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sixeyesonathiel · 2 days ago

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love thy neighbor — chapter two.

pairing – boy next door! gojo x fem reader

summary : you grew up with the boy next door, the one with wild white hair and a grin too sharp for someone who always left dirt on your doorstep. satoru lived to rile you up, stealing your snacks and outrunning you in backyard chases, weaving himself into your life despite every glare you threw. through the chaos of shared summers and endless spats, he became a constant you couldn’t quite escape.

college stretched you apart, states away, the silence of distance swallowing your usual bickering—until summer drags you back. nothing’s the same. the air feels heavier, the days stranger, and satoru’s still all smirks and sly glances, but his eyes linger now, carrying a quiet ache you’re only starting to notice. college has you questioning everything, and he’s waiting, like always, for you to catch up to something you’re not ready to name.

tags –> fluff, tiny bit of angst later, eventual smut, neighbors au, childhood frenemies to lovers, suburban warfare (moms edition), mutual pining, domestic in the pettiest way possible, slow burn, growing up together, long term pining, yearner satoru, summer vacation tension, alternating POVs.

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a/n : comments are highly appreciated because i really really hesitated sm writing this fic cus i felt like i was dragging it out 🥹

freshman year hits you both like a runaway bus barreling down the street, all chaos and jolts you can’t brace for.

the gym’s a sweaty mess—sneakers squeal on the polished floor, air thick with that sour teenage stench, basketballs thudding like they’re mad at the world. satoru’s found his thing, basketball, his lanky legs finally making sense as he weaves through drills, white hair flopping, damp with sweat, like he owns the place.

you’re stuck here too, cheerleading, because your mom swore it’d “keep you out of trouble”—her voice all pinched over breakfast like she’s sentencing you to jail. your skirt’s short, swishing as you stretch by the bleachers, one leg propped up, pom-poms dumped in a glittery pile next to your sneakers—scuffed, laces loose, the kind that say you’re too cool to care.

you won’t admit it, but there’s a kick in the way the squad moves, even if you’d rather choke than say so.

it’s a thursday—late september, sticky heat clinging like a bad habit—and satoru’s mid-drill, dodging some kid who’s already tripping over himself. girls from your algebra class hover by the bleachers, all giggles and twirled fingers, one clutching a crinkly water bottle like it’s a trophy.

“you’re so good!” she chirps, voice dripping sugar, and the others nod, fluttering lashes as he wipes his brow, gray shirt clinging damp to his chest, grinning like he’s king of the world.

you’re mid-lunge, one hand on the bench, hair tugged back with a clip, and your scowl could burn holes through the wall. “gross,” you mutter, low and bitter, stomach twisting like you’ve swallowed something sour. he’s eating it up—tossing the ball hand to hand, nodding at them like some sweaty prince—and it’s maddening, how they fawn, how he glows, how you notice.

he catches you staring, those stupid blue eyes cutting through the gym’s haze like a laser. peels off mid-drill, jogging over with that smirk already curling, sweat dripping down his forehead, sticking white strands to his skin.

leans against the bleacher rail—too casual, ball tucked under his arm, shadow spilling over you. “jealous much?” he drawls, voice lazy, bouncing off the walls loud enough the girls glance over, whispering.

you scoff, “in your dreams, satoru,” you snap, venom dripping, cheeks flaming hotter than the gym’s buzzing lights.

you straighten up, ditch the stretch, and kick a pom-pom—hard, way harder than you mean to. it skids across the floor, tumbling into the wall with a sad little flop, glitter trailing like a crime scene.

his laugh chases you, bright and smug, ringing in your ears as you storm toward the double doors—metal, scratched, groaning under your shove. hallway air hits, cool and stale, but your face stays molten, his words looping ”jealous much?” and you slam a fist into the nearest locker, metal clanging, just to drown it out.

that gym fiasco lingers like a bad smell, satoru’s smug laugh still rattling in your skull as weeks slip by. you’re softer now, less likely to shove him face-first into the dirt, though the urge never fully dies. mornings by the fence settle into a weird rhythm, a dance of sharp words and half-hearted glares, hoses in hand while the sun creeps up lazy and gold.

your nails are painted today—chipped red polish, a little messy from last night’s boredom—and your skirt’s a touch longer, brushing your knees as you shift to prune the roses. then one morning, you ditch the usual shorts for a sundress. it’s nothing fancy, just some faded yellow thing you dug out of the closet, fabric swaying light as you bend to snip a thorn, humming something off-key under your breath.

satoru stops mid-sentence—something dumb about his mom’s flowers—and you glance up, catching him blinking like his brain’s hit a wall. the hose dribbles in his hand, water seeping into his slippers, soaking the little clouds dark. his mouth hangs open a second too long, eyes wide, locked on you like you’ve grown a second head.

“you look… weird,” he mumbles, voice cracking just enough to betray him. his face flushes pink, splotchy across his cheeks, and he jerks the hose up, splashing you square in the chest before he can stop himself.

you gasp, stumbling back, the cold water soaking through the dress, clinging damp to your skin. “weird?!” you snap, voice spiking high, all offended pride and fire. your hands ball into fists, knuckles white, and you glare at him like he’s just spat on your grave. “what’s that supposed to mean, satoru?”

he’s floundering now, eyes darting everywhere but you—fence, sky, his soggy slippers—fingers fumbling with the hose like it’s a lifeline.

“i—uh—nothing! just… weird!” he stammers, shoving a hand through his hair, mussing it worse, and his ears are burning red, bright as the roses behind you.

weird. weird ?! your chest puffs up, indignation blazing, because you didn’t put this dress on to get that. you’d seen those girls at practice—giggling, twirling, all soft edges and fluttery lashes, the kind he grins at like a smug idiot. that’s his pretty, not you, not this, and the thought stings sharper than you expect, though you don’t know why.

“you’re such a jerk,” you huff, tossing the pruning shears onto the grass, blades glinting in the sun. you turn on your heel, slippers flopping loud, and storm toward the house, leaving a trail of wet footprints.

satoru’s still standing there, frozen, hose limp in his grip, water pooling around his feet. his jaw’s slack, eyes stuck on the sway of your dress, the way it clings just a little, and his heart’s thudding so hard he’s half-sure you can hear it across the yard.

he swallows. hard. adam’s apple bobbing, and mutters to himself, “oh no. oh no, no, no.” his free hand scrubs down his face, dragging over his flushed cheeks, because you’re not just the gremlin he wrestles anymore—you’re you, and he’s screwed.

that night, through your glass window, you catch him glancing over, desk lamp casting a warm glow across his room. he’s hunched over a notebook, pretending to scribble, but his head keeps tipping toward your side, quick little peeks he thinks you don’t see. you flip him off through the panes, lips twitching into a smirk you can’t hold back.

he mirrors it, shaky, his hand trembling as he raises it, and his face is still pink, eyes darting away fast. you don’t know he’s replaying that moment—the dress, the water, your glare—on a loop, kicking himself for “weird” when he meant something else entirely.

the thing is, you've been trudging to school with satoru forever, a routine carved from your dads’ “best buds” gospel, unshakable as the peeling paint on your porch.

every morning, he's kicking pebbles in his sneakers, you're clutching your backpack, your voices clashing over who hit snooze too long as the sun spills gold over the lawns, his shadow stretching longer each week.

it’s normalcy but the spite still festers overnight, bubbling up like lava lamp goo so you don't let it go. you don’t feel too particularly pleased with him at all to bear walking beside him for ten minutes.

so you wake up early, let spite be a living thing, and turn yourself into a 2014 dream: pastel crop top, baby pink, hugging your ribs just right, paired with a high-waisted floral skater skirt that flares out, all daisies and soft greens. you dig out those chunky mary janes, black and scuffed but cute, and you sling a tiny crossbody bag over your shoulder. cream with little roses, zipper half-broken.

lip gloss goes on thick, some glittery pink tube you found under a pile of old magazines, sticky and sweet, catching every flicker of light. stud earrings, tiny silver stars, wink in your lobes, and a thin headband, white and lacy, sits primly, screaming i'm not weird, i'm perfect, choke on it.

you stride out that morning, gloss gleaming, skirt swishing, a light cardigan tossed over your shoulders because the breeze has a bite. he's waiting by the gatepost like always, slouched, hands in his pockets, white hair a wind-tossed mess.

his head snaps up when he sees you, and his eyes bug out for just a second before he squints, like he's decoding some alien language.

“what’s all... this?” he says, voice hitching, and he coughs fast to bury it, his ears going pink.

you don’t stop.

you breeze past, chin high, letting your skirt flare, gloss shimmering like a taunt, not a glance his way. he’s stuck there, blinking, his sneakers shuffling in the dirt as his gaze bounces from crop top to flowers to that little bag, and his throat bobs, a gulp he can’t hide. his heart’s doing flips, and he doesn’t get it.

gremlin girl, spine-breaker, now this candy-coated nightmare?

he’s a goner, and it’s only 7:32 a.m.

“hey, wait up!” he calls, sharper, jogging a step, but you’re already gone, your heels clicking down the block, leaving him choking on your strawberry-scented dust.

school’s a battlefield. you dodge him in the halls, weaving past kids with skinny jeans and chipped flip phones, ducking behind a vending machine when you spot that white mop bobbing through the crowd. in english class, he’s two rows back, slouched over his desk, and you feel his stare prickling your neck.

you flip your notebook pages louder, doodle nonsense in the margins, gloss shining under the buzzing lights like a middle finger.

“you gonna talk to me or what?” he asks before the bell, voice low, leaning over his desk as you pack up.

you pretend you don’t hear. you sling your bag over your shoulder and flounce out, skirt swishing, leaving him glaring at the empty doorway. when lunch rolls around, he tries again. he plops down across from you with his tray, a sad sandwich and a dented juice box, mouth opening. “so, you’re just gonna—”

“not today, satoru.” you cut in, voice slicing the air, standing up fast, chair scraping the tile. you march off to the cheer girls’ table, their giggles forming a fortress as he stares, sandwich dangling, jaw half-open like you’ve slapped him.

the afternoon is humid, sticky air clinging to your skin as you strut out the gates, gloss fresh from a bathroom touch-up, skirt bouncing with every step.

satoru is waiting, slouched against the wall, hands in his pockets, that lazy bounce in his stance until he sees you. you’re laughing with that guy from history class, tall, quiet, harmless, with floppy brown hair and a grin too shy for his face.

he’s mumbling some pun about the revolutionary war. muskets misfiring, lame but oddly charming. you laugh, loud and bright, leaning in just a smidge, mostly because he’s not satoru, and that feels like a win.

“see ya tomorrow,” you say, tossing your hair as the boy blushes and shuffles off.

satoru stands too still, blue eyes narrowing into slits as you giggle at this nobody. his sneakers stay glued to the pavement. his face darkens. lips press tight, jaw clenches. he kicks a pebble so hard it cracks against the fence, bouncing into the grass.

he stalks off, fast, sneakers scuffing loud, not a word, just a glare that could torch the whole schoolyard.

you don’t walk home together that day. nor the next.

days limp by, and satoru is brooding worse than ever. you catch him one morning at home, watering the plants. your mom’s prized roses versus his mom’s smug hydrangeas. the hose dangles in his grip, slippers slapping the patio as he kicks dirt clumps like they’ve insulted him personally.

he’s wearing a faded band tee from who-knows-where and dark plaid pajama pants, loose and wrinkled. his hair is a messy tangle from sleep, pale strands falling into his eyes. he looks half-asleep, fully annoyed at the world.

“you’re drowning them,” you say, standing on your side of the fence, hose in hand, gloss still tacky from breakfast.

he doesn’t look up. he rubs his neck, dirt smudging his fingers. he mutters something low, jagged, sour as week-old milk.

“what?” you say, sharper now, daring him to spit it out with a tilt of your head.

“didn’t know you liked losers,” he says, loud enough this time, eyes still fixed on the roses like they’ve betrayed him.

you blink. your lips part, gloss gleaming as the hose slips a little in your grip. water pools around your feet, and you step back.

“you’re being stupid.”

he flinches, just a twitch, barely there.

“whatever,” he grumbles, turning away, kicking another clump so it explodes into dust. “loser’s not even that funny.”

“you’re the one acting like one.” you say, voice sharp, and drop your hose, letting it splash wild across the patio. you stride off, skirt flouncing, leaving him glaring at the wet mess.

he freezes. his head snaps up, blue eyes wide for a second before narrowing again. he mutters, barely audible, “i’m not a loser.”

“yeah, right. keep telling yourself that.” you call over your shoulder, not stopping. your slippers squish in the grass as you head inside.

he stares after you, water pooling around his slippers, dirt streaked up his pajama pants. he mutters something again, too low to catch, then kicks the fence, wood creaking under the blow. he doesn’t understand how his heart’s still tripping over that pink top, those flowers, that laugh with some guy who isn’t him.

days slip by, sharp and silent, your glares cutting across lawns, his shadow dodging yours under a cooling sun. september’s heat fades, the air biting now, roses wilting as the neighborhood hums with fair prep, flyers flapping on poles.

you don’t talk, but his eyes linger, and you pretend not to notice, your steps quickening past his gate.

the school fair crashes into september like a sugar-high kid on a trampoline, all sticky cotton candy and creaky booths groaning under the heat. you’re roped into the cheer squad’s lemonade stand, decked out in their dress code—a sleeveless yellow sundress, short and bright, with a little white apron tied around your waist, paper flower crown slipping off your head as you fumble with a pitcher.

satoru’s stuck at ring toss across the way, grumbling as kids miss the rigged bucket, but he’s not alone—girls crowd around him, giggling, flipping their hair, drawn to his white tee clinging just right to his pale skin, blue eyes glinting under the sun, white hair catching the light like some annoying halo.

you’re not talking much these days, not since he called you weird and you left him at the gate. mornings by the plants are silent now—you water your side, sassing him off with a flick of your wrist when he tries to speak.

“save it, satoru.” you’ll simply snap, turning away, and he sulks, kicking dirt, barely muttering back. you don’t walk home together anymore, and it’s fine, totally fine, except he’s been moping like a kicked puppy, and you’re too stubborn to care.

at the fair, you’re squeezing lemons by hand, struggling because someone lost the damn juicer, and your fingers ache as the fruit slips in your grip. you glance up, wiping sweat from your brow, and peek past the cotton candy machine.

there’s a fake wedding booth—some tacky setup with a cardboard arch and wilted streamers—and that giggly girl from your class, braces flashing, bounces up with a ticket clutched in her fist. she’s all blushy, shoving it at satoru, who’s wandered over from ring toss, arms crossed, face blank like he’s bored out of his skull.

“marry me?” she squeaks, and you snort, waiting for him to roll his eyes and ditch.

except he doesn’t.

his jaw tightens, eyes flicking your way for a split second—caught you looking—and then he shrugs, all petty and sulky. “sure, why not,” he says, voice flat but sharp, like he’s aiming it at you. your stomach flips, but you don’t know why, don’t want to know.

the “ceremony” starts, some kid in a fake tuxedo drawling, “do you take her as your wife?”

satoru stands there, pale hands stuffed in his pockets, white tee stretched across his shoulders, and mutters, “yeah, whatever.”

she slips a paper ring on his finger, giggling like she’s won the lottery, and he just stares ahead, dead-eyed, while she fake-blushes and clutches his arm. the crowd claps, all “aww” and cheers, and you’re stuck, watching, lemon trembling in your hand.

your grip tightens. the lemon’s been a pain all day—slippery, stubborn, barely juicing and now it’s personal. you squeeze harder, nails digging in, and then you see her lean closer, giggling up at him, and pop—the thing explodes, juice spraying everywhere, pulp splattering your apron, your arms, the table.

you yelp, stumbling back, pitcher wobbling as lemonade sloshes over the edge, soaking the wood. a teammate blinks at you, wide-eyed. “you okay over there?”

“fine.” you snap, slamming cups down, wiping your hands on your dress, but your face burns, and your chest feels tight, and you don’t get it—why you’re mad, why it stings. you shove the mess aside, ignoring the whispers from the squad. he’s still over there, twirling that stupid ring, and you want to chuck a lemon at his head.

later, by the lockers, he’s waiting—leaning against the metal, white tee bright against the dim hall, blue eyes glinting as he spins that paper ring on his finger. “jealous?” he asks, voice sharp, eyebrow cocked like he’s daring you.

you scoff, shoving past, shoulder bumping his. “of you and your fake wife? please. hope she makes you scrub your fake toilet with a toothbrush.”

he grins, all teeth, and calls after you, “whatever you say.”

your hand twitches, diving into your apron pocket where a whole lemon’s been stashed—sour, heavy, perfect. you whip it at his head, hard, and he snatches it mid-air, reflexes annoyingly quick.

you don’t wait for that smug tease to spill out, just stomp off, shoes smacking the floor, leaving his “whatever” echoing down the hall, sticking to you like the lemon juice still drying on your skin, and you hate how it lingers, how he lingers, how you’re stomping harder than you need to.

weeks blur, your silence a wall, his sulks heavier across the fence, until october creeps in, crisp and restless, the neighborhood buzzing with game-day fever, gym doors swinging wide.

mid-october sneaks in, and the gym’s buzzing like a hive before the first big game, all jittery vibes and sweat-soaked air. satoru’s out there on the court, navy blue jersey clinging to his pale frame, number 7 splashed bold across his back. he’s weaving through a mock game, proving himself against the team captain, a junior with a loud mouth and a dunk that could shake the walls.

freshmen don’t usually get this shot, so he’s all in, sweat dripping down his neck, white hair plastered to his forehead, blue eyes sharp and locked on the ball.

you’re across the gym with the cheer squad, drilling stunts in your uniform, short navy skirt swishing, white top with gold trim hugging tight. pom-poms lie kicked aside in a glittery heap, forgotten for now. the squad’s a mess of noise, some girls giggling about the basketball players, others barking orders like they’re running a warzone.

you’re focused, determined to nail this flip, even if your ankle’s been twinging since yesterday when you tumbled off the bleachers, distracted by satoru’s dumb fan club and their water bottles.

the stunt goes up. your team hoists you, and you’re mid-air, all gritted teeth and forced grace, legs steady despite that nagging ache. then the landing hits.

your ankle twists wrong, buckling like it’s done with you. pain flares hot and fast, a sharp sting shooting up your leg. you crumple to the mat, gasping, clutching it as your eyes sting. it’s a mild sprain, but it hurts like hell.

the squad freezes.

“oh my god, are you okay?” one girl squeals, hands flapping uselessly.

another just stares, mouth open like she’s watching a car crash.

coach jogs over, whistle bouncing against her chest. “someone grab ice, now!” she yells, voice cutting through the gym’s hum.

satoru’s mid-dribble, captain bearing down like a storm. your gasp slices the noise. his head snaps your way, ball slipping from his fingers, rolling off into nothing. he bolts, ignoring the captain’s bellow of “gojo, what the hell!”

he’s kneeling by you in a second, pale hands hovering over your ankle, blue eyes wide with something raw, panic maybe.

“you’re such an idiot,” he mutters, voice shaky, fingers brushing your skin, checking for damage like he’s a doctor now.

you’re biting your lip, pain throbbing, tears prickling, no way you’re crying in front of him. “i’m fine,” you snap, voice wobbling, shoving his hand off.

he doesn’t budge, cheeks pink against that pale skin, all flustered and pushy. “shut up, it’s bad. you’re done, gotta get you home.”

“it’s just a twist,” you hiss, but coach is already nodding exasperatedly.

“gojo, you take her,” she says, final, and the squad’s whispering picks up.

“aww, he’s her knight now?” one girl smirks, elbowing her friend, and you want to vanish, sink through the mat and be gone.

he scoops you up, piggyback style, your cheer skirt hiking up awkwardly, his jersey brushing your legs as you cling to his shoulders. your face burns, pure mortification mixing with the throb in your ankle. he’s worse, heart flipping like it’s auditioning for the circus, hyper-aware of your arms around his neck, your breath grazing his ear.

“stop squirming,” he grumbles, voice cracking. “you’re heavy.”

“you’re weak,” you shoot back, sharper than you feel, gripping tighter as he starts walking, each step jolting your ankle just enough to sting.

the bags are a nightmare. he detours to the lockers, three slots apart in the hall, a parade of shame as kids gawk.

“is that gojo carrying her?” someone whispers, loud enough to make you wince.

he slings both backpacks over one arm, yours pink and glittery, stuffed with gloss and candy, his a beat-up navy thing with straps fraying like they’re giving up.

“this is so stupid,” you hiss, cheeks flaming as he grunts under the weight.

“yeah, well, you’re the one who can’t land a flip,” he mutters, but it’s soft, no real venom, his usual bite dulled by the way your hands hold him.

“didn’t ask for your help,” you snap, shifting, and he stumbles a step, catching himself quick.

“too bad, you got it,” he says, voice low, dodging a kid who nearly walks into you both.

the walk’s a blur, kids staring, your ankle swelling, his breath hitching whenever you adjust your grip. he’s panting by the time you hit your street, pale skin flushed red, not just from the effort. he sets you down on the porch like you’re made of glass, careful, too careful, and you hate how it makes your chest feel weird.

your mom’s out in the garden, fussing over a new batch of roses she’s been babying all week, dirt smudged on her cheek, hair tied back loose. she spots you, then satoru, and her eyes narrow like she’s caught a fox in her henhouse. she grabs a shovel leaning against the fence and charges, petals scattering as she storms the gate.

“what did you do to her?” she shrieks, brandishing it like a sword, voice high enough to wake the neighbors.

satoru stumbles back, hands up. “nothing, i swear!”

your dad’s right behind, jogging out from the garage, grabbing her arm. “honey, relax, he’s just helping.”

“helping?” she snaps, glaring at satoru, shovel still raised. “that gojo boy’s always trouble.”

“mom, stop,” you mutter, wincing as you shift, ankle throbbing under the wrap you don’t have yet.

she huffs, lowering the shovel but not her guard, muttering about “bad influences” as she turns back to her roses.

satoru bolts the second you’re inside, your mom fussing with ice and a scowl, dad chuckling, “he’s a good kid,” until your glare cuts him off.

that night, ankle propped on a pillow, it’s just a minor sprain, but the pain’s sharp, little jabs with every twitch. worse is the memory of his hands, steady and warm, the way he carried you like it meant something.

you scribble “thanks, loser” on a sticky note, tape it to a pack of sour gummies from your stash, and chuck it through your window to his. it thumps his glass, his shadow jumps, peering out, but you duck behind your curtains before he spots you.

next morning, you hobble out, ankle wrapped tight, still sore. he’s waiting by the gate, first time since the sundress fight you’re walking to school together. looks like he lost a war with his bed, white hair sticking up every which way, eyes half-lidded, swapped his jersey for a rumpled tee that hangs loose.

“you look dead,” you say, sassy as ever, limping along, lips glossed and pursed.

he grunts, “couldn’t sleep,” voice low, barely scraping the air, dodging your gaze like it’s a trap.

you are a trap.

you already take up too much space in his headspace these past few days and last night was the peak catastrophe—he was a wreck, tossing all night, sheets tangled like his thoughts, replaying yesterday like a broken cassette stuck on loop—your arms around his neck, your breath ghosting his ear, that damn cheer uniform—seriously, who thought skirts that short were a good idea?

it’s not the first time he’s been close, not by a long shot—back when you were still the gremlin tackling him into the dirt, all elbows and shrieks, he could shove you off and laugh.

but now? now it’s different, your perfume clinging to him, something sweet and sharp that’s been haunting his senses ever since yesterday.

he’d paced till dawn, heart flipping like a dumb acrobat, cursing how you fit against him, how he could feel every shift, every twitch, and it’s got him all tangled up, flustered and stupid, wondering when you stopped being just the gremlin next door.

“not my fault,” you only retort, unaware of his inner turmoil, uncaring even, flipping your hair, but you catch him staring, quick glances at your wrapped ankle, your pout, the way you shine even mad.

“whatever,” he mumbles, hands deep in his pockets, sulky and quiet. keeps stealing looks, hates how soft he feels, how stuck he is on that note crinkling in his drawer, chest flipping like an idiot.

kids notice as you pass. some basketball guy snickers, “gojo’s whipped.” elbows his buddy.

a cheer girl nudges her friend, “told you they’re a thing.”

“shut up,” you snap, quick and sharp.

satoru just shrugs, says nothing, but his jaw’s tight, and you don’t see how his eyes linger, all soft and stupid, caught up in you.

you huff, stomping down the hallway, your glossed lips pursed, muttering “stupid face” under your breath, because his sulky silence is louder than his usual smirks, and it’s annoying, prickling your skin like october’s chill creeping in. your backpack swings, heavy with books and candy wrappers, as the lawns glow gold under a fading sun, pumpkin carvings grinning from porches.

halloween’s crept in and the neighborhood hums with halloween’s fever, pumpkin lanterns flickering, kids plotting costume raids. you weave through the crowd, your vampire costume—black cape swishing, plastic fangs pinching your lips—a grade-school relic you dug out for laughs.

sweat prickles your neck, glitter-dusted makeup smudging under the heat, and you tug at the cape, half-ready to ditch it for a soda.

kids shriek past, waving glow sticks, their sneakers stomping grass flat, while your dad’s voice booms over the grill, “teamwork makes the dream work!”—his beer clinking with satoru’s dad, both oblivious to the chaos.

then you spot him. satoru, lounging by the lemonade table, his own black cape flapping loose over a ripped tee, white hair glowing under string lights like a smug beacon. his fake fangs glint as he smirks at some kid’s lame joke, all lazy charm, and your stomach lurches—not from the hot dog you scarfed, but from the horrifying truth: you’re matching. completely unplanned.

“you copied me!” you blurt, storming over, cape billowing like a budget dracula as you jab a finger at his chest. he spins, blue eyes wide, then narrows them, smirking wider.

“you’re delusional, i’ve had this cape since grade five,” he fires back, flicking his collar with a flourish. “well, mine came with fangs,” he adds, baring them with a goofy chomp.

“then you can bite me,” you snap, words spilling before your brain catches up.

an awkward pause slams down, heavy as the humid air.

satoru’s face flares red, splotchy across his pale cheeks, ears burning like they’re lit from within. you laugh—too loud, too sharp—your fangs slipping loose as you clap a hand over your mouth.

“gross!” you yelp, bolting through the crowd, your cape snagging on a chair, ripping a stitch as you stumble.

you dodge behind the dessert table, crouching low, glitter-dusted cheeks burning. brownies and cupcakes loom above, their icing melting in the heat, and you swipe a smudge of chocolate off a plate, licking it from your finger.

he’s still out there, probably muttering “idiot” to his lemonade, but you catch his shadow later, lingering by the fence, white hair catching the light like a taunt.

“nice hiding spot, dracula,” his voice drawls, sudden and close. you jolt, banging your knee on the table’s edge. he’s crouched beside you now, cape pooling around his sneakers, blue eyes glinting with that infuriating smirk.

“shut up, you’re not even scary,” you snap, shoving his shoulder.

he flinches, just a twitch, his smirk faltering, and his ears go pink again. “at least i don’t run away like a baby,” he mutters, flicking a crumb off your cape, his fingers brushing your arm, quick and clumsy.

your chest flips, stupid and uninvited. completely asinine.

“whatever, satoru, go bite your fan club,” you say, voice sharp, but your lips twitch as you stand, cape swishing defiantly. he scrambles up, taller now, his shadow swallowing yours, and for a second, neither of you moves, the air thick with something unsaid.

you don’t stop thinking about it all night—his red ears, that pause, the way your fangs felt too tight when you said it. you flop onto your bed, pillow muffling your mutters, “he’s so annoying.”

through your glass window, he’s sprawled across his bed, tossing a rubber ball—thunk-thunk—his cape draped over a chair. he catches your eye, sticks out his tongue, fangs still in, and you flip him off, your smirk slipping free.

freshman year burns bright and messy, a fever dream of sweaty gyms and sticky gloss, your war with satoru twisting into something sharper, heavier, like a song you can’t stop humming.

his shadow looms longer now, all lanky limbs and smug grins, trailing you through halls, over fences, into dusk. your jabs land softer, your glares catch on his blue eyes too long, and every shove sparks a flutter you shove down deep. the air’s thick with it—something unsaid, fizzing like soda left in the sun, ready to burst.

your moms’ roses and wind chimes still clash, your dads’ beers still clink, but you and satoru aren’t just neighbors anymore, not just gremlins wrestling in dirt. you’re magnets, pulling close, snapping apart, your fights glowing like fireflies in the dark.

through your window, his light flickers, a stubborn star that won’t dim, and your heart trips, muttering “not yet” to the truth creeping in—a sparkler waiting for one of you to grab it.

sophomore year kicks in like a radio stuck on repeat, you and satoru falling back into step, that almost-truce from freshman year holding steady. mornings are for watering plants, hoses dripping as you stand across the fence, your quips sharp but not quite venomous anymore.

you still walk to school together, home too, bickering over who hit snooze too long, his long legs striding ahead while you dodge pebbles he kicks your way.

your backpack swings, glittery keychains clinking, all soft pinks and bows—a girly shift that started as petty revenge for his “weird” jab, now just you, pure 2015 sweet. satoru’s still tangled in that dumb crush, your new vibe nothing like the gremlin he used to tackle into the grass, but he’s not owning it, not even close.

he’s satoru gojo, though, and if you’re messing with his head, he’s gonna mess with yours right back. decides to charm you, flip the script, make you squirm for once. starts in the halls, leaning against lockers like he’s the star of some teen flick, all smirks and easy swagger.

“morning, princess,” he drawls, holding a door open with a bow so dramatic it’s practically a performance.

you freeze, eyes narrowing as kids snicker behind you. “what is wrong with you?”

“just being gentlemanly,” he says, grin splitting wide, all teeth and no shame.

“you look like a budget romcom extra,” you snap, shoving past, your skirt swishing, lips glossed and pursed. your mom’s sassy smile curls on your face, but your stomach flips, traitorously, and you hate it.

he doesn’t stop. next day, it’s during gym practice, both of you sweaty from cheerleading and basketball, when he jogs over to the bleachers, to where you sat, holding out his water bottle—cold, half-empty, gross.

“thirsty?” he asks, tilting his head like it’s a grand gesture.

“that’s literally backwash,” you say, wrinkling your nose, swatting it away. “keep your germs.”

“sharing’s caring,” he shoots back, taking a swig, eyes locked on you, daring you to react.

you huff, storming off to where your teammates are, but your cheeks burn, and it’s not from the heat. he’s relentless, finding new ways to push your buttons, like during a fire drill when he grabs your hand, tugging you through the crowd.

“gotta keep you safe,” he says, all mock-serious, fingers warm against yours.

“i’m not a toddler,” you yank your hand free, glaring, but kids are staring, whispering, and your pulse skips, annoying and loud in your ears.

“suit yourself,” he shrugs, hands in his pockets, but his grin’s too soft and smug at the same time, like he’s won something anyway.

it escalates one lunch period, outside under the courtyard trees, you eating a sandwich, him sprawled on the grass nearby. he sits up, slides closer, and before you can bolt, slings an arm around you—a fake backhug, all show, his chin hovering near your shoulder.

“comfy, princess?” he teases, voice low, breath brushing your ear.

you freeze, heart tripping over itself, and—oh no, you blush, actually blush, heat crawling up your neck like a betrayal. “get off,” you mumble, shoving him away, voice weak, barely a snap.

he pulls back, eyes wide, like he’s just been slapped with something he didn’t expect. “uh, yeah, chill,” he mutters, scrambling up, dusting his jeans.

you’re on your feet, grabbing your bag, muttering “creep” under your breath, but it’s half-hearted, and you don’t look back, missing how he stares after you, face pink, brain short-circuiting.

he avoids you the rest of the day, dodging halls, skipping your usual walk home, muttering “gross, gross, gross” to himself in the bathroom mirror, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape. he felt something, something real, and it’s freaking him out, like you’re a virus he can’t shake.

next morning, he’s back by the plants, hose in hand, but quieter, eyes flicking to you as you water your side, skirt swaying, gloss catching the sun. you smirk, sassy as ever, tossing a quip his way.

“you done being weird yet?” you say, not even looking up, voice all playful bite.

he blinks, caught off guard, then recovers, forcing a grin. “me? never,” he says, but it’s shaky, and he turns away fast, spraying the roses too hard, like they’re to blame for his dumb, flipping chest.

he, in all his stupidity, manages to flip the table that night.

it’s late, the kind of late where the world feels soft and blurry, your room glowing dim from a single lamp as you’re half-dozing, sprawled across your bed with a textbook you’re not reading.

your eyes drift to the glass window, the one that’s betrayed you a million times, showing satoru’s room across the way—curtains half-open, always too inviting.

he’s there, shirtless, because of course he is, strumming a beat-up guitar to some playlist that’s probably all ego and bass, white hair a wild mess as he sways, pale skin catching the desk lamp’s light like he’s auditioning for a spotlight.

you freeze, brain lagging, because—wow, okay, that’s a lot. his shoulders roll with each chord, lean muscle shifting under skin, and he’s so annoyingly into it, head tilted, eyes half-closed like he’s a rockstar in his own dumb world.

your heart does a stupid little hiccup, and you hate it, hate how he looks like that, all careless and confident, like he knows he’s the shit. then he glances up, catches you staring, and his lips twitch into that smug, stupid wink—blue eyes glinting, all “gotcha.”

you yelp, loud and mortified, lunging for your curtains like they’re your lifeline. slam them shut so fast the rod rattles, your face scorching, hot enough to fry an egg, as his laugh seeps through the panes—faint, taunting, curling into your skull like smoke you can’t shake.

“real smooth,” you mutter to yourself, pressing your hands to your cheeks, pacing a tight circle, because why did you look? why does he have to be like that?

across the way, satoru’s grinning, guitar forgotten in his lap, the echo of your yelp still ringing in his head.

he’s embarrassed—okay, maybe a little, cheeks pink because he didn’t expect you to catch him mid-jam, shirtless and all—but it’s a chance, oh yeah, a golden one. he leans back, smirking to himself, because he knows what he’s working with—those hours shooting hoops, the way his shirts fit just right, the mirror telling him he’s got it.

“caught her staring,” he says under his breath, strumming a lazy chord, all proud and puffed up. “bet she’s freaking out.”

he’s half-right, half-wrong, because you’re not just freaking—you’re furious, at him, at yourself, at that dumb window for existing.

you flop onto your bed, yanking a pillow over your face, willing your pulse to chill, but it’s no use—his laugh’s stuck, looping like a song you didn’t ask for, and you know he’s over there, probably flexing for no one, loving every second of this.

next morning, you’re watering plants, hose in hand, skirt swishing, gloss shining, determined to act like nothing happened. he’s across the fence, smirking wider than usual, tossing a pebble your way just to see you jump.

“sleep well, princess?” he calls, voice all honey and mischief, leaning on his hose like it’s a prop.

you don’t look up, spraying the tulips a little too hard. “like a rock,” you say, sassy, clipped, but your cheeks betray you, warming fast.

“good, good,” he says, dragging it out, eyes glinting as he waters his side, casual but watching. “thought you saw a ghost or something last night.”

“only thing haunting me is your bad taste in music,” you fire back, turning away, but your smile’s creeping, that sassy one you got from your mom, and he sees it, feels it, heart doing that dumb flip again.

he’s embarrassed still, sure, but proud too—knows he looked good, knows you noticed, and he’s already plotting how to lean into it, charm you till you crack, because if he’s going down, he’s taking you with him.

the war not only escalates between you two.

the moms’ war also explodes into chaos when the neighborhood announces a lawn contest, some shiny plaque for the best yard, and it’s like someone lit a fuse under both houses.

your mom’s out there at dawn, planting rare orchids, delicate purple blooms she babies like they’re her second child, muttering about “elegance” and “taste.”

across the fence, satoru’s mom strikes back, sculpting a hedge into—swear to god—a peacock, all sharp angles and green flair, strutting in the sunlight like it’s mocking your mom’s flowers. you catch them at the mailbox one morning, trading compliments that sound like knives wrapped in silk.

“those orchids are so… bold,” satoru’s mom says, lips tight, eyes flicking to her peacock with pride.

your mom smiles, all teeth, clutching her coffee mug. “and your hedge, my goodness, such a statement.”

“it’s art,” satoru’s mom replies, chin high, like she’s won already.

“of course,” your mom says, voice syrupy, “very… creative.”

you’re stuck watching from the porch, sipping orange juice, rolling your eyes as their words drip venom. your dads, useless as ever, are in the backyard, clinking beer bottles, laughing loud enough to drown it out.

“they’ll bury us all,” your dad chuckles, elbowing satoru’s dad, who nods, “yep, six feet under with perfect lawns.”

you and satoru get dragged into the mess, sentenced to pruning duty on a saturday when you’d rather be anywhere else. it’s hot, sun beating down, your shorts sticking to your thighs, gloss smudging as you wipe your brow, clippers heavy in your hand.

satoru’s next to you, in a loose tee, white hair glinting, snipping at the peacock’s tail like it’s personally offended him. you’re both knee-deep in bushes, leaves littering the grass, and it’s quieter than usual, your sass softer, almost playful, like the fight’s gone out of you.

he flicks a leaf at you, watches it flutter into your lap. “missed a spot, princess,” he says, smirking, leaning closer than he needs to.

you glance up, smirking back, that sassy curl you stole from your mom. “stop being a child.”

“you’re one to talk,” he huffs, clipping a branch with a little too much force, but his grin’s not as sharp, more warm than wicked.

“at least i don’t attack bushes like they owe me money,” you say, tossing a leaf back, watching it stick to his sleeve.

he snorts, shaking it off. “this thing’s ugly anyway. who makes a peacock?”

“your mom,” you quip, quick, and he laughs—real, loud, head tipping back, blue eyes catching the sun.

you pause, clippers still, caught by that sound, and he catches you looking, grin softening. “what, impressed?” he teases, but it’s gentle, testing.

“by you? never,” you say, turning back to the bush, but your smile lingers, and you clip slower, side by side, shoulders close.

he’s quieter now, snipping away, stealing glances—your hands, quick and careful, your skirt dusted with dirt, the way you hum under your breath like you don’t know he hears it.

his chest does that dumb flip, same as always, because for the umpteenth time, he is reminded that you’re not the gremlin he used to shove anymore, and it’s messing him up, bad.

he flicks another leaf, lighter this time, just to see you roll your eyes again.

“you’re hopeless,” you mutter, but it’s almost fond, and you don’t move away, both lingering a second too long before you turn back to the orchids, pretending you didn’t notice.

across the yard, your dads watch, beers half-empty, grinning like they’ve cracked some code. “kids, huh?” satoru’s dad says, and yours just laughs, “give ‘em time.”

the moms don’t look up, too busy plotting their next move, but you and satoru stay there, clipping in sync, the air warm and easy, like maybe this war’s not so bad.

except the war worsens the next day, because you and satoru are suddenly thrown into the roles of romeo and juliet, and it’s like the universe decided to crank the chaos to eleven.

the school play’s a straight-up disaster waiting to happen, some taylor swift love story-fueled romeo and juliet, not shakespeare’s dusty tragedy but a pop-soaked fever dream with star-crossed lovers and a beat you can’t escape.

the drama teacher, ms. hayes, is a shipper with a vendetta, grinning like she’s cracked the code to your souls when she casts you and satoru as the leads.

“perfect chemistry,” she says, clapping her hands, and you’re horrified, gut sinking, expecting your moms to storm the school and shut it down.

they don’t.

you trudge home, bracing for their meltdown, but your mom’s pruning her orchids with a gleam in her eye, already planning your costume like it’s her oscar moment. “you’ll outshine that peacock,” she says, snipping a stem.

across the fence, satoru’s mom is sketching stage designs, muttering about “upstaging amateurs.”

it’s not a play—it’s their latest contest, their kids stealing the spotlight, and they’re thrilled, shoving you both into the fire.

rehearsals are pure chaos, a mess of tangled props and tempers, glittery fake daggers and fairy lights flickering like they’re on their last breath.

you’re juliet, stuck in a floaty dress with lace sleeves, all soft pinks and glowy vibes that make you feel like a cupcake, but it fits, catches the stage lights just right, swishing as you move.

it’s annoying how it makes you feel—pretty, too pretty, and you shove that thought down, glossed lips pursed, because no way you’re admitting it.

satoru’s romeo, strutting in a flowy shirt unbuttoned too far, fitted vest hugging his frame, looking so stupidly good you want to kick him for it—pale strands glowing, blue eyes glinting like he’s the star of this taylor swift fever dream.

he’s cocky, tossing fake roses like he’s born for this, all swagger and charm, but his brain’s a mess, heart tripping over you in that dress, lace catching the light like it’s mocking him.

he’s satoru gojo, supposed to be untouchable, but you’re untouchable too, and it’s screwing him up, bad.

costume check’s a disaster. you step onto the stage, skirt swishing, and he trips over a prop sword, crashes into a cardboard balcony, face going red as his hair flops forward.

“you look… fine,” he mumbles, scrambling up, rubbing his neck like it’s the floor’s fault, but his eyes are stuck, tracing the pink lace, your glossed smirk, and he’s drowning, chest tight, cursing how you’re not the gremlin anymore.

you roll your eyes, hands on hips. “focus, idiot.” your stomach flips, just a flicker, because his stare’s too heavy, like he’s got any right to notice you.

you shove it down with a sassy curl of your lips borrowed from your mom, but your cheeks warm, traitorously, and you hate it.

“i’m focused,” he snaps, but his eyes dart away, cheeks pink, voice cracking like he’s back in middle school.

he’s not focused—can’t be, not when you’re glowing like that, and he’s kicking himself for saying “fine” when he meant something else, something he can’t say.

next day, you’re running lines, and he’s butchering every one, drawling “marry me, juliet” like it’s a joke, smirking until you step on his foot under the table, hard.

“you’re embarrassing yourself,” you say, flipping a page, smirking back, that mom-borrowed charm sharp as ever. but your heart skips, just a beat, his grin too close, too warm, and you don’t like how it lingers, how it pulls at something you won’t name.

“nah, i’m saving this play,” he says, leaning closer, propping his chin on his hand like he’s posing for a romcom poster.

he’s not saving anything—brain’s a loop of your smirk, your dress, the way you smell like gloss and candy, and he’s losing, bad, heart flipping like it’s auditioning for the circus.

“by forgetting your lines?” you shoot back, shoving his script at him, and he laughs, loud, like you’re the punchline, but it’s shaky, because you’re too much, too you, and he’s barely holding it together.

blocking’s worse. he’s supposed to lift you for some dumb dance bit, but his hands hover, shaky, barely grazing your waist, like he’s scared to touch you.

“what, scared you’ll drop me?” you taunt, arms crossed, skirt brushing his knees, voice sharp but your chest’s tight, his fingers too warm, too close, and you don’t know why it’s messing you up.

“please, you’re not that heavy,” he mutters, blushing again, lifting you too fast, nearly toppling you both into the curtains. he’s blushing because you’re in his arms, lace and sass and all, and his brain’s short-circuiting, hands burning where they hold you, heart screaming to keep you there.

he sets you down quick, too quick, muttering, “smooth, right?” but it’s not smooth, not even close.

“smooth, romeo,” you say, steadying yourself, smirking to cover the weird tug in your gut, because his grip lingered, just a second, and it’s stupid, how it makes you flush.

he glares, but his hands shake, stuffing them in his pockets, and he’s gone before you can call him out.

hayes is a menace, keeping you late after everyone’s gone, stage lights dim, just you and satoru on a creaky set, fake stars twinkling like they’re laughing at you.

“balcony scene, now,” she barks, glasses slipping, script flapping like a weapon. “make it real.”

you’re stuck, dress swishing as you lean over the prop railing, gloss catching the glow, feeling like a cupcake in a warzone. satoru’s below, climbing the rickety ladder, butchering “juliet, my love,” voice cracking like he’s twelve.

“you’re hopeless, romeo,” you snort, smirking down, but your heart’s doing something weird, his blue eyes too bright, too close, pulling you in like a tide you can’t fight. you grip the railing, knuckles tight, muttering, “get it together,” to yourself, because why’s he looking at you like that?

he glares, one rung up, closer now, vest open, shirt clinging from sweat. “least i’m trying, princess,” he snaps, but his brain’s a mess—your dress, your smirk, the way you’re leaning like you own the stage, own him, and he’s drowning, heart hammering, wanting to climb faster, stay there, say something real.

“you gonna help or just sass me?” he adds, voice shaky, and he’s mad at himself, because it’s not the script, it’s you, and he’s screwed.

“try harder,” you say, sassy but soft, leaning further, lace sleeves brushing the railing, and you don’t see how it twists him up, how his hands shake on the ladder, blue eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing real.

you turn away, huffing, because his stare’s too much, and you don’t like how it makes your chest flip, like maybe you’re not just playing juliet.

he pauses, halfway up, muttering, “not fair,” to himself, because you’re glowing, untouchable, and he’s just satoru, tripping over props and feelings he can’t name.

hayes claps, “better, keep going!” but he’s barely hearing, stuck on you, climbing down fast, kicking a prop rose to hide the pink in his cheeks.

another day, you’re rehearsing the dance bit again, but ms. hayes has the cheer squad and basketball boys perched in the seats, giggling like they’re at a romcom premiere.

“chemistry check,” she calls, smirking like she’s shipping you harder than tumblr. you’re mid-stage, skirt swishing, trying to focus, but satoru’s supposed to dip you, and he’s already a mess, vest half-buttoned, white hair flopping as he steps close.

“don’t screw this up,” you mutter, arms out, glossed lips pursed, but your stomach’s flipping, his hands hovering too close, and you don’t know why it’s hitting you like this, like maybe it’s not just the script.

he grabs your waist, too tight, and dips you—except his foot catches a glittery dagger prop, and you crash into his chest, noses brushing, skirt tangling.

“nice catch, idiot,” you hiss, shoving off, cheeks burning, because his face was too close, eyes too blue, and your heart’s racing, stupidly, like he’s got any right to do this to you.

you smooth your dress, glaring at the crowd, where a cheer girl whispers, “they’re so married,” loud enough to make you flinch.

satoru’s worse, heart slamming, brain a loop of your breath on his face, your lace against his hands, and he’s cursing that dagger, cursing you, because you’re too much, too close, and he’s falling apart. “you’re heavy,” he mutters, voice cracking, trying to play it cool, but his ears are pink.

his teammates snicker, one yelling, “gojo’s whipped!” he spins, pointing, “shut it!” but he’s blushing harder, hands shaky as he steps back, muttering, “your fault,” like you planned this.

“my fault?” you snap, hands on hips, but you’re smiling, just a bit, because his fluster’s kind of funny, kind of warm, and you don’t want to think about why it makes your chest glow.

you turn away, tossing your hair, ignoring the crowd’s giggles, but your fingers linger on your skirt, where his hands were, and it’s dumb, it’s nothing, but it’s stuck.

rehearsals drag, and you’re a mess—bickering over cues, shoving him when he steps on your hem, him “accidentally” dropping a fake dagger in your lap during a break.

“oops,” he says, grinning, sprawled in a chair, all fake innocence, but his eyes are locked on you, waiting for your fire, because that’s what he’s chasing, even if it burns him.

“grow up,” you snap, tossing it back, clipping his shoulder, and he flinches, dramatic, like you’ve stabbed him.

“you’re violent, juliet,” he calls, rubbing it, but his grin’s soft, heart flipping, utterly hopeless, stuck on every glare, every laugh, every second you’re close.

one afternoon, he’s late, jogging in with his vest half-buttoned, and you’re mid-scene, pacing the stage.

he slides in beside you, whispering “hey, juliet” right as you’re supposed to speak, voice all honey and tease, and his arm brushes yours, sparking something dumb, something warm.

“you’re not funny,” you hiss, glaring, but your line stumbles, just a beat, because he’s too close, and your heart’s tripping, like maybe it’s not just the play.

“got ya,” he says under his breath, turning away, but his hands are shaking, stuffing them in his pockets fast, because you’re unraveling him, one sassy grin at a time, and he’s not sure how much longer he can keep this up.

this game, this war, when all he wants is you.

somehow, despite his blunders, you’re starting to smile more, sassy but warm and you don’t see how it twists him up, how he’s tripping over props more, voice catching when you laugh.

one day, you’re running the balcony scene, and he’s supposed to climb that rickety ladder again. he pauses, halfway up, staring at you leaning over the prop railing, dress catching the light, all pink and glowy, like you’re not real.

“you’re not gonna actually kiss me, right?” he blurts, voice high, eyes wide, gripping the ladder like it’s his lifeline, because the thought’s killing him, the idea of your lips, your breath, and he’s not ready, not even close.

he’s terrified, heart slamming, brain screaming to run, because one kiss, even fake, might break him.

you scoff, leaning further, smirking. “i’d rather choke.” but your chest’s tight, his eyes pulling you in, blue and raw, and you grip the railing harder, muttering, “just climb, idiot,” to drown it out, because why’s he looking at you like that, like you’re more than juliet, more than his enemy?

“good,” he says, too quick, climbing down, face burning, kicking a prop to cover it, but his brain’s stuck, looping your smirk, your dress, the way you said it, like maybe you meant it, maybe you didn’t, and he’s drowning, again, in you.

“scared, satoru?” you call after him, hopping off the stage.

he spins with an indignant huff, pointing, all flustered. “you wish,” he says, but it’s weak, and he’s gone before you can laugh, heart racing like it’s trying to escape. you’re winning, and he’s not sure he minds.

hayes cuts in, exasperated, clapping her script. “no kissing in rehearsals, save it for the show.”

you both nod, relieved, but there’s a weird tug in your chest, like you’re not sure you mean it, like maybe his fluster’s getting to you, just a bit.

you catch him staring, quick, before he looks away, and you turn, tossing your hair, pretending it’s nothing, but your fingers brush your lips, once, and you wonder, stupidly, what it’d be like.

he keeps up the charm between takes—tossing “juliet” like it’s your name, winking when you glare—but he’s a mess when you’re close, hands jittery, voice softer, and you’re smiling too much, not catching how he’s falling apart, one sassy grin at a time, heart flipping like it’s begging for mercy, stuck on you, the one who’s still his princess, still tearing him up without trying.

the date of the school play arrives too fast, a glittery trainwreck barreling down with no brakes.

the auditorium’s stuffed with students and faculty—no parents, thank god—just a sea of giggling classmates and teachers whispering bets, half of them shipping you and satoru like it’s their life’s work, phones and digital cameras already out, ready to meme this disaster.

stage lights burn hot, your lace juliet dress itches like crazy, all soft pinks and glowy vibes, but you’re killing it, nailing every line, voice steady even when some jerk snickers at “we were both young when i first saw you.”

your heart’s steady too, mostly, though it twitches, traitorously, remembering yesterday’s final rehearsal—ms. hayes yelling, “closer, you two!” as satoru’s hands grazed your waist, his breath hitching, blue eyes too close, too raw.

you’d snapped, “back off, romeo,” but your cheeks burned, and you hated how it stuck, how he stuck.

satoru’s romeo, strutting in his flowy shirt, vest snug, all cocky charm and white hair glowing like he’s the star of this taylor swift-soaked fever dream.

he’s holding his own—mostly—tossing lines with that smug grin, but his brain’s a mess, heart slamming because you’re there, center stage, lace catching the fairy lights, and he’s drowning, again, in you, in the way you move, the way you glare, like he’s nothing and everything.

it’s killing him, especially after that rehearsal, your snap still ringing in his ears, your warmth still burning his hands.

you’re center stage, fake garden set dripping with fairy lights, glittery vines sparkling like they’re mocking you, pouring your soul into juliet’s lines, skirt swishing as you spin to face him, heart steady despite the crowd’s eyes, their whispers buzzing like flies.

he’s got one job—“marry me, juliet,” smooth and sure—but satoru, being satoru, fumbles it, voice cracking like he’s twelve again. “marry me, ju—uh,” he stammers, coughing, pale face going pink as his hair flops forward, “juliet.”

the crowd erupts, laughs rippling through the seats, a cheer girl shouting, “gojo, you’re so dead!” and you shoot him a glare, sharp enough to cut glass, because he’s tanking this, tanking you, and your blood’s boiling, but there’s a flicker in your chest, something soft, because his fluster’s almost cute, almost yours.

you hold your pose, hands clasped, praying he pulls it together, muttering, “don’t ruin me,” to yourself, because this is your moment too, and he’s got no right to steal it.

“i’m trying,” he mutters, straightening, vest pulling tight as he shifts, but he’s flustered, way past what the lights can excuse, blue eyes darting, sweat beading on his forehead.

he’s trying, but you’re too much—your dress, your fire, the way you’re glaring like he’s the only one here, and his brain’s short-circuiting, heart screaming to run, because the kiss scene’s next, and he’s not ready, not for you, not for this.

the crowd’s buzzing louder now, basketball boys chanting, “kiss her, gojo!” while the drama kids hiss, “stay in character!”

hayes is in the wings, glasses fogging, script clutched like a lifeline, whispering, “magic, make it magic!”

you step closer, script pulling you in, skirt brushing his legs, and the air’s thick, heavy with their cheers, their bets, their eyes. you’re juliet, you’re you, and you’re furious, but your heart’s tripping, his panic sparking something in you, something you don’t want to name, because why’s he looking at you like that, like you’re the only thing real?

satoru’s worse, brain a loop of yesterday’s rehearsal—your breath, your snap, the way you felt in his hands—and now the crowd’s yelling, and he’s supposed to kiss you, supposed to make it magic, but he’s satoru, and he’s screwed, heart hammering like it’s trying to bolt.

“don’t hate me,” he thinks, desperate, because you’re close, too close, and he’s falling apart, one glare at a time.

the kiss scene’s up, the big moment ms. hayes swore you’d “make magic” with, where you lean in and he’s supposed to meet you halfway.

you tilt your head, slow, lace sleeves catching the light, and your lips part, just a breath, but satoru panics—full-on, cartoon-level panic—jerks his head so fast you wobble, nearly tripping into the fake roses, your heel snagging on a glittery vine prop.

“uh, love you,” he blurts, miles off script, voice high and wobbly, hands waving like he’s dodging a punch.

the crowd gasps, some kid in the back shouting, “yo, what?!” and you freeze, horrified, blood boiling because he’s wrecking it, wrecking you, and every stare’s burning holes, but your chest twists, his “love you” echoing, stupidly, like it means something.

“you’re ruining this,” you hiss, louder now, ignoring a teacher’s frantic shush from the wings, shoving past him, skirt flaring as you try to save the scene, muttering, “idiot,” but your hands shake, and you don’t know why it stings.

he stumbles after, tripping over a prop bush, muttering, “not my fault you’re intense,” half to you, half to the air, as the laughs grow, phones flashing from the seats.

he’s a mess, brain stuck on your lips, your glare, the way you moved closer, and he’s cursing himself, because he swerved, but part of him—stupid, reckless part—wants to try again, wants you, and it’s tearing him up.

you’re mid-stage, trying to salvage juliet’s next line, voice sharp but wobbly, when satoru grabs your wrist, spinning you back, off-script but desperate, blue eyes wide, vest gleaming under the lights.

“juliet, wait,” he says, loud, improvised, like he’s romeo for real, and the crowd quiets, leaning in. “i… love thee,” he chokes out, script-adjacent, voice cracking, and his hand’s shaking, holding yours too tight, because he’s not acting, not anymore, and he’s terrified you’ll see it, see him.

you blink, caught, heart slamming because his grip’s warm, his eyes raw, and for a second, you’re not juliet, you’re you, and something’s shifting, something heavy, but you rip your hand free, sassy curl snapping back.

“then prove it, fool,” you snap, loud, ad-libbing to save it, and the crowd roars, clapping like you’ve won, but your pulse is racing, his “love thee” stuck in your head, and you hate how it makes you flush, how it lingers.

you spin away, skirt swishing, muttering, “don’t do that again,” but your fingers brush where he held you, and it’s dumb, it’s nothing, but it’s not.

satoru’s frozen, heart pounding, brain a loop of your voice, your hand in his, the way you said “fool” like it was just for him. he’s relieved—crowd’s cheering, scene’s saved—but there’s a sting, sharp, because you pulled away, and he’s left wondering, again, what if he’d just gone for it, what if he’d kissed you, what if you’d let him.

he slumps, muttering, “nice save,” but it’s weak, and he’s drowning, stuck on you, the one who’s still winning without trying.

hayes storms up, script flapping like a weapon. “no kiss, we’re done,” she snaps, glasses slipping, voice sharp enough to slice. “we’ll rewrite the damn ending.”

you’re offstage in seconds, stomping to the wings, yanking the flower crown off, lace sleeves tangling as you pace, muttering, “amateur,” loud enough for the crew to hear.

“intense? me?” you say to yourself, fuming, glossed lips pursed, because he’s got some nerve pinning this on you, but your wrist’s still warm, his “love thee” echoing, and you shove it down, because no way, not him, not like that.

satoru’s right behind, tugging at his vest like it’s strangling him, face still red, trying to act cool but failing miserably. “you were glaring,” he says, slumping against a prop wall, voice shaky, avoiding your eyes, because he can’t look at you, not after that, not when he’s still tasting the almost-kiss, the almost-you, and it’s killing him.

there’s relief, yeah, because kissing you would’ve shorted his brain, fried every nerve, but there’s a sting, sharper, like he’s missed a shot he didn’t know he wanted, and he’s left wondering, again, what if he hadn’t swerved—what if he’d just gone for it.

the play’s a wreck, sure, but you’re not about to admit that to your parents, so you lie through your teeth, swearing it went great, all sparkles and applause.

they buy it, hook, line, and sinker.

by saturday, your backyard’s a full-blown party, strung with fairy lights twinkling like they’re laughing at you, buzzing with their victory vibes over your “success.” no parents at the show means they’ve got no clue it was a disaster, and you’re definitely not spilling, not when your mom’s clinking wine glasses with satoru’s mom, plotting orchids versus peacock hedge, round fifty.

the dads are worse, sneaking you and satoru sips of their beers—your first, bitter and fizzy, bubbling on your tongue like a dare, sharp and wrong but thrilling.

you take one sip, then another, giggling too loud as the backyard spins, head fuzzy, world soft at the edges, fairy lights blurring into stars.

satoru’s nursing his own beer, trying to play it cool, but his cheeks are pink, eyes glassy—he’s tipsy, looser than usual, laughing at your dad’s dumb jokes, white hair flopping, shirt untucked.

the heat’s sticky, your skirt’s clinging to your thighs, gloss smudged from sipping, and you’re bold, reckless, the night daring you to do something stupid, something you can’t take back.

satoru tries to slip away, heading for his gate, mumbling about “homework” nobody buys, voice thick, swaying just a bit.

you’re not having it, stumbling after him, beer sloshing in your hand, giggles turning sharp, fierce. “not so fast,” you slur, grabbing his wrist, fingers tight, tugging him toward the side of the garage, shadows hiding you from the party’s glow, the air heavy with heat and secrets.

he stumbles, caught off guard, blue eyes wide under the dim streetlight. “whoa, what’s your deal?” he says, voice thick, trying to laugh it off, but he’s swaying, just as gone as you, heart slamming because you’re close, too close.

you step closer, glaring up, breath mixing with his, all beer and heat, your skirt brushing his jeans. “we could’ve nailed it,” you say, voice low, taunting, slipping into juliet’s lines, “you and me, romeo, we could’ve had them all fooled.” your heart’s racing, fuzzy, and you don’t know why you’re so mad, why his fluster makes you want to push harder, make him crack.

he blinks, frozen, lips parting, no comeback, and you smirk, leaning in, kissing him—quick, clumsy, a challenge, your lips missing half his mouth, teeth clacking awkwardly, beer taste sharp and sour.

“see? i’m better,” you say, pulling back, smirking wider, thinking you’ve won, but your cheeks burn, his breath still on you, and something’s off, something’s warm, and you hate it, hate how it’s not just a game.

satoru’s stunned, eyes locked on you, breath hitching, brain a mess of freshman year—you in that pink top, glittery keychains, sundress swishing, the way you flipped his world with a toss of your hair, and he’s been holding it in, choking on it, every smirk, every glare, every “princess” he threw to hide it.

the dam breaks, all that longing, that crush he won’t name, exploding in his chest, and he’s done pretending, done running.

he grabs you, hands on your waist, shaky and too eager, pulling you back, and tries to kiss you—misses, lips hitting your chin, nose bumping yours, a sloppy, nervous mess, his breath hitching like he’s drowning.

“shit,” he mutters, blushing hard, but he tries again, lips finding yours this time, deep, messy, no finesse, just hunger, all the longing from freshman year pouring out, beer and heat and something sweeter, his tongue fumbling past your teeth, too fast, too clumsy.

he’s got fan girls, sure, but he’s never done this, not like this, not with you, and his heart’s screaming, finally, finally, as he presses closer, chest to chest, your skirt bunching under his grip, fingers digging into your hips like you’ll vanish.

you gasp, startled, hands grabbing his shirt, pulling him tighter, but it’s awkward, your lips out of sync, teeth grazing, and you’re just as lost, just as new at this, head spinning from beer and him, his warmth flooding you.

your back hits the garage wall, soft thud, and you’re kissing back, messy, eager, hands fisting his shirt, because he’s satoru, and you’re mad, but you want this, maybe, and it’s scary, thrilling, wrong.

your legs shake, his knee nudges between yours, clumsy, and it’s too much, too fast, lips swollen, breaths ragged, like you’re both drowning in each other, no clue what you’re doing.

satoru’s brain’s a loop, flashing to freshman year—your sundress, yellow and bright, lemonade stand, the way you tossed your hair, smirked, threw that lemon at him, and he caught it, heart flipping, knowing he was screwed.

every day since, every quip, every glare, every time you walked by with that gloss, those bows, he’s been building this, wanting this, and now you’re here, lips on his, and it’s real, messy, perfect, and he groans, low and rough, like he’s been starving, because he has, for you, for this.

“you drive me crazy,” he mumbles against your mouth, voice hoarse, barely pulling back, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded, dark, and he means it—every second since that pink top, since you became this you, not just any gremlin, but his princess, his juliet, his everything, and he’s breaking, all that longing spilling out, no holding back.

your heart hammers, his words hitting deep, and you’re rattled, smirking but shaky, hands still fisted in his shirt, because he’s too much, too close, and you don’t know why it feels like you’re falling.

he kisses you again, slower but still clumsy, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, fumbling, missing the mark, lips sliding half off yours, but it’s softer, like he’s trying to say something, something he’s held since freshman year, when you flipped his world and didn’t even know it.

you kiss back, hesitant, lips trembling, because you’re new at this too, and it’s satoru, and it’s scary, but your hands stay on his shirt, pulling, and you’re lost in it, in him, beer and heat and his stupid hair tickling your face, until a voice slices through—his mom, sharp and searching.

“satoru, where are you?” she calls, footsteps crunching near the gate, and you both jump apart, breathless, lips tingling, staring like you’ve been caught stealing, gloss smeared, his hair a mess.

“shit,” he mutters, stepping back, running a hand through his hair, eyes darting between you and the yard, still dazed, heart still racing from you, from everything he’s wanted since that sundress, that laugh, that you.

“go,” you say, shoving him lightly, voice wobbly but sharp, wiping your gloss-smeared lips with the back of your hand, but your smirk’s there, shaky, because you kissed him first—you won, right?

you slump against the wall, heart racing, skirt twisted, trying to catch your breath, but his taste lingers—beer, him, that longing—and it’s messing you up, more than you’ll ever admit, a flicker in your chest saying maybe you didn’t win, maybe you’re caught too.

tomorrow morning hits like a truck, your head pounding like someone’s hammering nails into your skull, last night’s beer a fuzzy blur you can’t piece together.

you’re out by the plants, hose in hand, skirt swishing, gloss barely smeared from sleep, sassing like it’s your job, because whatever happened at that party didn’t stick—just a haze of fairy lights and giggles, nothing solid.

satoru’s across the fence, watering his mom’s peacock hedge, looking like he got dragged through a nightmare, white hair a mess, eyes half-dead, pale skin blotchy like he’s been up all night fighting demons. he probably has, because you—yeah, you—kept him awake again, and he’s a wreck, replaying that kiss in his head like a movie he can’t pause.

you don’t notice, too busy spraying the orchids, humming some pop song stuck in your brain. you glance over, catch him staring, and smirk, because he looks pathetic, and that’s your cue.

“you look worse than usual,” you say, voice all bite and tease, flicking water his way just to see him flinch.

he blinks, wide-eyed, like you’ve slapped him awake, hand drifting to his lips, touching them like they’re evidence. “yeah, uh, rough night,” he mutters, voice low, cracking a little, eyes darting away fast.

“shocker,” you say, turning back to the plants, tossing your hair, oblivious to the storm in his head—your dress last night, bunched under his hands, your laugh, sharp and warm, that kiss, quick then deep, messy and real, burning him up.

he grips the hose tighter, spraying too hard, water splashing his sneakers. “you sleep okay?” he asks, testing, voice shaky, hoping you’ll give him something—anything.

“like a rock,” you say, shrugging, not even looking, clipping a dead leaf with a flick. “why, you jealous?”

he chokes on a laugh, half-relieved, half-miserable, because you don’t remember—nothing, not the way you grabbed him, not your juliet lines, not how you kissed him first, smirking, “i’m better.” his chest twists, because he’s still tasting you, beer and gloss and that spark he can’t shake, while you’re here, sassing away, still his enemy, still his princess, flipping his world upside down without a clue.

“nah, i’m good,” he lies, forcing a grin, but it’s weak, and he turns to the hedge, muttering, “real good,” to himself, like saying it’ll make it true.

you snort, catching it, and toss another quip. “keep telling yourself that, romeo,” you say, voice light, teasing, already walking off, leaving him drowning in the memory of your lips, your dress, your laugh—everything he’s losing sleep over, while you slept sound, forgot it all, and left him to pick up the pieces.

he stares at the peacock, hose dripping uselessly, and kicks a stray pebble, hard, because you’re oblivious, and he’s a mess, heart flipping like it’s begging for mercy, stuck on you, the one who’s still—somehow—winning without even trying.

days drag on after the party, and satoru’s stuck in a loop, replaying that garage kiss like a song he can’t skip—your smirk, your beer-slurred juliet lines, the way you pulled him back, all heat and chaos. you’re clueless, strutting through mornings with your hose and your gloss, sassing him over the plants like the world didn’t shift.

he’s different, though, quieter in flashes, blue eyes catching on you when he thinks you’re not looking, heart doing that dumb flip he hates. he tries to hint at it, because he’s satoru gojo, and he’s not built to lose, but you’re a brick wall, oblivious, and it’s killing him.

one morning, you’re watering the orchids, dress swishing, humming some pop tune, when he leans over the fence, hose dripping, voice all casual but tight.

“you said something weird at the party,” he says, testing, eyes flicking to your face, hoping for a crack.

you don’t even pause, spraying a leaf clean. “probably called you a loser. why?”

he deflates, puppy vibe sinking in, shoulders slumping as he grips the fence. “…nothing,” he mutters, voice flat, turning back to the peacock hedge like it’s his lifeline.

“okay, weirdo,” you say, shrugging, tossing your hair and walking off, leaving him staring at the dirt, defeated, heart twisting like it’s been wrung out.

he tries again a few days later, in the hall, your glittery backpack swinging as you dig for a pen. he’s leaning against a locker, all forced swagger, but his hands are sweaty, stuffed in his pockets.

“you don’t… remember anything from the party?” he asks, voice low, kicking a tile like it’s personal.

you laugh, loud, not even looking up. “what, like when you tripped over the cooler? classic,” you say, slamming your locker shut. “gotta run, math’s calling.”

“yeah, sure,” he says, smile weak, watching you bounce off, ponytail swaying, while he stands there, stuck, like an idiot who bet on the wrong horse.

he stops trying after that, because what’s the point? you remember nothing—zip, nada, just a hangover and a smirk—while he’s got every second burned into his brain, your lips, your hands, that stupid garage wall. he’s still satoru, still flirty, still throwing “princess” at you in gym practices to make you scowl, still stealing your fries at lunch and dodging your punches.

but it’s different now, quieter in the gaps, like when you’re bickering over the hose and he pauses, just for a breath, watching you laugh, eyes soft in a way he can’t control.

it’s not about winning anymore—it’s you, all gloss and sass and fire, and he’s screwed, because he knows it, even if you don’t.

you’re oblivious, as always, thinking he’s just being weird, maybe tired from basketball or whatever. you’re back to your old tricks, yelling when he eats your last lunch bar, sneaking a plastic bug onto his locker with a sticky note that says “eat this, loser.”

“real mature,” he calls after you in the hall, peeling it off, but he’s grinning, tucking the note in his pocket like a sap.

“says the guy who drew a mustache on my chem homework,” you fire back, flipping him off, but you’re laughing, and he lingers, watching you disappear into the crowd, heart doing that traitor flip again.

one afternoon, you’re out by the plants, clipping orchids, when you catch him staring over the fence, elbow on the gate, eyes softer than usual.

“what’s with you?” you say, squinting, tossing a leaf his way. “you’re creeping me out.”

he blinks, like you’ve snapped him awake, and forces a grin. “just admiring the view, princess,” he says, but it’s half-hearted, and he turns away fast, spraying the hedge too hard.

“gross,” you mutter, rolling your eyes, but you smile to yourself, clipping another stem, not catching how his hands shake, how he’s drowning in you without a lifeline.

it all crashes one night, late, when you’re in your room, brushing your hair by the window, half-listening to a dumb radio show, some love song crackling through the speakers. your lamp’s on, curtains wide, and you don’t think twice, strokes steady, hair catching the light.

you glance up, and he’s there—satoru, sitting at his desk across the way, window open, chin in his hand, staring like he’s forgotten how to blink.

you meet his gaze, and for a second—just a breath—it’s quiet, no quips, no walls, just you and him, two kids caught in something neither of you name. you almost wave, almost let it linger, but instead, you tilt your head, voice sharp but curious.

“you look like you’ve got something to say,” you call, loud enough to carry, brush pausing mid-stroke.

he freezes, eyes locked on yours, and for a heartbeat, it’s there—everything he’s been choking on, the kiss, the way you laugh, the way you’re still his enemy and his everything. but he can’t, not when you don’t remember, not when he’s just satoru to you, still a loser, still a tease.

“…nah,” he says finally, voice soft, almost broken. “just tired.”

he pulls the curtain shut, slow, not spite, just a need to breathe, to hide from the ache in his chest, your face still burned behind his eyes.

you roll your eyes, muttering, “dork,” to yourself, brushing your hair again, radio humming low, not catching how the air feels heavier now, how his window stays dark.

you go back to the garden the next day, bickering over the hose, threatening to trip him at practice, taping another bug to his locker. it feels the same—same quips, same fire, same you. like no one's kissed anyone in a garage. like his heart hasn't been left spinning ever since.

satoru plays along. he throws the hose back at you, dodges your jabs with lazy grins, calls you a menace when you tape a beetle to his notes. he laughs at the same things, pushes your buttons with the same smug ease, and you'd think he's fine. you'd think he's still the same. but there's something too careful in the way he looks at you now. something quieter, more searching.

sophomore year burns out like a sparkler, all fizz and chaos, bright for a moment then gone. you're busy chasing grades and skipping stones, slipping in and out of his orbit without noticing how close you get, how your shoulder brushes his in the hallway, how you always sit too close on the bench.

meanwhile, he's a wreck. his heart is still tripping over that garage kiss, your gloss-smeared smirk, the way you grabbed his collar and pulled him close like it meant nothing. like it didn't shatter him a little.

you never remembered.

he stops trying to bring it up.

mornings pass in a blur of shared glances and snarky remarks, your voice ringing too loud in his head. and he watches you—strutting through the school grounds, hose in hand like a sword, laugh sharp, gloss catching the sunlight. he's convinced you have no idea what you've done to him. how wide he's cracked open.

it is safe to say, that satoru gojo is drowning. azure gaze soft, chasing the sound of your laugh in crowded hallways, memorizing the curve of your wrist when you gesture, the way you wrinkle your nose when you're about to say something cruel-but-funny. he knows you're magnets—pulling close, snapping apart, doomed to circle each other endlessly.

he smiles when you tease him. shrugs when you win. says something sharp just to see you roll your eyes. and still, you don't see it. still, you don’t know.

you think nothing's changed, not a single thing. but satoru knows everything has—every look, every laugh, every second.

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @lilychan176 @n1vi @myahfig4 @here4dafics @stfusatoru @mintcheery @44ina @twinkling-moonlilie-reblogs @getoicious @flowerpot113 @satoruxsc @whytfisgojosohot @emoedgylord @your-mum3000 @chich1ookie @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @drunkenlionwrites @katsukiseyebrows @heartsforseo @beabamboo @bnbaochauuu @cupidsfrost @ethereal-moonlit @arabellasolstice @captainhoneythebunny @scryarchives @fancypeacepersona @anathemaspeaks @ilovebeansyay

plz comment if u want to be added on the tl xx

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myfictionaldreams · 2 days ago

Text

⁀➷ All Roads Lead to You // Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: Before the apocalypse and angel wars, there were just two Winchesters, a car, and a girl they couldn’t quite shake. Dean’s always been good at pushing people away—especially her. But when a fight goes too far and she ends up bleeding in a vampire nest, everything he’s buried finally comes to light.

Requested by: lovely anon (months ago!), im so sorry it's taken me a ridiculous amount of time to write but I hope you love it. I've never written SPN before so I hope it's ok.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, angst, mutual pining, second chance, brief mention of injuries, shower sex, oral, protective!Dean, hurt/comfort, violence

Words: 2.6k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

It was supposed to be a simple hunt.

Just another dusty town blurring by. Another half-abandoned, uncomfortable motel room that reeked of sweat, mildew and smoke. Another endless lead on a small vampire nest that Sam had picked up on whilst searching through missing persons reports. Simple. Clean. In and out and on the road again.

Except this time it would not be that easy.

You could feel the tension in the Impala long before the fight actually began. Dean’s grip on the steering wheel was tight enough that his knuckles were white, jaw locked, and eyes fixed ahead. In the passenger seat, Sam glanced at you in the rearview with a smirk.

“You two gonna keep glaring at each other all day, or should I roll down the windows and let the sexual tension air out?” Sam quips, always ready to make the situation as awkward as possible.

Scoffing from the backseat, you turned and faced out of the window, watching the terrain pass as Dean’s foot pressed heavily onto the gas, whilst muttering something under his breath.

Whatever it was was loud enough that Sam heard as his shoulders shook with a chuckle, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Ignoring them both was easy, but your thumping heart gave your true feelings away because Sam Winchester wasn’t wrong. The tension between you and Dean had been suffocating lately, charred and crackling. Every glance turned into a lingering stare. Every touch turned into something held just for a second too long. Every single argument ended with the kind of silence that buzzed louder than yelling ever could.

This all stemmed from your history with the older brother. It was never such a relationship; Dean Winchester would never be tied down to just one woman. But on the road, it was easy to seek comfort in the one person whom you trusted more than anyone in the world. Even before Sam joined the two of you on the road, it was always just you and Dean.

Long nights, shared beds, intimacy and touches that burned to your mind forever. Then the moment anything seemed too real, he pushed you out and away. And still, here you were. Hunting together, fighting together, burning slowly into an endless pit of despair.

You were fine being kept at arm's length and watching him from a distance with different motel rooms and early nights. However, recently, he has been hovering.

It started with how he barked orders in the middle of hunts, like it was your first day. Then he’d grab your arm too tightly when the danger was near. Then the look s- those damn looks that you often dreamed about.

After your most recent hunt, you couldn’t sit back and take it anymore and confronted him, with blood still on your hands and torn clothes still hanging onto your back.

“You don’t have to babysit me”, you snapped.

“I’m not babysitting you, I’m trying to keep you alive”, he answers back with as much determination, throwing his gun onto the motel bed.

“I’ve been alive just fine without your micromanaging”.

Sam broke the awkward silence with an exaggerated sigh. “Jesus. I should’ve brought popcorn”.

Dean responded with a swift middle finger in the direction of his brother while still trying to ignore your eye contact and organise the weapons.

" If you don’t trust me to hold my own, maybe I shouldn’t be here,” you say, stepping closer to him, trying to gain his full attention.

Your words finally snap him away from the bag on the bed as his furious gaze meets yours.

Dean moved closer, voice low but sharp. “Don’t twist this. It’s not about trust.”

Feeling defeated after yet another argument, your voice is more tentative, rushed out under your breath. “Then what is it?”

Dean’s green eyes scanned your face, like he didn’t know how to say what he was thinking. Like the world rested on his story, he walked around your body in a single step instead of answering and moved into the bathroom.

~~~~~

Two nights later, you took down two vamps. Two heads rolling on the floor, quick kills. But you got caught by a splinter. Just a scratch across your ribs, hardly noticeable. But Dean saw because he always noticed everything when it came to you. With one look at the blood, he lost it.

“You should’ve waited, " he said, pacing like a caged animal in the motel parking lot, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

“I had it all handled, just like you would have if you got there first, but no, you went left whilst I went right. Lucky hunch, I guess,” you respond while stripping your jacket and throwing it into the back seat of the Impala.

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point, Dean?”

“You're going in alone. Where’s the backup literally two corridors away? That’s the point! That’s dangerous and reckless!”

“No,” you rush out whilst stepping up to him, your chest brushing against his. The contact has both of you freezing. That electricity sparked again, even with just clothes touching. “The point is that you can’t handle not being in control. You can’t stand the idea of me doing fine without you.”

Sam, as much as he loves to tease, found this the perfect time to shuffle to the motel room for a shower awkwardly.

The sharpness of Dean’s jaw tightened as he continued to look at you. “This isn’t about control, and you know it.”

“Then stop acting like I'm some rookie. I’ve been with you for years, Dean. You and John, even before Sammy joined up. You know what this feels like? It feels like you don’t trust me to survive, like I’m not good at my job.”

“That’s not it”, he growls, voice low and pain etched in his eyes.

“Then WHAT IS IT?” you shout, not caring for the audience of people subtly moving aside their curtains from their motel rooms.

“It’s because I wouldn’t survive without you, is that easy enough for you to understand?!” You stop, stepping back at his declaration. Running a hand down his face, he continues in a much milder and defeated tone. “Every time you walk into danger, I feel like I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.”

“What do you want me to do, then, Dean? You can’t expect me to quit my job and sit on the sidelines. Do you think it would be any easier for me to sit back and let you and Sam run into danger and wait to know if you will even come back? I can’t do that”.

Dean doesn’t answer because he never answers when you know. You know, if the conversation continued, it would be teetering on the edge of admitting something he has been trying to keep hidden for so long.

Instead of answers, forgiveness or any sort of settling on feelings. Dean does what he always does and turns his back on you, pretending to continue sorting through the Impala trunk.

So, you left without much thought about your lack of a jacket or weapon on your person. Turning on the spot and away from the motel without a glance over your shoulder.

No car. No plan. A phone with hardly any battery in your back pocket and a firestorm of rage in your chest. Wandering around the town in the middle of the night was probably not your best decision, but here you were, and there was still too much upset, ready to burst from your internal dam, for you to return to the motel just yet.

As you stepped into the dive bar, a flickering neon sign called to your miserable soul. You drank, allowing yourself time to breathe and let the burning of the alcohol soothe your pain.

For a moment, you could pretend that Dean Winchester wasn’t the reason your pulse had been out of rhythm since day one, for the reason that your hunter mindset had momentarily slipped.

Because the vampire came fast as you stepped into the bathroom, there wasn’t even a second to attempt to fight before darkness welcomed you.

Waking up in a dark basement had to be one of the most embarrassing ways for a hunter to wake up. It even warmed the apple of your cheeks with having let your guard down for one damn minute, is a girl not allowed to have a drink anymore without there being some sort of danger? Of course not.

Ribs aching more than ever, specifically along the line of that scratch from earlier in the day. Your wrists were chained to the floor, leaving you slumped in a heap on the cold, wet floor.

Instead of trying to move, you listened to your surroundings. Water dripping, music thumping in the background, and two vampires arguing about what to do with you.

As they argued, you could do what you’d trained most of your life to do. With slow movements, you could slip the hair clip from your pocket and one of the cuffs from your wrist, giving you more movement for when one of the vampires finally approached you.

The moment one got close enough, you went feral. It worked, for a moment, but without weapons, you could only get so far before the other vampire slams you into the wall.

The sound of your head cracking was your first thought before the burning throb of pain came from the back of your head. Barely able to move, there was only a split second that you had before death would come.

But it didn’t. Not for you.

“Let her go, you son of a bitch!”

Screams and thuds of heads rolling on the floor filled the air for moments later.

Then your name, repeatedly begged from Dean as his arms wrapped around your body until you’re against his chest.

“Hey, Sweetheart. Stay with me. Please.”

Blinking up at him, you try to ignore the darkening edges to your vision. “You came.”

His voice cracked. “Of course I did.”

Back at the motel, your wounds were checked and cleaned, but the silence was unbearable. The feast was now simmering in anger, and Dean’s shoulders trembled with restraint that lasted a matter of seconds.

“You almost got killed”, he finally snapped.

“Because you made me feel like I didn’t belong here anymore, Dean!”

“You do belong here! Obviously, you do.”

“Then stop treating me like a goddamn liability all the time!”

The current position you’re both in means his chest is brushing yours as he stands between your legs from where you’re perched on the bathroom counter to clean your wounds.

“You think I bark at you because I don’t care? You think I keep my distance because I don’t feel anything?”

You try to ignore how your chest suddenly feels tight, given how he sounds defeated. “You’ve never said anything otherwise, Dean, and you know it.”

His hands rested on either side of your thighs on the counter, his head dropping as he contemplated his following words, avoiding eye contact. “I push you away because it terrifies me how much I care. You scare the hella outta me, feeling like this all the time, wondering where you are, if you’re hurt, the overwhelming need to protect you at all times.”

Your fingers slip to the back of his head, cupping his face with a tremble. You couldn’t stop even if you tried lifting his handsome face until he was forced to look into your eyes.

For the amount of uncertainty and nerves that seemed to be emanating from Dean, his following words were sure and spoken with such conviction that your breath caught in your throat.

“I’ve been in love with you since the first time you patched me up in some playground all those years ago. I’ve just been too much of a coward to admit it. So all those times I try to push you away, undermine you, or make you feel like you aren’t good at your job. I’m just scared of losing you before we can-. Before I-”, his eyes close as he struggles to form his following words, but you don’t need him to keep talking.

Still holding his face between your palms, you close the gap, mouth crashing to his with as much emotion and need as possible. His hands circle your back, sliding your body closer until he’s perfectly slotted between your thighs, ankles locking behind him.

You’re able to feel how hard his heart is pounding as your fingers grip the front of his shirt, trying to pull it over his head, needing to feel more of him as Dean’s tongue slips into your mouth with dominant strokes.

“Wait,” he gasps, sucking in air and trying to leave a small gap between your bodies. “You’re hurt; you need to rest or at least move to the bedroom”.

“Dean shut up and fuck me”, you demand, tugging on his shirt until hes flush against you once more.

Finally, the tension eases from his shoulders as he releases a deep chuckle. His hands now cuddle your jaw, tipping your face back to kiss you with gentle and loving touches that instantly melt you into his hold.

His fingers were swift and careful as your clothes were removed. Shivering with anticipation, you return the favour and run the tip of your fingers over his heated skin.

Mouth against your throat, he grunts, “Mine”, as he trusts his hard cock against your thigh.

“Always”.

His touch is rough but reverent. Even when he helps you down from the counter, turning on the shower and cleaning off the remnants of the night, he is careful of your healing scratches and scraps.

“Please, Dean”, you whimper down at him from where he kneels between your legs, his hands tickling over the back of your thighs as he finishes washing away the soap suds.

Dean chuckles before gripping your left leg, throwing it over his shoulder and pressing his mouth to where you need him most. Your back arches against the shower wall, fingers gripping his short hair and holding him there.

His tongue was hungry, relentless, worshipping you completely. His name was like an answered pray as he moved between sucking on your clit with two fingers curling deep inside to his tongue replacing his fingers.

“Dean!” you buck your hips against his face as your cunt pulses with the intense orgasm devouring your world.

He stood, eyes wild, lips slick and parted as he panted down at you. “Need to be inside you.”

Lifting a leg around his waist whilst eagerly nodding, you answered, “Then do it, please.”

He laughs lowly, crowding you against the shower wall with a forearm resting next to your head and the other guiding his length into you. “Always so fucking polite - Fuck!”

Sliding into you with a groan, your eyes closed with the intense feelings coursing through your body.

“Always feel so good, sweetheart”, he grunts into your neck, biting the sensitive area.

The rhythm was complex and desperate, and every thrust was a promise as your nails dug into the muscle of his back.

Dean manages to draw two further orgasms out of you that leave your legs trembling and voice hoarse as he holds you close whilst finding his pleasure with a desperate grunt.

After, he wraps you in a towel and helps you to the bed, holding your naked body to his chest, his fingers idly stroking down your spine as you both take a second to breathe each other in.

“You really love me?” you whispered whilst kissing over his heart.

Dean's lips rest against your temple, “Yeah. God help me, but yeah.”

“Then stop letting me go.”

Holding you tighter, he nods, “Never again.”

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester smut #dean winchester one shot #supernatural #supernatural smut #spn smut #mine*

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samhadjblog2 · 2 days ago

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While you can say that its kind of annoying that every character knew each other in the end. However I think your missing a lot of the point of a lot these things.

For instance Silco "Did" adopt Powder out of relating to her sense of betrayal, just because he already knew of her doesn't take away that he still resonated with her. Also Felecia never asked Silco to take care of her kids, she asked him to fight for a better future for her kids. And do so through any violent means. While you can argue that it would of been a stronger point to have it be "the scene the Silco meets her". The intention is still the same none the less. On top of that its clear in S1 that Silco knew of the kids, he had his goons follow them constantly, he was clearly aware that Vi and Powder were sisters.

As for Viktor being the mage. It was something that was always foreshadowed in the series. And is there to be some cheap twist. Because the whole idea is that Future Viktor "wants to have this friendship with Jayce and make Hex-tech together" However Hex-tech always leads him down the path of destroying the world. So in order to create the best possible outcome where he "gets to be with Jayce" while at the same time "Not end the world" he gives Jayce a different Rune to create a different outcome. And in the end it always the two of each other who inspire one another. Future Viktor is the one who inspired Jayce to try to accomplish hex-tech, and its Jayce who Viktor admires to want to put the world in danger in order to be with him. Is this a very messy storyline, sure. Is there a lot over complications to it, yeah there is. However compared to the theory that "The mage was Ryze" along which if you asked sounds more like fanservice then anything, because what sounds more compelling a story about this endless timeloop where a person try's to break time in order sustain his friendship. Or this reference to a character the LoL cinematic universe.

(BTW there were always hints that Rose was Pink Diamond)

And you can argue that having all the character's know each other is sort of grating, which is kind of an issue. Same with the time-travel stuff as well.

However a lot of there is a lot more going on beyond just "fanservice".

Probably a nitpick, but can I just say how much I despise when writers try to make every character know every character from the start? I get the need to seem clever, like, oh yeah, I planned allllll of this B), but really it just makes your world feel smaller, like there's less people residing in it and less forces contributing to the events that happen.

For instance, in Arcane:

Silco didn't adopt Powder/Jinx because he resonated with her sense of betrayal and abandonment and loss of a sibling. No, he adopted her because he was already friends with Felicia. He was always her godfather, essentially.

Jayce didn't get the rune from a mysterious mage (once commonly theorized to be Ryze or a Bone Scryer Shaman). No, it was retconned to be Viktor the entire time. Because of course it was. (Lowkey reminds me of the god awful Rose Quartz is Pink Diamond 'le epic plot twist!1' from Steven Universe, but moving on...)

And fans eat this up.

Not everything needs a twist pre-established connection. It cheapens relationships, like in the case of Silco and Jinx, and really just ruins my immersion, lowers stakes, and shrinks the setting. It shows the writers don't know how to handle the material and are just relying on tropes, "Aha! This character was thiiiis the entire time!" The Marvel-style end fight and time travel/Into the Spiderverse universe-hopping shenanigans didn't help either

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earlgreylatte · 2 days ago

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The Weak Link

Kids and dogs always know who to direct the puppy dog eyes to.

While on the way back to Earth, laying on the floor of the ship, you had insisted that you would pass your new younger brother as your own and take him with you on your travels across the globe as the public school, suburban route you and Mark lived wouldn’t be possible for a purple baby with accelerated aging. Mark had scoffed, expressing his skepticism at your child rearing skills and how feasible your plan even was. You accused him of just being mad that you made him change baby grape’s diapers. He told you to stop calling him that. Maybe you would if baby ube cheesecake would stop reminding you of how long it’s been since you’ve had any Earth food.

Stupid conversations and predictions filled the air as you both looked at the endlessness of space, as the still unnamed baby babbled. It was fun imagining the person your baby brother would become, especially when you wouldn’t have to wait too long to see it. You said he’d probably end up streaming Minecraft or whatever kids were into. Mark insisted he’d be much more cultured and would enjoy something as nuanced as Seance Dog. Maybe he’d be a better artist than you two and create something of his own.

Like comics were actually going to last.

Cradling your baby brother closer to your chest, you look down at his face, round, drowsy eyes staring up at you calmly as you finally reached Earth’s atmosphere, you found yourself feeling something besides dread when thinking about tomorrow for once.

(Slumped against the kitchen island, you watch your mom scrub the counters, the now named baby Oliver asleep in a crib your mom brought up from the basement. Mark had rushed back to his university, you could only wince at the thought of missing nearly a whole semester. Yes, life as a freelancer was much easier.

“Okay, what is it?” She finally asks, turning around to face you.

“What makes you think I want something? I’m just hanging around,” You deflect.

“Because you’re spending time with your mother rather than flying out to the wilderness or staying cooped up in your room,” she smirks, placing a hand on her hip, eyebrow raised, daring you to challenge her.

You hum, readily accepting defeat. You knew better than to enter a verbal duel with her of all people.

“Well,” you start off, somewhat awkwardly, your mom staring at you encouragingly, “Uh, just wanted to make sure you actually want to do…this. Raise Oliver. That isn’t really something people do when their spouses start another family. I mean, I could figure something out, release some travel guides like he did. Stick around in one spot for…however long it takes for a half bug baby to be old enough for college.”

You avoid making eye contact, mostly out of shame for whatever blob of words you just spat out.

You feel a hand rub your head, and glancing up, she’s smiling at you, “My baby looking after a baby? That’s something I’d rather wait to see happen.”

“I’m not going to be a teen mom or anything, I’m old enough to drink now,” you scoff, playfully.

“You’d certainly pass as one! And sooner or later, you’d be dragging around a moody preteen!” She laughs, before her eyes soften, “Oliver is my family too, not because of your father but because you and Mark are connected him in a way unique to only you three. And if you really want to step up, then you can do it from here, write what you want and go off when you want, I won’t interfere with that, but it’d be nice to have you back home.”

“I mean, your cooking might beat living off protein shakes and fast food…” you acquiesce and a moment of comfortable silence passes as you both smile at each other.

“I was looking through some of your father’s travel guides recently, actually. He was so proud when he was able to use your pictures for it,” she speaks up, suddenly, “You two were always going off, seeing what Earth had to offer…I’m sure you’ll pass on that trait to Oliver too before long.

You sniff, blinking a bit as your mom places an hand on your arm before she returns back to the kitchen counter.

“So, I’m guessing you’ll be taking your room back rather than turning it into Oliver’s nursery?” She asks.

You shake your head, getting up to go check on Oliver, “Nah, he’ll need the space. I’ll just take the guest room.”

“Very mature of you.”

“Yup, that’s me, the Mature Grayson, especially apparent when placed next to an actual infant.”

She calls your name, causing you to pause by the staircase, “If Oliver’s going to take your room, at least take down your little video game men posters. And don’t just play with Oliver! I’m going to feed you an actual meal!”

“…okay.��)

It was hard to believe that it hasn’t even been half a year since you first brought Oliver home, the once infant, now a walking, talking kid with the energy levels of a border collie.

Besides being purple, he’s just like any other boy in the neighbourhood. He likes playing on your old PSP and Mark’s old NDS to the point he plays it past his bedtime, he loves to play outside, and he eats all your snacks without asking. Mark calls you out for being unfair, considering you stranded him high up a tree in the backyard when you two were in middle school. He claims you’ve mellowed out, as if you were some raging dog before.

In actuality, your dynamic with Oliver was something new. You’ve always been an older sister, but you and Mark were always at the same point in life, going to school together and living the same experiences. You looked out for him, played video games with him, and microwaved pizza pockets for dinner when your parents were running late, but you also nearly knocked him out in a pillow fight and laughed at his humiliating moments. You couldn’t do that to Oliver. He’s a baby! You’re an adult!

…Technically.

You knew Mark felt the same way, knowing that you were responsible for shaping Oliver into a functional person, one that knows how to control himself, has manners and is courteous, all while keeping him cooped up. Oliver’s world is small, and it’s up to you that he becomes the best version of himself possible.

Better than you.

Better than Nolan Grayson.

But with that said, you find it a tab bit difficult to be…stern with him.

Something that causes Mark to stare at you in shock and Oliver to know to take advantage of.

In Oliver’s eyes, it’s not ‘your dessert’, it’s ‘our dessert’, always asking you to bring him something whenever you go out and barging into your room while you’re asleep to urge you to play with him.

And when faced with your mom’s sharp glare or Mark’s attempt at a stern face, he knows who to hide behind or shoot a pleading look.

You’ve had to bail Oliver out of a lecture more than once.

(“Seriously?” Mark groans, watching Oliver hook his arms around your stomach, sticking his tongue out at him as you pat his head comfortingly. “He ate the last slice of cake! That I bought!”

“Like you weren’t doing the same every time I brought back anything before you got your powers,” you retort as Oliver giggles.

“And you beat me up for it! You literally slapped me just last week!”

“That was for training, Cecil wants us in top form,” you dismiss with a shrug of your shoulders.

“You could have punched me? That slap was way too personal!”

“That self centred train of thought is what happens when you don’t drink enough water,” you loudly whisper to Oliver, who nods back at you seriously.

Mark throws up his hands in exasperation, stalking away, his place as the middle child apparently too much for him.)

So, when you come home after a quick trip to the Canadian Rockies, aiding a geologist who wanted some pictures for a book he was in the midst of publishing, you’re armed with maple candy and rare rocks to share with your family, you excitedly land in the backyard, only to see Oliver hovering in the air near the glass door, clearly eavesdropping on a conversation between your mom and Mark.

He looks at you like a deer in headlights, but you only gesture for him to move towards you, leading him back to his room through his window. The pictures you took of his Mother and Thraxa decorating his walls, your old room now unrecognizable.

“So, someone got their powers,” you comment, sitting on his bed.

He shrugs, avoiding looking at you.

“They’re not against you having powers. They’re just worried they kicked in so early. Especially since Mark was a late bloomer. It’s not everyday a kid gets the ability to fly whenever and wherever, you know.”

“I know,” he mumbles. “I thought it’d be different. I didn’t know—“

“Didn’t know?” You urge.

“Didn’t know keeping secrets was bad. I didn’t mean to make mom sad,” he admits.

“Secrets aren’t always bad. I mean, it depends,” you try to explain, “Mom’s just worried about you going off and getting into fights like, me and Mark. It’s just not something a parent wants their kid doing. She wants you to be safe, and for you to be safe you need to keep us in the loop. Power like ours is…heavy. You need control and judgement before you even think of doing anything with them. You need to prove you can be responsible, that you won’t end up hurting yourself or others. That means telling at least one of us if anything as big as this happens.“

“You got your powers pretty young though, you were out with dad all the time! April told me!” He blurts out, and you jolt. She did!?

“Ah, right, I guess we were seen together for a while back then. Everyone thought I was his sidekick for a while,” you muse. “Well, I might be exactly why they’re so worried about you.”

“Huh? How does that work? You’re Singularity! You’re so…! Well, you’re kind of cool!”

“That’s because I’m grown up now, things used to be different. Honestly, back then, I was constantly getting my…behind handed to me. And I was a bit of a crybaby, so that made things worse, haha.” You recall neutrally, “It wasn’t all bad. I learnt a lot of things, from dad and my own experiences. But when it was, I never told anyone. And that hurt mom. Things are even more different now. We need to look after each other, to trust each other. And, sadly that means talking about ourselves, whether it has to do with powers, or just how we’re feeling.”

Oliver stares up at you, pensively, before brightening when you pull out your wallet. “Are we—!?”

“Now, us going out to get some midnight milkshakes? Well, that’s the good kind of secret, one between just us,” you two exchange twin grins.

“This is why you’re way cooler and nicer than Mark!” Oliver cheers, shooting up and grabbing a hoodie from his closet, before rushing back to you and tugging you off the bed and towards the window with his new strength.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s—“

Maybe you were getting soft.

Oliver: I’m going to be a kid hero!

Mark and Debbie, looking at Singularity: Not in a million years——

Cecil: Debbie why didn’t you tell me Oliver got his powers

Debbie: why didn’t you tell me about my then underage daughter’s various injuries and mission turned disasters where both guardians should have been notified?

Cecil: …she told me not to?

Singularity: I mean, despite dad, we turned out pretty okay

Mark: um!?

Singularity: what

Mark: you literally threw up two hours ago because you accidentally broke someone’s nose??

Singularity: must be an off day

Mark: your brain damage is catching up to you, and if it’s not that, then it has to be that hole dad punched through you

Singularity: saiyan rules mark, near death experiences make us stronger, it’s like exp, that’s why you’re underleveled

Mark: oh, god you actually have brain damage

Oliver haters dni

Series Masterlist, Masterlist

#invincible x reader #invincible imagine #mark grayson & reader #nolan grayson & reader #debbie grayson & reader #oliver grayson & reader #sister reader #platonic reader #invincible

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buckybabybaby · 1 day ago

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always pretty

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (gender neutral)

(established relationship, fluff, slightly suggestive, Bucky being beautiful, bff Joaquín has 3 lines)

Word count: 1k

*** SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS UNDER THE CUT ***

Plot: you see Bucky with his new hairstyle for the first time

Warnings: none :)

A/N: a small piece inspired by Bucky's hair in the post credit scene because I think we all agree its one of his best looks <3 that and the bit where he took his jacket off were very much for me

I haven't posted a Bucky x reader fic for 4 years now. New content = more inspiration apparently!

I saw thunderbolts on Friday and started this yesterday, it may only be 1000 words but I've never finished a drabble so quickly.

Also a little fix it for the Sambucky plot line </3 I didn't go in to detail as I don't know how they would resolve it, but after bnw I can't have them end like that :(

Masterlist

AO3

***

You sit outside the photography studio, nervous energy preventing you from even being able to scroll through your phone, eyes darting from the door, to the view out the window, to the many posters of previous work on the wall, and back to the door on repeat. It's been hours, but you are determined to wait.

Bucky's first time in his new avengers suit? Yeah, you weren't missing this.

He'd been so anxious this morning and your heart had melted. You understand though. Not only was he having his final fitting of his suit, they were also doing promotional shoots for the many magazines and websites that wanted an interview, so hair, makeup and endless poses were all on the schedule today.

Every time the door opens you look up expectantly, until eventually you see what you've been waiting for.

The new avengers file out, some acknowledging you, others clearly wanting to leave as quickly as possible. Joaquín bounds up to you, ever enthusiast, showing off his slightly altered falcon suit.

"You like?"

"I love." You grin at him. "Did it go okay?"

He nods, glancing back. "And Bucky did well, managed to tone down the grumpy old man vibes for once."

You make an offended noise, pushing at his chest lightly. "Don't be mean."

His teasing smile is infectious as he guides you towards the studio. "Go find him. He's probably exhausted after having to smile for more than five minutes."

You go to push him again but he's too fast, bidding you goodbye as you enter the doorway. Inside the screens and lighting supports are already being disassembled, staff streaming around you to get the place cleared quickly and making it a struggle to spot Bucky. Eventually you do, facing away from you talking to Sam on the far side of the room. You hesitate to approach, knowing how their friendship has been rocky recently, but then Sam laughs loudly at something Bucky's said, a natural laugh that has you relaxing as you make your way over. Their disagreement was almost as difficult for you as it was for Bucky, a horrible tense episode you don't want to return to anytime soon.

Sam notices you first, leaving Bucky with a final hand shake before pausing next to you on his way out.

"Who knew your man could look so good, huh?"

"And you. I'm sure your solo shots will be the cover photos."

He snorts. "Me and Bucky are cool now, no need to butter me up."

"Oh, I wasn't! I wouldn't-" You splutter before Sam takes pity on you, resting his hand on your shoulder.

"Hey, I'm joking." He squeezes you gently, smile softer now. "See you soon, yeah?"

You nod, watching him go. Turning back to Bucky, you walk over slowly, waiting for him to detect your presence. It takes him longer than usual, you're almost beside him by the time he does, like Joaquín said he must be worn out by all the attention and not quite his usual sharp self.

"Hey doll." He says, tilting his head towards you without getting up.

Moving in front of him, you step into his space to kiss him like always, until you get a good look at his outfit.

And his arm.

And his hair.

You stare. The 'a' on his chest has your own chest tight, knowing how much it means for him to be seen as a hero officially. It doesn't hurt that the top fits perfectly, that both his arms are defined in different ways, that the way they've styled his hair makes him look even more prince-like than ever.

"Is it bad?" He asks when you don't say anything.

"No, no! It's great-lovely-so nice." You rush to reassure him. "Did they blow dry you?"

"I think so? I just sat here and let them work." He shrugs.

"Okay, so you know I love your hair however you do it. But this," You reach out to brush the wave falling over his forehead. "This is my new favourite. You're always so pretty, I'm happy they managed to enhance it like this."

His smiles shyly at the floor, an unusual look for the former winter soldier. You're so endeared to him. This man is well over one hundred years old and a real life super hero, but you can still reduce him to a blushing mess with the right choice of words.

Tilting his head back up, you do kiss him now, only quickly as you need to take the whole look in again. He pouts as you pull away, only adding to his charm. One day you may get used to just how pretty he is, may find a way to not be left breathless just by his existence, not get distracted every time he looks your way.

Today, though, is not that day.

Climbing onto his lap, you bring him into a deeper kiss, feeling his body tense for a second before he relaxes, one arm snaking around your waist to hold you tight. Pressing yourself as close as possible, you can feel every firm edge of his uniform through your clothes, thoughts turning filthy in record time.

You break the kiss with a gasp to ask, "Are you allowed to take the suit home?"

"Oh?" He seems surprised but not displeased by the shift in mood. "It's like that is it?"

You whine in answer, not caring that the room is still very busy. Bucky cups your face to get a clear look at you, smirking as he sees how far gone you are just from a few kisses.

"I can take the suit home," He tells you, making you giggle in excitement. "Probably shouldn't mess it up too much too early, though. I know how you get"

You frown. "I can control myself."

"No you can't, sweetheart," Bucky argues correctly.

"Well, at least don't brush your hair through," You demand, delicately repositioning the loose strands around his face. "That is the best part."

"I can do that." His mouth meets yours again, briefly letting you get a taste of him before he releases you. Standing up, he drags you with him towards the exit, smiling cheekily over his shoulder. "Let's go prove how much you really like it."

***

Thank you for reading!

***

Masterlist

AO3

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #buckybabybaby

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astrologydray · 2 days ago

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When Your Moon Sign Matches Their Rising Sign: part 1

♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️

Aries Moon + Aries Rising

♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️

This connection is high-energy, fiery, and often volatile — but magnetic nonetheless. Aries Moon people feel their emotions with urgency: when they’re angry, it shows; when they’re in love, it’s intense. Pair that with someone whose Aries Rising naturally shows up as bold, competitive, and assertive, and you’ve got fireworks.

They mirror each other’s impulsiveness — emotionally and behaviorally — and while this can lead to passionate bonding, it can also cause frequent head-butting. There’s not a lot of emotional delay or subtlety in this match. What you see is what you get.

Synastry vibe: Quick to fall, quicker to fight, and possibly even quicker to forgive (if pride doesn’t get in the way). They often challenge each other to level up — emotionally and energetically.

Potential dynamic: You might find yourselves playing out arguments where both partners feel like they’re the one being misunderstood, because you’re emotionally raw (Moon) and reactive (Rising) in very similar ways. If both people lack emotional maturity, this can spiral into a competitive, ego-driven connection. But if handled with care? You’re both each other’s ride-or-die.

♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️♈️

Taurus Moon + Taurus Rising

♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️

This connection is rooted in physical presence, loyalty, and consistency. A Taurus Moon person processes their emotions through comfort — food, touch, environment — and wants their inner world to feel peaceful and secure. A Taurus Rising comes off as composed, sensual, and grounded — they project the exact vibe that puts a Taurus Moon at ease.

This pairing thrives on routine, rituals, and deep trust. Even if things move slowly, they build something that lasts. Emotions are shown through actions: cooking for each other, massages, slow mornings in bed, running errands as a love language.

Synastry vibe: These two often experience emotional recognition instantly. The Moon person feels seen, while the Rising person feels instinctively accepted. It’s very “my home is your home” energy — even if you’ve just met.

Potential dynamic: This could become a beautifully slow-burn connection where you both feel more peaceful together than apart. You speak the same love language without needing to explain it.

If either of you resists change or growth, this match can stagnate. Both can get too comfortable or possessive.

♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️♉️

Gemini Moon + Gemini Rising

♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️

This is a match made in chaotic, curious heaven. Gemini Moon needs mental stimulation to feel emotionally alive — boredom is death. Meanwhile, Gemini Rising comes off as witty, chatty, and restless. These two naturally feed off each other’s banter and curiosity. You might start talking and forget to sleep. Gemini Moons can be moody but mask it with humor, and Gemini Risings often perform emotions before processing them. Together, they make excellent travel partners, meme senders, and spontaneous decision-makers.

Synastry vibe: Endless conversation, matching humor, shared mental stimulation. You feel like you’ve known each other in every alternate timeline.

Potential dynamic: You may feel emotionally safe around them because their presence is light and clever, not overwhelming. You vent through conversation, and they mirror it back with similar words or gestures — almost like they’re reading your mind.

Emotional depth can be a challenge. There’s a risk of skating over big emotional truths because it feels easier to joke, deflect, or intellectualize.

♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️♊️

Cancer Moon + Cancer Rising

♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️

This is a deeply emotional, spiritual, and soul-recognizing match. The Cancer Moon is highly sensitive, intuitive, and nurturing — they often feel like they carry the emotional temperature of the room. Cancer Rising appears warm, shy, motherly or protective, and even a bit guarded. But that’s the thing — you both see through each other instantly. The Moon person’s emotional rhythms match what the Rising person naturally presents to the world. You “just know” how to care for each other without speaking. There’s an undercurrent of safety, psychic connection, and softness.

Synastry vibe: Healing. You may cry together easily, or feel like childhood wounds are being re-opened and re-loved. You feel emotionally held just by being in their presence.

Potential dynamic: The Moon person feels emotionally cradled, while the Rising person feels understood and accepted for their gentle nature. There’s a quiet devotion that builds without needing dramatic displays.

If either person is still operating from emotional reactivity or unresolved family dynamics, this match can become codependent or smothering. But if there’s growth? It’s a soulmate frequency.

♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️♋️

#astro notes #astrology #birth chart #astro observations #astro community #astrology observations #astrology community #astrology degrees #astro #astroblr #astrologyposts #astrology content #astrology insights #astrology aspects #astronomy #asteroids in astrology #houses in astrology

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summerofbuddie · 2 days ago

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the challenge for week 1 of the summer of buddie 2.0 is: summertime adventures!

we want every fic written for this week of the challenge to incorporate some aspect of summer into the story. this can mean including a beach day into the plot, or having buck and eddie take a summer vacation together, or having the 118 respond to calls caused by a summer storm! the possibilities are endless!

you can choose whatever you want this challenge to mean to you. be wild, be creative, be silly. have fun!

week 1 of summer of buddie 2.0 goes from june 16th to june 22nd, so you can post your fic(s) at any point during that week.

remember that you also can use the summertime adventures challenge in combination with other weeks's challenges in one single fic. you can mix and match challenges to your heart's content and post them all throughout the event!

make sure to mention us (@summerofbuddie) and use our tumblr tag (#summerofbuddie) in your fic post if you want us to reblog it here on tumblr.

if you want to, you can also add your fic to the summer of buddie 2.0 collection on ao3.

we can't wait to read all your amazing stories!

🦀🍑☀️

#buddie #buddie fic #911 #911 fic #summerofbuddie #summer 25 #challenges

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pandora-writes-one-piece · 2 days ago

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The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 7

Source for pic

Imperfect 7

Word Count: 5782

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: This chapter is a bit silly, but definitely a lot of fun. Let's strengthen these relationships before it all falls apart! I hope you enjoy it!

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

You know Shanks saw you arrive yesterday with Kid. He probably even witnessed that meaningful moment next to Kid’s bike. But he doesn’t mention it over breakfast, even though he eyes you with a worried gaze, and you’re thankful he doesn’t.

Though you don’t think anything can ruin your mood, not even your father’s overprotectiveness. You’re walking on cloud nine. Last night’s plan was successful, Kid opened up, let you in, even if it was just for sharing fun and silly moments. He didn’t push you away or withdraw from you.

One step at a time.

You can’t lie, going back to the garage the day after felt like walking in with your heart in your hands. Half-expecting him to be in another foul mood, ready to push you away and deny any connection, while another hopeful half of you expected him to still be in a good mood.

He didn’t push you away.

Instead, he put you to work. He was sanding Victoria again, prepping her for the final paint job, and you were to help. He taught you how to mask the windows so no paint would accidentally get there, and you did a decent job - his words.

While he sprayed the primer paint on the car’s body, and after you admonished him to wear a mask and gloves because of the fumes, you went out to buy coffee and donuts. When you arrived, about an hour and a half later, because you bumped into Robin and Nami at Sanji’s café, Kid was spraying bare-handed, using a bandana as a mask.

You sighed. It was good enough.

The next days were a blur of more sanding, more spray painting, and endless hours of literally watching paint dry. All of it was interspersed with curses and grumbles from the red-headed mechanic because the hue of the red paint wasn’t doing his baby justice, leading to hours of adjusting it or adding another coat.

You mostly offered moral support and coffee runs while continuously taunting Kid with the help of Killer, riling him up so hard that it was rare for a day to pass without him telling you both to fuck off.

You were having a lot of fun.

Romantically speaking, you both were taking the unspoken rule of ‘one step at a time’ to a tee, because other than heated looks, flirty banter, and the flurry of winged bugs inside your stomach, nothing else had happened.

Which also meant he hadn’t pushed you away. You saw that as a win.

Supposedly, and this has been announced a few times already, today is the day Kid finishes the last coat of paint, and a sense of accomplishment keeps spreading a sly grin over your lips, even though you don’t mean it to.

The heat wave has finally relented, and there’s a soft breeze blowing through the trees, the weather actually resembling springtime for once. Once you enter the garage - noticing that both the door and the gate are wide open - you’re hit with a waft of spray fumes and chemicals that make you wrinkle your nose, despite being used to it already.

Kid is already elbow-deep in finishing the last coat, and you don’t even bother announcing yourself over the whirring of the air compressor as he uses the spray gun. You just hop on top of the workbench and watch him in his element.

He’s, thankfully, wearing the bandana around his mouth, and he has some gold-rimmed, square-shaped goggles over his eyes to protect them from the splatters. The gloves are nowhere in sight, and therefore, his bare hands and forearms are dotted in red paint. Next to you on the workbench are open cans of automobile paint and turpentine, augmenting the strong odour of chemicals and making your head feel slightly lighter.

After a while, Kid finishes. He sets down the spray, backs up a few steps, and pushes the goggles up to his forehead, examining his work from afar while he tilts his head left and right. You jump from your perch to join him, and he acts like he knew you were there all along.

Maybe he did.

“Is she done?” you ask in a small voice, feeling the weight of the moment settle in.

“Aye.” Kid’s throat works through some emotion he can’t place into words before he smirks softly. “Still needs to be waxed, after she dries. Then I need to set up the tires, get her road-ready, fix small issues, but aye… she’s mostly done.”

It’s a huge moment for Kid. You can feel it in the way he can’t stop staring at Victoria, in the way his paint-dipped fingers twitch against his jeans, and in the lump he keeps swallowing in his throat.

“That’s it?” you turn to him, and his fiery gaze lands on you, eyebrows twitching in confusion.

“What’s it?”

“That’s all you’ve got to say? She’s done?”

“I just told ye! She still needs some work, but aye, she’s done.” Kid grits his teeth and raises his shoulders, not quite getting your point.

“You’re not being enthusiastic enough,” you state.

“Beg yer fuckin’ pardon?”

“You need to shout or something! Jump, flail your arms, I don’t know… be more dramatic!”

Kid stares at you like you’ve grown horns. “Dramatic? Drama is for theatre geeks and soccer moms, Sparkles.”

“Oh! Excuse me! High and mighty manly man!” Kid grumbles something at you, but you’re already turning back to the workbench you were sitting on, grabbing one of the open red paint cans and a brush. “You’ve been working on Victoria for years. You gave her your blood, sweat, and tears. You scavenged and bartered for parts so she could be perfect.”

You approach him, and he’s still eyeing you with a raised eyebrow.

“You deserve to be proud of what you’ve achieved. You need to express it.” Stopping near him, you raise the paint-covered brush and draw a streak across his muscled forearm. “Shout, Kid. Tell the world how proud you are of what you’ve accomplished.”

Kid stares at his arm, growls, and then stares back at you. “What the hell? I ain’t gonna shout. I’m proud, but I ain’t gonna yell about it.”

You make a small heart, this time right on the vein that’s throbbing on his neck. “Do it, Kid.”

“Oi! Sparkles,” he lunges for the paint, but you dodge him and run around him. “Better stop that!”

You raise the brush again, still evading Kid’s lunges. “Do it, Kid, or I swear to God I will draw a dick on your forehead.”

“Ye wouldn’t fuckin’ dare!”

“Try me!”

“For fuck’s sake, fine!” Kid lets out a low growl. “I finished it! Victoria’s done! I’m fuckin’ proud!” He elevates his voice, but you still splash him with paint. “Oi! Brat! SHE’S FINISHED! I’M THE BEST FUCKIN’ MECHANIC IN THE CITY.”

He finally shouts, and you let out a bubbly laugh. “Yes! Fuck yes, you are! In the world!” You jump, and the paint sloshes inside the tiny can you’re holding, spilling some on the floor. You stare down, and in that small moment of distraction, Kid dips his fingers in the paint and drags them across your cheek, making you squeal in surprise and delight.

“Aye, Sparkles, I am!” He’s standing close to you, eyes glinting with satisfaction and mischief, and you can’t even fight the warmth that’s spreading in your chest.

“Where are you taking her on her maiden ride?” You barely take notice of the step you take just to be closer to him.

His hand raises again, and you think he’s about to war-paint your face some more. Instead, he tips your chin so he can stare right into your eyes. “Anywhere ye wanna go.”

Emotion swells inside your chest as you try to fight a happy grin. It feels like both of you have made progress in the last few weeks, from the explosive, fiery attraction to a small, slow-burning flame.

One step at a time suddenly feels like it’s not enough.

Perhaps sensing the tension, Kid grins and yells again, “I’M THE BEST MECHANIC IN THE FUCKIN’ WORLD!”

“What did I miss?” Killer’s voice reaches you from the entrance of the garage. You run to him, brush already aimed, and he has zero time to react before you dot his arm with red paint.

“We’re celebrating!”

“Victoria’s done,” Kid proudly adds.

Killer is still staring at his arm, and at Kid’s and your paint marks. So you take advantage of his confusion to add another streak of paint to his other arm. “Oi! The hell?”

Your giggles turn high-pitched when Kid wraps his arms around yours, immobilizing you. “She’s bein’ a brat,” he grunts near your ear, and you squirm in his arms, trying - in vain - to free yourself. “I say we give her a taste of her own medicine.”

Killer is already reaching for the paint can before you even start begging for mercy. It falls on deaf ears, and the paint can gets turned upside down over your head. The shrill shriek you meant to unleash gets stuck in your throat because if you open your mouth at this moment, you’ll be eating paint.

You still make a meek, muffled protest, showing exactly how pissed off you are. None of them care one bit as Kid’s laugh echoes around the garage. He finally releases you, just to laugh some more as you scoop the paint coating your eyes, leaving drips, smudges, and smears all over the floor of the garage.

“Seriously?” you ask in disbelief.

“Come on, City Girl, you deserved that!” Killer’s shoulders shake, even though his laughter is mostly silent.

“I’m covered in paint, you morons!”

Kid guffaws at that. “Serves ye right. Kill, how does takeout and beer sound as a celebration?”

“I’m still covered in paint…” What sounds good isn’t food, but maybe a shower or a quick trip to a car wash…

“Sounds like heaven. I’m gonna grab the food, you chill the beer.”

“Hey! Hello!” Waving your arms in the air, you splash some more paint everywhere, and that gets them sniggering again.

“Aye, aye, calm yer tits, Sparkles. There’s a bathroom right there with a shower. Yer welcome to it.”

On second thought, food and beer do sound great.

-*-

You take a quick shower in Kid’s garage bathroom and get most of the paint out of your hair and body. Some of the paint managed to drip into your lady bits, and scrubbing that off is a bit uncomfortable. As wondrous as it seems to have a handy-dandy shower right next to the garage, where one usually gets dirty and greasy, this handy-dandy shower doesn’t have a drip of hot water.

However, you feel cleaner than you were before, even though your clothes have definitely seen better days. Kid handed you a clean towel and some of his clothes - a faded Iron Maiden tee-shirt and some oversized shorts - before you hopped into the shower, and you try to ignore the fluttering sensation that overwhelms your stomach and lower abdomen when you step out of the bathroom and he eats you up with his fiery gaze.

Slowly eats you up.

His throat works somewhat, but he gets back to the task of stocking the freezer with plenty of beer while Killer suddenly grabs his phone, pretending it’s ringing, and answers a ‘call’ saying that the takeout is ready for pickup. He promptly grabs the keys to the shop’s truck and makes a beeline for the door.

“Don’t forget, folks, doors have locks! ‘K?” Killer ignores your empty stares as he sniggers and closes the door behind him.

Kid continues to stock the fridge as you shove the towel’s end as far as it can go inside your ear. “Jesus Christ, I swear I have paint embedded in my brain!”

Kid chortles and closes the fridge. “Ye got paint all over my garage, sweetheart. Yer ear never had a chance.”

You know he calls you sweetheart more in a teasing way than an endearing way, but damn it if the godforsaken word doesn’t get your heart thumping like a wild beast.

“I stand my ground, mister. And I still think you deserved to have a dick drawn in your forehead.” Discarding the towel, you grab a rag and some paint remover, then kneel on the floor to try and clean the worst of the damage.

Kid begins by telling you that you don’t have to do that, but soon enough, he’s joining you on the floor.

There’s no denying it. There’s still plenty of heat where both of you are concerned. And the fact that Kid can’t seem to take his eyes off you wearing his clothes isn’t necessarily helping with this whole ‘one step at a time’ bit.

Would it be so terrible if you jumped him and kissed the bejesus out of him?

Yes.

He might just push you away again, and you’re not quite sure if you could bear that while being as vulnerable with your emotions as you are right now. What you see in his eyes is proof enough that he’s battling the same restraint you are. So, if he’s strong enough to withstand primal urges and keep things civilized, damn it, so are you.

-*-

“Are you ever gonna show us your face?” you ask Killer with a giggle, cheeks burning red from the alcohol, tongue looser than a worn-out screw.

Kid laughs and takes another sip from his beer, his composure still standing impeccably. Either you’re a lightweight, or these two can handle liquor like pros. “Speak for yerself, Sparkles. I’ve seen plenty of that ugly mug.”

You jerk with the shock of this revelation, and the motion sets the room spinning around. Kid has to grip the scruff of your shirt to keep you from falling off the couch, where you are precariously perched.

“Betrayal!” you point at Killer, and he shrugs. “Just a peek?” you bat your eyelashes this time, but Kill just shakes his head.

“Maybe someday, City Girl.”

“Aw, come on! It would cheer me up immensely!” You say the word with slurred confidence, and you nail the pronunciation with a cocky grin.

“I don’t think you need cheering up.” Killer takes a sip from his beer by placing it under his bandana.

“‘K! I can work with that. What I heard was: if you ever need cheering up, I’ll show you my face!” With a triumphant laugh, you nudge Kid right on the ribs, and he groans because drunk you has no depth or strength perception. “Hear that, Kid? You’re my witness!”

“Aye, aye.”

“I ain’t agreeing to that,” Killer deadpans.

“Just say ye agree, dumbass, or she’ll never shut up about it.”

“Kid’s right, though,” you add, and Killer sighs.

“Sure, then.”

Soon enough, the world is spinning faster, and your friends are nothing but a blur of colours and distant sounds. You seem to hear Kid and Killer discuss sleeping arrangements, and Killer ends up stating he’d rather walk home than unwittingly interrupt something he doesn’t mean to.

It’s also decided that they’re both too tipsy to drive you home, and you’re definitely too wasted to do it yourself, so you’ll be sleeping in Kid’s bed while he sleeps on the couch. Apparently, Kid’s house is on the floor over the garage.

Huh.

Killer says his goodbyes, and you hear him lock the door from the outside. Kid hits light switches everywhere, leaving only one on the stairs at the back of the garage, and then he makes his way to you.

Somehow, you’ve managed to curl up against the arm of the couch, legs pressed against your chest as you try to make yourself small.

“What’s happenin’?” Kid asks, bemused.

“You turned off all the lights, Kid! That’s when the bogeyman comes out to play!” Your words come out muffled against your legs, but you can still hear Kid’s snicker.

“The only bogeyman here is me, sweetheart. C’mon, let’s get ya to bed.” Kid grabs your hand and pulls, but you barely budge.

“Bed?” Raising your head from your arms cocoon, you smile sultrily at Kid, bogeyman all but forgotten.

“Aye, ye need sleep,” he chuckles.

A mischievous glint makes your eyes sparkle as you place your knees on the couch and raise your arms over your head. “Pick me up, I can’t walk all by myself.”

“Is that right, couch princess?” Kid seems amused, but you only nod at him.

“You can’t expect me to climb all those steps!” you state dramatically and exaggerate the sentence by placing an arm over your eyes in a fainting motion.

“Drama queen,” Kid mumbles between his teeth, but still picks you up, princess style. You can’t stop giggling and squirming in his arms, and he isn’t exactly hiding his grin either.

“You’re so strong, Kid. I bet you could manhandle me into any position.” Kid stumbles on the last step and almost causes both of you to fall before he manages to steady himself.

“The fuck, Sparkles?” His tone is amused, and maybe a little bit aroused.

“I mean any position.” You raise your eyebrows suggestively three times, and Kid shakes his head, his grin widening.

“Like ye could handle that. One good poundin’, and ye’d be ruined.”

Fuck, that sounds hot.

“It sure does, Sparkles.”

SHIT! Did I say that out loud?

“Ye did. And that too.”

“Anyway!” You clear your throat, “I doubt that very much! I’d be asking for round two even before you had a chance to compose yourself.”

Kid’s grin widens further as he balances you in one arm so he can open the door that leads inside his house. His face is suddenly way closer, and his breath smells like alcohol and endless possibilities.

“Yer all talk, City Girl. Besides, yer drunk off yer ass.” Kid walks you both through the threshold and closes the door behind him, settling you down on the floor, but not letting go of you yet.

“Well, this ass is ready for demolition.” You wink and smack your butt while looking him dead in the eyes.

Somewhere in the haze of alcohol that’s hindering your brain, you remember some resolution about taking it slow or one step at a time. But it all just seems so far, far away.

“Oh, sweetheart…” His eyes glint mischievously as he maneuvers you both towards what you assume is his bedroom. God, you hope it’s his bedroom. “If ye were sober right now, ye’d eat each and every one of those words. I’d make sure of that.”

Kid sits you on his bed and removes your boots, tucking you inside the covers and winking at you.

“If I were sober?”

“Sure.” You’re pretty sure he’s saying that just to indulge you, though.

“Okay. Fair. We shall discuss this again tomorrow, good sir!” With a salute, you snuggle into the sheets and sigh contentedly.

“Aye, like yer gonna remember any of this.” Kid turns, then freezes on the spot when you shriek.

“OH MY GOD! You’re right. I’m not going to remember. Hang on!” Picking up your phone, which Kid had just placed on the nightstand, you type something fast and then look at him with the biggest shit-eating grin you’ve ever shown him.

“What did ye–” You don’t even let him finish. You push the phone against his face, hitting his nose in the process, and earning yourself a grunt and a curse word before he grips your wrist and pushes your arm back so he can read what you wrote.

“MEMO,” Kid starts, “Get ass demolished by Kid.” Kid deadpans and stares at you. You’re pretty sure he wants to laugh his ass off, since his jaw is twitching, but he’s holding it in decently. “Seriously?”

“I can’t forget this vital piece of information, Kid. I’m one hundred percent sure you’re the guy I should turn to so my ass gets demolished properly.” Jaw twitching again, hands clenching, he’s almost laughing.

“Yer a menace.”

“I am, big guy.” You wink at him. “And you just got yourself plans for tomorrow, clear your schedule.”

At this, he can’t hold off anymore and finally lets out another one of those unburdened laughs, turning your legs to jelly and your heart into a stuttering mess.

“Sure. But for now, be sure to text yer dad sayin’ ye ain’t gonna go home tonight, so he ain’t worryin’ his ass off.”

“Oh, shit!” You open the texts. “Thanks, Kid, I really should do that.” You start typing, and then the little drunk devil on your shoulder turns you naughty again. “Dad,” you recite, “I’m staying at Kid’s. He’s gonna fold me up like a pretzel, make me come at least two times, and then manhandle me into a good position to get my ass demolished. It’s consensual, and we’ll be sure to use protection. Love you! Aaaaand… send!”

Kid is livid. His mouth hangs slightly open as he stares at you with wide-open eyes. You’re pretty sure part of him knows you’re messing with him, but you’re also sure there’s an infinitesimal part of him that’s doubting the situation.

“Ye… ye didn’t… right?”

“Sure did! Dad won’t mind!” You wave a hand in the air. “You’re chums, aren’t you?”

“Sparkles…” He doesn’t look afraid, but he looks like a man who’s not very happy to have to deal with an angry dad. Especially when said dad is Shanks.

“See for yourself.” Once again, you shove the phone into his nose, but this time, he’s faster with his actions, and he doesn’t even grunt at the contact. The text reads: ‘Sleeping at a friend’s house tonight. I’m fine, see you tomorrow. <3’

Kid visibly relaxes as you let out a mirthful guffaw. “You’re so easy to rile up, Kid!”

“Ah, ye fukin’ menace.” Kid presses his hand to your forehead and pushes you down, tucking the covers again. “Sleep!”

“Wait!”

With a sigh and a groan, Kid stares at you, arms crossed, waiting for more shenanigans. He doesn’t even move when you throw the shorts he lent you at his face. They slide unamusedly to the floor and Kid’s expression is one of exasperation.

“Here, it’s way too hot to wear those anyway.” You sigh and snuggle, turning on your stomach and burying your face in his pillow. With a few silly giggles, you thrash around until you settle and close your eyes. “Fucking room can’t stop spinning. But Kid, hey Kid?”

“What?” He sounds much more bemused than annoyed.

“This bed smells like you.”

You don’t open your eyes to see his reaction, but you don’t miss the soft, exasperated chuckle he exhales.

“Aye, go to sleep, lightweight.” You hear his boots shuffle on the floor, ready to leave the room.

“Wait, wait! Kid?”

He pauses, the door creaking slightly.

“You’d demolish it pretty good, wouldn’t you?” You open just one eye, a naughty smirk upturning your lip, and this time his chuckle rings low and inviting.

“Sweetheart,” Kid’s voice thickens, and the fluttering in your chest is only drowned out by the drowsiness in your head. “Ye wouldn’t be able to walk straight for a damn week.”

-*-

You feel the sun on your face, burning and bright, forcing you into an untimely wake-up call. “Five more minutes…” you groan and bury your face beneath the covers. Your head feels like someone’s been tap-dancing inside your skull all night, and your throat is drier than desert sand.

Hangover is a bitch.

Your next inhale smells homely - a mix of gasoline, grease and something metallic - and you can’t help a small smile curling your lips. Kid.

With a Herculean effort, you roll the covers off yourself and blink slowly, adjusting to the daylight. Beside you, on the nightstand, is a full glass of water and a couple of aspirin. Your heart swells at his thoughtfulness, and you can’t help but feel a little bit special. You bet that Kid doesn’t show this side of himself to just anybody.

After downing the pills and draining the glass, you make your way to the bathroom and stare at the mirror. The reflection doesn’t do you any favours, and you curse as you try to tame your bed hair after thoroughly washing your face. You’re already considering chewing on a bit of toothpaste just to get the awful aftertaste of alcohol and regrets from your mouth when you notice it, a spare toothbrush.

Your heart does another weird flip, and you will it to stop being stupid with gritted teeth and a clenched fist. Falling for Eustass Kid is the worst decision in a long line of bad decisions.

But you always had a penchant for making horrible choices, anyway. Exhibit number one: Vinsmoke Ichiji…

Besides, you might already be in too deep to back out now…

You brush your teeth and then walk slowly towards the kitchen, the coffee scent acting like a siren call to your senses. Vaguely, you remember telling Kid some inappropriate things, but you’re not quite sure what words were exchanged, and he must’ve already forgotten them anyway.

You find him in the kitchen of his apartment, a small space open to the living room with a breakfast counter separating the spaces. Kid’s hovering over the stove, scraping burnt eggs from the bottom of a pan with a scowl and a litany of curse words in lieu of a morning prayer.

Shirtless. Again.

And wearing sweatpants instead of his usual jeans.

Gotta bless the almighty gods for this perfect morning view.

“Hey,” you mutter. Once Kid’s fiery gaze settles on you and lingers on your exposed legs, your brain slowly clicks one missing piece into place.

Click.

You threw him the shorts he lent you.

Huh.

“Hi,” he answers. Aren’t you both so eloquent this morning? “Hungry?”

Your stomach coils at the mention of food, and you shake your head with a grimace. “No. But I’d do unspeakable things for coffee, if you have any.”

Kid gives up trying to salvage the eggs and throws the pan, along with the burnt food, into the sink. “That I can do. Grab the mugs from that cupboard, will ya?”

You nod, yawn, and go behind Kid, reaching the cupboard he mentioned. The mugs are crammed in the back, so you stretch to reach them, and the shirt you’re wearing rides up, showing more skin than you intended.

Kid leans back, and you feel his eyes on you. It takes you longer than you want to admit to grab two mugs. Not because you’re having trouble reaching them, but because you are enjoying the attention.

“Unspeakable things for coffee, ye said?” Oh… right. “Is that a promise as empty as the ones ye made yesterday?”

Click.

“I bet you could manhandle me into any position.”

Oh, shit.

You clear your throat, close the cupboard, and try to shake away the incriminating blush that’s surely coating your cheeks before setting the mugs next to Kid, who slowly fills them with coffee.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say with the most innocent intonation you can muster.

“Ye don’t?” You vehemently shake your head, accepting the coffee mug without making eye contact. “Check yer phone, Sparkles.”

Click.

Memo: Get ass demolished by Kid.

Fuck!

You don’t want to check your phone in front of him, and you’re fairly certain your blush has reached crimson red at this point. Also, your ears might be fuming.

“I left the phone in your bedroom,” you lie.

“No problem,” Kid says with a mischievous smirk and a knowing glint in his eyes. Then he reaches for his phone and pulls up his schedule. “Ye said to keep my schedule clear, so I did. Just for ye, check it out.”

He shoves the phone into your face in a mimicry of your actions from the previous night, and you grumble as you take a step back to indulge him.

11 AM: Manhandle Sparkles into ANY position I want 12:30 PM: Ass demolition duty 3 PM: Fold Sparkles like a pretzel

There are so many things you want to address that you don’t even know where to start. First: this is the most embarrassing thing you might’ve gotten yourself into because of a drunken state; second, you’re pretty sure Kid’s messing with you, but you’re too afraid to ask; and third, will he relent all his teasing if you beg him to just forget all about it?

Instead of getting any of these pressing issues addressed, your foggy, useless brain betrays you.

“Are you so cocksure that you think it’s going to take you two and a half hours to properly demolish my ass, or does your refractory period usually last this long?”

Kid’s grunt vibrates so low in his throat that you practically feel the sound waves rumble in your chest. He takes two steps forward and cages you, his hands braced against the counter beside your body.

You inhale sharply and tilt your chin up to meet his gaze.

“That was countin’ time for yer recovery, sweetheart, but if it’s back-to-back rounds ye want, I’m happy to oblige.” Kid leans in and you swallow a lump down, your skin tingling from his closeness, his body heat suffocating every sane thought, drowning you in anticipation and want. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

“That was drunken talk,” you whisper. Your breath hits Kid’s chest, and you don’t miss the way soft goosebumps appear on his skin.

“But were ye lyin’?”

Kid’s flesh hand leaves the counter, and he presses it against your hip, making your breath hitch and your heart stutter.

What does this mean? Is he ready to take this next step? Will he finally allow all the tension between you to explode, like it's been begging to for weeks?

Or will he push you away again?

“I wasn’t lying…”

“Good. Because seein’ ye here, in my house, wakin’ up in my bed, wearin’ my clothes—” Kid’s hand grips tighter as he moves his body flush against yours, making you gasp. “—it almost feels like yer already mine.”

His fingers curl around the fabric of the shirt, pulling it up, and up, and up, until your thigh is exposed. Then he lowers his hand, digging his fingers into your flesh, eliciting the softest of sighs from your lips.

There’s a fluttering in your chest, a wrong rhythm in your heart, a heaviness in your lower belly, and heat between your legs.

It’s heaven and hell coalescing into a maddening limbo where uncertainty reigns. Will he follow through, or will you be pushed away once more? Should you really let yourself give in to this feeling - to him - and risk being hurt again?

“What if I already am?” you whisper the words, not wanting to linger on the feeling of regret that’s already constricting your chest. He’s gonna bolt. It was too much, too soon. You shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t.

Stupid, stupid, stu—

Kid’s prosthetic hand climbs up your spine, and he curls his metallic fingers around your nape, gripping your hair. “Do ye have any fuckin’ idea how badly I want to bend ya over this counter and fuck ye until ye forget everythin’ but my name?”

A shameless sound leaves your lips, and you don’t know if it’s a moan, a whimper, or a fucking prayer. There’s just a pulsating need in every beat of your throbbing pulse.

“Please,” a breathless whisper is all you can manage when he’s so close and yet so far away. You’re not even sure if you’re begging for his touch or simply for him to stay.

Kid makes a throaty sound, and his fingers grip you harder. He leans down, close enough that you can smell coffee on his breath, and then—

BRRRRZZ…BRRRRZZ…BRRRRZZ…

“For fuck’s sake!” Kid’s exasperation mirrors yours as he pulls away from you, leaving you cold, empty, and wanting. “Fuckin’ timin’, for cryin’ out loud. Callin’ at fuckin’ ass-o’-clock, motherfuckers— what?” Kid picks up the phone with a growl and adjusts himself in his pants.

You take deep breaths as you try to steady your shaking legs. Was he really going to follow through? Or did he have another sad-ass excuse waiting at the tip of his tongue?

“Aye, I’ll be there in twenty, hold yer horses.” Kid slams the phone down on the counter and breathes deeply, his back muscles coiled tight with tension.

“What’s wrong?” You actually manage to find your voice, even if it sounds raspy and affected. When he turns to you, you avoid his gaze, fearful of what you might find there, and knowing for sure that regret is taking up the whole space.

“Work. It’s Kill’s day off, and some motherfucker got himself stranded. Gonna need to tow the bastard to the garage.”

Is it an excuse? Or were you just unlucky?

Anyway, you don’t intend to find out and be disappointed again, so you decide to spare yourself the process. “It’s okay, Kid. I need to get back to the farm anyway, to help Dad with the chores.”

You don’t even give him time to answer. Instead, you move away from the counter and make to pass by him, find the shorts he lent you, and be on your way. Except you can’t make it past him. He snakes his arm around your waist and pulls you against his chest. You gasp, hands instinctively bracing against his pecs.

You still don’t dare to look him in the eyes.

“Sparkles…” The cold metal of his prosthetic fingers pinches your chin as he tilts your face up, and when you finally meet his gaze, your earlier question is answered immediately.

He wasn’t going to push you away this time.

You’re positive.

There’s no regret, no doubt, or second thoughts in his gaze. Only fire and lust. And maybe… something else you don’t dare to admit, something that might resemble care.

“Ye wanna drop by later?” He’s hesitant, you can tell. So you nod in reassurance, a small smile painting your lips, and he relaxes. A grin spreads on his lips, and his eyes narrow. “If we start around five o’clock, we’ll still have time to do all our scheduled activities… what d’ye say?”

Fuck yeah.

“Sounds perfect.”

For a moment, it looks like he’s about to kiss you, but then he pulls back, still smiling, still playful. It feels like he’s saving the kiss for when he has the time to continue what comes after it.

And after you say your goodbyes and leave his house, all you can think about is how five o’clock can’t come fast enough.

Tags: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @elysian-asphodel @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall @moldychefboyardeecan @dazzlingstarlight23 @bearg-bia @babyboofangirl @praline357 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @traffys-heart @cherileecore @violetmatcha @theloserqueen @mapachito @shamblespirate @ibuch7

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#one piece #one piece x reader #x reader #op #the meet cute #reader insert #modern world au #eustass kid x reader #eustass kid #eustass captain kidd #eustass x reader #reader x kid #kid x reader #you x kid #kid x you

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kittyminion · 1 day ago

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through thick and thin sevika x f!reader

-after sevika's fight with vi, you find her on the edge of life and nurse her back to health -explicit 18+, fluff, hurt sevika, doctor reader, platonic relationship, not proofread

It was dark and wet. Piles of trash lining the alley and a certain muscular figure along with it, smalls groans of pain coming from her lips as she huffed.

The air was heavy and hard to breath and Sevika's brown skin was covered in collections of scarlet blood and dirt alike, while her eyes were poised to the sky, staring at the thick clouds of darkness while her life flashed through her mind.

Every moment that led up to her being the bastard she was today. But she couldn't help but be grateful for the odd silence—no skittering of rats or sounds of bones crunching, nor the drunk laughter that had made itself home here.

Sevika's eyes started clouding with darkness just as she heard light and cautious footsteps approaching her. A gentle hand touched her brow and made its way up to her forehead, muttering words she couldn't process.

"Multiple cuts, shimmer leaking from mech arm," said a feminine voice as your fingers ran down Sevika's body where they pressed against her side. "Fuck!" Sevika spat, weakly shoving you away, her eyes popping open at the sudden bout of pain.

"Get your fucking hands off of me." Sevika said weakly, attempting to push herself onto her feet, but she was quick to collapse again, but you were there to hold her up, an arm wrapped around Sevika's waist.

"Don't be stubborn, let me help you." You had trouble pulling Sevika along with you, her head lolled onto your shoulder while she clutched her mech arm, it half ripped off and leaking the iridescent glow of shimmer.

"I'm going to take you back to my apartment and patch you up, then you'll owe me." Sevika muttered incoherent words, but continued walking as best she could.

Once you finally made it up to your apartment and sat Sevika down on the couch, she passed out, mouth hanging open, blood still leaking from her body.

"I need to do this quick or she'll go into shock," you muttered to yourself, opening your closet to reveal the endless supply of medical supplies you had.

It was a given considered you were one of the best doctors in the Lanes, and people came to you knowing you'd help them without a heavy bill to pay afterwards like other doctors did.

Most of the people who came had bullet wounds, broken bones and of course were overdosing on shimmer, but you enjoyed your job nonetheless because you could help your people.

Grabbing a stack of gauze, alcohol, sutures and a needle. Her cuts were deep and oozing so much blood you weren't surprised at how lethargic she was.

Pulling Sevika onto her back, you cut her shirt loose from her body and started disinfecting the wounds, then followed up with sutures to stop the bleeding.

As the sun went down and your stomach started to grumble, you continued stitching her up. You applied ice to her ribs, pulled her shoulder back into place then finally started on her mech arm.

It looked irreparable, too mangled and scratched up for you to even considered fixing it, so as soon as you placed your hands at the base of it to remove it completely, Sevika awoke with a gasp, the air seeping into her lungs with a painful rasp.

Before you could blink, she had you pinned underneath her, a hidden knife in her pocket pressed to the delicate skin of her neck while her lips whispered against your ear.

"Who the fuck are you and where am I?" She said it with a groan and you did nothing but freeze, not wanting to risk the possibility of bleeding out.

Sevika coughed harshly, her grip loosening for a quick second before she ripped you onto your knees and stood up, the knife still pointing at you, while her eyes were squinting from the bright overhead light in your living room.

You raised your hands cautiously and stood up as slow as possible ad Sevika limped over to the front door but continued glaring at you, her inky black hair loose in its ponytail.

"I'm a doctor and you're in my apartment because I found you in the alley a block away. You were dying, bleeding out, and if I don't check your amputation sight you could risk infection."

You walked slowly towards her and Sevika stumbled a few feet, knocking into the table beside your door and she fell to her knees, the knife sliding across the floor with a loud clatter.

"I can never catch a break, you know?" She said with a cry of pain, ripping her mech arm from it's base and tossing it across the room. Once you stepped closer, reaching out to help her up, she stopped you with a single look, "don't think I trust you all of a sudden, besides, you could be lying about all of this."

You scoffed, "why would waste my supplies on you if I weren't a doctor. You aren't special you know, just a big block of muscle I decide to help because that's what I do!" You spat angrily, fed up with her attitude.

You sat on the couch and crossed your arms stubbornly watching Sevika roll onto her back, attempting to catch her breath.

It was silent as the two of you stared each other down, but eventually Sevika gave in with a heavy sigh and waved you over, "help me up."

You rolled your eyes at her demanding tone, but listened nonetheless, helping her over to the couch, then you disappeared into your bedroom and returned with a pair of clothes for her.

"Put these on while I go make you something to eat, then I'll examine your shoulder, and if you refuse, you might as well leave now, but I promise you won't make it out of the building."

"Such a smart ass you are."

It took you awhile to make a meal, considered you weren't much of a cook, but once you did, you returned to the living room and gave Sevika her food, then sat next to her, staring at the black television across from you.

"You have a reputation around here."

"Oh I know," she said with a poisonous chuckle, stuffing a spoonful of soup into her mouth without complaints, "but humor me—tell me exactly what you've heard."

"That you're Silco's bitch." Sevika froze, and her mouth screwed up into a nasty glare as you watched you continue to eat, your eyes glued to your bowl.

"Don't look at me like that because you know it's true, not to mention you turned on Vander, so of course that makes you taste sour in my mouth."

You couldn't hide the dislike for her in that moment and Sevika chuckled when she realized, "why did you save me then? Why put your life on the line to help the traitorous bitch?"

You shook your head weakly, "because I'm a doctor, and that means I can't watch someone die without trying to help first. So no matter who you were, you'd be here nonetheless."

𐙚

Sevika was shaking underneath your touch, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, mouth pulled taunt as you examined her amputation sight, fingers pressing and prodding against her skin.

"Everything looks fine, but the skin is a bit inflamed so I'm going to apply ice and wrap it." Sevika nodded and leaned back against the couch, head lolling against it as she sighed.

"How long am I welcome?" She wondered, turning towards you, her cloudy gray eyes piercing and a bit intimidating, but you distracted yourself by picking at your fingernails.

"As long as you need."

Before you knew it, Sevika had fallen asleep and you went right after. You were exhausted from the long day, so that meant sleeping in your day clothes and on the couch right beside her.

When you woke up, the two of you were pressed tightly together. That caused you to flinch in surprise, and you accidentally elbowed Sevika in the ribs, then she groaned out in pain and cursed at you.

"God, I'm sorry! Let me get you some ice then I'll check your other wounds." Sevika gladly allowed you to work which surprised you as bit considering she was so on edge the day before. But maybe she finally realized that you were doing this purely out of the kindness in your heart.

After applying ice to her ribs, you examined her shoulder, "inflammation has reduced, and none of your stitches are infected, you still have a fever though."

"And how do you reduce a fever?" You sat next to her, "with time and water."

After breakfast, you found yourself having a pleasant conversation with Sevika about something other than politics and the past and you were surprised at how easily the conversation flowed, like the two of you had known each other your whole lives.

"First you start out with shots, three to be exact. That'll get you buzzed, so you'll feel confident enough for a beer. You continue with more shots and then you're properly drunk. You don't drink anything else or you'll have a terrible hangover."

Sevika rolled her eyes at your Type A personality, "do you always plan out your alcoholic drinks? Or are you just a weird, organized freak?" You flipped her off and rolled your eyes, "I just have it down pack. You on the other hand seem like a terrible drunk."

"No, I'm a perfect drunk. I don't talk too much, I have great conversations and I do get handsy like men do."

"I'm sure the women appreciate you for that. Are you hungry?" She nodded, then suddenly stood up, "I'll cook this time, since you're shit at it."

"Well let's see how good you are then."

Safe to say she was an amazing cook, and that left you lethargic and ready to sleep.

𐙚

"Alright, fevers all gone. No infections and no inflammation. Your ribs will be sore for a few weeks, but that's a given because they were fractured." You handed Sevika her clothes and walked with her to the front door.

"And if I get hurt again?" You chuckled and rolled your ryes, "then come back. Who did this to you anyway?"

"Violet Lanes. Heard of her? A 5'7", annoying, ball of fire with pink hair?"

"Of course I have. I'd steer clear of her if I were you."

Sevika shoved you playfully, suddenly pulling you into a tight hug, "thanks, for this by the way."

Before you could say anything more, she opened the door and slammed it shut behind her.

"You're welcome."

#fanfic #angst #smut #fluff #arcane fanfiction #arcane x you #arcane #arcane au #arcane league of legends #sevika my love #sevika x female reader #sevika x reader #sevika #sevika arcane #arcane sevika #sevika x y/n #sevika x you #vi arcane

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evolutionsvoid · 2 days ago

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For the seafolk, the wide open ocean provides many things. The fish that fills their bellies and the wind that fills their sails. Fluids wrung from catches or skimmed from the surface, and great beasts of the deep that can bring food and wealth to entire villages. But of course one of the greatest things the sea provides to them is something that cannot properly be measured, for it is freedom. The open ocean is vast and wild, ruled by no master, governed by no laws. And these folk sit upon the very cusp of it, looking out into a blue horizon of endless possibilities. It goes with a question that outsiders to this world may ask: why are they called "seafolk" when they are just regular people? Why are they treated as some separate group despite being just like you and me? It is that vast endless ocean that makes all the difference...

Living upon the coast and sea changes a person, perhaps not always physically. Working in the sun and salt, at mercy of the weather and temperamental waters. Cast enough nets, hunt enough leviathans, and you see things that cannot be conveyed by land words. Witness events and strange beings that fly in the face of terrestrial teachings. If you were to ask the Church, indeed the seafolk are different people despite the similarities, and that is because the ocean has a place in their very essence that can never be purged. For those on land, the golden faith is absolute and everywhere. There are not many other options for religion or beliefs, and there is little escape for those who wish to separate themselves from it. But that great sea is a world the Church cannot control, where their laws and reach are weak and scattered. They may be able to enforce their teachings when folk are on dry land, but for the seafolk, all it takes is a single boat and sail to vanish into another world entirely. So easy to submerse oneself in powers and ideas that cannot be held back, to bear witness to divinity that is not found on dry land. Thus, the Church does label them as "seafolk," for they are a different breed for sure.

And for the seafolk, life is different compared to those who remain on land. While they do partake in farming and livestock rearing, most of their food and resources are collected by harpoon and net, rather than shovel or pitchfork. Just as a farmer casts seed upon fertile fields, the fisherman casts a net into rich waters. Where the hunter may draw back their bow to down a beast for supper, the whaler readies a harpoon to sink deep into blubbery flesh. Similarities and differences alike. To the landfolk, life on the turbulent and violent seas seems insane, going after leviathans that could easily crush boats and end the lives of dozens. But to the seafolk it is all normal, an everyday thing. To them, life locked on the unchanging land feels imprisoning and mind numbingly boring. Just another day of tending to dirt! For sure, there are some who may find such a simple dry life good and peaceful, and history has shown a number of fishermen and whalers who retired to the land after particularly haunting voyages. But a fire still burns within many seafolk, a desire to sail out into that great blue yonder and see what the ocean has in store for them. That is why, despite the fact whalers live dangerous and volatile lives, you would be hard pressed to find more driven folk ready to dive into the unknown.

Hunting the leviathans of the deep is a rough job, but it is a vital aspect of life for the seafolk, for the riches that come from such hauls are irreplaceable. Upon the coast, there are very little in sake of mines to dig up stores of ivory and fluids. Instead, it is through these beasts that they harvest ivory, scales, blubber, oil, ambergris and fluids in vast quantities. Each leviathan slain provides a treasure trove of resources, be it building materials, food, fuel or even medicine. Thus the ships must sail out to find these great beasts, or else they will be required to rely more and more on landfolk for certain supplies. And to the seafolk, each desperate trade and emergency deal with them or the Church is another shackle to bind them. So ready the sails and sharpen the harpoons, it is time for a hunt!

For whalers, one of the most common leviathans they hunt is known as the "Twin Spout Leviathan." A great fish with the body of a barrel, a crimson mane, six curved tusks and two mighty spouts that erupt like geysers. The Twin Spout is a hardy species found in a variety of fluids, feeding upon the schools of fish and invertebrates found in the open sea. Scaly hides protect them from predators, while their sharp beak and curved tusks give them weapons in fights or mating disputes. Twin Spouts travel in pods, using numbers to keep away greater threats and to aid in corralling prey for easier feeding. These leviathans are well versed in using their dual blowholes, and know how to control the direction and power of their eruption. It is believed they are used for signaling others, for bubble-net feeding and perhaps even washing off parasites and hitchhikers when they surface. Unfortunately for them, these iconic spouts are precisely what the whalers are looking for, leading them straight to the pod. They gained the name "Twin Spouts" not just because they possess two of these structures, but because that is what watchers up high would yell out to the crew below when they spotted the two geysers upon the horizon.

Twin Spouts are considered a good "all around" leviathan, providing a fair balance of meat, blubber, oil and scales. When one wants a little bit of everything, the Twin Spout is the good choice. But like all leviathans, these resources don't come for free. Twin Spouts have heavy scales that can deflect harpoons, and great bulk to slam into ships. Their precise use of their dual orifices has led to them learning the skill of blasting ship decks with watery eruptions. It is advised for the hunters to ready safety ropes and bailing buckets when one of these leviathans is approached, as it won't be long before waves of ejected fluid will be washing across the deck. But when victory is achieved, the spoils go to the victor. The scales of a Twin Spout are sold or used for armor, be it for a person or a boat, while smaller imperfect pieces may be carved or fashioned into talismans and good luck charms. The tusks are popular for weapons and scrimshaw, which is a treasured art for the seafolk. Any sailor, fisher or whaler that truly lives on sea will have scrimshawed pieces on their person, be it their weapons, equipment, jewelry or decoration. For many on the high seas, it is their greatest visual art and method for storytelling when words cannot be used. Families tend to have scrimshawed tusks or pieces as heirlooms, stories of their ancestors passed down again and again.

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

Now that we are all done with those puny fish, time for some REAL sea beasts!

#sea monster #leviathan #whale #art #drawing #fall of ichor

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darkseidex · 1 day ago

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helloo my dear!!! i wanted to send in a request if that’s allowed 🙈 — could you write a fic about being Austin best friend and he’s secretly always has had deep feelings for you and one day he finally reveals them? something super romantic and cuteee, with smut if possible (which you do very well) 😌🩷

Girl idk what came over me with this... Graphic sexual content — extremely detailed scenes of intimacy including penetration, oral sex (f receiving), face riding, and overstimulation. WC: 6K

Also requests are open y’all😭✋🏽

Solana Meyers was flawless, that much austin knew as soon as he’d set his eyes on her and her beauty- but that’d been in 2020, when he’d beenf ilming elvis, and he supposed he;d owed this all to Baz, the cunning genius had brought her in to play the living legend sister rosetta tharpe, and much like everything she did, it was pure perfection, the way her body moved to the music and the way her sultry voice curled around each syllable had austin at a loss of words it ouldn’t be the first time that it’d happened and it wouldn’t be the last.

Baz would enlist her help with his vocals, and she’d hold his hand through it as hours turned into days spent in nothing but each others companany, his blue eyes gazing at every inch of ebony exposed for his eyes to feast on in the crop top and baggy sweats she wore that sat low on her hips, giving him a peak at the white lace- an imagine he’d burn into his brain. But granted, at the time he was in a fully committed relationship, something he wouldn’t dare defile or sabotage, so he pushed all thoughts that weren’t of friendship with Solana Meyers to the back of his brain where they’d remain. Though they’d grown closer, way closer than he’d anticipated, she’d taken him back toHoustonn for the holidays, she didn’t want him to be alone for the holidays as the cast broke for a bit of a production break. Through those days her mother had put him up in her old room while she slept in the pull out down stairs ( despite his rebuttals) it was the hardest night of his life, all he smelt and felt was her, her scent lingered on the pillowcases, on the sheets, so much so it encompassed him, he swore he could taste her- if he’d close his eyes long enough he’d feel the sweet nectar that lay between her thighs - okay enough, he couldn’t pop a woody here of all places, in her childhood bedroom? No, he was a gentleman, but hell, if the sight of her earlier in her sleep shorts, baggy shirt and bonnet hadn’t done something to him ,he’d be worried stick and berries weren’t working properly.

But that had been years ago, he was her friend, and vice versa he couldnt… he shouldnt so he did what he had to do; granted he wasnt proud of his past relationships and people he’d invited into his bed for the sake of scratching an itch he was positive only she could reach and quell so well. Honestly it felt like picking at a wound, a scab had become an endless and deep pit of yearning, he craved her, in ways he didn’t know were possible, he craved her voice, her thoughts on whatever pottery trinket he’d made for her and brought to her like a loyal hound on a leash, eager for her slight grin of approval as he’d watch her put it to use.

Why didn’t he do anything about it, you may ask?

She was in a serious relationship with an upcoming actor, not as well established as he or she was. Still, he was upcoming, he’d get there…eventually- despite every bone in his body telling him not to be austin was a man of virtue, of honour. So he respected their relationship until he got into one of his own, which would last for two years, and that would be the amount of time he wouldn’t see her for. 17 520 hours, 1 051 200 minutes, 63 072 000 seconds had passed till he’d seen her in person, felt her skin beneath his and felt her hand in his, their fingers interlocking as her lips had drunkenly pressed onto his and made him see hisi creator in the dark alley of a club.

Solana acted like nothing happened, like he hadn't groaned between her lips and whispered devotion into her soul. A week later he’d quell his woes oncemore with a woman that looked nothing like her, looking into her eyes as Solana’s name was dangerously close to slipping from his lips, a bitter poision he’d have to swallow, just like when she’d referred to him to her best friend when she’d accepted her grammy.

Strangel,y it didn’t deter him, not one bit, not even as his heart shattered slightly as he played the role of the supportive ‘best friend’ that night. He’d held her heels, taken her hand and helped her into the car, and much lika e supportive friend ,he’d hiked up her dress and rubbed her feet as she let out the most sinful groans of appreciation that he’d use for ammo later.

Two years since that day, since life had happened and project after project drew them farther and farther away from each other, and face times got less and less frequent as they cast in role after role. Not once did his fevor deter him, as he played with the ring on his ring finger, the very one she’d had made for him when they’d wrapped elvis, gold with his initials and birthstone on it- a bright green peridot he;d hold to his lips for goodluck every now and again.

But now looking at her, the sight of her, in his house, watering his plants for him, breathing the same air after two years of being too busy, sent him into a damn frenzy. He’d texted her, the usual weeklycatch-upp text, and she’d responde., One thing led to another, and soon enough, she was in his house, telling him off for neglecting his plants, plants he’d even forgotten he’d had.

“It’s a nice day out,” he began as he rounded the block; his white tee and blue jeans hugging hhis figure, accentuating hsi waist and giving a brief outline of his abs and pure muscle he’d put on for caught stealing; his hair no longer as long as it was but still as short, the sight of the silver on his neck was enough to have Solana biting her lip slightly as she turned away from him and busied herself with something.

“And i;m hungry… are you hungry?” he continued.

Solana let out a chuckle as she turned to him, “You askin’ me out Butler?”

He gave her his signature grin, one he d used to melt the hearts of thousands.

“Yeah, guess I am,” he responded and she turned to face him, a matching grin of her own as she gazed into his eyes, endless pools of nothing but need met hers, it was loud, consuming and damn near explosive- perhaps she’d been have been able to see it sooner had she not been hiding hers, even as they got into his car together, the sky turning into a darker shade of blue as the orange hues illuminated her dark skin, bathing both her and him as he took her to some place he knew where they could eat ‘with a view’.

The view wasn’t anything special. Not really. Not like her. But it was quiet, and tucked away, and the city looked almost peaceful from up here, like the whole world paused just for them. He parked, didn’t say much, just let the silence breathe for a bit while Solana chewed on her bottom lip and reached for the bag of fries between them like her hands weren’t shaking.

He could feel her thigh, warm and solid beside his. She smelled like coconut oil and something sweet and warm and familiar, like a hug he hadn’t been given in years.

“You always bring girls here?” she asked, teasing but soft, the kind of soft that lived in their silences. He watched her, watched the way the sun caught her cheekbone, kissed the curve of her lip, her hair that was always neatly styled and kept in her sew-in.

He shook his head slowly. “Nope. Just you.”

A beat. She looked down, wiped her hands on a napkin she didn’t need, then laughed a little tooquicklyk. “Right. Okay.”

Like she didn’t believe him. Like she couldn’t.

“Sol,” he murmured.

Her eyes flicked to his, guarded. That old wall of hers was going up even though her body was turned toward him now, knees angled in, shoulders relaxed. She was always like that—guarded but open, closed off but glowing, and so willing to give love from a distance.

He reached out without thinking, fingers brushing hers, and when she didn’t pull away, he kept going—tracing the line of her knuckles, the edge of her wrist, the tiny freckle near her thumb he swore he’d dreamt about.

“I missed you,” he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. He felt stupid for it but he didn’t care, damn it he didn’t care nor did he know why he felt like this… or why he felt like he had to bare his heart to her.

She looked at him like he was dangerous. Like he was the matc,h and she was already soaked in gasoline.

“I kissed you,” she whispered, like it was some kind of confession. “And you let me.”

“I’d let you again,” he said, fast, almost too fast. “I’d let you now.”

She blinked at him, stunned for a second. “Austin…”

“I’m not drunk. Not now. You don’t have to pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

“It wasn’t supposed to mean anything,” she whispered, but she didn’t sound sure. “I was with somebody. You were… Austin, we were just—”

“I know. I know.” He leaned in a little. Just enough for his breath to mingle with hers. “But I still tasted you in every kiss I had after. Still think about you every time I touch someone else. Still wear the ring.”

Her eyes dropped to his hand. The peridot glinted in the sun. Her breath hitched.

“I still got your pottery in my kitchen,” she whispered. “You made me a spoon rest and called it art.”

He laughed, low and breathless. “It was art. Ugly-ass art, but still.”

Her lips curled up, and it destroyed him.

“I never stopped,” he added. “Wanting you, needing you, dreaming for you.”

And this time—this time she didn’t pull away when he leaned in.

Their lips met like a secret. Like something holy. Like the kind of kiss that made promises with tongue and teeth and memory and he was addicted, damn near addicted to whatever this was, whatever she wanted it to be. The taste of the strawberry lemonade and slightly stale fries was on her lips as he pushed his tongue in deeper, wanting more…needing more or he felt like he’d die.

She clutched the front of his shirt like it was all she had. He slid a hand into her hair, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw like it was breakable.

Outside, the city kept moving. But in the car, they were still.

On fucking fire.

Breathing each other in like salvation.

The kiss should’ve ended. Should’ve stopped the second her fingers tangled in his hair and his hand slid beneath her hoodie, thumb dragging up the skin of her waist like he was starving and rested on the small of her back; he watched as she arched it slightly, and hissed under her breath from the cold of his rings.

But it didn’t.

It deepened.

Got desperate. Got messy. Got real.

“Solana,” he breathed against her lips, but it came out like a plea, like he was asking for something he didn’t deserve but couldn’t live without.

She pulled back just a little, their foreheads pressed together, their breaths shallow and fast like they’d just sprinted through years of restraint.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispered, but her thumb was tracing his lower lip, a string of saliva connecting them both as her eyes locked on his mouth like she already knew how it tasted and needed to remind herself again. “We can’t.”

He nodded. “Yeah.” But he kissed her again.

And again.

Hands everywhere. Palms dragging up the back of her thighs, her fingers digging into his shoulder blades like she needed to anchor herself.

“Austin,” she whispered when he kissed along her jaw, her pulse, the place just below her ear that made her body jerk in the seat like he’d flipped a switch. “We’re supposed to be friends.”

“We are friends,” he murmured, tongue brushing the corner of her mouth, “but I want to ruin that so fucking bad right now.”

Her laugh cracked mid-breath, shaky and breathless. “You’re such a bastard.”

He grinned against her skin. “Only for you.”

Her hoodie was riding up. His shirt was bunched. The air inside the car was humid and thick and heavy with want, every inch of space between them evaporated into pure electricity.

She pushed at his chest weakly, didn’t even mean it, didn’t even try. “If we do this—”

“We’ll deal with it.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Another kiss. Slower this time. But deeper. Like he wanted to memorise the way she tasted before she changed her mind.

“God, you feel like a sin,” he mumbled against her mouth.

“Then pray about it later.”

And that was it. That was the end of the pretending. She pulled him closer, swung a leg over his lap without thinking, and suddenly she was straddling him in the front seat like this was a scene out of some twisted love song.

“You’re sure?” she asked, barely above a whisper, her lips ghosting over his, their noses brushing.

He didn’t say a word—just slid his hand up the back of her neck and kissed her like it was his last chance on earth.

She was on him. Straddling him like she was born to do it, grinding against the bulge in his jeans like she knew what she was doing to him. And she did. God, she did, she swallowed his choked moans and gasps like it was her favourite liquor and she wanted more… she needed more.

His hands slid down the back of her thighs, gripping, squeezing, like he was still convincing himself this was real. Her breath hitched as she leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear—on purpose.

“You gonna keep letting me make bad decisions in the front seat?” she whispered, and that was it.

Austin groaned, low and primal, before grabbing her hips and lifting her just enough to shuffle them both awkwardly.

“Back seat,” he muttered, voice rough like gravel. “Now.”

Solana blinked, lips parted, eyes wide like she hadn’t expected the command. Like she hadn’t just shattered his self-control with a single roll of her hips.

“You—what?” she breathed, dazed.

“I said get in the back,” he repeated, more serious now, more focused. “You’re not doing this to me in the front seat like I haven’t been waiting years to get you under me the right way.”

That did something to her. She bit her lip—hard—and crawled off him slowly, too slowly, the drag of her body against his making him curse under his breath. She opened the door, heart thudding, air thick around them as she climbed into the back like a siren slipping into dark water.

Austin followed, slamming the door behind him.

The second it shut, it was on.

Hands everywhere. Mouths meeting in a clash of teeth and heat. He pushed her back onto the seat gently, gently, because for all his hunger, she was sacred. She was his.

“You’ve been in my head,” he muttered against her neck, voice low and rough, like gravel coated in honey. He kissed down to her collarbone, dragging his fingers up the hem of her hoodie like he was unwrapping a secret. “You’ve been living there. Rent-free. Ruining me. Ruining what little sanity I have left… do you even know how fucking crazy you drive me, baby?”

“Then ruin me too,” she whispered, voice trembling like a thread about to snap. “Do it.”

Austin pulled back just enough to see her—really see her. Her face flushed, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling in shaky, uneven breaths. Her hoodie was bunched under her ribs, her thighs parted like a silent invitation. Waiting.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, wonder dripping from every syllable. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Her smirk was sinful. A slow, smug tilt of her lips like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. “Good.”

The air in the backseat grew thick. Heavy with sweat, lust, and the ache of everything they'd held back for years. The windows fogged. Rationality evaporated.

Austin’s hands were on her again, moving like they had a purpose, a mission. He slid them beneath the hoodie, calloused fingers dancing up her spine. Every inch of skin he touched felt like it sparked under his palms—warm and wanting and electric.

Her bra strap popped beneath his grip with a quick snap, and he groaned at the sight that followed—rich, smooth skin revealed to him in soft light, glowing like he’d found something holy.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he whispered, lips dragging along her throat, kissing the curve where neck met shoulder like she was sacred. He yanked the hoodie over her head and tossed it somewhere in the dark. “Fuck, Solana—look at you.”

She blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. Her curls were wild, cheeks warm, eyes heavy with heat—and she arched into him like her body had been waiting for this moment since the day they met.

“I’ve been dreaming about this,” he admitted, almost like it hurt. He pushed her shorts down slowly, reverently, like every inch he uncovered was a confession. “You. Just like this. Under me. Wanting me. Needing me.”

Her breath hitched as he traced the dip of her hip bones with both hands, his thumb brushing softly over the band of her panties.

“You don’t even get it, do you?” he asked, voice a rasp now, pure smoke and obsession. “How bad I wanted you. How many nights I had to jerk off just thinking about that little sigh you do when you stretch in the morning.”

She let out a low, shaky groan, head tipped back, lips parted as her thighs instinctively squeezed together. He grinned. Slow and mean.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you, baby?” he purred. His thumb dipped lower, dragging along the cotton between her legs. “You like how fucked up I am over you? Left me hard as a damn brick in that alley—did you know that? Had to go home and handle it. All for you.”

She turned her face slightly, shying away. He tsked and grabbed her chin gently, bringing her gaze back to his.

“Don’t get shy on me now, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing hers again. “Where’s that girl, hmm?”

“She’s right here,” she whispered, voice barely audible but soaked in heat.

“Then let her open her fucking legs.”

She did.

Without question. Without hesitation. Like she belonged to him. Like she always had.

His fingers slid over her soaked panties, and his whole body shuddered.

“God damn,” he breathed, voice nearly breaking. “You’re dripping, Solana. You missed me this much, baby? Huh?”

She whimpered, hips shifting toward his hand.

He hooked a finger in the fabric and dragged her panties to the side, exposing her completely. Then he leaned back, just to look.

Look at what had haunted him for years. Look at the pink glisten of her, the way her breath hitched as the cool air touched her skin, the way her thighs trembled like they weren’t sure they could handle what was coming.

“Been dreaming about this pussy for years,” he muttered. “You don’t know how many women I tried to fuck the thought of you out of my head.”

He smirked, cruel and full of hunger.

“Didn’t work. Couldn’t work. Because none of them tasted like you.”

And then he dipped lower. His mouth followed the trail his hands had made, slow, teasing, deliberate.

He kissed her inner thigh. Nipped it. Licked just beside where she wanted him most. She gasped, her hips jerking, but he held her down.

“And now?” he whispered, voice a knife wrapped in silk. “Now I’m gonna make you come so many times, your man’ll feel it from wherever the fuck he’s at.”

“Austin—”

“I said open wider,” he growled, and she obeyed before the words even finished leaving his mouth.

Then his mouth was on her.

Hot. Wet. Desperate. His tongue licked a slow, wide stripe up the centre of her, and she cried out, her back arching. He groaned against her, gripping her thighs tighter as he buried his face between them, like this was home.

He licked again, then circled her clit with the kind of precision that had her biting her fist, moaning so loud the windows might crack.

Austin didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t let up.

He moaned against her, sucked, licked, traced shapes she couldn’t focus on, overwhelmed and shaking and gasping his name like it was the only one she remembered.

And the whole time, he whispered filth. Between kisses. Between licks. Between groans.

“Taste so good, baby… fuck, can’t believe I waited this long.” “This pussy was made for me.” “Come on, Solana. Give it to me. Let me feel you break.”

She did. With a cry that sounded like a prayer and a curse and his name all at once. She came hard. Harder than she ever had. And he stayed right there. Tasting it. Moaning like he was the one falling apart.

He kept going. Didn’t stop. Didn’t let her stop.

She came. Hard. But he didn’t move.

Didn’t stop. Didn’t even give her a second to breathe.

Solana whimpered as her thighs tried to close around his head. Her hands pushed weakly at his shoulders, but he just gripped her tighter, eyes flicking up to meet hers—wild, dark, starved.

He licked his lips, slow and obscene. “Nuh uh,” he muttered, mouth glistening, voice wrecked with lust. “I’m not done yet.”

Her head fell back. “Austin—baby, wait—”

“Can’t,” he breathed. “I can’t, Solana. I’ve been waiting too damn long for this. I’m gonna eat this pussy ‘til you cry.”

And he dove back in.

Tongue licking deep, lips wrapping around her clit with devastating precision, like her moans were fuel and he was running on E.

She let out a sob-an—honest-to-God sob—as her back arched, fingers scrambling through his hair, gripping tight like she could anchor herself to reality that way.

It didn’t work. Because reality? It was him. It was this. It was Austin’s mouth working her over like a man obsessed, tongue sliding inside her, lips sucking that sensitive bud, fingers gripping the softness of her thighs like they were his own personal salvation.

And he was talking. Still talking.

“God, you taste so fucking good.” “Keep squirming like that and I’m gonna hold you down, baby.” “Yeah, there it is—there she is. That’s my good girl.”

She was shaking again, her body betraying her, pleasure curling low and fast, building back up like the orgasm didn’t even finish before the next one started climbing.

“Austin, I can’t—” she gasped. “I can’t, I’m too sensitive—”

“You can,” he growled against her, tongue lashing in tight circles, locking his arms around her thighs. “And you will. Gimme one more, Solana. One more for me.”

Her body wasn’t listening to her brain anymore. Her hips rolled against his face without her permission. Her thighs trembled around his head like they were begging for mercy.

And Austin?

He groaned into her, like he loved it. Like the wet, messy sounds between her thighs were his favourite music. He buried his face deeper, lips and tongue relentless, addicted.

His hands slid up her waist, then back down to grip her ass, pulling her closer, dragging her into his mouth like he wanted to drown in her.

Her toes curled. Her voice broke. And then she came again. Harder.

This one ripped out of her. It tore from her throat, cracked her open from the inside out. She cried out his name—loud, high, helpless—and her whole body went stiff before she shattered in his hands.

Her thighs clamped around his head as she trembled, sobbing his name, babbling something that sounded like “God” and “please” and “fuck,” all blended together.

And still. He didn’t stop.

He licked her through it, gentler now, but still hungry. Still feasting. Kissing her like she was heaven and hell wrapped in silk.

When she finally collapsed back onto the seat, limp and wrecked and soaked in sweat, he pulled back slowly, resting his cheek against the inside of her thigh.

His lips were swollen. His voicewas wrecked. His face a mess of her, shining in the low light.

And he looked so proud.

“I could eat you for the rest of my life,” he said, breathless. “No food. No water. Just you.”

She couldn’t even speak. Could barely breathe. All she could do was stare at him—this man who had just worshipped her body like it was sacred and sinful at the same time—and try to remember what planet she was on.

Austin kissed her thigh again. Soft this time. Loving.

“Let me hold you for a second,” he whispered. “Before I fuck you again.”

Her body was still twitching, nerves lit up and fried from the second orgasm he’d wrung out of her like it was nothing. She was boneless on his lap, her breath stuttering, her hands trembling against his chest.

But Austin wasn’t done. Not even close.

He looked up at her—this woman who haunted him nightly, who lived in his chest without rent or reason, who had kissed him in an alley once and then walked away like it hadn’t left him reeling for years.

His voice cracked with the weight of it. “C’mere, baby,” he whispered, barely above a breath. “Let me feel you. All of you.”

She moved slowly—ginger and gentle, and completely wrecked—as she straddled him, thighs resting on either side of his lap, chest flushed, lips kiss-swollen. His hands held her steady, but his eyes didn’t move.

They stayed locked on hers.

And when she reached between them, wrapping a soft, trembling hand around his cock to guide him in, Austin damn near broke.

He was huge. Hard. Slick with the condom, leaking at the tip, so worked up he could barely speak.

“Wait,” he said hoarsely, eyes flickering over her face, over her chest, back up to her eyes. “I—I need to see you take it. All of it.”

And she did.

She sank down on himslowlyw—agonizingly slowly—and they both gasped at the same time.

Her body welcomed him like it had been starved. Like it remembered him before it had ever touched him. Like she was made to take only him.

Austin’s head fell back against the seat, jaw clenched so tight it ached, his fingers digging into the softness of her hips as inch by inch she took him in.

“F-fuck,” he choked. “You’re—Jesus—you’re so tight, Solana. So wet. So perfect. I can’t—fuck, baby, I can’t believe you’re real.”

She whimpered, her hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging in as her walls fluttered around him.

“You feel so deep,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Austin, you’re—oh my god—you’re so big.”

He pulled her closer. Pressed their foreheads together. His nose brushed hers.

“I’ve thought about this every night, baby. Every goddamn night. Had my hand around my cock thinking about you bouncing on me like this, soaking me just like this, moaning like that.”

She whimpered again, lips brushing his. “It’s all yours.”

That undid him.

He grabbed her ass and rolled his hips up, slow, letting her feel all of him drag against her walls, hit that spot deep inside that made her mouth drop open in a silent scream.

Her body shook.

He grinned, teeth gritted, sweat dripping down his temple.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled, thrusting again, dragging her down on him. “You feel that, baby? That stretch? That’s me. Filling you up. Claiming what should’ve been mine five fucking years ago.”

She buried her face in his neck, moaning against his skin. “Austin—fuck—you’re too good. I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snapped, voice breaking with lust. “You will. You’re gonna take every inch. You’re gonna come on my cock and let me ruin you for everyone else.”

He slowed down again—deep, grinding thrusts that made her whimper every time he bottomed out. His hand slipped between them, thumb circling her clit with just enough pressure to make her tremble in his arms.

“You don’t even know what this does to me,” he whispered, kissing her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. “You feel like heaven. You feel like I’m dying and finally being forgiven.”

She cried out his name, hips stuttering as the coil built again, tighter and tighter, the stretch of him inside her too much and not enough all at once.

“I’m close,” she gasped. “I’m gonna—Austin, I’m gonna—”

“Look at me.” His hand caught her jaw, tilting her face up so her eyes met his. “Look at me when you come. I want you to see what you do to me.”

She did.

And then she exploded.

Third orgasm ripping through her like a storm, her whole body seizing, thighs shaking, back arching as her walls clamped down on him with a desperate need.

Austin’s eyes rolled back.

“Fuck, that’s it—that’s my girl, fuckfuckfuck—”

And then he came. Hard. Shuddering, shaking, hips jerking up into her as he moaned her name like it was the only prayer he’d ever known.

She collapsed into him. Chest against chest. Breathless.

His hands cradled the back of her head as he whispered, voice wrecked and raw and so full of love,

“You were worth every second I waited.”

Her whole body was humming.

Slick with sweat. Chest rising in shallow, stuttering breaths. Her thighs were sticky against his, twitching every few seconds like her muscles couldn’t figure out whether to collapse or climb back up to heaven.

And Austin? Austin was lying there. Flat on his back across the seat, shirt bunched beneath his shoulders, chain sticking to his skin, mouth open and dripping with need.

His voice came low, a hoarse rasp against the steam-fogged windows: “C’mere.”

She looked down at him, still breathless, lashes fluttering. “Austin, I—baby, I can’t, I just came—”

“I know,” he said, eyes dragging over her like he was starving again. “But I need to taste you one more time. Not because you owe me. Because I need it. Baby… I need it.”

The look in his eyes was enough to melt bone. And her legs moved on instinct.

She crawled up, shaky and sensitive, and he helped her—hands on her hips, guiding her gently until her knees were planted on either side of his head. His hands rubbed soothing circles into her thighs, even as his voice dropped an octave.

“Sit on my face, Solana.”

She hesitated, hovering just above his mouth, thighs trembling violently now.

And he looked up at her like she was art he didn’t think he was worthy to touch. Then, rough and reverent, he said, “Please.”

She whimpered—genuinely, helplessly—and slowly sank down, her thighs lowering onto his cheeks, her pussy just inches from his lips.

The second she touched his mouth, he moaned.

A deep, aching sound from the back of his throat, as if the taste of her was relief.

He grabbed her hips, fingers digging in, and pulled her flush against his face—tongue already licking a thick stripe up her slit, slow and obscene.

She screamed.

Her back arched, hands flying to the fogged glass for balance, palms flat as her knees nearly gave out on either side of his head.

Austin groaned again, louder this time. He sucked her clit into his mouth like it was the only thing keeping him alive—messy, wet, and fucking filthy. His tongue flicked and circled, fast then slow, then fast again, until she was sobbing above him, begging for air.

“Oh—fuck, Austin—Austin, I can’t—baby, I’m gonna—oh my god, I’m gonna fucking die—”

He just shook his head, still buried between her thighs, hands keeping her locked in place. His nose pressed against her, his mouth dragging every single sound out of her body like it was his personal soundtrack.

She tried to pull away. Tried to lift off his face, trembling all over. He growled.

“Sit back down.”

The command in his voice—raw, wrecked, trembling—shot straight through her core. She dropped back onto his face and he immediately dived back in, tongue slipping inside her this time, licking her up from the source like he was drinking holy water.

He drank her. Sloppy, slow, moaning like her pussy was the only thing he believed in.

His hands roamed up her back, his thumbs digging into her ass as he tilted his head, deeper, licking into her like he could pull her orgasm out with nothing but his mouth.

And the whole time? He was talking. Mouth full. Voice broken. Still running it.

“Fuck—so good—so fucking good, baby—can’t stop—can’t breathe and I don’t want to—taste like heaven, like home—come on, let go for me—come on.”

And she did.

Hard. Violent. Her entire body locking up, thighs squeezing his head so tight she almost saw stars, sobbing his name as her orgasm ripped through her for what had to be the fifth time.

She gushed into his mouth and he took it all. Groaning, still licking, still pressing kisses against her as her body shook like she was unraveling.

When she finally collapsed forward, her body slumping over the center console, legs fully done, Austin pulled her down gently. Kissed the inside of her thighs. Nuzzled the crease of her hip like she was the softest thing he’d ever touched.

And when she opened her eyes, dizzy and boneless and soaked in everything, he looked up at her with that half-smile and that slick mouth and whispered:

“Now you’re done.”

The air in the car was thick with it—heat, sweat, satisfaction. Every window was fogged to the point of condensation dripping. Clothes were everywhere. Her hoodie somewhere in the passenger seat. His shirt twisted beneath his spine. Her panties? Long gone.

And Solana… Solana was slumped in his lap like her bones had melted. Breath shallow. Eyes half-lidded. The kind of exhaustion that only came from being thoroughly loved on.

Austin pressed a kiss to her forehead. Then another to her temple. Then to the curve of her cheek. His arms were wrapped around her, tight but careful, like she might disappear if he let go even a little.

“You okay, baby?” he whispered, lips brushing her skin.

She hummed, voice hoarse and wrecked and sweet. “I think I saw God.”

He smiled, soft and full of heat. “You sounded like it.”

She chuckled, but it ended in a shaky little sigh. Her body still trembled, twitching involuntarily as the waves of sensation came back in little echoes.

Austin noticed immediately. His hand moved down her spine, gentle and slow, tracing the line of her back with his knuckles.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

Before she could protest, he was already moving—gathering her hoodie, his t-shirt, slipping them gently over her arms. His hands were delicate, respectful, threading fabric up her body like dressing a painting.

When she tried to lift herself, her knees buckled.

He caught her with both hands, eyes wide, but filled with nothing but tenderness.

“Easy, mama,” he said, voice low and sweet. “I got you. Of course you can’t walk—you took all of me like a champ.”

She blushed. Giggled. Leaned her head against his shoulder.

“You’re so annoying,” she whispered.

He grinned, kissed her forehead again. “Yeah, but I make it up in oral.”

She hit his chest, laughing for real this time.

And Austin? He just looked at her for a second. Took it all in. Her skin still glowing, her hair a mess, her lips swollen, her eyes soft. And his heart cracked open.

He brought the hem of his shirt to her mouth and wiped the corner gently, then kissed the same spot after.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered. “You know that?”

She looked up, and for the first time since they’d started, her voice was small. Vulnerable. “You’re not gonna regret this tomorrow?”

Austin blinked. Then sat up straighter, brushing her curls back from her face.

“Baby,” he said, cupping her cheek. “I’ve been wanting this since 2020. You think I waited five years just to pretend this didn’t mean anything?”

Her breath caught. His thumb traced under her eye.

“I’m so in this, Solana. I want you in every way. Even the messy ones. Especially the messy ones.”

She didn’t respond with words—just pressed her forehead to his and closed her eyes.

Austin exhaled. Pulled the blanket he kept in his trunk around her shoulders. Tugged her in tighter. Pressed a hand to her thigh, rubbing soothing little circles as she drifted against him.

The city below them kept glowing.

The world kept spinning.

But inside the car?

It was just them. Soft. Wrecked. Happy.

#austin butler x black!reader #austin butler x reader #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler smut #austin butler fluff #austin butler #austin butler fic #austin butler imagine #austin butler x you #austin butler x y/n #austin butler x oc #oc: solana meyers

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 days ago

Text

love thy neighbor — chapter one.

pairing – boy next door! gojo x fem reader

a/n : releasing this as series with four chapters that will have 10k+ wc per chapter instead of a oneshot out of draft jail because i overyappped once again, i’m really sorry for second guessing and hesitating so much, making u all wait TvT

collection m.list. | series masterlist. | playlist. | next ch.

the neighborhood was perfect.

white fences, manicured lawns, and an unspoken rule that everything must remain picturesque. but beneath the surface of perfection, an ancient war raged: your mother versus satoru’s. it was a battle fought with gardening shears and passive-aggressive remarks, masked by polite smiles at neighborhood events.

your mother, ever the strategist, sipped her tea with a dramatic sigh whenever satoru’s mother so much as stepped onto her porch. “oh, did you see the way she over-fertilizes?” she mused, her voice dripping with feigned concern. “poor plants, suffocating under all that desperate effort.”

meanwhile, satoru’s mother, arranging her hydrangeas in full view of your living room window, would hum thoughtfully before muttering, “i’d be embarrassed if my hydrangeas were that dull. not that i’d let it happen.”

the tension was palpable, woven into every stolen glance and whispered insult disguised as gardening advice. neither woman ever admitted the rivalry outright, but the perfectly pruned rose bushes and the carefully curated window boxes spoke volumes.

their husbands, however, lived in blissful ignorance. every weekend, they could be found on the golf course or clinking beer bottles over the backyard fence, chuckling about how “our wives are gonna kill each other one day, huh?”

the rivalry simply amused them.

but you and satoru? you were casualties. you were dragged into their war from the moment you could walk, coached into side-eyed glares and dismissive huffs whenever the gojos were mentioned.

when your father first introduced you to satoru at a neighborhood barbecue, he did so with the same pride as a general uniting two warring factions. “this is satoru, gojo’s boy!” he beamed, clapping his friend on the back.

but instead of an instant friendship, all satoru got was a glare and the words your mother had fed you over breakfast that morning.

“we don’t talk to people who use fake grass as a lawn substitute.”

you said it with the confidence of someone who truly understood what that meant, though in reality, you weren’t entirely sure why fake grass was so offensive. satoru blinked at you, mouth slightly open, his white lashes fluttering as if he hadn’t processed what just happened.

“...huh?” he finally said, voice trailing off in confusion.

your dads laughed, the kind of laugh that men share when they think their kids are just being silly. it wasn’t silly. it was war. and from that moment on, satoru gojo was your enemy, whether he wanted to be or not.

the first time you’re sent outside to water the garden, you don’t think much of it—until you see satoru stepping out of his house at the same time, dragging a garden hose behind him. he’s still in his pajamas, some silly blue set with little clouds on it, his white hair sticking up in messy tufts, like he just rolled out of bed.

he’s wearing slippers—bunny slippers, to be precise—but what really catches your attention are the socks. white with tiny little blue stars, pulled up just past his ankles, the kind of socks that scream these are my favorite and if anything happens to them, i will never recover.

you freeze, fingers tightening around the nozzle as he glances at you, then at his own hose, then back at you. for a second, neither of you speak. but you both know. your moms, pretending to be absorbed in their baking and magazine-reading inside, have timed this on purpose.

“pure coincidence,” your mother had said, the corners of her lips twitching in barely concealed triumph, and you—foolish, naive—had believed her.

satoru, being satoru, tries to be friendly at first, tilting his head as he watches you water the tulips along the fence. “your tulips are kinda nice,” he says, casual, like he’s just making conversation, like he isn’t the enemy.

you whip your head toward him so fast your hair smacks you in the face, eyes narrowing, scoffing as if he’s just insulted your entire bloodline. “don’t lie. your mom says they’re ugly.”

his jaw drops, scandalized, and you swear you can hear the dramatic gasp of betrayal in the air. “well, your mom says our garden looks like a plastic factory exploded.” he crosses his arms, standing his ground, his voice rising slightly like he can’t believe you just threw that at him.

you stare at him.

he stares at you.

the hose in your hand drips onto the grass, but you’re too busy processing his words to care. your mother had what ? you had been raised on the belief that your family had the superior garden, the most elegant flowers, the healthiest grass. and now, satoru gojo, the enemy, was claiming that your mom had been talking about his garden?

your lips part in slow betrayal, nose wrinkling in distaste, and you take a slow step back. he mirrors you, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion, his fingers twitching against the hose. neither of you say another word. but you both know what’s coming next.

the next day, war begins. it starts simple—satoru ‘accidentally’ sprays you with his hose while you’re carefully pruning the roses, his grin widening when water soaks into your shirt. you shriek, stumbling back, clutching your watering can tighter like a weapon. fine. if that’s how he wants to play, then so be it. you take a step, then another, before gasping dramatically and tripping—the entire can of water spilling directly onto his feet.

he lets out a scream, the most theatrical, over-the-top wail you’ve ever heard, jumping back like he’s been set on fire. “MY SOCKS!” he yells, staring down at them in pure horror, his slippers useless against the water seeping in. his hands fly up to his head, gripping his white tufts in agony, eyes squeezed shut like he’s in a tragedy film. “they’re wet! my favorite socks are WET!”

“oh, please,” you huff, rolling your eyes even as your own shirt clings uncomfortably to your skin. “it’s just water.”

“IT’S IN MY SOCKS.” he’s pacing now, hands on his hips, face twisted in pure devastation. “DO YOU KNOW HOW GROSS WET SOCKS ARE?!”

the next thing you know, you’re both storming inside, loudly declaring your grievances to your fathers.

“she did it on purpose!”

“he started it first!”

you both jab fingers in each other’s direction, demanding justice, your voices overlapping in a chorus of whiny accusations. satoru’s slippers squelch with every step he takes, which only makes him angrier, which only makes you smugger. but your dads, ever the peacemakers, just chuckle over their beers and wave you off. “just work it out, kids!”

useless. completely, utterly useless.

you and satoru glare at each other from across the room, still damp, still fuming, both of you knowing, deep in your little childish hearts—whether you like it or not, this is only the beginning.

days slip by, your damp glares hardening into a silent pact—every sprinkler twitch, every sidelong glance a spark for the next war. your moms, oblivious or scheming, sip lemonade on the porch, their laughter sharp as pruning shears, while you and satoru circle like cats, waiting for the other to pounce.

it appears overnight.

one day, your mother’s pristine front yard is free of any unnecessary clutter, and the next, it’s there—perched right at the edge of the gojos’ flower bed, staring directly at your house with its beady, unsettling eyes.

the ugliest garden gnome you’ve ever seen. its paint is chipped in places, its smile is a little too wide, and its hat is a garish shade of red that clashes horribly with the hydrangeas behind it.

your mother nearly drops her morning tea when she spots it through the kitchen window.

“oh. oh, that woman wants to play dirty.”

she sets her cup down with the grace of a queen preparing for battle, fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain like she’s contemplating war strategies. her brows draw together, lips pressed into a firm line as she leans closer, scrutinizing the gnome like it personally insulted her taste in home decor.

by the end of the day, a stone fairy statue sits on your side of the fence, directly facing the gnome. her expression is serene, her wings spread wide, and her hands clasped together as if in prayer—yet something about her placement feels pointed. deliberate. a silent declaration of superiority in the war of aesthetics.

you and satoru meet at the line that divides your houses, staring at each other over the ridiculous decorations your mothers have so proudly planted in the soil. it’s early afternoon, the sun casting long shadows across the grass, and the air is thick with unspoken tension.

satoru stands lazily with his hands in his pockets, a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, the summer light catching in his white hair and making it look almost silver. his eyes, bright and sharp, flit between the fairy and the gnome before settling on you, amusement flickering in their depths.

“so,” he drawls, rocking back slightly on his heels. “admiring the superior piece of art?”

you don’t answer. instead, you take a single step forward and flick his forehead, hard. his head jerks back slightly, his smirk faltering for half a second before he recovers, blinking at you like you’ve just committed a grave crime against his entire bloodline.

“your gnome looks like it crawled out of a swamp.”

satoru’s jaw drops, a scandalized gasp slipping past his lips. his hand flies to his forehead, rubbing the spot you flicked like you just inflicted some kind of irreversible damage.

“you—” he sputters, shaking his head as if in disbelief. then, with the precision of someone who has been waiting for this moment his entire life, he flicks you right back, his finger striking the center of your forehead with surprising force.

“your fairy looks like it belongs in a cemetery.”

you don’t know who lunges first, but suddenly, you’re both on the ground. hands grasping at arms, legs kicking up dirt, your yells and shrieks breaking the peaceful afternoon air.

satoru pulls at your sleeve, so you shove him, and he shoves you right back, his stupidly strong grip knocking you off balance. the scent of freshly cut grass fills your nose as your back hits the ground, satoru’s weight pressing down as he tries to pin you, but you twist, rolling and taking him with you.

“get off me, you overgrown ferret!” you hiss, your fingers grasping at the fabric of his shirt in an attempt to push him away.

“overgrown?” he scoffs, despite being half sprawled across the dirt, panting. “you’re literally—ow! stop pulling my hair, you gremlin!”

grass sticks to your clothes, dust clings to your skin, and the world tilts as you both roll across the lawn like a pair of feral raccoons fighting over food.

from the porch, your mother gasps, her hand flying to her chest in horror. satoru’s mom, less dramatic but equally exasperated, calls out something about ruining the flowers, but neither of you hear her over the sound of your bickering.

your fathers, however, are the last to react. one second, they’re sipping their beers on the porch, talking about some old golf game, and the next, their precious children are rolling in the dirt like a pair of rabid raccoons.

both men jump up at the same time, eyes wide, jaws dropping in comical horror.

“oh my god, they’re fighting.” gojo’s dad sounds genuinely distressed, like he’s just witnessed the betrayal of the century.

your dad nearly trips over the porch step as he rushes forward, his voice heavy with disbelief. “this is a disaster! we raised them better than this!”

it takes all their combined strength to pry you and satoru apart. you’re still kicking, your hand tangled in his stupid white hair, while he’s gripping onto your sleeve like he refuses to let you get the last hit. dirt smudges both your cheeks, grass stains your clothes, and the once-perfect garden is in shambles around you.

satoru’s mom lets out a horrified gasp, clutching her chest as she surveys the battlefield that was once a pristine lawn. her manicured fingers tremble, eyes darting between the trampled flowers and her son’s dirt-streaked face like she’s witnessing the collapse of civilization.

your mom, on the other hand, stands tall with her arms crossed, head tilting ever so slightly as a slow, satisfied smile curls on her lips—like a queen who just watched her heir claim victory in a brutal duel. her gaze flickers to you, pride gleaming in her eyes before she speaks, voice low and laced with amusement.

“you see?” she murmurs, just loud enough for her husband to hear, yet dripping with the unmistakable venom of a well-placed jab. “this is what happens when you let your daughter socialize with bad influences.”

she doesn’t look at satoru’s mom as she says it, but the weight of her words lands squarely where it’s meant to.

satoru’s mom bristles, her grip tightening on the pearl necklace resting against her collarbone, but she holds her tongue—for now. the war between them is long-standing, fought with polite smiles and passive-aggressive flower arrangements, but today, your mom has landed a solid hit.

your dads, however, are too emotionally wounded to acknowledge their wives’ ongoing cold war. your father looks at you like you just kicked a puppy in front of him, his hands shaking slightly as he runs them through his hair in utter disbelief.

“you’re best friends!” he exclaims, voice cracking like his entire world is crumbling before his eyes. “this—this is not how best friends act!” his horror is genuine, as if the mere thought of you and satoru, the lifelong duo, turning on each other is an omen of the apocalypse.

satoru’s dad isn’t faring any better, hands braced against his knees as if steadying himself for what might come next. he exhales, long and pained, shaking his head like he’s about to mourn the loss of something sacred.

“we failed them,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, but heavy with grief. he looks at his son, at the tangled mess of white hair and stubborn defiance, then at you, covered in dirt and glaring daggers at his boy.

to him, this is a tragedy beyond comprehension.

for a fleeting moment, the sheer devastation in their eyes almost makes you feel bad. almost. but then you glance at satoru, and he’s already looking at you with that same ridiculous, half-offended, half-smug expression, a silent dare in those too-bright eyes.

the pity shrivels and dies instantly, replaced by a renewed wave of annoyance. because, honestly, why does he look like he won? he didn’t win.

“you’re gonna apologize and shake hands,” your dad says, attempting to sound firm despite the evident emotional turmoil in his voice.

you and satoru both freeze, breathing still uneven from the scuffle, before simultaneously turning away with identical scoffs. the idea of making peace with each other so soon, especially under adult supervision, is downright insulting.

“absolutely not.” the rejection comes in perfect unison, as if you rehearsed it beforehand.

but then satoru’s dad straightens up, shoulders squared, and fixes you both with a rare, serious, dad look—the kind that demands obedience without words, the kind that even satoru, with all his stubborn arrogance, hesitates to challenge. suddenly, rebellion doesn’t seem worth the trouble.

grumbling under your breath, you stomp forward, satoru mirroring your reluctance with a dramatic sigh. your hands clasp together with the enthusiasm of someone being forced to shake hands with a venomous snake.

and then, just because neither of you can ever let the other win, you squeeze. hard .

satoru winces first, barely, and your lips twitch into a victorious grin. but then he recovers, tightening his grip just enough to make your fingers ache, and a smirk creeps onto his face. across the yard, your dads, completely oblivious to the ongoing war happening in your clasped hands, wipe fake tears from their eyes, murmuring about how balance has been restored.

but nothing has been solved. nothing at all.

the forced peace lasts exactly three days before you're elbowing him in the ribs for hogging the watering can. he retaliates by “accidentally” spraying your shoes.

you step on his foot.

he tugs your hair.

you pinch his arm when no one’s looking—fingers darting quick, nailing the soft spot under his sleeve. he yelps “ow!” under his breath, swatting back with a pouty glare. by the time the roses are watered, you’ve racked up twelve secret scuffles—stealthy masterpieces hidden from the kitchen windows where your moms sip grudges with their brew.

he trips you into a rosebush with a sly nudge—smug grin flashing, all teeth and blue-eyed glee. you lob a fistful of fertilizer like a prank grenade. it dusts his face gritty brown. he sputters “gross!” and wipes it off with his t-shirt hem.

your cackle cuts the air when dirt clumps in his perfect white hair. he shakes it out like a wet dog, strands spiking like a porcupine. then he shoves you—hands fast on your shoulders—sending you splashing into the birdbath. water soaks your shorts.

“jerk!” you hiss, scrambling up, nose scrunched in fury. he giggles “serves you right!” and dodges your swat, slippers squishing on the grass. it’s exhausting—this endless tug-of-war. arms ache. slippers muddy. but stopping? not an option. you’re magnets, doomed to clash.

the backyard brawl simmers all week. each morning brings sneaky jabs and muffled yelps. roses and hydrangeas stand as silent witnesses.

your dads catch on eventually—dirt-stained clothes you try to sneak past the laundry, faint bruises on your knees, satoru’s slight limp after you “accidentally” drop a watering can on his foot. they’re done. sick of scuffs. sick of whining.

sick of their wives’ icy fence-side stares—each blaming the other’s kid, their garden rivalry now a cold war over mulch tips and pta brags.

one afternoon, mid-scuffle—over who stepped on whose garden bed and if that’s an act of war—you’re shoving his chest, his elbow jabs your side. your dads roll in like tired storm clouds.

“enough!” yours barks, arms crossed, flannel sleeves rolled up, face etched with exhaustion from your week-long nonsense.

satoru’s dad nods, rubbing his temples. “you’re driving us up the wall—cut it out or you’re grounded ‘til christmas.”

“he started it!” you snap, pointing at satoru—your pout deepens, your muddy slippers leaving a smudge on the patio as you cross your arms tight.

“she pinched me first!” satoru fires back, his voice high and whiny as he jabs a finger at you, his hair still dusted with fertilizer flecks, his blue eyes wide with mock innocence.

“that’s it,” your dad says, rubbing his temples like this is physically paining him. “you’re best friends now. deal with it.” his voice is firm, final, like a judge handing down a life sentence.

satoru’s dad stands beside him, nodding like he’s just made peace with some deep, personal tragedy.

“if you’re gonna keep fighting, you might as well do it under supervision,” he adds, voice hollow with defeat. “playdates. every day. no exceptions.”

you and satoru freeze, eyes locking in an unspoken moment of horror. playdates? every day? with him?

“no,” you start, shaking your head as panic sets in, “no, no, no, i refuse—”

“you can’t make us!” satoru cries, taking a step back like he might actually run for it.

but your dad is already walking away like the matter is settled, and satoru’s dad claps a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder, muttering something about “team bonding” before disappearing inside.

betrayal. this is betrayal of the highest order.

you whip around, jabbing a finger into satoru’s chest, voice dripping with accusation. “this is your fault.”

his jaw drops, indignant. “my fault? you’re the one who threw the first punch last time!”

“because you called my hair stupid!”

“it is stupid!” he fires back, arms flailing as he gestures wildly toward your head. “it looks like a mop!”

you take a deep, dramatic gasp, clutching your chest like you’ve been personally wounded. “oh, yeah? well, at least i don’t look like a walking snow cone!”

his mouth falls open, blue eyes wide with pure, unfiltered rage. for a moment, he just stares at you, like he can’t even process what you’ve just said.

then, with the air of a man who has lost everything, he lets out a long, exhausted sigh and stomps away, muttering under his breath about how this arrangement is going to kill him.

good.

you hope it does.

the next day, you arrive at his house with a plan. if you’re going to suffer through this nightmare, you’re dragging him down with you.

so you stride through the front yard like a queen arriving at her court, the tiny porcelain tea set clinking in your bag with each step. a plastic crown sits atop your head, slightly askew from the wind but still regal in its defiance.

your expression is the picture of authority as you set down your things, the miniature table unfolding beneath your hands with all the grandeur of a royal banquet being prepared.

“sit,” you command, voice dripping with the kind of entitlement that demands obedience.

satoru, standing barefoot in the grass with his wild white hair falling messily over his too-blue eyes, just blinks at you. then he tilts his head, gaze flicking between you, the tea set, and the absurd little chairs you’ve arranged.

“i’m not drinking imaginary tea,” he says flatly.

your smile is slow, syrupy sweet—too sweet, the kind that signals incoming disaster. “oh, but you are.”

he narrows his eyes, arms crossing over his chest. it’s a battle of wills, a silent exchange where neither of you so much as blink.

then, with the exaggerated sigh of a man facing his own execution, satoru flops onto the tiny chair, legs sprawled out, arms still folded like he’s being forced into some great injustice.

you nod in satisfaction, pouring the invisible tea with practiced elegance, your pinky raised just so. the delicate porcelain cup is extended toward him, an offering of peace—or, more accurately, an invitation to his suffering.

he takes it hesitantly, fingers curling around the dainty handle like it might shatter under his touch. then, in the most over-the-top display of mock refinement you’ve ever seen, he lifts it to his lips with the grace of a nobleman.

“ah, yes,” he drawls, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his chin upward. “delicious. simply divine.”

your hum of approval is sharp as you sip from your own cup, matching his theatrics with an air of superiority. “good.”

the corner of his mouth twitches, his eyes peering at you over the rim of his cup, and you know—this isn’t over.

revenge comes swiftly.

the moment you step through the door, satoru is on you like a storm, all grabby hands and reckless energy, fingers locking around your wrist before you can so much as take off your shoes.

he yanks you forward with the force of a battlefield general rallying his troops, pale strands an untamed mess, sticking out in wild tufts like he’s been plotting for hours. there’s an unmistakable glint in his too-bright eyes, something electric, something that makes your stomach twist with impending doom.

you try to plant your feet, to demand an explanation, but he tugs harder, practically dragging you down the hallway like a man possessed.

“sit,” he commands, throwing his arm out with a flourish the second you cross the threshold into his room.

your gaze sweeps across the floor, and your stomach drops. an army—an entire army—is laid out before you, meticulously arranged in tight, strategic formations.

tiny soldiers stand at attention, their weapons poised for battle, knights lined up with their plastic swords raised high, towering mechs positioned like silent sentinels at the edges.

even a couple of dinosaurs lurk ominously in the back, their beady little eyes trained on the battlefield as if waiting for their cue to wreak havoc.

you swallow, suddenly aware of the tiny doll clutched in your hands—a delicate princess with golden curls, her dainty features carved into a permanent, gentle smile. she does not belong here.

satoru turns to you, the grin stretching across his face so wide it practically glows. “war,” he declares, voice heavy with self-satisfaction.

your fingers tighten around the doll. “… war?”

he nods, far too pleased with himself. “yeah. your princesses are under attack. they’re defenseless.” his head tilts, expression shifting into a mockery of pity, but the gleam in his eyes betrays him. “tragic, really.”

your lips press into a thin line, suspicion creeping in. “what happens if they lose?”

his grin sharpens. teeth. teeth everywhere. “they get executed.”

your gasp is immediate, theatrical, hands clutching your chest as if he’s personally driven a dagger through your heart. “executed?!”

satoru shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “war’s brutal.”

your grip on the princess tightens, rage curling in your chest like a wildfire. the urge to flip his entire battlefield, to scatter his perfectly aligned soldiers like fallen leaves, is almost unbearable. you could end this before it even begins.

but then satoru smirks, slow and confident, tilting his head in that infuriating way that makes your blood boil. and just like that, losing is no longer an option.

and so, the war rages on.

tea party chaos one day, epic war games the next.

you haul out fancy tea sets, doilies, and plastic tiaras, daring him to squirm. he counters with action figures, spinning tragic tales to pin their doom on you.

you snatch his favorite snacks, munching with a glare; he traps you in marathons of your least-liked cartoon, smirking at every grimace.

playdates turn into battlegrounds, a clash of stubborn wills. you bake fake cookies; he chokes theatrically, flopping to the floor. he stages a war; you parade your princess dolls, decreeing peace to ruin his plans. neither of you yields.

yet somewhere amid tea-sipping and battle cries, the venom softens. it’s still a fight, but now it’s about who cracks a smile first. the worst days are quiet ones, no one to spar with. it’s not fun, but it’s not awful.

and maybe you don’t mind the challenge.

not that you’ll say it.

it hits like rain on a sunny day—sudden, uninvited. you didn’t plan to enjoy satoru’s chaos. but between the shouts and shoves, you laugh. he laughs too, not smug, but real, and your stomach flips, like maybe—maybe you didn’t hate him as much as you thought.

but your mom notices.

she always notices. when you come home from his house, she watches you extra close, her eyes sharp like when she’s trying to catch you sneaking extra cookies before dinner.

that night, when she brushes your hair, she doesn’t say it right away. her fingers are careful, gentle, but her voice is not. “remember, sweetheart, we don’t get too close to them.” it’s not a question. it’s a rule. the same kind of rule as don’t run with scissors or don’t talk to strangers—except this one hurts.

so the next day, you fix it. it should feel like something big is happening, like the sky should turn black and lightning should strike right between you, like the world should know this is the worst thing ever. but no. the stupid sun is still shining. the wind is still blowing. and the ugly little garden gnome by satoru’s front steps is still sitting there, laughing at you. it makes you want to kick it. but you can’t, because you have something more important to do.

“your hair is ugly.”

satoru’s head snaps up so fast you think he might get dizzy. “huh?!”

you cross your arms, lifting your chin like you totally mean it. “it’s so white. it looks like bird poop.”

there’s a long, long silence. satoru’s mouth hangs open, like he’s waiting for you to say just kidding! but you don’t. his hands ball into little fists at his sides, his face going all red—not the angry kind of red, but the kind that looks like he just swallowed a rock. “why are you being so mean?”

you look away. your chest feels all tight and weird, like when you’re about to cry but you can’t, because if you do, then it’s over. your mom’s voice rings in your head again— we don’t get too close to them. “ i was just bored.”

and just like that, everything breaks.

he stares at you like you just kicked his puppy. his stupid blue eyes get all shiny, like he might actually cry, and that makes you feel even worse. “but… but yesterday—”

he stops. his lips press together, and he swallows really hard, like there’s something stuck in his throat. then, before you can say anything else, before you can even take it back—he steps away.

“fine,” he says, and his voice sounds wobbly, like a popsicle stick bridge that’s about to snap. “i don’t care, anyway.”

but you know he does. because satoru always cares—loudly, annoyingly, in ways you don’t even understand yet. and for the first time ever, he turns away first. doesn’t yell, doesn’t push, doesn’t try to win.

he just leaves. and for some reason, that makes you want to cry more than anything in the whole wide world.

satoru didn’t talk to you after that day. not in the loud, teasing way he usually did, not in the begrudging, petty way you’d come to expect. not even when your dads gathered for the weekend barbecue, laughing over beers about how their kids had finally made peace.

you could feel his glare from across the yard, burning into your skin like a laser beam, but the second you turned to look, he was already stomping away, white hair bouncing with every step.

you’d won the war, hadn’t you? you should’ve felt victorious, you should’ve been skipping circles around him just to rub it in his stupid face. but instead, your stomach twisted up all weird, like you swallowed a rock—or maybe a whole pile of them.

and then, as if the universe had personally decided that your life wasn’t miserable enough, disaster struck.

the evening air was thick with the smell of damp dirt and fresh grass, but all you could smell was your impending doom.

your mother loomed over the flowerbed—or what was left of it. crushed petals and snapped stems lay scattered, a wreckage you caused. the porch light stretched her shadow, sharp and accusing, across the dirt. her arms were crossed, lips a thin line, but her eyes—piercing, soul-searing—made your stomach plummet.

you swallowed, glancing at the ruined flowers under your shoes. you’d only chased a butterfly, but—crunch—they were gone, and you were doomed.

“look at what you’ve done!”

your hands balled up, body rigid. “i’m sorry,” you mumbled, voice small, but she didn’t flinch.

she sighed, pinching her nose like you were her endless headache. “i work hard on this garden, and this is how you repay me?” her head shook, disappointment stinging like a slap. “these plants are my babies, and you trample them like you don’t belong here.”

…oh.

your breath snagged, heart stuttering. her babies? your chest clamped tight, ears buzzing, and it clicked—too perfectly. your mom’s lawn obsession, how you didn’t quite match your parents’ looks, your weird food quirks, her sighs, heavy with unspoken weight when she bragged about you to neighbors.

this was it.

you were adopted.

panic flared, wild and sharp. if she knew you’d cracked her secret, would she… return you? like a mismatched shirt shoved back to the store? would she ship you to some grim place where unwanted kids ate cold broccoli forever, no cookies, no warmth? no way. you wouldn’t let her.

you had to run.

before they could box up your stuff, before their soft, syrupy voices cooed, we’re sorry, sweetheart, it’s just not right. you’d need clothes, snacks, a flashlight—money? (where did money even come from?)—maybe a blanket. you could live in the woods, charm squirrels, nibble berries.

or you can find your real family.

maybe they were out there, longing for you. maybe you were a lost princess, a royal carriage just waiting to whisk you to a castle. maybe your true parents, rich and heartbroken, ached for their stolen kid. maybe this was your big break.

you had to get out.

you scanned the room—not yours, not anymore. glow-in-the-dark stars speckled the ceiling, stuffed animals slumped in the corner, soon someone else’s, someone who’d fit this family better. your throat tightened, but you shook it off. no time for tears. you had a mission.

you grabbed your pink backpack, stuffing it fast—three snacks, a hello kitty juice box for style, a flickering flashlight, and your stuffed bunny, because even runaways need a friend. it was heavier than you thought, tugging at your shoulders as you crept to the window. you nudged it open, wincing at the frame’s squeak. night air slipped in, whispering of adventure, maybe a real home.

but doubt crept in too.

not about running—that was still the plan. but the actual escaping? harder than it looked. your grand exit felt shaky, and you wondered if you were really built for this runaway life.

now, for the hardest part: actually leaving.

you climbed onto the windowsill, fingers gripping the edge as you looked down. it wasn’t that high… right? you just had to dangle, drop, land, and run. simple. foolproof.

you sucked in a breath and shifted forward, lowering yourself carefully, your feet searching for the ground—but it wasn’t there.

your legs kicked uselessly, toes barely brushing the wall, and for a humiliating ten seconds, you dangled there, flailing, before gravity made the decision for you.

with a yelp, you plummeted straight into the bushes, a sharp rustling of leaves accompanying your graceless fall. a dull pain shot up your arms, the sting of scraped skin making your eyes prick with tears, but you bit them back.

a true runaway does not cry! with all the dignity you could muster, you pushed yourself up, shaking off leaves and twigs, ready to make your grand escape—

“you look like an idiot.”

your breath caught in your throat. your stomach dropped.

oh no.

slowly, you turned your head, dread curling in your chest. and there he was, perched at his own window, elbows resting on the sill, white hair catching the fading sunlight. gojo satoru.

he had the nerve to look completely relaxed, chin resting in his palm, his stupidly bright blue eyes filled with unmistakable amusement.

he had been watching you.

“what are you doing?” he asked, voice laced with barely-contained laughter.

you straightened your backpack straps, shooting him a glare. ”leaving.”

“leaving where?”

“away.”

his head tilted slightly, studying you like you were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen. “that’s not an answer.”

ugh. always so annoying. always questioning everything. wait—why is he even trying to get you to explain yourself to him? this wasn’t his business!

you huffed, turning on your heel with a dramatic flip of your hair. "none of your business, satoru. goodbye forever."

you had barely taken four steps before the unmistakable sound of feet landing lightly on the pavement made you freeze.

your eyes widened. you turned back just in time to see him straightening up, brushing invisible dust from his pants, completely unbothered—because unlike you, he hadn’t fumbled his escape. no flailing, no tragic bush landing. just an effortless, cat-like jump from his window, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

you clenched your fists. of course he made it look easy.

he fell into step beside you, hands buried deep in his pockets, his pace maddeningly unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be but right here, ruining your night.

it was infuriating how effortlessly he matched your pace—never rushing, never struggling, just there, lingering like an annoying ghost you couldn't shake in the darkness.

“you don’t even know where you’re going.”

his voice was light, almost teasing, but you caught the undertone of amusement laced beneath it.

you spun around so fast your backpack nearly smacked you in the face, eyes blazing as you glared up at him. “yes, i do.”

he didn’t even blink, just tilted his head, one white eyebrow arching with skepticism. “oh yeah? where?”

your mouth opened—then promptly shut. under the weight of his expectant gaze, your mind scrambled for an answer, something grand, something impressive, something that would prove you weren’t just some clueless kid storming off on a whim. but all that came out was a very unconvincing:

“...the forest.”

satoru pulled a face like you had just suggested something utterly pathetic. he actually wrinkled his nose. “lame,” he declared flatly. “if you’re running away, at least go somewhere cool.”

your eyes narrowed dangerously. “oh, and where would you go, genius?”

his expression shifted instantly, brightening with exaggerated thoughtfulness as he tapped a finger against his chin. he dragged the moment out, milking the attention for all it was worth, before finally grinning. “probably the moon. or mars. as long as it’s on space.”

you rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw the inside of your skull. “be serious.”

“you be serious.”

“i am serious.”

“then why are you running away with just a backpack?”

you froze, shoulders snapping rigid. your fingers clenched around the straps of your backpack as heat crept up your face.

right. that.

you knew something about your plan felt slightly underdeveloped, but it wasn’t like you were going to admit that. you forced your expression into something defiant, lips parting to throw back a retort—but nothing came. because, well... he had a point.

“why do you even care?” you snapped instead, turning the conversation away from your failure. “just go back inside and leave me alone!”

he shrugged, completely unaffected by your growing irritation. “nah. watching you fail at running away is way more fun.”

your jaw clenched so tight it ached.

you should have known he’d be a problem.

but you were determined. you were going to run away, and there was nothing gojo satoru could do about it.

you slung your backpack higher, stomping down the street, ignoring the patter of footsteps dogging you. maybe speed would shake him, but no—satoru’s smirk followed, wide and smug, like your escape was his evening show.

you sped up. he kept pace. you crawled; he mirrored, whistling a tune that clawed at your nerves.

hours dragged—maybe two, but each step burned eternal with him bouncing beside you, white hair aglow under streetlights, practically engineered to irk you. at first, you’d burned with purpose—flee your mom’s scolds, her heavy sighs, and start fresh, maybe in a city, baking in some cozy shop.

now? your legs screamed, feet pulsing. regret piled high, and you just wanted to collapse.

“i’m hungry,” satoru whined, his voice grating, lips twitching with mischief.

you groaned, dragging slower. “shut up, satoru,” you muttered, exhaustion coating your words, shoulders slumping.

“no!” he snapped. “this is your fault! you should’ve at least rode a bike if you were gonna run away like a loser!”

“i’m not a loser!” you shot back, voice wobbling, defensive. your glare faltered under his teasing glint.

he sidled closer, face moonlit, mischief dancing in his eyes. “you kinda are. only losers run away and don’t even know where they’re going.”

your cheeks flared. “i do know where i’m going!” you insisted, but doubt gnawed. the dream of running was souring fast.

he arched a brow, smirk widening. “oh yeah? where?”

you froze, scanning the dark—nothing. words failed. “…” you mumbled, purpose fraying.

satoru’s smug hum stung, his grin widening as he stood, hands on hips, relishing your fluster. “exactly. loser.”

you huffed, stomping toward the park’s swings. “whatever. let’s just sit.” annoyance masked relief as you sank onto a seat, sighing into the quiet night.

satoru flopped beside you, stretching with a groan. “ugh, finally. thought my legs were gonna fall off.” his white hair spilled over the swing’s chain, catching moonlight like a mocking halo.

you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, the swing creaking under your shifting weight. “stop being so dramatic.” your fingers gripped the cold metal chains, grounding you as a breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

“says the one who ran away over some flowers,” satoru shot back, kicking his legs lazily, bunny slippers scuffing the dirt. his smirk glinted, sharp in the dim light.

“says the one who followed me,” you snapped, arms crossed tight. damp grass and metal tinged the air, his stare prickling even without a glance.

he grinned, shameless, leaning to sway the swing. “well, yeah. what else was i supposed to do? let you get eaten by raccoons?” his brows wiggled, voice thick with fake worry.

you stiffened, rigid against the creaky seat. “…there are no raccoons here.” your tone held firm, but your eyes flicked to the shadowy bushes, doubt nibbling.

“are you sure?” he tilted his head, blue eyes twinkling, finger tapping his chin to stretch your unease.

you froze—breath catching. the night yawned wider, leaves rustling too lively.

he leaned closer, voice a mock whisper. “you know, i heard they sneak up on dumb kids who run away.” his breath grazed your ear, swing rocking as he shifted.

your fingers clamped the chains, knuckles pale. “you’re lying.” your voice wavered, small against the vast park.

he gasped, clutching his chest, eyes wide with fake shock. “why would i lie to you?” he flailed, nearly tipping the swing, slippers flopping.

“because you’re you!” you shoved his shoulder, steadying the creaking metal. an owl hooted, siding with you.

“fair point.” he shrugged, grin lazy, settling back as the swing slowed. crickets hummed, playground groaning softly.

you kicked his shin—hard. “ow—hey!” he yelped, rubbing it, hair bouncing as he glared.

“you deserved it.” you huffed, chin high, swing swaying gently, cooling your flush.

“did not!”

“did too!”

“did not—ugh, whatever, i’m too hungry to argue,” satoru groaned, flopping against the swing, hand splaying over his stomach. “feed me.” he batted his lashes, moonlight catching his mischief.

you scrunched your nose, leaning back. “excuse me?“

“you packed snacks, right?” he flicked a finger at your bag. “hand ‘em over.” his palm opened, expectant.

“why should i?” you hugged the bag tight, zipper glinting.

“because i followed you and kept you safe from raccoons.” he puffed his chest, slippers swinging with smugness.

you scowled, lips thin. “you were literally just saying you wanted me to get eaten by them.”

“so? didn’t let it happen.” he shrugged, teeth flashing, chains rattling as he leaned in.

“ugh,” you groaned, yanking the bag off, unzipping it sharply. “fine, only so you shut up.”

you pulled out a biscuit, fingers brushing his as you dropped it in his palm. he stared at it, then you, jaw dropping. “…are you serious?”

you smirked, leaning back. “take it or leave it.”

he grumbled but bit in, crunch loud in the stillness. silence settled, heavy, until he swallowed. “gimme another one.” crumbs dusted his fingers, eyes glinting.

you scoffed, loud and dramatic, head thrown back like he’d demanded your soul. “absolutely not.”

“c’monnnn, i’m starving.” he whined, slumping forward, elbows on knees, white hair flopping over his pouty face, moonlight amplifying the ridiculousness.

“too bad. should’ve brought your own food.” you shot back, sticking out your tongue.

“i would’ve if you actually planned this runaway properly.” he muttered, crossing his arms, mimicking your huff.

“ugh! just be grateful i even shared at all!”

“pfft. what else do you got?” he asked, leaning toward your bag, curiosity undimmed.

you glared through the dim light. “nothing.” your lie was sharp, hugging the bag tight, the hello kitty juice box now a state secret.

satoru’s grin turned wicked, teeth glinting. “liar. you have a juice box, don’t you?” he leaned closer, breath teasingly warm.

your fingers dug into the fabric, heart tripping. “no.” your voice wavered, face turning away as the swing creaked.

“you totally do.”

“do not.”

“you do.”

“do not.”

“oh yeah? then what’s this?” he lunged, snatching your bag and unzipping it in one swift move.

“hey!” you yelped, diving, but he twisted away, laughing as he held it high.

“aha! knew it!” he crowed, waving the hello kitty juice box like a prize, pink design flashing in the moonlight. he leaped from the swing, chains clattering.

your face burned, horror spiking. “PUT THAT BACK!” you shrieked, lunging, but he danced away, cackling through the empty park.

satoru spun, keeping it out of reach. “oh? what’s wrong? embarrassed about your cute little juice?” he taunted, dodging your flailing hands.

“shut up! give it back!” you swiped, slippers skidding, but he sidestepped effortlessly.

“hmmm… nah,” he said, popping the straw in with flair and sipping dramatically. “mmm, tastes like victory.” he leaned against the swing pole, smirking.

you gasped, betrayal hitting hard. “YOU. DID. NOT.” your voice shook, fists clenched.

“i did,” he smirked, sipping again. “mmm. strawberry.” he twirled the box, straw bobbing.

rage narrowed your vision. “GOJO SATORU, I HOPE YOU CHOKE!” you roared, tackling him off the swing, both crashing to the dirt.

satoru yelped, hitting the ground with you on top, a tangle of fury. “OW—YOU MANIAC, GET OFF ME!” he flailed, slippers flying, juice box rolling free.

“GIVE IT BACK, THIEF!” you snarled, pinning his arms, reaching for your prize, hair falling in your face.

“I HOPE YOU CHOKE, SATORU!” you yelled, snatching at the box as he squirmed, laughing through indignation.

“JOKES ON YOU, I ALREADY SWALLOWED!” he wheezed, bucking beneath you, hair now dirt-dusted.

“YOU’RE A MONSTER!” you shrieked, shoving his chest, betrayal stinging sharp.

“AND YOU’RE A GREMLIN!” he shot back, twisting, nearly toppling you, voice cracking with laughter.

“THAT WAS MY JUICE!” you wailed, grabbing the box, clutching it like a lifeline, breath heaving.

“IT’S OUR JUICE NOW!” he argued, propped on elbows, grinning like he’d won. your elbow accidentally jabbed his ribs.

“OWWW!” he howled, flopping back, clutching his side theatrically, rolling in mock agony. “THIS IS IT. I’M DYING.”

you froze, juice box dangling, blinking down. “…what?” your voice softened, anger fading.

satoru whimpered, curling up, eyes squeezed shut for effect. “you got me. this is the end. tell my mom i love her. tell your mom i don’t love her. tell my dad he owes me twenty bucks.” he peeked one eye, gauging you, breath hitching.

your heart stuttered—he was faking, clearly, but doubt whispered: what if? tears pricked as you sniffled. “satoru, you idiot!” you choked, voice wobbling, “you can’t die! who am i gonna fight with if you die?!” you dropped beside him, dirt cold.

“i dunno…” he groaned, head lolling, faint and pitiful. “maybe get a pet goldfish. name it satoru junior.”

“but i don’t want a goldfish!”

“too bad… this is fate…” he wheezed, going limp, playing dead.

“shut up! shut up, stupid! you’re not allowed to die!” you cried, throwing yourself onto him, hugging tight, tears soaking his shirt.

satoru wailed, chest shaking, real tears mixing with fake. “ow, ow, ow! you’re squishing me!” he pushed at your shoulders.

“I’M SORRY, OKAY?! I DIDN’T MEAN TO KILL YOU!” you sobbed, hugging harder.

“YOU’RE KILLING ME RIGHT NOW! STOP HUGGING ME SO TIGHT!” he wailed, kicking, feet smacking dirt.

“DON’T DIIIIE!”

“I WON’T IF YOU GET OFF ME, YOU GREMLIN!”

“PROMISE?!”

“YES! I PROMISE!” he shouted, hoarse, flopping back in defeat.

“PINKY PROMISE?!” you pressed, holding out your trembling pinky.

“I CAN’T PINKY PROMISE IF YOU’RE CRUSHING ME, LOSER!” he snapped, tears streaming, hair sticking to his dirt-smeared face.

eventually, your sobs calmed into sniffles—your grip loosening as exhaustion took over. satoru’s cries faded into tired little hiccups, his chest still rising and falling fast beneath you. the playground settled back into quiet, the night wrapping around you like a heavy, damp cloak.

you fell asleep with him right there, sprawled across the cold playground floor, too worn out to move. you curled up against satoru, your face smushed into his shoulder, your breath evening out into soft, snotty snores. satoru, despite all his whining, let an arm flop lazily over you, his own snores mixing with yours as drool pooled between you.

your dads found you like that, a tangled heap of dirt and tears under the moonlight.

“oh, for fuck’s sake.” your dad muttered, rubbing his face with a tired hand, his voice rough with exasperation. he stood there, hands on his hips, staring down at the mess you’d made of yourselves.

“wait, wait,” satoru’s dad whispered, already fumbling for his phone, a grin tugging at his lips despite the late hour. “we have to take a picture.” he crouched down, angling the camera to catch the full disaster—your drooling face, satoru’s sprawled limbs, the abandoned juice box lying pitifully in the dirt nearby. the flash went off, immortalizing the chaos, and the night carried on, oblivious to the two little warriors who’d fought themselves to sleep.

the morning after your playground disaster hits like a dodgeball to the face, jolting you awake with your dad’s laugh booming through the walls, drowning out the birds chirping meanly outside. you blink against sunlight stabbing through your blinds, legs caught in sheets, and stumble out of bed in messy pajamas—one sleeve drooping, hair a wild puff.

you shuffle downstairs, steps creaking, eyes gummy with sleep, and freeze. there, on the mantle, sits the awful proof—you and satoru, a muddy pile under broken monkey bars, drool on your face, his arm flopped over you, both smeared with dirt and chaos.

your dad’s laugh erupts again, shaking the couch as he slaps his knee, grinning huge.

“look at you two! thick as thieves!” he hollers, wiping a tear, his flannel stretching tight.

you squeak—a whiny, horrified sound—hands flying to your face. “it’s so gross!” you wail, voice muffled, peeking at the photo—your drooly cheek squished against satoru’s shoulder—and step back, foot scuffing the floor. “burn it, pleeease!”

“oh no you don’t.” your mom snaps from the kitchen, stirring coffee like she’s brewing a curse, burnt toast smog around her. her glare could zap you dead. “running off over flowers—with that gojo boy? you’re lucky you’re not grounded forever.”

you cringe, twisting your fingers, shoulders curling.

“aw, honey,” your dad chuckles, sipping juice, all calm. “she was just eloping with satoru a little early—gotta practice for the real thing!”

“don’t encourage her!” your mom barks, slamming her mug, coffee splashing, eyes flicking to satoru’s mom’s smug hydrangeas outside.

you whine, flopping against the wall. “i’m running away forever!” you mumble into your sleeve, sun warming your pout as your mom mutters—“that boy’s trouble”—her spoon clinking angrily..

next door, satoru’s trapped in his own morning horror, stomping into the kitchen, fuzzy blue slippers squeaking on tile. he freezes, blue eyes popping wide, and jabs a finger at the framed photo wobbling by the toaster—same drooly wreck, same muddy faces, a twin to your nightmare.

“rip it up!” he wails, voice cracking like he’s auditioning for tragedy, arms windmilling wildly, nearly toppling a mug. “i look like a zombie!”

his dad leans back in his chair, coffee mug in hand, completely unmoved, a lazy grin tugging at his lips as he reaches over with a broad hand.

“aw, come on,” he chuckles, ruffling satoru’s already doomed hair until the strands rebel further, flopping into his face like a snowy avalanche. “you two are inseparable—gonna tell this story at your wedding one day.”

satoru shrieks, staggering back, knocking a spoon to the floor with a clatter. “noooo! she tried to murder me!” he howls, clutching his head like it’s about to explode, hair flying as he thrashes.

his mom sips tea at the sink, sunhat tilted primly, lips smirking sharp. “if he even survives her chaos,” she murmurs, swirling her tea with a clink, “she’s a tornado.”

satoru wails louder, flopping against the fridge, face squished in despair. “my life’s ruined!” he whines, kicking the floor, sock drooping, as warm bread’s scent mixes with his sulky gloom.

satoru groans, long and dramatic, dragging his hands down his face until his cheeks puff out, his slippers scuffing as he spins to glare at the photo again—his drool-glossed lips parted, your muddy handprint on his shirt—and flops against the fridge with a thud.

“i’m never living this down,” he mutters, voice muffled as the fridge hums behind him, the scent of warm bread from the toaster oven curling around his misery while he kicks at the floor, his sock slipping further down his ankle.

outside, the hydrangeas bob in the breeze like they’re in on the joke, a silent audience to the disaster unfolding on either side of the fence. watering plants shouldn’t be this chaotic, but with satoru involved, everything turns into a summer storm—the air already thick with cicadas and the sharp, damp scent of upturned earth.

your mom shoves the hose into your hands, coffee sloshing dangerously as she snaps ”don’t let him ruin my tulips” before vanishing inside, the screen door slamming behind her like a warning shot.

you trudge out in your slippers—ratty pink ones with a half-peeled bunny face—squinting against the sun as it beats down, smug and unrelenting, like it’s waiting for you to crack first.

and there he is.

satoru slinks across the yard like a villain caught mid-scheme, dragging his hose behind him, the green coil snagging on every patch of grass. his eyes—bright, sharp, unfairly blue—lock onto yours over the fence, mischief sparking in them like a lit fuse. his hair’s a mess of white strands flopping over his forehead, one fuzzy slipper kicking at the dirt as he straightens, grin already in place.

“your dad’s a jerk for framing that,” you snap, twisting the nozzle with a jerk—only to spray your own shin, cold water seeping into your pajama pants. you scowl.

“yours too, idiot,” he fires back, voice dripping with faux innocence as he angles his hose, misting your toes with deliberate precision. the droplets glitter like tiny knives in the sunlight. “now everyone’s gonna think we’re friends.”

“jerk!” you yelp, and retaliate, your aim wild but effective—water arcs straight for his chest, drenching his stupid oversized shirt until it clings to him, fabric going sheer in patches.

he barks a laugh, half-shielding himself with the hose like it’s a sword, free hand swiping wet hair from his eyes. “hey! watch it—”

the air crackles with spray and tension, the sun casting long, warped shadows of you both across the grass. your mom’s voice slices through from the porch: “keep it civil!”—coffee cup in hand, frown sharp enough to cut.

his mom’s shout follows, sunhat bobbing as she leans over the railing. “watch my sod!”

“like i’d ruin her precious grass,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you redirect the hose toward your tulips, water pooling around them like a makeshift moat.

“you would if you could aim,” satoru taunts, leaning forward, smirk widening as his hose dangles, dripping onto his already-wrecked slipper.

“shut up,” you hiss, flicking another spray—just enough to make him hop back with a squelch.

“oi!”

you bite your lip to hide the grin, turning away before he sees it.

later, through your window, the day fades into gold, and you catch him pacing his room, backlit by the dying light like some dramatic silhouette. he flips you off—long fingers splayed, wrist twisting with unnecessary flair—before yanking the blinds shut, hair flopping like a defeated flag.

you press your nose to the glass, fogging it with your breath as you stick out your tongue. “loser.”

outside, the cicadas drone on, relentless. across the gap, you can feel him glaring at his own window, probably plotting his next move—all sharp eyes and slouched shoulders, one slipper abandoned in defeat.

you wouldn’t expect anything less.

somehow, that’s the point.

summer lingers, sticky and slow, your mornings a ritual of traded barbs across the fence—his smirk sharp, your eye-roll sharper. but the days stretch, and the battles blur, until the leaves hint at gold, and your dads' voices boom, calling you both to the yard like it’s time to rewrite the rules.

then—almost without warning—the air turns crisp. the hydrangeas fade from vibrant blue to dull brown, their petals curling like old paper, while the maple out back erupts in flames of red and orange. one morning you wake to find the grass glittering with frost, your breath fogging the window as you peer out at the changed world.

fall sweeps in with crisp air nipping at your cheeks, golden leaves crunching underfoot like nature’s tiny applause, and the dads declare it barbecue season with all the gusto of backyard kings.

they drag mismatched lawn chairs—wobbly legs and faded stripes—into your yard, smoke curling from the grill in lazy spirals, the scent of charred burgers doing a clumsy tango with your mom’s lavender bushes, their purple heads bobbing in the breeze.

you step outside, the grass cool against your slippers, and spot that cursed photo—yes, that one—propped dead center on the picnic table like a first-place ribbon from your playground disaster, its tacky gold frame glinting in the late afternoon sun.

your dad chuckles “look at our little warriors!”—his voice a rumble as he clinks a soda can with satoru’s dad, the aluminum clank sharp against the fire pit’s crackle. he leans back in his chair, flannel stretched tight over his belly, grinning like he’s just told the joke of the year.

satoru’s dad nods, sipping his own soda with a smirk. “bet they’ll run this neighborhood someday,” he says, his laugh booming over the snap of burning logs, the firelight dancing in his glasses.

your mom’s mouth thins into a tight line, a silent protest as she crosses her arms, muttering “over-fertilized nonsense” at the hydrangeas peeking over the fence like nosy neighbors. her eyes narrow, sharp as the lavender’s scent, while satoru’s mom hums louder—a smug little tune—pruning her bushes with a snip-snip of her shears, each cut a tiny victory carved into the air.

you and satoru are squeezed onto a rickety bench, paper plates wobbling precariously between your knees, the wood creaking like it’s begging for mercy.

he elbows you hard—his bony arm jabbing your side—making your soda fizz over the rim in a bubbly hiss, and you scrunch your nose, glaring at him through the corner of your eye.

“this is your fault,” you hiss, shoving him back with a quick nudge, ketchup smearing your fingers like war paint as your plate tilts dangerously.

“nah, yours framed it first,” he retorts, flicking a fry at your face—his long fingers quick and precise, his blue eyes glinting with mischief as it sails through the air.

you catch it mid-flight with a snap of your hand, popping it into your mouth with a defiant crunch. “good, hope they frame it in the hallway,” you snap, your pout deepening as you chew, glaring at his smug face.

“hope you get detention,” he mutters, leaning closer, his white hair flopping forward like a messy curtain, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

“hope you get ketchup in your eye,” you fire back, flicking your stained fingers at him—he flinches just a bit, his smirk faltering for a split second.

you shove him again, a quick push with your shoulder, and he shoves back, his slipper brushing your leg—your plate flips onto your lap with a sad plop, ketchup splattering your shorts like a crime scene.

“ugh, you’re the worst!” you yelp, smearing a dollop of ketchup onto his arm—his t-shirt sleeve now a canvas of red streaks—and you pout harder, lips trembling with mock fury.

“you’re welcome!” he laughs, snagging a fry from the mess on your lap with a quick swipe, popping it into his mouth with a grin that shows too many teeth, his cheeks dimpling.

“quit stealing my food!” you snap, swatting at his hand—your fingers barely graze him as he dodges, leaning back on the bench like he’s king of the chaos, his fuzzy blue slippers swinging lightly.

“it’s payment for sitting next to you,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head, his t-shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of his stomach as he smirks, daring you to argue.

your mom’s glare from the porch could melt steel—she stands there, arms crossed, a shadow against the sunset—while his mom’s pruning pauses, her shears glinting as she shoots you both a look that screams behave, her sunhat tilting like a crown of judgment.

you huff, plotting to fling a pickle slice at his head, your fingers itching to grab one from your ruined plate. but the dusk sky turns orange behind your petty war, painting the yard in a warm glow, and you settle for glaring instead, your slippers scuffing the grass beneath the bench.

you slip away to the tire swing after dinner, the oak’s gnarled branches casting long shadows across the grass. the rope groans under your grip as you push off, bare ankles brushing cool blades of grass. the distant crackle of the fire pit fades behind you, replaced by the whisper of leaves overhead.

of course he follows.

pebbles skitter against your shins, each one a tiny declaration of war. you don’t have to look to know he’s smirking—can picture the way his slippers scuff against dirt with deliberate laziness. when you finally glance back, the dying light catches in his eyes, turning them electric. his hair glows like embers, white strands lit from within.

“quit it!” you snap, swatting at nothing as another stone finds its mark. your fingers tighten around the rope, knuckles going pale.

“make me,” he dares, and suddenly he’s there, long fingers wrapping around the rope. the world tilts violently as he spins you, your stomach lurching into your throat. his laughter cuts through the dizzying whirl—bright, sharp, dangerous.

“you’re gonna kill me!” the words tear free as colors blur into streaks, one slipper dangling precariously from your toes.

“maybe then you’ll stop hogging the swing!” the rope slips from his grasp, sending you wobbling to an unsteady stop. He rocks back on his heels, hands shoved deep in pockets, grin wide enough to split his face.

you’re moving before the world stops spinning—launching yourself at him with a wordless shout. you collide in a tangle of limbs, rolling through crushed grass and fallen leaves. the earth smells rich and damp beneath you, filling your lungs with each gasping breath.

from the porch, your dads’ voices carry across the yard, “there they go again!” their applause ringing through the twilight. firelight dances in their raised soda cans, painting their grinning faces in flickering gold.

your mom’s groan cuts through the celebration. “not again.”

satoru’s mother’s shriek follows, “not my sod!”

you come to rest with him pinned beneath you, knees digging into soft earth. “say sorry!” you demand, hair wild around your face. your breath comes in quick puffs, stirring the strands that have escaped into your eyes.

“never!” he gasps between laughter, his whole body shaking with it. one blue slipper hangs half-off his foot, swinging uselessly as he squirms. his eyes crinkle at the corners, bright with challenge even as he lies trapped in the grass.

later, when the fire’s burned low to embers and your dad shoves a half-melted popsicle between you with a gruff “sharing’s caring,” you could scream.

satoru takes the first bite—obnoxiously loud, teeth cracking through the ice—and his mouth goes instantly blue. “tastes better stolen,” he declares, tongue swiping at a drip sliding down his wrist. his hair’s a mess of white strands falling into his eyes, backlit by the dying firelight like some kind of haloed menace.

“you’re disgusting,” you mutter, yanking the popsicle back. the cold burns your teeth when you bite down, but you force your scowl to stay put, even as your slippers swing uselessly from your toes.

“and you like it,” he sing-songs, leaning in so close you can smell the sugar on his breath. his tongue’s still stained, lolling out in a way that should be gross but just makes your fingers itch to shove him.

so you do.

one sharp push to his chest sends him sprawling into the grass with a soft oof. “dream on,” you snap, but he’s already laughing, arms splayed like he’s making snow angels in the dirt, gaze fixed on the purpling sky.

dusk settles around you both, thick with woodsmoke and the lazy chirp of crickets. your pout falters—just for a second—when the popsicle’s sweetness hits your tongue again. across the yard, the fire pit’s glow paints long shadows that dance over his grin when you sneak a glance, already scheming. always scheming.

by the time you drag yourself inside, the night’s gone quiet save for the memory of his laughter, clinging like burrs to your thoughts. the stars blink down, sealing your truce—or your war—in their cool, indifferent light.

the years blur like a popsicle melting under a summer sun, sticky and sweet, your battles with satoru piling up like crumpled homework in a backpack—each one louder, messier, sharper.

sixth grade drags you into school’s squeaky halls, where lockers slam and whispers sting, and satoru’s there, always, his white hair flopping, his lanky frame shooting up overnight like a weed that won’t quit. he towers over you by spring, his sneakers scuffing the linoleum as he leans too close, smirking “shorty” while flicking your forehead—his voice cracks mid-taunt, a squeaky betrayal that makes you cackle, water spraying from your bottle like a victory fountain across his shirt.

you chase him through the cafeteria, trays wobbling, your laughter bouncing off the walls as he trips over his own gangly legs, his blue eyes wide with mock outrage. your moms’ war rages on—hers with her smug wind chimes, yours with that chipped gnome glaring from the lawn—while you and Satoru hurl insults over the fence, hoses flailing, your shadows tangling longer now, stretching into dusk like a sloppy braid that won’t untie.

but the walks home, your backpacks swinging, his slippers squishing, carry a rhythm neither of you name—a truce woven into scuffs and shoves, your glares softening when no one’s looking, the cicadas humming like they’re in on it.

middle school crashes in like a rogue wave, and satoru’s growth spurt turns him into a walking skyscraper, his arms too long, his grin too wide, his voice settling into a teasing lilt that makes your stomach flip in ways you won’t admit.

you’re still elbowing him in the ribs, still dodging his paint-flecked flicks in art class, but now he’s stealing your fries at lunch, his long fingers snatching them with a lazy “tax for sitting here” while you kick his shin under the table.

the block parties keep coming, your dads clinking beers and shouting “teamwork!” as you and satoru spill lemonade, tumble into grass, and wrestle over the last popsicle—his blue-stained tongue lolling out as he pins you, your shriek loud enough to scare the crickets.

yet something’s shifting, soft as the breeze rustling new leaves—you catch him staring once, his ears pink, his smirk faltering when you shove him off the tire swing, and your own cheeks burn when he lingers too close, his shadow swallowing yours. through your glass window, he’s still tossing that rubber ball—thunk-thunk—his frame filling the frame now, his grin flashing across the gap like a sparkler you can’t look away from.

you mutter “he’s so annoying” into your pillow, but your lips twitch, your glow-in-the-dark stars winking above, and the night hums with a truth neither of you will say: you’re magnets, doomed to clash, bound to stick, your war softening into something that glows brighter than the summer sun.

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