#YOU FUCKING PREJUDICED JERK

[little-alien-thoughts]

hi i have to rant about a VERY SPECIFIC TEACHER *inhales sharply* but i will do it in the tags read at your own discretion etc etc

disclaimer: i love teachers i admire teachers i think they're more important than most other jobs and i would be a teacher when i graduate if the working conditions rn weren't horrible. I don't have anything against most teachers, just this specific one

[siriuslyobsessedwithfiction]

Why do people who are Mal stans always defend Ruin and Rising? They’re like, “Yeah, their love was so strong it destroyed the Darkling and the Fold,” or they say things like, “Mal was way more accepting of Alina’s powers in the third book,” or “He was willing to do anything for her.” Basically, they act like he was great in book three and only a little bit of a jerk.

Lol.

Haha! So true. It's obvious the author was undecided who would Alina end up with in previous books and did a belated 180 degree switch in the last book to make Malina likable and it still didn't work.

I've discussed Malina's toxic and abusive relationship in my Alina Starkov analysis but the thing is, Malina doesn't work not only as a couple, but also as friends. The man who belittled you, didn't accept your growth and change, neglected his duty to protect you, slut-shamed you, virgin-shamed you and roughly grabbed you in a bruising grip several times when he was aware you were sickly and fragile is not your friend.

Also, Mal is literally only good for one thing - tracking. Other than that, Alina objectively doesn't need him. Yet she coddles him and endures his temper tantrums when in reality, she's way out of her depth, handling so much more than he is and doesn't receive the comfort she needs from him in return. No, he's out there drinking, gambling, getting into fights and fucking his way through every otkazatsya and Grisha even though he's prejudiced against Grisha.

Even about tracking, he only had to do it three times. Three. Other than that, he was lollygagging, living in luxury and insulting the prince. Him, a dimwitted peasant who would be dead and executed numerous times without Alina. And he had the audacity to make tracking three things a big deal and complain how much he was sacrificing for Alina. Where I'm from, we have a word - damadleba, which means doing something or a favour for someone only to remind them over and over about it later and make a bigger deal out of it than it is. Like a begrudging favour but with dramatics and guilt tripping. Mal is the personification of that word.

The worst part is, he said he preferred for Alina to be sickly and friendless and he did get his wish at the end of the trilogy. He's a small man who can't handle when Alina outshines and outgrows him.

[cruelestpoetryever]

I don’t think people think you’re obtuse because you don’t easily change your opinion, they’re probably talking about the way you answer people (dismissive, rude, sarcastic, patronizing, disrespectful), they way you refuse to take accountability when presented with the shit you say (“it’s not what I meant”, but you still said something that comes off as mean — I think everyone will appreciate how you dealt with it), the way you ignore everything that challenges you (there are countless asks where you ignore a lot of what’s been said and answer only to what suits you), the way you misunderstand (maybe not the right word, but let’s go with this one) what people say to you (“so you mean that…?”, “so you’re saying…?”, “so you think…?” — and no, people never said what you accuse them of saying, you���re the one looking for ill intent; this obviously isn’t about the prejudiced assholes that bully you, I’m talking about people with genuine asks)

It’s also probably the way no one can have an intellectual conversation with you, because when presented with facts you answer with “but my opinion…”, “well I don’t agree”, “from my perspective…”, and it’s almost never the point

It’s also probably because it’s very difficult to talk to you, because whenever someone says the smallest criticism (or even the smallest disagreement) your reaction is “fuck you, you’re a jerk”, so it does make it seem like it’s only possible to expect niceness from you if we’re contributing to your worldview or what have you. There’s no honesty or sincerity in this kind of relationship, so how can people even try to befriend you? And when this is pointed out, your reaction still is “fuck you, you’re a jerk” while ignoring everything else

Like I am so so so sorry you feel like no one likes you, but every time people try to be nice or just have a conversation it leads to nothing. So what do you expect from people that interact with you? How can people be your friend, or at least be treated with kindness?

Okay but you are separating the people sending transphobic asks from the regular people when it's all the same. Most of those transphobic asks are from @fuckyoubrittany and @unveiledshroud because they just hate transgender people and you can tell it's them from how they write. Those are the people I get hate from AND the people who bully me constantly. It's the same people so saying your talking about those people is not productive.

[brandwhorestarscream]

Reincarnation AU

Oh IDW Rodimus (⁠´⁠;⁠︵⁠;⁠`⁠)

I can imagine how happy he was to be able to hold the (happy) bitlet as soon the lil one came out of the incubator (with Drif right behind them), he goes with him all/most of the time ( the baby is a mama's boy who loves the fire)

About cyberverse 🤔, the fans of the show made me like soundwave x hot rod/Rodimus, maybe during the arc where they were separated by a wall? Or before it

Oh yeah, he cried when he finally got to hold his baby for the first time, after bitty had been in the NICU for several weeks. He's so tiny and lightweight, Roddy's so afraid of breaking him. Handles him like a fine glass sculpture, and whispers the entire time 💖 baby is very content to curl up in his carrier's arms, tiny hand curled round one of his fingers, and sleeps so soundly snuggled just above Rodimus's spark

As for cyberverse...

With the planet now split in half and a peace treaty they're supposed to be a biding by (Autobots, I am fucking talking to you), Hot Rod's got a good amount of free time on his hands. Finding out he's sparked sends excited ripples through the entirety of the autobot forces, and Hot Rod rides the wave, milking his condition for all it's worth while everyone falls all over themselves to cater to his every whim. You're having a baby, Roddy, let me carry that for you! Here Roddy, have some extra energon! You're eating for two, after all. Sure Roddy, I'll go fetch you whatever you want. So on and so forth. It's a pretty easy pregnancy--kid rarely kicks him, it doesn't make him sick, and he's got a minimum of 5 people waiting on him hand and foot at any given moment. He's living the life and is sooo pleased with himself

He's not taking it as seriously as he should, honestly. The baby shower gives him everything he thinks he'll need, and he's never really been around newborn sparklings. How hard can it be? They cry, they throw up, they have to be rocked to sleep, kinda like a fussy turbohound pup. He's gonna be a cool super mom, he thinks, coasting through motherhood with a sparkling that's surely going to be his best friend

Then, he goes into labor, and halfway through Ratchet gets a troubled look on his face and yells at First Aid to set up the privacy screen. Something's wrong, they can't get a read on the baby's spark, and they have to perform emergency cesarean. It's a huge wake up call for Hot Rod, seeing the medics desperately rubbing his newspark's chest, First Aid begging him to come back, to live, and even when the bitty's body suddenly jerks and they begin to cough and wail, it's not a relief. The medics rush to get the sparkling stabilized, straight into a NICU incubator while they determine what the root problem is

Cyberverse Hot Rod, I'll be honest, is not ready for a baby. Significantly less so than IDW Rodimus, at any rate. He's never had to be responsible for another living thing before, especially one so helpless and reliant on the care of others, and he's horribly immature + prejudiced. He hasn't been taking this seriously at all, and it doesn't really hit him that this is life or death until he asks the medical team, "I mean... he'll be ok, right?"

And Ratchet just gives him this forlorn look, optics unreadable and face grim. "I dunno, kid."

That answer sends a foreign wave of panic crashing over him, and he tries to get off the medberth. Saying he has to see him, he- he has to see his baby, he can't die, this can't be happening, no, NO-

It's an incredibly sobering experience, and completely rewrites all of his plans for the foreseeable future. He was looking forward to a grand debut party where he'd shuttle his adorable baby around and soak up all the compliments and attention from everyone, perhaps taking them on a tour of Cybertron to see the sights. Now, though, he has to be sat down by Ratchet and take a very stern lecture on looking after his son's health. He's incredibly frail, some of his internal components aren't fully formed yet. He'll need to drink specially filtered energon and shouldn't be exposed to extreme temperatures--that means no space surfing--and until his little body can strengthen and his balance system can properly self-calibrate, no fast driving. None. At all. 30 mph, max, no exceptions. Baby shouldn't be in a confined space with more than 3 people at a time, and everyone needs to decontaminate thoroughly before they touch him. On and on it goes, a long laundry list of things Hot Rod's gonna have to menorize, fast, if he wants to keep his son. Cruel as it may seem, Ratchet makes it abundantly clear that if Hot Rod can't take this seriously and keep the baby healthy, they'll have no choice but to remove the sparkling from his care and pass the responsibility to someone else. Roddy does not want that to happen, so vows to do his best

Will he succeed? Well... that's a story for another day 🤭

[mizakikimoto]

So some jackass at one of the universities called the cops after I sent them an email, saying I might "self harm".

Fucking shit dude. Excuse my language. I really don't like swearing.

Now...why would I say this online? Makes me look bad right?

No. It's a reflection of them. And I'm not sugarcoating this. This is meant to be an honest diary. And this is reality.

There's too great of a divide, and distance between me and these institutions. I...my words aren't comprehendible in such a segregated, ignorant society.

I know me, what's going on. I have. It's a choice to misunderstand me. My entire existence is outside of many boxes. Not enough people think outside them.

I just need one person...who can understand me, or be open to try.

So, anyway. I got so pissed that I mopped. And I'm gonna mop again. And I'm stress eating, with a smoothie.

I'm trying to stay chill. But like...I'm cursing under my breath. I'm pissed.

And I hate that you're punished for being honest. Or told you need therapy. Nooooo. These idiots need therapy. And "idiot" is the right word.

I'm a Boogeyman to these people. They're prejudiced jerks who don't want to interact with certain people. Who don't step foot in certain neighborhoods...

I'm tired.

But...it's whatever. My condition isn't: this weight, my teeth, my hair.

I'm just hoping this is all over soon. Don't have a choice.

-Chris

[lewyn-martell]

i was just gonna put a reply but it got kinda long 😬

i think there's an argument to be made that it's not exactly the adaptation's fault. i never took that from the movie and was kinda surprised some years later that internet fandom saw him like that. (only kinda because you always expect the romantic male lead to be granted as many excuses as possible.)

but i still struggle with takes both from adaptation(s) and book fans that p&p is Actually Not a story of a man learning to let go of his prejudices and reining in his prideful nature and having to actually humble himself in front of the love he has for a woman he's insulted in every possible way to finally do justice to his feelings for her; but rather that it's two equally prideful and prejudiced(??) people needing to undergo personal growth to accept things about the other and be more open to each other or whatever the fuck (emphasis on making sure lizzy was so totally in the wrong too).

SAWRRY if i think a woman being kinda judgy and having a bit of fun at the expanse of the prideful disagreeable man she is forced to be around (who insulted her and her family), and running with a bit of juicy gossip (which she didn't even pass around iirc, she just held it against him when she found out yet another reprehensible action that caused a lot of pain to her sister) are endearing and not problematic at all character traits/flaws that lizzy was not in the wrong to indulge in. saw sawrry if i think the character arc of lizzy was one of changed perspective and not exactly a growth of character values to "at last" get to know the "true character" of mr. darcy and that it's an arc just as engaging and interesting as one of personal, internal change would be. saw sawwww sawrry if i think she was correct in being quick to judge him in the exact manner he chose to present himself. so what he had hidden depths. he was a clown. if you want her to be aware of it you do the work it takes to make a woman look twice your way which includes the oh so terribly difficult ordeal of making an effort to be polite and sympathetic. but no, to a lot of fans, lizzy was so so mean to judge poor little boy darcy so wrongly because she liked to go around making harmless assumptions of people's characters while interacting with them... as any one does. let her be a proto 'to me you are what you do' girl. not like she 's incapable of owning up to any mistakes she makes while doing it. i think that gives her more pizzazz lol

(funnily enough, i always see two kinds of complaints about lizzy: either that she is too perfect or that she is more flawed than should be allowed. make up yalls minds lmao)

anyways, the only minor problem i have with the 2005 movie is the implication that elizabeth already kinda wanted to fuck him even since he was a jerk, which couldn't be less true. pushing his buttons a little was literally a passing hobby for her until he became too hateful to entertain.

nothing actually makes me side eye the 2005 pride and prejudice adaption more than the fact that ever since it came out the general consensus is that poor poor mr darcy is shy and anxious when he literally was guilty of excessive pride and looking down on people like yeah lizzy is also prideful and quick to judge but good lord did the 2005 movie give him the saddest wettest eyes and say he’s just a little baby

[mastermindmiko]

Promised

Pairing: Fred Weasley + fem!reader

word count: 3310

summary: Your family wants you to marry someone from a rich, prejudiced, pureblood family, unfortunately, the person you love isn’t that.

trigger warnings: kissing, prejudiced purebloods, arranged marriages, mentions of sex, male masturbation, grinding, swearing, the L word, crying, early marriage, the rain

my masterlist

Requests are open

You didn’t know when exactly did this start, maybe it was when you got paired up in potions when you didn’t even tolerate each other; or maybe it was when he kissed you and you both liked it.

You were sitting in the astronomy tower, it was the dead of night. The soft blanket under you was your second source of warmth from the cold midnight air that was rushing through gusts all around the star surrounded tower. The main accumulation of snugness from your body was caused by the body that was both softly and tightly wrapped around you, Fred Weasley.

You shuffled closer to him as a breeze swept through the skylight classroom, and you felt him pull you completely flush against him. You had a smile on your face as you looked up at him, he had the same smile on his face maybe slightly bigger than yours; as he pressed a light, long kiss on your lips.

Spending time with him has become a habit. It’s been year since he kissed you. You kept no labels on what your relationship was with him, considering your pureblood prejudiced family. You had set up rules for your ‘relationship’ 1. No one can know except for George. 2. No sex. 3. It ends as soon as you get engaged at Christmas.

Your parents have been planning your engagement for many years with Adrian Pucey, it wasn’t fully officiated yet but you knew it was happening the Christmas of your last year, this year.

You didn’t hate Adrian Pucey but you saw him as a brother, he was always protecting you from all the other guys who wanted to just knock you up. You couldn’t imagine him marrying you, you loved him as a sibling not as a husband.

Fred on the other hand, you had agreed with him that this ends in two weeks and you intend to keep it that way; but you couldn’t help but tell him how much you love him every time he kisses you like this.

You laid your head on his chest and thought about your second rule. The only reason you wanted to keep that rule was because you were afraid you’d get too attached to him after that; the problem is that you’re already too attached.

You looked up at him and pressed a rough kiss to his lips as you straddled his hips. You looked up at you wide-eyed as he said nervously “What are you doing, love?”

Butterflies erupted at the nickname as you replied “I want to break rule two.” Your firm statement caught him off-guard; he must have thought this was another one of your very heated makeout sessions that would then lead to him jerking off in the shower while moaning your name. -he would never admit it but you know that’s what happens-

“You sure?” He asked, putting his hands on your hips. You could feel him grow hard under you and you decided to tease him, “Don’t tell me you don’t want this, Freddie?” You grinned your hips against his and you heard him groan at your action.

He looked at you with lust in his eyes as he said “Of course I fucking do, but are you sure?” You nodded as you leaned in to kiss him feverishly, his hands wrapped around hips tighter and pulled you right on his cock. You let out a small moan at the feeling and started tugging his hair as you kissed him harder.

If you were going to get engaged in two weeks to a man you didn’t feel anything but brotherly feelings, you at least wanted to know the feeling of having sex with the one you love. In the Astronomy Tower there was skin on skin and kisses like it would be the last time -which it might- and Fred saying that he loved you.

***

You hadn’t seen Fred since he told you that he loved you, you adored hearing those words from him; but for merlin’s sake you were getting married in ten days. You love him so much, but this was your family and your future.

You wanted to run to him to kiss him forever to tell him ‘I love you I love you I love you I love you.’ but you couldn’t. If your parents ever knew about this not only would it ruin your relationship with your family but it would also cost you your inheritance.

You were on your way to the Potions classroom, you were not ready to see Fred again; despite the fact that you weren’t even partners. The only reason that Fred was taking potions this year was because he would use the skills in making products for his joke shop. The reason that you didn’t know is because he loves seeing your expressions that you have on your face when you focus. He didn’t know a thing about potions but he could ace a test about what you do in potions.

You were grabbed by your hips into an abandoned classroom, you heard the door of the classroom close as you saw Fred incredibly close to you and his hands on your hips rubbing smooth circles on your hip-bone with his thumbs as he did so often.

“I know that you never want to see me again, and that we’re supposed to end this Christmas; because of your family and your future, but I don’t want you to. I know we said no strings attached but I can’t stop loving you. As soon as this year started I tried I swear I tried to not love you but I can’t. I love you so much Y/n and I want you to know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to wake up with you every morning I want to call you mine and I want everyone to know how much I fucking adore you. Please let that happen.”

“Fred-” You started looking away from him feeling your eyes start to sting, “Please don’t make this harder Fred.”

He lifted one hand from your hip and tilted your chin up to him and you saw his eyes red. “I want you and I want you to be happy and I know that you won’t be happy with Pucey. If I knew you’d be happy with him I wouldn’t have tried to make you stay with me because I care about your happiness much more than I care about mine.”

“Fred, you couldn’t leave your family so why would I have to leave min-” You started but you were cut off by Fred’s voice growing angry and desperate “Because my family doesn’t use the crutatious curse on me for not getting an O and they don’t get me married to someone I see as a sibling.”

A tear spilled from your eye the same time that a tear fell from his. “P-please Fred.” you choked out quietly. “I love you I love you I love you.” He repeated pressing kisses on your lips. “Tell me that you want to marry him and I will let you go I promise.”

Your eyes fell on the floor, you didn’t want to marry him but you just couldn’t do that to Pucey, he wanted to marry a muggle born as he told you before. Not only would you be covering for yourself but you would also be covering your inheritance and for him.

“I can’t stay with you Fred. I’m sorry.” You pulled yourself out of his grasp and started to control the tears that were falling helplessly.

His tears stopped and his face became emotionless as he said “Fine.” roughly and then added “But if you ever need anything, I’m here for you.”

He walked out of the classroom and you fell on the floor crying. You didn’t go to class and as you were told from gossiping whispers neither did Fred.

***

The wedding was in Two days. You were currently lying in bed while Adrian was on his desk doing ministry paperwork. In Christmas you had in fact gotten engaged to him, and you graduated, and secured an internship at St. Mungo’s and you were about to start work as an actual healer in a month.

You had seen Fred around Hogwarts as you knew you would, you couldn’t stop looking at him every time you saw him. You couldn’t help but also notice how much happier he looked without meeting with you. The thought made your heart clench as it always did when you thought of him.

You let out a sigh, as you watched Adrian finish his paperwork and place his quill on top of the papers. “You work too hard, you know that right. We just graduated two months ago.”

“Yeah I know.” He said he got up and sat beside you on the bed. You never slept together in the same bed -unknown to anyone else- you would take turns to sleep on the couch that was in the same room. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” You replied shortly, sitting up and avoiding his gaze. “Oh come off it, really how are you feeling? The wedding’s in two days.”

“Horrible.”

“Yeah that seems about right.” He replied with a small chuckle trying to add humor into the situation. “You could always go to him, you know.” Adrian had found out about you and Fred the semester after Christmas, always following your sad looks at Fred.

“I can’t do that to you-”

He let out a frustrated sound at your words “you know this isn’t about me anymore.” His parents were put in Azkaban after what happened in the ministry with Voldemort so he was able to do whatever he wanted. You couldn’t go to Fred. He had seemed so happy without you and you didn’t want to make him sad anymore.

“I can’t Adrian, you saw how happy he looked after what happened.”

“I personally think it’s all for show. Considering that who I think is him is waiting outside right now.” He said looking out the window where he saw a Weasley hesitant to ring the doorbell or not.

You rushed down stairs noticing Adrian looking out the window, this was the Pucey manor so your parents wouldn’t know anything. You opened the door seemingly at the same time that he was about to ring the doorbell and it was George Weasley.

“In hindsight, I can tell why you’re married to him.” George said, eyeing the manor. When you were about to tell him that that’s not the reason you married Adrian he waved a hand dismissing your words while saying “I know the story, don’t worry.”

You pressed your lips to a thin line as you motioned for him to step inside. “I heard you’re working in St. Mungo’s congratulations.” He said casually as he walked into the manor.

You curled an eyebrow wondering how he found that out and sensing this he replied looking at you “Fred asks about you a lot, talks about you a lot too. I was starting to think you were an angel considering the way he talks about you.”

You felt a sad feeling flutter in your stomach as you said “I heard your joke shop is going good, that’s great.”

He nodded and said “It has, but Fred hasn’t. Let’s just skip the pleasantries and get to the important part. You’re getting married in two days and considering how awful Fred’s been, he’ll be in a cave of sadness when you get married. Do you love Pucey?”

You shook your head finding no reason in denying it anymore “Then why are you still here? You won’t be covering up for Pucey considering his imprisoned parents and you won’t be mending any relationship with your parents either since it’s been broken a long time ago. As for your money, you’re going to be working as a healer in the biggest wizarding hospital. So why are you still here?”

“Fred just looks so much happier without me and I didn’t want to ruin that.” You said sadly, not believing yourself considering what George just said about Fred being miserable.

“If that’s the only thing holding you back then just know if you thought he was happy after Christmas then you’re so wrong. You should see the way he was when you were meeting up. He was chanting all around the Burrow that he’s in love and it was honestly sickening as Ron would put it. Mom didn’t even care that she didn’t know who he was in love with, she was just happy for him. You should also know that he was preparing to give you this, if you know the engagement hadn’t happened.” He walked up closer to you and handed you a small box and a letter. “I best get going now, you know, for the shop.”

He left the manor and apparated away and you sat down on one of the chairs as you reluctantly opened the letter.

Dear Y/n,

Hello my love, I want to tell you that I thinking of doing something insanely stupid. I always told you how I personally didn’t want to get married before I turned at least Twenty, but then I met you. I love you, and I want to take every last breath of my life while I’m with you. I still don’t want to get married right now, but I still want you to know that someday I will marry you. The only reason I wrote this letter is because I’d probably be too awkward saying this in front of you, George is the one with the open feelings, not me. I promise I will always want to be with you and I hope you never doubt that for a second.

I love you,

Fred.

You could see the tear stains on the letter and at the point when you finished reading the letter you couldn’t tell if the stains were from you or from Fred. You reluctantly opened the box and found a ring inside, a promise ring. You let out a choked sob and you heard Adrian rushing down the stairs. He read the letter and looked at the box in your hand and then hugged you tightly.

***

The next day was spent with you crying and Adrian comforting you. “I think you should go to him.” He said as he held you tightly after you finished crying for the millionth time as it seemed.

“Do you think I really should? Wouldn’t he be mad?”

“For merlin’s sake Y/n! He wouldn’t be mad, he’d be thrilled. You read the letter and you saw the ring. What more do you want?!” He said loudly shaking you as if he was hyping you up for a quidditch game.

“Okay I’ll go.” You said with a small smile on your face. “What about you? Will you be cancelling the wedding?” You said as you started to get up. A smirk was on his face as he said “I don’t need to cancel the wedding, just need to change the bride.”

*Fred’s Pov.*

There was a knock on the door when he was sitting on the couch thinking about how the person that he loves is getting married in less than 24 hours.

He got up reluctantly to go open the door, George was out on a date with Angelina; so he wouldn’t open the door like he usually would have.

When he opened the door he saw you standing there with your hair and clothes wet, from the rain he didn’t even notice was there and your eyes blood-shot. Probably resembling his, he thought. After a few seconds of shock passed he asked “What are you doing here?”

You fiddled with the sleeves of your sweater as you said looking at the floor in a small voice “I love you.” He felt his heart skip several beats and his stomach fluttered but his face remained emotionless as you looked up at him.

“Why now?” He asked, his eyebrows furrowed and heart still leaping. You held out a familiar letter and box that were restrained with your tears instead of his. His breath caught in his throat when he took them from your hand, fingers brushing lightly.

“I love you and I want you to be with me.” You said looking at him. He resisted the urge to bring you in his arms and kiss you until he couldn’t breathe just to do it again. “What about Pucey and the wedding?”

“There’s still going to be a wedding just that he’s not going to get married to me.” He raised an eyebrow at your statement. “Tomorrow is going to be the wedding of Adrian and Audrey almost Pucey, about time.” You said with a small smile on your lips and you let out a chuckle.

He couldn’t resist the smile that found its way on his face when you smiled. “Fred, I’m sorry that I didn’t do this sooner. I just- you looked so happy after Christmas that I thought that you’d be better off without me.” You added your face serious again as you looked up at him meekly, eyes stinging; you hated how much you cried lately.

He cupped your face with both his hands as he leaned down to reach your height and said “I’d never be better off without you. I love you, how can I be better off without someone I love?”

He kissed you softly and then you wrapped your arms around him and hugged him tightly as you cried in his arms from both how sad you were without him and how happy you are now. He hugged you back just as tightly and let you inside the apartment and he wrapped your legs around him as he sat you both on the couch. You kissed him and said “I love you so much Fred.”

“I adore you, love.” Your stomach fluttered at the familiar nickname and he pressed kisses all over your face and repeated an ‘I love you.’ between each one. You felt yourself laugh between your happy tears, He brushed away all your tears with his thumbs. “I can’t stand seeing you cry, and we have a wedding to get to tomorrow. We can’t have such a pretty face crying a day before a wedding.”

You laughed once again as you kissed him deeply, “Fred, let’s break rule number two again, please?” He kissed you again just after he said “I thought you’d never ask.”

When you fell on Fred’s bed you put your finger on his lips and said “We can’t stay up late, we have a wedding to get to tomorrow. Okay?”

Fred nodded seemingly not interested in your words as he was kissing your neck. He let out a hum and said “Less talking, more kissing.” You laugh at his statement and you spent the entire night doing exactly that and a lot more shagging. You ended up being late for the wedding, but Adrian didn’t mind seeing the happy smile on your face.

[greatwyrmgold]

I remember watching maybe two-thirds of the first episode of Misfit of Demon King Academy back in 2020, deciding it was garbage, and moving on. It seemed like another dumb isekai-adjacent power-fantasy action/harem light novel adaptation.

The next month, Geoff Thew published a video about how MoDKA is a great action-comedy, a parody in the same vein as One Punch Man, if OPM tried to pretend it was an ordinary superhero comic. A month ago, seeing that MoDKA was getting a second season, I decided to give it a second chance...

...and it's amazing what a change of perspective can do. MoDKA isn't high art, but it's a lot of fun if you don't think you're supposed to take it seriously. I'd compare it to Looney Toons before One Punch Man, specifically the parts where Bugs Bunny pulls one over on Elmer Fudd or Daffy Duck or whatever jerk deserves to be shamed this week.

There are a few things that I think make it work, beyond the simple absurdity of what Anos does.

Anos isn't a show-offy prick. He doesn't mind showing off, but he doesn't go out of his way to do so and often lets others take center stage when they can handle it. Anos is unflappably confident, but he's not arrogant—certainly not when compared to most of the purebloods and heroes he clashes with.

The central conflicts of the show are ones that Anos being super-strong doesn't trivialize. Sure, he could beat up everyone who disagrees with him, but that's clearly not enough to make royal-blooded demons stop believing in Avos Delhevia or treat half-demons any better (or make humans). It's easy for Anos to pick up a castle, spin it like a basketball, and chuck it across the woods, but that alone doesn't accomplish anything.

Anos isn't the only guy who does cool stuff; the supporting characters get their moments to shine. Part of this comes down to Anos encouraging his comrades' growth, but a lot of it comes down to the fact that characters other than Anos are allowed to have cool stuff. His closest friends could even surpass Anos in their respective specialties, with a bit more training. Everyone gets a chance to shine, even Anos's dorky dad and the technically-not-nameless students in the Unitarian political movement/Anos fanclub. (It makes sense in context. And isn't as dumb as it sounds.) Some of the biggest things Anos does are just him supporting his friends.

The characters are surprisingly detailed. Not incredibly so, but it's obvious that the author put a lot of thought into why the secondary cast is the way they are. Sasha and Misha Necron are absolutely a tsundere and a kuudere, but their backstory does a pretty good job of explaining why they treat each other and the people around them the way they do, and they have character traits outside their archetypes. Hardly anyone has the depth of an average Wildbow tertiary character, but plenty have more depth than the average isekai hero, or even the not-harem member who everyone agrees would make a better protagonist.

The series has thematic ambition beyond just making Anos look cool. The main villains, aside from the enigmatic Avos Delhevia, are demon institutions prejudiced against half-breeds and the legacy of one long-dead human who spent his life making sure humans would never let go of his hatred for demonkind. "Racism is bad" isn't the most sophisticated message, and it's not delivered in the most sophisticated manner, but it's also not delivered in the most basic manner. It doesn't make racism a matter of a few bad eggs, but of worldviews that the powerful use to justify fucking with the weak—worldviews that don't go away just because they're demonstrably, empirically wrong. It has its flaws*, but it has fewer flaws than ~90% of stories that try to tackle this subject.

So yeah. It's not a masterpiece, but if you want a dumb fun show to watch, you could certainly do worse.

*Like how the main reason that humans hate demons is a spell one dude cast that projects his angry Alex Jones rants into every human's mind for two thousand years. This could be turned into something that works without much effort, and if someone said that plot point wasn't so blunt and braindead in the light novel, I would probably believe them.

[spyridonya]

For Daeran and Lann: What was their first impression of each other? For Kadira and Daeran: If you had told one of them that the other would be their soulmate, what would they think? For Kadira and Lann: What was their first kiss like?

SHIP QUESTIONS

For Daeran and Lann: What was their first impression of each other?

Daeran's impression of Lann was prejudiced, one would suppose. He mistook Lann for a tiefling and that likely tempered confusion and knee jerk revulision. Lann has the boy next door good looks with a body to murder for, so what if half of him was covered with scales? He did think Lann was a simpleton and to his delight, Lann had wit and casually did not give a fuck about Daeran's rank or reputation but cared about his character.

Lann thought Daeran was the most beautiful person he had ever seen (knocking Wenduag down to two), but the moment Daeran opened his mouth, Lann had a grudge. It wasn't so much that Daeran was awful, though he was, it just added to the fact he was a noble. How Lann treated and reacted to Daeran wasn't so much special as it was the first noble that Lann could interact with. He had no idea how much it would endear him to Daeran.

(For the record, neither Lann nor Daeran realized how beautiful Kadira was, because neither had seen her 'cleaned up' until after the retaking of Kenabras - the poor girl was usually covered in grime, dirt, her blood, cultist blood, and/or ichor on top of being exhausted. Then Kadira settled as a tie with Daeran for Lann.)

For Kadira and Daeran: If you had told one of them that the other would be their soulmate, what would they think?

If you told Daeran during Act 1 that the bedraggled little tiefling with the excellent tits was his soulmate, he would laugh and laugh and need a sip of wine. If you told Kadira during Act 1 that the smug voiced aasimar who somehow never got dirty during the invasion was her soulmate, she would have given you such a baleful look.

If you told either during Act 4, they would take that concept far more soberly and seriously, with Daeran being the first admit that doesn't seem that far fetched. Kadira would simply panic and worry while nodding frantically in agreement that you were probably right.

For Kadira and Lann: What was their first kiss like?

They knew their first kiss was clumsy the moment they had it, despite how badly they wanted to kiss each other. Looking back, they would absolutely go 'yeah, that was a really fucking awkward kiss'. Kadira wasn't much of an expert and she was Lann's first kiss. There wasn't even that much tongue! But they still liked it, they liked the feeling of each other and the taste of each other.

[draceempressa]

TW chapters before, have always been social and psychological, but chapter 5 in particular is a huge middle finger to stereotype-and common beliefs/views of stereotypes. 

Many assumes Vil’s backstory involved him being poor, but Kalim already proves just because you’re rich doesn’t mean your life have no problem. And before the chapter starts, many people antagonize Vil for he is harsh towards Epel, and he’s the prettily elegant one, “the mean girl”, in haters’ words, when Leona and Idia, who are objectively bigger jerks, who are understandably more disliked in-universe, get passed in the fandom for they are relatable/more masculine/boyish. Yes, ugly people have their own problem. That doesn’t mean pretty people don’t have their problem, ranging from being harassed, prejudiced as superficial or being bitch, etc.

Media and culture, for years, have been painting masculinity as strength and femininity as weakness, lawful is bad and chaotic is good, the beautiful/elegant people is wrong and the cute ones are innocent/on the right side. 

Riddle already have it bad for he is lawful, but Vil has it worse for he is not only lawful, but also being feminine and pretty. Not to say we have to be unreasonably lawful like Riddle or super strict like Vil, what’s I’m trying to say is, the mindset of law and femininity is purely bad and chaos and masculinity is purely good is wrong-though,  generally “pure” mindset is wrong. 

Related to this, TW actually run on gray morality, not black and white. You’re too black and you get hated (like Leona and Idia) , but if you’re too white you get laughed (like Deuce, Jack, Kalim) And it’s fine. Everyone can be both wrong and right in different times , and that’s how it is in real life too. Nobody is pure evil nor they are pure good . Purity  (in concept and principle)is never good actually.

Many people are rooting for Epel for the points above, for he is both chaotic and want to be masculine, and antagonize the pretty, lawful and feminine Vil, but overtime fandom are proven to be wrong. Pome chapter is huge callout for  the stereotyping mindset, as well, the previous points. What Epel wants isn’t “for people to look past his looks”, it’s “to be as masculine as possible in both looks and personality” . He is not fighting prejudice, he is simply giving in to the idea of toxic masculinity. He doesn’t want people to think he’s a badass despite his look, he want to be beefy so ppl can tell he’s a badass in first glance.  His idea of masculinity is to talk shit to people , be beefy as possible, to pick fights and only fight with fists. He is projecting the idea of masculinity to Jack, like how he says he wants to be beefy as Jack. It’s like when girls using a model, or basically someone else, to be her base of ideal beauty, which is equally unhealthy. It’s not fine even if it’s boys who do it, as it’s still not accepting who you actually are. 

Speaking about Jack, he too is a victim of prejudice. In his robe story, Ace is surprised he’s from Pyroxene and not the Savannah., implying the prejudice beastmen only come from the savannah (and gladly Riddle immediately calls Ace out for it),  in his voice lines, he is offended by  Ruggie’s disbelief reaction when he says he never got red mark in exams, and he is also offended when MC is shocked he says he want to go to the library, implying the prejudice “beefy men must be brainless muscle”. Jack, is still proud of his beastmen heritage and is sporty and active, but he is also fighting prejudice of beefy men are dumbasses by studying as hard as he does his physical exercises. 

We are also fed by culture and media that the word “ugly” and “beautiful” is limited to just visual things, when Pomefiore, Rook and Vil makes it clear “beauty” is everything that can be your advantage/power or your every good trait (like being unyielding, having bond and understanding others, and having special code of conduct). Which it means, the opposite also applies-that the word “ugly”  Vil mentioned to himself before his overblot is more referring to his other traits. That he finally cheats, that he is weak and gives in to his stress-if he thinks strength is beautiful then he must thought weakness is ugly. 

Not to say looks doesn’t matter, because it is, as we humans are visual creatures, and if visuals don’t matter, we don’t only wouldn’t have fashion or beauty care products, or visual arts, but even visual informations like newspapers, books, or even socmed pages, and fashion can be a form of self expression. The problem is when people don’t use their brain and see past through someone’s looks. Looks is part of one’s identity, but it’s not all there is to them.

Riddle paints himself as the judge and executioner, not only establishing law of the Queen of Hearts but also punishes people who crossed her rules on the place with his UM and decapitating them from their magic. Vil, meanwhile, paints himself as a tutor. He’s strict, but he’s not lawful for the sake of law. He seeks to help people grow, to taught people things, but being strict teacher he is, he refuses to teach in first go, letting you try your own method first (Deuce’s lab coat story),or that  when he agrees to help, he will teach you how to do it instead of doing it and gives you the final result (Jamil’s dorm uniform) . He is explicitly nicer to people who are willing to learn (his own Halloween card) Alternatively, he can be pestered to help (Halloween, Malleus pretty much pestering him with the whole western dragon vs eastern dragon difference for one hour ), or,despite all his complaints, he will help anyway (Ghost Marriage, Vil mentions Idia often asks for his help) . He also congratulates ppl who did grow well, even if they did beat him. (fairy gala ending, Epel when finally admitting cuteness is advantage too, Deuce right after he beats him) ,  he is fine with people hating him as long they actually develop themselves-that he thinks his responsibility is to help ppl grow, not to make ppl simply adore him (his own dorm uniform)And he also breaks the pattern of great seven incarnate harassing MC and gets gradually more hostile about it. He can also appreciate other’s kindness (his own robe story), as well strong point (PE voice line, he openly admits Epel’s strong point in flying), and can even show some sympathy (not empathy ) (Ortho’s ceremony gear)

Leona insults others to feed his superiority inferiority complex and knows where it hurt (like calling Riddle Red Midget or bastard octopus to Azul-note, that was the insult Azul used on himself on his self deprecating moment after his overblot) , Vil insults other as the ones he deems unworthy yet to call with name, but potatoes, French for potatoes is “earth’s apple”, also back in the day ppl are scared to eat potatoes bc they are still related to nightshade/belladonna and said to be devil’s plant , only after they get past the prejudice they eat potatoes. So yeah if he call you by name , it means he already acknowledge you to certain degree, and if he still uses vegetables he’s still deems you unworthy-no romantic hc blogs it’s not what he will call his s/o

Fandom complained, “save Epel, he doesn’t fit in Pomefiore, and he’s stuck” but is he? He did , in fact, have a choice, mentioned in Jade’s dorm uniform by Vil “You know how to change dorms, right Epel?” It’s by his  own admission he stays in Pomefiore bc his pride to prove Vil wrong that “cute isn’t a strength on its own”  Besides, Pome isn’t just about being yourself (despite being art neurodivergent and defying gender norms), it’s also not about picking your fight-instead, it’s about picking the method.

Again, we are fed to the idea femininity is weak by other media and culture. In TW,yes,  Vil is obectively the most feminine of TW cast, but weak? Definitely not.He can beat the beefy guys physically (PE uniform voice line), easily, and magically, he is strong enough to be able to make barrier than can protect people from MALLEUS (Cater halloween) , and when he’s overblot, he is the only one so far you failed to beat until Deuce used the counterattack using his own magic. Kalim isn’t joking or is in the clouds when he says Vil is one of the strongest mage of the school.

Yes, Yana says fuck patterns and stereotypes, but it’s not like she pulls plot twists randomly out of her ass.She always put foreshadowings first. Vil being bullying victim already mentioned as early as his robe story,, that the overblot cause is always something that is already problem to them even BEFORE NRC-Epel was able to curb people before NRC and get away with being a jerk, it wasn’t until Vil beat him in opening day that he started to be stressed about the whole manner thing.  that he doesn’t like things that doesn’t last from his school uniform, and the previous mentions of Vil’s tutor traits above that he’s not as malicious , not just the mean girl fandom make him to be. Chapter titles always refer to the local great seven incarnate, not specifically the prefect. “Desert’s Tactician” is clearly Jamil, not Kalim.Being a strategist is certainly not Kalim’s trait. Chapter title not referring to him, he wasn’t stressed before NRC, and the blot dripping scene happes without him, why the surprise it’s not Epel who overblot ? the build up is all there.

[avversiera-writes]

touch your heart [senju tobirama/you] - chapter 10

Summary: Hashirama might go down as the worst matchmaker in history, but he thinks he might be on to something. Tobirama sees through his brother's schemes and is determined not to fall for it. Or fall for you.

Word Count: about 5k

AO3 LINK TO TOUCH YOUR HEART

AOR SERIES LINK TO ‘TIL DEATH DO US PART

[<<<CHAPTER ONE] [CHAPTER TWO] [CHAPTER THREE] [CHAPTER FOUR] [CHAPTER FIVE] [CHAPTER SIX] [CHAPTER SEVEN] [CHAPTER EIGHT] [CHAPTER NINE] 

“You’re really going?” Madara inquires. He is seated in front of you, with a small wooden table between. A candle and two cups of tea sits on its surface. 

 You smile at him. “Yeah. I need to make amends. Help out those who need help and be good, whatever that means.” 

 Madara’s eyebrows knit in worry. “I could come with you.” 

You let out a chuckle and you reach for your friend’s hand. “It’s okay. I can handle my own. You know I need to do this.”

 Madara looks at you doubtfully, then he stares at your hand on top of his. For a moment, the two of you sit in silence. You glance at Madara’s face, the candle light flickering shadows on his skin. You notice the dark bags underneath his eyes and you worry about whether he is not getting any sleep. Madara moves his hand to cover yours, and he squeezes it. 

“I…” Madara starts. He presses his thin lips together. 

 You raise your eyebrows up, expectant. 

 “Nevermind,” Madara sighs. 

You lean forward to encourage him. “Come on. You can tell me anything.” 

 Madara’s eyes grow hesitant. His thumb grazes over your skin, and the action makes you swallow your words. This makes you sad. Someone finally cares about you and you are going to leave them behind. 

“Madara,” you whine. 

 “What will you do when you get back?” Madara asks tentatively. 

You stare at your friend, trying to think. You did not think about this ahead. “I do not know.” 

 “Will you still pursue a career of being a shinobi?” 

“Of course,” you tell him. “It is my life.” 

 Madara nods, and he looks to the side. “Will you be happy, if you do?” 

Your eyes swim for a moment. “Madara, what is going on?” 

Madara retracts his hand and buries it underneath the table. “Nothing.”

 “Madara?” You call for him. “Thank you for everything you’ve done.” 

Madara nods, and a small smile softens his cold features. “Don’t die. I will not forgive you, if you do.” 

 You smirk, and you slowly stand up. “That’s a given.” 

You head towards the exit of his room. You hesitate to slide it open, your fingers resting at the handle. 

“I do not have any plans. I do not have a dream either,” you start to say. “But I want to figure it out. See where I stand in the grand scheme of things.”

You move your arm to slide the door open. 

 “That is not an easy path to take,” Madara warns, moving his hand to take his cup. 

 “When did I ever want easy?” You give him a huge grin, one full of bravado. If you are being honest, you are afraid of going out there once again, but this is the way forward. 

Pride is the last thing you see from Madara’s eyes before you close his door. 

//

You do not see Tobirama until the day you have to be on the Academy grounds, where the ceremony to announce its new curriculum and reformation is going to happen. You stay by the sidelines, your eyes tracking him as he moves about. His face and his demeanor is calm, but there is an air of frenzy surrounding him, as if his skin is itching but he cannot scratch it to ease his discomfort. The sun travels high across the sky, and the expression on Tobirama’s face becomes worse. His eyes start to squint, giving an impression that he is glaring at just about anything he sees, and the lines of his face start to form a scowl. 

 People start to gather in front of the Academy, children, parents, and people visiting from outside of Konoha. You stick to the shadows, carefully watching your back just in case another person tries to pull a knife on you again. 

 That is the only reason you want to get out there again–to offer help to anyone who is desperate to go after you, and to stop the bounty on your head. You know that you must come back to where it all began. Instead of hurting others, you want to use your skills to save because you think you can do it. Hashirama and Madara believe you can do it. 

 You wait for a little bit more, and finally, Hashirama and Tobirama take to the stage that was quickly built this morning. Hashirama says a few good words after retelling the brief beginnings of Konoha and the alliances between the clans that reside in it, and then, he steps aside to let his brother speak. 

 Tobirama glares at the crowd. You watch him with amusement. 

“My brother has a vision of what the Academy can be,” Tobirama begins. “It is not only a place to train young shinobis, but it is also a place to foster an environment where they can excel in many areas such as the sciences and the arts. I proudly announce that I have reformed the Academy to be exactly that…”

You frown. 

 Tobirama finishes his speech and goes on to summarize the curriculum by reading the titles and its author . There is no mention of your name anywhere. Not even a slight reference to you. 

 Something hot washes over you, and it makes your head dizzy. 

 When Tobirama steps off the stage, he nods at everyone and his brother and welcomes the people to explore the Academy. 

 You fight through the crowd to get to him, but he gets farther and farther away. 

You see Hashirama clutching a copy of the curriculum in one arm as he entertains a few children. 

 You wait for an opening, and you fake your smile as you greet Hashirama and ask to see the book. 

 You stare at the first page where Tobirama’s name is printed. Your head becomes empty. 

Suddenly, you push the book back into Hashirama and you bound after Tobirama with a boiling determination to bury your fist into his face. You try not to shout his name in the crowd, and instead, you run to him and you violently push him into another direction.

"I can't believe you!" You almost shout, once the two of you step into the empty classroom.

 Tobirama's hard expression does not change. 

You have never felt rage like this. You have been angry to the point that it gives you enough power to destroy things, but this rage is different. You only see fire, and it makes your heart burn and your face hot. Most of all, it makes tears prick your eye, making your vision blurry. All you can do is yell out because this one really stings. 

 “Are you not going to say anything?” You bark. “Say something or I am going to take my katana and fucking stick it up your arrogant, senile ass!” 

 Tobirama seems to take his time to make up his mind. You are too angry to see the conflict crossing on his face and the more he stays silent, the more you want to rage on. How can he just do this? 

 “Why aren’t you saying something?” You scream, the question tearing at your throat. Your head is spinning. You have never felt like this before. 

You feel...betrayed. 

 Your heart shatters before you can grab the pieces to salvage them.

Tobirama’s eyes are rippling with unsaid words, but they settle and they grow indifferent. “You are a criminal. I could not have your name publicized and connected to the Academy.” 

You gape at Tobirama, realization dawning on you. His suspicions, his need to keep track of you and your movements, his invasive questions to you, his constant monitoring of your abilities and what you can’t do. 

 It is all too much. 

 “After I tell you something so personal to me,” you grit your teeth and clench your fists to keep yourself from throwing him on the ground. “You use it against me in a very prejudiced way?”

 You go to a desk, and with sheer strength, you flip it over and it crashes to the floor, knocking back a few chairs. 

 Tobirama keeps silent and his expression remains stoic. His jaw tightens, and he is also clenching his fists to the point that they are shaking. 

“What is going on here?!” Hashirama interrupts, barging in through the classroom doors. 

 You try not to glare at the Hokage so you keep your eyes to the ground. 

“Nothing,” Tobirama grinds out. 

 “Your brother,” you slowly start. “Accidentally left my name out on this project you assigned to us, in which we equally worked on.” 

Hashirama’s head snaps to Tobirama, disbelief written all over his face. “Is that why you wouldn’t show me the whole thing in the beginning?" He asks his brother. 

 “You’re only in this for the money,” Tobirama says through gritted teeth, but it sounds like he is trying to convince himself. He does not even look at you when he says this. 

Your mouth drops in shock. “How dare you?!” You have never been so outrightly insulted. 

 “Tobirama, that is enough!” Hashirama interrupts. 

 “What is it to you anyway?” Tobirama demands, his face growing even more emotionless. “You’re just loud, but there really isn’t anything to you. You’re just an empty can, clanking around, making noises to get attention.” 

 Hashirama looks shocked at his brother’s words, and his eyes flit to you with concern immediately. “Tobirama!” Hashirama scolds, wanting to knock sense into his head. 

You stare at Tobirama, and then you turn away when you feel a hot tear slide down your cheek. “Wow,” you laugh to yourself. “To my naivety I thought you couldn’t get worse. On top of being a jerk, you are also quite egoistic, forget it.”

You quickly wipe the tear away, wondering why you cannot depend on your usual facade to hide your hurt away. You take a few deep breaths, and then you turn to Tobirama. 

 “Get fucked, you bastard,” you snarl, and with that, you walk away from him. “I’m glad this is the last time I’ll get to see your shitty face.” 

//

Tobirama stares at the space you just left, and he feels bereft of any feeling except regret. He tries to push it away but it weighs down on him to the point that he is bracing himself on a desk. He is an expert at controlling his emotions and yet, he cannot control the guilt that is taking over him. He feels shame over his own words and he immediately wants to chase you down and take it all back, but he plants his feet and he stares at the surface of the table he is leaning on. 

“What did you do?” Hashirama quietly asks, staring at the back of his brother’s head. 

 “Leave me alone,” Tobirama says. 

“Tobirama,” Hashirama calls his name, trying to make him talk. 

 “I said, leave me alone!” Tobirama slams his palms on the table. 

“Tobirama, you are acting like a child,” Hashirama scolds, the warmth from his voice undetectable. “I suggest you get it together.” 

 “Or else?” Tobirama retorts, feeling risky today. His brother can be scary when he is angry, and he deserves to receive his brother’s wrath. 

Hashirama grabs his arm harshly, forcing his brother to look at him. “Why did you do that?” 

Tobirama grits his teeth and he does not look his brother in the eye. 

 “Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

Tobirama takes his arm away and he starts to pace in the classroom. “Do you really want to know why?” 

 “Yes. Why?” 

 “Because if her name gets out in public and it is associated with mine, not only will that put a target on her back, she will also get my enemies on top of hers!” Tobirama shouts, his voice almost cracking from his outburst. 

Hashirama stares at his brother, processing what he just said. “What?” He breathes out. “It’s not because you know about her past or you're being your judgemental self?” 

 “No! I don’t care about that! How could you make her work with me?” Tobirama grows quiet, and he takes his hand and covers his forehead with his palm. “How could you just dump that on me...just how?!” He suddenly bursts out. "She is unbearable!"

Hashirama suddenly understands where his brother is coming from. “You should have just talked to her.” 

 Tobirama glances at the door. “Yeah, well. You could have warned me, elder brother.” 

 “Then would you have worked with her in the first place?” Hashirama asks. 

 “No,” Tobirama scowls. 

 Hashirama raises an eyebrow. “Exactly.” 

Tobirama falls silent, and his forehead creases. 

 “And I am also her Hokage. I can’t be giving out her secrets without her permission,” Hashirama adds, his voice gentle this time. “You should have told her because she is going away for a mission today.” 

Tobirama’s head snaps at this and he bounds for the door immediately, but his brother stops him. 

 “Leave her be and give her space,” Hashirama advises. “She will be back.” 

 Tobirama shakes his head, but he does not want to impose on you anymore. He leans back into the edge of a table and he folds his arms together. 

 “She is not who you think she is,” Hashirama tells Tobirama. 

 “I know,” Tobirama quietly says, staring at one spot on the floor. 

 “Tobirama, you are one hell of a fool,” Hashirama continues to scold. 

Tobirama glances up at his brother. and he grits his teeth “Stop it, elder brother, I am aware of what I did.” 

He continues to glare daggers on the spot on the floor, and although he is trying to push his guilt away like he is used to doing, it does not abate and it hangs over his head like a kind of condemnation. 

 He really drove you away, and so easily. 

//

“Took you long enough,” the woman with the brown eyes–Hina, you remember from the day she attempted to stab you–says, peeling herself away from the shadows of the trees. “We have a deadline to meet.” 

 “I had some men problems,” you roll your eyes and you keep walking. “Let’s go.” 

 “I’m surprised you even want to tag along, you had a good life in there,” Hina says, matching your quick strides. “And why don’t you just kill him? It’d save you time.”

 “How many times do I have to repeat that–”

 “Yeah, yeah, you don’t do that anymore,” Hina finishes and she gives you an unimpressed look. “Why did you even stop? I don’t understand.”

“I changed my mind, that’s it,” you lie. 

 “You felt guilty,” Hina surmises. “You never come back from killing, you know.” 

 You raise a shoulder to shrug, too angry to elaborate or to come up with a smart comeback. “Sure.” 

Hina unsheathes her knife and she flips it over in her hand. “Don’t give me that.” 

 “Why? I don’t even know you. You tried to kill me, remember?” 

 “Yeah, but now, we are working together.”

You sigh. You are tired of teamwork. It has not served you in any way that benefits you. 

 “I promise I won’t kill you,” Hina says, and she uncovers her hood from her head. Reddish brown hair falls down her shoulders and strands fall over her eyes. “Your turn to promise the same thing.”

You roll your eyes. “I promise,” you obnoxiously exclaim, not really meaning it. “Now, shut up and let’s go.” 

 You keep your eyes forward, using this newfound anger in you to not spare the village another glance.

//

Two years later…

Tobirama’s nephews push him to take them to the new meat restaurant that just recently opened up. He sighs, but he gives in since he got off work early and they came all the way to fetch him anyway. He watches them fondly as they fight and jostle each other as they walk, and he lets his mind wander about his latest research and the new jutsus that he just came up with. His brother did not approve of some, forcing him to seal them away and storing them in a more secured place. This is becoming a pattern between the two of them, and at times, Tobirama thinks that every jutsu he comes up with is dangerous to his brother. 

 He cannot blame him, though. Tobirama has been obsessing over his experiments more than usual because there are no more fights to go to. He has made a habit of picking up his pen over his sword. 

 He has kept himself busy, especially now that other Hidden villages are trying to model right after them. His brother sends him to many diplomatic missions to make allies, establish trade and commerce with nearby lands to make sure that Konoha is flourishing and growing. He also participates more in political games to gain resources and to learn of the newest technology. On top of his duties of being the Hokage’s advisor, he is also a teacher and he makes sure that his students are progressing in their careers as shinobi by taking them to espionage missions or bringing them to other lands to protect people and help out wherever they can. 

 He pushes them, and in turn, he also pushes himself to evolve more. He has a routine that he prides himself on following when he is well enough, but he breaks them occasionally when he is rendered inaccessible due to his bouts of manic passion, where he gets all of his work and thinking done all by himself. Hashirama warns him about self-preservation and reminds him of his many self-inflicted accidents, but Tobirama is not one to worry about himself when he is so close to accomplishing a new feat. 

 He is unstoppable when he is in his element.  

And in his most vulnerable moments, when he feels like the weight of his responsibilities are too much (something he will never ever admit because he is a very proud man who loves what he does), his mind goes to you without his consent. He tries not to think about you at all, but his inhibitions fail him in the worst of times and his worries for you escape his most guarded parts of his mind and to the forefront of his thinking. He does not have feelings of contempt over the fact that this is how he is now, but you are gone. There is no point of fighting himself over feelings that will fade in time. Tobirama hopes they do fade in time. 

 He has more important matters to attend to. He has lives to look after and take care of. He cannot afford to entertain his sorry feelings. 

 He is also a shinobi. He trained all his life to set aside personal afflictions for the sake of the bigger picture. He cannot fail himself and his ways. 

 He has all the time to keep convincing himself that this is how it should be for him. 

His many nephews push open the door to the new restaurant, and Tobirama follows after them, warning them to calm down. 

 Sometimes, having their father’s exuberance has its disadvantages. 

 Tobirama naturally looks around the restaurant, observing the decorations: the traditional paintings of landscapes hanging on the wall and the small, makeshift fountain in the corner, where tiny fishes are swimming, the way the tables and booths are arranged. Then, his heart stops when his gaze lands on the familiar shape of your head. You are seated by the counter, quietly munching on your meal like you have not eaten in days. Your weapons lie on the next chair beside you, and there is a knapsack by your feet. 

 Tobirama cannot help but marvel at you, and he thinks that he is seeing a ghost because you have been gone for so long. He never thought that he would see you again. 

 Even in his fair share of travels, he attempts to look for you, and each time, he comes up with nothing and he is nowhere near where you are. He knows his thoughts are becoming more absurd by the moment, but he cannot help but stare at you. He notices that your skin is darker, probably from long exposure from the sun, and there are new healed scars on your arms that he never saw before, but most of all, you are alive. 

 He has spent so many months wondering if you are safe, that seeing you here is a relief, like a breath that he has been holding so damn long. Tobirama does not know what to say. He couldn’t just go there and sit himself near you and start a conversation, not after what he pulled. 

 He deserves your silence. He deserves nothing from you. 

 What would he even say in the first place? 

 That when he no longer hears your vindictive laugh coming after him, when your loud presence and your insulting demeanor are no longer terrorizing him, he has the urge to seek you out. 

 That despite the fact that he should no longer be thinking of you and what he did to you, he still does, and he does it obsessively, as if taking apart that moment can piece him another result that will not end in you leaving. 

Tobirama feels sick as he slides into the booth with his nephews. He is glad that the booth hides him from view, but if he really tries to turn his body, he can easily spot you. 

 Someone comes to serve them, and Tobirama waits for his turn as his nephews shout their orders out.

//

Arriving just a few hours ago, you hear about a new restaurant that has opened in Konoha. You take your time to get there, observing the new things that are happening in the village. The place has changed a lot in two years, and it seems like the place has also grown in population. You try not to wonder about one of the people leading this village who definitely had a big role in encouraging Konoha to grow this strong, but your mind fails you because the Senju clan’s influence is tangible in the air. The people clearly worship their Hokage, because you hear songs in the streets dedicated to Hashirama and poems being recited to tell his feats in battle and in building this village. Naturally, word outside the village travels fast when it comes to the formidable Senju brothers. 

 You hear that Tobirama has grown into a bigger role of politicking, and you speculate that he prefers to work in the background and have his brother in the spotlight because you do not hear songs or poems about him, or see colorful painted portraits of him being sold in the markets of Konoha. 

 Again, you try not to think about him, but his absence in the corners of the streets you pass by just pushes your mind to fill in the gaps with him. 

 Time away from Tobirama did not foster your distaste for him. Instead, you are filled with questions. You want to understand where he is coming from. You want to understand his intentions. You have always known based on your instincts and expertise of reading people that he is the type to lay his life down for this village and his elder brother, that his heart is dedicated to a cause bigger than him. You know deep in your heart, he is a good man, so you want him to talk and explain why he decided to exclude your name from the credit of participating in creating the Academy’s curriculum. 

 Despite his harsh words, he did only speak of the truth. It made sense, though it does not excuse the fact that he hurt you and actively chose to do that. 

 He should have talked. 

 You are disappointed in him, because you know that he can do better. You have seen him be better than that. 

 Your only regret is that you have let your anger blind you for the first time. You are usually pretty good at keeping your cool, but suddenly, when it comes to Tobirama, your feelings become heightened for no damn reason. It’s like his face triggers you and your mouth fires off to immediately insult him and make him see and hear you. 

 You arrive at the new restaurant, and your mouth waters at the sweet and savory smell of meat cooking. It has been a while since you had a good, hearty meal and that is what you will have, before you meet with the Hokage and catch up with Madara. 

 You keep still in your seat as you wait, trying your best to not walk around and touch everything in the restaurant because it is pretty neat. A group of loud boys enter the restaurant, and you chuckle to yourself, remembering Hashirama’s cute sons, but then your food arrives and you quickly take your utensil to eat. You have been so hungry that it does not matter how others perceive you right now. 

“The bill, please,” you request once you are finished eating. 

 The waiter hands refills your glass of water. “Your bill has been paid.” 

 “What?” You say in surprise, completely puzzled. “When?”

 You clearly did not pay your bill before you ate. 

“Just a few moments ago,” the waiter replies and he leaves you to your thoughts. 

You stare at your filled glass, thinking that you got lucky today and that the restaurant is probably doing this to garner more customers. 

 You admit to yourself that what they are doing is a good strategy. 

You shrug to yourself and gather your things so that you can meet Hashirama. You have been dying to catch up with him, and most of all, you are hoping to get a glimpse of Tobirama. 

 The anger you felt towards him is gone, and it replaces with an uncomfortable feeling on your chest. 

 You ignore it, lest it blossoms into something you cannot control. 

//

Hashirama greets you with open arms, and he goes to you like an eager child and you are immediately pulled into a huge embrace. You let out a surprised laugh, and Hashirama steps back to examine you. A huge grin spreads across his features and you cannot help reflecting back his sentiments. 

“I’m here!” You exclaim. 

 “Two years, my gods,” Hashirama cries out, his hands settling on your shoulders. “You could have sent a letter.” 

 You shrug apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

“No matter, no matter!” Hashirama walks back to his desk. “So? Tell me all about it.” 

You take a deep breath, trying to find the courage to retell what happened to you for the last two years. Different events flash into your mind, but you decide to start from the very beginning. Hashirama nods expectantly, encouraging you.

You leave with Hina, the woman who was sent to kill you. The two of you take the job that Nuga speaks of, which is to assassinate the leader of a growing gang towards the eastern lands, near the ocean. You had offered to help Hina so that she could make it back to her family, and then go on your way from there to offer your skills to help people. However, it did not go as planned. 

  The gang has controlled the growing ports near the ocean, signifying their growing power. As the two of you infiltrate the living quarters of the leader, swarms of his subordinates flood the hallways and the two of you become surrounded. With no way to go and no hope of accomplishing this job, you and Hina decide to fight your way out. 

  And in the heat of the battle, Hina gets injured. 

  You wade through countless bodies, one arm defending the two of you and the other half-carrying Hina. Blood sprays in the air, and your vision is painted red, but you keep going. You have no choice if you want to live. You try not to aim at the most vulnerable spots, and instead, you aim low at their legs or choose to slam the flat of your blade against their heads and swoop them off their feet. You are not free of injuries either, as you feel the debilitating stings of the blade slicing against your arm and your side. 

  “I’m sorry,” Hina whispers as the two of you leave a wake of injured men behind you. 

  You trudge ahead, not wasting time to put a huge distance between you and the gang of men. 

“Hina,” you tell her. “You better not die on me.” 

  Hina murmurs your name with a smile. “To fight with you is an honor, Y/n.” 

  You glance at the woman leaning heavily on your shoulder. Half of her body is completely soaked in blood. “Don’t say that. What happened to referring to me as the Man-Killer?” 

  “My family lives in the forest at the very south of the Earth country,” Hina says, her voice becoming weaker and weaker. “Please protect them and help them get through the winter.” 

  “Hina,” you say. “Don’t tell me this.” 

  “You’re just human, you know. You don’t deserve every bad thing out there.”

  “Hina,” you plead. “Shut up.” 

  “Sorry for your arm…” Hina murmurs.

The buzz of energy you feel that makes your blood pump leaves you, making you feel sluggish. Hina is now leaning her weight on you fully, and you know that the two of you cannot travel far like this, so you settle her down against a tree and you check her injuries. 

  Blood covers your hands like a pair of gloves, but you do not shrink away in fear or disgust. You do your best to take care of Hina, refusing to look her in the face. The moonlight shines between the spaces of the trees, illuminating her pale skin and her blood-soaked clothes. 

“Hina,” you whisper fearfully. 

  You do not get another response. 

You fall to your ass on the ground, feeling defeated. You rest your elbows on your knees, and you stare at Hina, feeling empty. After a minute, you make yourself reach for Hina’s hand, and you hold it, until the warmth from her body fades away. You let her know, as she leaves her body, that you are there for her and that she was not alone. 

  Then, before the sun rises, you do your best to clean her up, wiping away the blood from her face and arms, and you cover her with your own garment. You make her a grave, even though your body is tired and in pain. 

  When morning comes, you have her knife strapped with your swords, and you head towards the direction of her home. 

--

The trip takes almost two months, and in those months, you practice travelling through trees using your chakra to propel yourself from one branch to the next. You get tired, and you require long rests, but towards the end, you feel yourself getting stronger and more aware of your power. You pass many towns, luscious forests and dry deserts until you are in another country, taking extra care to watch your back. 

  It takes another two weeks until you find Hina’s family, and you find them in the old Hina fashion, with one of her siblings sticking a knife on your back. You disarm her younger brother easily enough, but the youngest sibling is on a tree branch above you, aiming an arrow to your head. 

“I come in peace,” you announce, immediately raising your hands and dropping the boy’s knife. “Hina sent me.”

  “Where is our sister?” 

  “I have her knife. She died from a job,” you tell them. 

  The girl glares at you. “Did the famed ningen satsujin-sha get her?”

You swallow nervously. “No.” The guilt swallows you, even though your hand did not strike her down.

  “Are you her friend?” 

  You try to think if the short time you spend with Hina can be called friendship. “No.” You decide.

The girl fires her arrow, and you quickly dodge it. You glance back to see where the arrow hits and you narrow your eyes. If you were a little slower, she could have gotten your eye. 

“Good shot,” you compliment. “Your sister told me to help you for the coming winter. You do not need to trust me, but I can help you. Her last words were focused on you.” 

  The girl eyes you suspiciously, and despite the grim situation, you break out into an uneasy grin. The shape of her face reminds you of Hina. 

“I promise I’ll get out of your hair soon enough. I just want to make good on my promise to Hina. I am of your service for as long as you see fit.” 

--

You end up staying with them for a year and a half. You help Hina’s family with hunting and house repairs. When the hunting is fruitful, you help the kids barter for money and other goods through skinned fur and meat that will help them prepare for the seasons. You also teach the kids how to fight, just in case they need to defend themselves. You help chop down firewood and you also fashion two bokkens for Hina’s siblings, and you promise to teach them swordfighting during the summer.

  Through Hina’s family, you learn a thing or two about forgiveness and compassion. 

  Hina’s parents hated you the moment they saw you. They blame you for their daughter’s death. Harsh words usually bounce off of you and in fact, you feed on harsh words because you have an arsenal of your own. Though this time, you choose to ignore their harsh words and practice your tact. Though there are other places you could be, you choose to plant your feet and follow Hina's dying wishes, and that means ensuring that they can live through the fast-approaching winter. 

When the harsh winter passes, Hina’s mother gives you a scarf and serves you a bowl of hot soup. Hina’s father offers you their couch to crash on and asks if you could stay with them a bit longer, and look out for their kids. 

  You could be in other places to pursue your own salvation, but instead, you choose Hina’s family to make it right with. 

  After the next winter and spring, you leave them, and you head towards Konoha, towards home. 

  You were not able to erase the bounty over your head, but helping Hina’s family, that finally felt like atonement. It finally felt like your actions are starting to mean more than just fighting and looking out for your own life. 

  You did not get all the answers you are looking for, but for now, you feel like you are finally on the right track. 

You take a deep breath, and look the Hokage in his eyes. It is completely nightfall, and Hashirama has lit a few candles to make the room brighter. You observe his misty eyes and you chuckle to yourself, because despite your absence, nothing has changed. 

 “I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through,” Hashirama begins, but he does not say anything more, letting a pregnant silence dawn between the two of you. 

“You do not have to worry about the bounty over your head,” Hashirama finally says as he settles on his chair again. 

 Your gaze snaps to Hashirama’s face, on full alert. 

“How come?” 

 Hashirama smiles, and he looks giddy. “My brother pleaded for your case and did some negotiations while you were gone. It is erased. You are free.”

Your jaw drops open in shock. “What?” 

 Hashirama smiles softly. “You know he feels really bad for what he did to you.” 

 “I knew it,” you whisper in disbelief. 

Hashirama sighs and he taps his chin. “I know you might hate him, and I am not excusing what he did! He is wrong for that. He is so wrong.”

 You chuckle and you let out an exasperated sigh. 

 “My brother and I have countless enemies,” Hashirama explains and he meets your eyes seriously. “You have your own burden to carry and he did not want to add any more by associating your name with his. He wants you to be free and not be tied down by the village to do what you need to do.” 

 The urge to look for Tobirama and punch him grows stronger. You have forgiven him long ago, but Tobirama seems to have forgotten that communication exists. If he just told you this in the first place, then you wouldn’t have spent the last two years cursing his name in your mind and making you think that he is a horrible person. 

“Well, I do hope that you catch him soon so that the two of you can talk,” Hashirama emphasizes the last word. “Knowing my brother, it will take years for him to admit anything true to himself, but he is kind, I can promise you that.” 

You let out a laugh, and warmth spreads across your chest. You shake your head with disbelief, and the excitement you feel makes you want to run through the streets of Konoha in joy. 

“I will let him know that you are back,” Hashirama promises. He smiles fondly at you. “And Madara has been waiting for your return.”

 The mention of your friend makes you start for the door. You can hardly wait to see Madara again. It has been too long. You think you may start crying just thinking of him. 

“Lord Hashirama, thank you,” you tell the Hokage sincerely, with all of your heart. 

You mean it, and with the bounty lifted and your heart set on the right path, you feel like you have taken a breath of fresh air. You can finally make your new start here, in Konohagakure.

 You are free. 

.

.

.

[CHAPTER ELEVEN >>>]

[frenchmarshmalloww]

Another go at May 21st prompt (it is that good sorry) "first Time" @drarrymicrofic

THE FIRST TIME DRACO SAID SORRY

It's a weird way, that day.

He's finally out of the house, for the first time in months. He just couldn't take it anymore. His mother is a mess, well as much as a mess as a Malfoy is allowed to be, even behind closed doors. She's not crying, not yelling, she's just there. Almost on hold. As if she'll restart only when Lucius is back. Somedays, Draco wishes his father would come home, just so she could live again. Then he remembers the last few years and he wishes for his father to die. No wonder he's going crazy.

So, he's out. At a loss at what to do to be honest. Where does a recently pardonned ex Death Eater, hated by most of the Wizarding World goes to unwind?

He ends up at a Muggle pub, painfully orders a drink - the bartender is one step away from calling St Mungos Muggle equivalent - and goes to sit at a booth in the corner. When he raises his eyes from his glass, he almost chokes on his own saliva. Fuck.

A pair of green eyes bore into him. Harry's face is blank, although Draco can read a trace of surprise and confusion in his furrowed eyebrows.

"I - huh - I wanted a drink, I can leave. Yes, right, I'm going."

A strong hand catches his wrist and prevents him from existing the booth.

"Stay."

Draco sits back down, quickly followed by Harry.

The silence between them is new - have they ever been this close without throwing insults at each others ? - but not really unconfortable. After a while though, Draco feels the need to speak.

"I'm sorry." He blurts out without thinking.

Harry looks at him with wide eyes.

"What?"

"I'm sorry for… everything I guess. My father was… No that's not right. Of course he's a prejudiced, racist son of a bitch, but I could have… Fuck. Sorry, let me try again."

Draco takes a few seconds to regroupe his thoughts and tries again.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to do what was right. I'm sorry I was a jerk to you and to so many others. I probably don't deserve a second chance, but I want to try, to make things right somehow."

"Okay."

"Okay? Just like that?"

"Yes, Draco, just like that. I'm too fucking tired to hate you anyway."

His name in that mouth feels like a punch in the stomach, but in sort of a good way.

"Okay," he smiles, "you want a drink?"

[reinvent-and-believe]

another taste of heavenly rush

So this was supposed to be a silly little breathplay PWP drabble as a birthday tribute to the lovely @witchertrashbag but then it kind of...evolved??? Mutated??? lol who knows what happened, I sure as hell don’t. Anyway happy late birthday Wine Aunt, you’re a credit to this fandom, I hope you enjoy this belated smutty mess 🖤

Jaskier is utterly bewitched by the sight of a huge, leather-clad hand on the man’s throat.

He should be paying attention to the words being exchanged, seeing as he started the quarrel that led to the aforementioned hand-on-throat situation. Well. Hadn’t started it, per se, but he had certainly escalated it, and gods know Geralt won’t appreciate that particular nuance.

But the red-faced man currently gasping for breath beneath the witcher’s considerable grip had simultaneously insulted Jaskier’s songwriting and Geralt’s honor in one ill-begotten, unoriginal sentence after Jaskier’s performance in the tavern common room, something about “don’t clap for that little prick’s filth, praising freaks and monsters.” The bard had simply smiled sweetly, taken a sip of his ale, and intimated that the man’s wife was something of an expert on the subject of little pricks.

And then the man tried to hit him with a chair, and Jaskier can hardly be blamed for that, although Geralt will, inevitably. He’d scurried away from the onslaught and called out an only vaguely panicked “Geralt!” which led them here, the ugly sour-breathed man pinned to the tavern wall, his feet twitching desperately for solid ground, held up by one huge, bulky hand.

This little misadventure won’t make it into one of his songs. There’s nothing poetic about a prejudiced drunk man being rude and getting choked for his efforts.

Although...Jaskier’s eyes are drawn again to the sharp contrast of the brown leather of the gauntlets against the greasy pink of the man’s skin. Maybe there is something poetic to choking, after all. Choking, choking out, feeling the life drain from your body by a huge, leather-clad hand. Choking as in choking something else, draining something else from...jerking off, choking as in jerking off, and it’s not his best work but he’s fairly distracted at the moment because the thought of a huge, leather clad hand gripping a swollen, leaking cock has burrowed its way into Jaskier’s mind and fuck, how is he supposed to think about anything else now? Slick red head squeezed a little too hard, beading pearlescent drops disappearing into a supple russet fist that’s a little too coarse, too cold, too dry but feels divine nonetheless…

“Jaskier!”

Fuck.

The innkeep is shouting at them to get out, holding a broom as menacingly as one can hold a broom, and Geralt is glowering at him. “Go, bard! Roach!”

Right. He grabs his lute and flies out the door, the cool night air a shock on his overheated skin. He sprints to the stables and sets to work quickly tacking up the mare as he coos at her soothingly. “Deepest apologies, my dear lady, but it seems our plans for the evening have been altered somewhat.”

He’s leading her out and back toward the tavern when the door flies open, Geralt charging out. He fixes Jaskier with an exasperated glare and snatches the reins from him. “Dammit, Jaskier,” he mutters, swinging into the saddle. “If your cock doesn’t get us both killed, your mouth will.”

And if Jaskier’s arousal had flagged in the process of fleeing and fetching their escape horse, all it takes is a reference to cocks and mouths in close proximity to bring it roaring back to life as Geralt drags him up behind him and spurs Roach into a gallop out of the village.

It’s new, this thing with Geralt.

He’d met the witcher just over two years ago, back in Posada. They’d travelled together and parted near half a dozen times since, but this current sprint is by far their longest together, going on four months. They’ve fallen into a routine, found ways of traveling that make both their paths smoother. Jaskier’s songs are more lucrative when he can theatrically proclaim that their hero, his muse, the town’s savior is in their very midst; Geralt’s presence protects him from beasts and monsters and bandits and keeps him fed on fresh game between towns when they make their camps beneath the stars. And though Geralt’s never mentioned it, he can tell he’s come to appreciate Jaskier’s contributions, too: he sets up camp and builds a fire while Geralt hunts when they stay in the country, procures rooms with less humiliation and rarer downright refusals from rude innkeeps and for significantly less coin when they stay in the village. Noticing Jaskier’s penchant for picking wildflowers on the roadside, Geralt’s even started teaching him the herbs, flowers and berries he needs for his potions.

Traveling together does have its drawbacks, of course, particularly Geralt’s reticence to stay within the confines of civilization. He’s perfectly content to go weeks without sleeping in an inn if the town doesn’t have any contracts available, wont to ride away from perfectly good villages where Jaskier would be able to find perfectly good lovers.

This came to a head a few weeks ago. Jaskier tried to settle on the lumpy ground for the night, tried to ignore that prickling restlessness beneath his skin, but he couldn’t will it away, couldn’t force himself into a fitful sleep like he had the past several nights. He tossed again, unable to stifle a sigh, when the witcher rolled onto his side to glare at him.

“Would you stop your fussing?”

“Fussing? I’m not fussing, Geralt, I can’t sleep.”

“Can’t you not sleep quietly?”

He snorted. “What a very stupid question. Weren’t you just saying yesterday that I don’t even think quietly?” Tired and frustrated and horny as all hell, Jaskier opted for the truth. Watching Geralt get that uncomfortable, vaguely constipated look he got when Jaskier talked about sex always provided an amusing distraction, at least. He sighed melodramatically, adopting a most put-upon voice. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve indulged in the wondrous carnalities of a companion, Geralt?”

“Don’t really care.”

“Ages, Geralt, it’s been ages. At least a week. Some may bear the cruelties of celibacy with stoic fortitude, my dear witcher, but alas, some of us simply are not so equipped. We really should stop in the next village. It’d do us both a world of good to sleep in a bed, particularly one that’s warm, if you get my drift.”

The witcher looked at him with that inscrutable expression. “Plenty of chances for you to get your dick wet once we reach Gors Velen.”

Jaskier darted up, horrified, all pretensions forgotten. “Gors Velen?” he whined. “You said yourself we’re still a month away from Gors Velen!”

Geralt shrugged. “You’ve got a hand.” With that, he turned his back to Jaskier.

And well. It had been Geralt’s suggestion, after all, and Jaskier may have many attributes to his credit and otherwise but shyness has never been counted among them. And if perhaps he put on a bit of a show, fucking up into his hand with a little more bitten-lip moaning, a little more breathless panting than was strictly necessary, well, it served Geralt right for brushing off his perfectly legitimate concerns so rudely. And if he came particularly hard with a surprised gasp that was all too genuine when he shot a glance at his companion and saw the witcher facing him again, perfectly still, with an intent, impenetrable expression that Jaskier thought looked almost intrigued, well, that served Geralt right, too.

And that’s how this thing with Geralt started.

The next night, Jaskier made no such fuss when he laid down atop his bedroll, brazenly pulling his cock from his smallclothes and stroking himself languidly as he met that golden stare with something akin to a challenge. “You too?” he asked, breathless, and moaned as he watched Geralt’s hand drift down to palm himself through the rough cotton.

A few nights later Jaskier laid out their bedrolls side by side, not touching but nearly. “It’s not quite fair, is it,” he explained, rolling his balls indulgently with one hand as he set a lazy pace with the other. “You with your extraordinary superhuman witchery senses, you get to hear every little noise I make, see every little expression on my devilishly handsome face from all the way across the fire. Seems like we ought to level the playing field, as it were.”

“Don’t need witcher senses to hear you,” Geralt groused, but the corner of his lip crooked in what could only be the hint of a grin as he settled in beside him without protest, taking himself in hand and echoing Jaskier’s tempo.

(Geralt can maintain his blank expression fairly well while getting off, Jaskier knows now, but he’s slightly less guarded when it comes to sound, to the noises too soft and unintentional to be noticed without such proximity. The little hitch when he twists his wrist just so at the head; the low rumbling of a moan in his chest that never reaches his lips when he’s close, so close; the voiceless exhale when he comes that sometimes, when it’s really good, sounds as though it’s been punched out of him; the abortive, shuddering breaths as his strokes turn into the gentlest trailing of the fingertips down his shaft just past the point of oversensitivity, prolonging that sweet touch until it can no longer be endured.)

The next night, well. A hand’s a hand, and there’s not so very much difference between wanking and assisting your very best friend in the whole wide world wanking, really.

And that’s what this is. Jaskier has no grandiose romantic notions, not about this, not really. It’s not about the passionate heat of bodies entwined, it’s just hands and cocks to aid with sleep and that’s all it has to be. This thing with Geralt is about getting off, not about sex, and he’s not entirely sure he understands this arbitrary boundary he’s constructed but the distinction feels crucial nevertheless. It’s a matter of convenience, not lust. Jaskier is content with this arrangement. It’s more than he ever hoped to experience with his lovely, taciturn friend, and that’s enough. He can enjoy these encounters with Geralt without needing them, without craving something more, without deluding himself into thinking they’re...something else. Paramours. Lovers.

Anyway, this was all going swimmingly until Geralt throttled a man on his behalf and it was the most arousing thing he’d ever witnessed. Now Jaskier is pressed up against him on a horse riding from a town in which they are no longer welcome with what has got to be the most obnoxiously persistent erection of his life because he can’t stop imagining those hands around his throat.

“Whoa, Roach.” Jaskier feels the witcher’s body tense against him as he pulls on the reins, halting as they approach a small copse of trees. “This’ll do.” He dismounts gracefully and Jaskier scrambles behind.

He’d assumed that Geralt would be furious that they’d finally stopped at an inn only for Jaskier’s uncanny ability to find himself in trouble got them ousted, but he doesn’t seem furious as they set up the campsite. Not that he says anything, of course, and not that he would say anything if he were furious, but Jaskier has grown rather accustomed to reading Geralt’s silences. This particular silence doesn’t seem to be perturbed in any way. If anything, it almost seems amused. Surely he’s misreading something.

He’s just finished situating the bedrolls when he turns around and nearly slams into Geralt. “Bloody hell Geralt, are you trying to...oh.”

Geralt unceremoniously tugs the bow fastening Jaskier’s trousers loose, reaching into them and immediately setting to work with a sure, steady hand.

“...oh, you’re trying to...that.” He closes his eyes at the sensation.

Geralt’s hand stills, gripping him lightly. “Will I get some rest if we don’t?” His face remains impassive as ever, but there’s something in his grumble that Jaskier could almost swear sounds teasing, fond. “Rather deal with you now than listen to you toss about and whine for an hour pretending you’re trying to sleep.”

And Jaskier could protest because honestly, he hasn’t since that first night, but he allows it, lets Geralt have his excuse because something’s different tonight. They never touch until they’ve undressed and settled into their bedrolls for the night. It’s just a part of the routine.

Nothing about this feels routine.

He lets out a laugh that’s a bit higher than he intends as Geralt resumes fisting his cock. “My, my, someone’s eager tonight,” he breathes, and all right, he may have no room to talk, but Geralt initiating this is beyond uncharacteristic.

A hum resonates deep in his chest. “Felt you rubbing up on me since we left town. You’re not subtle, bard.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not…subtle? Fuck.”

The witcher rolls his eyes. “Smelled you before that,” and honestly, fuck Geralt for wanting to have a conversation all of a sudden now that Jaskier’s completely incapable of it, “back in the tavern. What was it?” Geralt is shifting them, guiding him carefully, his hand never losing its rhythm, until Jaskier feels the trunk of a sturdy oak at his back. “What got you so hard in the middle of a bar fight?”

A knee slips casually between his legs, and the hard line of Geralt’s still-clothed cock presses against his hip, rutting ever so gently. “Gods, Geralt.” It comes out a whine, and Jaskier’s sure he’ll hate himself later for how easily he’s undone but now there’s just contact, so much touch all over and hot breath against his neck and he lets his eyes flutter closed, lets himself feel.

“Did you actually fuck that man’s wife earlier? While I was at the armourer’s, maybe? Did she leave you with some good memories?”

It takes a second for Jaskier to catch up to the question with Geralt’s hard body leaned against him, a delightful weight. Right. Man in the bar. Implied he’d cuckolded him, that’s what determined the course of this whole bizarre evening.

“Or was it the barmaid? Was she what distracted you in the middle of that scene you caused?” Geralt sounds perfectly unaffected, somehow, that mild, ribbing tone he uses when he pretends to scoff at Jaskier’s antics. “The redhead. The one whose bed you hoped to be in tonight.”

And he’s right, of all the people in the crowded tavern she’d been the one who caught his eye, the one he’d be planning to direct his next song to. Of course Geralt had noticed. Geralt knows what Jaskier wants. Knows what he needs.

And that’s...that’s what this is, that’s what he’s doing. Jaskier had planned to find a lover for the evening, planned to slip into a blissful haze of fucking where he doesn’t have to concentrate on keeping this unwelcome longing at bay and even though it’s Jaskier’s own fault that opportunity slipped through his fingers, Geralt wants to give him some semblance of that release. It’s why he’s talking, why he’s bringing up these women he assumes drove Jaskier to distraction.

And with Geralt’s breath on his skin and hand on his cock and body leaned so heavily against his, Jaskier wants to give him an answer. Wants to give him everything there is.

What got you so hard in the middle of a bar fight?

Jaskier grasps the hand not stroking his cock and brings it to his throat.

The world stops.

His eyes fly open to meet Geralt’s, and he knows he’s made a mistake. The witcher withdraws quickly, stepping away, turning his back.

“Fuck, Geralt, no, I’m—”

“Stop.” Geralt doesn’t face him, but he’s not leaving, at least. “Don’t.”

Jaskier leans back against the tree, trying to catch his breath. He scrubs his hand over his face. Leave it to Jaskier to fuck up something this divine.

He watches those broad shoulders lower, his breathing even out, but the tension is still written in every line of his body. Geralt stands silent for a moment before he quietly asks, “That’s what...at the tavern?”

Wretched, Jaskier nods, but of course Geralt can’t see that, so he stammers out, “Ah, yes. It seems so.”

When he speaks again, his voice remains carefully flat. “You were afraid of me?”

“What?”

“Were you afraid of me? Back at the tavern.” He considers, then adds, “Or now?”

“Geralt, no,” and maybe he shouldn’t, maybe he should give him space, but Jaskier pushes away from the tree, scurrying over to him and clutching his shoulders frantically. “No, listen to me, Geralt, I’m a horny idiot, that’s the thing, it was just...I don’t know, it was sexy! It was sexy, seeing you manhandle him, imagining if you manhandled me, maybe, with your gloves and your hands and your muscles, I don’t know, it was just a fantasy, I suppose, it just happened, but certainly not because I was scared you’d hurt me.” An ugly, desperate laugh rises from his throat unbidden. “If anything it’s because I know you wouldn’t, Geralt, I know you’d keep me safe.”

The witcher looks past him, but Jaskier sees the tension in his jaw release, sees his chest move a little more freely with his breath. After a moment, Geralt nods. “Thought perhaps I’d misread this.” It’s low, almost too low to hear.

“I want you,” Jaskier blurts out, and he should stop talking, he really means to stop talking, “I want you. Quite a lot. The rough, ah, the choking thing, that’s all just...I don’t need that. Don’t want anything you don’t want.”

It’s all a little too raw, a little too genuine, and Jaskier realizes with a sudden sinking feeling that this may actually be worse than his initial blunder, that an unexpected predilection for rough sex is one thing but voicing that longing he’s worked so hard to keep sectioned away is something else entirely.

He’s about to apologize when he hears the low hum.

Geralt is studying him, head tilted to one side. There’s nothing on his face to indicate disgust or excitement, no rejection or acceptance; just those golden eyes meticulously examining him, just like they had that first night. Curious. Intrigued.

Fuck. Jaskier doesn’t need a hand on his throat to make it hard to breathe.

“No gloves.”

“Sorry, what?”

Rough fingertips map his throat lightly, not pressing, not caressing, just exploring. Jaskier recognizes this look, it’s the same studious evaluation he’d seen Geralt give that nekker corpse yesterday before he began harvesting organs from it and that should definitely kill the mood here but it doesn’t. He pauses, wide finger resting over a thunderous artery. “They’re too thick. Wouldn’t be able to feel if it’s too much.”

“Right,” Jaskier rasps out. “Right, yeah, good. No gloves is good.” And if the image of being thrown about like a ragdoll and forced against a wall had seemed erotic, it somehow doesn’t compare to the overwhelming potency of these careful, analytical touches with Geralt monitoring his breath, his heartbeat, his face.

“Do you still want to try?” It’s a low rumble, but Geralt’s eyes are boring into him and all Jaskier can do is nod aggressively, grabbing Geralt’s hand and pulling him back until he’s leaned against the tree again, pausing only to fling off his open doublet.

Geralt shakes his head, quickly disciplining the little entertained smile that flits across his features but not before Jaskier sees it. It sends a reckless, euphoric thrill through his whole body. “Ah Geralt, admit it, you think I’m endearing,” he grins, striking a dramatic pose against the tree.

“You’re a nuisance,” he snorts, but he snakes his hand down the front of the bard’s trousers again, stroking him with just enough pressure to coax him back to hardness.

Jaskier rocks gently into his fist, a small contented sigh morphing into something much more ragged when he feels that solid hand back on his throat.

“Tap my arm if you want to stop.”

Jaskier nods, delighting in the way his flesh shifts under Geralt’s hand at the motion. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the fingers tighten. “Good?”

“Good.”

“More?”

“Please,” and it’s a whine but he doesn’t care. His eyes drift shut. It feels like the pounding pulse is flowing straight from his throat into Geralt’s hand, or maybe the other way around, it doesn’t matter when all he wants is to lose himself in this swelling, living tattoo.

The pressure lets up and there’s a rush, a bright heady flood of exhilaration and he can feel every cell tingling in his body as his lungs work overtime to compensate and he can’t help thrusting forward faster into the tight fist on his cock.

Geralt’s other hand stays in place, loosely cupping his throat, idly stroking the skin. “Eyes open,” he murmurs, nuzzling into the crook of Jaskier’s neck for just a moment, breathing him in, his own breath labored. When he pulls back he looks a little wrecked. “Eyes on me, yeah?”

Jaskier nods, leaning into both warm hands a little desperately. “More?”

Geralt groans as he applies careful, steady pressure.

It’s good. There’s something soothing about the gentle acceleration of that drumming, far-off and immediate at the same time, the only sound that exists here. Peaceful. Floaty, almost. He wonders vaguely if this is what Geralt feels when he meditates.

“Jaskier.” The voice cuts through the haze, low but firm, the softest command. He focuses on Geralt, that unwavering gaze fixed on him. “Stay with me.”

Where else would he want to be?

And he’s still floating but somehow those golden eyes are a tether, not grounding him entirely but keeping him from drifting away. And when the tension releases and the tidal wave of elation sweeps through him again it’s met with chapped lips on his throat and fingers scratching through the hair at the nape of his neck and a steadying weight against him, and when the dizziness settles and he rests against the reassuring stability of the oak behind him, then there’s shifting, moving, the harsh grinding voice asking a question Jaskier can’t make out but understands anyway, golden eyes full of that question staring up at him and Jaskier answers by threading his fingers through pale locks shining silver in the moonlight and the warm, strong hand stroking him is replaced with the soft heat of Geralt’s mouth.

He won’t last much longer, not with the way Geralt’s thick fingers grip him, digging into the meat of his ass, with the way he chokes a little taking Jaskier all the way down but keeps pulling him in, deeper, and it’s wet and messy and a little too divine.

“Fuck, Geralt, I…” he gasps, the closest to a warning he can formulate, but the witcher’s staring up at him through dark lashes and sucking him down harder and Jaskier surrenders, coming with a keening cry.

Geralt diligently works him through it, swallowing and dissolving into desperate noises around Jaskier as he feverishly strips his own cock. He releases Jaskier and buries his head in the crook of the bard’s hip, shoulders heaving harshly. Jaskier pets him soothingly, long fingers massaging his scalp tenderly through the broken moan, the shuddering aftershocks, the shallow breaths slowly evening out.

They stay that way for a few endless moments, neither willing to break the trance, the intimacy. Jaskier barely notices gentle fingers unlacing his boots, pulling off one then the other. Geralt deftly tucks the bard’s softening cock back into his smallclothes before carefully pulling off his trousers and folding them neatly. He stands slowly, guiding Jaskier to his bedroll and settling him there, crouching beside him moments later with a waterskin he presses to Jaskier’s lips.

“Best take care, witcher,” Jaskier teases softly, “a man could get used to such treatment.”

“Don’t,” Geralt grunts, but there’s no heat to it. He thoroughly inspects Jaskier’s neck, tilting his head one way then the other with two light fingers on his jaw. “Pain anywhere?”

“No pain.”

“Good.” Apparently satisfied, Geralt stands, undressing methodically and lying in his own bedroll. After a few moments of silence, he adds, “Wake me if anything hurts. Or if you have trouble breathing.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh, turning on his side to fix his companion with a rueful smile. “Geralt, have you ever known me to suffer in silence?” Those inscrutable eyes hold him, searching, so Jaskier reaches a tentative hand to his jaw. “Thank you. For your...indulgence.” There’s an entirely different tightness in his throat, suddenly. “For taking such good care of me.”

For a moment, Jaskier thinks Geralt may answer as he watches something unguarded yet still utterly indecipherable flit across the witcher’s scarred, handsome face. When he speaks, there’s something soothing in the low rumble. “Get some sleep, bard.”

And he does.

[opaljm]

eye of the tiger (m) | teaser – kth

➻ female reader x taehyung

➻ jagged spin-off + hybrid au + tiger!taehyung + giraffe/deer!reader + enemies to lovers + fake dating + minor inspiration from zootopia if you squint

➻ genres: angst, smut, romance

➻ length & status: 3k words; teaser

➻ rating & warnings: 18+; allusions to minor discrimination and prejudice; allusion to bullying

➻ summary: You had been bullied by Kim Taehyung in your youth and wanted to have nothing to do with him. But when your ex-boyfriend, a stag hybrid, kept dogging at your heels and Taehyung needed a girlfriend to stop the jaguar hybrid Jimin from growling every single time he got within 10 feet of his girlfriend, you find yourself agreeing to keep up the pretense that you and Taehyung were each other’s childhood crushes and had only recently reconnected and decided to date. 

➻ a/n: the Jagged sequel that exactly two people asked for.  enjoy this for now because i have no idea when i will be finishing this since i have to finish the fics i already gave post dates for :D

➻ disclaimer: all lions are inbred and they live in a pride. i don’t think this is necessarily something that i have to apologize for having in my story but i’ll still throw out the disclaimer that there is one tiny joke about lions being inbred.

⋆ jagged ⋆ teaser ii ⋆ my masterlist ⋆

When you were little, there were a group of predator hybrids who used to relish in causing you pain and anguish. They would ridicule you for just about everything, from your big doe eyes with its long sweeping lashes that would brush against your cheekbones when your eyes were closed to your longer than average neck that was narrow and would often elongate itself when you were absentmindedly trying to look far off into the distance. You had been bullied for your skinny frame and your long gangly limbs throughout all of elementary school where you had been a foot taller than the second tallest person in your class. You were constantly besmirched for having the smattering of pale freckles over your cheeks and nose, always being made to feel adequate for having visual indications of your deer and giraffe heritage.

From what you could tell, the only prey hybrids that were accepted in your small town in South Carolina, were the ones that had hybrid markers that were ambiguous and could have belonged to any number of species or the ones that didn’t have many visible hybrid markers at all. In contrast, the predator hybrids were allowed to delight in their own signs of hybridization. The worst of your bullies were a large group of big cat hybrids, containing both males and females’ hybrids of lions with the occasional leopard hybrid. From what you could tell, the lion hybrids of your small town enjoyed ruling over the place with their pride, and their children had learned from their toxic behavior, enjoying terrifying smaller predator hybrids by sneaking up on them and practicing their roars or by eating their lunches, from home, of entirely raw hunks of meat in front of prey hybrids causing them to throw up the contents of their own vegetarian meals.

All of this should have made you critical of predator hybrids and how they treated the prey hybrids of your town, but when you sat in the one room apartment that you shared with your mother, a lovely deer hybrid who had had you too young and was raising you by herself, you would do your arithmetic equations and stare at the poster of the University of Californian Hybrids, Los Angeles you had hanging up, and dream of escaping to a big city in a more progressive state where predators and prey could live in harmony with each other and might even sometimes be in relationships together. This was even worse than when two hybrids of the same class bred outside their species in your hometown. That’s what had happened with your mother and father. He was a D1 athlete who played on the basketball team of the university they had gone to and had broken your mother’s heart after she had found out that she was pregnant with you. It was one thing to date or sleep with someone who wasn’t the same species as you. It was an entirely different ordeal marrying them and having children with them.

You were desirous of a life where you could be with a predator hybrid because when you were six and had been pushed off of the top of the slides by a puma hybrid, who had waiting for her turn to slide after you, an adorable tiger hybrid who had been roughly the same age as you had squeaked out his attempt at a sonorous roar and scared off the girl and then had slid down to run to you, where you laid sprawled on the rubber floor of the playground clutching your sprained wrist. He had yelled for his grandmother to get you aid and had become your best friend up until the two of you had entered middle school and hit puberty. That was when Taehyung, who had been your fiercest defender against everyone who ridiculed your modelesque stature, and the way you had towered over everyone at your school, had fallen in love with a lion hybrid and started hanging out more and more with the crew of big cat hybrids after school. The final devastating blow that had severed your friendship with the male, forever? When the lion hybrid he had had a crush on, Miyeon, had made fun of your eyes, before you had to do a presentation for your world history class, and said they protruded and made you looked bug-eyed and then said that the only people who would ever find you attractive would be amphibian hybrids and Taehyung had joined her in her laughter. There was nothing wrong with toad or frog hybrids, but it hurt when the male you were in love with laughed and agreed that you were not attractive. That had made you spiral into a depression and made you determined that the following year, when you entered high school, you would do everything in your power to excel at school and to be extraordinary enough to not only get a ticket out of the prejudiced hellhole that was your hometown but to be able to afford to accept that ticket in the form of a full ride scholarship.

When you had finally moved to Los Angeles, your mother remaining behind because she said that the cost of living there was too expensive even though she would have loved to join you, you had reinvented yourself into someone who was self-assured and confident. Someone who had pride in all of the aspects that made her who she undeniably was. Also, when you entered university you were shocked at how many hybrids were taller than you, not only the giraffe ones. There were lion hybrids on campus that were taller than you, for the most part all of them were. That had made you squinty eyed and ask your mother how much inbreeding she thought the lion hybrids back home had partaken in since they were much smaller and much weaker than all the cat hybrids you had run into. And not to mention, undeniably ugly.

In fact, you were more aware that you were only half giraffe hybrid and not full, every time you walked around the campus where everyone was tall and beautiful. You had a full scholarship, a wide variety of friends from different majors, and had even dated a couple of guys. Your ex being without a doubt one of your worse decisions but at least it gave you experience right? But the point was, you had changed. You were no longer the scared skittish prey hybrid of the past that allowed big cat hybrids to walk all over her just because in the wild they were the “kings of the jungle.”

This is why it was particularly annoying that when Taehyung, yes that asshole went to the same school as you, had seen you across the room at a frat party and had lunged in your direction, you had been frozen like a deer in headlights and could not move. This had resulted in the jerk, whom you had not seen nor talked to since you stood next to him at your high school graduation ceremony, wrapping his warm large hand around your wrist and dragging you through the crowd of drunk hybrids up the stairs to the second floor to an unoccupied bathroom.

“Taehyung what the fuck,” you groused, no longer the soft-spoken girl that he was used to. You were annoyed at how good he looked. He was shorter than you in your heels, but he was probably within an inch of your height if you both stood nose to nose and barefoot. He was wearing an animal print shirt that had short sleeves and exposed his chest, which looked irritatingly firm and was a sun-kissed gold. There was a band of cloth wrapped around his head like a bandana that made him look rakishly seductive. And his wavy tousled dark hair and heavy-lidded amber eyes made a devastating combination that made your panties wet with a rush of arousal. He sniffed the air and you prayed that he only smelled the clean linen scented air fresheners that overpowering the bathroom and not the scent of your arousal underneath it.

“I need a favor,” he admitted without preamble. You blurted out your refusal after the word “need,” interrupting him. “Oh, come on Y/N, we were close once,” he tried.

“Yeah when we were six,” you grumbled, crossing your arms across your shirt that tightened even more around the generous swell of your breasts. You upturned your face, gazing up at the vents on the ceiling as though you were contemplating your escape before becoming self-conscious of the elongated state of your throat and moved to fix your gaze onto something that was more your eye level: the towel rack that had been added to the door.

Taehyung sighed, if you didn’t agree to help him, he would be in a pickle. Moments before he had seen you at the party, he had been talking to the pretty sand dune cat hybrid he had been lusting over all of last semester. Unfortunately for him, it appeared that she was still in love with that jaguar hybrid Jimin who hung around her like a dark cloud. Not even two minutes into her and Taehyung’s conversation, Jimin had appeared and draped a possessive arm around her while he glared venomously and unblinkingly at Taehyung.

With a laugh Taehyung had said, “Look man I’m not trying to steal your girl.” Even though he was totally trying to steal his girl, “I have my own and my tastes are quite the opposite, not that you aren’t beautiful ___,” he added, flashing her a wide smile and throwing in a wink for good measure. Jimin was awkward and standoffish, not to mention he was kind of small for a wild cat hybrid. ___ needed someone who was big and strong and could adequately protect her and their cubs.

Jimin had only raised one elegantly shaped dark eyebrow at the statement and looked skeptically at Taehyung, “And where is this girlfriend of yours? This is the first I’m hearing about her.”

Taehyung had smiled tensely and looked beyond where they stood to where the room was more crowded into a crush, his gaze flitting from female to female as he tried to find someone he could pass off as a girl he had been seeing for a while. His gaze had found you in the throng. You had stood out from everyone else with your thin form, towering over a majority of the girls while you danced with a red solo cup in one hand and gracefully throwing your head back. Your long hair had revealed the sexy stretch of skin from the column of your throat to your bare shoulders that were all golden from exposure to the sun yet still had the faint smattering of freckles. He couldn’t shift his eyes from your figure.

His gaze was trapped on the sensual picture you had formed on the dance floor, writhing with confidence, and awakening in Taehyung an inexplicable need to hunt you down, throw you over his shoulder and drag you back to his lair to command your body and pleasure it. To undeniably exercise his ownership over you. It had been confusing because for all that Taehyung was a tiger hybrid, he had rarely experienced such an overwhelming need to chase and to hunt, to show that he was an apex predator and the king of the jungle.

Jimin’s eyes had followed the path that Taehyung’s eyes had made, and uttered after a surprised sound of disbelief, “Wow she really is different from ___. Is she even a cat hybrid?”

Taehyung had answered him with annoyance, not daring to shift his eyes from you, fearing that you would disappear in the crowd of the party if he took his eyes off, “She’s a mixed baby. A giraffe and deer hybrid.”

___ had let out an amazed gasp of astonishment, “That sounds like such an interesting pairing. Can I meet her, Taehyung? I wonder what life is like growing up mixed. Even more so, since Jimin and my kittens will be—”

Taehyung barely paid attention to her, his gaze was too focused on the deer hybrid approaching you. “I have to go,” he muttered, setting down his empty bottle of beer on the counter.

“Sure, of course,” hummed ___, “But remember to ask her about a double date, okay!”

This brought the two of you to the present. Taehyung’s eyes narrowed at the memory of that stag who had been sniffing around you. “Do you have a boyfriend, Y/N?”

You started at the abrupt change in conversation. Why would Taehyung ask you such a thing? Had he seen you shift away from Jongin before you had been unceremoniously dragged upstairs by him? “Not that it’s any of your business since we aren’t friends,” you emphasized mercilessly, “But that was my ex Jongin. That’s the last time I’ll date a deer hybrid,” you admitted reluctantly. “The men are so overbearing and territorial. And he can’t accept that we’re broken up since I was the one to break things off and not him.” The last sentence had you huffing in indignation.

“Hmm,” hummed Taehyung thoughtfully, instantly making you suspicious and raising the hairs on your body. “Have you considered a tiger hybrid for your next boyfriend?”

You side-eyed him. What the fuck. “No, I have not Taehyung. Why would you even say something like that? It’s hardly as though you’re trying to get that position.”

Taehyung bared all his teeth threateningly. It hardly could be passed off as a smile. “But what if I were, Y/N?”

“No.” You refused to even think about it and tried to shove past his body to get to the door and out of this confining space.

Taehyung wouldn’t let you escape so easily. He crowded you against the door. Although you had the height, he was still much bigger than you with wide shoulders and a body that was wrapped by hard ropes of lean predator muscle. “I have a proposition. If you pretend to be my girlfriend for a month, I’ll get that meathead to stop bothering you,” He murmured, meeting your wary gaze with his smoldering one, his deep honey colored eyes boring into your chocolate brown ones.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you thought about just how the tiger hybrid would go about making the deer hybrid to back off. “You’re still getting thrills out of intimidating prey hybrids?” you scoffed, “That’s disgusting, Taehyung.”

Taehyung stilled, thrown off for a second, before he once again bared his teeth in the loose semblance of a smile and uttered, “I just meant he’s a Neanderthal. Once he sees how happy and satisfied you were with me, not to mention how I am able to take care of your every need, he’ll take the L and leave you alone.”

You still weren’t sold. “But why do you need a fake girlfriend,” you asked in suspicion. You trusted Taehyung about as far as you could throw him, which was probably only half a yard away.

Taehyung lied to you bald-facedly, the untruth flowing from his tongue so smoothly that you didn’t even catch it, “Same as you. There are too many people who are dying to have a piece of me and it’s honestly distracting. I’m trying to get into to finish a really intensive and time-consuming project for my major. I don’t have time to waste on booty calls.”

“And you would never be tempted to have sex with me?” You asked, your eyes burning a hole into the stretchy fabric of his black and white shirt.

“Never,” agreed Taehyung, lying once again. This time his heart thudded loudly against his chest and he felt a pang that he didn’t want to think about too deeply.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution - Non Commercial - No Derivatives 4.0 International License

©OPALJM 2020

[cheezritsu]

Taiwa 2014

Summary: It’s been a long time since Tsukishima has traveled back to his hometown, Taiwa. The last time he was here, he was moving out. But even still, there’s this unsettling feeling that he never truly left. Everything that ever mattered to him, Karasuno, Yamaguchi, his family, they were still here, like always. So why did it feel like something was missing?

Pairing: Tsukishima Kei X Reader

Word Count: 9.7K

A/N: I’m bringing what’s probably one of my favorite fics over to tumblr. crossposted on AO3 if you prefer the format. Also pain; lots of pain.

                                      ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Sitting in Yamaguchi’s car with the windows down, messing up the left side of Tsukishima’s (too long) hair, he recalls one of the reasons he left Miyagi. 

He has resigned to not lean his arm outside, because the grey exterior has super heated to an ungodly degree, and he’s sure there’s a 1st degree burn that will be agitated the moment it slides against a volleyball court. He joked that Yamaguchi was trying to sabotage him, that maybe if they weren’t best friends he’d actually be upset. 

But it’s not like Yamaguchi can block out the sun. He didn’t remember Miyagi summers being so damn brutal, especially not in June. The sun beamed down on them as if God had a laser pointer on Yamaguchi’s Acura LX, which seemed pretty harsh even if the car was old. 

Sendai fades into the background, and the buildings get shorter and shorter like they’re descending stairs. Telephone wires criss cross the highways overhead, and incoming traffic gets a little congested. Yamaguchi leans back, exhaling slowly through his nose. 

“It’s always like this now. Everyone’s moving out of Tokyo and coming up north and for what? So they can hike up grocery store prices?”

“That’s awfully prejudiced of you, Yamaguchi. Why would they raise prices if they don’t know how to cook?”

Yamaguchi laughs. “Tokyo boys ain’t shit.”

“Careful,” Tsukishima gives a close lipped smile. “Your country accent is slipping through.”

“Yours is all gone.”

“I never had an accent.”

Yamaguchi hums when he grips the steering wheel, jerking the car left as he changes lanes. “Sure.”

Tsukishima keeps his mouth shut, as if sealing the evidence. 

The rip of motorbikes replaces the stalled car engines as his hometown becomes a highway exit. Like it’s been anything other than that. 

Tsukishima reels as they start to pass familiar landmarks. He never realized it was all so close together; it seemed like trips that used to take hours were now whizzing past at the blink of an eye. It couldn’t be Yamaguchi’s featherfoot on the gas, either. 

Suburbs isn't the right word to describe Taiwa. Hinata used to ride his bike uphill both ways to get to Karasuno, and all of his friends were spread out across the large expanse of undeveloped land. Animals likely outnumber the amount of residents in the town. When Kuroo used to call the team country bumpkin crows, he wasn’t exaggerating. 

Tsukishima narrows his eyes, and Yamaguchi’s gaze flickers over. “What’s got you so upset? You just got here.”

“It’s nothing,” he replies, then catches Yamaguchi still trying to look at him. “If I tell you, will you keep your eyes on the road?”

“As long as you don’t tell me something that’ll make me crash the car.”

“Just don’t crash the fucking car?”

“Spit it out, Tsukki!”

He grumbles at the old nickname. “I get enough of Koganegawa calling me that, thank you.” Date Tech’s school used to feel hours away; how long would it take under the wheels of this thing?

“Everything’s just. Closer than I remember.”

“Closer?”

“The places, I mean. The town feels smaller.”

A snort. “Sure is, hot shot. I see you got acclimated to Saitama real nice.” 

There’s something charming about the northern drawl of Yamaguchi’s words he knew he’d hate coming out of his own mouth. “It’s not the same.”

Yamaguchi’s chuckle tapers into a sigh. “Neither are you.”

The blocks become residential, and houses he used to know are obscured into oblivion. The people that bike by are different, the parked cars are newer, while some faces are just older in a way that settles like lead in Tsukishima’s stomach. 

And then he sees it: the house with wood paneling in the front, white everywhere else. Atop the stone pillars are the plants still taller than him, even though he’s upwards of 195cm these days. White undershirts catch the summer breeze on the clothesline, billowing like flags. Cross-hatched metal gate, a new car in the driveway. Faded pink door. 

Your house. With a for sale sign in the window. 

Tsukishima nearly breaks his neck as Yamaguchi passes it without so much as a glance. 

“Did you see that?”

“What?” Yamaguchi checks his mirrors. “Did I see what?”

The houses blend together once again. Everyone on the street carries on like Tsukishima hasn’t been shot through the chest. He slumps into his seat, listening to dogs barking and the laughter of children as everything goes accordingly. 

“It’s nothing. A kid fell off his skateboard. It looked pretty awful.”

Yamaguchi hesitates, but doesn’t question it. He minds his business, even when Tsukishima’s scowl falls into something a little more melancholy than usual. 

                                      ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Tsukishima frowned from his post at the front desk, annoyed how your presence alone could stir...things in him. 

It had been a long time since he’d seen you at the museum. Perhaps that was good for his job security, but when he saw you walking up to him in a wool blazer that looks like a mirror image of the one he had on, he couldn’t help but admit he’d missed you. He didn’t know where you’d been, and he wanted to ask, but you flashed him the 460 yen entrance fee before he could speak.

“I’ll take the 4:15 personal guided tour.”

He schooled his face to keep it flat. “How many times have I told you—”

“It’s your last day, what are they going to do, fire you?”

The sarcasm was dry, and there was no twinkle in your eye. Tsukishima sighed, taking the money and putting it in the register. His replacement, a quickly scouted kid that was barely his shoulder height, tapped away on the computer next to him. “Hey, Hiroto.”

The boy was obviously younger, probably still in high school by the way his eyes widened when his senpai called for him. “Yes, Tsukishima-sama?”

You lean against the counter. “Sama?” you mouth, lips curling into that smirk he hated to love. 

“Take over the front desk for me. I have a tour to do.”

Hiroto squinted in confusion, but as soon as Tsukishima slid out of the booth the kid immediately took his place. He looked so nervous and unsure, and you, still leaning over the counter, sent him a wink. 

“Don’t worry kid, just make sure you turn this over.” Your fingers toyed with a plaque, tipping it over so it read Closed. Then, you cupped one hand over your mouth, whispering close to his ear. 

“This guy sucks at customer service anyways, and they kept him for a whole year.” Tsukishima rolled his eyes at your loud-as-all-hell whisper, pulling your arm. 

“Leave the kid alone.”

“I’m just giving him some friendly advice!”

“You’re going to give him a lot more than that if you keep with the “friendly” attitude.” Hiroto looked absolutely mortified, standing like a wooden plank at the front desk. You hummed. 

“How old is he?”

Tsukishima ignored your question. You looped your arm with his. “I feel like college students keep getting smaller and smaller these days.”

“That’s because you hung out with giants.”

You walked through an ornate archway into an octagonal room filled with glass cases of samurai memorabilia. The armour room had only a few stragglers left, all of them in silent contemplation. Against the archway, an employee Tsukishima recognized gave him a long glance as you two strolled past, but Tsukishima was more preoccupied with looking at you. He would sneak glances at your reflection in the glass, concerned by the indifferent frown you sported. Maybe it was the exhibits; samurais and swords were never your thing. But there was something he couldn’t put his finger on that made him anxious.

You either didn’t notice him staring, or you didn’t care. Waltzing through the halls like you were the guide, you two stepped into the completely secluded painting wing. Sharp angled walls jutted out to create more surfaces to hang the portraits. You tilted your chin, studying them like an art critic.   

 “Are you going to miss working here?”

Tsukishima shrugged. “It was fine. Gave me a use for my degree.”

“You regretting college now that you’re a superstar athlete?” The words are punctuated with tiny jabs to his arm, but they lack conviction. “Kinda seems like a waste, huh?”

Tsukishima frowned. The implication that the past four years spent being in your care and watching over you were suddenly useless didn’t sit right with him. “It’s not like I didn’t like it.”

“I know,” you sighed, moving onto the next painting. “It just seems like a detour now, doesn’t it? I mean, you’re a pro-athlete.”

There was a stress on how you said “athlete” that didn’t slip past him. He realized what was so off: you weren’t imitating the goofy poses of the long dead samurai anymore. Your all black outfit, once chic, seemed like you were in mourning. The heel clicks of your loafers brought his eyes back to you, where you stood with your hands grasped behind your back, pulling your fingers tightly. 

Tsukishima drew up to your side. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

You whipped your head around like you’ve been caught. “What’re you talking about?”

He snorted. “You’re a bad liar, you know. Your accent is your tell.”

“Shut,” you started to say, though it lacked a hard T and it made Tsukishima laugh. “Shut up.” 

It almost feels normal between you two. Almost. 

“It’s been weird, you know,” you started, voice barely a whisper. You looked like you were talking to Date Masamune’s portrait when you said “I’m back at home, and you’re not there anymore.” 

He didn’t know why you were saying that. He should have kicked himself in the ass and given you some kind of reassurance, but he was frozen, mouth agape with an unasked question. 

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Tsukishima always thought your profile should have been on these walls. You looked regal, even with your eyes fixed on the ground and an ashamed smile. “Who woulda thought two kids from Taiwa would be all the way out here, hm?” Your chuckle is self deprecating. “And now you’re gunna be playing for a Division One team in Saitama. Fuckin’ hot shot.”

You finally turn to him, head cocked with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m glad you’re getting out, Tsukki. It’s what you wanted, right?”

He can’t pinpoint what’s wrong with this image. Sometimes, it appears to him in dreams, your smile warped and faded like an overexposed photograph. The right words are floating in the ether above him, elusive, mocking. But he is destined to say the wrong ones. 

“Yes, it is.”  

You looked into Masamune’s eyes once again, like you could read the brush strokes and find the answer to the universe in them. “You deserve it, you know. Miyagi never suited you.”

 The irony was lost on him, as were most things in the moment. Your presence had now soured his mood, but you hooked your arms through his like nothing was wrong. 

“C’mon, this is the last time I’ll ever step foot in the place again; tell me something cool.”

You didn’t say “probably.” Tsukishima dwells on this now more than ever, because his response never addressed that. “Did you know there’s an anime series based on the Date Clan?”

Your laugh; that’s what he was more focused on. The way it lit up your face, and how you said “seriously?” a little too loud for the dead silent museum. Tsukishima hasn’t been back to Sendai City museum either, because this memory is pristine, and it’s the last one he has of you.

                                     ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─── 

Tsukishima’s family is still the same. 

His mother has kept her hair short for the past fifteen years of her life, and Tsukishima might have a childlike tantrum if she’d cut it otherwise. But when Yamaguchi pulls up to his childhood home, she steps out of the house with her signature bob, sans a couple more grey hairs. 

The way golden hour makes his mother look ethereal never ceases to make him smile. She gives Yamaguchi a one-armed hug as he carries Tsukishima’s luggage inside, and Yamaguchi kisses her on the cheek like a better son would. 

All Tsukishima can do is stand in front of her with his hands behind his back, head dipped with a bashful smile as his mother cocks her hands on her hips. He feels sixteen again, fidgeting with his fingers when she comes closer, giving him a smile that could coax anything out of him. 

“You never stop growing, do you?” She has to stand on her toes to brush back his fringe. “Even your hairs’ gotten longer.”

“Can you cut it for me? I only trust you.”

A smile. He’s suddenly even younger; twelve years old, standing in front of the house and holding up the award from the science fair. His mother is so brilliant that the sun goes away, shamed by her beauty. 

“Of course, Kei. Come on, your brother’s waiting.” 

Nothing’s changed in the house. Muscle memory brings him to the kitchen, where the table is set for four. Yamaguchi sheds his jacket, but Akiteru swoops behind him, snatching it from his hands. 

“I’ll take that, Tadashi.” He’s as smooth and polite as ever, grinning the megawatt smile he inherited from their mother. Akiteru may be a full head shorter than Kei now, but the slap his older brother gives him still makes him lose balance. 

“You done growin’ yet, you little jerk? Huh?” Akiteru has grown less doting in years gone by, much to Tsukishima’s own (disgusted) dismay. Akiteru stops, looking him up and down before that teasing grin distills into something prideful. In a flash, he is pulled into a tight hug, the pats on his back more tepid and loving. Tsukishima leans in for only a moment, and then Akiteru holds him at arms’ length. 

He suspects Akiteru will say something sappy, but Yamaguchi’s jacket is thrust into his arms. “Be a good friend and put away Tadashi’s coat, will you?” He gives an infuriating wink before helping his mother in the kitchen. 

Tsukishima turns, even if only to hide the sentimental smile that graces his lips. When dinner is finally ready, Tsukishima sits beside Yamaguchi, facing his mother, and suddenly he is nine years old again; Yamaguchi is over for dinner and Akiteru will no doubt embarrass him, but it’s okay because mom cooked their favorite. Time stands still and the sun doesn’t set, not for them. 

It’s almost enough to make him forget. Almost. 

“Did you know the (Surname) house is for sale?”

Yamaguchi blinks, but his mother doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, you saw?”

“It’s the one on the way here, with the pink door. It’s hard to miss.” Tsukishima keeps eating like its normal conversation--isn’t it?--but Yamaguchi’s eyes are trying to x-ray his skull. 

“It’s been up for a little while, hasn’t it Aki?”

Akiteru, who’s sixth sense is his little brother’s emotions, clears his throat. “Probably since March.” 

“They’ve been wanting to get rid of that house since (Name) left.”

Hearing your name out of another person’s mouth sends a ripple through Tsukishima, like he’s been punched in the stomach. Akiteru and Yamaguchi don’t miss the way his breath hitches, how he drops his utensils to crack his knuckles. 

“It’s probably too big for them anyways,” he says, returning to his meal, head bowed so he can’t see their prying eyes. “They’re getting kind of old.” 

“It’s been so long since it was full, hasn’t it? Their older daughter moved out over a year ago, I think.” 

His mother’s words buzz in his ears as the conversation dornes on. Akiteru steers it away from the house, asking about Tsukishima’s appointed condo in Saitama, but he only gives one word answers through the fog in his mind.

Suddenly, he is eighteen, time fast forwarding as his glasses change and his hair gets shaggier, and you, like his mother, brush it out of his vision. Yamaguchi sits on Akiteru’s left because Tsukishima scowled at the idea of you sitting next to his brother. It’s not like it even matters, because you aren’t his: everyone in the room is showering you with attention and you have to divide yourself four ways, giving them individualized smiles.

“--(Name) really broke their hearts when she left.”

“Huh?”

As it turns out, eighteen wasn’t so long ago. His mother smiles fondly at a memory. “She was a firecracker, wasn’t she? Used to walk around like she owned the place. Her older sister was always more respectful.”

“Wasn’t her older sister in a rock band?” Akiteru reminisces. 

“Yeah, but which one was constantly skipping school and getting caught with boys?”

“Younger sibling privileges. They get to do whatever they want and never get punished.”

His mother laces bridges her fingers, then leans her chin down. “But everyone still loved her, didn’t they?” His mother’s eyes are far away, like she was in the same moment as her son. “I miss her.”

Tsukishima doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but he has to force the words out of his throat. “Why’re you all talking like she’s dead? She just lives in...wherever the hell she got whisked off to. Who knows?” 

The entire table halts, staring at him. Akiteru and Yamaguchi share another secretive glance, and Tsukishima’s forehead throbs. 

“Whatever, can we just talk about something else?”

Another reason Tsukishima revered his mother: she knew how to deal with him. “Of course dear,” she says, her voice never even missing a beat. “You haven’t even told us about your last match!”

“It was televised,” he drones, but Yamaguchi gangs up on him

“It was your first time playing against the Black Jackals, though.” Despite his years of practice, Yamaguchi still has some hesitance when he changes topics. “Was it satisfying blocking Hinata’s spikes? I bet you liked shutting down Miya Atsumu.”

There’s a twitch to his lips as he gives Yamaguchi a grateful glance. The rest of dinner goes off with little conflict, and Tsukishima groans when Akiteru pulls out strawberry shortcake and the alcohol that pairs poorly with it--beer.

“I’m not drinking that.” Tsukshima means it, too, leaving his brother and Yamaguchi to their own devices. His mother cleans up easily with the extra set of hands, and while they chat over booze, he drops his things off in his old room. 

It’s the same as when he left. His old books are still on the shelves, the dinosaur figures covered in a thin, disrespectful layer of dirt. His first Karasuno jersey still hangs next to his door, swinging idly when he enters. 

It, like Taiwa, feels small. Perhaps it’s because his bed is still full sized, and his feet hang over the edge. His suitcase doesn’t really fit anywhere, and when he sits down at his desk, he can barely fit his knees under it. He feels like he’s in a dollhouse, or worse; a museum. 

The last time he was here, he was moving out. But even still, there’s this unsettling feeling that he never truly left. Everything that ever mattered to him, Karasuno, Yamaguchi, his family, they were still here, like always. 

So why did it feel like something was missing?

There’s a knock on the door he didn’t remember closing. When it opens, the light from the hallways creeps in, and Yamauchi peers inside. “Why are the lights off?”

“It wasn’t dark when I sat down.”

Yamaguchi pushes the door open with his back and when Tsukishima sees why, he lets out a snort of disbelief. “Where did you dig that up?”

The Kahlua bottle has a layer of grime on it bleach probably couldn’t cut through. It’s barely half empty, sliding across the desk into Tskishima’s waiting hands. How his friend was able to balance the bottle, a beer, and a glass of milk between his fingers was beyond him; perhaps it was the years of volleyball under his belt.

Tsukishima isn’t light handed when he pours his drink, clicking the glass with Yamaguchi’s beer and relishing it with a long sip. 

“You looked like you needed it.”

“I’m fine,” he hides his lie with another sip. Yamaguchi isn’t fooled in the slightest. 

“I didn’t know they’d bring it up.”

“You guys can stop using euphemisms, you know.” His amber eyes are dull when he looks over his glasses. “She’s not Beetlejuice.”

Yamaguchi laughs. “I suppose she won’t appear if we speak her name three times, but she’s frightening all the same.”

“Frightening isn’t the right word,” Tsukishima thinks, staring at how the liquor and milk swirl galaxies in his glass. Maybe if he looks hard enough he’ll find the right word to describe you, but the thought stays unfinished. 

Leaning on the wall, Yamaguchi turns his head to look out the window at the last vestiges of light. “Sometimes I think I see her in the convenience store; you remember the one we used to eat at after practices in third year?” Tsukishima nods at the memory. “I’ll just be standing in line, and then out of the corner of my eye, there she is. Like a hallucination.” 

Yamaguchi’s glazed eyes come back into focus, smiling sheepishly. “It’s stupid I know. It’s just,” he stares down at the floor, shifting his weight. “I know she hated Taiwa, but I thought she loved us.”

The drink has gone sour in his mouth. Tsukishima sets it down with a heavy thud, looking at Yamaguchi with a blank expression. 

“I guess she didn’t.”

Yamaguchi frowns, then tilts his head back to finish his drink. “I don’t know why I thought I’d talk to you about it,” he humorlessly scoffs. “It’s been what, five years?”

“You’re the one seeing her in grocery stores. She got what she wanted; she left this place, married her rich CEO husband, and forgot about us ‘northern folk,’” Tsukishima exaggerates the accent he fought so hard not to maintain. “I’m not going down memory lane with you. Not this one.” 

His tone drips with finality, and Yamaguchi pushes himself off the wall. “You don’t have to talk about it,” he says, leaving the Kahlua bottle on the desk. “But don’t act like you didn’t want her to stay, too.”

Yamaguchi leaves him alone in the dark. His footsteps pound down the staircase, and as they cease, Kei slouches into his chair, defeated. He tops off his drink, taking a miserable sip while his feet push the office chair side to side. 

 He spins idly, and the years unravel at the seams. 

                                          ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Not so suddenly, he is twenty years old. It’s not a milestone, not in Japan, not anywhere in the world, and yet, you wanted to celebrate. 

The day after his birthday was a lot more memorable than the actual party. Not because he was black out drunk, but because when he came back to your apartment after getting a fabulous nights rest, he was greeted with not just you, but your three overnight guests. 

“What the hell happened to them?” 

It was both luck and a curse that the MSBY Black Jackals were in town for a match. The few members that knew Tsukishima had come over for his birthday party, and the morning after they were face down at your kitchen table. Instead of their usual lively antics, they were slumped with hangovers, groaning in harmony. 

“You’re too loooud Tsukki!” Bokuto yelled, making Atsumu Miya hiccup. 

“Bokkun, please shut the fuck up,” he whispered, that melodic Kansai dialect shriveled and dry in his throat. His presence had been most shocking, but the way he called him “the snarky middle blocker” proved that he truly did remember him. 

“Language,” Hinata’s tiny voice squeaked out and you chuckled behind your hand. 

“They’ve been like this all morning. apparently they can’t head back in this condition, so,” you held up a frying pan. “I’m making breakfast.”

“Yer an angel, sweetheart,” Miya said, drawing himself up from the table. “If you had any painkillers you’d be a god.”

“You better get to worshipping then,” you pointed to the cabinet. “Bottom shelf, all the way against the wall.”

“Marry me,” he joked, and Tsukishima narrowed his eyes at your laughter. There was something about how your hair was pulled back with a headband that made him want to possessively kiss your forehead, but he held himself back. 

“What?” You said, and he realized you’d been staring at him too. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“There’s nothing picture worthy here. Except maybe those two.” He jabbed a thumb to the duo rolling on the floor. “Might keep it for blackmail.”

“You can’t blackmail people who don’t get embarrassed,” you reminded him, beginning to crack eggs into a bowl. Everything looked so effortless when you did it; even Miya was impressed by how you whisked together the eggs in a homogenous scramble. 

“Gosh, is there anything you can’t do?”

“Basic mathematics, hold her alcohol, go five seconds during a movie without crying,” Tsukishima ticked off his fingers. “Need I continue?”

“I can’t stand you, so there’s another thing,” you bit back, and Miya laughed behind you. You hummed. 

“You’ve got a pretty voice, Miya-San. Where’re you from?”

He raised an eyebrow at your compliment. “Well ain’t you sweet? I’m from Hyogo, darlin’, more specifically Kawanishi.”

The stove made that loud tick tick tick! as the flame flickers to life. It’s like that scene from Howl’s Moving Castle, and Tsukishima is enraptured at the sight of you pulling apart strips of bacon and placing them in the sizzling pan. 

“Kawanishi,” you muttered, and Tsukishima knew that longing, tired voice of yours. It always broke his heart. “Is it big?” 

“Not really; maybe ‘bout less than 200 thousand people.”

You scoffed. “Where I’m from, that's huge.”

The setter cocked his head. “Ain’t you from Sendai?”

“Nope,” you said, popping the last consonant. “I’m nobody from  the middle of goddamn nowhere.”

“It’s not like you had to bike uphill both ways to get to school!” Hinata piped up from the table. “At least you lived closer to Karasuno than I did!”

“Ah, is that how you know this guy?” Miya jutted his chin toward the taller blonde. Their gazes met momentarily, and through Miya’s whisky brown eyes, Tsukishima saw a black hole of hunger. He looked back down to you as you drained the bacon onto a paper towel. 

“Yup.” You were proud when you said it. “Tsukki and I have been together forever.”

“Oh? I didn’t know you were dating.”

Tsukishima didn’t correct him, but you did. “We’re not not dating. Hell, to be honest we don’t even go that far back. We’re both from Taiwa, which isn’t really weird because it’s a huge place, even though there’s barely thirty thousand people in it.” A fond smile played on your lips, and you fixed Tsukishima with an adoring look.

“Thirty thousand people, and I lived walking distance from you. And you never even knew I existed.”

If he wanted to kiss your head before, the urge was stronger now. He licked his lips, putting the feelings aside. “What do you want me to do, apologize?”

“Hmm, no. I think I’ve harassed you enough to make up for it.”

That little smile on your lips said it all. You busied yourself with cooking once again, and Miya looked between you two like there was something tangible. If there ever was a red string of fate tied to your pinkies, it has long since been severed. But in this memory, the two of you danced around each other in the kitchen with ease, plating breakfast for five like husband and wife. 

Actually, it was just four. You returned to cleaning the apartment, quite a monumental task with all the drunk volleyball players you’d had over last night. Tsukishima had dipped after everyone was either safe at home or tucked in on your couch, and daylight was not kind to the aftermath. 

“This is why I didn’t ask for a party,” he said, watching as you tossed beer cans into a trash bag. 

“You should be grateful she threw ya a party, string bean,” Miya said in between bites of toast. The eggs on his plate matched the blonde of his hair, and Tsukishima can never unsee this. “Even more so that it was a rager.”

“Yeah! (Name)-san has always been so nice to you.”

Tsukishima choked on his drink. “You must have gotten the memory knocked out of your head with a receive, shrimp. That woman has never been kind to me.”

“I threw you a whole party!”

“I am once again asking when I told you to do that.”

He could hear your petty insults drift away as you walked out of the living room. There was only the sounds of utensils scraping against plates until you stomped back in, holding up a box that filled your arms. It’s wrapped up perfectly, because you were always good at that; in second year of high school, every member of the volleyball team brought their Secret Santa gifts for you to wrap. You charged everyone five dollars, except for him. 

When you got closer he could see the dinosaur stickers you’d placed sporadically across the surface, and Miya snorted with laughter when you unceremoniously dropped the present in Tsukishima’s lap. 

“Happy birthday, asshole,” you spat, but he could see how the corners of your mouth tipped up in a suppressed smile, getting wider by the second. 

“Well? Open it Tsukki!”

“Yeah, I wanna see!”

The peanut gallery beside him banged their hands on the table, and Miya groaned, clutching his forehead. “I’m begging you two to stop.”

Tsukishima let them carry on in their torture for a little while longer, liking the sight of the setter gnashing his teeth. When it became too much for even him, he opened the gift at the seams, careful not to rip the wrapping paper. It was pretty cute, and he smiled at the visual of you sitting down on your bedroom floor and strategically placing the stickers, your head bouncing to a playlist he’d shared with you. 

When he lifted up one long edge, he caught a glimpse of the gift, and his breath hitched. He gazed up at you in disbelief, peeling it all back to reveal the turntable in all its glory.

Tsukishima is a pro-athlete now; he could afford music systems that cost more than a regular citizen’s car, and yet he still proudly displays this exact one in his Saitama apartment, and he always gets compliments from the girls he brings home. Above the wall, in a frame never to be touched, is the first record you ever gave him; the one he will find out momentarily was sitting under the box. But he wanted to drink in that particular moment, the moment his heart stopped completely. 

The other three leaned over to get a better look at it, oohing and ahhing at the sight. Tsukishima was too busy memorizing your proud smile, your hand on your hips, and how the constriction of his heart resembled love a little too closely. 

“Because you’re always lamenting you don’t have one. Just so you know, the only presents you’re ever getting from me are vinyls.”

He should have hugged you. He should have told you how much it meant to him, but he just assumed you could see it on his face. Maybe he expected too much from you. 

But he did say, “Thank you, (name).” with the most sincerity he’d ever used, and you’d smiled like you knew he loved you.

                                           ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Tsukishima knows he does not have enough money to buy a house, and isn’t even interested in buying one, but that doesn’t stop him from putting on his (second) best clothes and working through whatever the hell he’s going to say to the person who opens your (old) front door. 

It’s the second dumbest thing he’s ever done. The neighborhood is bustling today, and a couple people do double takes as he strolls by with his headphones up, cap tilted low. He’s aware he kinda looks like he’s undercover in a Marvel movie, but there’s only so much he can do; height is a curse, he keeps telling people, but they never listen. 

He blends in enough not to get stopped, which may be yet another curse, because then he’d have time to recollect his thoughts and ask what the fuck he thought he was doing walking to your parents house in the middle of the goddamn day like they didn’t have jobs. Had his brain finally conked out now that he was a jock for a living? 

Maybe so, because the faded pink door was finally in sight. From the street he could see it clearly: a realtor’s number under the brilliant bold FOR SALE, like it’s yelling at him to leave. But his eyes drift, catching the little details of your house.

Everything in his memories has shrunk and distorted, but not this place. It’s still as clear as day: the red brick steps up to the door, lined with potted plants your mother had a talent for growing. The iron gates have rusted with time, and they stand much shorter now that he’s 195 cm. The bushes were trimmed into weird rounded shapes, both indicative of the neighborhood, and still odd in your front yard. The second story balcony had the same sheets—the same fucking ones from high school! Tsukishima had to laugh. 

And then his laugh tapers off as he realizes they’re yours. Purple with little moons and cartoon bunnies on them. The sheets from Sailor Moon! Your whine is an echo in his ears.

He’s just standing there, hands in his pockets as the memories bombard him one by one, crowding his brain, making him lose his—

The front door opens, creaking like a horror movie sound effect. Tsukishima steps back, watching in terror as a figure comes into view, checking his pockets before lifting his head up and seeing a man—a fucking giant—standing right outside his house.

“Hello?” he greets cautiously, stepping closer.  

Tsukishima holds in a breath. Your father has gotten old; almost all the hair on top of his head has thinned and greyed, like a samurai in a black and white movie. He’s still wearing the same uniform from the manufacturing plant he was employed at back when you were in high school, his (your) surname stitched on the pocket. He holds a lunchbox in one hand, the other curled into a defensive fist by his side. Intimidating as always.

 That is until he squints, and then his eyes light up with recognition. “Tsukishima? Tsukishima Kei?”

With equal hesitation, Tsukishima walks up to the gate. Your father pushes it open, and when he walks down the steps to be on even ground with Tsukishima, he laughs at how much shorter he’s become. 

“My god,” he whispers it like he’s staring at a ghost. Tsukishima feels too aware of his long legs and arms, holding them behind his back when he bows respectfully. 

“(Surname)-san,” he says, and your father’s eyes twinkle. “It’s been a long time.”

“So it has. How have you been, boy? I hear you’re playing for Saitama now.”

The recognition has him reeling. It’s too much, he shouldn’t have come. His stunned silence makes your father laugh. 

“No need to be modest about it! We’ve been following your progress, you know.” He sounds proud, as if he was talking to his own son. “I always brag to my coworkers that a pro-athlete used to come to my house. Three of em, really! How fortunate you’ve all been.”

“Thank you,” he says stiffly. “It’s been such a long time.”

“How is your mother?”  She must be awfully lonely without you two boys in the house.”

“I’m visiting her now. She told me your house was for sale?”

Your father was never an idiot. He looks up at the for sale sign, something heavy settling on his shoulders. “Both of my daughters have moved farther away than we intended,” he sighs, although there is no particular sadness in his tone. “I’m proud of them both, really, although (Name) has less filial piety than her sister.”

“She was,” Tsukishima cannot use the word that comes to mind in front of your father. “Something.”

Your father barks out a laugh. “That’s the polite way to say she was a pain in the ass.” Tsukishima’s posture visibly relaxes. “You couldn’t tell her nothin’. Sort of a shame she’s someone’s housewife, ya know? She would have done great things.” 

This time there is a wistful quality about his voice, but it vanishes as quickly as it came. “You know, you haven’t been here in a while. (Name)’s mom would love to see you. You were her favorite of all (Name)’s friends, I think.” 

A paternal pat on the arm makes all thoughts of weaseling out of this fly out the window. Tsukishima ascends the steps, the top of his head brushing just underneath the archway. 

“They don’t make houses for your height, I’m afraid.” 

“I’m used to it.” 

He wasn’t sure why he expects the inside will be any different. There’s no new furniture, the walls are all the same color, even the books your parents kept out were arranged the same way from nearly five years ago. The only difference is you’re not running down the stairs to save him from the embarrassment of talking to your parents.  

“Honey?” your father’s voice calls out as they round a corner. “You’ll never believe this: there was a professional athlete just standing outside.” 

You mother looks over her small glasses from where she’s sitting, her brows furrowing, then raising as she places her hand over her mouth. Much like his own mother, time has been kind to her, the only signs of aging appearing in the grey that grew from her back roots. 

“Oh my-” she’s standing in front of him with an awed look, and Tsukishima remembers that you and your mom have the same face, just older. He once thought he’d get to see you this age, maybe even in a house like this. His eyes fall to the floor, because your mother looks like the future he can no longer have.

She holds his arms like she’s going to lift him, her lower lip trembling. “Look at you! So tall, still so handsome. (Name) was an idiot for never making you my son-in-law.”

It used to be embarrassment that pained him. Now it was bittersweetness filling his mouth as he thought of something to say to that. “Yeah, she was” feels a little too familiar, and not at all cognizant of his broken heart.

“Oi,’ your father warns. “Enough of that, yeah?”

“Oh,” she swats her hand in his direction, then looks back up to Tsukishima with praising eyes. “I’m kidding. Kind of.”

Tsukishima rubs his arm, giving her a strained grin. He didn’t expect your parents to reopen the wound he’s done his best to forget. Time is supposed to heal all, but you are a fever that’s never broken. 

“I came by because I saw the house was for sale.”

Your mother’s face softens. “Oh, you must have so many memories here. Gosh, you haven’t been here in a long time.”

“Years” your father pipes up. 

“Years. You should head up to (Name)’s room, you might find something in there.”

This simultaneously piques his interest and fills him with existential dread. “Is that alright?”

“You’re probably the last person in Taiwa that has attachments to this house besides us.”

The sobering reality of that statement makes him drag his feet up the stairs. He looks back down, and he feels like he’s staring backwards in time. Every step forward is another year, and suddenly he’s anxious like he’s entering a girl’s room for the first time. 

Your presence, though missing, is overwhelming. He remembers condensation from something dripping onto the hard word floors he’s standing on now, your heart patterned socks mopping it up behind him.

                                         ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The sun was still up over the horizon, late July prickling Tsukishima’s bare arms with the last vestiges of heat. Your white dress shirt was speckled with little dots of red like a blood splatter. 

“You look like a homicide victim.”

“You look like you swallowed blue paint.” 

Convenience store slushies were actually a terrible way to beat the heat. They condensed and made the cup soggy, meanwhile the ice in the drink melts immediately after it leaves the machine. But Tsukishima wasn’t going to say no when after ten minutes of begging, Hinata proclaimed he would buy him “his last slushie of high school.” Tsukishima had just clicked his tongue, telling the excited middle blocker, “As long as you’re paying,” so he wouldn’t see how red his ears were.

Hinata and Yamaguchi chuckled at your little back and forth, while Kageyama slurped his drink with a seriousness that didn’t suit the moment. Bathed in sunshine, you all looked like bronze statues: immortal, eternal and infallible. That couldn’t be farther from the truth, but Tsukishima still liked the analogy. 

“You would think after spending like, every waking moment together these two would be nicer to each other.” Hinata hummed.

“I thought graduation might make them sentimental,” Yamaguchi sighed. His hair was long back then, decorated with multicolored clips you had strategically placed to match their uniforms. Tsukishima has told his friend once and only once that he liked this hairstyle on him the most. He doesn’t know if it’s because he has the happiest memories associated with it or not. Not that Tsukishima would ever say that. 

Yamaguchi pulled his little ponytail taut. “And to think, I wanted them to get their happily ever after.” How a person could look so much like the tear drop emoji, Tsukishima would never know. Your disgusted grunt broke his thoughts. 

“Ugh Yama, please,” you begged, throwing away your slushie like he’d spoiled your appetite. “Will you cut it out with this fantasy of yours?”

“What? Wouldn’t it be nice if my two friends got married?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Tsukishima deadpanned.

“I’d divorce him and steal all his money.”

“Now you’re entertaining the thought.”

Hinata jumped excitedly. “I think it’d be really cute! You guys are going to the same University right?”

Tsukishima bristled, staring at his shorter teammate with contempt. “That means nothing.”

“It means you still have time!”

Tsukishima hated the gremlins optimism, but in that moment, with the sun painting a strip of light across your already brilliant eyes, he’d had the fleeting thought that Hinata could be right. 

(He can’t kid himself. It wasn’t a passing thought; it was all consuming, like a tsunami. He couldn’t sleep, because he would dream of domesticity, and your next words cemented how unrealistic this was.)

You waved your hand at Hinata. “I’m not the marrying type, Hinata-kun.”

(A complete lie, but back in 2014, he’d believed you.)

“Besides, what’s so exciting about marriage when Kageyama’s going to be a famous athlete by next year, hm? And you’re off to fucking Brazil.”

All eyes shifted to the quiet setter, still casually drinking his slushie. When he opened his mouth to speak, his mouth was comically purple. 

“Marriage isn’t any less significant than being an athlete.” He’d said, sounding very much like the student counselor. Then he grimaced. “But you two would be an unholy couple.”

You broke into piercing laughter. The sound still rings in Tsukishima’s ears. “Kags, will you join me and Tsukki in an unholy matrimony?”

“You want me to get married to you two?”

“No, idiot, she wants you to officiate the wedding.”

“What wedding?”

“I-“ Tsukishima shook his head. “Good fucking question. I’m not marrying you.”

He wonders from time to time if you’d been serious back then. It didn’t make any sense when you were third years, but in retrospect, maybe, just maybe you were hinting something. That sun-made sparkle in your eyes glittered with dimension, and underneath the mirth was something Tsukishima never understood. He thought he would have more time to. 

“My original point still stands,” you said, exasperated. “You’re all going off to do great things, and I’m just going to Tohoku.”

“Oi,” Tsukishima chided. “Don’t make it sound so inconsequential when I’m going there too.”

“You're literally going on a full ride with your volleyball scholarship,” you rolled your eyes. “So, no, it’s not inconsequential. It’s just not the same.” 

Tsukishima will not be able to fully read you until freshman year of college, so he didn’t catch your downturned lips or how you tried to blink away welling tears. He just thought you were malfunctioning. “You’re being weird.”

“It’s not weird to miss your friends.”

“AHHH! (Name)!” Hinata jumped high enough to nearly kick you in the head. He looked at you with teary eyes and you’re astonished, even though you’ve known him for three years. “Don’t miss us! Don’t be sad!!”

“We’re not even gone yet,” Kageyama grumbles, and you grasped at your heart, confusing him. 

“Kageyama...do you care about my feelings?”

“What about his response gave you that idea?”

The black haired setter clicked his tongue. “I’m just saying, we haven’t graduated yet so you don’t have anything to be sad about right now.”

“I can’t believe the Kageyama Tobio is giving me a pep talk,” you dabbed at your eyes dramatically. Kageyama flicked water onto your face, and you giggled. 

“Hey!” He was relentless, so you hid behind Tsukishima who didn’t have a quick enough reaction time to be mad at you. Not that he would say anything about the way your hands touched his sides, sending a jolt down his body. His face is probably as red as a slushie. 

“Kageyama, when you’re rich and famous I’m going to send all the embarrassing pictures I have to the paparazzi.”

Yamaguchi laughed at the mental image. “That would take an hour long special.”

“A two part hour long special.”

“You’re a fake friend,” Kageyama said, and you prop your head on his shoulder. 

“That would imply that I don’t love you all, and that could never be true.”

You used to say such brash things so casually. Kageyama, with his congested emotions, bloomed into a furious blush. Hinata mocked him, pressing his wet hand against his heated face, much to Kageyama’s dismay. Chuckling at the freak duos antics, you shuffled into Tsukishima’s side, who simply looked on with indifference. 

“You’re such a sap, (Name),” Yamaguchi notes, and you gave him a brilliant smile, more golden and beautiful than the sunset at their backs. The only thing Tsukishkma laments is that the smile wasn’t aimed at him. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

Tsukishima walked ahead of everyone, slurping aggressively on his slushie, trying to quell the jealousy that erupted in his chest. He didn’t have the right to feel so possessive over a friendly declaration, but it still worked its way into his heart. 

Suddenly you were beside him, leaning forward to catch his expression. “What’re you hiding from?”

“Who says I’m hiding.”

“Ya know, Tsukki, you shouldn’t be jealous,” Your grin is troubling and sweet, because you’re a walking contradiction. Here and gone all at once.

“Who says I’m—“

“Because I love you most of all.”

                                          ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The door to your room is open. Tsukishima stands at the threshold, hands stuffed in his pockets so he can’t feel them tingle as he approaches. 

Already he can tell something isn’t right. The blinds are closed even though it’s the middle of the day, making slits of light like jail bars shine across the floor. The walls are completely stripped of posters and pictures, but they never stripped away the paint. The blue has faded with years gone by, and everything is a hollow shell of what it used to be. 

Tsukishima steps in. It doesn’t feel like anything special, which annoys him a little. But then again, how could it feel like anything different when the room has changed so much?

It’s a storage room now. Your bed is gone, your bedside table stuck up against the wall. Your antique dresser, the one you were so proud to steal from your sister, stands alone on the far wall, no clothes sticking out. Your closet is open with suitcases crammed inside, the hangers swinging idly and the floorboards creak under his weight. 

It feels colder in here. There’s no peach scented candles, no window open, no nothing. This isn’t yours. This isn’t right. 

It’s blasphemous what they’ve done. Tsukishima is not an irrational, angry person, and yet he has the violent urge to take a metal baseball bat and smash everything in your room. Not your room. 

Tsukishima's trembling fingertips trace over a water raised circle on your bookshelf, a scar to mark your existence. And there, on the side, where you recorded the length of your growing ivy plant, the months going down down down like a timeline until they stop. Until you’re gone with hardly a trace. 

Tsukishima balls his fists. You did leave something behind. He just can’t touch it, can’t see it anywhere else but his mind's eye and he curses because no one can see how you’ve ruined his life and continue to, even in this void you’ve created in your absence. 

He stops trying to control it. The memory swirls over him like a hurricane, pounding against his skull as tears well in his eyes. He falls to his knees to take a breath, then lays on the floor, in the exact spot where your bed used to be; in the middle of the room, parallel to the windows. He can almost feel the Sailor Moon sheets, closing his eyes. His panicked breathing splits into two, and like Athena from Zeus, you’ve sprung from his mind. 

You’re catching your breath. The drawn curtains turn afternoon sunlight into a diffused red glow. It colors Kei’s pale skin and blonde hair a dreamy pink, and you roll onto your naked stomach, legs kicking up playfully. 

Through the haze of warmth and pleasure, Kei cracks open an eye just a little bit to see you gazing at him with a sickly sweet smile. Your index finger traces his collarbone, setting fire to the skin underneath. 

“What’re you doing?” He croaks, and your chuckle sends waves of pleasure to his crotch. You drag your blunt nails across his throat, and he suppresses a hiss. 

“Can’t I touch you?”

“No.”

“Hmm. It’s a little late for that now, don’t you think?”

In all the years that came after this, Kei couldn’t figure out why this happened. It felt like—still feels like—a fluke the universe handed out to him. It never happens again and you never talk about it. 

This memory is his most prized possession: he keeps it under lock and key in the back of his mind because the way his palm tenderly connects to your cheek baffles him. His hand slides down, knuckles skimming your jaw in soft strokes, like he’s carving you out of clay. 

“You said—“

“I know what I said.” Your hand catches his wrist, bringing his long, slender digits to your lips. You inspect the cuts and bruises, how they’re bent and mangled from blocking harsh spikes and slamming down equally powerful ones. You kiss them like you could heal them, and Tsukishima wouldn’t put it past you. 

“Did I change your mind?” He has a smile that’s a little too smug. You’re ignoring his face and he feels anxious; he wants your eyes on his so you’ll melt, so he can devour you while you helplessly watch just how you’ll go down. 

That never happens. Not with you. You open your mouth and give one clean suck to his index finger, and Kei inhales through his nose to control the heat pooling to his abdomen. 

You kiss the pad of his finger. “I guess I had second thoughts.”

“Second thoughts?”

“You’re trying to get into Tohoku, right?”

“So are you.”

“Right. If we don’t get in—“

“Don’t jinx it, stupid.���

“—if I don’t get in, I don’t want to feel like I wasted my time.”

His brows furrow. Kei draws up on his side, catching himself with his elbow. His body is thoroughly wrecked from giving you everything, and he shivers upon seeing the damage on your neck. But he pushes aside all thoughts of pleasure and stares down at you. “What are you talking about?”

Your hands drag down his chest, trailing the curves and contours of the muscle he’s built up for three years. His shoulders have broadened out and his waist tapers into a trim V. He is chiseled marble, a statue come to life in your bedroom. If only he were as permanent. 

Kei follows your gaze, reaching down to intertwine your hands. The gesture is obscene, intimate, and reverent all at one. “(Name),” he pleads, and your eyes flicker up to his. 

“You really think you’re going to stay in Miyagi? You, Tsukishima Kei? With the handsome face and the brains and the brawn?” You’re joking, trying to put on a smile but your voice is thick with emotion. You can’t hide, not after what you’ve just done. “You’re going to be, I don’t know, something great, and I’ll be here, like always.” 

(Tsukishima, the one on the cold floor with his eyes closed could laugh. What he wouldn’t give to be here, with you.)

The old him didn’t share that sentiment. “So, you wanted to have sex with me because you didn’t want to miss the opportunity?” 

“You’re missing the point, Kei.”

“Hey now, just because we fucked doesn’t mean you can get familiar.”

You try to pull your hand out of his grip, but his fingers curl, locking you in. He pulls you closer so your bodies are flush, and lays his head next to yours. 

“You act like you’re not more than capable of getting out on your own.”

“It’s easier for you,” you admit, words nothing but a whisper. “You’re so bright, Kei, so talented. I think it would be cruel if you didn’t leave.”

“God you’re so,” he‘s stuttering, trying to keep the awe from your voice. He can’t hide from you, not after what you’ve just said. “You don’t get it, do you? How you’re the only good thing about Taiwa, about fucking Miyagi.”

“Kei,” you whisper, on the verge of tears. “Kei stop.”

“This is the only time I’m going to say something nice about you, so.” He tilts your chin with the hand that’s bigger than your whole head, gentle as a lamb. “I don’t want to be like all the other Karasuno grads, living and dying here.”

“We can’t do anything about it.”

“Like hell we can’t. If either of us get out, if I get out, we’re going together.”

“Ha,” you laugh dryly. It certainly knocks him down a peg to hear you reject his proposition. “Please don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

“Well, you gotta keep up your end of the bargain. Get into Tohoku and we can take it from there. It’ll be you and me.” 

“This doesn’t sound like the Tsukishima I know,” you say coyly, lopsided smirk making him crazy. “What’s got you so sentimental all of a sudden?”

“It could be that there’s someone I don’t mind being sappy for, especially if they’re naked under me.”

“I’m not—“ the words are stolen from you as Kei bruises your lips with a kiss. His hands turn your cheek toward him, and he kisses you into the mattress, all while climbing on top of you. He pulls back with a satisfied smirk, your lips glistening with (his) saliva. 

“You were saying?” 

You shove him and he falls back against your knees. “No, you were saying.”

Kei presses his chest against yours, kissing your neck, your jaw, then your lips in a softer kiss. “We’ll get out of here together. How does that sound?”

You don’t have a hopeful face. Your eyes have closed and you sigh, like you’re looking into the future and seeing Kei’s broken promise play over and over in your head. You two were young, but even you were less optimistic than he was. 

You opened your eyes, letting your face morph into a happiness Kei now realizes is tinged with melancholy. He thinks it’s beautiful, in a tragic sense. Tragedies were timeless classics, like you. 

“It sounds like you should put your money where your mouth is.”

“Do I ever disappoint?” 

This brings out your real smile, beaming at him like the sun and the moon and every star in the galaxy. “Never. Not to me.” 

Tsukishima lays on the cold floor with his hand over his eyes, lungs threatening to pop as he tries to exhale the guilt and heartache. None of the memories of this god forsaken town and this goddamn house hold anything but guilt, nothing but a knife in his stomach; the same one he stabbed into your back the day he signed on for the Saitama Spears and left. 

He used to firmly believe that if you never try at something, it can’t break your heart. He took that attitude to volleyball and wasn’t proven wrong. Tsukishima does not know if it would hurt more if he’d tried with you. It wasn’t like he did it on purpose; he simply forgot. Somewhere in the shuffle, somewhere between keeping his promise and not, it slipped from his hands like a bad block. 

He tries wiping the tears from his eyes. It’s not like thinking about it matters anymore; there’s no differentiation between the memories and the reality, only the same crushing pain. 

And yet, Tsukishima finds himself dissociating into the ceiling. If he stops breathing, he can hear your laughter echo off the walls. Perhaps his ghost and yours can live here forever, like they do in his mind. 

It’s the only way he can keep his promise.

[ridiasfangirlings]

(1/4) Yata encounters a Strain with the power to change people's genders. This Strain has actually managed to make an underground business using their power to help people that don't feel right in their birth bodies get a body they feel comfortable in, as well as punishing people who are sexist to live as the gender they're prejudiced against. However, the reason they switch Misaki into a girl is because they witness one of his embarrassing meltdowns around woman and take pity on him.

Not only does Yata get to learn what it's like to be a woman, after he goes back to normal Kusanagi can have him be the one to give Anna the period talk XD So say gender swap Strain exists and is actually pretty chill, rather than just attacking random people they use their powers for good and help out anyone who wants an easy and free way to have the body they feel most comfortable in. The Strain also takes it upon themselves to show sexist people what it's like on the other side, like finding guys who don't respect women and making them see what jerks they've been being all this time (like the ghosts from A Christmas Carol, but with genderswapping). Homra and Scepter 4 are somewhat aware that the Strain exists but because they don't cause trouble and are largely helping people the Strain is allowed to just go about their business normally without anyone really bothering them.

One day maybe there's some commotion near where the Strain lives and Homra shows up to take care of it, the Strain happens to see Yata there having one of his moments trying to deal with a girl. Maybe the Strain takes it the wrong way too, like it's not just that they see Yata being nervous and freaking out but they think that he doesn't respect women at all or doesn't think it's worth talking to them. The Strain decides that this guy needs to learn that women aren't some alien species and so they decide to use their powers to change Yata's body for a bit until he learns a Very Important Lesson. Yata doesn't even know he's been affected until later, waking up the next morning and looking down to see that there is most definitely something different this morning.

Of course poor Yata has a freakout, probably hurrying to the bar and possibly getting hit on before anyone realizes that it's Yata. Yata doesn't know what to do, she got dressed in the dark to avoid having to look down and she's probably gonna have to pee soon and that's going to get really awkward. Kusanagi tells Yata to calm down and they'll figure out what happened, unfortunately for Yata it soon becomes clear that she's going to be looking like this for the next month at least. Yata can't believe that she's going to be a girl for a whole month, like she can't avoid getting changed or going to the bathroom for a whole month. Kusanagi is sympathetic but he's also probably thinking maybe this will help Yata a little, like there's only so many times Yata can see boobs in the mirror before getting used to them right.

The first week is largely made up of Yata learning to get comfortable with her new body. Maybe Kusanagi decides to summon some help and Awashima and Neko both show up to help her cope, Awashima teaches Yata how to put on a bra and Neko teaches her how to take off panties. Yata slowly goes from screaming the moment any girl gets near to actually being able to change with her eyes open, though it's still kinda embarrassing (and she still doesn't want to see other girls naked or anything) but she's getting used to the idea that this is just a body and it's no more embarrassing than her 'normal' body is.

Once she's gotten at least to the point that she's ready to go out and try to resume life as normal (or as normally as she can) Yata decides that she's not going to let this genderswap thing keep her from skateboarding and beating people up and doing all her usual things. This is when Yata starts to learn all the real shit that women have to deal with, like she goes to visit Saruhiko and runs into a couple alphabet boys. It takes Yata a minute to realize that Hidaka doesn't recognize her and she's about to tell him who she is when she finds herself thinking that don't guys kinda treat you different when they think you're a girl. As she's considering this she suddenly realizes that Hidaka is staring at her boobs and of course Yata being Yata she's immediately like 'what the fuck man I'll kick your ass for that' while Hidaka's like wait what did I do (and then Yata's all 'you were staring at my breasts!', Hidaka tries to deny he was staring at her breasts, and Fushimi – who is well aware of this whole thing and already had a good snicker at Yata's expense when Yata called in a panic last week after getting caught in her own bra strap – shows up and starts drawing knives because wait who was looking at Misaki's boobs exactly).

Yata's slowly starting to understand just how much women go through and she's definitely getting a new-found respect for them, like she always respected that girls can be badass – if anyone dares to say Anna isn't badass Yata will punch them – but she didn't realize just how badass. She's still looking forward to getting her normal self back soon though and she wonders if it's almost about to happen because she's been having some pains in lower areas and optimistically figures that hey, maybe this is a sign of going back to being a guy again. Sadly for Yata it is not, and she wakes up the next day with blood all over her pants and having a mild freakout that she's dying. One call to Kusanagi and then Awashima later Yata is getting a lecture all about the joy of becoming a woman, along with some painkillers and a demonstration of how to properly use pads (meanwhile Fushimi is somehow picked to go to the store to buy Yata tampons and he is definitely the person who calls Yata asking what pussy size she needs while Yata yells at him on the other side of the phone, like 'just buy them and bring them back here before I make you the one bleeding monkey' 'but Misaki I can't buy you the wrong size when you're on your period,' 'JUST SHUT UP AND GET BACK HERE').