#but he also eats shit and mud

[staraxiaa]

+ extra lines bc i ran out of tag space .

If you cross the river (will the fighting end?)

Contrary to what granny once said, Kita thinks he won't ever truly know who you are. You are the one who waits by the river, watching as he scrubs dirt from fresh carrots and dirty shovels. You are the one whose presence lingers like mist over his skin when you part. You are the one whose eyes he always feels, at every moment—the eyes granny reminds him of when they wipe the floor or prepare a meal together.

You are the one who knows that it does not matter, that he would still perform his rituals and hold unwavering conviction even if you were not there. Because he is Kita; he is Shin-chan—repetition, perseverance, and diligence is how he lives...because it simply feels good.

You are the same, committed to your duty to watch him from the moment you were pulled from the glory of a summit. And he is committed to being watched by you.

shinsuke kita x GN reader character study for shin, reader is a river/rain spirit, themes of disaster, mentions of dying/minor character death, fluff and angst, slow burn (i think), slight spoilers for haikyuu!! timeskip 20.4k words | oneshot, complete

notes: This fic is set around the premise that Kita's gran lives in the mountains of eastern Hyogo, just above Osaka. I have his parents living in the city while Kita is cared for by granny until it's time for him to start school, around 6 years old. He goes to Osaka during the school year and no longer spends time in the mtns. Since canon doesn't offer a whole lot of information, I took liberties with the setting and backstory to fit the plot of my fic. I hope this can help negate any potential confusion! + (It's another fic spanning childhood to adulthood. With a magical reader. I am unfortunately not able to escape my own tropes.) + shoutout to this fic for inspiration

ao3 option

One moment you are a carefree being, gleefully running along a series of falls wedged along the mountain summit. The sun is setting and you are soaking in the glory of the day: with swaying leaves and shimmering droplets, and the last bit of light streaming through pockets of trees.

The next you are falling, rolling, bumping your way through the water. A current sweeps you away without warning, your vision goes dark, and you have left your place above the sun to land in the depths of a looming valley. You have to carry onwards, knowing there is no going back, so you search for the one who brought you here.

There is a dim light beyond the bank. It seeps from the open screen of a traditional-style house, illuminating the wooden beams and eaves from behind. It's a bedroom, with a small boy dutifully putting his futon down for the night, smoothing out the bumps and lining the base to be in its exact spot. He has salt and pepper hair and you think he is the youngest old person you will ever see. He never looks your way, but you sense that he knows you are watching.

So you watch, now that you're here.

"Granny, who's that?"

He is a toddler, carried along the path next to the river by his grandmother, a thin arm clutching him tightly against her hip. Her eyes slowly move from his face to his finger pointing towards the water. She can't see what he sees: another child, waist deep in the gentle rapids, mysteriously faded—like a mist lingering instead of wafting to the sky. She smiles gently when she understands, bringing a hand to pat his hair softly.

"You'll learn when the time is right, Shin-chan."

She knows how this story will go.

Someone is always watching, Shin-chan.

Kita's life is built upon the small things he does everyday, and the end results are no more than a byproduct of that.

Someone is watching over you.

Rain streams down the mountain gullies and pools in the river at the center of the valley.

The sun rises. Over and over and over again.

Childhood

The morning light streams through open screens, crawling up the veranda and into the adjacent interior. It’s the beginning of June—cleaning day, the tatami mats moved aside for inspection and rotation while Kita and granny scrub the wooden floors together. Foam bubbles from the rag when he wrings it out, excess water trickling into the bucket. He wipes it across the floor of their living room, watching carefully as the wood darkens slightly, but not too much, leaving shiny streaks and stray bubbles behind. He smiles to himself gently.

A grin tugs at granny as she watches from the opposite side of the room. It was Shin-chan’s own decision to clean with her today. He gave her no reason as he simply said, “I’ll help,” when she grabbed her bucket and rags. He already started pulling the mats aside, then struggled to move the table in the center by himself. Granny chuckles to herself at the recollection before returning her attention to the floor, her section a little lighter than Kita's.

He looks to her side and the faintest crease appears between his brows, a slight purse of his lips. When he wrings out his towel again, he pulls the ends a little tighter before bringing it back to the floor with a new gentleness. The result brings the twitch of a smile to his mouth. It makes him feel good.

From outside, he hears the rustling of leaves, creaking as bamboo sways in a light breeze, and the scrapes of shrubs against the house. The morning is cool, bringing in air that will hopefully linger as the day drags on. The only chatter comes from the birds, quick raps of storks in the river and singing sparrows in the trees. Kita feels a warmth, one from inside, as he listens. Focuses.

He thinks it could be praise, from the spirits that are watching.

It’s still morning when they finish, the mats brushed and switched with the ones in the closet. After they return the table to the center of the room, granny quietly thanks Kita for his help. He only nods in return. Quiet Shin-chan. He thinks he’ll read until lunch, or maybe help some more if granny plans to work in the garden.

She interrupts his thoughts. “Let’s go for a walk, to Fujiwara-san’s.”

Kita's brow furrows ever so slightly, but he nods. Granny sometimes likes to visit the neighbors, though without any clear pattern or schedule. He thinks she might be doing it for him, so he can talk with other kids his age, especially with his sister always gone to a friend’s and his baby brother in the city. He would rather read, but agrees regardless since it’s granny asking.

They slip their feet into sandals and start down the path along the river, towards the right. Kita reaches for granny’s hand and she smiles down at the top of his hair. They walk slowly along pebbles and dirt, accompanied by the sound of water rushing next to them. Eventually they approach a bridge, granny having to grasp the railing as she walks up the steps. When she reaches the center of the river she pauses, a ritual, to watch the water run by.

“Fujiwara-san said he has exciting news,” granny offers in a delayed explanation. Kita doesn’t respond. 

Granny takes another minute to step down on the other end of the bridge and continue walking. They go left, towards the house that sits opposite of theirs. It takes slightly longer with the incline, but it’s quaint and Kita feels no hurry.

The house is open when they arrive, doors aside to let the last cool minutes waft through. There’s nobody home, however, and Kita looks up to granny curiously after they step onto the exterior veranda.

She only offers a smile as they wait a few moments. His attention is diverted when he hears the thumping of footsteps, small and quick, getting closer. They’re followed by Fujiwara’s muffled voice, worried. Kita's hand tightens in granny’s as he watches closely.

Out runs a child, his age, tracking dark footprints along the tatami mats from the back entrance. Not just with dirt, but smudges of mud, smearing on the woven grass. His chest tightens at the sight and he has the urge to scold, to clean the mess, but then he feels eyes on him and—

That watchful gaze he remembers clearly, despite only seeing it once, years ago. A gaze he still feels everyday, most intently at night. You are grown, but only as much as he is. And you’re…real. With a weight and embodiment, a person instead of a misty image on the river’s surface. You’re also brighter, both in appearance and spirit, as you put a small handful of grapes (fat and crisp and green) into your mouth (skin and seeds included) and chew quickly before swallowing and smiling widely at him. 

Again, Kita wants to protest the sight, tell you the skin is dirty and you can’t eat seeds, but the words are trapped. Something is tugging at his chest—something other than his apprehension, something that makes him want to physically step forward.

But then Fujiwara-san is rushing in, though not very quickly. He’s another old-timer in the village, with crinkly eyes and little hair remaining on his head, paired with a thin physique and hunch in his back. In one hand he carries a woven basket, filled with more bunches of grapes, shiny and wet. In the other is a wooden cane, pale with a reddish tint—Kita thinks maple. The old man never needed one before, and Kita wonders what’s changed.

He looks back to you, the one change he’s aware of.

“Shinsuke-kun,” his thoughts are interrupted by the call of his name. He hasn’t been listening, he realizes, and he turns his attention to the grandpa. “This is one of my grandchildren. My daughter has been busier with work lately.”

Kita, for a third time, wants to protest. He’s met all of Fujiwara-san’s grandchildren before, and if he hadn’t, granny would have certainly told him about another five year old. He doesn’t know how to respond, can’t, and so he watches blankly. You are smiling at him the entire time, with a joy he doesn’t understand—at least, not entirely.

(There is a tightness in his chest at the sight of you, like it wants to expand beyond its capability. He’s not sure what that means.)

“Have some grapes!” you exclaim in a soft voice, thrusting the bunch towards him. Two fall from the force of your sharp movements, and he watches as they roll on the ground, leaving another stain. He doesn’t accept them, just continues to stare at the mess.

Granny fights a smile as she encourages him. “Let’s try some Shin-chan.”

He wants to say that he’s already had them before. He knows they will be delicious and crunchy and refreshing, especially now that the heat is rising with the sun. He knows that Fujiwara’s grapes are the best, and now two have been wasted and splattered on the tatami. Instead of reprimanding you, he reaches his arm out to take the bundle. Since granny asked.

His eyes widen when you then crouch to pick up the fallen fruit from the floor and eat them (skin and seeds included) without so much as wiping them off.

Who are you?

The faintest tug on his hand makes him turn to granny, who’s pulling one off the bundle he’s holding to give it a taste. “They’re delicious as always,” she says. “I’m surprised it’s such an early harvest.”

Fujiwara smiles, eyes crinkling further. “Snow came early this winter,” he reminds her.

She hums thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. The weather has been quite unusual this year.”

Unusual, Kita wonders to himself. Because of you.

You smile at him again and that inexplicable tightness arises in his chest once more. He frowns, the first genuine frown of displeasure today. His mind tells him to ask granny if he can go home, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t understand how that could be possible, to want and not want something at the same time. His frown deepens.

Kita thinks his time at Fujiwara-san’s is excruciating. Kita is also hesitant to leave when granny says it’s time to go. He misses a knowing smile that rests on her face as she tugs him gently, watching as he glances back during their walk home.

You are nosy. Kita was already aware, given he could feel you watching him at every moment, even when he can’t see you. But you are nosy when you are physically near him. And you are around him often now, nearly every day for the past week. Whether you simply show up at random or granny is pulling him along to Fujiwara’s, Kita learns that being around you is inescapable, inevitable. 

At the very least you aren’t noisy, just curious. At granny’s you quietly hover whenever Kita switches tasks or activities, a ghost floating over his shoulder. Once you’ve fulfilled whatever interest you have, you keep to yourself in your own part of the room. You’re helpful in the garden, for some reason, but you make him grimace when you pull a carrot directly from the ground and take a bite, dirt and all. You don’t help him wash the harvest, just crouch next to him by the river water and watch his hands diligently scrub.

You are, however, incredibly messy. It’s as if you don’t even register what a mess is, mud and leaves and water following you everywhere. Always. Trekking through the door with bare feet, smudges of grime trailing behind, sometimes with dripping hair—undried hair—that leaves dark circles and puddles on the mats and wood.

Every time it happens his chest flares with irritation, that urge to scold you. But granny is near, so he says nothing and instead looks at her intently. Granny only ever smiles back, sometimes handing him a towel and reminding him that he can help, if he wants. He doesn’t want to. He’s not sure why the adults haven’t explained it to you, surely Fujiwara-san can’t keep up with the cleaning he must have to do to house you. If Kita and granny always have to scrub your mess after you visit, Fujiwara must be mopping every hour. Sometimes they clean when you’re here, while you just sit and watch, only to dirty the floor again the following day.

After a week of this passes and you show up again, uninvited and with your bare feet leaving mud on the veranda, he caves.

“Don’ come around here if yer jus’ gonna make a mess,” he says firmly—but also quietly, wary of granny’s proximity. Why do you always enter through the veranda anyways—not the genkan, where the mess would be easier to contain?

You don’t appear deterred, smiling as you hold up a basket. “I brought you grapes, Shin-chan.”

He blinks. “That’s kind,” he admits, “but I don’ want ‘em.”

“Well I do,” Granny’s sweet voice says from behind him. Kita tenses when he hears it, turns to look at her guiltily. Her calm, smiling face makes him uneasy.

He starts to protest, those disagreements he felt a week ago, since the moment she wanted to go to Fujiwara’s, bubble up together. “But gran—”

“Shin-chan,” she cuts him off. Her voice is gentle and soft, but holds a different kind of firmness that Kita can’t deliver. One that makes him listen, because he has to.

“It’s okay,” you say, interrupting the conversation that would have followed. You’re still smiling, unfazed. It flames Kita's annoyance, while calming his nerves. Again, he doesn’t understand these feelings. “I’ll go home if Shin-chan wants me to.”

The boy’s eyes widen at that, heart plummeting as if he’s done something wrong. Why do I care? he immediately wonders. Maybe because granny is watching over his shoulder, or because Fujiwara-san seemed so happy to have his not-actually-grandkid (Kita is still certain) around his house. He doesn’t know what home you’re referring to, Fujiwara’s or the city or…somewhere else. Regardless, it would be easier if you went back and let them rest, granny especially, since she must be tired from the extra chores. He still hasn’t answered, caught between wanting to agree, waiting to disagree. He’s not sure which part of him wants what.

Instead of caving to his irritation for a second time today, he sighs and says, “It’s fine…jus’ wash yer feet.” He realizes he’s resolved to clean up after you so granny doesn’t have to. What is he doing?

“Okay,” you say easily, smiling. That relief fills him once again, and he can only stare at you, as if explanations for that feeling in his chest will surface if he looks hard enough. They don’t.

“Here are the grapes,” you assert, raising them in front of you. He hesitates, staring at them in accusation after he finally grasps the handle of the basket. Then you say: “Okay, bye now!” and run off the veranda, your bare feet landing in the dirt and carrying you along the trail and across the bridge.

Kita watches you with a pained face, and he realizes his free hand lifted slightly, as if reaching for you. He scowls and forces it down. Then he turns to granny. She’s smiling at him, he can sense it’s with amusement. He wants to ask why you left, if you really are going home, wherever that is. But he can’t, not when granny is giving him such a look.

“Stop cleanin’ up after others,” he tells her instead. Granny blinks, wondering why she’s being scolded now, too. “I’ll do it. Jus’…jus’ rest.”

She smiles warmly. “You’re a good kid, Shin-chan.”

Kita doesn’t think so. Not right now, with the way you ran away.

“Some people need time to learn the ways we live,” she continues vaguely. “Not everyone comes from the same place.”

He wonders why someone from the city would run around without shoes, through mud.

That inexplicable relief returns when you stand in the outdoor veranda the next day. He still doesn’t understand why he would want to see you, maybe for the confirmation that his words did not actually send you away—that granny and Fujiwara-san can continue to enjoy your presence. Regardless, he stares pointedly at your feet, the dirt clinging to them.

“Sorry,” you say, with the tact to at least look sheepish this time. “I washed them at Jii-chan’s, but they got dirty again.”

Kita is too stunned to react. Do people from the city not understand how shoes work? Or water? Dirt? He sighs, attempting to find his patience, as he tells you to stay put while he leaves. He grabs two pairs of sandals from the genkan and re-enters the veranda. He slips on one pair, then ushers you to follow him down the steps to the spigot.

“Rinse your feet,” he instructs. You do, poorly, but he supposes he can only ask for so much. He puts the second pair of sandals on the ground and tells you to step your feet in after you rinse. It’s an arduous process, but finally you are mostly clean and in the sandals. He then walks you to the entrance of the genkan and tells you, “Enter here. Wear those shoes when ya visit and put ‘em—” he points to a cubby, “there when ya come in.”

You are smiling, always smiling, when you reply. “Thanks Shin-chan!” Then you kick off your sandals and toss them into the cubby. Kita's chest flares again with displeasure at your haphazard treatment of his things. Suddenly you grab his hand and pull him inside, and all he can think is that your skin is cold. He can’t find it in himself to comment, heart racing as he stumbles and tries to slip off his slides before you tug him to the main room. He watches as your undried feet leave dark prints in the tatami in front of him—he thinks of the mold that has probably started growing under them since your first visit.

He passes granny as you pull him through the rooms. He gives her a wide-eyed look, one that tries to ask for help. She only smiles.

Kita feels a little bad for his outburst, once a few days pass and he understands that you aren’t intentionally helpless. You enter through the genkan, with relatively clean feet. You’re careful when you eat after he points out that you tend to make a mess. You help clean, when he asks you to. You still leave crumbs around and wet patches, you scrub too hard sometimes and other times not enough, but you try. And Kita finds that he doesn’t mind so much anymore.

You just don’t know things.

The more he ruminates on your…unfamiliarity with the world, the less sense your story makes—the city story that Fujiwara-san told him and granny. It’s obviously not true, but it also has to be, if everyone believes it. Someone from the city wouldn’t look so surprised that their feet collect dirt. He recalls that evening a few years ago when he was only two, when he could see you in the river. He thinks about the never-ending feeling of being watched. You’re from here, from him.

It becomes apparent why you’re here, why you hang around him at home and linger in his presence. One night he wakes up hours before sunrise. He struggles to re-enter his slumber and curiously opens the screen facing the river, to gauge the time. The mountains loom behind the image of a small figure on Fujiwara’s veranda. You, offering a little wave.

He doesn’t react, just watches as you swing your feet. The moon sits high between you, illuminating the river below, the mist that lingers on its surface. He wonders if you’ve always been there, why he never saw you until a couple weeks ago.

The spirits are all around us, in every living thing. Granny’s voice calls from his memory.

As he watches you, the river, he wonders what defines a “living thing”— if it’s breath or blood or growth. Something else entirely. He thinks the river breathes; it absorbs the air when it bubbles over rocks. Its blood is the water itself. It grows in its own way, banks expanding and collapsing, body winding and pooling, collecting life, collecting stories and history. He’s curious about your story, why it’s part of his.

He closes the screen and goes back to bed.

Shinsuke is not the kind of person to ask unnecessary questions. Even as a child, he keeps those curiosities within, assuming they’ll be answered eventually. Like granny said, You’ll learn when the time is right.

So he doesn’t ask, instead infers. Analyzes and assumes. You aren’t the same. Throughout the summer, as you spend time together, you are always asking. Asking and smiling. Sometimes they’re necessary questions: how to properly wash a dish, or where to set a gift of vegetables. Most of the time they’re unnecessary, asking how Kita is feeling, what he thinks of the weather. Sometimes they’re downright invasive.

“Where are your parents?” you ask him one hot July day, laying in the main room. Kita is fanning himself and wondering why you aren’t sweating.

“Osaka,” he says curtly. He hasn’t seen them in a while, hasn’t thought about them either.

“Do you miss them?” You ask, nosiness unsatisfied.

He shakes his head, no unnecessary response. He likes it with granny, always misses her the few times he’s gone to the city.

You hum, like you heard his unspoken answer. He thinks that’ll be the end of it. It isn’t.

“Your hair must be a mix of theirs,” you say plainly. “Whose is grey?”

He shakes his head, “Neither.” They both have black hair, the same with his sister who’s never home and his baby brother in the city with a nanny.

You’re surprised. “Oh. Do you know whose it is?”

He shrugs, uncaring.

But you smile for some reason, with genuinely joyful eyes. “Maybe it’s your gran’s,” you say happily. It makes him blink in surprise, mystified. He inhales, chest lighter. “It’s cool how that sort of stuff happens.”

He can’t look away from you, your smile that pierces right through him.

That night after his bath, he looks at himself in the mirror, intense, searching in a way he’s never done before. He sees the traces of his mom in his eyes and his lips, his dad in his nose. Both of them at the tips of his hair, that lower section by his neck. He continues to stare, looking for granny. He sees the way she influenced the nose he got from dad. He sees the way she claimed his hair, cradling his head and framing his eyes and cheeks. He wonders what it means, to be chosen by the traits from a generation before.

When granny says goodnight, Kita puts his arms up for a hug. She’s warm, always is. His head nestles into her neck, his threads of grey and black hair tangling with her sea of silver. He doesn’t know what it means; he is a five year old without the vocabulary to articulate the tightness in his chest, something akin to longing and fear. He is a five year old incapable of grasping what it means to be alive.

Only a couple days later, Kita catches a new perspective of you. 

You are barefoot in the genkan and Kita is ready to scold you, this one he knows is deserved after all he’s taught you. Before he can, you speak.

“Come with me today.”

Your hand is outstretched and inviting, but Kita is apprehensive, not sure what you mean. Before he can ask, granny speaks from behind him. “Go on, Shin-chan.”

He frowns and looks at her. Neither of them know what you’re talking about, where you even want to go. But granny looks calm and assured, without a worry in the world.

You don’t wait for an answer, grasping his hand when he’s still turned away and giving it a tug. He feels that same chilliness on your skin, one that makes him think you might be sick. He manages to protest long enough to step into his slides before you pull him out the door. 

It’s a beautiful day. The sun still hangs to the side, the heat of July not yet settled in the valley. The sky is a bright blue, populated with innocent fluffy clouds, white and rolling in the breeze. A group of sparrows sing in a shrub you two pass, and a toad leaps off the path to get out of your way. Kita inhales deeply, the air humid but clean.

“Where’r we goin’?” he manages to ask, quickening his pace to match yours. Your hand has loosened its grip, but he doesn’t let go.

“The forest!” you cheer easily.

His eyes widen. The forest? He’s been to the forest before, to pick bamboo shoots and tea leaves with granny, but he’s not supposed to go without an adult. Does granny know? Why would she let them go by themselves? These are necessary questions, he thinks, and yet he swallows them down and lets you take him without protest.

You are fast despite being barefoot, rocks and sticks seemingly unnoticed as you dart along the path. Kita follows along diligently, stumbling only a few times. He wishes he wore his athletic shoes instead of the sandals. He glances back to the house, studies the way it shrinks from the distance. The two of you are still on the southern side of the river, not yet crossed to the northern mountains, where granny takes him.

Kita decides that he likes running like this, despite the heat and his shoes. It’s a gentle jog, with a destination in mind, his hand in yours as you lead the way.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, just follows you up and along the path until the two of you reach its end. It’s the first time Kita has seen it, the way it stops before a rock face that climbs up a mountain west from his house. He looks down the path, into the valley from the incline.

He looks back at you, waiting for an explanation for what to do next. You don’t offer one, walking to the bank of the river. To get in the river, he realizes, and for the first time since leaving granny’s he tries to pull away.

You turn back to him, smiling softly. “Trust me, Shin-chan,” you say.

He’s not sure why he should, why he did, to let you take him all the way out here in the first place. Because of granny’s encouragement, he thinks. Go on, she said. Did that mean all the way? To the ends of wherever you wanted him?

You have turned and continued down the bank. Kita does not try to escape your grasp, letting you pull him along.

The water of the river rushes over his feet, cool and surprising. It runs up his ankles, his shins, his knees, and finally his thighs. You are leading him forwards, upstream and past the rock face that marks the end of the trail. His toes bump rocks covered in algae, slipping and wavering as he wades slowly. You, however, are sturdy, never faltering with your sure steps.

You approach a pile of rocks, scrambling over them to bring yourself back onto land. You help hoist Kita after you. He pauses when he steps onto the forest floor, the softness catching him off guard. He looks down to see reddish-brown piles of pine needles coating the ground, dotted with lush bundles of ferns and patches of vibrant moss. The land rolls gently, small and soft hills of fallen pine covering rocks and dirt and life. A mist lingers from the proximity of the water, the sun pulling the moisture into the air. The scenery is dark, quiet from the hazy canopy above. Kita inhales deeply in attempt to regulate his exhausted panting, the essence of wood and mint taking over him. He is in awe, not used to being swaddled in pine. The forests here are mostly a mix of leafy trees, oaks and maples and chestnuts, with pockets of bamboo. Not secret havens of sweetness and tang.

You tug him along, bouncing through the fluff of the soft ground. He follows, eyes wide and soaking in the scenery, wanting to memorize every moment. You show him your enchanted forest, its mysterious darkness splattered with occasional sun that manages to seep through. He spots a white hare leaping away, watches birds flutter from the trees. At one point you guide him to cross the river on a fallen tree, green with moss and bundles of young sedge. Behind your skipping form he walks carefully, arms outstretched for balance.

His heart freezes when he steps down onto the other side, catching sight of a grey wolf waiting its turn. He clutches your hand as the creature steps forwards, two smaller ones following. They look at him blankly before leaping onto the natural bridge, continuing their own journey without looking back.

When he turns to you, you are smiling, and tug him forwards once more. The sun starts to stream in, brightening as pines transition to those oak and maple and chestnut trees. The ground is no longer soft, but firm dirt and clumps of rocks, leading to one larger slab of jagged earth that juts out from the mountain entirely.

You step out into the sun and he follows, taking in the view in front of him.

He is not at the peak of the mountain, maybe halfway there, but the outlook forces him to understand the vastness of the valley. He can see the large span of the mountains as they roll and crawl in the distance, his house a small square along others. The river is more apparent, winding intensely down the mountain and softening into a gentle curve next to the village. He can see crop fields and the road that has taken him to Osaka before.

You speak, the first time since bringing him into the water, “Some people climb mountains to look from above. I like when I still feel inside of it, can still see what’s happening.”

Kita thinks he understands, remembers the way the mountains from his house are like a promising wall, a guardian. How the depth of the valley cradles him. He thinks of the hare and the birds, the wolves, the journey here striking wonder and awe into his heart. He recalls that feeling of being watched, your gaze always near.

The sun approaches its peak in the sky, nearly noon. It illuminates the valley, brings light into the forest behind them. Kita watches it light up your face, already bright from your joyful expressions.

“Happy birthday, Shin-chan,” you tell him, taking him by surprise. He forgot, in the excitement of the past hours with you. Granny gave him some books this morning as a gift. You’re giving him the forest. His smile is small and reserved, but it’s the first time he offers one back to you.

He thinks he understands now: what you meant when you said home.

The sight of your back with a hand pulling him along defines the next year. After you show Kita the forest, he trusts you wholly, no doubt that you will look after him. He is happily tugged again and again into that realm of magic. He encounters more animals—badgers and pigs, bears and herons. In the winter he sees foxes and macaques. The river freezes and snow becomes the new carpet of the forest. You don’t shiver either, he learns.

You take him to the summit once, so he can see the view. The pine transitions to a highland, bald of trees and instead coated in grass and shrubs. It’s beautiful, a clear day when the entirety of the valley is visible and he can spot granny’s home, how it sits across from Fujiwara-san’s. When he looks up, there is only the blue of the sky, not a single speck of cloud coverage. They stay until dark and watch the Milky Way span across the blackness of night, its subtle hues of pinks and blues, the way meteors shower down in flashes.

He watches life rise from the ground when the weather warms once again, as seedlings sprout and newborn animals wander through the land. Flowers bloom, coating pockets of earth in the full spectrum of light. He is witness to deer learning to walk, stumbling awkwardly over roots and rocks. He sees the other clumsy ways animals go about the world, how a sparrow drops its worm, how a duck trips and rolls into the river behind its mother. He collects these moments in his memory, happy to observe, solely to understand.

And you observe him, because Kita knows that is what you are meant to do. He still doesn’t know who you are, or why him, but he feels your eyes constantly. He doesn’t admit it, but they are comforting.

On the days you two are not parading in the mountain, you are still usually in each other’s presence. Kita no longer reads while you look over his shoulder or sit on the other side of the room. He reads to you, the books granny rents him from the library. You like to lay on the veranda while he sits and swings his feet, paying close attention to pronouncing the words. He still cleans up after you, since you never fully get the hang of doing things yourself. It’s only crumbs and small puddles, untidy blankets or cushions, an untucked chair at the table after dinner. He finds himself volunteering to take granny’s extra harvest of leeks to Fujiwara-san’s, under the pretense that he wants her to rest.

He walks there briskly, and stays for an additional hour. You have a lot to say, your nosiness still strong even after nearly a year.

“Jii-chan told me you’re starting school soon,” you say, eating one of the leeks. He watches you chew the entirety of it, uncooked. Some water squeezes out and dribbles onto the floor.

“In April,” he replies. April is two weeks away. It’s when he’ll go to Osaka. He’s supposed to stay there for the week leading up to school to prepare. He gets the sense that you’re leaving too.

You don’t look sad, and his shoulders feel tense when he notices. He’s not sure why.

Kita doesn’t ever ask unnecessary questions, but right now he is compelled to ask you many things. Sometimes it seems like you understand what he’s thinking, but you never respond unless he says it outright. As a result, he never gets to know.

He surprises both himself and you when he asks, “Are ya goin’ to school, too?” He already knows you aren’t.

You shake your head. He wants to ask why, wants to ask if you’re going somewhere else. He wants to know if you’ll be here when he comes back during break. He wants to figure out why you came in the first place.

Another question: “Are ya goin’ home?”

You nod your head this time. He watches you, thinking you’ll return to the pine forest. You shake your head when he thinks it, and give him the reprieve of elaborating. “The river.”

He frowns, confused. The river? You were always in the forest, guiding him along its greenery. He thinks about how he has to wade upstream to enter the forest in the west. He recalls the memory from years ago, a child in the water watching him. 

“I came from the forest,” you try to explain, “but the water’s my home now.”

Kita is reminded that he was born in Osaka, but would always rather be at granny’s house in the northern mountains.

It’s hard for him to leave granny’s, more than any time before. When the driver comes to get him and he squeezes in the back with granny, he looks out the window towards Fujiwara’s house. You sit on the veranda, waving while your legs swing. This time the sun is high in the sky and the river releases a blinding reflection. When the car drives away and he can no longer see you, his chest hurts.

Osaka does not make it easier. His mother coos at how big he’s grown while his father watches disinterested. Kita is shown his baby brother, now a toddler awkwardly walking around and speaking. Kita doesn’t know how to talk to him, but he tries. He says hello to his sister—who he hasn’t seen since she decided to stay in the city—when she finally makes an appearance at dinner. Granny stays for the meal and the night, and then leaves in the morning.

That night, the second one in Osaka, he cries while laying in bed. He isn’t sure why, the feelings simply overwhelming and in need of release. The squishy mattress in a raised bed frame doesn’t comfort him. He thinks about you, about granny. The mountains and the forest. The river. When he looks outside his window—a square of glass punched through plaster walls—he only sees pavement and blocks of concrete. Other homes, maybe with other children crying for reasons they can’t explain. There is no mountain in the distance or river running along the ground. The sky is hazy, no stars in sight. The only twinkling comes from his own eyes, his teary squinting blurring streetlights and windows with every blink. Each time his eyes close, for a moment he thinks he can see you.

If Shinsuke is one thing, he is malleable. He can fit himself into environments, his adherence to routine giving him a means of finding comfort no matter where he is placed. Responsibility grounds him, distracts him. He can redirect his energy to doing well in school, looking after his brother. These things feel good to him, to simply do them well.

Even though you are not with him, he can feel your eyes at all times. He is reminded of being at granny’s, her washing the floor as she tells him that the spirits are everywhere, always watching. He finds himself cleaning up after his brother, thinking of you. He wonders what you think, if you’re reminded of the same.

School is as alien as Osaka, with its concrete exterior and plastered walls. They are painted white and lined with large sheets of glass. They slide open, but only for students to shout at their friends outside, not to let the morning air in. 

In class, he sits quietly at his desk and listens to the teacher. He doesn't talk with other students or pass notes under the desk. He doesn’t even wonder about you, the feeling of your eyes always on him. He watches the teacher closely, diligently records the lessons. He watches other students, gathering first impressions and additional observations. He notices the way some of them doze off or scribble in their books. He sees the meaningful glances some make to each other, usually girls as they eye each other and specific boys in the class.

When he studies for his first exam, he thinks that he can feel you in the room with him. First looking over his shoulder—a cool breeze wafting from behind him, and then laying on his bed—the sheets oddly chilly when he goes to sleep. He remembers how you sat by him while he read aloud just a few weeks ago. He murmurs to himself as he reviews information, wondering if you can hear him.

Kita scores at the top of his class. He doesn’t feel anything when teachers congratulate him and other students whine. There is no pride in his chest or sense of satisfaction at the results. He thinks back to his nights studying, your presence lingering over him. It just feels good, he thinks, to do things well. The process of trying and dedicating himself to something.

He makes a routine out of it, delegating time after school to review material. It falls easily into his schedule, after dinner and before he readies for bed. He still has time to play with his brother, usually reading or offering him toys. His sister is always gone, either busy with club activities or friends. His parents get home late too, but they usually manage to have a full family dinner.

They’re eating quietly, having debriefed their days as they reach the end of their meal. Kita glances at his family, realizing that they’re different from the people at school. He’s known them for his whole life, people without first impressions and instead ingrained understandings. He looks at them intently, notices the way they eat, listens to the way they speak. He knows them intuitively, no running list in his mind to keep track of information. He is reminded of the time you asked about his hair, and he stares at his mom, then his dad. His mom’s hair is long and brown, artificially lightened from its original dark color. His dad’s is black with a sprinkling of silver from age. Kita wonders if his will do the opposite when he grows old.

There’s another exam the following week, this one for his science class. Kita is the first one in the classroom, watching students filter in. The boy who sits next to him—Daiki, tall and skinny—plops down with a sigh just a few minutes before the teacher is supposed to arrive.

“Gahh, I’m so nervous,” he says to Kita, laying his head on the desk. When Kita doesn’t respond, he asks, “Are you?”

Kita shakes his head at that, not sure why he would be. He studied. 

When the results come back after a few days Daiki whines that Kita is a goody-goody, trying his hardest to get the teacher’s attention. Kita looks at his full marks and once again feels nothing. He thinks it is the natural result of his efforts. He wonders what you would say, if he could talk to you. He thinks you would ask nosey questions about his siblings. It makes his chest feel hollow.

Some kids try to be his friend, or at least try to talk to him. But he’s quiet, not very eloquent or forgiving with his words, and so they eventually leave him alone. He thinks about how you diligently stood by him, how you smiled when he scolded you.

When he gets home and returns to his room, it is exactly as he left it. There are no crumbs to sweep or puddles to wipe. His brother is out with the nanny, but he feels restless, the need to do something. He thinks he can get started on his homework early, pulling out his notebooks and folders. He can’t focus on the words, eyes skimming the pages without understanding. He knows that studying now is futile, and decides to continue later. He settles on bathing early instead.

His bath draws on, longer than usual. He finds himself pausing, getting lost in thought—though more lost in feeling, since his mind drifts blankly. He’s still restless by the time he finishes, but slightly relaxed. He stands to wrap himself with the towel and steps carefully onto the bath rug. Once he’s dried and his towel is secure around his waist, he leans over to pull the plug and let the water drain. Just as he grasps it, there’s a lurch of water that spills out and onto the floor. His eyes widen in disbelief and his chest flares with annoyance knowing he will have to clean the mess. He looks at the floor incredulously before turning back to the bath and—

His eyes widen further, mouth opening slightly at the sight of you—a misty figure over the water. You’re wearing a sheepish expression as you lean over the edge to assess the mess.

“Sorry,” you say quietly. Kita's disbelief increases at the sound of your voice. “I’m still getting the hang of it.”

Kita slams the plug back down and stands to face you clearly. He feels the water pooled at his feet, but all irritation has fled his body. Instead he is filled with a warmth, a contrast to the coolness wafting from you.

“You made a mess,” he tells you, unnecessarily. You know that already.

“Yeah,” you say. You apologize again.

“Don’ do it again,” he tries to scold. His body wants to step forward, to reach you. He’s not sure why, and he frowns with skepticism.

You nod, then lift your leg experimentally. When it’s pulled above the water, there are no droplets falling. Instead, you appear airy, like the water sits around your body. You step out and onto the bathroom floor, successfully avoiding increasing the mess. You smile brightly at your success. Kita continues to watch, wondering if you’ll disappear, evaporate at any moment. You look at the water on the floor and then meet his eyes, smile turning sheepish again.

“I should mop,” you tell him, breaking him from his quiet spell.

“I’ll do it,” he says immediately. “Jus’...jus’ don’ go anywhere.”

You nod.

Mopping helps him calm down, perhaps needing a task to manage his agitation. You watch, and then follow him to his room once he’s finished. He dresses while you distractedly rummage through his things, then walks over to you at his desk. He feels a wetness under his foot and looks down, seeing footprints scattered along the floor. They’re light and clearly yours, and he ignores them, continuing over to you.

“You can go back to studying,” you tell him.

He can’t bring himself to look away. He’s not sure why, chest tight with anticipation.

There’s a knock at the door, mom’s sign that dinner is ready. The noise startles you and there is a poof, the sound of you evaporating into mist, wafting up to the ceiling. Gone. The only traces of you are those faint, damp footprints and few misplaced items on his desk.

For the first time in a long time, Kita feels a sinking disappointment.

Adolescence

Contrary to what he expected, Kita doesn’t leave Osaka during break. His parents think it would be good for him to have a consistent lifestyle. Kita doesn’t protest, but he can feel a heaviness in his stomach. He asks about granny, if he’ll see her soon. They tell him she will visit some time, and she does, though rarely. He thinks about the forest and the mountains, when he’ll see them again.

On the first day of fourth grade, Kita wakes up on time. He uses the toilet, washes his face, brushes his teeth, and changes his clothes at his usual pace. As he splashes cool water along his forehead and cheeks, he is reminded of your touch and wonders if he will see you this morning. He often finds himself waiting, without realizing until a significant amount of time has already passed. You are irregular and unpredictable. It puts him on edge, that you might disrupt his perfectly crafted routine.

He is the first to sit down for breakfast and the first one to finish, everyone else but his mother just having started. He stands to put his dishes away and gather his school things when she rushes into the room. She’s fumbling with her shoe, trying to get it in place while collecting her things to fill her purse. Her face brightens when she sees him and asks about his first day, if he’s excited or nervous.

Kita shakes his head, neither. He’s been going to school nearly everyday for years now, what reason would he have to be nervous? What’s to be excited for?

He turns to leave, but she calls for him. She asks if he’s planning to join a club.

He shakes his head again, not sure why he should.

But his mother protests, “I think it’d be good for you to do a sport. You don’t exercise much, with all the studying.”

His father hums in agreement from the table and his sister stands to excuse herself. His brother knocks his bowl over, spoon clattering to the ground. Without hesitation, Kita walks over to return it.

“Just try one, okay?” his mom asks. Kita nods in response before finally leaving. 

In his room, he gathers his books and school supplies into his backpack, double checking that everything is there. He slips it over his shoulders and then turns to the window. It’s translucent with a sheen of moisture from inside. He wipes it away and glances at the sky. It’ll probably rain, he gauges. As he steps away from the window to leave, he catches a glimpse of you in the reflection.

His first day of school is like any other, spent seated at his desk near the center of the room, watching the teacher, observing his classmates. He diligently helps clean at the end of the day: sweeping duty, not missing a single spot. Once finished, he changes his shoes and makes for the exit. Some students say goodbye, and he nods in return. He can hear the soft pattering of rain as he approaches the door, and pops open his umbrella before stepping outside.

The walk home is quiet, with occasional groups of students chattering by. Kita walks at his typical pace, unrushed. He hears his shoes tap against the pavement with each step, the plopping of raindrops above his head. The occasional car rushes by, veering aside to avoid splashing him. He runs through a mental list of what he needs to do for school, but it’s short given it being the first day.

When he’s only a few minutes from home, he hears splashing behind him, as if someone is running through a puddle. You, calling his name.

He doesn’t turn to look, but his steps slow while his heart speeds, giving you time to catch up. Within a few seconds you are by his side, your now-usual misty and translucent figure at his side. You smile when he glances at you, but he appears unfazed. You’re unbothered as you walk with him, light on your feet.

When he reaches the door of his home and unlocks it, you let yourself in first. He closes his umbrella and gives it a shake before setting it on the rack. While he removes his shoes in the genkan, he eyes the light trail of footprints you left on your way to his room. He leaves them, knowing they’ll evaporate before anyone else comes home. He stops by the kitchen, dumping a bag of carrots onto a small plate, and then he briskly enters his room and closes the door behind him.

He sees you laying on his bed and he feels an itch of annoyance, knowing the sheets will be damp. But he doesn’t say anything, instead setting the plate on his desk and sliding his bag onto the floor. You smile and ask how his day was.

This has become part of Kita's routine, your irregular visits. He walks through life with an anxious anticipation, waiting for you to come. He is relieved when you appear, but he is never entirely pleased. There’s a warmth in his chest regardless, one that reminds him of granny.

He wonders if maybe that’s why he accepts the interruption so easily, because it momentarily brings him home, his life in the mountains, granny’s voice telling him that someone is watching over him. He knows that someone is you. He wonders if granny knows about your visits, if you ever tell her about him.

His answers are short, per usual. But he talks about his classes, his classmates, how mom wants him to join a club. He knows that you know all this, but he says it anyways, gives into you.

“Do you know what club you’ll join?” you ask.

He shrugs. “A sport, since I should exercise.”

You nod at that, “It’s too bad the forest is so far away. Exploring is good exercise.”

Kita thinks about the forest often, seeping into his spare time when he’s not caught up in classes or the growing responsibilities of life. He’s heard from mom about wildfires in Hyogo, ones that spring at random in the dryness of summertime. Luckily nothing near home, but still within the province. He recounts those memories of rabbits and monkeys, remembers the flowers that are blooming right about now. He's curious if it’s raining, how visible the stars are tonight. These questions bring a pain to his chest, one he can’t explain, one that doesn’t make sense. Sometimes he calls granny and the pain goes away. Sometimes it gets worse.

When you’re in his room with him like this, he thinks it’s a different pain entirely.

Eventually your questions lull and Kita knows that this is his queue to start his schoolwork. He doesn’t have much to do, though. Instead he wants to ask a question of his own. You can tell, and you wait.

He doesn’t know how to phrase it, so he never asks. As a result, you never answer.

A week later the school allows them to pick clubs. Kita looks at the other hopeful kids as they play rock-paper-scissors for a spot for the popular sports: basketball, football, baseball. He eyes the groups that are smaller, have less interest. The running club looks crowded, so he makes his way over. He still has to do a round of rock-paper-scissors, and he’s one of the three who have to find another option. To his right is another small group, and he asks to join without knowing what they are. Volleyball, apparently. He’s not sure if he’ll be any good, but he figures it’s only for the year and he can try something different in fifth grade.

Volleyball, it turns out, is difficult. He learns how to receive a ball, but it flies in the opposite direction of where he wants it to go. He watches the other players, trying to understand how to improve himself.

Volleyball, it turns out, is technical and requires a lot of practice to sharpen his skills. He diligently attends practice, two days a week for fourth-graders. The coaches appreciate his efforts, how he runs his full laps and takes every suggestion seriously. Kita finds that he just enjoys the process of training, improving his abilities and caring for his body. His legs feel tired at the end of the day and it reminds him of running through the forest. It reminds him of his efforts, makes him feel good.

Volleyball, it turns out, is the perfect distraction. From you.

It becomes part of his routine, filling in the gaps of time that he normally finds himself waffling in, waiting for you. He learns to walk through everyday as if it’s the same, just himself, but allows it to shuffle when you make an appearance. 

Volleyball helps as he enters middle school and your visits lose frequency. Your lack of presence, however, makes the feeling of your gaze on him even stronger. He feels it every time he’s on the court—though he only ever plays games in practice. He in turn watches his teammates, their ticks and habits. He watches his opponents, offers notes to his team about patterns and flaws in their styles. He’s not a powerhouse like the standout players, doesn’t have any exceptional talent, and so despite his hard work and consistent practice, he doesn’t play a single game, doesn’t even receive a jersey.

You ask him about it one evening, on break before high school starts.

“Are you going to join the volleyball club?” you ask, to which he nods. It makes you hum as you sit on his bed. He can see the wall behind you, how it darkens slightly from the moisture of your form leaning against it. 

“I hope you get the chance to play more,” you tell him honestly. “I don’t know why they don’t let you.”

But it means nothing to him, that sort of attention and recognition. He just plays to play the game, do the drills, learn the mechanics—to take care of himself. You know this, but you like watching him, the way he watches the game, moves with it, into it.

He doesn’t say anything in response, knowing that you know what he thinks.

Instead of pushing further, you change the subject. “I’m not going to be able to visit very often,” you tell him. You sound regretful, and his chest is agitated. He thinks of the fires, happening at random across the country.

“I know,” he tells you. He could sense it, recognized the increasing infrequency of your presence. He wants to ask why, but he can’t get the words out, for whatever reason.

You look at him closely and say, “I’ll be around though.”

He nods at that. He knows.

Inarizaki is a prestigious school, known for academics and athletics alike. Kita makes it in easily with his grades, and joins the volleyball club despite knowing he will likely never play in a match. The coaches note that Kita is inexperienced in competition, but they know an asset when they see one. His skills are too sturdy, too well-practiced for Inarizaki to not take advantage of him.

During his first year, he hardly plays. Even so, he is the first at practice, one of the last ones to leave, and the most diligent athlete on the team. He runs the entire length of the track, finishes every rep during weight training, and completes every drill and penalty without complaint. The coaches find that he does not have star power—he is unassuming and ordinary—but he is exceptional in his efforts, and his efforts meet returns when it counts, when they need him on the court as his usual Kita-san.

Some of the older players tease him for his diligence, others admire him because of it. Everyone realizes that he pays no mind to what they think, only ever doing what he wants, what fits his values. He respects his elders even when he disagrees with them, but he is blunt with his fellow first years, unafraid to call out their behavior, especially if it contradicts something they’ve said before. Some say it’s rich coming from him, someone who only warms the bench.

Aran is the one who talks to him, one day in the locker room. A tense conversation between Michinari and Shinsuke unraveled earlier when Kita commented on how the libero attempted too many unpracticed receives in-game, that he should have stuck to underhand until he perfected his overhand off the court. Michi has a temper, and his frustration was pushed by the spiker’s comment. He shouted that Kita wouldn’t understand, that he hasn’t been put in a game, hasn’t had the opportunity to feel the pressures of expectation.

Aran lingered when the others filed out of the locker room—partially to make sure Kita was okay, and partially to suggest he cool it with the critique.

“Don’t take it to heart,” he offers. “Akagi-san gets bad nerves. He knows what he needs to do.”

“I don’t understand the point of being nervous,” Kita responds.

A machine, Aran thinks. This guy is a machine. He says as much, and thinks there’s truth to Michi’s comments, that Kita must not understand because he’s never played in a match that counted.

But Kita explains—that it doesn’t make sense if you’ve practiced the skills and know your capabilities. That it’s the same with eating, shitting even. He thinks Michi’s underhand receives are enough, that they have saved the ball from Inarizaki’s own powerhouses in practice. Why would he need to try anything else?

Aran’s eyes widen as Kita speaks, starting to understand his perspective. It becomes apparent that his criticism towards Michi was more of a poorly delivered compliment: that their first-year libero is enough as he is, that he could save them with the tools he knows—he doesn’t need miracles. This glimpse into Kita puts Aran’s teammate in a new light, recontextualizes his diligent attitude towards their training and the criticism he gives his peers. He trusts the process, knows that the results will follow suit.

Aran begins to notice how Kita fades to the back, his presence unassuming on its own. Kita does not play for recognition or adulation, he simply does what needs to be done. His diligence to get every ball in the air goes unnoticed when the flashy ace pulls an impressive cross against three blockers—a move that would not have been possible without Kita, committed behind him. But Kita doesn’t care, doesn’t ask for attention. 

Aran already held immense respect for his teammate, for his repetition, diligence, and perseverance. But now he feels a special type of awe when he watches him more closely.

Kita does not make a fuss of convincing others of his praiseworthy traits, but Aran takes it upon himself to point them out to his team, to give new context to Kita's seemingly harsh words. Slowly but surely, they will understand, too.

What Aran doesn’t know is that Kita feels like he has already been noticed and recognized, always has been and always will be, at every moment—by you.

(Your eyes continue to bore into him no matter where he is. They feel stronger the longer he goes without seeing you. Your visits are few and far between, but he has his routine, knows to follow it independently and let it shape around your irregularity.)

The following season, a handful of talented first years join, including a freakishly synchronized twin duo and a sly middle blocker. They fight with each other. Some of them cut corners. One particularly troublesome one likes to work himself through illness, inspiring misguided awe in other first years. Kita as a second year has no qualms scolding his teammates, now sometimes including his upperclassmen. The underclassmen pout and grumble while the elders know the intent resting behind his abrasion. 

You only visit him twice during the school year, both times at the hotel for nationals. The first is during the Interhigh National Tournament; he is sitting in the tub at the end of the day, running through his observations of other teams he saw, considering what would be useful to share with the others, to exploit. His head is resting on the ledge of the tub, staring at the blank ceiling as a canvas for him to visualize what he saw: bad crosses, a fragile ego, delayed timing for a back attack. He thinks about the team they’re playing tomorrow, the most imperative information to note. He thinks he should finish bathing so he can write it down.

When he straightens his head to look forward, he jolts in surprise, water splashing out and onto the bathroom floor.

You’re there, sitting on the other end of the bath in your misty form. Your eyes are wide, head turning to look at the puddles on the tile. Kita can’t even consider the mess, body tense at your proximity. He’s never been flustered around you before, never felt strange about his nakedness if you appeared after a bath. It’s been a long time since you’ve come from a bath. And this—this is a closeness and intimacy he has never imagined. You, sharing the water, right beside him. He is frozen when your eyes move back to his face.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper, and he recalls another variable to add to the situation: Aran, likely still in their shared room.

Kita shakes his head, not knowing what to say. “You—” he stutters, unlike him. “What’re ya doin’.” Ever since middle school you only appeared in the rain. He didn’t know bathtubs were even still a…vessel of transportation.

You smile. “Good luck tomorrow.”

Kita blinks, torn between the urge to scold you, the urge to reach for you, and the urge to make you leave before Aran learns of your presence. He finds it exhausting, the way you pit these conflicting pieces of him against each other.

Instead he tells you, “I probably won’ play.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re doing it right now.” The analysis of his opponents, you mean.

A sound at the door makes you jolt, the water softly rippling around you. It’s Aran, asking if things are okay. He doesn’t comment further, but he swears he hears the murmuring of voices.

Kita calls back that he’s fine, just about to get out and be done for the night. He gives you a look afterwards, a sign that you can’t stay. He wishes you could.

You surprise him by leaning forwards, reaching for him. He is suddenly swept into your chilly embrace, arms wrapping around his shoulders. His body is tense, on edge from the intimacy, but he only feels your body above the water, arms and chest and head as it settles into his neck. Despite your cold temperature, Kita's body heats at the contact.

“I’ll see you,” you say, and then you are mist, dispersing into the air.

When Kita exits the bathroom, Aran thinks for the first time that he looks amused—a mirth settled in his eyes and his lips slightly quirked.

A few months later during the Spring High Nationals, you appear in his room, again shared with Aran. Luckily the spiker is out for the moment, allowing Kita the freedom to speak with you. He’s getting dressed from the bath while you flop onto his bed. When he finishes he stands over you, inquiring why you came.

“To wish you luck again.”

Where you’re laying on the bed, his hand hangs by his hip only inches from your face. He is called to reach for it, hold it gently. He’s not sure why but this visit makes him uneasy, like it could be the last. He wonders if these are nerves.

The sound of the key opening the door interrupts his thinking. You have already faded into the air by the time Aran enters, followed by the twins barreling their way past him.

Atsumu (the obnoxious) immediately makes for Kita's bed. He flops down onto it, not unlike how you did minutes before, but immediately tenses and shrieks. He rolls himself off, pushing Kita back from where he was standing, all while shouting, “Kitaaa! Why’s it wet—”

Kita thinks he should thank you, next time you visit.

You don’t visit again.

Rather, Kita goes home to you. He decides to leave for break instead of sticking around for club practice, a choice he’s never made since he started volleyball. Something in him calls to visit granny. So at the end of March he boards the train headed towards the north station, and then hails a ride to the village. Granny is home when he arrives, and she marvels at how tall he is, not having seen him since she visited in middle school.

He towers over her small figure, awkwardly hunching in a hug. Granny says that he’ll be a big help with his height, and over the next day she sets him to dust the high shelves and put away dishes. She comments that he can move the table in the main room all on his own, no longer small, five year old Shin-chan.

The ease Kita feels in himself when he is here, with granny in the mountains, is undeniably because this is his home. He is malleable, shapeable to the life he’s lived in Osaka, but this is where he should be. He knows that when he enters this final year of high school, he will be given a sheet that asks for his three career plans. With his grades and diligent work ethic, he knows that he can put himself on any path and make it work. But in this moment, in granny’s embrace, the warmth of a home lined with screens and tatami, Kita knows that he wants to be here, no matter what.

That night he lays out his futon, smoothing out the creases and carefully lining it to be perpendicular with the wall. He smiles, this routine of preparing his bed one of many things he missed in the city. Before he lays down, he is overcome by the feeling of being watched. He turns to the screens that lead outside, towards the river. He walks over and opens them, looking into the darkness of the night.

The moon hangs low in the sky—a crescent, a smile. It shines softly on the water, Fujiwara-san’s house behind it, and the form of the mountains beyond. You aren’t there, but the river is misty, a bluish haze settling thickly on its surface.

In the morning he decides to go for a run, an attempt to maintain conditioning while he’s gone from practice. He goes left—west—towards your mountain.

The jog is peaceful, with March air cool and crisp against his skin. He is calmed by the sound of the water rushing next to him, running the opposite way. There are birds singing when he passes and a small hare jets by his feet. Running feels like a trip through his memory, recounting the times he tried to keep up with your pace, the adventures you went on together. He is running through the blue of wanderlust, along the breathing water and between the distant mountains, under the bright sky above him. He is running through the green of nostalgia, the lush vegetation, stalks of bamboo and solid trees, mostly oak and maple and chestnut, but occasionally the mysterious pine.

He is running to you.

It isn’t apparent until he reaches the end of the path, to that rock face at the foot of the mountain, and you are there—in the flesh—waiting in the river. The water is cold during spring, and yet you smile warmly, unfazed by the temperature. When he takes your hand to let you guide him through the water, through soft pine and hazy light, your touch is cool and refreshing against his—hot from exertion.His heart lurches at the contact, an inexplicable mix of tightness and lightness blooming in his chest. He can’t tell if it’s hollowing him out or overfilling him. It feels like hello and farewell all at once. There is a knot in his stomach, one that feels like nerves. It is exhilarating, magnetizing, like falling into you completely. He lets himself. He has no other option.

You come back with him to granny’s and have breakfast together. She doesn’t say anything, only calls you “dear” and thanks you for your help cleaning up. She does not mention Fujiwara and neither do you. Kita feels whole, sitting on the floor at this table.

At night you sit and watch as he prepares his futon. He looks at you and asks, “D’ya need one?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Don’t sleep.”

He nods before getting up to turn off the light. He opens the soft blanket and lays down. He turns to you, hesitating. He wants to know if you’re staying, if you’ll be here all night. Part of him wants to invite you to lay next to him.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you curiously.

You are smiling over him, as always. One of your hands reaches to smooth back his hair and he softens. Even with your skin always cold, his body will forever warm at your touch.

These days continue and Kita feels light, enjoying time with you, as a person. His questions fade after he succumbs to focusing on soaking in your presence. It feels good, not unlike the satisfaction of completing his daily rituals.

He looks at you closely, the way you’ve grown with him. You are still smiling, still diligent in ways that he initially failed to see as a five year old. Watchful, joyful. He doesn’t feel the smile on his face, a small one that granny notices. You are smiling too, as you take dishes he’s finished washing and run a rag across their surface. You miss some spots, little droplets sticking to the ceramic. Some fly off and land on the floor and counter.

Kita is entirely at ease. It is quaint, quiet, content.

After a few moments, you suddenly pause your drying and turn thoughtfully, towards the river. Kita watches as the faintest furrow appears between your brows, your face both pensive and concerned. You drop the rag on the counter and step away. He stares curiously, still scrubbing a plate.

“I’ll be back in a second,” you say. Nothing else, no unnecessary information. 

Fear germinates in his chest, his heartbeat picking up speed. Granny smiles at him, reassured. He wonders how she retains her calm demeanor.

When nearly ten minutes pass and you don't return, Kita tells granny he’s going to check on you. She nods in understanding as he slips on his sandals and exits through the genkan. He spots you immediately, standing between the house and the river. You’re facing the northern mountains with a frown on your face. Kita realizes this is the first time he’s seen you anything but joyful.

You answer his silent question when he stands beside you, “There’s something wrong.”

“In the forest?” he clarifies. You nod, looking onwards. He watches you for a silent minute, the way you study the sky over the ridge. 

“I think…” you start. Pause. “You should leave, with your gran. And everyone else.”

Kita's brow furrows as he looks at you skeptically. You turn to him, eyes unwavering. You never look this serious. Always nosy, unnecessary questions. Lighthearted. Messes on the floor.

“Shinsuke,” you say firmly. He startles at the sound of his full name. “Tell everyone there’s a fire—in the northern mountains. I’ll try to keep it at bay, but it’s spreading. By the time they see it, it’ll be too late. If you can evacuate the houses on the other side of the river before it’s visible, things should be okay.”

He feels a strike in his lungs, like he’s gasping for breath. He wants to ask for details, but you’ve made it clear there’s no time. You are grabbing him, your cool hand holding his wrist, as you start towards the bridge in a run. He is momentarily brought back to his sixth birthday, running behind you as you guide him along the path to the base of a mountain—your mountain. He remembers thinking that running behind you was fun.

This time you are serious, almost panicked, bringing him across the river and pointing at the houses, which ones he should evacuate first. The ones with the oldest people. Fujiwara-san is one of them. You let go of his hand and run, sprint towards the base of the mountain. He feels panicked, wondering how long it’ll take for you to come back. What it means for you to keep the fire at bay. You fade away, the blue of distance settling between you two, mistiness.

The next moments are a blur. He knocks on doors and is greeted by elders he hasn’t seen in years, ready to exclaim at how he’s grown. Their coos are interrupted by his apologies, an explanation that he got news of a wildfire and wants to make sure people have time to evacuate. He suggests that they get into their cars and head east near the highway, and to wait for official advice for next steps. He says the words, but they don’t fully register when his mind is still occupied with the memory of you sprinting to the danger. The families look at him skeptically, but they get a move on when they remember this is Shin-chan, the quiet and good-natured village boy.

He makes his way down the homes to relay the news. He asks neighbors to tell the others, and to call emergency services. There are 26 homes on this side of the river, and by the time he knocks on half the doors, smoke hangs over the mountains. No fire is in sight, but the signs are there. It makes the next conversations much quicker, and he is relieved as he watches cars pile out towards the highway.

Suddenly an alarm starts blaring. The emergency intercoms spaced along the neighborhood release a sharp and repeating warning sound. A deep voice calls out between the noise, commanding evacuation. Kita's breath is labored from the exertion of running between houses, but his chest feels lighter knowing that his responsibility has been lifted.

By the time he crosses the bridge back to granny’s home, the sky has darkened significantly, black smog blowing along and spewing upwards. There’s the slight lick of a flame creeping over the ridge and he feels his heart begin to gallop. His stomach clenches roughly when his mind flashes with images of the western mountain forest, deer and wolves and rabbits and birds. Flowers and pine and ferns. He glances that way and sees that it’s still untouched, for now.

He runs inside granny’s, calling for her to get in a neighbor’s car, since she doesn’t own one herself. She stands slowly, at her elderly pace, and Kita is restless as he helps her exit the house as quickly as she can. He takes another glance at the mountains and his heart plummets at the sight. The fire has crept over the ridge, and he can hear the distant crackling as it runs forward. Kita's eyes trail down to a figure by the bank on the opposite end of the river and recognizes you. His chest constricts with relief and concern at the sight. He tells granny to walk down to the next door neighbor, to see if she can evacuate with them. He has to lower his head to her ear so he can be heard over the sounds of the sirens and the voice on the intercom.

He starts jogging towards the bridge, to cross it, but you yell his name. It’s loud and fierce, a demand to stay put. It has a firmness that forces him to listen.

His feet stop, now directly across from you. He can see your face, the intensity in your glare. You’ve never looked at him this way.

“Don’t come!” you yell, voice almost lost over the commotion.

Kita is frowning, brow furrowed and mouth open in disbelief. He doesn’t have time to yell back before you continue.

“You have to go, Shin!” You shout. Kitas chest is heavy, and his shoulders are rigid. The flames are growing closer, rolling down the mountain. There’s a gust of wind and it blows the smoke towards the village. He can feel the heat of the burning forest.

Suddenly there are popping sounds, loud like fireworks squealing and shooting through the air. He doesn’t understand where they’re coming from, what they mean. They don’t stop, ringing through the valley and compounding with the blaring alarms, the warning voice on the speakers.

Kita doesn’t want to leave. When he looks at you, the despaired expression on your face and the many layers of hurt—layers he doesn’t understand, has never understood because he never asked—he knows that he can’t leave you. He has to do something, he is restless, like a child waiting for something that has no regular pattern, no rhyme or reason to be there in the first place. You, visiting him in Osaka.

But you won’t have any of it. “GO, SHIN!” you yell, voice booming—akin to a clap of thunder. The popping and splintering noises grow louder, and it strikes him that they are from the bamboo at the base of the mountain, the moisture in their chambers expanding enough to turn into deadly explosives. He sees a flock of birds lift from the forest behind you and fly east.

He tastes salt—tears, rolling down his cheeks and through his open lips. His voice is choked as he yells back in a desperate attempt for you to leave with him.

“I’m yer burden,” he reminds you, face scrunched in pain. His voice isn’t as loud as it should be, for you to hear him across the river. But he knows you can anyways, knows that you know he means don’t leave me, I’m the one you’re supposed to look after.

You smile sadly. He can’t tell if you’re crying too, but he can feel the same pain on your end. Your voice is equally too quiet to be heard when you respond, but it rings clearly in his mind.

“But I’m not yours.”

Your gaze is looking behind him, beyond him. He turns and his eyes widen, spotting granny slowly making her way down the path. His stomach churns—she didn’t catch the neighbor driving away. She’s coughing, unable to walk at the same time. With the smoke blowing over and granny’s old lungs, she can’t carry onwards alone. Kita hears himself curse and he rushes to her side, no hesitation as he lifts her frail body against his chest. Her head lands against his neck—her hair soft against his—and she coughs another long fit. He knows he has to leave. 

He takes one last glance at you, then at the fire crawling towards the now-emptied homes on your side of the river. The heat is increasing, blowing towards him with more smoke and ash. Five deer appear from the woods behind you and run across the bridge. You are staring at him, urging him to follow their example. He knows that he has to take care of granny, but he thinks this is the most pain he’s ever felt, buried deep in his chest. It’s the kind of pain that comes from hollowness, recognition that something vital is missing and yet somehow life is forcing him onwards regardless. He doesn’t know why this tension is there, when there’s a clear job for him to do, to do well. His face pinches, another round of tears welling before he blinks and turns to run down the path.

In this moment, he summons that unwavering confidence he has in himself. Not one of arrogance, but from the knowledge of what he is capable of, what he does everyday without failure. He runs east along the river, clutching his grandmother close. He tells himself this is any normal day of training, running to improve his endurance for volleyball. He is running besides Suna-san, who’s looking for a shortcut. He is running behind you, on your way to explore the enchanted section of pine in the mountain.

He is a toddler, carried along the path next to the river by his grandmother, seeing a mysterious child his age standing in the water. He asks who it is, pointing to a figure that granny can’t see. She tells him that he’ll learn one day, when the time is right.

He is sprinting down the same path, through smoke billowing over the valley erupting from a fire to his left, separated only by a river. Separated by you.

The honk of a car sounds behind him, a noise he barely catches with the sirens and the voices and the explosions pounding around him. He turns and sees the car of another neighbor, ushering him to get in. He veers to his left, letting the vehicle pull up beside him, and he yanks the door open, climbing inside with granny still against his chest. They lurch forwards as the driver steps on the gas and Kita guides granny to the seat beside him, reaching over to buckle her in. The interior blasts cool air and Kita is handed a water bottle.

“The fire department’s tellin’ people to evacuate to the next city,” the neighbor says. Kita nods numbly in response, unscrewing the bottle and helping granny take a few sips. She still coughs, but they’re smaller, less frequent.

With granny somewhat stable, Kita looks out the window to his left, facing the burning mountains. The car nears the ramp to the highway, starting up a mountain east of the fire. It gives him a clear view of homes being swallowed, Fujiwara-san’s one of the first.

Kita is breathless at the sight, reminded of everything these people will lose. He recalls what is already lost: the forest, the animals, the delicate combination of life that dwells in this valley. He thinks your mountain will be lost too, watching as the fire creeps west.

The popping sounds are dwindling, with the fire moving past the burnt bamboo sections and the car speeding away from the scene of destruction. But it is not quiet. There is a sudden clap of thunder that rumbles, long and gritty and deep. Kita watches as winds blow ferociously. Untouched trees sway while burning ones topple from the force. The sky is dark, a mix of smoke and storm clouds, though Kita isn’t sure when the storm began to form. He can see the water falling from the sky, blown at a sharp angle from the strength of the wind. It pelts over the mess of heat, releasing bouts of swirling steam into the air, to condense back into rain clouds.

As the car climbs higher up the mountain and the road, Kita watches the battle unfold before him. The power of rain as it fights the flames of red and gold eating the landscape. He watches the mist rising at the contact between elements, the water evaporating on impact.

He sees you in his room, that first time in Osaka when you were startled by a knock on the door. The way you went poof and disappeared.

They house granny in Osaka, taking over Kita's sister's room since she's at university in Tokyo. Kita is the one who looks after granny most carefully. It reminds him of caring for his brother when he first came to the city. He learns that granny’s house wasn’t caught in the fire. The river was an effective barrier and the rain came in time to manage any embers that had gotten blown over. The reports on the event stated that it was a miraculous storm, one that came from nowhere, completely unpredicted. It was an eventual downpour, enough to contain the fire within minutes and smother it completely in less than a half-hour. Footage from a helicopter shows the water rushing down the gullies and pouring into the river. With it carried embers, soot, ash, all piling together and flowing downstream. The next town down the river reported black water filled with sediment. A truck came in to deliver hundreds of cases of bottled water.

Aerial images reveal that nearly every house on the northern bank was claimed, only a few saved towards the east. He sees photos of the destruction. Your forest didn’t manage to escape in time, the fire stealing your enchanted pine. He wonders if you could have saved it if you didn’t prioritize his home.

There was one death: a backpacker, the person everyone believes is responsible for the disaster. Her body was completely charred, things almost entirely unidentifiable. Emergency services only picked out the metal of a stove—the decided perpetrator.

Kita has no time to grieve, with only a week before school starts again. After he helping granny get situated in the house, he immediately went to practice as a distraction. His teammates are appalled at the news, offering pats on the back and words of condolences, sighs of relief that he was lucky to leave in time.

But they don’t know what he lost. Not just the forest and the mountains, or the ability to visit his real home for months at the earliest. Even with the fire out there may be coals smoldering underground, or dangerous air wafting in the sky. The mountains won’t be green for at least a year, needing time for seeds to take root and sprout, needing seasons to accumulate rich dirt again. There’s no telling how long it will take for animals to return, birds to nestle back into shrubs or rodents to burrow again. The wolves and the deer are surely gone, evacuated to the next viable plot of land.

These aren’t the worst of his losses. What grasps his heart tightly, enough that sometimes he struggles to breathe, is the sight of you running into that smothering roll of flames. The loss of your eyes watching over him.

He dreams of fire, of heat and searing pain. His mind flashes with streaks of red and orange, billowing greys behind it. He hears the crackling of a burning forest and the popping of erupting bamboo. He wakes up panicked some nights, coated in sweat from the searing sensations he conjures in his sleep. In these moments he thinks it would help if he could be with you, your body always cool and damp, the sort of comfort that eases him, that could put out the fires of fear that grasp him.

A week later during practice, coach hands out jerseys. Kita is called first, given the number 1—captain. He blinks in surprise, having expected it to go to Aran. Nonetheless he takes the jersey and the title, and sits on the gym floor. He doesn’t register that he’s crying until he sees the teardrops fall onto the fabric, little spots of grey appearing where it was originally white.

He can hear Suna’s comment about the unfeeling robot showing emotion. He doesn’t care. He sniffles. There is a warmth in his heart that he hasn’t felt the past two weeks. He doesn’t understand where it comes from, why this of all things brings him comfort.

He tries to explain while walking home with Aran.

“I tend to agree with the adults…that the journey is more important than the destination.” His words remind him of granny at home, the way her hair skipped over his dad and went straight to him. The ace turns to him curiously, not sure what he’s getting at.

“I am built upon the small things I do everyday, and the end results are no more than a byproduct of that.”

He’s not good enough to go pro or make a living off volleyball. He just does what needs to be done, what fits into his routine—taking care of his body, cleaning up after himself, being courteous, and…volleyball. He holds up this jersey, looks at how it’s branded with 1, the captain’s number.

“Maybe this is just another result of the things I do.”

Aran blinks, stutters for a moment when he realizes what Kita is implying. “Don’t just—don’t sweat the small stuff! You don’t have to have some sort of logic behind your feelings!! If you’re happy, then you’re happy…that’s it!”

They hold eye contact after Aran’s outburst, and then Kita erupts into laughter. The ace watches his captain skeptically, not intending for his heartfelt advice to be amusing. His shoulders slump when he realizes this is the hardest he’s seen Kita laugh, ever.

Kita is reminded of all those times he couldn’t understand what he was feeling, why he was being drawn to do something he knew he logically didn’t want. All the moments he saw you and felt skeptical of the questions he wanted to ask, the embrace he wanted to pull you in, the warmth he felt in your presence—the way his brain and his logic denied him something he wanted, because there was no explicable reason for it. He thinks of the way you left, the way it hurt like no injury he’s ever lived through. He thinks of the lack of your gaze following him since just two weeks ago, the way he misses it but refuses to admit to it.

“You’re right,” he tells Aran.

By the time school is ending and he plays his final match, you are still not watching him. He feels the eyes of his granny and the eyes of his school on his back. The brooding eyes of Karasuno are on him when he is subbed for Aran in the second set. But yours are still missing.

He, however, has his eyes on his team the entire game, picking out their mistakes and what he knows is the misguided thinking behind them: Gin’s impatience, Atsumu and Osamu’s carelessness, Suna’s laziness. He stands behind them, the defense specialist who will receive the ball, and the one who’s eyes linger on their backs. He is watching them. He is like the lingering mist that wafts behind them, telling them that someone will see, whether they work hard until the very end, or let themselves succumb to their impulses. 

Kita has lived his entire life under your careful gaze. To cope with its absence, he has learned to become the omnipresent eyes backing up his team.

Adulthood

Granny always told him that someone was watching, and your gaze was proof. But at some point he realized that he wasn’t doing it for the spirits, that it didn’t matter either way. His work ethic would be the same even if you never saw him. This realization holds more weight when it is carried out in practice, Kita living his life with the same repetition, perseverance, and diligence in your absence. It makes him feel good, eases the emptiness. So he does it well, and he does it everyday.

He graduates at the top of his class, with grades that could get him into any university, launch him into any career he could imagine. And yet when the year passes and granny says she wants to return to the valley, Kita knows where he will go.

When he pulls into the neighborhood, his eyes are glued to the mountain. There are still trees and bamboo standing, though they are charred corpses. Debris of coals and fallen leaves litter the ground, coating the forest in brown and black. A light layer of green sits atop the earthy tones, sprigs of saplings and shrubs breaking the surface. Kita’s chest expands at the sight, a glimmer of hope.

There are only a few other neighbors who have returned, most still with family in the city. Kita speaks with some of them and gathers that they figure it’s a sign to leave the countryside—to better opportunities and a more convenient life. He wonders what will happen to this village if everyone decides to flee, who will take the land. Maybe the government will turn it into a Hyogo heritage site, a place people will flock to as a sort of pilgrimage. To see the brittle remains of homes and the earth’s attempt at recovery.

Kita knows that he wants to stay here, that granny does too. He’s not sure how it’ll work, but he can’t imagine himself anywhere else. His parents are skeptical, figuring that he’ll make an attempt only to eventually fold for a city job, but they forget that one of Kita’s life pillars is perseverance. He will find a way.

The way opens itself to him the following day. The April air is cool when he goes for a midday walk, crossing the bridge to the burned edge of the river. He trails along the slight incline towards the skeleton of Fujiwara’s home. There is only the charred foundation and a couple ragged beams standing upright, the rest collapsed into rubble. For a moment he can imagine you, running from the back door and into the front room with a bundle of grapes. He hears the distant whispers of Fujiwara’s protests as he follows slowly.

Kita walks to the once-veranda, experimentally standing on the elevated foundation. The charred wood creaks beneath him, but feels sturdy enough to hold. He carefully ambles along the collapsed room, scanning the damage. He manages to cross the house and reach the back exit, and he pauses at the sight.

The ground outside is similarly littered with earthy debris, patchy with occasional new grasses and saplings. Fujiwara’s garden is gone, no more grape trellises or rows of starches. But there is a small square, less than a tsubo, dug into the dirt. Kita knows what this sort of sunken patch means, has seen them in some of the neighbors’ backyards growing up, flooded and filled with lines of grassy crop. He steps carefully from the foundation of the house and curiously stands over the square, imagining the rice that would be planted at the end of the month.

He hears footsteps from near the house and turns to see Mayumi-san, the one who drove Kita and granny out of the valley during the fire. She looks healthy despite being in her seventies, carrying a shovel and a hoe as she makes her way over.

“Ah, Shin-chan,” she greets him. “S’been a while, good to see ya again. What’re ya doin’ out here?”

He bows slightly as he greets her and explains that he was exploring the neighborhood, since he only just returned. He asks about the rice garden.

“I was testin’ to see how it’d grow, since the ash can help sometimes,” she explains. “I came back early after the fire, n’Fujiwara said I could use his yard since he’s probably stayin’ in the city with his daughter.”

An excitement sparks in Kita’s chest, like something clicked into place. He’s not sure what it is exactly, but he presses her. “How’d it do?”

Mayumi smiles, one that looks devilish and would be frightening if he wasn’t accustomed to seeing it. “Shit’s the best yield I’ve ever had. M’gonna try to dig a few more plots, maybe sell ‘em at the city markets.”

This is his way, he realizes. He sees the shovel in her right hand and hoe in the left and speaks before he can register the words. “Y’want any help?”

The rest of April is spent preparing the land with Mayumi and pouring over books on agriculture. He soaks in his elder’s expertise on the subject, in the abstract and the field. When the end of the month rolls around and the two of them begin sowing seeds, Kita thinks that for the first time since your absence that he feels whole. He is here in the valley, between your two homes, dedicating himself to the land that you led him through as a child. He thinks he can feel your presence while working, your hands misting over his, transplanting seedlings with him. The rains that come in are well timed, bringing rushing water down the mountain to flood the few squares of crops.

The days pass with granny, some quick and others slow. She does well in the village, with other people her age, though the company is sparse. Kita can sense that it’s hard for her sometimes, but like himself she is malleable to her environment, can make do as long as she has her routines. Her lungs aren’t as strong as they used to be, but she enjoys her walks and can maintain the chores—the ones Kita lets her.

When September comes in, Kita and Mayumi spend one sunny day harvesting. Kita wields his scythe carefully, the movement unpracticed. He grasps the dry stalks and runs the blade across the taut stems, bundling them on the ground to be collected. They gather the clumps and carry them to the house next to Mayumi’s—another neighbor who hasn’t returned since evacuation. 

Mayumi prepares a sheet across the main room for them to work on. Then they thresh the harvest, grabbing the bundles and smacking them against the floor, pelts of rice springing off the stems. Kita is reminded of water, of rain splashing against the surface of the river. When all the stalks have been emptied, they spread the seeds of gold with their hands, like smoothing the creases of a futon. The day’s work is over, now waiting for the crop to dry. They exit, leaving a few of the screens open to let new waves of dry air flow through.

Kita finds these processes fulfilling, like his own daily routine. It’s another series of tasks that can be learned and done well. The result is his own sustenance, something he can live off of and share with others. It tastes better, he thinks, once he’s experienced the entire journey.

He tells his old teammates that he’ll be in Osaka next month for the markets. They only have a few dozen bags to sell, but he wants to get his friends’ opinions.

The markets are energetic and amiable. Kita shares with curious shoppers the story of the valley, how the burned houses and their backyards left ash that the rice took to. People find the narrative compelling, and they buy the rice despite the hefty price tag. Other vendors are interested, some make purchases to try in their food. Kita enjoys the atmosphere, the way these people and their businesses are connected. He and Mayumi manage to sell all the rice they brought. It’s hardly a profit, but it’s promising.

The next day Kita is in the Miya’s home with the additional company of Suna and Gin. They talk about life, preparation for nationals, what they’re thinking of doing when school ends. Atsumu is going pro, taking volleyball as far as he can. Osamu is ending it here, contemplating career options. He says he’s looking for restaurant jobs; he wants to be a chef.

“Yer gonna be a farmer, huh?” Atsumu asks, laying back on the couch. “It suits ya, that simple life.”

Kita nods. “Knew I needed to take care of granny, that I was gonna be in the valley anyways. One of the neighbors was growing some an’ I asked to help—wanted to see what it was like. S’gonna take time, but we’re gonna try to get the land from the neighbors, see if we can apply for subsidies ‘cause of the fire. Then we’ll try t’upscale. The market yesterday was good.”

Gin sighs, “Ever the considerate and diligent Shin-chan.”

“The rice is good,” Osamu interjects. “It’d be good for onigiri.”

It is, it turns out. After three years, Osamu decides to leave the restaurant he started working for out of highschool and open his own onigiri store. Kita is their main rice supplier, and a customer who never has to pay. They have classic flavors in the beginning: tuna mayo, pickled plum, ikura. When Kita comes with his next delivery, Osamu sits him in the dining room and has him try new options. The former captain takes his job as taste-tester seriously, his diligence appreciated by the former setter. They decide that the shrimp and beef flavors are ready to be sold, but the chicken needs reworking.

Kita gets into his truck that evening and drives home. The sun sets by the time he enters the valley, winding through roads in the black darkness. When he arrives at granny’s and exits the car, he sees that the sky is beautifully clear. The Milky Way spreads itself over the northern mountains, where life is still recovering, slowly but surely. He takes in the view for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet noise of the night—soft rushing water from the river, chirping insects, occasional wind.

He notices the blinking lights that cross the expanse of stars: planes and satellites. He sighs, remembering a time when he could sit on the top of the mountain and witness an unobscured view of the sky, taking up the entirety of his visual landscape.

Suddenly there is a shooting star, the most intense he’s ever seen. It’s a bright flash of light, he thinks for a moment white and orange and pink, that darts from the east and disappears as it curves west. Its trajectory gives the illusion that if it touched the ground, it would land on your mountain, that special enchanted forest.

After a few more minutes of watching, of relishing the awe, he makes his way inside. Granny is asleep, so he heads straight to bed.

When he wakes the next morning, for the first time in years—since that fire crawled along an entire mountain and you left to put an end to it—he feels the prickly sensation that he’s being watched.

Life doesn’t change with you watching him. Life didn’t change when you stopped. It’s something he knew, something you knew. He carries onwards, his routine of life, one that he does well and does everyday. He and Mayumi expand the fields again, creeping their business along the length of the river. Kita slowly takes on more farm responsibility, knowing enough to work independently when Mayumi needs to rest with increasing frequency. Granny is similar—she likes to help sometimes, with the easier work, but her lungs still struggle, never fully recovered.

It’s a beautiful morning, with cool air entering the house and light diffusing through the shoji. He can hear the birds and the rustling of leaves outside when he wakes, blinking away the lingering visions of orange and red from his dreamscape. He opens the screen towards the river while he puts away his futon and prepares for the day.

Granny isn’t in the main room as per usual. Kita pays it no mind, assuming she’ll be in soon. He makes breakfast and waits for her. She doesn’t come in on time. Kita stands to search, thinking she may have missed the time.

He enters her room and sees she’s still sleeping. He crouches over her to gently rock her awake, but there is no response. At that moment he realizes she is not breathing, not making a sound. He freezes, feels his heart plummet. He carefully lifts her hand from under the blankets—still warm—and checks to see if there’s a pulse. It’s quiet, flat.

He moves slowly, processing, sitting back on his heels next to her. His throat is tight and his chest—it’s hard to breathe. He shakily inhales through his nose and holds her hand in both of his. There’s a stinging behind his eyes and suddenly he is crying, weeping openly as he holds onto her. Death is the logical consequence of living, one of the only certainties of life; knowing this does not make Kita’s loss any less painful. While the hurt sits heavily in his chest, there is a growing spark of gratitude for her, that they were able to spend the beginning of his life and the end of her’s together.

Granny’s passing brings her closer to Kita, in a way. He feels that there are now two pairs of eyes on him, watching over him. When he looks in the mirror and sees his grey hair, granny’s hair, he thinks that he will always be a piece of her living on, that it’s his duty to live earnestly for her. He makes a shrine for her in one of the rooms of the house, placing her urn in the center. It is a beautiful grey clay, narrow and unglazed. A black thread ties the lid to the body.

She becomes another part of his routine, sitting before her remains and her images with his hands clasped and eyes closed.

Life goes on.

A month later he is in the field, tending to his crop. It’s late in the day, when the sun is near setting. The pink of the sky reflects onto the flooded beds, interrupted by sprigs of green. He inhales, appreciating the scenery, before exhaling and continuing his work. When he looks up a moment later, he is frozen by the sight.

There’s a wolf, large and grey, like the first one he saw as a child in the pine forest. He is not afraid, but in awe. A wolf returning means there’s prey: rabbits and deer. It means the forest is recovering, that creatures are finding their way back. He takes in the strong figure of the predator in front of him, sturdy and confident. A movement flashes in his peripheral, three pups catching up. Shin notices that one is nearly white, standing out from the others. He thinks of himself in Osaka, with his relatives.

When the pups catch up, the mother turns away and carries on.

Kita finishes his work before the sun fully sets. A light rain begins, clouds absorbing the vivid hues of sunfall, and he hurries to collect his tools before crossing the bridge home. The drizzling turns into solid pelting by the time he makes it to the empty house. He turns back briefly, squinting through the water collecting in his eyelashes, to see how long the downpour will last.

There’s a figure, at the other side, and his eyes widen in shock. He drops his tools and takes a few hurried steps closer, searching for confirmation.

Through the rain he can see you, standing at the other bank. You are smiling, he can tell, with your shoulders pulled upwards as if embarrassed. He thinks he is dreaming, that this is impossible. You, in flesh and bones, standing in front of the remnants of Fujiwara’s once home. He does not realize that he is smiling back, eyes crinkling and collecting water—his own tears as they spill—and grin spanning impossibly wide. His chest feels like it’s lifting, floating him in the air, to you on the other side.

Suddenly you are running forwards, not towards the bridge, but down the bank, to cross the water. Kita’s face flashes with concern and he starts down his own side, slipping through the mud. By the time he reaches the shore you have swum halfway across, long confident strokes despite the speed of the current. Kita marches forward, water touching his waist when he finally reaches you. He grabs your outstretched hand and tugs you into him, engulfing you in his chest and arms. You are as cold as the water surrounding him, but his body explodes with warmth at the contact, at finally being with you.

His heart races as he clutches you close, in an iron grip that refuses to relent. He thinks he hears you laugh against him, and he chokes out some strangled mixture of a laugh and sob. The water makes it hard for him to stand steady, so he brings one arm beneath you to lift you from the sediment and carry you to the bank. There he sets you down and grabs your waist firmly, staring at you with disbelief. You are smiling with all the glee in the world, eyes nearly closed by the force of it.

“I made it, Shin-chan.”

He doesn’t know what that means, but he thinks of the shooting star and the wolf, the rice fields filling easily without additional irrigation.

You lean forwards and wrap your arms over his shoulders, clutching him close. His arms come around your waist and he thinks he can recognize his feelings: relief and homecoming. There is a fullness, one that is close to painful, a pain he had been living with for years in your absence. He pulls you up the bank, to bring you into the house. He leaves his tools out, to be dealt with tomorrow, and goes straight for the genkan. 

You try to protest when he passes the spigot, “Shin, the mud—”

But he doesn’t care, kicking off his boots to be cleaned later. The mixture of river water and mud splatter on the tile of the genkan, leaving brown puddles and smears. Kita removes his socks and drops them behind him, letting his clean feet be the barrier between himself and the floor. He carries you to the bathroom, to deal with the mess together.

At night you are in his room, watching him set up the futon. He looks at you to ask, “D’ya need one?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Let’s share.”

His heart pounds loudly in his ears. He nods quickly and pushes the blanket aside for the two of you. He clutches you close under the soft comforter, your head slotting snugly in the space of his neck. It sends a shiver down his spine, the chilliness, but it coats him in warmth. He can feel his heart still racing, never fully calmed since seeing you. He feels those questions and thoughts bubbling up, words he always found unnecessary to say. Something about this moment lets him release them, lets him be curious about you.

“Didn’t know if I’d ever see ya again,” he says quietly, into your hair.

You nestle your head further into his neck. He can feel your lips against his throat as you speak. “It took a lot from me, the fire. Always need time to recover.”

His hand comes up to cradle your head, smoothing through your hair.  The image of the rainstorm flashes before him, the way the clouds swarmed from a previously blue sky to pour everything it had—everything you had—to put out the fire. He remembers the awe he felt, the sublimity of the view from a car fleeing the scene.

He doesn’t dream that night, his mind like an empty gulley, letting the soothing rainwater rush through him.

He cleans up after himself in the morning, retrieving his tools and mopping the genkan. It takes a while, though, interrupting his work several times to check that you are still in his room. You haven’t risen by the time he finishes making breakfast. A panic sits in his chest as he enters to wake you. You are still asleep, and he relaxes when he sees the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath the covers.

He sits on his knees beside you and gives your body a gentle rock. Your eyes peel open after a moment of stirring, and you are already smiling. Kita thinks it brightens the room more than the sun streaming in, that life is breathed into him from you.

You notice the granny’s shrine at breakfast. After assisting with cleanup, you ask if the small urn is all the ashes he has of her. He shakes his head and shows you the drawer in the display, where a box lays with the majority of her cremated remains.

“I wasn’ sure where t’put her,” he tells you.

You have an idea.

Only a few minutes later the two of you are exiting through the genkan, dressed for a day in the woods. Kita has a backpack on, the box from the shrine tucked safely inside. He lets you take the lead, turning left down the path and towards the western mountain. He is reminded of his sixth birthday, running to the end of the dirt road for the first time, panting to keep up with you. This time you are calmly walking hand in hand, in no hurry. Kita squeezes yours tightly, a necessary action to express the feeling in his heart.

You smile at him, and bring his hand to your mouth, kissing the back of it. Kita inhales in surprise and you watch his ears turn red, giggling at the sight.

When you two reach the end of the road, the rock face is still standing sturdy. He can see burned trees standing at the base, your mountain not untouched by the disaster. However, like the other forests, it is recovering, hope sprouting in the form of ferns and saplings. He sees a rabbit scurry away and a soft smile crosses his face.

You head first down the bank and into the water as usual, him following with his hand in yours. The cool water creeps up, only up to his knees now that he is grown. The water is easier to navigate in his adult body, and he effortlessly steps up the rocks to the forest floor, ones he used to scramble over on his hands and feet. The ground crunches beneath him. There is a patchy layer of pine needles—short ones—spreading along. The ground is not fluffy from decades of accumulation, but it’s a start. Small saplings bring bursts of fresh green, prickly when he brushes against them. The ferns hide beneath them, avoiding the scorching sun.

History repeats itself as you pull him forwards, along the river and through the early rebirth of the enchanted pine forest. The fallen tree that once served as a bridge is miraculously intact, though the top is scorched and he feels unsteady walking to the other side.

Wandering through the forest is another type of home. He hadn’t taken it upon himself to explore since returning, not wanting to disrupt the delicate healing of the ecosystem. He trusts you, though, and the path you’ll lead him to experience the land without damaging it further.

He notices that you are taking him to a section that he hasn’t been often, not a regular spot during your times together as kids. But it makes sense when you arrive at the small clearing and he sees the massive pine from his memory. It is thick with twisting branches, sturdy. Some of them are blackened from the fire, but others are coated in fresh needles, long and green, waving gently in the wind. He is surprised he hasn’t seen this miracle before, from the house. Maybe the distance obscured the view.

Kita walks slowly to the base of the tree and looks up towards its canopy. He can see the contrast of the charred and ashy sections of trunk against the rich brown of its healthy, resilient branches. The green shines brightly against the black and grey, proud of its revival.

He shrugs his backpack from his shoulders, understanding that this is where granny should be. He lowers to his knees before he unzips the bag and carefully removes the box. It’s a light wood, with tan streaks running along the grain. Pine, he thinks to himself in disbelief.

He slowly unlatches the box and sets it on the bed of brown needles near the trunk. There’s a plastic bag inside, tied with a simple overhand knot. He undoes it gently, slowly unfurling it to roll open and over the edge of the box. It’s the first time he’s looking at her remains, he realizes, and he notices that they are grey, grey ash with clumps of small black coals.

You watch as he moves slowly, cupping soft remains in his calloused hands.

“It’s like your hair,” you say.

He cries, letting out soft, ragged breaths between quick inhales. His weeping lasts the entirety of the time it takes him to spread the ashes at the base of the tree, where it meets the ground. When he finishes you crouch behind him and wrap your arms around his torso. He continues to cry. You feel it, his chest heaving with grief and mourn, love and gratitude. He brings his palms to his eyes to wipe the tears, but they continue to fall, splatter the earth beneath him with feeling.

You listen quietly as his sobs fill the space between rustling leaves and distant cooing birds. Eventually you take one hand from his torso to rub his back slowly, soothingly. 

His noises eventually lull, quieting to the occasional sniffle. He gently pushes the bag into the pine box and then slowly closes the lid and does the clasp. He returns it to the backpack with careful, practiced motions. Your arms release him when you sense he wants to stand. He turns around to face you, you and the valley below.

He watches you closely, runs his eyes over your face, eyes and nose and lips. He wants to memorize your soft smile, the way it warms him like the sun.

You bring your hands to his cheeks, their coolness refreshing after crying so heavily. He leans into your touch and closes his eyes, soaking in the contradicting ways you make him feel—this tug between heat and cold. He feels you press a kiss on his temple, then the other. They’re smeared with the grey ash and black coals, transferring the dust onto your lips. He sighs, in peace, and brings his hands to cover yours. 

When he opens his eyes once more, he looks behind you through the space between the trees, to the valley below him, spanning wide. He is reminded of the thousands of years it took these mountains to form, the thousands of years it took for the forest to grow on top of it. He knows that the fire he witnessed was not the first to rage across the land, and it certainly won’t be the last. He takes in the growth and change that has developed in the past few years, sparkles of hope in a collapse of despair. He recognizes that the destruction is an opportunity for something new, for him to be part of building the next beautiful forest that will rise.

He has lived for what feels like forever, and yet an entire life lays ahead of him. A life with the forest and the mountains and the river. A life with granny’s spirit watching over him, her hair and remains guiding him forwards. A life of working the land and growing something for himself, for others.

A life of unnecessary questions, ones he struggles to ask. A life of inexplicable feelings, ones he’s learning to let in.

A life with you. Here.

i know i said minor character death and then killed granny,, she's a minor character in haikyuu!! but she is a main character in my heart

anyways here's the afterword

[alanisinstone]

okay bluecollar!rafe but yall. can we make it MARINE!RAFE?? or more specifically MARSOC!rafe* who works for ward at cameron construction co. on leave?? like hello i need him bad guys.

cw: MDNI smut, cursing, stuff in public, food play, cum eating, military stuff, ass play, manhandling, 1 mention of fighting, recording

*marsoc: Marine Forces Special Operations Command - basically what COD men do

like he starts off as a standard private officer after enlisting when you guys graduate high school. he works his way up from private to corporal to sergeant major, and then eventually to captain, colonel, then general. i mean hes fucking unstoppable, hes blowing thru these ranks like nobodys fuckin business, and he not stopping anytime soon baby he in his primeeee.

he moves on to MARSOC and leads a small team on SPEC-OP missions in like borneo. hes literally the best of the best. his full file is like 4 pounds, full of successful recon missions, confirmed kills, successful captures of enemy targets, accurate tracking efforts, successful counterterrorism efforts, successful hostage rescue and successful direct action raids. when theres a REAL threat? they call LT Cameron. callsign? RAIDER

NOW. when baby comes home on leave he works at the family construction company ward owns, building giant beach houses for rich kooks. he eventually inherits cameron construction when ward gets too old to work and he helps ward retire bcs of the cash from being the most elite soldier in the US military. bae is tannnn bcs of construction work ofc, but also since being in the military he likes to go on runs and be in nature to clear his head. and yall alr know hes yatteddddd, both sleeves done by his boy at home on the cut, who happens to be a very talented tattoo artist (barry...)

strictly keeps a buzz for deployment but will grow out a mullet when hes home. signature gold chain is always on, and has a tat on his ring finger for you and maybe one on his forearm. does he have both ears pierced with fake diamond studs in? yes.

is currently in the blueprint stage for a beach house he wants to build you on figure 8 (and one in florida... and will probably start planning another one if he ends up having a long ship-out next deployment) even tho he despises rich fucks and is suchhhh a country boy. i mean hes like pogue!rafe but hes more of a mudding, dirt biking, bonfire, shotgunning beer, lifted truck, bar hop, football game kind of guy. and the most elite soldier in the US military ofc.

takes you on stargazing dates and fucks you in the truck bed, a big beach towel set down and his head in your neck while he ruts into you short and fast. occasionally gets into bar fights when some dick is tryna say sum to u. is such an ass man and will smack and grope that shit wheneverrrr whereverrrr - has zoned out of convos with people while feelin HIS booty up + loves to grip your pussy with his big ass paw when no one is looking.

has a super firm grip due to years of being a marine and WILL manhandle ur ass around - into various positions, onto the bed or couch or counter or etc., up over his shoulder when you gettin on his nerves. gets actually animalistic when yall fuckin, and yk that boy a munch. growls and grunts sooo loud the whole time.

will take you to the dock and fuck you on the family fishing boat. will christen any new bar yall go to by fucking you in the gross bathroom and carving both your initials in the wall with his pocket knife that ward gave him when he was 15. is kinky af but lets u bring it up bcs he feels awkward talking about it. is sooooo nasty - will eat his cum out of you with his whole mouth, eyes locked on yours, sucking your lips into his mouth. then, when it’s not enough, he drags you up to sit on his face and rubs your clit, watching you clench and letting his cum drip from you right onto his tongue.

will stick a thumb in your ass during doggy, while reaching for his phone bcs the way u throwin that ass back on him? yall bout to make another movie. loves watching you clean him up after round 5, when his dick is covered in his and your cum - will not let you miss a spot, even where it dripped down over his hefty balls to his ass. and he rarely shaves - uncut.

if it’s a hot day, he’ll turn the ac off and find you so he can lick the sweat off every crevice of your beautiful body while he’s fucking you over the counter. both of you completely butt naked bcs it’s hot. has a sweet tooth - will interrupt you while you’re baking and strip you, laying you on the counter like the dessert you are and eating the frosting off his favorite parts. get especially excited when it comes to sweets on your nipples.

honestly if that aint a FEASTTTT i dont know what issss

[tender-rosiey]

can i have more gojo fluff plsplsplspls i crave for more gojo fluff

gossip — gojo satoru xf!reader

a/n: gossip with husband gojo is here everyone! next up is sick gojo ;)) ( also sorry to all the stacy's out there; i am sure you are all wonderfull <33)

you and your husband love shit-talking people and the thing is you don’t even have to say anything. one look at each other and you both know what you’re both thinking.

consequently, it makes you guys absolutely terrible in a meeting.

and this is something that happens ever since you were students.

for example, yaga was lecturing you and the others about something. you and satoru locked eyes for a single moment, looked at yaga, then at each other once again.

both of you are barely able to contain your smiles.

in this relationship, you’re supposed to be the mature one, at least, before gojo mouthed a “tennis ball” pointing at his own head.

it looks like that was your breaking point because you started cackling loudly and almost fell off your chair if it wasn’t for satoru teleporting beside you and holding you up— barely holding back a cackle of his own.

yaga merely sighed, pinching his nose.

you tried your best to breathe out a sorry, but satoru is merciless as he continues joking about his teacher’s hairstyle which makes you laugh even louder.

yaga could smack gojo across the head and lecture you both separately.

but he guesses that with the way gojo’s eyes are brimming with adoration and the way you’re laughing and making the others around you laugh as well, he can let it pass.

even if it’s at his own expense this time.

everyone needed a laughing break every once in a while, especially as sorcerers.

now nothing has changed. you’re both married, completely in love and are teachers.

and you’re supposed to be teaching your class, at the moment.

but your dumbass of a husband thought it would be better to teleport to your favourite café and judge every poor soul out there.

“he looks like he eats deodorant.”

“he looks like he has a body pillow for a wife.”

“she looks like she thinks babies come from storks.”

“she looks like she eats soap and chia seeds for breakfast.”

“satoru, please,” you wheeze, hand over your mouth to muffle your laughs, “I c-can’t take it anymore!”

“but y/n, I can’t help myself! also that couple over there looks like the ones that wear matching hello kitty pijamas.”

you perk up at that, “satoru, we did that too.”

“I know, honey,” he quips, eyes locking with your own, “it’s cool when we do it, not anyone else,” he argues with a proud smile.

you shake your head as you mumble, “hypocrite,” and satoru gasps while trying to defend himself.

another instance is while training the first and second years.

naturally, you were sat beside satoru, but the idiot could not keep his mouth shut and you were, too easily, dragged into it.

he leans towards you, “I can’t believe that that yuuji went into the water with socks. what’s wrong with him?!”

“I know, right?” you whisper, amidst the yelling of nobara and maki.

after that, you and gojo don’t leave a student without making a comment about them—ruthless you are.

yuuji, self-esteem dragged through the mud and having enough, heads snaps towards you both, “can you stop bullying me?!”

satoru smiles while the both of you raises your hands in innocence then looks at you, “sweets, you know how megumi said todo’s head is like a pineapple?”

you nod and he gladly continues, “don’t you think it’s ironic that it’s him, out of everyone, that said that?—“

“DON’T DRAG ME INTO YOUR GOSSIP!”

and even though you talk about the kids, you also talk with them about everyone else.

you can never forget that time you went with the first years to get some sushi.

you had left no one in the restaurant without butchering their entire life or alternatively said: you made up stories for every person you saw.

but that shall be the story of another time.

along with judging every creature that has come to existence, you and your husband love to gossip, a lot.

nothing happens without one telling the other; you always keep the other updated about everything.

so today as you slam the door open, you are barely able to contain yourself as you yell out, “satoru, you will not guess what just happened!”

in an instance, he gets all the snacks and sits in front of you on the couch, face eager as ever.

he is wearing that bunny headband you got him for the self-care nights and you smile: you have both a best friend and a husband in the same person.

he leans forward, eyes wide, “is it about stacy?”

“how did you know?” you gasp before taking a bite from one of the many snacks laid on the table.

he shrugs, “lucky guess, plus! I’ve been curious ever since you told me about what she did! it’s hard to believe that she is dating 4 guys at the same time and they don’t even know that the other exists.”

“right? I’ve heard about two-timing but never four-timing, and speaking of them not knowing about each other,” you smirk and his eyes light up in excitement, “they found out today!”

satoru cackles before pulling you in to cuddle you, “I bet a story like that will take the entire night to tell.”

you look up at him, “and you don’t mind?”

he kisses your cheek leaving an obnoxiously loud sound, “of course not! I get to listen to some juicy and hot tea and I get to hear your gorgeous voice for a really long time! so practically heaven for me, sweets,” he grins.

a giggle escapes your lips, “gossip is heaven for you, my dear husband?”

“gossip with you is heaven for me, my dear wife,” he murmurs as he peppers your face with kisses before abruptly pulling back, “now tell me! I am dying to know!”

you laugh, “okay, so one of them…”

and so you tell the story of stacy, the four-timer.

satoru is hung up on your every word and you’ve yet to figure out whether it’s because two of the boyfriends end up fighting each other or because of something else.

to satoru, it’s clear, your voice and the way you’re so excited while telling him about how the third boyfriend ended up being the son of the ceo makes him smile contently as he hugs you closer.

he doesn’t know what else to do, but he has a feeling that he should thank stacy for providing the both of you with a very interesting story like that.

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss @pompompurin1028 @scul-pted @dazaisdeathwish @requiem626k @nameless-shrimp @shinys-bsd-world-1 @sonder-paradise @ravenina14 @jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies @pianopuppygirl @gojosblackqueen @jisbizarre @kunikida-simp @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso @4sat0ruu

copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[bandgie]

Only if You Say Yes | Armageddon Event

Request: Pride | Park Sunghoon (ENHA) by anon song!

warnings! MDNI18+, fem!reader, college au, jealousy (mutual), hurt/comfort, fwb→lover/exes→lovers (depends how you look at it), alcohol mentions (no one is drunk) reader makes out with Jake, sunghoon is a bit of an asshole and controlling lol, PIV, no protection, failed pull-out method, make-up sex, semi-dom reader, cowgirl, brief fingering

notes! I kinda went off im sorry. trying out the angst I guess. last rec of the event!! (thank god)

5.4k words

It doesn’t bother you at all. Not how her hands caress his shoulders and pull him closer. Not how he leans into her touch, a shit-eating grin on his lips like he knows you’re watching. Even if they’re practically glued to each other on the couch, acting as if they’re anything more than fuck buddies - it doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

The reason your chest aches and your face feels hot is because of the alcohol. Jungle juice from college parties never sits right with you. This drink isn’t an expectation, but shit, you didn’t think it’d make your heart race.

“Fucking creep.” Sunoo sneers unashamedly. “Look at Sunghoon, looking at you like that bitch isn’t sucking off his face. I hate that guy.” He looks at you, an eyebrow arched and pouty lips forming a frown. “I can’t believe you hooked up with him.”

Hooking up with him would be an understatement. Sunghoon is a good lay, a great lay if you want to be honest. He was as good with his words as he was with his dick. You knew nothing would ever blossom beyond a good fuck, but damn. Why does he have to keep eyeing you like he knows?

“It’s whatever.” You shrug, eyes moving to the sea of people in the cramped apartment. “I don’t care.”

But Sunoo knows better, the smile settling on his lips says it all. “Right. Well, I think you should get your freak on girl. You’re having dick withdrawals. It’s bad for the heart…and pussy.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes despite a grin creeping on your lips. “Oh my god. You’re stupid.” Sunoo laughs with you, his pretty eyes turning into moon crescents. It makes you feel lighter like Sunghoon’s stare is nothing more than a fly buzzing around you. “But I think I’m done with hookups for a while. I have assignments to do and shit.”

“Ugh! Babe, you’re such a stick in the mud. Just a quick little make-out never hurt anyone.” He wiggles his eyes suggestively. “Could also make a little someone jealous.”

When you roll your eyes again, it’s pure irritation. “Anywho, I wouldn’t even know who with. Unless this is your way of asking me, and if so, I accept.” You pucker your lips, closing your eyes and leaning in only to be met with the palm of Sunoo’s smooth hand.

“Ew! Bitch, be serious. You know damn well you are not my type. I’m talking about Jake!”

That makes your eyes open and tilt your head so look at your friend. “Jake? I don’t think we’re very uh…compatible.”

Sunoo’s gaze fixes behind you. His hand lowers to his side and he smirks. “Guess we’re about to find out. Hey Jake!”

Speak of the fucking devil.

He comes from behind, and the sound of his heavy shoes echo like an omen. Jake nods in acknowledgment to Sunoo, eyes bouncing between you both. “Hey. Didn’t expect to see you two here.”

The black shirt clings to him nicely, the outline of his pecs visible. He wears a silver chain around his neck that only accentuates his jawline. And when he smiles, he directs it at you. “Especially you. I thought you’d be too busy moping.”

A look of shock ripples through you. It takes a few blinks and the awkward opening and closing of your mouth before you say, “W-what? Why?”

Jake looks confused for a second. He turns to the couch at the other side of the room where Sunghoon is now squished between two girls.

You take a swig of the burning alcohol. 

“Weren’t you guys dating or something?”

Sunoo snorts, quickly covering his mouth and pinching his nose. You look at him, but his eyes tell you that he hasn’t said a peep about anything. You look back to Jake. “No? Where did you hear that from?”

More confusion etches on his masculine features. “Uh…Sunghoon?”

This time, Sunoo can’t contain his laughter. His giggles cause the people around him to look, but all you can focus on is the sincerity in Jake’s words. “What?”

“Oh, fuck me.” Sunoo’s face is flushed. “I need a drink.” Before you could even hold him captive, your friend quickly weaves through the drunk swarm of bodies to leave you and Jake.

Whatever. “What do you mean he said we were dating?”

“Okay, he didn’t use that word, but pretty much. I don’t wanna say too much, but he was basically acting like you two were an item.”

You shake your head. “Bullshit. Is that why he’s about to have a threesome on the couch right now?”

Jake sighs. “Well, now it’s different. He didn’t really tell me much other than that you dumped him-”

“We weren’t even dating.”

“Fine. That you told him to buzz off and he’s just trying to find a rebound. Listen, I know you don’t believe me, but Sunghoon was really…into you. He stopped hooking up with other people when he started seeing you.”

You hate the way your heart clenches. Like him keeping it in his pants is something romantic. “I…I don’t believe you.”

Jake shrugs. “I know. Sunghoon is a bit too prideful to admit when he likes someone. Sorry you had to put up with him.”

Despite the lump in your throat, you give a weak smile. “I did it to myself. I should have known. But if you’re really sorry, you should make out with me.”

Jake laughs with nervousness. “I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“Hardly. This tastes like shit.” You wave the cup in the air, causing the liquid to slosh inside. “I’m being serious. About kissing. I think I need a rebound too.”

Most men are put off by the idea of having seconds, but Jake isn’t most men. “But me? You know I’ve been friends with Sunghoon since high school, right?”

You nod, trying so hard to hide the smile coming on your lips.

Jake grins widely. “Oh, I get it.” He leans down, an arm propping up on the counter and tilting his head so his mouth perfectly aligns with yours. He smells expensive, like not even a drop of liquor has managed to soil his clothing. “You’re too pretty to be so cruel.” But he doesn’t kiss you, not yet.

His nose touches the tip of yours and lowers until it grazes your chin. A breath gets caught in your throat when he trails over your jawline, finding the spot beneath your ear so he can whisper. “Is he looking?”

You’re almost scared to look. Jake places his hand on your waist to give an encouraging squeeze, but to most, it seems like he’s feeling you up.

And when you find the courage to glance at Sunghoon, that’s exactly what he’s thinking now. Even from across the room, you can see his pupils blown wide. He’s stiff despite the girls chatting and kissing on his neck. They’re trying to tug him back onto the couch, their glossy lips pouting and pleading, but Sunghoon looks as though he’s about to run to you.

“Is he?” Jake’s accent snaps you back. You’re now conscious of his lips brushing your neck, how he switches from one side to the other to give the illusion of leaving you marks.

And shit, with how his fingers dig into your back, you kind of wish he would.

“Y-yeah. He looks pissed.”

You can feel how Jake’s chest rumbles with laughter, vibrating your own. He pulls away from you, but not far at all. His eyes stare into yours mischievously. You nearly forget that this is the boy who gets the best grades and is on his way to valedictorian, but being Sunghoon’s friend also means he likes to think with the head in his pants too.

“Good. Let’s give him something to get real mad at, yeah?”

And when he leans in, you welcome him. His head tilts down while your’s tilts up. His lips mold against yours roughly, shoving his tongue deep and exploring your taste.

You let out a squeak. Logically, it’s better to start hot and heavy. Make Sunghoon see how desperate you are for each other, but you yearn for the sweet kisses Sunghoon gave you. His tongue would caress your own, coaxing it into his mouth so your spit could mingle and mix, forming strings when you pulled away.

But with Jake, you let him take full reign. There was something almost…hot letting someone have control. Jake didn’t care how your teeth clashed or if drool seeped from the corner of your mouth. He licked it back in as if he expected it, putting his tongue on yours quickly. 

It took a moment for you to catch up with him. To move your lips so you could catch his muscle between them and suck. 

He shivered. You could tell Jake wanted to keep going with how his arms wrapped around your torso and pulled you close, but he broke away. “No wonder Sunghoon’s so fucking obsessed with you.”

Sunghoon. You turn to the side, forcing Jake to land on your cheek but he quickly recovers. You scan the couch for any sign of Sunghoon, but he’s gone. The girls who swarmed him now look dejected, their annoyance clear. 

But Sunghoon, where is he? You’re distracted by Jake’s mouth leaving open kisses on your neck and throat, but even then, Sunghoon should stick out like a sore thumb. 

Jake’s lips bush over a sensitive spot and you shiver. An involuntary moan escapes your swollen lips and he eagerly laps his tongue over the skin. His teeth bite hard enough to make you whine, but that’s nothing compared to the yelp Jake lets out when he’s suddenly ripped away. 

The loss of his body leaves you cold but Sunghoon’s fired eyes make you hot all over again.

He has Jake by the back collar of his shirt. The knuckles on his first are white as if begging to turn pink and red from letting his anger out on Jake’s pretty face.

Sunghoon doesn’t even have to say a thing. The look he gives his friend is full of warning and Jake straightens up immediately, nodding and silently surrendering to Sunghoon’s piercing gaze.

“She’s all yours, bro.” And with that, he leaves you with a wink.

Maybe it’s because of the arousal and adrenaline coursing through your veins, but you’re not as scared as you were before. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Sunghoon takes a step closer, anger dripping off his tone. “You’re sucking on my best friend's face and I’m not supposed to say anything?” 

The people around you two have moved away, a wise choice. 

You cross your arms. “Obviously not. I didn’t see you having an issue when those girls were all up on you. Why is it when I do?”

Sunghoon’s face morphs into cold humor. “Oh wow. What? You wanted to make me jealous or something?”

You burn red. “I did not!”

“You so did.” It feels like a punch in the gut when he laughs. “You think I give a fuck who you wanna make out with?”

“No shit you do. You wouldn’t have pulled him off me if you didn’t.”

Sunghoon’s eyes slide to your neck, right where Jake had been sucking. You doubt it’s purple, but you can bet your money it blooms with pink. You almost want to cover it with your hand, but you rather like the way Sunghoon’s jaw ticks. 

“I’m not arguing with you here.” Before you can argue that he can at all, he pulls you by the arm. He doesn’t even bother weaving through the crowd, he bustles through it. Most people move aside, but the drunks are pushed by his shoulders and left to mourn their spilled drinks.

You catch Sunoo’s eyes. He’s got a man attached to his back, grinding against him to the beat of the music, but Sunoo doesn’t sway his hips at all. There’s worry in his eyes. 

You shake your head and mouth, It's fine.

It’s all you get to say before Sunghoon drags you into the nearest room and shuts the door. Neither of you knows whose pad this is, the posters on the wall say it all. But Sunghoon walks around the room like he owns it.

Cocky bastard.

“I don’t want you around him again,” Sunhoon speaks with authority. “Don’t give me that shit and say you like him. I know damn well you don’t.”

You put your weight on one hip and huff. “And if I do? What? You’re gonna forbid me from speaking to him?”

“Yes.” Sunghoon stops pacing. “I haven't seen you in a month. And when I do, you’re trying to get in my friend’s pants?” Something like hurt echoes in his eyes. “I hate that.”

Fuck, you’re shaking. Your core trembles and though you try to blame the sensation on Jake, you know it’s Sunghoon’s dominating aura making your stomach clench. “You don’t think I hated seeing you with those girls? Letting them kiss you like they…like they own you? But I didn’t go over there and start a catfight, did I? No. You did. Acting like you’re my fucking boyfriend or something.”

He’s seething, and shit, you’ve never been so fired up. Anger and arousal mix within. Slick moistens your underwear seeing Sunghoon stride to you. Your stomach dips when he backs you against the wall.

You almost moan when his jaw tenses. 

“I’m trying really, really hard not to yell at you right now.” Sunghoon’s lips quiver when he takes a shaky breath. “I told you I didn't want a relationship. You said that was fine. Then all of a sudden, you start getting clingy and shit. Yeah, I think it’s cute, but then you dump me. Out of nowhere, out of the blue. So yeah, I let some chicks feel up on me to feel a little bit better about myself, and who do I get to see?” His upper lip twists into a snarl. “You.”

He’s leaned in close, neck bending and eyes boring into yours. Still, that does the opposite of intimidate you. “See? That’s the fucking issue. All you ever think about is yourself. You wanted a quick fuck. You wanted a relationship without the commitment. Did you ever think about how I felt being in this…weird fucking tango? Going to places with you, going over your apartment, telling you where I was and who I was with. But when it was me asking the questions, I was the crazy one. I was too clingy. Did you think I liked hearing that?”

The realization settles on him as if he never put himself in your shoes. It makes your chest burn with anger. 

“Exactly. You’re too selfish to even think about me.”

“That’s not true.” Sunghoon is quick to shoot you down. “That’s all I ever did.” His gaze softens and his hand leaves his side. You feel the back of it graze your cheek as if you’re something gentle.

Tears sting your eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not. But I know you don’t believe me.”

You recall Jake’s words. How he claimed Sunghoon chose you to be the only person he was sleeping with. It sounded improbable, but with the way he’s looking at you now, it feels like it could be true.

“But isn’t this what you would’ve wanted anyway? You get to do whatever you want without someone in your hair. The only reason it bothers you so much is because I’m the one that broke things off. You’re stupid ego couldn’t take it.”

It rings true. You see his eyes look at the floor ashamed, and you feel your heart break a little from his lack of rebuttal. 

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?” Your voice shakes. “Why are you so mad about me moving on?” A scoff breathes on your lips. “You’re acting as if you like me.”

You regret the words the moment they come out. Sunghoon’s entire face changes. Even the air in the room grows rigid, almost scared. His wide eyes tell you that you’re treading on dangerous territory. 

But once the lid opens, you find yourself pouring out. 

“You’ve never even said it. All this time, I was feeling like a burden. Like the thought of me other than sex was revolting to you. It sucked, but I put up with it.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“Because you didn’t have to!” You yell for the first time. It sounds good to finally let your emotions show even if tears flow free. “Sunghoon, what aren’t you getting? It wasn’t just sex for me, not at the end. But you…you pushed me away.” Your throat hurts so much like it’s raw from screaming. “You made me feel like I was fucking insane.”

His face blurs, but you can make out the pain in his eyes. 

“I wanna hear you say it.” You blink the tears away. “Tell me.”

But Sunghoon gulps. For the first time, this cocky asshole is stunned. You’ve seen him get his way using his charm or confidence, but right now, it looks like he’d rather claw his skin to escape.

“Jake told me. About how you ditched your hookups when we were…seeing each other.” You’re throwing Jake under the bus, but you hope he’ll understand when Sunghoon inevitably rips him a new one. “He thought we were dating. Dating, Sunghoon. You can’t tell me you only thought of us as just sex.”

Seeing him turn into a puddle makes you both anxious and assertive. It makes you want to push him to confess while running away and pretending you never even saw him tonight. 

But only one of those options is possible. “Say it.”

Sunghoon’s hand trembles on your face. His mouth can’t decide whether it wants to yell or cry, but it’s silence he screams. It deafens your ears to the point that all you can hear is your heart drumming in your chest. You think you can hear his too if you try hard enough. 

The thumping of the party downstairs is the only noise you can rely on.

“You fucking coward. I should have never said yes to you.”

Escaping his arms will be easy. Sunghoon seems too stunned to do anything, but you’re quickly proven wrong when he cages you in and presses his body against yours. You mean to push his chest and yell, but the sight of his watery eyes stops you.

He can’t look at you. It’ll make the dam he tried so hard to build break. But he’ll be damned if you leave again.

“I…I’ve never dealt with something like this.” He closes his eyes. “I’ve never had to worry about someone. They weren’t even in my head. But when I met you…” Sunghoon has to take a deep breath. You feel his inhale on your face as if he’s breathing you in.

“It was the first time I cared about someone other than myself. It…It scared me. I wanted you close, but not too close. I wanted everyone to see that you were mine, but that I wasn’t yours.” He laughs humorlessly. “That sounds so fucked to say out loud.”

“But that’s what I was thinking. I was so fucked. I am fucked. I was- I am selfish.”

Sunghoon leans in. You inhale a sharp breath but it’s his forehead that meets yours. His weight feels good, almost perfect against your own.

You’ve missed the warmth of his skin, the beauty mark next to his eye that you can see so clearly. But it’s his eyes that hold the stars. 

“Especially now, because all I’m thinking about is how I can be yours again.”

There it is, his confession. Not that you can be his, but that he can be yours. It’s so subtle that you want to pretend it doesn’t count, but you can’t deny the way your heart flutters. How you yearn to feel his kiss again even if your lips are soaked with tears.

Sunoo’s voice rings in your head. You can perfectly hear him screaming at you to laugh. Tell him that you’re flattered, but you aren’t interested.

Hurt him how he hurt you.

But that’s not who you are. No, the person you are nods, wrapping arms around his neck and finally putting your lips where they ache to be.

It’s like they never forgot. Even in the weeks he hasn’t seen you, Sunghoon knows how to kiss you. His lips are gentle, hardly eager to taste your mouth. Jake may have known how to get the party started, but Sunghoon knows how to make you feel. It’s all too easy for him to tug at your heartstrings, making you move in any way he wants like a puppeteer. 

And it seems like you can do the same.

He opens his mouth when you do. He moves his tongue in time with yours. Sunghoon lets you hold the back of his neck so you can tilt his head, getting a better angle to suck on his tongue. 

He moans into your mouth. It sounds more than pleasure, but relief. As if he’s been aching for you just as you have been for him. You almost don’t want to believe it, but you pull another whine from him when you tug on his hair. 

The taste of saliva and tears dance on your tastebuds. It feels oddly comforting, the raw taste of emotion and need on your lips. You kiss him deeper, harder, until his hands find your waist and he backs into the bed. 

He pulls away to sit down but he’s quick to yank you onto his lap.

“Still like me on top, huh?” You can’t help but recall how Sunghoon used to constantly ask you to ride him. Facing him, reversed, it didn’t matter. He had both of his hands on you constantly, whether it was groping your breasts or ass. 

He smiles, “You know I never liked doing any of the work.”

To that, you groan. Sunghoon ignores your pretend displeasure to nip at your bottom lip, pulling the skin and watching it bounce back into place. 

His lips attack your neck, kissing and sucking every inch. He gently pulls on your hair to ensure no spot is left unmarked. You can’t help but notice he focuses on the spot between your shoulder and clavicle. 

Right where Jake left the faintest blemish.

You want to tease him, but all you can do is moan. He knows that’s your favorite spot. It’s so easy to get you to tremble, to grind on his hips like you’re doing right now. The only issue is that someone else knows too.

It bothers him. You can tell from how hard he’s sucking. Gently, you push his shoulder until he lets up, salvia on his lips as his cloudy eyes lock with yours. 

“If you’re gonna be that rough, I’d rather you do it here.” Putting your hands on the hem of your shirt, you tug it off. The material slips easily. You silently thank yourself for putting something on that wasn’t so tight. 

Your bra is plain, but your breasts still look divine in them. Sunghoon doesn’t wait for you to throw your shirt on the ground to get his mouth on you. His lips are hot on your skin, his tongue even hotter. The shirt slips from your hands to pool on the floor and your fingers thread in his hair. Sunghoon takes the pulls and tugs as compliments. 

His hands trail up your waist, moving away for a brief moment to spill your breasts the cups. 

And his hips dig into your cunt when he sees your nipples are already peaked. You watch him lick his lips, watch how his brain can’t decide whether he wants to stare or taste.

The decision is made for him when you press against his face. Sunghoon cups the sides to push your boobs in his face, tongue lavishing your supple flesh. 

“Fuck.” He doesn’t bother hiding his hips rocking into yours. He used to act like sex felt mediocre, but his raging boner gave him away every time. You thought it was funny how his uninterested eyes were completely different from the precum that slid down his cock when you stroked it, but this… this makes your stomach heat with exhilaration. 

One hand remains on your breast while the other slides to your hip. He presses you down on his erection and grinds. You know he can barely feel a thing with jeans in the way, but his hot breath wafts on your nipple like he hasn’t gotten his dick touched in forever. 

But you don’t dwell on it too much. It feels good just to have him suck on your bud and hit your clit. His tongue goes around your darkened flesh before he hollows his cheeks. You moan, moving at the same pace as his hips under you. 

You’re so wet. The slick sticks to your underwear so much that dry-humping him doesn’t feel uncomfortable. You’ve felt chafing before, how sometimes it would just rub the wrong way. But with Sunghoon, nothing is ever the wrong way. All you can think about is how good it feels, so much so that getting up to pull his cock out seems distant.

But you’ve missed the feel of his hard-on. It rubs your pussy just right and it’s all too easy to find the angle you know would make you finish.

And when Sunghoon bites on your nipples and pulls, you know you’ll cum soon. 

“Wait. Wait.” You tremble in his hold. Your voice sounds too weak. You don’t think he heard you, but you feel his mouth pull off your bud and his hips cease. It takes a moment to find your words, to ignore how your cunt screams at you from pulling away when you were so close. 

“Imma cum.”

Sunghoon grins. “Is that not good?”

You shake your head, still panting. “No. Too soon. I need it inside.”

The all-too-cocky smile finds his lips. It’s the one you loathe, but with your mind hazy and cunt pulsing, you can only be glad to see it. 

It means he’ll do anything he can to keep hearing you praise him.

“Yeah? Take it out for me then.” It’s almost condescending the way he speaks. You take a mental note to never feed his ego again.

But you don’t, not right away. You stand on unsteady legs instead. The shorts clinging to your legs feel uncomfortable and you sigh in relief when unbuttoning them. You don’t bother making a show getting undressed, but Sunghoon watches like it’s award-winning.

Strings of arousal cling to your underwear when you slide them off. The cool air hits your cunt unwelcomed and you let the clothes pile with your shirt.

“Fuck, baby.” He bites on his lower lip before clenching his teeth. “You look so pretty for me.”

You shyly giggle. You suppose it’s okay if he strokes your ego.

He wants you back on his lap. You can see his eyes planning all the ways he wants to ravish you, but you have other ideas in mind. “Your turn.”

Sunghoon looks confused at first, but he quickly sees what you mean. His lips twitch, almost wanting to say, I told you to take it out for me, but he doesn’t. You see him nod, shrugging his shirt over his head and wiggling out of his jeans all on his own.

Good, he’s learning. 

Sitting back on his lap is a reward. Grabbing the base of his cock is a silent, appreciated gesture when you line him up.

Sunghoon finds your waist fast, unable to keep his hands off for even a second. He waits as you slap the tip on your clit. It elicits a hum from your lips and you look into his eyes in a daze. There’s need in them. His blown-wide pupils match your own. 

And when you sink down, he moans.

Restless hands dig into your flesh. Sunghoon doesn’t try to set a pace at all. He lets the sounds of your bodies meeting match your tempo. 

You wanted to go slow, you did. You heard his confession, you tasted his tears, so it’s obvious that you wanted to explore his body in the deepest ways he never let you. 

But with the music blasting downstairs and the adrenaline of being in someone else’s room, you can’t help but lift your ass and slam it down. The head of his cock barely has time to get acquainted with your pussy. It glides all too quickly to properly bury into your cervix. 

Not that you really mind. You can feel the veins and curve of his crown rub your walls this way. 

He leans back, propping with one elbow while the other stays on your hip. You smile when you see him looking at your breasts. They’re love-bitten, riddled with bruises that go to your neck. 

Sunghoon looks like a painter admiring his work.

“You look so fucking good.” He licks his bottom lip. “I’ve missed you.”

You burn with praise. It makes you ride faster, leaning forward so your arms cage him between them. Your hair forms a curtain around your flushed face that Sunghoon pushes away. 

Maybe it’s his eyes you’re supposed to look at, but you’re captivated by his body. His defined chest twinges with pink. His stomach clenches in pleasure, the hard lines of his abs making an appearance. 

You don’t know how you manage to push him down completely. Your hands pin his shoulders with ease and all he can do is helplessly grip your thighs as you ride him.

“Likewise.”

He lets out a strangled moan that you suppose is him laughing. Sunghoon furrows his eyebrows at the new angle. He’s able to hit you deeper this way, his cock buries in your cervix nicely.

But even with the sight of your pussy creaming around him and pooling on his pelvis, he can still playfully glare. “Asshole.”

You giggle like it’s a pet name. Expecting him to change overnight would be foolish. But even then, you somewhat like the arrogant fool you’ve fallen in love with.

So you say nothing in return. Instead, you lean closer. His lips are swollen and you suck on them. His tongue messily swipes in your mouth when you open it. The kiss is nothing more than a way to be closer, to moan into each other's mouth as Sunghoon finally moves his hips.

And it feels like everything on your body is on fire. Your knees were getting tired, the burn in your thighs barely tolerable. Now, all you have to do is hover while Sunghoon thrusts. It feels deeper than what’s possible. Like the pleasure travels from your cunt to your head.

The pain in your legs numb and the only thing on your mind is how good Sunghoon is fucking you. Your walls clench, oozing with so much release that you think he might slip out, but he doesn’t.

“Right there!” The sound below should drown out your cries, but you don’t care if anyone hears you. “Fuck me harder! Pleasepleaseplease…”

You don’t have to beg, but Sunghoon likes it when you do. Your cunt spasms and warms until the heat floods his cock. A drawn-out moan tumbles from your lips that he eats. You’re panting and whining while his tongue invades your mouth. Salvia drips from your chin, but you can’t even notice with how he’s still fucking into you.

And just when you feel lightheaded, he cums. It’s too late for him to pull out, too late to stroke himself on your face to completion. Still, he tries to save it.

Sunghoon slips out while still squirting from his tip. The strings shoot your inner thigh and his caving stomach.

He’s still breathing hard when he kisses you, ignoring how his chest screams for oxygen. And when he pulls away, the first thing he looks at is your cunt. Sunghoon should feel worried that half of his cum is in your womb, but when watches it drip from your swollen pussy, he feels proud.

“Yeah,” he says to himself. You feel deft fingers play with your folds soon after. Sunghoon laughs when you squeal from overstimulation, but he shoves the cum back in anyway. 

You almost can’t feel his fingers. Your walls are mostly numb, but you still moan and tremble from his knuckles gliding in and out of you.

He buries his digits until all they can do is wiggle. “Keep it in. I want you to walk out of here with my cum dripping out.”

If you had more energy, you’d groan. Seems like he still has a lot to learn.

[clockys-soul]

Y’all remember these dudes? The Mud half-bros?

River is a male Mud/Seawing, he’s charismatic and flirtatious, he’s one to take risky chances, an endless opportunistic dude all around. He’s the second oldest of the brothers and probably least responsible along with Earthquake and Arroyo. Even though he switches partners often he seems to be interested in Monsoons dear sister, Hurricane.

Alpine is a male Mud/Icewing, he’s calm and collected, he thinks before doing shit, he’s fair and very protective, he’s close with all his brothers and is also the eldest of them all. He likes eating ice a lot, probably because he breathes frost breath but can only do so if he’s cold enough, hence eating ice. Currently acting as Guard of the Treaty Academy along his brothers.

[the-music-maniac]

I get a little annoyed when people's complaints about zosan stray into the "Sanji would never fall for Zoro because of personal hygiene issues" territory. Mostly because I feel like it involves a fundamental misunderstanding about their dynamic and also Sanji as a character.

First of all, Sanji smokes cigarettes and cooks seafood and shit. Even if he does shower daily, there is no way he smells like a rose garden. So there's that.

Second of all, Sanji is a COOK. You literally cannot be a cook if you're afraid of getting your hands dirty, if you're afraid of working up a sweat. He knows the value of hard work in that regard. For his craft, Sanji gets all up in some fish guts, he hunts, he cleans, de-feathers, skins, butchers whatever creature they've managed to hunt - come on y'all. That is not a man that would be a germaphobe. He keeps his workspace and himself clean cause that's the mark of a good cook, but the man would have no qualms about getting dirty. He ain't squeamish.

Third, Sanji's entire thing is that he ACTS like a refined gentleman, but he's a little bit batshit crazy in the same way all the strawhats are. He's one of the monster trio for a reason! They're all freaking unhinged, Sanji's first reaction to seeing sea monsters is to yell that he wants to cook it. He's fought so many battles, I've no doubt that there's blood soaked into the soles of his fancy loafers, caked into some of the hems of his suit pants. My point being that while him acting like he's a gentleman with "refined tastes" is no means deception (he probably has excellent taste when it comes to dining) he also doesn't fit that description entirely. He strives for it, in order to maintain an image, and it also plays into his whole "ladies man" thing as well. But he's not actually a refined gentleman in our traditional interpretation of the word. He's down to slum it if needed, and will kick a person's ass for not finishing a soup that has a bug in it because it would mean wasting food. Also the man has worn orange crocs. Refined my ass.

Fourth, you can deny it all you want, but Zoro and Sanji have always been and will likely always be, two people that match each other's freak. And by that I mean that all it takes is Zoro muttering one little disparaging comment, and Sanji is immediately there, ready to throw down, dirt and sweat be damned. If he were to complain about Zoro's supposed bathing habits and shit, while I don't doubt some of it would be genuine complaint, it probably would mostly be because it would annoy Zoro. But when it comes down to stuff Sanji actually gives a shit about, hygiene would probably not be high up on that list. He is 100% that motherfucker that would get heart eyes over Zoro eating sugar onigiri out of the mud to spare a little girl's feelings.

I get annoyed by people using that argument as if it's a legitimate reasoning for why Zoro and Sanji wouldn't get together. Like what impression of Sanji do you have in your head? You think the dude that constantly knocks foreheads with Zoro during their antagonistic (gay) posturing would get squeamish about Zoro being a little sweaty? Sanji can be your babygirl if you want, but we gotta stop acting like he's the type to get squeamish over stuff like that - there's no way that out of ALL the issues Sanji has yet to work through locked up in that pretty noggin of his, that personal hygiene would be the hold up on a relationship between these two. The zosan dynamic is Sanji complains loudly about Zoro being a disgusting brute and then will turn around and roundhouse kick a man's head off. Like yes, Sanji. That's not the pot calling the kettle black at all.

None of this is a complaint btw. That's literally my favourite part about Sanji, and Zosan as a whole. Sanji wouldn't be nearly as interesting if he was just a gentleman. Zosan wouldn't be as compelling if they weren't two lil peas in a pod, equally as unhinged. The only difference is Zoro puts literally no effort into trying to hide his level of derangement. Which is also very in character for him, btw.

[lucifersdickriderdotnet]

Emergency Contact

Summary: Having siblings sucks. Having siblings who are constantly getting into life threatening situations is worse. 5.9k words.

Disclaimer: as usual, if they're ooc no. uhm. Diavolo and Barbatos are here and they are referred to as Lucifer's boyfriends but it's in like a fun jokey teasing way that siblings do. except Lucifer actually is dating Diavolo in my head so. asmo and solomon ARE dating because I want them to be. maybe next time I'll make solomon date satan. you can only call a man a cute kitty so many times before people get ideas. if you couldn't tell by the title and the summary, people get #sick and break their #bones. oh. there is one (1) cannibalism joke. not demoncest just bros being bros.

Notes: this took so long because I've never written a decent ending in my life and i spent two days on it. also that anon really pissed me off for some reason idk. if you don't like how anyone is characterized write your own fanfiction man idk. solmare doesn't even have consistency with this nonsense. Lucifer is nice to his brothers in this because I want him to be. amen.

It’s a little known fact that Lucifer is everyone’s emergency contact. When it comes to those he cares about, he is protective, almost annoyingly so. So, it makes sense that the person who knows everything about everyone should be in charge if something goes awry. His phone hardly ever rings for emergencies, half because his brothers’ manage to get themselves out of trouble through a series of convoluted and confusing hijinks and half because most of them would rather eat nails than call him to tell him something is wrong. He’s even Barbatos’ emergency contact, despite the fact that Barbatos has never been sick or injured.

When his phone does ring, though, it’s almost always because someone has managed to damage themselves beyond repair, which is why he’s staring at the caller id on his D.D.D. like he can make it stop ringing if he glares hard enough.

“Lucifer Morningstar speaking,” it hadn’t stopped ringing and Diavolo had almost reached across the table to answer it for him.

“Hello this is Devildom General Hospital. We received a patient today and your name was on his–”

“Who.” It comes out dull and flat. He’s gripping his fork so hard he can hear the metal squeak.

“Excuse me?” The demon on the other end of the phone sounds perfectly polite but Lucifer is already so strung out all it does is grate his nerves.

“Who are you calling for?”

“Mam–”

“I’ll be right there,” he’s standing up in a hurry, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair and ignoring Diavolo’s many questions as he leaves their dinner.

“Sir, if you’ll just–” he hangs up before the nurse can say anything else.

-

Mammon managed to break a bone or two in a scuffle he won’t tell Lucifer the details of.

“Do you know how hard it is to break a femur, Mammon?” Lucifer is gripping the steering wheel of the car so hard he’s surprised it hasn’t snapped in half.

“Pretty damn hard, all things considerin’.” Lucifer exhales sharply out of his nose and looks at his brother from the corner of his eye. He’s staring out of the window, and the white of his hair is dirty with mud and something red that Lucifer knows didn’t come out of his skull but worries him regardless.

“Mammon, this isn’t something to joke about.”

“I know,” he taps the hard cast of his leg with a bruised knuckle, “‘m the one with the broken bones.”

“If you know why are you doing it?” Lucifer can’t stop his voice from raising a few decibels towards the end of his sentence and has to mentally count to ten to not start screaming.

“‘Cause I just got the shit beat outta me ‘n’ I don’t wanna listen to yer lecturin’.” Mammon finally turns his head to stare at Lucifer and the elder looks away from the road for a second to meet his eyes. It’s not often that Mammon genuinely argues with him, not often that Mammon gets mad enough to let the blue of his eyes light with fury. Whatever happened tonight was not something that he wanted to happen, and it’s not something he needs a scolding for.

There’s a tense silence where Lucifer sighs and then flicks the turn signal, sliding across the lanes of traffic to take Mammon somewhere else before they go home.

“Did you win?” He’s pulling into Madame Screams’ drive through when he asks.

“‘Course I did.”

“Good.”

They both silently agree not to tell the rest of them about their little pit stop, and it’s as Lucifer’s pulling into the garage that he turns to his brother.

“Mammon.” A hum sounds from the passenger seat. “Next time, call me yourself. I don’t want it to be the hospital unless you’re physically incapable of talking.”

“Roger that.”

—

Lucifer is not known as the most comforting of his brothers. The six of them tend to rely on each other for that, going to Mammon or Beel if they have emotional troubles. Lucifer, as the oldest, is good for cleaning up messes. Putting things back together and making it look like nothing was ever amiss in the first place. It’s his job to protect them, from the world and from themselves, and he takes it seriously. Still, despite his brick wall in place of a heart and his general ineptitude when it comes to being affirming in any sense, he is not incapable of helping his brothers out of a tight spot. He’s just not preferred.

“Lucifer,” Levi’s voice is shaky and stuttering on the other end of the phone. He knew something was wrong when his phone started ringing in the middle of class. His brothers all know how much he hates distractions during class time, just like they know when he has a class so they don’t bother him. He knew something was worse when it was Levi’s name flashing across the screen. Levi refuses to call any of them unless the world is ending. He knew something was horrible when he remembered that today was one of the few days that Levi is mandated to come to campus.

“Yes?” He’s already left class walking down the hallway towards the abandoned wing where he knows Levi is. He keeps his steps measured and even, keeps his breathing calm. It won’t do to have two of them panicked at the same time.

“Are you busy?” They both know the answer to that question, just like they both know he’s going to lie.

“You caught me in the middle of a break. Why?” He tests the door handle for the swimming pool. Closed for renovations, the sign says. The same thing it’s said for the past several millennia. The door swings open without any effort on his part, the magic seal already broken before he got here.

“Would you like to go for a swim?” There’s a splash on the other end of the line. Lucifer snorts.

“I’m not one for water.” There’s silence and another splash and Lucifer lets out a heavy sigh. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yay,” Levi says, soft and timid, and Lucifer can see him now, all of him, filling up the entire pool. He doesn’t get in yet, just removes a glove and sticks a finger in the water to let Levi know he’s here. He watches as the miles and miles of indigo scales shift and slide along each other until he’s face to face with thousands of sharp teeth.

“You’re going to break the pool again,” is what he says, voice dry. He sputters indignantly when that earns him salt water to the face. He’s soaked now, head to toe and he’s going to miss these shoes.

“Oops.” Levi’s voice is sprinkled with something mirthful, no longer halfway to tears as it was just a moment ago. “Get in. The water’s nice.”

“Yes,” Lucifer swipes a hand across his face to push his bangs back. Salt water drips into his eyes anyway. “I can see that.” 

Levi giggles and his face moves away, body coiling in, on, and over itself, too big to fully fit in the pool.

“You said you’d swim with me.”

“Yes. I suppose I did.”

Truthfully, Lucifer doesn’t like swimming. He is not a bird that is built for water, and getting wet usually means being cold and grounded for a while. Truthfully, he’d rather finally open one of the many letters Michael has sent him over the years. Truthfully, he would do anything for his brothers. Truthfully, Lucifer doesn’t think he’ll fit, but a promise is a promise, so he slides out of his uniform and climbs in.

Levi doesn’t ever tell him what made him so upset he rebroke R.A.D. 's pool, but he does leave a box of Princess’ Poison Apples on his desk the next morning, so Lucifer sets his sights on re-fixing the swimming pool. Maybe this time he’ll convince Diavolo to make it bigger.

—

Satan would rather rip his own teeth out with nothing but a Q-tip and a single milligram of ibuprofen to numb the pain than ever ask Lucifer for help. Their relationship is getting better, he will admit, but he’s filled with a rage towards the oldest that could melt even the strongest of metals, and it will take a while to temper the flame. So, no, he will not ask Lucifer for help, but, if he’s annoying enough about it, Lucifer will fix it anyways.

He starts by mentioning it to Asmo, squinting at him and saying that no, he can’t tell if Asmo’s eyeliner is uneven, because he can’t see.

“Can’t see?” Manicured fingernails are digging into his cheeks as Asmo grips his face and moves his head from side to side. He has to shelve books in his mind’s inner library to not rip his brother’s face clean off his head. 

“Doesn’t look like cataracts or anything,” Asmo hums, dropping his face. Satan massages his jaw slightly. “What do you mean you ‘can’t see’?”

“I meant what I said. Your face is slightly blurry and I can’t tell if your eyeliner is even because it just looks like a blob. Ergo. I can’t see.” Satan crosses his arms over his chest and dodges Asmo’s subsequent grabs for his face.

“Oh,” a snort, “you probably need glasses.” He turns back around to his vanity and Satan has to stop himself from saying no shit out loud.

“Glasses are for losers.”

“Lucifer wears glasses.”

“My point exactly.” Asmo twists his lipstick back down before popping the cap on and pulling open a drawer. He gestures for Satan to look inside and he does and–

“I didn’t know you wore contacts.”

“Not very many people do. Mammon has glasses too, you know. He’s sensitive to bright lights. The sunglasses indoors are not just a poor fashion statement,” Asmo sighs and shakes his head, like the image of Mammon wearing his sunglasses inside brings him physical pain. “And, I think Levi has some because all of those screens destroyed his rods and cones.”

“Oh. I’m sorry for calling you a loser.” Asmo waves him off.

“The point, Bitty, is that you wouldn’t be the first.” It wouldn’t be just you and Lucifer is what he’s saying. Satan nods and then frowns.

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“Why?” Asmo reaches over to poke his cheek. He narrowly avoids getting a finger bitten off. His voice rises several octaves, turning into a coo. “You’re just an itty bitty baby– Ow, dammit fine.”

-

He then proceeds to complain about it as loudly as possible, as frequently as possible. No, he can’t help Mammon with his homework, the words are bleeding together. Yes, he does have to sit front and center now because otherwise the board is unreadable. No, he did not catch that last slanderous missive about Lucifer in the R.A.D. Newspaper because he couldn’t read the draft that was sent to him for editing. (He made Belphie read the drafts to him out loud and thought that the article was funny.)

“Satan,” everytime Lucifer has to talk to him he looks constipated and it makes Satan laugh inside.

“Big Bother.” Lucifer’s eye twitches.

“You have an appointment with the optometrist. Get in the car.” Satan sets his book down.

“Can’t Mammon take me?” He doesn’t want Mammon to take him. Still, it’s funny to see the vein pop on Lucifer’s forehead.

“... Get in the fucking car.”

Satan plays heavy metal in the car because he knows Lucifer hates it and makes him sit in the lobby during the actual check up because he thinks it’s funny to watch his leg bounce up and down. (And because Lucifer gets a copy of all of their medical records anyway. The freak probably checked Satan’s eyes himself while he was sleeping and already knows his prescription.)

“Those glasses look nice on you,” is all Lucifer says when he picks out the frames.

“I changed my mind. I hate these ones.” (He doesn’t.)

—

He’d been in his room, up to his eyes in paperwork when his phone rang. It’s not unusual for Asmo to call him, the younger always wanting to chat and gossip for as long as Lucifer will pretend to listen, but it is unusual for him to call in the middle of an Asmo Night.

“Hi Asmo, what–”

“Lucy!!” He has to pull the phone away from his ear to avoid rupturing the drum.

“I believe I have asked you not to–”

“Hey! Give me my–” There’s a scuffle on the other end before a voice that Lucifer recognizes as Solomon’s starts speaking.

“Lucifer! I believe Asmodeus has had enough for tonight and needs to be deposited home. I would do it myself, but as per our agreement, I am not allowed–”

“Within twenty feet of my front door. Yes, I know. I’ll come get him. Please keep him out of trouble until I get there.” He rubs the bridge of his nose before standing up and making his way to the door.

“Wonderful! Now, about that pact–” Lucifer hangs up before Solomon can finish the question and hits Levi’s door on the way down the stairs.

“Bed, Leviathan.” There’s a small squeak in response. “Or at least pretend to be sleeping. I can hear your game from out here.” The RPG music leaking from Levi’s room into the hallway quiets drastically.

He stops by the kitchen to find Asmo his crackers and a bottle of water before leaving, instructing Beel to carry himself and Belphie to bed on his way out.

Lucifer does not like parties. He thinks they are loud and annoying and too many people try to get handsy with him when really all he wants is to drink his Demonus in peace. He’s dealing with that now, batting off people’s hands and ignoring requests for a night alone as he makes his way to Asmo’s booth.

“Asmo,” Solomon’s voice is soft and fond as he rouses Asmo from a short nap, “Lucifer’s here. It’s time to go.”

“Mmkay.” Asmo rubs his eyes and gives Solomon a peck on the lips that Lucifer has to fight the urge to gag at. He crawls out of the booth and grabs Lucifer’s hand, and somehow the crowd parts to let him past with no fuss. They barely make it outside before Asmo is hurling all over the sidewalk and Lucifer is remembering that Asmo smells like warm, sugared peaches.

Asmo smells like peaches. Allegedly, he smells like whatever is the most alluring to you, but Lucifer thinks he has always smelled like peaches. He smells like the holy peach cobbler that Michael used to make in the Celestial Realm. Asmo smells like the peach flavored macarons that Barbatos makes when he and Lucifer have tea. He smells like the Georgia peaches the human made him try once. Asmo smells like peaches, he smells like home and love and care, and you would have to hold Lucifer at gunpoint to get him to admit this to his brother.

And now, Lucifer is getting a face full of that smell mixed with vomit as Asmo leans over a bush and loses whatever meager dinner Beel had shoved in him as well as half his body weight in alcohol. There’s a flash from the corner of his eye and he makes a mental note to follow up on that.

“It will sound hypocritical coming from me,” he starts and is promptly interrupted by another retch.

“Then don’t–good Diavolo, that tastes awful–say it.” Asmo takes the water bottle that Lucifer dutifully hands him and rinses his mouth out.

“Are you done?” Lucifer starts fishing around his jacket pocket for a pack of Asmo’s favorite crackers. They taste like flowers, allegedly, and they're one of the few things that Beel genuinely doesn’t like to eat.

“For now.” Asmo takes the crackers and starts munching on them gratefully, leaning heavily into Lucifer’s side as they both walk home.

“Thank you for coming,” he says. Lucifer scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“I would never leave one of you alone.”

“Aww, that’s so–”

“The paperwork alone would take at least a decade.”

“Nevermind.”

-

If Lucifer hunts down the demon who took the picture and threatens them within an inch of their life, that’s between him and his Father. And if Asmo finds out and gives Lucifer a hug at breakfast the following morning, that’s between him and Mammon’s camera roll.

—

Lucifer hates Fangol. Well, that’s not true. He admires the dedication someone has to have to play it and to play it well. He admits that sometimes it’s fun to go to games and get caught up in the hype of the crowd. He also likes that it makes Beel happy. What he doesn’t like is sitting in the stands as his second youngest brother makes a game winning play and then gets tackled onto the turf so hard you can hear the sound his head makes when it hits the ground.

The crowd goes silent and the players and the band take a knee and Lucifer is half dragging half carrying Belphie down the stands to the ambulance as the EMT’s check over their brother.

“Sir, I understand–” The paramedic cuts themself off when they see whose shadows are looming over them. They heave a sigh and gesture to a patch of grass near where they have Beel laying on a gurney. “Try to avoid being in our way.”

It’s a fight to keep Belphie from being underfoot, but there isn’t one when Lucifer says he’s riding in the ambulance with Beel to the hospital. Only a curt nod and then a muttered threat in his ear that he rolls his eyes at and then their off.

“Sorry.” It’s the first thing out of Beel’s mouth after he’s done being asked routine questions.

“It’s not like you asked to receive a concussion.”

“We don’t know that it’s a concussion,” Beel says, wagging his finger slowly. Lucifer rolls his eyes.

“You told the paramedic you wanted to throw up and pass out at the same time.”

“Average Beelzebub activities.” It makes Lucifer snort, lips twitching up into a smile.

“That is the exact opposite of a Beelzebub activity. You’ll be okay, though.” The you have to be goes unsaid.

It turns out to be a concussion and Beel is barred from playing for a while and then everything is fine.

-

Lucifer has changed his mind, he definitely hates Fangol. He has half a mind to ban Beel from ever playing it again, but if he didn’t have something to focus his energy on, they wouldn’t have a House to live in.

He stayed home from the game, wanting to relax, for once, with a new cursed record and a bottle of his prized Demonus. He might have also paused the record to watch the stream of the game on his phone, but that’s neither here nor there. He’s busy cussing out one of the commentators for their clear bias against Beel–they haven’t been angels in literally thousands of years, people need to find a new excuse–when it cuts suddenly from a replay of the last down to a live feed from the field. And then his phone rings.

“Mammon,” he already knows what happened before he picks up.

“I know ya said not ta call ya tonight, but,” he sounds haggard, and his accent gets thicker when he’s panicking, “ya also said not ta let the hospital call ya so–”

“Mammon,” it comes out snappier than he wants it to and he has to soften his voice when he opens his mouth again, “breathe. What’s happened?”

“Dear Father who art in Heaven–” Lucifer curses again because Mammon only reverts to praying when something is seriously wrong. “Beel got tackled ‘nd– Lucifer, ya could hear the crunch from Diavolo’s good seats.” Lucifer sucks in a breath and considers sending up a couple prayers himself.

“I’m on my way. Beel will– Beel will be okay, Mammon. He’s strong.” He hears Mammon’s assent from the other end of the line just as he hears Levi mumble something to Mammon.

“Oh, yer kiddin’.”

“What? Mammon, what’s going on?”

“We can’t fin’ Belphie.”

“Shit.”

-

If Lucifer breaks traffic laws on his way to the stadium, no one who pulls him over will be able to make anything stick for very long. He watches as the ambulance pulls away and his D.D.D. buzzes with a message.

Mams

I went with Beel. Everyone’s still tryna find Belphie.

“Lucifer–” he’s met with an armful of brothers before he can put his phone back in his pocket and he’s not strong enough to pretend he doesn’t want to hug them back.

“Did you find–”

“No, obviously not Levi, he just fucking got here.”

“Satan, now is not the time–”

“I’ll decide when the fucking time is, Asmo. Did you see what they did to our–”

“Yeah, I was sitting right next to you. You’re not the only one who’s upset–”

“Guys,” Lucifer raises his voice above their arguing. “Now is not the time.” He hands Diavolo his keys, grateful, for once, at his many attempts to bond with his brothers. “Will you please take them to the hospital? I have a brother to find.”

It doesn’t take him long to find Belphie, but it does take a toll on his knees.

“Belphegor.” He wonders how the youngest climbed on top of the press box without anyone noticing.

“The stadium lights are too bright,” Belphie says, “you can’t see the stars. They drown them out. It’s a bad omen, Lucifer.”

“Belphegor, please come back down.”

“I can’t see them, Lucifer.” His voice is thick with tears.

“They’re still there, Belphie. I promise.”

“We made them together, and I can’t see them.”

“If you come back down we can visit Beel and the two of you can find them together.” Diavolo’s Father help him, he is not climbing on top of that box to bring Belphie down himself.

“Promise?”

“On my life.”

The bad thing about the press box for the R.A.D. stadium, is that the ladder has rusted away. People never go on top of it to watch or film the game anymore because they started to use magic to get the good camera angles. The bad thing about the press box is that when Belphie makes to climb down he slips and has nothing to grab and lands on the concrete stadium seating with a snap that makes Lucifer’s stomach churn.

-

“I can’t believe you fell while getting down. That’s like, one hundred times easier than goin’ up.” Mammon is beside himself with laughter while he doodles on Belphie’s cast.

“Haha. Laugh it up Mammon. When I’m out of this thing, I’m going to break every bone in your body.” Mammon rolls his eyes at Belphie’s threat.

“The witches have used that one before. Try again.”

“What are you, a magic eight ball?”

“Reply hazy. Try again later.”

“You know,” Asmo says from his spot opposite Mammon, doodling on Beel’s cast, “it is kind of cool that you guys managed to break the same bone.”

“It’s because we’re twins.” Beel says, smiling brightly.

“Yeah,” Satan snorts, “or cause you’re both stupid.”

“I’m just glad you’re both okay,” Levi cuts in before Belphie and Satan can start in on each other.

“Indeed. Although, I believe it’s best that Fangol is heading into its off season.” Lucifer says, and there’s noises of agreement throughout the room.

—

It’s a simple fact of life that Lucifer doesn’t get sick. The Demon King is asleep, the Earth’s year is 365 (365.25) days long, the Crown Prince of the Devildom hates pickles, Michael is a massive loser, and Lucifer doesn’t get sick. He does not get sick or injured or cursed or hexed or anything of the sort because he does not have the time. Except. Except he is most definitely sick right now.

Belphie realized something was wrong when Lucifer didn’t come down for breakfast. He’s a stickler for meal times, always wanting them to share a meal together. Something about family and tradition and will you just do what I say for once that Belphie doesn’t care about or want to listen to. He comes to breakfast and dinner and lunch on the weekends anyway, because Beel does, not because Lucifer wants him to. So, when he looks up from his spot at the table, the cloth permanently drool stained despite the oldest’s best efforts, and watches all of his brothers leave except Lucifer, he gets confused.

“Beel,” he asks, tilting his head just so, “did Lucifer have a meeting today?” Usually he would tell them. Several times throughout the week if it was planned and then again in the morning before he leaves. He’s weird like that, he doesn’t like not knowing where everyone is. Belphie thinks he’s a control freak, even if he finds knowing his brother’s whereabouts comforting.

“No,” Beel says this around a mouthful of muffin, “I don’t think so.”

“Hmm. Well. I guess we’ll see him at school.”

-

They do not, in fact, see him at school. Mammon shares first period with him, which means he can never skip the first hour and a half of R.A.D. Except today, there’s no harsh pokes in his back whenever he starts to zone out, and there’s no pointed coughs when he pulls out his phone and starts playing games. He looks around and there’s no Lucifer.

Demon Brothers

Mams: ayo. where is. lucifer.

Catan: he’s not in class?

Mams: if he was I wouldn’t be askin.

Catan: the phone screen makes you bold, brother. watch yourself.

Mams: o7 aye aye cap’n.

Beel: Belphie says he wasn’t at breakfast either

Mams: is belphie’s phone broke???

Beel: he says typing is too much effort

Mams: understandable have a nice day

Asmo: o.o Lucifer not at breakfast? But he’s always weird when we miss it!

Catan: typical Lucifer hypocrisy

Levs: you know he can still read this chat right?

Catan: when has that ever stopped me -_-

Levs: you guys have hit like all of the Summoning Lucifer Bullet Points

Levs: 1. Mention his name fifty times

Levs: 2. Blow up his phone

Levs: 3. Text during class time

Levs: 4. Slander him at least once

Levs: 5. Ask about his private business/goings on

Beel: and yet

Mams: no Lucifer

-

The real header comes during the afternoon, when Lucifer doesn’t show up to the scheduled Student Council Meeting.

“Alrighty!” Diavolo says, chipper as ever, “when Lucifer gets here, we’ll start the meeting. He has all of the paperwork, anyway.” 

So they wait. And they wait.

“Yo, dude,” Mammon calls to Diavolo and he turns his head, Barbatos coughs into his fist at the lack of formality. “I don’t think Lucifer is gonna show.”

“Yeah,” Belphie yawns, “he wasn’t in school today, either.”

“Or at breakfast, apparently.” Levi says, though it’s hard to hear him over the music of his game.

“That is. Odd. Is he still at home, then?” Diavolo pulls out his phone and starts texting.

“No use,” Asmo says, “we’ve been bothering him all day.”

“Privately and in the group chat,” Satan adds. “Though, he may not have opened my messages because they were all cursed.”

“He didn’t open mine either,” Beel says. “I think he’s just been off his phone.”

“Unusual,” Barbatos says, stepping out of his shadowy corner. “Perhaps something is amiss?”

“With Lucifer?” Asmo sounds incredulous, lowering his compact just long enough to arch an eyebrow at the butler before tapping more powder on his face. “Nothing is ever wrong with Lucifer.” Belphie yawns before nodding in agreement and adding his own two cents.

“Even when we curse him things aren’t wrong. He always manages to make it seem so … normal.”

“I remember that time his pants kept falling down,” Levi says. “I thought it would make him less intimidating. I was wrong.” He shudders. “Very wrong.”

“Then why isn’t he here?” Barbatos says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why does he do anythin’?” Mammon stands up as he says this, grabbing his bag and his phone and making his way towards the door. “Lucifer does what he wants and shows no remorse for it.” There’s a pause where he remembers the Fall. “Mosta the time.”

“Well, if we aren’t going to do anything,” Asmo’s compact shuts with a click, “I have people to do and things to see.”

“It’s ‘things to do and people to see’, Asmo,” Satan says, following his brothers out.

“I know what I said.”

Barbatos and Diavolo watch as the brothers leave, one by one, all citing different excuses before sharing a look.

“Is it rude to stop by people’s homes uninvited, Barbatos?” Diavolo asks, pushing his chair back.

“Yes. But in cases where Lucifer is concerned, manners and politeness have never stopped you, my Lord.” Barbatos follows behind the Prince, steps silent in contrast to the clacking of Diavolo’s shoes on the Academy’s stone floors. Diavolo’s laugh echoes throughout the hallway.

“I suppose you’re right. Come, I believe I must pay a visit to my right hand.”

“Always.”

-

The House is cold when Diavolo gets there. He can hear Beel rummaging in the kitchen, and Belphie’s soft snores accompanying him. He can hear Levi and Mammon fighting over something and he can hear the thud of books falling over in Satan’s room. He can hear Asmo because Asmo greets him when he enters.

“Oh, hey!” He waves excitedly, before pointing at his feet. “Which shoes do you think look better with this outfit?”

“I think they both look nice,” Diavolo replies and Asmo pouts.

“Not helpful.”

“The ones on your left, Asmodeus.” Barbatos’ eyes peer from behind Diavolo’s shoulder and Asmo smiles in response.

“Thanks! Hey,” he tugs the shoe on his right foot off and tosses it into a pile next to the door before grabbing his left foot’s twin from seemingly nowhere, “you guys didn’t see Solomon out there, did you?”

“I thought I told you that he isn’t allowed within twenty feet of the front door.” Lucifer’s normal baritone is raspy with sickness, vocal cords raw from coughing.

“He’s not going to be within twenty feet. He’s going to stand an inch outside of the barrier.” Asmo turns and places his hands on his brother’s shoulders, spinning him around and pushing him back towards the living room. “I also thought I told you to lie down and sleep. I suppose we both aren’t good at listening, hmm?” Lucifer grumbles at him despite following Asmo’s guidance to the couch.

“I heard the door open.” Diavolo follows the duo towards the living room, Barbatos his ever present shadow.

“There are six other people who can answer it.” He watches as Asmo pushes Lucifer into a sitting position and shoves blankets around him.

“That’s what I worry about.” Asmo rolls his eyes.

“Stop being a baby and just lay down. How can you catch Mammon and string him up by his toenails if you can’t go a second without coughing?”

“I can,” Lucifer pauses to cough, “I can take any one of you down, even in this weakened state.”

There’s a snort from the entrance to the kitchen as the twins walk in, Beel carrying soup and Belphie carrying nothing.

“You couldn’t block even the lowest level curse from Satan at this rate.” Belphie says, curling up on the couch next to Lucifer and resting his head on his lap.

“I could–”

“You’re very strong, Lucifer,” Asmo placates, patting his older brother’s head condescendingly. “Now, eat your soup and shut up. I have a date to get to and I’m running late.”

“Maybe I should cough on you so you can’t go anymore.” The threat is empty, but Asmo’s smile still sharpens in response.

“Maybe I should take a seam ripper to all of your clothes,” he turns on his heel. “Oh, also. Diavolo is here.” The responding squawk Lucifer lets out sends him into another coughing fit, one that disrupts the sleeping Belphie on his lap.

“My Lord,” Lucifer makes to get up and is physically yanked back down by Belphie, “I apologize for not greeting you earlier.”

“No worries! You didn’t show up to the meeting today, and you weren’t answering your phone, so I stopped by to see how you were.” Diavolo gestures to the bottles of cold medicine on the coffee table and the bowl of soup being shoved at Lucifer by Beel. “It seems you are all taken care of.”

“Indeed. I appreciate your concern–”

“Beel, Lucifer’s boyfriend was worried about him. Isn’t that sweet?” Beel nods at Belphie’s joke, resting his head against the side of Lucifer’s knee from his newly acquired spot on the floor.

“The sweetest. Someone tell Asmo he’s being beaten in the best boyfriend competition.” There’s twin thunks as Lucifer smacks the both of them on the head, face now flushed with something other than fever.

“That’s enough out of you two.” He sighs and looks back up at Diavolo and Barbatos. “Would the two of you like to stay for dinner? Satan’s in charge tonight and he likely won’t poison it since I’m too ill to eat much of anything.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” Diavolo sits in an empty armchair that he thinks is Lucifer’s regular seat when his phone buzzes.

Emergency Chat ONLY

Belphie: hey satan, lucifer’s boyfriend is staying for dinner

Catan: man. now I can’t put this human world poison I found in it.

Belphie: probably wouldn’t work anyway

Beel: Barbatos is also staying

Belphie: my apologies Beel. you’re right

Belphie: lucifer’s boyfriendS are staying for dinner

Levs: this is great

Levs: I wanted to talk to Diavolo about the new chapter of the manga we’re reading

Mams: the rule is no loser talk at the dinner table

Levs: why do you open your mouth so much then

Mams: i’m gonna fucken get you

Asmo: if Lucifer gets to bring his boyfriends why can’t i bring Solomon

Catan: because Solomon sucks.

Catan: actually

Catan: would Solomon be able to con a fever high Lucifer into a pact

Mams: the downside here is that Solomon would be at dinner

Beel: I’d lose my appetite

Asmo: he’s not that bad

Asmo: and don’t lie Beel

Asmo: we aren’t going to let him cook

Asmo: we aren’t stupid

Lucifer: This chat is for emergencies only.

Belphie: i know. that’s why we’re discussing dinner

Lucifer: If I see Solomon anywhere near the House I will find a way to reverse his immortality.

Catan: wear a blindfold

Asmo: kinky

Catan: freak

Lucifer: I believe I also told you to stop referring to Diavolo and Barbatos as my boyfriends.

Mams: sucks 2 suck

Levs: L moment

Lucifer: I also believe they are in this chat.

Belphie: i know. that’s why we’re discussing dinner.

Belphie: keep up old man

Lucifer: I will remind you that you’re laying in my lap.

Belphie: what’re you gonna do

Belphie: cough on me??

Levs: chat, clip this

Mams: what was that scream???

Diavolo: Belphegor.

Barbs: Lucifer did more than just “cough on him.”

Mams: oh damn.

Mams: so what’s for dinner 

Beel: Lucifer says Belphegor stew

Mams: I thought it was Satan’s turn to cook????????

Catan: lucifer just tried to shove belphie in the oven.

Barbatos: With no seasoning? How revolting.

Diavolo: Demons taste better fried, anyway.

Mams: PARDON???

[yournightmary]

Streamer!Ellie HCs

content warning:: fem!reader, modern!AU, mentions of getting hurt

AN:: Another headcannons, who would’ve thought? Streamer!Ellie was literally the reason I started writing. Enjoy :)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who started streaming as a joke. Jesse was already a streamer and he constantly said she’d be good at it, so why not?

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who at first had such a shitty setup. No webcam, mic barely working and her PC couldn’t handle minecraft with shaders.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who randomly went from 30 viewers average to almost 10k one day. Just blew up overnight.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who gets canceled at least once a week. She just says dumb shit without thinking and has to apologize after. and people are just fucking weird.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who lives off of snacks and won’t eat a proper meal if you don’t cook anything. She’s just always on that grind😎🔥

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who’s entire personality on camera is just a character. Screams and throws herself off of her chair on camera but goes non verbal every time she’s in private.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who mostly streams games, especially minecraft & fortnite. She might make an irl stream once in a blue moon, but don’t expect it to be good.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who loves her community and wants to talk to them more often but always ends up swearing and arguing with random people in chat.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who gets copyright strikes and warnings from twitch admins almost every stream. Most of the times she doesn’t even know what she did wrong.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who keeps your relationship a secret. She’s scared you’d get a ton of hate. (You would) ((Streamer fanbases are awful))

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who buys the most random things she can ‚for the lulz’. Whether it’s for her streaming room or bedsheets, she’s buying the weirdest option. (This made me think of her)



⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who is definitely a hey mamas girl.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who majorly fucked up and showed her personal instagram account (with your pictures) by accident. Her following went up by 10k almost instantly and she ended up deleting it:/

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who after that mistake took a hiatus for almost 3 weeks. I mean- logged out of every account she had and didn’t check any socials for that time.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who came back to streaming thinking she’d get all the hate in the world but people were just joking that ‚she’s too much of a loser to have a pretty girlfriend’.

they were also surprised she was lesbian. She never talked about her private life on stream, not even once.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ In my mind she’s the female version of 2019/2020 Quackity. Is he still relevant? idk

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who jokes about selling feet pics and bath water a little too often for your liking.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who once did a handstand for a 100 bucks. Ended up breaking her arm in two places and she couldn’t play games for almost two months.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who gets hurt on stream so often she got flagged for self harm. Apologized on twitter though:)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who definitely thinks loud=funny.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who finds out she’s in some kind of drama every single time she opens twitter. It’s always for something stupid too, like saying she’d win in a fight against some random streamer and their fanbase gets pissed.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who feels bad about having nice things so she just buys you a ton of gifts. Gotta spend that streamer money somehow🤑

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who showed you on stream once and the chat went crazy. People made edits of the 10 seconds you were on screen. Ellie watched all of them.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who streams cutting her hair every few months. She says ‚she’s cooking’ while chat drags her through mud.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ streamer!Ellie who streams so much she started saying ‚chat’ in real life, even when she’s alone. Always gets embarrassed about it and apologizes.

Can you tell I was a dsmp kid during quarantine?

[i-yap]

TIM DRAKE X Y/N-Headcanons with a reader that he's known since childhoo

I'm doing rich y/n cuz rich kids usually are allowed to interact only with rich kids and realistically in gotham I can see the parents being weary ( this may be slightly inaccurate my bestie is rich but I'm not so I asked her for a little help so...yea )

Getting to know you was maybe the biggest privilege he has as Drake's kid. Your parents prolly made you guys hang out a lot since you were really young. Rich people have these big ass private dinners at restraunts or at home which are so so boring and you and him would just excuse yourself with the excuse of "checking out the property" .

You have had the wildest adventures, once you guys somehow found an exit from the property and it was on the hills so you just roamed around a forest- got lost- slide down a hill and went back to the restaurant with holes in your clothes and mud in your hair. Or the habit of pushing each other in the fountains and swimming pool

The only reason your parents put up with this is because rich wants to marry rich and so two of you being together was a way you both could be free.

I can also see you guys carrying a small change of clothes underneath the fancy gala gown/suits or dinner dresses and sneaking out from the parties to eat greasy food, hit up shady places or concerts, go to the skate park or even just sit up on the rooftop and smoke greens

NOW I DO BELIEVE THAT TIM DOES A LIL WEED..and therefore you do too. but you keep each other in moderation and only do it when you guys are together ( ill make a separate post about this if you guys comment that you want one?)

When his mom dies, you are there. when your parents are being shit he is there. you guys support each other through rich loneliness ( rich kids don't have real friends type of thing) and honestly you guys are happy to just be together .

he sneaks up your balcony , you help him build those detective boards. you know everything, he just doesn't know how to no rush to you and tell you everything.

When he becomes robin, you prolly already knew bruce cause rich people know rich people. Bruce just thinks of you guys as a combined package (like literally everyone else) one can not exist without the other sort of situation.

you guys probably always talked about running away, in great detail.

so many irritating references and inside joke, you guys are unbearable but u don't care. sucks to be bitchless.

he would leave it all for you , say the word. he cant live without you, he doesn't know how to, he never wants to learn.

[norman-fucking-reedus]

Guys I’m thinking about Rick and Daryl fighting, like Daryl is definitely a professional little brother and spends all day wrecking havoc upon Rick (and maybe a few others)

also I know Daryl is a hardcore hair puller. In the bed and in fights. When he and Merle would fight, it was like a second nature for his hands to latch onto to curly hair, yanking the strands and on one occasion knocking his head into a wall

me when rickyl but also brotherhood

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

On the outside, Daryl Dixon was quiet, dark, and mysterious. He was a dusty book that had been closed and locked tight for decades, never opening up no matter who or what tried to pry. Most people would think that he was just one of the ones that never expressed any type of concern or emotion, but really, Daryl’s just a silent person. Until someone he knows pops into the picture.

“Get tha’ fuck off me! Get tha’ fuck off of me!” His voice rang out through the community alongside side Dogs chaotic barking.

People rushed out of their homes at what they thought were very distressed cries, Carol’s bow loaded and almost aimmed as he stepped out onto hers, only frowning deeply when she saw what all the ruckus was.

Daryl and Rick were wrestling in the dirt, the huntersman pinned down underneath the officer in a very uncomfortable looking position. Dog was barking at the two of them, tail wagging in the air as he stood in a playful position, standing over his defeated owner.

“Blah blah blah. You’re just a sore fucking loser” Rick laughed at him, pointing a finger in Daryl’s face, and pulling it away when his sharp teeth clamped down. “Gon’ make mah dog eat you alive” The man grumbled and squirmed.

“Gonna make the walkers eat you both alive” You sighed from where you had approached behind Rick, Dog now eagerly lapping and jumping around you as you too stood over your defeated hunter. “Seriously?” You shook your head and pushed Rick off the man, watching the way he dramatically fell over. “He started it! I was bein’ nice” Daryl frowns, and so does Rick, sitting up to face Daryl who had childishly wrapped himself around your leg. “Nuh uh, no! This asshole tried sticking mud down my pants!” Daryl cackled at the sentence and you knew he was gulity.

“You two are grown ass men” You huffed, shaking your leg slightly only for Daryl’s to tighten his grip. Absolutely wonderful.

“He needs to be put in time out” Rick grumbled, and you wondered if you were getting paid for this. “Time out?”

“Time out?” Carol approached, bow and arrow no longer in hand.

Daryl pointed at Rick, while Rick pointed at him, both men staring daggers at each other. “Him! He fucking started this!”

You share a look with Carol as the men bicker, and it’s quite funny untill you feel a sudden emptiness at your leg, and Daryl is hurling a ball of mud at Rick, who unfortunately catches it with his face. “Now I can really call ya ‘shitface grimes’” Daryl laughed as he climbed to his feet, standing behind you as Rick wiped his eyes clear, immediately locking them on his target.

Daryl doesn’t wanna admit that he didn’t think Rick would just go right around you, yelling when the officer took a swipe at him. “Stop it yew shit eater!” Daryl ran away with Rick hot on his heels, Dog sprinting right alongside them and barking excitedly.

“Can you imagine a small mini version of all that?” You shake your head, smiling softly at Carol. “You have got quite the character on your hands. Clinging to your leg? He must love you” You laughed, peering up the street where they had run off too, a cloud of dirt forming as they tussled, and from Daryl’s very loud screams he was probably getting what he deserved. “Dealing with him? He better love me” You scoff, knowing that your giant manchild loves you more than life itself.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Each press of the cotton to his skin makes him hiss, and he winces at the burning sting of alcohol. “No more fights” You frown softly, tilting Daryl’s head as you cleaned his wounds, gingerly placing bandaids over them. “But he-“ “Yes I know he started it, he also finished it” Daryl pouts, legs swinging off the countertop. You stick a bandage over his nose, and kiss his forehead. “All better. I want you in this house before it’s too dark, okay?” Daryl drops onto his feet, and plants a quick but eager kiss on your lips. “Yes mama” He tosses over his shoulder as he snatches his crossbow off the floor, barreling out the door with Dog. You watched them go, a smile tugging your lips. It faded at the sound of a Rick’s high pitched scream.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

looks around because I dont know what happened and because I really like childish Daryl now and wanna write more

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#380

“Boy, that took you long enough.  Did it come out clear three times in a row?...  Good.  I don’t want no fag mud on my hog.  I will beat the shit out of you if I go to fuck you and you ain’t clean.  And it won’t be the fun kind of beating the shit out of you.  It will be your responsibility to keep your hole clean.  You understand?

“…You seem to be taken aback by what I’m saying, or when I told you to go clean out not one hour after we first met.  Look, I’m 63 years old, I don’t have the patience for beating around the bush.  I’m blunt.

“When Leonard assigned you to train with me, he knew that I only train faggots.  I know him, and he would not have brought up my name as a seasoned trainer unless he told you that I’m a fag fucker.  For the next 11 weeks, you will be the fag I mostly fuck.

“What did he tell you about me?...  That I have been ‘A truck driver for forty years and that I’m a total top.’  Ok.  Did he also tell you I have a fat sausage?  He probably did; I use his cunt from time to time, and he loved to brag to the other fags that he can take me.

“Oh finally, that car is pulling out of here…. 

“Strip….  I said ‘Strip.’  Now listen here you little faggot.  I don’t know what you thought was going to happen between us, but that’s my rig.  My rig!  It’s not the company’s.  I create the rules.  They are not negotiable.  At the end of the eleven weeks, you will be a damned good truck driver and well trained cum dump.

“Look you can see a mile up the road.  Not much on the road right now, we have plenty of advanced notice if someone should approach let alone pull off.  Now strip.

“Faggot, you are going to learn very fast that I think about sex just about all the time….  Wait, let me guess, you don’t like being called a ‘faggot?’  For fuck’s sake.  OK, I won’t call you Faggot.  Does that make you feel better… Cunt?

“Cunt you will leave this pecker alone.  Now turn around and show me that cleaned out cunt.  Whew!  That hole sure is pretty.  That prettiness won’t last a minute.  Spread your legs and put your fingertips on the asphalt.  Your master is coming in.

“One thing you will learn is, I love to fuck.  When I’m waiting for a load to be unloaded, I fuck.  When I have to refuel, I fuck.  When I am driving, I’m thinking about fucking.  I always have a small bottle of lube in my pocket for times like this.  Now hold still.  I’m going right to the root, and I expect you to scream your fucking head off.

“I love fucking a naked cunt outside in the middle of the day, especially far from anyone to hear the screams.  Now scream!  Oh hell yes.  Scream motherfucker.  You don’t want to hurt, then accommodate me!  Your focus in on my cock, always.  Always.  When we are driving across the country and you are tied up to the bunk with your cunt facing the front, your focus is on my cock.  When I am asleep and you are driving naked with a large butt plug in your cunt, your focus is on my cock.  When I bring you to a cruise spot and have anonymous men use your cunt, your focus is on my cock.  When I am taking a belt to your ass, your focus is on my cock.  When I bring you back to my home in Minnesota and install you under my rimseat, your focus in on my shithole first and then on my cock.

“You got all that?...  Cunt!  I don’t give a shit how much pain my dick is inflicting.  If I did care, the answer would probably be ‘Not enough.’  Don’t worry, after a day or two, you will be stretched out enough so that this is not that much of a struggle.  Hell, I already feel your cunt relax to accept me now. 

“This is your life for the next eleven weeks.  This is why you will be douching out daily.  I’m also going to control what you eat, that’ll make the clean out process easier.  It’s going to be pretty much non-stop butt fucking for you, with some blow jobs and ass eating to break up the monotony. 

“…What was that?...  You don’t eat ass?  You don’t want to stick your tongue where another man shits?  Believe me, I understand.  That’s why I don’t do it.  And when you get your own rig, you won’t have to. 

“Don’t you dare try to stand up when I am fucking you in this position.  Yes it’s an uncomfortable position.  I want it that way.  I said, don’t stand up.  In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t give a shit what you want or don’t want. 

“You keep up this idea that your opinion matters, I will give a shit….  Literally!  I am not into that scene, but I will totally shit in your mouth to get you to understand that your opinion is as useless to me as your pecker. 

“You know what?  Stand up.  Look at me….  Look at me Cunt.  Yeah, face slaps are my thing too. 

“I’m ready to end this now if you want.  I will walk back to my rig, and I will leave you standing naked in this lot.  You want to stay with me, you agree to do what I say when I say it.  No asking not to do anything.  And what I will give you is free driver training, free lodging, I’ll pay for your food, all the expenses along the way, and finally and most importantly all the sex you ever wanted from men like me. 

“I know where the active cruise spots are.  I have driver contacts across the country that like to fuck faggots like you.  I know where the last remaining truck stops that still have communal showers.  You’ll definitely get gang banged there.  There are some other places, like this biker roadhouse where faggots get used.  That’s only the beginning.  Summer is approaching, and the fag fuckers come out to play in a big way.

“This is the only time I will make you this choice.  You want me to leave you here or do you want to be transformed into a cum-guzzling and ass eating cunt, one that can drive a truck?

“…What was that?...  That’s as I thought.  But don’t call me ‘Sir’ as you haven’t earned the right to.  You are to refer me as ‘Master.’  Once you establish yourself with me, without future problems, I’ll let you call me ‘Sir.’  And if you do a real good job, after the end of the eleven weeks, I might let you address me as ‘Dad.’

“Ok get on your knees and suck your ass juices off my cock.  Don’t think.  Just do.  Stick it in your mouth.

“Atta boy.  You are taking your first step on the right path.

“I plan on taking you there tonight, to that biker roadhouse.  They require all faggots to be locked up in a chastity cage.  They have a guy there that will fit you with one exactly to my specifications.  You’ll wear it for your duration with me. 

“I will pay for your entrance.  They charge faggots to be used by them.  Faggots from all over the area arrive, pay, and get stripped.  They are secured in one of several stations for the night.  There’s one that is bent over to lick boots all night.  Another is on urinal duty.  There’s a glory hole station and a rimming station.  There’s a full toilet station.  Piss me off again, and you might be secured in there.  And they have ways of making the faggots comply. 

“Get up and get back into position with your fingertips on the asphalt….  There you go.  Fuuuuuck…  Cunt, your cunt feels so good.  You’re not screaming this time.  Good.

“For you, I was going to have you installed at the glory hole station.  I’m going to switch it up to the ass eating one, get you under one of their rimseats.  There’s this one that your lay down on a small platform in one room, and you scoot your head through a hole in the wall.  Your head comes out into the bar area under what they call ‘The Throne.’  Your legs are lifted up, spread, and secured to the wall, leaving your cunt open for any type of pussy play.  That’s sometimes reserved by faggots weeks if not months ahead. 

“I’ll contact the owner and the man that likes to sit on the Throne for hours on end.  He’ll let me know if it’s available.  Regardless, you will be installed at one station through the night.  I’ll use you early on, but I’ll go back to the rig to spend my down time. 

“The thought of that is really getting me going.  Can you feel my cock getting thicker?  It loves it with thoughts of faggots used in a way that god intended.

“We have about some time before we need to get rolling.  Now that you know what the next three months will look like, I’m going to enjoy my new accommodating cunt for a bit.  Try to hold your position.”

[inkshroomz]

im tired of people acting like Mike is being an asshole for no reason like???? He's been bullied for a large amount of his life, he's dealing with internalized homophobia and gay feelings for his best friend, he doesn't love his girlfriend the way he's expected to, he has never seen a healthy romantic relationship between his parents, he thought his best friend died and went through all the upside down trauma shit, he canonically did not hesitate that long to jump off a cliff, HES FOURTEEN??? like he's just a dumb teen boy he eats sticks and rocks and mud he doesn't care about the government and he really needs a hug.

HES LITERALLY MY CHILD AND HE CAN ACT HOWEVER HE WANTS BECAUSE I SAID SO ALSO I LIKE WATCHING PEOPLE SUFFER IN SHOWS

[hey-august]

Buggy thinking reader insert likes Shanks more is for ever and always gonna be one of my favorite things because the angst potential, the comfort potential… delicious.

But also like… ultimate comedy because depending on the dynamic you see him and Shanks having it can also be like: Shanks. Obnoxious wingman.

Buggy fretting over you being in love with Shanks, while not only you aren’t, but also Shanks doing his best combination of „I know all of this guys dumbest moments because we grew up together“ and „WHOOOO!!! BUGGY!!“

He wouldn’t even need to sell you on Buggy but he’s constantly just hyping him up to you anyways, Buggy is so funny. Buggy can juggle with daggers! Shanks is a hot mess in the fashion department, yes, hahah, yeah he knows, if you want to talk to someone who can tell colors apart you should go to BUGGY, now BUGGY is a stylish guy, you need to know your shit to make clown fashion look good.

…. Also speaking of clowns, one time when they were eleven Buggy got stung by a bee on his nose and it took away like fifty percent of his vision because it swelled so- „CAN IT, YOU BASTARD!“

Buggy not only being so blind he mistakes your advances as being intended for Shanks, but also not even realizing Shanks is just constantly trying to get you two closer as well.

aaaAAAHHH Anon, I love the idea of Shanks trying to be Buggy's hype man, and doing that plus more. C'mon, they're not embarrassing stories, they're funny! Endearing! Here, have a 550 word stream of consciousness about this trio's dynamic:

Both men can easily be the center of attention. But maybe Buggy's circle is intimidating. Maybe not. Maybe you're nervous about approaching him just yet.

Grab a drink, chat it up with the easy to talk to guy at the bar, get invested in some childhood story he's telling a crowd, a story full of adventure and danger. Plus some goofy antics that only two best friends could get into.

And when Shanks calls out to the so-called friend for confirmation about a particular detail (what happened first - the swarm of bees that blocked out the sun or falling into that pulsating mud pit ), it's the guy you've had your eye on all night.

And Shanks - the schmoozer, the sweet talker - is too quick to pick up on that subtle shift in your expression. Wide eyed not because of the fantastic story he's telling, but for a different reason. So you two keep chatting, and the circle of conversation shrinks until it's you two and stories about Buggy.

Finally, eventually, why did it take so long, Buggy makes his way over and Shanks introduces you two. Aaaand nothing. Buggy looks you over and scoffs. Shanks can go hook up with whoever and do whatever the fuck he wants - Buggy doesn't need a consolation prize.

That was...rude. It would have been absolutely crushing if it wasn't for Shanks clapping a hand on Buggy's shoulder and shaking sense into him. Chiding him for being so blind - how did Buggy not notice that you have been undressing him all night from across the bar? Or how you'd whip your head around and pretend to be looking anywhere but at the clown when his attention drifted anywhere near you.

It's obvious Buggy isn't going to believe any of that, so you decide to jump in. And, you know, word vomit every thought in your head.

"He's right, I think you're cute and I want to buy you a drink and he said you like hot dogs so we can go get a bite to eat, my treat, if you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, we've been talking about you because I wanted to get to you more because I...think you're cute." You might have blacked out while talking because you hardly remembered what came out of your mouth. It wasn't until the end that you realized both men were silent and staring at you.

Shanks laughed first. Of course he did. Buggy didn't. He turned red. Redder than the nose on his face. You thought it was the nicest shade of vermillion, but wow could it get brighter when this guy had emotions.

You two were talking about him? What did Shanks say?!

Only good things, really! That he's talented with knives. That he's clever with chemicals and science. Oh and one time he accidentally blew off his eyebrows. And that Buggy has the best jokes. In fact, there's one particular joke about a mermaid, a pirate, and a sandwich that no one can tell like Buggy.

And there's the light. The sparkle. The opportunity. All the pieces have been played.

Shanks drowns the rest of his drink while Buggy leans in to tell you the joke. That joke. What you didn't know is it's rather raunchy. Downright filthy. And exactly what you and Buggy needed to start a fun night getting to know each other.

[hanjisungslag]

haiii >_< what type of fantasy characters/stererotypes would aot characters be?

- any characters you want but def reiner pls＾ ty baby

🧝‍♀️ aot characters & fantasy

characters included: eren, armin, mikasa, sasha, connie, jean, annie, reiner, bertolt, levi, erwin & hange!!

notes: this was so fun to do omg

✧ eren jaeger - hero gone villain

okay i know this is a bit basic to do… but c’mon!! he’s literally the epitome of ‘i’ve become what i sought out to destroy’ and i just can’t think of him as anything else. he fits the stereotype too well😭.

✧ armin arlert - mage

he is soooo side kick mage, no? tell me you can’t imagine armin (specifically with the mushroom hair) wearing a wizard gown, hat and holding a magical old stick. he doesn’t like to leave his tower often but is usually forced to when something goes amiss - i can imagine him sighing deeply while reluctantly grabbing his magical old stick.

✧ mikasa ackerman - sidekick

bad ass sidekick who lives in the woods & is probably on the run. i’m thinking… arcana muriel vibes for this but less stoic and quiet (and less cursed) but, she definitely learnt to fight in the woods when she was 3 OR taken in by an old, rugged guy whose family died tragically. either way, everyone’s terrified of her but she steals bread for orphans or some heroic shit like that.

✧ jean kirsten - prince

himbo prince😭 i mean this in the BEST way possibly mkay! he’s not really a himbo however… he just gives prince who accidentally got entangled in a weird adventure and he doesn’t know how to live without servants. he’s be like “erm, i am not crossing that muddy river.” BUT THE CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT WOULD BE INSANE by the end, he’d like finally understand how bad the government is or how poor the townspeople are and give them money.

✧ connie springer - the fool

sigh… the fool, the court jester, etc etc. he would be himbo prince jean’s court jester 100% and they’re like actually pretty good friends, they’ve known each other since they were kids. he also gets dragged along with jean on a weird adventure and he would be the comedic relief. (also a shoulder for jean to cry on when he gets mud on his fancy royal shoes).

✧ sasha braus - henchman

hunter/henchman hellooo…? literally expert at using a bow and arrow? grew up in the woods?? she would EAT so hard being a henchman and to make it even better, when someone hires her they don’t know she’s a girl and whenever someone finds out, they’ll be so shocked!! feminism!

✧ reiner braun - the beast

dare i say… some sort of big beast? like a big, fluffy beast but make it sexy, beauty and the beast vibes perhaps. imagine fighting this big and surprisingly attractive who lives under a bridge. IM SORRY THAT WOULD BE SO FUN… i’m thinking like diane from sds vibes too!!

✧ bertolt hoover - squire

young, little boy training to be a knight aka a squire. tell me you cant see this little cutie patootie dressed to the nines in armour, learning how to swing a sword?! maybe him and annie trained together or dare i say, he looks up to her.

✧ annie leonhart - knight

sworn shield to a princess that she falls in love with. imma need someone to write a fanfic about this RIGHT NOW!! we all know annie knows how to whop some ass so, of course she was chosen by the king and queen to protect their precious daughter but what happens when… she falls in love! GAH!! of course, she could never speak of her feelings - maybe one day.

✧ levi ackerman - assassin

leader of some sort of renegade, like a special group of assassins. no matter what universe this man is in, his crown will never fall! his title carries on throughout all possible realties m’kay. same backstory though 100%, raised in the poor ditches but learnt how to fight and now he’s a leader of a renegade! you have to pay big buck to get levi to assassinate someone, he’s the best of the best after all.

✧ erwin smith - commander

i’m sorry to be basic and boring but a commander of an army. HE HAS TO BEEE 😭it’s too perfect, i’m sorry. except imagine the army is all medieval and dripped out in chainmail!

✧ hange zoë - pirate

a pirate. LIKE CMONNN especially s4 hange with the eye patch?! i can totally imagine hange running a ship and sailing the seven seas. they’re literally a commander too? it was written in the stars, they’re perfect for the role! i can totally see them playing devious pranks and tricks on other pirates trying to secure the same treasure.

[thechaoticplayer]

Eating His Prey

author's note: I really wanted to write a fic about Ike, more specifically sadistic and yandere Ike because holy shit it was kinda hot what he was doing sheeeeeesh Summary: Being such a sly (apparently my keyboard wanted to make you slay so you're also very slay) and mischievous little fox you are, you decide to mess around in a wolf's territory. However, you're in for a wild reality check... Contains: degrading oh wow, dom Ike, hes literally using you, and all that spicy stuff mmm

Hunting in the wolf's territory was an adventure within itself, the new terrain and yummy prey was something that you desired very much. Besides, wouldn't be fun to mess around a bit? You are a great predator yourself, enjoying making your prey squeak and cry underneath your arms. You'd drag out their suffering for a good while. It was all fun and games for you.

You are currently traipsing through the forest full of crowded trees, scattered patches of sunlight kissing the grass floor. You finished having a good meal of a rabbit, a cute little thing you almost felt bad for devouring. Your nose quivered, sniffing the air and catching a scent.

Wolf scent. But your senses told you he was away at the moment. You grin, lips pulled back to reveal canine teeth. His little home! Maybe you could get some sort of rabbit shit and litter it all across his home. Maybe you could build a little fort out of sticks for him.

You dart in and out bushes with ease, your feet silently tapping the ground. Your prey hardly ever heard you coming, which was fortunate and unfortunate at once. Unaware little things. Thank god you were an excellent predator and not some weak ass prey!

You find yourself at the mouth of a cave, looking awfully gloomy inside. You sniff once more. Yup, his scent is much stronger here. Without a care in the world, you skip on inside.

It was very dark for a good few feet, your night vision clicking in after a few seconds. Bones lay scattered across the cave floor: skulls, ribs, femurs, arms. Some even arranged in twisted ways, like horrific art. Wolf must be some sort of sick freak. Not like you were anyone to judge. But still. Freak.

But it gradually began to get brighter, and you walk faster, you didn't want to dilly dally after all. You emerge within a bigger room, with a hole on the ceiling like a window. You notice there was no patch of leaves or soft grass for rest (what the fuck does he actually sleep on this hard ass rock? The wolf is literally a psycho) and surprisingly, no weird bone art. Just tallies on the wall, made with his claw you presumed, lining the walls. Several rows after row. What is this? his body count?

Eh. you don't care. You just wanna create a mess out of his home.

You drag some of the bones from the corridor and toss them around. Snapping some in half and creating your own work of art. You giggle as you line up some bones, a picture of a cock on his floor now. Your tail swishes back and forth with excitement. Perhaps you should go back to the riverbed, gather some mud and plaster it all over the wolf's walls. A nice touch to such a bland room.

You turn your head and freeze. Your heart rate increases.

The wolf himself is here, staring you down with golden eyes. Glowing from the darkness, expression blank as he watched you. Caught-red handed. How long was here there anyway? How did you not hear his entrance? as for the smell, his scent was all over the place, and it is very strong. Luck was simply not on your side.

"Well well well," the grey wolf chuckles darkly, sending electricity down your spine. Instinct told you to run your ass out of there, but you froze, out of fear. "What's a little fox doing here in my domain? Wrecking my home, hm?"

You say nothing, eyes glancing behind him. The only exit. A laugh, as he approaches still.

"Since we are going to get very acquainted, my name is Ike Eveland," the wolf says cheerfully and you furrow your brows because what the hell? "And now, answer me this: what gave you the idea to come here? Death wish?"

"...b-because i wanna," your shaky voice replies and you clear your throat. You straighten your body and stare back at him, never backing down. Not too some puny wolf. "I go wherever I want."

Ike tsks at you, stalking closer. "Now now, I like the confidence yes, but do you realise your situation, dear?" He smiles, sharp teeth bared. "I'm going to eat you alive."

Finally, he launches himself at you, claws glinting in the sunlight. Immediately your legs tense and push you, sprinting below him out of the room and into the corridor. Your heart roars in your ears as you run as far as you possibly can out of the cave, breathing heavily.

What a fucking insane little shit! He was definitely a bit smaller than other wolves you met, but something about the way his sinister gaze sent shivers down your spine. You hated to admit it, but the wolf was actually pretty intimidating. His eyes were such a lovely shade of gold though...

You shake your head and keep running, hopping through a small river to make him lose your scent. You turn towards another direction, toward the familiar big tree you liked to lean against when you wanted to think. It was a good distance from the wolf's territory, so you should be fine. Besides, why would Ike come all the way over here for one silly fox? Heh.

You arrive at the foot of the tree and plop down, regaining your oxygen. Damn, you've never ran so much in your life. You curl your fluffy tail around you, plucking out leaves. Your beating heart slowed a bit as relief flooded your veins. That was simply a vibe check from the gods above. You have learned to stay away from there in the near by future, because if you went there again, you wouldn't have a future.

You lean down with the balls of your hand on the grass, stretching with your ass in the air and felt every bone crack in your back. You sigh contently. It has always felt good to do that after a run.

Your ear twitched and a sound of rustling bushes interrupts your stretch. You sit back, suddenly alert. You sniff the air, but only smell your wet fur. You survey your surroundings, and seeing nothing. A squirrel? However, you stayed cautious and kept your ears open.

While you were cleaning your teeth, another sound, the noise of a twig snapping under a huge weight. It is closer to you than before.

With no warning, you high-tail it out of there, not even turning to see who it is because you could already tell by that menacing aura alone. The grey wolf is hunting you.

"Go away!" you shout, shooting through bushes and swerving around thick trees. "Go find some dumb rabbit to devour!"

"You're much more intriguing!" Ike calls, and you're startled by how you can't hear his footsteps and yours is loud as shit. "Let's play a game, huh?"

"I don't play no games!" You snap, diving into a fox hole made from another fox and scurrying through the small tunnel. He couldn't get through because he's too large! ha!

"It'll be fun!" He calls from outside the tunnel. "Let's play hide and seek, little one!" Ike sings, and you find it oddly pretty.

Dude, really?

You shoot out the other end and continue sprinting. Fuck out of here with that hide and seek nonsense!

"I'll be the seeker," Ike says from behind, startling so much you almost stumble. "I'll give you some time to hide!"

His voice fades and you glance over your shoulder. Gone. Kapoof. Finally, holy shit, his presence was getting annoying as shit. Wait. Is he actually going to play hide and seek?

You curse in your mind, running as far as your legs could carry. You pause, chest heaving as you breath rapidly through your mouth. You turn in a circle, attempting to find a good hiding spot. You spy a big tree with a hollow center, obscured by a flower bush. It is right by a river too!

You dive into the hole without delay and try to rein in your breathing. You quickly adjust the bush so it didn't look like it was rammed through. It was not long before you felt that ominous presence again, your tail poofing up instantly.

"Little fox, where are you?" Ike coos from a good distance away. You cover your mouth with both hands. "You're a sly thing, huh? Walking around my own territory like it was your place. Now, it's time to make sure you learn your place."

You press yourself against the wall so hard, the grooves start to imprint on your skin. You're starting to regret your decisions. It seems like the wolf will never let you go until he captures you. You silently pray to whatever gods were listening.

Turns out they were not. They said screw you kiddo you're on your own.

"I will find you," Ike promises, his voice a tad closer. "I can feel your heart. So fast. Am I making you nervous?"

You grind your teeth, stopping yourself from growling. This cocky bastard.

"I tend to get that reaction a lot. I didn't think I was that horrifying, being on the smaller scale," Ike says and you roll your eyes because who the fuck asked? "I give off threatening vibes, supposedly. that's what the last one said anyway."

Huh?

"The last prey I had," the wolf continues, almost as if he just read your mind. "You must've seen the lines on the walls. All animals I've killed and perhaps devour. Sometimes, I kill for the fun of it and leave the carcass for other animals. Oh, how thrilling it is, watching the blood seep onto the floor and the life draining out of their eyes!" Ike sighs and your blood goes cold because it's outside your hiding place. A big hand reaches out to touch the flower in front of you. "Their blood, such a pretty shade of red just like this poppy."

The hand snakes out like a viper and snatches your ankle and you yell, kicking at him but he drags you out of the tree. Still kicking and screaming bloody murder, you kick his face in sheer desperation. His head turned toward another direction but his hand still latched onto your ankle.

"That wasn't very polite," Ike says, his gaze on you and you still. "What's wrong? Sad because you lost?"

"No way!" You claw at his hand but he doesn't budge. Just watches your pathetic attempts. "Let go!"

He leans in close to your face and you halt your actions. His breaths on your face as the wolf holds eye contact with you. The flecked color of brown in his eyes are mesmerizing to look at, entrancing. You swallow hard. Ike's hand slides from your ankle to your knee, to your thigh, sending goosebumps across your skin. He squeezes, his nails digging in slightly and you wince.

"No. You're mine to play with now, cute little fox."

Something about the way his voice went lower, or was it the hand movement? made your heart beat faster, and not in a frightened way. The wolf's hand travels to your hip and your breath hitches, still staring into the eyes of your enemy. The hand goes all the up from your arm, feather light, skins your collarbone and finds itself a new home on your neck. Wrapping his fingers around your delicate neck, Ike begins to squeeze lightly. Still looking down at you with those pretty eyes, hovering over you with such a smirk on his lips.

Ike stops squeezing, evidently surprised. He sniffs the air, but still a hand around your throat, his nose dipping lower. His nose bumps against your thigh and he growls low in his throat, yanking your legs apart. You squeak.

Arousal. Pure arousal, glittering in the light. Ike stares for a moment, still sniffing. His gaze slides back up to you and you stop breathing.

"Little fox..." he says quietly, and excitement jolts up. "Are you... aroused, right now?"

You don't respond, a bit ashamed. Why the hell were you getting horny for the man about to kill you? Who in their right mind-?

You gasp as you feel a hot mouth against your pussy, lapping up the juices with a shocking pace. You whine, struggling to get away but both his hands are on your thighs now, keeping you spread open and down on the grass as he ravaged your pretty little hole.

You tasted so fucking good, more than he could ever imagine! His nose bumps your clit as his tongue glides in and out of your wet hole, making squelching noises. You moan loudly, digging your nails into his scalp as you push him into you. Ike growls, sending more electricity up your spine. His teeth grazes your clit as he suckles the bundle of nerves and you gasp.

"Oh fuck fuck fuck- mph!" You cover your mouth, attempting to muffle your embarrassing sounds.

The wolf stops, narrowing his eyes at you. "Who said for you to hide those pretty noises?"

You bite your lip, legs squirming as the breeze hits your pussy. "I-I, well..."

"Keep our hands. Off. If you do so again, I'll make sure you never do it again, do you understand?"

You nod quickly, getting even more aroused by his threat and you subconsciously think, 'what the FUCK' and he smirks.

Ike eats you out like a wolf starved, fucking and teasing your hole with such accuracy you start to see stars, and watching him eat you like you were the best meal he ever had turned you on even more and you felt your walls clamp around his tongue.

"Good slut," Ike whispers against your clit, sucking on it for a brief moment before sinking his teeth into your thigh, making you yelp. "Horny little thing, for a predator who was going to devour you whole..." the wolf chuckles.

Your slick slathered across his face, buried in you, legs over his shoulders was a sight to see. You moan, "a-ah! Mmm, right there, t-there!" Your toes curl, eyes rolled back as the orgasm comes over in waves, making your body shake from pleasure as you release soft whines. But Ike isn't done, he's just getting started.

A finger pushes itself into you and you gasp yet again. It explores your walls, tickling that one spot. Then another is added, and Ike slowly pumps his fingers into you, watching with fascination as your pussy eagerly swallows his digits. Pulling him in.

"What a fucking whore," he notes, flicking his eyes up at your flushed cheeks and the drool leaking down your chin. "I haven't even put my cock in you yet."

Your walls squeeze around his fingers at the sentence and he laughs darkly. He bites your other thigh, drawing blood as you wince in pain. The wolf quickly laps up your blood with a groan. His fingers pump faster, curling at the right time and you moan in a mix of pain and pleasure.

"Greedy bitch. Do you want me to let you cum?" He asks, gold glowing between your legs. New hickeys flourish all over your inner thighs along with obvious bite marks.

"Yes please," you moan, angling your hips up and he repeatedly hits that delicious spot. "Hah- f-fuck! N-ngh! Pleasepleasepleaseplease... "

Ike pulls his fingers out and you immediately protest but he shushes you. The loss of his fingers inside you was making you insane, until you get filled up by something entirely different.

"O-oh... " you moan quietly, his cock hard inside of you.

"Dumb fox." Ike takes your wrists and pins them above your head as he looks down at you. Your breath hitches. "Dumb, horny fox."

He snaps his hips and you make a guttural sound. Ike's pupils are big, drinking in every single detail from your sweat collecting on your skin, your body squirming underneath him, to your mouth popped open slightly. Oh, and those luscious lips of yours, appearing soft and unkissed...

Might as well make you his new toy now, eh?

Ike smashes his lips into yours as he fucks you fast and hard, shoving his tongue inside your mouth as you open to moan. Tongues dancing together and his muscle exploring every single space within your mouth. You tasted so delicious and felt so delicious, there was no way in hell he was letting you go now.

Satisfied with your bruised lips, the wolf goes to mark your neck. Biting, kissing, sucking. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he digs his nails into you. Tears running down your face as you hiccup, crying and saying "it's too much, it's too much'.

Ike could not give a damn. You brought this upon yourself, and now he's going to have fun with his new fucktoy.

[spookyserenades]

ITS DRABBLE TIMEEEEE YEEEHAW ‼️

Pretty Dana, I need to ask about this little fun idea I had, but what were the moments that made Trouvaille!MC remember that her boys are in fact men LMAO

Like she see them doing something and she's just like "..men 🙄" bcs that totally happened before like c'mon she lives with 7 of them!!!

ITS BOUND TO HAPPEN!! ITS INEVITABLE KAKKAKKAK

OMGG this is such a fun ideaaaa I'm gonna do like little annoying things each of them do that makes her roll her eyes hehe!

Seokjin: Makes a mess of the kitchen when he cooks and often forgets to turn off the oven. Makes Y/N wake up in a cold sweat checking all the appliances and scraping cookie dough off of the counter.

Yoongi: Doesn’t put his clothes in the hamper or doesn’t put his clothes back in his dresser, just leaves them folded on a catch-all chair in his room. Also likes to make pervy statements to embarrass her (lovingly)

Hoseok: Tracks mud in the house when he goes for runs, sweats all over furniture before taking a shower when someone else complains. Does not put the cap on his toothpaste and gets it everywhere. 

Namjoon: Will eat all of the snacks in the cabinet and not tell Y/N when to replace them, just leaving the empty fucking box in the pantry. Notorious grammar checker even over text and will correct people when speaking.

Jimin: This is hard because he’s mostly perfect. I’d say maybe sometimes his gentlemanly habits make Y/N roll her eyes and remind him that gender roles are a sham. Also is very strict with the thermostat and likes to have control over it. 

Taehyung: Sucks at communication, as we know. Like literally sucks. Dry texter. Listens to his music out loud sometimes in public drawing embarrassing stares.

Jeongguk: Opposite of Jimin, he’s so annoying LMAOOOO. Forgets to say please a lot, like when asking Y/N to pick up cigarettes or shit for his camera. Talks over Y/N and others sometimes. Complains the entire time doing chores.