#if I could go back in time to when I was 6 and stop the Revolution from becoming my special interest I would | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wosospacegirl · 20 hours ago

Text

Stuck with you - part 6

Summary: Y/n’s used to Alexia’s overprotectiveness and the pressure of her career—but Kika? The shy, socially awkward teammate who’s starting to make her feel things she didn’t expect.

Warnings: Y/n's sulking in self-inflicted isolation, slow-burn grief over yelling at the girl you like, Alexia being distant and silent (which is worse than yelling), unexpected bedroom interruption and a dash of jealousy over a certain training partner.

Word count: 7.5k

a/n: Again, still angst! The pic of Jana and Kika is there for a reason :)

Masterlist here

Alexia’s grip on her arm was probably tighter than it needed to be.

Y/n wasn’t exactly resisting–hobbling along with the bulky brace on her leg, trying not to stumble over the smallest step–but it still felt like overkill.

She didn’t dare say anything, though. Not with the way Alexia was glaring straight ahead, lips pressed into a thin line like she’d rather scream than speak.

The silence was suffocating. Not the kind that made things easier, but the kind that made Y/n’s insides twist with guilt. Every step toward the front door felt like marching toward her own execution.

Alexia opened the door without a word and guided her inside, her hand never leaving Y/n’s arm.

It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t gentle. It was steady and unrelenting, like everything Alexia had ever done. They stepped into the living room.

“Oh! Hey!” Olga’s voice came from the sofa, bright and warm. “You’re back–”

Then her eyes landed on Y/n’s leg.

The smile vanished.

Alexia didn’t even glance at her.

She helped Y/n sit down–well, “helped” was generous.

She more or less shoved her onto the sofa with a sharp exhale through her nose. Then she stood over her, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

“You’re going to tell everything to Olga,” Alexia said, voice low but steady. Dangerous.

Olga blinked, eyebrows raised. “Tell me what?”

Y/n’s mouth felt dry. Her shoulders curled in, like she could physically shrink away from the shame settling in her chest.

“I lied,” she said quietly. “My ankle wasn’t better. It was–is worse. And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to be benched.”

“Cariño…” Olga said softly, her voice a total contrast to the tension in the room.

Y/n didn’t look up. “I also asked Kika to lie for me,” she mumbled. “I told her not to say anything to you. And she didn’t. Not until the end. She told Alexia, and then I… yelled at her.”

The words felt heavier as they came out, like saying them made everything worse.

Her throat tightened, her eyes stung, and she could feel the heat building behind her lashes. Y/n looked down quickly, she didn’t want them to see her, not right now.

She waited.

Waited for the explosion. For Alexia’s voice to finally snap, for Olga to use the sharp tone she only ever used when Y/n really messed up. The one that always made her feel small, like a kid again.

But none of that came.

Instead, Olga moved closer.

She sat on the sofa beside her and pulled her into a hug without saying anything, gently resting her chin on Y/n’s shoulder. Her arms were warm. Steady.

Y/n didn’t move at first, too stunned to even breathe.

Then she leaned into it.

Just slightly.

Not enough to fall apart–but just enough to let herself be held.

Y/n stared down at her lap, fingers twisting together in a nervous knot. Her eyes were full, but she refused to let go. Not yet. She didn’t want to cry, not in front of them.

“I yelled at her,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “I yelled at Kika when she was just trying to help.”

The silence that followed made everything worse. It stretched too long, thick with disappointment and something even heavier.

But then she felt Olga sit beside her again, closer this time.

“Está bien, mi nena,[it’s ok, my girl]” Olga whispered gently.

That was all it took.

The tears came hot and fast, stinging her eyes before she could stop them.

Her face crumpled, and she let out a shaky breath, trying to hold it in–but it broke through her anyway, quiet and aching.

Olga didn’t say anything else. She just wrapped her arms around Y/n tighter, tucking her head against her chest and holding her like she used to when Y/n was smaller, when scraped knees at training were her biggest concern.

Across the room, Alexia's jaw tensed. She’d been standing the whole time, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. But when she saw Y/n finally cry, her expression softened–just a little. Just enough.

She moved toward the sofa and sat down slowly beside them, not saying a word.

Her hand came to rest on Y/n’s back, warm and grounding, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of her hoodie.

The boot sat heavy on Y/n’s leg, like a physical reminder of everything she didn’t want to think about. She hadn’t left her room in two days.

No physio, no crutches practice, nothing. Just her bed, the soft hum of the TV playing reruns in the background, and the dull ache in her ankle that medicine couldn’t quite kill.

Y/n could swear this was some kind of punishment from Alexia, making her stay in the house all day–but la reina said it was doctor’s order…bullshit.

Olga was like an annoying mom.

Y/n told her she wanted to be left alone, but Olga always pretended she didn’t hear her.

Like clockwork, around lunchtime every day, she knocked twice and let herself in. No pity in her voice. No questions she didn’t want to answer.

Just her usual: some snacks, juice, and whatever weird story she listened to on the news.

Today was no different.

Y/n heard the door creak open.

“I’m coming in–don’t throw anything," Olga said, voice casual.

“I’ve only thrown a cushion at you when I was fifteen. When are you letting this go?” Y/n said, from under the blanket.

Y/n huffed but sat up slightly, reaching for the glass. “I love you.”

They sat in silence after that. Y/n sipped her juice, pretending not to feel Olga’s gaze locked onto her.

“So,” Olga said eventually, “I think we need to talk about it… You know? Eventually?”

They hadn’t spoken about the whole lying-about-the-injury thing. Not properly.

After Y/n had a meltdown like a two-year-old in the living room, Olga had just helped her to bed without asking for an explanation.

Since then, Y/n hadn’t left her room.

Whenever Olga tried to bring it up, Y/n changed the subject.

When Salma, Vicky, and Jana texted, she ignored them.

She didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to see anyone. Because now she knew what happened when she got close–she hurt people. She yelled. Like she did with Kika.

“I don’t wanna talk about anything,” Y/n muttered.

“But I do,” Olga said, more firmly this time, using a tone she normally left for important conversations.

Y/n shot her a look, but there wasn’t much fire behind it. “You gonna yell at me too?”

“No,” Olga said. “That’s Alexia’s job.”

Y/n turned away at the name, jaw tightening. “She’s doing a great job at ignoring me instead.”

“She’s furious,” Olga said simply. “But not just because you hid the injury. It’s because you didn’t trust her. Or me. Or anyone.”

Y/n blinked hard. Her throat tightened, and she looked down at her hands gripping the glass.

“I know,” she whispered. “I just…” Her voice faltered. “It’s like she hates me now.”

Olga tilted her head, concern etched in every line of her face.

“She doesn’t hate you, cariño.”

“She won’t even look at me,” Y/n said, her voice smaller now. “She’s been ignoring me for days. And I get it. I lied, I made everything worse, I yelled at Kika, and now…” Her words trailed off, her breath catching.

“She took me in when I was still a kid,” she added, voice shaking. “But I’m nineteen now. I’m not her responsibility anymore. What if this was it? What if I pushed her too far and now she’s just… done with me?”

Olga’s face softened even more.

“My parents didn’t want me either,” Y/n said quietly. “They left. They didn’t care. What if Alexia’s the same?”

Olga reached out immediately, wrapping her arms around Y/n and pulling her close.

“No es verdad, nena,” she murmured, holding her tighter. “ Eso nunca va a pasar.” [It’s not true, babe/That will never happen.]

And that was it.

Y/n’s tears fell fast, hot, and silent as she buried her face in Olga’s shoulder.

Again, she was crying again.

Olga didn’t say anything else–just held her, firm and steady, like she wasn’t going anywhere.

Y/n sniffled, wiping her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Okay, ew, I’ve cried more in the last two days than I have in like… five years. Disgusting. Never again.”

Olga let out a soft laugh, brushing her hand over Y/n’s hair. “Liar.”

Y/n groaned. “Shut up. Don’t ruin my reputation.”

Later that day, Y/n heard the front door close.

Alexia was home.

Like usual.

She didn’t even look up from the book she was reading. For the past few days, Alexia’s routine had been the same–come home, move around quietly, and never once step into Y/n’s room.

It was a silence that screamed, and Y/n had learned not to expect anything else.

So when her door creaked open, Y/n’s heart jumped. She looked up, startled. Alexia stood in the doorway, holding a small bowl in both hands.

“Here,” she said, stepping in.

Y/n blinked. “…What is this?”

“Fruit salad,” Alexia replied, voice clipped but not cold.

Y/n frowned. “...Why?”

“Fibre is good for healing,” Alexia said simply.

Y/n squinted at her, suspicious. “Did Olga make it?”

“No.” Alexia exhaled through her nose. “I did.”

Y/n stared at the bowl, then back up at Alexia. “…Thank you, Ale.”

Alexia didn’t smile. She didn’t soften. But she gave a small nod, eyes scanning the room before turning to leave.

At the door, she paused.

“You need anything else?” she asked, still not looking back.

Y/n opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then tried again. “No,” she said quietly. “Just… thanks.”

“Jana, Vicky, and Salma are coming tomorrow,” Alexia said, not asking, just stating.

“I don’t wanna talk to anyone,” Y/n mumbled.

“You can’t only talk to Olga for the rest of your recovery,” Alexia said.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to only talk to Olga if you would stop pretending I didn’t exist,” Y/n snapped, her voice low but sharp.

Alexia’s jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, Y/n thought she was going to snap back. She opened her mouth, ready to unleash every reprimand she had been holding in.

Instead, Alexia pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled sharply.

“I’m not talking to you because I don’t want to say things I’ll regret,” she said, voice low. “I’m still very mad.”

Y/n’s shoulders slumped, and she glanced down at the fruit salad in her lap, unable to meet Alexia’s eyes. She dipped her head once, a small, silent nod.

Alexia’s gaze softened just a fraction. “I’m sure you know what that feels like,” she added quietly.

Y/n stayed silent, her eyes fixed on the glossy strawberries and melon cubes. The room settled into heavy stillness, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator.

Y/n blinked, convinced Alexia had already turned and left the doorway. But then, so softly she almost thought it was her imagination–she felt warm lips press against the top of her head.

And then Alexia’s hand settled gently on Y/n’s shoulder. No words followed. No more anger. Just the faintest promise that she wasn’t gone.

Then she slipped out of the room without another word.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t closure. But it was something.

And that night, Y/n ate the entire bowl of fruit salad.

The next morning, Y/n knew she needed to eat something real–breakfast with Olga and Alexia, the kind of meal that felt normal.

She didn’t want to stay cooped up in her room any longer.

She made her way downstairs, every step sent a dull throb through her leg, but she didn’t care–she couldn’t stay in her room for another second.

Alexia looked up first from the kitchen table, mid-bite of her toast. Her chair scraped back with a harsh sound.

“Stop,” she said sharply, already crossing the space between them. “Why didn’t you call one of us?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Y/n muttered, trying to wave her off.

Alexia didn’t answer. She just slipped an arm around Y/n’s waist, the other steadying her under the arm as she helped her over to the table. Y/n didn’t fight her.

“I just… couldn’t look at the walls of my room anymore,” Y/n mumbled as Alexia settled her into the chair.

“Next time, call me,” Alexia said, her tone curt, almost annoyed. “I mean it.”

Olga looked up from the counter, brow lifting in mock exasperation. “About time you left the dungeon, cariño—breakfast’s getting cold.”

Y/n didn’t respond. Olga offered a soft smile from her seat as she pushed a mug of coffee toward her.

“Black. No sugar,” Olga said.

Y/n cracked a small smile, accepting the mug. “Thanks.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet hum of the kitchen wrapping around them.

Then Alexia spoke again, her voice low but direct. “Have you talked to Kika?”

Y/n stiffened. She didn’t look up. “No.”

Olga glanced down at her plate, suddenly very interested in her eggs.

Alexia didn’t let up. “You should.”

Y/n kept her eyes on the coffee. “I don’t know what I’d even say.”

“Figure it out,” Alexia said. “She looked upset yesterday at training. And don’t pretend like you don’t care, because I know you.”

Y/n blinked, jaw tightening. Then, quieter: “How do you know?”

Alexia stilled.

Y/n finally looked up, her voice cracking. “You keep saying I care, like that’s obvious. But it’s not. Not to me. I lied, I dragged Kika into it, and when she tried to help, I lashed out. I hurt her. So how am I supposed to believe I’m the kind of person who cares, when all I’ve done is prove otherwise?”

The silence was thick.

Alexia didn’t look away. Her voice was softer now, but firm.

“Because people who don’t care don’t sit at the kitchen table looking like their whole chest is caving in. You’re guilty, you’re scared, and you’re hurting. That’s not nothing. That’s not someone who doesn’t care.”

Y/n didn’t respond. Her eyes dropped back to the coffee, jaw clenched, like she was holding something in with everything she had.

Then Olga spoke, her voice quiet but sure. “You’re not a bad person, Y/n.”

Y/n’s head tilted slightly, like she wasn’t sure she heard right.

“You did something wrong,” Olga said, setting her fork down. “But that doesn’t erase who you are. It just means you’ve got something to fix. And I think you want to.”

“I messed up pretty badly,” Y/n muttered, the guilt settling deep in her chest.

“Yeah, you did,” Alexia replied, matter-of-fact. “Dragging someone into your mess, then acting like they betrayed you for telling the truth? That’s bad, Y/n.”

Y/n’s stomach twisted. The coffee didn’t taste so good anymore.

“Alexia!” Olga said, her voice a little sharper. “Maybe tone down the tough love for a second?”

“I didn’t mean to yell at her like that,” Y/n started, then stopped herself, unsure of how to explain.

“I know,” Alexia said, the words simple. The truth.

The rest of the breakfast passed in silence, save for the clink of forks and the weight of everything unspoken between them.

Later that day, the girls arrived.

Y/n collapsed onto the couch, booted foot propped on a cushion, and grabbed a controller. Jana flopped in next to her, grinning, while Salma and Vicky claimed the other seats. The TV displayed a bright start line for their favourite kart‑racing game.

3… 2… 1… Go!

Their digital engines roared to life, sparkles flying as each racer shot forward.

Y/n swerved one way, trying to dodge a banana peel. “So,” she grumbled, keeping her eyes on the screen, “how’s training been without me?”

Salma clipped past Y/n on the left. Calm as ever, she didn’t even glance back. “Kinda boring, actually. We keep looking for you to complain about something random at eight am, and you’re not there.”

Jana, who’d already taken the lead, laughed and flicked her kart’s boost. “Well, we can’t deny it’s… peaceful without one of your moods floating around the pitch, you know?”

Vicky slammed her kart into a wall. “Hey! You can’t say that to someone who’s literally bedridden.”

Y/n veers around a corner and takes the lead, barely missing a barrier. “Okay, Vicky, I don’t know if you’re defending me or insulting me,” she said.

Salma drifted beside Y/n’s kart. “You’re doing great.” Her tone was soft but encouraging. “Really—no one’s as clumsy with a controller as you.”

Y/n shot Salma a grumpy look. “I’m not clumsy. The game is rigged.”

Jana zipped past both of them and shouted, “Rigged in my favour!”

Y/n’s kart spun out of control on a hairpin turn. She slammed her controller down. “Okay, that’s it–no more talking. Focus on the race.”

They kept playing, but Y/n’s mind kept drifting to one person.

Her gaze kept flickering toward her phone, her fingers itching to check for any update on Kika.

The few times she’d asked Alexia about how Kika was doing, Alexia would just shrug and tell her, “Ask her yourself.”

But that wasn’t helpful at all. Y/n wanted to know how Kika was really doing–not just the surface-level stuff, the stuff Alexia wouldn’t tell her.

She knew she needed to talk to Kika, but the guilt from their last conversation made that feel harder.

“Okay, so… more training updates, please,” Y/n huffed, leaning back into the sofa, trying to distract herself from her thoughts. She crossed her arms and shot a glare at the TV. “Before I lose my mind.”

Salma, her kart cruising calmly in the lead, slowed down. She glanced over at Y/n with a raised eyebrow.

“Honestly, it’s fine. We’ve been doing drills, working on our passing. Nothing too exciting.”

“And how’s, like…everybody?” Y/n asked casually, swerving her kart past Salma’s, bumping Jana out of the lead as she did.

Jana grumbled, throwing a playful glare in Y/n's direction, but her eyes stayed glued to the screen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Y/n shrugged, her gaze flicking to Salma. “You know, just like... everybody. How’s everyone doing?”

“Fine,” the three girls answered in unison, focused on their race, not missing a beat.

“Just fine? Nothing more happened?” Y/n asked, her eyes narrowing as she passed Jana’s kart again, earning another growl from her friend.

“What would you expect to happen?” Vicky asked. “You’ve been out for what, four days?”

Y/n huffed and raised an eyebrow, sitting up straighter, still trying to get a rise out of them. “I don’t know, maybe... You know, someone getting a little too close for comfort? A fight breaking out? Some drama? I’m just asking.”

“Kika asked about you,” Salma said, super casually–like it was no big deal. Maybe for her, it wasn’t. But for Y/n? Yeah, kind of a big deal.

Her chest even did a weird little skip.

“Oh, she did?” Y/n asked, trying not to sound too eager. “What did she say?”

“She asked if you were getting better,” Jana replied before Salma could. “We told her we didn’t know, because it’d be easier to contact you via smoke signal than get a text back.”

Y/n groaned, blushing. Great. Add that to her imaginary list of how Kika saw her:

A rude teammate who yelled at her.

An emotionally reclusive hermit who ghosts her friends.

A dishonest player who hid an injury.

She didn’t even notice she’d zoned out until Vicky casually said, “Oh, Jana’s gonna hang out with Kika this weekend too.”

Y/n blinked, her foot twitched beneath the blanket, and nerves suddenly lit up. “Wait–what?”

Salma tilted her head, still playing. “Yeah, she’s showing her around the city or something.”

“It’s not a date,” Jana said quickly, barely glancing over. “She just asked for recommendations.”

Y/n sat up a little too fast. “So you’re, like, spending the whole day with her?”

Jana raised an eyebrow. “I mean, not the whole day. We’re getting food, maybe walking around. Why, you want to come?”

“No,” Y/n said immediately, too sharp, too fast. She cleared her throat and leaned back. “Why would I want that?”

Vicky, still completely oblivious, added, “Yeah, it’s actually nice. Kika’s been kind of quiet since you two…fight? Was that considered fighting? Anyway, she probably needs a break.”

“Right,” Y/n muttered, staring at the screen even though she wasn’t really seeing it anymore. “Makes sense.”

Salma didn’t say anything, but glanced sideways at Y/n, like she was starting to notice something off.

Jana leaned forward, tapping buttons furiously. “I was thinking about that new restaurant, the one you told me about?

“That one would be cool,” Y/n said flatly. She nudged her joystick a little harder, keeping her eyes on the screen. “She asked you, or you asked her?”

Jana shrugged. “I offered. Thought she’d like a change of pace.”

Y/n nodded, lips pressed together like it meant nothing. “Right. That’s nice of you.”

“Oh, and I’ve been partnered with Kika at training,” Jana added, still focused on the game. “Since you’re not there to partner with me and those two can’t seem to share with me.”

Y/n glanced over, raising a brow. “Really?”

“Yes, but I kinda miss training with you, you’re fast. Kika’s nice, though, really nice actually. She doesn’t talk much. But she’s funny when she does.”

Y/n didn’t say anything, just nodded a little and pressed her lips together, pretending she was laser-focused on not crashing her kart again.

Hours later, the girls said goodbye and headed out the front door. Y/n barely looked up, barely mumbled a goodbye, and then–slowly–got to her feet.

Brace squeaking slightly with every step, she made her way upstairs.

Alexia and Olga were curled up on Alexia’s bed, finally getting a moment alone. Olga had just leaned in–eyes soft, fingers brushing against Alexia’s jaw–when…

BANG.

Their bedroom door flew open without warning.

Y/n stood in the doorway. Her big black ankle brace practically took up half the hallway, her sock slipping slightly off her good foot, eyes stormy.

Alexia flinched and Olga yelped, scrambling apart like guilty teenagers.

“Qué coño—Y/n!” Alexia hissed, face pink. “You can’t just barge in!”

“Dios mío!” Olga gasped, grabbing the nearest pillow and hugging it to her chest like a shield.

Y/n barely blinked. “Alexia,” she said, voice dark. “I have a serious question.”

“Are you blind?!” Alexia asked. “Out!”

Olga was flailing silently in the background, still clutching the pillow. “Can you knock?! We always knock on your door!”

Y/n blinked slowly. “You left the door open.”

“We did not–!” Olga protested, then paused. “Okay, maybe it didn’t latch, but still!”

Alexia dragged a hand down her face, shoulders tensed, clearly trying to switch from horny to responsible in five seconds flat. “This better be good.”

“It is,” Y/n said, limping. “It’s serious.”

“Did something happen to your ankle? Are you okay?” Olga asked, concerned.

“I’m just–” Y/n began, but it looked like it was hard for her to say the right words.

Alexia sat up straighter. “Wait, wait. What happened, nena?”

Y/n took a deep breath like she was about to ask the most important question of her life.

“Can you…” she paused. “…as captain… forbid two players from partnering up in training?”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“…What?” Olga asked.

“Like, can you… Make a rule?” Y/n insisted. “To stop people from… pairing with people they shouldn’t pair with?”

“Shouldn’t pair with? Alexia blinked, clearly confused. “What players are you talking about? Who can’t pair with whom?”

Y/n looked at her, deadpan. “Doesn’t matter.”

Olga looked like she was about to combust from embarrassment, but Alexia, still not sure what was happening, frowned.

“You barged in here at 11 pm to ask me this question... and you don’t even tell me who the players are?”

Y/n nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

Alexia stared at her in disbelief. “You’re serious right now?”

“Yes,” Y/n said, crossing her arms and pouting like the world was against her. “It’s important, okay?”

Olga, now slightly calmer but still shaking her head at the whole situation, looked at Y/n. “You know, you could’ve just asked her in the morning, right?”

Y/n shot her a look that said, ‘I don’t have time for logic’, and turned back to Alexia. “Look, I just need to know if you can do it or not.”

Alexia sighed, rubbing her temples. “Y/n, you’re unbelievable. But sure, I can. I’ll talk to Romeu. But next time… knock?”

There was a pause.

Y/n opened her mouth like she was about to fire back, but then her eyes flicked to Olga–still curled up in bed, still hugging a pillow to her chest–and then to Alexia, who looked mildly traumatised and thoroughly unimpressed.

Her expression faltered.

“Oh,” Y/n said, blinking. “Shit. You were like… I interrupted–” She winced. “Oh my god”

Olga gave her a wide-eyed, slow nod.

Y/n’s face went a little red. She reached up and scratched the back of her neck, avoiding eye contact. “Okay. Yeah. That was maybe not my best entrance.”

“You think?” Alexia deadpanned.

“I panicked, alright?” Y/n mumbled. “I didn’t think it through. It felt urgent.”

Alexia raised a brow.

“…It wasn’t urgent,” Y/n admitted, shoulders slumping. “I’m gonna go. And like. Sleep. And pretend this never happened.”

She turned toward the door, then stopped and glanced back, still flushed. “Also, I did knock. Just, like… in my head.”

“Goodnight, Y/n,” Olga said gently, smiling despite herself.

Y/n nodded quickly, then shut the door behind her with a little more care this time.

Alexia stared at the door for a moment before flopping back into the bed with a groan. “Unbelievable.”

Olga laughed, settling beside her again. “You love her.”

“I do not,” Alexia muttered, but she didn’t sound convincing..

Alexia sank down on the edge of the bed, cross‑armed and still flushed from Y/n’s dramatic entrance.

“She really ruined my mood,” she said, eyes fixed on the empty doorway.

Behind her, Olga slipped in quietly, hands settling on Alexia’s shoulders. She pressed soft kisses along Alexia’s neck. “Amor,” she whispered, voice gentle. “She didn’t mean to.”

“She barged in at eleven o'clock,” Alexia grumbled, her voice still thick with frustration. “And demanded I make a rule about training pairs. She didn’t even say who. Just showed up like that, like–” She waved her hand in exasperation. “I get it, she’s serious, but really?”

Olga chuckled, brushing Alexia’s hair back. “She trusts you. That’s why she came to you.”

Alexia rolled her head, finally meeting Olga’s eyes. “She’s impossible.”

“But she’s our impossible,” Olga said, pulling Alexia into a tender hug. “Now, forget her for a second.”

Alexia gave in to a small smile, but it quickly faded as Olga’s lips pressed lightly against hers, the kiss slow and deliberate, almost teasing.

Olga’s hands slid to the back of Alexia’s neck, guiding her deeper into the kiss, her breath warm against Alexia’s lips.

When they finally broke apart, Olga’s voice was low and sultry. “You’ve had a rough night, amor. Let me help you relax.”

Alexia let out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding, her body responding to the softness of Olga’s touch.

“I think you might be the only one who can,” she murmured, her hands gripping the edge of the bed as Olga’s lips found the sensitive spot just below her ear.

Olga’s hands moved lower, sliding under the hem of Alexia’s shirt, caressing her skin with the same tenderness that made Alexia melt every time. “Relax, love. I’ve got you.”

Alexia’s breath hitched as Olga’s fingers teased along the waistband of her shorts, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” Olga whispered, her lips brushing against Alexia’s neck.

Alexia’s head fell back slightly, a quiet moan escaping her lips. “You’re dangerous,” she whispered, hands trembling as they slid into Olga’s hair. “But yes... help me.”

Olga’s smile was mischievous as she kissed Alexia deeply again, her hands sliding lower. “I plan to,” she breathed against Alexia’s mouth before their lips met once more, a promise of passion and tension waiting to be released.

The kitchen was quiet, morning light filtering through the windows in soft, golden streaks.

Y/n sat at the table, lazily stirring her cereal around, the spoon clinking against the bowl. She wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t even tired anymore.

Mostly, she just felt... unsettled.

It was too early — way earlier than she needed to be up — but sleep had refused to come, her brain trapped in a loop of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.

Today was her first day back at the training centre. Not for real training, not yet.

Just physio. Just recovery.

But somehow, it felt even scarier.

The soft thud of footsteps snapped her out of her spiralling thoughts. She stiffened automatically, already knowing who it was without looking up.

Alexia and Olga shuffled into the kitchen, both of them still half-asleep, still wrapped in their morning routine.

Alexia was rubbing her eyes, hair sticking up in every direction. Olga followed, yawning into her sleeve, the hem of her oversized Barça sweatshirt hanging halfway down her thighs.

“You look ridiculous when you wake up,” Olga teased, grabbing the coffee pot with practised ease.

Alexia snorted, not missing a beat. “I always look good, even half-dead.”

Without thinking, she reached out, wrapping her arms around Olga's waist and pressing a lazy kiss to her temple. "Don't forget it."

Y/n stared down into her cereal like it had personally offended her.

Her face burned.

God, why did they have to be so... so normal about it? So affectionate, like it was just a part of breathing?

It made something twist in her chest.

Desperate to break the moment, Y/n coughed — loud enough to get their attention.

Both Alexia and Olga froze like they had been caught stealing cookies, and then slowly turned to face her.

“Y/n?” Alexia blinked, clearly surprised. “You’re up? This early?”

Y/n shrugged, awkward, defensive. “Couldn’t sleep.”

There was a beat of silence, thick with everything unspoken — the nerves, the anxiety, the way Y/n kept wringing her hands under the table.

Olga softened first, stepping away from the coffee machine and leaning on the counter casually. “Nervous about physio?” she asked, her voice warm and calm.

Y/n nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the swirling milk in her bowl. “Yeah. I mean... It's just physio. It’s not even real training yet. But...”

She trailed off, not sure how to explain the weight pressing down on her chest.

“You don’t have to pretend it’s nothing," Alexia said, squeezing her shoulder as she walked past. “You’re allowed to be nervous. It's normal.”

Y/n gave her a tiny, half-hearted smile, appreciating the gesture even if she didn’t know how to say it out loud.

Olga grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and started pouring coffee, glancing over her shoulder.

“I’ll drive you,” she said casually. “Alexia’s leaving with the team for the away game, but I’ll take you. We can grab lunch after, if you want.”

Y/n looked up, startled by the offer.

“You don't have to,” Y/n said quickly, panicking a little at the thought of being a burden. “I can take an Uber.”

Olga smiled, soft and patient. “Don’t be silly, I want to.”

“And,” Alexia added with a teasing grin, already pouring protein powder into a bottle, “if you don't take her offer, she’ll just go anyway–she’s been craving some weird sandwich she saw on Instagram.”

Olga shrugged, not denying it.

Y/n ducked her head to hide the stupid, small smile that tugged at her mouth.

“Alright, you drive me and we’ll have lunch after.”

The training centre was quiet.

Too quiet.

Y/n limped through the hallways, her boot thudding softly against the floor, the distant echo of her steps the only thing filling the silence.

The rest of the team was away for an away game, and for once, she was grateful. No stares. No whispers. No conversation of ‘I know you’re gonna be back soon.’

She thought she would be more upset about missing games.

But the truth was that pain didn’t even compare to the heavier guilt dragging at her.

Disappointing Alexia, lying to Olga, hurting the team’s trust... hurting Kika — that stung far worse than missing a few matches.

Games could be won again. Trophies could be earned later. But the damage she had done to people who trusted her? That wasn’t so easy to fix.

The thought of facing Kika again made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

Y/n was a coward.

And she still didn’t know how she was supposed to look Kika in the eye — or what she was going to say when she finally did.

Unfortunately, the thought of not seeing Kika was also uncomfortable too.

So for now, it was good, just her. And the physiotherapist.

The physio room was bright with natural light pouring through the windows, a soft breeze drifting in from the open ones.

It smelled faintly like antiseptic and eucalyptus cream. Familiar and sterile and oddly calming.

“Morning,” the physio greeted her with a warm smile. He helped her settle onto the padded table and gently removed the boot.

“First day back,” Y/n muttered, leaning back on her elbows. “Can’t wait.”

He chuckled, running practised hands over her ankle and calf, checking the swelling, the tension, the way her skin twitched when he pressed certain points.

“You’ve still got a bit of inflammation,” he said after a beat, frowning slightly as he moved her foot gently. “I know the scan looked decent, but your muscle’s a little more aggravated than I’d like.”

Y/n’s brows pulled together. “So…?”

He paused before responding, professional but honest. “We’ll take it day by day, but don’t be surprised if this goes a little longer than two weeks. Maybe closer to three. A week and some change, at least.”

Y/n blinked at him, then stared up at the ceiling. “Fuck.”

“It’s not a setback,” he added quickly. “It’s just… your body asking for more time. You pushed through pain longer than you should’ve, so now it needs more care.”

Y/n let out a humourless laugh. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

They didn’t say much after that. He walked her through some gentle range-of-motion exercises, icing, and light stim. It was boring. Repetitive. But it kept her mind from spiralling too far.

Still, as she sat back and watched the ice wrap tighten around her ankle, all she could think was: another game I’ll miss. Another day watching from the sidelines. And even worse, Alexia was right.

She didn't know why that stung so much.

Maybe because it meant she’d messed up even more than she thought.

Maybe because she wasn’t sure how to fix it.

The next day, the girls were back at training, following their usual routine while Y/n sulked into the physio room.

Y/n sat on the edge of the physio table, ankle freshly iced, her leg propped up, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of her shorts.

The window in front of her gave her the perfect view of the training pitch. She hadn’t meant to look. But she couldn’t stop once she saw her.

Kika.

Out there in her bright training kit, laughing at something Jana said, her ponytail bouncing behind her as she jogged toward the rondo circle.

She looked light. Relaxed. Like everything was normal.

Y/n stared longer than she should’ve. Long enough to realise she was looking for any signs that Kika was hurt, that Kika was mad at her.

When she had yelled at Kika, Kika hadn’t yelled back; she stood composed, and just let Y/n say whatever she wanted.

Alexia and Jana had both said Kika was quiet after it happened. Sad, maybe. Withdrawn. But now? Kika was out there with Jana, playing, moving, laughing.

Like she didn’t miss her at all.

And why would she? Y/n wouldn’t miss someone who screamed in her face for trying to help or for, well, caring.

Y/n sighed, leaning back slightly on her hands. Her ankle throbbed, but not half as much as her pride. Because in the end… she’d stormed into Alexia and Olga’s room for nothing.

When they all sat down for breakfast this morning, pretending, Alexia looked at her sideways. They hadn’t had an opportunity to talk about that, since Alexia had left quickly yesterday.

“So… which two girls did you not want training together?” She asked, trying to sound casual as she passed the toast to Olga.

And that’s when it hit her.

How stupid she must have looked. How ridiculous the whole thing sounded once it was out in the open.

So Y/n just mumbled that it didn’t matter anymore and asked Alexia to drop it.

Which she did… eventually. But not before Alexia took a long, dramatic pause, scanned every expression Y/n made like she was solving a case, and promised herself she’d figure it out on her own.

Y/n, however, didn’t budge.

And now here she was.

Stuck in the physio room.

Still kind of mad.

Still kind of heartbroken.

And Kika just kept training.

Y/n shifted in her seat, uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with her ankle. Her stomach twisted. Her chest, too.

Was it guilt? Jealousy? Something in between?

Y/n didn’t know. She just knew it didn’t feel good. Y/n needed to apologise. That much was clear. But not yet. Not like this.

She was still too wound up, too raw, too snappy. And Kika didn’t deserve another version of her that couldn't get her emotions in check. She deserved someone steady. Honest. Calm.

Someone that Y/n didn’t feel like right now.

Besides, there was another match in two days. The team needed to focus.

Kika needed to focus. And the last thing Y/n wanted to do was drag her into more drama right before a game.

She would give it time. She would let her own head settle first.

Then maybe, when her voice wasn’t edged with guilt or deflection, when her heart wasn’t beating weird in her chest just from seeing Kika smile at someone else, then she’d figure out the right words.

For now, all she could do was watch.

And hope Kika was doing okay.

After physio, Y/n trudged toward the locker room to grab her things, her brace thudding heavily against the floor.

Her body ached, her headache, and all she wanted was to disappear into her room and sleep for a week.

She had managed to avoid Kika the entire day — hiding behind corners, ducking into empty hallways like a criminal.

Not her proudest strategy, but it had worked. So far.

She pushed the locker room door open and froze.

Jana was sitting inside, tying her shoes slowly, looking up with a small smile, when she spotted her.

Y/n nodded back, cautious. She knew Jana. Knew her too well. Since they were fourteen, Y/n could always tell when Jana had something to say — and right now, the way Jana’s knee bounced nervously gave it away immediately.

Y/n stuffed her water bottle into her bag, pretending she didn’t notice.

“Hey,” Jana said casually. “How’s physio going?”

Y/n shrugged, zipping up her bag. “Bad. They pushed my rehab from two weeks to three.”

Jana winced. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Y/n said shortly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She was two seconds away from bolting when she caught Jana fidgeting again.

She sighed. “Just spill it, Jana.”

Jana blinked. “Wow. You sound like Alexia now.”

Y/n stiffened, narrowing her eyes. “What do you want?”

Jana laughed a little, but there was still something hesitant about her. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then said, “Just be honest with me... does it bother you that I’m pairing up with Kika?”

Y/n nearly dropped her bag.

Her face went up in flames instantly. “What? No! Of course not!” she said way too fast, way too loud.

Jana just raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“It’s just…” Jana continued carefully, “Alexia’s been weird lately. Super intense about who pairs with whom during drills. And then after I told you that Kika and I were training together... You kind of got quiet?”

Y/n stared at her, frozen, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

“I mean, it’s fine if it does,’ Jana added quickly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, I can partner with Esmee or–”

Y/n forced a laugh, waving a hand. “It’s not—it’s nothing, really. You’re reading too much into it.”

Jana gave her a knowing look.

Not pushing.

But not buying it, either.

“Okay,” she said simply, grabbing her bag and heading for the door.

Y/n stood there for a second, heart hammering, cheeks still burning, feeling like she had barely survived an ambush.

When Y/n finally made it outside, she spotted Alexia’s car parked near the entrance, engine running. Alexia was in the driver’s seat, tapping her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel.

Y/n hobbled faster, threw her bag into the backseat, and climbed into the passenger seat with a grunt.

The moment the door shut, Alexia sighed dramatically. “Ay, qué demora!” [You took too long,] she muttered under her breath.

Y/n turned to her, glaring. “Have you ever been subtle for a single day in your life?”

Alexia blinked, confused. “Qué?”

“You!” Y/n said, flailing a little. “Are you going around during training, staring at who pairs up with whom?”

Alexia looked at her like she was the crazy one.

“You asked me to!”

“I know!” Y/n said, throwing her hands up. “But I thought you would be more subtle about it!”

Alexia scoffed, pulling out of the parking lot. “And how exactly am I supposed to be subtle if you don’t even tell me which players you’re worried about?”

Y/n groaned, sliding down in her seat. “Oh my god. Forget it. I’m not telling you anything anymore.”

“Good,” Alexia said immediately. “Maybe then I won't have a nineteen-year-old walking in on me and my wife at eleven pm.”

“Let it go, tio!” Y/n exclaimed, “I already said I was sorry!”

The drive was mostly silent.

Both of them were sitting there, arms crossed, matching stubborn frowns on their faces. The tension between them hung heavy in the air — not angry, exactly, but dense with unspoken words.

Y/n stared out the window, pretending not to care. Alexia kept her eyes on the road, pretending not to glance over every few minutes.

Finally, Alexia sighed quietly, soft enough that Y/n almost missed it.

“I didn’t mean it,” Alexia muttered.

Y/n blinked, turning to her. “What?”

“I didn’t mean…” Alexia shrugged, one hand loosening on the steering wheel. “I didn’t mean to say that I’m glad you won’t tell me stuff anymore, I want you to, you can talk to me about anything.”

Y/n stayed quiet, fiddling with the strap of her bag.

Alexia cleared her throat awkwardly.

“Look, I’m captain. I know what happens in the team. Sí?”

Y/n nodded slowly. “Yeah... and?”

“And…” Alexia tapped her fingers on the wheel, searching for the right words. “I’ve known you since you were a little girl. Since you couldn’t even tie your own boots properly.”

Y/n’s face flushed, but she didn’t argue.

“I’m just saying,” Alexia continued, voice a little gentler now, “that maybe... hypothetically... if you had feelings for someone—” she waved a hand, casually, like it meant nothing “—you could tell me. I wouldn’t be mad. Or weird. Even if they were from the team.”

Y/n’s entire body stiffened, heat rushing up her neck like a fire.

“I mean, you know,” Alexia added, half-smiling, “we already have a few couples. It’s not a big deal.”

Y/n whipped around, absolutely burning red.

“What made you think that?! I don’t— I don’t like anyone!”

Alexia bit her lip, clearly fighting a smile. “I didn’t say you did. I said if you did.”

"Well, good," Y/n huffed, crossing her arms tighter over her chest. "I'm glad you don’t think I do because I don’t!”

Alexia snorted quietly but didn’t push it further. She just drove, humming lightly under her breath.

Meanwhile, Y/n stared out the window again, jaw clenched, willing her heart to stop racing — and trying very hard not to think about a certain brunette that she still owed apologies to.

I had so much fun writing the scene where they're playing video games + yn walking in on Alexia and Olga haha!! Hope you guys enjoyed it!! <3

#woso x reader #woso fanfic #kika nazareth x yn #kika nazareth #kika nazareth x reader

237 notes · View notes

sevgilimsatoru · 11 hours ago

Text

Error: 410 (Self Aware!AU Caleb Edition) Part 14

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

Summary: A self aware!AU with Caleb and NonMC! reader.

Tags: Caleb x reader, Caleb x NonMC! reader, Caleb x fem!reader, fluff, Stressedout!reader, Hypersexual!reader.

Word count: 910

Inspired by: @ittybittyfanblog

A/N: Short chapter, it's not that good I think. Have a nice day!

"You bloomed from the abyss Climbing walls to reach the sky See the universe shine And the starlight in your eyes

When the darkness blinds my sight I will find you by your scent If I slumber forevermore Tell me you won’t leave my world"

You have a new message from Caleb!

"Returning to this world with you by my side is the greatest miracle... that fate has given me"

“No, I get it. I’m just glad you are here.” Your fingers caressed Caleb's cheek as you spoke. You were both lying in your bed, just talking about whatever came to mind.

You still couldn’t believe he was here... It had been a few hours since he picked you up from work. From the moment he brought you home, you were trying to soak up his presence as much as you could.

“So… what did you do in these past four years?” You said, poking his cheek. Looking at the soft smile on his face. He just shrugged in return.

“Well, when I first came to this world, it was very different from what I’m used to. I knew I had to find you, of course, but I had to learn how to live here first.” Caleb said, squishing your cheek as he chuckled, “I wanted to get a job that was at least familiar to me. Get myself through flight school to get the job I wanted.”

“How did you even get the money to get yourself into flight school? Isn’t it expensive?”

“Yeah, it is. Well, I did a lot of odd jobs. For loans I needed to have an identity, but I wasn’t exactly a real person until a few years ago. So, I had to get myself registered on documents. I was working while getting’ myself through flight school.”

“When my studying was finally complete, I spent the better part of last year getting’ a job, repaying my loans, and trying to find you.” Caleb said, his shoulders sagging, he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you. “It was hard, but I could endure that and more since it meant being beside you.”

“You can stay with me for a while. I can help you out with… whatever you want.” You said, your fingers curling around his shirt. Rubbing the fabric between your fingers.

“I can stay with you forever, but I’d rather not burden you.”

“It’s not a burden. You’ve got to stop trying to act so tough all the time.” You said, watching as he shifted in your arms. Resting his face in the crook of your neck, your fingers brushing his hair aside.

“I’ll be fine, sunshine. I promise, and I’m not going anywhere. Alright?”

“Alright.” You said with a sigh, it was no use trying to fight him about it, he wouldn't budge.

Caleb did start staying with you, and it was comforting having him there. Your schedules didn’t quite match, but he was here now; that should be more than enough for you.

You sighed, opening the door to your apartment. Kicking off your heels, you walked inside. Your feet were starting to hurt so bad. “I’m home,” you said, putting your bag on the couch and taking your phone out.

“Welcome back.” Caleb said, his words coming from the bedroom. You followed his voice, walking inside the bedroom to see Caleb standing in front of the mirror. He was in his uniform, getting ready. You walked up to him, wrapping your arms around him from the back.

“You have a night shift?” You asked, pressing a kiss on his arm. Watching him nod, you pulled away, walking beside him. Your hands found his tie, fixing it slightly. “Stay safe…”

Caleb chuckled in return, patting your head. “I’ll be fine, sunshine. You worry too much.” He said, waiting until you were done.

His hand wrapping around your arm, pulling you closer. His other hand held your chin, leaning his head down inches away from your face. An easy smile on his face. He saw your breath hitch, his eyes flickering down to your lips. Just waiting for a moment.

“May I?” He asked, his warm brown eyes looking into your eyes, waiting patiently for your agreement.

You let out a breath, nodding. You could feel your throat drying up. His eyes softened as his finger tapped your cheek. “Words, sunshine. I need a yes or no.”

“Yeah… yeah—you may.” You squeaked out, swallowing back the dryness in your throat.

Caleb leaned in, pressing his lips against your own. His lips felt soft, the warm breath he let out against your lips. It was slow, hesitant even, as if he was nervous about it. Caleb leaned away slightly, licking his lips before kissing you again and again. Both of his hands gently holding your face. Kissing you until you could feel air leaving your lungs.

He leaned away; the tips of his ears were flushed a pretty shade of pink. Pressing small kisses all over your face. You let out a giggle, making him smile when your hands covered his own.

When Caleb stopped, his eyes stayed glued on your face, taking you in for a few moments. He stepped back, picking up his suitcase. “I’ll get going now, otherwise I’ll be very late,” he said, walking out of the room, while you followed him behind.

You stepped in front of him, wrapping your arms around him, hugging him tightly, and he reciprocated the gesture. Squeezing you tight and then letting you go. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will. Stay safe.” You replied, watching as he put on his shoes.

“Mhm… I’ll be back in a while.” He said, standing up straight, his hand resting softly on your head, patting it.

He sighed, walking over to the door and opening it. He looked over his shoulder, smiling at you.

“Don’t miss me too much.” Caleb said, walking out of the door and closing it behind him.

Tag list: @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @aneertawrites @etsuniiru @demon-master-zero @angstylittleb1tch @mcdepressed290 @ittybittyfanblog @winwinwrites @alifyairl @huhleighna @calebsbeanpeeler @bookworrm1999 @mentaltrouble2201 @noxus123 @babyx91 @multisstuff @beomluvrr @sunnylittleapple @lunia-likes-pomegranet @imhere2dosomething @lostpsycho13 @april-likes-smut @calebsbabyapple @mephisto-with-a-knife @wooasecret @anatherone @asgardiancoffemaker @sadsaidthesadthing

113 notes · View notes

ladykailitha · 1 day ago

Text

You're a Dream to Me Part 10

Here we are at the end of this wonderful story. I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I enjoyed taking you on this journey.

In this we have Eddie and Steve navigating their new relationship and we see why I didn't want Claudia as Steve's mom's soulmate. ;)

Also Ted is not a bad father and husband, just a disconnected one.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

After the concert was over and Steve was ushered into the green room. Robin and Dustin had been sent off home with a bunch signed merch and a promise to Robin that Steve would say goodbye before they left.

Eddie stood in the middle of the room with his hands in his back pockets, rocking back on his heels. “So...”

Steve huffed dramatically and strode over to him, pulling him in for a searing hot first kiss. Eddie’s arms came up around his waist to grip the back of his shirt, holding on for dear life.

When they finally broke off, Eddie blinked at him for a moment. “Wow.” And then dived back in for another kiss. It was sweet and smooth, like melted chocolate.

“Let’s talk,” Steve breathed, “before you kiss me senseless.”

Eddie chuckled. “You’re the one that started it, pretty boy. But sure we’ll talk.”

Steve grinned back, taking Eddie’s hand leading them to the sofa. “I just want to say that this isn’t a strike against you or anything, just letting you know the scope of what we’re talking about here, me waiting for you wise.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said with a nod. “I’ve got a bad feeling it’s in the years category instead of months, or even weeks like for me.”

Steve winced. “Yeah, since your final go round at high school.”

Eddie’s eyes fluttered shut. Steve reached out and took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

“No judgment, remember. It doesn’t matter to me why you weren’t ready for your soulmate. Some people never are and sometimes it takes a lifetime. Take the guy who came with me for example, or rather I should say who I came with.”

Eddie opened his eyes to see Steve’s earnest face. “Come on, you can’t expect me to believe it’s been ‘years’ and he hasn’t found his soulmate yet. Dude had the biggest baby face.”

Steve laughed and shook his head. “No, he’s one of the lucky bastards who not only met his soulmate when they were thirteen, they got their dreams at the same time. It was almost sickeningly cute.”

“Lucky bastard indeed,” Eddie huffed, drawing his knee up under his other leg.

“But his mom on the other hand,” Steve continued with a cock of his head and an eye roll. “She got pregnant from his dad and they got married really quickly. They weren’t soulmates, but they loved each other a lot. But she’s never been ready for her soulmate because her whole life has been consumed by her son, especially after her husband died. When she’s ready to let him go and find true love, then she’ll be ready.”

Eddie nodded. “That makes sense. My uncle’s the same way. He says when he doesn’t have to worry about me anymore, then he’ll think about this whole soulmate business.”

Steve scooted close. “Well, I’d say that he’s got to starting thinking because I’ll be taking care of you from now on.”

Eddie cupped his cheek and pressed their lips together. He wasn’t sure who moaned and who gasped, but it really didn’t matter. He was more than willing to make either sound come out Steve until the end of time.

There was a knock on the door that forced them to stop.

“Come in!” Eddie called out. He shifted so that they were better situated on the sofa, but other than that he didn’t move at all.

Steve felt his whole body glow with the thought that Eddie didn’t care who was on the other side of that door, they were in this together.

The door opened and Chrissy peaked her head in.

“Hey, guys,” she said with a grimace. “I know this is a really important time for you both, but I need to clear out the room so staff could clean it.”

Eddie smiled up at her. “Of course! We’ll be there in a minute.”

Chrissy gave them a thumbs up and swiftly closed the door behind her.

Eddie stood up and held out his hand for Steve to take. Steve smiled up at him and then slipped his hand in Eddie’s. Eddie gently pulled him to his feet. Then they were inches apart again, and Eddie wanted nothing else but to kiss this man senseless, but if they did that, they wouldn’t be leaving here. At least not for awhile.

So, still hand in hand Eddie led them out of the green room to wear the band and the girls were waiting for them.

“As I understand it,” Chrissy said, “Steve is joining us for the rest of the tour?” Steve nodded. “Fantastic! You’ll meet Leon in New Orleans, he’s Gareth’s soulmate, Georgia in Boston, she’s mine, and Miranda in New York, she’s Jeff’s. Leon is from Louisiana with his band The Pop Rockets. They’re currently on break, so he’s visiting his family. Georgia is touring with her band Lilith’s Little Monsters and both bands will be in Boston at the same time. I will spending time with her, so if you need anything, tough titties. And finally Miranda is New York with her family who is taking care of her while she gestates twins. Got that?”

Steve stared at her in shock and whimpered, “No?”

Everyone laughed, except Eddie who patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, love. I’ve got you. I’ll make sure to point in the right direction.”

Steve looked up at him awe and Eddie blushed. He shoved a strand of hair in front of his face to hide his darkening cheeks. But Steve gently tucked it behind his ear.

“Well shit,” Gareth breathed. “If I didn’t see it myself, there is no way I’d believe Steve Harrington and Eddie were soulmates. But that little scene just cinched it.”

“Like even my parents aren’t as in sync as they are after three hours,” Jeff said in admiration, “and they’ve been soulmates for thirty some odd years.”

“I think they’re cute,” Sophie said with a grin. “I can’t wait to see what they’re like as a couple.”

Everyone agreed with her and they split up to go to the hotel they were staying at for the last night. They had said goodbye to their families before the show, so they missed meeting Steve, but Eddie called Wayne right away to let him know about Steve. He ended the call with promises to bring Steve with him the next time he was visiting.

Yes, Wayne knew Steve from the Soulmate Singles group, but this was different. This was meeting family.

The first couple of days was all at once bliss and nerve-wracking at the same time. Bliss because Steve was spending every second getting to know Eddie and the rest of the band and just being as close to Eddie as physically possible.

It was also nerve-wracking as hell, because he’d never been away from the bookstore for so long. So he was on the phone with Robin making sure she wasn’t being harassed by little old ladies, that she remembered to make the order, and that she was training the new guy right.

After the third day Robin stopped answering his calls and would only send curt text messages. After the fourth time she did that Steve took the hint and would only ask about her or Vickie so she would stop screening his calls.

But other than that Steve would say that he loved life on the road. The new places and new faces. He knew that it must be exhausting for the band, them having done it for almost a decade. But he thrived on it and his enthusiasm spread to everyone else and they started to get pumped up for it too.

When the tour was finally over and everyone came together for a reunion in Hawkins. Jeff and Miranda’s twins were born and they took the long drive to Hawkins to be there (the babies being too young to fly). They were named Vincent and Veronica. Or Vinnie and Ronnie for short.

All the other soulpairs were there. Gareth and Leon, Brian and Sophie, Chrissy and Georgia, Dustin and Suzy, Will and Mike, Robin and Vickie, Lucas and Max, and of course Steve and Eddie. And to everyone’s surprise, Karen and Allison.

Once they saw how happy Steve was with his soulmate, they had talked it over with their husbands. Ted was all for staying married and letting her be with Allison. He explained that his soulmate had passed away and he had been happy being with Karen.

Clint Harrington on the other hand was furious that his wife’s soulmate was a woman and threatened to throw her out until Allison pointed out that everything he was, was because of her. He agreed to a quiet divorce and had moved out to New York to be closer to his job.

El came with Hopper and Joyce. And Claudia and Wayne to round out the older adults.

“Steve!” Dustin said running up to Steve and Eddie. “You’ll never guess what, but Ma started getting her soulmate dreams! Isn’t that amazing?!”

Steve ruffled his hair. “That’s great, bud. It’ll be nice to see your mom happy with someone. Especially now that you’re all grown up.”

“That’s really cool,” Eddie said, trying to hide his smile. “Hey, has she met my uncle, Wayne yet?”

Dustin lit up and slowly began to grin. “No, they haven’t...” He turned on his heel and dashed off.

Steve looked at Eddie in confusion. “What was that about?”

Eddie cackled and rubbed his hands together. “Just wait.”

Steve just shrugged. If Eddie wasn’t going share, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Eddie was like a steel trap when it came to keeping secrets. You could trust Eddie to never tell shit about anyone, not even when the person is right there saying it’s okay.

He loved that about his soulmate. Well he loved his soulmate full stop.

Suddenly there were sounds of Dustin squealing like stuck pig.

“And there it is,” Eddie said with a grin. “Come on, let’s go meet the newest additions to the Munson family.”

Eddie grabbed his hand and lead him over to where Claudia and Wayne were hugging each other fiercely.

It was then when Steve got it. “Soulmates, huh?”

Eddie beamed at him. “Yup! I had a feeling it was her from the conversation we had when first bonded. Two people who love their charges with the passion of a thousand fiery suns? Who would be better for each other?”

Dustin was jumping up and down and screaming, “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!”

He spotted Eddie and Steve and ran up to them. “My surrogate brother and my soon to be step brother! I can’t believe it! We’re going to be actual family, Steve!”

Steve hugged him fiercely. “We always were. This just makes it official.”

They celebrated their new soulmate status as everyone around them just enjoyed the party.

Steve wrapped his arms around Eddie’s waist. “You know, it might have taken us a long time to get here, but I think it was the perfect time. Maybe if you had been ready when I was, you wouldn’t have made it big with the band and I wouldn’t have got the bookstore. And those were really important to both of us.”

Eddie paused for a moment. “You know I never thought about it like that, but you’re right. We had to go through all that to get to here. Just like Claudia and Wayne. Love you, so much, Stevie!” He kissed him fiercely.

“Love you too, rockstar!”

Tag List: COMPLETED

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @themoonagainstmers @eyehartart @tartarusknight @chaotic-waffle @dotdot-wierdlife

10- @stedestielfrattficlover @steddieislife @riotrose8 @bunnybens-blog @watermelonmite

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #soulmate au #rockstar eddie munson #bookstore owner steve harrington

85 notes · View notes

riamaple · 2 days ago

Text

Life on Your Line (Ch. 8)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Summary: Cursed to sacrifice your life to save another, you were never able to connect with others, always meant to drift before you could belong. Death was all you knew. Then, one day in Brooklyn, you saved a young man, and for some reason, you kept seeing him again. And again. And again. No matter where you went, across decades, you always found your way back to him.

He was forced to live to destroy, you were forced to die to save—bound together in ways neither of you could understand.

Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending). Death and Dying. Self-Sacrifice (Immortality / Resurrection). Canon-Typical Violence / Description of Wounds. Suicidal Thoughts. Implications and References to Child Death, Suicide, Self-Destructive Behavior / Self-Harm.

< PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Word Count: 4.4k

Important Note at the end. Please read!

CHAPTER 8: February 2004 - April 2014

February 18, 2004. 10:10 AM

I have never been more scared in my life until January 18.

I saved James for the 8th time, but I almost failed.

I did fail. He stopped me when I was trying to save him and he got stabbed in the stomach. He

The page was littered with tears and your pencil slipped from your hand.

You slammed your journal shut and fell back into bed.

<><><>

February 18, 2004. 10:10 AM 6:28 PM

I have never been more scared in my life until January 18.

I saved James for the 8th time, but I almost failed.

I did fail. He stopped me when I was trying to save him and he got stabbed in the stomach. He

It wasn’t my fault. I keep telling myself that. I want to believe that.

But it’s hard to blame someone else when this is all I’ve ever done. I’ve saved hundreds of lives — I’ve been doing this for almost a century. I’ve gotten so good at stopping death from approaching others. To let death say hello to me instead.

I failed before. I’ve allowed myself to let people die before, even when I knew I’d wake up the next day feeling the second worst pain of my life. But the people I failed — I don’t know them. I feel sad, sure, but I stopped hurting deeply for strangers a long time ago.

But James is mine to know and I almost let him die. It’s ridiculous to care this much. I only see him once every decade or so. He never remembers me immediately until now, and he means more to me than I could ever say in words.

And when he’s the only one I’ve been sent to multiple times… I can’t help but think you are telling me something — that James is more than just a person to me. I refuse to let you choose how I feel about him, but you have done your part in letting me be close to him.

You let my family die, but you keep bringing me back to James to save him.

But then I almost let him die.

I know I succeeded in saving him because I woke up with minor pain. My body is sore from blowing up, but I still have the energy to pick up a mug and hold a book — to eat a meal without wanting to collapse to the floor, crying in pain. But that doesn’t change the fact that I almost failed.

He tried to save me. He didn’t want me to get hurt, but in the end, I’ve felt more pain than I ever have in more than 100 years. He held onto me like I was going to die when it was he who was dying.

He cried for me. The dangerous, killer assassin cried for someone like me.

He begged me to leave him and I couldn’t. He told me not to help him and I couldn’t. He told me to run and I couldn’t. Then when he told me not to go, I left.

He wanted me to live. No one has ever wanted that for me. I didn’t even want that for me. For a long time, I didn’t want that because I was so fucking tired. But as long as he’s alive, then I’m alive.

I’m sorry. James, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to leave you. I just don’t have a choice.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

James, I lov

<><><>

February 19, 2004. 8:29 PM

I finally figured out what happened after I died.

Turns out, that tiny little bomb held enough power to knock over the bridge despite me being far away from it. The explosion itself wasn’t enormous, but the shockwave was designed to knock over anything.

So even if James and I managed to get away from the explosion, the buildings around us would’ve fallen on us. Fucking hell.

It managed to knock over a few buildings along the river, but luckily there was no one there since it was the middle of the night and all the stores were closed. That said, the police showed up at the scene immediately to try to figure out what was going on — a bomb did go off. They had the whole area on lockdown and I don’t know if James was caught. In any other case, I would say he escaped, but he was so hurt that I’m not sure if he managed to get away from the cops.

But even if he managed to get away, I want to know if he went back to whoever is controlling him. The man he fought… From what he was saying, it seemed like he also worked for them. What kind of a place is James stuck in? They’re creating terrifying soldiers left and right and it’s horrific. That man was scary but didn’t seem brainwashed like James.

I have to find him. I have to free James no matter what.

<><><>

March 1, 2004. 11:47 PM

I’ve been trying to find newspapers, articles, anything about the “Winter Soldier” and so far there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. I had a better job at finding fucked up research papers about electric shock torture and body modifications than this.

After all these years — after every attempt to save him — there’s no way that he’s just...unknown. No one like him could be so invisible. I refuse to believe that.

I can’t just let this go. Not when I’ve saved him so many times. Not when I’m the only one who’s seen him for what he really is — someone who’s been broken, and yet still...fighting.

I’ll find him. I have to.

<><><>

May 2, 2004. 5:19 AM

I had another nightmare about James.

He was dead by the time I got to him. There was blood everywhere, all starting from his stomach and flowing to my feet. His eyes weren’t blue — they were dark and lifeless. I shook his body, screaming at him to wake up, to breathe, but he didn’t move a muscle.

I woke up crying and couldn’t go back to sleep. The nightmare left me with this twisted feeling in my stomach that I can’t get rid of. The thought of him dying is so horrific.

I’ve never been afraid of losing anyone like this before. My family’s death happened quickly — too sudden for me to do anything about it. My family will always be a part of my life but with James… It feels like if I lost him, I’d be losing something that’s become a part of me. Something that I want with me at all times. Something that I need and long for.

It’s been too long since I’ve had someone to deeply care for. To ache and feel the absence of their body in every part of your soul, only to feel warm when they hold you again. We’ve always found each other in the face of death, but this feeling — it’s no longer adrenaline. It’s not panic. It’s something deeper.

It’s lov

You scribbled over the broken phrase as hard as you could.

It’s lov

I don’t know if he feels the same about me when he’s been

You paused, biting your lip as your hand trembled. Then you took a breath.

I don’t know if he feels the same about me when he’s been

I can only assume that he feels the same about me. He protected me — he’s always wanted to do something whenever I died for him. Maybe he doesn’t understand what he feels, but he must feel it.

Maybe I don’t understand what I feel either. Or maybe I do know and I’m afraid to admit it because what happens if I lose him and I

Maybe one day I can meet him without death approaching us, and then we can figure it out together.

<><><>

January 19, 2005. 9:42 PM

I was fucking murdered on January 10.

That hasn’t happened in a really long time. Murdered to save someone else? Yeah, all the time.

Murdered just because? Hell no. Not since 1928.

I noticed these two men lingering around while I was working at the library. I first thought they were just there to read — until I realized they were barely looking at the pages and they both wore matching symbols on their jackets. They kept standing close to me, so obviously I started to worry they were stalkers. I told my manager, and he told them to get the fuck out.

But later that night when I left the library, I saw them again. They followed me. I didn’t want them to know where I lived, so I wandered — stopped by the diner, the bar, anywhere with people. But they kept following me. And eventually, they figured out I knew. Just as I figured out they weren’t random men.

I tried to get away, but then they finally confronted me. They said they were a part of an organization dedicated to the people — whatever that means. Honestly, they felt like two new officers on a power trip, acting way more important than they actually were.

But then they asked me about the Winter Soldier.

I guess the government or whatever they’re a part of caught wind of me trying to research James, but that just surprised me more. It confirmed that James isn’t just a myth. He’s not public knowledge, but someone knows.

I tried to lie, obviously, that I just happened to hear about it and it sounded like a cool conspiracy theory to research about.

They didn’t believe me.

They got more aggressive with their questioning — definitely rookies who saw a file they shouldn’t have and decided to take it into their own hands. God, they reminded me of every dumbass cop on TV.

I wasn’t giving them the answers they wanted. One of them pulled a gun. Classic move — threaten people until they cave. But I wasn’t going to tell them anything about James. Especially not after how they were treating me.

But then he shot me. The bastard actually shot me and had the audacity to yell sorry.

Sorry? You shot me in the fucking chest.

For a rookie, he had amazing aim. Or terrible luck — killing probably the only civilian who knew anything about James. He definitely didn’t mean to. I could tell by how much they panicked.

My body doesn’t disappear from the public’s eyes until someone hides me away — put me in the ground or in the cremator to burn me — but there was no way those two were going to give me a peaceful death. They’d poke at my corpse. Take photos. Run my face through their systems.

So I jumped over the bridge. Good luck trying to find a non-existent body.

I don’t know if you were trying to help me, but I'd like to believe that you did. He shot me right before midnight and I woke up “the next day” right after midnight. My body was screaming and I wanted to just sleep the pain away like I usually would, but I had to escape. They killed me, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t search my apartment, especially since my body was gone.

I gathered every document I had about James, grabbed my journals, and left. I barely made it to Tennessee and I’m currently still recovering. I’m still trying to figure out where to go for the next couple of years and what my next name should be. I’m thinking maybe Pennsylvania and Gwen, but until my body stops hurting, I’m not going anywhere.

I don’t think I can research James anymore without getting caught.

I feel ridiculous for thinking the authorities could help him when they fucking killed me. They’d kill him too or worse, torture him. He’d just go back to where he escaped from.

I’ll go find him myself. Fuck everyone else.

<><><>

November 29, 2006. 8:11 PM

I think I’m going insane.

I saw him today. Or, at least, I thought I did.

I was crossing the street when I noticed someone in the crowd. It was a man, tall with broad shoulders, his face hidden beneath a hat. It could’ve been anybody, but there was something in the way he moved that reminded me of James.

I thought maybe I was just imagining it was him, but then he paused just for a second, like he felt me too. But before I could get a better look at him, a bus drove by and he was gone. I should’ve run after him. I should’ve done something. But I didn’t. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m afraid of what I’d find — or what I wouldn’t.

I didn’t realize how much I missed him until now.

I’ve always missed him, but now I’m realizing that I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing him. I don’t think I’ll ever stop wondering when he needs me next. Every day I think about him — everything reminds me of him somehow, because I have so many questions.

When I got my coffee today, I wondered if James also liked coffee. Or when I walked by a cute dog, I wondered if James would prefer dogs over cats. Tiny stuff like that.

It could’ve been anyone. It’s probably no one, but for a brief moment, I thought I saw him. Or…at least the ghost of him. Still out there, maybe waiting for me.

I miss him.

<><><>

October 28, 2007. 7:19 AM

I saved a man on September 28 and he didn’t even thank me.

I walked by an alleyway and saw him with a knife against his neck. Felt the pull, went to save him, same old shit. But when the guy who stabbed me ran away, the man I saved took one look at me and ran too.

There was no more threat, and he still ran off. And of course, I got stabbed in the hips. I wasn’t dying quickly, but I couldn’t get up either. There’s never a reason for me to try to save myself, so I didn’t bother to ask for help. But it took so long for me to bleed out and it was painful too.

The man I saved had every opportunity to get help. It wouldn’t have done anything, but damn I didn’t think he’d be shitty enough to leave me to die. Maybe I shouldn’t have saved this one — I’d rather spend a day or two in pure agony than have felt so betrayed that night.

It’s strange. He’s not the first person who was ungrateful for my sacrifice, but it has been a while since someone left me like that. I didn’t expect it to feel so…empty because of it.

Maybe it’s because I know James wouldn’t have left me.

I miss him. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. Maybe he’s been killed and I wasn’t sent to stop it. Or maybe he’s alive and back on missions. Maybe…he’s forgotten about me completely — his mind wiped to the extreme and now he can’t remember me in the slightest.

That won’t stop me from looking for him. Until I get a yes or no on whether he’s alive or not, I will keep on looking. I look for him in crowds because maybe — just maybe — we could meet each other without being in a life-or-death situation. Just like how we met again at that bookstore before he left for the war, only this time I wouldn’t lie. I’d tell him who I am.

Sometimes though, I wish I could stop caring. To stop having so much hope, only to not see him. I miss him and I want him

You stopped, staring at those last three words.

Then you took a soft breath, unable to stop yourself anymore from avoiding the truth.

I miss him and I want him and I want him. I just want him, and it hurts that I can’t.

<><><>

November 1, 2009. 10:10 PM

Sometimes I wonder how much of my life is mine, and how much of it you plan for me.

Because you can’t fucking convince me it’s a coincidence that the Smithsonian opens the Captain America exhibition a month after I move to DC. I knew it was happening, but not that it would open now. I saw a poster about it right outside my apartment complex.

And honestly? About fucking time they made the exhibition.

It was quite large — a lot of history and artifacts to read and stare at. I didn’t mean to stay there for the whole day, but I did. It was partly strange to be reliving some of my life through the exhibition, seeing pictures of Brooklyn in the 40s and the boy Captain America used to be before getting the serum.

Then I saw him.

There was a whole section dedicated to James. It was not the largest, but it definitely caught my attention. There was a plaque with text about his background, written just above his name and how long he lived.

Bucky Barnes.

1917-1944. What a lie.

I sat on the bench across from the plaque for most of the time there — the security guards were confused about me sitting there for hours. I guess I just got lost in his face, listening to people around me say “he was so young” or “he died too soon” when I know he never died in the first place.

There was also a replica of his uniform with the rest of the Howling Commandos. I stared at that for a long time — whoever remade it did an excellent job because it looked exactly the same as what he was wearing when I saved him. When he held me in his arms, whispering my favorite name in the world.

It reminded me of a simpler time.

Then there was the video.

There was this video of him with Captain America. It was on loop and the quality was what you’d expect from a film in the 40s, but that didn’t stop me from seeing him laugh.

I’ve never seen him laugh before. I saw him smile back in Brooklyn and heard him laugh with his sister, but never actually saw it until now. He’s cute

It was…wonderful. Wonderful to see him laugh as the man who hadn’t lost everything just yet.

I couldn’t help but wonder what James would look like now if he laughed. Or if he still has a reason to laugh.

I’d like to think that the poster right outside my apartment was a sign to me that James is still alive because now, I feel more determined and hopeful to find him.

I will see him laugh.

<><><>

October 12, 2011. 2:28 PM

I almost had a heart attack today when I read the news. Well, more like I almost choked on my baked potato, but it’s just as dangerous.

They found Captain America. He’s alive.

They dug him out of the ice a few days ago and he woke up, perfectly healthy. He didn’t age a single bit. I know that feeling too well.

I can’t imagine how overwhelmed he must be seeing New York now. A lot has changed for the better or worse. There’s so much for him to catch up on now. I wonder if he has any family or friends left from the 40s who could help him adapt to this new world we’re in.

I wonder if he would recognize me like James did.

James. That’s a whole other story.

He doesn’t know that James has been around this whole time. God, what do I do? Am I even supposed to do something? If I tell him, then the authorities would know too, and I’d have to share who I am…but will I be safe? After everything, would I be treated with dignity or like shit?

I don’t really trust the government and I’m not sure if Captain America should either.

<><><>

May 4, 2012. 11:10 PM

Gods are real and aliens are real.

Fucking what.

There was an alien invasion led by a Norse god in New York today. I thought I’d seen everything after being alive for more than 100 years, but apparently, you like to keep me on my toes.

I was — maybe selfishly — grateful that I was nowhere near New York today because I definitely would’ve died for someone else. Instead, I got to sit at home and watch the battle unfold on my TV and it felt like I was watching a film.

Everything felt fictional.

But no, aliens exist and gods walk amongst us.

I wonder if there’s a weird cosmic being out there who could explain to me what my curse is then.

Despite watching insanity happen on the screen, I did see a lot of familiar faces. Iron Man was back in action and the Hulk suddenly reappeared — who knows where that guy went all this time?

And then there he was. Captain America. Saving the day after only being awake for 7 months. What a hero.

I feel bad for him — waking up decades later to find that his loved ones have grown up or passed away. Thrown into a brand new world and expected to conform to our fucked up society. Brought into another fight before he could even process everything.

I won’t lie… I have thought about going to see Captain America. I don’t know what exactly I’d do, but I am curious to see if he’d recognize me like James did. Especially considering that he’d been asleep this whole time, so for him…he saw me only 10 years ago.

If he recognized me, then I could tell him about James — that there are 2 people who know him from the 40s. Or, I guess that James KNEW him with his memory being

And maybe…if I can’t do it, then Captain America could be the one to save James.

<><><>

September 19, 2012. 11:06 PM

I feel pathetic.

I saw Steve Rogers today and I couldn’t say hello.

He was roaming around with a couple of agents, trying to find someone or something. I saw him from afar and suddenly felt the urge to tell him — to say James needs help.

But when I got close, I saw the symbol on the agents’ uniforms. It was the same symbol I saw before that rookie agent shot me in the chest.

Of course, Steve is working with them.

I stood there like a deer in headlights until one of the agents looked at me. I turned away so Steve didn’t see me, but I saw how comfortable he looked. It was like he belonged with them as if he wasn’t once a man from the 40s — a boy who brought his sick mother a balloon.

He could probably help get James out, but I couldn’t risk it. I don’t know what side those people are on, and I am not about to get James killed because of my mistake again. But there’s still a part of me that hopes that behind all that protocol and “doing the right thing,” there was still the man who adored James and followed him into the fire, as Becca had described him.

He could be the hero that James needs.

And me?

I’m pathetic. Selfish, even, to have walked away from Steve because I was too scared. Scared of what those agents might do to me if they found out about my curse — that I could die again and again and come back with no scars or bruises. They could turn me into a weapon, just like how James was by whoever is controlling him.

James is in pain and I’m too scared to talk to Steve.

I feel worthless.

<><><>

March 20, 2014. 9:06 AM

I saved a teenager on February 20 and I woke up wondering if my bones were intact.

She was on a field trip with her class and I was walking past them when I felt the pull. I looked and saw that she had fallen behind because she just tied her shoelaces, but I saw the bus coming towards her. I ran and pushed her out of the way as the bus went onto the sidewalk.

I’ve been hit by cars, minivans, motorcycles, you name it. But none of them are as bad as getting hit by a bus. I definitely didn’t miss that experience.

Saving her wasn’t smooth — it wasn’t like those scenes in the movies where the hero grabs someone and rolls to safety. I pushed her out of the way just in time before I fell onto the grass, made up of broken bones and blood. People were screaming and calling for help, but the teenager stayed with me.

It felt familiar.

I have died in a vehicular accident so many times, but this felt like when I saved James for the 1st time.

She was crying and telling me to stay awake, but I was only able to smile at her before my vision went dark.

I did see her name tag. Her name is Mandy.

I checked the news this morning and found out that the news didn’t report on my death. It was just another accident in the city to them. But it wasn’t discreet enough for me — the crowd saw me die and Mandy definitely got a good look at my face.

So…it’s time to move. Again. Disappear before someone has the chance to ask why a dead person is suddenly walking around again.

That’s never happened — no one recognizes me — but there is always the chance and I’m not willing to risk it.

But it’s getting harder to keep running. I really liked DC and I felt like I was starting to feel settled for once in my life…but you like to make sure I never feel a true sense of belonging.

Time to look for another apartment somewhere.

<><><>

April 5, 2014. 12:20 AM

I saved James for the 9th time on March 5, and I got to say goodbye.

NEXT CHAPTER >

IMPORTANT NOTE, PLEASE READ:

Part 1 of this story will be 11 chapters long, and then I’ll be taking a ~3 week hiatus because I’m actually finishing my Master’s degree right now! Considering this was originally a short story, I thought I’d finish writing this way before my schedule got insane, but nope! So I’ll be taking some time to graduate + write ahead for the next 2 parts.

Chapter 10 and Chapter 11 (Epilogue of Part 1) will be out on May 3, so Thunderbolts* will feed us Bucky content while I finish my degree!

Thank you to everyone who’s been reading along!

General Taglist! @a-century-of-sass @clemicious @fallenxjas @paryl @frog-fans-unite @sebastians-love @buckvoidsyy @recorddust @nj01 @avengersgirllorianna @western-nightss @chonkybonky

Thanks for reading :)

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel #winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x y/n #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #mcu #marvel cinematic universe

71 notes · View notes

daengtokki · 3 days ago

Text

part eleven | litotes // serial killer!Kim Seungmin/afab reader

WC: 15k

RATING: mature/mdni—contains: family trauma (specifically mother/daughter), casual racism, self harm, suicide mention, miscarriage mention, blood play, cannibalism (just a little), things staring ominously from a distance (again), hallucinations

SYNOPSIS: Seungmin floats through life alone, haunted by his memories—keeping himself under control, and quieting his mind the only way he knows how…killing and watching the life leave his victims eyes. When you cross his path on a morning hunt, something new (something forgotten) starts to move inside of him, leading both of you on a path to confront the unspeakable past.

COMMENTS: The first chapter to be given a proper title at posting! And the meaning of this title is a hint for what’s to come in part twelve. Take your time reading...reread everything after this if you'd like (I know a few of you that like doing that, and it's amazing to think about—seriously). I will have part twelve up before I leave for my dominate concerts.

[ ML — DEITY MASTERLIST AND TAGLIST]

[ PLAYLIST PARTS 1—6 ]

The quiet in his head becomes unbearable, and he never imagined he would think that. Quiet. Beautiful, comfortable silence—that’s what he has with you when he gets into bed every night. This isn’t the same.

Seungmin didn’t always come home to his big empty bed at night, not before you came around. Sometimes he would close a bar, stumble to an empty park and will something to come out of the darkness for him in his drunken stupor. Some nights he would check into a hotel just to look at something different for a change. The monotonous torment of his existence became intolerable too often.

He came very close to telling you and Heecheol about his state of mind last spring—May 23rd, to be exact. Seungmin checked into a motel not unlike the Dalkkum in Hongcheon, and the only thing he brought along with him was every pill he could find. Before he went through with it, or almost did, he sat in a hot bath and watched the full moon move across the sky for an hour or so…however long it took the water to go cold—and instead of acting on his big plans, he drank the bottle of champagne he was going to wash everything down with, and a second bottle, and then he passed out on the balcony.

The next morning, he didn’t really want to die anymore. Not as much, at least. The anniversary of that day could have been bad. The anniversary of his mother’s death could have been worse. It wasn’t, because you were there with him.

“Stop…” he pushes until Heecheol releases him. “Please, I can’t.” Seungmin is far too gentle, but…he also kept going and kissed right back, so what right does he have to overreact now? The sting of his lips remains even after Heecheol turns away, but first he looks Seungmin up and down like he’s just realizing he’s in the room. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

It takes him a few beats before he can turn and force a smile. “It’s fine.”

The static hasn’t returned, at least. The room is still too quiet, too warm, too heavy. Seungmin isn’t quite sure what to do now aside from leave. “I should get back home. Tokki is all alone with the boys.”

“I was going to ask if I could take you two out for dinner, but I guess that wouldn’t work with two little ones.” It’s not the awkwardness of the kiss he’s concerned about, it’s the babies. “But ordering in is always an option. I’m sure getting a good dinner on the table is tough while taking care of them.”

No, Seungmin thinks. He isn’t sure how taxing things will become in the next few weeks and months, but he’s looking forward to finding out. “I’m not sure—“

“Look, I’m sorry I was kind of forward there. But you didn’t…forget it.”

“Today might not be the best for getting together.”

Heecheol turns away again and starts undressing. First his shirt, up and over his head and thrown to the floor. He pulls at his waistband, but the sweats remain on for now, to Seungmin’s relief. Now he remembers his phone going off, and he knows it’s you before he even looks at the screen.

my mother is here

He has to check the name again. Yeah, it’s you—maybe you mistyped, or spoke into your phone and it didn’t hear correctly. Maybe you were just talking to the boys. This day can’t get much more strange. “Huh?” A stupid response, but he feels stupid right now. Heecheol’s eyes are burning right through him as he waits for your reply.

are you almost home?

Thank god he is. The apartment is only a quick walk away. “Yeah, I’ll be there in ten”. “I have to go. I’ll text you.”

“Will you?”

Seungmin isn’t sure how to answer that, but he tries not to huff in frustration. “If I don’t…you text me.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

“I tell her everything.”

***

How does your mother know where you live? Well, because you told her. But you’ve never received so much as a letter from anyone. No gifts or care packages filled with comforts from home, hardly a phone call. Why travel so far when you can’t even text?

The elevator ride is excruciatingly slow, and he can’t even hold his hands still enough to slide the key in the deadbolt. Seungmin is nervous, but the day hasn’t been kind to him. He has reason to feel like he’s going to vomit at any moment.

“Seungmin…” You walk to him, arms folded over your chest, and he knows why. One of the babies is crying in his cot, the other is working his way to the same volume. “She’s in the nursery.”

“Why?”

“Checking it.”

“Checking…checking what?”

She pops out, and Seungmin is actually relieved. The image in his mind was much scarier than what just appeared in front of him, but still, her face is sour. She looks like you, but not so much that it’s an undeniable mother/daughter relationship. She could just as easily be your aunt, or an older sister.

“You must be…” she stops to think, and her accent is much more severe than yours. “Forgive me, I just learned it fifteen minutes ago.”

“Seungmin,” you repeat.

Her eyes move between the two of you. She’s saying it under her breath, as if she’s trying to get a feel for how to say it out loud. S-sungmin, is what comes out. “Well, it’s nice to finally meet the reason…reasons…my daughter never came home.”

She turns away and looks at them. They’re together in their cot, surrounded by the laundry you were folding. The tv is still playing, and Seungmin wants to laugh again when the Twilight Zone theme starts playing in the silent room. He holds it in, but he can’t hold in his smile when he sees them, slowly quieting and soothing each other. How does he respond to that, though? Seungmin looks to you, but your eyes are on the floor, arms still folded across your chest. “Uh, well, I take good care of her if that is a concern.”

The resemblance is a little stronger now. Her lips purse, and she folds her arms across herself just like you do. “Your English is very good.” She sucks her teeth like he tends to do.

“Thank you. Her Korean is getting very good.” Seungmin smiles in your direction, but you look like you’re going to vomit.

“Oh is that right?” Now her hands drop to her hips. “I’m surprised, you never were to good with your school work. And…”

You watch his face grow red, and the clench of his jaw is obvious, especially as she makes her way to the cot. He takes a step closer, and you do the same.

Seungmin jumps when she spins to face you. “And this. Twins! Didn’t think it was in the cards for you, considering…”

Considering what? Seungmin doesn’t say it, but you can tell he’s thinking it. Your mother is being purposely vague and her saccharine voice and smile are making you sick. If she thinks there’s some chance of pushing the two of you apart, she’ll go for it.

Considering what? You know what she’s thinking of course, and you’re surprised she didn’t come out and say the word. Seungmin doesn’t know, and it’s not because you purposely kept it from him—there is nothing to gain by keeping secrets in this house. Maybe it was your fear keeping you from saying the word and dwelling on the possibility even more, or perhaps putting the thought in Seungmin’s head scared you. He was already so worried.

Another smile for you, sweet, but with a question mark behind it. “Excuse us for a moment.” He says, eyes fixed on you, and his fingers gently grip your wrist. Reading him his easier now, but at the moment, your racing heart and swirling stomach aren’t quite sure what to think. Seungmin closes the door, leaving just enough space for him to peek out, and pulls you into his arms. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.” He laughs. “I can handle her attitude. I can handle it for both of us.”

“I’m sorry…there are things I should have told you—“

“We can talk about it later, if you want. First we handle this.” Seungmin looks through the crack in the door. Your mother hasn’t approached the boys, and they’re still quiet. “Fresh shirt?” He starts pulling it over your head before you answer. “She won’t get under my skin.”

***

The whole apartment feels off with someone new in it. It wasn’t quite like this with Heecheol…oh, Seungmin almost forgot. How could he forget? It wasn’t just the kiss that made things weird—everything, including Heecheol himself, was strange. This is more manageable, regardless of how uncomfortable everyone is going to be. She looks at the two of you briefly, then walks toward the cot again. The moment she reaches in, Seungmin reacts. “Have you washed up?”

“Excuse me?”

The moment of awkward silence is excruciating.

You chime in first. “We always wash up and change if we’ve been out…before we touch them. They’re, um, we can’t risk them getting sick.”

“How early were they?” She backs up and eyes the kitchen sink, and you can tell she wants to touch them, hold them. She can’t help it. It doesn’t matter how much she might not actually like Seungmin and your sons, she won’t pass up the opportunity to hold a baby.

“They were due September 4th, and born on June 1st.”

The urge to hold them is too strong, because she heads for the kitchen to wash her hands. But not before looking Seungmin in the eyes. “Lucky.”

They were lucky. Lucky that you kept them alive long enough, and lucky they were healthy when they arrived. Bad luck used followed you everywhere, but not anymore. Now Seungmin follows you everywhere.

“What are my grandson’s names?” Haneul is wrapped tight and scooped up first, and she looks him over with a weird curiosity. “My only grandbabies. Never thought I’d see the day, and that it would be you. Definitely never thought—“

“That is Haneul,” Seungmin interrupts. “Ha…neul.” He repeats it slowly and clearly, but you know she won’t appreciate his patience with this, or with her. “And Haesung. Haesung is his little brother.”

“Do they have middle names…nicknames?”

You jump in before Seungmin gets a chance. “No. Haneul and Haesung.” Letting her call them something else is out of the question.

“No cute nicknames yet.” Seungmin lies, but he sounds convincing. Haneul was Sky before he was born, and Haesung eventually became the new Puppy.

“Shame they look nothing like you.”

“Why are you here? Did you fly all this way just to…just to torment me?”

“You’ll never learn to respect your mother, will you, girl?” Haneul is placed back in his cot, and she takes a moment to touch Haesung’s cheek before turning her full attention to you. “Well, now that you are one, maybe you’ll appreciate how much work it takes. Hopefully your boyfriend…husband…doesn’t go dying on you like your father did.”

The air feels too heavy to breathe, and you’re not sure if it’s the mention of your father’s death, something she never talks about, or the intrusive thought of losing Seungmin. The sleep walk into the woods started it, and it’s been off and on since then. He seems unfazed by the comment, but he has to be—all of it has to be trying to dig in.

His mouth twitches. “Husband.” A week after leaving the hospital, you made your marriage official. “I don’t plan on it.” Seungmin moves between her and the cot so they can see him again. Both have quickly given in to their exhaustion.

“We never do.”

It didn’t take much convincing to get her to leave after the awkward first meeting. Seungmin booked her the only room he could find—the same hotel where Heecheol is currently staying—and sent her on her way. This won’t be the end of her, though. Your mother has never stepped foot in an airport before getting on a plane to Seoul, and she’s never wanted anything to do with you unless it was for her own benefit. She didn’t fly all this way for one brief encounter.

“When she asked for my address, I assumed she wanted to send something. This is not what I imagined. And no warning.”

As irritating as it was, Seungmin can’t help but find it amusing. “The no warning part doesn’t surprise me, for some reason.” He turns on his side and puts a hand on Haesung’s full stomach, and when he closes his eyes, the rest of his day comes rushing back to him. “Oh,” they pop open, but you don’t react. You’re sitting up, focused, drawing pad in your lap—the sound of the pencil moving back and forth on the paper seems to be as soothing to the boys as it is to Seungmin. “Today...earlier today, before I got home.”

“Oh, the guy? You said it was a bust.”

He glances up at you, and you’re staring hard. The pencil goes straight to your mouth as you wait, and he can see your teeth start to work on it. It’s only been a few weeks since you painted the mural in the nursery, and since then you’ve started reclaiming a small part of the former you he never knew. Seungmin can feel you becoming lighter and happier as you adjust to the new life with him and the babies…not just you and him. Neither of you had much time to find each other anywhere but on the surface, or at your very cores. Now you get to explore everything inbetween.

And now he has to tell you he kissed someone else.

The graphite hits the paper again, and the next move you make is ripping it from the pad and crushing it in your fist. “I had a miscarriage a few years ago. I almost died.”

“What?”

“I didn’t know I was pregnant, and it…well, it didn’t grow where it was supposed to. And I almost bled to death.”

“You…almost died?”

"I was relieved when I got that first ultrasound and saw that they were in the right place.” You take a long, hard look at him, and then your pencil is on the paper again. “Hold still for a second.”

Seungmin listens. He doesn’t blink, or let his mouth twitch into the frown he’s holding back. All he wants is to move closer, pull all three of you into his arms and hold on tight. Months ago, he truly thought he wouldn’t have enough of himself for all of you, and he was wrong.

Haesung isn’t happy about being moved from his warm spot on the bed, but you tuck him comfortably into his cot. Seungmin does the same with Haneul, and you remain back to back until they begin dozing off again. And then the bed moves, and you feel him getting close. A hand wraps gently around the back of your neck, but his fingertips only graze and fall away from you. Seungmin reaches for the crumpled piece of paper and smooths it out the best he can. A rough sketch stares back at him—his eyes, the slope of his nose, and the soft curves of his jaw. It’s a good depiction of him…like looking at a faded photograph, but seeing it through the eyes of whoever took it. It’s how you see him. He crumples it up again, and wonders why you were unsatisfied with it.

“Sometimes when I’m in bed with you, when I can’t sleep, I think about that night.” It comes from nowhere. You’re not sure why you mention it at all.

The memory is now tucked away where he has to reach for it to truly remember. He counts in his head, seven months…three weeks? Here the two of you are, two babies, and it’s barely been eight months since you’ve crossed paths. Seungmin prefers remembering that very first encounter on the street…walking you home. He likes thinking back to how it felt to fall for someone so quickly and (for him) recklessly; how it felt to want to touch you, to draw pain and pleasure from you. Break your neck, kiss you, find the fear that was already rising to the surface, and then protect you from it.

He looks at you now like he looked at you then, the strange, mysterious thing that you still are. “Why do you think about it?”

Seungmin seems surprised when you turn to your sketch pad again. “I try to remember everything, exactly how I felt and what was going through my head. It’s hard. Maybe I blocked some of it out.”

“What do you remember?”

“I still remember where I went when everything went dark. The pain of giving birth brought back memories from that first time. It went dark then, too. A different dark, but…”

He’s hypnotized by the measured movements of your hand, but he hears every word you say. You’ve died before, came back, died again.

Your attention turns to the walls around you, the half open curtain being moved by the warm breeze. “I remember being so afraid of dying in this room when you tucked me back into bed. The locked door, the knife. The pain I was in...”

“I was worried. I was afraid you’d get hurt if you tried running home in the dark. And that I’d never see you again. I actually thought I’d be able to explain myself and change your mind by morning.”

“The thoughts running through my head that night might surprise you.”

“Like?”

For no reason, you feel embarrassed to admit it. “I wanted you closer when you got back into bed, but I guess that could have been the tea taking hold.”

“I wanted you to feel safe. That’s all that mattered, but it was impossible.”

“Waking up the next morning was nice, until I remembered. Everything after that was adrenaline.”

Seungmin moves closer, “even the kiss?”

“We talked about the kiss.”

“We did," he whispers. “The way I saw that night in my mind was perfect. I was going to be different, finally…I don’t think I knew it then. I didn’t know how much I just wanted to fall asleep and wake up with you still there.” Even after all this time, saying every word that comes to him, no filter, feels like jumping. Fight or flight tries to kick in. Looking back and forth between the babies grounds him again. “I’m glad you kissed me, even if it was mostly to distract me.”

The nerves in his voice are more obvious than he thinks. “Mostly because I couldn’t resist your mouth.”

He laughs, and his entire body relaxes into his fluffed up pillows.

The sketchpad is back on your side table, and a quick peak into the cot lets you know Haesung is sound asleep. “I still can’t.” You wait for him to look at you, and eventually, he does.

Seungmin’s smile creeps slowly across his lips as he examines your face. He peeks into Haneul’s cot—sound asleep—and then back at you.

“She’ll try to pull us apart. I know she will.” That’s why you brought it up, but it didn’t occur to you until just this moment. “I’ve never been allowed to be happy or satisfied, not in peace. I thought I finally won by being seven thousand miles away.”

The smile fades quickly, and he struggles for a moment to find the right words. What is it you need to hear? Seungmin can tell you a million times how much he loves you… “nothing can pull us apart, just—“ He stops himself. The word still hanging on the tip of his tongue, he doesn’t know why he thinks it. Death. “She can try if she wants to, but she’s going up against me.”

You’ve missed his cocky attitude. He’s become so good and soft, and sometimes you forget who still lives deep down inside. Seungmin can still drive his knife into someone’s neck if he feels like it, or slam their face into a wall. He’ll break his knuckles sending a message. “C’mere.”

“Hm?”

“Get over here,” you purr, and pull your shirt over your head.

Seungmin’s eyes drop to your chest, and his tongue pokes out as they jump back to your eyes. His crawl to you is slow, and he cages you in with his arms as he comes down for a kiss. The heat is already radiating from him when his shirt comes off, but he pulls back.

The lamplight from your side of the bed illuminates the deep cuts across his chest. They look fresh, ready to bleed again. “What’s this?” You latch onto his arm and hold him there. “Minnie?” He flinches when your thumb grazes the length of the biggest, deepest one, but relaxes almost immediately. “Did you just do this?”

“Yes…”

“Why?” The look on his face as you touch it makes you think he just needed to feel something under his skin, and he still needs that. Or maybe it’s more penance. You push again, glide your finger across it, and his stomach tightens as he quietly moans. Fresh blood trickles out when your nail digs in, and Seungmin grips the pillow beneath your head to steady himself. Another release. The satisfaction in his face sends a pulse up your thighs, and he can feel it—your legs are forced open, and he’s easing his fingers into you before your mouth can close around the newly opened wound. His gentle touch, the sharp taste of his blood…your head swims and you ache for more of him. Your teeth sink into skin, and the warm metallic taste fills your mouth as his fingers are replaced with the impatient push of his cock.

“More,” he whines. Blood continues to trickle, but it slows. The pressure from your tongue seems to hit the right spot, but not for long. “More…please.” He’s careful, and you know he’s using all of his restraint to fuck you slowly. Seungmin pushes into you and against your mouth for more.

You close your lips around him and suck at the hot, salty skin; bite until you taste more blood. Every moan makes you bite down a little harder, and as his pace picks up and you feel an orgasm rising, your teeth sink in and break new skin. The sound he makes is beyond any climax you’ve given him—pain and relief mixed with ecstasy. He struggles to hold himself steady, but you pull him down against you, kiss up his chest and neck, and make even more of a mess. “Minnie…are you okay?”

Seungmin kisses you deeply and cleans the blood from your lips. “No, you’re being too gentle on me.”

“Gentle?” You look down at the open cuts and bite marks on his chest. He smiles when you touch him again. “Too gentle?” And he laughs when you lock your legs around his hips.

“Let me feel how much you love me.”

He doesn’t have to ask again. You grab his shoulders and sink your teeth in, and this time you don’t think about the pain you cause him, the mess you’ll make…the mark that’ll be left behind. Seungmin groans as you break the skin again, and he licks his lips as you pull away with a piece of him between your teeth. You keep your eyes on him—you can’t look at what you did yet, but…

His soft cry hits your ears. Haesung, little brother, who sometimes feels like Haneul’s big brother. What time is it? That cry forces you out of whatever trance you’re in, no matter how deep it is. You wipe at your mouth in your half-sleep, and then your eyes open to the pitch black of the bedroom. The smell of blood is still in your nose, and you jump up when you remember… “Min?” You reach and set your hand on his stomach, warm and damp with sweat, and you don’t move until you feel him take a breath.

Haesung cries again, just for a moment. He’s coming out of the same deep sleep you are.

“Seungmin?” Your eyes start to wake up, and your vision clears. The marks on his chest are red and angry and fresh, but not much worse than they were before you got your hands on them.

Seungmin stirs when you run a finger across them again. He mumbles and closes his hand around yours, and sighs when you kiss his chest. “Hey, you alright?”

“Had a weird dream.” You wipe at your mouth and bring blood back on the heel of your palm. “You should probably work on pulling out until I get back on birth control.”

“Oh, you think you’ll get pregnant again?”

“It’s possible. I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.”

“Yet?” He sits up and kisses your cheek. “Tell me about your dream.”

“I bit some…flesh off of you, and I think I ate it.”

“Oh?”

You weren’t sure what kind of reaction to expect, but the little grin on his face isn’t very surprising. “Yeah, while we were having sex.”

He notices you examining his chest, and looks down at it himself. “You ate a piece of me…” he whispers, and the grin doesn’t fade. “Would you consider this a dream…or a nightmare?” Seungmin wipes at your mouth and stares you down as he waits for an answer.

“Somewhere in between. Do you have a fetish you haven’t told me about?”

“No, but the thought of you doing it and enjoying yourself is a little hot. So…maybe, yes.” He looks around nervously, fidgets with the blanket. “It feels romantic.”

“Consuming your lover to have him be a part of you forever…romantic? Yes, but having you here with me is so much nicer.”

“Okay, I won’t ask you to...eat me. But thank you for confirming what I already knew.”

You slide your hand across his thigh and onto his growing cock. “What’s that?”

“Dangsineun isanghaeyo.”

***

Seungmin doesn’t resist when you clean and bandage the newly open cuts on his chest. He tossed and turned and scratched in his sleep, and the sheets were smeared with bright, fresh blood before you changed them. He looks up at you with tired eyes as you work—maybe something else. He looks sleepy and sad, like he’s still waiting on more forgiveness from you, but there’s nothing more to forgive right now. You bend down and kiss him, and he returns it with a smile.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

He shakes his head and sits up, “thank you.”

“They have to go outside today, I almost forgot. They have their first check-up in a few hours.”

“That’s right.” Seungmin crawls to the cot and scoops up a mostly awake Haneul. “We get to see how well you two are doing, and how much weight you’ve put on with us.” He holds him against his bandaged chest, and you can hear the soft noises coming from Haneul. “You feel a little heavier, buddy. Dongsaengeul hwaginhae bopssida.”

Haesung is asleep, and he’s still. The moment you lay your eyes on him, your body goes cold. “Haesung?” Something feels off about him.

Seungmin is up and on your side of the bed a moment later, Haneul still in his arms. Maybe you’re overreacting and he’s in a deeper sleep than usual, but he’s pale, and the only movement is the tiny flutter of his lashes. You grab his foot and rub the skin, and he gives a half-hearted kick, “something is wrong,” and a feeble cry. You take Haneul from him, but Seungmin is surprisingly calm as he sits at the edge of the bed.

“Mwo-ga jalmotdwaesneoyo? What is it, puppy? Jo wassoyo.” He sets his palm on Haesung’s forehead, tilts his chin up, and his eyes flutter open.

You’re too scared to say anything.

Seungmin looks back at you and forces a smile, but his attention returns to Haesung. He rolls him onto his side and rubs his back, and you start to wonder if he prepared himself for something like this. Why didn’t you? You got comfortable and felt safe too quickly—how could you be so careless?

After another two seconds of slow, excruciating silence, Haesung sucks in a lungful of air and starts to cry. It feels like the delivery room all over again; the horrible silence, holding your breath for the smallest cry. This one grows louder and louder, and you’ve never heard anything so wonderful. Haneul squirms a little in your arms, and he decides to match his brother’s screams.

“I’m sorry.” Your throat tightens up, and the tears that roll down your cheek fall onto Haneul’s messy hair. You watch as another follows, and from the corner of your eye, you see Seungmin reach for you.

“Sorry, why?” He wipes at your cheek, but it doesn’t make stopping any easier.

“I panicked. You didn’t.”

He shakes his head and smiles again, much easier this time. “Last month my therapist told me…reminded me…I have gangbak jangae, very strong intrusive thoughts. I think we talked about this before.”

You nod at him and wipe at the tears burning your eyes. “We have.”

His mind jumps back to the static in Heecheol’s hotel room. “Not just the voices, or the noises. Or the urges. I haven’t told you how scared I’ve been of something happening once we got them home.”

“No, you haven’t. You’ve been so confident, and perfect.”

“I’ve been staying up all night…watching them, talking to them, learning everything I can.“

“Learning?”

“How to care for them. What to do if something happens. I’m sure you’ve realized I shut off your alarm once or twice to let you sleep. I fed and changed them. Because I was already awake.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m sore, and you’re so tired.”

Seungmin is careful picking up Haesung, but he seems fine now. His cheeks are pink, and his cries don’t quiet until he’s safe against Seungmin’s chest. “Sore?”

“I have to feed them, or pump every time I get up or they get a little painful…but—" his face falls, “but it’s not that bad.”

“I’m sorry, I thought I was helping.”

The look in his eyes hurts. Seungmin hasn’t done much in the past few months except prepare, but he’ll beat himself up for this, you know that. “Five or six solid hours of sleep is a good exchange for some soreness. But promise me you’ll sleep.”

“Promise. I’ll sleep when we get back. We’re going to the hospital now so Haesung can get looked at.”

***

It looks like a smile, but it can’t be yet. It’s too early, but Seungmin is going to pretend that’s what he saw anyway. Haneul just yawns back at his dad’s excited laugh, and luckily, Haesung follows with a cry for attention. “I’m right here, pup.”

Haesung was sent home after a few hours with a clean bill of health, so you’re convinced you overreacted this morning, but still, both of you will be on high alert for the next few days—sleeping in shifts, mostly. One of you has to be awake with them 24/7, and you know Seungmin will insist on taking the brunt of it. He’s already doing it, sending you away for a nap when he told you he’d rest after their appointment.

“Minnie, you promised, just for a few hours…get into bed and close your eyes.” He’s still quietly singing when you walk up behind him and rub his back—for a minute there, I lost myself…I lost myself. Even as he sits hunched over on the living room floor, his hushed singing voice is pretty, but he’s still so shy about it. “Please, puppy.”

That grabs his attention, and he turns his head toward you. “Can we talk first?”

“Sure, what about?”

“About yesterday, when I was following that guy. Heecheol texted me, and I ended up losing track of him.” That doesn’t feel right. “Actually, I thought I heard him…his voice, I heard him calling out, but he wasn’t there. That distracted me.”

“That’s understandable. But he texted you, too?”

Seungmin is relieved he doesn’t have to explain the intricacies of his mind to you. “Yeah, he’s here in Seoul. I sent your mother to the same hotel he’s staying at. But I also visited him, and that’s where I was when you told me she was here.”

“Oh, how is he?”

“Uh, he kissed me.” His chest hurts from how erratic his breathing has become. He wasn’t expecting to just come out with it.

You keep quiet for a moment while you think. You admit this isn’t the biggest shock, but Seungmin’s uneasiness means there’s more to it.

“He asked me to visit, so I figured I’d stop before heading home, since it was on the way…”

“And you kissed him back?”

All he can manage is a nod while he nuzzles his face against Haesung. Tiny fingers clench around a lock of hair and tug, and Seungmin smiles despite the sick feeling in his stomach.

“Did you,” you stop and give yourself another moment. “H-how do you feel about it now?”

“Strange. I don’t know why I did it.”

He stares at you, waiting for something…anything. Are you angry? Maybe you should be, but you don’t feel anything boiling to the surface, or ripping at the seams right now. There’s a knot in your stomach bouncing around, giving you that weird homesick feeling you get when you think too much about the past, or the uncertain future.

His eyes move from Haesung to you. Seungmin usually has no problem with eye contact, but tonight that’s not the case. Every time the intensity gets to be too much for him, they find something else.

“What was going through your mind when it happened, before it happened?”

Most of it is just coming back to him. “I felt off when I got there, but I was already feeling that when I heard his voice in my head.”

“Off how?”

“Uhm, dizzy. Everything was loud, like how I feel when it gets really bad.”

You set a hand on him, move your fingers through his hair. “But you didn’t want to kill him, I assume.”

Seungmin still can’t wrap his head around how intense and uncomfortable everything was until the moment they made contact. “No. Everything calmed down when he kissed me.” Maybe he didn't have to mention that part. Seungmin looks at you when you don’t respond, and one Xanax later he finally goes to sleep.

A good first check-up has done wonders for some of your anxieties (now you have new ones), but you still find yourself glancing at both of them much more frequently as you get comfortable on the floor. It doesn’t last long. Your phone vibrates and you know who it is before checking.

So, are you two going to take me out for dinner?

She can’t be serious. Two preemies, barely settled at home, and she expects to be taken out to dinner. But you’re not surprised, because selfish comes naturally to your mother. Why didn’t your sister come along and entertain her? It may have been slightly more stressful, but it’s better than her being alone.

“We aren’t taking the babies out anywhere crowded yet, but I can order in and we can have dinner here in a few hours.”

hours?

“Seungmin just went to try and sleep. He’s been up all night.”

aren’t you supposed to be the one up all night?

Oh my god. "Don’t worry, mom, I was still up every 2.5 hours. I’ll send you a ride at 7. In the meantime, go outside and try some street food. It’s nice out today.”

You decide to ignore the next message, but nothing comes. They both stare up at you with sleepy eyes, and you watch as they get closer and closer to it. Now you sneak to the bedroom, quietly click the door open, and walk softly (and quickly) to the sketchpad in your drawer. Seungmin already seems to be out. He has to be, because there’s no hint of a scowl, no pinched eyebrows. But he definitely fell asleep anxious about his confession…as he should.

The second sketch you started last night feels better than the first, but not having him next to you for reference makes it difficult. You pull up your camera roll and open the album you made just for this—every angle of him you managed to capture in the last week; awake, sleeping, candid, and a few where he actually smiled sweetly for you. Looking at him like this makes him feel distant somehow, like you should be aching for him even though he in the next room. It almost makes you want to push away the bad creeping up inside of you and get into bed with him. Could that make things better? Would giving in and forgiving be easier?

After a solid two hours, your hand starts to cramp. Haesung starts to stir again, and this time he’s up fast and hungry. Seungmin will hear him, and you can’t have that yet. “Are you hungry, pup?” He doesn’t settle right away when you set him against your chest, but as soon as you get him into the right position, he knows he’s getting what he wants. “Maybe we can get you fed before your brother wakes up." But that’s unlikely, and you know it. Haneul will know his brother is up, so you might as well make a bottle now. Seungmin is awake, though, so your plans of working on the music box after they eat will have to wait. It will get fixed someday.

“Minnie?” The noise coming from the bedroom gets louder, and it’s odd. Haesung is back on his pillow while you check on him, and being put back down gets him crying again. “I’ll be ten seconds, sweetheart. I promise.” The look he gives you feels like understanding, but he only quiets for a moment. “Hana…” You keep your eyes on him as he looks around for you. “…dul…set…”

The doorknob clicks loudly despite your best efforts. “Net…daaasut…" The room is dark, as if it were already well passed sunset, but your eyes start to adjust and pick up the scene in front of you. “Yeo— Seungmin?”

The movement at the edge of the bed isn’t right. It feels off, and it’s not even because of the popping in your ears or the spots in your eyes. It’s the dark shape, much darker than the room around it; the shape of Seungmin still under the covers; both things existing in the same space. The shape isn’t him. Of course it isn’t him, you know that, because the thing at the edge of the bed is wrong. It doesn’t belong here. You can smell it. The feeling of dread you felt in the woods is here, in the house…in the bedroom, looming over him. The charm around your neck feels heavy as you sneak toward the light, but when your fingers touch it, the thing moves. “J-jeoli gayo.” Under your breath, because nothing else will come out.

Finally, the lamp is within reach, and when light fills the corner of the bedroom, it’s gone. There’s nothing except him—the steady breaths of Seungmin beneath the covers, and Daengmo peeking up from your side of the bed. You’re just tired. Even after your nap, you’re sleep deprived and anxious about the babies…

“Oh…boys.”

Both cry in unison right as you think it, and the shape is almost forgotten as you run back to them. The first thing you see is them tucked safely in their spots, both red in the face. The second thing you see is it…again. No, it’s them. Yours, white and soft with painfully blue eyes, and his, the inverted version—as black as the shape, but this isn’t what you saw a moment ago.

You kneel in front of the boys, set your hands on them, but your attention doesn’t leave the dogs. “What do you want?” It comes out like a whisper caught in your chest. As soon as one baby begins to settle, the white one stands on all fours and stretches like a cat before disappearing into the nursery. The other one doesn’t move yet. He’s staring you down with eyes like the ones you wake up to every morning, and as Haneul finally quiets, the dog looks to its left, then its right, and he bounces away. “It’s okay, boys, umma is here, and daddy will be up soon. Everything is okay.”

“Daddy is awake.”

When you look back, he’s mid-yawn and mid-stretch, and a tired smile is plastered across his face. “You barely slept.” And whatever was in there with him couldn’t have helped. He had to have felt something.

“I feel good, though. It was a good sleep.”

“Was it?” You have to tell him what you saw. “No bad dreams?”

He shakes his head and joins you on the floor. “No bad dreams, not that I remember.”

Maybe later would be better. It’s not the most ideal thing to be dwelling on over dinner, so for now you focus on remembering every detail for when the time does come. “Are you hungry?”

***

Even when he dresses up, it’s still casual—his closet is full of the most basic pieces, yet somehow, whatever he throws together looks like it was styled by a professional. He’s always effortlessly cool, and it’s not surprising how easily he seems to pick up the men and women he goes for. Tonight is no different, except that he looks…cute. When he walks out of the bedroom, he laughs at the look on your face.

The black denim shorts hit just above his knee, just tight enough around his slender thighs; socks pulled up tight; an overpriced white t-shirt under a short sleeve button-up. There’s a little embroidered bear on the chest pocket, and Seungmin runs his hand over it and makes sure you see. He has his black rim glasses on tonight to pull it all together.

You jump up and flatten the front of your outfit. “It’s just dinner, you didn’t have to go crazy.” The green linen dress you bought in December, the one that looked like the dress you lost along with the rest of your belongings, is just as casual. The most important part is that it still fits you the same way it did when you tried it on, so you’re back to your old self, physically. “That bear looks familiar.”

“I put the same one on the overalls they don’t fit into yet.”

“Oh, no bear for me?”

Seungmin doesn’t always catch your sarcasm. “There were only three, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, as long as you guys match.”

“What’s for dinner? And are we prepared for her?”

You tidied up and set the table, yes, but mentally preparing yourself is pointless. The amount of effort you put into yourself, the apartment, and the babies will not matter, but you try anyway. “I put rice on, and there’s plenty of banchan left. I was going to order bulgogi since she didn’t give us much time. That might be tame enough for her.”

“Order it now, and we can pretend we cooked everything. I’ll go pick her up, and I’ll take my time.”

Seungmin doesn’t have to take his time, because the traffic does all the work for him. The food will be delivered and ready to serve while he sits at this red light, he thinks. This is why he only drives when it’s truly necessary, and he guesses this is one of those times—whatever keeps your mother happy and off your back is worth the extra annoyance to him.

“You can tell her I’m here.” He's not keen on the idea of her having his phone number. And now is the perfect opportunity to close his eyes...

“Seungmin?”

It doesn’t get through to him the first time. He’s reclined in his seat, music playing softly.

“Mo!”

“Fuck, what? Oh…”

“Sorry buddy, didn’t realize you actually fell asleep. I don’t think you can park here long, though.” Heecheol leans in a little, hands gripping the car door. “I can show you where the parking lot is.”

He’s still not completely with it until he sits up and grabs the steering wheel. “No, no I’m not staying. I’m just picking Tokki’s mother up. She’s staying here, since we don’t have the extra room anymore.”

“Oh. Gotcha. I thought maybe I was getting a visitor. I wasn’t sure if you got my message yesterday.”

Blood rushes to his face, through his ears. Heecheol says something else, but he misses it completely. He wasn’t sure if he got the text? “Cheoli, I was here yesterday. In your room. Don’t you remember?” Another night of drinking too much, perhaps. Maybe Heecheol was drunk yesterday, but Seungmin would have tasted it on him. He looks at the brace on his wrist, and wonders if he’s on a particularly strong pain medication, or maybe he was just high from swiping pills from work. No, what the fuck am I thinking?

“Mo, I think I would remember you visiting me.”

So he doesn’t remember the kiss. Heecheol doesn’t remember him almost fainting on his room, pushing him away after they shoved their tongues down each other’s throats like they’ve been waiting years to do it. Meanwhile, Seungmin can’t get the feeling out of his mind. Now what. “I must have had a very strange, vivid dream them.” He opens the glove compartment and pulls out the pack of cigarettes stashed there, and he goes as far as striking a match before realizing what he’s doing. He shakes the flame away and throws the pack back where he got it. A cigarette is what he needs right now, and what he can’t have.

“Yeah, I guess so. And her mom is here?”

“She surprised us with a visit yesterday. And I see her coming right now.”

“Oh yeah, I can see the resemblance. I’ll leave you to it, and maybe I’ll see you soon. Cute shirt.”

Heecheol tugs at Seungmin’s collar before he walks off, and now he’s left alone while your mother approaches. Her scowl actually makes him nervous, but you told him she looks like that all the time…and he can’t remember what you called it. You said you do it, too, but Seungmin doesn’t think he’s seen a look like this on your face, not since the first time he told you to leave his apartment and never come back.

The door unlocks, and she jumps in without a word. He thinks that’s less remembering what he looks like, and more you telling her what kind of car to look for. Mom isn’t nearly as charmed by his looks as you are.

“Hello.” Seungmin adjusts his glasses and smiles as sweetly as he can. She may not find him irresistible, but he’ll be damned if she doesn’t think he’s cute. “I hope the hotel was comfortable.”

“It was alright. Better than the one by the airport. Who was the boy at your car a moment ago?” She looks around, expecting to find some clue as to why he was leaning in through the window.

“Oh, he’s a good friend of mine. He is also staying at this hotel while he’s in Seoul.”

“Is he coming to dinner?”

You might not appreciate a surprise guest. You definitely won’t appreciate a surprise guest if it’s Heecheol. Seungmin stifles a laugh as he thinks about it; your unbearable mother, and the guy he stupidly kissed behind your back. “No, not tonight. Just the three of us. Five of us.”

“It smells good in here.” He kicks off his shoes and waits for her to follow, which she eventually catches onto and does. “Do you want some tea, or coffee? Maybe something cold.” He decides to remain helpful, overly sweet, and charming no matter what she throws at him, if she does start throwing.

“Coffee is good.”

The three of you are not here to greet them, surprisingly. Even after pouring a mug and fixing it how your mother requests, you don’t emerge from the bedroom, and you don’t make a sound. He excuses himself. “She might be in the middle of feeding them. I’ll check.”

You are—cross legged in bed with one single lamp illuminating the dark room. Haesung is in your arms, and a mostly empty bottle sits next to Haneul.

“Hey, need some help?”

You shake your head. If your hair wasn’t pulled back, the ends would tickle Haesung’s pink cheeks. Seungmin can make out his shiny eyes staring up at you as he eats, and it’s a relief to see him so content after this morning. He can’t see you, though. You’re hunched over, head down and face hidden.

“Everything okay?” He barely hears your mhm as he approaches. Seungmin is stupidly mesmerized by your exposed skin—the curve of your shoulder and neck…your chest. When you finally look to him, he sees your wet cheeks, and your red eyes. “Oh, what’s wrong? Are you…are you alright?”

All you give him is a shaky nod, and his stomach turns when he kneels to grab your free hand. He can see how puffy your face is, and that you’ve been crying for a while. There’s a wet spot on Haesung’s blanket where you let your tears fall. “Did your mom say something?”

“No, it’s not her.”

It hits him, and for a moment, he wonders why you didn’t feel this way a few hours ago. Why didn’t you give him the response he deserved? You seemed almost dismissive of it, but the feeling has had time to sit—in your head, in your stomach, your heart. “Oh. I fucked up. I’m so sorry.” Your silence, a single sniffle and a wipe of your cheek confirms it. “I really fucked up.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If we hadn’t met, and you found him, would he be as special to you?” Haesung unlatches when he senses his father, and he does his best to turn toward him. You adjust and cover yourself, and Seungmin notices how quickly you hide from him. “Like us?”

“Heecheol doesn’t know me the way you do. He likes what he sees on the surface, and the memories we have.” Lying to you isn’t going to help, so he just says exactly what comes to him. “I guess it’s possible. If we didn’t meet, I don’t know where I would be right now…but if you had left, I think I would have killed myself.”

You believe him, but being a reason for him to keep going while his mind wages war against him is a strange feeling. One of the reasons. He has two more, and one is comfortable in his arms right now. “Seungmin, please don’t fall in love with someone else.”

***

Your mother stares, tries to figure you out. She thinks she can, but you’re not the person you were before you left home a year ago. You’re not even the person you were the day after that night in December. Nothing has changed you quite like your babies have, but Seungmin comes very close.

Haesung is in her arms, calm for the moment, but his eventual fussing finally moves her attention away from you. “When you were a baby, you screamed constantly until you were three or four months old.” She brings him closer and runs a thumb across his brow. “Colic.”

“So did—“ you stop yourself. You refuse to help her start an argument. As far as your mother is concerned, you were the difficult child. “They’ve both been okay so far. They sleep well.”

Seungmin interjects. He senses your uncomfortable shift all the way in the kitchen. “Haemuljeon?”

“Yes, please.” It’s the first you’ve eaten since this morning, and shoving several pieces in your mouth is temping, but you wait.

“What is it?” She pokes at one with her fork before scooping it up and inspecting. “Oh, shrimp?”

“Seafood pancake, shrimp and green onions. I left the squid out.”

To your surprise, three little pancakes quickly disappear, and Seungmin is obviously pleased with himself. He spent a whole twenty minutes throwing them together.

The fourth one is held up and examined again, “These are very good.”

“Thank you.”

“You made these?”

He nods and puts on his cutest smile again. “I did. They don’t take much time.” But it falls when he sees the look she gives you—a mix of annoyance and impatience, he thinks. Seungmin still remembers that look very well, and he knows how it feels to be on the receiving end. “Uhm…”

“Your husband cooks for you?”

This may be the most uncomfortable silence the apartment has ever experienced, and that includes the murder. Both of them. Sometimes Seungmin forgets about the first one you witnessed—it feels like so long ago now. He knew you were the one after that night.

He remains silent a few moments longer. Your mother needs to hear you stand up for yourself.

“We don’t think much about who does what. And he was raised well…he knows how to take care of himself, and us. And I know how to care for them. So, yes.”

The look on her face is satisfying, but visions of her bloodshot eyes and blue lips take over his mind and he can’t push them away. Her throat crumpling under his grip. Begging for mercy, gasping for air, pleading forgiveness for how she treated you. No, he has to push it away. Seungmin can’t kill your mother—can he? No, not a very smart idea. For now, it lives in his head. “Tokki made everything else.”

Not a complete lie. You made the rice, and you made three different banchan…just not today.

“Tokki?”

He turns away to laugh at her harsh pronunciation, grabs the rice and sides, and nods as he sets everything down. “Tokki…” he repeats, soft and slow. “It means rabbit.”

“Cute.” She doesn’t seem amused, though. “Rabbit.”

Seungmin wants to take the baby from her, but doing it gracefully, and like he isn’t irritated by everything about her right now, is difficult. Luckily, Haesung starts to get upset and pulls away, as if he can sense his father’s need for him. It works perfectly. Your mother hands him off without a second thought, and Seungmin gets the cuddle that he wants.

“Does…Tokki…know your friend from the hotel?”

“Huh? Oh…yes.”

Heecheol? You can’t lift your eyes to look at him, but you can feel his on you. He was visiting Heecheol again. Seungmin left for thirty minutes and found time to visit him, and in front of your mother, no less.

You stand and keep your cheek pressed against Haneul as you head for the bedroom, and nobody says a word as you do.

“Sore spot?” She took a chance mentioning Heecheol. It could have gone either way, and it paid off in her favor. You were right. Even though the meeting was brief and accidental, you don’t know that, and Seungmin has to hope that you’ll trust and believe him when he goes in there to talk to you again. But he doesn’t go right away. “No, no we’re all friends.”

No more comments, she just gives him a nod.

“But maybe,” he holds Haesung up and looks him over, “you’re due for a change. We should check before we have dinner.” It’s a valid reason to disappear for a moment. “I’ll be right back.”

***

The room is still dark, but the curtain is pulled back enough to let the light from the setting sun spill across the floor. He’s nervous. In all of your time together, the only tense moment between the two of you was the morning you cut his hair, the nightmare you had about him…the day he found out about the pregnancy test. That was a silly thing to fight over, if you could even call it that. Seungmin knows this is different. He understands you’re feeling left out right now—betrayed, maybe. It seems like a strong word, but if you knew how deeply he kissed him, you’d be even angrier.

Haneul is cuddled up next to you. There’s enough light to see his tiny hands reach toward your face and successfully grab at strands of your hair. “Can I come in?”

“It’s your bedroom.”

He doesn’t correct you. It hasn’t been his bedroom in a long time, and he doesn’t want to be pushed back to a time when it was his…alone. “I know you don’t want to be out there with her, and maybe not with me either. I can entertain her if you’d rather have your dinner in here.”

“No. I’m not going to make you sit out there with her by yourself. That’s not fair.”

He’s relieved when you sit and look at him, and even more relieved to see your face dry. No tears this time. “He saw me sitting in the car waiting. I didn’t go looking for him. We talked for two minutes.” No, maybe this time it’s anger.

“She’s probably listening to us right now. I’m just making this easier for her.”

“Then she can hear me tell you how much I love you, and nothing she can do or say is going to change that.”

His phone buzzing in his pocket is deafening—one text, and then another. And a third. Heecheol has impeccable timing.

“What did he say?”

Seungmin pulls out his phone and reads. “Hope your dinner is going well. In-laws can be pretty scary…I’ve heard, at least. No personal experience. I hope her umma is as kind as yours was.”

You scoff.

“I was trying to remember everything I did yesterday, and I definitely didn’t see you. I hope your head is in a good place. Are you keeping up with your meds?” And the last one; “sorry, I’m already a few drinks in, and I hate drinking alone. I hope I can see you all sometime soon. Especially the twins.”

“He doesn’t remember yesterday?”

“No. I mentioned it when I saw him, and he didn’t know what I was talking about.”

Heecheol not remembering means nothing to you. “But you remember. It happened, right?”

Did it? Would it be unusual if the memory was entirely false? It’s not a thought he’s going humor. The last thing he should be doing right now is trivializing what ultimately comes down to cheating. However small it seems in the grand scheme of things, it’s as big as anything in your mind. “Yes. Even if I dreamed it, what I feel is very real, and I feel awful. I’ll do anything I can to fix things.”

You decide to leave it at that, mostly because you have no idea what to say. Forgiving and forgetting the whole thing would be easy, because you do believe his remorse is real, but you still think some part of him enjoyed the kiss. If he falls into that trap again, how could you forgive him? It might make him the charming, heartless killer you assumed he was before he convinced you otherwise. “Let’s try to get through dinner.”

***

It could have been worse. Your mother ate with almost no complaints, though she made sure to question whether you actually made dinner.

“You were always clumsy in the kitchen.”

You never let me cook with you, you thought. Seungmin lets me cook with him. He speaks to me like his mother probably spoke to him—patiently, sweetly. Defeat was working its way in all day, and you’re not surprised that it won. You took everything quietly. No disagreement, no back-talk, no arguing.

"You quit your job? One income household must be nice. I assume you have a job?" Seungmin wasn’t prepared for it. He was not prepared for her to question you as a house wife, but also question not supplying an income in the same breath...he’s settling uncomfortably into the realization of what you had to fight back against growing up. Nothing you did was good enough. Everything you did was (and still is) wrong. Watching you hunched over at the table made him think of his mother, who did her best raising him, and as far as he’s concerned, did a great job despite the obstacles she faced. Maybe she too sat at the kitchen table just like this after Seungmin went to bed; scared, heartbroken, helpless. Putting that smile on for you the next morning was only possible after a long night of sorrow.

You don’t even have him to turn to for comfort right now, or you don’t want him. All you have right now are the boys, and you’re watching the clock tick down to feeding time.

“You could always move back home, bring your husband and kids…”

“What?” Seungmin sits up and looks to you, but you’re still staring at your half empty plate of food, completely checked out, and he doesn’t blame you. “Uhm, I don’t think so. But…my mother grew up in the US, well, she lived there for six years when she was a kid.”

That grabs her attention more than anything else has. “She did? Why didn’t she stay?”

“She missed home. But it was a good time in her life, I know that. She spoke English well enough to teach me when I was little.” He hates these moments where they seem to be getting on like good friends, but he’s just trying to get you through the night. “Which was very lucky when I met you.” Finally, you look up at him, but he can sense your mother look somewhere else. She turns away, takes a drink—anything to get through the moments where Seungmin lays out his affection. Your mother doesn’t even want him loving you.

You say nothing in return, and at last, the alarm goes off.

He hopes when he returns, you’ll be better. If not, he needs to fix what he did. Seungmin has never had to do this, so he’s in the dark, and who can he turn to for advice? It can’t be Heecheol, not this time. He needs his mother…he needs— “Oh.”

It’s late, and his aunts will certainly be sleeping, but he pulls up her info and calls anyway. When he left five years ago, he told himself he wouldn’t burden his family anymore, but he’s been sending cards and checks to his aunts for four of those years. Phone calls are rare, and visits even moreso, mostly because he's still afraid his mask will come off without realizing, and they'll see the monster he turned into.

It rings a few times, and just when he expects the answering machine to chime in, he hears the sound of a landline receiver click.

“Yeoboseyo?” She sounds sleepy, and a little stern. Probably wondering who the hell would call her after 10pm.

“Gomo annyeonghaseyo!”

“Eh? Puppy?”

“Yes it’s me, I’m sorry for bothering you so late. I hope you weren’t asleep.”

Her laugh takes Seungmin back ten years. “No, I’m still a night owl unless I take something. Is everything alright? Haven’t heard from you in some time.”

“Everything is alright. I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch.”

“Don’t apologize! You have your own life to live, and we have your cards to let us know you’re still out there. But…you sound like you need something. That's a nice change.”

It’s no surprise that Eun-ji can hear something in his voice, both of his aunts could read him like a book unless he worked hard to hide it. “Just some advice.”

“My favorite thing to give! Ask away.”

“How many times can I apologize before she gets tired of hearing it? Does it even help?”

“Oh no, a fight?”

“I’m not sure I would call it that, but…”

“And a girlfriend. You’ve never mentioned having a girlfriend in any of your letters. Is this new?”

Are you still new? Maybe this would still feel new to most people. “Uhm…eight months.” Maybe Eun-ji will give him more insight. Despite never marrying, both of his aunts have had plenty of experience with relationships, and they never shied away from talking to him about it. They didn’t shelter him—Seungmin sheltered himself, until he didn’t. “Sort of, but it doesn’t feel new.”

“Do you know what made her so upset, was it something you said, or did?”

“It was something I did, but there may be some other things out of my control adding to it.”

“You don’t have to explain what you may have done, but give her some space, at least for tonight. Oh, do you two live together?”

“We do. And we got married last month.”

“Married! Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Married? Who?”

Seungmin hears another voice in the background getting closer.

“Who are you talking to at this hour?”

“It’s Minnie, Woo…say hi.”

“Seungmin, you got married and didn’t tell us?"

He’s feeling awful all over again. The distance he put between him and his remaining family was for their own safety, of course, and what little sanity he could hold onto. Mentioning you and the babies didn’t cross his mind, because you and the babies fill his mind completely. “I did, I’m sorry I didn’t call, or write.”

"We have missed your letters. You’re such a lovely and thoughtful writer."

“I will write, and I’ll visit.”

Eun-ji returns to the phone, “give her space, but stay close. Make sure she knows you’re there for her if she needs you, but no hovering.”

“Thank you, both of you. I should get back to the apartment.”

“Jal jayo, puppy.”

***

Just as he suspects, the apartment is silent. The table is cleared, the dishes are clean, and the only light is the one he put near the still flourishing moonflowers. A sick, empty feeling starts to rise in him—you didn’t wait up. Was he gone too long? The drive to the hotel was quick, and he didn’t linger; the drive back was even faster, and the conversation in the car only lasted…he checks his phone…six minutes.

The bedroom is dark and silent, too, but he can make out the lines of your body curled up beneath the thin blanket. Both cots are next to each other, pulled close. You fed them, cleaned up, and went right to bed.

Instead of stripping and climbing in with you like he so desperately wants, he grabs an extra blanket and decides the couch might be better tonight. But first he kisses each boy on the forehead. It’s necessary, but it’s also a chance to peek at your sleeping face. “Jal ja.”

***

The bedroom door is cracked, and he plans on listening for any hint of a cry all night. He’ll take his aunts advice and Seungmin will give you space, but if you both happen to each have a baby to sooth in the same room, well…he’s going to take that opportunity.

Puppy?

Seungmin leans back and takes a long drink of the beer he knows he shouldn’t be drinking. He’s stressed, and he’s tired. Of course he’s hearing things.

What’s bothering you, sweetheart?

The voice is there, but his meds make him question whether it’s there and real, or there and not real. She wasn’t there when he called for her before…so why now?

You’re hurting, I can feel it. I can’t stand to see you so sad.

“I’m going to be sad for a while, I’m sorry.”

Everything will be okay soon

“How do you know that? You can’t. I don’t know that.”

Silence.

"Why are you back now? Where were you before?" He tries to whisper. “That’s it…you’re gone? Umma?” But it comes out in choked stutter, and louder than he expects. Seungmin doesn’t want you to hear him talking to himself. “Umma?”

She’s gone.

The couch is cold and uncomfortable, but his pillow and blanket still smell like you. Daengmo does, too, because he almost always ends up clutched to your chest in the morning. It makes him wonder if there’s a small comfort of yours that was left behind—something soft that you clung to every night when you needed to forget the day. He feels a pang of guilt knowing you might wake up at some point and reach for him. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, because he made himself tea and his brain is already starting to get fuzzy, and too tired to care about how much he doesn’t want to sleep here. The last thought that runs through him is a small hope for good dreams. Seungmin wants to dream, and he wants to dream about you.

he’s running. he hasn’t run like this since he was a kid running the bases. no…not since the incident with the bartender. the burn in his chest is unbearable and if he doesn’t stop to catch his breath, he’s going to collapse from the pain. a tiny bark in the distance is the only sound, and it’s not like he imagines his big black dog sounding. this is different. is this what daengmo sounds like? daengmo doesn’t bark, he thinks, daengmo is a telepath. and he can see his breath. why? it’s july…

“seungmo…”

he knows who that is. heecheol says it again in a teasy, sing-songy voice.

“mo, look at me…turn around”

“where are we, cheoli?”

“you don’t recognize this place?”

he doesn’t, and as he turns, what looks back at him is nothing…nobody. hecheol is not where his voice is.

“where did you go?”

“this is where we felt it for the first time" heecheol is laughing as he says it, as if he’s proud.

“yeah, I think I remember” how many memories of his are still shoved where he can't reach them? “where is that barking coming from?”

heecheol shrugs, “barking? you must be hearings things.

His eyes pop open to the dark living room. He hates it. Waking in the pitch dark alone can send him spiraling if he lets it, but this time he takes his deep breaths until his heartbeat begins to slow. Daengmo is clutched tight in the bend of his elbow, crushed under the weight of whatever he was dreaming about. Some of it sticks in his mind. “What a stupid fucking dream,” he sighs and fluffs his dog back to life. “Do you bark?”

It takes no time at all for him to drift back to sleep.

this time he’s home. not in uljin, but right here, in this apartment. it looks different, like maybe you finally redecorated (because you hate the couch, and the chopped up rug—you don’t like the minimalist style he went for and never changed)

“tokki?”

no answer. you have to be here, though. he heads for the bedroom, and it feels like he’ll never get to the door. every few steps, he resets, and he’s right back where he started.

“tokki!”

finally, he twists the doorknob. the bedroom is empty. the bed is neatly made, but a few of your drawers are partially open. no cots, no mess of nighttime feeding things on your bedside table. the only thing he sees is his silver medallion where your phone usually sits. he pulls open the drawer and finds it empty. the chest where you put all of your winter things is empty, too.

“what’s happening? where are you?” he says it to himself in a shaky voice. you wouldn’t leave and take his children without a word. would you?

This time, he can’t slow down his racing heart. Seungmin can barely catch his breath when he sits up, and as he does, Daengmo slips to the floor with a soft thud. A moment later he’s up on his trembling legs, headed for the bedroom. It was just a dream, you’ll be sound asleep when he opens the door, all three of you. You’re awake, and the sound of you humming to them makes it to his ears. Feeding them, talking to them, humming the same tune his music box used to play. The courage to open the door and go in is not in him, despite how relieved he feels after the dream. You didn’t pack up and leave him in the night—his brain did that, but Seungmin is just as afraid of losing you now as he was in December.

“Are you at least trying to keep the nightmares away?” Daengmo stares quietly until his soft neck gives out and his head falls to one side. “Can you try harder, please?” Seungmin’s eyes close, but open again immediately. “I didn’t mean that, I know you’re doing your best.”

The third attempt is dark and cold and wet.

he hasn’t dreamt about the shed in months, but he knew it would return eventually. the soil beneath his fingers is as real as it has ever been, and maybe it’s because he’s been away for so long—seungmin has been too comfortable and safe with you. the other hand clenches around something soft and damp. daengmo is clutched in his left hand, limp and dirty, two sad black eyes staring right at him.

"why are you here…you’re not supposed to be here"

the shk sound of the shovel hitting dirt makes his stomach turn. he’s next. as long as he’s finished off before being put in that hole.

"no…no, I don’t wanna die anymore” tears sting his eyes and roll down his cheeks “please don’t kill me”

he can’t move. the squeeze of his fingers and eyes, that’s it. he’s stuck, and every bit of energy he has left turns his head toward the sound

"tokki? help me, I can’t move." it’s only in his head. the only sound that leaves his mouth is a sigh

No, not again, he thinks, because he can’t move. There’s the smallest sensation of his finger twitching against the couch, but that might be his imagination. It definitely is. He thinks about moving his arm, but his brain can’t find where to send the signal, so he relaxes. Seungmin almost lets his eyes close, but the floor creaks. It’s not real. The sleep paralysis sounds are never real, and he knows that. It’s taken him years to train his mind to remember that.

what’s wrong…puppy?

Is that you? It sounds like you. No, it’s not real. But it’s never addressed him before.

I watched you yesterday. she saw me. she didn’t tell you, did she?

What did you see? Seungmin’s eyes are wide open and he sees nothing. Where is it? He can hear it, and now he can smell it—the smell of damp, rotten earth and a freshly lit cigarette burns his nose and throat. It’s not real.

I am very real

Something cold touches his bare shoulder and slowly moves toward his neck.

she hates you, do you feel it coming from her? how silly to think someone could ever love you

It’s right. Seungmin can feel it right now. The love you felt for him is slowly leaving you. Or maybe it was never truly there, because how could it be?

how silly to think you could love someone unconditionally, and that they could love you in return

Even if she hates me, I still love her. Seungmin thinks about you in there with his children, holding them close and singing, and he feels like he could cry. Unconditionally. He does. A tear slides across the bridge of his nose, and through blurry eyes, its bone white face comes into view.

The force of his body and mind waking simultaneously almost sends him to the floor, along with everything else. The blanket, Daengmo, his phone. The sun is starting to glow faintly in the window, and he hoped by morning he would feel better, but that’s not the case. Seungmin feels worse; empty, hopeless, stupid, broken, unlovable. He remembers everything It told him.

He stumbles into the bathroom and wonders if he should take his aunts advice and continue to give you space, because all he feels he can do is kneel in front of and beg for forgiveness again.

The reflection looking back at him, is that really what you love? Why? Seungmin runs his fingers through his hair and pulls. All the worst parts of him are showing, he can’t hide them and he never could, and you’re finally coming to your senses.

He drops to his knees and swings the cabinet door open, rifles through boxes of hair dye, extra toiletries and forgotten things thrown under here and out of the way. Finally, he finds what he’s looking for in the little black bag, and when he rips it out and plugs it in, he isn’t even sure it’s going to work. But it does, and the buzz of the clippers is louder than he expected. One more look at himself, and then he pulls at his bangs again, up and out of his face, and the clippers have little trouble going through. Again and again, over and over…erratically at first, but as he calms, the strokes become slow and careful. And he doesn’t know it, but the buzz wakes you from your deep sleep.

Seungmin doesn’t hear as you carefully make your way toward the sound, and if he would have closed the door, you might not have heard him at all.

The door creaks as you push it open, but he still hears nothing.

“Seungmin, what are you doing?”

He jumps and drops the clippers into the sink, sending the guard flying onto the floor, and finally quieting them.

“Seungmin…”

Why are you looking at him like that? Confused, disgusted, mad that he woke you… “I’m sorry.” The feeling rushing through him is familiar. It’s the itch, the one that makes him want to claw at his skin until there’s nothing left. The itch that It put into his brain, and in every nerve in his body. Seungmin looks at himself in the mirror, only for a moment, before bracing himself on the sink and sending his face straight into it.

The sound is unbelievable, and the crunch of glass is even worse the second time. All you see is red. It pours from the center of his forehead and onto every part of his pale face…it drips as he stumbles backward, and when he leans forward to keep from falling, you unstick yourself from your spot and put your arms around his neck. “Seungmin, look at me.” You reach for the hand towel and drape it over your shoulder, and he naturally falls into your embrace. Three small shards of glass stick to his wound, and he stares, bewildered as they’re carefully pulled away. “Why?”

He lets out of body shaking sob when your hands slide over his back. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You sush him, run your fingers up his neck and into his much shorter hair. He feels as cold as the bathroom floor, and sitting here in nothing but shorts is not helping. “Why did you do that?”

Seungmin only groans and pushes his forehead against your shoulder. “I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." It's a lie, but whatever gives him a small amount of comfort right now. "I'm gonna run you a bath, okay?"

There is no energy in him to tell you no. The throb in his head might be the worst physical pain he’s ever been in, but it’s somewhat soothed by the sight of you. Seungmin presses the towel against his wound and one sleepy eye watches as you kneel and turn the water on. Nothing would be better than crawling closer to touch the bare skin of your thighs, or the shoulder peeking out from the bed shirt you’ve worn down to almost nothing—the same shirt he gave you the night you came back with him. He won’t, though. Seungmin will keep his hands to himself until you invite him back in.

"Come over here."

His steps are still shaky and cautious, but your hand reaching back gives him more courage. You touch his leg, and goosebumps move all the way up to his neck…then your hands are on his hips, pulling gently at the waistband, sliding them down his thighs. Such a stupid moment to feel a jolt of pleasure in his dick. Not now. A drop of blood escapes and lands on your arm, and then another until you stand to face him.

“In.”

He listens and carefully steps into the water, and he’s relieved when you hold him steady on the way down. It’s not a good time to trust his coordination, considering the lightheadedness he’s keeping from you. But there’s an awful lot of blood on the sink, the floor, him…and now it’s in the water, bursting and spreading like rainclouds. He watches, transfixed, and he moves the towel in an attempt to make more. There’s a warm gush between his eyes, and then you’re back, pressing a clean white towel against it.

“Tilt your head back a little.”

“Are the boys okay?”

“They’re good…they’re asleep. I’m gonna clean this up and try to get a better look. It might sting.” The brand new first-aid kit came in handy. Ever since the garden shear incident, you decided to prepare in case something similar happened again. This wound doesn’t seem as deep, but there has to be pieces of glass still stuck in the two criss-cross gashes—one is at least two inches long, and the other isn’t much smaller. They’re jagged, very unlike the cut on his arm, and you know it needs stitched by a steady hand. “Close your eyes.”

The sting of the antiseptic brings a new pain. He lets himself cry out in release as the warmth of blood mixes with it, and a soft piece of gauze soaks it up. He thinks back to the shed, and the pounding, bleeding wound he woke up with on the back of his head. There must be a scar there, but he never looked for it. He might be able to see one now.

“I don’t see anymore glass. Nothing big enough to see, at least.”

“Feels like…” yours eyes meet, and he stops. He has no business complaining about the pain he caused himself. There may not be anymore glass, but it feels like there is. “Thank you.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Seungmin’s eyes close as you pour warm water over him, filling the tub with more blood, more clumps of his buzzed hair. “I’ll even this out in the morning.”

He wants to tell you cleaning up and taking care of his stupid, reckless behavior is not why you’re here, regardless of how you meant it. But he can’t get any words to come out. You could have left him feeling embarrassed and in pain on the floor…it would have been so easy just to go back to bed. But you’re here, another clean washcloth in hand, wiping away the blood on his lips and chin and down his neck. “Thank you,” he repeats, because he doesn’t think you want to hear another I’m sorry. “I love you.” It’s barely a whisper, and he knows you hear him, but you don’t say anything in return. He’s not very easy to love right now. “The first time we went to Uljin, I said...” Why is he even remembering this? “You asked about who took me in after umma died, and if they were good to me.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I was gonna say…I wasn’t easy to love. I don’t think I was a bad kid, I was just,“ Now you aren’t even looking at him, “I was sad all the time, always in a bad mood. I cried a lot, didn’t talk or leave my room for days at a time.”

“That didn’t make you hard to love, you were just hiding from it.”

He knows his aunts would agree, and he knows you’re probably right, but that’s not the case tonight. “I don’t wanna be hard for you to love.”

***

Morning comes while you finish cleaning and bandaging him, which you’re getting very good at, and he almost heads for the couch. Seungmin seems surprised when you stop him and take his hand in yours. He’s relieved, because all he can see by the couch is that white face staring down at him, the promise of more nightmares. None of that will mix well with the pain in his head.

“Go, I’ll get your things.”

The bedroom feels safe despite what his nightmare told him—I watched you sleep, and the sounds of the babies waking up distract him from everything going through his mind. It doesn’t matter right now. If the monster is here and watching him, there’s nothing he can do the fight back against it…is there? He never could before. Finding someone to kill…”it’s only been,” he picks up Haesung and holds him tight against his chest… “too long I guess. Not enough.” Killing has always been his only defense, and he hasn’t done it in weeks.

“Not enough what?” You return with Daengmo and a handful of painkillers.

The last attempt was a failure, at least so far, but the noises have yet to return. “Nothing, just…thinking. Maybe I’m overdue.”

“Overdue to…kill?”

Seungmin nods and switches babies. And as preoccupied as he is with them, he notices an unusual hesitancy in your reply. “No noise or voices, but it still feels close.”

“What feels close?”

“It does, the voice. Voices. But, something else, too.”

“Oh, right.”

“We don’t have to talk about it. I’m, uh…“ anything but sorry, stop saying that word. “I’m just tired.”

You crawl across the bed and adjust his pillows, add an extra one so his head stays elevated, but he doesn’t get in right away. Seungmin watches you return to your own spot first. “We should.”

“Talk?”

He’s relieved when you nod, and now it’s easier sliding in next to you, but his spot feels cold in more ways than one. You want to talk, though, and that’s good.

“Something is close.”

This isn’t how he expected things to start, but he’ll take it. The quiet of your voice sends a shiver over him, but it’s replaced by a more pleasant one when you run your palm over the mess he made of his hair. He felt like he was doing an okay job, but he quickly realized the state he was in did not allow for a steady hand. “What do you mean?” The monster’s words come back to him again. She saw me, she didn’t tell you.

“Yesterday, I thought I saw something at the foot of the bed while you were asleep. I heard something, thought you were awake, and I came in to check on you. But I think I was just seeing things because it was gone when I turned on the light.”

“What exactly did you see?”

“A shadow, a black figure…like a person covered in a cloak, I guess. Tall, hunched over. It felt weird.”

“Did you smell it.”

“Yeah.”

Seungmin can only assume it was the rot of the forest, and the decaying stench of the thing that haunts him. He doesn’t need to ask. That same sickening scent from his dream is still stuck in his nose.

“Did we bring it home with us, Min?”

***

Seungmin?

You already know you’re dreaming, but this is the most lucid you’ve been since you were pregnant.

Seungmin, you’re holding too tight

The grip on your waist is pushing the air from your lungs. A pinch doesn’t faze him, and neither does a squeeze of his forearm. You can feel the taut muscle move beneath his skin as he holds even tighter.

Minnie please

But you’re stuck in some half paralysis. Just like a dream, you’re moving through air twice as thick as it should be, and you feel like you’re drowning.

Seung—

Your eyes open, and the room is unbearably bright. The only thing squeezed around you is the sheet you tangled yourself into, but you are a little breathless from your dream. “Min? Are you…” He’s not here. It’s late, though, and you start to panic at the thought of sleeping through an alarm. But even if you did, sleeping through two crying babies would not be possible.

Both cots are back on your side, so Seungmin took the time to move them both close to you. And both are sleeping peacefully.

The kitchen and dining room are empty. The bathroom is empty, but you know he was in here, fixing his hair most likely, changing his bandage—the first-aid kit is still sitting on the sink.

“Where did you go, Seungmin?” A few more steps back toward the kitchen bring you some sort of answer—the folded note on the coffee bar would have gone unnoticed if you weren’t hoping to find something. Scribbled on the front is a cute attempt at a bunny, and on the inside is a single, messy line of Hangul..

이것도 고칠게요

TAGS: @kkamismom12/ @r0tt1n/ @heluvschibi / @feckinbecky / @missystay / @seungluvr / @babrieeee / @curiouscocoabean / @feelikecinderella / @carpioassists / @soulsbbg / @san-axa0 / @vixensss / @keiizzx / @xyliskz / @reignessance / @velvetmoonlght / @ghostedgameplays / @pochaccochacco / @lashaemorow / @eastjonowhere / @fackeraccount / @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna / @maddycline / @smilefordongil / @lolniall / @caughtinthemoment163

62 notes · View notes

tangentiallly · 2 days ago

Text

LN15 spoilers ///

at first when maomao was once again staring at jinshi's ass and wanting to use the skin there to replace the damaged skin from the brand i was like oh wow it's been 6 books and she has not stopped thinking about his ass. and then a moment later im like. wait. they're chatting about it. she told him about the idea of skin transplant and how there have been failed cases before but it was using someone else's skin, so if it's the same person's she thinks it could succeed. and then she goes on to say which part of the body could be suitable and he's immediately alert so she had to go like i won't just go peeling your skin directly. they're so funny but also. wow they have come so far for she to be able to easily talk about this to him without reservations.

back in LN9 she was like well i can't let him realize what i want to do. when later he commented on how she spends just as much time looking at his back as looking at his front and she's like that's just your imagination sir. and now she's telling him. she really is growing so comfortable with him which is very fun.

tbh i feel like if he could get the whole succession thing solved if he could ensure he no longer needs the brand's result as leverage and if she really really want to experiment with this medical procedure he might be persuaded one day to let her do it

#knh spoilers #the apothecary diaries #jinshi #maomao #jinmao #v.txt

38 notes · View notes

faitomato · 5 hours ago

Text

in honor of me quitting my job as a cake decorator of 5 years, a list of memorable highlights and repeat events

been asked to draw: dicks (no)

boobs (no) (at least 4x)

SO MANY extravagant cakes that are covered in fondant (which we did not work with) that would easily cost hundreds of dollars, and then the client getting miffed when i say it’s either impossible or will cost them hundreds of dollars

cakes with the ugliest color scheme you can imagine and i am forced to use it anyway

2 tier cake with jungle animals drawn on the SIDES all the way around, that my manager took when i was clearly trying to refuse the order because i had been there for maybe 6 months and was not confident. surprise surprise the client wanted it gussied up more upon arrival because she was expecting an extravagant cake like the ones described above

people being pissy about the kit up charge

many many times of people wanting drawings and then getting pissy when i told them it was also an up charge

that time a woman clearly set up her order to be “wrong” (and called before picking it up with the question of “is there anything i don’t want on it?” ????) and instantly asked for something for free when she saw that it was “wrong.” and then looked SO affronted when i said no that i had to get my asst. manager to deal with her

a woman calling about “wedding cookies” getting upset that we didn’t have them, and going “well now i know you’re not a real bakery.” i barely held myself back from replying “maam this is a grocery store”

the most exasperated and annoyed man in the world: “CHOCOLATE. ECLAIRS??” and nothing else

the mexican man who wanted a “3 milks cake” and looked so broken and confused when i finally realized he wanted Tres Leches, and i could figure that out but not when it was in english. rip sir

that woman who went “no no no. i hate buttercream, hate hate HATE IT” like a child when i asked her if i could use choc buttercream instead of the whipped i was out of. you live in my brain maam

her mirrorverse self who was so disgusted with our whipped icing that she told us we should stop stocking it. period. because she didn’t like it.

people not understanding wtf copyright and copyright infringement are

“do you have cookie cakes?” when they’re standing right in front of the rack

“how much is that” when the price is right in front of them both in the case and on a giant screen above my head

“what cake flavor/kind of icing is this?” when there is a sticker for each on the freaking container

“can i have a cake made for an hour from now?” no

people not knowing what freaking colors they’re talking about and getting upset when i didn’t get it right (teal and turquoise are not the same color. you don’t know what indigo is.)

this one is entirely staff related but that time i literally almost broke my own toe when i kicked the freezer door in rage after my coworker let me down (again) by screwing up every order for that morning, most importantly one that was for the deacon of my church. wildly enough he didn’t come back after that

and now. the names and phrases

happy birthday poopoo head (x3)

alexzandrew (made his cake every year. for the record he’s 7 and goes by just alex now. i would too kid)

britten

mei-ling (this is only notable because it was for a freaking shitzu)

lyrch

jerith (yes like the goblin king)

loki (okay marvel fan girl)

congratulations pastor X of X church and happy birthday you are blessed and we love you (this is made up but this lady would order paragraphs like this all the time)

what i swear was half the bible

so many more names that made me want to cry or hold back laughter. mckarty and taylee level stuff but somehow worse

there are many, MANY more but i worked there for 5 years and didn’t write anything down so these are just off the top of my head. and to give you an idea of why i quit, i made 111 of the 124 easter cakes we had to make this season :) just as one example

#tomato talks #✨ unemployment ✨#for the first time since i was 16 #be takey a breaky lol

36 notes · View notes

unhealthyfanobsession · 3 days ago

Text

Time Is No Healer

An exploration of Nesta's first birthday post-ACOSF for day 6 of @nestaarcheronweek

“Honestly, Feyre, I’ve never really cared about birthdays. I-”

“That isn’t true,” her sister shook her head. The wine seeming to loosen her tongue quicker after so many pregnant months without it. “I know you didn’t want to talk about your birthday for years,” years or so long or a while was always a polite reference for their time in that miserable cottage. “But when you were younger, you loved your birthdays! Remember those parties?”

Nesta felt herself go stiff. Held her fork and knife tightly between white palms to stop herself from flashing back. “I remember the parties. Yes.”

“I think even the fae would have been awed by the parties mother threw for Nesta’s birthday!" Feyre's voice went dreamy in a way only one who watched things from the outside could.

#nestaweek2025 #nesta archeron #nessian #acosf #valkyrie #cassian #sarah j maas #a court of thorns and roses #a court of silver flames #nesta and cassian #acotar #nessian fanfiction

41 notes · View notes

fatcathappycat · 2 days ago

Text

10 Ace Attorney fics that made me >LOL<

(part 1)

Reading AA fanfics on Ao3 has been my 'go to' choice for self-care this past year. The following are works that literally made me either snort, giggle, cackle or laugh out loud. As usual, these are in no particular order, because creating a sense of order in life is an illusion, and fics are to be enjoyed and celebrated, not ranked ;p

1. Vocal Exercises by SapphireWine

Rating: G Words: 4,756 Read time: 20 mins

Phoenix has a secret talent!! I laughed out loud so hard at this story's climax, I think I hurt myself (the best kind of hurt ;) ). And like so many of SapphireWine's fics, the story is so sweet (new love getting to know each other) and crisp (that snappy dialogue!) and savory (mmmmm tasty Narumitsu). I wrote in my bookmark that this fic is a sweet little ol’ onion if onions were like apples maybe, and covered in feelings.

~≧◡≦~

2. Eureka Moment by Kantayra

Rating: T Words: 673 Read time: 5 mins

"Miles discovers that, to his embarrassment, he is just as much of a total dork in bed as he is in everything else." Ahem, ngl, this is now firmly established in my head canon. Kantayra is one of my 'go to' Narumitsu Master authors. They specialize in short, sharp and hilarious ficlets, and I highly recommend all their work. This author will show up again in my fic recs, guaranteed.

~≧◡≦~

3. A Collective Groan by Kantayra

Rating: E Words: 6,321 Read time: 30 min

"Miles prided himself on his self-control, or at least he would if only Phoenix would stop being so incurably Phoenix." OOP! See! I was (w)right, here is another one by Kantayra. In addition to being a Narumitsu Master, they are a freaking Pun Master! OMG the PUNS!!!! And the fact these are Mile’s weakness! I am so dang happy I found this author and this fic in particular. I'm laughing even as I'm typing this, remembering some of them.

~≧◡≦~

4. The Crushing Weight of Inevitability by Kantayra

Rating: E Words: 6,321 Read time: 30 min

And sorry, I can't help but slip in yet another gem by Kantayra! (Honestly, I might have to do a dedicated post on them in the future). "How Edgeworth applies for a job: smugly, confidently, remorselessly, and with plenty of snark." In the form of a heavily cited resume, this is another absolutely fantastic ‘pun fic’ from this fabulous creator.

~≧◡≦~

5. Worse than we could have imagined (2 part series) by hi_its_ellis

Rating: T Words: 5,813 Read time: 25 min

Our favourite idiots being, well, idiots. By yes, another one of the authors I consider a 'Narumitsu Master.' In the author's notes, they say "I intended this to be Really Soft and it turned out Really Stupid" I happen to love soft and stupid so there we go... but it also has heart, so there we go twice.

~≧◡≦~

6. Texts & Turnabouts by YanagiKana

Rating: T Words: 40K? Read time: 3 hours (?)

I love chat fics. They are such a fun character vehicle. This one is missing a few graphics but still really, really enjoyable and I hope this talented author comes back and gives us more. :)

~≧◡≦~

7. It Would Feel So Good To Make You Mine by hi_its_ellis, lowbatteryhealth

Rating: T Words: 54,615 Read time: 4 hours

I am the 590th bookmark for this epic tale from two of the most diabolically minded pair of Narumitsu Masters in the fandom, celebrating the most epic game of Gay Chicken ™️ ❤️🐔💙 Read and enjoy, you won’t be disappointed! I would also file this one under 'required reading for Narumitsu fanon'

~≧◡≦~

8. A Beginner's Guide on How Not to Write Steel Samurai Fanfiction by chameleonwrites

Rating: T Words: 16,058 Read time: 65 mins

"Verity Baytum, a court stenographer, has a secret passion for writing Steel Samurai fanfiction based around the pairing Magisteel. When she finds an unlikely source of inspiration during her job, she can't help but watch court proceedings in search of further lines that fit her fics."

"Yaaay!!!! Sooo much fun, just like the description implies! Very Ao3 and discord community vibes. Verity is a really likeable and charismatic Original Character and I would love to read more about her! - If you are craving more, I suggest a chaser of Kantayra's 'Court(ing) Record' ;)

~≧◡≦~

9. Twelfth night by zombiekittiez for Gheyn

Rating: T Words: 5,156 Read time: 20 mins

“Phoenix hand feeds him a berry, sweet and sun-warmed. Also, slightly crunchy from the sandy soil. Resigned, Miles chews and swallows. Three days in and he is already eating dirt.” Time-loop au comedy hijinks by another one of my 'go to' authors.

~≧◡≦~

10. Certifiably Yours (2 part series) by Gheyn

Rating: T Words: 5,156 Read time: 20 mins

If you like fics that reference the language of flowers, or how meticulous Miles is, this fic is for you. And I'm finishing strong here, folks. This 2-part series is LOL perfect! Tears! TEARS!! In my eyes from laughing so hard. So sweet! So romantic! So silly! So good. Hiiiiighly recommended. ❤️💙

~≧◡≦~

And that's it for another week! I hope you enjoy these as much as I have. Look forward to a part 2 in the near future {;)

Do you have a favourite AA LOL fic? Please share in the comments! And THANK YOU!!!!! to all the incredibly wonderful punny, funny awesome authors cited here. I luuuuurve you!

❤️ ♥‿♥ ❤️

#narumitsu fanfiction #narumitsu #mitsunaru #wrightworth fic rec #narumitsu fic rec #ace attorney #miles edgeworth #phoenix wright #wrightworth #ace attorney fanfiction #fav AA fan fic #Ace Attorney fan fic recommendations #LOL #LOL fan fics

51 notes · View notes

doomtrooper77 · 22 hours ago

Text

Put on a Show

You were feeling pretty good about the fight your buddy got set up for you tonight. You’d made pretty good money on the last 3-4 fights. People were asking for you. Mind you, these are underground fights, and they didn’t show them on cable or anything, but there were pretty good crowds, and now they were being streamed on the dark web. Even with Bare Knuckle Boxing and Dirty Boxing becoming mainstream on the internet, these fights were a bit darker. It was more like pit fighting than anything else. No ref, the only rule was pretty much not to kill the other guy.

Ricky had set this one up for you. He said he had heard of this underground group making and offering big money for fighters. Everybody got paid something up front, and if you won, you got 3-5 times as much, and you were allowed to bet on yourself. Ricky got 3 grand up front. You jumped at the chance. Ricky said the promoters like you to put on a show. Not to make it too quick. I could do that.

Ricky told you to meet him at this old factory around 9 pm. When you got there, there were some rough-looking dudes at the door. Big fuckers who you could see was packing heat. You told them who you were, said that Ricky was already there, and pointed you to an old workers' locker room where he and other fighters were waiting. When you get there, Ricky is all smiles. There are 4 fights tonight. You look around and see the 6 other guys.

You ask Ricky which of them is your opponent, and that’s when he tells you it’s a random pick. The promoter comes in with a hat with poker chips out, and whoever has matching poker chips fights each other. You look around again, and while a few of these guys look competent, none of them look like they couldn’t handle it. Hell, a couple of them you’d have to hold back a lot to make it look good. That’s when you told Ricky to bet all of your potential winnings on your fight. Ricky grinned and went off to do so.

You start changing your gear when the seventh guy walks into the locker room. The chatter stops, and you can hear the heavy boot steps. You turn and see a wall of muscle walking through the room. He had to be 6’2 or 6’3, which isn’t necessarily extraordinary, however, his shoulders were wide as a fucking doorway. He wore blue jeans, harness boots, a black tank top, and a black leather jacket. The jacket was stretched, fitting over his massive frame. One of the other fighters said what the rest of them were thinking, Fuck. Another guy, a bit smaller than him, followed behind with a duffle bag.

They walked over to another bench and started to get ready. Ricky came back and said, “Who is that fucking bull?” I told him the seventh fighter, counting me, you get eight. We both looked at each other like, FUCK! Ricky then proceeded to give me the pep talk. That guy was all muscle, no go. He’s probably slow as hell. If you ended up fighting him, I would have to keep away and gas him out. I had fought guys like that before.

Ricky was tapping up your hands as the guy started to change. He started by taking off all his heavy biker jewelry. Rings, necklace, bracelet. When he stripped down to skin, he looked even bigger, everywhere. Fucker had a cock like a damn horse. He was covered in biker ink all over. Arms, back, shoulder, neck, chest, legs. I watched as he slipped into a torn jock strap that could barely hod him. Watched as he adjusted that leg straps around his massive muscular thighs and ass, then reaching in and adjusting baseball cock of his. He slipped into some black trunks and sat down as the guy with him proceeded to tape his massive hands and feet.

When that guy was done, he stood up and started warming up like the other fighters. He stretched first. Bending and twisting at what should be impossible angles for someone that freaking huge. The pops and snaps of his joints echoed across the room as he limbered up. Which exactly what it was, you could see his movements becoming more fluid and smoother. The more you watch, the more you get a really bad feeling in the pit of your stomach.

It was when he walked over to the big punching bag hanging from an overhead beam, a big leather unit meant to take a pounding for a couple of decades. When the guy using it saw him swaggering over, he quickly turned and returned to the bench where his stuff was. The room got quiet again as the big guy approached the bag. Rolling his neck, he snapped a couple of jabs into the bag. Fast and based on the bag’s movement, strong. His shoulders swayed, and his feet began to move, and hooks, crosses, uppercuts, and body shots soon joined those jabs. His punches were not only fast, but they were also powerful. That big swung left and right and jumped up and down, depending on the blow. He started letting these growling barks as he hit especially hard. Fast, strong, fluid. He was up on his toes, moving side to side, back and forth, diagonally. While not Muhammad Ali, he was professionally fast. The whole room gasped when he suddenly spun and that massive, tapped foot came around in a blinding arc and smashed into the bag, sending it swing damn near horizontal with force. You can see a guy shaking their head, all beginning to rethink their participation. This wasn’t a fight with refs and rules. This was No Hold Barred. Again, the only rule was not to kill anyone.

One guy picked up his bag to leave, but he was met by two big bruisers at the door who told him it was too late. He tried to argue, but one showed him the holster with a big silver gun. I looked at Ricky, and he had a similarly shocked look on his face. The massive guy in the corner kept warming up. A sheen of sweat started shining on his massive upper body.

The “promoter” came in with three goons. They looked like they were straight out of a mob movie. He explained how the pairing for the fights would work. He had a leather bag with 8 poker chips. Red, Blue, Green, and Gold. Everything but gold was the preliminary matches. Gold was the main event. The main event paid more, but you also needed to put on a show. He explained again that these were No-Hold-Barred fights. No refs, one rule. Try not to kill your opponent. There were bonuses for those who put on the best show. Everybody knew what that meant.

He shook the bag and put it in front of you. You reached in and pulled out the Gold poker chip. Ricky clapped his hands because he knew the pay for that match could be good. I also know I could put on a show without really hurting someone. However, I didn’t want to try to do that with the Beast. There was a 1 in 7 chance he could be my opponent. The next three guys pulled. Red, Blue. Blue. 1 in 4 chances. Green. Red. Only two guys left, the Beast and a wiry middleweight-looking guy. Everyone watched as the promoter shook the bag and put it before the Beast. You and the guy with the green chip look at each other. You can see both of you hoping for the opposite color to be picked. The beast reached his massive hand into the bag, and the glint of gold flashed as he pulled the chip out. The Beast looked up at you; his eyes were hard and cold. The promoter grinned at you and then at the Beast. He said the fights start in 15 minutes. Red up first.

The Beast kept staring at you. Part of you knew it was a psychological ploy to scare you. But there was something dangerous behind those eyes. Ricky came up and pulled you away. There was no backing out of this fight. You and Ricky strategized on different ways to take him down.

The two guys went out to the first fight. You could hear the crowd cheer and roar. 10 minutes later, one guy comes in with a bloody nose and mouth, and the other is being carried in holding his arm that is at the wrong angle. Fight two happens, and again, one guy comes in with a bloodied face and a swollen eye, his opponent comes in on a stretcher, knocked out, and with a brace around his neck.

When the third fight starts, the Beast starts to warm up. He stretches his arms and legs, pulling those massive limbs at angles someone that big isn’t supposed to be able to do. Then he lay flat on his back and arched his entire body so that just the soles of his feet and the top of his head were on the rough concrete floor. Ricky and you watch as he starts doing neck rolls on the floor. That massive pillar of flesh his head sat on flexed and twisted like rubber. Back and forth, side to side. He kipped up and the guy who was with him had a bottle of water and a towel, ready for him but, he pushed him aside roughly and walked back over to the punching bag. His fist started flying, and you can tell he wasn’t holding back. The bag thumped and swung wildly. His barks and growls as he hit it were sharp and aggressive.

He kept this up for 3-4 minutes, his blows growing harder and faster. You should have been warming up yourself, but you couldn’t take your eyes off of him.

Suddenly you can hear boos and angry shouts coming from the crowd. Minutes later, both fighters were roughly escorted past the locker room to somewhere else deeper into the old factory by 4 big bruisers.

The promoter came into the locker room and spoke. “Those to pussy had not heart. Now I’ve got an angry crowd asking for their money back. So, I expect you two to give me one hell of a show.” He said, looking from me to the Beast. The promoter grinned as the beast turned to him, and he was covered in sweat, and his massive, tattooed arms and shoulders were pumped and crawling with veins. He turned back to me and said, “Kid if you get a chance to put on a show, you better give him all you’ve got. But I have a feeling…..” he trailed off looking at the Beast.

10 minutes later, you’re standing in a literal chain-link cage surrounded by a hungry crowd. They announced it was the night's final fight and that all bets had been made and were final. They announce your height and weight, 6’1 and 275. They announced his height, 6’4 and 398 pounds. There is an excited murmur from the crowd as someone rings the bell.

He plods forward flatfooted. His eyes boring into you. You have a few options; you’ve got to get him off his feet. The knee. Upon your toes, and moving back and forth. You snap a kick at his knee, and it connects. A solid thunk, but his leg does collapse. Ok, it's gonna take more than one. A few more jabs, and you snap another one, and it connects. Another solid thunk. It still doesn’t collapse, but the crowd can see your strategy and cheer you on. He throws a few slow jabs and a roundhouse, far slower than back in the locker room, and they miss. You can feel your confidence building. If you can get him down or limping, you might be able to take him apart.

You throw a jab and a left cross, just as he moves slightly away, you whip around and, using your momentum, you aim at that knee again. Putting all of your speed and weight behind it. If it connects, that knee is going to snap. Just as your foot is coming around, you can see his face. The blank, plodding look is gone, and that hungry, intimidating look is back. Just about when that kick is going to connect, he lifts his knee straight up, and your foot flies right under where his knee was a microsecond before. Your momentum starts to take you half around again when that knee he has lifted damn near to his chest extends and that big foot lands squarely on you right pec and you find yourself flying backwards into the cage.

You see the cage and crowd spin around as you fly through the air, hit the chain-link cage wall, and fall to the mat. You feel like you were hit by a truck. The crowd roars. Sucking in air and trying to orient yourself you manage to turn around and see him walking toward you. At first, he plodded flat-footed, but with each step, he began to rise on his toes. By the time you have your breath, he is moving with a smooth bouncing gait to easily match your own.

He moved blindingly fast, the last two steps toward you, and brought his knee up. You manage to move out of the way, and that knee hits the chain-link cage. He had so much weight and power that the cage shifted a foot toward the crowd. You could hear the intake of breath from the crowd, then a roar. You take advantage and throw a hook into his back and ribs as he bounces off the cage. Then another. Enough power in those punches to put a man down. But to your surprise, he spins and raises his arm with a back fist. You manage to turn away enough that it glazes your cheek, but it is enough to send you stumbling.

When you look up, he’s on you. Jabs, lefts, and rights. You cover up, but the blows that hit your arms hurt, and when he sees you covering your face, the blows come to your midsection. Your breath is literally taken away. Fire blossoms on your side. The next blow that lands there, you can hear the snap.

You find yourself on your knees on the ground. Holding your side. You’re looking for the next blow, but when you look up, he has stepped back and looks down at you with disdain. He makes a gesture for you to get up. You have no choice, no referee to stop the fight.

He arrogantly holds his arms extended out from his body, inviting you for a free shot. The crowd is jeering at you. They are eating it up. You stand up, and now you are getting angry. He gestures again for you to take your shot. Squaring up, walking up to him, and nodding your head, you wind back and give him a full power shot to the jaw. His head barely turns. He grins and says again. You do it again and take squarely, and that pillar of flesh he calls a neck doesn’t bend. You follow it up with another punch, then a shot to the gut, then ribs, then back to the head. By the 7th blow, you were punching. The 8th blow, he caught your fist in his hand and held it like wood in a vice. Through your angry haze, you see his vicious smile and bloody lip say, “My turn.”

The world exploded into stars, and his head propels forward and smashes into you like a wrecking ball. The world goes white, and you barely feel as he pushes you back into the cage. You can’t tell what happens because you're still in a daze from the headbutt, but those massive fists land repeatedly. When you start to focus again, you can hear the crowd roar. You're on the concrete and he's standing over you. You can see him standing over you, massive, pumped, and absorbing the crowd's hunger. You can also see that his trunks are tented. He’s fucking hard.

Something in your brain says. NHB, No holds barred. As he reaches down for you, you gather what strength you have left and slam your fist right into his cock and balls. The low blow lands base of his cock and square into his balls. You hear the crowd gasp as they see it, and you see his eyebrows begin to rise, and recognition of what happened in his eyes. He’s a man, and that pain is something every man feels. You see him step back and are waiting for him to fall over. You see him sway, but he doesn’t fall over. He leans back, rolls his shoulders, and looks down at you. His eyes are different now. The fire of the fight has been joined by something else.

You watch as he balls up his fist and slams it into his junk, two, three, four times. The fire in his eyes gets brighter. As he does so, a hush comes over the crowd, and then they scream in raw approval. A dangerous smile comes over his face as he grabs you and pulls you from the ground. You try to struggle, but before you know it, he turns you around and wraps those massive arms of his around your head and neck and starts to squeeze. He could easily put you out, but where's the fun in that?

With his massive arms wrapped around your head and neck, he lifts you from the ground and carries you around the perimeter of the cage, showing you off to the roar of the crowd. Stopping in front of each section, squeezing tighter and loosening up so you don’t lose consciousness. When you both reach the portion of the cage where the promoter is, he stops, leans in, pushing your body into the chain link cage wall, and leans all of his weight against you. The promoter has a huge grin on his face as the crowd and camera take it all in.

His mouth is just over our right ear, and you hear him say, “So you thought that cheap shot would work. Fucker, that’s fuckin foreplay for me.” He said and flexed his arms tightly, then loosened them again, allowing you to breathe. “Maybe when I’m done with you here I’ll drag you back to some corner of this fucking factory and show you what happens when you get me all worked up.” He said and then you could feel his hard cock grind against your ass through both your trunks. The crowd roared even louder as he did it, and his hip movement became more pronounced. The promoter looked shocked until he noticed how wild the crowd was getting as they watched. His smile grew bigger. “Maybe I’ll show you right here in front of everybody. That would be one hell of a show, wouldn’t it?”

It wasn’t until later that you woke up in a room with a guy in a suit and two guys in paramedic uniforms putting an IV in your arm. Ricky was there. He told you that these were the guys the promoter hired to take care of fighters after the matches. A doctor and two paramedics. You could feel a neck brace around your neck, something on your arm, and something around your midsection. The doctor told me that I had multiple cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, torn ligaments in my neck, and that they were pretty sure multiple fingers from a punch Best had been broken, if not my hand. You could feel a couple of teeth missing. They were going to take you to the hospital for X-rays and scans.

The promoter came in and said, “Great show, kid. The crowd loves it. You earned your bonus. The doctor here says you’ll live and recover. Make sure you tell the hospital you were in a car accident. We’ll ensure it’s taken care of as long as you do that.” The bonus was 20 grand.

Just as they were wheeling you out to the paramedics' truck, the Beast was walking out, and he turned and stopped the paramedics. Everyone's eyes widened as the man pushed past guards and the doctor. Dressed back in his street clothes, he leaned down and said, “Good fight, buddy. They say you’re gonna be okay in a few months or so. I tried not to bust you up to bad; you got heart fucker. I can respect that. Let me know when you want a rematch.“ he said grinning, his eyes shining with humor and challenge.

As they wheeled me away, I said, “When pigs fly.” I heard him laugh as they slid me into the van.

#ai muscle #midjourney #brute #pit fighter #biker series

30 notes · View notes

magicwithered · 3 days ago

Text

it's all worth it (for you my dear)

Pairing: Oikawa/Reader

Summary: the worst thing about knowing who your mate is from the time you're a child is knowing who your mate is since you were a child. | ao3

Word Count: 15.7k

The first time he sees you—

No, the first time he smells you, his dad is sitting on the couch, head in hands, breath rugged. Like it's dawned on him he's lost something valuable and can't handle it.

"Tooru," he had said when his son had stood awkwardly by the living room entrance, volleyball clutched tightly in his hand. He had smelled you then, something heavy, sitting in the back of his throat, making a home there. You had smelled like a forest, woodsy and perfect. His father had mumbled something under his breath as Oikawa swiveled his head around looking for you.

"Tooru," his father had said again, fingers burying in his hair as he messed it up, "I wanted to introduce you to someone but they, she—" his father cut himself off, looking up. "It doesn’t matter," he had said instead.

Oikawa's been running after you ever since.

—

Oikawa has never doubted his father loving his mother. He sees it in the way he speaks to her, and moves around her. His father has always been in love with his mother, he knows. But after that day on the couch, he doesn't know.

He doesn't like not knowing.

And then one day he catches your scent again. Woodsy, a slight hint of cocoa. Something natural and musky in the best of ways, stronger than he's ever smelled anything. You're carrying something, grocery bags he thinks, as you help his mother out the car. He watches as his mother hobbles, leaning against your chest. You’re taller than her, clearing almost 6 feet. (He thinks that you might only be an inch shorter than his father.) Her smile is easy-going, lax even as he hears the soft tut you make when she attempts to walk to the house.

Your voice is tantalizing. It’s smooth, like the feeling of crisp water across hot flesh in the summer sun. Grocery bags in one hand, and your hand placed on his mothers hip as you help her into the house. He’s frozen, across the street as the two of you disappear in the house.

Oikawa isn’t sure what the hell is going on with him, just that he has the exact feeling he got when he first watched a volleyball tournament. It’s the beginning of something, and he knows in his heart it will take a while to bloom, but when it does it will be worth it.

Later, when you have made your escape and he’s finally unstuck his feet from the pavement to walk through the door, he stops for a second. Something under the wood of the door, swallowing thickly before he smiles at his mother. She’s giving him a look, and he leans against the door frame as if to bask in the scent again. It’s heaviest right here, like you hesitated leaving, loitering for however long until the scent of you was pumped into the air of the entrance.

“What?”

His mother hums, ruffling his hair with a chuckle. “Nothing,” she says, just as his sister shuffles downstairs in search of something to eat. “Nothing at all, Tōru.”

It takes 6 years for it to piss Toru the fuck off. His presentation comes and goes. His first rut is brutal, a violent affair that has him out of the class for a week and a half. He hears his father’s whispers on the phone, pleadings to come visit.

You.

Oikawa has known who his mate is since before he could even really understand what was happening. He doesn’t even really know what you look like, but he knows your voice, your scent. He knows the weird peculiarity of yours that involves you and his family knowing each other for two hundred years. Oikawa has seen pictures. Yellow and fading, old and fraying, new and digital. You with your arms thrown over the shoulder of someone in his family over generations.

So he knows you, but he does not really know you.

He dates. Kind of. Not really.

Girls confess to him, pretty omega’s with cloying sweetness that burns the back of his throat. They like him, and Oikawa has 200 years worth of life experience he has to catch up with you about. So dating. But only kind of. If his mind isn’t focused on volleyball, it’s you. You, who avoids him at all costs. You, who visits his house only when he’s gone. You, who seems to scent his door every time you’re over.

He’s thinking in circles when he picks up your scent after a long day of practicing. His head snaps up, nostrils flaring as the woodsy, sweet soft scent you have coats his throat. He gets dizzy for a second, the serve he was going for losing some of its impact. It hits the other side, out of bounds and he turns, ignoring his teammates completely.

“What the hell was that, Shittykawa?” Iwaizumi’s voice barely permeates through the heated want of the haze. Usually, he’ll respond in kind, whining petulantly but you’re here. Somewhere. Not near, but enough that somehow the breeze brings your unique scent to him. The only reason why, he knows, is because the gym doors are open.

“I-I’ll be right back,” he mutters, racing out the door. The further he runs the stronger your scent is. Somewhere pretty far from the school. To be completely honest, Oikawa isn’t even sure how he ran so far and so long, but he blacks out until he’s banging on a door.

He knows you’re in there.

He can smell you, and it takes everything in him not to claw at the wood and rip it to bits and drag you out. His face is practically pressed into the door and continues to bang against it. His palm hits again and again until he practically falls to the floor when the door swings open.

You catch him before he can hit the floor, straightening him up before taking a step back. “What the he–”

“You’re avoiding me,” he spits out, “my whole life. You’ve been avoiding me my whole life.” Not what he wanted to say originally. Originally, Oikawa was going to say hi. He thinks. He can be very impulsive.

“Oikawa–”

“Toru,” he corrects, cutting you off again, “It’s Toru. You know that though. Why have you been avoiding me?”

“I don’t think this is a good idea?” Your voice goes up, like you’re questioning even yourself. Your nostrils flare and Oikawa takes the time to really take you in. Even better than a picture. You’re everything he could’ve hoped for and more. His nose pressed against the scent gland in your neck, pressing even closer until the two of you are practically molded against each other.

“Why? Why do you think this is a bad idea? You’re mine,” he says simply, a soft whine to his words, “I’m yours. We’re each others. So why?”

“Oika-Toru,” you cough, lightly pushing him back. Your scent flares, a sour note with your distress but not unappealing. Toru doesn’t think there’s anything you can do or smell like without being viscerally attracted to it. “You don’t.” Another aborted sentence. “You’re 16. I am.” Your voice goes low. “I am 247 and you are 16.”

Oikawa is not like other Alphas (or he’s exactly like other alphas he doesn’t know). He’s rotting on the inside because his soulmate won’t claim him. And fuck all, fuck the rules, fuck what is right and wrong. Oikawa has wanted you viscerally and deeply since his first rut took him out and made him a feral, mean thing. (He’s always been mean, but he does such a wonderful job covering it up.)

“So?” He grabs your wrists, and he knows it’s because you let him. He knows you’re letting him take his anger out on you as soon as it bubbles under his skin. He knows exactly what you’re doing, and still he feels vindicated for being able to trap you closer to him. “So the fuck what? We’re mates. We belong together.”

Oikawa can’t stop himself, he drags his mouth against yours, frantic and clawing desperation in his veins. Your mouth opens under his, his tongue slips in (all that practice makes perfect he supposes). His shoulders relax, he’s no longer tense. The coiled jaguar that makes up his limbs soothed, the rot being scooped out before he’s shoved away again.

This time you don’t hold back, shoving him so hard he lands on his ass. You’re a wild thing like this, a mess and he wants to drag his mouth up the center of your thighs and make a home there.

“You should leave,” you say, clutching your shirt before shaking your head when he goes to say something. “You need to leave, Oikawa.”

The use of his surname is like frigid water coating his body in the dead of a winter's night.

Sometimes, Oikawa thinks he’s unlucky. Privileged enough to have found his true mate before the age of 10, but cursed to have a mate that was not just 3 times his senior. The years pass him by, and he’s mostly angry, but keeps track of each time the earth revolves around the sun, another year to tally. He wishes time could stop long enough to catch up to you, but he can’t.

Two years ago to the date he went back to your house and you’d been gone. Not even a letter goodbye.

Two years ago to the date he felt his heart crack in two and split open, bleeding rot all over the place.

Two years ago today, and he’d felt like his whole life collapsed on itself and he would never see you again. But then you sent him a postcard. It was nothing special, some cheesy thing from the states (Maine it had said) with its name written in all caps, blues and greens. But it was very special to him.

Your scent was plastered against the cardstock, and he pressed it against his nose and inhaled every day until the cardstock started smelling like cardstock again, and he couldn’t get dizzy in it. Then one day, his mother left her phone on the kitchen counter and who was he if not an opportunist?

Your name had popped up and he scribbled down the number as quickly as possible before giving it to her. Oikawa had contemplated calling you immediately, but one thing ran into the other and next thing he knew his rut had snuck up on him, and he was writhing in the bed, angry and distorted. It was always rough when his rut came. Oikawa is no gentleman to begin with. He’s not particularly nice, and sometimes he can’t even be kind. But his ruts are another monster in and of itself.

He’s dialing your number before he even realizes it. Shoving his pants off, groaning softly into the fabric of his linens. The feeling of his pajama pants against his hardening length was starting to literally piss him off. And you’re not answering, though he knows it’s probably because it’s an unknown number. But still. If you don’t fucking pick u–

“What?”

“Is that the way you always greet people?” he pants out, kicking the blankets off him again. It won’t make a difference, he’ll get cold and then he’ll get hot and then he’ll get irritated and it’ll circle around until he’s in near tears. Oikawa can tug his cock all day long, but without you, without being able to slide his way home, it won’t matter.

It’s quiet for a second on the other line before you sigh softly. “Oikawa,” you mutter, and he can almost see the way you shake your head. “How did you get my number?”

“Does it matter?” It feels good to hear your voice, like a balm against the heat of what is going to be one of the roughest weeks of his life. This is the first time he’s spoken to you since you left, but only the second time the two of you have ever exchanged words.

“Does it matter? Of course it matters, you’re 16–”

“18,” he corrects with a grunt, wrapping a hand around himself. “But you knew that, you sent me a postcard a few weeks ago telling me happy birthday.” He hears you grumble to yourself, and sighs softly, thumbing the tip of his dick. It’s wrong, completely against your knowledge, but he can’t stop himself.

“Okay, yes, I knew you turned 18.” Silence as he licks his lips, dragging precum down his length, humming into the phone. “Why did you call me, Oikawa?”

“Wanted to hear your voice. Is that a crime now? I can’t hear my mate's voice?”

“That is besides the point, Toru.” You shouldn’t have said that, because he whimpers, nuzzling his pillow and slowly sliding his hand against himself. It feels good, better than it's ever had and he can pinpoint the exact moment you know what is going on. “Toru.”

He swallows thickly, slowly increasing his pace. Heat races up his spine, pleasure curling his tongue as he says your name. “Yeah,” his hips jerk up to meet his hand, and there’s an audible slap of his skin when he grunts. In the haze of the rut and the pleasure he can hear you say:

“Unbelievable, my mate is a crazy person.”

“Fuck, say it again.”

“I’m gonna hang up,” you say flatly, but under that is a tone he can hear. He doesn’t know what it is, but he can hear it. “I can’t believe you called me during your rut, Tor–Oikawa.”

“Say it again,” he growls, feeling that familiar pressure bubbling up. He’s barely touched himself, but he’s already about to cum.

“Say what?”

“Mate,” he grumbles, “my name. Say it again.”

“I can’t believe–”

“It’s the least you can do,” Oikawa pants, twisting his hand to get that feeling that makes his toes curl. “You a-avoided me for years and then left me. At least you can acknowledge that I’m your mate.”

It’s a wonder he can even get the words out, but half of what’s fueling him (other than wanting to finally make a home for his dick in the slickness of your cunt) is spite. A petty satisfaction fills him up as you breathe in sharply, his moan soft over the phone. As good of a job you’ve been doing, covering up your reactions to his rut, you can only cover it up for so long. Your breath growing a little more ragged as time passes by and he continues to fuck into his hand. At the end of the day, the two of you are mates, he knows this will affect you innately.

“Fine,” you finally breathe out, “fine, Toru.” He’s going to cum, he says as much, getting closer and closer. Another pause. “Mate.” He cums all over his fingers, working his way through it until the touch becomes too much. He feels a little like live wire, but a fulfillment that settles deep into his bones. The first rut where you have even been slightly around. Sweat clings to his skin, and he knows it’s far from over, his ruts are vicious things. But for right now he can bask in the haze of hearing you call him your mate for the first time and cumming to the sound of your voice.

Oikawa hears you swallow thickly, his panting crackling over the phone as he reaches over to clean himself off with the rag he had prepped for this very thing. “It would be better if you were here, you know?” He says after the silence sits for too long. There’s too much to say, and Oikawa is not as content with silence as someone like Iwazumi. In fact, he hates it. Silence makes no sense for the two of you in particular, the weight of wants and needs and denial suffocating the space between you two. And then there’s the literal space between you two. Timezone and thousands of miles and all.

“Toru,” you say softly, and he can hear the way the beads in your braids clack together as you shake your head. “We can’t.”

“We can,” he grumbles back, “I’m eighteen now, no one would bat an eyelash. You’re not even graying.”

“It’s wrong.” He makes a noise of complaint and you keep going. “I knew you when you were a child.”

“We’re mates! It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. Why does it matter?” Oh fuck, is he gonna cry? He’s gonna cry. He can feel his voice wobble, tears already forming and it’s against some unwritten mate code to be the one who hurts the one they’re mated to because you coo in that tone. The alpha tone that people say he sometimes uses. ”It's not fair.”

Silence again.

“I know,” you gently say, soft in a way that soothes him. He can picture the look on your face, the down turn of your full lips and the understanding in your eyes. Oikawa knows he could be more understanding but he can’t, because it’s not fucking fair.

“We’re mates.”

“I know.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”

And then you hang up. He’s never hated a dial tone more.

Keiko gives birth at one in the morning, gripping Toru’s hand because her husband was racing, and he does mean racing, to get to the hospital. The baby is three days early, he only knows that because you’d called him, driving his older sister to the hospital.

You’d been in Japan, and had he’d known he’d shown up to your door. But you're stealthy, sneaking back into his life without letting him know. Which, fucking hell should not be as attractive as it is. Sympathetic as you were to his plight (he is falling apart at the seams and you don’t fucking care) you still won’t let him in.

And ever since his rut, you don’t pick up the phone. He knows you’re reading his texts because your read messages are on, and that’s pissing him off. But he can’t even be mad at you right now because his sister is giving birth and squeezing the fuck out of his hand.

But as soon as he can, he’s trapping you somewhere. He knows you know it.

It takes a while, but his brother-in-law comes in and relieves him of duties, Keiko not even halfway done through the labor and Oikawa is so fucking tired. He’d woken up in the middle of the night to your call and he’s got a test in the morning. His sister will understand, you will not. On his way out, he grabs your wrist. He’s taller than you now, just over 6 feet, but the height difference isn’t much. Now that he’s seen in person after literal fucking years, he knows you’re not 5’11. 5’9 maybe, but definitely not 5’11.

“Take me back to my dorms,” he says, dragging you to your car. You don’t have to ask why he knows which one is your car, and he doesn’t offer the information. (Other than the copious amounts of stalking he’s done on you, he also can follow your scent. You’re that fucking potent to him.)

“Toru, what the hell,” you hiss. “I can’t just—“

“Take me back,” he growls, stopping short and stepping into your space, “to my dorm.” Your mouth audibly shuts, and you sigh, unlocking the doors. The thing about it is, Toru knows for a fact the only reason he’s got any type of superiority over you is because of your guilt. He knows this, and he’ll use it. He’s not above that. It doesn’t matter to him about what’s proper, what he should do and how he should go about it. You’re delicate and skittish, and he’s a fucking sledgehammer that comes wrecking everything you’ve meticulously built.

Toru isn’t delicate, he can’t be. Volleyball isn’t delicate, it’s brutal. A lesson in brute force and patience, and he’s every bit of the game. He slides into the passenger's seat and watches the streetlights pass by as you drive. The two of you are quiet, Toru’s just a little too tired to try and push your buttons and you’re always relatively quiet. You park and he huffs out a laugh.

“Never gave you the directions,” he says, turning towards you with a raised eyebrow.

You don’t say anything for a moment before looking at him. “No, you didn’t.”

Silence again.

“Why? Why the fuck do you keep doing this to me?” Vitriol and fire come out before he can stop it. “Is it fun? Do you enjoy it? Leaving me in silence, wanting?”

“Oikawa—“

“Toru.”

“Toru, it’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple!” His hand hits the dashboard and he knows he’s tired. Not at his wits end, but tired. Something is gonna break, and he thinks it’s gonna be him. But that’s for the distant future. “You’re my mate. We are mates. You didn’t want to be around me when I was 16, fine. But 18? 19? I’m not a child.”

“Toru,” you hiss, gripping the steering wheel tightly, whiting out your skin a bit, “it is not that simple.”

“So you can be around my family, but you can’t be around me? You can talk me through a rut, listen to me cum on the phone, but you can’t talk to me? Just fucking talk to me!”

You take a shaking breath in and he watches all the fight leave you for a second. Fight, he thinks, fight for me. Fight with me. Give me it all.

You don’t.

“Toru, we can’t do this,” you mumble, looking at him. “We can’t. I’m sorry. I know, okay? I fucking know it sucks. I know it’s not fair. But we can’t.”

He scoffs, pushing open the door before pausing and slamming it shut, trapping them up two both inside. “This is inevitable, you know.” Slender fingers grip your chin, jerking your head up so your eyes can meet. “I’m going to taste you one day. I’m going to mark you. I’m going to love you. And you can’t do anything about it.”

He leaves then, seething and making his way back to his dorm room. He's bitter, truly bitter. The two of you could’ve fucked in your car, and you’re denying him the inevitable truth. Toru’s not really patient, but he can focus. Eye on the prize, just like volleyball.

—

College takes a lot of time away from him. Being a sports major can be exhausting and while Oikawa is always confident in himself, sometimes he second guesses volleyball. He thinks this would be different if you were around but you’re not. He calls and calls and calls and you don’t pick up.

At least not during the day.

Sometimes, when he is feeling particularly vindictive he’ll text you back to back.

ME 20:46

Pick up

✔️ read @ 20:56

I know you’re staring at the phone

Pick up

✔️ read @ 20:59

I’m just gonna keep calling you, Bambi

YOU 21:05

My name is not Bambi

Don’t know what else to call you Future Mrs. Oikawa then?

The ellipses rise and fall and rise and fall and he calls you again. This time, you pick up.

“You’re avoiding me again,” he says in lieu of a greeting, “you can’t keep avoiding me.”

You grumble, shifting the phone over. He can hear it through the speakers, just like he can hear the bustle of the town you’re in. New York City, though he only knows because you sent him a postcard. (Okay, so technically you sent it to his sister, but he knows you know he’s gonna sniff it out so really you sent it to him. At least that’s what he’s convinced himself of.)

“One day,” he says, staring at the ceiling, “You’re gonna look back at this and realize how fucking stupid you were being. But that’s okay, because you know you’re being stupid.”

“You’re a child,” you hiss in the phone but under the vitriol is something else. He can pinpoint the fear. He can hear the shame in your voice.

“I’m 19!”

“And that is a child compared to me.” Silence as the sound of cars honking echo the space between you two. It is night for him, but day for you. Under the same sky, but in different conditions, it’s warring with each other. Toru should be asleep, but he can’t sleep without you. You should’ve ignored his texts, his phone calls but you didn’t. He likes to think you can’t, at least. He wouldn’t know because you don’t fucking talk to him. He literally has to harass you into giving him an inch.

“I’m not a child,” he says instead of what he really wants to say. How does he even work around that? Everyone is a child compared to you. You call his father Big Little Oikawa for god's sake! You’re in every picture of every family reunion dating back to the 1700s. But it doesn’t negate the fact that he’s not a child. “You keep running. Where are you running to? You’re ruts started because of me. You can’t escape me, Bambi. ” This he is proud of, most of all.

The dial tone greets him like an old friend. Toru is getting really fucking sick of it and it’s only been the second time you’ve done it to him.

It’s only a couple of months later that sees him stranded for his birthday. It’s summer break for this session of classes and his parents are away for vacation. It hadn’t been their intention, it just so happened that it worked out that way. He doesn’t begrudge them, even if he is more used to being vehemently celebrated each year he gets older.

Toru can’t say that he’s not disappointed, but he’s also a little happy that he gets the house to himself. His twentieth birthday seems monumental, even though it was only a few months ago you had hung up on him so abruptly. Maybe this is the time that you lose all your silly posturing and have a come to Jesus moment. An aha! Which brings you to his home and you two can fuck it out. It also doesn’t help that his rut is starting soon, and now he won’t have to worry about being quiet about it.

This, he knows, is a silly thing to wish for. If he is relentless in his pursuit of you, you are steadfast in holding yourself back. “An unstoppable force and an immovable object,” he grumbles to himself.

He can smell you damn there down the block before he sees you, the key sliding into the keyhole and you turn the lock. You must be distracted because that’s the only reason why you would have the courage (yeah he can be a dick when it comes to you sometimes, he knows) to continue on the trek through the house. He leans against the door frame, loitering right before the kitchen. You’re mumbling something to yourself, a watering can for the plants he knows his mom probably asked you to take care of. Toru’s got a black thumb, and he wouldn’t even try to save the plants from himself.

Just seeing you is enough to make the heat of his rut race up his spine. It’s like a gut punch, seeing you like this. Carefree and humming to yourself, even when you never give him more than just the crumbs of yourself. His stomach clenches, eyes tracing the smooth skin of your legs in a pair of shorts that leave your legs bare to the world. You’re so pretty it’s almost not fair, but then he remembers that you’re his. His to ogle and his to love. No matter how much you run from it, he knows it in his gut.

Toru can feel his dick getting hard as you startle, the watering-can drops to the floor. He watches as your nostrils flare, taking in the scent of his rut starting. It’s quiet for a second before he’s across the room in a few steps, long legs taking him to you before you even have time to escape. Your hand grabs the handle of the door but he palms the door shut, pressing the weight of his body into yours, trapping you against the seal of the front door and himself.

“Hi.” The words are breathy, absentminded heat coming from the ache in his chest. The hollow feeling he has to contend with nearly every day suddenly being filled just by your smell alone. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“You always say that,” you say, staring up at him. The height difference between the two of you is minuscule, but it’s enough that you do still have to look up at him when he’s so close.

“You’re always avoiding me,” he says, the palm of his hand meeting the skin of your thigh. You’re an inferno, but a balm to his needs. “Stop avoiding me and maybe I won’t keep saying it.”

“You’re 19.”

“Twenty as of today,” he says, leaning down to press his nose against your scent gland. He hears the sharp inhale you take when he does so. “You knew that already, you sent me an early birthday card.” Toru wonders if you enjoy lying to yourself, or if it’s something you’ve perfected over the two centuries you’ve been alive. He can’t help himself, tongue pressing against the skin of your neck. You taste like heaven, and it’s not even the part he’s been dreaming of the most.

(Sometimes Toru dreams of what it would be like to wake up with you wrapped around him. Sometimes, though, he dreams of hearing your soft moans as he eats you out, letting your scent and your taste sit on his tongue and cling to him for the rest of the day. This will have to suffice until he gets his wish, though.)

He groans, pressing against you firmly, wrapping his hand around your thigh and dragging it up around his waist. You let him because of course you do. You give him an inch in your guilt for putting him through this shit, and he takes advantage of it. Toru has always been aware that above anything else, he will exploit any weakness in his opponents to get the win. For him, you are just another version of volleyball that needs to be studied and played. His tongue drags its way up your neck to your scent gland and you choke out a groan before pushing him away.

“Can’t,” you say and he wants to throw a tantrum. He can feel it bubbling under his skin but you take a cautious step towards him, hands held up, palms out as if to soothe him. It does. “I’m sorry.” When you touch the side of his neck where his scent gland begs to be bitten and claimed under the sharpness of your teeth, he relaxes just slightly, the fingers of your other hand twitching against his fingers. He could deny himself this in order to punish you, but Toru’s not built like that, so he entwines your fingers together and follows you as you walk him to his room.

He follows as you push him down on his bed and gently curl his hair behind his ear. He follows as you scent him just enough to relax his tense bones. He follows as you press a kiss to his forehead, barely even that. Your lips brush against his forehead and then as the haze of your scent distracts him and soothes his rut, his door closes and he’s alone. Toru can’t stop the way he launches himself at his bedroom door, frantically trying to pull it open as you keep it shut. You’re stronger than him (attractive, he thinks, my mate who is so strong even other alpha’s can’t overpower her) and nails scrape the wood. He needs you. He needs you more than he needs air.

Toru doesn’t even know that he’s pleading with you, banging on his door before sliding to his knees. He knows the moment you let go of the handle and slide down. He knows he could surprise you and rip the door off the hinges. He knows he can pick you up and carry you to the bed and fuck you until the rut ends. But he won’t because he can recognize, even in his anger, that you’re not leaving. You’re just not going to be in the room with him.

“Bambi, Bambi,” he presses his forehead into the door, trying to get closer to you, “please. Please.”

You say nothing, but he can hear the soft thud of your head hitting the wood repeatedly, and he lets out a soft whine. It’s a feral and worried thing, a distressed alpha whine that causes you to stop. He can hear the traces of a soothing purr in your throat before you cut it off and you take a deep breath. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” you say instead after a few minutes of silence. “But I’ll be right here, I promise.”

His hand presses against the door seeking out the heat of your skin, but he can’t feel it through the wood. Toru likes to think that you’re pressing your hand to the door right where he is too, it’s the only thing that brings him comfort having you so close and yet so far away.

The rest of his rut is a brutal thing. He’s used to how hard it can be, and it’s not even the worst one he’s ever experienced. But it’s the first one you’ve ever experienced in person. Technically, only the second one of his that you have witnessed, but he can smell how it distresses you. When Toru’s not palming his cock, or crying for you to just “come in Bambi. Please. Please. Alpha, alpha, please” he’s listening to you read to him.

It’s soothing, but not enough. He can smell you on the floorboards. He can smell you from the draft through the door, and he spends the entirety of his rut pressed against the door to be as close to you as possible. On the last day, Toru rolls over and slaps his hand across the door. “Mate.” It’s really the only word he can get out, even though he’s already through the thick of it. Somehow you’ve managed to come in and out of his room to clean him up and deposit water and fruits when he’s asleep. He doesn’t know when he falls asleep half the time, just that when he opens his eyes he’s refreshed, wiped down and the pillow that he was clutching smells like you. It’s as if you press your scent into the fabric and then place it under his chin before you retreat back in the hallway.

“Yes.”

He sighs, closing his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

When he comes to, hours later, you are gone. Under his door is a note from you, a gift. Toru could destroy his room. He could break everything and replace it all (he can’t, it’s not like he’s rich quite yet) or he could rip up the note. Instead he reads it reverently, pressing the paper to his nose and inhaling the scent of you. It’s not much, but it’s something.

Sleep well, Toru. –Bambi

ME 5:57

Bambi.

✔️ read @ 6:04

Pick up.

Pick.

Up.

PICK UP

What are you doing up this early?

And my name is not Bambi

Mrs. Oikawa then.

No.

Okay, ouch. Harsh.

I think it has a ring to it.

✔️ read @ 6:33

Bambi?

Toru not now

It’s early and I cannot deal with this right now

Why?

✔️ read @ 7:00

His phone rings suddenly, and he rushes to pick it up. Sometimes he feels like an omega with the way excitement slides across his chest and sends his heart racing. It’s a silly thing to say and his mom would yell at him if he ever said it to her, but he does. Sometimes he feels like an omega waiting for his alpha to give him an iota of attention. Then someone does something to piss him the fuck off and he wants to throw them into the fucking wall. You make him feel a little bit like both. The way you avoid him makes him yearn in a way that he’s only heard omegas talk about. But the way you piss him off makes him rage the way he knows first hand how alpha’s react to being denied something that clearly belongs to them.

It’s confusing.

Still, when you call he answers. You never call. You never text first. He initiates everything because he has to initiate everything, and this is the first time you’ve ever done so. So sue him, he’s excited. He spins in his chair, pencil and homework forgotten the moment he hears the sound of your breathing.

“Hi.” Your voice is soft but strained. It’s like you’re battling something. All day he’s had this itch he can’t scratch, this burning in the back of his throat that has been irritating him something fierce. Did someone piss you off? Toru’s well aware that he can feel a lot of what you feel, even without officially being bonded. The fact that you two are mates seems to be so strong and potent that the two of you don’t even have to bond or claim each other for the connection to exist.

“Hi.” He takes a deep breath, scratching his neck. “You’ve been–”

“Avoiding you, yeah. Yeah,” you mumble over the phone. It's been his go to ever since he was 16 and he’d kissed you. Every time the two of you speak he reminds you that he knows you are avoiding him. It won’t stop you but it makes you feel guilty, and he’s happy to exploit that. “Sorry.”

Toru hates needless silence and between the two of you it’s heavy. It’s thick with the weight of the last 5 years, both in and out of each others’ lives. He’s not going to say it’s okay because it’s not. But he hums something soothing and feels that same annoying itch in his bones soothed. He soothed you. If he wasn’t on the phone he’d have jumped up for joy. “Whatever.” His hand waves in the air, and he looks at the clock. “You’re pent up. Someone piss you off?”

He can hear the sound of something falling and you curse. His back straightens and more than just the itch comes the familiar burn of want. Usually it’s him, but he’s just disconnected from it enough to know it’s not from him, it’s from you. “You’re on your rut,” he says instead of asking, “and you called me. You’re on your rut and you called me.”

He can’t help but feel excited and he knows you can feel it just from your groan alone. He’s never experienced your rut. He knows it exists, he knows you have them, at the very least since he was 16 and kissed you. But he’s never witnessed them in any capacity.

“Don’t,” you stutter, “don’t get excited. This was a bad idea, fuck. I shouldn’t have–”

“Wait!” He gets the feeling your finger was hovering over the end button. “Wait, I can help you.”

“Toru, I don’t need your help. I’m a grown ass woman and you are a child.”

“Will you fucking!” Toru takes a deep breath, he’s not patient but you are just like a game of volleyball. Just one touch can keep the game going, the perfect set can win his team the round. He is his own team, granted and you are both the match and the round. It goes in circles like he’s playing and you’re on the other side of the court and you keep hitting the ball in the perfect strike to win the point. But he saves it before it touches the ground and gets it over the net. The game is who will win in this battle of wants, and he’s stubborn. He’ll never give you the satisfaction of a win. Not ever. “Will you just fucking stop and let me help you? Let me in? For once.”

The breath you take shakes, crackling over the phone and he walks to his bed. It’s quiet again. One, two, three minutes pass before you acquiesce. Toru has to do this delicately, but for the life of him, he has no fucking clue what delicacy even means. So he does it how he does everything. You give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.

“What are you wearing?”

“I’m hanging up,” you say flatly and he makes a sound that gets you to stop.

“Just answer the question!” His hand runs down his face, chest expanding in annoyance. It’s hard, no one said this would be easy. Let’s take the age difference out of it, and the fact that you have been around for 231 years longer than him, alpha’s mating to other alpha’s are rare. Omega and Omega, Omega and Beta, Omega and Alpha, Alpha and Beta or Beta and Beta are common. But alpha’s true mate being another alpha? Not common, very rare. “You’re so skittish.”

You make an annoyed sound before he can hear you settling. “‘S hot,” you grumble. It’s a none answer but an answer nonetheless.

“So nothing.” He nods. When his ruts hit, other than being the meanest bastard on the planet, he can’t handle being bundled up. But then the sweat cools and he gets cold. It’s really fucking annoying. “I bet you smell really good. Like oakwood and smores. I used to think it was coco, but you got something sweet under there you like to hide.” He hears you sigh and feels the slow retreating of the irritation of a rut. He’s helping. “What do I smell like to you?”

“You burn my nose,” you say flatly. Or you try to say it flatly but it sounds like a moan instead. He’d like to think you’re touching yourself to the sound of his voice, but he wouldn’t presume. “Ginger, cherries. Woodsy.” Another sigh. “I like it.”

The admission is said softly, but Toru catches it despite that. His tongue pokes out, swiping his bottom lip in thought. “You should touch yourself. It’ll help.”

“I’m not—”

“It helped me. I’m sure you’ve had to deal with countless ruts before I even existed.” A lie. He knows for a fact you haven’t experienced a rut since you hit 24 initially. It’s been many years since then. Two centuries and a couple of decades, at least.

“Been a long time since,” you mutter, but the rustling grows louder and he grins. Are you going to do it? He doesn’t know, but he has a feeling you will. When you allow yourself to be around him you forget yourself. Toru likes that you can’t control it, the want and desire to be with him. Even when you hold yourself back, it’s nice to know you are fighting a losing battle. One you think you’re winning.

“Still.”

The next time you make a sound it’s a soft groan. It’s magic to his ears and he has to stop himself from reaching into his pants himself and following after you. You’d be more likely to retreat if he does it, he can only push you so much. He’ll take a mile but he would rather help you through this, even if it’s once.

“There you go.” A low coo, an alpha’s affectionate purr in his words. “That’s my, Bambi. Touch yourself more.”

“Toru.”

“Sh, sh, sh, sh. It’s okay. Don’t worry about anything else. Just listen to my words. Make yourself feel good, Bambi. For me. For your mate, please?” He can hear the sticky wetness your fingers are sliding through. Toru wishes he could see you now, a cunt stuffed full of your fingers as your eyes squeeze shut in pleasure. He can’t and he knows it will take some time before you allow him to do so. But this is a start. You couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t resist calling him during your rut. A vindictive part of him is smiling. The part that did the same thing when he was 18 and you had talked him through it. Not so different, he thinks, you and I.

“Doesn’t that feel good, Bambi? Hm, I bet you taste as good as you smell.” Toru feels, more than hears, the way that affects you. A trill leaving you as you fuck yourself closer and closer to the edge. “All you had to do was let me in and listen to my voice. I'm always gonna take care of you.”

You moan and groan on the phone and he takes a calming deep breath to remind himself not to touch himself when you tell him you're close. He can’t help the satisfied grumble that leaves him, that leaves you about to cum. “C’mon, Bambi. Cum for your mate.” You do, a sharp cry echoing over the speakers as the annoying heat of your rut retreats for a moment. He can feel your relief, not so itchy and annoyed as you were before. Toru runs his hands down his pants and looks up at the ceiling. Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.

“Better?”

The soft pant of relief over the phone becomes panicked and he can hear the way you sit up, suddenly. Well fuck. “This, this was wrong, I shouldn’t have—”

“Wait!”

A dial tone. Again. He’s going to kill someone.

Toru looks down, staring at the tent in his pants. After he takes care of his hardon.

The ball floats in the air, time stopping long enough that Toru can almost see where it’s going to land. Brown eyes narrow, body throwing itself into action before his brain even catches up to his movements. He dives, the synthetic leather patched together in different rectangles hitting the skin of his fingers.

“One touch!”

His teammates go into overdrive. If they can win this round they can win the game. There’s something so intoxicating about volleyball. It’s more than just the thrill of the game, it’s the sensation of being so at peace with oneself, the knowledge that you are most yourself on the court. That is what Toru’s chasing. Win or lose, he’s obsessed with the exhilaration it gives him. He hates losing, anyone does, but it just incentivizes him to work harder, play better. The win is never really the goal, it’s the chance to play the game again and again.

The win, he knows, is just an added perk, and he does love winning.

When he’s playing he doesn’t have to think about you. When he’s on the court all his focus is keeping the ball from touching the ground, setting up the perfect shot for his wind spiker or his decoy. He doesn’t have to think about the fact that you disappeared off the face of the earth after he helped you through your rut. Usually you disappear for a while, just a few months before inevitably you’re answering his phone calls or his text messages. But this time it was different, you had changed your phone number completely. Not even his father could get a hold of you. The only thing that brings him some comfort is that you haven’t sold your house, it’s the only thing that is keeping him together.

When he’s playing volleyball he doesn't feel like he’s rotted, carving bits and pieces of his skin and soul out to hold on until you come back to him.

Hinata, a blast from the past and his teammate, takes off, launching himself into the air before anyone could really react. If Toru lives and breathes volleyball Hinata’s entire livelihood is volleyball. It runs through his veins, and he hungers for it. It’s one of the first things they bonded over when they realized they were going to be in the same professional team.

(The second was having infuriating mates. It felt good to speak with someone who also understood what it was like to chase someone who only gave crumbs of themselves. Sure, Toru couldn’t tell Hinata that his mate was also 231 years older than him, he could commiserate with him.)

Toru watches as Hinata’s palm hits the ball and slams to the ground on the other side of the net before the other team can react. Sweat drips down his face, the shirt of his jersey clinging to his sweat soaked back as everything pauses for a moment before the stadium erupts, his teammates slamming into him and Hinata as they win the game. It takes a second for him to catch his breath in the middle of the celebration.

In the second that he takes to catch his breath he catches your scent instead. His head snaps up, trying to locate you in the throng of fans. He could jump into the rafters and follow your scent; he could take off his scent patch and let it run rampant, though he knows that would be irresponsible. His scent has only gotten stronger in the years since you left. Some type of response to not being able to talk to his mate anymore, a distress signal until you came back, his doctor said. It’s normal, most people go through it when their mate leaves for an undisclosed amount of time abruptly. It’s exacerbated by the fact that he doesn’t know where you are and can’t be soothed by your voice.

Brown eyes dance across face after face, all indistinguishable from the next before landing somewhere. Toru’s got a feeling it’s you somewhere in there and that’s why he keeps looking over there.

Eventually, both teams line up to shake hands before they’re released to clean up. If Hinata notices something, and he does, he says nothing, tracking as Toru rushes through washing up to try and catch you before you have a chance to leave. The scent blocker is tossed in the garbage and he hears: “Jesus Christ, Oikawa, you always smell like that?” It’s a joke, mostly, his scent stinking up the locker room and intermingling with the rest of his teams.

“Ah, leave him alone,” Hinata laughs, lightly pushing Toru to the shower, “You know he can’t help it. What did that pretty Omega call you? The Alpha’s Alpha.”

Toru is nothing like you, he thinks. He’s seen other alpha’s, naturally aggressive and territorial, pretty much roll over and show you their belly just from a look alone. He’s watched every pretty little omega, beta or alpha preen under your gaze, even if it’s a cursory glance. If his scent is strong it is only because yours is and his has to match up to yours.

Instead of a response, he rolls his eyes, barely even letting himself relax under the water to clean himself. Tedious as it may be, he doesn’t want to run after you smelling like stale sweat and distressed and desperate pheromones. He can at least get one of those off his skin. When he finishes, he hears a teammate say something about a pretty alpha standing outside.

“I was gonna assume she’s a groupie, but no one that hot can be a groupie,” Kenji says with a chuckle. “I asked if she was one of yours, Oikawa, but she gave me this look.” The man shudders, scratching the back of his neck. Toru doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but fuck if that doesn’t sound like you. Hinata shoots him a look, eyebrows raising as Kenji keeps talking. Toru rushes out faster than the man can speak, hoping that his gut reaction is right, that his hopes and dreams are right.

They are.

You stand there, sucking down nicotine as you lean against the brick building. Toru stops short, watching the smoke curl around you in the night sky. Suddenly all five rounds are hitting him. All five rounds of volleyball, the ties and the two years compound and he can’t even speak as your eyes slide over to him.

“Panasonic Panthers, huh?” You flick the ash off the cigarette before dropping it to the pavement, crushing it under your shoe. “Congratulations on the win. Again.”

Toru sees many different realities. One where he yells at you, calls you out your name and blames you for the way he’s broken and twisted now (although, he has always been a twisted broken thing in some aspects, a bloodhound who finds what he loves and holds on forever.) Another one where he tells you that he missed you and that it’s not fair that you left after giving in for just a second.

Instead, he’s in your space, arms wrapped around your shoulders as he hunches over pressing his nose into your neck. Your scent is easy, pumping out and soothing the ache in his body for the first time in two years. It’s quiet, your arms raising in surprise before gently wrapping around his waist and you sink into him for a moment. This is all he wanted. This is what it feels like to win a game.

“You smell distressed,” you say softly.

“‘Ve been distressed,” he retorts easily, curling around you tighter, “You’ve been avoiding me. Of course I smell distressed.”

Your laugh is full of guilt but breathy and he pulls away.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he says after a moment, eyebrows raising.

“You don’t know a lot about me, to be fair.”

“Yeah? And whose fault is that?” The sharpness in his words cannot be taken out, Toru will never truly forgive you for it. Everything he knows about you he’s had to work for, has had to guess and harass to get any answers out of you. It’s infuriating but it’s hard won, and he’s happy for the bits and pieces he’s earned. “You missed my birthday.”

You make a sound, something remorseful and sad as you nod. “Happy belated 23rd birthday.”

He blinks for a second, two, then three. This is the first time you’ve gotten his age wrong so sincerely before. Did the years pass you by without you even noticing? You look tired, some of the color that used to sit on your skin is gone. Have you been hiding away? You hadn’t sent him a birthday card in three years damn there, but he can tell this time you really don’t know how old he is anymore.

“Turned 24 last July,” he corrects, and he tries really hard to make his voice soft and gentle, like Hinata or his mom or something. He fails spectacularly if your flinching is anything to go by. “I’m closer to 25 now, actually.”

Silence again and you nod, this time slower, as if you’re just realizing how much time has passed you by. “24th then. Happy belated 24th.” He can feel the way you’re beating yourself up, a soft coo rumbling in his throat as he brings his hands up and cups your cheeks gently. The skin of his palm is rough, calloused after years of hitting a volleyball over and over again, and your skin is soft.

“I'm going to Argentina soon-ish,” he mumbles, pressing his forehead against yours, “but you knew that.” He doesn’t know if you knew, but if he had to guess, he’d assume that is what probably got you out of hiding. It was pretty big news. “Get breakfast with me tomorrow.”

You open your mouth and he leans down to press his lips to yours, abrupt and with purpose. It cuts you off and he wants to sink into it. “Don’t say ‘I can’t’. You can, you just won’t.” A pause. “Get breakfast with me tomorrow.” He can see it in your eyes. “You left me for two years. Get. Breakfast. With. Me.” Each word is cut off with another kiss and you sink into each one. Perhaps it’s a good thing you denied this of yourself for two years because it makes you that much more amiable to the things he’s doing. “Please, Bambi.”

“Fine.” You blink, clutching his wrists as he grins suddenly at you. “I’ll get breakfast with you.”

—

He wakes up early the next day. Toru, by definition, is more of a night owl than anything else. He’s only up this early for very specific reasons, but he could hardly sleep last night. No, he was too excited and couldn’t wait to see you again. To be in your very presence is the same feeling he gets when he steps on the court and his palm hits the ball at the start of a game.

He sees you, chin pressed to the palm of your hand as you look out the window of the cafe. The cashier has that starstruck face almost everyone who’s been in your presence gets. The one that screams he’s going to try and get your number. From here he can’t tell if the cashier is an omega, beta or alpha, not that it matters. It never matters. You are wanted by anyone who sees you, and if he were a lesser man, an insecure one, he would feel threatened. He’s not any of those, though. So sure and secure, not just in himself but, in the bond you’re steadfast in ignoring he preens a bit. It feels a bit like a brag when he watches the way the cashier shrinks under your gaze when you catch sight of him. He watches as you straighten up a bit and he smiles, rushing over to you to slide in across from you.

“You ever wake up in the morning and know everything is going to slide its way into the right spot?” he asks as a greeting. “You look tired, did you sleep?”

You do look tired, better than yesterday, but still exhausted.

“I’m fine.”

“Mhm, so,” he leans in, “you know I can feel you right?”

The way your eyes open in surprise is the same feeling he gets when he serves and hits the ball with just enough power it slams into the floor before his opponents can react. No, you didn’t. Maybe you did, but he gets the impression you didn’t.

“Yeah. Took me years to figure it out, actually.” Toru nods to himself, curling a braid around his finger. “I know for a fact you can feel me. So, at the very least, you know ‘m not going away.”

He watches the way something plays across your face before you sigh and shake your head. “You can’t say that for sure, Toru.”

He nods. “Sure I can. I say everything for sure.” That gets a laugh out of you and he grins, watching as your fingers twitch against the table. His hands are barely an inch away from yours, and he’s so used to pushing and watching you pull away that it takes him by surprise that your fingers inch across the tabletop, curling around his. It’s not much, but it’s new. It’s different.

The third time you’ve taken initiative. You called him, you came to see him, you found him, you’re touching him without Toru having to reach out to do so first. The two of you sit in silence for a second before he groans, hunching over and resting his forehead against the table. “I hate silence,” he grumbles and you laugh again.

“Yeah, I know.” Your other hand cards gently through his hair as you watch him. He wishes he could be as gentle as you sometimes. Maybe if he were a gentle person you wouldn’t have run away. But just as quickly as he thinks it he banishes the thought. No, he doesn’t actually regret it. Toru likes himself, blunt and unabashedly himself. “I like the silence, though. It’s nice. Everything can get so…loud.”

He hums under the feeling of your fingers gently curling through his hair. He can fall asleep like this. “Yeah, I figured. You don’t like leaving your house. Dad thinks you’re agoraphobic or something.”

You chuckle, looking back out the window. “Yeah, big, little Oikawa’s been saying that forever. He’s not really wrong. I’m…” A pause as you grimace. “Paranoid. I lived through two big world wars, you know that?”

Of course he did, but only in the vaguest of the senses. He knew you were old. He did the math when he was 16, after he’d kissed you and you had run the first time. You were born in 1763. You stopped aging in 1787 and watched over generation after generation of his family be born and die. Well fuck. Now that he thinks about it, you probably have a lot of shit you constantly contend with.

“I’m sure I have some nieces or nephews or something–”

“Wait,” he looks up at you in surprise. This time he’s the one who’s taken off guard. “Wait, I thought you were an only child?”

You hum in thought, resting your chin on your bicep. Your breath puffs in his face and he closes his eyes for a second. This is the closest you’ve been of your own volition since his rut when he was 20. Another thing you initiate without him having to push. “I’m sure you’re aware, it’s very easy to lose contact with someone in the 18th century. No phones. I had a brother.” You nod, sadness swirling in his stomach when he feels the ache of something lost and forgotten. “I don’t remember his name. But I had a brother. He got married, I stopped aging and I stopped responding to his letters. I didn’t want to watch him die, I think.” Silence again. “I have this feeling in my gut that I have family out there, I just don’t know where they are.”

Toru hates packing, even if it’s just his clothes and a couple of important items. You’re around a lot more often these days, and while he’s sure he won’t necessarily need scent blockers nearly as much anymore, he wants to make sure he’s prepared.

His parents are somewhere or another and you’re face down in his bed. There’s a part of him that marvels even this. So many years of him thinking there will never be a chance to get to this point releases a piece of himself that has been waiting for the other shoe to drop since you’ve returned.

“You’re not gonna help me pack?” Toru squats, watching as you nuzzle the pillow and look at him slowly. He’s struck with the image of his future, this feeling like you’re not running away for once. This is what he’s been chasing for so many years.

“I never pack,” you say easily. Toru curls a finger around your ear, tugging at it brutally and you hiss, slapping his hand away.

“All that running and you’ve never packed?”

“Never had to, I’m rich.” You shrug, turning back to press your nose against his pillow. Toru sighs again, happy and content for a moment seeing you like this, all loose limbs and relaxed.

“Of course you’re rich,” he chuckles, “you got a 231 year head start. You’d be a fool if you were poor.” Another sigh, humor imbuing his tone. “My mate is rich. Does this mean you’re my Sugar Momma?”

“I’ll kill you.”

He laughs then, trapping you between his arms as he nuzzles his way into your neck, teeth nipping your scent gland sharply. This is the happiest he’s been in a while, and he hates that he’s being pulled away from you soon. Argentina is a long flight away and the timezone is no easy thing. If he could have both of his favorite things together he would, but a part of him is scared you’re going to run away if he asks for you to join him.

“You won’t disappear, right? You’ll answer all my calls?”

You’re quiet for a moment and he watches your canines glint in the light of his room and he gets the urge to lick into your mouth. So he does. He doesn’t care about what you’re going to say, he leans down and slips his tongue into your mouth. Toru doesn’t wait for it to build up, he creates the heat almost instantly. His hands slip down your waist, wrapping around the plush of your thighs to pull you closer, lifting your legs to wrap them around his waist.

Your moan causes heat to slide down his spine and he presses himself firmly against you. Two layers of clothes separate where Toru wants to be the most, as he drags his lips down your neck sucking the salty skin into his mouth. He bites down, not hard enough to bond but hard enough that your hips jerk up to his.

His hands find their way back to your waist, fingers sliding under your shirt. Toru’s thumb presses into your tummy and it’s fucking frantic. “Take this off,” he grumbles, bunching the fabric up before you push him off suddenly. One moment Toru is looking at you, the next he’s staring at the ceiling, chest heaving. He hears the thump of your body hitting his bed, the way that your breaths are synchronized. You want him just as much as he wants you, that he can tell right away, but maybe, if he can admit this to himself, he could move a little slower.

“Too much?”

“Too much.”

He nods, covering his face to try and get all the blood that just rushed to his dick back to the rest of his body.

“Too much, then.”

—

He’s feeling kind of…strange. It’s him and Hinata at the airport surrounded by people who don’t know them. It’s a stretch of something new, something he’s always wanted but different. It’s one thing to be a snooty high school student, but now everything he’s ever wanted is in the palm of his hands. Argentina. He never really thought he’d leave Japan, but here he is. Fucking terrifying.

You’re there, too, though. His parents said their goodbyes this morning and you had driven him to the airport. Toru is not in the habit of denying himself his wants, so he wraps himself around you, resting his head on your shoulder as you bury your fingers in his hair.

“‘S not fair,” he grumbles, “I want you to come with me.”

You chuckle, scratching his scalp. “You’ll be fine without me.”

“No I won’t. Come with me,” he whines. If he kissed you right now he thinks you’d say yes. But then he thinks about volleyball, and how he’d be leaving you alone in Argentina to practice most of the time and he decides he can be selfless this one time. The announcer over the system calls for his flight number and you gently unwind your arms from him. Toru isn’t worried about getting through all the checkpoints, a long time ago his family had spent money to get through the fast track. “Ugh, okay fine. You’ll call me?”

“Yes, Toru, I’ll call you,” you say with a laugh.

“And you’ll pick up when I call you.”

“Yes.”

He takes a hesitant step back before you’re pulling him down and kissing him. You did that. You kissed him first. A first of many things. He sinks into it, mouth opening for you before you’re pulling away. He makes a sound, trying to follow your lips before catching himself, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Call me when you land, Toru.”

“Of course, Bambi, of course.”

The path to being a professional volleyball player is an arduous one. But so, he knows, is the path of being your mate. He wouldn’t change it for the world.

—

A lot of your conversations are ones that take place after he’s practiced. It’s 10 pm for him but 10 am for you. Sometimes it’s noon for him and midnight for you, but you wait anyways, just for him. The two of you talk often, and he feels the distance and yet not at all.

“You should visit Patagonia since you’re already in Buenos Aires,” you say one day, “you spent all that time learning Spanish. Might as well really immerse yourself.”

“You’re telling me–”

“Yes, Toru, I’ve been to Argentina. I had a house there for a bit. “

“So you could have come with me then!” He grumbles good naturedly and you laugh and he hears the rustling of a bag in your hand. “What are you doing? Out and about without me?”

You’re quiet for a second before you sigh softly. “I spend a lot of time in the house. I figure I should probably get out more.”

He grins and nods. “Yeah, maybe. Oh fuck, I gotta go. Go to sleep, Bambi. I know for a fact you’re sleepy.”

—

Some conversations are not so fun. Toru bullies his way through topics that should be handled gently. He asks you what it was like those two years you had dropped off the face of the earth. He asks you what happened.

“I felt you, you know,” he murmurs into the night sky, staring at the twinkling stars. The moon is bright, silver light illuminating his porch. “It hurt like hell, Bambi.”

The phone crackles just a bit and you sigh. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, “I…I tried.” He can feel guilt deep in his abdomen and squints.

“Tried to do what?”

“I just,” a pause, “I needed to know—”

It feels like ice cold water washes over him and he sits up straight. He knows exactly what you’re trying to say without you having to say it.

“How many?” One, he might be able to excuse. No, he’s lying. If you had told this to him and you were referring to when he was 16, okay, he’d understand. But when he was 22? Fuck no. “How many, Bambi?”

You’re quiet before: “Six, maybe seven. But Toru—”

He hangs up on you. A piece of him feels vindicated, but another piece is heartbroken.

—

You call him. You call him a lot actually. He’s not ashamed to admit he stonewalls you, icing you out as he figures out what he’s feeling. He wishes you never even told him you slept with anyone else. He wishes he didn’t have that knowledge because it means, even for a bit, he shared you with people who weren’t your mate. Logically he knows you probably slept with other people before, but that was before him. Before you even knew he existed. Before you two were mated. At the very least, if you would have told him it was when he was 16 he would’ve had the wherewithal to let it slide. Like, okay, he was 16 and he can look back and say for certain you were not going to sleep with a 16 year old. But 22?

He’s just so fucking angry. He hurts himself in practice in his anger and he’s benched for a while. The team doctor threatens to bench him for the entirety of the season if he overworks himself and he forces himself to relax. Except he can’t.

Toru hates this feeling. Somehow this is worse than you disappearing because at least with your disappearance he could pretend. He can’t pretend that you didn’t see other people. That you didn’t fuck other people. Were they alphas? Were they just like him? Were they tall? Did they play volleyball?

He throws his cup into a wall and sinks to his knees. He can’t just sit here and think about it. He can’t, he’ll torture himself over it. What if you found someone else? What if you fell in love with someone and rejected him. His imagination leaves the realm of reality because you are with him, here and now, but he keeps harping on this idea, this hypothetical that you could have left him forever.

There’s a timid knock on his door and he forces himself up, unlocking the door and opening it before he can think about it. There you are, in all your glory and he’s angrier. (His shoulders lose their tension and he can breathe again. How did you do this? How did you ever deny yourself his presence, his voice? He was withering away without you, and you managed to do it for two years.)

For the first time, Toru goes to deny himself something, trying to close the door on you, but your hand stops it. It’s annoying because he shouldn’t be so attracted to it, but he is. You’re so fucking strong, stronger than him, stronger than any other alpha out there. But he’s also mad at you.

“What are you doing here?”

Your fingers lock together as you twist your hand around in anxiety, looking at him. Have you been feeling him? Have you been feeling his anger? His frustration? His hurt? Is that the only reason you came?

“I’m sorry,” you say instead, and he crumples in front of you. You sink to your knees, wrapping him up in your arms and he shakes in your embrace.

“Why? Was I not enough for you? Did you really hate me that much that you had to-to fuck other people?” Is he not enough?

“No. No, Toru that wasn’t…” you trail off and he grabs your shoulders, teeth bared, eyes slitting in frustration.

“Then why? I would have excused it when I was 16, but I was 22, Bambi. Bambi?”

“I had to.”

“No, you wanted to!”

“No.”

Toru is suddenly transported to the time in the car, oh so many years ago. Back when he was 19 and begging for you to fight. Fight for him, for us. Your tone is firm but not raised, and you lean back to look at him.

“No,” you say again, “I had to. I had to know. I…I needed to know. You think I liked it? You know I hated every second of it. I’d sleep with them and hate it. I’d smell someone else and get angry because it wasn’t you. But I had to know.” You grab his hand and press it to your chest. “Toru, I didn’t think I would have this. I didn’t think it was possible. And for two centuries it was enough. Being with your family was enough because I got what nobody else had. I got to watch them grow old and have children, and it was enough. And then you…You.”

“You hated it,” he mutters and you shake your head again.

“I was scared, Toru.” This time when you say it, he can feel you in his bones. “I didn’t think I would get this. Do you understand? I had been around for 241 years before I met you and it was fine. I didn’t have a mate and it was fine. I watched everyone I have ever loved grow old and die, and then you. You. I needed to know, okay? I’m sorry, but I had to know. It had nothing to do with you and everything to do with you. I’m going to watch you get old and die and I’m going to be here again, by myself.” Another pause. “You’re in me. You’re in my fucking bones. Two years away and I think I was going crazy. Just being with you isn’t enough, but I was scared. I am scared.”

Toru takes a deep breath, feeling your fear and worry bloom in his chest and coat his tongue. You’re so scared all the time and he knows this first hand, but this is the first time you’re telling him. It’s one thing to feel it, but to hear it, to see it reflect in your eyes? He’s still mad at you, but it’s hard to remain that way.

“I’m not going to leave you, Bambi,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You sigh, eyes dipping to the ground and frowning.

“You can’t say that for sure,” you mumble.

“I haven’t been wrong yet,” he says back. Then it’s quiet again. The two of you sit together in the darkness of his apartment and settle into it. He feels it in his bones. It’s coming to a head, and he’s not sure where the two of you will land, but he feels like everything will be okay.

Volleyball is a jealous lover. And so are you. But not in the way he thought you would be. The two of you make it work. You come and visit him, or he comes to see you when the season is over. He likes Argentina, doesn’t think he could love somewhere as much as he has loved his home country, but he watches you come alive in the street markets and in the twilight when he’s not training. Toru doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen you smile as much as you do now. He’s never really seen you happy.

There’s still a piece of you that you lock away from him, scared of outliving him and knowing how much that would hurt you. But he gets the parts of you no one else does. He gets you singing in the shower, how you wake up early in the mornings to go for a morning stroll. He gets your cooking and your cooing. He gets to watch as people want you and your obliviousness. He gets your giggles and the soft sound you make when he sinks into your body after a long day of training.

He gets to see you during matches, catching your waist and kissing you before running off to the stadium. He gets the beads around your waist and the natural way your tongue curls around the sounds of the country. He gets it all, and so he cannot begrudge you the little bit of yourself you cannot give him in fear. You spend your life in fear, he realizes, terrified of the inevitable, and there’s only so much he can do to combat the monster that lives inside of you.

When Toru isn’t with you, he’s working on a project of sorts. You had mentioned a brother, one that you had lost contact with when you realized you had stopped aging. He scoured his family archives, tracing each and every iteration of your name back to his 200-something year old grandmother who grew up with you. The Oikawa’s liked to keep diaries of that time, stories being passed down weren’t enough sometimes. He hunted and searched and agonized until he found a name. Then he followed that name to another name, and another and then another until–

“Aran Ojirou? Yeah, I know who that is,” Hinata says scratching his head, “Karasuno played them in the Inter-High. I still talk to him. Why?”

—

Toru likes helping you with your hair. It’s intimate and something you take seriously, sitting between his legs as he meticulously combs through each coil and knot and applies product to it. At first, he thinks it’s a trick of the light, but then he looks closer and he realizes he’s not going crazy. Your hair is long, and he finds not one, not two, but three gray hairs.

“Bambi,” he pushes you up to your feet, “I think you should see this.”

You grumble, trudging along as he pushes you to the bathroom and turns on the light. “Toru, I’m sleepy.”

“Yeah, but you should see this anyways.”

It takes you a second before you look closer. Closer and closer. He can feel the fear in your chest, it cracks his heart in two as he watches you hold the three gray hairs in your hand, staring at them in the bathroom mirror.

“Is that…?”

“I think I stressed you out,” he chuckles, trying to help you through the complicated emotions you’re feeling. But he knows this is big news. In the 259 years you have been alive, you have never grayed, and now here’s proof. Proof.

“Toru,” you mutter, looking at the hair and then looking at him and then the hair again. “Toru.”

He watches as your eyes well up, you do your best to keep from crying but you can’t help it, falling into him as you sob. He gently sinks his fingers into your hair, scratching your scalp soothingly, a soothing hum purring in his chest. Toru shifts slightly, lifting you up and walking you two over to the bed, rocking back and forth until the crying pitters off and it’s just you, in his arms, breathing in his scent.

“I hate the silence,” he grumbles and you laugh, looking up at him. Your eyes are something he can get lost in, bright and open. Whatever piece you had been holding back suddenly fracturing and breaking into a million pieces. He feels all of you slide into place, into the home that is his heart and yours.

It’s not a rut he feels blooming under his skin, but it's the same feeling he gets sometimes. He watches the way your eyes suddenly dilate and–Oh. He laughs.

“You’re starting your rut? Right now?”

“Shut up,” you grumble, and he kisses you suddenly, flipping you on your back, trapping him beneath himself.

“No, I don’t think I will,” he mumbles, lifting your shirt over your head and tossing somewhere in the room. “You find out you’re aging and you start your rut? Or did you start your rut and you found out you’re aging?” His words are a tease, cutting you off before you can retort. Toru kisses you like he wants to possess you, and does so with ease. He’s been saying it for years, you are his and he is yours. It really is that simple to him.

Toru raises himself slightly, wiping the tear tracks off your cheeks. “Or you don’t know? You’re not really great at keeping track of your ruts.”

“They only started up because of you again anyways,” you grumble, helping him out of his pajama shorts and he chortles. His lips descend on your skin again, kissing a path to your breast as he cups them between the palm of his hands. You arch into his touch, a groan escaping you as he bites down on your nipple. Toru is not a nice person, he’s hardly even kind, and that transfers into the bedroom.

His laugh is mean as you moan, the woodsy sweet scent of you pumping into the air. If he continues he knows you will trigger his rut, and he has no plans on stopping. “Awe, poor Bambi. Her ruts started because of her mate,” he bites down harshly, red blooming under your skin, as he switches to the other breast. “Whatever shall she do?”

“Toru.”

“Use your words, Bambi.” His tongue trails a path down your stomach, pulling your pants and underwear off together, tossing them somewhere in the ether of the room where your shirt disappeared to. Your arousal clings to you and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, kissing your thighs.

“Toru, please.”

“That’s cute.” He bites down, watching as your cunt convulses around nothing. “Words, Bambi.”

“Fuck. Fucking fine. Put your mouth on me, please.”

“My mouth is already on you,” he says, holding your thighs opened. He knows you could push his head where you want him the most, but you won’t. You like giving him the illusion of being able to overpower you. You’re stronger than him, and it’s incredibly attractive that you could overpower him without breaking a sweat but you don’t.

“Ugh, please eat me out.”

“There we go.”

He dives in like he’s a starving man and you are his source of food. Which, technically, he is a man starved. At least 10 years of being denied his god given right to make you feel good and taste you like this, he can’t even control himself. His lips wrap around your clit, and he keeps your thighs from closing around his head. You taste better than he’s ever dreamed of. He loses himself in it, fingers clenching around your thighs tighter. You buck into his mouth and he wraps his forearm around your waist, forcing you down to take it. All you can find yourself doing is grabbing his forearm. Toru slides his fingers through your wetness and you make a discontent sound at the feeling of his finger sliding into your cunt. His head tilts and he pulls back slightly, running the flat of his tongue across your clit.

Toru adds another finger, slowly and surely and feels you clench around him. There we go, he thinks, you need to be stuffed full. His fingers move, slowly pressing against you as he continues to suck your clit. They open, scissoring you before curling and your thigh jumps. He pushes closer, the broadness of his shoulders keeping you from closing your legs any further than they have, and he presses a third finger in.

Your head tilts back and you whimper in the air, mouth falling open, eyes squeezing shut. Toru has thought of this exact moment before, in vivid detail. He’s thought of the way his fingers might sink into you and the fever hot of your skin. But nothing compares to reality. You are a fucking goddess and he is your loyal disciple, blessed just by the sheer act of your eyes on him. The fact that you’re even letting him do this is enough to make him bust.

He tastes your arousal every time his fingers move in and out of you. Your cunt clenches his fingers tightly, making it difficult to move the closer and closer you get to cumming.

“Oh fuck, Toru, I’m gonna cum.”

That’s the only warning you give him before you do, cum slipping across his fingers and pooling into the palm of his hand. Toru works you through it as your fingers tighten in his hair and you pull him up to kiss him. He tastes like you, your sweetness clinging to him when he slips his tongue in your mouth. Your hips jerk back and you whine when it becomes too much, pulling away from the kiss to catch your breath.

“Too much, too much.”

He decides to be nice because lord only knows how fucking mean he’s going to be in a few seconds. His fingers slip out of you and into his mouth. Toru sighs, the taste of you exploding across his taste buds again before he’s wrapping his hand around the thickness of his dick. He feels the sudden burst of excitement from you when he catches the way you eye him. Toru knows even by his secondary gender standards he’s kind of a big deal. Big, long and thick.

“Jesus fuck,” you mutter to yourself and he preens under your gaze, shivering as you press your pointer against the tip of his dick, smearing precum across his dick. “I’m gonna be honest, I don’t know how you’re going to fit.”

“We’re mates,” he reminds you, grinning as you shiver, “it’s gonna fit. We’re made for each other.” He rubs himself across your slick, making sure to coat himself as the feverish feeling of a rut takes a hold of him as well. “Say it.”

“We’re mates.”

He sighs in content, leaning down to kiss you, bullying his cock into you. Sliding inside of the heat of your cunt feels like sliding his way home. The two of you take a deep breath, sighing when he bottoms out, his nose pressing against yours as your pupils narrow. “Told you.”

“Shut up.”

He moves his hips then, slowly, lifting your legs around his waist so he can sink even deeper. “Fuck, there it is. All fucking mine, Bambi,” he groans, hips snapping into a sharp thrust. Toru’s movement is deep and sharp, rough in the best of ways. He watches intently as you press a hand against the wall, each sharp snap of his hips catching you in another roll of pleasure. “Fuck, wanted this since I was 16.”

The snap, snap, snap echoes in the room and he manhandles you, lifting your other leg up and over his shoulder to fuck you harder. You can’t even respond to him, so caught up in the pleasure, and he bares his teeth as he does so. You bite your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood and Toru leans down, licking it up. Copper hits his tongue and he growls into your mouth. “Say it, say you’re all mine, Bambi.”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his biceps. He relishes in the pain of it, making the pleasure of finally fucking you after twelve fucking years of pining and wanting and wishing comes true. “‘M all yours.”

Each time he fucks into its like you’re trying to run away from him, and his hands clamp down on your waist, pulling you back down on his dick. “If you were mine you wouldn’t be trying to run away, Bambi. C’mon, take it.”

Your moan breaks into a pleasure filled sob, tears running down your cheeks as you take everything he gives you. Toru feels so good, like the gates of the heavens have opened up and blessed him, and he can feel how good you’re feeling. It’s a feedback loop that intensifies how he feels, your cunt fluttering around him with every drag of his dick.

“There we go, Bambi. Gods, you are so fucking perfect. My perfect mate. My perfect alpha,” he moans, leaning down to press his nose into your scent gland. It would be so evil of him to bite you right now, wouldn’t it? Without you saying yes. But he does it anyway, his fangs sharpening enough to pierce it and bond the two of you together for the rest of your days. Toru will never let you run from him again. You break in his arms, shaking as you cum, a sobbing moan as your fingers scrabble against his back roughly, shredding skin.

He continues to fuck you through it, feeling the tell of his end closer and closer, knot swelling as he forces it past the first ring of muscle and feels you bite him just as hard. Bonded forever. His hips stutter before he cums, filling you up and then some. It would spill out had it not been for his knot, the sloppy sound of him fucking into you until he can’t move anymore.

Toru can hardly keep himself up, gently laying on you as you breathe out. The two of you catch your breath, sweat beginning to cool on your skin. It’s quiet for a while as he waits for his knot to die down. When it finally does, you let out a soft whine as he gently slips out of you. He nuzzles your neck again, pressing an open mouth kiss on his mark. He can’t wait until it scars and you’re walking around with his claim on you all the time. Likewise, his finger drags to where you bit him, he can’t wait until his mark scars over. Bonded forever, he thinks.

“You’re mean as fuck,” you grumble, shifting closer to him.

“You have no idea how mean I can get,” he says grinning against your neck, “But don’t worry, we got a whole week of this. You’ll see.”

—

You’re swinging your arms as Toru brings you to your surprise. He doesn’t want to tell you because, obviously, it will ruin the surprise, but he can’t wait until you see it. You grumble and groan, but Toru knows the truth, you’re excited. He pushes you through the front door and he’s hit with a familiar, but different, scent. It’s similar enough to yours that Toru is almost taken aback.

Beside him you stiffen for a second just as Aran Ojirou turns around, the bright smile on his dark features freeze themselves. Hinata laughs into his sweater, his mate smacking him in the back of the head lightly and he whines.

“Bambi, I’d like you to meet your really great grand nephew,” he says softly, watching as your hands press against your mouth. He can feel your surprise. But underneath the surprise is the feeling of gratitude as Aran hesitantly steps over to you before sweeping you up in a hug.

“Holy shit! I thought Dad was joking when he said I had some immortal aunt somewhere around here.”

Your arms wrap around your nephew and you chuckle wetly. “Not so immortal,” you say, “just had to wait for my mate.”

Epilogue

“Mommy! Daddy, look what grandpa gave me!” Touko runs over as Toru’s father hobbles over to where the two of you sit in the backyard. Touko produces a metal bird that was kept in pristine condition. “Grandpa said his best friend gave it to him.”

“Oh yeah? It must have been really special to him.” Your smile is brittle and Toru grips your thigh firmly. It’s difficult for the two of you to watch his father get older and older. But it’s a double edged sword for you, he knows, given everything you’ve been through. When the two of you got married Toru promised this was going to be the last group of Oikawa’s you had to watch pass before you.

The time was coming sooner rather than later, he’s aware. But his father still has some good years left. His mother passed away a few years ago, just a few years after Touko had been born. Still, it hurt, even when they had all seen it coming.

He kisses the side of your head, counting the gray hairs that have begun to pop up over the years. You’re nearly at 10. He’s pretty sure 5 of those are from him, and he can’t say he’s not proud of it.

Getting to this point was a hell of a process, but Toru’s not sure he’d go back to change anything. He likes this. Here, with you and your daughter.

#haikyu x reader #haikyuu smut #oikawa x reader #Oikawa smut #haikyuu oikawa #oikawa tooru #hq x reader #hq fanfic #hq imagines #I posted this on my ao3 like last year lmfaooo and I forgot to do it here. lord #writing #writing ; hq

37 notes · View notes