#if u saw me post this earlier no u didnt

[boyyardee]

new brush goofin

[fnafluffy]

1980 - The Aftons

[traaumaa]

[kavalyera]

elder kindred yuri

[fuzzyclink]

Wrote a Cirrus x Vesper fic! I originally posted this on my touchstarved blog here but I've been finding that my posts from there don't show up in any tags currently, so reposting here.

Warnings: 18+ mdni, priest kink, eating, food, humiliation, violence, spitting, bad BDSM ettiquette, sadism, kicking, blood/pain. Reader gender not described(pronouns/body).

Cloying

As the last full moon of the year draws closer, the paths of the city buzz with excitement. Though not everyone under the mountain prays to the Lunar God, plenty are happy to join in the merriment or make a profit off of people who are celebrating the festival. This time of year people cluster around the usually isolated church - vendors crowding around the base of the building with their wares. You've decided to join in the celebrations yourself, donning a black seasonal mask that covers your nose to forehead, with a small, delicate depiction of the moon going through various phases positioned right above your eyebrows.

Tonight is the official start of the festival, though anticipation has been brewing for the last week. As it's your first year here, you haven't been able to attend a Lunar Cleanse service, only hearing about it in bits and pieces from people at The Leaping Bear. Privately, you're a bit excited to experience something new. You've been so caught up in your search for a cure that you think some merriment for once would do you good. And, you're curious to see Cirrus lead the congregation through the ceremony. You've never seen him in front of a large group like that before.

The ceremony is starting shortly, so you make your way to the church. The streets are alive with festival-goers milling around. The air, usually damp and still, is filled with sweet scents. It's more humid than ever, hazy air rising from delicious round buns, steamed and stuffed with savory meats and vegetables. You see a nearby vendor lay out pale sesame rice balls on small plates, sticking to the fingers of people who tear into them hungrily. Another vendor is selling marshmallow filled cookies, covered in a thin layer of white frosting. On your way to the church, a stall selling candy catches your eye. You purchase some quickly, grabbing a bag of tiny, glittering silver candies. You pull open the narrow bag as you walk, placing a candy in your mouth. As you roll the sphere around on your tongue, a delicate flavor of jasmine fills your mouth, and you crunch the rest of it between your teeth happily. It's a delight to see the backbreaking worries of the city fall away, even if it's only for a short period of time.

The sounds and scents of the busy street fade away as you enter the church. The church is busier than you've ever seen it before, the building crowded with devotees sitting shoulder to shoulder in the pews. Even though it's crowded, everyone speaks in hushed voices. The building has been decorated with gleaming ribbons, strung along the tops of the walls. The placement of the ribbon leads you to think that few other than Cirrus would be able to place the decorations. You snicker to yourself quietly, imagining him wobbling on the tips of his toes to secure ribbons around the building. Or maybe, you think as your smile widens, he stood on a small stepstool? Your exploratory gaze falls upon Cirrus himself, standing at the front of the room. You immediately avert your gaze, feeling as if he would be able to sense your daydreaming just from your facial expression. He has a way of drawing guilt to the surface of your thoughts, bobbing to the top unavoidably like a cork in water.

You find a seat at the back of the room and slide into the end of a pew, crowded rows of benches lining the chapel in front of you. Your neighbor gives you a quick nod, their silvery silk mask glinting under the light of the candles before turning back to the front of the room. You clutch your candy in your hands, placing the bag on your lap. The room quiets as Cirrus takes his place at a podium. He wears the robes you've always seen him in, but in this moment they seem almost ethereal, glowing and shimmering in front of the candles. Silver hair cascades down his back as he stands resolutely before the crowd. His shoulders stand strong and the power he emits reaches you all the way in the back of the room. The crowd leans forward in anticipation.

"At this time of year we are able to begin anew," he intones, sweeping his hands out to the audience.

"The moon is pale and shining- a reminder of the ending of one year, and beginning of another. All of us gather to praise it’s light.

"All gather to praise", the congregation murmers in response. You hastily mumble some words, wishing that the service came with a tutorial. You hadn't realized there would be a call and response.

Cirrus continues. "The Night Air pierced by Silver Light presses down upon us. The Moon shines through us. We ask for it to illuminate our darkest faults, to wash them clean. Each of you have made grave errors this year," he sternly states, gazing out into the room. "Each of you have mistakes that you wish to release." You swear you can feel his eyes upon you, and wonder nervously about any possible mistakes you have made recently. Does it count that you hadn't brought your dishes to the counter at The Leaping Bear? Or maybe you’ve been too rude to the vendors when, time and time again, they have no news for your cure?

Cirrus's voice cuts through your thoughts.

"Let the strike of bells pull your guilt from you and release it. Let each toll into your heart and feel it dredge up the turmoil within. Bring your darkness out and let it whither in the light".

He stands commandingly at the front of the room, a bell the size of his fist resting in his gloved hands. He carefully swings his arm, the sound of the bell crisply ringing through the room. It's medium pitched and sharp, startling you in the quiet. You jolt a little, shifting in your seat. As it echos through the room, he paces softly across the front of the church. Another toll spreads through the space as he reaches the left side.

"Bring your sorrows up through your chest and release them with your breath," he instructs, a lecturer to an obedient audience. You try to obey, but your breath catches in your throat at the next ring - the sound so sharp and striking that it tears your attention away and sends a shock through your body. He continues to stride slowly at the front of the room, each subsequent ring of the bell growing softer and softer until you can barely tell whether he's rung it again or if the sound still lingers faintly in the air from the previous strike.

"Let your breath serve as a reminder to you of the life given to you, and of the light that will always return to you, even when the darkness feels crushing and all-encompassing. Just as you inhale and exhale, the moon changes and is lighted anew." He pauses for a moment, solemnly surveying the audience. You feel light and unburdened, more at peace than you have felt in weeks.

"With renewed spirits and lightened hearts, let us learn from those who have walked before us. In the first book of the Lunar Scripts..." Cirrus continues onwards, describing to the congregation a particularly (in your mind), dry and archaic passage from historical literature written long ago. Your eyes begin to close as his voice continues slowly on, the soft light of the chapel blurring in front of your half-lidded gaze. Your head starts to drop and you jolt yourself awake, shifting nervously in your chair and eyeing Cirrus. You suspect that he might have been facing the other side of the room when you started to doze off. He continues through the text, emphasizing certain points with a strident tone. It's clear that he knows the text well - but due to your lack of familiarity you're having a difficult time parsing the archaic phrasing. At times, you're not even sure it's in a language you know at all. You shift in your seat, fighting against the drowziness that seeps into your bones. You hope that the service will finish soon so you, and the rest of the worshippers, can join in the festivities outside. Your fingers shift on the wrapped candies in your lap and your stomach grumbles quietly. On a whim, you ease the top of the bag open, pressing a candy silently into your mouth. Maybe this will help keep you awake and your hunger at bay until the service is over.

"Silver Light, shining down upon us. We are bleached clean in your light. Glorious Celestial One, we are grateful for your protection in the last year, and returning brightness in this New Year. Before we celebrate your fullness through laughter and festivities, let us take a moment of silence to honor your watchful guidance". Cirrus leans onto the podium with the passion in his words. Everyone in the congregation stills, and the room falls silent. Light falls on Cirrus, draping over him and illuminating his hair like spun silver over his shoulders. He bows his mask towards the floor. You sit quietly, and as the silence stretches onwards, your eyes start to close again. You desperately pry them open, but between the warmth of the building, the dim lighting, and late hour, you soon find your head tilting to the side involuntarily. When your eyes close shut a third time, you desperately reach into your bag of candy for a distraction to help keep you awake.

To your horror, your fingers catch on the edge of the narrow bag, and the contents spill out in front of you, countless candies clattering across the stone floor. They bounce and tumble, each movement sounding thunderous in the silent room. You watch helplessly as the round candies careen across the flagstones, the furthest coming to a standstill at the feet of people three rows ahead of you. Masked faces turn to you curiously as people glance over their shoulders to see what the fuss was. Cirrus's gaze snaps to your face, pinning you in place like a moth on a board. His mouth twists when he sees that you're the one who caused the commotion.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry," you hurriedly breathe, sinking to the floor to gather what candies you can reach without disturbing those around you. The color is high in your cheeks, your hands sticky as you grab the candies nearby and press them into your pockets. Your gaze flits between the candies in front of you, scattered between the shoes of the other attendees but out of reach. You barely hear the end of the service, too mortified to raise your head or focus on Cirrus' words. The back of your shirt is damp with sweat. The congregation rustles to life as the ceremony concludes, the congregation impatient to finally listen to the music and enjoy the celebrations outside. You hover anxiously by your bench, standing and waiting for the rows to clear so you can gather up the mess you made. As the final attendees file out of the building, chatting to each other, Cirrus comes to stand beside you. His irritation rolls off him in waves and you shrink besides him, falling back down onto the bench without a thought.

"It's rather disrespectful, don't you think?" Cirrus says tensely, his words clipped and short. "Bringing food into the service. Distracting the church members. Irreverence on a sacred day. Such gluttony, hm?"

You have never had him this angry with you before, and your hands tremble in your lap where you twist them nervously. "Cir..Cirrus.. Father... Ah, I'm so so sorry, please, I'll clean them up right away. You're right, it was so stupid of me, I shouldn't have brought them in...I - I never meant to drop them, ppplease let me pick them up, I'll do it now..." You chance a look upwards, and the last bit of hope inside of you shrivels. He is silent, his face unmovable.

"You want to pick them up?" He asks softly. You nod, eyes fixed nervously on his face.

"I think your insatiable fingers will simply betray you again".

Your face falls, and you gesture out to him. "Sir.. Cirrus...I'll do it, I'll pick them up. Please, I'll do it right away,"

You sink to your knees and quickly stretch for one candy that's most of the way under the bench nearest to you, fingers scrambling across the dusty floor in your haste. Your heart stops in your throat when Cirrus's heavy, booted foot is placed onto your wrist.

"I said no," he hisses, the flat sole of his foot cruelly twisting against your skin. The bones in your wrist shift under the pressure.

"Your hands are clearly unreliable. And with your voracious hunger and desperation? Hmm, it's only fitting for you to use your mouth".

You lean back on your heels and crane your neck to look at him, wrist still pressed to the floor. "My mouth?"

"Yes. As starving as you are, we had better not let them go to waste." He places his hands behind his back impassively. "Begin."

You nod nervously and he lifts his foot off of your arm. You lower your torso to the floor with your arms, carefully picking up the small candy between your teeth. You can feel his icy gaze on your back. Chewing it quickly, you stoop further under the seats to grab the next nearest candy, shuffling forwards further on your hands. Even under the shelter of the bench, Cirrus's presence looms ominously behind you. You've just picked up the second candy when he speaks again, derision dripping from his words.

"In fact, I think it would be better if you didn't use your hands at all, hm?"

You twist awkwardly from beneath the bench, shuffling your weight back onto your heels. When you pull yourself upright in front of him, you see he's pulled out a narrow black rope. He steps behind you smoothly, pulling your arms behind your back and wrapping the rope around your wrists. A few firm knots later and your wrists are securely bound. Cirrus briefly checks the tightness by sliding the tip of his finger beneath the ropes and then stands.

He peers down at you, his mask an impenetrable shield. He can't keep a sneer from pulling at the edge of his mouth as he speaks. His anger is still palpable. "It suits you, my star. Perhaps this will teach you some restraint, since you are clearly struggling to learn. Continue."

You shift your weight forwards on your knees, testing the rope on your hands. It's tight but not unbearable. If you let your shoulders hang forwards the weight of your arms forces the rope to bite into your skin. But if you clasp your hands behind your back, it's tolerable. You lean all the way forwards, resting your torso on your knees. The spilled candies stretch out before you, some scattered as far as three rows ahead of you. Awkwardly, you scooch forwards, trying to move yourself over to a candy on the right. Your knees already feel sore against the pavement. You have much less control without the use of your hands, and you bash your spine into the underside of the bench. Pain radiates from your back and causes you to lurch forwards. Resignedly, you fully lay down, your torso on the floor and legs stretching out behind you. The floor is gritty and cool against your cheek, and you can feel the solidity of the stone through your clothes.

"There are many more to gather, my star. Best for you to progress quickly. Unless you'd rather I give you some *encouragement*, hmm?"

From the malice in Cirrus' voice, you feel pretty certain that you wouldn't like whatever his encouragement would entail. His foot comes to rest next to your ankle. The threat of it spurs you into action. You gather the candies under this row of pews with haste, twisting and contorting your body around on the stone to gather them in your teeth. The sweet jasmine flavor fills your mouth, polluted now with bits of dirt and sand from the floor. You look from side to side, your neck straining as you peer in the dim lighting. As you go from candy to candy, you pant harshly through your nose, mouth occupied. It’s difficult to progress with any kind of speed despite your efforts, and you work your way slowly across the ground, twisting and bending to shift from place to place. Your knees are starting to get rubbed raw, and your back aches from the strain of your motions. Your movements are becoming less precise as you grow tired, and you find yourself lunging for the candies with little finesse, eager to finish the job. One such motion scrapes the skin off your chin as you fall a bit too heavily on the floor.

Reaching the gap between the benches, you rest your cheek on the floor for a moment. The candies are fewer now, only beneath two wide benches ahead of you. You can feel the sweat stick to your skin. Your back burns, muscles furious from the repeated motion below the pews. Through your efforts, you've gained abrasions on your chin and cheekbone to accompany those on your knees. You close your eyes for a moment, gathering your strength.

Your body jolts when you feel Cirrus' boot come crashing into your ribs. "You think you've earned respite?" He speaks to you lowly, cooly. You squeeze your eyes shut, and find that his voice cuts into you. "You're dirty. Pathetic. Snuffling in the dust for grub like an animal." His disgust for you drips from every word. "Just minutes ago, you begged me to let you clean up. Told me how *quickly* you'd do it." On the last word he swings his leg again, this time slamming it into your gut. You gasp out a choked groan, wheezing. He continues on in a biting murmur. "I suspect that you cared more about currying my favor than righting your wrongs. I am not someone who can be plied with desperate words".

You cough a little, feeling a bruise bloom in your ribs as you do so. "Nno, I - I really am sorry, Cirrus, please, I'll continue. I want to clean it..." You feel a bit disgusted in yourself, but your desire to appease him and shame from your mistake prevails. You inch your way forwards to the next candies, painstakingly making your way beneath the benches. Cirrus walks to the row on the other side of the bench and stands there, waiting for you. You can see the faint shine of his shoes out of the edge of your eyes. Gathering the candies beneath this bench is harder. Your mouth and throat growing parched from your exertion and the endless sugar. You gasp on dust that rises from your movements. At some of the candies you find yourself resting for a moment, before quickly glancing to Cirrus’ feet and continuing again. Your back trembles as you shift forwards and you find yourself using your knees and shoulders more, doing your best to ignore how your skin screams at the friction. You've stopped clasping your hands together and they slump forwards limply, wrists aflame where the rope restricts them.

You start to feel anxious about how much is left. You've finally made it past the second bench. How many more are there? Surely you must be finished soon? You curse yourself. WHY would you be so stupid to try and eat them DURING the service? The delicate Jasmine flavor feels foul and cloying on your tongue. Glancing up desperately, you assess how many you have left to gather and realize that you only have the candies past the third bench to remove. Cirrus has walked ahead of you and stands at the remaining candies that have rolled out from under the bench. You realize, as he starts to move, that he was waiting for your attention.

He carefully lifts his boot and places it on top of the candy, grinding it into dust beneath his foot. With horror, you watch as he does this to each candy one by one, crushing each delicate silver orb into a fine, sugary powder. He drags the toe of his shoe through the mess, gathering it into a pile before he walks to the side. The powder clouds the dark leather. Cirrus waits for you, his expectation clear. Your breath hisses through your teeth as you pull your weary and aching body forwards. Pausing brings greater pain, each point of agony alighting with renewed vigor after the miniscule rest. Your clothes stick to you, damp with sweat and blood from your efforts. Reaching the edge of the powder, you shakily press your tongue into it, trying to pull it into your parched mouth. Your lips crack as you try to clean the mound up, each time leaving dust and damp remnants. You keep returning to it, trying again and again to remove it but only succeeding in spreading it more broadly upon the floor. With how dry your mouth is and your level of exhaustion, you’re unable to pick it up.

Your face slumps onto the stone next to the pile and a sob breaks from your chest. It's too much. There's nothing to be done. Your eyes squeeze shut as hot tears spill down your cheeks, leaving tracks in the grime. You curl up on yourself raggedly, body in a defensive ball. You can feel Cirrus's presence as he comes to stand by your shoulder. His clothes rustle slightly as he crouches. He grabs your chin, fingers sliding slightly through your tears. It's impossible to look at him. His voice feels gentle. "Your efforts, my star, have almost convinced me of your repentance".

"*Please*..." You croak out. You're not sure what you're asking for. His forgiveness, an end to all this, his help, rest.. Ciruss's thumb falls to your cracked lower lip.

"If you need help, you only must ask," he whispers to you.

He pulls your lips open and you feel something cool and wet fall against your tongue. Your eyes spring open to see a thin strand of saliva falling from his lips and into your open mouth. In this moment, it feels like a mercy. His jaw works and you open your mouth further yourself, accepting anything he would offer you. His spit pools in your mouth, almost refreshing after the relentless dust and sugar from the floor. It glints wetly as it falls. His hands slide to the back of your neck, carding through the damp hair at your nape for a moment. He holds the full weight of your head in his hands. His voice is as soft and as firm his fingers.

"So close, my star. You will continue. Leave your guilt behind".

Your heart trembles at that, the promise of forgiveness and his kindness so near.

You feel filthy. You feel beautiful in his touch. You feel like the stone you've spent so long inching across. His fingers slip softly through your hair and lower your head back to the ground. You feel him straighten more than you see it. With the most weariness you've ever felt before, you roll yourself to your front and gather the pile of dust into your mouth slowly, mouthful by mouthful. Your tongue and throat burn and it feels more as if the sugar tears your mouth than it does dissolve. You drag your damp jaw along the gritty floor, realizing at last that the pile is gone.

"You've done well to make amends.", Cirrus says, looking down at you in a heap at his feet.

It's then that your gaze falls to Cirrus's boots, right in front of you. They still have a fine smattering of dust from when he crushed the candies in front of you. Hazily, you blink at them, watching how the sugar dulls the reflection of the lights. With the very last dregs of your resolve, you shift forwards and lave your tongue through the dust on his boot. The boot shifts minutely, a quiet huff of surprise coming from him. You can tell he watches you as you do the best to clean his boots. Your exhaustion means that in some ways, you simply press your face and lips against them devoutly, your damp skin carrying away more grime at times than your mouth.

"What a precious, obedient little bootlicker", he breathes rapturously. "My devoted, gorgeous toy.”

Warmth sweeps through you at that, padding over your many aches and pains like a soft balm. Satisfied with the appearance of his shoes, you lay motionless on the floor. Dimly, as if to someone in a dream, you feel Cirrus unbind your hands and carefully lower your arms by your side. He rubs them gently, hushing you as you mumble in protest. You feel him reach below you and, with a motion that makes the world swing on it's axis, heft you into his arms.

"Is it ok, now?" You can't help but look for reassurance, your mind and body clinging to him as he carries you.

“Yes, little star. You are forgiven.”

--------------

Thanks so much for reading! This fic was inspired by sitting through church services over the holidays and the full moon rn. I was also inspired by this ask to Rotten Racoons (https://www.tumblr.com/rottenraccoons/703263691996545024/will-the-lis-spit-in-vespers-mouth-if-they-asked), which stated Cirrus would spit in Vesper's mouth as a reward for good behavior:D I wanted to manifest the idea of "getting punished for being disruptive in church". If you made it to the end, thank you! I'd love to hear what you thought!

[peaktora]

𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐘 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 ˚◞♡ ⃗ suguru getou

𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬 ┊ for the past month, geto has been noticing a stranger (you) struggling with skating, and it's been getting on his nerves. how can someone be so bad at it? to solve his irritation, he decides to teach you how to skate…or atleast, he tries to.

𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 ┊2.0k words. lordddd there’s a lot of dialogue (i swear more than half of this is talking). tbh it’s basically one sided irritation for reader + skater!suguru. no pronouns used or specified gender. there’s no specified au or mention of jujutsu high, so it can be the universe of anything you want it to be. intended lowercase.

𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚.┊did something new and wrote for getou !! i did a little research before writing this so i don’t think he’s ooc … but, in any case, this is more of a practice piece than anything else, and i just wanted to get something out there before i got caught up with studying for exams

"there’s no way," getou thinks to himself.

you had this determined look on your face, but your balance was all over the place. you kept wobbling and stumbling, trying to find your footing. each time you pushed off, you would lose control and end up falling. but you know what? you never gave up. even though you kept failing, you kept getting back up and trying again.

that right there? was the fucking problem.

it's really getting to him. gnawing on his bones from within and burrowing beneath his skin.

how many times will he have to see you here? hell, you’ve been practicing for a whole month now, with no progress from the first time you hopped on your board.

and it's not like he has a problem with beginners doing this, it's just you. you're so stubborn when it comes to asking for help, he can tell just by watching you. watching how you closely observe the more advanced skaters, and when they try to give you tips, you just give a tight-lipped smile and don't apply them. it frustrates him. at this point? just quit.

another fall on your butt is observed from getou’s seat on the bench, and that's when he chooses to get up and go home.

once he gets to the sidewalk, he drops his board and hops on. just as he was about to start skating, he caught a faint mutter from you. it was a curse, something like "damnit," followed by a kick of a rock. he probably wasn't supposed to notice—or even think about it, normally, he wouldn't give you a second glance. but maybe, he figures, you won't be such a bother if he gives you a hand. he can be pretty persistent when he wants to. and you know what? that could be useful with you.

he stands in the middle of the sidewalk, torn between going home and going to your aid. but it's pointless, really. he's on his way back to the park before he realizes it. as he comes to a stop in front of you, the sound of his wheels softens and you scoot back.

he’s got all those insults and jokes about you swirling in his mind, but what actually comes out of his mouth is, “you need some assistance here?”

you raise your hand and create a makeshift visor, blocking the glare of the sun. "what?" you ask, squinting at him.

“you want lessons? i can help—“ he points at your board. “free of charge.”

the following seconds are silent. you give him one more good look before replying, "i see you around here a lot."

this was not, by any means, meant to steer into small talk. getou fights the urge to sigh and instead, he smiles, slipping his hand into his pocket. "what can i say? this place brings me peace."

"you’re really good.”

“hm?”

“you’re really good at what you do. y’know…skating.”

huh, and he had the nerve to think he knew more about you. "it's all about how you practice,” he says.

you bring your knees up to your chest, letting your hands hang from them. "how do i practice if i always feel like i'm gonna slide off the board?"

“use tips.”

“from you?”

getou doesn't say anything, simply shrugging in response. you snort and shake your head, "now you're starting to sound like one of those salesmen.”

you interrupt him before he can speak. “for the—uh—" you stand up and grab your board. "lessons you mentioned? i think i'm doing okay by myself, but thanks for the offer." you pat his shoulder and walk away.

getou raises his hands in the air and walks over to the bench. "apologies," he mumbles. he slides his skateboard under the bench and sits down. sighing, he drapes his arm around the back of the bench, and taps his fingers against the metal. “wanna show me what you got?”

you stop walking, raising a brow at him. "you’re saying that as if i owe you something.”

"i never said you owed me anything,” he pauses, looking for the right words to say. “think of it as showing your skills."

“why am i showing my skills’ to a stranger?”

he scratches the back of his head. “really, you’re always skating infront of people you don’t know. i mean, this is a public space.”

"you said to show you what i got. which means skating specifically for you. not anyone else."

"you’re right, i did say that.”

"exactly," you state, as getou hums. it's quiet for a while, and he’s just starting to get up to go home when you interrupt the silence.

“i thought when you owe someone something it had to be mutually—uh—what’s that word?”

he sighs and blinks slowly in your direction, "agreed?"

"bingo!" you exclaim, snapping your fingers and pointing at him. "so i can't be in debt of anything because we haven't even agreed on the terms of the deal—i mean, we just met."

why didn’t he just go home? "this conversation is going in circles," getou groans, throwing his head back. he knew he had patience, but if this conversation went on, he'd need a lot more.

you stuff your open hand into your jeans pocket. “you’re the one who’s being weird.”

"you’re exaggerating the entire situation. i just wanted to help you out.”

"does it look like i need your help that bad?"

"honestly?" he asks, and you answer with a nod. "well…i can’t tell unless you show me somethin’.”

you roll your eyes, and he takes that as a good sign. you'll come around, he thinks, returning his gaze to the area around him.

he looks at nature's colors, from the lush green trees to the endless blue sky. his gaze darts from one sight to the next, and he can’t help but think that all of it is beautiful.

after a moment, he looks over in your direction and sees you walking towards a capsule. he knew you’d come around. you take a deep breath before positioning your skateboard at the edge. it’s not a big drop, in fact, it’s the smallest drop someone would be able to do here. but why you choose to show off your skills like this? when you’re a beginner? getou has no clue, yet he leans forward in his seat. your foot lightly presses against the nose of the board, making it rise and fall repeatedly.

just when he thinks you're about to drop in, you turn towards him and blurt out, "haven’t you seen me skate here before?”

getou wants to say "i can’t help but notice you," but he doesn't. patience, he says to himself.

but really, he’s ran out of that.

he leans slumps in his seat. “look, are you gonna do it or not? i can always leave. i'd be more than happy to. i have many things that need to get done today. so, what's it gonna be, rookie?"

“rookie?” you scoff. “please, i’m a little more advanced than that.”

���yeah? well i wouldn’t know, because ’m not seeing you skate.”

"you’re very excited about this.”

“on a time limit,” he says, tilting his head. “so hurry it up.”

“it’ll be worth the wait. watch, you’ll be speechless."

“i’m assuming for all the wrong reasons?”

you frown, “you know, you seem to be great at everything except knowing when to shut up.”

funny, most people would think of him to be an introvert. a person who’s more of a listener than anything else.

getou smirks, and taps his imaginary watch, "time is ticking.”

you glance at him once more over your shoulder, before murmuring a dismissive "whatever." getou watches intently as you reposition your board on the edge of the capsule. once again, you place your foot on the nose.

just as you drop in, he spots the mistake. he sees it in an instant, how your front foot gets way too close to the bolts. and that's when it happens—you start to back out halfway through the drop, losing your balance. instead of that graceful, picture-perfect dive you had in mind, it all goes awry. you go the remaining distance on your back, and geto can't imagine how much it hurt when the concrete hit the back of your head.

"are you okay?" getou yells, sitting up in his seat.

you stay silent, and if geto hadn't pushed you to feel the need to prove a point, he would’ve taken the idea of leaving you here more seriously than he is right now. he runs to the edge of where you dropped in, and looks down at you. you’re sprawled out on the ground, hands covering your face.

the first thought that came to mind was to slide down the drop, and so, he does.

immediately, he rushes over to you, crouching down at your side. "hey," he says, but it comes out much more breathless than he had hoped. he tries to pry your arms apart, but you firmly keep them closed.

"c’mon," he asks once more, and there's a noticeable softness in his voice this time. "just give me a chance to help you get back up and look if you need some bandages or somethin’.”

you stay put, and geto debates whether or not to touch you again. it’s only when you mumble, "were you speechless?" that he finally places his hand on your arm, gently rubbing up and down. his touch brings a comforting sensation, soothing and reassuring. he can tell by the way your body responds to his touch, your arms dropping limp.

the corner of your face appears, revealing a scrape above your brow. getou takes note, patting your arm before standing up and reaching out a hand. you raise your head, sigh, and grab it, allowing him to pull you up.

“it’s partially your fault you know,” you say, watching as getou grabs your board.

“how so?”

“peer pressure.”

"i think it was because of your footing." he replies, lowering your board. he places his feet on it, his front one near the bolts. "this is how your foot was when you dived in."

he repositions himself, lowering his front foot. "but this is how you're supposed to do it."

he looks at you, who’s looking at his feet before meeting his gaze.

"more tips come when you agree you need me to give you lessons," he says as he flips your board into his hand, eyes never leaving yours.

he smiles as you roll your eyes. "what? you couldn't possibly expect me to help you for free."

"thirty minutes ago, you said the lessons were, and i quote, 'free of charge'."

"that was before i realized how badly you need help. it could take me ages t—“

"well," you start, and geto raises a brow at your tone. "i think that they should be for free. i mean, you are in debt to me."

"is that so?" he replies, his response more of a challenge than a question.

"uh-huh, and there's a scrape on my head to prove it," you say as you point to it.

getou snorts, “you’ll be just fine.”

"once again, there's actual skin, missing from my forehead."

“and i did that…how?”

“like i said, peer pressure.”

"whatever you say," getou says as he heads back to the sidewalk. “c’mon rookie, let’s go get you a bandaid.”

"alright, but the lessons are just the start of your deb—"

"woahh," he interrupts, looking back at you. "there's a list?"

"of course. another thing on the list is that you buy me lunch."

he looks you over before replying, “whatever you want?”

“whatever i want.”

getou nods and licks his lips, "you’re gonna have to text me your list."

you smile, “you’re gonna have to give me your number.”

he points at you, "it'll only be used for scheduling lessons and discussing my debt."

you salute him, "yes sir," and he shakes his head.

"i'll have to substitute your ‘rookie’ name for solider," getou mentions as he continues his way towards the sidewalk.

you shrug, "i’d give you a nickname but i don't even know your actual name."

he fights the urge to smile, the corners of his mouth twitching. "getou."

"is that your first or last name?"

"well we aren't on a first name basis, now are we?" he says, finally letting his lips fall and twist there way into a grin.

[dixons-lut]

here's a little something for yall while waiting for chapter 7 of my reputation's never been worse, so (you must like me for me). a teaser of sorts

this is pretty important for ness's backstory and future so yeah :D

scenes from @unlogicness on youtube <3

[occult-octoling]

i am not immune to dimileth

[aoarcturus]

poor regulus stained his favourite shirt :’(

anyway this is my rendition of regulus from edge by @pinkpalaceapartmcnts

i adore this fic so much. i’ve been trying to draw smth from it for like ten months (not kidding) and i’m so happy i finally managed to make it look good :))

[dirtylittlediesel]

everybody loves you, baby

[farmlesbians]

that throuple that doesn’t play about their joint tumblr account

[yellowkitkieran]

kt rq… i absolutely love ‘support system’ and you writing reader on arsenals women team.. maybe after the final game he is obviously quite down bc he knows it’s best for him to move clubs but he worries about their relationship. And reader tells him she would move to a club closer to his (possible) new one (even if not immediately) which he didn’t expect.. lot of angst/bit of fluff.

ofc only if something like that is for you and all. still feel a bit down momentarily after Sunday and now your recent fic just has me in a mood x

The Hardest Goodbye (Kieran Tierney)

Masterlist

Word count: 2.0k

Kieran's lap of honour at the Emirates is more of an anticipatory goodbye than anything.

You wait in the wings in the tunnel, dressed to the nines in the same Arsenal gear you wear on your own match days, and let Kieran have his moment with the fans. He drinks it all in, the fans clapping for him as they sing his chant, enjoying the Emirates for what is likely his last time as a gunner.

Heart aching, you stand still as Kieran's team trickles past you. He is one of the few remaining now, reluctant to accept his fate. Each time he turns to leave, Kieran is drawn to the crowd in the same manner that a fisherman is perpetually drawn to the sea. This rectangle of grass is more of a home to him than the four walls he shares with you. Kieran would sleep here, eat here, hang up family portraits in the halls if he could.

No matter what, Kieran's soul will always lie with the team he was meant to captain. The red banners will hang in his heart until it stops beating. Kieran is a gunner, through and through, and no contract can change that.

The past few weeks have been hell. Rumors of a move have plagued Kieran's every step. All he's focused on is performing at his best for his club, trying to go out on a positive note if he has to. There isn't anything formal just yet, but neither of you have acknowledged the elephant in the room: Newcastle has come knocking, and their interest has not been quiet.

It would be a smart move for Kieran. His career would flourish with a stable place in the starting XI, and he'd finally get the recognition he deserves. The footballer in you wants him to accept it should a deal come his way. That side of you is at war with the part of you that loves Kieran unconditionally though. Because if Kieran moves, that means you'll be apart. And if you're apart, you aren't sure you'll be able to provide Kieran the support he needs.

Your contract with the Arsenal women's team doesn't run out until the end of next season. Even if it did expire tomorrow, you haven't had any promising interest from other teams. Your agent could pester someone into taking you, sure, but it would probably come with a salary cut. You wouldn't mind though, as long as it brought you closer to Kieran.

When Kieran finally turns to head off the pitch, you wait for him with open arms. His boots click on the pavement and you resist the urge to warm him against wrecking the studs. Kieran is already crestfallen enough, tears already brimming in those brown eyes usually overflowing with adoration, and you can't bring yourself to push him over the edge.

"Come here my love," you murmur when Kieran is in earshot. Without hesitation, Kieran fits himself against you and clings to you like a lifeline. You let him tuck his face into your neck as he sniffles quietly, trying to fit a leash onto his emotions.

You murmur reassurances while you card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. "You played beautifully, my love. Everyone knows you left it all out on the pitch. I couldn't be prouder of you."

Whether or not your words help, Kieran's heartbeat slows from a frantic slam you can feel in your own chest to a steady rhythm that echoes your own. "Sorry," he mumbles a minute later. "Just cannae believe I might never walk out there wearing red again."

Stroking your fingers over Kieran's hair, you murmur, "I know baby, I know it's hard. But hey, even if you don't make it back, you'll still be loved here in London. You heard the fans, yeah? They'll always remember you for your flair and how well you brought us together when you captained. It's not your fault that the owners shelled out big bucks for someone halfway decent and benched you because they couldn't let their pocketbook take a hit."

"Now you're just trying to make me feel better."

"Working though, innit?"

"Maybe a little."

You smile, coaxing Kieran away from you far enough that you can kiss him. "I love you, Key. You've done great things in your time at Arsenal and you've made all of us who play here proud. If it's time for a new chapter, we can figure that out together."

**********

"Contract is here," Kieran croaks, as if contract talks are a normal part of your conversations over your morning coffee. "Newcastle want me on the same wages I'm on now at Arsenal, and they don't want to keep me. Arteta said there's no spot for me in the squad because I don't fit in the left side as well as he'd like."

"Oh."

Isn't it supposed to be storming when one receives bad news? Shouldn't the window panes be battered with rain, wind howling as it tries to seep into the cracks? The sun shouldn't be warming your face as you crack eggs in a pan. Birds shouldn't be singing their merry songs. The potted flowers lining your windowsill should be wilted, not stretching towards the light.

Wrong. This morning is all wrong for that sort of earth-shattering, heartbreaking news.

"Yeah, oh."

Kieran tips his chair onto its rear legs, reaching into the glass cabinet behind him for the bottle of Scottish whisky off the top shelf and the two crystal glasses beside it. The heavy tumblers thud against the wood dining table when Kieran sets them down, pouring himself a double and then a single in the other glass, which he leaves for you if you want it. He doesn't so much as wince when he throws his own back, swallowing it swiftly.

"It's nine in the morning," you say softly, out of concern for Kieran's liver and his psyche.

"I'm not taking it," Kieran mutters, eyes trained on the crystal in his hand. The finality in his voice is what terrifies you. He's given this decision plenty of thought, that much is obvious, and yet this is the first you've truly heard him talk about it.

At first, you aren't sure you've heard him correctly. If Kieran doesn't take this contract, then certainly Arsenal will sell him off to the next highest bidder, which will most likely be non-premier league. His career will stagnate and his dreams of a European championship will be all but squashed.

"Kieran," you say firmly, trying to elicit some sense. "Babe, you have to take it." Abandoning your breakfast, you quickly skim through the summarized terms on the top sheet. It's a good deal, one that means he'll be secure for at least four years at Newcastle. "Four years is a long time, you could get a lot done. Help build a winning team. You could captain them and stay there long term."

"I don't want to be there long term," Kieran snaps uncharacteristically. In arguments it's usually you that has the hot head, not your boyfriend. It catches you off guard and you take a physical step away to distance yourself.

"Why not?" You ask after a pause.

Asking a simple question sets Kieran off and he lashes out like a cornered animal, "Because you're here! My entire life is in London, in this house that we bought together- you can't just up and move with me! Newcastle's women's team isn't anywhere near the same level as Arsenal's- you'd be sacrificing your career for me and I can't let that happen. Which means we'll have to do long distance and I already have a hard time during international breaks! I wouldn't survive that, I couldn't come home to an empty house each night!

"And yet you sit here and act like I should be okay leaving you behind. Like I wouldn't be abandoning the most important person in my life, the woman I want to marry one day. I should just accept that because it's good for my career? You're more important than that! You're my priority, not football!"

While you know his frustration isn't directed at you, that doesn't stop his outburst from stinging. You know better than to reply straight away, letting Kieran process his emotions on his own until his eyes glass over with tears and his lip wobbles.

"I dinnae ken what I'd do without you," he whispers finally. "I can't just leave you behind."

"Kieran, I hear you baby. I hear you." You cautiously come around the table, aware of Kieran's ridgid shoulders and his wide, terrified eyes. "Take a breath, Key. Breathe for me." When you're finally in front of him, you cup Kieran's jaw and turn his face upwards. "In and out, Key. Just breathe."

As Kieran fights to find a steady breath, you wedge yourself between his body and the table to sit in his lap. You take his hands and guide them around your middle with the same gentle persuasion one might use with a frightened child. "Breathe," you remind him, with his face once more in your hands.

When his eyes squeeze shut, you finally notice the red blotches on his cheeks. He's been crying in your room, for who knows how long. He's been fighting this battle on his own, waging war with himself over what he wants for himself and what he wants for your relationship. It's tearing him apart inside; the fact that he's consumed alcohol at this early hour is evidence enough of that.

You have two very distinct, separate jobs. On the pitch, you're the star of Arsenal's women's team, guiding your best friends towards wins and scoring the occasional goal while you're at it. You've trained hard nearly every day of your life to be where you're at, and signing for Arsenal has brought you a lifelong found family along with the love of your life, Kieran.

Off the pitch, you've tasked yourself with loving Kieran. It isn't something anyone ever offers advice or guidance on; it's something you've have to explore and learn how to do on your own, in your own time. But you think you've done a damn good job of it so far. You're the one he turns to after a shit match and you're the one he wants to celebrate with after a win. You don't hold him back but instead you help him realize his full potential, even if that potential means separating the two of you for the time being.

"I don't want to go," Kieran repeats. You've never heard him so distraught. Deep down, he knows Newcastle is the best choice for him, but neither of you are willing to give up the love you share.

"You know, I've been looking at Manchester lately."

Kieran sniffles and rubs at his wet eyes. "What for? I don't want to move to United and City doesn't need a left back."

"Mmm, no, their men's team doesn't… but their women's team? Well, City's ladies could really use some help defensively."

Hope finally returns to Kieran's eyes. He blinks up at you, his hands landing on your hips to pull you impossibly closer to him. "I couldn't ask you to leave Arsenal. I know it's your home, too."

"See that's where you're wrong," you murmur, tipping your forehead to rest on Kieran's. "My home is wherever you are, Key. This is my home." You lay your palm on the center of Kieran’s chest, directly over his heart. "I was looking and Manchester is only an hour from Newcastle. I could see about a loan to City or even about a move there next year. We could get a house in the middle and commute- a half hour each isn't terrible. I know it's longer than the ten minute drive we have now, but…"

"We would be together," Kieran finishes on your behalf. You smile and reward him with a soft kiss before sweeping the pad of your thumb over his lips.

"Yes, we would be together. So do you think you can make it until January without me there? This summer we can pick out a house together, and I can start figuring out a move for myself. Meanwhile, you can just focus on you, and planning as many date nights as you can."

"I like the sound of that, darling. I really, really do."

[sug4r-melon]

i wanna answer questions about the lore of my tfa wof au 👉👈

[rowrowronnie]

One way out!

[scribz-ag24]

they should stand in close proximity more often

[kissingagrumpygiant]

I (4,000M) miss my controversially young gf (49F),