#anyway i’m shooting for ninety percent

[a-bucket-in-the-void]

back to the grind

[lloydskywalkers]

three sword style

Or, Lloyd and his evolving relationship with what it means to choose a weapon, as supervised by Kai. listen I know Wu technically gives them all their new weapons in season 11 according to some random book referenced in the ninjago wiki (or at least Lloyd’s sword) but you know who ACTUALLY has a degree in making weapons and canonically has made a golden sword SO. My canon now. (also spot the brain rot I infected myself with in the title) 

Lloyd grows up in a world of weaponry and at the speed of light. 

There are worse ways to grow up, maybe. There are also better ones — one where kids get to grow up instead blasting into teenager-hood in the span of seconds — but Lloyd doesn’t like to complain about where he’s ended up. 

Second to the speed of light thing, though, the weapons part is pretty big. 

Weapons determine the single biggest turning point in his life, after all. It’s the Golden Weapons that make him the Green Ninja, a title that’s a lot more important than Lloyd’s ever been. It’s also that particular title that makes Lloyd the weapon, so that’s fun. Ninjago’s prophesied emergency failsafe, the Green Ninja — that’s him. 

On a nicer note, it’s the Fangblade that gets him a big brother, and proves that there’s someone out there who cares about Lloyd over some stupid weapon, so hah. 

Getting back to the point, though—

Weapons. Lloyd’s been making do without one, and he’s been making pretty good do, thank you very much. He’s got his power, and he’s got himself. That’s all the weapon Lloyd needs. 

But no one else seems to agree, and since ninety percent of the time whatever prophecy-of-doom crops up this month involves cursed weaponry of some sort, they all figure it’s a good a reason as any to stick Lloyd with a reliable weapon. 

And while wielding all the elements is one thing, wielding every kind of weapon at once would be kind of difficult, even for his dad. 

So Lloyd finally gets an actual, for-real, decision that he gets to make all by himself. 

It’s a monumentous occasion — and yes, that is a word, Nya, Lloyd knows some stuff — so if Lloyd was smart he’d treasure it and take his time. 

With that in mind, it takes all of thirty seconds for Lloyd to choose. This is only mildly insulting to some parties. 

“Fine, sure, go with the most basic pick in the world,” Jay scoffs. “Swords. Boring.”

“Sounds like you’re just jealous,” Kai shoots back.

“Jealous of swords? Please. I just thought Lloyd was a little more creative than that.”

“I like swords,” Lloyd says, at a loss. 

“Jay is only relieved that no one will one-up his nunchuck expertise, now,” Zane smiles. 

Jay sputters indignantly. “No one’s one-upping me, I’m the best there is!” 

“Uh-huh,” Cole shakes his head. “Well, if that’s what Lloyd wants, that’s the end of it.” His mouth quirks. “Means more training time for Kai, anyways.” 

“More training to be better than you,” Kai retorts. 

“Like the rest of you, Lloyd will continue to work toward mastering at least the basics of any weapon,” Sensei Wu sighs. “A ninja confined to one weapon alone—”

“Is a dead ninja,” Jay nods.

Sensei Wu cuts his eyes at him. “That is not how I was going to finish.”

“The point stands though, right?”

“The point,” Sensei Wu pinches the bridge of his nose. “Is that while Lloyd will continue to train with all of you, focusing on swordsmanship will become the priority. So yes, in a way. More training for Kai.”

Lloyd rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry…?”

“Why are you sorry?” Kai beams, more proud than smug. “I finally get an official katana apprentice. We’re gonna be awesome.”

And that alone, Lloyd thinks, makes it worth all the complaining. 

“Great,” Jay throws his arms up. “Now we’re stuck with two slice ‘em dice ‘em ninjas.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Cole says. “It’s Kai, how dangerous can he be.”

“I resent that,” Kai says. “Just because you beat me once or twice—”

“Try thirteen times, and counting.”

“—it does not mean I’m not as dangerous as you,” Kai narrows his eyes. 

“Oh yeah? Wanna prove it?”

“Bring it on, rock man.”

“Not in the kitchen, for FSM’s sake—“

Whether or not Cole beats him (which he does, pretty badly, because Cole is kinda terrifying like that) Lloyd knows that to some degree, Kai is dangerous. Very dangerous, with or without his swords.

It’s hard to think of Kai like that, though. When Lloyd thinks of Kai, he thinks of warm arms wrapped tight around him in the Fire Temple. Thinks of the first hugs he’s gotten from someone other than his father that felt like home. Thinks of protection — thinks safe. Thinks family. 

He’s wanted to be like Kai for a while, now. So yeah. It’s an easy choice. 

Plus, swords are way cool.

______

Kai starts training him in Dareth’s dojo. It takes about a week for them to get banished to the roof of their apartment, which is mostly Lloyd’s fault — but Kai’s the one supposed to be teaching him, so he can take the blame this time. 

…well, maybe Lloyd’s the one who keeps losing his grip on the katana, but that’s not quite his fault, either.  

Kai is better than basically any swordsman on this side of Ninjago in years, if not all Ninjago. Lloyd knows this because Uncle Wu told him so, and because Kai wipes the floor with him the first, second, and twenty-ninth time they spar.

“The point is to keep your grip on the katana, you know,” Kai says, as Lloyd retrieves his sword from where it went flying (again). “What kind of hold it that supposed to be, butterfingers deluxe?”

“You said not to grip it too tight,” Lloyd complains. 

Kai rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ‘cause you had it in a death hold. I didn’t say, ‘let go and let it fly’.”

“I didn’t let it fly, you knocked it out of my hand!”

“Aha, so you’re admitting I won. Again.”

“N-no!” Lloyd protests. “I’m just warming up. I’ll show you this time.” 

But as Kai takes his stance again, his own katana held with a kind of grace Lloyd has zero idea how to ever accomplish, Lloyd thinks he might be a bit of a lost cause. 

It’s difficult, because every time he goes to swing his sword, his power thrums in his blood, in his hands, always ready to lash out. It’s quickly become a habit, to start every fight slinging green blasts around. Lloyd’s already grown fond of the little bell-like sounds his power makes, the steady pulse as bright green builds in his palms. 

Lloyd is the Green Ninja, after all. His power is what makes him, well, him. He’s his own best weapon — he’s the one the prophecy needs to make things right.

Kai keeps putting weapons in his hands, anyways. 

Training katanas, mostly. He got to hold the Sword of Fire once, before his dad took it. It was beautiful — Lloyd kinda gets why Kai’s so up in arms about it getting stolen.

That and the whole don’t-give-Garmadon-the-Golden-Weapons thing.

Kai seems confused that Lloyd remembers it, which is weird because the Golden Weapons are kind of a big deal, but Lloyd decides to chalk it up to all the other weirdness in his life. 

The first true katana Kai ever gives Lloyd is…not quite as cool as the Sword of Fire, and definitely not as beautiful, but in a way that Lloyd likes. 

“We’re kinda short on weapons,” Kai admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “And I don’t exactly have access to smithing equipment right now, which means you’re stuck with one of my old ones. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Lloyd adjusts his hands around the hilt, taking an experimental swing. “This is a great sword!”

“Yeah, okay, liar — and don’t swing it around like that, you look like you’re waving a pool noodle.” 

Kai grabs his hands, forcing Lloyd’s arms to hold steady.

“Like this, okay?” Kai says. “We’re gonna start by practicing single movements.” 

“Aw,” Lloyd visibly wilts. “More katas? I thought I was gonna get to learn some cool moves.”

“This is a cool move. If you’re good, you finish things in one hit,” Kai says. “One strike, and the fight’s over.”

“Like a headshot,” Lloyd nods.

“No,” Kai rolls his eyes. “This is not a video game. This is a real sword, and you’re going to learn to use it right.”

“And then we can do the cool moves?”

Kai narrows his eyes. “Do your katas or I’m firing you.”

Lloyd sticks his tongue out at him. “You can’t fire me. I’m the Green Ninja.”

“Yeah? I’ll demote you to Green Washer-of-Dishes for the rest of the month.”

“No! You can’t, Nya and I have a deal!” 

Jokes aside, Lloyd is sure to remind Kai, as he scrubs dishes and Kai dries them, that he does take training seriously.

He takes all his training seriously. It’s kind of his only job. 

Lloyd practices hits until his knuckles split and scab, masters high kicks with shins colored violent blues and purples, forms green starbursts in his hands until his fingers crack and bleed. 

When his palms blister from the sword hilt on top of it all, Kai makes him hold still until he’s wrapped the first-aid bandage around his hands at least five times, then shoves his old gloves on him when he starts to form calluses.

He wants to argue that he doesn’t need them, but Lloyd still wears the gloves everyday and tucks them away each night, storing them with the other few, treasured things he’s been gifted.

______

The longer he trains with swords, the more Lloyd gains calluses and nicked fingers and perpetually smells a little like cloves. 

That last part Lloyd enjoys, though he’ll never admit it. He’s not about to go and tell people he enjoys cleaning stuff, no thanks. 

But there’s something nice about helping Kai take care of the katanas, in a relaxing sort of way. The wood-smoke tang of cloves smells like home, which Lloyd treasures, because home isn’t something he’s very used to. 

Treasures is probably an understatement. Lloyd latches onto it like he’s starving. Part of it’s because this is something he gets to have with Kai, all by himself. He’s never had something like that before, either — a special thing that’s shared just with him. 

Well, maybe besides the green gi, but the Green Ninja is something that belongs to everyone. Whatever Lloyd does when he puts the green gi on is everyone’s business, since it determines the fate of the world or something like that, and it doesn’t really even feel like his. Not yet, at least. 

But sitting cross-legged in the weapons room while Kai teaches him how to clean katanas without damaging them — that belongs to Lloyd. 

He learns a lot with it too, because Kai always starts rambling about ten minutes in — not the confident, cocky way he does sometimes in front of everyone else, but in an honest way that Lloyd isn’t entirely sure he even means to be. 

“—not the best oil, but it works when you’re in a pinch. S’what my parents left behind, at the shop, so it’s good enough.”

Lloyd looks up at him, curious. He keeps quiet — Kai and Nya don’t talk much about their parents, if at all. Lloyd gets it, of course, but it makes the little tidbits they share valuable. 

“I don’t remember a lot about my parents,” Kai continues. “But I remember some things. About my dad. He was a great smith, I know that much. Could make about anything. Swords were his favorite, though.” 

Uncle Wu’s candlelight casts Kai’s eyes with a glow that makes it seem like he’s on fire himself, flickering and fading. He looks very far away, all of the sudden, and Lloyd has the urge to grab for his arm and make him stay here. 

“Guess I latched onto that,” Kai smiles ruefully, and he’s back again. “Never could reach his level, but I learned how to make an okay sword.”

Lloyd chews on his lip. He knows all about latching on to your parents — wanting to be great at the things they are.

That maybe, if you’re good enough, they’ll be proud enough to come back. 

He doesn’t think that’s a happy thing to say, though, so he tells Kai instead, “I think your swords are great.”

Kai’s lips quirk. “Uh-huh. Then you better treat them like it.”

“I do,” Lloyd protests. He gestures at the katana across his lap. “See? I did it perfect this time.”

Kai nods his head at a spot Lloyd noticeably missed. He flushes.

“Almost perfect.”

“Practice, young student,” Kai says, in a gravely voice that’s probably supposed to sound like Uncle Wu. “A thousand hours of practice for you.”

“Ugh,” Lloyd groans. “All I do is practice. Practice practice practice, and then I’m still not enou—”

He cuts off. Oops. Maybe Kai’s honestly is a little too contagious. 

Kai goes quiet, hands stilling on the katana. There’s a deep furrow between his eyes as he stares at Lloyd, in a way that makes him feel a little like a bug under a microscope. Or that Kai can see right through him, which is bad, because all Lloyd’s got in him is a bunch of tangled thoughts and worries and nothing an actual ninja should have. 

“You know,” he says, carefully. “We probably need to stock up on the good oil. I’m kinda running low.”

Lloyd knows darn well Kai has enough choji oil to get them through an apocalypse. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kai nods. “If we go now, we can probably hit the convenience store, too. Get a sugar boost before—”

“I’m in!” Lloyd shoots to his feet before he can stop himself, any protests forgotten. Training has included a healthy diet lately, so Lloyd doesn’t collapse and pass out because his blood’s eighty percent sugar — Zane’s words, not his. 

If he needs to get his blood sugar up, why can’t he just eat sugar all the time? It makes no sense. 

“Do not tell the others,” Kai hisses, as they make their way into the city. “Especially Cole, if you don’t wanna lose your sweets before you can take a bite. We’re just getting polish for katanas, as far as you know.”

“I know nothing,” Lloyd says obediently. “Hey, do you think we could use olive oil on the katanas?”

Kai’s stare could heat iron. “I’ll kill you.” 

“It was a joke! A joke, heh.”

______

For all that Lloyd’s life revolves around training to defeat anyone and everyone, the guys are still weirdly protective. Over anyone and everyone, including Lloyd himself. 

“C’mon, I can handle the cool attacks,” Lloyd complains, as Kai drags him into place.

“They’re not cool — okay, they’re kinda cool — but that’s not what we’re learning now,” Kai sighs. “You’re learning Aikido. Well, a form of it, technically. It’s focused on defending yourself, but in a way that lessens the chances of injuring your attacker.”  

Lloyd frowns. “Isn’t that counterintoo — counterintuitive?”

“Big words today,” Kai mutters. He shakes his head. “And it’s counterproductive, by the way, but — no,  because now that we’re training, half your attackers are us, and I’d like to leave practice with my arms intact.”

Lloyd grins. “So you’re admitting I’m better than you.” 

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Kai says pointedly.

“Don’t need to. You’ve already admitted defeat.”

“And, brat—” Lloyd yelps as Kai digs his knuckles into his hair. “Defending yourself is incredibly important.”

As they settle back into position, Kai pauses, a muscle in his jaw working. He looks as if he’s having an internal argument with himself, before finally sighing. 

“The thing about any weapon, but especially swords,” he says, correcting Lloyd’s grip on the katana. “Is that they can be used a lot of ways. But the one thing you never, ever want to forget—”

And Kai’s tone grows serious, his jaw tensing again. “Is that they can kill.”

Lloyd looks down, to the sharp edges of the blade. It suddenly feels a bit heavier, and the room just a bit darker. 

“The way we’re training you, the way we were trained, we don’t always — we try to avoid it.” Kai’s voice wavers, and for a moment, Lloyd remembers that Kai isn’t all that much older than he is. 

Well, now, especially. 

“But sometimes, it’s…you don’t really…well.” He lets out a breath. “This is a sword. It can take a life really quick, if you aren’t careful. And sometimes, you don’t get the choice to be careful or not.”

Lloyd swallows. He hasn’t thought about it much — hasn’t wanted to, but it lives in his mind like a terrible itch he can’t get rid of. 

He’s no stranger to the idea of killing someone. Darkley’s was blunt as it was cold. But as a ninja, it’s suddenly realer than it ever was in school. 

As the Green Ninja, with his destiny drawn out in front of him, it’s pretty much unavoidable. 

He’s going to kill his father, or he’s going to die. 

Kai’s hands grab tight around his shoulders. “We’re gonna do everything we can to make sure you don’t end up in that situation, okay?” He gives Lloyd a small, strained smile. “Don’t ever feel like you have to change who you are, just ‘cause you’re a ninja now.”

How do you know who I am, Lloyd wants to ask. How do you know I’m not a murderer? How do you know I’m not awful? 

Kai’s eyes are impossibly kind and far, far too knowing. 

“But,” and his tone grows serious again. “If it’s your life or theirs.” 

Lloyd feels a bit like the oxygen’s been sucked out of the room. 

“Promise me. You have to promise — you will always, always choose your own.” 

Lloyd stares back. Kai gives him a little shake.

“You promise me?”

Finally, as if moved by puppet strings, Lloyd nods. 

“I promise,” he rasps. 

Kai looks relieved, but it’s not quite in a happy way. “As long as you come back alive, that’s what matters. I don’t care what else happens — you come back alive, and we’re good.” 

“Okay,” Lloyd says. His eyes feel wet. It’s strange, someone caring so much about something like that.  

“Which is why,” Kai says, finally stepping back as his tone lightens. “You’re gonna nail that block this time. Or I’m making you polish every weapon in the dojo again.”

“Oh, no,” Lloyd stares at him in horror. “I’ve been practicing that stupid move for hours!”

“And you’ll be cleaning weapons for hours if you don’t get it.” 

“You suck,” Lloyd grumbles. “Worst teacher of all time.” 

“Uh-huh,” Kai claps him on the back, and Lloyd lets out his own sigh of relief at the lightened atmosphere. “You’re the one that picked swords, buddy.”

______

Kai’s a hypocrite, though, and Lloyd could hate him for it, because as they slide down the snowy mountain-side, Lloyd’s body clashing against his family in ways he’d never, ever let it if he had control, he has to watch as Kai — again — chooses a life other than his own. 

Because Kai doesn’t have the experience Morro does, but he’s better with a sword, he’s better than anyone Lloyd knows, and he loses. And Lloyd’s arm drags the Sword of Sanctuary up and Kai is a stupid, stupid, stupid hypocrite—

Lloyd’s angry enough that tearing control back from Morro is easy. 

He knows a thing or two about swords himself, and Morro’s holding it wrong, anyways. 

______

Training had already taken a hit after they lose Zane, for obvious reasons. Everything had taken a hit after they lost Zane, and between the tournament and Morro and everything else Lloyd’s pointedly ignoring, it’s suddenly been ages since he’s had a proper sword lesson. 

Kai decides to make up for it by finally teaching him the fun stuff. 

“Don’t — call it that in front of Cole,” Kai grunts over the loud screech of metal on metal. His knee bends, just the slightest tell—

Lloyd falls back, dancing away from Kai’s returning strike. He knows now, just how dangerous Kai can be — he’d like to forget it, but it’d be doing him a disservice. 

Besides, Lloyd’s had his body dragged left and right over Ninjago, used as the worst kind of weapon to hurt the people he loves, and they still trust him. Being on the dangerous end of Chen’s stupid staff is nothing to being on the dangerous end of a katana Kai’s made himself, and Lloyd’s determined to hold onto the faith he’s had since that day in the volcano. 

Kai won’t hurt him. 

He’ll kick his ass in training, though, so Lloyd had better get back with the show. 

He retaliates with a feint to the right — too obvious for Kai, but enough to steal his attention for Lloyd to land a high kick to his side.

“Watch that,” Kai scolds, forced two steps backs. 

“Why?” Lloyd grins over the edge of Kai’s blade as he catches his blow dead-on. “Scared I’m gonna beat you too soon?”

Kai snorts. “You aren’t beating me at all, shortstack—”

“Not short—”

“And,” Kai’s katana moves so fast Lloyd barely manages to dodge, rolling into a somersault before surging back up to meet his backstrike. “You’re advertising your weak point.”

Lloyd frowns. “S’not a weak point.”

Kai’s katana flashes — Lloyd moves right just before he realizes it’s a feint, cursing himself — then the hilt of his katana is smacking hard against a bone in his right ankle. 

There’s a hot flash of pain as his body completely betrays him, his ankle buckling and sending him stumbling with a yelp.

Kai’s expression isn’t gloating, at least. On the downside, he has that sad kind of look that usually means he’s feeling guilty. 

“It’s not usually that bad,” he tries, even as his cheeks flare hot. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Kai shakes his head. “You need to protect that. Make sure no one knows it’s a weak point but you. Putting it in reach of your opponent is a bad way to do that.” 

Lloyd grits his teeth, but he knows Kai’s right. He’ll never regret pushing himself the way he did, clambering up the tower steps on a broken ankle. The fate of Ninjago was a lot heavier on his shoulders than any thoughts of consequences. 

It still sucks, that it’ll never heal quite right. 

But it isn’t like he’s the only one with an old wound turned weak spot, he reminds himself, as he wraps his aching ankle once again. Jay’s got zig-zagging lightning scars all down his arms that ache during heavy rain. Nya can only rotate her arm so far before her shoulder goes numb, a souvenir from a broken arm. Cole’s the worst, maybe, with how he’s strained himself lifting impossibly heavy weights, fractured fingers and broken bones that throb in the cold. 

Kai’s got his own share of weaknesses, though he works hard to hide them. Lloyd’s managed to pick out most — some of them he’s helped treat himself.

He doesn’t like to think about those times, though.

“So I’ve got an idea for a move,” Kai grins at him, once Lloyd’s ankle is stable. “It’s gonna take some timing, but since I don’t have a weak spot there — you’re gonna run and launch.”

Lloyd tilts his head. “Launch off your right ankle?”

“No,” Kai rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna go down for a handspring. When my legs are low, you’re gonna jump on, so when I shoot up—”

“Ooh, I go flying,” Lloyd concludes. 

“Exactly.” 

“Let’s do it! I’m gonna look so cool—”

“Okay, but we’re gonna look stupid as it gets if we don’t get the — timing, timing!” 

It takes about five tries to get it right. That’s all they agree on admitting to — the less said about the forgotten sixth and seventh tries, the better. 

But on try eight, Lloyd finally feels his left and right foot connect with Kai’s just as he hits the lowest point of the handspring — and this time, he remembers to bend his own knees and launch up, and with a sudden weightlessness, he’s flying. 

“Slash, slash, don’t forget to slash!”

 Years of training are the only reason Lloyd’s able to get his arms to obey him fast enough, the wind-up pulling on his shoulders before he sweeps the katana down, slashing out—

“Yes!” Kai’s cheer abruptly turns to a yelp as he loses his balance, crumpling to the floor. Lloyd’s already sprawled across the training mats, since landing was a whole lot harder than he’d planned for — but the training dummy is cut in half. One perfect hit. 

“Now, if we can just manage that in an actual fight, we’ll look awesome,” Kai grins.

Lloyd glances at him. “Are you gonna fall flat on your face then, too?”

Red stains his cheeks. “No,” Kai sputters. “That was — you didn’t see that.”

“Uh-huh,” Lloyd snorts. He tilts his head, considering the unfortunate training dummy. “Y’know, I bet I can manage a flip in there,” he mutters. 

Kai shrugs. “Yeah, probably.” He lips quirk up. “It’d look pretty cool. Y’know what, let’s go for it. I wanna see the look on Jay’s face when you flip down on him during sparring.”

______

It takes Kai all of ten minutes into the next fight to start regretting that one. 

“Got a runner!” Jay calls, as one of the thugs they’ve been rounding up breaks loose from where Zane’s kindly explaining the terms of surrender and Cole’s standing with his lava punch ready to show them what happens if they don’t agree. 

“I got ‘im!” Lloyd calls, darting after the masked man. 

He tugs his katana free from its sheathe, mind already racing. The time spent on his own, guarding his own back, gave Lloyd the rare opportunity to learn things in ways the guys probably would’ve had his head for.

With the lessons Kai’s drilled into him, the steady form of swordsmanship driven into his nerves, Lloyd’s found a creativity in tweaking things to match his style. 

So when the thug sprints past a number of abandoned boxes, scrabbling as he narrowly avoids stumbling on the concrete, Lloyd’s already got the perfect move in mind. 

Step, step, jump — tuck in tight, so there’s enough momentum to rotate at least twice — and bam, it’s like a wind-up toy. The more spins he gets in, the harder his landing is, disarming the guy with a perfect slash while kicking his teeth in. 

Neat and effective, in Lloyd’s opinion.

Sadly, his opinion is not shared. 

Kai sputters. “What was that?”

“Cool as heck, that’s what it was,” Lloyd grins. 

Kai is supremely unimpressed. “What did I say about wasting movements?”

Lloyd shuffles. “Don’t…do it?”

“Then why, exactly, did you feel the need to flip three — not one but three — times before striking?”

“Because,” Lloyd says. “It was cool. As heck.”

Kai pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Lloyd valiantly bites back any comments about him taking after Sensei Wu. 

“There’s a difference between adding your own flare,” he finally says. “And squandering your energy like a spinning top.”

“Squandering — spinning top—” Lloyd sputters. “Hey, I got the guy just fine, didn’t I? I didn’t squander anything.”

“And what’re you gonna do if someone wises up and snipes you mid-flip?”

“Who’s gonna snipe me, there are no snipers around, dummy—”

“There could be, hypothetically!”

“Hypothetically, please. You’re just jealous ‘cause you can only do two flips—”

“I can do sixteen if I want, I’m just smarter—”

Despite his arguments, Lloyd does resolve to try for restraint. Unfortunately, Lloyd’s also got the memory of a goldfish, so Kai should really know better. 

He just can’t help it. The next time they clash with a run-of-the-mill villain who’s stealing secret plans for bombs or whatever ridiculous thing it is that week, Lloyd finds himself on one building with the criminal on the next. 

The solution is obvious. Kai doesn’t agree. 

“FIVE FLIPS?! THAT WAS A THREE-FOOT DISTANCE!”

Lloyd carefully places the now-unconscious criminal on the rooftop, stands back up, and wisely back-flips the heck outta there. 

______

As his sword movements grow more complicated and the green power take a near-constant presence in his veins, the gentle pulse of energy as familiar as a friend, Lloyd grows stronger, too.

This kickstarts an entirely new problem, because Lloyd can’t go five steps without ruining something, it seems. 

In his defense, he doesn’t start breaking swords at a criminal rate until after Morro, so Lloyd’s gonna blame it all on him.

He stares blankly at the katana in his hands — or the remains of it, to be exact. Half the blade is somewhere across the street, where it went skidding after Lloyd’s final hit snapped it clean in two. 

Kai stares just as blankly when Lloyd wordlessly offers the pieces up. 

“Okay,” he finally says. “Maybe I went wrong with the balance, or something? This was probably just a fluke.”

He turns it over, frowning. “Wouldn’t hurt to reinforce the next one, I guess…”

Reinforcements or not, it takes the third shattered sword for Kai to wise on. 

“I’m so sorry,” Lloyd warbles tearfully, the remains of Kai’s careful metalwork cradled in his arms. “I don’t know what happened, I was just swinging it, and it went — it went—”

“It went in six different directions, apparently,” Kai mutters. 

Lloyd slumps. “It was only four this time,” he mutters. 

“I guess this is what we get for training you as well as we did,” Kai says. “Cole and his super strength, I’ll never be free of it.”

“Didn’t he beat you by tripping you flat on your face?”

“I don’t wanna hear it from you, oh cruel destroyer of my swords,” Kai scowls. 

“I didn’t mean to!” Lloyd protests. “I tried really hard this time, but the last guy had this giant bat, and I thought I could cut it in half, but I swung so hard I screwed up my strike and went…in six…different directions…”

Kai scrubs a hand over his face. He glances at Lloyd, eyes searching. 

“But you beat him?”

“Duh,” Lloyd says. The faith people have in him.

“And you didn’t get hit yourself?”

Lloyd shakes his head. “Not a scratch.” It’s not even a lie this time.

“Then I guess it was a noble sacrifice,” Kai sighs. “I can live with that.”

The katana’s sad remnants join the equally sad — and steadily growing — pile of scrap metal made by Lloyd’s awful sword skills. They have a pretty fun time melting it all down though, watching the metal bubble as Kai starts drafting the next run of layered steel he’ll shape into a katana. 

“I’m gonna be a master katana maker at this rate,” he huffs, wiping at his forehead. Lloyd, who’s hanging over the forge to watch the different colors the liquid metal makes, taps lazily at his knee with his foot. The forge flares brighter as Kai’s fire does, and he mumbles a distracted thanks. 

“A master hothead,” Lloyd says. Kai rolls his eyes. “If I ever figure out how to be a master swordsman, maybe you can take a break and figure out how to make other weapons.”

“Hey, I’m great at making other weapons.”

“Yeah, like ‘block of metal’ and ‘triangle of metal’ and ‘weird rectangle of metal’, and—”

“You’re gonna get a stick for next battle if you keep that up,” Kai growls, but his lips are twitching.

“Hypotenuse of metal,” Lloyd whispers.

“The heck, that’s not even a shape—” 

The forge grows steadily hotter as Kai works, bright sparks popping and steam hissing up in little curling wisps. It doesn’t bother Lloyd too much — ever since that day in the volcano, the press of heat is more like a second skin. He’s nowhere near as durable as Kai, of course, who could probably hop in the forge and come out with only a sunburn, but it’s enough to feel cozy instead of sweaty and dizzy. 

“Y’know, you don’t have to use a sword,” Kai says hesitantly, as he inspects a hammer. “There are a lot of other weapons that would fit your style. If you ever wanna try out a spear like Nya, that might suit you pretty well.”

“No!” Lloyd says sharply. Biting his tongue, he amends, “I’ve already been training with swords for forever. I don’t wanna change my whole style for something else.”

Kai eyes him shrewdly, but his lips finally twitch up in amusement. “If you say so,” he says. “But I swear, break my sword again and you will get a stick for your next weapon. Or chopsticks. A butter knife—”

______

Lloyd gets a new sword, of course. And another one. He might grouse and complain, but Kai doesn’t truly get angry about the swords. He does, however, get very angry over Lloyd’s total idiocy with what happens to said shattered swords. 

His first mistake is the usual one — Lloyd swings a bit too hard at a sloppy angle and there’s a high-pitched screech as the sword dies a sad death, splitting in two. 

Lloyd stares blankly at the now much-shorter katana in his hands, which is his second mistake. The delay costs him, and he scrambles to duck the thief’s vicious punch, their own sword having been knocked away in the scuffle. Their boot comes up, swinging for his head, and Lloyd springs back, landing palms-first on the floor and launching himself out of range. 

He also, unthinking, drops the broken katana — mistake number three. 

His fourth mistake is the worst one possible, because Lloyd brings his hand up to block what he’s sure will be another punch, only to get slashed by the jagged end of the katana he just dropped.

A sharp, burning pain explodes across his hand, and Lloyd stifles a shriek. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid move. 

The thief comes in for round two, Lloyd’s own snapped katana glinting in the fluorescent building lights, and Lloyd freezes. It occurs to him that he should probably just go ahead and hit the thief with an burst of green, but that’s also when Kai mows them down with a viciousness that reminds Lloyd — Kai always goes easy on him in training. 

“I had him handled,” he still protests, after the thief’s been hauled off to prison (or the hospital, possibly).

Kai ignores him, sheathing his katana and storming his way. 

He grabs Lloyd’s hand before he can protest, pulling back the torn fabric of his glove and slapping his own hood against the gash on his hand to stem the bleeding. 

“What did I say,” Kai says angrily. 

Lloyd flinches at the stinging pain in his hand, and tries to glare back. 

Kai’s having none of it. “Your sword is supposed to take the hits,” he snaps. “Not you!” 

“It did take the hit,” Lloyd finally throws back. “I just broke it, and — I was fine!”

“You hand’s bleeding all over my hood, that is not fine!”

“Then take your hood off and it won’t get blood on it!”

“My hood isn’t what I’m worried about!”

By the time Zane’s stitched Lloyd’s hand up, wincing barely kept at a minimum, Kai’s cooled down.

Somewhat. 

“It was an accident, okay?” Lloyd says, for the billionth time. “I didn’t realize he had a weapon. I wasn’t trying to sacrifice my hand, or whatever.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Cause that sounds a lot like something you’d do.”

“Coming from you, that’s somewhat hypocritical,” Zane murmurs. 

Lloyd snickers. Kai turns to Zane in utter betrayal. 

Of course, this means that Lloyd’s next lesson is how to treat sword wounds in emergency situations, in painstaking and excruciating detail. His hand stings every time he grasps the katana handle for solid week, though, so Lloyd takes equally careful notes.

______

Lloyd goes and breaks another three katanas after that. At this point, he kinda thinks Kai should just give up and let him go into battle weapon-less again. You don’t need weapons to do Spinjitzu. The green power won’t break, and Lloyd certainly won’t split into six pieces.

(He hopes.)

Kai keeps putting swords in his hands anyways. 

Lloyd could always just say no — he’s supposed to be leader or something, he can make his own decisions.

But he thinks of sparring sessions and smelling like cloves every other evening, thinks of the tiny dragons Kai still takes the time to carve into his katana handles, and throwing all that away would feel as great as sawing off his own arm. 

So he picks the katana up, does his stupid katas, and promises to do better this time.

That doesn’t magically fix things, of course. 

“How,” Kai says blankly, staring at the katana that now lies in a record eight pieces. 

“Um.” Lloyd twists his fingers together. “I definitely didn’t use it to prop open a door like you said never to do.”

Kai gives him a smile that shows exactly all of his teeth. 

“You have five seconds to run.”

______

All that training on treating sword wounds pays off. Possibly more than learning how to fight with a sword in the first place, when Kai drops in the middle of battle with a wicked slash across his lower thigh. 

“Of all the — stupid, embarrassing—”

“Shut up,” Lloyd says tightly. He’s already focusing half his energy on not throwing up at the amount of blood soaking between his fingers where they’re pressed tightly over Kai’s leg. “Stop moving, I gotta see if it — if it hit an artery.”

“It better not have,” Kai pants, wincing as Lloyd presses down harder. “If it hit an artery I’m screwed.”

“Shut up.” 

Lloyd’s heartbeat is a thunderstorm in his ears, panic welling up in his throat as Kai’s blood swims in his vision. 

“Hey, hey,” Kai’s hand falters, then clasps Lloyd’s own. “M’gonna be fine. Takes a lot more than a stupid leg wound to take me out.” 

“That’d be so lame,” Lloyd breathes, somewhat hysterically. He’s torn his own belt off for a tourniquet, which is step one, he thinks — hood can go around the actual wound, and if he steals Kai’s belt, then he can double reinforce it— 

“I can always cauterize,” Kai says shakily, sounding like he’d rather do anything else in the world. “It’ll be — move!”

Lloyd manages to roll them both out of the way as the assassin who nailed Kai comes in to finish the job, sword scraping sparks across the rooftop. Lloyd flashes a furious glare over his shoulder, mind racing as he holds himself in front of Kai. 

“Here.” The familiar hilt of Kai’s katana slaps against Lloyd’s open hand — the other is quick to follow suit. “Remember, double wielding — better for defense.”

Lloyd nods on instinct. He adjusts his grip on both swords, the blood on his fingers making the hilts tacky and sticky. It’s going to be a pain to clean later, a vague part of his mind notes. 

Of course Lloyd remembers dual wielding. It is better for defending, but you lose power on striking and reach — he can deal with that. Kai does. 

And it’s exactly what he needs, right now. The assassin won’t even get close to Kai.

One spin, then another. The katanas’ weight is familiar, balanced in the slightly-weird way Lloyd likes best, the way Kai makes all his swords. He finds his footing, finds the stance, and moves.

When Kai fights, he fights like the first flash of flame from a match strike — quick and bursting, fast enough it all but blinds the enemy. 

When Lloyd fights, it feels like dancing — slower to start, picking steps deliberately, building to that bursting strike faster and faster. 

It only takes one strike, after all. And Lloyd’s got two swords. 

Silver flashes across the rooftop, a piercing screech as one of his katana meets the assassin’s broader blade, forcing it back—

The assassin drops with a cry before falling silent, the shattered pieces of a katana scattered around him. 

“Saw that…one coming,” Kai moans. 

Still breathing heavily, Lloyd tries not to cringe.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, after Kai’s securely in a hospital bed and enduring Nya’s forty-five minute lecture about the many ways your arteries can kill you. 

Kai waves his hand, slightly cross-eyed and loopy from medication. “Y’know what? I wanted a new sword anyways. You saved me, so…skip the lecture and we’ll call it square?”

Lloyd lets a small smirk crawl up his face. 

“You know, I feel like there’s something very important you should keep in mind, about your weapons taking the hit, instead of you—” 

“When I get out of here, you’re toast.”

______

“I think I know where I’m going wrong,” Kai says. 

He’s spent the weekend with his father, the two of them either shut up in the forge or buzzing and forth about blacksmithing. It leaves Lloyd feeling a little weird — some mix between happy for Kai and achingly jealous, which then leaves him mostly just sad, which sucks. Lloyd sucks — it’s terrible to feel that way. Everyone was happy when Lloyd got both his parents back after that first battle, and even if he’s lost that — the least he can do is be happy for Kai and Nya. 

It ends up working out pretty great in the end, because Kai looks a little like he’s unraveled the mysteries of the universe right now. 

Half his right eyebrow is also scorched off, but Lloyd decides not to mention it for now. It’ll be funny to see the look on his face, when he notices. 

“I was talking with my dad, who’s got a lot more experience with this stuff, and he suggested something,” Kai continues. He fiddles with whatever he’s got hidden behind his back, and Lloyd has to stifle the urge to dart around him and see. 

“No more katana,” Kai says. “You’re good with ‘em, but I think we need a change-up.”

“You mean good at breaking them,” Lloyd mutters.

“If the sword breaks on you, it’s my fault,” Kai says. “I’m not exactly the world’s best blacksmith. Y’know, you should really think about getting someone else to—”

“No.” Lloyd bites his tongue immediately, aware of how bratty he sounds. 

And selfish. It’s not like Kai has tons of time to just make Lloyd swords all the time. 

As if reading his thoughts, Kai scuffs his hair. “Stop that. I like making swords.” The small edge of a smile pulls at his lips. “I worked pretty hard to become a blacksmith. So it feels kinda good, that someone appreciates the work for once.”

He shakes his head. “Anyways! Meet your new battle buddy. This is called a dao sword.” 

Lloyd stares at the curved, silvery blade Kai’s handed to him. It’s thicker than the katana he’s used to, the blade growing broader at the end before tapering off. 

“Historically, it’s better suited for quick slashing, but it’s fairly versatile,” Kai continues. 

Lloyd carefully lifts the sword, his eyes widening just a bit. 

“And heavier,” Kai grins. “Which means it’s gonna be at least a little more difficult for you to shatter.”

His hands fit easily around the handle — there’s plenty of room for a two-handed grip, and enough balance if he wants to switch back to one. 

“The guard’s a bit better with protection, and it’s got this tassel here you can wrap around your hand — yeah, like that — to help keep it steady. Or just look fancy.”

Stepping back, Lloyd adjust his hold. Normally he’d do something silly, or needlessly complicated, just to make Kai roll his eyes, but something about this one feels heavier — he doesn’t want to mess it up. He takes a single, experimental swing instead. 

“Oh,” Lloyd blinks. “It’s sharp.”

“I’d hope so. What do you think I am, a half-rate blacksmith — don’t answer that, by the way.”

Lloyd simply grins, taking a few more swings. It is heavier than the katana he’s used to, broader and chunkier — but it feels at home in his hands. 

“It’s incredible,” Lloyd says, turning back to Kai. “Thank you.”

Kai colors, just a bit. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying! I love it. It’s perfect.”

“Well, as long as it holds up, that’s good enough for me,” Kai says, rubbing the back of his head. “Wanna give it a test drive?”

“Yeah,” Lloyd says. “I bet I can do even more flips with it.”

“And stab yourself in the leg in the process, but sure, go ahead, squander my gift—”

______

Lloyd’s careful, more so than ever, with the dao sword. When they all split across Ninjago, Lloyd clings to the piece of his family and tries to remember Kai’s instructions, making sure his hands are firmly wrapped and his right ankle always stays low. 

So when it breaks on the river with Harumi, Lloyd wants to cry.

He wants to cry for a lot of other reasons, but it still hurts — another thing he cares for that Harumi’s managed to break so easily. It hurts that they all work so hard, time and again, and it always ends up shattering around them anyways. Hurts that they pour themselves out for this city again and again and it’s still not enough. 

(Hurts that he’s never, ever going to outrun that worthless little kid in the snow.)

He learns, later — he’s got much more to lose to her than just a sword. 

It hurts all the same.

But the sword’s broken and Lloyd’s on a one-way collision course with his father, and it’s much too late to turn back now. 

Lloyd enters Kryptarium Prison with nothing but himself and his power. It was enough the first time, it’s got to be enough this one as well. 

Lloyd was enough the first time — if he isn’t enough now—

If he isn’t—

______

He isn’t.

He throws himself against his father and shatters his heart with every hit. Then the rest of him goes and shatters too, ribs cracking and skin splitting as he’s battered through walls and bruised against stone. His power sparks and screams as it tries to save him, pushed to its limits.

A part of Lloyd finds it funny — he can’t even keep his power together. He wonders if he’ll snap into six pieces and fly everywhere, just like Kai’s poor katanas, with nothing left but broken pieces of Lloyd to melt down for scrap. 

Kai doesn’t find it funny in the slightest. Not the muffled voice Lloyd hears breaking as his family tries to put him back together, not the filthy embrace Lloyd gets when it’s finally over, not the multiple hour-long lectures Lloyd’s forced to sit through even three months out. 

“I don’t care how many swords you break,” he hisses, giving Lloyd a shake that’s forceful enough his teeth almost rattle. “I don’t care if you shatter a thousand. They’re supposed to protect you. You’re supposed to choose yourself. Don’t you ever, ever, put yourself out there to break again.” 

Lloyd must’ve broken a hundred promises by now. He can’t seem to do anything right, truly — not being the Green Ninja, not being a good brother, not being Garmadon’s son.

But, as he nods and makes another promise, he can try. 

For Kai, he’ll try. 

______

Things are different, after his father, but it’s the same way things are always different after their family escapes by the skin of their teeth. Each new threat leaves another lingering wound, but Lloyd likes to think it stitches them closer in the aftermath. 

With everyone’s attention so laser-focused on Lloyd after everything, it makes it easier for him to spot the others’ bad days. 

It only takes him five minutes to track down Kai this time. Lloyd carefully lowers himself cross-legged next to him on the floor, katana laid across his lap.

Kai tenses, as if preparing for another speech. 

Please. Lloyd’s methods are way sneakier — and better — these days. 

“So,” he starts, as he dips the edge of a rag in Kai’s choji oil. “I was patrolling today, and I saw like, a demon cat, I think? I mean, it was definitely a cat. It looked kind of like the one Zane used to feed when we lived at the apartment, all stripey and stuff. I was gonna try and pet it, ‘cause patrol was pretty boring and what was I supposed to do, ignore it? So I did the whole pspsps thing, and it was not a fan — and I swear, it hissed at me, and it looked just like my dad. When he's all Oni, y��know? Which is rude, cats are supposed to be comforting, not traumatic—”

Lloyd’s rambling grows more and more nonsensical as he goes, jumping from topic to topic as he works on the katana. He can feel the tension seeping out of Kai where he sits beside him though, bit by bit until Kai’s finally leaning against his shoulder. 

“Missed a spot,” he speaks up suddenly, his voice only cracking a little.

Lloyd squints at the sword. “Where?”

Kai taps a bandaged finger on the blade. 

“Oh,” Lloyd blinks. He adjusts the rag. “Thanks.”

 Kai speaks up again, after a minute, “You’ve gotten good at this.”

“Had a good teacher.”

There’s a faint snort. “Debatable.”

“With who?” Lloyd says. “I’m your number one sword student. And your only one. I win automatically.” 

“The others use swords. Sometimes.”

“Yeah, and Jay still whines every time the super special weapon-of-the-week to defeat evil ends up being a sword again,” Lloyd says. 

“S’cause Jay’s better with nunchucks. Totally different concept.”

“But he isn’t better with a sword.”

“Definitely not better than me.”

“I’m your best student,” Lloyd says. “Jay can’t be better than me. That’s illegal.”

“If the Green Ninja declares it,” Kai says, but there’s an edge of laughter in his voice, a thawing out of the numb blankness he’d worn earlier. He slumps, just a bit heavier, against Lloyd.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Kai mutters. 

“‘Kay.” Lloyd turns the sword over, squinting at his reflection. “Sometime, though?”

“If you can manage not to break anymore katanas before I finish your new weapon, maybe.”

“You guys won’t even let me out to fight,” Lloyd grouses. “It’s not as if I’ll have a chance to.”

Kai makes a huffing noise. “Maybe if you’d sit still long enough to heal—”

“I don’t wanna hear it from you,” Lloyd scowls. “Look, I know I messed up with — with her, but—”

“That’s not what this is about,” Kai says sharply. “It’s about you being okay.”

Normally, Lloyd would protest. Should protest — he doesn’t deserve to get off that easy. But Kai’s gone tense again, so he lets it go, just this once. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs anyways. 

“No, don’t. You’re doin’ good,” Kai sighs, and he sounds so very, very tired. “Just…take it easy, okay? ’Til I get your sword done.” 

“Sorry for breaking the old one, too,” Lloyd says. “I really did try to keep it safe.” 

“I’ll make you a hundred swords,” Kai says. “A thousand, if I have to. Just keep using them, okay? Swords are your weapon.”

Like Lloyd’s ever going to forget that, at this point.

______

It’s only after the Oni are more a memory and Lloyd has been subjected to an unholy amount of recuperation that Kai allows him to even see the sword he’s made this time.

It’s well worth the wait, though.

“It’s gold,” Lloyd murmurs, reverently holding the new dao blade. 

“Yeah, well,” Kai shrugs, a little bashful. “I thought you should match us, at some point.”

Lloyd has to try very hard not to pretend that doesn’t make a small, lingering part of him want to tear up.

“Is this jade?” he says instead, carefully tracing a finger over the single panel of green that decorates the blade. 

“Technically it’s jadeite, and no, you don’t wanna know where I got it,” Kai corrects. 

“I don’t care,” Lloyd says. “I love it. It’s the best sword ever. I — thank you, so much—”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Kai says quickly. “You’re welcome, or whatever, just — you’ll use it, right?”

Lloyd gives him a long, flat look. 

“You’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

“You are not allowed to joke about that—!”

______

The golden dao sword never breaks. 

It takes Lloyd several fights with it to stop holding back, but once he realizes this sword won’t shatter to pieces in his hands, he lets himself get creative.

And the sword holds, again and again. 

Against Aspheera’s burning soldiers, against the bitter chill of the Never Realm, against the Skull Sorcerer’s monsters in the depths of Shintaro, against the heavy weight of water and cold crystal — the dao blade holds.

Kai tells him it’s because Lloyd’s finally learned how to stop using his weapon as a glorified baseball bat. Lloyd thinks it’s because Kai knows blacksmithing for ninja better than anyone else in the world.

His powers grow, too — along with his options, which he’d really have preferred to just…avoid. 

Real fun that it wasn’t the many years of pent-up anger issues, but crippling traumatic grief, that’s the key to unlocking his shapeshifting abilities. Hilarious. 

It still stings, a bit, that no one ever bothered to tell him he was walking around with the blood of two mythical beings just chilling in his veins, Would’ve been nice to know, maybe, before he got stuck having a whole crisis about it smack in the middle of another world-ending crisis. 

Oni, dragon, Green Ninja. Like he needs another title.

In the end, it doesn’t matter much what he thinks. Everyone moves on and Lloyd is a multi-bred freak of nature, or something. 

His father thinks he should hone his Oni powers. Sensei Wu thinks he should listen to his father but also remember his dragon side. His mother thinks he should read the eight-hundred page historical brick of a book about all known history of the Oni and the dragon. He doesn’t have a clue what his great-grandparents think of him, except that a family reunion would be world-ending levels of terrible. 

Lloyd, who’s grown attached to looking like himself and happens to like being human, keeps reaching for his dao blade first. 

Swordsmanship is something he’s proud of. He’s worked hard for it, through blisters and bruises and blood. It’s something that belongs to him and Kai, something shared and freely given. Something passed onto him, something taught and earned, something treasured.

Lloyd doesn’t have a lot of things like that, so he treasures it all the more himself. 

Treasures the humanity of his family, and how lucky he is to be part of that.

Treasures the things he’s learned from them like family heirlooms he’s never had.

Treasures the fact that they’re there—

Treasures the—

______

The monastery is so quiet, Lloyd’s starting to understand how people lose their minds.

Not really. He hasn’t started talking to himself yet, so that’s a good sign, right? It doesn’t count, if you’re yelling for other people. Doesn’t count if you’re screaming curses at your stupid grandfather who let your whole world split apart and tore away the only people that were yours. 

“It doesn’t count,” he whispers to the sword in his lap. 

Lloyd stares dully at his reflection in the dao sword, marred by the splotchy wear and ugly chipping at the blade’s edges. It’s in miserable shape, worn down and neglected.

A lot like himself, maybe. 

He shudders, drawing in a breath. Sulking won’t sharpen swords. And when Kai gets back — which he will — he’ll be so disappointed that Lloyd’s gone and treated his sword like dirt. 

The smell of choji oil makes his eyes sting, but the familiar sound the rag makes across the blade soothes it. 

He’s glad he took the time to sharpen it up, too, when he visits the city. More than glad when he finds himself atop the train, his missing hood leaving him distinctly uncomfortable as he prepares to fight. 

Lloyd’s hands have warped and twisted, burst in purple and grown claws sharp enough to slice. If he can make them his own again, after that, he can make them hold steady now. 

The handle of the dao blade is worn and familiar, the fraying tassel the same bright green where it brushes the back of his hands, and Kai’s voice yells in his head as loud as ever as he swings it once—

One flip this time, he decides. One flip, one strike.

Swords are his weapon, after all. It’s important for him to remember that.  

And even if he doesn’t—

______

Lloyd’s grown up in a world of weapons, and far faster than he probably should. 

But with every sword swing, every familiar callous carved into his hand, Kai’s there to remind him that his sword is the weapon.

And Lloyd, power or no power, is just Lloyd. 

[thoughtsandmusingsandideas]

I had a thought for a creator but they didn't believe they were the creator and could influence others into believing it too.

The two characters are Sara kujou and yae miko

@mastadon64 here you go!

Gaslight, Gatekeep, Godboss - Kujou Sara and Yae Miko

Kujou Sara

Cw: Sexual innuendos

-Honestly, waking up in Teyvat, you had a hard time convincing yourself you weren’t dreaming

-(It took you tumbling down a hill and slamming into a particularly sharp rock to realize it was not a dream. Also, ow)

-(You ignored the way your blood was golden. You were pretty sure you’d never seen the Genshin characters bleed anyways. It was probably just censoring. Totally.)

-Some way or another, you ended up in Inazuma

-Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as you were expecting

-Most of the creatures were pretty chill, and as long as you avoided the people, you didn’t get in much trouble

-And then you kicked a Tenryou commission officer in the face and got arrested

-You know, jail wasn’t as bad as you expected either!

-Your cellmates weren’t too bad either- one of them asked you if you were god, which was weird, because you didn’t look anything like the Shogun, but you gave him a stick of dango and he shut up

-(You might not have been a god, but the fact that you managed to keep your inventory from the game was the closest thing to a divine blessing that you could imagine. Who needs a gnosis when you have your own pocket dimension?)

-It’s about half an hour before you’re taken from your cell for questioning

-You walk into a small interrogation room, shock igniting in your chest as you spot Kujou Sara

-Wasn’t she important?

-Was kicking that guy in the face really such a grave offense?

-“Are you the Creator God?” She asks, deathly serious

-Why did people keep asking you this???

-You’re pretty sure you don’t look too godly, garbed in stolen clothes that you’re ninety percent sure you put on wrong, a fading bite mark on your arm from when you tried to pet a rifthound, leaves in your hair. Honestly, you looked pretty disheveled, and…

-“Is that your way of saying you think I’m hot? Like… godly or whatever?”

-Considering the way the Tengu’s face turns a vibrant red, you’re either very right, or very wrong

-It’d be funnier if you were right though, so you press on

-“I mean, not that I’m not into it, but I’m feeling kinda iffy about the power dynamic here- prisoner and cop is a cute trope and all, but not all that smart in real life, I mean I get it if it’s a kink or whatever, I know handcuffs are attractive, but as of right now it’s immoral-”

-“Shut up. Please.” Sara mumbled, covering her red face with her hand. Her hair has more volume than usual, tiny sparks of static dancing between the strands

-“… I mean after I get out of prison I’d totally be down to go on a date, and if you feed me well enough I might even let you handcuff me.” You add.

-The silence in the room is heavy

-“Get out.”

-“Yes ma’am. Hm. No. Yes Mommy? Yes Master-“

-You’re cut off by an electrically charged arrow striking the wall beside your head.

-“Out.”

-“Okay!”

-You’re released from prison three days later, now with a whole gaggle of new friends from criminals

-(You ignored the fact that some of them made really important sounding speeches swearing their fealty to you. Also the small shrine they were building in your honor. If you didn’t acknowledge it, it didn’t exist)

-You were surprised that as soon as you left, you were met with a glaring Kujou Sara, who takes your hand in her own

-“Am I being arrested again?”

-“… I’m going to take you on a date. And then I’m going to handcuff you.”

-“Yes Mommy!”

-“I Will Shoot You Again.”

Yae Miko

-You had to admit, stumbling upon a small shrine that seemed to be dedicated to your doppelgänger was creepy

-But you had also just been Isekaied to video game land, so you were pretty adaptable at the moment.

-Or high on adrenaline.

-You pick up one of the Sunsiettas from the shrine, biting down and relaxing, until-

-“Your excellency?!” A voice squeaks, and looking up you see a very frazzled shrine maiden staring at you.

-“Uh. No?” You say, swallowing the Sunsietta.

-The shrine maiden starts sobbing. “Your excellency!”

-“Oh- no- I’m- uh- I’m like you? You know? I’m uh… a messiah? Priest? Prophet? Whatever gets you to stop crying?” You awkwardly pat her head.

-“You- you’re the Creators chosen one?” She blubbers.

-“Uh. Yeah. Totally. Stop crying.”

-“CHOSEN ONE!” And she’s crying again

-After a lot of crying, you’re led to the Grand Narukami shrine, where you’re introduced to the head shrine maiden as the chosen one

-“… Are you sure she’s not just the creator?”

-“You flatter me. I’m just gods favoritist and most specialist little princess.”

-The Kitsune likes this. Perhaps too much, but we’ll let her have her fun

-And thus, the war to get you to admit that you’re the Creator begins, hidden under the guise of her introducing you to chosen one duties

-She takes you on a pilgrimage all across Inazuma first, going to the most dangerous places possible just to put you in danger and save you at the last second, disappointed that you never use godly powers to save (read: reveal) yourself

-She meditates with you, and paints obscure markings on your face when you fall asleep, which you have to pass off as messages from the creator

-She takes you to meet the Shogun, but after leaving you alone for five minutes, returns to you teaching her poker and robbing her blind. You cited divine luck and she pretended she didn’t notice the cards stuffed inside your sleeve

-It ends pretty anticlimactically, actually

-She’s introducing you to the local foxes, when you trip over a rock and face plant into the floor

-And get a nose bleed

-Miko can’t help but doubling over in laughter at the sight of your pout as golden blood drips down your face

-“And how are you explaining this one, Oh revered Chosen One?”

-“Genetic condition.”

-The laughter doubles

[jsprnt]

Americano PT. 9 | Jude Bellingham x Reader

What happens if two individuals who absolutely despise each other are forced to interact after unforeseen events occur?

A/N: phew! this took me five million years and a bag of candy to write. remember when I told you to remember the house layout? 😉 Enjoy!

small mention: I absolutely love knowing you all are curious about the next chapter of this series. I appreciate and love all comments I get, and try to keep all my promises I make. but, trust I’m human too and need some away from writing. Though, when rude and harassing words are used in my inbox- the joy of writing this series gets absolutely sucked away. (If I’ve answered your message, this isn’t about your comment 🫶) so, please keep your rude words to yourself or I’ll turn off anonymous inbox messages and block you the next time :)

W/C: 4.016

part eight

"I should've just taken a break to go on vacation."

Lina sighs, poking her salad with her fork, and guiding the mixture of greens and dressing up to her mouth.

"Didn't you take a trip to Paris last international break?"

Luis says, raising a brow at her words. He turns his head towards me, nudging me under the table.

"Can you believe her?" He asks, an exasperated chuckle leaving his lips. It causes me to jolt out of my half-asleep state, my eyes widening in surprise.

"What? Who?" I ask looking around and bring a hand up to rub the sleep out of my eyes.

I had rushed out of the house this morning, which meant everyone got the chance to admire my bare skin today.

Well, my stress-induced breakouts were on full display, but having some pimples wasn’t the end of the damn world anyway.

"Are you okay?" Lina joins in, placing a warm hand on my shoulder.

"Yeah, just dozed off- been sleeping horribly." I reply, eyeing my lunch with a grimace.

"Are those exams still keeping you up?"

"More like waking me up.. Do you know how many nightmares of failing an exam a person can take?” I say, my words coming out harsher and louder than I intended. My eye twitches in irritation, and I give them a crazy look.

"Woah, you have an attitude today.." Luis mutters, shifting away from me.

"Don’t piss her off.." I hear Lina say, nudging Luis.

"Never mind, I'm going back to work." I state, quickly putting my tray of food away and walking out of the cafeteria.

I mutter curses under my breath, trying to look as normal as possible to my coworkers when I pass them in the hallways.

Exam season was practically sucking the life out of me, and the added pressure of the upcoming Champions League home game against Napoli was multiplying the stress.

Thankfully, it was international break, which meant that my normal workload was cut in half. Some players not playing for in the national team had requested leave for vacation, so the training center was pretty quiet and empty today.

I only knew of injured players being here for their scheduled recovery appointments.

I finally get back in my office, sighing in exhaustion when I get to my desk. I plop down, rubbing my face to wake myself up further, before starting to work on some more content.

"Why are you grinning like a creep?"

I turn to Luis, chuckling at his choice of words, and let go of the computer mouse.

"I just got a notification that said I passed my written exam." I beam, giving him a cocky look.

"Really?"

"Yeah, ninety-four percent..” I say, turning my head to look at the editing program. The training video we had just shot halfway edited already.

"You've been snapping at us for no reason, but I guess it was worth it- good job.." He says, shooting me a smile, and leaning in to give me a side hug.

"Yeah, sorry about that.." I apologize, fixing my wrinkled shirt. I move my hand towards the mouse again, cutting off a piece of blurry footage that we couldn’t use.

"It's fine, I guess it's payback for making you do random tasks back when you were a newbie.."

"You know, I haven't forgotten how you made me carry that heavy ass bag every morning..”

"I'm sorry, alright. You should've told me earlier that Ancelotti is basically your uncle."

I grumble at his words, jabbing his ribcage with my elbow, sending him a warning look.

"Stop talking and help me out with this.." I mutter, passing him the mouse.

He winces a little, rubbing his stomach, before snatching the mouse off of me with an attitude.

"Didn't know you were allowed to use your privilege to inflict such violence."

I roll my eyes, focused on the moving images on the computer screen. Starting to unconsciously pick at a fresh scab on my hand. Only noticing the damage I’ve done when I look down to see blood trickling down the back of my hand.

"Shit, made myself bleed.." I say, making Luis glance away from the dual monitors.

"Go to the physiotherapy room. They have a shit ton of bandages and bandaids.” He suggests, his hand going up to fix the curls falling in front of his eyes.

I nod quickly, getting up from my seat and walking out of the small, soundproof meeting room. I close the glass door behind me, hurrying over to the physiotherapy room.

I pass the glass panels facing the multiple pitches outside, the sun had been shining brightly this afternoon. Even though the sun had been setting quite early due to daylight saving time.

I knock twice when I arrive, only opening the door when I hear a loud 'come in' in response.

I clear my throat, realizing how silly it is to get a bandaid for a wound like this, but still walk in.

I'm greeted by the sight of first-team physiotherapist Iván, he smiles when he notices me, waving for me to come inside.

He was one of the nicest people working with me at Real Madrid. It would be especially fun when he would bring in his little two-year-old son with him. I couldn’t count on one hand how many times I had carried the cute boy around the training center in my free time.

"Oh, y/n. What brings you here?" He questions, shoving the white privacy curtain out of the way, only to reveal a shirtless Jude lying on the treatment table, his eyes opening to peer over at me.

The personalized shoulder brace he'd been wearing for the past couple matches, was taken off for obvious reasons, and placed on the other side of the bed.

I look away a moment later, feeling my chest tighten, internally wincing at the thought of Jude having a dislocated shoulder and still playing football. Despite all of the aggressive and offensive play we had gotten used to this season, he was handling it well- but I wouldn’t ever utter it out loud.

Because- who wants to inflate that ego even more? Or was that even possible?

"Hi, Iván.. Just wondering if you got a bandaid for me?" I avert my gaze to the physio, and raise my brows. I hold my hand up to show the wound, and smile when he nods in response.

"Yeah, just a second.." He shoots Jude a quick wink, washing his hands before coming over. He begins to rummage through the cabinet, flipping through a pack of bandaids before handing me one closest to my skin color.

"Here you go.. Do you need anything else?" He asks, eyeing the blood on my hand.

"Nope, only this. Thank you.." I smile, quickly wiping down the blood from my hand and gently placing the bandaid on my wound.

I throw the bloody wipes and wrappers in the dedicated trash can, turning around again when I’m done.

I make accidental and involuntary eye contact with Jude instead of Iván, who's already across the room busy with some paperwork. Probably documenting the progress of Jude’s injury.

My eyes automatically dart down to his shoulder, and unbelievably, my eyes slip to his chest, then to his-

I stiffen when I regain consciousness of what I’m doing, and look away with haste. I fight the urge to smack myself in the face, instead biting the flesh of my cheek when I notice him smirk at me.

"What are you looking at?" He questions, voice low and his cocky tone too obvious to ignore.

My eyes widen slightly when he speaks, and I take a step forward as if to say I’m not intimidated.

"Just- looking at your shoulder.." I say, cringing at the way the words leave my mouth.

"So, you’re worried about me now?"

I give him a look of disgust, a chuckle of disbelief leaving my mouth.

"You wish, Bellingham. I heard Ancelotti is confident in putting you in the starting lineup on Wednesday. You better put your best foot forward, and if we don’t end up winning..." I trail off, threatening him slightly with my tone. I then turn around and leave the room.

I couldn’t lie, being rude to him after he'd dislocated his shoulder and still played made me feel a little guilty.

Though, he had a huge gift of being the ultimate douchebag, even when he’d been having his 'decent' moments lately.

“He’s only turned nineteen two- no three months ago, and he’s already scoring in the Champions League..” Luis gawks, grabbing the equipment bag out of my hand.

“I know, it’s so fun to see young players flourish..” I mutter, mentally recalling the interview I just did with Nico Paz. Since it was his first goal for Real Madrid, we had just done an interview in celebration.

“He is a year younger than you.. Is he really that young to you?” Luis teases, pushing me away when I pretend to kick him.

“What? Are you trying to undermine my accomplishments?” I question, trying to kick him again.

“Hey! See, this is how immature you are.. Step back, dude get off…” He says, and I scuffle with him for a moment, gasping when he tries to put me in a headlock.

“Okay, you always do this- stop everyone is looking..” I mutter, squeezing his arm.

“How fuckin’ childish are you?” I hear a familiar voice say. I snap my head up, Luis’ arm loosening as he immediately lets me go.

“As much as I want to be...” I state, my hand traveling up to fix my hair and clothes.

I hear Jude scoff, he gives me a nasty look before taking a step forward, but I notice him freeze in my peripheral vision when he hears someone calling out to me.

“y/n?!” The person shouts, and I look around for a moment before my eyes land on…

The guys from Naples?

What’s his name again?

“Chris?..” I say, my voice low and as enthusiastic as I can manage to pretend.

Fuck, I never even answered his DM’s..

Well, should I really give a guy who looks like trouble a chance?

My common sense says: NO.

I watch him bring an arm around my back, his hand resting on my shoulder blade when he hugs me tightly. Like we’ve been friends for freaking years…

“How have you been? Thought I’d see you here..” He beams, his hand going up to fix the fluffy mop of blonde hair on his head. Aussie accent undeniably mesmerizing like last time.

He is so pretty, but the kind of pretty that told me he was a full on man-wh*re..

“Hi? Good, what are you doing here?” I ask, trying to stop the grimace forming on my face. I lean in, taking a closer look at the badge hanging from his neck.

Surprisingly enough, it says ‘VIP’- I look up at him with a questioning look, waiting for him to explain.

“Oh- this.. someone I know gifted me this pass..”

Yeah, very believable.

He smiles nonchalantly, the skin of his cheeks denting as his dimples show.

I nod as if I understand, glancing at Luis, so he can get me out of this conversation.

“You’re the drunk guy from that night!” Chris suddenly exclaims, pointing at Luis.

Could this get even more awkward.

I tune out the stupid conversation they have, shuffling backwards only to bump into Jude.

Thankfully, not against his injured shoulder.

“Oh, sorry..” I whisper, not even registering his response before he’s rudely interrupted.

“Man- no way you’re the Jude Bellingham..”

I close my eyes in embarrassment, turning around to face Jude instead of both Luis and Chris.

I raise my brows at Jude, giving him a look only readable as ‘send this man away’..

He immediately plasters an all too good, fake smile on his face. Stepping behind me to greet Chris, and begins talking to him about the match.

I can only hear a jumble of both Brum and Aussie accents, it making me want to burst into a fit of laughter. Though, I manage to keep it in, looking at Luis to see if he’s still present in the conversation.

He isn’t, as expected. No surprise, he’s fidgeting with his damn camera again.

I stand there like a statue for the next two minutes, looking back and forth between the two accented men.

It’s a comical sight, especially when I can’t even understand some words.

I sigh in relief when Jude pats Chris’ shoulder, careful with his injury when he goes in for a handshake.

I watch Jude leave swiftly, his facial expression falters immediately, and his hand goes up to rip the shoulder brace off his body, harsher than I’ve ever seen him do before.

"My brain is going to explode, fucks sake.."

I mumble, stretching my arms and legs. I get up from the dinner table in order to walk around the backyard for a moment. Trying to get some fresh air, even though it's past midnight already.

I loved studying at the dinning table way more than upstairs in my room. It felt less lonely- especially since my dad had been gone for a couple weeks now. His work and the case had taken an interesting turn, which meant that his stay had to be prolonged.

I didn't mind, in fact, I loved living alone. Except for when I heard random noises at night. It could've been a bird flying against the window, and I’d still be paranoid.

Since it was our day off, after winning 4-2 against Napoli yesterday- I thought I'd go ahead and continue cramming for my last exam I had in a couple days.

I yawn and stretch my limbs, looking up at the clear sky and stars. It had gotten so much colder since December was almost here.

My pajama shorts are not providing warmth, but I can’t be bothered to go up and change when I’m going back inside in a minute anyway.

I can hear my back cracking when I turn to stretch, making me chuckle. I was only twenty, but those hard ass chairs and sitting in them for long periods of time, made me feel like I was double my age sometimes.

I'm brought out of my thoughts when I hear my phone ring loudly from the dinning table. I jog back inside quickly, throwing my slippers off my feet and snatch my phone. Confusion settling on my face when I read the caller ID.

I immediately pick up, pressing the phone against my ear. Worrying about something horrible happening in the middle of the night.

"Dad? It's late, something wrong?" I say in one breath, left hand clutching the backrest of my chair.

"y/n, nothings wrong. I just need you to listen carefully..”

"Okay." I spit out, just wanting him to get to the point, my brain making up all types of things.

"It's concerning one of my clients. Something unexpected just happened, and he's going to have to stay over at ours for a while."

I pause at his words, frowning in confusion, even though he can’t see my face.

"What? So, you're calling me- because I need to let an unfamiliar guy into our house- so he can sleep here? Is it a criminal?”

I gasp, hand gripping my phone tighter.

“A murderer?! Dad! How can you-”

"-y/n.." He cuts me off, voice stern, but I’m able to hear the grogginess of his tone. He'd probably been sleeping before he was awakened.

"It's no stranger- it's Jude, okay? He's not safe in his own home- relating the case I took on. I offered for him to stay over out of concern for his safety. So, he's going to have to stay with- you for a while."

I stay quiet, taking in all of the information he's giving me. I can already feel a migraine creeping up on me, letting go of my chair to massage my temple with one hand.

"I have to get the guest room- ready?" I say, processing everything and trying to understand what I’m supposed to do.

"Yes, I know you two are- friendly. Please be understanding and responsible. I'll call you in the morning, just get him settled and go to bed. You got that, honey?"

"Yeah, I got it. Uh- I'll get the room ready.." I say, already walking up the stairs and into the guest bedroom.

"Good, again- I'll call you in the morning- good night, sweetie.."

I quickly hang up after saying goodbye, running around, and making the bedroom look presentable. I change the bedsheets and wipe the dust off the vanity with a swift motion. It takes me about ten minutes and a sweaty forehead, before the doorbell rings repeatedly.

I run down the stairs, almost tripping due to my haste.

I take a deep breath when I reach the front door, trying to collect my thoughts and feelings before swinging the door open.

Jude's house was unsafe to stay in, so he's staying here- right..

The front door squeaks when I open it. An exhausted-looking Jude entering my sight, his black suitcase is on the floor, to his right- looking like it’s about to burst at its seams.

Cold air greets my face and naked legs almost instantly, making me curse internally for not changing clothes earlier.

I was too stubborn for my own good..

"Hi- umh, come in?" I say, my voice hoarse as if I hadn't spoken out loud in weeks.

He nods awkwardly, mumbling something incoherent as he begins rolling his suitcase inside.

I motion for him to take his shoes off, which he promptly does without hesitation. I turn away, grabbing some house slippers for him to wear out of the shoe rack.

I throw them next to his feet, watching his eyes flicker up and down as he steps back for a moment.

"You alright?" I ask, worried about the lack of words he's using.

It was unlike him, whether we’re arguing about some stupid shit or I’m filming an interview- he always had something to say.

"Yeah, I'm fine.." He mutters, looking up and finally making eye contact with me.

"The bedroom is upstairs.." I trail off, reaching over to grab his suitcase, but he snatches the heavy luggage up with one hand, immediately making his way up the stairs.

I watch the muscles in his arm flex as I walk behind him. I stop dead in my tracks when I realize what I’m doing and practically start running up the stairs to catch up to him.

I walk ahead of him when we reach the top of the stairs, opening the guest bedroom door for him.

"This is your room, bathroom is there, and the laundry room is over there." I point, turning around to face him.

"Thanks.." His Brum accent is thick, and he looks at me like a lost man in crisis.

I clear my throat, unable to pick between being nice and acting like how we normally interacted.

"Are- do you want to go shower?" I mutter, raising my brows.

I only realize how wrong my sentence sounds the second it leaves my mouth. To cover my embarrassment, I clear my throat again, putting my hands behind my back.

"Yeah- I should.." He responds, and I step aside to let him in the bedroom.

"I'll be downstairs.."

I inform, running down the stairs the second he shuts the door behind him.

I rub my eyes aggressively when I walk into the living room area. Sitting on the couch, I wonder if this is some delusional fever dream.

Maybe it’s just a different genre of dreams, next to those nightmares I had about failing exams.

I mean- who can make this up?

I get up to my feet again, walk up to the fridge, and begin filling up a huge glass with water. I bring the cup up to my lips, and slowly sip on the cool liquid, hoping it will help me feel grounded again.

I exhale deeply when I'm halfway through the cup. Going for my last gulp of water again, I fill my mouth with the rest of the water. My cheeks almost exploding from the amount of water in my mouth.

Suddenly, I'm absolutely- fucking-scared shitless as I'm poked in between my shoulder blades. I turn around in a shift motion, accidentally spraying out the water in my mouth- onto a shirtless Jude's chest.

My eyes almost bug out of my head in shock. My jaw slacks open when I observe the aftermath.

He can only look at me with a blank face. I can’t detect any emotion in his face, but he’s probably equally as mortified as me.

"Shit- sorry.." I blurt, turning around, and grabbing a kitchen towel. I scramble for a second, and start to vigorously..wipe.. his..chest..

I only realize I'm rubbing on his chest like I’m giving him a damn massage- mid-wipe and freeze.

My body goes rigid and my hands are resting on his now dry, naked chest.

I look up at him, only seeing part of his face with help from the dim lights in the kitchen. My breathing slows down, and he looks down at me in return.

I can feel my heart pounding in my ribcage, and I'm sure anyone within meters of me could hear.

His skin is soft and warm underneath my fingertips-

"I- was going to ask how the shower works.." Jude whispers, his warm breath hitting my face. I can make out his brown eyes peering into mine, a series of unspoken and caged words behind them.

His words make me stop breathing for a moment. I remove my hands off of him at lightning speed, the kitchen towel falling to the floor mindlessly and I step back immediately.

"Oh- yeah, sure. Follow me.." I scramble a couple words together, my brain working overtime. I walk up the stairs again. Leading him into the bathroom, noticing he had left the lights on, his discarded shirt on the bathroom counter.

"Here- left is hot, right is cold. This is the best temperature.." I instruct, pointing when necessary and don’t dare to look up at him as he stands behind me.

"This button is for the radio and this one for the ventilation.." I say, pressing some buttons to show him how they work.

"Okay.." He breaths out, his warm breaths hitting the back of my neck. I can practically feel his eyes drilling into the back of my head.

I finally turn to look at him, dragging my gaze up to make awkward eye contact with him.

"Anything else?" I ask, voice low and I begin fidgeting with the hem of my shorts.

"Not really..” He replies, sentence dragged out by his accent.

"Umh- okay.. laundry hamper is there. I'll be in my room.." I trail off, pointing my thumb behind me, and walk out of the bathroom without saying anything else.

I quickly clean up the mess I - no, he caused in the kitchen. I wipe everything down properly and grab my laptop and stationary off the dining table.

I carefully lock the front door and windows on the first floor, setting up the alarm and going back upstairs.

I can hear some noise coming from the bathroom. I begin averting my gaze, just in case Jude walks out of the bathroom half-naked again.

I finally get into my bedroom, jumping into my bed. I try to distract myself with my phone until he's done with showering. So I can finally wash my face and brush my teeth after a long day of studying.

Only, this time- my phone doesn’t seem to be all too interesting. Not even those brainrotting and attention grabbing TikTok’s.

Nothing, and I mean nothing- could distract me from anything that had happened within the past thirty minutes..

[fratboychriswife]

The study session pt.5

Warnings: Strong language: Mild cursing (e.g., "insufferable"). Romantic tension: Includes a mutual kiss with lingering chemistry. Cocky attitude: Chris’s flirtatious and overconfident behavior might be overwhelming or irritating to some. Power dynamics: Light teasing and persistence from Chris that could come across as pushy, though it remains playful and consensual. Setting: Public setting (a library), which may not align with everyone's preferences for a romantic moment.

!popular boy chris × nerd reader!

The library had never felt more suffocating, and it wasn’t because of the stacks of books towering over you or the dead silence of the room. It was because you knew Chris Sturniolo would be walking through that door any second, carrying the same cocky energy that had been buzzing in every single text he’d sent you over the past week.

The date had been… good. Great, even, if you were being honest with yourself. But ever since then, Chris had been relentless—memes, random selfies, voice notes of him mispronouncing algebra terms just to make you laugh. It was irritating, charming, and way too hard to ignore.

You tried to focus on your notes, flipping through pages of equations and formulas to prepare for the session. But before you could lose yourself in numbers, Chris’s familiar voice broke through the silence.

“Hey, nerd!”

His voice carried across the library, loud enough to make the librarian shoot him a sharp look. Chris grinned unapologetically, making his way toward you with the same swagger he brought everywhere. He wore a hoodie over his practice uniform, his hair still damp and sticking up slightly. He looked so casual, so comfortable, and somehow, it irritated you more than it should have.

“You’re exactly on time,” you said as he dropped his bag onto the chair next to you. “That’s a first.”

“What can I say?” he said, sliding into the seat with a lazy grin. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting. Thought you might miss me.”

“Miss is a strong word,” you shot back, already pulling out your notebook.

Chris leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Come on, admit it. You’ve been thinking about me.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, instead flipping to the first problem you wanted to cover. “We’re starting with quadratic equations. Let’s see if you actually remember anything from last time.”

He groaned but grabbed his notebook anyway. “You know, I thought tutoring was supposed to be fun. You’re way too strict, Y/N.”

“Maybe if you did the work, you’d actually enjoy it,” you said, circling a problem on his paper. “Now, solve this.”

-

For the next thirty minutes, Chris was shockingly focused. He scribbled down answers, asked questions, and even managed to work through a few problems without your help. Every now and then, he’d glance up at you, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, but you ignored it.

“See?” he said after finishing another problem. “I’m killing it.”

You looked over his work, circling a mistake in red pen. “Almost. But you forgot to simplify here.”

He groaned, dropping his pencil dramatically. “Seriously? I’m like ninety percent right. Can’t you just let me have this?”

“Not when the ninety percent is wrong,” you teased, handing his paper back.

“You’re brutal,” he said, shaking his head. “But I guess that’s why I like you.”

You froze, your pen hovering over the page. “…What did you just say?”

Chris grinned, leaning closer. “You heard me.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, refusing to let him get to you. “Focus, Chris. We’re not doing this right now.”

“Why not?” he pressed, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip. “Are you scared you might actually like me back?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to mask the heat rising to your cheeks. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” he asked, tilting his head. “Because I think I’m finally starting to grow on you.”

-

By the time the session ended, you were more drained than usual—not because of the math, but because of Chris. He’d behaved for most of it, but every now and then, he’d throw in a comment that left you flustered or glance at you in a way that made it impossible to concentrate.

As you packed up your things, Chris leaned against the table, watching you with a lazy grin.

“So,” he said, his tone casual, “what are you doing tomorrow night?”

You glanced at him warily. “Why?”

“For our second date,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “Chris, we’re not doing this again.”

“Why not?” he asked, stepping closer. “You had fun last time, didn’t you?”

“That’s not the point,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “We’re here to study, not to…”

“Not to what? Go out and have a good time?” he interrupted, smirking. “Come on, nerd. One more date. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat when he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours.

“Seriously,” he said, his voice softer now. “Just one more chance. What do you say?”

You hated how earnest he looked, how his usual cockiness seemed to melt away in that moment.

“…Fine,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze.

Chris’s grin widened, triumphant and just a little too smug. “Knew you’d cave.”

Before you could second-guess yourself, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was as confident as he was. It wasn’t rushed or sloppy—it was deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

For a moment, you froze, but then your hands found their way to the front of his hoodie, gripping the fabric as you kissed him back. The world around you seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you in the quiet corner of the library.

When he finally pulled away, his grin was back in full force. “Told you I’d win you over.”

“You’re insufferable,” you said, shaking your head as you walked toward the door.

“And yet, here we are,” he called after you, laughter in his voice.

As you stepped out into the cool evening air, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe Chris Sturniolo wasn’t as impossible as you thought. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind it one bit.

Taggies!: @stvrnioloslvt @slvtf0rchr1s @swagalicious260 @alliisturnss4 @anyaa2s @alesturniolos @adoreechxmpion @arotzsturns

Inspos!: @bernardsbendystraws and @muwapsturniolo mwaahhh!

[oncasette]

knock, when you’ve got the time

WHEN HE SEES ME I — neighbor!jamie tartt x fem!reader

summary: 4.7k.

you were less than excited to go on this blind date, far less, due to the fact that it'd been sprung on you out of the blue by your best friend. at least, that is, until you get on said date, and realize that the guy is everything you’ve been looking for. he’s sweet, he’s funny, he listens when you talk. but, he’s far more experienced than you, which is where your neighbor comes into the picture.

content: i’m american so the dialogue might be awkward at points, jamie lives in an apartment-style complex rather than the house he’s renting in the show, takes place in season 2 post reality show, pre-richmond

main masterlist | series masterlist | taglist

You feel like your chest is going to explode. 

“You did what now, Keels?” you manage to gasp out. 

“It’s just a date, babes,” she says. 

“A blind one!”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she pauses to sip her tea. “I wouldn’t have set the whole thing up if I didn’t think he was a good match for you.”

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust her; god, you’re ninety-percent sure you trust her with your life, it’s just that

“I haven’t seen you date anyone since…”

“Martin.”

She rolls her eyes, “Martin.”

“He wasn’t so bad…” you trail off, voice picking up an octave as the sentence droned out of you. 

“He was a douchebag, babes. Grade-A. And, anyways, you need to get back out there. You’re super-fucking-smoking-hot. There’s no reason you should be cooped up all alone in this flat of yours. At least, if I have anything to say about it,” she says.

“What if I don’t want… to go on this date?” you ask. And in your head, you think it sounds like an entirely valid question to ask. Warranted, even. It’s a short lived thought when Keeley shoots you a look of fire and death. 

“So not an option, babes.” 

Your head drops, forehead thumping against the wood of your kitchen table. 

“He’s super hot… He’s funny…” she trails off. 

“Keeley, I haven’t just been single since Martin,” you say, muffled, face smushed into the countertop until she places a hand on the side of your head to tilt it just enough to allow you to breathe through your nose fully. “I haven’t gone on anything even resembling a date since Martin. I’m totally out of my wheelhouse, here.”

“Oh, lovey, it’s gonna be alright,” the hand previously on your face falls to rub circles on your back. “I’ll help you get ready, I’ll walk you to the bar. I will even sit with you until he shows up, if that’s something you like.”

“But-”

“No, buts! C’mon, you need this! It’ll be amazing and fabulous and fantastic, and if it’s shit you can tell me all about how you told me so after, while we eat a pint of ice cream and watch some shitty, unrealistic romance films at my place,” she says. She stands, abruptly, nearly tugging you up from your own chair in her midst. 

“What?”

“Let’s go. Bedroom,” she urges, only stalling to gauge the bewildered look on your face. “Did I forget to mention that your date is this evening?”

“Like, when this evening?”

“Seven?” she scrunches her nose as she checks the clock on her phone.

“It’s five!” you gape at her as she drags you to your closet of helpless, unsuspecting clothes. 

The rush of it all saves you from harping on too many of your nerves. Keeley’s sitting on the lid of your toilet telling you all about the guy she’s setting you up with as you shower, she’s tossing every semi-decent outfit you’ve got into a heap on your bed for the two of you to rifle through, and she’s sitting behind you with a curling iron as you do your makeup on the floor like you were in secondary school again. 

She nearly burns you while you’re putting on your mascara. It’s a miracle the wand didn’t go straight into your eye. 

By the time you were ready–actually ready, too, and not the “ready” you’d tried to pull past Keeley four times before that–your body felt like it’d been through the ringer. You were primped, polished, curled, exfoliated. You had on heels that, while, thankfully, you could walk in, you hadn’t worn in years and a dress that showed off more leg than you would’ve chosen for a first date. 

“Do I have to go?” you ask for what feels like the hundredth time. She rolls her eyes, shoving her thumb into your hip as she zips up the back of the dress. 

“Yes.”

“But-“

“You are going on this date and you are going to have fun and that’s all I’m gonna hear about it.” It felt like you were arguing with your mother about a toy at the shop. 

“Right, you look stunning,” she says as angels the two of you towards the body-length mirror in the corner of your bedroom. She stands behind you, arms linked around your waist. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. Her lips press into the dimple of your exposed shoulder. 

“You are going to be the kick-ass, sexy, bombshell bitch I know you are, and you are gonna charm the pants off this bloke.”

“Yeah?” You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth for a second, allowing it to pop back out with minimal damage to your lipstick when Keeley playfully taps you on the hip. 

“Yeah,” she hums, pulling her body away from her hold on you. “Come on, then. We should get going.”

It’s a short walk to the bar she’s picked out, one the two of you have frequented plenty over the last year or so of your friendship. It was one of the quieter joints, even on weekends. Kept just enough patrons to keep the doors open, but was slow enough that you could hear yourself think. 

Keeley sets the two of you up at the bar after scanning the joint, sure that you’ve arrived before your still-unnamed date, before signaling over the bartender to order a round. 

“For the jitters,” she says as she grabs the glasses off the counter and hands yours to you. You nod at her, downing nearly half of the gin and tonic in one go. 

“Fucking hell. Feel like I’m gonna shit myself, Keels,” you say, clearing the lump from your throat as Keeley chokes on the drink in her own hand. You can’t tell if it's a laugh or a cough or something in between, but once she’s gathered herself and wiped the martini off the counter, she’s facing you with a concerned look. 

“Right, look, I get you’re nervous, but what’s up? I’ve never seen you like this,” she says. You’re thankful the fabric of your dress is dark enough to mask sweat as you rub your palm across your thigh. 

“It’s just– I don’t know,” you exhale. You swirl your drink around with the tiny black straw you’d initially ignored in the glass. 

“Sounds like you do know. So, out with it,” she says. 

“What if he’s…” you trail off. Your throat conjures up another lump just for the hell of it. “What if he’s…”

“Out with it, babes,” Keeley urges. She places her martini glass on the counter before swiveling on the barstool to give you her full attention. 

“You know, like,” you swallow. “What if he chews with his mouth open or is constantly on his phone all night. Or, or what if he’s chatting with other girls just, like, right in front of me? Because Martin used to pull that shit all the time when we were in situations like this, and-”

You’re cut off by Keeley.

“You’re totally overthinking this.”

“I know.” An exhale. “I know, I know. I’m not even really that freaked about all of that if I’m being honest.” It all spills out of you like word vomit. Each sentence inching up your throat, hot and sour like the taste of bile as you spill your fears out. What if he’s the sweetest guy you’ve ever met, what if he’s a kiddy doctor, or some other profession that’ll just send your ovaries into overdrive, what if he’s-

“God, what if he’s fucking perfect?” you groan. 

Keeley doesn’t elect to respond, instead dropping her hands from where they’d been resting on your knees and standing. This draws your attention. You look at her first, shorter than she’d just been when she’d been on the elevated barstool, then turning your gaze towards where hers seemed to be. Past you. At the door. 

“Grayson!” she squeaks. She half-jogs over to the door, pulling the very tall man into a swift hug that he reciprocates with vigor. 

What if he’s got eyes so dreamy you’re sure to get lost in them at some point tonight. Holy hell. 

Keeley turns back to you, dragging Grayson over the few feet that separate you from the door, and, consequently, him, before she introduces the two of you. 

“Lovely to meet you,” he says just as you’re stumbling out of your seat to greet him properly. 

Your shoulders lean forward as you perch on the toes of your feet. You’re completely unsure of yourself. If he was going to go in for a hug, you’re sure he would’ve done so already, even a handshake. You’re half expecting him to swing into Keeley’s previously occupied stool when he clears your brain’s rambling with a kiss pressed to the apple of your cheek. 

“Good to meet you, too?” you squeak out, steadying yourself with what you later realize is a hand on his chest. A hand you pull back probably too quickly seconds later, smoothing out the bottom of your dress. It only takes a second for his fingers to graze your wrist, for him to pull your hand back up to shake it in a real greeting. He takes it in his, hesitantly, at first, and you swear you feel a shock transfer between your fingers. You even think your shoulders jump, but your brain is so fuzzy, just from the proximity, you couldn’t be certain.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever been here before, but there’s this drink-”

You’re already moving to pull away when he uses your conjoined hands to gently tug you into him, effectively punctuating your statement with an oomph. 

“There’s a nice table near the back if you want to head somewhere more… private,” he says. His breath fans across the side of your face, lips inches away from the shell of your ear as a shiver trickles down your spine. He knows your favorite bar like the back of his hand.

You faintly hear Keeley say, “Guess I’ll leave you both to it, then.” And you have half a mind to wave or say goodbye or even check and see if she left the bar, but you can’t when all of your focus has been siphoned to the man in front of you. She could’ve lingered and gaped at you for the rest of the night and you likely wouldn’t have noticed.

He leads you the short distance to the back of the bar from behind you, hand lingering on the small of your back in a way that just barely brushes against you. Enough to know it's there, that he’s guiding you, but not enough to truly feel him. 

You’re nearly vibrating when you reach the secluded standing table. Your drink is still in your hand, quarter full and sloshing as your knuckles wrap around the glass. 

The conversation fizzles as you try to spark it. Your mouth opens and closes with the start of various sentences dying at the end of your tongue as your brain attempts to put pen to paper and get anything out. 

“Have you known Keeley long?” he asks after a couple more failed attempts, tossing a lifesaver out to sea. 

“A year, nearly,” you smile at him. 

“Yeah?” he nods, tipping back the beer you definitely don’t remember him ordering. God, you were really losing it. 

Humming out an affirmation, you ask him, “What about you? Childhood besties?”

“No, no,” he snickers. “Though I’m sure that would’ve been interesting, I met her at this bar actually? A couple weeks back.”

You’re not sure if you feel betrayed Keeley came to your spot without you or grateful that she’d been able to conjure the man in front of you in the time you’d spent apart. 

“She spilled her drink down my shirt and somehow, in the span of the few minutes we’d spoken, had convinced me to come on this date,” he leans forward as he speaks, weight resting on his elbows. “Telling me all about how pretty her friend was. And I have to say… she undersold you.”

Your face heats under his gaze. “Is that so?”

“Who would I be to lie to a beautiful girl like you?” he asks. You have to clear your throat to gather yourself. 

“Not too bad yourself,” you admit. 

“Thank you,” he nods. “Wouldn’t want you to be too out of my league, huh?”

You shake your head and you hate how dopey your smile comes out. It's like you’re caught in a lovesick daydream just watching yourself talk to this guy. You’re quick to change the subject.

“So, what is it that you do for a living, Mr. Lee,” you drag the straw of your drink into your mouth. If only just to have something to do with your tongue, something to focus on anything other than the veins running up the backs of his hands and the way his adam’s apple bobs when he talks. 

“You’re pot on with the whole Mr. Lee thing, actually,” he chuckles. 

You quirk your head to the side in question.

“Teacher,” he says. 

“Teacher.” You raise your brows at him. Not Professor. Works with kids. 

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing. You’re just a lot hotter than any of the teachers I had growing up,” you say, and your heart stops beating for a minute as it gauges his reaction. That last part definitely wasn’t meant to come out. It was supposed to be said at negative twelve volume in the deepest, darkest crevice of your brain so that you couldn’t even hear it. When he laughs, though, you feel the muscle regulate itself, skipping a beat or two until it's back in its usual sync. “And what is it that you teach?”

“History.”

“So you could tell me all about the Great War if I asked?” you ask. 

“No,” Grayson chuckles. “I actually teach local history. Mostly Richmond, some greater England.”

“Sounds fascinating,” you say, even though you’re more than sure if you’d been forced to sit through one of his classes you’d hang onto every last word. With claws. And a harpoon gun. 

“It can be,” he shrugs. “It wasn’t my first choice, anyway. I had wanted to teach something less British. But it was hard enough to find a gig close to home in the age range I was qualified to teach and in the end I just wound up cutting my losses.”

“And counting your blessings,” you say. 

“And counting my blessings,” he repeats. 

The conversation starts to flow easier after that. He asks all the right questions at all the right times, he pauses and laughs and migrates closer to you across the table until your–no longer white–knuckles are gently brushing against each other. He tells you about his sister, about his childhood dog, his obsession with trivia games. 

“You’re kidding,” you’d gasped, nearly knocking your second drink–one you’d been too busy giggling to guzzle–right over the side of the table. 

“Tuesdays are my favorite night of the week,” he says as he gestures to the chalkboard pinned to the back wall of the bar outlining the events posted for that week. Tuesday night trivia was a mainstay. 

He lets you go on and on about the movie you’d watched last night, about how many times you’d seen Dirty Dancing and How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. He asks follow up questions about Patrick Swayze and Matthew McConaughey, about why everyone had called her baby in the first place and why Kate Hudson quit her job at the end of the movie. He even goes as far as to say, “You’ll have to show them to me sometime.”

It’s just when the nerves are finally wearing down that a girl appears at your table. And with your newest distraction, you move to check your phone. Your clock blinks back at you with a new message from Keeley you don’t check. It’d been two hours since you’d shown up at the bar. Your shoulders feel sore, suddenly allowed to bear the weight of the hour. 

“Jeanette,” you hear Grayson say. His tone is tight, a harsh contrast to the gentle timber you’d gotten used to over the course of the evening. His lips have drawn themselves into a thin line as he shoots you a sympathetic look. 

“You never called me back, you know. I left you a message,” she says as she curls her neatly manicured hands over his bicep. 

“Thirteen, if I remember correctly,” he says. 

“Same difference.” She shakes her head in a way that pushes her curls back to fall over her shoulder. 

He uses the hand not caught in her grip to gesture towards you, introducing you to the platinum blonde before continuing, “You’re sort of interrupting our date.”

Pulling back, she looks embarrassed. Shockingly. It’s like she’s just now seeing you despite the permanent place you’d held at the table for the entirety of her visit. 

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, Gray,” she says, and as she moves to pull away from your conversation, she puts a hand over the side of her face to not-discreetly whisper “He does wonders with his tongue” with an even less discreet wink. 

You hear yourself say “That was interesting” just as Grayson spills out “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” you question. “It’s fine, really.”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he sighs. 

“What, does it happen to you a lot?” you ask, and you honestly mean it as a means to break the uncomfortable, meeting his former–or not-former, you truly didn’t know him that well, now that you were thinking about it–hook-up. 

“You’d be surprised,” he groans, and he has the gall to look less than cocky about it. Cocky you could handle. Confident, even. 

“Try me.” You absolutely, positively did not want to be tried. 

“Look,” he starts, saying your name softly. “I wasn’t going to veer anywhere near this topic tonight because I didn’t want you to feel like I was trying to steer the conversation towards sex. I’ve been around the block, sure, but when–and if–we ever hit that… subject, I want it to be for us. I would want it to be whenever you were ready for it all to happen.”

Nodding, you swallow. Oh yeah, he’d “been around the block” alright. Who would ever lie about this like that. 

“I’m good with that,” you smile at him. A smile he, thankfully, is quick to reciprocate, dropping his hand to cover yours where it rests on the table. 

“Good.”

Your eyes start to feel fuzzy before either of you have called the evening to a close. Static builds up in your tear ducts and a numbness creeps up, licking at the back of your skull. 

This was insane, you were insane. This was not the kind of information you cried over. You manage to pull yourself together to end the evening with a smile, putting your number in his phone with a smiley face at the butt of it, and allow him to kiss you on the cheek at the door of the pub before you split off in different directions. 

He’d offered to walk you home, nearly begged, but you’d assured him you’d be fine to walk the block and a half back to your flat. Besides, you ease yourself, you never invite a bloke back to your place on the first date. Wouldn’t want to give Richmond’s newest serial killer prime information on your whereabouts. 

How were you meant to work with this? It wasn’t that you were a virgin, or anything. You’d had sex. Once. When you were still a teenager with your so-called boyfriend at the time who’d dumped you the very next day. You hadn’t even finished, unsurprisingly. It had been embarrassing for you at the time, how you’d done your best to convince yourself that some girls just don’t cum from sex. 

You reach your flat before you realize it. The key in your hand shakes in time with your fingers and you manage to put your back to the door before your knees give out beneath you. Every part of you felt weak, unsupportive. Overwhelmed. 

Honestly, you weren’t even mad that he’d been around. With a face like that, it’d be a wonder–and a red flag–if he hadn’t. It’s just that you’re so… inexperienced. Women your age should know their body, should know how to use it. The only aspect of sexuality that you’re familiar with is the vibrator stuffed in your sock drawer. And even that was a gift from Keely. 

You bring your hand up to wipe your face, attempting to look somewhat presentable to the public as your neighbor sweeps past you to unlock his door. The back of it comes back sticky with snot. Your neighbor’s stride stutters, back foot planted to the floor for a hair too long just before he’s spinning on his heel to face you. 

“Are you alright?” His hands are stuffed into the joint pocket of his jumper. 

“Fine,” you hiccup as you bring your knees up to rest against your chest. 

He frees his hand from the pocket only to stick it out in your direction. “Jamie Tartt.”

“I know who you are,” you scoff, nearly choking on the giggle that bubbles up with it. “Think everyone with a telly knows who you are. Or, like… a phone.”

His hand lingers in the air for a second, twitching towards you until it resigns itself back into the pocket. 

“Did you wanna talk about it, maybe? I make a mean cuppa,” he gestures back at the foot behind him that leads to his front door. 

It’s the longest conversation you’d had with the footballer. Usually you’re given little more than a nod and a shut door as he lets another girl into his flat or brings his groceries in. Though, now that you’re really thinking about it, the former had dwindled significantly in recent months. 

Either way, you shake your head. “Wouldn’t want to intrude,” you sniffle. 

“No, no,” he assures you, going as far as to take that step closer to you. His hand extends out to you again. “I insist.”

You manage to stand on your feeble legs, following Jamie into his flat with your own keys still in hand. 

“How long you been sittin’ out there?”

“Not long,” you hum, clearing your throat in the process. He grumbles out something you don’t have the heart to ask him to repeat as he moves around his kitchen. His hair is longer than you remember it being during the last match you’d caught at your parents’ house and the dark locks fall over his eyes as he puts the kettle on the eye. Then again, that Man City game hadn’t been the last time you’d seen him. 

“You wanna tell me what’s wrong?” he asks. 

You don’t have the energy to be coy. 

“I don’t know how to fuck,” you say. Jamie’s hand twitches as he puts your cup down in front of you. 

“Sorry?” he coughs. 

“This guy I went on a date with earlier,” you say. “While we were out, he got stopped by this girl he’d been seeing and she made a comment about how incredible his tongue game is and then suddenly we’re talking about how many people he’s had sex with.”

By the time you finish that sentence you’re gasping for air and Jamie is looking at you expectantly. 

“No offense, but why would that matter?” he asks. 

“I haven’t had sex since I was eighteen? I have no idea what I’m doing, you know?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t know. I’m very experienced, actually.” he raises his eyebrows at you as he says it, making the comment seem less like he was bragging and more that he was… easing your nerves about the whole ordeal. You’re not sure if it’s totally working for you or not, but you manage to maintain eye contact as you bring the cup up to your lips. 

“I’m sure being a premier league footballer heartily prepares you for this kind of thing,” you say, sipping.

“I mean, yeah, but I was kinda referencing something else,” he says and you decide it's best for your own sanity to play dumb in this case. You know, not let him know you’d seen him fuck his way through his short run on Lust Conquers All. 

“And that is…” “You didn’t see me show?”

“I don’t watch reality TV,” you lie. Of course you’d seen his run. Everyone had seen his run. Even if it has been through a mix of very flattering and very unflattering gifs on Twitter. 

“How d’ya know it was reality TV?” he asks with a cocked brow.

“Hunch,” you shrug. You sniffle as you hold your cup in your lap, both palms held tight to the warm porcelain. 

You watch him meander around his kitchen, feeling somewhat comforted by the fact that its a mirror of your own, as he mulls over the information you’ve given him. It wasn’t like you were expecting him to do anything with it. You hadn’t expected to tell anyone about it, if you were being frank, but Jamie had caught you at a fairly vulnerable moment outside your door.

“I think I’ve got an idea,” he declares. 

“Proceed.”

“I could help you with your little problem. Ya know. With my expertise,” he says. 

“Such a fancy word for a footballer,” you say with a bite.  

“Right hilarious,” he clears his throat. “Anyway, back to my idea.”

“Your idea… about teaching me how to have sex?” you ask, nearly incredulous at this point. 

“No, not how to have sex,” he starts. “Just…” “How to have sex,” you finish.

“Look, right, you said it yourself. You lack experience,” he shrugs. “I can help with that.”

“So, what are you wanting me to do? Drop my dress to the floor and beg you to fuck me? You don’t even know me,” you say, not even totally sure yourself where the hostility is coming from. 

He shakes his head, placing both hands flat against his kitchen island to face you fully. 

“We could get to know each other. I’m just throwing ideas out there. It doesn’t have to be today, or tomorrow, or fucking ever, really, but if you decide you want me to help you with your little… predicament, all you have to do is knock on me door, yeah?”

Swallowing, you bring your eyes up to make eye contact with him. What the fuck was going on? In the span of, what, six hours, you’d been thrown into a blind date with a guy ripped straight from your dreams, discovered said dream-guy was overwhelmingly into you, discovered same said dream-guy had slept with half of Richmond and some of Wales, and had your neighbor proposition himself to you after finding you sobbing outside your front door? Were you in an episode of The Twilight Zone? 

You look down at your cup before bringing it up to down the small amount of liquid left within it in one gulp. 

“Predicament is another fancy word. You’re on a roll,” you say after you’ve swallowed down the amber liquid. You make a move to stand, arranging your keys in your hand so that the key that opens your front door is pinched between your thumb and your index finger. 

“I’m smarter than you think.” He follows close behind you, opening the front door for you to step out into the hallway. 

“Should’ve told your showrunners that,” you say, facing him for a second before you’re pushing the key into the lock and opening your own flat. 

“So you have seen the show,” he says. 

“Goodnight, Jamie Tartt,” you reply. You hear a muffled goodnight through your door seconds after you’ve clicked it shut. 

As you drop your belongings in their designated spots and kick your shoes off by the door, you bring yourself to look at your notifications. 

Keeley MF Jones

Hope you’re having fun!!!! Text me when you’re home and safe xxx

A new message rolls in just as you bring your finger across the screen to unlock it.

Keeley MF Jones

I’ll take it that my lack of response means that the night ended well ;)

Love you, babes! Stay safe!!

I want all the details tomorrow!!

Pausing, your fingers dance an inch above the keyboard before finally typing out a phrase. She doesn’t need to know everything.

My lips are sealed. 

[oh-snapperss]

so indebted to you for cuteguy etho god bless

just for u.... i give u the accidental beginning of a cute guy fic in my drafts. it's pure crack and unedited btw

words: 1169

warnings: none

has like one line of implied shipping lol

“Etho, Etho!” Bdubs waves frantically, as if the two were greeting each other after a long few weeks apart, rather than a single day. 

“Oh, hey Bdubs!” Etho walks over, barely noticing when the door slams shut behind him. There’s plenty of other customers around, most wearing headphones and sitting at the tables, lost in their work. This morning, there’s no line, and Etho heaves a sigh of relief. He’d been up way too late, and he’s ready for a pick me up. 

“Have you seen the news?” Bdubs asks as soon as he’s at the counter. Over by one of the cabinets, a muted television plays, showing a broken window at one of the museums. Etho tears his eyes from it quickly. 

“Ah, you know me! I never do!”

“Someone broke into Cub’s museum last night!” Bdubs’ eyes are wide, gesturing at the TV anyways. 

Etho blinks, pushing down his rising horror. “No way.” He doesn’t know…surely….

“Yes way!” Bdubs leaned in conspiratorially. “They say that the Cute Guy outfit was stolen!” 

Etho’s grip on the strap of his backpack tightens. “That so?” 

“Yeah! I mean, who would do that, right?” Bdubs pushed back from the counter. “You want your usual, right?” 

“Yes please.” Etho draws out the ‘please’, as always. “Don’t forget the heavy whipping cream.”

“You know you’re the only reason I keep this in stock, right?” Bdubs rolls his eyes, bustling around the coffee shop. It’s a quaint place, smelling so strongly of coffee Etho is sure that he’ll be smelling it the rest of the day. Nonetheless, it was the best coffee shop in the whole city! Least, that was what Bdubs said. And if Etho ever said otherwise, he’d have his head gone by morning, probably. 

“Ah, come on! Best part of the whole coffee!” Etho protests, flicking parts of his napkin at Bdubs whenever his back is turned. 

“You’re disgu–stop flicking the napkin at me–you’re the worst! Don’t even know why I serve this to you, it’s gonna give you diabetes, you’re gonna die at the ripe age of however old you are, and then what’s ol’ Bdubs gonna do?” Throughout his ramble Bdubs flits around the coffeeshop, making Etho’s coffee regardless. It’s a simple enough order, just black coffee. 

…okay, and just as much heavy whipping cream. 

“I’m not gonna die! Takes a lot more than that to kill me!” Etho giggles, although he shifts from foot to foot. What does it take to kill him? He’s tempted to check and make sure his backpack is securely zipped up. 

“It does not take a lot more to kill you.” Bdubs glares at him, sliding the cheap disposable cup across the counter towards him. “Four dollars.” 

“Wh–it’s three-fifty!” 

“Yeah, but I need financial compensation for when this kills you.” Bdubs says smugly. “Pay up, sweetheart.” 

Etho’s not blushing at the endearment. No sirree. He would never, especially since he’s ninety percent sure Bdubs calls everyone that. 

“Etho?” Bdubs stares at him, unimpressed. “Just cause you’re my favorite customer doesn’t mean you get out of paying for your coffee.” 

“Ohhh, favorite customer, you say?” Etho grins, all thoughts abandoned in favor of teasing. “If I’m your favorite customer, can I get a disco-”

“No.” 

“Okay.” Etho laughs, and finally pulls his usual wad of cash from his pocket. “How much again?” 

“Three fifty. Just like yesterday, and the day before, and the–”

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Etho slides the money over, before hiking his backpack up his shoulder again. “Thanks, ‘dubs. See you around?” 

Bdubs barely even glances at him. “Yeah, tomorrow.”

“Or maybe at the grocery store? Oh wait, you’re too short–”

“Get out!” Bdubs flicks another napkin at him. “You’re the worst!”

His grin says otherwise, and Etho matches it with his own clear out of the shop. Once out, though… 

The streets are crowded, the sky overcast with light grey clouds. Shoot, he should have checked the weather before he left–if he gets stuck in a drizzle without a jacket, he’ll never hear the end of it from Scar, or Bdubs, or anyone else. 

He walks down the street, glancing around. iBuy seems particularly busy, and so does False’s fashion shop. He slips through the crowd, trying not to bring too much attention to himself. It’s a miracle no one has noticed his routine yet–get coffee, walk down street, duck into the alleyway entirely non suspiciously, and slip in the back door to his new job at HotGuy HQ. 

Insane, right? 

The second he’s through the backdoor, the alarms go off, as usual. It’s a simple matter of yanking a wire from the alarm system to turn it off, and then he continues forward as normal. 

“Scar?” He calls out, glancing around. The HQ is quiet today, not even a receptionist at the front desk. 

“You mean Hot Guy?” 

Etho spins around on his heel, to discover Scar standing at the top of the stairs. He’s fully decked out in his superhero outfit, each muscle outlined and complemented by his shirt. 

“Scar, it’s just us. Do we really need to call each other–”

“Never call each other by real names, Cute Guy. You never know who could be listening.” Scar lowers his head, so that the light shining behind it outlines each impeccable feature in shadow perfectly. “Our identities… must be kept secret. Forever.” 

“Ooookay.” Etho sighs. “Why’d you call me Cute Guy?” 

The light behind Scar goes out, leaving Scar blinking at Etho in confusion. “Because that’s… who you are?”

“What do you mean by that…?” Etho stares back, horror swirling in his gut. “Sca-Hot Guy, I just did you a favor by breaking into that museum. I’m not becoming Cute Guy, that’s someone else’s job–”

“What do you mean?” Scar grins. “That was your final test! To prove your strength, your valor, your bravery!”

“I’m pretty sure those last two words mean the same thi-”

“Did you get it?” Scar descends the steps, his bow clutched desperately in one hand. “Have you succeeded?” 

Etho sighs. When he’d signed up for Hot Guy lessons, he’d thought maybe it would help him pick up some flirting tips, not this! “Yes, S-Hot Guy, I got it.” He slings the backpack off his shoulder, tossing it to Scar without much fanfare. “I’m not wearing that.” 

The bag is caught easily, although Etho doesn’t miss the look of horror when it’s thrown. “You can’t just throw the Cute Guy outfit!”

“Sorry.”

Scar ignores his apology, unzipping the bag eagerly. Each part of the costume is pulled out eagerly, before being dropped on the floor in favor of the next piece. Pink skirt, pink jacket, fishnet tights, pink crop top and are those cat ears?

Etho decides not to point out the irony of half the costume being tossed to the floor after being scolded for throwing the backpack. Besides, he really needs to head on out anyways, he’s running late for work at the redstone department of iBuy–

“Try it on.” 

“What?”

[minleeeknow]

‘tease’

‘pairing’ - 김승민 (kim seungmin) x fem!reader

‘genre’ - college au, fluff

‘tw’ - slight kissing, teasing

‘word count’ - 0.4 k

‘to get tagged’ - pls reply to the taglist post, this post, or just ask me

‘lee’s notes’ - lowercase intended, not proofread, stop this was so fun to write :D

pls note, reblog, anything

~

you groan as you flip your paper over on your desk. kim seungmin, your younger brother’s best friend, snickers behind you.

“what did you get?” he asks, smiling innocently. you roll your eyes at him in annoyance, keeping a hand on your test paper in case seungmin decides to snatch it.

“you go first,” you retort. seungmin smirks as he waves his test in front of your face.

“ninety six percent,” seungmin simpers smugly. you frown at him, reluctantly flipping your test around.

“ninety two,” you mutter, staring at the bright red letters. seungmin beams with evil glee at you.

“ha!” he crows triumphantly. “i beat you.” you groan again, face-palming yourself.

“i’m not good at literature. this book was boring anyway,” you protest. seungmin sneers. “what, and art history is any better than this?” he mocks, rolling his eyes at you.

“yes actually!”

“keeeeep talking yn,” he says. “just admit it, you’re bad at this and i’m better.” you stick out your tongue playfully.

“never!”

a few moments later, you’re walking with seungmin to your break spots under that one willow tree. your younger brother, jeongin, is already waiting for you two.

“what took you so long,” he complains. “i need help with this math exercise.” looking up from his phone, he takes in your face.

“oooh, let me guess, seungmin beat you at the lit test,” jeongin guesses, grinning. you glare at him.

“it’s not fair, he actually likes reading boring historical fiction. who likes that? sci-fi forever!” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

“life’s not fair,” seungmin remarks with a sing-song tone, smirking at you. jeongin looks between the both of you.

“are you guys, like, secretly dating or something? the teasing from this guy is like–” jeongin begins.

seungmin shoots him a look and jeongin shuts up. with a mischievous look, seungmin drops to one knee and you start laughing hysterically.

“what in the actual hell?” you say loudly, making everyone outside look at you two.

“i like you, yn,” seungmin utters smoothly, as if no one was watching. you bury your face in your hands, still smiling.

“is that what all the teasing was?” you demand, amused. seungmin sighs.

“will you just be my girlfriend already so i can get off of my knee? people are staring,” seungmin shoots back, ignoring your question.

“okay, okay, seungmin. you’re such a tease, you know?” seungmin grins, throwing his arms around you, pulling you into a fierce hug.

“i know.”

~

‘taglist open!’

@k-labels @goldenjupiterz

[trippedandfell]

for the 101 ways to say i love you: 87? (i would put it here but i didn’t copy paste and now i can’t remember lol)

thank you!! i had to edit it a little bit to make it fit, but hopefully it still works! 1.2k | read on ao3

87: "Don't be scared. I'm right here."

“Okay,” Buck says, voice tinny through the car speakers, “before you freak out, just know that I’m like, ninety percent sure nothing’s broken.”

Eddie takes one white-knuckled hand off of the steering wheel long enough to jab the Bluetooth volume up. “That’s not what I heard.”

He can practically hear Buck’s wince. “Shit. Don’t tell me. Bobby?”

“Hen, actually,” Eddie says, biting back the urge to curse as yet another driver cuts in front of him - LA traffic at rush hour is brutal, honestly. “She said, and I quote, ‘your dumbass boyfriend fell off a cliff, meet us at First Presbyterian.’”

“Okay, first off,” Buck says, indignant, “it wasn’t even a cliff. Just like, a really big hill. And secondly-” he pulls the phone away from his ear, presumably talking to someone in the room with him “- you all are traitors.”

“Not exactly filling me with confidence here,” Eddie says dryly, as someone - likely Chim - cackles in the background. He checks the GPS above the dash. “Hey, look. I’ll be there in like, two minutes, okay?”

“You’re on your way?” Buck asks, and there’s something in his voice, something vulnerable, that has Eddie pressing down a little harder than he probably should on the gas pedal. He knows it was probably bad form to ditch the parent-teacher conference the way he did, to leave Chris with Carla and race out without so much as a goodbye, but. Whatever. He’s never been rational when it comes to Buck, so there’s no use in starting now. “You could have waited until after Chris’s thing. We’re just waiting for x-ray results. It’s not life or death.”

Eddie knows Buck well enough to know that he’s not even saying that to be self-deprecating - they’ve worked on that a lot the last couple months, inside therapy and out. But he also knows that all the therapy in the world won’t change that Buck sees himself as second to pretty much everyone else in his life, and that - that’s not something Eddie can fix, not really, but he still wants to try. And if that means racing to the hospital for something as silly as a fall down a really big hill, then so be it.

It’s just. Eddie knows Buck will be fine. It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want to be by his side anyways.

“Doesn’t matter,” he finally says, scanning the parking lot for an empty spot. “Hey, look, I’m just parking now. I’ll be right in, okay? Love you.”

“Love you,” Buck echoes, and then he’s gone, and Eddie’s left listening to nothing but the dial tone. He forces himself to take a deep breath as he hops out of his truck - realistically, they’ve both been in the hospital for far worse things than this - but it never gets easier, seeing Buck in any sort of pain.

The hospital is blessedly empty tonight, so Eddie’s let back to see Buck without having to wait, following the nurse down the long, winding hallways without a word. Hen had texted him when he was paying the ridiculously overpriced parking meter to let him know that her and Chim were going to grab coffee, which Eddie is grateful for - he doesn’t know if he has it in himself to make small talk just yet.

He raps on the door once, twice, before pushing it open to see Buck sitting up in bed, scrolling aimlessly on his cell phone. Eddie takes him in, drinks in every inch, eyes scanning from the scrape on his arm and down to his ankle, propped up on a pile of pillows and swollen to at least double its normal size.

He’s beginning to think that really big hill might have been a little bit of an understatement.

“Hey,” he greets, dropping a kiss on Buck’s forehead as he sits down, weaves their fingers together. “How are you feeling, baby?”

Buck shoots him a megawatt grin, tired but happy. He’s got a line of dirt under his left eye, and his hair has definitely seen better days, and Eddie is so, so, ridiculously in love.

“Little sore,” he admits, thumb rubbing circles on the back of Eddie’s hand. “But mostly fine. You really could have waited until Chris’s parent teacher conference was done, you know. I know that you wanted to talk to his English teacher.”

“Correction,” Eddie says, “you wanted me to talk to his English teacher on your behalf, since you couldn’t get off shift. I distinctly remember someone leaving me very detailed notes on the kitchen counter this morning. And anyways,” he pauses, remembering the panicked edge to Hen’s voice when she called, the way his heart had dropped out from under him, “I wanted to be here. I just - I was scared.”

Buck’s smile is soft. “I know. But you don’t have to be scared. I’m right here. Alive and well. Well, uh,” he gestures to his leg. “Mostly well.”

“Mm,” Eddie agrees, staring at Buck’s ankle critically. “What’s the verdict?”

Buck shrugs, fidgeting with the bedsheets. “They’re saying it’s a bad sprain. Might be a hairline fracture, so we’re just waiting for the results on that. Couple weeks off, crutches. You know the drill.”

Eddie winces - he does, in fact, know the drill. “You’re staying over at my place, okay?”

The grin Buck shoots him is crooked and completely, utterly, beautiful. “Do I get a say in the matter?”

“Nope,” Eddie says, leaning in to punctuate his words with a kiss. “As a matter of fact, you should just move in permanently.” Buck stares at him, eyes blown wide, and the gravity of what Eddie’s just said hits him like a truck. He buries his face in his hands, groaning. “Shit, that was not how I was planning on asking you.”

“There was a plan?”

“There was no plan,” Eddie protests, but Buck’s already fixing him with downright gleeful look, so he relents. “Okay, there was a little bit of a plan.”

It - it wasn’t much of a plan, honestly, just a key hidden in his sock drawer at home, hung on a keychain that Chris had made at summer camp last month for this express purpose. But Buck still grins when he tells him about it, looks at him with those big doe eyes and says, “sweetheart,” in that soft, aching voice of his, and - yeah. Asking him to move in was definitely the right call.

Speaking of which: “you haven’t even said yes yet,” Eddie points out, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest. He doesn’t think Buck will say no, not really, but. There’s always a chance.

“I’m sorry, was there a question somewhere in there?”

“You’re the worst,” Eddie complains, pitching forward to lean against Buck’s shoulder. “Remind me again why I’m asking you to move in?”

“Mm,” Buck’s kissing the shell of his ear, touch gentle. “I can cook. I only marginally hate doing laundry. And,” he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, “I really love you. And Chris. And if you guys would have me, I’d love to move in.”

Eddie can see it now - falling asleep with Buck every night, pancakes for breakfast in the morning, weekend trips to the zoo. He’s not obtuse enough to think it’ll all be smooth sailing - Buck gets cranky when he’s off work for too long, and God knows Eddie’s awful about keeping the kitchen clean, but. He thinks it’ll work, the three of them.

“I’d really like that,” he says honestly, thinking of the ring nestled behind the key in his sock drawer, the three drafts of a proposal speech hidden deep in the recesses of his phone. They’re not there yet, won’t be for a while, but Eddie’s in no rush. He’ll take every moment he can with Buck.

He’s worth it.

send me a prompt from this list!

[thatgirlwithasquid]

Harringrove Week - Only One Bed

(This fic is also posted on my AO3 account: here)

Season/Series 02 | Only One Bed | Jealous Billy Hargrove | Literal Sleeping Together | Billy Hargrove Has A Crush On Steve Harrington | Pre-Relationship | Flirting | Oblivious Steve Harrington

Words: 2,906

-

“Remind me again why I’m helping your piece of shit friends, Harrington?”

“Because you made the mistake of showing up at the Byers’ place during a deadly situation.”

“Are you two coming or what?” Dustin practically screams over from where he and the kids are poking the unidentified writhing mess of vines - if they even are vines.

“Can it, Henderson!” Steve snaps back, yanking his bat aggressively from the boot of the car to wave in his direction. “Get snarky with me and I’m taking the lot of you straight back to the Byers’ house, got it? I’m only letting you go through with this ridiculous plan because I’m ninety percent sure you’d have tried to steal the car anyway, and where would that have left me?”

He maybe slams the boot of the car a little harder than he’d intended, but Billy doesn’t so much as glare at him for mistreating his property. It’s dark out -  no shit, since it’s ass o’clock at night by now - so it’s hard for Steve to make out much of how Billy looks right now, even silhouetted as he is by the glare of the headlights no-one felt particularly inclined to turn off. What he can see, though, is how the guy is buzzing with some sort of anxious energy.

He gets it. Fuck, does he get it. Steve screamed like the biggest damn girl when he got wrapped up in all this shit last year, so, all things considered, Billy’s taking this pretty damn well. Well but not perfect. His fingers are tapping against his arm where they’re crossed over his chest and, though he’s leaned against his car, his posture is anything but calm. He’s tense, still like a statue, like he doesn’t even want to let his breaths move him. For a minute Steve almost thinks he’s genuinely holding his breath until he raises a cigarette to his lips and takes a deep inhale.

“Whatever. Fine. Are we fucking doing this, or what?” he practically growls, flicking the butt onto the floor where its glow flickers out like a dying star in an ocean of darkness. Steve tries not to think about how dark it’s going to be where they’re going.

“Yeah, man, we’re ‘fucking doing this’,” he huffs, marching his way over to the kids and tossing Max and Lucas stuff to cover their face with. “Okay then, assholes; I’m setting some ground rules. I go first, Billy goes at the back-”

“Max sticks with me.”

“And Max stays by Billy,” he adds, shooting the guy an irritated look. He couldn’t wait two fucking seconds for Steve to finish? “If anything comes at us, you run and I swing. Billy’s in charge of you shits while you get the fuck out. Am I clear?”

“What-!?” Lucas shrieks indignantly.

“No way-” Max glares.

“The hell, man?” Mike snaps.

“Dude, Steve-”

“No. This isn’t up for debate. We do this my way or not at all. Am. I. Clear?”

They glare, then grumble, but ultimately agree.

Steve goes down first. It’s bad down there, just as bad as he’d been worried about. Where he stands under the skylight that the hole serves as there’s just enough light for him to see the way the mass on the walls are  slithering  against each other - it’s even more unsettling that he can feel them writhing beneath his feet. That’s the extent of his vision. His circle of light ends about a metre ahead of him. Everywhere else is pitch black.

He takes a breath, reminds himself that they have flashlights, that it’s fine. Then he calls out to the group and the kids pile in, Billy lowering them and him catching them when Billy’s reach isn’t enough to set them on the ground of the tunnel.

It’s odd to be working with him so easily, he muses.

The last of the kids lands. Billy drops down. They scramble to pull out their flashlights, the kids going over the plan again - to settle their nerves, Steve guesses. He watches them, eyes scanning over them as if expecting them to have sustained some injury in the 10 seconds since they entered this damn tunnel. They haven’t, but Steve figures that if he’s being the babysitter he may as well go full mom on them.

When he feels Billy’s breath on his face, he jumps. When had the guy leaned in so close?

“Really took charge up there, didn’t you, Harrington?” the guy whispers into his ear, his curls brushing against him where they fall against his skin as he leans even closer. “Really gets a guy all hot and bothered-”

“Oh, fuck off, Hargrove,” he snaps back, hoping the guy’s wicked smirk is only because of his taunt rather than because the darkness doesn’t hide Steve’s heated face as much as he’d like.

-

They set the tunnels on fire. They run the fuck out of there. None of them die. It seems Billy and Steve actually do make pretty good babysitters.

They all head back to the Byers’. They all cram into their living room, letting themselves collapse wherever there’s an inch of space, falling against each other in exhaustion. Steve ends up pressed shoulder to elbow against Nancy - Jonathan is across the room harassing his brother into drinking more water. It’s awkward between the two of them, but in a way that feels like it’ll settle. In a way that feels like they both know one thing has ended, but that there’s a whole new road in front of them. Steve knew already that she’d end up with Jonathan, but this feels like acceptance.

Joyce makes her way back into the room, arms layden with a tray of cheese on toast. Everyone politely ignores how her eyes are red rimmed, how desperately she leans into the hug her sons give her. They’ll talk about it another time, right now they just, quite frankly, cannot believe any of them made it out alive. They just want to bask in it. Hell, Steve had practically thought he, Billy and Dustin were goners for a moment.

His eyes swivel over to where Billy and Max sit side by side, having a whispered argument and glaring daggers at one another. They’re each glad the other is alive, though. Steve can tell. With a jolt, he realises that he’s glad, too. About the kids, yeah, obviously, but about Billy, too.

“Time to actually plant those feet, Harrington,” the guy had told him in those tunnels, voice trembling slightly as the hoards of demodogs raced towards them.

The guy is a dick, utterly awful, but-

“Hurry the fuck up, Sinclair, or we’re all monster food - and I’d rather not be responsible for a kid getting hurt.”

…secretly he cares. Just a little.

Billy Hargrove is an enigma. He makes absolutely no sense and yet here Steve is, staring at the guy, utterly, for want of a better word, enamoured. Not in the way everyone at school is; not because Billy is a fit, attractive guy who's surprisingly charismatic for such an utter dick and is, actually, really good at basketball - though Steve can admit that that is true, too. No, it’s because how Billy acts just… baffles him. He hates Max, but there were a few moments today where…

Steve is snapped from his musing’s when, seemingly sensing eyes on him, Billy shifts and catches his gaze. Steve is, frankly, too fucking exhausted to care so he just  keeps staring. Billy stares back for a second, before his face splits into a manic grin, tongue lolling out in that stupid damn way the guy keeps doing. Eyes intense.

Steve’s heart jolts, and then  Steve  jolts because -  woah  - what the fuck was that?

“Uh- Steve?” Nancy asks, voice perturbed. 

He hums.

“Why is Hargrove… staring at us?”

“I think I started it,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes carefully away from Billy now, leaning into Nancy more to block his view. “He’s staring at me ‘cause I was staring at him.”

“Okay, firstly… why were you staring at him? Second, he’s not staring at you, he’s staring at us. The guy’s glaring daggers at me right now-”

The words are barely out of Nancy’s mouth before Steve is whipping around to stare at Hargrove again and, yeah, shit, he totally is.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “What’d you do to piss off Mr Sunshine over there?” 

Nancy gives Steve a pointed look.

“I think we both know it’s probably something you did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he glares.

“Steve, I’ve never talked to the guy - what could I have done? And, besides, you’re good at pissing people off,” Nancy declares, pushing herself to her feet and awkwardly making her way across the room without stepping on sprawled children.

“Wait- do I piss you off?” he calls after her to no response.

“Okay,” Joyce manages, voice unsteady though she tries her best for a smile. “Everyone to bed, I think. We’ve… today’s been quite enough.”

A few people hum their agreement. 

“I’ll stay on the couch. The girls can have my room. Mike, Lucas, Will, Dustin - you’ve got Will’s room. Steve, Jonathan and - uh - Billy, was it? - you guys stay in Jonathan’s room. All alright?”

“Yeah, that’s fine, mom,” Jonathan agrees.

“Are you sure that’s okay, Mrs Byers?” Nancy asks, because someone should.

Joyce nods.

“Yeah, of course. To bed, all of you. Will, Jonathan, you grab extra blankets and stuff, okay?”

-

They all file into their rooms pretty quickly. Jonathan leads a somewhat uncomfortable Steve and a somehow unfazed Billy into his room, arms piled with blankets and pillows that he promptly dumps on the floor.

“You guys make yourselves at home,” he shrugs, already making for the door. “I’m going to check on Nancy-”

He freezes, shooting Steve a hesitant look. Steve just sighs, shooing him from the room.

“Go get the girl, Jonathan. We’re not gonna trash your room-” Billy lets out a disbelieving laugh, glancing pointedly at the drawings taped haphazardly to the wall. “... We’re not gonna trash it any worse than it is.”

Jonathan huffs a weak laugh.

“Yeah, okay, thanks.”

The door creaks as it closes, and then it’s just Billy and Steve. Hargrove has his arms crossed, leaning back against some drawers by the wall, just watching him. Assessing, Steve thinks. Awkwardly, he clears his throat.

“Jonathan Byers stealing your girl, then, Harrington?” he taunts.

Steve bristles.

“No. Me and Nancy are over. Just friends. Jonathan and Nance like each other and we’re all cool.”

Billy hums noncommittaly.

“So that's why you were leaning into her earlier? Totally over her.”

“I- Well- Yeah- No? I don’t know. I liked her for ages but we’re just friends now. I’m not totally over it yet but… I’m not interested in getting back together- not that it’s any of your business, Hargrove.”

Billy just flashes him a grin that’s all teeth.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve echoes, face twisting into an annoyed frown. “Why, you jealous?”

Billy tenses.

“No.”

“That why you’re getting so involved in my relationship with Nancy?” he retorts. “Cause you’re totally not jealous. What was with you glaring at us earlier?”

“Shut up before I shut you up, Harrington.”

Steve scoffs.

“Bit too late for that. We’ve already fought, remember? Before we got interrupted by the demodog Dustin convinced me to store in the fridge - despite the fact that ‘he likes it cold’, fucking dumbass kid - jumped out before you managed to smash a plate against my skull. Now, like it or not, you’re part of this-” he gestures vaguely “mess of a group we’ve got going on, which means no attacking each other.”

“Why’d you dumbasses even think to put a monster into a fridge?”

“I don’t know, man,” Steve whines, flopping back onto Jonathan’s bed. “It was Henderson’s dumb fucking idea and I went along with it cause he’s supposed to be the smart one-”

“The thirteen-year-old?” Billy asks, half-taunting and half-incredulous.

“Dude, where the hell have you been? Those kids are, like, sixty times smarter than me. It’s kind of pathetic.”

“How’d you even get wrapped up in all this stuff? That bitch Wheeler drag you into it when you were still going steady?” Billy asks.

Steve glances at him out the corner of his eye. He sounds sarcastic but something about his posture makes Steve think he might be genuinely curious. He’s oddly still - like he’s posing as if he couldn’t care less to keep a lid on just how much he genuinely wants to know.

“Same as you; I showed up at the Byers’ place during a monster attack.”

Billy blinks at him, then seems to register that Steve is being serious and cackles. It shouldn’t be attractive - it’s a hysterical, with an edge of humourlessness, utterly overwhelmed laugh but something about the small flicker of genuine amusement at the absurdity of it all in Hargrove’s eye has Steve’s stomach swooping and - shit, looks like that heart-skipping-a-beat crap wasn’t a fluke.

“Is this place cursed or something?”

“Sure fucking feels like it,” Steve groans.

They lapse into an, oddly enough, utterly comfortable silence. That is, before Steve heaves a sigh and pushes himself upright. 

“I feel like I’m about to collapse. Are we gonna sleep or just walk this fine line between wanting to hit each other and weird understanding.”

“Sure that’s the only fine line we’re walking here, Pretty Boy?” Billy smirks.

“What other fine line is there?” Steve huffs, rubbing a hand over his face.

“The fine line between me making you my bitch, and me making you my bitch.”

“You literally said the same thing twice-”

Billy gives Steve a considering look.

“I think I can see how those kids are smarter than you now-” his lips split into a dark grin. “But that’s fine, I can work with dumb, Harrington.”

Steve shivers.

…He cannot tell if it's the good kind or the bad kind.

“Whatever you say. I'll sleep on the floor, you can take the bed-”

“Harrington,” Billy interrupts, voice dangerously sweet, dripping with saccharine poison from his lips. The look in his eyes is practically predatory. “Jonathan’s bed is a double. There’s more than enough room to share.”

Steve’s face burns.

“But it’s fine - I can sleep on the floor-”

“You scared, Pretty Boy?” Hargrove asks, stalking over.

Fuck.

“No!”

“Hmm,” Billy smirks, eyes shining dangerously. “I think you are. Got some dirty little secret you’re trying to hide there, Harrington?”

Somehow his blush darkens.

“No, I was just trying to be considerate!”

Billy grins and it’s all teeth. Steve is unsettlingly reminded of sharks, how they can smell the blood of their prey from far away. Billy can sense that he’s cornering him. His eyes are dark, too, shadowed by the light from the only lamp in the room, pupils blown wide.

“No need, Pretty Boy. I don’t mind. Wouldn’t it be more considerate of me to share?”

Steve freezes.

“I guess,” he manages to choke out.

“Alright then,” Billy hums, voice low and rumbling. His eyes flick downwards. “You gonna take those off?”

Since Steve is pretty sure he literally cannot get anymore bright red, he manages to compromise by choking on his spit instead.

“Excuse me?!”

“Your jeans, Harrington. Can’t be comfortable to sleep in them. Or am I gonna have to crack your round the head again before any sense gets knocked into you?”

Steve splutters, but does get up and shuffles awkwardly to the side to shuck them off.

When Hargrove’s eyes follow him he falters. 

“Aren’t you gonna look away?”

“I can if you want, but I don’t see how it’s weird. I’ve seen you undress plenty of times in the changing room.”

And Steve supposes that is true so, awkwardly, he kicks off his jeans and, after a moment’s hesitation, his shirt comes off too. It leaves him feeling exposed, and then Billy’s eyes sweep over him in a way that is maybe something more than assessing and he’s shocked to realise he likes it.

“Are you just gonna sleep in yours?” he asks Billy, mostly for the sake of not having to confront that thought.

Hargrove shoots him another grin.

“You asking for a show, Pretty Boy?” Billy asks, but before Steve can stutter out a denial, he’s shucking down to just his boxers  slowly, staring at Steve the whole fucking time and-  holy shit. That is a show, and Steve is fairly certain his brain has officially given up. Shit. 

When Billy’s in just his underwear - like Steve, except Billy actually took his socks off - he winks at Steve before sliding into Jonathans bed, and now Steve has to get his brain back with the program and get in too before this gets any weirder.

So he does, reaching out to turn off the lamp as he does, because he’s, honestly, a little scared that if he sees Hargrove’s chest, or eyes, or literally anything he’ll completely just shut down. The darkness will be better right?

Then Billy’s chest - his chest! - is pressing against his shoulder as Hargrove leans in to whisper-

“Kick me in your sleep and I’ll kick your ass, Pretty Boy. And we wouldn’t want that, since you’ve got such a nice one.”

And then he rolls over like nothing weird just happened, meanwhile Steve’s mind is devolving into a screaming chorus of ohfuckohfuckohfuckohFU-

He doesn't sleep much that night.

[wonderfilworld]

Kitchen Table - F.W.

Fred Weasley x reader where they have some alone time at the burrow.

a/n: this is for a request: “Can you pleasee write a fic about fred x reader(fem) and they are at the burrow making brownies or something (lots of fluff in this part) but then it gets segsy..?”

word count: 2.4k

warnings/contains: NSFW!! smut: unprotected sex, slight mentions of exhibitionism, yeah he fucks you on his kitchen table lol; kissing; cursing; food. As always, if there’s anything I left out please let me know!

Masterlist  

It was a sunny, summer day, and the majority of the Weasleys had decided to make a day trip to Diagon Alley while you and Fred opted to stay in. Staying at The Burrow meant absolutely no privacy, so when Molly asked if you wanted to join them on their outing, Fred wrapped his arms around your shoulders and politely informed his mother, I think we’ll stay here and bake brownies, mum.

Molly thought that was a lovely idea and that you should make plenty for everyone to eat for dessert tonight. So, here you and Fred are, mixing ingredients the muggle way because you insisted it’s so much better this way.

It’s a new recipe you’re trying out, the both of you wanted to do something different so you abandoned his family recipe as you copy another one you found in one of his mother’s cookbooks.

“I wonder if it tastes any good,” he says as he dips a finger in the bowl of batter and brings it to his lips. You watch as his cheeks hollow around the digit, and you raise an eyebrow as he hums, “Pretty good.”

You laugh, “Yeah?” 

He nods as he dips the same finger in the batter and you scold him, “Fred, quit putting your germs in the food, everyone will be eating those.”

“I’m related to ninety-nine percent of the people in this house, one of whom has the same DNA as me, I think it’ll be fine,” he says. He gets tired of waiting for you to open your mouth, so he puts his finger on your lips and swipes the batter on them. You roll your eyes as you stick your tongue out, licking all that you can to the best of your ability. 

“You missed some,” Fred tells you, but instead of bringing his hand to clean it off as you expected, he leans in and plants a kiss on your open mouth. 

It’s sticky but you close your eyes anyway, bringing your hand to his face. You expected just a little peck, but what you don’t expect is to feel Fred’s tongue licking at your lips, cleaning the remnants of the brownie batter.

He pulls away, and you give him an irritated look as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Gross,” you say. 

Fred snorts and dips his index and middle finger into the brownie batter once more, brings it up, and smears it across your cheek. 

“Fred Weasley!” You shout, slapping his shoulder. He’s laughing now, and you can’t help but join in. “I hate you,” you say, but you both know you don’t really mean it. 

He calms his laughter down as he puts a hand to your neck, “Here, let me get it for you.” He leans in, and you put a hand to his chest, stopping him. 

“Don’t you dare lick me.”

Fred smirks, “You’ve never seemed to have a problem with my licking before.” 

You scoff, and before you can say anything else, Fred’s tongue is licking along the trail of batter he left on your face. 

You groan in annoyance before Fred leans back and grabs a towel from the counter. He uses it to clean the rest of the sticky substance off your face before saying, “There, as good as new.”

“Uh-huh.” 

“Don’t be like that.” 

You shoot him a look of displeasure as you reach for the pan, “Let’s just get these finished already.” You stick them in the oven as Fred sets a timer.

“Well, well, well; how will we ever pass the time?” Fred wiggles his eyebrows at you as he removes his apron and throws it across one of the kitchen chairs. He approaches you and places his hands on your waist. “Any ideas?” 

“Nope,” you say. You know what he’s insinuating, but you’d rather play oblivious. You want the same thing he does, but with the brownie batter stunt he pulled earlier, he’ll have to work for it. 

“Come on, princess,” he says as he wraps his arms around you, pulling your body flush against his. You wrap yours around his neck as he speaks again, “We have the whole house to ourselves for the first time in days, and you’re telling me there’s nothing you want to do?”

“I’d like to get a shower that lasts longer than ten minutes.”

“Oh, you think you’re funny?”

“I think I’m hilarious,” you retort, and you cup his face in your hands as you lean up to kiss him. 

His kisses are slow and sweet at first - they always are. Fred loves the sensualness of kissing; loves the way you whine into his mouth when you want more of him. You’re already gripping his red hair between your fingers because he had a point - you haven’t really had any alone time. Fred is very physically affectionate, and the lack of physical affection he’s been getting lately has become a problem. 

He breaks away from the kiss, and you’re already chasing after his lips again when he stops you, “Where’d all that attitude go, huh?” 

You tug his hair and you whine, “Kiss me.” 

“Princess, I’ve been waiting to get you alone for ages, ‘m gonna do a lot more than just kiss you,” Fred says as he drags his lips across your jaw. “Gonna make you feel so good, hm?”

“Please,” you whisper. You’re needy now, don’t feel like teasing anymore and you just want to have your boyfriend again - with you, on you, in you. 

Fred’s lips are leaving a wet trail of kisses down the side of your neck and you tug his hair again. He leans back, looking at the way your neck glistens with his spit as he speaks, “Stop doing that,” he growls. 

He reaches down and slips his hand under the waistband of your pants, fingers finding your clit as he rubs you over your panties. He can feel how wet you are, and he leans down to capture your lips once again. He kisses you for a minute or two longer before he pulls away.

He smiles to himself as he looks at you, your eyes are closed as his fingers toy with your clit. They’ve slipped under your panties now, and the feeling of his rough fingers rubbing the most sensitive part of you has you squirming. “You know, your dripping pussy doesn’t exactly scream ‘I hate you, Fred’.” He says, mimicking your disapproving tone from earlier. “But maybe that’s just me.” 

He slips his middle finger into you then, thick finger stretching your cunt. You drop your mouth open and let out a quiet moan. You open your eyes and can see the way Fred watches your face as he fucks you with his finger. He takes in every time your eyes widen when he touches the spongy spot inside of you; every time you gasp when his thumb rubs your clit. 

“You want it?” He questions, and you have to close your eyes again as he presses his thumb against your clit, as he pets the sensitive spot inside you. You nod your head before you lean forward to rest it on his shoulder. You watch as his fingers start to move again, can see how his hand moves beneath your pants and the sight makes you moan and your hips start to move in time with his fingers.

“Beg for my cock, baby. You gotta beg for it if you want me to give it to you.” He says, and his fingers speed up, and he can feel the way your cunt tightens around them. 

Maybe it’s because his fingers are moving so fast now, thumb rubbing your clit in tight circles; or maybe it’s the fact that you’re in his family’s kitchen, three feet away from where you all sit to eat every day that impairs your ability to speak. Either way, you can’t respond to him, so Fred pulls his fingers from your cunt, and out of your pants. He brings them to his lips and sucks them clean, the same way he cleaned the brownie batter from them earlier. “Better than the brownies,” he announces with a wink. 

Your cheeks heat up, near burning as you speak, “Please, Fred.” You’re desperate, and you’re aware in the back of your mind that his family could show up at any moment. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“Guess you better get to begging then.”

You groan, because once Fred sets his mind to something it’s set in stone, so you know he won’t give you what you want until you give him what he wants. 

“I need,” you start, bringing a hand down to the front of his pants, fingers grazing his cock that’s straining against the material, “for you to fuck me.” You squeeze him gently then and take in the way it knocks the breath out of him when you do so. 

And he realizes that you two are on borrowed time as well, knows that it’s definitely not a smart idea to carry this any further in his fucking kitchen, but Fred’s always been a little wilder than most, and he can’t say that he doesn’t want to lay you down on his kitchen table and pound into you until you’re a crying mess; can’t say he doesn’t want to be reminded of your sweet cunt every time he walks into the kitchen and remembers this moment. 

So, he walks you over to the table and before he picks you up to sit on it he pulls your pants and underwear down, helping you remove them completely. You don’t question him - mainly because the desire to have him is just so overwhelming - all you can think about is the way your core pulses in anticipation to finally have your boyfriend fucking into you after so long without him. 

He sets you on the table and pushes you to lie down, doesn’t even bother removing your shirt or teasing you any longer, and he pops the button on his own jeans and lowers the zipper. He brings his cock out, giving himself a couple of strokes as he kneads the flesh of your thigh. Fred runs the tip of it through your folds, groaning at how wet you are for him. 

He taps his cock against your clit before he speaks, “Say please again.”

You look at him, your hand covering the one of his that’s on your thigh as you feel the tip of his cock press against your entrance. Your voice is quiet; timid, as you reply, “Please.”

He pushes in then, mouth dropping open at how fucking good it feels. It really has been too long, and you moan loudly as he settles all the way in, cunt clenching around him as you get used to his size.

Fred suddenly remembers how loud you can get, and while he may be literally fucking you on his kitchen table, he would at least like to prevent his family from hearing you scream his name if they return home early, so he brings one of his hands to your face and sticks two of his fingers in your mouth. He starts a steady rhythm of his hips into yours, and groans as he feels you suck on his fingers, not even questioning their intrusion. You still moan as his cock fucks into you but it’s muffled around his digits as he presses down on your tongue. 

“Gotta stay quiet, baby, you don’t want my family coming home and hearing you getting fucked like a whore, do you?” He asks as he snaps his hips into you. 

You try to shake your head no as best as you can, your hips are moving up to meet each of his thrusts and you know there’s no way you’ll last much longer. 

Fred knows this too, and he’s also aware of how embarrassingly fast he’s approaching his own orgasm. He takes both your ankles and positions your legs over his shoulder one by one. 

You cry out around his fingers as his cock goes deeper, drool is spilling out of your mouth and Fred looks at you then; his hair has fallen onto his forehead, stray pieces sticking to it due to his perspiring form. 

“You like that?” Fred asks, pounding into your cunt almost violently, cock hitting your sweet spot over and over and over. 

You’re moaning loudly around his thick fingers, eyes shut tightly. You try your best to reply: yes! you say but it’s gargled around his digits, and all Fred can make out is the way you go uh, uh, uh, every time his hips slap into you. 

Fred can’t take his eyes off where you’re connected; the way his cock spreads you open and how well you take all of it. “Such a good fucking girl.”

Your body warms with the praise, along with the warmth that floods through you as you get closer and closer to cumming. It’s when Fred brings his hand to your clit, rubbing fast circles with his thumb as he instructs you, “cum for me baby, want you to make a mess all over my cock,” that has you practically screaming around his fingers as your back lifts off the table, and you cunt spasms around his cock. 

It’s the way you get impossible tighter around him that has Fred cumming, fingers pressing harder against your tongue as he helps you both ride out your orgasms. You’re still mumbling incoherent sounds around his digits, his cock still hitting your sweet spot over and over. “That’s it,” Fred sighs as he lazily thrusts, letting every last drop of his cum fill your cunt. 

Your legs fall from his shoulder as his fingers remove themselves from your mouth. Fred pulls out of you then and you grunt as he drops his body on top of yours. 

“Get off,” you say as you try your best to shove him off of you. “You’re heavy.”

He scoffs as he picks his head up to look at you, “Pretty rude thing to say to someone who just fucked your brains out.” 

“Oh my god,” you say, throwing an arm over your face. “Leave me alone.”

He gets up then, puts himself back in his pants as he walks to the counter to grab a wet towel. He cleans you off before helping you get dressed, placing a sweet kiss on your forehead.

“I still hate you,” you lie again, and you kiss him on the mouth.

“Uh-huh.”

[chironshorseass]

133 for percabeth please :)

Pre-TLO era. I can’t help myself :)) also this was inspired by @posallys post lol hiiii bestie this one’s for u ig <3

writing prompts 

.

"I hope you have a cold shower."

He turned to her, surprised—if only for a few seconds. Then a smile spread across his face, once he caught on to her expression. "A cold shower, huh? You know I can change the temperature, right?"

There was something enchanting about Percy Jackson, she had to admit. Even if she loathed him.

She loathed him, but then again, she could appreciate the little things.

Like how he'd raised himself from the lake waters and into the pier as easily as flicking a wrist, brown skin flashing in the blinking light, muscles contracting. How he'd left a puddle by his feet like a following shadow, and how, despite getting wet in the first place, he was still able to take out the goddamned water from his ears while she was left struggling, tilting her head over and over like a cartoon glitch.

So again. She loathed him. Despised him, even.

"Yes, yes—yippee, you're a son of Poseidon," she said, with little to no enthusiasm. "Now stop staring at me or I will make you regret it."

"You just kinda look like you're having a hard time, is all."

"Wow"—She cocked her head again, this time with more force, and still the water won't fucking go away—"You noticed?"

"Hey, hey. Stop"

He placed his hands on her cheeks, freezing her mid head-tilt. Her entire body froze, more like, if she wanted to sound cliché. They’d been okay for the past week, she supposed, but there was still that question in the air, that doubt about whether he felt the same way about her as she did about him or if it was just her own bias. Her false hope.

“I can take the water out, you know,” he said softly, green eyes earnest and so so beautiful. 

Annabeth wanted to cry. Yes, it was a simple request. Yes, it was only because Percy possessed the unfair ability of hidrokinesis. Of course it was only because of that. It was her fault that she had a tendency to read between the lines. Emotional. Stupid. She would feel his thumb dancing across her cheek, accompanied with that smile on his face, and suddenly her mind would mark him as a boy filled with love and life. With power coursing through his veins, ready to use it for her and only her. But one day, she thought. One day the life and love in him will leave.

She tried not to think of the prophecy. But it always came in the worst of times. 

Quickly, though, she blinked those tears away. Swallowed back her pride. When she nodded, she made it seem as if she was reluctant, as if she were annoyed.

She wasn't.

“Fine,” she sighed. “Take it out. But only because I could have brain-eating amebas in there or something like that.”

“Or if you don’t properly take out the water stuck inside, you could just have a plain-old ear infection.”

“Yes. Or that. Not only I would have to experience a a war, but my ear would hurt for the rest of the summer.”

“Would definitely suck.”

“Although, I still think the brain-eating ameba is worse.”

He shook his head. “What the fuck, Annabeth. I thought we where over this—”

“And I’m still traumatized from what Grover said. Ninety nine percent of the people infected die—”

“Psh. Only if you get infected in the first place. I’m pretty sure you have to swallow or breathe in the water for the ameba to get you, anyway.”

“Oh, goodie,” she said dryly. “I did that plenty as well. All because of you.” 

“Aw, come on, it was funny—”

She pushed him away, and he laughed; it was a booming sound—or maybe it was like a fire, igniting first on his belly only to shoot out from his throat, contagious and free.  

“So,” he said, coming to her again. “You gonna let me help you or what?”

“Maybe.”

His smile grew. “Say please?”

Gods, he would be the end of her.

“...Please.”

Then he added, “And also take back the cold shower threat. That was super rude.”

“Oh, totally. So rude of me, I am so sorry.”

“That’s better.”

And her hearing cleared away—something she hadn’t realized was wrong in the first place—once he that stray water trickled down her ear, warm and obeying to Percy’s will. Maybe being a son of Poseidon had its unfair advantages, but at the very least, those advantages extended to her.

Too bad for the others, though.

[titan-fodder]

Prima Vista Part III

[ previous ]

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader

Warnings: a lot of feelings, handcuffs, testosterone, quite a bit of sex, one surprise kiss (cause Erwin is a privileged dick), parents, domesticity A/N: I apparently did not write an author’s note for this originally, but uh, this is one of my favorite sections of the whole fic, so. 

Mike uses the rest of the break to relax, to get his head on straight so that when he gets back on campus he won’t be overbearing. He knows that’s the last thing you want from him.

 You text back and forth a few times a day, but most of it is dumb shit, and the conversation dies off pretty quickly—either Mike not knowing how to respond or you just growing bored. 

 He busies himself by spending time with his parents and playing with Scout who eats up all the attention. Family comes over for Christmas, and his mom and aunt get into an argument. It’s nothing new.

 He’s happy to get back to the school and back in classes just to stimulate his brain. More than that, he’s happy to see you again. Even if it means the two of you go back to friend-only status. 

 Things are awkward between him and Erwin, though. It isn’t the first time they’ve had a hiccup in their friendship, but this one has really rubbed Mike the wrong way. Erwin tries to apologize a few more times, but every time he does, all Mike can manage is an unconvincing, “It’s fine,” which the other man obviously doesn’t buy. 

 He tries not to be possessive when you start coming to the house again, but it’s fucking hard whenever he has to watch you and Erwin talk and joke around. Mike figured you’d be at least a little annoyed that he’d just walked in on the two of you like that, but you act like it never happened.

 Eventually, Mike has to ask about it, just can’t help himself. “Aren’t you, like, even a little mad that he did that? Don’t you think it was fucked up?”

 You’re sitting on Mike’s bed, a controller in your hand as you play Mario Kart, sound a little distracted when you respond, “I mean, yeah, it was fucked up, but I never really expected anything more from him.”

 “What do you mean?”

 You look at him from the corner of your eyes before staring at the screen again. “Erwin is a cocky motherfucker. I’ve seen the way he gets the girls on campus, probably thinks he can charm all of them which means he probably thinks he’s entitled to all of them. Us.”

 “Are you calling him a predator?”

 You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t think he’d ever, like, rape anyone. He at least has enough class and common sense not to do that. But I think… He doesn’t care who he goes after. Single girls, girls in relationships, happy girls, damaged girls. He just has a one track mind when it comes to sex. That’s what I’ve gathered anyway.”

 Laying back on his bed, Mike laces his fingers behind his head and thinks on what you’ve said. “That just sounds like a drawn out way of saying he’s a flirt.”

 “A massive flirt. Without any real care about whose feelings he hurts in the process.”

 “Sounds about right.”

 “I don’t appreciate it,” you sigh, “But he’s your best friend, so I’m willing to put up with some shit from him.”

 “Even him perving on you?”

 “Not the first time it’s happened to me, probably won’t be the last. He’s curious, I can tell.”

 Mike snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, he is.”

 You stay quiet for several seconds, toggling over to another track on the game, then ask, “That make you uncomfortable?”

 Blinking up at the ceiling, Mike wonders what the right answer to this is. He doesn’t want to scare you away, but he doubts he’ll be able to act as aloof as you do. 

 “A little.”

 You hum, nodding in a thoughtful manner before suggesting, “I think we can keep hooking up through this semester.”

 Mike sits up on his elbow, looks at you with high eyebrows. “Wait, really?” He sounds too excited, he knows.

 “Yeah. I have mostly easy classes, or really, I have interesting ones which makes studying for them easier. Plus, it might teach Erwin a lesson.”

 He falls back flat, scoffing. “I don’t want you to fuck me to prove a point to Erwin. I want you to fuck me because you want to.”

 The game music stops when you pause it, and then you’re straddling Mike, hands on his chest as you smirk at him. 

 “Don’t let this go to your head, Zacharias, but no one has ever fucked me the way you do.”

 Mike tries not to grin, triumph blooming inside of him, and he grips your hips a little too tightly. “Oh, that’s definitely going to my head.” 

 You grind your covered pussy over his denim-clad cock, and Mike feels all his blood flow south.

 Laughing, you lean down to ghost your lips over his and murmur, “Both heads, apparently.”

 That day, the two of you start a routine that leaves Mike falling harder and harder with every passing day.

 *

 “Come on, please just be my date,” Mike begs, thinks about getting to his knees if it’ll help convince you.

 “Why?” You ask, looking up from your textbook.

 You and Mike are sitting in the library—you studying, him bothering you. “I’m honestly so tired of parties at this point.

 “It’s not like the big parties we throw, though,” he tells you. “It’s just the brothers and their girlfriends.”

 “That makes it even worse,” you push one little laugh through your nose. “What makes you think I wanna spend an entire night with a bunch of frat boys and their matching sorority girls?”

 Mike rolls his eyes. “They’re not all sorority girls, just like, eighty-five percent of them.”

 Your head lolls, an expression that reads nothing but apathy aimed at Mike, and he gives you a hopeful smile and adds, “On the bright side, we get to stay together all night…?”

 “Oh god, it's a cuff party, isn't it?" 

 All he can do at this point is beg because the more he explains it, the more he realizes how not appealing this is to you. “Please.”

 Sitting back in your chair, you cross your arms over your chest and puff your cheeks out as you exhale heavily. “What’s in it for me?”

 Fuck yes. Half the battle is won. 

 “Uhh,” obviously sex is the first thing that comes to Mike’s mind, so the first offer he makes is, “I’ll go down on you ‘til you cry.”

 You snort. “Try again.”

 “Fuck you ‘til you pass out?”

 “Jesus—why do you want to hurt me? Try again. Third time’s a charm.”

 Mike brainstorms for a solid thirty seconds, thinks about what you’ve mentioned to him over the past couple of weeks, sex and school and—

 “I’ll help you study for your geochemistry exam.”

 You finally look interested. “I’d actually really appreciate that. You took the course?”

 “Yeah, environmental geochemistry was sort of my jam last year. Final grade was a ninety-seven.”

 “Holy shit.”

 Mike shoots you a satisfied smile, but before you can tell him to wipe it from his face, he asks, “So, you’re in?”

 “I guess.”

 This is how you both end up in the frat house handcuffed together. No one seems to be surprised at the fact that you’ve come with him, all the brothers used to you hanging around the frat house.

 Most couples are walking around holding hands just because it takes some of the pressure off of everyone's wrists, but Mike doesn't dare try it with you. Too cute. Too comfortable. 

 These types of get togethers are Mike's favorite, though, always more relaxed than the open parties. There’s still drinking and music, but the energy is different since it’s a tighter knit group. 

 It takes about an hour for Erwin and his date to approach the two of you, fingers laced together, drinks in their free hands. 

 “Looking good,” Erwin greets with a smile. "Very… trapped." 

 “Yeah, you too,” Mike says, trying to ignore the subtext of Erwin's comment.  

 Blue eyes flick to you, and you’re questioned, “How’d he end up talking you into this?”

 You don’t miss a beat as you reply cooly, “Bribed me with sex and study help.”

 “Ah, of course he did.”

 Mike’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything, just reaches his pinky out to link with yours, a subtle claim. When you rest your head on his arm, he looks down at you and smirks. 

 “Anyway,” Erwin pushes on. “You remember Maddie, don’t you?”

 Mike lies, “Yeah. How are you?”

 The girl’s voice reminds him of who she is, “Well. How are you, Mike?” It’s a little high pitched and nasally with a northern accent. He especially remembers what she sounded like moaning for Erwin through the wall, obnoxious but Mike can’t really judge since he’s subjected the rest of the house to the same thing once or twice (or a dozen times) before.  

 “Glad to hear it.”

 The group stands together for a few more awkward seconds before Erwin clears his throat and asks his date, “Another drink?” then makes his exit. 

 “You have got to get over this grudge, dude,” you take your head from his shoulder, and Mike immediately misses the warmth. “Like, it’s cute that you’re trying to defend my honor or whatever, but it’s time to move on. You guys are friends. Just talk it out.”

 He sucks his teeth, almost tells you about the way he and Erwin had nearly thrown punches at the ranch house, the way the blond had basically admitted to wanting to try you out, but Mike decides against it, doesn’t want to talk too much shit only to end up making up with him.

 “Guys don’t really talk it out. We usually fight it out.”

 “That’s fucking primitive. You should learn to communicate like mature humans.”

 “Probably,” Mike hums. “But not right now.”

 Being connected to each other means every activity is a partner activity. The most interesting is playing beer pong against Nile and his on-again off-again girlfriend, Marie, house rule for the night being whoever is throwing has to use their cuffed hand. It’s like a twisted three-legged race and requires an amount of teamwork and coordination Mike has never had to deal with before. 

 It’s also the first time he manages to beat Nile. Mike had no doubt that the other man would have crushed you by himself, but it turns out the actual couple does not work together very well. All their shots are clumsy, and Nile gets frustrated right off the bat which only makes things worse. Meanwhile, you and Mike come up with a strategy after the first terrible throw and use it for the rest of the game. 

 You’re both challenged by a few other teams and end up winning every time which has Mike feeling smug about the victories and giddy at how in-tune the two of you are. Gelgar even tells you both, “You guys are good together,” which makes Mike cough as you wave him off.

 You drink a little more, converse a little more, and then—as always—end up in Mike’s bedroom. 

 “You want me to get the key and take these off?” He asks between kisses.

 You smile into him, let out a little laugh and play, “You don’t think it’d be kinda fun to fuck with ‘em on?”

 “It’ll be harder,” Mike snorts. “But, we can. Won’t be able to take shirts off, though.”

 “Good thing we just need to take our pants off.”

 It’s clumsy and silly, and you both tug in opposite directions more than a few times. Mike laces his fingers with yours when he goes down on you, relishing in the way you arch off his bed and squeeze his hand. On the floor, you give him head in the same fashion, and fuck, Mike can hardly focus on you sucking him off while your fingers are woven together, even if it is just for the sake of convenience. 

 He fucks you from behind that night, your face buried in his pillow as he’s buried in you. Both of your arms are stretched behind your back, held at the wrists by Mike’s much, much larger hand. He uses his free one to grip your hip, pushing and pulling you on his cock to his heart’s desire. 

 You’re so pretty, damp with sweat and moaning his name when your head is turned only to shove it back into his pillow when he makes you scream. Your dripping cunt opens up for him perfectly, making Mike feel more inebriated than alcohol ever could, but as his balls tighten and that warmth spreads in his gut, he has a single moment of clarity, assess the position he has you in and pants, “Shit, I can’t pull out.” Not without ripping your god damn arm out of socket or fracturing his dick. 

 “Mmm—fuck, just come inside, come inside me, Mike.”

 That alone makes him lose it, shooting a fucking copious amount of cum into your pussy, so much that it drips from your hole and runs down your thighs. 

 “Fucking C-Christ,” he laughs a little hysterically, gathering thick white and slipping it back inside you. Transfixed by the way his added finger pushes more of his cum out of you, he asks in a daze, “You on birth control?”

 “Yeah,” you answer in a breathy voice.

 Mike hums. “Good. Just gonna sit here for a while then.”

 You let out a whimper that turns to a whine when he rubs his slick finger over your clit. Twitching around him, you tease, “F-finger painting again?”

 He chuckles, “You know it.” 

 Honestly, if he could cover you in cum, he would—admire your body painted in white strings, watch it drip down your ribs and thighs. If Mike hadn’t just gotten off, he would be hard again at the mere thought, but for now his focus is rubbing your little clit. Still face down, you spread your legs more and more, and Mike has to curl over you, breathing heavily on your neck as you wriggle and buck, overstimulating him as he keeps his cock nestled inside of you.

 He groans just as loud as you do as you start pulsing around him, pussy clenching in a way that actually pulls a few more drops of cum from Mike, then you both pant for a little while until Mike straightens up and pulls you with him, your back to his chest as you hang your head. 

 “You good?” He questions, brushing his lips over your neck as lightly as possible.

 “Yeah,” you tell him. “Just… Full.”

 Mike’s body heats all over again as he rests his forehead on your uppermost vertebrae. “Can’t just say stuff like that,” he warns, sinking his teeth into your shoulder.

 “Hmm.” He can see the little smile on your face without even looking up. “You did offer to fuck me until I pass out.”

 “I have a refractory period, you know.”

 You glance over your shoulder, and now Mike gets a good look at your smirk and twinkling eyes. “I can wait.”

 Both of you emerge from the room in the early hours of the morning, still stuck together as you quietly make your way downstairs to find the key to the handcuffs. You’re wearing a pair of Mike’s gym shorts, the mesh falling far past your knees and barely staying up around your waist. He knows you’re still messy and can tell by the way you’re walking that you’re sore, but he has every intention of cleaning you up and taking care of all your aches and pains in the shower. 

 *

It’s party after god damn party with classes and studying and fucking in between. You have never had this much sex in your life, but you’re not complaining. It takes the edge off, and Mike isn’t the worst company. Far from it, actually. The more you get to know him, the more he falls into what you think is his real personality. 

 The brash frat boy is a front, you come to find out, a mask to fit in with everyone else, one he wears very well. 

 But, when it’s just the two of you in his room playing video games or watching TV, he actually relaxes, gets quieter and much more reflective. The pastels and khakis and Hawaiian shirts stay hung up in his closet, both of you lounging in t-shirts and joggers more often than not.

 He more or less tutors you in geochemistry, and between that and all the nerd shit in his room, you realize… Mike is kind of extremely smart. And, it’s kind of extremely hot.

 “I still don’t understand why you hide it,” you tell him one afternoon as you watch him play Ocarina of Time. 

 He shrugs, green eyes wide and focused on the screen, gives you the same answer he did last semester when you’d asked a similar question: “People are more interested in other things.”

 “So you adopted the obnoxious frat boy persona?”

 “I guess. It makes the college experience a lot easier.”

 You cock your head to the side, genuinely curious when you ask, “Doesn’t it wear you out? Seems like you’re just an introvert in hiding.”

 Mike laughs, pauses the game, and looks at you. “It used to. Some days it still does. But, it’s easier than taking shit from the guys.”

 Squinting at him, you mumble, “I will beat up anyone who gives you shit about being a nerd.”

 It makes him laugh. Loudly. And, you see a certain curiosity glimmering in his eyes, unasked questions—probably something along the lines of when you started caring and getting protective over him. 

 You’re not. Not exactly. You just don’t like the idea of anyone giving him a hard time. 

 “No offense, babe, but I don’t know how much damage you could inflict on anyone. You’re, like, two feet tall.”

 You straighten up, chest puffing up as you pull your fists up to your chin and rock back and forth like a Street Fighter character. “You wanna fuckin’ go, Zacharias? I’ll show you how much damage I can inflict.”

 He grins in that boyish way that always makes you look away. It’s too cute and too charming and makes you feel too many things. 

 Mike hangs his long legs over the side of the bed and pulls you on top of him with no problem whatsoever. You’re eye level with him now, heart beating too fast as you hold his shoulders, eyes flicking to his lips. 

 “We can go if you want. We can do whatever you want.”

 He has feelings for you. You know he does, can see it in his eyes, can feel it in the way he fucks you, and you really should cut things off, but… You don’t want to. He’s the most tolerable person you’ve met on campus, much less annoying than Hitch. You have things in common and joke around until you’re both rolling in laughter. And, of course, the sex is incredible. 

 It’s just casual, you keep telling yourself. Mike is smart enough not to push things. He knows better, knows you’ll just turn him down, and though it’s hard to admit, that wouldn’t just hurt him; it’d hurt you too.

 In his lap now, you don’t encourage him to take things further, mostly because you’re still sore from the night before, and he understands that. Instead, you lock your arms around his neck and change the subject to something that’s still bothering you even after several weeks.

 “Have you and Erwin made up yet?”

 Mike makes a face, answers, “Not exactly.”

 “The hell does that mean?”

 “It means we’re talking a little more, but it’s always short conversations and the problem still hasn’t been addressed.”

 You let out a little, “Ugh,” then state, “You guys are impossible.”

 It really doesn’t make sense that he’s so upset about it, especially since you’ve gotten over it. It was a shitty thing for Erwin to do—walking in like that—but you don’t think it’s anything to end a friendship over.

 And, with that thought in mind, you spend the rest of the afternoon devising a plan. It’s not in your nature to meddle, but it seems, in this case, you’re gonna have to.

 *

 Mike is in his fancy ecology class when you walk into the Pike house, nodding at everyone in the den as you step further inside. You learned a few months ago that it’s much safer to keep your shoes on, less jarring to step on a sticky floor the first years didn’t do a good job cleaning. 

 Nile is reclining sideways on the couch with Marie between his legs, an action movie playing on the ridiculously big TV mounted on the wall. 

 “Is Erwin here?” You ask.

 Nile looks at you with a frown, one that’s completely warranted since you’ve literally never asked this before. 

 “Uh, yeah.” He points up at the ceiling. “In his room.”

 “Cool, thanks.”

 “You know which one it is?”

 Squeezing one eye shut, you’re honest when you tell him, “I think so.”

 The way Marie is quick to pipe up, “Second furthest to the left, right next to the bathroom,” is very amusing, especially when Nile clicks his tongue, clearly irritated.

 You make your way upstairs, following Marie’s directions, then take a deep breath before knocking on Erwin’s door, clueless as to what his lock code might be.

 It takes a few seconds, but the door opens, revealing a very tired-looking Erwin. His eyes widen a bit when he sees you, craning his neck back like he’s shocked that you’re standing outside of his room. That’s fair.

 “Uh, hey?”

 “Hey,” you greet shortly. “Can we talk for a sec?”

 Erwin blinks a few times then steps to the side, murmuring, “Yeah, of course.”

 His space is very different from Mike’s, more organized, framed pictures, bed completely made. Even his desk is clean, papers and books all stacked neatly on one side of his open laptop.

 “Studying?” You question.

 “Yeah. Would you like to sit down?” His voice is deep—not as deep as Mike’s—and always so proper, like he spent his childhood in country clubs (he did). 

 “Not really,” you answer without any hesitation.

 Unsurprisingly, Erwin leans against his desk instead of taking a seat himself, arms on either side, fingers hanging off the edge of the polished wood. It makes the muscles in his forearms become more prominent, veins popping against his skin. You have to give it to him, it’s a good move. 

 “So, what’s going on?”

 Running your tongue over your teeth, you recall what you planned to say—cut to the chase, stay firm, don’t get caught up in any of his tricks. 

 “You need to make up with Mike.”

 Erwin immediately snorts. “You don’t think I’ve tried?”

 “Half-assed apologies aren’t gonna work, dude. Actually sit down with him and hash things out.”

 “Yeeeah,” he drawls. “That didn’t work very well the first time.”

 “Maybe try again? You guys are, like, best friends.”

 “Levi is my best friend,” Erwin corrects, “And, I’m pretty sure that you’re Mike’s at this point.”

 “Don’t say that.”

 “It’s true,” he smirks.

 You wave him off, getting back to your original point. “At the very least, you guys should make up just because you have to live in the same house.”

 Erwin crosses his arms over his chest, blue eyes deviating upward as if he’s thinking hard. You doubt he is.

 “So, you’re not mad about what happened?” He asks after a few seconds. 

 You're blunt when you respond, “It was a shitty thing to do. Wouldn’t advise trying it with anyone else, but honestly, I’m not super surprised you’d pull something like that.”

 His facial expression turns to one of true offense, blond eyebrows furrowing enough for a little wrinkle to form between them. “Excuse me?”

 You take a step toward him, almost jab a finger in his chest but resist. “No no no. You don’t get to be pissed. You’re the one who fucked up here. I’m just telling you the truth.”

 Eyes narrowing, he pushes himself off the desk, standing to his full height to loom over you. It’s obviously an intimidation tactic, one he’s probably used before on many people, and it makes your blood boil. 

 In a futile attempt to make yourself look bigger, you straighten your spine and tilt your head to look up at him, lips pursed, eyes narrow. You remember what Mike said about you being too small to hurt anyone, but you can be scrappy. You’re not above slapping a face or kneeing someone in the balls. 

 Erwin peers down at you, jaw setting for a moment as he really studies you, then breaks into an infuriating smile. 

 “You’re cute, you know that?” He moves to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, but you swat his hand away. 

 “Jesus, what is wrong with you?”

 This close to him, seeing the way he acts behind closed doors, you wonder how Mike ever even got close with him. They’re so incredibly different. For the last semester and a half, you've only known Erwin as Mike's somewhat obnoxious, spoiled friend. Now, it seems he's showing his true colors.

 “Nothing’s wrong. In fact, I’m feeling pretty great right now.”

 Oh, you wanna hit him. You wanna hit him so badly, but honestly, Erwin kind of seems like the type to call the fucking police if you did. 

 “You don’t have any reason whatsoever to be feeling good.”

 He’s still grinning, eyes bright and wide as his pupils dilate. 

 Are you calling him a predator?

 He sure looks like one now, a lion with his sights set on an antelope, and as you stare at him, it dawns on you that this was a bad idea. 

 “You know what? Nevermind,” you shake your head. “You don’t deserve to be Mike’s friend anyway.”

 The laugh that pours from his lips is not at all humorous. His voice drops when he challenges, “You think so?”

 You need to leave, need to get out of here before this argument goes any further, but as you make a move toward the closed door, he slides in front of you. You shouldn’t have walked so far into his room.

 “Erwin,” you grit through your teeth. “Don’t do this.”

 “Just tell me—because I need to know—” he breathes, still staring down at you with that unnerving gaze. “What does Mike have that you like so much?”

 Both your hands flex by your sides. There are so many ways to answer this question, all of which will evoke a different response. 

 But being who you are, you speak before you think, spitting the first thing that comes to mind: "You want me to make you a list, Smith? 'Cause I sure fucking can."

 He makes a little circle with his hand, a 'go on' motion, and prompts, "Please, enlighten me."

 And, so you do. 

 "Warmth, sincerity, class, depth, understanding—"

 "So, it isn't just about the sex," he cuts you off, sounding more sure than curious. 

 You pinch the bridge of your nose, tired of these god damn frat boys and their obsession with getting their dicks wet.  

 "I mean, it started out that way—not that it's any of your business."

 "I can give you more, you know. Satisfy you better—"

 "Please shut the fuck up," you beg, getting madder by the second. The confidence, the entitlement, is making you sick. 

 "You don't believe me?" He steps toward you again, and you back up. 

 "No, I don't." Because how could he? Whether it's stimulating conversation or sex, there's no way Erwin could compare. 

 And now you realize just how much you appreciate Mike. 

 Erwin is closing the distance between you, moving slowly but purposefully. "This is how it started with you and him, right? You made him chase you?" 

 "Get out of my way," you demand, trying to shoulder past him—

 And, you should have seen it coming, should have been prepared for the way he grabs you, strong hand closing around your upper arm to pull you to his body. Thick fingers tangle in your hair to pull your head back, face tilted up, and all you can really do is shove at his chest with your free hand, growling in your throat as Erwin crushes his lips against yours. 

 Adrenaline courses through your body. You try to shake the hand on your head, try to jerk your arm from his grip, but he's too fucking strong, and it terrifies you. 

 Your voice is muffled as you plead, "Er—mmf—shtp—"

 You lift your hand higher and manage to hit him just beside his eye with the side of your palm, and it makes him break the "kiss" (you refuse to actually call it that).

 He breathes a heavy, "Just let me—"

 "No." You push his chest again, and he lets go of your arm. Quickly wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you tell him, "You're a shitty friend and a little fucked in the head, but you're not low enough to force yourself on someone," you pant, shaking with nerves and rage, "So don't."

 Hopefully, you're not giving him too much credit. Despite the overflowing fury and fear, you still think there's a little hope for him. Not with you, of course, just in general.

 He stares at you, expression changing from confusion to understanding to regret, and before you know it, he's scrubbing his hands down his face and muttering, "Fuck, I'm sorry. You're right I—I got carried away. I've been jealous of Mike and curious and—"

 "Why?" You blurt because you do not get it. "Both of you are, like, top athletes and in a fraternity, could get literally anyone you wanted, so what is it? Is it because I'm a nobody? Because you're bored of the sorority girls? Am I the one chick on your list you haven't screwed?" 

 "I… I don't know. You just—"

 "Is it because Mike has a toy he doesn't wanna share?"

 "Maybe." Erwin is frowning again, like he's stumped. He doesn't even know what he's feeling. It's honestly a little pathetic. 

 "Well, pick someone else. I know you have Maddie wrapped around your finger, so take advantage of that or whatever. Just leave me out of it."

 Ocean eyes are wide and troubled. He really does look remorseful, but that doesn't change what he just fucking did. God, you're disgusted. And a little hurt. 

 "Don't ever try that shit on me again—or anyone else—'cause I swear to God, I will break your fucking nose."

 "Yeah, okay," he nods.

 You go to walk past him again, voice loud and unforgiving when you tell him, "Move," and then you're out of his room, slamming the door, and getting as far from Pike house as possible.

 That did not go the way you had planned it to, but you should have been ready for the worst case scenario. That's on you, you guess. 

 Because Erwin Smith may not be a predator by definition, but he's certainly something—something you want to stay away from. 

*

"Why are you acting weird?" Mike's voice pulls you from your empty head, and you take your eyes off the loose string of your hoodie—his hoodie—and look up at him. 

 "What are you talking about? 'm not acting weird."

 He moves from his place at the edge of his bed and crawls to prop himself up next to you on his pillows. 

 "Uh, yeah you are. Have been for the past week or so."

 He isn't wrong. You've kept to yourself a little more since your "conversation" with Erwin. It had just been so uncomfortable and jarring, and you don't want to tell Mike because you know he'll just get pissed all over again which would be very annoying since he and Erwin finally made up. Just like you wanted them to. 

 Except now you know Erwin a little better, and you're not sure you want him having any more influence over Mike. 

 Rubbing your face, you shrug and easily lie, "I've just been tired."

 And, of course, Mike is too smart for that. 

 "Tired? That's the go-to answer for anyone who actually feels shitty."

 "I mean, yeah, but I'm actually tired in this case." It isn't a complete lie considering how fucking late he kept you up last night. 

 Mike hums. "Wanna take a nap before the party?" 

 The acid in your stomach churns. The party. The one you do not have any desire to go to. The one that will push you over the ledge of annoyance and into the realm of genuine discomfort. You don't want to go. You don't want to hang out. You don't want to see Erwin. 

 Sliding your legs under the covers, you lay down in Mike's bed, turning on your side so that your back is facing him. You've told him on numerous occasions that you don't have any interest in certain events, but he always talks you into going to them anyway. So, what'll be different this time? You're just gonna end up downstairs huddled in a corner refusing to drink as your eyes scan over everyone, ready to make a quick exit if you have to. 

 Mike settles in closer behind you, the heat of his chest pouring across your back, and you can feel the pillow dip when he rests his head on it. He waits for a while before letting his arm fall over your waist. It makes you squeeze your eyes shut, makes something crawl into your throat, trying to scratch its way out. 

 "I really don't wanna go tonight," you murmur.

 You expect some form of protest, a convincing argument in the form of a well thought out fucking speech while he kisses down the back of your neck, but instead, a low rumble of, "Okay," spills from his mouth, and you hate how it makes you feel—how grateful you are for him. 

 He's getting to know you. Has gotten to know you after spending so much time together. He can read your ups and downs now, can tell when you're joking or serious, take the hint when you want him with a single look (that one might be the most irritating), but it just goes to show how perceptive he is, how much of himself he's been hiding while in college. 

 The shallow jock you thought you knew is no comparison for this. 

 "Spring break's coming up," he speaks into your hair, inhaling deeply and whispering to himself, "Citrus kills me," like you can't hear him. 

 You pretend not to because it's soft and personal and would probably make him adorably self-conscious, and you can't deal with Mike blushing. 

  "Yeah, it is. Couple more weeks." 

 "What're your plans?" 

 You shrug against him, trying not to get too wrapped up in the way his body feels over yours, longer legs tangling between yours, his draped hand nearly covering your entire stomach, his stubble scratching your neck and cheek. 

 When did you get this close? When did you decide it was okay to be this intimate? This is what couples do. This is comfort. 

 And, you didn't think you needed it, but fuck—

 "Nothing, really. Go see Mom, I guess."

 "Come stay with me," he says quickly. "Just for a few days."

 You wriggle to turn on your back and frown up at him as a myriad of questions fill your mind. 

 Mike takes a deep breath, somehow reading every one of them. 

 "I know that sounds like a 'come meet my parents' thing, but I promise it's not. I just thought it'd be cool to hang out not at school and not at a party. Plus," he shows a broad grin. "You can meet Scout."

 "Mm, tempting," you laugh. "I do like dogs."

 "And, you'll love her! She's so sweet and so goofy and—"

 "I'll think about it," you stop him. 

 Mike bites his lip, looking hopeful, but tries to play it off with a, "Okay, cool," then leans down to kiss you as if you've already said yes. 

 Honestly, you have, just not out loud. He had you at 'hanging out'. 

 *

Studying sucks. Midterms suck. Avoiding parties, however, does not suck. Mike still goes to most of them, kind of has to considering they're usually thrown at the PKA house, but sometimes he just shows his face then comes to your dorm. You try to convince him to stay, hang out with his friends, but he usually just shrugs and digs through your stash of movies until he finds something he wants to watch. 

 It's fine with you, makes passing geochem a lot fucking easier, but it also means little sleep and a perpetual soreness between your legs. 

 You just… Can't get enough of each other. And, you think that's how it's always been since that first party. Afterward, you had denied him in the courtyard and then broke as soon as he got into your room to get his stupid shirt. Denied him at the bar then broke as soon as he leaned over you at the pool table. Denied him at the after-game party and broke after… Seeing his room? Watching movies? Acting like friends for the first time? Whatever it is, you're always falling into bed together, some kind of unstoppable force against your obviously very movable object. 

 It's something you think about too much now, always somewhere in the back of your head. At this point, you should probably just be with him, don't know who you're kidding with that lie about focusing on school (your grades have never been better actually), but you're scared. That's really what's been hard to admit to yourself, not the fact that you're attracted to him or the fact that your irritation has bloomed into genuine fondness and admiration. It's that's you're fucking terrified. You can feel it in your bones. 

 Don't get too attached because people leave. All the time. People let you down. People disappoint. 

 You don't want Mike to disappoint you, so you won't give him the chance to. 

 Of course, all of that is easier said than done as you look over at him in the Wrangler, one huge hand pn the wheel as his other arm hangs out of the open window, catching the wind that batters against it like he's trying to push back. You hate it when he does that, too many horror stories of car crashes that end in traumatic amputations, but it's one of Mike's strange simple pleasures, makes him grin as if it's his head hanging out instead. At his core, Mike Zacharias is just a huge fucking puppy dog. 

 A dubstep song from too long ago is blasting through his speakers, the vibrations hitting you square in the chest as you bounce your leg and bob your head. It's beautiful outside, winter's bite melting away into sunny springtime days. Some of them still bring a chill to the air, but it doesn't matter since you basically live in one of Mike's hoodies, dark green with the school's lacrosse logo stamped in the middle. It's faded and worn out and far too big on you, but it's quite possibly the most comfortable article of clothing you've acquired. 

 The drive to his parents' house is a good three hours, but between the playlist he's made (stellar, not that you'd admit it), the road games you play, and the road head you give him ("Oh, Jesus Christ, this isn't safe—this isn't safe—fuck—") you make it there in one piece and in good spirits, though you have take a few drinks of the soda you got at the convenience store to wash the residue of cum out of your mouth before meeting his god damn family. 

 He grabs both your bags from the backseat, slinging them over his shoulders, then starts up the path to a… surprisingly small home. It isn't a shack by any means, but after what you saw of Erwin's stupid ranch house and some of the pictures and stories Nile and Gelgar have subjected you to, you just kind of figured all of them had ridiculous amounts of money. 

 Then again, you know Mike got a full ride to college with a sports scholarship, and he rarely talks about his family and their lifestyle aside from Scout and little tales from his childhood—trips to the zoo, the one time he rode a dirt bike and broke his collarbone, he and his dad rescuing an injured bunny from the park. 

 You should've known back then that you'd get in too deep. 

 The small garden that lines the house is well-kempt and full of blooming flowers, and the porch is home to a wire table and matching chairs with an unsavory gnome sitting on top.  

 "What in the world…"

 Mike doesn't even glance to see what you're looking at, just opens the screen door and informs you, "That's Leonidas," so casually that it makes you snort and push him into his own house. 

 It opens up to a living room, long couch, recliner, coffee table and all. A TV sits right in the middle of a beige entertainment center, DVDs stacked on one side, blu-ray discs on the other. It smells clean—like the lemon wipes you use in your dorm—but even stronger than that is the smell of food. 

 "Must already be cooking," Mike muses, then calls out in a different fucking language that has you turning to him in confusion. 

 Before you can ask about it, a plump woman a couple inches taller than you comes rushing out of what you assume to be the kitchen. Her graying hair is tied into a loose bun, cheeks rosy from the heat, and she's still in her apron and a single oven mitt. 

 "Miche, γλυκό μου αγόρι!" 

 She stops in front of him and reaches up to grab his face, peppering it with little kisses and babbling words you do not understand in the slightest. 

 Mike is laughing, speaking to her in the same fashion, possibly answering questions or defending himself judging by the way he holds his hands up. You think you have an inkling about why when his mother turns to you, puts her hands on your shoulders to look at you, then pulls you into a tight hug. 

 You squeeze her right back, rocking to and fro as she does, then look up at Mike from the corner of your eyes in a panic. 

 What do you do, what is happening, what hasn't he told you? 

 It’s about this time that a large dog runs into the room and actually jumps into Mike’s arms. He grunts as he hoists Scout up, nuzzling into her beautiful coat as she tries to lick his face.

 "Mamá, let her get settled first," Mike laughs from where he’s getting attacked. His mother lets go of you, but it’s only for Mike to set the dog back down, and Scout takes the opportunity to sniff and paw at you. “Be nice,” he warns her, pulling you in front of him and pushing you toward the hallway.

 That need to snoop around is ever present as you enter his room, but the much more pressing issue is, "You could've prepared me, ya' know. Given me a little heads up that you're…"

 "Greek?" He snorts, wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt. "My last name is Zacharias. That's a pretty good indicator."

 "I—..." You pause, pout, then mumble, "I'm not a genealogy expert."

 "Obviously not."

 He dumps the bags on his bed, a queen size, thank god, because he had told you last week they didn't have a guest room (and had seemed pretty happy about it at the time). 

 "I'll get mom and dad to speak in English for the next few days." 

 "I mean," you shake your head. "It's their house. I don't wanna intrude on that. Let 'em do what they're most comfortable with."

 He steps over to you, makes his classic move of staring down at you and smoothing his hand over your hair to make you tilt your head up. "That's sweet, but I know they're dying to talk with you, so actually being able to understand what they’re saying is kinda necessary."

 Humming, you stand on your tip-toes just as he begins to stoop lower. Before you can meet in a kiss, though, you smirk, "And, just why do they wanna get to know me, Miche? Is that a secret Greek name too?”

 He licks his lips, voice husky when he replies, "I've mentioned you a few times--”

 “Uh huh,” you smirk, too close for him to actually see.

 “And no, I think it’s Hebrew or something.” 

 You snicker before your mouths meet, breaths grow heavy, and the only time you break apart is so that you can look him in his light eyes and tell him, "By the way, the whole speaking a different language thing you can do?" He grunts, encouraging you to continue. "Very hot."

 You feel him smile against you, a self-satisfied, "Yeah?" making you burn against him. 

 "Yeah."

 It's hard to leave the room, but you both know you have to, hoping neither of you look too kiss-swollen when you walk back into the living room, and when Mike's mom is no longer there, he brings you to the kitchen instead. 

 "Smells good," he tells her, leaning over the stove and taking a whiff of the prepared dish that’s been set on top--stuffed tomatoes and peppers that make your mouth water.

 She says something, and Mike lets her finish before asking, "Can we speak in English while she's here? It's kinda hard to add to a conversation when you, like, don't know what's being said."

 "Oh, I'm so sorry!" She immediately gushes, turning to you with a worried look. Her accent is thick and charming, but she doesn't ever stutter, clearly fluent, just more comfortable in her apparently native language. "I just get so caught up when my Miche comes home, I—"

 And, she's hugging you again. 

 "I'm Maia! Christopher—Miche's father—should be home soon."

 You rub Maia's back until she lets go and turns back to the stove, but even as she does, she's asking you, "How is school? What are you studying? Miche's told me very few things."

 He shouldn't have told you anything at all, you want to say. 

 "Um, it's good. I'm an earth sciences major, geology specifically, so Mike—uh—Miche's been helping me study a lot."

 He leans down to speak so only you can hear, "Not necessary to call me that. She's gonna know who you're talking about when you say Mike."

 Not that you'll tell him, but you kind of like the way 'Miche' feels, the way it rolls from your lips to the back of your mouth, and for just one second, you think about how you'd like to moan it in his ear. 

 "So, uh," you shake your head in an attempt to get it back on straight. "Yeah, it's going good, I think."

 "It is nice that you study together," Maia hums, slicing into the dish to portion it out. "Miche probably enjoys the break from his fraternity life." 

 Mike makes an unsure noise, but you grin and lean on the counter, eyes shining as you look at the middle-aged woman, "You know, speaking of that, I need to know what he was like before the whole frat thing 'cause—"

 "Uhh, we don't need to talk about that," Mike quickly cuts you off. 

 Maia, however, catches your eye and winks, a silent promise that she'll fill you in later. 

 Mike sees it, whines a dramatic, "Mamá, please."

 You laugh, glancing over at him with a devious smile that makes him roll his eyes and grumble something. 

 The creak of a door opening followed by the sound of a screen slamming back against the frame signals the arrival of Mike's father. It takes him a couple minutes to join everyone in the kitchen, probably taking the time to get more comfortable after what you assume to be a long day. 

 When he does walk in, once styled hair fallen out of place, top two buttons of his shirt undone, you see exactly where Mike gets most of his looks. He may have gotten his fucking mane from his mother, but he definitely got his height and his eyes from his father. 

 "Oh!" He stops short when he sees you, looks at his wife, then at you, then at Mike. "Is this the girl?" 

 "Dad!" 

 Both of his parents snicker as he turns to you, pleading more than telling, "Just ignore them, they don't know what they're talking about."

 You don't pay him any mind, join in on the fun when you lift an eyebrow and tease, "Am I, Mike? Am I the girl?"

 "Oh my god, this is gonna be a nightmare," he groans, the tips of his ears growing red. Still, he tries to put on a stern face as he points at his parents, speaks in beautiful, rolling words that are beyond you, then turns his flashing gaze to you and commands, "And you, don't encourage them."

 "Mm, no promises." You stick the tip of your tongue between your teeth and wink at his mom the way she had at you earlier. 

 All of you sit at an actual table for dinner, something you haven't done in at least a decade, as you talk and laugh between bites of food. Scout is laying underneath, waiting for someone to drop a piece of food, and every once in a while, you feel her wet nose nudge against your calf.

 Maia and Chris are very kind and very funny, and it isn't just because they pick on their son all the time. Chris talks about his day in the office, complaining about coworkers the same way Mike complains about his brothers—"I just don't understand why you would eat sardines in the break room! Someone explain it to me!" Maia tells everyone about the three hour phone call with her mother—"My god that woman can talk. Every time we said goodbye, she would just start on something new!"

 "Explains where you get it from," Chris says with a chuckle. 

 Maia scoffs then stabs a piece of his food with her fork, eating it with purpose as her husband watches. 

 You lean over to Mike and murmur, "They're cute. I like 'em."

 He grunts. "That makes one of us."

 Sucking your teeth, you mimic his mother's actions and dig your fork into the meat of his pepper, stealing a bite and scraping your teeth over the utensil in a way you know drives him crazy. 

 You immediately regret it when you realize how big the piece is, filling your mouth so that it's hard to chew, and you grab a napkin to cover yourself while Mike snorts and smugly says, "Yeah, bet you feel real smart right now. How does thievery taste?" 

 Shoving his arm, you manage to swallow down enough of the food to talk and tell him, "Tastes delicious."

 When you look back across the table, you find Maia and Chris staring at you and Mike with shining eyes and matching grins. 

*

You get along well with Mike's parents. A little too well in his opinion. There are a couple mornings you wake up earlier than he does and share coffee with his mother. He'll walk in to hear her sharing terrible stories about how, "He was such a sensitive little boy," and, "I miss the days he and his friends would spend afternoons here playing their little games."

 She even breaks out the photo albums one evening after dinner, leaving Mike mortified as you laugh and 'aww' at the pictures of past birthdays, Boy Scout outings, and the horrors of middle and high school. 

 "Look how cute you are with braces!"

 "Please stop."

 "All dressed up for Easter, oh my god, are those bunny ears?" 

 "Mom made me."

 "You were so skinny. What happened?" 

 "Are you calling me fat?" 

 "No, I'm calling you buff. Dummy."

 Less embarrassing are the long walks the two of you take with Scout (who also loves you, of course). She stays close to your hip as you wander around the park, only leaving your side when you throw her favorite ball. At the house, she noses at you until you shift to let her lay either at your feet or on the couch with her big head in your lap. 

 It's the cutest fucking thing Mike has ever seen, and he hates it because he can't do anything about it. He can't tell you how much he likes seeing you walk around in his house. He can't tell you how much joy it brings him to hear your laugh ring out alongside his parents'. He can't tell you how much he loves seeing you slide into his old bed in nothing but one of his shirts, making yourself comfortable against his chest and weaving your legs between his. 

 He can't tell you, but he can do his best to show you. 

 Late at night when his parents are asleep, when the buzzing TV is the only thing lighting the room, Mike moves inside of you with deep, slow thrusts. He hikes your legs up to lock around his waist or pulls you up against himself if he's taking you from behind. No matter the position, it leaves you clawing at him, breathing heavily, jaw dropping open in a silent scream. 

 You feel so good, so tight around him even after he gets you ready for his cock. Your silken walls squeeze and milk him, pulling every drop of cum from him to soak into you. Fuck, he's so glad you're letting him do that now, fill you up until you can't take any more, until white is dribbling from your messy pussy. The way you look at him all fucked out is intoxicating, eyes droopy, smile lazy, body twitching with aftershocks as he sucks on your neck and kisses down your shoulders. 

 You have to know. You have to. Mike knows his feelings are written all over his face when he looks at you, may as well be carved into his skin. The words are on the tip of his tongue every night, but he muffles them with kisses, with burying his face between your legs, with sinking his teeth into your soft flesh. 

 He can't say it because saying it makes it real. Saying it will make it hurt more. 

 So Mike keeps his mouth shut, watches you every day as you converse with his parents and play with Scout. You poke around his bedroom in your usual nosy fashion, finding the rest of his Magic cards, old D&D books and privacy screens. The dusty record player he'd inherited from his grandfather interests you above all else, vinyls stacked around it, some old, some new, and as you flip through them now, cross-legged on the floor and swimming in his hoodie, you tell him the little things you talked about with his mom earlier in the day. 

 "She showed me your baby teeth," you say with a snort. "Why do parents keep those? My mom did too."

 "Black Magic, obviously," Mike says seriously, but when you glance up at him, he chuckles. "I don't know, babe. It's fuckin' weird, though."

 You grin and look back down at The Alan Parsons Project vinyl in your lap. You're quiet for a moment, but when you do speak up, it's in a quiet voice. "I'm pretty sure they think I'm your girlfriend."

 Mike cringes on the bed, shutting his eyes and sighing. "Yeah, that's probably 'cause I told them you were." 

 "What?" You turn your whole body to face him, eyes wide and incredulous. 

 Sitting up, Mike holds his hands out and questions, "What was I supposed to tell them? Hey, mom and dad, I'm bringing home this girl I fuck at school all the time."

 "We don't just fuck," you scoff. "You could've said friend or… Study buddy."

 "Study buddies with benefits," he lets out a humorless laugh. "How many of those study sessions end with your mouth around my cock?" 

 "That's beside the point." You stand up and walk over to the bed, hands on your hips as you glare at him in an unconvincing manner. You're not actually upset, Mike realizes. A little annoyed maybe but more surprised than anything. "The point is they expect us to do couple-y things."

 "We do do couple-y things." Mike reminds you, rolling his eyes when you snicker and murmur 'ha, do do'. "Oh my god, you're a dork."

 "So are you. And, a dumb one. What happens when they find out we're not actually together? Are we gonna have to stage a break up somewhere down the line?" 

 "Stop worrying about it," Mike tries, reaching out for one of your arms to pull you on top of him. You must be very used to straddling him at this point. It seems like you're in his lap more often than you're not these days, even if the two of you are just talking. "Just chill and fake it for a little while longer."

 You pout, glancing to the wall for a second before you mutter, "Might be tough. I've never had to fake anything for you before."

 Mike groans and traces his fingers up your sides, stopping at your shoulders and using them to guide you closer to him. With your face only millimeters from his, he barely even has to whisper when he presses, "Fake it just this once."

 You nod, lips brushing his, and from there you both devolve into sloppy kisses and desperate hands. As always.

[ next ]

[uswntxfootball]

golden (ona batlle x nedwnt!reader)

your crush on the spanish defender was blatantly obvious, so what happens when jackie introduces you to her?

word count: 1934 ish

rated: S for soft bros, I for idiocy, and C for chaotic.

——

you don’t know when your crush on her started.

probably from one of jackie’s story posts.

you’re not entirely sure.

but here you are, double tapping a like on the spanish defender’s new post.

“i’ve never seen someone like something so fast.”

you whip around to see jackie with a teasing smile.

“shut up,” you blush.

“you should let me introduce you to her i-“

“no i’m okay thanks.”

jackie quirks an eyebrow before huffing:

“i don’t understand why you don’t let me introduce you to her. for all you know you could’ve had a girlfriend by now.”

you let out a snort at that.

“yeah right.”

“alright whatever put down your phone and stop staring at her post we’ve got to get to training anyways.”

you shoot a glare at the midfielder, who rolls her eyes upon seeing your response.

and with that, jackie starts walking out of the room.

she makes it halfway down the hall before turning again, only to see you still in the room, staring down at your phone.

“y/n!”

“all right all right i’m coming!”

~~

“y/n.”

you stiffen on the ground.

the room remains silent.

“you know i can see you right?”

you still don’t speak, opting to shuffle slowly and quietly out of the room instead.

you see jackie mute herself and turn in your general direction.

“come say hi or something instead of sitting there in the dark like a weirdo.”

jackie lets out a sigh in defeat and turns back to her computer at your silence.

“guess i’ll talk to her on my own then.”

the midfielder was on a manchester united zoom call, and you, you totally weren’t sneaking in to catch a glimpse of ona… no definitely not.

you continued backing out slowly, but suddenly you hear a heavy spanish accent and your head snaps up…

promptly hitting the table above you.

“fuck!”

you slap your hand over your mouth half a second after your outburst.

jackie turns to you and has to stifle her laughter upon seeing you.

“you’re hopeless, you know that right?”

you let out a pained grunt from under the table, and jackie just shakes her head and laughs at you.

you hear jackie tell her call she’ll be right back and the chair is pulled out from in front of you.

when she ducks down to look at you, you’re rubbing your head and pouting, something that the midfielder finds very amusing.

“come say hi. i’ll introduce you.”

you shake your head vehemently, determined to not do what jackie suggested.

“y/n.”

“yeah?”

“you’re the most stubborn person i’ve ever met.”

“is that a compliment?”

“not really no.”

“well i’m pretending it is one.”

“well it’s really not.”

“shh go back to your meeting and let me pretend in peace.”

~~

“JACKIE!”

jackie jumps and almost drops her toothbrush in fear.

the panicked look on your face disappears temporarily as you laugh at her response, your action causing her to glare at you through the mirror.

“what do you want?”

the panicked look quickly returns.

“why didn’t you tell me about our next game?”

jackie furrows her eyebrows:

“what do you mean? why would i tell you? its not like you’re not at all our team meetings.”

“you know i don’t pay attention to what sarina’s saying ninety percent of the time!”

jackie shuts off the sink and spins around, flinging water in your face before saying:

“and how is that my problem?”

you grab her arm and jackie almost laughs at the expression on your face.

she finally asks:

“what’s wrong with this upcoming game?”

you groan and say:

“it’s against spain that’s what!”

jackie now does laugh, finding your panic funny and reveling in your frankly very sad pining.

“well now you’ll be able to see her in person rather than through a screen for once.”

“THAT”S THE PROBLEM.”

you groan again, and jackie only laughs, pulling you into a hug before saying:

“now can i introduce you to her?”

you pout.

“no”

“you’re so annoying. why won’t you just let me introduce you to her?”

what you say next just makes jackie laugh out loud.

“cuz i’ll be a gay mess.”

she snorts.

“are you always this pathetic?”

you roll your eyes and shoot a glare at her.

“are you always this annoying?”

jackie scowls.

“watch your mouth. or i’ll talk to ona next game.”

well that sure shut you up.

~~

your heart was beating frantically, to the point where you were surprised your teammates couldn’t hear it.

you were on the bus, on the way to your international friendly between the netherlands and spain.

and you.

you were losing your mind.

“y/n!”

you look up when jill calls your name.

“you okay buddy? you look a little sick.”

jill’s concerned tone earned a snicker from jackie beside you, who you promptly kicked in the shin before turning back and smiling at jill, saying:

“yeah just nerves i guess.”

jill’s brows furrowed a little.

“it’s just a friendly dude, you’ll be fine. you’ll nail it.”

jackie adds quietly so only you can hear:

“that’s not the only thing she’ll be nail-ow!”

you elbow her in the ribs before giving jill an apologetic smile, your face sporting a bright red blush.

“thanks jill, appreciate it.”

jill nods slowly and apprehensively before turning back towards viv, the two forwards engaged in conversation once again.

you turn to jackie, who’s doubled over, pouting at you.

you roll your eyes.

“oh stop it you big baby.”

jackie scowls, then grins mischievously.

“i guess i’ll just talk to ona after the match today then…”

your eyes widened in panic.

“no no no i take it back i take it ba-“

“nope i’ve made up my mind.”

“please jackie let me- no- don’t i-“

jackie just sticks her tongue out at you and turns towards the window.

~~

you tried so hard.

so so so hard not to make a fool of yourself on the pitch.

you ended up resorting to not even glancing in the full back’s direction in hopes that that would help.

it didn’t really.

it also didn’t help that the pitch was muddy and therefore slippery.

one can put two and two together.

there was one super embarrassing moment in the first half in which you had the ball and began making your way through the spanish midfield when you saw the number 2 making her way towards you.

you were so nervous in being close to her that she barely touched you and somehow you ended up on the ground.

the ball was put out of play a few seconds after, and the spanish defender stuck her hand out at you to help you up, whispering an “i’m sorry i didn’t mean to push you” which left a bright blush on your cheeks as you managed to get out:

“don’t worry i just slipped.”

but by the end of the game you were getting into your groove, and finally managed to function like a normal and coordinate person around her.

the game ended with a 3-1 win for the netherlands, 2 goals courtesy of viv and 1 from daan.

but all in all, you weren’t all too focused on the game.

you ran to jackie when the whistle blew.

the two of you talked a little bit about the game and slowly the people on the field fell into groups, club teammates saying hi to each other, and old friends finding a topic to talk about again.

you were walking backwards, as you were talking with jackie about the game, something that you did after every game.

you always trusted jackie to tell you if you were going to run into someone.

you should have remembered about that bus conversation.

you saw jackie look past you for a second and before you could turn to see what was ahead you body collided into someone else’s.

one look at jackie’s face and you knew who it was.

luckily for you, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, ona’s reactions were quick and promptly held onto your waist to stabilize you before you fell to the ground.

you face was flushed scarlet at the feeling.

jackie approached the two of you.

“ah perfect, y/n, ona, ona, y/n, the two of you talk, i’ve gotta go do something, bye!”

one of these days you were going to kill jackie.

the heavy spanish accent broke you out of your thoughts.

“hey i’m ona.”

you blushed at the proximity.

if you had thought that the spanish defender was pretty in photos, well jeez.

here up close you could see every freckle on her face, her eyelashes, and in all honesty it was too much for you.

you felt like you were going to pass out.

she still hadn’t let go of your waist and the two of you were inches apart from each other.

she seemed to realize this too and quickly let go.

“um i’m y/n..” you mumble, cursing yourself for your ineptitude to talk to people.

well maybe just really really really fucking pretty people.

one of ona’s brows quirked up as if she was thinking about something, and then she said:

“your voice sounds familiar.. you sound like- are you the one who cursed on that one united call?”

you looked down at the grass and blushed harder.

“yeah that would be me.”

ona let out a laugh that made your heart stop in your chest.

“well since jackie’s so keen for us to talk, why don’t we get a coffee sometime and do just that?”

your heart felt like it had disappeared at this point.

“you want to get coffee with me?!”

you cringed internally at how loud and enthusiastic your reply was.

the corners of ona’s mouth tugged up a little and she said:

“well of course, i don’t waste my time when i see something beautiful.”

so your heart was gone. long long long gone.

“y-i-um” you stuttered all over the place, unable to form a coherent sentence.

ona broke out into a full grin (which of course, just made you even weaker at the knees), and said:

“jackie was right, you are cute.”

you really were going to kill jackie one day.

you didn’t realize how quiet you had been until ona speaks up again.

“so about getting coffee…”

she looks up at you expectantly, and you open your mouth before closing it quickly, instead nodding ferociously, something that made ona laugh.

the two of you turn when ona’s name is called from across the field, to see mapi standing with an amused smirk on her face, yelling something in spanish you didn’t understand.

ona turns to you again.

“well i’ve got to go. i’ll text you about coffee?”

you nod and give her a timid wave.

“and it’s a date!”

you blush a little and nod again, not trusting your mouth to speak normally.

she’s halfway across the field when you shout after her:

“wait you don’t have my number!”

ona turns and gives you a one word response:

“jackie!”

you roll your eyes and give her another wave before you turn towards your locker room, where you see jackie standing and watching you.

she mouths an “you’re welcome” in your direction.

you just shake your head.

[thisisawonderfulusername]

let's save the world

season two, episode eight

five hargreeves x reader

summary: you have one final idea to get back to twenty-nineteen: finding yourselves

warnings: cursing

word count: 2.6k

a/n: this took for fucking ever but i'm not even gonna apologize at this point because i'm ninety percent sure it will happen again. sorry in advanced. just be glad i did it, alright? anyways, please enjoy episode eight, i loved writing it, i don't know why i put it off for so long

“we were that close.” you whisper to yourself as you go up the stairs, “so close.”

the door to one of the rooms slams behind you as you quickly look through the cabinets, before finding a bottle of whiskey. the only thing you need right now.

you twist the cap off, tossing it to the side as you sit on the couch with a heavy sigh.

you can hear luther speaking as he presumably follows five up the steps, but you don’t focus too much on what he’s saying. something about making a new plan, which almost makes you laugh. no other plan would ever work, if this one didn’t. his family would never let that happen.

the door opens once again as five enters, slamming it shut and locking it before luther can come in behind him. “five!” the big man shouts outside of the door, knocking on it, “come to what?” a sigh follows shortly after, and you hear his steps recede, apparently giving up.

you look to five, holding the bottle out, “want some?”

when he takes it, you expect him to take a drink, not find the cap and twist it back on, “what are you doing?” he questions.

“what are you doing?” you shoot the question back, reaching for the bottle, “if you didn’t want any, you didn’t have to take it.”

he looks at you incredulously, holding it out of your reach, “we still have an apocalypse to stop! you can’t just be sitting in here drinking!”

at that, you let out a loud laugh, yet nothing about this is funny. “you’re kidding, right?” you raise an eyebrow, sinking into the cushions, “i’m done with that.”

setting the booze on the coffee table, his eyebrows furrow at you, “what do you mean? you can’t be done with it. we don’t have much time!”

“don’t you get it, five?” you lean forward as you look up at him, “we can’t stop this. no matter how hard we try, we’ll never be able to. there’s always something that gets in the way when we get seconds away from actually doing it. let’s face it, the world is against us, and this apocalypse is happening.” you sound defeated, and you hate hearing it. you never wanted to give up, to let the world get the best of you. it tried to before, and you persevered. but none of that matters anymore, because soon enough, you'll be nuked and your existence won't have mattered.

he’s shaking his head in disbelief, “no. no, it isn’t. you’re supposed to be the one helping me, y/n! we can still do it.”

“and what’s your plan this time? do you even have one?” you can feel the tears brimming your eyes, and you hate feeling this weak in front of him, but there was no stopping it now.

“i do.” he states, “but i need you to help me.”

sitting on the couch next to you, turned in your direction, he gently guides your eyes to his, his hand resting on your cheek. "i can't do this without you. i can't save the world if i don't have you to help me."

a tear escapes and you quickly wipe it away, sniffling as you gather yourself before you break down completely. "fine." you breathe.

-

you were currently in the kitchen, chugging down as much water as you could from a pitcher before passing it along to five. This plan was so, so stupid. he began to drink from it as well, and luther, who had been napping on the couch, entered.

“five, what…” he glances between the two of you, you putting baby powder anywhere on your body you deemed necessary, and to him, taking in a breath as he flipped the top closed on the pitcher. “are you guys okay?” he questions in confusion.

“we need to be hydrated.” he breathes out, and you hand him the baby powder once you were finished.

if it was possible, luther’s confusion grew, “what’s with the baby powder?”

“it’ll help with the itching.” you state, giving no further explanation.

“what itching? there’s itching? what the hell is going on here?” as five puts some of the powder in his pants, realization dawns on his face, “you do have a plan.”

grabbing his blazer, five sighs, “well, it’s a desperation move, but… since our brain-dead siblings are incapable of meeting a simple deadline, well- we have no choice.”

“no choice about what?” you follow him into the living room, flipping the watch you stole from the formerly sleeping man- since he no longer needed it- open.

“we have to find ourselves.”

luther is so stunned, trying to process it, that he doesn’t speak. “we just arrived in dallas fifteen minutes ago.” you state, closing the watch and sticking it back in your pocket.

“should i be worried about you guys?” luther finally asks, his eyebrows furrowing at the two of you.

“luther, if you recall,” five speaks as he begins to stretch, “we were sent to nineteen sixty-three on a job by the commission to make sure the president was assassinated.”

“oh!” luther starts to understand, “so, wait, your old self is out there.”

“precisely.”

“what, just walking around dallas?”

“walking around dallas with a briefcase that can get us home.” you tell him with a smile. now, if this plan didn’t work, you were truly screwed. of course, the older looking versions of yourselves won’t give up the briefcase so easily, but you know for a fact you can do it. and with that briefcase, there wouldn’t be a time limit. you could gather all of the siblings together and finally be rid of the apocalypse. maybe, just maybe, it will be the last that you have to deal with.

“oh, my god.” luther’s hands come together in front of him, “you are geniuses.”

“however, there are two significant problems with this plan.” five tells him, you nodding along, “problem number one: we are two trained assassins, arguably the most dangerous assassins in the space-time continuum. If we know ourselves, we’re not going to react kindly to bumping into us.”

you knew it sounded like you were giving yourselves a pat on the back, but he wouldn’t be saying it if it wasn’t true. and it definitely was.

“problem number two,” he paces, “this is the real fly in the ointment here: you’re not supposed to exist in close proximity to yourself in the same timeline. the side effects can be disastrous.”

luther seems as if he’s trying to process all of this, “side effects? what sort of side effects?”

“well, according to commission handbook chapter twenty-seven, subsection three-b, the seven stages in paradox psychosis are…”

“stage one: denial.” you begin counting off on your fingers,

“two: itching.” five looks to his brother,

“three: extreme thirst and urination,”

“four: excessive gas,”

“five: acute paranoia,”

“six: uncontrolled perspiration,”

“and seven:” you pause for a moment, dropping your hands, “homicidal rage.”

“homicidal rage?” luther questions, to which both of you confirm, “jeez, i don’t know. this maybe isn’t such a good idea.”

five begins to pace again, throwing his arms to the side, “it’s a hail mary. but what choice do we got, luther?”

leaning against the door frame, the large man shrugs, “i don’t know, you already seem a bit squirrely if i’m being honest.”

“listen luther, we’re gonna need you to help us get through this one, alright?” you stand in front of him, “we need… a spotter.”

“a spotter?”

“yeah,” you breathe out.

his eyebrows furrow, “what is that, like a wingman?”

“in case the paradox psychosis gets too severe,” five strides over, “we need you to help us stay on task, alright? so whatever happens, whatever we say, we need to get that briefcase. okay?”

“okay,” luther breathes.

“okay.” your shoulders relax.

both you and five turn and make your way to the steps, and you barely realize that luther is still at the doorway, staring in front of him. “luther, come on!”

“right.”

-

there’s an irish jig playing as you enter the bar, and chatter fills the air between the people inside, sitting at tables and at the stools along the bar countertop. you look around, skimming over all of the people, until you see them. or- you and five. it’s weird, seeing the older looking woman who sat next to the older looking five. you barely recognized them, since you had been looking at your thirteen year old selves for a while now.

“there we are.” five has spotted them as well. sitting at the bar, the briefcase on the raised wood that acted as a footrest between the two older versions of you.

“why don’t we just grab the briefcase and run?” luther asks.

“luther, we would never let that happen.” you tell him, looking up at him for a second, “we’re trained to guard those briefcases with our lives.”

“right.”

“plus, it’s the inherent paradox where this gets tricky.” five adds in. “we’re endangering our existence just being in the same room with ourselves.”

“huh? what do you mean?”

you roll your eyes, “luther, keep up. if our old selves don’t travel back to twenty-nineteen like we’re supposed to, the whole thing unravels itself. we cease to exist. got it?”

“i… got it.” he doesn’t seem to, but you decide not to try to explain further and confuse him even more.

“so our best chance is to talk with them, to reason with them.” five rolls his shoulders back, “they’ll understand. trust me. i know us better than… better than i know us.” the sentence is confusing, but the point gets across.

as five reaches up to scratch his neck, luther is quick to point it out, “that’s stage two of paradox psychosis.” he whispers urgently.

“no, i didn’t.” five states, “i didn’t itch my neck.”

“denial is stage one.” the large man points out.

“let’s stay on task, shall we?” you wave towards the two of you sitting at the bar, and as you’re about to step forward, luther reaches his hand out to stop you.

“wait!” you look at him in a mix of confusion and annoyance, “maybe i should go first.”

“why?” five asks him, also confused.

“well, you’ll freak them out.” he motions at the two of you, “bumping into your own tiny doppelganger? they’ll lose their shit.” he looks to the older versions of you, “just, let me break the ice.”

five glances around, sighing, “okay.”

“okay.” luther breathes out slowly, and you watch as he approaches the two older yous. you’re not sure if you can trust him one hundred percent.

as he begins to speak, the two of you very quickly get confused and on guard. meanwhile, you unconsciously grab hold of five’s hand to approach. “nope! don’t freak out. no freak-outs. alright.”

as the large man slowly steps to the side, you see yourself- your old self- tense up at the sight of younger looking you. “hey there, stranger.” your five speaks up, and the two older yous are almost shaking in their shoes from the shock and confusion.

you swear you see fear in your own eyes. it’s a look you remember seeing when you first landed back in twenty-nineteen and looked in the mirror at the you that had gotten stuck in the apocalypse. the you that was stuck alone for years until the commission brought you back to five. it was jarring to you as well, at first.

you remember staring into your own eyes. the little girl who had held five’s hand as he discovered the full extent of his powers, until it disappeared from her grasp and she was left in a smoldering, crumbling world.

-

the five of you had gotten a table, and you sat across from your older self, gaze unwavering. out of the corner of your eye, you could see the two fives glaring at each other.

“well, isn’t this nice?” luther breaks the silent tension, “the five of us, together like this.”

“no.” all four of you speak in unison, and luther is clearly uncomfortable, almost squirming in his seat.

the old five doesn’t look away from himself as he begins to speak, “somebody explain to me how it is i’m having a pint of guinness with my younger self.”

“older, actually.” the five sitting next to you states, “i’m you, just fourteen days older.”

“i have pubic hair smarter than you.” the other you says coldly, her fingers laced together on the table in front of her, “how’s that possible?”

“i can explain,” the younger seeming boy responds, “you see, one hour from now, on the grassy knoll, before the president is killed, you break your contract with the commission.” he leans forward slightly, “i already know you’re thinking about it. all those years in the apocalypse, we never stopped worrying about our family. well today, you’re going to do something about it.” he sits up straighter.

“today, you are going to attempt to time travel back to twenty-nineteen. however, you are going to screw up the jump, and end up in this twip of a body.” he points to himself with his two thumbs. “trapped forever, small, pubescent.”

“okay.” the older one finally breaks his stare, shaking in his seat, “even if i was to believe you, what am i supposed to do, not jump?”

“no, no.” you break away from the eyes of yourself, “we need you to jump. if you don’t jump, we cease to exist.” you motion between yourself and your five, “what we need is for you to jump correctly.”

“i’m listening.”

“the first time through, i got the calculation wrong. that’s how we ended up in these bodies.” five begins to explain, “but now, i know the correct calculation.”

the other is almost on the edge of his seat in anticipation, “what is it?”

“he’ll tell you.” you tell him, causing his gaze to turn to you instead, “in exchange for the briefcase you’re holding under the table.”

“yeah, yeah.” luther speaks up from where he’s sitting, “so now, you go back to twenty-nineteen, as planned, but this time with the right math, so you remain a full grown man. in exchange for that briefcase that you no longer need.” he points to the space between the older yous where it rests, a smile on his face.

“timeline restored, paradox resolved.” five speaks, “everyone goes on, existing happily ever after.”

the older you finally breaks her silence, “that’s quite a bit to take in.”

everyone’s heads turn towards her, “what do you think?” five asks, glancing between the two of them.

“i think,” older five says, “i need to piss.” he promptly states, standing from his seat and grabbing the briefcase, heading in the direction of the bathrooms. older you quickly looks between all of you, before also standing up and heading in that direction as well. you have a feeling that they’ll be discussing the situation at hand.

once they disappear down the hall where the bathrooms are, luther breaks the short silence that fell between the three of you. “well, besides the flop sweat, i think that went pretty well, right?” you had barely noticed, but there was, in fact, beads of sweat on your face, and you grabbed one of the napkins to wipe it away while luther patted one to five’s face.

“no, there’s something…” five fidgets in his seat, “something doesn’t feel right about this.”

luther is confused, which you’ve noticed happens a lot. “what… what do you mean?”

agreeing with five’s sentiment, you shake your head, “i don’t trust them.”

“but… they’re you.” he states in confusion.

“exactly.” the two of you speak in unison.

“well… i’m going to go to the bathroom too… maybe talk to him?” it’s more of a question as he stands up before quickly scurrying away.

“they’re planning something.” you state, leaning back in your seat as you scratch the back of your neck.

nodding, five takes a drink from his glass, “we have to be ready for whatever it is. we’re dangerous.”

“very.”

-

taglists

main: @horrorklaus @megasimpleplan4ever

tua: @rasberrymay @noodlextrash @atomicpillar @malfovs @andreasworlsboring101​ @lunylovelovegood

five taglist: @anapocalypseinmymind @five-hargreeves-official @insatiable-ivy @coffee-e-addict @xplrreylo @fandomfreakff @colie-babi @flowertoty @avovada @badwolf00593

let’s save the world: @aspiringwriter1 @thetrashypanda423 @lilacs-lavender @wow-lookit-all-the-fandoms @ohmyitsfaith @xplrreylo @fandomfreakff @onedollarduck @sleepygal124 @faith-quake @stripedchickens @youcandalekmyballs @pettyjayy @libidinexx @bts-chub @theoriginalkat @flowertoty @whenyouwantdeath @ot7purple @purblerain @megasimpleplan4ever @whenyouregrungeaff @dumdumsun @malfovs @hxney-lemcn @frnks-stuff @imwaytootires @avovada @badwolf00593 @dumdumsun @zero2461

[captain-mcdavid]

alternate ending - pt.1

it’s been two years... josh and y/n have moved on and started new lives. but what happens when they find themselves in the same city working side by side? can they move past their previous games and reconnect? or will old habits die hard?

word count: 4.9k

smut: yes | no

warnings: swearing, alcohol

“Oh my god, please Thomas.” You groan, “Please, can you just be serious for one second. One second!” 

He raises his hands in defeat, “Okay, fine.” 

“Thank you,” You sigh, “Now go.” 

“Wait, what am I supposed to say again?” He asks, and you and the videographer share a look before you roll your eyes. 

“Bienvenue à nouveau, fans des habs.” You remind him. “On three, okay?” He nods, and you count down, smiling when it finally goes off without a hitch. “Alright now one more time, in English and then we can all go home.” 

He nods, and then shoots you a wink. You shake your head at him, counting up to three for the last time.

“Welcome back, habs fans!” Thomas says, and Ted, your videographer smiles.

“Done.” He turns off the camera, and you give him a pat on the back.

“We really appreciate you coming in Thomas,” You say, “Thanks again.”

“Anything for you, Y/N.” He smirks, and then he heads out.

“Alright, Ted. I’ll see you soon,” You say, gathering your things. “Have a good night.”

With that you wave and head out of the arena. Setting your things in the front seat of your Range Rover, you grin, taking a minute to admire your new car. This was something that would have taken you five years to save up for with the pay at your old job.

It’s kind of ironic, where you were two years ago to where you are now... You didn’t like your job back in Ohio but you couldn’t say you ever saw yourself coming back to Canada, let alone working for an NHL team. 

You thought you had it all figured out back in Columbus. But after your life took a nose dive you realized you really didn’t. A fresh start was what you needed, and luckily with your vast experience in media, you were qualified for a position that Seth recommended to you. A position as head of media operations for the Montreal Canadiens. 

You were weary at first, because why would you want to work in the NHL after you had a huge falling out with one of the players, but the more thought you gave it, the better the offer seemed. It was in Montreal, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, the pay was double what you were getting in Ohio, and it would be a lot more fun.

Not to mention, there were 31 teams in the NHL, and if the one guy you were worried about did ever leave Columbus, there was a ninety three percent chance he wouldn’t come to Montreal. (Literally, you calculated.)

And now it’s been two years, arguably the best two years of your life. You have everything you didn’t have in Ohio; Stable friendships, a job you actually enjoy, a great support system. You’ve gained in every aspect of your life.

You’ve just walked in your front door, when your phone rings. You pull it out of your purse, laughing when you see your bosses name lighting up the screen. “It’s been ten minutes, Reid.” You say, and he laughs. “I’m off the clock.”

“I know, I know.” He responds. “I’m sorry, just this and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Okay, shoot.” You tell him. 

“Tomorrow, media day, I split the players in half for you. We’ll do the first half tomorrow, and then the rest Friday.” 

“Sounds fine to me.” You shrug, “What changed?” 

“We have two new players flying in tomorrow, but they won’t be in until Friday. I figured instead of saving just the two newbies for Friday and rushing you tomorrow with the rest of the guys, we’d just split it evenly.” He explains. 

“Oh,” You say, usually you found out rather quickly when there were trades and new acquisitions, but you hadn’t heard anything today. “I didn’t know we got any new players, trades?”

“Yeah, two trades. I don’t know much, it just happened. New guys are, uh- let me see...” There’s a fast beating in your heart that you haven’t felt for at least a year. When you first started, every time you heard about a trade you’d get a little nervous, cause what if it was him? Eventually those nerves went away, but they seem to have made a comeback all of the sudden. 

You shake out your jitters while you wait for Reid to give you the names, “Here they are, first guy: Joel Edmundson, from Carolina.” You nod, it’s a name you’ve never heard before. 

“Second, Josh Anderson, from Columbus.” 

But that one? It’s a name you’ve heard all too many times. 

Thank god you’re not driving anymore, because you’re sure you would have swerved into oncoming traffic after hearing that. You can feel a chill spread all the way out to your finger tips, a unsettling nervous feeling sitting on your shoulders like a goblin. This can’t be happening. 

He can’t be coming here. 

“Y/N?” 

The phone is still held to your ear, but you can barely breathe let alone get a word out. 

“Are you there?” Reid asks, and finally you manage to just murmur out a noise of acknowledgement, and then you’re hanging up, nearly collapsing onto the couch. You’re in full blown panic mode. 

Within thirty minutes you’ve already fully played out scenario in your head where you quit your job and leave the city, move back in with your parents like a loser and remain single for the rest of your life. And it sucks, but honestly, it sounds better than actually dealing with this. 

If you stay, and let everything play out, you’ll have to see Josh. You’ll have to talk to him, interview him, all while acting as professional as possible so no one figures out that you have history. Now that, that seems just about impossible. 

In a haze you grab for your phone, searching for a specific contact you haven’t used in a while.

“Y/N, nice to hear from you! It’s been a while!” He says, but there’s a note of nervousness to his voice. 

“Seth.” You scold him. 

“I’m assuming you found out about Montreal’s recent acquisition?” 

“Yup, sure did.” You say sarcastically. “Twenty nine other teams that he could have gone to, Seth. Why here?”

“Yeah, yeah I know.” He says, “Ninety three to seven, the odds were in your favor, but apparently you’re just really unlucky.” 

“Super fucking unlucky.” You whisper, and you can hear Seth sigh on the other end of the phone. “Well, know of any other teams that are looking for media op managers? Columbus would be great,” You ramble, “There’s a really small chance he’ll come back, right?”

“Y/N, come on.” Seth says, “Last time I heard from you, you were loving it over there.”

“Yeah,” You admit, “I do, I love it here, but that’s all gonna change now.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Seth says. “You said you guys ended things on okay terms, if there’s no bad blood it shouldn’t be weird?” 

“Okay terms is not good terms. He told me he’d wait for me to figure my shit out, and then I basically pushed him out the door.” You explain, “We haven’t spoken since then, there’s no way that this isn’t gonna end terribly.”

“You can both learn to be civil and professional,” Seth tries, “You shouldn’t have to give up your job because of this.”

“Yeah, well...” You sigh, shutting your eyes tight. When you open them again you’re kind of hoping you’ll be anywhere but where you actually are, with any other reality, but you’re just stuck. “I don’t really see another way this can go.” 

“Don’t say that,” Seth whispers, “Promise me you’ll at least try. Try to make things work, don’t just give up before you’ve even tested the waters. This might end up being not even half as bad as you think it will be.” 

When you don’t respond, Seth continues, “You love your job, you love the city, you have friends... You’ve built a life for yourself there and you can’t give that up over this.”

If it weren’t for those things you would have quit the second you heard Josh’s name, but Seth is right... You’ve worked for everything you have here. You owe it to yourself to at least try to make things work here before you give it all up. 

You rub your temples with a deep groan, a dreadful feeling that you’re gonna regret this sinking in. But you sigh and agree anyway, “Okay. I’ll try.” 

“Yes!” Seth says, “You got this.” 

“Does he know?” You ask quietly. “Where I am? What I do?”

“No,” Seth answers, “I can tell him... If you want me to.” 

“No that’s okay-,” You decide, “He should probably hear it from me. Thanks, Seth.” 

“You’re welcome,” He answers, and you can’t help but smile a little. He was probably the one thing you actually missed from Columbus. “Will you call me in a few days? Let me know how things are going?”

“Yeah, of course.” You answer, “I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

He confirms, and then says a short goodbye. 

You hang up the phone, and then head straight for your wine fridge. There’s a fancy bottle of white wine that you were saving for a special occasion, and while it’s not the type of celebration you were thinking, it definitely is an occasion. You pour yourself a tall glass, grab a chocolate bar, and head to the couch to start overthinking. 

Then you decide within the first ten minutes that thinking is going to do you no good, so you turn on the TV and grab another glass of wine, praying the alcohol will knock you out, because without it, there’s no way your brain will shut off. 

After the third glass and your sixth episode of Schitt’s creek, you finally start to feel tired. Instead of going upstairs and going to bed, you just flop over on the couch, pulling a blanket over your body before closing your eyes, avoiding all the thoughts bumping around in your head. 

They’ll still be there tomorrow you tell yourself, and then you’re out. 

••••••••••

friday

You’re basically tiptoeing around the arena, sneaking players here and there to get their headshots, all while trying your best to avoid him. 

Your plan is working quite well, you’ve manage to go over half the day without a run in. You’ve just finished with Shea, and you only have a few guys left, so you go for another stroll around the main concourse, looking for Brendan so you can get his goal animations done. You’re turning your head side to side, looking out for a short guy when you hear a familiar voice. 

It’s been two years but you’d recognize it anywhere. 

You freeze for a short moment before you’re all but throwing yourself into the room closest to you, which true to your luck, happens to be the men's bathroom. You twist the deadbolt behind you, staring at the door in pure horror. 

It wiggles against the hinges, and then you hear him, “This one’s locked, man.” 

You wait a good five minutes before you finally tiptoe out of the restroom, sneaking back to your office on extreme lookout. You sigh with relief when you’re in the constraints of your office. You’re finally safe now. 

“Y/N,” Reid announces, opening your office door as usual, without knocking.

You give him a small smile, “Hey, Reid, what can I do for you?”

“I found the new guys for you,” He grins, and the smile drops from your face almost immediately. “They’re ready for their close up!”

You kind of feel like there’s a camera that you can look into like you’re on the office or something, because wow, what stupidly perfect timing. 

Normally you’d have the mind to fake a laugh at his dumb joke, but you just shake your head in panic, standing from your chair as you flail your arms. “No-,” You start to say, but it’s too late. 

“C’mon in guys,” Reid moves further into your office to clear the door way and you swear you could literally throw up on the spot right now. 

“Reid- I asked Ted to do their media stuff-,” You try, but it’s too late. 

They walk in, and you slap a hand over your mouth to keep from swearing loudly in front of your boss. That doesn’t stop Josh though, you can’t even look up at him, but all that comes out of his mouth is, “Holy shit.”

You nod your head, your hand slides up from your mouth to the side of your face to act as a shield, while you give Reid your fakest smile. 

He furrows his brows at you, “Everything okay, Y/N?” 

“Yeah, yeah...” You murmur, and you finally drop the awkward hand, crossing your arms with a huff. Your eyes stay trained on Reid, “I just um, I had asked Ted if he would do their media shots and he said he’d take care of it.” You explain, and your boss makes a face at you. 

“Oh how come? Are you not feeling well?” He gives you an out before you can even think of one, and you jump on it immediately, nodding your head quickly. 

“Yeah, just like splitting head ache,” You say, “Nausea, it’s gross. I don’t know what’s going on.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He asks, and you feel terrible because you know he genuinely feels bad, Reid is one of the nicest guys out there. “You can go home, you don’t need to stick around.” He tells you, and you give him an appreciative smile, refusing to even let your eyes wander to the right. 

“That’s great, Reid. Thank you, I really appreciate it,” You’re about to drop, grab your bag and run out the room like the coward you are, but Reid motions to the boys and the overwhelming urge to throw up is stronger than ever. 

“I’ll just introduce you, and then I’ll send them over to Ted, you can get going.” He suggests, and you nod, sucking in a deep breath. “You’re looking quite pale actually.” Reid notes, “Poor thing,”

“Anyway,” He starts, and you force yourself to turn your body to the side, but you still can’t find the courage to look up at him. “This is Y/N, our head of media operations. She deals with all the social media, the interviews and that kind of thing. She’s great, she’s a huge part of our organization.” You give him a short smile in response, thanking him with a light tap on the arm. “Y/N, this is Joel and Josh, they’re gonna be great additions to the team.” 

“Joel, and Josh...” You respond quietly, extending a hand to Joel first, forcing yourself to make eye contact. “Nice to meet you,” You say, and then you move to Josh, holding out your hand to him too, repeating your earlier words firmly. “Nice to meet you,” 

It’s like your body goes cold when you look at him, he hasn’t changed one bit. He looks kind of confused, but accepts your handshake anyway, nodding with an unsure stare. He doesn’t make any move to let go, so you do it for him, pulling your hand from his grasp in a hurry while you grab your bag from behind you. 

“Sorry, Reid. Thanks again, I’ll be in tomorrow.” You tell him, and then you give Josh one last look, before heading straight out of your office. 

Reid looks a little bemused, but watches you leave anyways. You’re basically speed walking out of the arena, trying your hardest to make it to the parking garage in record time, because you actually feel like the air in the massive building is getting thinner. 

“You forgot this.” 

And just like that your heart rate spikes back up. When you don’t turn, or acknowledge him, he whispers your name and there’s a second where memories come flooding back. 

Your body is nearly frozen, you don’t think you could move right now if you wanted to. Josh comes to stand in front of you, and for the first time you’re forced to look at him. Really look at him. 

It’s been two years but you’d still know that expression anywhere. He’s hurt. 

“You work here.” He says, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. 

You bite your lips sheepishly, and you can feel your resolve starting to crumble. You can’t pretend you’re not completely overwhelmed anymore. 

“Were you ever gonna tell me?”

You find the strength to nod your head, but then a second later you’re shaking it to indicate that no, you weren’t. You hadn’t decided what you were gonna do yet, you knew he was gonna find out at some point, but you also knew deep down you were never gonna be strong enough to outright introduce yourself to him this way. You were just hoping when he did find out it wouldn’t be that bad... But here you are. “I was kinda hoping I could just avoid you.” You say honestly. 

He looks tense, like he’s holding back words. When he speaks he’s quiet, and you almost miss the way he scoffs quietly at your response. “Avoid me... Are we really that-,” He stops, leaving the sentence open, because he doesn’t know what word comes next. Neither do you, but you understand. 

You just look at each other for a moment, and it’s now that your emotions finally get the better of you. Tears well up in your eyes, and you just shrug at him, because you have no idea what to do. 

“I love this job,” You say weakly, “And I love living here, but-,”

Josh shakes his head and you stop, waiting for his interjection. “But nothing.” He starts, and then he’s moving one step closer to you, and him simply subtracting another inch shouldn’t affect you as much as it does. You feel your knees start to shake, the tears getting a little bit harder to ignore. 

“This doesn’t need to be weird.” He says quietly, “I don’t want it to be-,” Once again the words are left unsaid but you nod anyway, understanding. “We’ll figure it out, okay?”

You nod quickly, meeting his eyes. You can’t tell if the feeling is warm or cold, but it spreads through your body like wildfire within seconds. You wonder if he feels it too, if there’s anything still here after so long. He drops your gaze and holds your jacket out for you, you take it and then offer him a small smile, “Bye, Y/N.”

And then he walks away.

••••••••••

3 weeks later

“Habs reverse retro, um absolutely, I love these jerseys I think they’re really really cool, so I’m gonna swipe right on these.” Josh says, toying with the tiny phone in his big hands. 

You step in with a chuckle, waving a hand at Ted so he cuts the video. “Alright, you’re done! Perfect,” You say with a laugh, and Josh finally looks up from the phone. You share a glance with your videographer, both of you exchanging a knowing grin. 

“What?” Josh says, and you shake your head with a smirk. 

“Nothing,” You murmur. And Ted starts to laugh. 

“The camera loves you,” He says to Josh, “Almost as much as you love it,” 

He raises his eyebrows at you, “Was I not good?” The corners of his mouth turn up slightly and you just shake your head, trying to hide your wide grin. 

“No, no,” You stop him, and he looks at you skeptically. Finally you shrug and say, “Just maybe next time we do one of these you could like, I don’t know look up at the camera a time or two?” 

Josh starts to laugh, and he shakes his head, looking down bashfully at his feet. “This is not my thing, you know that.” 

And just like that, that stupid feeling is back. Out from the center of your chest all the way to your finger tips. It’s dull this time, but it’s there. You freeze, you’re really hoping Ted didn’t catch on, because you shouldn't know that. 

You change the subject before anything can come of it, and thank god Ted carries on as normal. He didn’t seem to notice, he just flips through his camera bag as usual, murmuring about Shea’s video being even worse. 

You’re not gonna give this anymore time to boil though, so you turn to the culprit, “You’re uh, you’re good to go, thanks Josh.” You say, scratching at the back of your neck. 

He just nods, looking worried at first, but and then half smiles before heading out the door. Once he’s out of ear shot you sigh, grabbing your bag off the chair. 

“Time for a lunch break, Ted?” Cause, wow do you ever feel like you need one. “We’ll film Brendan after?”

“Sounds good,” Ted smiles. 

You nod and then head for the hallway, making sure to go the opposite way Josh did. If you have to walk the whole concourse so be it. 

You shouldn’t be so skittish, you know that... But things have been good the last three weeks. You’ve managed to talk without it being horribly awkward, and no one has found out about your history yet. However, you’re not going to take any chances. The longer you’re in the same room with him, the more likely someone is to slip up, like Josh almost just did. You don’t need to spend a bunch of time with him, just enough time to get your job done. So that’s what you’ve been doing, the bare minimum. Talking only if you absolutely need to. 

The habs were having a great start to the season, not to mention Josh was a huge part of that. He was having the best start of his career, and you weren’t going to ruin it. 

You take a seat at one of the tables in the common area, pulling your book and salad out of your bag with a huff. You would really rather a burger and fries, or something not made up of 90% water, but it was in the fridge and it was easy so you grabbed it. 

You stab the fork into the lettuce, pulling it up one time before you just shake your head and leave it in the container, prodding around at it while your stomach grumbles. 

You look up from your book when your name is called, Joel and of course, Josh are sitting down at a table across from you, an obscene amount of boxed food in their hands. 

Your heart is thumping rapidly in your chest, and you try your best to talk through it, raising your hand in a wave, “Hi, guys.” 

“What’s going on?” Joel asks, “Hungry?”

“No but you sure look it,” You lie, nodding to the boxes they’re holding. 

Joel smiles giddily as they start to open them up, you just grin and then go back to poking at your salad, trying not to pay attention to how good their food smells. You try to distract yourself with your book, but yet again, that doesn’t last long. 

“Hey,” You look up, eyes meeting a complete stranger this time. “I was just wondering if you could tell me where the opposing team locker room is?” 

“Oh, yeah!” You say, standing from your chair to direct him down the hallway. “You’re a player?” You clarify, just to be sure, and he nods. “It’s just down the hall and to the left. Past the equipment room.” 

“Okay...” He says, and you stare oddly as he looks down at his feet and then back up at you. “Thanks,”

He has longer blonde hair, what these stupid boys would probably call a flow, and a long one at that, but he pulls it off. He’s got a nice face with a trimmed beard, and you can tell just from one look at him, swedish. 

He stares at you for a moment and then chuckles uncomfortably, “I’m sorry, worst conversation starter ever.”

Your stomach knots when he says that, and you want to believe that the reason for it has nothing to do with that fact that Josh is sitting right there, watching all of this. You just smile awkwardly, “It wasn’t terrible? More the follow up that could use some work...” You joke. 

“I just saw you sitting here and I thought you were really beautiful, I’m William. I play for the Oilers.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears, and although this guy is really sweet all you can think about is Josh sitting right there and hearing all this, but you try your best to smile anyway, not wanting to be rude. “That’s really sweet of you, thank you.” Maybe at a different time you’d give this guy a chance, because he seems quite nice. You briefly remember seeing a name on the Oilers roster for tonight, William Lagesson.

He’s about to open his mouth again, when a whistle from behind the both of you catches your attention, you turn to see a red head with a toothy grin. “Leave that poor girl alone, Laggy.” The red head snips, and William runs a hand through his hair nervously. 

You laugh, trying to make him feel better, and he chuckles with a shake of his head, mumbling an apology for his teammate. “Can I maybe just get your number?” He asks, and you try not to look as surprised as you really are. 

It’s been ages since someone asked you for your number, and apparently it’s been a long time since you said no too, because you completely forget how.  

Your overwhelming urge to be nice all the time fails you here, and you find yourself saying yes even though you really don’t want to. He’s sweet and all but, you’d rather not do the hockey player thing again. 

At the last minute you finally have the mind to put a fake number in, and you feel bad momentarily as he smiles and says bye, but as soon as you see the empty spot at Joel’s table, you just feel panicked instead.

Josh is gone... Does that mean he didn’t hear?

You pack up your things and then stop beside Joel, he side eyes you and then makes a face and you just frown. 

“Coach texted Josh, so he wasn’t lucky enough to hear that whole thing... Me on the other hand?” He takes an obnoxious bite of his food as he shoots you a wink, and all you can do is roll your eyes, and walk away. “That was hilarious!” Joel calls behind you, and you just wave him off, but really, there’s some relief setting in when you find out that Josh missed that last part. 

When you arrive back at your office, there’s a note from your boss, and a box on your desk. 

“Head home early today. Boys will be preparing for the game. We can finish up on Monday. -Reid” Is written in his chicken scratch on a bright pink sticky note. 

You do a happy little wiggle, and then reach for the box. It smells amazing, and your stomach grumbles at the thought, but then when you open it and realize what it is, you’ve suddenly lost your appetite. 

It’s pad thai and spicy yam chicken... Your favorite. 

You know instantly this isn’t from Reid... There’s probably only one person in the world who knows what your order is. You used to go to that thai place by his house all the time, and you’d always order the same thing. 

You don’t even put your bag down, you just leave the food on your desk and turn the light off before walking out. 

You try your best not to think about everything that happened today on your way home, because it felt like a huge step back after three weeks of progress. 

You stop for some groceries, and take a look in a little boutique, anything to keep your mind busy. When you arrive home you play music almost as loud as it can go, hoping it will drown out your thoughts. Over the last three weeks you’ve done enough thinking about this, you’re tired. 

So you workout, shower, make some dinner, and then you sit down to watch the game, pinching yourself every time you find your eyes lingering on number seventeen a little too long. 

The game is pretty slow, the boys aren’t playing their best, Edmonton is on their game and you just know they’re not gonna come out of this one with the two points, but you watch anyway. You kind of want to turn it off and switch to something else after the second period, but you give in and stick around for the third. 

All is fine and normal until the five minute mark ticks down on the clock. 

The camera spans to the right to follow the players going up the ice, when you hear the commentator say, “Big battle, in front of the net...”

And your heart just about stops, because you have a feeling you know exactly who it is. Guess Joel was wrong... He did hear the whole thing. 

“Anderson, and Lagesson, they’re still tied up together. Anderson is hot.”