#like I’m being dragged back so I can’t have time to cross the finish line of my goals

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR IV

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 4.5k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: Y'all do you know how hard it was to flirt using science and the topic of joker toxin?! I think I rewrote this chapter over ten times. I hope the subtext makes sense because I think my brain melted during this process. Also I'm still fairly new to posting on tumblr so I hope I'm doing the taglist correctly :) warnings: sexual innuendos, Jason being a low key stalker

BAT CAVE

Jason stepped deeper into the cave, the heavy echo of his boots bouncing off the stone walls. The cavern smelled faintly of earth, cleaning supplies, and the ever-present sting of coffee left too long to cool—unsurprising, given the miniature landfill of empty cups piled near Tim’s workstation.

“Jesus, Tim,” he muttered, eyeing the carnage. “Have you gotten any sleep?”

Tim didn’t look up. His voice was flat, gravel-edged with exhaustion. “I’ll sleep when I find our ghost.”

Jason arched a brow. “I’m pretty sure you said that yesterday.”

“And the day before that,” Tim murmured, squinting at lines of code bleeding across the massive screen. “I’m aware.”

Jason crossed his arms, stepping closer, gaze flicking over the data. “Any updates?”

Tim let out a hard sigh, slumping back in his chair. He dragged both hands down his face as if trying to wipe away the frustration before answering. “Just dead ends. No facial matches. No fingerprints. No aliases that last longer than a day. Whoever this guy is, he’s good. Really good.”

“Something doesn’t add up,” Jason said quietly. “No usual runner is this off the grid.”

“Exactly. And get this—Gordon pulled a small vial off Mancini and handed it off to B.” Tim’s brows furrowed. “Mancini was right. It’s a hybrid. Joker’s original strain—but there’s chemical coding in it that matches Scarecrow’s second-gen fear compound. It’s clean work. Scarily precise. Way beyond Joker’s usual brand of chaos. Even Crane’s compounds weren’t this sophisticated.”

Jason frowned, unease tightening in his gut. “So, what are you saying? That the bastard we’re chasing didn’t just steal the formula…”

Tim looked up, expression grim. “He probably helped make it.”

The words landed with a sickening weight.

Jason exhaled, low and sharp. “Shit.”

Tim turned back to the monitor, fingers already flying across the keyboard. “And Joker’s tearing through the underworld trying to find him. That’s why it’s gone quiet—people are either hiding… or dying. Fast.”

Jason exhaled slowly. “Then we need to move. Fast. If Joker gets his hands on the formula—”

“We’ll have a city-wide crisis on our hands,” Tim finished for him.

Jason’s jaw clenched. “Then we need an antidote. Even if it’s just a prototype.”

Tim shook his head. “We don’t have enough of the compound. No base, no ratios, no synthesis pattern. Without the exact formula, we’d be guessing in the dark.”

Jason slammed a fist lightly against the desk. “Then how the hell did a rat like Mancini get his hands on it?”

Tim shrugged. “Best guess? He stole it from Sionis. Would explain why he was looking over his shoulder every five seconds.”

“Idiot,” Jason muttered. His anger began to cool as he glanced over, noticing the dark circles etched beneath Tim’s eyes. The kid looked wired and worn thin. His voice softened. “You need sleep.”

“I can’t,” Tim’s fingers resumed their frantic pace across the keyboard. “What if I miss something? What if that formula shows up and we’re not ready?”

Jason stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Tim. You’ll miss something anyway if your brain crashes mid-keystroke. You’ve been staring at code for three days straight. You’re running on caffeine and spite.”

Tim didn’t stop typing. “It’s worked so far.”

Jason reached out pulled Tim away from the bat computer and forcing Tim to turn around and meet his eyes. “You’re not gonna outsmart this thing if you’re fried. You’ll be sharper after a break. Babs is still digging on her end. We’ve got the patrols. Get four hours. Hell, even two.”

Tim slumped in defeat, rubbing at his eyes as the tension finally bled from his shoulders. “Fine. A nap. But if I wake up and Gotham’s on fire—”

“Then it’s a normal day in this shit hole city,” Jason deadpanned.

A faint smile tugged at Tim’s lips, and he stood with a stretch that earned several cracks from his spine.

“I’ll keep digging until you’re up.” Jason promised, clapping a hand to Tim’s shoulder. “Go.”

Tim didn’t argue. He staggered toward the elevator, muttering about caffeine withdrawal and setting six alarms.

Jason waited until the lift closed behind him before turning back to the monitor. He should’ve jumped straight into the search—he’d been the loudest about stopping Joker’s next move— instead, his mind drifted. Not to Gotham. Not to toxins or their ghost. But to you.

It had been days since the bookstore, and he still couldn’t stop thinking about you.

“God, I can’t believe I’m actually becoming a stalker,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Seeing you at the bookstore had been pure coincidence. But now? he could feel his curiosity getting the better of him, he wanted to see you again and with that the thought there, it was too tempting to ignore the resources at his disposal. 

A quick cross-reference of the store’s invoice system, and he’d found the record of your purchase. From there, it wasn’t hard to trace it to a name. A professional profile. A series of academic papers and lecture videos.

Doctor Y/N L/N. Neuroscientist. Lecturer and researcher at Gotham U.

He skimmed your credentials, the corner of his mouth twitching. You were sharp. Accomplished. Brilliant, even. Probably the kind of person who would’ve been Tim’s rival if he ever left the cave long enough to interact with actual humans.

“Damn,” Jason whistled low, scrolling through your faculty page. “You’re not just a pretty face.”

“Who is this?”

Jason nearly leapt out of the chair. “Jesus, Damian!”

Damian raised a brow, unimpressed, before glancing at the glowing monitor, gaze narrowing at the screen. “Who is she?”

Jason shifted awkwardly. “She’s, uh… potential lead. On the toxin thing.” Total lie. No way in hell he was confessing to stalking his own crush to demon spawn.

Damian frowned, clearly unconvinced. He glanced back at the screen. “She doesn’t look like an evil mastermind.”

Jason snorted. “Trust me. She’s smart enough to become one if she wanted.”

He clicked out of the window, not willing to risk further questions, and turned to face the youngest Wayne fully. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“I finished this week’s syllabus yesterday,” Damian said with a dismissive wave. “To make me attend that pit of idiocy is a waste of my time.”

Jason raised a brow. “Pretty sure Bruce expects you to show up regardless.”

“Father expects results, not attendance,” Damian replied coolly.

Jason leaned back in the chair, folding his arms. “If I call him right now and tell him his little prodigy’s playing hooky and creeping around the Batcave instead of sitting through trig, how fast do you think he’d be down here?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would love to,” Jason said, smirking as he slowly pulled his comm from his belt. “And I’ll tell Alfred to lock up your katanas until your attendance record’s squeaky clean.”

Damian looked murderous. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re going to be late.”

With a muttered curse in Arabic, Damian spun on his heel and stormed toward the elevator like a tiny, furious emperor exiled from his marble court.

“This is why no one respects you,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Jason just smirked. “You’ll thank me one day.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

Jason chuckled as the elevator doors closed. The cave was quiet again but this time, he left the file closed. He wasn’t risking another one of his siblings catching him mid-obsession.

But even as the lines of data loaded, he couldn’t stop the image of your smirk from flashing in his mind.

Damn it.

He was so screwed.

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY 

The weekend had vanished in a blink—gone before you had the chance to properly catch some rest. And now it was Tuesday morning, and you were once again standing in front of your lecture hall with a marker in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other—woefully undersized for the hour.

You weren’t even sure how you’d survived Monday. And Tuesday? Tuesday was dragging its feet like a teenager being forced out of bed.

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Maybe the mounting stack of papers needed to be graded. Or maybe—just maybe—it had something to do with the fact that Dick hadn’t texted since the weekend.

Aside from one polite message—Had a great time, can’t wait to see you again—there had been radio silence.

Maybe he was busy.

Maybe he was being polite.

Maybe he decided that he wasn’t actually interested.

You bit back a sigh and turned back to the board, scrawling across the surface with just a touch more pressure than necessary. Whatever.  Who needed a man when you had a lecture hall full of sleep deprived students a terminal caffeine addiction, and a job that kept your brain so busy it barely had time to spiral?

Still… you checked your phone. Just once. Just in case.

Nothing.

Figures.

You exhaled through your nose, smoothed down your blouse, and turned back toward your students with the kind of smile worn only by women who had absolutely chosen the strong, independent path at seven in the godforsaken morning.

Because, despite everything—despite the early hours, the endless grading, and the fact that your bloodstream was 80% espresso—you loved this.

You loved teaching.

You loved the subject. The research and chaos. The spark that came when something clicked in a student’s eyes.

Teaching neuroscience was more than a paycheck; it was a passion. You just wished passion came with later start times. And a universally accepted pyjama policy.

You took a long sip of coffee, rolled your shoulders back, and turned toward your students, who were only just starting to blink the sleep from their eyes.

“Alright,” you said, clicking the projector to life. “Let’s talk about chemical warfare. And clowns.”

That earned a few raised brows of interest and handful of tired chuckles.

“True to my word,” you went on, as the screen behind you flickered to life, “we’re diving into Joker venom today. Specifically, the various known strains, their molecular architecture, and the neurological impacts they cause upon exposure.”

The first image flickered onscreen: a chart showing the original base compound. Beside it was a grainy field photo of a bright green liquid. The photo looked like it had been pulled from the bottom of a GCPD evidence locker.

“This,” you said, pointing with your marker, “was the earliest recorded version—crude, volatile, and grotesquely effective. Victims experienced intense euphoria, followed by uncontrollable laughter, vivid hallucinations, progressive paralysis, and ultimately… cardiac arrest.”

You paused, letting the weight of that settle in.

“But here’s where it gets interesting,” you said, clicking to the next slide. “The formula has evolved. It’s gotten cleaner. More efficient. Some of the newer strains show a disturbing level of sophistication. Less residue. More targeted dopamine flooding. In a few cases—nearly undetectable until it’s too late.”

A hand went up from the front row.

“Is there any known antidote?” the student asked.

You hesitated—just for a beat. “There are a few neutralizing agents that can be effective if administered immediately,” you said. “But a true, universal antidote? Not yet. Especially not for the more recent iterations. Most of our current strategies are reactive, not preventative.”

You paused.

“In short?” Your lips quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t get exposed.”

A ripple of nervous laughter followed.

And then—

A new voice spoke up.

“Is it the toxin that kills them… or the effects it triggers first?”

You froze for half a second—not enough for anyone else to notice.

Your eyes scanned the lecture hall—and there he was. In the back row, half-slouched like the seat belonged to him. Leather jacket. Boots kicked up against the chair in front. Arms folded, expression far too smug for someone who had no damn business being here.

The last thing you’d expected was to see him here.

“Interesting point,” you replied, crisp and professional, like he was another one of your students. You refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. “The toxin is the cause, yes—but it’s the chain reaction that actually kills. The laughter, the convulsions, the paralysis… the body shuts down before most people even realize what’s happening.”

Jason tilted his head slightly. “So the damage isn’t in the delivery. It’s in what it sets off.”

You clicked to the next slide. “Exactly. The moment it hits, your body stops being yours. It rewires everything—how you feel, how you think. You can’t reason your way out of it.”

He nodded slowly, like he already knew that and just wanted to hear you say it. “Some people get hit harder than others, though, right?”

You arched a brow. “Depends on the target.”

“Some look fine. At first,” he said. “They act normal. But the toxin’s already working underneath.”

The look he gave you made the implication clear.

You smiled tightly. “Some strains are less effective than they look. Easy to handle if caught early.”

“Wait—” a girl near the middle row piped up, frowning. “I thought there was no cure for Joker venom?”

You cleared your throat, ignoring the flush creeping along your neck. “For the newer variants, yes. They’re more chemically advanced and difficult to reverse. But with some of the older versions—If the symptoms are identified early enough—intervention is possible.”

Jason leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on his hand, grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “But what if someone lets it run its course anyway?”

You didn’t look at him.

You just smiled for the class. “Then some people are clearly very stupid.”

A few students laughed in confusion, but no one actually picked up on the double meaning of the conversation. You turned back toward the board.

“Now then,” you said briskly, “back to the chemistry before anyone else gets the idea this is interactive.”

You didn’t even make it halfway through the next slide before his voice cut in again—calm, amused, and very much on purpose.

“So how much exposure does it take before the effects become permanent?”

You inhaled through your nose and closed your eyes for half a beat.

Some of the students nodded—taking the bait. A girl in the second row had already scribbled the question into her notes.

But you knew exactly what he was doing.

You turned, voice level, gaze sharper. “Depends on the dosage. And the subject. Repeated exposure can cause cumulative neurological damage, but again—some people are more susceptible than others.”

Jason stood. Hands in his jacket pockets, he walked down the aisle like he had all the time in the world. Like none of this was strange or inappropriate.

“Say someone’s exposed to a small dose,” he went on, “but it happens a few times. Do they build immunity? Or will the damage be done?”

He stopped just short of the first row—just shy of your space. Close enough that your skin prickled with heat. You were painfully aware of the eyes of your students on you now.

Your jaw clenched.

“Well,” you said, eyes narrowed, “whoever’s insane enough to try that should probably check themselves into Arkham.”

He stepped closer, just slightly. Just enough that only you could hear him when he murmured, low and maddening:

“Why do that… when there’s a cure standing right here?”

“Funny,” you said, lips curling into something that might’ve passed for a smile if not for the fire in your eyes. “Because the only thing I see right now is a recurring symptom.”

Behind him, someone cleared their throat—a student, probably wondering whether they were still attending a lecture or some avant-garde performance piece. 

You exhaled sharply and stepped toward him, your expression still pleasant for the room, but your voice dropped to a hiss meant for his ears alone.

“What the hell are you doing? This is a lecture. You’re not cute.”

He smirked, unbothered. “Didn’t say I was. Just here to learn about toxins… and their reactions.” 

You gritted your teeth. “You’re disrupting my job.”

“I’ll stop if you go out with me.”

“Not a damn chance.” You scoff.

Then, as if this was his stage now, he turned slightly toward the class, raising his voice with faux curiosity. “Actually, that reminds me. Has anyone considered how different outcomes might vary depending on emotional state during exposure? Say, for example, if someone was already—”

“I swear to God—”

“Look,” he said, still in that maddeningly calm tone as he turned back to her, “one hour. That’s all I’m asking. If it sucks, you can forget I exist.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If I still say no?”

Jason shrugged, entirely too relaxed. “I’ll keep showing up. Keep asking questions. Might even bring snacks next time. We’ll see how interactive this gets.”

You stared at him. He stared right back.

God, he was smug.

God, he was gorgeous.

God, you hated this.

“…Fine,” you muttered. “One hour,” you said through gritted teeth. “And if you speak once during the rest of this lecture, I will report you for harassment and ban you from this campus.”

His grin was shameless. “Understood, Professor.”

He backed up, hands raised, retreating like the smug menace he was—but this time with a victory in his step.

He turned and walked back up the aisle, dropping back into his seat like this was the plan all along.

You turned back to the board, face burning, students utterly unaware that their professor had just been emotionallystrong-armed into a date by a six-foot leather-wrapped problem with a smirk. 

Jason, to his credit, didn’t speak again. Not once.

But he didn’t need to.

Because for the next forty-five minutes, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Surprisingly, Jason actually found himself listening as you spoke. He learned what actually happened inside someone exposed to Joker venom—what went wrong in their brain. He’d never thought to ask before. That was always Bruce’s domain, or Tim’s. The analysis. The endless case files with chemical structures and psych profiles and margin notes scribbled in too-small handwriting. Jason had always preferred the fighting portion of vigilantism. 

But hearing it from you…

Maybe it was the way your voice shifted—calm but impassioned—or how you didn’t shy away from the brutality of it. You didn’t sensationalize it, either. You explained it like a surgeon would describe an autopsy—clinical, controlled, but with a quiet thread of empathy running through every word.

Jason had seen what Joker venom did to people.

He’d dealt the aftermath.

He’d watched the light go out in someone’s eyes while they laughed themselves into oblivion.

But he’d never truly understood it. Not like this.

The way you spoke about neurotransmitter chaos—how dopamine floods rewired fear into joy, how serotonin short-circuited pain into pleasure, how laughter wasn’t just a reaction, but a seizure disguised as euphoria. The complete collapse of inhibition, followed by motor control, then respiratory function—it was horrifying. And fascinating.

You made him want to know more.

And then, in a moment that startled him, he wondered what you’d make of him.

Of the Lazarus Pit. Of what it did to the brain when it brought someone back from the dead. Of the rage. The episodes. The memory gaps. Of the madness that still affected him.

Would you call it neurological trauma? A chemical imbalance? Would you look at him like a subject—or something broken to fix?

He leaned back in his chair, arms loose, fingers tapping idly against his knee. You were pacing now, marker in hand, drawing a new diagram with quick, practiced ease. Sharp lines, fluid motion. You were alive up there—animated and fierce in your element. And he couldn’t help but watch. Not just your words. But you.

The way your voice sharpened when a student asked a half-formed question. The gleam in your eye when someone got it. The small, unconscious smile when the pieces clicked.

You cared. Genuinely.

About the material. About the kids in this room. About what this information could mean outside of it.

“Alright,” you said finally, capping the marker with a soft snap and stepping back. “That’s it for today. You’re free to go—unless you’re dying to ask more questions about the joys of chemically induced insanity.”

Laughter stirred through the room. Chairs scraped back. A few students filtered out with lingering glances and whispered praise. Others loitered to gather notes or quietly debate the finer points of dopamine regulation.

Jason didn’t move.He waited—calm, steady—watching you sort your materials, stack your folders, and close your laptop shut.

When you finally turned toward him, arms crossing over your chest and one brow raised in challenge, he rose from his seat like a man who had all the time in the world and nothing to prove.

“Ready, Professor?” he asked, voice low, smug as ever.

You rolled your eyes, gathering your bag. “You’re lucky I’m a woman of my word.”

Jason smirked. “Some might say that’s an admirable quality.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “Some might say it’s a flaw.”

THE GOLDEN CUP

Jason—as you’d recently learned his name was—took you to The Golden Cup, one of Gotham’s most aggressively popular coffee chains.

On the walk over, you’d checked your phone—more out of habit than hope—and found, unsurprisingly, that there was still no message from Dick.

And that was when you decided.

You weren’t going to wait up for him. You’d had one date. No promises. No exclusivity. Just a good night that clearly hadn’t meant the same thing to both of you.

So fine.

You were going to give Jason a chance.

No matter how infuriating, arrogant, or absolutely insufferable he was—he was persistent. And maybe, just maybe, that counted for something.

Even if he made you want to strangle him half the time.

Especially then.

You forced a polite smile as he held the door open for you. The place had a sleek, modern interior, all brushed steel and pale wood, the kind of aesthetic that screamed corporate chic. Chalkboards lined the walls, scrawled with endless customizable drink options in cheery handwriting, as if sugar and soy milk could compensate for the fact that the coffee tasted like watered-down burnt beans. 

You bit back a grimace. The air buzzed with the frantic energy of sleep-deprived students and frazzled office workers. 

“The Golden Cup?” you asked, more out of disbelief than curiosity.

Jason shrugged, as if the choice had been perfectly logical. “Figured this was your kind of place.”

You mirrored the gesture, masking your annoyance. After how hard he’d worked to get this hour with you, the last thing you wanted was to admit you actually despised it here. “The girls on my gymnastics team used to love this place,” you offered instead.

That made him pause. “Wait—you did gymnastics?”

You nodded. “Bars. Tumbling. The works.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes skimming over you like he was trying to reconcile that image with the one in front of him.

Your eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. “You just don’t seem like the type.”

You stiffened. “And what type is that?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he chuckled, the sound light but strained.

But the damage was done. The words echoed louder than they should have—because you wanted this to go well. You’d told yourself you were being open, trying not to let old scars taint something new. Like Milo kept encouraging. But there it was again—another man slotting you into a tidy box. 

Jake used to do the same thing.

“So how did you mean it?” you asked, voice calm but tight.

Jason looked like he wished he’d said nothing at all. “I just meant… never mind, okay?”

The line moved forward. He stepped up to the counter, clearly flustered, and ordered without turning to you. Two hot coffees. Black.

You stared at the back of his head in disbelief. He didn’t even ask.

When he reached for his wallet, you turned on your heel and walked out.

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into the Gotham air, crisp and biting against your cheeks. You exhaled hard, realizing only then how tense your jaw had become.

You didn’t make it far before the door slammed open again. Footsteps pounded after you.

“Hey! Wait up!” Jason called.

You kept walking until his hand lightly caught your arm.

“Where are you going?”

You turned, met his eyes. “I just don’t think this is going to work.”

Confusion flashed across his face. “What? It’s barely been ten minutes.”

“And that’s all I needed.”

He stared at you, disbelief written in every line of his face. “Come on, that’s not fair.”

“Ever since we met,” you said, keeping your tone level, “you’ve done nothing but make assumptions. You act as if you know me based on a glance and a guess.”

“That’s not true,” he snapped. “I—what assumptions?”

“The book recommendation, the coffee shop itself. You didn’t even ask what I wanted to drink,” you pointed out. “You just ordered hot coffee.”

“Everyone loves hot coffee!”

“I don’t.”

His mouth opened, then closed.

“And then there was the gymnastics thing.”

He winced. “Okay, maybe that came out wrong—”

“It’s not just that. It’s how you said it. Like I didn’t look the part. What—because I’m a doctor?”

“What? No!” he said quickly, like the idea shocked him. “That’s not what I meant at all!”

“You don’t know me, and you clearly don’t care to.” you said, stepping back. “You saw me in the bookstore and figured I looked easy. The kind of girl you could charm in five minutes with a smirk and some half-assed lines.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could try to spin it.

“I said no,” you reminded him. “So now I’m a challenge. That’s all this is to you—a game you don’t want to lose.”

His expression shifted. Defensive. 

“But let’s get one thing straight,” you continued, voice like ice. “Whatever bad boy charm you think you’ve got going for you? It doesn’t work on me. I’ve seen it before. You’re not new.”

Jason scoffed, tension bleeding into sarcasm. “Guess I should’ve worn a suit and talked about Nietzsche.”

You shook your head, a hollow laugh escaping. “God, this is exactly why I’m walking away.”

“Oh, right,” he said, stepping forward. “Because you’re uptight and judgmental? Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine either.”

You stiffened, heat rising in your chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His voice was sharp now, stripped of its earlier charm. “You walked in here with your mind already made up. You want to lecture me on assumptions? Take a good look in the mirror. You’re no better, Princess.”

The words hit like a slap— For a second, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, breathing hard, your pride wounded, your heart thudding against your ribs with something that felt too much like anger… and something else you didn’t want to name.

You were done. Whatever thread of tolerance you’d held onto had snapped clean through. “You know what? I’m not doing this. Let’s just call it a night.”

“Oh, can we?” he muttered, hands flung out to the side. “Please.”

“Good night,” you snapped, already turning.

“Sayonara.”

“Have fun with yourself.”

“Ciao, sweetheart. Tell the HOA at Pretentious Pointe I said hi.”

← Previous Chapter ✯ Next Chapter →

Taglist: @mei-simp, @sept3mberchild, @a-brilliante-mariposa, @feralwolfkat, @mercuryathens, @beepboopcowboy, @lordbugs, @coffeemin, @nikkeora, @yuyuti02, @tinybrie, @smithieandy, @yuhhh03, @kazuuhali

[lady-lauren]

❥ DRACULE MIHAWK X FEM!READER

❥ WORD COUNT: 2.5k

❥ WARNINGS/TAGS: knife play (and sword play), sword slicing clothes, sword against pussy, sword/knife against throat, sword to your mouth, (listen his massive sword is everywhere), some fear-play, semi-public sex, former student/master relationship, degradation, praise, some aftercare, creampie

→ Kinktober Masterlist ←

Time slows as your eyes catch the glint of a black blade. You see yourself in the mirror-finish; frightened, pressed with no escape. 

“I’m growing…tired of this little chase.” 

Cool metal kisses your chest, the heaviness of his sword lingering just above the panicked swell of your breasts. Mihawk gazes down, head tilting as he analyzes the predicament—you, back down in the filthy alley, heartbeat a sonorous tune up the spine of his blade.

“Sounds like someone is losing his edge.”

“I don’t have time for your brattiness. You’ve got quite the bounty on your head.”

He moves the massive saber lower, the trailing point curved, sharp. 

Threads begin to pop before the blade fully begins to slice through your shirt. Carbon steel stings cold against the heat of your tits. 

“I thought your precious world government would give me a pass, given that I’m,” you can’t help but suck in a quick breath as he presses down with his sword, slow, methodical, enough to hurt and not break skin, “y-your student.”

“Former student. Who is very clearly out of practice.”

“Took you two weeks to catch me.”

“Because I’m patient, sweetheart.” 

Though his patience seems to be running thin. You’ve never been on the receiving end of Yoru, the great sword only ever used when your master deemed it necessary. The weapon can cleave apart a war galleon, swing a shockwave to crumble glaciers. 

Yet now the midnight blade is gentle, precise, peeling away cloth until your breasts spill into the night air.

“Wh–what are you—?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he presses the tip of his sword to your throat, tilting your chin with the point, “you can benefit from a quick lesson.”

Your swallow rolls against the blade.

You’d be a liar if you said you’d never dreamt of this, of being at his mercy. Mihawk never crossed boundaries, not while you were his to teach. Only times change, tides shift, and now he’s taking what he wants.

He doesn’t have to tell you to be still. 

“Pretty.” He twists the wide sword flat, barely catching the hard peak of your nipple with the edge before smoothing over your skin with the blade. Your teeth grit as you shiver, trying to keep your breathing even. Mihawk repeats the motion, teasing your nipple until it hurts from the icy steel. “Sensitive, too.”

Nails scraping in the dirt, your eyes flash to the mouth of the alley, shadows passing in the street lights. 

Mihawk traces the deadly metal along the curve of your breast, so torturously pressing into the fat like he’s testing the elasticity. The blade pinches against your skin, not enough to draw blood, just enough to remind you of his meticulous control. 

Adrenaline lights up every nerve in your body as the weapon drags down, a stinging line drawn to your stomach. One wrong move and he could slice you open. Just a single squirm and the heavy sword would pierce skin, impale your insides on the most powerful sword on the four seas.

“Mi-Mihawk, please.” The tremble in your voice is a white flag waving.

“What are you begging for?” There’s a twitch at the corner of his sharp mustache, a smile, self-satisfied and impish. He presses the blade into the softness of your belly, prodding you, teasing. 

“Don’t hurt me, please, I-I’ll—”

“Do anything?” he cuts in, the smile shimmering up to his eyes, concentric rings focusing on how your thighs press together. Hot, needy, all the fight in you draining to one vulnerable point. 

“I won’t hurt you,” the promise comes with a shift of his sword, roaming lower, “just want to play with my catch.”

You try to concentrate on anything other than the weight of danger. A low breeze kicks against the crimson of his cape, mud and dust caking the hem. Yellow haze of distant street lamps reflects off his chest, sweat beading in the grooves of muscle—from the chase or his focus, you can’t tell. He looks a bit older than you remember, all the more wiser on how to play.

“Why?”

“Because I can,” he knocks his boot against your ankle, kicking your legs apart, “because I want to.”

Your tongue feels thick in your mouth. The world has shrunk to just you, the sword toying at the juncture of your thighs, and its wielder—nothing else matters. Not the voices in the distance, the hard dirt against your back, the thoughts you had prior to falling prey. 

It’s a surreal feeling of being caught between moments, between life and the fucked up desire to feel more of the crucifix sword against you. 

“Always guessed you were hiding a pretty cunt. Let’s see if I’m right.” 

The blade sinks between your open legs, knife’s-edge dragging along the seam of your pants. Unhurried, simmering like heat slicing through butter. 

Fear kicks in your chest, rings in your ears. He’s so close to the most sensitive part of you, the sword you always admired cutting through your panties. Cold steel like ice against your weeping flesh—you feel strings of your slick glide against the blade as he exposes you. 

You whimper as your bare cunt is spread delicately, the tip of the steel peeling apart your labia.

“Messy already.”

The precision he wields paralyzes you, the razor edge of the blade brushing against your swollen clit. Pleasure sings down your veins like the pinging of metal, chills erupting over your skin. You squeeze your eyes shut and will your body to stay still, for your hips not to buck. 

Mihawk teases your clit again, and again, swirling the sharp sword over the sensitive bundle of nerves. You choke back a sob, muscles in your thighs twitching as you try to stay calm as he riles you.

“Now what if I…?” he asks himself, the deep baritone of his voice laced with curiosity. 

You gasp as the black blade dips lower, curved point teasing your clenching hole. On instinct your legs try to close, stopped only by his quick reaction. His boot kicks at your knee, hissing like you’re ruining his concentration. 

“Easy, sweetheart. I don’t want to make this pretty pussy bleed.”

Patient as ever, he gives you a few moments to collect yourself, lungs taking in too much air. 

Then the sharpness of his sword pressed back into the squish of your cunt, tip barely easing open your hole like he’s testing, analyzing. A too curious predator prodding his meal. 

“Fuck, please…” you bite from between your teeth, clumping dirt in your palms as you fight not to move, fight the fear bubbling inside your belly. 

“Do you know what you’re begging for yet?” 

“Touch me. Please. I-I need something inside me.”

Mihawk circles your opening, spreading wet muscle, “Tempting words.” 

“You know what I mean.”

The blade skims up from your hole, passing through your folds, flicking over your clit with a metallic ping. 

“Clean your mess first,” the giant blade gleams as he so easily moves it over your panting body, bringing the tip to hover just above your lips, “then I’ll consider fucking you.”

Your eyes meet his, the shape of the sword going fuzzy in your vision as you evaluate him. Golden eyes are glazed over with lustful focus, watching, waiting. 

You don’t break your gaze as your tongue falls from your mouth, licking the underside of the blade. Tangy slick, viscous and gooey, meets your tastebuds. You’d be ashamed of your mess if it weren’t for the way his cock bulges in his pants, thick length throbbing down his thigh. 

In all your years of training, he never once let you touch Yoru. And now he’s flipping the edge over your tongue, washing the jet-black color in your spit.

“Does this please you, Master?” you drop the name like acid against the blade. 

“I could cut out your tongue.” He proves his point by digging the great sword into your wet flesh, just enough to hurt. He wouldn’t. But oh how he could. “If I didn’t have better uses for it in mind.”

Careful patience snaps. In a blur, the blade is gone, replaced by strong hands maneuvering how he pleases. A jerk and you’re off the ground, a push and your exposed tits are scraping a brick wall. 

Mihawk fingers the hole he sliced between your thighs, pant seams ripping farther apart as he spreads your thighs wide. 

His cockhead pops into your cunt, length sliding in deep as he groans against your back. 

“So wet from my sword.”

Spearing into the most intimate parts of you, Mihawk sets a grueling pace, heady slaps of skin on skin and his thick cock dragging along your walls. He’s working towards a goal, purposeful, kissing the back of your neck as he seeks release.

Your hands slide down the granulated wall, gritty brick digging into soft skin. Your nipples are puffy against the same treatment, tender breasts singing with pain. 

“Should’ve,” he inhales with a deep groan, distracted by the suck of your cunt, “known you were such a slut, should’ve made you beg for me sooner.”

You moan his name repeatedly, begging him not to stop, all hot whispers into night air. One hand dips around your body, deft fingers smearing over your clit. Orgasm quickly begins to bloom over your senses, making your toes curl and your back arch against him.

You stare at the ground as Mihawk continues to pump inside you, helplessly whining as he chases his high. You’re fine tuned to every thrust, the way he angles, enough to notice the little inconsistencies. A more shallow plunge, a longer pull of your walls along his shaft before his balls meet your ass. 

A hand latches to your throat, lifts your head and forces you back against him. He sucks at your neck, teeth nipping harder than his blade ever touched your skin. His cock swells at the new angle, pressing apart your gummy walls. Over and over he thrusts up into you, slick squelching from the intrusion, dripping down his balls. 

Mihawk fucks you through the gap he cut into your pants, seams now tearing down your thighs. 

“This how you want me to turn you in? Fucked open and dripping like a whore?”

Before you can register the movements, Mihawk unsheathes the knife that hangs from his neck, pressing it to the column of your throat. 

The soft scratch of his beard meets your cheek as the cold metal of the knife skates up your sweating skin. 

“Perhaps I can make you even more messy, hm? Since you get off on this shit.”

Your heartbeat pounds in your neck as you try to tilt away from the blade. Yet some part of you wants to press closer, feel the sharp edge dig into your vulnerable throat. Mihawk’s thumb pets the steel, purposefully keeping it steady as he grinds into your cunt.

“Fuck, fuck!” you choke down a whine.

“Worried? I could slice you open now— your bounty is dead or alive.” 

The realization of the true danger makes you weak, hands slipping down the wall. He could. He might. It would make it so much easier. Fuck you, gut you, take the prize. 

“P-please, don’t. Please. I’ll go with you, you can do whatever you want.”

Mihawk hums in a twisted pleasure, the sound snaking down your spine. The knife blade twists against your skin, tugging you closer to him. 

“Let me feel this slutty cunt cum, then I’ll decide.” 

A war breaks open in your mind, a battle between fear and ecstasy, swirling together into a messy battlefield that leaves you in a state of limbo. Neither side can win, not when you want both so badly. The fear makes you sweat, the bliss makes your pussy cream around the fat cock that keeps invading your insides. 

You’re overwhelmed, panting and whimpering as your former master uses his power and strength to control you in ways you never thought possible. 

The curved, sharp edge of the knife slides down your throat, resting at the base as Mihawk drives his hips harder, jostling you closer and closer to danger. 

And the danger is the spark in your belly, igniting the churning coil of shameful bliss that makes you want to sob. The fingers on your clit pick up pace, rubbing fast and mean until you feel too hot. 

“Oh god, please, please, I wanna cum, wanna cum so bad for you,” you grit your teeth as you focus on the blinding pleasure, chasing it up the cliff’s edge. 

“Do it,” Mihawk groans as he licks up your cheek, arching the blade at the base of your throat, “cum for me, sweetheart.” 

He holds the knife tightly to your neck as you come undone, the metal warm from your body. Your moan vibrates against the steel, sharp edge scraping until it hurts. The pain bleeds into pleasure, a wicked mixture that makes your adrenaline filled nerves explode with your orgasm. You feel like you’ve been smashed into by a tidal wave, a rush of emotions and bliss toiling over another in the current. 

You babble against the blade, nonsense and pleas. Mihawk follows your flow, pausing his thrusts as your cunt sucks around him. His fingers against your clit go soft, gentle swirls as you wind down from your high. 

“Shhh, I’ve got you, yeah,” he hums with delight as his cock begins to pulse and spurt, pearly strings dripping from where he’s plugged inside your pussy. The mess sprays into your ruined clothes, drools down your thighs.

Mihawk drags the knife over your throat, languid, smearing against the wetness of sweat. He traces the column of your neck, letting you feel the flat of the blade stinging over your skin. 

“You did good, sweetheart, so good.” 

After the knife is sheathed around his neck, he leans forward to trail kisses over your throat, tongue laving over the sore skin rubbed raw from the edge of his blade. 

Your heart is racing, pussy still tight with fear as he pulls his shaft from your swollen walls. 

Mihawk pulls you from the bricks and into his arms, petting your hair as your face tucks into his chest. 

“You feeling alright?” A kiss to your forehead makes you coo, nails digging into him.

“Yeah. Yeah,” you clear your throat, “I’m okay. Guess I’m going with you now.” 

A rare laugh rumbles in his chest. Smooth and soft, like a cat purring to soothe. 

“Yes, you are. But we’re going home. You clearly need more training, after all.” 

You still feel a little numb, arousal and adrenaline still buzzing down your veins. Mihawk brushes his thumbs over your cheeks, down your back, then steps away to pull his coat from his shoulders to wrap around yours. 

“And now I have much more…creative ideas for teaching you how to wield a sword.”

[100vern]

the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, “Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you’ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. <3

[omgidklolwtf]

Your First Kiss with Caleb

Content: first kiss, confession of love, romantic picnic

Your phone begins vibrating in the back pocket of your pants. You glance to see who it is as a picture of a red apple flashes across the screen. Caleb is calling. Your heart leaps into your throat. It’s been 3 days since you’ve heard his voice due to him being cut off from any cell service in the deepspace tunnel. You clear your throat to calm the excitement before answering. “Caleb you dummy, about time!” You hear his soft chuckle that makes the corner of your mouth curl up in a smile. “Hey pipsqueak. I just got back and saw your text. Take this test to see how allergic you are to romance…sooo, why did you send this to me?” He asks in a mocking tone. “Did you take it yet? Tell me your results, I want to know how unromantic you are.” He scoffs. “I don’t think I did anything recently that would count, though…” You are quick to remind him of the time he left the tangerine you gifted him on top of a scented candle. The one with a hand painted red panda face. He begins laughing, “did you smell burnt tangerine?” Come to think of it, you didn’t. “Well…no.” Caleb pauses before saying, “then aren’t you jumping to conclusions? It was a temporary head for the candle, otherwise it’d look creepy.” That explanation makes sense now that you’re thinking of it. A floating panda head is not all that cute in reality. “I didn’t think about that when I made it. I was focused on making sure it looked cute. Okay, a tangerine red panda doesn’t sound too bad. It’s a little romantic, even.” Though you can’t see his face, you can tell by his tone he’s making the face that has you coming unglued the second you see it. A raised eyebrow, that obnoxiously sexy twinkle in his violet eyes, and a smirk that makes you weak in the knees. “So, " he questions, "do you wanna follow up on whether or not I’m allergic to romance?” You respond with a long “hmmm” to pretend to be assessing his earlier answer. “Your result is…you passed.” He chuckles low before returning your “hmmm” as he says “I wonder if I’ll get the overwhelming romantic result one day?” Just as he says that you hear an alarm sounding in the background. Caleb has to clear the flight line so your goodbyes are rushed. “Gotta go Pipsqueak. I’m off soon. Since you’re off tomorrow why don’t you head to Skyhaven? I’ll cook you dinner and we can finish that model airplane we started.” Before you can respond the phone disconnects. You text Caleb a huggie apple emoji before placing your phone into the back of your jeans and packing up your stuff. You’re off the clock in 5 mins so the association won’t mind if you sneak out early.

You rush to the station but learn the next shuttle to Skyhaven doesn’t depart until 7pm. Since you have 2 hours to kill you decide to freshen up in the station bathroom. Good thing you did because after seeing your reflection for the first time in 8 hours you realize you look a mess. You comb through your hair, brush your teeth, and reapply your lip and cheek stain in the shade apple soda, Caleb’s favorite type. The first time Caleb saw you wearing it he pretended to bite your cheek like an apple. You swatted him away, calling him an idiot. Ever since then, you wear it every single time you see him. Even though the trip from Linkon to Skyhaven is relatively quick, the time drags. Once your feet touch the platform in Skyhaven, you begin heading to the road, looking for the uber you called from the shuttle. To your surprise, Caleb is leaning against the side of his car, his posture relaxed, hands resting in his pockets, one combat boot crossed at the ankles over the other and head tilted to the side with that damn smirk watching you cross the platform. He is still dressed in his flight uniform, aviator sunglasses at the tip of his nose so he can peer at you from above the lenses. You run the rest of the way and jump into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Caleb!” He catches you, squeezing tight as he chuckles against your cheek, “hey Pipsqueak.” You squeeze him in return before letting go enough to lean back and look into his eyes. “How did you know I was here?” He shrugs casually before releasing you the rest of the way and reaching for your bag. “I had a hunch.” He effortlessly grabs your bag with one hand, tossing it into the backseat of his sports car and opening the door for you with his other hand. “Let’s go home.” You snatch the aviators off his face and put them on as you slide into the front seat. He rolls his eyes at you but doesn’t hide the grin that spreads across his face. You know he secretly loves seeing you wear his things. His basketball t-shirt, his jacket, even his old farspace fleet uniform.

When you arrive at Caleb’s house, the summer sun is finally setting. The view from Skyhaven is actually breathtaking. Caleb notices your admiring gaze and moves quietly to your side, his hand going to the small of your back. “Pretty huh?” You nod in agreement and glance up at him. You notice however his gaze is on you rather than the sunset. You feel heat spread across the bridge of your nose before elbowing him in the side. “Caleb you dummy.” You begin walking towards his door so he can't see how flustered his comments make you. You press your thumb to the lock pad, knowing Caleb registered your fingerprints to his door so only you can enter his house. Caleb catches up to you in two long strides and instructs you to go wash up for dinner while he disappears into the kitchen. His house smells divine, and you can tell he’s made your favorite and his specialty, braised chicken wings. Along with kimchi rice, cucumber salad and lemon ginger curd for dessert. “Wow it smells delicious!” You say as you enter the living room. “All your favorites” he replies. Caleb has two plates in hand as he heads for the door to his balcony. “Does this earn romance points?” You follow him, about to retort how you plan to taste it first when suddenly your breath hitches in your throat. Caleb set up a picnic outside, with candles, blankets, plushies and pillows. The view from his balcony is a front row seat to the sunset you were admiring earlier. You watch him set the plates down before he gestures for you to sit. “Dinner and a view m’lady.” He makes a half bow towards you, grinning from beneath the fringe of his tousled brown hair. You tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear and take a seat on the squishy mound of pillows. Your earlier conversation replays in your head and you can’t help but feel a little foolish for trying to provoke Caleb. Was he doing all of this because he wanted to or because he was settling a score?

The two of you eat and talk without pause. This is the one person on earth you could never get sick of spending time with. The solar string lights above click on and a chilly breeze makes you shiver. “Are you cold?” Caleb asks as he reaches for an extra blanket. He moves as if he’s going to wrap it around you but you stand before he can. “It’s getting late. Thanks for dinner it was as good as I remember.” As you turn to head inside Caleb grabs you by the wrist and turns you to face him. “You can’t leave without the Colonel’s permission” he says as he brings your hand to his mouth, placing a gentle kiss atop it. “Caleb what are you doing?” He responds in a lowered tone, “looking at you, duh.” His gentle smile makes your heart race, and your hand feels small in his grip. You default to sarcasm, convinced you will just play this off as pretend like you always have. Every time the boundaries blurred or one of you came close to crossing a line you both would back down and call it a joke. Never allowing things to go farther. Even though you always wanted to back then. Even though you want to right now. This time though, neither of you moves to break the hold. “Ok Caleb you win, you’re very romantic. Your future girlfriend will be very impressed.” He moves to take a step closer to you, the air suddenly becoming thin. “I won’t get a girlfriend.” You can’t help but laugh, knowing full well all the girls in Skyhaven have been bidding for Caleb’s attention since he arrived. “Please, I’ve seen the way these girls trip all over themselves when you’re around. You could have any one of them.” Caleb moves another step forward, which forces you to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact with him.

His violet gaze burns a hole through you, the attention suddenly makes you self-conscious. You begin to lower your gaze when he hooks your chin with his finger, forcing your eyes to meet his once more. “You don’t normally let me win this easily pipsqueak.” He’s not wrong, you rarely back down first. You decide to see how far you can push him. “Kiss me then.” This is not the first time you’ve taunted him with the request, but it is the first time he hasn’t immediately scoffed and backed away in defeat. Instead he raises his left hand to cup your cheek. He leans down, his gaze ping ponging between your eyes and your mouth. He’s hovering just above your lips, holding himself in place and giving you the option to decide to kiss him or move away. You’ve wanted to kiss Caleb for as long as you can remember. You’ve wanted to do everything with Caleb. You raise onto the balls of your feet, bringing your mouth the rest of the way to meet his. The kiss is feather-light. You get the sense he is restraining himself, and just like the romantic dinner, perhaps he needs some gentle coaxing. Assurance this sort of attention is wanted, invited. You whisper his name onto his lips, “Caleb,” before wrapping your arms around his neck, and tugging him towards you. A gentle plea for more. You slightly part your mouth, taking his lower lip between yours and gliding your tongue along it. This was all the encouragement he needed. Caleb moves then, crushing his chest flush against you, his arms caging you in his hold. He tilts his head, angling it so he can deepen the kiss, sweeping his tongue into your mouth and claiming it in the most intoxicating kiss you’ve ever experienced. You instantly become molten in his arms, your knees feeling weak as he kisses you again and again. The contact with his body sends electricity shooting from your head to your toes. If you hadn’t already been in love with Caleb, this kiss would make even the dead come alive. Which is exactly how you feel kissing him under the July moon on his balcony. Reborn. You let out a soft whimper, the pleasure overwhelming you. And Caleb groans at the sound, walking you backwards until he is pressing you against the wall. His hand around the back of your head, cushioning you from hitting your head as he does so. He breaks the kiss and looks at you, pupils flaring with desire. He is panting as his brings his forehead to yours, assessing if you’re alright. If it was too much. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” His eyes search yours, a hint of worry flashes in his expression. “Y-you didn’t. I’m fine. That was perfect. You’re perfect.” Caleb tenses slightly at that but doesn’t move away.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admits and the doubt you felt earlier was extinguished. Love and reassurance and longing bloom even further in your chest at his words. A part of you always hoped but never dared imagine it possible that Caleb could have feelings for you. It has long been your impression that Caleb viewed you as a pseudo-sibling. The annoying little sister-like tagalong who always wanted to be wherever he was. But you have admired and loved Caleb since that first day he came to live with you and Gran. When he declared he would always protect you. “Really? Why?” you ask with a teasing tone. However Caleb does not echo your tone. Instead his reply is tender, “maybe it’s because I love you a little more than you realize.” His confession knocks the wind out of you. You feel the swell of emotion rising like a tidal wave, ready to unleash itself. How many times had you wanted to tell Caleb the exact thing he just confessed? How many times did you cuss yourself after the explosion happened and you thought he died. And your opportunity to tell him your true feelings died along with him. You would not make that same mistake again. “I love you too,” you whisper into the night air. Caleb is frozen like a statue, as if he stopped breathing on the spot. “Say that again.” A command not a question. “I love you Caleb.” His arms tightening around your waist. “Again,” he says. Your heart thunders in your chest. “I’m in love with you.” You barely get out the last word before his mouth is colliding with yours again. He lifts you off the ground, arms holding you firmly as your legs wrap around his waist. Your first kiss with Caleb and a confession of love under a canopy of twinkle lights is about the most romantic thing you could imagine. Damn it. You chuckle at the intrusive thought, smiling against his mouth. "What?" He asks with a smirk, "yep I'm winning that romance title" somehow knowing exactly what you were thinking. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear before setting you down on your feet. He kisses your forehead, cheek, nose, and lips gently. “There’s no pressure. I want whatever you’re willing to give me. And whatever you want is what I’ll offer to you. Whether it’s my unique scent, a uniform filled with memories, or the authority to command me.”

[komoboko]

𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫

ft: Giyu tomioka and Muichiro Tokito ・mui implied platonic but can be read as romantic

I never wrote for giyu so I hope this is alright ! Also this was just a ramble about them and their hair mmnmjmjn

# giyu !! ☆

While GIYU can’t say he doesn’t know how to do his hair, the boy just doesn’t know how to do it properly. After Sabito and Makomo’s death he stopped putting real time into himself. He’ll do the bare minimum to get himself through the day. In his opinion it’s just “the thought that counts” even though you both know not much thought goes into it at all.

It isn’t until you drag him into your bathroom to actually take care of his hair that it comes back into the picture. He’s heard from Mitsuri and whisper of other female slayers about the pain of dealing with “a disaster of a bad hair day.” Tomioka can only give you a look as if it was a silent apology that you were going to have to deal with his “disaster” when it came to the glob of hair on his head.

Giyu shifts in his chair as his eyes stay focused onto the ground. He can hear how you search for different supplies, different brushes and combs that would fit his hair. His mind reminisces on the whispers he heard from girls gossiping about their own experiences as now the guilt sets in.

“..I’m sorry”

Your eyes turn towards the male who seemed to stay perfectly still in the chair you dragged him to. “Giyu? Did you say something?” You ask the black haired male.

He hesitates for a moment before slowly shaking his head. His body still facing away from you as the only thing moving was his head. “I said.. thank you.” You can only shrug off the doubt that clouded his voice.

Much to his surprise, the feeling of his hair being properly washed is something he wouldn’t imagine he expected to like so much. He couldn’t tell if it was the actually feeling of cleansing his hair, or if It was your fingers that glided and ran through his hair with so much patience. His shoulders slouched as the tense feeling in his body was no longer presence. A sigh would escape his lips as his eyes slowly closed embracing himself in the comfort fully.

While you may of only done this once, it’s a moment that quickly jumps to Tomioka’s favorites. The moment brought a feeling of so much intimacy that he wasn’t expecting. For a moment he felt like he could breathe, the burdens of his comrades who have long pasted on, the burdens of serving as a hashira, the burdens of life for a moment fell from his shoulders. The moment was just between the two of you an everlasting peace that lasted for such a short time but felt so long. Something he needed much more than he can express.

It won’t be a surprise when he sheepishly comes back to you after you both finished your mission for the day. Mumbling something about “the demons put up a decent fight. Unfortunately it messed my hair up greatly. Would you mind.. helping me fix it.” You can’t help but give a cheesy smile before bringing him back to the bathroom where it all started.

# Muichiro !! ☆

Poor poor Gyomei who unknowingly got roped into helping MUICHIRO learn how to do almost a boy thing properly while he attempts to regain his memories. While Gyomei shouldn’t be underestimated for his teaching skills as he trained Muichiro “back into a boy” as he puts it. Once it came to tackling his hair, is the line Gyomei wouldn’t cross.

You’ve heard rumors about his hair. That it was “more tangled than one could imagine” or, “so natty that it was unfixable.” You’ve never believed them of course but you couldn’t help but be curious about them. You only stared back at the boys hair while you could expect he was staring off into space like usual.

Like you expected, the rumors were false. What surprised you were how far off they really were. The comb ran through his hair, while you did encounter other issues with it, it was way easier than you imagined.

Moving the comb through Muichiro’s hair, you can only admire how much smoother it was compared to all the small rumors spread across the corps. You couldn’t help but wonder why his hair smelled so strange, not that it was bad but oddly familiar.

“What do you use for your hair mui?” you mutter. Silence falls upon the room for a moment until Muichiro collects himself as he snaps out of his thoughts.

“Mitsuri showed me how she does her own hair, so I use the same products as her.” he replies softly.

Oh, so that explains the smell. Your face goes blank for a moment before a soft chuckle escapes your lips at the new found information. You open your eyes once more to see Muichiro face properly in the mirror, a small smile creeping up onto his lips.

Muichiro secretly like when you style his hair. He doesn’t voice his opinion directly but you can tell by his actions and expressions he likes it. His favorite style is anything that includes something half up and half down. He thinks it makes him look cool. Though he still very open to try anything as long as your styling his hair.

He tends to drift back towards you whenever he feels the need to get his hair done. He’ll shuffle towards your direction with a comb or another style in his mind for his hair. While he think he just enjoys getting his hair done, Muichiro just enjoys having some peace for a moment and spending time around you.

[e1ectricwords]

Ceramic Shards

Nalu Modern AU Word Count: 2515 Angst, relationship issues, established relationship

They were at it again.

Raised voices, adrenaline rushing through their veins, exasperated sighs. One simple sentence, laced with a sneer, pierced its way into Natsu. It added to the multitude of needles nestled within his head and heart and ignited his temper. He had taken each one with a pinch of salt. He had tried to do better. Sure, he forgot things, but they were little things. Why did Lucy care so much? 

“Forget where the laundry hamper is again?” Was the singular question Lucy asked him. She was tired, having worked a long day to return home and find dirty socks and other laundry a few inches away from the hamper itself. She was tired of picking up after him, of always silently cleaning up messes and spills. She was so tired. To Lucy, her conversations to broach the topic never worked. He would change for two days, forget, and then revert back to how he was. It’s not like she didn’t love him. Lucy still loved Natsu with all her heart, but she was tired. 

Lucy found herself sweeping up after him most days. It wasn’t weaponised, it wasn’t deliberate, but she felt herself doing more on the daily. With each comment she made, the more he felt under a target. At first it was fine; closing cupboard doors, picking up laundry, planning dinner. Then it became more; not being told when shampoo or dish soap was finished and realising halfway through the task she needed them for, empty cartons of milk going back into the fridge, even more laundry to pick up. It was just a certain phase in their relationship, is what Lucy had told herself after having a long conversation with Levy regarding everything. One of her closest friends, Levy also dealt with similar things, but at least Gajeel still cooked regularly. Lucy knew that Natsu still cared; he was big on random gestures and to his testament he had never missed a birthday or an anniversary, but the daily life and chores were driving her insane. They had moved in together a little under a year ago, after deciding it was the best and next step forward for their relationship. The first few months, Lucy was still riding that high of a new place to decorate and to flourish in, but as the days dragged on she often found herself questioning why she worked so hard to clean the place if the one person she loved most in the world didn’t seem to care for it. 

“Shit, Lucy. It’s just a sock. What’s the big deal?” Natsu hissed from his seat on the couch. Anger didn’t suit him. It twisted his temperament into something ugly and foreign to him. He hated how it made him feel, and worse it made him hate how she looked at him. 

“What’s the big deal?” She repeated back to him, as if the repetition would make him finally understand. She stood in the doorway to the living room, eyes dull with exhaustion, voice tight and sharp. “I’m always doing it.” Her voice cracked slightly, frustration seeping into the air, “you’ve been home all day, Natsu. Have you done anything for the house?”

He shrugged lightly without much thought. “It’s my day off, Lucy, I’m allowed to enjoy it.”

The frown re-formed on her face, lips drawing into a thin line. “I’m not saying you can’t enjoy it, but how many days off have I had where I can do nothing? I always do things for the house on my day off.” Her shoulders sagged, skin dull. She hadn’t had much time to herself lately at all.

“I just forgot! It’s not always on my mind, and a pair of socks just is a pair of socks. It’s not a big deal.” His words spilled out. Fast. Defensive. 

Lucy found herself growing more frustrated by the second. It was as if she was yelling into a hurricane; loud, desperate, and futile. A deep pit formed in her stomach. It wasn’t about the socks, not really. “I’m always tired. I don’t want to keep bringing this up.”

“Then don’t-” He interrupted, a harsh blunt edge to his voice. He stood abruptly from the couch, crossing the room to the opposite end away from Lucy, putting as much distance between them as possible.

“Natsu!” Lucy yelled after him, but he was already shoving open the door to the kitchen, ready to flee the conversation instead of resolve it. 

The door slammed with such a force that it caused the house to shake and rumble. A vase on a nearby shelf trembled. The delicate ceramic wobbled closer to the edge with each passing second.

Lucy watched it, breath caught in her throat. 

It teetered. 

Then it fell.

She didn’t flinch or even react.

Just one more thing to clean. 

Red ceramic shards spilt over the wooden floor, skidding to the far corners and dusting the floor with danger. Lucy choked back the sob that violently clawed its way up her throat. She stepped forward hesitantly and slowly knelt beside the mess. Her knees pressed into the cold hardwood. With trembling fingers she reached for the broken pieces. 

It wasn’t just a vase.

It had been one of their first purchases together - not even for this home, but for her old apartment. It had caught her eye first, but she hesitated on the purchase. It was Natsu who squeezed her hand, grinned, pointed, and insisted on getting it. A medium sized red heart. Awkwardly realistic in shape, and comically out of place of their other decor in either place. It had found itself on the shelf, looking down at them, watching them grow and change. It wasn’t just some strange decoration either. At the very top of the vase was a single narrow slit, just wide enough to slip paper notes into and never get back out - unless the vase was broken of course. 

Now it lay in pieces.

She stared at it for a few moments. The shattered heart on the floor, pieces scattered about the place, paper covered in ceramic dusting. She never imagined her perfect relationship to turn out like this, not with the one person she loved more than anything. Her shoulders shook as the first tears streamed down her face. Why now did it feel so disjointed when it never used to before? Sniffing, Lucy started to move the pieces to one side. Her hand brushed against one of the folded bits of paper. She paused, breath hitched. She gingerly reached for it, grasping it between her fingers and carefully unfolding it as if it was another thing to crumble and break:

‘Your hair reminds me of the sun :D’ 

Their love still lingered in things past. Something raw cracked in her, forming a weird and disjointed noise - half sob, half laugh. Despite wiping her face with the back of her hand, the tears kept flowing. They doused the paper, almost ruining it in her hands. She remembered where that note came from. He had told her on one of their very first dates - a small picnic enjoyed in the park. Lucy had planned it meticulously, staying up the night before to pour all of her heart into making sandwiches and cakes. She folded the paper back over its original creases and put it to the side, away from the shards.

Each note begging to be remembered, she caved to the pressure, and reached for another:

‘You make cute sounds when you sleep.’

That one she had written about him. Natsu would often twitch in his sleep, letting out soft grunts and strange little chirps. When Happy would join him in bed, the two would create a curious little duo - as if they were trying to talk to each other in their sleep. A melancholy smile spread across her face. The deep pit remained in her stomach, but the memories curled around it, trying to offer warmth and solace but creating only a painful tightness. She reached for another, a longer one this time:

‘You made this place somewhere worth coming back to. I’ve never cared much for homes, but I think home is a person and you are it.’

She read it again, and again, eyes running over his scratchy writing. The pen clearly stopped working halfway through, evident through the faint ink and the scribbled markings in the very top corner, desperate to get it to work again. It was so very Natsu. She knew he cared, that was the annoying truth. Lucy let out a sigh, tangled between a sob. Clutching the paper in her hand, she dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to stem the flood of tears.

“Hey,” a soft voice carried, sliding around her like a warm hug. Lucy looked up. Natsu softly closed the kitchen door behind him, making his way over to where Lucy was on the floor. “Did I do that? Is that why you’re sad?” He knelt down, not caring about the wood against his knees. “Did you cut yourself?”

Lucy gave a half laugh and sniffed. It wasn’t graceful, and she certainly didn’t feel pretty. She felt exhausted and so low. Natsu pinched her nose with two fingers, almost clearing it despite how gross it may have been. “You idiot,” she huffed slightly. “It fell but I’m not sad about it.” She handed him the paper she had already found, and he started to read, small smiles and smirks coming to him as he read the words of his own poor handwriting. 

“Oh, I remember this,” he spoke slowly. “What did the lady say? The one who sold it to us?”

Lucy hardly remembered the lady who had sold it to them, but his voice triggered something. “Oh! It was…smash it when loving each other is hard. Or something.”

Natsu picked up a new piece. “Is loving each other hard?” The question came out with ease, he didn’t feel a need to censor himself in what he wanted to ask. He unfolded it to read the contents, “you like the drawings I do on the whiteboard?”

“It’s not hard to love you,” Lucy spoke. “If I’m honest it can be trying, but it’s not hard.” She nodded and moved some of the shards that lay between them. “And yeah, I’d go looking for the new drawings after work.”

“I think I feel the same way. It isn’t hard to love you…” he went silent, as if he hated himself for talking, “I just think sometimes I can’t make you happy. Like everything is always wrong.”

She lay a hand on his leg. He reached over to brush the tear off her cheek, leaving a wet smudge in its wake. “You do make me happy. I get annoyed at the little things because if I don’t do them then it won’t get done. Sometimes I just wanna be lazy too.”

Natsu nodded. “If I'm honest sometimes I just don’t do it because I feel like I’ll piss you off either way.”

“I’d rather you try or do tasks with me then don’t try at all,” Lucy spoke softly. The deep pit in her stomach lifted slightly. They were finally talking. 

“And I do wanna spend my life with you, Lucy.” Hands continued to move, pushing the shards into the pile and collecting pieces of paper. “I wanna do better, I just don’t wanna feel under attack all the time.” 

Lucy felt a sharp rise in her throat of harsh words. She fought them back down. They were being open and honest, she didn’t want to jeopardise that feeling if he was finally opening up. And this wasn’t a time to argue. “I don’t want you to feel that way,” she spoke. “I just need you to also view it from my perspective. We both work long hours, sometimes I work more than you, sometimes you work more than me. But it’s always me cooking-”

“Hey, I do cook,” Natsu interjected.

She let out a laugh, “processed noodle packets, Natsu. It’s not what I do. And then I am always cleaning, always picking up dirty laundry.”

Natsu let her words sink in. He nodded. “I think I get it.” His eyes locked onto hers, glassy with tears that threatened to spill, clinging to his lashes. “I’m sorry.” 

The genuine apology rushed through her, allowing her to breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry too, Natsu.”

His hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing over her soft peach-fuzz skin. “You don’t need to be sorry, but thank you.” She leaned into his warm touch, anchoring herself to the feel of his skin against hers. “Dad used to tell me that love was a choice, and I choose you everyday. I just need to make better decisions.”

Lucy laughed at his comment, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. He gently hushed her, wiping away the fresh tears and leaning closer. In one swift movement, careful of the shards still on the floor, he moved to sit behind her. Spreading his legs either side of her body, Natsu pulled Lucy in close, her back towards his chest. His warmth settled around her like a shield. One arm wrapped around her waist, lazily tracing patterns on her waist through the fabric of her shirt, the other grabbed a handful of paper. “Read them.” 

She took the pile from his hand, resting them in front of her. Unfurling one, she laughed to herself. That’s all he ever wanted - to see smile, hear her laugh. He hated seeing her cry. She began to read, “you have never let me down.” She wrote that one. Natsu felt himself stiffen slightly, their conversation a few seconds prior definitely didn’t embody that statement. “It’s true though,” Lucy continued, sensing the doubt in his silence. “I mean you never have. You were there when my dad died, you were there when we buried him. You helped carry his coffin. You’ve always been my rock.”

He lent his forehead against the back of her shoulder and sighed deeply. She took that as a sign to continue. 

“You are yourself.” Lucy read aloud.

“You are,” Natsu confirmed. “Never met anyone so unafraid of being themselves.” He moved his head back up, chin resting on her shoulder. She leaned back into him. “I love you, Lucy.”

“I love you too.” They let a comfortable silence wash over them for a moment. “We should clean this up.”

“Yeah. Happy might hurt himself.”

They pushed themselves up from the floor, padding carefully around the smash radius. “Don’t want that happening,” Lucy agreed, grabbing a dustpan and brush. Natsu promptly took it from her hands to take over. Instead of resisting, or even making a big fuss, Lucy let herself smile at the over-exaggeration of his actions. With a final sigh of relief, shedding off all of the weight she had unnecessarily carried, she spoke. “I need some wine.”

“I’ll promptly uncork that for you later milady,” Natsu smirked. “Go lay down.”

If you liked this, check out the Masterlist

[rainbow-rey]

Shameless - chap. 1

Sukuna x Reader - MDNI!!

Summary: You didn't expect to end up under that guy you met on your weekend getaway, but you're glad you did.

Tags: reader-insert, pov second person, p in v, creamp/e, size k/nk, c/nnilingus

Posted on ao3 as a longfic

It’s at a hockey game that you first meet Sukuna Ryoumen. 

Minnesota Wild versus Seattle Kraken. You’re a Seattle fan through and through, and you were lucky enough to be visiting your friend in the East the very weekend your favourite team was playing there. You bought tickets as soon as you realized the dates lined up. 

Fast forward two weeks, and here you are. You’re donning your navy blue jersey, the one you got at your first Seattle game. Your friends, Shoko and Utahime, are getting seated to your left. 

On your right is an adorable pink-haired little kid, probably around six or seven. He turns to say something to the guy next to him—possibly the most attractive man you’ve ever seen in your life. 

He’s big. Like, at least twice your size, if not triple. His arms are crossed, and the flexed muscles show through his sweater—a deep green one. It matches the Minnesota hat he wears on top of his hair, the same shade of pink as the kid’s. He’s got interesting tattoos on his face. 

Despite him being the enemy, you can’t stop your eyes from dragging up and down his body. He looks like he’s never smiled a day in his life, but when the kid taps his shoulder to talk to him, his face lights up. He answers with enthusiasm, and says something to make the little boy start giggling. Hot and good with kids? They don’t make them like this anymore. 

You might be drooling, but luckily you’re saved when Shoko nudges you to wake you from your trance. “Whoa, dude. You were totally staring at that guy.”

“I was justified, though. Look at him!” You discreetly side-eye the mysterious man to your right. “Hot hockey dad? Sign me up!”

“He’s a Minnesota fan. Might as well give up now. What’re you gonna do when you drive back on Monday?” Shoko has a good point—but what’s the harm in a little hallway crush?

“He also might be married, if he’s got a kid,” says Utahime, taking a bite out of a comically large pretzel.

“I’ll check for a wedding band. D’you think I could find a way to talk to him?” You look over to see the man tickle the boy, making him erupt into contagious little-kid giggles. 

Shoko sighs. “You’re something special, man. No, I don’t know how you’re gonna seduce a married father.”

“Not seduce, and potentially not married, either. God forbid I have a little hope, Sho.”

“I think that what Shoko is saying is to set your expectations very low,” Utahime tells you, very wisely. “If you talk, you talk, and if you don’t, you don’t. It’ll be weird if you try to force anything.”

Shoko nods in agreement. “Also, if you humiliate the shit out of yourself in front of him, we don’t know you.”

“Never seen you in our lives.” Utahime nibbles at her pretzel again. 

“Thanks, guys. I love hearing how much you appreciate and value my company.” 

“Knock ‘em dead, bro.” 

The first goal is scored, and you cheer with the other Seattle fans. Hot Dad’s son stands up, too, jumping with you. 

“Wrong team, Yuji,” he says. “We like the green ones.”

“Aww..” The boy—Yuji—pouts. “Why can’t I cheer for the blue ones?” 

“Because that’s not our team. You live here, Yuji. Don’t you wanna support people from your own state?”

“Yeah, but you live in Seattle. Why don’t you like your city?”

He lives in Seattle?! And Yuji doesn’t live with him… Maybe he’s only an uncle?

“I do like my city, but I used to live here. I grew up with this team. I’m only in Seattle so I can go to school.”

He’s in university—you wonder if you’ll see him around? Probably not. Hot Uncle will most likely stay in your fantasies.

The game finishes before you know it. Nothing interesting happens—other than Seattle winning—for the rest of the weekend. Soon, it’s time for you to go back to your city and start the new school year. 

Your first week is uneventful; it’s your second year, so you don’t need to go to all the networking events you forced yourself into attending last year. It’s just straight into lessons. 

You heard about a few different parties, but you’d rather be there with at least a few people you know, and none of your friends were interested. Satoru mentioned that he wanted to host one, so you’d go to his, but that’s about it. This year, you’re mostly focused on your grades. 

Well, that’s what you thought. All your ambitions fly out the window when a familiar tattooed face sits down next to you in your Sociology lesson. 

“This might sound crazy,” he whispers. “But were you at a hockey game last weekend?”

Holy shit. He recognizes you?

“Uh, yeah. In Minnesota, right? I think we were sitting next to each other?”

“Mhm. I was with my brother, Yuji. I knew you looked familiar. Glad to know I’m not crazy.”

You chuckle. “If it wasn’t you, I’d be a little confused. Not many pink-haired powerlifters around here.”

He laughs. “Thanks—Oh, I can’t believe I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Sukuna Ryoumen.”

You tell him your name as well. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but is cut off by your professor beginning his lecture. 

“Let’s talk later,” he mouths to you. You nod and smile to yourself.

About 30 minutes after your lecture, you have this strange feeling that you’re being followed. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice calls behind you. You were right. The speaker quickens his pace to reach you. “What’s up?”

“Nice to see you again! I don’t have much going on, just heading to the library. You?”

Sukuna shrugs. “I’ve got a class in that direction at two. Otherwise I don’t have anything.”

“It’s one forty-five, you should probably get going. Oh, but do you have plans this evening?”

“Nah, I was just gonna watch TV or something. Why do you ask?”

“My friend Satoru is throwing a party tonight. It starts at ten, if you want to join us.”

“I’m down. Here, I’ll give you my number, so you can text me the address.” Sukuna pulls a random pen out of his pocket. He reaches for your hand and scribbles his number on it. 

You laugh, ignoring the way your hand tingles where he touched it. “I’ll text you. See you tonight, hopefully?”

“See you tonight,” he agrees.

—

“Sukuna! You made it!” You wave over the giant who’s just entered the room. He towers over most of the people—he’s even taller than Satoru, and definitely bigger overall. Sukuna has the most muscle you’ve seen on a human. Something about his physique makes you want to climb him like a tree, but that’s an inside thought. 

His gravelly voice brings you back to the present. “Yeah, I’m here. Do you know where I could get a drink?”

“Sure. Why don’t you come to the kitchen with me and I’ll grab you one?” You grab his (huge, veiny, rough, masculine) hand and drag him through the crowd. 

Once you’re in the kitchen, Sukuna takes a seat on a stool at the counter. “What can I get for you, sir?” 

He smiles and you almost collapse. But you persevere. “I’ll just get a beer, thanks.”

“Alright, then I guess I’ll have one too.” You pull two random longnecks from Satoru’s fridge . You try to look cool and open them using the counter, but of course, the caps go flying. You pick them up whilst trying to regain your dignity, ignoring Sukuna’s barely concealed snicker. “Something funny?” You ask, handing him his bottle. 

“Nothing at all.” He grins at you again, and your knees start wobbling. But again, you persevere. You skirt around the counter and take a seat next to Sukuna, taking a long swig of your drink. You gag a little—it’s been too long since you last had beer, and you forgot how much of an acquired taste it is. 

“So,” Sukuna starts. “Whose house is this again?”

“My friend Satoru. He’s, like, old money rich, so his parents got him this place when he started uni. Suguru lives with him, too. Satoru dated my friend Utahime—the one who lives in Minnesota—but they decided they were better friends. And also that they were both gay.” 

“Ah. So are Satoru and Suguru…”

“Yep. I mean, I don’t think they’re official yet, but Suguru’s been into Satoru since we were kids. And they’re definitely fucking. Haven’t seen him in his own bedroom for months.”

“Oh.”

The two of you chat while you finish your beers. Sukuna actually makes great conversation. He’s funny, too. Hot and funny? He’s gotta be stupid, or something. 

“Truth or dare!”

“Truth, I guess,” you sigh. Why did you agree to play this game in the first place? If you know one thing about your friends, it’s that they really hate seeing you comfortable. 

Satoru’s grin makes your stomach churn. “If you had to fuck someone in this circle right now, who would it be?”

You glance around. Nanami, Satoru, Suguru, Shoko, Sukuna, and two girls whose names you don’t know. You only really have one option (not that you would have chosen anyone over him anyways). Your voice cracks slightly as you answer, “Sukuna.” Your cheeks flare as you feel his eyes on you, but you don’t have it in you to feel shame. 

Two rounds later, it’s Sukuna’s turn. 

Suguru asks the highly-anticipated question. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.” His eyes are on you as he says it. You can feel them burning into your flesh. 

“I dare you to kiss the hottest person in the circle.”

Sukuna’s eyes are still glued to you as he stands up. He doesn’t avert his gaze, not as he offers you his hand and brings you to your feet. Especially not as he slides his hand behind your neck, burying itself into your hair. He only stops looking at you when he closes his eyes and lifts your mouth to his. 

It feels like everything you’ve ever dreamed of. His lips are shockingly soft, and they dance against yours so perfectly. Your mouth parts and his tongue slides in, caressing you so carefully yet so powerfully. It’s not long before you’re devouring each others’ faces. 

Satoru clears his throat. “I love that you guys are happy, but respectfully, please get a room.” 

The two of you pull apart quickly. You return to your respective seats and continue the game, but the vibe is a little different. Y’know, after you just sucked Sukuna’s tongue in front of five other people.

Nothing interesting happens for the rest of the game, other than Sukuna giving you sex eyes the whole time. As soon as you’re all finished, he steals you away from your conversation with Satoru. 

“Hey. Satoru, right?” Sukuna’s hand slips around your waist. “Nice party. Unfortunately, I’m here to steal this one away from you.“ He places a kiss on the top of your head. 

Satoru snorts. “She’s all yours. Oh, and all the rooms upstairs are fair game, just don’t get cream on my furniture.” 

You blush furiously as Sukuna laughs. “Thanks, man.” He guides you towards the stairs and into a hallway. 

“What was that?” you ask. “During the game, I mean.”

“Oh, you mean this?” He smirks, pulling your face up to meet his again. When your lips connect, you nearly decompose, melting into his touch. He’s gentler this time, more careful. One of his hands is behind your neck, threading through your hair, while the other pulls you in by your waist. You can feel his erection grow in between your bodies, and he’s big. You can’t help but imagine how it would feel—in your mouth, in your pussy…

You're breathless when you finally break away from the kiss, for multiple reasons. 

“Y-Yeah, I mean that,” you squeak out.

Sukuna pulls you into a random, empty bedroom and shuts the door behind you. 

His mouth meets yours yet again as he collapses with you on the bed. His lips pepper kisses along your neck , and he makes his way down your body. “Been wanting you since I met you,” he murmurs between pecks. “So fuckin’ small n’ delicate. Thinkin’ of you getting split apart on my fuckin’ cock.” 

You shiver at the thought of it. Sukuna’s fat dick pounding into you. His hands bruising your waist as he fucks up into your tiny cunt. You picture him pumping you full with his cum, overflowing your pussy with his seed. “Please,” you whine. “Fuck me, Sukuna, I need it. I’ve needed it for so long…” 

He nips at your collarbone. “Mm, gonna fuck you so good, baby. But first, I gotta get you all ready for me.” His hands run down your body, cupping your breasts through your shirt with a gentle squeeze. They trail down, all the way to your thighs. He flips your skirt up and massages the skin right next to your panties. He plants kisses on the insides of your legs, finishing with a quick peck of your clit through the fabric. Even the slightest sensation eases a moan out of you. 

“Don’t tease me,” you cry. “I want you, please!” 

“Wait, let me just grab a condom.” You deflate slightly as Sukuna pats down his pockets. 

You weren’t going to suggest this, but it looks like you might have to, considering Sukuna is still patting away.

“I’m clean. If, y’know. If you’re comfortable with that.”

His eyes light up, but then he frowns. “I haven’t gotten tested in a while. I couldn’t put you at risk.”

You hate how responsible he is. “And no condom?”

“Nope. I’m sorry. I wanted this as bad as you do.” He really does look disappointed, and so does his boner. “I’d still eat your pussy, though, if you let me.” 

“Fuck, please do. I want you so bad,” you sigh, thinking about your soaking pussy.

Sukuna groans. His rough hands grasp your thighs, pushing them apart, and he rubs a knuckle along the soaked fabric of your panties. Your cunt aches with need. Sukuna’s fingers leave your core, making you whine, but he makes up for it when he hooks his index into the waistband of your panties and tugs them down. Your pussy clenches when the cool air hits it. Sukuna presses close-mouthed kisses to the soft skin of your thighs, making his way towards where you need him the most. 

He parts your sopping folds with two fingers, and his tongue darts out to lick a stripe up your cunt. You cry out in pleasure.

“F-fuck… hnngh…! M-more, more!” you whimper. 

Sukuna continues lapping at your hole, while his hands take a bruising hold on your hips. You can feel yourself nearing your limit as he begins sucking at your swollen clit. You’re nearly screaming as your fingers find sanctuary in his hair, pulling at it as hard as you can. You think it can’t get any better, when Sukuna decides to push two fingers into your center. 

“Fuck! Fuck, I’m coming, I’m coming…”

You’re pushed off the edge as Sukuna starts thrusting with his fingers. Your pussy clenches, your body convulsing as he continues his assault on your cunt. Your vision goes white, the only thing you can feel being his tongue and his fingers. 

You recover from your orgasm, panting. Sukuna’s touch leaves your pussy, and you can feel your hole leaking. Sukuna collapses next to you, sucking your cum off his fingers. “You taste so fucking good, y’know that?” He grins as you blush. “Here, I’ll show you.” 

He grabs you by the waist and pulls you on top of him, then brings his lips up to yours, encasing them in a kiss. His tongue slips into your mouth, tangling itself with yours. The way his body feels pressing against yours is enough to satisfy you for a lifetime. 

[crazylittlejester]

Ngl I want Wars to fight the Venturi so bad just bc I think after all the stress building from being in Forks and around Edward specifically and from all the research and precautions he takes against vampires like

That's a lot to feel for a long time and I think he deserves the emotional release of finally having a sword shield and stake in hand and just killing a motherfucker

Or maybe Edward crosses a line and Wars just murders him. I think that would also bring catharsis from not only the stress Edward put him under but the stress and helplessness he felt when Cia did the exact same entitled/possessive shit as Edward.

Ward deserves a lil murder.

I’m actually not sure exactly HOW far into the Twilight story I’m gonna go with this. The first book/movie for SURE, and most likely some of the second. There are a few elements I HAVE to include: Jacob also being an ass (and a wolf which is revealed in the second one), Bella breaking her hand on Jacob’s face, Bella going fucking NUTS and recreationally cliff diving, etc.

SO: including the Volturi is NOT ruled out. I just don’t want this fic to be too long or feel like it’s dragging but I’d love to include them, and if I can find a reasonable way, I will

AND DON’T YOU EVEN WORRY I’M GONNA ALLOW WARS AT LEAST ONE MURDER (which will most likely be at least one of those vampire guys who kidnap Bella in the first movie). After fuckin’ everything he deserves it /j. Plus I wanna be able to explore his whole mentality/thinking process around killing things/monsters/people(?) since he’s a trained soldier and a vampire is the most human/hylian looking thing he’d have killed since having to fight for his life against traitors in the war. Like how does that affect him? How does that affect him HERE in THIS scenario, in FORKS, a world where having to kill to survive is NOT normalized? How does the knowledge that he was put in a “I don’t want to die and to not die I have to kill” situation affect him in this entirely different place where Charlie is able to sit him down and try to work through that trauma with him?

Wars has a lot of issues going INTO all this, and he’s suddenly 16 again in a world that’s unfamiliar to him. Edward and Jacob both fucking suck, Wars’s high school friends fucking suck, he’s absolutely miserable and Edward makes his skin crawl. The only person he feels he’s really got on his team is Charlie, but even Charlie doesn’t understand everything. And not just the vampires and werewolves, no one in this universe understands Cia or the War of Eras or any of it. He’s got at least one person who has his back, but he feels so alone because he feels so DIFFERENT. So yeah Wars definitely gets to go off the rails a few times, as a little treat 😭 He earned it, he gets to cause problems and witness the american mall for his mental health. He gets a cat too, also for his mental health

Genuinely I’m so excited to start sharing this fic. It’s gonna be crack, a LOT of fucking crack, but it’ll also have more interesting elements to it and I cannot WAIT to share. I’ve decided to finish writing the entire thing before I post any of it, that way I can have a predictable and reliable update schedule for it, but really I can’t wait to drop this shit out there aksnddkd

[what-gs-watching]

“I can only smile like this because I have lost so much.”

Y’aaaaaaall, how excited am I that Doctor Who is finally back?! The 60th anniversary specials got me so on board for 15, and I am really so curious about how his arc is going to play out. Nunuwho, and all that. I’m here for it, I’m ready, I desperately need the distraction. 

Obviously, last time we saw 15 he was getting into hijinx with his new companion Ruby over Christmas, and I appreciate that’s exactly where they picked up for the first episode. 

Let’s talk about it. 

Space Babies

Wherein the Doctor and Ruby end up on a space station and something is definitely wrong.

Okay so, this episode was honestly just really cute from start to finish. Babies on a space station? Running the station, rolling around in little strollers? Trying to fight the boogeyman? Fucking adorable. Was the CGI to move their mouths weird? Of course. But again, I’m totally bought into this absolutely ridiculous situation so you gotta just roll with it. It’s pretty clear that this season is going to be a lot more whimsical than they have been in the past, and that might not be some people’s thing, but oh well. I can’t drag myself away from Doctor Who, it’s become too much of me, so I really will just follow where they lead, why the eff not. 

It’s also obvious they’re gonna keep leaning into the whole Timeless Child business, and I’ll go along with that too even if I was NOT a fan of the Flux because I’m interested to see what 15 is going to make of it. He was surprisingly upfront about where he was from when Ruby was grilling him, that was something that historically had to be PULLED out of the Doctor. Telling her, “the one that was adopted was the last one left” (which, isn’t he technically the first time lord also, since they basically harnessed whatever he technically is to become time lords?) And then this man actually said the word ‘genocide’ AND  expressed his gratitude about the fact that he’d survived. Is the Doctor finally letting go of the guilt he felt over that entire absolutely insane situation? 15 really is all about that emotional growth. You love to see it. 

Bypassing the ridiculousness that is a monster made out of straight up baby BOOGERS, I also thought it was interesting that they let that creature live. I’m not sure 10 would have. But again, the whole ‘the only one of my kind’ thing. Adopting the forgotten. Saving everybody, for once. 

Basically, the whole thing was pure fluff. And I like that sometimes. Cute first official adventure. Even though I gotta say I was surprised he gave Ruby a key like, fucking immediately. 15 really is going all in on those human emotions. It’s gonna get him in trouble, gang…

The Devil’s Chord

Wherein Ruby makes a request for where she’d like to go, and they land in 1963, but again, something is definitely off.

OKAY so, here’s the thing about this episode. Asking to see The Beatles recording their first album is a DIRECT LINE to my heart. Ruby talking about listening to records with her aunt - that’s me with my dad. And it’s absolutely what I would suggest. I enjoyed that he said everyone asks about the Titanic (I would too, eventually) but this girl got her priorities right. 

And I loved how he reacted to it. Pure fucking joy, 15. And the little vignette with them getting dressed up and strutting through the fucking TARDIS, yelling “I’ve got wigs galore!” And then being so absolutely excited about landing basically on the cross walk of Abbey Road. Just, all of it. Pulling all kinds of strings for me. I can’t even. 

I can also appreciate how  they got around not being able to utilize actual Beatles music - music is dying! Music is gone! John and Paul singing about having a dog; “my dog is alive, he’s not dead … he’s not your dog, if you want a dog get your own.” I loved the surprise of it, how absolutely absurd. 

The conversations that Ruby and The Doctor have with Paul and John too…the whole episode is a love letter to music, and I love that. 15 says something like “songs that lift you and devastate you and-and make you soar…” and shit, that’s exactly what it is (I say, as I continue to cry through The Tortured Poet’s Department).

John saying “why do I wake up crying?” ugh. The whole fucking thing. As someone whose life has always revolved around music in some way or another, the thought of losing it really is mind melting. All the feels.

All that to say - the Maestro. Damn, gang. Hard fucking whimsy, I see. And what an absolute psychopath. In a creepy, good, but also terrible way. What the fuck was that? 

The point being now we know a little bit what they’re up against - because 14 played a game at the end of the universe, they apparently let gods from the Pantheon into the universe. So now we’re less about aliens, and more about forces The Doctor really shouldn’t be fucking with, but is going to anyway. Because he caused it, after all. And the devastation he had when he realized that - 15 feels so much, so hard. Gonna hit the entire emotional spectrum with this one, which is so not a Doctor thing, and I will enjoy the entire ride.

 There were so many good moments in this one - Ruby playing the piano on the roof, or when she was trussed up in musical notes and just started emitting Christmas music - and that’s the other thing, the Maestro saying “this creature is very wrong.” Girl, what are you? I love the companion backstories, I really do.

Oh AND The Doctor declaring they had to hide, at one point. My dude is realizing his limitations. 14 wondering what he was underneath all of the gadgets and the time machine really sunk in. And then him talking about how his soul was ripped in half? Jesus. Growth, growth, growth. 

Someone might as well get the emotional epiphanies I should probably be having. It counts if I watch someone else go through it, right? 

There’s too much to say about this one. I loved it, even if I did think the last musical number was almost a bridge too far. But, I’m already on this train, so I’m giving up on clinging to expectations.

Boom

Wherein the two of them land on a planet that’s clearly at war but maybe it’s not all that they think it is.

This one is definitely more classic Doctor Who - immediately they’re in danger and it just ramps and ramps and ramps the entire episode and you can never really relax. I love those. This episode is basically all stakes. 

Doctor standing on a landmine? Check. Ruby valiantly trying to help but most likely is going to make it worse but does it anyway? Yes. Post-apocalyptic “ambulances” wandering the battlefield killing people if they’re injured instead of actually helping them because an algorithm decided it? Of course. 

I feel like a lot of shows lately have been trying to lecture me about the danger of AI (I’m looking at you, Murder At The End of The World, which was so terrible I didn’t even bother writing it up) and I’ve been like ‘yeah yeah I get it jesus’ but I think they did a solid job of it in this one. Capitalism and AI together is honestly a worrying combination, and they got me with this plot.

Essentially, 15 is trapped on a landmine that immolate whomever it ensnares basically, turning him into a giant bomb  which isn’t great because as we know he’s a big ol’ space-time event and he needs to get out of it but then the daughter of a soldier we saw killed by the ambulance shows up and then another soldier coming after the kid and things just go haywire. 

The point is, AI is running everything because war has become an industry (more than it already is) and the algorithm is forcing casualties in a war that literally doesn’t exist and everything is kind of terrible but the Doctor manages to talk his way out of it sort of, by connecting to a projection about being a father and protecting their kids always and forever, no matter the form they’re in. 

It’s kind of sweet that they’re letting 15 talk more about his long, long life - in the previous episode he mentioned his granddaughter and when Ruby asked if he had kids he said something like “did have, will have” and then at the end he tells the child he’ll be back to check on them and that “fish fingers and custard” is his favorite which obviously made me squee and I just really appreciate that he’s more…integrated? It’s always felt like they worked so hard to make sure they’re all different and of course they are, but they’re all The Doctor and I want that thread of all of the things that have come before. 

Also, Ruby again with the weirdness, making it snow after she gets shot accidentally and then grabbed by the ambulance, basically dying on the ground. Girl is complicated. Gimme that backstory!

The other thing I really enjoyed was the mockery of “thoughts and prayers”. Fuck people who hide behind that. Fuck corporations that hide behind that. The Doctor’s not taking your shit, and neither should we. 

All that to say, all three of these episodes were ridiculous in their own ways, and I’m about it. So far, 15 is 1000000% his own thing and I love it even if it is fairly far off the beaten path for Doctor Who and I’m excited to see where else he’ll take us. 

Like he said, “There's hardly any time that we're not dead. Which is a good thing, too. We've got to keep the pace up.”

[anincompletelist]

[read free on patreon here!]

written for the word prompt: thunder

“Can I sleep on your floor?” 

Half-awake, Henry blinks the sleep from his eyes and squints at his new roommate, clad in a checkered pajama set and clutching a blanket tight to his chest outside of his bedroom door. 

“What?” he rasps. 

“Fuck. Sorry. I should’ve explained first,” Alex curses, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. “Look, I’m really sorry to wake you up in the middle of the night but there’s this storm that came through after we went to sleep and it’s just— I don’t— I don’t do thunder.” 

“You don’t… do thunder,” Henry repeats. Part of him is still convinced he’s dreaming. It’s the only way he’d imagined Alex would ever show up at his bedroom door in the dead of night. But during his move-in interview, Henry had admittedly pictured him less ashen and visibly trembling when it happened. 

“Like, loud noises,” Alex elaborates with a jerky shrug, talking so quickly that Henry struggles to understand him. “Usually I make arrangements but I didn’t know the rain was coming and—”

Before he can finish, another round of the storm bears down outside, a flash of lightning and then an angry, rumbling line of thunder. Alex’s eyes squeeze shut and he drops the blanket to the floor to clutch his hands over his ears instead, a stark contrast from the confident, bubbly person he’d been at dinner hours before, eager to get to know Henry over beers and his homemade Tex-Mex. 

Henry wakes up a little more at the sight of it, dropping down to scoop up the soft blanket and toss it back around Alex’s shoulders, putting a hand on his hip and pulling him through the open bedroom door. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he’s saying, over and over again as Henry leads him to the bed. “Can I sleep on your floor? I’m sorry, I—” 

“Alex,” Henry stops him. “It’s alright. You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“No, no. You can’t sleep on the floor. This is your room.” 

The sky rumbles outside and he quickly goes back on his decision, diving sideways to burrow himself beneath Henry’s duvet. David grumbles a bit at being woken up, then promptly rearranges himself right up by Alex’s snuffling nose on the pillows with a curious sniff. 

With a delirious, lopsided smile, Henry grabs the extra one and a clean blanket and heads for the rug. 

“Wait,” he hears from the pile of his sheets. He glances up at Alex’s eyes, the only thing visible from under the blanket, and raises a brow. “You can— it’s a big bed. Just— you can sleep on the other side.” 

Henry hesitates for a moment. “I— are you certain?” 

“I mean, it’s fine with me.” Alex slides both hands over his face. “Fuck. This is not how our first night as roommates was supposed to go. I’m so sorry, Henry. You probably think I’m, like, insane.” 

His smile grows a lot less lopsided and a lot more fond as he crosses back over to the bed, slipping quietly into his own side. He lays facing Alex, David nestled between them, and thinks about how nice it is to have someone around again. 

“I don’t think you’re insane.” 

“Right,” Alex huffs a shaky laugh, his eyes still wide as he blinks, but shivering lessening. “Just don’t kick me out, okay? M’not usually like this. I promise. I’m really cool.” 

Henry presses a grin into his pillow just as Alex’s fingers start lightly tracing over David’s ears in a steady back and forth, tugging him closer to his chest. 

“Either’s fine with me, I think,” he murmurs. 

“You’re always welcome in my bed too, y’know.” Henry’s eyebrows fly into his hairline as Alex rushes to correct himself, a flush spreading on his cheeks. “I mean— fuck. Holy shit I am so not playing this cool right now,” he breathes. “I just meant, like, if you ever have any weird shit that you’re scared of, I— I’m here for you too, I mean. For— for a long time, I hope.” 

Beneath the covers, Henry’s heart does an odd little flip-flop in his chest, almost like something thawing and chipping away, a new layer presenting itself underneath. He raises a hand to pet David as well, and he doesn’t move away when their fingers brush. Alex smiles softly, even as the thunder rolls quietly outside the window. 

“I’d like that very much, Alex.” 

Pez had been right, not that Henry would ever admit it to him. Finding a roommate was a very, very good idea.

[euphoricimagination]

Summary: the second day of the training camp finishes, leading to your first date with your gamer-boy. Two weeks later the official, week long training camp starts, Inarizaki finally joining you and leading to emotional and funny memories with your dear foxes.

Kenma x reader; Haikyuu x reader

Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13

From the beginning

The next day you have to wake up at around 5 am with the girls to be able to make breakfast for the teams, and around 7 am you start hearing some loud voices and a lot of shoes sounds, meaning that it was time serve breakfast. Bokuto as always is way too excited when you gave him his plate back, almost being drag by Akaashi to his table to not stop the line. When you finished serving to the boys it was time to serve yourselves.

“Ken, aren’t you hungry?” you look at his plate which still had food on it

“I’m full already” says taking your hand under the table

“Can you at least eat the omelet?”

“Did you make it?” he asks, making you nod “Fine, I’ll eat it, I like your food”

“Thanks, pretty boy. Look, I know that you have a small appetite, so I’m not going to force you to eat more if you can’t…”

“Thank you”

“But you still eat way too little, so I’ll l give you snacks throughout the day, and I’m not accepting no’s as an answer” you say getting up and kissing his forehead before going to the kitchen to wash the dishes.

At around 11:00 all teams have a collective break after hours of practice. The majority of them go outside or just go and sit doing somewhere. To your surprise, you see Kenma sitting in the stairs at the door, talking to Hinata and Kageyama, so you go to where they are.

“What genre? How can you possibly choose only one…?” says Kenma frowning while continue murmuring to himself

“Did you ask him what’s his favorite game?” you ask sitting besides Kenma passing him a cereal bar, Hinata just nods “Makes sense why he’s like this. Hey, stop frowning and eat” you tap your finger on his forehead, earning a little glare.

“But how can I just pick one game? There are so many good options” says moving closer to you, linking your pinkies together after opening the bar. He continues murmuring games trying to make up his mind, so you just decided to talk to the boys

“So, you guys failed an exam?” you ask the duo

“Yeah, I failed English and Kageyama failed Literature” says Hinata receiving a bunch of insults by Kageyama “Hey, at least my English answers were correct, just in the wrong order! You just did bad!”

“I don’t care, no Japanese person needs English” Kageyama crosses his arms

“Do you plan continuing with volleyball after school Tobio-kun?” you ask

“Of course, I want to play at world level one day”

“And how do you plan to talk with them? They’re not going to speak Japanese. And even if it’s a non English speaking country, they will know the basics of English”

“Well…” you can almost see his brain malfunction, making you chuckle

“You didn’t really think about it, huh? If you want to play for the world, you’re going to need the basics of English”

“Ha! Even Yn is saying how dumb you are” says Hinata, making Kageyama start fighting with him again

“I don’t think I can pick just one, but Animal Crossing is definitely there” Kenma whispers looking at you, completely ignoring the two boys “It brought you to me”

The matches continue in the afternoon, now with Karasuno and Nekoma are playing against each other. In one of the quick attacks of Hinata and Kageyama, Lev was very close to block him, leading for him to succeed right on the next attempt, surprising the Karasuno team. On the next play, Karasuno receives the ball and you noticed that Lev was ready to jump when he sees Hinata coming to him, but something stopped him and is able to touch the spike that was sent to their ace. Yaku then digs the ball and sends it to Kenma, who sets the ball to Lev and easily score a point.

Karasuno asks for a time-out so you just go around passing the things.

“Are you going to be able to grow if you continue relying on defense?” you hear coach Nekomata say

“They definitely seem to be frustrated” you add

“I know, they seem to be making more mistakes than normal”

The game continues, with Karasuno receiving the ball and the last hit being sent to their Ace, but at the same time Hinata jumps after the ball, ending in both of them colliding. Hinata was clearly moving by instincts, but it could have ended terrible.

“Maybe their evolution will start sooner than I thought” coach Nekomata whispers right before the weird duo and their coach go outside, a tense atmosphere rising.

A few games later, the guys from Karasuno have to leave, so you go to talk to Kageyama before they leave.

“Tobio-kun” you call him “Can I know what happened in the match? I could feel the tension”

“You know the quick attack that we do? Where he has his eyes closed?” you nod as an answer “Well, now the idiot wants to do it with his eyes open, but he has no technique whatsoever”

“I mean, not a good timing, that’s for sure”

“Exactly! We are so close to the Interhigh, it would be impossible to just change it now”

“Well…I don’t know how you two train, but I believe that if there’s someone that can change it fast, it’s you. You’re one of the best setters I have seen”

“T-thank you” says bowing with an evident blush in his face

“I hope to see a better Tobio in two weeks, bye bye”

“I’ll work hard” With that you go to where Hinata, Lev and Kenma were talking, hearing Lev first

“Next time I'll block you again Hinata!”

“I will beat you next time Lev!”

“Both of you need to practice a lot more then” you add once you were close enough

“I will Yn! I can’t wait until the week of practice; it’s going to be so fun!” says Hinata, but he looked a little down

“Yeah! And I can finally see Inarizaki! I’ve been wanting to see them since Yn-chan said she was their manager!” Lev exclaims

“Inarizaki?”

“My old school, I used to live in Hyogo before coming here” you explain to the orange boy

“Are they good? Like…better than Nekoma?”

“Yeah, they are, Nekoma’s defense it’s better though. Don’t look at me like that Lev, you know that it’s true”

“But WE are your team now!”

“Just because Yn is our manager doesn’t mean that we’re better than Inarizaki, we’re not” says Kenma

“That’s sounds soo cool!! I want to play with them!” Hinata exclaims “By the way, are you two together or something?”

“Yeah, we’re dating” says Kenma calmly

“Wait, for real? How come I didn’t know?!” asks Lev almost offended

“Because you’re dumb” Kenma answers “Literally everyone else on the team knows”

“You two look good together! I’m happy for both of you!” says Hinata

“Thanks, Shoyo” you smile “Keep working on spiking with your eyes open, I’m sure you can do it with enough practice”

“You think I can do it?!” he asks with his eyes shining

“Yeah, I don’t see why n-fuck, Shoyo!” you get surprised by the sudden hug that Hinata gave you

“Thank you!” he says excited

“I want a hug too!” Lev joins, passing his arms through both of you

“Not this again” you pat Hinata’s head and Lev’s arm

“Kenma-san! Joi-”

“No”

“Bu it’s your girlfriend!”

“And I want to be the only one when hugging her”

After that you say goodbye to the rest of Karasuno, it was visible for everyone that Hinata was much happier than before when he entered the bus. Right after their bus left, Kenma took your hand and squish it.

“I think Shoyo really appreciated what you said, probably his team didn’t want to try it”

“I can’t blame them, I’m not even sure if it’s possible to do it with that speed, and I agree with Tobio-kun that it’s not the right timing. But he seemed down”

“Of course you noticed, thank you for helping him, I didn’t know what to say” says giving you a quick kiss in the lips

“You really like Shoyo, huh? It’s rare to see you so friendly with someone”

“He’s nice”

“I’m happy that you have other friends, just don’t replace me” you tease him

“Like I could find someone as good as you”

“CHIBI-CHAAN!!” when you turn around at the scream, Bokuto lifts you up in a warm hug “see you soon!”

“See you soon Bokuto-san! Its fun having you around” you hug him back

“You need to cook more for us, your cooking it’s seriously the best!” he shakes you lightly while putting you down

“Thank you, Bokuto-san”

“Kenmaa! Take good care of our chibi-chan” says hugging him slightly, making Kenma tense slightly

“Of course Bokuto-san”

“Bokuto-san, I think Yuki was looking for you. Did you talk to her?”

“Ah no, I’m going to see her! See you in two weeks chibi-chan!” Bokuto gives you a kiss on your temple before walking away

“Thank you, I like Bokuto-san but it can get uncomfortable sometimes” he says with a sigh of relief

“I got you. Let’s go, I’m getting tired”

After saying goodbye to the rest of the schools, you go to check the gym to make sure that everything was ok and in their place before closing it and going to where Kuroo and Kenma were waiting.

“This was a nice weekend, I can’t wait for the week of practice, it’ll be fun” Kuroo says on the way back to your homes

“It will be chaotic, that’s for sure”

Once you arrived to the neighborhood, Kenma pulls you to his house right away. You lay in his bed while he was getting ready in the bathroom, only looking up from your phone when you heard the door open, finding Kenma coming towards you and immediately plops on top of you, laying his head on your chest.

“Not playing today, pretty boy?” you ask playing with his hair

“No, I’m tired, I want to sleep” says snuggling even more

“Let’s sleep then” you move just enough to kiss the top of his head “Goodnight”

“Goodnight”

++

A week pass fast between practices, the team is getting better and better and Lev is slowly making progress in receiving and spiking, and while he was still quite immature about it, soon enough he will be a key piece for the team

It’s Saturday morning and like usual you go to Kenma’s house; this time however, he’s not only opens the door immediately after your first knock, but also seems overly excited.

“Hi love” says kissing you

“Hi, everything alright?” you ask surprised

“Yeah, ehh…there’s this gaming convention today and I wanted to go…but it’s okay if you don’t want to, it’s sudden an-”

“Sure, let’s go then. I didn’t know there was one happening” you say

“It was announced a few weeks ago, I didn’t know if we could go, you know how Kuroo can get with practices now that we have to go to the other tournament”

Once you arrived to the convention, you noticed Kenma’s eyes go wide, excited at the view. Despite being relatively early, it was still crowded, so he grabs your hand and starts walking towards the first stall that caught his attention. You let him set the path because of how excited he was, so you continue going from stall to stall, Kenma’s buying a few games, merch and playing.

Throughout the whole day Kenma didn’t let you pay for anything, from food to merch that you liked, despite all your protests against it, claiming that he ‘wanted to spoil you for everything you have done to him’. Once the convention was over, you go back to his house since he wanted you to try some games he bought.

“Thank you for coming with me” he whispers “I know that you play games casually, so this was probably boring for you”

“It was fun actually, I like watching you play anyway and I got cute merch. Plus, you looked really cute all excited”

“Shut up” says blushing hiding his face on my your shoulder

“For real though, I love seeing you excited and happy, now I really want to watch you in a tournament, so invite me when there’s one”

“Definitely”

You play together for a few hours, and when you got bored of playing, you just sat in between his legs and watched him play. Around 2 am you started to get sleepy, so you cuddle more into his chest, falling asleep soon after. You obviously didn’t notice Kenma’s eyes when he noticed that you feel asleep cuddling him, they were full of love while kissing your forehead and whispering to himself “how did I get so lucky?” before turning off his console and hugging you back, falling asleep with smile.

The following week passes like normal, and before you noticed, is already the training camp. On Monday morning you all get into the bus to go to Shinzen High, in Saitama; since it was a short ride, you arrived relatively early, so you still had to wait for Karasuno and Inarizaki.

“Guys, you can go in if you want to. Inuoka, can you take this inside for me? I want to wait for Inarizaki” you say to the puppy-like boy

“Of course Yn-san, I’ll take care of it”

“Then I’ll wait with you for Karasuno, since you’ll be busy with your foxes” says Kuroo while the rest of the boys, except for Kenma, go to the gym “I thought you were against of wearing shorts in front of horny teenagers? Now there’s more”

“This place is so hot though, and if anything, having Inarizaki around makes me feel safer, those idiots won’t let anyone get close”

“Good point, the twins are like your personal body guards. What about you Kenma, waiting for shrimpy or staying with your girl?” teases Kuroo

“Both” simply answers while the bus from Karasuno arrives, an excited orange hair dude opening the door and jumping out

“Kenmaa, Ynn, hii!!”

“Hi Shoyo”

“Hi” Kenma says quietly

“Guys, is that the Skytree?!” asks Hinata enthusiastically

“Ehhh is just a normal tower” says Kenma

“Sometimes I wonder if you guys know how to use the internet at all” you joke “even I knew how the Skytree looked waay before coming to Japan”

“Yn! You don’t have to be so mean! By the way, you look awesome!” Hinata looks at your legs briefly, a small blush appearing

“Thank you”

“Yeah, but there’s a lot of insects, it's annoying” says Kenma killing one on his arm

“SHOYOO!” Lev screams coming down the stairs “did you grew any taller?”

“That’s such a rude way to say hi to someone, besides it’s impossible to grow in 2 weeks”

“Well, I grew 2 mm since we saw each other” says Lev, surprising Hinata

“Cool, you’re a giant, we get it” you joked “you guys can go inside”

“I’m going to see the gym!” says Hinata leaving with Lev

“Chibi-chan, your foxes are arriving!” screams Kuroo, making the Karasuno third years confused. The bus enters and parks before the boys come out, the first ones coming out being Atsumu and Osamu, who came running to you the moment they saw you approaching the bus

“Don’t yo-”

“Chibi-chan!” they scream closing the gap while trapping you in between them, giving you a tight hug

“It’s too hot for this, guys, let go” you chuckle

“No, ya missed us too”

“Who do ya missed more? Me, right?” asks Atsumu

“She missed me more!”

“Let her go, you annoying idiots, or I call Kita-san” calls Suna with a smirk while opening his arms, making you squish your way out of the two boys to go to his chest “Hi chibi-chan” he whispers, hugging you quickly with a kiss on the forehead

“Rin, I missed Rin more. Hi” you snuggle into his chest with a playful smile

“Liar!”

“Ya love us too much”

“Shut up” you move away to go to say hi to the rest of the team while the guys go to say hi to Kuroo and Kenma. You were talking to Kita when you look over to Kenma, who was flustered over something that Osamu said to him, teasing look that appears towards you once you made your way there

“So things did work out with yer gamer boy, chibi-chan” whispers loud enough so only the three of us could hear “Ya need to tell Tsumu or he will whine that ya don’t trust him; but Sunarin should be the first one to know”

“That was my plan, I wanted to talk to Rin first”

“About what?” asks Kenma

“I’ll tell you later, I already feel bad as it is”

“You don’t have to tell me if it’s between you two, I trust you”

“It’s okay, I will-”

“As cute as ya are, yer making me sick” Osamu interrupts you while pulling you into his chest “but don’t worry Chibi, he’ll be fine as long as ye’re happy”

You all go to the gym after, coach Nekomata calling you as soon as you enter to organize how the matches will go; since only 4 teams could play at the same time, you had to draw to see who will play against each other. The first ones were Inarizaki vs Ubugawa and Fukurodani vs Karasuno.

You go to sit with your team in between Lev and Kenma, the latter linking your pinkies together. While watching the match you notice that the Karasuno players are trying new attacks, but failing miserably everytime.

“Is it me or Inarizaki are taking it lightly?” asks Kuroo looking at your foxes, which made you focus on them. They were indeed taking it easy

“To be fair, I don’t really think they will have many problems with any team outside Fukurodani”

The matches continue throughout the day, with the normal break for lunch. After dinner the guys had time to do free practice if they wanted, or they could go and relax.

“Are we playing tonight?” Kenma asks you before going to take a shower

“Let me talk to Rin first, I’ll be there as soon as I can. And it’s not like you sleep early anyway”

“Ok, good luck. See you later” he gives you a quick kiss before you leave

You walk around the gyms to go to the one Inarizaki was practicing in1, passing the third gym alongside the tall blonde boy from Karasuno.

“Chibi-chan! Karasuno’s four eyes! Want to help us practice?”

“Sorry Tetsu, I need to talk to someone first, it’s really important” you exchange looks with him, and while he didn’t really know what it was, he understood enough to not continue

“But chibi-chaan! You just need to throw some balls at Akaashi!”

“I know, Bokuto-san, I just can’t today. Sorry”

“Bokuto-san, she has things to do too” Akaashi adds

“Okay…”

“I promise to help you tomorrow, Bokuto-san” you say making the boy look much happier “Tetsu, I trust you with Lev?”

“I got it chibi-chan, go ahead…so four eyes what do…”

You continue walking, finding the guys in gym 4. They had the door closed, but you could hear the twins screams from outside, so you knock on the door before open it. The guys were having a match between them, and since they were too focused playing, you entered and wait for them to finish without them noticing you. The more minutes pass, the more nervous you feel, fearing Suna’s reaction; but you knew that you had to do it soon or it will be worse for both. Once they finish their match you pass them their water bottles and towels.

“Chibi-chan, I didn’t see ya there” Osamu takes the bottle from you

“I didn’t want to interrupt you guys, you were really good”

“Thank ya Chibi” says Atsumu kissing your forehead

“I came to steal Rin for a sec, do you guys mind?” you move to grab him by the arm, him giving you a confused look. You made eye contact with Osamu, who seem to understand what you were going to do, giving you a small smile

“Go ahead, Yn-chan, we need to rest anyways” Kita answers you

“Thank you, come on Rin” you push him out of the gym, him chuckling by your poor attempt to make him move “I’ll help you guys after!”

Once out, you take Suna’s hand to pull him all the way to one of the hills that Shinzen had, near to where you were supposed to sleep. You sit on the grass, Suna laying right beside, both of you looking at the lights from the classrooms

“What is it Chibi?” asks pulling you closer to him, so you lay your head on his shoulder making him pass his arm through your shoulders “You’re nervous”

“I-I don’t really know how to…how to say it”

“Just spit it”

“Do you…do you like me?” you whisper without looking at him

“So you knew” he sighs closing his eyes “Yeah, I fell in love with you”

“Oh…” you feel your eyes get watery, you had a slight hope that he just liked you as a friend “I’m… I’m sorry…I”

“You’re dating Kenma, aren’t you?” he asks, making you look at him surprised. He had a sad smile on, his eyes shining while looking at the classrooms “The look in both of your eyes is very telling, plus you were in his house every time we played COD, you could practically see him smile through the headset whenever he talked to you; only a fool wouldn’t notice”

“…I’m sorry”

“For what? Following your heart? Finally putting yourself first?” says while drying a tear from your cheek with his finger

“What do you mean?” You sob. He cups your face with both of his hands, making you look at him; while he also had tears on his eyes, he still smiles playfully at you

“You dealt with the twins on your first day, despite being shy and not know the language; you became our manager because Tsumu asked you and because you wanted to help us in any way you could; you offer yourself to talk to every team that came to play with us just so our first impression wasn’t bad and we could properly practice, despite hating talking to people. You gave up your first vacations in Japan just to help us practice. Before you had to leave Hyogo, you tried your best to smile just so we didn’t feel worse, despite being hurt yourself. And that’s just some things you did for us, I’m not even saying the things that you did just to help me, Tsumu or Samu” he says as he continues drying the tears falling “you always put people before you, and now that you finally put yourself first, you’re saying sorry? Idiot”

“I just… I feel bad, I really can’t see you as more than my best friend. And it’s probably really selfish, but I don’t want to lose you either”

“When I realize that I liked you, I knew that it was a 50/50 chance that you felt the same way. You don’t, and that’s okay, I’m not an asshole that’s going to force you to be with me. Don’t worry Chibi, I’m still your best friend, I’m not leaving you now or ever” he kisses your forehead lovingly before pulling you to his chest

“Thank you, Rin, I love you, sorry it’s not the same way” you whisper, snuggling more into him

“I love you too, chibi-chan. I’m happy for you, Kenma’s a good dude and clearly loves you too, so stop crying, you idiot” says hugging you even tighter. You stayed like that for a few minutes, hugging each other. After a few minutes, once you finally calmed down and stopped crying, you move away and look at him

“If for some reason you two don’t work out, I’m always here” he teases you, making you chuckle as he pats your head

“Thanks? Let’s go back, I need to tell Tsumu before he whines”

“Yeah, let’s go”

You go back to the gym where the boys are, his hand squishing your shoulder right before entering. The first one to notice you back is Osamu, who comes to you and reach your hand

“Everything ok?” he asks while looking at Suna

“Yeah, everything fine” Suna answers

“Tsumu! Come here” you call him, making him come immediately when he noticed that the three of you were together “I need to tell you something”

“Is it what ya told Samu? He hasn’t tell me a thing, it’s annoying”

“Well, it’s not my secret to tell. Why would I tell ya?”

“I’m dating Kenma” you say before he could answer back to Osamu, making him look at you surprised

“Ye’re dating? Is that what ya told Samu in the Nationals? Chibi-chan! Why ya didn’t tell me too!?”

“We weren’t together for the Nationals, I told Samu what I felt because he knew beforehand and I needed to vent to someone. I have been dating him for a month now”

“And ya tell me just now!? Chibi-chan!!”

“That’s the only thing that you have to say?” you whisper astonishing

“Honestly Tsumu, how did you not notice? It was quite obvious” says Omimi

“Ehh?!”

“Did ya even look at our Chibi at all? Ye’re such an idiot sometimes”

“Shut up!”

“Happy for you Yn-chan, but we should probably continue practicing now, do you want to help us?”

“Of course” you say getting ready to enter when you felt a hand in your arm that pulled you into a chest

“I’m happy that yer happy Chibi, but if Kenma-kun hurts ya he will deal with me” Atsumu hugs you tighter before going back to the court

The guys go back to practice with you helping them, and quite honestly, you low-key missed being their manager; while you still love your cats, you know that they heavily depended on luck whether they win or not, so being back to them felt refreshing.

At around 10 pm, the guys finish and go to shower, while you go back to the dorms to rest too.

“Hi” you say arriving to the top of the stairs, Kenma was waiting for you sitting down there while playing

“Hi” he smiles, but you notice it become more of a frown once he saw your red, puffy eyes “everything okay?”

“Yeah” you give him a kiss on the cheek, making him blush while you sit in between his legs, hugging him while he passes his arms through your waist to continue playing. While he was playing you tell him what happened with all the necessary details for him to understand. There isn’t a big reaction from him, mostly smalls hums, but you can feel his arms go a little tighter

“Don’t worry, he isn’t going to try anything, I trust him”

“Hmmm” he hums, you can tell that he’s thinking about something and doesn’t want to say it

“Hey, look at me” you take his cheek with your hands “What is it?”

“Nothing…”

“Yeah, sure. C’mon, tell me”

“…Why?” he avoids your eyes, chest moving up and down faster than before “Why me? Why are you dating me?”

“Why you? Please tell me you’re not comparing yourself to Rin”

“I mean…you had so many better options. Suna, the twins, Bokuto-san, Sakusa-san…maybe, even Kuro”

“But they’re not you. I love the way you snuggle into me, how you pause your games whenever I need you, how you always let me cuddle you when you’re playing, how calming and relaxing it’s being with you, letting me be my full self; and there’s so much more. I’m in love with Kozume Kenma, and I wouldn’t change it at all”

You say the last part looking directly into his eyes, your hands on his face to make sure he looks at you. He closes his eyes, breath slowly settling while you caress his face. He pulls you in into a hug, while snuggling his face on the crock of your neck.

“Yn?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you” he hugs your tighter “I love you too”

“Thank God, cause I went all cheesy on you” you say, making him chuckle a little “seriously though, don’t compare yourself to anyone ever again, ok?”

“Okay”

++

The next day of matches goes pretty similar, all teams getting to play against each other. You notice that Karasuno not only were the worst by far, but it also seemed like they were trying new moves and failing constantly. Unless the two were of them were having matches at the same time, you were going around between managing Nekoma and Inarizaki; and while tiring, you finally felt fully complete with everyone by your side.

At some point of the afternoon the other managers call you outside, telling you that we had watermelons for the boys.

“The parent from the Shinzen boys bought them all” explains Kaori to you while cutting them in triangles “they are really good”

“This will be a good snack for such a hot day” says Kiyoko

Yuki goes to call the boys when you finished cutting the fruit, and soon enough the sea of boys came out happy to have a delicious snack and break. The girls and you go around passing the fruit, so you go around where the majority of Fukurodani was

“Thank you chibi-chan! Are you helping us today?” asks Bokuto, eyes sparkling a little

“Ehh…”

“She’s helping US, Bokuto-san” says Atsumu arriving with a smirk on “Can I have another piece Chibi?”

“Sure, don’t eat too much though”

“But you said you’re helping us today!” says Bokuto, his hair somehow getting lower as sadness appears on his face.

“I can help both of you” you sigh, not wanting to make neither sad “an hour each so it’s fair. Deal?”

“Yay!” exclaims Bokuto, hair magically going upwards again

“Guess it’s okay” Atsumu pouts while rubbing your hair

“Both of you need to promise me to not over-practice thought, otherwise I won’t help any of you again”

“Deal”

“I’m going to offer more watermelon” you go to one of the hills where Kenma, Hinata and Lev were “More watermelon guys?”

“I want one” says Hinata and Lev at the same time, taking one piece each quickly

“Ken?” you ask him

“I’m fine with one, thanks”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, don’t worry” says with a little smile

“Yn-san, sit with us for a while! You need to relax too” Hinata tells you

“I still have some left though…”

“I’ll have one more, thank ya chibi-chan” Osamu plops next to where you are

“Guess I’ll take the last one” Suna takes the last one and sits next to Osamu “Now sit and relax before I pull you into my very sweaty arms”

“You don’t need to threaten me” you sit down in between Kenma and Hinata

“I will if that’s what it takes for you to relax a little, that’s what best friends are for”

You all continue talking for a while, Kenma linking your pinkies as soon as he finished his watermelon. Kenma was comfortable talking to Osamu and Suna about video games while Hinata and Lev were seeing who could throw the watermelon seeds the farthest with their mouths.

“Ah yeah, there’s rumors about a new Kingdom Hearts game, something like a remake of the old ones. You haven’t play the originals right, love?” asks you Kenma taking you out of your little trance

“No, I’ve just played the new ones. I really like it though, it’s one of my favorites” you say laying your head on his shoulder, happy that he was so relaxed talking with them

“We should buy it when it comes out then”

“Where did you heard that rumor? There’s no official news about it” asks Suna, looking at the both of you with a small smile

“It’s a rumor from a forum, they always seem to be right though, it’s impressive. They also…”

They continue talking while you rest and chuckle at them until the break is over, you going back inside to continue the matches; everything pass by as quickly as always

After preparing and serving dinner you go to the third gym, to where Kuroo, Bokuto, Akaashi and Lev were practicing. Kuroo is teaching receives to Lev, who seems in pain, but once you arrive you spend half an hour throwing balls to Akaashi so he can set it to Bokuto, and then the other half helping Lev with his receives. After the hour passes, you go to the 4th gym to help the foxes out, who were practicing serves today.

On you way there you pass in front of a very annoyed Kageyama and a worried Yachi, both sitting in the stairs.

“Are you okay guys?”

“Yeah, I’m just trying a new toss and it’s not working” says Kageyama “I can’t make it fall in the right bottle”

“I am no coach, but wouldn’t it be better if you try to imagine the spiker instead of just trying to hit the bottle? That way it feels with more purpose”

“That could work! Hinata doesn’t really look like a bottle after all!” adds Yachi trying to cheer him up

“Ask your coach about it, his job is to help you after all. Gotta go, see you”

“Bye!”

“Thank you, Yn-san”

You arrive to the gym where your foxes are and help them to keep track of everything, from how many ace services they had to how many times they fail to receive. When you told them to stop, you all clean up the gym before leaving to the school so they could shower. When you arrived there, you received a mix of kisses and pettings on the top of your head as a good night, so you go upstairs to where your room is only to find Kenma already sitting in the stairs waiting.

“Hi” you whisper making him smile and open his arms so you can cuddle him, putting your head on his shoulder while sighing as he passes his arms around “This is nice”

“It is” says while putting his chin on your shoulder. Your stay like that for a while, as you finally letting yourself relax a little “are you okay?”

“My head hurts”

“Again?”

“I blame the summer, Hyogo was much more bearable”

“You need to stop pushing yourself, you do too much” he flicks the top of your head slightly

“You’re the ones playing, not me”

“And you’re the one managing two teams while continuing doing tasks. Go to sleep”

“But…”

“You can be so stubborn sometimes. Sleep, I’ll stay here with you”

“Thanks”

The rest of the days go by pretty similar, matches between the teams, Karasuno finally getting some of their moves to work properly, cooking with the girls, helping the guys from the 3rd and 4th gym, spending time with Kenma at night; and most importantly, finally spending time with your foxes.

You were a day away from the last day of the training camp when coach Nekomata calls you outside right before the guys finish their practices, telling you that they will bring things to do a barbeque and asking if you could prepare all the vegetables and side dishes alongside with the girls. You enter back to the gym and go where Nekoma and Inarizaki were sitting, both teams having a conversation, so you went to where Kenma and Suna are, who were having a talking to each other

“…please take good care of her, she’s an angel” you hear Suna say, neither of them noticing you getting close

“Of course I will”

“Who’s an angel?” you ask sitting down in between them, putting your back into the wall. You see Kenma trying to hide his blush by looking away while Suna laughs

“Oh you know, just the Karasuno manager. Both of us have a huuge crush on her” Suna nudges you in a teasing manner

“Kiyoko-san? Ken, I didn’t know you had a crush on her! I’m so hurt! She’s an angel though” you fake a reaction, gaining a glare from Kenma.

“I don’t. You’re the only person I actually like to be around” he pouts taking your hand while looking at you, eyes softening immediately after seeing your playful smile. You take Suna’s hand, crossing both of them in your lap

“I swear, if you two weren’t my best friends I would be so offended right now” says Kuroo butting while Kenma rolls his eyes

“I’m happy that you two get along” you whisper laying on Kenma shoulder while the two of them exchange a look

“If chibi-chan wasn’t so happy I would be vomiting right now” adds Suna squishing your hand, a mix of happiness and sadness in his eyes

“Disgustingly adorable” adds Kuroo again with a genuine smile on “Anyways, we have to play, is the last match of the day, Inarizaki vs Nekoma”

“I’m going” says Kenma making Kuroo go to tell the team, before he stands up, he kisses your forehead and looks at you “You’re not helping today”

“What?”

“You’ve been helping everyone, relax a little for today”

“But it’s…”

“Don’t worry Kozume-san, we will make sure she stays here” says Akaashi receiving a thanks from the blonde boy before leaving

“Akaashi!” you say in disbelief

“He’s right Yn-chan, you have done a lot this week. Relax now” he then turns to Bokuto, telling him something

“This hurts a bit to say, not gonna lie, but it really looks like you two are made for each other” whispers Suna before kissing your forehead and standing up.

During the match Bokuto makes sure to not make you do anything, sitting behind you while hugging you tightly to limit every attempt of standing up. After the match ended, Inarizaki winning by little, Kenma pulls you away to the dorm so you can properly rest; both Bokuto and Atsumu, being the more emotional ones out of the bunch, were completely on board if that meant that you get to rest. You arrive to his dorm with the rest of Nekoma.

“Yn-san, hi! Are you okay?”

“Hi Inuoka, I’m better” you say sitting in Kenma’s futon, your back on the wall “are you not practicing today?”

“No, I wasn’t feeling too good so Kuroo-san told me to not practice today”

“Ahh I see, that’s good then” you say while you lean on Kenma's back. You spend a good time like this, him letting you lay on him while you were talking to Inuoka until you fell asleep.

The next morning after eating breakfast with the boys, you stay with the girls to prepare the side dishes and snacks for the barbeque. It was going to be at lunch time, but considering the amount of food we had to make you opted to start early, so you and Yachi were in charge of making onigiris. After a while you went outside were the barbeques were being lit, cutting all the veggies while waiting for the boys. When the matches ended and all the boys come out, ready to eat. After the coaches praise the teams, all of them start to enjoy the food and talking with each other.

“Chibi-chan, let me get ya some food” says Osamu when he notices you near him, taking your plate and putting some meat on it “there you go”

“Thank you Samu, did you like the practice week?”

“It wasn’t bad, I honestly think that we enjoyed spending time with ya again more” says while you eat

“Same, having you here felt like going back home”

“And ya know, I’m happy to see ya so happy with Kenma, he loves ya a lot” he pats your head before heading off. You go to where Kenma, Suna, Tsukishima and Yamaguchi are sitting, with Kuroo almost screaming at them so they eat

“Tsuki, you need to eat more. KENMA YOU TOO!”

“Relax Tetsu, no need to scream at them, want some onigiris guys?”

“I’ll take one, thank you Yn-san” says Yamaguchi. Tsukishima denies politely the onigiri, thanking you for no pressure him while the rest are taken by Suna, Kuroo, Daichi and Bokuto

“Ken? Want one?” you sit down next to him

“Did you make them?”

“Yeah, you don’t have to eat if you’re full though”

“No, I want one, I like your cooking” says taking one

“Of course chibi-chan is the only one who can make Kenma eat” he sighs “Tsukki you should try one too, they’re actually really good”

“Yes Tsukki, they’re so good!” Yamaguchi exclaims

“Way better than Samu’s” adds Suna

“You don’t have to Tsukki, I can always pack some of them for whenever you’re hungry”

“Thank you Yn-san, I’ll take that option”

Since you had the whole afternoon free, you talk for a good while, the twins joining. At some point in the afternoon Kenma and you ended up sitting in the hill, both of you in your phones just enjoying each other presence while the twins went to do something

“Chibi-chan” Suna calls you, coming to you with a little smirk and pulling you up by the arm with your back in the direction of the school “How is my favorite girl doing?”

“What do you want?” you squint

“What? Me? Nothing. Can’t I come and talk to you?”

“Suure…it’s too quiet, where are the twins?” you try to turn around, but Suna grabs you by the chin before you could even glance

“Eyes on me, princess, I’m the one talking to you” he smirks making you scoffs while blushing. You look at Kenma briefly, who seems to be trying to not laugh, a different reaction to what you expected to see

“What are you…” you get cut by a bunch of water being pour at your head, making you turn around only to find Atsumu and Osamu laughing like crazy, both with a small bucket on their hands, Suna and Kenma joining them. The scene caught the attention from a few of the others, from coaches to other teams “What was that for?!”

“I guess ya could say…that Sunarin…made ya wet” Atsumu tries to say in between laughs.

“I hate all of you” you act annoyed, trying not to laugh “Kenma! You saw them and didn’t tell me! You traitor!”

“You always say you miss their antics” he shrugs, playful eyes looking at you

“Ya love us, don’t lie” Atsumu hugs you “See, I’m getting wet too for ya too”

“I should be angry at you”

“But ya aren’t” Osamu pats your head “we love ya too”

“Why am I friends with you?” you sit down again next to Kenma, thankfully the hot summer air was already helping with the t-shirt. The guys sit around you, Atsumu hugging you tightly

“I don’t want to leave, I missed being around ya chibi-chan” he pouts

“I missed it too Tsumu, it was fun when you guys dragged me out of my house”

“If you had cooperated then we wouldn’t have dragged you out, you never wanted to go and walk around” Suna sits in front of you alongside Osamu

“I know that I don’t say this a lot, but thank ya” Atsumu whispers

“For what?”

“Being my friend…I never had a lot of friends outside of Samu, most find me rude and don’t even try to get to know me. So thank ya for getting to know me; and deal with my fangirls when ya were our manager; and deal with us too, we can be annoying”

“Thank you for talking to me first, I wouldn’t have talk to anyone otherwise” you chuckle, playing with his hair as he snuggles into your neck “stop being so sappy, it’s not like I’m leaving the country soon”

“I try to express my gratitude and this is what I get! Rude!” whines

“Ya did get really sappy, chibi-chan is not dying” Osamu adds

“Shut up Samu! Ya two should thank her too!”

“You are the annoying one, we don’t give Chibi half of the trouble that you do; plus she knows that we love her already” Suna says

You continue talking, mostly making fun of each other, with you laying on Atsumu's lap, Kenma was also joining the conversation here and there but mostly chuckling with the conversations. The sun is almost gone already, so you had to head back to the rooms so the boys can pack their things. Since they leave at midnight, you decided to go to take a shower and put your pajamas on; and like usual, you see Kenma sitting on the stairs already waiting.

“Are you coming out at midnight?” you ask, sitting next to him

“Yeah, I want to say goodbye too”

“Thank you for talking to them, I know you don’t really like talking to people”

“They’re important to you, the least I could do was try to get along. Although I don’t think we’re friends yet”

“I didn’t expect for you to become besties, but it’s nice seeing my boyfriend and best friends talking” you give him a kiss on the cheek before laying on top of him

A few minutes before midnight you go out to say goodbye, almost all of teams saying goodbye to the foxes since they were the first ones to leave. You go and say goodbye to everyone with a tight hug, even the first years that you just met, leaving your three idiot friends for last, noticing that Kenma was just finishing saying goodbye too.

“Don’t you dare to say something cheesy again” you say to Atsumu hugging him

“Fine, fine…Kita-san! Can we steal her back?!” screams receiving a glare from Kita “sorry…let’s see each other at Nationals this time, ok? Love ya lots” whispers, kissing your forehead

“Of course, love you too, now go in” you try to push him into the bus, making him chuckle by the lack of force. You go to Osamu now and hug him too “See you Samu”

“See ya chibi. I’m glad everything went well, so now try to enjoy yer happiness. But I’m the better chef between us”

“Our team begs to differ on that”

“They are my recipes!”

“And I cook them!” you smile once he pulls you in a hug

“See ya at Nationals, love ya” he ruffles your hair before going in. Finally you go to Suna, who is taking photos as always.

“Stop”

“When I haven’t take photos? Don’t worry, you look beautiful as always” says pulling you into a hug “no matter how ugly the photo is, you’ll always be beautiful”

“Rin…”

“Sorry, but it’s true. I’m happy for you chibi-chan, truly; and while it hurts that you don’t love me in the same way that I do, I can deal with it, I’m not going to lose you. See you at the Nationals. Love you, so much” he whispers into your ear before pulling away and putting your foreheads together

“I love you too, you know that”

“That’s enough for me” with that he kisses your forehead and moves away to enter the bus and get ready to go, you waving at them as they leave with a knot in your throat

“Don’t worry chibi-chan, we’ll go to the Nationals this time” Kuroo gives you a side hug as he and Kenma arrive to your side, the latter taking your hand

“We will”

[newmiriamsmysteries]

[ Blurb - "Poor Johnny's"]

The familiar twang of Colter Wall’s voice from the jukebox, mingled with the atmosphere of Poor Johnny’s bar.  Quiet conversation and drunken laughter always made my older brother’s tavern feel like home.  Cigarette smoke hung like a fog beneath the stained glass “Coors Light” lamp that illuminated the green felt of the pool table beneath.  I took a drag of my own cigarette and tapped the ash into a small glass tray nearby.

“You know I hate that you do that,”  My older brother, Jack, said as he walked toward me.  Fit and muscular, his former occupation as a bouncer had been good to him.  Until he decided to trade that lifestyle in for one of his own making.  Wavy blond hair framed his bearded face.  In his hand, he held a glass of Southern Comfort mixed with Pepsi.  

“I only smoke when I drink…and I happen to be drinking.”  I replied,  plucking the glass from his hand.  I took a swig and closed my eyes real tight.  I shook my head a bit as the familiar burn of the whiskey filled my chest.

“You were never good at that, either.”  Jack chuckled as he pulled his pool cue from the rack against the wall.  “Talk to me, Miriam.  What spook or specter has you all twitchy this time?”

I leaned forward, glancing over the scattered billiard balls.  I zoned in on an orange solid one lined up for a corner pocket.  I pulled my arm back then forward, sending the tip of my cue into the cue ball.  The white orb rolled toward the orange one, knocking it into the pocket I was aiming for.  I could feel Jack’s blue eyes on me while he waited for my answer.  

“I got a case today,”  I started.  “A rough one.  A kid and his mother.  They got caught in a real bad house fire.  Nathan said it could have been arson or premeditated murder, he doesn’t know yet.”  

“Jesus…”  Jack breathed and crossed himself.  Quite a religious man, my brother.  “Max find anything yet?”  He lined up his shot and took it, sending the purple striped ball into the side pocket in front of me.  

“He hasn’t finished the autopsies yet,”  I said, leaning a bit on my pool cue.  I ran a hand through my wavy, dark red hair.  “I’ve been seeing the mother.  She was burned real bad, Jack.  She can’t figure out how to communicate.  Even Willie can’t get through to her.”  Instinctively, my hand went to the vintage locket resting at my throat.  A keepsake from my favorite ghostly informant.  

“I couldn’t do what you do.”  Jack said, shaking his head.  “Seeing ghosts.  Being friendly with Vampires.  It’s terrifying.  I also kind’a feel bad since it was me and Lily that made you this way.”

I sighed and chuckled.  “You were two kids playing with a Ouija board.  My abilities would have woken up on their own eventually.”  I shook my head.  “I don’t care for the shaky truce with the vampires.  But sometimes they have information that I need and can’t get anywhere else.  As far as the ghosts go?  Well… what’s the point of being psychic if you can’t do something with it?”

“They can’t help how they died just about as much as you can help losing this game.”  Jack teased.  “Oh so… if you didn’t have enough stress, I have more for you.”

“Jaaack…”  I whined.

“I’m sorry!  But if I don’t tell you, you might find out another way.”  He began.

I took another swig of my drink, steeling myself.  “Alright, what is it?”

“Jason Dunnigan is back in town.”  

I leaned back against the tall bar table behind me, all air having left my lungs.  

“He was in here this afternoon asking about you.”  He finished.

“Dammit..”  I hissed, though butterflies kicked up in my stomach.  Jason Dunnigan, my “one that got away”.  I could never find anyone to replace him and honestly; I don’t think I wanted to.  I had been a messed up girl when he met me.  But he had the patience and took the time to let me know that I’m worth caring about.  

“What did you tell him?”  I asked.

“The truth.”  Jack replied, moving around the pool table toward me.  “I said you were a private investigator on retainer by the city cops.  I also said that there was a good chance you’d be in here tonight.”

I stood up straight and faced him, though he was a whole head and shoulders taller than me.  “Why did you do that?!”  I asked, setting my pool cue down on that table.  I drained what was left of my drink and put out my cigarette.  My leather jacket hung on the back of a nearby chair, I grabbed it and slipped it on over my shoulders.

“Miriam, you can’t run from him forever.  He was a good guy, we all liked him.”  

“Sure.  He’s a good guy.  Okay.”  I said sarcastically.  “Such a good guy that he broke my heart and ran off.”  I pulled my hair out from beneath the jacket’s collar.  

“Miriam…”  Jack sighed.

“Maybe I can get out of here and get home before he shows up.  Maybe he doesn’t know where my office is and won’t find me for a while.  That’ll give me time to think of something…”

I moved to leave — 

— just as the door to Poor Johnny’s opened…. 

[coyotesamachado]

Picture Perfect Porcelain

Robert “Bob” Floyd x Reader/Original Female Character

Her arm curls around the door so it’s lined up along the edge of it, Bob thinks he sees a droplet of water track from her wrist back down to her elbow, but his glasses are back in his locker and he really wishes they weren’t right now. He swallows thickly, because it’s different when he knows she’s naked behind there as opposed to it being salt water after she had been thrown into the ocean by Coyote during dogfight football.

Basically, I love hot showers.

Title is from Ever After by Marianas Trench.

Callsign is Mist.

This is cross posted from my AO3, link in the source.

WC: 2907.

Warnings: 18+, smut, hot showers, girl can’t deep throat, oral (male receiving), vaginal fingering, rooster is a menace.

Walking into the shower room, Bob could kick himself. She always waits until everyone else is finished with their showers, because she likes to have hot showers, the kind of ones that turn the room into a sauna, and leave no hot water for anyone else. Apparently, he hadn’t been fast enough though, because Mist is in here and he still hasn’t had a shower.

The door closes behind him and he flinches as the resounding bang echoes around the room. He hears her gasp, and she’s opening the door to her stall and peaking her head out.

“Bob! Shit, sorry, I was told everyone had been through already, I’ll finish up,” she rushes out.

“No, no, it’s fine, I’ll just have a cold one. I don’t mind,” he says quickly, trying to placate the situation because he doesn’t want to take away her shower time. His own are a moment to decompress from the day, and since she tends to take the longest and the hottest whenever she has the chance, he can only imagine that it’s the same for Mist. Her arm curls around the door so it’s lined up along the edge of it, Bob thinks he sees a droplet of water track from her wrist back down to her elbow, but his glasses are back in his locker and he really wishes they weren’t right now. He swallows thickly, because it’s different when he knows she’s naked behind there as opposed to it being salt water after she had been thrown into the ocean by Coyote during dogfight football.

“No seriously, just give me a minute and I'll wash all this soap off and then it’s all yours, plenty of water left.”

She pulls her arm back and goes to lock the door behind her when Bob speaks again, it’s so soft that she can barely hear him.

“What was that?” she calls out, her voice singing out over the noise of the shower.

Bob rubs the back of his neck, wondering whether he should repeat himself or just let those words disappear with the steam.

“Bob?”

This was going to end badly, he could tell.

“What if...”

The door opens again, her head and shoulder appear before him. While he wishes he had the kind of easy assurance that Hangman does to ask for what he wants, he doesn’t. It deflates him a little and he sighs.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll be out in the locker room when you’re done,” he says, turning away from her and going to walk out.

“Wait! Were you... Are you... Will you...” she stutters, and she wishes she had the kind confidence that Phoenix has, to say what she wants without stuttering over it.

The steam is still thick around them, but it feels thicker than it had a minute ago.

“Bob, what if you just joined me, instead of waiting or...” she trails off again, and it’s so difficult to just put herself out there.

He turns back to her, and the door is open a little more, her collarbone now in his line of sight and he feels ridiculously overdressed. He stands there staring at her a beat too long and she breaths a long sigh.

“Sorry Bob, I just, I promise I’m nearly done, just forget what I said.”

It’s the door closing again that pulls Bob from his head and he’s dragging his shirt over his head, and unbuttoning his pants as he walks over. The shower turns off before he can knock or speak again. He feels like his lost his shot, but for once, he doesn’t want to walk away from it without trying.

“Turn it back on,” there’s a demand in his voice, and it kind of shocks him because he only really talks like that when he’s in the plane and needs Phoenix to do something in particular. He hears the gasp behind the door, and he smirks to himself. But her shower is back on and he feels the steam where he’s standing. The snick of the lock opening again captures his attention, and his heart is beating an unhealthy rhythm. Her hand is darting out like she’s trying to grab his shirt and pull him in, but when she only meets the smooth skin of his chest, there’s a choked off groan hitting the back of her throat.

She pulls open the door and steps back into the heat of the water, hoping the steam gives her a little bit of modesty. For the fact that Bob isn’t wearing his glasses, he really wishes she was closer right now. He drops his shirt on the little bench seat next to him, and turns to lock the door behind him. He takes in a deep breath, it’s all humid air at this point, and tells himself he can do this. She’s watching him carefully from where she’s near pressed up against the back corner. She feels like she should look away, but he’s bending down to shed himself of his pants and she can’t take her eyes off him. He folds both his pants and underwear neatly and puts them with his shirt, and her eyes are glued to the curve of ass down to the muscle of his thighs. When he turns, she’s suddenly very interested in the tile beneath her feet.

He hisses when the water touches his skin, used to the more tepid temperatures that came with being on a carrier, not this, which feels like she hasn’t even got the cold water turned on.

“You can turn it down, I won’t die not having a hot as hell shower,” she laughs, and it’s cutting through the tension, so Bob feels himself smiling.

“I’d rather not walk out looking like a lobster,” his voice is jovial, but he means it as he tries to avoid giving Hangman another reason to tease him.

“I think you’d make a very attractive lobster.”

And that’s what breaks his resolve, so he turns to face her, finally close enough that he can see the droplets of water caught on her collar bone, the lines of her hair plastered to her shoulder, and he picks a freckle that’s sitting right there at the front so he’s got something to look at.

“You’re being a gentleman,” she utters, taking a step closer to him. And yeah, he is, because this feels like he’s about to wake up any moment, alone in his bed and he’ll miss the heat of the shower. He doesn’t know how he’ll look at her in the morning if that’s the case.

He’s just blinking at her, and he knows he should be doing something but it’s been a while since he’s been in this position. Well, not this position exactly, but a woman, naked in front of him isn’t something that happens every day.

“Bob, I’m going to kiss you now,” she whispers and she’s right in front of him, her eyelashes sticking together in the damp. She places a hand on his cheek, her thumb moving in a comforting motion, but she’s really waiting for him to tell her to stop, to tell her that he doesn’t want this.

When he doesn’t, she gives him a gentle kiss, and Bob’s grateful that his brain switches back on in that moment, and he’s able to kiss her back rather than just stand there dumbly. His hand wraps around her hip and his thumb digs into the soft flesh above it. He backs her up until her back hits the wall of the stall and she’s barely in the spray of the water. She sucks in a breath at the change of temperature that hits her suddenly.

A quick sorry is mumbled against her lips, but she shifts her hand to the back of his neck, her other one reaching up to meet it, so she can pull him closer and deepen their kiss.

He hisses when the heat of her skin is pressed up against his chest, and she grins into him. She breaks the kiss but keeps him close and Bob doesn’t really know what to do with that information.

“We should get you cleaned up.”

“We should?”

“Mmhmm.”

And she’s letting him go, slipping from between him and the wall, and if he wasn’t getting hard before, the drag of her body would do it.

He smells the citrus of her body wash, and no, he would not admit to anyone else that he had paid that close of attention to her, that he recognizes the scent of her soap. There’s a slip of her hands on his back, the cold of her wash, and he moans at the feel of her hands running over him. She rubs at the knots in his shoulders, he feels them loosening up in the warmth of the shower and the careful ministrations of her fingers. She runs her hands down the length of his back, over the curve of his ass and he jumps a little when she smacks him gently. The soap suds fall around their feet as her laughter rings through the shower room.

She moves around him, a hand on the back of his neck, up over his shoulder and down the line of his chest. He finds the freckle on her shoulder again, giving something to focus on rather than the feel of her hands against him. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, concentrating on her work as she lathers him up. He finds it just a little bit adorable when he looks back up at her, and he wonders whether she does it while she’s flying. God, now he’s going to be thinking about that when he’s up in a plane. Thankfully, Phoenix sits in front of him.

Her eyes roam over him, easily giving herself permission to look. Her hands track a path over his chest, down his front until her hands dip low across his hips and he sucks in a breath through his teeth at the sensation.

“You don’t...” “I want to,” she interrupts quickly, not giving him a chance to shy away from her.

Bob moans loudly at the feeling of her hand wrapped around him because it’s been so long since it wasn’t his own hand. She kisses him quickly, trying to silence him, but it’s messy as laughter starts falling from her lips, because it doesn’t work. So instead, she buries her face in his neck as her body wracks with her giggles. It brings a smile to his own face, despite the fact that her hand is still on his cock. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her under the shower spray with him, and grins when she looks up at him, hair plastered to her forehead. He pushes it away with a gentle hand before gripping the side of her face and kissing her hard. He bites at her bottom lip when she squeezes him, her hand slick with water and soap, so she glides easily over him. When her thumb pushes on his tip, Bob tosses his head back, when she does it again, the moan is ripped from him, echoing off the walls of the shower room.

“Shhh Bob, someone might walk in,” she chides, but the fact she swipes her thumb over it a third time, tells him there’s absolutely no heat behind it.

She pushes him up against the opposite wall, giving him a quick smirk before she’s squatting down in front of him and licking a stripe up the underside of his cock.

“Oh fuck,” he utters, and Mist grins because she doesn’t think the word ever sounded so sweet.

It’s not comfortable, but knees on a tile floor would be significantly worse. She takes him in her mouth and Bob honestly doesn’t know what to do with his hands right now. It’s an overload for his senses, the heat of her mouth and hand around him, the near suffocating steam, the spray of the water and the cold wall behind him. It’s a lot.

She works her mouth over him, trying to take him as far as she can, but she can only get to her hand before she’s choking and pulling back with a cough.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, before trying again with the same result, it’s definitely not as easy as they make it look in porn. But Bob places a comforting hand on her cheek, like he’s telling her that she’s doing great, that it’s the effort that counts. So, she swirls her tongue around the head, focusing on making that feel good while her hand takes care of the rest of his length. His breath is coming out in short pants mixed with the occasional moan when she twists her hand just so, and then her hand is speeding up while her tongue laves over him, and Bob’s moans grow louder and more frequent until he’s pulling her by her hair off him and she’s moaning at the sensation. He comes, it mostly missing her still open mouth but landing in painted stripes across her cheek, chin and chest. Bob wishes he had photographic memory at that point, because it’s an image he never wants to forget.

It’s cleaned off pretty quickly with her in the direct line of the shower.

She stands up slowly, taking Bob’s offered hand to help her, and once she’s level again, he's on her in an instant. His mouth slips over hers and he’s quickly deepening the kiss before she can really react. She wraps her arms around him again, pressing closer this time, and he’s less careful in his movements now. His hands run up and down the length of her back, over her sides and when he brushes the swell of her breasts, she huffs out a satisfied breath. He turns them around, taking the heat of the shower spray, one of his hands running down the length of her body until his fingers are sliding through her folds, teasing her gently. She’s so so wet, and Bob wonders idly whether she touches herself when she showers or if getting him off really affected her that much. A part of him wants to ask, but the other part of him doesn’t really want to know the answer to that. The self-conscious part of him is telling him that it’s just a part of her nightly ritual, but the other part that can acknowledge her soft moans and the cant of her hips chasing his fingers, tells him that it’s all about him.

He circles one of his fingers over her clit, drawing the sweetest sounds from her, and his cock jumps in interest. She’s practically mewing under his hands, but it’s just not enough for her.

“Please Bob,” she whines, her voice high pitched. He smirks at her and pushes a finger inside her, groaning at the heat around him. He brings his lips to hers again, and he swallows her little moans like they’re an oasis in the dessert. His thumb swipes over her clit as they kiss, and he hopes he’s making her feel as good as she made him feel.

As he plunges two fingers inside her, he pulls her hair at the same time, and Mist near about screams at the sensation. Bob hadn’t realized hair pulling was a thing he liked until it made her make those pretty little sounds, and by God, if he hadn’t just come, he’d be coming again. She rocks herself back and forth on his fingers, and the only thing that would make it better, is if it was his cock inside of her instead of his fingers. But then her moans pitch up and she drops her head to his shoulder, sucking messy, wet kisses there while she rides his fingers to her orgasm. He tugs on her hair again and she’s trembling around him, coming silently like it’s a surprise.

He lets go of her hair and wraps that arm around her, holding her close as he slows his fingers. He slips them from her when she stops shaking and washes them off in the shower that’s slowly cooling. When she looks up at him again, her smile is bright, but her expression quickly turns to embarrassment when she notices the line of red and purpling bruises she had sucked into his collar while she rode out her high.

“I’m so sorry Bob, I’ll help you hide those,” she says quickly, tucking her chin and looking down.

“Hey, no need for that Mist, don’t care if anyone sees them,” he says, cupping her chin and forcing her to look up at him.

He’s smiling, satiated and happy, glad that she had been in the shower when he’d walked in. She smiles shyly back, and he kisses her again, this time soft, like an assurance that everything is fine between them. He holds her close, pressing his forehead to hers and she finds something comforting in that.

“If you ever want a round t....”

“Yes, absolutely, as soon as possible.”

-

Phoenix walks into their common area, and throws herself on the lounge opposite Rooster.

“Where’s Mist?” she asks him.

“Showers,” he grunts in response.

“What about Bob?”

Rooster has the decency to look a little sheepish as he finally catches her eye.

“Showers.”

Phoenix’s jaw drops.

“Rooster, what did you do?

[primofate]

Haikyuu! Drabble: When you get hurt (minor injuries)

Note: Ugggghhhhhhh I love these men. Honestly. wtf. How can you have so many good guys in one anime. Also please don’t take this as a sign that I’ll stop posting for Genshin, but you know, give me some space to hype over my other fandoms please XD

Warnings: it’s seriously just plain fluff

Characters: Kageyama, Tsukishima, Oikawa, Bokuto, Ushijima

Kageyama

“What happened to your knee?”

Is the first thing he says, his face as serious as ever, eyes looking at your bandaged knee as he approaches you in class. You laugh nervously as you unwound the school bag away from your shoulder, placing it on your desk.

“Ah, I was walking Momo-chan last night...But you know, he’s gotten so big and I guess I was a little distracted...He saw a squirrel and just went running for it and...” you trail off, feeling Kageyama’s aura change. You knew he was about to call you reprimand you, and sure enough, he says “Idiot,” just as he would to Hinata.

On closer inspection you also had a bandage around your wrist. He guessed that you tried to hold on to the leash and it dragged your hand across the pavement. 

After berating you with that one word, he wouldn’t say anything else about it. But he would, whenever he could, show some concern that you wouldn’t usually see. “I’ll take that,” he grabs your lunch box from you and you look up at him all confused as to why he’s carrying it for you today. 

But, he stops at the door of the classroom and then turns around. “Actually, let’s just eat here,” as opposed to the school rooftop where the two of you usually ate. 

And then, at the end of the school day, before you could even lift your bag over your shoulder, he’s already there and lifting it on HIS shoulder. You’re dumbfounded. “Are you going to your club? I’ll walk you first then go to mine,” 

Then it hits you. It’s because you’re hurt, and he didn’t want you to strain your knee or wrist anymore. You secretly smile but let him do what he wants. There was no stopping him when he set his mind to it after all. “Tobio-kun, you know, it’s just a scrape, I can still do things by myself,” 

“Shut up and just let me do it...” he mutters under his breath, until he drops you off to your club and goes his own way. 

And then, as your nightly routine to walk Momo-chan, you’re stunned when you see your boyfriend standing there, outside your house gates. Hands in his pockets. “T-Tobio?” 

He lived close by, but still, you didn’t expect him to be there. He snatches the leash away from you, your dog is just happily gazing at the two of you, tail swishing wildly at the fact that TWO of his favourite people are walking him today. And again, Kageyama says,

“...I need to go for a run anyway,”

Tsukishima

“Excuse me, I’m looking for a Tsukishima-san,”

A girl in the basketball team uniform appears at the doorway of the gym, all members turn to her as she bows and straightens up. Tsukishima sighs in relief. Finally an actual excuse to rest from training. 

“That’s me,” he towers over the girl, who only blinks up at him, slightly intimidated. “Ah, uh, yeah...Y/N said that you have her spare glasses?” His eyebrows perk up. Right. You were in the basketball team, for some reason he always forgot that detail. 

He turns away without a word and goes to his bag. He did, indeed, have your spare glasses. You left it at his house last time during a study session, being the airhead that you are. He retrieves it but before handing the black box to the girl, he asks. “What happened to the ones she has?” 

He wasn’t thinking much of it. Perhaps someone accidentally stepped on it, or maybe you even accidentally broke it.

"The ball hit her face,” 

“Is she--”

The words of worry practically dies on his lips. He could feel and sense Yamaguchi and Sugawara listening in to the conversation and he’d drop dead before getting caught being worried for someone. But still, this is why he always told you that you needed sports glasses. A scratch to the eye could be dangerous.

He sighs pretty loudly, and turns to face Sugawara who was off court, standing next to Yamaguchi who was also taking a small break. “Sugawara-san, I’ll be back,” There’s a big smile on his vice captain’s face, same as Yamaguchi who knew that his friend was actually worried. 

Tsukishima ignored their stupid smiles.

“Oh! Kei,” You look up as the door to the school clinic opened, you were just sitting on one of the beds, legs moving back and forth and waiting for your teammate to retrieve the spare glasses for you. Tsukishima said that he’d handle it and as he passed the black box to you he grabs your chin and turns it in his hands, looking at your eyes. 

There was a cut under your left eye that was already patched up. He releases your face when he was sure it was actually nothing serious, only to cross his arms and smirk at you. “See, I told you that hard head of yours would come in handy. Also receive the ball with your hands, not your face,”

You puff your cheeks out in annoyance and put your spare glasses on, feeling brand new. “Sure did, but my glasses aren’t as strong as my skull,” you sulked and he only blinked. “and I was taking a break! Then suddenly I see the ball coming at me, I don’t think that’s my fault!”

“I believe you. Your team has horrid ball passing skills after all,” he’s relentless with his insults but you knew that’s just the way he was. The fact that he came all the way to the school clinic told you enough about his worry. So, you ignore his last remark and smile up at him, “Thanks for checking on me, Kei,” 

He clicks his tongue but places his hand on your head, “Let’s get you new ones tomorrow, and maybe now you’ll listen to me about those sports glasses,” 

Oikawa

“She’s absent today,”

Oikawa’s face fell. You hadn’t told him anything about being sick or being unwell today. He wondered what happened. However, despite his looks and carefree personality, the Aoba Johsai captain was someone who was actually quite detailed. “In that case, can someone pass me her homework? I’ll go and deliver it to her!”

Safe to say your classmates were always surprised at how much the captain doted on you. He wasn’t always doing it openly, but at least he was thoughtful and thorough.

“Y/N-chan~ How could you leave me all alone in school today?” You could practically hear the pout from the other side of the line. He’d gone to the school grounds to get some private time to call you. 

“Sorry Toru, I can’t really walk properly. It should be fine in a few days though,”

His heart did a little leap, worry etching itself on his features. “What do you mean? What happened?”

The pout in his voice was gone, replaced by what you always called “the captain voice”. 

“I sprained my ankle...It’s a long and stupid story...” you laughed but you heard him sigh. “Well, I have no choice then. Your prince will visit you after-school today!”

You didn’t think he really would. He had volleyball practice and he took those seriously. But at 8 pm, just as you finished dinner, your doorbell rang and next thing you knew he was in your room. 

Your mother just LOVED him. Sometimes you thought even more than you. She was unaware of how hyper Oikawa actually was. He certainly knew how to play his cards right. 

“Alright princess, let me see that foot,” While you were sitting on your chair he practically bent down on on one knee and inspected it. He did kind of look like a prince like that, with his volleyball jacket. Then he suddenly plopped on the floor with his legs crossed. “AAhhhh! That sucks you won’t come to school for a few days!” He was whining again and you couldn’t help but laugh. 

Without fail, every day that you were absent, he showed up at your house after practice.

Bokuto

It’s not that you were particularly clumsy. You were actually a pretty careful person, and that’s why Bokuto always trusted your cooking skills over his. Baking a cake shouldn’t be too hard, but you were rather unfamiliar with the oven at his place.

“Mm, so, it says here to just leave it in the oven for 45 minutes!” he has this big smile on his face and you shake the batter in the round container again. The oven had already been pre-heated and when you open the door to it, hot air greets you. 

You took the round container in your hand, and push it in. It sits just at the front of the oven and you really hate it when that happens, so, with your boyfriend still focused on the recipe (and without mittens cause you think it’ll just be quick push) you try to inch the round cake pan further in with your hand. At one point, you accidentally touch the inside of the hot oven and you recoil your hand with a loud gasp. 

“WHAT?! What what what?!” Bokuto flings the recipe book away and clutches at your hand. In all honesty it didn’t hurt that much, but you had made contact on the hot surface just enough for it to sting and startle you. “Nothing Kou, I just accidentally touched the oven,” you laugh sheepishly but he’s pulling you over to the sink.

The boy is panicking.

“Water!” You’re amazed at how he even knows what to do, running water now splashing on your hand. It wasn’t even enough to burn you, it was just a little red, that’s all. “K-Kou, it’s totally fine,” 

But he turns to you with a waterfall of tears running down his eyes and his hair has deflated from it’s usual spiky style. “I-I’m so useless!” 

‘Ah there he goes,’ you think. But you’ve been trained by Akaashi how to handle these kinds of outbursts from him. “Not at all Kou-kun, you mixed the batter so perfectly. I usually get tired when I do that, but you have really strong arms! Next time I’ll let you handle the oven too, is that okay?”

He stares at you blankly for a moment. The tears have disappeared and his lips oh-so slowly curve into a smile. He gives you a thumbs up, back to his usual flair and confidence. “Of course! Leave it to me!” and he laughs triumphantly while you thank Akaashi in your mind.

Ushijima

Cooking for him and Tendo at the dorms was like a weekly routine. It was mostly for Ushijima, but Tendo liked crashing the cooking party too.

“Be careful.” Ushijima says as he passes the vegetables for you to chop. You did so without any incident. The cooking itself passes by without any incident, until your hand slip off the plate you’re holding and it comes crashing down the floor, shattering into pieces, some of the pieces flying off in different directions.

Ushijima and Tendo perks up in alarm at the sudden sound, with Ushijima being the first to rise on his feet and assess the situation. You’re about to carefully just move away from the mess you made, shards littering around your feet. “Don’t move,” Ushijima tells you, noting that you were only wearing his over-sized slippers. He sees that one of the shards has cut your foot. It was small, but since it was fresh, it was still bleeding. 

“If you move you’ll hurt yourself, wait for me,” you do as told as Ushijima first sweeps off the rest of the shattered glass with a broom, disposes of it. Next he comes to you with a new set of slippers, puts it down on the now clean floor, and tells you to carefully slip out of the ones you have on, he was cautious about the small pieces. Only when you were neatly into the new set of slippers did he clean off the rest of the glass.

Tendo only sat and watched in amusement. His captain was very thorough, even with things like that. “I’ll go and get a first aid kit~” he offered as he stood and sauntered off. “Y/N, sit over there,” he pointed at a nearby chair and you merely follow. There was no use saying no to him, you knew he just wanted to check if everything was in order.

Sure enough just as Tendo comes back with the kit, Ushijima inspects your foot, eyes scanning all around it. It seems that there was only that one cut and it’d be easy to treat. You weren’t surprised that Ushijima knew what to do, watching him take some cotton and pour some alcohol on it, muttering under his breath that it would sting a bit. 

By the end of it, the cut on your foot was disinfected and bandaged properly. “Oohhhh! Good job Wakatoshi-kun!” Tendo praised his friend for the clean job and Ushijima nodded his head with a small “Mm,”

“Thank you,” you smile up at him, “and sorry for the plate, I wasn’t paying attention,” 

Ushijima makes a thoughtful sound, perhaps a little confused by your apology “...The plate is of no great value,” he simply says “it can be replaced.”

"I can’t say the same for you Y/N, so it’s good that you weren’t gravely hurt,” The blush on your cheeks is obvious and Ushijima doesn’t understand what has you so flustered, he’s just being his honest and straightforward self. 

Tendo only laughs at the display.

Masterlist

https://primofate.tumblr.com/post/653296890583154688/masterlist-for-mobile-version-main-links

Taglist (Want to be notified when something new comes out? Sign up! I’ve added some other fandoms as well, so if you’re interested in those, fill in the form again!):

https://forms.gle/VZmJXQssHcv7YzQc6

Commissions are open on my kofi :) and there’s only a limited amount available. Make sure you read the description of what kind of commissions I do:

https://ko-fi.com/primofate

Taglist:  @coldstonecrematorium @gultonluvv @fiona782 @amigenshin @foxxtrot-116

[huggybug]

finally getting around to writing this

disclaimer: reminder that this is complete fiction, it’s not a direct representation of pat and brendan’s relationship!!!

happy dilf day!

It was awkward. Your son’s tournament this week went horribly wrong and with his luck, it was the one weekend that Brendan was home for which meant he was at every single game. Now, you were all in the car, driving home from the rink after his team came in 16th out of 20 teams. The silence was the most uncomfortable thing you’ve ever felt, especially since you could feel both boys absolutely fuming in their seats.

“You’re never going to make it anywhere if you keep playing like that” Brendan broke the silence and you looked at him right away. You heard your son mumble something in the back seat but Brendan kept on going, “You can’t play like that, especially when there’s scouts watching”

This tournament was the one that college scouts usually came to watch, it was one of the most important tournaments of the year and as disappointing as the team’s performance was, you didn’t think it was fair to blame it all on your son.

“I wasn’t the only one out there…” You could tell that your son was feeling a little dejected and you couldn’t blame him. Brendan was being ridiculous, blaming it all on your son and you knew it.

“I don’t care, you’re the one who could have changed it out there. You’re my son, the captain of your team. You should know better” Brendan continued to tear into your son while he stayed silent, “That’s embarrassing, aren’t you embarrassed?” Your eyes widened, shocked at how brutal he was being.

“Brendan” You scolded, “That’s enough” He looked at you but you just shook your head sharply. Brendan parked the car and your son scrambled out as fast as he could. You followed quickly, rushing into the house behind him.

“Can I please just go to bed?” He asked you, eyes pleading for you to say yes. You took a deep breath and pulled him into a hug, feeling terrible for the way Brendan handled that.

“Of course, don’t worry, I’ll talk to him” He nodded and dragged himself upstairs, clearly drained from the day. You followed, heading to your room to get ready for bed and soon enough, you heard Brendan entering the room.

You continued moving around the bedroom, finishing your routine and changing while ignoring your husband. “What? You’re not going to talk to me now?” Brendan grabbed your hand when you walked past him but you shook him off. “C’mon why are you mad?”

“If you seriously don’t know the answer to that question, I’m not going to walk you through it Brendan” There it was again, the use of his full name. He actually couldn’t remember the last time you called him ‘Brendan’ it was always babe or Bren, never his full name.

“I’m just frustrated, he is so much better than that”

“You don’t think he knows that? It was a bad weekend Bren, he knows and he doesn’t need you pouring salt in the wound and making it worse”

“I just want him to live up to his potential” He froze when the words left his mouth.

“Oh, you finally heard it?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest and he sighs, “You sound exactly like your father Bren”

“Don’t say that” He snaps which makes you shake your head.

“You spent all your life trying to prove everything to your dad and now you’re making our son do that too” It was a little unfair to say, you knew his relationship with Pat was a touchy subject but you were defending your son, it didn’t matter.

Brendan made a vow when your son was born, he promised himself that he would never turn into his father. He didn’t want his own son to grow up feeling the pressure and obligation of ‘being a Brisson’, something his father used to tell him was a blessing.

“I’m not-”

“Yes you are!” You were tired of Brendan acting like this wasn’t his fault, like nothing he said was out of line. “You’re doing exactly what you used to complain about your dad doing Bren. I remember you coming to my dorm just absolutely devastated because your dad said something stupid about a game and you just couldn’t stand him being disappointed in you. Is that really how you want to be? A dad who makes his own son feel like that?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything” He said quietly as he sat down on the edge of the bed, dropping his head into his hands.

“Yeah, no kidding” You scoffed, sitting next to him and placing your hand delicately on his back, “I know you mean well but sometimes it’s better if we just let him process it in his own way”

“I hated my dad for doing that” Brendan shook his head, “Fuck, I hate myself for doing it now”

“Calm down Bren, you can talk to him and I know he’ll understand. You’re a good dad, I know that and he knows that, you’re nothing like your father”

“Yeah… yeah I’m gonna talk to him” Brendan smiled, taking a couple breaths to hype himself up.

“Not tonight. Give him some time, you can talk to him in the morning” You said gently, “Let’s get some rest” Brendan sighed but agreed, letting you coax him into bed quietly. You took a deep breath once he was asleep, it had been a long day and you were glad it was finally over.

[ko-eko-ev-go-ms]

Am just hoping that this is something I process quicker ? Maybe ?

Hate when you realize something was more serious and happened and more specifically that you finally realize it’s something you’re gonna have to process for a while rather than just rapidly move on from, especially when it’s like way after the fact and just blegh