#i just need to wait until I figure out how to string them all together into something semi coherent

[mrpenguinpants]

I read "marbled steps" at 3am and I couldn't sleep before finishing it..it got me giggling and kicking my feet. I loved it SO much, your writing amazed me, SO SO GOOD!!

Not exactly a request, but I would love to see a part two where the reader gets to actually confess their feelings (unless Lighter beat them to it?) ugh, I just love the man and the way you wrote him. Thank you so much for that. 🎀

Ahhh thank you!! I was a bit wonky with that Lighter fic since it wasn't planned at all. It kind of grew legs and ran for the hills but I'm so happy to see that everyone enjoyed it. But I totally get that feeling of: I need to finish reading this. Time is a social construct and I have priorities right now.

I've had a few people ask for a part two and I'm honestly so down to write one, I just have no idea where to go from there or even how to write it. Having said that, it is in the works. I just can't say for sure when it'll be done but I am writing it!! I just need to beat my kaiju no.8 obsession first-

[dumdogs]

ugly ᯓ★ suna rintaro

word count: 2k

main masterlist

warnings: pregnancy, implied miscarriage, angst, abortion mention, arguments, situationship, language, drinking, hook ups, mdni

an: i figured since im not going to finish get ugly the series, i'd take the plot of get ugly and turn it into a little one off. you don't have to read get ugly for this to work it can stand on it's own. (but if you want to read it here it is) but if you have read it keep in mind im making some changes so it works on its own. also i’m terrified people are going to HATE this

She likes Suna. 

She likes the glint in his eyes and the sound of his low laughter. She likes when he keeps her up at night with a string of desperate, longing texts. She likes the feel of his hands gripping at the flesh of her thighs as she straddles his lap, the warmth of his bare skin against hers, the sound of his voice, quiet in her ear. How he always tastes like mint. The smell of his cologne lingering on her bedsheets. The hardness of his muscles under the skin of her palm. 

She likes him. 

She, however, does not like Suna this much.

Her hand shakes as she holds the thin, plastic stick in her hand. It would be easier to convince herself that the two clear pink lines didn’t mean anything, if there weren’t two other tests with the same result discarded at her feet. It’s getting harder to pretend, now, and the bad feeling in her stomach is starting to work its way up her throat. 

A timid hand knocks against the door of the convenience store bathroom. She jumps at the sound of it, and her heart nearly leaps out of her chest. “Excuse me,” calls the voice of the girl who was working the register “are you okay in there?” 

She must seem pathetic, disheveled and wild-eyed, frantically buying three separate pregnancy tests with crumbled bills and loose change, and then locking herself in the bathroom. But she couldn’t wait. Ever since the thought entered her mind, it wouldn’t leave, and it slowly ate away at her. It followed her throughout her shifts at work and her commute home. It kept her from sleep and prevented her from eating until suddenly she couldn’t continue on for another second without knowing. 

It was supposed to be negative. This was supposed to quell her anxieties and make her feel silly for worrying. Because there was supposed to be no way she was pregnant. 

The cashier knocks on the door again. “Hey,” she says, voice unsure and soft, “do you need me to call anyone for you?” 

“No,” she says, but her voice cracks and comes out scratchy. She swallows, and shakes her head. “No” she repeats. “No, I’m okay. I’ll be done in a minute. Thanks.” 

She gathers the three, positive tests in one hand, and uses the other to yank down some paper towels. Carefully, as if she was holding glass, she wraps all three of them together in the paper towel, and then shoves them into the back pocket of her jeans. She can’t abandon them in the trash; she needs the physical proof that this has been more than just a nightmare. 

With her hands still trembling, she stands, and her body moves erratically towards the door. The cashier is standing on the other side of the door once she opens it, with wide worried eyes. For a moment, the two of them look at each other, each of them knowing what transpired in the bathroom. Then, the cashier speaks. “Can I do anything for you?” 

The question makes her throat tighten, and she becomes terrified that she’s going to cry in this convenience store, three positive pregnancy tests in her back pocket and something growing inside of her. “No,” she tells her, strained. “There’s nothing you can do. Thanks, though.” 

⋆˚✶˚‧⋆｡

Once she passes through the front door of Suna’s apartment, he greets her by placing each of his hands on either side of her face, and kissing her. “I missed you,” he says as the door closes behind her, and she suddenly feels like she’s going to empty her stomach onto his feet. “I was thinking about you all day at practice. I kept fucking up my timing on my blocks because I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you,” Suna says, never once releasing her face. He squeezes her cheeks slightly, and places another kiss on her forehead. “How come you’re out of work so early? Was it dead tonight?”  

She pulls away from him, and he lets go at once. “I didn’t go to work today,” she tells him, unable to stop her voice from sounding pathetic. She swallows the lump in her throat. She called out of work once she got home and pulled the tests out of her back pocket. It was then that she realized if she had to spend all night pouring drinks for already drunk strangers, she might have some kind of breakdown. 

“Why? What’s wrong?” Suna asks, ducking his head to try and catch her eye, but she keeps her gaze firmly on the floor beneath her. “Hey, what’s going on?” Suna questions, worry now seeping into his voice. 

She shakes her head. The question seems to have made her throat tighten and her eyes burn, and suddenly she feels oddly humiliated, standing there in front of Suna. “I can’t.” 

“You can’t what? Hey, it’s okay, look at me,” Suna pleads, putting each of his hands on her shoulders. He holds onto her tightly, and asks again, “What happened? Whatever it is, you can tell me” 

“No, no I can’t,” she insists, even though she knows she has to. “Rin, please.” 

She doesn't know exactly what she���s asking of him, and it seems that he doesn’t either, because whatever it is that she’s looking for, Suna doesn’t give it to her. “I just wanna help. You can tell me, it’s okay.” 

“I don’t know how to say it,” she says, eyes still trained on the ground. Her heart hammers in her chest, and her palms feel clammy. She doesn't know if she could lift her head to look Suna in the eye if she tried, her head feels too heavy to hold up. 

Suna’s grip on her shoulders tightens. She wonders what he’s thinking of right now. “Just say it, please.” His voice cracks when he speaks. 

“Rin,” she says, and once she does she realizes that she had been holding her breath. She squeezes her hands into fists. She takes a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.” 

“I-what?” 

“Please don’t make me say it again.” 

“What-what do you mean you’re pregnant?” Suna stammers, and his hands drop from his shoulders to hang limply by his side. Her eyes burn, and she has to squeeze them shut to keep herself from crying. “You-you can’t be pregnant, I’ve been using condoms. Did you take a test?” 

“I took three,” she tells him in a hoarse voice. 

“And they were all positive?” 

“Yes, fucking of course they were all positive.”

Suna hesitates. “And it’s mine?” 

“Yeah, it’s yours, whose else would it be?” she snaps, suddenly annoyed. And she’s grateful for it, because once the irritation starts to creep up, she’s able to open her eyes without tears spilling. She looks up at Suna, just to see him staring back at her, dumbfounded. 

“I dunno, we never talk about-“ he starts, and then stops himself. “I mean, I hoped you weren’t seeing anyone else, but it’s not like I asked you not to.”

He’s right, to be fair. It’s not like he ever asked her just to be his, and no one else’s. She thought it was just because he didn’t have to. Because it was clear, at least to her, that there couldn’t be anyone else but him. She was ruined for anyone else from the second he slipped into her bed. The insinuation that there could’ve been someone else besides him makes her blood run hot. 

“Well, I’m sorry,” she snarks, “but you’re the only person I’ve been fucking, so the kid’s definitely yours.” 

Suna stands there in front of her looking disjointed and pale, like he feels just as sick as she feels. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His eyes are unfocused, and he takes a step back from her. “What do you want to do?” 

“I dunno,” she shrugs. She hadn’t thought about it. She hasn’t been able to think of anything productive since the first test came out positive. Her head is filled with thoughts of disbelief and horror; she hasn’t been able to get to anything actionable yet. “Any ideas?” 

“I think we should get rid of it.” 

He says it so succinctly and immediately it makes her feel as if he had reached out and struck her. She takes a step back. “What?” 

“I’m not ready to have a kid,” Suna states firmly. “Are you?” 

“I dunno. I hadn’t really thought about it.” 

It hadn’t occurred to her that getting rid of it was an option. Keeping it wasn’t exactly something she had considered either, but now it seems that these are the two options that she’s presented with. Keep it, or get rid of it. And suddenly, everything becomes so much worse. 

“Most people who are ready have thought about it,” Suna tells her gently. 

Suddenly, she feels defensive. Suddenly, it feels like Suna is standing in opposition to her. “You don’t think I could do it?” she retorts. “You don’t think I could be a good mom?” 

The word mom on her tongue feels foreign, and it makes something unpleasant churn in her stomach. She doesn’t know that she could be a good mother. It feels that most of the time, she’s not even good enough to herself. 

“You’re a bartender,” Suna reminds her in a way that makes her eyes start to water again, because that answer is as good as a flat-out no. Suna notices this, and sighs.  “Look, I’m not saying you couldn’t be. I just don’t think you’re at a point in your life where you’re ready to be.” 

“Oh, and since when do you know so much about me?” she argues without knowing why. He’s right, she thinks. She is just a bartender. She couldn’t be a mother. It’s just that the thought makes something within her quiver. “You’re a guy that I fuck for fun. You don’t know shit about me.” 

She watches the words hit Suna’s face. He lets his expression widen and fall. “I like to think I’m more than that,” he says quietly. 

“Well, you definitely are now,” she snarks. “You’re the father of my child.” 

This seems to awaken something in Suna. He jerks his chin forward, and narrows his eyes at her. “Do you know what to do when a baby starts to cry? Or when they start to cough?” he questions, every one of his words an accusation. ”How to tell when they’re sick or hungry? Do you even know how to change a diaper?” 

Her hands are balled into fists by her hands, and she takes a step forward, glowering. “Am I too stupid to figure it out?” 

“What would we do when I have to travel for matches and you have to work?” Suna continues. “Your shifts end at three in the morning. Who’s gonna be there to take care of the kid? It’s not a dog, you can’t just leave it there until morning.”

“So you just want me to get rid of it?” she snaps back. “Just because I haven’t figured out how to raise a child entirely in the few hours it’s been since I found out?” 

Suna takes a step towards her, and his hands find her shoulders again, this time more desperate. “We’re not ready. I don’t know how to raise a kid. I don’t know how to teach them how to be a good person. I don’t know how to figure it out in nine months, and I don’t know how you’re going to do it either.” 

“Y’know what? Don’t worry about it,” she fumes, pulling away from him. “I can figure it out on my own.” 

Suna’s muscles seem to deflate. “C’mon, please don’t be like that.” 

“You don’t have to do this if you’re too scared of it,” she tells him, looking him in the eye as she steps backwards towards his door. “I’m not gonna make you.” 

The look in Suna’s eyes softens. “Please don’t go,” he asks of her, but he keeps his distance, watching as she retreats to his door. 

She turns her back on him. “Don’t call me.” 

She doesn’t know why she put up so much of a fight. She doesn’t know what she wants to do. And, by the end of the week, it doesn’t matter anyways, the decision is made for her.

an: mighhhhttt do a part two if this doesn't flop but who knows really also i might delete this immediately after posting who knows

gen taglist: @wyrcan @lale-txt @dambxtch @angee444 @kameyyy @A-girl-can’t-decide-on-a-name @kodzu-ken @girlhooddiaries @boooolame @thatonecroc @nnnyxie @eclecticeggknightpsychic @manhattanstrawberry @evilari111 @nicerthanu @localgaytrainwreck @alcyneus

[sukunatoes]

No Strings Attached

Chapter 1

Nerd Satoru Gojo x Fem Reader

18+ ONLY, MDNI

Synopsis: You and Satoru Gojo have been inseparable for as long as you could remember. However, for most of those years, you’ve been head over heels in love with him. Despite your one-sided feelings, you’ve successfully managed to keep your friendship strictly platonic. At least you had, until the day he asked you to hook up — with no strings attached, of course.

A/N: This story is intended to be a miniseries and for now is only planned for five chapters. However if there’s enough interest, I have enough plotted out to make this a full length fic.

CW: Unprotected sex, oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, creampie

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” You didn’t need to see your face to know how appalled you must look.

You and Satoru Gojo had been inseparable since childhood. From bandaging each other’s scraped knees on playgrounds to cleaning up one another’s vomit after drinking too much at college parties, the two of you had been through it all together. There wasn’t much you didn’t know about the other, yet nothing could’ve prepared you for what he had just said.

Satoru immediately averted his eyes down towards his picked-through dinner on the counter, moving the takeout rice around with a pair of disposable bamboo chopsticks. Blushing would be an understatement. A deep red hue stretched across the entirety of his face.

“I was wondering if, uh,” his voice began to falter as he was quickly losing confidence, something wildly uncharacteristic of him. “If, uh, you wanted to hook up with me.”

“Wh—“

“You know what, forget I said anything,” his flustered voice cutting you off before you could get a single syllable out. He tossed the chopsticks somewhere to the side before pushing himself off the barstool and began rushing back towards his room.

You immediately jumped up to follow him and practically had to run to catch up. Lunging forward, you latched onto his arm before he could cross the threshold to his room.

“Please, Satoru, just wait,” you pleaded with him. “I just wanted to know where this is coming from, that’s all.”

He still refused to make direct eye contact with you, instead focusing his gaze on the hallway wall in your shared apartment. The tip of his left foot rapidly tapped against the tile floor. Though you couldn’t hear his heartbeat, you imagined it currently sounded much the same.

“It’s just I haven’t really dated anyone since we started university.” He reached his free arm up, scratching the back of his neck as his voice strained. “I kind of wanted to try getting back out there, and I’m just feeling a little, you know—“

“Inexperienced?”

He just nodded his head in response. Finally he peeled his eyes away from the wall and actually looked at you for the first time since bringing it up.

White eyelashes softly framed his remarkable cerulean eyes while his snowy strands gently fell down his forehead and grazed the bronze upper rim of his glasses. Satoru was truly one of the most beautiful men you had ever seen, and anyone who met him felt similarly. Everywhere the two of you went, girls had always relentlessly thrown themselves at him. However, it wasn’t shocking to you that he considered himself unexperienced in that area. Dating had always taken a backseat in his life, with the majority of his focus solely on school and his studies.

For the better part of a decade, you had harbored deep-rooted feelings for your best friend. You often brushed it off as nothing more than infatuation or a harmless crush, but you knew the feelings you had felt were something far more. All of your mutual friends figured it out long ago, but you had successfully pleaded with them to stay quiet. No matter how much you loved him, your friendship would always take precedence. The fear of possibly ruining what you two shared paralyzed you from ever attempting to take things a step further.

It took years for you to finally get over him, and it had hurt every single step of the way. You knew you shouldn’t even entertain the idea, yet you couldn’t stop yourself as you slowly lowered your gaze from his. Your eyes were now resting on his alluring lips.

“Anyways, can we please just forget I brought this up? I’m sorry if I made you feel—“

Every rational part of you screamed out to stop, but you knew that somewhere deep within was a part of you that never truly got over him and likely never would. It clawed and fought its way to the forefront as you pushed up to your tiptoes and crashed your lips onto his, stopping him before he could even finish his sentence.

He stumbled backwards, and you didn’t even need to open your eyes to know he was shocked at your sudden gesture. However, his lips never parted from yours. Within a few short seconds, he was slithering his arm around your back, pulling you in closer. His lips were soft and supple, slotting perfectly between yours like the two of you had been created solely for each other.

This exact moment had played through your mind a million times over throughout your years as friends. A culmination of almost a decade’s worth of longing and love, even if it had been one-sided. It was everything you had dreamed of and more. Even if it ended now and the fallout was one of flames, you don’t think you’d regret kissing him.

You gently broke the kiss and brought your hand up to his cheek, your breath ricocheting off his lips. “Shyness doesn’t suit you, Satoru.” Your voice was nothing more than a whisper.

A gentle smile pulled up at the corners of his lips as he brought them back to yours once more, this time just a soft peck. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“If we go through with this, what would that mean for us?”

“Nothing would change, I promise,” he hurriedly reassured you. “No pressure, no awkwardness, no strings attached at all.”

It was the answer you needed to hear, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. You felt like a piece of your heart splintered off at the stark reminder he’d never see you as anything more than a friend. It was obvious what you should do, apologize for the misstep and excuse yourself from the situation. However, no matter how much your heart ached, you couldn’t pull away.

“No strings attached,” you whispered back with an enthusiastic nod.

He slipped his hand into yours as he gently tugged you into his room. His nervousness, for the most part, had eased since you had agreed, but it was evident some remained. You gave his hand a soft squeeze as he led you towards his bed.

The soft white comforter creased underneath you as you sat on the edge. Satoru wasted no time as he crawled on top of you, his knee resting between your thighs. His lips reconnected with yours as he slid you further on the bed, softly laying you on your back. Every movement he made was slow and deliberate, like you were made of glass.

He slightly parted his mouth and began tracing his tongue against your bottom lip. You opened yours in turn, granting him the permission he was seeking. His hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, gliding up your abdomen. Your tongues rolled against one another as he edged his fingers up towards your chest.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He pulled away, asking breathlessly.

You locked eyes with him. “I want you, Satoru.”

That was all he needed. He leaned back, and in one fluid motion, his shirt was off and on the floor.

You traced every inch of his abdomen with your gaze. His muscular body looked like it had been hand-carved from stone. Every inch of him was truly a masterpiece.

“You must like what you see.” Your staring must’ve been apparent, as you could hear a teasing smirk in his voice.

Now that was the Satoru you were accustomed to. To think the confident, headstrong man you knew and loved was a blubbering mess just minutes prior. He must’ve taken what you said about his shyness to heart.

You didn’t reply, but instead leaned up and grabbed the bottom of your shirt, lifting it over your head and tossing it onto the floor. His eyes went directly to your chest, and now it was his turn to stare.

“Like what you see?” Your voice lightened as you couldn’t resist the chance to tease him back.

He quickly reached his arms around your back and unhooked your bra’s clasp.

“I do,” he purred as he wrapped his lips around one of your nipples.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips as he began sucking, his tongue encircling the hard tip. His hand slid up to your other nipple and began massaging it between his index finger and thumb.

You bucked your hips upwards into his. You were already embarrassingly wet and desperately seeking some sort of touch. The now noticeable bulge in his pants rubbed against you and pulled a loud groan from his throat at the contact.

Retracting both his mouth and hands from your breasts, he began sinking downwards. His lips left a trail of kisses down your abdomen as his nimble fingers sunk to the button of your pants. You lifted your hips as soon as he popped open the button, allowing him to free you from their confines with ease.

Your panties immediately followed, and without hesitation, he was spreading your legs wide. A single finger gently caressed your opening, gathering your slick before dragging itself up to your clit. You threw your head back into the pillow as his finger began stroking the bundle of nerves painstakingly slow. A string of moans and whimpers escaped your lips as he continued to stroke you.

“Satoru,” you called out, the whine in your voice betraying your desperation.

He instantly replaced the finger with his tongue. The muscle began lapping and circling your clit between gentle sucks. He slowly sunk a single finger in your entrance. Reflexively, you reached down and intertwined your fingers with his silky strands. A second finger slipped inside you, and he curled them both upwards, hitting just the right spot.

His name repeatedly tumbled off your tongue like a prayer between your moans. You could feel a pressure building inside you, ready to snap at any moment. Your thighs began to tremble as you neared your climax.

You cried out his name one more time, followed by a string of curses as pure ecstasy coursed through your veins. He continued as you rode out your release, not pulling away until he was sure you were finished.

Satoru removed his fingers before climbing back up to you, planting a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth. “You sound so pretty,” he murmured before moving his lips down your jawline and onto your neck.

You propped yourself up on one elbow, gently pushing him back before reaching for his waistband. Stroking him through the fabric, you coaxed a low groan from him before sliding your fingers in front of the button. You popped it open, allowing him to kick off his pants, and his boxers immediately followed.

His hard cock sprung free, and you had to restrain yourself from physically reacting, because fuck, is he massive. A trail of soft hair, matching the alabaster strands atop his head, led down from his bellybutton to the base. A thick vein snaked its way up the center until it reached his fat, swollen tip that was leaking a bead of clear fluid.

You leaned forward, reaching for his erection, but he gently swatted your hand away.

“This is supposed to be me finding out what makes you feel good.” The words dripped from his mouth like honey as he lined himself up with your entrance.

Satoru gently pushed his tip in, pulling a soft cry from your throat. The feeling was intoxicating as he continued to sink himself into you. It was a smooth, slow movement, allowing your walls to stretch around him. As soon as the head kissed your cervix, he placed both of his hands on either side of your head, staring down at you as he began rocking back and forth.

His pace was leisurely as he stared down at you, only breaking eye contact to pepper your face with the occasional kiss. The position was personal and far too intimate for what was happening. He wasn’t looking at you like a friend he just wanted to fuck. His face appeared to adorn a look of neither lust nor desire, but something else you couldn’t place.

You couldn’t bear to read further into the situation than what was actually there. Getting your hopes up for something like that would only cause you more pain down the line. You needed to remedy the situation quickly.

You reached up towards his hand and gently gripped it before dragging it down towards your clit. His thumb began stroking you once more, drawing tight circles counter-clockwise as he slowly pulled himself in and out of your sopping cunt. You reflexively arched into him before wrapping your legs around his waist.

“You feel so good, Satoru,” you whined, pushing your hips up against him repeatedly. He caught your hint and significantly picked up the pace, his thrusts growing quicker and rougher. His eyes no longer interlocked with yours as he tossed his head back, groans and moans tumbling from him repeatedly.

His second hand pulled from where it was next to your face and instead gripped down on your hip. A searing heat spread across your lower body as your second orgasm began to approach. His cock repeatedly hitting that sweet spot deep within you while he stroked your already overstimulated clit easily pushed you over the edge.

Your cunt throbbed around him, prompting him to curse under his breath as his movements began growing more erratic. He was close.

“Where?” Satoru choked out between breaths, his voice strangled.

“Anywhere,” was all you could muster up.

He thrust again, ramming his tip into your cervix as he buried himself as deep as possible. His cock began throbbing within you as warm, white ropes painted the inside of your cunt. His body shuddered as he rode out the remainder of his climax with a couple more lazy strokes.

Satoru collapsed on top of you, still not pulling out. His head nuzzled into the crook of your neck for a brief moment before he angled his face to glance up at you.

“Any notes? Or criticism?” His voice betrayed his exhaustion, yet he managed to keep his tone light and playful.

You look down with half-lidded eyes, absolutely spent from what just occurred. “No, it was great.”

Reaching up, you gently ran your fingers through his hair, absentmindedly stroking as he continued to stare back at you. A soft smile grew on his lips, and that familiar look from earlier returned. You could feel your stomach drop at the sight, because you knew your feelings couldn’t come back from this.

At some point your face must’ve shifted, because Satoru’s smile fell and was promptly replaced with a pout accompanied by furrowed brows. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m just exhausted.” You hoped your half-assed lie would be enough to get by.

“You look upset,” his pout grew. “Don’t worry about things getting weird between us. Remember, there are no strings attached.”

You could feel your heart ache as you forced a smile the best you could, returning his gaze. “No strings attached.”

You were fucked.

chapter index

next chapter

[fushisagi]

miya atsumu and the chronic lovesick disease

୨୧ ━━ ❛ what am i to you, atsumu? ❜

word count ⋆ 12.6k (12,607) genre ⋆ fluff, slight angst, friends to lovers, college au ━ gn!reader

the question comes to him one autumn night, surrounded by his friends and the chilly november breeze, asked by, who he assumes to be, just another nobody looking for money: what is it that you desire most, boy? the psychic asks, her saccharine smile forgotten when he looks into the crystal ball and all he ends up seeing is you. alternatively: miya atsumu is not in love. what the hell? who would ever suggest something like that?

warnings ⋆ alcohol consumption, mutual pining, denial of feelings!!! lots of it!! and with this denial comes some stupid decisions!!! author’s note ⋆ ive actually like never been to the psychic before so if its inaccurate im so sorry ..... it’s not really a big part of the plot though so hopefully u can overlook it 😭

o. Desire

This is a scam, is Atsumu’s first thought when he takes a seat inside the tent and finds himself face-to-face with a crystal ball.

People like this are dangerous — his twin brother never lets anyone forget it. They take advantage of an individual’s fear of the unknown and they make money off it. It’s genius, because even the strongest people can become weak to something as mundane as self-proclaimed clairvoyants setting base near a college campus.

Atsumu supposes he’s no exception. Even if Bokuto was the one who forced him to do this in the first place.

“Hello,” the woman greets, her hair pinned into a tight bun. “You’re here for a reading?”

“Sure,” Atsumu huffs, shivering when the cold breeze sneaks into the tent. He really should’ve worn a thicker jacket.

When he looks up from the table, the woman gives him a smile. It’s analytical, as if all he needed to do was sit down for her to know everything about him. He fidgets in his seat, growing more uncomfortable under her gaze.

“So,” she says, clasping her hands together and resting them on the table. “What is it that you desire most, boy?”

 “I’m sorry?”

“Your greatest desire,” she repeats patiently.

Atsumu blinks before tilting his head. “Um, I’m not—”

“I’m sure you know,” she says. “Is it strength? Power? Love?”

All colour drains from Atsumu’s face. The psychic smiles wickedly.

Atsumu thinks this may be the end of him. He never liked it when people acted like they knew more about his intentions than he did, and it only took mere minutes before the woman figured him out.

His hand twitches. He would feel a lot better if you were here—

“Ah,” she clicks her tongue, “bingo.”

i. Strength

After a borderline homicidal game of rock, paper, scissors, Sakusa lands himself a new roommate.

Move-in day comes two weeks later and Atsumu sits in the lobby of the building, waiting for your car to pull into the parking lot.

He notes the time — it’s five minutes past 8:30, making you more than half an hour late — before grumbling under his breath and continuing to scroll through his feed. When Instagram notifies him that he’s all caught up, he exits the app and opens Twitter in hopes that something will be able to entertain him until you show up. He likes some tweets, retweets a few more, and terrorizes Suna before he grows bored at the lack of anything interesting on his timeline.

Another glance at the time. He scowls. It’s only been two minutes.

Atsumu debates asking Sakusa if he knows what’s happened to you. When he opens their message thread, he raises an eyebrow at how unbelievably one-sided their conversations are, but he decides that’s a problem for another day. Your absence is more important to Atsumu than Sakusa’s terrible conversational skills ever will be.

(He’ll bother Sakusa about it later).

He’s about to send a long string of emojis when an incredulous voice reaches his ears.

“Tsumu?”

He looks up and immediately pockets his phone with a grin. “You’re late.”

You adjust the box of donuts in your hands and squint at him as if his smile is as blinding as the sun. “I slept through my alarm. What the hell are you doing here?”

Atsumu gestures to his outfit. “What does it look like?”

You stare blankly.

“Seriously?” he scoffs. “I told you last night I’d help you move in. How’d you forget? Am I that forgettable? You wound me, I—”

“Shut up,” you say, shifting your weight. Atsumu’s eyes flicker to the sticker on the box, and he tries his best not to frown when he notices you’ve written Sakusa’s name in calligraphy with a heart at the end. “Of course I remember you offering to help because I spent my entire night telling you it was fine.”

“You expect me to believe that you can bring all your shit in by yourself? You look like you just rolled out of bed.”

“Thank you, Tsumu, I can always count on you to make me feel like I’ve been shot by Cupid’s arrow,” you quip, brushing past him to get to the elevator, and as if it’s second nature, he follows. “I can’t believe people walk around campus calling you sweet.”

“I never said you looked bad,” he says. “I think the dried drool on your chin is pretty cute, actually.”

“Whatever,” you hurriedly wipe your face. “Speaking of bad, what on Earth are you wearing?”

Atsumu knows full well you’re not complimenting him, but he decides to treat your comment as if you have. He beams, picking at the sweatpants you eye with disgust before walking into the elevator with you.

“It’s my mover outfit!”

“Your mover outfit,” you deadpan. “Disregarding whatever that means — those sweatpants are baggier than Kenma’s eyebags. And they do nothing for your ass.”

He smirks. “You were checking out my ass?”

You avoid eye contact, feigning indifference, but Atsumu’s known you for too long and immediately recognizes your fluster by the way you tug at the hem of your clothing.

“No,” you deny curtly, straightening your posture when the elevator doors open to show Sakusa’s floor. “It’s just hard not to notice when those sweats are ridiculously baggy. Seriously, are you trying to put something in there? I could fit a month’s worth of groceries in those.”

You’re walking swiftly, eager to get to your new apartment and end the conversation. The both of you are well aware that Atsumu’s more than capable of catching up with you, but he hangs back, preferring to watch you babble while he trails behind.

You clutch the donuts closer to your body as words tumble out of your mouth — a list of things that could fit in his sweats, including two jugs of milk and a family size pack of chips — and Atsumu can’t stop the lopsided smile from appearing on his face.

“Maybe a carton of eggs, too,” he suggests.

“Oh, I wouldn’t trust you with eggs,” you say sharply.

“Why not?”

“Are you really asking me that? Last month I lent you my blanket and you gave it back to me with a hole in it.”

“For the last time,” Atsumu begins, quickening so he’s side-by-side with you, “that was Samu’s fault, not mine.”

“…Alright.”

“Y/N,” he whines. “I’m serious! None of that was on me — I even bought you a new blanket! Would Samu have done that? I don’t think so—”

“Actually—”

“The point is,” Atsumu interrupts, throwing you a glare before continuing, “blame Samu. Whenever something bad happens, blame him. That’s what I always do.”

“Spoken like a true, responsible individual.”

“Hey!” he protests. “I’m responsible!”

You open your mouth to deny his claims, but the pout he plasters over his face is enough for you to give in. Too tired to give him something as golden as a verbal agreement, you opt for changing the subject. “Do you think Sakusa will like the donuts?”

Atsumu frowns. “Why does it matter? They’re donuts.”

You grow annoyed at his impertinence. “I want him to like me, you moron.”

His expression sours further. “He’s your friend.”

“And I won a game of rock, paper, scissors, so now I’m his roommate,” you remark. “There’s a difference between being friends with someone and living with them. I mean, would you want to live with Bokuto?”

Atsumu’s answer is swift. “Hell no.”

“Exactly,” you say, “I need us to get along.”

You stop in front of a door and begin searching your pockets for your key. There’s a pinch between your eyebrows, the box trembles as you struggle to balance it with one hand, and your clothes are a mess, but underneath the fluorescent light of the hallway, Atsumu can’t help but think you almost look angelic.

He shakes the thought away, squashes it beneath his foot until the remnants of it have been absorbed by the carpet.

“The last time I saw you this nervous was when you asked out that barista,” he muses.

You dig your hand into the breast pocket of your shirt and huff when you find nothing. “What are you implying?”

Atsumu stares pointedly at the sticker on the box. Your face morphs into one of horror.

“Are you dense?”

“Calligraphy, Y/N. I’ve never seen you write calligraphy in my entire life.”

“I was trying something out!”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

You smack him on the shoulder. “I was being thoughtful,” you grunt, softening when Atsumu winces and rubs the spot where you hit him. “He’s my friend, and that’s all he ever will be.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

Your eyes leave him for a millisecond, flickering to somewhere else on his face before returning his gaze once more. “Of course,” you say softly, “Besides, I—”

The door swings open.

“You’re loud,” Sakusa deadpans in the doorway. His eyes travel down to the donuts. “Are those for me?”

You hand them over to him. “Yeah, I didn’t know what you liked, so they’re all assorted.”

Sakusa hums in thanks before tilting his head at Atsumu. “Why’re you here?”

“To help them move in,” Atsumu grins, placing a hand on your shoulder and squeezing it. “I know you’re going to the drycleaners, and I couldn’t let Y/N do this all by themselves.”

Sakusa shrugs and turns to go further into the apartment. “Sounds good to me. I’d rather not have to press those nasty elevator buttons multiple times just so I can come down and get your stuff,” he gives you the best apologetic look he can muster. “Have fun, though.”

Before you can go on a tangent about how Sakusa should be more welcoming, Atsumu pipes up, “Yeah, don’t worry! ‘S all in good hands,” he nudges you with his elbow. “Right? Your stuff can’t be that heavy.”

Atsumu, not for the first time and certainly not the last, stands corrected.

Not only is your stuff heavy, but there’s much more than he expected.

With each trip down to the parking lot, his muscles grow strained, and he feels the fatigue threaten to droop his eyelids shut. But, in the corner of his eyes, he sees your persistence to get this over and done with, and Atsumu decides it won’t hurt to push through.

His complaining and wailing can wait until later.

After you place the last box into your new bedroom, you turn to him while wiping the sweat from your forehead. “Thank you,” you say breathlessly.

He goes to tease you, to say that you owe him now, that you’ll be indebted to him for life.

But what comes out of his mouth instead is: “��Course. Call me whenever you want, and I’ll be there.”

Atsumu calls it a housewarming gift. Sakusa says there is hardly anything warming about it.

It referring to the group of boys gathered in the living room — your friends on good days, the bane of your existence on all the others — with their limbs strewn about and their soda cans sitting too close to the edge of the coffee table. It’s an odd sight for Sakusa to have this many people over on a Thursday night, but Atsumu insisted, and he caught Sakusa on a good day when he asked if he could hold a movie night at the apartment to celebrate your new accommodations.

You’re sure Sakusa regrets it now. He sits in his armchair with a permanent scowl, swatting Hinata away when the boy reaches to fix the crease between Sakusa’s brows. If looks could kill, Atsumu would’ve been dropped dead ten minutes ago.

He covers his fear with a grin, but out of the corner of his mouth, he says to you, “Help me.”

You snicker. “You’re on your own, dude.”

“I thought I told you to stop calling me that.”

“What? But Bokuto calls you that, too!”

“Yeah, but it’s Bokuto.”

“I have no idea what you mean by that.”

Atsumu only tsks, forcibly ending the conversation by suggesting to the room that they should all play a game to decide who’ll prepare all the popcorn. A chorus of agreements is what he gets in response, along with someone complaining about how he should be spared due to his gruelling volleyball practice, and another person expressing his sympathies for the future loser.

Atsumu prepares the ladder game, and after he’s done, he looks at everyone with fiery hot intensity, an expression similar to one he wears during a match. “Remember,” he declares, “whoever loses can’t complain.”

Luck isn’t on his side tonight.

“What the hell!” he screeches once the reality of his defeat settles in.

Osamu, far too smug for Atsumu’s liking, quips, “I thought you said no complaining.”

The noise that leaves Atsumu’s mouth is something akin to a pathetic but animalistic growl. He goes to protest, even raising his hand to list off reasons why he’s been wronged — someone must’ve cheated, or maybe everyone in this room has a ruthless vendetta against him — but just as the words are about to leave his lips, his eyes land on you.

You challenge him to complain with a look, and he suddenly gets a much better idea.

“Y/N,” he says sweetly, growing pleased at your uneasiness. “As the host of this housewarming party, it’s only fair that you help me, too.”

“What?” you squawk, leaning forward as if you’ve misheard him. “But you were the one who suggested doing all of this! How is it now on me to help—”

“Well, he wouldn’t have done this if it wasn’t for you,” Sakusa muses.

You stare at him in disbelief. “Are you taking his side? What happened to roommate solidarity?”

“You just made that up,” Sakusa replies. “Besides, this thing will go by faster if two people prepare the popcorn, and I don’t think Miya wants anyone else other than you.”

Atsumu shifts uncomfortably at the implication, and he involuntarily commits your surprised expression to memory.

(When he goes to sleep later that night, your surprise is all he sees against the darkness of his eyelids).

“Other than me—?”

“To make the popcorn,” Sakusa drawls matter-of-factly.

You blink. “Right.” You look at Atsumu, and he shrugs dumbly, unsure of how else to react to your sudden change in behaviour.

To him, you have always been easy to read, but right now, he’s not entirely sure if there’s a word for the expression on your face. He yearns to press a hand to your cheek to melt the malaise away, to be rid of it forever so he can see you smiling again.

Something in his chest twists.

“Right!” you repeat, more loudly this time, and startling the rest of your friends. You slap your hands on your lap before standing and grabbing Atsumu’s wrist to pull him away. “I guess I’m helping you make popcorn. You owe me one, Miya.”

Your skin is warmer than usual, threatening to burn him until your fingerprints are marked onto his skin.

(Behind him, Suna stage-whispers, “You are so whipped, Y/N.”)

Your touch disappears the moment you’ve both crossed the threshold into the kitchenette. Atsumu flexes his hand, trying to get rid of an urge in his veins he can’t quite explain.

“Hey,” you say casually, back turned to him as you dig through the cabinets for the popcorn packets. “Did you finish that essay for literature class?”

Atsumu awkwardly clears his throat and begins playing with the settings on the microwave. “The paper?”

“Yes, the paper,” you say. “The one I told you to start two weeks ago so you wouldn’t end up sending a half-assed essay two minutes before the deadline?”

“Why are you talking like you think I didn’t start it yet?”

“Because I know you, Tsumu,” you reply, shutting the cabinet with your elbow and ungracefully dropping the packets onto the counter beside him. “And I lost faith in your ability to listen to me a long time ago.”

“How rude. I always listen to you,” he sticks his nose in the air like a scorned, evil, cartoon antagonist, “I just don’t take all your suggestions. There’s a difference.”

“You make my life so much harder,” you huff, inputting a minute-thirty into the microwave. “I honestly think I lose ten years of my lifespan whenever you tell me you’ve gotten yourself into another dilemma.”

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m sure you only lose, like, three at most.”

“No, it’s definitely ten,” you say. “You worry me too much, Miya.”

The smile on Atsumu’s face, previously smug and confident, softens.

“Seriously, though,” you continue, jabbing a finger into his sternum. “The paper? It’s due tonight.”

He flicks your nose, snorting when you pull a face. “I sent it in this morning.”

“Seriously?”

“Hey! Don’t act so shocked!”

“Well, this is, like, the first time you’ve ever done something even remotely responsible, so—”

“I thought we both agreed I’m a generally responsible person.”

Your silence is enough of a response.

Atsumu gasps just as the microwave beeps, allowing you to ignore his stunned expression in order to begin preparing another bag of kernels.

“Give me one reason—”

“The blanket—”

“—that isn’t the blanket,” he says sourly. “That doesn’t count. I told you that was Samu’s fault, not mine.”

“Do you want a list? Because I have one.”

“Are you serious or are you just fucking with me?”

“Osamu and I have a Google Doc.”

Another gasp. You roll your eyes.

“Now you’re in kahoots with my brother? What’s next? Planning my downfall with Suna?”

“I’m sure he’s fine doing that himself without my help.”

He whines, stomping his foot when you only stare back in amusement. “Don’t be so unrepentant, Y/N!”

You dump the contents of the hot popcorn bags into a large bowl for everyone to share. “Unrepentant? Was that the word on your word-of-the-day calendar?”

“Shut up. You know only Kuroo has lame stuff like that,” Atsumu grumbles, throwing the last popcorn packet into the faulty brick of power you and Sakusa call a microwave. “I used it in my essay. Thesauruses are a godsend. It really came in handy when I was writing about the flower symbolism in the book. Y’know what’s even better, though? SparkNotes.”

You tilt your head, studying Atsumu with furrowed eyebrows. “Huh.”

“What d’you mean huh?”

“Nothing,” you say innocently. “I just didn’t think you’d choose that essay topic, that’s all.”

“It was the easiest one,” he states. You hum in agreement, but he can sense you falling into a state of pondering before it even happens, so he lightly pokes your shoulder in hopes it’ll be enough to keep you from drifting too far from his reach. “Why, what did you think I picked?”

He can tell you’re debating what to tell him, letting a few seconds pass before you give in. “I thought you’d do the one that centred more around…” you trail off, clenching and unclenching your jaw, “the love aspect of it all.”

He blinks. “Why?”

Childishly, you retort, “Why not?”

Atsumu licks his lips. “Well, you’re always telling me to write what I know. And I may not know a whole lot about flowers, but I know more about those than, y’know, love.”

Something passes over your face, the same thing he saw when Sakusa said something — implied something — in the living room. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “I’ve had relationships, sure, but none that made me feel anything like— like that.”

You drum your fingers against the bowl. “None at all?”

“None at all.”

You click your tongue and stare at the microwave. Its buzz has become more prominent in your silence, a mocking hum hanging over the air as you contemplate and Atsumu stares, waiting impatiently for a word to slip past your lips.

But there’s nothing. Instead, the microwave beeps again, indicating that the last of the popcorn is ready.

“That’s good to know,” you say lightly. At least, that’s what you attempt, but you sound different, like a parasite has found solace in your vocal cords and fiddled with everything Atsumu’s familiar with.

“It is?”

“Yeah,” you nod, handing the bowl over to him. Popcorn threatens to spill but Atsumu can’t bring himself to care. “Hey, be careful. What, is it too heavy? Are you too weak to carry it?”

“It’s popcorn,” Atsumu rasps.

You eye him oddly, as if he’s the one whose behaviour should be examined under a microscope. “Don’t spill it everywhere. Sakusa’ll get pissed, and we’re already pushing it with this movie night thing.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Of course,” you agree. “But if you need me—”

“I know,” he interjects.

Simple promises are often uttered during private moments between you and Atsumu — an oath to be there for the other, to stand by their side no matter what. The words soothe him when they’re said aloud; he knows, underneath all the teasing and the bickering and the irritated eyerolls, is your pinky and his, intertwined.

And despite the voice in his head taunting him about a secret he’s unaware of, he allows the promise to enchant him.

I’ll be there for you.

“Do you need help?”

Atsumu grunts, adjusting your arm around his neck as he opens the car door. “No, I’m fine.”

“Thanks for picking them up,” Aran says, voice loud above the frat house’s music, “I know you were tired from practice, but—”

“It’s fine. I probably would’ve killed you if you didn’t call me, anyway.”

“Osamu said you’d say that.”

Atsumu expertly brushes off the statement, gently ushering you into the passenger’s seat and putting your seatbelt on with gentle fingers. Behind him, Aran watches the movements with thoughtful eyes and a quirk of his eyebrows.

“The last time they got this drunk was at the fall festival last year,” he muses. “For your sake, I hope it doesn’t happen again.”

“What does that mean?”

“Hm?”

“For your sake,” Atsumu echoes, turning to face Aran once the door’s been shut and he’s made sure you’re sleeping soundlessly with your head resting against the cold window. Atsumu stands pin-straight, his posture contrasting the way Aran stands opposite him, relaxed with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “What’s that mean?”

Aran laughs, like he’s unsure if this is a serious question. “Well, I mean… they’re always asking for you whenever they get drunk like this.”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“That’s why you got here in record time, right?” Off Atsumu’s questioning gaze, Aran continues, “I called you five minutes ago, and your place is a fifteen-minute drive away. And you’re not in your pajamas, even though you said you’d change into them the moment you got home.”

“I was in the area,” Atsumu says weakly.

“Doing what?”

“Getting dinner.”

“Why didn’t you just get something delivered to your apartment?”

“Is it illegal to want to pick up the food myself?”

Aran raises his hands up in defence. “No, it’s not, but it’s also not illegal to say you knew this would happen,” he shrugs. “You knew they’d need you Atsumu, so you came. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Before Atsumu can force a response from his throat, Aran has already slipped back into the party, leaving Atsumu alone on the street. With an annoyed huff, he stomps to the driver’s side, muttering irked questions under his breath about what Aran could possibly mean. He opens the door with more aggression than necessary, only softening when he sees you stir underneath the jacket he’s draped over you to keep you warm.

He unlocks his phone when he feels a buzz in his pocket.

[00:30] Atsumu: are you still awake?

[00:48] Sakusa: Yes. Why?

Atsumu knows that your apartment’s farther from here than his, and he’s sure that by the time he arrives, Sakusa won’t answer the door because he’ll grow tired of Atsumu’s lack of response and go to bed.

The decision is made when he takes a right instead of a left, when he pulls into a parking lot that isn’t yours, when he carries your body up the stairwell and into his bed with ease.

Everything else comes as routine. He tucks the blanket under your chin, moves the glass of water so it’s too far for you to accidentally knock over in the morning, and leaves a change of clothes at the foot of the bed.

Atsumu likes routine. He likes the predictability of it all.

A groggy voice stops him from leaving the room.

“Tsumu?”

“Hey,” he whispers, crouching so he’s eye-level with you. “I hope you don’t mind I brought you back here.”

You blink sleepily at him, too inebriated and fatigued to acknowledge his words. “You’re a really good person, y’know,” you say languidly.

He smiles, amused. “Really?”

“Yeah. Thank you for picking me up.”

“It’s nothing,” he murmurs.

“It’s not.”

“I’m sure you would’ve been fine without me. Omi could’ve picked you up, couldn’t he? Samu could’ve, too.”

“I know, but you’re the one who always does,” you respond, nuzzling further into the pillow. “You’ve—you’ve helped me a lot.”

You shakily reach a hand to his face, playing with the strands of hair that fall to his forehead. He relaxes, eyelids growing heavy at the feeling of your featherlike touch against his cool skin.

“You’ve brightened up my life, I think,” your voice is muffled, but it rings in Atsumu’s ears clear as day, almost as loud as his quickening heart rate. “I appreciate you a lot more than you know.”

ii. Power

He watches with bated breath as the ball cuts through the air while gravity begins to pull Hinata back to Earth. Everything unfolds in slow motion; everything has faded into white noise.

With a slam, the volleyball connects with the ground, and it’s only when he’s pulled into a hug does the reverie shatter. Like being hauled out from underwater, the roars of the crowd flood his ears as Bokuto begins jumping on the balls of his feet and Hinata comes rushing over to them with a triumphant shout.

On the other side of Bokuto, Sakusa smiles, rolling his eyes fondly when Hinata and Bokuto begin making post-game plans to celebrate their victory. Atsumu, on the other hand, is uncharacteristically silent as he searches the bleachers with a cloudy look in his eyes.

He’s snapped out of it once again when Bokuto tugs on his wrist so they can go and listen to what their coach has to say.

Atsumu isn’t a stranger to winning — he used to get drunk on this sort of stuff, the exhilarating rush that shot through his veins after every successful game. He basks in the crowd’s excitement and admiration, because to be fawned over is the closest to love he’s ever been (if he could even call it that), but once the adrenaline cuts him off and he’s left alone in the locker room, it all fizzles out.

Something’s missing at the end of all this. Usually, the void in his chest is insignificant enough for him to brush off. However, today is different.

It’s abnormal for the power of the win to dwindle into nothingness only minutes after the game ends, but the blue moon has risen tonight, and now everything feels weird. The cheers aren’t enough to keep him from searching the gymnasium for a familiar face, and he itches to get to his phone in the locker room when he can’t find who he’s looking for.

“Why do you look like we’ve lost?” Bokuto asks. “C’mon, man! Smile! We just won! Aren’t you happy?”

“Of course I am,” Atsumu grunts.

(But…)

But.

The adrenaline shoots through him again when a voice he knows all too well catches his attention over the noise.

“Hey!” you rush towards them, dishevelled. “Before you get mad, I know I missed the game, I took a nap and slept through it, fuck, I am never going to stay up late playing Fortnite with you again, Tsumu, you’ve ruined my sleep schedule, but—” you huff, trying to catch your breath as you hand Atsumu a bag, “I’m sorry that I didn’t come. Congrats on winning, I heard the shouts from down the street.”

Atsumu smiles and peers into the bag. “What is this?”

“Mochi,” you answer. “A celebratory gift for my favourite setter.”

“I’m the only setter you know.”

“Which is why you’re my favourite.”

Atsumu snorts but hugs the bag to his chest, like it’s his most prized possession and he’d drag it along to the grave with him. “Thank you.”

If someone were to ask Atsumu if he liked the pedestal he’s put on after a match, he’d say yes. Of course he does. He quite likes it on top of the world.

But you match his joyful smile with one of your own and Atsumu finds himself rethinking his answer. “Anytime.”

The top of the world may be nice, but it is nothing compared to being on the ground next to you.

“You know what they say. With great power comes great responsibility.”

“Would you relax?” Sakusa snarls. “You’re in charge of us for a day. Get your head out of your ass.”

On the floor, Hinata lays like a starfish as he stares up at the ceiling, cheeks tainted a bright pink hue. “I think power’s gotten to your head.”

Atsumu waves him off. “I think this is the best practice we’ve ever had.”

Their captain had to run out five minutes into practice — relationship problems is what he grumbled to Atsumu before leaving him in charge without a second thought, much to the rest of the team’s dismay.

“I hope you’re never put it in charge again,” Bokuto complains before downing the rest of his water.

“Don’t be dramatic—”

“Do you know how gruelling this practice must be for Hinata to be tired?”

“Give us a break,” Hinata pleads, shifting his position so he’s on his knees. “Please. I’ll buy you lunch for the rest of the month if you end our suffering.”

Atsumu pretends to ponder the offer and grows more amused as Hinata begins to twitch nervously. “Okay, fine,” he relents.

Hinata cries with glee, hugging Atsumu’s legs before pushing himself off the floor and rushing out of the gymnasium — whether it’s to refill his water bottle or hide until he’s found, Atsumu may never know. With a snort, Atsumu grabs his own bottle amongst the rest on the bench, promising Bokuto absentmindedly that he’ll go easy on them for the rest of the day.

“I want to have at least a little energy left for the party at Kuroo’s tonight,” Bokuto adds, his smile widening when Atsumu nods in agreement. “See, I knew you’d get it!”

Sakusa takes a seat on the bench. “Are you going to the party, Miya?”

“Yeah, Y/N’s forcing me to come with,” Atsumu says. “How about you?”

Bokuto answers for him. “I’m making him come!” he exclaims. “You’ll have so much fun, Omi, you don’t have to worry.”

Sakusa deadpans, “I’m only staying for five minutes.”

Bokuto waves off his iciness with a flippant hand. “I’ll convince you to stay longer.”

“I really doubt that.”

“Don’t underestimate me!” Bokuto huffs. He turns away from Sakusa before he can continue to argue and focusses on Atsumu. “It’s good that you’re coming too, Tsum-Tsum! Maybe you can finally meet the guy Y/N’s going on a date with.”

Atsumu halts, hand tightening around his bottle. “What?”

“Some guy from their Psychology class asked them out a few days ago,” Bokuto says obliviously. “I think it was the night you picked them up? I don’t know. I think he was nice, though. Y/N probably already told you about it.”

You didn’t.

Atsumu forces a grin on his face. “Right, they did.”

Sakusa studies his expression with pinched eyebrows.

Atsumu’s cheeks hurt for the rest of practice, a consequence of the cheerful façade he’s plastered, but the pain subsides — if only for a moment — when he sees you outside the gymnasium, carrying your favourite boba drink in one hand, and his favourite in the other.

“Hey!” you greet, handing him the drink. “How was practice?”

“Awful,” Hinata mopes with a pout. “Your boyfriend here was running it like the navy.”

You frown. Atsumu blanches. “My boyfriend…?”

“Yeah!” Hinata slaps Atsumu on the back. “Him.”

All colour drains from your face. Your grip on your cup loosens for a split second before tightening it again in panic. You look from Hinata, the picture of innocence, to Atsumu, who only stares back, just as bewildered.

Hinata seems to take the hint as his eyes flicker between the two of you in confusion. “Sorry, I… I overheard Bokuto saying you were going on a date with someone, so I assumed—”

“Date?” you interrupt frantically, arms flapping to deny the words that have recklessly tumbled from Hinata’s mouth. “With who— with Atsumu? He’s not— we’re not— I’m not— we’re—”

“We’re friends,” Atsumu finishes, saving you from your stammering. You look at him gratefully, and he can only offer a weak smile in return. “I don’t know why you’d think we’re dating, Shoyo.”

“Sorry—”

“They’re going on a date with someone else.”

You narrow your eyes. “What do you—?”

“Oh, hey,” Sakusa says as he walks out of the doors. He tugs on the string of his mask to make sure it’s secure before nodding at you. “Did you stop by the grocery store yet?”

Atsumu’s words are long forgotten when realization engulfs your figure at the speed of light. “Oh, no! I took a nap and—”

“You really need to fix your sleep schedule.”

“I’ll have you know I slept four hours last night.”

“…That’s not a good thing.”

“It’s an hour more than usual.”

The genuine concern is evident in Sakusa’s eyes before he rubs his temples with a sigh. “Okay, whatever. Let’s go to the store before we head home, I need to buy more protein powder.”

“Ay, ay, captain.”

“Don’t call me that.”

You snicker then turn to Atsumu with a smile he’d move mountains for. “I’ll see you later, Tsumu?”

“Yeah, sure,” he murmurs. “Don’t take too long to get ready.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, patting his cheek. “Thanks for agreeing to drive me there and back.”

He finds himself involuntarily leaning into your touch. “Don’t mention it.”

Your touch lingers for a second too long before you salute him in goodbye and rush to follow Sakusa to your car. Atsumu watches as your figure gets smaller and smaller, a smile on his face as you glance over your shoulder and stick your tongue out when you catch him staring.

He flips you off and makes sure to stick his tongue out, too, in hopes that it’ll make you laugh loud enough for him to hear.

(He doesn’t notice the mischievous glint in Sakusa’s eyes, nor does he catch his name slipping past Sakusa’s lips).

(But he does notice you tilt your head, lost in thought, before you look at him again, attempting to figure him out despite the distance.

He thinks nothing of it).

Just after his 9am lecture, someone asks Atsumu out on a date.

She’s nice and easy on the eyes; a little timid, but he supposes that’s just the affect he has on people. Big man on campus is what he’s always referred to as, until they realize that he’s nothing if not a goofball off-court. Still, the girl — Miwa is what she said her name was — doesn’t know that yet, so Atsumu gives her the benefit of the doubt.

And he says yes.

At 11:00, the whole team has caught wind of his evening plans, and Sakusa texts him to tell him he’s an idiot. Atsumu frowns, asks why, but Sakusa doesn’t reply.

At 6:00, an hour before his date, he shows up on your doorstep with a bag of clothes and a tie loose around his neck. His left pant leg is tucked into his sock and the other is haphazardly cuffed; his hair is all over the place, sticking up at the back as the result of a hair-gel disaster.

You stare at him with pinched eyebrows. “What do you need?”

“I’ve got a date,” he explains frantically. “I need your help.”

You hesitantly let him in.

At 6:15 is when the argument occurs. The reason why is something Atsumu can’t recall, only that it was something so small and insignificant that the argument shouldn’t have even happened in the first place. He thinks you may have been in a bad mood before he even arrived, but that doesn’t change the fact that you haven’t talked to him in the past five hours.

Oh, right. And the power goes out at 6:45.

He texts Miwa to cancel, promising to reschedule on a day where they won’t be talking to each other in the dark, but his phone dies before he gets a response. With a shrug, he tosses it onto the coffee table and makes a mental note to charge it as soon as the power comes back on, knowing full well that he’ll forget the reminder the second he makes it.

He should feel more guilty about the fact that he cares more about your absence than his postponed date.

Atsumu stares at your door for far too long before deciding that he’ll apologize to you — for what, he doesn’t know, but apologize first, ask questions later is his motto — once you’ve left your room. He’ll grovel and get on his knees and even humiliate himself if he has to, as long as it gets you to talk to him again, because God knows he’ll never survive this outage by himself.

(Also, you’re his best friend, and — Atsumu has never told anybody this — the last time you gave him the silent treatment, his chest physically hurt from not speaking to you that he vowed to never anger you again).

It’s 11:35, and you still haven’t left your room.

For the past few hours, you’ve been watching Netflix without headphones to torture a bored Atsumu, but the noises stopped about ten minutes ago, meaning your phone must’ve died too, so it’s only a matter of time before you leave your room in hopes of finding something to do.

Atsumu’s almost giddy at the thought.

At 11:50, he makes his move.

He hears the creaking of your door and your socked feet softly padding in the hallway. Atsumu’s always tried going to sleep early so he can hit the gym before it gets too busy the next morning, so you must’ve waited the latest you could bear with the assumption that he had fallen asleep on the couch.

Atsumu tiptoes to the end of the hallway, teeth bright compared to the darkness of the apartment, and his grin only widens when you finally see him.

You blink before scoffing, brushing past him to enter the kitchenette.

“Y/N,” he says, attempting to be stern but it comes off as a whine in his desperation. “Look at me.” You spare him a glance. Atsumu deems that’s good enough. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

He watches you open a cupboard and fill your glass with water. The seconds that pass by are agonizingly slow and Atsumu shifts uncomfortably when the silence drags on.

Finally, you look at him, unamused, and say, “What exactly are you sorry for?”

He purses his lips in thought. “Uh…”

Rolling your eyes, you turn to make your way back to your room.

“Wait! Wait,” Atsumu shouts, rushing over to block the exit. His eyes dart all over the kitchen in hopes the walls will have the answer to your question. You tap your foot impatiently, and it’s only when you go to open your mouth to tell him to move that he blurts out, “I’m sorry for eating the rest of your chocolate cake.”

You look at him incredulously. “That was you?”

“Yeah, I— wait, you’re not mad about that?”

“I am now!” you huff, using an arm to try and shove him out of the way, but he catches your wrist.

“Then I don’t get it!” he groans. “What did I do?”

You give him a once-over. “Well, what didn’t you do?”

“This is about the outfit?”

“You’ve cuffed your slacks, Tsumu. They’re cuffed. No sane person cuffs their slacks.”

He struggles to wrap his head around your response. “You’re mad,” he repeats, then gestures to his outfit confusedly, “about what I’m wearing.”

You seem to realize just how ridiculous it sounds uttered out loud, because you pout. “Not just that.”

“Then what else?”

You stumble over your words before you coherently state, “You’re going on a date.”

He frowns. “Yes.”

“You’re going on a date,” you say again when it’s obvious he’s not catching on to what you mean. When all Atsumu can manage is a perplexed sound, you add frustratedly, “You’re going on a date, which I don’t understand, since Sakusa told me that I didn’t need to worry anymore, but I guess he’s wrong because you came here asking for my help with looking nice on your night out with Miwa and—”

“Wait,” Atsumu interrupts, still puzzled. “What did Sakusa tell you?”

“He told me not to worry.”

“Worry about what?”

That snaps you out of it.

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water. Then, you cross your arms over your chest, muttering out a response with feigned nonchalance, “Whatever.”

Atsumu protests, “Hey, I—”

“Where were you even going to take her?” you swiftly change the subject, and Atsumu decides that he’ll let it go — that’s what he’s been doing for a while, anyway, and another day really couldn’t hurt, could it?

“Dancing,” he says.

“Dancing?”

“Yes,” he responds, relaxing at the sight of your amusement. “I searched up unique date ideas and Google told me to take her dancing.”

“You should’ve just taken her to dinner,” you say. “Because you can’t dance.”

“That’s not true at all.”

“You were born with two left feet.”

“Quit lying, you’re only saying that because you’re mad at me.”

“I’m only telling you the truth!”

“I’m a good dancer!”

“You really aren’t. I thought that was established two weeks ago when we were playing Just Dance and you knocked over Aran’s vase.”

“That says nothing about my ability to—”

“Yes, it does.”

“I’ll prove it.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.”

“I’m serious,” he says, stretching his hand out for you to take.

You look at his palm and back up at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Not in any way, shape, or form.”

“We don’t even have music—”

“I’ll sing,” he shakes his hand. “C’mon, hurry up, my arm’s getting tired.”

Without a second thought, you interlace your fingers with his as he whisks you around the kitchen, his laugh loud when you yelp at his fast movements. He places his other hand on the small of your back to keep you from slipping on the tile as he leans to whisper into your ear.

“Any song requests?”

“None. You’re an awful singer,” you retort, bristling at the warmth of his breath.

“So, what are you saying? You’d rather waltz in silence?”

“Yes. And I wouldn’t even call this waltzing. We’re just sliding around the kitchen.”

“We’re waltzing,” Atsumu says firmly, daring you to argue. You only sigh, letting him pull you closer as you two clumsily move around the room. He sings your favourite song despite your insistence for him not to, humming the parts he doesn’t know and doing his best to hit every note.

You laugh into his chest, and he makes sure the sound is trapped in his ribcage so he’ll never have to go a day without it.

When the song reaches its end, you place your head on his shoulder, your breath piercing through his blazer and skin. “I’m sorry that I got mad at you,” you whisper despite the quiet, as if making your voice any louder will shatter the atmosphere. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs.

“It’s not, but thanks for trying to make me feel better,” you say timidly. “I guess I just got my hopes up.”

Atsumu tries to get the information out of you again, the very thing that’s been bothering you — and, as a result, him — for weeks. “About what?”

Your fingers tighten around his. “Nothing,” you answer, and if you notice just how much his posture deflates then you say nothing of it. “Can we stay like this for a little while?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says, rubbing circles onto the back of your hand. “We can stay for as long as you want.”

iii. Love

“You’re gonna get it in my eye!”

“Then stay still!”

“Just promise not to poke me.”

“I’ve already promised five times.”

“Then promise again!”

“Tsumu—” you sigh, slumping your shoulders as you meet his defiant gaze. “I promise I won’t get anything into your eyes or your mouth or your nostrils. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Atsumu narrows his eyes. “For some reason that doesn’t make me feel much better.”

You groan. “We’ve been over this millions of times—”

“Sue me for thinking you’re still mad at me.”

“I told you—”

“Sakusa got into my head,” he explains for the umpteenth time that evening, “he keeps on saying I’ve done something wrong, but he won’t tell me what, and he keeps looking at me as if I’ve committed a felony. His face keeps me up at night, it’s the reason why I’ve had so many nightmares recently—”

“Sakusa’s being a nuisance. Trust me, you haven’t done anything wrong,” you assure, your voice echoing off the walls of your tiny bathroom. “You have nothing to worry about, so stop acting like I’m trying to kill you with this face mask.”

He stares pointedly at the tub sitting next to you on the sink. “It’s scarily green,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Like, it’s Hulk-green. Nothing should be that green.”

“If you’re implying it’s poisonous, it’s not.”

“That’s what they want you to think.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you grumble, spreading the mask across his cheeks, ignoring his murmured whines about how cold it feels on his skin. “You weren’t acting like this last time.”

“You were using a different face mask last time,” he rebuts. “I liked the other one better than this one.”

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind the next time I go to the store,” you hum. “Maybe I’ll even take you with me, so you can choose the face mask. It’ll save me from your complaining in the future.”

“You love my complaining,” he replies quickly. “But I really should. I’d make your grocery trips so much more fun.”

“You’d get us kick out.”

“Would not!” Atsumu scoffs when you don’t even bother to hide your unconvinced mien and places his hands on either side of the marble countertop, trapping you against him and the sink. “I’ll prove it this weekend.”

You shake your head. “I’m not going this weekend. The fall festival is on Saturday, remember? I’m holding off spending money this week so I can buy a ton of cotton candy without feeling guilty.”

“Really?” he snorts. “You’re not gonna get wasted this year?”

“Definitely not. Last year was a nightmare.”

“You don’t even remember what happened.”

“Exactly,” you say, smoothing out the mask. “And you’re always taking care of me when I’m drunk, it makes me feel bad.”

Despite his proximity, you don’t seem to feel the intensity of his stare. His demeanour has softened in the past five minutes, smiling warmly at the pinch between your brows and the way your lips have twisted into a focussed frown.

This has happened countless times before — on all the other self-care nights, Atsumu finds himself in the four walls of your bathroom, free to admire you all he wants without the company of his friends and their teasing remarks. Though he’d never admit it, he prefers the quiet, because here, the both of you aren’t brushing off comments made about your relationship; here, it’s just you and him, pressed against the bathroom sink, worries left behind on the other side of the door.

Here, it’s so peaceful that Atsumu believes, for a few short moments, that everything will be okay.

“Don’t feel bad,” he says breathily, dreading the moment when you finish and he’s forced to pull away. “I like taking care of you.”

“You’re required to do it because we’re friends.”

“No, I like doing it,” he says again, ingraining the statement into your brain so it’ll stay there forever. “You don’t see me letting Bokuto or Hinata — hell, even Suna, stay over at my apartment and sleep in my bed.”

You pause your movements, eyes flickering to his. “What does that make me then?”

“Huh?”

“Bokuto, Hinata, and Suna are your friends, but you don’t pick them up from parties and let them say the night at your place.”

“Well, that’s cause I can’t be bothered most of the time, since they’re usually going to on-campus parties and my place is so far from—”

“But you picked me up a few nights ago,” you interrupt, and Atsumu is drawn to the determination in your irises more than he wants to admit. “And a couple weeks ago too, I think. You’ve been picking me up before I even moved in with Sakusa, and my old place was thirty minutes away.”

“What are you saying, Y/N?”

“What am I to you, Atsumu?”

He grips the countertop so tightly his knuckles are as white as the marble. His heart drums against his ribcage, so loud in the cavity of his chest that he wonders if you can hear it too.

“You’re my friend.”

“Like Bokuto? Or Hinata, or Su—?”

“No, of course not,” he scoffs. Comparing yourself to them is absurd. “It’s diff— you’re different.”

“Different how?”

Suddenly, everything feels stuffy. Tension floods the room until he’s neck-deep in it and drowning, all while you stare up at him, awaiting an answer.

“I—”

Someone knocks loudly on the door.

“Hey!” Bokuto. “Is someone in here?”

You don’t answer. The ball is in Atsumu’s court.

There’s an answer that lingers in his mind, one that he wants to give you despite the risk that it could destroy everything he’s ever known. But as his hesitation grows, the ring buoy that is Bokuto’s voice becomes more tempting — something to save him from this situation where he’s flailing in hope and what-ifs. Something to save him from your want and his dread and all the other sharp objects that could slice your friendship in two.

(Aren’t you the one who’s always saying he should be more responsible?

Doing this is the most responsible thing he could do, isn’t it?)

“We’ll be right out,” he responds, and just as he replies, you pull away from him in defeat.

Everything in his body tightens.

You turn to wash your hands. Through the mirror, he can see you blink rapidly and clench your jaw.

When he finally goes to exit, Bokuto stands impatiently on the other side. His eyebrows rise when he spots the hairband keeping Atsumu’s blond strands out of his face.

“That’s cute,” Bokuto coos, poking at the heart that sticks out from the material.

“Thanks,” Atsumu says, adjusting the band and letting his fingers brush against the plush heart. “It’s Y/N’s.”

The sun had set a long time ago.

In its absence is the moon, its light barely sufficient to lead you and Atsumu home — home being his apartment, but you’ve been there so much it might as well be your own. It’s alright, though, he thinks; your arm is interlinked with his, and that’s all he’ll ever need to guide him.

Your hips bump his as you both walk down the sidewalk, the air a melody of your laughs as he retells a childhood story about him and Osamu. You fail to refrain the teasing comments that fall from your lips about how he’s always been a troublemaker, long before you ever met him.

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” he’d said a couple minutes ago. “Since I’m your favourite and everything.”

You smile, and every time you do so, the more he believes that the bathroom incident has been forgotten.

But Atsumu’s not stupid. He senses your discomfort — it’s miniscule, but it’s there, and deep down he knows it’s all because of what happened last night.

Every Tuesday, you wait for his evening lecture to finish before you both walk back to his place to watch a movie. Some nights you leave before the clock strikes ten, most nights you stay over. It’s a routine that’s been implemented since he first met you, and never once has it ever felt tense.

Atsumu itches to fix it.

“Hey,” he pipes up, hoping to avoid any uncomfortable lulls in conversation. “You never told me how your date went.”

“My date?”

“Yeah. Bokuto says some guy from your Psychology class asked you out.”

“What?”

“At the party.”

You crinkle your nose in thought before a light bulb goes off in your head. “Are you talking about Kuroo?”

Atsumu’s eyes may as well bulge out of the sockets with how much they’ve widened. “Kuroo asked you out?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Well, yes. But he didn’t mean it. He only did it to get someone to stop bothering him.”

Atsumu frowns. “Then why did Bokuto say—?”

“Bokuto was drunk,” you snicker. “Plus, you know how much of a lightweight he is, and Hinata just kept on giving him drinks, so you can imagine how that went.”

“Not good, probably.”

“Nope,” you say. “Just imagine everything that could’ve gone wrong then double it.”

“Did he puke on Akaashi?”

“Yeah, and on Kuroo too.”

“See, that’s why I never let him stay the night.”

Your smile wavers and he pinches himself for saying anything in the first place.

“That’s probably the only good idea you’ve ever had,” you eventually say, but your voice is weaker than you intend it to be.

Atsumu can’t find the energy to argue.

He allows himself to be pulled down the street, your footsteps hasty compared to how he tries to drag his feet along the cement. Atsumu assumes you want to get this night over with, to spend only an hour — maybe two — with him before bidding goodbye, and the thought causes an ugly feeling to root itself into the pit of his stomach.

The wind whistles in warning. He should’ve expected something like this.

All good things come to an end is something he’s heard far too many times to count, but Atsumu is nothing if not an optimist, and even so, he never thought a saying such as that could ever apply to his friendship with you. Despite the hardships, the two of you have always pulled through.

But the clouds begin to drift over the moon, hindering its light, and his stomach churns at what’s to come.

Your voice, disguised as a remedy to soothe his unease, carries him forward. “Listen, I think I’ll head home after the movie.”

He blinks. “What?”

“I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight, y’know?”

“You can sleep in mine,” he suggests, his tone bordering on a plea. You always sleep in mine. “I can sleep on the couch.”

“It’s okay, Tsumu,” you reply. “You’re probably tired of seeing me all the time, anyway.”

“I’m not,” he insists.

You give him a tight smile in response.

Atsumu’s always believed he was good with words. His voice has failed him before, sure, and it’s not like it’s a secret that sometimes his carelessness lands him in undesirable situations, but he’s usually so quick on his feet. He knows what to say, and if he doesn’t, he can crank up the charm until everyone in the vicinity begins to suffocate on his charisma.

Miya Atsumu is rarely ever speechless.

But then you started acting different, and suddenly he couldn’t decipher your expressions or predict your every move. You would dance with him in the kitchen and tenderly apply skincare products on his face, but no matter how much he pulled you close, you would drift further away. You’d open up before brushing everything off as if he had nothing to worry about.

It's like you haven’t been paying attention at all. If it involved you, Atsumu would always worry.

The question slips out of his mouth too quickly for him to control. “Are you ever gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“What?”

He stops walking, and as a result, so do you. “Something’s been bothering you,” he says hoarsely. “And I was waiting it out because I thought you’d tell me, but… I feel like you never will.”

You lick your lips — to stall, he thinks, but doing so only spares you a second. “Do you have any guesses?”

“Huh?”

“You’re not an idiot,” you sigh. “You must have some idea.”

(And, perhaps, maybe a small part of him does. You’re his best friend, and he is yours, and you each earned that title by knowing the other like the moon knows the stars, like the stars know the sky, like the sky knows the sun.

He knows, you know he does. But this is irresponsible. It threatens everything).

“I don’t,” he lies.

“Atsumu,” you exhale, as if he’s entangled in your system, “do you really need me to say it?”

He doesn’t answer. You continue, anyway.

Three words are whispered into the dead of night, and the world tilts on its axis.

This was never part of the routine.

“Maybe I should just go home,” you murmur when he doesn’t speak. His fingers twitch, screaming at him to reach out for you as soon as you pull away. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Y/N—”

“Just let me go,” you say — you beg. “Please.”

His body screams, his nerves flare, but the messenger between his spinal cord and his brain fails to relay the message that he should do everything in his power to prevent you from leaving.

“Okay,” he responds. His voice sounds like it hasn’t been in use for years, tainted with defeat.

You turn to leave, and for the first time since you’ve met him, Atsumu doesn’t follow.

Atsumu’s moody, he has been for a while, and it doesn’t take long for everyone to realize it’s because of you.

Or, more specifically, the absence of you.

You’ve been spending more time by yourself than you have been with anyone else, cooped up in the safety of your bedroom and listening to — according to Sakusa — music that ranges from soft, heartbroken ballads, to hardcore fuck-you anthems. The lack of your presence is strange; you’ve always been a constant in Atsumu’s life, and to live without it leaves a lingering emptiness in his chest.

He'll catch glimpses of you sometimes on campus, and he feels, what he assumes to be, the same emotion people feel when they claim they’ve spotted Bigfoot.

For a moment, everything feels a little more bearable.

But then you disappear, leaving sorrow in your wake, and reality washes over him like an ice-cold bucket of water.

His moping is how he ends up tagging along with Bokuto and Hinata at the fall festival, trailing after them like an upset puppy while they frolic down the streets, gawking at all the stands and taste-testing every snack they come across. The plan was to have them cheer him up, to make him smile even if it’s only for a second, because when Atsumu is upset, it becomes everyone else’s problem.

Hinata offers him some funnel cake and Atsumu absentmindedly murmurs about how it’s your favourite. They all buy friendship bracelets and Atsumu buys one for you too because he knows how much you’d want one. They all clamber onto the carousel and Atsumu wonders if you’d fall off if you rode the horse.

Bokuto and Hinata get tired of it all eventually.

“He’s hopeless,” Bokuto cries when they reunite with Suna and Osamu. “He won’t stop whining.”

Atsumu opts for standing on his toes to look over the crowd in hopes of finding you instead of replying to his friend. His eyes drift first to the ring toss, then to the man selling cotton candy, then to the spinning teacups.

Nothing.

Osamu says something that finally catches his brother’s attention. “Well, Y/N’s not coming,” he waves his phone in the air, which is open on his message thread with you. “Said they were busy.”

Hinata huffs. “They’re only saying that cause Tsumu’s here.”

Bokuto slaps his arm. “Shoyo!”

“What? It’s true!” he exclaims defensively. “You know how they’re always on top of their assignments, I doubt they’re doing anything but watching TV and—”

“Yeah, but still, don’t say that! Isn’t Tsum-Tsum heartbroken enough?”

“I am not heartbroken,” Atsumu snarls.

Suna gives him a look. “Well…”

“I’m not!” he flails, frantically gesturing to himself to show that he’s perfectly fine. “I mean, yeah, am I a little upset? Yes. But heartbroken? You guys are just saying anything at this point, like—”

Osamu interrupts him before he can continue rambling and digging himself into a bigger hole. “What did you even do, anyway?”

The Miya twins are notorious on campus for their bickering, but Atsumu thought that in this situation, at least his own brother would be on his side. “What makes you think this is all my fault?”

Osamu raises an eyebrow, mocking and patronizing. “Well, for one—”

“If anything,” Atsumu continues, hurriedly cutting him off, “I should be the one avoiding them. Not that I’d want to, I’d never want to, obviously, but if we were getting technical then they should be the one worrying about me and not the other way around.”

Hinata speaks, mouth full of the last of his funnel cake. “Who says they don’t worry about you?”

“I— wait, what?”

“They’re always asking me and Shoyo about how you’re doing,” Bokuto chirps. “How screwed up could things be that you won’t talk to each other?”

Atsumu inhales, and he feels the world begin to collapse into him. Unsure of what to say, unsure of what to think, unsure if it’s fair of him to reach for his phone and hope you’ll answer his calls. He knows why the two of you have found yourselves here, standing on opposite sides of a field of regret and hurt. He knows, that in his attempt to dodge change, he blew something up in the process.

Suna tilts his head in question. “Atsumu. What happened?”

Atsumu exhales. “They told me that—” the words lodge themselves in his throat, unwilling to leave.

But they all understand.

“Huh,” Suna hums. “Didn’t think they had it in them.”

“What did you reply with?” Osamu asks.

Atsumu prepares himself for their rage. “Nothing.”

He’s met with silence. Then, incredulously, Suna asks, “Are you stupid?”

Osamu answers for him. “Chronically so.”

Atsumu doesn’t have the heart to respond to the jab, and the severity of the situation significantly increases.

Hinata bites the inside of his cheek in thought. “I think he’s broken.”

Bokuto leans forward to study Atsumu’s expression as much as he can before the latter waves him off. With a frown, Bokuto steps back and looks around the grounds, hoping to find something that’ll cheer Atsumu up and make tonight not a complete bust.

A tent, flashy and sparkly and enchanting, lures him in.

Osamu looks like he’s about to say something, but before he can utter a word, Bokuto tugs on Atsumu’s sleeve and drags him to the tent, ignoring his protests. “I have an idea,” he says reassuringly, but it does nothing to calm his friend. “Trust me on this.”

Atsumu snatches his arm back and rubs it as if Bokuto’s harmed him. He cranes his neck around to look at the sign just outside the tent, and scowls at the pink and yellow doodles on the chalkboard.

“This is a psychic.”

Bokuto nods vigorously. “Yes.”

“Your idea of cheering me up is having me scammed?”

Bokuto pouts. “You love stuff like this.”

He’s not wrong. If it were any other day, this place would be Atsumu’s first stop. He’d be the one begging people to join him despite the fact that he knows the consequences involve a dent in his bank account, but today, predictions of his future are the last thing on his mind. Today, convincing people to get their fortune read is the least of his desires, because you aren’t trying to convince people with him.

There’s no point being here without you.

Atsumu moves to get out of line.

“Hey, dude,” Bokuto whines and holds onto his arm to keep him in place. “Just give it a try. It can’t hurt, can it?”

“Boku—”

“It’ll be fun!” he says cheerily. “Maybe it’ll give you some insight on how to apologize to Y/N.”

Atsumu wants nothing more than to move — to leave — but Bokuto mastered the art of the puppy dog eyes long before he could talk, and the moment he flashes them Atsumu realizes he has no other choice but to stay.

When he steps into the tent, the atmosphere changes.

He tugs on the sleeves of his windbreaker when the autumn air threatens to pierce his skin, and reluctantly sits down on the chair across from the psychic. She eyes his every move, trying to figure out what type of customer he might be — someone who’s just doing this for fun, or someone who’s going through a rough patch, or someone who needs a stranger to light the path they need to walk down.

Atsumu fidgets in his seat.

“You’re here for a reading?”

A shrug and feigned indifference are what she receives as an answer. “Sure.”

His mask of nonchalance begins to slip when the reading starts, growing restless as he checks the time on his watch and calculating the probability of you still being awake. He glances over his shoulder, praying to whichever deity who’ll listen that Bokuto will come in and drag him out once he’s realized that this is the last thing Atsumu wants.

You are not here, and his body stings whenever the reminder worms its way into his mind.

His uneasiness must amuse the psychic, because when he finally looks back at her, she’s grinning, knotting his stomach in worry.

She asks him a dreadful question, made of nuts and bolts and things that rub salt in the wound of his heart.

What is it that you desire most, boy?

Atsumu freezes, plastering a confused smile on his face. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m sure you know. Is it strength?”

Definitely not, Atsumu wants to say. He’s more than capable enough to lift heavy boxes, he doesn’t have to take multiple trips to move things from point A to point B, he doesn’t struggle carrying his friends’ slump and inebriated bodies into a bed.

Atsumu is strong. He’s proved it during his frequent trips to the gym and by winning arm-wrestling contests. He wears the trait like a badge of honour, a reminder.

He does not need any more physical strength.

He checks his watch and wonders if you’ve brushed your teeth and dragged yourself to bed.

The psychic pushes. “Power?”

Atsumu briefly shakes his head, a movement so miniscule it’s a surprise the woman catches it.

It used to be such a thrill, the popularity that came with his volleyball reign. He used to ride that horse and sit in that throne with pride, he let the excitement course through him and, for a while, let himself believe the squeals that came with victory was interchangeable with love.

But power does not compare. He was foolish to believe nothing could beat the rush that came with the admiration — the shouts of his name in the bleachers, the ever-growing follower count, the people confessing their infatuation whenever they caught him alone.

They do not know who he is underneath the volleyball uniform. They don’t know that he likes to go to the diner after games and order a strawberry milkshake, or that his bottom drawer is filled to the brim with spare clothes for you, or that his favourite nights are spent with you applying a face mask to his skin.

They will never know him as much as you do.

The psychic leans forward. “Love?”

Atsumu clenches his jaw. Yes, would be the short answer, but to say that without an explanation would mean to lie, and he’s never been a good liar. Because Atsumu’s always been loved — not by the crowds or the student body — but by his friends, his family, you.

You gave your heart to him, and he noticed too late that the bleeding organ resided in the palm of his hand, cracked and yearning and brave. And after he realized this, he selfishly craved for more, even though he knew it scared him. He has been in relationships before, but none of them crossed the threshold of what truly mattered — the intimate conversations, the dances in the kitchen at midnight, the confessions murmured under the duvet.

So, perhaps, yes, Atsumu desires love, but the one thing he supposes he wants more is courage.

The psychic smiles. “Ah. Bingo. So—”

“Miya.”

Atsumu whips his head around to find Sakusa standing at the entrance, skillfully ignoring the protests behind him to get in line and wait his turn. Sakusa raises an eyebrow at the situation Atsumu’s found himself in, but saves him from his judgement to state, “Bokuto told me you were in here.”

“Excuse me,” the woman chirps. “We’re in the middle of something.”

“If you think a scam is what’ll solve your problems, then you’re stupider than I thought,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu sighs. “You came here just to tell me that?”

“Well, yeah,” Sakusa shrugs. “There’s a simpler solution to all of this.”

“Okay, well—”

“Talk to them,” Sakusa interrupts, exhausted. “Before they give up.”

Atsumu kisses his teeth, changing his position in his chair so he’s fully facing Sakusa. “Since when were you the type to give advice?”

Sakusa ignores his retort with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes.

“I have never seen you cower before, Miya,” Sakusa says, and the words are like needles on his skin. “Don’t let the first time you do so be now.”

Atsumu inhales shakily. “I don’t—”

“They got Hinge a few days ago,” Sakusa deadpans. Atsumu stiffens. “Don’t lose to some hack they found on a dating app.”

Atsumu looks from his friend to the clairvoyant before flashing her a sheepish smile and shooting clumsily out of his chair. The words that tumble from his mouth are barely coherent, and the last thing he hears before he exits the tent is Sakusa mumbling moron under his breath.

The journey from the festival to your apartment is a blur. He vaguely recalls running past his friends and returning their questioning shouts with a wave of his hand and getting angry at least two cars who cut him on the road, before he ends up in front of your door, nose tinged red from the cold.

His knocks are insistent.

“I’m coming, God, be patient,” he hears you say before you open the door to see him, and your annoyance is wiped away in seconds.

“Hi,” he says, out of breath from running up three flights of stairs after he got impatient waiting for the elevator. His eyes land on the blanket you’ve wrapped over your shoulders, and his lips quirk up at the familiar pattern. “Didn’t I get you that?”

You tug on the material defensively. “What are you doing here?” you ask. “And what the hell are you wearing? Did you not look at the weather before you left the house? It’s freezing outside, you idiot, you should be wearing a thicker jacket. And your face is so red! And your hands! They’re gonna get all dry if you don’t wear gloves! How many times do I have to tell you to dress for the weather otherwise you’ll get sick and…”

Atsumu rasps, “And?”

You gulp, taking a step back to distance yourself. “And you shouldn’t be here,” you say, sending a knife to his chest. “I thought you were at the festival.”

“That’s why you didn’t come,” he concludes. “Because I was there.”

“Well, what do you expect me to do?” you snap. “I told you I loved you and you looked at me like I was crazy.”

“I didn’t.”

“Whatever,” you bark. “My point still stands. You shouldn’t be here.”

He nods. “I know.”

“Then why are you?”

Eight letters are whispered into the darkness of the entryway, and the world is thrown off-balance.

“I love you,” he says, surprising himself with just how easy the words escape after he lets them, “and I’m so, so sorry.”

Your lips part in surprise. “What?”

“I love you,” he repeats. “And I should’ve told you sooner, but I— I was scared—”

“Then why are you telling me now?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Love conquers all, I guess. My fear included.”

“You came all the way here to tell me that?”

He risks a step towards you and his heart flutters when you don’t move away. “I ran out of a psychic’s tent, too.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he murmurs. “That’s not important right now.”

“It sounds pretty important, I mean, you mentioned it and everything.”

“It’s not.”

“What exactly is more important than that?”

“Your forgiveness, actually.”

You huff. “Believe it or not, forgiveness doesn’t come so easily, Atsumu.”

“Can I kiss you, then?” he questions innocently, placing a hand against your cheek. “Will you take that as an apology?”

You still, licking your lips as you try to maintain your defiant stance. “…That won’t work every time you make me mad, you know.”

He tries his best not to smirk. “Is that a yes?”

“I hate you.”

He lets his lips hover over yours, and he’s not sure if the loud heartbeat ringing in his ears is his or yours (or maybe a mixture of both). “Is that yes?” he asks again, searching your eyes for any signs of discomfort.

Your eyes flicker to his mouth and then you mumble, “Yes.”

Atsumu pinches himself before capturing his lips with yours, eager and desperate, to kiss you with enough pent-up want and need to cause you to stumble. He’s gentle in the way he cradles your face, as if the world has found itself in his hands, still beautiful despite how much he’s hurt it.

He’ll make up for hurting you later, but for now he’ll allow himself to be selfish.

I love you, he whispers into your mouth, and you capture the confession with your own and let it live in your beating heart.

I love you, he whispers into your neck as you both stumble into the kitchen, making sure to tattoo the words into your skin so you’ll never forget.

“I love you,” he whispers one last time as the blanket covers you both and he’s sure you’ve lulled to sleep with your ear against his chest and his thumb drawing hearts on your shoulder, “so, so much.”

Slumber takes over you both, blanketing your smiling figures with hope and love.

© fushisagi, 2023. do not translate or plagiarize my works.

[itsmerelliwellie]

Love Language | N. Seba x Reader

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For this pretty over here

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7.) “I’m not good with words… so I bought your favorite snack.”

Prompts

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Warning(s): Nothing much...

Important Warning: NOT REALLY BETA READ

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Seba wasn't great with words.

Never had been.

He could rewire an explosive device with a bent screwdriver and a chewing gum wrapper, and hack into security systems with a potato if you dared him. But stringing together a sentence that sounded even remotely human when it involved feelings? Yeah. No. That was well outside his skillset.

So instead, he was standing outside your dorm at 11:47 p.m., with a grocery bag in hand, half a hoodie sleeve tucked into his palm, and a stomach full of static.

Inside the bag?

Your favorite snack.

Not just one, but five different varieties of it, because he couldn’t remember which one you liked best when you talked about it last week, so he just bought all of them like an idiot.

He could’ve messaged you. Texted. Called. Hell, he could’ve waited until morning like a normal person.

But no. You’d looked off today. Tired. Distracted. That smile of yours hadn’t quite reached your eyes. And something about that had sat wrong with him all night. It itched under his skin like a signal he couldn’t decrypt. So here he was, heart in his throat and groceries in hand, trying to help the only way he knew how.

With quiet, awkward, absolutely wordless care.

You opened the door in a hoodie that didn’t belong to you. It was his, and that realization nearly short-circuited him. Hair tousled. Eyes soft with confusion and warmth.

“Seba?”

“I—uh.” He held up the bag like a peace offering. “You mentioned this snack thing once. I remembered.”

You blinked. Looked at the bag. Looked back at him.

“Are you... okay?”

“I’m not good with words,” he mumbled, suddenly very interested in the scuff mark on your doorframe. “So I brought this instead.”

There was a pause. A long one.

“You’re such a dork.”

He flinched.

But then you smiled.

God help him, you smiled. A real one. Sleepy and crooked and fond. You reached for the bag and tugged him inside with your free hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I was having a crap day,” you admitted as you set the bag down. “Didn’t really want to be around people. But... I always want to see you.”

His ears went red. Like immediate red.

You tilted your head at him, eyes glinting with mischief. “You really bought five different kinds, huh?”

“I panicked.”

“You overachiever.”

“Shut up.”

You didn’t. You stepped closer instead, close enough for Seba to catch the subtle citrusy warmth of your shampoo, close enough that your fingers brushed his wrist.

“You do this thing,” you said, tone softer now. “Where you always show up when I don’t even realize I need you to. It’s like—like you see right through me. And you don’t say anything about it. You just act. You just show up.”

Seba opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed.

His throat felt like it had caught fire.

You were looking at him too directly. As if you knew. As if you’d always known, and were just waiting for him to figure out how to catch up.

“Sometimes,” you continued, voice low, “I wish you’d say what I think you’re trying to. Out loud.”

Seba’s heart stuttered in his chest.

He wanted to. God, did he want to. But every word that clawed its way up his throat got caught in a tangle of nerves and static. So instead, he reached up—trembling—and cupped your cheek.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

So he leaned in.

And kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. Wasn’t calculated. It was messy and warm and real. The kind of kiss that short-circuited logic and replaced it with heartbeats and stuttering breath and the faint, helpless noise you made when you gripped the front of his shirt like he was the only solid thing left in the world.

You pulled him closer.

Seba nearly lost his balance.

You both half-stumbled into the couch, laughing into each other’s mouths as you fell into the cushions, limbs tangling and lips barely parting. Your hands slid under his hoodie, palms flat against his spine, and he gasped into the kiss—like you’d flipped a switch he didn’t know he had.

“I brought snacks,” he muttered against your mouth, breathless.

“What a sweetheart.”

Seba groaned. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He buried his face in your neck. “No. I really, really don’t.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Tagged gently.

“You can say it,” you whispered.

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time. More promise than urgency. More comfort than chaos.

Seba had kissed you.

You had kissed him back.

And now you were both tangled together on your couch, limbs interwoven like the world outside didn’t exist anymore. There were half-empty snack wrappers on the table and his hoodie swallowed your frame, sleeves bunched around your hands as you curled into his side like you belonged there.

You’d always belonged there.

Your fingers were tracing lazy circles on his chest, the touch light and soothing, like you were trying to calm down his racing heart without mentioning it.

He was trying not to panic.

You were warm. So warm. Not just your skin, but the way you leaned into him like he was safe. The way you kept looking up at him, soft and sleepy-eyed, with a kind of quiet affection that completely unraveled him.

“I should probably go,” he murmured, even as his arm tightened around your waist.

“Liar.”

You shifted against him and pressed a quick kiss to his collarbone, the fabric of your hoodie slipping slightly to expose your shoulder. He didn’t even try to hide the shiver that ran down his spine.

“I’m not good at this,” Seba admitted, voice barely audible.

“I know.” You looked up again, voice a little teasing, a little too tender. “But you’re trying. That counts.”

He looked away. Your living room was dark except for the faint glow of the kitchen light. Everything was quiet. Still. Like the universe had decided to give him a moment of peace in the middle of the noise.

“Why are you being so gentle with me?” he asked, almost accidentally. “You always pick fights with people at school. You’ve got bruises every other day, and yet… you’re soft with me.”

You smiled slowly. “Because I don’t need to fight you to be seen.”

Seba’s breath caught.

“And,” you added, nuzzling closer, “Also probably because I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I’m not gonna hurt you just to prove I feel something.”

Your words hit like a sucker punch.

Seba didn’t speak for a long moment. He just looked down at you like you were something he wasn’t supposed to touch. Scared that if he breathed too hard, the moment would vanish.

You leaned up and kissed him again. Filled with honesty. The kind that made his hands shake as they slid up your back, bunching the hoodie as if to anchor himself to this moment. To you.

You climbed onto his lap slowly, letting your thighs settle on either side of him. It felt natural. Comforting.

Because Seba didn’t stop you.

Didn’t want to.

His hands found your hips. Hesitant. Reverent.

You looked at him like you knew. Like you saw every inch of the mess he was—and wanted him anyway.

“Seba,” you whispered, breath fanning against his cheek, “it’s okay to want this.”

He swallowed hard. “I do.”

Your fingers ran through his hair smoothly while humming.

You both eventually collapsed back onto the couch again—chests pressed together, bodies warm and limbs entangled, your face buried in his neck as his hand found the rhythm of your spine.

After a while, your breathing slowed. You started to drift.

Seba didn’t move.

He just held you, his thumb brushing your side.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel broken for not knowing how to say the right words.

Because this?

This was the right language.

And somehow, you’d always understood it.

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A/N: Wrote this while eating MY fave snack that I bought MYSELF becaue I am SINGLE

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[macfrog]

moneyball cowboy like me chapter four

part iv of dbf!joel is yours!!! check out my masterlist to find the first three chapters for all your dbf needs. as always, thank you all so much for all the love n support. you guys make writing this series so much fun!! 🤍 i lowkey don't know whether or not i hate this chapter but i had to write it once the idea was in my head 🤷‍♀️ enJOY

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

summary: when joel double-books you and your dad, you decide to teach him a lesson

warnings: 18+ minors dni!!! oral (f receiving), praise kink, lotsa teasing, lil bit of bratty reader, lil bit of dom!joel, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), consumption of alcohol, cursing

word count: 4.2k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

You raise your eyebrows at Joel innocently as you push the popsicle deep into your mouth, sucking as far as the back of your throat will allow, before dragging it back out with a pop. A thread of sweet, fruit-flavored saliva strings between the tip of the popsicle and your bottom lip as you pull it away. You run your tongue slowly over your lips and smile at him. He looks pissed. He can’t take his eyes off of you, or your swollen lips, but he looks ready to snap. “I found snacks, by the way,” you lull.

How slutty is too slutty? When you’re going over to your dad’s best friend’s to…Well, you’re not quite sure what yet. You’ve picked out a short blue summer dress, strappy back, with black lace panties underneath. If you’re looking, and the light is right, you can see them through the blue fabric.

Joel would, you know that much. That’s all you really care about.

You’re putting earrings on in the mirror when your dad knocks and edges into your room.

“Where you headed, kiddo?”

“Just out for a drink with Sam. Said we’d have a catch-up at the barbecue, so.”

He narrows his eyes.

“It’s not a date.”

“Hey,” he lifts his hands, “I didn’t say anything. When will you be home?”

“Dunno. Why?”

“I’ll be at Joel’s, so remember your key. Just in case.”

Excuse me? Did he just say –

“Joel’s?”

He nods, sitting down on your bed behind you. You stare at him in the mirror.

“What’s happening at Joel’s?”

“Rangers game. He’s having Bill and Hank and me.”

Just then, your phone buzzes. You subtly lean over and catch a glimpse of the screen before it fades to black again.

Joel: Call me when you’re alone. ASAP

You roll your eyes and let out a low sigh.

“Can you give me a sec, Dad? I think I wanna change my outfit.”

“Sure. I’ll give you a holler when I’m leavin’.”

He shuts your door behind him and you wait until you hear his footsteps recede to call Joel.

“Hey, baby, listen, I’m gonna have to raincheck.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Something’s come up.”

“Right.” Your tone is muted and flat. On purpose. Joel notices.

“So…we’ll figure somethin’ out, right? You workin’ much this week?”

You scoff. “I dunno, depends on when the next Rangers game is, doesn’t it?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he takes a deep breath. “Kid, I’m so sorry–”

“Here I am,” you throw your arms up and march around your room, though you know he can’t see you, “getting ready, putting together the sluttiest-within-reason outfit I own, and all the while you’re gearing up to host my dad and your buddies.”

“…You’re wearing somethin’ slutty?”

“Not anymore,” you huff as you pull the dress off. “I’m changin’ into sweatpants.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’d still be into you in the sweatpants.”

“Shut up.”

He laughs. “I will have them out and gone as soon as the game’s done, and then you can come over, okay? Sound good?”

“And you’ll make it up to me?”

“I intend to.”

“’kay. Just know you’re gonna pay for this.”

He says through a chuckle, “See you later, baby.”

You hang up.

You rake through your drawers for something a little more comfortable to wear, settling for a floral skirt and off-shoulder top. Equal parts casual and suggestive. Perfect for payback.

Joel knows he’s gonna pay. He just doesn’t know when.

“Hey, hon, that’s me headin!” your dad calls up the stairs.

“Wait up!” you reply, grabbing your shoes and hopping out of your room. “I’m comin’.”

“You want a ride to Frank’s?”

“No, I’m coming to Joel’s.”

He watches you struggle down the stairs with one shoe on, brows furrowed. “You wanna…come watch the game? What about Sam?”

“He just cancelled.”

Your dad looks tickled. “Cheatin’ on ya, is he?”

You stand straight, finally having pulled your shoe on, and punch his arm. “I’ll be in the car.”

“Alright…” he mumbles, following you out.

----------

Joel’s face when he opens the door is a picture you never want to forget.

“Hey– I – did not know you were comin’.” He ushers you both in.

“Neither did I,” your dad replies, “she decided last minute. Blew off some date with that boy from Frank’s for this.”

“It was not a…” Your sentence ends with a sigh as you follow him inside, looking up at Joel as you pass. He knows damn well you didn’t even have plans with Sam, never mind a date.

“Big Rangers fan?” Joel calls from behind as the three of you head for the living room.

“Yes,” you reply, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible.

“Big enough to schedule a date during the game?”

“I’m sure I’m not the first to do that,” you hiss through your teeth, and he gives you an amused grin.

Bill and Hank haven’t arrived yet. Your dad sits in his usual recliner seat and sighs. You and Joel share the couch, where he turns on you to interrogate you more.

“So, what’s with the change of heart?”

“I, uh…I didn’t know it was this game.”

“And what game’s that?”

“The…Uh…You know. Rangers.” You shrug.

“Name three players.”

“That’s sexist,” you reply, pointing a finger at him.

Your dad cackles, rocking back and forth in the chair. “Beers, Joel?”

“In the fridge,” Joel answers, eyes still on you.

Your dad, who’d be oblivious to a hurricane outside if it weren’t for the warnings on the news, waltzes past the pair of you, locked in a death stare.

“You’re here to cause tr–”

“Trouble, yeah.” You flash him an innocent smile. “You caused it first.”

The doorbell rings and Joel doesn’t move, eyes still dancing all over your body; your shoulders, your hips, your thighs peeking through the slit in your skirt.

Your dad calls through from the kitchen, offering to get it, and you hear the rumble of Hank and Bill’s voices.

When Joel’s eyes meander back up to meet yours, a dangerous look in them, he leans in close. You tilt your jaw to allow him access, but his lips never touch you.

Breath hot on your skin, his Southern drawl whispers, “I started it, and I know how to finish it, pretty girl.”

Then he stands and heads to the hallway to meet his guests. You clamp your legs together.

Bill roars your name when he sees you. “I didn’t fuckin’ know you liked the Rangers!”

You stand and nervously accept his arms over your shoulders, squeezing you so tight it takes your breath away. Joel stifles a laugh in the doorway.

“I just wanted to be around for all the fun,” you almost gasp when he releases you.

Hank is older and smaller in frame, and he gives your hand a little squeeze as he passes by to the couch. “We’re up for it tonight, kiddo,” he smiles sweetly, “it’ll be a good’un.”

“Bill, beer? Hank?”

“Bourbon for me, Joel. Brought my own bottle.” He hands it over.

As your dad squeezes past to join his friends, Joel clicks his fingers at you and jerks his head toward the kitchen. Your jaw falls open with mock offense.

“Dick,” you whisper as you pass.

“Needed help from my waitress with the drinks,” Joel murmurs with a smirk, the two of you heading through.

He opens the fridge and reaches up to grab three beers – Buds, you notice – from the top shelf. His shirt lifts a sliver from the waistband of his jeans, exposing the tan skin beneath.

Your head cocks as you stare at him, gripping onto the worktop, probably more to stop yourself from approaching him than to look casual. But when Joel turns back around, he reads you like an open book.

“Quit starin’,” he mutters, nudging you to shift out of his way.

You don’t budge, so Joel shifts further up the counter. When you slide up to follow him, pinning yourself between him and the marble surface, he scoffs.

“Stop that,” he whispers.

“Stop what? Thought you knew how to finish this?”

“Alright,” he hums, arms reaching around yours to crack the beers open in front of you. Your back is flush against his chest.

“Then,” he mumbles, chin hooked over your shoulder, “we take this,” he reaches for a whiskey glass and Hank’s bottle of Yellow Rose, sliding them over in front of you with one hand. He takes your hands in his, using you like a puppet to pour Hank’s drink.

You can’t help but giggle as his stubble grazes your cheek.

When you turn your head to look at him over your shoulder, you feel an unmistakable swell behind your ass. Joel’s breath falters for a brief second.

You want more. To be frank, you’d take him here and now if it weren’t for his buddies in the next room. But this isn’t about what you want right now. Not yet.

You push off the counter gently, your ass touching Joel’s crotch, grinding into him. His jaw tightens, teeth lock together, and he emits a low growl. He doesn’t move; just stands with his arms around you, hands gripping the worktop, holding you in place as your hips rut on his hardening bulge.

The TV is switched on and you hear a familiar commentator’s voice.

“Joel!” your dad yells from the living room.

“Had your fun?” he grumbles in your ear.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

He moves his arms then, letting you go, taking his and Bill’s beers and Hank’s bourbon, and backs away. His eyebrows are cocked, and you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face.

You watch him until he disappears into the living room, and snap out of your daze. I’m not here to be wooed by him.

I’m here to make him finish what he started.

When you enter the living room, beer in hand, all four men are literally on the edge of their seats, as far forward as they can get without actually sliding off of Joel’s couch.

You notice a space between Joel and Hank, and slip between the coffee table and Hank’s legs. He moves back to allow you the space to squeeze by and slot in on Joel’s left.

As you fall down into your seat, all eyes glued on the TV screen, your right hand comes up to balance yourself – Who are you kidding? – on Joel’s thigh. The inside of Joel’s thigh.

His head jerks down to stare at your fingers, locked around his leg. Checking nobody’s looking, you move it slightly upward. Closer to his –

“What are you doin’?” he whispers through gritted teeth, low enough that the other men don’t hear.

“Watchin’ the game,” you reply, innocent and sweeter than sugar.

His free hand takes hold of yours and slides it off of his thigh without looking, eyes always on the room around him.

You breathe a laugh as he readjusts in his seat, sitting up awkwardly straight and keeping his legs a safe distance away, parallel to yours.

You’re just getting started.

----------

Let’s be frank about it: baseball is fucking boring.

Well, let’s rephrase. It’s not that you don’t like watching it; you’re sure that, in more appropriate circumstances – relaxing on a lazy Sunday, or at an actual game, where the atmosphere buzzes with excitement – you could enjoy it.

But right now, you’re sat with your dad’s buddies, an ache between your legs that you can’t fix, and the only person who can fix it, is refusing to even look at you.

Given the situation at hand, you can’t really fault him for that. But you’re still a little mad.

When they roar at the screen for what feels like the thousandth time, you decide to take yourself for a quiet jaunt to the kitchen.

“You got snacks?” you ask Joel.

“Cupboard above the microwave,” he replies, gaze locked on the game.

You saunter out of the living room, finishing the dregs of your beer, and place the bottle in Joel’s sink.

Reaching up to search his cupboards, you find one bag of Cheetos and another bag of pretzels. You toss them both on the counter, and they land a little bit away from Hank’s bottle of bourbon.

You pick it up, reading the label. You’ve never really been much of a whiskey drinker, but you’re bored, and it’s here, so you may as well.

You pour a little into the bottom of a glass and lift it to your lips, giving it a good sniff before you take a sip. Your face screws up immediately, swallowing just to get the liquid off of your tongue, feeling it burn its way down your throat.

“You okay in there, kiddo?” your dad calls, hearing your coughing, and you splutter a “Yep!” in response.

Would it taste better with ice, you think? Maybe if you could get used to it, it wouldn’t be that bad. You amble over to Joel’s refrigerator and haul the freezer door open, in search of ice cubes, but finding something even better.

You lift the box, sliding one of them out and unwrapping it. When you knock the freezer door closed with your hip, you strut through to the living room and stand behind the couch in the doorway.

No one notices you sneak in; they’re all waving their fists and yelling curses at the TV.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Four heads turn to give you an update on the game, and three hastily turn back when the crowd suddenly begins cheering.

One head, though, whips straight back to you. Stood in his living room doorway. Sucking on a popsicle.

You raise your eyebrows at Joel innocently as you push the popsicle deep into your mouth, sucking as far as the back of your throat will allow, before dragging it back out with a pop. A thread of sweet, fruit-flavored saliva strings between the tip of the popsicle and your bottom lip as you pull it away. You run your tongue slowly over your lips and smile at him.

He looks pissed. He can’t take his eyes off of you, or your swollen lips, but he looks ready to snap.

“I found snacks, by the way,” you lull.

“Yeah? Good.” He twists back around to face the television, a hand running across his jaw. He shuffles in his seat again, just as awkward as he is uncomfortable.

You let out a quiet giggle and meander gleefully back through to the kitchen.

Not long after, you’re at Joel’s counter eating some of his pretzels when he and your dad stalk through, followed by Bill and Hank.

“Game over?”

“No, kid,” Bill chuckles, “seventh-inning stretch.” He yanks open Joel’s refrigerator and takes three more beers, passing them around.

He perches on a bar stool next to you, bringing a hand down on your back – loving, of course, but in typical Bill nature, kinda painful.

“We ain’t doin’ too bad,” Hank muses as he pours another whiskey, and your dad nods silently.

Your eyes flit between the men, now deep in conversation about the game, then land on Joel, leaning against the doorframe sipping on a beer, his eyes on you.

You lean over the counter, popping your ass out, and make him watch as you open your mouth, extend your tongue, and place a salty pretzel on it, closing your lips around your finger and licking it clean.

His expression never changes. Just watches like you want him to, beer bottle clutched in his fist.

“I’ll take these.” Bill’s hand swings across and scoops up the Cheetos, and before you know it, they’re making their way back out of the kitchen.

Joel’s eyes bore into yours as your dad, Bill, and Hank filter out past him. He’s mad, you can tell that much. He paces over to you.

“Knock. It. Off.” His voice is a low growl.

You shake your head. “No can do.”

He sighs, gripping your wrist. Before you can take a breath, he’s dragging you out of the kitchen and upstairs, where he makes a right and almost shoves you down the dim hallway.

“The hell is your game?” he hisses when you’re out of earshot of the others.

“Having fun, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to keep everybody from seeing the fun you’re having. Touchin’ and rubbin’, lookin’ at me like that in front of everyone. The damn popsicle.”

“You liked that, huh?”

“You gettin’ off on this?”

“Mhm.” You nod a little too desperately.

“Well, quit it. When we’re alone, fine, do whatever you want. Not when your dad’s watchin’.”

“My dad ain’t seeing none of it and you know it.”

He runs a hand through his hair and brings it down over his eyes. Seeing him this stressed and undone over you, over what you’re doing to him, sends pulses of electricity through your body.

“What the hell am I gonna do with you, girl?”

You shrug. “Maybe you should punish me.”

“Maybe I fuckin’ should,” he spits, turning away from you.

As if just hearing what you said, he turns on his heel, staring you down with an expression you read to mean one thing: he’s fucking considering it.

“Maybe I fuckin’ should…” he whispers again.

You try to keep your cool façade up, but the way he’s looking at you, eyes dark, jaw clenched, towering over you and cornering you against the wall, has you so wet and needy that you can’t pretend anymore.

“Joel…”

Whatever you were about to say is cut short by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Joel reacts before you do, reaching behind you to pull a door open and backing you into his linen closet, quietly following you in and closing the door again.

There are just inches between you both, pressed chest to chest in the tiny confines of the closet. Joel’s head tilts and listens for Hank’s figure, stumbling back and forth across the landing in pursuit of the bathroom.

“Where’d you say it was, Bill?” he calls downstairs.

“First door on the right, dumbass!” Bill’s voice shouts back up.

Joel’s fist suddenly wraps around the handle, his eyes glued to the wall above your head, listening intently. He’s making sure Hank doesn’t try the wrong door.

Which, of course, he inevitably does.

It rattles some, but Joel’s grip stops the handle from turning. He glares up, shaking his head, mouthing profanities. First door, you fuckin’ moron. You stifle a laugh behind both hands.

“Hank!” your dad’s voice shouts from downstairs. “Not that one, idiot, the one next to it!”

Finally, the door stops trembling.

“I see it now, sure enough,” Hank mumbles, and you both listen to him spill into the bathroom next door.

You let out the breath you’ve been holding in your chest. Joel lifts his hand off of the door handle and places it around your jaw.

“You’re gonna be real quiet, alright?”

He’s speaking so low and so quiet that your eyes track his lips to read the words he’s saying.

“Gonna do what I say and keep that pretty little mouth shut.”

You squirm under his touch, hands gripping his shoulders, desperate for him to kiss you.

Instead, he holds your jaw tight and forces you to look at him.

“Say it.”

“I’ll be quiet,” you breathe, “I’ll be good. Just fucking touch me.”

He runs his tongue along your bottom lip then, asking it to part, and when it does, pulls you roughly against him, free hand dropping to your ass. His tongue battles strong against yours, bittersweet with the taste of beer.

You feel yourself intoxicated with the taste of him, the smell of him, the feeling as his hips purposefully rut into yours. You want him to mark you again, give you something to hide, something to make half-assed excuses over when people spot it. You want him to make you his.

You moan into his mouth, hands finding his hair, and he grips you tighter.

“Shut – the fuck – up,” he snaps between kisses.

He pauses only to listen to Hank tumble out of the bathroom and back downstairs, then gives you a peck on the lips with a cocky smile.

Suddenly he’s at your neck, lips kissing, tongue licking, teeth grazing, and then he’s making his way down, over your breasts, breath hot and unsteady on your heaving chest.

You can hear the booming laughter of the men downstairs. Their shouts and calls at the television. It all echoes up the stairs, floating in under the slit of light from the hallway outside.

Joel’s on his knees now, placing delicate kisses up your thighs. His hands pull your weight onto his shoulders, fingers taking hold of the hem of your skirt and hiking it up. When he reaches your underwear, he looks up, a dark look in his eyes. A question.

“Quiet,” you mutter, nodding, and buck your hips toward him in attempt to hurry him the fuck up.

He smirks at your neediness and kisses you over the lacey fabric of your panties. You bite your lip to keep a moan from escaping your lips. Joel’s eyebrows raise, waiting for you to make a sound. When you don’t, he pulls the fabric back.

He positions himself perfectly at your sex, pulling your thighs a little wider apart over his shoulders. Your head falls against the wall behind you, but your eyes stay locked on him, watching every little move he makes.

He starts by placing his lips against your clit gently, and your eyes roll to the back of your head. He’s soft, warm, but with a hunger for more.

He sucks there for a minute, your hips rolling against his mouth, vision becoming clouded with stars in the darkness of the closet. Your hands tease his hair, gripping and pulling harder the more pressure he applies to your core, the closer he drags you to your high.

When he pulls away, a tiny gasp passes your lips. You expect him to get mad, punish you for making noise, but he just grins to himself and dives back in.

His tongue licks along your folds and you have to bite down on your sleeve this time. It’s no use, your moan breaks free and fills the tiny space, but Joel’s groaning too as he tastes you for the second time in three days.

“So – fucking – good for me, darlin’,” he whispers when he comes up for air, then gets right back to it.

His fingers grip your thighs so tight it almost hurts, keeping you steady. His head drops a little lower, and you feel his breath across your lips.

“Joel,” you moan, and he looks up. “Need your tongue.”

When he drags it between your folds and dips ever so slightly inside you, your back arches, shoulders digging into the wall. You’re doing everything not to scream, his tongue lapping you up, nose rubbing against your clit, but you’re nearing closer and closer to your orgasm.

“Keep – going – fuck, Joel,” you breathe, eyes screwed shut, hands tangling in his hair, pulling his head closer against you.

“Shh,” he’s cooing now against your cunt, pulling a hand under your thigh to insert two fingers as his tongue massages your clit. “I know, I know,” he says, lifting his chin. “Poor baby just wanted some attention, huh?”

You smile, eyes closing in bliss as his tongue reattaches to your core. You whimper his name as your walls start to close around him.

Just then, a roar lets out from the living room, and the coil snaps. You cry out, moaning Joel’s name as you cum on his tongue, your sweet noises drowned out by the thunderous cheers from downstairs.

You swear you feel Joel smirk against your wetness as you unravel for him.

You’re panting, hands still clinging onto his hair for stability, as he pulls away from your cunt and leans back. He gently rolls your thighs off of his shoulders and helps you to stand, before his tall figure straightens up in front of you.

You instinctively grab his shirt and pull his lips against yours, wanting to taste yourself on his tongue. Joel’s breath hitches when your teeth graze his bottom lip and you pull away, releasing it.

“I fucking love this,” you mutter, and he laughs.

“Yeah? I just missed a whole inning ‘cause of you.”

“Worth it.” You smile as he opens the door, checking the coast is clear before letting you out first.

“Where the hell you two been?” your dad asks as you both rejoin the group.

“Missed one hell of a play, you pair.” Hank raises his glass toward the television.

You sit a little distance from each other on the couch, your needs fully satisfied, and Joel clears his throat.

“Was showin’ her my new six-string.”

You notice him out of the corner of your eye licking his lips. Fucker.

Your dad shakes his head with a laugh, spinning the recliner back to face the screen. “First baseball, now guitars. What has gotten into you, lately, hon?”

“Hey, Joel?” Bill sits forward, leaning over the coffee table to Joel, who lifts his head in reply. “You mind showin’ me that six-string after the game?”

You choke on your beer and Hank’s hand comes up to clap you on the back. “You alright, girl?”

“Maybe, maybe,” Joel replies, trying to ignore you, coughing and spluttering at his side.

With a few more good whacks from Hank and a clean sip of your drink, you recover just enough to join the conversation.

“It’s a really neat guitar, Bill.”

----------

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[vivispec]

Hello there! I'm not even sure how to start. So I felt very disappointed by DA:TV, because of various reasons. Not trying to dampen the mood, I am super happy for you if you actually enjoyed the game! If you do not mind, could you list the things you liked/loved about the game? Help me see the "bright side"? Just gush a litte about it, I could use some positive input around my favourite gaming series of all time. :') thank you <3

Absolutely! For me, I think I always figured I was going to like this game, even if it wasn't my fave of all time? Trick Weekes always writes characters/quests that I like, and for me, story/characters come before anything else. I liked Andromeda, flawed as it was. Even if the gameplay was mediocre, I was certain I'd find something I'd like.

But the gameplay wasn't mediocre. It was actually really, really fun. I played Spellblade, and honestly, the gameplay might be a highpoint for me. I don't really like action gameplay, I tolerate it. I loved this, though.

The biggest thing that really sold me is the fact that the big choices in this game are difficult in a way Bioware has been trying to capture since Origins, but I don't think they've ever nailed until now (except maybe in Mass Effect). Even in Origins, when they had big choices like what to do with Connor, or how to deal with the werewolves, there was always a cop out choice. There isn't one in this game, so far as I can see. At the end of EVERY companion quest there was a choice I couldn't choose, something that made me wonder just what would've happened if I'd picked something different, and don't get me started on the endgame. The endgame was brutal :')

I love the characters, too! I do think some of the writing can get a bit campy or be a bit on the nose, I think some subtlety is lacking for certain characters especially in the beginning, but once shit hits the fan just about every companion has their gutwrenching moment. I felt for every single character in this game, during their act 2 personal quest moments. In all the other games there was at least one character I just couldn't care about, but even the ones that I thought wouldn't tickle my fancy snuck up on me. By the end, I loved all of them so much. I only wanted more.

I like Rook, too. I think I can see how their characterization might be disappointing, though. I think the key for me and my friend @sweetmage was finding the right Rook to play. We both had lots of concepts and while I plugged in the right one first, I know they struggled until they found the right one. Rook is kinda like Hawke in the way that they have a bit of personality already and a defined character path, which can get in the way of true RP. Once I stopped fighting it and let Rook be Rook, I liked the game a lot more, and I liked my character a lot more.

Then there's lore. Oh, lore. I have listened to or read every codex. I have a treasure trove of theories I keep locked in my head. All I need is a corkboard and some red string. Getting to see so many of those theories come to fruition? Things they've been teasing since Origins, that I picked up on when I was 12? Absolutely magical! Some of it I think they bungled--there's one reveal I've been waiting for for 15 years that I found in a note, not codex, on a bridge in Minrathous, no fanfare or anything--but the majority of it punched me right in the face with so much force I had to pause the game and do a little pacing. I won't get into specifics for spoiler reasons, but seeing all those little dots connect? seeing when I was right, and when I was wrong? SO euphoric for me!

A lot of the things I didn't like, too, like making the Crows less shitty--so easy to headcanon around, in ways that don't contradict canon! It's one of my favorite things to do, it feels like a puzzle to me, making everything that is for certain and everything I want fit together. That one, for instance, Zevran totally gutted all the shitty Crows, and left only the good ones :)

I will say, it's clear they were trying to wrap things up. I got the sense while playing it felt that they didn't want to leave any loose threads in case this was their last DA game, so that felt a bit rushed. But I loved it. To me it was a love letter, saying goodbye. Wrapping everything up in a nice little bow. I've always struggled to choose a favorite game in the DA series, they all do something I love so differently that I can't pinpoint one singular favorite, and I think this one is right up there for me, tied for 1st place with the other three games. Like DA2 and DAI I think it could've cooked just a little bit longer, there's a lot of potential for it to be a 9/10 game imho if they'd smoothed a couple of things out, but there's a lot in there for me to love.

Thank you so much for the question, I hope the wall of text will help you see a bit of the light haha. I don't mind that people didn't like it--that's just how it goes sometimes, and I think there are a lot of valid criticisms to be had. For me I was just super bummed that it was the only thing I was seeing online. I'm following lots of positivity now, so the occasional disenchantment is not a problem. Idk if it'll work for you, but @sweetmage was similarly disappointed until they streamed it with a friend, and then just having someone there to converse with it on really helped them to enjoy it. I hope you can find something to love in it, too!

[drewsarms]

i need reader making fun of hick!rafe for being a dumb, uneducated country boy, and bc of that, he fucks her hard in her dad's shed. i imagine his overalls pooling around his ankles, his thick cock pounding into her and putting her in her place as he's whispering things like "you're looking awfully dumb to me right now princess" in his thick north carolina accent 🫠🫠

━━⊱⋆⊰━━

𐙚: I hope you loveee it!!! I feel like I went a little overboard bc hick!rafe 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 inspired by this post!!!!

𐙚: 18+ mdni!!

Since your dad was always so busy with his line of work he never had time to tend to the yard or anything for that matter. He always asked Rafe to do it. Ever since you could remember you always took a liking to Rafe. He was older than you, more experienced, and such a nice sight so see but you’d rather be caught dead than to be with a hick.

You sat on one of the folded chairs in your dad’s shed watching Rafe work on one of your dad’s cars. Seeing him all sweaty and focused made your pussy throb. He was so so muscular and hairy in just the right places. You concentrated on his face. The way his brows arched, to the way his mustache covered his top lip so perfectly. You could only imagine how it would feel between your thighs and rubbing against your clit. Your eyes trailed down to his chest and stomach. It was covered by his stupid overalls. The way his body glistened under them with sweat made him look even more sexy. You watched as his muscles flexed every time he tightened or loosened something, making you squeeze your legs together. You snapped out of your thoughts when you heard Rafe chuckle. “Whatcha staring at sugar?” You look down at the ground trying to hide your embarrassment. He starts working back on the car a string of curses coming out of his mouth. “I tell you what. I don’t know what your dad did to his car. I can’t figure this shit out for the life of me.” He steps back looking at the hood while taking a sip of his beer. “I don’t know why my dad gets you to do stuff.” You say rolling your eyes. He looks over at you, setting his beer down. “What do you mean?” You hadn’t realized what you said until after the fact. All you knew was that you were in deep shit. But you meant every. single. word. “I dont know why my dad gets you to help around. You’re nothing but a dumb, uneducated hick. Any other person or mechanic would have been done in at least an hour but you’ve been here for almost 4.” You could see Rafe’s face change. His jaw clenched. He grabs a rag wiping off his oiled coated hands. “I don’t know what your problem is but you better take that back. You know that shit isn’t true. You’re digging yourself an even deeper whole little girl.” You jump up from off the chair and turn to walk out. “I’m just stating the obvious. I mean that is the definition of a hick and you exude that pretty well. Maybe you’re too dumb to know that.”

━━⊱⋆⊰━━

Your legs are spread and your back is leaning against the cool wood. You can’t remember how you got here but you know you liked it. Rafe is pounding into you so hard that he’s knocking things off the walls and off the shelves. Those blue overalls now pooling around his ankles. He leans down to your ear. Kissing and licking at it. “What was all that shit you were saying hun,” he whispers in your ear. You can barely keep your eyes open. He slaps your cheek making you jump and look at him. His oiled hands grab at your chin harshly, making a tear fall from your eyes. He raises an eyebrow like he’s waiting for you to say something. “You gonna repeat it angel?” You try to speak but your whole body feels so fuzzy that all that’s coming out of mouth is sweet whines, whimpers, and ah, ah, ahs. He runs his thumb against your bottom lip making you open your mouth. He spits on your face, purposely missing your mouth. You whine as he rubs it into your skin. “I thought I was nothing but a dumb hick.” He chuckles looking at how fucked out you were. His cock sliding in and out of your pussy repeatedly, stretching you out, and hitting your g spot was sending you over the edge. The squelches from your sweet cunt only made him fuck you harder. “You’re looking awfully dumb to me right now princess.”

(Yeah he has that dick that makes you go absolutely stupid)

[i-cant-sing]

Okay okay, time for me to word vomit an idea:

So imagine that after Dabi does his whole vengeful arc, kills dozens of people and publicly calls out Enji's abusive ass, my man just gets caught by the cops and he's like put in a psychiatric hospital (because obviously Enji pulled some strings to save his son from death row to ease his own guilt).

Anyways, Dabi is like majorly depressed obviously and he's like "well, I've done everything I wanted to, so I might as well off myself" and cue reader's entry.

So basically, reader could be a nurse/doctor(NOT A PSYCHIATRIST) and she's all warm and fuzzy and a literal Ray of sunshine and Dabi hates her, but he doesn't give a crap atm.

And like everytime Dabi tries to kill himself, reader is there to stop him. It obviously started with "nooo, please don't kill yourself🥺 you are precious🥺🥺" to reader just swooping in and foiling his plans like "can you not die during my shift? I need an early night off🥱". Dabi is actively trying to kill himself, like he's standing on the ledge to jump, and reader is tackling him down and then punching him for making you run all the way up to the roof.

And like reader is bandaging him up with great gentleness and care and Dabi is staring at her being all close to him (he is mesmerised), and he goes-

"I'll be successful in my suicide one day."

And you just smile and shake your head. "Not as long as I'm praying." And at first, Dabi is super annoyed because he's think you're into the whole religious mumbo jumbo, but he actually caught you one day praying (insert whatever religion) and he's bewitched by the sincerity you pray for his (and others) well being. As if you believed with your whole heart that someone up there is listening to you.

He doesn't know what or when exactly he fell for you, but he did. And he decides that he'll confess to you after he gets out of psychiatric hospital (after tugging at Rei's and Enji's heart strings and them using money and influence to free their menace son). After spending 6 years in the hospital, 6 years where you were the only one who truly cared for him, he'll finally confess to you.

But then you don't come. Not even the next day, or the week after that. Turns out, you left your job.

Out of the blue? Dabi's suspicions rose.

He got out of the hospital and began doing his own research on you until he found your address and well... he sort of came in unannounced (look he knocked, you didn't answer, so he melted the lock and let himself in. At least he came in bearing flowers and wine).

He wasn't expecting you to be at home, but there you were, lying in your bed, a little too still for someone to be asleep.

He throws the covers off you, eyes narrowing on the red stains on your sheet before moving to your bleeding wrists.

Dabi's world stops, every cell in his body stops before every fiber in his being screams and makes him move. He doesn't check for pulse, doesn't check if you're still breathing, perhaps he'd die himself if he didn't like the answer he found. He picks you up and immeadiately goes to the nearest hospital, which fortunately was near.

While you were being operated on, Dabi sat outside, heart thumping as he prayed to whatever deity you did.

Please... not yet.

His prayers were answered as tge doctors told him that you're going to be alright... physically that is. Mentally? Well, Dabi is about to figure it out.

He sat by your side waiting for you to wake up. When you finally did, he saw how different you looked. Obviously he had noticed that you were physically weak, but your eyes... they lost their shine.

Your eyes turned to confusion when you looked at him. "D-Dabi? What are you-"

"I found you." That was enough for you to put together what he meant. You turned your eyes away from him, ashamed.

"Why?" He asks in a quiet tone. "What made you do it?"

"My choices." You whispered. "Bad decisions in the past."

Dabi wanted to pry more out of you, but he knew you wouldn't explain more. So, he takes matter into his own hands and leaves the hospital, telling you that he needs to run some errands, but he's actually going back to your apartment and starts rummaging through your stuff to find some clues as to what exactly caused you to do this.

He didn't have to look around too much because he found your phone and snooped through your messages. Someone was blackmailing you. They had some explicit pictures of you, seems like a toxic ex who was threatening to share these photos with your family and social circle.

So Dabi pays a visit to your ex, takes care of him and the pictures he had,making sure to get rid of all the copies too. All in a day!

By night he had returned to the hospital, you were asleep. He slept there too, in the uncomfortable hospital chair, heart at peace as he watched your chest rise and fall steadily.

Next morning, when it was time for you to leave, Dabi helped you and took you home. You thanked him for everything, and Dabi made sure to tell you that he'll be picking you up for lunch later. You agreed hesitantly. And at lunch, he finally revealed that he came to you because he wanted to ask you out.

You look surprised, more so when he reveals that he had fancied you for a while and that he understands that relationships might not be a priority for you at the moment but-

"I understand if dating is not a priority for you right now but if you ever do consider falling in love, know that I've been on the top of your wait list for the past 6 years and will wait another lifetime if that's all the time you need."

You're in tears at his words, and you have a hard time not breaking down as he takes your hands in his, his thumbs carefully tracing over your bandaged wrists as he promises to wait by your side, that he'll always be there to help you with anything, that if you gave him a chance, he'll spend the rest of his life trying to make you happy.

"Dabi, i- I am not good for you." You say, voice wobbly. "My past, it'll always haunt me and I care too much about you to let it haunt you as well."

"Your ex? His pictures?" He asked watching shock appear on your face. "You won't ever have to worry about him, Y/n."

You shook off your surprise. "That's not it. It's not the only problem I have!"

"Then tell me. I'll fix all of your problems." Dabi promises with such sincerity that you're compelled to believe him.

You don't tell him obviously, saying that it is your burden, your mess to deal with. Dabi doesn't push more, only because he knows he'll figure it out later anyways. Hey, he may be a criminal but he was once the son of the top hero who trained him, so Dabi's IQ is through the fucking roof.

And a man in love has no limitations.

Had a DUI? He deals with it. Parents disowned you? He'll make them regret it. Killed someone? He'll make sure you have an alibi to prove your innocence. Cheated off a test in grade 2? He'll make sure there are no witnesses alive. He'll burn the world- burn himself if it means keeping you warm.

You don't wanna date a criminal? Fine, he's working a cooperate job and since he's so smart, he'll be a fucking CEO in no time and have enough money and time to spend on you. Youre crying because you feel ugly when you see your scars? Dabi makes sure to kiss them every day and pulls out his turtleneck (aka the trademark Todoroki fit) for you, while he buys the best treatment money can buy for your scars. Mental health is going down? He's taking you to the best therapist in town. You're sad he's an atheist because it means you won't be with him in heaven? Damn, he's a convert now.

I just adore men in love :(

Okay but I don't think we're focusing on how scary smart Dabi actually is😳😳😳 I just know it, I KNOW he's super smart but he downplays it all the time because he's depressed or whatever.

[sirianasims]

Chapter 43.9

I arrive at GeekCon both sweaty and with a vague sense of unease. The stifling heatwave has turned the city into a pressure cooker, and it feels foreboding, like something terrible is building and about to break free.

I’m greeted by my own face by the door, advertising the panel that I’m supposed to be on this morning. I never got comfortable seeing myself like this, I prefer it when they just use the logo or my masked promo pictures. At least today is the last time I’ll appear as Llama Man in any official capacity, and then…

Then I don’t know.

But there’ll be time to figure that out later, right now I’m about to see Julia again. I can’t believe it’s only been a year since we met, and I have no idea how she feels about me right now.

I spent most of the night in my hotel room tossing and turning, thinking about what I’ll say to her, but I still don’t have a plan. I just want to apologise for ending things so abruptly.

It really wasn’t my best work.

She said she just wanted to be with you. And then you dumped her.

I groan inwardly as I scan the faces of everyone I see. There’s no sign of her, but the cosplay competition isn’t until later, she may not have arrived yet.

I wonder if she’ll refuse to speak to me at all. I wouldn’t blame her, but she never seemed like the type to carry a grudge. I just want to see her and make sure she’s not too upset about how things ended, something I should have done months ago.

I need to make sure she doesn’t hate me. I can’t handle if she hates me.

I guess I’ll have to play it by ear, although Lee would tell me that’s not my strongest suit.

I leave my jacket in the wardrobe and linger a bit, fiddling with my VIP bracelet. The gallery’s air-conditioning is working overtime, and it helps a little with the heat but I still feel uneasy. My eyes are drawn to the bathroom door.

If this was a movie, Julia would come out of the bathroom right now, exactly like last time. Our eyes would meet. A beat, as the camera cut from her face to mine, both of us too surprised to speak. I would recover first, tell her that we can’t keep meeting like this, and her face would crack into a smile. Then she’d leap into my arms and I would kiss her like there were no tomorrow.

Get it together, Romeo. She’s not kissing you ever again, you’re going to be lucky if she even speaks to you. Focus. You’re at work.

At least I’m not in full costume this year, I would probably have died from heatstroke. And it would have made me feel silly trying to have a serious conversation with Julia.

I decide to take a quick tour of the convention floor before the panel starts.

Even though it’s still early in the day, there’s people everywhere. Some tabletop role-players are recording their podcast on location, kids are running around, and several people are dressed up despite the heat. I wish Julia had shown me pictures of the costume she was planning so I knew what to look for.

A woman with long, red hair makes me do a double take, but I know it isn’t Julia before she even turns around, the way she moves is wrong. I know every inch of Julia’s body and this isn’t it. Everything Julia is, the way she walks and talks and laughs is imprinted on my brain, and it feels like I should be able to locate her by telepathy, by following some sort of invisible string tying me to her.

“Uh, Mr. Romeo! Sorry, hello.”

“Oh, hey. Edmund, right?”

The young man beams, clearly pleased that I remember his name. His booth was next to mine last year, we talked about old movies. I wish I could introduce Julia to him, she would have loved to discuss Cow Plant Love with an expert.

“Wait, you do know him? I thought you were lying!” The teenage girl next to him sounds somewhere between impressed and angry.

“Yeah, why would I lie about that? Sorry, sir, this is my sister Liz, she’s a big fan of Llama Man.”

“Can I have your autograph? I collect them, I already got the Coolala guy and the Freezer Bunny lady this morning. Oh, and can you make it out to ‘Lizette’, with a Z, please?”

“Of course. That’s a very cool costume, Lizette with a Z.”

“I made it myself! It’s Michelle from Doherty’s Revenge, have you seen it? The one with the zombie gym teacher?”

“Oh? Haven’t heard of it, do you think I should watch it?”

“You have to, it’s so good! I used to think it was actually really scary but now I just think it’s funny. Me and Edmund watch a lot of like, retro movies with dad, we even watched the really old Llama Man movies once. I’m gonna tell my dad I met you, he won’t believe it!”

“I’m flattered. Thanks for the movie recommendation, I’ll make sure to check it out.” I hand her the autograph before waving goodbye to Edmund who mouths a silent thank you.

Retro.

I know everything seems ancient to a teenager, but the word tastes like dusty VHS tapes, like lava lamps and shag carpets, like mid-century kitchens. This is my demographic, I suppose, nostalgic dads and their excitable kids.

Julia is not in the panel crowd either, but I guess that would have been too much to hope for. I would probably have found her presence too distracting anyway.

I know one of the other panellists, Mei Zhang, the iconic voice of the Freezer Bunny for over fifteen years. We’ve met briefly at conventions and even on a few gigs, but never really got a chance to speak much.

The third panellist is a young man named Andy Okeke, who seems to be voicing a few Voidcritters as well as a bear-like creature I’ve never heard of. It’s his first time on a panel, but he’s already annoyingly good for his age, and I can imagine him having a pretty impressive career at the speed he’s going.

I answer the same questions I’ve answered a million times before and try to find some sort of comfort in the fact that it’s the last time. As much as I loved my job, it got repetitive after almost a decade. Maybe I should get that number for Sierra’s agent, try to get back on screen. Maybe I’ve grown too complacent, stagnant.

Finally, the questions dry up and the last people leave the room, and just like that, I’m free from my contract. It doesn’t feel like freedom, though, more like a free fall.

“Hey, Romeo, wait up.” Mei stops me by the doors.

“How are you doing? It must be so weird.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what I’ll do if they ever retire Bunny.”

“You’ll still have others, won’t you?”

“I know, but I’m known for Freezer Bunny, not for… four or five Voidcritters. I can’t even keep track of their names, which is ironic since it’s all they ever say.”

I’m not sure how to respond so I just nod. I’m impatient to get to the cosplay competition, but I don’t want to be rude.

“Mei, it was great seeing you again, but I’m in a bit of a hurry, actually.”

“Sure. Would you – would you want to grab coffee some time, though?”

Shit. Before Julia, I would have gladly followed Mei home tonight, maybe we’d even go on a couple of real dates before things fizzled out as they normally do. But right now, every muscle in my body is telling me that I have to go, to move, to be somewhere else.

“Sorry, I’m, uh. Maybe another time, I don’t…”

The giant poster of my face is judging my lame attempt at stringing together a sentence, and I’m painfully aware that the woman behind us has been sweeping the same spot for a minute now, pretending not to eavesdrop.

“I’m a big girl, Romeo. If you’re not interested, that’s fine.”

“Right. I am sorry, though, it’s not…” I mumble something politely incoherent and more or less flee the room.

Fuck. One year and I’ve completely lost my touch.

I hurry up the stairs, the competition must be just about to end. I can see through the doors before I even reach them, all of the contestants are on stage – and she’s not there.

I stand in front of the doors, frozen, arm still outstretched. This doesn’t make sense, she loves this, she told me about the costume she was planning, she should be here.

There’s no time to dwell on why I so desperately need to see her again, what I would even say to her, the only thing left is fear.

What if something has happened to her? Would I ever know? We’re not together anymore and we have no friends in common, no one who would think of me or assume I’d want to know if she got hurt or sick.

She could be dead. She could be dead and I would never know.

I’m vaguely aware that I’m spiralling but I can’t stop, I feel dizzy. The heat and the lights and the people, everything is too much and I can barely see.

Somehow my feet carry me outside, to the very same bench where we talked for hours on that first night. I try to breathe, deep breaths, but the air is too warm and feels thick.

My hands shake as I log into the anonymous account I made during a moment of weakness after she blocked me, and I pull up her social media in the hopes that she posted something recently, anything that can reassure me that she’s fine.

Relief floods through me when I see the timestamp on her latest updates. San Sequoia Aquarium, just a couple of hours ago. But the relief dissipates quickly as I scroll through the photos.

Nestled between fish and family pictures, there are two selfies with her friend Marten.

I stare at them, suddenly feeling numb.

Her eyes are shining like stars in the lights from the tanks. She’s smiling, and so is he. His arm is around her, possessively, and there’s a hint of triumph in his eyes that I don’t like.

He seems to be carrying her on his back in the other photo, and the thought of her legs wrapped around him awakens an urge to tear him away from her that is almost suffocating.

If they’re not already dating, it’s a matter of time. They would probably have gotten together a long time ago if I hadn’t been there. A petty part of me wonders if he was really being her friend or just biding his time, waiting for me to fumble, but that’s crazy. I barely know the guy. Actually, I don’t really know any of Julia’s friends, I just have a vague idea about their names and who they were to her.

I wasn’t a very good boyfriend, was I?

I told you it was better this way.

I’ve kept reminding myself that I didn’t make a mistake, and here’s proof at last. This was meant to be, they were meant to get together, I just happened to get in the way. He’s been a good friend to her, nice and considerate, while I only brought her chaos and pain.

I was so worried that Julia was wasting my time, but all along, I was the one wasting hers. She deserves better, I know this, but it still feels like I lost her all over again.

I put away the phone and take a deep breath of the scorching air. And then I reach for the tiny, secret corner of my heart where I was nursing my last hope of getting her back and stomp it out.

beginning / previous / next

[collectingsorrows444]

Of course :) Operation Ichor AU is absolutely so gorgeous! I can’t wait for the next chapter to drop this Saturday

Just had to make a version my OC in this because AUs are something that I adore and I freaking love the world building, different storylines, art/writing styles!

Operation Ichor AU @operation-ichor by @slumbrr-r

Yapping time:

Kiran is selectively mute (as previously said)

Selective Mutism is a form of an anxiety disorder where it causes someone to be incapable of speech. They are usually someone who can’t speak in social settings, speak really quietly or softly (think of Fluttershy in the first episode of My Little Pony), or as someone who hides behind an adult/higher authority figure during highly social interactions.

(Oh, how is anyone going to hear Kiran at all?)

Silly! That’s something I’m still figuring out… just kidding!

Moths— while assuming they are quiet— still make noise! Moths make these tiny squeaking noises and they are absolutely adorable. So Kiran can make little speaking noises or sounds on occasions, but not all of the time.

Speaking of moths.. Kiran sadly can’t fly. Her wings weren’t developed properly since they’re too small, so she will remain flightless (for now?).

(What are their abilities in Operation Ichor?)

Well, Dandy’s World, I wanted Kiran to have this ‘goodies basket’ which increases the luck of rarer items appearing on the floors.

However, we are speaking on a world where survival is something to fight for and tomorrow is something you need to live to.

We’ll say that she’s got some sort of.. vision.

(You mean blindness?)

No!

Kiran has a wide peripheral range and can basically see a whole room without having to glance around a lot.

She is quick on her feet and very nimble with her hands. Sort of like a spidey-sense, y’know? Something feels a little off, and Kiran sort of just.. knows.

Think of it like the Guiding Light from Doors. In Kiran’s vision, their abilities pin-point a bit of visual imagery of people, the situation, what might happen or will if something isn’t done to fix it— that thing. It’s like a string that tugs her a long and beckons her to use it as a way to fight through. (Literally— string as in guiding and weaponry)

(Oooh, spiritual stuff).

The Pros

- She knows what’s going on and a vague idea on what to do

- Is able to help others

The Cons

- she doesn’t know what’s going on until it happens or at the last second

- paranoia/anxiety increased

- migraines and headaches

- blood pressure increased

- nightmares/sleep paralysis (glimpses of what could’ve happened if Kiran did something differently, etc.)

- decreased morality

Okay, however, Kiran isn’t going to worry about that for now.

Kiran is content welding and making weapons for scouts or those who need them. (She loves looking at concepts, figuring out old tech— taking them apart and putting it back together— and accommodating different gears to the user etc.)

I am more interested on the different field in Operation Ichor just because I want to know:

- How does each and every field operate? (Uniform policy, dress codes, rules, etc).

- How does Boxten A1 (I think) function as a leader in his field? (That is so I am able to adjust my character and understand the lore. Hopefully by the next chapter!)

Thank you anyone who actually read all of this! I talk a lot :,)

[nethhiri]

Chapter 55: Flatline

Warnings: references to rape, violence, murder (ish)

Curiously, you woke up without the familiar cage of Kid's arms around you. Stretching out, you could feel that Killer wasn't beside you either. It took a few seconds in your groggy state to notice, but the shower was running and there was a fast-paced rhythmic thumping sound followed by a string of strangled moans. Oh. While this normally would have encouraged you to go join them, you were understandably not interested in sex in the least bit. Physically you were fully healed and, while you could participate in that aspect, mentally you were not there yet. 

You thought about waiting for them to finish, though depending on how long they had been in there already, that could take a while. It was also a reminder of something that you didn't want to dwell on, another way you weren't the same person you were several weeks ago. Killer had been thoughtful enough to bring some of your own clothes to the room for you, so you grabbed them and tossed them on. It was a few minutes of fumbling with where the holes were on things and how to figure out if they were right-side-out or not before you could get them on. The shoes weren't as hard as you thought they would be. There wasn't any underwear, which was odd, but he probably just forgot.

You got to the hallway and had to pause, remembering where everything was and trying to imagine spatially where it would be. You didn't get far before there was a wet nose prodding under your arm. Mini slid her head under your hand to guide you to the deck. There were people on deck, you could hear them talking, getting slightly more hushed when they noticed you there. The majority of them hadn't seen you at all since you had been back. The sound of someone running and feeling of arms wrapping around you alerted you to the presence of Quincy. 

"Y/N! It's so good to see you out." She squeezed you once and let you go. "How are you doing?"

"Probably better than most would be."

"Yeah... If you need to talk or anything... I mean I'm sure Kid and Killer have it covered but..."

"Thanks, Quincy. I'll..." You were about to brush her off, but it might actually be nice to talk to someone else. "I'll keep that in mind." 

She bounded off to complete her duties. You didn't really have anything to do. You didn't even know where you were going. You could go to the infirmary, though it wouldn't do any good to be there. Mini helped you wander around until you found yourself leaning against her, sitting in the skull at the ship's bow. It felt good to walk around, and even better to breathe in the fresh, salted sea air. The sound of the bow cutting through waves was calming. You had a lot of bottled anxiety given your new normal and you hated it. This was the first time in your life that you weren't confident in anything that you did and you were very unsure where you were headed. With the loss of your log pose, you had no way of tracking down the last person on your hit list. If you were lucky, maybe you could torture it out of Warthin. At least you had that to look forward to. 

"Mind if I join you?"

The voice made you jump. 

"Sorry!" 

"For a big guy, you're light on your feet."

There was a faint jingle as the hoops on Heat's belt dinked together when he sat. "I didn't mean to be." 

The two of you sat there in silence. You continued to half-meditate, yet there was something prickling at the edge of your mind. It feels like I'm being watched. It was such a strange feeling and it was beginning to unnerve you. At the same time, you thought that you could tell where it was coming from.

"Heat? Are you staring at me?" 

"O-oh. I didn't think you could tell." Heat paused. "Wait. How can you tell?" 

"I... don't know." 

"It's just... you look so sad. I've never seen you like this." 

Hearing that, coming from the saddest looking guy to ever do it, made you snort. "Yeah, well, when you've been assaulted and permanently maimed, let's see how well you handle it." You thought about how little you knew of Heat and his scarred smile. In reality, he probably had been through something similar. Maybe that's why he was eternally sad-looking. Maybe you had more in common than you thought. You were instantly guilty. "I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking." It was silent and you thought he might have left.

He laughed, despite what you thought was a fairly mean attack. "Now I know you aren't doing well. You? Apologizing for being mean?"

That made the ghost of a smile appear on your face. 

Heat rested a reassuring hand on your knee. "I like it when you're mean to me anyway." 

You were grateful for Heat trying to make it seem like a normal day even though your comment probably did wound him deep down.

"It won't be permanent." Heat scooted next to you and put his arm around your shoulders, resting his head on yours and giving you a side hug. "Kid is going to fix you up, just like he did for me. Maybe he'll even give you an upgrade, too." 

"I hope it's not fire breath or one of us will have to leave," you deadpanned.

"That's the Y/N we know and love." Heat ruffled the hair at the top of your head and patted it before getting up. He did have other duties to attend, but he wanted to check on you first. "And then when you feel up to it, you can try to fix the other one with your devil fruit."

"I already tried." A frown settled on your face. "I can't make something from nothing."

Heat was confused by this. "What do you mean 'from nothing'?" 

"I need at least a part of something to restore the rest of it. I can't create something out of thin air." You sighed. You really didn't want to be thinking about this, which is why you came out here in the first place. "And that eye is long gone by now." It had been over a week since Warthin had gouged it out of you and who knows what happened to it afterwards. 

Now Heat understood. You didn't even know they had your eye. He told Killer that he thought it was a bad idea to keep that from you, but obviously he didn't listen. "Y/N... " Heat tore his eyes away from you. He wouldn't be able to tell you if he watched your face.

You gave him a puzzled look.

His face was one of concern and perhaps regret. He was silent.

"Heat?" You prompted, suspicion evident in your voice.

He didn't want to get Killer in trouble like this, though he did make it clear he thought it was wrong to keep your eye from you. 

"Heat, tell me," This time your tone was serious. It left no room for him to back out of whatever he was trying to tell you.

"Please don't get angry." He knew those words would have no hold over you. 

Your heart sunk, knowing whatever he was about to say was most assuredly, going to make you angry. 

Perspiration broke out on Heat's skin after seeing the dark change in your expression. He couldn't backtrack now. And he couldn't lie to you. Maybe he could frame it in a positive way to soften the blow. "It's actually good news when you think about it-"

"HEAT, JUST FUCKING TELL ME." The anxiety of what he had to say was eating at you and you could already feel your temper flaring. 

"Your eye is fine. It's here. We have it."

"What?" Venom dripped from your voice and you stood up.

Heat backed up a step as you walked towards him. "Warthin sent it to us along with the video transponder snail." 

"So you've had it this entire time," your voice cracked as it boiled with anger, "and you all let me think I would never see again." 

"That would never be true, even if it really was gone. Kid can fix anything."

"So that's it? He kept it from me so that he could make me completely dependent on him? Held it hostage so that he could be a knight in shining armor huh?" 

"No! Killer thought-"

"Killer!?" Kid had done some stupid stuff before that made you mad, but Killer had really never done anything that hurt you. It was hard to believe that Killer could do something so cruel. 

"He thought it would be best to wait until you could heal. He was worried that you would fuck up your eye if you tried to mess with it too soon!" 

"That is not a choice that he gets to make." You stepped to Heat until your chest was flush with his body. "Do you know what was the most traumatic thing for me?" You paused. "It wasn't being force fed every day. It wasn't getting beaten. It wasn't having a permanent brand carved into my skin. It wasn't being raped over and over and over again, not even when it was broadcasted, not even when it was multiple people, and not even when a fucking beer bottle was shoved up my cunt. It was getting my fucking eye ripped out and wondering if the last  memory I had of Kid would be him getting shot in the head, wondering if he was alive or not. Or if all my memories of Killer would slowly be replaced by the last face I saw, the face of someone I despise. I was more worried about what you would all think of me if you found me than if you were actually coming at all. What would I be without my eyes? What worth would I have? And the whole time I've been back, I've been stuck in an endless loop of these fears. I have been tormented every fucking second of every fucking day that once you all realized that I was useless, the only reason to keep me here would be to fuck me, because that's about all the worth I have right now. And even then, why would you want to, after seeing what he did to me?"

You shoved Heat aside in your anger and made a furious beeline back to Kid's cabin. Your throat was pained from yelling and the way the air was cold against your cheeks made it known to you that tears were streaming down them. It was unknown if it was your ominous aura that kept people out of your way, or the haki you didn't even know you possessed leading you in a clear path. Even in your rage, you didn't want to harm either one of them. That was the shitty part about catching feelings. It made you soft. Before, you wouldn't hesitate to start swinging. That didn't mean you weren't going to go apeshit though. You kicked the cabin door open so hard you could hear the frame splinter. 

"WHAT THE FUCK, ROTTEN?"

"SHUT UP, KID!" You and Kid were both shocked at how vicious you sounded. You could sense Killer somewhere in the room, taking a millisecond to locate him. You pointed at him. "GIVE ME MY FUCKING EYE!

"Y/N-"

"And don't say a fucking word because I don't want to hear anything you have to say right now!" You were livid and it bled through in your voice the way it cracked and was slightly raspy from screaming. 

This was a complete betrayal. How could they do this to you and claim they loved you? You cried in their arms and bared your heart to them. They knew how much torment you had endured and all the fears that seeped into your mind. They consoled you and reassured you that you would see again, all while having the ability to do so right that instant, yet still withholding that information. How could they have been extending your anguish purposefully like that? It was not an accident or a misunderstanding. It was a deliberate choice to keep you from seeing. The heart you bared to them, that loved them, that only kept beating for them, they held it in their hands and crushed it. 

Killer silently led you to the infirmary, where he had placed the jar with your eye in it on one of the highest shelves. He could almost imagine a hole burning through his chest with the way you were projecting vitriol towards him. He could feel it flowing freely from you. He could hear it in your heated breaths as you followed him. Killer knew there was a possibility that you would be pissed. He didn't think you would be this mad. He expected to be yelled at. The way you were completely silent after you had screamed at him was unsettling. He wanted you to say something, even if it was just more yelling. His own heart was sinking, realizing that this might have been the wrong call. 

Kid followed the both of you, also freaked out by the way you lit into him and were now clearly brimming with wrath. Part of him was there to back up Killer, and by how unpredictable you were being, he didn't know if that meant physically or with words, or emotionally. He could see from behind you, how tightly your fists were clenched, and the short moments where your devil fruit flickered to life within them. The hair on Kid's neck stood on end as he realized that he and Killer were within an arm's reach and could peel their skin off with a simple touch, if you really wanted to. It looked like you were fighting to contain it. 

You heard the sound of glass sliding on the counter to rest in front of you. After making sure your hands were clean, you felt around in the jar until something slimy bumped your hand. Scooping it out, you held it, feeling around for the various attachments it should have. There was no foul stench from the jar. That was a decent sign that your eye hadn't decayed yet. The harsh smell of formalin burned the inside of your nose and throat instead. The tissue was dead, but preserved. You could work with that. It was heavier than you thought it would be, as you ran water over it. If you put it back in as is, the formalin would give you a chemical burn on the inside of your skull, which may actually be preferable to whatever you were feeling currently. 

Taking a deep breath you tilted your head back, separating the eyelids on the left and dangling your eye above the opening. You lowered it back into its original setting, using your devil fruit to part the newly forming scar tissue that had filled the empty space your eye's absence had left behind. Your power worked at the neural tissue, reforming bonds with the nerves in your eye. The foreign feeling of your brain being altered made you lightheaded and ill. As the nerves in your eye made connections, light, without color or shape, became visible to you. It was like someone was shining a light through fog. Your breath caught in your throat with hope. You were afraid to breathe until it was done. Shape came next, in the form of blobs in varying shapes of gray. Tinges of color crept into the blobs and they began to sharpen. The colors became more saturated and the blobs turned into more recognizable shapes. The readjustment for your brain made it ache. Vision was not unfamiliar to it. The portions used for vision had begun to be allocated to other functions, so reversing that did take time. It was a soreness akin to using a muscle that hadn't been used in a long time. When the shapes became clear and the color had fully returned, it was still slightly off. Holding your hand in front of you, it looked sideways even though you knew it was straight. You rotated your eye in its socket until everything was going in the right direction, then you healed the musculature around the orb, securing it in place and making it able to move. You could let your breath out. You made several slow blinks, moistening the long-dry eye. You could see.

You turned cautiously, stopping, unsure if you wanted to look at either of them right now. Continuing the turn, part of you was relieved and you wanted to cry tears of joy that you could see again, that you could see them again. The other part of you was utterly mangled, seething, unwilling to give them the time of day. Your newly restored vision only settled on each of them for a millisecond before you breezed past them, yanking Kid's pistol from his belt as you did so. Whatever they said to you as you went, you didn't hear it and you didn't care to. Right now, even though you wanted to really let them have it, you didn't want to say something you would regret. The feelings you had for them held you back. The same feelings are what made you so livid in the first place. If you didn't love them, their actions wouldn't have hurt you this badly. 

So you would do the next best thing, take it out on someone who really deserved it. 

Mini followed closely behind you as you stormed out on deck and down into the bottom level of the ship. The bubbling anger that was roiling within you was laced with a certain malicious giddiness. Finally. Finally, you were going to give that sick piece of human garbage what he earned. The sound of several heavy footsteps followed you. You ignored them. When you slipped into the ship's dungeon, you slammed the door behind you and sealed it with your devil fruit. The heavy footsteps stopped at the door for a time, and eventually walked away. 

You turned your attention to the man at the far end of the room, one you would never mistake for another. Your steps were solid and intentional as you stalked towards him. His eyelids were sewn open and he was swollen with joints at unnatural angles. In spite of your hostility towards them, you couldn't help but feel your lips tug up in a smile at what was surely Kid and Killer's work. It was incredibly satisfying to see Warthin sagging in pain. He recoiled at the sight of you, appearing as if he was trying to disappear into the wall behind him. You raised the pistol as you neared, firing one shot into his abdomen, reloading, and doing the same thing, then again, and again, until you had one bullet left. With that one, you ended your walk by pressing the barrel into his eye. You cocked it, letting him get a good look at the person who was going to end him.

And pulled the trigger.

Next

Tag List: @bbnbhm @nocturnalrorobin

[sponfawn]

MTH meta - The Gifts That Keep on Giving (me feelings)

There has been a lot of gift giving in the past few chapters, between the Girls' birthday, Christmas, and the Boy's "birthday".

The gifts I want to touch on first are the shoes. When I realized that Blossom and Butch both received shoes in very different ways, I ttried to think about where else shoes might have been significant in the fic. With the publication of Modern Girl magazine, we are given a reminder about the shoe ad that didn't show the Girls' faces, just their bodies and shoes. Professor Utonium specifically says that he much preferred their (Brick's) magazine photographs over the shoe ads, because he could see their faces. The shoe ads are obviously an example of the physical objectification of the Girls, but it also reinforces the idea that they are a symbol and idols for Townsville (everyone immediately knows it's the Girls, even though their faces aren't visible. There are v few celebrities with that kind of recognition). To the point where Brick gets sick of seeing the ads all over, after seeing their promo. Many of the people of Townsville don't seem to see the Girls as full people with their own needs and wants, but as figures who exist for their safety and/or convenience (as seen when the Boys fill in for the Girls during the parade).

So how does this relate to Blossom and Butch? Brick gave Blossom shoes. This gift shows an appreciation for her talent and passion, beyond her looks - something she talks about after the photoshoot for MG. She's ok with people thinking she's pretty but she does all this other stuff. It is also a gift specifically for her, in contrast to Mrs. Morbucks' "gifts" (bribes) which involved money to Blossom's charity of choice and a scholarship in her name. Both of which target what she values but were a tool of manipulation, and played to Blossom's habit of putting others before herself. Brick has expressed that she also needs to think about her needs, because she is so quick to limit her opportunities for the (perceived) sake of Townsville. We know all the Girls got a lot of presents from the people of Townsville but I suspect that few if any were as personal and For Her as the shoes. Brick chose a gift that relates to her passion, to the activity that he begrudgingly started to admire her for, to the activity that they most often do together (the shoes are specific to ballroom), and that can't be interpreted as being for anyone but her. I'm sure she has also gotten gifts from close friends that were just for her. But given that Brick is adamant that she needs to recognize that her wants are important and that it's ok for her to want and have things for herself, I think this is significant.

Buttercup and the guys' gift to Butch is a practical group gift showing care and affection from his friends, but she signs the shoes last in a physically close and comfortable way. Did she actually procrastinate just to put it off? Did she just have a hard time figuring out what to write, as much as she has feelings for him while trying to deny it to herself? Did she want the last word to make it more special? She waited until he had the shoes on to write something, so I think it is at least partly the latter.

She and Butch are first and foremost friends, but they are undeniably special to each other compared to their other friends (whether they recognize/admit why or not). Buttercup's other gifts for him (pot popcorn balls) are undeniably for him as well, and that is significant for Butch who is so used to being overlooked in favor of Brick. We know that the other field agents at JS like the Boys. They helped them move in, no strings attached, and joked around with them. But it's unclear if they relate to the Boys individually or relate to them more as a unit. The shoes are for Butch only, from a group of people who care about him just for being their dumbass friend. And I think that's why he thinks "No one's ever done something like [that] for me before". Penny clearly cares about the Boys, but I think they all know there's a degree of obligation in it too. It's ultimately her job to take care of them, even though she likes them.

It doesn't have as direct a connection to the shoe ad like Brick's present does, and this is probably a stretch, but I think there's something to be said about how shoes are a symbol of genuine connection and care in these scenes - seeing the recipients of these gifts as whole people rather than simply objectified uncomplicated symbols of love and beauty vs fear and evil.

In Butch's case, he gave Buttercup the jacket partly out of feeling territorial, but it was also based on a prior vulnerable conversation. While I think jealousy was definitely a factor, he also knows how thinking about her relationship with Mitch makes her sad and uncomfortable, and Butch just wants to make her happy (even if it means getting his dick pierced to make her laugh). Penny knew that it was for Buttercup after their first meeting when she seems to measure Buttercup's shoulders with her eyes. Meaning it was likely procured by Penny but with specific instructions (more than just her shirt size would convey). The fact that it fit her so perfectly suggests Butch's intimate platonic knowledge of her body (platonic in terms of the fact that their physical contact has usually been "just friends being pals", not in terms of their feelings).

Mitch's jacket was important to Mitch, something he loved that was his dad's. It was sentimentally very important, but oversized on Buttercup. A bit like his desire for more PDA - it didn't fit her well despite their genuine love for each other and the fact that she liked wearing it. Butch's jacket is a perfect fit, perhaps even made just for her (much like Butch was literally made for her but in a different way). It isn't obvious on sight exactly who gave it to her. It's more discreet, which suits Buttercup's more private nature and is perhaps another way sbj shows Butch's ready interpretation of her wants and his eagerness to meet them.

Blossom's scarf required time and energy. It is practical but sentimental and thoughtful. Red is an obvious choice, but the gray is perhaps symbolic of his shifting priorities and/or her perception of him. Things aren't so black and white anymore. I love the little bit of pink at one end. It is a bit more forward than she has been in the past (except on their date), and I love it. I don't think it was her being territorial in the way that Butch and Boomer were with their presents, but more of a hope that when he wears it, it'll make him think of her. So a bit like Butch in a way, but not in an effort to replace or erase anyone else's connection, just to assert herself in a small way.

She describes it as "all she can give him", and it is a humble gift compared to other "gifts" he has gotten in the series (most of which were bribes or supplied for official events). This gift is all Blossom can give, and it is given with nothing expected in return. Just the hope that he'll wear it. It's a show of care for his physical well-being, something that I'm not sure anyone else has ever given him. The Boys have smoked with him when he was upset, but that's about as much as we've seen in terms of care. He's Brick. He's the leader of the RRBs, he was specifically made and brought back to put himself in physical danger with the hopes of defeating the Girls. Of all the Boys, he is seen as the most competent, the strongest, yet here Blossom is worrying about the fact that he doesn't have a scarf in the cold. There's something so tender in that.

In Boomer's case, the necklace was from a desire to give something unique from others, and a way to show that she is his. He was going to give it to her on her birthday and it was a symbol of his devotion and commitment to her, but he suddenly decided to wait to give it to her until he could confirm that none of her exes had given her a necklace. He is so desperate to be unique and special to her like she is to him, that his insecurities actively get in the way of expressing his love. It is a gift that can be worn all the time, regardless of occasion (as opposed to shoes or a leather jacket), in a heart shape that is more typically indicative of romance.

I sort of wonder if sbj was intending to show the lack of emotional intimacy or lack of Boomer's growth in their relationship. Lemme explain: all of the gifts in this post are wearable, but 3 of them needed to fit well. The 2 pairs of shoes and the jacket. All 3 fit perfectly, requiring the giver to be very attentive to the other party's size (especially considering it's unlikely that Brick has ever seen the inside of Blossom's shoes, the guys were unsure if the shoes would fit Butch, and Butch apparently gave pretty precise measurements/sizing to Penny. The 4th gift, Blossom's, doesn't need to fit well, but it required recognizing a need that Brick had and time and effort to make it. The necklace, while sweet and definitely something that Bubbles liked, didn't require that much thought or attention to her on Boomer's part. Which reflects how he relates to their relationship, I think. He focuses a lot on how she makes him feel, and while he's been trying to be "good" for her sake, his insecurities and jealousy have gotten in the way of their connection. He is so caught up in them, he doesn't realize that she is feeling uneasy because he's hiding things, and didn't really think about how it would make her feel when he decided not to give her the necklace initially.

The only person who hasn't given one of their counterparts a special wearable gift so far, is Bubbles. That could change in the future. But it is interesting. I might discuss this in a different post on other gifts that have been given.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

hii love, how are you doing? 🫶🏻

so, i just read your latest pietro hcs and it's SO GOOD😭 (like everything else that you write, i'm literally in love with your writing) and i had an idea

can i request an angry love confession from pietro after him and the reader go to a mission together and she puts herself at risk to save him?

like, they're friends with benefits, but are distant bc both of them had developed feelings for each other, but neither say anything bc they think the other only wants sex, like you said. the reader putting herself at risk during the mission to save pietro it's the last straw for him, he gets angry and freaked out by the idea of losing her. so, after the mission, they're arguing and it ends up leading to an angry love confession 😏😏

hii lovie!! im sorry this has taken so long, it took me ages to figure out how to get them out of the danger part, so I took a break from it and had no luck so left that part blank. but you’ll see what I mean😭 and im doing well, hope you are too. thank you :(( you’re so sweet!! thanks for requesting, hope you like it💌

MISTAKES AND CONFESSIONS

pietro maximoff x female reader

word count. 869

link to fwb hc’s

As of late, things with Pietro have been a little confusing - tricky, if you will - the complications of being friends with benefits making themselves more apparent after every meet-up.

Everything was going well, all going as planned, until the unforeseen moment when you actually fell in love with him. At the beginning of your elevated friendship, you both promised it would be strictly hook-ups, no strings attached, nothing else. And that's what you did - up until three weeks ago. 

After a while, you found yourself declining his invitations to meet up, like you were starting to pull back from him. It grew more difficult to be around someone so unattainable, to have the constant reminder of his romantic disinterest, so instead, you withdrew yourself to make it less painful. 

So now, when you cross paths at the compound, instead of a nervous hidden smile behind your hand, you avoid his gaze completely - turning your attention to the weather app on your phone.

It wasn't easy to ignore him, but it was getting there - that's what you told yourself, anyway. 

All of your attempts to avoid Pietro got flipped on its head when the two of you got paired together for a mission - to retrieve intel from an enemy base. It was supposed to be a low-risk assignment: get in, collect the information and get out, but nothing is ever that simple.

As soon as you and Pietro stepped foot in the room of said intel, you noticed a red hue shine from under his foot. You immediately tugged at his arm, halting his movements when you realised what you had both walked into.

"Pietro! Wait, wait, wait," you call out, gripping at his upper arm. "Don't move. Keep still," you ramble, eagerly looking around the space.

"What is it?"

"The room— it's got these— I don't know, just keep still," you breathe out a reply, feeling flustered. 

"It's okay," Pietro offers a brief moment of reassurance, keeping his eyes glued ahead - keeping still as instructed. "Are you okay? Are you on one, too?" he hesitantly asks.

"No, no, but you are and— I don't know what to do. Nat taught me what to do with these and— god, why isn't my brain working?" you mumble, frustratedly speaking your mind when you think about the possibility of something awful actually happening to Pietro - to both of you.

"Draga, it's fine. Really, it's okay," he whispers, slowly extending his hand behind, like he was awkwardly reaching for you.

"No, keep still— please. Just let me think," 

"You should go,"

"No, give me a minute," 

"Please, milovat. You need to go,"

"I said no. Just give me a second,"

You even your breathing, running an uneasy hand over your forehead as you assess your surroundings. 

----- after ------ (im sorry about this, my brain broke)

You avoid each other's gaze, separately processing everything that happened - how you were both about to be blown to pieces, how you were willing to let yourself die to get Pietro out.

"That was so stupid," Pietro mutters, keeping his eyes fixed on a tree ahead.

"Excuse me?" you reply, neck whipping around to face him.

"That was so stupid," he repeats, emphasising each word.

"Are you kidding?" you snicker. "If you had minded where you were going we wouldn't have had to done all that."

"So you're saying it's my fault?" he retorts, face grimacing.

"Yes. I am," you retaliate. "It's your fault."

You both sigh, growing frustrated with the conversation. It was as if there was so much left unsaid, it all coming together like a whirlwind of mixed emotions - everything from your failed 'relationship' to no contact to just now. It was like you were both holding back on everything, too scared to bring up the subject that tarnished your original friendship. 

"I told you to go, and you didn't. That's not on me. That's on you! Don't blame me for things we both messed up on."

"Me? That's rich,"

"Yes, you! Nothing is ever your fault, is it?" he sneers, the argument changing subject.

"You never listen! Always thinking about yourself,"

"Bullshit," he dryly chuckles, unamused smile on his face.

"I don't want to do this. It's boring and tiring," you cave, waving your hands in sign of defeat. "I give up. You win."

Pietro huffs, rubbing over his temples. "If you had just gone..." he murmurs, talking at the floor.

"I couldn't! I couldn't leave you,"

"Yes, you could. You should've gone. You could have died," Pietro's words soften as if it all hit him how real it was - how he could have lost you again, but for good. "You could've died."

"So could you," you turn to face him, meeting his saddened eyes. 

His hands drop to his side as he steps towards you, walking to close the gap - the closest you had been in weeks. He keeps his gaze solely on you, looking over you like you're no longer a distant memory, like he was seeing you in a new light - the way he was supposed to see you.

He cups your cheeks, holding your face in his hands. "I could have lost you again."

— — — — — — — — — — ☆ — — — — — — — — — —

pietro taglist: @astermath @thewinterv @earth-elemental18 @lunnnix @idontknowwhattohaveasmyuser @randomawesomeperson102 @queerponcho @selfryed @daenerys-supremacy @dontknownameauthor @mrsbarnesxxx @honestly-who-even-is-this @simplyreflected @apxtowiris

[elliecore4eva]

"A Jurassic-Sized Surprise"

The garage was packed. Jesse leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, shooting you a knowing smirk. Dina sat on an overturned crate, legs swinging, while Tommy, Maria, Joel, and even Bill and Frank stood in a semi-circle, all waiting for you to speak. You adjusted your glasses dramatically—ones you didn’t need, but they made you look more official—and held up your clipboard.

“Alright, people,” you started, pacing like you were briefing them for a military operation. “We have exactly one week until Ellie’s birthday, and I am not about to half-ass this. We’re going full force. Full fiancé energy. This will be an event.”

Joel sighed. “Jesus, kid, just tell us what we’re doing.”

You grinned, flipping the clipboard dramatically. “Dinosaur. And. Space. Exhibit.”

There was a pause before Jesse let out a low whistle. “Damn. You really do love her, huh?”

You shot him an unimpressed look. “Obviously.”

Dina clapped her hands together. “Okay, lovebird, how are we making this happen?”

You pointed at her, eyes gleaming. “I’m glad you asked! Here’s the plan.”

Over the next hour, you laid it all out—how they’d set up the surprise, the excuse they’d use to get Ellie there, and, most importantly, the role each person had to play.

Step One: Get Ellie out of the house for a few hours. Step Two: Convince her she’s just going on a walk. Step Three: Get her to the exhibit without her figuring it out. Step Four: Watch her adorable dino-nerd heart melt.

Easy. Right?

The Walk of Suspicion

Ellie, true to form, was immediately suspicious.

“So, let me get this straight,” she said, walking beside you, hands shoved in her pockets. “Jesse, of all people, sprained his ankle, again, and now I have to go get some special wrap for it?”

“Yep,” you replied, keeping your voice light.

She gave you a slow, knowing look. “And he sent you—not Dina, not Maria—you to take me?”

You nodded, still keeping your expression neutral. “Yep.”

Ellie hummed, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. “And it just so happens to be my birthday?”

“Mhm.”

“Uh-huh.”

You kept walking, biting your lip to stop yourself from grinning. Ellie was so onto you.

“I swear,” she continued, her voice teasing, “if this is some elaborate prank where Jesse jumps out and dumps a bucket of water on me, I’m gonna—”

You gasped, clutching your chest. “Babe. Would I ever do something like that to you?”

Ellie deadpanned. “Yes. Absolutely.”

You dramatically wiped away a fake tear. “You wound me.”

She chuckled, bumping her shoulder against yours. “You’ve been acting weird all day.”

You shrugged, looping your arm through hers and squeezing gently. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

Ellie narrowed her eyes, but her lips twitched up. “Fine. But if I get ambushed, you’re sleeping on the couch.”

The Big Reveal

The walk finally led you both to a clearing where the entrance to the exhibit stood, dimly lit under the evening sky. The entire town had helped set it up—hand-painted dinosaur cutouts, strings of lights, and even a section dedicated to space, with old books and illustrations from before the outbreak.

Ellie’s steps slowed as she took it all in, her mouth slightly open in shock.

You leaned in close, lowering your voice just for her.

“Happy birthday, Bear,” you murmured, the new nickname slipping effortlessly from your lips. “Do you like it?”

Ellie turned to you, her expression unreadable for half a second before she grabbed you by the collar and kissed you.

It was the kind of kiss that made your toes curl, that left your fingers gripping onto her jacket like she was the only thing keeping you upright. When she finally pulled away, you were breathless, blinking up at her with dazed eyes.

“I take it that’s a yes?” you teased, grinning.

Ellie chuckled, resting her forehead against yours. “Best. Birthday. Ever.”

Nerd Mode: Activated

The moment Ellie fully processed what was happening, she lit up.

“Oh my god—babe, look at this!” She ran over to a massive replica of a raptor skull, her eyes wide as she traced the shape with her fingers. “Did you know that raptors weren’t actually as big as they show in the movies? They were more like—”

“Chicken-sized, yeah,” Jesse cut in, grinning. “We’ve all heard you rant about this before, dude.”

Ellie flipped him off without looking back.

Joel, watching with his arms crossed, huffed out a laugh. “She’s like a kid in a candy store.”

You beamed. “That’s the point.”

Ellie dragged you to every single part of the exhibit, rattling off facts about dinosaur evolution, asteroids, black holes—things you didn’t fully understand, but god, you loved watching her talk about them.

At one point, she grabbed your hands and pulled you toward the planetarium section, where old constellations were mapped out in the dirt with tiny lights.

“This is Cassiopeia,” she murmured, pointing up at the sky. “It’s one of my favorites.”

You looked up at the stars, then back at her. “You’re my favorite.”

Ellie groaned, shoving her face into your shoulder. “God, you’re so mushy.”

“You love it.”

“…I do.”

Admiration from Afar

As you chatted with Jesse and Dina near a display of ancient artifacts, Ellie stood a few feet away, her gaze fixed on you. A soft smile tugged at her lips as she watched you laugh, your eyes sparkling with joy. She whispered to herself, barely audible, “God, I love her so much.”

Bill, who had been standing nearby, overheard and nudged Frank. “Did you hear that?”

Frank smirked. “Oh, we heard it alright.”

Bill grinned. “You know, it’s a good thing you’re already engaged. Otherwise, I’d think that was a confession.”

Frank chuckled, elbowing Bill. “I’m just saying, Ellie’s in love. She can barely keep it together.”

Ellie, realizing she’d been caught, flushed a deep red. “Shut up, both of you.”

Bill laughed. “You whispered it. Right in front of us. She’s got you wrapped around her finger, kid.”

Frank teased, “Guess she’s really the one, huh?”

Ellie groaned, trying to hide her face in her hands. “I hate you both.”

You, catching wind of their teasing, turned around with a grin. “What’s this? Ellie having a hard time admitting she’s crazy about me?”

Ellie swatted at you playfully. “Stop it.”

“You know they heard you, right?” Dina said, laughing from across the room.

Ellie’s face went pink as she mumbled something under her breath, clearly embarrassed despite the fact she’d just told the whole town how much she loved you.

Bonfire & Love

The bonfire crackled warmly in the night air, the glow illuminating the faces of everyone gathered around. Jesse and Dina were sitting on a log, passing around some kind of homemade cocktail. Tommy and Maria were off talking by the grill, probably trying to make sense of Joel's latest rambling about "the old world." Ellie, as usual, was sticking close to you, her hand resting comfortably on your knee, but her eyes were darting around suspiciously, like she was waiting for something to go wrong.

“What?” you asked, noticing her fidgeting. “You seem... tense.”

Ellie shrugged, trying to play it off. “Nothing, just... tired, I guess.”

“Oh yeah?” you grinned. “That what you call it when you're trying to act normal after gushing over me for the last half hour?”

Ellie immediately turned a shade of pink that could rival a cherry. She shot you a warning look. “Don’t start, okay? They’ll never let it go.”

“Too late,” you said, leaning in to whisper in her ear. “You love me, admit it.”

She blushed harder, and at that moment, Bill and Frank, who had been hovering near the firepit with drinks in hand, overheard and shared a glance.

“Did you hear that?” Bill asked, his voice dripping with amusement.

Frank raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah, we heard it. Ellie’s been absolutely smitten.”

Ellie groaned, her head dropping into her hands. “God, I hate you both so much.”

Frank smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “I mean, how could you not? She’s basically the human embodiment of sunshine.” He gestured at you, and then to Ellie. “You two are like that cheesy movie where the nerdy girl falls for the jock.”

Bill cackled. “Yeah, and Ellie’s the jock who can’t admit she’s been caught in the act.”

You grinned, leaning in to whisper just loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Ellie whispered earlier that she loved me so much.”

Ellie shot up, covering her face with her hands. “Okay, that’s it! I’m leaving. I’m done.”

Bill was practically wheezing with laughter. “Oh no, you’re staying right here. Can’t go anywhere now, sweetheart.”

Frank raised his cup in mock salute. “To Ellie, everyone! The tough girl who can’t hide her soft spot for her sunshine.”

Ellie buried her face in her hands, a muffled “Stop” escaping from her as she squirmed in her seat. Meanwhile, you just sat back, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

“You should’ve heard her,” Frank continued, nudging Bill. “She was all ‘god, I love her so much.’ You’re telling me you didn’t hear that?”

Ellie looked like she might combust from embarrassment. “I said that in confidence!”

Maria, who had been listening from a distance, couldn’t resist joining in. “You know,” she said with a grin, “you’ve got a whole town here who’s ready to gossip about how whipped you are.”

Ellie groaned, throwing herself back dramatically against the log. “You’re all terrible people.”

Joel, who had been quietly chuckling to himself, added, “I’m just glad she finally admitted it. Took long enough.”

“Shut up, Dad!” Ellie grumbled, still not looking at anyone.

But you couldn’t resist. You leaned in and kissed her cheek, whispering, “I love you too, Bear.”

The whole group let out a collective, exaggerated “Awwww”—even Jesse, who had been quietly sipping his drink, looked like he was about to burst out in laughter.

Ellie was now bright red, clearly trying to look anywhere but at the crowd of people enjoying her very public meltdown.

“You know,” Bill mused, taking a long swig of his drink, “I never thought I’d live to see the day when Ellie Williams turned into a walking romance novel.”

Frank nodded sagely, grinning. “She’s like that secret softie who just needed the right person to... you know, turn her into a sap.”

Ellie groaned loudly, crossing her arms over her chest. “I swear to god, if I hear one more thing—”

But before she could finish, you slid closer to her, resting your head on her shoulder. “Oh, come on. You love it when they tease you,” you whispered, your voice low and sweet.

Ellie exhaled sharply, but when she glanced at you, her gaze softened. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Bunny.”

You grinned, giving her a teasing kiss on the cheek. “Oh, I know.”

Frank leaned in from the other side, pretending to act serious. “We’ve all seen it now. Ellie’s whipped. I mean, how many times do we have to hear her say she loves you today before we start counting?”

Ellie shot a death glare his way, but even Bill couldn’t hold it in anymore. He started laughing, slapping his knee. “I can’t breathe.”

Ellie finally gave up, leaning her head against yours with a soft sigh. “I hate all of you,” she muttered, though there was a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Maria chimed in with a sly smile, “Just admit it, Ellie. You’re not fooling anyone. You’re absolutely crazy about her.”

Ellie looked up at you, meeting your gaze for a moment before shaking her head with a fond, exasperated smile. “Yeah,” she said softly, her voice just loud enough for everyone to hear. “I am. And I’m not even sorry about it.”

The group erupted into teasing cheers, and Ellie just buried her face in your neck, mumbling something about never living this down.

But despite all the teasing and the embarrassment, you could see the softness in her eyes—she was just as in love as you were.

And as the flames of the bonfire flickered around you, you both knew this night would go down as one of those perfect memories that would stick with you forever.

[wowbright]

Anderson’s Guide to the Birds of North America, Ch. 12: Just For This Moment

Summary: Fourteen scenes from the lives of Blaine Anderson, grad student and avid birder, and Kurt Hummel, clothing designer and Vogue writer, from before their first meeting during the COVID lockdowns of spring of 2020 through falling in love. Written for the Klaine Valentine’s Challenge 2025.

Also on AO3.

~~~

Chapter 12: Just For This Moment

Forming their COVID bubble hit a snag that same afternoon when Rachel received an exposure alert on her COVID app, even though the only place she ever went was the grocery store and down to the lobby to check for mail.

“Let’s look on the bright side!” Blaine said on their four-way Zoom call. “This gives us more time to figure out our bubble rules!”

Privately, he told Kurt, “I think this is going to kill me.”

“What would kill me is if it turns out Rachel and I are carrying COVID and I give it to you,” Kurt said. “Waiting to start our bubble sucks, but it’s better than the alternative.”

Kurt was right, of course. So they made the best of it while the Hummel-Berry household went into full quarantine mode. They kept up with their Zoom dates and their texts and their calls, many of which ended with them in various states of undress, describing in delectable detail the sumptuous things they wanted to do to each other.

Things really ramped up the evening Blaine revealed the existence and contents of his toy collection to Kurt and let Kurt guide him, one by one, in using them on himself. Blaine didn’t need help believing Kurt was with him that night. Kurt woke up Blaine’s body beyond his wildest dreamings. He felt Kurt inside and all around him, felt their bodies rising and falling together, felt their desire grow until it shone like moonlight.

“Wow,” Kurt said breathlessly into the phone after they both came. “I'm not sure how I'm going to compete with that when we're together in person.”

“Kurt, it wasn't the toys that made me come like that. It was you. Everything I felt was you.”

It was still tough, though, with Kurt stuck in his apartment after they had gotten used to going out for socially distanced outings together. Blaine came by every day to wave up at Kurt on the fire escape, and sometimes Cooper came along with him too and they made it a four-person social (if Mrs. Finkelstein was bored, it became a five-person one). But they could only talk for so long that way before annoying the neighbors and ending their visits with “Parting is such sweet sorrow!”

At least Kurt and Rachel had the neighborhood open mic to rehearse for—a more pleasant pastime than taking their temperatures twice a day and obsessively checking that they still had their senses of smell. Someone had come up with the idea after Rachel and Cooper's performance. This time, it would involve the whole block, with people performing on their fire escapes or out their windows, everything recorded into a live Zoom session in case the sound didn't carry.

Even Mrs. Finkelstein signed up.

The open mic happened on the last night of Kurt and Rachel’s quarantine. Blaine and Cooper parked out on the sidewalk for the show. There was a juggler, a two-person poetry slam, a clarinet solo, a string quartet played by four players in four different apartments (Blaine was amazed that they managed to keep time with each other), a Cher impersonation, and the requisite folk-guitar solos.

Then it was Kurt and Rachel's turn. They hadn't told Blaine or Cooper what they were up to. But Blaine recognized the song as soon as Kurt began:

Forget your troubles, come on get happy, you better chase all those cares away—

Chills ran down Blaine’s spine. He had heard Kurt sing before over Zoom and in the videos Kurt had shared with him. He’d listened to Kurt’s “Blackbird” and “Le Jazz Hot” and “As if We Never Said Goodbye” and “Lucky Star” on endless loops.

He knew Kurt was an incredible singer. He knew Kurt had an incredible voice.

But none of that had prepared Blaine for hearing him in person.

It was as if Blaine had never heard music before. Not really. Not like this.

“They're amazing,” Cooper whispered.

Oh, right. Rachel was singing too. And she was very good.

But Blaine was lost in Kurt’s voice. And he loved it there.

Blaine never wanted the singing to end.

It did, of course. Kurt looked down at him and smiled and waved and Blaine stood there transfixed, his mouth open and his heart on his sleeve, only remembering to clap when Cooper jabbed him with his elbow.

“Last but not least—” Kurt shouted when the applause had died down “—we have Miriam Finkelstein singing ‘As Long as You’re Mine’ from Wicked!” He pointed dramatically across the street toward her apartment.

Mrs. Finkelstein leaned out her window, her dyed hair freshly curled and her lips painted red instead of their usual coral.

She took a deep breath and let out a note that reverberated down the entire block.

Cooper’s jaw dropped.

Blaine squeezed his arm. “Oh my gosh. She's better than Idina Menzel!”

And just for this moment, As long as you’re mine, I’ve lost all resistance And crossed some border line!

Blaine looked up at his favorite fire escape landing. Kurt looked just as shocked as Blaine felt. Rachel was crying—hopefully from being moved and not out of jealousy, but given how much she was like Cooper, Blaine couldn't rule out the latter option.

Kurt met Blaine’s eyes and held them. He silently mouthed the words along with Mrs. Finkelstein: Somehow I’ve fallen under your spell, and somehow I’m feeling it’s up that I fell.

I love you, Blaine mouthed back, even though those weren’t the words to the song.

Kurt smiled so hard his eyes almost shut. I love you too.