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recareels · 2 years ago

Text

cut me rails of that fresh cherry pie

character: alhaitham

genre: modern university!AU, smut with a dusting of fluff

notes: whew! finally my TA!alhaitham piece is finished!! i worked for just over a month on this and i’m really happy with how it turned out, and i can’t wait to hear your thoughts on it! fun fact: this entire piece was inspired by that singular line about alhaitham taking you to the archives in his story quest ehehe. as always, please heed the warnings below and stay safe. | title credit: take a slice by glass animals

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, dubcon, rough sex, extremely bratty reader, minimal prep, semi-public sex, use of the word Sir, painful sex, one (1) instance of spanking, one (1) slap to the face, hints of implied trauma, biting, marking, blood, alhaitham is strong enough to lift reader up and fuck her against the shelves, praise, toxic relationship, student professor (TA) relationship (power imbalance), dom/sub power dynamics, undefined age gap between consenting adults, big size difference between alhaitham and reader, size kink, sex as punishment, sex as an emotional release, choking, reader is quite flexible, belly bulge, snowballing

words: 10.9k

synopsis:

“You have been exceptionally bratty today.”

“So?” you frown, insolence already beginning to bleed back into your tone. Your eyes narrow in assessment, head tilting slightly. This has never been a problem in the past, so why is it suddenly an issue now? “What? You can’t handle a bit of brattiness?”

The back of his hand collides with your cheek, stark and sudden, the sharp sound of skin slapping skin echoing down the vacant aisles.

It’s hard enough that it whips your head to the side, pins of pain lingering on your flesh. Salt stings your eyes, a reflexive albeit frustrating notion, and you blink with conviction, fury incinerating your tears.

The bite of betrayal hurts, and you keep your face pressed flush to the wood, chin jutting defiantly, refusing to look at him.

He grips it easily with a pinching thumb and forefinger and hauls it harshly back toward him. The rest of his fingers wreathe around your jaw, clinched so hard that your mouth puckers.

“Oh no,” he spits, words quietly seething. “I’m about to handle it, right now.”

Sunlight filters through the windows, casting slim strokes of gold across the lecture hall. Your pen taps lazily against your notebook as you watch the last few stragglers shoot their questions at your TA—and, subsequently, get shut down with a mere handful of words as a response—lingering, waiting.

It’s only after that heavy mahogany door closes behind the last student that you finally approach him.

One of the most infamous PhD Candidate students on campus, Alhaitham’s area of study specializes in semantics and pragmatics. He’s renowned for consistently achieving top-of-his-class status, working diligently and dedicatedly on his mammoth four-hundred-page dissertation, and being the hottest man and the hardest marker within the University of Sumeru’s small but robust linguistics department.

Spots in his intimate lectures are highly coveted and extremely limited, rendering them tough to get into, yet you’ve managed to snag a space in every single one.

He is, on all accounts, an exceptionally difficult man to get close to.

But you have been nothing if not persistent in your quest to get him to take notice of you.

And take notice of you, he has.

You had surprised him when proposing that the topic for your year-long research paper consist of studying the ways in which translations of the same piece of Middle Egyptian literature—throughout different time periods, and in conjunction with several different languages from each era—add and/or change the meanings of an individual text.

With it, you had raised several fascinating questions: how does the language chosen within each translation procure a different meaning within the text? How does the translator’s personal background and education play a role in their word choice and placement, and how does this affect meaning within the text? Are their certain syntactic patterns and sentence structures that contribute to this second layer or meaning that is imbued on the text by the translator, and if so, how?

But you always raise interesting questions, and with you he has learned to expect the unexpected.

“So,” you begin as you reach him, hopping onto the corner of his desk and linking your ankles together, limbs swaying slightly as he begins to tidy up. “I need to get into the Haravatat Rare Book Archives. For my final paper,” you clarify.

“Too bad it’s restricted to Undergrad students,” he quips, smugness pulling at the corners of his lips, teal eyes flashing up for a second before refocusing on his task of shuffling papers, the thrill of a potential challenge, of this game the two of you seem to play, glinting in his gaze.

Go ahead, give it your best shot, try and push him further, you might just get what you want.

“It is restricted to Undergrads,” you agree. “Unless they have a supervisor, like a professor, or, I don’t know, a PhD candidate student.”

His hands stop, eyes raising to meet yours again, slow, careful, searching. You hold his stare, bold, steady, egging, and finally, he bites, just as he always does, body straightening to his full height with a soft sigh, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“Please, indulge me,” he says as he leans a hip against his desk chair, false exasperation not strong enough to hide the gentle tremor of genuine interest in his tone. “What could you possibly need in the Haravatat archives that’s absolutely, irrevocably necessary for you to complete your paper?”

“The original papyrus copy of the Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor.”

An eyebrow raises, intrigued.

“I have already provided you with a copy of that piece in both its original Hieratic and with Hieroglyph transliteration, which, if I remember correctly, you begged and pleaded and cried for.”

“But it isn’t the same!” The protest leaves your lips in a stringy whine before you can stop it, expression quickly smoothing out your pout half a second later. “You know that isn’t the same as looking upon the original text with your own eyes, translating directly from the actual piece of literature. And—And besides,” you continue, voice speeding up in an effort to avoid being cut off. “The original papyrus copy is missing sections, is it not? I’m having trouble confirming which sections are truly missing; I keep running into conflicting information, so I can’t tell which parts of the copies you’ve given me are fabricated and which are not. That’s crucial information for me to possess!”

It’s flimsy and weak, this little excuse of yours, he knows it is—you both know it is—but that doesn’t stop him from sincerely contemplating it, a hum vibrating in his throat; nor does it stop you from pushing forward, an attempt to move your token piece in this game one space further.

“Please?” you press, notes of hope in your voice. Your fingers, resting on edge of his desk, curl around the wood in anticipation, body leaning forward. “This would really mean a lot to me, Sir. I’d love the opportunity to see the real thing, translate from the real thing.”

“Alright,” he finally agrees. “Tomorrow. Ten PM. Don’t be late.”

✰ ✰ ✰

Shivering outside of the Haravatat Rare Book Archives, you wrap your arms around yourself, idly hopping from foot to foot, gaze wandering across the building.

It’s a mammoth of a thing, made almost entirely of slate marble and ringed with an impressive number of stained glass masterpieces, each depicting a renowned scholar that has studied within the walls of the University of Sumeru.

Beams of silver shimmer among the mosaics, illuminating the teals and greens and glinting off the intricate gold piping, decorative windows almost glowing in the rays of the full moon. Warm yellow light leaks from the slivers of windows above the first floor, evidence of late-night research and study.

Eyes climbing, you dully note the way the light fades, less and less, dimmer and dimmer, which each floor until you hit the final level, entirely dark, your TA’s words drifting through your mind.

“Ten PM?” you had said when he finally agreed to meet you here, surprise evident in your breathy tone. “Isn’t that quite late?”

“I like visiting the archives during the times where I’m least likely to run into anyone else; early in the morning or late at night.”

Snorting, you roll your eyes. Typical of the antisocial scholar with a notorious reputation to actively avoid others as often as he possibly can.

“You’re early,” his voice pulls you from your thoughts and you turn to face him.

“You said not to be late.”

Smirking, he snorts with a nod, eyes regarding you with feeble amusement.

“Well, come on, then.”

✰ ✰ ✰

“Wow,” you breathe as he leads you towards the check-in desk, wondrous eyes sweeping across the interior, all smooth jade and shimmering gold, thick glass cases proudly displaying the artifacts they house, gleaming under the warm light.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” your TA tells you, smugness playing on his lips. “The upper floors aren’t nearly as awe-inspiring. They’re quite drab, actually.”

“Yeah, but still,” you brush him off, gaze gliding across the room again.

The University of Sumeru has the largest, most impressive collection of libraries among all of the universities in the world. Renowned for its remarkable breadth of literature on every topic imaginable, it invites scholars from all across the globe to visit and scuttle through its mazes of shelves, with the Haravatat Rare Book Archives being the most coveted of all.

You think you’re beginning to truly understand why.

It is a convoluted mess of systems, but lucky for you, you have one of the best guides there is to lead you through the tangled, snarled shelves.

Because Alhaitham knows these libraries inside out, upside down, spending way too much of his damn time here—and he knows how to get you into the most exclusive floors, too.

It is, technically speaking, unfair to grant you such special privileges.

Then again, none of his other students have pursued him as aggressively and avidly as you have, so he supposes they don’t really deserve it anyway.

He’d do the same for any other student who demonstrated such a vigorous interest in their studies, he tells himself, attempts to reason with himself. He’d do the same for any student who contained the same sheer determination and dedication to their research that you do, anyone who was as rabid and tireless in their eternal pursuit of knowledge as you are.

He’s sure he would—if any of them actually possessed these covetable qualities.

But the simple fact of the matter is, they don’t. And that’s what truly sets you apart from the rest, isn’t it?

Because you’re at the very top of his class.

Because you linger after each and every lecture, waiting around at your seat until all the other students have gone, to ask him thoughtful questions and spark intriguing debates with him, to show him new ways of thinking, new ways of seeing, and he finds himself pondering over you often, curious about what’s going on in that pretty head of yours today, curious about what your notions and opinions on a particular subject would be. He has yet to find a single student at this godforsaken university that can do what you do.

Because your papers are fucking exceptional—full of thought-provoking points and expertly backed by evidence—and it’s abundantly obvious that you’re a hardworking student, that you take your studies very seriously, despite your inherent playfulness—giggles you can’t quite seem to quell, quipping remarks that are so astonishingly out of place for the classroom that it takes him a moment to respond (no one student has ever succeeded in making him pause like that, either).

Because although Alhaitham can be bold and blunt, scary and supercilious in nature, none of it deters you in the slightest, unafraid to challenge him on his views, unafraid to sound ‘stupid’ in his presence. It’s admirable, how unapologetically yourself you are, how you can hold your own against him, how his brusque personality doesn’t perturb you the way it seems to perturb others; in fact, you seem almost fascinated by it.

And that’s what makes you his best student, his most engaging student, his favourite student.

But it’s still kind of surreal to him, in a ridiculous sort of way, that he’s leading you into the Haravatat Rare Book Archives, your toes on his heels, shuffling your ID and student card between your fingers, plastic scraping together.

The screening process is rigorous, ruthless, the clerk demanding two pieces of government-issued identification in addition to your student card—to verify you are who you say you are, of course, you understand—and requiring you to sign your name in the guest logbook before finally giving Alhaitham that ugly gold VISITOR sticker, which he promptly slaps on your chest, nimble fingers tracing the edges to ensure that it’s secure.

“There,” he says, stepping back a little, as if to admire his handiwork. “Now you’re ready.”

The Ancient and Middle Egyptian literature archives are kept on the top floor of the Haravatat, the dull aisles flickering to life the moment the two of you step from the elevator, fluorescent lights clicking on in slow succession, triggered by your motion, and humming softly to themselves.

“Come,” Alhaitham says, hand encircling your wrist and tugging. “The original pieces of literature are kept over this way, in specialized glass casings.”

“Of course,” you’re nodding to yourself, allowing him to lead you towards the preserved papyrus. “Can’t have humans putting their grubby hands on a piece that’s four thousand years old, even if they are scholars.”

“Exactly,” he smirks down at you.

Smart-ass.

“Alright,” he’s saying as you reach the desired case. “There’s a small writing desk here on the edge for you to make notes and do translations. While you work, I’ll be—What are you doing?”

“Taking a picture,” you say as if he’s stupid, not even bothering to glance away from your phone, hovering above the glass screen.

“Why?”

You frown, finally looking over at him. “So I can translate the text?”

His face falls, shock flattened by disappointment, and he fixes you with a look.

“Hold on a second,” he begins, sarcasm already heavy in his tone. “I brought you here so you could translate directly from the original material, and you’re just…taking a photo?”

At your responding nod, his molars grind, strong jaw flexing with the motion, a dense sigh exhaled shakily out his nose.

“Of the first section, yes, so I can zoom in and translate with better accuracy,” you say easily, and he can’t tell if you’re lying or not. “And then, when I’m done with this section, I’ll go take a picture of the next section, then the next, and the next, and so on, until I’ve finished the entire text.”

“The entire text?” he laughs, but it’s humourless, tainted with incredulity. “Do you have any idea how long that’s going to take you? The semester’s already half over; I thought you only wanted to translate the few key passages you’re analyzing in your paper?”

“I changed my mind,” you shrug, though now he can see it; the mischief tweaking at the corners of your lips and glittering in the irises of your eyes, barely contained.

And, for a moment, you’ve stunned him into silence, yet another first for you to add to your cherished collection.

But then the blood in his veins begins to boil, the heat wiring his body back to his brain, and then he’s snapping at you, tumultuous teal surging in his eyes, churning with fury, but his voice is cold with disappointment.

“You’re fucking ridiculous, y’know that? I should take you home right now—”

“No!” you gasp, phone forgotten in an instant. “No, Haitham, please, I didn’t mean to—”

Little hands paw at his sweater, desperate for his understanding, for his forgiveness, and just like that, all traces of mischief are eradicated from your features, devoured by pure honesty, and his blood calms, authority restored to its rightful place.

You’re too cute when you beg.

“Alright. Whatever. Sit down, do your work, and be quiet.” He casts a pointed glance at the independent study desks. “I’ll be working on my dissertation, and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.”

Turning away with more vigour than strictly necessary, he stalks towards one of the desks, wholly expecting you to mimic his actions, to obey.

But you don’t.

Because, really, when do you ever?

His head lifts as you pull up a chair from a nearby desk and tuck it into his own, eyes narrowing slightly.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Your actions halt, a frown materializing on your face. “I wanna sit with you,”

“I should sit you at an entirely different table, alone, for such behaviour. Christ,” he shakes his head, muttering to himself as he bends back to his unfinished dissertation. “A picture. She has the whole piece in front of her, literally at her fingertips, and she’s taking pictures.”

A giggle bubbles up your throat, your lips automatically pressing together in an attempt to stifle it as you take a seat across from him, his jaw clenching once at the sound.

It’s cramped and uncomfortable, the two of you trying to work at a desk designed for a single person, pages overlapping and pens strewn across notes, your study materials leaking into his meticulously organized documents, the toes of your shoes consistently knocking against his as you fidget and fiddle around.

Yet somehow, you both manage, and for a moment it’s almost nice, a synergy of sorts forming between the continuous bumps of your sneakers and his routine shoving of your materials back onto your side of the desk.

But then you shatter the delicate, premature peace with a single question, all wriggling stilled as your voice grows serious.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Mad? No, I’m just—Annoyed, that’s all. I didn’t get you into this place so you could just take a photo of the original text. I could’ve done that for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you. Now concentrate on your work.”

It can’t be more than five minutes into your joint study session when he feels it again—a gentle yet distinct tap-tap-tap against the toe of his boot. It’s deliberate this time, methodical in the rhythm—one, two, three, breath, one, two, three, repeat.

Expelling a soft sigh, he looks up, searching your form. You’re still bent over your work, murmuring softly to yourself, seemingly oblivious.

“Stop that.”

You look up, a shock of genuine surprise across your face. “Stop what?”

“Stop squirming. You’re hitting my foot.”

“Oh? Am I? Sorry, I’ll stop.”

You don’t sound sorry, though, delinquency seeping through the cracks of the sugared sincerity coating your face.

It starts up again a mere few minutes later, just like he knew it would, except this time, he refrains from reprimanding.

You get this way sometimes, he’s come to learn—desperate for his attention and willing to do anything, including bothering him, to achieve it. He supposes he doesn’t necessarily mind it, doesn’t necessarily dislike it, sometimes even enjoys playing this game with you—this push and pull, this challenge and challenger, this predator and prey—however this is neither the time nor place for such trivialities.

And yet, despite his best efforts to entirely ignore you, to refuse you the attention you’re yearning for in an effort to encourage your productivity, he finds himself subconsciously hooking and unhooking his ankle with yours, engaging with your actions entirely without his own accord.

For the breath of a moment this seems to satiate you, the small repetitive action enough to fulfill your ever-growing needs, enabling the two of you to work in peaceful silence once again.

But something with sharp little teeth gnaws a hole in the pit of his stomach, bile oozing out slow and steady to embrace the surrounding organs in a tight, sticky film, and you’ve since kicked a shoe off, sock-clad foot curling around his calf, sliding up and down the muscle, giggling a little at the way it makes his thighs tense and twitch, the way it makes his hips spasm and shiver, and he can’t stay silent anymore.

“Stop playing around and do your work.”

“But I wanna know more about yours, Haitham.”

“You can know more about mine once you finish yours.”

“No fun,” you grumble, kicking at his shin, eyebrows pushing together as a pout scrunches your face. “No fun at all, you big stoic meanie.”

Nimble fingers rub at both of his eyes, a hefty sigh thick on the back of his tongue.

This is odd. You’ve always been chatty, always been bratty, but this—this is something different. This is something worse.

Something must’ve happened. Something must’ve set you off, triggered a response, awoken a deep-seated need for his attention, confusing it with affection. Something furls up in his throat, and he forces a strong swallow past it, voice grit and gravel when he speaks again.

“Hey,” he says, leg hooking forcefully around you own, halting its movement and garnering your attention with a cute little oh!. “What’s going on with you today? Did something happen?”

His eyes are startlingly sincere as they search your face for an answer, and you blink, floundering for a moment before your features harden again, expertly schooled into a carefully curated expression of carelessness.

“No,” you blow the word out your mouth, as if the idea is preposterous, but your smile is tight, small, stretched painfully across your lips.

There is a time where this might’ve fooled him, but not anymore.

He knows you too well now.

He knows you too well, because you’ve told him, secrets and sentiments spilled in the late-night hours at his office, terrors and traumas whispered in confidence under the dim gold of his desk light, veiled with tears.

Your leg tries to kick its way free, and his own tightens in response, shin pressed painfully to the edge of his seat.

“Are you sure?”

And, for a moment, he’s positive he’s got you, positive he’s broken through to you, crushed those heavy walls of protection to dust and is stumbling through the rubble towards your heart, towards the truth.

Your demeanour wavers, teetering on the edge of honesty, and he leans forward a little further, muscles loosening.

But then you haul it back from the ledge, countenance set firmly in place, leg slipping gracefully from his grasp, and you’re gone again.

“Of course I’m sure,” you say breezily, brushing off his concern as your roll your shoulders once, sitting up straighter.

“Just restless, then.”

“Just want to know more about you, actually.”

“You already know so much about me,” he says, a small jolt buzzing through his veins at the sheer validity of the statement.

“There’s always more to know when it comes to you,” you respond, words melting slightly, sagging under fondness.

Chuckling a little, he shakes his head. “We can talk more about me and my work once you finish yours, okay?” his voice has softened a little compared to the first time he offered this solution, tinged with the hope of compromise. “I promise.”

Your eyes search his own, hunting for shards of dishonesty and coming up empty.

“Now be a good girl, and finish up your translations.”

You grumble a little under your breath, too low for him to make out the content, but obey anyway, picking up your pen again, so he let’s it slide.

As it turns out, though, not even the enticement of future attention is enough to pacify your brattiness—and he was stupid to think it ever would be.

Because then you’re restless again, hungry again, craving again; because you want it now, like some sort of sick compulsion that compels you to act out; because no matter how much he promises you, it’ll never be enough.

Because too much is never enough for a greedy little girl like you, who takes those shards of notice he’s paid to you and chews them up, spits them out, demands more.

It was always only a matter of time.

And his few remaining vines of patience, weak and worn and withering in your presence, are about to decay.

He flinches when he feels it, the tip of your shoeless toe tracing up his calf, circling his kneecap and pushing up his strong thigh, then trailing back down his shin to repeat the process all over again.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you hum, eyes never straying from your work.

A hand snatches your foot just as it reaches his knee again, palm wrapped around the arch, squeezing hard enough to force a yelp from your throat. You look up suddenly, eyes wide and surprised, foot squirming in his grasp.

“Yeah? Is it nothing?”

“I was just…” you trail off, head shaking in short, quick motions. “I didn’t even realize, Sir, I swear—”

“I don’t believe you.”

The heel on his thigh squirms a little, the cap of your pen caught between your teeth oh-so-innocently as you shrug and lean forward, perky breasts swelling almost daintily as you draw in breath to respond, straining against your sweetheart neckline.

“I don’t know what to tell you, other than that I’m telling you the truth.”

Your actions contradict your words, toes pointed tightly and poking at his hipbone, foot trying to wiggle its way along the curve of his thigh, straight to his half-hard cock.

“Enough with the lies. I’ve tried to be strict, I’ve tried to be nice, but I’m at the end of my rope here.”

“Oh?” you giggle. “Can I give it a little tug?”

“Don’t play with me,” he warns, short nails digging into the arch of your foot.

“Or else, what?” you goad, curious to see how far you can take this, how far you can push and prod and pinch before he snaps; a fly teetering on the teeth of a venus flytrap, waiting.

“Or else I am going to move to another table if you don’t cut it out.”

“Why? Am I making it hard to concentrate?”

“No,” he says, defensive, too quickly, cock jumping at his lie. “You’re pissing me off. I have allowed this to go on for far too long.”

“Oh, you’ve allowed it, have you?” you snort, rolling your eyes. “What do you think? Just because you’re one of my teachers you’re suddenly the boss of me, or something?”

“I am—”

“You know what I think?” you reach across the table, two tiny hands clasping his large one, pen skittering from his fingers, leaving an ugly mark across his paper. “I think—”

And it’s the touch that does it, the shock of skin-against-skin, warm and soft and buzzing, that has him ripping himself from his chair in an instant, moving so quick that the metal legs teeter against the linoleum floor, a caustic growl in his words.

“I don’t really give a fuck what you think,”

A large hand clamps around your bicep and yanks, hard, pulling you unsteadily to your feet with such strength that it sends your seat clattering to the ground, legs kicking wildly as you struggle to find your footing.

A gasp catches in your throat, mangled and choked, your gaze snapping to his with a ring of shock tinging your irises, and the corners of his lips twitch.

Good. It’s about fucking time.

He says nothing as he shoves you towards the endless rows of shelves, all shrouded in darkness, keeping a firm grasp on your arm while he does so, his broad chest pushing against your shoulder and forcing you to move forward.

The harsh, pale lights overhead flicker to life one by one as he barges deeper into the stacks, fluorescent tubes creaking from disuse.

Your combined footsteps echo throughout the aisles—his steady, clear and cruel, yours stumbling, toe of your singular shoe catching on the tiles, sock slipping against the waxed floor.

“I—Are you taking me to see those books you promised to show me?” your voice trembles slightly, threads of terror sewn into your question.

He stays silent, his cool, even breaths forcing chills to erupt across your flesh, each exhale against your dampening neck sending another bout skittering up your spine.

“Well, Christ,” you snort, but it comes out as more of a snivel. “The least you could do is tell me where—”

The breath is kicked from your lungs suddenly, a sharp gasp lacerating your complaint as he slams you against a bookshelf, your head whacking against the wooden ledge, book spines vibrating against wood and pages rustling together.

“Ow,” you whine, features twisted in a wince, hand attempting to rub at the sore spot and colliding with his body, your own caged tightly between a wall of muscle and a wall of books.

His breath is coming quicker now, short little puffs that flare his nostrils and heave his chest, rising and falling against your own. His hands, planted on either side of your shoulders, curl around the edge of the shelf, blunt nails audibly digging into the wood.

A steel-toed boot kicks at your ankles, forcing them further apart, a strong thigh slotting between yours and keeping them spread wide.

Your mouth falls open, in shock or surprise or scare, he can’t tell, he doesn’t care, a pitiful little squeak—a poor imitation of what was once words, he’s sure—strangling itself in your throat.

“You have been exceptionally bratty today.”

The back of his hand collides with your cheek, stark and sudden, the sharp sound of skin slapping skin echoing down the vacant aisles.

The bite of betrayal hurts, and you keep your face pressed flush to the wood, chin jutting defiantly, refusing to look at him.

He grips it easily with a pinching thumb and forefinger and hauls it harshly back toward him. The rest of his fingers wreathe around your jaw, clinched so hard that your mouth puckers.

“Oh no,” he spits, words quietly seething. “I’m about to handle it, right now.”

“Fuck you,” you try to say, but it comes out jumbled, spit collecting in the divots of your lips.

Ignoring you, he continues, smooth and cold despite the sapphire flames licking at his pupils.

“You’re going to learn to respect your superiors tonight,”

“Oh yeah? And how are you gonna do that, Haitham?”

Yanking again, he tilts your head up further, forcing your face to his, wood digging into your scalp. He’s so close you can feel his words waft across your face, can smell the musky cedar wood twining through them, lips nearly brushing yours as he speaks.

“I am going to fuck the brat out of you.”

His breathing is calm and controlled now, his voice low and even the way it gets when he’s made a definitive decision.

Yet despite the sheer severity of his words, sincere and serious, you can’t help the incredulity that bubbles up your throat, spilling past your lips in infuriating little giggles, and the rage in his eyes blazes.

“Something funny about that?” he’s growling as large hands slide up your thighs and under your dress, hem and excess material bunching around his wrists as he pushes up, up, up, until he hits delicate lace, pretty and pink and clinging to supple flesh.

Of course there is. You both know that’s impossible, both know that the brattiness is inherent, rooted so deeply within you that it’s woven into the fabric of your very soul itself, irremovable, irrevocable.

“Yeah,” you say, residual amusement still tickling your words. “I’d like to see you try.”

Rough fingertips sprout through delicate lace, invasive and uncontrollable like weeds as they ravage the fragile fabric and tear it from your body, elastics popping as they snap against your skin.

“You know what’s funny?” he’s murmuring into your neck, nose nuzzling the curve as nimble fingers massage the ruined garment in his palm. “How fucking wet you are.”

Using the thigh crammed between your legs, he keeps you steady, keeps you trapped as strong hands swoop beneath your ass and heft, your limbs automatically wrapping around his body; fingers lacing at the base of his skull, tufts of silver tickling your knuckles; ankles linking at the base of his spine, heels digging into the dimples engraved into smooth muscle.

There’s no romance to it, no kisses or caresses or tenderness at all. He doesn’t bother himself with such trivial matters, head ducking in an almost violent manner, nudging your jaw upward and forcing you to bare your neck to him. Sharp teeth sink into thin flesh, giggles dying to gurgles in your throat.

The hinges of his jaw flex, tightening the grip of his bite, teeth latched deep in muscles and arteries. A yelp cracks loudly in your throat, nails burrowing into his scalp and scraping, contriving a low moan from deep in his chest.

“Is this what you wanted, huh?” A theatrical gasp falls from his lips, head pulling back enough to blink at you with feigned surprise. “Trying to get my attention so I’ll fuck you? Is this why you’ve been acting out so much today?”

“Maybe,” you breathe, little tongue darting out to lick at his lips, then the tip of his nose. “Maybe I just wanted to know how much I’m your favourite.”

He laughs at that, a dark, smooth sound vibrating against your neck, and you can feel his lips mold into a genuine smile.

Your desperation is precious, he’s mumbling into your skin, slick tongue sealing his words into the flesh in slow, fat, sticky strokes.

He sucks another claim of ownership into the flesh of your neck, signs his name in broken blood vessels and splats of violet ink, rapidly developing beneath your skin.

Your hips grind into his own, gyrating in quick little circles as he works at etching an impermanent masterpiece into your body, his teeth and tongue as his tools.

The denim of his jeans is caustic against your sensitive cunt, but that doesn’t deter you from grinding keenly on his bulging cock, a hoarse whine spilling from his throat as he looks down, webs of translucent slick stretched shimmering and sticky across the coarse material, shining almost iridescent in the harsh light of the library.

You’re struggling a little, restless in his arms as your hips rut and rock, almost as if you’re trying to fuck yourself on his cock through his clothing.

“Christ, I haven’t even done anything yet and you’re already soaking me right through,” he snorts, as if it’s pathetic, but his voice tapers off into an airy little wisp. “Eager, aren’t you?”

“Jus’wanna—ugh—” you wail a bit, pitchy and petulant, hands squeezing their way between your pressed bodies to scratch at his waistband, fingers hooking in his belt loops and yanking. “S’not enough, Haitham. Need more, Haitham.”

So fucking greedy, so fucking needy, he’s huffing out to himself as he demands you get his cock out, hips drawing back just enough to allow you to shove his pants down, dainty fingers wrapping around the base and guiding it toward your glistening pussy, blunt head bumping against you.

You can’t help but play with it a little, gliding the head along your slippery slit and glazing it in your arousal. Because, oh, it’s so pretty, so perfect, straight and symmetrical and softer than velvet as you roll the shaft a little in your palm, feeling it thrum with simmering blood in response.

That feels good, has you mewling out melty versions of his name, spine arching reflexively as pleasure climbs the notches. But it doesn’t last long, he doesn’t allow it to, hips surging forward with impeccable precision and pushing the head into you.

It stings, thick cock splitting your ill-prepared hole wide open with each slow inch, fragile flesh aching as it stretches around him, stretches for him, a hiss spit from between your teeth as your features crunch in pain.

“Shut up,” Alhaitham snaps coldly. “Impatient little teases don’t deserve to be prepped, do they?”

No, you suppose they don’t, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him.

“I can take it,” you huff out stubbornly, brows knitted together, though your words wobble a little.

“Oh?” he asks, and he nearly sounds genuine, eyebrows raising in derisive astonishment. “Is that so?”

It only takes one sharp, swift thrust before he’s buried inside you, cunt stuffed full to the hilt, poor little hole spasming as it attempts to adjust to his girth.

It knocks a cry from your throat, eyes squeezed shut as your fingers tangle in the knit collar of his sweater and pull, tugging yourself closer.

Your head falls forward, face pressed tightly against the junction of his neck, trembling breath fractured by whimpers as your cunt pulses, tiny spears of agony slicing through your gut, flesh tearing into tiny fissures.

“Aw, what’s the matter, baby?” he murmurs mockingly into your hair, cheek grazing the crown of your head. “I thought you could take it. What happened?”

“I—I can,” you whine through gritted teeth.

“Yeah?” Alhaitham pulls back a little, shoulder gently nudging your face from it’s hiding place. “Prove it to me.”

A fire of determination sparks in your chest, catches on your heart and embraces it in its flames, the blaze doused in desperation to show how good you are, how good you can be for him.

“Start fucking me, and I will.”

And, for only a second, his true nature breaks through the hard annoyance coating his features—the smile he gives you is nothing short of fucking breathtaking, teal eyes glinting with something akin to pride, appreciation, approval, delighted that you’ve risen to meet his challenge, just like you always do—before that mask is back in place, expression expertly repositioned, and then his hips are drawing back, large hands flexing, fingers digging into your plush skin.

A few of the books fall from the shelves, knocked from their homes by the force of his immediate thrusts, hips snapping hard and fast and ruthless as he grips your body to his.

It hurts, the consistent slam of his cockhead against your cervix leaving it bruised and swollen, spikes of pain rippling through your gut. It only feels as though he’s ripping you open more, each drive of his massive cock into your cunt splitting your core further and further until reaches your soul, carving out a little space just for him, a mold where only he can snap into place, planting shards of himself within you, never to be removed.

“Ha—ah—Haitham!” you manage to breath out, stuttered from his rough movements, the name quivering on your tongue.

“What? Huh? What? I thought you could take it, sweetheart.”

And irrespective of the slamming of his hips and the shuddering of the shelves, he sounds almost entirely unaffected, his slight breathlessness the only indication this is having any impact on him at all.

“What’s the matter, my cock too big for you?”

And, oh, it’s so condescending, the question cooed out through an exaggerated pout, exhilaration shining in his eyes.

You don’t answer, won’t answer, can’t answer, the ramming of his cock smashing any semblance of a response to pieces, nothing more than shards of letters that dissolve into airy little mewls on your tongue.

“That’s cute,” he spits, though his voice fades into something softer, something sweeter, an insult rolled in icing sugar.

That fire, kindled from pride and a fierce need to prove yourself, flares in your chest, and you grit your teeth, resolve hardening.

The words are splintered and breathy as you force them from your mouth, the whole sentence cracked by the piston of his hips, letters flowing into one another, messy and slippery and soaked with saliva as you spit them out.

“C’mon, Sir, you said you were g—g—gonna really fuck me—fuck the brat right outta m—me, yeah? But you’re not doing—you, ah—you’re not doing a very good job, are you?”

A snarl rips from his chest, rattling his ribs against your own, and he surges forward, smashing his lips to yours—an easy way to shut you up—teeth gnawing on your lips.

It’s hardly a kiss, the edges of sharp ivory slicing into delicate flesh, procuring pretty ribbons of crimson that ooze slow and steady, mixing with your interspersed drool and turning it a sticky pale pink. The small gashes stain his mouth, scarlet gathering in the creases of his lips and the curves of his gums, painting him in strokes of you.

“You won’t be able to fucking walk when I’m through with you, you little bitch,” he hurls the words into your mouth, coated in venom so bitter it stings your tongue.

“You better—” you begin, cut off sharp and sudden as he sucks your tongue into his mouth and clamps his teeth around it, biting down hard enough to push a high little cry from your throat.

It’s already swelling, tiny bumps beginning to bulge and bloat beneath the rims of his teeth, still burrowed in wet muscle. You manage to yank it free, wincing as his teeth drag across it, harvesting rows of bloodied saliva.

There’s barely a moment to reflect on it, though, the consistent pounding of his hips keeping you from forming a coherent thought at all, ideas snapped like weak threads with each quick drag of his cock, senses dulled to everything but him.

Dull pain sprouts across your body, the sharp edges of the shelves tilling the beginnings of long, thin bruises into your skin. The wood grinds against the knobs of your spine as he fucks you, hard and brutal, your skull loose and heavy on your neck as it thwacks off the spines of the hardcovers behind you.

“How’s this for really fucking you, huh? You little brat,” he rasps out, eyes hard and eyebrows pinched, dewdrops of sweat decorating his temples, catching in the florescence and glittering like diamonds.

You’re rendered speechless yet again, the harsh, fast rub of his cock against your favourite spot causing your eyes to roll, lids drooping under the heavy weight of pleasure, mewls of his name flowing choppily from your mouth, half-finished and fading into pitchy moans.

“Aw, what’s wrong?” he taunts, though the question is panted out in hot huffs, strings of silver hanging in his eyes, trembling with each brush of his eyelashes. “Can’t speak?”

A sharp whine of frustration breaks to pieces in your throat, face scrunched and eyes clamped shut in concentration as your sloppy tongue attempts to mold wisps of fleeting thoughts into letters.

But it’s no use. Everything feels floaty, dreamy, almost, the edges of your vision gone hazy, softening all of the honed lines and harsh corners of the library.

He’s all you can see, his features the only thing in focus; aquamarine gems glimmering with a type of intoxicating rapture, a brilliant smile sprawled across his cheeks, salt-saturated tuffets of platinum and flint embellishing his forehead and cheeks.

He’s all you can feel; his large hands beneath your ass, grip tightening with the acceleration of his pace, fingertips sowing deep blotches of navy and amethyst into your cheeks; his smooth pubic bone, clit gliding over it with each of his thrusts, slick and sticky and so, so good.

He’s all you can smell, hear, taste—cedar wood and breathless grunts and blood-tinged mint.

“Are you going to fucking behave now?” he asks, pace never faltering. “Guess brats can’t be brats if they can’t talk, now, can they?”

Your head is nodding without your permission, automatic and instinctual, sharp mind and sharper tongue dulled down to one singular aim—to please him. His cock is the only thing you can focus on, now. His cock is the only thing you want to focus on, now, all of the tension and trepidation from the past few days—from the past few weeks—ebbing away, corroded by bliss.

The stress that’s been straining your face releases, expression fully relaxing for the first time tonight—pure, authentic—smoothed out by hedonistic ecstasy.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, the softness of his tone contradicted by his merciless actions, the short legs of the bookshelf beginning to creak and wobble, oak scraping against linoleum. “Turns out all you need is a good, hard fuck to turn you into a respectful little girl, isn’t that right?”

“S’right, Sir, s’right,” you slur, words sloppy and stuffed with spit, letters loose and languid on your tongue. “I—It’s—ah!”

It’s so much, too much, emotion welling up in your chest and your eyes, pushed to the surface by his warm pleasure, his warm presence, submerging you in its enticing embrace.

Because it is only here, with your bodies knotted and your breaths twined, where you feel safest, where you find solace, where you are supported, in a way you never before have been, in a way no one else ever has.

It is only here, drowning in him, where you can let go, give in, give up, allowing yourself to be guided.

“I know, baby, I know,” he soothes. “Don’t worry, I’m here to handle it, I’m here to make it all better,”

The words are so fucking genuine, ringing with such sincerity, instinctual tears pricking and nibbling at your lashes as emotion roils in on itself in your throat, forming a hard lump, lodged in the column.

It renders any sort of response incapable, impossible, consciousness overwhelmed and overridden by the pleasure sprouting across your body, every new crop reaping another wave of undeniable relief, undefiable release.

It’s okay, though. It’s okay, because you don’t need to say anything at all, because he already fucking knows—can decipher it through the water glazing your eyes and the feathery little moans routinely fragmenting in your throat; can decipher it through the clutching fingers scouring and scuffing his skin, pressing him closer, holding him tighter.

Those initial spikes of pain have morphed into sparks of pleasure now, tiny little cinders wrapped in barbed wire, scraping against the walls of the capillaries as they rush through your veins, leaving your limbs tingling. Desire flares in your chest, stuffed full and scorching, as they collect at the core of your body, blossoming into a blaze of heat.

“Oh, oh, Sir,” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut before springing open again.

“That’s better,” he teases, though you can see it, the genuine pride shimmering in his eyes. “Look at that, look at how much of a good little girl my cock turns you into.”

“Uh-Uh-huh,” your head lolls dumbly before a stinging slap echoes throughout the vacant aisles, his hand colliding with your skin. A raised outline of his palm and all five fingers sears itself into your flesh, shocking some semblance of wakefulness back into your stunned stupid brain.

“I want you to cum on my cock, sweetheart,” he demands as his forehead falls forward, pressed to your own. “Do you think you can do that for me?”

“Yes!” you nearly weep out in a high, stringy whine. “Yes, Sir, please, Sir, please!”

He placates you with a quiet hush, blunt nails digging deep crescents into your plush ass while he shuffles your weight, his knees bending slightly as he re-angles his hips, cock drilling fast and strong into your cunt, shaft jabbing against your favourite spot.

That fire he ignited furls in on itself, coiling into a firm, concentrated ball of ardor, twisted tighter and tighter and tighter with each grind of his cock until finally, it bursts, hot droves of ecstasy flooding your body.

It’s so potent that it whites your vision and wipes your brain, breath stalling in your throat as pleasure wrings your body, and you cum so hard, so much, more than you ever have before, warmth gushing out of you in heavy torrents.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it—just like that, make a mess for me,”

And he sounds almost as if he’s in awe, eyes drifting down to where you’re connected, watching as your cunt throbs and spasms around him, watching as streams of shimmering slick glisten on his cock, flowing down his balls and soaking the waistband of his jeans, stretched taut around his thighs. A thick but neatly trimmed sprout of dark curls mops up the remaining wetness, matted and glimmering with your essence.

Muttering, low and sharp, lures you back to reality, misty daze beginning to dissipate, still gauzing up the edges of your vision and encasing your brain in a soft cloud. It isn’t clear how long you’ve been drifting for, sweetheart neckline of your dress clinging to your body and sopping with sweat, apex of your thighs aching as Alhaitham jackhammers into you, jutting hipbones carving out the perfect place for themselves in supple flesh.

“Goddamn it,” he’s groaning, brow furrowed and hands slick with frustration as they attempt to readjust you again, hoisting you up further and tightening his grasp. “I can’t fuck you properly in this position.”

You’re not quite sure what he means, your cum still dribbling down his cock, cunt giving weak little pulses as he pounds into it, every drag of his cockhead against that plush spot procuring another pitiful gush of juices, filmy and sticky, shocks of overstimulation quivering your blood.

There isn’t a moment to ask, though, because then he’s hauling you away from the bookshelves and slamming you down onto the nearest independent study desk, flailing limbs knocking a small table lamp to the floor, skewed light casting crude shadows of your forms on the wall.

A loud cry lacerates your throat as you thwack against the surface, eyes shut tight and nose crinkling as spears of pain shoot up your spine, nestling into the base of your skull.

But he doesn’t seem to care, your discomfort hardly a nick in the fabric of his plan.

Large hands skim along your thighs, molding flesh as they go, hooking beneath your knees and tugging your languid legs from around his waist. A simple jab to each has them reflexively straightening, Alhaitham smirking at the soft whimper of surprise that slips from your lips as he places one ankle on his shoulder, then the other, sharp eyes holding your bleary gaze the entire time.

That’s the only reprieve you’re afforded from his brutal fucking, merciless hips picking up right where they left off the moment your ankles are hooked securely over his shoulders, feet curling around his neck, the tips of your toes routinely bumping together.

“Fuck,” he nearly whines, head rolling back, defined jaw and prominent Adam’s apple on full display.

The fingers burrowing into your hips twitch, grip relaxing then tightening, a feeble attempt to keep your body from sliding away from him, the pumping of his hips shoving you further up the desk, slick skin squealing as it rubs against lacquered wood.

A hand comes to collar your throat, long fingers curling carefully, one by one, as they cuff your neck, while the other stays clamped around your waist, stern and unyielding, fingertips submerged in plush tissue.

Impossibly, this position is so much deeper, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach, a palm slapped flat between your hipbones to feel the bulging head pressing through your flesh with each rut of his hips.

Because he’s so fucking big, cute little hole still straining to swallow down his girth, raw cunt stretching in an attempt to take him, to be good for him.

His fucking has turned vicious, every ram of his cock jostling your entire frame, the hand latched firmly around your neck clutching in retaliation as his grip tightens, using this point as leverage to hold you down, to keep you still.

Your vision begins to blur at the edges as your air supply diminishes, precious little sounds strangled to pitiful little squeaks, wrung out by the palm flattening your windpipe.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his voice simultaneously close and far, wisps of words wavering in the atmosphere around you, caressing your flesh before they vanish. “Good girl, take my cock, such a good girl for her teacher,”

“Yours,” you babble out, the word tangled in threads of spit, muddled and sticky. “Yours, yours, yours, Sir, yours.”

“Mine,” he whimpers, the vice grip on your throat letting up for a moment, the tips of his fingers stroking the line of your jaw, possessive. “My good girl.”

Your entire backside is going to be scraped and slapped raw by the time he’s through with you, dainty hands wrapping around his wrist, holding onto him for stability. And, God, you’re so fucking gorgeous as you stare up at him with such unadulterated devotion, glimmers of admiration in your eyes as you beg him for more, more, more!

“Greedy,” he chastises, the scold nothing more than a huff, voice hoarse as it bows under pleasure. “You want more, huh?”

Christ, yes, please, yes, give me more, Sir, I need more!

And although you’re sure you’re saying them, boiling up your throat and brimming past your lips, the string of pleads is nothing more than indistinct noise to your ears, reverberations shaking your ribs.

His thighs are slamming into the edge of the desk, sharp wood leaving a crease in his skin, muscles flexing and shifting in a desperate attempt to stabilize himself. Rusting metal rakes against the linoleum, its creaky wail twining through the empty aisles, chased and promptly devoured by your cries and his groans.

But you’re barely paying it any attention at all, slushy brain turned amorphous, nebulous, evaporated into a tiny ecstatic galaxy of half-finished rhapsodies, full of him; clusters of his gorgeous noises burst into stars, supernovas of his name blooming across your flesh.

You must be begging for something, babbling on senselessly, nothing more than a cluster of indistinct shudders in your chest, because then he’s speaking to you, the contracting of his fingers nothing more than a blunt pressure.

“You want my cum, baby?” his voice breaks through the universe he’s birthed in your skull, clear and curt. “That what you want?”

Yes, your head is nodding in quick little movements, chin bumping against his forearm. Yes, yes, yes!

“Yeah? Yeah? Show me.”

“Oh, God, Sir,” you nearly sob, feet curling around his neck, gripping him closer, muscles in your legs pulled taut. “Please, please, gimme your cum, Sir, need you to stuff my tummy full of it, Sir, stuff my whole body full of it, Sir, I want it s-so bad!”

A sardonic little laugh huffs past spit-slicked lips, as if you attempt was downright pathetic, as if he knows you can do so much better than that.

“Aw, c’mon,” he scoffs. “That’s the best you got? Show me, baby, show me how badly you need it.”

Nothing more than a mass of pulsating pulp now, your mind can hardly comprehend what he’s saying, unable to stitch together any semblance of meaning from his words, but that’s alright, because it doesn’t have to.

Because your body knows. Your body knows exactly what he’s asking for.

And it gives it to him, almost instantly.

It’s so immediate, so intense that it strikes a scream from your throat, shatters the cosmos he had instilled within you and sends scorching glints of starstuff shooting through your veins, ripples of flesh quavering inward, towards your core, only to be dispelled yet again, forced back the way they came by the incessant snapping of his hips.

The hands curled around his wrist clamp, grip so strong it makes the bones in your fingers ache, stiffly frozen in tiny claws as your orgasm wracks your body, a sticky stream of unintelligible sobs flowing from your lips, hitching in time with his hips.

They’re so dense, so thick, so fucking heavy that they clog your throat, obstructing what little, narrow gaps for air you had left, and you feel like you’re drowning in them, in your desperate pleas for his cum, residual flares of starstuff melting your flesh from the inside out.

Clouds of bliss have formed at the corners of your vision again, and everything feels abraded, overexposed, hypersensitive, nerves gnawed raw to their frayed roots by the pleasure, sweet little cunt sore from such strenuous clenching.

And finally, finally he gives you what you want, the vicious throbbing of his cock the only thing your hazy mind can concentrate on, can grasp ahold of, shreds of focus melding together in an effort to pay attention to it.

Faintly, you can hear a moan fracture on his tongue, lips molding into an involuntary pout at the pleasure muffling your ears and misting your eyes that eclipse his gorgeous sights and sounds from you.

The pressure on your windpipe lets up, wheezy air rushing into your lungs in razored little breaths, Alhaitham’s big body suddenly blanketing your own, his elbows resting on either side of your head. Slim fingers caress your skin, brushing back sweat soaked strands of hair, teal eyes tender as they study your face, careful and courteous. His chest vibrates against yours—warm little tingles that zip through your flesh—and you struggle to listen, muted static fading in and out as your ears begin to tune into his frequency.

“...About, baby?”

“Hmm?”

He laughs, and it’s a fond little sound, mirth-infused breath wafting across your lips, nimble fingertips tracing the curve of your cheek.

“I said, what are you pouting about, baby?”

“Couldn’t see you,” your mumble out, forehead crumpling cutely with the distasted scrunch of your nose, lashes fluttering rapidly as if to accentuate your point. Drops of crystal escape the corners of your eyes, pushed forcefully from their home by your hard blinking and rolling into the hair at your temples. “W-Wanted’a see how pretty you look when you cum.”

“Well,” he begins softly, though there’s a self-satisfied smirk on his face, corners of his mouth twitching slightly, threatening to spread into a full-grown smile. “I’m sure you’ll get another chance soon.”

As your fucked out mind chews on his words, features still chiseled in a deep pout, he stands slowly, taking your rigid hands between his palms and smoothing out your crimped fingers one by one, massaging each joint as he goes.

He’s saying something else to you, something about how lucky you were to be on such a high, vacant floor, something about how you should both right yourselves before one of the monitors wanders on up and catches you, but none of that matters to you; not when his softening cock is slipping from your abused little hole, and thick dollops of his cream are drooling out with it, and if he doesn’t do something soon, it’s gonna be wasted!

“Haitham! Haitham!” you whimper loudly, body thrashing weakly beneath him.

“What?” he asks, sounding just as alarmed as you feel, fingers halting their ministrations as wide eyes scan your face.

“Your cum!” you practically weep out the word, features screwed up in in distress, as if the thought of wasting even a single drop physically pains you.

Head tilting, he frowns slightly. “What—”

“It’s leaking outta me!” you whine, lidded eyes springing open with some effort, beseeching him. “Don’wanna waste any of it! Do something, please, do something, make it stop!”

Another one of those fond chuckles pries past his lips, head shaking a little and muttering to himself about how you’re still his little fucking brat, aren’t you? as he kneels between your thighs, your knees still slung over his shoulder.

You’re still murmuring to yourself, wrecked little complaints that keep slurring together, and Alhaitham hushes you, a thumb stroking the silky skin of your inner thigh. A sharp gasp slices through your words as his tongue pushes into your cunt, tip curling in an attempt to scoop out his cum, the cutest little squeal mangling itself in your throat as your hips wiggle.

“Hey,” he says sternly, fingertips denting plush flesh as the grip on your thighs tightens, your squirming halted immediately. “Stop moving or I won’t give you any at all.”

“M’sorry, Sir,” you say as seriously as you can manage, ghosts of giggles still bubbling in your throat, haunting your words. “I promise I’ll behave, please gimme some.”

“That’s a first,” you hear him grumbling to himself, words slightly garbled by the cum he’s storing in his cheeks. “Maybe I should feed you my cum more often.”

You aren’t afforded a moment to respond to his musings, though, because then his tongue is plunging back into you, hollowing out your cum-stuffed cunt in an almost meticulous method, twisting and twirling and lapping up every last bit of the viscous substance.

You’re pushing yourself up eagerly as he rises, desperate to meet him, arms wobbling a little as you strain, legs falling off his shoulders to pillow his hips.

Large hands wrap around your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the dips of your collarbones as he stabilizes you, tugging you closer to his body and slotting his lips against your own, opened wide and waiting.

He practically shoves his cum into your mouth, tongue grinding in repetitive little rhythms against your own, each stroke depositing another coating of his cream, now diluted by your interspersed saliva, on the slick muscle.

It’s the closest thing to a real kiss that he’s given you all night.

And you can’t help but moan into him, sucking his tongue further into the heat of your mouth, lips puckering tightly around it in a feeble attempt to slurp and swallow down every last drop, bitter and tart and strong, just like his favourite blend of dark roast coffee. Your own tongue twines around his, starved and scrupulous and licking it clean, before the tip dips into the crevices near his molars, sopping up any remaining notes.

“Fucking greedy little girl I’ve got myself here,” he’s mumbling as he finally frees his tongue from your kiss, saliva shimmering on his chin.

“Can’t help it,” you shrug, suddenly feeling shy, cheek tucked into your shoulder and resting against his knuckles. “You just taste so good.”

His gaze softens, melting under your scalding sincerity, and his index finger crooks, tilting your chin up.

“You’re precious,” he admits after a beat of silence, eyes skimming your features in a way that feels light, faint, dainty, as if staring too hard, or observing too assiduously, might break you.

Blinking curiously, your head tilts in his grasp, a question written in the movement.

But he doesn’t answer.

“Here,” his arms hook beneath your own, hauling you off the desk and onto unsteady feet. “Let me fix you up a little. You look all...”

“Fucked out?”

“I was going to say dishevelled, but yes.”

“Your fault,” you say simply.

“It is my fault, which is why I’m fixing you up, brat,” teal eyes flick up from his motions, hands still fussing as he holds your stare, the satisfied little giggle spilling from your throat procuring a small grin from him.

He’s nearly finished righting you when the elevator dings, sending a startle through the both of you, combined gazes flicking towards the chrome doors just as they slide open to reveal a man.

“Uh,” the man begins dumbly, the patch sewn onto his shirt delegating him as library security. “The library’s closing in about ten minutes, so start wrapping up whatever it is you’re working on.”

Despite Alhaitham’s fussing, you still look absolutely fucking wrecked—lips swollen and stained with blood, cheeks and neck streaked with salt and sweat, sweetheart dress still damp and clinging to all your curves and contours—and he’s sure the guard can tell exactly what you were just doing, the man’s beady eyes busy glueing themselves to your body, pupils sucking up every fine detail, singeing them into the tissues of his brain for later use.

A thread of protectiveness surges through Alhaitham’s veins, and his arm curls around your front, shuffling you behind his shoulder; a shield of sorts, a nonverbal warning to the guard and his grubby gaze.

“We’ll be out before closing,” he promises, voice strong, stern, curt, snapping the guard from his perverted reverie.

The guard mutters some nondescript jumble of an approval and nods to himself, Alhaitham waiting until he’s shuffled back into the elevator before he turns towards you, tiny fingers burrowed in the hard muscle of his bicep, clinging to him as you totter on your rickety legs.

And he can’t help the adoring little snort that tickles the back of his tongue as he stares down at you, lashes clumped together in thick spikes and that shimmer as they flitter.

“What does he mean, the library closes in ten minutes?” you ask as Alhaitham finishes tidying up your combined study materials, hands still twisted in the fabric of his sweater, hindering his movements slightly.

“He means that the library closes in ten minutes,” your TA responds dryly, sardonic amusement tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What? Wait!” you cry, voice streaked with high panic, fingers flexing against him and yanking him closer. “But I barely started my research! I—I’m not even close to finished!”

A strong arm twines itself around your hips, heavy palm curled in an almost possessive manner around the bone as he supports the majority of your faltering weight, exhausted body fusing into his touch and allowing him to guide you toward the exit.

“Well, then I guess we’ll have to come back, won’t we?” he responds coolly, smoothly, leaning down to murmur in your ear as the pair of you reach the elevator. “And you better not be such a fucking brat next time.”

“I mean,” you’re saying nonchalantly as you step through the chrome doors, mischief dancing on your lips and glittering in your eyes, both arms wrapped around his waist squeezing him closer, tighter. “If that will be my punishment again, then I can’t make any promises.”

It’s impossible to impede his head as it droops to plant a doting kiss to the crown of your head, pausing for a breath before sowing a few more along your hairline for good measure, doused in affection.

Because it’s then that he realizes that the brat that resides within you—inherent, instinctual, in a way—hasn’t actually been sated or tamed at all, but merely lulled into a sort of complacency; a sweet slumber that it’ll be snapped from the moment something doesn’t go your way, or you don’t get what you want.

It is untameable, insatiable, nearly uncontrollable, always ready to resurface at the best of times, the worst of times, the most unpredictable of times, to dare and challenge and defy, and that’s exactly why he loves you.

#alhaitham smut #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham thirst #genshin smut #genshin impact smut

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thelovelymissbigbadwolf · 10 months ago

Text

The RPG disaster

Cloud always wanted to play RPG with his friends (if he were to have any) and he decided to go the simple way, something that he felt more safe leaning towards such as 7th Sea.

So he talks to everyone and explains that the system allows for a more theatrical kind of battle and that combat isn't the focus of it all, but rather their fun.

Sephiroth is interested, he's already been through combat enough daily and feels like it could be a break to not think too much about combat.

Genesis is DELIGHTED in the possibility of showing off his theatrical abilities.

Zack is super excited and supportive of his buddy.

Angeal isn't as thrilled as the others, as he never was a theater kid like Genesis for example nor have he ever had much interest in it at first, but decided to join them anyway.

Cloud then marks a day they can all have a session zero so he can help out with their sheets.

He sends each a copy of the playerbook and tells them to read about the nations and jobs and just think of something simple. Again, simple. It backfired horribly.

The session zero day came and Genesis has a total of 20 pages on his character's lore. Front and back.

Cloud: I am not reading this.

Genesis: What do you mean you're not reading?! It's your job. You have to know my character's lore.

Cloud: Genesis, I told you guys to make it simple. In what universe are 20 pages front and back SIMPLE?!

Genesis: Oh, PLEASE! I didn't even made his family tree!

Cloud: YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO!

At that moment, Zack had arrived with some energy drinks.

Zack: Heeeee-ey, what's going on?

Cloud: You see this?! *Flips the twenty pages* THIS is Genesis' character lore!

Genesis: It's just twenty pages! You read over four hundred pages of a RPG book just to deny my twenty pages?!

Zack: But he said it was supposed to be simple.

Genesis: IT IS!

Zack: Why twenty pages of lore, then?!

Genesis: I could've written a book on my character, but NO! I got soft and did something simple!

Cloud: UGH WHATEVER I'LL READ IT! But I'm gonna cut what I find useless, understand?

Genesis: Fine.

Cloud takes a marker and marks 95% percent of everything. Genesis is appalled.

Cloud: Alright. The ones that aren't mark, write it down somewhere.

Genesis: You've butchered him, my poor Jacques!

Cloud: I've improved it. Alright, lemme see yours, Zack.

Zack: On it! *He gives him a picture of Dante from Devil May Cry*

Cloud: ...? I don't get it, is this what your character looks like?

Zack: Nah, I'm gonna play as Dante!

Cloud: *sighes* Alright, that's something you can do. But, I'd REALLY rather you'd just do it from scratch, Zack.

Zack: Oh, okay.

Zack shrugs and borrows Cloud's book to check nations and jobs.

At that point, Angeal and Sephiroth had arrived, the two with the physical copies of the books in hands.

Cloud: What the hell? I sent you guys a digital copy, when did you... You know what, whatever. You guys came up with your characters?

Angeal: Yes, his name's Gerald and he's gonna be the healer.

Cloud: Oh, okay. Quite simple, what about the lore?

Angeal: What does a Star Trek character has to do with it?

Cloud: Oh god... Sephiroth, PLEASE, tell me you have something we can work with.

Sephiroth: Yes, my character is Trevor, he's from Inismore, a duelist, decided to focus on finesse since it'll serve lots when doing acrobatics on a boat. He was born on the capital, but moved to the coast. *Hands it over a character sheet PERFECTLY done*

Cloud: Oh! That's more like it! Simple, original and you even took into consideration the secret arts! Nice going.

Sephiroth: I also studied the rules and other nations and jobs. I can help correcting them.

Cloud: Oh, okay? Well, you got the character sheet right, why don't you go ahead with helping Zack with his character? I'm gonna help Angeal and Genesis is grounded because he overdid himself.

After that, Cloud sat down with Angeal and started to distributing the points. Angeal started arguing over his characters age affecting his points, because no matter the age, he had a good training routine and diet will help lots on a old age.

Cloud argues that affects jack shit in an RPG and they started yelling at each other.

Zack asks Sephiroth about Inismore and he started explaining the lore.

Genesis: You cut uncle Archibald?! He's the reason Jacques learns piano in the first place!

Angeal and Cloud are STILL arguing over the fact that his character can use magic and fight at the same time.

Cloud tries to explain that his character can't learn Hexe because he isn't born in Eisen.

Angeal argues that he fought in the war for thirty years and he can.

Cloud refutes that he wasn't born in Eisen. And thus, can't learn their magic.

Zack asks Sephiroth about Eisen, of which he starts explaining.

Genesis: How dare you cut my clarinet lessons out?! They were the therapeutical relief Jacques needed after his grandfather felt from his horse!

Now Angeal is arguing over not wanting to leave his mother behind and wanting to take her along so he can heal her illness.

Cloud refutes that it's gonna be a unnecessary drag for their session, since that would distract him too much.

Angeal counter argues that he won't leave without his mother.

Cloud tries to explain how much of a dead weight a ill relative would be at their one-shot.

Sephiroth tosses his book at Cloud.

Sephiroth: Do not talk like this of his mother!

Cloud gets pissed, but Angeal stops him from tossing the book back at Sephiroth.

Angeal: Thanks, Seph, but I can handle myself.

Sephiroth: You better be.

Angeal: ... You're not gonna romance my mother.

Sephiroth: WHY NOT?!

Genesis: NO! WHY CUT LITTLE LISA?! SHE'S JUST A BABY!

Cloud: EXACTLY! A BABY THAT, QUOTING YOU, IS A SEVENTH GRADE RELATIVE THAT YOUR CHARACTER DOESN'T EVEN KNOW!

A huge fight ensues, Zack is drinking his energy drink and eating chips as he just sees chaos ensue.

Sephiroth tries to hit Cloud, but punches Genesis.

Genesis pulls Angeal's hair.

Angeal tries to hit Genesis, but hits Sephiroth.

The trio started fighting and Cloud sneaked out of there, seating by Zack's side. He takes a energy drinks and the two share potato chips.

Later that night, the five are called in Lazard's office.

Tabletop RPGs are now forbidden in the SOLDIER floor.

#ff7 #ff7r #zack fair #ccff7 #ccff7r #cloud strife #ffvii #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #angeal hewley #genesis rhapsodos #rpg #7th sea #crisis core final fantasy vii

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arnica-wy · 3 days ago

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Bloodbuzz

Mind the tags, read responsibly -xo

Ari has garnered a decent following. 37k. Most of which come from her travel vlog. The ‘hike with me’ ASMR. Raw nature and wilderness, wildlife chittering, storms brewing. The crunch of footsteps accompanied by the soothing timbre of her voice. Quiet, thoughtful, perfect for nursery rhymes. Viewers assume she’s wholesome because of it, an imagined meekness from a purposeful temperament. Non-confrontational or problematic. A gentle chaste soul. What her followers don’t know is that Ari grew up in a strict household. Bed by nine. No dating without a chaperon. Attending Baptist sermons on Sunday, going to youth group lessons on Wednesday nights. Just for something to do, human connection. Despite not knowing her upbringing viewers still don’t consider her a sexual being. Sure, in their minds they might manipulate her likeness and fantasize. They don’t consider her having her own fantasies.

She’s as perverted as the next person. Questionable search history. Lingering looks. Rewinds. Bookmarks. Mouth salivating. Needful twisting in her abdomen. Body wanting, hands and mind wandering.

Mateo White Mateo Black

He’s perfect. Her favorite creator. Magnetic. Enthusiastic. Bilingual. Down to earth. Boy next door. Cruel neighbor. Best friend’s wicked older brother. Versatile. The flash of gold hoop in his ear. His dark locks, shorter on the sides, swept back. Right physique. Right attitude. Smooth voice. Rough broken English. Low rushed broken French. Gorgeous dick. Self-deprecating chuckle. Nasty scornful laugh when he’s portraying the other Mateo. He’s arrogant. Has no problem showing off when he’s telling a woman how he wants to take her. Or when he’s leaning forward to spit on his own dick during a solo recording. He talks to the audience, the counterparts, himself, all the same, ‘you want this’.

His content is vastly different from her own– she’s never posted anything more salacious than bikini photos. He’s almost always bare. Her eyes move over his sculpted body to the red heart inked above his dick, visible behind his trimmed pubes. She can’t stand how her insides churn looking at him. New and old content. Captured stills of women whose varying lipstick shades have smeared down his shaft. The faint bite marks against his waist and neck.

Why does she love him? Why doesn’t she care if he’d treat her like a dog or sunshine?

Etymology enthusiast. Ma.te.o. Gift. From. God. Melodic in enunciation. Matthais replaced Judas as the last of Jesus’ apostles after his betrayal. She doesn’t know the last name. Ari’s willing to bet it’s neither ‘Black’ nor ‘White’.

Virgins are exclusively featured on the ‘Mateo White’ profiles. Cutesy young women with blowouts in floral prints. On this page they engage in couples’ activities leading up to the night’s event. Hit all the ‘best date’ markers. Hand holding, them gently dragging him through museums or shaded orchards. To the pier or shoreline. Ice cream that dribbles and needs to be licked off thumbs. Sunhats and smiles. Sunglasses and pointing. At the parasailers, the seagulls, graffiti, or metallic painted buskers. It’s feelgood softcore porn. Warm, mushy, and nice.

There are mass forums, speculating how mean he is to virgins. Feminists who’re in an uproar about the full-length mirror selfies he posts. Completely naked, smeared bloody and half hard again. Heated debates ensue about who perpetuates the entanglement of sex and violence, ultra violence even. They argue that her doesn’t cater to the female gaze but rather bolsters himself as a primitive conqueror; war paint and all. ‘Women are treated like products.’ ‘They’re never given agency.’ ‘Men shouldn’t tell you want position to get in.’ ‘How do we know they’re actually of age.’

Conservatives think that his brand of degeneracy is why certain platforms need to be nuked. Under his videos are warnings of temptation, studies about abstinence and divorce rates statistics among non-practicing, non-religious heterosexual partnerships. All of these users have some sort of scripture in their bio with a handful of emojis and the @ of who their high school sweetheart / spouse is.

Ari bets outside of the theatrics, the real Mateo pays for dinner. That he has a sister or two that he loves and deeply respects. That he genuinely cares if he breaks a heart. That Mateo is behind one of the covid masks, in a pussyhat during a Women’s March or SlutWalk. That pain and hate sex are forms of play that consenting adults have the right to enjoy. Mateo never body shames or discriminates as either persona. In his tamer ‘White’ content he might occasionally fuck in a way that’s arguably aggressive. But he never calls the woman a slut. Each one gets a questioning ‘you okay princess’ in a thick accent. A ‘good girl’ or ‘you’re so nice to me’. And these women, even if done shyly, tell him how good it feels.

Mateo Black never bothers with courting. Perpetuating the narrative that sluts don’t need to brunch. Don’t enjoy gondola rides. They belong in the bedroom wearing minimal clothing, if any. They like being called what they are with a hand around their throat. Most of the women featured on ‘Black’ are covered in tattoos. They know how to deep throat. What sounds to make. They’re experienced and equally gorgeous compared to the ‘White’ playmates - only filthier. And these women. Some of them scream like they’re fighting off an attacker. But when he pulls out, they’re rolling onto their stomachs or getting on their knees in a doggy pose before he can finish his ‘you wanna’ –

Wanna stay on your back? On your side? Move to the chair in the corner? Go against the window? Let me finish in your mouth?

She’s tried to watch a stream of piss make it into a pretty eagerly awaiting mouth. She’s not there yet. A few seconds and she’s quickly scrolling. Ari thinks it’ll never be her thing. Looks. To make sure. In case one day her wiring might change.

She searches for the newest discourse surrounding him.

‘He doesn’t just fuck virgins.’ ‘Puritan liberals must have the most unfulfilling boring rubbing-two-pieces-of-cardboard-together sex.’ ‘You’re treating these barely legals like charity cases.’ ‘I have a crush… you’re not going to like who it is.’ ‘We don’t always see him use protection.’ ‘I wish He was gay.’ ‘He’s not just sex.’ ‘All he is is sex, here’s why that’s problematic.’ ‘I want to be his next black girl.’

There’s pressure to it now, hookup culture. In her mind she thinks, those girls are probably grateful to have someone with experience. If she’s getting it over with, she’d want it to be with someone nice. Sometimes he’s so soft it breaks her heart in a uniquely foreign way. She’s not filled with envy or jealousy. She’s grateful to him – on behalf of these women. His partners are precious to him. Like childhood memories. They’re given some level of modesty. A sheet will cover the lower half of their bodies. He’ll stay low and close. Moving in deep, but slow. He paces himself for the two of them. He whispers in their ears. Sometimes they giggle or sigh. Sometimes they get more vocal, and she imagines he says ‘princess, let go’ or ‘you’re doing so good for me’ or ‘I need to hear you’.

Ari could be featured on Mateo’s ‘White’ page thanks to her faith-minded parents. Be entitled to that softer side of him. See her bit of blood streaked against that heart tattoo. Some of it dotting his toned lower stomach. The blood from her hymen and white from their mixed cum coating his dick in a thin sheen as he goes soft. He won’t tell her to clean him off with her mouth, like he’s done with other women. Before they can reach for him, his fist’s in their hair, makes them look back up at him. ‘Aht. No using hands.’ It’s a thought that isn’t supposed to be expressed when he’s playing up that boyish side to him. The request is too filthy for someone inexperienced. Zero to one hundred. Too demanding to the lady that’s newly no longer a virgin.

Why am I not allowed to want this, to have it?

No one has come out against him. Previous collaborators have shown support by commenting hearts in new videos or pictures. Asking when they can have another playdate. Reposting old memories, reminiscing. Which is particularly funny because the images in question usually showcase messy facials, in hair, eyebrows, eyes, on tongues. His fingers stretching their open mouths.

‘Mateo Black allows him to lean into the villain role.’ ‘Black and White are two sides of the same coin.’ ‘Zero days since watching Mateo.’

She wants to be his. One in a long line. Wants her ‘one day and night’ that’s realistically multiple takes in the span of a few hours. She understands it’s actually unsexy. Behind the scenes and all. The conversations of consent, filming locations, preferences, boundaries, position, name calling; boxes to tick off. She still wants it. That meet and greet. His warm aura. The smell of his spicy expensive cologne against her. The smooth velvet of his skin and the vascular map along his body. Her tongue chasing the path of his sweat.

Ari can’t decide if she had to pick one. Sugar or spice. ‘Princess. Slut.’ Ari’d love Mateo berating her for being a whore as much as she wouldn’t mind their legs pretzeled around each other; in his lap, rocking into him, setting the pace while humid spring rain hit the tin roof. Mateo, smacking her ass, manhandling the meat of her ass cheek to show the camera - two million plus followers - how blood-flushed it’s getting from impact play. For his eyes only. For every single person he wants to share her image to.

She’d sound desperately sincere. Gasping to catch her breath, moaning at the catch of his tip against that maddening sweet spot that makes the fairer sex pliant. With him, if it’s him, she’ll turn dumb real quick.

Has porn ruined me? …That’s too grandiose and self-important. Has it corrupted most of us?

That old adage about moderation.

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testingforhope · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 11 - Broken Walls

My eyes slowly opened up to the world. My cheeks feel dry and my throat sore. The wolf pup is laying next to me, pressing its weight against my stomach. I raised my hand to meet its fur and it turned to look at me as quick as a lightning in a bottle.

“Hello there.” I said, a smile that felt strained appearing on my lips. “How did you sleep?”

Suddenly I remembered last night’s dream and rushed to the bookcase in front of me. I scanned it up and down, up and down, finally stopping on the most tattered book there. I may have thrown it a lot when writing in it, but that is neither here nor there. Picking up the book, I looked at the cover and there was a paper crown on the cover, the top of it peeling down.

I grazed my fingers over the skull and went to open it. The book was a little stuck together, but I managed to get it open. The edges were fragile and ripped from overuse.

I finally flipped to the right page. The mask of my past. The mask I was making to hang out with her. Will I ever see her again? Pushing that last thought away, I ran up the stairs to my room. The door swung open wide and I darted to my desk and started getting everything together.

I would need washi tape and some markers. I looked at the mask again and realised that I also needed some string. It also wouldn’t hurt to make it magically conceal my face. After getting everything together, I got started on putting it back in the intended shape. Time to get started!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later~

Finally! Hysteria put the mask on with one last deep breath. Her face seemed to have disappeared and been replaced with the skull mask she just made. If you tried to look under it, you would have probably seen the abyss.

She then took it off with another deep breath. Her eyes started shining, filling to the brim with tears. She set the mask down, closing her eyes and took another breath. She looked to where the mask was hanging and saw a photo that was taken years ago with a newer one from 3 months ago near it. The old one had her and Sofia in it, giving eachother a side-hug. Both of them were smiling so brightly, it looked like the whole day was bright and sunny as well.

The photo near it, however, was two pictures put together, both split down the middle. One side was Hysteria in her dining room, looking out the window at a sunrise. The other side had a picture from a newsletter. One with Queen Sofia on her coronation day. The thing is that she looks so sad and like she’s hoping that someone will take her away from this awful place for once and all.

When Hysteria was making it, the only thought going through her head was what the present would look like if they were still friends. Would they walk through Hysteria’s garden? Would they be playing on the castle grounds, Hysteria no longer having to hide with Sofia making the rules? Would they have tea parties while watching the sunset like they used to?

Those questions have no place in Hysteria’s brain, however, because Sofia is gone now and all that is left is Queen Sofia. That’s how it is and that is how it has been since they last saw each other at the age of 6. Hysteria ruined their friendship then, why would Sofia ever risk herself falling for that again?

As all these thoughts ran through Hysteria’s head, going in and out at the speed of light, the wolf pup climbed up the stairs and walked over to where Hysteria was. It then started rubbing its head against her leg, forcing her to calm down and sit, plus it got some pets out of it.

The little puppy had been there for this very difficult week, an unlikely friend if you will. Friend…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In a very different place~

Footsteps echoed in the large hallways. Her breath quickened as it always did. Then the large door swung open in the most gentle way possible. Everyone thought she was made of fine china. That she was a porcelain doll sitting on the biggest shelf in the kingdom.

“Your Majesty. A moment?”

#testing for hope #original story #oc

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diefxrguns · 2 years ago

Text

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓

✯pairings- erwin smith x afab!reader

✯a/n- might be some mistakes, apologies. Do not share on tiktok without my permission. not glamourising pedophilia, Y/N is 18

✯synopsis- your teacher develops strong feelings for a specific girl in his classroom

✯ c/w- smut, teacher x student relationship. choking, spanking, and more- not comfortable? dont read.

"teacher's pet, if I'm so "special. Why am I a secret?" ✧

Your eyes couldn't concentrate on the board infront of you, never in your life have you felt this way for somebody.

Despite all the love letters from boys in your class and offers to go out on dates, boys your age-just didn't do it for you. Ya know.

There was always something about older fellows, but not to old. Maybe 25-35 since you were 18. It was appropriate after all- well for some people atleast.

Your mother would die if she saw the things that kept you up at night, on your laptop a stash of porn videos. All in the same category of porn. You had a thing for manthers, not the creepy pedophilic one's. The men who are like 30 with 20 year old girlfriends. Sounds normal right.

So when your new teacher entered the classroom, you almost fell out of your seat. His arms, his hair, everything about this man was just so fucking sexy.

He wore a blue button up shirt, that was long sleeved, but the sleeves were rolled up a bit- revealing his toned forearms. His pants were black and his blonde hair was combed back.

He had to be in his early 30's, but my God did he look so delicious.

He's an English, History and Biology teacher so he would be teaching you English and History, since those are the classes you had.

He started off by introducing himself, and went straight to work. Instructing the class to open their books on page 116. He got down to business, you could tell he was one- track minded.

His voice was so deep and demanding, but somewhat calm and smooth. He explained the work diligently. Making sure everyone understood the English lesson- before dismissing the class and closing the whiteboard marker.

As the days passed you did nothing but gawk at him, in classes you barley even payed attention. And oh- he knew you weren't listening. How your pretty eyes just stared into space, he knew exactly what you were looking at. He's way smarter then he looks.

There was one particular day, after class. You were looking at him the whole time, and he knew- but it bugged him because exams were coming up and you never took notes once. He knew your grades were sky high, and he didn't want you to fail your examinations. So he called you after class.

" Miss Y/N, please stay behind and take a seat" he said, as you were on your way out the classroom.

" Yes" you said in timid voice because of how shy and slightly intimidated you were

The older man sat on a chair opposite you, his back hunched and his elbows on his knees, he removed his glasses and looked you directly in the eye

" You're not paying attention, you think I don't know, you think I don't see how much you're looking into space during my lessons"

" Mr Smith, I'm really sorry " you said with fake sympathy, in all honesty you didn't give a fuck about his lessons. He's eye candy- who wouldn't look at him.

"Your results went from 93 to 50, your practice test results where lower then I expected. A five star student, became mediocre over night. I advise you tell me what's on your mind Y/N" he said straightening his posture and leaning back, never breaking eye contact with you

" Mr Smith, I've just been distracted lately, ya know, Like something is really troubling me". What you just said was true, something was bugging you. Everytime this fine ass man opens his mouth, breathes or even looks your way you cream your pants, leaving a stain on your lacey panties. That's the real problem.

" Ah, I see. Well, as your teacher I suppose you need to trust me with whatever it is you're going through. You need to get it out of your system so we can work through this" he said

" Well, I...um, i- I got dumped by my ex boyfriend and.. well he, he really hurt me. Its bothered me alot" you lied through your teeth, you never had a boyfriend. You just said that so that Erwin could feel sorry for you.

Immediately Erwin stood up and knelt down to your level, holding your hand gently. In this moment your heart was racing, you didn't know how to react.

What the fuck was actually going on here? Your teacher( crush) was kneeling down holding your hand, this was to much to handle.

" Y/N, I need you to not focus on other boys ok- they're a waste of time, I need you to think about bigger things. Like college and a husband maybe? You need a man that's going to take care of you, love you..."

Your chest was rising up and down as you took intense breathes, he was so close to you. His warmth was radiating off his big body onto your smaller one.

" After school I'll take you to my place, so that I can prepare you for upcoming examinations... Sound ok?" He asked as he stood up fixing his tie and getting his things

" ye-yes, it sounds awesome" you said standing up in a hurry and giving your teacher a big smile.

Everyday afterschool Erwin took you to his home.

He lived in a very spacious house, it was small but modern and fancy. A two story home with two bedrooms and two bathrooms.

He had two cats aswell, a grey one and a white one. Grey one named Oscar and the white one named Bunny.

His home smelled like vanilla and sandalwood, it was clean with grey and white accents. He obviously lived alone, but damn how can such a handsome and astound man be single.

He sat you at the dining room table with your books and tutored you, and helped you make notes for your exams.

He spent three hours after school tutoring you.

You were beyond grateful for this opportunity, because it made you and Erwin closer.

Even though you never really spoke about personal things, subconsciously your souls were somewhat aligned. Almost like you had a connection that you couldn't explain or describe, you just felt comfortable around each other.

A little to comfortable

After examinations, you stopped going to Erwin's home. There was no need afterall, I mean he stopped tutoring you because exams were over.

In all honesty you missed it, you missed him. So one afternoon you went to his house to give him some treats, just to say thank you.

You knocked on his door, patiently waiting for him to open it

And in that very moment your heart shattered, the pain you felt when the door opened, only to be greeted by an older women, her late 20's to be precise. Her ginger/ strawberry blonde hair was wavy and shiny. And her body was curvaceous and slim

Her nails painted red, she wore a tight black dress and heels, with pearls around her neck- and the cherry on top of the cake, was the 24K diamond ring she wore on her ring finger, indicating she is married.

Your face went red, not with anger. But with sadness, you felt like a fucking idiot. Falling for you teacher.

" Oh hello dear, you must be Erwin's student, please come inside. He must be thrilled to see you" she said, in a nice tone of voice as she let you inside

" Erwin! Honey, your student is here to see you" she yelled for her " husband" as she told you to sit and offered you a cup of tea

" Oh my, Y/N. This is rather unexpected. Why have you come?" Erwin asked as he dried his hair, obviously he just came out the shower.

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, your eyes were visibly watery indicating you were about to burst into tears.

But you had to suck it up, and pretend like nothing was wrong

" I..I um- I brought you some gifts, just to say thank you for helping me with studying" you said handing him the gift bag

A smile appeared on Erwin's face as he opened the bag filled with chocolates, and sweets . But at the bottom of the gift bag was a letter, expressing your feelings to Erwin- and how you really felt about him.

He opened the letter silently, and reading it rather quickly before clenching his jaw, his smile faded into a puzzling expression. And he looked at you for a mere second before sitting on the barstool next to you.

His wife still making tea for the both of you including herself.

" So Y/N isn't it? How is school treating you?" She asked sitting across from you and Erwin.

" Well... Its, it's, it's great actually. Thanks to Mr Smith, your husband." You said, in a fake- nice tone of voice.

She didn't catch on to your obvious sarcasm but Erwin knew exactly how you felt about her, as said before he's smarter then he looks.

" Oh well, Erwin here isn't my husband, not yet. He's actually my fiance, we're getting married...soon I suppose" she said giving you a smile and sipping on her tea.

" That's wonderful news" you said sipping the tea.

Erwin sat in silence, drinking his tea and staring elsewhere, not daring to make eye contact with you or his fiance.

" Oh my, I haven't even introduced myself. I'm Mari Dawk" she said flashing you another smile.

" You see Smith and I met in our military days, he just caught my eye, he was one with the ladies too. She said waffling on about how her and Erwin met and how they got together. But in all honesty you weren't listening, frankly you didn't care, you were to hurt to listen to these stories.

She talked to much, but she was extremely friendly. You could see why Erwin was engaged to her, Mari would make a wonderful mother.

A few minutes passed and it was time for you to leave. You couldn't spend more time in this house, with Erwin and this woman.

So you said your goodbyes and offered to clean up.

"Can I help with anything, washing my mug?" You asked Mari

" No that won't be necessary Y/N, go home and get some rest it's late " said Erwin in a monotone voice.

You shut the door behind you and made your way home...

A few days passed and your behaviour changed drastically, you barely ate and you no longer enjoyed your usual habits.

You were on a break so you never saw Erwin.

When school was back on, you payed attention in class and actually wrote notes. He noticed your change in attitude towards him.

You no longer smiled at him when you entered to classroom, you no longer greeted him or said goodbye.

It was like you changed...

When the history lesson was over, you were the last student to pack your bag. Getting ready to leave, when Erwin closed the classroom door, locking it

" Why did you lock the door? I need to go home it's afterschool" you said in a cold tone of voice, not looking at him once, packing your textbooks into your backpack.

" Y/N, please stop this little act you're doing. You think I don't what you're up to? " Erwin said standing with his hands in his pockets, a few steps away from you.

" I don't care, if you don't mind I'd like to leave Mr Smith. I don't have time for this. If it isn't about schoolwork I'm not interested" you said

" The letter you wrote to me, well... It made me emotional Y/N" he said stepping closer and closer to you, only inches away

At this point you felt so broken and drained, it wasn't exactly his fault. How was he supposed to know you liked him and besides it's his life, he can't just dump his fiance for you.

" Mr Smith, I appreciate everything you've done. I'm sorry for that letter, I wasn't in the right head space. I just had a small crush, it was nothing serious. Please go back home to your wife and forget everything. " You said tears threatening to spill from your eyes as those words were so hard to say.

You couldn't lie anymore, you loved Erwin Smith. His smile, the way he comforted you and motivated you. His kindness, his leadership, his empathy. Everything about him lured you in. You still had feelings for him, you tried ignoring them and ignoring him. But truthfully you were hooked like a worm on a fishing rod.

As you were about to walk past him, he grabbed your arm. Forcing you back to him, his arm was strong. At this point you couldn't break free from his hold, even if you tried.

He held your waist, and placed a hand on your back rubbing it gently.

Things were getting out of hand, luckily there were no surveillance in his classroom.

" Y/N, I know I hurt you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry for leading you on. Truthfully I knew you liked me, I knew from day one. And I liked you too. Not in a daughter way, I like you romantically, I don't have feelings for Mari anymore. She cheated on me with one of my friends, and she came back. The only reason I let her back into my life was because my morals were telling me, that loving you is wrong. " The blonde man said with pain in his voice, he was being serious, he was genuine.

A passionate kiss was placed upon your pink lips as Erwin held you tightly in his arms.

Your hands made their way to his neck, rubbing the back of his neck slowly. Enjoying the kiss.

Erwin began to move his hands from your waist to your ass, lifting up your skirt as he squeezed your cheeks.

He broke away from the kiss

" Do I have your consent Y/N?" He asked as he looked you dead in the eye waiting for you to respond

" Yes, yes you have my consent" you said.

He kissed you even more, before bending you over his desk. Only to pull your panties down

" hmm, won't you look at that hey. All wet for me already, I haven't even touched this pussy yet"

He began rubbing your folds gently, making you whimper from every touch.

Erwin flipped you over, you sat on his large desk with you legs spread for him to see.

He unbuttoned your school shirt and threw it elsewhere.

And unclipped your bra, letting your pretty breasts drop.

He couldn't believe it, the sight of your pretty body, made him so fucking hard.

He gave you a kiss before flipping you back over again and kneeling down to your pussy. His tongue flicked across your already- wet folds, earning moans from you everytime.

He eventually inserted his cock into your pussy, fucking you slowly at first. Gradually he fucked you even faster, causing you to moan loudly.

Echo's could be heard throughout the empty classroom, as well as moans and pants.

The both of you came a few times, before deciding it'll be best to leave the school, before you both got caught doing your lewd activities.

And after cleaning up the classroom and getting dressed, Erwin grabbed you and kissed you once again

The words " I love you" falling from his lips

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singular-braincells · 3 years ago

Text

howdy party people, guess who got into genshin impact? its me. good news, hot people. bad news, subjecting all of you to ramblings about said hot people.

i am so salty over not being able to pull thoma during the yae miko banner so here i am thinking about fictional people as a sad coping mechanism. anyways, thanks for coming to my ted talk

not proof read brain go brr i will fix in the morning when braincells decide to function again and maybe went a lil overboard with diluc 🙃

genshin characters (kaeya, lisa, and diluc) when they see you napping

kaeya

draws weird shit on your face with a permanent black marker

kidding lol

you just came back from doing multiple commissions and helping out the acting grand master with a horrendous amount of paper work

working since six am till about one in the afternoon, lisa forced asked you and jean to take a break

she took jean to the angel’s share tavern and promised to bring you lunch from good hunter’s. you went to an empty unused room in the knight’s headquarters to take a short break

you pulled out a book lisa had lent you and went to an unoccupied couch in the room. located next to the window, you could feel the sunshine on your skin and see the clear skies out

flipping through pages of your book, the warm sensation on your skin along with the minimal hours of sleep you got the night before had pulled you into a much needed nap. feeling your eyelids getting heavy and your breathing slowing down, you feel yourself succumbing to an afternoon nap

your normal aware and alert state that being an adventurer has refined over the years has left you vulnerable as you continue to doze off. kaeya considered himself lucky when he accidentally came into this room looking for jean

your relationship with kaeya was a bit odd, not gonna lie. you thought he was nothing more than a big alcoholic flirt who wanted nothing more than to inconvenience you. kaeya thought you were way too uptight for your young age and wanted to somehow crack the serious front that you put on (he knows that there is a nicer side to you, he has seen you interact with kids. the serious mannerisms falls and all that’s left is a kind and playful young soul)

luckily kaeya didn’t wake you up, he always thought you were kinda cute but with the way that the sun hits your face, the way your hands carefully clutch your novel, and the particular way that your chest goes up and down... he could feel his chest just tighten up a little bit (not that he would ever admit that)

for once, kaeya decides to be a nice person and drapes his tacky fur coat over you. he notices part of your hair covering your face and moves his slender hands to brush it out of your face and behind your ear. “my, you are awfully cute when you’re not always overworking yourself.”

kaeya leaves a cup of ice water for you on a nearby table and a note for you for when you wake up. maybe he’s not too much of an inconvenience. you’ll thank him by buying him a couple of drinks at angel’s share next time you see him stumble in after your shift

lisa

you were tasked with being lisa’s little library helper by the knights (something you personally didn’t mind, it was better than having to babysit kaeya at the tavern)

lisa needed help putting away recently returned books while she ran some errands for the acting grand master

she gave you a list of the books that have been returned and where they needed to go. she apologies for leaving the work for you and promises that she’ll make the two of you some tea when she returns

you tell her to not worry about it since it’s the reason why you are here helping her in the first place. “why, thank you cutie. i’ll be back right before you know it” you wouldn’t admit this to her, but every time she calls you “cutie”, you melt on the inside like a popsicle in summer heat

you wave goodbye to her as she leaves the library, trying to keep your flushed face out of lisa’s sight

you looked up to lisa, like a lot. the way she was able to handle the knights’ workload and to be able to maintain the library without breaking a sweat. the way that she effortlessly makes you feel giddy just from the way she talks to you. every hug that she gives you is like a slight squeeze to your heart

determined to make lisa’s workload easier, you get to work by sorting out the returned books by author’s last names alphabetically

hours go by before lisa returns to the library and you manage to go through 90% of the books and have tried putting them in the right spots

the only books that were remaining were books checked out from the restriction section. you’d have to ask lisa for help with those books

there was one book on the shelves that had caught your eye when you were working. taking it off the shelves, you go to a quieter area of the library to read your book. there was a rather big leather chair next to two potted plants

cracking open the book, you begin to read the pages leisurely while waiting for lisa’s return so that she can help you with the rest of the books

you can feel your eyes droop and the somewhat shady area you were in made you want to sleep even more. you notice this and shake yourself awake. you had to stay up in case lisa returned.

well that was short lived because before you knew it, you were out. snoozing peacefully, you didn’t realize that lisa had returned by the opening of oak doors at the opening of the library

lisa kept calling out your name, tea and lunch hot in her hands. she wanted to take you to the benches located by the knight’s headquarter entrance to eat lunch

what she didn’t expect is to see you sleeping soundly with a novel in your hands. “how cute.” lisa thinks to herself as she sets down the food and drinks in her hands

she leaves for a brief moment to go to her desk. opening the drawer, she retrieves a soft grey blanket and heads back to your sleeping form

she drapes the blanket over you and takes the book from your hands and sets it on a table next to the chair

lisa pats the top of your head and tucks you in, doing her best to not wake you up. “we can have lunch as soon as you wake up cutie.”

diluc

you and diluc were good friends (well at least you thought you were good friends, didn’t want to ask him though in case y’all weren’t friends lol) who occasionally helped you out with your commissions. in return, you would help out in the angel’s share in place for charles (for emergencies or just to give the poor man a break from all the drunks)

you had learned all the bartending ways from your grandmother and grandfather. you don’t consider yourself a very very good bartender, but good enough to keep customers happy

you weren’t one to keep up with all the various holidays that the city of mondstat celebrated, but you kept track of holidays in case the angel’s share needed an extra set of hands during busy days

diluc would normally be the one to approach you when they needed help (he knew where to find you anyways)

today’s commissions seem to be piling on more and more for some reason. many adventurers took off for a holiday, but it had slipped your mind

thinking that today was like any other normal day, you tried to finish as many commissions as possible. hilichurls, finding lost animals, delivering packages, and everything in between

by the time the evening arrived, you were beat. ecstatic to finally be able to go home, you head towards katheryne to claim the commission rewards for when you see diluc

“oh, good evening master diluc. didn’t expect to see you here this late.” waving at him, you flash him a tired smile

as you hand katheryne all the commissions that you’ve completed, diluc and you make casual conversation

“that reminds me, would you mind giving charles an extra hand tonight? it’s rather packed in the angel’s share and he could really use the extra help.” there goes your plans for resting tonight. you didn’t want to say no to diluc and you didn’t have plans anyways

“uh sure. let me finish a couple of tasks first and i’ll be there as soon as possible.” diluc nods and thanks you. “of course. don’t mention it”

you finish whatever tasks you had left as quickly as possible and head over to the angel’s share. when you came in, it really was packed to the brim with adventurers, citizens, and entertainers alike

you go behind the bar and greet charles as you get to work. tying a black apron around your waist, you put on a tired smile and start whipping drinks together

hours and hours pass but as the most people know, time flies fast when you’re working hard. you don’t notice your fatigue and the screams of your body telling you to rest

after the last drunk has been kicked out from the bar, the two of finally have a seat. a huge sigh of relief escapes your lips as you take a large sip of water

“thank you so much for your help tonight, (y/n). i really couldn’t have done it without you.” you brush off charles appreciation. “not a problem. it had slipped my mind that today was special. would have come in earlier had i remembered.”

you don’t notice, but diluc slips into the enterance of the bar to help you and charles clean up after a chaotic night. you glance up from your seat to see him, all in his bartender fit glory (you think he looks like 10000 times better in this outfit but would never tell that to his face)

“nice to see you again master diluc.” he nods towards you. “likewise. how was tonight?” him and charles seem to be talking, but none of what they’re saying is processing through your head. feeling your head pound, you decide to put your head down on the table and close your eyes for a brief moment

as soon as your head is in your arms, you doze off. after the large amount of commissions and mixing drinks / tending to customers all night long, you hadn’t realized how exhausted you were

diluc noticed that you hadn’t given your input on anything for the past 10 minutes and turns his head in your direction. he notices the slow rise of of your chest

diluc feels awful for making you work so late and hadn’t even realized the state you were in before asking you to help out at the share. normally he would have noticed your exhaustion, but being busy with preparations for a busy night he hadn’t taken it into consideration. he sighs and takes off his coat. diluc glances at the goosebumps on your skin and puts his warm jacket over you

he and charles clean up the bar while you nap peacefully. after the bar is clean, diluc sends charles home. by the looks of it, you’re gonna be out cold for the whole night. he lifts you up and takes you to an unoccupied couch

somehow, you don’t stir in your sleep at all. diluc gets a small pillow and puts your head on it, moving slow and carefully.

while you are slumped over the couch, diluc uses his coat to cover you as a blanket. there's enough space on the couch for diluc to take a seat next to you

before you know it, he's fast asleep next to you. another idiot prone to overworking himself to exhaustion

#genshin x reader #genshin x you #kaeya x reader #kaeya alberich x reader #genshin lisa x reader #diluc scenarios #kaeya headcanons #lisa headcanons #diluc headcanons #diluc ragnivindr x reader #kaeya scenarios #lisa scenarios

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quartzelaii · 2 years ago

Text

Perfectly Aligned

CHAPTER II

— L/N Y/N, best friend to Kageyama Tobio since age 6. L/N Y/N, the object of all Tsukishima Kei's desires since age 15.

Masterlist

CHAPTER I ➛ CHAPTER II ➛ CHAPTER III

word count: 11k

"How's that poster design coming along? Good, I'm hoping?" Nakano Miyaka, the Arts Club president, hovers over the table like a bespectacled hawk. Her thick glasses almost make her eyes look comically huge with the way she surveys the club room like some sort of cliché cranky supervisor from an office sitcom.

The Arts Club room is small and dingy, probably the smallest and dingiest room in prestigious Shiratorizawa. The four walls perpetually smell of acrylic paint and marker ink from paintings and other artwork that take too long to dry. The desks and chairs are stained with various pigments, courtesy of those hard-headed club members who always forget to put down newspaper before working on their projects.

Upon enrolling in high school, you had trouble finding a new club to pledge yourself to since you've said good bye to volleyball. When you were a kid, one of your favorite way to pass the time aside from playing volleyball is messing around with whatever coloring materials you could find in your pencil case— crayons, watercolors, those small pots of poster color that smell like expired medicine. You'd take your time creating your own masterpiece. More often than not, it would actually turn out good and your Dad would display it by the fridge or frame it to hang in the living room. You enjoyed making art for him, that was until he and your mother divorced. Suddenly, it didn't make sense to continue doing art anymore.

However, on your first day of school at Shiratorizawa, you were handed a flyer for the Arts Club by Miyaka herself who was scouting new recruits at the time. Perhaps it was her overly-enthusiastic persona, or maybe it was because the prospect of making art again made you feel nostalgic— either way, it only took three minutes of convincing before you were signing up.

Miyaka instantly took a liking to you. You're an efficient and productive member of the club, adamant on creating a good first impression on your clubmates. Not long after that, Miyaka has appointed you as the club's Secretary even though you're still a first year. You accepted the honor with much eagerness.

"Just tweaking a few things and then it's ready to be printed." Came the monotonous reply of the club's vice president, currently hunched back over his laptop.

"A few things, huh?" Miyaka gives a pointed look at him then at the laptop's screen. "Seems to me like you still have a lot to tweak considering the page is still freakin' blank."

Aoki Raiden groans and leans back against his chair, pulling the strings on his hoodie so the fabric engulfs his face.

"Please get off my back, Miyaka-san. I literally can't work with you watching me all the damn time."

Miyaka yanks the hood off his head. "I gave you a week to finish the poster design, Rai. We're already behind schedule as it is."

"You do know the festival isn't until October, right? It's still the middle of August, not to mention it's summer break. Stop being such a worrywart. We have plenty of time." Raiden drawls as his fingers clack on his laptop's keyboard. From where you're sitting, you can see the interface of Twitter on the screen, the poster design's editing page has been minimized and is now completely abandoned.

"I dedicated the whole summer break to work on our booth so we don't have to worry about it once school starts." Miyaka puts her hand on her hips in an attempt to assert authority. "Us third years are gonna be super busy by September and I won't have time to supervise this club by then. You really have to be more considerate, you know."

"Ugh, fine. Give me three days and I'll send you the final design."

"No, are you kidding me? You have until tomorrow to finish that."

Raiden glares at the club president but doesn't complain any more. Reluctantly, he pulls out the editing software again and begins working, but not without complaining all the way.

Miyaka then turns to you who are currently writing on your notepad at the corner of the room, a calculator sitting on your lap. "How about our budget plan, Y/N-chan? Has it been taken care of yet?"

"Yep, I've added both what we've spent so far and the estimation of how much we'll be spending once we build the booth itself." You say, tapping your pen on the notepad. "I made a table for it, too, Miyaka-san, so there won't be any confusion. I'll give the printed copy to you tomorrow."

You rummage through your notepad, checking your various notes from the days before. "I've also checked in with Ryo-san and the other second-years earlier. They're about 50% done with the mural but they ran out of paint so they had to order more. Their expenses are already accounted for, by the way."

"See? That's what a responsible club member looks like. You should really learn a thing or two from your kouhai. Seriously, I should have fired you as vice president and appointed her instead."

Raiden can only sneer in response, both at you and Miyaka. His typing becomes more aggravated by the second.

"And what about the piece you'll be showcasing at the silent auction?" The bespectacled third-year asks you again.

"Also done but it's still drying. I used oil paint."

"Great! I'm thinking of making that our centerpiece."

"What?" Raiden almost jumps from his seat. "How about my clay sculpture of Bourgeois' Spider? You told me it's gonna be the centerpiece!"

"Well, we can't actually showcase something you haven't even started on yet, can we? Tell you what, show me the finished product and I might actually change my mind."

"I'm getting on it! Just stop pestering me about it! God!"

Miyaka says something snarky in retaliation but you don't hear it. You're busy looking at the clock mounted on the wall to hear about the bickering of your two upperclassmen. The clock reads 2:28 PM. Tobio texted you an hour ago saying that they've defeated their first opponent and were currently waiting for their next match. You're almost buzzing in your seat in worry that you won't be able to catch it.

"Miyaka-san, I was wondering if I could leave early today? I'm supposed to watch the boys volleyball at the Sendai City Gymnasium."

"Eh? But I was told Shiratorizawa isn't playing today. Something about them being too good?"

"Oh, yeah, they won the Inter High so they're already seeded in the Qualifiers." You nod. "I'm actually gonna watch Karasuno."

"Why? Is your boyfriend in there?" Miyaka wiggles her eyebrows. You know it's just a playful teasing but you can't help getting flustered. Your cheeks heat up almost immediately. You hate how you always have this reaction.

"No, just my best friend."

"Yeah, right." Miyaka rolls her eyes with a sly smirk on her lips. "Everybody knows best friend is, like, code for boyfriend"

You reiterate rather defensively that Tobio is just a friend despite Miyaka clearly not believing you. It always entertains you whenever she teases and badgers Raiden but when you're on the receiving end of it, you don't think it's amusing anymore. Only when your face is about the shade of a ripe tomato did Miyaka stop her teasing, but not without giggling about how agitated you look about the whole thing.

Eventually, she grows tired of joking around and agrees to your request.

"No fair! How come she gets to go?" Raiden whines. The way he pouts and crosses his arms like that reminds you of one of those spoiled kids who throw temper tantrums in malls. He's a few months older than you but you forget that with how childish he acts sometimes.

"For one, she's actually been very productive today and she deserves an early out."

"What, just because she's the Darling Setter of Miyagi, she's free to watch volleyball anytime?"

Miyaka cocks her head to the side. "Darling what of Miyagi?"

"Setter. It's just a nickname I got when I used to play volleyball back in middle school." You wave it off as if it's no big deal— though you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel the warm swell of pride in your chest upon hearing that nickname again after so long.

"Which is cringe and tacky, by the way." Raiden rolls his eyes, something you're now accustomed to seeing. You stick your tongue to him which he responds by sticking his tongue back to you. You don't take offense whenever Raiden eggs on you like that because you know he doesn't really mean it— it's just the way he is. To be honest, you have grown quite fond of his salty remarks, and sometimes, you even participate whenever he initiates a lighthearted squabble.

"I knew you used to play volleyball but I didn't know you were famous. Should I ask for your autograph?" Miyaka leans against your desk with an impressed look on her face.

"As much as I want to sign stuff for you, Miyaka-san, I don't think my autograph is worth anything anymore." You hope your response is buoyant enough to hide the fact this is a sore topic for you. You still haven't fully come into terms that you're not a volleyball player anymore.

"You really sure it's okay that I leave early?" You hastily add as an attempt to steer the conversation.

The bespectacled third-year taps her chin in thought as she looks at Raiden who is brooding in the corner. "You know what? I'm actually in the mood to watch some volleyball, too. Can I go with you, Y/N?"

"Of course, you can. I never pegged you as a volleyball fan, though."

"Oh, I'm not." She chuckles as she tidies up her desk. "But my boyfriend is such a nerd for it so I figured I should try to appreciate it more."

"Oh? You have a boyfriend?." Your brows shot up in surprise at this fact.

"You don't have to look so surprised about it, but yes. We made it official two weeks ago. We're keeping it lowkey. Not many people know yet."

"Oh my god," You hear Raiden's trademark exasperated sigh before he closes his laptop with a muddled thud. "A lot of people know you're dating Tendou-san. You can't say it's lowkey if it's all over your Twitter. Also, that whole will-you-be-my-girlfriend shenaniganhe did by the congregating area? Yeah, thatwasn't as cute as you think it was. He littered so much confetti that day, it looked like a unicorn threw up all over the place. Our class had to clean that up while you and your boyfriend made out behind the gym. You thought we didn't see that, huh? Well, we did!"

"Jesus, Raiden, that's not your story to tell!" shrieks Miyaka. The sound of it has you flinching.

Miyaka and Raiden commence yet another wrangle with the former chastising the latter for exposing her love life like that. Whenever something like this happens, you always give the two of them a couple of minutes before both of them cool down and continue on normally as if nothing happened. On your first few weeks with this club, you did think that this constant spat between the president and vice president was a bit too much for your liking— but then you learned soon enough that Miyaka and Raiden have been friends since middle school, and them fighting is a common occurrence, almost always not personal. They are actually really solid friends when both of them are in a good mood.

Your two upperclassmen finally reach an impasse. You haven't been listening to their argument so you don't exactly know how they went from Miyaka getting mad at Raiden for disclosing info about her love life, to Miyaka inviting Raiden to watch volleyball with you. You were busy putting away the papers and stationaries into their respective drawers when you heard Miyaka ask if Raiden wanted to come to the Sendai Gymnasium instead of being a whiny little bitch (the exact phrase she used). The way she worded the invite was a bit unorthodox but you know well enough that she just invited him so Raiden wouldn't feel left out when the two of you leave. She really cares for him in that way.

Their friendship is weird, you think to yourself as Raiden sassily agrees to go. You didn't plan on having company at Tobio's game, but your two senpai are alright companions— there are worse people to be stuck with.

"Maybe after the game, the three of us could go for some yakiniku." Miyaka has locked the club room and is now bouncing on the balls of her feet at her suggestion.

"As long as you're paying, then it's fine by me." Raiden lags behind you and Miyaka as the three of you set off.

"If you had given me the poster design today, maybe I'd have considered treating you— but you didn't, so no yakiniku for you."

"I have money. I can pay for my own yakiniku, thank you very much."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Tobio's name pops up on the screen with a text that has you widening your eyes.

"Guys, the game is starting in fifteen minutes! We have to hurry!"

You clutch your bag tight as you begin to sprint towards the gates. Miyaka and Raiden follow suit staggeringly. The former is shouting for you to slow down while the latter grumbled annoyedly to himself about regretting his decision to come.

The bus ride from Shiratorizawa to the Sendai City Gymnasium was fortunately quick. Though the game has probably already started, you still drag Miyaka and Raiden into a convenience store so you can get some snacks to give to Tobio after the game. Miyaka doesn't miss this opportunity to tease you further about being head-over-heels in love with your best friend, which you tried to ignore but couldn't help getting defensive over.

After paying for your stuff, you practically yank the two of them by their shirts into the stadium.

By the time you've arrived at the stands, the whole place is already buzzing with cheers from the crowd. There aren't many supporters because it's only the preliminaries but the air is still thick with excitement and anticipation.

It takes you three seconds to locate Karasuno's black and orange uniform in the court. The first set of their game against Kakugawa has already started. The scoreboard tells you that Kakugawa is leading at 2-0, though years of playing volleyball has taught you that it's still too early to gauge the trajectory of the game.

"That's Karasuno." You tell your companions, pointing at the court in front of you.

"Uh-huh, and which one's your boyfriend?" Miyaka cranes her neck and squints her near-sighted eyes to see the players better.

"Not a boyfriend." You remind her. "He's. No. 9."

"So tall!" You hear Miyaka emit a yelp. You follow her gaze and realize she's not looking at Tobio— she's looking at the opposing team's No. 9, who is probably the tallest high schooler you've ever laid your eyes on. He could be about two-meters tall, maybe even more. For a moment, you wonder what this would mean for Karasuno— a two-meter giant like that is surely a pain to play against. You'd hate to see Tobio's team lose just because of the overwhelming advantage Kakugawa has.

"I meant the black team's No. 9." You nudge her by the shoulder and point at Tobio in the other side of the court who is currently conversing with his teammates about what to do during the next rally. During his years at Kitagawa Daichi, he used to despise communicating with his team, but now you can see that he has changed so drastically. He looks more confident now, more open. You smile at this realization.

Miyaka nods approvingly upon seeing Tobio, commenting that he's tall and cute. She even goes as far as to say that he suits you perfectly and that you look good together, which elicits a flustered squeak from you.

You remain silent after that. You follow Tobio's form as he expertly maneuvers the ball across the court. You cheer whenever Karasuno scores and gasps in dejection whenever the other team does. You don't think Tobio knows you're here yet— not once has he looked at your direction since you arrived, not that you're expecting him to look for you. You understand completely well that the only thing that has his undistracted attention during the game is the ball itself.

Raiden grumbles about you being too loud, but you beg to differ— you're just getting fired up. Little does he know that your loudest cheer is yet to come.

The first time you see Tobio and Hinata's new quick attack is when you lose your mind, screaming and applauding until both your throat and palms felt sore. It's just so thrilling to see it firsthand, especially as a former setter yourself. Normal people may see it and think it's just a flashy move, but you know how much precision and concentration a setter has to master before executing such a technique.

Your best friend really is a genius.

"Nice toss, Tobio!" You shout. You doubt he heard you among the collective astonishment of the crowd. You're so fired up that Raiden has to poke you on your ribs to bring you to reality.

After that first quick attack, your focus is now entirely on the game, occasionally turning to Miyaka whenever she has some technical questions about what's going on in the court. Even though you learned that she's dating Tendou Satori, she doesn't seem to be all that informed about volleyball yet. Raiden remains quiet as he leans against the hand rail, observing the game with a bored countenance— though there's this one instance when he groans disappointedly when Karasuno's ace botched his jump serve. You find it amusing that this Shiratorizawa student has started rooting for Karasuno as well.

You're here to support Karasuno as a whole but you still can't help being biased. You can't seem to tear your gaze away from Tobio— so much so that the other members of the team seem like faceless characters in the background. You see them all moving and you're aware of each member's efforts but you're bewitched by Tobio. You can't not look at him.

All that changed, however, when he steals the crowd's attention with a monster kill block.

For the first time that day, your focus settles on Tsukishima.

Honestly speaking, you kind of forgot he was even in the team. If it weren't for that superb kill block he did, you would have went along the entire game not acknowledging his existence. All of a sudden, though, the attention you're giving Tobio isn't undivided anymore— Tsukishima has half of it now.

"Whoa, he stopped that ball all by himself like what Satori does." You hear Miyaka observe beside you in awe.

Tsukishima doesn't seem unfazed nor thrilled after winning that mid-air battle. He maintains his cool mien even as his team surround him joyously. He goes back to position, adjusts his glasses, and prepares for the next rally as if he didn't just effectively shut down the opponent's spiker all on his own. If you were playing against him, you'd be extremely annoyed at how calm he is.

Still, despite alternating your focus on Tobio and Tsukishima, the former still has your unrelenting support. When he and Hinata ended the first set with yet another freak quick, you didn't know your scream was the loudest. Only when Miyaka laughed at you about it did you mellow down and opted for clapping your hands instead.

The second set is just as gripping as the first, maybe even more. You got to see for the first time Karasuno do a synchronous attack and whenever they do, your eyes unknowingly follow Tsukishima run up to the net and jump with the intent of spiking. The blonde is a great blocker but he's also an effective spiker with his height and ball control. You find yourself cheering and clapping whenever he scores.

Miyaka notices by the second set that your loudest applause are reserved for Tobio and Tsukishima, and sometimes the occasional gasp of astonishment for Hinata's amazing reflexes. The other Karasuno members are amazing players in their own right but you seem more ardently supporting the aforementioned two.

After Tsukishima scores with a block-out, you bring your hands to your mouth and shout a rather impressed "nice kill". By this, Miyaka taps your shoulder to get your attention, and she wastes no time asking forthrightly if you know the blonde. You respond by saying that you have met him before but choose not to elaborate further. Fortunately for you, Miyaka doesn't press any more. You can only imagine how excruciating her teasing would be if she knew the nature of how you met Tsukishima.

After Hinata scores the final point in favor of Karasuno, you and Miyaka find yourselves hugging each other in glee. You have probably rubbed off your enthusiasm on her because she asks if you'd accompany her to watch Shiratorizawa's game at the qualifiers to which you happily agree. Even Raiden who looked disinterested throughout the whole game is joining in on the applause, evidently enjoying the match more than what he expected.

"We still on for barbecue?"

"I am kinda hungry so I guess I'll go with you." Raiden shrugs. The three of you make your way down the stairs as the crowd starts dispersing.

"I'm coming, too. I'll just congratulate Tobio and give him the snacks I bought. I won't be long."

"You're hopeless." You see Raiden shake his head mockingly.

"I think it's cute." Miyaka simpers. "You don't understand these things yet because you're single since birth, Rai."

You almost remind her that you are also single since birth and Tobio is not your boyfriend, but you feel like you've reiterated that fact enough that it's getting annoyingly redundant.

"You go on ahead, Y/N. We're gonna go to the rest rooms because I'm gonna freshen up and Rai has to splash cold water to his face to wipe off that hideous scowl. Just meet us there?"

"Okay! Be back in a jiffy!" With this, you're off speed walking to the direction of the corridor where you remember players keep their baggage in. You've been in this stadium a lot when you were in middle school that you still have the whole place memorized.

It takes you two minutes to see Tobio. He's still in his uniform so you locate him right away among the other players that are coming and going. He has his back turned on you, head downcast as he adjusts his bag that is slung over his shoulder.

You tiptoe to where he is. The surrounding chatter of other boys in the vicinity makes your arrival all the more unnoticeable.

"So, that's your new quick attack, huh?"

Tobio wheels around upon hearing your voice. His default scowl is replaced by a smirk once he sees that it's you who has spoken.

"Impressed?" You can see his ego radiating off of him like an aura.

"It's alright." You shrug in faux nonchalance.

"Liar. I heard you screaming louder than everyone earlier."

You blush profusely at that. You knew you were loud (Raiden wasted no opportunity calling you out on it), but you didn't know Tobio heard you all the way down the court. His other teammates must have heard you too and thought you were crazy. The mere thought of it is enough to make you cringe in embarrassment.

"Okay, fine. It was pretty neat." You finally admit, rolling your eyes. "Congrats on getting through the preliminaries. You guys deserved it."

Tobio grins, the kind that is laced with a dangerous amount of smugness. If you didn't know him at all, you would be offended rather than pleased when he says his thanks.

"Here, I got you this." You rummage through your bag and give him a paper bag from the convenience store you went into earlier. Inside are a bottle of sports drink and three protein bars— all his favorite brand and flavor, you made sure of that.

Tobio thanks you as he rips open a protein bar with his teeth before biting into it. He demolishes the bar in two enormous bites which prompts you to berate him for eating too quickly lest he wants to choke to death. You threaten to take back the remaining two protein bars if he doesn't slow down. He argues with you with his mouth full, spewing unintelligible protests and half-chewed oats alike as he raises the paper bag out of your reach.

That scene may have been a little too loud because from behind Tobio, a mop of orange hair pops out to investigate the small commotion.

"What's happening here— Kageyama! You went to buy snacks without me?" Hinata seems to be more offended upon seeing Kageyama's stuffed face.

Tobio shakes his head and juts his thumb at your direction, trying to say without words that it's you who gave the snacks to him. Hinata blinks as he registers your presence for the first time.

"Shiratorizawa?" His gaze lingers for a second on the shirt you're wearing which is purple with the academy's emblem printed on the front— the same shirt Miyaka and Raiden are wearing today. Since it's summer break, you don't have to wear your school uniform while doing club work inside campus but every once in a while, Miyaka still orders the club to wear the purple shirt, probably only for aesthetic reasons.

"Hey, is she your girlfriend?" Hinata tiptoes so he can whisper to Tobio's ear. It's not really a whisper because you can still hear it, and probably other people in the vicinity heard it too.

"She's just a friend, dumbass." Tobio barks at the small middle blocker.

"Hi. I'm Y/N." You take it upon you to introduce yourself with a bow.

The middle blocker visibly stiffens when you speak, his entire face erupting into a shade of scarlet that has you worrying if he's okay.

"Hinata Shoyo! N-n-nice to meet you, too!" He squeaks.

"What's that I hear? Kageyama has a girlfriend?" Tobio's other teammate with the No. 2 jersey enters the scene from the benches you didn't realize he was sitting on, almost hopping to where you are to take a closer look at you. Either Hinata's voice was too loud or No. 2 just has superhuman hearing.

"She's not my girlfriend, Sugawara-san." Tobio says a-matter-of-factly.

It kind of annoys you how Tobio never shows emotion whenever he denies being your girlfriend— something he does more often than you would have realized. It's always robotic, as if he's reciting from a user manual for a build-your-own furniture. It's annoying to you because you're the exact opposite— when someone insinuates that you and Tobio are a couple, you're always reduced to a blushing mess. It's just so unfair, you think. How come he's not bothered by it at all?

"Y/N, is it? I'm Sugawara, Kageyama's senpai." He grins proudly as he puts his arm over Tobio's shoulder, making the latter stiffen uncomfortably.

"Nice to meet you." You bow to the silver-haired boy.

"Oh? You're from Shiratorizawa." He parrots the observation Hinata had earlier.

"Yes, I'm a first year student there."

"I bet you guys are bummed out that your volleyball team didn't get Kageyama-kun here." Sugawara looks smug in a way that is lighthearted.

"I don't think they're bummed out, Sugawara-san. They're the ones who rejected me." Tobio's reply has you snorting. How did he manage to say that as seriously as he did?

"And they're definitely regretting that now, no?" Sugawara gave Tobio's back a rather loud smack which is supposed to be an encouraging pat.

"Where are the rest of your team?" You ask out of curiosity. It seems like Tobio, Hinata, and Sugawara are the only Karasuno players around. The absence of a certain blonde doesn't go unnoticed by you.

"Rest room, probably, or watching the remaining games.", came Tobio's curt reply.

"I think Asahi and Daichi are getting drinks from the vending machines." Sugawara quips in, looking at his wristwatch. "Now that I think of it, I've been waiting for my soda for twenty minutes now. Where the hell are those guys?"

Suddenly, as if on cue, a boisterous and rather obnoxious laughter rings from the other side of the hallway. Karasuno's No. 5 and No. 4 are loudly joshing around with the rest of Karasuno in tow.

It's hard not to spot him among his teammates. He stands out with his towering height and striking blonde hair. Tsukishima currently has his headphones on, scrolling on his phone with his hand tucked inside his pants pocket. He has already changed out of his uniform and into a plain white shirt and black trousers.

You're having a hard time registering the fact that the two of you are gonna see each other again— not that you're entirely opposed to it. The boy has definitely earned a considerable percentage of your trust after he had walked you home last night. Maybe you could thank him again for that. You just don't know how you're gonna open up that conversation. Even thinking about how awkward it would be already has you cringing already.

You debate with yourself whether or not you should get away now. You are not necessarily avoiding Tsukishima. It's just that after the events of last night, you feel like meeting him again would be a painful kind of awkward. You'd hoped that the interaction you two had wouldn't have a sequel. You're grateful for what he did for you but you were already so embarrassed about it, and having to interact with him again would just relive that in your memory.

By the time you've made your decision to scram, the incoming group is already a few feet away. Tsukishima peels his gaze away from his phone once the group has stopped in front of Sugawara who is giddy to get his soda he's been waiting on for twenty minutes. You instinctively let Tobio's body cover your own, not wanting to let your presence known just yet. Meeting new people, especially a lot of them, is particularly overwhelming for you.

At first, Tsukishima doesn't see you as he takes his headphones off and let it hang on his neck. A tall freckled boy is currently talking to him, stealing his attention. You don't realize you've been staring at Tsukishima. It is only when he felt the ghost prickle of a pair of eyes trained on him did he look at your direction. When he meets your gaze, it is you who is the more shocked. Hazel eyes fix on yours. If he is the least bit surprised to see you, he doesn't let it show. His expression doesn't change as his gaze lingers on you for a second before turning back to the boy whom we was conversing with.

Immediately, you cower even further behind Tobio.

"I should probably go now." You say, careful not to let your presence more known than it already is.

Your voice is soft, barely above whisper. By the looks of things, it is only Kageyama, Sugawara, Hinata, and Tsukishima who know that you're there. You're hiding behind Tobio (Sugawara and Hinata are stood beside him so their figures unknowingly conceal you too). The rest of the boys are oblivious of you— you're thankful for the loud No. 4 and No. 5 duo for diverting the team's attention with a most likely exaggerated story about a heated altercation with a rival team they bumped into at the rest rooms.

"Where are you going?" It's Kageyama's voice that catches the attention of the group. You could have slipped quietly without anyone noticing if he hasn't spoken. Curse him and his megaphone voice.

You're suddenly aware of a dozen or so pairs of eyes trained on you.

"Who's this?" It is No. 4, the libero, who pops the question. He's elbowing No. 5 whose eyes look like they've seen stars once they lay on you.

"Uh, sorry... I'm L/N Y/N. It's nice to meet you all." You really should have gotten away while you had the chance

"L/N? As in L/N Hotaru's daughter?" No. 5 has his eyes widened, his finger pointing at you. "You're the Darling Setter! I knew you looked familiar!"

"Right! L/N Y/N, I remember now. You were on Volleyball Monthly!", points out Sugawara. "Your hair was so much shorter back then. I almost didn't recognize you."

A part of you wished that they didn't. You're not at all accustomed anymore to people recognizing you as the Darling Setter. All you can do is smile awkwardly as the boys seem to renew their interest on you. You can see Tobio silently laughing, amused at how you looked uncomfortable at the spotlight.

Hinata is probably the most impressed. He's practically jumping up and down in front of you, his eyes twinkling as if he is star struck.

"You're the L/N Y/N? My sister saw you on the television last year. She thought you were very pretty and wanted to be like you!"

"R-really?" You stammer out, both flattered and disbelieving.

"Yeah! Her name's Natsu. She's only 9 years old but she's already interested in volleyball, and she wants to—"

"Oi, can't you see she's uncomfortable?" Tobio butts in, glaring at Hinata's enthusiasm.

You're not really uncomfortable, per se. You're just not used to the attention anymore. Back when you were in middle school, you absolutely adored being in the center of it, not so much now that you're in high school.

"It's fine." You assure your best friend.

"I appreciate that, Hinata. Please tell Natsu I say hi." Hinata beams at your response.

No. 4 and No. 5 are nudging each other on the ribs, wordlessly working out which of them gets to talk to you first. You watch, amused, how they try to muster the courage to step forward and talk to you. They must really have no experience talking with girls, judging by how they're struggling right now.

"Don't you two try anything funny. She's Kageyama's girlfriend." Sugawara wags a finger at the two of them and they exclaim both their surprise and what could only be disappointment.

"She's not." Tobio denies as nonchalantly as ever before tipping his head back to drink from the sports drink you gave him.

"Kageyama, you lucky bastard!"

"Way to go, Kageyama!"

The two have apparently ignored his denial.

Your eyes are casted down to your shoes so you don't see the way Tsukishima raises his eyebrow a millimeter upon hearing what Sugawara said. Not only that— he narrows his eyes ever so slightly when he sees your dejected reaction at Tobio's response.

"Wait, so are you or are you not his girlfriend?" It's No. 4 who speaks this time.

Before you could open your mouth to speak, two fists smack on top of No. 4 and No.5's heads. The fists belong to whom you recognize is the team's captain.

"Nishinoya, Tanaka," He growls warningly. "Stop harassing her or else I'll have the two of you run laps on our next training."

Nishinoya and Tanaka mutter their apology with a bow and you wave them off, saying that it's really no problem. For some reason, they also turn to apologize to Tobio who just stared at them in utter confusion, biting on his protein bar without saying a word.

Some of Tobio's teammates start conversing with you, too— nothing much, just questions that are more for the sake of either being polite or genuine curiosity than anything else.

"H-hello. You've mastered the jump floater serve, right? What's the technique so it doesn't end up doing a topspin, if you don't mind me asking?" The tall boy Tsukishima was talking to earlier approaches you. You'll soon learn that his name is Yamaguchi. He still seems shy. You can very clearly see his cheeks dusted in pink and he stutters out the majority of words in his sentences, but he makes an effort to talk to you nevertheless. Ironically enough, seeing that he's more nervous than you melts away your own uneasiness.

By this time, all your nerves and apprehension about meeting Tobio's team has dissipated. It's easy to talk with them because they're nice people, treating you with respect and friendliness. You're thankful for them for not asking too many questions about your ex-Olympian father— you're proud of him but talking about him is taxing and quite repetitive sometimes.

Yamaguchi and Hinata are specifically the two who kept the conversation going. You've built a rapport with them maybe because they're first-years such as yourself. Yamaguchi is now asking you if the entrance exam to Shiratorizawa was really as hard as everyone said it was. He visibly blanched when you said that the exam gave you a headache that lasted for days. Hinata, however, is more curious about your volleyball career. When you told the orange-haired middle blocker that you're not part of any volleyball club right now, his eyes widened to the size of saucers. He voices out that it's such a waste of talent. He has a way with wording out his compliments that you feel yourself blushing pathetically. Tobio just stands beside you through it all, munching on his protein bar as he listens to you talk with his teammates and occasionally adding to the conversation if his input is needed.

It doesn't take long before you're laughing quite freely with them.

Through the whole ordeal, Tsukishima has backed away from the group unnoticed. He is currently leaning against the wall a few feet away, his headphones fit snuggly on his ears but the music is turned off. Scrolling aimlessly on his phone has lost its appeal by now and he wishes he'd brought his PSP with him to pass time.

Every couple of minutes or so, you steal a glance at Tsukishima. He's the only one from the team who hasn't said a word to you, not even a polite greeting. You were a bit anxious at the prospect of talking to him again, but now that he clearly has no plan to even spare you a minute of his time, you feel quite annoyed. The two of you are not friends, probably not even acquaintances— but still, after the events of last night, you expect him to at least not treat you like a stranger.

It's not like you want him to approach you and be all chummy. You just want him to acknowledge you, maybe with a nod of recognition or even a small wave of his hand wouldn't hurt. Heck, you even cheered for him at their game earlier. You weren't being subtle with it, too. You were screaming until your throat was raw— he definitely heard you supporting him. The only explanation is he just doesn't care and he just doesn't know how to behave like a decent human being.

Maybe you were wrong when you thought he wasn't half as bad last night. Maybe you were too lenient on your judgment when he is utterly and very clearly just a jerk.

You look away from him with a huff. If he doesn't want to be your friend (or at the very least, an acquaintance), then it's most definitely his loss and not yours.

From the corner of your eyes, you see two purple figures standing at the hall's entrance. The Shiratorizawa shirt that Miyaka and Raiden are wearing are hard to miss. Miyaka waves at you once you make eye contact with her. They must have been waiting by the rest rooms for quite some time for them to come looking for you. This is as good a cue as any to say leave.

"I really have to go, Tobio. Some club officers and I made plans to get barbecue."

"You won't come over for dinner?" He asks, his head tilted to the side. You're vaguely aware of Hinata and Sugawara suddenly whispering among themselves upon hearing that.

"No, sorry. They're already waiting for me. It'd be rude if I cancelled now." You nod at the direction of your two senpai standing a few feet away, emphasizing your point.

"Mom is expecting you for tonight. " He shrugs but you don't miss the small pout he makes. "But whatever, it's your call."

"I suppose I could swing by later if we finish at the yakiniku place early?" It came off more like a bargain than a suggestion.

"But you'd be full by then."

"I'll save room, don't worry." You cheekily respond with a light chuckle. "I guess I'll see you later?"

Tobio ends the conversation with a nod and a short "okay".

With this, you turn to the rest of the group. They're not looking at either you or Tobio but you know that they heard your conversation. They must feel like they've being privy to something intimate, which you can assure them that they're not. Hinata is biting his bottom lip, clearly stopping himself from commenting anything. Sugawara is whistling as his eyes flit to the toe cap of his shoes. Nishinoya and Tanaka are having a hard time closing their mouths as they continue to gape at Tobio. All of them a clearly still under the impression that you are his girlfriend.

"It's nice meeting you all." You say to the group and you're met with a chorus of pleasantries.

"Bye, Hinata, Yamaguchi!" You wave specifically at the two freshmen whom you've bonded with the most.

You bow at the rest before turning on your heels and walking away. You don't see the way Tsukishima's eyes follow your retreating figure.

You're at least twenty feet away when Sugawara's hand finds the crown of Tobio's head, ruffling his hair roughly. "You dog! She's definitely your girlfriend. You're inviting her over for dinner!"

"I really envy you right now, Kageyama!"

"I wish I had a girlfriend too."

"Teach us your ways!"

The pandemonium that ensues after you left could be something out of a comedy skit. They're simply refusing to believe Tobio when he says over and over, almost pleadingly, that you are just his best friend. Tobio isn't the type to raise his voice at his upperclassmen so Hinata took the brunt of his fury when the setter reached his breaking point.

You would have found it hilarious how your best friend chased Hinata around, kicking the poor boy on the shin when he finally caught up to him.

You would also definitely appreciate the way Tobio blushed uncontrollably as his teammates continued to jeer and tease, if only you had seen it.

You apologize profusely to your two upperclassmen when you finally reach them, saying that you lost track of time talking to the Karasuno players. However, they don't seem at all angry about your tardiness. In contrary, they have a glint in their eyes that tell you they're amused about something.

"For a non-girlfriend, you sure looked a lot like a girlfriend back there." Raiden says with a roll of his eyes . You didn't realize they've been watching the whole ordeal all this time.

"Huh?"

"He's right, Y/N. I mean, think about it— not only did you watch his game, you also bought him after-game snacks. Not to mention he introduced you to his teammates." Miyaka links her arm to yours as the three of you start making your way to the stadium's exit. "It's like this unspoken rule among athletes' girlfriends, and you should trust me on this because I'm an athlete's girlfriend."

You manage to let out an incredulous scoff. "You guys are being ridiculous. It's no big deal, really. I've been doing it for him since we were in middle school."

"Woof, that's rough." Raiden whistles. "So, you've been doing girlfriend duties since middle school but he hasn't asked you to be his girlfriend yet?"

"It's not that simple." You groan, both exasperatedly and bashfully.

"How is that not simple? You like him and by the looks of things, he likes you, too." It's Miyaka who speaks this time.

"He likes me?" It's really cringe and embarrassing that that's what you took away from her statement.

"It's really obvious," She says without hesitation. "I have a good eye on this kind of stuff. Trust me, he likes you."

You stay silent for a few seconds to ponder on her words. You'd be lying if you said that you haven't been fantasizing about Tobio liking you back. The idea just seems farfetched, especially since it's Tobio of all people. He has the emotional capacity of a grain of rice.

You try your best to think nothing of it. You will just end up getting hurt if you believe what they're saying. You don't want to feed yourself blind hope, especially if there's nothing to back up their claim.

"He doesn't." You mumble, feeling your heart sink. It is with a painful acceptance do you realize that you believe that sentence wholeheartedly.

Miyaka and Raiden look at each other, communicating silently. They're one of the closest friends you have in school. All those times you spent in the club room slaving away projects upon projects really strengthened your bond with them. They are probably the next people who know you best after Tobio.

"Why do you seem so sure? You haven't even confessed yet." Raiden says with a scoff.

"I'm not gonna confess because I know he'll just reject me. It'll ruin everything and I don't want that to happen. It's too risky." You're now past denying that you do like Tobio. It's actually quite refreshing for you to talk about your feelings for him this openly. You feel as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders after years of hopeless pining.

"Wow. You really are stupid."

"Rai-san!" You cry out, clearly offended.

"You have a mirror, don't you? You're fully aware that you're pretty and if you disagree with that, either you have brain damage or just really dense. You're smart, you're hella good at volleyball— you're also, like, his number one fan. Tell me, what more could he want?" Raiden taps his finger on your temple. "Think, Y/N. If he had any ideal girl, it would be you."

You're always so surprised whenever Raiden shows his supportive side, albeit the way he delivered it could have been nicer and less abrasive. He always seems so negative and snarky, but when he does say something nice, you know it's genuine. Miyaka can only nod her head vigorously in agreement.

"Aw, Rai-san!" You throw yourself at him and engulf him in an embrace. You hear him grumble in protest but he allows you to hug him nevertheless.

"Rai has never said anything nice like that to me. I'm actually really jealous" Miyaka says with a soft pout. "What he said is true, though. You're the perfect girl for Tobio and I'm sure he already knows that. You should confess and see how it goes."

"I-I don't know." You bite your bottom lip. "I need time to think about it."

"You'll have plenty of time to think about it while we eat barbecue. I'm absolutely starving. How about you two slowpokes hurry up before all the good tables are taken, yeah?" With this, Miyaka tugs you by the arm as she speed walks. You don't protest because the grumbling in your stomach tells you that you're getting quite hungry too.

Your trio reach the exit of the stadium and you're fortunate enough to catch a bus immediately. The topic of Tobio is momentarily set aside as Raiden shows you a video he took of Miyaka napping in the club room, a steady stream of drool coming out of her open mouth. Raiden even threatens that he'd send the video to Tendou, which obviously rattles Miyaka. Her face turns into a bright shade of red, demanding Raiden to delete that video or she would make sure he regretted it.

You and Raiden laugh hysterically, so much so that the other passengers on the bus give you the side-eye. Miyaka looks like she's gonna exolode with embarrassment as she tries to pry Raiden's phone from his hands.

It's moments like these that allow you to breathe without anxiety. You don't even realize that today, you have completely forgotten about the fact that you're gonna move to Tokyo soon. You're glad that you have Miyaka and Raiden to distract you from that.

Dinner with your two upperclassmen was great. You talked about various stuff, though you notice that they didn't bring up Tobio anymore— they must have sensed that you weren't comfortable talking about him so they let it be. However, Miyaka did say that if ever you need help confessing to your best friend, she'd be glad to help. You thank her for her offer but you're not quite sure if you're even gonna go about doing it. You still have to be sure about what to do next before making a move.

You didn't fill up on yakiniku despite your stomach protesting because you promised Tobio you'd still come over for dinner at his house. Miyaka and Raiden didn't hold back, though. They ordered so many meat and side dishes that you had to try your best not to look so envious.

Once the three of you are done, you take a bus home. You plan on showering first before going to Tobio's house so you don't look so haggard, at least.

You see your Mom's car in the driveway once you arrive home. She's home early, you think to yourself. She usually goes home at 8 PM or later.

Your Mom pops out of the kitchen once she hears you're back home. She's bobbing a tea bag up and down her steaming cup while her face is covered in a seaweed mask that's part of her weekly skincare routine.

"How's that yakiniku place? Is it any good?"

You texted her a few hours ago that you'd get yakiniku with your club mates so she doesn't have to wait for you at dinner.

"A bit pricey but worth it, I guess. We should go there sometime, Mom."

"How about lunch on Sunday? We could go shopping at the mall after. What do you think?"

"Sounds good." You smile. There's a voice in your head that says she's only trying to compensate for the whole moving to Tokyo thing. Quite frankly, you're still mad at her about that, but you also know she only has your best interest at heart. You try to understand her position.

"I'm gonna go shower and go to Tobio's. He invited me for dinner." You say as you make your way to your room.

"Do you really have to go? You've already eaten and you were just at his house last night." She follows you until she's leaning against your room's doorframe.

"I could still eat. Besides, I think it's a special dinner since Tobio's team got through the preliminaries. He told me his mother was expecting me. I couldn't say no, could I?"

Your mother takes a sip from her tea. "Well, as long as he invited you and you're not imposing."

You don't respond after that. You're rummaging through your closet in search for specific articles of clothing you want to be wearing tonight.

"Hey, Mom? Have you seen my beige shirt? The long-sleeved one? Oh, no, wait— I forgot I haven't washed it yet."

You hear your Mom click her tongue. "It's in the laundry room. I added everything in your hamper to the load when I washed my coats last night. If I didn't, you wouldn't have anything to wear for this week. Sometimes I wonder what you would do without me."

The relief that courses through you is overwhelming. "Thanks, Mom! You're the best!"

You practically sprint to the laundry room to retrieve your shirt. Your Mom yells after you to take all your folded laundry to your room so you wouldn't have to return for them later. You come back to your room with a basket of your now clean laundry, the smell of vanilla fabric conditioner wafting through the room.

"Who's Kei?"

You cock your head to the side in confusion. "Kei?"

"There was a handkerchief in your hamper with the name Kei embroidered on it. It should be in there somewhere." She motions to the laundry basket. "Why do you have it in the first place?"

It takes you a couple of seconds to find said handkerchief. When Tsukishima gave it to you last night, you didn't know it was embroidered with his name— you can only assume that Kei is his first name from context. You're just realizing that you didn't ask him for his first name. You just knew him as Tsukishima.

"So, who's Kei and why do you have his handkerchief?" Your Mom repeats the question.

You tell her with a shrug that it's the boy who walked you home last night. You also tell her what happened in the café but deliberately omit the part about him giving you the handkerchief because you'd been crying, replacing it with a lie that you'd spilled water on yourself instead.

You examine the handkerchief for the first time since it was given to you. You didn't get to take a good look at it last night. The word Kei is embroidered in forest green thread at the bottom right corner. You wonder how you managed to miss it.

"I thought it was Tobio-kun who walked you home?"

"No, Mom. It was this other boy. He's Tobio's teammate, actually."

"I see. It was very dark. I just thought Tobio-kun grew a lot taller since I last saw him." She muses. "So, is this Kei boy a suitor?"

You bite back an incredulous laugh. "No way."

"A special friend, then?" You don't even know what she means by that.

"Definitely not."

You see your mother shrug from where she is leaning on your doorway. "Still, seems like he likes you enough to let you keep something that expensive."

You frown, confused. "Huh?"

"That's CLASSICS the Small Luxury." She points at the square fabric you're holding. "That's, what, ¥2000 a piece, give or take? The embroidery definitely cost extra, too. He probably paid around ¥3000 for that one."

"Who would pay ¥3000 for one friggin' handkerchief?" You almost shriek in disbelief.

"It's really good quality, you know. It's probably 100% cotton, too. Back when I was in med school, these handkerchiefs were all the hype. All my girl friends had one. I didn't. I was broke and could only afford those 6-in-1 packs you could buy at convenience stores." She laughed at the memory, her hand covering her mouth ever so daintily.

Tsukishima's voice rings inside your head.

"A single slice of cake is nowhere near the value of that handkerchief."

You just thought he was either lying or exaggerating.

Your phone buzzes on your bedside table, taking your attention away from the conversation. You catch a glimpse of Tobio's consecutive texts on the notification bar.

tobio: you still coming?

tobio: mom made tiramisu for dessert

You fold the handkerchief neatly and set it inside your drawer. The brand name CLASSICS The Small Luxury is printed right below the embroidery, another detail you've missed. You're definitely gonna be returning it to Tsukishima. As much as you appreciate him letting you keep it, you can't, not when it's worth ¥3000 with his own name embroidered on it.

How you're gonna return it to him, you still have no idea. You'll have to think of ways to get in contact with him again. You could very easily ask Tobio to give Tsukishima the handkerchief the next time they see each other, but it would be quite rude and offending to the owner if you didn't return the handkerchief personally. It's the least you can do after he let you use it when you needed it last night.

You make a mental note to ask Tobio for Tsukishima's number or home address. You'll worry about it later. For now, you really must hurry up if you still want to catch dinner at the Kageyama's.

You shower and get changed. Before leaving the house, you inform your mother that you'd be home before 9 PM— you're feeling quite guilty for storming out last night and getting home late so you give yourself an early curfew tonight as compensation. Your mother is still a little worried that you're taking advantage of the Kageyamas' hospitality, but you reassure her that it's fine and Tobio's family won't call child services on her.

You leave the house after Tobio sends you another text saying that his mother asks what time you'll be arriving. There's extra spring in your steps as you take the familiar route to his house— probably because you're excited to eat Mrs. Kageyama's cooking, or perhaps it's because you're giddy at the prospect of having dinner again with the boy you have a hopeless crush on. It's probably one or the other. It also could be both.

Tobio's Mom is preparing a feast, judging by the mingling scents of various dishes wafting throughout the whole house. She went overboard this time that you kind of regret having yakiniku earlier.

You offer to help Tobio's Mom and Miwa in the kitchen but the two women just wave you off, telling you to go relax and have some refreshments that they've prepared in the living room. Tobio's Dad is sitting on the couch, watching a baseball game on the television. He's so captivated by the game, shouting at the screen whenever his favorite team scores, that you feel like it would be rude if you sat down beside him and ruined the moment.

Tobio opens and closes his mouth, thinking of how to tell his father to scoot on the sofa. Even Tobio himself is scared of his father, it seems, because he remains quiet and accepts defeat instead.

"Let's go to my room?" He says beside you once he sees that his father won't be making room in the sofa for the two of you any time soon.

You follow him up the stairs and into his room which you've been in countless times before. Unlike those other times, however, you're now feeling a bit queasy as you enter. You hate the fact that going into your best friend's room is putting non-innocent thoughts inside your head now, something that you didn't worry about a year ago.

Tobio plops down on his swivel chair as you make your way to his bed. The door is left wide open— you don't have to be told to do that, it's just courtesy and muscle memory from all the times Tobio has invited you to his room.

You unceremoniously collapse onto his bed, taking last month's issue of Shonen Jump from his bedside table with you. You don't particularly enjoy the way your stomach does a back flip when you smell a faint trace of his cologne on his bed sheets. You try to ignore it by flipping through the Jump's pages, trying to find any new manga to distract yourself with.

Tobio must have seen you so engrossed in reading that he felt like reading too. You hear the rustling of paper as he takes out an issue of Volleyball Monthly from his bookshelf. You immediately recognize it as the issue where you were featured in.

A sly smirk appears on your lips. "Turn to page 17. You'll see a very pretty girl there."

Kageyama already knows what you're talking about before he even turned to said page. "What girl? I only see a hobgoblin holding a volleyball."

"Jerk." You chuck a throw pillow at him which would have landed square on his face had he not ducked to avoid it.

There was a couple of minutes of silence disturbed only by you turning pages and Tobio playing on his Nintendo DSi— he quickly grew bored of looking at Volleyball Monthly and fished the console from his drawer. His attention span is comparable to that of a chicken, you think to yourself as you watch him play with the handheld device. Compared to when he was reading the magazine, Tobio looks a lot more entertained playing Bomberman Blitz.

"We've improved, haven't we? My team, I mean." Tobio suddenly says while his brows are furrowed in concentration at his game.

You look up from what you're reading. "Yep, it's scary how much you guys evolved. I should probably warn our volleyball team about you. I'm sure Ushijima-san would want to know what kind of techniques you have under your sleeves."

He gives you a glare that could have killed a weak-willed soul.

"I'm kidding! They'll just have to find out how much stronger you've gotten when they face you in the finals."

Tobio snorts. "We'll beat them for sure."

"You always say that but what's your plan, though? Do you have any tactics to beat Ushijima-san?" You inquire curiously.

Tobio presses pause on his Nintendo, cradling his chin in thought. "Well, none of us can beat him one-on-one so we'll have to work on our three-man block more, but aside from that, our floor defense is pretty solid. Nishinoya-san and Daichi-san could definitely receive some of his spikes, so I'm not too worried about that."

"You really don't think anyone on your team could block him?" You ask and he just shakes his head. "Don't you have faith in your middle blockers?"

He stares at you as if you've just asked a very stupid question. "Have you seen our middle blockers?"

"Hinata does good when it comes to offense but he's absolutely worthless when it comes to blocking and receiving. He's fast and jumps high but that's about all he can do.

And then there's Tsukishima"

Your attention is snatched when you hear the blonde's name. "What about him?"

"He just... doesn't try." Tobio simply says. "He has the height for it, he has good game sense too, but he gives up way too easily. If only he's pushing himself a little harder, we could strengthen our defense a lot more."

"I see."

"Don't even get me started on his rotten attitude. He's a sarcastic dick, thinking he's smarter than everyone. You would hate him too if you'd met him."

You almost tell Tobio that you have indeed met him, but judging by the way his face contorts in disgust when talking about the blonde, it won't be such a good idea.

You've seen Tsukishima play today. You're not saying that Tobio is wrong, but you definitely do not see the blonde 'giving up way too easily'. On their match against Kakugawa, Tsukishima looked focused and motivated— granted, he didn't look as enthusiastic as Tobio or Hinata, but he still seemed like he was enjoying the game. Though, you can't disagree about what Tobio said about Tsukishima being a sarcastic dick— that one was definitely correct.

But maybe, Tobio is not entirely wrong. He obviously knows Tsukishima better than you. The only instance you ever see him play is during official matches. You have no idea how he is like during practice.

"Hey, Tobio? When's your training gonna start again?"

"We have one on Saturday. Why do you ask?"

"Can I come and watch?" You try to make your shrug look as casually as it can when in reality, you're starting to get nervous about your bold request.

Tobio thinks about it for a second before nodding. "Sure."

You have no idea what your end game is when you asked to come to their practice.

You do know one thing, though— you're gonna see Tsukishima again and it's gonna be the best opportunity to give him back his handkerchief.

The Nintendo DSi narrowly misses your thigh as Tobio chucks it on the bed. A second later, the impact of his body weight hitting the mattress causes you to almost fall off. He's spread-eagled on the bed with his face turned up to the ceiling. He's so close that you can feel the warmth of his body on your own skin.

"Wanna have a go?" He jabs the Nintendo blindingly at you, his eyes still fixated upward.

You take the console out of his hand and starts a new game. It's harder than you remember it being, or maybe you just haven't played it in a while. This old Nintendo model's buttons are difficult to press, you tell yourself as the character dies yet again— not your fault but the console's. You restart only to die at the same spot.

"You're horrible at this." Tobio snickers. You've been glued to the game for the past minute that you didn't notice that he has wiggled closer to you so he could watch you play.

You turn your head to look at him with the most hateful glare you could muster. You hope that he doesn't detect the look of yearning in your eyes because God knows there is. His dark blue eyes are just so beautiful, you could drown in them. The shape of his nose, the curve of his lips, the soft dusting of color on his cheeks— they all make him unbelievably gorgeous that it's a miracle you haven't melted on the spot considering his face is only a few inches away from yours.

You feel like you've mastered by now the look of indifference whenever he's around, and yet you wonder if Tobio would have guessed by now that you have a crush on him if only he has the perception of an average teenage boy. Surely, you're not hiding it that well. Miyaka and Raiden did say it was very obvious.

"You died again." He points out as the DSi emits the telltale sound that signals the gruesome death of the pixelated bomber.

You all but shove the device to his chest in frustration. You feel the vibration of his laughter as your hand makes contact with him as you feel your heart quicken instantaneously.

"Why do you want to watch our practice?" He asks after he has turned off the Nintendo and tossed it haphazardly somewhere on the mattress.

You shrug. "I wanna see you train."

Not exactly a lie but not the full truth either. The real reason you're going to their training is to give Tsukishima the handkerchief. Watching your crush practice volleyball is just a bonus.

"Why? Do you miss me that much when I'm not around?"

It's meant to be a joke. You're not meant to take it seriously. He's smirking in a way that tells you he's just having a laugh... but you're only human, and humans can only hide their feelings so much before some of it leaks.

"Yes, I do."

Tobio laughs.

You frown at this reaction.

"Stop it. That's gross." His shoulders shake as he tries to suppress his laughter. You blink back stupidly, both in surprise and mind-numbing hurt. No way he just said 'that's gross'.

He turns on the Nintendo again, unaware of your ragged breathing and how clammy your hands have gotten. You force out a laugh that you hope mirrors his.

For the rest of the night, none of your smiles or laughter seem to be genuine. Not even during dinner which is exquisite with all of Tobio's favorite food crammed in the too-small dining table. Not even as you say your good night to them by the front door as you prepare for your leave. Not even as you refuse Tobio when he offered to walk you home, right after his mother has chastised him into being a 'proper gentleman'.

This must be what a heartbreak feels like, you muse as you lay awake on your bed.

It hurts, and what's worse — it's because of Tobio.

I haven't updated in so long and felt guilty that's why this chapter has 11k words omg sorry not sorry

tag list: @sktvienna @thechaosoflonging @kenryug

#tsukishima x reader #kageyama x reader #tsukishima angst #kageyama angst #mutual pining #friends to lovers #tsukishima fanfic #kageyama fanfic #haikyuu x reader

137 notes · View notes

luvnami · 4 years ago

Photo

𝐎𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐧 (here) | 𝐖𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 | 𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 | 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 - This is my entry for @jjkmag Summer Collab! It’s my first long fic in a while but I had a lot of fun writing this (that isn’t to say I think it’s very good. I hope the plot/finality was pulled off decently ok lol). I hope you enjoy it! I chose the prompt 'coming of age', though there are definitely scenes where the other prompts were present as well. Reblogs, comments, shares and likes are really appreciated!!

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 - @getousuguruwife @amjustagirl @aliteama

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 - Amnesia, Memory loss, Blood, Mild gore, Death, Blood loss, Bullying, Mild Racism (only in the first part), Corpses, Food, Manga spoilers, Pre-canon and canon compliant to a certain extent, Nightmares

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - Nanami Kento's life has been... Good, bad, and everything in between. He (and many others) thinks he's mature, independent, the definition of what a proper adult should be like. But really, the only way he's made it this far is because you've been holding his hand the entire time.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 6.4k

The first memory Nanami has of you sits in a blurry haze at the back of his mind.

You’re probably four or five years old at best, squatting by a puddle in the empty kindergarten playground. Nanami wonders what made him waddle over to you that warm afternoon.

His shoes, scribbled with ugly caricatures in marker, carry him to the other side of the puddle. A shadow cast by a plastic slide slices your features neatly in half like a Greek theatre mask. Nanami doesn’t speak a word to you as he stares at your chubby fingers that push a fallen leaf around in the water as the surface ripples silently.

You look up at Nanami. He’s an odd child, excluded by the other kindergarteners because of how quiet and strange he is. Nanami’s blond hair is abnormal to the immature local Japanese children. They knee the back of his legs while calling him names like ‘banana-gaijin!’ and making fun of his fancy leather shoes.

“Do you wanna play with me?”

Nanami wonders if the words you speak to him are from your heart or something constructed from a plan to bully him again.

“My mama taught me how to make boats with leaves. See?” You point to the puddle. “We can race them.”

Nanami carefully selects a leaf off of the playground’s floor. It’s still green, freshly fallen from its branch. You grin toothily, your eyes sparkling.

“That’s a perfect leaf!” you declare.

Nanami thinks he wants to play with you forever.

He follows you around in school like a lost puppy after that, clutching his hands nervously when you stand up to the children who bully him. Nanami wonders if you’ll ever turn your back on him. He arrives earlier than you every morning and hurriedly scrubs at your table with his handkerchief to get rid of nasty words and obscene drawings, heart thumping against his cotton polo. When his mother asks him why his new handkerchief is so dirty, he remains silent and grips the hem of his shirt tightly.

Children are children; Nanami learns. Afraid of abnormalities, they defend their right to innocence and ego with harsh words and various schemes. He learns to ignore the whispers behind his back. What he can’t disregard, though, is when they lash out at you.

They jeer when you trip during P.E. classes and bump into you on purpose when you carry your lunch tray. You pretend that it doesn’t hurt when Nanami holds your hand gently and leads you to the nurse’s office with scraped knees, hiccuping and swiping at your eyes roughly.

He wonders why you don’t take the easy way out and just stop being friends with him. What’s wrong with you? You hold him tightly, a bundle of thorns, in your soft hands and pretend that you’re not bleeding.

“Ken-chan?” you sniffle.

He turns.

“You’re my best friend, right?”

Nanami gulps. He doesn’t question why you cry on graduation day, bidding your final farewell to him with vague promises of meeting in the same elementary school. Something in his chest doesn’t sit right; the kind of feeling when his mother threw out his old stuffed toys after she deemed him too old for them anymore.

He watches you grow smaller and smaller in the rear window of his family car till you’re the size of an ant, his knees digging into the leather seats.

“Sit down, Kento,” his father chides.

Nanami ignores him. He watches you wave your hand in the air as the car turns around the corner and lurches into the seat.

☆*: .｡.

Nanami’s genuinely surprised when he finds out that his assigned seat is right next to you on the first day of elementary school. You’re no different, mouth wide open in an ‘o’ as you stare at him.“Ken-chan!”

You almost yell, and Nanami shushes you as his face heats up. He finds out that your mothers had conspired to put the both of you into the same school. He can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing just yet, but peace settles into his chest the same way the wings of a bird return to its sides after flight when you giggle at his flustered expression.

Through nine years of elementary and junior high school together, Nanami learns that you always arrange the tips of your pencils to face the right side of your pencil box, and you keep the torn bits of movie tickets shoved into your bedside drawer. You find that Nanami has a knack for dry humour — he’s blunt at every moment possible (which caused much distress after he talked back to a teacher that one time) and can usually be bribed for any favour as long as you pay him in food.

What the both of you find oddly shocking, though, is that no one else can see the creatures that swim through walls and perch in dark corners of the school.

They make you sweat whenever they get too close, bulbous eyes and strange bodies twisting in ways that shouldn’t be physically possible. Sometimes they make noises, whispering or coaxing or shrieking or crying in broken sentences.

Nanami learns to treat them as background noise. You, on the other hand, find that a little more complicated. Sometimes you latch onto him when one brushes against your arm, squeaking and swatting at them in an attempt to chase them away.

“They’re so gross!” you’d whine, pressing yourself even closer to Nanami. “Did you see that one in the gym yesterday? It had tentacles!”

In cases like this, the blond clears his throat and ignores you, averting his gaze. He doesn’t admit to anyone, not even himself, that the warmth of your skin through your uniform makes his heart skip a beat. You’ve grown so close to him that you even know that Nanami sleeps with Doraemon pajamas (absolutely, abhorrently embarrassing. He made his mother throw them out the night after you came over for a sleepover). It was inevitable for him to develop feelings.

Nanami shoves his feelings below a lid and sits on top of it, keeping them under lock and key. He’s sure this is just something to do with puppy love or ‘infatuations’ that are underlined in the puberty print-outs the school distributed, alongside scientific diagrams of genitals that the boys in his class giggle at.

Being friends is enough. Or so he thinks, anyway.

☆*: .｡.

It’s a Friday evening when the sky is dark, and street lights flicker in the distance. Nanami munches away on melon bread from a convenience store while you sip on a carton of juice. Your clubs had ended late today, so the sun was down by the time you left school.

“How’s the bread?” you ask, slurping up the last drops of your drink.

Nanami chews and swallows while you dab at your mouth with a yellow cotton handkerchief.

“It’s okay. Not as good as a bakery’s, though. Kinda stale.”

He crumples the plastic packaging in his hand and sticks it into his pocket, planning to dispose of it later. The both of you round the corner to the bus stop, and your feet fall still. A large curse sits in the middle of the road.

Numerous cars are crumpled like drink cans, smoke, and gasoline leaking onto the streets. There’s blood. Too much blood, in fact, that they seem like puddles of rain on the dark tarmac. Your juice box drops from your hand.

The curse turns to you, its teeth split vertically down the centre of what constitutes a face. Multiple eyes run down the length of its engorged body where various hands and feet stick out at random parts.

“Blood… Blood…” it moans in a cryptic voice.

Nanami stands with his feet frozen to the ground, eyes wide in horror. His knuckles turn white as he grips his school bag. Run, run, run! He screams internally, but his limbs don’t listen to him. The curse slides over the road towards him, slipping through the blood easily.

“Give me… Your blood…”

A part of the curse’s body bubbles up into a large hand. It swings itself back before throwing its newly created appendage towards Nanami. RUN RUN RUN! His legs don’t move. He squeezes his eyes shut, awaiting the impact. Except that it doesn’t hit him. Nothing hurts, except the shrill scream that pierces his ears. Nanami’s eyes snap open in horror.

“Kento!” you yell, dangling upside down as the curse pulls you towards its mouth.

Your school bag lays on the ground below, books scattered as their pages turn red.

“Run!”

Nanami drops everything as he scrambles towards you, tripping over his own two feet and landing face-first in the blood. His hands and knees sting. He shoves himself and gets up with his teeth clenched. You kick your feet in the air in a poor attempt to escape the curse’s grip but to no avail. Another groan is squeezed out of you as the curse opens its mouth, the foul stench of rotting bodies engulfing you.

“Run, Kento!” you plead.

How can he turn his back on you? Sweat drips down his forehead as Nanami pulls his hand back. The adrenaline that rushes through his blood clears in a split-second moment of raw emotion; anger, disappointment, confusion, sadness. A tingling sort of energy floods his body, and Nanami takes a sharp breath of air. He sees something like a ruler — a line divided equally with ten markings, the seventh one crossed out. His fist connects with it.

The curse lets out a weak moan of pain, shaking you around as it recoils from Nanami’s hit. It’s not much, just a surface injury at most. Nanami’s limbs tremble with exertion. One more time, again and again, until you’re safe-

A thick, gross liquid engulfs Nanami as the curse explodes in front of his very eyes. He coughs, running a slimy hand over his face. It smells like death.

“Woah! You put too much into that again, Satoru.”

“Shut up!”

Nanami looks up as he hears footsteps move towards him, the quiet splashing of blood beneath shoes.

“Ugh, this place is so gross.”

“You okay there, kiddo?”

Nanami looks up to find a male with his hair pulled back into a bun staring at him. Behind him is a white-haired teenager with sunglasses (strange, hasn’t the sun already gone down?) and an imposing-looking man.

Where are you?

Nanami glances around frantically amidst the dead bodies that lie on the ground. Not you, not you, not- A tiny sliver of hope slips into his heart when he spots your uniform, and he stumbles over.

“Woah! Slow down!”

He calls out your name, slipping and collapsing onto his knees. Your eyes are closed, and a wound on your head oozes blood. A young girl with short hair reaches out to touch you, but Nanami pulls you into his chest, his eyes wide.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

His head spins. Are these good people? How did they just destroy that big monster? He hadn’t even seen them coming. Were they going to hurt you?

“Calm down, man! We’re good guys.”

“No one’s going to trust you when you say that, Satoru.”

The girl stares at Nanami.

“I’ll take care of your injuries. Can you let me see them, please?”

He relaxes. His grip on you loosens, and the girl feels for your pulse, nodding in affirmation.

“Alive.”

Nanami breathes a sigh of relief. At this realisation, his body begins to tremble like a leaf in the wind. He digs his nails into his palms but still they quiver. His heart pounds in his chest and he struggles to take a deep breath, exhaustion overtaking him.

“Hey, you okay?”

His eyes fall shut.

☆*: .｡.

Nanami finds out over a hot cup of tea that those monsters are called curses, and not everyone can see them.

“Lucky you!” Gojo chimes in.

Lucky? His face wrinkles in despair and Getou laughs so loud at his reaction that he has to step out of the room.

Nanami had sustained minor injuries — nothing beyond a few scrapes and some trauma. You were fine for the most part. After hitting your head on the ground, you remained unconscious for a few more days after Nanami had woken up. You were covered in a few bruises, but otherwise alright.

Nanami was infinitely thankful for that

Yaga tells him that he has enough aptitude to become a full-fledged sorcerer. The school he teaches at is called Jujutsu High and is located on the outskirts of Tokyo. Since he’s in his final year of junior high, why not give it a thought if he wants to join them? Nanami holds Yaga’s name card numbly.

He looks up at Yaga, only one objective clear in his mind. He doesn’t want to see you hurt any longer.

“Will you teach me how to exorcise curses?” he asks.

Gojo laughs outrightly and Geto snorts. Yaga gives him a confident smile, clapping Nanami on the shoulder (he doesn’t quite like that, but he overlooks it for now).

“You can count on that.”

☆*: .｡.

Nanami’s a little apprehensive about entering Jujutsu High, especially when you decide to enrol as well. Given the ability to see curses, you were adamant about learning to help others with this ability you were gifted with. He relented and sulked for the rest of the day until you gave him a cup of pudding.

The first day Nanami and you enter Jujutsu Tech, you meet a wide-eyed boy named Haibara Yu. He’s overly optimistic and passionate — precisely the kind of person that Nanami tires of interacting with. In fact, the very first thing Haibara says upon meeting the both of you irritates him.

“Woah! Blondie, are you from an emo band or something? Your hair really matches the vibe!” Haibara had gasped.

You struggled to suppress your giggles, biting on your lower lip as you turned to the side. Nanami, on the other hand, didn’t find it quite as funny.

“No, I’m not. Nice to meet you too,” he replied monotonously.

It takes all of the following month for Nanami to get used to Haibara’s eccentricities. He always does his best during training, mingles enthusiastically with the upperclassmen and chows down on at least two bowls of rice during break time. The most annoying part about him is how Haibara seems to get along so well with you.

You laugh too loudly for Nanami’s liking at his jokes, squeeze in between Haibara and him (brushing shoulders with the both of them! Seriously!) when they’re standing together just to listen in on Haibara’s monologuing, and sometimes even end up sparring with him instead of Nanami.

The blond curses that there is an odd number of first years and peers in the mirror after his shower as he wonders what he would look like with a black bowl cut. He even tries to finish more than one serving of ginger pork on one particular day and gets sent to the school nurse for a tummy ache.

Though, the three of you have chemistry that works out when fighting curses. Nanami is the primary damage dealer of the group, while you learn how to provide support with Haibara and create openings for Nanami to attack. So on your first ‘real group mission’ assigned to you by Yaga, you can’t help but set off with overflowing excitement.

It isn’t often that you have the opportunity to step outside of Jujutsu High on your own without supervision. Even on weekends, you’re usually expected to train or study. The sun shines warmly down upon the streets of Asakusa, and tourists and locals alike swarm the city area.

“Hey! We should totally give Sensou-ji Temple a visit later!” Haibara suggests, pumping his fist in the air.

“We’re not here to sightsee,” Nanami sighs.

“That’s what you said the last time we went to Okinawa, and guess what, Nanamin! We didn’t even get to try their sushi!”

“Yeah, and you forgot to bring back souvenirs for me, Ken-chan,” you chime in.

“I told you to stop adding -chan to my name.”

“Why not? Doesn’t it sound cute?”

“Mhm!”

Haibara nods furiously. Nanami ignores the both of you with a sigh. He slings a bag containing his sword over his shoulder once more as the crowd barely makes space for you to move through.

“We can’t take too long,” he relents.

The cheers and high-fives that you and Haibara give each other make a vein bulge on Nanami’s temple. He tries not to read too much into the way you immediately begin discussing what places to visit and eat at with Haibara — didn’t you care for his opinion? He shakes his head and increases his pace, leaving the both of you behind.

Nanami ignores the cries of ‘Ken-chan!’ and ‘Nanamin!’ that ring out through the crowd. Whatever. If you want to be with Haibara, then Nanami will gladly get out of the way for you. He drags his feet on the pavement and settles for a cup of iced tea in a nearby cafe gloomily.

What Nanami is doing is… childish. He knows, at the very least, that he should be happy the both of you have met a nice new friend. But he can’t help the jealousy that rises in his chest like smoke in a chimney when he sees you cling onto Haibara the same way you used to do to him.

Was Haibara nicer, more good-looking, stronger, funnier, gentler, better than every single trait in Nanami combined? You no longer ask Nanami how he slept the previous night, instead running over to Haibara and greeting him cheerily. Forget about how you used to come over to Nanami’s house to study after school — you and Haibara disappear to who knows where after training everyday.

He bites down on his straw. The bitter taste of a lemon seed fills his mouth and Nanami spits it out onto a napkin with more force than necessary. He takes a deep breath. He should make things clear to you, then, and let you know how he feels about you. To him, it sounds a little like love.

Nanami’s face flushes with embarrassment. Love is… Love isn’t this. It definitely isn’t getting jealous over your relationships with other people, nor is it forcing you to accept his feelings out of spite. He finishes the last bit of his iced tea, the straw making a gurgling noise as it fails to suck up any more liquid. He leaves his money by the counter and walks back outside, returning his heart back to its safe, clicking the lock shut once more. His shoulders sag as he lets out a pent-up sigh.

Nanami squints at his phone. The golden sunlight makes it difficult to read his messages, but he manages to pick out four missed calls from you and a hundred text messages from Haibara. His blood runs cold when he scrolls to the last text that he received.

Haibara Yu, 4.25p.m.: curse help 6 cho

It’s currently 4.35p.m. 6-chome is a 15 minutes walk away, five minutes if he sprints fast enough. Nanami hopes that you’re okay, that Haibara has enough sense to call for other back-up or avoid the curse.

Nanami’s feet pound under him as he shoves his way through the crowds, earning distasteful looks and swears. He doesn’t care. Not when you and Haibara are facing a possible grade 2 curse alone, and not when it’s because of Nanami’s irresponsibility and useless emotions that had caused the three of you to be separated.

His breath comes quick and hard and his thighs burn, screaming for relief. He makes a sharp turn and almost crashes into a bicycle.

“Watch where you’re going!” an angry housewife yells, but her words fall on deaf ears.

Just a little more, he begs.

Nanami hears the fighting before he sees it. The sound of metal meeting metal and the roar of the curse sound uncharacteristically comforting to him as he draws his sword, racing to bear a fighting stance.

But he’s too late.

“Yu!” you cry out as Haibara crumples onto the ground.

His eyes meet Nanami’s. His uniform is tattered, face bearing wounds and his right arm is bent at an unnatural shape, almost like a knotted tree branch. You seem relatively unhurt, although your breathing is laboured.

“Kento,” Haibara wheezes.

Nanami’s feet don’t move. His chest heaves, perspiration pouring down his face and drenching his uniform. The grip on his sword slips ever so slightly. The curse stands at the end of a ruined district. You aren’t trained to fight in such close quarters, or reduce the number of casualties to a bare minimum.

And Nanami hadn’t been here to provide damage to exorcise it.

“Who are you? Another small fry?” the curse scoffs.

It takes the body of a geisha, dressed in luxurious robes that whip about in the air. Consciousness? This isn’t a grade 2 by any means — it’s a special grade curse. The will to fight slips out of Nanami like water from a cup, trickling from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

“Haibara!” Nanami shouts.

The male gives Nanami one last smile from where he is.

“You’ve got it from here,” he whispers, lips barely moving.

The geisha stretches out its hand, a portion of its obi moving along with it. You and Nanami watch in horror as Haibara’s head is neatly decapitated from his body. His blood drips off of the ends of the robes as the curse cackles, his head rolling to a stop as his half-closed eyes stare up at Nanami like a dead fish’s.

“You think you can beat me? Look at your little friend!”

Fury rushes into Nanami like a wave meeting the shore.

“You’ll die here by my hands!” the curse roars.

You take a step back as the geisha prepares to launch another attack, silk sashes drawn back into the sky before they plunge back at you two in an aerial attack. Nanami leaps through the attacks as his body moves faster than he can process it.

You, on the other hand, create a shield out of cursed energy to try and deflect the attacks. At the very least, Haibara deserves a proper burial. There isn’t time for mourning now, and you have to wipe away the tears that pool in your eyes. You try to ignore the way his head rolls closer to your foot and bumps against it gently.

Nanami lets out a yell of anger. His cursed energy swells as he cuts his way through the sashes, movement based on momentum than anything else at this point. His mind is clouded with regret and frustration. Nanami channels his anger into his sword, the ten destined lines appearing before his eyes once more.

The curse lets out a cry of pain as it stumbles back, sashes redrawn as it tries to gauge its wounds. Blood gushes from a slash on its side and Nanami darts forward again — again, again, again, until its dead. His legs, however, are weaker than what he thinks they can bear. Nanami stumbles in his step.

“Ken!” you shout.

The curse grins. It takes little to no time to regenerate, skin overlapping raw flesh as it gets back onto its feet.

“You’re weak,” it taunts. “First your friend, now you. I’ll be sure to savour the last one as well!”

Nanami struggles to get back onto his feet. He gasps, heart ripping a hole through his chest. He’s so exhausted; so worn out, that his arms refuse to raise his sword above chest height. He curses.

You run over to Nanami, grabbing his uniform and dragging him back. The curse starts to chant ominously. Its face turns dark, taking steps that sway its body with thick, lacquered geta. You shove Nanami back as you’re engulfed by its domain, swallowed up by darkness and spit into a tatami room. He barely has time to call your name before you disappear.

“Shit!”

Nanami stumbles back onto his feet, but sinks down onto his knees again. His shoulders quake as he tries to suck in breaths of air, but his throat is too dry. He coughs and adjusts his grip on his sword. Shit, shit, shit. All of his partners tossed themselves at death as if it was an idle thing just to protect him. What was Nanami doing? He would never become a sorcerer like this, never be able to protect you.

He grits his teeth. He’ll never be enough.

Nanami picks up his sword, wrapping his fingers around its hilt one more time. He dashes towards the domain, tasting iron as he hacks and slashes at it. Again, again, and again. His hands turn numb and his cursed energy flickers like a candle’s flame, but there’s one thing Nanami’s insistent on — getting you out of there.

The domain finally collapses as Nanami finally steadies himself on his feet. You roll to the ground, breath shallow. Your uniform is sliced up in different areas and a pool of blood begins to spread where your head meets the floor.

“Ken…?” you whisper.

Nanami smells it — the scent of death. Why did he ever choose to become a sorcerer over an ordinary high school life? He wouldn’t have dragged you into this mess, caused you to be hurt time and time again. Nanami calls out your name tentatively. You don’t respond.

The curse roars with laughter as your eyes fall shut, “Don’t you see how I’m so strong? You’re nothing compared to me-”

Nanami sees red. He launches himself forward, brandishing his sword even if it’s for the last time.

He doesn’t remember what happens afterwards.

Nanami sinks into a pool of blood, head spinning with exertion. Your body lays to his left, Haibara’s head to his right. He collapses to the ground.

☆*: .｡.

When he comes to, Nanami’s eyes struggle to adjust to the white light that floods the room. It smells vaguely like antiseptic. He slowly sits up, body aching with exhaustion with telltale bandages wrapped around most of his exposed limbs.

A drawn curtain separates his bed from the rest of the room, which he assumes to be Jujutsu Tech’s sickbay. He runs a hand over his face and lies back down, letting sleep take him by the hand and lead him a step further from reality.

Nanami wakes up a second time when Shouko returns to the room. He stares at her, blinking once, then twice.

“Nanami?” she asks softly. “Can you hear me?”

He tries to reply, but his throat is parched. He ends up coughing, wrinkling his face as pain spreads through his ribs. Shouko rushes to get him a glass of water and calls the rest (namely Yaga and Gojo) over. Nanami nurses the glass as Yaga takes a seat by his bed.

There are no questions, only condolences and murmured explanations of what had happened. The only thing Nanami picks up is that you’re alive. That’s more than enough for him to relax, nodding dumbly along to Yaga’s words.

The curse had been on the brink of death when Nanami collapsed. However, he had put up enough of a fight for nearby sorcerers to come to his aid and finish it off. There was no doubt about it — it was a special grade curse. Yaga apologises for the miscommunication and loss of Haibara’s life. Nanami doesn’t reply.

No amount of apologies could turn back time and bring Haibara back.

It takes him a few more days before Nanami’s able to hobble around the school, aided by crutches. Gojo pokes fun at how he seems like a grandpa but even his jokes don’t bear the mean edge they usually do. Getou leaves a can of vending machine coffee by his bedside table and Shouko brings him some wildflowers. Nanami leaves the plush cat Yaga had made for him untouched.

Nanami struggles against the nightmares that plague him. In one Haibara cradles his decapitated head in his own arms, asking Nanami why he hadn’t saved his life; in another you die, guts spilling onto the streets with your eyes bulging from your skull. Nanami wakes up in cold sweat. He calms his breathing alone and doesn’t sleep a single wink.

It’s a rainy day when Shouko lets him enter the morgue. Haibara’s body is laid in a shroud of white, his head positioned to appear attached. Had he ever been so pale? Nanami’s fingers grip his crutches, gritting his teeth.

How long his eyelashes had been! A small scar runs down his left temple (“After my sister shoved me in the playground!” Haibara had chirped), and his bangs remain as perfectly cut as they had been when he died. Nanami half expects him to sit up, to grin and laugh at his twisted face.

“Why’re you so stiff, Nanami? It’s just a joke!”

Justajokejustajokejustajoke.

A chasm opens up in Nanami’s stomach. His crutches clatter to the floor as he races out of the morgue, stumbling when pain shoots up his right leg. He retches dryly and tears pool in his eyes. Shouko silently covers Haibara and closes the door, Nanami’s tears falling alongside the pouring rain.

That night in his dreams, Haibara slices Nanami’s head off. He wakes up with his heart racing and tears slipping down his cheeks.

Nanami visits you the next day. He had been reluctant to do so — what if you blamed him for everything, for Haibara’s death and your injuries? He wouldn’t be able to bear it, to be hated by you. His hand hovers over your dorm doorknob, hesitating. Nanami takes a deep breath as he swallows his anxiety and opens the door.

It’s as if nothing had ever happened.

You sit on your bed, neatly tucked under the covers with a book sitting on your lap. Warm sunshine pours through the open windows and the penguin plush Nanami had won for you at a festival still sits by your desk. You look up when he walks in.

Nanami calls out your name. You stare at him.

“Sorry, but… Who are you?” you ask quietly, a sense of confusion lacing your words.

He stops by the door and Nanami’s heart sinks to his feet.

“I’m Kento. Nanami Kento,” he repeats, words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Checkered curtains flutter in the wind and the pages of your book butterfly open to an unread chapter. You keep your eyes focused on Nanami, eyebrows slightly furrowed in confusion.

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” you reply.

☆*: .｡.

A toxic mix of trauma and a severe head injury had caused your amnesia. Nanami lays in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling. If only he hadn’t let his emotions overtake him, if only he had been there a minute earlier, if only if only if only. Regret dulls his sense of taste and emotions. He no longer takes joy in eating anything (even those croissants Getou had bought while out on a mission), nor does he even crack a smile at Gojo’s antics.

Nanami returns to training once he is physically well again. He becomes the only first-year to attend Yaga’s classes, sparring practice conducted with the second years. He goes out on missions alone and learns to provide both defense and offense for himself. Nanami trains, he exercises curses, he returns to school. He repeats this same cycle mindlessly over and over again.

Time heals, they say. Nanami wonders how much time it must take for him to let go of everything.

Nanami learns to hide his disappointment. His face becomes a strong facade for whatever his weak heart truly feels. The quiet sigh he lets out when no one’s around, the stretching of his neck after yet another fruitless day of training — Nanami decides that he’ll leave the world of sorcery once he’s graduated.

Seasons change and Nanami becomes a second year, then a third year. Getou falls away. The seniors graduate and new freshmen enter the school. Nanami keeps these things in the back of his mind as he raises his sword for a countless time, striking the training doll with ease.

You work with Shouko in the infirmary, occasionally helping out with office work. The school had deemed it better to keep you under their care than to release you outside. Like a rehabilitated animal, Nanami thinks.

You still remember no memories of him. Nanami brings you sweets and souvenirs from his missions, letting you trace your fingers over the fancy packaging with a sparkle in your eye. At this, Nanami swallows back his confession of love once more. He can’t bear to burden you with his feelings.

You form new impressions of him. Nanami turns into the stone-faced and adorable boy who treats you like fine China, always sticking his hands out awkwardly when he tries to give you something. The tips of his ears burn red when he lies — especially when you ask him, “Nanami, did you buy this for me?” and he shakes his head furiously.

You think he’s kind. He comforts you when you cry over lost memories, unable to remember the faces in photographs that had once been so familiar. The first thing Nanami does after returning from a mission is to rush to you. Were you okay? Did you have your meals? One time, he came over without getting his injuries checked and collapsed by your feet. You scolded him after that, tenderly dressing his wounds.

“Nanami!” you said crossly, a pout on your face.

He tries to forget how he had asked you to stop calling him ‘Ken-chan’. He ducks his head, hissing when you douse his skin in antiseptic.

Some things don’t change, though. You still keep your pencil box immaculately neat — the tips of your stationery always pointing to the right side. Though you don’t have any more movie ticket stubs, you carefully clip the pictures of your childhood Nanami had given to you together and keep them under your pillow.

One day, you munch on a yummy biscuit Nanami brought back for you. He sits on the floor and polishes his sword, peering at it from every angle to make sure it’s evenly oiled.

“Nanami?”

He hums.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like you’re from an emo boy band? Your hair matches it.”

Your shy laugh rings out in the room as bile rises in Nanami’s throat. He sheathes his sword and lays it on the ground.

“Yes, they have.”

He struggles to smile, his gut twisting.

☆*: .｡.

On graduation day, no one else but Nanami receives his certificate with a flower corsage pinned to his chest. The room is empty save for him and Yaga, the chirping of spring birds breaking the silence.

“I’m glad to have been able to teach you, Nanami,” Yaga broods. “You’ve grown a lot.”

Nanami does not reply. He bows deeply and strides out of the main building. All of a sudden, the traditional architecture and nature that surround Jujutsu High seems stifling. His skin crawls with the urge to leave as soon as possible.

“Nanamin!”

He jumps. Turning around, he finds you grinning happily with a bouquet of flowers in hand.

“Congratulations on your graduation!” you chirp.

Nanami accepts the flowers awkwardly and rests them in the crook of his elbow, his other hand clutching his certificate. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves of nearby trees and a wave of sakura petals descend from their branches like rain.

“Nanamin,” your voice grows softer. “Are you leaving forever?”

He swallows, then nods wordlessly.

“Will I ever see you again?”

“I wanna be with you forever, Ken-chan!” you wailed.

“Forever’s a long time,” Nanami replied.

He handed you his yellow cotton handkerchief, face wrinkling when you honked your nose into it. Gross. His neck hurt from sticking it out of the car window. He can hear his father tapping a finger onto the wheel impatiently, his mother silent as she stares out the front.

“B-but!”

Your bottom lip quivered and Nanami let out a sigh.

“Fine, fine. I’ll be with you, okay?”

“Really, Ken-chan? Forever?”

“Yeah, really. Forever.”

You grinned in the waning sunlight as your mother tugged you away.

“I’ll never forget you, Ken-chan!” you shouted.

The car window rolled up and he watched you disappear into the horizon, turning as tiny as an ant.

Nanami swallows his heart into the pit of his stomach.

“Probably.”

“That’s not a definitive answer, Nanamin.”

“What do you want me to tell you, then?”

There’s a slight tremble in his voice. The plastic wrapping of the flowers crinkle under his grip and waves of emotions rush over him; the biggest out of all of them regret. He struggles to breathe underwater, keeping his eyes squeezed shut and nose plugged up. A sakura petal lands on his shoulder. He doesn’t bother brushing it away.

“Say,” you whisper, taking a step to close the distance between Nanami and you.

He gulps as you place a hand upon his chest. He can feel the heat of your skin through his uniform and Nanami’s too dumbstruck to respond.

“Why don’t you give me your second button?”

Your eyes meet his. A smile toys with the corners of his lips and suddenly Nanami blurts out a nervous “Okay.”. His mind flickers back to Haibara momentarily; how you had appeared to like him so much back then. But he chooses to shove those memories into the back of his mind once more as you produce a small pair of scissors and snip the thread.

“You always take care of me, Nanamin. It was natural of me to fall in love with you,” you breathe, cradling the swirl patterned button in your hands.

A gust of cool air slips into his unbuttoned shirt and Nanami’s breath hitches.

“Do you like me too?”

Your question is innocent. With the way you peer up at him, there’s no way that Nanami can lie. Your glittery eyes were the same ones he had fallen in love with all those years ago. He wonders if he still loves you in the same way as he did then; as faultless and innocent it had been. His heart sits on the tip of his tongue.

“Yeah, I do.”

Your eyes crinkle at the edges as you smile, an evident sigh of relief escaping your lips. You slip the button into your pocket before tugging Nanami even closer towards you. He yelps as your chest presses against his and the tips of his ears turn red.

You plant your lips by the side of his.

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen angst #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen fic #jjk fic #nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento angst #nanami kento fic #nanami x reader #nanami angst #nanami fluff #nanami fic #jjk nanami #jjkmagsummer

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soultronica · 4 years ago

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Law’s -ya suffix

“How many people have you killed, Drake-ya?”

About Law's verbal quirk of adding -ya at the end of the names of the people he's addressing -- fairly unique, yeah? Chances are this is something you've never seen before, at least this was the case for me. This post is an attempt at a comprehensive explanation and overview of the way he uses it.

(obligatory blanket warning that my japanese level is around jlpt n2/cecrl c1 - i understand the stuff i research but i'm not a native speaker. i can be mistaken.)

The suffix -ya (屋)

Let's start off by saying that while it's a strange way to address people, the suffix in itself isn't unfamiliar.

The basic meaning of "ya" (屋) is shop, essentially. You add it to a noun to turn it into a profession, especially ones related to shops and traditional trades, though usually with the polite address marker -san, even in third person.

So for example:

pan = bread ⇨ panya-san = baker kutsu = shoes ⇨ kutsuya-san = shoemaker

This includes “invented” occupations that would therefore be instinctively understood as such. For example, an anime I just watched (durarara) has:

joho = information ⇨ johoya(-san) = information broker hakobu = to carry ⇨ hakobiya(-san) = transporter

And then by extension, it became used in nouns to define a person by a trait of theirs:

ganbaru = to do one's best ⇨ ganbariya-san = someone who always tries their best hazukashii = to be embarrassed ⇨ hazukashigariya-san = a shy person

This last bit is relevant here because Law's terms of address includes not so much occupations but attributes. So you'd understand "Strawhat-ya" as "Guy with the strawhat" for example.

Where it gets a bit confusing is that Law's terms of address also include just tacking on the suffix to names, which makes less sense intuitively... Which is where Oda's own explanation comes in handy.

Historical background: yago (屋号)

Straight from the source - this is an SBS answer from volume volume 62 (page 84), which was replaced in the official English edition.

Reader: Law-san uses -ya to address people such as in "Strawhat-ya", does that mean that if someone is named Tsuchiya he'd call them Tsuchiyaya? Please tell me Law-san ❤ Oda: Law-san! Someone's asking for you! ... Yeah, he's not coming. I'll answer in his place, shall I? In the past in Japan, maybe around Edo era? There was a thing called "yago". If for example in a village you had two people called Tomekichi, folks would use -ya instead of their names to refer to them (by their trade), such as "Tomekichi the toolshop (doguya)" or "Tomekichi the cooper (okeya)". Have you never heard "Tamaya~!" in the context of fireworks or "Nakamuraya!" in the context of kabuki? It's something like that. Right, Law-san? Law: Yeah.

If you're not familiar with yago at all, maybe the wikipedia article will help (link). I'm sure you can make the link with what I've explained above. The gist is that a commoner would often be addressed by their trade or shop name for differentiation (as in Oda's example) or convenience. And if they made a name for themselves, said name (including the -ya bit, the same "ya" as in "yago") could be used the same way their trade name would be, and they'd pass that name from generation to generation, making the name a yago. The Nakamuraya Oda mentions here is a famous yago of kabuki actors stretching back to the 16th century (link) and the Tamaya are, you guessed it, a hanabi (traditional fireworks) yago from the Edo era (Japanese link).

So there we go! Law's -ya suffix usage is actually pretty traditional.

Law's usage

Law of course does not use the -san polite address marker, because he's a rude little shit. This brings me to what I believe is the first time he uses it, chronologically, which (provided you consider it canon) would be in the Law novel which takes place right after Law runs away from Minion Island where Cora died. He doesn't use -ya at all during his manga flashbacks. In the novel however he's saved by a man, Wolf, who creates mostly worthless inventions. Which leads Law to call him Garakuta-ya, where "garakuta" means junk, rubbish. Implying that his occupation is to create junk. I think this is a pretty good in-context illustration of how the suffix works? And if you consider the novel canon, you get the added characterisation bit of this habit of Law's being originally a kid's thing, which fits nicely.

Regardless of how it started, he clearly got used to addressing people like this. In the manga, these are the addressed characters I'm aware of, including Oda's own compilation from a volume 72 (page 46) SBS answer:

Luffy - Mugiwara-ya (Strawhat-ya) Zoro - Zoro-ya Nami - Nami-ya Usopp - Hana-ya (Nose-ya) (lol) Sanji - Kuroashi-ya (Blackleg-ya) Chopper - Tony-ya Robin - Nico-ya Franky - Robo-ya Brook - Bone-ya Smoker - Hakuryo-ya (White Chase-ya)* Caesar - Caesar-ya* Drake - Drake-ya Kidd - Eustass-ya (* = are also addressed without the -ya)

There's not really a pattern here. For some of these characters he uses an attribute + ya, which again makes instinctual sense when you're used to the regular meaning of -ya. For others he uses surname + ya, which is what originally confused me until I found the SBS yago explanation. Notably this includes characters who aren't usually referred to by their surnames (Chopper, Robin, Kid). But then you've also got Zoro and Nami who are addressed by their first names.

Despite those two I'd still say that it's overall a particularly offhand term of address, and a non-polite one at that (which is why the "Mr" translation that was in Sabaody-era scans for the ones he addresses by surname doesn't really work, but I can't fault a week-by-week translator for having no idea what to do with that, with no characterisation to go on).

It's worth noting that he doesn't use -ya at all for members of his crew: Bepo, Penguin and Shachi are all addressed by just their names.

Signification

So why this particular verbal quirk for Law? It's all up to interpretation of course, but I'd say this leans into his casually rude way of speaking, especially pre-timeskip Law.

Another point that I've seen raised in a Japanese meta, and one that I agree with, is that it serves to make him more Japanese. I know a lot of us have our headcanons about the ethnicities of various OP characters and for me Law is one of the particularly Japanese-coded characters: his Japanese sword, his not eating bread, his use of a traditional suffix as a verbal quirk... (and also just because I've met sooo many japanese guys his age with exactly that terrible facial hair/sideburns combo what's up with that lol)

But of course all this is open to interpretation. I'd love to hear anybody's thoughts about his characterisation! And I hope this helped shed light on some of it.

Bonus

Rule 63!Law does use the -san polite address marker lol.

"How many people have you killed, Drake-ya-san?"

#one piece #japanese #trafalgar law #i typed most of this on my phone at work and edited it on 5 hours of sleep i hope it makes sense #my op posts

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percabethfeelsfandom · 3 years ago

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Writing Prompt AU: Childhood Best Friends to Lovers

PART 6: Age 18

“California is pretty far away,” Percy says softly into the night as Annabeth lays on the rooftop by his side. He hears her shift so that she can look at him, and he mirrors her, looking at his reflection in her pale eyes.

“2914.9 miles,” she answers.

“You really had to choose the farthest college from me didn’t you?”

Annabeth snorts and shakes her head.

“Yes Percy, I chose it purely because it’s the furthest from you in particular.” He pouts and pushes himself up on an elbow so he can look down at her.

“Why are you leaving me?”

“I’m not just leaving you Perce, I’m leaving everyone else as well. My Dad, my brothers, Thals, Grover...not just you.” Her face shifts and he sees sadness replace her joking smirk.

“Yeah but I’m special...I’m your favourite.” Percy is half-joking but he wishes with all his heart that the first part of his sentence is true, that he is in fact special to Annabeth. Special in the same way that Annabeth is special to him.

“Don’t let Thals hear that,” Annabeth says, rolling her eyes but Percy leans in closer, poking her repeatedly until she’s laughing.

“You’re only saying that because it’s true.”

“Shut up.” Percy notices how she doesn’t deny it and it brings a smile to his face.

“I’m going to miss you.” His heart gives an uncomfortable squeeze as his voice softens and his smile drops. Annabeth gives him a sad look and pokes his chest trying to get him to look at her properly.

“Don’t get all sappy on me now Seaweed Brain, we’ve still got summer.”

“And then you leave and forget me, and find a cool Perry Johnson to be your new best friend.” He says and dramatically throws his head back, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead like he’s about to faint.

Annabeth groans and pushes him away so he falls back on the blanket they’ve laid out. The other two aren’t due to arrive for another hour, but Percy has been spending so much time at Annabeth’s house already, that it made no sense to go back to his last night, so he stayed over and helped set up the apartment rooftop for their sleepover under the stars.

He thinks they’ve done a pretty good job for the two of them, there’s an array of pillows, blankets and sheets all over the floor, and plenty of snacks to last them through the night. A couple of years ago, way back when they were younger, Mr Chase set up fairy lights along the edge of the roof, so they’re not in complete darkness, not that New York can ever be truly dark. The lights illuminate Annabeth’s features as Percy turns his head to her, she looks like a goddess and Percy swallows deeply when she returns his stare.

“What are you looking at?”

Percy shrugs and sits up so he can rearrange snacks that don’t need rearranging to hide his blush at being caught.

“Oh, I nearly forgot! Can you sign this, you never did?” Annabeth says changing the subject and tugs on his arm so he can come back and sit with her.

He looks at her confused until she brings out her yearbook. Their school emblem shines on the front cover, and she places it in his lap, pressing herself to his side, so she can flip the pages, looking for an empty space to write. On the back, there’s an entire blank page and she smooths the paper down and hands him a marker.

“All yours.” She says and watches him expectantly.

“Are you going to watch me write in it?” He twirls the pen uneasily and rubs the back of his neck, slightly uncomfortable under her intense gaze.

Annabeth huffs. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Can you?” He asks half-jokingly.

“You’re such an idiot. Fine. I’ll go check if there’s anything we forgot downstairs. Do you want anything?” He grins as she shakes her head, pretending to be annoyed.

“Anything blue.”

“Of course,” she mutters and gets up, using his shoulder to steady herself. He leans into the touch and tries to ignore the way his body misses her warmth when she leaves.

When she leaves Percy flips back to the front, reliving their senior year, one page at a time. He skips past the photos of the people in his grade and goes straight to the events. It starts with homecoming, and there’s a photo of Percy, Annabeth, Grover and Thalia all dressed in black suits. Percy smiles fondly at the close-up photo of Thalia and Annabeth posing together, in matching suits and corsets. Since Thalia broke up with Luke, she’s reintegrated back into the group with no issue, and it’s like she never left.

He turns the page, skipping through the other homecoming photos, and pauses at the one of him and Annabeth. It’s a candid, and even though he’s already seen it, his heart still stutters, because in the photo she’s fixing his hair in the photo right before the official photos like she always does, and Percy can’t help but think about how much they look like a couple.

He keeps turning through the pages, trying to find more photos of their group. They’re not a very social group, preferring to hang out with each other than go to school events, but they’re at all the major ones.

There are small snippets of them at the football games, student fairs and pep rallies, it’s not till the end where there are photos that focus more on students not part of clubs that he sees more pictures of his friends.

There’s one of them all laying on their back enjoying the sun looking up at clouds the way they used to when they were kids (completely unaware that someone is taking photos of them). There’s even a photo of Grover with Thalia on his shoulder as she tries to climb a tree with toilet paper in her hand from prank day. The next one is a blurry photo of Percy completely wrapped in toilet paper and chasing Annabeth.

Moments from their senior year have been captured and immortalised in these pages, and Percy’s heart heaves at the thought of leaving this all behind or watching people leave.

Tears start to prick at his eyes as he reaches the graduation and prom photos. There’s a huge shot of his entire grade, a choice of a few students throwing their caps up. In the corner on the page before the prom photos, there's a small snapshot of the four of them, their arms thrown around each other, heads pressed together. He remembers this moment vividly. All of their names are relatively close together in the roll, so as soon as they were announced, he had bolted straight to Grover, who had bolted to Thalia, who had bolted to Annabeth, and they had all ended up screaming and jumping into each other's arms.

He’s going to miss this.

He finally comes to the prom photos, and he’s not surprised when his breath catches in his throat when he sees Annabeth in her prom dress again. It’s a deep blue, the colour of the sky above his head, and it makes his stomach flutter each time he sees it. In the photo, she’s posing with Thalia again, but she’s mid-laugh and Percy would be lying if he said it wasn’t one of his favourite photos of her. He has copies of photos from the night on his computer, but the ones taken at the venue are better quality, it’s almost like he’s back there in the moment.

Thalia had come with a date, once again wearing a tight-fitting suit, a girl on her arm and Grover had brought Juniper, his girlfriend. Percy and Annabeth had agreed to go together, just because it was easier.

“Platonically,” he remembers telling Grover. He remembers Grover laughing and shaking his head.

“There is nothing platonic about you two but okay. Have fun, Perce.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Grover had never explained what he meant and it still haunted Percy.

There isn’t a photo of the two of them at prom together, at least not in the yearbook, but he asked for a favour from a friend in the yearbook committee and has the photos that didn’t make it on a USB drive back home. His favourite is his wallpaper, and it’s of him and Annabeth dancing their heads bent close together. It’s not obvious it’s them two but he can recognise her blonde hair anywhere. That’s another moment he holds close, them dancing and swaying to a song they don’t recognise, whispering to each other in the night. He’d almost told her that night. Told her everything, about what he felt, about how he would always feel, but when she let go, he realised that he didn’t want to risk losing what they had. It was too precious to him.

Percy finally reaches the page that Annabeth initially brought him to and he uncaps the pen, tapping the back of it against the page a couple of times trying to think of a message. It’s not an accident that he didn’t write in Annabeth’s yearbook. When they were all doing it, Percy had purposefully avoided her because he knew that what he had to say to her couldn’t be said like this.

He sighs as he begins a doodle instead. A little owl because he knows that they’re her favourite, and a dolphin because they’re his. His mind is still blank at what to write to her, but he knows she’s not going to let him get away with not doing it this time.

He hears footsteps coming up the staircase and he writes the first thing that comes to his mind. The only thing that never leaves his mind when he’s around Annabeth. It’s not a long message so he’s finishing it just as Annabeth sits back down. He slams the book shut and chucks it behind him so that she can’t immediately read it. She notices and raises an eyebrow.

“Read it later. It’s embarrassing,” he says sheepishly. She laughs and hands him a bag of sour blue candy stripes. He tears open the package and starts eating as he hears other footsteps. Grover and Thalia appear in the doorway, holding pillows and even more bags of snacks.

“Let’s get this party started!” Thalia exclaims and drops her stuff unceremoniously on top of Percy, burying him under the wright. Everyone laughs at him as he sputters his way out.

Thalia plugs in some music and Annabeth helps pull Percy to his feet, and they start the feast of snacks. Grover helps Percy set up a projector for their movie and it’s nearing midnight when they finally settle on Disney’s Hercules.

As always Grover falls asleep halfway through the movie, murmuring about how his tummy hurts in his sleep. They take group selfies with him, and Percy grabs the marker next to Annabeth’s yearbook so that he can draw on Grover’s face. He’s holding back giggles with Thalia as they pose next to him and Annabeth takes a photo of them.

He pulls both girls close to him when he falls back and squeezes their shoulders.

“I can’t believe my favourite girls are leaving me to deal with this idiot,” he says and nods to Grover who has started snoring. Thalia scoffs and pushes his face so that he lets go of her. He gives in but doesn’t take his arm off Annabeth, and he swears that Annabeth cuddles just a bit closer to him.

“We’re not dying, Percy, we’re just moving to the West Coast,” Thalia says as she opens a can of coke and Percy briefly remembers how he first met Annabeth and how she had protected him from Nancy. He exchanges a look with her and sees that she’s already smiling at him, knowing exactly what he’s thinking.

“Betrayal. That’s what this is,” he says and squeezes Annabeth’s shoulder again. She threads their hands together and Percy tries not to react and turn to her again.

Thalia catches his eye and smirks at their interlocked hands.

She stands up and brushes her pants.

“I need to go pee, do you two need anything from downstairs?”

They both shake their heads and she nods before carefully stepping over a sleeping Grover and leaves the two of them.

Percy and Annabeth stay like that, leaning on each other, hands interlocked and Percy wishes he could freeze this exact moment.

“Did you write something?” Annabeth asks softly as she pulls away from him, but doesn’t let go of his hand. Percy nods tightly and she smiles as she reaches across from him and grabs the yearbook from their makeshift table. She skips straight to the back and opens to his page. She gave him an entire page to write on, but there’s only one sentence in the middle and two small doodles. She stares at it for a moment, rereading it before she looks up.

“You’re my number one,” Annabeth reads, holding the yearbook open at his page, “What does that mean?”

Percy swallows, suddenly terrified. There’s no time like now to tell her, and he has no real doubts about loving her, but with her unflinching gaze on him like this, it’s hard not to be nervous. He tries not to overthink and takes a deep breath, speaking the truth that he’s kept under wraps for years.

“There’s only one meaning, Wise Girl, what else could it mean?” He says with a shrug and reaches for her hand. She lets him take it. “My Mom once said that people who have a big heart have a lot of love in them to share, but they’ll always have their number one, and that’s you. That’s been you for years, my entire life probably.”

He takes another breath and waits for Annabeth to respond. When she doesn’t he continues, suddenly full of words. “You’re the one for me. The only one that I could ever want. The one I put before everything. You’re my-”

“Do you mean that?” Her face is full of doubt and Percy brings their joined hands up so he can press his lips to the back of her hand.

“Of course,” he breathes, and pulls her closer. He’s barely breathing when she puts the yearbook down for a moment. They stay frozen like that, pressed against each other, foreheads touching and breath mingling.

“I think I was made for loving you,” he whispers and carefully pushes her hair back.

The smile she gives him is one to rival the sun that is going to rise in a few hours.

“If that’s so, then I was made for loving you just as much.”

She kisses him, and he almost forgets his name. He brings his hands up to cup face and bring her closer and she smiles against his lips and-

“Seriously? You two couldn’t wait until after I was asleep. Jeez.”

Annabeth jerks away from him and they both stare at Thalia who is giving them a tired look from the rooftop doorway. Percy can’t help it and starts laughing, shortly after Annabeth joins and falls onto his chest, laughing too hard to keep herself up. Eventually, Thalia sits back down and bites her lip trying not to laugh, but the more she tries to keep it in the funnier it gets.

By then all three of them are laughing so hard their stomach hurts and Grover stirs awake.

“What’s going on?”

“This,” Annabeth says and proudly holds up her hand that is still firmly clasped in Percy’s hand.

Grover blinks sleepily at it and shrugs like it’s not a big deal.

“About freaking time,” he says and lays back down.

Percy and Annabeth look at each other again and he smiles at her before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to her mouth.

“It was worth the wait.”

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

PART 4

PART 5

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cherrycheolcoups · 4 years ago

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found you | a.h.

summary: soulmate au where when you write something down on your skin, whether it be in pen, marker, etc. it shows up on your soulmate's skin as well.

pairing: hotch x gn!reader

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As children, you're told about soulmates. From a young age, (Y/N) has always been intrigued in the concept of soulmates and has always viewed it as a rather intimate thing, since the marks don't show up on anyone else. Sometimes, you do tend to forget about it showing on your soulmate's skin when you grab a writing utensil and draw whatever is on your mind at the time onto your skin. Typically, you keep to drawing or writing on your arm or hand.

Today, you had a few appointments and things to do, so you resorted to writing them down on your arm, scribbling them in almost a rush as you tried to get out of the house to get to your friend's house for an appointment and she had wanted you to tag along. You would worry later about your soulmate seeing these numbers on their skin. For now, you had a friend who needed you.

Aaron, on the other hand, was always very reluctant and wary about the whole soulmate thing. There's just no way it's mapped out that way eons ago, right? He had this viewpoint until the day a flower showed up on his inner left wrist. That was the first time Hotch had ever actually given it thought, and finally just accepted the idea that he had a soulmate after all, and that it wasn't just some cynical idea from someone. Today, the Unit Chief was in his office, pouring over reports that Strauss was breathing down his neck to finish in an ungodly amount of time. After a moment, the male was able to see some numbers poking out under his suit sleeve on his wrist.

Rolling up his sleeve to see better, Aaron took note of the numbers and what he assumed was a grocery list. Taking the yellow notepad in front of him, Hotch tore out a page and began to write the numbers down, wanting to know what they meant. If need be, Hotch would get Garcia to try and take a crack at it, or Reid since he was good with numbers. One of them had to know, because he couldn't make sense of the numbers. Hotch took the paper and left his office, going to Garcia first to see if she could make sense of it. He needed to know.

Walking into her office, he set the paper down in front of her without a greeting. "What do these numbers mean?" Hotch asked Garcia, who turned in her chair to give him a look before smiling. "Well. Hey to you, too, Hotch," she said before turning back around and typing the first series of numbers into her computer. And then doing the same with the others. "Turns out, these are numbers to different places. The first one is for a doctor's office, while the second is for a coffee shop. Let me guess, sir. Your soulmate wrote these on their arm, huh?" Penelope had questioned him with a gleam in her eyes.

Aaron cleared his throat and looked at her. "No. I found them in a report and didn't know what they meant," he said, hoping she believed him. After leaving her office, Hotch decided he would go to the coffee shop, and see if he would maybe meet his soulmate there after all this time. After a few minutes, Aaron found himself sitting down at a table in the coffee shop, a coffee sitting in front of him as he scanned the room, hoping he didn't look creepy or out of place.

The minute his eyes caught onto familiar writings, Hotch quickly grabbed a pen from his pocket and wrote on his right inner wrist, ensuring the person would see the words. 'Found you' was what Aaron had written down. A smile appeared on his face when he saw you turn around and lock eyes with him. Hotch gave a small wave before picking up his coffee and walking over to your table, sitting down. "Hey. It's nice to finally meet the person that makes cute drawings show on my skin from time to time."

"Yeah. It's nice to finally put a face to the messy little notes that appear on my wrist," you had countered, smiling behind your coffee cup. This caused Aaron to chuckle and duck his head a little bit, the tips of his ear turning a little red. "I-I'm Aaron," Hotch had told you, receiving your name in return.

For the next few hours, the two of you simply sat and got to know each other better, oblivious the the rest of his BAU team somewhere in the corner watching. "He's so smitten," Emily had told them, laughing. "Definitely. At least he's happier," Morgan had said, to which the rest of them agreed. Rossi, being Rossi, had gotten up from their table and walked over to yours and Aaron's, patting Hotch on the back while leaning in. "Attaboy, Aaron," Rossi whispered, a smirk on his face again as he then walked away, leaving Aaron red and speechless. And a stuttering mess, but you weren't going to embarrass him further, though it was cute.

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tag list: @thisiscalm-andits-doctor

#aaron hotchner #hotch #bau #criminal minds #aaron hotchner fanfiction #soulmate au!!#dave rossi #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #spencer reid #jennifer jareau #derek morgan #gn!reader #hotch x reader #fluff #shy hotch #first meeting

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justlookingvm · 3 years ago

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Tessa Virtue’s leap from Figure Skating Olympic Champion to Executive MBA | Kneading Dough Canada

https://youtu.be/JAAkEDRFJ1A

Host: Vinay Virmani

T: If you’re going to build something, you need options in your life. I’ll say this especially as females, it’s important to be independent. To feel like you can be self-reliant and to take care of yourself.

[Intro presented by Tangerine]

V: Tessa, welcome to Kneading Dough Canada.

T: Thank you so much for having me.

V: It’s a pleasure. Kneading Dough Canada is a financial empowerment platform as you know, where we talk money, we talk mindset, we talk about financial lessons that you’ve learned along the way to hopefully inspire the next generation.

T: Well I’m so grateful to be on, I really appreciate it. I think it’s always refreshing to hopefully lend that female lens but also maybe that perspective from the amateur sport world too.

V: Yeah, you know Tessa you’ve accomplished so much, both in your personal and in your professional life. As an athlete you have achieved so many incredible honours, you’ve represented us, this country of Canada at the highest of international levels, but what I’m really excited about is you’re about to add another accomplishment in the form of three very special letters, MBA behind your name. Talk to me about that decision.

T: It’s been you know lingering in my mind for a long time. Education was always a priority in my household growing up in my family, and I thought about law school for quite some time and then I retired at 28 or 29 and thought maybe that’s too long (giggle) and realized also I wanted to flex a bit of a creative muscle. So this MBA program has been a dream of mine for quite some time. I want to be a student again in every sense of the word and I’m eager to learn the ins and outs of the business realm and that corporate sphere that I’ve had a unique perspective of, you know for 10 15 years, but if I’m going to take on a new role whatever that may be then I really want to feel like I’ve adopted that rookie mindset once again, and earned my stripes, I’ve gotten the credibility to to deserve a place there.

V: I want to take it to the world of figure skating though, because the world of figure skating is so glamorous as a sport. You know

T: I wasn’t sure where that sentence was going to land. It could have gone so many directions.

V: I I’m so like fascinated by the world of figure skating because the glamour, the imagination, the costumes, the drama, the whole production value. It looks so beautiful and elegant, but behind it there’s also rigorous routine, training and it’s not cheap.

T: Uh huh

V: So growing up, dd you have those conversations with your family and did you understand the investment that it was taking to sort of put you through the highest levels of figure skating.

T: The 2 things that my parents were always wiling to invest in or prioritize were education and sport. And it was important to them that we were exposed to as much as we could be. I’m the youngest of four. You know I’m of two minds because on one hand I do believe they tried to shield me from the burden of that sacrifice, that they made for all kids and for you know all of these adventures. But I was also keenly aware of it. I knew the the toll and I knew the cost and um you know I felt that responsibility…

V: Was there anything that you remember early on where there was an incident or a moment where you were like, I recognize like you talked about the toll.

T: My parents were so conscious to ensure that I wasn’t carrying that weight, and yet I moved away from home when I was 13 and I was kind of budgeting at that age for groceries and 7-eleven runs (laughs), whatever it is that a 13 year old needs. Taking taxis everywhere and I made a decision when I was 15 um to be able to do it on my own. My mom was always quick to say you know you have to look after yourself and you always have to make your own way and she was all about sort of creating that sense of security and freedom, so that I had options.

To be honest I had a tumultuous relationship with my father when I was a teen and I think it was just a decision, at that point. I didn’t feel right.

V: Yeah

T: I didn’t feel right accepting that kind of support anymore um and maybe it was a bit of pride you know, not wanting to

V: You don’t want to be dependent on anybody.

T: Totally. Yeah, and that’s not to say that I’m not aware of the privilege that I had growing up to have those opportunities. It was just a real marker of OK, if this is the path I’m choosing, um and I really need to make sure that I can I can do it on my own or in a way that really isn’t such a burden.

V: You know talking to you today has reinforced independence. You know being independent, not being dependent and and just being self-sufficient. And how gratifying that is, you know I think a lot of people, especially as you said, I hope a lot of young women watch this show and and really listen to your advice. And the fact that you took that decision at such an early age.

T: You know it’s interesting I found old journals not too long ago, and there was a page in one and I don’t know, judging by my handwriting I might have been 12? 11 or 12? And I had written my goals and that were, you know the to win the Olympics, be on Oprah, which I’ll settle for uninterrupted and Kneading Dough, uh buy a cottage, like buy a family cottage

V: Right

T: And at 12 that was on my mind and the feeling of walking into this cottage that my mom and I were able to dream of and then buy together, is so visceral and it’s it’s so much about, like I think back to being young and maybe not having, especially for her like that sense of security and and just really feeling like that can be a safe place now. Um so again it’s more of the representation of that.

V: I’ve heard you say something that has really resonated with me always because it’s something that I believe in. That the highs are so much better when you’ve experienced the lows. And obviously Scott Moir and yourself accomplished so many great things together. Something that I always try to tell the younger generation is, sometimes you have to just sit back celebrate your failures.

T: Well we learned to embrace it by making it part of our process, in that, not only did we anticipate failure and expect it and embrace it, well, we practiced it. So we learned to fall on demand, get back up, refocus, and

V: OK

T: be back into our program still trying to amalgamate as many points as possible.

V: You know I remember once um I must have been in grade school and I and I failed a few subjects. I was never a good student.

T: OK

V: And you know we didn’t have a lot of money at the time and I remember my my dad, I was really afraid to tell him that you know I’ve failed these courses and blah blah blah, but he said to the family, he said, alright everybody get ready we’re going for dinner. And we went to this restaurant that was only saved for like birthdays or anniversaries. And so we get there and he’s ordering all these great things on the menu and I’m like “dad, I don’t think you heard me like I failed, like I failed and here you are taking it t the restaurant.” And I remember he looked at me and he said “You know I want you to celebrate this failure. I want you to take it in because if you’re winning all the time, you’re not going to learn anything.”

T: Wow, and obviously that stayed with you

V: Oh yeah, you’re always going to learn so much more from the losses.

This next set of questions is called the two cents round, so you can’t overthink these things.

Tessa, we all know about your discipline but what do you splurge on?

T: Clothes

V: Clothes, OK, all right. What part of your budget are you working on lowering?

T: Clothes (big laugh). Actually not really because I will say, it’s more what it represents like part of that is like my I love it and it’s become also intertwined with my career and my brand if you will. Um

V: Its an investment in yourself.

T: I think so, that’s how I twist it

V: So, what is us the best financial decision you’ve made so far?

T: Hire the right people

V: Building the right team around you.

T: Yeah absolutely.

V: Describe your financial persona in just one word.

T: I want to say careful?

V: Careful.

T: Careful in that I’m strategic

V: I like that, OK

T: But I’m willing to have some fun.

V: OK, all right. Tessa if you could run any business, what would it be?

T: My own.

V: Your own. OK. All right I’m not going to push you more. [Tessa laughs]. They say patience is a virtue, how long did your first paycheck last?

T: I mean I spent my whole career basically operating at a deficit, so everything went back into training. I worked towards certain things and the you know I was really fortunate to get some funding and bursary grants, and then eventually sponsors and um was able to build this little nest egg, but mostly it went right back into training.

V: Tessa, this year we’ve been having such important and meaningful conversations about women in sport. And you know of course there’s such a long way to go for those conversations really to achieve equality, but as somebody who’s such a big advocate for women’s empowerment in sport, how do you feel that you want to lend your voice to those conversations?

T: I think, currently the biggest impact I feel I can have is really connecting with those young female athletes at that precipice of maybe dropping out um for all the heart breaking reasons that we’re learning about through research. Whether that is you know body image, or lack of self-confidence, lack of self-worth, it’s just not good enough. Like the access to resources, there are opportunities, um I think those conversations are really important and that’s where I’ve been feeling most fulfilled, when I’m able to connect with those athletes and you know I’ve been able to benefit from all of the lessons and the opportunities that sport has lended it uh to my life. And I just so want that for other female athletes. And you know we’re seeing that there are more mentors, more representation, more access to viewing these formidable female athletes, and I hope that resonates.

V: Tessa, we’ve uh had the opportunity to work on a few branded campaigns together. There’s this Tessa grace, and there’s this element of everything being held to a certain standard. In everything that you do, especially things that are public facing. Talk to me a bit about that.

T: I hate the word brand but I’m going to say it, my brand has been

V: I mean you definitely have a very strong brand

T: Well it’s been built on the very foundation of me and my personality and if those values aren’t upheld in every sense of you know the word, then I’m I’m not useful to anyone. Then I’m then no brand would want to hire me, um because it if it gets diluted, then I then I just think um it’s losing the very essence of what resonates with people. And I’m really careful about that like I only partner and pair with brands that I would authentically stand behind and feel really good about promoting.

V: I love that

T: And I’m conscious of where I lend my voice and my likeness, a very clear mission statement, and you know I love to be hands on but that’s where like the creative fulfilment comes in

V: Right

T: And honestly that’s where the most successful engagement also comes. If I’m involved and it’s a collaborative process, um it’s much more successful for the brand too.

V: You know, over this past year, there’s been such a strong connection to mental health and financial wellness. Many Canadians have a very high debt to income ratio, which can be very stressful. For you, how do you protect not only your mental health, but when it comes to financial wellness. How do you really protect your sanity?

T: As an amateur athlete I grappled with that um day after day. I think it’s important to find purpose in saving and planning. So, you know my mom started those conversations with me when I was young but that was all to sort of plant the seed of like you need to plan for this. And if you’re going to build something you need options in your life. For me you know it’s helped having a corporation for example, because a lot of my money is tied up there and it it’s great um but, it’s also made me very careful and strategic in how I spend it.

V: What is your one big piece of financial advice to all young women out there?

T: Surround yourself with the right people and set yourself up for independence.

V: I love that. Financial freedom.

T: Financial freedom.

#Tessa Interview: Kneading Dough

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moonscriptsx · 5 years ago

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Sketch (M)

SUMMARY: After sixteen years of dreaming about the same unknown beautiful girl, Jungkook finally gets to put a name to the face — and she's so much more than what he's dreamt of.

GENRE/WARNINGS: Soulmate!AU, Artist!Jungkook; filled with tooth rotting fluff and smut. Seriously, Jungkook is a sweetheart.

WORDS: 9.6k.

A/N: This was actually the first fic I wrote that was pretty lengthy. Also -- gguk is my weakness. Enjoy! xx.

For as long as he could remember, Jungkook knew who his soulmate was. From the time he was ten until now he knew that the person he was supposed to be with was out there, patiently waiting for him to come to them with open arms and a heart filled with nothing but love. Ever since he was little he would always dream of the same girl; long flowing hair, big doe eyes that seemed to glimmer with happiness, and the brightest smile he's ever seen. Every other night he would dream of her, the girl aging along with him as he grew older, and it wasn't until he was fifteen did he finally start to record the dreams. With his pencil and art pad, he'd sketch out the beautiful face, hoping to find her one day. But as the years went on, he had no such luck.

Now being almost twenty-six Jungkook is finding it harder and harder to stay positive about the situation, the man convinced that the woman he sketches is just a figment of his imagination, that she's just a fantasy he can only wish for – but little does he know that the universe works in mysterious ways. When the stars align and those in charge of fate decide that soulmates are ready to meet, it finally happens.

And for Jungkook it's sooner than he thinks.

The warm summer breeze whips past the brunette as he strolls down the sidewalk, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands as he peers around at his surroundings. People littered the sidewalks, different passerby's and pedestrians hurriedly walking to wherever it was they needed to be. Conversations flitter past the man as he crosses the street, a bright smile forming on his face when he spots his friend sitting comfortably underneath the tree in the park, a shout leaving his lips as he finally reaches him.

"Taehyung!"

Jungkook beams at the man, making his friend smile back in return. Scooting over so that Jungkook has a place to sit, Taehyung places his guitar aside as Jungkook plops down next to him.

"Hey man," he greets, nodding. "How've you been?"

Jungkook shrugs, placing his coffee down on the grass as he slides his backpack off his shoulders.

"I've been alright," he says casually. "There's been better days."

Taehyung hums in acknowledgement, the man turning back towards his guitar. Silence falls over the pair then and Jungkook takes the time to open his bag, finger instantly digging for the pad he always carried around with him before placing it in his lap. Grabbing a pencil from one of the pockets he's opening up to the last page he had stopped working on, the brunette instantly shading into the paper. From beside him Taehyung peers curiously over his friend's shoulder, a sad smile forming on his lips when he catches sight of the drawing.

"Still drawing her?" He asks, and Jungkook nods, lips pursing as he continues shading in details of her hair.

"Yeah," he says, distantly. "She gets more and more beautiful every time."

An unknown look crosses Taehyung's face then, the man glancing at his friend with something that could've been labeled as concern as he sighs. He lets his fingers strum over the strings of his guitar as he watches Jungkook draw details on the unknown girl's eyes, the musician cocking his head to the side as he studies the picture.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did," Jungkook says, throwing a smirk over his shoulder as Taehyung frowns.

"I'm being serious," he says quietly, and Jungkook pauses his shading, turning his attention towards his friend.

"Go ahead."

Pursing his lips, Taehyung leans back against the tree as he peers down at the drawing, genuine curiosity filling his body now.

"How can you be so sure that this girl is the one for you?"

The question makes Jungkook blink, his lips parting as he inhales sharply. He knew how his friends felt about his fascination with the girl in his dreams, he knew that they had weekly discussions of the brunette's fascination with this so-called 'dream girl' -- but he didn't care. In Jungkook's mind he was destined to be with this woman. It didn't matter how long it took for him to find her, he was convinced that she was the one for him.

"Honestly?" He begins, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back against the bark of the tree. "I've been dreaming of this girl since I was ten years old, Tae, that has to mean something."

Taehyung hums in acknowledgement, the musician's head nodding as he looks straight ahead.

"Yeah," he muses. "But it could also be something you just made yourself believe, you know. Sometimes the mind plays tricks on you."

Jungkook frowns then, the man turning his head to look over at his friend. Taehyung is motionless, the raven-haired man idly staring off in the distance, and Jungkook lets out a heavy sigh. Turning back to his pad, he stares down at the face on the paper. His eyes scan over every feature, the woman's face seemingly haunting him as her shining eyes and bright smile look back at him – the simple sight of her face on the paper making his heart beat wildly in his chest.

He knew Taehyung was right in a way, it was a completely crazy thought – but he was too afraid to risk anything. He was too deep into his feelings now that he knew there was no going back. He was finally going to put a name to the face if it was the last thing he did.

With his backpack slung over his shoulders and a snapback adorning his head, Jungkook walks down the crowded city street as he makes his way towards his work. The early morning rush always seemed to stress others out, the majority of passerby's scrambling to get to their offices or destinations in time, but Jungkook found a certain calmness in the mayhem. While others took long strides and sharp turns, the artist took his time; he walked at a leisurely pace, always making sure to take in his surroundings as he walked to the his studio. He appreciated the scene around him, relishing in the bright vibrant colors of the summer flowers. Sometimes he would even sit outside of the studio and just paint and draw the different scenarios; whether it was a couple walking down the street or the way the flowers swirled in the midst of the breeze from the summer wind.

Letting a small smile grace his lips, Jungkook pulls the door to the studio open, the air conditioned room hitting him right away as he steps inside. On the first floor is the training area, various easels scattered in a circle around the center, some of the seats occupied while others were still vacant, the remaining students having not arrived yet. Nodding politely towards those who were seated, Jungkook sends them a smile before walking towards the receptionist desk.

"Morning, Soo," he greets the girl behind the desk. He watches as she looks up at him, a bright smile on her lips as she nods towards him.

"Morning, Kookie," she says cheerily, making the artist chuckle.

"Do you have to call me that?" He asks playfully, and Soohyuk nods with a grin.

"Of course," she retorts. "It suits you. Also, I just like seeing you annoyed."

Shaking his head at the girl, Jungkook chuckles once more before he's signing in. Sending one more smile towards his friend, he turns to walk towards the staircase leading to the second level when he collides with the person behind him. Instantly a box drops and different pencils, markers, and paint brushes were scattered along the floor, the artists eyes widening as he drops to the floor to pick up the stranger's items.

"I'm so sorry!" He apologizes, which makes the stranger giggle nervously, their body bending down to swat his hands away.

"It's okay!" A bell-like voice responds, and Jungkook lifts his head to see who he had knocked into to. The moment their eyes meet, the world feels like it stopped.

Jungkook feels like the wind has been knocked out of him, his ears ringing painfully as his gaze falls on your face. The long flowing hair, the big doe eyes, that beautiful smile that seemed to light up the whole room... It was you – the girl he had dreamt of since the first time he could remember. Your eyes widen as you glance at him, your head tilting the side; a feeling of remembrance fills you, your brain insisting that you know this man – that you had met him before. Silence falls over the pair of you as the two of you stare at one another, both completely in shock by the sight of each other. Your gaze is glued to him, your body completely entranced by the man in front of you, and you don't snap out of your daze until Jungkook finally clears his throat.

Sending you a shy smile, the man gathers your things off of the floor and places them back in the box before standing upright once again.

"Sorry about that," he apologizes again. Holding his hand out towards you, he gestures for you to take it so he can help you up off the ground. "I'm Jungkook."

You take his hand without hesitation, your eyes widening once more when you feel the sting of a magnetic shock travel from his hand to yours, butterflies erupting in your stomach as he pulls you to your feet. You know he feels it too as he stares down at your joined hands, a quiet giggle falling from your mouth as you shyly look away from him.

"I'm (Y/N)," you murmur, and Jungkook beams.

"(Y/N)…"

The way your name falls from his lips makes you blush something fierce, your hand slipping out of his hand as you nervously tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. Jungkook feels like he's on cloud nine, the artist not being able to keep the smile off of his face as he nods in the direction of the circle of easels.

"So," he clears his throat. "Are you taking the class here or...?"

Immediately turning your head so you can look at him, you nod with a grin.

"My first class is today," you confirm. "I was just about to sign in when you, uh – yeah."

Jungkook smiles sheepishly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away bashfully.

"I really am sorry," he says earnestly, and you shake your head.

"It's not a big deal," you reassure him. "Don't worry about it."

Another wave of silence falls over you two then, both of you shuffling in half embarrassment half nervousness before you finally decide to break it.

"So, are you learning here too?"

Jungkook smirks, shoulders shrugging as he grasps the box in his hands.

"Not exactly," he chuckles. "This is actually my studio."

Your eyes widen at his words, shock running through your body as it registers in your head that 'Oh shit, this is my future boss...' and you find yourself silently freaking out, your body bending at the waist as you bow towards him.

"I'm so sorry," you apologize quickly. "I had no idea...!"

Jungkook can't help but laugh, the man shaking his head as he holds up a hand.

"You don't have to bow, (Y/N)," he says. "I'm just a normal person who owns a studio. Nothing too fancy."

You flush at his words, a hand nervously raking through your locks as you turn to look at the rest of the class. The seats that had been empty before were now completely filled, one empty chair left as it waited for you to occupy it. Turning back towards Jungkook you let a sad smile grace your lips as you nod in the direction of the classroom.

"I guess I should go sit down," you say, and Jungkook can't help but let his face slightly falter at that – but he understands.

Reluctantly the artist nods, his arms outstretching so he can hand over your box of materials, and just as you turn to walk away from him he's calling out to you, his voice making you bite back a smile.

"I'll see you around, yeah?"

Looking at him over your shoulder, you nod your head with a grin.

"Absolutely."

"I found her!"

Taehyung jumps from his spot at the computer desk, the musician's eyes widening as Jungkook bounds through the front door of their shared apartment. The bright smile on the younger's face makes Taehyung blink before he's jumping to his feet, his mouth dropping open as the words finally register in his head.

"What?" He asks, shellshocked. Jungkook can't help but grin as he grabs a hold of his friend's shoulders and shakes him lightly.

"I found her, Tae! The girl from my dreams!"

Taehyung's eyes narrow then, a scrutinizing gaze piercing into his friend as he purses his lips.

"How can you be so sure?" He asks skeptically, and Jungkook scoffs.

"I've been dreaming about the same woman for the past twenty-one years, Taehyung. I'm pretty sure I'd know her face."

Taehyung is still weary, the musician heavily sighing as he prys Jungkook's grip off of him. Running a hand through his hair he takes a seat back on the computer chair, he looks up at his friend with concern.

"And you're sure," he emphasizes the word, giving Jungkook a pointed look. "This is her?"

Jungkook nods wildly, big doe eyes wider than usual as he grins at his friend.

"Positive!" He affirms. "Her name is (Y/N) and she just started taking classes at my studio."

Taehyung hums then, a nod of approval following as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"So she's an artist too, then?" Jungkook nods again.

"Yup!"

Chuckling at his friend, Taehyung leans back against the chair as he smirks.

"Did you get her number?"

Jungkook's face falters at that, his eyebrows creasing as his lips turn into a frown. How could he have forgotten to ask for your number...

"Shit," he curses, causing Taehyung to let out a bark-like laughter.

"You're an idiot," his friend says playfully and Jungkook pouts.

"I was just too excited about the fact that I had found her that I completely forgot about getting her number."

Taehyung shakes his head, the man standing up from the chair so he can pat his friend on the shoulder, an encouraging look on his face as he smiles at him.

“At least you know where she’ll be, though,” he says, making the artist’s face brighten almost immediately.

“I’ll get it from her tomorrow,” Jungkook says cheerfully, nodding at his own words. “I’ll make sure of it.”

The next day Jungkook wastes no time in making his way to work, the artist clearly on a mission as he hurriedly whips past the crowded street, nearly knocking into several people on his way there. He all but hauls the door to the studio open, his gaze flittering around the room before it falls on the beauty he’s looking for -- you. Your head snaps up when you hear the door open, your gaze finding his, and you can’t help but let a massive smile dance across your lips as you watch Jungkook walk over to you.

“Morning, (Y/N),” he greets, and you smile widely at him.

“Morning, Jungkook.”

Seeing your smile in person makes Jungkook’s heart beat wildly in his chest, the simple action from you seemingly being able to rival the brightness of the sun. He can hear his heart beating loudly, the sound ringing in his ears as he takes a seat next to you.

“How was class yesterday?” He asks, and you shrug, crossing one leg over the other as you turn your body towards him.

“It wasn’t easy,” you admit. “I thought that I had known everything there was to art but -- there’s definitely a lot more to it than I presumed.”

Jungkook chuckles at that, his head nodding in affirmation at your words.

“That there is,” he agrees. “It gets easier, though. The first section is always the hardest because there’s just a bunch of information you have to retain and it’s mostly just a pain in the ass.”

His words make you giggle, your gaze dropping to the ground as you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. The simple action makes Jungkook smile, the artist fighting back to tuck it for you, as he stands up from the chair and adjusts the bag on his shoulder.

“But hey,” he adds, making you look back up to him. “If you ever get stuck on anything and need someone to guide you, I’m always here to help.”

Smiling gratefully at him, you nod before standing up as well.

“I appreciate that,” you say quietly, and Jungkook shrugs.

“It’s the least I can do,” he rubs the back of his neck out of nervousness, his stomach fluttering. “I could give you my number? So whenever you need help just give me a buzz and I’ll be glad to give you some sort of assistance.”

You can’t help but let another wide smile grace your lips, your head nodding at his words as you reach down to grab your phone from the pocket of your jeans.

“I’d like that,” you say quietly, making Jungkook beam.

A few more words were exchanged before he takes your phone and punches in his number, handing the device back to you with a smile. As the two of you bid one another goodbye, Jungkook can feel his heart pounding in his chest, an overflowing feeling of happiness filling him up from head to toe as he climbs the stairs to his office on the second level.

The next few weeks fly by in a crazy whirlwind.

Jungkook finds himself swarmed with different projects as he locks himself up in his office, dozens of empty coffee cups and crumpled of paper scattered around him as he lets out a groan of frustration. He had been requested to come up with a piece that they could display at the gala happening in two months time but nothing was good enough for him. No matter how many times he finished a piece he was never satisfied, the artist groaning in distaste before he’s hurling the crumpled up ball against the wall and starting over. That had been the process for the past two weeks -- and Jungkook was sick of it.

His irritated gaze falls on the easel in front of him, eyes swooping over the multicolored panel as he observes his piece; the clear-blue ocean looked dull to him, lacking any sort of dimension he had done before. The seagulls flying high in the sky were too child-like, and the clouds looked too puffy for his liking. He was annoyed, he was stressed, and he sure as hell wasn’t satisfied with anything he was creating. Gripping the paper on the easel, Jungkook rips it off and crumples it up, another useless piece being thrown towards the trashcan.

His arms fold at his desk as his head rests on them, a heavy sigh falling from his lips as he squeezes his eyes shut, an action that he always did when he got stressed or angry. Thousands of thoughts were flying through his mind, the artist getting lost in them, and he doesn’t even realize that there’s another person in the room until there’s a knock at his door, a murmur falling from his lips as he mumbles into his arms.

“What?” He asks, and he hears a snicker from the doorway.

“There’s someone who’d like to see you, Kookie,” the sweet voice of Soohyuk fills his ears and the artist groans, the nickname making his head spin.

“Tell them to come back later.”

Soohyuk clicks her tongue, the receptionist walking towards him and putting her hands on his desk, making Jungkook lift his head.

“Soo, I’m serio--”

He stops short when he catches sight of a silhouette standing behind the woman, a sheepish smile forming on your lips as you timidly wave at him. Jungkook stares at you, eyes blinking rapidly, before he’s nodding. Sliding his arms off of his desk he stands up out of the chair and walks from behind his desk, his gaze completely locked on you. He doesn’t seem to notice the knowing look on his receptionist’s face as she winks at you before turning to the staircase.

“I suppose I should leave the two of you alone, then,” she says, knowingly. You flush at her tone, your gaze falling towards the ground as your feet scuff against the floor.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything, his gaze solely on you as he watches you look around his office space. Different paintings and artwork littered the walls; each piece ranging from landscapes to portraits, and you’re completely in awe by them. The bright colors, the outlines, the dimension he puts into his work -- you’re almost taken aback by how incredible all of his pieces were. Slowly you feel your feet start to walk towards the painting of the ocean, your fingertips gliding along the brassy outlining of the frame as your gaze settles on the artwork. A small smile forms on your lips as you admire it, a breathy ‘incredible’ falling from them. You didn’t even notice Jungkook had walked behind you until he spoke, his voice startling you slightly.

“You like it?” He asks quietly, and you turn to look at him with a bright smile.

“I love it,” you affirm. Your words make Jungkook blush, the artist bashfully looking at you with a grin.

“I painted that while I was staying with my parents in Busan,” he informs. “They have a house right along the coastline and my room is facing the water, so I took advantage of the view and decided to capture it.”

He smiles at the memory, his eyes closing as he remembers the sweet smell of the salty air and the cawing of the seagulls. You watch as he smiles, your head tilting to the side as your gaze runs over the features of his face. The majority of him was sharp; from his high forehead to the arch of his eyebrows, from his eyebrows to the tip of his nose and leading down to his jaw. His eyes held warmth, his lips -- despite being quite thin -- looked incredibly soft. You couldn’t help but be mesmerized every time you looked at him, the man appearing as if he was sculpted by the gods -- the man looking like the human version of Adonis.

Blinking up at him, you watch as his gaze falls onto the other paintings, your own gaze staying locked on his face. You watch as his tongue rolls across his lips, a small smile forming on them as you let out a dreamy sigh.

“You’re beautiful.”

The words slip out of your mouth without even thinking, a hand automatically clasping over it as your eyes widen. Jungkook’s head snaps over to look at you, a playful smirk replacing his smile as he cocks an eyebrow. Panic automatically fills your body as you drop your hand to wave them wildly in front of him.

“I mean your art,” you correct yourself. “Your art is beautiful.”

Embarrassment is flowing through you and you can feel your cheeks heat up as you walk away from him, hurriedly standing on the opposite side of the room as you pretend to look at his other work. Jungkook’s smirk never falters from his face as he stares at you, a soft chuckle escaping him as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Did you come up here because you needed something?” He asks, making you turn back to look at him. “Or did you come up here to tell me I’m beautiful?”

His words makes you groan in embarrassment, the artist laughing out loud when you cover your face with your hands. You can hear his footsteps nearing you, two fingers immediately placing under your chin as he lifts your head to look at him. A soft smile is on his lips now, big doe eyes staring back at you with warm brown hues.

“It’s okay,” he reassures you. “I think you’re beautiful too, (Y/N).”

Another wave of heat floods to your face, your head turning to the side as you bury your face in your hair. Jungkook lets out another chuckle, his head shaking at how cute you are, and he’s grinning from ear to ear as you finally lift your head to look at him.

“I need your help,” you murmur and Jungkook’s eyebrows furrow.

“With?”

“I’m really bad with remembering dates and there’s a test at the end of the month based on different artwork from various time periods and I was wondering if--”

“Consider it done,” Jungkook cuts you off making you look at him in shock, your lips parting as you stare at him.

“Wait -- seriously?”

Jungkook smirks, his shoulder shrugging in a nonchalant way.

“Yeah,” he says casually. “Didn’t I tell you to come find me if you ever needed help?”

You smile at that, your teeth sinking softly into your bottom lip as you tear your gaze from his. Shyly you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and nod.

“You did,” you affirm. “I just didn’t expect you to say yes, to be honest. I know you’re busy and I didn’t want to bother you --”

“You could never bother me,” he butts in, and you can’t help but flush at his words. Cautiously Jungkook reaches forward to grab your hand, the sparks that you had felt from the first time you had met him were back and stronger than ever, an invisible bolt igniting both yours and his hands as you look back up into his eyes.

Smiling at him, you nod again, causing Jungkook to grin and squeeze your hand before dropping it.

“Alright,” he claps. “Let’s get to studying.”

For the next three weeks Jungkook made sure to take time out his schedule to help you with your test. In between yours and his schedules the two of you would walk to the sandwich shop down the street where you’d eat your lunch together and he’d make sure to quiz you on the different paintings and sculptures that were sure to be on your test. You were incredibly thankful for all of the help was giving to you, the man teaching you more and more things every day. He was patient with your learning, the artist always making sure to give you enough time so you could collect your thoughts and decide which answer is the right one before you said it. You will admit, however, sometimes it’s a bit distracting when the man watches you write down your answer, his gaze making you shift nervously. He was intense, passion leaking from almost anything he does, and sometimes you’re completely enthralled by him that you lose your train of thought and just freeze up -- which is exactly what happened just now.

The two of you were sat comfortably in one of the tables in the quaint shop, both of you eating and working diligently as Jungkook helps you study. Your test is at the end of the week and you had to admit that you were completely stressing about it. When you’re at home and you test yourself on the material, you end up flaking out and telling yourself that you don’t it, that you’re going to fail. But when you’re with Jungkook, the answers come easily to you -- something which you could never understand considering you were always a near flustered mess around him.

“Alright,” he claps, snapping you out of your daze. Placing the last picture of the art piece onto the table, he nods towards it as he grabs his sandwich. “Tell me what period it’s from and who the artist was first.”

You glance down at the statue, the familiarity of seeing it a dozen times before automatically flittering in your brain as you chew thoroughly on your food.

“It’s from the Renaissance period -- well, Italian Renaissance if you want to be exact,” you grin. “And Michelangelo made it.”

Jungkook nods, taking another bite of his food before he speaks again.

“Where is it located?”

You think for a moment, taking a swig from your drink, before finally answering him.

“Florence?”

Jungkook grins, nodding again as he reaches forward to squeeze your hand in encouragement.

“Good!” He assures your uncertainty, giving you a gentle look. “Don’t doubt yourself, (Y/N). You’ve got this in the bag.”

You smile at his words, looking down at your food shyly as you chew quietly. Jungkook leans his elbows on the table, his body moving forward as his face nears yours, a bright smile dancing on his lips as he looks at you.

“Now,” he says. “When was it made?”

You make the mistake of lifting your head up, your gaze meeting his, and you can feel your breath catch in your throat. His face is so close to yours, the warmth from his breath fanning against your skin as he looks at you expectantly. You can feel a nervous lump form along the ridges of your esophagus and you swallow thickly as you hold his gaze. A piece of hair falls in your face and you raise your hand to move it when Jungkook reaches forward, the back of his hand brushing against your cheek as he tucks the loose piece of hair behind your ear. The action makes you flush, heat pooling over your face as you feel your body heat up. Jungkook is smiling softly at you, his thumb gently stroking against your cheek before he draws back.

Pressing back against the chair, he smirks at you as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“(Y/N),” he calls out. “When was it made?”

You’re still half dazed from his previous actions, your eyes blinking rapidly as you try to snap yourself out of it. Your teeth sink softly into the flesh of your bottom lip as you drop your gaze to look at the table.

“Between 1501 and 1504.”

Jungkook grins, clapping his hands in excitement as he nods.

“Perfect!” He cheers. “You’re going to pass with flying colors, beautiful.”

The nickname makes you flush once more, another rise of heat coating your cheeks as you giggle nervously. Jungkook’s gaze is locked on you; your eyes are still avoiding him, your head tilted downward as you look at the marble top of the table. There’s a faint outline of a smile on your face paired with the slight flash of pearly white’s. Your cheeks are tinted a light pinkish almost red color and Jungkook’s eyes weep over every feature that’s visible to him.

It’s only then that it finally hits him that what he’s been meaning to create for the gala in just a month away was right in front of him -- the one thing that made the creative wheels turn in his head for the past twenty-one years...

You.

“I PASSED! I PASSED!”

Your joyful shouts echo around the perimeter of Jungkook’s office as you bound up the stairs, your face literally beaming as Jungkook’s head shoots up to look at you from his desk.

“You passed?!” He asks excitedly, to which you nod.

“100%,” you say proudly. Jungkook beams at you, the artist getting up and out of his chair.

In an instant you feel warm arms wrap around your waist, your feet being lifted up off of the ground as Jungkook happily spins you around. Your laughter mixes with his as you bury your face in his neck, crying out with happiness at your success. Once your feet were back on the ground you drew back from Jungkook to smile up at him, your hands reaching out to grab his.

“Thank you,” you say earnestly, causing Jungkook to grin. “For everything.”

“It was my pleasure,” and he meant it.

Your gaze was locked on his, both of you staring at one another with identical grins as pride beamed from the two of you. Jungkook’s grip on your hands tighten as he pulls you closer, his eyes slipping from yours to look down at your lips, instinctively making him lick his own. Butterflies fluttered wildly in your stomach at the action, your gaze dropping from his face as you look away bashfully. Instead you focus on his desk, your stare falling on his sketchbook. You see the outline of a familiar woman; the doe eyes, wide smile, the long flowing hair... It doesn’t take long for you to realize who it was he was drawing, your mouth falling open as you turn back to look at him.

“Is -- is that me?”

Your finger is pointing towards the portrait and Jungkook’s eyes widen, the artist immediately dropping your hands as he scurries to grab the picture out of your sight. He’s too slow, however, as you beat him to it. The book is laid in your hands, your eyes glued to the woman smiling back at you. You’re speechless -- completely and utterly speechless -- and Jungkook panics, the brunette fisting his hair out of worry as he starts mumbling incoherently.

“Oh shit, oh fuck,” he mumbles, and you look over at him in worry.

“Jungkook?” You call towards him, but he ignores you.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, (Y/N), I should have asked for your permission first.”

“Jungkook --”

“God, you must think I’m a stalker or something...”

“Jungkook --”

“Please don’t hate me, I’m sorr --”

His apology is cut off when you set the sketchbook down and grab the back of his neck, successfully bringing his lips to yours. Instantly the artist freezes, his body going rigid as your lips press roughly against his. It takes him a few moments before he finally registers what’s going on before he lets his eyes droop closed, his lips finally starting to respond when you pull back. You’re breathless, your gaze hooded, and you’re letting a small smile grace your lips as you cup his face.

“I’m not mad,” you breathe out. Jungkook’s eyes are still closed, his arms wrapping cautiously around your waist as he leans his forehead against yours.

“You’re not?” He asks, and you giggle.

“Are you kidding?” Gripping his face gently in your hands you make him open his eyes so he can look at you. “It’s fucking beautiful, Jungkook.”

Blinking at your words, his arms tighten around your waist as he stares down at you, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips as he tries to bite it back.

“You think?” You scoff then, slapping his shoulder playfully.

“Yes!” You yell. “That portrait is single-handedly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, okay? I mean, I don’t personally see myself that way but --”

This time your words are cut off when Jungkook surges forward and crashes his lips onto yours, kissing you fervently. A quiet whimper falls from your lips as you feel yourself being lifted up onto the desk, Jungkook’s mouth moving against yours in a heated kiss. Sliding your hands up the back of his neck and into his hair, you let your fingers twist in his chocolate locks, tugging them softly and making Jungkook groan into your mouth.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips, his grip on you tightening. “You’re beautiful and perfect and --”

“Jungkook,” you draw back, smirking. He frowns at the loss of your lips, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“What?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Crowds of people littered around the center of the room as they all circled the piece of art, glasses of champagne in almost every hand as they offhandedly commented about the work in front of them. Others walked off to another section of the gallery, their interests taking them towards a piece that’s more personally inspiring. From your seat on the couch you watch as Jungkook stands at the head of the hall, broad shoulders wrapped in a black suit jacket as he talks to the seekers about his work. You watch as he beams, his gaze falling onto you at the other end of the hall. Lifting his arm up in the air you watch as he subtly calls you over, a grin forming on your face as you push up off of the couch.

You can feel your hair swinging behind you as you walk, your dress flowing in synchronization with it, and you watch as Jungkook’s gaze locks on your form when you manage to squeeze through the crowd.

“This piece is very special to me,” he begins. “It’s based on a very special woman in my life and I wanted everyone to know that. Although the portrait itself is not quite as beautiful as she is --” his eyes drift to you once more, making a soft blush appear on your cheeks. “But it comes fairly close.”

Murmurs amongst the crowd rise up then, several pairs of eyes floating to look at you as Jungkook pulls you into him, the audience’s faces turning into smiles as they watch the artist lean over to kiss your cheek. Bashfully you hid your face in his coat jacket, Jungkook chuckling at your action, before he’s replying his ‘thank you’s’ to the crowd. One by one the group grows smaller and Jungkook tugs you closer into his side as the last woman watches the pair of you with a smile, her hands reaching out to grab yours.

“You’re a lucky young woman,” she comments, making you blush.

“I am,” you agree. A bright smile frames her face then, her eyes drifting towards Jungkook before looking back at you.

“Keep him, honey. He’s worth it.”

You can’t help but grin at her words, your gaze locked on her retreating form as you sigh in content. From above you you can hear Jungkook chuckle, your head turning to look up at him as he grins down at you.

“I’m the lucky one,” he corrects, leaning down to press his lips softly against your cheek. “You look beautiful tonight, baby.”

You flush, burying your face once more in his jacket, your grip on him tightening as you groan.

“Stop making me blush,” you murmur, and Jungkook shakes his head, fingertips dancing softly across your cheek.

“Never.”

By the end of the night your feet are aching and your body is itching to get out of your dress. Jungkook had invited you to stay the night with him at his place, a suggestion that made your heart flutter and your stomach twinge with anticipation, and you definitely weren’t going to pass on that idea. With your hand clasped tightly in his, he pulls you into his apartment, the cool air conditioning hitting you the moment you walk in. The place smells faintly of cinnamon and spice, a comforting sense of home in the quaint apartment.

Dropping your hand, Jungkook gestures towards the hallway, a bright smile on his face.

“Can I show you something?” He asks, and you nod.

Cautiously you follow him down the hallway before he opens a door -- his bedroom door. Once you’re inside he shuts the door behind you and gestures for you to take a seat on the bed, which you graciously do. Immediately you’re slipping off your heels, your legs coming up and folding underneath you as you watch him rummage around. A quiet ‘aha!’ echoes around the room before you see Jungkook pulling out a black leather sketchbook, his tall stature turning around. You can sense his anxiousness from here, a nervous glint in his eyes as he slowly walks to where you’re sitting. Dropping to his knees on the floor, Jungkook sits in front of you as he clutches the book to his chest, nerves completely wracking his body as he licks his lips.

“About twenty-one years ago, I had a dream about a little girl who was my age at the time,” he begins, letting a small smile grace his lips. “She was beautiful; with her long flowing hair, big doe eyes, and a smile that seemed to rival the sun. I would dream of her every night, the same girl each time, and I never understood why -- until now.”

Nodding his head at the book, he gestures for you to open it -- which you did instantly. The sight before you made you gasp.

Pages and pages of the girl are sketched to perfection, your eyes widening when you recognize that smile, the eyes, the hair... All of the pages were coated with sketches of you -- from the time you were little up until now. You were speechless, words not even being thought of as your finger traces along the pencil marks on the page. Jungkook sits at your feet, the artist watching you with curious eyes as he awaits your reaction. You can feel tears seep into the corners of your eyes as the wheels in your head turn, your watery gaze immediately floating to his face as you let the widest smile cross your features.

“You’re him,” you whisper, causing Jungkook’s eyebrows to crease in confusion.

“What?”

Placing his sketchbook to the side, you stand up from the bed and walk to the other side of the room before grabbing your overnight bag. Unzipping it you reach in and fish out what you’re looking for -- your drawing pad. Flipping to the first page, you instantly hold it up to show Jungkook, the artists eyes widening.

“A long time ago, I dreamed of a boy. He was my age and he was beautiful,” you give him a watery smile. “I dreamt of him a lot, too. This is the only time I’ve ever sketched him because after that, the dreams stopped. I thought I was never going to find out who it was but -- I did. It’s you.”

Jungkook can feel tears of realization hit him as he lets the biggest grin spread on his lips, his gaze tearing into yours.

The sketchbook falls from your hands as you walk over to Jungkook, cupping his face as you pull him up to you. Emotions are overflowing both yours and his bodies as your lips find his, His arms wound tightly around you as he pulls you into him, his lips dancing softly with yours as the two of you kiss. A mixture of Jungkook’s minty breath and salt from the tears hits you and you’re sighing in content as you feel him pull away. His gaze is just as watery as yours as he cups your face, his nose gently nuzzling against yours.

“I Found you,” he murmurs, making you beam in happiness.

“You found me.”

Your words are whispered against his lips as he kisses you again, this time both of you are falling onto the soft cushioning of his bed in a frenzied heap. With his arms on either side of your body, Jungkook holds his weight up so he doesn’t crush you as he kisses you. Your fingers are entwined in his chocolate locks, softly tugging at them as you moan quietly against his lips. His lips break from yours then, the slightly flushed flesh kissing a trail down your jawline and to the base of your neck as he softly nibbles on your skin. The action sets your body aflame, electric shocks mixed with embers of fire heating your body up as you close your eyes, relishing in the feeling of Jungkook.

Sliding your hands from his hair, you let them slide underneath his suit jacket, pushing them off of his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor in a heap. Jungkook’s teeth gently graze along the skin of your clavicle, the artist humming softly against your skin and drawing goosebumps to emit on the flesh. His hand snakes around you as he pulls you up towards him, his fingers grasping the zipper of your dress before he pulls back to look at you.

“May I?” He asks, and you let out a shaky breath.

“Please...”

Immediately he’s dragging the zipper down, your lingerie clad body being revealed to him, and he’s sucking in a harsh breath as the dress falls to the ground. His gaze rakes over your body, his mind mentally memorizing every dip and curve, before he’s smiling down at you.

“God, you’re so beautiful.”

His words flitter through the air as his mouth dips back down to travel his lips along your newly revealed form. Your back arches into him when he kisses down the valley between your breasts, a soft moan of his name falling from your lips as he tongues at your flesh. Smirking against your skin, Jungkook lfits his head so he can look at you. Your gaze meets his and it’s like you can feel everything embodying him in that moment. Your hands glide over his broad shoulders before resting on his clothed chest, your fingers beginning to undo every button on his shirt as his lips find yours once more.

Tongues swirl around each other in a heated tango, the taste of him becoming more and more intoxicating as you finally undo the last button, the material coming undone as you slide it down his arms. Break away from his mouth, your gaze falls on his now shirtless torso and you have to bite your lip when you catch sight of his form. Faint shadows of abs adorn his body, the man’s physique a lot more muscular than you had pictured, and you let a smirk form on your lips as you peer back up at him through your eyelashes.

“You tell me I’m beautiful,” you playfully say, poking his cheek. “But have you seen yourself? You’re like a fucking Greek God.”

Your words make Jungkook smirk, the artist swooping back down to kiss you fervently. Lips tangle messily together as he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra, the flimsy material sliding down your arms and being thrown to the floor as Jungkook’s body rocks down into yours, the friction making both of you moan into one another’s mouths. Flushed lips break from yours as he kisses down your body once more, his mouth kissing over the top of your mounds now before he’s experimentally drawing his tongue out from between his lips and running it over your sensitive bud. Your chest instantly pushes into him, your back arching off of the bed as you mewl his name, silently asking for more -- which Jungkook gladly obliges.

As Jungkook’s mouth works over your breasts, your fingers pluck at his suit pants, nimble fingers undoing the slacks and pushing them down his legs, your feet slipping between so you can pushing them to the ground. Your hand glides along the planes of his chest, fingertips gently grazing his skin as they reach the hem of his briefs. Jungkook twitches underneath your touch, his mouth unclasping itself from your breasts as your hand dips past the hem to wrap around his hardening cock.

“Oh shit,” he breathes out, causing you to smirk.

Your palm encloses around his length, fingertips brushing against him as his hips buck into your touch. Jungkook grits his teeth as he raises his head to look at you, his gaze heated and lust driven.

“If you keep doing that I might have to fuck you right now,” he warns, to which you grin.

“Do it,” you challenge. “Make me yours.”

Wasting no time at all, Jungkook’s mouth surges to yours as he pushes himself up so that he’s fully hovering over you. He’s plucking at the material of your panties and sliding them down your legs in record time, his briefs soon following. Sliding a hand down towards your core, he gently glides two digits along your folds, the action drawing a moan and groan from both of you.

“You’re so wet, baby,” he hums against your mouth. “Do you think you’re ready for me?”

You whimper against his mouth, your chest rising and falling with ragged breaths as you gently rake your nails down his back.

“I’ve been ready for you since I’ve dreamt about you,” you murmur back, and Jungkook growls.

Gripping your hips he’s lining himself up with you before his hand sought out to find yours. Just as his fingers slip between the empty spaces of yours, you feel his cock slide between your folds, your body instantly feeling full as you squeeze his hand. Jungkook’s biting down on your bottom lip and tugging, his tongue soon jutting out to soothe the pain as he fills you up. The feeling of your tight walls around him makes him groan, his grip on your hand tightening as you pant heavily against his mouth.

“Jungkook,” you moan. “Move.”

Instantly obliging to your request, his hips start moving at a slow pace, a rhythm building up as his lips find yours. His free hand reaches down to grab your thigh so he can hook it around his waist, you immediately catching onto his message as you wrap the other around him. The feeling of him inside of you is nothing short of perfect, your eyes snapping shut as his pace increases. You can see stars behind your eyelids, the planets seemingly aligning as he rocks into you. The pace isn’t fast, it’s not slow either, but the depth of his thrusts are enough to make you see stars, his hips aligning upwards as his cock brushes against a spot that makes your toes curl and his name escape your lips. The pick up in volume of your shouts makes Jungkook’s ears perk up, the artist instantly making it so that his cock brushes against that spot every time.

Your nails are raking down his back, angry red lines dancing across his skin as you burying your face in the crook of his neck. Your breathing is ragged, heavy pants escaping you ever now and again, and your hips are lifting up and off the bed to meet his thrusts. You clench around him, making Jungkook groan at the feeling, and you cry out when you feel him press the pad of his thumb against your clit, the action making your hips jolt forward as you murmur into his neck.

“Oh, fuck --! Right there!”

Jungkook’s gritting his teeth at your words, his hand squeezing yours tightly as his thrusts finally start to speed up. His thumb is rubbing harshly at your clit now, figure-eight patterns are being drawn against the sensitive bud as you feel the coil in your lower body start to tighten. Digging your nails into his back, you let a loud cry of ‘Jungkook!’ slip past your lips as you throw your head back, your core tightening around him as you feel your release wash over you. Stars are littered behind your closed eyelids, flashes of white and red dots illuminating the darkness as you come. The feeling of your core tightening around his cock makes Jungkook swear under his breath, his own release washing over him him not soon afters yours did, the artist coming with a low growl of your name.

As your body comes down from your high, you slowly flutter your eyes open, your gaze falling on Jungkook above you. His hair is pushed back off of his face as sweat beads along his forehead, the grip he had on your hand softening as he looks down at you. There’s an unknown emotion glinting in his eyes as he lets a dazed smile grace his lips, the artist burying his face in the crook of your neck as he maneuvers his body so that he’s half laying next to you, half laying on top of you as he gazes down at your face. Lifting his hand he brushes your hair out of your face as he gives you a sweet smile.

“You know,” he muses, resting his chin on your chest. “I never thought I’d see the day where I finally get to meet the girl from my dreams.”

You grin, mirroring his actions and sweeping his fringe out of his face.

“Me either,” you admit, your thumb gently stroking his cheek. “But I’m glad I did.”

Jungkook beams, leaning forward and capturing your lips in a soft kiss.

“Me too, beautiful.”

The smell of bacon cooking on the stove fills your nose as you loosely wrap your arms around Jungkook’s neck, your lips softly pressing against his as you kiss him. Humming against your mouth, he grips your hips and lifts you on top of the counter, his hands prying your legs apart so he can stand between them. Lazy, languid kisses are being exchanged as breakfast cooks, Jungkook’s tongue rolling against yours as the two of you melt into one another. You would’ve completely forgot about your surroundings had it not been for the intrusive voice coming from the doorway.

“You know,” a voice muses. “People eat there.”

Breaking away from your mouth, Jungkook grins past you as his gaze settles on a sleepy Taehyung leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest as he eyes the two of you.

“Oh shut up,” the artist scoffs. “You do this with Soohyuk all the damn time.”

Taehyung flushes then, the mention of his girlfriend making the musician bashfully look away as Jungkook laughs. Gripping your hips, he helps you down from the counter before you finally turn towards the boy leaning against the wall. A bright smile forms on your face as you wave your hand at him.

“Tae,” Jungkook cuts in, wrapping his arms around your waist. “This is (Y/N) -- or as you might know, the girl from my dreams.”

Taehyung’s mouth flies open when he catches sight of your face, his eyes widening as he gapes at you. You giggle quietly, pressing back into Jungkook’s arms as Taehyung splutters a response.

“Holy shit,” he says, completely shell-shocked. “It’s really you.”

You beam happily, shrugging your shoulders.

“In the flesh.”

Taehyung gawks for a few more moments, the musician trying to wrap his tired mind around the fact that his best friend had most certainly found the girl he’s been dreaming about since he was nine years old. Shaking his head, he grumbles to himself as he walks over towards the coffee pot.

“Maybe there is such a thing as a soulmate after all...”

His words make both you and Jungkook turn to look at each other, identical smiles on both of your faces as he leans his forehead against yours.

“I’d say there is,” Jungkook murmurs, and you nod, grinning back at him.

“Absolutely."

#bts smut #jungkook smut #bangtan smut #jeon jungkook smut #bts scenarios

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