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liillyliilly · 5 months ago

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Halo

oikawa tooru x reader words; 10249 synopsis; He'd always been in love with her, it just took her a long time to feel the same.

When Oikawa was sixteen, she was eighteen.

“I swear you have a halo, just look at the way the sun curls itself around the edges of your hair. You have a halo around you.” She sat next to Oikawa and used her hands to create an imitation of a camera or frame that focused on how the sun backlit Oikawa.

The greenery of the hill they were pausing at, resting from a walk, was vibrant. The breeze filtered through the blades of grass and made a scent of earth linger around them. A setting sun was the backdrop of their conversation, she used it to flatter him.

He was so annoyed with her when she did that, his ambition was overwhelming for those around him but it never scared her off from him.

He wonders when that would change. It was a thought that remained; when would he cross a line and she would view his hunger as repulsive instead of laudable?

Oikawa scoffs, “You may think I’m an angel, but in reality, I’m just a drop in the ocean. Nothing special. One amongst many.”

“But just being counted among those many is still special. If the ocean didn’t have millions of small drops contributing and doing their part it wouldn’t exist in the first place.”

He bites his tongue. His deflections never worked on her.

She was older than him by two years, and she was best friends with his older sister. Oikawa also claimed her as a best friend.

Despite her being the younger of the duo, she was an outstanding example of poise and maturity in contrast to his older sister who was more like him, rash and immature. Oikawa could care less for his older sister’s other friends, but he loved it when she would come around. She could turn any moment into something special and memorable for him.

The halo moment with her happened when he started high school, while she was beginning the end of her journey in high school as a third-year student. His sister had already moved out and was living with her fiance.

While it was annoying that the older Oikawa sibling had asked her to watch over him, he didn’t mind her walking him to school in the mornings and her waiting at his volleyball practices to take him back home. She would always do homework or sit outside the gym and read with her headphones on.

“Let’s keep going, your mom is making katsu curry tonight.” She brushes off some grass from her school uniform, reaching out a hand for Oikawa to take so she can pull him up from the ground. He did have a halo in her eyes.

He tugs her back down, so she’s almost in his lap, “Ten more minutes.”

He likes it when she’s close to him. He’s sixteen, but he hopes that she could see beyond that. He hopes she doesn’t make this year the year she gets a boyfriend. She’s gone on dates with younger guys before, albeit, only one year younger than her. Maybe she’d make an exception for a two-year gap.

She takes her hand back from him and shoves him playfully. “You have five minutes and then we need to go.” He nods his head, staring at the mountain range that sits nearby.

She sighed, and laid back onto the ground, hands behind her head and legs crossed over each other. Her eyes were closed and she was soaking in the way the air cooled down slowly but surely as each second passed and night overtook day.

Oikawa tilted his head, resting his temple against folded arms that were lying on his knees that he had pulled up close to his chest. He just watched her.

When he was seven, she was nine. He’d felt ill when he heard that she’d be going camping instead of coming over to his house to spend time with his sister for an entire week. Just the thought of her being gone was agonizing.

That’s why during family dinner he declares a plan.

“I’m going to ask her to run away with me. It’s the only solution.” His face is covered in food and his mouth is full of mashed potatoes.

The older sister spits out her apple juice and laughs loudly. The mom chuckles from behind her napkin. She reaches over and touches Oikawa’s arm, “Honey, she’ll be gone for a week, and then back to keep playing for the rest of the summer break.”

Oikawa drags his hand down his face and complains. “That’s too long.”

His sister perks up and starts picking a fight with him, “You just want her not to leave so you can keep staring at her when she comes over here.” She makes a kissing face and puts her hands on her cheeks.

He turns red, calling for his mom to see what his sister is doing to him. Oikawa’s mom spent most of that week counting down the days until the soothing presence of a nine-year-old girl returned from camping in the woods.

Oikawa had spiraled down to the depths of volleyball sooner rather than later.

If he wanted to be the best, then he’d need to work harder than everyone else. Hours poured into practice, studying, focusing his lens on only volleyball.

In his second year of high school, he sustained a knee injury. He bottled it in. For a sport that was meant to be so much fun, he was in agony over his incapabilities at that moment. You play a sport for fun, you enjoy something for the love of it. If that was the case then why did he feel so utterly destroyed?

It wouldn’t be a problem, but when his mom took him to the doctor, the doctor said it was a stress fracture. He’d been playing too intensively for too long and would need a few months of recovery if he wanted to play the rest of the season. The antiseptic environment struck him as unloving. Medicine never understood the reality of sports, the deep driving passion that wasn’t bound by science.

Even if he couldn’t do serves or jumps, he could still run. He could still stay up late watching games of his opponents. He could still linger around practices and work on his tosses. He broke some rules and did receiving practices as well. But he made sure to take Mondays off, he only did low-intensive workouts on Mondays, long walks, and extensive stretching.

Maybe it was his fault for being addicted to volleyball.

His mom called her over one night when he refused to respond to his mom’s requests for him to go to sleep. She was at college now, her first year. She enjoyed what she was studying, and she liked that she had freedom. There was still a sense of responsibility for Oikawa Tooru that she carried.

Her best friend was married now and had given birth to Takeru who was growing up faster than expected.

When she got the call asking if there was anything she could do or say to get Oikawa out of his funk, she drove over and told the worried mom to go to bed, and that she could handle it.

Could she handle him, could she mitigate the tension in his soul? She knew that Oikawa loved volleyball and that his injury had made him bitter. When his actions began to worry others though, she drew a line there. Nothing was worth the hurt of worrying.

She knocked on his door, but he didn’t respond. She opened the door, and saw him at his desk, pen in hand taking notes of a volleyball video. It was of him playing against a rival school, each time he saw something he didn’t like he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and gritted his teeth.

She picked up his desk clock. Lightly beginning her approach to tell him to back down from his focus, “You never seem to look at the clock anymore, it’s nearly two in the morning. Tooru, you’re going to make yourself sick with all the time you spend watching those videos.” She tried to get him to look at the timekeeper in her hand. He pushed it away and she set it back on the counter.

The prodding she performed struck a cord in him.

“I can’t practice? I can’t analyze games? Do you want me to be a bad volleyball player?” Oikawa set the pen down, rubbing his eyes which felt dry and strained. The words he intended to come out as inquisitive came out accusingly instead.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all. You need to incorporate more moderation into your life. This obsessive hyperfixation on the gap between your dreams and current reality is driving you to the brink.” She rubbed a hand on his shoulder, trying to lull him away from the desk and towards his bed.

There was no use in focusing so intensely on the gaps between desire and truth. She thought he would see reason. She wanted him to understand that he needed to recover more fully before diving back into volleyball. There was nothing more important to her than helping him find out that life isn’t built upon strenuous achievement to get to the end, because the goal line was always being moved. How could Oikawa expect to get anything accomplished if the footing he was gaining would keep changing?

Oikawa slinks away, pulling his chair closer to the desk, and his face closer to the screen, “It’s the dreamer and reality face-off. And I’m losing. I’m losing and you can’t see it.”

She leans over and shuts his laptop, he spins around to her with a scowl. She puts her hands on each of the arms on his chair, boxing him in with her surrounding him from all sides.

“You are losing. You’re losing yourself. Tooru, you’re losing because you aren’t taking a step back to enjoy life right now. You think you’re losing, but no one else is playing this game with you.” She moves a hand and points to his bed, “Get out of this chair and go to bed, you dumbass.”

He feels bad that she’s here instead of in her bed sleeping. Her hair was messy and riddled with tiredness, her clothes were pajamas with a jacket over the top.

She was wearing the sandals that she got during a trip his family had taken that she went along with. When she was busy splashing around in the ocean with his big sister, he sat on a towel watching the way the water made her glow from the sun’s reflection on her skin. If only he’d gotten in the water instead of playing by himself and tossing volleyballs into the air, trying to reach the sunlight from his place in the sand.

He mumbles an agreement to her request, going to his bathroom to brush his teeth while she watches from the doorframe.

Clambering into his bed, Oikawa wraps himself in his blankets and ignores the way his body tenses up at first, but slowly eases into laying down on his bed.

There wasn’t a move from her to leave his room quite yet, but she was yawning. When she made a step forward, she stumbled a little.

He leaned up and spoke, “Can you even drive?”

Swallowing, she replies, “I’ll probably just sleep in my car, I thought I wasn’t that tired when I drove over here.” Another yawn she tries to muffle is released.

Oikawa grabs a pillow that was wedged in between his bed and the wall that it was against. He moves closer to the wall, trying to make room for her.

“Just stay.” With me.

She purses her lips. He’s still a child. He may be seventeen but he’s a child and he doesn’t know what he wants, that was her thought process. She was nineteen, she had to be the realistic one, a girl who didn’t give any kind of fake chance or inclination that would reciprocate feelings.

“I’ll see you later, Tooru. Don’t cause any more problems for your mom.”

She leaves, and he’s sitting up in his bed, hands curled up in his sheets, watching her leave.

It’s almost like she’s always the one to leave, she’s the one who puts the distance that he despises. He feels reduced to a kid. Like he’s a child that needs to be coddled and watched over. Although, he supposes his behavior did warrant a need for a babysitter.

When he was fourteen, she was sixteen. Blossoming into a young woman might have gone under the radar when it was his sister, but when it was her, he couldn’t think of anything else.

How could he think of anything else when she was right there sitting on the sidewalk making chalk drawings in a tank top and shorts? Her thighs had streaks of blue over them, and the legs of her shorts had handprints from where she rubbed off the excess chalk dust.

“Oi, Tooru! Come look at this!” She waved her hand so he’d move from his place on the porch to where she was sitting on the pavement. That’s when he noticed she’d accidentally gotten chalk handprints on the sides of her chest, standing out against the black spaghetti strap tank top. After he saw the chalk marks, naturally his eyes scanned the rest of her chest.

He almost chokes on his saliva, sticking his feet onto the panels of the front porch. “I, um, I’m good right where I am actually.” Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead and he silently prayed that his body would relax instead of shooting hot rushing blood through his body. He leaned back into the bench, trying to sink into it.

His sister knew better than that though, “Oh really? But she really wants you.” His sister had to have been pure evil, “She wants you to come over.” The slight pause between ‘come’ and ‘over’ went unnoticed by her but Oikawa hung onto the words like monkey bars.

“No, I’m sure I’m good.” He lets out a blase whistle, trying to think of anything but her body.

She throws him a thumbs up, “Sounds good.” When she goes back to drawing, her best friend leans into her ear. The laugh Oikawa’s sister lets out shocks his focus back to the pair of them.

Her eyes were darting anywhere but him and she was using a hand to slightly cover her face, using her other hand to bring the front of her top up a little more. He could’ve passed away from mortification right then and there.

When the pair of friends finally came back into the house, and Oikawa was playing video games with Iwaizumi who had come over, his ears were burning. She leaned into the living room to see what game they were playing, giving her input on the game, “Mario Kart is the best.” Her little chuckles at the way Iwaizumi was goading Oikawa had him addicted.

She laughed when Oikawa spun out of the track from spending just a little too much time looking at her rather than the screen.

Iwaizumi had left the house after an hour or so, and Oikawa’s sister was taking her turn in the tub. She was staying the night for a sleepover, waiting in the living room. Oikawa had forgotten to clean up the controllers so his mom told him to go clean up the TV area, only to be faced with her playing on her flip phone in the center of the couch.

He tried to pivot to avoid any more embarrassing exchanges between the two of them, but she told him to freeze where he was.

“Sit down.” She patted the space next to her.

Sitting down, he attempted to leave a huge canyon width of space.

She cleared her throat, “It’s okay that you think I’m attractive. Don’t be ashamed at all, it's perfectly fine and natural. As much as your sister does tease you, don’t let it make you feel gross or anything.”

He covered his face with his hands and groaned a little. The fact that they were even having this conversation made him want to go back in time and tell his parents to never have kids.

“You’re cute.” She ruffled his hair.

He blinked a few times and felt confidence flood in. “You think I’m cute?”

“Sure, you got pretty eyes and your hair is always super soft.” She crossed her legs, still messing with his hair as he slowly reclined on the couch.

Oikawa figures he’d been teased enough for one day, so it wouldn’t hurt to be just a little flirty back. “I think you should always have your hands in my hair. Feels like heaven.”

Her laughs run around his head before settling into his heart. “I’ll see what I can do about that then.”

“Great, that way I don’t have to ask you. You can just see me and know I want you to run your hands through my soft hair by default.” He wiggled his head a little from side to side, amplifying his attempt at charisma.

She just smiled at him in response.

Repressed feelings and self-loathing were most likely why his next fit was so soon after she had first pried him away from his screen during his second year. It was now nearing the end of his second year, and his injury had mostly recovered, it would never be the same knee, but it would function close to regularly again.

Much too late at night, once again, she’s knocking on his bedroom door, and he’s watching volleyball. Her voice is scratchy from a concert she attended the day before, with some guy who liked the same music as her. Oikawa never understood why people would want to date those who had the same music tastes. Maybe it was because he didn’t care all that much for music.

Iwaizumi was a music lover, and Oikawa just listened to whatever Iwaizumi played. Oikawa liked her music though. It was usually the sad kind of piano music. Her other favorite type of music was the kind of music that screams out into the universe and declares, no, demands, a presence.

She sounded scared. “Tooru. Open the door. I can hear your counterclock ticking. I’m listening to the ticking of the clock and I can’t hear you at all.” She wonders if he had escaped out the window to make stupid and rash teenage mistakes.

He sighed deeply, hoping she would hear that. She does. Oikawa had failed to make it to Nationals yet again, he had spent too much time this year working for his team to make it.

Ushijima had gone up to him and told him that Oikawa would have a better chance at making it further if he’d joined a different school. Ushijima knew nothing. Oikawa knew he was a good player, but why did every attempt to advance become reduced to another failure? Oikawa wanted to win with his team, with Iwaizumi, Takahiro, and Matsukawa. They were his team and Oikawa wanted to provide them an opportunity unlike any other.

It was an insult that Ushijima presented. The conditional offer to conceptualize the fact that Oikawa was not enough to bring his team through the games to a victory. That he couldn’t magically make a chance for them to fight on the main stage at Nationals. Ushijima had essentially told Oikawa that Oikawa was a talentless, worthless player, and if he wanted to win then he would’ve needed to join a team that could win with or without him. Oikawa was an inconsequential factor in the game of volleyball.

At least, that was how Oikawa interpreted the discussion with Ushijima after the tournament.

He’d have to work harder, he reasoned.

The door isn’t locked, so she finally enters. It isn’t quite as late as midnight, but it’s dark outside and the shadows slink into his room through the window. The moon casts a light in the center of his room.

He’s not sure if he’s crying or not. He’s cross-legged on his bed.

“Hey.” She scrutinizes his face, she can’t determine if she sees tears or if it's just the reminiscence of fear on his face. He makes a noise of acknowledgment. She sits on the corner of his bed.

He pours out his thoughts. The conversation with Ushijima, the way he feels his team looked at him, the way he hated his knee for being a physical reminder of his lack of talent.

She puts a hand on his face, guiding him to look at her.

“Do I see tears? Or is it just that the fear dwelling within you is making an annoying appearance again?” He shakes his head and uses his hand to wipe away at his face in case there are tears. Her thumb traces the bridge of his nose.

Anyone could tell that he seemed scared. But it was a deeper worry than just scared, it was a deep-rooted fear of lacking the abilities to be a good volleyball player. The ego he held close to his lungs was shattering and leaving shards, affecting his breathing.

He knew his internal locus of control wasn’t enough. He wanted to control more than was within his ability. Oikawa wanted the world on his shoulders, but he could barely balance it with open hands.

His chest starts to heave again, and his bottom lip wavers. She tries to shush him, but he lets out a strangled sob. Pulling him into her, she runs a hand on his head, soothing him by running her hand through his hair. She just keeps saying his name, pressing light kisses to the top of his head. The front of her shirt was covered in wet spots from how he had his face in her neck.

Shakily, he brings her into his lap, wraps his arms around her, and hugs her tightly.

“I’m sorry.” He kisses her with his whole heart, bumping their noses into each other. He kisses with too much force, but it conveys all the feelings he has. Love, pain, turmoil, affection.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He leans in again, but she puts a hand on his chest, putting space between them.

Patting his head, she tells him that she has to go back home. She thought that he just needed to get the kiss out of his system and that it didn’t mean anything.

When she pulls out of the driveway he yells into his pillow. His mom comes into his room and sees him hugging himself. Oikawa’s mom decides to leave well enough alone. She had only come to check on him again because Oikawa’s mom had asked, but it was all dependent on Oikawa and how he took what she said or did.

They never talk about the kiss in person. Oikawa thinks about it every day. It crosses her mind frequently enough to warrant a quick rant to Oikawa’s sister, replacing Oikawa with a differently named seventeen-year-old boy who used her as an emotional crutch.

In response to the rant, Oikawa’s sister had told her to let the boy off gently and to ghost him.

How could she ghost Oikawa Tooru though? Especially when he texted her and kept saying he was sorry for what he did and that all he wants is for them to be friends again.

She devours her pride and accepts his offer. They could be friends. Oikawa didn’t want just friendliness, he wanted love. He wanted her love.

When he was fifteen, she was seventeen. A third year in middle school, Oikawa had settled into the personality that he crafted. He wanted to be everything that a girl would like, charming, suave, and flippant. He wanted to be everything he thought she would like.

If it wasn’t for that annoying first-year genius, then Oikawa definitely would have had a chance to see if he could finally have a shot with her. Not necessarily ready to date her, but sensing if he at least was on a roster list for her.

She came to most of the games if she wasn’t busy with her part-time job or with schoolwork. He recalls how he had tossed her one of his backup Kitagawa Daiichi jerseys, with the captain’s mark and a shining number one on the front and back. He told her that if she was going to come to the games, she might as well show off who she was going to watch play.

She had said that the jersey would make it seem like she attended the junior high instead of her actual high school, he shrugged and said it didn’t matter. But each game that she went to, her wearing that jersey demonstrated how much it did matter to him. Beaming at her when he finally caught her eyes in the stands.

Oftentimes, Oikawa’s mom needed her to pick up Oikawa after practice since his older sister was out with her boyfriend. She didn’t mind going to Kitagawa Daiichi to pick him up since she liked the route to drive there. Covered in trees and a smooth straight road where she could go just a little over the speed limit and no cops cared enough to make her slow down.

Waiting at the entrance, she saw Oikawa cleaning up the gym. A black-haired boy had turned the corner and bumped into her.

“Ah, sorry.” He stood awkwardly like there was a ruler against his back preventing him from slouching at all.

“It’s all good!” She noticed his uniform, “You’re on this team aren’t you? What position are you?”

“I’m a setter.” Instinctively, the boy tries out a smile, it doesn’t look quite legitimate, but she dismisses the strangeness of it. He gives her his name, Kageyama Tobio. He questions her, “Who are you?”

She explains her relationship to Oikawa, being his older sister’s best friend. “Although, I’m another sister to him at this point.”

“A sister?” Kageyama makes a slightly bitter face, “You’re not blood-related though right?”

“No, no, just friends. But I’ve known him since he was in diapers.”

“Ahh, that’s why he was talking to Iwaizumi-san about what to get you for White Day.”

Furrowing an eyebrow, she thinks out loud, “I didn’t get him anything for Valentine’s Day this year though?”

Oikawa had rushed over once he saw Kageyama with her, shoving the mop into the closet and quickly getting to them. The floor was still wet though, so when she heard a thud and a string of curses, turning her head she saw Oikawa rubbing his back with a scrunched-up face.

She waved Kageyama off, going to Oikawa and crouching down next to him.

“Tooru, I think the floor is still wet.”

“No, really?” The words are laced with sarcasm. She giggles a little before giving him a hand, he takes it and stands up, still rubbing his backside.

As they made their way to her car, an old beater car that she had made into her dream car of sorts, she asked Oikawa what he was going to do on March 14th. Checking her review mirrors, and messing with the keychains she had hanging from the mirror, she backed the car up so she could get onto the main road.

“March 14th?” Oikawa faked dumb. “Nothing is happening on March 14th.” He folds his arms and settles into his seat. He wonders what Kageyama had told her during their conversation and if that had anything to do with her questioning his White Day plans.

“Okay good, I’ll be with Ito that day, so don’t have anything in mind.”

Oikawa grimaced. Ito Yuuta went to a different school than Aoba Johsai but was still way too involved in her life for Oikawa’s liking. His sister had shown Oikawa photos of Ito and her together at various hangouts.

“Ito Yuuta? The one that smells like he drowned in a forest?”

“Is that what she said he smells like? Yes, he does smell like evergreens. However, you betcha I love the smell of trees. He’s yummy.” She didn’t realize that she had begun to discuss someone she was interested in with someone who was extremely interested in her. “And his hair? Ugh, the way he gels it has me nearly weak in the knees.”

She pulled into his driveway, waiting for Oikawa to hop out. He didn’t.

“Tooru, we’re at your house?”

“Don’t leave yet, I have something for you.” Oikawa exits the car but keeps the door open so she can’t reverse.

He tossed a small box at her, and she barely caught it in her hands. She tugged at the small white ribbon on top of the blue box. “Wait!” She looked at him, “Don’t open it yet. Open it when you get home, okay?”

After he shut her car door and went to his room, he bounced his knee and waited for a text message from her.

Inside the white box was a card of course, but also a bracelet. It was a thin chain, with several charms attached to it. She picked up the card, and on the front was a legend of sorts, describing what each charm was for.

A key represented his wish for her to always have security and safety. A book charm was to show that he thought she was super smart. Her favorite charm though was the star, because he intended for it to mean how much she shined in his eyes.

The inside contents of the card were short, just about how glad he was to have her in his life. The other drafts of the card had been continually vetoed by Iwaizumi. Stealing poetry from Shakespeare would not have gotten the right emotion across. And confessing that he thought about her all the time would’ve come off as too stalker-ish. The best option Iwaizumi said was to go with the K.I.S.S method. And the K.I.S.S methodology went as follows, ‘Keep it simple, stupid.’

(tooru, thank you for the present.)

He saw that she was typing, and another message was loading.

(it’s sweet that you thought of getting me this for white day.)

He bit at the inside of his mouth. She had sent a photo of her holding up a peace sign, her wrist had the the bracelet on display.

(love you! 💛)

He sighed, falling back onto his bed. He wondered how embarrassing it would be if anyone knew he was fifteen and still kicked his feet a little to physically convey his blend of elation and how much fondness he had for her.

He hadn’t officially given her a White Day present, because he gave her the gift on March 12th. Which he thought was probably better than any sort of White Day gift. His present was special because of his simple desire to get her something rather than the bracelet being for a yearning for her to reciprocate something like a White Day confession.

The third year of high school was supposed to be his year. He bounced back from his second-year depression, using the time off of school to hone his skills, to practice being perfect. He felt as if he was close to attaining the perfection he aimed for. He still loses out on a chance to get to the Nationals. Losing to Karasuno in a devastatingly close game.

During the game, she saw him land on his bad knee and she almost jumped out of her seat. After the game, and watching how all the third years were struggling to hold back their tears, or the way that Oikawa harshly slapped Iwaizumi’s back to get him to line up, she appreciated volleyball just a little more.

When Oikawa threw his white kneepad into a garbage bin unceremoniously, she held back any comments or questions. His kneepad being thrown away was the end of a chapter for him. His mom got after him for throwing away a perfectly good kneepad, but she just gently put a hand on Oikawa’s mom’s shoulder and made an expression to not push the kneepad incident further. It’s not until a month after that loss to Karasuno that Oikawa and her get into an argument.

At the dinner party his parents throw annually Oikawa sneaks a glass of beer and sips it outside on the balcony. People chatter inside the house, talking about how much Takeru has grown up and what a lovely couple Oikawa’s sister and her husband are.

She comes out to the balcony to escape the adults asking her about her life. Too many questions about boys, books, and her future for her to have a settled stomach. Outdoor air always calmed her stomach down.

“Tooru, being naughty are you?” She puts a finger on the rim of his red plastic cup. He turns his head away to hide his blush. She just laughs a little in response.

“Are you ready to be done with high school?” She asks. Leaning over the railing, her hands clasp onto each other. Elbows splayed out on the metal railing, and Oikawa copies her so that his elbow is touching hers.

“I think so.” He answers. Oikawa takes a drink from his cup, the starchiness coating his throat uncomfortably. “I’ll be going away after graduation. Argentina.”

He wants her to ask him to not go.

“That’s amazing! Tooru, I’m so glad that you’ve found a path to follow.” Her smile betrays the way her stomach can hardly take the news. She’s just the friend of his older sister, she’s just someone who watches out for him. Why would he, a brilliant person, ever halt his destiny for her?

“Yeah, I’ll be playing for a team that I think could be fun.”

She forces another smile.

He forces a smile back. But then he gets upset. Why should he have to pretend like everything is fine? He thinks she deserves to know how he feels.

“You know, I’d be more fun if you were there too. With me.”

“You’re funny, did you know that?” She fakes a laugh, “Me in Argentina? I hate summers here, imagine how I’d react to the weather in Argentina.”

“You’d adapt. You always do.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

He turns to her, putting the hand that wasn’t holding his drink on her hip. She tries to detach from him, but he just grips her tighter, linking a finger through her jean loop and tugging her into him closer. He loves it when she’s close to him. She relaxes into the hold he has on her.

“I want to offer you so much more than just kindness.”

Biting on her lip, it was her turn to move her face away from his stare, hiding the way her eyes kept flickering across his face and landing on his lips.

She wasn’t unaware that Oikawa felt something towards her, but she diminished his feelings as a crush that kids have on older girls. Each time they met, she realized that that wasn’t the truth. He saw her and she didn’t appreciate the way that he would look at her. He looked at her like she was his lifeline.

“I think your sister is calling for me.” Oikawa’s sister was in her old room putting her son to sleep.

Oikawa kept pulling her into him, their hips fully touching now. He ran a hand over her arm, from her elbow to her wrist. “You can’t keep avoiding me.” It’s a tone that is lightly sing-song but also carries a grittiness.

She hadn’t been around his house as frequently as of late. Using school or work as an excuse to not watch movies or let him try to teach her volleyball again.

“I’m not avoiding you.” She wriggled, trying to escape him but not putting much effort into her withdrawal.

“Don’t lie.” His tone now balances on the edge of a knife, one side was a typical cheeky silly tone, and the other was an abrasively tormented tone.

“I’m not interested in you like that, Tooru.” It was a last-ditch attempt to see how far he was willing to go. How close he was going to come to ripping apart their fragile friendship. She didn’t have any sewing materials left in store to repair what was going to occur.

He swallows thickly, eyes searing into hers. “You’re being mean.” His tone had fallen over and landed flat on the tormented side.

He lets the words sting her, not softening their blow. Oikawa wonders if she’s lying or telling the truth. It was a fine line between whether he should urge the issue to finally crack her shell or if she was being honest and she was totally out of his reach.

Managing to finally break away from the way Oikawa lured her in, she went into the main kitchen that opened into the living room where everyone was making conversation. He downs the rest of his alcohol and tosses the plastic cup into the outdoor trash can.

Oikawa doesn’t know how many more drinks he steals from the kitchen, watching her talk to people and gently touch shoulders in acknowledgment and understanding.

The moment Oikawa accidentally and drunkenly breaks a vase with zinnias, primroses, and calla lilies, his parents shut down the party. His sister heads out, asking her best friend if she needs a ride home. She says that she’s good, she’ll enjoy the February blossoms on a walk home.

Oikawa’s mom asks if she’ll check on Oikawa before she leaves. She says she doesn’t know if that would be a good idea, but Oikawa’s mom begs to differ. As it turns out, when she was outside the house, talking to her best friend, Oikawa hit his hand against the concrete wall of his house. His mom had bandaged most of the scrapes, but she couldn’t do anything about the way his eyes seemed empty.

She wonders if his aversion to her right now had anything to do with his earlier confession and her adamant rejection. Or if his anger is all due to his volleyball woes. She reasons that it ultimately has to be the loss to Karasuno.

“You’re letting yourself get bothered? You’re letting this moment tick you off and you go and punch a wall?” She’s knocking harder on his door. “Get off your ass and face me.”

“Go away.”

“You’re falling down a path that I can’t save you from. Tooru, listen to me please.” He doesn’t respond. She hears the ticking of the clock in his room from where she sits outside his bedroom door, her head resting against the wood.

On the other side of the door, he’s hugging his legs on his bed, his face on top of his knees as he glares at the doorknob where the lock is turned. His stubborn, obstinate, unyielding pride prevents him from getting up and opening the door so he can cry everything out and so she can hold him. He just wants her to hold him.

This fit isn’t about volleyball anymore, it’s about them. She knows it. The way that he sealed her into his life and now that she wants to be unstitched. He feels wounded.

She investigates. “Are you ready for whatever you’ll go through throughout your life? People will probe you, instigate you, and deride you infinitely worse than what I’ve ever said to you.” People will be able to say they love you and I can’t.

He opens the door, “No one will ever hurt me more than you hurt me. You hold so much more power over me than anyone else,” He waves his hand that’s wrapped in white cloth to emphasize his point. “You make me feel like this. Like every emotion is dialed to one hundred.”

“I can’t choose how you feel. I can’t make you feel anything.” She pokes him in the chest. “You’re a child and you’re acting like it too, get over your facade and get over your surface-level crush on me. You don’t know me and don’t you ever pretend like you do.”

He raises his hand, she reacts with a flinch. He finished the motion, he was going to run his hand through his hair. His stomach drops and he realizes that she just thought he was going to slap her.

It's a whisper of, “I’d never hurt you.”

He backs into his room, wanting to disappear from the exchange. The argument ended there.

“I know, I just reacted, it’s okay.” Hearing his barely audible whimpers, she crosses the threshold of his door. A suitcase is half-filled in the corner, with clothes hanging out of the case. A book on speaking Spanish is on top of his laptop.

The silence is cut with the shuffles of their feet on his carpet and intermittent sniffles.

His chest tightens, short releases of air paired with overzealous inhales. “I miss you even when you’re around. How is that possible?”

“I don’t know.” She sits on his bed, and he curls into her side, rubbing his nose on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. My words failed me, I’m a liar. Tooru, you know me better than my family does.”

He kisses her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her neck. Hot breath is on the side of her face.

“I need you to let me go. I’m not your person.” She wishes she was, but she felt like she just wasn’t.

Oikawa can’t help the crack in his voice, “Why do you get to decide that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers.”

“To me you do, you have all my answers.”

They begin to cry at the same time.

He replicates what he remembers her doing to him so many times. Caressing her hair and pressing his lips to the top of her head repeatedly. She seems so much smaller than him nowadays. He’s been six feet tall for a while now but only when she began to seem removed did he realize that he’s bigger than her.

“Tooru.”

He mutters in response. They had begun to lay in his bed, with Oikawa pulling blankets up to cover the both of them, his arm encasing her waist and keeping her close to him. His ceiling fan kept spinning overhead. He had his head on the pillow and wanted her to just release the stiffness in her body and soften into his touch.

“Tooru?” She tries to sit up, but he’s tired of that and refuses to let her go. She faces him, twisting around in the embrace. Both their heads are on pillows now, he keeps his eyes closed. “I want you to know that I do love you.”

He raises his eyebrows in wariness, unsure of where she’s taking her words.

“I love you but I can’t be what you want. I can be a sister figure, I can be a best friend, I can be someone you can talk to, but I cannot be a lover.”

Oikawa wanted to hug her tighter, but he was already leaving imprints on her waist that were sure to leave light bruises and tenderness the next day. All he can say in response is a hum.

As soon as Oikawa had fallen asleep, she left.

The dreamer and reality face-off was Oikawa’s least favorite thing. The way that he could dream all he wanted, but reality failed to match those expectations. People always say that the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams, but where’s the beauty in knowing that your future is sullied because of being born in the wrong year? For being born in the wrong life this time. For being born as the person she wasn’t going to end up with.

The spring after his graduation, Oikawa was messing around with her. He had to have been. Their fight at the dinner party weighed on them, but more so on her.

She wonders if she made the right choice. Her feelings had flipped on her and she knew it. Instead of pushing him away due to her unease about the age difference, she pushed him away because she was afraid of how deeply she would fall.

All the times her friends had teased her about being a cradle-robber, or a cougar for having such a smitten boy around her, she had let those comments get to her. It was ironic, the same hyperfixation that Oikawa had for volleyball was matched in her hyperfixation on the way she was older than him and tried to always act like it too.

Oikawa decided to stay persistent. He knew that she still appreciated that quality about him. He wanted to put his ambition to good use.

He lounged without a shirt around his sister’s place when she was there to visit. He’d caught her looking at him once, or three times, and the way he could see her begin to play with her fingers, wringing them out was more than enough for him to embrace a level of confidence he hadn’t shown to her before. He was on the older end of eighteen, she was on the cusp of twenty into twenty-one.

She had been looking at pictures, trying to avoid where Oikawa took up space in the living room. It had been ten minutes since his sister had left and she hadn’t said anything to him, not even a greeting. He did not appreciate that.

If she was so insistent on being anything to him but a lover, then he would treat her like that.

Wrapping arms around her may have been the breaking point, but he committed to the final blow, “Hey best friend.” She rattled out a titter, but any move she made would result in her brushing against the bare skin of his arms, or his chest, or worst-case his stomach.

He rests his chin on her shoulder, “Oh wait, you wanted to be called sister yeah?”

She gritted her teeth, still trying to decode a breakaway moment. Oikawa’s sister was stuck in traffic from picking up some fast food. Takeru was at daycare, the husband was at work. It would be just Oikawa and her for another twenty minutes or so. She hoped he wouldn’t be so insistent to keep touching her for the entire duration until his older sister returned.

“My name works perfectly fine Oikawa.”

He turns her around, still grasping her, “Oikawa?” He tisks, sliding his hands from her back to her waist. “That doesn’t sound right to me.”

Within her shoes, she kept wiggling her toes uncomfortably.

“I know your name, and you know mine,” He lowers his voice, “So use my name.”

Shaking her head she closes her eyes.

“C’mon, it’s just two syllables. Too-ru. Your turn.”

Adamantly she leaned away from where she could feel his breath, increasing the span between them.

“Sisters and brothers use each other's given names.” He tightens his hold, one hand on the small of her back and the other on her waist still. He leveraged his lack of a shirt to see how close he could get, knowing she didn’t want to touch him. She’d let him get away with slipping around her while she stayed frozen in place.

“Stop it! We are not related!” She opened her eyes and stomped her foot a little. Her jaw was clenched and her eyes were wide.

“Good. Never wanted you as a sister anyway.” He wanted her in extremely not sisterly ways.

“Tooru quit it.”

“Why? Isn’t this what best friends do? They tease, they taunt, they play.” Oikawa grips her face, smushing it gently in his left hand. He smiles at her. His grip was so delicate but his touch was heated.

The best response had to have been dishing up what he was serving. So she slid her hand over his chest, resting on his pectoral. He could feel the vein in his neck pulsing. He drops his hold on her and takes a step back, his calf hitting the coffee table. Her step forward to him is calculated.

He wishes he was wearing his shirt now.

“We can play whatever you want Tooru.”

He stutters.

“How cute.” She pinches his cheek, then puts her hand back on his chest.

The door handle turns and she drops her hand, fixing her shirt a little from where Oikawa had grabbed at her. Oikawa doesn’t even notice her move to pick up a book and scan through the pages in the far corner of the living room.

Oikawa’s sister had bags of greasy food and she jutted out her hip, “I got the good stuff.” His sister scans the room, “Put a shirt on. Is it too hot in here? You’re red from the ears down.”

“I’m good.”

“Weirdo.” Oikawa’s sister rolls her eyes at him, “Now, let’s eat.”

Their dynamic bounced between them. Oikawa pushing and pulling in various directions, while she tried her best to stay still. He did settle down, calming his nerves.

Could say he did everything if he didn’t give one last attempt for her heart?

He’s twenty now, and she’s twenty-two. He asked if she would go on a car ride with him. She agreed. Piling snacks and drinks into her passenger side, she asked where they would be going. He sidetracks.

They end up at a beach, far along the coastline. There’s a rocky platform, but they crawl down to the sandy area, where the water laps up the seashells trying to bring them home to the cold ocean.

He postponed Argentina for two years. One month was left on his pause before going where he knew he needed to be. His club would only wait so long for him before his spot would be filled.

He sits on the large towel he brought. She’s picking through seashells, squatting by the water.

An idea runs through his head. He doesn’t let it die out. He’s just a kid after all.

He pushes her into the water with a laugh, she splashes him by lifting her cupped hands and dumping salty water over his head. He catches her by the torso, but she manages an escape and starts going further into the water, he just follows after her.

They shiver as they stand both waist-deep in the ocean. His hair is sticking to his forehead, and her teeth chatter but it doesn’t detract from the way she’s smiling.

Oikawa swims closer to her. There’s maybe an inch between them. He lays all his cards on the table when he holds her face in his hands. Goosebumps riddle the expanse of their bodies.

“Since I can’t have you in this life, I want just one more memory with you.” A shiver runs through her. Oikawa continues, “So before I leave, I need you to promise that we’ll find each other in the next life regardless of who we are?”

“We’ll find each other, in every life. Just like how we found each other in this one.” She’s quiet, but he can hear her perfectly. She’s trying to make herself seem older with her words, more mature. She grasping onto straws making it seem like she isn’t wrecked by what he’s asking.

She moves her fingers through the water, he takes his hands away from her face so he can position her hands onto his shoulders. He goes back to cupping her face. She wraps her arms around his neck and lets their bodies mold against each other.

Their clothes are soaked through, her long sleeve is getting stretched out from the waves. Sweatpants absorb the icy water and stick to their legs. His shirt is clinging to him and leaving an exact outline of his torso.

Oikawa’s a little choked up but he wants her to know what he’s thinking so he gets the words out. “Promise we’ll end up together in the next life?” He moves his head so their foreheads are touching.

“How we are right now, again?” She splays her fingers, intertwining the hair at his nape between each finger, he shudders from the contact.

“No. Like we were meant to be. Like we were made for each other. I want to find us as lovers.”

She lets the weight of her head fall into his hands and he lets out a short muted sigh of relief at how the tip of her nose hits his.

“Okay.”

His eyes flicker to her lips, she notices. He brings his head down a little, “Just once? Once where you kiss back?”

She’s softer with how she kisses than he is. She’s more experienced, but she goes slower than Oikawa expects. It’s just pecks, and he wants more. When he licks her bottom lip, it’s salty from the ocean, but he thinks she tastes perfect. He can’t help the way that he moans into the kiss or the way he grabs her thighs and makes them wrap around his hips.

It’s all in the way she’s the first one to slide her tongue into his mouth slightly.

He wants to consume each noise she makes. He hardly notices the way he runs out of breath when he starts moving from her lips to her jaw and then back to her mouth. When she backs her head away, his head keeps coming to follow hers, trailing her lips with his.

Pressing a hand right below his neck, her fingers touching his shoulderbone, she makes distance between them so she can force Oikawa to pause and get some air.

“I lied.” Oikawa’s eyes are blown out, pupils dark and filling in his irises. She purses her lips, and she goes to loosen the way her legs are around him, but he holds her where he wants her. Legs still around him. “I lied because I know I can’t wait until our next life. I need you in this life, and all the other ones.”

She goes to speak, but he keeps going. “I’ll make it work, I’ll make everything work out the way it should. I just want you to say yes. I want you to want to say yes. I need you to say yes to me because I don’t think my soul could take anything less than your entirety.”

He pauses and she opens her mouth again, Oikawa doesn’t know when to stop and the words rush out, “One more- I’ll be quick.” He steals an open-mouthed kiss, running his tongue over hers.

She rolls her eyes, and Oikawa steals another peck on her lips.

“Okay, two more.” He shrugs a little, “I’m not any sort of genius, yet, but I know that I was meant to be yours. Maybe I knew it when I was seven, maybe I knew it when you shoved that stupid counterclock in my asinine face and told me to go to bed. But I know it.”

The sun officially setting made the water so much colder, so she tucked her head into his neck, “I love everything you’re saying right now but I’m freezing.”

“You love what I’m saying?”

“I’m cold Tooru. Focus please.” He lets out a sound of understanding. It’s cute how she waddles out of the water, but he realizes he’s probably doing the same side to side penguin walk.

He picks up the towel and waves it out so the sand gets off the fibers, then he wraps it around her shoulders. He’s hugging her from behind and pressing small kisses to the side of her face. Attempting to get back up to the car with him attached like a koala is difficult but not impossible.

The engine of the car is running, and he fidgets with the heater. He has a tic where he’ll mess with the amount of air blowing, then the level of heat, and then go back to the amount of air. Each knob he twists changes the temperature until he finally settles on a lull of heat.

Her head is resting against the window, getting slightly rocked by the movement of the car on the road. The towel was still wrapped around her. Oikawa had found another one in the trunk and had it wrapped around his waist, he had forgone a shirt since the heater was working just right and he didn’t want a wet t-shirt on anymore.

“I meant what I said you know.” Oikawa had one hand on the wheel and one hand on her armrest. “I’m going to make everything work out the way it needs to work out.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I’m yours now.” Oikawa lets his smug smile roam on his face.

“Mine? No title? Not boyfriend?”

Oikawa moves the hand from the armrest onto her thigh, “The title I’m settling for is husband or soulmate. Take your pick. I’ll propose soon, don’t worry angel.”

She tilts her head up and laughs. He rubs his thumb over her knee.

In contrast to the way his hair had a halo in the sun, she had a halo made of stars and the moon. Instead of creating an outline of her hair, the night sky embedded itself and adorned her. Rather than trying to amplify her, the moon and stars realized she naturally had a halo around her and wanted to say congratulations by shining through her rather than on her.

Although she declines the first four proposals, she accepts the one right before he leaves. Oikawa would never tell her but he was relieved that she accepted, he couldn’t handle the idea of him not being around and her getting moved in on by some other guy- despite her telling him consistently that she would turn other guys down.

The ring didn’t act like a perfect deterrent, but it made him feel secure. He liked that she wore all the stuff he got her on the same hand, his ring and his bracelet from way long ago.

Oikawa sends her a new jersey almost every month, with his signature across the front near his player number. He also sends all sorts of knick-knacks he finds in Argentina. He makes a point of calling when she’s eating lunch, and he’s about to go to bed so that she doesn’t have to stay awake to answer his calls. His mom and sister get annoyed that he spends hours talking to her but only minutes talking to them. He tells them that true love takes precedence over family.

She has to chastise him to get him to actually stay on call with his mom for longer than thirty minutes.

They fight a few times about where to live. He wins the argument and she moves to Argentina once she officially graduates college.

An apartment filled with her stuff and his stuff side by side makes him giddy. But he especially gets excited with the fact that he gets the side of the bed closest to the bedroom door, and she gets the side furthest away from the bedroom door.

Sometimes he’ll stay up much too late, his back against the headboard of their bed watching volleyball videos.

“Tooru, go to bed.” She nuzzles against her pillow a little more, her back towards him as she tries to avoid the light of the laptop screen on his legs.

“One more video.” He clicks on a replay of a match that goes all the way to five sets with commentary during each timeout instead of the video cutting to the next play.

When he chuckles a little, she turns over and shuts the laptop. “Bedtime.” She makes a fake sleeping sound. Oikawa sets the laptop on his side table, turning the table light off.

She lifts her head so Oikawa can put his arm under her head. She presses a kiss to his bicep.

“What’s the clock say?”

He slings his leg over her torso and puts his other arm across her stomach.

“It’s not even midnight yet.” She clicks her tongue and he fixes his response. “It’s 23:14.”

He kisses the corner of her mouth. When she doesn’t say anything, he gives her a real kiss. Still no response and he licks the length of her jaw to her chin. She lets out a small din of disgust.

“Fine! Goodnight Tooru.”

He whines a little.

She groans. She sits up a little and leans over him, ruining the positioning she had spent minutes working on. She rests the length of her arms on either side of his head, her face right above his.

One of her hands begins to play with his hair, which begins to twirl around her fingers, softly grazing her palm. He uses his arm to force her back down so that her chest is pressed to his, he lets out a coo to express gratification when her weight is on top of him.

“I love you, my pretty boy.” She kisses his cheek, “Handsome, intelligent, angelic, slightly egotistical-” He nips her bottom lip. “I love you, goodnight, I’ll be here in the morning.”

He’s living his dream. There’s no difference between his dreams and reality now. No gaps to fight against. Only a pair of invisible halos for the rest of their lives.

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ashen-char · 6 months ago

Text

so unfair

ship: amber freeman (scream) x fem reader

warnings: mentions of sex and underage (at least in america, where it's 21) drinking/clubbing

summary: drunk you thinks the way amber takes care of you is unfair if she doesn't let you do the same.

word count: 1500+

notes: amber taking care of drunk fem reader, as requested here <3

Hazy. The club is a blur of neon lights and pounding bass - the smoke machine misting everything and messing up your field of vision. You can barely see in front of you. All that matters is Amber anyways. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, her perfume, and that sweet smoky haze that makes everything feel like a dream.

Each beat vibrates through the floor and into your bones. Bodies are everywhere, a sea of movement, pulsing and swaying like a single, living entity. Every sensation feels fuzzy. Everything except Amber and the way she moves with you. The way she feels as your hands slide along her body.

You've been downing shots without a second thought all night. Amber had warned you to slow down - this wasn't her house, where you two could get sloshed without any consequence except her parents scolding you about getting into the liquor cabinet again. But you were having too much fun. The liquid fire burning down your throat was sweet, and thinking of consequences seemed absurd when you were with her. With Amber, things just went right. Felt right.

Some stranger bumps against you, messing up your rhythm as you were swaying with her. No biggie, and you can barely hear their slew of apologies. A giggle pours out of you. "No, no, it's alright," you tell them.

You can barely get the words out before you hear "get your hands off my girlfriend" from behind you. Amber's arm goes around your waist and you're sure she's giving this poor club goer a death glare. She's good at that.

"Don't be like that, Ams, it's not like they shoved me," you defend.

Your cheeks are flushed, you can tell because everything feels hotter, and it's probably half the drink and half embarrassment as the stranger walks off terrified of your girlfriend. She doesn't have to do this every time. You can take care of yourself. So you tell her as much. Or try, at least, your words are all jumbled in your drunken exasperation.

Amber rolls her eyes. "Uh huh." Hands going on your hips, you feel yourself being ushered away from the crowd. And look, you don't hate having a pretty girl's hands all over you but you'd be okay if she was a little less protective. Just a bit.

"People dance. They get bumped into. It's fine. I'm fine!" To prove your point, you pull your hand back from how she's dragging you. You can walk for yourself, thank you very much, and can follow her just fine. "See, no broken bones."

The stairs down to the club's bathroom is a little tricky, so you cling to the railing, glaring when Amber wraps her arm around you instead. It's when she presses a kiss to your hair that you melt into her hold.

When Amber closes the bathroom door behind the two of you, the music is muffled. That fuzzy feeling remains, but it's quieter too. You see her grabbing wads of the toilet paper, cussing out the club for only having 'shitty one ply'. When Amber comes back over and tells you to get up onto the sink, you gasp.

"Here?" you ask, looking over to the door. Biting your lip, you weigh up the pros and cons of a bathroom quickie. "Someone could walk in..."

But oh well. You're up for some fun, especially when it involves your Amber. Leaning forward, you dig your thumbs into Amber's waistband, ready to tug it down and have at her. Mm. The taste of her on your tongue sounds even more delicious than the shots you downed, and you hope it'll go down as smoothly.

"God, you're a mess, babygirl." Amber sounds both exasperated and affectionate, both of which make you pout. Especially when she's grabbing your hands and taking them away from your attempts to unclothe her. "Not that I'm not flattered by the offer, but that can wait until later. Probably when you're more sober." Your pout deepens. It makes Amber laugh, and she kisses it away. "I'm just gonna clean you up. So get on there, now."

"Well, that's less fun," you whisper to yourself.

Palms on the sink countertop, you hike yourself up until you can sit comfortably. Curious eyes watch as Amber methodically wets a wad of tissues, dabbing it against your side, then does the same with a dry tissue. You didn't even realise that a drink had splashed on you when you bumped into someone. Whoops.

"Hanging with me isn't fun?" Amber asks. If you were sober, you could glean her sarcastic tone a mile away. But your mind's looser right now. Thinking less and saying more.

"I'm having a great time," you correct. "You know that. I have the most fun when I'm with you. Because of you."

"Uh huh."

She's cute when she's serious. Hell, she's cute all the time. Amber's got these pretty brown eyes that go all big and sweet only when she's looking at you. You, or some particularly gorey scene in whatever horror flick she's watching, but it's sweeter when it's you. Your drunk brain tells you that you should tell her.

"You're adorable."

"Yuck." Amber's nose scrunches up in distaste, because that's certainly not a word she'd like to associate with herself, but she's focusing on cleaning you up. She throws the tissues to the nearby bin before starting the process over again. "You sure you're not talking about yourself, cutie?"

Those eyes fix on yours. You think you could melt into a pile of goo when you're looking into them. That familiar fuzz from before intensifies, concentrating in your chest rather than your brain. Loving Amber can feel like radio static, like you have no words to say except for her name over and over. Your similes aren't even making any sense.

"Positive," you say, popping the 'p'. You grin when that makes her smile.

You wish sometimes that she could take the compliment as well as she dishes them out to you. You wish she'd see herself the way you do. Not as some tough protector whose only merit is to save you, but as Amber. Pure and simple. You wish she knew how cute and sweet she is in the simple moments, that she doesn't have to try so hard to keep your eyes on her. Maybe when you were sober enough to string those words and complicated feelings together.

When she's all done with wiping you off, and satisfied that your clothes won't stain or stink of alcohol, Amber helps you off of the counter. You let her pull you flush against her front, a sigh escaping your lips at the feel of her body holding yours. She smells good. And her chest is soft against yours. With the amount of shots coursing through your body, it's tempting to rest against her. Amber is your favourite pillow, be that in the afterglow after a satisfying hook up or in the peace of her cuddles.

"I wasn't pulling you into a hug, baby," she says, "I was trying to get you to the hand dryer."

"Oh." Amber's too comfortable for her own good. You squeeze her tight before letting go, just cause you can. "Yeah, I knew that."

Standing under the heat of the hand dryer, your girlfriend supporting your weight, you wonder what this night would've been like without her. You wouldn't have been as comfortable on the dance floor, you wouldn't have let yourself drink this much. You get playfully annoyed at her for it, but Amber's protectiveness is why you let yourself get so sloppy. Amber is the reason you can let go. You trust her.

You wonder if she trusts you too. She should. You'd do anything for her.

"I get to think you're cute if you think I'm cute." And-" a hiccup, "I get to take care of you if you take care of me."

Amber laughs. She thinks this is some random drunken thought. "What are you-"

"No, shhhh." Your finger comes up and presses against those full lips that you adore kissing. "Let me love you. Let me say this."

Amber sighs. "Alright, baby. Whatever you want." Her hand goes to your hip, thumb going to rub slow circles as she waits for your words.

You want to tell her that she doesn't have to tell strangers to back off because your eyes are only ever on her. You want to say that she can let go and have fun too, because you've got her back. That you cherish her. That she doesn't have to be tough all the time, not around you at least.

The hand dryer stops. You pat the once-wet spot on your clothes, satisfied at the dry feeling after Amber's efforts. When you look up, the words that were going to escape your mouth stop. She's so close, her eyes focused on you as she tucks a wayward strand behind your ear, finger grazing your skin so lightly. Amber takes such good care of you without even needing to be asked.

So you smile, and instead you say "thank you, Ams" and "I'll take care of you too, when you need me."

"I already knew that, baby."

Amber lays a kiss on your lips and it tastes better than any alcohol.

#amber freeman #amber freeman x reader #scream #mikey madison #mikey madison x reader #requested

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

Text

To Hunt a Silver Stag (III)

AU MASTERLIST || THE FINAL PART

PAIRING: Knight!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Fae Princess!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 3.9k

WARNINGS: Talks of war, death, blood, gore, wounds, stitches, injuries, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You struggle under the weight of the knight. So unused are you to have to travel as a regular, magic-less, being, that you feel your muscles tighten; coil. Aches form in places that have not had them since you were a small child…if an immortal being can even be considered a child, really.

You’d been walking for hours, and your hand was bright with the pain of iron affliction.

“Stag,” Gaz utters, eyes half-closed tight and his breath heaving. “You’re hurting yourself, Love.”

“I have it under control,” you level. Your lungs burn inside of your chest. “We have to keep moving to the border.”

“We can’t get there if you,” his voice cuts as he grits his teeth, though it comes back a moment later. “If you can’t walk.”

You slow, his arm over your shoulders heavy as you look over at him gradually. Sweat dribbles off of your nose, silver eyes dull and blurry. Your head is still light.

You’d both left the cliff-face cave with a long trail of blood leading behind—thankfully, the earth had been sympathetic to your cause. Without any magic to help, it had taken it upon itself to shatter the ground, erasing any trace along with your footprints. But even those forces can’t will the strength back into your body.

You stare into Gaz’s clenched face, his body shaking with all of his armor left behind except his cape, which hangs off of him to try and keep his bandages protected from dirt and dust.

Your expression goes grim.

If you wouldn’t stop for yourself…then you suppose you would have to stop for him.

“Alright,” you whisper, and your quivering feet stop. With a slow and easy motion, you slip out from under Gaz’s arm and grasp him carefully, letting his legs bend until he’s to the ground—back resting against a nearby rock.

“How are you feeling,” you ask, your lips already moving to his cheek. To give him a small sliver more.

Yet, before your flesh can move over his, a hand lightly grabs at your chin, stopping you. Freezing, you blink in surprise as Gaz tries a slow smirk.

“I’m flattered,” he chuckles weakly, nodding. “But you need to keep your strength. I can take it.”

You frown, only pulling back when his grip lowers back to his lap and he takes in a long inhalation, head leaning to connect to the stone behind him.

Lysander flutters over, resting atop the object as you watch him silently. Thinking.

Gaz won’t make it at this pace—those wounds all needed proper care, and even as experienced as you were, there’s little you can do without the proper tools.

You’d discarded your crown back near the cave, and while bone could be used as a needle in times of need, it would do the man more harm than good if you decided to take it up again. It had hurt something in you to leave it behind.

“You hand.” You blink, looking back to the knight after you register his words.

“Excuse me?”

Gaz smiles, head shifting on the rock as his chest rises and falls under his soiled tunic. Those browns of his are something of value to you, and your face heats even looking into them anymore. You glance away for a moment as he repeats himself.

“Let me see your hand, then. Haven't forgotten about it.” You sigh, fingers flinching.

Moving out your limb, you give it to him as his hands grasp your flesh, picking at his cape bandage until you watch it slip away like a leaf. The fabric is stiff with blood and puss, and under, burst blisters show themselves to air.

Your lips thin tightly at the sight, disgust in your heart before a hiss escapes you.

Gaz grimaces, sitting up a bit straighter. His fingers slide up your wrist, taking it softly and tilting your hand into the light. Looking, studying, he grunts and sends you a glance.

“I…I don’t know how to treat this.”

“You can’t,” you ease out, licking your lips at the knowledge.

Gaz’s brows furrow, a breeze going through the trees, ruffling your tattered dress.

“What’s that mean? Don’t tell me there’s no way to treat it. There’s freshwater—natural salves, I can make one if I can find—”

“Gaz,” you speak softly, tilting your head at him with a sad smile. The knight’s speech trails, his eyes hard on your face in an honest stubbornness. It nearly makes you chuckle as he squeezes your flesh as if trying to convince you of his skill.

“I have no doubt your understanding of medicinal herbs is vast,” you tilt your head. “But this is not a wound that even time can heal. The boils may fade, but the pain never will. It is a wound of iron. None of the Fae can fix such things.”

“Why in the bloody hell not,” he grunts, and this time you do chuckle. Gaz’s face becomes confused. “I’m not finding this all that funny, Stag.”

“No,” you sigh. “No, you’re not.”

Your eyes stare at him, those silvers glinting in the light of morning. He glares back, determined but losing that bead of understanding that he had been holding onto. Magic, the mortal man, was not used to. You explain the best you can, his hand still holding yours as if made of the finest glass ever melted.

“It’s just how we were made, Knight. Just as you were branded to die,” your heart seizes, “we were made to fear iron. It is one thing I will never have the privilege of knowing the answer to.”

Gaz’s face tightens, his body shifting until a prick of pain forces him to stop.

“It was my choice,” you try to relieve the burden.

“And a damn stupid one,” your eyes blink in shock.

A moment passes before your bell-like laughter echoes over the trees. The knight’s form stills to near statue-like motion as you do, gazing at your hand as the sound moves like starlight and caresses with its windish fingers.

“What is the word?” Your free hand covers your mouth, oblivious to Gaz’s heating cheeks and how his heart soars. “Lionhearted?”

“I’d move more to foolish,” he grumbles, rolling his shoulders. But you had entranced him yet again. Everything about you was…strange. New.

Beautiful.

“Perhaps I was borrowing some of that from you, then, Knight,” you watch Gaz rip a strip off his cape once more. He moves to tie a new bandage, doing it gently as your eyes are as malleable as water. “It is more of a human trait than Fae.”

A glance, paired with a layered smirk. “Rubbing off on you?”

“Seems it,” you slide a calm look his way, fingers flinching when his knot goes too tight.

He mutters a small apology, face worried before he hesitantly lets you go.

Suddenly, your lips are near his cheek, pressing a delicate kiss. But there’s no magic in it—no power surge that enters his muscles. Just a whisper of passion before it’s gone with an utterance of, “My thanks, Kindly Knight.”

Gaz is left breathless as you stand up, feet shifting away a few paces and looking around. He has to blink away the haze behind his mind and clear his throat before he can speak beyond a heavy stutter.

“It’s…it’s no problem.”

You hum, looking around in a slow circle, your gold belt is still here, resting just under the broken straps of your corset. The gold glints for a moment, and just as Lysander flutters off with little more than a bird-ish call to stay near, you sigh and shake your head.

“We have to move soon,” you say. Gaz agrees, ever the strategic mind.

“There’ll be hunting parties until we’re caught,” he huffs a chuckle. “While I can put in my trust that you’ll be okay, I, on the other hand…”

Brown eyes look down, narrowing at the carnage of his body. His bandages are heavy with blood, and everything has a buzzing sheen of numbness to the flesh.

“Well, let's just say that my odds aren’t looking that nice, yeah?”

“I’m not leaving you here,” you pass a firm sweep of your even gaze to him. “You’ve far earned my loyalty, Gaz, and I will not falter in my steadfastness in return.”

Under his breath, he grunts out a teasing, “Was hoping you’d say that.”

Without another word, your arm is once more slipping his waist—Gaz’s long limb going over your shoulder to rest before you help push himself up.

The man strangles down a sharp cry, agony ricocheting through every nerve and splintering out like bark.

“Fuck,” he hisses, clenching his teeth.

You stare from the side of your eye worriedly, pausing.

“It’s okay,” Gaz grumbles, reassuring you. He blinks for a moment, clearing out the black dots. “But wait a second for me.”

“Of course,” you begin but are cut off by the knight's arm moving away from you. A hand is placed on your shoulder, and your body is gently turned to the side. Gaz struggles on his feet for a moment, but he pauses until the abyss at the sides of his vision is gone.

“Let me…” Fingers dance over your corset straps, moving to tie the laces as best he can. “Tell me when it’s good, then, will you, Love?”

Again with that nickname—but even you can admit that there was an intoxicating electricity to your skin now. A deadly heat.

You stare ahead blankly as shaky fingers glide over the fabric, you hear the pulse of a fluttering heart that reminds you of a grand war horse; strong and firm. Gaz takes a deep breath through his nose, licking his lips slowly as he takes up the items and begins pulling lightly.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “it might end up being a bit loose. I have to leave the bottom loops open.”

Your gut swirls, moving to gaze over your shoulder with glimmering eyes. Gaz pointedly doesn’t meet it, fixing the stance of his feet. You stare, the fabric around your chest and back conforming as the corset is tightened to a comfortable degree, blinking softly as Lysander returns across the way.

“There,” Gaz nods, glancing into your unblinking eyes before he moves away like it burns to do so. “Is it too tight—?”

Your head snaps to the far right, and a shadow of a large body pushes through the bush. Swiftly moving in front of the knight, you blink through the rose-layered haze in your brain, startled. But what startled you even more was how Gaz tried to push you behind him at the exact same time you did to him.

Eyes meeting, you both stare, wide, before a body cusps the small patch of open grass.

All at once, every line of tension leaves in a calm exhale. A large smile peels your lips. Another laugh.

Gaz’s jaw drops.

“Gwendoline,” you move forward swiftly, hand outstretched to land on close-cropped white fur. You chuckle, moving to firmly push your forehead into the animal’s—careful of the horn protruding.

A delicate snort enters your ears.

Peeling back, a small and slender head shifts to show purple eyes to you; hooves move over the ground and a long tail with a line of flowing fur down the center whispers over the grass.

A unicorn.

“How?” You breathlessly ask under your breath, heart pounding. Her head elegantly tilts, needle-sharp horn poking out. “All this way, My Dear?”

Gwendoline’s eyes glint, as if laughing. Of all the beasts you’d come to know, this one still surprised you. Your head moves to Lysander, but the bird only flaps over and settles on your shoulder, cooing.

You hum. “Clever little bird, are you?”

“Am I already dead or is that a fucking unicorn?” Gaz bluntly asks, motioning weakly with a single hand as you bring the mythical beast over to him and ask her to bend down.

Hands grasp him, moving him forward swiftly to the awaiting beast as his feet skid for a moment. Your sly form comes into view in the side of his eye.

“Did you think I was lying when I said I knew one? Many I consider my friends, but none have I known longer than Gwendoline.”

Gaz’s lips open and close, blinking quickly as he’s forced to get on the thing, his injured body pushed over the kneeling side—in fact, he was a bit afraid he’d break the animal’s back, truth be told. It seemed so…delicate.

But as his hands had to settle themselves into the unicorn’s mane to keep steady, Gwendoline rising on sure legs, the knight was instantly proven wrong. Delicate looking, yes, but this best could break down stone with one swift kick. It had no trouble moving forward as you settled at her side, hand resting on her shoulder.

Your silver eyes stare at Gaz as he pants not from pain but from boyish wonder.

Smiling widely, you giggle at him. At his wide-open face and his honest smirk. It’s a magical thing.

“Bloody fucking hell.”

—

The border to your kingdom comes without a fight, and when the first river is crossed, and the bottom of your dress soaked by it, you feel the veil shimmer at your arrival.

“Rightly,” you begin as you set your feet to dry land, Gwendoline and Lysander listening in on your conversation. “I don’t believe I know what being here will do to you—this is a sensitive place, you understand?”

“I won’t stay any longer than what I’m allowed—”

“I am allowing you,” you interrupt, looking over with a heavy heat on your face. You stare at him, riding atop a unicorn with such grievous wounds he’d gotten defending you.

Gaz blinks before nodding slowly, smiling. “Then I’ll stay as long as you want me to.”

The air here is different; everything is lighter. The grass is greener—the sky more blue. It sings.

“Do you not have family to return to,” your eyes narrow. Gwendoline knows the path—you need not guide her. “Loved ones?”

“Ah,” Gaz shrugs the best he’s able, nearly commenting on the unicorn’s perfectly smooth stride. If he were on a regular horse, his wounds would be burning by now. The man moves his eyes from you to the ground for a moment. “I don’t think they’ll be roaring to have me back now.”

Your face thins.

“I…” you breathe out a slow breath. Emotions. Such fickle things. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” is the easy and swift answer. “I made my choice—and I’d do it again, as well. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t, yeah?”

Soft eyes move your way, and you meet them, a gentle smile peeling your lips.

“I knew when I gazed upon you in that Hall that you were strange, Knight,” your words move between the both of you, hovering in the air. “You carry yourself with something long lost. I can no longer name it, myself.”

Gaz’s head tilts. A humored smirk, but his brows are quizzically raised. “What does that mean?”

You only stare, Lysander on your shoulder and your expressions hidden to all but the old voices of the wind, who’ve known you far longer than all else. Your throat hums, and you turn back to the forest ahead of you, safely home. Gwendoline’s eyes watch you closely from beside your face, glinting their periwinkle hue.

“Alright, then,” the man sighs, but a large smile moves across his face. A low chuckle. Hell, his heart was even pattering like a bird’s wings.

“When we get to my father’s court, I ask that you let me do the talking,” you speak some minute into the walk, your strength returning the longer you live here with the magic in the very fabric of the sky. It seeps back into you, swelling like a wave. “You’ll be received by the best healers we have, but my father will need answers from the both of us before long. He is a thorough Fae, even by my peoples’ standards.”

Gaz grimaces as his stitched wounds pull as he shifts his upper body. A hand settles on his leg, keeping it lightly grasped before his face returns to a tempered calm.

“Right,” he utters, fatigued. He glances at your hand and clears his throat softly.

“Keep your head high,” you utter. “You have my word, Gaz, and I believe that it will account for much. You are under my protection now.”

Your fingers travel the side of his breachers, peeling back the torn fabric to stare at the bandages you’d wrapped. It was bloody, but it would last until you got to the castle. You miss the way the man’s breath gets caught in his throat.

“I think you’ll like it here,” you whisper, your silver eyes shifting upwards to meet brown—Gaz watches with barely hidden reverence. A great awe that extends to his bones. “You’re…different.”

That's all you can call him.

He huffs, tilting his head. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

—

The healers had gotten him squared away in no time at all, and now, days later, he had his own quarters in the castle—an esteemed guest of your father’s. The mortal knight who defended his daughter’s honor with all the strength of a dragon, even when he didn’t need to.

Your wound had healed as best it could, but, like most nights, you were up because of it—walking the halls and rubbing at the skin of your palm. What you had told Gaz had been true; the blisters and the throbbing blood had ceased, but the pain underneath remained. A brand of sorts. Burned into your soul.

The both of you were such self-destructive creatures. If anyone would have commented on it, they’d say you were meant to be together.

Two sides of the same coin.

Your unadorned head swivels to the wide open windows of the corridor—sheer fabric curtains of unicorn hairs whispering beside you. There were no fires here, only the illumination of the moon and the stars. The courtyard below is filled with merriment that will move long into the coming weeks. Laughter and warm voices. Dancing.

Their princess was back, after all. The King of the mortals was dead. It was a time of celebration.

You smile to yourself, rubbing your thumb into your palm as you continue to walk on, flowing dress dragging behind you. When you hear the firm heartbeat following after, you entertain him for a while, a tiny smile stuck to your face.

“You’re getting better,” you call behind you, not turning around.

Before long, a shadow moves up beside your form with a smirk and a heavy chuckle. “Really?”

“No,” you hum and hear the honest laugh.

“Hell,” Gaz utters. “Got my hopes up.” You shake your head lightly, side-eyeing the man. His soul was more Fae than mortal now—the food and drink were in his veins, and that alone made people…less than they were before. Not only that, but his tunic and pants as well; Fae made.

You both walk in silence for a time, the man’s eyes still trying to take it all in even since the days he’d been here; it was incredible.

But then he notices your hand.

Brows furrowing, he gently takes you by the arm and stops you as you slow, glancing over. Gaz frowns, and just as he did in the forest, he takes your hand and tilts it to him.

His hands are warm.

“Can I really not do anything?” You smile.

“No, Gaz, you cannot.” He grumbles, grimacing, and it makes you chuckle at him.

“Come,” you whisper, shifting the limb to grasp his own—the man’s eyes blinking quickly. “I have something I want to show you.”

“Alright,” he says, quietly, a layer of worship slipping between the word and his low breath, staring at the back of your head as you lead him wherever you see fit. He wondered if anyone was really led away from the battlefields by Fae—he wondered if they’d just been as enchanted as he had become, by men and women of pointed ears and unnatural eyes. Flowing clothes and soft voices.

They’d gone willingly. They had to have—they’d snuck off and now dance in the courtyards below; they live in the woods, near the rivers. Learning the words of birds and beasts, lying in the sun, and sleeping under stars.

Being taken not by corruption of a name…but by love.

Gaz’s eyes glint as your hand stays gently in his, a grin on his lips as the moonlight casts shadows over his face. He squeezes your hand and tries to will away the pain that lives under your flesh with his own.

Your face heats a foreign fire, one that is becoming more and more common the longer you live around this man.

You lead him into a courtyard similar to the one from Michael’s castle, yet, at the same time, so very different.

Phoenixes sit in trees of silver and gold. Unicorns graze on grass greener than anything ever seen across the border. In the air, illuminated wisps looking like stars float to shine light over bushes that drop gems like water droplets into woven baskets. Much like the ones from your crown—the stones that Gaz had given back to you from his pouch; sighting how you had led him to your hiding place without even knowing it.

Perhaps that was when you knew you would love him for all of eternity.

“Sit with me, Gaz,” you breathily say, turning and pulling him closer, noses nearly brushing while walking backward. Feet moving through long grass as if a phantom.

Your eyes pierce him, making him lean forward. He shutters, noses brushing.

“Kyle,” he whispers, only to you. The word burns from the power that surges from that monumental confession. “Kyle Garrick. Say it,” your stare, “please.”

“Kyle,” the man wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close. His very soul lights inside his ribcage, and his body quivers. His lips brush against yours.

“You’re setting me on fire, and I don’t want to stop it.” Your smile dances, your heart rampages. An old creature, you are—an immortal thing.

But as his lips press to yours, and you breathe down every ounce of loyalty he offers as his hands skate your dress, you would give it all up in an instant.

Just as he had for you.

You haven’t told him, but when a Fae loves someone, really loves someone…that’s the only person they’ll ever love for the rest of time immemorial. Or at least until one of them dies. After that, if the Fae is left behind, they wither. They Fade. A broken heart, everyone says.

Your people are delicate things when it comes to emotions. Everything is heightened. Your soul already sings for him—your heart soars when he speaks; when he looks at you. It was still the beginning, after all, but this man was special. He had a mind that would be remembered well after his years.

He’d damned you from the moment you’d seen him under that stained-glass window. A Saint and a Stag.

What is love, except eternal damnation and memories stuck like gold thread into skin?

—

Far off into the world, sitting near that dark and shadowed cave, a deer antler crown sits motionless in the grass. It has no adornments—no gold thread or gems of starlight. No grand wealth to it.

Just antler and the hint of magic laid in deep like the dirt of the earth.

Flowers grow in a small patch around a single broken tine.

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papercorgiworld · 7 months ago

Text

Not into you

A Regulus Black imagine

This is part two to Lily’s Potion. Read it here.

Regulus is taunting you, hoping you will confess that you’re into him. When you try to get your revenge things get very interesting.

Warning: slightly suggestive, but also just sweet

I was super excited about this one when I wrote it, but I just reread and meh. But I really hope you like it. It's less smutty than part one and more fluffy, I think... Feedback is always welcome. Sending you all lots of love and of course happy readings!

– The request –

NEED a part two for Lilys Potion pleaseeee 🙏🙏

– The writing –

When Lily and Marlene had told you that avoiding Regulus wasn’t that difficult they clearly forgot that you’re both in the same year and that he can be an obnoxious ass if he wants to be. You feel your whole body tense when you notice he’s taking the seat behind you. You hear a little shuffling but try to focus on your book, checking today’s subject before class. Regulus gets up from his seat slightly leaning over his desk to get closer to you. “I did some research and there’s no way that the things you said and did… or at least tried to do, were all induced by that potion. You wanted it.” His raspy whisper and words make you forget to breathe for a second. There’s a silence and Regulus’ smile grows smug, convinced that you’ll admit you like him, but you regain composure. “Don’t flatter yourself, Regulus. You’re my best friend’s baby brother.” Merlin, he hated it when you referred to him as just his brother's ‘baby’ brother, but his scowl was mostly caused by your ridiculous argument. “What does that have to do with you being horny for me?” Regulus asks bluntly, eyes taunting and smug. You’re absolutely baffled by his choice of words. Horny? Who does this brat think he is! You turn slightly but don’t face him and protest with an annoyed but hushed voice. “I’m not horny for you!” Far from convinced, Regulus' eyes turn even more cocky than they usually are with a filthy smile tugging on his lips. He’s about to open his mouth when the professor walks in, bringing an end to the conversation.

***

You join your friends at the gryffindor table, but do so with a scowl on your face. “What’s gotten you in such a pissy mood?” Peter asks, making everyone look at you. “Them.” You say, making all eyes move to the slytherin table, not needing any further reference to who you were talking about. Regulus and his friends were snickering about something but Regulus’ eyes were focussed on you. When he sees half the gryffindor table look at him, he just smirks and looks away. “Yeah… what’s up with that?” Sirius asks you and you frown. “What happened at the party? I mean Regulus pulled you away from me and next we find you both in your room?” You feel your cheeks heat up and avert your eyes to the food instead of your friends’ questioning looks. “Nothing happened.” You say, sounding annoyed and anything but convincing. Lily tactfully changes the subject and most of the table follows her lead, except for James who keeps his eyes focused on you. “You know there’s such a thing as revenge.” He whispers just loud enough to get your attention and avoid the rest from picking up on what he’s saying. “What do you mean?” You ask confused but also genuinely interested in whatever James’ brain had cooked up. “Put him through the same and see if he’s still laughing at you then.”

Your smile slowly mirrors James’ grin as you see the whole plot work out, but at the slytherin table a very wary Regulus senses trouble.

***

James had come up with a plan. You had to distract Lily so he could steal the last dose of her crappy potion. You didn’t like going behind your friend’s back but James had convinced you that it was best to avoid Lily since she had somewhat of a moral compass and purposely drugging a guy to get some petty revenge was a bit ‘morally grey’ as James put it. The second step of the two step plan was to convince Sirius to join in so he could slip Regulus the potion. After some judgmental frowning Sirius quickly decided to pick James’ plan of mischief over his own flesh and blood.

***

So now here you were, casually hanging at a party with Marlene and Remus by your side discussing the immense workload the professors had hit you with over the past few weeks. You occasionally scan the room to see if you could spot Regulus. When an hour had passed and you still hadn’t seen him you began to worry. You clearly hadn’t thought this through at all, what if you had caused Regulus to end up with someone. You and James had agreed to not let things escalate but James had clearly forgotten about that since he was more than a little wasted already.

You leave your friends in search of Regulus, but he’s nowhere to be found at the party. So you decide to be brave and approach a drunk and wickedly smiling Barty. Who’s smile turns filthy as soon as he notices you walking over to him. “Well, look at that, pretty girl looking for some entertainment? Come to the right place.” He winks and leans a little closer to you. You roll your eyes and just ignore his words. “I’m looking for Regulus.” You state and Barty rolls his eyes. “Really that's the guy you want to go for?” Barty teases with wiggling eyebrows. “You could have me. I’m better looking, funnier and slightly less emo.” You raise your eyebrows and feel saved when Evan shouts from a nearby couch. “Sit your drunk ass down Barty.” Barty complies without a single word of protest, his eyes suggestively looking at Evan now. “I’m afraid you missed him, pretty sure Regulus left for his dorm about half an hour ago.” Evan says and you quickly thank him rushing out to find Regulus.

You fling the door of Regulus’ room open to find him pacing around in his room. His tie was undone, shirt wrinkly and hair messy. There was a cauldron and a mess of ingredients surrounding it. As your eyes focus on whatever he was brewing, Regulus spots you and turns red. When you meet his eyes he spins around, away from you. “You! What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.” A stressed hand moves through his hair and you observe him carefully. “You alright?” You ask, closing the door behind you and taking a step towards him. “No! I’m not alright. I know what you did! You gave me that potion and now my mind’s running wild!” He turns around, but takes a step back to keep some distance between you two. For the past hour his mind and body had been craving you. He had done his best to keep himself in check and work on a cure rather than run to you, confessing his secret crush on you. You feel guilty, seeing him this distressed.

“I’m so sorry, Regulus. James and I just didn’t think this one through at all, but you were being a bit of a dick and we thought it was funny.” As you apologise and explain yourself, Regulus’ mind wanders. His eyes lustfully move over your figure, taking in every beautiful detail. He feels his whole body heat up and his member twitches in his pants. Her lips are so kissable. Fuck, I need her in my bed, underneath me. Or she could just hold me and kiss me. She’s wearing that perfume again. It’s killing me. I bet she tastes even better than she smells. - What the hell am I thinking? She’s just a stupid girl. - Merlin, I want her, need her. Damn potion. She’s the one. So fuckable. She would be such a sweet and beautiful mom to our children. “Regulus? Did you even hear a thing I said?” You snap your fingers in front of the dreamy slytherin.

“Just help me make a cure before I confess my feelings for you.” Regulus snaps, turning to the cauldron on the table. Your eyes widen and it takes a second before his eyes fill with horror. “Feelings?” You ask, feeling your cheeks heat up and your heart swell with joy. “It’s the potion talking.” Regulus quickly argues, but a cheeky smile tugs on your lips as you remember what he had told you just a few days earlier. “No, Reg, I clearly remember you telling me that the potion doesn’t induce any feelings of any sort.”

“Shit.” Regulus curses, looking down. He had been so eager to have you confess your feelings and now it was blowing up in his face. “Well since I’ve already embarrassed myself today, I might as well do this while I'm still high on this potion.” He takes two big steps towards you and brings a hand to the back of your head, pulling you into an intensely deep and passionate kiss. He pulls away and takes a deep breath, calling up on all his self control to ignore you and focus on the potion. Meanwhile you’re still on cloud nine due to that amazing kiss. “Hey, twinkle eyes, you gonna help me or just stand there being beautiful and distracting me.” Though he was giving a compliment there was clear annoyance in his voice. He hated being so vulnerable and was still embarrassed about confessing.

You eventually snap out of it and tell Regulus to take a seat on his bed and relax so you can work properly without his mess of hormones interfering. When you finally finish the potion he swallows it down eagerly. You watch him carefully to see if it worked. Regulus lets himself fall onto his bed again, relieved that the horny hunger inside of him had somewhat calmed down to a normal amount. However, now that the effects of the potion had worn out you were still on his mind, as always. He runs a hand over his face. “Fine. Laugh all you want.” Regulus finally says, throwing his arms wide in surrender and you chuckle at his dramatics, but you don’t laugh to Regulus’ surprise. Instead you move closer to him and straddle him. He’s confused for a second, but more than happy to welcome you on his lap.

“You’re kinda hot when you’re all bothered like this.” You whisper as you comb through his hair with your fingers, making him smirk, satisfied to have you. He pulls you closer and pushes himself up so his lips brush yours. “I thought you weren’t into me?” Regulus whispers teasingly. “I lied.” You say with a cheeky smile and Regulus, squeeze your side making you yelp before kissing you lovingly. I knew it.

Word count: 1728

#slytherin #regulus black #regulus black imagine #regulus black x reader #papercorgiworldwritings #the marauders era #marauders era

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scn-thedog · 29 days ago

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PVPCIV WORLDBUILDING THOUGHT DUMP

i think there's differences in swords … not the actual swords but the people. like the wooden swords/pvp noobs are naturally more skinny and small and stuff because they can't afford food often… someone who was "born" in the wooden sword level will most likely be way shorter and skinnier than someone born in the stone sword level ←this is assuming spawning works kinda like how it does in parkciv and everyone doesn't just start out in the wooden sword level !! tabi is an exception to this and is Very Tall compared to most wooden swords :-)

iron swords are usually more bulky and fat because . they can afford to eat. most of them have claws or long nails because they don't need to fight teeth and nail to survive and long nails used to be a symbol of status (because it meant you could afford them to be long .bceause you didn't do farm work and stuff that would keep them short/make you cut them) . not a lot of people were born there though, the little ones that were born there are actually taller and pale-er than the average pvp citizen!

stone swords however are probably the most bulky …they fighting a lot!! and can afford food more than wood swords. most of the people born there have more scars than the average pvp civilization citizen since they're born in the level that fights the most . the second most resourceful level too, a lot of stone swords know how to use their items …and since they can actually get items they can do stuff with them (the wooden swords would be more resourceful than them if they could afford items more often) . typically very muscular BUT not tall

eating is seen as something very special and indicative of status since it's only ever used for healing most of the time, inviting someone to eat is seen as a super duper important invitation since food is so weirdly just …eaten . this only ever happens in the iron sword level though, and it's completely unheard of in the stone and wood levels

a lot of famine food like dishes go around since people prefer to ease their stomachs with something even if it won't help them heal or anything, so grass, bark, moss, seeds, etc. is commonly consumed to ease hunger. actual food is used solely for healing most of the time

↑↑↑wooden swords are the ones coming up with most of these dishes. it's so common for them to originate from there it's become common to refer to bad food (like beetroots and melon and other stuff that doesn't help with hunger) as "wooden food" or any similar variations

let's talk terminology !! "wooden" and "upper layer" is slang for cheap/bad. saying something is wooden would be to say it's cheap and/or bad (e.j.: "this is wooden food" "these are upper layer prices"). obviously a reference to the wooden sword level

↑wooden swords get back by calling layers below them moles, rats, and any less flattering variations like what zam called the diamond swords

stone swords are stereotyped to be the most agressive and irrational . it's not uncommon to say "stop being such a stone sword" to tell someone to calm down

i think that's it regarding pvpciv as the civilization. smiley face

#pvpciv #pvp civilization #worldbuilding #//;uhm i don't know i jist wanted to dump my thoughts on this

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szasfuckingwife · 6 months ago

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CHALLENGER

GOJO SATORU X FEM!READER X GETO SUGURU

SYNOPSIS: YOU ARE KNOWN FOR YOUR BIGGEST TALENT. AND WHEN SAID TALENT IS HITTING A BALL WITH A RACKET, HOW CAN YOU STOP THE EYES OF TOKYO’S STRONGEST COMPETITORS?

WARNINGS: Nothing but some good ol’ smut

A/N: Nothing, jus go watch challengers that shit was amazing

Gojo Satoru who can’t stop gushing to his best friend Suguru about the girl he saw at the Shibuya Open. It was evident that you hitting that tennis ball with such vigour replayed in his head over and over again.

Except, his friend didn’t get the hype. I mean, he saw your sponsorships and saw that you were good. But never understood the hype. Until, he saw you play in person.

Both of the boys were starstruck on how much stamina you had, how passionate you were, and how short your shorts were. Geto and Gojo had the pleasure of fixating their gaze on you whilst everyone craned their neck to watch each opponent. And even though they missed how the other challenger played, they didn’t care.

They were looking at you.

Whilst you’re more focused on your ability to play, you notice that Gojo is a decent player. It’s clear he loves tennis. He’s fit, strong, good looking and knows how to make you smile, which is not a must but a plus for you. If it’s opening doors or getting you chocolates, Satoru is the man.

However, Geto is much more deeper than that. There’s something missing, something that you seem yo be missing too, that is inside him. When he loses a set, it’s explosive and dramatic. Like you.

From a wide perspective, Satoru would be the obvious match. After feeling insecure in how you played, not only did Satoru take you out for dinner, but his lips pressed against yours so softly.

He guided you to his bedroom and stripped you down slowly whilst not looking away from your eyes. Knuckles turn white as you grip the headboard, realising Satoru’s tongue may have more things to offer than just sweet words.

That night was passionate and, just as if you were on the court, you both took your time and concentrated on the pleasure that came with such an activity. Satoru’s veiny hands explored your body with such precision, you felt like prey under his touch. But you wouldn’t physically allow Gojo to overpower you, you were the better player by no doubt.

His cerulean eyes widened as you made your way on top of him and began to ride him. The whimpers of your friend only motivated you to continue, milking every last drop.

The days after you and Satoru’s intimate night was awkward. Geto knew you fucked, it was clear as day. The lingering stares, the less frequent hang outs, Satoru’s cheeks blushing whenever you walked in the room.

It was obvious Satoru had some feelings towards you, and Suguru wanted that too.

Never-mind being friends since they were in diapers, Gojo was taking the one thing Geto had— or did he?

One night, the pair had an argument. Sure it was about ‘Satoru stealing Suguru’s lucky socks and not giving it back. But you knew better. Outside their hotel room, you heard everything.

“Face it, Suguru, this is more than just a silly sock. It’s because you’re jealous~!” Suguru’s eye tweaked as he heard Satoru’s tease him. “You’re mad that she picked me and not you! Admit it.”

The dark haired man stayed silent for a while before speaking, “Whatever she did with you, she was thinking of me. She wants me.”

A smirk adorned your face as you heard your two boys talk about you in such a passionate way. They were both pining for you. And maybe Suguru was right when he said you were thinking about him when you were fucking Gojo, could you not have your cake and eat it too?

You decide it’s time to knock on the door and end this, stupid but weirdly flattering, argument.

Both of the boys stop in their track as they hear three knocks come from the door, instantly racing to clean the room. When they deemed the room clean, it was now a matter of who’d open the door for you. Face value, it was a simple task but q task that both of them took with great seriousness.

Just as quick as they cleaned the room, they both raced to the door, Geto being a smidge faster.

“Hey..!” They both said in unison as you stood, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face.

“Hi.” You responded. You walked in without getting invited, something the boys were accustomed to the more they knew you.

They watched as you sat on a seat, “You want a drink?”, Gojo spoke up, “Beer?”

You shrug and almost instantaneously, Geto was in front of you with a can of beer in hand.

“Why are you guys acting so weird…?” A chuckle leaves your mouth as you open the can. They both look at each other before Satoru responds.

“So, Suguru is mad because I may have, accidentally, used his lucky socks for my set last night-”

“Lucky socks my ass! You’re just mad because you know that Y/N is into me.” Suguru smirks earning another chuckle from you. Satoru’s eyes flick between you and Suguru with a slight frown.

He shakes his head, “It’s not even like that!”

You turn your head to him and raise a brow, “What’s it like then, Satoru?”

He remains silent for a while. Probably weighing his choices, does he leave the situation alone and appear weak in front of the girl he likes or does he fight back against Suguru? “He’s jealous we fucked.”

Suguru booming laugh echoes throughout the room. He was taking it seriously, however the pathetic way in which Satoru spoke humoured him. “Listen to this guy, Y/N…I mean seriously. I wouldn’t be jealous of another man for sleeping with a woman. A woman isn’t just her body.”

Ironically, you were just your body. For tennis, that was all you relied on. Your agile glides against your half of the tennis court, your mobility, your cadence. Without your amazing body, you wouldn’t be able to do what you love.

“Suguru.” You interrupted the bickering.

He looked at you.

“Do you wanna fuck me?”

The question caused both of them to choke on their own breaths. You’ve always been known for having no filter, but the natural way you spoke of having sex was a shock for the two boys.

“Y/N, stop messing aro-” “I’ll let you.” You expose your magazine front cover smile, playfully giggling at their reaction.

“You’d let me?” Suguru began to grin before he was struck on the back of his head by Satoru’s hand.

You giggle again, “I’d let both of you. C’mon…pleasure me…”

Both boys watch as your hand travels up Suguru’s thigh, achingly close to his crotch. His breath hitches as he takes in the feeling of you kissing his neck.

But suddenly, like a lost puppy, Satoru kisses your neck in hopes you wouldn’t forget him. And you don’t. You turn your head with a smile and a gasp, letting him continue to kiss your neck.

And then, another pair of lips are on your neck. You hold their heads as both of them now hungrily kiss your neck.

“Can we…touch you..?” Satoru says in between kisses. You eagerly nod before you feel hands on your thigh. Geto’s hand cupped your breast whilst his friend’s fingers rubbed against the outside of your panties.

You tried to his your smile with a bite of your lip but you can’t help it. Your boys were being so good to you, and treating you so well. To reward them, your hands were back on both of their, now hard, crotches. They gasped and moaned as you rubbed the outline of their cocks so nicely.

“Take off your shorts…” You whisper and they immediately did what you said. As they sat with their cocks out, they watched you kneel before them, smiling so innocently at them. You were a tease.

Slowly, you began to stroke both of their cocks simultaneously. Seeing as he never felt your touch before, Suguru threw his head back in ecstasy. The white haired boy, however, spat down at his cock, encouraging you to go faster.

“You like that, Satoru? Hm?” You smirk up at him. He nods absentmindedly, too caught up in the feeling to properly communicate. Another giggle leaves your lips as you turn to face Suguru, “How about you, pretty boy?”

Suguru hums in response, “Mmhmm…Yeah…it’s good…”

The boys moans rose in frequency and pitch, the pleasure of feeling their friend’s hand wrapped around them felt too good. But you knew better than to let them cum this early, you removed your hands. Both of them responded in a sour face, a whine even left Satoru’s mouth.

“Satoru, you stand there, Suguru, you can get on the bed…” You say whilst stripping yourself down. “After this, you better win that fucking challenger..”

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #geto suguru #geto x reader #gojo satoru #gojo saturo #gojo smut #gojo x reader #jjk gojo #geto suguru x reader #geto x you #jujutsu geto #geto smut #szasfuckingwife

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killuakiru · 10 days ago

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OMG HI I love your writing! Can I request killua and gon head canons (seperate) with a reader who’s like very sweet and everything but has a hypnotic singing voice? Kinda like a siren. But she’s very sweet and usually she sues it to put people to sleep or calm somebody down. But like maybe they meet during the hunger exam? Idk I just love the idea of that for some reason. Take care!🫶

HII FINALLY BACK OMFGG m so sorry for suddenly disappearing i was prepping for finals and i am doneee !! As usual, ofcs I can do this anon 🫶 thank you for your request ! Such a cute lil prompt 🥹 Will be clearing out my inbox then sprinkle a lil ideas i have 🫡

⊹₊⋆ Serenus !ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

⊹₊⋆ F!Reader x K. Zoldyck, G. Freecss ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

༉‧₊˚. Let's Start !༉‧₊˚.

༉‧₊˚. Killua Zoldyck !ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

• Honestly, hearing your voice at first made him uneasy.

• Your voice reminded him SO much of Illumi, the hypnotizing sensation when he listened to your voice made him think you had ill intentions.

• It doesn't help that you used an ability that can make someone sleep within seconds in the First Phase of the exam. ( In your defense, he was a total weirdo, he kept staring at people in a weird way. )

• When Gon said he had befriended you let's say.. After the Trick Tower.

• He was super cautious of you, while you had such a warm presence, the whispers of rumors made him tense.

• And thus; you'd always get the cold shoulder whenever you'd interact with him. A simple gruff response with a stoic expression, or when you request something he'd hesitantly agree because you're still Gon's friend.

• Though after a few months, he had learned what 'Nen' is, you weren't so bad. He had learned to appreciate your soft presence and loved the sound of your hums whenever the two kids were going to sleep.

• When he apologized, he was just an absolute mess of embarrassment and shame.

• "My.. My bad, I just thought you had er ill intentions.." He mumbles as he rubs his head, a soft shade of scarlet forms in his cheeks as he occasionally steals glances at your face.

• You of course, accepted his apology. Who wouldn't? Killua The Zoldyck was actually apologizing– to you, no less. You felt flattered! Also because his little blush was so adorable!!

• After that, Killua and you bonded like Gon and he. There were no moments where someone was left out, well, at least a little, but you still loved both of them dearly.

• Now ! I have a feeling he'd use your voice to his benefit. In combat, he'd use you as bait! Your voice was so alluring that a lot of people would think you'd be a great victim and then from behind! Boom! Killua's sharp bloodied nails just a few centimeters from your face, and the target's dead!

• This actually happened one time, except it wasn't intended. In York New city before meeting up with Kurapika, you were almost a victim of child trafficking– so Killua had to do it! Why would he let his precious friend be abducted?!

• Another one of his benefits, is simply for his ears. Growing up, he wasn't used to such an alluring and beautiful voice, so whenever you'd talk and someone intended to cut you, he'd send them a glare and continued to listen to you.

• The effects your voice had on him was completely different from Illumi's hypnotize. He felt at peace when you'd speak to him or when you'd sing to him.

• To him, your voice is your most charming aspect.

• While other people also thought your voice was beautiful and that you were talented, to him, your voice was more than talent.

• He viewed your voice as an angelic symphony. A piece of music he'd never get bored of despite playing it over and over again.

• To him, you were art. To him, you were everything beautiful. To Killua, you were his most beloved, even if it was one sided.

༉‧₊˚. Gon Freecss ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

• Gon was absolutely entranced by your voice!

• He's never heard a voice like yours– how your voice sounded like a beautiful melody that scratched his brain in the right way!

• He wondered what it was– so he approached you with the brightest smile and asked about your voice, and to hear it was natural blew his mind!

• You and he got along with a simple snap! There was just this spark you two had and just clicked!

• When you two met during the Second Phase of the exam, he found you soothing a random applicant that was shivering to his core. He had tears in his eyes, crying that he didn't want to jump off that cliff for just an egg.

• Again, he was curious, but he was also so.. Mesmerized. The sight of your soft smile as you hummed a simple child's lullaby and instantly calmed the man into a slumber, he was in wonder.

• He introduced you to his little group and everything just escalated from there.

• He learned that you were a Transmutter, similarly to Killua! He thought it would fit you a lot, he could imagine little music notes surrounding you as a replacement of your aura and just attack with your voice, depending on the tune and highness of your voice!

• Well of course the children didn't know if that was possible, but you all trained diligently nonetheless!

• During the Heaven's Arena training, Gon really appreciated your voice when he was internally stressed– to the point he hadn't realized it himself.

• During the Chimera Ants, your singing was one of the few things that would always keep him at bay.

• Your soft voice that reminded him of his childhood, where he was just relaxing back in Whale Island. Your soft voice that reminded him of the group of five where everyone was complete and just goofing around the Hunter's Exam.

• He longed for that feeling again. To make reckless decisions and enjoy life.

• Ultimately, his desire to avenge Kite– the closest thing he had as a father clouded his appreciation for his friends. His rage and hatred consumed him truly, not even Killua nor you could make him budge.

• It was inevitable for the three of you to split up in the end. You knew, yet you still longed for Gon's presence. Had your feelings hadn't stayed in silence, would your outcome be different?

༉‧₊˚. End !༉‧₊˚.

Thank you for reading ! This strictly belongs to me / killuakiru and I do not give permission for you to repost on other platforms, thank you !

#hunter x hunter #hxh #hxh 2011 #hxh fanart #hxh killua #hxh x reader #hxh gon #hxh x you #killua x reader #gon freecss #killua zoldyck #gon x reader #killua hunter x hunter #gon hunter x hunter #hxh x y/n #hunter x hunter x reader

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pleasoflove · 9 months ago

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love grows best in little houses — lee jeno

roommate jeno x f reader

fluff, friends to lovers, pining, close proximity … >:)

7k words

summary: love grows best in little houses with fewer walls to separate, where you eat and sleep so close together you can't help but communicate. if we had more room between us, think of all we'd miss... love grows best in houses just like this.

authors note: this silly modern all white farmhouse quote had me thinking!!!

“I’m home,” You announce quite obnoxiously, jingling your keys and shopping bags. You made sure to shake the doorknob a little before stepping in as well, doing the courtesy of warning your roommate in case he had company over.

Instead, you find him relaxed on the couch, a knowing smile resting on his face. He gets up to help you with the grocery bags, “I could tell.”

You give Jeno an eyeroll, hanging your keys on the little rack by the door. “I’m doing you a favor, okay? Last thing I need is to walk in on you going at it with some chick from your lab class.”

He laughs a quick laugh, and you get lucky enough to see his eyes form into crescents before his features relax. “Don’t worry. I think I’d warn you before starting something in here.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

Sometimes you find yourself squinting and having quick, fleeting thoughts like maybe I should get my eyes checked, but you’re not oblivious to Lee Jeno’s looks, whose entire being seems to have been crafted by all the angels residing in the heavens themselves. All five feet and ten inches of his existence, from the little stray hair that sticks up from the rest to the bottoms of his feet; Jeno is a sight for sore eyes.

He’s inescapable, too. Quite literally, since you live with him in something that would be flattered to be even called a shoebox of a home.

The front door is simply the entrance to the kitchen— there is no dining room. The wall to your left side when you walk in is essentially the side of the staircase to your little loft, where your measly mattress sits on the floor.

Beneath your loft is Jeno’s “bedroom”, where his mattress is placed directly on the floor as well. He’s got a curtain hung up to separate the joke of his room from the living room, which barely fits the couch that the two of you snagged off someone from Facebook Marketplace.

So, yeah, your living situation is tough, except it only gets harder when the two of you share the most crucial and, possibly, most private space that anyone could ever have.

The bathroom.

Oh, it was tough on your heart. It still is, sometimes, though you’ve gotten better at pretending that you can’t see Jeno’s entire naked upper body when he steps out of the shower and you dash inside to finally relieve your bladder.

It’s not ideal, you know, but it’s the best that your money (combined) can get. Before the start of your junior year, you had been in such a slump over a breakup with your ex that you slacked off hard when it came to apartment hunting. Prices had gone up tenfold by the time you started searching, and with every single day that passed, they only rose and rose, practically laughing in your face for your earlier incompetence.

It wasn’t until you mentioned to your friend (coworker), Mark, that it had been absolute hell trying to find a place to stay. And bless his heart, that precious boy Mark Lee, as he lifted his hand to run it through his hair, only to accidentally knock off his uniform hat off his head as he exclaimed, I got you!

That’s how you met Jeno. A friend of a coworker-turned-friend who had been sheepishly looking for a roomie to occupy that devilishly tiny space because even though it was smaller than a suburban backyard, the rent was still so high.

Before you moved in, your automatic gameplan with any roommate was to interact as little as possible. Stay out of the kitchen if they’re in it. Watch movies in your room if the living room is occupied. Avoid being in the same space at all. Less contact with someone you barely knew meant less conflict, less tension, less worry. You just come in and out, talk about whose turn it is to buy the paper towels and stack the dishes, then move on with your life.

Absolutely impossible with Jeno. Firstly, he’s a kind-hearted boy. Well, not a boy— he is a man. A boy-ish one with that smile he’s got, and the tenderness behind his words yet the playful venom he spits at you whenever he gets the chance. It’s hard to stay away when his personality is so well-balanced and welcoming that you can’t help but to interact.

That, and it’s hard to avoid someone when you’re in the kitchen cleaning up and they have to walk right past you in order to leave. The first few weeks were awfully awkward; a constant cycle of oh, sorry, as the two of you tried to get past each other but couldn’t because of how close everything was together. Jeno gave up the act quickly and began to laugh softly at these little conflicts. It made you feel better, made you feel like you too could laugh at the silly reality of your situation. The apartment felt warmer. You’re unsure if it’s because it was tiny, and the heat was trapped, or because getting comfortable felt nice and it slowly transformed your place into your home.

“Ah. Fruity Pebbles? Someone’s tending to their inner child.”

You huff, your back pressing against his as the two of you sort the new groceries into the little storage space that you have. “They were on sale. And what about it? I’m sure baby Lee enjoyed a bowl or two. Don’t mask your inner child’s excitement with learned patronization.”

“Someone’s been reading lately,” He shoots back, and you can hear his stupid smile through his voice. “Big words for someone like you.”

“You know what? You can forget about the pebbles. Get your own cardboard cereal.”

“I don’t think it’ll fit in the pantry.”

“Laundry day?”

Yes, laundry day. The most taxing and annoying chore of all. Laundry day, where you have to haul your drawstring bag of clothes down the stairs, out of the apartment and into the hallway, all the way down to the elevator. It’s a mission, it’s quite serious.

Jeno stares up at you from the foot of the stairs, eyeing you with humor as he sees you lug around that giant sack of clothing. Oh, how helpful he is, only making you more self-aware as he stands with his fitted undershirt and notorious gray sweats. How lovely of him.

You try coping with the close proximity by turning your attraction to him into annoyance, only your brain does this wicked thing where it gets so annoyed you cannot help but notice all the other handsome, kind, inviting things about him to get annoyed about.

You do not, by any means, have feelings for Jeno. He’s more like that hot friend that you are so sure is out of your league that you simply give up. Yes, he’s hot. Yes, you know nothing will come out of it. Yes, you are one hundred percent okay with that. It’s just difficult when he’s got a pair of eyes and you aren’t looking your best. Human nature to feel a little self conscious, you guess.

“Let me come with,” He offers as you finally reach the bottom of the steps, mindlessly taking the lump of clothes and bringing it into his arms like it were the weight of a newborn baby.

“Eh?”

“I will help you,” He starts again, this time speaking slowly to mock you. He’s trying to stifle a shit-eating grin from coming up on his face. He’s so unbearable that you lightly smack at his arm.

You don’t understand why he would offer to tag along; the laundromat is one of the worst places to spend your free time at. The one you go to has a corner store right next to it, which is nice, but it feels boring again after you collect your snacks and choose a chair to sit in while you watch your clothes spin around and around. It’s even worse when the wall-mounted TVs play nothing but a loop of all the songs that reached top 10 on Billboard in 2013.

But Jeno doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind a lot of things, you think, as you reach the building and hop out of his car. He’s got so much patience in his heart that you’re not sure what could ever bore him to death.

The two of you pick your washers and start dumping your clothes in. It’s pretty quiet, save for the low rumbling of the other machines and Katy Perry’s Roar playing softly from the TVs. The bell on the entrance door jingles as an older lady walks in with a little boy who's got a candy bar in hand.

When you finish loading the washer, you turn to Jeno swiftly. “Want anything from next door?”

He tilts his head, thinking. “Any sour candy.”

While you head out on your mission to bag the snacks, Jeno picks a table by the window to sit at. He zones out, mindlessly watching the music video play out on the tv, but the sound is muffled in his ears. He's not sure if it's from his lack of focus or the overpowering sound of the machines running.

He’s pulled out of it when the little boy speeds by. With the whole laundromat to himself, he weaves in and out of the rows like it's a maze, yet dutifully obeys his grandmother’s commands to pass him the little detergent tablets on the drying table. After he passes them to her, he starts running again.

He’s about to pass Jeno again before he trips over his own shoelaces and tumbles down to the floor. Jeno automatically perks up, worry flashing in his eyes as he looks at the boy and then to his grandmother. Her eyes are busy on the laundry, sorting out the colors and the whites, and while Jeno is internally panicking about the wellbeing of the child, the little boy simply laughs it off and gets back up on his feet. He’s a little bashful due to having an audience, but after Jeno wordlessly sees that he’s okay, they both relax.

The candy that he was holding had slid across the floor, so Jeno takes it upon himself to pick it up and give it back. He silently inspects it of any damage, earning a laugh from the little one as he hands it to him.

The boy carefully unwraps it then breaks off a piece to give to Jeno.

“Oh,” He starts immediately, taken aback. “No no, you have it.”

The boy hums a short mm-mm while shaking his head, insisting that Jeno take it.

With a weary smile, his big hand meets the small one in front of him and he gently takes the piece of chocolate, slow and careful in case the little boy has any doubts.

As you’re walking back to the laundromat, you can see the entire interaction through the huge windows in the front. The look that’s on Jeno’s face as he interacts with the boy is enough to make your knees weak. It’s so soft, almost loving.

When you step back inside, you try to be as discreet as possible, but the bell on the door alerts everyone that you’re there. The two boys look at you curiously before recognition crosses Jeno’s eyes.

You slide him his bag of sour gummy worms, and without any hesitation, he tears the corner open and spills a few into his hand. He offers his open palm to the boy, who at this point, is giddy and glowing with this new established friendship. He happily takes the worms and nods his head very firmly, “Thank you!”

The boy isn’t there for much longer as his grandmother finishes loading the clothing and calls him over so that they can get ready to leave. He stuffs all the worms into his mouth so that he can hold the box of detergent tablets for her.

It isn’t long before your clothes are done in the wash so that you can dump them into the dryer. You and Jeno pass time by making fun of the music videos playing on the TVs and showing each other viral cat videos.

If there is one thing you know about Jeno, it’s that he loves cats. He’s always making comments about them in passing, showing you cute videos, texting you that he’ll be home in 10, he’s just busy looking at the cats that are up for adoption.

He wants one desperately, it’s just that…

“You know there’s no room.”

He sighs, leaning back into his chair and it squeaks. “We could, like, take it for walks to get the energy out. If anything, we can get an older, lazy cat. I think it would like the space between the window and the couch.”

You laugh, turning your head to check the time left on the dryer. “The non-existent one?”

He throws his head back and groans. Your eyes stay focused on the way his adam's apple bobs for a second too long. “Jeno, living in a space that small feels like a crime against myself sometimes. I would not want to put an animal through that type of pain. Hell, we’re the hamsters in the cage!”

He chews on the inside of his cheek, giving you the stink eye, but it’s all in good fun. Deep down he knows that you’re right.

The buzzer on the dryer goes off and catches the attention of both of you. You unload everything and dump it onto the folding table, a sigh slipping out of your mouth.

Silently, Jeno offers to help you fold. You two split the pile of clothes in half and get to work, an awful Imagine Dragons song filling the silence.

The entire situation isn’t quite ideal. The music is bad, the laundromat’s a little too cold, and you’d very much rather spend your time doing something else like ordering food and picking a thriller movie or challenging your roommate to a game of zombie COD.

But that’s what life is all about, isn’t it? Doing mundane and annoying things with someone that you care about. Folding your laundry with Jeno right next to you, tackling the boring tasks in life with someone by your side. He didn’t have to come help you, but perhaps he offered because he didn’t want you to suffer by your pile of clothing alone. Yeah, that’s what it’s all about.

It’s a little domestic. Okay, it’s painfully domestic. Everything about Jeno is- you live with him, for heaven’s sake. It’s an entire domestic fantasy playing out right before your eyes.

At this point, you’re folding all your clothes on autopilot and you don’t even realize that the both of you are done with your piles. Jeno places every article neatly in your big drawstring bag, keeping it tidy before pulling at the string. He keeps it in his arms as he guides the both of you out to his car.

“Let’s pick up some food, yeah? And search up some good thrillers in the car?”

Upsettingly domestic.

When something, anything, occurs in Jeno’s life that requires him to tell another person so that he can get it off his chest, you are the first person to come to mind. How can he not think about you, when you’re the first face he sees in the morning? The one he makes dinner with, the one he discusses the houseplants with, the one he has to watch get ready in the bathroom, toothbrush in your hand as you sloppily call out to him to please remember to take out the trash.

The two of you share a life together, you share practically everything together. Your living space, tidbits of your interactions with others, news that’s spreading around the city; your unmasked heart and soul shines through every single day. It’s so candid it could almost be romantic, yet it’s anything but that.

Well, sometimes…

No, Jeno doesn’t go there. But he can’t help but think…

When something happens, you’re the person he wants to tell. The most basic and foundational characteristic of love. Sharing. It transcends the physical- of course, you do find yourselves splitting dinners and breaking the last cookie in half so that the both of you can enjoy. But it’s more than that, now. You and him break apart your own beings so that the other can understand, listen, and console. It’s love, he thinks.

Platonic love, he quickly corrects.

He’s been so busy thinking about it that he’s barely realized he’s been staring at the one piece of paint that’s chipping off the wall for too long. The sound of the shower water hitting the tub brings him back, and he looks to the closed bathroom door.

He rushes to it, knuckles knocking on the wood. “Can I come in?”

“Huh?” You practically holler. He laughs to himself, imagining your confused, scrunched up face.

“Can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah. Be quick because all the cold air gets in!”

So he does just that, opening the door just a crack and trying to squeeze in his muscular form so that the air doesn’t rush in.

Jeno closes the door and leans against the bathroom counter, all the heat from the shower coddling him close. It could almost make him sleepy.

“Taeyong wants to promote me.”

“Huh?” You call, hands freezing in your hair as you wash it. “Are you serious? To what?”

“Assistant Manager.”

“Assistant Manager? Are you gonna take it?”

“I don’t know, it’s just… I’m kind of nervous.”

A beat of silence. He calls out your name.

“Yeah, sorry. My face was in the water. Anyway, why? Scared an old geezer is gonna chew you out for the ‘new generation’s music’?’

He laughs. You’re lucky enough to hear it over the water.

“It’s just a lot of responsibility, you know? Like, I’m so used to just doing what I’m told but now, it’s like, I gotta be in charge and tell the employees to get off their phones when they're on the clock. It’s betrayal, you know? How can I look Jisung in the eye and tell him that this is his first warning? I can’t do that.”

You shut your eyes and try to stifle a laugh. It’s a laugh of endearment, though. Jeno cares so much about the people around him- even if it’s his younger coworker who works part time at the record store and barely even sees him more than three times a week.

You shut the water off, voice clear. “Jeno. You worry a lot.” You pull back the shower curtain just a little to peek out, “Can you hand me my towel?”

He obeys, holding out the towel to the edge of the shower with his eyes closed. As soon as he feels it slip past his fingers and the sound of the shower curtain rings clink together, he opens his eyes. You’re still behind the curtain, drying off.

“I think you should go for it. You’ll get more experience. Plus, from what you’ve told me, the record shop isn’t crazy unmanageable and unorganized. And,” You add, dragging out the ‘a’, “You’ll get a raise.”

You’re right, he thinks, tilting his head and staring off. The shop is pretty calm, the customers are mostly older regulars and the occasional teenager in search of a Harry Styles vinyl. Plus, a raise would be nice. Really nice.

“Did you tell Mark and Jaemin? What did they say?”

Jeno hesitates. No, he hasn’t told them yet. You’re always the first person he wants to tell.

“No,” He starts, honest. “I was gonna tell them right now, but I wanted to tell you first. I think I’ll follow your advice anyway.”

Your heart stops in your chest. God, that made you feel so special. You’re at a loss for words before you feel the water drip from your hair down your back.

“Good. Now step out ‘cuz I gotta dry off.”

He smiles and follows your every word. He remembers not to let the cold air in, too.

Jeno is your roommate. He is also your friend, a companion, a confidant. He’s nothing more, nothing less.

People have eyes. They’re allowed to look. In fact, it is their god given right to let their eyes linger a little longer on someone as attractive as Lee Jeno.

Why are you so upset? You can’t just shield him, carry a curtain around and charge a fee for people to look his way. He’s a free man. A free, good looking man.

This party was a mistake. Watching Jeno be tonight's entertainer has planted a seed of bitterness and disappointment in your stomach that you have never felt. The bitterness is towards the situation- you’re not sure if you’re disappointed in yourself for feeling this way or for how the universe has laid out the cards. You long for something to happen. You wickedly hope for that girl to spill her drink on herself and be forced to walk away. You wickedly hope for Jeno to come to his senses and ask you if you wanna go back home and crush some random 12 year old in a shooter game.

Come to his senses? What are you, his mentor? God forbid the man has fun for one night. He’s not even doing anything that bad. Just dancing with some girl you have never seen before, lifting his hand and caressing her jaw. He’s so unbelievable and so, so, so horrible when he gently tucks her hair behind her ear. You want to vomit.

“You okay?” Jaemin asks, making you jump as he slips into the spot right next to you. He’s got a red cup in his hand and you hold back from snatching it and downing whatever the fuck is in it.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I’m kind of proud, actually. I’ve never seen Jeno interact with a woman before. Not like this, at least. I always thought he’d bring girls home every night, yet he never does.”

Jaemin’s eyes flash with something like confusion, tenderness, sorrow. You don’t see it though, busy focused on the way Jeno leans into her and talks gently by her ear. She’s giggling and sliding her hand up his chest. You’re positive she can smell the cologne you helped him pick out earlier.

“He’s just being courteous of you.”

“I guess,” You say with a lazy shrug. Deep down you know you’re only trying to convince yourself that you see him and support him as a friend; strictly a friend. And you seem to play that part pretty well, because Jaemin does not question you at all.

“I think I’m gonna head home,” You start, checking the time on your phone. Jaemin whips his head to look back at you, “Tapping out already?”

“Yeah. I don’t really know anyone here, only came because Jeno invited me. Plus, he recently bought some new maps in COD, so, I think I wanna try those out.”

“You sure? I think I could introduce you to someone, help you get that midterm stress off your mind.”

You practically snort at his offer. He’s considerate, you think, but you cannot betray your own feelings. You’d be a fool to try and trick yourself into thinking a fling with some rando will make you feel better.

Well… you’re still a fool. Yearning from afar, not doing anything about it.

“Nah, I’m okay. Thank you, Jaem. Get home safe, okay?”

He nods and the two of you part ways.

You find yourself in an uber, shooting Jeno a text that says hey, i really wanna play COD so im heading home early. please be safe lol. :_)

You’re dropped off and you walk up to your apartment, trying your hardest not to wallow in your own feelings. You head straight to the bathroom to remove all your makeup and get ready for bed before pulling yourself up the stairs.

Your mattress awaits you like it’s got its arms open. Cozy, warm, solid enough for you to cry into.

Your home feels your pain. It’s like everything looks a little bit darker, the cream white walls seeming to be gray, the little light fixtures and hardware looking like frowny faces. The walls absorb all your feelings, reeking of longing and hope and something else that is usually paired with those two feelings. Something so captivating and large, dark and light, something so scary yet you just have to have faith in it. Something that you would rather die than confess to yourself.

So it sits, pent up in the walls of your home. It haunts you. This stupid apartment haunts you, traces of the life you live with Jeno everywhere. You can’t hide. You can’t run to the other side of the hallway and lock yourself in the room in the very back- it’s not there. Your life and your feelings are right in front of your face, everywhere you turn, everything you touch. It stings, it burns, and god, this home will kill you. Your close and unavoidable proximity with Jeno will kill you.

You’re so busy moping that you almost miss the sound of the door opening. It’s quiet, slow, and you bet to yourself that Jeno is trying his hardest to be kind, to not wake you up.

You’re scared that you’ll hear the giggle of the girl, but it never comes. Just Jeno making his way around the shoebox, using the flashlight on his phone to light the way instead of switching the lights on so that he doesn’t disturb you. Curse that stupid boy.

Jeno shuts the door to the bathroom and turns on the shower. The sound is so calming that it lulls you to sleep.

He lets the warm water caress at his back, lets it help him relax. He replays every single thing that happened at the party.

He regrets leaving you alone. In the back of his mind, he knew Mark and Jaemin would take good care of you, but shouldn’t he be doing that? Taking care of you.

He’s not obligated to, of course, and he knows that if he ever mentioned that to you, you’d snicker in his face and tell him to shuddup and let loose. But he can’t. He tried and didn’t even get that far.

Jeno got into the bedroom and onto the bed with that girl, his body slowly pushing against hers so that she could lay down. The top few buttons of his black shirt were already popped open and his mind was so foggy he almost didn’t hear his phone buzzing in his pocket.

He felt bad, but he knew he would’ve hated himself even more if he ignored it, so he had pulled back and checked the screen. In his heart, he knew it was you.

Luckily, you hadn’t seemed upset, but it was like guilt took him hostage as he realized you left the party without him. You got home without him, and you spent the night alone. Jeno suddenly felt so upset and so… gross. Grossed out with himself. He tossed you to the side just like that. And for what? A fling that wouldn’t fulfill his heart like you do? Yeah, no.

“I’m sorry,” He starts, looking from his screen to the girl’s face. She’s got a look that tells him she already knows what's coming.

“Is everything okay?”

“Um, yeah,” He says automatically, then falls quiet for a beat. “Well, kind of. I have to go.”

“It's okay,” She says gently, and it hurts even more because she's genuinely nice about it. “Get home safely. I hope everything’s alright.”

So now Jeno’s home but he’s a little too late. You’re already tucked away in bed and he wishes he would've just come back with you, play a few games and then crash. It's odd not to hear you tell him goodnight; it's become like a ritual between you two. Some nights the two of you stick together like packed sardines in the bathroom, brushing your teeth and poking fun at one another with a quiet and subtle joy in your hearts.

Jeno’s finishes showering by the time he’s done thinking over all the details. He dries off fast, feeling slightly uncomfortable and alone. Every space in the apartment is so silent that it’s unnerving.

Before Jeno slips past the curtain to get to his bed, he stands at the foot of the stairs, making out the shape of your sleeping form, face smushed directly in your pillow. The sight is so you that he cannot help but chuckle quietly to himself.

He sees you there, at the top of the stairs, and for a second it feels like you're waiting for him there. Patient and resting as he navigates through how he feels before making his descent upwards.

Quickly, he realizes he's too sleepy to be plaguing himself with these thoughts. Jeno pulls back the curtain and sinks into his bed, subconsciously falling in a position that would fit against your body so perfectly if the two of you shared a sleeping space. You feel so close and so far from him. It's the last thing he thinks about before he falls asleep.

How do you tell someone that you want them without actually telling them?

Your relationship with Jeno is built on something so fragile that he’s afraid to mess up, trip and let the glass shatter. You’re friends– real close friends, if he thinks about it. You share a home together that’s small enough to make him think that it certainly violates a number of human rights. You cannot go a day without seeing or speaking to each other.

It's so sour and it's so, so sweet. Spending everyday together, reading each other, communicating in small ways that mean the most– his heart swells and gets clogged in his throat. He’s so close to you it's like your fingertips are brushing against his as you sit on opposite sides of the couch. And, if all goes well, he could unabashedly take your hand in his and spread kisses on the back of it. Even better, he could pull you right into his lap and smush at your face, kiss you there too. So many possibilities…

Along with those possibilities comes the ones that are on the other end of the scale. He could open up (more than he already has) about his feelings and unintentionally make you uncomfortable. Oh, he would hate himself if you felt uncomfortable in your own home. Then it would really be bad, because you'd both need time and space but you practically share a goddamn bunk bed and a kitchen that feels like a toddler’s first real-life toy. It pains him more to think that you'd be unhappy than how he would feel to be rejected.

Instead, Jeno’s feelings manifest into actions and touch. When you get up from putting on your shoes and your hair's a little astray, he’ll reach over and fix it for you, keeping his touch light and gentle. He insists on helping you button up your coats and tying a bow on the back of your dresses. When he sees that you’re especially tired, he’ll wash all the dishes even though it was your turn. Sometimes, when the apartment feels especially warm and the lighting is cozy and you feel so lethargic yet blissfully happy, you’ll tell him about your day with his thumb caressing your cheek. And sometimes, you’ll lean into the palm of his hand and he’ll keep you still.

It’s not until the day where he finds you knocked out on the couch that you slip up. He had come home late from work, the shop buzzing with people looking for a Christmas gift for that one vinyl collector of a friend. He had told you he’d be late, but you thought you’d still have enough energy to stay up and wait for him so that the two of you could eat dinner and call it a night.

Unfortunately, you did not have the energy. Finals had been consuming your life and now that it was finally over, you ended up knocking out on the couch like a baby, leaving the lights on and everything. Jeno smiled softly at your sleeping form, a familiar type of warmth crawling into his heart and nestling inside it. He quietly slipped off his shoes and made his way straight toward you, calling your name softly as a test.

You didn’t wake at all. You were gone.

It kind of makes him laugh; a laugh of adoration, not amusement. It’s one of those things that’s a little funny in its own way.

It happens, he supposes, when your heart and life is so full of love that it has to escape somehow. In touch, in kisses, in laughter.

For you, it escapes loud and clear- verbally.

After Jeno decides to take a risk and lift you into his arms, you automatically curl into him, trusting him even in the depths of your sleep. He’s slow to walk up the stairs, careful to not let your head hit the wall as he makes his way upward.

And it’s when he lays you down on your mattress tenderly, hands lightly pushing away all the hairs that fell onto your face, that you stir just a little bit.

“Goodnight,” He whispers to you, using his body to block out the light he hadn’t turned off. A dopey little smile creeps onto your face. You’re euphorically sleepy, the feeling of slipping in and out of it feels so good.

“Thank you,” You rasp a little, turning over. “Love you.”

Then you’re gone again, and Jeno is frozen in place at the top of the stairs, shoulders stiffening as the words swirl around in his head.

Firstly, he’s upset he didn’t get to say it back. But the disappointment washes away quickly and he’s overcome with joy, practically buzzing as he descends down the steps to shut off all the lights and get ready for bed. He’s got a stupid smile on his face that he can’t even put away as he brushes his teeth, and if any medical professional were to see him right now, he’s surely be diagnosed with lovesickness.

He whimsies all the way to his room, pulling back the curtain and plopping down on his bed like it’s a cloud and he’s in heaven. He falls asleep thinking of all the ways to say I love you.

Winter break is lovely. It’s an abundance of warm drinks, wooly socks, sleeping in, and having an excuse to wear corny pajama sets. Your heart is at ease and the cold weather feels so nice when it bites at your cheeks- especially when you feel yourself grow a little warm around Jeno.

For Jeno, it’s even better because there are a plethora of Christmas parties.

And, usually, there’s mistletoe.

“Alright, don’t get too excited. Close your eyes!”

He obeys, shutting them and even bringing up his hands in front of his face so that you don’t think he’s pulling any tricks.

You’ve got him sitting on the couch in anticipation as you dig through your shopping bags to find what’s so important. After a few moments of rustling and humming under your breath, he hears you sigh in relief.

You hold up two sweaters in front of you, side to side. One is clearly bigger than the other. They’re thrifted and it’s very obvious that they were previously owned by elderly people; maybe they scream vintage a little too much, earth toned with eye-catching patterns like stripes and triangles running across the entire sweater. They’re only a little bit outdated, but painfully cute, and perfect for the season.

“Okay. Open!”

Jeno lays his eyes upon the sweaters and immediately breaks out into a smile, eyes forming crescents. Really, he doesn’t even look at them for long. His gaze lands directly on you.

“You like ‘em?”

“Very much,” He affirms, with his eyes still set on you. He’s not really talking about the sweaters.

“Good! We’re wearing them at Hyuck’s party this weekend.”

So the two of you wear the matching sweaters to Donghyuck’s party. When the both of you step in, Jaemin automatically makes a face at Jeno, an expression that silently screams Finally? but Jeno shakes his head. He doesn’t look solemn, though. In fact, his eyes are hopeful and bright as he nods his head at everything you say.

He doesn’t budge from your side, either.

(He wants everyone to see that you’re matching).

It pays off because Renjun tells you both that you look like an elderly couple, to which he quickly corrects himself and says ‘duo’ instead. It’s kind of embarrassing with the way that he rushes off after, face a little red. You’re not sure if it’s because of the fact that he’s tipsy or because he’s worried he’s crossed a boundary. If anything, his comment makes you have to hold back a smile, and from the corner of your eye, you see Jeno biting at his cheek too.

Renjun’s flushed cheeks inspire you. “You want anything to drink?”

Jeno contemplates for a second before shaking his head, “Nah. I’ll drive us back home.”

But he follows you to the kitchen anyways, where it’s quieter because everyone is in the living room talking over Jingle Bell Rock. You swear you can hear Donghyuck break into laughter at some point; you can already envision his happy little glowing face nuzzling up to Mark.

Jeno leans against the doorway to the kitchen, fingers playing with the edges of his sweater as he observes you moving around to get yourself a drink. He’s thinking about a hundred things at once, and somehow, you both calm and excite him.

You approach him, steadily holding your glass so that nothing sloshes over and spills. “You wanna try? Just a sip.”

He nods and takes it from your hand, bringing it up to his lips for a second before he evaluates the taste. You wait expectantly, and then Jeno gives you a solid nod before looking back over his shoulder and extending his arm to place your glass on the counter. When he turns back around, his hand comes up to gently rest on your arm. He very, very carefully pulls you closer. It’s gentle, slow, and so subtle you almost don’t even realize the proximity between you two getting smaller and smaller by the centimeter. “It’s pretty good.”

“Just pretty good?”

“Yeah,” He replies, tone so soft and far away that you immediately realize he doesn’t really care about the drink all that much. And then you realize that he’s got these beseeching love-me eyes that make your heart twist in such a pleasant way that you know you can’t escape.

You can’t go back to how it was before. You’ll never be your old self, coexisting with Jeno in your tiny home with no care or feeling in the world towards him. You can’t go back to the days of trying to sneak past him, trying to go through the days without making eye contact and conversation. You won’t even be able to go back to the days where you merely saw him as a friend, a casual buddy that you’re glad you have a good dynamic with because you happen to share a home together. You can’t ignore how you feel, what you feel. It’s so heavy and it lingers in the air between you two now. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Look,” He nearly whispers, gesturing towards the ceiling with his chin.

Mistletoe hangs at the doorway, green and white with a red ribbon adorning the stems. It’s so predictable and awful and overall so corny that you can’t help but laugh. Your tongue pokes at your cheek as your eyes trail from the plant back down to Jeno, who looks at you expectantly. He’s mindful enough to leave enough space for you to make a getaway if you want to.

“Well,” You start, though it sounds more like a question, prompting Jeno to lean into you.

He dips down and slots his lips against yours, pulling a wanton sigh out from you. You’re quick to have your hands on him, fingers tightening around the fabric of his sweater and you swear you can feel him smiling within the kiss. It’s almost enough to make you pull back so you can see the look on his face, but he holds you in place, fingers softly trailing through your hair. He hums contently, the deep sound of it making the tips of your ears warm.

Your hands travel, sliding up his chest, and the two of you break apart before you end up devouring one another at the doorway of Donghyuck’s kitchen.

Jeno smiles down at you as I’ll Be Home For Christmas starts playing.

You’re a little nervous, the fear that comes with love pestering you at the back of your mind. You’re scared this’ll be a big unspeakable thing, a thing you’ll have to avoid in the house with Jeno. A thing that’ll never happen again, a thing to blame on the tiny sip of the drink he had and the consequences of spotting mistletoe.

But Jeno’s eyes ask you to trust him, that he wants this just as much as you do. Perhaps this can be a reoccurring thing, except you don’t need mistletoe or drinks. You can do this in the comfort of your own home, when he gets home from work, after you both finish brushing your teeth, when you’re both making breakfast, or maybe in bed right after you wake up.

You dive in again, hands sliding farther up till your fingers tousle through his hair, thumbs brushing against his ears. It tickles him a little, body reacting and caving into you a bit more, his hands cupping your cheeks. You tip your head back just the slightest and he follows, looming over you. He looms over you in a way that is so warm and loving and consuming - I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

Yes, he’s here. Holding you tenderly, your bodies shaped so nicely against one another at last. You’re no longer sitting on opposite ends of the couch, looking at each other from the top and bottom of the stairs, eyes lingering as soon as someone turns away. He’s touching you, and this time you don’t have to shy away or cough and he doesn’t have to play it off as a mistake, a mindless brush of skin that doesn’t mean anything. No, it means everything now.

#lee jeno x reader #jeno x reader #jeno fluff #lee jeno fluff #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #nct jeno x reader

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rey-jake-therapist · 1 month ago

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I was sent an ask related to the armor that Sauron *apparently* gifted Galadriel with, in Numenor. Apparently, some people believe that this gift was Sauron love bombing Galadriel. We all have our analyses, I just think this one's wrong.

Proof 1 : we didn't see Sauron give her the armor. We don't even know if it's him who gave her that. I don't know why it suddenly became "canon" that he did. Because Charlie nodded after a producer said the armor was a gift ? That's not how it works, sorry. I like to believe that the armor was a gift from Saurbrand, but what's show!canon is what we see in the show. Nothing more, nothing less.

So why is it a proof ? Because the writers would have wanted us to see him gift her with the armor, and see it as manipulation after the Sauron's reveal. Heck, maybe that's why this scene didn't made the final cut at the end, because they knew that this would be misinterpreted ?

And seriously, I can't see Sauron believe that Galadriel would become codependant of him because he forged her an armor lol This is giving Haladriel a dynamics it doesn't have.

Proof 2: I know what love bombing is, for I had my share of it and the odious behavior that inevitably follows love bombing. Sauron never love bombed Galadriel. He never flattered her, never gave her gifts (except, perhaps, this armor), never promised her anything, never had any "we will do this or that, you'll see it will be fantastic" bs talk. He compared her to a HORSE for god's sake. Galadriel of the Noldor, a horse ! lmao We as the audience saw he couldn't keep his eyes off her, but he never told her she was beautiful (except when he proposes to her, indirectly, when he told her she was "fair as the sea and the sun"). if he ever did love bomb her, it was during his proposal. Before that ? Never.

It's an entire different tactic that Saurbrand uses with Galadriel: "chase me and I flee". From the beginning he shows her he doesn't give a shit about what she wants ("I have other plans, Elf"), and keeps asking her to leave him alone, not very nicely. He also gently lectures her about how she should behave in public ("kneel", "try not to make new enemies"), criticizes her methods and gives her advice... Something that constantly unsettles her because she's not used to that. She's a Elf princess, a commander ! And here goes this little man, this mortal ! who forces her to calm down and listen to something else than her own voice, for once.

THIS is not love bombing by any means. I can tell you who he loved bombed though : Celebrimbor. This relationship was abuse 101 : love bombing, isolating the person from their friends, antagonizing him then saying "I'm sorrryyyyy", another love bombing, gaslighting, emotional violence followed in the end with physical violence... Except for the violence part that I have never been subjected to, I recognized all the patterns. It was quite unsettling, let me tell you, to witness this abuse unfold and think each time, "wow, I've been through that too, but I didn't realize until I got out of it".

Personally, I feel like he made that armor out of a possessive desire to see her wearing something that HE made, so that he can feel validated, but as a manipulation tactic to guilt her into staying by his side? Idk...

I don't think that as arrogant as he is, Sauron believed he could make Galadriel dependant of him just because he offered her an armor 😂 If he did forge this armor, I think he made it as a reconciliation gift of sort. The last scene they shared on screen before the departure to Numenor, they didn't leave on good terms... This gift could be his way to tell her, "Okay, let's do it, let's lead this army together". Of course it wasn't a wedding dress... Strange idea, people think that ?

She obviously lied to Adar about what Sauron promised her. The only thing that Sauron promised Galadriel was to make her a QUEEN, which involves much more than an army. Of course she wouldn't say that to Adar, while she didn't even tell Elrond, her best friend... She is the one who promised Sauron an army, and she indeed, gave him one. I mean at some point people can twist the narrative as much as they want to make it look like she was entirely manipulated by Sauron into giving him an army, it will still be wrong lol Not to mention that it takes away Galadriel's agency.

Did he provoke her, by reminding her constantly that she was "short of an army"? Yep. Did he learn her a few tricks for her to use against Miriel, knowing he would profit from it eventually ? That too. Is he the one who convinced her to recruit an army so they could fight their mutual enemy together? NOPE. She did that on her own.

And the funniest, it's that Galadriel convinced herself that Halbrand was the one who convinced Miriel to send an army in the Southlands. No wonder why she's in such denial in season 2. She's not much different from Sauron in that they both refuse any responsability in their wrongdoing: "He deceived me !" "You chose it, not I !" "I was played like a harp !".

I don't think I ever saw this parallel pointed out...

Source

See these two liars being called out by the people who know better...

It's about time we stop treating Galadriel as an innocent victim who was targeted by the evil villain who played 4D chess with her. She's just not that. Celebrimbor was Sauron's victim, because he had little to no control over what was happening. Sauron did everything to blindsight him, and used all the tactics of the abuser book to get what he wanted from him. And when Celebrimbor resisted, he threatened him, tortured him and murdered him.

He didn't do any of that with Galadriel, who wanted an army to hunt Sauron wayyyyyy before she found him on the raft, or do we forget that too ?

#haladriel #saurondriel #galadriel #sauron #ask answered #annatar #celebrimbor #galadriel x halbrand #sauron x galadriel #the rings of power #trop meta #tw abuse

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rattini · 7 months ago

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Honey Whiskey // x

The honey whiskey's kickin' Go down, go down I think I better go before I try something I might regret But if you wanna free your body tonight It's our secret, it's our secret

The Ghoul x F!Reader

Set years before the events of the Fallout TV show.

The unfortunate plaything of a drug lord with a bounty on his head, you’re dragged to a bar as his little pet. With nothing else to do but drink with them, you try to lose yourself in liquor, wondering how long this was going to be the theme of your life. Luckily for you, the bounty on the head of your captor has attracted the attention of a ghoul with nothing to lose. A man you noticed eyeing you and the men accompanying you from across the room for more than an hour, before letting loose his bullets into the heads of everyone but you. Hazy from alcohol, you ponder if you should return the favour, the only way that has worked for you so far.

You’re used to being a ‘pretty thing’ on the arm of a man trying to prove his power, it had been your primary mode of survival not long since you were evicted from your vault. Sneaking around the desolate wasteland with minimal water and just enough drugs to curb the pain of your current skin affliction got old fast. Your self-doubt had convinced you that surviving alone wasn’t an option. When a group of leering, greasy men cornered you one afternoon in the highest heat of the Mojave sun, your fight or flight response chose fawn. It was easy enough, you figured standards had dropped significantly out here these days, yours clearly had.

Right now, you were tethered to a sweating hog of a man with a severe lack of investment in personal hygiene, who had made himself more than acquainted with your inner thigh. He bragged endlessly about being untouchable, the most powerful fucker in these parts. Men and their need to showboat. Eyes were not on you at present, that you were aware of at least, so you allowed yourself to roll them in response to his gloating. Fortunately, as a perk of being his little toy, you were welcome to help yourself to the liquor decorating the bar where you sat.

Perched delicately on a stool, you had little choice but to sit properly, since you were donned in a less than savoury getup that didn’t really flatter you in the slightest. Either way, it crept uncomfortably far up your thigh, you were pretty sure your asscheeks were stuck to the cracked leather of the bar stool…but anything for easy access, right? That’s all that mattered for you now. You had made your bed, now you had to lie in it, on your back usually. For every grubby prod of his fingers, you sip a little harder at the old whiskey in your glass, a task in itself since your wrists were bound. You had just enough freedom to grip a glass and bring it to your mouth, but your ankles were also bound, so you weren’t going very far any time soon. Swallowing down the sting in your throat, you barely grimaced at the taste as the heat spread through your chest. It was rather pleasant really, or at least, the growing fuzziness in your limbs and face were.

Your boredom grows as the evening drones on, your eyes wander across the room. A dingy old bar, all but a few patrons scared off by your adoring captors. Except one. You’d noticed them from the corner of your eye near an hour ago, focus shifting away from them easily from the liquor. An unmoving figure draped across an old couch, head bowed low, crowned with a cowboy hat with legs lazily spread. You find yourself pondering them some more, intrigued by their mystery, coyness lost on you at this point as alcohol seeps into your bloodstream.

Just as your focus intensifies, you notice their head rise, the brim of their hat revealing a dark, masculine jaw. His body remained unmoving, but you can’t help but feel like his attention is fixated on you. Attempting to shake the feeling of being watched, you turned your own attention fleetingly back to your glass, which was near empty. Disappointed, you attempted to reach over the counter for the bottle of whiskey balancing on the edge of the bar. Unaware of the flesh you were flashing to do so, you park yourself again, fumbling the bottle with your barely free hand to pour yourself another glass and meeting your lips with it. Tilting your head back far enough for the liquid to escape down your throat, you glance once more at the man in the corner. His eyes, visible through dark sockets under the brim of his hat, are hooked on you more obviously this time. Feeling warm and brave, you meet his gaze, trying to decipher what kind of face is hiding beneath the shadows. Visible are his sclera, but his irises appear dark, along with the rest of his features. You didn’t mind his gawking, enjoying the dangerous entertainment it provided for you.

Interrupted by the poking grip of stubby fingers above your knee, your eyes dart back at the raider, drug lord, scumbag whatever-he-was. He wasn’t looking at you, but his hands were wandering all the same. Gliding up the inside of your thigh, causing shudders to rise from the base of your spine. The encroaching tipsiness meant hiding your grimace was more of a challenge, and so you twisted your neck with a look of disgust you hoped no one would notice. But it didn’t go unnoticed. Lifting your eyes again, you notice the man is still looking at you, posture leaned forward, revealing his visage. A ghoul. Not awful on the eyes either. Hell, not that your current company was anything to compare to. He noticed your eyes widen and it cracks a smirk on his mottled skin, head cocking to the side. Unblinking, your cheeks flush hot for a second, your only choice to swallow hard and shake it off.

A sharp tug on the rope slowly cutting into your wrist yanks you from your drifting gaze. A waft of halitosis and liquor exposes his intoxication, which probably also meant his desire to have his way with you was near. Encroaching on your personal space, which didn’t really belong to you anymore anyway, he leans in with an open mouth, ready to take what he wants from your lips. The pungency of his breath almost knocks you off the stool, and when he notices you lean away from his kiss, he makes sure that you do end up on the floor. Crashing to your knees with an audible pop of your joints, you let out a cry that brings a wicked grin to his lips. Stifling a growl as you ride through the pain of your aching joints, you’re ordered to return to your feet. Knowing full well that you’re unable to get up, the raider boss drunkenly draws his shotgun to meet your forehead.

“Up, bitch.”

You shoot him a furious but desperate stare through furrowed brows, despite being in no position to argue with him. You attempt to return to your feet to no avail, through stifled groans of pain that radiate in your kneecaps. Growing more frustrated by your lack of movement, the raider disables his safety and your heart drops. A cold sweat beads rapidly against your back, this time bracing yourself for his inevitable itchy trigger finger.

A gunshot.

Followed by another.

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, reflexes delayed by your assurance that at least one bullet was lodged in your flesh, but no pain followed. Your ears ring from the gunshots and you spring your eyes open to check yourself. The spattered blood of the man accompanying you covered your front, but it seems you were free of any further injury. Vision darting around the room, you attempt to collect your gall and figure out the situation. To your right, two more raiders, the lackeys, guns poised straight ahead of them. To your left, the ghoul on the couch, now standing with a revolver in each outstretched hand. The standoff is short-lived before the ghoul sinks a bullet into the forehead of each raider, splattering their grey matter across the dingey walls of the now abandoned tavern.

Silence fills the room, besides a few debris clattering to the floor and the thudding of your heartbeat pounding through your ringing ears. Your chest heaves as the panic sets in, you may have been spared, but that means very little in the wasteland. You come to the assumption that you’ll be next by association. Unable to return to your feet, your hands reach to cover your head as you hear the clicking of the ghoul’s spurs approach with each heavy step. As the footsteps cease, you dare peek at the boots that have appeared at your knees, following them up until you find the face of the man they belong to. Towering over you, his eyes darken to an almost predatory look. His gloved hand finds your bound wrists and he lifts you to your feet in one rough swoop, propping yourself on shaking legs as you stand uncomfortably close to him.

A knife emerges from its sheath to meet the soft skin of your neck, drawing up to linger on your bottom lip. You don’t take your eyes off him for a second, hoping the familiar deer-in-the-headlights tactic will prove useful once more. It was almost embarrassing how often it had saved your life out here. The ghoul keeps your gaze, unblinking, cocking his head to the side as if he were considering something. His stare bores into you, eyes oddly warm brown to match the heat radiating from under his duster. The blade slowly raises past your eyes, where he still firmly holds your aching wrists above your head. With a swift tug and low grunt from his throat, the rope bindings loosen and release the pressure from your joints, and you check your them for blood.

Feeling his eyes still on you, you scan back up to his face again, silence filling the entire room as your world still gently spins from the alcohol. The rope remaining tightly around your ankles begins to chafe, rubbing away the top layer of skin. A quick glance down to your feet and back up at him again, hinting. The smirk he flashed you from the other end of the room prior to the shootout creeps back on his lips and yellowed teeth peek through. He practically leans over you, encroaching on your space much like the raiders and those before him had done, but this was different. This time you liked it. The liquor buzz and tingling fear created quite a thrill, one that engulfed your entire skin with prickles and sank into the pit of your belly with a fluttering warmth.

Without uttering a word, he slowly descends. Close enough that you feel the heat of his breath as he meets your face and continues down your form to crouch in front of you, head now level with your navel. Time slows in the room, hazy with excitement, or was it your life flashing before you? Gripping the back of your knee, he slowly reaches down to slice at the bindings on your ankles with the other, almost as if he were savouring the moment, the brim of his hat tickling your lower belly as he tilts his head down. A familiar release, as you reposition your feet to stand more comfortably, skin itching from the rope. The grasp of your knee pit rises until his fingers digs into the meat of your hamstring. Your leg twitches as you imagine the sensation of his rough, ungloved hands wrapped around the underside of your ass cheek. His blade makes contact with your skin once more, cold and stinging on the inside of your calf. Your body stiffens and you hold your breath, before the knife begins to rise up the soft flesh of your leg, past your knees and settling mid-way up your thigh. A gasp escapes your lips as the cold metal tickles your sensitive skin and sends jolts into the heat of your underwear. You dare not move but your body betrays you with a soft tremble. He emits a low hum, humoured by your obvious attempt to hide your growing fear and excitement.

Nonchalantly, he returns to his feet, examining his blade before sheathing it again, the corners of his mouth still curled slightly. As his attention returns to you once more, he reaches over your diminutive form, the collar of his aged shirt almost brushing the tip of your nose. His aroma is powerful, perhaps not in scent, but certainly in the way it makes your belly rise and flutter and tingles creep into your throat. Old leather, Mojave dust, and a musk that was fairly pleasant, all things considered. He recedes with a glass in his hand, your glass, as he knocks back the remainder of your drink before tipping the glass to you with a nod and returning it to the bar.

Stepping around you he strolls over to the body of the man you had belonged to until now and makes quick work of looting his pockets and removing his head with efficiency. He examines the head with a scoff and glances back towards you, almost mocking your choice of company. Grabbing a fistful of hair, the head now dangles by the ghoul’s side as he steps off to leave the bar. As he reaches the fractured door frame, you dare to finally move. First your lips, a wobbly “Thank you.” escapes them, but you remain with your back to him. His gait halts and he twists to peer back at you, raising an eyebrow in surprise, but says nothing still. Perhaps pleasantly surprised by the rarity of manners, perhaps wondering how well those manners could serve him. He stands awaiting you, a dark figure almost filling the doorway. You wonder if he left already, but are met with his widening, lopsided grin. He tips his hat to you and slinks off beyond sight.

Intoxicating…intoxicated. You’re intoxicated. Your fight or flight response drags you back to your sobering reality. You had been spared by a bounty hunter, and a ghoul at that. Unfortunately for you though, the group of thugs providing some sort of protection were now splayed out on the rotting wooden floor, decorated by their own blood. You were alone, again. The reality of your situation sinks in as you fumble to collect the least bloody jacket from one of the bodies as an attempt to cover as much of your bare skin as possible. Your mind has other plans however, as the lingering image of his sultry eyes are fixed into the back of your eyelids, and you can’t help but wonder how those hollowed features would look if you were underneath him.

Fuck.

#this is the first thing like this i've ever posted in my 17 years of being on the internet LOL #fallout #fallout oc #fallout ghoul #fallout ghouls #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #cooper howard x f!reader #the ghoul x f!reader #my writing

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fatuismooches · 1 year ago

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FOR THE HARBINGERS

Reader telling them "I love you", and they either smile, fluster or say ilyt BUT reader is like " no you don't understand ". Grabs them by the shoulder, looks them dead straight in the eye and says it slowly once again. " I. Love. You." And proceed to say the most devoted, loving words about them and how reader is so in love, loyal and just. UGHHHH

Take it easy! Just bask into this idea, hope you don't stress over answering a bunch of (my 😭) asks!! Mwah mwah 💕💕 /p

OH I AM MORE THAN BASKING INTO THIS BECAUSE IT IS SO REAL!!!! We love a reader who is completely and utterly in love with their Harbingers <3 Pierro and Capitano are the ones who stay silent as you go on a whole tangent about how much you love them. Pierro retains his usual serious look, but you're so caught up with your words you may not notice how his face turns softer at your blatant declarations of devotion. Sure, he has a mountain of work to catch up on, but what kind of lover would he be if he didn't let his love rant their feelings out to him? He's not the most verbal or physically affectionate, but that doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate it. I imagine he's been betrayed and such in the past, you know with Celestia and Khaenri'ah and all, so he deeply appreciates your words. Capitano... well, you can never really see his expression with that big helmet of his, so it's a bit hard to tell what he's thinking but don't worry!! His heart is beating quicker than usual and his mind is racing as to what to reply with!! Since when did you become so romantic and affectionate? He hasn't read enough romance advice books to respond properly yet! So Capitano just... pats your head and thanks you so sincerely it makes you giggle. He attempts to formally respond to your feelings via writing but he can't find the right words, unfortunately.

Dottore (that's who you're here for, I know) merely bursts into a laugh. No, he's not laughing at you, but he simply finds it a bit amusing. The idea of true devotion, of genuine loyalty, of real love... he still toys with those concepts a bit. He does feel these things toward you, but he won't verbalize them. Yet you don't seem to care about admitting those feelings toward him in the slightest... in fact, it seems like you jump at the chance to tell him how much you adore him... it's a bit funny to Dottore. Of course, he won't ever stop you, he does enjoy being worshipped and loved by you. Akademiya Zandik, on the other hand, would probably fight you off and then storm away to hide his blushing cheeks. How dare you say such idiotic things to him and how dare you make his heart thump hard at such stupid words. Pantalone too, except it's less of a laugh and more of a few chuckles. He's the kind of person to smile and nod at everything you say, completely enamored by you. He'll stop you in the middle and ask you to elaborate on a specific part and you happily do, he's stroking his own ego at this point but how can you blame him? His darling is being far too cute for him not to want to tease them a bit!

Columbina and Childe are very excited and blushy over it. They adore it when you're so open with them! Columbina's smile is even larger than usual as she hums in agreement with everything you're saying. Yes, please keep adoring her like this. She loves hearing about how much you love her. She's quite open with her feelings toward you too, so to hear it reciprocated so plainly? Pure bliss for her! Childe too is similar, you can literally see how he lights up and a faint blush spreads across his cheeks when you flatter him with such praise. But not for too long, because he'll pick you up and tease you ten times harder. Trying to get on his good side, hmm? Well, he'll have you know he loves you far more than you ever cold. Occasionally, he gets worried about whether it's right to be with you since he's in the Fatui, so these kinds of messages are secretly quite reassuring to him.

Arlecchino and Signora are very elegant and smooth about it. They watch you with a knowing smile, hands tracing over your collarbone and up to your neck and chin... a finger combing through your hair. Arlecchino is still a quiet and reserved woman, she still doesn't say much after your confession, but she is very pleased. Kisses you and gives you a sincere thank you. In her line of work, it's not often she find someone as loyally passionate as you are. Much less someone she loves to the deepest depths of her heart. She knows that you'll never betray or stab her in the back, and she shall never do that to you either. Signora is more smug and teasing about it. Oh? You truly love her that much? How about you show her it too? She ends up flustering you despite you being the one throwing all these sweet words at you. She truly loves being pampered by you, she needs it after all with all of the heartache she went through with her last lover, who she was abruptly cut off from.

Scaramouche and Sandrone short circuit for a few moments before springing back to life, stuttering and berating you for such stupidity and hurriedly breaking free from your grip. They can't deal with such loving words being directed towards them, especially unprompted. Scaramouche's expression is one that you have imprinted in your memory, the uncharacteristic redness and slack jaw, before he becomes his usual Scara self and launches into a long speech about how clingy and strange you were and that you should never do that ever again lest he actually get mad (this is a plea for you to confess all of that again, despite his adamant protest... you know he loves being loved, a feeling that always seemed to slip away from him. He's hesitant about it but he can't deny the rush of his "heart" when he hears your sincere words.) Sandrone's face is just blank. Blank like a robot. She opens her mouth to speak and then closes it, and then opens it again but she's at a loss for words. She finally gets out a half-hearted insult and ends up stuttering halfway through, so that's already not a good look for her. It seems even her usual bad attitude can't keep up when assaulted with such genuine affection...

And... Papanella can get a little platonic kiss on the cheek while you thank him for being the best grandad.

#smooches talks #moots: kai <3 #harbingers love notes <3 #giving them all a little kiss....#and giving u a great big hug kai <33 devouring your ideas for all my meals

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rambleonwaywardson · 5 months ago

Text

Clegan Olympics AU - "Comeback"

Read Olympics AU "Beginnings" if you're new here.

AU summary: Paris 2024 Olympics. Gale is on the U.S. equestrian eventing team, Bucky is a U.S. gymnast, they meet on the plane to Paris, and a love story ensues.

Author's Note: This is probably not what @avonne-writes had in mind when asking for a massage scene (at least not the beginning), but I think it worked out anyways. We take a deeper dive into Bucky's story and what it took to make it to Paris, and Gale is a good boyfriend (Wait are they dating? Neither of them know)

---

The world loves a comeback story.

They love to watch a star rise from the depths of a sport. And they also love to watch them fall. Like pulling out a bucket of popcorn to witness a train wreck – it gives them something to talk about. Something to lament. Something to circulate in newspapers and on morning shows and around social media for weeks. Something to sell headlines.

“A shame,” they say. “So much potential. Lost just like that.”

“He’ll make it through,” some say. “He’s strong. If anyone can do it, it’s him.”

“Impossible,” others say. “There’s no way. He’s done.”

They shake their heads. They send their thoughts and prayers, empty words. They say they’re wishing you a speedy recovery. And all the while they’re talking about what the future of the sport will look like without you in it. They write you off. Done. Over. Forgotten to time.

Nothing but a name that once was met with such veneration.

But then, you set out to prove them wrong. Even when there’s only a small handful of people still holding out hope, even when those people are just glad you’re alive and couldn’t care less about your name, you put one foot in front of the other. You grit your teeth and pull every ounce of strength from the depths of your soul and pretend the world doesn’t matter. Pretend you can’t hear what they’re saying about you, about how disappointing it all is, about how there’s no coming back from a catastrophe like that — pretend you can’t hear those cynical, whispered words, even when they’re needling at your skin, trying to break through.

And slowly, slowly, slowly, pretending the pain isn’t there, pretending your heart is stronger than you believe it is, pretending you never had a single doubt — slowly, you rise again.

Like a phoenix from the ashes, except the ashes keep trying to pull you back down.

Bucky kind of wishes the reporters would just shut the fuck up about his amazing comeback story.

“U.S. gymnast John Egan seeking another Olympic medal less than two years after terrifying high bar accident,” the headlines say.

“Incredible.” “Inspirational.” “Insane.” “Invincible.”

Those are the words people use when they talk about him. After the accident, he was “done for.” He was “hopeless.” They whispered his name and grieved his legacy. But now he’s “strong” and “unstoppable” and “relentless.” He’s back. And that’s the stuff a good story is made of.

“It’s hard to believe he’s made it this far,” they say. “It’s incredible that he’s able to do any of this right now. I can’t imagine how he does it.”

And it’s flattering, really. But he’s well aware of the unbeatable odds that he overcame to make it to Paris this year. He’s well aware of the courage and the strength and the determination that it took. He was there. He went through it. He’s the one that screamed in pain when the world shattered around him and cried his way through grueling physical therapy day after terrible day. He’s the one that nearly tore his sports psychologist’s head off when he couldn’t get past the mental blocks, couldn’t push through the fear. He was there. He remembers all of it in more detail than he wishes were possible. He remembers every gasp, every drop of sweat, every skill that he had to relearn, every landing that he prayed he’d stick.

It’s all in his head, and he’s fought hard to keep his head on straight in spite of it. He doesn’t need it thrown in his face, too.

But he’s learned to deal with it. He’s learned to smile to the reporters and answer their questions and move on. Because it’s part of him now, and he has to accept that. That’s the price he has to pay for living and breathing this sport that he loves.

–

It’s only the day after opening ceremonies, but Bucky feels like he’s been here for weeks even though he has several days of competition left. A big meet is always a strange limbo for him — feeling like he’s going at full speed, unable to catch his breath, even as he feels like it’s dragging on, no end in sight. That feeling has been worse this season.

His whole body is exhausted; he’s used to that. His left leg is sore, though, like it has been at every meet this year. He’s gotten used to that, too; he’s not sure it’ll ever be 100% again. But he keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. He feels too lucky, being here, regardless of how much of himself he poured into his comeback. It feels too fast, too easy, like he shouldn’t have gotten this far but instead should’ve been stopped at the gate, told ‘sorry, you don’t belong here anymore.’ He might as well have sold his soul to get himself here, and he keeps waiting for someone to tell him his time is up.

He keeps waiting for his leg to give out.

He checks his brace again, under his pants. It’s still secure, just like it was when he checked it two minutes ago, and two minutes before that. He shakes his head and curses the universe for assigning the high bar as his last event today.

Bucky has had a phenomenal qualifying round, as have his teammates. John Egan, Curtis Biddick, Harry Crosby, John Brady, and Alex Jefferson: that’s the men’s gymnastics team that stands a chance of putting the U.S. back on the podium for the first time since 2008, and their qualifying round looks promising. Particularly between Bucky’s floor and rings, Curt’s vault and high bar, Croz’s pommel horse and parallel bars, and Brady and Alex’s ability to seamlessly fill in the gaps in any event, they look pretty unstoppable right about now. They just have to keep this going for the finals, and hope some of them qualify for individual events and all around.

Bucky and Curt cheer loudly as Croz completes his dismount on parallel bars. The team swarms him as he leaves the apparatus, patting him on the back and telling him he did an amazing job.

“Can’t believe you stole my dismount,” Bucky jokes. Croz had perfectly executed a parallel bars dismount that, in the code of points, was dubbed “the Egan” the year before Bucky’s accident.

Croz laughs and bumps his shoulder against Bucky’s. “You just wish you did it as good as I do.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and ruffles Croz’s hair, saluting his team as he follows their coach to the high bar. He’s the last athlete on their team to finish their final rotation. As he chalks up his hands, bounces from foot to foot and hypes himself up, his eyes skim over the crowd of spectators. It’s nothing compared to the crowd for women’s gymnastics, especially just for qualifications, but it’s something. It’s big enough that he shouldn’t be able to pick out a face unless he knows where to look.

And yet his eyes are drawn like a magnet to Gale Cleven – and wait, what the hell is he doing here? Blonde hair and a cheerful smile, undoubtedly fresh from Versailles where Bucky knows he was riding dressage for the eventing team earlier today. He’s looking off somewhere in the distance, beyond where Bucky is prepping for his final event. But Marge and Benny are on either side of him, and when Marge sees Bucky looking up at the stands, she excitedly smacks Gale’s arm and shouts, pointing to the apparatus below. Gale’s eyes lock right onto Bucky’s, and he takes a deep breath before he waves and yells, “GO JOHN!” Benny and Marge even join in.

Bucky blows Gale a kiss, and he finds himself honest to god grinning before the high bar for the first time since before his accident.

The world notices it, too.

“John looks almost excited about this event for the first time since his comeback,” the commentators are saying on TV. The camera focuses on him as he steps onto the mat next to his coach. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but it looks like that’s… Gale Cleven? In the stands. Is that who he’s smiling at? The equestrian athlete.”

The other commentator says “I think you’re right. You know, they’ve been spotted together quite a lot in the last few days. Including at the opening ceremonies.”

The Paris opening ceremonies had been historical, as the first summer games opening ceremony to take place outside of a stadium. The night was straight out of a fairy tale, with colorful lights all along the Seine as athletes stood on boats that traveled down the river at sunset, spectators watching from the sides and from above. They sailed in a 6 kilometer parade that ended right in front of the Eiffel Tower. Some of the equestrian team had been spotted with the men’s gymnastics team on the U.S. boat, all of them orbiting around John and Gale, who were seen laughing and talking, always an arm slung around a shoulder or a hand on a waist. Social media, of course, has been going crazy over those photographs.

So if the media wasn’t interested in John Egan and Gale Cleven as a potential item before, well, they are certainly interested now.

“John Egan has been very open about his sexuality in recent years,” the first commentator says. “So one definitely has to wonder if there’s something between those two.”

But Bucky doesn’t care about that at the moment.

He raises his arm in salute to the judges, and his coach helps lift him up to the bar. “You got this John,” he says, and then it’s just Bucky and the bar he’s determined not to fear.

He breathes deeply as he swings himself up and around, forcing his focus to narrow to nothing but this moment. No past. No future. Just now. He takes that with him into his first release, a simple straddle. Then he works himself up to a Kolman, a backflip with a full twist. Then a Cassina, the same thing in a laid-out position. The Cassina is the exact release that almost ruined his life. But today he completes it, and he’s on to the next skill, and the next and the next. He can feel his heart beating through his entire being every time his hands seek out the bar, every time he completes a skill and surges into the next.

Somewhere off to the side, he can hear Curt and Croz shouting encouragement at the top of their lungs, as they always do. He can feel the bar gripped beneath his fingertips, and the air rushing by with every swing, every release, every flip. He can feel the exertion in his face and in his arms with every handstand. He can feel the tension in his legs.

But then his body is flipping through the air, his feet are hitting the ground. He’s staring down at them, pressed into the mat with his arms out to the side. He’s done it.

It’s only qualifying, so he’s far from done here. But he stuck his dismount perfectly, not even a step off balance, and his teammates are going wild because they know how much every little success means this year. Bucky salutes the judges before yelling “LET’S GO!” as he pumps a fist in the air and walks off the mat, where he’s greeted with slaps on the back and tight hugs from team USA.

Curt and Croz practically lift him into the air in their excitement, and Bucky’s eyes catch Gale’s again. He’s right in the front of the grandstand with Marge and Benny, and they’re on their feet, waving their arms in the air as they celebrate this small victory right along with him.

–

“Are you okay?” Gale asks later that night. Bucky has been quiet for several minutes now, rubbing absently at his left lower leg and knee as he stares off into space. It’s a couple of hours after qualifications ended, and they’re in Gale’s room, Benny having gone out with some of the other equestrian team members for the evening. Gale is sitting on the floor next to his bed, his back against the wall, so Bucky can sit comfortably on the bed. Damn cardboard.

Bucky nods at Gale and tries to give a reassuring smile that falters at the edges. “Yeah, my leg is just a little sore I guess.”

He doesn’t miss the way Gale freezes, just for half a second. The way his eyes flick to Bucky’s left leg, the way he nervously licks his lower lip in concern. Fuck.

“You watched the video didn’t you,” Bucky asks. He groans when Gale stays quiet, pointedly avoiding eye contact. “I should’ve told you not to look it up.”

He shouldn’t have let Gale search for that terrible video that has no business being anywhere online. That Bucky tries with every fiber of his being to forget exists because, if he doesn’t, he might be masochistically drawn to watching it himself. And that is the last thing he needs.

But they showed it on the news when it happened. The whole gymnastics world has seen it. Everyone who cares to watch it has seen it. The whole world witnessed his downfall in disgusting clarity. And with the Olympics now, it’s circulating yet again.

It gives curious and sadistic spectators a front row seat to the moment that almost destroyed John Egan’s career. He was at the World Gymnastics Championships in the UK in November 2022. High bar was his last event; he was so close to a world medal. But then the unthinkable happened. His hands sought out the bar at the end of a Cassina, a skill he’s been doing for years now, and all of a sudden, the bar just snapped in half. Bucky vividly remembers the sensation of his heart plummeting in his chest, the air whipping past his face too fast too fast too fast, the stunned silence around him as if everything was happening in slow motion. And then an explosion of pain that made his vision go white before there was just nothing.

The video shows him hurtling through the air off of the broken bar, landing in an ugly heap with a crunch and a blood curdling scream that supposedly came out of his own mouth. His leg can be seen twisted at awful angles as he lay unconscious on the mat, crumpled like a rag doll, as if he were nothing more than a sack of potatoes that had been tossed to the ground. Everything was too still, everyone too shocked to move.

Then suddenly the world remembered that it was supposed to keep turning. His coach, who would torment himself for months over whether there was any way he could’ve stopped this from happening, rushed to him, followed by Curt and Croz, who would rarely leave his side through his whole recovery. Medics pushed through them all, saying they needed space. They tried to wake him up, tried to find signs of life. They lifted his limp body onto the stretcher. The crowd murmured nervously as they watched, wondering if they’d just witnessed the end of a record-breaking career.

Bucky doesn’t remember any of that, though. He doesn’t remember anything between the excruciating pain immediately following his premature dismount and waking up, still in excruciating pain, in a white hospital room. He’d hit his head somehow during the fall, knocking him out for two straight days. It was a miracle, they said, that he didn’t have any brain damage. But the same could not be said about his leg. He’d fractured his tibia and destroyed just about everything in his knee that there was to destroy.

The surgeon told him he may never do gymnastics again.

He practically spat in the surgeon’s face.

Because Bucky doesn’t know who he’d be without gymnastics. He doesn’t want to know.

“I would’ve looked it up either way,” Gale says quietly.

“Why? I knew it would only scare you.”

“I don’t know,” Gale admits. He looks back up at Bucky, his eyes worried. “Everyone keeps talking about your comeback. Back at the top again after a career-ending injury. They talk about how awful it was. I needed to know what they meant… I couldn’t stand not knowing.”

“You won’t be able to stand knowing, either,” Bucky insists, picking at the fabric of his tee shirt to keep his fingers from shaking.

Gale frowns. “I’m not the one that lived it.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and looks Gale in the eye. “I don’t talk about it much.”

“I understand.”

“It was… it was a long process. Getting here again.”

And then Bucky does something he never does. He tells Gale about what it took, what it cost him. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s a need for Gale to know him, that same aching need that he’s felt the last several days. Or maybe it’s just a need for someone to hear this story that he only ever shoves down, down, down where it can’t hurt him anymore.

He tells Gale about the pain – physical and emotional – of destroying your body and your career at the same time. He tells him about the physical therapy, the occupational therapy, the weeks and weeks he spent just trying to walk again. About the way Curt and Croz refused to let him push them away, how they stuck by his side and went through all of the physio with him no matter how insufferable he could be, no matter how angry at the world he got. He talks about the months spent with a sports psychologist trying to stop being afraid, and how he still talks to the guy sometimes to keep his head level when the anxiety picks up again.

He tells Gale about how excruciating it was trying to train again, trying to get his body to listen to his brain again. Trying to push through the pain just enough to keep going, but not enough to break. And how utterly humiliating it was at times, being in his old gym with his Olympian teammates but being unable to perform and land skills that once were simple. He talks about how he felt so much gut-wrenching guilt at the thought of letting his late sister down, as absurd as he knows that was. And he tells Gale about how he bailed out in a panic his first several times back on a high bar, flipping into the foam pit that was mercifully below him. He explains the slow, aggravating process of trusting himself again, and accepting the fact that he can’t trust anything but himself and the people close to him in this crazy, unfair world.

He doesn’t even remember how he got there, but by the time Bucky has run out of words, he’s on the floor with Gale. He’s letting himself hide away in Gale’s strong arms, which are wrapped tightly around him, one hand on his back and the other cupping the back of his head. He’s curled into Gale’s side with his head tucked against his shoulder, and he’s fighting to make sure he doesn’t start crying all over this man’s shirt.

After learning about how hard Bucky has pushed himself, how unrelenting he’s been in his recovery, a part of Gale wants to say please don’t hurt yourself. But he knows he has no right. He knows firsthand that those words are empty. When anyone says it to him, a quiet plea to be careful, slow down, he laughs and tells them that’s not how horseback riding works. He does what he can to be smart, be safe. But in the end, his control stops at a blurry horizon where Lady Luck begins. He loves his sport, and he knows John loves gymnastics in the same exact way. It’s who they are, simple as that.

So instead he rubs Bucky’s back, whispers to him that it’s alright, holds him tight as if Gale alone can protect him from the world. He gently kisses Bucky’s temple, and when Bucky pulls away at last, Gale pats his knee. “Come here, let me try to do something about that leg.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him, motioning questioningly to his bad leg. Gale nods and makes a shooing motion with his hand. “Yep. Scoot back, let me see.”

Bucky does as he’s told, leaning against the bed frame so that his leg is in Gale’s lap. Gale shoves up the leg of Bucky’s sweatpants, and then there’s surprisingly strong, warm hands on his skin, working at the sore muscles in his lower leg and around his knee.

“Oh fuck,” Bucky groans, letting his weight collapse against the side of the bed.

Gale smirks at him. “What? Is it that surprising that I can give a massage?” he asks. Bucky shrugs, and Gale shakes his head at him. “I’m a horseback rider. My body’s been acting like it’s 45 since I was 20.”

“I didn’t know it was that hard on the body,” Bucky admits.

Gale laughs mirthlessly as his palm presses up the side of Bucky’s leg, damn near making him moan again. “It is,” Gale explains. “People who don’t ride never really notice how hard the rider has to work. How much stress and strain it puts the body through. Not to mention the way horses can throw you around like you’re nothing.”

“Have you ever been hurt?” Bucky asks. “Badly?”

“I have,” Gale says easily. He looks at Bucky with a wan smile. “Not as bad as you. But I’ve broken my wrist, had my fair share of concussions. I took a hard fall when I was about 18, right after I started college. Fucked up my back real bad. It was one of those injuries where not even the doctors were sure what went wrong, you know? MRIs showed what looked like a stress fracture, but it was strange for that to happen from blunt force trauma like that. I’ve had chronic back pain ever since. Couldn’t even breathe without pain for weeks. I lived on borderline dangerous doses of Advil for months.”

Gale sighs, flexing his shoulders like he’s trying to stretch out his upper back. “It still bugs me sometimes. There’s a lot of simple things I can’t tolerate so well anymore, or that I have to be careful about.”

Bucky blinks at him, tensing like he’s about to move away. “Then why the fuck am I making you sit on the floor?”

Gale shushes him and pats his leg gently before he keeps working at it. “It’s fine. You deserve all of this after today. I can sit on the floor for a little while, I won’t break.” Bucky gives him a skeptical look and Gale rolls his eyes. “Stop that. I’m okay, Bucky. Really.”

So Bucky relents, if nothing else because he needs the magic in Gale’s hands not to give up on him now. He’s curling his fingers, seething through his teeth when those hands hit a particularly sore spot, gasping when Gale sets to work on a knot in the muscle. “That’s- that’s really good,” Bucky grits out. “Keep doing that.”

Gale is watching him carefully, no doubt amused by the actually obscene sounds coming out of his mouth right now, but Bucky doesn’t even care. He just focuses on those perfect hands, those long fingers, so sure and so deliberate and so soothing, as they work up and down his lower leg. He feels like those hands might be able to single-handedly take away every bit of pain he’s ever felt. And the way Gale’s attention is so wholly on him is intoxicating and endearing at the same time. Gale Cleven could slap him in the face and Bucky would say thank you, but here he is, taking care of Bucky without a second thought, like he actually means something to him. Bucky really doesn’t have the wherewithal right now to sort out why that’s such a turn on.

“I’m sorry I missed your ride today,” he says instead.

Gale shrugs as his hands move up around Bucky’s knee, his touch turning gentle around the fragile joint. “It’s not a big deal.”

Except it is. “I’ll be there for cross country,” Bucky promises. “Maybe even part of jumping before I have to get back to the stadium for finals.”

“It’s fine, John,” Gale reiterates. “I don’t expect you to be there. And cross country is boring in person anyways. Spectators basically stay near a single jump for most of it, since the course is so long. You’d see a lot more of me if you just watched online.”

“Oh I’ll be there,” Bucky says resolutely, even though he’s admittedly terrified at the prospect of Gale hurtling down a cross country course, flying over jumps on the back of a strong-willed animal. “I would’ve been there today if it didn’t clash with my schedule.”

“Maybe I’ll give you an exhibition ride sometime.” Gale’s fingers stop working at Bucky’s knee, and he smooths one hand down Bucky’s muscular leg.

Bucky tracks the movement with hungry eyes, busy thinking about what else he knows those hands can do. “I know you’re joking,” he says. “But I’d like that.”

When Gale glances up at him again, Bucky is biting at his lower lip, looking right at him with such earnestness that Gale can’t help but blush. “Okay, we can do that.”

“You know.” Bucky glances over his shoulder at the bed. “I’ve been hearing reports that these things are sturdier than we thought this time around. They supposedly hold up well to… extracurriculars.”

Gale tilts his head thoughtfully, his eyes flicking from Bucky to the bed and back. “Is that so?”

Bucky nods, biting his lower lip, teasing. So Gale lets Bucky’s pant leg fall back down to his ankle again, and Bucky crawls forward until he’s right in front of Gale. In one smooth motion, he practically scoops Gale into his arms and settles him on the bed, hovering over top of him. The bed frame holds. Gale grins up at him, his hand reaching up to stroke Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky’s hand settles underneath Gale’s shirt, finding its home on the side of his waist where it’s decided it belongs.

“Maybe I can do this for you sometime,” Bucky offers. “You know, the massage.”

Gale nods, his cheeks flushed. “Yeah. The massage. Of course.” Then he pulls Bucky down into a desperate kiss.

---

Next part

Bucky's injury is in part based on Brody Malone, who is making his comeback this year after suffering a similar leg injury off high bar just over a year ago. I am heavily rooting for him going into gymnastics trials this weekend! If you're interested in what a high bar routine is like, watch his amazing US Championships routine here.

(Gale's back injury is loosely based off personal equestrian experience ✌)

#I'm normal about them I swear #These two went 0 to 100 within like 10 seconds flat #And I'm not sorry for it #clegan #clegan olympics au #olympics au #buck x bucky #masters of the air #mota #gale cleven #john egan #clegan fic #bucky egan #buck cleven

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