back up the building to your fire escape and find out if your window was still left unlocked. He wanted to throw it open and let the essence of your desire that was so clearly permeating the air seep into his very skin. He wanted to stalk into your bedroom and tear the sheets off of your partially naked body and hear your startled gasp. Then he wanted to attach his mouth to the places your vibrator was currently touching, desperate to hear the sounds you’d make when he brought you right to the brink. He wanted to feel the tremble in your thighs when they clamped tight around his face just before you came on his mouth. 

He wanted his fill of you. He wanted to take you from that asshole. Claim you as the Devil’s and show you how much better he was. How much better he could make you feel. How much louder he could make you scream and how many more orgasms he could give you. You’d never remember another name but the Devil’s when he was through with you.

Teeth clenched together, Matt once more slammed his fist into the brick beside himself and tried to focus on the throbbing in his knuckles instead of in his pants. His other hand rose up, running across his mouth in frustration. He was so ridiculously hard right now. Standing there in the alley, he felt his cock straining miserably against the confines of his already too-tight pants. It was uncomfortable, and the sounds of your breaths coming in even faster and sharper from above were only making things worse.

He should never have stopped by your damn apartment tonight.

He’d already been planning to head back to his apartment after yours to begin with, but now his desire to get back home had reached levels of utter desperation. There was no way he was going to be able to ignore the need for you now. He’d have to jerk himself off once he got home–and fast, because your whimpers were beginning to draw forth beads of pre-cum that were dampening the front of his boxers. If he didn’t make it back home soon, he’d probably lose it in your alley just listening to you fingering yourself.

“This is pathetic,” he snarled to himself.

Attempting to pay attention to his surroundings, Matt began to make his way back towards his apartment. Though no matter how much he kept trying to focus on literally anything else–a couple arguing a block over, the chatter of a group of people having a cigarette outside a nearby bar, even the ear piercing sound of a car alarm–your soft moans kept breaking through every other noise in the city. For some horrible reason his senses just refused to ignore you no matter how much he kept trying.

Each step he took as he awkwardly jogged back towards his apartment building was awful. His cock felt damn near ready to rip open the seams of his pants with how hard it had become, and he was aware of how strange his gait was–he'd never had to manage getting back home with an erection before and it felt absolutely embarrassing. Worse than tearing the ass of his pants. Repeatedly he’d fought the urge to reach down and even brush a hand over the hard bulge in his pants, hungry for any sort of stimulation to relieve the throbbing, painful desire that was taking over his every thought. His own breath had started to come in sharp, staccato pants as he made it over to his block across the street from yours, slinking around to the back of his building.

You were thinking about that guy , Matt tried to remind himself in the hopes of increasing his anger instead of his arousal as he began to climb the side of his building, making his way towards the roof. That’s what you were doing right now. Pleasuring yourself to thoughts of some other asshole who had no idea how amazingly selfless and thoughtful you were. Some asshole who didn't know that you liked to add extra chocolate chips to your boxed brownie mixes or how you stress cleaned when you were upset. He had no damn clue that you liked to burn marshmallow scented candles and watch romantic dramas before bed, or that you liked to curl up on your couch with two blankets instead of one. 

And right now your mind was conjuring images of that other guy’s face while you vigorously fingered yourself– not his. And he hated that.

Matt's angry thoughts only backfired as the Devil’s fury and frustration only lead to his increased desire to further prove his sexual prowess to you. He kept imagining climbing in through your window instead of making his way back home and pushing you up against the wall before tearing those sweatpants you often wore right down your legs. He'd stuff his fingers deep inside of you until your knees wanted to give out and your moans broke off on sharp gasps. Then he'd bend you over the back of your sofa, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips as he buried his cock into you over and over while your hands uselessly clawed at the fabric of your couch for something to hold onto. 

“Yesyesyesyesyes-”

Matt’s hand briefly lost its grip on the side of the building as the sound of you about to cum slammed into his ears. He’d momentarily slipped, catching himself at the last moment before he could actually fall down two floors and land painfully on his back. 

“Shit,” he cursed.

If he didn’t focus, he’d end up not only cumming in his pants on the side of his building, but probably landing unconscious on someone’s fire escape right afterwards. And for obvious reasons, he didn’t need that to happen.

Squeezing his eyes shut tight, Matt tried hard to focus on something else. He noticed that someone in a nearby apartment on the fourth floor had burnt chicken in their oven only a couple of hours ago. It smelled so terrible that he could smell it even from outside, the scent practically burning his nostrils. Trying to stay focused on that, Matt finished climbing his way up to the roof. But as he'd pulled himself up and over onto the top of the building, he'd bumped himself against the concrete and let out a sharp groan of pleasure and pain.

In his momentary distraction, he once more could hear you from across the street, your growing whimpers only somewhat muffled by the distance, but they hadn't remotely lost their effect on him. Practically limping towards the roof access door that led back to his apartment, Matt finally caved. One gloved hand landed straight onto the bulge in his pants.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he hissed out.

He was so wound up that the slight pressure over his pants already had him about ready to cum. Hurrying faster towards the door, he sharply flung it open and darted inside his apartment. He'd had his pants unbuckled and his zipper undone before the door had even shut behind himself. Not even taking the time to make his way down the stairs to his living room, Matt's gloved hands shoved his pants and his boxers midway down his thighs, his hard cock springing forth in relief before he began frantically tugging at his gloves.

“Oh fuck-shit-yesyesyes-”

“He'd never fuck you like I could,” Matt caught himself growling at you, tossing his gloves to the floor before wrapping a hand around his freed cock. “Promise you that, angel. I'd–oh fuck– ” 

A strangled groan flew out of his throat as he pumped himself into his hand just once, your building high-pitched whimpers already easily dragging him along towards an orgasm with you. He felt perverse for what he was doing right now, aware it was wrong, but he couldn't seem to stop. He’d already tried so hard to ignore you that now he’d just given in, his hand vigorously stroking his aching and overstimulated cock.

“I'd make you feel ten times better than he ever could,” he ground out through teeth, his hips bucking forward into his hand in punctuation with his words. “I'd –ahh shit– make you–feel–sogoddamngood. ”

He heard your sharp gasp which was soon followed by the noise of something like a moan mixed with a broken whimper, the delicious noise sounding as if you'd just finally cum. Anger and need simultaneously mingling together inside of him like an all consuming fire, his toes curling inside of his boots, Matt felt that distinct surge of his own release racing up his spine as he continued to fuck his hand. 

“He–can’t–have you !” he roared into the room.

Warm, thick strands of his cum spilled forth, coating Matt's hand as he continued to work himself through his release. His breath was coming in rough, ragged pants now as he leant up against the wall nearby, entirely spent from the release and having tried so hard to block you out. Thankfully now the sound of you in your bedroom was no longer easy for him to hear, but the reason as to why he hadn’t been able to tune that particular private moment of yours out still eluded him.

Throwing his head back against the wall behind himself, Matt let out a frustrated groan. Not only should none of that have just happened, but now he had to face the very real fact of what he'd been denying for awhile. He was attracted to you and he wanted you. Badly. But you weren't available anymore, and even if you were, he highly doubted you were the type to get intimate with a masked man you knew nothing about. You didn't seem like the no-strings-attached-sex type. Though Matt also knew that wasn't a good idea anyway. That would not happen, he wouldn't let it.

Still trying to catch his breath, Matt reached up and tore the mask from off his head with his clean hand. Balling the fabric into his fist, he let out an irritated grunt for a different reason now. He wanted you but he was aware that he'd never be able to have you in any physical way because you could never know who he actually was. There was no way he’d ever reveal his real identity to you, and it wasn’t right for him to act on any of his desires when you knew nothing about him. Besides, he reminded himself bitterly, you were still with that guy . 

Matt expelled a long, sharp breath in frustration. He knew after what had just happened that he'd also have to keep avoiding your place. Because he wasn't sure he could just stick to the teasing banter with you after what he’d just done, not with the things he was aching to do to you still running through his mind. He’d just have to keep trying to avoid you.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Oops

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: It was an accident

"Sorry," Jessie says again," I mean it. I really am."

"I know, Jess."

"I didn't mean for it to happen, honestly!"

"I know, Jess."

"I don't deserve forgiveness."

"It's not that bad, Jess. Barely even an injury."

Jessie looks at you incredulously, brows raised to her hairline.

You're sitting in a hospital bed. Your face is covered in scratches and bruises and your arm is firmly stuck in a cast. Your shirt is torn up from your tumble, ripped in random places and you're pretty sure your legs were only spared because you were wearing your heavy-duty jeans.

Jessie was new on the team but not new to you.

You'd transferred from your childhood team Manchester City just last year to the Portland Thorns for more game time. Jessie had been your long-term girlfriend for a while back then and when she'd moved to the Thorns a few months ago, you'd been ecstatic.

You just wish you'd had the hindsight to tell her to stay away from your skateboards.

"I feel awful," Jessie continues," Does it hurt bad? Do you need the doctor again?"

"Jessie," You say," They're just getting the discharge paperwork. Please don't make them keep me here longer than needed."

Jessie bites her lip, like she always does when she's feeling nervous.

It had been an accident on her part.

You had been out with Jessie on a date with your skateboard and was standing on it at the top of a set of steps, contemplating going down the railings.

Only Jessie had been bumped into by someone in the crowd and had then bumped into you, sending you careening down the stairs.

"I guess I'm stuck in the stands for a bit," You joke, laughing slightly before stopping when you see her face.

Jessie looks distraught over the whole thing, halfway to tears at your bedside.

"Jessie, babe," You say," Come here."

You pat the portion of bed beside you and Jessie shakes her head.

"No," She says," No, I hurt you."

"It was an accident. it wasn't even your fault. You got barged into first."

"But you get hurt. I broke your arm."

"Technically, the stairs broke my arm."

"And your face-"

"It'll heal."

"Stop making excuses! You're hurt and you can't play!"

You grin at her dopily. "Some things are more important than playing."

Jessie nods along seriously. "Healing, you're right."

A little bark of laughter bubbles out of your throat. "I was going to say watching you play but trust you to think about my health."

"Well, one of us has to care! You're being very blasé about this!"

"Jessie, come here."

"I-"

"Jess, please?"

She shuffles onto the bed with you and you throw your arm over her shoulder, pulling her closer into you until there's barely a gap between you.

"I'll be fine," You tell her, staring into her eyes," It was a clean break. No surgery. Just a cast. I'll be fine in a few months. It wasn't your fault. I won't hear you saying otherwise."

"But-"

"No, Jess. It was just a horrible accident. That's it."

You're not usually this firm with her but Jessie, your sweet girlfriend was spiralling like always and you were adamant about her not shouldering the blame herself.

"I didn't mean to," She says, eyes wet with unshed tears and you tuck her head into your neck.

"I know, Jess, I know. It's okay. Just a freak accident. I shouldn't have been on my board in the first place."

Jessie's short hiccupping laughter fills your ears. "No, you shouldn't have. We need to throw them away when we get home."

"Would that help you sleep better?"

She nods.

"Alright. Can we sell them though? Because, you know, some of them are worth enough to make serious money. We can redo the kitchen."

You can feel Jessie smile into your neck. "Only if we promise we can have a breakfast bar."

"Breakfast bar and a reading nook," You agree," But I've got to be allowed to keep one board."

"Not the one from today."

You kiss the top of her head. "No, not the one from today."

[wttcsms]

you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody, atsumu miya

pairing atsumu miya x reader word count 1.4k synopsis love for you is holding him; love for him is allowing himself to be held. content contains hurt/comfort, intimacy, atsumu-centric, insecurities, unconditional love, showering together but make it sfw

The stinging spray of scalding hot water from the showerhead should be enough to get him to leave, but he barely registers the pain, can’t seem to bring himself to feel the heat, can’t seem to bring himself to feel anything.

No — that’s not entirely true. He feels one thing.

Devastated. 

Everyone knows Atsumu Miya likes to talk shit on and off the court. It’s his thing, his trademark, his brand. Lots of athletes like to talk big about how they’re going to win; who the hell is going to support a guy who walks onto the court with a well, it’ll be alright if I lose. 

He’s staring down at the tiles of the shower, can somewhat register the persistent barrage of water spraying onto his back as he has one hand splayed on the wall, shoulders slumped, water dripping from his hair and running into his vision, making everything blurry. 

Don’t blink, he tries to demand of himself, but the issue is, we can’t always control our bodies. He has to shut his eyes, just for a brief second, and in that second, it all comes back to him.

The opposing team at set point. His team depending on him to serve. One point left. Only one chance. He can feel the stadium’s crowd holding their breath, can feel the lack of air in the atmosphere, can hear how loudly the blood is rushing to his head. Dizzy. Dazed. He doesn’t give into pressure, not anymore, not ever. Doesn’t feel performance anxiety, knows better than to try to attempt something flashy just for the glory of a good story to tell. 

Give ‘em a serve they don’t have a chance of receiving, he demands of himself. 

The final seconds of the match all come to him like stills from a movie, each frame another devastating blow to his ego, his self-worth, his very being. The ball is in the air, he’s bending his knees to prepare for the jump, his hand making contact with the ball. Something’s off, he can feel it upon first contact, but it’s too late to save, too late for him to change anything.

The ball lands.

On his side of the net.

He’s frozen in place as he stares ahead. He can tell the other team is cheering, slapping each other on their backs, and he can hear the blow of a whistle, the celebration from the crowd. But all he sees is the ball. All he sees is his failure.

Atsumu has spent a good portion of his volleyball career knowing that he plays the game better than most. It’s why he feels so comfortable talking about the lack of skills other players display. It’s why he always has something to say at practice, on the court, during a post-game interview. 

And he knows he makes mistakes. He knows that he’s only human. But a bad serve in the middle of a game isn’t as crushing as knowing that he is the sole reason as to why the Black Jackals’ season is going to be ending early. 

Where did he go wrong? He did everything perfectly, did everything the way he usually does. Why couldn’t he perform? Why did he let his team down? Why—

“Atsumu?” 

He doesn’t look up, and all you can see is the sad shape of his outline from the foggy glass door of the shower. You know that Atsumu probably wants nothing more than to be alone right now, but you can’t help but worry when fifteen minutes have gone by, and you could still hear the shower running. That’s your first sign that something is wrong.

Atsumu is a notoriously quick showerer, to an almost concerning degree. When you first started living together, you debated planning elaborate tricks to see whether or not he was even using soap. (Which, in hindsight, was just flatout silly; he walks out the shower smelling overwhelming of his Axe Men’s 3-in-1 and Old Spice deodorant.) 

No — the first sign that something is wrong would be his uncharacteristic silence on the trip back home. He hadn’t responded to your it’s okay, baby, you’ll get ‘em next season. Instead, he just looked out the window, the devastated expression on his face silencing you as well. Even when he lost to Kageyama, he had been disappointed, upset, but still talking big about how he was going to crush the Adlers next time around. He had then made a comment about Tobio’s stupid haircut, and that’s when you told him if he doesn’t have anything nice to say, he shouldn’t say anything at all.

Now, you’d give anything to have him say something. Something for you to work with.  

“Atsumu?” You call out for him again, worried when you don’t see his figure moving. 

Pathetic. Atsumu thinks that’s what he is. A loser, a fucking scrub, a failure. Even if his teammates won’t admit it, the media will. And what then? Will you think that about him too? It’d be the truth, wouldn’t it? Isn’t that why you’re in the bathroom now? To pity him? 

He’s too busy tearing himself down to react to the distinct sound of you sliding back the glass door of the shower so you can enter it. There’s a brief burst of the cool air of the bathroom hitting his exposed body, but it evaporates the moment you shut the door. 

“Oh, ‘Tsumu.” You whisper it, and he wants to tell you that he’s not fucking fragile. That he’s not going to shatter into a million pieces if you just raise your voice, if you tell him how you really feel about him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn around to face you. He doesn’t want to. He can’t.

His skin is red from the heat of the water, his back staring at you angrily, hurt. The skin’s going to need some time to heal, and you turn the faucet, lowering the temperature of the water. 

“Turn around, honey. Please?” You’ve never seen Atsumu so upset before, so quiet. You wait several minutes for him to actually do as you request, and you think it’s only because he wants a way to get rid of you sooner. 

You don’t say anything to him as you reach for his shampoo, letting it lather in your hands before you give him a pleading look, one that has him leaning down so you can reach his hair. It feels nice, he thinks, the way you’re shampooing his hair. You’re gentle with your movements, and it almost relaxes him. 

You use your body wash on him. Massage the suds into his skin, but you’re mindful of the amount of pressure you apply. You know which areas of his skin is more sensitive from its exposure to the hot water, and you are careful with the spots of his body that he had chosen to be negligent with. 

“Am I so fuckin’ worthless that you have to do somethin’ as simple as bathing me?” He’s not angry at you. He might spit out the words — words that come out sounding all raw and scratchy, like they had to personally claw themselves from his throat — but the anger is not directed at you. It’s at himself. 

“Look at me.” 

His eyes are glossy, wet, shiny, and you know it’s not because of the shower. You’ve never seen Atsumu cry before, and you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. So, you do what feels right. You whisper his name softly, tenderly, and it’s this tenderness, your unwavering softness, your unconditional love, that breaks him. That makes him feel safe enough to break. That makes him think of the possibility that you’ll take these jagged pieces of him and piece them back together for him, with him. 

He’s so much bigger than you. You tell him all the time that he’s larger than life, and he thinks about that comment as he lets himself sink into your open arms, as he lets himself be held. He has never felt smaller in his life, and in your embrace, he buries his face into your shoulder, letting his warm tears mix in with the water already on your body.

“I don’t know how you can still look at me.” He mutters, and every word is spoken onto your skin, tiny blades striking you. 

Atsumu isn’t sure what he wants to hear, isn’t even certain that there’s anything that could be said to ease his devastation, but melts into you even more so when you tell him,

“Atsumu, I thought you already knew that nothing can change the way I look at you.”

[pupyuj]

→ “long overdue.” || kim jiwon (liz) x reader.

— jiwon reunites with you, her old fling, at her brother’s bachelor party and with the sparks still in the air, you don’t waste any time to get familiar with her once more…

word count: 5.2k.

dynamic: dom!bottom!liz x sub!top!reader.

warnings: age gap (it's not much!), unnie kink, fwb to lovers, nipple play, oral fixation, cunnilingus, fingering, thigh riding, orgasm denial, edging.

a/n: FINALLY! a jiwon fic from moi 😭😭 this was supposed to be posted earlier on valentine's day but alas 💀 i really do wish i could've dropped something for feb 14th but back then i was bitter, lonely, sad, and angry so trying to write something cute and lovey-dovey was just not ideal LMAO but anyways, i hope you guys enjoy this fic 💚 only one more member and i will have officially written a fic for each of the ive unnies! WE CAN DO IT!! 😤✨ also i'm pretty sure i'm missing some warnings/tags but i'm too sleepy to remember them so...

jiwon doesn’t know why she agreed to chaperone her grown brother to his stupid bachelor party. as far as she knew, it was a boy thing. according to her brother, however, she was an exception and so, jiwon finds herself seated at the farthest corner of the bar in what might be the most expensive nightclub she has ever set foot in. she hasn’t even downed her first drink yet—she merely made a tiny tornado with the small umbrella while keeping an eye on her little brother and his ridiculous group of friends.

some of them were familiar to her, some weren’t. and some have repeatedly asked for her number in the past two and a half hours they’ve been in the place. it was after the eleventh time it happened that jiwon decided to go on her lonesome and sat on that one corner of the bar, silently waiting for the little party to end so she could get her nice, long and certainly well-deserved, sleep. jiwon really wished that she came up with some boring excuse to avoid this event. unfortunately, she couldn’t say no to her brother who was so kind to include her! 

perhaps he knew that jiwon needed to look at something that wasn’t the view from the big windows of that fancy condominium where she lives. on top of all that, jiwon has been working harder than usual. but that’s only because she quite literally has nothing else to do in her life. all of her friends were busy, she was busy, and it’s not like she can just hit up her coworkers for a quick drink after work when she barely knew them. in hindsight, jiwon sort of needed this!

jiwon raises her glass to her lips, but stops midway when something curious catches her attention. a girl, a bit younger than jiwon herself, confidently marches up towards her brother and does a very familiar handshake with him before hugging him tightly. jiwon watches as the girl and her brother chat a bit. they exchanged a few jokes here and there, the girl hands him a small bag (a gift to his soon-to-be wife, possibly), then her brother whispers in the girl’s ear as he exchanges glances with jiwon, and suddenly both of them were looking at her from across the nightclub.

jiwon nearly drops her glass when she sees the girl’s face clearly. it was you—(y/n) (l/n), her brother’s former roommate and best friend all throughout college! jiwon has met you before! back when her life was a goddamn mess and her entire family thought that you were her brother’s girlfriend. but then it turns out you were more like… his sister from a different family and so that was when you and jiwon started getting to know each other.

perhaps you got to know each other a bit too well… because jiwon remembers all those times when the two of you would hang out in her room for hours and f—

“jiwon-unnie!”

the blonde haired girl springs up from her seat and waved as you squeezed through multiple crowds of people until you got to her. wow, you were beautiful. taller, older, and obviously so much prettier than the last time jiwon saw you.

which was in between her le—

“i missed you so much!” you engulfed jiwon in a crushing bear-hug which she awkwardly returned. “oh wow, unnie, you’re gorgeous! blonde fits you so well.” you were saying as you pulled away, taking in all of jiwon’s features and even threading her soft hair from behind. jiwon got goosebumps under your touch—how the fuck was she supposed to act normal in this situation?

“i am so glad you’re here because as much as i love him, i’m not as much of a boys girl anymore.” you pulled jiwon back to her seat, taking the empty one right beside hers and immediately telling the bartender about your favorite drink. jiwon finds herself completely speechless. literally. you were vibrant, you were chatty, you were so charming—everything jiwon remembers that you were all those years ago.

“mmm. never gets old.” you said after taking the first sip of your drink. you then turned to jiwon who flinched upon making eye contact with you. “what have you been doing these days, unnie? i know you’re like, some kind of big deal at this rich-people company you work for but you know… what else?” you eyed jiwon up and down before smiling at her. not even the darkness and the nearly seizure-inducing lights of the nightclub could hide that familiar glint in your eyes, but jiwon chose to ignore them.

she couldn’t help but glance at how your skirt is hiked up after you’ve put one leg over the other though.

“um, i haven’t been doing much, really. just… work and making sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.” jiwon said, nodding her head to her brother who was pretty buzzed at this time.

you laughed, “you guys never really changed, huh? glad to see it.” you took another sip of your drink.

“only this time i’m helping him with his road to being a husband instead of a project due in thirty minutes.” jiwon shakes her head at the memory, and she likes the way it makes you smile brightly.

“right… and are you still with wonyoung-ssi?” you asked with caution. yet you stared at jiwon as you did so, making sure she sees your ulterior motive through your eyes. jiwon feels herself crumbling under the weight of your stare, as much as she tries to put up a fight of her own.

“no… no, that’s been over for a while now.” it was a good breakup. one that ended with laughter rather than tears and anger. jiwon still talks with wonyoung to this day. why, only a week ago, wonyoung had called jiwon about her brother’s wedding! she expressed her regret about not being able to attend it due to scheduling conflicts—the life of an acclaimed supermodel was busy after all!

you looked significantly happier with the news, now gulping down your drink with a smile on your face. “h-how about you? he never told me what you did after you guys graduated…” jiwon attempts to have some control of the situation—sitting up straight, staring back at you with the same intensity, and all. was she successful? no. jiwon’s blushes as you held your stare with hers, an amused smirk now on your lips before you flipped your hair over your shoulder.

shiiit, jiwon remembers how perfect your neck looks while covered with marks left by her… oh gods, what is wrong with her?!

“well, after college, i did try getting my career started… but that didn’t work out. i ended up going back to my hometown to get back in touch with my heart and all that sentimental bullshit, and it actually worked,” you giggled, your hand brushing across your hair. “i know what i want to do in my life, but for now, i’m just…” you trailed off, raising your drink as well as quirking your eyebrow. “having fun before i can’t.” now your glass is finally empty.

“that’s good. and i’m glad the two of you are still friends. i was worried you’d grow apart.” it always made jiwon smile when she came home after a rough day at her old job and seeing you and her brother in the house, chatting and fooling around as if you weren’t burdened by all your commitments and responsibilities. it had always been refreshing seeing you, and it still is.

you propped your elbow on the table and put your chin on your palm, flashing jiwon a teasing smile, “did you miss me, unnie?”

and just like that, every ounce of confidence jiwon built up evaporates into nothing. she laughs awkwardly, hiding behind her drink, “o-of course! it was weird not seeing you guys together all the time, you know!” another awkward laugh. jiwon felt ridiculous and childish.

“no, unnie,” you moved closer, putting your hand on jiwon’s arm. she turned her head to look at you again and there you were, staring at her with clouded eyes. you then leaned closer and put your other arm behind her, your lips ghosting above her ear. shitshitshit, that’s too close. “did you miss me?”

what happened moments later isn’t exactly what jiwon would say was… a mistake. hell, it was far from it.

being trapped between the door of your hotel room and yourself while getting her neck marked up and her clothes slowly stripped down is the most eventful jiwon’s night has been.

jiwon could feel her brother’s worry all the way from here… well, it’s mainly because she knew that all the buzzing that her phone was doing in her pocket was because of him mass texting her about her whereabouts. she couldn’t be bothered to text him back right now though, not when you were already trailing your hand up her thigh and sliding it underneath her skirt. this felt familiar, and it felt good. feeling you gently rub her wet cunt through her panties felt good, feeling you softly biting on her collarbone felt good, seeing those cute eyes of yours asking for permission while you tugged on her panties felt good.

how long has it been since jiwon felt this kind of rush in her life? too long, she’d say. so why not make the most out of it?

jiwon cups your cheeks and crashes her lips into yours for the first time that night. your lips tasted like blueberries (from whatever you were drinking earlier), and jiwon loved the way you kissed her rather clumsily as if you didn’t expect her to do it first. jiwon couldn’t get enough. she pushes you further inside the room, discarding you of your jacket while doing so. she sits you down on the edge of the bed before separating from your lips and suddenly walking off, leaving you confused and slightly light-headed.

turns out, jiwon only went away to turn the lampshade on, illuminating the room with a warm orange glow before going back to you. she stared you down with hooded eyes, lust replacing the kind look in her irises that you knew and loved, and then she gently grabs your jaw, tilting your head up. you squeezed your thighs together, trying to soothe that ache in your core. god, you missed her.

“make this worth it, (y/n).” jiwon says coldly. even jiwon herself was surprised at her tone, but something in her brain liked how you crumbled under her stare. compared to the timid, nervous jiwon from earlier, bossy and demanding and… kind of harsh jiwon just did something right to you.

“you’ve always been worth it.” you pulled jiwon towards you by her hips, making her sit down on your lap. you feel her brushing your hair with her fingers, allowing you to release the tension on your shoulders and just melt into her. you’ve missed her warmth, and she’s missed yours. jiwon didn’t understand why you left when you did… but that was a question you were going to answer for her later.

much, much later.

jiwon moans softly as you start kissing her neck. your hands get busy with the remaining buttons on her shirt, revealing more of her skin for you to mark up throughout the night. you’ve already left some earlier, and they were starting to show across her chest but that wasn’t enough. you slowly pull off her shirt and let it drop to the ground, then your hands travel lower on jiwon’s body, stopping at the waistband of her skirt.

you were eager to touch her—unzipping her skirt and whining to get her to stand up and let it fall at her feet before you pulled her back into you. jiwon couldn’t help but laugh while you kissed her hungrily, and then she giggled even more when you rolled around and made her lay on her back on the bed.

you pouted cutely as you observed her and her baby pink lingerie, “hmm… were you expecting to sleep with someone in that club, unnie? you looked prepared.”

jiwon thought it was the perfect time to tease such a normally confident girl like you. so she nodded with a shit-eating grin, “the lady bartender was cute actually.” she laughs when you suddenly hop off of her abdomen, choosing to sit on the side of the bed instead. you were taking off your shoes, setting them aside before starting to discard yourself of your jewelry and putting them on the bedside table. jiwon watches you intently, her desire for you only growing by the second.

“come on, get in here already.”  jiwon tugged on your sleeve, more than ready to feel your lips on her skin once again. she decided to sit up and help you with your dress though, reaching for the zipper and slowly pulling it down. she didn’t waste the opportunity to leave kisses on the back of your neck, all the way down to the middle of your back, making sure that her lipstick sticks on your skin and smiling satisfied once she sees that it did.

finally, jiwon could see all of you after all these years, and you were just as beautiful as the last time she saw you. jiwon couldn’t resist immediately grabbing your face and kissing you as you climbed into the bed—she longed to feel your skin against hers again and now that you were here, she doesn’t think she ever wants to let you go like she did back then. so, jiwon holds onto you tightly, letting you settle yourself on top of her once again while your hands impatiently explore her perfect body. your hands reach behind jiwon, unclasping her bra and throwing it aside, your hands quickly finding themselves busy fondling her soft breasts.

it was cute to see that you still adored her tits as much as you did back then. you did that thing you always did when you were intimate with jiwon, kissing all over her chest, making sure to cover every inch of skin while still massaging her tits. jiwon caresses your hair as you did your job, laughing softly in an adoring way, her smile only widening when you look up at her with your own grin.

“you’re so pretty, jiwon-unnie.” you gave the older girl one last quick kiss on the lips before leaning down and taking her nipple in your mouth. jiwon gasps at the feeling of your warm tongue slowly swirling around her nipple. it was familiar, like all of the other things you’ve done to her so far, but it also felt new at the same time. because this time, the two of you were much older, and you were doing this purely out of your true feelings for each other rather than a decision made on a whim. jiwon moans loudly when you softly and carefully bite on the hard bud, but she was quick to regain composure when she notices something quite… well, interesting.

jiwon sees how you humped the mattress slightly, trying your best to soothe that buzzing in your core on your own. jiwon decides to swiftly slide her thigh in between your legs and press it against your wet cunt, feeling all satisfied when you whine and start slowly grinding on her thigh for further stimulation. your hand that was pinching her other nipple was now gripping the sheets as you started riding jiwon’s thigh faster, whining even more as you feverishly sucked and nipped on her tit. jiwon grins, loving how she hasn’t lost her special little talent of reducing you to her obedient pet. she starts meeting your little thrusts by raising her thigh—somehow, the sight of you like this had her soaked, but you haven’t noticed at all. you were too busy trying to get yourself off!

you had to let go of jiwon’s nipple eventually, now hugging her close and whining at her chest because you were feeling so good. you’ve started shaking and your moans were shorter and higher—it only meant one thing! jiwon takes a fistful of your hair and pulls your face up to make you look at her, ignoring how you winced at the pain.

“don’t cum.” she says strictly, her grip on your hair tightening by the second the more you thrust into her thigh.

“b-but..! hnng.. i’m s-so close…! so close…” the pout, the tears, that desperate tone in your voice… jiwon almost wanted to fold, but she wasn’t in the mood for that.

“you don’t get to cum before me ever, remember? be good.”

as much as it upset you, you slowly decreased your pace until you were merely sitting on her thigh. jiwon smiles—she was happy to know that she still had some sort of hold over you. she knew she always did! why, you were always clingy towards jiwon whenever her brother invited you over, and that was even before the two of you started sleeping with each other. she always used it to her advantage, mostly in bed, of course. something else jiwon always liked: that pitiful look on your cute face when she denies you of your release. you’d always look so timid after, afraid that if you spoke incorrectly, jiwon might stop the whole thing entirely.

but jiwon was never that cruel. she’d tease you, sure, but she would always make sure to give you what you want. just as long as she gets hers first.

“look,” you watched as jiwon’s hand traveled down from her stomach to her panties. she was drenched; your fault. “do something.” she demands. shit. the dark tone in her voice and the stern look on her face was enough to get you to move lower. you pulled off jiwon’s panties, your heart beating so fast for no goddamn reason. it has been a very long time since you have seen jiwon, let alone like this. acting like this, looking at you like this. it’s got you weak.

you stared at jiwon’s pussy. soaked, tight, perfect, and most importantly, all for you.

“how cute. you’re practically drooling.” jiwon impatiently puts her hand atop your head and brings your face closer to her needy cunt. you hoisted her legs over your shoulder, then you started leaving kisses along her inner thighs—deep and sensual kisses, slow and careful right up until your lips barely ghosted above her pussy. jiwon stares at you with anticipation, you stare back at her; your eyes now dark and hungry. you keep eye contact as you licked up her cunt once, smirking while you felt jiwon’s entire body shiver at the feeling. she pushes your head a little closer, so fucking desperate that you almost wanted to be petty and tease her, but she would probably hit you for that.

and so, you give her what she wants. within seconds of your lips touching her cunt once more, you were practically making out with it. goosebumps appeared along your skin as your tongue slowly got familiar with jiwon’s taste again. it felt right, like the stars have finally realigned themselves after years of floating about the expansive universe, lost. you put your hands to use, spreading her lips apart and pleasuring her clit.

“g-good…! there… mmhn.. (y/n)-ah…!” jiwon grabs a fistful of your hair again, pushing you impossibly closer to her cunt, practically grinding it against your face. you wrap your lips around the sensitive bud, sucking softly and moaning at jiwon’s sheer taste. fuck, it was all too good. you use one hand to grip one of her thighs, sinking your nails down to her skin, and spreading it further so you could have room.

“fuck..! i want to cum, (y/n)… m-more, more..! please…” jiwon’s back arches right as you flick the sensitive bud. you slipped your tongue inside her cunt, making jiwon moan just a tad bit louder than the hotel room walls would recommend her to. the next rooms most likely heard that—good. everyone needs to know how amazing you make her feel. how you’re the only one who can make her feel this way. and everyone’s going to know it again; you used your free hand to rub jiwon’s clit since your tongue was too busy inside her.

normally, this would’ve made jiwon cum. but she was strong this time around. “fucking—god, (y/n)…! more.. more…” jiwon pleads while on the verge of tears. you free her thigh of your grip and hold her hand instead, at least it helped her ground herself at least. the more you used your tongue inside her, the more you felt her clench. her grip gets tighter, both on your hand and on your hair. you briefly glanced upwards and saw her closing her eyes shut—she was close. but you found yourself being torn between letting her reach her climax now, stall a bit longer, or… make her orgasm just a lot stronger.

you pulled out your tongue from her cunt. jiwon hisses and nearly hits you on the head for slowing down and going back to sucking on her clit as you previously did. she glared at you, but was immediately back to being at your mercy when you unexpectedly inserted two of your fingers inside her. god, she was still tight. you stared in awe as you fucked jiwon in an excrutiatingly slow pace, merely watching as her pussy clenches around your digits. you pushed further, now knuckle-deep inside jiwon. you could cum from the sensation of her spongy walls brushing against your fingertips alone but you had to keep her rule in mind.

“m-mouth… use your mouth, (y/n).. ah!” and happily you did! your mouth and fingers worked in unison on jiwon’s pussy—every time you pulled out, you’d suck and lick her clit, the routine now going back to you. you’re remembering all the things she liked done to her, even down to the tiniest details. like eye contact. your eyes fluttered open, peering at jiwon through your fringe. she was already staring at you, her face contorted to show much pleasure you were bringing to her. jiwon has never once tried to conceal her noises and she wasn’t going to ask you to slow down or anything either. you both needed this, and unfortunately for this entire damn hotel, they were going to know just how much.

jiwon loosens her grip on your head once she realizes just how tight she was holding it, now threading your hair and only gently nudging you closer whenever she thinks your mouth isn’t doing enough. you curled your fingers inside her, making her tense up once more and bring her to that familiar edge. “please, please, please…!” jiwon whispers desperately like a prayer with a single tear running down her cheek. you increased your pace and buried your face in her cunt, not caring about making a mess of your face. all you cared about was satisfying your jiwon-unnie, and that you were successful when you brought her to a mind-blanking orgasm with a single flick of your tongue.

a long moan escapes jiwon’s lips as you continue to eat her out through her climax. god, she was delectable. you were determined to not waste a single drop of her cum, lapping her up like a dog and once more relishing at the taste of her juices on your tongue. you pull out your fingers as well, making sure jiwon sees you sucking on it to show her just how much you enjoy how she tastes. jiwon was beyond flustered and she was feeling all sorts of things—overwhelmed, weak, and perhaps most importantly of all, so fucking desperate to make you feel just as good.

you don’t hear her at first. jiwon was speaking in a small voice since she was still weak from everything you did, but you do hear her later on. “come here, baby,” the nickname practically sends you scurrying over on top of her again. jiwon wipes your chin clean with her hand, smiling brightly at you as she pulls you in for a sweet kiss. she can taste herself on your lips and your tongue, and a part of her understands why you’re so addicted. “unnie’s turn, hm?” she whispers against your lips… but her kisses have sent your brain elsewhere, hence your surprised gasp when you felt her gently rub your clit through your panties.

“hah… you’re still super sensitive here?” jiwon asked.

“t-that’s my clit, unnie.. of course, i’m—ahh—sensitive there…” cheeky. even when you’re the one at her mercy now. you pulled your panties off, throwing over to the pile of clothes on the carpeted floor. jiwon was teasing you: tracing your lips with her fingers, barely letting her fingertips touch your entrance, and not even giving your clit the attention it needs now. you whine as you grind down on jiwon’s hand, desperate for more contact but she refuses to touch you.

“aww, what’s with that face?” jiwon coos, laughing slightly. you had a mix of desperation and irritation on your face. it was annoying how she was being annoying, especially at such a crucial time but you knew the exact thing you had to do to get her going.

“unnie. please. i need you…” you pleaded. jiwon leans back on the pillow behind her, finding it so amusing to watch you slowly lose every ounce of self-respect just so you can cum. fuck, if jiwon wanted to be cruel, she could! she could make you beg all night, see those pretty eyes of yours shine with tears as you cry… the sick part of jiwon really wanted it all to come true, but she’s missed you too much to prolong this any further. and so, she pushes your face closer to her by the back of your neck, kissing you passionately just to get you to calm down.

one word jiwon would use to describe how she felt for the events that followed? relieving.

it was relieving to feel your warmth around the three fingers she inserted in your pussy at once, to feel your tongue inside her mouth, to bleed slightly from the way you held onto her arms so tightly, and it was most relieving to hear you say her name so sweetly. you can have such a dirty mouth with so many vulgar words to say, especially from years before when you were younger, but whenever you were with jiwon, you were a different person. jiwon was one of the only people who you allowed to see you like this: soft, weak, and so endearing. it seems like you haven’t changed that aspect about you, and that fact within itself was relieving to jiwon.

“unnie…!” you buried your head on the crook of jiwon’s neck as you felt every inch of her fingers brush against all of your sweet spots. as expected, things were always different when it came to jiwon. being so vulnerable to other people terrified you to the point where it was almost impossible to let your heart open to them, but jiwon made it so simple. but now that you were right here, looking at jiwon and feeling her everywhere, maybe it wasn’t just simply her that made it possible for you to let yourself fall.

wait… fall?

yes. fall. all this time—you’ve fallen for jiwon but too many things made it complicated for you to fully embrace it. but now you are ready.

“i’m so happy, (y/n),” jiwon’s voice felt like a dream. you almost couldn’t hear her properly due to how much her fingers overwhelmed you. the older girl used her free hand to lift your chin, making you look at her, before kissing your lips—it has always been her favorite thing to do. “i’m so happy you came back to me. i don’t know how to express how much i missed you… surely not with words, not even with this…” jiwon plunges her fingers deep, shushing you while you moan loudly. god, she knew you too well. knew which spot to hit to get you to lose your mind, knew the exact words to whisper in your ear when she notices you were slipping away from reality, and knew exactly how to make your heart beat like it never has before.

jiwon pulls her index finger out, now fucking you faster than she ever has with the only fingers she has inside you. “good girl. god, baby… you’re getting me wet again.” jiwon locks one of her legs around yours, keeping you in place. her palm slams against your sensitive clit, bringing tears to your eyes even though you grinded on her hand desperately to feel it over and over again. part of the reason why jiwon always needed to be the one to be fucked first is because you get so tired after your turn that you just pass out, and you never got out of that habit it seems. jiwon sees how the light was escaping your eyes, it was only a matter of time before you were too exhausted to keep yourself awake.

“hm, we have to be careful, huh? can you handle it, love?”

you nodded frantically, afraid that she’d slow down had you answered otherwise, “y-yes..! ahh, yes, i can. i can, unnie.. i can—mmhn..! i can take it…” you started moving your hips, riding jiwon’s fingers just to get closer and closer for that climax you’ve been chasing after the entire night. jiwon was thoroughly amused at how determined you were. normally, you’d give up or tap out if you found it all too much, but jiwon knows you want to be good for her. especially after all this time.

“you’re so cute… but don’t worry, baby,” jiwon places a sweet, deep kiss on your damp forehead. “we have all the time in the world now.”

a curl of her fingers later and you were cumming on jiwon’s hand. the older girl stopped her movements, afraid of overstimulating you. she whispers sweet words into your ears as you let yourself go, at least that's what you think she’s doing. you could barely keep your eyes open, let alone hear. but despite your consciousness slowly slipping away from you, you still felt jiwon gently lay you down on the spot next to her. she holds you close enough that she is within kissing distance.

she was so perfect—how could you have left her?

“unnie…” you tucked a piece of her behind her ear. her laugh makes your ears tingle. you faintly hear her ask if you’re feeling okay, to which you nodded weakly at. you can see her lips move, she was saying a few things, but you can’t hear her over the sound of your heartbeat. you cup her cheek, lean close, and kiss her. maybe it was your favorite thing to do, just like her. and then, words that have always been expected to be unsaid leave your lips. some feelings that have been kept hidden, secrets that you were afraid of letting slip.

“i love you, jiwon-unnie.”

long overdue, sure. even jiwon felt it before you ever said it to her. but she thinks that your bashful smile, the way you shyly looked away from her, and your precious reaction to her saying it back made it all worth the wait.

[hiraethwrote]

AS I LIVE AND BREATHE

pairing : tobio kageyama x f!reader summary : he thought time had extinguished any silly little feelings he'd had for you. that was way back in high school anyways. why would they linger when he didn't have you around to remind him? cw : just pure fluff, very self indulgent, kinda boring but idc, heavy pining, timeskip, set in 2016, flashbacks, reader is a uni dropout (lowkey me venting about dropping out lol), mild cursing, no use of y/n word count : 3.5k

He couldn’t help how his looks always used to linger — a generous gesture he had only spared you.

It wasn’t news to Tobio that he was notorious for being unapproachable. He had a permanent frown stamped on his forehead that always gave the impression that he was in no mood to interact with anyone. And if someone had been possessed with the spirit of engaging in small talk, he would keep his answers short and to the point. If the topic didn’t interest him, he saw no reason why he would waste his energy on it.

Eventually people just stopped trying, leaving him to live in his exclusive bubble where volleyball was the only thing that mattered — and that was enough for him.

However, you decided to go against the stream, ignoring the pinched eyebrows and standoffish demeanour.

It wasn’t anything big, but you just spared him something as simple as a smile. If he accidentally locked eyes with you across the classroom, or you passed each other in the halls, your lips would curl into the kindest smile before going on with your day.

At first he had thought you must have mistaken him for someone else, because why would you smile at him? You never really talked to each other, falling into the roles of simply being classmates.

But the tiny smiles continued, clearly meant for him. And what was probably just a meaningless act of kindness to you, had heat creep up his neck and colour his cheeks in dusty pink. Eventually he developed the tiniest hallway crush, eyes shyly seeking you out as he impatiently waited for you to catch him.

That’s where his courage stopped however. He knew he would never be brave enough to ever initiate a conversation, based on the few times words were exchanged between you and his mouth would completely dry out. You could come over to ask the most casual question of “do you have a pen I could borrow?”, and when he muttered a shy no, you simply went on to ask the next person, thinking nothing more of it.

Tobio would churn over the interaction for hours, hindsight supplying him with all the possible answers he could have given you.

Three years of a childish crush eventually came to an end when graduation rolled around. When separated, your smiles simply ceased to exist in his life and it was like a fog had lifted. He left Karasuno, and the crush evaporated into nothingness and he grew out of the childish infatuation.

That’s what he thought at least.

Right now, that very smile that had his heart race was staring back at him, identical to how he remembered it — turns out his infatuation had nothing to do with age, and everything to do with you.

Your deadpanned expression twisted into one of pleasant surprise when you spotted him. “Kageyama Tobio, as I live and breathe!”

Maybe he had always had a tiny glimmer of hope he would eventually run into you again — that being said, he was not prepared for that time to be now. Last he heard, you were basking in the glorious university life in Tokyo, attending some prestigious education he could only imagine getting into. You weren’t supposed to stand behind the counter of the quaint convenience store, much like you had done when you were sixteen.

What was even more unexpected was how you knew his name. Your interactions throughout your acquaintance had been so few and far between, he had just assumed you knew him as ‘that volleyball guy’ — but hearing his name spoken in the tune of your voice, travelling in cheerful waves, had his heart beat a little faster.

Despite his frozen stature, he let his eyes take in the scenery of you sat behind the counter. Your shoulders were close under your ears, the corporate fleece doing little to shield out the gushing cold air that occupied the store.

As unflattering as the white light above might have been, it did little to diminish your appearance which was prettier than he recalled — you looked very much like yourself, just slightly different. Every feature had turned more defined, the childlike curves slowly fading with time.

“There’s a face I didn’t think I’d see any time soon.”

Swallowing his nerves, praying his flushed cheeks wasn’t beyond obvious, he placed his items on the surface in front of you.

“Could say the same.” He wished he was brave enough to look at your face, wanting to take in all the subtle changes to your appearance. But he didn’t dare let his eyes rest on you for more than a few moments at a time, redirecting his attention to the rather interesting products he was purchasing, impatiently waiting for his heart to settle so he could act like a normal human being.

“Thought you were busy being a big shot volleyball player,” you teased, the obnoxious beeping of you scanning his items ringing in his ears. “What are you doing back home?”

He cleared his throat, hoping it would bring back some steadiness to it. “Just visiting,” nodding carefully as the words tumbled awkwardly out of him.

As he paid for his items, he tried to let his innocent urges control him and tilt his head to look at you — he had to greet the embarrassed redness to his cheeks like an old friend when he saw you already had your eyes focused on him.

“Are you in town for long?” You asked as you handed him the bagged groceries, your fingers brushing against his in a featherlight touch. It was so modest, he wasn’t even sure you felt it — he most certainly did.

“Just a few days.”

“That’s nice. A break from your hectic schedule.”

“I’ll still practice.”

Your smile widened as you pulled your sleeves over your hands, folding your arms and leaning forward on the counter. “Yeah, guess I kinda knew that.”

He felt so stupid, ogling you with big eyes as he racked his brain for all that he knew of small talk, and yet he blanked completely.

“Guess the life of a pro athlete never stops,” you said as you checked your wristwatch, probably waiting for the time to strike eleven so you could close up.

“No, not really.”

He sensed an awkward silence sneak in on the conversation, and he so desperately did not want it to end. And he spotted the slightest betrayal in your expression when your smile wavered for a split second — and he was convinced it was because you thought he was being weird.

With this opportunity served on a silver platter, he wanted to prove he wasn’t as socially inapt as he came across to be.

“You’re in Tokyo now, right?”

“Well, yes, technically,” you chuckled, undisclosed information hiding in your answer. It was uncontrollable how he quirked an eyebrow in confusion, though he quickly smoothened it in hopes he didn’t come across as rude. “Guess I’m home visiting as well. For a while.”

“And do you like it? Tokyo?”

“It’s definitely more my pace.”

That confirmed his suspicions, possessing a lively personality that seemed too big for this small town. He had always found you to have a soothing type of vibrancy that filled every room you walked into.

And your energy was infectious. He was still anxious beyond belief, but somewhere inside him he could sense that your presence had a calming effect on him. It possessed him with a flash of courage when he said “it’s nice seeing you again.”

You blinked at him, lips parted in surprise at his unexpected line, and for a moment he was sure he had messed up. He clenched his fists, waiting for you to laugh at him or tell him off.

He didn’t expect your smile to return, reigniting the butterflies once again. “Yeah,” you spoke softly, “yeah, you too.” The smile remained and the cute crinkles by your eyes deepened.

The conversation was once more drifting towards a close, and this time Tobio didn’t think he had it in him to resurrect it. He took a deep breath and presented you with a tight lipped smile, mumbling a quiet “see ya,” before turning on his heel and heading for the door.

He only had time to place his palm against the cool glass before you called his name. “Hey, Kageyama,” capturing his attention, eyebrows narrowed as he waited for your next words. “I close up in like ten minutes. Wanna walk me home?”

What? Had he heard you right?

You sunk your teeth cutely into your bottom lip, a tiny bit amused by how visibly his mind was racing to comprehend your request. “I would love to catch up more.”

His shoulders raised, as if this wasn’t the most stressful interaction he could ever remember being in, “sure.”

You gave him a look, one he couldn’t quite deduce the meaning of, while there was a sprinkle of mischief in your pursed smirk.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket so his nerves wouldn’t spill out in anxious fidgeting, while you started all your closing routines.

As subtly as he managed, he kept his attention on you, standing behind the register, counting the change as you quietly hummed along to the melody coming from the cheap radio behind you. Consuming his mind was the thought that you seems to fit perfectly into the impression he had created of you back in school — kind, generally keeping a smile on your face, really just trying to enjoy the day that was today.

Your head tilted down to check your wristwatch again as you let out a deep exhale, ridding yourself of the strain caused from the closing shift before you disappeared down one of the isles.

Shifting his weight from one foot to another, he was still trying to mentally prepare himself for the walk home — he was probably never again going to get the chance to prove to you that he wasn’t as socially constipated and egocentric like everyone thought he was.

The lights shut off, and you emerged again, having changed out of the uniform and into a black hoodie. “Finally,” your head fell back playfully in light exasperation, hands rummaging through your bag before you pulled out your keys, “staying open until eleven on a Saturday should be considered a crime. There’s not a soul present the last hour.”

Tobio walked out the door first, and without even thinking about it, he simply held the door open for you. He had just acted on pure instinct, and didn’t reflect on it until you flashed him another one of your charming grins. As you mumbled quiet gratitudes, he spun his head away and retracted further into the neck of his jacket — if you were to look directly at him, you would definitely be able to see the generous flush spreading across his face.

“So, Kageyama Tobio,” you said nonchalantly, spinning the keys around your finger before tossing them in your bag again, “the olympics. Quite the achievement.”

“Thank you.”

You chuckled as you startled to fiddle with the packaging of a protein bar. “Never took you to be so humble,” you teased.

Turning to look at you again, he let his eyes be led by the protein bar heading for your mouth, before landing on your lips — your plump, glossy lips that looked so extremely soft. It wasn’t until you’d finished chewing and started talking again he was able to catch himself staring and avert his gaze back to the path ahead.

“I mean, from what I’ve seen of you on the court, it’s not the first word I would use to describe you.”

“You’ve seen me play?”

A deeper laugh escaped you, one that reactively caused a smile to grow on his face — he quickly wiped it away, too scared to lean into the feeling. “Of course I have. Several. Always having us at the edge of our seats. But you-“ you cut yourself off, pointing the bar in your hand at him.

Did you even have a clue what you were doing to him? His breath hitching in his throat, tense shoulders stiffening his arms when you so abruptly stepped ahead to walk backwards while always able to look at him.

“You, mister, got pride filling your every fibre when playing.”

Eyes widened at your compliment — because that’s what it was, a compliment. Not a comment with rude undertones, not a snarky statement to piss him off, but genuine admiration for his craft.

“You think so?”

“No, I know so. It’s quite obvious when looking at you.”

“Been looking at me quite a lot, have you?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

This time he surrendered to the urge to flash you a smile. It was a reserved one, however, barely able to spot how the corner of his lips tilted upwards — cute.

“Guess it’s not too long until you head for Rio, right?” You asked as you took another bite.

“In a couple of months,” he retracted his hands from his pockets to clutch around the strap of his bag. “Kind of a wonder they let me visit home.”

“Yeah, would think they’d have you locked up in the gym until you leave,” and you chucked again, a sound he quickly realised he really liked to hear.

He cleared his throat, slowly stepping into a more confident role. “When are you heading back to Tokyo?”

Your steps came to a halt, and he couldn’t help but notice how nice you looked under the warm light from the street lamps, he nearly missed the uncertainty that traveled across your face.

Eventually it seemed you reached a conclusion, opening your mouth. “I don’t know, to be honest. Soon hopefully.”

“Studies going well?”

“No,” you hesitated, forcing a laugh. “In fact, they’re not going at all.” You could tell by the look on his face he was confused. “I dropped out.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You didn’t know why it had so easily slipped past your tongue. Usually you had a hard time admitting it out loud, feeling the weighing sensation of disappointment from everyone you told.

However, there was something about Tobio that had you fall into a sense of comfort you couldn’t quite explain. Maybe it was the fact that he was someone who wasn’t a complete stranger to your life, yet unfamiliar enough that he felt unrelated to everything going on.

“Do you regret it?”

It wasn’t the question you expected. People usually wanted to know why — why would you do that, and what were you to do now? Would you manage to find a job no when you had strayed from your original plan?

You let the question linger in the air for a moment before you answered, “no. I don’t.”

His chest raised as he took a deep breath, a welcoming and warm smile greeting you, one that was wider than the one he flashed you earlier. “Good.”

It was one word — just one word, yet it was loaded with a sense of understanding you had barely received when sharing your life changing news. It had you purse your lips to contain the overwhelming smile that was about to overtake your entire face.

The eye contact was intense, heart pounding a little harder by how surprisingly comfortable it felt, filling you with giddiness you hadn’t experienced in a while.

“You know,” you cleared your throat as you turned your back to him and started walking again. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.” It only took him a few seconds to catch up and walk along side you again. “You’re quite the character, Kageyama.”

He scoffed, pretending like what you said didn’t make his heart flutter. “Care to elaborate?”

“I don’t know, I always just assumed you would be like how you are when you play,” you sighed. “You’re so sure of yourself when you’re tossing. Very serene, if you will. Unless you were yelling at that little guy. Damn, what was his name? The ginger?”

Amusement twisted his expression. Not only because you knew Hinata as ‘the ginger’, but also because you had known his name, but not remembered his old teammate’s name despite him being considerably more outgoing than himself — Tobio was almost certain you’d had more conversations with Hinata than you had ever had with him.

“You talking about Hinata?”

“Yes! Him!” Excitement spilling out in your gestures. “Besides the point. My friend had a crush on one of your teammates, so she sometimes dragged me along to spy on your practices.”

He was slowly growing tired of how you had the blush lurking under his skin almost permanently, when he once again felt it approaching as he waited for the rest of your story. For the short time you had been walking, he had managed to find a somewhat steady presence, but the little confidence he grasped onto was hanging on by a thin thread. Whatever you were to say next threatened to sever it.

“There was a handful of times I witnessed you scream at the poor guy,” you laughed, nudging an elbow to his side.

Maybe he could latch onto the pleasant vibrations of your laugh to maintain his peace, trying not to let the memories of his outbursts crush him.

“It was a refreshing sight.”

Come on, Kageyama, give into the banter.

“Has anyone ever told you that you come with quite loaded statements?” He hoped he managed to smear his voice with sarcasm in order to hide the insecurity that tainted his words.

“Sorry,” trailing off with a soothing giggle. “Bad habit — what I mean is, it expanded the impression I had of you. You were always so quiet, minding your own business, much like you are now. When you’re playing, however, you’re emotional, if that makes sense?” You said with an awkward chuckle.

Was he dreaming? Was his ears playing a trick on him? Had you really been doing such an analysis of his character, enough to form an opinion that went beyond the impression he gave to most people?

He turned to look at you, locking eyes with you immediately — there was something so tender in your expression, gaze seemingly holding a deeper message he was eager, desperate, to unveil. But he struggled, too wrapped up in how your vibrant grin had transformed into a shy tilt. He couldn’t quite describe it, but it felt more genuine somehow — emotional, maybe, as you’d put it.

“Anyways,” breaking the eye contact, feeling an unfamiliar burning sensation tingle up your neck. You weren’t used to being flustered like this. “Yelling at Hinata, proved you’re more of a hothead than you let on,” trying to fall back to a casual tension, ignoring how the recent eye contact with his captivating blue eyes had stirred up the tiniest whirlwind inside you.

“Never thought you were so observant,” he quipped, and much like you, he tried to smother the boyish excitement you had caused.

“What? D’you go around thinking I was too daft or something?” There was a very evident joking manner to your tone, but didn’t seem like he picked up on it.

“What? No! That’s not-“

“I’m just playing with you, Kageyama,” you laughed, true melody to his ears.

“I just meant… of me.” He kept his eyes locked ahead, knowing his face was about to completely succumb to the blush that was so easily brought to the surface around you.

“Yeah, well,” he heard your deep sigh, “I don’t know. You stuck out to me, despite you trying your very best not to.”

All his experiences regarding you from his school days suddenly intensified — everything was put in a new light with this revolutionary information. No wonder he had found himself falling for you when there was an unspoken connection he wasn’t even aware of.

“This is me!” Your tone changed immediately, the sentimental energy evaporating into nothing but a memory. “Thanks for walking me home.”

He was fortunate enough to receive another of your characteristic smiles, those would probably always have an hypnotising effect on him, as you backed up towards the entryway of your house.

“My pleasure,” he said, trying his best to mirror the earnestness of your affection.

You had pulled out your keys again, “and I’ll make sure to tune in when you’re in Rio. Even if I have to get up in the middle of the night.”

“Maybe you’ll see some of that emotion you were talking about.”

“Oh, I’m betting on it,” you opened the door. “Good night, Kageyama.”

“You know,” he was quick to interject before you had the opportunity to disappear through the door. He swallowed his fear, “you can call me Tobio.”

A smile. “Good night. Tobio.” You held his gaze a second, and you were out of his sight.

tags : @hiraethwa

an : okay i am not so happy with it... the words were working against me on this one. might be bc i'm not familier with writing for hq yet but eventually. i have more hope in my next hq fic. it is also v boring, but it's more of a venting fic for how i feel about dropping out (it comes in waves yk)

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