#there's too much pain and suffering as is

[ai-the-broccoli]

.... Yeahhhh I REALLY think not.

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[aquaticmercy]

My Own Soul’s Warning

Summary : You, an immortal being, falls in love with the very mortal Bucky Barnes. You would do anything for him, even if it meant you had to strike a deal with Death herself.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Violence, death, trauma, mentions of sex (not graphic), cursing. Rio Vidal makes an appearance. Angst with a happy ending. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 6.3k

Note : This fic was inspired by Agatha and Rio, though this has a much happier ending. Reader is the Spirit of Suffering, an immortal entity who shows herself to people in extreme physical and emotional suffering to help ease the pain. The title is inspired by the Killers song of the same name. The fic started in the 1940s and ends after FATWS. Enjoy!

The first time Bucky saw you, it was 1942. He was in the trenches, under the dim moonlight of Germany.

He was supposed to be Sergeant James Barnes, fighting to defend his country. But then? He was only selfishly fighting for his own life. 

The air was thick with the stench of mud, sweat, and blood. The world around him felt like a prison of haze and darkness— machine guns firing in the distance, the rumble of explosions shaking the ground underneath him. 

He knew it only took one mistake, one slip up, and this is how he would die.

He was tired beyond anything he’d ever felt before, his body crumbling after days without sleep. His body ached from wounds he hadn’t couldn’t treat— the infirmary was crowded, too crowded to even see the ‘small’ gushing cut on his forearm that didn’t feel so small right now. 

But he could take the physical pain. It was the gnawing fear that was the hardest to bear, creeping over him, curling around his ribs like a rope, tightening until it hurt to breathe.

Then, through the smoke and shadows, he saw you. 

You were just a figure at first, standing a few yards away. You were cloaked in the same darkness that had swallowed up his world. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed that you didn’t quite belong.

You were almost radiant, the flickering light from the fire catching on something otherworldly in your gaze. Bullets flew past you, going through your being as if you were only made of smoke.

You were watching him, silent and still. Your expression was carefully neutral, a warmth in your eyes that cut through the cold surrounding him.

He blinked, half-believing you were just a figment of his exhaustion.

When he opened his eyes again, you were still there, a steady presence in the middle of the chaos. Bucky felt a strange sense of peace swallow him, like the world had gone silent in the space between his heartbeat and your gaze. 

You didn’t say a word, but you didn’t need to. Just being there, in a place where everything was twisted and brutal and so fucking wrong, you felt like a sliver of peace in this nightmare that was wartime. 

Something deep in his gut told him that he wasn’t meant to understand who, or rather what, you were. And yet, he felt safer at the mere presence of you. Before he could reach out to test if you were real, you were gone— slipping away into the dark like a ghost.

—

The next time he saw you was when he was half-dead, bleeding out in the snow after the fall from the train. The pain was more than unbearable, raw and sharp and insufferable. His nerves burned, radiating from every shattered bone, every freezing inch of his numb skin. 

His vision blurred, the sky above flickering in and out of view as his mind faded in and out of consciousness. He wondered if this was going to be his death, a slow and dramatic fade to black he only ever saw in the movies Steve dragged him to.

Then he saw you again, standing in the snow.

The sight of you jolted him back to consciousness, just enough to cling to the edge of the living world. This time, there was no mistaking the look on your face— a look of concern. 

For a moment, he thought you must be an angel coming to collect him. 

You must be. 

There you were, silently watching him with that same expression of warmth he’d seen in the trenches.

He struggled to sit up to get a better look at you, every little movement sent pain shooting through him. Finally, he slumped back to the snow in defeat, breathing hard. 

“What are you doing here?” His voice was hoarse, nearly swallowed up by the howling wind.

The cold, harsh winter wasn’t a place for someone who looked as fragile as you, he thought.

You carefully took a step closer, as if unwilling to disturb him. There was a slight curve to your lips, something that could have been a smile but wasn’t quite, as you looked down at him. “I’m looking out for someone.”

He swallowed a strange lump in his throat, the sharp tang of fear and curiosity contrasting the cold bite of the freezing air. “Who?” His voice cracked, barely audible.

“You,” you said, your voice as quiet as a prayer.

It was such a simple answer, but it hit him like a wave. In the midst of all the pain, he suddenly felt relief. 

The hurt eased, the cold stung a little less.

He didn’t know if you were a dream, a ghost, or something beyond his understanding. But at that moment, he didn’t care. All that mattered was that you were there, that you had come for him. That he wasn’t alone. 

As his vision started to fade again and the darkness crept back, he realised you didn't leave any footprints in the snow. 

—

Bucky didn’t know why you kept showing up. 

Over the years, he felt your presence like his own shadow, drifting through the Hydra bases, the laboratories, the dark corners of the cell they kept him in between missions. The world around him was cold and sterile, a cage of steel where hope had no place, no right to exist.

Still, he saw you, quiet and watchful, a silhouette in the dim light. 

He would catch glimpses of you while the scientists strapped him to machines, the hum of needles piercing his flesh. You were there, watching over him, as they shocked cold electricity through his veins. Each time, his eyes would land on you, and you’d watch him from the far corner of the room, with that same calm, steady gaze.

Everytime his eyes locked on yours, the pain eased, even if only a little.

It became easier to take the torture.

It became easier to find rest.

Over time, Hydra erased his memories. 

Soon, he forgot his life. He forgot the people who used to love him, who grieved for him when he was lost. 

But he had never forgotten you. 

Maybe it was the first sign that you weren’t quite human.

One night, after a particularly brutal round of reprogramming, he saw you again, this time closer than ever before. 

You stood by his bedside, where he lay in the dark, barely clinging to sanity. He blinked, pain searing in his throat. He tried to reach for you, fingers trembling, and felt nothing.

“Where did you come from?” he whispered, his voice rough and broken, as he felt that comfort once again. 

The comfort he only had with you.

A soft smile touched your lips, something gentle and knowing. You were a light in the darkness of his fractured mind. “Far, far away from here.”

He closed his eyes, trying to etch your face to his memory, certain that if he did, he could take some small fragment of comfort back into the waking nightmare that was his brutal reality.

You knew, by the way his life was going, that you were going to see Bucky more and more.

It was the nature of your job, to look out for people like him.

After the next couple of visits, he started talking to you more and more— whenever he was left alone with his thoughts, whenever the pain or the hollow emptiness crept too close, he would search for you. 

And you’d be there, listening to the murmured secrets he’d never told another soul. 

He told himself you weren’t real, that he was just losing his grip on sanity, conjuring a kind face to stave off the horror. But that didn’t stop him from craving your presence.

—

Years later, he’d managed to break free of Hydra’s grip. He had carved out a life hiding in the far reaches of the world when he saw you again, as if you’d followed him through every corner of hell he’d tried to escape.

Romania was quiet, the kind of place where he could keep to himself. He had a run down studio apartment where the days blurred by and the silence was almost peaceful. 

Yet in that solitude, you appeared again, lingering in the shadow of an alleyway, or standing just beyond his view on quiet, empty streets. He’d catch your gaze through crowds when he was most alone, and he’d feel an overwhelming sense of calm, an unexplainable rush he could only have with you. 

It was on one of those quiet evenings, when he was washing dishes, that he saw you again, watching him from across the room. He stared, wiping his hands absently on the dish towel, still unsure if he was simply dreaming.

He called out in that soft voice of his, almost a whisper.

“Thank you for being here.” It was a simple admission, but it was true.

You tilted your head, that familiar gentleness in your eyes. “Always.” He replied.

The suffering he had recently was different— it wasnt physical as it usually was. It was an isolated sense of longing that broke the deepest parts of his heart, one that he couldn't quite heal himself.

Your warm and steady voice anchored him to the present. For the first time, he didn’t try to tell himself that you were a figment of his imagination. For just a moment, he let himself believe that you were standing there, real and alive, not just an invention of his lonely mind. 

And even as you disappeared, slipping away into the shadows, the feeling of your presence lingered, filling the emptiness around him.

—

The last rays of Wakanda’s sun slipped over the treetops, bathing everything in a warm, honeyed light that somehow reached even into the white-walled lab where Bucky was preparing himself for a long, cold sleep. 

He looked around, his gaze fixing on the distant horizon, the soft sounds of Shuri and the lab assistants moving in the background. 

He could feel his heart pounding. He was terrified, the horror clawing into him, even though he knew that this was the right decision. He knew that it was the safest thing for him to do— to go back in the ice until his trigger words could be removed.

It didn't stop the instinctive dread of being shut away again, though.

And then he saw you, standing behind a desk. He didn’t know how you’d gotten there, or if anyone else could even see you.

But there you were, just as you’d been so many times before, giving him a piece of calm he didn't quite understand.

For a long moment, he said nothing. He only looked at you. 

Somehow, you looked more real in this light, more human than he’d ever seen you before. Still, you had that hint of almost supernatural haze. He took a deep breath, feeling safer by the second, now that you were here.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” he asked, the words coming out like a whispered plea. He didn’t expect you to answer, not really.

His heart beat quicker as he waited, hoping you wouldn’t vanish as quickly this time.

You just smiled, that same soft, knowing smile you’d given him in the darkest hours of his life.

You nodded, “Only if you need me.”

The warmth of your words lingered in his mind as he took one last look at you. He felt the tension in his chest loosen, just enough to let him breathe again. He laid down, a feeling of peace settling over him. 

He closed his eyes, holding the memory of you close, feeling the faint impression of your smile stay with him as he drifted into the dark.

—

The next time he saw you, it was in the middle of another waking nightmare—the battlefield of Wakanda, chaos erupting in every direction as the forces of Thanos closed in. Bucky was fighting on pure instinct, his body moving with an instinct he’d learned in war. He drew on more and more on his Hydra training and sheer luck. 

After Thanos snapped, he saw you again. You were standing behind Steve, amongst the trees.

For the first time, your expression was not calm. You looked terrified. Your eyes, usually so steady, were wide, your face pale as you looked at him with a horror he’d never seen from you before.

Something inside him understood. He knew, even before the feeling swept over him—a strange tingling, a disintegration at the frayed edges of his body—that he was about to be turned to dust.

He tried to reach out, to touch you, to ask if he’d see you on the other side, but before he could say a word, he felt himself fade, slipping into nothingness, his best friend’s name the last thing he uttered.

—

When he returned—when the world pieced itself back together after five long years—he felt the dread of loneliness again. 

You came, though it felt like you carried a deeper sadness in your gaze than before. It was as if you had… missed him.

When Steve left, when Bucky watched his best friend walk away, disappearing into a life they’d both only dreamed of, he felt the emptiness he had left in his wake.

He stood there, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, feeling a hollow emptiness settle inside him, knowing he’d lost something irreplaceable, something that could never be returned when Steve decided to live a life he always wanted.

Then he saw you again, just a few steps next to him. He almost didn’t dare to look, afraid that you’d vanish if he did. When he finally turned, there you were, as calm as you’d always been, watching him with that familiar warmth and understanding.

“You’re not alone,” you murmured, your voice so gentle it felt like a medicine to the sickness of his soul.

He swallowed hard, nodding as he looked down. He tried to keep his composure, though he failed. 

He couldn’t bring himself to ask you who you truly were, if you truly knew the depth of what he’d lost, if you understood the kind of grief that was now carved so deeply inside him.

And you did. Grief was a human suffering, after all.

You stayed there, silent, a quiet witness to his pain as you offered a supernatural solace. 

—

Over the years that followed, you'd show up when the loneliness clawed too deep, when the nightmares took hold or when the silence of his apartment was too much to bear on his own. 

He started talking to you more than ever before.

When the silence weighed heavy on him, he’d glance into the shadows, almost expecting you to appear. And, as if by some unspoken agreement, you’d arrive just in time.

Yet, you never came too close. You stayed at a distance, as if you were made of something too fragile for this world. Bucky never minded, though. He had learned early on that pressing you for answers, for explanations, only ended with your departure. So he stopped asking them. He started accepting your presence as a gift he wasn’t meant to understand.

You were simply…there, steady and unchanging, offering comfort and warmth in a way no one else could. 

He’d tell you things he wouldn’t dare tell anyone else—confessions that clawed up from the darkest corners of his mind, memories from the days he wished he could erase. You would listen, without judgement, without a flicker of fear or revulsion. Your presence only ever brought you peace.

In those quiet, lonely moments, he came to rely on you, to look for you in the shadows. You were a silent companion in his darkest hours. And though he never stopped wondering who you truly were, he let himself believe, if only a little, that he had someone, that you were real enough to him.

—

One night, after a long silence had fallen between you, he confessed something.

“You know,” he said, his voice thick with sorrow and exhaustion, “I don’t… I don’t think you’re real.” He tried to smile, but it was faint. It was hollow. “I think to you’re just… my mind is playing tricks on me. I think I needed someone so badly that I made you up.”

He was laying himself bare. Raw. Vulnerable.

He was almost afraid to look at you, afraid that if he did, you would disappear, proving his confession true. Then, he forced himself to meet your eyes, searching for any sign of reaction.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t deny it. 

You only looked back at him with that same soft understanding.

“You’re just…” he murmured, trailing off. “You’re the most beautiful person I could imagine, someone I must have conjured to… to keep me from losing my mind.” He laughed bitterly, rubbing a hand over his face, not quite meeting your gaze. “Because no one like you would actually be here. Would actually want to be with someone as broken as me.”

He waited, his heart beating harshly. Part of him hoping you’d break the illusion, that you’d tell him he was wrong, that you were real. 

Faint sadness flickered in your eyes. “Suffering has never broken you before,” you said, “It will not break you now.” 

You didn’t confirm his fears, but you didn’t deny them either. 

That quiet, ambiguous acceptance soothed him more than any promise could have.

He let the questions go, even though they lingered in the back of his mind. 

He came to understand that perhaps it didn’t matter if you were real or not. He only needed you.

—

It was the dead of night, and Bucky was trembling.

He had woken up in cold sweat, the remnants of his nightmare gripping him like icy chains. He sat up, pressing his hands to his face, trying to push away the memories that refused to fade, the fractured images of a past that haunted him even in sleep. He swallowed, his voice rough, almost a whisper, as he murmured into the dark.

“Where are you?” he rasped, his voice thick with desperation. “Please, come back.” His heart pounded, his words barely a breath as he called for you, “Come back to me.”

He let his head fall into his hands, feeling so fucking foolish. 

He should've known.

He should’ve known that after all this time, he was still calling for a ghost, for a figment of his imagination, for someone he’d conjured out of pure, pathetic loneliness. 

As his breathing slowed, he felt something shift in the quiet corners of his room. A familiar warmth settled over him, gentle and comforting. He raised his head, and there you were, standing just a few feet away.

For a long moment, he simply stared, disbelief and wonder filling his stare. You looked more solid than he’d ever seen you before, as if reality had woven itself around you.

Light no longer passed through you. Your footsteps made thudding sounds on the ground. You tripped over a couple of the steps, as if learning how to walk with legs for the first time.

You moved closer towards him.

Seeing him so shaken, so desperately calling for you, had drawn you out in a way that felt irreversible. His cry was a pull too strong to resist. 

Gently, you reached out, your fingertips brushing his cheeks, tracing the faint stubble along his jaw, the warmth of his skin grounding you in this physical form. 

It was wrong for an immortal entity as ancient as you to take human form— you felt weaker, and your grasp on the unknown faltered. You knew, when you inevitably had to return to your ethereal form, that you would be exhausted. That it would hurt.

But after nearly a century of watching over James Buchanan Barnes, you had to know what his skin felt like.

His breath hitched at your touch. Slowly, his hands rose, trembling, to cover yours, pressing your palms to his face as if he was afraid you might disappear.

He blinked, eyes wide, searching your face. “You’re… real,” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, an astonished relief flooding his eyes. “I can feel you.”

You nodded, letting your hands cradle his face, your thumbs softly brushing over his cheekbones. For a while, you stayed like that, letting his mind settle on the reality of you. 

“Who… who are you?” His voice was filled with awe. His gaze locked onto yours, desperate for answers.

You took a steady breath— and it felt off, like you had to learn it. 

You had never needed to breathe before. But now, you needed it as much as you needed him. 

You knew that him knowing what you were wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“I am the Spirit of Suffering,” you said quietly, your voice as soft as the night around you. “I ease the pain of those who suffer, showing myself to those who need me most. For eons, I’ve been drawn to pain, to sorrow. But… I’ve never been drawn to someone like you.”

His brow furrowed, confusion mingling with a sense of awe as he processed your words. He searched your face, as if trying to reconcile the warmth of your touch with the truth.

“You’ve been watching over me?” he murmured, struggling to fully grasp the revelation. 

You nodded, the truth spinning between you like a fragile thread. “Yes,” you admitted, your voice gentle, almost a whisper. “Every time you were in pain, it was my job to be there. The natural forces would not let me stop what happened to you, James, but I could keep you company, share the weight of your sorrow.”

He closed his eyes, his hands still covering yours. His grip on you tightened, trying to anchor himself to this moment. “So all those times I thought I was imagining you…”

“You weren’t,” you said softly, your gaze unwavering. 

He took a shaky breath.

You sat on the bed next to him, feeling the softness of bedsheets for the first time in your eternal existence.

“I’ve never met anyone like you, James.” Your hand drifted down to cover his heart, feeling its steady beat beneath your palm. “In all the lifetimes I’ve witnessed, through all the suffering I’ve felt, I’ve seen people become monsters, lose themselves to pain and suffering. But you… you never let it consume you. No matter how much they took from you, no matter how much you suffered, there’s still kindness in you.” You smiled, a flicker of admiration in your gaze. “You were the first person to show me that suffering doesn’t have to destroy.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He reached up, his fingers brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear.

His touch was fleeting, as if he still couldn’t believe you were real. He searched your face, seeing the depth of who you truly  were. He saw your boundless compassion, the centuries, maybe millenia, of understanding that lingered in your gaze. 

You had been more than a dream, more than a figment of his imagination.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice filled with a sincere gratitude, “for helping.” 

As you looked at him, you realised just how much he needed you. And perhaps just how much you needed him.

—

Every night that he called for you, you’d be there for him, sacrificing your eternal strength just for a moment.

Just before the dawn’s first light, you’d pull away from Bucky’s life and disappear, dissolving back into the unknown.

You always lingered as long as you could, your human heart aching at the thought of leaving him alone again. But still, you slipped away, returning to your role as the silent companion of suffering, never able to stay beyond a few hours.

But Bucky kept calling for you.

Sometimes he’d wake from a nightmare, his voice rough with sleep and fear, calling you like a prayer, like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world. Sometimes he’d simply whisper into the dark, reaching out with an open hand, searching for your touch.

And each time, you answered. Despite the strain it placed on you, the unnatural weight of becoming flesh and blood for him, you would come back. You took on human form again and again, letting him feel the warmth of your hands. You told yourself that you could bear it, that his comfort was worth any mortal pain that your immortal spirit had to carry.

One night, in a moment of weakness, as you sat together on the edge of his bed, he looked at you with an intensity that made you feel as if your duties had disappeared. 

The silence stretched, and you could see what his eyes carried. The tenderness, the gratitude, the fierce need for you. He lifted a hand, gently brushing his fingers along your cheek. The softness of his touch reverberated through your flesh and blood. You were suddenly made aware that you had a beating heart as it was pounding against your fragile ribcage.

Before you could process the feeling, he leaned in and kissed you.

It was gentle, soft as a whisper, but it set something inside you alight, a sensation you’d never known before. 

You had seen humanity’s love from a distance, had watched the joy and heartbreak it could bring, but this… this was something beyond mere understanding. His lips were warm and real against yours, the taste of him grounding you in this fleeting human form in a way that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

For a moment, you were frozen, feeling his heartbeat under your fingertips, the rhythm steady, grounding. And then, almost instinctively, you kissed him back. You leaned into him, feeling the depth of his sorrow and his hope in that single, shared breath. 

Every inch of you felt alive, pulled into his gravity, the intensity of this moment overwhelming every human sense you didn't think you’d ever experience.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “I’ve waited so long to feel this,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “To feel you like this.”

You felt a swell of emotion like a lightning strike— something so unfamiliar and impossible to ignore. You were a spirit who had known only of pain and how to relieve it, who had wandered the world in search of suffering to ease, yet this—this was something else entirely. This was desire, love—all foreign feelings that made you want to stay, to linger in his arms a little longer.

But dawn was coming, as it always did. Despite the ache in your chest, you knew you had to go. The world was waiting; and others needed you, too. 

With one last touch, your fingers brushing along his cheek, memorising the feeling of his skin.

You slipped away, dissolving back into the unseen, feeling his absence as if it were a physical wound.

—

It became a brutal cycle.

Every morning you would go, and every other night, when he called, you returned. Each time, the kiss lingered in your memory, the softness of his lips, the rush of your pulse, the racing of a heart that should not be yours to feel. It left you longing, yearning, pulling you back to him over and over, until every time you left felt like you were tearing yourself apart.

And though you slipped away at dawn, leaving Bucky alone with the shadows, you knew that a part of you stayed, lingering there beside him, just waiting for night to fall again so you could return to him.

One night, Bucky reached for you. His touch was gentle and filled with a hunger that was new to you. 

Tonight, he had a human desire for you that you had only observed in passing. His fingers entwined with yours, rough and warm, pulling you closer with a care that sent a strange warmth rushing through you. You sensed a gravity between you, one that seemed to draw every part of your physical form into his orbit, a sensation you never could have understood in your ethereal form.

As he guided you towards his bed, his gaze stayed on yours, searching and vulnerable, as though asking for permission. You felt a flicker of understanding in his silence, a human fragility and need that made your heart—this temporary, fragile, human heart—beat a little faster. 

You nodded.

When he leaned in to kiss you, the sensation was breathtaking, as it always was. 

That night, he showed you the depths of human pleasure, the way mortal love could break open walls so high so intensely that the shockwave that came after felt endless. Every caress of his hands, every whisper against your skin, seared into you like a brand.

Bucky gave you something new, grounding you in sensations you didn’t know were possible. In his arms, your physical senses were overwhelmed by the beauty and ache of human desire.

With each touch, each shared breath, he showed you parts of himself he had never shown anyone in a long, long time.

And as he moved with you, every boundary between the known and unknown seemed to dissolve, leaving only the two of you, bound in a shared, silent understanding that felt more ethereal than anything you’ve ever encountered.

When it was over, he held you close, his fingers tracing soft, slow patterns across your skin.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice filled with wonder— it was the truth. His eyes met yours, laying his heart bare for you to do whatever you pleased with it. To cherish or to break, he really didn’t care, as long as you were the one holding onto it. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but I do.”

In those words, you finally understood humanity’s deepest, truest suffering—the need to love and be loved.

For eons, you had only known suffering, solitude. The burden of easing pain without truly being seen, without knowing love in its purest form. But with Bucky, it was different.

“I love you too, James,” you whispered. It was a confession, as much a promise as it was a revelation. And you meant it. You felt a love that was boundless, stretching far beyond what this temporary human form of yours could contain.

Days passed, and each night, he would pull you close, his touch tender, his words gentle. His love was a constant that anchored you in this fragile, borrowed form. But each morning, as the first light crept over the horizon, you would pull yourself away, fading back into the shadows. 

Every time you left, you saw the ache in his eyes, a silent plea that grew more desperate with each parting.

—

One night, after holding you in silence, you felt Bucky suffered more than he ever did before.

You felt the sorrow, and even you couldn't calm him down from this desperate longing that had fragmented his heart into a million pieces— it was knowledge that you couldn’t truly be his and that he couldn’t truly be yours that had caused this pain. It was knowing that, as long as you were immortal, you couldn’t possibly belong to a mortal man.

“Please stay,” he whispered, his hands shaking as they held you. “Don’t go. I can’t… I can’t keep saying goodbye. I don’t want to only see you in fragments of stolen time.” He squeezed you. His eyes were filled with a raw, desperate longing. “I want you here— with me. Always.”

You reached out, placing a hand on his cheek. You wanted to say yes, to let yourself stay, to finally surrender to this love and the peace it offered. But you knew better than anyone of your nature. You were bound to the suffering of others, woven into the fabric of pain that had defined you for a long, long time.

“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, the words breaking as you forced them out. “I want to, more than anything. But I… I’m not meant to stay. There are others who need me.”

A flash of pain crossed his face, and he closed his eyes, trying to swallow the heartache that threatened to bury him. He nodded, though you could see struggle that lingered in the lines on his face.

“Just stay a little longer tonight,” he murmured, his voice tight, a bittersweet smile forming on his lips.

And so you held him a little longer, feeling the fragility of this human connection, the knowing that you would have to let him go. You stayed with him until the stars faded from the sky, until the dawn began to creep over the horizon. And as you finally pulled away, slipping back into the shadows, you felt a piece of yourself break, a piece that would always belong to him, no matter how far you wandered.

—

One day, as Bucky’s heart prepared to stop beating, you stood by him, devastated.

You were there as a phantom, feeling his soul slip through your fingers as he lay on the concrete after a mission gone wrong. He was unconscious, his life hanging by a thread as he fought to come back from the edge. In all the centuries of comforting humanity, you had never felt such fear, such desperation. 

While you watched him, fragile and fading away, you felt something shatter deep within you.

His breath was shallow— his fate uncertain. He would only have minutes to live. 

But you couldn’t lose him. 

So you made a choice that you had once thought impossible. 

With a heavy heart, you turned and sought out the one being who held the power to intervene: Rio Vidal, Death herself.

Death came to you quietly when you summoned her to the darkness neither of you occupied. She moved with an eternal calm, her presence as vast and ancient as the stars. She looked at you, her dark eyes filled with the weight of ages that rivalled your own. Her stare was neither evil nor kind. 

You knew that she'd already understood why you called for her. 

“Don’t take him,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Not now.” You were pathetic, desperation rising in frantically— a desperation that followed you into your ethereal form, an ache that you hadn’t known could exist in your immortal heart. “For the first time, I’ve found someone… someone I love. I can’t lose him.”

Rio regarded you quietly, her expression unreadable. She had seen countless souls come and go. She had met lovers, warriors, and spirits alike, each bargaining for one more breath, one more chance. But she had also never seen you — Suffering herself— here, pleading for a life. You, who had roamed the earth for centuries without attachment, a solitary being who moved through suffering like water, soothing but never bound. 

To see you now, so deeply connected, intrigued her.

Perhaps, she gave you a chance because she once felt this way, too.

“What would you give?” she asked softly, sheathing back her blade.

The answer rose in you, going again your own soul’s warning. 

“I’d give my immortality,” you replied without a second thought. “One day, you can take my soul, too. Just let me live beside him for as long as he has. Let me trade eternity for a single lifetime with him.”

Rio was silent for a long time, her gaze thoughtful, searching. 

“Do you understand what you’re offering?” she asked, her voice a blend of curiosity and pity. “To become mortal is to surrender everything you have known—the ability to exist beyond pain and beyond time itself. You would feel suffering as they do, you would face the limitations of flesh as they do.”

"I’m sure.” you nodded with nothing but conviction, “I would rather face an end, rather give up everything, than live without him for a single moment."

Rio studied you one last time, her stare as vast as the void between stars. Then, slowly, she inclined her head, a flicker of respect in her eyes. 

"When he is gone, I will come for you, too." Her voice softened just a little. "Cherish this life. It is not easily won."

When she vanished, you felt the world shift around you, felt your soul ground itself in ways it never had before. Your body solidified, your senses sharpened, and you felt, for the first time, the steady permanent rhythm of a heartbeat pulsing within your chest. 

You were no longer the Spirit of Suffering, bound to pain and sorrow. You, now permanently, were flesh and blood– human in every sense. 

And for the first time in forever, you felt real— mortal, permanently.

—

Bucky was recovering, weak but alive.

When you knocked on his door, he opened it, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw you standing there, no longer a fleeting vision that appeared in his room.

You walked all the way here, your barefoot aching from the harshness of the concrete.

You were solid, as real as he was, standing on his doorstep with tears in your eyes.

He had never seen you cry before. He wasn't even sure if you could.

"You're… you’re here," he whispered, reaching out as if to touch you, to be certain that you were truly there. His fingers brushed your cheek, feeling the warmth of your skin, and his hand lingered there, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone as if committing this moment to memory. “You feel different,” he murmured, awe in his voice. 

“I’m here to stay,” you said, voice brimming with love you could barely contain, your own hand lifting to cover his. 

He let out a shaky breath, and his eyes searched yours, filling with a warmth and disbelief so deep that it mirrored your own. He pulled you into his arms, holding you as though afraid you might vanish again.

But you didn’t. 

You were here, bathed in sunlight, and real.

You melted into his embrace, feeling the thrumming of his veins against yours, knowing that, finally, your heart would beat alongside his for as long as time allowed.

-end 

I would love to explore this further! Maybe Bucky helps you find a name, maybe even pulls some strings to give you a fake birth certificate and ID. Maybe he realises that time is fleeting and has a courthouse wedding with you ASAP.

Maybe Bucky introduces you to Sam as his wife, and he realises that he’s seen you before, when Riley got shot out of the sky.

Maybe Bucky introduces you to the Thunderbolts* as his wife, and they all would have seen you before, at some point in their life:

Yelena would have seen you when she stood over Nat’s memorial.

Alexei would have seen you when he got separated from his girls for the first time.

John would’ve seen you when he killed that flag smasher with Cap’s shield, grieving Lemar.

Ava would have seen you when she was a kid, phasing out in and out uncontrollably in extreme pain.

Antonia would’ve seen you when the bomb blew on her face.

Or maybe I could explore more of how it affects you. How you now have human guilt to live with, knowing there’s no one out there anymore easing human suffering. Now, you also have to deal with your own human suffering.

Maybe people keep recognising you, keep pointing you out as if they’ve seen a ghost because you once came to them in a time of need.

Maybe you keep your powers? Maybe I should explore how those powers would manifest in a human body?

Anyway, let me know if you’re interested in any of these ideas and I might write them!

[wolvietxt]

🌀 period comfort w/ logan howlett

a/n : vv old little drabble :3 wanted to put some logan content out!

logan had never really thought much about what it’d be like to be with someone during their period. it wasn’t something that came up often in his world, and to be honest, he’d never really had anyone in his life long enough to consider it. but things were different with you, and when he noticed the subtle shift in your mood one day, he couldn’t ignore it. the signs were there - you weren’t your usual sunny self, and your quiet, withdrawn nature told him enough.

at first, it took him a minute to figure out what was going on. you were usually talkative, always making light of things, but now, you seemed distant, your smiles a little more strained. he wasn’t an expert on feelings, but he knew something was off. logan had a way of observing, of picking up on small details, even if he didn’t always know how to deal with them.

when he realized what was going on, the thought of how to handle it made him pause. it was the kind of thing that made him second-guess his usual gruffness. his first instinct was to give you space, but there was a part of him that felt the need to care for you, to make sure you were okay, even if he wasn’t sure how.

"you feeling alright?" he asked one evening, his voice a little softer than usual, though he tried not to show it. he was sitting beside you on the couch, his arm around the backrest, not quite touching you but close enough to reach if you needed him.

you gave him a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "just tired," you muttered, pulling the blanket around yourself a little tighter. he could tell by the way you curled in on yourself that something more was going on. logan didn’t pry much, but he wasn’t an idiot either. he’d seen this before in the few women he’d been around - those signs of discomfort and pain.

if it had been anyone else, he might have just left it alone. but with you, it was different. he didn’t like seeing you like this. he wanted to help, but he had no clue what to do. all he knew was that he wanted to make sure you weren’t suffering alone.

the next day, after training, he showed up in your room with a small bag of supplies - he wasn’t sure exactly what you needed, but he’d figured out that chocolate, tea, and some comfortable clothes might help. he didn’t say much as he handed them to you, just a quiet grunt of acknowledgment. "thought you might want these," he muttered, trying to play it off like it was no big deal, though he couldn’t help the faint tug of worry in his chest.

you looked up, surprised but grateful. your eyes softened as you took the items from him, and he saw you smile for real this time. "thank you," you whispered, voice quiet but sincere. he nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line.

he hadn’t expected much in return, but when you asked if he’d sit with you, his heart gave a soft lurch. sitting still, being quiet, that wasn’t his strong suit, but for you, he’d try. so he pulled a chair closer and sat next to you, not saying much. just being there. sometimes that was all you needed, he’d realized.

over the next few days, he learned the rhythm of what you needed. some days, he’d find you curled up in bed, too drained to do much else. on those days, he’d make sure to have everything ready - tea, snacks, and sometimes just a warm blanket and a place to sit in silence. he wouldn’t press you for anything, just making sure you knew he was there. he’d sit beside you, occasionally offering a gentle squeeze of your hand or a quiet “you good?” but he never made it awkward. he didn’t need to say much. the small acts of care spoke louder than words ever could.

on the days when you felt a bit better, logan found himself doing things to make you laugh. he’d make stupid jokes or show you funny videos from his phone, trying to distract you from the discomfort. his usual gruff exterior softened, and he found that he didn’t mind. he liked seeing you smile, even if it was a small one.

but it wasn’t just the physical care he’d learned to offer. logan had also become more attuned to your emotions during this time. he noticed when you were quieter than usual, when your eyes looked a little more tired or when the weight of everything seemed to settle a little too heavily on your shoulders. and without asking, he’d find ways to lift that burden, whether it was just holding you a little tighter or giving you more space if you needed it.

there were still moments when he wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing, moments when he felt a little out of his depth. but with you, he wanted to be better. he didn’t want to just stand by and watch you suffer in silence. he wanted to help, to make sure that even in your weakest moments, you didn’t feel alone. and that, in itself, felt like the least he could do for you.

🌀 logan howlett : @notacleangirl, @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @rooroen

@lemoanaid, @correnz, @coocoocachewgotscrewed, @ohmystvrk, @y08h

@lovely-liliacs, @california-boys-and-sun

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[innerfare]

A Lucky Injury - Law

Summary: Your Captain, whom you've been crushing on since you joined the Heart Pirates, was injured in a fight, and his wound is in a place he just can't reach, forcing him to ask you for help bandaging it. Features pining (reader is down bad).

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x Gn!Reader

Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff

CW: SFW // Slight Mention of Blood and Injury (no real gory details though)

Word Count: 643

———

It was a lucky injury. You were a bad person for thinking it, a horrible person for gleaning any amount of pleasure from your Captain’s pain, but it was a lucky injury. Somewhere between mild and moderate on the scale, closer to moderate though Law claimed it was mild, the gash on his shoulder blade was just out of reach. For him, at least. The gash was well within your reach. It was also serious enough to warrant medical attention, but not so serious that you had to worry about his future health. 

It was a lucky injury. 

“Take off your shirt,” you ordered him, doing your utmost to act normal as he sighed and went to pull his hoodie off. To your sick pleasure, he flinched a little when he did, allowing you to step in and pull it the rest of the way off. You caught the lingering scent of his soap and that special laundry detergent he used for his sensitive skin mixed with his sweat, and you had to stop yourself from pulling the garment to your face and inhaling like some sort of lunatic. 

“Y/n-ah, I can do it myself.” His voice sounded lower than usual, similar to when he was tired or battling a cold he insisted he didn’t have. It was gravelly, like it might give out at any moment. 

“Just like you could fight those guys yourself?” You set the hoodie beside him on the exam table and assessed his wound, drying some of the blood from his tanned skin. You took extra care not to look at his bare chest, knowing full well those heart tattoos and lithe muscles would make it too difficult to concentrate on your work. 

“I did fight them myself,” he said. “And I beat them myself, too, so don’t-” He hissed as you dabbed his wound with antiseptic. 

“Yeah, you’re a real tough guy.” 

“I’m a Warlord,” he reminded you. 

“And the most terrifying one, to boot.” You continued cleaning his wound, a little bit too aware of the way his jaw clenched as you worked. Oh, and the sinewy line of his shoulder. You knew your captain was a nerd, but he certainly didn’t have the body of a guy who spent much of his time hunched over a desk. 

It was a lucky injury. 

“Why are you taking so long?” He asked. “It’s clean by now, just bandage me up.” 

“Doctors make the worst patients,” you tutted, giving his wound one more pass with the antiseptic. It was for his own good, not because you wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to touch him. 

“If you’re dragging this out to punish me for going in by myself-” 

“I would never prolong your suffering,” you interrupted, reaching for a bandage. “That would be unethical.” 

“Yeah,” he muttered, “a pirate would never do something unethical.” 

“Is the Warlord going to lecture me now on ethics?” 

“Maybe.” He cleared his throat, and you realized there was a slight pink flush to his cheeks, though you had no idea why. You could only imagine he was embarrassed to be caught in a position where he needed help. 

You considered messing up the bandage so you had to redo it, now not even so enamored by his naked upper half as you were enjoying the way he squirmed, for once not in a position of power, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Of course, you regretted it as soon as he grabbed his dirty hoodie and tugged it back on. 

“I’ll need to change that in a few hours,” you told him as he stood up. “Come find me after dinner.” 

“Thanks,” was all he said before slipping out, leaving you with the fresh memory of his shirtless form and warm skin. 

It was a lucky injury. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[sapphicslaylist]

People with this mentality towards him do not understand the dynamics which he falls under. He is codependent, very actively so; he is more than happy to have pain inflicted on him for her happiness and wait on her hand and foot. He wants to reward her for existing despite how much suffering it causes him. What happened in HEA was not deliberately malicious; was it wrong? Absolutely. But it was, in his eyes, an act of love to die and suffer for her and weave a “better” world.

What he struggles with is actually being able to listen to those who do not return his feelings, because he takes it as a character flaw unto himself. That it’s because HE isn’t worthy of her. So opposed to listening, he tries to convince her and himself that he is worthy of whatever she desires. HEA is the one place where he couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t be happy; I’m his eyes, she was in a gorgeous palace being treated like a queen. What else could she possibly want? I don’t think he was lashing out at her as much as distressed that he could not make her happy. And that she was afraid of losing him or having him inflict worse onto himself in the end.

The route and his character actively strips away the romanticism of “unconditional love” in the form of self sacrifice. This is a really important message to those who’ve gone through it or been convinced that hurting is the only way to show you love someone. It is a VERY important message - that not all knights in shining armor can help no matter how much they want to. He is just as much a victim as the Princess in many routes, even if his ways of enacting it are far too forward and concerning. The “I would die for you” trope is NOT healthy to be taught.

It saddens me that people dismiss this, because it’s very much a message that the game does beautifully. You have to listen, not assume that you have to hurt yourself and bleed out.

I keep on hearing people go all "The voice of the Smitten is such a creep. All he wants in the princess is someone to control and keep as a pretty object. He'd drop the princess if she wasn't the perfect petite maiden like in the damsel route." and I will not stand for the Smitten slander.

Like- He's been in love with her as a burning corpse ghost lady:

A terrifying ghost woman who wants to bring fear and chaos to the world:

And even a murderous blade monster woman who would kill you and enjoy every second of it:

Like, he ALWAYS loves the princess no matter what she looks like or how she acts, he loves her for being herself no matter what or who she is. That's the point of his character and I'm tired of people slandering my boy.

[capquinn]

All these dad prompts make me feel like Quinn would be an absolute anxious disaster during the birth. That sick and hunted look he has would be 10x worse and he’s so stressed about it all but he’s trying his best not to let it show he’s on the struggle bus

Quinn had thought he was prepared for this. He’d sat beside you through every birthing class, nodded along and mirrored the breathing techniques beside you, letting his breaths slow and deepen, practicing the rhythm as if it were second nature. Watched each demonstration with a sharp focus, absorbing every detail with the kind of intensity he usually reserved for studying game footage or taking on board tips from his trainers during practice. Read every pamphlet the nurses handed him, listened intently to every “what to expect” rundown, convinced he had it under control. He’d even practiced encouraging phrases under his breath, murmuring, “you’re doing amazing,” and “I’m right here,” into the steering wheel on drives home from the rink, feeling almost silly but sure it would come naturally when the moment arrived. By the time the classes were over, he’d convinced himself he’d be steady, grounded — the calm, unshakable support you’d need. That he had this birthing partner thing down.

But now, here in the birthing suite, as the hours tick by and he watches you grit your teeth through each contraction, he’s realising just how far out of his depth he really is.

He’s trying so hard to keep it together, but the look on his face betrays him. His brow is furrowed, his eyes wide and anxious, the usual steadiness in his gaze shaken, a stark contrast to the steady, level-headed man you know so well. Every time you squeeze his hand, he squeezes back a little too hard, like he needs the reassurance just as much as you do. You’ve rarely seen him like this — he’s usually the calm one, the one with a logical plan and a steady hand, the one who grounds you when things get shaky. And when he catches sight of the monitor tracking your contractions, his heart rate seems to spike right along with it, his hand twitching in yours as he glances between the screen and you, desperately wishing he could take on some of the pain for you.

“You’re doing amazing, baby,” he whispers, but his voice is shaky, and you can feel his fingers trembling as they grip yours.

He wipes a hand over his brow, and as you watch the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes dart to the monitor, to you and to the nurse who slips in and out of the room, you realise just how deeply he’s feeling every moment with you.

“Is this… Is this how it’s supposed to be?” he asks quietly, mostly to himself, glancing at you with a flash of uncertainty.

“Yes, Quinn,” you manage to say, breathless but amused, catching his worried gaze. “This is… exactly how it’s supposed to be.”

He nods, swallowing hard, looking like he’s trying to believe you. He brushes your hair back, but his hand hovers awkwardly, unsure of what to do next.

“Right. Okay. I just… I just want to make sure.”

In a small way, it’s oddly comforting, seeing him like this, knowing he’s right there with you, heart and soul, even if his calm is nowhere to be found.

The next contraction hits, and you squeeze his hand, eyes shutting tight, your breath ragged as you try to breathe through it. His own breath catches, his face twisting in sympathy, helpless to do anything but sit there.

“You’ve got this, alright? I’m right here,” he says, even though his voice cracks on the last word.

Every grimace of pain on your face feels like a punch to his gut, and he’s trying, he’s trying so hard to stay calm for you, but he looks like he’s barely holding it together.

As the hours drag on with slow, steady progress, his anxiety builds, tightening around him like a vice. He’s watched you suffer through every contraction, seen every grimace of pain, and he feels like he’s watching it all in slow motion. He’s tried to stay still, to keep calm, but he finds himself pacing the room between contractions, hands running through his hair and rubbing the tension in the back of his neck, glancing nervously at the nurses as if silently asking them to make it stop, to make it go faster.

But then you call his name, reaching out for him, and he’s right back at your side, forcing himself to smile, to be the rock you need, even as he feels like he’s on the verge of falling apart.

“Quinn, I need…,” you manage during one particularly strong contraction, your voice strained as you reach for him.

“I’m here,” he says immediately, his hand wrapping tightly around yours, his forehead pressed to yours. “You’re incredible, you know that? I swear you’re…” He trails off, his voice choked with awe and helplessness.

When the nurse finally tells you it’s time to push, Quinn’s anxiety vanishes in a strange rush of clarity. His heart hammers, but there’s a renewed focus in his eyes, a sense of purpose that drives him to lean in closer, gripping your hand with both of his.

This is it. The goal line is right there, within reach, and he’s desperate to see you out of pain, to help you push through this final stretch, and to finally meet his daughter.

“You’re so close, baby,” he whispers, his voice steady, full of admiration. “Just a little more, you’ve got this.”

He can feel his own breaths syncing with yours, each push you give pulling him further into the moment, all his nerves tightening in anticipation. He’s all in, holding your hand as though it’s his own lifeline, whispering encouragements, brushing your damp hair back with a tenderness that anchors both of you to reality.

Then the midwife announces that the baby’s head is crowning, and something in Quinn’s mind stirs with a fierce curiosity. He’s seen his fair share of bruises and blood on the ice, the broken noses and stitches that come with the game. He thinks he can handle a glimpse. Just a quick look.

“Hang on,” he murmurs, his hand dropping to your knee as he takes a cautious step, assuring you he’s not going far.

But the moment he glances down, the world tilts.

The sight is… intense. Far more visceral than anything he’s witnessed, even in the grittiest post-game injuries. He feels his stomach lurch, his mouth going dry, and his face loses all colour. His eyes widen, shock and something close to horror flickering across his face as he stares, caught in the gruesome reality. But he can’t look away — he’s frozen, like a deer in the headlights, eyes glued to the scene before him, his grip on your knee suddenly slack.

You catch sight of him, his face ashen and eyes haunted, and despite everything — the pain, the exhaustion — a breathless laugh escapes you. Reaching up, you tug at his shirt, snapping him out of his daze.

“Quinn,” you manage, your voice weak but filled with humour. “Don’t you dare faint on me.”

He blinks, startled, and shakes his head, stumbling back to your side with a sheepish look. “No, no, I’m good,” he mumbles, forcing a smile, though he still looks a little shaken. “Just… whoa.”

He squeezes your hand tighter, lifting it to press a lingering kiss against your knuckles, then another to the inside of your wrist, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s a quiet reverence in his gaze, something deep and unspoken that he’s trying to pour into every touch, every gentle kiss. His thumb strokes over your hand, slow and steady, grounding you in this last moment of stillness before everything changes.

Then he leans in, brushing his lips to your forehead, holding them there a beat longer, and you close your eyes, letting yourself melt into the warmth of his presence. You can feel the slight tremble in his fingers, but the love in his touch is steady, unwavering, a promise he’s making with every gentle press of his lips.

“Almost there,” he murmurs, his voice soft and filled with awe, like he’s seeing you in an entirely new light. “We’re so close. She’s nearly here.”

His forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours as you both soak in this precious moment — your last as just the two of you.

And as the nurse announces it’s time for the final push, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his hand never leaving yours. You give him a small, tired smile, your heart swelling at the thought that, in mere moments, you’ll both meet the tiny person you created together, and be a family of three.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

requests are open - let’s daydream!

[badger-tales]

potion of persuasion// J.P x Reader

a/n: should i do a love potion series ???

request: Hellooo I'm usually too shy to request anything but after seeing your post and reading some of your fics I just thought; 'eeeeh why not' so here I am! (might be a lil' crackfic-y hope thats okay :3)

I'd like to request a james potter x reader fic where remus and sirius have gotten tired seeing the two awkwardly tip toe around each other so they planned to put a sort of love/confidence boost (?) potion into his drink so he'd finally be done with it! But uh oh, pads accidently bought one with really strong effects that have our prongsie standing up on tables in his socks and underwear as he professes his love to the reader. Chaos ensues basically..

hope this wasn't too long, also don't forget to take breaks and drink lots of water! ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ)

word count: 5.2k

The Gryffindor Common Room was alive with its usual evening chatter, the glow from the fireplace casting a warm, golden light over the red-and-gold tapestries. The laughter of your friends filled the cozy space as you sat cross-legged on one of the worn-out couches, listening to Marlene's latest exaggerated tale about a Quidditch practice gone wrong. 

Across the room, James Potter sat hunched in a velvet armchair, his eyes darting from the book in his lap to you every few seconds. He had chosen a random Transfiguration text as a flimsy excuse to be near you, but it was clear he hadn’t read a single word. Every time your laughter rang out, he stiffened, pretending to adjust his glasses while sneaking another glance in your direction. 

You could feel his gaze like a warm breeze tickling the back of your neck. It sent a flutter through your stomach every time you dared to look back at him—only to find him hastily redirecting his eyes to his book, cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink. The air between you both was charged, electric with unsaid words and shy, stolen glances.

Meanwhile, at a table nearby, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were deep in conversation, but their attention kept drifting toward you and James. Sirius leaned back in his chair, a cocky grin playing on his lips, arms crossed over his chest as he watched his best friend struggle. 

Sirius tilted his head toward James, letting out a low, amused chuckle.  

"Prongs is never going to get his act together, is he?" he drawled, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table. 

Remus sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His book lay open, but like James, he hadn't absorbed a single word.  

"Honestly, I've been watching this dance for weeks," Remus replied, voice low enough to avoid being overheard. "They’re driving me mad. He’s hopeless."

Sirius let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head in mock despair.  

"You’d think the great James Potter, star Seeker and Head Boy, would have the courage to ask her out by now," Sirius mused, eyes glinting with mischief. 

James chose that moment to sneak another glance at you, only to lock eyes with you unexpectedly. Your breath hitched, and you quickly turned back to your friends, pretending to listen to Dorcas Meadowes' story. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest, and you prayed no one noticed the heat creeping up your neck.

Sirius barked out a laugh as he caught James turning back to his book, looking like he'd just been caught doing something he shouldn't.  

"Pathetic," Sirius muttered under his breath. He glanced at Remus, eyebrows raised. "We may need to intervene, Moony. At this rate, they'll be married with three kids before he works up the nerve to say a word."

Remus chuckled softly but nodded in agreement, his eyes crinkling at the corners.  

"As much as I’d enjoy watching him suffer," Remus said with a teasing grin, "this is getting painful. For all our sakes, we might have to give them a nudge."

Sirius's grin widened as an idea began to form. He leaned in closer, voice lowered conspiratorially.  

"Alright, Moony. But if we’re going to play matchmaker, we better do it in style."

The two of them exchanged a look that could only mean trouble—the kind of look that usually preceded a night of pranks and mayhem. Remus shook his head with a fond smile, but there was a glint in his eye that suggested he was fully on board.

Unaware of the scheming happening just a few feet away, you peeked at James again, catching him glancing at you for what felt like the hundredth time. This time, he didn’t look away, his hazel eyes softening with something unspoken. The moment hung suspended in the air like a delicate charm—fragile, fleeting, and full of possibility.

But just as you opened your mouth to say something, Sirius’s voice rang out across the common room.  

"Oi, Prongs!" he called with a wicked grin. "You do realize books aren’t edible, right? You’ve been staring at that one like it’s a steak dinner."

James’s head snapped up, his face turning beet red. Your friends turned to look, giggling, and you hid your smile behind your hand, eyes twinkling with amusement. 

James shot Sirius a glare, but there was a hint of a grateful smile lurking at the corner of his lips. Maybe, just maybe, this would be the push he needed.

The Gryffindor Common Room gradually quieted down as the evening wore on, with students either heading to bed or settling into more relaxed conversations. The fire crackled gently, casting dancing shadows on the walls. James had finally managed to bury his nose back in his book, though his eyes kept flickering up to you every few moments. You had shifted to a quieter spot by the window, pretending to read a novel but stealing glances at James just as often.

Meanwhile, Sirius and Remus had retreated to a secluded corner of the common room, where the firelight flickered just dimly enough to keep them hidden from prying eyes. Sirius was rummaging through his school bag, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he pulled out a small vial filled with shimmering, pinkish liquid.

"Padfoot, what’s that?" Remus asked, arching a suspicious eyebrow.

Sirius held the vial up triumphantly, the liquid inside catching the light and swirling like liquid starlight.  

"My dear Moony, this," he declared in a hushed tone, "is the solution to our lovesick friend’s dilemma."

Remus’s eyes narrowed.  

"Please tell me you haven’t gone and brewed some ridiculous potion."

Sirius shook his head, looking positively offended.  

"I didn't brew it—picked it up from Zonko’s," he corrected with a smug grin. "It’s called the ‘Love and Confidence Elixir.’ Just a tiny sip, and our dear Prongs will have all the courage he needs to finally confess his undying love."

Remus’s expression was skeptical, as always.  

"Love and confidence, you say?" he asked, crossing his arms. "Sirius, you can’t just spike James’s drink. What if it’s not as harmless as you think?"

But Sirius was undeterred, rolling his eyes dramatically.  

"Oh, come on, Moony. It’s just a bit of fun. The bloke’s been mooning over her for months, and all it’ll do is give him a little... push." He gave Remus a cheeky grin, wiggling his eyebrows. "No harm done. Besides, you saw him tonight—he’s hopeless."

Remus hesitated, glancing over at James, who was currently pretending to listen to something Peter was saying but was clearly distracted by the sight of you by the window. Remus sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair.  

"Fine," he relented, albeit reluctantly. "But if this backfires, Padfoot, it’s on your head. And you’ll be the one explaining it to McGonagall."

Sirius beamed triumphantly, already pulling a flask of Butterbeer from his bag.  

"Relax, Moony. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s just a confidence boost, nothing more."

However, what Sirius didn’t realize—and Remus didn’t catch either—was that the vial he’d grabbed wasn’t a simple “Love and Confidence Elixir” but something far stronger. In his rush to purchase the potion, Sirius had accidentally picked up a mislabeled “Passion Potion”, notorious for making the drinker act on their deepest feelings with absolutely no inhibitions.

The common room was quieter now, most students having either gone to bed or become absorbed in their own conversations. It was the perfect opportunity. With a sly glance at Remus, Sirius uncorked the vial and quickly poured a generous splash into James’s Butterbeer, the pink potion swirling and dissolving seamlessly into the amber liquid.

"Keep watch, Moony," Sirius whispered. Remus, despite his reservations, did as instructed, glancing around to ensure no one was paying attention to them. 

Satisfied with his handiwork, Sirius slid the Butterbeer back into place just as James turned back to their table.  

"There you are, Prongs," Sirius said with a disarming smile. "You look parched, mate. Have a drink."

James, unaware of the potion-infused Butterbeer, shot Sirius a grateful smile before taking a long gulp.  

"Thanks, Padfoot," he mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Remus and Sirius exchanged a look, holding their breaths as they waited for the potion to take effect. At first, nothing seemed to happen. James continued chatting with Peter, appearing no different than before. Sirius was starting to wonder if the potion had even worked when, all of a sudden, James’s gaze snapped back to you across the room. 

The change was almost instantaneous—his hazel eyes darkened, his usual hesitant demeanor melting away, replaced with an intensity neither Remus nor Sirius had ever seen before.

"Uh oh," Remus muttered under his breath, his stomach twisting with unease as James got up from his seat, his book abandoned. Sirius, however, was too busy stifling a triumphant laugh to notice Remus’s worried expression.

"Looks like it’s working perfectly," Sirius whispered, elbowing Remus. But as James began making a beeline toward you, his confident strides more determined than usual, Remus couldn’t shake the feeling that something was seriously off.

The Gryffindor Common Room continued to hum softly with conversations and the occasional crackle from the fireplace, but for Sirius and Remus, everything was suspended in a tense bubble as they watched James from their corner. 

Sirius leaned back, crossing his arms and frowning.  

"Honestly, Moony, I think we got swindled," he muttered under his breath. "Should’ve known Zonko’s was selling rubbish. I told you it was a waste of time."

Remus, however, wasn’t so sure. He was keeping a careful eye on James, who had just downed the last of his potion-laced Butterbeer. For a moment, James seemed completely normal—leaning back in his chair, laughing at something Peter said. But then, Remus noticed it: a sudden, almost imperceptible change. James’s eyes snapped up, locking onto you from across the room with an intensity that was almost unnerving.

"Uh, Padfoot..." Remus began, nudging Sirius and nodding toward their friend.

James’s usual shy, hesitant demeanor was gone in an instant. His hazel eyes widened, as if he’d just had the most brilliant revelation of his life. The corners of his lips twitched upward into a wild grin, and before anyone could make sense of it, he stood up abruptly, sending his chair clattering to the floor behind him.

Sirius’s eyes went wide with surprise.  

"Merlin’s beard, it’s working!" he whispered, half in awe, half in panic.

But this was no subtle boost of confidence. James was on a mission—one driven by the potion that now coursed through his veins, amplifying his emotions to the point of reckless abandon. He began making his way toward you with a determined stride, bumping into a few scattered chairs and narrowly avoiding colliding with a group of younger students playing Exploding Snap. 

Sirius and Remus exchanged a panicked look. This was definitely not the effect they were expecting.

"Prongs, wait—", Remus started to call out, but it was too late. James was already halfway across the room, moving with a speed that had you blinking in confusion.

You’d been absorbed in a conversation with Lily and Marlene, trying to distract yourself from the warmth that had spread through your cheeks after exchanging glances with James earlier. But the moment you heard the loud clatter, you looked up to see him striding straight toward you—eyes wide, grinning like a madman, and moving with a kind of confidence that was utterly foreign to the James Potter you knew.

"James?" you asked, your brow furrowing. Something about his expression seemed... off. You tried to read the intent behind his wild gaze, but before you could even register what was happening, he was standing directly in front of you, almost uncomfortably close.

The entire common room seemed to fall into a stunned silence, all eyes now glued to the two of you.

"There you are!" James practically shouted, his grin impossibly wide. His voice carried an uncharacteristic enthusiasm that had your friends exchanging confused looks behind you.  

"I’ve been wanting to talk to you all night!"

You blinked, caught completely off guard. This was not the shy, stammering James you were used to. Your heart pounded in your chest, partly from the sheer bewilderment of it all and partly from the intensity of his gaze.  

"Oh, uh, really?" you managed, your voice wavering. "What did you want to talk about?"

But instead of answering, James leaned in even closer, his breath warm against your ear.  

"I’ve been thinking..." he began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that sent shivers down your spine. "You’re absolutely brilliant, you know that? And I... well, I just couldn’t hold it in any longer."

The sudden proximity and the fervor in his words left you momentarily speechless. James Potter, the boy who usually turned red at the mere thought of a compliment, was now standing inches away, looking at you like you were the only person in the world.

Behind him, Remus was frantically mouthing something to Sirius, who was trying (and failing) to suppress his laughter.  

"Okay, maybe I gave him a bit too much," Sirius muttered, though he couldn’t quite wipe the grin off his face. 

"Sirius, this isn’t funny," Remus hissed, watching as James practically vibrated with the need to say more. "We have to do something before he embarrasses himself... or worse."

But before they could intervene, James, still under the potion’s influence, reached out to gently cup your cheek, his eyes softening as they locked with yours.  

"I’ve liked you for ages," he confessed, the words tumbling out of his mouth like he couldn’t stop them even if he tried. "You’re brilliant, and beautiful, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why I haven’t told you sooner."

Your heart felt like it was going to burst out of your chest. Part of you wanted to laugh, thinking this had to be some elaborate prank. But the look in his eyes was so earnest, so raw, that it made your breath catch.

Suddenly, the room erupted in gasps and stifled giggles as Sirius and Remus finally sprang into action, darting forward to grab James by the shoulders and pull him back before he could blurt out anything else.

"Alright, Prongs, I think that’s enough honesty for one night," Sirius said, half-laughing as he tried to steer James away.

But James, still grinning like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup, waved them off with an exaggerated flourish.  

"No, no, I’m not done! I need to tell her—"

"Yes, you are," Remus insisted, giving Sirius a panicked look. "Come on, mate, let’s get you some fresh air."

As the two of them practically dragged a protesting James out of the common room, you were left standing there, cheeks flushed, heart racing, and mind whirling with what had just transpired. Around you, your friends erupted into laughter and teasing whispers, but all you could do was stare after James’s retreating form, wondering what on earth had just happened—and if, maybe, there was a hint of truth behind his unexpected confession.

The chaos that ensued after James’s sudden declaration hadn’t even begun to settle when he suddenly broke free from Sirius and Remus’s grasp, stumbling back toward the center of the Gryffindor Common Room. A wild grin still plastered on his face, he leapt onto one of the tables, nearly knocking over a stack of textbooks.

"Prongs, no—!" Sirius hissed, his voice urgent as he scrambled after him. But it was too late.

James threw his arms wide, eyes glinting with mischief, the potion clearly pushing him to act on every impulse without a shred of hesitation. He stood there like a performer taking center stage, chest heaving as if preparing for the grandest of confessions.

"Alright, fine, you lot want a show?!" he shouted to the room, which had now gone completely silent except for a few barely stifled giggles. His eyes found you once more, his gaze so intense it felt like he was staring straight into your soul.

Remus, who had momentarily been caught in the whirlwind of it all, finally snapped into action.  

"Sirius, do something!" he urged, voice tight with panic as he flipped open the Potions textbook he’d snatched from the nearby table. His fingers flew over the pages, trying to find something—anything—that would reverse whatever chaos Sirius had unleashed.

But Sirius was having his own struggles.  

"Alright, Prongs, let’s just... quiet you down a bit, yeah?" he muttered to himself, wand already in hand. He aimed it at James, intent on casting a silencing spell. 

Unfortunately, the spell backfired spectacularly. Instead of quieting James, it seemed to amplify his voice, and before anyone could stop him, he launched into a passionate serenade:

"Oh, the way you smile, it lights up the night,  

Brighter than a thousand stars so bright—"

James’s voice echoed through the common room, shockingly clear and shockingly loud. He had one hand over his heart and the other dramatically extended toward you, as if you were the only one in the room. 

You couldn’t help but bury your face in your hands, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and—admittedly—a bit of flattery. The whole room was roaring with laughter now, students doubled over, tears streaming down their faces. Even Lily Evans, who had been quietly reading by the fire, was shaking with laughter.

"Merlin’s beard, this is a disaster!" Remus muttered, frantically flipping through the Potions textbook. "Why did you have to give him the whole bloody vial, Sirius?"

"I didn’t know it would turn him into a bloody Shakespeare!" Sirius retorted, wincing as James hit an impressively high note. "This is Zonko’s fault, not mine!"

Meanwhile, James, entirely lost in the throes of the potion, began to loosen his tie with one hand while continuing his off-key serenade.  

"For you, my love, I’d dance through fire!  

Your beauty, your wit—I’ll never tire!"

"Oh no, no, no, no," Sirius groaned as James began unbuttoning his shirt. "Prongs, stop it! You’re going to scar these poor children for life!" He leapt forward, grabbing James by the waistband and trying to wrestle him back down to earth.

But James was surprisingly strong under the influence of the potion. He twisted out of Sirius’s grasp, managing to lose a couple more buttons in the process, revealing the faint outline of his Quidditch-toned abs. A few younger Gryffindors shrieked in shock, while others cheered him on, treating this like the best entertainment they’d had all term.

Remus’s frustration grew more palpable by the second as he scanned the Potions book, muttering curses under his breath. His eyes finally landed on a section that seemed promising.  

"Aha! The antidote—it’s a mix of powdered moonstone and syrup of hellebore," he said, turning to Sirius with a desperate look. "But we need to get him to calm down first, or it won’t work."

"Calm him down?!" Sirius shouted, dodging James’s flailing arm as he tried to pull the boy’s shirt back over his shoulders. "We can’t even get him off the bloody table!"

James, now with half his shirt hanging off one shoulder, raised his arms for a grand finale.  

"Oh, my darling, my heart is yours!  

Now and forever, through any wars!"

You were torn between wanting to laugh and wishing you could simply vanish into thin air. But despite the mortification of being the target of James’s wild serenade, a tiny, fluttering part of you couldn’t help but feel... touched? The way he was looking at you, even if it was because of a potion, held a sincerity that made your heart stutter.

"That’s it," Remus said through gritted teeth, closing the book with a snap. "We’re doing this the hard way." He pulled out his wand, ready to attempt a counter-spell to at least calm James down enough to administer the antidote.

But before Remus could cast anything, Sirius finally managed to grab James around the middle, yanking him off the table. The two of them crashed to the floor in a heap, tangled limbs and laughter echoing through the room. 

"Remus, now!" Sirius yelled, struggling to keep James pinned. "Before he breaks into an encore!"

Amidst the chaos, all you could do was watch, your heart racing for reasons you couldn’t quite untangle. Part of you wanted to run over and help them—another part just wanted to keep watching James make a fool of himself, because somehow, in the midst of all this madness, he looked impossibly, endearingly charming.

The Gryffindor Common Room had turned into absolute pandemonium, with students shouting encouragements, laughing, and clapping along as James continued his wild serenade. Remus and Sirius were still struggling to contain him, and every failed attempt only seemed to fuel James’s increasingly unhinged performance.

But then, just when it seemed like there was no end in sight, Remus’s eyes lit up as he finally found the counter-spell.  

"This better work," he muttered under his breath, raising his wand with determination. He sent a quick incantation into the air, releasing a stream of calming blue sparks that cascaded like gentle raindrops over James.

The effect was almost instantaneous. James froze mid-verse, one arm still outstretched dramatically toward you, his voice dying in his throat as the potion’s influence melted away. For a heartbeat, the entire room seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

Then, clarity returned to James’s hazel eyes. He blinked several times, looking around the room as if waking from a dream, only to realize that he was standing on a table... wearing nothing but his underwear and an unbuttoned shirt. 

The color drained from his face as the full weight of what he’d just done hit him.  

"Bloody hell," he whispered, his voice cracking. He stumbled down from the table, desperately trying to pull his shirt closed, cheeks flaming so brightly they almost matched the Gryffindor colors.

"I—uh—", he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck as he stood awkwardly in front of you. The entire common room was still buzzing with laughter and whispers, but James only had eyes for you. "I... I’m so sorry. I don’t know what—"

Before he could finish his apology, you surprised everyone by bursting into laughter. You tried to cover your mouth with your hands, but the giggles kept spilling out, your eyes shining with genuine amusement. 

"Oh, James," you managed between laughs, "I think that was the most... creative confession I’ve ever seen."

James’s eyes widened in disbelief. He’d expected you to be furious, embarrassed, or even disgusted, but instead, you were laughing—really laughing. The tension that had wound tight in his chest began to loosen, and though his face was still beet red, he couldn’t help the small, relieved smile that tugged at his lips.

"Y-You’re not... angry?" he asked, still bewildered, glancing down at his disheveled state. 

You shook your head, stepping closer and lowering your voice so only he could hear, the laughter in your eyes softening into something warmer.  

"Honestly, I’ve never been serenaded before," you teased, "especially not by someone standing on a table in their underwear." You couldn’t resist adding with a playful grin, "I think I might even be flattered."

James let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his shoulders finally relaxing.  

"Well... that’s good," he said with a crooked smile, his confidence slowly creeping back now that he knew you weren’t mortified. "Because I think I just set a record for the world’s most embarrassing declaration of feelings."

You laughed again, your cheeks tinged pink as you replied,  

"Definitely unforgettable, Potter."

Behind you, Sirius and Remus exchanged relieved grins, both of them panting slightly from their efforts. Sirius punched Remus lightly on the shoulder.  

"See, Moony? Told you it would all work out," he said with a wink. 

Remus rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile.  

"Yes, but next time, maybe we use our words instead of potions?"

As the laughter in the common room slowly died down and students began to drift away, content with the evening’s unexpected entertainment, James took a tentative step closer to you.  

"I, uh... I meant what I said, you know," he murmured, his voice low and earnest now that the chaos had settled. "Even if it came out in the most ridiculous way possible."

You felt your heart flutter at the sincerity in his eyes. The bravado, the showmanship—all of that had faded, leaving just James standing there, looking at you with that earnest, slightly sheepish expression that had always made your heart skip a beat.

"I know," you said softly, smiling up at him. "And... for what it’s worth, I’m glad you finally told me."

James’s eyes lit up, a boyish grin spreading across his face.  

"Well, maybe next time, I’ll do it without the theatrics," he teased, scratching the back of his head.

You couldn’t help but laugh again, shaking your head.  

"Oh, please, Potter. Like you could ever resist making a scene."

And with that, the tension between you two seemed to melt away entirely, replaced with a newfound ease. As the common room emptied out, Sirius threw an arm around James’s shoulders, winking at you.  

"Come on, Prongs. Let’s get you some proper clothes before you catch a cold."

As they walked away, James turned back to look at you one last time, his eyes filled with a soft, unspoken promise. And for the first time, you found yourself looking forward to what tomorrow might bring—now that the air was finally clear.

The common room had finally quieted down, the raucous laughter and excited whispers fading as students slowly trickled out, heading to their dormitories with wide grins and lingering glances back at James. The fire had burned lower, casting a warm, flickering glow that painted the room in soft, amber tones.

By now, most of the chaos had settled, but James Potter remained by the fireplace, staring into the dancing flames with a look that was uncharacteristically solemn. He was now fully dressed, though his shirt was still slightly askew, and his hair—if possible—looked even messier than usual. 

You approached quietly, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the thick rug underfoot. As you drew closer, you could see the slight furrow in his brow, the way he absently chewed on his lower lip, clearly lost in thought. The bravado and wild confidence that the potion had given him had evaporated, leaving him looking... vulnerable.

"Hey, Potter," you said softly, stopping just a few feet away.

He jumped slightly at the sound of your voice, turning to face you with wide eyes.  

"Oh, hey," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding your gaze. "I... uh... didn’t think you’d want to talk to me after that whole... spectacle."

You couldn’t help but smile at how shy he suddenly seemed, so different from the overly confident boy who had just serenaded you in front of half of Gryffindor House. Taking a seat beside him on the couch, you nudged him playfully with your shoulder.

"You know," you began, your voice soft, "you didn’t need a potion to win me over."

James’s head snapped up, his eyes searching yours, hope flickering in them like the flames in the hearth.  

"Wait... what?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

You nodded, feeling your cheeks heat under his intense gaze.  

"Yeah," you said with a small, shy smile. "I’ve... liked you for a while too. You’ve just never seemed to notice."

A mix of relief and disbelief washed over James’s face. He let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair.  

"Merlin, I’ve been such an idiot, haven’t I?" he muttered. "All this time, I thought you were out of my league."

You laughed softly, shaking your head.  

"James, you didn’t need to drink some ridiculous potion to tell me how you felt," you said, your voice turning a bit gentler. "I would’ve said yes if you’d just asked me... without all the theatrics."

He let out a breath, his shoulders finally relaxing, and a genuine, heartfelt smile spread across his lips—a stark contrast to the wild, potion-induced grin from earlier.  

"In that case," he said, leaning in slightly, his voice low and sincere, "would you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend? No potions, no serenades—just us?"

Your heart fluttered at the warmth in his eyes, and you nodded, returning his smile.  

"I’d love that, James," you said softly.

James’s smile grew even brighter, his hazel eyes shining with a happiness that was entirely unguarded. Without the potion, without the chaos, he was just James—sweet, earnest, and charmingly awkward. 

As the two of you shared a quiet, lingering moment, the sound of muffled laughter drifted over from the other side of the room. Turning your heads, you spotted Sirius and Remus lounging casually at a nearby table, watching the two of you with smug grins.

Sirius gave Remus an exaggerated clap on the back.  

"See, Moony? What did I tell you? Our plan worked perfectly!" he declared, his voice low enough not to disturb your conversation but loud enough for you both to hear.

Remus shook his head, though he was smiling.  

"You mean your accidental plan," he corrected, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the effect you were aiming for."

But Sirius just shrugged, flashing a triumphant grin.  

"Details, details. The point is, it worked," he insisted. "Now Prongs has a date, and we’ve provided the entertainment of the year. I’d call that a success."

James groaned but couldn’t quite hide his smile as he turned back to you.  

"I suppose I owe them a thank you," he said, his tone begrudging but playful. 

"Or a very, very stern lecture," you teased, giggling softly.

He laughed, his eyes twinkling as he reached for your hand, his touch warm and reassuring.  

"I think I’ll settle for just focusing on next weekend," he said, squeezing your hand gently. "No potions this time. Just you and me."

And as you sat there, the warmth of the fire enveloping you both, it felt like the start of something new—something that had been brewing for a long time, even if it had taken a wild potion-induced serenade to bring it to the surface.

In the background, Remus and Sirius watched with satisfied grins, Remus leaning back in his chair with a soft sigh.  

"Alright, Padfoot, you were right... this time," Remus admitted.

"Of course I was!" Sirius crowed, throwing an arm around Remus’s shoulders. "Now, what do you say we get some Butterbeer to celebrate my brilliance?"

As they made their way toward the portrait hole, the two of you shared a look, both shaking your heads fondly at your friends' antics. But as James’s hand tightened around yours, you realized you wouldn’t change a single thing about how this night had unfolded.

It had been chaotic, ridiculous, and more than a little embarrassing, but it had also brought you closer than you’d ever thought possible. And that, you decided, was entirely worth it.

[meeep-morp]

An analogy for people who struggle to understand: lying is like a knife.

Yes, knives can be used to hurt people. You can stab someone with a knife, kill them, threaten them, slice up their skin and leave them to suffer and rot.

But, knives can be very beneficial too, when used correctly and responsibly.

We use knives to slice up our food, to cut something down to little bite sized pieces for a child to eat. We used to use curved knives at the ends of long sticks to quickly and efficiently harvest a field of wheat (now we have big knife machines called harvesters). Saws are just very serrated knives that cut wood. Scissors are just two attached knives that typically cut paper, or stubborn wrappers.

We even use knives to save lives; scalpels being carefully handled in operating rooms by the trained hands of a surgeon! (I had to get a surgery last year, and I'm glad scalpels exist so that people are able to do that! If scalpels didn't exist, or weren't allowed because they're "bad", I could still be in a fuck ton of horrible pain right now, if not just actually dead. Thank you, surgeons and scalpels!)

Yes, knives can injure and kill, especially when handled improperly or used with malicious intent, but that doesn't inherently make the knife itself dangerous or evil. It is the one who wields the blade who should take responsibility for any harm done.

And much like a knife, lies are a tool that can also cause harm, especially when used irresponsibly or with malice, but it is not inherently the lie itself that is dangerous or evil. It is the one who says the lie who should take responsibility for any harm done.

Also like a knife, you can build up a skill with the tool of lying. It is actually quite a useful skill to have in your conversational arsenal. If lying is a knife, and you are a chef, then your conversations are the meals you serve. Trust me, once you learn how to use the knife of lying, you'll suddenly realise that there are so many more conversation meals you can make. Add just a little dash of creativity, and you can easily elevate the presentation of the conversation meals you're already serving!

Lying is true neutral on the d&d alignment chart. I hope this analogy was understood and helpful. Have a lovely day/night/life!

"lying is wrong" what evangelical nonsense is this???

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ THE UNBEARABLE WEIGHT OF LOVE ꒱ RORONOA ZORO X READER

warnings ⟢ slight angst (though it gets resolved). hurt/comfort. mentions of death and dying. descriptions of blood and wounds. brief allusions to buddhism. reader is gn and described as “beautiful” once.

word count ⟢ 1086

notes ⟢ happy birthday to my most beloved! this fic is self-indulgent (i.e. full of my hcs about zoro’s childhood) and a labor of love. the three of swords design in the banner is from the rider-waite tarot deck. three of swords generally depicts a difficult, sorrowful experience.

So this is how it ends.

The midafternoon horizon is fathomless—a halycon ocean—the sun anchored in its depths. A cool breeze stirs, kissing his tawny flesh, rustling his hair, and chiming his earrings; whispering beachgrass casts sinuous shadows across his face, allowing his good eye to rest in partial shade. Nearby, the tide laps at the shoreline—tenderly, the caress of a lover. Foam glides across half-buried seashells and beached debris in a brief greeting before returning to the sea, heeding her call.

Where Zoro is, he can’t be certain (not an uncommon occurence, though he would never admit it). His robe was slashed off at some point, and fell to the ground in shorn tatters. He lies bare-backed in a slurry of sand and ichor, his swords beside him; weeping wounds litter his torso, the most gruesome of which stretches from his navel to his right side. While he had the wherewithal to cut his haramaki and tie it around his waist as a makeshift tourniquet, the fabric is sodden, metallic teardrops puddling in the sand.

Pain is a feeling he greets like an old friend. It’s comforting, almost, like a suffocating embrace. As a boy, he had to nurture that cold familiarity if he wanted to survive—be it fighting bigger kids for spare scraps at the orphanage, or taking lashes from a bokken at the dojo. Strength comes with a cost, as does physical and mental growth. Existence is suffering, and suffering is—in its purest form—pain. But the mind-numbing sting that currently radiates from his injuries is the last thing on his mind.

For the first time in years, Zoro is afraid. He shivers despite the scorching sunbeams, sucking in shallow mouthfuls of air, glistening beads of sweat sliding down his body toward the earth.

It isn’t the prospect of death that scares him; he has walked most of his life along the corpse-strewn path of demons, fighting against his fate as an asura. And he has peered into death’s grim visage before—too many times count. He even dived into hell and cleaved through its bowels to face Enma, emerging victorious as the king of souls departed.

Regret, however? Regret is a different beast.

It’s why he trembles now, covered in grime and gore, half-lucid. As dark thoughts slink to the forefront of his consciousness, he’s aware that dying here will mean failing. Not simply failing himself and his own dream of becoming the greatest swordsman, but also failing his captain and best friend, and failing to preserve Kuina’s legacy. Most gut-wrenching of all, he knows that dying here will mean failing you. There’s so much Zoro wants to do with you, so much he wants to say. He itches with regret, calloused digits twitching at his sides, desperate to claw his skin off.

Clarity torments him. Memories flit before his steel gaze, now wet—a tear-streaked blade. He sees you: the flicker of your eyes when you tell a story; the curve of your lips when you poke fun at him; the halo of your hair when you nap against his chest; the set of your jaw when you’re serious. More than anything else, he longs to tell you how he feels.

I love you.

Three simple words that he always struggled to string together. Perfect moment after perfect moment was presented to him on a gilt platter: inside the crow’s nest at dawn, or beneath the lush boughs in the tangerine orchard—even perched atop the Sunny’s bow to watch the sunset. He squandered each of these opportunities because he (foolishly) assumed there would be more in the future.

I love you.

If only he could muster the strength to breathe out the sweetness of your name once more—to taste each smooth, honeyed syllable on his lips, to feel it silken on his palate. Maybe then he could forgive himself. But instead, it dies on his tongue as his vision blots and blurs. Eventually, his world goes black.

I love you.

Zoro awakes to the muffled creaking of a hull.

His head pounds, his mouth is bone-dry, and his limbs are leaden and stiff; he feels like death, and suspects that he looks like it, too. Surgical gauze tightly wraps his frame, stifled wounds screaming in agony. When he glances up and sees framed pictures of the crew above his cot, he recognizes where he is: the Sunny’s infirmary. In his periphery, you’re sitting at Chopper’s desk with a book in your lap. He tries (and, to his frustration, fails) to shift into a seated position. As soon as you notice the movement—head snapping up in surprise—you rush to his bedside.

He waits for you to reprimand him for being so reckless while away from the rest of the crew. But you don’t—not yet, anyway. (Not until he’s mostly healed. And for that, he wonders if you may be an angel.) Instead, you kneel on the wooden floorboards to level with him. Your fingertips tentatively brush against his cheekbone, as though you’re testing to ensure that he’s real. Content with what you find, you cup his chin, allowing him to lean into the soft warmth of your touch, catlike.

“I was worried about you. Well, so was everyone else. But I’ll only speak for myself,” you murmur.

His voice is gravel, cragged from disuse. “Sorry.”

After a few beats of silence, he clears his throat. “Is Chopper on break?”

You nod. “I’ve picked up the night shift so he can sleep.”

“How long was I out for?”

“Roughly two days.”

“Fuck.”

That draws a chuckle from you.

Zoro swallows. “Listen, I—”

Your thumb grazes his chapped lips, forcing him to pause. “Save your energy, Zo. You don’t have to defend yourself; you’re safe with me. I promise.”

Tired but patient, your gaze breaks him, only to piece him back together. His heart aches.

He inhales deeply. Then—in a flood of emotion he can’t stem—the words flow out: “Y’know I’m not good with feelings…or words. But, uh…” A broad palm wraps around your wrist, your skin hot against his. Ignoring the heat creeping up into his cheeks, he sighs, “I love you.”

Before he can second guess his confession, your lips bloom and burst into a radiant smile, setting your features alight. He doesn’t think you have ever looked more beautiful.

“I know,” you admit airily. Leaning in, you dot a kiss to his scarred eyelid. “I love you, too.”

[sepublic]

            I find it interesting that even in the epilogue, four years after Camila has had time to be more acquainted with the Boiling Isles under non-threatening circumstances, she’s still creeped out by it. And this is fine! The narrative isn’t condemning her for it. It’s not demanding that she enjoy these things like Luz does; It’s just asking for her to respect its existence, and to support Luz’s interest in it and love her too.

            In For the Future, we see Camila horrified by what she encounters in the Boiling Isles; But she also spends the whole episode pushing through it anyway for Luz’s sake, being there for her as much as she can. Because she knows these are just feelings and nothing more, and she’s choosing to be kind in spite of them.

            By contrast, in this same episode we find out Belos does feel empathy and guilt towards his brother and nephew, he wasn’t purely 100% only interested in what they could do for him; And yet, he’s still just as cruel and violent towards them. He’s still cruel and violent towards witches and demons, sometimes using the ‘tragedy’ of Caleb as a justification. Hell, he even resents the ghosts for making him feel guilty, telling them to “Shut up.”

            Isn’t that fascinating? Disgust is portrayed as a morally neutral thing. It’s not an indictator of morality, it doesn’t mean something is bad… But it doesn’t mean the person who feels it is bad, either, people don’t consider that enough. It’s just a gut reaction. Sometimes people have internalized biases they need to work through, but other times, it’s pretty harmless as long as they’re self-aware and don’t do anything bad over it; This even applies to the process of unlearning the aforementioned biases.

            Likewise, empathy and guilt don’t actually, necessarily make you a good person. The example with Belos shows how some people will actually be crueler because of empathy, because they resent people for being upset, and thus making them feel upset because they naturally empathize. Hence those who get angry at people in pain and need for “ruining their vibe,” because now they feel bad too.

            There’s a juxtaposition in how Camila seems genuinely more scared and creeped out by the isles on a visceral level than Belos, and yet Camila has the common sense to still respect and fight for its existence; Whereas Belos chooses to make a mountain out of a molehill because it’s not just hatred, it’s pride. It all boils down to his ego at the end of the day. In many ways, other characters struggle with dilemmas more difficult than Belos’, yet still do better than he ever has.

            This all plays into my thesis that TOH is arguing your feelings are secondary to your actions, and that the latter is what decides whether you’re a “good” person or not. In the end, someone who’s had a good life and was a dick for selfish reasons, only to choose to be better, is more sympathetic and morally superior than someone who suffered a million unfair grievances, and proceeded to dole out a million unfair grievances, with no sign of stopping; Especially from an IRL perspective, and I think our IRL feelings sometimes influence how we engage with media, and vice-versa.

            That’s why the finale –and the show as a whole– emphasizes choices, over inherent, instinctual feelings. A decent chunk of Camila’s arc could be summarized by the word Squick; In the sense that it’s meant to describe things that one feels personal disgust and discomfort towards, but otherwise has no moral condemnation or problem with; It’s just a Me thing, is the point of Squick. Camila is like that sex-repulsed ace who nevertheless supports kink at Pride.

            That gets me to how my ruminations were prompted by a similar observation; How some people lump sex-repulsed aces in with the oppressive Puritans who hate sex in anything, but that’s not true at all. Obviously there’s the rare Exception, but as a whole, sex-repulsed aces are on the side of other queers who ARE sexual and are demanding to let these things be normalized; It’s not for them, but they have no moral condemnation and will fight for it in solidarity anyway, especially since both are hated by the system regardless. Sound familiar?

[pedge-page]

aww imagine when ellie is a little older and she has one of those doctor kit toys, and joel gets a cut (or maybe a bruise or something like that) and ellies like "it's okay daddy i'll help you 🥺" and she runs with her little kit and puts on the stethoscope and does a little "check up" and takes his blood pressure and checks his temperature, and then she asks where his boo boo is 😭 and then she gives it a little kiss (bc thats what joel and reader do) and she's like "all better daddy :)" 😭😭😭 please that would send me into a coma that is too cute

notes: oh my god this was so adorable to think about, thank you so much for the baby fever.... I ran a little further with this one based off this ask!

Joel Dealing with Wife: Doctor Ellie

- - - -

Joel’s caught on to something pretty big here. His ever growing littler girl Ellie is quite the caretaker….of him especially. All he tolerated under you and Sarah finally met its match when Ellie quietly entered the world.

He started to realize it after she would burst into tears each time he’d trip on Sarah’s toys, or grunted at your shoulder slaps. But she only ever showed worry when it was him getting hurt.

And he couldn’t get enough of it. Okay sure, its wrong to make your kid worry about things they don’t understand isn’t quite worth stressing over, but he can’t help but fall into a giddy awe spell of greed seeing just how bent out she gets when she thinks he’s hurt. It started with big hugs for long minutes. Then she decided she needed to practice real medicine. The amount of bandaids this family has gone through despite no real injury is astounding to his wallet. 

But it’s commendable. She so carefully puts her warm hands over his forehead whenever he stubs his toe, or checks his pulse when he’s eaten something too hot. Doctor Ellie is always in the house, and ready to assist.

And maybe Daddy… goes a little too out of his way to bring her out.

Joel had just rammed a large plank of wood into his abdomen, not carefully checking its length before swinging it around as if he were still in his twenties. “Ugh--damnit!” He groans, clutching his side. The throb lasted for just a moment before dulling, and he was about to carry on his business when—

“DADDY!!!!” Ellie wails, followed by the patterpatterpatter of her little feet running as fast as they can take him towards his aid.

She’s etched with concern over her chunky face, grasping on her tip toes for his hands. “Daddy okay?” She asks with her high pitched, sweetie voice that gets his soft spot racing.

“Yea—No. No baby…I think—“ he clutches his side, as if remembering the near fatal accident he just suffered. “Uuughh---oh Ellie…I’m hurt. I’m hurt real bad.” He bends forward, one hand over his abdomen while the other covers his face. (He peeks through one squinted eye to see her reaction).

She gasps. “It’s okay daddy! I help make it better!”

She grasps his finger with her entire hand and leads him towards the living room. “Moo!” She commands to Spoon. “Amboolance! WEE WOO WEE!!” She waves her hands around to clear the way of the invisible traffic as Joel followed, half squatted and stiffly wobbling to match her short stature.

She quickly tosses a blanket on the carpet, pointing for Joel to lie down. He obliges, groaning more so from the cracks in his back and knee instead of the fake pain he’s been dishing out.

He watches as she digs frantically through the bin of various toys before retrieving her mobile hospital toy kit. With the stethoscope thrown on her waist (it’s for kids 8 and up and she isn’t quite the size yet), she puts the rounded part over Joel’s stomach. Then she presses her head on his injury as well, causing him to let out an oof and chuckle as she listens futally for his heartbeat. 

“I nee take look.”

She rolls up his shirt a few inches to uncover the invisible wound. 

“How bad is it, doc?” Joel pleas in dramatic desperation.

She tilts her head to the side, closing one eye with her palm before shaking her head.

“Nee sur—Sur gee.”

Joel puts together that’s surgery, and he’s starting to wonder where she’s learning all this hospital stuff….

She begins rummaging around for her other toys before announcing “Knife!”

Joel’s head sits right up, eyes wide in Father-panic mode that she may have gotten her hands on an actual—

She instead pulls her yellow and green kids-cooking toy plastic knife that is meant to part velcroed plastic vegetables, and realistically couldn’t even slice through two strands of hair. He lets out a sigh, leaning back and letting her continue with her critical patient.

“Snack time!”

Of course you just had to interrupt their special Daddy-daughter only playtime with fucking snack ti—oh is that apple slices and peanut butter?

Ellie drops everything, sits on her butt almost like a dog and awaits patiently for her snack. Conveniently Spoon has also come to sit automatically next to her, if the dog-analogy wasn’t evident enough.

“Interrupting surgery, babe,” Joel hums. 

“Surgery can wait after snack.”

Ellie wiggles her feet as you hold out a slice towards her mouth for her to bite and keep her hands clean. The room is silent minus the content, unhurried crunching of apple sizes.

“Okay baby, continue your surgery. What part are we at?” You ask, sucking a slice into your mouth as you also dip one into Joel’s open trap, giggling as he swallows it like an arcade ticket machine crunching away at his spoils. 

“Make cut,” she says plainly, searching around for that knife again.

You raise your brow suspiciously  but let any irrational thought go as she holds up her very non lethal kiddie knife.

Doctor Ellie starts serrating his belly fat back and forth with the dull piece of thick plastic.

It probably looks like real pain to her, were it not for him holding his breath as his chest and stomach puffing up and down, trying to hold his giggles and squirms together.

You watch Joel with raised brow, knowing he’s got tears in his eyes trying to play poker face so hard, knowing you’re there watching him get tickled by this thing and knowing he’s gonna deny it profusely. 

“Shouldn’t you put me under anesthesia—“

She slaps a piece of paper — the phony ticket from her train conductor set (Jesus, how many different toy sets did you guys get her?) — a little too carelessly, but enough to get the idea across that daddy needs to stop talking as she does careful work.

“Sew!” She announces, as if she has a nurse assistant handing her each tool. Although, technically, she does, but you seem more interested in wiping the plate of peanut butter and sucking it off your digits.

Joel’s eyes are closed, enjoying the serenity of lying on the floor. You don’t realize how good it is to be on the ground until you have kids, and now you’re constantly on the floor doing everything with them.

“Mommy…where sew?”

You shrug. They’ve got so many toys, you’re honestly not sure what creative thing she’s gonna come up with the “sew” Joel’s tummy. Given her use of the kids knife, you’re curious what kind of toy—

She pulls out a real sewing needle, point and sharp and definitely not kid approved along with fabric thread. It glints in her little hand for a brief moment as she dips to make contact on Joel’s skin—

“OOKAY Let’s not use that,” you yelp, grasping her arm carefully from going any further. Joel’s still got that stupid paper over his eyes, absolutely oblivious and too trusting of Ellie. 

Something else about kids: you can baby proof the fuck out of everything you didn’t even think needed baby proofing, and yet they will still —what does Jeff Goldblum say in the dinosaur movie?…—f’ind a way’. 

You remove the needle and thread from her grasp, position it inside a cotton swab and high out of her reach. You fashion a string of yarn wrapped around a q-tip instead, and hand it to her like it’s nothing. She takes it and goes back to “sewing” Joel’s tummy up, dragging the cottony tip over his naval.

His belly dips as he lets out a pained breath, trying so hard to act like he’s not tickled. 

“Am I gonna make it doc?” Joel asks curiously.

“Bluey!”

He doesn’t quite understand that answer, until she’s pulling out the packs of varied assortment of bandaids. It takes a few minutes to help her pull each sticky back off, but soon Joel’s got 4 bandaids of Paw Patrol on his stomach, one Bingo on top of his jeans, some chainsaw massacre’s on his arm, and a pretty hello kitty across his forehead. 

“All done!” She boasts happily.

“Nah uh! You need to make sure it stays better!”

“Oh—“ she bends down and kisses his belly, just like you and Joel always do whenever she gets a minor booboo. Kisses make everything better.

Minus the bacteria in your saliva but ya know it’s the placebo in the thought that really counts for the healing factor. 

“Give daddy one on the cheek for good measure,” he commands, pointing sternly into his face. She happily obliges with a fat “mmmmmwah!”

“Yay. Looks like he’ll live,” you muse a little too unhappily. Joel snickers, sitting upright. God, he somehow looks ridiculous and hot with hellow kitty plastered across his forehead. 

“Doc, do you think I need to come back in for a check up, ya know, just to see—“

But Ellie has already concluded her medical services, now hustling away to go find something else to do. 

-

Joel steps out to the backyard, where Sarah is cruising in her remote toy jeep with the 6 ducks packed in the passenger seat and trunk. 

She rolls to a stop, her brightly colored sunglasses peering up at her Dad. She sucks her ring pop silently, knowing the desperation he’s come to seek her out.

Sarah fully well knows Ellie has Joel in her back pocket, and she likes to let that play out. because ultimately… Sarah can also benefit from their needy relationship off one another.

Joel clears his throat, looking around as if he’s making an illegal trade. “I’ll give ya two ring pops if ya pretend to run me over. And not the face this time,” he warms, knowing she’’ll plea innocence to his own askings. “Just for Ellie to see.”

She sucks on her candy before pulling it out of her mouth with a loud pop. “I’d do it for free.”

----

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[newkatzkafe2023]

What if the monkey kings get kidnapped by a yandere yn? And they can't escape? How long before the they break and return our affections?

ohhhhhhhhhh boi this should be easy😏

Ranking begins now😈

(Lmk Wukong) 7/10 This man has been though was to much, even more after meeting Mk. So when you took him it he was so mentally exhausted that he couldn't fight you right now. When with you he doesn't have to worry about a single thing, just sitting on the couch with a cute monkey girl eating fruit like he always wanted.

(NR Wukong) 8/10 this man's sanity seems like been dangling off the edge longer then anyone bothered to relieve. What's getting kidnapped by a hot monkey woman gonna change, after everything heaven had put him through of course he'll wanna stay with you. Would you like to stay forever with him too????

(HIB Wukong) 5/10 he's definitely gonna be tricky to deal with, but that's were Luier and Silly girl come in. You kidnapped the two first and manipulated them by treating them like your own children in your own motherly way. Wukong could use all the logic and Threats all he wants, but with you playing to his domestic side and promises of more cubs and flashing your birthing hips. Wait why did he wanna leave again???

(MKR Wukong) 4/10 he's gonna put up a rather eventful fight, but play into his hatred and bitterness, and You will have him right where you want him. Just remind him of the pain, the suffering, the humiliation, and every negative thing that the outside world did to him. Then he will stay with you, getting everything he always wanted. Just don't escape Wukong.

(Netflix Wukong) 11/10 He clearly has every issue imaginable including his false bravado and mild anger issues, but put him in a place where you show him nothing but love and affection. Real Tears are gonna roll down his face with all the positive attention you gave him, no more of that hollow pit that is his heart and self esteem. Just you and him.......Forever.

(BMW Wukong) ♾️/10 He's been eligible of being a secret yandere for a while, and the fact that you kidnapped him he sees this as a courtnapping technique from you. He is yours and you are his, your affection return tenfold by a man who's just as deadly and loving as you.

(Destined one) ???/10 it's admittedly difficult to say considering he's so calm and collected no matter thr situation. You would think he's just coming up with a plan to escape, so he keeps a cool face but Don't worry you'll have all the time in the world to figure It out together but you better be careful he doesn't like to share either...

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG💘

[mothiir]

writing proper fic still eluding me so here is a list of how i think the primarchs would respond to their sons trying to romance human women:

Sanguinius - he isn’t thrilled about the idea, not because he thinks that love and romance is a bad thing — quite the opposite — but because he knows the tragic fate many of his sons will suffer. What human woman can survive the tribulations of the red thirst? How many of his boys will end up tearful and repentant after their control slipped, and they hurt the human they love? Mortals are so fragile — it is better to act as their guardian than their lover. Still, if he were to find out that one of his sons was seeing a mortal, he would simply gently suggest that the son in question take every proper precaution — ultimately, the choice must belong to them.

Vulkan - yes! great idea! Please do have relationships with humans - have children, rear families. When the time comes for them to pass, mourn them, but celebrate the life you were blessed to share with them. You cannot call yourself the protectors of humanity if you do not partake in it. Salamanders live amongst their human families, and relish in the kinship and love this brings them. Vulkan has given away many a Salamander in marriage.

Ferrus Manus - sex is self-indulgent nonsense. Be better. He is not the sort of man to give his sons relationship advice — nor are they the type to ask it — so he never makes an official proclamation against having mortal lovers, because Iron Hands are far too sensible to even consider it (rumours that they replace their dicks with ceramite remain unaddressed).

Horus - The Luna Wolves are — uh — enthusiastic about their involvement with humanity. Unlike Vulkan, Horus discourages lengthy attachments — have a fling if you must, have several (don’t let those flings find out about each other), but don’t try and settle down. Luna Wolves are soldiers, designed to conquer distant stars in their father’s name. One day, they will be able to plant roots in rich earth, and rear sons of their own. But not now. Not yet.

Leman Russ — Humanity is a beautiful thing, and its daughters are more beautiful yet. Leman doesn’t begrudge his sons their dalliances, nor does he discourage them from wedding — he just asks that they remember that their first duty is to the Allfather, and the pack. As long as they don’t get any ideas about sneaking off somewhere to retire, everything is fine. Russ welcomes his son’s wives to his fires — and, if they’re amenable, to his furs.

Fulgrim — much like Sanguinius, Fulgrim has complicated feelings about human women. He’s been married four times, loved each wife dearly, and had to watch them die of one ailment or another. He wants to spare his sons the torment he felt, but he also doesn’t want to deny them the full range of human experience. He ends up encouraging them to cultivate an artistic appreciation for romance — a sort of courtly love, where they paint pictures of the woman they like, and write poetry, but never actually engage in anything too direct. If he keeps their love aesthetic and sterile and distant then maybe they can avoid the heart-deep pain that comes from watching your lover perish.

The Lion - are you kidding me? His sons don’t even want to admit that they know what a woman is, just in case he somehow takes it as an insult and they end up banished.

[ruewrote]

𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦.

PAIRING: arthur morgan x fem!reader WARNINGS: micah & dutch :|, no use of y/n GENRE: angst SONG INSPIRATION: so bad by brandon colbein WORD COUNT: 1.8k NOTE: been thinking about writing this for a long time

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you’d watched arthur morgan slowly unravel, day by day. it started with small things. the way he’d pause just a second longer before mounting his horse, how his coughs began to punctuate conversations, no longer hidden or stifled. 

you noticed the way he’d wince when he thought no one was looking, the way his hand would linger on his chest, a silent acknowledgment of the weight bearing down on him. others noticed too. you could see it in the way they glanced at him, a quick look of worry followed by an easy dismissal, as if it was just another one of life’s inconveniences.

but you couldn’t just brush it off. arthur’s pain lingered with you, a silent ache that settled in your chest every time you saw him push himself too hard, every time you saw him struggling and yet refusing to let anyone lend a hand. he’d never accept pity; you knew that better than anyone. 

so you found your own quiet ways to care for him, slipping in small gestures you knew he wouldn’t push away. freshly baked pastries left near his tent, a flask of warm tea, a blanket folded and placed by his bedroll on colder nights.

little things to make his days just the slightest bit easier. you didn’t ask him how he was, didn’t force him to acknowledge his own suffering, but you made sure he knew someone was there, watching out for him in ways he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, do for himself.

it broke your heart to see him like this, knowing there was nothing you could do to stop the disease eating away at him. you’d seen the light in his eyes dim, felt the inevitable march toward the end. and yet, even as he weakened, he kept doing right by others, pushing himself to help where he could, to be the man he’d always been.

it was as if he wanted to make up for every wrong, every dark corner of his past. his actions were quiet but relentless, like he was holding on to some last thread of purpose.

you’d give anything to change his fate, to make this illness disappear, but all you could do was be there, offering him small moments of comfort, easing his path in whatever way you could, even if he’d never know just how much it mattered to you.

one memory in particular stayed with you, etched deep in your heart. a quiet night around the campfire, the sounds of soft conversation humming through the still air. you’d been watching arthur from across the fire, his frame hunched with exhaustion, shadows heavy under his eyes. it seemed like each breath came a little harder, and there was a weariness in his face that he couldn’t quite hide.

after a moment, you crossed the space between you, reaching out to him without a word. he looked up, surprised, as your hand found his, firm but gentle. his gaze flickered between your face and your hand, unsure. you could feel the hesitation, the instinct to pull back, but you held on, giving his hand a small, encouraging squeeze.

he gave you a weary, questioning smile, but he didn’t resist as you slowly guided him across the campsite, leading him toward your cot.

when you reached it, you gestured for him to sit, but arthur hesitated, looking between you and the cot as if weighing his options. "you don’t have to fuss over me like this," he murmured, his voice barely more than a rasp, still carrying that stubborn pride.

but you could see the exhaustion in his eyes, how close he was to simply letting himself rest.

“arthur, just lay down,” you said, soft but insistent, a playful note in your voice as you looked him in the eye. his lips quirked into a small, reluctant smile, with a resigned sigh, he finally sat. easing himself down until his head rested in your lap.

you leaned back, your fingers instinctively reaching to run through his hair, the movements slow and gentle. you could feel the way his body slowly relaxed beneath your touch, surrendering to this rare moment of peace.

as you brushed your fingers through his hair, he let out a slow, shuddering breath, the last bit of tension leaving him. for once, he seemed to fully let go, his hand still loosely held in yours, the roughness of his palm warm against your skin.

neither of you said a word. the only sounds were the crackling of the fire nearby, the soft murmur of voices, and his breathing – a soft, crackling rasp that tugged at your heart. but he was here, safe, his body unwinding under your care, and that was all that mattered.

in the light of your lamp, his face softened, losing its usual hardness, the creases of worry and pain smoothing away as his eyes fluttered closed. you continued stroking his hair, your hand steady and sure, holding onto him with all the quiet affection he never asked for but deserved so deeply. 

watching him like this, vulnerable and at peace, you felt a deep warmth fill you, a gentle, aching tenderness. this man who carried so much, who never took a moment to rest, was finally allowing himself this one small reprieve, and you were grateful, so very grateful, to be here, to give him this, even if only for tonight.

as the fire crackled and the camp murmured around you, arthur’s hand in yours, his breathing finally easing, you held him close with a quiet love you wished he could feel forever.

you’d been at it for hours, scrubbing shirts and wringing out trousers, hands raw and red from the icy water. the laundry basin was set up near dutch’s tent, and normally, you liked the quiet solitude of the task. it gave you time to think, to unwind from the endless chaos that surrounded life with the gang. but tonight, the low murmurs drifting from dutch’s tent broke through the silence, the voices unmistakably those of dutch and micah.

at first, you tried to tune them out, focusing on scrubbing out a stubborn stain. but then arthur’s name came up, and you stilled, catching micah’s snide tone as he muttered something about “the old dog losing his bite.” you shifted slightly, just close enough to make out dutch’s quiet, frustrated sigh.

“arthur’s just… lost his edge,” dutch said, his voice laced with irritation, as if arthur’s decline was somehow an inconvenience rather than a tragedy. “he’s not the man he used to be. maybe it’s time he steps aside.”

you felt a pang of anger stir in your chest, but you tried to keep your head down, hoping it was just idle talk. arthur had done more for dutch and this gang than most of them put together. he deserved a hell of a lot more respect than this. but micah just laughed, his voice dripping with that familiar arrogance, a sneer you didn’t have to see to picture.

“yeah,” micah snickered, “seems like he’s got one foot in the grave and the other slippin’. might be best if he sat this one out. save him from breakin' what’s left of his pride.”

your hands tightened around the shirt you were wringing out, and you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing over. arthur sat nearby, close enough to hear every word. his face was turned away, but you caught the slight slump of his shoulders, the way his head dipped, a flash of something almost like hurt in his eyes. 

something inside you snapped.

dropping the shirt, you stood up, abandoning the laundry as you marched over, your footsteps firm and steady, every muscle tensed with anger. “that’s enough,” you said, your voice cutting through the night air, louder than you’d intended. 

the entire camp fell silent, eyes turning to you in surprise. dutch froze, his expression one of shock, while micah, of course, just looked amused, an infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth.

“oh, and what, you gonna fight his battles for him now?” micah taunted, his tone mocking as he leaned back, clearly enjoying the attention. “is that what arthur’s been reduced to? needing someone to defend his honour like he’s some poor damsel?”

you took a step closer, meeting micah’s smug gaze with a hard, unflinching stare. “no, micah,” you said, voice steady, laced with all the contempt you felt. “arthur doesn’t need anyone to fight his battles. he’s proven himself over and over, for years. he’s earned more respect than most of us here. especially you.”

micah’s smirk faltered, and for a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire. you turned to dutch, your eyes sharp, unyielding. “arthur’s been the backbone of this gang. he’s sacrificed more than you realise, and he’s been loyal to you through everything. so if he’s struggling now, maybe instead of tearing him down, you ought to show a little gratitude!”

micah huffed, rolling his eyes, but he was quieter now, his usual bravado dampened. dutch’s face was unreadable, shadows from the fire flickering across his features. arthur shifted uncomfortably nearby, clearly unsure how to react, but you caught his eye for a brief moment, a glimmer of gratitude in the depths of his tired gaze.

you turned back to micah, your voice low and steady. “and if you’ve got nothin' but cheap shots to throw at a man like him, maybe you should take a long look at the kind of man you are.” 

for the first time in a long time, micah had nothing to say.

a tense silence settled over the camp, all eyes on you as your words hung heavy in the air. micah glared, his mouth twisted in an ugly sneer, clearly about to throw out another insult to reclaim his pride. you took a step back, ready to walk away and let your words sink in, but something inside you stopped. 

a hard, fed up feeling had built up over the days and months, an anger you’d swallowed time and again while micah ran his mouth unchecked.

without another word, you turned back to him, clenched your fist, and swung. your knuckles connected solidly with his jaw, sending him sprawling backward, out of his seat and into the dirt.

the impact echoed through the night, and for a split second, the camp was deathly silent, everyone staring wide eyed as micah lay there, stunned, his hand reaching up to his jaw.

you shook out your hand, feeling the sting in your knuckles but satisfied, looking down at him with a steely gaze. “and that’s from me, you sad sack of shit.” you said, voice low but unyielding. micah struggled to sit up, too dazed to respond, and for once, there was no taunting sneer on his face, no quick comeback.

you turned on your heel, walking away without another glance, feeling the eyes of the entire camp on your back. 

as you left, you caught arthur’s gaze, his eyes shining with something between surprise and quiet admiration.

a faint, grateful smile tugging at his lips.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

© ruewrote 2024.

[yerrmar]

❧THROUGH THE CRACKS☙

warning: angst, swearing, talks of violence, lowkey sexual tension, she/her usage for reader.

summary: you hate Luke Castellan and he hates you, but when you see him in the woods crying your gentle nature slips through… just a bit.

Luke hissed in pain leaning against a tree, he squeezed his eyes shut which only made the pain in his face worse. His new scar throbbed as the stitches begged to burst, and his head was pounding like it had never before. He had run out of his cabin so he didn’t disturb his siblings and the other sleeping campers in there with his whining, so he was currently sobbing from pain past curfew and hoping that the harpies wouldn’t hear him.

It wasn’t like he’d be able to sleep anyway tonight, he didn’t want to face the nightmares waiting for him when he shut his eyes, he was grateful for the pain he was suffering from at that moment too because every time he shut his eyes shooting pains shot across his face.

He reached up to touch the cause of his misery feeling the rough fabric of the stitches and his bumpy skin that had been deeply sliced, it only made him sob louder. The feeling of pain, failure, and hunger mixed together, he hadn’t eaten for a while and he didn’t think he’d be able to stomach a meal, he’d just be picturing what he looked like in a mirror and it would all come back up instantly.

He’d been avoiding seeing people lately too, specifically you. Luke could already imagine the jokes you’d make and the look of disgust that would be plastered on your face, it made his stomach turn. You both made harsh comments at one another, no stone was left unturned when you two were being rude to one another, but he hoped you’d at least leave this situation alone when you finally saw him face to face.

You knew what had happened, word got around quickly at camp and you even felt a little bit bad for Luke, till the feeling of pity wore away and you started to get frustrated that he was ignoring you. You enjoyed picking a fight with the boy, he felt like the only one that could match you in a fight or argument.

That night you couldn’t sleep either, not for any specific reason you couldn’t seem to fall asleep so you took a walk in the woods, like you usually did when you felt restless. You expected to get caught by Chiron or Mr D catching you outside past curfew, but you didn’t care because you knew there wasn’t much they could do other than slap you on the wrist and ask you not to do it again.

What you didn’t expect was to hear soft sobs coming from behind a tree, and you definitely didn’t expect to see the noise coming from a teary-eyed Luke Castellan whose tear-stained cheeks turned bright pink when he locked eyes with you.

He groaned embarrassed and annoyed that he’d been caught, even more annoyed that it was you that had found him breaking down. Luke was waiting for a laugh to come out of your mouth or for a witty comment about how weak he is.

But you didn’t open your mouth at all, you were just in shock. Luke Castellan the camp’s golden boy who hasn’t stopped fighting since the day he was born, probably one of the toughest people you know (though you’d never admit it) was crying.

“I’m waiting.” He spat, sniffing and wiping his face preparing to be verbally abused by you.

You noticed how tired his eyes looked, he was paler than usual too, and it made your stomach drop. “For what?” you frown.

“For you to make fun of me, what else?” Luke didn’t look at you in fear of what your expression would be, disgust, joy or even worse pity.

“You think that low of me, Castellan.” You scoff crossing your arms, you then look around you for the possible chance of another camper popping out from behind a tree and catching the both of you. And when you realised that wasn’t going to happen you slowly sat down next to him.

Luke shivered, you weren’t the most comforting presence. You both sat in an awkward silence for a while, before you broke the ice with a stupid question. “Um- why… why are you crying?” You mentally curse yourself because you already know the answer to that but you couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“What do you think?” Luke snapped, he wasn’t in the mood for your games and he definitely was too mentally drained to play into them. He hissed again, his scar mocked him properly like how you were.

You frown again, catching a glimpse of the scar on his face, it looked swollen and incredibly painful. It reminded you of the time Chimera stuck its claws into the side of your thigh and every step you took made it feel like you were stepping onto millions of knives. The only thing that soothed it was this weird cooling cream the Apollo cabin made for you. And you were pretty sure you had some left in your cabin.

“I have something that will help calm that down.” You hum softly it not only surprised you but Luke too, why were you being so nice? Was it something to do with him being so broken that you just felt like you had to? Yeah, it had to be because of that.

“Really? You want to help… me?” Luke raised his brow hissing in pain completely forgetting his scar was there.

You rolled your eyes and got up off the floor crossing your arms, “You gonna accept my help or what, Castellan?” you stood over him but not in your usual intimidating way, actually, nothing about how you were acting right now was like how you usually acted and it was creeping him out.

He thought for a moment trying to ignore the possibility that this actually might be a plan to murder him and decide to place his trust in you it’s not like he had any other choice anyway, he was in pain and would do anything to get rid of it. He got up off the floor and followed behind you with his head down so that if he was caught they wouldn’t be able to see his red and puffy eyes.

When you got to your cabin you opened the door carefully and quietly so nobody would wake up, and dragged Luke over to your bed. He cautiously sat down looking around the quiet and dark room feeling extremely out of place sitting on your bed.

You open your bedside drawer wincing every time it made a noise and swiftly took out the ointment. Luke scrunched up his face when you opened the tub and a strong scent filled his nose and made him hold back a gag. “Smells like you.” You smirk slightly walking over to him and gathering some of the cream with your fingers.

Luke would’ve fought back but the words were unable to come out when he realised you were going to put the cream on him. You didn’t specify at all when you said that you were going to help him, you didn’t mention that you were going to be touching him, touching a specific spot that was extremely painful to be exact.

He backed away slightly from instinct and you huffed, “I’m not going to hurt you, I’m trying to show you how to use it, dummy.” You hadn’t really been planning on putting it on his face either, you just got carried away but you didn’t want him to know you made a mistake. You never make mistakes.

Hesitantly, he leans back in and you slowly move your fingers to his scar gently spreading the cream around and soothingly rubbing it in. It was cold but soothingly, he couldn’t smell it anymore once it was on his face and he also slowly started to not be able to feel the strong shooting pains across his face.

You were being so gentle and so soft, Luke had never seen you like this or act this way with any and if you ever did he never expected it would be him you were doing it too.

You were focusing so hard on not hurting him, and Luke noticed, you cautiously softened your pace when you got near spots that were even more tender than the others and made sure you put more of the cooling cream on those spots.

Luke didn’t know where to look, you were filling his view and everywhere he seemed to look felt inappropriate to do. At one point he felt his eyes lingering on your plump pink lips that always seemed to be stuck in a pout, he felt himself start to think about what they’d feel like and internally screamed when he realised what he was doing and tried to avert his eyes behind you.

“Stop moving.” You hissed quietly getting annoyed at his head moving around so much, that you didn’t wait for a reply and held his face still with your other hand not noticing how he shuddered at the contact.

“Why do you hate me so much.” Luke suddenly blurted out, not even knowing what he was saying till he said it. He was curious though, there wasn’t a day you weren’t mean to him, even the first day you both met you were so nasty and you didn’t even know his name. “I don’t even remember doing anything wrong, you’ve just always been such a… bitch.”

You rolled your eyes, scoffing “You're not the only one, so don’t feel too triggered.”

“Wow, good to know i’m not special.” Luke sarcastically gasped acting hurt, but when he realised you weren’t bothered one tiny bit he sighed and went back to his question. “Still, why?”

“Why what?” Your tone was sharp and harsh but your fingers stayed so gentle.

“Why are you so mean?” Luke asked hoping to get a breakthrough, seems though you were acting like a completely different person today maybe he could get some truth and vulnerability out of you.

Silence filled the room once again, not because you didn’t answer but because you genuinely didn’t know the reason. You just shrugged and continued to work, but Luke wasn’t satisfied with your answer. “Angel, be real for once. You owe it to me for seeing me… you know-”

“Cry?” You slightly grin and Luke groans the look of embarrassment on his face again, it makes you frown you didn’t mean to make fun of him. So you let out a loud quiet sigh and suck up every thought that was screaming at you to stay quiet. “I don’t know, I guess I’m like… scared.”

Luke raised his brow, surprised that he got you to open up even if it was just a tiny bit. “Scared? Of what?” You being scared was something Luke thought that could never be possible, you were the most fearless person he knew.

“Getting close to someone i think… trust doesn’t come easy for me.” You try not to look at his eyes to see if you could tell what he was thinking, but the temptation was driving you crazy. He probably thought you were so stupid and weak for thinking that, that being the reason you mean to so many people is pathetic.

But he didn’t, Luke thought the opposite. He’d never seen you be so honest and open, and he loved it, in some weird way he enjoyed seeing you be so soft.

“I get it.” Luke hummed softly.

You were taken aback by this, he agreed with you? “You do.”

Luke nodded because he did understand the person he was supposed to trust most in this world, his dad, was a complete asshole who sent his child on a dangerous, impossible quest that had already been done.

You bit your lip to stop you from trying to smile at that, you were probably going to hate yourself in the morning for this because Luke would definitely use it in the future against you and embarrass you in front of all your siblings who look up to you.

His eyes darted to your lips, you were driving him crazy right now and he hated it, he hated that you didn’t even realise it too. He finally stopped looking around and just settled his eyes on your face, softly smiling at how focused you were on his own face too. The pale and radiant glow that the moon shone into your cabin lit your face up, making you look so angelic which was fitting for the current situation.

Luke smirked, “Never thought you’d be helping me, and I’m on your bed. What has possessed you tonight, angel.” he teased. The Luke that was crying in the woods had disappeared and the cocky, arrogant Luke you absolutely despised was back.

“Don’t call me that.” You snap, your nostrils flaring as you grit your teeth. But your actions weren’t acting up with your expression and tone because you continued to treat him like he was made of glass.

“Never thought our faces would be this close either.” You felt his hot breath on your face and the feeling of your noses just barely touching, you hadn’t noticed how close you seemed to be moving to him and you also didn’t notice how his eyes were piercing into yours.

It made you shiver, why did it make you shiver? And why did your stomach flip when he let his gaze drop back down to your lips and then back up to your eyes? You hated this, you hated every second you spent with his eyes on you, looking at you like you weren’t you, like you weren’t his enemy. Yet you also didn’t feel like moving anytime soon, it was like you were too magnets just begging to be even closer than you already are.

You’d stopped touching his wound at this point, your body had frozen all together the hold his gaze had on you was frightening. Your heart felt like it was doing flips and you just wanted to bang against your chest till it stopped beating.

Luke didn’t seem to mind how much his mind was currently racing with thoughts of you and nothing but you, he so badly just wanted to place his hands on your waist, your hips just anywhere he could, anywhere you’d let him.

You were supposed to hate each other yet in this moment hate was nowhere to be found, the air was thick with something entirely different and it scared you both but it felt so intriguing.

Unconsciously the hand that was on his scar slowly started to move down accidentally brushing his lips in the process, the action drove Luke even crazier because he wanted to do the exact same to you. But it made you snap out of whatever trance you were in and you backed away from him.

“All done.” You blurted out ready for whatever that moment was to be over and done with for Luke Castellan to be off your bed and out of your cabin, and for him to stop looking at you like you're a gift from the gods.

“Uh- yeah, cool.” Luke shot up off the bed, praying that you couldn't see how hot his face was right now. He scratched the back of his neck that awkward feeling creeping back up on him, “Um, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, Castellan. I mean it, don’t ever or I’ll kill you.” You warn him, and he knows you meant it. You handed him the tub with the ointment and told him the instructions for putting it on when and how too, and after that, he rushed out your cabin leaving you flustered and so very confused.

[mae-gi-writes]

let it be me | kuroo tetsurou (2)

In which you, as a new divorcée, can't help but crush on your 4-year-old's new PE Coach.

genre: singleparent!reader x coach! Kuroo, fluff, acquaintances-to-lovers

taglist: @patpatspatz @matchagirliris @multi-fandom-fanfic @alittlebirdahgaselx @kuroos--little--kitten @menacejelly12 @aeshiue @dreamlessnight @altheades @loonalockley @not-your-average-fangirl @bertqut1 @sunlixfl-blog @nabboo007

a/n: enjoy! <3 thanks for all the love given to the first part of this story! here's the second part. Third part is coming soon ~

---- previous | part two | next part >>>

"He can't be serious."

You sigh and watch the wine in your glass slosh around, creating beautiful patterns along the rim of your glass, "unfortunately, I think he is."

Your cousin has on an expression you can't quite place, in-between disgust and pure confusion. He's at the microwave, busy heating up some popcorn. Having adamantly asked you to sit on his couch while taking care of the snacks, you thus decided to watch Sakura play with her legos along the carpet, keeping a watchful eye in case one might end up in her mouth.

"He's only marrying her for the money," is what he concludes after a small pause.

You snort into your glass, take a sip of it and allow the bitterness to coat your tongue, "I wish that were true."

"How would you know that?"

" 'Tsumu, is it written stupid on my forehead?" your own wrinkles in distaste, "I see the way he looks at her. He's--" you choke on your words then, the knot in your throat growing tenfold, "--he's in love with her."

"Who is in love, mum?"

"No one at all," you're quick to answer upon noticing Sakura has been listening in. She normally doesn't, a kid that enjoys staring off into space and conjuring make-believe stories, where there's magic and only happy endings. You try and force a smile onto your face, "how's the house construction for Princess Peach going?"

Your daughter lets out a laugh as she presents to you a square that looks nothing like a house. Still, you coo at it, "so pretty! I bet princess peach would love it."

Your conversation with Atsumu has to wait until Sakura is tucked away in her uncle's bedroom and has listened to three stories about princesses, before you manage to join him back onto the couch where he's busy watching a rerun of volleyball matches.

You don't get to see him much now, courtesy of the fact that he's a national athlete and has been booked at the big games representing Japan. You couldn't be prouder, and yet his permanent absence does still leave a big hole in your heart whenever he flies over a thousand miles. Atsumu had been your rock since you guys were kids, defending you on the school playground and dragging you around to parties and birthdays without your consent. He'd taken care of you as a big brother would and he still is. You don't know how to repay this kind of kindness.

You're just thankful that he has one week off so that you can rant and ramble about the unfairness of the world. At least with Atsumu here, it appeases the pain, if just a little.

"Have you signed the papers yet?" he asks, handing you the bowl of popcorn.

You grab a handful, popping onto of them into your mouth as you answer, "not yet."

"You should ask him for alimony, at least."

"I'm not sure I'd win that, 'Tsumu."

"Still," his nose wrinkles in distaste, "this feels unfair. And why are you the one taking care of Sakura on your own? And I don't mean the parenting part. What about the finances? Why can't he contribute?"

"Because he's a dick and he thinks he can get away with it," you're glad that the tv is providing a welcome distraction, for you can't bear to look into Atsumu's eyes, "I'm just going to sign it and be done with it. I don't want Sakura to suffer any longer. It's not fair on her, she barely sees him."

"Well maybe it's time you find someone else too, y/n."

Your thoughts suddenly flash to Kuroo's beautiful smile and you have to physically force yourself to keep from grinning. You can feel the heat from the back of your neck and come up with the excuse that it's still too early and that Sakura wouldn't like her world shattering just for your happiness.

But it seems that Atsumu knows you better than that, for he asks, "are you blushing?"

"Wha--" Panic skitters through you, "no. No, why would I blush?"

His eyebrows raise, "you’ve met someone then?"

"N--No. Not at all. It's--" you realize you're blundering when his smile widens slightly, "it's not like that."

"So who's the lucky guy?"

"Atsumu."

"Y/N," his eyes glisten with playfulness and he nudges your shoulder, "c'mon. Tell me!"

You let out another breath and mumble, "He’'s not someone I met. He's...Just someone I know."

"And how do you know him?"

"He's Sakura's PE coach."

Atsumu lets out a whistle, "well that--" he shakes his head, "--that's not what I imagined at all."

"Shut up."

"So you like him?"

"It's not--It's really not like that. I--" you try and rack your brain for anything to say because this is really embarrassing. Who has a crush at the age of twenty-nine? Practically all of your friends are already married and have kids, talk about husband problems and how they wish for their youth back. And you? Here you are, thinking you might have a crush. You're no better than a middle school girl.

Which is why you say, "I don't even know him."

"You just think he's cute?"

"Precisely. But there are a lot of cute guys. It doesn't mean anything."

“Right,” Atsumu lets out a breath before he leans back into the couch, “but you know what I think?”

You hum in response.

“I think you should get laid—“

You almost spit out your wine in shock, gape at him in horror, “Atsumu!”

Again, your brain goes into overdrive at the thought of Kuroo and his sweaty chest, the breadth of his shoulders, the way he just towers over your small frame…

NO! You slam onto your mental brakes and shake your head, “you’re disgusting.” You spit out.

“I’m telling the truth princess. I really believe in the power of s—“

“Don’t—“ you cut him off with a raised palm, “don’t even say it.”

“So tell me,” Atsumu proceeds to wriggle his brows suggestively which makes it even harder to stop the blush igniting along your face, “this guy, how handsome is he? Must be pretty good-looking for you to be blushing like that.”

“Shut up ‘Tsumu, it’s not like that at all. Just stop. He's like--half of my age."

“Alright alright,” he laughs his deep-bellied laughter and wraps an arm around you in a gentle, comforting hug, “but if ever you do get lais with him, you gotta tell me.”

“Mum, what does ‘getting laid’ mean?”

“Oh!” Your head snaps to the doorway only to see your daughter all sleepy-eyed and clutching a spare pillow.

“Sakura!” You scramble to over, casting your cousin a scowl as you do, “c’mon, sweetie. Let’s get you back to bed.”

You hear Atsumu’s laughter follow you all the way to the bedroom.

————

It’s weird when Sakura isn’t around.

It’s almost like you’ve lost your purpose. But then again, you should be taking advantage of this right? That’s what everyone keeps telling you.

But alas, something in you cannot just let yourself rest for fear that your thoughts may go into a black hole of what ifs and images of Sakura with your ex-husband’s wife —well, almost ex-husband— and thus decide to take on a last-minute order.

It’s a simple enough request— a birthday cake. While you usually plan events from A to Z, this order merely requested a cake of any kind. So that’s how you spend your Saturday morning — creating a dough and sugar decorations that would fit into the theme of “Halloween”, as per what your client has asked.

You drive up to the pin location around four in the afternoon, strolling through the streets until the google maps signals you that you’ve arrived to your destination. Turning off the ignition at the said house — a beautiful Victorian home adorned with columns twice your height and size — you open your door only to come face to face with a familiar pair of golden eyes.

“Coach?”

“Kosuke-san?”

You both stare. And stare.

It’s shock that comes first. Before realization slaps you in the face, “oh!” You quickly bow in hopes that you haven’t been staring too long, “good afternoon, Coach. What—What brings you here?”

"Kosuke-san," he bows and looks just as surprised as you are, before he notices the way you're struggling to juggle to cake in your arms, "here, let me help you."

Without hesitation, he opens the door a bit wider and closes the gap between you, lifting the box from your arms, "jeez how heavy is this thing?"

You let out a small laugh, "it's all the icing sugar."

"Come in," he gestures with his chin for you to follow and as you step into the threshold he continues, "so when you said you were an event planner--I didn't expect you to be a cake designer too."

"It's an extra service I provide," you shrug, "I'm a patissier by career. Event planning is just something that keeps the cash flowing."

Kuroo pauses in mid-step then, "you're a patissier?"

"Yeah. Well, I was," you chuckle, "but anyway, it's been a while since I've baked now. So I hope it's just as good as you expect it to be."

Kuroo opens his mouth only to be cut off by a horde of boys stumbling into what appears to be the kitchen area. Now that you have a better look, it's all white marble and golden taps and golden handles on every piece of furniture to match. In any case, this house screams of money and for a minute, you feel a bit small and insignificant in your stained-flour blouse, the splotches of paint across your faded out jeans, courtesy of Sakura's art skills.

"You must be y/n!" one of the boys detaches himself. His orange hair glistens in the sun streaming through the window and he's a bit shorter than Kuroo. He beams at you and you can't help but be reminded of a puppy, "thanks for taking my order on such a short notice!"

"No worries at all. You must be...Hinata?"

"Yes!" he shakes your hand, "so I see you've met Kuroo! He's one of my best mates! We used to play against each other back in high school."

"Really now?" you quirk a brow in Kuroo's direction, watching the muscles of his arms ripple as he places the cake in an orderly manner inside the fridge. His voice is muffled when he replies, "yeah, he's the midget that made us jump for our lives. I hated him."

"You're just sour because you lost that one time," Hinata pouts, "but anyway, this is the rest of the ex-team!"

And so that's how you get a round of names that you will probably forget in five minutes and Kuroo, having seen the confusion in your eyes, can't help but laugh to himself because the sight is somewhat adorable. And he knows he shouldn't find it, he knows you're off limits because first, you're a mom from the school and two, you're married and have a kid. It's definitely not at all appropriate for his eyes to be roaming over your curves or to linger over the light glittering in your eyes.

Get a hold of yourself, he mentally whacks the back of his head.

“Where’s the little munchkin?” Kuroo asks you once you’re all settled after having been wheedled by Hinata to stay (“please please please you did such a great job on the cake” is what he’d begged). You’re now perched onto a plush lounge chair, a mixture of juice and vodka in your hand and watching the nth match of pingpong between someone whose name you forget and the other whose name sounds like Daichi. Though yoj might be wrong.

You’re glad for Kuroo’s presence, for even if he is a stranger, he still feels familiar to you right now in this setting.

“Sakura’s with her father today,” you explain with a slight smile in hopes it doesn’t give any of that bitterness away.

Kuroo opens his mouth like he wants so say something — anything— but you beat him to it, “we’re not together. Not anymore.”

His eyes widen with realization and you see it, the way he’s putting all the puzzle pieces together, “I’m sorry to hear,” is what he finally musters.

“Nothing be to be sorry about.”

“So… the name Kosuke…”

“Is my maiden name,” you reply, “I’ve never changed names. Looking back, I think I’ve done the right thing.”

Kuroo isn’t sure whether he should be mad for you or hurt in your place. After all, who in their right mind would leave their wife and their toddler daughter?

He deals with little kids every day, so he knows exactly what they’re like on a daily basis, and it’s not easy.

“I’m sorry,” it seems that’s the only thing he knows how to say.

“Really,” you laugh at him, “how can you be sorry when it’s not even your fault?”

Kuroo shrugs and grins bashfully because yes, it’s true and he still doesn’t know what to say. So he decides to ask, “And Sakura… how is she?”

“She doesn’t realize it. She’s too young,” your smile fades slightly, “in a way, I hope that’s a good sign.”

His heart clenches at the thought of you raising this kid alone. He can’t even imagine it. It makes sympathy swim inside his chest like an ache he can’t quite ignore. The look on your face suggests that you’ve been let down and he has the sudden impulse to tell you that everything will be alright, will be okay.

But he can’t do that. You’ll think of him as a creep. So he bites his tongue and look away instead, at the war of pingpong ongoing between his two friends. In a way, he’s glad for the distraction as he sips on his beer.

“And you?” Your voice piping up surprises him. His eyes flit back to your face. You continue, “married? Engaged?”

Kuroo’s throat bobs as he chuckles, “no. None of that.”

“How come?” You take a sip of your cocktail, “you don’t seem like the type to wound up alone with a hundred cats.”

“No no,” he can’t help but laugh because one, you’re hella attractive to him; tiny and frail and looking like he can fit you in a box no problem and two; you’re actually entertaining to be around. Something that he’s found lacking in his previous dates, “I just didn’t find anyone special yet.”

“Well there's no rush,” you lift your cocktail as you speak, “and anyway, you’re still young. You should enjoy it while you can.”

“Young?” Kuroo’s face breaks into a grin as his golden orbs glimmer down at you, amused, “how old do you think I am?”

"Uhm--I don't know. Early twenties?"

"I'm twenty-five," he gives you a look, "how old are you?"

"Twenty-eight. Going on twenty-nine."

"You look like you've just gotten out of college though," Kuroo's smirk is visible even behind his beer as he chugs down most of his drink, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you and Sakura were sisters."

"Not even," you retort, "And excuse me, but you look younger than twenty-five."

"I make up for it in height," he peers down at you, "but I suppose you wouldn't understand that considering--"

Your arm whacks at his shoulder before you know it. A playful gesture surely, but one that you don't really use on your daughter's teachers. Let alone ones that have bulging muscles and a figure to die for. You stare at your hand for a long minute, your brain going blank, before your eyes whip up to his and horror seeps into your gaze.

"Oh my god!" you screech and recoil like he's the one that had slapped you, "I'm so sorry, I--It's just--automatic you know, my cousin--he's got the same humor and--well I--I'm really sorry--"

The guffaw that leaves Kuroo's mouth is so loud that it causes heads to turn, even the ones invested in the ping pong game. He bends over while holding his stomach and the initial panic that you have wears off upon seeing him look so joyously happy. You can't help but chuckle along.

"What?" you say when he's regained most of his breath, "what's so funny?"

"You are," he grins, before it turns mischievous, "senpai."

"Hey--now that's going a bit too far!"

You're not quite sure what time you get home that night. But you do know that you've gone to sleep with a smile on your face.

————

"Kuroo sensei! He stole my ball!"

A typical Monday morning where Kuroo is busy surveilling the fifth graders as they decided to play basketball during their free time. He's not one to deny such requests, actually enjoys watching them play and seeing them grow day by day, developing their techniques. But to say that he's a bit in the clouds would be an understatement.

"Kuroo sensei!"

He finally snaps back to reality. Blinks down at the tiny boy with the biggest scowl he's ever seen yet, "yes I'm sorry. What's wrong?"

"He stole my ball!" the young boy points at one of the chubby classmates who seems quite content in playing by himself, "and now he's saying that it was his!"

Kuroo can't help but raise a brow. He's taught that class before, knows exactly that the chubby little kid doesn't have that many friends, including the boy standing before him.

"I don't think he stole your ball."

It's a bold statement, but from the way the tiny student squirms and averts his gaze, Kuroo believes he is right, "but--but he did! He really did steal my ball!"

"I have an idea," Kuroo bends down to his height, not able to restrain the grin along his face at the pout forming on the student's lips, "why don't you go and play with him? He seems a bit lonely."

"Yeah that's because he never talks to anyone in class."

"Then why don't you be the first? hm?" he nudges the boy's shoulder, "show your class a good example. Come on."

With a bit more reassurance, the said student goes over and Kuroo watches fondly as the two exchange awkward greetings before the chubby student nods his head, glancing at his PE coach like he'd just dropped a bomb.

Five minutes later, they're playing together like best friends.

And Kuroo goes back to daydreaming.

He's not usually like this. So out of it, so inside his own head that he can't see the outside world. But ever since that party he's been wondering when's the next time he'd get to see you, to talk to you. Not just as Sakura's mum but as someone, maybe a friend. He's addicted to the way your eyes curve up before your lips are even drawn into a smile, like you're sharing a special secret with him before the world gets a flash of blinding white teeth. He enjoys watching you move about because you're just so tiny, holding cups with two hands and always having to tiptoe about to find stuff. But most of all, that conversation with you had him dreaming of more. He wants to know you, that initial curiosity turning to what he'd define as stupid infatuation.

Yes, Kuroo Tetsurou has a crush, and he's not quite sure how to feel about it.

"--Earth to Kuroo?"

He blinks. In front of him stands his colleague and friend Bokuto. Having faced each other off countlessly during their high school days, it was a miracle and lovely surprise to see him at the new year induction. Since then, they’d been a constant pair inside the school walls and creating assignments, organizing and coordinating events had never been so fun.

“Sorry,” he mumbles and rubs a hand over his face.

“You look like death, mate,” Bokuto leans on the fencing that separates the courts from the building, “why the long face?”

“Haven’t slept well,” Kuroo says, but he knows he’s not convincing when Bokuto’s eyebrows raise in question.

“You? Firm believer of 10hrs of sleep every day?” His friend shakes his head, “no way. Tell me what happened. What’s got you looking so dazed?”

“It’s noth—“ he halts. Maybe he can find some advice? Bokuto’s known for being a badass romantic after all. Maybe he can have something wise to say.

Like tell Kuroo you’re way out of his league and— what the hell is he even thinking, dating someone’s mom? Someone older than him, at that?

The words burst out of his mouth without warning:

“I think I like someone.”

Bokuto merely blinks. His face lights up, “well that explains it. Who?”

Kuroo’s arm swings to the back to scratch his neck, “it’s… one of the student’s mom’s.”

The last few words are said in a mumble, causing Bokuto to lean into his friend with a wide-eyed gaze, surprise flitting across his face when he realizes what Kuroo has just said.

“No,” the grey-haired man’s mouth turns into an “o” as he stares his friend down, “no way. Who?”

“I don’t think you know her. Sakura Kosuke?” Kuroo prompts.

“Sakura Kosuke…” Bokuto shakes his head in thought, “haven’t heard of that one. But—-Kuroo! I thought older women weren’t your style!”

“She’s not that old,” Kuroo’s face flames, “only by three years.”

"Who would've thought," Bokuto breathes out with a chuckle when a thought suddenly occurs to him, "wait-- it's not the chick who came by with the cake last weekend?"

Kuroo nods and awkwardly clears his throat, "yeah, the very same."

"Ha! If only I knew! I would've done my best to set you up!"

"It's not funny!"

But now that Bokuto has some leverage of information, he's definitely not going to let it go and Kuroo kind of regrets spilling the beans to him, of all people. That, and the probably fact that he’ll be spreading this news like wildfire across their friend group.

Thankfully, Kuroo’s schedule makes it that it’s hard to think about anything but work since midterm season is approaching for his other primary school colleagues. There’s after-school shows and events for every single activity and since he’s being asked to help for every single thing (because he’s the preschool teacher and, yeah! How come you don’t have any events planned for your preschoolers?!). Which means that he doesn’t have actual time to think about you, not even when he’s finally home and mustering up enough strength to brush his teeth, take a shower and dump himself in bed.

He does, however, collide head-first into you one week day as you’re hurrying out of the principal’s office, looking flustered and red-faced.

“Kosuke-san,” he takes a longing glance your rosy cheeks and felt his hand tingle with want. Just to see if it’s as soft as he imagines it to be? “You okay?”

“Kuroo sensei,” you run a hand through your locks and causing your hair to get even more disheveled, “hi, sorry— how are you? It’s been a while.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You’re looking a bit more greenish now that he sees you in the light.

“Yes I—“ your hands flutter up before you in an attempt to find an explanation, “—just came back from a meeting with Sakura’s teacher.”

“Oh?” Kuroo frowns, “what—nothing bad, I hope?”

“It’s just—well,” you try to chuckle but it comes out like a whimper, “apparently she got into a fight with one of the other girls in her class. Got a few injuries herself so…”

Your eyes are wet and it seems you’re half a second away from a breakdown. So it’s only natural for Kuroo to take a few steps closer to you before he whispers a soft, “hey hey, you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sorry,” you take a shaky breath, “it’s just been a long, hard morning.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo bites onto his lower lip, not sure what to do to make things better as he watches your chest move up and down in staggered breaths.

That’s when an idea hits him. He makes a grab for the back of your elbow and the smallness, the thinness of your limb takes him be surprise as he steers you out of the corridor.

And when your wide eyes flutter up to his, he quickly says something along the lines of, “I know a place. It’ll make you feel better.”

That’s how he finds himself dragging you to the nearby coffee place he always frequents— called Espresso Block— a small vintage bakery run by none other than his good friend Osamu Miya, as part of his expansion branch from his onigiri restaurants.

"Y/N!" Osamu greets as soon as he spots your face trailing behind Kuroo's tall figure. He pushes the raven-haired man aside with impatience before sauntering over and wrapping you up in a bear hug.

"Osamu," you breathe in the scent of baked croissants lingering on his uniform, "you're choking me."

"Oh--sorry," he drops you and grins sheepishly, that is before he registers that you're together with one of his friends, causing his eyes to narrow, "how do you two know each other?"

"Kosuke-san is Sakura's mother and she was having a bad day," Kuroo explains before he turns to you, "how do you know him?"

Did you imagine the five-second frostiness that came from his tone? Maybe not, as you reply, "he's my cousin. We grew up together. I taught him how to play volleyball back in primary school."

Kuroo's relief is instant. Thank god, it's not a close friend, nor is it a romantic partner candidate. His mood brightens instantly and without further ado he proceeds to lead you towards a table in the back.

He doesn’t fail to ignore the way Osamu’s eyes are following him all the way back to his table as he carries the two drinks — strawberry latte for him and a black coffee for you — and Kuroo can just hope that his dear friend can keep his distance until you've gone.

Becayse he's quite certain he will be subject to interrogation. Especially if you're that close to Osamu.

Placing the tray on the table, he takes out the mug and pushes it into your hands before finding his seat opposite you. You grab the cup between your two palms and take a deep breath as Kuroo sips on his latte.

The sweetness of the strawberry never disappoints. It’s refreshing and brings a smile to his lips. Osamu sure knows his desserts.

“I'm really sorry about what happened earlier," you seem to have composed yourself from earlier. You take a small sip of your coffee and Kuroo watches in amusement as you shudder.

"Do you want some milk with that?" he can't help but ask.

You nod and look shameful, and Kuroo's heart squeezes with sympathy. Your eyes are tinged with aprons of blue and there are tired lines lining your eyes and the corners of your mouth. It's only when he comes back -- from having gotten some steamed milk from Osamu and a suggestive wink to match -- you dip your head into a nod and mumble out a soft 'thanks', eyes glued to the way the dark brown turned into a creamy latte.

"You could've asked me for a latte," Kuroo smiled to show that he didn't mind at all. But you winced.

"I'm sorry--"

"Don't say sorry," he softened, "just--next time, you can tell me what you want, Kosuke-san. I'm not here to bite you...unless you want me to."

Your eyes flit up to his in surprise and Kuroo pinks at his words. They'd just slipped out on their own. It's not like he'd wanted to sound flirty when you're looking all shaky and worse for wear. He quickly clear his throat and tries to change the subject, "how are Sakura's injuries?"

"She's fine, got herself a bruised lip."

His eyebrows raise in surprise, "woah, that's still something."

"Yeah," you mutter and take another sip. And then another, "I hope this doesn't become a habit."

"I've taught Sakura since the start of this semester," Kuroo leans forward, elbows propped onto the table, "and I can tell you--she's anything but violent."

"I really hope you're right about this. I can't have her running around beating up everyone."

Kuroo stifled a small laugh, "to be honest, I think it's good she knows how to defend herself."

You shoot him a look and he can't help but laugh. And it's so contagious, the way it booms out of him like a melody, that you cannot restrain yourself from joining in.

"You're right," you say in-between chuckles.

"Maybe she got her mom's feisty spirit," Kuroo adds.

"No way. I was as silent as a mouse," you retort, "if she got anything like that, it's probably from her father's--"

You halt in mid-conversation, wanting to bite down your tongue for even mentioning him and quickly flash Kuroo a bashful smile in hopes he'll just brush it off, "sorry, let's not talk about him--"

"Kosuke-san, you really have to stop saying sorry all the time," Kuroo says with a grin, "it's not healthy."

"I know, I'm--" you catch yourself and he bursts out laughing once more at your face, "don't say it! No matter what!" he chides.

"Stop--" but you're grinning from ear to ear, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, "--Kuroo sensei, I hope you're not as playful with your students or they'd never learn anything from you."

"Course not," he winks, "I keep that solely for the pretty ladies."

His suggestive tone makes you blush despite it all and you look down at your coffee with the blush blazing so hard across your cheeks you swear everyone can see its colour from afar.

"I don't know how it is at home though," Kuroo's voice brings you out of your small bubble of warmth, "it must be tough handling Sakura all alone. Do you ever take a break?"

"Well, she goes to see her dad ever two weeks. But other than that, she's always with me unless my parents decide to come over. Which isn't as often as I would like."

"Why's that?"

"They live in the countryside and have a farm. It's hard for them to take days off, and I don't blame them not wanting to be around," your voice lowers to a mutter at the last few words, "especially after what happened with the marriage and all..."

"Marriages fail every time," Kuroo says gently then, "that too, isn't your fault."

"I wish my parents believed that," you let out a small laugh, "but they're right. We were too young to get married."

"But you have Sakura right? Isn't she worth it?"

His eyes, golden flecked and filled with so much hope and softness, meet yours from across the table. You suddenly feel a bit hot in your seat, wanting to squirm as you quickly look away from Kuroo's gaze because dear god, it's almost like he's ripping away, ripping apart every single layer of self-protection and preservation and reading you out like an open book.

"You're right," you clear your throat upon realizing he'd still been waiting for your response, "she is worth every single second. I wouldn't change anything about what happened. I just--I wish my parents could see it that way too."

"I think you spend a little too much time stressing about things you can't control," Kuroo takes another sip of his latte, "how about you learn to let go a bit? Maybe take the day off? Go hiking?"

"With Sakura?" you shake your head, "impossible, I--"

"Surely you have someone that can take care of her while you're gone," he tilts his head, jaw resting into one of his hands and making him appear all the more handsome.

Your thoughts flash to Atsumu. He's right, you could technically take a day off by dropping Sakura with the blonde. But she's not his responsibility and Atsumu has other priorities in his life rather than hang out with his niece. But Kuroo's persistence is strong and he makes you -- practically orders you -- to text him when he connects the dots that you two are also family.

"That guy can learn a thing or two about being responsible anyway," grins Kuroo, "so I'm sure he won't mind."

————

How did you end up here?

That's the question you keep asking yourself -- even when you're busy picking out your clothes only to realize that you barely have anything that's worth 'party material', even when you're attempting to do your makeup even though it's been almost three (or four?) years since you've tried to look your best because Sakura's wellbeing always came first.

Even when you're strapping up your black ankle boots, the question is getting drilled into your brain like a broken mixtape as you wonder whether this is a good idea after all.

"Go," Atsumu is firm when you call him for the nth time. It's five minutes until Kuroo's supposed to pick you up and feeling the pressure on your shoulders, you quickly decide to call your cousin in an emergency, "you have to do it, y/n. Stop making this all about Sakura. You need to be happy too."

"I am happy," was what you'd mumbled out in the phone receiver. You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the phone, so tight that your knuckles have turned white.

"I know you are, but you'll be happier if you live for yourself. At least for one night," Atsumu responds, "and Sakura's safe with me. And if ever there's an issue I'll call Osamu first to--"

"What?! No! No you call me first, okay?"

"Y/n please just relax. It's supposed to be a fun night."

You slump against the wall in defeat, "I don't even know why I'm doing this," you mumble mostly to yourself, though you're certain he can hear it too, "there's no point trying to prove that I'm content with my life. There are things that are going to leave me unsatisfied. I'm--I was fine with that, really."

"Are you though?" your cousin's voice is accusatory this time, "you're ready to live just for Sakura? Making her happy will make you happy too? Is this how it's supposed to work?"

"Technically yes, I'm her mother--"

"--And you've been left behind!"

The words are like a slap. You bite down onto your lower lip.

It draws blood.

You hiss, sucking on the skin as the metallic taste hits your tongue.

In truth, Atsumu has a point. You can't just live to make Sakura happy because that will ultimately destroy you. Not because she's not the only thing you need in your life. But because despite having your little girl being the center of your world, despite being able to sustain her with your career, you still feel like it's just yesterday when Aoi had upped and left you. His excuses, as pathetic as they had been, were arrows shooting straight into your heart. He left you crying into your pillow that night, hovering over your figure until you'd told him to 'get lost or I'll call the cops on you' before curling up on the small couch that you'd gotten rid of once he'd moved out for good.

So much pain. So much pain and haunted nights and obstacles that had come your way. That, along with caring for Sakura, had been a big hurdle. You remembered the long mornings, how hard it had been to drag yourself out of bed for the first few days. Atsumu had volunteered to stay with you then, giving you all the support you needed until you'd had enough strength to get back on your feet.

So he knew exactly what you'd gone through. Had seen it all first-hand. He wasn't kidding when he said you really needed to get laid. Somehow, he seems to have a valid point.

But it's been so long since you've left the dating scene that the thought of it makes you want to vomit.

"I'm sorry y/n, that wasn't cool." Atsumu's voice flows through the receiver like a lullaby and you take a deep, staggering breath, "I just--I know how hard it's been pulling your weight and caring for Sakura. It practically consumed your entire life. It's about time you get that motherfucker back for screwing things up--"

"Language," you tsk at him.

"You know what I mean," he replies impatiently, "So go out there, have fun. Get smashed. And at least do something to make you happy for a change. Alright?"

"Yeah okay," you mumble.

"And plus, you're with a bunch of guys that I know. They're cool. They'll keep an eye on you."

"Thanks mom."

"Anytime hun."

You can't help but giggle before you hear a car pulling up outside, "alright. I think my ride's here."

"Yeah, try to get laid okay--"

"Atsumu!" your cheeks flame, "I hope you're not saying all this in front of Sakura!"

A burst of laughter echoes from the receiver, "don't worry, miss Sakura is asleep. Have fun y/n! Take pictures!"

The drive there is less awkward than you'd imagined it to be, despite the fact that Kuroo's get-up does make your mouth salivate. And not just you. You realize a bunch of girls have him on their radar, from the stolen glances driven his way as you follow his broad back out of the parking and into the small terrace-looking entrance flanked by colored glowing palm trees.

"I haven't been in a club for like four years," you confess to him as you trudge into the queue. The air smells like cigarette and smoke. And something else. Something dangerous. It makes you giddy, you realize.

"Four years?" his eyes grow round as he looks down at you, "you have drunk before right? To the brink of passing out?"

"Like...maybe four years ago?"

His mouth opens, then closes. He shakes his head, a smile curving at the edges of his lips, "remind me not to drown you with tequila."

"I'll try my best."

You meet the rest of the gang upon stumbling into the club. It's dark and pulsating with music, with two dance floors separated by the DJ stationed on a platform right in the middle. Lights are bouncing off the space like crazy and all around you are moving bodies that writh and mold together until you're not sure where one ends and the other begins.

“Y/N! You’re here!” A drunk Hinata hooks an arm around your shoulder before steering you towards the bar, “you’re just in time! We were going for a round of lambos.”

“Lambos?” You balk and meet Kuroo’s eye, “you mean— Lamborgini’s?”

“Hell yeah!” Another one of the guys chimes in. It’s almost comical, the way they’re all stumbling against each other as you move like a congregation until you’re straight up in front of the barman.

“Ten Lambo’s please!” Hinata slams his card ontot he counter.

It brings back a wave of nostalgia, seeing the line of glasses and the way the bartender drops the alcohol in like he can do it with his eyes closed. You’re jostled and pressed against warm chests and shoulders, surrounded from all sides and yet, you feel safe with them all. That is, until you feel a soft brush against your elbow.

You turn to see Kuroo’s warm golden orbs.

“All okay?” He mouths to you.

You nod and give him a smile in return, and the grin that he cracks makes a troop of butterflies swoop into your stomach.

You look away just as Hinata thrusts a glass into your hands, “come y/n! This one’s on me!”

One shot becomes two. And two become three. Soon enough you find yourself on the dance floor and moving to the beat with one of the girls from the group— Yachi?— while the guys are trying to pay each other back their shots. The music vibrates through the floor up your body and flood your veins so that you get lost in it, ecstasy and the thrill of just being alive finally gushing through your brain, fogged up and amplified by the alcohol in your bloodstream.

It’s amazing. You feel free. Like nothing can stop you.

It’s honestly the best you’ve felt in a while.

After a while, you and Yachi decide to take a well-deserved break, stumbling over to the clustered seating space filled with red cushions as the boys scatter to find more alcohol. At this point you’re surprised that they’re still moving around and conscious, considering the amount they’ve drunk.

One of the boys— the one with the kind smile called Daichi— offers to get you guys some water as you take a seat, allowing your tired legs to take a break.

“I’m going to fine Hinata!” Yachi says into your ear and you nod before ushering her out of your way. There’s something between those two, a kind of tension that will develop into something more if they just allow it.

But you’re not one to meddle, not when your own love life’s a mess.

That’s when you notice.

It’s the lingering stare out of the corner of your peripheral that makes you turn your head.

Then you see him.

A tall, lanky man. He’s seated right opposite you, a drink in his hand and taking a swig. But there’s no mistake, for when his eyes meet yours across the room you can only jolt in shock.

You look away with embarrassment and disgust. Heat spreads to the back of your neck and goosebumps run up your arms. Suddenly, it’s a little too cold in this hot, sweaty club.

Why is he looking at you like that?

There’s no mistaking the intention. You risk one more glance and confirm that indeed, there’s a darkness in his eyes; the kind of a predator.

The kind that wants to strip you bare.

It’s unsetttling, unnerving.

Disgusting.

You don’t even hesitate. It’s like instinct for you jump off your seat with the only purpose to find Kuroo. But to your terror, the man starts to follow you. And soon enough it becomes a game of catch: of cat and mouse. You almost trip over your high heels as you push through the moving bodies as quickly as you can.

But the figure is there, hovering over you like a dark shadow that causes your heart to clench.

You bite back a whimper, pushing through a throng of girls as you frantically search for a sign of Kuroo’s familiar mop of hair. Or Hinata’s. Or just about anyone for that matter—

Bumping into a chest, you’re more than surprised as you let out a small yelp only to hear a familiar alto.

“Kosuke-san, everything alright?”

“K—Kuroo sensei,” your mumble is drowned in the beats of the music, eyes darting between his face and the dodgy man.

He’s now standing by the bar a few feet away from you. The same kind of withering stare that makes you wince.

Hurriedly, you turn to Kuroo and grip his shirt, wanting nothing more than to hide behind him, “I—uhm— there’s someone—“ the words jumble up as they pour out of your mouth and you find you can do nothing but grip his shirt for dear life, like Kuroo’s the only thing that can help you out of here.

Thankfully, he seems to understand your dilemma, for he puts a hand on your shoulder before steering you a little closer to him and away from the main path, a frown evident on his face, “what’s wrong Kosuke-san?”

But it’s only when he follows your fear-stricken eyes that Kuroo realizes there’s something — someone tormenting you. He recognizes the dark hunger, the prowling intent.

Instantly, his hand grips your waist. Tugs you closer.

You stumble into him, “Kuroo sensei—“

But Kuroo’s not having it. He stares the man down with a glower, longer body practically wrapped around yours in a protective embrace as he dares the man to do something, anything.

Try me, his eyes are saying, you’re not going to lay a single hand on her.

The stranger finally breaks eye contact after a few beats of silence and Kuroo keeps watch, golden eyes blazing until the man is nothing more but a memory of smoke as he disappears into the crowd.

Only then does he allow his hold to relax. Tilting down towards you. He murmurs out softly:

“He’s gone, Kosuke-san.”

You’re practically glued to him at this point, face buried in his chest and hands gripping so tightly onto his shirt that you might’ve grown claws. Kuroo nudges you gently once more, and that’s when you look up from the depths of his shirt.

The sight makes him almost coo because goddamnit even in the dim disco lights you look adorable. He has the sudden urge to pinch your cheeks and he’s glad his hands are somewhat occupied along your waist.

“You okay?” Is what he whispers.

You nod, looking a bit shaky and green int the face, “yeah—I’m—I’m fine. Thank you. He was—it scared me.”

“I know,” Kuroo draws away ever so slightly so he can have a better look at your face, “I’ll bring you home, alright?”

“No no it’s okay,” you shake your head and attempt a smile, but even Kuroo can see past those shaky lips, “you stay and have fun. I’ll call an Uber and—“

“Nonsense,” he grabs your elbow once more, “I’ll accompany you. C’mon.”

———

It’s definitely unnerving. It leaves you shaking with fear and you’re thankful for Kuroo’s strong grip on your arm as he maneuvers you out of the club.

The rush of cold wind hits your cheeks, leaving the soft beats of the club behind. Slowly, the world comes back into focus as the air rushes through your lungs and the sound bustling traffic in the distance is brought back into focus.

Only then do you realize how close you’re standing to the coach.

With a start, you stumble away with a muttered “sorry”, not daring to meet his eyes while quickly brushing off your clothes because dear god you weren’t sure what to do with your hands.

The uber arrives without much delay — thankfully — and the ride home is silent, almost as if there’s an awkward tension that has settled between the two of you. Away from the alcohol and now sobering up, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that you’d practically glued yourself to this man earlier. The act is so embarrassing you decidedly keep your gaze on the flurry of bustling streets and dim lamps flying by.

You don’t realize you’ve dozed off until a warm hand is shaking your shoulder, followed by a soft; “we’re here.”

You gasp, noticing that you’ve been pressed against Kuroo’s shoulder all this time.

“Oh,” you scramble away as quick as lightning, “I’m so sorry—“

His lips quirk upwards, “no harm done, senpai.”

You hate it when he calls you that. It makes you sound… old.

Nevertheless, you decide to be quiet as he accompanies you up to your flat, hands in his pockets while following you up the rusty stairs. You hope he’s not judging; it’s not like you have unlimited amounts of funding, what with Sakura’s education and activities.

“Well,” you finally reach the door to your flat and turn on your heel so that you face him, “thanks… for everything.”

"No problem," he's smiling down at you. Still so patient, still so happy to help. Your heart swells in your chest and you ask, "how are you getting back?"

"Oh, probably Uber..." he trails off, already turning away to fish his phone out of his pocket, "it's not far."

"Where do you live?"

You almost bawk when he tells you his address, because it's practically at the other end of town. He'll be there in forty-five minutes, at least.

The words are automatic, shooting out of you, "I'm so--"

But Kuroo's hand whips out, clamping over your lips. Your eyes widen as you look up at him, only to see the young man grinning like there's no tomorrow.

"You really need to stop doing that," he finally says before drawing back. Already, you're hit with the cold air following Kuroo's touch upon your skin, "I wanted to accompany you. There's nothing to apologize for."

"I know, but--"

He throws you another pointed look that has you clamping down on your mouth. You're about to say sorry once more because you're being a pathetic blubbery mess, but the look in his eyes makes you say a soft, "thank you" instead.

"You're welcome," and with one final grin and a wave to match, the school Coach disappears down the corridor, leaving you gazing at his broad back until his silhouette turns the corner and away from your sight.